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Three Boys; or, the Chiefs of the Clan Mackhai, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 5. The Effects Of The Sail |
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_ CHAPTER FIVE. THE EFFECTS OF THE SAIL "Look sharp! Father doesn't like to be kept waiting. Don't stop to do anything but change your wet things. That's your room. You can look right away and see Mull one side and Skye the other." Kenneth half pushed his visitor into a bed-room, banged the door, and went off at a run, leaving Max Blande standing helpless and troubled just inside, and heartily wishing he was at home in Russell Square. Not that the place was uncomfortable, for it was well furnished, but he was tired and faint for want of food; everything was strange; the wind and sea were playing a mournful duet outside--an air in a natural key which seemed at that moment more depressing than a midnight band or organ in Bloomsbury on a foggy night. But he had no time for thinking. Expecting every moment to hear the gong sound again, and in nervous dread of keeping his host waiting, he hurriedly changed, and was a long way on towards ready when there was a bang at the door. "May I come in?" shouted Kenneth. But he did not say it till he had opened the door and was well inside. "Oh, your hair will do," he continued. "You should have had it cut short. It's better for bathing. Old Donald cuts mine. He shall do yours. No, no; don't stop to put your things straight. Why, hallo! what are you doing?" "Only taking a little scent for my handkerchief." "Oh my! Why, you're not a girl! Come along. Father's so particular about my being in at dinner. He don't mind any other time." Kenneth hurried his visitor down-stairs, and, as they reached the hall, a sharp voice said,-- "Mr Blande, I suppose! How do you do? Well, Kenneth, did you have a good run? Nice day for a sail." Max had not had time to speak, as the tall, aquiline-looking man, with keen eyes and closely-cut blackish-grey hair, turned and walked on before them into the dining-room. The lad felt a kind of chill, as if he had been repelled, and was not wanted; and there was a sharp, haughty tone in his host's voice which the sensitive visitor interpreted to mean dislike. As he followed into the room, he had just time to note that, in spite of his coldness, his host was a fine, handsome, _distingue_ man, and that he looked uncommonly well in the grey kilt and dark velvet shooting-jacket, which seemed to make him as picturesque in aspect as one of the old portraits on the walls. Max had also time to note that a very severe-looking man-servant in black held open and closed the door after them, following him up, and, as he took the place pointed out by Kenneth, nearly knocking him off his balance by giving his chair a vicious thrust, with the result that he sat down far too quickly. "Amen!" said the host sharply, and in a frowning, absent way. "I haven't said grace, father," exclaimed Kenneth. "Eh! haven't you? Ah, well, I thought you had. What's the soup, Grant?" "Hotch-potch, sir," replied the butler. "Confound hotch-potch! Tell that woman not to send up any more till I order it." He threw himself back in the chair as the butler handed the declined plate second-hand to the guest and then took another to Kenneth. "'Taint bad when you're hungry," whispered the lad across the table. Max glanced at his host with a shiver of dread, but The Mackhai was in the act of pouring himself out a glass of sherry, which he tossed off, and then in an abstracted way put on his glasses and began to read a letter. "It's all right. He didn't hear," whispered Kenneth, setting a good example, and finishing his soup before Max had half done, for there was a novelty in the dinner which kept taking his attention from his food. "Sherry to Mr Blande," said the host sharply; and the butler came back from the sideboard, where he was busy, giving Max an ill-used look, which said plainly,-- "Why can't he help himself?" Then aloud,-- "Sherry, sir?" "No, thank you." The decanter stopper went back into the bottle with a loud click, the decanter was thumped down, and the butler walked back past Kenneth's chair. "Hallo, Granty! waxey?" said Kenneth; but the butler did not condescend to answer. "Much sport, father?" "Eh? Yes, my boy. Two good stags." "I say, father, I wish I had been there." "Eh? Yes, I wish you had, Ken. But you had your guest to welcome. I hope you had a pleasant run up from Glasgow." "Pretty good," faltered Max, who became scarlet as he saw Kenneth's laughing look. "That's right," said the host. "You must