THE OLD HOME
Isla rose to her feet, and, suddenly, observing the baby clutching with
his chubby hands at the side of his cage and smiling engagingly into her
face, she stretched out her hands to him.
"Oh, you darling! Did Isla forget him, then? What a shame!"
She lifted him out, and his small chubby hands met tightly round her
neck, and his cheek was laid against hers with a coo of delight.
Elspeth stood smiling by, thinking of the wonder and gift of the child
that can charm grief away.
"If only you had a good man of your own, Miss Isla, and a heap of little
pairns, like me, things would pe easier," she said quaintly. "It's not
for me to say, put I whiles think that if there had peen ither laddies
in Achree, Maister Malcolm wouldna haf had it all his own wey, which
would haf peen a good thing for him."
"Yes, Elspeth, what you say is true; but I shall never have a man or any
little bairns," she said with a sigh. "My life-work is cut out plainly
enough--and has been from the beginning. I have to save Achree
somehow--and I will."
"That would be a fery good thing, no doubt, put the ither would pe
petter, my lamb," said Elspeth with such yearning in her eyes that Isla,
feeling her composure shaking again, hastily kissed the child and put
him back in his little enclosure.
"Donald must positively patent this, Eppie--he would make money by it.
It's the cleverest thing I've ever seen," she said lightly.
"It does the turn, and I'm not sayin' put that Donald is clever--clever
with hiss hands. It makes up for the gift of the gab which he hass not
got. I never saw a man speak less. I whiles ask him if his tongue pe
not tired with too little wark."
"Ah, but his heart is of gold, Eppie. Don't you ever miscall Donald to
me, for I won't listen."
"Wha's misca'in him, whatefer?" asked Elspeth with a small laugh which
hid a tear. "Good-bye, Miss Isla, my ponnie dear, and may the good God
go wi' ye and help ye ower this steep pit of the road."
Isla nodded and sped away, not daring to trust herself to further
speech.
Left alone, Eppie Maclure sat down and incontinently began to cry. She
came from one of the islands of the western seas, owned by kinsfolk of
the Achree Mackinnons, and her heart was as soft as her speech, which
had the roll of the western seas in its tone.
There were no tears in Isla's eyes as she breasted the hill bravely,
brain and heart so busy that the good mile seemed but a stone's throw.
It was half-past twelve when she stopped at the low doorway of the
house, and with a wave of the hand dismissed the dogs, who went off with
hanging heads, as if they were conscious of having missed something in
their walk. They knew--for there are few people wiser than the dumb
creatures that love us--that, though the body of their mistress had
accompanied them down the familiar way, her heart was clean away from
them and from all the little homely happenings that can make a country
walk so pleasant.
She lifted the sneck softly and went in, closing the door behind her.
It was rather a wide low hall, with a flagged stone floor washed as
clean as hands and soft rain water could make it. A few deer-skins were
scattered on it, some of them rather worn and bare, as it was a long
time since a Mackinnon had stalked a deer in the forest of Achree. Some
fine antlered heads stood out upon the wall between the stout wooden
beams that supported it and were now black with age and shining with the
peatreek. A fire of peat was burning now in the wide fireplace, in
which there was no grate. On the oak mantelpiece there were queer,
carved wooden pots, full of stag's moss and heather that had lost its
bloom.
It was a bare, cold place, with very little beauty to arrest the eye,
yet it had a dignity difficult to explain or to describe. The stair
went up, wide and steep, from one end of the hall for a few steps, and
then it became a winding one leading to all sorts of nooks and crannies
having small and unexpected landings, with doors opening abruptly off
them--a bewildering house, and very "ill-convenient" to quote once more
the language of the glen. But Isla Mackinnon loved every stone and beam
of it, and the heart of her was heavy, because she saw in the very near
future the day approaching when the Mackinnons would be out of it, root
and branch.
"But not before I've done my best to save it, please God," she said
under her breath, as she cast her coat aside and went to look for her
father.
An old serving-man in a shabby kilt emerged from the faded red-baize
door that shut off the servants' quarters, bearing a tray with glasses
in his hand.
"I suppose it is just on lunch time, Diarmid?" she said. "Where is the
General?"
