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THE
REVELLERS
BY
LOUIS TRACY
AUTHOR OF
"THE WINGS OF THE MORNING,"
"THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER,"
ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
EDWARD J. CLODE
Copyright, 1917, by
EDWARD J. CLODE
All rights reserved
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_By_ LOUIS TRACY
THE WINGS OF THE MORNING
THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS
THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE
A SON OF THE IMMORTALS
CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR
THE MESSAGE
THE STOWAWAY
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT
THE SILENT BARRIER
THE "MIND THE PAINT" GIRL
ONE WONDERFUL NIGHT
THE TERMS OF SURRENDER
FLOWER OF THE GORSE
THE RED YEAR
THE GREAT MOGUL
MIRABEL'S ISLAND
THE DAY OF WRATH
HIS UNKNOWN WIFE
THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER
THE REVELLERS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. QUESTIONINGS 1
II. STRANGERS, INDEED 13
III. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF 27
IV. THE FEAST 40
V. "IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS" 55
VI. WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS 71
VII. GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN 88
VIII. SHOWING HOW MARTIN'S HORIZON
WIDENS 100
IX. THE WILDCAT 115
X. DEEPENING SHADOWS 128
XI. FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER,
THE DAWN 140
XII. A FRIENDLY ARGUMENT 153
XIII. A DYING DEPOSITION 172
XIV. THE STORM 190
XV. THE UNWRITTEN LAW 206
XVI. UNDERCURRENTS 225
XVII. TWO MOORLAND EPISODES 243
XVIII. THE SEVEN FULL YEARS 272
XIX. OUT OF THE MISTS 292
XX. THE RIGOR OF THE GAME 307
XXI. NEARING THE END 323
CHAPTER I
QUESTIONINGS
"And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate,
and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son
Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"
The voice of the reader was strident, his utterance uneven, his diction
illiterate. Yet he concluded the 18th chapter of the second Book of
Samuel with an unctuous force born of long familiarity with the text.
His laborious drone revealed no consciousness of the humanism of the
Jewish King. To suggest that the Bible contained a mine of literature,
a series of stories of surpassing interest, portraying as truthfully
the lives of the men and women of to-day as of the nomad race which a
personal God led through the wilderness, would have provoked from this
man's mouth a sluggish flood of protest. The slow-moving lips, set
tight after each syllabic struggle, the shaggy eyebrows overhanging
horn-rimmed spectacles, the beetling forehead and bull-like head sunk
between massive shoulders, the very clutch of the big hands on the Bible
held stiffly at a distance, bespoke a triumphant dogmatism that found as
little actuality in the heartbroken cry of David as in a description of
a seven-branched candlestick.
The boy who listened wondered why people should "think such a lot
about" high priests and kings who died so long ago. David was
interesting enough as a youth. The slaying of Goliath, the charming of
Saul with sweet music on a harp, appealed to the vivid, if unformed,
imagination of fourteen. But the temptation of the man, the splendid
efforts of the monarch to rule a peevish people--these were lost on him.
Worse, they wearied him, because, as it happened, he had a reasoning
brain.
He refused to credit all that he heard. It was hard to believe that any
man's hair could catch in an oak so that he should be lifted up between
heaven and earth, merely because he rode beneath the tree on the back of
a mule. This sounded like the language of exaggeration, and sturdy
little Martin Court Bolland hated exaggeration.
Again, he took the winged words literally, and the ease with which
David saw, heard, spoke to the Lord was disturbing. Such things were
manifestly impossible if David resembled other men, and that there were
similarities between the ruler of Israel and certain male inhabitants of
Elmsdale was suggested by numberless episodes of the very human history
writ in the Book of Kings.
"The Lord" was a terrific personality to Martin--a personality seated
on thunder-cloud, of which the upper rim of gold and silver, shining
gloriously against a cerulean sky, was Heaven, and the sullen blackness
beneath, from which thunder bellowed and lightning flashed, was Hell.
How could a mere man, one who pursued women like a too susceptible
plowman, one who "smote" his fellows, and "kissed" them, and ate with
them, hold instant communion with the tremendous Unseen, the ruler of
sun and storm, the mover of worlds?
"David inquired of the Lord"; "David said to the Lord"; "The Lord
answered unto David"--these phrases tortured a busy intelligence, and
caused the big brown eyes to flash restlessly toward the distant hills,
while quick ears and retentive brain paid close heed to the text.
