Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.A Discovery That Appalled and Shocked Everyone.Reginald had guessed aright. The good barqueWolverinewould sail from Glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the South Atlantic, and round the Horn to the South Pacific Islands and San Francisco.This was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from Mrs Hall, Reginald’s pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. She felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter Ilda and wee niece Matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being—“All alone on the wide, wide sea.”“Oh, my darling!” cried Annie, “I believe my heart will break to lose you.”“But it will not be for long, my love—a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! You know, Annie, I amverypoor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. It is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old Laird, your uncle. He would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. But I shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, I am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to Mrs Hall! When I return I shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, Annie, you and I shall be married!“‘Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one.’”But the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks.“Cheer up, my own,” said Reginald, drawing her closer to him.Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost.“Reginald,” she said, “tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?”“I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is. Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. But,” he added, “there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. Ah, Annie,” he continued, smiling, “I see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn’t increase. I have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests.”“I know, I know you will,” said Annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder.“There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous.”“And she?”“I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don’t look sad; it is only Matty, and she is just come five.”Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie’s arm.“Ah, Annie,” he said, “it won’t be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours.”“I pray for that,” said the child-woman.The gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and I always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. But it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for Reginald at present. They were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall.The deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. TheBryonia Alba, sometimes called the devil’s parsnip, that in June snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. The holly berries were already turning. The black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly Lombardy poplars. Another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion—it would soon be black—the fruit of the privet. The pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. These rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes.“How beautiful, Annie,” said Reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. “Do you mind the old song, dear?—“‘Oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree,Thou’lt ay be dear to me;Begirt thou art with many thoughtsOf home and infancy.“‘Thy leaves were ay the first in springThy flowers the summer’s pride;There wasn’t such a bonnie treeIn a’ the countryside,Oh, rowan tree!’”“It is very beautiful,” said Annie, “and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. I shall play it to you to-night.”But here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. Yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and I never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. With buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind.Over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful September day. The robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to Reginald’s shoulder or Annie’s hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell.“Annie,” said Reginald, after a pause, “I am very, very happy.”“And I, dear,” was the reply, “am very hopeful.”How quickly that month sped away. Reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with Laird McLeod or Laird Fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of Birnie-Boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits.I shall not say much about the parting. They parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace.It has often grieved me to think how very little Englishmen know about our most beautiful Scottish songs. Though but a little simple thing, “The Pairtin’” (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious I know of in any language. It is veryàproposto the parting of Reginald and Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.“Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,Home and friends, and country dear,Oh, ne’er let our pairtin’ grieve thee,Happier days may soon be here.“See, yon bark so proudly bounding,Soon shall bear me o’er the sea;Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,Calls me far from love and thee.“Summer flowers shall cease to blossom,Streams run backward from the sea;Cold in death must be this bosomEre it cease to throb for thee.“Fare thee well—may every blessingShed by Heaven around thee fa’;One last time thy lov’d form pressing—Think on me when far awa’.”“If you would keep song in your hearts,” says a writer of genius, “learn to sing. There is more merit in melody than most people are aware of. Even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. Songs are like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with June air or like a meadow of clover in blossom.”How lonely the gardens and the Hall itself seemed to Annie now that her lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she!Well, and how reluctant am I myself to leave all these pleasant scenes, and bring before the mind’s eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark that I almost shudder as I describe it; but as the evolution of this ower-true tale depends upon it, I am obliged to.First, I must tell you that just two days before joining his ship, Reginald had to go to Aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu.But it happened that Craig Nicol had made a visit on foot to Aberdeen about the same time. Thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for a sturdy young fellow like him. He had told his housekeeper a week before that he was to draw money from the bank—a considerable sum, too.This was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told them the day he would leave for the town.Poor Craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be expected to do. But, alas! after leaving Aberdeen on his homeward journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him.As he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first intended, the housekeeper and servants of Birnie-Boozle were not for a time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with the hopes of solving the mystery. All they did find out, however, was that he had left the Granite City well and whole, and that he had called at an inn called the Five Mile House on the afternoon to partake of some refreshment. After that all was a dread and awful blank. There was not a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched. Then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort.But all in vain. The mystery remained still unrevealed. Only the police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to explain, a sergeant said:“Why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the Continent, or even to the States.”Certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. They thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten and missed. From the high road, not many miles from Birnie-Boozle, a road led. It was really little more than a bridle-path, but it shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town Craig Nicol always took advantage of this.Strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had thought of giving information about this to the police. But the housekeeper was to be excused. She was plunged deeply in grief. She and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that the sergeant made sure he had found.“Oh, oh,” she would cry, “my master is dead! I know, I know he is. In a dream he appeared to me. How wan and weird he looked, and his garments were drenched in blood and gore. Oh, master, dear, kind, good master, I shall never, never see you more!” And the old lady wrung her hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break.Reginald’s ship had been about two days at sea. The wind was fair and strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south by west, bearing up for the distant shores of South America.And it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked everyone in all the countryside.

Reginald had guessed aright. The good barqueWolverinewould sail from Glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the South Atlantic, and round the Horn to the South Pacific Islands and San Francisco.

This was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from Mrs Hall, Reginald’s pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. She felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter Ilda and wee niece Matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being—

“All alone on the wide, wide sea.”

“Oh, my darling!” cried Annie, “I believe my heart will break to lose you.”

“But it will not be for long, my love—a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! You know, Annie, I amverypoor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. It is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old Laird, your uncle. He would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. But I shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, I am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to Mrs Hall! When I return I shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, Annie, you and I shall be married!

“‘Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one.’”

But the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks.

“Cheer up, my own,” said Reginald, drawing her closer to him.

Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost.

“Reginald,” she said, “tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?”

“I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is. Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. But,” he added, “there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. Ah, Annie,” he continued, smiling, “I see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn’t increase. I have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests.”

“I know, I know you will,” said Annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder.

“There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous.”

“And she?”

“I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don’t look sad; it is only Matty, and she is just come five.”

Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie’s arm.

“Ah, Annie,” he said, “it won’t be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours.”

“I pray for that,” said the child-woman.

The gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and I always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. But it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for Reginald at present. They were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall.

The deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. TheBryonia Alba, sometimes called the devil’s parsnip, that in June snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. The holly berries were already turning. The black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly Lombardy poplars. Another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion—it would soon be black—the fruit of the privet. The pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. These rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes.

“How beautiful, Annie,” said Reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. “Do you mind the old song, dear?—

“‘Oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree,Thou’lt ay be dear to me;Begirt thou art with many thoughtsOf home and infancy.“‘Thy leaves were ay the first in springThy flowers the summer’s pride;There wasn’t such a bonnie treeIn a’ the countryside,Oh, rowan tree!’”

“It is very beautiful,” said Annie, “and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. I shall play it to you to-night.”

But here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. Yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and I never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. With buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind.

Over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful September day. The robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to Reginald’s shoulder or Annie’s hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell.

“Annie,” said Reginald, after a pause, “I am very, very happy.”

“And I, dear,” was the reply, “am very hopeful.”

How quickly that month sped away. Reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with Laird McLeod or Laird Fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of Birnie-Boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits.

I shall not say much about the parting. They parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace.

It has often grieved me to think how very little Englishmen know about our most beautiful Scottish songs. Though but a little simple thing, “The Pairtin’” (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious I know of in any language. It is veryàproposto the parting of Reginald and Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.

“Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,Home and friends, and country dear,Oh, ne’er let our pairtin’ grieve thee,Happier days may soon be here.“See, yon bark so proudly bounding,Soon shall bear me o’er the sea;Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding,Calls me far from love and thee.“Summer flowers shall cease to blossom,Streams run backward from the sea;Cold in death must be this bosomEre it cease to throb for thee.“Fare thee well—may every blessingShed by Heaven around thee fa’;One last time thy lov’d form pressing—Think on me when far awa’.”

“If you would keep song in your hearts,” says a writer of genius, “learn to sing. There is more merit in melody than most people are aware of. Even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. Songs are like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with June air or like a meadow of clover in blossom.”

How lonely the gardens and the Hall itself seemed to Annie now that her lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she!

Well, and how reluctant am I myself to leave all these pleasant scenes, and bring before the mind’s eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark that I almost shudder as I describe it; but as the evolution of this ower-true tale depends upon it, I am obliged to.

First, I must tell you that just two days before joining his ship, Reginald had to go to Aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu.

But it happened that Craig Nicol had made a visit on foot to Aberdeen about the same time. Thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for a sturdy young fellow like him. He had told his housekeeper a week before that he was to draw money from the bank—a considerable sum, too.

This was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told them the day he would leave for the town.

Poor Craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be expected to do. But, alas! after leaving Aberdeen on his homeward journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him.

As he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first intended, the housekeeper and servants of Birnie-Boozle were not for a time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with the hopes of solving the mystery. All they did find out, however, was that he had left the Granite City well and whole, and that he had called at an inn called the Five Mile House on the afternoon to partake of some refreshment. After that all was a dread and awful blank. There was not a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched. Then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort.

But all in vain. The mystery remained still unrevealed. Only the police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to explain, a sergeant said:

“Why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the Continent, or even to the States.”

Certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. They thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten and missed. From the high road, not many miles from Birnie-Boozle, a road led. It was really little more than a bridle-path, but it shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town Craig Nicol always took advantage of this.

Strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had thought of giving information about this to the police. But the housekeeper was to be excused. She was plunged deeply in grief. She and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that the sergeant made sure he had found.

“Oh, oh,” she would cry, “my master is dead! I know, I know he is. In a dream he appeared to me. How wan and weird he looked, and his garments were drenched in blood and gore. Oh, master, dear, kind, good master, I shall never, never see you more!” And the old lady wrung her hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break.

Reginald’s ship had been about two days at sea. The wind was fair and strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south by west, bearing up for the distant shores of South America.

And it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked everyone in all the countryside.

