Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 3

Sandy the Tinker-1-2

“'I remember it,' I said; 'a little farther on three streams meet and fall with a tremendous roar into the Witches' Cauldron. A fine sight in the winter time, only there is scarce any reaching it from below, as the path you mention and the little green oasis are mostly covered with water.'

“'I had not been there before since I was a child,' he went on mournfully, 'but I recollected it as one of the most solitary spots possible; and my astonishment was great, to see a man standing in the pathway, with a drawn sword in his hand. He did not stir as I drew near, so I stepped aside on the grass. Instantly he barred my way.

“'“You can't pass here,” he said.

“'“Why not?” I asked.

“'“Because I say so,” he answered.

“'“And who are you that say so?” I inquired, looking full at him.

“'He was like a god. Majesty and power were written on every feature, were expressed in every gesture. But, oh, the awful scorn of his smile, the contempt with which he regarded me! The beams of the setting sun fell full upon him, and seemed to bring out, as in letters of fire, the wickedness and terrible beauty of his face.

“'I felt afraid; but I managed to say:

“'“Stand out of my way, the river bank is as free to me as to you.”

“'“Not this part of it,” he answered; “this place belongs to me.

“'“Very well,” I agreed, for I did not want to stand there bandying words with him, and a sudden darkness seemed to be falling around. “It is getting late, and so I'll turn round.”

“'He gave a laugh, the like of which never fell on human ear before, and made reply: “You can't turn back—of your own free will you have come on my ground and from it there is no return.”

“'I did not speak; I only just turned round and made as fast as I could for the path at the foot of the crag. He did not pass me, yet before I could reach the point I desired he stood barring my progress, with the scornful smile still on his lips, and his gigantic form assuming tremendous proportions in the narrow way.

“'“Let me pass,” I entreated, “and I will never come here again, never trespass more on your ground.”

“'“No, you shall not pass.”

“'“Who are you that takes such power on yourself?” I asked.

“'“Come closer, and I will tell you,” he said.

“'I drew a step nearer, and he spoke one word. I never heard it before, but, by some extraordinary intuition, I knew what it meant. He was the Evil One. The name seemed to be taken up by the echoes, and repeated from rock to rock and crag to crag. The whole air seemed full of that one word—and then a great horror of darkness came about us, only the place where we stood remained light. We occupied a small circle walled round with the thick blackness of night.

“'“You must come with me,” he said.

“'I refused and then he threatened me. I implored and entreated and wept, but at last I agreed to do what he wanted if he would promise to let me return. Again he laughed, and said, Yes, I should return—and the rocks and trees and mountains, ay, and the very rivers, seemed to take up the answer and bear it in sobbing whispers away into the darkness.'

“He stopped, and lay back in his chair, shivering like one in an ague fit.

“'Go on,' I repeated again, 'it was only a dream, you know.'

“'Was it?' he murmured, mournfully. 'Ah, you have not heard the end of it yet.'

“'Let me hear it then,' I said. 'What happened afterwards?'

“'The darkness seemed in part to clear away and we walked side by side across the grass in the twilight, straight up to the bare, black wall of rock. With the hilt of his sword he struck a heavy blow, and the solid rock opened as though it were a door. We passed through and it closed behind us with a tremendous clang—yes, it closed behind us'; and at that point he fairly broke down, crying and sobbing as I had never seen a man even in the most frightful grief cry and sob before.”

The minister paused in his narrative. At that moment there came a tremendous blast of wind which shook the windows of the manse, and burst open the hall door, and caused the candles to flicker and the fire to go roaring up the chimney. It is not too much to say that, what with the uncanny story, and the howling storm, we all felt that creeping sort of uneasiness which so often seems like the touch of something from another world—a hand stretched across the boundary-line of time and eternity, the coldness and mystery of which make the stoutest heart tremble.

“I am telling you this tale,” said Mr. Morison, resuming his seat after a brief absence to see that the fastenings of the house were properly attended to, “exactly as I heard it. You must draw your own deductions from the facts I put before you. Part of that great and terrible region in which he found himself, my friend went on to tell me, he penetrated, compelled by a power he could not resist, to see the most awful sights and the most frightful sufferings. There was no form of vice that had not there its representative. As they moved along, his companion told him the special sin for which such horrible punishment was being inflicted. Shuddering, and in mortal agony, he was unable to withdraw his eyes from the dreadful spectacle. The atmosphere grew more unendurable, the sights more and more terrible, the cries, groans, blasphemies more awful and heartrending.

“'I can bear no more,' he gasped at last; 'let me go!'

“With a mocking laugh, the Presence beside him answered the appeal; a laugh which was taken up, even by the lost and anguished spirits around.

“'There is no return' said the pitiless voice.

“'But you promised,' he cried, 'you promised me faithfully.'

“'What are promises here?' and the words were the sound of doom.

“Still he prayed and entreated; he fell on his knees and in his agony spoke words that seemed to cause the purpose of the Evil One to falter.

'You shall go,' he said, 'on one condition: that you agree to return to me on Wednesday next—or send a substitute.'

“'I could not do that,' said my friend. 'I could not send any fellow-creature here. Better stop myself than do that.'

“'Then stop,' said Satan, with the bitterest contempt; and he was turning away when the poor distracted soul asked for a minute more before he made his choice.

