Produced by Al Haines.
THE LAST OF
THEIR RACE
BY
ANNIE S. SWAN
HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
LONDON
1911
DONALD AND MARY
"For ours beyond the gate,
The deep things, the untold,
We only wait."
_Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited_
_By C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE INDIAN MAIL
CHAPTER II
THE OLD HOME
CHAPTER III
ISLA TAKES ACTION
CHAPTER IV
THE AMERICANS
CHAPTER V
THE BRIDGE BUILDERS
CHAPTER VI
THE HOPE OF ACHREE
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME-COMING
CHAPTER VIII
MALCOLM'S PROSPECTS
CHAPTER IX
THE MESSENGER
CHAPTER X
THE HOUSE OF WOE
CHAPTER XI
VIVIEN
CHAPTER XII
THE HAND IN THE DARK
CHAPTER XIII
THE PASSING OF MACKINNON
CHAPTER XIV
FAMILY COUNSELS
CHAPTER XV
SETTLING DOWN
CHAPTER XVI
THE PURPLE LADY
CHAPTER XVII
HER TRUE FRIENDS
CHAPTER XVIII
GOOD-BYE TO GLENOGLE
CHAPTER XIX
IN THE LONDON TRAIN
CHAPTER XX
THE REALITY OF THINGS
CHAPTER XXI
THE MARKET PLACE
CHAPTER XXII
MR. AND MRS. BODLEY-CHARD
CHAPTER XXIII
AT CROSS PURPOSES
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CHAMPION
CHAPTER XXV
THE ARCH-PLOTTERS
CHAPTER XXVI
THE LURE OF VIVIEN
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CALL
CHAPTER XXVIII
WITH HASTENING FEET
CHAPTER XXIX
THE LAST LEAF ON THE TREE
CHAPTER I
THE INDIAN MAIL
Isla Mackinnon came out from the narrow doorway of the Castle of Achree,
and stood for a moment on the broad step, worn by the feet of
generations, while she thoughtfully drew on a pair of shabby, old
leather gloves with gauntlets which came well up her slender arms. Hers
were small, fine, capable hands, in which at that moment, though she
knew it not, lay the whole destiny of Achree. Its very existence was to
be threatened that cool, clear March day, and there was none but Isla to
step into the breach.
She did not look incompetent; nay, about her there was a fine strength
and courage, in her wide grey-blue eyes an undaunted spirit.
It was a spirit that had had much to try its quality in her
six-and-twenty years of life, for half of which, at least, she had been
the chief buttress and hope of the house of her fathers.
She looked her age, though her figure was very slender and straight.
The years that had brought her womanhood had left her the heart of a
child. It looked out from the clear eyes under the delicate lashes, it
was in the slightly downward curves of the small sensitive mouth that
had not had sufficient occasion for smiles to bring out all its
sweetness.
Her hair, under the small tweed hat turned up at the brim with a
pheasant's wing, was a clear brown, with here and there a touch of the
sun inclining it to ruddy gold. She wore a short skirt of Harris tweed,
leather-bound, and a woollen coat of her own knitting, a pair of brown
brogues well fitted to her shapely feet, and under her arm she had a
shepherd's crook with a whistle at the end of it.
Presently, when its clear, low call broke the stillness of the morning,
three dogs came bounding from some region beyond the house, betraying a
wild excitement which even her remonstrance could not keep in check.
"Down, Murdo boy, and don't nip Bruce's ear again, or back you go to the
stable. Janet, you silly old woman, at your time of life you ought to
have more sense. Well then, off you go!"
The big deer-hound, the fat, glossy, sable collie, and the small, wiry
Aberdeen lady who rejoiced in the sober name of Janet, thus admonished,
bounded before her down the drive between the laurel and the pine trees,
barking joyously as was their wont.
About fifty yards from the house the carriage-way took a sharp turn, so
that the next few steps hid all except the cold slate roof and the
pinnacles of the little round towers which mark that particular style of
architecture called the Scottish baronial.
The old Castle of Achree was considered one of the best examples of it
in the country, and it certainly was picturesque, if a little
"ill-convenient," as the country-folk had it. It was a large mansion of
sorts, but totally unsuited to the needs of a family and almost
completely devoid of all those modern conveniences which, in these days,
every artisan has at his command.
