‘ “Aye, that’s the question, friend,” quo’ I; “an it’s easier to speer than answer it. But I hae a plan i’ my head for that too; yet I dinna ken how far it may be advisable to tell you a’ about it.”
‘ “O poor daft Jock Gray o’ Middleholm!” quo’ he; “ye’re that lazy ye winna work, an’ ye’re that stupid that ye hae married a wife that canna work, an’ ye hae gotten a bike o’ gillygawpie weans, that ye’re breedin up like a wheen brute beasts; and the hale o’ ye can neither work nor want; an’ ye’re gaun away the morn to mine the auld Castle o’ Hermitage, an’ carry away the mighty spoils that are hidden there. An’ then ye’re gaun away to Tamleuchar Cross, –
To houk the pots o’ goud, that lie
Atween the wat grund an’ the dry,
Where grows the weirdest an’ the warst o’ weeds,
Where the horse never steps, an’ the lamb never feeds.
But, John Gray o’ Middleholm, you’ll never finger a plack o’ thae twa poses, for the deil keeps the taen, an’ me the tither.”
‘ “Eh! gudesooth, friend, an that be the case, I fear I may drink to them. But wha are ye, an it may be speer’d?”
‘ “I am ane that kens a’ the secrets o’ a’ the hidden poses in Scotland; an’ I’m a great friend to you, John Gray o’ Middleholm.”
‘ “I’m unco glad to hear it, man; troth am I! I’m right blithe to hear it! Then, there shall be houkin an’ shoolin, countin and coupin ower!”
‘ “Nane where ye trow; for ye’re but a short-sightit carle; an’ the warst faut that ye hae – ye’re daft, John Gray. But, if ye’ll be ruled by me, I’ll tell you where ye’ll find a pose that will mak you a rich man for the langest day ye hae to live. Gang ye away down to the town o’ Kelso, an’ tak a line frae the end o’ the auld brigg to the north neuk o’ the abbey, an’ exactly at the middle step you will find a comically shapen stane; raise ye up that when nae body sees, an’ there you will find an auld yettlin oon-pan filled fu’ o’ goud an’ siller to the very ee.”
‘ “But, friend, I never was at Kelso, and I never saw either the brigg or the abbey-kirk; an’ how am I to find the stane? an’, ower an’ aboon a’, gin I fa’ to an’ houk up the fok’s streets, what will they say to me?”
‘ “Weel, weel, tak your ain way, John Gray; I hae tauld ye. But ye’re daft, poor man; there, ye’re gaun away to mine a’ the vaults o’ the biggest castle o’ Liddesdale, an’ then ye’re gaun to trench a hale hillside at Tamleuchar, a’ upon mere chance. An’ here, I tell you where the pose is lying, an’ ye’ll no be at the pains to gang an’ turn ower ae stane an’ lift it. Ye’re clean daft, John Gray o’ Middleholm; but I hae tauld ye, sae tak your ain daft gate.” An’ wi’ that the auld body elyed away, an’ left me. I was sae grieved that he had gane away in a pet, for he was the very kind o’ man I wantit, that I hollo’d, an’ called after him, as loud as I could, to come back. But, gude sauf us a’! at that moment, my wife, Tibby Stott, poor creature! wakened me; for I was roaring through my sleep, an’ the hale had been a dream.’
John was terribly puzzled next day, and knew not which way to proceed. He did not like to go to hand-gripes with the devil, after such a warning as he had got, and therefore he judged it as safe to delay storming his Castle of Hermitage, till he considered the matter more maturely. On the other hand, it was rather ungenerous to go and seize on his friend’s treasure at the Cross of Tamleuchar, after such a friendly visit; and he feared, likewise, that the finding of it was very uncertain; yet he did not know but this might be some malicious spirit, whose aim was to put him by getting the money. And as to Kelso, he had never thought of it before; and it took such a long time to train his ideas to any subject, that he never once thought of going there: so all the schemes were postponed for some time.
‘A while after that,’ says John, ‘I was sitting at my loom, an’ I was workin an’ workin, an’ thinkin an’ thinkin, how to get ane o’ thae hidden poses. “I maun either hae a pose soon,” says I to mysel, “or else I maun dee o’ hunger; an’ Tibby Stott, poor creature! she maun dee o’ hunger; an’ a’ my innocent bairns maun dee o’ hunger, afore I get them up to do for theirsels.” Thae war heavy concerns on me, an’ I was sair dung down. When, or ever I wist, in comes my auld friend, the grey-headit monk. “John Gray o’ Middleholm,” quo’ he; “do you ken me?” “Ay, that I do, honest man; an’ weel too! Right blithe am I to see your face again, for I was unco vexed when ye gaed away an’ left me sae cuttily afore.”
