Bob, Son of Battle - Alfred Ollivant (ereader ebook TXT) 📗

dissent); but he never yet heard of the Sylvester—though he shouldn’t say it—~-who was a bad landlord (loud applause).

This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content (a voice, “‘Oo says we bain’t? “)—” thank you, thank you! “—well, there was room for him outside. (Cheers.)

He thanked God from the bottom of his heart

that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the March Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and his people (cheers), and he didn’t think there ever would be. (Loud cheers.)

“Thank you, thank you!” And his motto was, “Shun a Radical as you do the devil!”— and he was very glad to see them all there— very glad; and he wished to give them a toast, “The Queen! God bless her!” and—wait a minute!—with her Majesty’s name to couple —he was sure that gracious lady would wish it—that of “Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir!” Then he sat down abruptly amid thundering applause.

The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as Master of Kenmuir, rose to answer.

He began by saying that he spoke “as representing all the tenants, “—but he was interrupted.

“Na,” came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. “Yell except me, James Moore. I’d as lief be represented by Judas!”

There were cries of “Hold ye gab, little mon!” and the squire’s voice, “That’ll do, Mr. M’Adam!”

The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a ferret’s; and the Master continued his speech.

He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the while M’Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he could control himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forward with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: “Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo daur ye stan’ there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit doon, I say, or’ ‘—threateningly—” wad ye hae me come to ye?”

At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master’s grim face relaxed. But the squire’s voice rang out sharp and stern.

“Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M’Adam! D’you hear me, sir? If I have to speak to you again it will be to order you to leave the room.”

The little man obeyed, sullen and vengeful, like a beaten cat.

The Master concluded his speech by calling on all present to give three cheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies.

The call was responded to enthusiastically, every man standing. Just as the noise was at its zenith, Lady Eleanour herself, with her two fair daughters, glided into the gallery at the end of the hall; whereat the cheering became deafening.

Slowly the clamor subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At length there was left standing only one solitary figure— M ‘Adam.

His face was set, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin, nervous hands.

“Mr. Sylvester,” he began in low yet clear voice, “ye said this is a free country and we’re a’ free men. And that hem’ so, I’ll tak’ the liberty, wi’ yer permission, to say a word. It’s maybe the last time I’ll be wi’ ye, so I hope ye’ll listen to me.”

The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the squire uneasy. Nevertheless he nodded assent.

The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though strung up to a high resolve. All the passion had fled from it, all the bitterness was gone; and left behind was a strange, enobling earnestness. Standing there in the silence of that great hail, with every eye upon him, he looked like some prisoner at the bar about to plead for his life.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve bin amang ye noo a score years, and I can truly say there’s not a man in this room I can ca’ ‘Friend.’ ” He looked along the ranks of upturned faces. “Ay, David, I see ye, and you, Mr. Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester—ilka one o’ you, and not one as’d back me like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me.” There was no rebuke in the grave little voice—it merely stated a hard fact.

“There’s I doot no one amang ye but has some one—friend or blood—wham he can turn to when things are sair wi’ him. I’ve no one.

‘I bear alane my lade o’ care’—

alane wi’ Wullie, who stands to me, blaw or snaw, rain or shine. And whiles I’m feared he’ll be took from me.” He spoke this last half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expression on his face, as though lately he had dreamed some ill dream.

“Forbye Wuilie, I’ve no friend on God’s earth. And, mind ye, a bad man aften mak’s a good friend—but ye’ve never given me the chance. It’s a sair thing that, gentlemen, to ha’ to fight the battle o’ life alane: no one to pat ye on th’ back, no one to say ‘Weel done.’ It hardly gies a man a chance. For gin he does try and yet fails, men never mind the tryin’, they only mark the failin’.

“I dinna blame ye. There’., somethin’ bred in me, it se ms, as sets ivery one agin me. It’s the same wi’ Wullie and the tykes—they’re doon on him same as men are on me. I suppose we was made so. Sin’ I was a lad it’s aye bin the same. From school days I’ve had ivery one agin me.

“In ma life I’ve had three fiends. Ma mither—and she went; then ma wife “—he gave a great swallow—” and she’s awa’; and I may say they’re the only two human hem’s as ha’ lived on God’s earth in ma time that iver tried to bear wi’ me; — and Wullie. A man’s mither—a man’s wife-a man’s dog! it’s aften a’ he has in this wand; and the more he prizes them the more like they are to be took from him.” The little earnest voice shook, and the dim eyes puckered and filled.

“Sin’ I’ve bin amang ye-twenty-odd years —can any man here mind speakin’ any word that wasna ill to me?” He paused; there was no reply.

“I’ll tell ye. All the time I’ve lived here I’ve had one kindly word spoke to me, and that a fortnight gone, and not by a man then—by her ladyship, God bless her!” He glanced up into the gallery. There was no one visible there; but a curtain at one end shook as though it were sobbing.

“Weel, I’m thinkin’ we’ll be gaein’ in a wee while noo, Wullie and me, alane and thegither, as we’ve aye done. And it’s time we went. Ye’ve had enough o’ us, and it’s no for me to blame ye. And when I’m gone what’ll ye say o’ me? ‘He was a drunkard.’ I am. ‘He was a sinner.’ I am. ‘He was ilka thing he shouldna be.’ I am. ‘We’re glad he’s gone.’ That’s what ye’il say o’ me. And it’s but ma deserts.”

The gentle, condemning voice ceased, and began again.

“That’s what I am. Gin things had been differ’, aiblins I’d ha’ bin differ’. D’ye ken Robbie Burns? That’s a man I’ve read, and ead, and read. D’ye ken why I love him as some o’ you do yen Bibles? Because there’s a humanity about him. A weak man hissel’, aye slippin’, slippin’, slippin’, and tryin’ to haud up; sorrowin’ ae minute, sinnin’ the next; doin’ ill deeds and wishin’ ‘em undone—just a plain human man, a sinner. And that’s why I’m thinkin he’s tender for us as is like him. He understood. It’s what he wrote—after am o’ his tumbles, I’m thinkin’—that I was goin’ to tell ye:

‘Then gently scan yer brother man, Still gentler sister woman, Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang, To step aside is human’—

the doctrine o’ Charity. Gie him his chance, says Robbie, though he be a sinner. Mony a mon’d be differ’, mony bad’d be gude, gin they had but their chance. Gie ‘em their chance, says he; and I’m wi’ him. As ‘tis, ye see me here—a bad man wi’ still a streak o’ good in him. Gin I’d had ma chance, aiblins ‘twad be—a good man wi’ just a spice o’ the devil in him. A’ the differ’ betune what is and what might ha’ bin.”