Kingsborough, after bowing the Prince into the square, tidy hall, asked leave to go up and tell his wife the news. And presently, from above stairs—while Flora and the Stuart waited in the hall—the laird’s wife broke into practical and shrill complaint.
“There’s the danger, Kingsborough; and, fore-bye, there’s so little in the house. Collops, and eggs, and a dish of oatmeal—how should I face the Prince, God bless him, with eggs and collops?”
The Prince laughed suddenly. And Miss MacDonald, standing apart with the unrest and trouble of her deepening regard for the Stuart she had rescued, glanced across at him, wondering that he could be gay; and then she laughed with him, for the tart good-humour of her mother’s voice was practical, and far removed from the glamour the two fugitives had shared.
“You may face me, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, going to the stairfoot. “Collops and eggs are dainties to me these days; and, indeed, I am very hungry.”
So there was a hurried toilet made, and the mistress of the house came down, half of her the laird’s wife, instinct with the dignity that knows its station, the other half a picture of curiosity, surprise, bewildered curtseys, because the Stuart claimed her hospitality.
They supped that night as if they dined in state. To any meal, to any company, the Prince brought that grace which is not lightly won—the grace to touch common things with poetry, and to make a dish of collops as proud as if it were a boar’s head brought in to table by stately lackeys.
Rupert, supping with them, noted less the Prince’s great air of ease—he was accustomed to it long ago—than the punctilious and minute regard he showed to Miss MacDonald. Whenever she moved to leave the room—intent on seeing to the dishes in the kitchen—he rose and bowed her out. When she returned, he rose, and would not be seated till she had taken her place again.
“You’ll turn poor Flora’s head, your Highness,” said Mrs. MacDonald once, after Flora had gone out, some shrewd maternal instinct warring with her loyalty.
“The head that guided me from Uist to Skye, and to your hospitality, would not be lightly turned. I choose to honour your daughter, Mrs. MacDonald, by your leave.”
“But, your Highness, she’s only a daft slip of a girl. I weaned and reared her, and should know.”