The old Laird McLeod possessed that true Christian feeling which we so rarely see displayed in this age, and as he left the door of the old mansion where he had lived so long and so happily he held out his hand to Francis.

“God bless you, lad, anyhow. Be good, and you’ll prosper.”

“The wicked prosper,” said Francis.

“All artificial, lad, and only for a time. Never can they be said to be truly happy.”

“Good-bye – or rather, au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

Then the old man clambered slowly into the carriage. Poor Annie was already there. She cast just one longing, lingering look behind, then burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. But the day was beautiful, the trees arrayed in the tender tints of spring, while high above, against a fleecy cloud, she could see a laverock (lark), though she could not hear it. But his body was quivering, and eke his wings, with the joy that he could not control. Woods on every side, and to the right the bonnie winding Dee, its wavelets sparkling in the sunshine.

Everything was happy; why should not she be? So she dried her tears, and while her uncle dozed she took her favourite author from her satchel, and was soon absorbed in his poems.

After they had settled down in McLeod Cottage, as the snow-white pretty villa had now been called, I do believe that they were happier than when in the grand old mansion, with all its worries and work and trouble. They were not very well off financially, that was all.

But it was a new pleasure for Annie and her maid to do shopping along Union Street the beautiful, and even round the quaint old New Market. She used to return happy and exultant, to show her uncle the bargains she had made.

One night Annie had an inspiration. She was a good musician on piano and zither. Why not give lessons?

She would. Nor was she very long in finding a pupil or two. This added considerably to the fund for household expenditure. But nevertheless the proud old Highlander McLeod thought it was somewhat infra dignitate. But he bore with this because it seemed to give happiness to the child, as he still continued to call her.

So things went on. And so much rest did the Laird now have that for a time, at least, his life seemed all one happy dream. They soon made friends, too, with their neighbours, and along the street wherever Annie went she was known, for she was always followed by a grand and noble dog, a Great Dane, as faithful and as true as any animal could well be.

One evening she and Jeannie, her maid, were walking along a lovely tree-shaded lane, just as the beams of the setting sun were glimmering crimson through the leafy grandeur of the great elms. For some purpose of his own the dog was in an adjoining field, when suddenly, at the bend of the road, they were accosted by a gigantic and ragged tramp, who demanded money on the pain of death. Both girls shrieked, and suddenly, like a shell from a great gun, darted the dog from the hedge, and next moment that tramp was on his back, his ragged neckerchief and still more ragged waistcoat were torn from his body, and but for Annie his throat would have been pulled open.

But while Jeannie trembled, Annie showed herself a true McLeod, though her name was Lane. She called the dog away; then she quickly possessed herself of the tramp’s cudgel. Annie was not tall, but she was strong and determined.

“Get up at once,” she cried, “and march back with us. If you make the least attempt to escape, that noble dog shall tear your windpipe out!”

Very sulkily the tramp obeyed.

“I’m clean copped. Confound your beast of a dog!”

Within a few yards of her own door they met a policeman, who on hearing of the assault speedily marched the prisoner off to gaol.

When she related the adventure to her uncle he was delighted beyond measure, and must needs bless her and kiss her.

They had parted with the carriage. Needs must where poverty and the devil drives! But they still had a little phaeton, and in this the old man and his niece enjoyed many a delightful drive. He would take her to concerts, too, and to the theatre also, so that, on the whole, life was by no means a galling load to anyone.

But a very frequent visitor at McLeod Cottage was Laird Fletcher. Not only so, but he took the old man and Annie frequently out by train. His carriage would be waiting at the station, and in this they drove away to his beautiful home.

The house itself was modern, but the grounds, under the sweet joy of June, looked beautiful indeed. It was at some considerable distance from the main road, and so in the gardens all was delightfully still, save for the music of happy song-birds or the purr of the turtle-dove, sounding low from the spreading cedars.

“A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was,
    Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
    For ever flushing round a summer sky.
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
    Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh;
    But whate’er smacked of ’noyance or unrest
    Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.”

