CHAPTER XIIITHE PASSING OF MACKINNONA chamber-maid at the St. Enoch's Hotel in Glasgow brought a sheaf of letters to Rosmead along with shaving-water on Monday morning at half-past seven.He glanced over them with quick carelessness, and, finding one small, square, black-edged envelope, addressed in a handwriting that he did not know, he quickly broke the seal, which bore an unfamiliar coat of arms. Once more his pulses beat high, for this was the first time Isla Mackinnon had written to him, and over a man in love the handwriting of the woman he loves wields a surprising power.Thus did Isla write to Rosmead, and the few simple words meant more from her than whole pages of words from most women. She did not possess the gift of expression, but could only write of real things, and when these were done with the letter came to an end:--"ACHREE,Saturday night."DEAR MR. ROSMEAD,--I am writing to say that I hope--that we all hope--that you will be able to spare the time to come out to Lochearnhead on Monday to attend my father's funeral."It is arranged for twelve o'clock from here, and will arrive at Balquhidder Kirkyard at half-past one, which suits the trains from both the north and the south."Perhaps you do not know the customs of our country, but it would please me if you would take one of the cords of the coffin as they lower it into the grave. These are taken by relatives and friends only, and, God knows, you have been a friend. It is arranged that if you are there some one will give you your place."My uncle, Sir Thomas Mackinnon, arrived from London to-day. He is my father's only living relative."Perhaps you will find it convenient either to come by the train or to drive in your motor straight to Balquhidder, in which case I should not see you."Please to tell your mother that by Thursday of this week I shall have gone back to Creagh or shall have gone away somewhere else. What I really mean to say is that Achree will be ready for her return. I cannot say more."I am, sincerely yours,"ISLA MACKINNON."Rosmead forgot all about his shaving-water until it grew cold, and he had to ring for more.He had longed with a great longing to go out to the burying of Mackinnon, but he had not contemplated doing so without invitation. And, lo! the invitation had come from Isla herself, couched in warm, friendly terms which no man--least of all Rosmead--could resist.There was a glow at his heart as he stood before the mirror, attending to the duties of his toilet, noticing for the first time, with a kind of silent rage, the lines on his face and the evidences of middle-age beginning to creep about his mouth and temples. He wanted to be for ever young for her dear sake.She had, in the midst of her forlorn grief, taken time and thought to write to him to offer him what he understood was a family privilege, and he would go--oh, yes, there was no car fast enough to take him--right to her door, to her very feet!Away with the train or car that would convey him only to Balquhidder when Isla had expressed even the faintest desire to see him! It would be their last meeting until he could return from America, for on Thursday he must set out upon the journey which never in all his life had he been so loth to take.He pondered on all the details of the day in front of him, and, by copious use of the telephone in his room, had arranged them all before he went down to breakfast. He did not wait for his sisters. There was nothing to hurry them in the mornings in Glasgow, and generally they breakfasted with their mother in her sitting-room.At nine o'clock, dressed in full motor garb, he tapped at his mother's door."I have had a letter from Miss Mackinnon this morning, asking me to go out to the funeral at Achree, and I'm going now. It will take me quite all my time to get there by noon."Mrs. Rosmead smiled upon him, well pleased. She did not ask to see the letter. She only bade him take care of himself and give her love to Isla, and to assure her that there was no need to hurry away from Achree. He felt glad that neither of his sisters had yet appeared. He left a message for them and went off to the waiting car, ready for what lay in front of him.It was not a very pleasant day in the city. There was a light fog hanging over it, through which a fine rain was beginning to filter dismally. But when they got away from the river-bed the rain stopped, and, though the sky remained grey and pensive, it was fair overhead.No sun shone all the way, and when he came to the hills Rosmead thought it was an ideal day for a burying--just typical of the grief which overshadowed a whole glen. The sky was grey and very soft, and a mist lay upon the hills, while the heaviness of unshed tears was in the soundless air.About eleven o'clock Rosmead, who had had a splendid run without mishap or stop, swept by the incomparable beauty of Loch Lubnaig, through bonnie Strathyre, and down upon the valley of the Earn.Long before he reached it he was struck by the signs of activity on the usually quiet and lonely road. All sorts and conditions of vehicles moved towards Glenogle, containing all sorts and conditions of people. At the hotel door there was quite a medley of waiting traps. Rosmead drew up there and went inside to remove his motor garb and to put on the decent mourning, safely stowed at the back of the car.He looked graver and older in the tall silk hat and dark overcoat with the black band on the arm, and he was respectfully recognized by many.The story of how of their own accord the Americans had vacated Achree in order that the family might have it to themselves for such a great occasion had got about in the glens. It had filled all who heard it with a sort of personal gratitude and appreciation that was bound to have an aftermath. They did not love the stranger--especially the American stranger--in these remote Highland glens, though his money was sometimes necessary to the comfort of their existence. They accepted him as inevitable, like motor-cars, and new railway lines cutting into their fair hill-sides and ugly viaducts spanning their wimpling burns--all necessary evils which must be endured with fortitude.Driving very slowly towards Achree, Rosmead was astonished at the increasing number of people both in vehicles and on foot. He was unaware that in Scotland a burying--especially the burying of a great chief--is a public event, in which every man, woman, and child of the district takes a personal interest. Everybody came as a matter of course to see Mackinnon of Achree laid to rest, and all were made welcome, though no invitations, in the ordinary sense, had been sent out.In some doubt as to whether he should take his car up to the house, Rosmead addressed himself to a policeman--a most unusual spectacle in Glenogle--who was on duty at the gate."Mr. Rosmead, sir, I think?" said the man, touching his hat."Yes, my man.""Then you are to go up, please. I had my orders this morning. They are expecting you at the house."Rosmead gave the order to drive slowly, and presently he came within sight of the house where the cortège stood before the open door. There were two other cars, and the Garrion roans were conspicuous at the bend of the avenue.Rosmead alighted and walked over to the door where Diarmid was on the look-out."Mr. Rosmead, sir. I haf a message from Miss Isla for you, if it pe that she would not see you pefore you leave.""Yes, my man.""She says will you please come pack to the house if you can spare the time after you haf peen at Balquhidder, as she would like to speak with you, whatefer."Rosmead silently nodded. Had the American boat sailed that very afternoon it is safe to say that one passenger at least would have failed to take his berth.Diarmid, very respectful with a touch of gratitude in his mien, waited upon Rosmead and finally ushered him to the library where a small company were already assembled for the service that was to take place at a quarter to twelve.Malcolm, very pale and slightly haggard, came forward immediately to greet Rosmead, whom he introduced to his uncle."Happy to meet you, sir," said Sir Tom, as his great hand grasped the American's slender one in a grip of iron. "We, as a family, will not readily forget your kindness at this time to the son and daughter of my poor brother. It was a Christian act, sir--a Christian act."Rosmead asked him not to say more, passing it over as if ashamed that so much should be made of it. Then he stepped back and looked about at the people in the room. Some of them he recognized, but Neil Drummond, sourly resentful of his intimate presence there, unaware, of course, that he came by Isla's special invitation, did not suffer his eyes to alight on his face.Rosmead was impressed by the circumstance that there were no flowers upon the coffin--only the Union Jack and the old soldier's sword, to the hilt of which was tied a bunch of white heather. All was simple, severe, and impressive. The short service was quickly over. Then a sudden, weird sound broke upon the listening ears--the wailing of the pipes, which filled the soundless air with a melancholy music.All this time Isla had not appeared, and Rosmead strained his eyes in vain for a sight of her. But it was denied him, and he had not even asked for her welfare.It was a great burying, the like of which had not been seen in the glens for many a year. As the cortège, half a mile long, slowly defiled through Lochearnhead it was joined by a score or more of vehicles that waited it there. And so it was all the way to the Braes of Balquhidder.Rosmead, who had left his car at Achree and entered one of the mourning coaches, felt the impressiveness of the whole scene, and was almost moved to tears when they turned away from the grave to the sweet