The Baron groaned. “Ze vorst is only jost beginning to gommence.”
They were sitting over a crackling fire of logs in the sitting-room of the suite which their host had reserved for his honored visitors. How many heirlooms and dusky portraits the romantic thoughtfulness of the ladies had managed to crowd into this apartment for the occasion were hard to compute; enough, certainly, one would think, to inspire the most sluggish-blooded Tulliwuddle with a martial exultation. Instead, the chieftain groaned again.
“Tell zem I am ill. I cannot gom to dinner. To-morrow I shall take ze train back to London. Himmel! Vy vas I fool enof to act soch dishonorable lies! I deceive all these kind peoples!”
“It isn't that which worries me,” said Bunker imperturbably. “I am only afraid that if you display this spirit you won't deceive them.”
“I do not vish to,” said the Baron sulkily.
It required half an hour of the Count's most artful blandishments to persuade him that duty, honor, and prudence all summoned him to the feast. This being accomplished, he next endeavored to convince him that he would feel more comfortable in the airy freedom of the Tulliwuddle tartan. But here the Baron was obdurate. Now that the kilt lay ready to his hand he could not be persuaded even to look at it. In gloomy silence he donned his conventional evening dress and announced, last thing before they left their room—
“Bonker, say no more! To-morrow morning I depart!”
Their hostess had explained that a merely informal dinner awaited them, since his lordship (she observed) would no doubt prefer a quiet evening after his long journey. But Mrs. Gallosh was one of those good ladies who are fond of asking their friends to take “pot luck,” and then providing them with fourteen courses; or suggesting a “quiet little evening together,” when they have previously removed the drawing-room carpet. It is an affectation of modesty apt to disconcert the retiring guest who takes them at their word. In the drawing-room of Mrs. Gallosh the startled Baron found assembled—firstly, the Gallosh family, consisting of all those whose acquaintance we have already made, and in addition two stalwart school-boy sons; secondly, their house-party, who comprised a Mr. and Mrs. Rentoul, from the same metropolis of commerce as Mr. Gallosh, and a hatchet-faced young man with glasses, answering to the name of Mr. Cromarty-Gow; and, finally, one or two neighbors. These last included Mr. M'Fadyen, the large factor; the Established Church, U.F., Wee Free, Episcopalian, and Original Secession ministers, all of whom, together with their kirks, flourished within a four-mile radius of the Castle; the wives to three of the above; three young men and their tutor, being some portion of a reading-party in the village; and Mrs. Cameron-Campbell and her five daughters, from a neighboring dower-house upon the loch.
It was fortunate that all these people were prepared to be impressed with Lord Tulliwuddle, whatever he should say or do; and further, that the unique position of such a famous hereditary magnate even led them to anticipate some marked deviation from the ordinary canons of conduct. Otherwise, the gloomy brows; the stare, apparently haughty, in reality alarmed; the strange accent and the brief responses of the chief guest, might have caused an unfavorable opinion of his character.
As it was, his aloofness, however natural, would probably have proved depressing had it not been for the gay charm and agreeable condescension of the other nobleman. Seldom had more rested upon that adventurer's shoulders, and never had he acquitted himself with greater credit. It was with considerable secret concern that he found himself placed at the opposite end of the table from his friend, but his tongue rattled as gaily and his smiles came as readily as ever. With Mrs. Cameron-Campbell on one side, and a minister's lady upon the other, his host two places distant, and a considerable audience of silent eaters within earshot, he successfully managed to divert the attention of quite half the table from the chieftain's moody humor.
“I always feel at home with a Scotsman,” he discoursed genially. “His imagination is so quick, his intellect so clear, his honesty so remarkable, and” (with an irresistible glance at the minister's lady) “his wife so charming.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Gallosh, who was mellowing rapidly under the influence of his own champagne. “I'm verra glad to see you know good folks when you meet them. What do you think now of the English?”
