_A Reminiscence of Langdale._
Accompanied by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once
riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The
fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells
to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow,
which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection
that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for.
But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the
perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could
rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field
argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity
of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized
by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light
verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous
variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale
may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of
the Lake country.
On the occasion I tell of, the solemn desolation of the scenery,
and the oppressive silence, broken only by the quick tramp of our
ponies’ feet on the crisp snow, combined to discourage all thought
of conversation or remark; and we traversed the whole length of the
vale without the interchange of sentence or word. When, however, we
had reached the point where the road to Tilberthwaite and Langdale
Head diverges from that to Skelwith, and I was about to follow the
latter, my companion laid his hand upon my rein, and said, in a rather
peremptory tone, “We s’ teeak t’ tudder rooad, if yee pleease;” and on
my objecting to quit the smoother and shorter road for the longer and
rougher, he persisted—“It may bee as yee say, beeath t’ better an’ t’
bainer, bit nowte wad hire me to teeak t’ rooad ooer Oxenfell at this
hour o’ t’ neet, an’ that’s o’ about it.” “But why?” I remonstrated,
disinclined to yield in a matter of such importance to reasoning like
this. “I s’ tell yee why,” he replied, “when we’s seeaf at my awn
fireside, if ye sud ha’e time ut lissen.” “Is it a story?” I asked with
some interest. “It’s nowte mitch of a stooary,” said he, “bit what
ther’s on’t ’s true, an’ that’s meear ner can be said for many a better
stooary. Bit cūm on, an’ ye s’ happen hear.” I resisted no longer,
and we pursued our journey through Tilberthwaite, where the piebald
dreariness of the scenery was even more marked and more depressing
than in Yewdale. We reached our destination without disaster, but not
without danger. The broad, deep ford in the stream, which there divides
the two counties, and which we had to cross, was edged on either bank
by a high, abrupt shelf of strong ice, very dangerous to slidder off
and very difficult to scramble up on. Indeed, my fellow traveller,
with his rough, clumsy little steed, more accustomed to the _stangs_
of muck-cart or peat sledge than to saddle work, had a roll on the
farther side—luckily rolling towards the land, and not into the water.
But my sagacious old “Targus,” who, as I was wont in those days to
boast, could carry me over any ground on which a mountain goat or a
Herdwick sheep could find a foot-hold, after testing the strength of
each slippery ledge by a heavy paw or two, traversed the dangerous
passage with the same steadiness with which I had known him pace over
others where a slip or a stumble would have had much more serious
results.
Seated comfortably at the grateless peat fire of my travelling
companion, now my host, and assured of the probability of leisure to
hear his story out, I reminded him of the condition under which he had
induced me to take the longer and less practicable way to his fell-girt
house; and after some coy deprecation, which sat awkwardly enough upon
his homely features and dale nurtured manner, he began.
“Jūst about ten year syne, of jūst sec anudder neet as t’is, only
t’ snā’ wasn’t frozzen, I was out efter t’ yārs.” “Poaching?” I
interpolated. “Co’t as yè like,” said he, in a tone of indifference.
“I was out efter t’ yārs. I’d gitten a yār or two ooer about Holme
grūnd way, an’ I was meeakin’ heeam alang t’ rooad atween Hodge Clooas
an’ Oxenfell, when I thowte I was gā’n ut meet sūm fellows I cud heear
toakin’, bit cudn’t see. Ye knā’, t’ rooad’s o’ heets an’ hooals theear
about, an’, for that reeason, I dudn’t think mitch o’ nit seein’ ’em;
bit whoaiver they med be, I dudn’t want them ut see _me_. Sooa I gat
ooer t’ steean fence wi’ t’ gun an’ t’ yārs, an’ croodel’t doon aback
on’t ut let ’em git whyetly by. Well, they com on, an’, as I cūd hear,
they wor fratchin cruelly o’ t’ way as t’ey com. Ther’ was two on ’em,
plain aneeuf, for sùm’times yan spak’, an’ sùm’times anudder, an’,
gaily oft, they beeath spak’ at yance. As they co’ narder till whār I
was hidin, t’ fratch gat feurcer an’ louder ner iver, an’ they shoutit,
t’ yan ooer t’ tudder, whedder ut shout t’ harder; bit for o’ that, I
cudn’t meeak out a wūrd ’at they said. When they gat ebben fornenst me,
yan o’ them let out a meeast terrable skrike, an’ I lowpt back ooer t’
wo’ ut seeav life. _Ther’ was neàbody theear!_ They wor rooarin’ an’
screeamin’ wi’in six yirds o’ mè, as I streetent mysel’ up ut lowp
t’ wo’, an’ when I gat to me feet o’ t’ tudder side ther’ was nowte!