haunting strains of the "Flowers of the Forest".As the mourners fell away slowly from the grave-side some one touched his arm."I shall be glad if you will drive back to Achree with me, Mr. Rosmead," said the voice of Sir Thomas Mackinnon. "I should like to have a little talk with you."This was noted by the curious, and it was afterwards said that more attention could not have been paid to the American if he had been sib to the Mackinnons. But there was not one who added that the attention was misplaced."A sad affair, isn't it, for those who are left?" said Sir Thomas as they drove slowly away, "for my niece especially. You see, her father was her life-work, so to speak, and now that it is taken out of her hands she will feel stranded for a bit.""Miss Mackinnon is one who will always find something to occupy her heart and her hands," said Rosmead.Uncle Tom assented."They tell me you have Achree on an option, Mr. Rosmead," he said--and it was evident that that was the thing uppermost in his mind. "I hope that you like the place, and feel minded to stop on.""I should like to, but I have not yet had any conversation about it. I shall have to see Mr. Mackinnon to-day, as I leave Scotland on Thursday.""You leave Scotland? But I understood that you were here indefinitely.""No. The business which brought me is concluded, and there is work lying to my hand in America.""Then, do you leave your ladies here?""Yes, for six months. Our tenancy of Achree does not expire till the end of October, and nothing, therefore, need be decided now. But I think that my mother likes the place so well that we might take a lease of it--that is, if Mr. Mackinnon does not wish possession for himself. Will the General's death alter nothing?""Nothing. They can't afford to live in Achree--and that's the plain truth of it, Mr. Rosmead. In these days very few of us can afford to live in the place of our fathers. Here am I stranded in a London house, like a bull in a china shop. I loathe the life, but I haven't any choice. A relation of my wife offered the loan of the house for the season: my girls had to come out, and we couldn't afford to refuse. I don't know what's to become of us now, as our mourning will stop all the gaiety. But about the Achree Mackinnons? It is a most unfortunate thing that Malcolm resigned his commission just when he did. Of course, it was on his father's account. The best thing he could do would be to try and get back to the Army. I haven't approached him on the subject--that is, closely. He seems uncommonly touchy about it. So does Isla. But it stands to reason and common sense that he can't loaf about Glenogle.""No. I can imagine that would be quite impossible. But if he does not return to the Army he will probably seek something else. There is room in the colonies for such as he.""Is there?" inquired Sir Tom with the doubtful air of a man who would be difficult to convince. "Well, they present a problem. She must come back with me to her aunt in London. I don't see what else is to be done with her. She can't remain eating her heart out in that God-forsaken place up at Creagh. I'll never believe anything but that the change killed my brother Donald."Rosmead recalled the picture of the General's prostrate figure on the narrow hearthrug at Creagh, the letter clasped like a vice in the poor dead fingers, and he had his own thoughts. Such at least had not been Isla's opinion, but it was certainly no part of his business to stir up strife or sow the seeds of suspicion among the members of the family, who were evidently outside the real issue of the case.Sir Tom was very friendly and communicative, talking to the strange American as if he had been at least an intimate friend of the family--an attitude which was largely due to what Isla had said about the vacating of Achree.Just a few of the mourners went back to the house for tea, and perhaps to hear whether there was a will. But, though Cattanach was present, there was no mention of a will, and it was speedily whispered about that the General had left none. It was quite well known that for five years at least he had not been capable of transacting business, and, as he had had practically no money to dispose of, and the estate had to pass in entail to his only son, a will would have been superfluous.But it was of Isla that most of them were thinking, and when they watched the slender, black-robed figure so quietly dispensing tea in the drawing-room, assisted by Kitty Drummond, they wondered what her future was to be.Neil Drummond was there also, and had taken up his position close to the tea-table, with the result that Rosmead could not get near for a private word.But his mind was made up that he would not leave Achree until he had seen Isla by herself to bid her good-bye.He was in no haste--he never was in any of the affairs of life--having proved that most things come to the man who bides his time. But perhaps just there he made one mistake, arising from ignorance of the quick Celtic temperament, which cannot brook slowness or delay.Isla's eyes met his just once across the room, and there was quite clearly a message for him in the look. It bade him wait.When all the tea had been served, and she had answered as composedly as she could the remarks made to her by Neil, she rose and quite deliberately walked across the room to the place where Rosmead stood talking to her Uncle Tom."You have a long way to go back to Glasgow, Mr. Rosmead. Are you in haste to leave us?""Not in haste to leave you, but I must be going soon. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?""Yes, it is why I have come. Will you come down to the library?" she said.And Neil Drummond, with eyes that had something of the baleful glow of the watch-fires in them, had the chagrin of beholding them leave the room together, as if it were quite a matter of course."Don t you think that American bounder has presumed a lot to-day, Malcolm?" he said gruffly to Mackinnon, who happened to pass near him at the moment.Malcolm looked the surprise he felt."I don't think so, Neil. He has been most awfully kind, don't you know? I dare say Isla has some message for his mother about when they can come back to the house."Neil tried to accept this perfectly feasible explanation, but if he had seen the two talking earnestly together at the library window his mind would undoubtedly have been most seriously disturbed."It was so very kind of you to come to-day and take all the trouble for us," said Isla, as the door closed upon them. "Do you still intend to sail away on Thursday?""On Friday. My boat sails from Liverpool," he corrected gently. "I go to London on Thursday.""And when will you come back?""Not before Christmas, I am afraid. I've had more than six months' furlough already, you see, and I haven't the ghost of an excuse for stopping on this side any longer.""Except your mother. You will not like leaving her, I am sure.""I don't. But she is accustomed to my journeyings to and fro in the earth and up and down in it. I shall be very happy, thinking of her here in this house. She has never felt so much at home since she left Virginia. I have had a talk with your brother, and it is practically settled that we take a two years' lease of Achree. I was fortunate in finding Cattanach here to-day also, and so the thing can be put on a proper basis without delay.""Yes," said Isla, and her tone had a singularly spiritless note in it.He looked steadily into her face, wondering just how much he might say, or whether he might say anything at all. But she was not looking at him. She was thinking how strange it would be to realize that this man had gone away clean out of the Glen, and that soon the ocean would roll between him and her. She had never felt so in her life about any human being outside of her family circle, and she was disturbed."I hope that you will not think I presume if I ask what is going to become of you in the immediate future," said Rosmead presently. "Will you go back to London with your uncle, as he seems to expect?""No, I shall simply go back to Creagh," she answered steadily.Rosmead was silent for a moment, trying to picture the life she would lead there, alone and without occupation, in the company of her brother from whom her heart was estranged."To Creagh? It seems impossible! I can't bear to think of you there. It is unthinkable!""Oh, no--nothing is unthinkable, or even impossible. People can do anything in this world--anything," she answered. "I have proved it.""Then, shall I find you at Creagh when I come back?" he asked with an odd persistence, his eyes cleaving to her face.A tremor ran over it, and had he but known it the opportunity was his. Her heart turned--nay, cried out to him. Had he spoken the word then she would have gone away with him without a question or a doubt.But he blundered on, longing for her mightily, yet wholly afraid, believing that he dared not begin to woo her until he had given her heart time to recover from its present shock.Some one tapped lightly at the door."It is au revoir, then, not good-bye," he said with an effort, and held out his hand.She gave hers to his warm, kindly clasp, and her eyes, over which the veil had already fallen, uplifted themselves to his."I hope it is, but six months is a long time in life. So many things can happen. I hope you will have a safe journey and a successful issue to all your affairs, and--and that the difficulties you spoke of will all be swept from your path.""Some of them are big enough. But when I come back I will address myself to the biggest undertaking of my life, and the dearest."The door was opened, and Malcolm's voice announced that the motor was waiting outside.Rosmead raised her hand to his lips and turned away, scarcely