GOODBYE TO GLENOGLE
Half an hour later, from the window of the room where she was doing her
packing, Isla saw Malcolm ride out to the road upon his bicycle. She
did not need to watch the turn he took. She knew just as well as if she
had been told that he was bound for Strathyre. It was beginning to grow
dusk, but the September evenings are long in Glenogle, and it would be a
night of full moon.
Isla's thoughts were rather bitter as she made busy with her scanty
wardrobe, laying aside every superfluous article, because she did not
wish her movements to be hampered with too much baggage.
Busy with purely mechanical things as she was, her thoughts were free to
tarry with the affairs of Achree. Had Malcolm been as other men--had
there been no shadow on his past, no complications in his present, she
could have wished for no better issue out of the tangle of their
troubles than to see him win Vivien Rosmead. She was a sweet, gracious
woman, a true gentlewoman, beautiful and rich--a combination not easily
found in a wife. How Isla would have rejoiced to see her mistress of
Achree, rearing bonnie children who would have loved her and called her
Auntie Isla.
It was what ought to have been, she said with a little passionate stamp
of her foot upon the floor. And now that Malcolm was in deadly earnest
she did not doubt for a moment that he desired to be worthy for Vivien's
sake, but spectres blocked the way. The most imminent and the most
terrifying was the woman in the purple frock.
Could anything on earth ever explain her away?
She contrasted the woman and Vivien as she had seen them together on the
Glenogle road, and she conjured up the supreme contempt that would
gather in Vivien's eyes were she pitted against her. She would
absolutely disdain such humiliation. Isla felt sure that the man who
would win Vivien Rosmead from her disillusionment, who aspired to heal
her hurts, must have a clean record. How dared Malcolm, with what was
behind and before him, aspire to her?
Isla wondered at the audacity of men. Yet her heart was also stirred
with pity for him in that he must reap the bitter harvest of his folly
and his sin. Her heart was passing weary, the burden had not been
lightened with her father's death, but seemed to have waxed heavier.
And she must get away. She felt herself a coward in view of what might
come. She could not breast anew scandal in the Glen and she must get
away. Such weakness and weariness crept over her that she could have
laid her head down and slept for ever. She held on bravely with her
preparations, however, and when they were finished she rang the bell for
Margaret Maclaren.
"The dinner iss ready, Miss Isla. Am I to send it in?" asked that
competent domestic with just a touch of aggressiveness in her mien and
manner.
"I don't know where Mr. Malcolm is or when he will come back. But,
yes--send it in if it will make you any happier, Margaret, and lift that
dour cloud from your face," she added hastily. "I know I can trust you
to keep something hot for Mr. Malcolm."
"Oh, as to that, it can be done. But I'm gettin' tired of it, Miss
Isla. I nefer saw such a man, or such a hoose--beggin' your pardin for
my plain speech. He takes less account of times and seasons than
anybody I have ever seen or heard tell of. I don't know what he thinks
happens in a kitchen, or whether he knows how food is made, but he
expects it to be ready when he iss, whatefer the hour of the day. It
iss not in my power, Miss Isla. I'm gettin' to be an old woman and not
fit for my job."
"Nonsense, Margaret. You never were fitter, and you must warstle
through with it a little longer anyhow, because I am going away
to-morrow for some weeks, and you must simply look after Creagh till I
come back."
"Where are you goin', Miss Isla? To her Ladyship, iss it? Well, it
will do you good, and it iss there you ought to haf gone long since. I
will stop, then, till you come back. And I hope the change will do you
good, for it iss fery thin and white-like you are gettin', my dear, and
it iss time something wass done. I will do my best for Maister Malcolm,
and if it should pe that we fall out peyond making up while you are away
I'll write and let ye know."
Isla had not expected sympathy from Margaret, who, between Diarmid and
his master, was now kept in a state of continual agitation which had a
very bad effect on a temper that was not placid at the best of times.
Isla thanked her, and, with a mind considerably eased, went down to eat
her solitary meal. After dinner she busied herself writing a few notes
of farewell--one of them to Kitty Drummond and one to Elspeth Maclure,
regarding whom her conscience was troubling her not a little. But she
afterwards tore up Elspeth's, deciding that if Jamie Forbes came to
Creagh in good time she would make him stop at Darrach on the way down
so that she might say good-bye in a proper manner.
The evening wore on--eight, nine, ten o'clock--and still no word of
Malcolm. Isla looked out again and again, and once she even walked out
to the gate to see whether the twinkling light of the bicycle lamp was
visible down the long vista of the road. When it was half-past ten she
went to bed, for she had walked many miles that day, and her packing
exertions--to say nothing of the strain of things on her mind--had left
her very tired.
She was awakened long after by the banging of a door, she thought; but,
listening intently, she heard nothing further, and so she fell asleep
and did not wake till morning.
Breakfast had been ordered half an hour earlier than usual to give her
time to catch the train, and she had nearly finished before Malcolm made
his appearance. She looked at him rather keenly as he entered, and was
immediately struck by his haggard looks. He appeared like one who had
either not slept or had spent the night in some doubtful place.
"Good morning, dear. I owe you an apology, of course. I had a burst
tyre other side of Lochearn last night, and it was near midnight when I
got home. I hardly expected that you would sit up. At what time do you
start?"
