The Northern Iron Part 11

"Aye, and is that so? Why couldn't ye have tell't me that afore? Keep your money in your pouch. You'll have the horses in the morn. I'll take it on myself to give them to you. I'd like fine to be going along. But there's the mistress and the weans. I darena leave them, and I willna.

There's na yin only me and the G.o.d that's above us all for her to look to now."

Micah Ward, followed by his son, hastened to the MacClure's house. He stood for a moment on the threshold, lifted his hat solemnly from his head, and invoked a blessing on the building and all in it. Then he went to the woman, took one of her hands in his, and spoke to her with wonderful tenderness.

"Bessie, my poor bairn. Hearken to me, Bessie. Quit crying now, quit crying. Do you mind, Bessie, the day I was in with you and Rab away at Ballymoney? Do you mind how you said to me that every day you thanked G.o.d for the good husband he had given you? Do you mind that? Ah, woman, you mind it well. And you know rightly what the blessed book says to you--' The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' Are you to receive good at the Lord's hand, my bairn, and not evil, too?"

He laid his hand upon her head and prayed aloud. The terrified maid stood still, her light in her hand, her hair in tangled strings, half covering her face. The labourer, Donald, and Neal stood together near the door. The children buried their heads in their mother's lap. Micah Ward poured out his very soul in supplication. Very literally it might be said that he wrestled with his G.o.d in prayer. It was in some such terms that he himself would have described the spiritual effort which he made. More than once, after a pause in his outpouring he repeated, in tones which were almost fierce in their determination, the words of Jacob to the angel--"I will not let you go until you bless me." For a long time he continued to pray, interrupted by no sound except an occasional bitter cry from Bessie MacClune. One after another the feeble lights flickered, guttered and went out. The room was in darkness.

Through the open door came the long roaring of the sea. Within, Micah Ward's voice rose to pa.s.sionate cries or sank to a tender whisper.

Bessie MacClure's grief found utterance now only in half-choked sobs. At last even these ceased. Her hands ceased wandering over the curly heads of the children, asleep now with her lap for their pillow. She felt upwards along Micah Ward's coat. Her fingers crept along his sleeve, found his hand, pulled it down to her, and laid her cheek against it. He ceased to pray. The victory was won. He had, by sheer violence, dragged peace for a stricken soul from the closely-guarded treasury of the Lord of Sabaoth.

CHAPTER VI

Early next morning Donald Ward and Neal set forth on their journey.

Rab MacClure's horses served them well. By breakfast time they reached Ballymoney. They sat in the inn kitchen while the woman of the house broiled salmon for them. She was full of excitement, and very ready to talk. The yeomen had ridden through the town the day before. They had stopped at her house to drink. The officer and some of the men had paid their score and ridden on. Ten of them remained behind, and demanded more drink. Tumblers were brought to them as they sat in their saddles.

One of them had proposed a toast--"To h.e.l.l with all Papists and Presbyterians."

"And that was no civil talk to use to me, when all the town knows that my man is an elder in the kirk."

But there was more to follow. The troopers had flung down the tumblers--"the bonny cut gla.s.ses that were fetched from Wexford"--and shattered them on the pavement of the courtyard. Then they rode off without paying a penny, and when the mistress cried after them one man came back with his sword drawn in his hand, and she was fain to flee and hide herself. But the story of her own wrongs did not quench the good dame's curiosity. She recognised Neal as the son of the minister in Dunseveric. It was towards Dunseveric that the yeomen had ridden. What did they do there? Had there been hanging work or burning--the like of what went on in other parts? Had they visited the minister's house? Did Neal see them?

Donald Ward was a talkative man, and somewhat given to boasting; but, apart from the fact that the business of the night before gave him little excuse for glorying, he had plenty of sound sense--too much sense to gossip with the mistresses of inns about serious business. He signed to Neal to keep silent, and himself parried the shower of questions so adroitly that his hostess got no information from him. She tired at last, and with a show of disappointed temper, put the salmon on the table.

