“Nor would I,” said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.
Barnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend that it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk at the farm-houses and cottages as they passed, for there was no house of accommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had refreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had promised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the story of the profligate laird.
“That’s an awfu’ story,” said Barnaby, “but it is soon tauld. It was the Laird o’ Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow’s corn, and never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin’ the foundation-stane was laid, an’ for a’ the grandeur that was about it, there’s nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if he didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o’ high kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to the house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an’ as blithe as a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad, and unco pale at times; an’ they whiles came on her greetin by hersel. It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an’ there was nae mair peace about the house. At length it was spread ower a’ the parish that the lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an’ up comes hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird’s auld companion in wickedness, wi’ a saddle an’ a pad to take her away. When they set her on ahint him, Molly shook hands wi’ a’ the servants, but couldna speak, for she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o’ taking her away i’ the fair day-light, i’ the ee o’ God an’ man, he took her away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an’ instead o’ gaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross at twal o’clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor heard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the Alemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was some yellow hair, too, on the scull, that was unco like Molly’s, but nae body could say.
“Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer’s daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and a half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came hurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a’ hae sutten down on their knees wad she gae wi’ him; she grat an’ pray’d, an’ they fleeched an’ flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o’ their teeth, and shamed them a’. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to the nursing, far away some gate, an’ there was nae body ony mair fashed wi’ him.
“It wad be endless to tell ye ower a’ their wickedness, for it can hardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at a distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye the langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that the laird was walking at the back o’ his garden, in the moon-light. It was thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that was conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming towards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held up her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she was; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon came to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but rather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he lived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and swore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu’ things that folk didna understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o’ desperation, that the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his ain hearth-stane, at a time o’ life when he should scarcely have been at his prime.
“But it wasna sae wi’ Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life; and, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two nights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but always a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble cries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again. The family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and women, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his confessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died clean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him, and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed, and the voice cried, “O, Charley, spare my life!—Spare my life! For your own soul’s sake and mine, spare my life!” On which the corpse again sat up in the bed, pawled wi’ its hands, and stared round wi’ its dead face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was gane. They sought a’ the house, and in behind the bed, and could find naething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain house, up in the howe o’ the Baileylee-linn, a’ torn limb frae limb, an’ the dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o’er the muir that day, carrying something atween them, an’ fock suspectit it was Charley’s soul, for it was heard makin’ a loud maen as they flew o’er Alemoor. At the same time it was reportit, that there was to be seen every morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor loch, wi’ her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck. It’s an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o’ the day, and even then it gars a’ my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard it, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to mony ane.”
Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed her,—it having been even more shocking than the former ones were delightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual events, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to inform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in view of his father’s cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very wildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the confluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each side of the house and kail-yard, and mingled their waters immediately below these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills on each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long black shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these like streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and repose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane’s heart danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of the mountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was going to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how equivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for such a retreat, and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to proffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather than be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen, and seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which would not suffer him to pronounce the words aright. Two fine shaggy healthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at a timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than them both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping away from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at his feet, and whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion’s hand, and capered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby’s. The whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured near; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not what to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the corner of Jane’s mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the house.—George was perfectly delighted.
“I think,” said Jane, “the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty welcome within!”
“Ay, that it does,” answered Barnaby; “a dog that is brought up with a man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself.”