CHAPTER XI.
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.