CHAPTER VIII

From the platform down to the pier was only some fifty yards, and before

them the travellers perceived an exceedingly smart steam-launch, and

a stout middle-aged gentleman, in a blue serge suit and yachting cap,

advancing from it to greet them. They had only time to observe that

he had a sanguine complexion, iron-gray whiskers, and a wide-open eye,

before he raised the cap and, in a decidedly North British accent, thus

addressed them--

“My lord--ahem!--your lordship, I should say--I presume I've the

pleasure of seeing Lord Tulliwuddle?”

The Count gently pushed his more distinguished friend in front. With

an embarrassment equal to their host's, his lordship bowed and gave his

hand.

“I am ze Tollyvoddle--vary pleased--Mistair Gosh, I soppose?”

“Gallosh, my lord. Very honored to welcome you.”

In the round eyes of Mr. Gallosh, Count Bunker perceived an unmistakable

stare of astonishment at the sound of his lordship's accented voice.

The Baron, on his part, was evidently still suffering from his attack of

stage fright; but again the Count's gifts smoothed the creases from the

situation.

“You have not introduced me to our host, Tulliwuddle,” he said, with a

gay, infectious confidence.

“Ah, so! Zis is my friend Count Bunker--gom all ze vay from Austria,”

responded the Baron, with no glimmer of his customary aplomb.

Making a mental resolution to warn his ally never to say one word more

about his fictitious past than was wrung by cross-examination, the

distinguished-looking Austrian shook his host's hand warmly.

“From Austria via London,” he explained in his pleasantest manner. “I

object altogether to be considered a foreigner, Mr. Gallosh; and, in

fact, I often tell Tulliwuddle that people will think me more English

than himself. The German fashions so much in vogue at Court are

transforming the very speech of your nobility. Don't you sometimes

notice it?”

Thus directly appealed to, Mr. Gallosh became manifestly perplexed.

“Yes--yes, you're right in a way,” he pronounced cautiously. “I suppose

they do that. But will ye not take a seat? This is my launch. Hi!

Robert, give his lordship a hand on board!”

Two mariners and a second tall footman assisted the guests to embark,

and presently they were cutting the waters of the loch at a merry pace.

In the prow, like youth, the Baron insisted upon sitting with folded

arms and a gloomy aspect; and as his nerve was so patently disturbed,

the Count decidedly approved of an arrangement which left his host and

himself alone together in the stern. In his present state of mind the

Baron was capable of any indiscretion were he compelled to talk; while,

silent and brooding in isolated majesty, he looked to perfection the

part of returning exile. So, evidently, thought Mr. Gallosh.

“His lordship is looking verra well,” he confided to the Count in a

respectfully lowered voice.

“The improvement has been remarkable ever since his foot touched his

native heath.”

“You don't say so,” said Mr. Gallosh, with even greater interest. “Was

he delicate before?”

“A London life, Mr. Gallosh.”

“True--true, he'll have been busy seeing his friends; it'll have been

verra wearing.”

“The anxiety, the business of being invested, and so on, has upset him

a trifle. You must put down any little--well, peculiarity to that, Mr.

Gallosh.”

“I understand--aye, umh'm, quite so. He'll like to be left to himself,

perhaps?”

“That depends on his condition,” said the Count diplomatically.

“It's a great responsibility for a young man; yon's a big property to

look after,” observed Mr. Gallosh in a moment.

“You have touched the spot!” said the Count warmly. “That is, in

fact, the chief cause of Tulliwuddle's curious moodiness ever since

he succeeded to the title. He feels his responsibilities a little too

acutely.”

Again Mr. Gallosh ruminated, while his guest from the corner of his eye

surveyed him shrewdly.

“My forecast was wonderfully accurate,” he said to himself.

The silence was first broken by Mr. Gallosh. As if thinking aloud, he

remarked--

“I was awful surprised to hear him speak! It's the Court fashion, you

say?”

“Partly that; partly a prolonged residence on the Continent in his

youth. He acquired his accent then; he has retained it for fashion's

sake,” explained the Count, who thought it as well to bolster up the

weakest part of his case a little more securely.

With this prudent purpose, he added, with a flattering air of taking his

host into his aristocratic confidence--

“You will perhaps be good enough to explain this to the friends and

dependants Lord Tulliwuddle is about to meet? A breath of unsympathetic

criticism would grieve him greatly if it came to his ears.”

“Quite, quite,” said Mr. Gallosh eagerly. “I'll make it all right. I

understand the sentiment pairfectly. It's verra natural--verra natural

indeed.”

At that moment the Baron started from his reverie with an affrighted

air.

“Vat is zat strange sound!” he exclaimed.

The others listened.

“That's just the pipes, my lord,” said Mr. Gallosh. “They're tuning up

to welcome you.”

His lordship stared at the shore ahead of them.

“Zere are many peoples on ze coast!” he cried. “Vat makes it for?”

“They've come to receive you,” his host explained. “It's just a little

spontaneous demonstration, my lord.”

His lordship's composure in no way increased.

“It was Mrs. Gallosh organized a wee bit entertainment on his lordship's

landing,” their host explained confidentially to the Count. “It's just

informal, ye understand. She's been instructing some of the tenants--and

ma own girls will be there--but, oh, it's nothing to speak of. If he

says a few words in reply, that'll be all they'll be expecting.”

