‘Ay, that’s the priest, the Catholic Priest,’ said Eph Milburn, after a white-haired, cassock-clad old gentleman, who had nodded slightly in reply to my companion’s greeting, had passed over the bridge and departed out of hearing.

‘He looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth now,’ continued Milburn, a long-legged, ruddy-bearded, hawk-eyed son of the moorlands, ‘and aal his time nowadays he spends in his garden over his bees or his flowers, or thumbing his Mass-book in his library; but it wasn’t so once-a-day, not he, not when the old Squire was above ground, and he came up by to stop wiv him.

‘Ye’ll have heard tell o’ the old Squire an’ aal his goin’s on, I’ll be bound? Ay, o’ course, but there’s one thing nobody kens o’, not even Father Blenkinsop, and that’s where the Squire’s bones are lyin’, for they never found his body, ye ken.

‘Squire Dally was the last o’ the fam’ly that had lived in the old Pele Tower o’ Dally from generation to generation, and he was the wildest o’ a wild lot—riders an’ reivers in the old times, canny hard fox-hunters, drinkers, an’ gam’lers this century. They were bound to get through their property soon or late, an’ the last Squire, Tom Dally o’ Dally, he says, “I leave my property tiv a South-countryman? Not I, by Gad!” says he; “why, damme, but I’ll cheat him yet,” an’ sae he spends hissel’ right an’ left on any mortal thing he took a fancy for.

‘The Hall—which was an old Pele wi’ two wings added, ye ken—an’ a good bit o’ the property, had gone before that. The last Squire’s grandfeythor had got shot o’ that, the mortgages on it bein’ far ower heavy to keep up; but there was still a fair property left, an’ a nice canny house that had once been a dower-house, an’ was now a farm, an’ that was where Squire Tom lived with his fighting-cocks, an’ his hounds, an’ his hawks an’ aal.

‘His missus had died early, ye ken, an’ that had been the ruin ov him, for she was a clivvor woman, wiv a turn o’ management—just what ye would call good hands i’ the matter ov a horse; that was her faculty, an’ she was a bonny-featured woman for-bye.

‘Ay, she could manage him fine.

‘There was a grand scene, ’twas always said, when he brings her home after their furrin’ tower, an’ one night, bein’ merry wiv his bottle, he forgets hissel’, an’ swears at her before company. Up she gets swiftly, pale, but determined, an’ leanin’ a wee bit ower the table she speaks straight at him. “Tom,” she says, “you forget yourself; and until you apologize to me for your rudeness I’ll sit no more at table wi’ ye,” an’ oot she gans frae the dining-room, haughty as the Queen in Scripture, leavin’ the Squire gapin’ an’ speechless, never havin’ been treated that fashion before.

‘There was two or three other men wiv him dinin’ that night, an’ on they sat drinkin’ steadily, the Squire in a towerin’ temper aal the while, noo damnin’ hissel’, next cursin’ his neighbour, an’ backin’ his horses, an’ hawks, an’ hissel’, wi’ gun an’ rod, against anyone, or the lot o’ them together.

‘They tried to soothe him a bit, but the mair they tried the hotter he got, an’ had the Pope hissel’ been his visitor that night, Squire Tom would have d——d him too, an’ been glad o’ the opportunity. After a bit mair snarling an’ sneerin’, an’ snappin’ he sits quiet for a while, then he glares round at his guest friends, an’ he cries:

‘“Ye’re nowt better than a lot o’ ‘momenty morries,’”—meanin’ skeletons, ye ken—“the wife’s worth the whole boilin’ o’ ye, an’ I’m d——d if I don’t apologize,” an’ he glared round to see if anyone would dare laugh at him for’t; but no one spoke save a little fam’ly lawyer chap, up for the night frae the toon, an’ he chirrups up an’ he says, “Qui’ right, qui’ right,” he hiccoughs, an’ the Squire glares right through him as he growls, “When I ask ye for an opinion I pay ye for’t, but if ye advise me unasked again, I’ll fling ye oot at window,” he says.

‘Sae oot he strides into the hall, an’ cries up the stairs: “Nell, my lass, Nell, ho-way doon, an’ I’ll apologize to ye, ay, d——, I will,” an’ doon she comes, an’ on tiv his knees he gans, an’ she holds oot her hand, an’ the Squire he kisses it like a lover.

‘Well, she manages him clivvor, but in her first child-bed she was taken ill, poor lady, an’ dies vary shortly, leavin’ him wiv a baby girl.

‘After that the Squire was never the same man again. He turned reckless, for what was the use ov “a filly” to him, he says; an’ havin’ no son an’ heir to live an’ save for, he sets hissel’ to spend aal he can an’ spite his next o’ kin—a barrister chap in London toon, whom he hated for bein’ no sportsman—“a priest-faced, pauper chap iv a black gown an’ wig,” he called him, an’ no love was lost between the pair o’ them. He was a good bit older than the Squire, an’ had a largish fam’ly, the second son bein’ none other than Father Blenkinsop—the priest that’s just passed us by.

