A LEGEND OF EARLSHOPE.
It was a wild night at Airlie. The sea could be heard breaking with
tremendous force all along the shore; and the wind that blew about
the moor brought with it occasional heavy showers of rain.
Occasionally, too, there were rifts in the clouds; and a white gleam
of moonlight would shine out and down on the dark landscape. The
villagers kept themselves snug and warm indoors; and were thankful
they were not out at sea on such a night.
Earlshope was more sheltered; but if the house itself was not much
shaken by the storm, its inmates could hear the moaning of the wind
through the trees in the park, and the howling of the gusts that tore
through the fir-woods beyond the moor. The male servants had gone
away on some errand or another to Greenock; and as the women-folk did
not like to be left quite alone, the Pensioner had consented to come
up from Airlie and sleep in the house that night. But first of all,
of course, there was a general supper in the housekeeper's room; and
then the Pensioner and the housekeeper and the two girls began to
tell stories of old things that had happened in the neighbourhood.
By-and-by that duty almost entirely devolved upon the Pensioner, who
was known to be skilled in legends; and as he had also brought with
him his fiddle, he set himself down generally to entertain the
company, fortifying himself from time to time with a tumbler of
whisky-toddy, which the housekeeper carefully replenished.
Somehow or other, as the night wore on, his stories and his music
assumed a more and more uncanny and mystic tinge. Perhaps the
howling of the wind in the chimneys, or the more distant sound of its
wailing through the big trees in the park, lent an air of melancholy
to the old ballads and legends he recited; but, at all events, the
small circle of listeners grew almost silent, and sat as if
spellbound. He no longer played "There grows a bonnie brier bush in
our kailyard," but sang to them, in a quavering and yet plaintive
voice, the story of Ellen of Strathcoe, who was rowed away over the
lake when the moon was shining and the breeze blowing lightly, but
who never reached the shore. And then the old man came nearer to his
own time, and told them of the awful stories of second-sight that he
had heard when a boy, over among the Cowal hills--of warnings coming
at the dead of the night--of voices heard in churchyards--of visions
seen by persons in their own houses, as they sat alone in the
evening. The girls listened partly to him, and partly to the wind
without. The great house seemed to be even more empty than usual;
and the creaking of a door or the shaking of a window could be heard
in distant rooms. Earlshope was a lonely place at that time of
night--so far away from all houses, and so near to the wild moor.
"But there is no story about Earlshope," said one of the girls.
She spoke in a quite timid voice; as if she were listening to the
sounds without.
"Wass you never told, then, o' sa auld man that lived here by
himsel', and would ride about sa country at night, and drink by
himsel' in such a faishion as no man leevin' would pelieve?"
They did not answer him: they only looked--their eyes grown
apprehensive.
"It wass an auld Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, and he wass a
wild man for sa drink; and no one in all sa country side would go
near him. Sa bairns would flee from him as he came riding down sa
road, and he would ride at them, and frichten them, and gallop on wi'
shrieks o' laughin', just as if he wass sa teffle himsel'. And he
would ride about sa country at nicht, and knock at folk's doors or
windows wi' his stick, and cry in till them, and then ride on again,
wi' fearfu' laughin' and singin', just as if he wass possessed. And
sare wass a girl in Airlie--a bonnie young lass she wass, as I hef
peen told, and he did sweer on a Bible wis sa most dreadfu' sweerin',
he would carry her some nicht to Earlshope, or else set sa house on
fire over herself and her folk. And sa lass--she was so frichtened
she would never go outside sa house; and it wass said she wass to go
to Greenock or to Glasgow into service--if sare was service then, for
it wass a long time ago."
The Pensioner here bethought him of his toddy, and turned to his
glass. During that brief pause there was a dead silence--only some
laurel bushes rustled outside in the wind. The Pensioner cleared his
throat and resumed his tale.
"And Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, did hear sat she would go
away from Airlie, and he was in a great rage, and swore sat he would
burn sa whole place down, and her too, and all her folk. But one day
it wass known to him sat her parents would be over in Saltcoats; and
he had men sare, and sa men got hold of sa lassie's folk, and clapped
them into a big boat, and took sem out to sea. And sa young lass
waited all sa afternoon, and sey did not come home; nor yet at nicht,
and she was all by herself, for she wass afraid to go out and speer
at sa neighbours. And then, as I hef peen told, he went to sa house
at sa dead o' nicht, and pulled sa lassie out, and took her on sa
horse, and rode over wi' her to Earlshope--her screamin', him
laughin' and sweerin', as wass his ordinar'. And so wild wass he wis
sa drink, sat he ordered all sa servants out o' sa house, and sey
listened frae the outside to sa awful noises in sa rooms--him ragin'
and sweerin', and laughin', jist like sa teffle. And then, as I hef
peen told, a licht was seen--and it grew and it grew--and flames wass
in all sa windows--and sare was a roarin', and a noise, and a
burnin'--and when the mornin' wass come, Earlshope wass burned down
to sa ground, and nothing could be seen o' sa young lass or sa auld
man either."
The Pensioner took another pull at the tumbler. It was getting more
and more late.
