The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 13

  ‘ “Gang ye into that garden,” quo’ he, “an’ begin at the auld apple-tree in the middle, an’ howk deep in the yird below that tree, an’ you will find an auld pan filled fu’ o’ money to the ee. When ye hae disposed o’ that, if ye like to gang back to that man’s garden, an’ howk weel, you will find a pose o’ reid goud aneath every apple-tree that’s in it.” Now, wadnae ye hae reckoned me as a fool if I had taen a’ this for truth? an’ thought I was acting very foolishly, if I had gane away into the west country, asking for a place an’ a man that perhaps hae nae existence? To hae gane about, as our school rhyme says, spearing for

  “The town that ne’er was framed,

  An’ the man that ne’er was named,

  The tree that never grew,

  An’ the bird that never flew.” ’

  ‘O there’s nae doubt o’ the thing, friend, it wad hae been great nonsense – there’s nae doubt o’t at a’. But yet, for a’ that, its the queerest dream, ae way an’ a’ ways, that I ever heard i’ my life; an’ I hae a great mind to gang an’ speer after the place an’ the man mysel’. If I get as good a breakfast, an’ as good a dram, as I did for the last pose I howkit, my labour winna’ be lost a’ thegither.’

  The cobler laughed, and wished John all manner of success; and the latter parted from him with many professions of esteem; and, in higher spirits than ever he was before, he went straight home to Tibby Stott and Middleholm, and prepared next morning to begin and root up the old apple-tree in the middle of the garden. Now, there were exactly thirteen trees in it, as the cobler said; a circumstance of which the owner was not aware till that very night when he returned from Kelso.

  Poor Tibby Stott was right glad to see her husband again, for the report in the village was, that he had run away mad; and, as the country people were in terrible alarm about that time for mad dogs, and pursuing and killing them every day, Tibby dreaded that poor John would be shot, or sticked with long forks, like the rest. She viewed him at first with a jealous eye; but, on seeing him so good-humoured and kind to the children and herself, she became quite reconciled to him, and wept for joy, poor creature! at getting him back again; for she found she would have been utterly helpless without him, although ten times a-day she called him a cool-the-loom. John told her how he had travelled to Kelso, and spent a day and a night there on some important business, and had only wared one penny; and, among other things, how he had learned to cultivate his garden so as to make it produce great riches.

  Next morning, as soon as it was day, John began a digging at one side of the old apple-tree, but he was terribly impeded by roots, and came very ill speed. Some of these he cut, and digged in below others; for he found, that when they were cut, they impeded his progress nearly as much as before. By the time the villagers rose, John had made a large pit; but then the alarm began, and spread like wild-fire, that the lang weaver was come home again madder than ever, and had been working all night digging a grave in his garden, which every one suspected he meant for Tibby Stott. The pit that he had made, by chance, bore an exact resemblance to a grave, and great was the buzz in the village of Middleholm that morning. The people gathered around him, at first looking cautiously over the garden wall; but at last they came close about him, every man with his staff in his hand, and asked him how he did, and what he was engaged in. John said he had been away down the country, inquiring by what means to improve his garden, and he had been instructed to prune the roots of his apple-trees in place of the branches; for that they had run to wood below the earth, which had been the cause of their growing wild and barren. The villagers knew not what to make of this, it was so unlike any thing that the lang weaver had ever done before; so they continued to hang over him, and watch his progress, with all manner of attention. John saw this would never do, for they would discover all; and then there were so many who would be for sharing the money along with him, that a small share might only fall to him; and, moreover, if they told the lord of the manor, he would claim it altogether.

