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 droll 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.”
“Bide the night at Heriotside,” says he. “It’s 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 eerie.
“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 profane swearer.
“That’s the wrong name to seek her in, anyway,” 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 devout 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 tryst 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 forever.”
And then it appeared to the young man that he was walking his lone 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 redeemed 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 renounce 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 mettle beast that well set off his figure. Ailie was standing by the doorstep as he came down the road, and her heart stood still with joy. But a second thought gave her anguish. This man, so gallant and braw, would never be for her; doubtless the fine suit and the capering horse were for Joan o’ the Croft’s pleasure. And he in turn, when he remarked her wan 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 fantasies. 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 prosper.
He spoke to her of love and his own heart, and the girl hearkened gladly. Syne
