ONE OF THE FAILURES.

Otago Witness, Issue 4039, 11 August 1931, Page 73

ONE OF THE FAILURES.

By

Oswald Wildridge.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

In the gospel according to Peter Atkinson, of Galva, a secret is impossbile of concealment no matter who the custodian may be, but our dealing with the schoolmaster of Burnfoot gave the cynic’s assurance a shock, and when he confessed to Sampson Lowther that “ Dalefolk could be fairly close if they set themselves,” his statement was accepted as full recantation of the old faith. -

At the beginning of things the schoolmaster’s retirement was regarded as an event that called for congratulation, and by every fireside satisfaction brooded, it being commonly agreed that Richard Iredale would now have hours and hours for his. books, with leisure, too, for the fishing, for rambling on £he fells, and a crack with anybody at any time. It was recognised, of course, that the act’ had a melancholy side, but no one dreamed of black disappointment or the bitterness of discontent; and it was not until John Fletcher beguiled him up to Hunday that the discovery was made. Long after Iredale had left did Fletcher ponder over the revelation, and a few* days afterwards he passed it on to David Branthwaite, the man who doctored our bodies when sickness attacked, and attended to many other affairs outside his professional domain. “ We’ve been a couple of blind bats,” Fletcher began. “ We’ve been counting the schoolmaster a contented man—and he’s wearing a crown of thorns.”

“ I warrant he’s put the thorns on himself,” the doctor growled. “It’s a way folk have. Whatever’s wrong with the man ? ”

“ Something your physic won’t cure. You see, we’ve thought of him as one ri’ho can look back with pride on the road he's travelled. But nothing of the sort. .He reckons himself one of the failures. It’s well I got him to talk or else he’d have gone to the end without giving us a chance of putting things straight.” “What straightening can there be?” David Branthwaite demanded. “ I wish folk would make the best of what’s done with.” “-In that case, David,” the master of

Hunday retorted, “ some of the things set down to your credit would have undone. It’s advice you’d never give to a man with a broken leg, and it’s not the treatment you’d offer to bruised hearts. Mebbe I’d better remind you ” “ Fash,” the doctor interrupted, scenting the coming of praise. “ You’d be wasting your time. What clash has Iredale been stuffing you with ? ” “ That’s what I’m wanting to tell you. I got him up to Hunday and he gave me a bit of his best, our crack being mostly about books and folk. Afterwards I dropped a word about the good time he had in front, and then I saw that things weren’t what we took them to be. By and by he showed me a corner of the thing that’s rankled in his heart. He’s a sorely disappointed man.” “ Isn’t everybody disappointed ? ” “ That’s true, but a man may merely be disappointed because he sees through a glass darkly and judges too soon. Iredale seems to have begun with big ideas, his dreams ranging round the ■work he was going to do in the busy’ places of the world. He only meant Burnfoot to be a halting place. He was going to serve his apprenticeship here and afterwards move on to where men handle the big problems.” “ As if it were only among bricks and mortar a man can live a man’s life,” Branthwaite grumbled. “ Has Iredale come to his years with that notion?” “ I fancy he got beyond it at one time,” Fletcher replied, “ but it’s come back now the work’s done. If he’d followed his plans he’d have left the dale soon on hut—something went wrong—that old story of the womna who gave her heart to another man—and when she went he turned himself for a while into an ambitionless idler. He had lost his main incentive, was just one of those feckless bodies like you and me who’s only himself to think about. And so, the- easy life of the dale satisfied until, it was too late.” ■ ■

“ Umph f And a good thing for the dale,” the doctor chimed in. “A good thing for him as well. He’d havebeen tucked under the sods years since if the reek of the towns had been his portion. Besides that in the towns most likely he’d just have been one among the ruck, while here he’s had a throne to himself, and the hearts of the folk for his inheritance?’

