north country. There's mony a sweet sunny spot on its banks; an' mony a
time an' aft hae I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my
little scantling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the big
pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its bonny wooded
banks are places for enjoying the day in--no for passing the nicht. I
kenna how it is; it's nane o' your wild streams that wander desolate
through a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in
foam and thunder, owre broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in
darkness, deep, deep in the bowels o' the earth, like the fearfu'
Auldgraunt; an' yet no ane o' these rivers has mair or frightfuller
stories connected wi' it than the Conan. Ane can hardly saunter owre
half-a-mile in its course, frae where it leaves Contin till where it
enters the sea, without passing owre the scene o' some frightful auld
legend o' the kelpie or the water-wraith. An' ane o' the maist
frightfu'-looking o' these places is to be found among the woods o'
Conan House. Ye enter a swampy meadow, that waves wi' flags an' rushes
like a corn-field in harvest, an' see a hillock covered wi' willows
rising like an island in the midst. There are thick mirk woods on ilka
side; the river, dark an' awesome, an' whirling round an' round in mossy
eddies, sweeps awa behind it; an' there is an auld burying-ground, wi'
the broken ruins o' an auld Papist kirk, on the tap. Ane can still see
amang the rougher stanes the rose-wrought mullions o' an arched window,
an' the trough that ance held the haly water. About twa hunder years
ago--a wee mair maybe or a wee less, for ane canna be very sure o' the
date o' thae auld stories--the building was entire; an' a spot near it,
whar the wood now grows thickest, was laid out in a corn-field. The
marks o' the furrows may still be seen amang the trees. A party o'
Highlanders were busily engaged, ae day in harvest, in cutting down the
corn o' that field; an', just aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest
an' they were busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river
exclaim, '_The hour but not the man has come_.' Sure enough, on looking
round, there was the kelpie stan'in in what they ca' a fause ford, just
fornent the auld kirk. There is a deep black pool baith aboon an' below,
but i' the ford there's a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think,
but little depth o' water; an' just i' the middle o' that, in a place
where a horse might swim, stood the kelpie. An' it again repeated its
words--'_The hour but not the man has come_;' an' then, flashing through
the water like a drake, it disappeared in the lower pool. When the folk
stood wondering what the creature micht mean, they saw a man on
horseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, making straight for
the fause ford. They could then understand her words at ance; an' four
o' the stoutest o' them sprang oot frae amang the corn to warn him o'
his danger, an' keep him back. An' sae they tauld him what they had seen
an' heard, an' urged him either to turn back an' tak anither road, or
stay for an hour or sae where he was. But he just wadna hear them, for
he was baith unbelieving an' in haste, an' wauld hae taen the ford for
a' they could say, hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him
whether he would or no, gathered round him, an' pulled him frae his
horse, an' then, to mak sure o' him, locked him up in the auld kirk.
Weel, when the hour had gone by--the fatal hour o' the kelpie--they
flung open the door, an' cried to him that he might noo gang on his
journey. Ah! but there was nae answer, though; an' sae they cried a
second time, an' there was nae answer still; an' then they went in, an'
found him lying stiff an' cauld on the floor, wi' his face buried in the
water o' the very stone trough that we may still see amang the ruins.
His hour had come, an' he had fallen in a fit, as 'twould seem, head
foremost among the water o' the trough, where he had been smothered--an'
sae, ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie availed naething."
"The very story," exclaimed my friend, "to which Sir Walter alludes, in
one of the notes to 'The Heart of Midlothian.' The kelpie, you may
remember, furnishes him with a motto to the chapter in which he
describes the gathering of all Edinburgh to witness the execution of
Porteous; and their irrepressible wrath, on ascertaining that there was
to be no execution--'_The hour but not the man has come_.'"
"I remember making quite the same discovery," I replied, "about twelve
years ago, when I resided for several months on the banks of the Conan,
not half-a-mile from the scene of the story. One might fill a little
book with legends of the Conan. The fords of the river are dangerous,
especially in the winter season; and, about thirty years ago, before the
erection of the fine stone bridge below Conan House, scarcely a winter
passed in which fatal accidents did not occur; and these were almost
invariably traced to the murderous malice of the water-wraith."
