I
By the look of her she might have been a queen, or a princess, or at the very least a d.u.c.h.ess. But she was no one of these. She was only a commoner--a plain miss, though very far from plain. Which is extraordinary when you consider that the blood of the Bruce flowed with exceeding liveliness in her veins, together with the blood of many another valiant Scot--Randolph, Douglas, Campbell--who bled with Bruce or for him.
With the fact that she was not at the very least a d.u.c.h.ess, _most_ of her temporal troubles came to an abrupt end. When she tired of her castle at Beem-Tay she could hop into her motor-car and fly down the Great North Road to her castle at Brig O"Dread. This was a fifty-mile run, and from any part of the road she could see land that belonged to her--forest, farm, and moor. If the air at Beem-Tay was too formal, or the keep at Brig O"Dread too gloomy, she could put up at any of her half-dozen shooting lodges, built in wild, inaccessible, wild-fowly places, and shake the dust of the world from her feet, and tread, just under heaven, upon the heather.
But mixed up with all this fine estate was one other temporal trouble.
For, over and above the expenses of keeping the castles on a good footing, and the shooting lodges clean and attractive, and the motor-car full of petrol, and the horses full of oats, and the lawns empty of weeds, and the gla.s.s houses full of fruit, she had no money whatsoever.
She could not sell any of her land because it was entailed--that is, it really belonged to somebody who didn"t exist; she couldn"t sell her diamonds, for the same reason; and she could not rent any of her shootings, because her ancestors had not done so. I honestly believe that a sixpence of real money looked big to her.
Her first name was the same as that of the Lady of the Lake--Ellen. Her last name was McTavish--if she had been a man she would have been The McTavish (and many people did call her that)--and her middle names were like the sands of the sea in number, and sounded like bugles blowing a charge--Campbell and Cameron, Dundee and Douglas. She had a family tartan--heather brown, with Lincoln green t.i.t-tat-toe crisscrosses--and she had learned how to walk from a thousand years of strong-walking ancestors. She had her eyes from the deepest part of a deep moorland loch, her cheeks from the briar rose, some of the notes of her voice from the upland plover, and some from the lark. And her laugh was like an echo of the sounds that the River Tay makes when it goes among the shallows.
One day she was sitting all by herself in the Seventh Drawing Room (forty feet by twenty-four) of Brig O"Dread Castle, looking from a fourteen-foot-deep window embrasure, upon the brig itself, the river rushing under it, and the clean, flowery town upon both banks. From most of her houses she could see nothing but her own possessions, but from Brig O"Dread Castle, standing, as it did, in one corner of her estates, she could see past her entrance gate, with its flowery, embattled lodge, a little into the outside world. There were tourists whirling by in automobiles along the Great North Road, or parties of Scotch gypsies, with their dark faces and ear-rings, with their wagons and folded tents, pa.s.sing from one good poaching neighborhood to the next. Sometimes it amused her to see tourists turned from her gates by the proud porter who lived in the lodge; and on the present occasion, when an automobile stopped in front of the gate and the chauffeur hopped out and rang the bell, she was prepared to be mildly amused once more in the same way.
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 a.s.suaged. 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 pa.s.sageway, 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.
"I don"t know what got into her," she said, "to let you in." She halted in her tracks and, looking cautiously this way and that, like a conspirator in a play: "She"s a hard woman to deal with," she said, "between you and me."
"I"ve heard something of the kind," said the American. "Indeed, I asked the porter. I said, "What manner of woman is Miss McTavish?" and he said, in a kind of whisper, "The McTavish, sir, is a roaring, ranting, stingy, bony female.""
"He said that, did he?" asked the pseudo Mrs. Nevis, tightening her lips and jangling her keys.
"But I didn"t believe him," said the American; "I wouldn"t believe what he said of any cousin of mine."
"Is The McTavish your cousin?"
"Why, yes," said he; "but just which one I don"t know. That"s what I have come to find out. I have an idea--I and my lawyers have--that if The McTavish died without a direct heir, I should be The McTavish; that is, that this nice castle, and Red Curries Mound, and all and all, would be mine. I could come every August for the shooting. It would be very nice."
"It wouldn"t be very nice for The McTavish to die before you," said Mrs. Nevis. "She"s only twenty-two."
"Great heavens!" said the American. "Between you, you made me think she was a horrid old woman!"
"Horrid," said Mrs. Nevis, "very. But not old."
She led the way abruptly to a turf circle which ended the birch walk and from which sprang, in turn, a walk of larch, a walk of Lebanon cedars, and one of mountain ash. At the end of the cedar walk, far off, could be seen the squat gray tower of the chapel, heavy with ivy. McTavish caught up with Mrs. Nevis and walked at her side. Their feet made no sound upon the pleasant, springy turf. Only the bunch of keys sounded occasionally.
"How," said McTavish, not without insinuation, "could one get to know one"s cousin?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "if you are troubled with spare cash and stay in the neighborhood long enough, she"ll manage that. She has little enough to spend, poor woman. Why, sir, when she told me to show you the chapel, she said, "Catherine," she said, "there"s one Carnegie come out of the States--see if yon McTavish is not another.""
"She said that?"
"She did so."
"And how did you propose to go to work to find out, Mrs. Nevis?"
"Oh," said she, "I"ve hinted broadly at the news that"s required at headquarters. I can do no more."
McTavish reflected, "Tell her," he said presently, "when you see her, that I"m not Carnegie, nor near it. But tell her that, as we Americans say, "I"ve enough for two.""
"Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "that would mean too much or too little to a Scot."
"Call it, then," said McTavish, "several million pounds."
"Several," Mrs. Nevis reflected.