"And does everything go to him, father?" said Kenneth that same evening,
as he sat with his father in the study, the table covered with papers,
and the wind from off the sea seeming to sigh mournfully around the
place.
"Everything, my boy. Mortgage upon mortgage, interest and principal,
built up and increasing year by year, till it has come to this. There,
you do not understand these things. It is the worst."
"Yes, father. Well, we must meet it, as you say, like men. But it will
be very hard to leave the old place. Poor old Scoody, and Tavish,
and--"
"Don't talk about it, my boy, or you'll drive me mad. There, the horror
has come, and it's over. We shall not be able to leave here yet for a
month, perhaps. The man Blande has sent me a letter. I am not to hurry
away; now he has asserted his rights, he says he wishes to be courteous
to the man who has behaved so well to his son. Hah! where is Max?"
"In his room, I suppose, father."
"Fetch him down, Ken," said The Mackhai cheerfully, "and let me
apologise to the poor boy. I insulted him grossly, for he couldn't have
known why he was sent down here."
"Say that again, father!" cried Kenneth excitedly.
"There is no need, my boy. I am sure he must have been in profound
ignorance of everything. It was a bitter blow when he was sent down
uninvited; but I think we have behaved well to him till now."
"You don't know how glad you have made me feel, father!" cried Kenneth,
flushing. "I couldn't have borne for poor old Max to have turned out a
miserable spy."
"You like this boy, then?"
"Like him, father! Why, he is the best of fellows! When he came down
here first, I laughed at him, and thought him the most silly molly of a
chap I ever met. But he's so good-hearted and patient, and takes
everything so well, and all the time so genuinely plucky as soon as he
makes up his mind to face anything, that you can't help liking him."
"Yes; I like him too," said The Mackhai; "and, as I said, I grossly
insulted the poor boy in my rage. Fetch him down, Ken, and I'll ask him
to forgive me--like a gentleman."
"And he will, father--I know he will!" cried Kenneth eagerly.
"Why, Ken, my boy," said his father sadly, "you are not jealous of the
new prince--the heir to Dunroe?"
"No, father," said Ken, shaking his head sadly. "I think he likes me
too. Some day, perhaps, he may ask me to come down here and stay with
him, and see the old place once more."
"No," said The Mackhai sternly. "You can never enter this place again
except as the master, my boy. Fetch Mr Max Blande down."
Kenneth gazed for a moment sadly at his father, and then slowly left the
room, when the stern look left the unfortunate man's face, and he
dropped his head upon his hands.
"My poor boy!" he groaned. "My poor boy! Ruined! and by me!"
It was as if a responsive moan echoed round the house as a gust of wind
came off the sea, and, starting and looking wildly round, The Mackhai
rose and gazed out upon the dark sea and the dimly-seen black clouds
scudding across the gloomy sky.
"It will be a bad night," he said sadly. "Ah, well, I must bear it like
a man! Let's see if I can eat some dinner."
He crossed to the bell and rang.
The old butler answered the summons at once.
"Let us have the dinner at once, Grant."
"Yes, sir. Everything is quite ready, sir," said the old butler, with
his eyes full of sympathy for his master in his time of trouble.
"Are those--those people in the kitchen, Grant?"
"Yes, sir."
"Treat them respectfully and well, Grant. I wish it to be so."
"Yes, sir."
The butler was retiring, when Kenneth's step was heard coming hastily
along, and, as he burst into the room,--
"Father," he cried, "he's gone!"
"Gone?"
"Yes. Max has gone."
"Gone? Impossible! Where could he have gone?"
"Scoodrach saw him go, hours ago, right up the track; and he watched him
till he saw him disappear."
"What! across the mountain--alone?"
"Yes, father," cried Kenneth excitedly.
"But walking--to be overtaken by a night like this--the precipices--the
bogs! Good heavens, Kenneth! he could not have been so mad!"
"He asked Scood if Glasgow did not lie out there," said Kenneth
hoarsely; "and he told him, yes."
"He told him that? The young scoundrel! Why?"
The Mackhai ran to the bell, tore at it, and Grant came.
"Is Scoodrach anywhere here?"
"Yes, sir; in the kitchen."
"Send him here."
There was utter silence in the room for a few minutes, and then the
young gillie was ushered in.
"Stop, Grant, you need not go," cried The Mackhai. "Now, sir," he said
to Scoodrach, "did you tell Mr Max Blande that over the mountains was
the way to Glasgow?"
"She said was tat ta wa' to Glasgie, and she said, `Oh ay.'"
"And you let that poor boy go out over the mountain to lose himself
among the rocks and moss, knowing that he could not find his way?"
"Oh ay!" said Scoodrach coolly.
"And that he might lose his life?"
"Oh ay."
"You young villain! how dared you do this? You've murdered him,
perhaps."
"Oh ay; she hopes she has."
"What!" roared The Mackhai. "You did it on purpose, then?"
"Ay," cried Scoodrach, flashing up, and, dashing the bonnet he held
defiantly on the carpet, he stamped upon it. "And she'd kill any mon
who tried to rob ta bonnie young Chief Kenneth of her rights!"