‘“I have often ridden on an errand to a lady,” said Sorbie, “and it seems natural that an errand to the parson should follow—though what my master can want with him is beyond my knowledge—he’s nane of the praying sort—as little is he of the marrying sort—and, I think he wadna send for a good divine, to make fun of him over the bottle with his wild comrades. He mauna try to crack his fun on godly Gabriel Burgess. I wad rather face the Master of Logan himself, when kindled with drink and inflamed with contradiction. The minister’s the man for handling a refractory sinner. I think I see him fit to spring out of the pulpit, like a fiery dragon—his hands held out, his eyes shining, his grey hair rising up like eagles’ wings, and his voice coming down among sinners like a thunder-clap. And then there is a power given him of combating the spirits of darkness—an open Bible, a drawn sword, a circle of chalk and some wise words—so Gabriel prevails. I wonder what puts spirits in my head in this lonesome place.” He spurred his horse, and looking right and left, before and behind, like one keeping watch in suspicious places, entered a wild ravine, partly occupied by a brook, and wound his way along the banks chanting the Gallant Graemes,* with all the courage he could muster; he pitched the tune low, for he desired to have the entire use of ear and eye in his ride down the Deadman’s Gill, for so the glen was called.
‘His horse snorted and snuffed, and Sorbie saw, to his infinite delight, that a lady riding on a little palfrey, and attended by a single servant, had entered the gorge of the glen, and was coming towards him. “Now, in the name of fun, what soft customer can this be?” said he to himself: “she’s mantled and veiled as if afraid of the night air. But what the fiend is the matter with the beasts?—softly, softly, Galloway Tam, else ye’ll tumble me and coup* the lady—damn the horses, that I should say sae, and me in a eerie place and in the way to the minister too—softly, softly.” The road luckily widened at the place where he met this wandering dame, else, such was the irritable temper of the horses which he rode and led, that he would have certainly lost his seat. He bowed as she came up, and said, “Good even, fair Mistress, ye ride late.”—“And good even to thee, good fellow,” said the lady, in a voice of great natural sweetness, “it is late, but I have not far to go, if the Master of Logan be at home?”—“He’s at home, and alone,” answered Dick, with a low bow, “and expecting some one, for I saw a table spread for two: I know not who is the invited guest.” The lady laughed, and lifting her veil, showed a youthful and lovely face, with bright eyes and flaxen ringlets—then dropped the veil, and continued her journey. “It’s a face I have never seen before,” said Sorbie to himself, “but such a face as that will aye be welcome to the Master of Logan. I maun spur on for the minister, since such a sweet dame as yon is on a visit. My master will scarcely wait for his coming to say grace afore meat—she’s a shiner.” And away rode the messenger at a round pace.
‘Just as he emerged from the glen, he saw a dark figure riding slowly towards him; and it seemed to his sight that horse and rider were one, for both were dark. “Now,” muttered he, “the auld saying’s come to pass,—‘Meet wi’ a woman at night and then ye’re fit to meet with the Deil’—for here He comes—riding, I dare be sworn, on Andrew Johnston of Elfsfield.” The rider approached, and said, “Turn—turn—I am on my way to thy master.” “Be merciful, but this is wondrous!” exclaimed the other, in ecstasy. “Is this you, Minister? O, but ye are welcome!” and he took off his hat and shook back his hair, more to cool his burning brow, on which drops of terror had gathered, than out of respect to the clergyman. “Come, turn thy bridle back, Richard Sorbie,” said Gabriel,—“Thou hast seen something, such as human sight cannot behold without fear, which hath moved thee thus.”
‘Sorbie had, however, recovered all his ordinary audacity, and answered very gaily, “Indeed, Minister, to tell ye the truth, ye were the object of terror yourself; for seeing ye coming, riding along in this haunted place, all dark, horse and man, I e’en set ye down for the Enemy instead of the friend o’ mankind, and I’m free to own that I did na like to face ye. Faith, but my horses, poor things, were wiser than me; they took it calmly enough, and ye ken yourself a horse is no’ willing to ride up to an emissary of the other world, or emissaries of this world either, Minister, else Galloway Tam wouldna have made sic a work. He nearly laid me on the gowans,* when I met a wandering Queen of Sheba,* in the Deadman’s Gill, some ten minutes since.” “A wandering lady, at this hour, in this wild glen!” said Gabriel: “and what manner of woman was she?”—“Oh a lass wi’ manners enough, Minister,” said Sorbie; “and veiled, as ye may guess, with an armful of lint-white locks about her bonnie blue een. But ye’ll see her, Minister, ye’ll see her; she’s awa to sup with the Master of Logan, and if ye makena the mair speed, he’ll hae commenced the meat. I was sent off with such speed, to bring ye, as I never was sent afore—mair by token, there’s a memorial that the Master’s in earnest.” And he put the little clasped Bible into his hands. “Let us ride faster,” said the Minister, “I may be too late”; and they rode onward.
