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."