The strains of “Tulliwuddle wha hae” grew ever louder and, to an

untrained ear, more terrific. In a moment they were mingled with a

clapping of hands and a Highland cheer, the launch glided alongside the

pier, and, supported on his faithful friend's arm, the panic-stricken

Tulliwuddle staggered ashore. Before his dazed eyes there seemed to be

arrayed the vastest and most barbaric concourse his worst nightmare had

ever imagined. Six pipers played within ten paces of him, each of them

arrayed in the full panoply of the clan; at least a dozen dogs yelped

their exultation; and from the surrounding throng two ancient men

in tartan and four visions in snowy white stepped forth to greet the

distinguished visitors.

The first hitch in the proceedings occurred at this point. According to

the unofficial but carefully considered programme, the pipers ought to

have ceased their melody; but, whether inspired by ecstatic loyalty or

because the Tulliwuddle pibroch took longer to perform than had been

anticipated, they continued to skirl with such vigor that expostulations

passed entirely unheard. Under the circumstances there was nothing for

it but shouting, and in a stentorian yell Mr. Gallosh introduced his

wife and three fair daughters.

Thereupon Mrs. Gallosh, a broad-beamed matron whose complexion

contrasted pleasantly with her costume, delivered the following

oration--

“Lord Tulliwuddle, in the name of the women of Hechnahoul--I may say in

the name of the women of all the Highlands--oor ain Heelands, my lord”

(this with the most insinuating smile)--“I bid you welcome to your

ancestral estates. Remembering the conquests your ancestors used to

make both in war and in a gentler sphere” (Mrs. Gallosh looked archness

itself), “we ladies, I suppose, should regard your home-coming with some

misgivings; but, my lord, every bonny Prince Charlie has his bonny Flora

Macdonald, and in this land of mountain, mist, and flood, where 'Dark

Ben More frowns o'er the wave,' and where 'Ilka lassie has her laddie,'

you will find a thousand romantic maidens ready to welcome you as Ellen

welcomed Fitz-James! For centuries your heroic race has adorned the

halls and trod the heather of Hechnahoul, and for centuries more we hope

to see the offspring of your lordship and some winsome Celtic maid rule

these cataracts and glens!”

At this point the exertion of shouting down six bagpipes in active

eruption caused a temporary cessation of the lady's eloquence, and the

pause was filled by the cheers of the crowd led by the “Hip-hip-hip!”

of Count Bunker, and by the broken and fortunately inaudible protests of

the embarrassed father of future Tulliwuddles. In a moment Mrs. Gallosh

had resumed--

“Lord Tulliwuddle, though I myself am only a stranger to your clan, your

Highland heart will feel reassured when I mention that I belong through

my grandmother to the kindred clan of the Mackays!” (“Hear, hear!” from

two or three ladies and gentlemen, evidently guests of the Gallosh.) “We

are but visitors at Hechnahoul, yet we assure you that no more devoted

hearts beat in all Caledonia! Lord Tulliwuddle, we welcome you!”

“Put your hand on your heart and bow,” whispered Bunker. “Keep on bowing

and say nothing!”

Mechanically the bewildered Baron obeyed, and for a few moments

presented a spectacle not unlike royalty in procession.

But as some reply from him had evidently been expected at this point,

and the pipers had even ceased playing lest any word of their chief's

should be lost, a pause ensued which might have grown embarrassing had

not the Count promptly stepped forward.

“I think,” he said, indicating two other snow-white figures who held

gigantic bouquets, “that a pleasant part of the ceremony still remains

before us.”

With a grateful glance at this discerning guest, Mrs. Gallosh thereupon

led forward her two youngest daughters (aged fifteen and thirteen), who,

with an air so delightfully coy that it fell like a ray of sunshine

on the poor Baron's heart, presented him with their flowery symbols of

Hechnahoul's obeisance to its lord.

His consternation returned with the advance of the two ancient

clansmen who, after a guttural panegyric in Gaelic, offered him further

symbols--a claymore and target, very formidable to behold. All these

gifts having been adroitly transferred to the arms of the footmen by the

ubiquitous Count, the Baron's emotions swiftly passed through another

phase when the eldest Miss Gallosh, aged twenty, with burning eyes

and the most distracting tresses, dropped him a sweeping courtesy and

offered a final contribution--a fiery cross, carved and painted by her

own fair hands.

A fresh round of applause followed this, and then a sudden silence fell

upon the assembly. All eyes were turned upon the chieftain: not even a

dog barked: it was the moment of a lifetime.

“Can you manage a speech, old man?” whispered Bunker.

“Ach, no, no, no! Let me escape. Oh, let me fly!”

“Bury your face in your hands and lean on my shoulder,” prompted the

Count.

This stage direction being obeyed, the most effective tableau

conceivable was presented, and the climax was reached when the Count,

after a brief dumb-show intended to indicate how vain were Lord

Tulliwuddle's efforts to master his emotion, spoke these words in the

most thrilling accents he could muster:

“Fair ladies and brave men of Hechnahoul! Your chief, your friend,

your father requests me to express to you the sentiments which his

over-wrought emotions prevent him from uttering himself. On his behalf I

tender to his kind and courteous friends, Mr., Mrs., and the fair maids

Gallosh, the thanks of a long-absent exile returned to his native land

for the welcome they have given him! To his devoted clan he not only

gives his thanks, but his promise that all rents shall be reduced by one

half--so long as he dwells among them!” (Tumultuous applause, disturbed

only by a violent ejaculation from a large man in knickerbockers whom

Bunker justly judged to be the factor.)

“With his last breath he shall perpetually thunder:

Ahasheen--comara--mohr!”

The Tulliwuddle slogan, pronounced with the most conscientious accuracy

of which a Sassenach was capable, proved as effective a curtain as he

had anticipated; and amid a perfect babel of cheering and bagpiping the

chieftain was led to his host's carriage.