The Mystery of Cloomber by Arthur Conan Doyle (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📕

It was just awfu’ lyin’ there in the deid silence, waitin’ and waitin’ wi’ never a soond tae break the monotony, except the heavy tickin’ o’ an auld clock somewhere doon the passage.

First I would look doon the corridor in the one way, and syne I’d look doon in t’ither, but it aye seemed to me as though there was something coming up frae the side that I wasna lookin’ at. I had a cauld sweat on my broo, and my hairt was beatin’ twice tae ilka tick o’ the clock, and what feared me most of a’ was that the dust frae the curtains and things was aye gettin’ doon intae my lungs, and it was a’ I could dae tae keep mysel’ frae coughin’.

Godsakes! I wonder my hair wasna grey wi’ a’ that I went through. I wouldna dae it again to be made Lord Provost o’ Glasgie.

Weel, it may have been twa o’clock in the mornin’ or maybe a little mair, and I was just thinkin’ that I wasna tae see onything after a’—and I wasna very sorry neither—when all o’ a sudden a soond cam tae my ears clear and distinct through the stillness o’ the nicht.

I’ve been asked afore noo tae describe that soond, but I’ve aye foond that it’s no’ vera easy tae gie a clear idea o’t, though it was unlike any other soond that ever I hearkened tae. It was a shairp, ringin’ clang, like what could be caused by flippin’ the rim o’ a wineglass, but it was far higher and thinner than that, and had in it, tae, a kind o’ splash, like the tinkle o’ a rain-drop intae a water-butt.

In my fear I sat up amang my cairpets, like a puddock among gowan-leaves, and I listened wi’ a’ my ears. A’ was still again noo, except for the dull tickin’ o’ the distant clock.

Suddenly the soond cam again, as clear, as shrill, as shairp as ever, and this time the general heard it, for I heard him gie a kind o’ groan, as a tired man might wha has been roosed oot o’ his sleep.

He got up frae his bed, and I could make oot a rustling noise, as though he were dressin’ himsel’, and presently his footfa’ as he began tae walk up and doon in his room.

Mysakes! it didna tak lang for me tae drap doon amang the cairpets again and cover mysel’ ower. There I lay tremblin’ in every limb, and sayin’ as mony prayers as I could mind, wi’ my e’e still peepin’ through the keek-hole, and’ fixed upon the door o’ the general’s room.

I heard the rattle o’ the handle presently, and the door swung slowly open. There was a licht burnin’ in the room beyond, an’ I could just catch a glimpse o’ what seemed tae me like a row o’ swords stuck alang the side o’ the wa’, when the general stepped oot and shut the door behind him. He was dressed in a dressin’ goon, wi’ a red smokin’-cap on his heid, and a pair o’ slippers wi’ the heels cut off and the taes turned up.

For a moment it cam into my held that maybe he was walkin’ in his sleep, but as he cam towards me I could see the glint o’ the licht in his e’en, and his face was a’ twistin’, like a man that’s in sair distress o’ mind. On my conscience, it gies me the shakes noo when I think o’ his tall figure and his yelley face comin’ sae solemn and silent doon the lang, lone passage.

I haud my breath and lay close watchin’ him, but just as he cam tae where I was my vera hairt stood still in my breast, for “ting!”—loud and clear, within a yaird o’ me cam the ringin’, clangin’ soond that I had a’ready hairkened tae.

Where it cam frae is mair than I can tell or what was the cause o’t. It might ha’ been that the general made it, but I was sair puzzled tae tell hoo, for his honds were baith doon by his side as he passed me. It cam frae his direction, certainly, but it appeared tae me tae come frae ower his heid, but it was siccan a thin, eerie, high-pitched, uncanny kind o’ soond that it wasna easy tae say just exactly where it did come frae.

The general tuk nae heed o’t, but walked on and was soon oot o’ sicht, and I didna lose a minute in creepin’ oot frae my hidin’ place and scamperin’ awa’ back tae my room, and if a’ the bogies in the Red Sea were trapesin’ up and doon the hale nicht through, I wud never put my heid oot again tae hae a glimpse o’ them.