"There's your fish for you," she said, "and fadge and oaten farles, and if you want more you'd better show some civility to the woman that does for you."

She left the room, and stood, her hands on her hips, staring into the street.

"We're well rid of her tongue," said Donald.

Before the travellers' appet.i.tes were half satisfied she was with them again. She ran into the kitchen with every sign of terror in her face.

"They're coming," she said. "I seen them coming round MacCance's corner, and they have men with them and led horses. I seen them plain, and one of them is Rab MacClure, of Ballintoy. Away with you, Neal Ward, away with you. I'm thinking that them that has Rab MacClure and his feet tied under the horse's belly will be no friends of your father's or yours."

Donald Ward rose to his feet and stretched himself.

"The woman's right, Neal." He showed no signs of hurry in his speech.

"I'm thinking it will be safer for us to be out of this. Here, mistress, what's the reckoning?"

"Not a penny, not a penny, will I take. Are them murdering devils to drink without paying and me taking money from the son of Micah Ward or any friend of his? But for G.o.d's sake get you gone. I'll keep them dandering about the door for a while, and do you get your horses and out by the back way into the field. You can strike the road again lower down."

It was late in the evening when Donald and Neal, with weary horses and wearier limbs, came close to Antrim. Neal was unused to riding long distances, and Donald complained that a voyage across the Atlantic left a man unfit for land travelling. They accosted a stranger on the road and asked his guidance to the best inn. The man answered them in a civil way. He spoke with a northern accent, but his voice was singularly sweet and gentle, and his words were those of a cultured man.

"I am on my way to the Ma.s.sereene Arms," he said. "I think you will find the accommodation good both for yourselves and your horses."

He walked with them, chatting about the weather and the condition of the roads. He said that he himself had that day walked from Ballymena, and intended to spend the night in Antrim. He asked no questions and seemed in no way concerned with the affairs of his chance acquaintances.

Donald and Neal took their horses to the inn yard and saw them rubbed down, stabled, and fed. Then they entered the public room of the inn, sat down, and ordered their supper. The man who had guided them to the door sat at a corner of the table eating a frugal meal of bread and cheese. Beside his tumbler stood a large jug of b.u.t.termilk. In a few minutes he rose from the table and took his seat on a bench near the fire, where the light from a lamp, which hung on the wall, fell on him. He drew a notebook from his pocket, and proceeded to write in it, referring from time to time to sc.r.a.ps of paper, of which he seemed to have a large number. He was a man of middle height, of a spare frame, which showed no sign of great personal strength, but was well knit, and might easily have been capable of great endurance. His face was thin and narrow. He had very dark hair, and dark, gentle eyes. There was a suggestion about the mouth of the kind of strength which often goes with gentleness.

To Neal the appearance of the man was not very interesting. He watched him in mere idleness while waiting for the girl to bring the supper Donald had ordered. If there had been anyone else in the room Neal would not have wasted a second glance on the un.o.btrusive stranger. Yet, as he watched the man he became aware of something about him which was attractive. There was a dignity in his movements quite different from Donald Ward's habitual self-a.s.sertion, different, too, from the stately confidence of Lord Dunseveric. There was a quiet seriousness in the way he set to work at his writing, and a methodical carefulness in his sorting of the sc.r.a.ps of paper which he drew one by one from his pocket.

The maid entered with the wine and food which Donald had ordered.

"You'll be for beds, the night," she said.

"Ay," said Donald, "and do you see that the feathers are well shaken and the beds soft. If you'd ridden all the miles I've ridden to-day, my girl, after not being on the back of a horse for three months, you'd want a soft bed to lie on."

The stranger looked up from his notebook. There was laughter in his dark eyes, but it went no further than his eyes. His lips showed no inclination to smile.

