Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XII Part 24

"Mercy on us!" said Nelly, looking wonderingly and anxiously in his face, "what ails the callant? Speak, my bonny man! What ails ye?"

"Gie's a sowp water," said John Graham--"I'm amaist deed."

The water seemed to revive him a little, and he stared wildly around him.

"D'ye see ought?" said he; "eh!--what's yon?"

"Hoot, the laddie's daft; there's nought yonder but just the holly buss, lookin, for a' the world, like a man body in the moonlicht."

"Eh, whow!--eh, whow!" groaned the poor boy to himself, burying his face in his hands. "Nelly!" said he, at last, slowly and solemnly, "tell me the truth! When a body sees a ghost, is it no a warnin that his ain time's no far aff?"

"Hout, na! I hae seen half-a-score ghosts mysel, and I'm no a bit the waur. Some folks threep that it's no canny to speak to a ghost; for, if ane does, there's sure some mischief to follow."

"Deil's i' the woman, clatterin about ghosts!" said the blacksmith; "it's silly havers aboot them athegither. What is a ghost? It canna be a body--for we ken that the bodies o' the dead are moulderin in the grave; it canna be a soul--for what could gar a happy speerit come back frae heaven to revisit this wearisome warld?--and frae the ither bit, Auld Clootie wad tak far owre guid care o' them to let e'er a speerit among them won back again. Na, na! there's nae sic thing as ghosts."

"Whether there's ghosts or no," said John Graham, solemnly, "I'm thinking I've seen ane the nicht. Gude be thankit, I didna speak till't!"

"Seen a ghost!" cried Nelly. "Eh, John!--whar was't?--what was't like?"

"Oh, like a holly buss, I'se warran," said the blacksmith, sneeringly; "or like a mucklecalf, or the shadow o' himsel."

"Never heed him, John, lad," said Nelly; "say yer say, and tell us a'

about it."

Weel, Nelly, ye see, I'd been at the Langholm, and I fand my puir faither just waitin on, and my mother maist dement.i.t, sabbin and greetin fit to kill hersel; and the doctor was fleechin on her to haud her tongue, and no disturb her husband in his last moments; and sair wark had we baith to keep her quiet. The doctor tell't us that my faither had just come to the warst, and that it was just the toss up o' a bawbee whether he lived or died. Weel, about the four hours, my faither fell into a sound sleep, and when he awakened up again, he'd gotten the turn; and the doctor said if he was keepit quiet, there was nae fear but he'd won owre it. Eh, but my mother was a pleased woman, and whan she gied the guidman the cordial, she kissed him, and cried out affectionately, "Geordie! Gude be thankit, ye're spared till us! Gae to sleep, my man."

She then steekit the door, and cam ben and took a muckle bottle oot o'

the cupboard, and mixed a gla.s.s o' real guid toddy, and said to me--

"Tak this afore ye gang hame, my bairn; 'twill do ye nae harm; drink it, and be thankfu that yer faither's life's spared. Ye maunna bide ony longer, but get back to yer maister's as fast as ye can; it's bonny moonlicht, and young limbs mak quick wark. Guid-nicht! His blessin be wi' ye!"

Weel, I made the best o' my way owre the hill, and was aye thinkin o' my faither, and what a sad thing 'twad hae been if he'd been taen frae us; when, just as I'd gotten to yon side o' Tarras, and was pa.s.sin a holly buss near the Gallsyke, I felt a' at ance, I canna tell hoo--the air seemed quite cauld and damp, a tremblin cam owre me, my flesh seemed as if 'twere creepin thegither, and a fear o' I dinna ken what garred me look roun, and there, as I'm a leevin man, no sax yards frae me, walkin the same gate wi' mysel, was a leddy a' dressed oot in white. It was bricht moon licht--I couldna be mistaen, I saw her as plain as I see yersel at this moment. I rubbit my een, thinkin I micht be dreamin--for I'd heard tell o' folk walkin in their sleep--but, na! there she was still. I didna ken hoo it was--whether it was the gla.s.s o' toddy my mother had gien me, or that I didna dread there was onything forbye common aboot her--but I didna feel at a' afeard o' her, though I still had the same unco oot-o'-the-way scudderin, and dread o' something I couldna conceive what. To tell the truth, I was mair pleased nor feared, to see a leevin body sae near me, and me sae fearfu in mysel. Weel, there she walkit, never turnin her head to the richt nor the left, and me glowrin at her, but no daurin to speak; for she was grandly dressed, just like a leddy, wi' pinners on her head, and buckles glintin in her shoon. There was a little wind at the time, but it never stirred her claes, and her feet gaed fast o'er the grund, but nae sound cam frae them; I didna notice a' that at the time, but I minded it after.

"We had gotten as far as the auld aik-tree yonder, when, while I had my eye upon her--while I could tak my Bible aith she was there beside me--she was gane as clean's a whistle. I lookit ahint the tree--I lookit a' round me, but I seed nought; and then a' at ance, the thocht cam into my head that I'd seen a ghost. I couldna doot it, for the cauld air had pa.s.sed awa wi' her, and I felt as if the chill had gaen clean out o' my bluid; for when I cam to think o' the awfu' company I'd been in, I maist swarfed wi' fear; and as soon's I cam roun, I set aff for hame as fast's my legs wad carry me."