"But who or what is the water-wraith?" said my friend. "We heard just
now of the kelpie, and it is the kelpie that Sir Walter quotes."
"Ah," I replied, "but we must not confound the kelpie and the
water-wraith, as has become the custom in these days of incredulity. No
two spirits, though they were both spirits of the lake and the river,
could be more different. The kelpie invariably appeared in the form of a
young horse; the water-wraith in that of a very tall woman, dressed in
green, with a withered meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant
scowl. It is the water-wraith, not the kelpie, whom Sir Walter should
have quoted; and yet I could tell you curious stories of the kelpie,
too."
"We must have them all," said my friend, "ere we part; meanwhile, I
should like to hear some of your stories of the Conan."
"As related by me," I replied, "you will find them rather meagre in
their details. In my evening walks along the river, I have passed the
ford a hundred times out of which, only a twelvemonth before, as a
traveller was entering it on a moonlight night, the water-wraith started
up, not four yards in front of him, and pointed at him with her long
skinny fingers, as if in mockery. I have leaned against the identical
tree to which a poor Highlander clung, when, on fording the river by
night, he was seized by the goblin. A lad who accompanied him, and who
had succeeded in gaining the bank, strove to assist him, but in vain:
the poor man was dragged from his hold into the current, where he
perished. The spot has been pointed out to me, too, in the opening of
the river, where one of our Cromarty fishermen, who had anchored his
yawl for the night, was laid hold of by the spectre when lying asleep on
the beams, and almost dragged over the gunwale into the water. Our
seafaring men still avoid dropping anchor, if they possibly can, after
the sun has set, in what they term _the fresh_--that is, in those upper
parts of the Frith where the waters of the river predominate over those
of the sea.
"The scene of what is deemed one of the best-authenticated stories of
the water-wraith, lies a few miles higher up the river. It is a deep,
broad ford, through which horsemen, coming from the south, pass to
Brahan Castle. A thick wood hangs over it on the one side; on the other,
it is skirted by a straggling line of alders and a bleak muir. On a
winter night, about twenty-five years ago, a servant of the late Lord
Seaforth had been drinking with some companions till a late hour, at a
small house at the upper part of the muir; and when the party broke up,
he was accompanied by two of them to the ford. The moon was at full, and
the river, though pretty deep in flood, seemed no way formidable to the
servant; he was a young, vigorous man, and mounted on a powerful horse;
and he had forded it, when half-a-yard higher on the bank, twenty times
before. As he entered the ford, a thick cloud obscured the moon; but his
companions could see him guiding the animal; he rode in a slanting
direction across the stream, until he had reached nearly the middle,
when a dark, tall figure seemed to start out of the water, and lay hold
of him. There was a loud cry of distress and terror, and a frightful
snorting and plunging of the horse; a moment passed, and the terrified
animal was seen straining towards the opposite bank, and the ill-fated
rider struggling in the stream. In a moment more he had disappeared."
THE STORY OF FAIRBURN'S GHOST.
"I suld weel ken the Conan," said one of the women, who had not yet
joined in the conversation; "I was born no a stane's cast frae the side
o't. My mother lived in her last days beside the auld Tower o' Fairburn,
that stan's sae like a ghaist aboon the river, an' looks down on a' its
turns an' windings frae Contin to the sea; my father, too, for a
twelvemonth or sae afore his death, had a boat on ane o' its ferries,
for the crossing, on week days, o' passengers, an' o' the kirk-going
folks on Sunday. He had a little bit farm beside the Conan; an' just got
the boat by way o' eiking out his means--for we had aye aneugh to do at
rent-time, an' had, maybe, less than plenty through a' the rest o' the
year, besides. Weel, for the first ten months or sae, the boat did
brawly. The Castle o' Brahan is no half-a-mile frae the ferry, an' there
were aye a hantle o' gran' folk comin and gangin frae the Mackenzie, an'
my faither had the crossin o' them a'. An', besides, at Marti'mas, the
kirk-going people used to send him firlots o' bere an' pecks o' oatmeal;
an' he soon began to find that the bit boat was to do mair towards
paying the rent o' the farm than the farm itsel.
