The Holy Well of Ryrie

Waikato Times, Volume 91, Issue 14136, 13 August 1919, Page 8

The Holy Well of Ryrie

By A. L. HOLLAND. Chapter I. “II is a thing of no price,” quoth the man, “for it is rusty.” “We shall see that,” said the Poor 'Piling; “for in my thought it is a good tiling to do what our fathers did, and to keep what they kept without question.” —Fables, hy R. L. Stevenson. There is a voice to be heard in the silence of many solitary places which cries to the traveller to listen and to look well upon the land before him. It is a voice inaudible to many, and it breaks off its tale at the very outset, because it is permitted to tell no more; all i‘L can do is to repeat, like the plaintive “o’crcome o’ a sang,” that this scene has beheld wonderful things, whose record lias utterly perished, and can never now be imagined or told.

I had heard that voice in other places, but never more plainly than when I first turned my face toward Ryrie and the sea. The sun had some time set when I entered the hired “machine” in which I was to traverse the live miles which still lay between me and the Manse of Ryrie, after a day in the train.

Two great expanses lay before me—on the one side a wild, bare, llattish country, notable for a lack of trees and human habitations; and on the other a great and lonely waste of leaden waters, turning, turning quietly in the twilight. The coast-lino was chiefly low crags; but ahead of us it sloped down in a stretch bf links to a broad stretch of desolate sands. The country was beautiful, but with a beauty which was austere and sad beyond description; and the silence of it struck a town-dweller like a blow. My driver, 'an old countryman, who had hitherto been rather silent, seemed to divine my thoughts. “Ay,” he said, “it’s gey lonely an’ gey bare.” “It is,” I said emphatically. “We’ve nae'thing for the towerists to come an’ look at here,” he continued; “nae notable castles or onything! We’ve nae luck aval We’ve but the ae auld thing in Ryrie—awfu’ auld it it i s —an’ it, ye may say, is inveesible.” “Dear me,” I said, “and what may that be?”

“Oh,” he replied, “it’s a Holy Well; an’ if a’ the tales o’ it are true—ay, or the ac half o’ them —it was ancc a wonclerfu’ place. It was famous at ae time; it had the name o’ mirac’lous po’ers. Ay had it.” “But the well must be there yet?” 1 said inquiringly.

“Oh ay,” he made answer; “but naebody, to see it noo, would ever tak’ it for onything but an ordinar’ spring. When my grandfaither was a youag lad the waiter ran intil an ancient basin o’ stanc, an’ near by there was a great collection o’ stanes where a chaipel had been. The gr’und roond abool had been enclosed; ye could trace whaur the dike had crumbled doon; an’ it was kenned to ha’e been a kirkyaird that auld that naebody hid been buried there i’ the memory o’ livin’ man. But, oh, the plough has been ower it a’ thae mony years! An’ they’ve left naething but the wee drappie o’ waiter that naebody could weel hinder frae runnin’.” To me it seemed a 'mean and wanton act of sacrilege, and I said so. He nodded. "It was so. , But, oh, ye ken, there’s no' mony thinks that noo. For ae thing, there’s few i’ thae days that kens aboot the Holy Well, an’ i’ a whilie there’ll be naebody aval Mony’s the time my grandfaither would say to us bairns, “Mind ye, bairns, yon’s no’ a common well; it’s ‘worthy o’ respec’. Folk has la’en mony a thing frae it,” says he, “but they canna’ talc’ awa’ it’s po’er.” He lived three mile frae the well, but he ne'er gaed by the spot wi’out bringin’ hame his dinner-flagon fu’ o’ the waiter, for it’s the grandest waiter, mind ye! Ae day when he got hame there Was a wee chuckie-s'tane in the bottom o’ it. An’ he was in the terriblest way aboot that slane. “I maun awa’ east wi’ it,” says he. "Them that tak’s a stane frae the Holy Well will lose every doit they ha’e.” An’ back lie trailed wT that wee bit stane. He looked at me with a sort of apologetic glance. “I’m awfu’ for auld stories," he said with a smile. “I believe I ken a’ the auld anes i’ the distric’, an’ folk whiles laugh at me.”

1 was going lo assure him that I, for one, did not, when he continued: “If I micht venture to say’t, ye’d better no’ let on to the minister —to Mr Innes, ye ken—that I was bletherin’ awa’ aboot Hie Holy Well, for if there's a tiling he sets his face against, it’s what he ca’s supersteetion, an’ him an’ me near fell oot aboot it afore.”