master of himself.Isla spoke no more. But, for once in his life, Peter Rosmead had erred on the side of caution. The incomparable chance had been his, and he had passed it by.When the door had closed upon them Isla leaned her head against the black oak of the window shutters, and a little sobbing breath that was almost a cry, broke from her lips.Her last prop had gone, but none knew--least of all the man whose one desire on earth was to take her to his heart.CHAPTER XIVFAMILY COUNSELS"And now," said Sir Tom with a large and partially reproachful cheerfulness, "we had better address ourselves to the future of you two children and try to find out just where we are."He was neither unfeeling nor unsympathetic, but his opinion was that grief and the lassitude which treads close upon it should in due season have an end. The affairs of life cannot stand still, even when death intervenes. They can only be held in abeyance for a little space.Now that Mackinnon, full of years and honour and followed by the lamentations and the love of all his people, rich and poor, had been carried to his last rest, he must become a tender memory to those who were left.They had dined together quite alone, and now they sat in the library, where pipe and tobacco and cigars were on the table, as yet, however, untouched.Sir Tom was getting his pipe ready a trifle absently, his eyes fixed on his niece's face. He was troubled about her. Her white face and her deep, grief-haunted eyes, which no man could fathom, disconcerted and disturbed him. He loved her dearly, but he did not always understand her. Malcolm's apparently simpler nature was better within his grasp and ken.It was assuredly Malcolm's place, as the head of the house, to make some suggestion or statement, but silence lay upon him heavily, and he seemed ill at ease."Has neither of you anything to say? I must be going back to London to-morrow, if I have to go alone. I'll wait till Wednesday, if I am to take Isla. What do you say, my dear?"Isla, a slim, black figure with white, nervous hands interlaced upon her lap, lifted her eyes to his face from where she sat at the other side of the fireplace."No, thank you, Uncle Tom, I will not go to London just now.""But, my dear, your aunt will scold me no end if I don't bring you. Her last words were that I was to bring you back with me. If she had been well enough nothing would have kept her from Achree just now--and you know it. But I left her in bed, and the doctor forbade the journey. It is nothing serious, only requiring a little care. Fact is, these monkeys have been running her off her feet lately. Three or four o'clock every morning before she got to her bed after their dancing and nonsense. The life of a chaperon in the London season is not a happy one.""Give Aunt Jean my love, and tell her I can't come just now. Later, perhaps----""Later! Heaven only knows where we may be later. Your aunt talks of some seaside place on the Brittany or Normandy coast--some God-forsaken hole, where a man can't get a decent meal of meat. Gad, what it is to be hard-up! Well, and if you won't come to us may I ask without impertinence where you do propose to go?""Back to the Lodge at Creagh for a few days at least.""And after the few days--eh, what?" asked Sir Tom, leaning forward a little, with serious concern in his big, kindly, rather innocent blue eyes.She made no answer, though Malcolm from where he stood leaning against the fireplace seemed to wait a little eagerly for what she might say."Speak to her, Malcolm! She has aye been a high-handed miss, doing that which seemed right in her own eyes. You are the head of the house now. Can't you put your foot down and bid her come with me to your aunt and your cousins? It's where she ought to be in these days, among a lot of kindly, busy women-folk.""It's what I think, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm in a low voice. "But, as you say, nobody can dictate to Isla. She will go her own way.""Then, may I ask what you propose to do?" asked Uncle Tom, suddenly directing his attention to his nephew. "Of course, for a few days or weeks there will be things to see to. But, with Cattanach at your back, they should not take very long to wind up. And with the American folk coming back to Achree there's nothing for you to do here. I don't suppose you'll be long content, hanging about the Lodge and the Moor of Creagh."Malcolm had no answer for a moment, and the silence seemed to grow."Why can't you speak--one of you?" asked Uncle Tom a trifle testily. "I like folks to show some common-sense, and you have both seen this coming for long enough. It's not to be thought that you haven't had plans for the future.""I haven't any plans," Malcolm admitted.This answer incensed the old man extremely. He looked at the strong, well-knit figure of his nephew in the full prime and strength of his young manhood with critical displeasure."Then the sooner you get some, my man, the better it will be for you. It is a thousand pities that you resigned your commission when you did, and since it is somebody to make a proposition that you seem to need, mine is that you apply to the proper authorities and get back to the army as soon as possible. It's undoubtedly the very best thing you can do."The silence deepened. It was broken by the falling of a glowing log from the bars to the hearth, and, under pretence of restoring it to the grate, Isla moved and bent towards it."I never approved of what you did," went on Sir Tom, "and if anybody's advice had been asked it would never have been permitted. I don't like back-draughts, but I can't help saying now, as we're discussing family business, that I'm sure that your father would have been the very last man to have sanctioned your sending in your papers--that is to say, if he'd been in his full mind and faculties. And I think that the best tribute of respect you can show to his memory is to get back to the army as soon as possible and try to follow in the steps of the finest fellow and the bravest soldier that ever earned a sword."It was a long speech for Sir Tom to make, and at the end he cleared his throat and dashed something from his eyes. He was glad to have got this off his chest--as he might have expressed it. It had lain heavily there for some time; in fact, ever since he had been able to grasp the full significance of his nephew's action. To him it seemed disastrous, unnecessary, and foolish in the extreme. For if a man cannot afford to live on his estate, or if it does not offer him sufficient occupation, surely it were infinitely better for him to take up some honourable calling in which he would have a chance to rise and to distinguish himself.The Mackinnons, at least the handful that was left, had all been proud of the gallant old General, and, now that it was open to his son to carry on the fine traditions of the race, it seemed incredible and discreditable that he should not be willing and eager to do it."I can't do that, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. "I've left the army for good.""But that's no reason why you shouldn't go back. If representations to the proper quarter were made, I can't see any insuperable obstacles in the way. Can you, Isla?"She made no answer, and he went on."I'll do what I can. I'll go to the Commander-in-Chief myself, if you're such a baby over it, Malcolm, and lay the whole facts of the case before him. No reasonable man would refuse to make an open door somewhere for you, and I don't believe he would--eh, Malcolm?""I can't go back, Uncle Tom. Please, say no more about it.""I'd like to hear a word from Isla on the subject," said Uncle Tom. "I can't make you out, lassie. I have never thought of you as a person without opinions. You have an opinion about this, of course, and a pretty strong one, I could take my affidavit. Let us hear it. Now's the time, for if you won't travel with me to London, I must go south to-morrow.""It is a matter for Malcolm entirely, Uncle Tom," she said, rising with a sudden sweep to her feet. "Do you mind if I say good-night? I am very tired, and last night I had no sleep. I'll be up bright and early for you to-morrow morning, though, of course, it will only be the two o'clock train you want to catch at Stirling. It will set you down in London before eleven.""That will do. You're in a hurry, however--and my last night, too! But certainly you look tired, lass," said the old man, and he kissed her with a very real tenderness.She nodded to Malcolm, said good-night briefly, and went to the door, which her uncle opened for her.When he had closed it he turned full face to Malcolm."There's something the matter with the bairn, Malcolm. What is there between her and you? Have you quarrelled about anything?""Nothing special--only we don't hit it off, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm, turning round with evident relief and reaching for the cigars."Then the sooner you begin to hit it off the better," said Sir Tom severely. "It's not decent to behave as you are doing. How do you propose to live together in the Lodge of Creagh, even for a little while, if you feel like that?""Give it up!" said Malcolm.And it was as if his whole body and spirit had relaxed now that some strain was removed."There was a dryness between us about the letting of Achree," resumed Malcolm, seeing that the old man was still staring intently at him, as if waiting to be enlightened. "Of course, I didn't like it. After all, it was my business, wasn't it, Uncle Tom? And Isla took it all upon herself. See how it has complicated things just now!""Yes, but the American money is very good," said Uncle Tom drily. "Barras would be a howling wilderness without it.""I daresay that Isla and I would have pulled