"Weel, that beats a'," said the blacksmith; "ye've seen the White Leddy o' Tarras!"

"And wha's that?" said John Graham.

"Come yer ways in, lad, and sit doun, and I'll tell a' I ken aboot her, for I'm thinkin nane o' us 'll be for gaun to bed enow; and it's better for ye to be sitting by the cheerfu ingle than cowerin aneath the bedclaes. Nelly, woman! gie's oot the whisky--the puir lad 'll no be the waur for a sowp, and I dinna care to tak a drap, to keep him company."

After they were all comfortably seated, and had dispelled the thoughts of spirits with the toddy cup, Willie began his story:

It's nae mony years sin' there lived a man o' the name o' Archy Brown, at the Windy Hill, up by yonder. He was a puir weaver body, wi' a wife and a hantel o' weans, and sair wark he had to keep the house owre his head. The wife was a clean, canty body, and keepit a'thing trig and comfortable, and made the maist o' what she could get, and that was but little; but content, they say, is better than riches, and she aye keepit her heart abune, and tried to mak her guidman as contented as hersel.

But it wadna do--Archy was a disappointed, unhappy man; he was aye grumbling at his hard fate, and wonnerin what he'd dune, that he should be forced to work hard for his bread, whan ithers, nae better than himsel, he thocht, were sittin wi' their hans afore them, doin naething ava. But this wadna do; it taks a stout heart to face a stey brae--and Archy seemed to hae tint _his_ athegither. Wark cam slowly in, and when it did come, it was sair negleckit, till, at last, if it hadna been the respeck they had for his wife, his employers wad hae left him ane and a'. Archy had just suppit his parritch, after a grumlin day's wark in August, and was sittin by the ingle cheek, looking as black as the back o' the lum, and the wife was busy washin the dishes and puttin a'thing richt.

"Hech," says Archy, with a pech, "but this is a weary warld."

"Hoot," said the wife, "the warld's weel enough, if 'twarna the folk that's in't; it's a guid and a bonny warld, Archy, and thankfu we should be that we hae health to enjoy it."

"Thankfu!" said Archie. "My certie! guid richt hae we to be thankfu, and can hardly get the bite and sowp to pit in our mous, when there are sae mony that dinna ken what to mak o' a' their havins!"

"Ou, Archy, man! ye're aye thinkin o' them that's better off than yersel; but think how mony wad be happy to change wi' ye. There's mony a ane this nicht, Archy, that has nae shelter fo his head but the lift abune him, and that's fain to cower ahint the d.y.k.e frau the cauld blast."

"Gae 'wa wi' your preachins!" said Archy. "Is't no aneugh to hear the minister on the Sabbath, but I maun be plagued wi' a wife playin hum in my lug a' the day lang?"

The wife held her tongue, but the tears were rinnin doun her cheeks, as she wiped doun the dresser. Archy was a guid-hearted though a fretfu man; and the sicht o' his wife's distress softened him.

"Come, come, Nancy, woman, dinna tak on sae; ye ken I lo'e ye weel--for a kind and guid wife hae ye aye been to me; and ye sudna heed what I say, when the vera heart's bluid within me is soured by disappointment.

I could bear't a' weel aneugh for mysel; but to think o' my havin wiled ye frae yer faither's beil hame, to share the fortunes o' a broken man, gars my heart grue; and whiles I feel as if I could risk my saul to the evil ane, to procure ye ease and comfort."

"Oh, Archy! shut such wicked thochts oot o' yer heart, or maybe, whan temptation comes, ye'll tak it by the hand, instead o' resistin it.

Mindna for me--I want naething to mak me happy but to see ye pleased; and I'd far fainer see ye smile as ye used to do lang syne, than be the brawest o' the braw withoot it."

The darkness o' night was noo beginnin to spread owre the earth, and Archy and the wife were just ettlin to gang to bed, when a saft rap cam to the door, and a hand tirled at the sneck.

"Wha can that be, in Gude's name?" whispered Nance. "Rise, Archy, man, and speer at them what they're seekin at this untimous hour."

"Wha's that?" said Archy, in a loud tone o' voice, though it trembled a wee when he thocht o' bogles, and rievers, and a' sic-like deevilry.

A saft and gentle voice answered--

"Can you give me a guide over the hills as far as Langholm? I'm a lone unprotected woman, and have lost my way."

"Is there onybody wi' ye forbye yersel?" said the cautious Archy.

"No one. Pray let me in to rest for a short time. I am no beggar; you shall be well rewarded for your kindness."

"Reward!" replied Archy, drawin the sneck--"there's nane needed; it should never be said that Archy Brown, puir though he be, wad keep his door steekin again' them that haena beil."