  John had a good deal of low cunning; and, as he had now got very deep on one side of the tree, in order to mislead the villagers, he took a wheelbarrow, and hurled a kind of sour dung that had been accumulating around his cow-house for years, with which he crammed the pit that he had made below the tree, and, after covering it over with the mould, he tramped it down. His neighbours then went away and left him, convinced that he had got some new chimera into his head about gardening, which would turn out a piece of folly at the last. John was now left to prosecute his grand research quietly; save that Tibby Stott never ceased intreating him ‘to mind his loom an’ let the trees alane.’ John answered with great rationality, ‘sae I will, Tibby, my woman, I will mind the loom; but ye ken a man maun do ae thing afore anither.’

  Towards the evening, Mr Mathews, the minister, went into the garden to get a crack wi’ John, and see his new scheme of gardening. John had now got to a considerable depth on the south side of the tree, and not much regarding the tame moral remarks, or the threadbare puns of his pastor, (these two little amiable characteristics of the Calvinistical divine,) was plying at his task with all his might, for still as he grew more hungry his exertions increased; and just at that precious instant, his spade rattled along the surface of a broad stone. ‘John,’ said the minister, ‘What have you got there, John?’ ‘I fancy I’m come to the solid rock now, sir,’ said John, ‘I needna’ howk nae deeper here.’ ‘John, give me the mattock, John,’ said the minister; ‘I propine, that it would be nothing inconsistent with prudence and propriety to investigate this matter a little. This garden, as I understand, was planted by four friars of the order of St Benedict, who were the first founders of this village; and these people had sometimes great riches, John. Give me the mattock, John, and if I succeed in raising that stone, I shall claim all that is below it.’ ‘I wad maybe contest that point wi’ your worship,’ said John; ‘for I can tell you what you will find below it.’ ‘And pray, what would I find below it, John?’ said the Antiburgher minister. ‘Just yird an’ stane to the centre o’ the globe,’ said John; ‘an’ sic a pit wad spoil my bit garden.’ ‘Why, you are grown a wit, John,’ said the divine, ‘as well as a gardener. That answer is very good; nevertheless, give me the mattock, John.’

  The minister might as well have asked John’s heart’s blood. He determined to keep hold of his spade, and likewise the possession of his pit; yet he did not wish to fight the minister. So, turning his face to him, and keeping his spade behind his back, he said to him, ‘Hout na’, sir, ye dinna ken how to handle spades an’ shools, gin’ it be nae maybe the shool o’ the word to delve into our hearts an’ souls wi’.’ ‘There’s more strength than propriety in that remark, John,’ said the minister. ‘But I can tell you, sir,’ continued John, with a readiness that was not customary with him, ‘the hale secret o’ the stane. Thae monk bodies were good gardeners, an’ they laid aye a braid stane aneath the roots o’ ilka fruit-tree that they plantit, to keep the bits o’ tendrils frae gripping down to the cauld till, whilk wad soon spoil the tree.’ ‘Why, John, I have heard of such an experiment, indeed; and I suspect you have guessed nearer to the truth than might have been gathered from the tenor of the foregoing chapter of your life, John; it is therefore vain for a man to waste his strength for nought. A good evening to you, John.’ ‘Gude e’en, gude e’en to your Reverence,’ said John, as he turned about in his hole, chuckling and laughing with delight; and when the Antiburgher minister was fairly out at the gate, he nodded his head, and said to himself, ‘Now, if I hae nae mumpit the minister, my name’s no John Gray o’ Middleholm. Thae gospel bodies want to hae a finger in ilka ane’s pye, but they manna hae things a’ their ain gate neither. O there’s nae set o’ men on the face o’ the yird, as keen o’ siller as the ministers! Ane wad think, to hear them preach, that they held the warld quite at the staff’s end; but a’ the time they’re nibblin nibblin at it just like a trout at a worm, or a hare at a kailstock. He thought to hae my pose! Let him hau
d him wi’ his steepin’ – screw’d as it is off the backs an’ the meltiths o’ mony a poor body.’