Chapter Six.A Verdict of Murder.About half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy spruce-fir copse. It was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit of which were now ripe and juicy. They were a great attraction to the wandering schoolboy. Two lads, aged about eight or ten—great favourites with Craig’s housekeeper—were given a basket each in the forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about four o’clock.There was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever, opened, save probably by the wood-cutters.Well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before tea-time. They were pale and scared-looking. In their terror they had even dropped their baskets.“Oh, the man! the man!” they cried, as soon as they entered. “The poor, dead man!”Although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to run herself to the police-station. An officer was soon on the fatal spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. With his big knife the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir, and thus let in the light.It was indeed Craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully murdered. But while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to Aberdeen at once for a detective. He arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a letter. The news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. Even the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful mystery like this. Mr C., the detective, and the surgeon immediately started their investigations.It was only too evident that Craig Nicol had been stabbed to the heart. His clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. On turning the body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective’s heart to palpitate with joy. Here, underneath it, was found a Highlander’sskean dhu(stocking dirk). The little sheath itself was found at a distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the murderer, in his haste to conceal the body.“Ha! this is indeed a clue,” said the detective. “This knife did the deed, George. See, it is encrusted with blood.”“I think so, sir.”“And look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters R.G.”He took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd.“Can anyone identify this knife?” he asked, showing it to them.No one could.“Can you?” said the detective, going to the rear and addressing Shufflin’ Sandie. Sandie appeared to be in deep grief.“Must I tell?”“You needn’t now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest.”“Then, sir, I may as well say it now. The knife belongs to Mr Grahame.”A thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and Sandy burst into tears.“Where does he live, this Mr Grahame?”“He did live at Bilberry Hall, sir,” blubbered Sandie; “but a few days ago he sailed away for the Southern Seas.”“Was he poor or rich, Sandie?”“As poor as a church mouse, sir. I’ve heard him tell Miss Annie Lane so. For I was always dandlin’ after them.”“Thank you; that will do in the meantime.”Craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out, and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. There was a terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. There was evidence, too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with blood, was found in the ditch.The detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man, proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. The body was not taken home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage.Here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from Aberdeen, part of the inquest was held. After viewing the body, the coroner and jury went to Birnie-Boozle, and here more business was gone through.The housekeeper was the first to be examined. She was convulsed with grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing money.“That will do, my good woman; you can retire.”The next witness to be examined was Shufflin’ Sandie. He was exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a question.“Were not Craig Nicol and Reginald Grahame particular friends?”“Once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was Craig, and never brought Grahame to the Hall; but after the fight with thae devils of poachers, Grahame was carried, wounded, to Bilberry Hall, and nursed by Miss Annie. Not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. I would have done the same myself. I—”“Now, don’t be garrulous.”“Oh, devil a garrylus; I’ll not say another word if ye like.”“Well, go on.”“Well, sir, they were engaged. Then one day Craig comes to the Hall, and there was terrible angry words. Craig cursed Grahame and called him all the ill names he could lay his tongue to.”“And did Grahame retaliate?”“Indeed did he, sir; he didn’t swear, but he said that as soon as he was well, thequarrel should end in blood.” (Sensation in court.) “Had Craig any other enemy?”“That he had—old Laird Fletcher. They met at the riverside one day, and had a row, and fought. I saw and heard everything. Craig Nicol told the old Laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady love. Then they off-coat and fought. Man! it was fine! The Laird put in some good ones, but the young ’un had it at last. Then he flung the Laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor Craig Nicol.” (Sensation.)Sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he could proceed.“You think,” said the coroner, “that Laird Fletcher meant to carry out his threat?”“I don’t know. I only know this—he was in doonright devilish earnest when he made it.”“I am here,” said Laird Fletcher, “and here, too, are five witnesses to prove that I have not been twice outside my own gate since Craig Nicol started for Aberdeen. Once I was at the Hall, and my groom here drove me there and back; I was too ill to walk.”The witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly proven. Laird Fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain on his character.“I am sorry to say, gentlemen,” addressing the jury, “that there appears no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led Grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that the quarrel would end in blood. Poor Craig Nicol has been robbed, and foully, brutally murdered, and Reginald Grahame sails almost immediately after for the South Seas. I leave the verdict with you.”Without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation, the foreman stood up.“Have you agreed as to your verdict?”“Unanimously, sir.”“And it is?”“Wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of Reginald Grahame.”“Thank you. And now you may retire.”Ill news travels apace, and despite all that Fanny and Annie’s maid could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our poor heroine’s ears.At first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in Reginald’s guilt. No, by no means. It was because she felt sorrow for him. He was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could. Perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see.But true love is trusting. Annie had the utmost faith in Reginald Grahame—a faith that all the accusations the world could make against him could not shake, nor coroners’ verdicts either.“No, no, no,” she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears, “my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. Ah! how unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three terrible days!” She was silent for a couple of minutes. “Depend upon it, Jeannie,” she added, “someone else was the murderer. And for all his alibi, which I believe to be got up, I blame that Laird Fletcher.”“Oh, don’t, dearest Annie,” cried the maid, “believe me when I say I could swear before my Maker that he is not guilty.”“I am hasty, because in sorrow,” said Annie. “I may alter my mind soon. Anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime, and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day I ran away from the arbour. Knowing that I am engaged, he will not be less so now. But, oh, my love, my love! Reginald, when shall I ever see thee again? I would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn. Oh Reginald my love, my love!”Her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished Annie’s grief. He would return. He might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the face, without spot or stain on his character. Then they would be wedded.A whole month flew by, during which—so terrible is justice—an expedition was sent to San Francisco overland, with policemen, to meet theWolverinethere, and at once to capture their man.They waited and waited a weary time. Six months flew by, nine months, a year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships that ne’er return.Reginald Grahame will never be seen again—so thought the ’tecs—“Till the sea gives up the dead.”

About half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy spruce-fir copse. It was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit of which were now ripe and juicy. They were a great attraction to the wandering schoolboy. Two lads, aged about eight or ten—great favourites with Craig’s housekeeper—were given a basket each in the forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about four o’clock.

There was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever, opened, save probably by the wood-cutters.

Well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before tea-time. They were pale and scared-looking. In their terror they had even dropped their baskets.

“Oh, the man! the man!” they cried, as soon as they entered. “The poor, dead man!”

Although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to run herself to the police-station. An officer was soon on the fatal spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. With his big knife the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir, and thus let in the light.

It was indeed Craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully murdered. But while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to Aberdeen at once for a detective. He arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a letter. The news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. Even the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful mystery like this. Mr C., the detective, and the surgeon immediately started their investigations.

It was only too evident that Craig Nicol had been stabbed to the heart. His clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. On turning the body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective’s heart to palpitate with joy. Here, underneath it, was found a Highlander’sskean dhu(stocking dirk). The little sheath itself was found at a distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the murderer, in his haste to conceal the body.

“Ha! this is indeed a clue,” said the detective. “This knife did the deed, George. See, it is encrusted with blood.”

“I think so, sir.”

“And look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters R.G.”

He took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd.

“Can anyone identify this knife?” he asked, showing it to them.

No one could.

“Can you?” said the detective, going to the rear and addressing Shufflin’ Sandie. Sandie appeared to be in deep grief.

“Must I tell?”

“You needn’t now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest.”

“Then, sir, I may as well say it now. The knife belongs to Mr Grahame.”

A thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and Sandy burst into tears.

“Where does he live, this Mr Grahame?”

“He did live at Bilberry Hall, sir,” blubbered Sandie; “but a few days ago he sailed away for the Southern Seas.”

“Was he poor or rich, Sandie?”

“As poor as a church mouse, sir. I’ve heard him tell Miss Annie Lane so. For I was always dandlin’ after them.”

“Thank you; that will do in the meantime.”

Craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out, and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. There was a terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. There was evidence, too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with blood, was found in the ditch.

The detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man, proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. The body was not taken home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage.

Here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from Aberdeen, part of the inquest was held. After viewing the body, the coroner and jury went to Birnie-Boozle, and here more business was gone through.

The housekeeper was the first to be examined. She was convulsed with grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing money.

“That will do, my good woman; you can retire.”

The next witness to be examined was Shufflin’ Sandie. He was exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a question.

“Were not Craig Nicol and Reginald Grahame particular friends?”

“Once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was Craig, and never brought Grahame to the Hall; but after the fight with thae devils of poachers, Grahame was carried, wounded, to Bilberry Hall, and nursed by Miss Annie. Not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. I would have done the same myself. I—”

“Now, don’t be garrulous.”