"The Tower o' Fairburn is aboot a mile and a-half aboon the ferry. It
stan's by itsel on the tap o' a heathery hill, an' there are twa higher
hills behind it. Beyond, there spreads a black, dreary desert, where ane
micht wander a lang simmer's day withoot seeing the face o' a human
creature, or the kindly smoke o' a lum. I daresay nane o' you hae heard
hoo the Mackenzies o' Fairburn an' the Chisholms o' Strathglass pairted
that bit o' kintra atween them. Nane o' them could tell where the lands
o' the ane ended or the ither began, an' they were that way for
generations, till they at last thocht them o' a plan o' division. Each
o' them gat an auld wife o' seventy-five, an' they set them aff ae
Monday, at the same time, the ane frae Erchless Castle, an' the ither
frae the Tower--warning them, aforehan', that the braidness o' their
maisters' lands depended on their speed; for where the twa would meet
amang the hills, there would be the boundary. An' you may be sure that
neither o' them lingered by the way that morning. They kent there was
mony an ee on them, an' that their names would be spoken o' in the
kintra-side lang after themsels were dead an' gane; but it sae happened
that Fairburn's carline, wha had been his nurse, was ane o' the slampest
women in a' the north o' Scotland, young or auld; an', though the ither
did weel, she did sae meikle better, that she had got owre twenty lang
Highland miles or the ither had got owre fifteen. They say it was a
droll sicht to see them at the meeting: they were baith tired almost to
fainting; but no sooner did they come in sicht o' ane anither, at the
distance o' a mile or sae, than they began to rin. An' they ran, an'
better ran, till they met at a little burnie; an' there wad they hae
focht, though they had neer seen ane anither atween the een afore, had
they had strength aneugh left them; but they had neither pith for
fechtin, nor breath for scolding, an' sae they just sat down an' girned
at ane anither across the stripe. The Tower o' Fairburn is naething noo
but a dismal ruin o' five broken storeys--the ane aboon the other--an'
the lands hae gane oot o' the auld family; but the story o' the twa auld
wives is a weel-kent story still.
"The laird o' Fairburn, in my faither's time, was as fine an
open-hearted gentleman as was in the hail country. He was just
particular guid to the puir; but the family had ever been that--ay, in
their roughest days, even whan the tower had neither door nor window in
the lower storey, an' only a wheen shot-holes in the storey aboon. There
wasna a puir thing in the kintra but had reason to bless the laird; an'
at ae time he had nae fewer than twelve puir orphans living aboot his
hoose at ance. Nor was he in the least a proud, haughty man; he wad chat
for hours thegither wi' ane o' his puirest tenants; an' ilka time he
crossed the ferry, he wad tak my faither wi' him, for company just,
maybe half-a-mile on his way out or hame. Weel, it was ae nicht aboot
the end o' May--a bonny nicht, an hour or sae after sundown--an' my
faither was mooring his boat, afore going to bed, to an auld oak-tree,
when wha does he see but the laird o' Fairburn coming down the bank? Od,
thocht he, what can be taking the laird frae hame sae late as this? I
thocht he had been no weel. The laird cam steppin into the boat, but,
instead o' speakin frankly, as he used to do, he jist waved his hand, as
the proudest gentleman in the kintra micht, an' pointed to the ither
side. My faither rowed him across; but, oh! the boat felt unco dead an'
heavy, an' the water stuck around the oars as gin it had been tar; an'
he had just aneugh ado, though there was but little tide in the river,
to mak oot the ither side. The laird stepped oot, an' then stood, as he
used to do, on the bank, to gie my faither time to fasten his boat an'
come alang wi' him; an', were it no for that, the puir man wadna hae
thocht o' going wi' him that nicht; but, as it was, he just moored his
boat an' went. At first he thocht the laird must hae got some bad news
that made him sae dull, an' sae he spoke on, to amuse him, aboot the
weather an' the markets; but he found he could get very little to say,
an' he felt as arc an' eerie in passing through the woods, as gin he had
been passing alane through a kirkyard. He noticed, too, that there was a
