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!”
