Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Stables Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ bright, neatly-dressed Fanny came tripping round, holding in advance of her a silver salver.

      “A letter, sir,” she said, smiling.

      Reginald took it slowly from the salver, and his hand shook visibly.

      “Annie,” he said, somewhat sadly, “I believe this contains my sailing orders.”

      Chapter Five.

      A Discovery That Appalled and Shocked Everyone

      Reginald had guessed aright. The good barque Wolverine would sail from Glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the South Atlantic, and round the Horn to the South Pacific Islands and San Francisco.

      This was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from Mrs Hall, Reginald’s pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. She felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter Ilda and wee niece Matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being —

      “All alone on the wide, wide sea.”

      “Oh, my darling!” cried Annie, “I believe my heart will break to lose you.”

      “But it will not be for long, my love – a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! You know, Annie, I am very poor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. It is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old Laird, your uncle. He would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. But I shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, I am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to Mrs Hall! When I return I shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, Annie, you and I shall be married!

      “‘Two souls with but a single thought,

      Two hearts that beat as one.’”

      But the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks.

      “Cheer up, my own,” said Reginald, drawing her closer to him.

      Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost.

      “Reginald,” she said, “tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?”

      “I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is. Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. But,” he added, “there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. Ah, Annie,” he continued, smiling, “I see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn’t increase. I have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests.”

      “I know, I know you will,” said Annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder.

      “There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous.”

      “And she?”

      “I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don’t look sad; it is only Matty, and she is just come five.”

      Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie’s arm.

      “Ah, Annie,” he said, “it won’t be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours.”

      “I pray for that,” said the child-woman.

      The gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and I always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. But it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for Reginald at present. They were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall.

      The deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. The Bryonia Alba, sometimes called the devil’s parsnip, that in June snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. The holly berries were already turning. The black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly Lombardy poplars. Another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion – it would soon be black – the fruit of the privet. The pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. These rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes.

      “How beautiful, Annie,” said Reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. “Do you mind the old song, dear? —

      “‘Oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree,

          Thou’lt ay be dear to me;

      Begirt thou art with many thoughts

          Of home and infancy.

      “‘Thy leaves were ay the first in spring

          Thy flowers the summer’s pride;

      There wasn’t such a bonnie tree

          In a’ the countryside,

              Oh, rowan tree!’”

      “It is very beautiful,” said Annie, “and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. I shall play it to you to-night.”

      But here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. Yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and I never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. With buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind.

      Over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful September day. The robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to Reginald’s shoulder or Annie’s hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell.

      “Annie,” said Reginald, after a pause, “I am very, very happy.”

      “And I, dear,” was the reply, “am very hopeful.”

      How quickly that month sped away. Reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with Laird McLeod or Laird Fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of Birnie-Boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits.

      I shall not say much about the parting. They parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace.

      It has often grieved me to think how very little Englishmen know about our most beautiful Scottish songs. Though but a little simple thing, “The Pairtin’” (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious I know of in any language. It is very àpropos to the parting of Reginald and Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.

      “Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,

          Home and friends, and country dear,

      Oh, ne’er let our pairtin’ grieve thee,

          Happier days may soon be here.

      “See, СКАЧАТЬ