At last the end came in the wet dreariness of the little churchyard, and slowly the mourners departed, until at length were left only the parson, the Master, and Owd Bob.
The parson was speaking in rough, short accents, digging nervously at the wet ground. The other, tall and gaunt, his face drawn and half-averted, stood listening. By his side was Owd Bob, scanning his master's countenance, a wistful compassion deep in the sad gray eyes; while close by, one of the parson's terriers was nosing inquisitively in the wet grass.
Of a sudden, James Moore, his face still turned away, stretched out a hand. The parson, broke off abruptly and grasped it. Then the two men strode away in opposite directions, the terrier hopping on three legs and shaking the rain off his hard coat.
David's steps sounded outside. M'Adam rose from his knees. The door of the house opened, and the boy's feet shuffled in the passage.
"David!" the little man called in a tremulous voice.
He stood in the half-light, one hand on the table, the other clasping the picture. His eyes were bleared, his thin hair all tossed, and he was shaking.
"David," he called again; "I've somethin' I wush to say to ye!"The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and rain; and the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front, and on the elbows were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way home, he had flung himself down in the Stony Bottom just as he was, heedless of the wet earth and his father's coat, and, lying on his face thinking of that second mother lost to him, had wept his heart out in a storm of passionate grief.
Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door.
"What d'yo' want?"
The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.
"Help me, Flora--he'll no," he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he began: "I'd like to say--I've bin thinkin'--I think I should tell ye--it's no an easy thing for a man to say--"He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could accomplish.
He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of understanding in that white, set countenance.
"O God, it's maist mair than I can do!" the little man muttered; and the perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began:
David, after I saw ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill--"Again he paused. His glance rested unconsciously upon the coat.
David mistook the look; mistook the dimness in his father's eyes;mistook the tremor in his voice.
"Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!" he cried passionately; and, tearing it off, flung it down at his father's feet. "Tak' it--and---and----curse yo'/"He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.
Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure.
But little M'Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.
"Curse ye," he repeated softly. "Curse ye --ye heard him. Wullie?"A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now lying crushed in his hand.
"Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin," he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. "Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it."Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter smile.
That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.
"Yo' beast!" said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the little man's hand:
"Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?" he leered. "Gie us a look at 'er,"and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar.
"Two on ye!" he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; "beasts baith!"