  John took hold of a stone hammer, and gave the broad stone a smash on the one side. As he struck, the stone tottered, and John heard distinctly, something that jingled below it. The very hairs of his head stood upright, he was in such agitation! the hammer dropped from his hand, and he jumped out of the pit, gazed all around him, and then ran towards the house, impelled by some inward feeling to communicate his good fortune to his partner; but by the way reflection whispered in his ear, that Tibby Stott, poor creature! was not the person calculated for keeping such an important secret. This set him back to his pose; which, in trembling anxiety, he resolved to survey; and, cleaning all the earth from above the stone, he heaved it up, and there beheld * * * * * * * *

  It must not here be told what John beheld. – It would be too much for the reader’s happiness to bear. He must be left to conjecture what it was that John discovered below that broad stone, and it is two to one he will guess wrong, for all that he has heard about it, and for as plain as matters have been made to him. John let the stone sink down again – took the wheel-barrow and filled the pit full of wet straw, which he judged better than dung; then, covering it over with earth, he went into his supper of thin bleared sowins, amid his confused and noisy family, all quarrelling about their portions; and finally, to his bed with Tibby Stott.

  That night, John drew nearer to Tibby than usual, and put his arm around her neck. ‘Wow, John, hinny!’ quoth she, ‘what means a’ this kindness the night?’ ‘Tibby Stott, my woman Tibby,’ said John, ‘I hae a secret to tell you; but ye’re to promise, an’ swear to me, that ye’re never to let it to the tap o’ your tongue, as lang as ye hae life, afore ony body but mysel.’ Tibby promised all that John desired her, and she repeated as many oaths after him as he chose, eager to learn this great secret; and John, after affecting great hesitation and scruples, addressed her as follows:

  ‘Tibby Stott, do ye ken what was the matter wi’ me, when I was last sae unweel?’ ‘Na, John, I didna ken then, nor ken I yet.’ ‘But I kend, Tibby Stott; and there’s no anither in this world kens, or ever maun ken, but yoursel. I was very ill then, Tibby; an’ I was in a very queer way. Ay, I was waur than ony body thought! But do you ken how I got better, Tibby?’ ‘Indeed, I dinna ken that nouther, John.’ ‘But I’ll tell you, Tibby. I was brought to bed o’ twa black birds; an’ I hae them keepin concealed i’ the house; an’ they’re twa ill spirits, far waur than cockatrices. Now, if this war kend, I wad be hanged, an’ ye wad be burnt at the stake for a witch; therefore, keep the secret as you value both our lives. An’ Tibby, ye maun never gang to look for thae twa birds, for if ever ye find them, they’ll flee away wi’ you to an ill place; an’ mind ye an’ dinna gang to be telling this to ony living flesh, Tibby Stott.’

  ‘Na, na, John; sin’ ye bid me, I sall never tak the tale o’er the tap o’ my tongue. But, oh! alak! an wae’s me! what’s to come o’ us? Ye hae gart a’ my flesh girrel, John; to think that ever my gudeman sude hae been made a mither! an’ then to think what he’s mither to! Mither o’ twa deils! The Lord have a care o’ us, John! wad it no be better to let the twa imps flee away, or get Mr Mathews to lair them?’

  ‘But tent me here, Tibby Stott, my woman, Tibby, they’re sent for gude luck –’

  ‘It can only be deil’s luck, at the best, John; an’ his can never be good luck.’

  ‘The best o’ a’ luck, Tibby; for I can tell you, we’ll never want as lang as they are in the house. They’ll bring me siller when I like, an’ what I like; an’ a’ that ye hae to do, is to haud your tongue, an’ ye’ll find the good o’t; but if ever ye let this secret escape you, we’re ruined hip and thigh for ever.’

  Tibby promised again for the sake of the money; but the next morning before she swept her house, she ran in unto a neighbouring gossip, and addressed her as follows:

  ‘Wow, Jean, I hae gotten a screed o’ unco news sin’ I last saw you! I trow ye didna ken that we had a crying i’ this town the tither week?’

  ‘I wat, Tibby, I never heard o’ sic a thing afore.’