Having previously assured himself that his audience was neat Scotch, the polished Austrian unblushingly replied—
“The Englishman, I have observed, has a slightly slower imagination, a denser intelligence, and is less conspicuous for perfect honesty. His womankind also have less of that nameless grace and ethereal beauty which distinguish their Scottish sisters.”
It is needless to say that a more popular visitor never was seen than this discriminating foreigner, and if his ambitions had not risen above a merely personal triumph, he would have been in the highest state of satisfaction. But with a disinterested eye he every now and then sought the farther end of the table, where, between his hostess and her charming eldest daughter, and facing his factor, the Baron had to endure his ordeal unsupported.
“I wonder how the devil he's getting on!” he more than once said to himself.
For better or for worse, as the dinner advanced, he began to hear the Court accent more frequently, till his curiosity became extreme.
“His lordship seems in better spirits,” remarked Mr. Gallosh.
“I hope to Heaven he may be!” was the fervent thought of Count Bunker.
At that moment the point was settled. With his old roar of exuberant gusto the Baron announced, in a voice that drowned even the five ministers—
“Ach, yes, I vill toss ze caber to-morrow! I vill toss him—so high!” (his napkin flapped upwards). “How long shall he be? So tall as my castle: Mees Gallosh, you shall help me? Ach, yes! Mit hands so fair ze caber vill spring like zis!”
His pudding-spoon, in vivid illustration, skipped across the table and struck his factor smartly on the shirt-front.
“Sare, I beg your pardon,” he beamed with a graciousness that charmed Mrs. Gallosh even more than his spirited conversation—“Ach, do not return it, please! It is from my castle silver—keep it in memory of zis happy night!”
The royal generosity of this act almost reconciled Mrs. Gallosh to the loss of one of her own silver spoons.
“Saved!” sighed Bunker, draining his glass with a relish he had not felt in any item of the feast hitherto.
Now that the Baron's courage had returned, no heraldic lion ever pranced more bravely. His laughter, his jests, his compliments were showered upon the delighted diners. Mr. Gallosh and he drank healths down the whole length of the table “mit no tap-heels!” at least four times. He peeled an orange for Miss Gallosh, and cut the skin into the most diverting figures, pressing her hand tenderly as he presented her with these works of art. He inquired of Mrs. Gallosh the names of the clergymen, and, shouting something distantly resembling these, toasted them each and all with what he conceived to be appropriate comments. Finally he rose to his feet, and, to the surprise and delight of all, delivered the speech they had been disappointed of earlier in the day.
“Goot Mr. Gallosh, fair Mrs. Gallosh, divine Mees Gallosh, and all ze ladies and gentlemans, how sorry I vas I could not make my speech before, I cannot eggspress. I had a headache, and vas not vell vithin. Ach, soch zings vill happen in a new climate. Bot now I am inspired to tell you I loff you all! I zank you eggstremely! How can I return zis hospitality? I vill tell you! You must all go to Bavaria and stay mit——”
“Tulliwuddle! Tulliwuddle!” shouted Bunker frantically, to the great amazement of the company. “Allow me to invite the company myself to stay with me in Bavaria!”
The Baron turned crimson, as he realized the abyss of error into which he had so nearly plunged. Adroitly the Count covered his confusion with a fit of laughter so ingeniously hearty that in a moment he had joined in it too.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he shouted. “Zat was a leetle joke at my friend's eggspense. It is here, in my castle, you shall visit me; some day very soon I shall live in him. Meanvile, dear Mrs. Gallosh, gonsider it your home! For me you make it heaven, and I cannot ask more zan zat! Now let us gom and have some fon!”
A salvo of applause greeted this conclusion. At the Baron's impetuous request the cigars were brought into the hall, and ladies and gentlemen all trooped out together.
“I cannot vait till I have seen Miss Gallosh dance ze Highland reel,” he explained to her gratified mother; “she has promised me.”
“But you must dance too, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said ravishing Miss Gallosh. “You know you said you would.”
