Читать книгу Annie o' the Banks o' Dee - Stables Gordon - Страница 3

“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 —

Worse was to follow.

Right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of Craig.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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 —

Nevertheless, Craig’s appetite failed, and he said “Bother!” only more so, as he pitched the letter down on the table.