fearsome flichtering an' shrieking amang the birds that lodged in the
tree-taps aboon them; an' that, as they passed the _Talisoe_, there was
a colly on the tap o' a hillock that set up the awfullest yowling he had
ever heard. He stood for awhile in sheer consternation, but the laird
beckoned him on, just as he had done at the river side, an' sae he gaed
a bittie farther alang the wild rocky glen that opens into the
deer-park. But, oh! the fright that was amang the deer! They had been
lying asleep on the knolls, by sixes an' sevens, an' up they a' started
at ance, and gaed driving aff to the far end o' the park as if they
couldna be far aneugh frae my faither or the laird. Weel, my faither
stood again, an' the laird beckoned an' beckoned as afore; but, Gude tak
us a' in keeping! whan my faither looked up in his face, he saw it was
the face o' a corp--it was white an' stiff, an' the nose was thin an'
sharp, an' there was nae winking wi' the wide open een. Gude preserve
us! my faither didna ken where he was stan'in--didna ken what he was
doing; an', though he kept his feet, he was just in a kind o' swarf,
like. The laird spoke twa-three words to him--something aboot the
orphans, he thocht; but he was in such a state that he couldna tell
what; an' whan he cam to himsel, the apparition was awa. It was a bonny
clear nicht when they had crossed the Conan; but there had been a
gatherin o' black cluds i' the lift as they gaed, an' there noo cam on,
in the clap o' a han', ane o' the fearsomest storms o' thunder an'
lightning that was ever seen in the country. There was a thick gurly aik
smashed to shivers owre my faither's head, though nane o' the splinters
steered him; an' whan he reached the river, it was roaring frae bank to
brae like a little ocean; for a water-spout had broken amang the hills,
an' the trees it had torn doun wi' it were darting alang the current
like arrows. He crossed in nae little danger, an' took to his bed; an'
though he rase an' went aboot his wark for twa-three months after, he
was never, never his ain man again. It was found that the laird had
departed no five minutes afore his apparition had come to the ferry; an'
the very last words he had spoke--but his mind was carried at the
time--was something aboot my faither."
THE STORY OF THE LAND FACTOR.
"There maun hae been something that weighed on his mind," remarked one
of the women, "though your faither had nae power to get it frae him. I
mind that, whan I was a lassie, there happened something o' the same
kind. My faither had been a tacksman on the estate o' Blackhall; an', as
the land was sour an' wat, an' the seasons for awhile backward, he aye
contrived--for he was a hard-working, carefu' man--to keep us a' in meat
and claith, and to meet wi' the factor. But, wae's me! he was sune taen
frae us. In the middle o' the seed-time, there cam a bad fever intil the
country; an' the very first that died o't was my puir faither. My mither
did her best to keep the farm, an' haud us a' thegither. She got a
carefu', decent lad to manage for her, an' her ain ee was on everything;
an' had it no been for the cruel, cruel factor, she micht hae dune gay
weel. But never had the puir tenant a waur friend than Ranald Keilly. He
was a toun writer, an' had made a sort o' livin, afore he got the
factorship, just as toun writers do in ordinar. He used to be gettin the
haud o' auld wives' posies when they died; an' there was aye some
litigious, troublesome folk in the place, too, that kept him doing a
little in the way o' troublin their neebors; an' sometimes, when some
daft, gowkit man, o' mair means than sense, couldna mismanage his ain
affairs aneugh, he got Keilly to mismanage them for him. An' sae he had
picked up a bare livin in this way; but the factorship made him just a
gentleman. But, oh, an ill use did he mak o' the power that it gied him
owre puir, honest folk. Ye maun ken that, gin they were puir, he liked
them a' the waur for being honest; but, I daresay, that was natural
enough for the like o' him. He contrived to be baith writer an' factor,
ye see; an' it wad just seem that his chief aim in the ae capacity was
to find employment for himsel in the ither. If a puir tenant was but a
day behind-hand wi' his rent, he had creatures o' his ain that used to
