be a number two, mein goot friend: for search is what you call to seek
and dig, and this is but number one! Mine wort, there is one great big
prize in de wheel for us, goot Maister Ochiltree.”
“Aweel, it may be sae; but we canna howk fort enow--we hae nae shules,
for they hae taen them a’ awa--and it’s like some o’ them will be sent
back to fling the earth into the hole, and mak a’ things trig again. But
an ye’ll sit down wi’ me a while in the wood, I’se satisfy your honour
that ye hae just lighted on the only man in the country that could hae
tauld about Malcolm Misticot and his hidden treasure--But first we’ll rub
out the letters on this board, for fear it tell tales.”
And, by the assistance of his knife, the beggar erased and defaced the
characters so as to make them quite unintelligible, and then daubed the
board with clay so as to obliterate all traces of the erasure.
Dousterswivel stared at him in ambiguous silence. There was an
intelligence and alacrity about all the old man’s movements, which
indicated a person that could not be easily overreached, and yet (for
even rogues acknowledge in some degree the spirit of precedence) our
adept felt the disgrace of playing a secondary part, and dividing
winnings with so mean an associate. His appetite for gain, however, was
sufficiently sharp to overpower his offended pride, and though far more
an impostor than a dupe, he was not without a certain degree of personal
faith even in the gross superstitions by means of which he imposed upon
others. Still, being accustomed to act as a leader on such occasions,
he felt humiliated at feeling himself in the situation of a vulture
marshalled to his prey by a carrion-crow.--“Let me, however, hear this
story to an end,” thought Dousterswivel, “and it will be hard if I do
not make mine account in it better as Maister Edie Ochiltrees makes
proposes.”
The adept, thus transformed into a pupil from a teacher of the mystic
art, followed Ochiltree in passive acquiescence to the Prior’s Oak--a
spot, as the reader may remember, at a short distance from the
ruins, where the German sat down, and silence waited the old man’s
communication.
“Maister Dustandsnivel,” said the narrator, “it’s an unco while since
I heard this business treated anent;--for the lairds of Knockwinnock,
neither Sir Arthur, nor his father, nor his grandfather--and I mind a wee
bit about them a’--liked to hear it spoken about; nor they dinna like
it yet--But nae matter; ye may be sure it was clattered about in the
kitchen, like onything else in a great house, though it were forbidden
in the ha’--and sae I hae heard the circumstance rehearsed by auld
servants in the family; and in thir present days, when things o’ that
auld-warld sort arena keepit in mind round winter fire-sides as they
used to be, I question if there’s onybody in the country can tell the
tale but mysell--aye out-taken the laird though, for there’s a parchment
book about it, as I have heard, in the charter-room at Knockwinnock
Castle.”
“Well, all dat is vary well--but get you on with your stories, mine goot
friend,” said Dousterswivel.
“Aweel, ye see,” continued the mendicant, “this was a job in the auld
times o’ rugging and riving through the hale country, when it was ilka
ane for himsell, and God for us a’--when nae man wanted property if he
had strength to take it, or had it langer than he had power to keep it.
It was just he ower her, and she ower him, whichever could win upmost,
a’ through the east country here, and nae doubt through the rest o’
Scotland in the self and same manner.
“Sae in these days Sir Richard Wardour came into the land, and that was
the first o’ the name ever was in this country. There’s been mony o’
them sin’ syne; and the maist, like him they ca’d Hell-in-Harness, and
the rest o’ them, are sleeping down in yon ruins. They were a proud
dour set o’ men, but unco brave, and aye stood up for the weel o’ the
country, God sain them a’--there’s no muckle popery in that wish. They
ca’d them the Norman Wardours, though they cam frae the south to this
country. So this Sir Richard, that they ca’d Red-hand, drew up wi’ the
auld Knockwinnock o’ that day--for then they were Knockwinnocks of that
Ilk--and wad fain marry his only daughter, that was to have the castle
and the land. Laith, laith was the lass--(Sybil Knockwinnock they ca’d
her that tauld me the tale)--laith, laith was she to gie into the match,
for she had fa’en a wee ower thick wi’ a cousin o’ her ain that her
father had some ill-will to; and sae it was, that after she had been
married to Sir Richard jimp four months--for marry him she maun, it’s
like--ye’ll no hinder her gieing them a present o’ a bonny knave bairn.
