CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
INSTRUCTIONS FROM LONDON.
"There, you jolly old scaramouch!" cried Kenneth, laughing. "Now I canserve you out."
"No, no, Kenneth; let me get up, please."
"Deal of mercy you had on me when I was ill. Now it's my turn, and I'vegot you. I'll serve you out."
"But, indeed, I am well enough to get up."
"No, you're not. Tavvy says you are not to stir, and you must make thebest of it."
There was a scratching at the door just then, and Kenneth ran across thecarpet to admit Dirk, who gave a sharp bark, and bounded to the bed tonuzzle his nose in Max's hand.
"Did you ever see such a dog as that, Maxy? There are not many thatwould have hunted you out as he did."
"No, I suppose not," said Max sadly and wearily, as he lay there,suffering from the chill brought on by his exposure upon the mountainsfour nights before. "But it was a pity you brought me back."
"That's five times you've said that to-day," cried Kenneth. "Now, justyou say it once more, and I'll punch your head."
Max shook the threatened part of his person sadly, and then lay lookingwearily at the window.
"Look here, old chap!" said Kenneth suddenly; "father says if you arenot better by to-night, he shall send to Glasgow for a doctor to comeand stop with you, and write word to your governor in London."
"I'm--I'm much better," said Max hastily. "I shall not want a doctor;and tell Mr Mackhai that I want to go home as soon as I can start."
"All right, Maxy, old chap," said Kenneth slowly and sadly; "but I say,look here--"
He stopped short, and, in a quiet, methodical way, law his hand upon hisfriend's brow.
"I say, how hot your head is! Wait a moment."
He placed one arm beneath his neck, lifted his head, turned the pillow,and gently lowered Max back upon the cool, soft linen.
"That's comfortable, isn't it?"
"Yes; so cool and refreshing!"
"So it used to be when you nursed me."
There was a dead silence.
"I say, Maxy."
"Yes."
"I like you now."
"Do you?"
"Yes, ever so. I didn't at first, because you seemed such a coward."
"I suppose I am," sighed Max.
"That you're not; and I'd pitch anybody overboard who said so. You wereall strange to us and our ways when you came down; but you're as full ofpluck underneath, though you don't show it outside, as any fellow I everknew."
Max shook his head again.
"But I say you are. Don't contradict, or I'll hit you, and thenthere'll be a fight. Now, I say, look here! I couldn't help my fatherborrowing money of your father?"
"No, of course not."
"And you couldn't help your father wanting it back?"
"No, no. Don't talk about it, please."
"Yes, I shall, because I must. Look ye here, Maxy, if we can't help it,and we like one another, why shouldn't we still be the best of friends?"
Max stared at him.
"Would you be friends?" he said at last.
"I should think I will--that is, if you'll be friends with such a poorbeggar as I shall be now."
Max gripped his hand, and the two lads were in that attitude when TheMackhai suddenly entered the room.
Max drew in his breath sharply, as if in pain, and lay back gazing athis host, who came forward and shook hands, before seating himself atthe bedside.
It was not the first meeting by several, during which Max had beentreated with a kindness and deference which showed his host's anxiety toefface the past.
"Come, this is better," he said cheerily. "Why, I should say you couldget up now?"
"Yes, sir; that is what I have been telling your son," said Max hastily.
"Yes, father; he wants to get up and rush off at once; and I tell himit's all nonsense, and that he is to stay!"
The Mackhai was silent for a few moments, as he sat struggling with hispride, and, as he saw Max watching him eagerly, he coloured.
The gentleman triumphed, and he said quietly and gravely,--
"My dear boy, I want you to try and forget what passed the other night,when, stung almost beyond endurance, I said words to you that nogentleman ought to have spoken toward one who was his guest, and morethan guest, the companion and friend of his son. There, I apologise toyou humbly. Will you forgive me?"
"Mr Mackhai!" cried Max, in a choking voice, as he seized the handextended to him.
"Hah! that is frank and natural, my lad. Thank you. Now, shall weforget the past?"
Max nodded, but he could not trust himself to speak, while Kenneth ranround to the other side of the bed.
"And he is not to think of going, father?" he cried.
"I don't say that, Ken," replied his father. "Under all thecircumstances, I can readily believe that Max would prefer to return totown; but I expressly forbid his hurrying away. Oblige me, Max, bystaying with Kenneth till next Thursday, when I shall return. It willbe dull for him alone."
"Are you going away, father?"
"Yes; I start for Edinburgh at once, and as I shall not see you again,Max, I will say good-bye. You will be gone before I reach Dunroe in theevening."
He shook hands once more, and left the room, Max thoroughly grasping thegentlemanly feeling which had prompted him to behave with so muchdelicacy.
"There, Max, you will stay now?" cried Kenneth.
"Yes, I will stay now," he replied.
"Then that's all right. We'll have some fishing and shooting--for thelast few times," he said to himself, as he turned away to see his fatherbefore he left the place.
Max rose and dressed as soon as he was alone, but he was not long infinding that he was not in a fit condition to take a journey; and duringthe rest of his stay at Dunroe there were no more pleasure-trips, forthe zest for them was in the case of both lads gone.
And yet those last days were not unpleasant, for there was a peculiaranxiety on the part of both to make up for the past. Kenneth was eagerin the extreme to render Max's last days there such as should give himagreeable memories of their intercourse. While, on the other side, Maxfelt deeply what Kenneth's position must be, and he too tried hard tosoften the pain of his lot.
Max had had a business-like letter from his father, telling him that hehad been compelled, by The Mackhai's failure to keep his engagements, toforeclose certain mortgages and take possession of the estates. Underthese circumstances, he wished his son to remain there and supervise theproceedings of the bailiffs, writing to him in town every night as tohow matters stood.
It was a cool, matter-of-fact, legal letter, written by a clerk,probably from dictation, and signed by the old lawyer. But at thebottom there was a postscript in his own crabbed hand, as follows:--
"You will be able to watch over all with more pleasure, when I tell youthat Dunroe is yours. I mean it to be your estate, and you can see nowwhy I sent you down there to learn how to be a Scottish gentleman."
Max flushed as he read this, and he exclaimed aloud--"A Scottishgentleman could not bear to be placed in such a position!" and he satdown and wrote at once to say that he had been seriously unwell, andmust return to town on a certain day.
"Squeamish young donkey!" said the hard-griping old man of the world,when he received his son's letter. "Bad as his weak, sensitive mother.Know better some day. If I had been so particular, Dunroe would not bemine to leave."