‘ “Yere a daft man, John Gray, that’s the truth o’ the matter; but ye hae some good points about ye, an’ I’m your friend. Ye say, ye dinna ken Kelso, nor the place where the pose is lying: now, if ye’ll gang wi’ me, I’ll let you see the very place, an’ the very stane that the money is lying aneath; an’ if ye winna be at the pains to turn it ower and take the pose, I’ll e’en gie it to some ither body; I hae tauld ye, John Gray o’ Middleholm.”
‘ “Dinna gie it to nae other body, an’ it be your will, honest man,’ quo’ I; I says till him, “An’ I’s gang w’ye, fit for fit, when ye like.” Sae up I gets, just as I was workin at the loom, wi’ my leather apron on, an’ a rash o’ loom needles in my cuff; an’ it wasna a rap till we were at Kelso, where I soon saw the situation o’ the town, an’ the brigg, an’ the auld abbey. Then he takes me to a stane, a queer three-neukit stane, just like a cockit hat. “Now,” says he, “John Gray o’ Middleholm, the siller’s in aneath this; but it winna be very easily raised; put ye a mark on it, till ye get mattocks an’ a convenient time, for I maunna be seen here.” I first thought o’ leaving my apron on it, but thinking that wad bring a’ the fock o’ the town, I took ane o’ the loom needles to stick in beside it, thinking naebody wad notice that. Bless me! friend, quo’ I, this is the saftest an’ the smoothest stane that ever I fand in my life; it is surely made o’ chalk; an’ wi’ that, I rammed ane o’ the loom needles down through the middle o’ the stane into the very head. But I hadna’ weel done that, afore there was sic yells an’ cries rase out frae aneath the stane, as gin a’ the devils o’ hell had been broken loose on me; an’ the blood sprang frae the chalk stane; an’ it spoutit on my hands, an’ it spoutit on my face, till I was frightit out o’ my wits! Sae I bang’d up, an’ ran for bare life; but sic a fa’ as I got! I had almost broken my neck. Where think ye I had been a’ the time, but lyin’ sound sleepin’ i’ my bed; an’ instead o’ rinning the needle into the three-neukit stane, I had rammed it to the head in the haunch o’ Tibby Stott, poor creature. Then there was sic a whillibalu as never was heard! An’ she threepit, an’ insistit on me, that I was ettling to murder her. “Dear Tibby Stott, woman,” quo’ I; “Tibby,” says I to her, “If I had been ettling to murder you, wadna’ I hae run the loom needle into some other part than where I did? It will be lang or ye murder there, Tibby Stott, especially wi’ a loom needle.”
‘I had now gotten Kelso sae completely i’ my head, that away I sets again, to see, at least, if the town was set the same way as I had seen it in my vision. I fand every thing the same; the brig, the auld abbey, an’ the three-neukit stane shapit like a cockit hat, mid-way between them; but I coudna’ get it houkit, for the fo’k were a’ gaun asteer, an’ ay this ane was spying an’ looking at me, an’ the tither ane was spying an’ looking at me. Sae I hides my mattocks in a corner o’ the auld abbey-kirk, an’ down I gaes to saunter a while about the water side, to see if the Kelso fo’k wad settle within their ain doors, an’ mind their ain business. I hadna’ been lang at the water side, till I sees a hare sitting sleeping in her den. Now, thinks I, that wad be a good dinner for Tibby an’ the bairns, an’ me. Sae I slides away very cunningly, never letting wit that I saw her; but I had my ee gledgin’ out at the tae side; an’ as soon as I wan fornent her, I threw mysel’ on aboon her a’ my length. Then she waw’d, an’ she scream’d, an’ she sprawled, till I thought she wad win away frae me; but at length I grippit her by the throat. “Ye auld bitch, that ye are,” quo’ I; “I’s d
o for ye now.” But, wi’ that, the hare gae me sic a drive wi’ a’ her four feet at ance, that she gart me flee aff frae aboon her like a drake into the hard stanes at the water side, till I was amaist fell’d. An’ there I lay groaning; an’ the hare she lay i’ the bit screamin. Pity my case! where had I been a’ the time, but sound sleepin’ i’ my ain bed? An’ instead o’ catchin’ a hare, I had catch’d naething but auld Tibby Stott, poor creature; an’ had amaist smothered her an’ choakit her into the bargain.
