Men come from distant parts to admire the tides of Solloway, which race in at flood and retreat at ebb2 with a greater speed than a horse can follow. But nowhere are there queerer waters than in our own parish of Caulds at the place called the Sker Bay, where between two horns of land a shallow estuary4 receives the stream of the Sker. I never daunder by its shores, and see the waters hurrying like messengers from the great deep, without solemn thoughts and a memory of Scripture5 words on the terror of the sea. The vast Atlantic may be fearful in its wrath6, but with us it is no clean[Pg 205] open rage, but the deceit of the creature, the unholy ways of quicksands when the waters are gone, and their stealthy return like a thief in the night-watches. But in the times of which I write there were more awful fears than any from the violence of nature. It was before the day of my ministry7 in Caulds, for then I was a bit callant in short clothes in my native parish of Lesmahagow; but the worthy8 Doctor Chrystal, who had charge of spiritual things, has told me often of the power of Satan and his emissaries in that lonely place. It was the day of warlocks and apparitions10, now happily driven out by the zeal11 of the General Assembly. Witches pursued their wanchancy calling, bairns were spirited away, young lassies selled their souls to the evil one, and the accuser of the brethren in the shape of a black tyke was seen about cottage-doors in the gloaming. Many and earnest were the prayers of good Doctor Chrystal, but the evil thing, in spite of his wrestling, grew and flourished in his midst. The parish stank13 of idolatry, abominable14 rites15 were practised in secret, and in all the bounds there was no one had a more evil name for this black traffic than one Alison Sempill, who bode16 at the Skerburnfoot.
The cottage stood nigh the burn in a little garden with lilyoaks and grosart-bushes lining17 the pathway. The Sker ran by in a linn among hollins, and the noise of its waters was ever about the place. The highroad on the other side was frequented by few, for a nearer-hand way to the west had been made through the Lowe Moss18. Sometimes a herd19 from the hills would pass by with sheep, sometimes a tinkler or a wandering merchant, and once in a long while the laird of Heriotside on his grey horse riding to Gledsmuir. And they who passed would see Alison Hirpling in her garden, speaking to herself like the ill wife she was, or sitting on a cuttystool by the doorside with her eyes on other than mortal sights. Where she came from no man could tell. There were some said she was no woman, but a ghost haunting some mortal tenement22. Others would threep she was gentrice, come of a persecuting23 family in the west, that had been ruined in the Revolution wars. She never seemed to want for siller; the house was as bright as a new preen24, the yaird better delved25 than the manse garden; and there was routh of fowls26 and doos about the small steading, forbye a wheen sheep and milk-kye in the fields. No man ever saw Alison at any market in the countryside, and yet[Pg 207] the Skerburnfoot was plenished yearly in all proper order. One man only worked on the place, a doited lad who had long been a charge to the parish, and who had not the sense to fear danger or the wit to understand it. Upon all other the sight of Alison, were it but for a moment, cast a cold grue, not to be remembered without terror. It seems she was not ordinarily ill-faured, as men use the word. She was maybe sixty years in age, small and trig, with her grey hair folded neatly27 under her mutch. But the sight of her eyes was not a thing to forget. John Dodds said they were the een of a deer with the devil ahint them, and indeed they would so appal28 an onlooker29 that a sudden unreasoning terror came into his heart, while his feet would impel30 him to flight. Once John, being overtaken in drink on the roadside by the cottage, and dreaming that he was burning in hell, woke, and saw the old wife hobbling towards him. Thereupon he fled soberly to the hills, and from that day became a quiet-living humble32-minded Christian33. She moved about the country like a wraith34, gathering35 herbs in dark loanings, lingering in kirkyairds, and casting a blight36 on innocent bairns. Once Robert Smillie found her in a ruinous kirk on the Lang Muir where of old the[Pg 208] idolatrous rites of Rome were practised. It was a hot day, and in the quiet place the flies buzzed in crowds, and he noted37 that she sat clothed in them as with a garment, yet suffering no discomfort38. Then he, having mind of Beelzebub, the god of flies, fled without a halt homewards; but, falling in the Coo's Loan, broke two ribs39 and a collar-bone, the whilk misfortune was much blessed to his soul. And there were darker tales in the countryside, of weans stolen, of lassies misguided, of innocent beasts cruelly tortured, and in one and all there came in the name of the wife of the Skerburnfoot. It was noted by them that kenned40 best that her cantrips were at their worst when the tides in the Sker Bay ebbed41 between the hours of twelve and one. At this season of the night the tides of mortality run lowest, and when the outgoing of these unco waters fell in with the setting of the current of life, then indeed was the hour for unholy revels42. While honest men slept in their beds, the auld3 rudas carlines took their pleasure. That there is a delight in sin no man denies, but to most it is but a broken glint in the pauses of their conscience. But what must be the hellish joy of those lost beings who have forsworn God and trysted with the Prince of Darkness, it is not for[Pg 209] a Christian to say. Certain it is that it must be great, though their master waits at the end of the road to claim the wizened44 things they call their souls. Serious men, notably45 Gidden Scott in the Back of the Hill and Simon Wauch in the Sheiling of Chasehope, have seen Alison wandering on the wet sands, dancing to no earthly music, while the heavens, they said, were full of lights and sounds which betokened46 the presence of the prince of the powers of the air. It was a season of heart-searching for God's saints in Caulds, and the dispensation was blessed to not a few.