“No, no,” I said, smiling, “I’ll not tell him.”

For a few minutes he was silent, devoting himself lo encouraging his horse up a long brae which we had come to, and I fell to thinking, with a little amusement, of this light upon the character of my old kinsman, whom I was going to visit. The Reverend David Innes of Eyrie whs an old man between sixty and seventy years of age, a distant cousin and college companion of my late father. Soon after he was licensed, Mr Innes was appointed to this obscure rural parish on the east coast of Scotland, where lie had ever since contentedly remained, and had fallen into a studious, hermit-like mode of life. He was unmarried, and strange legends circulated in the family as lo his eccentricities, the chief of which Was a lively terror of women and an apprehension that lie might be married in spile of himself. At intervals lie issued from this secure retreat and ventured on a holiday; as a rule accompanied (and so in a measure protected) by another old minister —a bachelor like himself, Pringle by name—who was his greatest friend. It was upon one of these bold out perilous Mights that he had first sought out my chambers in London, and introduced himself to me. “I christened ye, and ye’ve my name,” he said, on this occasion, with an old-fashioned solicitude which I found rather touching; “and it has often been on my mind that I’ve never come before to see how you’re getting on in the world.”

When he found Unit I did so hut indifferently, as a writer and journalist, his interest was aroused, and thereafter 1 had a visit at intervals from my old godfather, and an annual letter (of tin queerest pedantic turn) urging me to spend a holiday with him. And now, after an illness, I was at last on my way to his house. We were now nearing the summit of the bleak ridge overlooking the sea, and my driver 'spoke again. “We’ll sunc he in siclit o’ the manse nuo," he said —’‘that is, as muckle o’ il as ye can see in this licht.” The windings of the road, together with its high hedges, prevented one from seeing what was on the lop of the ridge; but now the hedges, at a sharp turn, ceased, as il bitten oil by the sea-winds (which I 'believe was actually the case), and I beheld the house whither 1 was bound. tl was now grown very dark; only one bar of greenish light still lingered in the western sky, and against it the

Manse of Ryrie stood on the orest of the ridge, in a clump of trees, strongly silhouetted as a vague bulk. A mass of darkness, black as sin, no light visible in any window on this side, it might well have stood for a warlock’s dwelling, an accursed place, the scone of some wickedness beyond the ordinary, anything rather than a quiet house of generations of the servants of God. Thus, at least, it impressed me then. And lids effect was heightened by o singular and ugly landmark which stood close at band hy the roadside. A few dozen yards ahead of us, where the manse loaning branched off from the highway at right angles, there rose a great clumsy obelisk, lo all appearance a monument of the dead, hedged ahullt by a cluster of dwarfish _ firtrees, and enclosed by a railing. Come upon suddenly in such a light it was no less (ban 'startling; it stood against the sky like a black, admonitory linger uplifted; and it would be hard to say which of the pair I liked least, the manse or the ill-favoured scn'tinel a its gate.

"Why, what’s this?” I exclaimed sharply. “Oh, it’s jisl a monlment," my driver rather unnecessarily replied; adding, “There’s naebody buried ablow it, ye ken; it was putlen up till a former minister o’ Ryrie that—that was drowned.” “Drowned here?” I asked. “just out yonder,” lie said briefly, indicating the bay with a jerk of his head, and then concentrated his attention on turning the trap into the rough and narrow byway leading lo the rnanso.

A few minutes later we were in sight of the proper front of the house; and here, it was agreeable to And, were lighted windows and an open door, where my godfather stood, in a cheerful beam of light, awaiting me. He had in no way altered since last I had seen him, two years ago. Here was the same little old man, with a deeply wrinkled face that was both shrewd and kind, and very imperfectly shaved; his linen of a dubious freshness, a red pocket-handkerchief depending from a bulging coat-pocket, his waistcoat not innocent of snuff. But there was something in Ins eager welcome which made one put aside these things. He took me across a stone-flagged hall into a long, lowroofed parlour, where the table was set for a meal.

