Chapter XLV: A Legend of Earlshope

It was a wild night at Airlie. The sea could be heard breaking with tremendous force all along the shore; and the wind that blew about the moor brought with it occasional heavy showers of rain. Occasionally, too, there were rifts in the clouds; and a white gleam of moonlight would shine out and down on the dark landscape. The villagers kept themselves snug and warm indoors; and were thankful they were not out at sea on such a night.

Earlshope was more sheltered; but if the house itself was not much shaken by the storm, its inmates could hear the moaning of the wind through the trees in the park, and the howling of the gusts that tore through the fir-woods beyond the moor. The male servants had gone away on some errand or another to Greenock; and as the women-folk did not like to be left quite alone, the Pensioner had consented to come up from Airlie and sleep in the house that night. But first of all, of course, there was a general supper in the housekeeper's room; and then the Pensioner and the housekeeper and the two girls began to tell stories of old things that had happened in the neighbourhood. By-and-by that duty almost entirely devolved upon the Pensioner, who was known to be skilled in legends; and as he had also brought with him his fiddle, he set himself down generally to entertain the company, fortifying himself from time to time with a tumbler of whisky-toddy, which the housekeeper carefully replenished.

Somehow or other, as the night wore on, his stories and his music assumed a more and more uncanny and mystic tinge. Perhaps the howling of the wind in the chimneys, or the more distant sound of its wailing through the big trees in the park, lent an air of melancholy to the old ballads and legends he recited; but, at all events, the small circle of listeners grew almost silent, and sat as if spellbound. He no longer played "There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kailyard," but sang to them, in a quavering and yet plaintive voice, the story of Ellen of Strathcoe, who was rowed away over the lake when the moon was shining and the breeze blowing lightly, but who never reached the shore. And then the old man came nearer to his own time, and told them of the awful stories of second-sight that he had heard when a boy, over among the Cowal hills--of warnings coming at the dead of the night--of voices heard in churchyards--of visions seen by persons in their own houses, as they sat alone in the evening. The girls listened partly to him, and partly to the wind without. The great house seemed to be even more empty than usual; and the creaking of a door or the shaking of a window could be heard in distant rooms. Earlshope was a lonely place at that time of night--so far away from all houses, and so near to the wild moor.

"But there is no story about Earlshope," said one of the girls.

She spoke in a quite timid voice; as if she were listening to the sounds without.

"Wass you never told, then, o' sa auld man that lived here by himsel', and would ride about sa country at night, and drink by himsel' in such a faishion as no man leevin' would pelieve?"

They did not answer him: they only looked--their eyes grown apprehensive.

"It wass an auld Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, and he wass a wild man for sa drink; and no one in all sa country side would go near him. Sa bairns would flee from him as he came riding down sa road, and he would ride at them, and frichten them, and gallop on wi' shrieks o' laughin', just as if he wass sa teffle himsel'. And he would ride about sa country at nicht, and knock at folk's doors or windows wi' his stick, and cry in till them, and then ride on again, wi' fearfu' laughin' and singin', just as if he wass possessed. And sare wass a girl in Airlie--a bonnie young lass she wass, as I hef peen told, and he did sweer on a Bible wis sa most dreadfu' sweerin', he would carry her some nicht to Earlshope, or else set sa house on fire over herself and her folk. And sa lass--she was so frichtened she would never go outside sa house; and it wass said she wass to go to Greenock or to Glasgow into service--if sare was service then, for it wass a long time ago."

The Pensioner here bethought him of his toddy, and turned to his glass. During that brief pause there was a dead silence--only some laurel bushes rustled outside in the wind. The Pensioner cleared his throat and resumed his tale.

"And Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, did hear sat she would go away from Airlie, and he was in a great rage, and swore sat he would burn sa whole place down, and her too, and all her folk. But one day it wass known to him sat her parents would be over in Saltcoats; and he had men sare, and sa men got hold of sa lassie's folk, and clapped them into a big boat, and took sem out to sea. And sa young lass waited all sa afternoon, and sey did not come home; nor yet at nicht, and she was all by herself, for she wass afraid to go out and speer at sa neighbours. And then, as I hef peen told, he went to sa house at sa dead o' nicht, and pulled sa lassie out, and took her on sa horse, and rode over wi' her to Earlshope--her screamin', him laughin' and sweerin', as wass his ordinar'. And so wild wass he wis sa drink, sat he ordered all sa servants out o' sa house, and sey listened frae the outside to sa awful noises in sa rooms--him ragin' and sweerin', and laughin', jist like sa teffle. And then, as I hef peen told, a licht was seen--and it grew and it grew--and flames wass in all sa windows--and sare was a roarin', and a noise, and a burnin'--and when the mornin' wass come, Earlshope wass burned down to sa ground, and nothing could be seen o' sa young lass or sa auld man either."

The Pensioner took another pull at the tumbler. It was getting more and more late.