show Mr Blande all you can, Ken," he continued, softening a little over the salmon. "Sorry we have no lobster sauce, Mr Blande. This is not a lobster shore. Make Kenneth take you about well." "I did show him the Grey Mare's Tail, father," said Kenneth, with a merry look across the table. "Ah yes! a very beautiful fall." The dinner went on, but, though he was faint, Max did not make a hearty meal, for, in addition to everything seeming so strange, and the manners of his host certainly constrained, from time to time it seemed to the visitor that all of a sudden the table, with its white cloth, glittering glass and plate, began to rise up, taking him with it, and repeating the movements of the steamer where they caught the Atlantic swell. Then it subsided, and, as a peculiar giddy feeling passed off, the table seemed to move again; this time with a quick jerk, similar to that given by Kenneth's boat. Max set his teeth; a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and he held his knife and fork as if they were the handles to which he must cling to save himself from falling. He was suspended between two horrors, two ideas troubling him. Would his host see his state, and should he be obliged to leave the table? And all the while the conversation went on between father and son, and he had to reply to questions put to him. Then, as the table rose and heaved, and the room began to swing gently round, a fierce-looking eye seemed to be glancing at him out of a mist, and he knew that the butler was watching him in an angry, scornful manner that made him shrink. He had some recollection afterwards of the dinner ending, and of their going into a handsome drawing-room, where The Mackhai left them, as Kenneth said, to go and smoke in his own room. Then Max remembered something about a game of chess, and then of starting up and oversetting the table, with the pieces rattling on the floor. "What--what--what's the matter?" he exclaimed as he clapped his hand to his leg, which was tingling with pain. "What's the matter? why, you were asleep again. Never did see such a sleepy fellow. Here, let's go to bed." "I beg your pardon; I'm very sorry, but I was travelling all last night." "Oh, I don't mind," said Kenneth, yawning. "Come along." "We must say good-night to your father." "Oh no! he won't like to be disturbed. He's in some trouble. I think it's about money he has been losing, and it makes him cross." Kenneth led the way up-stairs, chattering away the while, and making all manner of plans for the morning. "Here you are," he cried. "You'd like a bath in the morning?" "Oh yes, I always have one." "All right. I'll call you." As soon as he was alone, Max went to the window and opened it, to admit the odour of the salt weed and the thud and rush of the water as it beat against the foot of the castle and whispered amongst the crags. The moon was just setting, and shedding a lurid yellow light across the sea, which heaved and gleamed, and threw up strange reflections from the black masses of rock which stood up all round. A curious shrinking sensation came over him as he gazed out; for down below the weed-hung rocks seemed to be in motion, and strange monsters appeared to be sporting in the darkness as the weed swayed here and there with the water's wash. He closed the window, after a long look round, and hurriedly undressed, hoping that after a good night's rest the sensation of unreality would pass off, and that he would feel more himself, but he had no sooner put out the candle and plunged into bed than it seemed as if he were once more at sea. For the bed rose slowly and began to glide gently down an inclined plane toward one corner of the room, sweeping out through the wall, and then rising and giving quite a plunge once more. It all seemed so real that Max started up in bed, and grasped the head, and stared round. It was all fancy. The bed was quite still, and the only movement was that of the waves outside as they beat upon the rocks. He lay down once more, and, as his head touched the pillow, and he closed his eyes, the bed heaved up once more, set sail, and he kept gliding on and on and on. This lasted for about an hour, and then, as the boat-like bed made one of its slow, steady glides, down as it were into the depths of the sea, it went down and down, lower and lower, till all was black and solemn and still, and it was as if there was a restful end of all trouble, till the stern struck with a tremendous thud upon a rock, and a hollow voice exclaimed,-- "Now, old chap! Six o'clock! Ready for your bath?" _ |
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