through without it, and I could have occupied myself in looking after the place. It wants a lot of pulling together, Uncle Tom. Everything is slack, and the tenants don't pay what they might--not one of them.""You can't take the breeks off a Hielandman, lad," was the dry response. "But it's about Isla I'm chiefly concerned. You can very well fend for yourself. You'll have to make proper provision for her, Malcolm. Whoever suffers, she must have enough to live upon. She isn't one who requires much, but providing for her must be your first duty. I don't doubt that you will do it.""I'll do the fair thing, of course. We'll have to have a talk, I suppose. I do wish she would go with you to London, if it were only for a few days. I could come to fetch her later. It would clear the air.""She won't--you can see that in the eyes of her. There's something back of it all--God knows what--and I suppose you'll have to fight it out your two selves. But you'll be very gentle with her, Malcolm, for to-night she looks the most forlorn creature on the face of God's earth."He blew his nose as he said this, and he begged Malcolm to bring him a peg of whisky. They waxed more confidential over their drink, of which, however, Malcolm partook very abstemiously. Drink had never been his besetting sin.About eleven Sir Tom went off to bed, a little reassured concerning the affairs of the Achree Mackinnons and having no doubt whatever but that Malcolm would do his duty.Malcolm certainly at this moment wished to do it, if only he knew how. He didn't want to leave Glenogle, still less did he want to live under one roof with his sister. If she refused to leave the Glen he would have no alternative but to go, and what would be the upshot of it all?Near to midnight he was still pondering this mighty and seemingly insoluble problem when the library door was silently pushed open and Isla in a white dressing-gown, with her long hair tied lightly back and hanging loosely on her shoulders, came in. Her face looked ghastly pale against the whiteness of her wrap, and her eyes were shining like stars."I heard Uncle Tom go up to bed, Malcolm, and I thought I'd better come down.""The fire has gone low," he said, as he sprang up to vacate the most comfortable chair. "Here's a log. We'll get a blaze in a minute. Sit down here."She sat down on the extreme edge of the chair and watched him a little wistfully while he attended to the fire."I thought, perhaps, we had better have a little talk about what we are going to do," she said a trifle unsteadily. "There is nothing but Creagh. The question is--Can it hold us both?""Don't speak like that, Isla," he said almost pleadingly. "But really Uncle Tom's plan is the best, considering all things. Couldn't you make up your mind even yet to go to London with him, if it were only for a few days?"Isla shook her head."I couldn't, Malcolm. Aunt Jean and the girls would drive me crazy just now. Don't even mention it again. I--I just want to ask you whether it wouldn't be better to tell Uncle Tom the truth about how you left the army before he goes to-morrow? You know how impulsive he is. He will think nothing of going straight to the War Office or to the Commander-in-Chief, if he can find him, the moment he gets back to London."Malcolm's face fell."By Jove, so he might! I never thought of that. But, hang it all, Isla, I can't tell him.""Let me do it, then. Don't you see anything would be better in the circumstances than that he should make a fuss? It would make you look such a fool, and it would certainly result in newspaper paragraphs which, through the great kindness of Colonel Martindale, have never appeared.""I'll see in the morning. I'll be driving him to the station. Anyhow, I'll impress on him that the matter must on no account be opened up again--that nothing would induce me to go back to the army," said Malcolm, whose policy all through life had ever been to find the easiest way out.Isla dropped the subject. For the first time since her father's death she had schooled herself to try to speak of it naturally."As you let Achree to the Rosmeads for the longer term, what are you going to do? It's impossible that you can live at Creagh for an indefinite time and without an object.""I want a little while in which to look round, Isla. I must have at least six months to inquire into things. I'm going up to Glasgow on Monday to go over everything with Cattanach. I must see whether the profits of the place cannot be increased in some directions. I can be busy enough for the next six months at least in getting the whole thing into shape. After that I must try to get a berth of some kind. Rosmead was recommending the Argentine. By the time he comes back I shall be in a position to go thoroughly into the prospects there.""And in the meantime, then, you will live at Creagh?""I thought of doing so. I am sorry for your sake that it isn't Achree. But I had no hand in that. You shut yourself out, so to speak."She leaned her elbow on her knee, dropped her chin, which had become sadly sharpened of late, on her hand, and looked across the space of the fireplace at him with the same wistful expression in her eyes."Malcolm, you'll try and pay off that money? When father was able to understand things it worried him most frightfully whenever he thought about the mortgage. For his sake, promise me that you will try to pay it off.""Why, of course I will--the whole of the Rosmead money will go to that," he answered lightly. "It won't take much to keep me at Creagh--or both of us, for the matter of that. But, of course, a bachelor establishment could be run more cheaply.""There couldn't be anything much cheaper than Creagh with Margaret Maclaren and Diarmid to do the work," said Isla drily. "But I won't remain long there to be a burden on you, Malcolm. I must go out and find something to do for myself.""Oh, nonsense," he said loftily. "The only condition on which I should let you leave Creagh would be that you go either to Barras or abroad with them. So don't let us talk any more about that. And, really, Isla, if only you'll be a bit reasonable and not too hard on a fellow, we might have a fairly good time even at Creagh. The Rosmeads are more than inclined to be kind, and there isn't any reason why we shouldn't avail ourselves of what they offer. Then, of course, there are the Drummonds. What ails Neil at Rosmead? He was positively savage about him this afternoon when you went out of the drawing-room with him."Isla did not smile."Neil is rather silly about some things," she answered, and there was a vague regret in her eyes.She did not forget that, in a moment of keen loneliness and desperation, she had told Neil Drummond the truth about Malcolm's home-coming, and it stood to reason that Neil would not forget it either.Her one desire was that that shameful truth should never come to the ears of the Rosmeads. She thought of them in the plural number, but it was Rosmead himself she meant. She already knew that his standard was very high, and that he might harshly judge a man like Malcolm if he knew him as he really was.Isla sat very still, looking rather intently at the open, ruddy face with the smiling eyes and the weak, mobile mouth, and she wondered whether there was any ultimate hope of his complete redemption. He had evidently been able to forget or to put behind him entirely the horror and the tragedy of that frightful day at Creagh and the word with which her accusing voice had smitten his ears. His volatile nature took things so easily and lightly that, in his estimation, practically nothing but the immediate moment mattered.Well perhaps, after all, she told herself, his policy was best. She had borne the burden and heat of the day, had lain awake at nights, pondering the problem of existence, had worn herself to a shadow for the honour of Achree and of the name she bore, and where was she left?Stranded, she told herself, and practically without a friend. She had proved to the hilt the truism that the world has neither time nor room for the long face or the tale of woe, and that he who smiles, even if his heart be shallow or false, will win through at least cost--ay, and will grasp most of the good things of life as he floats airily by.Isla was fast becoming cynical and inclined to accept the creed of the fatalist who says "What is to be will be"."Well, then, if Uncle Tom leaves to-morrow," she said as she rose to her feet, "we had better go back to Creagh on Wednesday. I'd rather be gone before the Rosmeads come back, and I said Thursday to him.""Oh, do be sociable, Isla! It would only be the kind thing to stop to welcome them decently and thank them for what they've done. It's the very least thing we can do, if you ask me."Isla, whom the Rosmeads had surprised out of her usual reserve, in the first overwhelming horror of her grief, felt inclined to creep back into her shell again, but she saw the reasonableness of her brother's words."Well, then, I must leave it to you to arrange, I suppose. I mustn't forget that you are the head of the house. I'll be ready to go up to Creagh when you like, and as long as I remain there I'll try to make you comfortable and happy."She said good-night to him immediately and glided away. But long after her departure Malcolm sat pondering on the future, by no means elated at the prospect of atête-à-têteexistence with the sister who knew so much. He would have been a happier and a more easy-minded man had Isla been getting ready to accompany her Uncle Tom to London.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PASSING OF MACKINNON
A chamber-maid at the St. Enoch's Hotel in Glasgow brought a sheaf of letters to Rosmead along with shaving-water on Monday morning at half-past seven.