“Oh, devil a garrylus; I’ll not say another word if ye like.”

“Well, go on.”

“Well, sir, they were engaged. Then one day Craig comes to the Hall, and there was terrible angry words. Craig cursed Grahame and called him all the ill names he could lay his tongue to.”

“And did Grahame retaliate?”

“Indeed did he, sir; he didn’t swear, but he said that as soon as he was well, thequarrel should end in blood.” (Sensation in court.) “Had Craig any other enemy?”

“That he had—old Laird Fletcher. They met at the riverside one day, and had a row, and fought. I saw and heard everything. Craig Nicol told the old Laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady love. Then they off-coat and fought. Man! it was fine! The Laird put in some good ones, but the young ’un had it at last. Then he flung the Laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor Craig Nicol.” (Sensation.)

Sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he could proceed.

“You think,” said the coroner, “that Laird Fletcher meant to carry out his threat?”

“I don’t know. I only know this—he was in doonright devilish earnest when he made it.”

“I am here,” said Laird Fletcher, “and here, too, are five witnesses to prove that I have not been twice outside my own gate since Craig Nicol started for Aberdeen. Once I was at the Hall, and my groom here drove me there and back; I was too ill to walk.”

The witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly proven. Laird Fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain on his character.

“I am sorry to say, gentlemen,” addressing the jury, “that there appears no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led Grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that the quarrel would end in blood. Poor Craig Nicol has been robbed, and foully, brutally murdered, and Reginald Grahame sails almost immediately after for the South Seas. I leave the verdict with you.”

Without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation, the foreman stood up.

“Have you agreed as to your verdict?”

“Unanimously, sir.”

“And it is?”

“Wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of Reginald Grahame.”

“Thank you. And now you may retire.”

Ill news travels apace, and despite all that Fanny and Annie’s maid could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our poor heroine’s ears.

At first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in Reginald’s guilt. No, by no means. It was because she felt sorrow for him. He was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could. Perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see.

But true love is trusting. Annie had the utmost faith in Reginald Grahame—a faith that all the accusations the world could make against him could not shake, nor coroners’ verdicts either.

“No, no, no,” she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears, “my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. Ah! how unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three terrible days!” She was silent for a couple of minutes. “Depend upon it, Jeannie,” she added, “someone else was the murderer. And for all his alibi, which I believe to be got up, I blame that Laird Fletcher.”

“Oh, don’t, dearest Annie,” cried the maid, “believe me when I say I could swear before my Maker that he is not guilty.”

“I am hasty, because in sorrow,” said Annie. “I may alter my mind soon. Anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime, and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day I ran away from the arbour. Knowing that I am engaged, he will not be less so now. But, oh, my love, my love! Reginald, when shall I ever see thee again? I would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn. Oh Reginald my love, my love!”

Her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished Annie’s grief. He would return. He might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the face, without spot or stain on his character. Then they would be wedded.

A whole month flew by, during which—so terrible is justice—an expedition was sent to San Francisco overland, with policemen, to meet theWolverinethere, and at once to capture their man.

They waited and waited a weary time. Six months flew by, nine months, a year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships that ne’er return.

Reginald Grahame will never be seen again—so thought the ’tecs—“Till the sea gives up the dead.”

