she says, “it was like this. When I gaed up till the gate o’ Heeven a man wi’ a lang white robe comes and says, ‘Wha may ye be?’ Says I, ‘I’m Elspeth Scott.’ He gangs awa’ and consults a wee and then he says, ‘I think, Elspeth my wumman, ye’ll hae to gang doon the brae a bit. Ye’re no quite guid eneuch for this place, but ye’ll get a very comfortable doonsittin’ whaur I tell ye.’ So off I gaed and cam’ to a place whaur the air was like the inside of the glasshouses at the Lodge. They took me in wi’oot a word and I’ve been rale comfortable. Ye see they keep the bad part o’ the Ill Place for the reg’lar bad folk, but they’ve a very nice half-way house where the likes o’ me stop.”
‘“And what kind o’ company hae ye?”
‘“No very select,” says she. “There’s maist o’ the ministers o’ the countryside and a pickle fairmers, tho’ the maist o’ them are further ben. But there’s my son Jock, your ain faither, Gidden, and a heap o’ folk from the village, and oh, I’m nane sae bad.”
‘“Is there naething mair ye wad like then, Grannie?”
‘“Oh aye,” says she, “we’ve each yae thing which we canna get. It’s a’ the punishment we hae. Mine’s butter. I canna get fresh butter for my bread, for ye see it winna keep, it just melts. So I’ve to tak jeely to ilka slice, whilk is rale sair on the teeth. Ye’ll no hae ony wi’ ye?”
‘“No,” I says, “I’ve naething but some tobaccy. D’ ye want it? Ye were aye fond o’ ’t.”
‘“Na, na,” says she. “I get plenty o’ tobaccy doon bye. The pipe’s never out o’ the folks’ mouth there. But I’m no speakin’ about yoursel, Gidden. Ye’re in a geyan ticht place.”
‘“I’m a’ that,” I said. “Can ye no help me?”
‘“I micht try.” And she raxes out her hand to grip mine. I put out mine to tak it, never thinkin’ that that wasna the richt side, and that if Grannie grippit it she wad pu’ the broken airm and haul me into the water. Something touched my fingers like a hot poker; I gave a great yell; and ere ever I kenned I was awake, a’ but off the rock, wi’ my left airm aching like hell-fire. Mr Airthur I had let slunge ower the heid and my ain legs were in the water.
‘I gae an awfu’ whammle and edged my way back though it was near bye my strength. And now anither thing happened. For the cauld water roused Mr Airthur frae his dwam. His een opened and he gave a wild look around him. “Where am I?” he cries, “Oh, God!” and he gaed off intil anither faint.
‘I can tell ye, sir, I never felt anything in this warld and I hope never to feel anything in anither sae bad as the next meenutes on that rock. I was fair sick wi’ pain and weariness and a kind o’ fever. The lip-lap o’ the water, curling round Mr Airthur, and the great crush o’ the Black Linn itsel dang me fair silly. Then there was my airm, which was bad eneuch, and abune a’ I was gotten into sic a state that I was fleyed at ilka shadow just like a bairn. I felt fine I was gaun daft, and if the thing had lasted another score o’ meenutes I wad be in a madhouse this day. But soon I felt the sleepiness comin’ back, and I was off again dozin’ and dreamin’.
‘This time it was nae auld wumman but a muckle black-avised man that was standin’ in the water glowrin’ at me. I kenned him fine by the bandy-legs o’ him and the broken nose (whilk I did mysel), for Dan Kyle the poacher deid thae twae year. He was a man, as I remembered him weel, wi’ a great black beard and een that were stuck sae far in his heid that they looked like twae wull-cats keekin’ oot o’ a hole. He stands and just stares at me, and never speaks a word.
‘“What d’ye want?” I yells, for by this time I had lost a’ grip o’ mysel. “Speak, man, and dinna stand there like a dummy.”
‘“I want naething,” he says in a mournfu’ sing-song voice; “I’m just thinkin’.”
‘“Whaur d’ ye come frae?” I asked, “and are ye keepin’ weel?”
‘“Weel,” he says bitterly. “In this warld I was ill to my wife, and twa-three times I near killed a man, and I stole like a pyet, and I was never sober. How d’ ye think I should be weel in the next?”
‘I was sorry for the man. “D’ ye ken I’m vexed for ye, Dan,” says I; “I never likit ye when ye were here, but I’m wae to think ye’re sae ill off yonder.”
‘“I’m no alane,” he says. “There’s Mistress Courhope of the Big House, she’s waur. Ye mind she was awfu’ fond o’ gumflowers. Weel, she canna keep them Yonder, for they a’ melt wi’ the heat. She’s in an ill way about it, puir body.” he broke off. “Whae’s that ye’ve got there? Is’t Airthur Morrant?”
‘“Ay, it’s Airthur Morrant,” I said.
‘“His family’s weel kent doon bye,” says he. “We’ve maist o’ his forbears, and we’re expectin’ the auld Lord every day. May be we’ll sune get the lad himsel.”
‘“That’s a damned lee,” says I, for I was angry at the man’s presumption.
‘Dan lookit at me sorrowfu’-like. “We’ll be gettin’ you tae, if ye swear that gate,” says he, “and then ye’ll ken what it’s like.”
‘Of a sudden I fell into a great fear. “Dinna say that, Dan,” I cried; “I’m better than ye think. I’m a deacon, and ’ll maybe sune be an elder, and I never swear except at my dowg.”
‘“Tak care, Gidden,” said the face afore me. “Where I am, a’ things are taken into account.”
‘“Then they’ll hae a gey big account for you,” says I. “What-like do they treat you, may be?”
‘The man groaned.
‘“I’ll tell ye what they dae to ye doon there,” he said. “They put ye intil a place a’ paved wi’ stanes and wi’ four square walls around. And there’s naething in ’t, nae grass, nae shadow. And abune you there’s a sky like brass. And sune ye get terrible hot and thirsty, and your tongue sticks to your mouth, and your eyes get blind wi’ lookin’ on the white stane. Then ye gang clean fey, and dad your heid on the ground and the walls to try and kill yoursel. But though ye dae’t till a’ eternity ye couldna feel pain. A’ that ye feel is just the awfu’ devourin’ thirst, and the heat and the weariness. And if ye lie doon the ground burns ye and ye’re fain to get up. And ye canna lean on the walls for the heat, and bye and bye when ye’re fair perished wi’ the thing, they tak ye out to try some ither ploy.”
‘“Nae mair,” I cried, “nae mair, Dan!”
‘But he went on malicious-like, –
‘“Na, na, Gidden, I’m no dune yet. Syne they tak you to a fine room but awfu’ warm. And there’s a big fire in the grate and thick woollen rugs on the floor. And in the corner there’s a braw feather bed. And they lay ye down on ’t, and then they pile on the tap o’ ye mattresses and blankets and sacks and great rolls o’ woollen stuff miles wide. And then ye see what they’re after, tryin’ to suffocate ye as they dae to folk that a mad dowg has bitten. And ye try to kick them off, but they’re ower heavy, and ye canna move your feet nor your airms nor gee your heid. Then ye gang clean gyte and skirl to yoursel, but your voice is choked and naebody is near. And the warst ο’ ’t is that ye canna die and get it ower. It’s like death
