Annie o' the Banks o' Dee

Chapter Eight.

A Scottish Peasant’s Wedding and a Ball

Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were very few guests, however.

The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven.

A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing.

I don’t know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time.

The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow.

Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her tears.

In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was the pièce de résistance, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some rare wines – including whisky – but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all that, patronised the Highland whisky.

“No, no,” he said, waving the port wine away. “‘Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup… at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.’”

It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with Glenlivet.

Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch.

The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie’s wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least.

And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of Bilberry Hall.

And it was a barn, too! – or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door.

Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall.

The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps.

Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians’ fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.

As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen “sweetie” wives scent a peasant’s ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means – save one or two —

They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders.

A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is – three small fiddles, a ’cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as “Auld Robin Grey,” “The Flowers o’ the Forest,” “Donald,” etc, enough to draw tears from anyone’s eyes.

But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin’ Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall – a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.

And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile.

As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses.

Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.

“Ladies and gentlemen all,” he says, “I trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. ‘Youth’s the season made for joy.’ I have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe.”

A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, Shufflin’ Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. Then surely never did man-o’-war sailor dance as Sandie danced! His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger’s performance with the bones. Then every wild, merry “Hooch!” brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. Sandie’s uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of “Encore!” Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired.

But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin’ Sandie and McLeod’s nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it.

Then came a cry of “Fill the floor!” and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours:

Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom.

The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow’s Jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters.

But at midnight there came a lull – a lull for refreshments. White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch.

There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily – not one mugful each, but three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed.

“And now the fun grew fast and furious” – and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes!

But at two o’clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old love-song called “The Rose of Allandale.” It was duly appreciated, and Sandie was applauded to the “ring of the bonnet,” as he himself phrased it.

Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty.

Her song was “Ever of thee I’m fondly dreaming.” Perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl’s eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished.

And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride following close behind.

The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. Then “Bob at the Booster” – a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance – brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather.

Next day Shufflin’ Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom.

Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she obeyed.

The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself.

“Indeed, sir,” he told McLeod, “I’ll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard’s but small as yet, and it’ll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening.”

“Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there.”

Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of “poor auld Scotland.”

Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could.

Chapter Nine.

A Bolt from the Blue

Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie! Yet she still had somewhat of hope – at times, that is.

Her cousin, Mr Beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at Bilberry Hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with Annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her.

Her somewhat elderly lover was different. Lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree.

“We all have griefs to bear in this world, Annie dear,” he said once. “They are burdens God sends us to try our patience. But your sorrow must soon be over. Do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?”

“Dead!” cried Annie. “Who knows, or can tell?”

“Oh, darling, I can no longer conceal it from you. Perhaps I should have told you a year ago. Here is the newspaper. Here is the very paragraph. The figurehead of the unfortunate Wolverine and one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. The insurance has been paid.”

Annie sat dumb for a time – dumb and dry-eyed. She could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. She found voice at last.

“The Lord’s will be done,” she said, simply but earnestly.

Laird Fletcher said no more then. But he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading Annie to the altar.

And now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. She was, like most Scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. She had learnt to pray at her mother’s knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle’s. And now she consoled herself thus.

“Dear uncle,” she said, “poor Reginald is dead; but I shall meet him in a better world than this.”

“I trust so, darling.”

“And do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, I am almost relieved. A terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. And I too should have died.”

“You must keep up your heart. Come, I am going to Paris for a few weeks with friend Fletcher, and you too must come. Needn’t take more than your travelling and evening dresses,” he added. “We’ll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city.”

So it was arranged. So it was carried out. They went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old Highlander.

Fletcher and McLeod combined their forces in order to give poor Annie “a real good time,” as brother Jonathan would say. And it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, Annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from Paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways.

But the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night.

Old Laird McLeod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening.

How little do we know when evil is about to befall us!

It was one lovely day in spring. Annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by Jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by Laird Fletcher. This man was a naturalist – not a mere classifier. He did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them Latin names, and imagine that was all. He knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew.

So he made just the kind of companion for Annie that she delighted in. When he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful – nay, sure – that in the end his suit would be successful.

It was indeed a beautiful morning. Soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. Rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in England, for every country has its own sweet flora.

The little party returned a few minutes before one o’clock, not only happy, but hungry too. To her great alarm Annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. Near his chair lay a foolscap letter.

“Oh, uncle dear, are you ill?”

“No, no, child. Don’t be alarmed; it has pleased God to change our fortunes, that is all, and I have been praying and trying hard to say ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,’ – I cannot yet. I may ere long.”

But Annie was truly alarmed. She picked up the lawyer’s letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. And her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now.

“Oh, uncle dear,” she said at last, “what does this mean? Tell me, tell me.”

“It means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. That this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that I must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city – that is all.”

“Cheer up, uncle,” said Annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. “You still have me, and I have you. If we can but keep Jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do.”

“God bless you, my child! You have indeed been a comfort to me. But for you, I’d care nothing for poverty. I may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. God has seen fit to afflict us, but in His mercy He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”

Luncheon was brought in, but neither McLeod nor his niece did much justice to it. The weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds – mavis, chaffinch, and blackie – singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world.

“Uncle,” said Annie at last, “tell me the sad story. I can bear it now.”

“Then, dear, I shall, but must be very brief. I love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. The young fellow Francis Robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, a roué and a blackguard from the Australian diggings. He is but twenty-two. Even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years’ imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. He has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in Australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. His father disappeared long, long ago, and I, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. But, ah me! the crash has come.”

“But may this young fellow not be an impostor?”

“Nay, child, nay. You see what the letter says: that if I go to law I can only lose; but that if I trouble and tire Robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. No,” he added, after a pause, “he is fair enough. He may be good enough, too, though passionate. Many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. Ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see.”

That was an anxious and sleepless night for poor Annie. In vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. She tossed and dozed all night long.

Then came the eventful day. And at twelve o’clock came young Francis Robertson, with a party of witnesses from Australia.

McLeod could tell him at once to be the heir. He was the express image of his dead father.

The Laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from Aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only Annie being there. Robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. The witnesses were examined. Their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. Not a question they did not answer correctly. The certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. There were no longer any doubts about anything.

Then Laird McLeod – laird now, alas! only by courtesy – retired with his advocate to another room to consult.

Said the advocate: “My dear Laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?”

“He is, as sure as yonder sun is shining.”

“And so am I convinced,” said the advocate. “Then there must be no lawsuit?”

“No, none.”

“That is right. At your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you.”

“Then, my dear Duncan,” said Laird McLeod, “look out for a pretty cottage for me at once.”

“I will do everything for you, and I know of the very place you want – a charming small villa on the beautiful Rubislaw Road. Choose the things you want. Have a sale and get rid of the others. Keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. But we must act expeditiously.”

And so they did. And in a fortnight’s time all was settled, and the little villa furnished.

Till the day of the sale Francis Robertson was a guest at the Hall.

Now I must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. The young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the Laird on the very day before the sale.

“My dear uncle,” he said, “I would rather you did not leave. Be as you were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with me.”

“Francis Robertson,” replied McLeod, “we go. I’ll be no man’s guest in a house that once was mine.”

“Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add.”

“Speak on.”

“From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane. Will you give me her hand?”

“Have you spoken to herself?”

“I have not dared to.” McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie, his niece.

“Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. Think you that you could love him?”

Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: “No.”

“You have had your answer,” said McLeod. Francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away.

Chapter Ten.

“What Must be Must – ’tis Fate.”

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.