wouldsoon find him."
"Why, Sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?"
Sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to Craig Nicol.
"I've something to tell ye, sir. But, hush! take a peep outside, forfear anybody should be listening."
"Now," he continued, in a half-whisper, "ye'll never breathe a word ofwhat I'm going to tell you?"
"Why, Sandie, I never saw you look so serious before. Sit down, andI'll draw my chair close to yours."
The arrangement completed, Sandie's face grew still longer, and he toldhim all he heard while listening behind the arbour.
"I own to being a bit inquisitive like," he added; "but man, farmer, itis a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I've put you onyour guard."
Craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang.
"Is that all my thanks?" said Sandie, in a disheartened tone.
"No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum--though heis my rival--doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing."
"Well," said Sandie, "he's just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old.He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the darknights will soon be here. He'd be a happy man if you were dead, so Iadvise you to beware."
"Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I'm saying my prayers to-nightI'll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride roundthe farm."
Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite allover the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie'shand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face.
"I'll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson's inn on Saturday," he said."I'll treat the lads and lassies too."
But Shufflin' Sandie's forenoon's work was not over yet.
He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in thedirection of Laird Fletcher's mansion.
The Laird hadn't come down yet. He was feeling the effects of lastevening's potations, for just as--
"The Highland hills are high, high, high, The Highland whisky's strong."
Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half anhour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers.
"Want to speak to me, my man?"
"Seems very like it, sir," replied Sandie.
"Well, come into the library."
The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed.
"I've been thinkin' all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye makeuse of--to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle."
Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to bequick-tempered.
Fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage.
"If you dare utter such an expression to me again," he cried, banginghis fist on the table, "I won't miss you a kick till you're on theDeeside road."
"Well, well, Laird," said Sandie, rising to go, "I can take my leavewithout kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. I'm goingto ride straight to Aberdeen and see the Fiscal."
Sandie was at the door, when Laird Fletcher cooled down and called himback.
"Come, come, my good fellow, don't be silly; sit down again. You mustnever say a word to anyone about this. You promise?"
"I promise, if ye square me."
"Well, will a pound do it?"
"Look here, Laird, I'm saving up money to buy a house of my own, andkeep dogs; a pound won't do it, but six might."
"Six pounds!"
"Deuce a dollar less, Laird." The Laird sighed, but he counted out thecash. It was like parting with his heart's blood. But to have such anaccusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, andspoilt all his chances with Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Shufflin' Sandiesmiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. He thenscratched his head and pointed to the decanter.
The Laird nodded, and Sandie drank his health in one jorum, and hissuccess with Miss Lane in another. Sly Sandie!
But his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing "Auld LangSyne."
He was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he shouldbuild when he managed to raise two hundred pounds.
"I'll save every sixpence," he said to himself. "When I've settled downI'll marry Fanny."
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That same forenoon Craig called at Bilberry Hall. He was dressed forthe hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his leftshoulder.
He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty whitebodice she never looked more lovely. So thought Craig.
"Annie, come to the hill with me. _Do_."
"Annie, go," added her uncle.
"Well, I'll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and Sandie shallghillie me."
"_I_ have a ghillie," said Craig.
"Never mind. Two are better than one."
They had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and thebirds laid close.
Gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, butthey are wondrous sure, and Bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot torun down a wounded bird. So just as the sun was sinking behind theforests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, theywended their way homeward, happy--happy with the health that only theHighland hills can give.
Shufflin' Sandie had had several drops from Craig's flask, but he hadalso had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge ofsession.
When near to Bilberry Hall, Nicol and Annie emptied their guns in theair, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old McLeod cameout to bid them welcome.
A good dinner!
A musical evening!
Prayers! The tumblers! Then, bidding Annie a fond adieu, away rode thejolly young farmer.
Shufflin' Sandie's last words to him were these:
"Mind what I told you. There's danger in the sky. Good-night, and Godbe with you, Farmer Craig."
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 inShufflin' 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 likehim prowling round my darling Annie either. And _he_ hates _me_, thoughhe lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever wemeet. I'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behavehimself."
But for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the Lairdone," for Fletcher called on Annie at times when he knew Craig wasengaged.
And so the days and weeks went by. Laird Fletcher's wooing was carriedon now on perfectly different lines. He brought Annie many a littleknick-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 toosuggestive.
Annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but Fletcher lookedat her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings shedid receive them.
One day Annie, the old Laird and the younger started for Aberdeen, allon good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round thecorner 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 longerhandsome. 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 furiouslyalong 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.
R
ight good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil ofCraig.
"For jealousy is the injured woman's hell."
And man's also. One day, close by the Dee, while Craig was putting hisrod together previous to making a cast, Laird Fletcher came out from athicket, also rod in hand.
"Ah, we cannot fish together, Nicol," said the Laird haughtily. "We arerivals."
Then all the jealousy in Nicol's bosom was turned for a moment intofury.
"You--_you_! You old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! You a rival of a youngfellow 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 languagelike that from anyone!"
Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chinthat quite staggered him.
Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agilityof a man in his twenties. In five minutes' time Fletcher was on thegrass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood.
Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in hiseyes.
"I'm done with you for the time," said Fletcher, "but mark me, I'll dofor 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 ofthat 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 aneighbouring 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 uponthe scene. He had heard and seen all.
"Didn't I tell ye, sir? He'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. Bewarned!"
