Annie o' the Banks o' Dee Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  Annie o' the Banks o' DeeBy Gordon StablesIllustrations by nonePublished by F.V. White & Co, 14 Bedford Street, Strand, London WC.This edition dated 1899.

  Annie o' the Banks o' Dee, by Gordon Stables.

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  ________________________________________________________________________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 lustre o'er a jewelled crown; For oh! the sweetest lass 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 ofspruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of Bilberry Hall.

  Better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly ithad been in the brave days of old. The many-gabled, turreted buildinghad formerly belonged to a family of Gordons, who had been deprived ofhouse and lands in the far north of Culloden, after the brutal soldieryof the Bloody Duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country ofBadenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and morethan murdering every woman and child, and "giving their flesh to theeagles," 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 thewest, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees couldbe heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river,or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournfulhooting of the great brown owl.

  It was about this time that Laird McLeod would summon the servants oneand 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 histhroat, and read a long chapter.

  One of the Psalms of David in metre would then be sung. There wasn't adeal of music in the Laird's voice, it must be confessed. It was adeep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an oldgrandfather's clock just before it begins to strike. But when the maidstook up the tune and sweet Annie Lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn waswell worth listening to.

  Then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the Lairdgetting down somewhat stiffly. With open eyes and uplifted face heprayed long and earnestly. The "Amen" concluded the worship, and allretired 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-fashioned grate, andover it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing awayjust 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 hiseasy-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 glass shaped like a thistle. Into the bowl amodicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the goodSquire, or Laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the waterbubbled from the spout of the shining 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 floweryornamentation 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 tomake sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. Then she bentover the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before goingout with her maid for a walk on the lawn.

  It might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraceswere perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweetsyringa; 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, whenthe world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, ortree had branches like the whitest of coral.

  Jeannie Lee, the maid, was a great favourite with Annie, and Jeanniedearly 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 nothesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for Jeannie was a bonnielassie.

  "She whiles had a sweetheart, And whiles she had two."

  Well, but strange as it may appear, Annie, young as she was, had twolovers. There was a dashing young farmer--Craig Nicol by name--he waswell-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manlyfigure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. Atballs 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 hisheart 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 thatCraig Nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. Sometimes he almostfrightened her. Poor Craig was unsophisticated, and didn't know thatyou must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon.

  He was a very great favourite with the Laird at all events, and manywere the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings,many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his goodgrey mare and went noisily cantering homewards.

  No matter what the weather was, Craig would be in it, wind or rain, hailor 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 dashing young blade, and at times Anniethought she almost loved him.

  But what of the girl's other lover? Well, he was one of a verydifferent stamp. A laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but hewas not a week under fifty.

  He, too, was a constant visitor at Bilberry Hall, and paid greatattention to Annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort ofmanner, and Annie really liked the man, though little did she think hewas in love with her.

  One lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when Laird Fletcher--forthat was his name--found himself seated beside Annie and her maid in anarbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said toJeannie:

  "Jeannie, I'd be the happiest man on earth if I only had this darlingchild 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 lassie, I'll give you plenty of time to think of it. I'd carefor you as the apple of my eye; I'd love you with a love that youngermen cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should bedressed so braw as my own wee dove."

  Annie drew her hand from his; then--I can't tell why--perhaps she didnot know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burstinto tears.

  With loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startleddeer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and soughtshelter in her own boudoir.

  The Laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposedto Annie; but then he really w
as to be excused. What is it a man willnot 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 thatblack-haired young farmer were only _out of the way_, I'd win the battlebefore 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 apipe 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 yearsold, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft ofwhich always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad PrinceCharlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; andhis smile was like the grin of a vixen.

  Sandie was the man-of-all-work at Bilberry. He cleaned knives