It was so cut up by winding stairs and queer little passages that there
was scarcely a room of decent dimensions within its walls. It was full
of legend, of tragic memories, and did not even lack the ghost, a mailed
and headless warrior who haunted the dungeon-room where he had been done
to death.
It was whitewashed or harled, but looked sadly in need of the washer's
brush. The rains of many a year had soddened and discoloured it, while,
here and there, at angles specially exposed, there were green patches
where the moss and lichen clung.
Yet it made a picture of indescribable beauty, not untouched with
pathos, as the cradle of every great race must be, its history woven in
with its very stones. People came from far and near to see it, and many
artists had lingered enchanted over its picturesque detail. It stood on
a small, green plateau facing south, sheltered at the back by the
pine-clad hill of Creagh, which stood, like a sentinel, guarding the
great moor of Creagh that stretched away in the distance till it joined
the lands of Breadalbane towards Loch Tay.
With the moor of Creagh the Mackinnon property ended on that side, but
it was still a goodly-sized estate, with shooting of some value, though
it had been cut down to as narrow dimensions as the extravagance of some
of the Mackinnons had dared to cut it. But never, never had Achree been
in such dire straits as now.
When Isla left the gateway beside the little lodge and turned down the
beautiful road, she lifted her head and took a long deep breath. For
the morning air was good, though there was a nip of frost in it, and the
red sun lay warm and kindly on the clear summit of Ben Voirlich, of
which, at that point, an exquisite view could be obtained, though it was
in the next few steps lost again. The ruddy glow was reflected in the
clear waters of Loch Earn, and altogether the scene was one of
incomparable beauty, and it was knit into the very fibre of Isla
Mackinnon's being. It was her home, and the people were her own. She
had known none other.
A few rare trips to London when her cousins, the richer Barras
Mackinnons, had had a house for the season, with occasional visits to
them at their home in one of the islands of the western seas, comprised
her whole knowledge of the world outside her own glen. But beyond that
she had neither asked nor desired anything else. The things she most
passionately desired and prayed for--peace for Achree and decent comfort
in which to live--were denied her. She lived in hope, however; but this
day was to see its utter quenching, so far as any earthly intelligence
could predict.
The dogs, gambolling in front, knew their destination--the Earn village;
that is, if they did not meet David Bain with the post-gig on the road.
For more than a year now it had been Isla's custom to meet the postman
for the purpose of intercepting any letters which it might not be wise
to let her father see. In this simple act a great part of the tragedy of
Achree may be apprehended. For even such innocent deception was foreign
to the soul and heart of Isla Mackinnon, which was as clear and true as
the waters of her own loch.
She saw the fat, white pony presently, standing before the dry-stone
dyke that shut in the garden of Darrach farm-house from the road, and
she quickened her steps in order that she might reach it before he
started out again, and might thus save him another stop on the steep
ascent. That act was natural to her, if you like; for if at any time by
her thought or speech or act she could help another, then she was happy
indeed.
But David of the grim face and the silent tongue had got into the gig
again, and the fat pony had ambled off before she could stop him.
Presently they met where a little water-course merrily crossed the
gravelly road, seeking its way to the Glenogle burn.
"Good-morning, David. I hope you are quite well. You had letters for
Mrs. Maclure. Surely you are earlier than usual."
"It wass only a post-cairt from her niece, Jeanie Maclure, from the
school at Govan sayin' she would come for the week-end maype," answered
David, as if the matter were of moment to the whole glen. "Yes--there
pe lots an' lots of letters. I hope yourself an' the General are fery
well this mornin'."
"Thank you, we are," said Isla as she leaned against the shaft of the
old cart, stroking the fat pony's yellow eldes, her eyes a little more
bright and eager than usual.
David fingered the letters with outward and visible clumsiness, but he
was most careful with them, and in all the years of his service he had
never made a mistake with one or failed to deliver it to its proper
recipient.
"Thank you, David; this is all I want," said Isla as her fingers closed
over the thick letter enclosed in its foreign envelope. "Take the rest
up to Achree. My father will be waiting for them."
"Yes, Miss Isla. That I will do, and hope it will pe good news from
Maister Malcolm in foreign parts, an' that he will pe fery well."
