Annie o' the Banks o' Dee

Two months had passed away since the departure of the Erebus, and soon the detectives must come. Reginald’s heart gave a painful throb of anxiety when he thought of it. Another month and he should be a prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship. Oh! it was terrible to think of! But work had kept him up. Soon, however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. Every night now, however, both Dickson and Reginald dined and slept at the palace of Queen Bertha. With her Reginald left his nuggets.

“If I should be condemned to death,” he said, – “and Fate points to that probability – the gold and all the rest is yours, Dickson.”

“Come, sir, come,” said the Queen, “keep up your heart. You say you are not guilty.”

They were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter felt like sawdust in Reginald’s hot and nerve-fevered mouth.

“I do not myself believe I am guilty, my dear lady,” he answered.

“You do not believe?”

“Listen, and I will tell you. The knife found – it was mine – by the side of poor Craig Nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my greatest fear. Listen again. All my life I have been a sleep-walker or somnambulist.”

The Queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke.

“You couldn’t surely – ” she began.

“All I remember of that night is this – and I feel the cold sweat of terror on my brow as I relate it – I had been to Aberdeen. I dined with friends – dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. I remember feeling dazed when I left the train at – Station. I had many miles still to walk, but before I had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and I laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly refresh me. I remember but little more, only that I fell asleep, thinking how much I would give only to have Craig Nicol once more as my friend. Strange, was it not? I seemed to awake in the same place where I had lain down, but cannot recollect that I had any dreams which might have led to somnambulism. But, oh, Queen Bertha, my stocking knife was gone! I looked at my hands. ‘Good God!’ I cried, for they were smeared with blood! And I fainted away. I have no more to say,” he added, “no more to tell. I will tell the same story to my solicitor alone, and will be guided by all he advises. If I have done this deed, even in my sleep, I deserve my fate, whate’er it may be, and, oh, Queen Bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear than death itself could be.”

“From my very inmost heart I pity you,” said the Queen.

“And I too,” said Dickson.

It was now well-nigh three months since the Erebus had left, and no other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight.

But one evening the Queen, with Reginald and Dickson, sat out of doors in the verandah. They were drinking little cups of black coffee and smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in lieu of paper. It was so still to-night that the slightest sound could be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of the bats’ wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. It was, too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear sky, and even the brilliant Southern Cross looked pale in her dazzling rays. There had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. From seaward, over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer’s whistle.

“O, Merciful Father!” cried Reginald, half-rising from his seat, but sinking helplessly back again – “they are here!”

Alas! it was only too true.

When the Erebus left the island, with, as passengers, Mr Hall and poor, grief-stricken Ilda, she had a good passage as far as the Line, and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to the Golden Horn. Here Mr Hall determined to stay for many months, to recruit his daughter’s health. All the remedies of San Francisco were at her command. She went wherever her father pleased, but every pleasure appeared to pall upon her. Doctors were consulted, and pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. There was a complete collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have received some terrible shock. Mr Hall admitted it, asking at the same time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do.

“It is the last thing a medical man should do,” replied the physician, “to take hope away. I do not say she may not recover with care, but – I am bound to tell you, sir – the chances of her living a year are somewhat remote.”

Poor Mr Hall was silent and sad. He would soon be a lonely man indeed, with none to comfort him save little Matty, and she would grow up and leave him too.

Shortly after the arrival of the Erebus at California, a sensational heading to a Scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old Laird McLeod, as he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast:

“Remarkable Discovery.The Supposed Murderer of Craig NicolFound on a Cannibal Island.”

The rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we already know. But Annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. And this very forenoon, too, Laird Fletcher was coming to McLeod Cottage to ask her hand formally from her father.

Already, as I have previously stated, she had given a half-willing consent. But now her mind was made up. She would tell Fletcher everything, and trust to his generosity. She mentioned to Jeannie, her maid, what her intentions were.

“I would not utterly throw over Fletcher,” said Jeannie. “You never know what may happen.”

Jeannie was nothing if not canny. Well, Fletcher did call that forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle – saw him alone. She showed him the paper and telegram. Then she boldly told him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question entirely.

“And you love this young man still?”

“Ay, Fletcher,” she said, “and will love him till all the seas run dry.”

The Laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she took it.

“We still shall be friends,” he said.

“Yes,” she cried; “and, oh, forgive me if I have caused you grief. I am a poor, unhappy girl!”

“Every cloud,” said Fletcher, “has a silver lining.”

Then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was gone.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Cruise of the “Vulcan.”

The next news concerning what was called the terrible Deeside murder was that a detective and two policemen had started for New York, that thence they would journey overland to San Francisco, and there interview the captain of the Erebus in order to get the latitude and longitude of the Isle of Flowers. They would then charter a small steamer and bring the accused home for trial – and for justice.

It is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing America by train, but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way.

The Vulcan, which they finally chartered at ’Frisco, was a small, but clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few select ones only) to view the beauties of the Fiji Islands.

Many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever.