“A promise to a lady is a law,” replied the Baron gallantly, adding in a lower tone, “especially to so fair a lady!”
“It's a pity his lordship hadn't on his kilt,” put in Mr. Gallosh genially.
“By ze Gad, I vill put him on! Hoch! Ve vill have some fon!”
The Baron rushed from the hall, followed in a moment by his noble friend. Bunker found him already wrapping many yards of tartan about his waist.
“But, my dear fellow, you must take off your trousers,” he expostulated.
Despite his glee, the Baron answered with something of the Blitzenberg dignity—
“Ze bare leg I cannot show to-night—not to dance mit ze young ladies. Ven I have practised, perhaps; but not now, Bonker.”
Accordingly the portraits of four centuries of Tulliwuddles beheld their representative appear in the very castle of Hechnahoul with his trouser-legs capering beneath an ill-hung petticoat of tartan. And, to make matters worse in their canvas eyes, his own shameless laugh rang loudest in the mirth that greeted his entrance.
“Ze garb of Gaul!” he announced, shaking with hilarity. “Gom, Bonker, dance mit me ze Highland fling!”
The first night of Lord Tulliwuddle's visit to his ancestral halls is still remembered among his native hills. The Count also, his mind now rapturously at ease, performed prodigies. They danced together what they were pleased to call the latest thing in London, sang a duet, waltzed with the younger ladies, till hardly a head was left unturned, and, in short, sent away the ministers and their ladies, the five Miss Cameron-Campbells, the reading-party, and particularly the factor, with a new conception of a Highland chief. As for the house-party, they felt that they were fortunate beyond the lot of most ordinary mortals.
The Baron sat among his heirlooms, laboriously disengaging himself from his kilt. Fitfully throughout this process he would warble snatches of an air which Miss Gallosh had sung.
“Whae vould not dee for Sharlie?” he trolled, “Ze yong chevalier!”
“Then you don't think of leaving to-morrow morning?” asked Count Bunker, who was watching him with a complacent air.
“Mein Gott, no fears!”
“We had better wait, perhaps, till the afternoon?”
“I go not for tree veeks! Gaben sie—das ist, gim'me zat tombler. Vun more of mountain juice to ze health of all Galloshes! Partic'ly of vun! Eh, old Bonker?”
The Count took care to see that the mountain juice was well diluted. His friend had already found Scottish hospitality difficult to enjoy in moderation.
“Baron, you gave us a marvellously lifelike representation of a Jacobite chieftain!”
The Baron laughed a trifle vacantly.
“Ach, it is easy for me. Himmel, a Blitzenberg should know how! Vollytoddle—Toddyvolly—whatsh my name, Bonker?”
The Count informed him.
“Tollivoddlesh is nozing to vat I am at home! Abs'lutely nozing! I have a house twice as big as zis, and servants—Ach, so many I know not! Bot, mein Bonker, it is not soch fon as zis! Mein Gott, I most get to bed. I toss ze caber to-morrow.”
And upon the arm of his faithful ally he moved cautiously towards his bedroom.
But if he had enjoyed his evening well, his pleasure was nothing to the gratification of his hosts. They could not bring themselves to break up their party for the night: there were so many delightful reminiscences to discuss.
“Of all the evenings ever I spent,” declared Mr. Gallosh, “this fair takes the cake. Just to think of that aristocratic young fellow being as companionable-like! When first I put eyes on him, I said to myself—'You're not for the likes of us. All lords and ladies is your kind. Never a word did he say in the boat till he heard the pipes play, and then I really thought he was frightened! It must just have been a kind of home-sickness or something.”
“It'll have been the tuning up that set his teeth on edge,” Mrs. Gallosh suggested practically.
“Or perhaps his heart was stirred with thoughts of the past!” said Miss Gallosh, her eyes brightening.
In any case, all were agreed that the development of his hereditary instincts had been extraordinarily rapid.
