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.