VIVIEN
It was three o'clock of the afternoon before Rosmead got back to Achree,
and he had not eaten any lunch. In the stable-yard he met his sister
Vivien, who had gone round to look at some Aberdeen puppies, arrived
that very morning.
"We have been wondering about your absence, Peter," she said with her
quiet smile. "Have you had any lunch?"
"None. I have been up at the Lodge of Creagh. The old General is dead.
Come back to the house, and I will tell you about it."
A groom came forward to take the horse, and Rosmead, linking his arm in
his sister's, walked her away. They were devotedly attached to each
other, and the wreckage of his dear and beautiful sister's life at the
hands of an unprincipled man had cast a deep cloud over Rosmead which
could never wholly be lifted. For every time he looked at her face,
every time he thought of the possibilities of her kind nature and of the
long years of loneliness in front of her his soul was filled with a holy
rage. On such occasions he would have killed his brother-in-law, and
thought this no sin.
Vivien Rosmead, made for love, uniting in her sweet nature all that is
best in womanhood, all that makes for the precious things of life, had
been cheated on its very threshold. But why had she been so blind, you
ask? Why had not her finer sense warned her of the risk she ran? The
answer is the one which has come from the lips of a vast army of sad
women who have believed that their love could win and keep a man from
his evil ways. In this some few have succeeded but a multitude have
failed. Vivien had failed, and the irony and the misery of it had
embittered Peter Rosmead beyond all telling.
"The old General dead!" echoed Vivien in astonishment. "But he was not
even ill. His son has been here this morning and said he was very
well."
"He had a shock, and he died on the spot. Heart failure, I suppose.
You are needed up there, Vivien. I want you to go to-day."
Vivien looked at him questioningly, and seemed to shrink.
"But I don't know Miss Mackinnon, Peter. I've never even seen her. She
has shown us very plainly that she does not wish to know us."
"That is of no consequence. This sorrow lifts the things above all such
considerations. She is a woman in need--a woman suffering acutely and
terribly, and she is almost utterly alone. If mother were able she
would go--you know that. You must take her place. May I go back now and
order a trap."
"There is plenty of time, Peter," she said, visibly shrinking yet. "It
is never quite dark in these long, delightful days. Tell me what
happened. Were you there with her when her father died?"
Rosmead briefly explained how the death had occurred.
"And she thinks that it was the letter that killed him? How strange and
sad! Did she give you no inkling as to what it contained?"
"No. But I have my own opinion--or rather suspicions. It has something
to do with her brother. As I left the house and he entered it I heard
her call him a murderer."
"Oh, how dreadful and how unlikely!" cried Vivien in deepening
bewilderment. "Malcolm Mackinnon does not strike one at all as that
sort of person. He is so transparent--just like a big, jolly schoolboy.
I like him so much."
Rosmead was not surprised to hear it. Malcolm Mackinnon had paid many
visits to Achree, where he had shown the very best and most lovable side
of him. He had jested with the gay Sadie, had been serious and kindly
and responsible when talking to Vivien, and had sat like an attentive
son by Mrs. Rosmead's invalid couch. To Rosmead himself he had been
simply a good comrade, and, on the whole, the American had no fault to
find with him. Yet, somehow, these words, falling from Vivien's lips,
disquieted him not a little.
"I'm afraid there's something behind it all. Probably Mackinnon has
sowed his wild oats, and this is the aftermath. Anyway, the old man is
dead, and she is in a dreadful state. Her eyes haunt me. It is a woman
she needs--mothering, in fact, and if you could bring her right down
here to mother it would be a Christian act. Where's Sadie?"
"Miss Drummond came to lunch and has taken her away to Balquhidder to
show her Rob Roy's grave. Then they are going to Garrion to tea. What
a bright creature she is! She kept us laughing right through lunch."
"I'm rather glad, on the whole, that Sadie is not about. Well, dear,
while you are getting ready I will see mother. I took a message from her
to Creagh. Would you like me to go up with you, to drive you and wait
outside, perhaps?"
