THE COMPLETE TALES OF MY LANDLORD (Illustrated Edition). Walter Scott
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be that this be sae, if ye’ll just gar your servant jow out the great bell in the tower, there’s me, and my twa brothers, and little Davie of the Stenhouse, will be wi’ you, wi’ a’ the power we can make, in the snapping of a flint.”
“Many thanks, Hobbie,” answered Earnscliff; “but I hope we shall have no war of so unnatural and unchristian a kind in our time.”
“Hout, sir, hout,” replied Elliot; “it wad be but a wee bit neighbour war, and Heaven and earth would make allowances for it in this uncultivated place — it’s just the nature o’ the folk and the land — we canna live quiet like Loudon folk — we haena sae muckle to do. It’s impossible.”
“Well, Hobbie,” said the Laird, “for one who believes so deeply as you do in supernatural appearances, I must own you take Heaven in your own hand rather audaciously, considering where we are walking.”
“What needs I care for the Mucklestane-Moor ony mair than ye do yoursell, Earnscliff?” said Hobbie, something offended; “to be sure, they do say there’s a sort o’ worricows and lang-nebbit things about the land, but what need I care for them? I hae a good conscience, and little to answer for, unless it be about a rant amang the lasses, or a splore at a fair, and that’s no muckle to speak of. Though I say it mysell, I am as quiet a lad and as peaceable — ”
“And Dick Turnbull’s head that you broke, and Willie of Winton whom you shot at?” said his travelling companion.
“Hout, Earnscliff, ye keep a record of a’ men’s misdoings — Dick’s head’s healed again, and we’re to fight out the quarrel at Jeddart, on the Rood-day, so that’s like a thing settled in a peaceable way; and then I am friends wi’ Willie again, puir chield — it was but twa or three hail draps after a’. I wad let onybody do the like o’t to me for a pint o’ brandy. But Willie’s lowland bred, poor fallow, and soon frighted for himsell — And, for the worricows, were we to meet ane on this very bit — ”
“As is not unlikely,” said young Earnscliff, “for there stands your old witch, Hobbie.”
“I say,” continued Elliot, as if indignant at this hint — ”I say, if the auld carline hersell was to get up out o’ the grund just before us here, I would think nae mair — But, gude preserve us, Earnscliff; what can yon, be!”
Chapter III
Brown Dwarf, that o’er the moorland strays,
Thy name to Keeldar tell!
“The Brown Man of the Moor, that stays
Beneath the heather-bell.”
JOHN LEYDEN
The object which alarmed the young farmer in the middle of his valorous protestations, startled for a moment even his less prejudiced companion. The moon, which had arisen during their conversation, was, in the phrase of that country, wading or struggling with clouds, and shed only a doubtful and occasional light. By one of her beams, which streamed upon the great granite column to which they now approached, they discovered a form, apparently human, but of a size much less than ordinary, which moved slowly among the large grey stones, not like a person intending to journey onward, but with the slow, irregular, flitting movement of a being who hovers around some spot of melancholy recollection, uttering also, from time to time, a sort of indistinct muttering sound. This so much resembled his idea of the motions of an apparition, that Hobbie Elliot, making a dead pause, while his hair erected itself upon his scalp, whispered to his companion, “It’s Auld Ailie hersell! Shall I gie her a shot, in the name of God?”
“For Heaven’s sake, no,” said his companion, holding down the weapon which he was about to raise to the aim — ”for Heaven’s sake, no; it’s some poor distracted creature.”
“Ye’re distracted yoursell, for thinking of going so near to her,” said Elliot, holding his companion in his turn, as he prepared to advance. “We’ll aye hae time to pit ower a bit prayer (an I could but mind ane) afore she comes this length — God! she’s in nae hurry,” continued he, growing bolder from his companion’s confidence, and the little notice the apparition seemed to take of them. “She hirples like a hen on a het girdle. I redd ye, Earnscliff” (this he added in a gentle whisper), “let us take a cast about, as if to draw the wind on a buck — the bog is no abune knee-deep, and better a saft road as bad company.” [The Scots use the epithet soft, IN MALAM PARTEM, in two cases, at least. A SOFT road is a road through quagmire and bogs; and SOFT weather signifies that which is very rainy.]
Earnscliff, however, in spite of his companion’s resistance and remonstrances, continued to advance on the path they had originally pursued, and soon confronted the object of their investigation.
The height of the figure, which appeared even to decrease as they approached it, seemed to be under four feet, and its form, as far as the imperfect light afforded them the means of discerning, was very nearly as broad as long, or rather of a spherical shape, which could only be occasioned by some strange personal deformity. The young sportsman hailed this extraordinary appearance twice, without receiving any answer, or attending to the pinches by which his companion endeavoured to intimate that their best course was to walk on, without giving farther disturbance to a being of such singular and preternatural exterior. To the third repeated demand of “Who are you? What do you here at this hour of night?” — a voice replied, whose shrill, uncouth, and dissonant tones made Elliot step two paces back, and startled even his companion, “Pass on your way, and ask nought at them that ask nought at you.”
“What do you do here so far from shelter? Are you benighted on your journey? Will you follow us home (‘God forbid!’ ejaculated Hobbie Elliot, involuntarily), and I will give you a lodging?”
“I would sooner lodge by mysell in the deepest of the Tarras-flow,” again whispered Hobbie.
“Pass on your way,” rejoined the figure, the harsh tones of his voice still more exalted by passion. “I want not your guidance — I want not your lodging — it is five years since my head was under a human roof, and I trust it was for the last time.”
“He is mad,” said Earnscliff.
“He has a look of auld Humphrey Ettercap, the tinkler, that perished in this very moss about five years syne,” answered his superstitious companion; “but Humphrey wasna that awfu’ big in the bouk.”
“Pass on your way,” reiterated the object of their curiosity, “the breath of your human bodies poisons the air around me — the sound of pour human voices goes through my ears like sharp bodkins.”
“Lord safe us!” whispered Hobbie, “that the dead should bear sie fearfu’ illwill to the living! — his saul maun be in a puir way, I’m jealous.”
“Come, my friend,” said Earnscliff, “you seem to suffer under some strong affliction; common humanity will not allow us to leave you here.”
“Common humanity!” exclaimed the being, with a scornful laugh that sounded like a shriek, “where got ye that catchword — that noose for woodcocks — that common disguise for man-traps — that bait which the wretched idiot who swallows, will soon find covers a hook with barbs ten times sharper than those you lay for the animals which you murder for your luxury!”
“I tell you, my friend,” again replied Earnscliff, “you are incapable of judging of your own situation — you will perish in this wilderness, and we must, in compassion, force you along with us.”
“I’ll hae neither hand nor foot in’t,” said Hobbie; “let the ghaist take his ain way, for God’s sake!”
“My blood be on my own head, if I perish here,” said the figure; and, observing Earnscliff meditating to lay hold on him, he added, “And your blood be upon yours, if you touch but the skirt of my garments, to infect me with the taint