Part 22

There were severals in the army (continued James) whom I knew as common soldiers, that had been born to rank and riches--one in particular, Walter B----. I will give you his lamentable story, as I had it from his own mouth, in one of his fits of melancholy and repentance. We were on the heights above Roncesvalles, and the weather was more boisterous than I had ever seen it in my life anywhere; the gusts of wind blew down our tents, and the hailstorms were so severe, that we were forced to shelter ourselves from them by any means we could, and even the very mules were scarce able to endure their severity. He had been in one of his desponding fits for several days, and I had done all in my power to amuse him in vain. Towards the shades of evening, we sat shivering and cowering from the extreme cold, and, having given him an outline of my own history, he in return gave me his, nearly as follows:--He was a native of England, and a relative of some of the oldest families in it. His father had been one of the established clergy, and held a rich living, beloved and respected for his benevolence and piety. Walter, who was an only son, had received as good an education as England could afford; but, unfortunately for himself, he was of an unsettled and extravagant disposition, and was always getting himself into disagreeable situations, from which he was always relieved, after a show of contrition, by his indulgent parent. Thus matters waxed worse and worse with him, until he could not from very shame apply to his forgiving father. He had lost a large sum of money at play in London, and had no means of liquidating the debt. In an agony of shame and remorse, he fled, and, having no means of maintaining himself, changed his name, and enlisted as a private soldier. His distressed parent, for several years, knew not whether he was dead or alive. Matters remained thus with him until the arrival of a new chaplain to the regiment in which he was serving. Shortly after the chaplain joined, he recognised Walter, spoke to and reasoned with him in a truly Christian spirit, and chide him for his cruelty to his parent, who continued to mourn his loss, and would, he had no doubt, once more receive him to his bosom, would he only promise to behave more circumspectly in future, and express his sorrow for what he had done. Poor Walter was heartily sick of his present situation, and requested the chaplain to write for him what he chose, and, upon the receipt of an answer from his father, he would do all in his power to regain his pardon and confidence. In a few weeks after, Walter got his discharge, and returned to his father's mansion, where he was received with joy and forgiveness. His parent only appeared to have lived to be blessed in the return of his prodigal son; for he died in about three months after his return. Walter was his sole heir and was now rich, as he had been lately poor, while a private soldier. For a few months, he was all that his relations could have wished him--reserved and penitent for his former follies, and most punctual in his religious duties. In this frame of mind he became attached to a young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring squire, rather his superior in rank and fortune. To her he was wed, and lived in happiness and peace for some months, when unfortunately he paid a visit to London with his young wife; and, as bad fortune would have it, he once again launched out into all his former extravagance, and soon became embarrassed in his circumstances. An unsuccessful bet at a horse-race once more placed him in the same position he had been in at his first enlistment: but his distress was tenfold greater, for his young and innocent wife was now a partaker in his misery. He solemnly declared to me he more than once resolved to put a period to his existence, but was always prevented by some trivial interruption or other. At this critical period, an uncle of his wife's died, and she was his sole heir. Thus, once again, he was unexpectedly snatched from beggary, and was much richer than he was at his father's death; but, alas for him! not wiser; for, with accelerated pace, he held on his former career, and the consequence was, that he was forced to leave his young and beautiful wife to the charity of her relations. Under his assumed name, he became my companion in the ranks--a strange, interesting, even fearful companion, too, he was at times; for he would occasionally be the most light-hearted and amusing person in the group; at others, he was sullen and morose, scarce a monosyllable would escape his lips; and, when irritated, the expressions he made use of were sublimely fearful, such as a devil might have used, making even the most depraved of the men quail. Yet, when in his quiet and gentle moods, I have listened to his discourse with rapture. One hour of his conversation conveyed more information to my mind than a month of reading could have done. I have seen him, when we were alone, weep like a child over his fallen fortunes; then, the next moment, knit his brows, compress his lips, clench his fists, and stamp upon the ground, and call upon death to deliver him from his own thoughts. Times out of number I have heard him express a wish that he might fall in the next action. He had escaped without a scratch until the battle of Bayonne. Well do I remember the conversation we had the evening before. It were tedious to repeat it; but he expressed his fears that the enemy would miss him, and declared to me his firm determination to desert and remain in Spain (he spoke the language like a native) rather than return to England; for there was a rumour in the camp at the time of the reverses of Bonaparte, and the anticipations of a speedy peace. Towards the close of the action we had driven in the opposing column, and the fire had slackened; hundreds of dead and wounded lay around us, for the affair had been very sharp.

"Blair," said he, "I knew they could not hit me; I must live on in misery."

Scarce were the words spoken, when he fell upon his face. I stopped, and turned him on his back; his eyes were fixed in death; his countenance more placid and resigned than I ever remember to have seen it. He grasped my hand, his lips moved, but the noise of the firing deadened his voice. I placed my ear to his lips, and could just make out--

"James, I am now happy. Gracious God, pardon your erring creature!"

A slight shiver passed along his frame, and all was over. What his real name was I never knew, or I would have written to his wife. Such were his talents, that, had his mind been well regulated, there was no effort that man can accomplish he was not capable of; but, alas! he perished, the victim of his uncontrolled passions.

