Border Ghost Stories Part 6

At that very moment there rose up from far away to the ears of the stricken gazer the sound of a c.o.c.k-crow. The gazer wilted back in his seat; turning white, he held his hands to his eyes, his whole frame trembling. His two companions, who had now been aroused by his movement, looked upon him with astonishment.

'What's the matter, my dear fellow?' inquired the 'Golden Canon.' 'You look as if you had seen a ghost.'

'I thought,' stammered the gazer--'I thought I saw St. Cuthbert--I mean some apparition--in the recess there.'

'It's only the moon,' the 'Golden Canon' replied, after a cursory glance in that direction. 'If you don't like it just draw the curtains.'

But the Minor Canon had already risen from his seat, and, with unsteady footsteps, pa.s.sed to the door murmuring brokenly to himself, '_Peccavi, peccavi_' as he withdrew from the dining-room.

'A nice fellow,' commented the 'Golden Canon,' 'but he has, I fear, a rotten digestion.

'Help yourself to that white port, cousin; then we'll finish our talk over a pipe of tobacco.'

BY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERT

The bells were ringing to evensong in the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cuthbert, that stands like a fortress on its rock above the murmuring Wear--

_'Half house of G.o.d, half castle 'gainst the Scot'--_

in the windy dusk of a November evening.

The people of the saint, however--the 'Haliwer folc,' the 'folk of the Holy Man'--were few in attendance that afternoon, and the great nave seemed very empty as I sat down in a seat in front of the 'Galilee'

beside the north door of entry.

I looked about me and admired the mighty Norman pillars diapered and fluted with exceeding skill by the great master builders of old, who built to, even as their great duke swore by, the 'Splendour of G.o.d.' My eye wandered upward and rested upon the great chevrons resembling sword-cuts that seemed deep-hacked within the rounded arches of the Triforium. Thence onward my gaze fluttered like a b.u.t.terfly, and rested upon a leering corbel, which seemed to scoff at priest and priest-craft with protruding tongue. The mighty stone roof soaring aloft--a s.h.i.+p's keel upturned--drew my eye eastward to the choir; there on the great east window, rose-shaped and many-coloured, the invading dusk gathered like water-drops upon the panes, and wove its dun mantle over them. The anthem now pealed along the roof, lapping capitals, corbels, and pillars in a tide of sound that swept unresisted through the wide s.p.a.ces of the cathedral.

As the echoing song grew fainter, and ebbed away into the twilight shadows, my gaze returned to my immediate surroundings, and rested unconcernedly upon a man sitting a seat or two in front of me, beside one of the ma.s.sive piers. He seemed to be in a most distressed and nervous condition, for he peered about him with an evident alarm, which was pitiful to witness. As he turned his face about I saw it was haggard with fear and sorrow, or remorse; his hair was matted, and beads of sweat were thick upon his brow.

It was as if he were terrified of impending danger. Yet what could he be afraid of in the great calm of the solemn cathedral? The benediction had been given, and the spa.r.s.e congregation had now risen and was slowly departing, yet he rose not, but seemed to be hiding from view as he crouched behind the form in front of him, and edged his way slowly within the shadow of the heavy pier to his left hand.

I sat on listening to the voluntary, and it held me by its strangeness.

I knew that the Dean and Chapter's organist was away on holiday, and I wondered who the strange player might be who was setting forth his own soul in the notes of the pealing organ. He sang of fellows.h.i.+p, of comrades.h.i.+p in ancient days through stress of adventure and deadly combat; then with organ sobs that shook the heart, of death and the infinite loneliness of death, and of the inappeasable sorrow of the survivor lamenting his Jonathan. A pause of black silence. Then brokenly a little sough of life began to re-arise--a growth of hope--the fierce determination of revenge--quickening with flame--breaking into triumph.

And now as the lights were being turned out, and gloom came rus.h.i.+ng in upon the empty s.p.a.ces of the cathedral I saw the unhappy figure s.h.i.+ft indecisively as he rose from his seat in front of me, glance hurriedly about as if for a way of escape, then moving unsteadily round the pier, to my surprise he shuffled off in the direction of the organ. The music seemed to fascinate him, to paralyse his will, even as the sphex paralyses its victim with its sting.

The organist was now engaged upon the coda of his fugue; the former motifs were rehea.r.s.ed--love, sorrow, and revenge. Triumph resounded from the loft when I heard above the quickening notes a sudden patter of heels across the nave; then a pitiful drumming of fists upon the barred door that led into the east corner of the cloisters. Knowing that escape that way was now impossible for the distracted man, and feeling pity for him, I crossed the nave and followed after him in the gloom. As I drew near I heard him flee again--down the south aisle to the other door of the cloisters. Here once more he shook unavailingly upon the latch, and drummed pitifully with his fists. There was a scrabbling with nails on the oaken door--then a cry of anguish smote on my ear. An awful terror evidently had him in grip.

He rushed wildly on again--on--on to the only remaining door of escape into the northern close. Suddenly the music stopped on a throb of joy.

The shock caused me to halt. As I started again to walk towards the door I heard no longer the miserable patter of feet in front of me. I was just about to reach out a hand to feel for the latch in the darkness when I stumbled over an obstacle on the pavement. I knelt down and felt about with my hands: I found a man's body lying inert at my feet.

