“I fear so,” replied Barret, entering the mansion; but before he could proceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from four little Gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather than demanded to know what ailed their cousin—ranging from Archie’s, “What’s wrong with Cousin Milly,” to Flora’s, “Wass wong wid Cuzn Miwy?”
By that time Mrs Gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her, looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maid servants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of which Cousin Milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. The family doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily in attendance.
“So fortunate that the doctor happens to be here,” said the laird, as he led Barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. “No! you don’t drink? Well, well, as you please. Here, Duncan, fetch milk, lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. You must be tired after carrying her so far, even though she is a light weight. But, forgive me; in my anxiety about my poor niece I have quite forgotten to ask either your name or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for a week past. Pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound for ultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for a week at least. We suffer no visitor ever to leave us under that period.”
“You are very kind,” returned the young man, smiling, “and I accept your proffered hospitality most gladly. My name is John Barret. I came to the other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clothes with six companions, spent the night at Cove, and have walked over here to make known these facts to you.”
“You speak in riddles, my young friend,” returned the laird, with an amused look.
“Yet I speak the truth,” returned Barret, who thereupon gave a circumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and his friends.
“Excuse me,” said Mr Gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shouted to a man who was passing at the moment, “Roderick, get the big waggonette ready to go to Cove, and bring it round here as fast as you can. You see,” he added to Barret, “the road is considerably longer than the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all over here without delay. Don’t distress yourself about room. We have plenty of accommodation. But come, I’ll take you to your own room, and when you have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans. Just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrong ideas, that in the circumstances we won’t allow you to leave us for two months. The post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your father and tell him so.”
Thus running on in a rich hearty voice, the hospitable Allan Gordon conducted Barret to a room in the southern wing of the rambling old edifice, and left him there to meditate on his good fortune, and enjoy the magnificent prospect of the island-studded firth or fiord from which the mansion derived its name.
While the waggonette was away for the rest of the wrecked party, the laird, finding that Milly’s arm was not actually broken, though severely bruised, sat down to lunch with restored equanimity, and afterwards drove Barret in his dog-cart to various parts of his estate.
“Your friends cannot arrive for several hours, you see,” he said on starting, “and we don’t dine till seven; so you could not be better engaged than in making acquaintance with the localities of our beautiful island. It may seem a little wild to you in its scenery, but there are thousands of picturesque points, and what painters call ‘bits’ about it, as my sweet little Milly Moss will tell you when she recovers; for she is an enthusiastic painter, and has made innumerable drawings, both in water-colour and oils, since she came to stay here. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr Barret, for rescuing the poor girl from her perilous position.”