It will seem strange that in all this time the presbytery was idle, and no effort was made to rid the place of so fell an influence. But there was a reason, and the reason, as in most like cases, was a lassie. Forbye Alison there lived at the Skerburnfoot a young maid, Ailie Sempill, who by all accounts was as good and bonnie as the other was evil. She passed for a daughter of Alison's, whether born in wedlock47 or not I cannot tell; but there were some said she was no kin21 to the auld witch-wife, but some bairn spirited away from honest parents. She was young and blithe48, with a face like an April morning and a voice in her that put the laverocks to shame. When she sang in the kirk folk have told me that[Pg 210] they had a foretaste of the music of the New Jerusalem, and when she came in by the village of Caulds old men stottered to their doors to look at her. Moreover from her earliest days the bairn had some glimmerings of grace. Though no minister would visit the Skerburnfoot, or if he went, departed quicker than he came, the girl Ailie attended regular at the catechising at the Mains of Sker. It may be that Alison thought she would be a better offering for the devil if she were given the chance of forswearing God, or it may be that she was so occupied in her own dark business that she had no care of the bairn. Meanwhile the lass grew up in the nurture49 and admonition of the Lord. I have heard Doctor Chrystal say that he never had a communicant more full of the things of the Spirit. From the day when she first declared her wish to come forward to the hour when she broke bread at the table, she walked like one in a dream. The lads of the parish might cast admiring eyes on her bright cheeks and yellow hair as she sat in her white gown in the kirk, but well they knew she was not for them. To be the bride of Christ was the thought that filled her heart; and when at the fencing of the tables Doctor Chrystal preached from Matthew nine and fifteen, "Can[Pg 211] the children of the bride-chamber mourn, as long as the bridegroom is with them?" it was remarked by sundry50 that Ailie's face was liker the countenance51 of an angel than of a mortal lass.
It is with the day of her first communion that this narrative52 of mine begins. As she walked home after the morning table she communed in secret and her heart sank within her. She had mind of God's mercies in the past, how He had kept her feet from the snares53 of evil-doers which had been spread around her youth. She had been told unholy charms like the seven south streams and the nine rowan berries, and it was noted when she went first to the catechising that she prayed "Our Father which wert in heaven," the prayer which the ill wife Alison had taught her, meaning by it Lucifer who had been in heaven and had been cast out therefrom. But when she had come to years of discretion54 she had freely chosen the better part, and evil had ever been repelled55 from her soul like Gled water from the stones of Gled brig. Now she was in a rapture56 of holy content. The drucken bell—for the ungodly fashion lingered in Caulds—was ringing in her ears as she left the village, but to her it was but a kirk-bell and a goodly sound. As she went through the woods where the [Pg 212]primroses and the whitethorn were blossoming, the place seemed as the land of Elam, wherein there were twelve wells and threescore and ten palm-trees. And then, as it might be, another thought came into her head, for it is ordained57 that frail58 mortality cannot long continue in holy joy. In the kirk she had been only the bride of Christ; but as she came through the wood, with the birds lilting and the winds of the world blowing, she had mind of another lover. For this lass, though so cold to men, had not escaped the common fate. It seemed that the young Heriotside, riding by one day, stopped to speir something or other, and got a glisk of Ailie's face, which caught his fancy. He passed the road again many times, and then he would meet her in the gloaming or of a morning in the field as she went to fetch the kye. "Blue are the hills that are far away" is an owercome in the countryside, and while at first on his side it may have been but a young man's fancy, to her he was like the god Apollo descending59 from the skies. He was good to look on, brawly dressed, and with a tongue in his head that would have wiled60 the bird from the tree. Moreover, he was of gentle kin, and she was a poor lass biding61 in a cot-house with an ill-reputed mother. It seems[Pg 213] that in time the young man, who had begun the affair with no good intentions, fell honestly in love, while she went singing about the doors as innocent as a bairn, thinking of him when her thoughts were not on higher things. So it came about that long ere Ailie reached home it was on young Heriotside that her mind dwelt, and it was the love of him that made her eyes glow and her cheeks redden.