"Just as you like. But perhaps, as you've only just come down, I had
better go alone. We don't want to overwhelm her with Rosmeads."
He nodded understandingly, and they parted on the stairs, Rosmead
proceeding up one of the winding ways to his mother's room.
They had not altered the interior of the old house in any way. They had
only spent money to make it comfortable, covered bare stairs and
passages with rich carpets of neutral tints, and gathered about them all
the comforts and refinements which are at the command of wealth.
Mrs. Rosmead occupied the General's chamber, which had a large
dressing-room adjoining, and from its quaint little windows she could
see the Loch and the hills beyond.
She was a gentle, frail old lady, very small and delicately built, but
her sweet face in its frame of snow-white hair had great strength.
It was from her undoubtedly that Rosmead had inherited his decision of
character, his deeply-rooted principles, his inflexible will. He was
very like her physically, and he worshipped her. Up till now no woman
had ousted her from the shrine of his heart. The relation between them
was indeed idyllic and did much to keep the softer side of Rosmead in
the foreground.
Her keen, fine black eyes, so like his own, lifted themselves
inquiringly to his face as he entered.
"Well, as you have taken such a long time to carry out my behest, I take
it that you were well received, my son."
"Yes, I was, but that is not what delayed me," he answered as he bent to
kiss her.
Then in a few words he made her acquainted with the tragedy of the
morning. As she listened, full of grief and sympathy, she,
unconsciously to herself, watched her son keenly. She saw that he was
moved far beyond his wont, that his voice, when he spoke of Isla
Mackinnon, vibrated with an entirely new note. And she wondered, and
her desire to see the girl was quickened.
"She is the most desolate creature on God's earth, mother, and if only I
could wrap you up in my arms and carry you to Creagh you could heal her
with a touch, as you have so often healed your other children."
The expression "your other children" impressed her. Could it be possible
that already Peter's thoughts and longings had flown as far as the day
when he should give another daughter to her heart?
"You must bring her to me, dear. It is the only way."
"Vivien is going up. Next to you, she will be the best to help her. It
is a woman that she needs. All her life long apparently she has been
fighting side by side with men."
"Fighting!" repeated Mrs. Rosmead with a slight wonderment in her tone.
"Well, you know, she has had to do everything for and to be everything
to the old man."
"But how? He has a dear son, Peter. You must not be unjust to young
Mackinnon. Oh, I have heard that they say things here in the Glen about
him, but when he comes here and sits by me, I believe none of them. He
only needs a little guiding, and I think I have gathered from him that
his sister has been a little hard on him at times."
Rosmead with Isla's most bitter cry in his ears, remained wholly
unconvinced.
"The ins and outs of the story we don't know, mother. Perhaps we shall
never know them. But of this I am sure--that Isla Mackinnon would be
hard on no man without a cause. She is a splendid creature, and----"
"Peter, come here."
The sweet voice was peremptory, the swift, humorous black eyes were
compelling. He came obediently, as of old, to her side.
"Look straight at me--no, not like that!--very straight, Peter Rosmead.
Is this to be the woman?"
"Yes, mother," he answered, with the simplicity of a big child. "Please
God, it is."
"Then bring her to me quickly, my son, that I may get to know and love
her--ay, and to learn whether she is worthy of Peter Rosmead. I have
never yet seen the woman who is."
Peter laughed, in no way uplifted by her loving pride. His nature indeed
was singularly unspoiled.
"It can't be done in such a desperate hurry. She is cold and fine, and,
like her own hills, she is difficult of approach. I shall have to walk
warily and win her slowly. But win her I shall or go unmarried to my
grave."
Thus did Peter Rosmead quite quietly dispose of the biggest thing that
had come into his life. And his mother, watching the firm set of his
square chin, the invincible light in his eyes, gloried in his strength,
and had not the smallest doubt that he would attain the desire of his
heart.
Was any pang of disappointment hers? To every mother the moment when
her son takes another woman to his heart is one of supreme pain. This
is as inevitable as the law of life.
