THE BRIDGE BUILDERS
Kitty did not look so surprised as might have been expected. She walked
with alacrity to the door in spite of Isla's rather eager protest.
"It's my belief, Isla, that you shut up the poor old General to prevent
people from seeing him. I should not be at all surprised to find him in
the dungeon-room," she said saucily over her shoulder as she disappeared
round the sharp turning of the stair.
Isla reluctantly re-entered the drawing-room, fully aware of what was
coming.
"Don't, Neil," she said, lifting a deprecating hand. "It has got to be
done, so there isn't any use of talking about it."
"But, Isla!" he groaned, "it can't be done. Why, it will kill the
General! Does he know what is in contemplation?"
"I have tried to tell him, but he can't understand," said Isla
pitifully.
"He'll understand quickly enough when it comes to the bit--when you take
him away from the old house. Why, it's the house he was born in, and he
can't leave it now when he is old and frail. It's worth any sacrifice
to let him have his last days in peace."
"It is; but I have made all the sacrifices possible, and have reached
the end of my tether. If somebody could awaken the sense of sacrifice
in Malcolm it would be different."
"Malcolm will be furious! Have you written and asked him, for after all
he's the heir, you know, and a step--a big, drastic, horrible step like
letting a property--can't be, or at least ought not to be, taken without
consulting the heir."
Isla smiled drearily as she dropped into a chair.
Her old friend's anger was quite understandable and natural; but, oh, if
people only knew how futile it all was!
"Listen, Neil. I thought of telling you the other day when we went to
Glasgow together, but it was too new and raw then. Of course, that was
the business I had to see Cattanach about. It is Malcolm who has caused
this--who has wrought the red ruin of Achree."
Drummond was silent before the poignancy of her tone. Nor could he say
that he was altogether astonished, since he knew Malcolm Mackinnon, and
was fully aware of part at least of his unspeakable folly and misdoing.
"I may as well tell you now," went on Isla hotly. "Soon it will be the
common property of the glen. Malcolm has had to send in his papers."
"My God, Isla, you don't say so!" said Drummond, and his fresh, kindly
face grew a little white under the shock.
She nodded.
"Yes--and he owes over two thousand pounds to money-lenders, and our
account is over-drawn at the bank. So now you know why the Americans
must come to Achree."
She leaned back, and a small, very dismal smile just hovered about the
corners of her sad, proud mouth.
Neil Drummond could scarcely have looked more thunderstruck and
overwhelmed had the disaster come to his own Garrion, nor could he have
felt it more acutely. He took a turn across the floor, and then he came
and stood in front of her, his broad shoulders squared, a sudden look of
strength and determination upon his kindly face.
"Why didn't you let us know before things got to this stage, Isla? What
are friends for--that's what I'd like to know? Your silence just shows
what a poor place, after all, any of us have in your estimation."
"No, no, Neil. But don't you see it was such a big, desperate, hopeless
thing that nobody could give any help in the matter? And the dearer the
friends are, the more impossible it would be to take money from them.
You must understand that. You do understand it--only it pleases you to
be denser than I have ever known you in the whole course of our
acquaintance."
"The whole course of our acquaintance!" he repeated, half-eagerly,
half-wistfully. "It's been spread over a pretty long period of years
now, hasn't it, Isla?"
"Yes, but it looks like centuries. To-day I feel a century old myself."
"What you're needing, my dear, is somebody to take care of you," he said
with a great gentleness. "I must speak again, though I promised to be
silent till you gave me leave to speak. Won't you let me step into the
breach, Isla? Marry me, and I'll do my best to smooth things over, and
the General shall certainly not leave Achree. Garrion coffers are not
so very full just at present, but I think there might be enough raised
to prevent that unthinkable catastrophe."
She shook her head.
"I can't, Neil, I can't! Don't say another word about it."
"I'm not asking anything," he said with the humbleness born of a really
unselfish love--"only the right to take care of you and shield you and,
if need be, fight for you. Malcolm is your brother, Isla, but I'd like
to get into grips with him just once to punish him for all these lines
that have come on your dear face through him. And if he comes back to
the glen I'll tell him what I think of him, even if it should be the
last word I speak in this world!"
"It is easier to have one's men folk killed in wars, Neil," she said in
a low voice. "Last week Lady Eden was bewailing Archie's death, even
though she had his little V.C. on the table beside her. I could have
cried out to her to go down on her knees and thank God because he is
safe from all hurt and evil. She does not begin to know the meaning of
sorrow, as we know it here. I have only one consolation--that my father
will never now be able to grasp the real meaning of what has happened.
