Chapter Four.
“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!”