The Black Dwarf by Walter Scott (books to read for 12 year olds TXT) 📕

CHAPTER VII. Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!— . . . . Return to thy dwelling; all lonely, return; For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.—CAMPBELL.

The night continued sullen and stormy; but morning rose as if refreshed by the rains. Even the Mucklestane-Moor, with its broad bleak swells of barren grounds, interspersed with marshy pools of water, seemed to smile under the serene influence of the sky, just as good-humour can spread a certain inexpressible charm over the plainest human countenance. The heath was in its thickest and deepest bloom. The bees, which the Solitary had added to his rural establishment, were abroad and on the wing, and filled the air with the murmurs of their industry. As the old man crept out of his little hut, his two she-goats came to meet him, and licked his hands in gratitude for the vegetables with which he supplied them from his garden. “You, at least,” he said—“you, at least, see no differences in form which can alter your feelings to a benefactor—to you, the finest shape that ever statuary moulded would be an object of indifference or of alarm, should it present itself instead of the mis-shapen trunk to whose services you are accustomed. While I was in the world, did I ever meet with such a return of gratitude? No; the domestic whom I had bred from infancy made mouths at me as he stood behind my chair; the friend whom I had supported with my fortune, and for whose sake I had even stained—(he stopped with a strong convulsive shudder), even he thought me more fit for the society of lunatics—for their disgraceful restraints—for their cruel privations, than for communication with the rest of humanity. Hubert alone—and Hubert too will one day abandon me. All are of a piece, one mass of wickedness, selfishness, and ingratitude—wretches, who sin even in their devotions; and of such hardness of heart, that they do not, without hypocrisy, even thank the Deity himself for his warm sun and pure air.”

As he was plunged in these gloomy soliloquies, he heard the tramp of a horse on the other side of his enclosure, and a strong clear bass voice singing with the liveliness inspired by a light heart,

Canny Hobbie Elliot, canny Hobbie now, Canny Hobbie Elliot, I’se gang alang wi’ you.

At the same moment, a large deer greyhound sprung over the hermit’s fence. It is well known to the sportsmen in these wilds, that the appearance and scent of the goat so much resemble those of their usual objects of chase, that the best-broke greyhounds will sometimes fly upon them. The dog in question instantly pulled down and throttled one of the hermit’s she-goats, while Hobbie Elliot, who came up, and jumped from his horse for the purpose, was unable to extricate the harmless animal from the fangs of his attendant until it was expiring. The Dwarf eyed, for a few moments, the convulsive starts of his dying favourite, until the poor goat stretched out her limbs with the twitches and shivering fit of the last agony. He then started into an access of frenzy, and unsheathing a long sharp knife, or dagger, which he wore under his coat, he was about to launch it at the dog, when Hobbie, perceiving his purpose, interposed, and caught hold of his hand, exclaiming, “Let a be the hound, man—let a be the hound!—Na, na, Killbuck maunna be guided that gate, neither.”

The Dwarf turned his rage on the young farmer; and, by a sudden effort, far more powerful than Hobbie expected from such a person, freed his wrist from his grasp, and offered the dagger at his heart. All this was done in the twinkling of an eye, and the incensed Recluse might have completed his vengeance by plunging the weapon in Elliot’s bosom, had he not been checked by an internal impulse which made him hurl the knife to a distance.

“No,” he exclaimed, as he thus voluntarily deprived himself of the means of gratifying his rage; “not again—not again!”

Hobbie retreated a step or two in great surprise, discomposure, and disdain, at having been placed in such danger by an object apparently so contemptible.

“The deil’s in the body for strength and bitterness!” were the first words that escaped him, which he followed up with an apology for the accident that had given rise to their disagreement. “I am no justifying Killbuck a’thegither neither, and I am sure it is as vexing to me as to you, Elshie, that the mischance should hae happened; but I’ll send you twa goats and twa fat gimmers, man, to make a’ straight again. A wise man like you shouldna bear malice against a poor dumb thing; ye see that a goat’s like first-cousin to a deer, sae he acted but according to his nature after a’. Had it been a pet-lamb, there wad hae been mair to be said. Ye suld keep sheep, Elshie, and no goats, where there’s sae mony deerhounds about—but I’ll send ye baith.”

“Wretch!” said the Hermit, “your cruelty has destroyed one of the only creatures in existence that would look on me with kindness!”

“Dear Elshie,” answered Hobbie, “I’m wae ye suld hae cause to say sae; I’m sure it wasna wi’ my will. And yet, it’s true, I should hae minded your goats, and coupled up the dogs. I’m sure I would rather they had worried the primest wether in my faulds.—Come, man, forget and forgie. I’m e’en as vexed as ye can be—But I am a bridegroom, ye see, and that puts a’ things out o’ my head, I think. There’s the marriage-dinner, or gude part o’t, that my twa brithers are bringing on a sled round by the Riders’ Slack, three goodly bucks as ever ran on Dallomlea, as the sang says; they couldna come the straight road for the saft grund. I wad send ye a bit venison, but ye wadna take it weel maybe, for Killbuck catched it.”

During this long speech, in which the good-natured Borderer endeavoured to propitiate the offended Dwarf by every argument he could think of, he heard him with his eyes bent on the ground, as if in the deepest meditation, and at length broke forth—“Nature?—yes! it is indeed in the usual beaten path of Nature. The strong gripe and throttle the weak; the rich depress and despoil the needy; the happy (those who are idiots enough to think themselves happy) insult the misery and diminish the consolation of the wretched.—Go hence, thou who hast contrived to give an additional pang to the most miserable of human beings—thou who hast deprived me of what I half considered as a source of comfort. Go hence, and enjoy the happiness prepared for thee at home!”

“Never stir,” said Hobbie, “if I wadna take you wi’ me, man, if ye wad but say it wad divert ye to be at the bridal on Monday. There will be a hundred strapping Elliots to ride the brouze—the like’s no been seen sin’ the days of auld Martin of the Preakin-tower—I wad send the sled for ye wi’ a canny powny.”

“Is it to me you propose once more to mix in the society of the common herd?” said the Recluse, with an air of deep disgust.

“Commons!” retorted Hobbie, “nae siccan commons neither; the Elliots hae been lang kend a gentle race.”

“Hence! begone!” reiterated the Dwarf; “may the same evil luck attend thee that thou hast left behind with me! If I go not with you myself, see if