An’ meear ner that, ther’ wasn’t a feeut-mark i’ t’ snā’ bit my awn,
an’ they co’ t’ tudder way. How I gat heeam wi’ my gun an’ my yārs
I knà’n’t, an’ I niver mun knā’—bit when I wācken’t i’ t’ mooernin’
theear was t’ gun an’ yārs atop o’ t’ teeable, an’ theear was I i’ my
bed.
“An’ now I’ve telt yé t’ reeason ’at I wodn’t cū’ heeam by Oxenfell
Cross. I niver hev been, ’cept i’ dayleet, on t’ rooad whār them
fellows woaks, an’ I niver will, sa lang as I can git anudder ’at’s
less nor a scooer o’ miles about.”
“Then is that road said to be haunted?” I enquired. “_Said_ to be
hā’ntit!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonder and contempt. “Whār ha’e
yee been o’ yer life, if yé hevn’t hard o’ Oxenfell Dobby?” “Has it
been seen by any one besides you?” “Ey,” replied he, “by hunderts o’
fooak! Why, bliss yé! āld Ben Grave gat seckan a torn as he was cūmin’
heeam yance leeat frae Hāks’ed fair, ’at he dūd na meear gūd. He niver
wod tell what it was, bit ivery body was suer ’at it was flayin’ o’ sūm
mak’, an’ a varry sairious mak’ tue, for, as I said, āld Ben niver dūd
no meear gūd efter that neet—bit dwinet away an’ deet.”
“Is it known,” I asked, “how the place came to be haunted?” “Why! It
_is_—partly. It’s knā’n an’ it isn’t knā’n as a body may say—bit I
can tell yé o’ ’at’s knā’n about it, if yé like ut hear.” “Tell away
then,” said I, “I like to hear.” “Well!” he again began, “Ya Kersmas,
afooer I can mind, ther’ was a hake about Clappersgeeat, an’ ther’ was
a stranger at it ’at varry few knà’t owte about—bit it seeun gat out
’at he was a new Scotch gardener ’at hed just cūm’t tull Rydal Ho’. As
t’ neet went ooer fooak nooatisht ’at he was girtly teean up wi’ lile
Betty Briggs—a lively, rooesy-cheek’t bit of a winch ’at com’ frae
Tilberthet. Betty hed an’ āld sweetheart theear ’at they co’t Jack
Slipe; bit she was sa pleeas’t wi’ t’ new an’ ’at she wodn’t hev owte
ut say tull Jack. It was plain aneeuf tull o’ theear ’at he dudn’t hoaf
like’t; an when t’ Scotchman kiss’t Betty i’ t’ cushion dance, t’ fooak
aside o’ Jack cūd hear his teeth crack as he grūnd ’em togidder.
“When t’ dance brak’ ūp t’ gardener wod see Betty heeam, an’ as Betty
bed nowte ut say ageean it, they set off togidder up t’ rooad alang t’
Brathay—an’ Jack Slipe follow’t by his-sel’ a gay bit behint ’em.
“T’ Scotch gardener niver co’ back tull Rydal Ho’. He was niver
seen ageean wi’ neàbody. He partit wi’ Betty at her fadder duer i’
Tilberthet—she said—an’ that was t’ last on him!” “And was nothing ever
heard of him?” I enquired. “Why! nowte ’at was owte. Theear was a hoaf
silly lass about Chapel-Steel ’at said she’d hed t’ Scotchman’ heead iv
her brat ya meeunleet neet—bit when she was teean up an’ quees’t about
it, they cūd meeak nowte out on her, an’ they let her lowce. It _was_
said ’at Jooahn Tūrner, ’at hed t’ Oxenfell farm afooar Grave fooak,
fund t’ beeans of a Christian yance when he was cūttin’ a drain iv his
pastur’, bit it was niver leuk’t intull, an’ Jooahn said lile about it.”
“And what about Jack Slipe?” “Well! queerly aneeuf, he weddit t’ lass
’at dūd o’ t’ mischief, ān’ dee’t afooar he was an āld man, leeavin’
Betty wi’ a yūng family. He was niver knà’n ut smile or teeak part iv
any spooart. He ol’a’s hed a wild scār’tly leeuk: as he woak’t alang
a rooad he keept glimin’ fūrst ooer t’ ya shou’der an’ than ooer
t’ tudder, an’ he niver durst bide by his-sel’ efter t’ darkenin’.
He leev’t sarvant for a while wi’ āld Jooasep Tyson of Yakrow, an’
wheniver āld Joo’ep seed any o’ them signs of a bad conscience, he wod
say, ‘Cūm! Dyne the’, Jack, thou med as gūd confess. Thou knā’s thou
dud it!’ Bit whedder Jack dud it or nit neàbody can tell for suer. An’
that’s t’ way it mun rist!”