Through these lovely rose-gardens and tree-shaded lawns frequently now wandered Annie, alone with Fletcher. He was so gentle, winning, and true that she had come to like him. Mind, I say nothing of love. And she innocently and frankly told him so as they sat together in a natural bower beneath a spreading deodar cedar. He was happy, but he would not risk his chance by being too precipitate.

Another day in the same arbour, after a moment or two of silence, she said: “Oh, I wish you were my uncle!” Fletcher winced a little, but summoned up courage to say:

“Ah, Annie, could we not be united by a dearer tie than that? Believe me, I love you more than life itself. Whether that life be long or short depends upon you, Annie.”

But she only bent her head and cried, childlike.

“Ah, Mr Fletcher,” she said at last, “I have no heart to give away. It lies at the bottom of the sea.”

“But love would come.”

“We will go to the house now, I think,” and she rose.

Fletcher, poor fellow, silently, almost broken-heartedly, followed, and, of course, the Great Dane was there.

That night she told her uncle all. He said not a word. She told her maid in the bedroom.

“Oh, Miss Annie,” said Jeanie, “I think you are very, very foolish. You refuse to marry this honest and faithful man, but your mourning will not, cannot restore the dead. Reginald Grahame is happier, a thousand, million times more happy, than anyone can ever be on this earth. Besides, dear, there is another way of looking at the matter. Your poor Uncle McLeod is miles and miles from the pines, from the heath and the heather. He may not complain, but the artificial life of a city is telling on him. What a quiet and delightful life he would have at Laird Fletcher’s!”

Annie was dumb. She was thinking. Should she sacrifice her young life for the sake of her dear uncle? Ah, well, what did life signify to her now? He was dead and gone.

Thus she spoke:

“You do not think my uncle is ill, Jeannie?”

“I do not say he is ill, but I do say that he feels his present life irksome at times, and you may not have him long, Miss Annie. Now go to sleep like a baby and dream of it.”

And I think Annie cried herself asleep that night.

“It becomes not a maiden descended from the noble clan McLeod to be otherwise than brave,” she told herself next morning. “Oh, for dear uncle’s sake I feel I could – ” But she said no more to herself just then.

Fletcher called that very day, and took them away again to his bonnie Highland home. It was a day that angels would have delighted in. And just on that same seat beneath the same green-branched cedar Fletcher renewed his wooing. But he, this time, alluded to the artificial city life that the old Laird had to lead, he who never before during his old age had been out of sight of the waving pines and the bonnie blooming heather.

Fletcher was very eloquent to-day. Love makes one so. Yet his wooing was strangely like that of Auld Robin Grey, especially when he finished plaintively, appealingly, with the words:

“Oh, Annie, for his sake will you not marry me?”

Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee wept just a little, then she wiped her tears away. He took her hand, and she half-whispered: “What must be must– ’tis fate.”

Chapter Eleven.
The “Wolverine” Puts out to Sea

With the exception of the Sunbeam, probably no more handsome steam yacht ever left Southampton Harbour than the Wolverine. She was all that a sailor’s fancy could paint.

Quite a crowd of people were on the quay to witness her departure on her very long and venturesome cruise. Venturesome for this reason, that, though rigged as a steam barque, she was but little over four hundred tons register.

Seamen on shore, as they glanced at her from stem to stem, alow and aloft, criticised her freely. But Jack’s opinion was on the whole well embodied in a sentence spoken by a man-o’-wars-man, as he hitched up his nether garments and turned his quid in his mouth:

“My eyes, Bill and Elizabeth Martin, she is a natty little craft! I’ve been trying to find a flaw in her, or a hole, so to speak, but there’s ne’er a one, Bill – above water, anyhow. Without the steam she reminds me of the old Aberdeen clippers. Look at her bilge, her lines, her bows, her jibboom, with its smart and business-like curve. Ah, Bill, how different to sail in a yacht like that from living cooped up in a blooming iron tank, as we are in our newest-fashioned man-o’-war teakettles! Heigho! Blowed if I wouldn’t like to go on board of her! Why, here is the doctor – splendid young fellow! – coming along the pier now. I’ll overhaul him and hail him. Come on, Bill!”

