But at the moment Clanroyden uncrossed his legs, bringing his right foot down heavily upon his companion’s left. Durward looked up and saw a young man coming towards him, smiling.
The newcomer turned aside to say something to the girls round the fire, and then came and sat on an arm of the settle. He was a straight, elegant person, with a well-tanned, regular face, and very pleasant brown eyes.
“I’ve had such an afternoon,” he said. “You never saw a place like Cairnlora. It’s quite a little stone tower all alone in a fir-wood, and nothing else between the moor and the sea. It is furnished as barely as a prison, except for the chairs, which are priceless old Dutch things. Oh, and the silver at tea was the sort of thing that only South Africans can buy nowadays. Mrs. Etheridge is devoured with envy. But the wonder of the house is old Miss Elphinstone. She must be nearly seventy and she looks forty-five, except for her hair. She speaks broad Scots, and she has the manners of a marquise. I would give a lot to have had Raeburn paint her. She reminded me of nothing so much as a hill-wind with her keen high-coloured old face. Yes, I have enjoyed the afternoon.”
“Jack has got a new enthusiasm,” said Durward. “I wish I were like you to have a new one once a week. By the way, Maitland has arrived at last.”
“Really!” said Despencer. “Oh, I forgot to tell you something which you would never have guessed. Miss Elphinstone is Maitland’s aunt, and he was brought up a good deal at Cairnlora. He doesn’t take his manners from her, but I suppose he gets his cleverness from that side of the family. She disapproves of him strongly, so of course I had to defend him. And what do you think she said? ‘He has betrayed his tradition. He has sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, and I wish him joy of his bargain!’ Nice one for your party, Hugh.”
Miss Etheridge had left the group at the fire and was standing at Despencer’s side. She listened to him with a curious air of solicitude, like an affectionate sister. At the mention of Maitland’s name Clanroyden had watched her narrowly, but her face did not change. And when Despencer asked, “Where is the new arrival?” she talked of him with the utmost nonchalance.
Maitland came down to dinner, ravenously hungry and in high spirits. Nothing was changed in this house since he had stared at the pictures and imagined terrible things about the armour and broken teacups with childish impartiality. His own favourite seat was still there, where, hidden by a tapestry screen, he had quarreled with Sylvia while their elders gossiped. This sudden flood of memories mellowed him towards the world. He was cordial to Despencer, forebore to think Durward a fool, and answered every one of Mr. Etheridge’s many questions. For the first time he felt the success of his life. The old house recalled his childhood, and the sight of Clanroyden, his devoted follower, reminded him of his power. Somehow the weariful crying for the moon, which had always tortured him, was exchanged for a glow of comfort, a shade of complacency in his haggard soul … And then the sight of Claire dispelled his satisfaction.
Here in this cheerful, homely party of friends he found himself out of place. On state occasions he could acquit himself with credit, for the man had a mind. He could make the world listen to him when he chose, and the choice was habitual. But now his loneliness claimed its lawful consequences, and he longed for the little friendly graces which he had so often despised. Despencer talked of scenery and weather with a tenderness to which this man, who loved nature as he loved little else, was an utter stranger. This elegant and appropriate sentiment would have worried him past endurance, if Claire had not shared it. It was she who told some folktale about the Grey Correi with the prettiest hesitancy which showed her feeling. And then the talk drifted to books and people, flitting airily about their petty world. Maitland felt himself choked by their accomplishments. Most of the subjects were ones no sane man would trouble to think of, and yet here were men talking keenly about trifles and disputing with nimble-witted cleverness on the niceties of the trivial. Feeling miserably that he was the only silent one, he plunged desperately into the stream, found himself pulled up by Despencer and deftly turned. The event gave him the feeling of having been foiled by a kitten.
Angry with the world, angrier with his own angularity, he waited for the end of the meal. Times had not changed in this house since he had been saved by Sylvia from social disgrace. But when the women left the room he found life easier. His host talked of sport, and he could tell him more about Stob Ghabhar than any keeper. Despencer, victorious at dinner, now listened like a docile pupil. Durward asked a political question, and the answer came sharp and definite. Despencer demurred gently, after his fashion. “Well, but surely—” and a grimly smiling “What do you know about it?” closed the discussion. The old Maitland had returned for the moment.
The night was mild and impenetrably dark, and the fall of waters close at hand sounded like a remote echo. An open hall-door showed that some of the party had gone out to the garden, and the men followed at random. A glimmer of white frocks betrayed the women on the lawn, standing by the little river which slipped by