gang half-an'-half wi' him in their fees; an' them he wad send aff to
poind him an' then, if the expenses o' the poindin werena forthcoming as
weel as what was owing to the master, he wad hae a roup o' the stocking
twa-three days after; an' anither account, as a man o' business, for
that. An' when things were going dog-cheap--as he took care that they
should sometimes gang--he used to buy them in for himsel, an' pairt wi'
them again for maybe twice the money. The laird was a quiet, silly,
good-natured man; an' though he was tauld weel o' the factor at
times--ay, an' believed it, too--he just used to say, 'Oh, puir Keilly,
what wad he do gin I were to pairt wi' him? He wad just starve.' An' oh,
sirs, his pity for him was bitter cruelty to mony, mony a puir tenant,
an' to my mither amang the lave.
"The year after my faither's death was cauld an' wat, an' oor stuff
remained sae lang green, that we just thocht we wouldna get it cut ava.
An' when we did get it cut, the stacks, for the first whilie, were aye
heatin wi' us; an' when Marti'mas came, the grain was still saft an'
milky, an' no fit for the market. The term came round, an' there was
little to gie the factor in the shape o' money, though there was baith
corn an' cattle; an' a' that we wanted was just a little time. An--but
we had fa'en into the hands o' ane that never kent pity. My mither hadna
the money gin, as it were, the day, an' on the morn, the messengers
came to poind. The roup was no a week after; an', oh, it was a grievous
sicht to see hoo the crop an' the cattle went for just naething. The
farmers were a' puirly aff wi' the late har'st, an' had nae money to
spare; an' sae the factor knocked in ilka thing to himsel, wi' hardly a
bid against him. He was a rough-faced, little man, wi' a red, hooked
nose--a guid deal gien to whisky, an' vera wild an' desperate when he
had taen a glass or twa aboon ordinar; an', on the day o' the roup, he
raged like a perfect madman. My mither spoke to him again an' again, wi'
the tear in her ee, an' implored him, for the sake o' the orphan an' the
widow, no to harry hersel and her bairns; but he just cursed an' swore
a' the mair, an' knocked down the stacks an' the kye a' the faster; an'
whan she spoke to him o' the Ane aboon a', he said that Providence gied
lang credit, an' reckoned on a lang day, an' that he wad tak him intil
his ain hands. Weel, the roup cam to an end, an' the sum o' the whole
didna come to meikle mair nor the rent, an' clear the factor's lang,
lang account for expenses; an' at nicht my mither was a ruined woman.
The factor staid up late an' lang, drinking wi' some creatures o' his
ain, an' the last words he said, on going to his bed, was, that he hadna
made a better day's wark for a twelvemonth. But, Gude tak us a' in
keeping! in the morning he was a corp--a cauld, lifeless corp, wi' a
face as black as my bannet.
"Weel, he was buried, an' there was a grand character o' him putten in
the newspapers, an' we a' thocht we were to hear nae mair aboot him. My
mither got a wee bittie o' a house on the farm o' a neebor, an' there we
lived dowie aneugh; but she was aye an eident, working woman, an' she
now span late an' early for some o' her auld freends, the farmers'
wives; an' her sair-won penny, wi' what we got frae kindly folk wha
minded us in better times, kept us a' alive. Meanwhile, strange stories
o' the dead factor began to gang aboot the kintra. First, his servants,
it was said, were hearing aye curious noises in his counting office. The
door was baith locked an' sealed, waiting till his freends would cast
up, for there were some doots aboot them; but, locked an' sealed as it
was, they could hear it opening an' shutting every nicht, an' hear a
rustling among the papers, as gin there had been half-a-dozen writers
scribbling among them at ance. An' then, Gude preserve us a'! they could
hear Keilly himself, as if he were dictating to his clerk. An', last o'
a', they could see him in the gloamin, nicht an' mornin, ganging aboot
his hoose, wringing his hands, an' aye, aye muttering to himsel aboot
roups and poindings. The servant-girls left the place to himsel; an' the
twa lads that wrought his farm, an' slept in a hay-loft, were sae
disturbed, nicht after nicht, that they had jist to leave it to himsel
too.