It must be confessed, however, that Master Mariner Neaves did not half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay prevailed, and so he gave in. His wife and her maid, who acted also as stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be left on this expedition.

So away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue Pacific, steering southwards with a little west in it.

And now a very strange discovery was brought to light. They had been about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in the store-room, Captain Neaves opened it. To his intense surprise, out walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. She carried in her hand a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in Neaves’s face, she said naïvely:

“Oh, dear, I is so glad we are off at last. I’se been so very lonely.”

“But, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you come here?”

“Oh,” she answered, “I am Matty. I just runned away, and I’se goin’ south with you to see poor Regie Grahame. That’s all, you know.”

“Well, well, well!” said Neaves wonderingly. “A stranger thing than this surely never happened on board the saucy Vulcan, from the day she first was launched!” Then he took Matty by the hand, and laughing in spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. “We can’t turn back,” he explained; “that would be unlucky. She must go with us.”

“Of course,” said Matty, nodding her wise wee head. “You mustn’t go back.”

And so it was settled. But Matty became the sunshine and life of all on board. Even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat solemn-looking and important policeman as well. All were in love with Matty in less than a week. If Neaves was master of the Vulcan, Matty was mistress.

Well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of Flower Island, although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, Reginald soon recovered. Poor Oscar, the Newfoundland, had laid his great head on his master’s knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his face.

“Oh, Queen Bertha,” said Reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the dog’s great head, “will – will you keep my faithful friend till all is over?”

“That I shall, and willingly. Nothing shall ever come over him; and mind,” she said, “I feel certain you will return to bring him away.”

Next morning broke sunny and delightful. All the earth in the valley was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. Reginald alone was unhappy. At eight o’clock, guided by two natives, the detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to the palace. Reginald had already said good-bye to the Queen and his beautiful brown-eyed dog.

“Be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. I will come back again in spirit if not in body. Good-bye, my pet, good-bye.”

Then he and Dickson went quietly down to meet the police. The detective stopped and said “Good-morning” in a kindly, sympathetic tone.

“Good-morning,” said Reginald sadly. “I am your prisoner.”

The policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. The detective held up his hand.

“If you, Grahame,” he said, “will assure me on your oath that you will make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom on board – no irons, no chains.”

The prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards.

“As God is my last Judge, sir,” he said, “I swear before Him I shall give you not the slightest trouble. I know my fate, and can now face it.”

“Amen,” said the detective. “And now we shall go on board.”

Reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the Queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by Dickson’s side.

Arrived on board, to his intense surprise, Matty was the first to greet him. She fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over again. Then she told him all her own little story.

Now the men came off with their boxes, and Dickson with his traps. The Vulcan stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. Steam was got up, and away she headed back once more for ’Frisco, under full steam. I think that Reginald was happier now than he had been for months. The bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. Moreover, he was to all intents and purposes on parole. Though he took his meals in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he liked, and even to play with Matty.

“I cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible crime laid to his charge,” said Mrs Neaves to her husband one day.

“Nor I either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and I do not believe he has the slightest chance of life.”

“Terrible!”

Yet Mrs Neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so threateningly over his life. The more she talked to him, the more she believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she tried hard not to.

Matty was Reginald’s almost constant companion, and many an otherwise lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten.

He had another companion, however – his Bible. All hope for this world had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the God whom he had so often offended and sinned against.

Captain Dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate Wolverine used to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into thin air, and Reginald was once more free.

“But, ah, Dickson,” said the prisoner, “that cloud will not dissolve. It is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and then – it will burst, and I shall be no more. No, no, dear friend, I appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my hopes of happiness are now centred in the Far Beyond.”

If a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience pleasure at all, Reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see him, as they never failed to do, daily. Theirs was heart-felt pity. Their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart.

“How is it with you by this time?” McGregor said one day. “You mustn’t mope, ye know.”

“Dear Mac,” replied Reginald, “there is no change, except that the voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will.”

“Now, sir, I won’t have that at all. Me and my mates here have made up our minds, and we believe you ain’t guilty at all, and that they dursn’t string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury.”

“I fear not death, anyhow, Mac. Indeed, I am not sure that I might not say with Job of old, ‘I prefer strangling rather than life.’”

“Keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don’t you think about it. We’ll come and see you to-morrow again. Adoo.”

Yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had been. When the mountains of California at last hove in sight, and Skipper Neaves informed Reginald that they would get in to-morrow night, he was rather pleased than otherwise. But Matty was now in deepest grief. This strange child clung around his neck and cried at the thoughts of it.

“Oh, I shall miss you, I shall miss you!” she said. “And you can’t take poor Matty with you?”

And now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven.

“But Matty must not mourn; we shall meet again,” he said. “And perhaps I may take Matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the Queen of the Isle of Flowers once more, and you and dear Oscar, your beautiful Newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of yore. Won’t it be delightful, dear?”

Matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to Reginald’s breast as she did.

