"THIS QUARREL, I FEAR, MUST END IN BLOOD."
Reginald Grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the
quad of Edinburgh University. Not the same stamp or style as Craig;
equally as good-looking, but far more refined.
"My dear boy," ran the letter,--"next week look out for me at
Birnie-Boozle. I'm dead tired of study. I'm run down somewhat, and
will be precious glad to get a breath of your Highland air and a bit of
fishing. I'm only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my M.D.
So I'm going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient
and her daughter to San Francisco, then overland to New York, and back
home. Why, you won't know your old friend when he comes back," etc,
etc.
"Hang my luck!" said Craig, half-aloud. "This is worse than a dozen
Laird Fletchers. Annie has never said yet that she loved me, and I feel
a presentiment that I shall be cut out now in earnest. Och hey! But
I'll do my best to prevent their meeting. It may be mean, but I can't
help it. Indeed, I've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let
him go home."
Next week Reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was
"Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," but very good-looking for
all that. Probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and
manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every
turn.
They shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in Craig's dogcart
were rattling along towards Birnie-Boozle.
Reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and the
hospitality truly Highland. Says Burns the immortal:
"In Heaven itself I'll seek nae mair
Than just a Highland welcome!"
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For over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by the
river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing
anyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin' Sandie, for whom the
grand old river had irresistible attractions.
Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why Craig
Nicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep one
night, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it.
He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupy
all his vacation.
Yes. But man can only propose. God has the disposal of our actions.
And something happened next that Craig could not have calculated on.
They had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the
bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not
far from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the
sounds of a fearful struggle.
Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They found
two of McLeod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four
sturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were man
to man, and the poachers fled.
Not, however, before poor Reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a
_skean dhu_, the little dagger that kilted Highlanders wear in their
right stocking.
The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the blood
was so abundant.
But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made a
litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and
that was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should be
frightened, and while Shufflin' Sandie rode post-haste for the doctor
poor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that
overlooked both forest and river.
So serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all
night.
A rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket
and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree.
Craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. Not,
it must be confessed, for his friend's accident, but Reginald would now
be always with Annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him.
But Craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that.
"He has a tough and wondrous constitution," said Dr McRae. "He'll pull
through under my care and Annie's gentle nursing."
Craig Nicol winced, but said nothing. Reginald had brought a dog with
him, a splendid black Newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost
constantly.
Sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek
against his master in a most affectionate way. Indeed, this action
sometimes brought the tears to Annie's eyes.
No more gentle or kind nurse could Reginald have had than Annie.
To the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a
woman. And she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the
doctor gave her. She was indefatigable. Though Fanny relieved her for
hours during the day, Annie did most of the night work.
At first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and
sisters. With cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. Ay,
she did more: she prayed for him. Ah! Scots folk are strange in
English eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in God's.
Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. The
room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures
beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere.
He looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on Annie.
"Where am I?" he asked. "Is this Heaven? Are you an--an--angel?"
He half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the
snow-white pillows again.
"You must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "Be good
and try to sleep."
And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and
refreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had
returned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked for
his friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south to
London, and it would be a fortnight before he could return.
Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for
Reginald with a beautiful nurse like Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee.
In a week's time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the
drawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as
softly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was able
to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well.
Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two
young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annie
shyly breathed the wee word Yes?
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Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone.
Reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked for
congratulations on his engagement to Annie.
Craig almost struck that hand away. His face grew dark and lowering.
"Curse you!" he cried. "You were my friend once, or pretended to be.
Now I hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart,
and now have the impudence--the confounded impertinence--to ask me to
congratulate you! You are as false as the devil in hell!"
"Craig Nicol," said Reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "I am too weak
to fight you now, but when I am well you shall rue these words! _Au
revoir_. We meet again."
This stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a
rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. Shufflin Sandie was close at
hand.
"Gentlemen," said Sandie, "for the Lord's sake, don't quarrel!"
But Craig said haughtily, "Go and mind your own business, you blessed
Paul Pry."
Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his
horse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed
briskly on towards his farm of Birnie-Boozle.
Annie Lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of
Bilberry Hall. She carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and
choice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and
single. She was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old
song:
"When Jackie's far awa' at sea,
When Jackie's far awa' at sea,
What's a' the pleasure life can gie,
When Jackie's far awa'?"
Perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than
she did at that moment.
"Like dew on the gowans lying
Was the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice was low and sweet."
But when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing,
and advanced more quickly towards him.
"Oh, my darling," she cried, "how pale you are! You are ill! You must
come in. Mind, I am still your nursie."
"No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only a
little upset, you know."
"And what upset you, dear Reginald?"
She had seated herself by his side. She had taken his hand, and had
placed two white wee fingers on his pulse.
"I'll tell you, Annie mine--"
"Yes, I'm yours, and yours only, and ever shall be."
"Craig Nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. He has cursed and
abused me. He says I have stolen your heart from him, and now he must
for ever hate me."
"But, oh, Reginald, he never had my heart!"
"I never knew he had sought it, dearest."
"Yet he did. I should have told you before, but he persecuted me with
his protestations of love. Often and often have I remained in my room
all the evening long when I knew he was below."
"Well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. Not
before I told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that I was too
proud to stand abuse, that when well I should fight him."
"Oh, no--no--no! For my sake you must not fight."
"Annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines:
"`I could not love thee half so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
"There is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have
once been friends. No; both Craig and I will be better pleased after we
fight; but this quarrel I fear must end in blood."
Poor Annie shuddered. Just at that moment Shufflin' Sandie appeared on
the scene. He was never far away.
"Can I get ye a plaid, Mr Grahame, to throw o'er your legs? It's
gettin' cold now, I fear."
"No, no, my good fellow; we don't want attendance at present. Thank you
all the same, however."
Oscar, Reginald's great Newfoundland, came bounding round now to his
master's side. He had been hunting rats and rabbits. The embrace he
gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. Then he lay down
by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious.
Annie was very silent and very sad. Reginald drew her towards him, and
she rested her head on his shoulder. But tears bedimmed her blue eyes,
and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of
weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. So
Reginald tried to appear unconcerned.
They sat in silence thus for some time. The silence of lovers is
certainly golden.
Presently, 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."