He glanced over them with quick carelessness, and, finding one small, square, black-edged envelope, addressed in a handwriting that he did not know, he quickly broke the seal, which bore an unfamiliar coat of arms. Once more his pulses beat high, for this was the first time Isla Mackinnon had written to him, and over a man in love the handwriting of the woman he loves wields a surprising power.
Thus did Isla write to Rosmead, and the few simple words meant more from her than whole pages of words from most women. She did not possess the gift of expression, but could only write of real things, and when these were done with the letter came to an end:--
"ACHREE,Saturday night.
"DEAR MR. ROSMEAD,--I am writing to say that I hope--that we all hope--that you will be able to spare the time to come out to Lochearnhead on Monday to attend my father's funeral.
"It is arranged for twelve o'clock from here, and will arrive at Balquhidder Kirkyard at half-past one, which suits the trains from both the north and the south.
"Perhaps you do not know the customs of our country, but it would please me if you would take one of the cords of the coffin as they lower it into the grave. These are taken by relatives and friends only, and, God knows, you have been a friend. It is arranged that if you are there some one will give you your place.
"My uncle, Sir Thomas Mackinnon, arrived from London to-day. He is my father's only living relative.
"Perhaps you will find it convenient either to come by the train or to drive in your motor straight to Balquhidder, in which case I should not see you.
"Please to tell your mother that by Thursday of this week I shall have gone back to Creagh or shall have gone away somewhere else. What I really mean to say is that Achree will be ready for her return. I cannot say more.
"ISLA MACKINNON."
Rosmead forgot all about his shaving-water until it grew cold, and he had to ring for more.
He had longed with a great longing to go out to the burying of Mackinnon, but he had not contemplated doing so without invitation. And, lo! the invitation had come from Isla herself, couched in warm, friendly terms which no man--least of all Rosmead--could resist.
There was a glow at his heart as he stood before the mirror, attending to the duties of his toilet, noticing for the first time, with a kind of silent rage, the lines on his face and the evidences of middle-age beginning to creep about his mouth and temples. He wanted to be for ever young for her dear sake.
She had, in the midst of her forlorn grief, taken time and thought to write to him to offer him what he understood was a family privilege, and he would go--oh, yes, there was no car fast enough to take him--right to her door, to her very feet!
Away with the train or car that would convey him only to Balquhidder when Isla had expressed even the faintest desire to see him! It would be their last meeting until he could return from America, for on Thursday he must set out upon the journey which never in all his life had he been so loth to take.
He pondered on all the details of the day in front of him, and, by copious use of the telephone in his room, had arranged them all before he went down to breakfast. He did not wait for his sisters. There was nothing to hurry them in the mornings in Glasgow, and generally they breakfasted with their mother in her sitting-room.
At nine o'clock, dressed in full motor garb, he tapped at his mother's door.
"I have had a letter from Miss Mackinnon this morning, asking me to go out to the funeral at Achree, and I'm going now. It will take me quite all my time to get there by noon."
Mrs. Rosmead smiled upon him, well pleased. She did not ask to see the letter. She only bade him take care of himself and give her love to Isla, and to assure her that there was no need to hurry away from Achree. He felt glad that neither of his sisters had yet appeared. He left a message for them and went off to the waiting car, ready for what lay in front of him.
It was not a very pleasant day in the city. There was a light fog hanging over it, through which a fine rain was beginning to filter dismally. But when they got away from the river-bed the rain stopped, and, though the sky remained grey and pensive, it was fair overhead.
No sun shone all the way, and when he came to the hills Rosmead thought it was an ideal day for a burying--just typical of the grief which overshadowed a whole glen. The sky was grey and very soft, and a mist lay upon the hills, while the heaviness of unshed tears was in the soundless air.
About eleven o'clock Rosmead, who had had a splendid run without mishap or stop, swept by the incomparable beauty of Loch Lubnaig, through bonnie Strathyre, and down upon the valley of the Earn.
Long before he reached it he was struck by the signs of activity on the usually quiet and lonely road. All sorts and conditions of vehicles moved towards Glenogle, containing all sorts and conditions of people. At the hotel door there was quite a medley of waiting traps. Rosmead drew up there and went inside to remove his motor garb and to put on the decent mourning, safely stowed at the back of the car.
He looked graver and older in the tall silk hat and dark overcoat with the black band on the arm, and he was respectfully recognized by many.
The story of how of their own accord the Americans had vacated Achree in order that the family might have it to themselves for such a great occasion had got about in the glens. It had filled all who heard it with a sort of personal gratitude and appreciation that was bound to have an aftermath. They did not love the stranger--especially the American stranger--in these remote Highland glens, though his money was sometimes necessary to the comfort of their existence. They accepted him as inevitable, like motor-cars, and new railway lines cutting into their fair hill-sides and ugly viaducts spanning their wimpling burns--all necessary evils which must be endured with fortitude.
Driving very slowly towards Achree, Rosmead was astonished at the increasing number of people both in vehicles and on foot. He was unaware that in Scotland a burying--especially the burying of a great chief--is a public event, in which every man, woman, and child of the district takes a personal interest. Everybody came as a matter of course to see Mackinnon of Achree laid to rest, and all were made welcome, though no invitations, in the ordinary sense, had been sent out.
In some doubt as to whether he should take his car up to the house, Rosmead addressed himself to a policeman--a most unusual spectacle in Glenogle--who was on duty at the gate.
"Mr. Rosmead, sir, I think?" said the man, touching his hat.
"Yes, my man."
"Then you are to go up, please. I had my orders this morning. They are expecting you at the house."
Rosmead gave the order to drive slowly, and presently he came within sight of the house where the cortège stood before the open door. There were two other cars, and the Garrion roans were conspicuous at the bend of the avenue.
Rosmead alighted and walked over to the door where Diarmid was on the look-out.
"Mr. Rosmead, sir. I haf a message from Miss Isla for you, if it pe that she would not see you pefore you leave."
"Yes, my man."
"She says will you please come pack to the house if you can spare the time after you haf peen at Balquhidder, as she would like to speak with you, whatefer."
Rosmead silently nodded. Had the American boat sailed that very afternoon it is safe to say that one passenger at least would have failed to take his berth.
Diarmid, very respectful with a touch of gratitude in his mien, waited upon Rosmead and finally ushered him to the library where a small company were already assembled for the service that was to take place at a quarter to twelve.
Malcolm, very pale and slightly haggard, came forward immediately to greet Rosmead, whom he introduced to his uncle.
"Happy to meet you, sir," said Sir Tom, as his great hand grasped the American's slender one in a grip of iron. "We, as a family, will not readily forget your kindness at this time to the son and daughter of my poor brother. It was a Christian act, sir--a Christian act."
Rosmead asked him not to say more, passing it over as if ashamed that so much should be made of it. Then he stepped back and looked about at the people in the room. Some of them he recognized, but Neil Drummond, sourly resentful of his intimate presence there, unaware, of course, that he came by Isla's special invitation, did not suffer his eyes to alight on his face.
Rosmead was impressed by the circumstance that there were no flowers upon the coffin--only the Union Jack and the old soldier's sword, to the hilt of which was tied a bunch of white heather. All was simple, severe, and impressive. The short service was quickly over. Then a sudden, weird sound broke upon the listening ears--the wailing of the pipes, which filled the soundless air with a melancholy music.
All this time Isla had not appeared, and Rosmead strained his eyes in vain for a sight of her. But it was denied him, and he had not even asked for her welfare.
It was a great burying, the like of which had not been seen in the glens for many a year. As the cortège, half a mile long, slowly defiled through Lochearnhead it was joined by a score or more of vehicles that waited it there. And so it was all the way to the Braes of Balquhidder.
Rosmead, who had left his car at Achree and entered one of the mourning coaches, felt the impressiveness of the whole scene, and was almost moved to tears when they turned away from the grave to the sweet haunting strains of the "Flowers of the Forest".
As the mourners fell away slowly from the grave-side some one touched his arm.
