FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER,
THE DAWN
So Elmsdale was given another thrill, and a lasting one. The Feast was
ruined. Not a man or a woman had heart for enjoyment. If a child sought
a penny, it was chided sharply and asked what it meant by gadding about
"when poor George Pickerin' an' that lass of his were in such trouble."
Martin heard the news while standing outside the boxing booth, waiting
for the sparring competition to commence. He went in, it is true, and
saw some hard hitting, but the tent was nearly empty. When he and Jim
Bates came out an hour later, Elmsdale was a place of mourning.
A series of exciting events, each crowding on its predecessor's heels as
though some diabolical agency had resolved to disturb the community, had
roused the hamlet from its torpor.
Five slow-moving years had passed since the village had been stirred so
deeply. Then it endured a fortnight's epidemic of suicide. A traveling
tinker began the uncanny cycle. On a fine summer's day he was repairing
his kettles on a corner of the green, when he was observed to leave his
little handcart and to go into a neighboring wood. He did not return.
Search next day discovered him swaying from a branch of a tall tree,
looking like some forlorn scarecrow suspended there by a practical
joker.
The following morning a soldier on furlough, one of the very men who
helped to cut down the tinker's body, went into a cow-house at the back
of his mother's cottage and suspended himself from a rafter. An odd
feature of this man's exit was that the rope had yielded so much that
his feet rested on the ground. Before the hanging he had actually cut
letters out of his red-cloth tunic and formed the word, "Farewell" in a
semicircle on the stable floor. A girl soon afterwards selected the
mill-dam for a consoling plunge; and, to crown all, the vicar, Mr.
Herbert's forerunner, having received a telegram announcing the failure
of a company in which he had invested some money, opened his jugular
vein with a sharp scissors. That these tragedies should happen within a
fortnight in a community of less than three hundred people was enough to
give a life-insurance actuary an attack of hysteria.
But each lacked the dramatic flavor attached to the ill-governed passion
of Betsy Thwaites and her fickle swain. Kitty was known to all in
Elmsdale, Betsy to few, but George Pickering was a popular man
throughout the whole countryside. It was sensation enough that one of
his many amours should result in an episode more typical of Paris than
of an English Sleepy Hollow. But the sequel--the marriage of this
wealthy gentleman-farmer to a mere dairymaid, followed by his death from
a wound inflicted by the bride-to-be--this was undiluted melodrama drawn
from the repertoire of the Petit Guignol.
That night the story spread over England. A reporter from the
_Messenger_ came to Elmsdale to glean the exact facts as to Mr.
Pickering's "accident." Owing to the peculiar circumstances, he,
perforce, showed much discretion in compiling the story telegraphed to
the Press Association. Not even the use of that magic word "alleged"
would enable him to charge Betsy Thwaites with attempted murder, after
the police had apparently withdrawn the accusation. But he contrived to
retail the legend by throwing utter discredit on it, and the rest was
plain sailing. Moreover, he was a smart young man. He pondered deeply
after dispatching the message. He was employed on the staff of a local
weekly newspaper, so his traveling allowance was limited to a
third-class return ticket and a shilling for "tea." Yet he decided to
remain in Elmsdale at his own expense. The departure of the German
Government agent for another horse-fair left a vacant bedroom at the
"Black Lion." This he secured. He foresaw a golden harvest.
Luck favored him. Conversing with a village Solon in the bar, he caught
a remark that "John Bolland's lad" would be an important witness at the
inquest. Of course, he made inquiries and was favored with a full and
accurate account of the wanderings of the farmer and his wife in London
thirteen years earlier, together with their adoption of the baby which
had literally fallen from the skies. To the country journalist, Fleet
Street is the Mecca of his earthly pilgrimage, and St. Martin's Court,
Ludgate Hill, was near enough to newspaperdom to be sacred ground. The
very name of the boy smacked of "copy."
John Bolland, lumbering out of the stockyard at tea-time, encountered
Dr. MacGregor. The farmer had been thinking hard while striding through
his diminished cornfields, and crumbling ears of wheat, oats, and barley
in his strong hands to ascertain the exact date when they would be ripe.
Already some of his neighbors were busy, but John was more anxious about
the condition of the straw than the forwardness of the grain; moreover,
men and women did not work so well during feast-time. Next week he would
obtain full measure for his money.
"I reckon Martin'll soon be fit?" he said.
The doctor nodded.