‘I was really excessively grieved this time; but what could I help it? I ran an’ lightit a candle; an’ I thought my heart should hae broken, when the poor thing got up on her bare knees, an’ beggit me to spare her life. “Dear Tibby Stott!” quo’ I; “Tibby, my woman,” I says to her, “It will be the last thing that ever I’ll think of to harm your life, poor creature!” says I.
‘ “Na, na, but John, I heard ye ca’ me an awfu’ like name for a man to ca’ his wife; an’ ye said that ye wad do for me now.”
‘ “Tibby Stott, my woman,” quo’ I; “I’m really sorry for what has happened; but ye maun forgie me, for in faith an’ troth I thought ye war a hare.”
‘ “A hare! Na na, John, that winna gang down – Had ye said ye thought I was a mare, I might hae excused ye. I’m sure there wad hae been far less difference in size wi’ the tane as the tither.”
‘Tibby Stott’s no that far wrang there, thinks I to mysel, horn daft as she is.
‘ “But, John, what did ye tak me for the ither night, when ye stickit me wi’ a loom needle into the bane?”
‘ “Indeed, Tibby, I’m amaist ashamed to say it; but I thought ye war a three-neukit stane, i’ the shape of a cockit hat.” ’
When Tibby Stott heard this, she drew quietly to her clothes, and hastened out of the house. She was now quite alarmed, thinking that her husband had lost his reason; and, running to one of the neighbouring cottages, she awakened the family, and related to them her tale of dismay; informing them, that her husband had, in the first place, mistaken her for a three-cornered stone, and had stabbed her through the haunch with a loom needle. This relation only excited their merriment; but when she told them, that a few minutes ago he had mistaken her for a hare, and getting above her, had seized her by the throat, trying to worry her for one, it made them look aghast, and they all acquiesced in the belief, that John had been bitten by a mad dog, and was now seized with the malady; and that, when he tried to worry his wife for a hare, he had believed himself to be a dog, a never failing symptom of the distemper. Their whole concern now was, how to get the poor children out of the house; for they dreaded, that on the return of his fit, he might mistake them all for hares crouching in their dens, and worry every one of them. Two honest weavers therefore volunteered their services to go and reconnoitre, and to try if possible to get out the unfortunate children.
Now it so happened, that John was curiously engaged at the very time that these men went to the window, which was productive of another mistake, and put the villagers into the most dreadful dismay. As soon as he observed that Tibby Stott stayed so long away from her bed, he suspected that she had left the house; and, on rising to search for her, he soon found his conjecture too true. This he regretted, thinking that she would make fools both of herself and him, a thing which John accounted very common for wives to do, as the man had no better experience; and, not doubting but that his presence would be likely to make things worse, he awoke the eldest girl, whose name was Grace, (the most unappropriate one that could have been bestowed,) and desired her to go and bring back her mother. At first she refused to move, grumbling excessively, and bidding her father go himself; but John, at last, by dint of expostulation, getting her to comply, she requested him to bring her some clothes, and her stockings and shoes from beyond the fire. John called her a good girl, and ran, naked as he was, to bring her apparel. The clothes he found as she directed him, and hastening to the form beyond the fire to bring her stockings and shoes, he set down the lamp and lifted them. The stockings being tied together by a pair of long red garters, John found that he could not carry them all conveniently, so he took the clothes and the shoes in one hand, the lamp in the other, and the staniraw stockings and red garters, in his hurry, he took in his teeth. In this most equivocal situation was John first discovered by the two men as they peeped in at the window, on which they fled with precipitation, while their breasts were throbbing with horror.
When they returned to the house which they had lately left, they found a number of the villagers assembled, all gaping in dismay at the news, that the lang weaver, as they always stiled John Gray, was gone mad, and had tried to worry his wife for a hare. Scarcely had they swallowed this uncommon accident, when the two men entered; and the additional horror of the party may hardly be described, when they told what they had seen. ‘Mercy on us a’, sirs!’ cried they, ‘what will be done? John Gray has worried ane o’ the lasses already; an’ we saw him wi’ our een, rinning up an’ down the house naked, wi’ her claes a’ torn i’ the tae hand, an’ her heart, liver, and thrapple in his teeth, an’ his een glancin’ like candles!’ The women uttered an involuntary scream; the men groaned in spirit; and the Rev. John Mathews, the Antiburgher minister of the village, who had likewise been called up, and had joined the group, proposed that they should say prayers. The motion was agreed to without a division; the minister became a mouth, as he termed it, to the party, and did not fail to remember the malady of the lang weaver, and the danger to which his children were exposed.