For it was the word, not the spirit, that John Bolland insisted on. The
boy knew too well the penalty of forgetfulness. During half an hour,
from five o'clock each day, he was led drearily through the Sacred Book;
if he failed to answer correctly the five minutes' questioning which
followed, the lesson was repeated, verse for verse, again, and yet
again, as a punishment.
At half-past four o'clock the high tea of a north-country farmhouse was
served. Then the huge Bible was produced solemnly, and no stress of
circumstances, no temporary call of other business, was permitted to
interfere with this daily task. At times, Bolland would be absent at
fairs or detained in some distant portion of the farm. But Martin's
"portion of the Scriptures" would be marked for careful reading, and
severe corporal chastisement corrected any negligence. Such was the old
farmer's mania in this regard that his portly, kind-hearted wife became
as strict as John himself in supervising the boy's lesson, merely
because she dreaded the scene that would follow the slightest lapse.
So Martin could answer glibly that Ahimaaz was the son of Zadok and
that Joab plunged three darts into Absalom's heart while the scapegrace
dangled from the oak. Of the love that David bore his son, of the
statecraft that impelled a servant of Israel to slay the disturber of
the national peace, there was never a hint. Bolland's stark Gospel was
harshly definite. There was no channel in his gnarled soul for the
turbulent life-stream flowing through the ancient text.
The cold-blooded murder of Absalom, it is true, induced in the boy's
mind a certain degree of belief in the narrative, a belief somewhat
strained by the manner of Absalom's capture. Through his brain danced a
_tableau vivant_ of the scene in the wood. He saw the gayly caparisoned
mule gallop madly away, leaving its rider struggling with desperate arms
to free his hair from the rough grasp of the oak.
Then, through the trees came a startled man-at-arms, who ran back and
brought one other, a stately warrior in accouterments that shone like
silver. A squabble arose between them as to the exact nature of the
King's order concerning this same Absalom, but it was speedily
determined by the leader, Joab, snatching three arrows from the
soldier's quiver and plunging them viciously, one after the other, into
the breast of the man hanging between the heaven and the earth.
Martin wondered if Absalom spoke to Joab. Did he cry for mercy? Did
his eyes glare awfully at his relentless foe? Did he squeal pitiful
gibberish like Tom Chandler did when he chopped off his fingers in the
hay-cutter? How beastly it must be to be suspended by your own hair, and
see a man come forward with three barbed darts which he sticks into your
palpitating bosom, probably cursing you the while!
And then appeared from the depths of the wood ten young men, who behaved
like cowardly savages, for they hacked the poor corpse with sword and
spear, and made mock of a gallant if erring soldier who would have slain
them all if he met them on equal terms.
This was the picture that flitted before the boy's eyes, and for one
instant his tongue forgot its habitual restraint.
"Father," he said, "why didn't David ask God to save his son, if he
wished him to live?"
"Nay, lad, I doan't knoae. You mun listen te what's written i' t'
Book--no more an' no less. I doan't ho'd wi' their commentaries an'
explanations, an' what oor passon calls anilitical disquisitions. Tak'
t' Word as it stands. That's all 'at any man wants."
Now, be it observed that the boy used good English, whereas the man
spoke in the broad dialect of the dales. Moreover, Bolland, an
out-and-out Dissenter, was clannish enough to speak of "our" parson,
meaning thereby the vicar of the parish, a gentleman whom he held at
arm's length in politics and religion.
The latter discrepancy was a mere village colloquialism; the other--the
marked difference between father and son--was startling, not alone by
reason of their varying speech, but by the queer contrast they offered
in manners and appearance.
Bolland was a typical yeoman of the moor edge, a tall, strong man,
twisted and bent like the oak which betrayed Absalom, slow in his
movements, heavy of foot, and clothed in brown corduroy which resembled
curiously the weatherbeaten bark of a tree. There was a rugged dignity
in his bearded face, and the huge spectacles he had now pushed high up
on his forehead lent a semblance of greater age than he could lay claim
to. Yet was he a lineal descendant of Gurth, the swineherd, Gurth,
uncouth and unidealized.
The boy, a sturdy, country-built youngster in figure and attire, had a
face of much promise. His brow was lofty and open, his mouth firm and
well formed, his eyes fearless, if a trifle dreamy at times. His hands,
too, were not those of a farmer's son. Strong they were and scarred with
much use, but the fingers tapered elegantly, and the thumbs were long
and straight.
