The Black Dwarf, Walter Scott [freda ebook reader TXT] 📗

you can escape what my attendants, Wrath and Misery, have brought to thy threshold before thee.”

“I wish ye wadna speak that gate,” said Hobbie. “Ye ken yoursell, Elshie, naebody judges you to be ower canny; now, I’ll tell ye just ae word for a’—ye hae spoken as muckle as wussing ill to me and mine; now, if ony mischance happen to Grace, which God forbid, or to mysell; or to the poor dumb tyke; or if I be skaithed and injured in body, gudes, or gear, I’ll no forget wha it is that it’s owing to.”

“Out, hind!” exclaimed the Dwarf; “home! home to your dwelling, and think on me when you find what has befallen there.”

“Aweel, aweel,” said Hobbie, mounting his horse, “it serves naething to strive wi’ cripples,—they are aye cankered; but I’ll just tell ye ae thing, neighbour, that if things be otherwise than weel wi’ Grace Armstrong, I’se gie you a scouther if there be a tar-barrel in the five parishes.”

So saying, he rode off; and Elshie, after looking at him with a scornful and indignant laugh, took spade and mattock, and occupied himself in digging a grave for his deceased favourite.

A low whistle, and the words, “Hisht, Elshie, hisht!” disturbed him in this melancholy occupation. He looked up, and the Red Reiver of Westburnflat was before him. Like Banquo’s murderer, there was blood on his face, as well as upon the rowels of his spurs and the sides of his over-ridden horse.

“How now, ruffian!” demanded the Dwarf, “is thy job chared?”

“Ay, ay, doubt not that, Elshie,” answered the freebooter; “When I ride, my foes may moan. They have had mair light than comfort at the Heugh-foot this morning; there’s a toom byre and a wide, and a wail and a cry for the bonny bride.”

“The bride?”

“Ay; Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie, as we ca’ him, that’s Charlie Foster of Tinning Beck, has promised to keep her in Cumberland till the blast blaw by. She saw me, and kend me in the splore, for the mask fell frae my face for a blink. I am thinking it wad concern my safety if she were to come back here, for there’s mony o’ the Elliots, and they band weel thegither for right or wrang. Now, what I chiefly come to ask your rede in, is how to make her sure?”

“Wouldst thou murder her, then?”

“Umph! no, no; that I would not do, if I could help it. But they say they can whiles get folk cannily away to the plantations from some of the outports, and something to boot for them that brings a bonny wench. They’re wanted beyond seas thae female cattle, and they’re no that scarce here. But I think o’ doing better for this lassie. There’s a leddy, that, unless she be a’ the better bairn, is to be sent to foreign parts whether she will or no; now, I think of sending Grace to wait on her—she’s a bonny lassie. Hobbie will hae a merry morning when he comes hame, and misses baith bride and gear.”

“Ay; and do you not pity him?” said the Recluse.

“Wad he pity me were I gaeing up the Castle hill at Jeddart? [ The place of execution at that ancient burgh, where many of Westburnflat’s profession have made their final exit.] And yet I rue something for the bit lassie; but he’ll get anither, and little skaith dune—ane is as gude as anither. And now, you that like to hear o’ splores, heard ye ever o’ a better ane than I hae had this morning?”

“Air, ocean, and fire,” said the Dwarf, speaking to himself, “the earthquake, the tempest, the volcano, are all mild and moderate, compared to the wrath of man. And what is this fellow, but one more skilled than others in executing the end of his existence?—Hear me, felon, go again where I before sent thee.”

“To the Steward?”

“Ay; and tell him, Elshender the Recluse commands him to give thee gold. But, hear me, let the maiden be discharged free and uninjured; return her to her friends, and let her swear not to discover thy villainy.”

“Swear,” said Westburnflat; “but what if she break her aith? Women are not famous for keeping their plight. A wise man like you should ken that.—And uninjured—wha kens what may happen were she to be left lang at Tinning-Beck? Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie is a rough customer. But if the gold could be made up to twenty pieces, I think I could ensure her being wi’ her friends within the twenty-four hours.”

The Dwarf took his tablets from his pocket, marked a line on them, and tore out the leaf. “There,” he said, giving the robber the leaf—“But, mark me; thou knowest I am not to be fooled by thy treachery; if thou darest to disobey my directions, thy wretched life, be sure, shall answer it.”

“I know,” said the fellow, looking down, “that you have power on earth, however you came by it; you can do what nae other man can do, baith by physic and foresight; and the gold is shelled down when ye command, as fast as I have seen the ash-keys fall in a frosty morning in October. I will not disobey you.”

“Begone, then, and relieve me of thy hateful presence.”

The robber set spurs to his horse, and rode off without reply.

Hobbie Elliot had, in the meanwhile, pursued his journey rapidly, harassed by those oppressive and indistinct fears that all was not right, which men usually term a presentiment of misfortune. Ere he reached the top of the bank from which he could look down on his own habitation, he was met by his nurse, a person then of great consequence in all families in Scotland, whether of the higher or middling classes. The connexion between them and their foster-children was considered a tie far too dearly intimate to be broken; and it usually happened, in the course of years, that the nurse became a resident in the family of her foster-son, assisting in the domestic duties, and receiving all marks of attention and regard from the heads of the family. So soon as Hobbie recognised the figure of Annaple, in her red cloak and black hood, he could not help exclaiming to himself, “What ill luck can hae brought the auld nurse sae far frae hame, her that never stirs a gun-shot frae the door-stane for ordinar?—Hout, it will just be to get crane-berries, or whortle-berries, or some such stuff, out of the moss, to make the pies and tarts for the feast on Monday.—I cannot get the words of that cankered auld cripple deil’s-buckie out o’ my head—the least thing makes me dread some ill news.—O, Killbuck, man! were there nae deer and goats in the country besides, but ye behoved to gang and worry his creature, by a’ other folk’s?”

By this time Annaple, with a brow like a tragic volume, had hobbled towards him, and caught his horse by the bridle. The despair in her look was so evident as to deprive even him of the power of asking the cause. “O my bairn!” she cried, “gang na forward—gang na forward—it’s a sight to kill onybody, let alane thee.”

“In God’s name, what’s the matter?” said the astonished horseman, endeavouring to extricate his bridle from the grasp of the old woman; “for Heaven’s sake, let me go and see what’s the