“I never really properly talked with a lord before,” sighed Mrs. Rentoul; “I hope they're all like this one.”
Mrs. Gallosh, on the other hand, who boasted of having had one tete-a-tete and joined in several general conversations with the peerage, appraised Lord Tulliwuddle with greater discrimination.
“Ah, he's got a soupcon!” she declared. “That's what I admire!”
“Do you mean his German accent?” asked Mr. Cromarty-Gow, who was renowned for a cynical wit, and had been seeking an occasion to air it ever since Lord Tulliwuddle had made Miss Gallosh promise to dance a reel with him.
But the feeling of the party was so strongly against a breath of irreverent criticism, and their protest so emphatic, that he presently strolled off to the smoking-room, wishing that Miss Gallosh, at least, would exercise more critical discrimination.
“Do you think would they like breakfast in their own room, Duncan?” asked Mrs. Gallosh.
“Offer it them—offer it them; they can but refuse, and it's a kind of compliment to give them the opportunity.”
“His lordship will not be wanting to rise early,” said Mr. Rentoul. “Did you notice what an amount he could drink, Duncan? Man, and he carried it fine! But he'll be the better of a sleep-in in the morning, him coming from a journey too.”
Mr. Rentoul was a recognized authority on such questions, having, before the days of his affluence, travelled for a notable firm of distillers. His praise of Lord Tulliwuddle's capacity was loudly echoed by Mr. Gallosh, and even the ladies could not but indulgently agree that he had exhibited a strength of head worthy of his race.
“And yet he was a wee thing touched too,” said Mr. Rentoul sagely. “Maybe you were too far gone yourself, Duncan, to notice it, and the ladies would just think it was gallantry; but I saw it in his voice and his legs—oh, just a wee thingie, nothing to speak of.”
“Surely you are mistaken!” cried Miss Gallosh. “Wasn't it only excitement at finding himself at Hechnahoul?”
“There's two kinds of excitement,” answered the oracle. “And this was the kind I'm best acquaint with. Oh, but it was just a wee bittie.”
“And who thinks the worse of him for it?” cried Mr. Gallosh.
This question was answered by general acclamation in a manner and with a spirit that proved how deeply his lordship's gracious behavior had laid hold of all hearts.
Breakfast in the private parlor was laid for two; but it was only Count Bunker, arrayed in a becoming suit of knickerbockers, and looking as fresh as if he had feasted last night on aerated water, who sat down to consume it.
“Who would be his ordinary everyday self when there are fifty more amusing parts to play,” he reflected gaily, as he sipped his coffee. “Blitzenberg and Essington were two conventional members of society, ageing ingloriously, tamely approaching five-and-thirty in bath-chairs. Tulliwuddle and Bunker are paladins of romance! We thought we had grown up—thank Heaven, we were deceived!”
Having breakfasted and lit a cigarette, he essayed for the second time to arouse the Baron; but getting nothing but the most somnolent responses, he set out for a stroll, visiting the gardens, stables, kennels, and keeper's house, and even inspecting a likely pool or two upon the river, and making in the course of it several useful acquaintances among the Tulliwuddle retainers.
When he returned he found the Baron stirring a cup of strong tea and staring at an ancestral portrait with a thoughtful frown.
“They are preparing the caber, Baron,” he remarked genially.
“Stoff and nonsense; I vill not fling her!” was the wholly unexpected reply. “I do not love to play ze fool alvays!”
“My dear Baron!”
“Zat picture,” said the Baron, nodding his head solemnly towards the portrait. “It is like ze Lord Tollyvoddle in ze print at ze hotel. I do believe he is ze same.”
“But I explained that he wasn't Tulliwuddle.”
“He is so like,” repeated the Baron moodily. “He most be ze same.”
Bunker looked at it and shook his head.
“A different man, I assure you.”
“Oh, ze devil!” replied the Baron.
“What's the matter?”