"He's a bright lad, yon?" went on the farmer.
"Yes. What are you going to make of him?"
Dr. MacGregor knew the ways of Elmsdale folk. They required leading up
to a subject by judicious questioning. Rarely would they unburden their
minds by direct statements.
"That's what's worryin' me," said John slowly. "What d'ye think yersen,
docthor?"
"It is hard to say. It all hinges on what you intend doing for him,
Bolland. He is not your son. If he has to depend on his own resources
when he's a man, teach him a useful trade. No matter how able he may be,
that will never come amiss."
The farmer gazed around. As men counted in that locality, he was rich,
not in hard cash, but in lands, stock, and tenements. His expenses did
not grow proportionately with his earnings. He ate and dressed and
economized now as on the day when Martha and he faced the world
together, with the White House and its small meadows their only
belongings. In a few years the produce of his shorthorn herd alone
would bring in hundreds annually, and his Cleveland bays were noted
throughout the county.
He took the doctor's hint.
"I've nayther chick nor child but Martin," he said. "When Martha an' me
are gone te t' Lord, all that we hev'll be Martin's. That's settled lang
syne. I med me will four years agone last Easter."
There was something behind this, and MacGregor probed again.
"Isn't he cut out for a farmer?"
"I hae me doots," was the cautious answer.
The doctor waited, so John continued.
"I was sair set on t' lad being a minister. But I judge it's not t'
Lord's will. He's of a rovin' stock, I fancy. When he's a man, Elmsdale
won't be big eneuf te hold him. He cooms frae Lunnon, an' te Lunnon
he'll gang. It's in his feaece. Lunnon's a bad pleaece for a youngster
wheae kens nowt but t' ways o' moor folk, docthor."
Then the other laughed.
"In a word, Bolland, you have made up your mind, and want me to agree
with you. Of course, if Martin succeeds you, and you have read his
character aright, there is but one line open. Send him to a good school,
leave the choice of a profession to his more cultivated mind, and tie up
your property so that it cannot be sold and wasted in a young man's
folly. When he is forty he may be glad to come back to Elmsdale and give
thanks for your foresight on his bended knees. In any event, a little
extra book lore will make him none the worse stock-raiser. Eh, is that
what you think?"
"You're a sound man, docthor. There's times I wunner hoo it happens ye
cling te sike nonsense as that mad Dutchman----"
MacGregor laughed again, and nudged his groom's arm as a signal to drive
on. He favored neither church nor chapel, but claimed a devoted
adherence to the doctrines of Emanuel Swedenborg, thus forming a sect
unto himself. There was not a Swedenborgian temple within a hundred
miles. Mayhap the doctor's theological views had a geographical
foundation.
The farmer lumbered across the street and took a corner of the crowded
tea-table. Mrs. Summersgill was entertaining the company with a
description of George Pickering's estate.
"It's a meracle, that's what it is!" she exclaimed. "Te think of Betsy
Thwaites livin' i' style in yon fine hoos! There's a revenue o' trees
quarther of a mile long, an' my husband sez t' high-lyin' land grows t'
best wuts (oats) i' t' county. An' she's got it by a prod wi' a
carving-knife, while a poor body like me hez te scrat sae hard for a
livin' that me fingers are worn te t' bone!"
Mrs. Summersgill weighed sixteen stone, but she was heedless of satire.
Her eye fell on Martin, eating silently, but well.
"Some folks git their bread easy, I'm sure," she went on. "Ivver sen I
was a bit lass I've tewed and wrowt an' mead sike deed ower spendin'
hawpenny, whiles uthers hev a silver spoon thrust i' their gob frae t'
time they're born!"
"T' Lord gives, an' t' Lord taks away. Ye munnot fly i' t' feaece o' t'
Lord," said Bolland.
"I'm not built for flyin' anywhere," cried the old lady. "I wish I was.
'Tis flighty 'uns as wins nowadays. Look at Betsy Thwaites! Look at Mrs.
Saumarez! She mun hae gotten her money varra simple te fling it about as
she does. My man telt me that her little gal, t' other neet----"
"Yer cup's empty, Mrs. Summersgill," put in Martha quickly. "Bless my
heart, ye talk an' eat nowt. Speakin' o' Mrs. Saumarez, hez anyone heerd
if she's better? One o' Miss Walker's maids said she was poorly."
