Dickon the Devil
About thirty years ago I was selected by two rich old maids to visit aproperty in that part of Lancashire which lies near the famous forestof Pendle, with which Mr. Ainsworth's "Lancashire Witches" has made usso pleasantly familiar. My business was to make partition of a smallproperty, including a house and demesne, to which they had a long timebefore succeeded as co-heiresses.The last forty miles of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly bycross-roads, little known, and less frequented, and presenting sceneryoften extremely interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of thelandscape was enhanced by the season, the beginning of September, atwhich I was travelling.I had never been in this part of the world before; I am told it is nowa great deal less wild, and, consequently, less beautiful.At the inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses and somedinner--for it was then past five o'clock--I found the host, a haleold fellow of five-and-sixty, as he told me, a man of easy andgarrulous benevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with anyamount of talk, which the slightest tap sufficed to set flowing, onany subject you pleased.I was curious to learn something about Barwyke, which was the name ofthe demesne and house I was going to. As there was no inn within somemiles of it, I had written to the steward to put me up there, the bestway he could, for a night.The host of the "Three Nuns," which was the sign under which heentertained wayfarers, had not a great deal to tell. It was twentyyears, or more, since old Squire Bowes died, and no one had lived inthe Hall ever since, except the gardener and his wife."Tom Wyndsour will be as old a man as myself; but he's a bit taller,and not so much in flesh, quite," said the fat innkeeper."But there were stories about the house," I repeated, "that they said,prevented tenants from coming into it?""Old wives' tales; many years ago, that will be, sir; I forget 'em; Iforget 'em all. Oh yes, there always will be, when a house is left so;foolish folk will always be talkin'; but I hadn't heard a word aboutit this twenty year."It was vain trying to pump him; the old landlord of the "Three Nuns,"for some reason, did not choose to tell tales of Barwyke Hall, if hereally did, as I suspected, remember them.I paid my reckoning, and resumed my journey, well pleased with thegood cheer of that old-world inn, but a little disappointed.We had been driving for more than an hour, when we began to cross awild common; and I knew that, this passed, a quarter of an hour wouldbring me to the door of Barwyke Hall.The peat and furze were pretty soon left behind; we were again in thewooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural and pretty,and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind. I was looking from thechaise-window, and soon detected the object of which, for some time,my eye had been in search. Barwyke Hall was a large, quaint house, ofthat cage-work fashion known as "black-and-white," in which the barsand angles of an oak framework contrast, black as ebony, with thewhite plaster that overspreads the masonry built into its interstices.This steep-roofed Elizabethan house stood in the midst of park-likegrounds of no great extent, but rendered imposing by the noble statureof the old trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward overthe sward, from the declining sun.The park-wall was grey with age, and in many places laden with ivy. Indeep grey shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of eveningreflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle hollow, stretched alake that looked cold and black, and seemed, as it were, to skulk fromobservation with a guilty knowledge.I had forgot that there was a lake at Barwyke; but the moment thiscaught my eye, like the cold polish of a snake in the shadow, myinstinct seemed to recognize something dangerous, and I knew that thelake was connected, I could not remember how, with the story I hadheard of this place in my boyhood.I drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these nobletrees, whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow, returned thebeams of the western sun gorgeously.We drew up at the door. I got out, and had a good look at the front ofthe house; it was a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of longneglect upon it; great wooden shutters, in the old fashion, werebarred, outside, across the windows; grass, and even nettles, weregrowing thick on the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked the timberbeams; the plaster was discoloured by time and weather, and bore greatrusset and yellow stains. The gloom was increased by several grandold trees that crowded close about the house.I mounted the steps, and looked round; the dark lake lay near me now,a little to the left. It was not large; it may have covered some tenor twelve acres; but it added to the melancholy of the scene. Near thecentre of it was a small island, with two old ash trees, leaningtoward each other, their pensive images reflected in the stirlesswater. The only cheery influence in this scene of antiquity, solitude,and neglect was that the house and landscape were warmed with theruddy western beams. I knocked, and my summons resounded hollow andungenial in my ear; and the bell, from far away, returned adeep-mouthed and surly ring, as if it resented being roused from ascore