Reginald had guessed aright. The good barque Wolverine would 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 am very poor, 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. The Bryonia 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 thoughts
    Of home and infancy.

“‘Thy leaves were ay the first in spring
    Thy flowers the summer’s pride;
There wasn’t such a bonnie tree
    In 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 very àpropos to 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 bosom
    Ere it cease to throb for thee.

“Fare thee well – may every blessing
    Shed 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’s skean 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, the quarrel 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 the Wolverine there, 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.”