The door was by this time open, and Nance had lighted the candle. The stranger walked in. Great was the surprise o' baith at the unexpected sight; they were maist as frightened as if they'd seen a bogle. The stranger was a tall, handsome woman, a' dressed oot like a leddy, wi'

pinners on her head, and a' sorto' whirlygeerums--I dinna ken their names, but, howsomever, they a' gaed to prove that she was a leddy, and no ane like themsels; and when she spak, her voice was saft and gentle, and her words as grand as if they were oot o' a printed book. Then she had grand buckles in her shoon, and rings on her wee white hand, and a'thing grander aboot her than they'd ever seen afore. Weel, she sat doun by the ingle cheek, and askit again could they furnish her wi' a guide to Langholm; and they persuadit her to bide where she was a'

nicht, and Archy wad gang wi' her himsel the neist morning. It was lang ere they could gar her stop; but there were nae roads herewa in thae days; and she was feared to gang farrer by hersel, and Archy dounricht refused to leave the hoose. She tell't them she had come fra the south country and that she was travellin to Embro to see a freend; and aye as she spak she sighed and sobbit; and when she laid aff her rich manteel, they saw that a' wasna richt; and they lookit at her hand, but there was nae weddin-ring upon't; and then Nance lookit in her face, and saw dule and sorrow there, but naething waur--for her beauty was like that o' a sorrowin angel; and she had sic a look o' innocence, that Nance dreaded she had been beguiled by the warmth and innocence o' her heart--that she was aiblins a puir thing mair sinned again' than sinnin; and Nance's ain heart warmed till her, and she fleeched on, and made muckle o' her. Sair did the puir thing greet; but she never loot on wha she was, or where she cam frae, or wha 'twas she was seekin; but said that she was a wanderer and an ootcast, and nae leevin soul cared for her, and the sooner she was dead the better for hersel. Puir Nance was sair put aboot to comfort her; but at last she persuadit her to sup some milk and bread, and gang to her bed. Archy and Nance sleepit on the flure--at least Nance sleepit, for Archy couldna; the deil was busy wi' him; the siller buckles and the braw rings were aye glintin in his een whenever he steekit them, and hinner't him frae sleepin. He closed his een and tried to snore, and to fancy that he was sleepin; but aye the langer he tried, the waur and the wickeder were the thochts that cam intil his head; till at last he got up on his elbow, and sat glowrin at the bed where the stranger leddy lay soun sleepin; and aye the langer he lookit, the mair he thocht what a happy man he wad be if he had a' her braw rings, and the gowd that was in her purse, and her siller buckles and a'. Weel, neist morning, the leddy waukens up, and cries to Nance that 'twas time for her to tak the road; but Nance wadna hear tell o't till she had gien her her breakfast.

"It's no muckle we hae," said Nance; "but, sic as it is, ye're welcome to a share o't. Just sup yer milk and bread, while Archy snogs himsel up to gang wi' ye."

As soon as they'd finished their breakfast, the leddy took oot a bonny silken purse, that looked as if it wad burst, and gied Nance a piece o'

gowd.

"I'm no for't," said Nance; "there's nae needcessity, ye're vera welcome to a' ye got."

But the leddy wad insist upon her takin it; while Archy's een glistened at the sicht o' the purse, and he bit his lip, and his breast gaed up and doun like the bellows o' the smiddy, and his fingers opened and shut upon his thigh, like the claws o' a cat just gaun to loup at a mouse.

The morning, though calm, was cauld; but, aboot twa hours after they had left, Nance heard the sough o' a comin wind. It was an awesome and an unca sound--she had never heard the like afore--it was like the groans o' the deein; and, as she hearkened till't moanin past the door, she fancied she heard a body cryin for help. Nance was terribly frightened; for it seemed to her that the wind was no just a common wind, but the voice o' a speerit--a kind o' whisper fare anither warld. A' at ance, there cam sic a blast as was never seen nor heard afore nor since, at the Windy Hill. A' the winds o' heaven seemed to hae been let loose at ance, and the noise o' their roarin was loud as the loudest thunder.

Nance ran out o' the hoose, thinkin that clay wa's couldna even bide the brunt o' sic a storm; and there she waited for the upshot. She cowered down on the ground, and covered her head wi' her ap.r.o.n, while the noise o' a thousand storms was around her. Nance thocht it strange that she didna _feel_ the wind as weel as hear't and she keek't out frae under her ap.r.o.n--and there was nae visible appearance o' the presence o' the storm: the sound was a ragin tempest round her; but the lang gra.s.s was standin unshaken, and the leaves o' the trees were without motion. A dread o' the powers o' the air cam owre Nance--she thought she heard their bodily voices about her--and, wi' a loud skirl, she swarfed awa on the grund! Some o' the neighbours had seen Nance fa', and cam rinnin to help her; but it was lang or she was a'richt again. When she cam round, she steekit her een, and stappit her lugs--moanin, "Oh, that wind!--that awesome wind!" The neighbours a' wondered; for nane but Nance had heard aught extraordinary. Nance waited lang for Archy to come in to his dinner; but it was weel on to the gloamin when he cam back. Nance heard his fitfa, and ran to the door to meet him--

"Eh, but ye've been lang o' comin, Archy! How did ye leave the leddy, puir thing?"