"Thank you, David. He is sure to be well," said Isla, trying to speak
lightly, but her fingers were nervously closing over the letter, and
into her eyes there crept a strange shadow.
She had sometimes said that she had the gift of second sight which was
so common among the Mackinnons. Certainly she knew before she opened
that letter, about a hundred yards lower down the road, that it
contained bad news. It was too thick to be of no consequence, for her
brother Malcolm was no great letterwriter when times were easy and his
credit good.
She nodded good-bye to David Bain and passed on, hastening more quickly
than usual past the farm-house of Darrach, though there lived one of her
best and most faithful friends in the whole glen--one Elspeth Mackay
married to Donald Maclure, the big crofter who was respected in the
glen, from end to end of it, as a man of his word.
But Elspeth's tongue was long and her eyes were very keen, and Isla was
not ready for them yet. Therefore she hastened past the gate of
Darrach, not even smiling as the rich, fine smell of Elspeth's baking
was borne out through the open door. Down the hill a little way she
came to the old brig that crossed the Darrach burn; and there she
paused, for there was no one in sight and the slope hid her from view of
Elspeth's windows.
She could never afterwards recall that half-hour by the Darrach Brig
without an inward shudder.
Thus did Malcolm Mackinnon, the ne'er-do-weel, write airily and lightly,
telling the miserable story that well nigh broke his sister's heart:--
"DEAR ISLA,--Last time you wrote me you hoped I would have better news
to send next time. I'm sorry I can't comply. I seem to have the
devil's own luck here in this beastly country. In fact, I may as well
say at once that it's all up with me and that I'm coming home.
"I've never been very happy in the Thirty-fifth nor got on well with old
Martindale. He's a beast, if ever there was one, a regular martinet,
and unless you practise the whole art of sucking up to him you may as
well give up the ghost, as far as any chance of promotion or even of
fair play is concerned. Of course, no Mackinnon can suck up to
anybody--we've got too much beastly pride. Anyway, I haven't been able
to soft-sawder Martindale enough, and I have been in his black books
ever since I joined. But it's got a lot worse in the last nine months.
"When I wrote the governor last year, asking him to use his influence to
get me shifted, I was quite in earnest, and if he'd done it all this row
might have been prevented. We've been up country a goodish bit since I
wrote last, and there again I didn't get fair play or a bit of a chance.
We've had several brushes with a hostile tribe, but the other chaps got
their innings every time and nothing but the dirty work was left to me.
We had such a lot of beastly, unnecessary fag on our marches that most
of the chaps were on the verge of mutiny; but I was the only one with
the courage to speak up. Whatever garbled version of the story may get
home, you may take it from me, old girl, that is the bottom truth of it.
Anyhow, I've got to send in my papers--that's the long and the short of
it. All the chaps, except the few that suck up to Martindale, think
I've been treated most beastly badly, and unjustly besides. But of
course nobody listens to a poor subaltern's defence or excuse.
"By the time you get this I shall have started for home. I'm coming by
the 'Jumna,' a rotten slow boat, but I think it better for many
reasons--chiefly those of economy. I shall be pleased to see the old
place again, and I hope the governor won't cut up too rough. Try and
get the worst over for me before I come, because naturally I'm raw
enough about the whole bally thing, and couldn't stand much more. Fact
is, it's all right in a crack regiment for the chaps who have big
allowances. There's only one word to fit the case of poor, hard-up
beggars like me, and that one I mustn't use. Poverty opens the door to
all sorts of mischief and misery that a girl who never needs any money
can't begin to understand.
"I'd better make a clean breast of it while I'm at it, and you'll have
time to digest it before I get home. I'm in with the money-lenders both
in London and in Calcutta. I owe about two thousand pounds, and how
it's to be paid is keeping me awake at night. Of course, it's been
advanced on Achree, so heaven only knows what will be the upshot. I'll
have to see that old starched stick Cattanach the minute I get back so
that the old man may not be worried.
"If only I had the place in my own hands I'd make things hum a bit. You
know, Isla, everything has been shockingly neglected in the last five
years, and a perfect horde of pensioners have been kept off the poor old
place. The half of them ought to be chucked; it's nothing but
pauperizing the glen from end to end. A bit more could be screwed out
of the tenants, as most of them have their places dirt-cheap.
