Chapter V. A MAN'S SON
THE storm, long threatened, having once burst, M'Adam allowed loose reinto his bitter animosity against James Moore.
The two often met. For the little man frequently returned home from thevillage by the footpath across Kenmuir. It was out of his way, buthe preferred it in order to annoy his enemy and keep a watch upon hisdoings.
He haunted Kenmuir like its evil genius. His sallow face was perpetuallyturning up at inopportune moments. When Kenmuir Queen, the prizeshort-horn heifer, calved unexpectedly and unattended in the dip by thelane, Tammas and the Master, summoned hurriedly by Owd Bob, came runningup to find the little man leaning against the stile, and shaking withsilent merriment. Again, poor old Staggy, daring still in his dotage,took a fall while scrambling on the steep banks of the Stony Bottom.There he lay for hours, unnoticed and kicking, until James Moore andOwd Bob came upon him at length, nearly exhausted. But M'Adam was beforethem. Standing on the far bank with Red Wull by his side, he calledacross the gulf with apparent concern: "He's bin so sin' yesternight."Often James Moore, with all his great strength of character, couldbarely control himself.
There were two attempts to patch up the feud. Jim Mason, who went aboutthe world seeking to do good, tried in his shy way to set things right.But M'Adam and his Red Wull between them soon shut him and Betsy up.
"You mind yer letters and yer wires, Mr. Poacher-Postman. Ay, I saw 'embaith: th' ain doon by the Haughs, t'ither in the Bottom. And there'sWullie, the humorsome chiel, havin' a rare game wi' Betsy." There,indeed, lay the faithful Betsy, suppliant on her back, paws up, throatexposed, while Red Wull, now a great-grown puppy, stood over her, hishabitually evil expression intensified into a fiendish grin, as withwrinkled muzzle and savage wheeze he waited for a movement as a pretextto pin: "Wullie, let the leddy be--ye've had yer dinner."
Parson Leggy was the other would-be mediator; for he hated to see thetwo principal parishioners of his tiny cure at enmity. First he tackledJames Moore on the subject; but that laconic person cut him short with,"I've nowt agin the little mon," and would say no more. And, indeed, thequarrel was none of his making.
Of the parson's interview with M'Adam, it is enough to say here that,in the end, the angry old minister would of a surety have assaulted hismocking adversary had not Cyril Gilbraith forcibly withheld him.
And after that the vendetta must take its course unchecked.
David was now the only link between the two farms. Despite his father'sangry commands, the boy clung to his intimacy with the Moores with adoggedness that no thrashing could overcome. Not a minute of the daywhen out of school, holidays and Sundays included, but was passed atKenmuir. It was not till late at night that he would sneak back to theGrange, and creep quietly up to his tiny bare room in the roof--notsupperless, indeed, motherly Mrs. Moore had seen to that. And there hewould lie awake and listen with a fierce contempt as his father, hourslater, lurched into the kitchen below, lilting liquorishly:
"We are na fou, we're nae that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw', And ay we'll taste the barley bree!"
And in the morning the boy would slip quietly out of the house while hisfather still slept; only Red Wull would thrust out his savage head asthe lad passed, and snarl hungrily.
Sometimes father and son would go thus for weeks without sight of oneanother. And that was David's aim--to escape attention. It was only hiscunning at this game of evasion that saved him a thrashing.
The little man seemed devoid of all natural affection for his son. Helavished the whole fondness of which his small nature appeared capableon the Tailless Tyke, for so the Dalesmen called Red Wull. And the doghe treated with a careful tenderness that made David smile bitterly.
The little man and his dog were as alike morally as physically they werecontrasted. Each owed a grudge against the world and was determined topay it. Each was an Ishmael among his kind.
You saw them thus, standing apart, leper-like, in the turmoil of life;and it came quite as a revelation to happen upon them in some quiet spotof nights, playing together, each wrapped in the game, innocent, tender,forgetful of the hostile world.
