Part 25

“A what?” said the astonished Miss Elsie.

“A McHulish. Ay, one of the family. The McHulishes of Kelpie were his own forebears. Eh, but he's a fine lad, and doin' well for the hotel.”

Miss Elsie extinguished a sudden smile with her handkerchief as her mother anxiously inquired, “And are the family as poor as that?”

“But I am not saying he's POOR, ma'am, no,” replied the stranger, with native caution. “What wi' tips and gratooities and percentages on the teekets, it's a bit of money he'll be having in the bank noo.”

The prophecy of Donald McHulish as to the weather came true. The next morning was bright and sunny, and the boat to Kelpie Island--a large yawl--duly received its complement of passengers and provision hampers. The ladies had apparently become more tolerant of their fellow pleasure-seekers, and it appeared that Miss Elsie had even overcome her hilarity at the discovery of what “might have been” a relative in the person of the porter Donald. “I had a long talk with him before breakfast this morning,” she said gayly, “and I know all about him. It appears that there are hundreds of him--all McHulishes--all along the coast and elsewhere--only none of them ever lived ON the island, and don't want to. But he looks more like a 'laird' and a chief than Malcolm, and if it comes to choosing a head of the family, remember, maw, I shall vote solid for him.”

“How can you go on so, Elsie?” said Mrs. Kirkby, with languid protest. “Only I trust you didn't say anything to him of the syndicate. And, thank Heaven! the property isn't here.”

“No; the waiter tells me all the lovely things we had for breakfast came from miles away. And they don't seem to have ever raised anything on the island, from its looks. Think of having to row three miles for the morning's milk!”

There was certainly very little appearance of vegetation on the sterile crags that soon began to lift themselves above the steely waves ahead. A few scraggy trees and bushes, which twisted and writhed like vines around the square tower and crumbling walls of an irregular but angular building, looked in their brown shadows like part of the debris.

“It's just like a burnt-down bone-boiling factory,” said Miss Elsie critically; “and I shouldn't wonder if that really was old McHulish's business. They couldn't have it on the mainland for its being a nuisance.”

Nevertheless, she was one of the first to leap ashore when the yawl's bow grated in a pebbly cove, and carried her pretty but incongruous little slippers through the seaweed, wet sand, and slimy cobbles with a heroism that redeemed her vanity. A scrambling ascent of a few moments brought them to a wall with a gap in it, which gave easy ingress to the interior of the ruins. This was merely a little curving hollow from which the outlines of the plan had long since faded. It was kept green by the brown walls, which, like the crags of the mainland valleys, sheltered it from the incessant strife of the Atlantic gales. A few pale flowers that might have grown in a damp cellar shivered against the stones. Scraps of newspapers, soda-water and beer bottles, highly decorated old provision tins, and spent cartridge cases,--the remains of chilly picnics and damp shooting luncheons,--had at first sight lent color to the foreground by mere contrast, but the corrosion of time and weather had blackened rather than mellowed the walls in a way which forcibly reminded the consul of Miss Elsie's simile of the “burnt-down factory.” The view from the square tower--a mere roost for unclean sea-fowl, from the sides of which rags of peeling moss and vine hung like tattered clothing--was equally depressing. The few fishermen's huts along the shore were built of stones taken from the ruin, and roofed in with sodden beams and timbers in the last stages of deliquescence. The thick smoke of smouldering peat-fires came from the low chimneys, and drifted across the ruins with the odors of drying fish.

“I've just seen a sort of ground-plan of the castle,” said Miss Elsie cheerfully. “It never had a room in it as big as our bedroom in the hotel, and there weren't windows enough to go round. A slit in the wall, about two inches wide by two feet long, was considered dazzling extravagance to Malcolm's ancestors. I don't wonder some of 'em broke out and swam over to America. That reminds me. Who do you suppose is here--came over from the hotel in a boat of his own, just to see maw!”

“Not Malcolm, surely.”

“Not much,” replied Miss Elsie, setting her small lips together. “It's Mr. Custer. He's talking business with her now down on the beach. They'll be here when lunch is ready.”

The consul remembered the romantic plan which the enthusiastic Custer had imparted to him in the foggy consulate at St. Kentigern, and then thought of the matter of fact tourists, the few stolid fishermen, and the prosaic ruins around them, and smiled. He looked up, and saw that Miss Elsie was watching him.

“You know Mr. Custer, don't you?”

“We are old Californian friends.”

“I thought so; but I think he looked a little upset when he heard you were here, too.”

He certainly was a little awkward, as if struggling with some half-humorous embarrassment, as he came forward a few moments later with Mrs. Kirkby. But the stimulation of the keen sea air triumphed over the infelicities of the situation and surroundings, and the little party were presently enjoying their well-selected luncheon with the wholesome appetite of travel and change. The chill damp made limp the napkins and table-cloth, and invaded the victuals; the wind, which was rising, whistled round the walls, and made miniature cyclones of the torn paper and dried twigs around them: but they ate, drank, and were merry. At the end of the repast the two gentlemen rose to light their cigars in the lee of the wall.

“I suppose you know all about Malcolm?” said Custer, after an awkward pause.

“My dear fellow,” said the consul, somewhat impatiently, “I know nothing about him, and you ought to know that by this time.”

“I thought YOUR FRIEND, Sir James, might have told you,” continued Custer, with significant emphasis.

“I have not seen Sir James for two months.”

“Well, Malcolm's a crank--always was one, I reckon, and is reg'larly off his head now. Yes, sir; Scotch whiskey and your friend Sir James finished him. After that dinner at MacFen's he was done for--went wild. Danced a sword-dance, or a strathspey, or some other blamed thing, on the table, and yelled louder than the pipes. So they all did. Jack, I've painted the town red once myself; I thought I knew what a first-class jamboree was: but they were prayer-meetings to that show. Everybody was blind drunk--but they all got over it except HIM. THEY were a different lot of men the next day, as cool and cautious as you please, but HE was shut up for a week, and came out crazy.”

“But what's that to do with his claim?”

“Well, there ain't much use 'whooping up the boys' when only the whooper gets wild.”

“Still, that does not affect any right he may have in the property.”

“But it affects the syndicate,” said Custer gloomily; “and when we found that he was whooping up some shopkeepers and factory hands who claimed to belong to the clan,--and you can't heave a stone at a dog around here without hitting a McHulish,--we concluded we hadn't much use for him ornamentally. So we shipped him home last steamer.”

“And the property?”