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 noble 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.

"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 passed 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 pass 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 encumbrance.

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.