HE sat down. In the great hail there was silence, save for a tiny sound from the gallery like a sob suppressed.
The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one, trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained--M'Adam, sitting solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at the far end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless.
When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lips tight-set strode across the silent hail.
"M'Adam," he said rapidly and almost roughly, "I've listened to what you've said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hit hard--but I think you were right. And if I've not done my duty by you as I ought--and I fear I've not--it's now my duty as God's minister to be the first to say I'm sorry." And it was evident from his face what an effort the words cost him.
The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head.
It was the old M'Adam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grin was crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, as he looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes.
"Mr. Hurnbert, I believe ye thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!"He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. "Ye swallered it all down like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!" Then, stretching forward:
"Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye."
The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand and grabbed the scoffer by his coat; then dropped it again and turned abruptly away.
As he passed through the door a little sneering voice called after him:
"Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England, can reconcile it to yer conscience to think--though it be but for a minute--that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? Sir, ye're a heretic--not to say a heathen!" He sniggered to himself, and his hand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter.
An hour later, James Moore, his business with the squire completed, passed through the hail on his way out. Its only occupant was now M'Adam, and the Master walked straight up to his enemy.
"M'Adam," he said gruffly, holding out a sinewy hand, "I'd like to say--"The little man knocked aside the token of friendship.
"Na, na. No cant, if ye please, James Moore. That'll aiblins go doon wi' the parsons, but not wi' me. I ken you and you ken me, and all the whitewash i' th' wand '11 no deceive us."The Master turned away, and his face was hard as the nether millstone. But the little man pursued him.
I was nigh forgettin'," he said. "I've a surprise for ye, James Moore.
But I hear it's yer birthday on Sunday, and I'll keep it till then--he!
he!"
"Ye'il see me before Sunday, M'Adam," the other answered. "On Saturday, as I told yo', I'm comin' to see if yo've done yer duty.""Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye'll iver go, once there, I'll mak' mine. I've warned ye twice noo and the little man laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his.
At the door of the hall the Master met David. "Noo, lad, yo're comin' along wi' Andrew and me," he said; "Maggie'll niver forgie us if we dinna bring yo' home wi' us.""Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore," the boy replied. "I've to see squire first; and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you.''
The Master faltered a moment.
"David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?" he asked in low voice.
"Yo' should, lad."
The boy made a gesture of dissent.
"I canna," he said petulantly.
"I would, lad," the other advised. "An' yo' don't yo' may be sorry after."As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness:
"I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal--he! he! So ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, for yen father--he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest:
'Your time's come, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face--he!
he! I mind it as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys will be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye don't succeed, why, try, try again--he!
he!"
Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night.
As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, the wind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps.
"There s trouble in the wind," said the Master.
"Ay," answered his laconic son.
All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue. But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the star-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detaching themselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward--the vanguard of the storm.
In the distance was a low tumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor of heaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn. The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness--no glimmer of light on any hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pass they reached out blind hands to feel along the rock-face.
A sea-fret, cool and wetting, fell. A few big rain-drops splashed heavily down. The wind rose with a leap and roared past them up the rocky track. And the water-gates of heaven were flung wide.