Now it chanced that at that very hour her master had been with Alison, and the pair of them were preparing a deadly pit. Let no man say that the devil is not a cruel tyrant62. He may give his folk some scrapings of unhallowed pleasure; but he will exact tithes63, yea of anise and cummin, in return, and there is aye the reckoning to pay at the hinder end. It seems that now he was driving Alison hard. She had been remiss64 of late, fewer souls sent to hell, less zeal in quenching65 the Spirit, and above all the crowning offence that her bairn had communicated in Christ's kirk. She had waited overlong, and now it was like that Ailie would escape her toils66. I have no skill of fancy to tell of that dark collogue, but the upshot was that Alison swore by her lost soul and the pride of sin to bring the lass into thrall67 to her master. The fiend had bare[Pg 214] departed when Ailie came over the threshold to find the auld carline glunching by the fire.
It was plain she was in the worst of tempers. She flyted on the lass till the poor thing's cheek paled. "There you gang," she cried, "troking wi' thae wearifu' Pharisees o' Caulds, whae daurna darken your mither's door. A bonnie dutiful child, quotha! Wumman, ha ye nae pride?—no even the mense o' a tinkler-lass?" And then she changed her voice, and would be as soft as honey. "My puir wee Ailie! was I thrawn till ye? Never mind, my bonnie. You and me are a' that's left, and we maunna be ill to ither." And then the two had their dinner, and all the while the auld wife was crooning over the lass. "We maun 'gree weel," she says, "for we're like to be our lee-lane for the rest o' our days. They tell me Heriotside is seeking Joan o' the Croft, and they're sune to be cried in Gledsmuir kirk."
It was the first the lass had heard of it, and you may fancy she was struck dumb. And so with one thing and other the auld witch raised the fiends of jealousy68 in that innocent heart. She would cry out that Heriotside was an ill-doing wastrel69, and had no business to come and flatter honest lasses. And then she would speak of his[Pg 215] gentle birth and his leddy mother, and say it was indeed presumption70 to hope that so great a gentleman could mean all that he said. Before long Ailie was silent and white, while her mother rhymed on about men and their ways. And then she could thole it no longer, but must go out and walk by the burn to cool her hot brow and calm her thoughts, while the witch indoors laughed to herself at her devices.
For days Ailie had an absent eye and a sad face, and it so fell out that in all that time young Heriotside, who had scarce missed a day, was laid up with a broken arm and never came near her. So in a week's time she was beginning to hearken to her mother when she spoke72 of incantations and charms for restoring love. She kenned it was sin; but though not seven days syne73 she had sat at the Lord's table, so strong is love in a young heart that she was on the very brink74 of it. But the grace of God was stronger than her weak will. She would have none of her mother's runes and philters, though her soul cried out for them. Always when she was most disposed to listen some merciful power stayed her consent. Alison grew thrawner as the hours passed. She kenned of Heriotside's broken arm, and she feared that any day he might recover and[Pg 216] put her stratagems75 to shame. And then it seems that she collogued with her master and heard word of a subtler device. For it was approaching that uncanny time of year, the festival of Beltane, when the auld pagans were wont76 to sacrifice to their god Baal. In this season warlocks and carlines have a special dispensation to do evil, and Alison waited on its coming with graceless joy. As it happened, the tides in the Sker Bay ebbed at this time between the hours of twelve and one, and, as I have said, this was the hour above all others when the powers of darkness were most potent77. Would the lass but consent to go abroad in the unhallowed place at this awful season and hour of the night, she was as firmly handfasted to the devil as if she had signed a bond with her own blood. For there, it seemed, the forces of good fled far away, the world for one hour was given over to its ancient prince, and the man or woman who willingly sought the spot was his bond-servant for ever. There are deadly sins from which God's people may recover. A man may even communicate unworthily, and yet, so be it he sin not against the Holy Ghost, he may find forgiveness. But it seems that for this Beltane sin there could be no pardon, and I can testify from my own [Pg 217]knowledge that they who once committed it became lost souls from that day. James Deuchar, once a promising78 professor, fell thus out of sinful bravery and died blaspheming; and of Kate Mallison, who went the same road, no man can tell. Here, indeed, was the witch-wife's chance, and she was the more keen, for her master had warned her that this was her last chance. Either Ailie's soul would be his, or her auld wrinkled body and black heart would be flung from this pleasant world to their apportioned79 place.
