Kenneth McAlpine Part 31

"You must all come out next spring, gentlemen, and stay a few weeks in my New York mansion. Nay, I won't take a refusal from one of you. So there! And I guess, too, I can give you a good time of it."

A beautiful deerhound rose slowly up from the mat and leaned his great head on the table. He did not wish to join the conversation. He was only craving a biscuit.

Steve flicked a walnut at the head, which struck the poor animal on the eye, and evidently caused him great pain. He did not howl, however-- Scotch deerhounds are far too game for that; but he shut his eye, which watered a deal, and went and lay down again on the rug with a big sigh, and all the rest of the evening was engaged licking his pastern, and applying it tenderly to the eye. This is a dog's way of administering a warm fomentation.

"Capital shot, eh?" laughed Steve.

"Yes," from some of his guests.

"But I say, you know, Mr Steve," said one, with probably something of kindness to G.o.d's lower creation in his heart, "I say, it wouldn't do to go to the hill with blind dogs. Would it?"

"Oh! he won't hurt. It takes a deal to hurt these hounds. They are like the Scots themselves, very hardy and active, but precious lazy.

Just look at all those dogs snoring round the fire.

"I've cleared the glen, though, of some of the lazy Scots. Why, it is doing them good to drum them off to America. In my opinion, more'n one half of Scotland should be cleared and planted out in forest."

"Well," said one Englishman, "maybe you're right; and now, as myself and most of us are going south early to-morrow morning, might I suggest that we join the ladies? But before I go, I must just take the liberty of thanking Mr Steve, our kindly-hearted host, for his hospitality to us since we've been down here, and roamed in, and shot over, his magnificent forest. I consider Mr Steve's hospitality to be far more than princely, both out-doors and in. Just think, gentlemen, we have had to our guns about one hundred and thirty-six stags, and as we all know every stag costs its owner 300 pounds [so it is said in Scotland]

you can compute what Mr Steve's hospitality costs him. I say no more."

"A mere flea-bite," returned Mr Steve pompously; "I'll have you all again next year; and now supposing we _do_ join the ladies."

Mr Steve's household was certainly kept up in a right lordly style.

There was no stint in it of anything that was good. He had any number of beef-eating servants. He was a good customer to his tradesmen-- including his wine merchant,--who all, however, lived in Glasgow or London. It must, therefore, be confessed that he brought money into the country, and in this way did good; yet he was not liked in the glens nor villages, nor much relished by the proud old Highland families. He was no friend to the poor man, and his minions had been known ere now to shoot stray pet dogs, and even cudgel to death the cats of poor old lone women,--cats that probably were the only friends and companions they had in this world. So, to put it plain, Mr Steve was _not_ liked in the neighbourhood, and reference was often made of, and fond memories went back to, the dear old days, when good Laird McGregor owned the glen--now a wilderness,--when it was dotted over with peaceful if rustic cottages, from which, as sure as sunrise, every morning rose, with the smoke from the chimneys the song of praise to Him Who loves the poor man as well as the rich.

The guests were preparing to retire, when a liveried servant entered with a card on a gold salver.

"Beg pardon, sir, but the gentleman would insist upon my presenting that 'ere card."

"Take it away," said Mr Steve, reading the card, without even deigning to finger it. "Take it away. I can see no one to-night."

"I'll tell him, sir; but on'y, sir, he said his business was of immense importance to yourself, and that he were a-going south by first train to-morrow morning."

"Heigho!" sighed Steve, moving towards the door. "What a bore! You'll excuse me half a moment, gentlemen?"

The stranger had been shown into the low-ceilinged but snug old-fas.h.i.+oned parlour, and rose and bowed as Steve entered.

"I presume," he said, "I have the honour of addressing Mr Steve?"

"You have," said Mr Steve; "and pray be brief, for my guests wait."

"My business is of a private nature," replied the stranger, with a glance at the servant.

At a nod from his master the latter retired.

The stranger took the liberty of shutting the door, then confronted Mr Steve.

He was a youngish man, of bold and gentlemanly appearance, and unmistakably Scotch, though with slightly foreign action while conversing.

"Mr Steve," he said, "I will be very brief. I might have communicated with you through my solicitor, but thought it more fair to you, and more honourable in me, to come personally, for, after all, when you hear what I have to say, litigation will be unnecessary."

"Litigation, sir? Pray go on," said Steve, smiling somewhat sarcastically. "You're not out of your mind, are you?"

"You shall judge for yourself. You purchased this estate of Alva, sir, from the late Laird McGregor?"

"I did, and paid for it handsomely."

"But by the laws of this country entailed estates cannot be sold and the entail thus broken, unless it can be proved that no other male heir lives. Thus in point of fact, at all events, were the lands and estates of Alva left by will to the McGregors and their lineal descendants."

"See, stranger," said Steve, "I'm not going to debate here all night on matters of law. Law is a dry subject at best. I bought Alva, there was _no_ other male heir to McGregor, and his only son was drowned at sea."

"His only son now stands before you!"

"Then the father--"

"Stay," cried young McGregor, "tempt me not to do that I should be sorry for. I came but to inform you I would make every attempt to win back my own. I have now to say good-night."

"I thank you," sneered Steve, "for your courtesy; but do--_not_--fear-- you. Good-night."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

"Dear land of my birth, far from thee have I been, By streamlets so flowery and valleys so green, In vain seeking fortune; but still as of yore The home of my heart is the Vale of Strathmore."

Old Scottish Song.

Scene: Sunset on the sea. So close to the ocean is the old castle built that, looking from the window which almost overhangs it, nothing else can be seen but the golden-tipped waves, golden-tipped even to the far-off horizon, and breaking with pleasing murmur on the beach beneath.

The mountains that rise inland from the castle are either wholly green, or patched with purple heather. In a room overlooking the sea, in high-backed cus.h.i.+oned chair, sits a lady,--but little past the prime of life, perhaps, though her hair is like the snow. Her face is very pleasant to behold, so calm and resigned is it. Near her on a stool a maid is reading to her.

"I think now, Mary," said the lady at last, "it is time to order tea."

Mary, a modest, wee Highland maiden, rose, and quietly retired.

As she opened the door a great black-as-jet Newfoundland came bounding in, all white teeth and eager eyes. He went straight away, and placed his head on his mistress's lap, and was gently caressed.

"Where have you been, Bran?" she said. "Not in the sea at this time of night? But you do go in sometimes later, you know, and then hie away to the kitchen, sly dog, to get your coat dried before you come to see me."

Mary tapped at the door and entered. Her face was bright with pleasure.

"Oh! Mrs McGregor," she said, "Mr Smith has come by steamer from Oban!"

Mrs McGregor's face a.s.sumed an expression of great seriousness.

"Oh!" she cried, "I trust it is no bad news he brings about my brother."

"No, no," the girl hastened to say; "he bade me tell you it was all a visit of pleasure. I showed him to the old room, and he will be here in a few minutes."