Chapter Three.
Sandie Tells the Old, Old Story
“I wonder,” said Craig Nicol to himself that night, before going to bed, and just as he rose from his knees, “if there can be anything in Shufflin’ Sandie’s warning. I certainly don’t like old Father Fletcher, close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever I met. I don’t like him prowling round my darling Annie either. And
he
hates
me
, though he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we meet. I’ll land him one, one of these days, if he can’t behave himself.”
But for quite a long time there was no chance of “landing the Laird one,” for Fletcher called on Annie at times when he knew Craig was engaged.
And so the days and weeks went by. Laird Fletcher’s wooing was carried on now on perfectly different lines. He brought Annie many a little knick-knack from Aberdeen. It might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold, or the last new novel; but never a ring. No; that would have been too suggestive.
Annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but Fletcher looked at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she did receive them.
One day Annie, the old Laird and the younger started for Aberdeen, all on good horses – they despised the train – and when coming round the corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but Craig Nicol? And this is what happened.
The old man raised his hat.
The younger Laird smiled ironically but triumphantly.
Annie nodded, blushed, and smiled.
But the young farmer’s face was blanched with rage. He was no longer handsome. There was blood in his eye. He was a devil for the present. He plunged the spurs into his horse’s sides and went galloping furiously along the road.
“Would to God,” he said, “I did not love her! Shall I resign her? No, no! I cannot. Yet —
“‘Tis woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.’”
Worse was to follow.
Right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of Craig.
“For jealousy is the injured woman’s hell.”
And man’s also. One day, close by the Dee, while Craig was putting his rod together previous to making a cast, Laird Fletcher came out from a thicket, also rod in hand.
“Ah, we cannot fish together, Nicol,” said the Laird haughtily. “We are rivals.”
Then all the jealousy in Nicol’s bosom was turned for a moment into fury.
“You —
you
! You old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! You a rival of a young fellow like me! Bah! Go home and go to bed!”
Fletcher was bold.
“Here!” he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; “I don’t stand language like that from anyone!”
Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chin that quite staggered him.
Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility of a man in his twenties. In five minutes’ time Fletcher was on the grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood.
Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his eyes.
“I’m done with you for the time,” said Fletcher, “but mark me, I’ll do for you yet!”
“Is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? You did so before, too. Come,” he continued fiercely, “I will help you to wash some of that blood off your ugly face.”
He seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river.
The stream was not deep, so the Laird got out, and went slowly away to a neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage.
“Hang it!” said Craig aloud; “I can’t fish to-day.”
He put up his rod, and was just leaving, when Shufflin’ Sandie came upon the scene. He had heard and seen all.
“Didn’t I tell ye, sir? He’ll kill ye yet if ye don’t take care. Be warned!”
“Well,” said Craig, laughing, “he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me a bit, but I think I’ve given him a drubbing he won’t soon forget.”
“No,” said Sandie significantly; “he – won’t – forget. Take my word for that.”
“Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we’ll have a glass together.”
For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before he felt fit to be seen.
“A touch of neuralgia,” he made his housekeeper tell all callers.
But he couldn’t and dared not refuse to see Shufflin’ Sandie when he sent up his card – an old envelope that had passed through the post-office.
“Well,” said the Laird, “to what am I indebted for the honour of
this
visit?”
“Come off that high horse, sir,” said Sandie, “and speak plain English. I’ll tell you,” he added, “I’ll tell you in a dozen words. I’m going to build a small house and kennels, and I’m going to marry Fanny – the bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. Ah! won’t I be happy, just!”
He smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the Laird.
The Laird dashed it aside.
“What in thunder?” he roared, “has your house or marriage to do with me?”
“Ye’ll soon see that, my Laird. I want forty pounds, or by all the hares on Bilberry Hill I’ll go hot-foot to the Fiscal, for I heard your threat to Craig Nicol by the riverside.”
Half-an-hour afterwards Shufflin’ Sandie left the Laird to mourn, but Sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and was happy accordingly.
As he rode away, the horse’s hoofs making music that delighted his ear, Sandie laughed aloud to himself.
“Now,” he thought, “if I could only just get about fifty pounds more, I’d begin building. Maybe the old Laird’ll help me a wee bit; but I must have it, and I must have Fanny. My goodness! how I do love the lassie! Her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. I cannot bear it; I
shall
marry Fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie’s pool in the Dee I’ll fling myself.
“‘O love, love! Love is like a dizziness,
That winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.’”
Shufflin’ Sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. But his was a thoroughly Dutch peasant’s courtship.
He paid frequent visits by train to the Granite City, to make purchases for the good old Laird McLeod. And he never returned without a little present for Fanny. It might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. But he watched the chance when Fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand half-shyly.
