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?"