years' slumber.A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in a barracan jacket andgaiters, with a smile of welcome, and a very sharp, red nose, thatseemed to promise good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude thatindicated a hospitable expectation of my arrival.There was but little light in the hall, and that little lost itself indarkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty, with agallery running round it, which, when the door was open, was visibleat two or three points. Almost in the dark my new acquaintance led meacross this wide hall into the room destined for my reception. It wasspacious, and wainscoted up to the ceiling. The furniture of thiscapacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy. There were curtainsstill to the windows, and a piece of Turkey carpet lay upon the floor;those windows were two in number, looking out, through the trunks ofthe trees close to the house, upon the lake. It needed all the fire,and all the pleasant associations of my entertainer's red nose, tolight up this melancholy chamber. A door at its farther end admittedto the room that was prepared for my sleeping apartment. It waswainscoted, like the other. It had a four-post bed, with heavytapestry curtains, and in other respects was furnished in the sameold-world and ponderous style as the other room. Its window, likethose of that apartment, looked out upon the lake.Sombre and sad as these rooms were, they were yet scrupulously clean.I had nothing to complain of; but the effect was rather dispiriting.Having given some directions about supper--a pleasant incident to lookforward to--and made a rapid toilet, I called on my friend with thegaiters and red nose (Tom Wyndsour) whose occupation was that of a"bailiff," or under-steward, of the property, to accompany me, as wehad still an hour or so of sun and twilight, in a walk over thegrounds.It was a sweet autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow,strode at a pace that tasked me to keep up with.Among clumps of trees at the northern boundary of the demesne welighted upon the little antique parish church. I was looking down uponit, from an eminence, and the park-wall interposed; but a little waydown was a stile affording access to the road, and by this weapproached the iron gate of the churchyard. I saw the church dooropen; the sexton was replacing his pick, shovel, and spade, with whichhe had just been digging a grave in the churchyard, in their littlerepository under the stone stair of the tower. He was a polite, shrewdlittle hunchback, who was very happy to show me over the church. Amongthe monuments was one that interested me; it was erected tocommemorate the very Squire Bowes from whom my two old maids hadinherited the house and estate of Barwyke. It spoke of him in terms ofgrandiloquent eulogy, and informed the Christian reader that he haddied, in the bosom of the Church of England, at the age ofseventy-one.I read this inscription by the parting beams of the setting sun, whichdisappeared behind the horizon just as we passed out from under theporch."Twenty years since the Squire died," said I, reflecting as I loiteredstill in the churchyard."Ay, sir; 'twill be twenty year the ninth o' last month.""And a very good old gentleman?""Good-natured enough, and an easy gentleman he was, sir; I don't thinkwhile he lived he ever hurt a fly," acquiesced Tom Wyndsour. "It ain'talways easy sayin' what's in 'em though, and what they may take orturn to afterwards; and some o' them sort, I think, goes mad.""You don't think he was out of his mind?" I asked."He? La! no; not he, sir; a bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows;but a knew devilish well what he was about."Tom Wyndsour's account was a little enigmatical; but, like old SquireBowes, I was "a bit lazy" that evening, and asked no more questionsabout him.We got over the stile upon the narrow road that skirts the churchyard.It is overhung by elms more than a hundred years old, and in thetwilight, which now prevailed, was growing very dark. As side-by-sidewe walked along this road, hemmed in by two loose stone-like walls,something running towards us in a zig-zag line passed us at a wildpace, with a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and I saw, asit passed, that it was a human figure. I may confess now, that I was alittle startled. The dress of this figure was, in part, white: I knowI mistook it at first for a white horse coming down the road at agallop. Tom Wyndsour turned about and looked after the retreatingfigure."He'll be on his travels to-night," he said, in a low tone. "Easyserved with a bed, that lad be; six foot o' dry peat or heath, or anook in a dry ditch. That lad hasn't slept once in a house this twentyyear, and never will while grass grows.""Is he mad?" I asked."Something that way, sir; he's an idiot, an awpy; we call him 'Dickonthe devil,' because the devil's almost the only word that's ever inhis mouth."It struck me that this idiot was in some way connected with the storyof old Squire Bowes."Queer things are told of him, I dare say?" I suggested."More or less, sir; more or less. Queer stories, some.""Twenty years since he slept in a house? That's about the time theSquire died," I continued."So it will be, sir; and not very long after.""You must tell me all about that, Tom, to-night, when I can hear itcomfortably, after supper."Tom did not seem to like my invitation; and looking straight beforehim as we trudged on, he