Some days later it happened that young Heriotside was stepping home over the Lang Muir about ten at night—it being his first jaunt80 from home since his arm had mended. He had been to the supper of the Forest Club at the Cross Keys in Gledsmuir, a clamjamfry of wild young blades who passed the wine and played at cartes once a-fortnight. It seems he had drunk well, so that the world ran round about and he was in the best of tempers. The moon came down and bowed to him, and he took off his hat to it. For every step he travelled miles, so that in a little he was beyond Scotland altogether and pacing the Arabian desert. He thought he was the Pope of Rome, so he held out his foot to be kissed, and rolled twenty yards[Pg 218] to the bottom of a small brae. Syne he was the King of France, and fought hard with a whinbush till he had banged it to pieces. After that nothing would content him but he must be a bogle, for he found his head dunting on the stars and his legs were knocking the hills together. He thought of the mischief82 he was doing to the auld earth, and sat down and cried at his wickedness. Then he went on, and maybe the steep road to the Moss Rig helped him, for he began to get soberer and ken31 his whereabouts.
On a sudden he was aware of a man linking along at his side. He cried "A fine night," and the man replied. Syne, being merry from his cups, he tried to slap him on the back. The next he kenned he was rolling on the grass, for his hand had gone clean through the body and found nothing but air.
His head was so thick with wine that he found nothing droll83 in this. "Faith, friend," he says, "that was a nasty fall for a fellow that has supped weel. Where might your road be gaun to?"
"To the World's End," said the man; "but I stop at the Skerburnfoot."
"Bide84 the night at Heriotside," says he. "It's[Pg 219] a thought out of your way, but it's a comfortable bit."
"There's mair comfort at the Skerburnfoot," said the dark man.
Now the mention of the Skerburnfoot brought back to him only the thought of Ailie and not of the witch-wife, her mother. So he jaloused no ill, for at the best he was slow in the uptake.
The two of them went on together for a while, Heriotside's fool head filled with the thought of the lass. Then the dark man broke silence. "Ye're thinkin' o' the maid Ailie Sempill," says he.
"How ken ye that?" asked Heriotside.
"It is my business to read the herts o' men," said the other.
"And who may ye be?" said Heriotside, growing eerie85.
"Just an auld packman," said he—"nae name ye wad ken, but kin to mony gentle houses."
"And what about Ailie, you that ken sae muckle?" asked the young man.
"Naething," was the answer—"naething that concerns you, for ye'll never get the lass."
"By God, and I will!" says Heriotside, for he was a profane86 swearer.
"That's the wrong name to seek her in, any way," said the man.
At this the young laird struck a great blow at him with his stick, but found nothing to resist him but the hill-wind.
When they had gone on a bit the dark man spoke again. "The lassie is thirled to holy things," says he. "She has nae care for flesh and blood, only for devout87 contemplation."
"She loves me," says Heriotside.
"Not you," says the other, "but a shadow in your stead."
At this the young man's heart began to tremble, for it seemed that there was truth in what his companion said, and he was ower drunk to think gravely.
"I kenna whatna man ye are," he says, "but ye have the skill of lassies' hearts. Tell me truly, is there no way to win her to common love?"
"One way there is," said the man, "and for our friendship's sake I will tell it you. If ye can ever tryst43 wi' her on Beltane's Eve on the Sker sands, at the green link o' the burn where the sands begin, on the ebb o' the tide when the midnight is bye but afore cockcrow, she'll be yours, body and soul, for this world and for ever."
And then it appeared to the young man that he was walking his lone9 up the grass walk of Heriotside with the house close by him. He thought no more of the stranger he had met, but the word stuck in his heart.
It seems that about this very time Alison was telling the same tale to poor Ailie. She cast up to her every idle gossip she could think of. "It's Joan o' the Croft," was aye her owercome, and she would threep that they were to be cried in kirk on the first Sabbath of May. And then she would rhyme on about the black cruelty of it, and cry down curses on the lover, so that her daughter's heart grew cauld with fear. It is terrible to think of the power of the world even in a redeemed88 soul. Here was a maid who had drunk of the well of grace and tasted of God's mercies, and yet there were moments when she was ready to renounce89 her hope. At those awful seasons God seemed far off and the world very nigh, and to sell her soul for love looked a fair bargain. At other times she would resist the devil and comfort herself with prayer; but aye when she woke there was the sore heart, and when she went to sleep there were the weary eyes. There was no comfort in the goodliness of spring or the bright sunshine weather, and she who had been wont to go about the doors lightfoot and blithe was now as dowie as a widow woman.
