Having answered all these queries to her satisfaction, and taken another cup of senna—I mean tea—I got her back to the White Lady.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” she said, “I saw her, I and some friends. A lot of us had been out at Kinkell Braes one afternoon and stayed there long past the time allowed us. It was almost dark, and we scuttled up the brae from the Harbour rather frightened. Just near the turret light we saw the lady gliding along the top of the old Abbey wall. She was robed in a grey white dress with a veil over her head. She had raven black hair, and a string of beads hanging from her waist. We all huddled together, with our eyes and mouths wide open, and watched the figure. ‘It’s a girl sleep-walking,’ I murmured. ‘It’s a bride,’ whispered another. ‘Oh! she’ll fall,’ said a little boy, grasping my arm. But she did not. She went inside the parapet wall at the Haunted Tower and vanished completely. ‘It’s a ghost; it’s the White Lady,’ we all shrieked, and ran off trembling home. My sister also saw her on one of the turrets in the Abbey wall, where she was seen by several people. Some months after, as I was doing my hair before my looking-glass, the same face looked over my shoulder, and I fainted. I have always felt an eerie feeling about a looking-glass ever since, even now, old woman as I am. Her lovely face is one never, never to be forgotten, having once seen it, but your new fashioned lamps have altered everything.”
“And what do you think about it now?” I asked her.
“I have told you all I know. The Lady used to be seen oftenest between the Castle and that old turret. Perhaps she came to look at the last resting-place of her much loved and wayward minstrel, Castelar. Maybe she came to revisit the favourite haunts of her beloved girl Queen—truly called the Queen of the Roses; but to my dying day I shall never forget that face, that lovely, pathetic face I saw years ago, and which may still be seen by some. What! must you really go now; won’t you have another cup of tea? Very well, good bye.”
As I wended my way Clubwards I could not but think of the strange tale I had just heard and of Castelar’s sad end, and I could not help wondering if I should ever be favoured with a sight of this beautiful White Lady.
A Spiritualistic Seance.
The M’Whiskers, whom I met at Oban, were very jolly old people. Papa M’Whisker had made a big fortune teaplanting in Ceylon, and had bought, and added to Dramdotty Castle in the far, far north. They were perfectly full of ghosts and spiritualism, and at Dramdotty they seemed to have a ghost for every day in the week. On Monday there was the “Spotted Nun,” on Tuesday the “Floating Infant,” on Wednesday the “Headless Dwarf,” on Thursday the “Vanishing Nigger,” on Friday the “Burnt Lady,” and on Saturday the “Human Balloon,” and on Sunday the whole lot attended on them, and, I daresay, went to the kirk with them.