‘He was the only one the Squire could take up wi’ at aal, an’ as a boy he was often there for shootin’, an’ huntin’, an’ fishin’, though his father liked ill his bein’ there, for fear o’ his gettin’ into bad ways under the Squire’s guidance, who was gettin’ wilder an’ wilder wiv every year that passed. He was just a boy then, was Father Blenkinsop, havin’ left his schoolin’, an’ bein’ aboot to gan tiv a college to be turned into a Jesu-yte, an’ nowt pleased the Squire mair, after a long day’s huntin’ or hawkin’, than to fill the lad up wi’ liquor an’ sneer at religion, an’ Mass, an’ priests, an’ aal.

‘“Chuck it, my boy, chuck it,” he would say, clappin’ him on the shoulder, as he passed the bottle about. “Divv’nt put on the black petticoat; ye’re ower much ov a man for that. Ye can ride, an’ ye can shoot, an’ ye can look a gal i’ the face, an’ ye can crack a bottle, but if ye turn priest, ye’ll neither be man nor woman, but a —— bad mixture o’ both.”

‘So he would talk o’ nights, pourin’ oot his ribaldries an’ drinkin’ doon his wine, yet never gettin’ fair drunk; for he had a marvellous stomach for liquor, had the Squire—no butt o’ Malmsey wine could ever have drooned him, I’s warn’d—an’ the only way he betrayed himself was by gettin’ a bit hotter i’ the face an’ fiercer i’ his talk.

‘Well, one night he vexed his young cousin beyond bearin’—what wi’ blackguardin’ his father an’ his mother, an’ wi’ one thing an’ another—an’ sudden the boy leaps up—mevvies he was a little above hissel’ wi’ liquor that evenin’—an’ he bangs wiv his fist on the table, an’ he cries, “Look here, Cousin Tom, I’ll stand it no longer, an’ to prove I’m no coward, I’ll challenge ye to ride to the big Black Stone on Glowrorum Fell an’ back across the Moor this very night.”

‘“Done wi’ ye, lad, done wi’ ye!” shouts the Squire, bangin’ wiv his fist in his turn, “an’ I’ll tell ye what the stakes shall be. If I win, you chuck the Jesu-yte business an’ come an’ live wi’ me, an’ if you win, you can take your pick o’ the horses i’ my stable. Agreed?”

‘“Ay!” shouted the boy recklessly; “done wi’ ye.”

‘Fifteen minutes after this the two o’ them starts off with a wild hallo up the brae side, an’ so across the Moor, the Squire “yoickin’” an’ “tally-hooin’” as he went.

‘The Moor was mevvies aboot two miles across—an’ a tarr’ble bad place for hard gallopin’, for there was a stone wall or two i’ the middle o’t, bogs to the left hand, an’ some old workin’s—pit-shafts or the like—to the right.

‘So right across Towlerhirst Moor they galloped—hell-to-leather—the Squire to the right an’ the boy to the left.

‘Tom Brewis, the old herd up at Windyneuk, happened to be passin’ along the sheep-track that leads by the Moor edge that night, an’ hearin’ the sound ov a horse gallopin’, an’ a lively hollerin’ as tho’ to a pack o’ hounds, he comes across a bit to find oot what it might be.

‘It was a dampish, daggyish sort o’ night, but at times there was a drift o’ moonlight, an’ in one o’ thae glimpses he caught a sight ov a dark figure on horseback, aboot two hundred yards from him, tryin’ to jump a big black horse across one o’ thae open shafts. “You won’t, won’t you? Then d—— ye, ye —— black de’il, ye shall!” an’ clappin’ his spurs deep into his sides, an’ layin’ his huntin’ crop aboot his ears, he forced him some paces backward an’ sent him at it again.

‘It was a big black stallion he was ridin’—a fiery-tempered brute, a proper match for the Squire—an’ up he reared on end, fightin’ him, shriekin’ wi’ pain an’ rage; but he couldn’t get shot ov his rider, so wiv a sudden bound he starts forward an’ tries to clear the shaft wiv one great leap.

‘Just at that moment the moonlight faded, an’ Tom Brewis couldn’t tell exactly what happened, but he saw a dark mass leapin’, he heard a rattle o’ stones, then a heavy thud deep down somewhere, a sort o’ splash, an’ aal was still.

‘Tom stands there aal a-gliff wi’ terror, half dazed, not kennin’ whether he can have seen or heard aright; then, pullin’ hissel’ together, walks slowly thither to see if any trace can be seen of horse or rider.

‘But there wasn’t a one—neither o’ horse nor Squire—nowt but a tramplin’ o’ horse’s hoofs an’ a white gash as o’ a half horse-shoe on a big boulder o’ rock two feet below the surface t’other side. Sae Tom gans slowly back, an’ doon to the Squire’s house to find if he can hear anything ov him doon there; for he half hoped it might be a sort o’ dream after aal.

‘Just as he gets to the door a figure comes up the drive leadin’ to the house, draggin’ a lame horse after him, an’ “Ha ye seen anything o’ the Squire?” it shouts at him. “No-o,” says Tom, startled-like, “that was just what I was comin’ to ask for myself;” an’ he peers through the shadows to see who his questioner could be, an’ recognises Master Fred, the Squire’s cousin, bleedin’ frae a wound i’ the head, an’ leadin’ a horse wi’ two fearfu’ broken knees.

‘He win his wager,’ concluded my companion slowly, ‘but after that ride he was never the lad he had been before, an’ perhaps it’s scarcely likely that he should be, I’m thinkin’.’