You'll have to help me to keep it from him--to talk and to act as if
nothing out of the common had occurred; and you must promise to come and
to bring Kitty to see us at Creagh."
"At Creagh!" cried Drummond aghast. "You don't mean to say that you are
going to bury yourselves in that God-forsaken hole? Oh, my dear,
Garrion may be bad, but at least it is get-at-able. Shut up in Creagh,
with the General and with Malcolm when he comes home!--it will be the
death of you, Isla."
"No, no, I take a lot of killing. Do be a bit more cheerful, Neil. I'm
sure you must have thought the Americans quite nice people. He is
charming, I think. He builds bridges in America, and Cattanach says that
he is a man of genius."
"He may build what he likes, but if he comes to Achree, whatever the
price he pays, he commits the unpardonable sin," he said sourly. "Don't
let us talk about him. I'm waiting for an answer to my question. It
isn't much I ask, Isla. I promise not to molest you or to beg for your
love, though I'll do my best to win it. Why is it that you won't believe
in me?"
"Oh, I do, Neil. It is because I like you so much that I won't marry
you," she answered frankly, but a little wearily. "You deserve
something so much better than a half-hearted wife."
"I'd rather have the half or the quarter of you than the whole of any
other woman," he made answer in the reckless way of the lover. "At
least, promise me that if you should change your mind, that if things
should get desperate, you'll come to me? A word will be enough,
Isla--even a look. I'll fly to your bidding on the wings of the wind."
"Oh, Neil, I wish that all this eloquence and this devotion could be
given to a better woman----"
"She doesn't exist," put in the lover stoutly. "Now, tell me about
Malcolm. What is the meaning of this horrible thing that has happened,
and who told you?"
"He told me himself in last week's letter. Oh, yes--he minds, of
course, but he thinks he has been unjustly treated. Somebody is always
treating Malcolm unjustly, you know; and, whatever happens, it is always
another person's fault."
"But it must be very serious, my dear. Has there been any other
communication--anything from his Colonel, or the War Office for the
General?"
"No--nothing; and when anything comes I shall intercept it," she replied
without the smallest hesitation. "What is concerning me most is that, in
about three weeks' time, Malcolm will be at home, loafing about idle in
the glen, and I shall never know a moment's ease of mind. That's the
redeeming feature of Creagh--it's at least five miles from everywhere.
But, of course, he can't be permitted to loaf about. He must find some
occupation. I wonder----"
She stopped there, however, and Neil was left to conjecture what it was
that she wondered. He would not have been so well pleased had he known
that her thoughts had flown with a curious sense of restfulness and hope
to the man who had just left them. The hated man had said that the
business of his life was to demolish difficulties and to build bridges
where none had been before. Could he--or would he--undertake the
problem of Malcolm's life?
Kitty returned while that question was still lingering in Isla's mind,
and, after a little more desultory talk, the brother and sister took
their departure.
"Tell Kitty on the way home, Neil," whispered Isla as she bade him
good-bye, her fingers aching under his strong, almost painful, pressure
which was intended to convey all the thoughts of which his heart was
full.
"Give Aunt Betty my love, and tell her that I will pay her a visit
before I go to Creagh," she added. "Yes, of course, tell her about
Malcolm too, but don't say too much about it, and, of course, outside
Garrion----"
She laid a significant finger on her lip.
Neil nodded, and, with gloom sitting on his brow, ascended to his high
perch on the dogcart and tucked the rug about his sister's knees.
The next three weeks passed in a whirl of business for Isla Mackinnon.
The very next morning after the visit of the Americans to Achree she had
Jimmy Forbes up from Lochearn to drive her to Creagh. The sun was
shining so brightly and the air was so soft and balmy that all of a
sudden she decided that the drive might do her father good.
He had only just come down from his bedroom and was standing in the
doorway, enjoying the air, when the trap drove up, and Isla came down
the stairs.
"Where are you for this morning, my dear?"
"I'm going to Creagh. Will you go with me, dear? I have some particular
business to do at Creagh this morning, and it's so deliciously sunny and
warm and I think the drive would do you good."
"Yes, I'd like to go," said the old man with the wistful pleasure of the
child, at the same time taking a critical look at the stout roan cob
that had come up from the hotel stable, well and fit for the rough road
over Creagh moor.