Then there was siccan a ca’-thro’, as the like was never seen; and she’s
be burnt, and he’s be slain, was the best words o’ their mouths. But it
was a’ sowdered up again some gait, and the bairn was sent awa, and bred
up near the Highlands, and grew up to be a fine wanle fallow, like mony
ane that comes o’ the wrang side o’ the blanket; and Sir Richard wi’ the
Red-hand, he had a fair offspring o’his ain, and a was lound and
quiet till his head was laid in the ground. But then down came Malcolm
Misticot--(Sir Arthur says it should be Misbegot, but they aye ca’d
him Misticot that spoke o’t lang syne)--down cam this Malcolm, the
love-begot, frae Glen-isla, wi’ a string o’ lang-legged Highlanders at
his heels, that’s aye ready for onybody’s mischief, and he threeps the
castle and lands are his ain as his mother’s eldest son, and turns
a’ the Wardours out to the hill. There was a sort of fighting and
blude-spilling about it, for the gentles took different sides; but
Malcolm had the uppermost for a lang time, and keepit the Castle of
Knockwinnock, and strengthened it, and built that muckle tower that they
ca’ Misticot’s tower to this day.”
“Mine goot friend, old Mr. Edie Ochiltree.” interrupted the German,
“this is all as one like de long histories of a baron of sixteen
quarters in mine countries; but I would as rather hear of de silver and
gold.”
“Why, ye see,” continued the mendicant, “this Malcolm was weel helped
by an uncle, a brother o’ his father’s, that was Prior o’ St. Ruth here;
and muckle treasure they gathered between them, to secure the succession
of their house in the lands of Knockwinnock. Folk said that the monks in
thae days had the art of multiplying metals--at ony rate, they were
very rich. At last it came to this, that the young Wardour, that was
Red-hand’s son, challenged Misticot to fight with him in the lists
as they ca’d them--that’s no lists or tailor’s runds and selvedges
o’ claith, but a palin’-thing they set up for them to fight in like
game-cocks. Aweel, Misticot was beaten, and at his brother’s mercy--but
he wadna touch his life, for the blood of Knockwinnock that was in baith
their veins: so Malcolm was compelled to turn a monk, and he died soon
after in the priory, of pure despite and vexation. Naebody ever kenn’d
whare his uncle the prior earded him, or what he did wi’ his gowd and
silver, for he stood on the right o’ halie kirk, and wad gie nae account
to onybody. But the prophecy gat abroad in the country, that whenever
Misticot’s grave was fund out, the estate of Knockwinnock should be lost
and won.”
“Ach! mine goot old friend, Maister Edie, and dat is not so very
unlikely, if Sir Arthurs will quarrel wit his goot friends to please Mr.
Oldenbuck.--And so you do tink dat dis golds and silvers belonged to goot
Mr. Malcolm Mishdigoat?”
“Troth do I, Mr. Dousterdeevil.”
“And you do believe dat dere is more of dat sorts behind?”
“By my certie do I--How can it be otherwise?--Search--No. I--that is as
muckle as to say, search and ye’ll find number twa. Besides, yon kist
is only silver, and I aye heard that’ Misticot’s pose had muckle yellow
gowd in’t.”
“Den, mine goot friends,” said the adept, jumping up hastily, “why do we
not set about our little job directly?”
“For twa gude reasons,” answered the beggar, who quietly kept his
sitting posture;--“first, because, as I said before, we have naething
to dig wi’, for they hae taen awa the picks and shules; and, secondly,
because there will be a wheen idle gowks coming to glower at the hole as
lang as it is daylight, and maybe the laird may send somebody to fill it
up--and ony way we wad be catched. But if you will meet me on this place
at twal o’clock wi’ a dark lantern, I’ll hae tools ready, and we’ll gang
quietly about our job our twa sells, and naebody the wiser for’t.”
“Be--be--but, mine goot friend,” said Dousterswivel, from whose
recollection his former nocturnal adventure was not to be altogether
erased, even by the splendid hopes which Edie’s narrative held forth,
“it is not so goot or so safe, to be about goot Maister Mishdigoat’s
grabe at dat time of night--you have forgot how I told you de spirits did
hone and mone dere. I do assure you, dere is disturbance dere.”
“If ye’re afraid of ghaists,” answered the mendicant, coolly, “I’ll do
the job mysell, and bring your share o’ the siller to ony place you like
to appoint.”
“No--no--mine excellent old Mr. Edie,--too much trouble for you--I will not
have dat--I will come myself--and it will be bettermost; for, mine old
friend, it was I, Herman Dousterswivel, discovered Maister Mishdigoat’s
grave when I was looking for a place as to put away some little trumpery
coins, just to play one little trick on my dear friend Sir Arthur, for a
little sport and pleasures. Yes, I did take some what you call rubbish,
and did discover Maister Mishdigoat’s own monumentsh-- It’s like dat he
meant I should be his heirs--so it would not be civility in me not to
come mineself for mine inheritance.”