"Well, old girl, I'm beastly sorry, for you can't be expected to like
this. But suspend your judgment, for really I'm not half so bad as I'm
painted, and if I had only half a chance I might prove it to you. I
must try and get somebody to introduce me to the Stock Exchange. That
seems to be the only way of turning an honest penny nowadays. There are
hundreds of military men on it.
"Don't be too downhearted over this. You are such a one for taking
things seriously, and there's hardly anything in life worth worrying
about, really. You have the best of it, for nobody expects anything of
a girl, and she hasn't a chap's temptations.
"Good-bye, old girl. I shall see you soon, if I don't fancy on board
the 'Jumna' that the easiest way out would be to drop quietly over the
rail some night when nobody's looking.--Your affectionate, but
down-on-his-luck,
"MALCOLM."
Just for the space of five minutes or so the world was a dark place to
Isla Mackinnon. She had no mother, and for the last ten years she had
borne a double burden--had experienced both a mother's anxiety and a
sister's shame for the ne'er-do-weel. The history of Malcolm
Mackinnon's misdeeds in the glen, and out of it, would fill a book. But
such a book would not be worth the writing. Through him evil had fallen
on an old and honourable house--its revenues had been scattered, its
very existence threatened.
While Malcolm was stationed at home, at Colchester, at Sheerness, and at
the Curragh, complaints had been many and his scrapes innumerable, and
Isla had welcomed with abundant relief the news that his regiment was
ordered to India. That was three years ago. And now the final blow had
fallen. He had been dismissed the army, in itself a disgrace so
overwhelming that Isla knew there must be some scandalous story behind.
Presently he would be home to loaf about in idleness, to harry the
people, to wring her heart and the heart of the old man, in so far as he
was able to comprehend. And, with it all, he would smile his wicked and
alluring smile and get off scot-free. This was the first time condign
punishment had been meted out to him, and he took it lightly and merely
remarked that it was injustice. Everything was injustice that sought in
any way to hamper the wayward impulses of Malcolm Mackinnon. It had been
so from his youth up.
But what was to be done? That half-hour of anguish did its work on the
face of Isla Mackinnon. It ploughed a few more lines on it and took
away the last remnant of its girlish curve. She had a woman's work in
front of her, and a man's combined, for the intellect of the old General
was clouded now, and his bodily health frail. There was no one to act
for Achree save her alone.
And she would act. Presently she threw her head up, and the pride of
her race crept back to sustain her, and her eye even flashed with the
swift strength of her new resolve.
The dogs, hovering wistfully about her feet, asking mutely why she
lingered and cheated them out of their scamper down the hill, reminded
her of the passage of time. She pulled herself together, thrust the
letter into her bosom, and, grasping her stick, walked on with feet
which faltered only at the first step.
She reached the village, gave her order at the little shop, inquired for
a child who was sick in the house above, passed the time of day with all
whom she met, and even listened patiently to a tinker's tale, told with
the persuasive guile of her tribe. She felt herself a dual person that
day. Never had the brain of the inner self been so active. Her swift
planning was so intense as to make her head ache.
All her small commissions done, she breasted the hill again and so came
to the gate of Darrach farm-house, where Elspeth Maclure was looking out
for her.
Now it must be explained that Elspeth had been a nurse-girl at Achree
and had had Isla in her absolute care for the first seven years of her
life. Then she had married honest Donald Maclure and had flitted to the
house of Darrach, whose chief recommendation, in her eyes, was that it
stood straight on the main road and that, from its windows, she could
see all who passed to and fro between the village and the old Castle.
The private life of its inmates was not hid from Elspeth. She, too,
remembered and took anxious note of the Indian mail-day. As she came
down the path, wiping the flour of her baking from her hands on the
snow-white of her apron, her deep, dark eyes scanned the beloved face of
her darling with all a mother's solicitude.
Elspeth was now considerably over forty--a comely, motherly woman with a
clear, rosy face and abundant black hair, a model wife and mother, and
the staunchest friend of Isla Mackinnon's whole life.
When she opened the little gate, she saw that Isla could not speak, and
that her face was wan and dark under the eyes. She took her by the two
hands and drew her towards the door of the house.