Reginald Grahame was coming somewhat slowly towards them. It was just a day or two before the discovery of Craig Nicol’s murder and the finding of his body in the wood.

Reginald was thinking of Bilberry Hall and Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee. Sorrow was depicted in every lineament of his handsome but mobile and somewhat nervous countenance. Was he thinking also of the cold, stiff body of his quondam friend Craig, hidden there under the dark spruce trees, the tell-tale knife beside him? Who can say what the innermost workings of his mind were? Some of the most bloodthirsty pirates of old were the handsomest men that ever trod the deck of a ship. We can judge no man’s heart from his countenance. And no woman’s either. There be she-devils who bear the sweet and winning features of saints. Our Scottish Queen Mary was beautiful, and as graceful as beautiful.

“If to her share some human errors fall,
Look in her face, and you’ll forget them all.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” said Jack, touching his hat and scraping a bit, like a horse with a loose shoe, “we’re only just two blooming bluejackets, but we’ve been a-admiring of your craft – outside like. D’ye think, sir, they’d let us on board for a squint?”

“Come with me, my lads. I’ll take you on board.”

Next minute, in company with Reginald – who was now called Dr– Grahame, they were walking the ivory-white decks. Those two honest man-o’-war sailors were delighted beyond measure with all they saw.

“Why,” said Jack – he was chief spokesman, for Bill was mute – “why, doctor, you have sailors on board! – and mind you, sir, you don’t find real sailors nowadays anywhere else except in the merchant service. We bluejackets are just like our ships – fighting machines. We ain’t hearts of oak any longer, sir.”

“No,” said the doctor, “but you are hearts of iron. Ha! here comes the postman, with a letter for me, too. Thank you, postie.”

He gave him sixpence, and tore the letter open, his hand shaking somewhat. Yes, it was from Annie. He simply hurriedly scanned it at present, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he placed it in his bosom. Then he rejoined the bluejackets.

“Well, sir, we won’t hinder you. I see you’ve got the Blue Peter up. But never did I see cleaner white decks; every rope’s end coiled, too. The capstan itself is a thing o’ beauty; all the brasswork looks like gold, all the polished woodwork like ebony; and, blow me, Bill, just look at that binnacle! Blest if it wouldn’t be a beautiful ornament for a young lady’s boodwar (boudoir)! Well, sir, we wishes you a pleasant, happy voyage and a safe return. God bless you, says Jack, and good-bye.”

“Good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to the bottom of the ocean. There,” – he handed Jack a coin as he spoke – “drink bon voyage to us.”

“Ah, that will we!”

The sailors once more scraped and bowed, and Reginald hurried below to read Annie’s letter. It was just a lover’s letter – just such a letter as many of my readers have had in their day – so I need not describe it.

Reginald sat in his little cabin – it was only six feet square – with his elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking, thinking. Then an idea struck him. The skipper of the yacht – called “captain” by courtesy – and Reginald were already the best of friends. Indeed, Dickson – for that was his name – was but six or seven years older than Reginald.

“Rat-tat-tat!” at the captain’s door. His cabin was pretty large, and right astern, on what in a frigate would be called “the fighting deck.” This cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck.

“Hullo, doctor, my boy!”

“Well, just call me Grahame, mon ami.”

“If you’ll call me Dickson, that’ll square it.”

“Well, then, Dickson, I’m terribly anxious to get out and away to sea. If not soon, I feel I may run off – back to my lady love. When do we sail for sure?”

The captain got up and tapped the glass.

“Our passengers come on board this afternoon, bag and baggage, and to-morrow morning early we loose off, and steam out to sea – if it be a day on which gulls can fly.”

“Thanks, a thousand times. And now I won’t hinder you.”

“Have a drop of rum before you go, and take a cigar with you.”

