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  Chapter XXII A MAN AND A MAID

  IN the village even the Black Killer and the murder on the Screes wereforgotten in this new sensation. The mystery in which the affair waswrapped, and the ignorance as to all its details, served to whet thegeneral interest. There had been a fight; M'Adam and the Terror had beenmauled; and David had disappeared--those were the facts. But what wasthe origin of the affray no one could say.

  One or two of the Dalesmen had, indeed, a shrewd suspicion. Tupperlooked guilty; Jem Burton muttered, "I knoo hoo 'twould be"; while asfor Long Kirby, he vanished entirely, not to reappear till three monthshad sped.

  Injured as he had been, M'Adam was yet sufficiently recovered to appearin the Sylvester Arms on the Saturday following the battle. He enteredthe tap-room silently with never a word to a soul; one arm was in asling and his head bandaged. He eyed every man present critically; andall, except Tammas, who was brazen, and Jim Mason, who was innocent,fidgeted beneath the stare. Maybe it was well for Long Kirby he was notthere.

  "Onythin' the matter?" asked Jem, at length, rather lamely, in view ofthe plain evidences of battle.

  "Na, na; naethin' oot o' the ordinar'," the little man replied,giggling. "Only David set on me, and me sleepin'. And," with a shrug,"here I am noo." He sat down, wagging his bandaged head and grinning."Ye see he's sae playfu', is Davie. He wangs ye o'er the head wi' achair, kicks ye in the jaw, stamps on yer wame, and all as merry asMay." And nothing further could they get from him, except that if Davidreappeared it was his firm resolve to hand him over to the police forattempted parricide.

  "'Brutal assault on an auld man by his son!' 'Twill look well in theArgus; he! he! They couldna let him aff under two years, I'm thinkin'."

  M'Adam's version of the affair was received with quiet incredulity. Thegeneral verdict was that he had brought his punishment entirely on hisown head. Tammas, indeed, who was always rude when he was not witty,and, in fact, the difference between the two things is only one ofdegree, told him straight: "It served yo' well reet. An' I nob'but wishhe'd made an end to yo'."

  "He did his best, puir lad," M'Adam reminded him gently.

  "We've had enough o' yo'," continued the uncompromising old man. "I'mfair grieved he didna slice yer throat while he was at it."

  At that M'Adam raised his eyebrows, stared, and then broke into a lowwhistle.

  "That's it, is it?" he muttered, as though a new light was dawning onhim. "Ah, noo I see."

  * * * * *

  The days passed on. There was still no news of the missing one, andMaggie's face became pitifully white and haggard.

  Of course she did not believe that David had attempted to murder hisfather, desperately tried as she knew he had been. Still, it was aterrible thought to her that he might at any moment be arrested; and hergirlish imagination was perpetually conjuring up horrid pictures of atrial, conviction, and the things that followed.

  Then Sam'l started a wild theory that the little man had murdered hisson, and thrown the mangled body down the dry well at the Grange. Thestory was, of course, preposterous, and, coming from such a source,might well have been discarded with the ridicule it deserved. Yet itserved to set the cap on the girl's fears; and she resolved, at whatevercost, to visit the Grange, beard M'Adam, and discover whether he couldnot or would not allay her gnawing apprehension.

  Her intent she concealed from her father, knowing well that were she toreveal it to him, he would gently but firmly forbid the attempt; and onan afternoon some fortnight after David's disappearance, choosing heropportunity, she picked up a shawl, threw it over her head, and fledwith palpitating heart out of the farm and down the slope to theWastrel.

  The little plank-bridge rattled as she tripped across it; and she fledfaster lest any one should have heard and come to look. And, indeed, atthe moment it rattled again behind her, and she started guiltily round.It proved, however, to be only Owd Bob, sweeping after, and she wasglad.

  "Comin' wi' me, lad?" she asked as the old dog cantered up, thankful tohave that gray protector with her.

  Round Langholm now fled the two conspirators; over the summer-clad lowerslopes of the Pike, until, at length, they reached the Stony Bottom.Down the bramble-covered bank of the ravine the girl slid; picked herway from stone to stone across the streamlet tinkling in that rocky bed;and scrambled up the opposite bank.