Once he said after giving her a pretty bangle:
“I’m not so very,
very
ugly, am I, Fanny?”
“’Deed no, Sandie!”
“And I’m not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe. Eh, dear?”
“’Deed no, Sandie, and I ay take your part against them all. And that you know, Sandie.”
How sweet were those words to Sandie’s soul only those who love, but are in doubt, may tell.
“Tis sweet to love, but sweeter far
To be beloved again;
But, ah! how bitter is the pain
To love, yet love in vain!”
“Ye haven’t a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, Fanny?”
“Well, Sandie, I always like to tell the truth; there’s plenty would make love to me, but I can’t bear them. There’s ploughman Sock, and Geordie McKay. Ach! and plenty more.”
She rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning.
“And I suppose,” said Sandie, “the devil a one of them has one sixpence to rub against another?”
“Mebbe not,” said Fanny. “But, Fanny – ”
“Well, Sandie?”
“I – I really don’t know what I was going to say, but I’ll sing it.”
Sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one.
“My love is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love you still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas go dry.
“Till a’ the seas go dry, my lass,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
Yes, I will love you still, my dear,
Till sands of life are run.”
The tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie’s cheeks, so plaintive and sweet was the melody.
“What! ye’re surely not crying, are ye?” said Sandie, approaching and stretching one arm gently round her waist.
“Oh, no, Sandie; not me!”
But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed cheeks.
She didn’t resist.
“I say, Fanny – ”
“Yes, Sandie.”
“It’ll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. Will you steal out at eight o’clock and take a wee bit walk with me? Just meet me on the hill near Tammie Gibb’s ruined cottage. I’ve something to tell you.”
“I’ll – I’ll try,” said Fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotch girls do.
Sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels.
And Fanny did steal out that night. Only for one short hour and a half. Oh, how short the time did seem to Sandie!
It is not difficult to guess what Sandie had to tell her.
The old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever the same, ever, ever new.
And he told her of his prospects, of the house – a but and a ben, or two rooms – he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would still work for the Laird.
“Will ye be my wife? Oh, will you, Fanny?”
“Yes.”
It was but a whispered word, but it thrilled Sandie’s heart with joy.
“My ain dear dove!” he cried, folding her in his arms.
They were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest’s edge.
Their lips met in one long, sweet kiss.
Yes, peasant love I grant you, but I think it was leal and true.
“They might be poor – Sandie and she;
Light is the burden love lays on;
Content and love bring peace and joy.
What more have queens upon a throne?”
Homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers, and parted at the gate as lovers do.
Sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. He lay awake nearly all the livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his happiness. Then he dozed off into dreamland.
He was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. And back came the joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave.
He attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then went quietly in to make his brose.
Some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed – Scotch fashion again – but that was all. Sandie ate his brose in silence, then took his departure.
One morning a letter arrived from Edinburgh from a friend of Craig Nicol.
Craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought it in and laid it before him. His face clouded as he read it.
The friend’s name was Reginald Grahame, and he was a medical student in his fourth year. He had been very kind to Craig in Edinburgh, taking him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city on earth —
“Edina, Scotia’s darling seat.”
Nevertheless, Craig’s appetite failed, and he said “Bother!” only more so, as he pitched the letter down on the table.
Chapter Four.
“This Quarrel, I Fear, must end in Blood.”
Reginald Grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the quad of Edinburgh University. Not the same stamp or style as Craig; equally as good-looking, but far more refined.
“My dear boy,” ran the letter, – “next week look out for me at Birnie-Boozle. I’m dead tired of study. I’m run down somewhat, and will be precious glad to get a breath of your Highland air and a bit of fishing. I’m only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my M.D. So I’m going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient and her daughter to San Francisco, then overland to New York, and back home. Why, you won’t know your old friend when he comes back,” etc, etc.
“Hang my luck!” said Craig, half-aloud. “This is worse than a dozen Laird Fletchers. Annie has never said yet that she loved me, and I feel a presentiment that I shall be cut out now in earnest. Och hey! But I’ll do my best to prevent their meeting. It may be mean, but I can’t help it. Indeed, I’ve half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let him go home.”
Next week Reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was “Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” but very good-looking for all that. Probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every turn.
They shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in Craig’s dogcart were rattling along towards Birnie-Boozle.
Reginald’s reception was everything that could be desired, and the hospitality truly Highland. Says Burns the immortal:
“In Heaven itself I’ll seek nae mair
Than just a Highland welcome!”
For over a week – for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed – they fished by the river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing anyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin’ Sandie, for whom the grand old river had irresistible attractions.
Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why Craig Nicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep one night, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it.
He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupy all his vacation.
Yes. But man can only propose. God has the disposal of our actions. And something happened next that Craig could not have calculated on.