And then one afternoon in the hinder end of April came young Heriotside riding to the Skerburnfoot. His arm was healed, he had got him a fine new suit of green, and his horse was a mettle90 beast that well set off his figure. Ailie was standing91 by the doorstep as he came down the road, and her heart stood still with joy. But a second thought gave her anguish92. This man, so gallant93 and braw, would never be for her; doubtless the fine suit and the capering94 horse were for Joan o' the Croft's pleasure. And he in turn, when he remarked her wan12 cheek and dowie eyes, had mind of what the dark man said on the muir, and saw in her a maid sworn to no mortal love. Yet the passion for her had grown fiercer than ever, and he swore to himself that he would win her back from her phantasies. She, one may believe, was ready enough to listen. As she walked with him by the Sker water his words were like music to her ears, and Alison within-doors laughed to herself and saw her devices prosper95.
He spoke to her of love and his own heart, and the girl hearkened gladly. Syne he rebuked96 her coldness and cast scorn upon her piety97, and so[Pg 223] far was she beguiled98 that she had no answer. Then from one thing and another he spoke of some true token of their love. He said he was jealous, and craved99 something to ease his care. "It's but a small thing I ask," says he; "but it will make me a happy man, and nothing ever shall come atween us. Tryst wi' me for Beltane's Eve on the Sker sands, at the green link o' the burn where the sands begin, on the ebb o' the tide when midnight is bye but afore cockcrow. For," said he, "that was our forebears' tryst for true lovers, and wherefore no for you and me?"
The lassie had grace given her to refuse, but with a woful heart, and Heriotside rode off in black discontent, leaving poor Ailie to sigh her lone. He came back the next day and the next, but aye he got the same answer. A season of great doubt fell upon her soul. She had no clearness in her hope, nor any sense of God's promises. The Scriptures100 were an idle tale to her, prayer brought her no refreshment101, and she was convicted in her conscience of the unpardonable sin. Had she been less full of pride she would have taken her troubles to good Doctor Chrystal and got comfort; but her grief made her silent and timorous102, and she found no help anywhere. Her mother was ever at her side,[Pg 224] seeking with coaxings and evil advice to drive her to the irrevocable step. And all the while there was her love for the man riving in her bosom103 and giving her no ease by night or day. She believed she had driven him away and repented104 her denial. Only her pride held her back from going to Heriotside and seeking him herself. She watched the road hourly for a sight of his face, and when the darkness came she would sit in a corner brooding over her sorrows.
At last he came, speiring the old question. He sought the same tryst, but now he had a further tale. It seemed he was eager to get her away from the Skerburnside and auld Alison. His aunt, the Lady Balcrynie, would receive her gladly at his request till the day of their marriage. Let her but tryst with him at the hour and place he named, and he would carry her straight to Balcrynie, where she would be safe and happy. He named that hour, he said, to escape men's observation for the sake of her own good name. He named that place, for it was near her dwelling105, and on the road between Balcrynie and Heriotside, which fords the Sker Burn. The temptation was more than mortal heart could resist. She gave him the promise he sought, stifling107 the voice of conscience; and as[Pg 225] she clung to his neck it seemed to her that heaven was a poor thing compared with a man's love.
Three days remained till Beltane's Eve, and throughout the time it was noted that Heriotside behaved like one possessed108. It may be that his conscience pricked109 him, or that he had a glimpse of his sin and its coming punishment. Certain it is that, if he had been daft before, he now ran wild in his pranks111, and an evil report of him was in every mouth. He drank deep at the Cross Keys, and fought two battles with young lads that had angered him. One he led off with a touch on the shoulder, the other goes lame112 to this day from a wound he got in the groin. There was word of the procurator-fiscal taking note of his doings, and troth, if they had continued long he must have fled the country. For a wager113 he rode his horse down the Dow Craig, wherefore the name of the place is the Horseman's Craig to this day. He laid a hundred guineas with the laird of Slipperfield that he would drive four horses through the Slipperfield loch, and in the prank110 he had his bit chariot dung to pieces and a good mare114 killed. And all men observed that his eyes were wild and his face grey and thin, and that his hand would[Pg 226] twitch115 as he held the glass, like one with the palsy.