  At the top she halted and looked back. The smoke from Kenmuir waswinding slowly up against the sky; to her right the low gray cottages ofthe village cuddled in the bosom of the Dale; far away over the Marchestowered the gaunt Scaur; before her rolled the swelling slopes of theMuir Pike; while behind--she glanced timidly over her shoulder--was thehill, at the top of which squatted the Grange, lifeless, cold, scowling.

  Her heart failed her. In her whole life she had never spoken to M'Adam.Yet she knew him well enough from all David's accounts--ay, and hatedhim for David's sake. She hated him and feared him, too; feared himmortally--this terrible little man. And, with a shudder, she recalledthe dim face at the window, and thought of his notorious hatred of herfather. But even M'Adam could hardly harm a girl coming, broken-hearted,to seek her lover. Besides, was not Owd Bob with her?

  And, turning, she saw the old dog standing a little way up the hill,looking back at her as though he wondered why she waited. "Am I notenough?" the faithful gray eyes seemed to say.

  "Lad, I'm fear'd," was her answer to the unspoken question.

  Yet that look determined her. She clenched her little teeth, drew theshawl about her, and set off running up the hill.

  Soon the run dwindled to a walk, the walk to a crawl, and the crawl toa halt. Her breath was coming painfully, and her heart pattered againsther side like the beatings of an imprisoned bird. Again her grayguardian looked up, encouraging her forward.

  "Keep close, lad," she whispered, starting forward afresh. And the olddog ranged up beside her, shoving into her skirt, as though to let herfeel his presence.

  So they reached the top of the hill; and the house stood before them,grim, unfriendly.

  The girl's face was now quite white, yet set; the resemblance to herfather was plain to see. With lips compressed and breath quick-coming,she crossed the threshold, treading softly as though in a house of thedead. There she paused and lifted a warning finger at her companion,bidding him halt without; then she turned to the door on the left of theentrance and tapped.

  She listened, her head buried in the shawl, close to the wood panelling.There was no answer; she could only hear the drumming of her heart.

  She knocked again. From within came the scraping of a chair cautiouslyshoved back, followed by a deep-mouthed cavernous growl.

  Her heart stood still, but she turned the handle and entered, leaving acrack open behind.

  On the far side the room a little man was sitting. His head was swathedin dirty bandages, and a bottle was on the table beside him. He wasleaning forward; his face was gray, and there was a stare of nakedhorror in his eyes. One hand grasped the great dog who stood at hisside, with yellow teeth glinting, and muzzle hideously wrinkled; withthe other he pointed a palsied finger at her.

  "Ma God! wha are ye?" he cried hoarsely.

  The girl stood hard against the door, her fingers still on the handle;trembling like an aspen at the sight of that uncannie pair.

  That look in the little man's eyes petrified her: the swollen pupils;lashless lids, yawning wide; the broken range of teeth in that gapingmouth, froze her very soul. Rumors of the man's insanity tided back onher memory.

  "I'm--I--" the words came in trembling gasps.

  At the first utterance, however, the little man's hand dropped; he leantback in his chair and gave a soul-bursting sigh of relief.

  No woman had crossed that threshold since his wife died; and, for amoment, when first the girl had entered silent-footed, aroused fromdreaming of the long ago, he had thought this shawl-clad figure with thepale face and peeping hair no earthly visitor; the spirit, rather, ofone he had loved long s
ince and lost, come to reproach him with a brokentroth.

  "Speak up, I canna hear," he said, in tones mild compared with thoselast wild words.

  "I--I'm Maggie Moore," the girl quavered.

  "Moore! Maggie Moore, d'ye say?" he cried, half rising from his chair,a flush of color sweeping across his face, "the dochter o' James Moore?"He paused for an answer, glowering at her; and she shrank, trembling,against the door.

  The little man leant back in his chair. Gradually a grim smile creptacross his countenance.

  "Weel, Maggie Moore," he said, halfamused, "ony gate ye're a goodplucked un." And his wizened countenance looked at her almost kindlyfrom beneath its dirty crown of bandages.

  At that the girl's courage returned with a rush. After all this littleman was not so very terrible. Perhaps he would be kind. And in therelief of the moment, the blood swept back into her face.

  There was not to be peace yet, however. The blush was still hot upon hercheeks, when she caught the patter of soft steps in the passage without.A dark muzzle flecked with gray pushed in at the crack of the door; twoanxious gray eyes followed.

  Before she could wave him back, Red Wull had marked the intruder. Witha roar he tore himself from his master's restraining hand, and dashedacross the room.