“He was in an awful strait: on the one hand, how could he remain himself? on the other, how could he doom another to such fearful torments? Who could he send? Who would come? And then suddenly there flashed into his mind the thought of an old man to whom it could not signify much whether he took up his place in this abode a few days sooner or a few days later. He was travelling to it as fast as he knew how. He was the reprobate of the parish; the sinner without hope that successive ministers had striven in vain to reclaim from the error of his ways; a man marked and doomed—Sandy the Tinker. Sandy, who was mostly drunk and always godless. Sandy, who, it was said, believed in nothing, and gloried in his infidelity. Sandy, whose soul really did not signify much. He would send him. Lifting his eyes, he saw those of his tormentor surveying him scornfully.

“'Well, have you made your choice?' he asked.

“'Yes, I think I can send a substitute,' was the hesitating answer.

“'See you do then,' was the reply; 'for if you do not, and fail to return yourself, I shall come for you. Wednesday, remember, before midnight.' And with these words ringing in his ears he was flung violently through the rock, and found himself in the middle of his bedroom floor, as if he had just been kicked there.

“This is not the end of the story, is it?” asked one of our party, as the minister came to a full stop, and looked earnestly at the fire.

“No,” he answered, “it is not the end; but before proceeding I must ask you to bear carefully in mind the circumstances already recounted. Especially remember the date mentioned—Wednesday next, before midnight.

“Whatever I thought, and you may think, about my friend's dream, it made the most remarkable impression upon his mind. He could not shake off its influence; he passed from one state of nervousness to another. It was in vain I entreated him to exert his common sense, and call all his strength of mind to his assistance. I might as well have spoken to the wind. He implored me not to leave him, and I agreed to remain. Indeed, to leave him in his then frame of mind would have been an act of the greatest cruelty. He wanted me also to preach in his place on the Sunday following; but this I flatly refused.

“'If you do not make an effort now,' I said, 'you will never make it. Rouse yourself; get on with your sermon, and if you buckle down to work you will soon forget all about that foolish dream.'

“Well, to cut a long story short, the sermon was somehow composed and Sunday came, and my friend, a little better and getting over his fret, walked up into the pulpit to preach. He looked dreadfully ill; but I thought the worst was over now and that he would go on mending.

“Vain hope! He gave out the text and then looked over the congregation—and the first person on whom his eyes lighted was Sandy the Tinker. Sandy, who had never before been known to enter a place of worship of any sort; Sandy, whom he had mentally chosen as his substitute, and who was due on the following Wednesday—sitting just below him, quite sober, and comparatively clean, waiting with a great show of attention for the opening words of the sermon.

“With a terrible cry my friend caught the front of the pulpit, then swayed back and fell down in a fainting fit. He was carried home and a doctor sent for. I said a few words, addressed apparently to the congregation, but really to Sandy, for my heart somehow came into my mouth at the sight of him. And then, after I had dismissed the people, I paced slowly back to the manse, almost afraid of what might meet me.

“Mr. Crawley was not dead; but he was in the most dreadful state of physical exhaustion and mental agitation. It was dreadful to hear him. How could he go himself? How could he send Sandy?—poor old Sandy whose soul, in the sight of God, was just as precious as his own.

“His whole cry was for us to deliver him from the Evil One; to save him from committing a sin which would render him a wretched man for life. He counted the hours and the minutes before he must return to that horrible place.

“'I can't send Sandy,' he would moan. 'I cannot. Oh, I cannot save myself at such a price!'

“And then he would cover his face with the bedclothes, only to start up and wildly entreat me not to leave him; to stand between the enemy and himself, to save him, or, if that were impossible, to give him the courage to do what was right.

“'If this continues,' said the doctor, 'Wednesday will find him either dead or a raving lunatic.'

“We talked the matter over, the doctor and I, as we walked to and fro in the meadow behind the manse; and we decided, having to make our choice of two evils, to risk giving him such an opiate as should carry him over the dreaded interval. We knew it was a perilous thing to do even with one in his condition, but, as I said before, we could only take the lesser of two evils.

“What we dreaded most was his awaking before the time expired, so I kept watch beside him. He lay like one dead through the whole of Tuesday night and Wednesday, and Wednesday evening. Eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock came and passed—then twelve. 'God be thanked!' I said, as I stooped over him and heard he was breathing quietly.

“'He will do now, I hope,' said the doctor, who had come in just before midnight, 'You will stay with him till he wakes?'

“I promised that I would and in the beautiful dawn of a summer's morning he opened his eyes and smiled. He had no recollection then of what had occurred; he was as weak as an infant and when I bade him try to go to sleep again, turned on his pillow and sank to rest once more.

“Worn out with watching, I stepped softly from the room and passed into the fresh, sweet air. I strolled down to the garden-gate, and stood looking at the great mountains and the fair country, and the Deldy wandering like a silver thread through the green fields below.

“All at once my attention was attracted by a group of people coming slowly along the road leading from the hills. I could not at first see that in their midst something was being borne on men’s shoulders; but when at last I made this out, I hurried to meet them and learn what was the matter.

“'Has there been an accident?' I asked, as I drew near.

“They stopped and one man came towards me.

“'Ay,' he said, 'the warst accident that could befa' him, puir fella. He's deid.'

“'Who is it?' I asked, pressing forward; and lifting the cloth they had flung over his face, I saw Sandy the Tinker!

“'He had been coming home, I tak' it,' remarked one who stood by, 'puir Sandy, and gaed over the cliff afore he could save himself. We found him just on this side of the Witches' Caldron, where there's a bonny strip of green turf, and his cuddy was feeding on the hilltop with the bit cart behind her.'

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