"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."