Time glided on, and Mr Andrew Blande's plans did not seem to turn out
quite as he wished. The customary legal proceedings were got through,
and he became full possessor of Dunroe, with the right, as the deeds
said, to enjoy these rights. But he was a very old man, one who had
married late in life, to find that he had made a mistake, for the
marriage was hurried on by the lady's friends on account of his wealth,
and the lady who became his wife lived a somewhat sad life, and died
when her son Max was ten years old.
To make Max happy, his father had been in the habit of letting him lead
a sedentary life, and of telling him how rich he would some day be, and
had gone on saving and hoarding, and gaining possession of estate after
estate.
But when he had obtained Dunroe, he did not enjoy it. He went down once
to stay there, but he never did so again; and finding, in spite of all
he could say, that Max would not enjoy it either, and seemed to have a
determined objection to become a Scottish country gentleman, he placed
the estate in the hands of his agent to let, and it was not long before
a tenant was found for the beautiful old place.
As the years glided on, Max went to college, and kept up a regular
correspondence with Kenneth, who, as soon as it could be managed after
their leaving Dunroe, went to Sandhurst, his father contenting himself
with quiet chambers in town near his club.
But Max and Kenneth did not meet; the troubles at Dunroe seemed to keep
them separate. Still, there was always a feeling on the part of both
that some day they would be the best of friends once more, and the money
question be something that was as good as forgotten.
One day, Max, who had six months previously been summoned to London on
very important business, received a letter which had followed him from
Cambridge to the dingy old house in Lincoln's Inn.
The young man's face flushed as he opened and read the long epistle,
whose purport was that The Mackhai had gone to Baden-Baden for a couple
of months, that the writer was alone at his father's chambers, and
asking Max to renew some of their old friendly feeling by coming to stay
with him for a few days.
Six months before, Max would have declined at once, but now he wrote
accepting the invitation with alacrity.
It was for the next day but one, and in due course Max drove up with his
portmanteau, and was ushered by a red-haired, curly-headed footman to
Kenneth's room.
"The maister's not in," said the footman; "but she was to--I was to say
that he'd soon be pack--back, and--"
"Why, Scoody, I didn't know you," cried Max. "How you have grown!"
"Yes, she's--I mean, sir, I have grown a good deal and master says I
haven't done."
There was the rattle of a latch-key in the outer door, and a tall,
handsome young fellow, thoroughly soldierly-looking in every point,
strode into the room.
"Max, old chap!" he cried, catching his hands and standing shaking them
heartily. "Why, what a great--I say, what a beard."
"And you six feet!"
"No, no--five feet ten."
"And moustached, and a regular dragoon!"
"How did you know that?"
"Know that?"
"Yes; I've just got my commission in the Thirtieth Dragoons."
"I congratulate you!" cried Max. "`Full many a shot at random sent,'
etcetera."
"Then you did not know? Well, never mind that; only it isn't all
pleasure. The governor says it is too expensive a service for me to go
in. The old fellow's not very flush of money, you see."
"Indeed?" said Max quietly.
"Well, never mind that either. But I say, what are you going in for--
Church or Law?"
"Neither. I think I shall settle down as a country gentleman."
"Yes, of course," said Kenneth hastily. "Here, let me show you your
room. We'll have a snug _tete-a-tete_ dinner, and talk about our old
fishing days, and the boating."
"Yes," cried Max; "and the fishing and boating to come."
"Ah!" said Kenneth thoughtfully; and the conversation drifted off into
minor matters, and about Kenneth's prospects as a soldier.
The _tete-a-tete_ dinner was eaten, and they became as it were three
boys again, Scoodrach trying to look very sedate, but his cheeks shining
and eyes flashing as he listened, while pretending to be busy over his
work. Then at last the young men were seated together over their
coffee, and the conversation took a fresh turn.
"My father?" said Kenneth, in answer to a question; "oh, very well and
jolly. I say, do you two go down much to--to Dunroe?"
"No," said Max huskily. "You do not seem to know my father has been
dead these six months."
"I beg your pardon, Max, old fellow. I ought to have known. Shall you
go down to Dunroe much now?"
"I hope so--often," said Max.
Kenneth was silent, and sat gazing dreamily before him, while Max
watched him curiously.