“I haff a head zat tvists and turns like my head never did since many years.”
The Count had already surmised as much.
“Hang it out of the window,” he suggested.
The Baron made no reply for some minutes. Then with an earnest air he began—
“Bonker, I have somezing to say to you.”
“You have the most sympathetic audience outside the clan.”
The Count's cheerful tone did not seem to please his friend.
“Your heart, he is too light, Bonker; ja, too light. Last night you did engourage me not to be seemly.”
“I!”
“I did get almost dronk. If my head vas not so hard I should be dronk. Das ist not right. If I am to be ze Tollyvoddle, it most be as I vould be Von Blitzenberg. I most not forget zat I am not as ozzer men. I am noble, and most be so accordingly.”
“What steps do you propose to take?” inquired Bunker with perfect gravity.
The Baron stared at the picture.
“Last night I had a dream. It vas zat man—at least, probably it vas, for I cannot remember eggsactly. He did pursue me mit a kilt.”
“With what did you defend yourself?”
“I know not: I jost remember zat it should be a warning. Ve Blitzenbergs have ze gift to dream.”
The Baron rose from the table and lit a cigar. After three puffs he threw it from him.
“I cannot smoke,” he said dismally. “It has a onpleasant taste.”
The Count assumed a seriously thoughtful air.
“No doubt you will wish to see Miss Maddison as soon as possible and get it over,” he began. “I have just learned that their place is about seven miles away. We could borrow a trap this afternoon——”
“Nein, nein!” interrupted the Baron. “Donnerwetter! Ach, no, it most not be so soon. I most practise a leetle first. Not so immediately, Bonker.”
Bunker looked at him with a glance of unfathomable calm.
“I find that it will be necessary for you to observe one or two ancient ceremonies, associated from time immemorial with the accession of a Tulliwuddle. You are prepared for the ordeal?”
“I most do my duty, Bonker.”
“This suggests some more inspiring vision than the gentleman in the gold frame,” thought the Count acutely.
Aloud he remarked
“You have high ideals, Baron.”
“I hope so.”
Again the Baron was the unconscious object of a humorous, perspicacious scrutiny.
“Last night I did hear zat moch was to be expected from me,” he observed at length.
“From Mrs. Gallosh?”
“I do not zink it vas from Mrs. Gallosh.”
Count Bunker smiled.
“You inflamed all hearts last night,” said he.
The Baron looked grave.
“I did drink too moch last night. But I did not say vat I should not, eh? I vas not rude or gross to—Mistair Gallosh?”
“Not to Mr. Gallosh.”
The Baron looked a trifle perturbed at the gravity of his tone.
“I vas not too free, too undignified in presence of zat innocent and charming lady—Miss Gallosh?”
The air of scrutiny passed from Count Bunker's face, and a droll smile came instead.
“Baron, I understand your ideals and I appreciate your motives. As you suggest, you had better rehearse your part quietly for a few days. Miss Maddison will find you the more perfect suitor.”
The Baron looked as though he knew not whether to feel satisfied or not.
“By the way,” said the Count in a moment, “have you written to the Baroness yet? Pardon me for reminding you, but you must remember that your letters will have to go out to Russia and back.”
The Baron started.
“Teufel!” he exclaimed. “I most indeed write.”
“The post goes at twelve.”
The Baron reflected gloomily, and then slowly moved to the writing-table and toyed with his pen. A few minutes passed, and then in a fretful voice he asked—
“Vat shall I say?”
“Tell her about your journey across Europe—how the crops look in Russia—what you think of St. Petersburg—that sort of thing.”
A silent quarter of an hour went by, and then the Baron burst out
“Ach, I cannot write to-day! I cannot invent like you. Ze crops—I have got zat—and zat I arrived safe—and zat Petersburg is nice. Vat else?”
“Anything you can remember from text-books on Muscovy or illustrated interviews with the Czar. Just a word or two, don't you know, to show you've been there; with a few comments of your own.”