"I shall be glad if you will drive back to Achree with me, Mr. Rosmead," said the voice of Sir Thomas Mackinnon. "I should like to have a little talk with you."
This was noted by the curious, and it was afterwards said that more attention could not have been paid to the American if he had been sib to the Mackinnons. But there was not one who added that the attention was misplaced.
"A sad affair, isn't it, for those who are left?" said Sir Thomas as they drove slowly away, "for my niece especially. You see, her father was her life-work, so to speak, and now that it is taken out of her hands she will feel stranded for a bit."
"Miss Mackinnon is one who will always find something to occupy her heart and her hands," said Rosmead.
Uncle Tom assented.
"They tell me you have Achree on an option, Mr. Rosmead," he said--and it was evident that that was the thing uppermost in his mind. "I hope that you like the place, and feel minded to stop on."
"I should like to, but I have not yet had any conversation about it. I shall have to see Mr. Mackinnon to-day, as I leave Scotland on Thursday."
"You leave Scotland? But I understood that you were here indefinitely."
"No. The business which brought me is concluded, and there is work lying to my hand in America."
"Then, do you leave your ladies here?"
"Yes, for six months. Our tenancy of Achree does not expire till the end of October, and nothing, therefore, need be decided now. But I think that my mother likes the place so well that we might take a lease of it--that is, if Mr. Mackinnon does not wish possession for himself. Will the General's death alter nothing?"
"Nothing. They can't afford to live in Achree--and that's the plain truth of it, Mr. Rosmead. In these days very few of us can afford to live in the place of our fathers. Here am I stranded in a London house, like a bull in a china shop. I loathe the life, but I haven't any choice. A relation of my wife offered the loan of the house for the season: my girls had to come out, and we couldn't afford to refuse. I don't know what's to become of us now, as our mourning will stop all the gaiety. But about the Achree Mackinnons? It is a most unfortunate thing that Malcolm resigned his commission just when he did. Of course, it was on his father's account. The best thing he could do would be to try and get back to the Army. I haven't approached him on the subject--that is, closely. He seems uncommonly touchy about it. So does Isla. But it stands to reason and common sense that he can't loaf about Glenogle."
"No. I can imagine that would be quite impossible. But if he does not return to the Army he will probably seek something else. There is room in the colonies for such as he."
"Is there?" inquired Sir Tom with the doubtful air of a man who would be difficult to convince. "Well, they present a problem. She must come back with me to her aunt in London. I don't see what else is to be done with her. She can't remain eating her heart out in that God-forsaken place up at Creagh. I'll never believe anything but that the change killed my brother Donald."
Rosmead recalled the picture of the General's prostrate figure on the narrow hearthrug at Creagh, the letter clasped like a vice in the poor dead fingers, and he had his own thoughts. Such at least had not been Isla's opinion, but it was certainly no part of his business to stir up strife or sow the seeds of suspicion among the members of the family, who were evidently outside the real issue of the case.
Sir Tom was very friendly and communicative, talking to the strange American as if he had been at least an intimate friend of the family--an attitude which was largely due to what Isla had said about the vacating of Achree.
Just a few of the mourners went back to the house for tea, and perhaps to hear whether there was a will. But, though Cattanach was present, there was no mention of a will, and it was speedily whispered about that the General had left none. It was quite well known that for five years at least he had not been capable of transacting business, and, as he had had practically no money to dispose of, and the estate had to pass in entail to his only son, a will would have been superfluous.
But it was of Isla that most of them were thinking, and when they watched the slender, black-robed figure so quietly dispensing tea in the drawing-room, assisted by Kitty Drummond, they wondered what her future was to be.
Neil Drummond was there also, and had taken up his position close to the tea-table, with the result that Rosmead could not get near for a private word.
But his mind was made up that he would not leave Achree until he had seen Isla by herself to bid her good-bye.
He was in no haste--he never was in any of the affairs of life--having proved that most things come to the man who bides his time. But perhaps just there he made one mistake, arising from ignorance of the quick Celtic temperament, which cannot brook slowness or delay.
Isla's eyes met his just once across the room, and there was quite clearly a message for him in the look. It bade him wait.
When all the tea had been served, and she had answered as composedly as she could the remarks made to her by Neil, she rose and quite deliberately walked across the room to the place where Rosmead stood talking to her Uncle Tom.
"You have a long way to go back to Glasgow, Mr. Rosmead. Are you in haste to leave us?"
"Not in haste to leave you, but I must be going soon. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"
"Yes, it is why I have come. Will you come down to the library?" she said.
And Neil Drummond, with eyes that had something of the baleful glow of the watch-fires in them, had the chagrin of beholding them leave the room together, as if it were quite a matter of course.
"Don t you think that American bounder has presumed a lot to-day, Malcolm?" he said gruffly to Mackinnon, who happened to pass near him at the moment.
Malcolm looked the surprise he felt.
"I don't think so, Neil. He has been most awfully kind, don't you know? I dare say Isla has some message for his mother about when they can come back to the house."
Neil tried to accept this perfectly feasible explanation, but if he had seen the two talking earnestly together at the library window his mind would undoubtedly have been most seriously disturbed.
"It was so very kind of you to come to-day and take all the trouble for us," said Isla, as the door closed upon them. "Do you still intend to sail away on Thursday?"
"On Friday. My boat sails from Liverpool," he corrected gently. "I go to London on Thursday."
"And when will you come back?"
"Not before Christmas, I am afraid. I've had more than six months' furlough already, you see, and I haven't the ghost of an excuse for stopping on this side any longer."
"Except your mother. You will not like leaving her, I am sure."
"I don't. But she is accustomed to my journeyings to and fro in the earth and up and down in it. I shall be very happy, thinking of her here in this house. She has never felt so much at home since she left Virginia. I have had a talk with your brother, and it is practically settled that we take a two years' lease of Achree. I was fortunate in finding Cattanach here to-day also, and so the thing can be put on a proper basis without delay."
"Yes," said Isla, and her tone had a singularly spiritless note in it.
He looked steadily into her face, wondering just how much he might say, or whether he might say anything at all. But she was not looking at him. She was thinking how strange it would be to realize that this man had gone away clean out of the Glen, and that soon the ocean would roll between him and her. She had never felt so in her life about any human being outside of her family circle, and she was disturbed.
"I hope that you will not think I presume if I ask what is going to become of you in the immediate future," said Rosmead presently. "Will you go back to London with your uncle, as he seems to expect?"
"No, I shall simply go back to Creagh," she answered steadily.
Rosmead was silent for a moment, trying to picture the life she would lead there, alone and without occupation, in the company of her brother from whom her heart was estranged.
"To Creagh? It seems impossible! I can't bear to think of you there. It is unthinkable!"
"Oh, no--nothing is unthinkable, or even impossible. People can do anything in this world--anything," she answered. "I have proved it."
"Then, shall I find you at Creagh when I come back?" he asked with an odd persistence, his eyes cleaving to her face.
A tremor ran over it, and had he but known it the opportunity was his. Her heart turned--nay, cried out to him. Had he spoken the word then she would have gone away with him without a question or a doubt.
But he blundered on, longing for her mightily, yet wholly afraid, believing that he dared not begin to woo her until he had given her heart time to recover from its present shock.
Some one tapped lightly at the door.
"It is au revoir, then, not good-bye," he said with an effort, and held out his hand.
She gave hers to his warm, kindly clasp, and her eyes, over which the veil had already fallen, uplifted themselves to his.
"I hope it is, but six months is a long time in life. So many things can happen. I hope you will have a safe journey and a successful issue to all your affairs, and--and that the difficulties you spoke of will all be swept from your path."
"Some of them are big enough. But when I come back I will address myself to the biggest undertaking of my life, and the dearest."
The door was opened, and Malcolm's voice announced that the motor was waiting outside.
Rosmead raised her hand to his lips and turned away, scarcely master of himself.
Isla spoke no more. But, for once in his life, Peter Rosmead had erred on the side of caution. The incomparable chance had been his, and he had passed it by.
