Part 23

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