Kenneth McAlpine Part 16

The French windows were open, and they entered _sans ceremonie_. It was a lofty, large room, furnished with almost Oriental splendour, with brackets, ottomans, and suspended lamps, that shed a soft light over everything around.

And here were books, and even musical instruments _galore_, among the latter a flute. It was not the flute Kenneth used to play in Glen Alva, and up among the mountains, while herding his sheep; it was a far better one, but the sight of it brought back old times to Archie's memory.

Kenneth had left him for a few minutes.

Archie sank down upon an ottoman with the flute in his hand, and when Kenneth returned he found his friend in dreamland apparently.

But with a sigh Archie arose and followed Kenneth to an inner room.

"Senor Gasco," said the latter, "this is Archie McCrane, the friend of my boyhood, of whom you have so often heard me speak.

"Archie, this gentleman has saved my life. He is a kind of a hermit.

Aren't you, _mon ami_?"

"No, no, no," cried Senor Gasco, laughing. "Only I love pure, fresh, cool air and quiet; I cannot get these in the town beneath, so I live here among my books."

He was a tall, gentlemanly-looking Spaniard, of some forty years or over, and spoke beautiful English, though with a slightly foreign intonation.

A supper was spread here that a king might have sat down and enjoyed.

Two tall black servants, dressed in snow-white linen, waited at the table. They were exceedingly polite, but they had rather larger mouths and considerably thicker lips than suited Archie's notions of beauty.

Out into the verandah again after supper, seated in rocking-chairs; the cool mountain air, so delicious and refreshing, was laden with the perfume wafted from a thousand flowers. There were the stars up in heaven's blue, and myriad stars, the fire-flies, that danced everywhere among the trees and bushes. Archie said they put him in mind of dead candles.

"And now for your story, Kenneth."

"It is a long one, but I must make it very brief. You know most of it, dear Archie, so why should I repeat it?"

"Because," said Archie, "I do _so_ love to hear you speak. Your voice is not changed if your face is, and when I sit here in this semi-darkness, and listen to you, man, I think we are both bits of boys again, wandering through the bonnie blooming heather that clothes the hills above Glen Alva."

"Now you have done it," cried Kenneth, laughing.

"Done what?" said Archie.

"Why, _you_ have to tell the first story. If you hadn't mentioned home, if you hadn't spoken about the hills and the heather, I would have told my tale first."

"But--" said Archie.

"Not a single excuse, my boy. I am home-sick now. Answer a few questions, and I'll let you off."

"Well, go on," said Archie; "ask away."

"My dear, dear mother! Have you seen her grave lately?"

"It was the last spot I visited when I went to the clachan," replied Archie sadly.

"Heigho!" sighed Kenneth. "And I was all ready to go home. We were lying at the Cape, if you remember, when your letter arrived. Yes, and I left my ship, I threw up a good appointment on receipt of the sad intelligence; and Archie, dear lad, I shall go back to Scotland when I make my fortune--not before, and that may be never."

"Do not speak like that."

"But I must and will. How changed everything must be from the time I kept the sheep among the hills. And how do the clachan, the glen, and the hills look now?"

"The clachan is but little changed. Mr Steve did not tear down the village and church, as he first threatened. No, the clachan is the same, but poor Mr Grant has gone."

"Dead! You did not tell me this in your letter."

"No, no, not dead. He has got a better living in the city."

"Yes?"

"Yes, and I went to see them. The Misses Grant keep every letter ever you wrote them, and they do long, I can tell you, for the return of the wanderer."

"Bless their dear hearts!"

"I went over to the wee village by the sea and saw Duncan Reed."

"Is he changed?"

"Not in the very least. Looks hardier than ever."

"And your father and mother you have already said are well?"

"Yes, but father doesn't like town life. How he would love the old days to come back again; how he would love to rove once again over the hills gun on shoulder and dog at his heel!"

"He is not very old; he may yet have his wish."

"I fear not."

"Well?"

"Well, the glens and hills all around are planted with trees. This was done as soon as Mr Steve took possession of the estate, and before poor old Chief McGregor died."

"He is dead, then?"

"Yes. I would have told you, but I wanted to make my letters to you as bright as possible."

"So the dear old man is dead. Heigho! And the estate planted. You did not even tell me that."

"No, and for the same reason. But the trees are getting quite tall already. Most of the higher parts of the glens are covered with Scotch firs and spruces and larches, the lower lands with elm and plane and scrubby oaks. At the risk of being taken as a trespa.s.ser, I went all over the estate. I penetrated up to the fairy knoll and saw poor Kooran's grave. There are young trees all round there now."

"Archie," said Kenneth, leaning forward and peering into his companion's face, "I hope they didn't interfere with poor Kooran's grave."

"No, nor with anything around it."

"Go on, lad; I'm so pleased."

"Well, I've little more to say. I was not taken prisoner, though I startled the wild deer in all directions."

"But the grand old hills themselves?"