It did not take Isla and Diarmid long to wrap the General up, and off
they went through the pleasant spring sunshine, mounting slowly all the
time until they reached the broad plateau of the moor of Creagh, which
was the one valuable asset of Achree and constituted its only claim to
the dignity of being a sporting estate.
The Lodge stood at the far angle of the moor, about a mile across from
the road--a small, bare, ugly house which made no pretence to being
anything more than a shelter for sportsmen. It was well protected by a
clump of sturdy fir trees, and it had even a fertile bit of garden
ground behind, with a small glass-house, and excellent stables. It was
furnished throughout, and it was in the care of Margaret Maclaren, an
old pensioner of Achree and widow of a former keeper.
She was a faithful servant who attended well to her duties whether her
employers were there to see her or not, and she was not at all put out
by the unexpected arrival of the trap from Achree.
Bathed in the glorious noon sunshine, the place looked its best, and
even the interior did not seem at all amiss. All the windows were open
to the sun, and Isla's sharp eyes noted the complete absence of damp,
which was her chief enemy at Achree.
"Father, isn't it pretty here?" she asked the General as they stood for
a moment in the porch before entering the house. "I should like to come
up and live the whole summer here."
"It would not be amiss in the summer, child. Many a happy day have I
spent in Creagh and many a jolly night."
She led him into the dining-room--a goodly-sized square room, not
unhandsomely furnished in oak, the carpet rolled up in the middle of the
floor, and faded chintz covers over the leather chairs.
The open casement windows commanded a splendid and uninterrupted view of
the whole moor which, even in its bareness and in the wildness of the
winter, had a certain rugged beauty of its own. A low hill rose
immediately behind the house, from which a glorious prospect of the
whole valley of the Earn could be seen, with Ben Voirlich rising like a
buttress behind all the lesser hills in the valley below.
The air was like wine, and Isla's spirits rose as she grasped the
possibilities of the simpler life there, in that remote lodge in a
wilderness.
She quickly interviewed Margaret Maclaren, and in her company she made a
rapid survey of the dismantled house, the result of which showed her
that a very few days would suffice to put it in order for their
reception.
"We have let Achree for the season, Margaret," she said in the most
matter-of-fact voice she could command, "and the new tenants want to
come in at Easter. You will thoroughly air and fire all the house, but
more especially my father's room above the dining-room. These two rooms
will be most exclusively his. We shall eat in the little room at the
back, while he has this for his library and sitting-room."
"Yes, Miss Isla, and hoo mony will come up from Achree--of the servants,
I mean?"
"Only Diarmid, Margaret. You and he must just manage. I will help all
I can. If we find it too much, your niece, Annie Chisholm, could be
got. Perhaps this will be necessary when we have Mr. Malcolm at home.
Yes--he is coming soon, and he will be here with us for a few weeks at
least."
Whatever secret wonder may have been in the soul of Margaret Maclaren,
she suffered none of it to be expressed on her face.
Isla was much pleased with her visit and with the possibilities of the
house, part of which she had forgotten. She saw that her father, too,
was pleased. He enjoyed his walk about the place and constantly spoke
of the beautiful view from the front of the house across the moor and
down to Glenogle.
"I'll take the reins down, Jamie," said Isla to the hotel groom.
When they were fairly out on the road she turned rather anxiously to her
father, talking to him in a low voice which there was no possible chance
of Jamie overhearing as he was rather deaf at the best of times, and was
almost entirely devoid of curiosity--a trait in his character worth
mentioning.
"Father, I want to tell you something. Will you mind very much if we
come up to Creagh soon for the whole summer?"
"No, I think I should like it," he answered, unexpectedly. "But you
would find it very dull, wouldn't you?"
"I'm never dull anywhere. You saw the folk who came yesterday--the
Americans, didn't you? I saw Mr. Rosmead talking to you at the
shrubbery."
"I saw them--yes. Who were they and what brought them to Achree? I
don't remember having seen him before."
"You haven't seen him before. He's a stranger--a rich American, and I
have let Achree to him for six months."
Her hand trembled a little on the reins, and she half-expected either a
petulant outburst or some other demonstration of feeling that would vex
and alarm her soul and would harm the old man. But when, made anxious
by his silence, she turned to look at him, his face only wore the
perplexed expression of a child's.
"I don't know for what reason you want to let the place, Isla, or why
anybody should wish to take it. But have it your own way. I dare say
we could be very comfortable in Creagh unless, indeed, we have a wet
summer. Then we would get very sick of it. I suppose the new folk would
be willing to go out if we found it not possible to live up here."
