“It may not be, it cannot be
That such a gem was meant for me;
But oh! if it had been my lot,
A palace, not a Highland cot,
That bonnie, simple gem had thrown
Bright lustre o’er a jewelled crown;
For oh! the sweetest lass to me
Is Annie – Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee?”

Old Song.

Far up the romantic Dee, and almost hidden by the dark waving green of spruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of Bilberry Hall.

Better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly it had been in the brave days of old. The many-gabled, turreted building had formerly belonged to a family of Gordons, who had been deprived of house and lands in the far north of Culloden, after the brutal soldiery of the Bloody Duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country of Badenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and more than murdering every woman and child, and “giving their flesh to the eagles,” as the old song hath it.

But quiet indeed was Bilberry Hall now, quiet even to solemnity, especially after sunset, when the moon sailed up from the woods of the west, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees could be heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river, or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournful hooting of the great brown owl.

It was about this time that Laird McLeod would summon the servants one and all, from the supercilious butler down to Shufflin’ Sandie himself.

Then would he place “the big ha’ Bible” before him on a small table, arrange his spectacles more comfortably astride his nose, clear his throat, and read a long chapter.

One of the Psalms of David in metre would then be sung. There wasn’t a deal of music in the Laird’s voice, it must be confessed. It was a deep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an old grandfather’s clock just before it begins to strike. But when the maids took up the tune and sweet Annie Lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn was well worth listening to.

Then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the Laird getting down somewhat stiffly. With open eyes and uplifted face he prayed long and earnestly. The “Amen” concluded the worship, and all retired save Annie, the Laird’s niece and almost constant companion.

After, McLeod would look towards her and smile.

“I think, my dear,” he would say, “it is time to bring in the tumblers.” There was always a cheerful bit of fire in the old-fashioned grate, and over it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing away just as the cat that sat on the hearth, blinking at the fire, was doing.

The duet was the pleasantest kind of music to the Laird McLeod in his easy-chair, the very image of white-haired contentment.

Annie Lane – sixteen years of age she was, and beautiful as a rosebud – would place the punch-bowl on the little table, with its toddy-ladle, and flank it with a glass shaped like a thistle. Into the bowl a modicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the good Squire, or Laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the water bubbled from the spout of the shining kettle.

“Now your slippers, dear,” Annie would say. Off came the “brogue shoes” and on went a pretty pair of soft and easy slippers; by their flowery ornamentation it was not difficult to tell who had made them.

A long pipe looked rather strange between such wee rosy lips; nevertheless, Annie lit that pipe, and took two or three good draws to make sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. Then she bent over the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before going out with her maid for a walk on the lawn.

It might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraces were perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweet syringa; in spring, when every tree and bush were alive with bird song; in red-berried autumn, or in the clear frost of a winter’s night, when the world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, or tree had branches like the whitest of coral.

Jeannie Lee, the maid, was a great favourite with Annie, and Jeannie dearly loved her young mistress, and had done so for ten long years, ever since she had arrived at Bilberry Hall a toddling wee thing of six, and, alas! an orphan. Both father and mother had died in one week. They had loved each other in life, and in death were not divided. Jeannie was just four years older than her mistress, but she did not hesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for Jeannie was a bonnie lassie.

“She whiles had a sweetheart,
And whiles she had two.”

Well, but strange as it may appear, Annie, young as she was, had two lovers. There was a dashing young farmer – Craig Nicol by name – he was well-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manly figure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. At balls and parties, arrayed in tartan, he was indeed a splendid fellow. He flirted with a good many girls, it is true, but at the bottom of his heart there was but one image – that of Annie Lane. Annie was so young, however, that she did not know her own mind. And I really think that Craig Nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. Sometimes he almost frightened her. Poor Craig was unsophisticated, and didn’t know that you must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon.

He was a very great favourite with the Laird at all events, and many were the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings, many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his good grey mare and went noisily cantering homewards.

No matter what the weather was, Craig would be in it, wind or rain, hail or snow. Like Burns’s Tam o’ Shanter was Craig.

“Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire,
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet.”

Yes, indeed. Craig Nicol was a dashing young blade, and at times Annie thought she almost loved him.

But what of the girl’s other lover? Well, he was one of a very different stamp. A laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but he was not a week under fifty.

He, too, was a constant visitor at Bilberry Hall, and paid great attention to Annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort of manner, and Annie really liked the man, though little did she think he was in love with her.

One lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when Laird Fletcher – for that was his name – found himself seated beside Annie and her maid in an arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to Jeannie:

“Jeannie, I’d be the happiest man on earth if I only had this darling child to be my bride.”

Annie never spoke. She simply smiled, thinking he was in fun.

But after a pause the Laird took Annie’s hand:

“Ah! dear lassie, I’ll give you plenty of time to think of it. I’d care for you as the apple of my eye; I’d love you with a love that younger men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be dressed so braw as my own wee dove.”

Annie drew her hand from his; then – I can’t tell why – perhaps she did not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst into tears.

With loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought shelter in her own boudoir.

The Laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed to Annie; but then he really was to be excused. What is it a man will not do whom love urges on?

Laird Fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole.

“Ah! well,” he said to himself; “she’ll come round in time, and if that black-haired young farmer were only out of the way, I’d win the battle before six months were over. Gives himself a mighty deal too much side, he does. Young men are mostly fools – I’ll go into the house and smoke a pipe with my aged friend, McLeod.”

Shufflin’ Sandie seemed to spring from the earth right in front of him.

A queer little creature was Sandie, soul and body, probably thirty years old, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft of which always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad Prince Charlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; and his smile was like the grin of a vixen.