The two were never separated except only when M'Adam came home by thepath across Kenmuir. After that first misadventure he never allowed hisfriend to accompany him on the journey through the enemy's country; forwell he knew that sheep-dogs have long memories.
To the stile in the lane, then, Red Wull would follow him. There hewould stand, his great head poked through the bars, watching his masterout of sight; and then would turn and trot, self-reliant and defiant,sturdy and surly, down the very centre of the road through thevillage--no playing, no enticing away, and woe to that man or dog whotried to stay him in his course! And so on, past Mother Ross's shop,past the Sylvester Arms, to the right by Kirby's smithy, over theWastrel by the Haughs, to await his master at the edge of the StonyBottom.
The little man, when thus crossing Kenmuir, often met Owd Bob, who hadthe free run of the farm. On these occasions he passed discreetly by;for, though he was no coward, yet it is bad, single-handed, to attacka Gray Dog of Kenmuir; while the dog trotted soberly on his way, onlya steely glint in the big gray eyes betraying his knowledge of thepresence of his foe. As surely, however, as the little man, in hisdesire to spy out the nakedness of the land, strayed off the publicpath, so surely a gray figure, seeming to spring from out the blue,would come fiercely, silently driving down on him; and he would turn andrun for his life, amid the uproarious jeers of any of the farm-hands whowere witness to the encounter.
On these occasions David vied with Tammas in facetiousness at hisfather's expense.
"Good on yo', little un!" he roared from behind a wall, on one suchoccurrence.
"Bain't he a runner, neither?" yelled Tammas, not to be outdone.
"See un skip it--ho! ho! Look to his knees a-wamblin'! from theundutiful son in ecstasy. An' I'd knees like yon, I'd wear petticoats."As he spoke, a swinging box on the ear nearly knocked the youngreprobate down.
"D'yo' think God gave you a dad for you to jeer at? Y'ought to beashamed o' yo'self. Serve yo' right if he does thrash yo' when yo' gethome." And David, turning round, found James Moore close behind him, hisheavy eyebrows lowering over his eyes.
Luckily, M'Adam had not distinguished his son's voice among the others.But David feared he had; for on the following morning the little mansaid to him:
"David, ye'll come hame immediately after school to-day."
"Will I?" said David pertly.
''Ye will.
"Why?"
"Because I tell ye to, ma lad"; and that was all the reason he wouldgive. Had he told the simple fact that he wanted help to drench a"husking" ewe, things might have gone differently. As it was, Davidturned away defiantly down the hill.
The afternoon wore on. Schooltime was long over; still there was noDavid.
The little man waited at the door of the Grange, fuming, hopping fromone leg to the other, talking to Red Wull, who lay at his feet, his headon his paws, like a tiger waiting for his prey.
At length he could restrain himself no longer; and started running downthe hill, his heart burning with indignation.
"Wait till we lay hands on ye, ma lad," he muttered as he ran. "We'llwarm ye, we'll teach ye."
At the edge of the Stony Bottom he, as always, left Red Wull. Crossingit himself, and rounding Langholm How, he espied James Moore, David, andOwd Bob walking away from him and in the direction of Kenmuir. The graydog and David were playing together, wrestling, racing, and rolling. Theboy had never a thought for his father.
The little man ran up behind them, unseen and unheard, his feet softlypattering on the grass. His hand had fallen on David's shoulder beforethe boy had guessed his approach.
"Did I bid ye come hame after school, David?" he asked, concealing hisheat beneath a suspicious suavity.
"Maybe. Did I say I would come?"
The pertness of tone and words, alike, fanned
his father's resentmentinto a blaze. In a burst of passion he lunged forward at the boy withhis stick. But as he smote, a gray whirlwind struck him fair on thechest, and he fell like a snapped stake, and lay, half stunned, with adark muzzle an inch from his throat.
"Git back, Bob!" shouted James Moore, hurrying up. "Git back, I tellyo'!" He bent over the prostrate figure, propping it up anxiously.
"Are yo' hurt, M'Adam? Eh, but I am sorry. He thought yo' were going forto strike the lad."
David had now run up, and he, too, bent over his father with a veryscared face.