“Poor dear doggy Oscar?” she said. “He will miss you so much?”

“Yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance I never can forget. He seemed to refuse to believe that I could possibly leave him, and the glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes I shall remember as long as I live.”

The first to come on board when the vessel got in was Mr Hall himself and Ilda. The girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler, and infinitely more sad-looking. But with loving abandon she threw herself into Reginald’s arms and wept.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “how sadly it has all ended!” Then she brightened up a little. “We – that is, father and I – are going to Italy for the winter, and I may get well, and we may meet again. God in Heaven bless you, Reginald!”

Then the sad partings. I refuse to describe them. I would rather my story were joyful than otherwise, and so I refrain.

It was a long, weary journey that to New York, but it ended at last, and Reginald found himself a prisoner on board the B – Castle bound for Britain’s far-off shores.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Meeting and Parting

Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with.

He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame.

When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart – for he dearly loved children – to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers’ skirts, or hide behind them screaming.

“Oh, ma, he’s coming – the awful man is coming?”

“He isn’t so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?” said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too.

“Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times.”

“Well,” said another lady, “he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!”

“And richly deserves it,” exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. “I’m sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won’t walk so boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!”

“Woman!” cried an old white-haired gentleman, “you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!” The old maid tossed her yellow face. “And let me add, madam, that but for God’s grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. Good-day, miss!”

There was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. Thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. To this barrier Reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was.

“God bless you, sir,” said Reginald, loud enough for all to hear, “for defending me. The remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core.”

“And God bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul.” He held out his hand, and Reginald shook it heartily. “I advise you, Mr Grahame, to make your peace with God, for I cannot see a chance for you. I am myself a New York solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again.”

“I care not how soon death comes. My hopes are yonder,” said Reginald.

He pointed skywards as he spoke.

“That’s good. And remember:

“‘While the lamp holds out to burn,The greatest sinner may return.’

“I’ll come and see you to-morrow.”

“A thousand thanks, sir. Good-day.”

Mr Scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful Havana cigars, very large and odorous. The tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told Scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. This, he believed, was his only hope. But Scratchley cut him short.

“See here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the Bar. Mind, I myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. I must speak plainly. It will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. Heigho!” he continued. “From the bottom of my heart I pity you. So young, so handsome. Might have been so happy and hopeful, too! Well, good-bye. I’ll come again.”

Mr Scratchley was really a comfort to Reginald. But now the voyage was drawing near its close. They had passed the isles of Bute and Arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the Clyde.

It was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. Time was when they would have delighted his heart. Those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. The glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most.

Two days are past and gone, and Reginald is now immured in gaol to await his trial. It was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read, and a small, cheerful fire. He had exercise also in the yard, and even the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a prisoner.

His greatest trial had yet to come – the meeting with – ah! yes, and the parting from – Annie – his Annie – Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.

One day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. He read it over and over again, lover-like. It burned with affection and love, a love that time and absence had failed to quench. But she was coming to see him, “she and her maid, Jeannie Lee,” she continued. Her uncle was well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house and lands of Bilberry. She would tell him all her story when she saw him. And the letter ended: “With unalterable love, your own Annie.”

The ordeal of such a meeting was one from which Reginald naturally shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion with Heaven. Only Heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart.

The day came, and Annie, with Jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison.

He held Annie at arms’ length for a few seconds. Not one whit altered was she. Her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. He folded her in his arms. At this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the gaoler entered.

“The doctor says,” he explained, “that your interview may last an hour, and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. And a kindly-hearted gent he is.”

He placed a large glass of brandy and water before Reginald as he spoke.

“What! Must I drink all this?”

“Yes – and right off, too. It is the doctor’s orders.”

The prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. Even now he needed no Dutch courage. Then, while Jeannie took a book and seated herself at some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a time Annie felt strong enough to tell her story. We already know it.

“Yes, dear, innocent Reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie Bilberry Hall, and live in so small a cottage. And though he has kept up wonderfully well, still, I know he longs at times for a sight of the heather. He is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very many years. But you were reported as lost, dear, and even the figurehead of the Wolverine and a boat was found far away in the Pacific. Then after that, dearest, all hope fled. I could never love another. The new heir of Bilberry Hall and land proposed to me. My uncle could not like him, and I had no love to spare. My heart was in Heaven with you, for I firmly believed you drowned and gone before. Then came Laird Fletcher. Oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie Highland hills. And I used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle’s eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the heather. And then I used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all his humble surroundings. Well, dear, from kindness of every kind Fletcher’s feelings for me seemed to merge into love. Yes, true love, Reginald. But I could not love him in return. My uncle even pleaded a little for Fletcher. His place is in the centre of the Deeside Highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in autumn. Well, you were dead, Reginald, and uncle seemed pining away; and so when one day Fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying pathetically as he tried to take my hand, ‘Oh, Annie, my love, my life, I am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle won’t you marry me?’ then, Reginald, I gave a half-consent, but a wholly unwilling one. Can you forgive me?”