Chapter Seven.Buying the Bonnie Things.To say that Annie was not now in grief would be wrong. Still hope told a flattering tale. And that tale sufficed to keep her heart up.He must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and day for him? Yes, he was safe—must be. Heaven would protect him. Prayers are heard, and hewouldreturn safe and sound, to defy his enemies and his slanderers as well.Fletcher had been received back into favour. Somewhat penurious he was known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. Had she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be trodden upon by some incautious foot?He kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did, that all would come right in the end. If everybody else believed that theWolverinewas a doomed ship, poor Annie didn’t.There came many visitors to the Hall, young and middle-aged, and more than one made love to Annie. She turned a deaf ear to all. But now an event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung around Bilberry Hall.About two months before this, one morning, after old Laird McLeod had had breakfast, Shufflin’ Sandie begged for an audience.“Most certainly,” said McLeod. “Show the honest fellow in.”So in marched Sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to speak the very best English he could muster.“Well, Sandie?”“Well, Laird. I think if a man has to break the ice, he’d better do it at once and have done with it. Eh? What thinkyou?”“That’s right, Sandie.”“Well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?”“Why not, Sandie? I don’t think you so bad-looking as some other folks call you.”Sandie smiled and took a pinch.“Not to beat about the bush, then, Laird, I’m just awfully gone on Fanny.”“And does she return your affection?”“That she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. You wouldn’t turn me away, would you, sir, if I got married?”“No, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day.”“Well, now, Laird, here comes the bit. I want to build a bit housie on the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. Then I would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. Fanny would see to them while I did your work. But man, Laird, I’ve scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and I’ve hardly got enough yet to begin life with.”“How much do you need?”“Oh, Laird, thirty pounds would make Fanny and me as happy as a duke and duchess.”“Sandie, I’ll lend it to you. I’ll take no interest. And if you’re able some time to pay it back, just do it. That will show you are as honest as I believe you are.”The tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to Sandie’s eyes, and he had to take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions.“May the Lord bless ye, Laird! I’ll just run over now and tell Fanny.”It does not take so long to build a Highland cot as it would to erect a Crystal Palace, and in three weeks’ time Shufflin’ Sandie’s house was complete and furnished. He had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and planted a few suitable trees. Then, when another month had passed away, Sandie once more sought audience of the good Laird, and formally begged for Fanny’s hand.Next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister’s services requisitioned. And one day Shufflin’ Sandie set off for Aberdeen by train to buy the “bonnie things,” as they are termed.Perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in Great Britain than Union Street and King Street, especially as seen by moonlight. They then look as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. While the beautiful villas of Rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen.Fanny was charmed. Strange to say this simple servant lassie had never been to the city before. It was all a kind of fairyland to her, and, look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. And the windows—ah, the windows! She must pull Sandie by the sleeve every other minute, for she really could not pass a draper’s shop nor a jeweller’s without stopping to glance in and admire.“Oh!” she would cry, “look, look, Sandie, dear, at the chains and the watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. Surely all the gold in Ophir is there!”One particularly well-dressed window—it was a ladies’ drapery shop—almost startled her. She drew back and blushed a little as her eyes fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array.“Oh, Sandie, is she living?”“De’il a living?” said Sandie. “Her body’s timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler’s wax. That’s how living she is.”“But what a splendid dress! And yonder is another. Surely Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!”“Well, Fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we’ll buy your marriage dress here.”The shop-walker was very obsequious. “Marriage dress, sir. Certainly, sir. Third counter down, my lady.”Fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation.“I—that is, she—is needing a marriage dress, missie.”“Ready-made?”“Ay, that’ll do, if it isn’t over dear. Grand though we may look in our Sunday clothes, we’re not o’er-burdened with cash; but we’re going to be married for all that.”Sandie chuckled and took snuff, and Fanny blushed, as usual.“I’m sure I wish you joy,” said the girl in black.“I’m certain ye do. You’re a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day ye’ll get a man. Ye mind what the song says:“‘Oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,Ye little know what may betide ye yet;Some bonnie wee mannie may fa’ to your lot,So ay be canty and thinkin’ o’t.’”The girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting Fanny, and, when dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror—well, she didn’t know herself! She was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window. Sandy was dazed. He took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing, handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them.Well, in an hour’s time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the station waiting-room.But before sallying forth Sandie and Fanny thought it must be the correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her amusement.“Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. I hope you were properly served.” This from the shop-walker.“That we were,” said Sandie. “And, man, we’ll be married—Fanny and me—next week. Well, we’re to be cried three times in one day from the pulpit. To save time, ye see. Well, I’ll shake hands now, and say good-day, sir, and may the Lord be ay around you. Good-bye.”“The same to you,” said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from laughing. “The same to you, sir, and many of them.”There were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but above all the marriage ring. Sandie did feel very important as he put down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie.“Me and Fanny here are going to be married,” he couldn’t help saying.“I’m sure I wish ye joy, sir, and”—here the shopman glanced at Fanny—“I envy you, indeed I do.”Sandie must now have a drop of Scotch. Then they had dinner. Sandie couldn’t help calling the waiter “sir,” nor Fanny either.“Hold down your ear, sir,” Sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to Gorgonzola. “We’re going to be married, Fanny and I. Cried three times in one Sunday. What think ye of that?”Of course, the waiter wished him joy, and Sandie gave him a shilling.“I hope you’ll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you know.”The joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. Fanny was astonished and delighted.Oh, what a day that was! Fanny never forgot it. They left by a midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever Fanny shut her eyes, everything rose up before her again as natural as life—the charming streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. And so it was in her dreams, when at last she fell asleep.But both Fanny and Sandie went about their work next day in their week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had happened, or was going to happen in a few days’ time.Of course, after he had eaten his brose, Sandie must “nip up,” as he phrased it, to have a look at the cottage.Old Grannie Stewart—she was only ninety-three—was stopping here for the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young folks might catch a chill.“Ah, grannie!” cried Sandie, “I’m right glad to see you. And look, I’ve brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. Ye must just taste. It’ll warm your dear old heart.”The old lady’s eyes glittered.“Well,” she said, “it’s not much of that comes my way, laddie. My blood is not so thick as it used to be. For—would you believe it!—I think I’m beginnin’ to grow auld.”“Nonsense,” said Sandie.Old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of Scotch, though it brought the water to her eyes.And now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage.For several days Sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth figure.Sandie didn’t mind. Sandie was happy. Sandie took snuff.

To say that Annie was not now in grief would be wrong. Still hope told a flattering tale. And that tale sufficed to keep her heart up.

He must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and day for him? Yes, he was safe—must be. Heaven would protect him. Prayers are heard, and hewouldreturn safe and sound, to defy his enemies and his slanderers as well.

Fletcher had been received back into favour. Somewhat penurious he was known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. Had she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be trodden upon by some incautious foot?

He kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did, that all would come right in the end. If everybody else believed that theWolverinewas a doomed ship, poor Annie didn’t.

There came many visitors to the Hall, young and middle-aged, and more than one made love to Annie. She turned a deaf ear to all. But now an event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung around Bilberry Hall.

About two months before this, one morning, after old Laird McLeod had had breakfast, Shufflin’ Sandie begged for an audience.

“Most certainly,” said McLeod. “Show the honest fellow in.”

So in marched Sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to speak the very best English he could muster.

“Well, Sandie?”

“Well, Laird. I think if a man has to break the ice, he’d better do it at once and have done with it. Eh? What thinkyou?”

“That’s right, Sandie.”

“Well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?”

“Why not, Sandie? I don’t think you so bad-looking as some other folks call you.”

Sandie smiled and took a pinch.

“Not to beat about the bush, then, Laird, I’m just awfully gone on Fanny.”

“And does she return your affection?”

“That she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. You wouldn’t turn me away, would you, sir, if I got married?”

“No, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day.”

“Well, now, Laird, here comes the bit. I want to build a bit housie on the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. Then I would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. Fanny would see to them while I did your work. But man, Laird, I’ve scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and I’ve hardly got enough yet to begin life with.”

“How much do you need?”

“Oh, Laird, thirty pounds would make Fanny and me as happy as a duke and duchess.”

“Sandie, I’ll lend it to you. I’ll take no interest. And if you’re able some time to pay it back, just do it. That will show you are as honest as I believe you are.”

The tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to Sandie’s eyes, and he had to take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions.

“May the Lord bless ye, Laird! I’ll just run over now and tell Fanny.”

It does not take so long to build a Highland cot as it would to erect a Crystal Palace, and in three weeks’ time Shufflin’ Sandie’s house was complete and furnished. He had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and planted a few suitable trees. Then, when another month had passed away, Sandie once more sought audience of the good Laird, and formally begged for Fanny’s hand.

Next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister’s services requisitioned. And one day Shufflin’ Sandie set off for Aberdeen by train to buy the “bonnie things,” as they are termed.

Perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in Great Britain than Union Street and King Street, especially as seen by moonlight. They then look as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. While the beautiful villas of Rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen.

Fanny was charmed. Strange to say this simple servant lassie had never been to the city before. It was all a kind of fairyland to her, and, look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. And the windows—ah, the windows! She must pull Sandie by the sleeve every other minute, for she really could not pass a draper’s shop nor a jeweller’s without stopping to glance in and admire.