Reginald’s heart needed keeping up, so he did both.

“When I am on the sea,” he said, “I shall feel more happy. Ay, but Annie, I never can forget you.”

More cheerily now, he walked briskly off to the hotel to meet his patients. There were two, Mr and Mrs Hall, wealthy Americans; besides, there were, as before mentioned, Miss Hall and the child Matty. They were all very glad to see Reginald.

“You are very young,” said Mr Hall, offering him a cigar.

“I think,” he answered, “I am very fit and fresh, and you will find me very attentive.”

“I’m sure of it,” said Mrs Hall.

Little Matty took his hand shyly between her own two tiny ones.

“And Matty’s su’e too,” she said, looking up into his face.

They say that American children are thirteen years of age when born. I know they are precocious, and I like them all the better for it. This child was very winning, very pert and pretty, but less chubby, and more intellectual-looking than most British children. For the life of him Reginald could not help lifting her high above his head and kissing her wee red lips as he lowered her into his arms.

“You and I are going to be good friends always, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yes, doc,” she answered gaily; “and of torse the dleat (great) big, big dog.”

“Yes, and you may ride round the decks on him sometimes.”

Matty clapped her hands with joy.

“What a boo’ful moustache you has!” she said.

“You little flatterer!” he replied, as he set her down. “Ah! you have all a woman’s wiles.”

Everything was on board, and the Wolverine was ready to sail that night. But the captain must go on shore to see his friends and bid them adieu first.

The night closed in early, but the sky was studded with stars, and a three-days’-old moon shone high in the west like a scimitar of gold. This gave Reginald heart. Still, it might blow big guns before morning, and although he sat up pretty late, to be initiated by Mr Hall into the game of poker, he went often to the glass and tapped it. The glass was steadily and moderately high. Reginald turned into his bunk at last, but slept but little, and that little was dream-perturbed.

Early in the morning he was awakened by the roar of steam getting up. His heart leaped for joy. It is at best a wearisome thing, this being idle in harbour before sailing.

But at earliest dawn there was much shouting and giving of orders; the men running fore and aft on deck; other men on shore casting off hawsers. Then the great screw began slowly to churn up the murky water astern. The captain himself was on the bridge, the man at the wheel standing by to obey his slightest command.

And so the Wolverine departed, with many a cheer from the shore – ay, and many a blessing.

As she went out they passed a man-o’-war, in which the captain had many friends. Early as it was, the commander had the band up, and sweetly across the water came the music of that dear old song I myself have often heard, when standing out to sea, “Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye.”

By eventide they were standing well down towards the Bay of Biscay, which they would leave on their port quarter. They would merely skirt it, bearing up for Madeira. But a delightful breeze had sprung up; the white sails were set, and she was running before it, right saucily, too, bobbing and curtseying to each rippling wavelet very prettily, as much as to say: “Ah! you dear old sea, we have been together before now. You will never lose your temper with me, will you?” It is well, indeed, that sailors do not know what is before them.

The dinner-hour was seven. Mr and Mrs Hall were seated on chairs on the quarter-deck. Neither was over-well, but Ilda and Reginald were pacing briskly up and down the quarter-deck, chatting pleasantly. I think, though, that Ilda had more to say than he. American girls are born that way.

Wee Matty was making love to Oscar, the splendid and good-natured Newfoundland. Nobody more happy than bonnie Matty, bonnie and gay, for her happiness, indeed, was a species of merry madness. Only no one could have heard her childish, gleesome and silvery laugh without laughing with her.

The bell at last! Reginald took Ilda down below, then hurried on deck to help his patients. Matty and Oscar seemed to come tumbling down.

And so the evening passed away, the stars once more glittering like crystal gems, the great star Sirius shining in ever-changing rays of crimson and blue.

It was indeed a goodly night, and Reginald slept to-night. The incubus Love had fled away.

Chapter Twelve.
“I say, Cap,” said Mr Hall, “I should Maroon a Fellow like that!”

