Annie o' the Banks o' Dee Part 5

"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 f.a.n.n.y, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotch girls do.

Sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels.

And f.a.n.n.y 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, f.a.n.n.y?"

"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 c.o.c.ks 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 pa.s.sed 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 appet.i.te 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. G.o.d 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 st.u.r.dy cudgels and rushed on. They found two of McLeod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four st.u.r.dy 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.