Here ended the soldier's narratives. James Blair had returned, and in health, but he had not found happiness, neither had his mother or cousin; yet his hopes were most reasonable. He had only attained one object, to find another more difficult to attain, humble as that object is--a way to earn his daily bread. Matters were in this state, when a rumour spread through the parish that a captain had purchased an estate which had been for some time in the market, and meant to build a new house, and live constantly at it. This was a matter of great joy to us, for it brought hope of employment, for a time at least; and James brightened up. The weather was no sooner favourable, than the new proprietor came to survey his purchase, and plan his improvements. A number of labourers were employed, and James among the rest; for he was first in his application. The captain, struck by his cleanly and military appearance, was much taken with him, and inquired as to his services. James gave a modest account of them, and retired, the captain making no observation at the time; but it was observed that he oftener stopped and spoke to him than to any other of his work-people, and observed him more closely. Still nothing uncommon had occurred to James, more than the rest. He received his wages the same as the others, and was most assiduous to please and give satisfaction to his employer. Since his return, he had been most punctual in his attendance at church, and zealous in his religious duties--for he felt all the heart-consoling comforts they are calculated to bestow; and thus had won back to himself the approbation of his own mind and the esteem of others, who had formerly thought very lightly of his principles and conduct.

The consequence was, that James (who, before he went from among us, was well skilled in all the branches of agricultural labour) was appointed grieve by the new proprietor over his estate, towards the end of the harvest, and put into possession of a neat house before the winter commenced. All obstructions to his wedding with Jeanie Aitken were now removed; they were married, and after the wedding she left the widow's cottage for her own house, a happy bride; but the Widow Blair would not leave her cottage to live with them. Years thus rolled on; James's family had increased to three, two boys and a girl, when Widow Blair paid the debt of nature, and was buried beside her husband. James had accumulated a small sum of money by his industry and strict economy, when his excellent and worthy master died suddenly, and he was again without a way to live, though in much better circumstances than when he had first returned. He was now under a great necessity to exert himself, but he could not at once make up his mind as to the manner. He at last resolved to emigrate, and set sail for Sydney towards the fall of the leaf. I have parted with relations and dearest friends, but never did I feel a sharper throe than when I last bade farewell to James Blair and Jeanie Aitken.

But I have often a letter from them. In my last, James says he is prosperous far above his deserts. He is sole proprietor of thousands of sheep of the best breed; and has the range of more land than he can ride round in a long day.

THE WHITE WOMAN OF TARRAS.

Up among the wild moors of Liddlesdale and Ewesdale rises the Tarras, a small, black-looking stream, which, after dashing and brawling through scenes as wild as itself, joins the Esk near Irvine, about twelve or fifteen miles from its source. In the olden time, the banks of the Tarras formed one of the favourite resorts of the freebooters of the Scottish Borders, who, in the midst of their inaccessible morasses, either set pursuit at defiance, or made an easy conquest of those who were foolhardy enough to follow them into their strongholds. They have long ceased their roving and adventurous life--pursuer and pursued have long been lying in the quiet churchyards, or slumbering in their forgotten graves among the wild hills where they fought and fell; but Tarras has since been haunted by other spirits than the turbulent ones of whom we have spoken; for, when the days of rapine and murder were past, it was but natural that superstition should people the wild and desolate morasses with the spirits of the departed.

The "march of intellect" is gradually trampling under foot the legends, omens, and superstitions which formerly flourished in their strength amid the wild fastnesses of the land; and they are seldom talked of now but as things that have been, but never will be again. The incidents upon which the present tale is founded were matters of common conversation some sixty or seventy years since, and the belief in their truth was general and implicit; _now_, they only live in the recollection of the aged, like a half-forgotten dream in their early days. It was from an infirm old man, the son of our _ghost-seer_ that the tradition was obtained.

Late one evening, in the autumn of 17--, Willie Bell, the blacksmith, was standing at the door, wondering what had become of his apprentice, John Graham, who had left Clay-yett that morning, to go to the neighbouring town of Langholm, where his father was lying dangerously ill. It was bright moonlight--calm and beautiful; the few clouds seen in the sky lay still and motionless on the horizon, like barks becalmed at sea, only waiting for a breeze to waft them.

"I hope naething has happened the callant," said Nelly, the guidwife; "it's a bonny nicht--he canna hae tint the gate."

"Hout, na," said Willie, "he kens the gate as weel's I do mysel--there's nae fear o' him; but I'm thinkin, maybe, his father's waur than he expeckit, and he'll be bidin at the Langholm a' nicht."

"Puir chiel! I did hear tell that his father was waitin on; but I hope he's no that far gane yet."

It was now near nine o'clock, and the good folks were beginning to be rather uneasy about John Graham, who had faithfully promised to return before eight, when they heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and presently the object of their solitude appeared, running at the top of his speed, and looking anxiously behind him, as if dreading pursuit, or flying from danger. He soon reached the cottage, and staggered to the door, where he leaned, apparently quite exhausted. His face was ghastly pale, large drops of perspiration stood on his brow, and his limbs trembled as if he were under the influence of ague.

"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 dementit, 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 glass 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 passin 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 glass 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 passed 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 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."