The eve of Beltane was lown and hot in the low country, with fire hanging in the clouds and thunder grumbling116 about the heavens. It seems that up in the hills it had been an awesome117 deluge118 of rain, but on the coast it was still dry and lowering. It is a long road from Heriotside to the Skerburnfoot. First you go down the Heriot Water, and syne over the Lang Muir to the edge of Mucklewhan. When you pass the steadings of Mirehope and Cockmalane you turn to the right and ford106 the Mire1 Burn. That brings you on to the turnpike road, which you will ride till it bends inland, while you keep on straight over the Whinny Knowes to the Sker Bay. There, if you are in luck, you will find the tide out and the place fordable dryshod for a man on a horse. But if the tide runs, you will do well to sit down on the sands and content yourself till it turn, or it will be the solans and scarts of the Solloway that will be seeing the next of you. On this Beltane's Eve the young man, after supping with some wild young blades, bade his horse be saddled about ten o'clock. The company were eager to ken his errand, but he waved them back. "Bide here," he says, "and[Pg 227] birl the wine till I return. This is a ploy119 of my own on which no man follows me." And there was that in his face as he spoke which chilled the wildest, and left them well content to keep to the good claret and the soft seat and let the daft laird go his own ways.
Well and on, he rode down the bridle120-path in the wood, along the top of the Heriot glen, and as he rode he was aware of a great noise beneath him. It was not wind, for there was none, and it was not the sound of thunder, and aye as he speired at himself what it was it grew the louder till he came to a break in the trees. And then he saw the cause, for Heriot was coming down in a furious flood, sixty yards wide, tearing at the roots of the aiks, and flinging red waves against the drystone dykes122. It was a sight and sound to solemnise a man's mind, deep calling unto deep, the great waters of the hills running to meet with the great waters of the sea. But Heriotside recked nothing of it, for his heart had but one thought and the eye of his fancy one figure. Never had he been so filled with love of the lass, and yet it was not happiness but a deadly secret fear.
As he came to the Lang Muir it was geyan dark, though there was a moon somewhere [Pg 228]behind the clouds. It was little he could see of the road, and ere long he had tried many moss-pools and sloughs123, as his braw new coat bare witness. Aye in front of him was the great hill of Mucklewhan, where the road turned down by the Mire. The noise of the Heriot had not long fallen behind him ere another began, the same eerie sound of burns crying to ither in the darkness. It seemed that the whole earth was overrun with waters. Every little runnel in the bog81 was astir, and yet the land around him was as dry as flax, and no drop of rain had fallen. As he rode on the din20 grew louder, and as he came over the top of Mirehope he kenned by the mighty124 rushing noise that something uncommon125 was happening with the Mire Burn. The light from Mirehope sheiling twinkled on his left, and had the man not been dozened with his fancies he might have observed that the steading was deserted126 and men were crying below in the fields. But he rode on, thinking of but one thing, till he came to the cot-house of Cockmalane, which is nigh the fords of the Mire.
John Dodds, the herd who bode in the place, was standing at the door, and he looked to see who was on the road so late.
"Stop," says he, "stop, Laird Heriotside. I kenna what your errand is, but it is to no holy purpose that ye're out on Beltane Eve. D'ye no hear the warning o' the waters?"
And then in the still night came the sound of Mire like the clash of armies.
"I must win over the ford," says the laird quietly, thinking of another thing.
"Ford!" cried John in scorn. "There'll be nae ford for you the nicht unless it be the ford o' the river Jordan. The burns are up, and bigger than man ever saw them. It'll be a Beltane's Eve that a' folk will remember. They tell me that Gled valley is like a loch, and that there's an awesome folk drooned in the hills. Gin ye were ower the Mire, what about crossin' the Caulds and the Sker?" says he, for he jaloused he was going to Gledsmuir.
And then it seemed that that word brought the laird to his senses. He looked the airt the rain was coming from, and he saw it was the airt the Sker flowed. In a second, he has told me, the works of the devil were revealed to him. He saw himself a tool in Satan's hands, he saw his tryst a device for the destruction of the body, as it was assuredly meant for the destruction of the soul, and there came on his mind the picture of an innocent lass borne down by the waters with no place for repentance127. His heart grew cold in his breast. He had but one thought, a sinful and reckless one—to get to her side, that the two might go together to their account. He heard the roar of the Mire as in a dream, and when John Dodds laid hands on his bridle he felled him to the earth. And the next seen of it was the laird riding the floods like a man possessed.
