Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) đ
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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On the death of his wife, kindly Elizabeth Moore had, more than once, offered such help to the lonely little man as a woman only can give in a house that knows no mistress. On the last of these occasions, after crossing the âStony Bottom, which divides the two farms, and toiling up the hill to the Grange, she had met MâAdam in the door.
âYoâ maun let me put yoâ bit things straight .for yoâ, mister,â she had said shyly; for she feared the little man.
âThank ye, Mrs. Moore,â he had answered with the sour smile the Dalesmen knew so well, âbut ye maun think Iâm a waefuâ cripple.â And there he had stood, grinning sardonically, opposing his small bulk in the very centre of the door.
Mrs. Moore had turned down the hill, abashed and hurt at the reception of her offer; and her husband, proud to a fault, had forbidden her to repeat it. Nevertheless her motherly heart went out in a great tenderness for the little orphan David. She knew well the desolateness of his life; his fatherâs aversion from him, and its inevitable consequences.
It became an institution for the boy to call every morning at Kenmuir, and trot off to the village school with Maggie Moore. And soon the lad came to look on Kenmuir as his true home, and James and Elizabeth Moore as his real parents. His greatest happiness was to be away from the Grange. And the ferret-eyed little man there noted the fact, bitterly resented it, and vented his ill-humor accordingly.
It was this, as he deemed it, uncalled-for trespassing on his authority which was the chief cause of his animosity against James Moore. The Master of Kenmuir it was at whom he was aiming when he remarked one day at the Arms: âMaselâ, I aye prefaire the good man who does no go to church, to the bad man who does. But then, as ye say, Mr. Burton, Iâm peculiar.â
The little manâs treatment of David, exaggerated as it was by eager credulity, became at length such a scandal to the Dale that Parson Leggy determined to bring him to task on the matter.
Now MâAdam was the parsonâs pet antipathy. The bluff old minister, with his brusque manner and big heart, would have no truck with the man who never went to church, was perpetually in liquor, and never spoke good of his neighbors. Yet he entered upon the interview fully resolved not to be betrayed into an unworthy expression of feeling; rather to appeal to the little manâs better nature.
The conversation had not been in progress two minutes, however, before he knew that, where he had meant to be calmly persuasive, he was fast become hotly abusive.
âYou, Mr. Hornbut, wiâ James Moore to help ye, look after the ladâs soul, Iâll see to his body,â the little man was saying.
The parsonâs thick gray eyebrows lowered threateningly over his eyes.
âYou ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk like that. Which dâyou think the more important, soul or body? Oughtnât you, his father, to be the very first to care for the boyâs soul? If not, who should? Answer me, sir.â
The little man stood smirking and sucking his eternal twig, entirely unmoved by the otherâs heat.
âYeâre right, Mr. Hombut, as ye aye are. But my argiment is this: that I get at his soul best through his icetle carcase.â
The honest parson brought down his stick with an angry thud.
âMâAdam, youâre a bruteâa brute!â he shouted. At which outburst the little man was seized with a spasm of silent merriment,
âA fond dad first, a brute afterward, aiblinsâhe! he! Ah, Mr. Hornbut! ye âford me vast diversion, ye do indeed, âmy loved, my honored, much-respected friend.â
âIf you paid as much heed to your boyâs welfare as you do to the bad poetry of that profligate ploughmanââ
An angry gleam shot into the otherâs eyes. âDâye ken what blasphemy is, Mr. Hornbut?â he asked, shouldering a pace forward.
For the first time in the dispute the parson thought he was about to score a point, and was calm accordingly.
âI should do; I fancy Iâve a specimen of the breed before me now. And dâyou know what impertinence is?â
âI should do; I fancy IâveâI awd say itâs what gentlemen aften are unless their mammies whipped âem as lads.â
For a moment the parson looked as if about to seize his opponent and shake him.
âMâAdam,â he roared, âIâll not stand your insolences!â
The little man turned, scuttled indoors, and came runnng back with a chair.
âPermit me!â he said blandly, holding it before him like a haircutter for a customer.
The parson turned away. At the gap in the hedge he paused.
âIâll only say one thing more,â he called slowly. âWhen your wife, whom I think we all loved, lay dying in that room above you, she said to you in my presenceââ
It was MâAdamâs turn to be angry. He made a step forward with burning face.
âAince and for aâ, Mr. Hornbut,â he cried passionately, âonderstand Iâll not haâ you and yer likes lay yer tongues on ma wifeâs memory whenever it suits ye. You can say what ye like aboot meâlies, sneers, snashâand Iâll say naethinâ. I dinna ask ye to respect me; I think ye might do sae muckle by her, puir lass. She never harmed ye. Gin ye canna let her bide in peace where she lies doon yonderââ he waved in the direction of the churchyardâ âyeâll no come on ma land. Though she is dead sheâs mine.â
Standing in front of his house, with flushed face and big eyes, the little man looked almost noble in his indignation. And the parson, striding away down the hill, was uneasily conscious that with him was not the victory.
