It took some time to get her to that point. She would talk about Archbishop Sharpe and his haunted house in the Pends Road, of the ghost seen by Archbishop Ross, of my friend the Veiled Nun4, of the Cathedral and Mr John Knox, of Hungus, King of the Picts, of Constantine, Thomas Plater, and various others. She told me a long tale of the Rainham Ghost in Norfolk, known as “The Brown Lady of Rainham,” whom her father and Captain Marryat both saw, and so on.
At last we got near the subject I wished information on.
“In my young days,” she said, “St Andrews was quite a wee bit place with grass-grown streets, red-tiled houses, outside stairs, queer narrow wynds, not over clean, only a few lights at night—here and there, an old bowet or oil lamp hanging at street corners. Every one believed in Sharpe’s Phantom[63] Coach in those good old days.”
“Did you ever see it?” I queried5.
“No,” she said, “but I have heard it rumble6 past, and I know those who have seen it, and many other things too.”
“But tell me about the White Lady, please,” I said.
“I will. Few people in those days cared to pass that haunted tower after nightfall. If they did they ran past it and also the Castle. Those new-fangled incandescent7 gas lamps have spoiled it all now. The White Lady was one of the Maries, one of the maids of honour to poor martyred Mary of Scotland, they said then. She was madly in love with the French poet and minstrel, ‘Castelar,’ and he was hopelessly in love, like many others, with Marie’s lovely mistress, ‘the Queen of Scots.’”
“Was she supposed to be the girl seen in the built-up haunted tower?” I asked.
“That I really can’t say,” she said. “There was a story often told in the old days that a beautiful embalmed8 girl in white lay in that tower, and it was there and near the Castle that she used to appear to the people. You know poor Castelar, the handsome minstrel, said and did some stupid things, and was beheaded at the Castle, and was probably buried near there. Get me from that shelf Whyte Melville’s novel, ‘The Queen’s Maries.’”
I did as she bade me.
“Well, you will see there that the night before Castelar was to be beheaded kind Queen Mary sent one of her Maries, the one who loved Castelar, at her own special request to the Castle with her ring to offer him a pardon if he left this country for ever. This Marie did see Castelar, showed him the Queen’s ring, and pleaded with him to comply, but he refused—he preferred death to banishment9 from his beloved Queen’s Court, and the fair messenger left him obstinate10 in his dungeon11. This faithful Marie paced up and down all that night before the Castle; then at dawn came the sound of a gun or culverin, a wreath of smoke floated out to sea, and Castelar was gone. Whyte Melville says she did not start, she did not shriek12, nor faint, nor quiver, but she threw her hood2 back and looked wildly upward, gasping13 for air. Then as the rising sun shone on[64] her bare head, Marie’s raven14 hair was all streaked15 and patched with grey. When Mary Stuart fled to England, this faithful Marie, now no more needed, became a nun in St Andrews. Look at page 371 of Whyte Melville’s book,” she said. So I read—“It was an early harvest that year in Scotland, but e’er the barley16 was white, Marie had done with nuns17 and nunneries, vows18 and ceremonies, withered19 hopes and mortal sorrows, and had gone to that place where the weary heart can alone find the rest it had so longed for at last.”
The pathetic and the comic often go together. Just at this interesting point a cat sprang suddenly up and upset a cup of tea in the lap of my genial20 hostess. This created a diversion. Old ladies are apt to wander, which is annoying. She got clean away from her subject for a bit. She asked me if I knew Captain Robert Marshall, who wrote plays and “The Haunted Mayor.” I said I knew Bob well, and that he was an old Madras College boy.
She then wanted to know if I knew how to pronounce the name of Mr Travis’s American putter, and if Mr Low or I had ever tried it. She also wanted to know if I knew anything of the new patent clock worked on gramophone principles which shouted the hours instead of striking them.
Having answered all these queries21 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 scuttled22 up the brae from the Harbour rather frightened. Just near the turret23 light we saw the lady gliding24 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 beads25 hanging from her waist. We all huddled26 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.[65] ‘It’s a ghost; it’s the White Lady,’ we all shrieked27, and ran off trembling home. My sister also saw her on one of the turrets28 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 eerie29 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.
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1
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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2
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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3
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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4
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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6
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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7
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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8
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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9
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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10
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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11
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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12
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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13
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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14
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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15
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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16
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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17
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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18
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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19
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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22
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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24
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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25
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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26
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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