said,"You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and nout's been troublingfolk inside the walls or out, all round the woods of Barwyke, this tenyear, or more; and my old woman, down there, is clear against talkingabout such matters, and thinks it best--and so do I--to let sleepin'dogs be."He dropped his voice towards the close of the sentence, and noddedsignificantly.We soon reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the park wall,by which we entered the grounds of Barwyke once more.The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge and solemn trees,and the distant outline of the haunted house, exercised a sombreinfluence on me, which, together with the fatigue of a day of travel,and the brisk walk we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silencein which my companion now indulged.A certain air of comparative comfort, on our arrival, in great measuredissipated the gloom that was stealing over me. Although it was by nomeans a cold night, I was very glad to see some wood blazing in thegrate; and a pair of candles aiding the light of the fire, made theroom look cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth, andpreparations for supper, was also a very agreeable object.I should have liked very well, under these influences, to havelistened to Tom Wyndsour's story; but after supper I grew too sleepyto attempt to lead him to the subject; and after yawning for a time, Ifound there was no use in contending against my drowsiness, so Ibetook myself to my bedroom, and by ten o'clock was fast asleep.What interruption I experienced that night I shall tell you presently.It was not much, but it was very odd.By next night I had completed my work at Barwyke. From early morningtill then I was so incessantly occupied and hard-worked, that I hadnot time to think over the singular occurrence to which I have justreferred. Behold me, however, at length once more seated at my littlesupper-table, having ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultryday, and I had thrown one of the large windows up as high as it wouldgo. I was sitting near it, with my brandy and water at my elbow,looking out into the dark. There was no moon, and the trees that aregrouped about the house make the darkness round it supernaturallyprofound on such nights."Tom," said I, so soon as the jug of hot punch I had supplied himwith began to exercise its genial and communicative influence; "youmust tell me who beside your wife and you and myself slept in thehouse last night."Tom, sitting near the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at measkance, while you might count seven, without speaking a word."Who else slept in the house?" he repeated, very deliberately. "Not aliving soul, sir"; and he looked hard at me, still evidently expectingsomething more."That is very odd," I said returning his stare, and feeling really alittle odd. "You are sure you were not in my room last night?""Not till I came to call you, sir, this morning; I can make oath ofthat.""Well," said I, "there was some one there, I can make oath of that.I was so tired I could not make up my mind to get up; but I was wakedby a sound that I thought was some one flinging down the two tin boxesin which my papers were locked up violently on the floor. I heard aslow step on the ground, and there was light in the room, although Iremembered having put out my candle. I thought it must have been you,who had come in for my clothes, and upset the boxes by accident.Whoever it was, he went out and the light with him. I was about tosettle again, when, the curtain being a little open at the foot of thebed, I saw a light on the wall opposite; such as a candle from outsidewould cast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started up inthe bed, drew the side curtain, and saw that the door was opening,and admitting light from outside. It is close, you know, to the headof the bed. A hand was holding on the edge of the door and pushing itopen; not a bit like yours; a very singular hand. Let me look atyours."He extended it for my inspection."Oh no; there's nothing wrong with your hand. This was differentlyshaped; fatter; and the middle finger was stunted, and shorter thanthe rest, looking as if it had once been broken, and the nail wascrooked like a claw. I called out 'Who's there?' and the light and thehand were withdrawn, and I saw and heard no more of my visitor.""So sure as you're a living man, that was him!" exclaimed TomWyndsour, his very nose growing pale, and his eyes almost starting outof his head."Who?" I asked."Old Squire Bowes; 'twas his hand you saw; the Lord a' mercy on us!"answered Tom. "The broken finger, and the nail bent like a hoop. Wellfor you, sir, he didn't come back when you called, that time. You camehere about them Miss Dymock's business, and he never meant they shouldhave a foot o' ground in Barwyke; and he was making a will to give itaway quite different, when death took him short. He never was uncivilto no one; but he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me whenI heard 'twas about their business you were coming; and now you seehow it is; he'll be at his old tricks again!"With some pressure and a little more punch, I induced Tom Wyndsour toexplain his mysterious allusions by recounting the occurrences whichfollowed the old Squire's death."Squire Bowes of Barwyke died without making a will, as you know,"said Tom. "And all the folk round were sorry; that is to say, sir, assorry as folk will be for an old