"They would be perfectly reasonable, I'm sure, father," said Isla.
Her relief was so great that her features visibly relaxed, and her eyes
began to shine. She was getting on famously. If only the latter part
of the sad and sorry business should prove as easy to arrange as the
first had been--why, then, perhaps she had been torturing herself
needlessly. She had scarcely had a good night's rest since the arrival
of the Indian mail, and the strain was beginning to tell on her.
"Well, I think I'll get you settled in Creagh comfortably with Diarmid
as soon as possible. Then, after you are feeling quite at home, I think
I shall go to Plymouth to meet Malcolm's boat. I haven't had a holiday
for four years, father, and in the letter I had from Aunt Jean the other
day she said they were all going up from Barras this week to Belgrave
Square. So I'll take a few days of London dissipation before I meet
Malcolm."
The old man made no demur. So great were his faith and his trust in
Isla that he seldom questioned any of her doings.
During that week the bargain was concluded with the Rosmeads by Mr.
Cattanach, after which a small correspondence began between Isla and
Rosmead concerning certain minor repairs in the Castle that he wished to
execute at his own expense.
A few days before they removed to Creagh he came down himself,
ostensibly for the purpose of explaining to her that what he wished to
effect was only a few small improvements with a view to making the home
more comfortable for his mother.
Isla at first had resented the idea. Her Highland pride even got the
length of tempting her to write and tell the man that he could either
take the house as it was or leave it. But she could not afford to do
that, so she relieved her feelings by writing the letter and then
consigning it to the fire.
It was, however, a rather subdued and coldly aggressive Isla who met him
on the occasion of his coming to pay his second call. But when she saw
him, she was ashamed that she had written that letter and was glad that
she had had the sense to burn it.
"I thought that I had better come instead of writing in reply to your
last letter, Miss Mackinnon," he said presently. "We were getting
adrift from the main issue. I want to explain that I don't propose to
make any structural alterations on the house. The stove that I wrote
about is an American invention for the heating of unsatisfactory country
houses where, for some reason or other, the ordinary heating is
difficult to arrange. It will greatly add to my mother's comfort while
she is here, and it can be taken away when we leave. It will not harm
the house but, on the contrary, will benefit it by drying it up. I
think you mentioned to my sister that it was a little damp."
"It is very damp in parts," said Isla stoutly. "I am not seeking to
deny it. I am sorry I wrote like that about the stove. You see," she
added with her wandering smile which to him was wholly pathetic, "I am
new to the business of house-letting, and you must be patient with me."
Her brief anger and irritation vanished under his clear, kind gaze, and
the immensity of comfort and strength that seemed to be created by his
very presence.
"You may trust me to do nothing which would alter the house out of your
recognition," he said gently. "My mother is an old lady, and her chest
is weak. It is absolutely necessary that she be kept warm and that no
damp should be allowed to come near her. We are charmed with the house
and with the kindness which you showed to us that day we came. My
sister has never ceased to talk about it, and my mother is looking
forward very much to making your acquaintance."
"Thank you, but at the moor of Creagh we shall be very much out of the
way," said Isla softly.
"A quick and strong car annihilates distance," he reminded her.
But she made a quick little gesture of dissent.
"I think the moor of silence would beat it," she answered. "Well, I am
taking my father up to Creagh next Monday, and when I have settled him
in it I am going to London for a few days. The house will be quite
empty and ready for you from next Monday, and I hope that you will not
find it disappointing. At least I haven't embroidered any of the
facts."
"You are going to London?" he said, as if surprised.
"Yes, I have to meet my brother's boat at Plymouth. He is returning from
India."
"A soldier?" he ventured to ask, remembering the General's rank and
wondering at the dull flush that rose to her face.
"Yes. But I think he may leave the Army for good. My father's health is
so very frail. Nothing can be settled, however, till my brother comes
home," she answered, hating herself for the prevarication that her clear
conscience told her was nothing short of a lie.
But the pride in her burned high, and she would not demean herself to
this man who, with all his pleasant ways and curious suggestion of power
and strength, was only a rich, new-made American, who could never be
expected to understand any of the feelings that lay deep in the heart of
a Mackinnon of Achree.
As for Rosmead, he only smiled inwardly, attracted by her moods, which
were as changeful as the face of Loch Earn. He was a builder of
bridges, and the conquering of obstacles was, as he had told her, his
business.
He could bide his time.