“ He’s had more than that, David. He’s had the work of his hands, and I’m thinking his work ought to lift lip its Voice and not keep all its praise for his burying.” , Into the grey eyes of the doctor the twinkling light of understanding flashed;

the corners of his mouth relaxed, but “I’m listening,” was all he said, and listened he did without a word until Fletcher had finished his say. Then, “ I’m much obliged to you, John,” he murmured. “You’ve saved the dale from a terrible sin of omission. Thinks himself one of the failures,” he chuckled. “ My certes, man, but we’ll show him.” Though the health of the dale was ridiculously good just now David Branthwaite began forthwith to have a desperately busy time, while Fletcher found occasion for many consultations with Christopher Skelton, the shepherd of Miterdale. Also Robert Musgrave, the master of Ghyllthwaite, was entrusted with a special mission to distant parts which kept him away for a couple of weeks. Anything leps formal could scarcely be conceived. Once Robert Musgrave on his return suggested a committee, but the doctor ruthlessly trampled on the proposal, protesting that committees were “nothing but machines lor a lot of senseless havers.” Butrin due season a meeting of the elect was held in John Gale’s kitchen, the purpose of which may be guesfsed from the account which Andrew Watterson was afterwards coaxed into giving the good wife. “It seemed like being a bothersome business at first,” he confessed, “ for David Branth’et was in one of his cantankerous moods and played Aunt Sally with every notion. Truth to tell, woman, I fancy they had the thing cut an’ dried, but they wanted t’ see if anybody could better their plan.” “ Ay,” quoth Mistress Watterson. “ they’re canny. And what was it the doctor skimped his feet on first?” “As well as I can call t’ mind,” Andrew replied, “it was a silver tea service. After a lot of humming and. haa-ing Matthew Fearon let slip that he fancied a nice bit o’ silver with an inscription, though, of course, we all kenned it was the mistress -who’d put him up till it. But, my word, you should have seen the doctor’s face. He’d just got that queerish cast he wears when he finds you oot on fells after he’s ordered you to keep your bed. ‘ I know little aboot silver,’ he says, ‘ for I haven’t got any, barring a few spoons my mother left me, and them I prize for the sake of the woman they belonged to and not for the stuff they’re made of. But Richard Iredale isn’t one of your silver sort; he’d be finely set up with your gift, but its value would be just as great if it were made of tin. Besides, wha’t the good of silver to mash your tea in, when it tastes such a lot better in a brown teapot or a pint mug ? ’ ” “Well done, David,” Mistress Watterson commented. “ He’s a rare way of getting straight to the bottom o’ things, has the doctor.”

“ Ay. And he’s a grand economist in speechifying, which brings me till Daniel Nicholson’s illuminated address. ‘ Good gracious,’ says the doctor, ‘an’ what has Iredale done that we should load him with a ringmarolling thing like that, with three times as many words crowded in as there’s room for, and hung where no ordinary body can read it, even if they want to, which they •wouldn’t. Nay, if you’ve nothing better’n silver pots and things in gild frames it’s time for somebody else to be talking.’ And there and then he sets to, and shows us the notion* that’s come to 'him and Fletcher. . Put that’s all I’m telling. You needn’t crossquestion. I’m leaving the rest to John Fletcher and the doctor. No, not a word. Only this, we’ve sown some fairish seed, and the schoolmaster’s going to gather a bonny harvest.” 11. It was an aristocratic dame from the south, dark rings round her eyes and a complexion like putty, who offered its a word of pity on the loneliness of our lives in the winter hours, she herself having been despatched by a physician of repute for rest in the dale after half the vitality had been drained out of her in a riot of dinners, balls, and theatres. She went back too without learning that win-ter-time was one of our merriest of seasons, its neighbourliness as real as in the places where the houses crowd .thick as the scree on our hillsides. Distance never proved a bar to companionship except when the passes were blocked with snow or the floods were out. In the matter of public gatherings though, the dale acted with economy. For the two churches, one each was the common allowance, and when one of Paul Musgrave’s journalist friends asked us to believe that in Lancashire there were churches that held merry nights once a week he was set down as a humorist to be avoided. However, the winter of Richard Iredale’s retirement was distinguished by an extra gathering, but the schoolmaster missed the preparation, for hereabouts Fletcher- discovered the need of certain - addition to his library, and Iredale spent three magic days in Carlisle picking among the books.