Sandie was the man-of-all-work at Bilberry. He cleaned knives and boots in-doors, ran errands, and did all kinds of odd jobs out of doors. But above all Sandie was a fisherman. Old as he was, Squire McLeod, or Laird, as he was most often called, went to the river, and Sandie was always with him. The old man soon tired; then Sandie took the rod, and no man on all Deeside could make a prettier cast than he. The salmon used to come at his call.

“Hullo!” said Laird Fletcher, “where did you come from?”

“Just ran round, sir, to see if you wanted your horse.”

“No, no, Sandie, not for another hour or two.”

The truth is that Sandie had been behind the arbour, listening to every word that was said.

Sandie slept in a loft above the stable. It was there he went now, and threw himself on his bed to think.

“Folks shouldn’t speak aloud to themselves,” he thought, “as Laird Fletcher does. Wants Farmer Nicol got out of the way, does he? The old rascal! I’ve a good mind to tell the police. But I think I’d better tell Craig Nicol first that there is danger ahead, and that he mustn’t wear his blinkers. Poor man! Indeed will I! Then I might see what the Laird had to say as well. That’s it, Sandie, that’s it. I’ll have twa strings to my bow.”

And Sandie took an enormous pinch of snuff and lay back again to muse.

I never myself had much faith to put in an ignorant, deformed, half-dwarfed creature, and Shufflin’ Sandie was all that, both physically and morally.

I don’t think that Sandie was a thief, but I do believe he would have done almost anything to turn an honest penny. Indeed, as regards working hard there was nothing wrong with Sandie. Craig Nicol, the farmer, had given him many a half-crown, and now he saw his way, or thought he did, to earn another.

Well, Sandie, at ten o’clock, brought round Laird Fletcher’s horse, and before mounting, the Laird, who, with all his wealth, was a wee bit of a niggard, gave him twopence.

“The stingy, close-fisted, old tottering brute. Tuppince, eh!”

Shufflin’ Sandy shook his fist after the Laird.

“You marry our bonnie Annie?” he said, half-aloud. “Man, I’d sooner see the dearie floating down the Dee like a dead hare than to see her wedded to an old fossil like you.”

Sandie went off now to his bed in the loft, and soon all was peace around Bilberry Hall, save when the bloodhounds in their kennels lifted up their bell-like voices, giving warning to any tramp, or poacher that might come near the Hall.

Annie knelt reverently down and said her prayers before getting into bed.

The tears were in her eyes when she got up.

“Oh,” she said to her maid, “I hope I haven’t hurt poor Mr Fletcher’s feelings! He really is a kind soul, and he was very sincere.”

“Well, never mind, darling,” said Jeannie; “but, lor, if he had only asked my price I would have jumped at the offer.”

Chapter Two.
“There is Danger in the Sky.”

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

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

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

“What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
    What can a young lassie do with an old man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
    To sell her poor Jenny for silver and land.

“He’s always complaining from morning till eenin’,
    He coughs and he hobbles the weary day long;
He’s stupid, and dozin’, his blood it is frozen —
    Oh! dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy old man!

“He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers —
    I never can please him, do all that I can;
He’s peevish and jealous of all the young fellows —
    Oh! grief on the day I met wi’ an old man!

“My old Aunty Kitty upon me takes pity:
    I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
I’ll cross him and rack him until I heart-break him,
    And then his old brass will buy a new pan!”

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

Jeannie Lee laughed.

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

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

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

“‘Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Countless blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now the lasses began their banter again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you have a thistle, Sandie?”

“Indeed I will, sir, and glad to.”

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

Sandie did that, right liberally, too.

“Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?”

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

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

“I’ll see to her, Laird.”

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

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

“Was the farmer at home?”

“Yes; and would Sandie step into the parlour for a minute. Mary would soon find him.”

“Why, Sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?”

Sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to Craig Nicol.

“I’ve something to tell ye, sir. But, hush! take a peep outside, for fear anybody should be listening.”

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

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

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

“I own to being a bit inquisitive like,” he added; “but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I’ve put you on your guard.”

Craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang.

“Is that all my thanks?” said Sandie, in a disheartened tone.

“No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum – though he is my rival – doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing.”

“Well,” said Sandie, “he’s just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. He’d be a happy man if you were dead, so I advise you to beware.”

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

Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie’s hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face.

“I’ll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson’s inn on Saturday,” he said. “I’ll treat the lads and lassies too.”

But Shufflin’ Sandie’s forenoon’s work was not over yet.

He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of Laird Fletcher’s mansion.

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

“The Highland hills are high, high, high,
The Highland whisky’s strong.”

Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers.

“Want to speak to me, my man?”

“Seems very like it, sir,” replied Sandie.

“Well, come into the library.”

The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed.

“I’ve been thinkin’ all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye make use of – to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come, come, my good fellow, don’t be silly; sit down again. You must never say a word to anyone about this. You promise?”

“I promise, if ye square me.”

“Well, will a pound do it?”

“Look here, Laird, I’m saving up money to buy a house of my own, and keep dogs; a pound won’t do it, but six might.”

“Six pounds!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty white bodice she never looked more lovely. So thought Craig.

“Annie, come to the hill with me. Do.”

“Annie, go,” added her uncle.

“Well, I’ll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and Sandie shall ghillie me.”

“I have a ghillie,” said Craig.

“Never mind. Two are better than one.”

They had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the birds laid close.

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

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

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

A good dinner!

A musical evening!

Prayers! The tumblers! Then, bidding Annie a fond adieu, away rode the jolly young farmer.

Shufflin’ Sandie’s last words to him were these:

“Mind what I told you. There’s danger in the sky. Good-night, and God be with you, Farmer Craig.”