While the whole countryside – ay, and the Granite City itself – were thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending Craig Nicol, the Wolverine was making her way on the wings of a delightful ten-knot breeze to the Isle of Madeira.

Reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter with Mr and Mrs Hall. They were run down, however, very much with the gaieties of Paris and London, to say nothing of New York, and thought rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them.

Madeira at last! The beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed stones, was a difficult one to land upon. The waves or breakers hurled these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. Nevertheless, the boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad shoulder to carry Mr and Mrs Hall and daughter safely on to dry land.

Reginald was sure of foot, and lifting Matty in his arms as she crowed with delight, he bore her safe on shore. The great Newfoundland despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped overboard with a splash. And he also landed, shaking himself free of gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. He drenched his master pretty severely. But it was a fine joke to Oscar, so, grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. When he did come back, he licked his master’s hand and little Matty’s face. “Nothing like a good race,” he seemed to say, “to set the blood in motion after a long bath.”

While the party sit in the piazza of a beautiful tree-shaded hotel, sipping iced sherbet, let me say a word about the nature of the Wolverine’s voyage.

The yacht did not belong to the Halls. She was lent them for the cruise round the Horn to the South Pacific, and many a beautiful island they meant to visit, and see many a strange and wondrous sight. For hitherto all their travelling experiences had been confined to Europe. But your true American wants to see all the world when he can afford it.

It was health the Halls were in search of, combined with pleasure if possible; but they meant to collect all the curios they could get, and they also felt certain – so Mrs Hall said – that they would find the South Sea savages very interesting persons indeed.

So have I myself found them, especially when their spears were whisking over my boat and they were dancing in warlike frenzy on the beach. In such cases, however, a shot or two from a good revolver has a wonderfully persuasive and calmative effect on even Somali Indians.

We British have called Scotland and England an isle of beauty, but I question very much if it can cope with Madeira. Here not only have we splendid mountains, clad in all the beauty of tropical and sub-tropical shrubs and trees, tremendous cliffs and gorges, raging torrents and cataracts, with many a bosky dell, lovely even as those birchen glades in Scotia, but in this heavenly isle there is the sunshine that overspreads all and sparkles on the sea. And that sea, too! – who could describe the splendour of its blue on a calm day, patched here and there towards the shore with browns, seagreens, and opals? No wonder that after making several visits and picnics in shore and high among the mountains, borne there by sturdy Portuguese in hammocks, Mrs Hall should declare that she felt better already.

It was with some reluctance that Mr Hall ordered the anchor to be got up at last, and all sail made for the Canaries. Near sunset was it when they sailed slowly away, a sunset of indescribable beauty. A great grey misty bank of cloud was hanging many degrees above the mountains, but beneath it was more clear and streaked with long trailing cloudlets of crimson, light yellow, and purple, the rifts between being of the deepest sea-green. But over the hills hung a shadow or mist of smoky blue.

Then descended the sun, sinking in the waters far to the west, a ball of crimson fire with a pathway of blood ’twixt the horizon and the yacht.

Then night fell, with but a brief twilight. There was going to be a change, however. The mate, a sturdy, red-faced, weather-beaten, but comely fellow, sought the captain’s cabin and reported a rapidly-falling glass, and the gradual obliteration of the stars, that erst had shone so sweetly.

How swiftly comes a squall at times in these seas! A huge bank of blackest darkness was seen rapidly advancing towards the ship, and before sail could be taken in or steam got up she was in the grasp of that merciless demon squall.

For a minute or two she fled before it and the terrible waves, quivering the while from stem to stern like a dying deer.

Then high above the roaring of the wind, and booming and hissing of the waves, great guns were heard. It seemed so, at least, but it was but the bursting of the bellying sails, and platoon-firing next, as the rent ribbons of canvas crackled and rattled in the gale.

To lie to was impossible now. With the little sail they had left they must fly on and on. Men staggered about trying to batten down, but for a time in vain.

