Bob, Son of Battle, Alfred Ollivant [graded readers txt] 📗

THAT night a vague story was whispered In the Sylvester Arms. But Tammas, on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: “Nay, I’m sworn to say nowt.” Which was the old man’s way of putting that he knew nowt.

On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down arrayed in all their best. It was the day of the squire’s annual dinner to his tenants.

The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until they had undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl liked her mankind to do honor to Kenmuir on these occasions. So she brushed up Andrew, tied his scarf, saw his boots and hands were clean, and titivated him generally till she had converted the ungainly hobbledehoy into a thoroughly “likely young mon.”

And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on such gala days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her father, marking the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire’s mysterious hint, said gently:

“Cheer up, lass. Happen I’ll ha’ news for you the night!”

The girl nodded, and smiled wanly.

“Happen so, dad,” she said. But in her heart she doubted.

Nevertheless it was with a cheerful countenance that, a little later, she stood in the door with wee Anne and Owd Bob and waved the travellers Godspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely gripping the old dog’s tail with one hand and her sister with the other, screamed them a wordless farewell.

The sun had reached its highest when the two wayfarers passed through the gray portals of the Manor.

In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a long and honorable line, were gathered now the many tenants throughout the wide March Mere Estate. Weather-beaten, rent-paying sons of the soil; most of them native-born, many of them like James Moore, whose fathers had for generations owned and farmed the land they now leased at the hands of the Sylvesters there in the old hail they were assembled, a mighty host. And apart from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown of one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little M’Adam, puny always, paltry now, mocking his manhood.

The door at the far end of the hail opened, and the squire entered, beaming on every one.

“Here you are—eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day, James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all! Bringin’ a friend with me—eh, eh!” and he stood aside to let by his agent, Parson Leggy, and last of all, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young giant.

“If it bain’t David!” was the cry. “Eh, lad, we’s fain to see yo’! And yo’m lookin’ stout, surely!” And they thronged about the boy, shaking him by the hand, and asking him his story.

‘Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he had gone south, drover— ing. He had written to Maggie, and been surprised and hurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and too proud to write again, had remained ignorant of his father’s recovery,, neither caring nor daring to return. Then by mere chance, he had met the squire at the York cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had eased his fears and obtained from him a promise to return as soon as the term of his engagement had expired. And there he was.

The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and in return telling him the home news, and chaffing him about Maggie.

Of all the people present, only one seemed unmoved, and that was M’Adam. When first David had entered he had started forward, a flush of color warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now, back again beneath his armor, he watched the scene, a sour smile playing about his lips.

“I think the lad might ha’ the grace to come and say he’s sorry for ‘temptin’ to murder me. Hooiver “—with a characteristic shrug—” I suppose I’m onraisonahie.”

Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way into the great dining-hail. At the one end of the long table, heavy with all the solid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with the Master of Kenmuir upon his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While down the sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed, with M’Adam a little lost figure in the centre.

At first they talked but little, awed like chil.. dren: knives plied, glasses tinkled, the carvers had all their work, only the tongues were at rest. But the squire’s ringing laugh and the parson’s cheery tones soon put them at their ease; and a babel of voices rose and waxed.

Of them all, only M’Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you may be sure no one talked to him. His hand crept of tener to his glass than plate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to grow unnaturally bright.

Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table, calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was on his feet to make his annual speech.

He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He made an allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds’ Trophy which was heartily applauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said he had a remedy to propose: that Th’ Owd Un should he set upon the criminal’s track—a suggestion which was received with enthusiasm, while M’Adam’s cackling laugh could be heard high above the rest.

From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, the depression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government. He said that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry composed of “honorable men and gentlemen,” he felt convinced that things would brighten. The Radicals’ one ambition was to set class against class, landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, the Sylvesters had rarely been—he was sorry to have to confess it—good men (laughter and