"So you're off to-morrow, Max?" said Kenneth sadly.
"Yes. How beautiful everything looks, now I am going away!"
"Yes," said Kenneth, with a quaint glance first at the distant islands
rising all lilac and gold from the sapphire sea; "how beautiful
everything looks, now I am going away!"
"Oh, Ken!"
"And oh, Max! There, don't turn like that, old chap. It's the fortune
of war, as they say. Good luck to you. I feel now as if I'd rather you
had Dunroe than anybody else. I say, let's call Scoody, and get out the
boat, and have one last sail together."
"Yes, do," cried Max eagerly.
"All right. I'll go and find Scoody. Get the lines. We may as well
try for some mackerel as we go."
Kenneth ran out of the room, and Max went to the little study, got the
lines, and then was about to follow his friend, when he recalled the
fact that he had not been to see old Donald since he had been better.
So, going out into the courtyard, he made for the old man's quarters,
knocked, was told to come in, and entered, to find the piper propped up
in an easy-chair, and Long Shon and Tavish keeping him company.
The old man glared at him strangely, and grasped at something he had in
his lap which emitted a feeble squeak, and Max saw that they were his
pipes, about which his thin fingers played.
"I'm going away to-morrow, Donald," said Max, "and wanted to know how
you were."
The old man neither moved nor spoke, but his deeply-sunken eyes seemed
to burn, as he glared fiercely, and his breathing sounded deep and
hoarse.
"I hope you are better?"
There was no reply.
"He is better, is he not, Tavish?"
The great forester gazed straight before him at the wall, but made no
reply.
"What is the matter, Shon?" said Max uneasily.
Long Shon took a pinch of snuff, and gazed at the floor.
"Look here!" cried Max earnestly; "I wanted to thank you all for your
kindness to me since I have been here, and I may not have another
chance. Donald, Long Shon, Tavish--just a little remembrance, and thank
you."
As he spoke, he slipped a sovereign into the hands of the two first
named, and two into that of the forester. But, as if moved by the same
idea, all three dashed the money at his feet, the gold coins jingling
upon the stone floor.
Max's eyes dilated, and he gazed from one to the other.
"I am very sorry," he said, after a painful pause. "Good-bye. It is
not my fault."
He went slowly out, and before he had gone half a dozen yards the money
struck him on the back, and Long Shon cried hoarsely,--
"Tonal' sends ye his curse for blasting ta home o' ta Mackhais!"
Once more the coins fell jingling down, and, flinching away, shrinking
with shame, sorrow, and indignation, Max returned into the house,
feeling that he could not go boating now, and wishing that the next day
had come, and he were on the road back to London.
But, just as he reached the hall, he heard the voice of the man in
charge raised loudly, and, looking out, he saw the second man running
along the natural rock terrace, below which lay the bathing cavern and
the rugged platform from which they would take boat.
The next moment Scoodrach's voice rose in shrill and angry tones, and he
could see that Kenneth was holding him back.
Max ran down with his pulses throbbing, for he felt that something was
very wrong.
"I'll have the law of him," the bailiff was saying, as Max ran up. "He
struck me, and drew his knife on me. I'll have him locked up before he
knows where he is."
"Let her go, let her go, Maister Ken!" yelled Scoodrach, struggling
furiously. "She'll hae her bluid! Let her go, and she'll slit her
weam!"
"Be quiet, Scood," said Kenneth, holding the young gillie fast, but
speaking in a low, despondent tone. "Here, Max, take the knife away
from this mad fool."
"Nay, nay," cried Scoodrach; "if the Southron comes she'll hae her bluid
too."
Instinctively grasping what was the matter, and with his cheeks flushed
with indignation, Max dashed at Scoodrach, seized his wrist, and twisted
the knife out of his hand.
"What does this mean?" he cried, turning angrily upon the bailiff.
"Mean, sir? My orders are to let nothing go off the premises, and this
young gentleman comes doon wi' this young Hieland wild cat, and tries to
get oot the boat."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I said it was not to go, and then this cat-a-mountain struck
me."
"She insulted ta young Chief," panted Scoodrach.
"Be quiet, Scoody; there is no young Chief now," said Kenneth sadly.
"Hey, but ta Mackhai will never tie!" yelled Scoodrach.
"Do you mean to say that you hindered Mr Kenneth here from taking the
boat for a sail?" cried Max angrily.