‘“It was here,” said Sorbie, pointing to a wider part of the way, “that I met the lady with the lint-white locks—and this too is the place, they say, Minister, where the Lords of Logan had a summer-bower of old, and where one of them had for his companion, one of the wanton lasses of Ae, a frail twig o’ the auld tree of the Morisons.” “Hush!” said Gabriel—“give not the thought utterance—such scenes should not be recalled. Bid what is good live again—let the memory of what is evil perish.”—“Aweel,” said Sorbie, “e’en let it be sae—but such things canna aye be accomplished—an’ yonder’s the lights of Logan tower, a glad sight in such a lonesome place as this: but will ye tell me, Minister, how ye came to ken that the Master wanted ye?—I was sent to bring ye—and I’m sure the tower sent out no other messenger.”—“A blessed creature warned me,” said Gabriel—“yea, a blessed creature.” And he looked at the Bible as he spoke. “I would have gone to the uttermost ends of the earth to do her bidding, while she lived, and now shall I refuse her when she is a ministering spirit?”—“He’s got into one of his fits of communings with the invisible world,” thought Sorbie, “and it’s wisdom to let him alone, lest he should cause me to see something whilk I have no wish to see. Yet I marvel who this blessed creature could be who told him—he’s owre deep for me to deal with, this Minister of ours.”
‘While they were on their way down the Deadman’s Gill, the Master of Logan heard the neighing of a palfrey at his tower gate, and a bustle amongst his servants. He presently heard the sound of a woman’s voice—very low, very soft, and as liquid as music, giving some directions to the attendants; and soon a light foot, accompanied by the rustling of silks, approached his apartment. The door opened, and a young Lady, richly dressed and of great beauty, was ushered in—she lifted her veil from her person, threw it backwards over her shoulders, carrying with it a whole stream of ringlets, and occupying the settee of oak, to which she was conducted, said, “Master of Logan, I must be your guest for an hour. You have your table ready furnished—your silver censers burning, and the wine ready. Ah, Sir, was this feast spread for a lady?” And she gave her head, with its innumerable curls, a pleasant toss, and threw a comic archness into the glance of her eye, and waited for an answer. “Truly, Lady Anne,” said he, “I must not say that it was spread for you, since I did not expect this honour, but it could not be spread for any one more lovely or more welcome.”—“Master,” answered the young lady, with some dignity, “I am not now as I have been—I am now mistress of my own actions, with no guardian to control me. I go where I wish, and journey as I will—but I am not here altogether of my own choice—for, look out on the night—yon huge black cloud cannot choose but rain by pailfuls, and I would rather throw myself on your hospitality than trust the treacherous storm. It would have no mercy upon our female falderols and our round tires* like the moon.”
‘“Dear Lady Anne,” replied the Master of Logan, “whatever be the caus
e of your coming, your presence here is most welcome—not the less so since the elements constrained a little that dear quick-silvering disposition of thine—which, now I think on’t, used to wrong me with suspicions and attack me with sarcasms. But all that only renders the present visit more welcome. Lay your veil aside, and allow those fair prisoners, those luxuriant tresses, a little liberty—the cloud, which you dreaded, grows darker and darker; and you may be thankful if you are released till midnight.” She unveiled, and removed a broad fillet which enclosed her tresses, allowing them to descend in abundance on her shoulders—then, raising her white arms, caught them up ringlet after ringlet, and confined them around her brows and beneath the fillet, only allowing a tress or two to scatter negligently down her long white neck. He knew enough of human nature to know that all this apparent care was but a stratagem to show her charms to advantage, and he looked at her with much earnestness and an encreasing regard, which he did not desire to conceal. It is true that once or twice he said, mentally, “What but admiration of me would have possessed this young and modest lady—she who always repelled, with cold tranquillity, the compliments and attentions I paid her,—what has happened to induce her to overstep the limits of maidenly discretion? But nature’s nature, and I have often seen the will that was restrained by parents set itself free with a vengeance, and make ample amends for early constraint. I must comfort her as well as I can; I wish I had not sent for that severe divine—this will furnish a text for another lecture—he will make me the common speech of the pulpit—and, what is worse, this young lady too will be a sufferer.” The Master seemed to have dismissed from his mind all the fears which lately distressed him; the intoxication of woman’s beauty o’ermastered all other emotions.
