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 dyke 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 apron, 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 apron--and there was nae visible appearance o' the presence o' the
storm: the sound was a ragin tempest round her; but the lang grass 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?"
"Oh, she's safe at the end o' her journey," replied Archy, wi' a kind o'
laugh that sounded unco like a groan.
"Puir body," said Nance, "she maun hae been sair wearied; but, Archy, ye
maun hae been maist blawn awa wi' that awesome wind."
"What wind?" said Archy; "there wasna ony wind; it was as lown as a
simmer day."
"Oh, man, ye dinna say sae! Aboot twa hours after ye left this, there
cam on sic a storm, that I thocht the house wad come doun on my head,
and----"
"Twa hours," said Archy; and he turned as white's a clout, and the cauld
sweat stood on his face.
"Mercy on us, Archy," said the wife, "what ails ye? Ane wad think he'd
heard that awfu wind yersel; it maist frichtened me to death. It was for
a' the warld, whan it first beguid, like the groans and moans o' a deein
body."
"Haud yer whisht, woman," said Archy, very short-like; "its no canny to
talk o' sic things. Hae, tak my coat, and pit it awa i' the kist."
"'Odsake, Archy!" cried Nance, haudin the coat to the licht; "what in
Gude's name, is this that's on't--Its bluid! Where got ye that?"
"Ou," said Archy, "there was a man killin a muckle sou in Tarras, and he
cried to me to help him, and I didna mind that I'd gotten a guid coat to
my back."
"Weel, that beats a'! Here's ane o' the bonny rings the leddy had on her
fingers in yer pocket! How cam ye by that?"
"What's your business, woman?" said Archy, wi' an oath. "Did I no tell
ye afore, that the leddy was safe and sound at her journey's end? She
wad insist on giein me the ring, to keep for my kindness to her."
"Did she no send ony word back by ye?"
"Ay, she thankit ye for yer kindness, and said she'd send ye word when
she got to the far end----But it'll be long or that," muttered Archy to
himsel.
Weeks and months gaed by, but still nae word cam o' the leddy; and puir
Nance was wae for her; for she dreaded something uncommon had happened
her. Archy gaed to Embro', and cam back wi' siller, and a lang story how
an auld friend had died, and left him a hantle money.
The leddy was never heard tell o' again--she had nae kith nor kin to
speer after her--she cam like a dream, and vanished like ane; but
there's a stane on the banks o' Tarras, wi' a mark upon it that o' the
storms and floods o' years heena been able to wash oot--it's the mark o'
blood; and aft sin syne the figure o' a leddy, o' dressed in white, has
been seen wanderin in the mirk or the bright moonlicht, and aye vanishin
like a flaff o' lichtnin. A sober man may pass the Tarras a hundred
times, and see nought; but, after a Langholm hiring-day, or a July fair,
if a man hae taen twa-three cheerers forbye common, he's maist sure to
see the WHITE LEDDY O' TARRAS!
END OF VOL. XII