"My mither was ae nicht wi' some o' her spinnin at a neeborin
farmer's--a worthy, God-fearing man, an' an elder o' the kirk. It was in
the simmer time, an' the nicht was bricht and bonny; but, in her
backcoming, she had to pass the empty hoose o' the dead factor, an' the
elder said that he would tak a step hame wi' her, for fear she michtna
be that easy in her mind. An' the honest man did sae. Naething happened
them in the passing, except that a dun cow, ance a great favourite o' my
mither's, came up lowing to them, puir beast! as gin she wauld hae
better liked to be gaun hame wi' my mither than stay where she was. But
the elder didna get aff sae easy in the backcoming. He was passing
beside a thick hedge, when what does he see but a man inside the hedge,
taking step for step wi' him as he gaed! The man wore a dun coat, an'
had a huntin-whip under his arm, an' walked, as the elder thought, very
like what the dead factor used to do when he had gotten a glass or twa
aboon ordinar. Weel, they cam to a slap in the hedge, an' out cam the
man at the slap; an', Gude tak us a' in keeping! it was, sure aneugh,
the dead factor himsel! There were his hook nose, an' his rough, red
face--though it was, maybe, bluer noo than red; an' there were the boots
an' the dun coat he had worn at my mither's roup, an' the very whip he
had lashed a puir gangrel woman wi' no a week afore his death. He was
muttering something to himsel; but the elder could only hear a wordie
noo an' then. 'Poind and roup,' he would say, 'poind and roup;' an' then
there would come out a blatter o' curses--'Hell! hell! an' damn, damn!'
The elder was a wee fear-stricken at first, as wha wadna? but then the
ill words, an' the way they were said, made him angry--for he could
never hear ill words withoot checking them--an' sae he turned round wi'
a stern brow, an' asked the appearance what it wanted, an' why it should
hae come to disturb the peace o' the kintra, and to disturb him? It
stood still at that, an' said, wi' an awsome grane, that it couldna be
quiet in the grave till there were some justice done to Widow Stuart. It
then tauld him that there were forty gowd guineas in a secret drawer in
his desk, that hadna been found, an' tauld him where to get them, an'
that he wad need gang wi' the laird an' the minister to the drawer, an'
gie them a' to the widow. It couldna hae rest till then, it said, nor
wad the kintra hae rest either. It willed that the lave o' the gear
should be gien to the puir o' the parish; for nane o' the twa folk that
laid claim to it had the shadow o' a richt. An' wi' that the appearance
left him. It just went back through the slap in the hedge; an', as it
stepped owre the ditch, vanished in a puff o' smoke.
"Weel, but to cut short a lang story, the laird and the minister were at
first gay slow o' belief--no that they misdoubted the elder, but they
thocht that he must hae been deceived by a sort o' waking dream. But
they soon changed their minds, for, sure enough, they found the forty
guineas in the secret drawer. An' the news they got frae the south about
Keilly was just as the appearance had said--no ane mair nor anither had
a richt to his gear, for he had been a foundlin, an' had nae freends.
An' sae my mither got the guineas, an' the parish got the rest, an'
there was nae mair heard o' the apparition. We didna get back oor auld
farm; but the laird gae us a bittie that served oor turn as weel; an',
or my mither was ca'ed awa frae us, we were a' settled in the warld, an'
doin for oorsels."