Robbery Under Arms Rolf Boldrewood (best way to read an ebook .TXT) 📖

its habitation. Did they no’ tell me that ye leapit in frae the forecastle of the prison ship, and the gale rising and the dark waves mounting⁠—and when the boat was lowered and they brocht ye in mair deed than alive, did I no gae doon on my knees and vow a vow to the Lord of Life, to the Great Ruler o’ the Universe? And I hae keepit the oath, as I shall answer to the Lord at the last day. I hae keepit my vow.”

“And you’re about the only chap, except Falkland, as does stick to his word in this country⁠—to coves like me, anyhow,” says father. “But stash all that woman’s talk. D’ye see that there tree?” he says, fierce like, and hitting an old yellow box-tree a crash that would have barked most men’s knuckles. “Yer might just as well talk to that blessed tree, and ye’d get as much good out of it. What’s the old woman’s pitch? I don’t say it ain’t rough on her.”

Old Davy took a long look, half pity, half wonder, at Dad, and then he groans and opens the letter. It was thus⁠—Aileen had wrote it, of course:

“My dear husband⁠—We saw about everything in the papers; our neighbours came over, and were very kind; but it was no use. Nothing will be any use how. I think you might have let the boys go before you went into such a thing. Their blood will be on your head. I told you that long ago, and many a time and often. Send the youngest away, if it is possible at all; he might be saved. I have no hope for you others. May God pardon your sins and give us all time for repentance before death ends all. I have been very ill, but feel stronger now. The police seem always about the place. Your sorrowful wife.”

“I’m dashed,” says father, swearing a great oath, “if I don’t make it hot for some of them traps if I catch ’em hanging about the old place. If they can’t catch me, why should they go botherin’ the old woman and the gal? Haven’t they had enough to stand without that being put on ’em⁠—as is innocent and always was. By ⸻ they don’t know me yet; but they will some day, if they don’t look out.”

I never saw Dad so put out. His eyes glared, his lips trembled; he looked like no man at all; like something just come to the earth for a bit, to go back again when his hour comes.

He didn’t seem to think much of poor mother and Aileen in a general way, but now all of a sudden, because he took it into his head that the police were botherin’ them, unfair like, and coming about the place more than they had a right to do, he was like a ragin’ lion⁠—worse, ever so much like a devil let loose out of hell. I felt regular frightened, just as if I’d been a boy again.

After a bit he gives a sort of gulp, and says to the old man, “The papers, the papers, Davy. It’s time we was off. I’ll send the half-caste chap next time.”

The shepherd reached up a bundle of newspapers, all tied up together with a bit of green hide, and turns to his sheep that was drawin’ off their camp and beginning to feed towards home.

“Hech; wad ye noo? Ye rintherout wastrel bodies in the lead⁠—just rinning the inside oot o’ the tail, and a’ the fine steady sheep i’ the flock. Hey, Yarrow, far yawd, far yawd, lad, gang roond them, Yarrow, boy.”

One of the old dogs gets up and cuts away to the head of the flock like a Christian, sending back all the stray sheep that was makin’ off like a lot of cattle out of a yard. Then when they steadied and began to draw along quiet and feed as they go, he regular sits down with his mouth open, laughin’ to himself, the way dogs laugh, as much as to say, “I slewed ye there, old chaps.”

“I must be off, Davy, old man,” says father; “ye won’t see me agin for a bit, maybe. I’ll send next time.”

“Ben Marston⁠—Poacher Ben?” says the old man, raising his hand, “something tells me yer’e gaun on the road to evil faster and fiercer than ye were wont⁠—the braid path that leadeth to destruction. Aye⁠—aye⁠—were ye no tauld_ o’ that in your youth? I doot ye were tauld naething⁠—joost naething⁠—and this is the fruit. But gin ye turn from yer ways; even noo, at the eleventh hour, and repent; ye may be saved⁠—saul and body; ye and your household. Think o’ laddie here, and his mither greetin’ at hame; and Aileen, that grand lassie; and Jeems, puir Jeems! Think on it, man; there’s a saul within yer sinfu’ carcass, and a heart. But, too, gin ane could find it. If ye quit not yer evil ways, the end will be woe⁠—woe and death⁠—woe and death. Noo gang yer ways in peace!”

Father nodded, and moved away at a pretty quick walk, and me with him. I looked back after a bit, and there was the old man standing still in the same place, with his hand raised up, and the afternoon sun blazing down on his white hair, brightening up the little green valley, the clear running water, even the very stones of the creek. He looked just like one of the old prophets that Aileen used to read to us about out of the Bible Sunday evenings, when we were boys. He was not speaking now, but his last words kept sounding in my ears: “Woe and death⁠—woe and death⁠—woe and death.” Father didn’t talk for a bit⁠—not till we got near the horses, that we found all right where we left them. Then he says, “That’s a queer old card, ain’t he? I saved his little girl from drowning