"I have just put him comfortable with the paper by the library fire,
Miss Isla," said the man, as he scanned her face almost wistfully.
He, too, knew the day of the Indian mail. She motioned him to the
dining-room, a long, narrow room furnished in what the irreverent called
spindle-shanks, but what was in reality genuine and valuable furniture
of the Chippendale period. Many old and very discoloured family
portraits covered the walls, and the carpet, once a warm crimson but now
almost threadbare, gave the only touch of colour to the place. The
table was beautifully set, and the silver on it was fit for a king's
table.
The Mackinnons were very poor, but there were certain dignities of life
which they never ignored or made light of. Whatever the fare might
be--and on most occasions it was simple enough--the table was always so
laid that the best in the land could have been welcomed to it without
shame. The damask was darned, but yet it had a sheen like satin on it
such as they do not achieve on the looms of the present day.
Isla closed the door and, steadying herself against it, spoke to the old
man who had served them as boy and man for five-and-forty years.
"There is a letter from Mr. Malcolm, Diarmid. He is on his way home."
Diarmid set down his tray rather suddenly, so that the glasses rang as
they touched one another.
"Yes--Miss Isla?" he said almost feverishly. "But why will he come
home? Is it leave he is having already so soon?"
"No, Diarmid. He is leaving the Army for good. I am telling you,
because you love us all so much and understand everything. This news
must be kept from the General."
"Yes, Miss Isla--but how? If Mr. Malcolm comes home he comes home, and
the General will see him."
"Oh, yes, but he must think only that he is home on furlough. We must
make up something that will satisfy him--for a time, at least."
"Yes, Miss Isla, and if Mr. Malcolm is to come home what will he do here
in the glen, for sure he is a great big, strong gentleman--glory be to
God--and it is not thinkable that he can be here doing nothing?"
"I haven't got so far as that, Diarmid," said Isla, wearily. "My head
aches and aches with thinking. I sometimes wish I could fall asleep at
night and never waken any more."
"Yes, Miss Isla, but then the sun would go down upon the glen for efer
and efer," said the old man with twitching lips.
He had carried her as a baby in his arms, he had set her almost before
she could toddle upon the back of the old sheltie that now lived, a fat
pensioner, in the paddock behind the house; he had watched her grow from
sweet girlhood to womanhood, and his heart had rebelled against the
hardness of her destiny. She had never had her due. Other girls in her
position had married well, had happy homes and devoted husbands, and
little children about their knees, while she, the flower of them all,
remained unplucked.
Diarmid, a religious man--as befitted one who had lived such an
uneventful and happy life--was sometimes tempted to ask whether the God
whom he worshipped had fallen asleep over the affairs of Achree. Of
late, his rebellion had become acute. In the silence of his dingy
pantry he had even been known to shake his fist over the silver he was
polishing and to utter words not becoming on the lips of so circumspect
a servant.
"Say nothing to the others, Diarmid. Let them think that Mr. Malcolm is
only home on furlough," she pursued. "I must make it right with my
father somehow. I'll go to him now and tell him about the letter."
"Yes, Miss Isla. And Mr. Malcolm, he is quite well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, he is always well. Perhaps, if he were not--but there, I must
guard my tongue. The days are very dark over Achree, Diarmid, and it
may be that its sun will soon set for ever."
"God forbid! He will nefer let that happen--no, nor anypody else,
forby," he said vaguely. "Keep up your brave heart, Miss Isla. I haf
seen it fery dark over the loch of a morning, and again, by midday, it
would clear and the sun come out. It will be like that now, nefer
fear."
But though brave words were on the old man's tongue, black despair was
in his heart. He was only a servingman, but he could read between the
lines, and he knew that this sudden and unexpected home-coming of the
ne'er-do-weel meant something dire for Achree. His hands trembled very
much as he proceeded with his table duties, while his young mistress
made her way across the hall again to the library, a queer little
octagon room on the south side of the house, with no view to speak of
from its high, narrow windows that looked out on the rising slope of a
heather hill which made the beginning of the moor of Creagh. It was,
however, the snuggest room in the whole house, for which reason it was
used almost entirely by the General as a living place.
He was frail now, going to bed early and rising late, and seldom caring
to ascend the winding stairs to his bedroom after he had once left it.
