Читать книгу Annie o' the Banks o' Dee - Stables Gordon - Страница 2

“What!” said Annie Lane, “would you really marry an old man?”

“Ay, that would I,” said the maid. “He’s got the money. Besides, he is not so very old. But let me sing a bit of a song to you – very quietly, you know.”

Jeannie Lee had a sweet voice, and when she sang low, and to Annie alone, it was softer and sweeter still, like a fiddle with a mute on the bridge. This is the little song she sang:

“But, oh, how cruel!” said Annie. “Oh, I wish you would marry that Laird Fletcher – then he would bother me no more. Will you, Jeannie, dear?”

Jeannie Lee laughed.

“It will be you he will marry in the long run,” she said; “now, I don’t set up for a prophet, but remember my words: Laird Fletcher will be your husband, and he will be just like a father to you, and your life will glide on like one long and happy dream.”

It will be observed that Jeannie could talk good English when she cared to. When speaking seriously – the Scots always do – the Doric is for the most part of the fireside dialect.

“And now, darling,” continued Annie’s maid, “go to sleep like a baby; you’re not much more, you know. There, I’ll sing you a lullaby, an old, old one:

The blue eyes tried to keep open, but the eyelids would droop, and soon Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee was wafted away to the drowsy land.

Shufflin’ Sandie was early astir next morning. First he fed and attended to his horses, for he loved them as if they had been brothers; then he went to the kennels to feed the hounds, and in their joy to see him they almost devoured him alive.

This done, Sandie had a big drink of water from the pump, for Sandie had had a glass too much the night before.

He was none the worse, however; so he hied him to the kitchen.

There were lots of merry Scotch lassies here, and they delighted to torment and tease Sandie.

“Sandie,” said one, “I’ve a good mind to tie the dish-cloth round your head.”

“Tie it round your own,” said Sandie. “Anything becomes a good-looking face, my bonnie Betsy.”

“Sandie,” said another buxom girl, “you were drunk last night. I’m sure of it.”

“No, not so very full, Fanny. I hadn’t enough to get happy and jolly on.”

“But wouldn’t you like a hair of the doggie that bit you this morning?”

“Indeed would I, Fanny. I never say no to a drop of good Scotch.”

“Well, ye’ll have to go to the village. Ye’ll get none here. Just make your brose, and be content.”

Sandie did as he was bidden. Into a huge wooden bowl, called a “caup,” he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. The kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and stirred, and the “brose” was made.

A huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was flanked by a quart of new milk.

And this was Shufflin’ Sandie’s breakfast, and when he had finished all save the bit he always left for Collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and lit his pipe.

And now the lasses began their banter again.

“That’s the stuff to make a man of you,” said Fanny.

“Make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him,” said Maggie Reid. “Well! well! well!”

“Hush, Mag,” cried Fanny, “hush! God could have made you just as misshapen as poor Sandie.”

But Sandie took no heed. He was thinking. Soon he arose, and before Fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. Fanny threw the dish-cloth after him, but the laugh was all against her.

The Laird would be downstairs now, so Sandie went quietly to the breakfast-room door and tapped.

“Come in, Sandie,” cried the Laird. “I know it is you.”

The Laird had a good Scotch breakfast before him. Porridge, fresh herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks’ eggs to follow and marmalade to finish off with.

“Will you have a thistle, Sandie?”

“Indeed I will, sir, and glad to.”

“Well, there’s the bottle, and yonder’s the glass. Help yourself, lad.”

Sandie did that, right liberally, too.

“Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?”

“All beautiful, Laird. And I was just going to ask if I could have the bay mare, Jean, to ride o’er to Birnie-Boozle (Craig Nicol’s farm possessed that euphonic name). I’ve news for the fairmer.”

“All right, Sandie. Take care you don’t let her down, though.”

“I’ll see to her, Laird.”

And away went Sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the Deeside road.

It was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but Sandie looked at nothing save his horse’s neck.

“Was the farmer at home?”

“Yes; and would Sandie step into the parlour for a minute. Mary would soon 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, for fear anybody should be listening.”

“Now,” he continued, in a half-whisper, “ye’ll never breathe a word of what I’m going to tell you?”

“Why, Sandie, I never saw you look so serious before. Sit down, and I’ll draw my chair close to yours.”

The arrangement completed, Sandie’s face grew still longer, and he told him all he heard while listening behind the arbour.

“I own to being a bit inquisitive like,” he added; “but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I’ve put you on your 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 he is 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 dark nights will soon be here. He’d be a happy man if you were dead, so I advise you to beware.”

“Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I’m saying my prayers to-night I’ll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride round the farm.”

Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie’s hand, 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 the direction of Laird Fletcher’s mansion.

The Laird hadn’t come down yet. He was feeling the effects of last evening’s potations, for just as —

Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour 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 make use of – to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle.”

Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to be quick-tempered.

Fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage.

“If you dare utter such an expression to me again,” he cried, banging his fist on the table, “I won’t miss you a kick till you’re on the Deeside road.”

“Well, well, Laird,” said Sandie, rising to go, “I can take my leave without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. I’m going to ride straight to Aberdeen and see the Fiscal.”

Sandie was at the door, when Laird Fletcher cooled down and called him back.

“Come, come, my good fellow, don’t be silly; sit down again. You must never 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, and keep dogs; a pound won’t do it, but six might.”

“Six pounds!”

“Deuce a dollar less, Laird.” The Laird sighed, but he counted out the cash. It was like parting with his heart’s blood. But to have such an accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and spoilt all his chances with Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee. Shufflin’ Sandie smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. He then scratched his head and pointed to the decanter.

The Laird nodded, and Sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his success with Miss Lane in another. Sly Sandie!

But his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

He was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds.

“I’ll save every sixpence,” he said to himself. “When I’ve settled down I’ll marry Fanny.”

That same forenoon Craig called at Bilberry Hall. He was dressed for the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left shoulder.

He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty white bodice 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 shall ghillie 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 the birds laid close.

Gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but they are wondrous sure, and Bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to run down a wounded bird. So just as the sun was sinking behind the forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they wended their way homeward, happy – happy with the health that only the Highland hills can give.

Shufflin’ Sandie had had several drops from Craig’s flask, but he had also had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge of session.

When near to Bilberry Hall, Nicol and Annie emptied their guns in the air, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old McLeod came out to bid them welcome.

A good dinner!

A musical evening!

Prayers! The tumblers! Then, bidding Annie a fond adieu, away rode the jolly 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 God be with you, Farmer Craig.”