Martin caught his mother's eye, and rose. He went upstairs; the farmer
followed him. The two sat near the window; on the broad ledge reposed
the Bible; but Bolland did not open the book. He laid his hand on it
reverently and looked at the boy.
"Martin," he began, "yer muther tells me that Benson med yer mind sair
by grabbin' te t' squire aboot yer bringin' up. Nay, lad, ye needn't say
owt. 'Tis no secret. We on'y kept it frae ye for yer good. Anyhow, 'tis
kent noo, an' there's nae need te chew on 't. What troubled me maist was
yer muther's defiance when I was minded te punish ye for bein' out
late."
"It won't occur again, sir," said Martin quietly.
"Mebbe. T' spirit is willin', but t' flesh is wake. Noo, I want a
straight answer te a straight question. Are these Bible lessons te yer
likin'?"
It was so rare for the farmer to speak in this downright fashion that
the boy was alarmed. He knew not what lay behind; but he had not earned
his reputation for honesty on insufficient grounds.
"No, they're not," he said.
Bolland groaned. "T' minister said so. Why not?"
"I can hardly explain. For one thing, I don't understand what I read.
And often I would like to be out in the fields or on the moor when I'm
forced to be here. All the same, I do try hard, and if I thought it
would please you and mother, I'd do much more than give up half an hour
a day."
"Ay, ay. 'Tis compulsion, not love. I telt t' minister that Paul urged
insistence in season an' out o' season, but he held that the teachin'
applied te doctrine, an' not te Bible lessons for t' young. Well,
Martin, I've weighed this thing, an' not without prayer. I've seen many
a field spoiled by bad farmin', an', when yer muther calls my own hired
men te help her ageaen me; when a lad like you goes fightin' young
gentlemen aboot a lass; when yon Frenchified ninny eggs ye on te spend
money like watter, an' yer muther gies ye t' brass next day te pay Mrs.
Saumarez, lest it should reach my ears--why, I've coom te believe that
my teachin' is mistakken."
Martin was petrified at hearing his delinquencies laid bare in this
manner. He had not realized that the extravagant display of Monday must
evoke comment in a small village, and that Bolland could not fail to
interpret correctly his wife's anxiety to hush up all reference to it.
He blushed and held his tongue, for the farmer was speaking again.
"T' upshot of all this is that I've sought counsel. Ye're an honest lad,
I will say that fer ye, but ye're a lad differin' frae those of yer age
i' Elmsdale. If all goes well wi' me, ye'll nivver want food nor
lodgin', but an idle man is a wicked man, nine times out o' ten, an'
I'd like te see ye sattled i' summat afore I go te my rest. You're not
cut out fer t' ministry, ye're none for farmin', an' I'd sooner see ye
dead than dancin' around t' countryside after women, like poor George
Pickerin'. Soa ye mun gang te college an' sharpen yer wits, an' happen
fower or five years o' delvin' i' books'll shape yer life i' different
gait te owt I can see at this minnit. What think you on't?"
"Oh, I should like it better than anything else in the world."
The boy's eyes sparkled at this most unlooked-for announcement. Never
before had his heart so gone out to the rugged old man whose stern
glance was now searching him through the horn-rimmed spectacles.
What magician had transformed John Bolland? Was it possible that beneath
the patriarchial inflexibility of the rugged farmer's character there
lay a spring of human tenderness, a clear fountain hidden by half a
century of toil and narrow religion, but now unearthed forcibly by
circumstances stronger than the man himself? The boy could not put these
questions into words. He was too young to understand even the meaning of
psychological analysis. He could only sit there mute, stunned by the
glory of the unexpected promise.
Of course, if a thinker like Dr. MacGregor were aware of all the facts,
he would have seen that the rebellion of Martha had been a lightning
stroke. The few winged words she shot at her husband on that memorable
night had penetrated deeper than she thought. It chanced, too, that the
revivalist preacher whom Bolland took into his confidence was a man of
sound common sense, and much more acute in private life than anyone
could imagine who witnessed his methods of hammering the Gospel into
the dullards of the village. He it was who advised a timely diminution
of devotional exercises which were likely to become distasteful to a
spirited lad. He recommended the farmer to educate Martin beyond the
common run, while the choice of a profession might be left to maturer
consideration. Among the many influences conspiring in that hour to mold
the boy's future life, none was more wholesome than that of the
tub-thumping preacher.
Bolland seemed to be gratified by Martin's tongue-tied enthusiasm.