"My orders air that naething is to go off the place," said the bailiff
sturdily.
"Then you stopped him from taking his own boat?"
"No, sir," cried the bailiff; "it's not his boat, but Mr Blande's, of
Lincoln's Inn, London."
"It is not. The boat and everything here is mine," cried Max fiercely.
"Take the boat, Ken, and if this insolent scoundrel dares to interfere,
knock him down."
"Hurray!" yelled Scoodrach, breaking loose and throwing his bonnet in
the air. "Weel done, Maister Max! But na, na; it's no' her poat, and
naething here is hers, ye ken."
"Come on, Ken."
"Well, sir, I shall report all this to--"
"Ye ill-faured loon, stan' awa'," yelled Scoodrach, as Max laid his hand
on Kenneth's shoulder; and they went down together to the boat, while
the bailiff and his man walked muttering back to the house.
"Jump in, Scoodrach, and cast her loose," cried Max; but Kenneth's hand
closed tightly on his wrist.
"No, Max," he said slowly and sadly. "Let's get back into the house. I
don't feel as if I could go for a sail to-day."
"Oh, Ken!" whispered Max; "and I said everything was mine. I did not
mean it. I couldn't take a thing."
"Let's go indoors."
"But if by law the boat is mine, it's yours again now. Come, take me
for one more ride."
"No, no! I can't go now."
There was a dead silence on the old grey terrace for a few minutes. The
gulls wailed as they swept here and there over the glistening sea, and
the golden-red and brown weed washed to and fro among the rocks.
"I ask you to go, Ken," said Max gently. "Don't refuse me this. Scood,
my things are packed; fetch them down. Kenneth Mackhai, I shall go
to-day; take me to meet the steamer, just as you came to meet me six
weeks ago."
Ken looked at him half wonderingly.
"Do you mean it?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes. You will?"
"Yes."
An hour had not passed before the white-sailed boat was softly bending
over to the breeze, and almost in silence the three lads sat gazing
before them, heedless of the glorious panorama of mountain, fiord, and
fall that seemed to be gliding by, till far away in the distance they
could see the red funnel of David Macbrayne's swift steamer pouring
forth its trailing clouds of black smoke, which seemed to reach for
miles.
Then by degrees the steamer grew plainer, the white water could be seen
foaming behind the beating paddles, and the figures of the passengers on
deck. Then the faces grew clearer, and there was a scurry by the
gangway, and almost directly after the paddles ceased churning up the
clear water, the sail dropped down. Scoodrach caught the rope that was
thrown; the portmanteaus, gun-case, and rods were passed up, and, not
trusting himself to speak, Max grasped Scoodrach's hand, pressing a
couple of sovereigns therein, seized Kenneth's for a moment, and then
leaped on board.
The rope was cast off; there was a loud ting from the captain's bell,
the paddles revolved, the boat glided astern, with Kenneth sitting
despondently on one of the thwarts, and some one at Max's elbow said to
another hard by,--
"See that red-headed Scotch boy?"
"Yes; but did you see what he did?"
"Yes; threw something into the sea."
"Did you see what it was?"
"No."
"A couple of sovereigns."
"No!"
"Yes. I saw them go right down through the clear water."
"Then he must be mad."
"Not mad," said Max to himself; "but as full of pride as of love for The
Mackhai."
He made his way astern, and took off and waved his bonnet.
The effect was electrical. Kenneth sprang up and waved his bonnet in
return, and, a few minutes later, Scoodrach, whose ire had passed away,
began to wave his, and Max stood watching and wondering why they did not
hoist the sail and return.
And then he did not wonder, but stood leaning over the rail, watching
the boat grow less and the figures in her smaller, till they seemed to
die away in the immensity of the great sea.
But Max did not move even then. His heart was full, and it was with a
sensation of sorrow and despondency such as he had never felt before
that the rest of the journey was made, boat changed for train, and
finally, and with a reluctance such as he could not have believed
possible, he reached London, and stood once more before his father, who
met him coolly enough, with,--
"Well, Max, back again?"
"Yes, father; and I want to ask you something about Dunroe."
"Humph!" said the old lawyer, about half an hour later; "so you think
like that, do you, Max?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, you'll grow older and wiser some day."
"But you will not turn them out?"
"When I want to take you into counsel, Master Max, I shall do so. Now
please understand this once for all."
"Yes, father?"
"Never mention the names of the Mackhais again."