_ CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. INSTRUCTIONS FROM LONDON
"There, you jolly old scaramouch!" cried Kenneth, laughing. "Now I can serve 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've got 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 the best of it."
There was a scratching at the door just then, and Kenneth ran across the carpet to admit Dirk, who gave a sharp bark, and bounded to the bed to nuzzle his nose in Max's hand.
"Did you ever see such a dog as that, Maxy? There are not many that would 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 mountains four nights before. "But it was a pity you brought me back."
"That's five times you've said that to-day," cried Kenneth. "Now, just you say it once more, and I'll punch your head."
Max shook the threatened part of his person sadly, and then lay looking wearily at the window.
"Look here, old chap!" said Kenneth suddenly; "father says if you are not better by to-night, he shall send to Glasgow for a doctor to come and 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 his friend'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 were all strange to us and our ways when you came down; but you're as full of pluck underneath, though you don't show it outside, as any fellow I ever knew."
Max shook his head again.
"But I say you are. Don't contradict, or I'll hit you, and then there'll be a fight. Now, I say, look here! I couldn't help my father borrowing 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 poor beggar as I shall be now."
Max gripped his hand, and the two lads were in that attitude when The Mackhai suddenly entered the room.
Max drew in his breath sharply, as if in pain, and lay back gazing at his host, who came forward and shook hands, before seating himself at the bedside.
It was not the first meeting by several, during which Max had been treated with a kindness and deference which showed his host's anxiety to efface the past.
"Come, this is better," he said cheerily. "Why, I should say you could get 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 him it's all nonsense, and that he is to stay!"
The Mackhai was silent for a few moments, as he sat struggling with his pride, 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 no gentleman ought to have spoken toward one who was his guest, and more than guest, the companion and friend of his son. There, I apologise to you humbly. Will you forgive me?"
"Mr Mackhai!" cried Max, in a choking voice, as he seized the hand extended to him.
"Hah! that is frank and natural, my lad. Thank you. Now, shall we forget the past?"
Max nodded, but he could not trust himself to speak, while Kenneth ran round 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 the circumstances, I can readily believe that Max would prefer to return to town; but I expressly forbid his hurrying away. Oblige me, Max, by staying with Kenneth till next Thursday, when I shall return. It will be 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 the evening."
He shook hands once more, and left the room, Max thoroughly grasping the gentlemanly feeling which had prompted him to behave with so much delicacy.
"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 the last few times," he said to himself, as he turned away to see his father before he left the place.
Max rose and dressed as soon as he was alone, but he was not long in finding that he was not in a fit condition to take a journey; and during the rest of his stay at Dunroe there were no more pleasure-trips, for the zest for them was in the case of both lads gone.
And yet those last days were not unpleasant, for there was a peculiar anxiety on the part of both to make up for the past. Kenneth was eager in the extreme to render Max's last days there such as should give him agreeable memories of their intercourse. While, on the other side, Max felt deeply what Kenneth's position must be, and he too tried hard to soften the pain of his lot.
Max had had a business-like letter from his father, telling him that he had been compelled, by The Mackhai's failure to keep his engagements, to foreclose certain mortgages and take possession of the estates. Under these circumstances, he wished his son to remain there and supervise the proceedings of the bailiffs, writing to him in town every night as to how 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 the bottom 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 you that Dunroe is yours. I mean it to be your estate, and you can see now why I sent you down there to learn how to be a Scottish gentleman."
Max flushed as he read this, and he exclaimed aloud--"A Scottish gentleman could not bear to be placed in such a position!" and he sat down and wrote at once to say that he had been seriously unwell, and must 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 be mine to leave." _