They had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not far from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the sounds of a fearful struggle.
Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They found two of McLeod’s gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four sturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were man to man, and the poachers fled.
Not, however, before poor Reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a
skean dhu
, the little dagger that kilted Highlanders wear in their right stocking.
The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the blood was so abundant.
But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made a litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and that was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should be frightened, and while Shufflin’ Sandie rode post-haste for the doctor poor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that overlooked both forest and river.
So serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all night.
A rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree.
Craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. Not, it must be confessed, for his friend’s accident, but Reginald would now be always with Annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him.
But Craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that.
“He has a tough and wondrous constitution,” said Dr McRae. “He’ll pull through under my care and Annie’s gentle nursing.”
Craig Nicol winced, but said nothing. Reginald had brought a dog with him, a splendid black Newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost constantly.
Sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek against his master in a most affectionate way. Indeed, this action sometimes brought the tears to Annie’s eyes.
No more gentle or kind nurse could Reginald have had than Annie.
To the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a woman. And she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the doctor gave her. She was indefatigable. Though Fanny relieved her for hours during the day, Annie did most of the night work.
At first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and sisters. With cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. Ay, she did more: she prayed for him. Ah! Scots folk are strange in English eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in God’s.
Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. The room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere. He looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on Annie.
“Where am I?” he asked. “Is this Heaven? Are you an – an – angel?”
He half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the snow-white pillows again.
“You must be good, dear,” she said, as if he had been a baby. “Be good and try to sleep.”
And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and refreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had returned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked for his friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south to London, and it would be a fortnight before he could return.
Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for Reginald with a beautiful nurse like Annie – Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.
In a week’s time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the drawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as softly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was able to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well.
Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annie shyly breathed the wee word Yes?
Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone.
Reginald – impulsive he ever was – held out his hand and asked for congratulations on his engagement to Annie.
Craig almost struck that hand away. His face grew dark and lowering.
“Curse you!” he cried. “You were my friend once, or pretended to be. Now I hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart, and now have the impudence – the confounded impertinence – to ask me to congratulate you! You are as false as the devil in hell!”
“Craig Nicol,” said Reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, “I am too weak to fight you now, but when I am well you shall rue these words!
Au revoir
. We meet again.”
This stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. Shufflin Sandie was close at hand.
“Gentlemen,” said Sandie, “for the Lord’s sake, don’t quarrel!”
But Craig said haughtily, “Go and mind your own business, you blessed Paul Pry.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his horse’s hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed briskly on towards his farm of Birnie-Boozle.
Annie Lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of Bilberry Hall. She carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and choice dahlias – yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and single. She was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old song:
“When Jackie’s far awa’ at sea,
When Jackie’s far awa’ at sea,
What’s a’ the pleasure life can gie,
When Jackie’s far awa’?”
Perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than she did at that moment.
“Like dew on the gowans lying
Was the fa’ o’ her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice was low and sweet.”
But when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing, and advanced more quickly towards him.
“Oh, my darling,” she cried, “how pale you are! You are ill! You must come in. Mind, I am still your nursie.”
“No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only a little upset, you know.”
“And what upset you, dear Reginald?”
She had seated herself by his side. She had taken his hand, and had placed two white wee fingers on his pulse.
“I’ll tell you, Annie mine – ”
“Yes, I’m yours, and yours only, and ever shall be.”
“Craig Nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. He has cursed and abused me. He says I have stolen your heart from him, and now he must for ever hate me.”
“But, oh, Reginald, he never had my heart!”
“I never knew he had sought it, dearest.”
“Yet he did. I should have told you before, but he persecuted me with his protestations of love. Often and often have I remained in my room all the evening long when I knew he was below.”
“Well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. Not before I told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that I was too proud to stand abuse, that when well I should fight him.”
“Oh, no – no – no! For my sake you must not fight.”
“Annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines:
“‘I could not love thee half so much,
Loved I not honour more.’
“There is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have once been friends. No; both Craig and I will be better pleased after we fight; but this quarrel I fear must end in blood.”
Poor Annie shuddered. Just at that moment Shufflin’ Sandie appeared on the scene. He was never far away.
“Can I get ye a plaid, Mr Grahame, to throw o’er your legs? It’s gettin’ cold now, I fear.”
“No, no, my good fellow; we don’t want attendance at present. Thank you all the same, however.”
Oscar, Reginald’s great Newfoundland, came bounding round now to his master’s side. He had been hunting rats and rabbits. The embrace he gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. Then he lay down by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious.
Annie was very silent and very sad. Reginald drew her towards him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. But tears bedimmed her blue eyes, and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. So Reginald tried to appear unconcerned.
They sat in silence thus for some time. The silence of lovers is certa