Certainly, the heavy-browed farmer, with his drooping nether lip and
clumsy spatulate digits, had not bequeathed these bucolic attributes to
his son. As they sat there, in the cheerful kitchen where the sunbeams
fell on sanded floor and danced on the burnished contents of a full
"dresser," they presented a dissimilarity that was an outrage on
heredity.
Usually, the reading ended, Martin effaced himself by way of the back
door. Thence, through a garden orchard that skirted the farmyard, he
would run across a meadow, jump two hedges into the lane which led back
to the village street, and so reach the green where the children played
after school hours.
He was forced early to practice a degree of dissimulation. Though he
hated a lie, he at least acted a reverent appreciation of the chapter
just perused. His boyish impulses lay with the cricketers, the
minnow-catchers, the players of prisoner's base, the joyous patrons of
well-worn "pitch" and gurgling brook. But he knew that the slightest
indication of grudging this daily half-hour would mean the confiscation
of the free romp until supper-time at half-past eight. So he paid heed
to the lesson, and won high praise from his preceptor in the
oft-expressed opinion:
"Martin will make a rare man i' time."
To-day he did not hurry away as usual. For one reason, he was going
with a gamekeeper to see some ferreting at six o'clock, and there was
plenty of time; for another, it thrilled him to find that there were
episodes in the Bible quite as exciting as any in the pages of "The
Scalp-Hunters," a forbidden work now hidden with others in the store
of dried bracken at the back of the cow-byre.
So he said rather carelessly: "I wonder if he kicked?"
"You wunner if wheae kicked?" came the slow response.
"Absalom, when Joab stabbed him. The other day, when the pigs were
killed, they all kicked like mad."
Bolland laid down the Bible and glanced at Martin with a puzzled air. He
was not annoyed or even surprised at the unlooked-for deduction. It had
simply never occurred to him that one might read the Bible and construct
actualities from the plain-spoken text.
"Hoo div' I knoae?" he said calmly; "it says nowt about it i' t'
chapter."
Then Martin awoke with a start. He saw how nearly he had betrayed
himself a second time, how ready were the lips to utter ungoverned
thoughts.
He flushed slightly.
"Is that all for to-day, father?" he said.
Before Bolland could answer, there came a knock at the door.
"See wheae that is," said the farmer, readjusting his spectacles.
A big, hearty-looking young man entered. He wore clothes of a sporting
cut and carried a hunting-crop, with the long lash gathered in his
fingers.
"Oah, it's you, is it, Mr. Pickerin'?" said Bolland, and Martin's quick
ears caught a note of restraint, almost of hostility, in the question.
"Yes, Mr. Bolland, an' how are ye?" was the more friendly greeting. "I
just dropped in to have a settlement about that beast."
"A sattlement! What soart o' sattlement?"
The visitor sat down, uninvited, and produced some papers from his
pocket.
"Well, Mr. Bolland," he said quietly, "it's not more'n four months since
I gave you sixty pounds for a thoroughbred shorthorn, supposed to be in
calf to Bainesse Boy the Third."
"Right enough, Mr. Pickerin'. You've gotten t' certificates and t'
receipt for t' stud fee."
Martin detected the latent animosity in both voices. The reiterated use
of the prefix "Mr." was an exaggerated politeness that boded a dispute.
"Receipts, certificates!" cried Pickering testily. "What good are they
to me? She cannot carry a calf. For all the use I can make of her, I
might as well have thrown the money in the fire."
"Eh, but she's a well-bred 'un," said Bolland, with sapient head-shake.
"She might be a first-prize winner at the Royal by her shape and
markings; but, as matters stand, she'll bring only fifteen pounds from a
butcher. I stand to lose forty-five pounds by the bargain."
"You canna fly i' t' feaece o' Providence, Mr. Pickerin'."
"Providence has little to do with it, I fancy. I can sell her to
somebody else, if I like to work a swindle with her. I had my doubts at
the time that she was too cheap."
John Bolland rose. His red face was dusky with anger, and it sent a pang
through Martin's heart to see something of fear there, too.
"Noo, what are ye drivin' at?" he growled, speaking with ominous
calmness.
"You know well enough," came the straight answer. "The poor thing has
something wrong with her, and she will never hold a calf. Look here,
Bolland, meet me fairly in the matter. Either give me back twenty
pounds, and we'll cry 'quits,' or sell me another next spring at the
same price, and I'll take my luck."