But Mrs. Rosmead desired her son to marry, and she had kept him at her
side a long time.
"So Vivien will go up? Is she getting ready now?"
"I think so."
"Well, bring my writing-block and pencil, and I will write a message for
Miss Mackinnon."
He obeyed her, but she did not show him what she wrote. Nor was he
curious to see it. He had never in all his life known her to do the
wrong thing or speak the wrong word.
She was a woman in whom grace was developed to a very high degree.
Vivien came in presently, her slender, graceful figure enveloped in its
capacious coat of Harris tweed, and a small neat toque of green velvet
crowning her beautiful head.
"Peter has been telling you, mother. Do you think it is the right thing
for me to do--to go to Creagh, I mean? I confess to a little
hesitation. I am so afraid of intruding on her. Even the pride of old
Virginia must pale before that of Glenogle."
"Your heart will dictate the fitting word, my child. Give this to the
poor girl, and if she will come to us here to rest awhile in the house
where she was born we shall try not to make her feel that we have taken
her home from her."
Rosmead tucked his sister in, and, just as the horse was about to start,
he spoke again.
"You won't be discouraged if it is a little difficult at first, Vivien?
Try to think only of her desperate need."
"Poor old Peter," she said whimsically. "I never saw him so much in
earnest about anything. I do believe he would like nothing better than
to be going back himself."
Their eyes met in a smile, and she drove off, waving her hand.
He drifted about the place all the afternoon, conscious of a growing
restlessness that he could not shake off, his thoughts all the while
following Vivien to the Moor of Creagh.
When she arrived at the small plain house, which she now saw for the
first time, a vast pity filled her heart. Creagh had beautiful
surroundings, but nothing could make it a home. It was bare and
uninviting--a mere shelter; and Vivien, who loved beautiful places, and
who had the whole art of the Home Beautiful at her finger-ends, wondered
how Isla could have borne to exchange the old-world charm of Achree for
this.
She had not heard the whole story of the transaction. Rosmead had
preserved a singular reticence regarding the terms of his tenancy of
Achree, and Vivien merely thought that the Mackinnons either wanted the
money badly or had some other family reason for letting their ancestral
home.
The blinds were all down, but, as she directed the man to stop outside
the gate, she could see the open door at the end of the short avenue.
"Wait here, Farquhar. I will not disturb them by driving up to the
door."
She left her heavy coat on the seat, and in her neat, plain suit of blue
serge walked up the short approach to the open door, where Diarmid, who
had heard the rumble of wheels, stood waiting to receive her.
"Not at home," were the words ready on his lips, but something in
Vivien's face arrested his attention.
"I am Mrs. Rodney Payne, Mr. Rosmead's sister, and I have come at my
brother's request to see Miss Mackinnon. Do you think she would see me
for a few minutes?"
Diarmid hesitated for a moment. Then he was wholly vanquished by the
light in the strange lady's eyes.
"Ma'am, if you'll step inside, I'll see," he said respectfully. "She's
sittin' up there in the room with him, and we can do naught with her.
Maype, if she would see you, it might be better for her."
"Where is her brother?"
Diarmid shook his head.
"He hass been out of the house for 'oors, ma'am, and we are all to
pieces here in Creagh, and there's nothing but dool and woe upon my
folk."
Vivien's eyes became moist at this expressive phrase which, falling
pathetically from the old servant's lips, adequately summed up the whole
affairs of the Mackinnons.
"I am afraid," she said very gently, "that if you take my name to Miss
Mackinnon she will not see me. I am going to take a great deal upon
myself. If you will just show me the way I will go to her without
announcement. She can only send me away."
"Yes, sure, an' that is so, but I do not think, seeing you, ma'am, that
she will do that," said Diarmid earnestly, and he held open the door for
her to pass in as if she had been a queen.
They trod the narrow stairs very softly. On the half-landing Diarmid
paused and stood aside while he pointed with finger that trembled
slightly to the closed door of the room where Mackinnon slept his last
sleep.
