For all Maron Linton's grievous distresses, the arrival of Clerk, the
curate, proved an antidote of no small avail. It was a great comfort to
her, in the midst of her afflictions; and after she had been assured by
him of Walter's perfect safety, she became apparently more happy, and
certainly more loquacious, than she had been for a great while byegone.
She disclosed to him the dreadful secret, that her child was possessed
of an evil spirit, and implored his influence with Heaven, and his power
with hell, for its removal. This he readily undertook, on condition of
being locked up with the maiden for a night, or two at most. She was to
be left solely to his management; without the interference of any other
human being; and with the help only of the Bible, the lamp, and the
hour-glass, he declared that he would drive the unclean spirit from his
tabernacle of clay.
To these conditions Maron Linton gladly assented; and, with grateful and
fond acknowledgments, called him their benefactor and spiritual guide,
their deliverer and shield; but he checked her, and said, there was
still one condition more on which she behoved to condescend. It was
likely that he might be under the hard necessity of using some violent
measures in exorcising her, for it would be hard to drive the malignant
spirit from so sweet a habitation; but whatever noises might be heard,
no one was to interfere, or even listen, upon pain of being delivered up
to the foul spirit, soul and body; and it was ten to one that any who
was so imprudent as to intrude on these awful and mysterious rites,
might be torn in pieces.
Maron blest herself from all interference, and gave Nanny directions to
the same purport; as for the two boys, they slept out of hearing. She
likewise gave him the key, that he might lock both the doors of the Old
Room in the inside, and thus prevent all intrusions, should any be
offered. He said prayers in the family, to which Katharine was admitted;
and then taking the lamp and the hour-glass in his hand, and the Bible
below his arm, he departed into the Old Room, where, in about half an
hour afterwards, the maiden was summoned to attend him. He took her
respectfully by the hand, and seated her on a chair at the side of the
bed, saying, that he was commissioned by her worthy mother to hold a
little private conversation with her. Then locking the door, and putting
the key in his pocket, he added, "You are my prisoner for this night,
but be not alarmed; I have undertaken to drive an evil spirit away from
you, but both my exorcisms and orisons shall be adapted to the feelings
of a young maiden, and as agreeable to one whom I so much admire, as it
is in my power to make them."
Katharine grew as pale as death as he uttered these words, and placed
himself cordially by her side.
It is unmeet to relate the conversation that ensued; but the worthy
curate soon showed off in his true colours, and with unblushing front
ventured a proposal that shocked the innocent and modest Katharine so
much, that she could only reply to it by holding up her hands, and
uttering a loud exclamation of astonishment. His further precedure soon
convinced her, that she was in the hands of a man who was determined to
take every advantage of the opportunity thus unwarrantably afforded him,
and to stick at no atrocity for the accomplishment of his purposes.
She neither descended to tears nor entreaties, but resisted all his
approaches with a firmness and dignity that he never conceived to have
formed any part of her character; and, when continuing to press her
hand, she said to him, "You had better keep your distance, Mass John
Clerk, and consider what befits your character, and the confidence
reposed in you by my unsuspecting parent; but I tell you, if you again
presume to touch me, though it were but with one of your fingers, I
will, in a moment, bring those out of the chink of the wall, or from
under that hearth, that shall lay you motionless at my feet in the
twinkling of an eye, or bear you off to any part of the creation that I
shall name."
He smiled as she said this, and was about to turn it into a jest; but on
looking at her face, he perceived that there was not one trait of
jocularity in it. It beamed with a mystical serenity which sent a
chillness through his whole frame; and, for the first time, he deemed
her deranged, or possessed in some manner, he wist not how. Staunch,
however, to his honourable purpose, he became so unequivocal, that she
was obliged to devise some means of attaining a temporary cessation; and
feigning to hesitate on his proposal, she requested a minute or two to
speak.