G.o.d in Heaven! The darkness seemed to buffet me upon the ears. I heard a vague cry escape my lips, for the fugitive's hand had dropped from mine with a thud upon the stone. _The man was dead._

'MEENISTER' MACHIAVELLI

The soul of the Minister of Bleakhope was disquieted within him, for he had just been 'up the water' and seen the new stained-gla.s.s windows which had recently been put in and dedicated to Saint Cuthbert in the English church 'beside the Knowe.'

The Reverend Alexander Macgregor was tall and spare, oval-faced, eyed like a hawk, yet with a humorous twinkle behind his keen glances that were equally alert whether for the rising of a 'troot' or a sinner.

A bequest from a wealthy paris.h.i.+oner, who had died, as the result of a motor-car accident, had enabled his 'brother'--the Episcopalian 'priest'--to decorate his church with three single lights, ill.u.s.trative of Saint Cuthbert's life, and the Minister grieved as he thought of his own little grey kirk on the bare hill which badly wanted a 'bit colour'

in its wee apsidal east window.

He regarded his frayed sleeves and his wrinkled black trousers unhopefully.

If he were to save every penny till the end of his days he could never achieve his desire. He had no wealthy paris.h.i.+oner whom he might persuade into buying a motor-car after seeing that 'the Kirk' had been duly remembered in his will.

His flock consisted chiefly of small farmers and herd laddies, and unless one of them emigrated and made a fortune in Canada he saw no prospect of achievement in the parish itself.

As he walked up the road towards the manse on this particular October evening after his return from the Knowe he came nigh to breaking the tenth Commandment into pieces, for the three light windows seemed to flaunt themselves before his eyes in the gathering mist, and to ask tauntingly, 'What wull ye gie for us? What wull ye gie for us?'

As he plodded onward he was suddenly hailed by a voice from behind.

Turning about, he recognised one of his flock--a small fellside farmer--who, coming up with him, informed him that an old acquaintance was staying at the little inn close by who had been inquiring about him.

'Wha is 't?' inquired the Minister.

'Ye'll mind Tam Elliot,' replied the elder, 'him that was nevvy to auld Sandy o' the Ratten Raa farm that died and left him part money. Aff he went when he got the siller, and a bit later an auld great-aunt left him a bit mair, sae he took a muckle big farm doon sooth, and noo he's at the inn cracking crouse aboot his pedigree beasts and sheep, and sw.a.n.kin' awa as to what he's done syne he left these parts, just as if we didna ken the sort o' man he was, and aye will be. Howsoever, he's askin' after ye, and maybe ye'd like a crack wi' him.'

The Minister was on his way home, but he liked his 'crack' as well as another, so he turned eastwards to the little wayside hostelry some quarter of a mile back to forgather with Elliot, who used to attend the kirk 'whiles' in company with his deceased uncle. The 'Sign of the Wool Pack' was a very quiet country inn; in the little 'snug' there would not be above half a dozen customers--the landlord, probably, presiding over them--so the Minister thought no harm in joining them for a gla.s.s, a pipe, and a 'crack.'

'Hoo's aal wi' ye?' he inquired, as he entered the door of the 'snug,'

and, having nodded to the company, held out his hand to Tam Elliot. 'We hae heard that ye are increasing your flocks like Abraham, doon sooth i'

the land o' Canaan!'

'You are welcome, Minister,' cried Tam in reply, as he rose up and took him by the hand; '"wag a paw," as we used to say, and take something for a sore throat. Yes,' he continued, as he sat himself down again and took a pull at his own long gla.s.s, 'I'm building up a pedigree stock at my new place--gave 500 for a bull t' other day, and that's a fact.'

'Dod, man!' said the Minister, bethinking him of the stained-gla.s.s window, 'why, that's a small fortune.'

''Tis that,' replied Tam complacently, stretching a leg to the hearth, 'but pedigree blood's worth the money.' He caressed a little imperial he had grown since he left the north, stretched out his other leg to the fire, and with a smile of satisfaction that seemed to ooze from his vintage cheeks, continued to talk of his own pedigree.

'Yes, blood's the thing,' he said, 'for beasts and humans alike. Why, take my family--every one knows the clan of Elliot's been on the Border for centuries, and one of my forebears was married on a Stuart la.s.s, so likely enough I may have a bit royal blood i' my veins, even though it comes from the wrong side o' the blanket.'

Here an ancient, bearded shepherd--an elder of the kirk--with a tongue of caustic, Ringan by name, who was sitting behind the Minister, winked derisively at the company and muttered _sotto voce_, 'He's forgot aal the little yins. I mind fine his granddam--the merry-begot of a pitman's la.s.s doon the water.' The Minister himself could not resist a smile at this, and the visitor added somewhat hastily, 'Yet I say wi'

Robbie Burns--"_a man's a man for a' that_." Have another touch o' this mountain dew,' he cried magnanimously to the scornful herd.

'Na, na, I'm awa,' replied the ancient herd, rising as he spoke; 'it's gettin' late, an' I dinna want to run the risk o' meetin' wi' "Parcy" on my way hame.'[1]

'Parcy!' exclaimed the visitor, raising himself in surprise from his arm-chair. 'Parcy, the ghost o' the murdered mosstrooper, d' ye mean, that the old wives talked of? D' ye mean to tell me ye still believe in ghosts up here?'

'Why not?' said the Minister. ''Tis good Christian doctrine to believe in departed spirits.'

'We don't believe in 'em in the towns,' retorted Elliot scornfully, 'so why should we in the country?'