“At twal o’clock, then,” said the mendicant, “we meet under this tree.
I’ll watch for a while, and see that naebody meddles wi’ the grave--it’s
only saying the laird’s forbade it--then get my bit supper frae Ringan
the poinder up by, and leave to sleep in his barn; and I’ll slip out at
night, and neer be mist.”
“Do so, mine goot Maister Edie, and I will meet you here on this very
place, though all de spirits should moan and sneeze deir very brains
out.”
So saying he shook hands with the old man, and with this mutual pledge
of fidelity to their appointment, they separated for the present.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
--See thou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; angels imprisoned
Set thou at liberty--
Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back,
If gold and silver beckon to come on.
King John.
The night set in stormy, with wind and occasional showers of rain. “Eh,
sirs,” said the old mendicant, as he took his place on the sheltered
side of the large oak-tree to wait for his associate--“Eh, sirs, but
human nature’s a wilful and wilyard thing!--Is it not an unco lucre o’
gain wad bring this Dousterdivel out in a blast o’ wind like this, at
twal o’clock at night, to thir wild gousty wa’s?--and amna I a bigger
fule than himsell to bide here waiting for him?”
Having made these sage reflections, he wrapped himself close in his
cloak, and fixed his eye on the moon as she waded amid the stormy and
dusky clouds, which the wind from time to time drove across her surface.
The melancholy and uncertain gleams that she shot from between the
passing shadows fell full upon the rifted arches and shafted windows of
the old building, which were thus for an instant made distinctly visible
in their ruinous state, and anon became again a dark, undistinguished,
and shadowy mass. The little lake had its share of these transient beams
of light, and showed its waters broken, whitened, and agitated under
the passing storm, which, when the clouds swept over the moon, were only
distinguished by their sullen and murmuring plash against the beach. The
wooded glen repeated, to every successive gust that hurried through its
narrow trough, the deep and various groan with which the trees replied
to the whirlwind, and the sound sunk again, as the blast passed away,
into a faint and passing murmur, resembling the sighs of an exhausted
criminal after the first pangs of his torture are over. In these sounds,
superstition might have found ample gratification for that State of
excited terror which she fears and yet loves. But such feeling is made
no part of Ochiltree’s composition. His mind wandered back to the scenes
of his youth.
“I have kept guard on the outposts baith in Germany and America,” he
said to himself, “in mony a waur night than this, and when I ken’d there
was maybe a dozen o’ their riflemen in the thicket before me. But I was
aye gleg at my duty--naebody ever catched Edie sleeping.”
As he muttered thus to himself, he instinctively shouldered his trusty
pike-staff, assumed the port of a sentinel on duty, and, as a step
advanced towards the tree, called, with a tone assorting better with his
military reminiscences than his present state--“Stand! who goes there?”
“De devil, goot Edie,” answered Dousterswivel, “why does you speak
so loud as a baarenhauter, or what you call a factionary--I mean a
sentinel?”
“Just because I thought I was a sentinel at that moment,” answered the
mendicant. “Here’s an awsome night! Hae ye brought the lantern and a
pock for the siller?”
“Ay-ay, mine goot friend,” said the German, “here it is--my pair of what
you call saddlebag; one side will be for you, one side for me;--I will
put dem on my horse to save you de trouble, as you are old man.”
“Have you a horse here, then?” asked Edie Ochiltree.
“O yes, mine friend--tied yonder by de stile,” responded the adept.
“Weel, I hae just ae word to the bargain--there sall nane o’ my gear gang
on your beast’s back.”
“What was it as you would be afraid of?” said the foreigner.
“Only of losing sight of horse, man, and money,” again replied the
gaberlunzie.
“Does you know dat you make one gentlemans out to be one great rogue?”
“Mony gentlemen,” replied Ochiltree, “can make that out for themselves--
But what’s the sense of quarrelling?--If ye want to gang on, gang on--if
no--I’ll gae back to the gude ait-straw in Ringan Aikwood’s barn that I
left wi’ right ill-will e’now, and I’ll pit back the pick and shule whar
I got them.”