Then came a huge pooping wave, that all but swept the decks. It smashed the bulwarks, it carried away a boat, and, alas! one poor fellow found a watery grave. He must have been killed before being swept overboard. Anyhow, he was seen no more. Everything movable was carried forward with tremendous force. Even the winch was unshipped, and stood partly on end.

The man at the wheel and the men battening down were carried away on the current, but though several were badly bruised, they were otherwise unhurt. Sturdy Captain Dickson had rushed to the wheel, else would the Wolverine have broached to and sunk in a few minutes.

The water had poured down the companions like cataracts, and it drowned out the half-lit fires. Mr Hall and party had shut themselves up in their state-rooms, but everything in the saloon was floating in water two feet deep.

However, this storm passed away almost as quickly as it had come, and once more the seas calmed down, and sky and waters became brightly, ineffably blue. The ship was baled out, and, as the wind had now gone down, fires were got up, and the Wolverine steamed away for the Canaries and the marvellous Peak of Teneriffe.

But poor Bill Stevens’s death had cast a general gloom throughout the ship. He was a great favourite fore and aft, always merry, always laughing or singing, and a right good sailor as well.

So next morning, when red and rosy the sun rose over the sea, orders were sent forward for the men to “lay aft” at nine o’clock for prayers. Then it was “wash and scrub decks, polish the wood, and shine the brasswork.”

Right rapidly did the sun dry the decks, so that when Mrs Hall, who had received a bad shock, was helped on deck by Reginald, everything ’twixt fo’c’sle and wheel looked clean and nice. The winch had not been badly damaged, and was soon set to rights.

I should not forget to mention that the only one not really alarmed during the terrible black Squall was that busy, merry wee body Matty. When she saw the cataract of waters coming surging in, she speedily mounted the table. The fiddles had been put on, and to these she held fast; and she told Reginald all this next morning, adding, “And, oh, doc, it was so nice – dust (just) like a swinging-rope!”

But she had had a companion; for, after swimming several times round the table, as if in search of dry land, the beautiful dog clambered up on the table beside Matty. To be sure, he shook himself, but Matty shut her eyes, and wiped her face, and on the whole was very glad of his company.

How solemn was that prayer of Mr Hall for the dead. Granted that he was what is so foolishly called “a Dissenter” in England, his heart was in the right place, and he prayed right from that Even his slight nasal twang in no way detracted from the solemnity of that prayer. Ilda Hall had her handkerchief to her face, but poor little cabin-boy Ralph Williams wept audibly. For the drowned sailor had ever been kind to him.

The captain was certainly a gentleman, and an excellent sailor, but he had sea ways with him, and now he ordered the main-brace to be spliced; so all the Jacks on board soon forgot their grief.

“His body has gone to Davy Jones,” said one, “but his soul has gone aloft.”

“Amen,” said others.

They stayed at Orotava long enough to see the sights, and Reginald himself and a sailor got high up the peak. He was on board in time for dinner, but confessed to being tired. He had not forgotten to bring a splendid basket of fruit with him, however, nor wildflowers rich and rare.

A long lonely voyage was now before them – south-west and away to Rio de Janeiro – so ere long everyone on board had settled quietly down to a sea life.

I must mention here that it was the first mate that had chosen the crew. He had done so somewhat hastily, I fear, and when I say that there were two or three Spaniards among them, and more than one Finn, need I add that the devil was there also?

One Finn in particular I must mention. He was tall to awkwardness. Somewhat ungainly all over, but his countenance was altogether forbidding. He had an ugly beard, that grew only on his throat, but curled up over his chin – certainly not adding to his beauty.

Christian Norman was his name; his temper was vile, and more than once had he floored poor boy Williams, and even cut his head. He smoked as often as he had the chance, and would have drunk himself to insensibility if supplied with vile alcohol.

“I don’t like him,” said the captain one evening at dinner.

“Nor I,” said Reginald.

“I say, cap,” said Mr Hall, “I’d maroon a fellow like that! If you don’t, mark my words, he will give us trouble yet.”

And he did, as the sequel will show.