man that has seen a long tale ofyears, and has no right to grumble that death has knocked an hour toosoon at his door. The Squire was well liked; he was never in apassion, or said a hard word; and he would not hurt a fly; and thatmade what happened after his decease the more surprising."The first thing these ladies did, when they got the property, was tobuy stock for the park."It was not wise, in any case, to graze the land on their own account.But they little knew all they had to contend with."Before long something went wrong with the cattle; first one, and thenanother, took sick and died, and so on, till the loss began to growheavy. Then, queer stories, little by little, began to be told. It wassaid, first by one, then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen, aboutevening time, walking, just as he used to do when he was alive, amongthe old trees, leaning on his stick; and, sometimes when he came upwith the cattle, he would stop and lay his hand kindly like on theback of one of them; and that one was sure to fall sick next day, anddie soon after."No one ever met him in the park, or in the woods, or ever saw him,except a good distance off. But they knew his gait and his figurewell, and the clothes he used to wear; and they could tell the beasthe laid his hand on by its colour--white, dun, or black; and thatbeast was sure to sicken and die. The neighbours grew shy of takingthe path over the park; and no one liked to walk in the woods, or comeinside the bounds of Barwyke: and the cattle went on sickening anddying as before."At that time there was one Thomas Pyke; he had been a groom to theold Squire; and he was in care of the place, and was the only one thatused to sleep in the house."Tom was vexed, hearing these stories; which he did not believe thehalf on 'em; and more especial as he could not get man or boy to herdthe cattle; all being afeared. So he wrote to Matlock in Derbyshire,for his brother, Richard Pyke, a clever lad, and one that knew nout o'the story of the old Squire walking."Dick came; and the cattle was better; folk said they could still seethe old Squire, sometimes, walking, as before, in openings of thewood, with his stick in his hand; but he was shy of coming nigh thecattle, whatever his reason might be, since Dickon Pyke came; and heused to stand a long bit off, looking at them, with no more stir inhim than a trunk o' one of the old trees, for an hour at a time, tillthe shape melted away, little by little, like the smoke of a fire thatburns out."Tom Pyke and his brother Dickon, being the only living souls in thehouse, lay in the big bed in the servants' room, the house being fastbarred and locked, one night in November."Tom was lying next the wall, and he told me, as wide awake as everhe was at noonday. His brother Dickon lay outside, and was soundasleep."Well, as Tom lay thinking, with his eyes turned toward the door, itopens slowly, and who should come in but old Squire Bowes, his facelookin' as dead as he was in his coffin."Tom's very breath left his body; he could not take his eyes off him;and he felt the hair rising up on his head."The Squire came to the side of the bed, and put his arms underDickon, and lifted the boy--in a dead sleep all the time--and carriedhim out so, at the door."Such was the appearance, to Tom Pyke's eyes, and he was ready toswear to it, anywhere."When this happened, the light, wherever it came from, all on a suddenwent out, and Tom could not see his own hand before him."More dead than alive, he lay till daylight."Sure enough his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could hediscover about the house; and with some trouble he got a couple of theneighbours to help him to search the woods and grounds. Not a sign ofhim anywhere."At last one of them thought of the island in the lake; the littleboat was moored to the old post at the water's edge. In they got,though with small hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless,they did, sitting under the big ash tree, quite out of his wits; andto all their questions he answered nothing but one cry--'Bowes, thedevil! See him; see him; Bowes, the devil!' An idiot they found him;and so he will be till God sets all things right. No one could everget him to sleep under roof-tree more. He wanders from house to housewhile daylight lasts; and no one cares to lock the harmless creaturein the workhouse. And folk would rather not meet him after nightfall,for they think where he is there may be worse things near."A silence followed Tom's story. He and I were alone in that large room;I was sitting near the open window, looking into the dark night air. Ifancied I saw something white move across it; and I heard a sound like lowtalking that swelled into a discordant shriek--"Hoo-oo-oo! Bowes, thedevil! Over your shoulder. Hoo-oo-oo! ha! ha! ha!" I started up, and saw,by the light of the candle with which Tom strode to the window, the wildeyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a sudden change of mood,he drew off, whispering and tittering to himself, and holding up his longfingers, and looking at the tips like a "hand of glory."Tom pulled down the window. The story and its epilogue were over. Iconfess I was rather glad when I heard the sound of the horses' hoofson the court-yard, a few minutes later; and still gladder when, havingbidden Tom a kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of Barwykea mile behind me.
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