Isla entered softly, and his dull ear failed to apprise him of the
opening of the door. She was thus able to look at him before he was
aware of her presence. Once a very tall man, standing six feet two in
his stockings in his prime, his fine figure was now sadly shrunk. He
sat in a straight, high-backed chair--principally because there were
very few of the other sort in the old Castle of Achree, and because
there was no money to buy them with, but she could see the droop of the
shoulders as they rested against the small cushion that she had filled
with down to give him a little ease. He wore a velvet skullcap, from
the edge of which there showed a fringe of beautiful silvery hair. His
feet, in the big loose slippers of the old man, were raised on a hassock
and he was holding the newspaper high before his eyes. Isla observed,
from its continuous flutter, that his hands were a little more shaky
than usual.
His face was very fine. In his youth Mackinnon of Achree had been the
handsomest man in West Perthshire, and he was reported to have broken
his full complement of hearts. Even now the classic outline of his face
was plainly discernible, and he reminded one of some old war-horse that
was past service, but that retained to the end all the noble
characteristics that had distinguished him in the heyday of his glory.
"What news to-day, father?" asked Isla's fresh, clear voice.
When he heard it he rose to his feet with that fine courtesy towards
women which had never failed him.
She laid a hand in gentle reprimand on his arm.
"Now, how often have I told you, old dear, that you are not to be so
ceremonious with me? You can keep your fine manners for the great
ladies who never, never now come to Achree. Your little Isla knows that
they are there, and she doesn't need ocular demonstration of their
presence."
He smiled and patted her cheek. He was an old man, now in his
seventy-fifth year. He had been so long on foreign service that he had
not married till late in life, and he had then made a marriage which had
been the one mistake of his life, and into which he had been led by the
softness of his own heart. Yet in battle, and in the affairs of men, he
had been a terrific person, to be avoided by those who had offended him.
The fruits of that marriage, unfortunately, had come out in the son and
heir in whose veins ran the wild blood of the woman who had broken
Mackinnon's heart. There was no fight in the General now. He was a
broken old man--very gentle, not altogether comprehending, a mere cypher
in his own house, though his honour and his prestige were more jealously
guarded by his household than they had ever been when he could guard
them himself.
His health was frail, but he suffered apparently from no disease. The
doctor from Comrie who paid a weekly visit often assured Isla that, with
care, there was no reason why her father should not live for other ten
years. Only he mustn't have any shock. He so often insisted upon this
that Isla would ask herself after he had gone how, as circumstances were
with them now, shock could be avoided. Apprehension was in the very
air, and when Malcolm came home shock would most certainly be the order
of the day.
"Where have you been, Isla?"
"Down to Lochearn, and I stopped at Darrach to speak to Eppie. You know
how her tongue wags. Sit down, dear, and let me tell you something.
Have you had any interesting letters?"
"I don't know," he said vaguely. "I looked at some of them. There is
one from Cattanach, but I don't understand it. You'll explain it to me,
Isla, and write what is necessary."
Cattanach was the family lawyer, the head of a big legal firm in Glasgow
that had administered the affairs of Achree for many years.
Isla seized upon his letter jealously, and read it even with a feeling
of foreboding. But as her eyes quickly covered the typewritten words,
lo! a great relief was hers. The thing she had dreaded now manifested
itself as a blessing--perhaps even as a way out.
"Father, have you read this letter?" she asked, drawing her chair to his
side and still holding it in her hand.
"I read it--yes, but I don't think I understand. He says something
about strange folks coming to Achree. You can write to him, Isla, and
tell him that we are not in a position to entertain, as we used to be.
We have not the folk about us to make guests comfortable--nor perhaps
have we the heart."
"No, no; but that is not quite what he means, darling," said Isla
eagerly. "Let me read it over to you quite slowly, then perhaps you
will understand."
"ST. VINCENT PLACE,
"GLASGOW, March.
"DEAR GENERAL MACKINNON,--I hardly like to approach you on the subject
of this letter, but a client of mine is so insistent that I don't seem
to have any alternative.