‘The domestics of the Tower meanwhile indulged in abundance of wild speculations. “I marvel what will happen next?” said the first servant. “Our master has sent for a divine; and young Lady Anne Dalzel has come wandering hither under the cloud o’night, like an errant damsel in the auld ballads—it canna be for good that he’s grown godly and she’s grown daft.”—“I wonder what puts it into your head,” said the second servant, “that this young tramping lass, with the lint-white hair and licentious een, is Lady Anne Dalzel? Do you think that her douce mother’s ae daughter would sae far forget rank and virtue, and e’en prudence, as to come cantering awa here in the dark hour o’ the night? Na, na! the dove will never flee into the nest of the gore-falcon.”—“Ye say true,” said a third menial; “this quean, whoe’er she may be—and for looks, she might be an earl’s daughter—savours nothing of the auld house of Dalzel. Why, man, there’s a saucy sort of grace—a kind of John-come-woo-me-now kind of look about her, which never belonged to the name.”—“And who, then, can she be?” inquired a dozen of domestics, gathering round the other speakers in a circle.
‘“I ken what I ken,” said an old woman, who had charge of the poultry; “and I know what I know! Ay! ay! they’re well guided whom God guides; and yet all that we see is not of his making. Ah, sirs, there’s mony a queer thing permitted in the earth! and this cummer, for all so young and so rosie as she looks, has nae touch of natural flesh and blood. Wha has nae heard of fair May Morison, who erred wie one o’the auld Lords of Logan, and was a dweller in the summer bower down in the Deadman’s Gill? I mind her weel when I was a gilpin* of a lassie, in the year saxteen hundred and fifty and sax—and wha was then like Madam? But she erred sair, and sank far, and died when she was in her prime, in unrepented sin, they say, for it’s certain she came back and haunted the Deadman’s Gill—and who would come back if they could bide away!”—“Hoot! hoot! Dame Clocken,” said several tongues at once; “this is all wynted* milk, woman; ye set your imagination wi’ rotten eggs, and canna bring out a wholesome brood.”—“Troth, and it would have been well for me,” said the old woman, “had the whole been a matter of fancy; but I saw her spirit, ye unbelievers—a sight I thought I sould never hae coost the cauld of.* It was eleven at night—the place, the auld Bower—and I was on a tryste with Willie Gowdie of Gulliehill. Awa’ I went, light o’ heart and quick o’ foot, and when I came to the appointed place, wha saw I but cummer! There she sat, wi’ her lang links of flaxen hair flowing oure her shoulders like a deluge. I thought it was one of Willie’s pranks, and up I went, but through God’s strength refrained frae speaking. O, sirs, she looked up!—Its head was a skull, and the lights o’ perdition in its eyne-holes! I shrieked, and dropped down; and when I came to myself, I thought there was some ane giving me queer grips. I looked and it was Willie Gowdie.” To this interminable stream of wild story, the clatter of horses’ hoofs first in the avenue, and then at the gate, brought a termination. Some hurried out with lights, and presently returned, showing in Gabriel Burgess, with more than a common proportion of solemnity on his brow.
‘Old Rodan showed the preacher the way to the Chamber of Judgment; and as he stopped to set his hose and neckcloth in order at one of the mirrors, he heard a soft, mild voice say, “You are witty and you are pleasant, Master, and, like some of your ancestors, have little mercy on woman. So this is your kirk-yard legend; it explains why your looks are hollow and your manners austere—how unlike the gayest dancer at the assembly and the rashest rider in the chase. But why should such shallow imaginings disturb a mind so strong as your’s?—Can the wisest or the wildest human word raise the dead—clothe their bones with beauty—fill their hollow eyes with the light of heaven, and put the breath o’ God between their lips—give them a taste for table dainties, and a turn for conversation?” He held the wine-glass in his hand, when the steps of the preacher were heard in the passage and the door began to open. “Appear, in likeness of a priest!” exclaimed the young lady, laughing; and Gabriel Burgess entered, and took a seat between her and the Master of Logan.