Dousterswivel deliberated a moment, whether, by suffering Edie to
depart, he might not secure the whole of the expected wealth for his
own exclusive use. But the want of digging implements, the uncertainty
whether, if he had them, he could clear out the grave to a sufficient
depth without assistance, and, above all, the reluctance which he felt,
owing to the experience of the former night, to venture alone on
the terrors of Misticot’s grave, satisfied him the attempt would be
hazardous. Endeavouring, therefore, to assume his usual cajoling tone,
though internally incensed, he begged “his goot friend Maister Edie
Ochiltrees would lead the way, and assured him of his acquiescence in
all such an excellent friend could propose.”
“Aweel, aweel, then,” said Edie, “tak gude care o’ your feet amang the
lang grass and the loose stones. I wish we may get the light keepit
in neist, wi’ this fearsome wind--but there’s a blink o’ moonlight at
times.”
Thus saying, old Edie, closely accompanied by the adept, led the way
towards the ruins, but presently made a full halt in front of them.
“Ye’re a learned man, Mr. Dousterdeevil, and ken muckle o’ the
marvellous works o’ nature--Now, will ye tell me ae thing?--D’ye believe
in ghaists and spirits that walk the earth?--d’ye believe in them, ay or
no?”
“Now, goot Mr. Edie,” whispered Dousterswivel, in an expostulatory tone
of voice, “is this a times or a places for such a questions?”
“Indeed is it, baith the tane and the t’other, Mr. Dustanshovel; for I
maun fairly tell ye, there’s reports that auld Misticot walks. Now this
wad be an uncanny night to meet him in, and wha kens if he wad be ower
weel pleased wi’ our purpose of visiting his pose?”
“Alle guten Geister”--muttered the adept, the rest of the conjuration
being lost in a tremulous warble of his voice,--“I do desires you not to
speak so, Mr. Edie; for, from all I heard dat one other night, I do much
believes”--
“Now I,” said Ochiltree, entering the chancel, and flinging abroad his
arm with an air of defiance, “I wadna gie the crack o’ my thumb for him
were he to appear at this moment: he’s but a disembodied spirit, as we
are embodied anes.”
“For the lofe of heavens,” said Dousterswivel, “say nothing at all
neither about somebodies or nobodies!”
“Aweel,” said the beggar (expanding the shade of the lantern), “here’s
the stane, and, spirit or no spirit, I’se be a wee bit deeper in the
grave;” and he jumped into the place from which the precious chest had
that morning been removed. After striking a few strokes, he tired, or
affected to tire, and said to his companion, “I’m auld and failed now,
and canna keep at it--time about’s fair play, neighbour; ye maun get in
and tak the shule a bit, and shule out the loose earth, and then I’ll
tak turn about wi’ you.”
Dousterswivel accordingly took the place which the beggar had evacuated,
and toiled with all the zeal that awakened avarice, mingled with the
anxious wish to finish the undertaking and leave the place as soon
as possible, could inspire in a mind at once greedy, suspicious, and
timorous.
Edie, standing much at his ease by the side of the hole, contented
himself with exhorting his associate to labour hard. “My certie! few
ever wrought for siccan a day’s wage; an it be but--say the tenth part o’
the size o’ the kist, No. I., it will double its value, being filled wi’
gowd instead of silver. Od, ye work as if ye had been bred to pick and
shule--ye could win your round half-crown ilka day. Tak care o’ your
taes wi’ that stane!” giving a kick to a large one which the adept had
heaved out with difficulty, and which Edie pushed back again to the
great annoyance of his associate’s shins.
Thus exhorted by the mendicant, Dousterswivel struggled and laboured
among the stones and stiff clay, toiling like a horse, and internally
blaspheming in German. When such an unhallowed syllable escaped his
lips, Edie changed his battery upon him.
“O dinna swear! dinna swear! Wha kens whals listening!--Eh! gude guide
us, what’s yon!--Hout, it’s just a branch of ivy flightering awa frae the
wa’; when the moon was in, it lookit unco like a dead man’s arm wi’ a
taper in’t--I thought it was Misticot himsell. But never mind, work you
away--fling the earth weel up by out o’ the gate--Od, if ye’re no as clean
a worker at a grave as Win Winnet himsell! What gars ye stop now?--ye’re
just at the very bit for a chance.”
“Stop!” said the German, in a tone of anger and disappointment, “why,
I am down at de rocks dat de cursed ruins (God forgife me!) is founded
upon.”
“Weel,” said the beggar, “that’s the likeliest bit of ony. It will be
but a muckle through-stane laid doun to kiver the gowd--tak the pick
till’t, and pit mair strength, man--ae gude down-right devvel will split
it, I’se warrant ye--Ay, that will do Od, he comes on wi’ Wallace’s
straiks!”