“Oh!” she would cry, “look, look, Sandie, dear, at the chains and the watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. Surely all the gold in Ophir is there!”

One particularly well-dressed window—it was a ladies’ drapery shop—almost startled her. She drew back and blushed a little as her eyes fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array.

“Oh, Sandie, is she living?”

“De’il a living?” said Sandie. “Her body’s timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler’s wax. That’s how living she is.”

“But what a splendid dress! And yonder is another. Surely Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!”

“Well, Fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we’ll buy your marriage dress here.”

The shop-walker was very obsequious. “Marriage dress, sir. Certainly, sir. Third counter down, my lady.”

Fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation.

“I—that is, she—is needing a marriage dress, missie.”

“Ready-made?”

“Ay, that’ll do, if it isn’t over dear. Grand though we may look in our Sunday clothes, we’re not o’er-burdened with cash; but we’re going to be married for all that.”

Sandie chuckled and took snuff, and Fanny blushed, as usual.

“I’m sure I wish you joy,” said the girl in black.

“I’m certain ye do. You’re a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day ye’ll get a man. Ye mind what the song says:

“‘Oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,Ye little know what may betide ye yet;Some bonnie wee mannie may fa’ to your lot,So ay be canty and thinkin’ o’t.’”

The girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting Fanny, and, when dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror—well, she didn’t know herself! She was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window. Sandy was dazed. He took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing, handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them.

Well, in an hour’s time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the station waiting-room.

But before sallying forth Sandie and Fanny thought it must be the correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her amusement.

“Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. I hope you were properly served.” This from the shop-walker.

“That we were,” said Sandie. “And, man, we’ll be married—Fanny and me—next week. Well, we’re to be cried three times in one day from the pulpit. To save time, ye see. Well, I’ll shake hands now, and say good-day, sir, and may the Lord be ay around you. Good-bye.”

“The same to you,” said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from laughing. “The same to you, sir, and many of them.”

There were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but above all the marriage ring. Sandie did feel very important as he put down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie.

“Me and Fanny here are going to be married,” he couldn’t help saying.

“I’m sure I wish ye joy, sir, and”—here the shopman glanced at Fanny—“I envy you, indeed I do.”

Sandie must now have a drop of Scotch. Then they had dinner. Sandie couldn’t help calling the waiter “sir,” nor Fanny either.

“Hold down your ear, sir,” Sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to Gorgonzola. “We’re going to be married, Fanny and I. Cried three times in one Sunday. What think ye of that?”

Of course, the waiter wished him joy, and Sandie gave him a shilling.

“I hope you’ll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you know.”

The joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. Fanny was astonished and delighted.

Oh, what a day that was! Fanny never forgot it. They left by a midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever Fanny shut her eyes, everything rose up before her again as natural as life—the charming streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. And so it was in her dreams, when at last she fell asleep.

But both Fanny and Sandie went about their work next day in their week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had happened, or was going to happen in a few days’ time.

Of course, after he had eaten his brose, Sandie must “nip up,” as he phrased it, to have a look at the cottage.

Old Grannie Stewart—she was only ninety-three—was stopping here for the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young folks might catch a chill.

“Ah, grannie!” cried Sandie, “I’m right glad to see you. And look, I’ve brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. Ye must just taste. It’ll warm your dear old heart.”

The old lady’s eyes glittered.

“Well,” she said, “it’s not much of that comes my way, laddie. My blood is not so thick as it used to be. For—would you believe it!—I think I’m beginnin’ to grow auld.”

“Nonsense,” said Sandie.

Old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of Scotch, though it brought the water to her eyes.

And now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage.

For several days Sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth figure.

Sandie didn’t mind. Sandie was happy. Sandie took snuff.

Chapter Eight.A Scottish Peasant’s Wedding and a Ball.Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were very few guests, however.The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven.A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing.I don’t know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time.The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow.Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her tears.In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was thepièce de résistance, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some rare wines—including whisky—but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all that, patronised the Highland whisky.“No, no,” he said, waving the port wine away. “‘Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.’”It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with Glenlivet.Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch.The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie’s wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least.And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of Bilberry Hall.And it was a barn, too!—or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door.Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall.The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps.Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians’ fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen “sweetie” wives scent a peasant’s ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means—save one or two—“But withered beldames, auld and droll,Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal.”They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders.A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is—three small fiddles, a ’cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as “Auld Robin Grey,” “The Flowers o’ the Forest,” “Donald,” etc, enough to draw tears from anyone’s eyes.But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin’ Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall—a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile.As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses.Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.“Ladies and gentlemen all,” he says, “I trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. ‘Youth’s the season made for joy.’ I have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe.”A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, Shufflin’ Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. Then surely never did man-o’-war sailor dance as Sandie danced! His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger’s performance with the bones. Then every wild, merry “Hooch!” brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. Sandie’s uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of “Encore!” Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired.But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin’ Sandie and McLeod’s nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it.Then came a cry of “Fill the floor!” and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours:“Lads and lassies in a dance;Nae cotillion brent new frae France;But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reelsPut life and mettle in their heels.”Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom.The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow’s Jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters.But at midnight there came a lull—a lull for refreshments. White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch.There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily—not one mugful each, but three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed.“And now the fun grew fast and furious”—and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes!“They screwed their pipes and made them skirl,Till roofs and rafters all did dirl.The pipers loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew.”But at two o’clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old love-song called “The Rose of Allandale.” It was duly appreciated, and Sandie was applauded to the “ring of the bonnet,” as he himself phrased it.Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty.Her song was “Ever of thee I’m fondly dreaming.” Perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl’s eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished.And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride following close behind.The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. Then “Bob at the Booster”—a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance—brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather.Next day Shufflin’ Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom.Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she obeyed.The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself.“Indeed, sir,” he told McLeod, “I’ll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard’s but small as yet, and it’ll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening.”“Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there.”Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of “poor auld Scotland.”Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could.

Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were very few guests, however.

The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven.

A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing.

I don’t know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time.

The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow.

Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her tears.

In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was thepièce de résistance, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some rare wines—including whisky—but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all that, patronised the Highland whisky.

“No, no,” he said, waving the port wine away. “‘Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.’”