  ‘Aye, but atween you an’ me, there’s a pair o’ braw twins come to the warl, though nane o’ the best-hued anes that may be. But they’ll be snug-keepit anes, an’ weel-tochered anes, and weel keepit out o’ sight, as maiden’s bairns should be. Aye, Jean, my dow; but an’ ye kend wha’s the mither o’ them, your een wad stand i’ back water wi’ laughin!’

  ‘What? Hout fie Tibby! I wat weel it isna Bess Bobagain, the Antiburgher minister’s housekeeper?’

  ‘Waur nor that yet; an’ that wad hae been ill eneuch. But ye see the thing maunna be tauld; or else ye maun swear never to tell it again, as lang as ye live.’

  ‘Me tell it again! Nah! It is weel kend I never tauld a secret i’ my life. Ane may safely trust me wi’ ony thing. My father, honest man, used to say to me, even when I was but a wee toddlin thing, that he had sae muckle to lippen to me, that he could hae trustit me wi’ a housefu’ o’ untelled millstanes. The thing that’s bred i’ the bane, winna easily ding out o’ the flesh. When I was sae trusty then, what should I be now?’

  ‘Aye, to be sure, there’s a great deal in that. It says muckle for ane, when ane’s pawrent can trust ane, sae as to do as ane likes i’ ane’s house. My father wad never trust me wi’ a boddle; but mony a time he said I wad be a good poor man’s wife, for that the best thing ony body could do for a poor man, was to gie him employment, an’ I was the ane that wad haud mine busy for the maist part o’ the four and twenty hours. But for a’ my father’s far-seen good sense, I hae had eneuch ado wi’ John Gray, for though he’s nae bad hand when he’s on the loom, it is nae easy matter to keep him at the batt. But that’s a’ away frae our story. Sin your father could trust you sae far, I think I may trust you too, only ye’re to say as sure as death, you will never tell it again.’

  Jane complied, as was most likely, for the sake of this mysterious and scandalous story, as she deemed it to be, and after every precaution on the part of Tibby Stott, her gossip was entrusted with the whole. It would be endless to recount all the promises that were stipulated for, made, and broken at Middleholm, in the course of that day. Suffice it, that before night, every one, both old and young in the village, knew that the lang weaver had been brought to bed o’ twa black craws.

  This was too ridiculous a story to be believed, even by the ignorant inhabitants of that ancient village; and, as John shrewdly anticipated, they only laughed at John Gray’s crazy wife. It proved however to him, that it would never do to trust his helpmate with the secret of finding hidden poses, and that whatever money he drew from such funds, it behoved him to ascribe it to the generosity of the two black birds.

  So John arose one moonlight night, while others slept, went into his garden, and removing the wet straw, he again lifted up the broad stone, and took from under it the valuable treasure of which he had formerly made discovery. This was neither less nor more than the very thing he had always been told of, both by the vision of the cobler in his dream, and by the cobler himself; namely, an old pan filled with coins, of a date and reign John knew nothing about. Nearly one fourth of the whole bulk was made up of broad pieces of gold, but very thin, enclosed in one side of the pan; the rest was all silver, in a considerable state of decay. There were likewise among the gold, four rude square coins, about a quarter of an inch in thickness, and nearly the weight of a dollar each. John emptied them into a bag, and marched straight to Edinburgh with his treasure; where, after a great deal of manœuvring, he sold the whole for the miserable sum of £213:12:6, being the exact value of the metal (as the man assured him) to a scruple. John got his payment in gold and silver, for he would have nothing to do with bank notes, and brought the whole home with him. He knew nothing about putting money out at interest; and, still in fear lest he should be discovered, he hid it in the corner of his chest, resolved to live well on it till it was done, and then dig up another
tree, take the pose from below it, and sell, and spend that in course; and so on: for John knew perfectly well, that he had a dozen of poses more to begin to, when the first was done.