VIII.

The Devil's Elbow.

The traveller through the valley of the Etherow is invariably impressed with the wild grandeur of the scenery, and in nine cases out of ten his attention is especially claimed by the bold rock escarpment known as "The Devil's Elbow," which frowns high over the course of the stream. The situation of the rock is certainly romantic: the wild moorlands of bog and heather stretch away on either side, in fact the rock stands on the verge of some of the wildest mountain scenery of Great Britain. The very name of the place is suggestive of legend, and one is not surprised to learn that there are some queer stories related concerning the neighbourhood; one of these explains how the rock came to receive its name.

The date of the story is uncertain--that fact, however, should not trouble the reader. At the time when the events now to be related actually occurred, there was a castle standing on one of the heights above the Etherow; it was a strong castle, fit home for a proud old feudal lord; and its owner, De Morland, was one of the most haughty of those barons who claimed descent from the great Norman lords who landed with William the Conqueror. Little is known of him beyond the fact that he was immensely proud of his long ancestry, that he was very fierce, that he was rich, and looked with scorn upon most of the gentry of the neighbourhood. These things certainly do not speak much for his good sense, for why a man should imagine that the possession of a few more pieces of gold or silver makes him a better man than his neighbour, is a mystery. For instance, a thief may by successful robbery become wealthier than an honest poor man, but surely the mere possession of greater wealth does not make him better than the poor man. The principle of this holds good with regard to wealth, no matter how it may have been secured. So, after all, the Baron de Morland had no sound base on which to build up his pride.

The baron had a daughter named Geraldine, who was born on May day, and was as sweet as the month in which she was born. Her teeth were like pearls, her hair gleamed like gold, her skin was the fairest, and her figure the most beautiful ever known in Longdendale. Altogether she was a maid to set the hearts of men aflame with love.

Now it should be stated at the outset that the maiden had been wooed by more than one n.o.ble suitor, but she had an eye to none save a brave young knight who came from Mottram. His name was Sir Mottram de Mossland, and he was lord of a castle--something similar in appearance to that of the Baron de Morland, but not quite so grand--which stood on a bold ridge near Mottram town. This knight had long been in love with the lady Geraldine, and on several occasions had managed to get interviews with his lady-love. We may be sure he lost no time in making known to her the state of his heart, and in ascertaining the exact condition of her own. They kissed, and swore fidelity to each other, and generally behaved like all young lovers do. But bye and bye the Baron de Morland got to hear of this lover's business, and he swore a terrible oath concerning it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE LADY GERALDINE."]

"By my halidome," swore he, in the hearing of his daughter; "Who is this upstart de Mossland? Are his lands to be compared with mine? Is his name to be linked with that of de Morland? Shall one of his hated blood mate with my own superior stock. Out upon the thought. I will slay him sooner. Yea, by my halidome, and all the saints whom I adore, I swear most solemnly that if I know him to speak another word with my daughter, it shall be the last word he shall ever speak. For I will have his blood."

The Lady Geraldine heard this terrible oath, and knowing the character of her furious parent well, was quite certain that he would carry out his threat. So, fearing for the safety of her lover, she had a message conveyed to him, begging him, if he really cared for her, to cease his stolen visits for a time. The lover, though sorely troubled, obeyed her requests, and the days pa.s.sed by in fruitless sighing and longing.

Of course, it goes without saying, that, although he might refrain from speaking to the maid, a handsome and brave gallant like Sir Mottram de Mossland would yet be on the alert to secure a glimpse of his lady-love, and would worship her with his eyes even if his lips were doomed to be closed. And so it came to pa.s.s that, day by day, often in disguise, he followed her path, and gazed longingly at her from a distance. Now, one day when she was out riding on her milk-white palfrey, her steed took fright, and ran away, and would certainly have leaped down a dreadful precipice--carrying the lady to death,--if the gallant Sir Mottram had not sprung at its head, and pulled it, by main force, to a place of safety.

Now, in spite of his lady-love's message, he could no longer refrain from speaking, and, folding her in his arms, he kissed her, and asked for some token of love in return. The maid kissed him gladly, and promised to marry him in spite of her stern and cruel father. Then, full of joy, Sir Mottram went on his way singing gaily, for his heart was lifted up by the promise of his lady-love.

Unfortunately, however, the Baron de Morland was riding that way, and when he beheld the transports of Sir Mottram he immediately guessed what had been toward, and he at once began to swear again. No oath was too strong for him to use concerning the family of Sir Mottram de Mossland. It should be stated in explanation, that years before, the Baron had been in love with Sir Mottram's mother--then a pretty maiden in her teens--and had been rejected by her in favour of Sir Mottram's father. Hence the Baron de Morland could never bear the sight or mention of a de Mossland, and hence his hatred of a union between Sir Mottram and his daughter Geraldine.

Full of anger the Baron rode home to his castle, and there at once sent for his daughter.

"You minx," cried he, "is't true that you have promised yourself to that foul de Mossland?"

"It is true, my father," said Geraldine, in a low yet clear voice.

"What else could I do since I love him? Moreover, he is not a foul knight, but is brave and true."

Now the Baron swore again.

"You witch," he cried, "know this, rather than you should wed de Mossland--yea, by all the saints I swear it!--I will send you to the devil."

"Oh, my father!" shrieked Geraldine, "have mercy!"

And her shrieks rang through the castle, till the serving maids and the men-at-arms came running in to see what was the matter.

But the Baron took up his sword, and with the flat of it struck right and left, and drove them forth. Then, turning once more to her, he shouted:

"Mark well what I say. If you speak to de Mossland again I will summon the devil's aid, and you shall be sorely punished."

Then he left the room, and the lady fainted.