"Are yo' hurt, feyther?" he asked, his voice trembling.
The little man rose unsteadily to his feet and shook off his supporters.His face was twitching, and he stood, all dust-begrimed, looking at hisson.
"Ye're content, aiblins, noo ye've seen yer father's gray head bowed inthe dust," he said.
"'Twas an accident," pleaded James Moore. "But I _am_ sorry. He thoughtyo' were goin' to beat the lad."
"So I was--so I will."
"If ony's beat it should be ma Bob here tho' he nob'but thought he wasdoin' right. An' yo' were aff the path."
The little man looked at his enemy, a sneer on his face.
"Ye canna thrash him for doin' what ye bid him. Set yer dog on me, if yewill, but dinna beat him when he does yer biddin'!"
"I did not set him on yo', as you know," the Master replied warmly.
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll no argie wi' ye, James Moore," he said. "I'll leave you andwhat ye call yer conscience to settle that. My business is not wi'you.--David!" turning to his son.
A stranger might well have mistaken the identity of the boy's father.For he stood now, holding the Master's arm; while a few paces abovethem was the little man, pale but determined, the expression on his facebetraying his consciousness of the irony of the situation.
"Will ye come hame wi' me and have it noo, or stop wi' him and wait tillye get it?" he asked the boy.
"M'Adam, I'd like yo' to--"
"None o' that, James Moore.--David, what d'ye say?"
David looked up into his protector's face.
"Yo'd best go wi' your feyther, lad," said the Master at last, thickly.The boy hesitated, and clung tighter to the shielding arm; then hewalked slowly over to his father.
A bitter smile spread over the little man's face as he marked this newtest of the boy's obedience to the other.
"To obey his frien' he foregoes the pleasure o' disobeyin' his father,"he muttered. "Noble!" Then he turned homeward, and the boy followed inhis footsteps.
James Moore and the gray dog stood looking after them.
"I know yo'll not pay off yer spite agin me on the lad's head, M'Adam,"he called, almost appealingly.
"I'll do ma duty, thank ye, James Moore, wi'oot respect o' persons," thelittle man cried back, never turning.
Father and son walked away, one behind the other, like a man and hisdog, and there was no word said between them. Across the Stony Bottom,Red Wull, scowling with bared teeth at David, joined them. Together thethree went up the bill to the Grange.
In the kitchen M'Adam turned.
"Noo, I'm gaein' to gie ye the gran'est thrashin' ye iver dreamed of.Tak' aff yer coat!"
The boy obeyed, and stood up in his thin shirt, his face white and setas a statue's. Red Wull seated himself on his haunches close by, hisears pricked, licking his lips, all attention.
The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it.But the expression on the boy's face arrested his arm.
"Say ye're sorry and I'll let yer aff easy."
"I'll not."
"One mair chance--yer last! Say yer 'shamed o' yerself'!"
"I'm not."
The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifteda little to obtain a better view.
"Git on wi' it," ordered David angrily.
The little man raised the stick again and--threw it into the farthestcorner of the room.
It fell with a rattle on the floor, and M'Adam turned away.
"Ye're the pitifulest son iver a man had," he cried brokenly. "Gina man's son dinna haud to him, wha can he expect to?--no one. Ye'reondootiful, ye're disrespectfu', ye're maist ilka thing ye shouldna be;there's but ae thing I thocht ye were not--a coward. And as to that,ye've no the pluck to say ye're sorry when, God knows, ye might be. Icanna thrash ye this day. But ye shall gae nae mair to school. I sendye there to learn. Ye'll not learn--ye've learnt naethin' exceptdisobedience to me--ye shall stop at hame and work."
His father's rare emotion, his broken voice and working face, movedDavid as all the stripes and jeers had failed to do. His consciencesmote him. For the first time in his life it dimly dawned on him that,perhaps, his father, too, had some ground for complaint; that, perhaps,he was not a good son.
He half turned.
"Feyther--"
"Git oot o' ma sight!" M'Adam cried.
And the boy turned and went.