THE GHOST CRADLE
Our dinner-hour was twelve o'clock, and Hendry, for a not
incomprehensible reason, called this meal his brose. Frequently,
however, while I was there to share the expense, broth was put on the
table, with beef to follow in clean plates, much to Hendry's distress,
for the comfortable and usual practice was to eat the beef from the
broth-plates. Jess, however, having three whole white plates and two
cracked ones, insisted on the meals being taken genteelly, and her
husband, with a look at me, gave way.
"Half a pound o' boiling beef, an' a penny bone," was Leeby's almost
invariable order when she dealt with the flesher, and Jess had always
neighbours poorer than herself who got a plateful of the broth. She
never had anything without remembering some old body who would be the
better of a little of it.
Among those who must have missed Jess sadly after she was gone was
Johnny Proctor, a half-witted man who, because he could not work,
remained straight at a time of life when most weavers, male and female,
had lost some inches of their stature. For as far back as my memory
goes, Johnny had got his brose three times a week from Jess, his custom
being to walk in without ceremony, and, drawing a stool to the table,
tell Leeby that he was now ready. One day, however, when I was in the
garden putting some rings on a fishing-wand, Johnny pushed by me, with
no sign of recognition on his face. I addressed him, and, after
pausing undecidedly, he ignored me. When he came to the door, instead
of flinging it open and walking in, he knocked primly, which surprised
me so much that I followed him.
"Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives?" he asked, when Leeby, with a
face ready to receive the minister himself, came at length to the door.
I knew that the gentility of the knock had taken both her and her
mother aback.
"Hoots, Johnny," said Leeby, "what haver's this? Come awa in."
Johnny seemed annoyed.
"Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives?" he repeated.
"Say 'at it is," cried Jess, who was quicker in the uptake than her
daughter.
"Of course this is whaur Mistress McQumpha lives," Leeby then said, "as
weel ye ken, for ye had yer dinner here no twa hours syne."
"Then," said Johnny, "Mistress Tully's compliments to her, and would
she kindly lend the christenin' robe, an' also the tea-tray, if the
same be na needed?"
Having delivered his message as instructed, Johnny consented to sit
down until the famous christening robe and the tray were ready, but he
would not talk, for that was not in the bond. Jess's sweet face beamed
over the compliment Mrs. Tully, known on ordinary occasions as Jean
McTaggart, had paid her, and, after Johnny had departed laden, she told
me how the tray, which had a great bump in the middle, came into her
possession.
"Ye've often heard me speak aboot the time when I was a lassie workin'
at the farm o' the Bog? Ay, that was afore me an' Hendry kent ane
anither, an' I was as fleet on my feet in thae days as Leeby is noo.
It was Sam'l Fletcher 'at was the farmer, but he maun hae been gone
afore you was mair than born. Mebbe, though, ye ken 'at he was a
terrible invalid, an' for the hinmost years o' his life he sat in a
muckle chair nicht an' day. Ay, when I took his denner to 'im, on that
very tray 'at Johnny cam for, I little thocht 'at by an' by I would be
sae keepit in a chair mysel.
"But the thinkin' o' Sam'l Fletcher's case is ane o' the things 'at
maks me awfu' thankfu' for the lenient wy the Lord has aye dealt wi'
me; for Sam'l couldna move oot o' the chair, aye sleepin in't at nicht,
an' I can come an' gang between mine an' my bed. Mebbe, ye think I'm
no much better off than Sam'l, but that's a terrible mistak. What a
glory it would hae been to him if he could hae gone frae one end o' the
kitchen to the ither. Ay, I'm sure o' that.
"Sam'l was rale weel liked, for he was saft-spoken to everybody, an'
fond o' ha'en a gossip wi' ony ane 'at was aboot the farm. We didna
care sae muckle for the wife, Eppie Lownie, for she managed the farm,
an' she was fell hard an' terrible reserved we thocht, no even likin'
ony body to get friendly wi' the mester, as we called Sam'l. Ay, we
made a richt mistak."
As I had heard frequently of this queer, mournful mistake made by those
who considered Sam'l unfortunate in his wife, I turned Jess on to the
main line of her story.
"It was the ghost cradle, as they named it, 'at I meant to tell ye
aboot. The Bog was a bigger farm in thae days than noo, but I daursay
it has the new steadin' yet. Ay, it winna be new noo, but at the time
there were sic a commotion aboot the ghost cradle, they were juist
puttin' the new steadin' up. There was sax or mair masons at it, wi'
the lads on the farm helpin', an' as they were all sleepin' at the
farm, there was great stir aboot the place. I couldna tell ye hoo the
story aboot the farm's bein' haunted rose, to begin wi', but I mind
fine hoo fleid I was; ay, an' no only me, but every man-body an'
woman-body on the farm. It was aye late 'at the soond began, an' we
never saw naething, we juist heard it. The masons said they wouldna
hae been sae fleid if they could hae seen't, but it never was seen. It
had the soond o' a cradle rockin', an' when we lay in our beds
hearkenin', it grew louder an' louder till it wasna to be borne, an'
the women-folk fair skirled wi' fear. The mester was intimate wi' a'
the stories aboot ghosts an' water-kelpies an' sic like, an' we couldna
help listenin' to them. But he aye said 'at ghosts 'at was juist heard
an' no seen was the maist fearsome an' wicked. For all there was sic
fear ower the hale farm-toon 'at naebody would gang ower the door alane
after the gloamin' cam, the mester said he wasna fleid to sleep i' the
kitchen by 'imsel. We thocht it richt brave o' 'im, for ye see he was
as helpless as a bairn.