‘“I am glad to see you, Reverend Sir,” said the Master. “I have sent for you on a matter which moved me much; but I am easier now.”—“Indeed, my young friend,” said the divine, “no wonder that you wished for me; such a companion suggests thoughts of the altar, doubtless. And is this young lady to get command over the Tower? What fair name will she lose for the sake of the house of Logan?”—“A name of old repute,” said the Master, “even Anne Dalzel.”—“Ah! young lady,” said the Preacher, “I reverence thee for thy mother’s sake. But thou art of another Church, and I have not seen thee some years. Dalzel, a bold name and an old name; but I’m the man who changes the fair names of ladies—I hope I shall be permitted to find thee another name before we part?” The young lady looked down, the Master looked at the lady, and the Preacher at both, and then said, “More of this presently; but I hope Lady Anne will forgive me for appearing before her in these homely garments, unlike the splendid dresses of her favourite Church.”* And he sedulously smoothed up his hose, and seemed anxious to appear acceptable in the sight of a fastidious lady.
‘“Truly, Parson,” said the lady, laughing, “I am afraid you will think me vain and frivolous; these curled locks and jewelled clothes are not according to the precepts of your Church. Will you not hesitate to bind the foolish daughter of a laxer Church to one of the chosen of your own?”—“Ah! Madam,” answered the Preacher, smiling, “your jewelled robes and curled locks become you; and I might as well quarrel with a rose because it blooms bonnie, or with a lily because it smells sweet, as with woman because of her loveliness. And as for marriage, some thirty score and three have I wedded in my day, and may do the good office to many yet.”—“A laborious divine,” said the young lady, “and I dare say one who makes durable work. This Scotland of ours is, indeed, a pleasant land for matrimonial inclinations. The Kirk, with reverence be it said, is at the head of the bridal establishment; but if the parson weds his thousands, the magistrate marries his tens of thousands; and those who are too bashful to reveal their loves to the whole congregation, or too poor to pay the fees of the Justice—why, they make an exchange of matrimonial missives and set up their household. We have no such indulgence in our Ep
iscopal Church.”
‘“Lady,” replied the Preacher, “ye have laid your delicate hand on one of the sore-places of our Zion. The carnal power of the State measures its strength too much with the spiritual power of the Church; and when we war with those self-seeking people, we are accused of desiring to engross the entire disposal of man’s body here and of his soul hereafter. Our Church is poor and humble; the lowliest roof in the land is that which covers the house of God, and the commonest vestments in Scotland are those which cover her clergy. Concerning this, I repine not; for there are powers which even our poverty and humility give us, which exalt and strengthen us. How could I war with the effeminacy of embroidered garments, and the monstrous lavishness of our nobles and our gentry, were I to be rolled up to the controversy in a cushioned coach, attended by footmen in laced jackets?”
‘“That is so well and so wisely said,” answered the young lady, “that I could wish the etiquette of the table admitted of our tasting of wine together before the bell rings for supper; but the Master is become abstemious of late, he passes the cup, and shuns pleasant converse.”—“Perchance he hath something on his mind, which weighs heavily,” replied the Preacher; “and wine to the sick of heart is an addition of heaviness. Is there aught in which the wisdom of the devout, or the kindness of the beautiful, can be of advantage unto thee? Here we are both,” he said, smiling,—“what hurteth my son? says the Church of Scotland; and what vexeth my brother? saith this fair vassal of a laxer kirk.”—“I say,” answered the lady, “that we are two oracles, infallible in our way, and that our son and brother cannot open his heart, or reveal his sorrows, to two more wise and sagacious people. In truth, in some sort, he was about the unburthening of his heart when he heard your footsteps, but he wisely reserved the marrow of his misery for one more ancient in knowledge, and more confirmed in understanding. Something hath happened in the burial-ground of Logan kirk to disquiet his mind.”—“Speak, my son,” said the Preacher; “there is healing for all sorrows, whether of mind or of body.” The Master of Logan, in a tone sometimes affectedly pleasant, related what had passed, and spake lightly of the gay invitation given to the dust of Phemie Morison.
The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre Page 11