On the night he returned occasion drew a disturbing finger along'the foothills. Every road led to Burnfoot, on ail there was the beat of hoof and tramp of feet. Soon after sunset they drifted in, some in ancestral gigS, some in shandrys, farmers dour as the hills, their wives' agitated by a new interest, shepherds who knew the mountain tracks better than the valley roads, and a fine sprinkling of young folk for whom this was one of the ceremonial nights. Never had the school by the cross-roads held a throng so packed, and when Richard Iredale, fresh from his book-buying, entered, craftily beguiled thither by Fletcher, he was overwhelmed by astonishment.

“ What does this mean ? ” he demanded. “ You said a bit of business.” But Fletcher was crying a welcome to Matthew Fearon from the Borrowdale side and before Iredale could repeat the question he was swept into the back room and thrust into a group of outsiders, some of whom were shy, while others hailing him as “ the master ” contested for his hand, and another set proclaimed themselves proud of the new acquaintanceship. He saw at once that it was a company of distinction. His lordship whose castle guards the dale was there, the two Jeffersons from the lowlands by the Kirkdale gap. for whom there was always a hearing in the Commons House of Parliament, Paul Musgrave, of Ghyllthwaite, whose journalistic pen had made him a leader of other men’s thoughts, the professor from “The Head,” -and some whose faces seemed strangely familiar but could not be placed.

And while he still wallowed in bewilderment Robert Musgrave gripped his arm and he found himself on the platform, whence, looking down on the upturned faces, he suddenly realised in a dim fashion that it was a pleasant thing to have his friends here in this way. His heart warmed at the sight, but perplexity surged up again when he discovered Robert Musgrave on his feet and talking about himself. “ This is the schoolmaster’s meeting, but he does not know it yet.” This was the beginning, hut there was something about a secret well kept and afterwards something else which drove the content from Iredale’s heart and filled it with resentment. He had planned to slip quietly out of his work and they were making a fuss. In grave discomfort he listened, but soon the ■ mood again changed, the demonstration tendered its own excuse. “This is not a meeting of farewell but of completion.” Thus the master of Ghyllthwaite rounded off his speech. ■" We ar? laying the topstone of a man’s work, just trying to show him something he has not yet seen.” And he had pleasure in calling on Sir James Elton, a London financier, whom—most of them had seen with his rod when thsalmon were about or the white trout ••n the run.

The first words revealed the angling as having been diversified. “ Twenty years ago,” said Sir James, “ I came for salmon and ended in fishing for men. And I made an excellent catch. It was my luck in an hour of adventure on the fells to meet with two of your sons whom your revered schoolmaster was doing his part in fitting for a place in life. To-day they are on ‘my staff, occupying positions of great responsibility, enjoying the full confidence of myself and my Their industry and integrity are beyond praise, the financial life of London is more efficient because they are in it, and I have come to-night to thank Richard Iredale for the service he has rendered to the city and myself.” High finance having had its say the tale was taken up by Henry Findlay, a Liverpool shipbroker, whose name was known in all the ports, but speaking nothing new of business. “ Under my roof,” he said, “ we have one who came to us as a little maid and is now a woman full-grown. From the beginning we were struck by her sagacity and her knowledge, and whenever we asked where she learned this and that, she would reply: ‘ From the schoolmaster at Burnfoot School.’ I also have a wife who long ago parted with health, but the little maid Richard Iredale trained is her surest prop, her constant help and comfort, one of the sheet anchors of my home. We scarcely dare to think of the place without her ministry. And so,” turning to the palefaeed man. on the chairman’s right, “Mr Iredale, my wife bids me thank you as well as words will do it for all that through Lizzie Tyson you have done--for her.” For the next on the witness list,a nod from Robert Musgrave was enough. At once it brought a bronzed and sturdy man sitting by the wall to his feet. And as he turned about it was seen that on his coat he carried a cross of bronze. “B’s many a year sin’ you saw me,” he began awkwardly, “and I reckon you’ve forgot. But I’ve come home to-night to tell my old schoolmaster that if it hadn’t been for him I’d never ha’ won this Vic-

