AT BEN CLEUCH INN.
The Ben Cleuch Inn at Lochleven was kept by the Widow Myles, a plain,
kind, motherly soul, the best part of whose life lay behind her.
The inn stood by the highway that wound close along the shore of the
wooded lake, about a mile from Kinross.
In summers, visitors to Lochleven desirous of seeing Queen Mary’s island
prison often patronized the little inn, and the widow thus derived
revenue enough to keep her in frugal comfort through the long winters.
In November the strangers were few and far between, and glad the widow
was when one dropped in for a meal or a night’s lodging. Doubly glad was
she when two strangers, a young man and a beautiful girl of sixteen,
came in a carriage to her door and bargained with her for rooms and
board for several days, saying they expected to remain three days, and
might, if they liked it, stay a great deal longer.
The landlady did her very best to please them, for they did not ask
her to make her price smaller when she named it, and they readily paid
for three days in advance. The girl, as Widow Myles could not help
noticing, was very pretty, while the young man—her brother—looked pale
and wearied and had about his face something indicative of weakness
and irresolution. Indeed, he seemed on the verge of illness, and he
permitted his sister to do most of the business with the landlady.
On the afternoon of the third day after the arrival of these guests
another stranger appeared and stopped at the inn. He came afoot and wore
a long, black cloak with a cape, while his wide-brimmed hat was pulled
low over his eyes. His complexion was dark, and on his upper lip there
was the shadowy outline of a new-born mustache.
Although the sun was shining without, there was snow on the ground and
the air was nipping cold, which led the stranger to hold out his hands
to the warmth of the widow’s cheerful open fire, in the little sitting
room, having removed his gloves and placed them with his hat on the
floor at his side.
“It’s cauld to-day, sir,” said the widow. “Th’ sun i’ ower bright, but
the air ha’ a nippin’ in it.”
“Indeed it is cold, madam,” said the young stranger, in a pleasant
voice. “It is far too cold for comfort. It must be frightful up here in
the dead of winter.”
“Oh, it’s na sa bad—na sa bad,” protested the widow. “Wi’ a guide roof
ower one’s haid an’ a warm fire to sit near, th’ winter soon runs awa’.
Ha’ ye come fa’?”
“Not very far,” was the answer. “To me it would be a great favor, my
good woman, if you could give me a drink of something warm to start my
blood.”
“Tea?” suggested Widow Myles.
The visitor shook his head.
“I would prefer something warmer than that,” he said. “Have you any
whisky in the house?”
“I canna tell. I much doot i’ I ha’!”
“Because if you have,” said the stranger, jingling some money in his
hand, “I’ll pay well for a stiff drink.”
“I may ha’ a wee drap,” confessed the landlady. “I sometime’ ha’ it far
me’cine.”
“It is for medicine I need it now, so if you will hasten, madam, you
need but to name your price.”
The widow disappeared. After about ten minutes she reappeared with hot
water, whisky and sugar, at sight of which the face of the stranger
showed his satisfaction. Deftly and with loss of little time the
stranger mixed his drink, tasted it, smacked his lips over it and then
asked the widow to name her price.
She declined to state a price, whereupon he placed two pieces of money
in her hand, and when she saw their value she showered him with thanks
and called down blessings on his head.
In this manner the stranger placed himself right with the widow, whom he
engaged in further conversation as he stretched his booted feet to the
fire and sipped his steaming drink.
“At this season I presume few are the visitors who come here to stop?”
he questioned.
“Few ye ma’ weel say,” she nodded.
“Is your house empty at the present time?”
“Na, na! not quite sa bad as that.”
“Then you have some guests?”
“I ha’ twa.”
“Two? How long have they been with you, madam?”
“They came three days gone, sir.”
“And is it long you expect them to remain?”
“As to that I canna tell. When they came they said it might be they wud
stay three days or more; but it is now the third day an’ they have na
spoke of leavin’.”
“I hope my curiosity you will pardon, but it seems strange any one
should come here at this season to remain so long. Where are they from,
if you don’t mind telling?”
“I ha’ na reason to know, for I didna ask them, but London I think ha
seen them none sa lang ago.”
“They are English?”
The widow slowly shook her head.
“They are na like th’ English. I think they may be fra America.”
“I presume they are man and wife?”
“Na, na; they are brother an’ sister. A bonnie lassie is the girl, sir;
but her brother seems na well.”
“Not well?”
“Na, sir. He keeps over close to his room. If they came to see Queen
Mary’s prison they ha’ not yet accomplisht it.”
“It is not likely Americans would take so much trouble to get a look at
Queen Mary’s prison, madam. It must be they are here for some other
purpose.”
“Then what it can be heaven knows! Once I said to the lassie that her
brother were fra too pale, an’ I thought a wee bit o’ whisky might be
guide fa him; but she went white an’ trembly an’ begged me na to gi’ him
one drop o’ it. She made me promise if he came and asked for it I wud
say there was naething o’ th’ kind i’ th’ house. I ken she is feared to
ha’ him drink it.”
The stranger smiled a little, and there seemed something a trifle
sinister about his face in that moment.
“It is a man poor in command of himself that cannot drink when he likes
and leave it alone when he chooses,” he declared.
“Many a guide man canna do it.”
“Well, I don’t understand them. What is the name of this unfortunate
man, if you don’t mind telling?”
“It is Budthorne.”
“Rather odd name.”
“But I ha’ na asked your name, sir. You are na English yoursel’?”
“No.”
“Nor still American. I think you must be——”
“French? Well, you are right, madam. I am Henri Clairvaux, of Paris.
Think not I am curious or prying. These questions I have asked merely
the time to pass. I am walking through Scotland, but the weather is
getting too cold, and I soon shall depart for the south. In winter I
much prefer Italy to your bleak north country here.”
At this the widow bridled a bit.
“Scotland alwa’ ha’ been guide enow fa me!” she exclaimed. “I ha’ took
notice it is alwa’ th’ weak that prefer the warm countries i’ th’
winter. I ha’ been thinkin’ ma’hap it wud be well fa th’ young man
upstair to go south fa th’ winter time.”
Outside the door there was rustling. The door was opened and a musical,
feminine voice called to the widow.
The man in the cloak had his back toward the door, and he did not move.
Excusing herself, the landlady hurried from the room. The moment she was
gone the stranger picked up his hat and gloves and hastily rose.
“It is well enough that she should not see me now,” he muttered. “I must
get out at once.”
He clapped his hat on his head and pulled it hard down, taking pains to
make the limber brim lap over his face. Then he swiftly crossed the room
to the door, buttoning his cloak over his breast.
Pausing at the door, he listened.
“The coast is clear,” he whispered; after which he stepped briskly out
to the front door.
Just as he was passing through that door the girl came from another room
and saw his vanishing back. She clutched at the widow, who had followed
her.
“That man?” she cried, in a trembling, frightened voice. “Who is he?”
“He ga’ his name as Henri Clairvaux, o’ Paris,” answered the Widow
Myles.
“And lied!” panted the girl. After which she fled up the stairs to the
room of her brother, her face ashen pale.