"And this, as I hef peen told, is a new Earlshope; but sa auld man
hass never gone away from sa place. He is still about here in sa
night-time. I do not know he hass been seen; but many's and many's
sa time he wass heard to laugh in among the trees in the park, and
you will hear sometimes the sound of sa horse's feet not far from sa
house. Trop, trop!--trop, trop!--sat is it--licht, licht--and you
will not know whesser it is close by, or far away, only you will hear
sa laughin' close by, as if it wass at your ear."
Suddenly at this moment a string of the Pensioner's fiddle snapped
with a loud bang, and there was a simultaneous shriek from the women.
In the strange pause that followed, when they all listened with a
beating heart, it seemed to them that at some distance outside there
was a measured beat on the soft earth, exactly like the sound of a
horse riding up to Earlshope. A minute or two more and the suspicion
became a certainty.
"Listen!" said one of the girls, instinctively seizing hold of her
neighbour's arm. The wind was still moaning through the trees, but
none the less the footfalls of the horse became more and more
distinct, and were obviously drawing near to the house.
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the housekeeper, with a scared face. "Wha
can it be at this time o' nicht?"
"It is coming nearer," said another.
"Jeannie!" cried the third, in a frenzy of desperation, "dinna haud
me by the airm--a body canna listen!"
The measured sounds grew nearer, until they ceased, apparently, at
the very door. Then there was the sharp clink of the bell-handle on
the stone, and far away in a hollow corridor a bell jangled
hideously. The housekeeper uttered a cry and started to her feet.
"Gude forgi'e me, but there's no a Bible near at hand!" she exclaimed
in an agony of trepidation. "Mr. Lamont, Mr. Lamont, what is to be
done? This is fearfu'--this is awfu'! Jeannie, what for do ye no
open the door?"
"Open the door?" said the girl, faintly, with her eyes starting out
of her head.
"Ay, open the door!" said the housekeeper savagely. "Isn't it your
business?"
"But--but--but--" stammered the girl, with her teeth chattering,
"n--no to open the door to the deevil!"
"I will open sa door!" said the Pensioner, calmly.
When he rose and went into the dark hall the women followed close at
his heels, all clinging to each other. Another vigorous pull at the
bell had nearly brought them to their knees; but Neil Lamont, groping
his way to the door, began to fumble about for the bolts, using much
florid and unnecessary Gaelic all the while. At last the bolts were
withdrawn, and the door opened. On the threshold stood the dusky
figure of a man; beyond him the horse from which he had dismounted,
and which he held by the bridle. The women shrank back in
affright--one of them uttering a piercing scream. The Pensioner
stood for a moment irresolute, and then he advanced a step, and said,
with a fine assumption of courage--
"Who sa teffle are you, and what for you will come to disturb a quiet
house? What is it sat you want?"
"Confound you, send somebody to take my horse!" was the sharp reply
he met with from the mysterious stranger. "What's the matter? Is
there no one about the place but a pack of frightened women?"
"It is his lordship himsel'!" cried Neil. "Eh, wha did expect to see
you sa nicht?"
"Come and take my horse, you fool!"
"Sat I will; but it is no use calling names," answered Neil, while
the women began to breathe.
The Pensioner got the keys of the stable, and led off the horse,
while Lord Earlshope entered the hall, called for lights, and began
to rub the rain out of his eyes and hair. The whole house was
presently in a scurry to have his lordship's wants attended to; but
there was considerable delay, for none of the women would go singly
on the shortest errand. When, after some time, Neil returned from
feeding and grooming the horse in a rough-and-ready fashion, he
infused some little courage into the household; and at length the
turmoil caused by the unexpected arrival subsided somewhat. Finally,
Lord Earlshope called the housekeeper into his study and said to her--
"I shall leave early to-morrow morning. There have been no visitors
at Earlshope recently?"
"No, your lordship."
"It is very likely that a woman--a Mrs. Smith Arnold she calls
herself--will come here to-morrow and ask to be shown over the place.
You will on no account allow her to come into the house,--you
understand?"
"But wha can come here the morn?" said the housekeeper; "it's the
Sabbath."
"This person may drive here. In any case, you will allow no stranger
to come into the place."
"I wish the men folk were coming back afore Monday," said the
housekeeper, who was still a trifle perturbed by the Pensioner's
stories.
"Cannot three of you keep one woman from coming into the house? You
can lock the doors--you need not even talk to her."
Having received her instructions, the housekeeper left; and Lord
Earlshope went to a writing-desk, and addressed an envelope to a firm
of solicitors in London. The words he then hurriedly wrote and
enclosed in the envelope were merely these--"_Withhold payment to
Mrs. Smith Arnold, if demanded. The stipulations have not been
observed. I will call on you in a few days.--Earlshope._"
It was close on midnight when he entered the house; and shortly after
daybreak next morning he had again set out, telling no one of his
intentions. The servants, accustomed to his abrupt comings and
goings, were not surprised; but none of them forgot the manner in
which Lord Earlshope had ridden up at midnight in the fashion of his
notorious ancestor. As for the housekeeper, she was more
consequential than ever, having been intrusted with a secret.