“Vat like comments?”
“Such as—'Somewhat annoyed with bombs this afternoon,' or 'This caused me to reflect upon the disadvantages of an alcoholic marine'—any little bit of philosophy that occurs to you.”
The Baron pondered.
“It is a pity zat I have not been in Rossia,” he observed.
“On the other hand, it is a blessing your wife hasn't. Look at the bright side of things, my dear fellow.”
For a short time, from the way in which the Baron took hasty notes in pencil and elaborated them in ink (according to the system of Professor Virchausen), it appeared that he was following his friend's directions. Later, from a sentimental look in his eye, the Count surmised that he was composing an amorous addendum; and at last he laid down his pen with a sigh which the cynical (but only the cynical) might have attributed to relief.
“Ha, my head he is getting more clear!” he announced. “Gom, let us present ourselves to ze ladies, mine Bonker!”
“No Tulliwuddle has ever omitted the ceremony. If you shirked, I am assured on the very best authority that it would excite the gravest suspicions of your authenticity.”
Count Bunker spoke with an air of the most resolute conviction. Ever since they arrived he had taken infinite pains to discover precisely what was expected of the chieftain, and having by great good luck made the acquaintance of an elderly individual who claimed to be the piper of the clan, and who proved a perfect granary of legends, he was able to supply complete information on every point of importance. Once the Baron had endeavored to corroborate these particulars by interviewing the piper himself, but they had found so much difficulty in understanding one another's dialects that he had been content to trust implicitly to his friend's information. The Count, indeed, had rather avoided than sought advice on the subject, and the piper, after several confidential conversations and the passage of a sum of silver into his sporran, displayed an equally Delphic tendency.
The Baron, therefore, argued the present point no longer.
“It is jost a mere ceremony,” he said. “Ach, vell, nozing vill happen. Zis ghost—vat is his name?”
“It is known as the Wraith of the Tulliwuddles. The heir must interview it within a week of coming to the Castle.”
“Vere most I see him?”
“In the armory, at midnight. You bring one friend, one candle, and wear a bonnet with one eagle's feather in it. You enter at eleven and wait for an hour—and, by the way, neither of you must speak above a whisper.”
“Pooh! Jost hombog!” said the Baron valiantly. “I do not fear soch trash.”
“When the Wraith appears——”
“My goot Bonker, he vill not gom!”
“Supposing he does come—and mind you, strange things happen in these old buildings, particularly in the Highlands, and after dinner; if he comes, Baron, you must ask him three questions.”
The Baron laughed scornfully.
“If I see a ghost I vill ask him many interesting questions—if he does feel cold, and sochlike, eh? Ha, ha!”
With an imperturbable gravity that was not without its effect upon the other, however gaily he might talk, Bunker continued,
“The three questions are: first, 'What art thou?' second, 'Why comest thou here, O spirit?' third, 'What instructions desirest thou to give me?' Strictly speaking, they ought to be asked in Gaelic, but exceptions have been made on former occasions, and Mac-Dui—who pipes, by the way, in the anteroom—assures me that English will satisfy the Wraith in your case.”
The Baron sniffed and laughed, and twirled up the ends of his mustaches till they presented a particularly desperate appearance. Yet there was a faint intonation of anxiety in his voice as he inquired—
“You vill gom as my friend, of course?”
“I? Quite out of the question, I am sorry to say. To bring a foreigner (as I am supposed to be) would rouse the clan to rebellion. No, Baron, you have a chance of paying a graceful compliment to your host which you must not lose. Ask Mr. Gallosh to share your vigil.”
“Gallosh—he vould not be moch good sopposing—Ach, but nozing vill happen! I vill ask him.”
The pride of Mr. Gallosh on being selected as his lordship's friend on this historic occasion was pleasant to witness.
“It's just a bit of fiddle-de-dee,” he informed his delighted family. “Duncan Gallosh to be looking for bogles is pretty ridiculous—but oh, I can't refuse to disoblige his lordship.”
