Part 47 (2/2)
”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 ladys.h.i.+p, 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 bein' 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 a.s.sent.
The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though strung up to a high resolve. All the pa.s.sion had fled from it, all the bitterness was gone; and left behind was a strange, en.o.bling earnestness. Standing there in the silence of that great hall, 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 s.h.i.+ne. 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 G.o.d'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's somethin' bred in me, it seems, 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 bein's as ha' lived on G.o.d'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 warld; 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 ladys.h.i.+p, G.o.d 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'll 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 read, and read. D'ye ken why I love him as some o' you do yer 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 wis.h.i.+n' '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 ain 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.”
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