"Well," he said, rising. "Noo my hand's te t' plow I'll keep it there.
Remember, Martin, when ye tak te study t' Word o' yer own accord, ye can
start at t' second chapter o' t' Third Book o' Kings. I'll be throng wi'
t' harvest until t' middle o' September, but I'll ax Mr. Herbert te
recommend a good school. He's a fair man, if he does lean ower much te
t' Romans. Soa, fer t' next few days, run wild an' enjoy yersen. Happen
ye'll never hae as happy a time again."
He patted the boy's head, a rare sign of sentiment, and walked heavily
out of the room. Martin saw him cross the road and clout a stable-boy's
ears because the yard was not swept clean. Then he called to his
foreman, and the two went off to the low-lying meadows. Bolland had been
turning over in his mind Mrs. Saumarez's remarks about draining; they
were worthy of consideration and, perhaps, of experiment.
Martin remained standing at the window. So he was to leave Elmsdale, go
out into the wide world beyond the hills, mix with people who spoke and
acted and moved like the great ones of whom he had read in books. He
was glad of it; oh, so glad! He would learn Greek and Latin, French and
German. No longer would the queer-looking words trouble his eyes. Their
meaning would be made clear to his understanding. He would soon acquire
that nameless manner of which the squire, the vicar, Mrs. Saumarez, the
young university students he met yesterday, possessed the secret. Elsie
Herbert had it, and Angele was veneered with it, though in her case he
knew quite well that the polish was only skin deep.
It was what he had longed for with all his heart, yet now that the
longing was to be appeased he had never felt more drawn to his parents;
his only by adoption, it was true; but nevertheless father and mother by
every tie known to him.
By the way, whose child was he? No one had told him the literal manner
in which he fell into the hands of the Bollands. Probably his real
progenitors were dead long since. Were it not for the kindness of the
farmer and his wife he might have been reared in that awful place, the
"Union," of which the poverty-stricken old people in the parish spoke
with such dread. His own folk must have been poor. Those who were well
off were fond of their children and loth to part from them. Well, he
must be a real son to John and Martha Bolland. They should have reason
to be proud of him. He would do nothing to disgrace their honored name.
What was it his father said just now? When he studied the Bible of his
own accord he might begin at the second chapter of the Second Book of
Kings.
It would please the old man to know that he gave the first moment of
liberty to reading the Word which was held so precious. He opened the
book at the page where the long, narrow strip of black silk marked the
close of the last lesson. For the first time in his life the boy brought
to bear on the task an unaided and sympathetic intelligence, and this is
what he read:
"Now the days of David drew nigh that he should die; and he charged
Solomon his son, saying,
"I go the way of all the earth: be thou strong therefore, and shew
thyself a man;
"And keep the charge of the Lord thy God, to walk in his ways, to
keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments, and his
testimonies, as it is written in the law of Moses, that thou mayest
prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest
thyself:
"That the Lord may continue his word which he spake concerning me,
saying, If thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me
in truth with all their heart and with all their soul, there shall
not fail thee (said he) a man on the throne of Israel."
Not even a boy of fourteen could peruse these words unmoved, coming, as
they did, after the memorable interview with Bolland. The black letters
seemed to Martin to have fiery edges. They burnt themselves into his
brain. In years to come they were fated to stand out unbidden before the
eyes of his soul many a time and oft.
He read on, but soon experienced the old puzzled feeling when he
encountered the legacy of revenge which David bequeathed to his son
after delivering that inspired message. It reminded Martin of the
farmer's dignified and quite noble-hearted renunciation of his own
dreams in order to follow what he thought was the better way, to be
succeeded by his passage to the farm buildings across the road in order
to box the ears of a lazy hind.
Ere he closed the book, Martin went over the opening verses of the
chapter. He promised himself to obey the injunctions therein contained,
and it was with a host of unformed ideals churning in his brain that he
descended the stairs.
Mrs. Bolland was gazing through the front door.
"Mercy on us," she cried, "if there isn't Mrs. Saumarez coomin' doon t'
road wi' t' nuss an' her little gell. An' don't she look ill, poor
thing! I'll lay owt she hez eaten summat as disagreed wi' her, an' it
gev her a bilious attack."
"Dod, ay," said Mrs. Summersgill. "Some things are easy te swallow, but
hard te digest. Ye could hev knocked me down wi' a feather when our
Tommy bolted a glass ally last June twelve months."