"I am but young, Mass John," said she, "and have no experience in the
ways of the world; and it seems, from what you have advanced, that I
attach more importance to some matters than they deserve. But I beg of
you to give me a little time to reflect on the proposal you have made.
See that hour-glass is half run out already: I only ask of you not to
disturb or importune me until it run out a second time."
"And do you then promise to do as I request?" said he.
"I do," returned she, "provided you still continue of the same mind as
you are now."
"My mind is made up," said he, "and my resolution taken in all that
relates to you; nevertheless, it would be hard to refuse a maid so
gentle and modest a request--I grant it--and should you attempt to break
off your engagement at the expiry of the time, it shall be the worse for
you."
"Be it so," replied she; "in the meantime let me be undisturbed till
then." And so saying, she arose and went aside to the little table where
the Bible and the lamp were placed, and began with great seriousness to
search out, and peruse parts of the sacred volume.
Clerk liked not this contemplative mood, and tried every wile in his
power to draw her attention from the Scriptures. He sought out parts
which he desired her to read, if she would read; but from these she
turned away without deigning to regard them, and gently reminded him
that he had broken one of his conditions. "Maids only impose such
conditions on men," said he, "as they desire should be broken." At this
she regarded him with a look of ineffable contempt, and continued to
read on in her Bible.
The hour of midnight was now passed,--the sand had nearly run out for
the second time since the delay had been acceded to, and Clerk had been
for a while tapping the glass on the side, and shaking it, to make it
empty its contents the sooner. Katharine likewise began to eye it with
looks that manifested some degree of perturbation; she clasped the
Bible, and sate still in one position, as if listening attentively for
some sound or signal. The worthy curate at length held the hour-glass up
between her eye and the burning lamp,--the last lingering pile of sand
fell reluctantly out as he shook it in that position,--anxiety and
suspense settled more deeply on the lovely and serene face of Katharine;
but instead of a flexible timidity, it assumed an air of sternness. At
that instant the cock crew,--she started,--heaved a deep sigh, like one
that feels a sudden relief from pain, and a beam of joy shed its
radiance over her countenance. Clerk was astonished,--he could not
divine the source or cause of her emotions, but judging from his own
corrupt heart, he judged amiss. True however to his point, he reminded
her of her promise, and claimed its fulfilment. She deigned no reply to
his threats or promises, but kept her eye steadfastly fixed on another
part of the room. He bade her remember that he was not to be mocked, and
in spite of her exertions, he lifted her up in his arms, and carried her
across the room towards the bed. She uttered a loud scream, and in a
moment the outer-door that entered from the bank was opened, and a being
of such unearthly dimensions entered, as you may never wholly define. It
was the Brownie of Bodsbeck, sometimes mentioned before, small of
stature, and its whole form utterly mis-shaped. Its beard was long and
grey, while its look, and every lineament of its face, were indicative
of agony--its locks were thin, dishevelled, and white, and its back
hunched up behind its head. There seemed to be more of the same species
of hagard beings lingering behind at the door, but this alone advanced
with a slow majestic pace. Mass John uttered two involuntary cries,
somewhat resembling the shrill bellowings of an angry bull, mixed with
inarticulate rumblings,--sunk powerless on the floor, and, with a deep
shivering groan, fainted away. Katharine, stretching forth her hands,
flew to meet her unearthly guardian;--"Welcome, my watchful and
redoubted Brownie," said she; "thou art well worthy to be familiar with
an empress, rather than an insignificant country maiden."
"Brownie's here, Brownie's there
Brownie's with thee every where,"
said the dwarfish spirit, and led her off in triumph.
Having bethought herself after she went out, she returned lightly, took
the keys from the pocket of the forlorn priest, extinguished the lamp,
and again disappeared, locking the door on the outside.