When the door had closed upon them Isla leaned her head against the black oak of the window shutters, and a little sobbing breath that was almost a cry, broke from her lips.
Her last prop had gone, but none knew--least of all the man whose one desire on earth was to take her to his heart.
CHAPTER XIV
FAMILY COUNSELS
"And now," said Sir Tom with a large and partially reproachful cheerfulness, "we had better address ourselves to the future of you two children and try to find out just where we are."
He was neither unfeeling nor unsympathetic, but his opinion was that grief and the lassitude which treads close upon it should in due season have an end. The affairs of life cannot stand still, even when death intervenes. They can only be held in abeyance for a little space.
Now that Mackinnon, full of years and honour and followed by the lamentations and the love of all his people, rich and poor, had been carried to his last rest, he must become a tender memory to those who were left.
They had dined together quite alone, and now they sat in the library, where pipe and tobacco and cigars were on the table, as yet, however, untouched.
Sir Tom was getting his pipe ready a trifle absently, his eyes fixed on his niece's face. He was troubled about her. Her white face and her deep, grief-haunted eyes, which no man could fathom, disconcerted and disturbed him. He loved her dearly, but he did not always understand her. Malcolm's apparently simpler nature was better within his grasp and ken.
It was assuredly Malcolm's place, as the head of the house, to make some suggestion or statement, but silence lay upon him heavily, and he seemed ill at ease.
"Has neither of you anything to say? I must be going back to London to-morrow, if I have to go alone. I'll wait till Wednesday, if I am to take Isla. What do you say, my dear?"
Isla, a slim, black figure with white, nervous hands interlaced upon her lap, lifted her eyes to his face from where she sat at the other side of the fireplace.
"No, thank you, Uncle Tom, I will not go to London just now."
"But, my dear, your aunt will scold me no end if I don't bring you. Her last words were that I was to bring you back with me. If she had been well enough nothing would have kept her from Achree just now--and you know it. But I left her in bed, and the doctor forbade the journey. It is nothing serious, only requiring a little care. Fact is, these monkeys have been running her off her feet lately. Three or four o'clock every morning before she got to her bed after their dancing and nonsense. The life of a chaperon in the London season is not a happy one."
"Give Aunt Jean my love, and tell her I can't come just now. Later, perhaps----"
"Later! Heaven only knows where we may be later. Your aunt talks of some seaside place on the Brittany or Normandy coast--some God-forsaken hole, where a man can't get a decent meal of meat. Gad, what it is to be hard-up! Well, and if you won't come to us may I ask without impertinence where you do propose to go?"
"Back to the Lodge at Creagh for a few days at least."
"And after the few days--eh, what?" asked Sir Tom, leaning forward a little, with serious concern in his big, kindly, rather innocent blue eyes.
She made no answer, though Malcolm from where he stood leaning against the fireplace seemed to wait a little eagerly for what she might say.
"Speak to her, Malcolm! She has aye been a high-handed miss, doing that which seemed right in her own eyes. You are the head of the house now. Can't you put your foot down and bid her come with me to your aunt and your cousins? It's where she ought to be in these days, among a lot of kindly, busy women-folk."
"It's what I think, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm in a low voice. "But, as you say, nobody can dictate to Isla. She will go her own way."
"Then, may I ask what you propose to do?" asked Uncle Tom, suddenly directing his attention to his nephew. "Of course, for a few days or weeks there will be things to see to. But, with Cattanach at your back, they should not take very long to wind up. And with the American folk coming back to Achree there's nothing for you to do here. I don't suppose you'll be long content, hanging about the Lodge and the Moor of Creagh."
Malcolm had no answer for a moment, and the silence seemed to grow.
"Why can't you speak--one of you?" asked Uncle Tom a trifle testily. "I like folks to show some common-sense, and you have both seen this coming for long enough. It's not to be thought that you haven't had plans for the future."
"I haven't any plans," Malcolm admitted.
This answer incensed the old man extremely. He looked at the strong, well-knit figure of his nephew in the full prime and strength of his young manhood with critical displeasure.
"Then the sooner you get some, my man, the better it will be for you. It is a thousand pities that you resigned your commission when you did, and since it is somebody to make a proposition that you seem to need, mine is that you apply to the proper authorities and get back to the army as soon as possible. It's undoubtedly the very best thing you can do."
The silence deepened. It was broken by the falling of a glowing log from the bars to the hearth, and, under pretence of restoring it to the grate, Isla moved and bent towards it.
"I never approved of what you did," went on Sir Tom, "and if anybody's advice had been asked it would never have been permitted. I don't like back-draughts, but I can't help saying now, as we're discussing family business, that I'm sure that your father would have been the very last man to have sanctioned your sending in your papers--that is to say, if he'd been in his full mind and faculties. And I think that the best tribute of respect you can show to his memory is to get back to the army as soon as possible and try to follow in the steps of the finest fellow and the bravest soldier that ever earned a sword."
It was a long speech for Sir Tom to make, and at the end he cleared his throat and dashed something from his eyes. He was glad to have got this off his chest--as he might have expressed it. It had lain heavily there for some time; in fact, ever since he had been able to grasp the full significance of his nephew's action. To him it seemed disastrous, unnecessary, and foolish in the extreme. For if a man cannot afford to live on his estate, or if it does not offer him sufficient occupation, surely it were infinitely better for him to take up some honourable calling in which he would have a chance to rise and to distinguish himself.
The Mackinnons, at least the handful that was left, had all been proud of the gallant old General, and, now that it was open to his son to carry on the fine traditions of the race, it seemed incredible and discreditable that he should not be willing and eager to do it.
"I can't do that, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. "I've left the army for good."
"But that's no reason why you shouldn't go back. If representations to the proper quarter were made, I can't see any insuperable obstacles in the way. Can you, Isla?"
She made no answer, and he went on.
"I'll do what I can. I'll go to the Commander-in-Chief myself, if you're such a baby over it, Malcolm, and lay the whole facts of the case before him. No reasonable man would refuse to make an open door somewhere for you, and I don't believe he would--eh, Malcolm?"
"I can't go back, Uncle Tom. Please, say no more about it."
"I'd like to hear a word from Isla on the subject," said Uncle Tom. "I can't make you out, lassie. I have never thought of you as a person without opinions. You have an opinion about this, of course, and a pretty strong one, I could take my affidavit. Let us hear it. Now's the time, for if you won't travel with me to London, I must go south to-morrow."
"It is a matter for Malcolm entirely, Uncle Tom," she said, rising with a sudden sweep to her feet. "Do you mind if I say good-night? I am very tired, and last night I had no sleep. I'll be up bright and early for you to-morrow morning, though, of course, it will only be the two o'clock train you want to catch at Stirling. It will set you down in London before eleven."
"That will do. You're in a hurry, however--and my last night, too! But certainly you look tired, lass," said the old man, and he kissed her with a very real tenderness.
She nodded to Malcolm, said good-night briefly, and went to the door, which her uncle opened for her.
When he had closed it he turned full face to Malcolm.
"There's something the matter with the bairn, Malcolm. What is there between her and you? Have you quarrelled about anything?"
"Nothing special--only we don't hit it off, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm, turning round with evident relief and reaching for the cigars.
"Then the sooner you begin to hit it off the better," said Sir Tom severely. "It's not decent to behave as you are doing. How do you propose to live together in the Lodge of Creagh, even for a little while, if you feel like that?"
"Give it up!" said Malcolm.
And it was as if his whole body and spirit had relaxed now that some strain was removed.
"There was a dryness between us about the letting of Achree," resumed Malcolm, seeing that the old man was still staring intently at him, as if waiting to be enlightened. "Of course, I didn't like it. After all, it was my business, wasn't it, Uncle Tom? And Isla took it all upon herself. See how it has complicated things just now!"
"Yes, but the American money is very good," said Uncle Tom drily. "Barras would be a howling wilderness without it."
