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’?”