THE STORY OF THE DOOMED RIDER.
"The Conan," continued the man, "is as bonny a river as we hae in a' the 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."