“I should think not, when he's done you the honor to invite you out of all his friends!” said Mrs. Gallosh warmly. “Eva! do you hear the compliment that's been paid your papa?”
Eva, their fair eldest daughter, came into the room at a run. She had indeed heard (since the news was on every tongue), and impetuously she flung her arms about her father's neck.
“Oh, papa, do him credit!” she cried; “it's like a story come true! What a romantic thing to happen!”
“What a spirit!” her mother reflected proudly. “She is just the girl for a chieftain's bride!”
That very night was chosen for the ceremony, and eleven o'clock found them all assembled breathless in the drawing-room: all, save Lord Tulliwuddle and his host.
“Will they have to wait for a whole hour?” asked Mrs. Gallosh in a low voice.
Indeed they all spoke in subdued accents.
“I am told,” replied the Count, “that the apparition never appears till after midnight has struck. Any time between twelve and one he may be expected.”
“Think of the terrible suspense after twelve has passed!” whispered Eva.
The Count had thought of this.
“I advised Duncan to take his flask,” said Mr. Rentoul, with a solemn wink. “So he'll not be so badly off.”
“Papa would never do such a thing to-night!” cried Eva.
“It's always a kind of precaution,” said the sage.
Presently Count Bunker, who had been imparting the most terrific particulars of former interviews with the Wraith to the younger Galloshes, remarked that he must pass the time by overtaking some pressing correspondence.
“You will forgive me, I hope, for shutting myself up for an hour or so,” he said to his hostess. “I shall come back in time to learn the results of the meeting.”
And with the loss of his encouraging company a greater uneasiness fell upon the party.
Meanwhile, in a vast cavern of darkness, lit only by the solitary candle, the Baron and his host endeavored to maintain the sceptical buoyancy with which they had set forth upon their adventure. But the chilliness of the room (they had no fire, and it was a misty night with a moaning wind), the inordinate quantity of odd-looking shadows, and the profound silence, were immediately destructive to buoyancy and ultimately trying to scepticism.
“I wish ze piper vould play,” whispered the Baron.
“Mebbe he'll begin nearer the time,” his companion suggested.
The Baron shivered. For the first time he had been persuaded to wear the full panoply of a Highland chief, and though he had exhibited himself to the ladies with much pride, and even in the course of dinner had promised Eva Gallosh that he would never again don anything less romantic, he now began to think that a travelling-rug of the Tulliwuddle tartan would prove a useful addition to the outfit on the occasion of a midnight vigil. Also the stern prohibition against talking aloud (corroborated by the piper with many guttural warnings) grew more and more irksome as the night advanced.
“It's an awesome place,” whispered Mr. Gallosh.
“I hardly thought it would have been as lonesome-like.”
There was a tremor in his voice that irritated the Baron.
“Pooh!” he answered, “it is jost vun old piece of hombog! I do not believe in soch things myself.”
“Neither do I, my lord; oh, neither do I; but—would you fancy a dram?”
“Not for me, I zank you,” said his lordship stiffly.
Blessing the foresight of Mr. Rentoul, his host unscrewed his flask and had a generous swig. As he was screwing on the top again, the Baron, in a less haughty voice, whispered,
“Perhaps jost vun leetle taste.”
They felt now for a few minutes more aggressively disposed.
“Ve need not have ze curtain shut,” said the Baron. “Soppose you do draw him?”
Through the gloom Mr. Gallosh took one or two faltering steps.
“Man, it's awful hard to see one's way,” he said nervously.
The Baron took the candle, and with a martial stride escorted him to the window. They pulled aside one corner of the heavy curtain, and then let it fall again and hurried back. So far north there was indeed a gleam of daylight left, but it was such a pale and ghostly ray, and the wreaths of mist swept so eerily and silently across the pane, that candle-light and shadows seemed vastly preferable.
“How much more time will there be?” whispered Mr. Gallosh presently.
