The Duke came lazily down the steps, threw a glance among his clan and tenantry, cast his plaid, with a fine grace, about his shoulders, touching his bonnet with a finger as hat or bonnet rose in salutation, and he went fair up in the middle of the street.
The conversation ceased, and people looked after him as on an Emperor.
“He’s going to London on Tuesday, I hear,” said Major Hall to Mr. Spencer. It was the Majors great pride to know the prospective movements at the Castle sooner than any one else, and he was not above exchanging snuff-mulls with Wat Thomson, the ducal boot-brusher, if ducal news could only be got thereby.
“London, London; did you say, London, sir?” said the innkeeper, looking again with an envy after his Grace, the name at once stirring in him the clime from which he was an exile. And the smell of peaty clothes smote him on the nostril for the first time that day. He had been so many Sundays accustomed to it that as a rule he no longer perceived it, but now it rose in contrast to the beefy, beer-charged, comfortable odours of his native town.
“Ah! he’s going on Tuesday,” said the Paymaster, “but when Duke George’s gone, there are plenty of Dukes to take his place. Every officer in his corps will be claiming a full command, quarrelling among themselves. There’ll be Duke Islay——”
“Hus—s—sh!” whispered Major Hall discreetly from the corner of his mouth. “Here’s his young fellow coming up behind.” Then loudly, “It’s a very fine season indeed, Captain Campbell, a very fine season.”
Young Islay came forward with a salute for the Captain and his sister. He was Gilian’s age and size, but of a different build, broader at the shoulder, fuller at the chest, black of hair, piercing of eye, with just enough and no more of a wholesome conceit of himself to give his Majesty’s uniform justice. When he spoke it was with a clear and manly tone deep in the chest.
He shook hands all round, he was newly come home from the lowlands, his tunic was without speck or crease, his chin was smooth, his strong hands were white; as Gilian returned his greeting he felt himself in an enviable and superior presence.
Promptly, too, there came like a breath upon glass a remembrance of the ensign of the same corps who kissed his hand to Nan on just such another day of sunshine at Boshang Gate.
“Glad to see you back, Islay,” said the Paymaster, proffering his Sabbath snuff-mull. “Faith, you do credit to the coat!” And he cast an admiring eye upon the young soldier.