"Well," said Craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt mea 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 forthat."
"Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together."
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For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before hefelt 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 hesent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through thepost-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 tobuild a small house and kennels, and I'm going to marry Fanny--thebonniest 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 withme?"
"Ye'll soon see that, my Laird. I want forty pounds, or by all thehares on Bilberry Hill I'll go hot-foot to the Fiscal, for I heard yourthreat to Craig Nicol by the riverside."
Half-an-hour afterwards Shufflin' Sandie left the Laird to mourn, butSandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, andwas 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 Imust have it, and I must have Fanny. My goodness! how I do love thelassie! Her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. I cannotbear it; I _shall_ marry Fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie'spool 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 athoroughly Dutch peasant's courtship.
He paid frequent visits by train to the Granite City, to make purchasesfor the good old Laird McLeod. And he never returned without a littlepresent for Fanny. It might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottleof perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. But he watched the chancewhen Fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her handhalf-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 thatyou know, Sandie."
How sweet were those words to Sandie's soul only those who love, but arein 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 wouldmake love to me, but I can't bear them. There's ploughman Sock, andGeordie 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 sixpenceto 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 plaintiveand sweet was the melody.
"What! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said Sandie, approaching andstretching one arm gently round her waist.
"Oh, no, Sandie; not me!"
But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewedcheeks.
She didn't resist.
"I say, Fanny--"
"Yes, Sandie."
"It'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. Will yousteal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? Just meetme on the hill near Tammie Gibb's ruined cottage. I've something totell you."
"I'll--I'll try," said Fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotchgirls 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 everthe same, ever, ever new.
And he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or tworooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he wouldstill 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 thelivelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth hewas to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete hishappiness. Then he dozed off into dreamland.
He was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. And back came thejoy to his heart like a great warm sea wave.
He attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; thenwent quietly in to make his brose.
Some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--Scotchfashion again--but that was all. Sandie ate his brose in silence, thentook his departure.
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One morning a letter arrived from Edinburgh from a friend of CraigNicol.
Craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant broughtit 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 inhis fourth year. He had been very kind to Craig in Edinburgh, takinghim about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic cityon earth--
"Edina, Scotia's darling seat."
Nevertheless, Craig's appetite failed, and he said "Bother!" only moreso, 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 thequad 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 atBirnie-Boozle. I'm dead tired of study. I'm run down somewhat, andwill be precious glad to get a breath of your Highland air and a bit offishing. 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 patientand her daughter to San Francisco, then overland to New York, and backhome. 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 dozenLaird Fletchers. Annie has never said yet that she loved me, and I feela presentiment that I shall be cut out now in earnest. Och hey! ButI'll do my best to prevent their meeting. It may be mean, but I can'thelp it. Indeed, I've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and lethim 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 forall that. Probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks andmanner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in everyturn.
They shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in Craig's dogcartwere rattling along towards Birnie-Boozle.
Reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and thehospitality truly Highland. Says Burns the immortal:
"In Heaven itself I'll seek nae mair Than just a Highland welcome!"
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For over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by theriver, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeinganyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin' Sandie, for whom thegrand old river had irresistible attractions.
Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why CraigNicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep onenight, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it.
He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupyall 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 thebonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, notfar from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then thesounds of a fearful struggle.
Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They foundtwo of McLeod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with foursturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were manto 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 theirright stocking.
The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the bloodwas so abundant.
But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made alitter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, andthat was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should befrightened, and while Shufflin' Sandie rode post-haste for the doctorpoor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room thatoverlooked both forest and river.
So serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him allnight.
A rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacketand 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 nowbe 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 pullthrough under my care and Annie's gentle nursing."
Craig Nicol winced, but said nothing. Reginald had brought a dog withhim, a splendid black Newfoundland, and that dog was near him almostconstantly.
Sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheekagainst his master in a most affectionate way. Indeed, this actionsometimes 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 awoman. And she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions thedoctor gave her. She was indefatigable. Though Fanny relieved her forhours during the day, Annie did most of the night work.
At first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother andsisters. With cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. Ay,she did more: she prayed for him. Ah! Scots folk are strange inEnglish eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in God's.
Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. Theroom in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the picturesbeautifully 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 thesnow-white pillows again.
"You must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "Be goodand try to sleep."
And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet andrefreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory hadreturned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked forhis friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south toLondon, and it would be a fortnight before he could return.
Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it forReginald 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 thedrawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just assoftly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was ableto go for little drives, and now got rapidly well.
Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these twoyoung people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annieshyly breathed the wee word Yes?
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Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone.
Reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked forcongratulations on his engagement to Annie.
Craig almost struck that ha
nd 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 tocongratulate you! You are as false as the devil in hell!"
"Craig Nicol," said Reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "I am too weakto fight you now, but when I am well you shall rue these words! _Aurevoir_. We meet again."
This stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on arocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. Shufflin Sandie was close athand.
"Gentlemen," said Sandie, "for the Lord's sake, don't quarrel!"
But Craig said haughtily, "Go and mind your own business, you blessedPaul Pry."
Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after hishorse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashedbriskly on towards his farm of Birnie-Boozle.
Annie Lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing ofBilberry Hall. She carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses andchoice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus andsingle. She was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie oldsong:
"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 thanshe 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 mustcome in. Mind, I am still your nursie."
"No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only alittle upset, you know."
"And what upset you, dear Reginald?"
She had seated