toria Cross on th’ Afghan front. I funked it. I didn’t want to go and fetch Bill Jenkins back. But sudden I remembered some of the things schoolmaister said .before he let me clear away from here. ‘Now think on, Jack Rogers,’ said he, ‘you’ve nothing to do with consequences. Only with your job.’ That was one thing. And I’d to bear in mind that a soldier’s duty always came before his life. And besides all the advice, there was the life I’d seen Mister Iredale himself living. Among other things I minded the night he went up Lingmell with the shepherds after them Grayrigg sheep in the snow. He risked as much for sheep as I did for a man. And I saw that saving Bill was my job no matter what it cost. That’s ’ow I won my cross.” So the tributes fell. Here was Andrew Watterson’s scapegrace son, now Captain Peter Watterson, of the Yellow Cross clipper line, and hero of one of the sea’s epic salvage exploits, giving all the credit to Tri ale for the winning of his extramas. er’s ticket. Also Paul Musgrave testifying to his mentor’s influence through the printed sheet. “ Whatever worth-while message my pen has given to the people it was born in the heart and brain of the master at whose feet I sat.” Also we had Professor Ferguson from the venerable college at “The Head,” declaring that not even the best of the town schools had sent him boys better grounded than those who had passed through Richard Iredale’s hands. And last of all, the elder of the Jeffersons revealed for the first time how one of the schoolmaster’s ideas, casually mentioned in a fell-side crack, had been passed on to the Prime Minister' and built into an Act of Parliament.

But it was left to the shepherd of Milerdale to give the final touch, and you may yet be told how Skelton’s speech was coaxed by his lordship, who would have it that “King’s English is all right for a straight up and down argument, but not to be compared with a bit of dialect when you want to tell a body what you really’ think about them.” So. after a mighty struggle, the shepherd capitulated on condition that he was not to sit upon the platform, and now in speech as rugged as his face he made known the thing the dale had done. It was the fashion in most places, said he, to wait till a body had gone before passing judgment, but that was not always proper, and on talking things over they had agreed that keeping all the meemorials till life was ended was “a daft mak’ o’ business.” There was a heap of monuments that stood for nothing but lest opportunities. “A word in season is better’n a marble tombstone or a brass plate on Ji wall.” It was “ not enough to let postecrity know vou’d had good and faithful service; it was only fair the servant himself should be shown, besides being a comfort and mebbe a help on the way.” So they had “ fashioned that Maister Iredale *diculd have his meemorial while he was here.” To find the right way had been a fearsome task. All sorts of presents had been discussed, but they couldn’t let on one meaning just the thing they wanted to say. But, at last, remembering the life he had lived, they decided to gather some of his workmanship together and let him look on a bit of his own harvest, just some of the finer stocks of grain. This was their farewell gift to a faithful friend—a vision of his own work —“ and we hope he’ll bide the rest of his days wi’ a contented heart.” With the deliberation that marked all his movements the shepherd sank back into the gap left for him between John Gale and Sampson Lowther, and in its next issue the Lake Country News reported that “ Mr Iredale made a suitable response.” It was agreed by some who heard that it was the most appropriate that could have been delivered; probably it was the briefest of all his public utterances. A broken word of thanks and then: “It is no use—speech has gone from me. Only this—once I was blind, now I see. At eventide you have shown me that the day has not been spent in vain. Shown me—that work —never faileth.” »