The horse was the grey stallion he aye rode, the very beast he had ridden for many a wager with the wild lads of the Cross Keys. No man but himself durst back it, and it had lamed128 many a hostler lad and broke two necks in its day. But it seemed it had the mettle for any flood, and took the Mire with little spurring. The herds129 on the hillside looked to see man and steed swept into eternity130; but though the red waves were breaking about his shoulders and he was swept far down, he aye held on for the shore. The next thing the watchers saw was the laird struggling up the far bank, and casting his coat from him, so that he rode in his sark. And then he set off like a wildfire across the muir towards the turnpike road. Two men saw him on the road and have recorded their experience. One was a gangrel, by name M'Nab, who was travelling[Pg 231] from Gledsmuir to Allerkirk with a heavy pack on his back and a bowed head. He heard a sound like wind afore him, and, looking up, saw coming down the road a grey horse stretched out to a wild gallop131 and a man on its back with a face like a soul in torment132. He kenned not whether it was devil or mortal, but flung himself on the roadside, and lay like a corp for an hour or more till the rain aroused him. The other was one Sim Doolittle, the fish-hawker from Allerfoot, jogging home in his fish-cart from Gledsmuir fair. He had drunk more than was fit for him, and he was singing some light song, when he saw approaching, as he said, the pale horse mentioned in the Revelations, with Death seated as the rider. Thoughts of his sins came on him like a thunder-clap, fear loosened his knees, he leaped from the cart to the road, and from the road to the back of a dyke121. Thence he flew to the hills, and was found the next morning far up among the Mire Craigs, while his horse and cart were gotten on the Aller sands, the horse lamed and the cart without the wheels.
At the tollhouse the road turns inland to Gledsmuir, and he who goes to Sker Bay must leave it and cross the wild land called the[Pg 232] Whinny Knowes, a place rough with bracken and foxes' holes and old stone cairns. The tollman, John Gilzean, was opening his window to get a breath of air in the lown night when he heard or saw the approaching horse. He kenned the beast for Heriotside's, and, being a friend of the laird's, he ran down in all haste to open the yett, wondering to himself about the laird's errand on this night. A voice came down the road to him bidding him hurry; but John's old fingers were slow with the keys, and so it happened that the horse had to stop, and John had time to look up at the gash133 and woful face.
"Where away the nicht sae late, laird?" says John.
"I go to save a soul from hell," was the answer.
And then it seems that through the open door there came the chapping of a clock.
"Whatna hour is that?" asks Heriotside.
"Midnicht," says John, trembling, for he did not like the look of things.
There was no answer but a groan134, and horse and man went racing135 down the dark hollows of the Whinny Knowes.
How he escaped a broken neck in that dreadful place no human being will ever tell. The[Pg 233] sweat, he has told me, stood in cold drops upon his forehead; he scarcely was aware of the saddle in which he sat; and his eyes were stelled in his head, so that he saw nothing but the sky ayont him. The night was growing colder, and there was a small sharp wind stirring from the east. But, hot or cold, it was all one to him, who was already cold as death. He heard not the sound of the sea nor the peesweeps startled by his horse, for the sound that ran in his ears was the roaring Sker Water and a girl's cry. The thought kept goading136 him, and he spurred the grey till the creature was madder than himself. It leaped the hole which they call the Devil's Mull as I would step over a thistle, and the next he kenned he was on the edge of the Sker Bay.
It lay before him white and ghastly, with mist blowing in wafts137 across it and a slow swaying of the tides. It was the better part of a mile wide, but save for some fathoms138 in the middle where the Sker current ran, it was no deeper even at flood than a horse's fetlocks. It looks eerie at bright midday when the sun is shining and whaups are crying among the seaweeds; but think what it was on that awesome night with the powers of darkness brooding over it like a cloud. The rider's heart quailed139 for a moment[Pg 234] in natural fear. He stepped his beast a few feet in, still staring afore him like a daft man. And then something in the sound or the feel of the waters made him look down, and he perceived that the ebb had begun and the tide was flowing out to sea.
He kenned that all was lost, and the knowledge drove him to stark140 despair. His sins came in his face like birds of night, and his heart shrank like a pea. He knew himself for a lost soul, and all that he loved in the world was out in the tides. There, at any rate, he could go too, and give back that gift of life he had so blackly misused141. He cried small and soft like a bairn, and drove the grey out into the waters. And aye as he spurred it the foam142 should have been flying as high as his head; but in that uncanny hour there was no foam, only the waves running sleek143 like oil. It was not long ere he had come to the Sker channel, where the red moss-waters were roaring to the sea, an ill place to ford in midsummer heat, and certain death, as folks reputed it, at the smallest spate144. The grey was swimming, but it seemed the Lord had other purposes for him than death, for neither man nor horse could drown. He tried to leave the saddle, but he could not; he flung the bridle[Pg 235] from him, but the grey held on, as if some strong hand were guiding. He cried out upon the devil to help his own, he renounced145 his Maker146 and his God; but whatever his punishment, he was not to be drowned. And then he was silent, for something was coming down the tide.