Another man entered the room--a burly, strong man. He wore top boots, as if he had been riding. He looked like a well-to-do farmer. He gave no order to the girl, but walked straight to where the dark-eyed stranger sat. Greetings pa.s.sed between them, and then talk in a low voice. Both of them looked at Donald and Neal. Then, beckoning to the girl, the stranger asked if he could be accommodated with a private room. The girl nodded, and went to prepare one. Donald Ward finished his supper, rose, stretched himself, yawned, and then drawing a stool near the fire, sat down and filled his pipe. Neal, interested to watch the evening street traffic in a strange town, climbed on to the deep sill of the window and pushed the lattice open. A blind piper sat on a stone bench outside the inn and played a reel for some boys and girls who danced on the road. A horseman--a handsomely-dressed man and well mounted--rode slowly up the street towards Lord Ma.s.sereene's demesne. One of the dancers crossed his way and caused the horse to shy. The rider cut at the girl with his whip. An angry growl followed the retreating figure. The piper stopped playing for a minute and listened. His face wore that eager look of strained attention which is seen often on the faces of the blind. He began to play again, and this time his tune was the "ca Ira." It was well-known to his audience and its significance was understood. Several voices began to hum it in unison with the pipes. More voices joined, and in a minute or two the little crowd was shouting the tune. A grave, elderly man, in the dark dress and white bands of a clergyman, stepped out of a house opposite the inn and approached the piper. The dancers and the onlookers stopped singing and saluted him respectfully. He spoke to the piper.

"Don't be playing that tune, Phelim. Play your reel again. There's trouble where those French tunes are played. It was so in Belfast a while ago. We want no riot in Antrim nor dragoons in our streets."

"I'm thinking," said the blind man, "that it's the voice of Mr.

Macartney, the Rector of Antrim, that I'm listening to. Well, reverend sir, I'll stop my tune at your bidding. Not because you're a magistrate, nor yet because you're a great man, but just for the sake of the letter you wrote to save William Orr from being hanged."

The pipes gave a long wail and were silent. Then another man came up the street. Neal could not see his face, for his hat was slouched over it, but the sound of his voice reached the open window.

"What's this, boys? What's this? Which of you is it bids the piper stop his tune? It's only cowards and Orangemen that don't like that tune."

The voice struck Neal as one that he had heard before, but he could not recollect where he had heard it. He leaned out of the window to hear better.

The clergyman stepped out into the road and confronted the newcomer.

"It was I who bid the piper stop that tune. What have you to say to me?"

The other approached him swaggering, then hesitated, stood still, took off his hat, and held it in his hand.

"Oh, nothing to you, nothing at all, Mr. Macartney. I did not know you were here. Indeed, you were quite right to stop the man. As for what I said, I beg you to forget it. It was nothing but a joke, a little joke of mine."

He bowed and cringed. He spoke in a deprecating whine, very different from the bl.u.s.tering tone he had used before. Neal's interest in the scene before him became suddenly very acute. He was almost certain now that he recognised the voice. The whining tone brought back to him the night when he had interfered with James Finlay's salmon poaching. The voice was, he felt sure of it, Finlay's voice. He drew back quickly, and from within the window watched Finlay pa.s.s through the inn door. He heard his steps in the pa.s.sage, heard him open the door of the room in which the travellers were gathered. Neal shrank back into the shadow of the window seat and watched.

Finlay swaggered across the floor and then paused and looked at Donald Ward, who smoked his pipe in the chimney corner. Then he turned to the other two.

"I don't know this gentleman," he said. "Is he----?"

He paused, his eyebrows elevated, his face expressing significant interrogation. Neal saw him plainly in the lamp light. He had not been mistaken in the voice. It was James Finlay. The man who had guided them to the inn rose without speaking and led the way to the private room which the maid had prepared for his reception. Neal jumped down from his seat and approached his uncle.

"Uncle Donald," he said, "that was James Finlay, the man we are looking for."

Donald took his pipe out of his mouth and looked hard at Neal.

"Are you quite sure?" he said. "It won't do to be making a mistake in a job of this sort."

"I'm quite sure."

Donald replaced his pipe in his mouth and puffed hard at it for some minutes. Then he said--