Ronald Morton; or, the Fire Ships. William Henry Giles Kingston
“Stay, though,” exclaimed his host. “There is Sandy McNab will be crossing the mainland with his pack, and he will send over a message for you to Whalsey; there will be no lack of opportunities.”
Morton promised to stay away this night, should he be able to send a message to his wife, to the effect that he was doing so. Sandy McNab, the packman, was found on the point of starting, with his two half-starved shelties, scarcely the size of ordinary donkeys, but with wonderful strength of limb and power of endurance. He undertook that Morton’s note to his wife should be delivered without fail; and this matter being settled, Rolf, in no way loath, accepted his friend’s invitation. There was good cheer for all hands, though dried fish, oat-cakes, and whisky formed the staple articles of the feast.
Maitland of course wished to hear all about the extraordinary marriage of the heiress of Lunnasting with the Spanish captain, for strange stories had got about, and, as he observed, it was hard to know what to believe and what to discredit.
“There’s nothing so unnatural-like in the proceeding,” observed the old gentleman, after Rolf had given him a true, unvarnished account of the affair. “He’s a handsome gallant, and she’s a very fine lassie, there’s no denying that; but at the same time, God’s blessing does not alight on marriages contracted without the parent’s consent; and it’s my opinion that Miss Wardhill should have waited till Sir Marcus came home before entering into a contract.”
Rolf hinted that Sir Marcus’s whole conduct was not such as to secure the love and obedience of his daughter.
“That may be,” answered Maitland; “he might not have gained her love, but her obedience still was due to him. He left her, too, in charge of the castle, and now she has fled from her post like a deserter. Poor lassie, I would not be hard on her, though; and I doubt not by this time she is wishing herself on shore again, for the gallant ship she thought so brave must be pitching and rolling pretty heavily by this time.”
The friends were at supper, and while they were discussing their food and this same knotty subject, the loud barking of two Newfoundland dogs which roamed round the premises was heard, answered by the fierce growl of another of the canine race, which seemed to come from some little distance off.
“This is a late time o’ night for a visitor to come, but whoever he may be he is welcome,” said Maitland. “Here’s to you, Rolf; we’ll just finish this glass, that we may have a fresh brew of toddy for him when he comes.”
Again the deep bark and growl of the stranger’s dog was heard.
“There is but one creature in Shetland which barks like that,” observed Morton. “I should know his voice anywhere; it is Lawrence Brindister’s dog, Surly Grind. What can have brought him here?”
“He’ll answer for himself, for here he comes,” replied Maitland, looking out of the window, whence the person in question was seen approaching the house, mounted on the smallest and shaggiest of Shetland ponies, and his legs, encased in top-boots, almost dragging along the ground, though he managed, by a succession of sudden jerks, to lift them up so as to avoid the numerous inequalities of the way. His odd appearance was increased by his wearing a broad-brimmed hat and feather, and a long-waisted coat, part of an old court-suit. When he came to the door of the house, all he did was to stand upright, and to let his steed pass from under him. He threw the bridle to Surly Grind, who took it in his mouth, and lying down held it fast, the pony agreeing quietly in that novel mode of being tethered. Just as Captain Maitland had risen to receive him, he shuffled into the room, making a bow worthy of a Frenchman of the old school.
“Welcome to Hillswick, Mr. Lawrence,” said Captain Maitland; “it is not often that we have had the pleasure of your company of late. Come, sit down and take your supper; it’s a long journey you have made to-day, and the air on the top of Ronas Hill is well calculated to give a man an appetite.”
“Not a bad notion, friend Maitland,” answered poor Lawrence. “By the same token, too, little Neogle and Surly Grind will be beholden to your hospitality, for it is but a small allowance of food they have had since we left Whalsey this morning. A bone for the dog, and a handful of meal for Neogle, is all I’ll ask. The pony will easily pick up enough by himself to finish his supper.”
Captain Maitland gave the necessary orders to an old man who acted as his servant-of-all-work, but Surly Grind would not be induced to let go the bridle, even though a savoury mess besides the bone was placed before his nose, till his master had called to him from the window and released him from his office. The pony, as soon as he had had his basin of brose, and his bridle and saddle were taken off him, trotted off to the plot of greenest grass in the neighbourhood.
“That is a curious name you have given your pony, Mr. Lawrence,” observed Maitland, when his guest was comfortably seated at supper. “It is what would be called in Scotland a water kelpie. Is there anything of the nature of a Trow in your little animal?”
“More, perhaps, than you think of, friend,” answered Lawrence, gravely. “Neogle can do everything but speak; whatever I tell him he does it immediately. He follows me like my dog; he’ll step into my boat and lie down at the bottom of it, as readily as Surly Grind himself, or if I order him to swim astern, he jumps in forthwith; and if I was to take a cruise round the mainland, he would come after me as long as he had strength to swim.”
“He may do all that and not be a trow,” observed Morton, laughing; for he, as well as Captain Maitland, was anxious to prevent Lawrence’s thoughts running upon the recent events.
“Right, cousin Morton, right,” answered Lawrence. “I came honestly by him by purchase, and called him Neogle on account of his strength, and sagacity, and docility. The country people gave the name of the Neogle to a wicked sort of trow, whom they believe lives in the water, and whose great aim is to carry off people to destroy them. On that account he appears in the shape of a pretty pony, bridled and saddled, and all ready for a pleasant gallop across the country. He has a great fancy for carrying off millers. To do this he stops the wheel of the mill. That makes the miller come out of the house to learn what is the matter. On goes the mill once more, and when he looks about he sees the pony. If he is a young miller, and has not heard about the Neogle, or doesn’t believe in it, or forgets about it—‘Ho, ho!’ says he, ‘the mill is going on all smooth and pleasantly, so I’ll just take a gallop, and be back before it’s time to put in more grist.’ On that he leaps on the seeming pony, when off goes the trow, fleet as the winds. Away, away he goes. In vain the poor miller tries to throw himself off: a broken leg or an arm would be far, far better than the fate awaiting him. He is though, he finds, glued, as it were, to the saddle. On gallops the Neogle over hill and down, and bog, and loch, and stream, and voe; nothing stops him till the sea is reached, and then across it he flies till he is over the deep water, when down he dives in a mass of flame, with loud shrieks of mocking laughter, and never again is the poor miller heard of.”
“That’s a curious notion, Mr. Lawrence,” observed Captain Maitland. “I never heard it before; but do you say the people believe in it?”
“Troth do I; and why should they not?” answered Lawrence, blinking his eyes. “There are many things which you have seen in your voyages, and which would seem very strange to our people, if you were to tell of them. As to the Neogle, I never saw one that I know of, but I should be very cautious about mounting him if I did.”
The evening was now drawing on, the storm which had for some time been threatening had nearly reached the island; vivid flashes of lightning darted from the sky, and loud thunder claps rolled almost overhead. A sharp neigh was heard, and Lawrence Brindister started up.
“Ah, Neogle is aware of what is coming, and has trotted up to ask for shelter,” he observed, going to the window. “You’ll let him have a corner in your stable, captain, I dare say?”
The request was at once complied with, and scarcely was the pony under shelter than down came the storm, the wind blowing furiously, with torrents of rain, while the lightning flashed faster and brighter, and the thunder broke in louder and more crashing peals. The rain kept the