_Tah_!

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

MAX ASKS THE WAY TO GLASGOW.

"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 princ.i.p.al, 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 a.s.serted 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 hoa.r.s.ely; "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.'"