  "Back, Bob!" screamed Maggie, and the dark head withdrew. The doorslammed with a crash as the great dog flung himself against it, andMaggie was hurled, breathless and white-faced, into a corner.

  M'Adam was on his feet, pointing with a shrivelled finger, his facediabolical.

  "Did you bring him? did you bring _that_ to ma door?"

  Maggie huddled in the corner in a palsy of trepidation. Her eyes gleamedbig and black in the white face peering from the shawl.

  Red Wull was now beside her snarling horribly. With nose to the bottomof the door and busy paws he was trying to get out; while, on the otherside, Owd Bob, snuffling also at the crack, scratched and pleaded to getin. Only two miserable wooden inches separated the pair.

  "I brought him to protect me. I--I was afraid."

  M'Adam sat down and laughed abruptly.

  "Afraid! I wonder ye were na afraid to bring him here. It's the firsttime iver he's set foot on ma land, and 't had best be the last" Heturned to the great dog. "Wullie, Wullie, wad ye?" he called. "Comehere. Lay ye doon--so--under ma chair--good lad. Noo's no the time tosettle wi' him"--nodding toward the door. "We can wait for that, Wullie;we can wait." Then, turning to Maggie, "Gin ye want him to mak' a showat the Trials two months hence, he'd best not come here agin. Gin hedoes, he'll no leave ma land alive; Wullie'll see to that. Noo, what is't ye want o'me?"

  The girl in the corner, scared almost out of her senses by this lastoccurrence, remained dumb.

  M'Adam marked her hesitation, and grinned sardonically.

  "I see hoo 'tis," said he; "yer dad's sent ye. Aince before he wantedsomethin' o' me, and did he come to fetch it himself like a man? Not he.He sent the son to rob the father." Then, leaning forward in his chairand glaring at the girl, "Ay, and mair than that! The night the ladset on me he cam'"--with hissing emphasis--"straight from Kenmuir!" Hepaused and stared at her intently, and she was still dumb before him."Gin I'd ben killed, Wullie'd ha' bin disqualified from competin' forthe Cup. With Adam M'Adam's Red Wull oot o' the way--noo d'ye see? Nood'ye onderstan'?"

  She did not, and he saw it and was satisfied. What he had been sayingshe neither knew nor cared. She only remembered the object of hermission; she only saw before her the father of the man she loved; and awave of emotion surged up in her breast.

  She advanced timidly toward him, holding out her hands.

  "Eh, Mr. M'Adam," she pleaded, "I come to ask ye after David." The shawlhad slipped from her head, and lay loose upon her shoulders; and shestood before him with her sad face, her pretty hair all tossed, and hereyes big with unshed tears--a touching suppliant.

  "Will ye no tell me wheer he is? I'd not ask it, I'd not trouble yo',but I've bin waitin' a waefu' while, it seems, and I'm wearyin' for newso' him."

  The little man looked at her curiously. "Ah, noo I mind me,"--this tohimself. "You' the lass as is thinkin' o' marryin' him?"

  "We're promised," the girl answered simply.

  "Weel," the other remarked, "as I said afore, ye're a good plucked un."Then, in a tone in which, despite the cynicism, a certain indefinablesadness was blended, "Gin he mak's you as good husband as he mad' son tome, ye'll ha' made a maist remairkable match, my dear."

  Maggie fired in a moment.

  "A good feyther makes a good son," she answered almost pertly; and then,with infinite tenderness, "and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a goodhusband."

  He smiled scoffingly.

  "I'm feared that'll no help ye much," he said.

  But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on herpurpose. She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of thislittle man with the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved toattain her end by appealing to it.

  "Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam," she said. "Hoo would yo'ha' felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo'would. And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved." She was kneelingat his feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sadface and quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words.

  The little man was visibly touched.

  "Ay, ay, lass, that's enough," he said, trying to avoid those bigbeseeching eyes which would not be avoided.

  "Will ye no tell me?" she pleaded.

  "I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken," he answered querulously.In truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery.

  The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card andfailed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource,and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope.In the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was theman who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile.

  She rose to her feet and stood back.

  "Nor ken, nor care!" she cried bitterly.

  At the words all the softness fled from the little man's face.

