Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Stables Gordon
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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