While they were yet in the midst of their devotions, the amiable Grace Gray entered, inquiring for her mother; but, after many interrogations, both by the minister and others, the villagers remained in uncertainty with regard to the state of John’s malady until it was day. But then, on his appearance, coming in a hurried manner toward the house to seek his wife and daughter, there was such a dispersion! He ran, and she ran, and there was no one ran faster than the Antiburgher minister, who escaped praying, as he flew, that the Lord would make his feet as the feet of hinds upon the mountains. However, the whole fracas of John’s hydrophobia ended without any thing very remarkable, save these: that Tibby Stott asked her daughter with great earnestness, ‘Whilk o’ them it was that was worried? an’ hoped in God that it wasna’ little Crouchy.’ This was a poor decrepid, insignificant child, who was however her mother’s darling, and whose loss would have been more regretted by her than all the rest of the family put together. The other remarkable circumstance was, that the story had spread so rapidly, that it never could be recalled or again assimilated to the truth, and it is frequently related as a fact over all the south country to this day, among the peasantry. Many a time have I heard it, and shuddered at the story; and I am sure many, into whose hand these tales may fall, have likewise heard the woful relation, that a weaver in Middleholm was once bit by his own terrier, and that five years afterwards, he went mad, and tried to worry his wife, who escaped; but that he succeeded in worrying his daughter, and on the neighbours assembling and breaking into the house, that he was found in the horrible guise in which the two men had described him.
John continued to be eyed with dark and lurking suspicion for some time; but he cared very little about such vulgar mistakes, for his mind was more and more taken up about finding poses. This reiterated vision of the old gray-headed monk, the town of Kelso, the bridge, the abbey, and the three-neukit stane like a cockit hat, had now taken full and ample possession of his brain, that he thought of it all day, and by night again visited it in his dreams. Often had he been there in idea, and, as he believed, in spirit, while his mortal part was lying dormant at the wrong side of Tibby Stott; but, at the long and the last, he resolved to go there in person, and, at all events, to see if the town was the same as had been represented to him in his visions.
Accordingly John set out, one morning early in the spring, on his way to the town of Kelso; but he would neither tell his wife, nor any one about Middleholm, where he was going, or what he wa
s going about. He went as he was, with his staff in his hand, and his long bonnet on his head, without any of his mattocks for digging or heaving up broad stones, although he knew that purses were generally hid below them. Therefore John felt as disconsolate by the way, as a parish-minister does who goes from home to preach without a sermon in his pocket, or like a warrior going out to battle without his armour or weapons. He had, besides, but very little money in his pocket; only a few halfpence, and these he found could be but ill spared at home; and the only hope he had, was in the great sum of money that lay hid beneath the three-neukit stane like a cockit hat, which stane, he knew, lay exactly mid-way between the end of the bridge and the north corner of the abbey.
John arrived at the lovely town of Kelso a little before the going down of the sun, and immediately set out about surveying the premises; but, to his great disappointment, he found that nothing was the same as it had been shown to him in his dream. The town and the abbey were both on the wrong side of the river, and he scarcely felt convinced that it was the same place. Moreover, the middle space between the end of the bridge and the abbey it was impossible to fix on, owing to some houses that interrupted the line. However, he looked narrowly and patiently all the way, from the one to the other, for the three-cornered stone, often stopping to scrape away the dust with his hands or feet from the sides of every broad one, to ascertain its exact form. He found many broadish stones, and some that inclined a little to a triangular form, but none of them like the one he had dreamed of; though there were some that he felt a strong inclination to raise up, merely that he might see what was below them.
But the more he looked, the better was he convinced, that the middle space between the abbey and the bridge was occupied by an old low-roofed house, within which the three-cornered stone, and the pose of course, behoved to be. Four or five times, in the course of his investigations, did John draw near to the door of this house, and every time stood hesitating whether or not he should enter; but, as he had resolved to tell his errand to no one living, not for fear of being laughed at, but for fear any one should come between him and the pose, he declined going in.
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 11