“It is twenty-five minutes to twelve.”
“Your lordship! Can we leave at twelve?”
The Baron started.
“Oh, Himmel!” he exclaimed. “Vy did I not realize before? If nozing comes—and nozing vill come—ve most stay till one, I soppose.”
Mr. Gallosh emitted something like a groan.
“Oh my, and that candle will not last more than half an hour at the most!”
“Teufel!” said the Baron. “It vas Bonker did give him to me. He might have made a more proper calculation.”
The prospect was now gloomy indeed. An hour of candle-light had been bad, but an hour of pitch darkness or of mist wreaths would be many times worse.
“A wee tastie more, my lord?” Mr. Gallosh suggested, in a voice whose vibrations he made an effort to conceal.
“Jost a vee,” said his lordship, hardly more firmly.
With a dismal disregard for their suspense the minutes dragged infinitely slowly. The flask was finished; the candle guttered and flickered ominously; the very shadows grew restless.
“There's a lot of secret doors and such like in this part of the house—let's hope there'll be nothing coming through one of them,” said Mr. Gallosh in a breaking voice.
The Baron muttered an inaudible reply, and then with a start their shoulders bumped together.
“Damn it, what's yon!” whispered Mr. Gallosh.
“Ze pipes! Gallosh, how beastly he does play!”
In point of fact the air seemed to consist of only one wailing note.
“Bong!”—they heard the first stroke of midnight on the big clock on the Castle Tower; and so unfortunately had Count Bunker timed the candle that on the instant its flame expired.
“Vithdraw ze curtains!” gasped the Baron.
“I canna, my lord! Oh, I canna!” wailed Mr. Gallosh, breaking out into his broadest native Scotch.
This time the Baron made no movement, and in the palpitating silence the two sat through one long dark minute after another, till some ten of them had passed.
“I shall stand it no more!” muttered the Baron. “Ve vill creep for ze door.”
“My lord, my lord! For maircy's sake gie's a hold of you!” stammered Mr. Gallosh, falling on his hands and knees and feeling for the skirt of his lordship's kilt.
But their flight was arrested by a portent so remarkable that had there been only a single witness one would suppose it to be a figment of his imagination. Fortunately, however, both the Baron and Mr. Gallosh can corroborate each detail. About the middle, apparently, of the wall opposite, an oblong of light appeared in the thickest of the gloom.
“Mein Gott!” cried the Baron.
“It's filled wi' reek!” gasped Mr. Gallosh.
And indeed the space seemed filled with a slowly rising cloud of pungent blue smoke. Then their horrified eyes beheld the figure of an undoubted Being hazily outlined behind the cloud, and at the same time the piper, as if sympathetically aware of the crisis, burst into his most dreadful discords. A yell rang through the gloom, followed by the sounds of a heavy body alternately scuffling across the floor and falling prostrate over unseen furniture. The Baron felt for his host, and realized that this was the escaping Gallosh.
“Tulliwuddle! Speak!” a hollow voice muttered out of the smoke.
The Baron has never ceased to exult over the hardihood he displayed in this unnerving crisis. Rising to his feet and drawing his claymore, he actually managed to stammer out—
“Who—who are you?”
The Being (he could now perceive dimly that it was clad in tartan) answered in the same deep, measured voice—
“Your senses to confound and fuddle,Behold the Wraith of Tulliwuddle!”
This was sufficiently terrifying, one would think, to excuse the Baron for following the example of his host. But, though he found afterwards that he must have perspired freely, he courageously stood his ground.
“Vy have you gomed here?” he demanded in a voice nearly as hollow as the Wraith.
As solemnly as before the spirit replied—
“From Pit that's bottomless and dark—Methinks I hear it shrieking—Hark!”
(The Baron certainly did hear a tumult that might well be termed infernal; though whether it emanated from Mr. Gallosh, fiends, or the piper, he could not at the moment feel certain.)