Chapter III. RED WULL
THE winter came and went; the lambing season was over, and spring already shyly kissing the land. And the back of the year s work broken, and her master well started on a fresh season, MâAdamâs old collie, Cuttie Sark, lay down one evening and passed quietly away.
The little black-and-tan lady, Parson Leggy used to say, had been the only thing on earth MâAdam cared for. Certainly the two had been wondrously devoted; and for many a market-day the Dalesmen missed the shrill, chuckling cry which heralded the pairâs approach: âWeel done, Cuttie Sark!â
The little man felt his loss acutely, and, according to his wont, vented his ill-feeling on David and the Dalesmen. In return, Tammas, whose forte lay in invective and alliteration, called him behind his back, âA wenomous one!â and âA wiralent wiper!â to the applause of tinkling pewters.
A shepherd without his dog is like a ship without a rudder, and MâAdarn felt his loss practically as well as otherwise. Especially did he experience this on a day when he had to take a batch of draft-ewes over to Grammochtown. To help him Jem Burton had lent the services of his herring-gutted, herring-hearted, greyhound lurcher, Monkey. But before they had well topped Braithwaite Brow, which leads from the village on to the marches, MâAdam was standing in the track with a rock in his hand, a smile on his face, and the tenderest blandishments in his voice as he coaxed the dog to him. But Master Monkey knew too much for that. However, after gambolling a while longer in the middle of the flock, a boulder, better aimed than its predecessors, smote him on the hinder parts and sent him back to the Sylvester Arms, with a sore tail and a subdued heart.
For the rest, MâAdam would never have won over the sheep-infested marches alone with his convoy had it not been for the help of old Saunderson and Shep, who caught him on the way and aided him.
It was in a very wrathful mood that on his way home he turned into the Dalesmanâs Daughter in Silverdale.
The only occupants of the tap-room, as he entered, were Teddy Boistock, the publican, Jim Mason, with the faithful Betsy beneath his chair and the post-bags flung into the corner, and one long-limbed, drover-like manâa stranger.
âAnd he coom up to Mr. Moore,â Teddy was saying, âand says he, âIâll gie ye twalâ pun for yon gray dog oâ yourn.â âAh,â says Moore, âyoâ may gie me twalâ hunnerâd and yet youâll not get ma Bob.ââEh, Jim?â
âAnd he did thot,â corroborated Jim. â âTwalâ hunnerâd,â says he.â
âJames Moore and his dog aginâ snapped MâAdam. âThereâs ithers in the wand for bye them twa.â
âAy, but none like âem,â quoth loyal Jim.
âNa, thanks be. Gin there were thereâd be no room for Adam MâAdam in this âmelancholy vale.â
There was silence a moment, and thenâ:
âYouâre wantinâ a tyke, bainât you, Mr. MâAdam?â Jim asked.
The little man hopped round all in a hurry.
âWhat!â he cried in well-affected eagerness, scanning the yellow mongrel beneath the chair. âBetsy for sale! Guid life! Whereâs ma check-book?â Whereat Jim, most easily snubbed of men, collapsed.
MâAdam took off his dripping coat and crossed the room to hang it on a chair-back. The stranger drover followed the meagre, shirt-clad figure with shifty eyes; then he buried his face in his mug.
MâAdam reached out a hand for the chair; and as he did so, a bomb in yellow leapt out from beneath it, and, growling horribly, at tacked his ankles.
âCurse ye!â cried MâAdam, starting back.
âYe devil, let me alone!â Then turning fiercely on the drover, â Yours, mister?â he asked. The man nodded. âThen call him aff, canât ye? Dân ye!â At which Teddy Boistock withdrew, sniggering; and Jim Mason slung the post-bags on to his shoulder and plunged out into the rain, the faithful Betsy following, disconsolate.
The cause of the squall, having beaten off the attacking force, had withdrawn again beneath its chair. MâAdam stooped down, still cursing, his wet coat on his arm, and beheld a tiny yellow puppy, crouching defiant in the dark, and glaring out with fiery light eyes. Seeing itself remarked, it bared its little teeth, raised its little bristles, and growled a hideous menace.
A sense of humor is many a manâs salvation, and was MâAdamâs one redeeming feature. The laughableness of the thingâthis ferocious atomy defying himâstruck home to the little man. Delighted at such a display of vice in so tender a plant, he fell to chuckling.
âYe leetle devil!â he laughed. âHe! he! ye leetle devil!â and flipped together finger and thumb in vain endeavor to coax the puppy to him.
But it growled, and glared more terribly.
âStop it, ye little snake, or Iâll flatten you!â cried the big drover, and shuffled his feet threateningly. Whereat the puppy, gurgling like hot water in a kettle, made a feint as though to advance and wipe them out, these two bad men.
MâAdam
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