“Ye’ll be .glad o’ your supper,” he said presently, “and Mirren —that’s my housekeeper—has it ready; it’s just boon waiting on ye.” The door, on these words, was opened by Mirren herself —for the manse boasted but the one servant—armed with a well-laden tray. She was a ■big woman, with gray hair and a great face with flabby, pendulous cheeks; one of Hie flattest, plainest, and grimmest faces surely ever bestowed on woman. She was, indeed, more like a harsh-featured man in woman’s dress. Material things prevailed in that large countenance; there was something inexpressibly wooden and unimaginative in her whole aspect, and I could not have pictured her swayed by any feminine weakness or susceptibility. Her cooking, however, was beyond reproach, and I said so to her master later on.

■ “Ay, Mirren’s a good servant,” he said. “She has been with me now for something like fifteen years. There’s an Eastern proverb—a grand saying—- “ Woman is a calamity; but no house should be without this evil.” And it’s true, ye know.” . I laughed. “At all events,” I said, “you have secured a woman who is as unlike one as possible. Anything more unfeminine I never beheld.” “D’ye think so?” he inquired quite seriously. “That never struck me. Nol But maybe that’s why I find her so satisfactory.” “You’re rather hard on women,” I said, smiling. He shook his head. “Women” he began, and then stopped, looking about him as if he dreaded that he might invoke one to appear. “Women are dangerous creatures. Ay, they are so. Oh, ye may laugh! But I’ve had experiences. Ah! I may just tell ye that I’ve had many escapes—many wonderful escapes—from matrimony. If I wasn’t careful, and lived in ,a place like Ryrie” He broke off, and an alarming vision of capture seemed to rise before him. “Ay, ay,” he resumed, “a man can’t be too careful; ye never know what may happen.”

I could not help laugh ins, and he himself smiled, although he shook his head immediately afterward. “Even here, now,” he said, “I have to he careful —ay! My chief heritor, Mr Middleton of Poustie House, Is a fine man, and his wife is a very agreeable lady.” He called it ‘Teddy.” “They’re always asking me along there, and ye know I can’t always be refusing. Not but what I’ve spent some very pleasant evenings yonder. But what company they keep! The house is aye full; grand 'society folk, and men of letters, and” He paused a moment, and then in a burst of confldence, “Man,” he cried, “d’ye know, once I look a play-actress into dinner yonder, and never knew it till afterwards I” He shook his head solemnly. “Mr and Mrs Middleton called a little after, and brought her with them,” he added darkly. “But I—l was out; yes, I was out,” he concluded firmly. I was certain he had been in, but thought it belter to accept this statement. I knew, from family , legend, that callers (not on business) rarely found him at home, as the phrase is, although they often saw someone very like him in the garden or at the window.

I laughed, at the time, at his precautions about Poustie House; and he. indeed, laughed too. But later, when 1 won't upstairs and was alone, 1 'bought there had not been so much cause for amusement. For the old man was serious; this delusion of his, as could be seen, had come to colour his whole life; and what a solitary life it must be! After the noise of Hio town and the train, the silence hi the manse was something deadly; the strange oppressive atmosphere of an old house hung about it. It was a sad place. I knew that when my godfather came to Ryric he had been in all respects like his fellows, with lids exception, that he had been a young man of talent beyond the ordinary. And behold what life in Hyrie Manse had made of him! It is curious how I set if down to that, but I did; 1 thought, from the first, that the Manse of Ryric was a potent place to influence one, and not for good.

Chapter 11. Early morning in Ryric was a wonderful thing. When I went out next day. before breakfast, I stood for a while marvelling at the freshness, the solitude, and the keen purity of it all. 1 do not say silence. For, although at that hour there was no voice ol man to lie heard, there were other voices in plenty. T soon learned that there, were, in particular, three voices which made themselves heard here, singly or together, and were rarely all silent; the sea, the wind, and die birds. In the early, early dawn I had been awakened by th p crying and pining of a flock of gulls; and imw Hie steady droning note ot the sea came up from the beach, where I could see the waves breaking on its deserted

sands with what seemed at that distance to be a strange slowness and deliberation. Yes, it was all beautiful, Gmt how sad and austere! No accident of light oi shade could take away the character of the place. 'Die manse was an old white-barlod building, far 100 large for its present occupant. 'Phe blinds of half of the rooms were always drawn, because the rooms were unfurnished;.and tills perhaps, helped lo give Hie place a dull and forbidding air. The shrubbery was a mere wilderness, the gravel unraked and weedy—my godfather was a bookish man, blind lo outward appearances—and the only presentable part of the garden was that which was given over to vegetables. The back .premises showed that some of the former clergy had employed their spare time in amateur farming; a great barn, byres, stables, and, above all, a surprising range of ■ .-sties encompassed the backyard;