It came down as quiet as a sleeping bairn, straight for him as he sat with his horse breasting the waters, and as it came the moon crept out of a cloud and he saw a glint of yellow hair. And then his madness died away and he was himself again, a weary and stricken man. He hung down over the tides and caught the body in his arms, and then let the grey make for the shallows. He cared no more for the devil and all his myrmidons, for he kenned brawly he was damned. It seemed to him that his soul had gone from him and he was as toom as a hazel-shell. His breath rattled147 in his throat, the tears were dried up in his head, his body had lost its strength, and yet he clung to the drowned maid as to a hope of salvation148. And then he noted something at which he marvelled149 dumbly. Her hair was drookit back from her clay-cold brow, her eyes were shut, but in her face there was the peace of a child. It seemed even that her lips were smiling. Here, certes, was no lost[Pg 236] soul, but one who had gone joyfully150 to meet her Lord. It may be in that dark hour at the burn-foot, before the spate caught her, she had been given grace to resist her adversary151 and flung herself upon God's mercy.
And it would seem that it had been granted, for when he came to the Skerburnfoot there in the corner sat the weird-wife Alison dead as a stone and shrivelled like a heatherbirn.
For days Heriotside wandered the country or sat in his own house with vacant eye and trembling hands. Conviction of sin held him like a vice71: he saw the lassie's death laid at his door, her face haunted him by day and night, and the word of the Lord dirled in his ears telling of wrath and punishment. The greatness of his anguish wore him to a shadow, and at last he was stretched on his bed and like to perish. In his extremity152 worthy Doctor Chrystal went to him unasked and strove to comfort him. Long, long the good man wrestled153, but it seemed as if his ministrations were to be of no avail. The fever left his body, and he rose to stotter about the doors; but he was still in his torments154, and the mercy-seat was far from him. At last in the back-end of the year came Mungo Muirhead to Caulds to the[Pg 237] autumn communion, and nothing would serve him but he must try his hand at this storm-tossed soul. He spoke with power and unction, and a blessing155 came with his words, the black cloud lifted and showed a glimpse of grace, and in a little the man had some assurance of salvation. He became a pillar of Christ's Kirk, prompt to check abominations, notably the sin of witchcraft156, foremost in good works; but with it all a humble man, who walked contritely157 till his death. When I came first to Caulds I sought to prevail upon him to accept the eldership, but he aye put me by, and when I heard his tale I saw that he had done wisely. I mind him well as he sat in his chair or daundered through Caulds, a kind word for every one and sage158 counsel in time of distress159, but withal a severe man to himself and a crucifier of the body. It seems that this severity weakened his frame, for three years syne come Martinmas he was taken ill with a fever, and after a week's sickness he went to his account, where I trust he is accepted.
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1
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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5
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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6
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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7
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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8
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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10
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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11
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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12
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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13
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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14
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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15
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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16
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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17
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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18
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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19
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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20
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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21
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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22
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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23
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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24
preen
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| v.（人）打扮修饰 | |
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25
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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27
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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28
appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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29
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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30
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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31
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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32
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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33
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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34
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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40
kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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41
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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42
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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43
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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44
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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45
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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46
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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48
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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49
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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50
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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51
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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52
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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53
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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55
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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56
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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57
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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58
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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59
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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60
wiled
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| v.引诱( wile的过去式和过去分词 )；诱惑；消遣；消磨 | |
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61
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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62
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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63
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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64
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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65
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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66
toils
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| 网 | |
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67
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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68
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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69
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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70
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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71
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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72
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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73
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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74
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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75
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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76
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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77
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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78
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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79
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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81
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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82
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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83
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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84
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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85
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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86
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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87
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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88
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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89
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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90
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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91
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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92
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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93
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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94
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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95
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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96
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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98
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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99
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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100
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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101
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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102
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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103
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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104
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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106
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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107
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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108
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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109
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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110
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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111
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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112
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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113
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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114
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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115
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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116
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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117
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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118
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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119
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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120
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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121
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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122
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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123
sloughs
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| n.沼泽( slough的名词复数 )；苦难的深渊；难以改变的不良心情；斯劳(Slough)v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的第三人称单数 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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124
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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125
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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126
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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127
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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128
lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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129
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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130
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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131
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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132
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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133
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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134
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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135
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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136
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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137
wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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139
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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141
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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142
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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143
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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144
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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145
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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146
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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147
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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148
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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149
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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151
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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152
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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153
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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154
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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155
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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156
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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157
contritely
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158
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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159
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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