"I daresay that Isla and I would have pulled through without it, and I could have occupied myself in looking after the place. It wants a lot of pulling together, Uncle Tom. Everything is slack, and the tenants don't pay what they might--not one of them."
"You can't take the breeks off a Hielandman, lad," was the dry response. "But it's about Isla I'm chiefly concerned. You can very well fend for yourself. You'll have to make proper provision for her, Malcolm. Whoever suffers, she must have enough to live upon. She isn't one who requires much, but providing for her must be your first duty. I don't doubt that you will do it."
"I'll do the fair thing, of course. We'll have to have a talk, I suppose. I do wish she would go with you to London, if it were only for a few days. I could come to fetch her later. It would clear the air."
"She won't--you can see that in the eyes of her. There's something back of it all--God knows what--and I suppose you'll have to fight it out your two selves. But you'll be very gentle with her, Malcolm, for to-night she looks the most forlorn creature on the face of God's earth."
He blew his nose as he said this, and he begged Malcolm to bring him a peg of whisky. They waxed more confidential over their drink, of which, however, Malcolm partook very abstemiously. Drink had never been his besetting sin.
About eleven Sir Tom went off to bed, a little reassured concerning the affairs of the Achree Mackinnons and having no doubt whatever but that Malcolm would do his duty.
Malcolm certainly at this moment wished to do it, if only he knew how. He didn't want to leave Glenogle, still less did he want to live under one roof with his sister. If she refused to leave the Glen he would have no alternative but to go, and what would be the upshot of it all?
Near to midnight he was still pondering this mighty and seemingly insoluble problem when the library door was silently pushed open and Isla in a white dressing-gown, with her long hair tied lightly back and hanging loosely on her shoulders, came in. Her face looked ghastly pale against the whiteness of her wrap, and her eyes were shining like stars.
"I heard Uncle Tom go up to bed, Malcolm, and I thought I'd better come down."
"The fire has gone low," he said, as he sprang up to vacate the most comfortable chair. "Here's a log. We'll get a blaze in a minute. Sit down here."
She sat down on the extreme edge of the chair and watched him a little wistfully while he attended to the fire.
"I thought, perhaps, we had better have a little talk about what we are going to do," she said a trifle unsteadily. "There is nothing but Creagh. The question is--Can it hold us both?"
"Don't speak like that, Isla," he said almost pleadingly. "But really Uncle Tom's plan is the best, considering all things. Couldn't you make up your mind even yet to go to London with him, if it were only for a few days?"
Isla shook her head.
"I couldn't, Malcolm. Aunt Jean and the girls would drive me crazy just now. Don't even mention it again. I--I just want to ask you whether it wouldn't be better to tell Uncle Tom the truth about how you left the army before he goes to-morrow? You know how impulsive he is. He will think nothing of going straight to the War Office or to the Commander-in-Chief, if he can find him, the moment he gets back to London."
Malcolm's face fell.
"By Jove, so he might! I never thought of that. But, hang it all, Isla, I can't tell him."
"Let me do it, then. Don't you see anything would be better in the circumstances than that he should make a fuss? It would make you look such a fool, and it would certainly result in newspaper paragraphs which, through the great kindness of Colonel Martindale, have never appeared."
"I'll see in the morning. I'll be driving him to the station. Anyhow, I'll impress on him that the matter must on no account be opened up again--that nothing would induce me to go back to the army," said Malcolm, whose policy all through life had ever been to find the easiest way out.
Isla dropped the subject. For the first time since her father's death she had schooled herself to try to speak of it naturally.
"As you let Achree to the Rosmeads for the longer term, what are you going to do? It's impossible that you can live at Creagh for an indefinite time and without an object."
"I want a little while in which to look round, Isla. I must have at least six months to inquire into things. I'm going up to Glasgow on Monday to go over everything with Cattanach. I must see whether the profits of the place cannot be increased in some directions. I can be busy enough for the next six months at least in getting the whole thing into shape. After that I must try to get a berth of some kind. Rosmead was recommending the Argentine. By the time he comes back I shall be in a position to go thoroughly into the prospects there."
"And in the meantime, then, you will live at Creagh?"
"I thought of doing so. I am sorry for your sake that it isn't Achree. But I had no hand in that. You shut yourself out, so to speak."
She leaned her elbow on her knee, dropped her chin, which had become sadly sharpened of late, on her hand, and looked across the space of the fireplace at him with the same wistful expression in her eyes.
"Malcolm, you'll try and pay off that money? When father was able to understand things it worried him most frightfully whenever he thought about the mortgage. For his sake, promise me that you will try to pay it off."
"Why, of course I will--the whole of the Rosmead money will go to that," he answered lightly. "It won't take much to keep me at Creagh--or both of us, for the matter of that. But, of course, a bachelor establishment could be run more cheaply."
"There couldn't be anything much cheaper than Creagh with Margaret Maclaren and Diarmid to do the work," said Isla drily. "But I won't remain long there to be a burden on you, Malcolm. I must go out and find something to do for myself."
"Oh, nonsense," he said loftily. "The only condition on which I should let you leave Creagh would be that you go either to Barras or abroad with them. So don't let us talk any more about that. And, really, Isla, if only you'll be a bit reasonable and not too hard on a fellow, we might have a fairly good time even at Creagh. The Rosmeads are more than inclined to be kind, and there isn't any reason why we shouldn't avail ourselves of what they offer. Then, of course, there are the Drummonds. What ails Neil at Rosmead? He was positively savage about him this afternoon when you went out of the drawing-room with him."
Isla did not smile.
"Neil is rather silly about some things," she answered, and there was a vague regret in her eyes.
She did not forget that, in a moment of keen loneliness and desperation, she had told Neil Drummond the truth about Malcolm's home-coming, and it stood to reason that Neil would not forget it either.
Her one desire was that that shameful truth should never come to the ears of the Rosmeads. She thought of them in the plural number, but it was Rosmead himself she meant. She already knew that his standard was very high, and that he might harshly judge a man like Malcolm if he knew him as he really was.
Isla sat very still, looking rather intently at the open, ruddy face with the smiling eyes and the weak, mobile mouth, and she wondered whether there was any ultimate hope of his complete redemption. He had evidently been able to forget or to put behind him entirely the horror and the tragedy of that frightful day at Creagh and the word with which her accusing voice had smitten his ears. His volatile nature took things so easily and lightly that, in his estimation, practically nothing but the immediate moment mattered.
Well perhaps, after all, she told herself, his policy was best. She had borne the burden and heat of the day, had lain awake at nights, pondering the problem of existence, had worn herself to a shadow for the honour of Achree and of the name she bore, and where was she left?
Stranded, she told herself, and practically without a friend. She had proved to the hilt the truism that the world has neither time nor room for the long face or the tale of woe, and that he who smiles, even if his heart be shallow or false, will win through at least cost--ay, and will grasp most of the good things of life as he floats airily by.
Isla was fast becoming cynical and inclined to accept the creed of the fatalist who says "What is to be will be".
"Well, then, if Uncle Tom leaves to-morrow," she said as she rose to her feet, "we had better go back to Creagh on Wednesday. I'd rather be gone before the Rosmeads come back, and I said Thursday to him."
"Oh, do be sociable, Isla! It would only be the kind thing to stop to welcome them decently and thank them for what they've done. It's the very least thing we can do, if you ask me."
Isla, whom the Rosmeads had surprised out of her usual reserve, in the first overwhelming horror of her grief, felt inclined to creep back into her shell again, but she saw the reasonableness of her brother's words.
"Well, then, I must leave it to you to arrange, I suppose. I mustn't forget that you are the head of the house. I'll be ready to go up to Creagh when you like, and as long as I remain there I'll try to make you comfortable and happy."
She said good-night to him immediately and glided away. But long after her departure Malcolm sat pondering on the future, by no means elated at the prospect of atête-à-têteexistence with the sister who knew so much. He would have been a happier and a more easy-minded man had Isla been getting ready to accompany her Uncle Tom to London.