"And I hope--I shall see you there often," said Max.
"Eh? what?" said Kenneth, flushing and frowning. "No, no, it's well
meant, Max, old chap, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't go there again."
There was another silence, and, to Kenneth's great relief, Max rose and
left the room without a word.
"Poor old chap!" said Kenneth; "I've offended him, I suppose. I did not
mean to. It was very blundering and foolish of him, though, to propose
such a thing."
He sat gazing before him sternly.
"Poor old Dunroe!" he said sadly. "How I can see the dear old place
again, with its rocks all golden-ruddy weed, its shimmering sea, and the
distant blue mountains. Ah, what days those were! I should like to see
the dear old place again. But no, no! I couldn't go and stay there
now."
He leaped up, and strode once or twice up and down the room.
"Here, what a pretty host I am! I must fetch him down. I've hurt him,
and he always was such a sensitive chap."
He was half across the room when Max returned, with a large leather
lock-up folio under his arm.
"Oh, you needn't have fetched that down," said Kenneth. "Plenty of
writing materials here. But you are not going to write to-night?"
"No, not to-night," said Max quietly, taking a little silver key from
off his watch-chain, and opening the folio, which was made with a couple
of very large pockets. "Do you take any interest in old writings?"
"Not a bit, my boy. I've had enough to do to study up and pass my
exams. But what have you got there?"
"The old mortgage and the title-deeds of Dunroe," said Max quietly.
"But--I say, old fellow, don't do that. I'm pretty hard, but the name
of Dunroe always gives me a choky feeling in the throat."
"So it does me, Ken, old fellow!" cried Max, with his voice trembling.
"Then why--?"
"Wait a moment. Do you remember how we two were gradually drawn
together up there in the north?"
"Yes, of course," said Kenneth huskily.
"I never had a brother, Ken, and I used to feel at last that I had found
one in you."
"And I used to think something of the kind, but--"
"Why not, Ken?"--Max was holding out his hand.
Kenneth stood a moment looking in his eyes, and then grasped the
extended hand firmly.
"Yes," he cried; "why not? It's the same old Max after all."
"Then you'll act as a brother to me if I ever ask you to help me in some
critical point of my life?"
"Indeed I will."
"Then help me now, Ken, as a brother should, to make a great
restoration, and me a happier man."
"I--I don't understand," cried Kenneth wonderingly. "What do you mean?"
"Your father's while he lives, Ken; yours after as his heir."
"Are you mad, Max?"
"Yes, with delight, old fellow!" he cried, as he forced the folio and
its contents into his old friend's hands.
"But--"
"Not another word. My father left me very rich, and in a codicil to his
will he said he hoped I should make good use of the wealth he left me,
and that it might prove a greater source of happiness to me than it had
been to him."
"But, Max--"
"I think he would approve of what I am doing now; and if you do not ask
me down for a month or two every year, I'll say you are not the Ken
Mackhai I used to know."
The objections to and protestations against Max Blande's munificent gift
were long and continued. The Mackhai was summoned over from Baden, and
he declared it to be impossible.
But all was arranged at last, and Max's fortune suffered very little by
his generosity.
The Mackhais took possession of the old home once again, and Max Blande
was present at the rejoicings; when fires were lit on each of the four
old towers, when there was a feast for all comers, and Tavish went
through the evolutions of the sword-dance, while torches were held
around, and old Donald, who had to sit to play, poured feebly forth some
of his favourite airs.
Max even felt that the pipes were bearable that night, as he poured out
some whisky for the ancient piper, and received his blessings now
instead of a furious curse.
And somehow, Max used to declare to Ken, he found ten times more
enjoyment in the place now than if it had been his own.
And time went on once more.
"Remember?" said a bronzed cavalry officer to a tall, sedate-looking
young country gentleman, as they sat together on the deck of The
Mackhai's yacht, gliding slowly up the great sea loch.
"Do I remember what?"
"Where I picked you up from the steamer when you first came down?"
"To be sure I do, Ken, old fellow! Why, it must have been just here.
Why, Ken, that's fifteen years ago!"
"Exactly, almost to a month. And I've been all around the world since
then. How does it make you feel?"
"How?" cried Max, laying his hand upon the other's shoulder; "as if we
were boys again. And you?"
"As if the memories of boyhood can never die."