"I wonder," said Craig Nicol to himself that night, before going to bed,
and just as he rose from his knees, "if there can be anything in
Shufflin' Sandie's warning. I certainly don't like old Father Fletcher,
close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever I met. I don't like
him prowling round my darling Annie either. And _he_ hates _me_, though
he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we
meet. I'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behave
himself."
But for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the Laird
one," for Fletcher called on Annie at times when he knew Craig was
engaged.
And so the days and weeks went by. Laird Fletcher's wooing was carried
on now on perfectly different lines. He brought Annie many a little
knick-knack from Aberdeen. It might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold,
or the last new novel; but never a ring. No; that would have been too
suggestive.
Annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but Fletcher looked
at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she
did receive them.
One day Annie, the old Laird and the younger started for Aberdeen, all
on good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round the
corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but Craig Nicol?
And this is what happened.
The old man raised his hat.
The younger Laird smiled ironically but triumphantly.
Annie nodded, blushed, and smiled.
But the young farmer's face was blanched with rage. He was no longer
handsome. There was blood in his eye. He was a devil for the present.
He plunged the spurs into his horse's sides and went galloping furiously
along the road.
"Would to God," he said, "I did not love her! Shall I resign her? No,
no! I cannot. Yet--
"`Tis woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.'"
Worse was to follow.
Right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of
Craig.
"For jealousy is the injured woman's hell."
And man's also. One day, close by the Dee, while Craig was putting his
rod together previous to making a cast, Laird Fletcher came out from a
thicket, also rod in hand.
"Ah, we cannot fish together, Nicol," said the Laird haughtily. "We are
rivals."
Then all the jealousy in Nicol's bosom was turned for a moment into
fury.
"You--_you_! You old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! You a rival of a young
fellow like me! Bah! Go home and go to bed!"
Fletcher was bold.
"Here!" he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; "I don't stand language
like that from anyone!"
Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chin
that quite staggered him.
Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility
of a man in his twenties. In five minutes' time Fletcher was on the
grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood.
Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his
eyes.
"I'm done with you for the time," said Fletcher, "but mark me, I'll do
for you yet!"
"Is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? You did so before,
too. Come," he continued fiercely, "I will help you to wash some of
that blood off your ugly face."
He seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river.
The stream was not deep, so the Laird got out, and went slowly away to a
neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage.
"Hang it!" said Craig aloud; "I can't fish to-day."
He put up his rod, and was just leaving, when Shufflin' Sandie came upon
the scene. He had heard and seen all.
"Didn't I tell ye, sir? He'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. Be
warned!"
"Well," said Craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me
a bit, but I think I've given him a drubbing he won't soon forget."
"No," said Sandie significantly; "he--won't--forget. Take my word for
that."
"Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before he
felt fit to be seen.
"A touch of neuralgia," he made his housekeeper tell all callers.
But he couldn't and dared not refuse to see Shufflin' Sandie when he
sent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through the
post-office.
"Well," said the Laird, "to what am I indebted for the honour of _this_
visit?"
"Come off that high horse, sir," said Sandie, "and speak plain English.
I'll tell you," he added, "I'll tell you in a dozen words. I'm going to
build a small house and kennels, and I'm going to marry Fanny--the
bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. Ah! won't I be happy, just!"
He smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the Laird.
The Laird dashed it aside.
"What in thunder?" he roared, "has your house or marriage to do with
me?"
"Ye'll soon see that, my Laird. I want forty pounds, or by all the
hares on Bilberry Hill I'll go hot-foot to the Fiscal, for I heard your
threat to Craig Nicol by the riverside."
Half-an-hour afterwards Shufflin' Sandie left the Laird to mourn, but
Sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and
was happy accordingly.
As he rode away, the horse's hoofs making music that delighted his ear,
Sandie laughed aloud to himself.
"Now," he thought, "if I could only just get about fifty pounds more,
I'd begin building. Maybe the old Laird'll help me a wee bit; but I
must have it, and I must have Fanny. My goodness! how I do love the
lassie! Her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. I cannot
bear it; I _shall_ marry Fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie's
pool in the Dee I'll fling myself.
"`O love, love! Love is like a dizziness,
That winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.'"
Shufflin' Sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. But his was a
thoroughly Dutch peasant's courtship.
He paid frequent visits by train to the Granite City, to make purchases
for the good old Laird McLeod. And he never returned without a little
present for Fanny. It might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle
of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. But he watched the chance
when Fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand
half-shyly.
Once he said after giving her a pretty bangle:
"I'm not so very, _very_ ugly, am I, Fanny?"
"'Deed no, Sandie!"
"And I'm not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe.
Eh, dear?"
"'Deed no, Sandie, and I ay take your part against them all. And that
you know, Sandie."
How sweet were those words to Sandie's soul only those who love, but are
in doubt, may tell.
"Tis sweet to love, but sweeter far
To be beloved again;
But, ah! how bitter is the pain
To love, yet love in vain!"
"Ye haven't a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, Fanny?"
"Well, Sandie, I always like to tell the truth; there's plenty would
make love to me, but I can't bear them. There's ploughman Sock, and
Geordie McKay. Ach! and plenty more."
She rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning.
"And I suppose," said Sandie, "the devil a one of them has one sixpence
to rub against another?"
"Mebbe not," said Fanny. "But, Fanny--"
"Well, Sandie?"
"I--I really don't know what I was going to say, but I'll sing it."
Sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one.
"My love is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody,
That's sweetly played in tune.
"As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love you still, my dear,
Till a' the seas go dry.
"Till a' the seas go dry, my lass,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
Yes, I will love you still, my dear,
Till sands of life are run."
The tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie's cheeks, so plaintive
and sweet was the melody.
"What! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said Sandie, approaching and
stretching one arm gently round her waist.
"Oh, no, Sandie; not me!"
But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed
cheeks.
She didn't resist.
"I say, Fanny--"
"Yes, Sandie."
"It'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. Will you
steal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? Just meet
me on the hill near Tammie Gibb's ruined cottage. I've something to
tell you."
"I'll--I'll try," said Fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotch
girls do.
Sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels.
And Fanny did steal out that night. Only for one short hour and a half.
Oh, how short the time did seem to Sandie!
It is not difficult to guess what Sandie had to tell her.
The old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever
the same, ever, ever new.
And he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or two
rooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would
still work for the Laird.
"Will ye be my wife? Oh, will you, Fanny?"
"Yes."
It was but a whispered word, but it thrilled Sandie's heart with joy.
"My ain dear dove!" he cried, folding her in his arms.
They were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest's edge.
Their lips met in one long, sweet kiss.
Yes, peasant love I grant you, but I think it was leal and true.
"They might be poor--Sandie and she;
Light is the burden love lays on;
Content and love bring peace and joy.
What more have queens upon a throne?"
Homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers,
and parted at the gate as lovers do.
Sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. He lay awake nearly all the
livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he
was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his
happiness. Then he dozed off into dreamland.
He was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. And back came the
joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave.
He attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then
went quietly in to make his brose.
Some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--Scotch
fashion again--but that was all. Sandie ate his brose in silence, then
took his departure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One morning a letter arrived from Edinburgh from a friend of Craig
Nicol.
Craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought
it in and laid it before him. His face clouded as he read it.
The friend's name was Reginald Grahame, and he was a medical student in
his fourth year. He had been very kind to Craig in Edinburgh, taking
him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city
on earth--
"Edina, Scotia's darling seat."
Nevertheless, Craig's appetite failed, and he said "Bother!" only more
so, as he pitched the letter down on the table.