Annie o' the Banks o' Dee Part 1

Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.

by Gordon Stables.

CHAPTER ONE.

AT BILBERRY HALL.

"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 l.u.s.tre o'er a jewelled crown; For oh! the sweetest la.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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, hoa.r.s.e ba.s.s, 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 gla.s.s shaped like a thistle. Into the bowl a modic.u.m 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 gra.s.sy 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 coc.o.o.n 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 la.s.sie.

"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 das.h.i.+ng 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 das.h.i.+ng 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 la.s.sie, 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.