"I write on behalf of Mr. Hylton Rosmead, an American gentleman who is
looking for a place in your neighbourhood to rent for the season. He
wants it for six months at least--from Easter to October, with the
option of stopping on if agreeable to both parties.
"It seems odd that, with the whole of Scotland to choose from, he and
his family should hit upon Achree which, as I told him, is not in the
market. They saw it in course of a motor tour last autumn, and were so
struck with it, it seems, that it is the only place they would have in
the whole of Scotland.
"I may say two things that may help you to a decision. They are
Americans of the best type, and he would pay a fancy price for the
place.
"I have no alternative but to lay the offer before you and may I remind
you that the letting of places to people of this type has become so
common among the old families that it is the exception not to let them
at some time or other.
"I shall be glad to hear from you at your very earliest convenience as
Mr. Rosmead is anxious to get settled. Hoping you feel yourself better
with the approach of spring, and that Miss Mackinnon is quite well,--I
am, dear General, yours faithfully,
"ALEXANDER CATTANACH."
Long before Isla had reached the close of this letter the old man's
attention had wandered and, though his eyes had not fixed themselves on
the paper again, Isla saw that he was not in the smallest degree either
interested or comprehending.
"You don't understand, dear, that some one wants to take Achree from us
for a few months and to pay a high rent--a very high rent--for it. Why
shouldn't we let it? Look how often Uncle Tom has let Barras. He has
told us he couldn't get on without letting it."
"Oh, no, of course not. Read this account of affairs in Rhodesia, Isla.
It's the aftermath of the war. Heavens, we'll never get to the end of
that precious muddle! I said so at the time."
Isla laid down the letter quietly, intending to return to it later. It
was part of the difficulty of her life, part of the hopelessness of the
present acuter stage in it, that she could not get her father to
comprehend facts and details which were of the utmost importance.
Either he could not or he would not understand--there were times when
she was at a loss to say which.
As she laid Cattanach's letter down she drew her brother's from the
bosom of her blouse.
"Did you remember that this is mail-day, father? You know you can't read
Malcolm's scrawl, which seems to grow more illegible with every letter.
Shall I read it out to you?"
"No. Tell me what he says. His letters weary me. They are full of
words I don't understand and have no use for," he said with a sudden
touch of querulousness. "I can't understand why a boy that has been at
Glenalmond and at Sandhurst wants to fill his letters with
unintelligible jargon. How is he?"
"He's quite well. He is coming home, father. He will be here very
shortly."
"Coming home! Leave again! Far too much leave in the service now.
They have no time to lick them into shape. Seventeen years I served in
Northern India without a break--and never a murmur; and I've known men
who served thirty. Now it's leave every third or fourth year. It
doesn't look like five since he was last here, but I suppose it is.
Well, when is he coming?"
"In about a month."
"A bad time of year, too--nothing to kill but a stray rabbit. I think
I'll write to them at the War Office and stir them up about this
perpetual leave business. It's bad for the men, bad for the officers,
bad for the service all through, and accounts for its unpopularity and
inefficiency. In my day the Army was a man's business--the serious
business of his life. Now it's his play. How can a country be kept
together on these lines?"
Isla betrayed no weariness, though she knew that he had started on his
interminable theme. It was the only one in which he retained any active
interest, for Mackinnon had been born a soldier, and the medals he had
won could not be pinned all at one time on his breast. But his failing
powers prevented him from being able to adjust his mind to the new
conditions of things. In his estimation, the old style of warfare was
best, and all the new methods were fit only to be criticized and partly
abolished.
"He doesn't say anything about the duration of his leave. I, too, am
rather sorry he is coming home just now, father, for, as you say, there
is nothing to kill and Malcolm isn't a man of resource. I think I'll go
and see Cattanach and ask his advice."
"Cattanach? Oh, yes. What did he write about, did you say? Anything
to sign? Or was he writing only for his own amusement to earn
six-and-eightpence? Terrible fellows these lawyers--even the best of
them are worth watching."
He laughed gently but quite mirthlessly, and his eyes glued themselves
again to his paper, in which he at once became completely absorbed.
Isla, knitting her brows slightly, turned away to the table to glance
through her father's letters, which he had not so much as touched.
Everything was in her hands. Something whispered that she, and she
alone, must be the saviour of Achree.