Vivien braced herself, for the thing she was about to do was not only
unusual, but might very easily be misconstrued. She took a little quick
breath as her fingers closed upon the handle of the door. The next
moment she turned it, slipped in, and closed it behind her again.
The blinds of the front window only were down, but the sun, now veering
westward, shone in at the window in the gable-end and lay in a soft
yellow flood upon the quiet room. A shaft of sunshine even lay athwart
the bed, touching as it passed Isla's motionless figure, where she sat
upon a chair by the bed-side, her hands lightly clasped on her lap, her
eyes staring straight in front of her, unseeing, uncomprehending, a look
of almost hopeless misery upon her face. At sight of a strange woman in
the doorway, however, she sprang up, quivering with indignation. She
would have pointed to the door, to which she tried to hasten, but
something in Vivien's beautiful face--some unimagined quality of rarest
sympathy deterred her. She stopped with the very words of dismissal
frozen on her lips.
Vivien approached quickly, laid a tender hand on her shrinking shoulder
and spoke.
"My dear, my dear! I am Vivien Rosmead, I too have suffered. Come out
into the sunshine and let us talk. If even we do not talk we can cry
together, and that will help us both."
Isla was powerless to be angry. Her brief indignation at the intrusion
of a stranger upon her most sacred privacy passed as a tale that is
told.
"It is very kind of you, but--but--I hardly know you, and there is
nothing to be said or done. Everything is over--that is all."
"I too have thought so, dear," said Vivien softly. "Come, my poor
darling. He does not need you any more. Come, and let us talk and
think of those who do."
Isla suffered herself to be led away.
Afterwards, looking back upon that incident, she was amazed at herself,
at the quiet compelling power which Vivien, in common with all the
Rosmeads, seemed to possess, and against which ordinary folk could not
stand for a moment.
Vivien's arm was about her slender body as they descended the stairs.
She it was who guided her out into the flood of the sunshine which,
meeting them at the door, seemed to envelop them in a quiet radiance.
Isla, as if dazzled, put up her hands to ward it off.
"It is cruel," she said in a low, difficult voice. "How can there be
any brightness when I am like this? It is very cruel."
"Where shall we go?" asked Vivien softly. "Shall we go to some spot
where we shall be very, very quiet and undisturbed? I should like you
to forget who I am, even what has brought me, and just to be as if I did
not exist. If you feel like talking, then talk. But if you want to be
quiet, I can be quiet too. Oh, my dear, I can be very, very quiet. I
have been through the deeps, where there is nothing possible but dumb
silence."
Isla then remembered the tragedy of Vivien Rosmead's life, and her own
pity and sympathy which in times past had never failed any in need,
awoke to newness of life. The frozen springs of her being leaped again
with life, and, with an almost unconscious desire to help, she slipped
her hand through Vivien's arm.
"Why is it that life is so full of hideous suffering for women?" she
asked with a vague passion. "I used to believe in God--in all things
beautiful and good. Now I believe nothing."
"Your faith will come back. Even I say that," said Vivien softly. "I
don't want to belittle your suffering, dear, but it is of an impersonal
kind. The woman who cannot be blamed if she loses faith is the one who
has been cheated in her own self, whose womanhood has been flouted and
scorned, whose love has been trampled on and despised. That is where
the silent deeps are. May I say just what I will?"
"Surely," answered Isla, lifted clean out of herself by something tragic
and mysterious in that other woman's face.
"Your father was an old man, full of years and honour. His life had
become a little burdensome to him, and though I never saw him, I know
that his fine spirit must have fretted at his forced inactivity. What
you must do now is to dwell upon his rejuvenation. He has gone where
there is no death, where his powers will be restored, where once more
all things are possible."
Isla's hungry eyes never for a moment left the speaking face of the
woman at her side.
All the time they were moving slowly, but surely, away from the house up
to the wide spaces of the great moor where the great silence dwelt.
"Tell me more," was the mute question of Isla's eyes and lips.