In fact, the adept, moved by Edie’s exhortations, fetched two or three
desperate blows, and succeeded in breaking, not indeed that against
which he struck, which, as he had already conjectured, was the solid
rock, but the implement which he wielded, jarring at the same time his
arms up to the shoulder-blades.
“Hurra, boys!--there goes Ringan’s pick-axe!” cried Edie “it’s a shame o’
the Fairport folk to sell siccan frail gear. Try the shule--at it again,
Mr. Dusterdeevil.”
The adept, without reply, scrambled out of the pit, which was now about
six feet deep, and addressed his associate in a voice that trembled with
anger. “Does you know, Mr. Edies Ochiltrees, who it is you put off your
gibes and your jests upon?”
“Brawly, Mr. Dusterdeevil--brawly do I ken ye, and has done mony a day;
but there’s nae jesting in the case, for I am wearying to see ae our
treasures; we should hae had baith ends o’ the pockmanky filled by this
time--I hope it’s bowk eneugh to haud a’ the gear?”
“Look you, you base old person,” said the incensed philosopher, “if you
do put another jest upon me, I will cleave your skull-piece with this
shovels!”
“And whare wad my hands and my pike-staff be a’ the time?” replied
Edie, in a tone that indicated no apprehension. “Hout, tout, Maister
Dusterdeevil, I haena lived sae lang in the warld neither, to be shuled
out o’t that gate. What ails ye to be cankered, man, wi’ your friends?
I’ll wager I’ll find out the treasure in a minute;” and he jumped into
the pit, and took up the spade.
“I do swear to you,” said the adept, whose suspicions were now fully
awake, “that if you have played me one big trick, I will give you one
big beating, Mr. Edies.”
“Hear till him now!” said Ochiltree, “he kens how to gar folk find out
the gear--Od, I’m thinking he’s been drilled that way himsell some day.”
At this insinuation, which alluded obviously to the former scene betwixt
himself and Sir Arthur, the philosopher lost the slender remnant of
patience he had left, and being of violent passions, heaved up the
truncheon of the broken mattock to discharge it upon the old man’s head.
The blow would in all probability have been fatal, had not he at whom it
was aimed exclaimed in a stern and firm voice, “Shame to ye, man!--do ye
think Heaven or earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that might be
your father?--Look behind ye, man!”
Dousterswivel turned instinctively, and beheld, to his utter
astonishment, a tall dark figure standing close behind him. The
apparition gave him no time to proceed by exorcism or otherwise, but
having instantly recourse to the voie de fait, took measure of the
adept’s shoulders three or four times with blows so substantial, that he
fell under the weight of them, and remained senseless for some minutes
between fear and stupefaction. When he came to himself, he was alone in
the ruined chancel, lying upon the soft and damp earth which had been
thrown out of Misticot’s grave. He raised himself with a confused
sensation of anger, pain, and terror, and it was not until he had sat
upright for some minutes, that he could arrange his ideas sufficiently
to recollect how he came there, or with what purpose. As his
recollection returned, he could have little doubt that the bait held out
to him by Ochiltree, to bring him to that solitary spot, the sarcasms by
which he had provoked him into a quarrel, and the ready assistance which
he had at hand for terminating it in the manner in which it had ended,
were all parts of a concerted plan to bring disgrace and damage on
Herman Dousterswivel. He could hardly suppose that he was indebted for
the fatigue, anxiety, and beating which he had undergone, purely to the
malice of Edie Ochiltree singly, but concluded that the mendicant had
acted a part assigned to him by some person of greater importance. His
suspicions hesitated between Oldbuck and Sir Arthur Wardour. The former
had been at no pains to conceal a marked dislike of him--but the latter
he had deeply injured; and although he judged that Sir Arthur did not
know the extent of his wrongs towards him, yet it was easy to suppose
he had gathered enough of the truth to make him desirous of revenge.
Ochiltree had alluded to at least one circumstance which the adept had
every reason to suppose was private between Sir Arthur and himself,
and therefore must have been learned from the former. The language of
Oldbuck also intimated a conviction of his knavery, which Sir Arthur
heard without making any animated defence. Lastly, the way in which
Dousterswivel supposed the Baronet to have exercised his revenge, was
not inconsistent with the practice of other countries with which the
adept was better acquainted than with those of North Britain. With him,
as with many bad men, to suspect an injury, and to nourish the purpose
of revenge, was one and the same movement. And before Dousterswivel
had fairly recovered his legs, he had mentally sworn the ruin of his
benefactor, which, unfortunately, he possessed too much the power of
accelerating.