Now, the Lady Geraldine was bold enough, as became a daughter born of a race of fighting men, and, having pledged her word to her lover, she had no intention of going from it. So, on the day appointed, she proceeded to a certain spot, where her lover met her, all prepared for flight. The lovers kissed, and then the knight began:

"Dear Geraldine," said he.--But before he could proceed further, an awful thing happened. A dark form rose up between them, and, on looking at it they knew it was the Devil. He was in his own shape, with horns, hoofs, and tail complete. With a mocking laugh he bent his elbow, and made as though to seize the maid, but Sir Mottram, throwing his arms about her, turned and fled, hoping to be able to cross a running stream before the devil could touch them, and then, by the laws of sorcery, they would be free from satanic molestation.

The devil, however, gained on them rapidly, and it appeared certain that he would catch them, when, just as he put out his hand to touch the maid, a strange light appeared in the sky, and a voice called out the one word--"Hold."

The Devil staggered as though he had been shot, and when he recovered the light had vanished, and with it the maiden and her lover.

They were never seen again, but the legends say that they were made perfectly happy by the fairies, and that they still haunt the banks of the Etherow at certain seasons of the year in the forms of two white swans.

As for the devil, he received a shock. At the moment the light appeared, his right arm had been bent at the elbow for the purpose of seizing hold of his prey, but lo! when his victims had disappeared, he found that the powers which had delivered them from him had turned his right arm into stone. Not a muscle of it could he move, it would not bend, it was worse than useless, it was an enc.u.mbrance.

So Satan, being a philosopher in his way, determined to make the best of a bad job. He tore the arm out by the roots, and left it there--the elbow showing prominently over Longdendale. And that is how the great rock known as the Devil's Elbow came to be perched high up above the Etherow valley.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The Devil's Elbow is the name given to a picturesque rock which stands on the brow of a high and steep hill above the valley of the Etherow.

This rock is one of the landmarks of the Longdendale country.

IX.

The Legend of Charlesworth Chapel.

An old chapel at Charlesworth is said to have owed its foundation to the circ.u.mstances narrated in the following tradition.

Once upon a time--it is impossible to say exactly when, because, unfortunately, the records as to date have been lost, but it was certainly in that halcyon period of English history which is generally spoken of as "the olden time"--a traveller was on his way from the northern parts of England to London. Here again the chronicles are slightly obscure, because there is no mention of his name, and opinions differ as to his occupation. Some state that he was an Irish merchant, others that he was a priest. But be that as it may, all agree that he made the journey, that he made it on foot and alone. For the purposes of this story, therefore, it will suffice to refer to him as "The Traveller."

He had reached that portion of Derbyshire known as the Peak, and was journeying over that part of the Peak which includes Coombs Rocks and the hills above the River Etherow, when he found himself overtaken by the night-fall. The track he was travelling was but ill-defined; it led through a desolate region--in fact, one of the wildest regions in all Britain--and, therefore, was but seldom used. As a consequence it was no easy task to keep to it in broad daylight, and when the darkness enveloped the moor, the danger of losing it was very great.

To-day, when almost every acre of the country is cultivated and drained, the neighbourhood though savage enough is comparatively a safe one to travel, but in the time of which we speak there were treacherous bogs on every side in which the unwary might easily be swallowed up.

Accustomed as he was to the perils and vicissitudes of a wandering life, the Traveller was, nevertheless, somewhat dismayed to find himself be-nighted so far from any habitation, and in a country altogether strange to him.

"Now may the good saints protect me," mused he, "for of a truth I am like to need their intercession this night. Already the path grows fainter, the skies seem charged with rain, and the wind moans eerily."

He wrapped his cloak tighter about his limbs, and stepped along at a brisker pace.

"If only the night would clear," he said, "so that I could see distant objects, then should I be likely to make my way in safety from this desolate moor. But the darkness hangs heavy like a pall: it is damp as though the clouds were settling on the heather, and--ha!"

The last exclamation was wrung from him by the slipping of his foot, and the fact that he suddenly found himself standing up to the knees in the sponge-like peat. He turned his face and tried to retrace his steps, hoping to regain the path, but this was no easy task, and presently he found that he was wandering hopelessly through the bog, with every risk of becoming engulfed if he proceeded further. To make matters worse, at that moment, a thick white choking mist settled down on the moor, and it seemed to the Traveller that his fate was indeed sealed. He stretched out his staff in despair, and by great good luck it struck on firm grit, and in another moment the Traveller had hauled himself upon solid earth. Once here, prudence told him not to stir, either to the right hand or the left, lest all the horrors from which he had just escaped should be again about him. There was nothing for it but to wait patiently for the return of day, when he might be able to thread his way through the mazy bogs in safety. But the night was chill, the mist was like the icy touch of death, and in a little while the Traveller was shaking in every joint. The keen cold went to the bone, and it seemed as though he must now perish from exposure.

"Now indeed am I in a sorry plight," quoth he, "and I have need of the Divine help; else I am lost."

Whereupon, being a good Christian, he fell upon his knees, and prayed aloud to G.o.d for help, vowing that if he was permitted to reach his home again he would return to those hills, and as a thankoffering erect thereon a house of prayer dedicated to his patron saint.

Scarcely was the prayer ended when a great wind arose, the mists were rolled away like a curtain, the hill tops stood out in the clear night, the stars shone, and the moon-beams fell softly over the landscape, and a shepherd came along as though a heaven-sent guide to show him the path from the hills.

"Friend," said the shepherd simply, as he beheld the Traveller, "Hast thou been long upon the moor? If so, thou shouldst indeed be thankful to G.o.d, for thou hast run a great risk of losing thy life upon this desolate wilderness of heather."