"Richt queer stories rose aboot the cradle, an' travelled to the ither
farms. The wife didna like them ava, for it was said 'at there maun
hae been some awful murder o' an infant on the farm, or we wouldna be
haunted by a cradle. Syne folk began to mind 'at there had been na
bairns born on the farm as far back as onybody kent, an' it was said
'at some lang syne crime had made the Bog cursed.
"Dinna think 'at we juist lay in our beds or sat round the fire
shakkin' wi' fear. Everything 'at could be dune was dune. In the
daytime, when naething was heard, the masons explored ae place i' the
farm, in the hope o' findin' oot 'at the sound was caused by sic a
thing as the wind playin' on the wood in the garret. Even at nichts,
when they couldna sleep wi' the soond, I've kent them rise in a body
an' gang all ower the house wi' lichts. I've seen them climbin' on the
new steadin', crawlin' alang the rafters, haudin' their cruizey lamps
afore them, an' us women-bodies shiverin' wi' fear at the door. It was
on ane o' thae nights 'at a mason fell off the rafters an' broke his
leg. Weel, sic a state was the men in to find oot what it was 'at was
terrifyin' them sae muckle, 'at the rest o' them climbed up at aince to
the place he'd fallen frae, thinkin' there was something there 'at had
fleid im. But though they crawled back an' forrit there was naething
ava.
"The rockin' was louder, we thocht, after that nicht, an' syne the men
said it would go on till somebody was killed. That idea took a richt
haud o' them, an' twa ran awa back to Tilliedrum, whaur they had come
frae. They gaed thegither i' the middle o' the nicht, an' it was
thocht next mornin' 'at the ghost had spirited them awa.
"Ye couldna conceive hoo low-spirited we all were after the masons had
gien up hope o' findin' a nat'ral cause for the soond. At ord'nar
times there's no ony mair lichtsome place than a farm after the men hae
come in to their supper, but at the Bog we sat dour an' sullen; an'
there wasna a mason or a farm-servant 'at would gang by 'imsel as far
as the end o' the hoose whaur the peats was keepit. The mistress maun
hae saved some siller that spring through the Egyptians (gypsies)
keepin' awa, for the farm had got sic an ill name, 'at nae tinkler
would come near 't at nicht. The tailorman an' his laddie 'at should
hae bidden wi' us to sew things for the men, walkit off fair skeered
one mornin', an' settled doon at the farm o' Craigiebuckle fower mile
awa, whaur our lads had to gae to them. Ay, I mind the tailor's
sendin' the laddie for the money owin' him; he hadna the speerit to
venture again within soond o' the cradle 'imsel. The men on the farm
though, couldna blame 'im for that. They were juist as flichtered
themsels, an' mony a time I saw them hittin' the dogs for whinin' at
the soond. The wy the dogs took on was fearsome in itsel, for they
seemed to ken, aye when nicht cam on, 'at the rockin' would sune begin,
an' if they werena chained they cam runnin' to the hoose. I hae heard
the hale glen fu, as ye micht say, wi' the whinin' o' dogs, for the
dogs on the other farms took up the cry, an' in a glen ye can hear
soonds terrible far awa at nicht.
"As lang as we sat i' the kitchen, listenin' to what the mester had to
say aboot the ghosts in his young days, the cradle would be still, but
we were nae suner awa speeritless to our beds than it began, an'
sometimes it lasted till mornin'. We lookit upon the mester almost wi'
awe, sittin' there sae helpless in his chair, an' no fleid to be left
alane. He had lang white hair, an' a saft bonny face 'at would hae
made 'im respeckit by onybody, an' aye when we speired if he wasna
fleid to be left alane, he said, 'Them 'at has a clear conscience has
naething to fear frae ghosts.'
"There was some 'at said the curse would never leave the farm till the
house was razed to the ground, an' it's the truth I'm tellin' ye when I
say there was talk among the men aboot settin 't on fire. The mester
was richt stern when he heard o' that, quotin' frae Scripture in a
solemn wy 'at abashed the masons, but he said 'at in his opeenion there
was a bairn buried on the farm, an' till it was found the cradle would
go on rockin'. After that the masons dug in a lot o' places lookin'
for the body, an' they found some queer things, too, but never nae sign
o' a murdered litlin'. Ay, I dinna ken what would hae happened if the
commotion had gaen on muckle langer. One thing I'm sure o' is 'at the
mistress would hae gaen daft, she took it a' sae terrible to heart.
"I lauch at it noo, but I tell ye I used to tak my heart to my bed in
my mooth. If ye hinna heard the story I dinna think ye 'll be able to
guess what the ghost cradle was."
I said I had been trying to think what the tray had to do with it.
"It had everything to do wi't," said Jess; "an' if the masons had kent
hoo that cradle was rockit, I think they would hae killed the mester.
It was Eppie 'at found oot, an' she telt naebody but me, though mony a
ane kens noo. I see ye canna mak it oot yet, so I'll tell ye what the
cradle was. The tray was keepit against the kitchen wall near the
mester, an' he played on't wi' his foot. He made it gang, bump bump,
an' the soond was just like a cradle rockin'. Ye could hardly believe
sic a thing would hae made that din, but it did, an' ye see we lay in
our beds hearkenin' for't. Ay, when Eppie telt me, I could scarce
believe 'at that guid devout-lookin' man could hae been sae wicked. Ye
see, when he found hoo terrified we a' were, he keepit it up. The wy
Eppie found out i' the tail o' the day was by wonderin' at 'im sleepin'
sae muckle in the daytime. He did that so as to be fresh for his sport
at nicht. What a fine releegious man we thocht 'im, too!
"Eppie couldna bear the very sicht o' the tray after that, an' she telt
me to break it up; but I keepit it, ye see. The lump i' the middle's
the mark, as ye may say, o' the auld man's foot."