Mass John's trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which
overpowered him for a long space; and even after he awaked, it was long
before he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he
had only been in a frightful and oppressive dream; till, beginning to
grope about, he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his
clothes on; and at length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by
degrees his reasoning faculties, and was able to retrace the
circumstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great
dismay--the day-light had begun to shine into the room, and finding that
both doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable to make any noise, and
threw himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his adventure was fraught
with shame and astonishment. He had acted a considerable part in it, but
he had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all his ingenuity he could
not separate in his mind the real incidents from those that were
imaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner-door,
which, to his still farther astonishment, was opened by Katharine, in
her usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark
if he could read any meaning in it--he could distinguish none that spoke
a language to him either good or bad--it was a face of calm decent
serenity, and wore no shade of either shame or anger--somewhat paler
than it was the evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate
seemed gasping for breath, but not having courage to address her, he
walked forth to the open air.
It was a beautiful morning in September; the ground was covered with a
slight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or as the country people
call it, _the blue ouder_,) slept upon the long valley of water, and
reached nearly midway up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it,
making it appear like an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by
imperceptible degrees into the clear blue firmament, and was succeeded
by a warm sun and a southerly breeze. It was such a morning as could
not fail to cheer and re-animate every heart and frame, not wholly
overcome by guilt and disease--Clark's were neither--he was depraved of
heart, but insensible to the evil of such a disposition; he had,
moreover, been a hanger-on from his youth upward, and had an effrontery
not to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a
three-hour's walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in
mind, that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was
his principal stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied
flock, by a confession of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to
weather out the storm with as lofty and saintly a deportment as he
could.
He had not well gone out when the lad of Kepplegill arrived, and
delivered to Katharine her father's letter. She saw the propriety of the
injunction which it bore, and that an immediate application to their
laird, Drumelzier, who was then high in trust and favour with the party
in power, was the likeliest of all ways to procure her father's relief,
neither durst she trust the mission to any but herself. But ah! there
was a concealed weight that pressed upon her spirit--a secret
circumstance that compelled her to stay at home, and which could not be
revealed to mortal ear. Her father's fate was at present uncertain and
ticklish, but that secret once revealed, tortures, death, and ruin were
inevitable--the doom of the whole family was sealed. She knew not what
to do, for she had none to advise with. There was but one on earth to
whom this secret could be imparted; indeed there was but one in whose
power it was to execute the trust which the circumstances of the case
required, and that was old Nanny, who was crazed, fearless, and
altogether inscrutable. Another trial, however, of her religious
principles, and adherence to the established rules of church government
in the country, was absolutely necessary; and to that trial our young
and mysterious heroine went with all possible haste, as well as
precaution.
Whosoever readeth this must paint to themselves old Nanny, and they must
paint her aright, with her thin fantastic form and antiquated dress,
bustling up and down the house. Her fine stock of bannocks had been all
exhausted--the troopers and their horses had left nothing in her
master's house that could either be eaten or conveniently carried away.
She had been early astir, as well as her sedate and thoughtful young
dame, had been busy all the morning, and the whole time her tongue never
at rest. She had been singing one while, speaking to herself another,
and every now and then intermixing bitter reflections on Clavers and his
troops.
"Wae be to them for a pack o' greedy gallayniels--they haena the mence
of a miller's yaud; for though she'll stap her nose into every body's
pock, yet when she's fou she'll carry naething wi' her. Heichow! wae's
me, that I sude hae lived to see the day! That ever I sude hae lived to
see the colehood take the laverock's place; and the stanchel and the
merlin chatterin' frae the cushat's nest! Ah! wae's me! will the sweet
voice o' the turtle-doo be nae mair heard in our land! There was a time
when I sat on the bonny green brae an' listened to it till the tears
dreepit frae my een, an' a' the hairs o' my head stood on end!--The
hairs o' my head?--Ay, that's nae lie! They're grey now, an' will soon
be snaw-white if heart's care can alter them; but they will never be sae
white as they anes war. I saw the siller-grey lock o' age, an' the manly
curls o' youth wavin' at my side that day!--But where are they now? A'
mouled! a' mouled!--But the druckit blood winna let them rot! I'll see
them rise fresh an' bonny! I'll look round to my right hand and ane will
sae, 'Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?' I'll turn to my
left hand, another will say, 'Nanny! my dear and faithful wife, are you
too here with us?'--I'll say, 'Ay, John, I'm here; I was yours in life;
I have been yours in death; an' I'll be yours in life again.'--Dear
bairn, dear bairn, are you there," continued she, observing Katharine
standing close behind her; "what was I saying, or where was I at? I
little wat outher what I was saying or doing.--Hout ay; I was gaun ower
some auld things, but they're a' like a dream, an' when I get amang them
I'm hardly mysel. Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body's
reveries."
