Dick Merriwell Abroad; Or, The Ban of the Terrible Ten, Page 3

  CHAPTER III.

  AT BEN CLEUCH INN.

  The Ben Cleuch Inn at Lochleven was kept by the Widow Myles, a plain,kind, motherly soul, the best part of whose life lay behind her.

  The inn stood by the highway that wound close along the shore of thewooded lake, about a mile from Kinross.

  In summers, visitors to Lochleven desirous of seeing Queen Mary's islandprison often patronized the little inn, and the widow thus derivedrevenue enough to keep her in frugal comfort through the long winters.

  In November the strangers were few and far between, and glad the widowwas when one dropped in for a meal or a night's lodging. Doubly glad wasshe when two strangers, a young man and a beautiful girl of sixteen,came in a carriage to her door and bargained with her for rooms andboard for several days, saying they expected to remain three days, andmight, if they liked it, stay a great deal longer.

  The landlady did her very best to please them, for they did not askher to make her price smaller when she named it, and they readily paidfor three days in advance. The girl, as Widow Myles could not helpnoticing, was very pretty, while the young man--her brother--looked paleand wearied and had about his face something indicative of weaknessand irresolution. Indeed, he seemed on the verge of illness, and hepermitted his sister to do most of the business with the landlady.

  On the afternoon of the third day after the arrival of these guestsanother stranger appeared and stopped at the inn. He came afoot and worea long, black cloak with a cape, while his wide-brimmed hat was pulledlow over his eyes. His complexion was dark, and on his upper lip therewas the shadowy outline of a new-born mustache.

  Although the sun was shining without, there was snow on the ground andthe air was nipping cold, which led the stranger to hold out his handsto the warmth of the widow's cheerful open fire, in the little sittingroom, having removed his gloves and placed them with his hat on thefloor at his side.

  "It's cauld to-day, sir," said the widow. "Th' sun i' ower bright, butthe air ha' a nippin' in it."

  "Indeed it is cold, madam," said the young stranger, in a pleasantvoice. "It is far too cold for comfort. It must be frightful up here inthe dead of winter."

  "Oh, it's na sa bad--na sa bad," protested the widow. "Wi' a guide roofower one's haid an' a warm fire to sit near, th' winter soon runs awa'.Ha' ye come fa'?"

  "Not very far," was the answer. "To me it would be a great favor, mygood woman, if you could give me a drink of something warm to start myblood."

  "Tea?" suggested Widow Myles.

  The visitor shook his head.

  "I would prefer something warmer than that," he said. "Have you anywhisky in the house?"

  "I canna tell. I much doot i' I ha'!"

  "Because if you have," said the stranger, jingling some money in hishand, "I'll pay well for a stiff drink."

  "I may ha' a wee drap," confessed the landlady. "I sometime' ha' it farme'cine."

  "It is for medicine I need it now, so if you will hasten, madam, youneed but to name your price."

  The widow disappeared. After about ten minutes she reappeared with hotwater, whisky and sugar, at sight of which the face of the strangershowed his satisfaction. Deftly and with loss of little time thestranger mixed his drink, tasted it, smacked his lips over it and thenasked the widow to name her price.

  She declined to state a price, whereupon he placed two pieces of moneyin her hand, and when she saw their value she showered him with thanksand called down blessings on his head.

  In this manner the stranger placed himself right with the widow, whom heengaged in further conversation as he stretched his booted feet to thefire and sipped his steaming drink.

  "At this season I presume few are the visitors who come here to stop?"he questioned.

  "Few ye ma' weel say," she nodded.

  "Is your house empty at the present time?"

  "Na, na! not quite sa bad as that."

  "Then you have some guests?"

  "I ha' twa."

  "Two? How long have they been with you, madam?"

  "They came three days gone, sir."

  "And is it long you expect them to remain?"

  "As to that I canna tell. When they came they said it might be they wudstay three days or more; but it is now the third day an' they have naspoke of leavin'."

  "I hope my curiosity you will pardon, but it seems strange any oneshould come here at this season to remain so long. Where are they from,if you don't mind telling?"

  "I ha' na reason to know, for I didna ask them, but London I think haseen them none sa lang ago."

  "They are English?"

  The widow slowly shook her head.

  "They are na like th' English. I think they may be fra America."

  "I presume they are man and wife?"

  "Na, na; they are brother an' sister. A bonnie lassie is the girl, sir;but her brother seems na well."

  "Not well?"

  "Na, sir. He keeps over close to his room. If they came to see QueenMary's prison they ha' not yet accomplisht it."

  "It is not likely Americans would take so much trouble to get a look atQueen Mary's prison, madam. It must be they are here for some otherpurpose."

  "Then what it can be heaven knows! Once I said to the lassie that herbrother were fra too pale, an' I thought a wee bit o' whisky might beguide fa him; but she went white an' trembly an' begged me na to gi' himone drop o' it. She made me promise if he came and asked for it I wudsay there was naething o' th' kind i' th' house. I ken she is feared toha' him drink it."

  The stranger smiled a little, and there seemed something a triflesinister about his face in that moment.

  "It is a man poor in command of himself that cannot drink when he likesand leave it alone when he chooses," he declared.

  "Many a guide man canna do it."

  "Well, I don't understand them. What is the name of this unfortunateman, if you don't mind telling?"

  "It is Budthorne."

  "Rather odd name."

  "But I ha' na asked your name, sir. You are na English yoursel'?"

  "No."

  "Nor still American. I think you must be----"

  "French? Well, you are right, madam. I am Henri Clairvaux, of Paris.Think not I am curious or prying. These questions I have asked merelythe time to pass. I am walking through Scotland, but the weather isgetting too cold, and I soon shall depart for the south. In winter Imuch prefer Italy to your bleak north country here."

  At this the widow bridled a bit.

  "Scotland alwa' ha' been guide enow fa me!" she exclaimed. "I ha' tooknotice it is alwa' th' weak that prefer the warm countries i' th'winter. I ha' been thinkin' ma'hap it wud be well fa th' young manupstair to go south fa th' winter time."

  Outside the door there was rustling. The door was opened and a musical,feminine voice called to the widow.

  The man in the cloak had his back toward the door, and he did not move.

  Excusing herself, the landlady hurried from the room. The moment she wasgone the stranger picked up his hat and gloves and hastily rose.

  "It is well enough that she should not see me now," he muttered. "I mustget out at once."

  He clapped his hat on his head and pulled it hard down, taking pains tomake the limber brim lap over his face. Then he swiftly crossed the roomto the door, buttoning his cloak over his breast.

  Pausing at the door, he listened.

  "The coast is clear," he whispered; after which he stepped briskly outto the front door.

  Just as he was passing through that door the girl came from another roomand saw his vanishing back. She clutched at the widow, who had followedher.

  "That man?" she cried, in a trembling, frightened voice. "Who is he?"

  "He ga' his name as Henri Clairvaux, o' Paris," answered the WidowMyles.

  "And lied!" panted the girl. After which she fled up the stairs to theroom of her brother, her face ashen pale.