  "Ye do me a wrang, lass; ye do indeed," he said, looking up at her withan assumed ingenuousness which, had she known him better, would havewarned her to beware. "Gin I kent where the lad was I'd be the vairyfirst to let you, and the p'lice, ken it too; eh, Wullie! he! he!" Hechuckled at his wit and rubbed his knees, regardless of the contemptblazing in the girl's face.

  "I canna tell ye where he is now, but ye'd aiblins care to hear o' whenI saw him last." He turned his chair the better to address her.

  "Twas like so: I was sittin' in this vairy chair it was, asleep, whenhe crep' up behind an' lep' on ma back. I knew naethin' o't till I foundmasel' on the floor an' him kneelin' on me. I saw by the look on him hewas set on finishin' me, so I said--"

  The girl waved her hand at him, superbly disdainful.

  "Yo' ken yo're lyin', ivery word o't," she cried.

  The little man hitched his trousers, crossed his legs, and yawned.

  "An honest lee for an honest purpose is a matter ony man may be proudof, as you'll ken by the time you're my years, ma lass."

  The girl slowly crossed the room. At the door she turned.

  "Then ye'll no tell me wheer he is?" she asked with a heart-breakingtrill in her voice.

  "On ma word, lass, I dinna ken," he cried, half passionately.

  "On your word, Mr. M'Adam" she said with a quiet scorn in her voice thatmight have stung Iscariot.

  The little man spun round in his chair, an angry red dyeing his cheeks.In another moment he was suave and smiling again.

  "I canna tell ye where he is noo," he said, unctuously; "but aiblins, Icould let ye know where he's gaein' to."

  "Can yo'? will yo'?" cried the simple girl all unsuspecting. In a momentshe was across the room and at his knees.

  "Closer, and I'll whisper." The little ear, peeping from its nest ofbrown, was tremblingl
y approached to his lips. The little man lentforward and whispered one short, sharp word, then sat back, grinning, towatch the effect of his disclosure.

  He had his revenge, an unworthy revenge on such a victim. And, watchingthe girl's face, the cruel disappointment merging in the heat of herindignation, he had yet enough nobility to regret his triumph.

  She sprang from him as though he were unclean.

  "An' yo' his father!" she cried, in burning tones.

  She crossed the room, and at the door paused. Her face was white againand she was quite composed.

  "If David did strike you, you drove him to it," she said, speaking incalm, gentle accents. "Yo' know, none so well, whether yo've bin a goodfeyther to him, and him no mither, poor laddie! Whether yo've bin to himwhat she'd ha' had yo' be. Ask yer conscience, Mr. M'Adam. An' if hewas a wee aggravatin' at times, had he no reason? He'd a heavy cross tobear, had David, and yo' know best if yo' helped to ease it for him."

  The little man pointed to the door; but the girl paid no heed.

  "D'yo' think when yo' were cruel to him, jeerin' and fleerin', he neverfelt it, because he was too proud to show ye? He'd a big saft heart, hadDavid, beneath the varnish. Mony's the time when mither was alive, I'veseen him throw himsel' into her arms, sobbin', and cry, 'Eh, if I hadbut mither! 'Twas different when mither was alive; he was kinder to methen. An' noo I've no one; I'm alone.' An' he'd sob and sob in mither'sarms, and she, weepin' hersel', would comfort him, while he, wee laddie,would no be comforted, cryin' broken-like, 'There's none to care for menoo; I'm alone. Mither's left me and eh! I'm prayin' to be wi' her!'"

  The clear, girlish voice shook. M'Adam, sitting with face averted,waved to her, mutely ordering her to be gone. But she held on, gentle,sorrowful, relentless.

  "An' what'll yo' say to his mither when yo meet her, as yo' must soonnoo, and she asks yo', 'An what o' David? What o' th' lad I left wi'yo', Adam, to guard and keep for me, faithful and true, till this Day?'And then yo'll ha' to speak the truth, God's truth; and yo'll ha' toanswer, 'Sin' the day yo' left me I niver said a kind word to the lad.I niver bore wi' him, and niver tried to. And in the end I drove him bypersecution to try and murder me.' Then maybe she'll look at yo'--yo'best ken hoo--and she'll say, 'Adam, Adam! is this what I deserved frayo'?'"

  The gentle, implacable voice ceased. The girl turned and slipped softlyout of the room; and M'Adam was left alone to his thoughts and his deadwife's memory.

  "Mither and father, baith! Mither and father, baith!" rang remorselesslyin his ears.