"And this, as I hef peen told, is a new Earlshope; but sa auld man hass never gone away from sa place. He is still about here in sa night-time. I do not know he hass been seen; but many's and many's sa time he wass heard to laugh in among the trees in the park, and you will hear sometimes the sound of sa horse's feet not far from sa house. Trop, trop!--trop, trop!--sat is it--licht, licht--and you will not know whesser it is close by, or far away, only you will hear sa laughin' close by, as if it wass at your ear."

Suddenly at this moment a string of the Pensioner's fiddle snapped with a loud bang, and there was a simultaneous shriek from the women. In the strange pause that followed, when they all listened with a beating heart, it seemed to them that at some distance outside there was a measured beat on the soft earth, exactly like the sound of a horse riding up to Earlshope. A minute or two more and the suspicion became a certainty.

"Listen!" said one of the girls, instinctively seizing hold of her neighbour's arm. The wind was still moaning through the trees, but none the less the footfalls of the horse became more and more distinct, and were obviously drawing near to the house.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the housekeeper, with a scared face. "Wha can it be at this time o' nicht?"

"It is coming nearer," said another.

"Jeannie!" cried the third, in a frenzy of desperation, "dinna haud me by the airm--a body canna listen!"

The measured sounds grew nearer, until they ceased, apparently, at the very door. Then there was the sharp clink of the bell-handle on the stone, and far away in a hollow corridor a bell jangled hideously. The housekeeper uttered a cry and started to her feet.

"Gude forgi'e me, but there's no a Bible near at hand!" she exclaimed in an agony of trepidation. "Mr. Lamont, Mr. Lamont, what is to be done? This is fearfu'--this is awfu'! Jeannie, what for do ye no open the door?"

"Open the door?" said the girl, faintly, with her eyes starting out of her head.

"Ay, open the door!" said the housekeeper savagely. "Isn't it your business?"

"But--but--but--" stammered the girl, with her teeth chattering, "n--no to open the door to the deevil!"

"I will open sa door!" said the Pensioner, calmly.

When he rose and went into the dark hall the women followed close at his heels, all clinging to each other. Another vigorous pull at the bell had nearly brought them to their knees; but Neil Lamont, groping his way to the door, began to fumble about for the bolts, using much florid and unnecessary Gaelic all the while. At last the bolts were withdrawn, and the door opened. On the threshold stood the dusky figure of a man; beyond him the horse from which he had dismounted, and which he held by the bridle. The women shrank back in affright--one of them uttering a piercing scream. The Pensioner stood for a moment irresolute, and then he advanced a step, and said, with a fine assumption of courage--

"Who sa teffle are you, and what for you will come to disturb a quiet house? What is it sat you want?"

"Confound you, send somebody to take my horse!" was the sharp reply he met with from the mysterious stranger. "What's the matter? Is there no one about the place but a pack of frightened women?"

"It is his lordship himsel'!" cried Neil. "Eh, wha did expect to see you sa nicht?"

"Come and take my horse, you fool!"

"Sat I will; but it is no use calling names," answered Neil, while the women began to breathe.

The Pensioner got the keys of the stable, and led off the horse, while Lord Earlshope entered the hall, called for lights, and began to rub the rain out of his eyes and hair. The whole house was presently in a scurry to have his lordship's wants attended to; but there was considerable delay, for none of the women would go singly on the shortest errand. When, after some time, Neil returned from feeding and grooming the horse in a rough-and-ready fashion, he infused some little courage into the household; and at length the turmoil caused by the unexpected arrival subsided somewhat. Finally, Lord Earlshope called the housekeeper into his study and said to her--

"I shall leave early to-morrow morning. There have been no visitors at Earlshope recently?"

"No, your lordship."

"It is very likely that a woman--a Mrs. Smith Arnold she calls herself--will come here to-morrow and ask to be shown over the place. You will on no account allow her to come into the house,--you understand?"

"But wha can come here the morn?" said the housekeeper; "it's the Sabbath."

"This person may drive here. In any case, you will allow no stranger to come into the place."

"I wish the men folk were coming back afore Monday," said the housekeeper, who was still a trifle perturbed by the Pensioner's stories.

"Cannot three of you keep one woman from coming into the house? You can lock the doors--you need not even talk to her."

Having received her instructions, the housekeeper left; and Lord Earlshope went to a writing-desk, and addressed an envelope to a firm of solicitors in London. The words he then hurriedly wrote and enclosed in the envelope were merely these--"_Withhold payment to Mrs. Smith Arnold, if demanded. The stipulations have not been observed. I will call on you in a few days.--Earlshope._"

It was close on midnight when he entered the house; and shortly after daybreak next morning he had again set out, telling no one of his intentions. The servants, accustomed to his abrupt comings and goings, were not surprised; but none of them forgot the manner in which Lord Earlshope had ridden up at midnight in the fashion of his notorious ancestor. As for the housekeeper, she was more consequential than ever, having been intrusted with a secret.