I didna say a word tae anybody aboot what I’d seen, but I made up my mind that I wudna stay muckle langer at Cloomber Ha’. Four pund a month is a good wage, but it isna enough tae pay a man for the loss o’ his peace o’ mind, and maybe the loss o’ his soul as weel, for when the deil is aboot ye canna tell what sort o’ a trap he may lay for ye, and though they say that Providence is stronger than him, it’s maybe as weel no’ to risk it.

It was clear tae me that the general and his hoose were baith under some curse, and it was fit that that curse should fa’ on them that had earned it, and no’ on a righteous Presbyterian, wha had ever trod the narrow path.

My hairt was sair for young Miss Gabriel—for she was a bonnie and winsome lassie—but for a’ that, I felt that my duty was tae mysel’ and that I should gang forth, even as Lot ganged oot o’ the wicked cities o’ the plain.

That awfu’ cling-clang was aye dingin’ in my lugs, and I couldna bear to be alane in the passages for fear o’ hearin’ it ance again. I only wanted a chance or an excuse tae gie the general notice, and tae gang back to some place where I could see Christian folk, and have the kirk within a stone-cast tae fa’ back upon.

But it proved tae be ordained that, instead o’ my saying the word, it should come frae the general himsel’.

It was ane day aboot the beginning of October, I was comin’ oot o’ the stable, after giein’ its oats tae the horse, when I seed a great muckle loon come hoppin’ on ane leg up the drive, mair like a big, ill-faured craw than a man.

When I clapped my een on him I thocht that maybe this was ane of the rascals that the maister had been speakin’ aboot, so withoot mair ado I fetched oot my bit stick with the intention o’ tryin’ it upon the limmer’s heid. He seed me comin’ towards him, and readin’ my intention frae my look maybe, or frae the stick in my hand, he pu’ed oot a lang knife frae his pocket and swore wi’ the most awfu’ oaths that if I didna stan’ back he’d be the death o’ me.

Ma conscience! the words the chiel used was eneugh tae mak’ the hair stand straight on your heid. I wonder he wasna struck deid where he stood.

We were still standin’ opposite each ither—he wi’ his knife and me wi’ the stick—when the general he cam up the drive and foond us. Tae my surprise he began tae talk tae the stranger as if he’d kenned him a’ his days.

“Put your knife in your pocket, Corporal,” says he. “Your fears have turned your brain.”

“Blood an’ wounds!” says the other. “He’d ha’ turned my brain tae some purpose wi’ that muckle stick o’ his if I hadna drawn my snickersnee. You shouldna keep siccan an auld savage on your premises.”

The maister he frooned and looked black at him, as though he didna relish advice comin’ frae such a source. Then turnin’ tae me—“You won’t be wanted after to-day, Israel,” he says; “you have been a guid servant, and I ha’ naething tae complain of wi’ ye, but circumstances have arisen which will cause me tae change my arrangements.”

“Vera guid, sir,” says I.

“You can go this evening,” says he, “and you shall have an extra month’s pay tae mak up t’ye for this short notice.”

Wi’ that he went intae the hoose, followed by the man that he ca’ed the corporal, and frae that day tae this I have never clapped een either on the ane or the ither. My money was sent oot tae me in an envelope, and havin’ said a few pairtin’ words tae the cook and the wench wi’ reference tae the wrath tae come and the treasure that is richer than rubies, I shook the dust o’ Cloomber frae my feet for ever.

Maister Fothergill West says I maunna express an opeenion as tae what cam aboot afterwards, but maun confine mysel’ tae what I saw mysel’. Nae doubt he has his reasons for this—and far be it frae me tae hint that they are no’ guid anes—but I maun say this, that what happened didna surprise me. It was just as I expeckit, and so I said tae Maister Donald McSnaw.

I’ve tauld ye a’ aboot it noo, and I havena a word tae add or tae withdraw. I’m muckle obleeged tae Maister Mathew Clairk for puttin’ it a’ doon in writin’ for me, and if there’s ony would wish tae speer onything mair o’ me I’m well kenned and respeckit in Ecclefechan, and Maister McNeil, the factor o’ Wigtown, can aye tell where I am tae be foond.

[1] The old rascal was well paid for his trouble, so he need not have made such a favour of it.—J.F.W.