FullReads

The proud porter emerged like a conquering hero from the lodge, the pleated kilt of the McTavish tartan swinging against his great thighs, his knees bare and glowing in the sun, and the jaunty Highland bonnet low upon the side of his head. He approached the gate and began to parley, but not with the chauffeur; a more important person (if possible) had descended from the car–a person of unguessable age, owing to automobile goggles, dressed in a London-made shooting suit of tweed, and a cap to match. The parley ended, the stranger appeared to place something in the proud porter’s hand; and the latter swung upon his heel and strode up the driveway to the castle. Meanwhile the stranger remained without the gate.

Presently word came to The McTavish, in the Seventh Drawing Room, that an American gentleman named McTavish, who had come all the way from America for the purpose, desired to read the inscriptions upon the McTavish tombstones in the chapel of Brig O’Dread Castle. The porter, who brought this word himself, being a privileged character, looked very wistful when he had delivered it–as much as to say that the frightful itching of his palm had not been as yet wholly assuaged. The McTavish smiled.

“Bring the gentleman to the Great Tower door, McDougall,” she said, “and–I will show him about, myself.”

The proud porter’s face fell. His snow-white mustachios took on a fuller droop.

“McDougall,” said The McTavish–and this time she laughed aloud–“if the gentleman from America crosses my hand with silver, it shall be yours.”

“More like”–and McDougall became gloomier still–“more like he will cross it with gold.” (Only he said this in a kind of dialect that was delightful to hear, difficult to understand, and would be insulting to the reader to reproduce in print.)

“If it’s gold,” said The McTavish sharply, “I’ll not part wi’ it, McDougall, and you may lay to that.”

You might have thought that McDougall had been brought up in the Black Hole of Calcutta–so sad he looked, and so hurt, so softly he left the room, so loudly he closed the door.

The McTavish burst into laughter, and promised herself, not without some compunction, to hand over the gold to McDougall, if any should materialize. Next she flew to her dressing-room and made herself look as much like a gentlewoman’s housekeeper as she could in the few minutes at her disposal. Then she danced through a long, dark passageway, and whisked down a narrow winding stair, and stood at last in the door of the Great Tower in the sunlight. And when she heard the stranger’s feet upon the gravel she composed her face; and when he appeared round the corner of a clipped yew she rattled the keys at her belt and bustled on her feet, as becomes a housekeeper, and bobbed a courtesy.

The stranger McTavish was no more than thirty. He had brown eyes, and wore upon his face a steady, enigmatic smile.

II

“Good-morning,” said the American McTavish. “It is very kind of Miss McTavish to let me go into her chapel. Are you the housekeeper?”

“I am,” said The McTavish. “Mrs. Nevis is my name.”

“What a pity!” murmured the gentleman.

“This way, sir,” said The McTavish.

She stepped into the open, and, jangling her keys occasionally, led him along an almost interminable path of green turf bordered by larkspur and flowering sage, which ended at last at a somewhat battered lead statue of Atlas, crowning a pudding-shaped mound of turf.

“When the Red Currie sacked Brig O’Dread Castle,” said The McTavish, “he dug a pit here and flung the dead into it. There will be McTavishes among them.”

“There are no inscriptions,” said the gentleman.

“Those are in the chapel,” said The McTavish. “This way.” And she swung into another turf walk, long, wide, springy, and bordered by birches.

“Tell me,” said the American, “is it true that Miss McTavish is down on strangers?”

She looked at him over her shoulder. He still wore his enigmatic smile.