There was some need for this apology, if Nanny's frame, air, and
attitude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the
light, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread--her mutch, or
_night-hussing_, as she called it, was tied close down over her cheeks
and brow as usual; her grey locks hanging dishevelled from under it; and
as she uttered the last sentence, immediately before noticing her young
mistress, her thin mealy hands were stretched upwards, her head and
body bent back, and her voice like one in a paroxysm. Katharine quaked,
although well accustomed to scenes of no ordinary nature.
"Nanny," said she, "there is something that preys upon your mind--some
great calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your
tranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good
Nanny, that I may talk and sympathize with you over it?"
"Dear bairn, nae loss ava--A' profit! a' profit i'the main! I haena
biggit a bield o' the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken
reed! Na, na, dear bairn; nae loss ava."
"But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your
prayers and self-examinations."
At the mention of this Nanny turned about, and after a wild searching
stare in her young mistress's face, while every nerve of her frame
seemed to shrink from the recollection of the disclosures she feared
she had made, she answered as follows, in a deep and tremulous tone:--
"That was atween God and me--There was neither language nor sound there
for the ear o' flesh!--It was unfair!--It was unfair!--Ye are mistress
here, and ye keep the keys o' the aumbry, the kitchen, the ha', an' the
hale house; but wi' the secret keys o' the heart and conscience ye hae
naething to do!--the keys o' the sma'est portal that leads to heaven or
hell are nane o' yours; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I
chose, sinful and miserable as I am, to converse with my God about the
dead as if they war living, an' of the living as if they war dead,
what's that to you? Or if I likit to take counsel of that which
exists only in my own mind, is the rackle hand o' steelrife power
to make a handle o' that to grind the very hearts of the just and the
good, or turn the poor wasted frame o' eild and resignation on the
wheel?--Lack-a-day, my dear bairn, I'm lost again! Ye canna an' ye
maunna forgie me now. Walth's dear, an' life's dearer--but sin' it maun
be sae, twal o'clock sanna find me aneath your roof--there shall naebody
suffer for harbouring poor auld Nanny--she has seen better days, an' she
hopes to see better anes again; but it's lang sin' the warld's weel an'
the warld's wae came baith to her alike. I maun e'en bid ye fareweel, my
bonny bairn, but I maun tell ye ere I gae that ye're i'the _braid way_.
Ye hae some good things about ye, and O, it is a pity that a dear sweet
soul should be lost for want o' light to direct! How can a dear bairn
find the right way wi' its een tied up? But I maun haud my tongue an'
leave ye--I wad fain greet, but I hae lost the gate o't, for the
fountain-head has been lang run dry--Weel, weel--it's a' ower!--nae mair
about it--How's this the auld sang gaes?
When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,
The heavens o' earth maun borrow,
An' the streams that stray thro' the wastes the day,
May sail aboon the morrow.
Then dinna mourn, my bonny bird,
I downa bide to hear ye;
The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa',
But nouther sal come near ye.
O dinna weep for the day that's gane,
Nor on the present ponder,
For thou shalt sing on the laverock's wing,
An' far away beyond her."