Perhaps this _via media_ might have been adopted had it presented itself
earlier. But the word "swindle" stuck in the farmer's throat, and he
sank back into his chair.
"Nay, nay," he said. "A bargain's a bargain. You've gotten t'
papers----"
It was the buyer's turn to rise.
"To the devil with you and your papers!" he shouted. "Do you think I
came here without making sure of my facts? Twice has this cow been in
calf in your byre, and each time she missed. You knew her failing, and
sold her under false pretenses. Of course, I cannot prove it, or I would
have the law of you; but I did think you would act squarely."
For some reason the elder Bolland was in a towering rage. Martin had
never before seen him so angry, and the boy was perplexed by the
knowledge that what Pickering said was quite true.
"I'll not be sworn at nor threatened wi' t' law in my own house,"
bellowed the farmer. "Get out! Look tiv' your own business an' leave me
te follow mine."
Pickering, too, was in a mighty temper. He took a half stride forward
and shook out the thong of the whip.
"You psalm-singing humbug!" he thundered. "If you were a younger
man----"
Martin jumped between them; his right hand clenched a heavy kitchen
poker.
Pickering half turned to the door with a bitter laugh.
"All right, my young cub!" he shouted. "I'm not such a fool, thank
goodness, as to make bad worse. It's lucky for you, boy, that you are
not of the same kidney as that old ranter there. Catch me ever having
more to do with any of his breed."
"An' what affair is it of yours, Mr. Pickerin', who the boy belongs to?
If all tales be true, _you_ can't afford to throw stones at other
folks's glass houses!"
Mrs. Bolland, stout, hooded, aproned, and fiery red in face, had come
from the dairy, and now took a hand in the argument.
Pickering, annoyed at the unlooked-for presence of a woman, said
sternly:
"Talk to your husband, not to me, ma'am. He wronged me by getting three
times the value for a useless beast, and if you can convince him that he
took an unfair advantage, I'm willing, even now----"
But Mrs. Bolland had caught the flicker of amazement in Martin's eye and
was not to be mollified.
"Who are you, I'd like to know?" she shrilled, "coomin' te one's house
an' scandalizin' us? A nice thing, to be sure, for a man like you to
call John Bolland a wrongdoer. The cow won't calve, won't she? 'Tis a
dispensation on you, George Pickerin'. You're payin' for yer own
misdeeds. There's plenty i' Elmsdale wheae ken your char-ak-ter, let me
tell you that. What's become o' Betsy Thwaites?"
But Pickering had resigned the contest. He was striding toward the
"Black Lion," where a dogcart awaited him, and he laughed to himself as
the flood of vituperation swelled from the door of the farm.
"Gad!" he muttered, "how these women must cackle in the market! One old
cow is hardly worth so much fuss!"
Still smiling at the storm he had raised, he gathered the reins, gave
Fred, the ostler, a sixpence, and would have driven off had he not seen
a pretty serving-maid gazing out through an upper window. Her face
looked familiar.
"Hello!" he cried. "You and I know each other, don't we?"
"No, we doan't; an' we're not likely to," was the pert reply.
"Eh, my! What have I done now?"
"Nowt to me, but my sister is Betsy Thwaites."
"The deuce she is! Betsy isn't half as nice-looking as you."
"More shame on you that says it."
"But, my dear girl, one should tell the truth and shame the devil."
"Just listen to him!" Yet the window was raised a little higher, and
the girl leaned out, for Pickering was a handsome man, with a tremendous
reputation for gallantry of a somewhat pronounced type.
Fred, the stable help, struck the cob smartly with his open hand.
Pickering swore, and bade him leave the mare alone and be off.
"I was sorry for Betsy," he said, when the prancing pony was quieted,
"but she and I agreed to differ. I got her a place at Hereford, and hope
she'll be married soon."
"You'll get me no place at Hereford, Mr. Pickerin'"--this with a
coquettish toss of the head.
"Of course not. When is the feast here?"
"Next Monday it starts."
"Very well. Good-by. I'll see you on Monday."
He blew her a kiss, and she laughed. As the smart turnout rattled
through the village she looked after him.
"Betsy always did say he was such a man," she murmured. "I'll smack his
feaece, though, if he comes near me a-Monday."
And Fred, leaning sulkily over the yard gate, spat viciously on
Pickering's sixpence.
"Coomin' here for t' feaest, is he?" he growled. "Happen he'd better bide
i' Nottonby."