The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales Volume I Part 10

"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 pa.s.sed,-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 gla.s.s 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 hourgla.s.s 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 a.s.sumed an air of sternness. At that instant the c.o.c.k 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 outerdoor 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 misshaped. 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. Ma.s.s 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.

Ma.s.s John's trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which overpowered him for a long s.p.a.ce; and even after he awaked, it was long before he could fathom the circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great dismay-the daylight 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 innerdoor, 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 h.o.a.r 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 reanimate 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 hangeron from his youth upward, and had an effrontery not to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a threehour'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 princ.i.p.al 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 circ.u.mstance 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 circ.u.mstances 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 turtledoo 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 snawwhite if heart's care can alter them; but they will never be sae white as they anes war. I saw the sillergrey 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 att.i.tude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the light, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread-her mutch, or _nighthussing_, 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 selfexaminations."

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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l are nane o' yours; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I chose, sinful and miserable as I am, to converse with my G.o.d 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?-Lackaday, 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 fountainhead 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 boglehowe, Wi' his haffats in a lowe, Wons the waefu' wirricowe.

"Ah! n.o.ble 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 a.s.suredly 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 longdrawn 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 c.o.c.k, 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 h.e.l.l 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!