This Nanny sung to an air so soothing, and at the same time so
melancholy, it was impossible to listen to her unaffected, especially as
she herself was peculiarly so--a beam of wild delight glanced in her
eye, but it was like the joy of grief, (if one may be allowed the
expression,) if not actually the joy of madness. Nothing could be more
interesting than her character was now to the bewildered Katharine--it
arose to her eyes, and grew on her mind like a vision. She had been led
previously to regard her as having been crazed from her birth, and her
songs and chaunts to be mere ravings of fancy, strung in rhymes to suit
favourite airs, or old scraps of ballads void of meaning, that she had
learned in her youth. But there was a wild elegance at times in her
manner of thinking and expression--a dash of sublimity that was
inconsistent with such an idea. "Is it possible," (thus reasoned the
maiden with herself,) "that this demeanour can be the effect of great
worldly trouble and loss?--Perhaps she is bereft of all those who were
near and dear to her in life--is left alone as it were in this world,
and has lost a relish for all its concerns, while her whole hope, heart,
and mind, is fixed on a home above, to which all her thoughts, dreams,
and even her ravings insensibly turn, and to which the very songs and
chaunts of her youthful days are modelled anew. If such is really her
case, how I could sympathize with her in all her feelings!"
"Nanny," said she, "how wofully you misapprehend me; I came to exchange
burdens of heart and conscience with you--to confide in you, and love
you: Why will not you do the same with me, and tell me what loss it is
that you seem to bewail night and day, and what affecting theme it is
that thus puts you beside yourself?--If I judge not far amiss, the
knowledge of this is of greater import to my peace than aught in the
world beside, and will lead to a secret from me that deeply concerns us
both."
Nanny's suspicions were aroused, not laid, by this speech; she eyed her
young mistress steadfastly for a while, smiled, and shook her head.
"Sae young, sae bonny, and yet sae cunning!" said she. "Judas coudna
hae sic a face, but he had nouther a fairer tongue nor a fauser
heart!--A secret frae you, dear bairn! what secret can come frae you,
but some bit waefu' love story, enough to mak the pinks an' the ewe
gowans blush to the very lip? My heart's wae for ye, ae way an' a' ways;
but its a part of your curse--woman sinned an' woman maun suffer--her
hale life is but a succession o' shame, degradation, and suffering, frae
her cradle till her grave."
Katharine was dumb for a space, for reasoning with Nanny was out of the
question.
"You may one day rue this misprision of my motives, Nanny," rejoined
she; "in the mean time, I am obliged to leave home, on an express that
concerns my father's life and fortune; be careful of my mother until my
return, and of every thing about the house, for the charge of all must
devolve for a space on you."
"That I will, dear bairn--the thing that Nanny has ta'en in hand sanna
be neglected, if her twa hands can do it, and her auld crazed head
comprehend it."
"But, first, tell me, and tell me seriously, Nanny, are you subject to
any apprehension or terror on account of spirits?"
"Nae mair feared for them than I am for you, an' no half sae muckle, wi'
your leave.--Spirits, quoth I!
Little misters it to me
Whar they gang, or whar they ride;
Round the hillock, on the lea,
Round the auld borral tree,
Or bourock by the burn side;
Deep within the bogle-howe,
Wi' his haffats in a lowe,
Wons the waefu' wirricowe.
"Ah! noble Cleland! it is like his wayward freaks an' whimsies! Did ye
never hear it, you that speaks about spirits as they war your door
neighbours? It's a clever thing; his sister sung it; I think, it rins
this gate--hum! but then the dilogue comes in, and it is sae kamshachle
I canna word it, though I canna say it's misleared either."
"Dear Nanny, that is far from my question. You say you are nothing
afraid of spirits?"
"An' why should I? If they be good spirits, they will do me nae ill;
and if they be evil spirits, they hae nae power here. Thinkna ye that He
that takes care o' me throughout the day, is as able to do it by night?
Na, na, dear bairn, I hae contendit wi' the warst o' a' spirits face to
face, hand to hand, and breast to breast; ay, an' for a' his power, an'
a' his might, I dang him; and packed him off baffled and shamed!--Little
reason hae I to be feared for ony o' his black emissaries."