It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with Glenlivet.

Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch.

The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie’s wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least.

And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of Bilberry Hall.

And it was a barn, too!—or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door.

Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall.

The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps.

Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians’ fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.

As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen “sweetie” wives scent a peasant’s ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means—save one or two—

“But withered beldames, auld and droll,Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal.”

They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders.

A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is—three small fiddles, a ’cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as “Auld Robin Grey,” “The Flowers o’ the Forest,” “Donald,” etc, enough to draw tears from anyone’s eyes.

But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin’ Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall—a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.

And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile.

As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses.

Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.

“Ladies and gentlemen all,” he says, “I trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. ‘Youth’s the season made for joy.’ I have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe.”

A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, Shufflin’ Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. Then surely never did man-o’-war sailor dance as Sandie danced! His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger’s performance with the bones. Then every wild, merry “Hooch!” brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. Sandie’s uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of “Encore!” Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired.

But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin’ Sandie and McLeod’s nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it.

Then came a cry of “Fill the floor!” and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours:

“Lads and lassies in a dance;Nae cotillion brent new frae France;But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reelsPut life and mettle in their heels.”

Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom.

The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow’s Jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters.

But at midnight there came a lull—a lull for refreshments. White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch.

There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily—not one mugful each, but three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed.

“And now the fun grew fast and furious”—and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes!

“They screwed their pipes and made them skirl,Till roofs and rafters all did dirl.The pipers loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew.”

But at two o’clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old love-song called “The Rose of Allandale.” It was duly appreciated, and Sandie was applauded to the “ring of the bonnet,” as he himself phrased it.

Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty.

Her song was “Ever of thee I’m fondly dreaming.” Perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl’s eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished.

And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride following close behind.

The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. Then “Bob at the Booster”—a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance—brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather.

Next day Shufflin’ Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom.

Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she obeyed.

The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself.

“Indeed, sir,” he told McLeod, “I’ll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard’s but small as yet, and it’ll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening.”

“Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there.”

Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of “poor auld Scotland.”

Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could.

Chapter Nine.A Bolt from the Blue.Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie! Yet she still had somewhat of hope—at times, that is.Her cousin, Mr Beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at Bilberry Hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with Annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her.Her somewhat elderly lover was different. Lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree.“We all have griefs to bear in this world, Annie dear,” he said once. “They are burdens God sends us to try our patience. But your sorrow must soon be over. Do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?”“Dead!” cried Annie. “Who knows, or can tell?”“Oh, darling, I can no longer conceal it from you. Perhaps I should have told you a year ago. Here is the newspaper. Here is the very paragraph. The figurehead of the unfortunateWolverineand one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. The insurance has been paid.”Annie sat dumb for a time—dumb and dry-eyed. She could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. She found voice at last.“The Lord’s will be done,” she said, simply but earnestly.Laird Fletcher said no morethen. But he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading Annie to the altar.And now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. She was, like most Scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. She had learnt to pray at her mother’s knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle’s. And now she consoled herself thus.“Dear uncle,” she said, “poor Reginald is dead; but I shall meet him in a better world than this.”“I trust so, darling.”“And do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, I am almost relieved. A terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. And I too should have died.”“You must keep up your heart. Come, I am going to Paris for a few weeks with friend Fletcher, and you too must come. Needn’t take more than your travelling and evening dresses,” he added. “We’ll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city.”So it was arranged. So it was carried out. They went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old Highlander.Fletcher and McLeod combined their forces in order to give poor Annie “a real good time,” as brother Jonathan would say. And it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, Annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from Paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways.But the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night.Old Laird McLeod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening.How little do we know when evil is about to befall us!It was one lovely day in spring. Annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by Jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by Laird Fletcher. This man was a naturalist—not a mere classifier. He did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them Latin names, and imagine that was all. He knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew.So he made just the kind of companion for Annie that she delighted in. When he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful—nay, sure—that in the end his suit would be successful.It was indeed a beautiful morning. Soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. Rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in England, for every country has its own sweet flora.The little party returned a few minutes before one o’clock, not only happy, but hungry too. To her great alarm Annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. Near his chair lay a foolscap letter.“Oh, uncle dear, are you ill?”“No, no, child. Don’t be alarmed; it has pleased God to change our fortunes, that is all, and I have been praying and trying hard to say ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,’—I cannot yet. I may ere long.”But Annie was truly alarmed. She picked up the lawyer’s letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. And her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now.“Oh, uncle dear,” she said at last, “what does this mean? Tell me, tell me.”“It means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. That this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that I must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city—that is all.”“Cheer up, uncle,” said Annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. “You still have me, and I have you. If we can but keep Jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do.”“God bless you, my child! You have indeed been a comfort to me. But for you, I’d care nothing for poverty. I may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. God has seen fit to afflict us, but in His mercy He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”Luncheon was brought in, but neither McLeod nor his niece did much justice to it. The weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds—mavis, chaffinch, and blackie—singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world.“Uncle,” said Annie at last, “tell me the sad story. I can bear it now.”“Then, dear, I shall, but must be very brief. I love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. The young fellow Francis Robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, arouéand a blackguard from the Australian diggings. He is but twenty-two. Even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years’ imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. He has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in Australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. His father disappeared long, long ago, and I, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. But, ah me! the crash has come.”“But may this young fellow not be an impostor?”“Nay, child, nay. You see what the letter says: that if I go to law I can only lose; but that if I trouble and tire Robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. No,” he added, after a pause, “he is fair enough. He may be good enough, too, though passionate. Many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. Ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see.”That was an anxious and sleepless night for poor Annie. In vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. She tossed and dozed all night long.Then came the eventful day. And at twelve o’clock came young Francis Robertson, with a party of witnesses from Australia.McLeod could tell him at once to be the heir. He was the express image of his dead father.The Laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from Aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only Annie being there. Robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. The witnesses were examined. Their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. Not a question they did not answer correctly. The certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. There were no longer any doubts about anything.Then Laird McLeod—laird now, alas! only by courtesy—retired with his advocate to another room to consult.Said the advocate: “My dear Laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?”“He is, as sure as yonder sun is shining.”“And so am I convinced,” said the advocate. “Then there must be no lawsuit?”“No, none.”“That is right. At your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you.”“Then, my dear Duncan,” said Laird McLeod, “look out for a pretty cottage for me at once.”“I will do everything for you, and I know of the very place you want—a charming small villa on the beautiful Rubislaw Road. Choose the things you want. Have a sale and get rid of the others. Keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. But we must act expeditiously.”And so they did. And in a fortnight’s time all was settled, and the little villa furnished.Till the day of the sale Francis Robertson was a guest at the Hall.Now I must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. The young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the Laird on the very day before the sale.“My dear uncle,” he said, “I would rather you did not leave. Be as you were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with me.”“Francis Robertson,” replied McLeod, “wego. I’ll be no man’s guest in a house that once was mine.”“Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add.”“Speak on.”“From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane. Will you give me her hand?”“Have you spoken to herself?”“I have not dared to.” McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie, his niece.“Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. Think you that you could love him?”Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: “No.”“You have had your answer,” said McLeod. Francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away.

Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie! Yet she still had somewhat of hope—at times, that is.

Her cousin, Mr Beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at Bilberry Hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with Annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her.

Her somewhat elderly lover was different. Lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree.

“We all have griefs to bear in this world, Annie dear,” he said once. “They are burdens God sends us to try our patience. But your sorrow must soon be over. Do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?”

“Dead!” cried Annie. “Who knows, or can tell?”

“Oh, darling, I can no longer conceal it from you. Perhaps I should have told you a year ago. Here is the newspaper. Here is the very paragraph. The figurehead of the unfortunateWolverineand one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. The insurance has been paid.”

Annie sat dumb for a time—dumb and dry-eyed. She could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. She found voice at last.

“The Lord’s will be done,” she said, simply but earnestly.

Laird Fletcher said no morethen. But he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading Annie to the altar.

And now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. She was, like most Scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. She had learnt to pray at her mother’s knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle’s. And now she consoled herself thus.

“Dear uncle,” she said, “poor Reginald is dead; but I shall meet him in a better world than this.”

“I trust so, darling.”

“And do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, I am almost relieved. A terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. And I too should have died.”

“You must keep up your heart. Come, I am going to Paris for a few weeks with friend Fletcher, and you too must come. Needn’t take more than your travelling and evening dresses,” he added. “We’ll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city.”

So it was arranged. So it was carried out. They went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old Highlander.

Fletcher and McLeod combined their forces in order to give poor Annie “a real good time,” as brother Jonathan would say. And it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, Annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from Paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways.

But the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night.

Old Laird McLeod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening.

How little do we know when evil is about to befall us!

It was one lovely day in spring. Annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by Jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by Laird Fletcher. This man was a naturalist—not a mere classifier. He did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them Latin names, and imagine that was all. He knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew.

So he made just the kind of companion for Annie that she delighted in. When he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful—nay, sure—that in the end his suit would be successful.

It was indeed a beautiful morning. Soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. Rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in England, for every country has its own sweet flora.

The little party returned a few minutes before one o’clock, not only happy, but hungry too. To her great alarm Annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. Near his chair lay a foolscap letter.

“Oh, uncle dear, are you ill?”

“No, no, child. Don’t be alarmed; it has pleased God to change our fortunes, that is all, and I have been praying and trying hard to say ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,’—I cannot yet. I may ere long.”

But Annie was truly alarmed. She picked up the lawyer’s letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. And her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now.

“Oh, uncle dear,” she said at last, “what does this mean? Tell me, tell me.”

“It means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. That this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that I must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city—that is all.”

“Cheer up, uncle,” said Annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. “You still have me, and I have you. If we can but keep Jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do.”

“God bless you, my child! You have indeed been a comfort to me. But for you, I’d care nothing for poverty. I may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. God has seen fit to afflict us, but in His mercy He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”

Luncheon was brought in, but neither McLeod nor his niece did much justice to it. The weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds—mavis, chaffinch, and blackie—singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world.

“Uncle,” said Annie at last, “tell me the sad story. I can bear it now.”

“Then, dear, I shall, but must be very brief. I love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. The young fellow Francis Robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, arouéand a blackguard from the Australian diggings. He is but twenty-two. Even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years’ imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. He has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in Australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. His father disappeared long, long ago, and I, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. But, ah me! the crash has come.”

“But may this young fellow not be an impostor?”

“Nay, child, nay. You see what the letter says: that if I go to law I can only lose; but that if I trouble and tire Robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. No,” he added, after a pause, “he is fair enough. He may be good enough, too, though passionate. Many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. Ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see.”

That was an anxious and sleepless night for poor Annie. In vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. She tossed and dozed all night long.

Then came the eventful day. And at twelve o’clock came young Francis Robertson, with a party of witnesses from Australia.

McLeod could tell him at once to be the heir. He was the express image of his dead father.

The Laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from Aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only Annie being there. Robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. The witnesses were examined. Their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. Not a question they did not answer correctly. The certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. There were no longer any doubts about anything.

Then Laird McLeod—laird now, alas! only by courtesy—retired with his advocate to another room to consult.

Said the advocate: “My dear Laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?”

“He is, as sure as yonder sun is shining.”

“And so am I convinced,” said the advocate. “Then there must be no lawsuit?”

“No, none.”

“That is right. At your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you.”

“Then, my dear Duncan,” said Laird McLeod, “look out for a pretty cottage for me at once.”

“I will do everything for you, and I know of the very place you want—a charming small villa on the beautiful Rubislaw Road. Choose the things you want. Have a sale and get rid of the others. Keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. But we must act expeditiously.”

And so they did. And in a fortnight’s time all was settled, and the little villa furnished.

Till the day of the sale Francis Robertson was a guest at the Hall.

Now I must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. The young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the Laird on the very day before the sale.

“My dear uncle,” he said, “I would rather you did not leave. Be as you were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with me.”

“Francis Robertson,” replied McLeod, “wego. I’ll be no man’s guest in a house that once was mine.”

“Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add.”

“Speak on.”

“From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane. Will you give me her hand?”

“Have you spoken to herself?”

“I have not dared to.” McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie, his niece.

“Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. Think you that you could love him?”

Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: “No.”

“You have had your answer,” said McLeod. Francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away.

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