jut they were all disused, except a dovecot and fowl-house, whose occupants hurried out to meet me. So, at least, I thought until I heard steps behind, and, turning, found it was my godfather, who a minute later was literally covered with pigeons from head to foot. And now 1 learned the reason for the strange contour of his coat-pockets, which had struck me amongst the other salient features of his dress, and which would have smitten any West End tailor with horror. The red handkerchief having first been brought forth, lie proceeded to take out corn from one of these receptacles, remarking that it was “handy lo have some always with ye, and the bit creatures expected it.” I observed that my old relative, who had always made ids appearance in London in all the majesty of clerical dress and a tall hat, and used a certain amount of precise solemnity ;n his speech, laid aside these adornments at home It was but natural, and an •improvement. On his side of the house, our forbears were plain people; his father had been a well-to-do farmer. A broad and homely speech had been the language of bis youth, and he used it in private still; even grammar, at times, following the tall hat, and being laid aside. And yet .(so I maintain) he was a gentleman; at ease with what he humbly called “ the gentry,” never a vulgar man. As the old phrase is, ft was a wonder to sec him.

Breakfast being over, his first act was to lead me forth to view the monument, a feature of the landscape on which I had not dwelt, but for which 1 perceived he had a great (and surely ■fortunate) admiration. Even when seen :in the cheerful morning light it was no whit more pleasant to look upon. Nay, rather, a good light revealed it to be sordidly ugly, and falling into a sad decay. The weather had peeled and corroded ■the stone, the slab -of white marble containing the inscription was cracked •across and foully discoloured, and the iron railings bent and devoured with rust.

Leaning upon them, I read the inscription:

ERECTED BY THE PARISHIONERS TO THE MEMORY OF THE REVD. MR ADAM TRAILL, A.M., MINR. OP RYRIE 1800 TILL 1830. II was very brief indeed, making no comment on the nran, good or bad, and lacking oven the usual text; and I felt a curiosity as to whether this were merely our national reticence, or if it had its root in economy, as the thrifty “Minr.” suggested. There was ample space for more lettering. “Ay,''it’s a handsome edifeece —very handsome,” my godfather Said with complacence, and fortunately took my admiration for granted. “The inscription tells very little,” I said, discreetly fleeing the topic of beauty. “This Mr Traill came to a tragic sort of end, didn’t he?” The old man turned sharply. “Eh! Who told ye that?” “The man who drove me here,” I replied. “But he told me very little; he only said that Mr Traill had been drowned in the bay.” My godfather nodded. “Ah, well,” he said, “there ye have the story. And as to how it happened 1 doubt if anybody could tell-ye that, for the man was alone. It was an accident; no one saw it, and his body was never recovered.” “So my driver said,” I remarked. The old man did not look well pleased. “Sam’l Motion is a blethering body,” he said, “very forward with Strangers. But I have to employ him; he comes to my kirk, and is the only carrier we have.”

“He has a very suitable name,” I said, and my godfather’s face relaxed into a grin.

“Ay,” he said, “he has so. I mind telling him once it applied to his longue as well. Ay, we’ve some curious names here.” With these words (to my relief) he turned away, and brought our inspection of the gloomy monument to a close.

As we turned to the house, “Well,” lie said, eyeing me kindly, “and what will ye do with yourself, eh?” “Oh, I’m all right,” I replied cheerfully, “I can entertain myself. 1 shall explore the parish; and then I want to got some writing done, of course." At this he brightened visibly, and I suddenly remembered that he had once told me how lie spent all his spare time in perfecting some sort of textbook for students of Hebrew.

“You must not make a stranger of me,” 1 said, “but go on with your daily work as if I were nol here.” “Well, well,” he said, “please yourself, and ye’ll please me. I was just Blinking of your work last night, and wishing I could supply you with sone material for a story; but I 'could think of nothing” (ho pronounced it “nawIhing”) “except that there was once a man hanged away cast at Murie’s

Craig. For the life of mo I could not help laughing at this extraordinary offer of material for a work of fiction. “Ye think ye could make nothing of that?” he asked hopefully. I shook my head, when all al once s.iin'l Motion’s story came to my remembrances (Continued on Saturday.)