"Should one appear to you bodily, would you be nothing distracted or
frightened?"
"In my own strength I could not stand it, but yet I would stand it."
"That gives me joy--Then, Nanny, list to me: You will assuredly see one
in my absence; and you must take good heed to my directions, and act
precisely as I bid you."
Nanny gave up her work, and listened in suspense. "Then it is a' true
that the fock says!" said she, with a long-drawn sigh. "His presence be
about us!"
"How sensibly you spoke just now! Where is your faith fled already? I
tell you there will one appear to you every night in my absence,
precisely on the first crowing of the cock, about an hour after
midnight, and you must give him every thing that he asks, else it may
fare the worse with you, and all about the house."
Nanny's limbs were unable to support her weight--they trembled under
her. She sat down on a form, leaned her brow upon both hands, and
recited the 63d Psalm from beginning to end in a fervent tone.
"I wasna prepared for this," said she. "I fear, though my faith may
stand it, my wits will not. Dear, dear bairn, is there nae way to get
aff frae sic a trial?"
"There is only one, which is fraught with danger of another sort; but
were I sure that I could trust you with it, all might be well, and you
would rest free from any intercourse with that unearthly visitant, of
whom it seems you are so much in terror."
"For my own sake ye may trust me there: Ony thing but a bogle face to
face at midnight, an' me a' my lane. It is right wonderfu', though I ken
I'll soon be in a warld o' spirits, an' that I maun mingle an' mool wi'
them for ages, how the nature within me revolts at a' communion wi' them
here. Dear bairn, gie me your other plan, an' trust me for my own sake."
"It is this--but if you adopt it, for your life an' soul let no one in
this place know of it but yourself:--It is to admit one or two of the
fugitive whigs,--these people that skulk and pray about the mountains,
privily into the house every night, until my return. If you will give me
any test of your secrecy and truth, I will find ways and means of
bringing them to you, which will effectually bar all intrusion of bogle
or Brownie on your quiet; or should any such dare to appear, they will
deal with it themselves."
"An' _can_ the presence o' ane o' _them_ do this?" said Nanny, starting
up and speaking in a loud eldrich voice. "Then Heaven and hell
acknowledges it, an' the earth maun soon do the same! I knew it!--I knew
it!--I knew it!--ha, ha, ha, I knew it!--Ah! John, thou art safe!--Ay!
an' mae than thee; an' there will be mae yet! It is but a day! an' dark
an' dismal though it be, the change will be the sweeter! Blessed,
blessed be the day! None can say of thee that thou died like a fool, for
thy hands were not bound, nor thy feet put into fetters." Then turning
close round to Katharine, with an expression of countenance quite
indescribable, she added in a quick maddened manner,--"Eh? Thou seekest
a test of me, dost thou? Can blood do it?--Can martyrdom do it?--Can
bonds, wounds, tortures, and mockery do it?--Can death itself do it? All
these have I suffered for that cause _in this same body_; mark that; for
there is but one half of my bone and my flesh here. But words are
nothing to the misbelieving--mere air mouthed into a sound. Look at this
for a test of _my_ sincerity and truth." So saying, she gave her hand a
wild brandish in the air, darted it at her throat, and snapping the tie
of her cap that she had always worn over her face, she snatched it off,
and turning her cheek round to her young mistress, added, "Look there
for your test, and if that is not enough, I will give you more!"
Katharine was struck dumb with astonishment and horror. She saw that
her ears were cut out close to the skull, and a C. R. indented on
her cheek with a hot iron, as deep as the jaw-bone. She burst out a
crying--clasped the old enthusiast in her arms--kissed the wound and
steeped it with her tears, and without one further remark, led her away
to the Old Room, that they might converse without interruption.
The sequel of this disclosure turned not out as desired; but this we
must leave by the way, until we overtake it in the regular course of the
narrative.