"It is pad news, whatefer, my lamb. I knew it wass comin' at twelve
o'clock last night when that thrawn prute of a cock wouldna stop his
crawin'. I wass for Donald gettin' up to thraw hiss ill neck, only he
wouldna."
Isla did not speak, and, quite suddenly, when they got within the house,
where the baby, in a queer little cage of Donald's making, was crowing
in the middle of the floor, she threw herself into Elspeth'e arms and
burst into a storm of weeping.
Now, this was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened in
Elspeth's experience, and it seemed to presage such woe as she had not
dreamed of.
For the Mackinnons were a proud and self-contained race, and to make
parade of their feelings was impossible for them. It may be that they,
as a family, had erred in repressing them too much. There had been but
three in the family--the third being an elder sister who had married
young and died in childbed. Her death was the first sorrow that had
helped to take the spring out of the old man's heart. He had never,
perhaps, been quite just to Isla, because he had loved his first-born
best.
"There, there, my lammie! God forpid that you should cry your heart oot
like that. Put there--it will do ye good! Oh, the man that invented
the post hass a heap to answer for. In the old days the trouble had
plown ower, whatefer, afore we got wind of it, especially when it
happened in foreign parts. What is he sayin' till it the day, my dear?
It is not impident curiosity that pids me ask, put I canna pear to see
ye like this."
It was all spoken in a crooning voice which had the effect of soothing
the overcharged heart of the girl. That outburst of natural tears was
the very best thing which could have happened to her. Thus relieved,
her heart quickly recovered its strength. She drew back, smiling
weakly, begged to be forgiven for such an exhibition, and fumbled inside
her blouse for the missive that had wrought such woe.
She smoothed it out and, for the moment, she thought to pass it over to
her faithful friend, who, though no scholar, would have had no
difficulty in reading that big, sprawling, crude schoolboy writing. But
again the shame of it overcame the girl, and sitting down on the edge of
a chair, she lifted her wet eyes to Elspeth's face and said
mournfully:--
"It's the deluge, Eppie. I've always said it would come, and it is
here."
"What hass happened? Pe pleased to tell it quickly, Miss Isla, for I
nefer wass a good hand at waitin'."
"Malcolm has been dismissed from the Army, and he is coming home. He
has sailed by now," she added, referring to the second page of the
letter, "and his ship, the 'Jumna,' will arrive in about three weeks.
It's a slow boat, but inside a month he'll be at Achree."
Elspeth bit her lip, and her hands worked nervously in front of her
apron.
"For the good God's sake, Miss Isla, what are we to do with him here?"
"That's what I want to know. It will kill my father. He must never know
that Malcolm has been sent home. He must just think that it is an
ordinary leave of absence. Poor dear, it is not so hard to bamboozle
him now as it once was! If he grasped the fact that Malcolm had been
cashiered it would simply kill him. Now I shall be hard put to it,
watching for other letters from India or from the War Office. Oh,
Elspeth, I'm so tired of playing watch-dog! It's killing me. Sometimes
I think I shall get up quite early one morning and go down to the little
loch and just walk in, where it is all silvery with the dawn. Then
everything would be over, and I should be at peace!"
"God forpid, my lamb, since ye are the one hope and salvation of
Achree," said Elspeth Maclure fervently.
Isla shook her head.
"There is little hope for Achree now, and, so far as I can see, nothing
can save it. My brother owes so much money, that, to get him clear, we
ought to sell it. It is what he will do himself, without doubt, whenever
he gets it into his own hands."
Elspeth Maclure stood, thunderstruck and horrified, staring vaguely in
front of her.
"Sell Achree what hass peen the place of the Mackinnons for efer and
efer!" she repeated slowly. "God forpid. He would nefer let it come to
pass. Oh, Miss Isla, the laws made py men are not good laws. I'm only
a plain woman, put this I see that, when a man iss like what Maister
Malcolm iss, without the fear of God or man in hiss heart, he should not
haf the power. I suppose he hass porrowed the money on the place, put
it iss not him that will haf to pey," she added fiercely.
"No," repeated Isla, with a hard, far-away look on her face, "it is not
he who will have to pay."