"Jamie ought to be here any moment. I trysted him for half-past eight,
and it's twenty past now. I hear the wheel, I think. Yes--there he is.
Aren't you going to eat anything, Malcolm?"
"No. Isn't there any coffee? Oh, I forgot--she can't make coffee.
It's a cup of black coffee I'd like this morning. Is the tea strong?
I'm coming down with you, of course, Isla. What else did you think?
Don't wait here if you want to go upstairs or to be seeing after your
stuff, though we've plenty of time, really."
Isla gladly escaped. She gathered from the general appearance of her
brother that care sat heavily upon him. But she had not the smallest
desire to question him. Nay, her longing to get away from the
increasingly sordid conditions of her life had now become a positive
fever in her veins.
Rest was what she craved--rest from haunting thoughts, from phantoms of
dread, from the menacing sword which seemed to be suspended over Achree
and all bearing the name of Mackinnon.
But she was to prove before another twenty-four hours were over that
there are things in this world from which it is impossible to get
away--crosses that have to be endured--heroically if possible, but
certainly endured.
Malcolm was in the back seat of the dogcart, and did not speak a single
word on the way down. They halted at Darrach, where a slight
disappointment was Isla's--she did not see Elspeth. Donald himself, who
seemed to be minding the house--at any rate, he had the second youngest
child in his arms--came out of the gate to explain that his wife had
gone to Govan to see their niece Jeanie Maclure, who was down with
pneumonia. She had taken the baby with her.
Isla sent many messages to her, and passed on with a little sense of
relief.
When they got to Lochearnhead Station the signal was down for the Oban
train, which could be seen gliding swiftly round the curve of the hill.
At the last moment the drag from Garrion, with the familiar pair of
roans in the shafts, drove up rapidly, and Neil Drummond came bounding
up to the platform. When he saw Malcolm Mackinnon handing his sister
into the train he went forward eagerly, though the man whom he had come
to meet--a visitor from Oban--had already alighted, and was on the
outlook for him.
"Good day, Isla. Are you travelling?" he asked; and, seeing the
dressing-bag, the rug, the strapped articles on the rack, he looked a
trifle blank.
"She's going to Aunt Jean and Uncle Tom at Wimereaux," answered Malcolm
when Isla said nothing. "Don't you think the change will do her good?"
"Yes. But how long is she to be away?" inquired Neil.
And his tone was so imploring, that Malcolm, understanding perfectly how
it was, good-naturedly stepped back to give him a chance.
"Why this sudden journey, Isla?" Neil demanded with an imperious air,
which showed how much he cared about the whole affair. "Last time I saw
you you said nothing on earth would induce you to go Wimereaux."
"It was Malcolm who said I was going there," said Isla demurely.
The answer puzzled Neil, and filled him with lively forebodings.
"Isla," he said a trifle hoarsely, "you're not going do anything
foolish? What has happened? Have you had a quarrel with Malcolm?"
"Not at all. I only want a change, Neil. Don't worry about me.
Nothing can possibly happen to a strong young woman, with her head
screwed pretty firmly on her shoulders."
Neil swung himself on the footboard of the train, quite heedless of the
fact that his guest was looking about for him on the platform in
hopeless disappointment.
"Isla, you are going to your uncle and aunt? Unless I am assured on
that point, I'll step into the train and go with you."
Isla laughed at that.
"Why should you care, Neil? I'm only going a little journey on my own.
I'll probably be back before anyone has had time to miss me."
"That can't happen. It'll be a long day for me till you come back to
Glenogle. And, further, I'm not happy in my mind about you. In fact,
I'm most unhappy."
"Don't be, then, Neil. I'm not worth it."
"That's my business, my dear," he said, and never had he looked more
manly or more attractive. "Somehow, we all seem to have lost you
lately. They all say that--Kitty, Aunt Betty, even the Rosmeads. They
were speaking of you the other day. You haven't treated us well, Isla,
whatever you may think. And now, this beats everything."
"The train is moving, Neil. Get down, or you will be hurt," she cried
nervously.
But he still hung persistently to the half-open door.
"You'll write, Isla. Promise at least that you will write either to
Kitty or to me?"
"I'll write to Kitty. Give her my love and tell her she'll hear from me
without fail in a week or two."
"And if you want a friend, Isla, if there's anything I can do for you,
promise you'll send for me or let me know. There isn't anything I won't
do. No journey would be too long or too difficult if I had the prospect
of serving you at the end of it, and--and well, you know the rest, don't
you? I daren't say all I want."
A strong hand behind him took him by the coat-tails and dragged him from
the now swiftly moving train, and the last Isla saw of Lochearn was Neil
Drummond's face and the appeal in his eyes.
Malcolm was too late for the final good-bye, but Isla, on the whole, was
rather glad that she had escaped it. She pulled up the open window-sash
and flung herself back in the corner with a quick, heaving sigh.
It was all over, then. The cords had been cut, and she was adrift from
Glenogle and all the trammels of the old life. What would the new
bring, she wondered? A little sob broke from between her trembling lips
as her eyes looked through the window at the wide Glen of Balquhidder to
the misty hills beyond, where the glory of the heather was beginning to
be dimmed. When should she see it all again, and in what mood?
At Strathyre her eyes were too red to permit her to look out, and
happily no passenger sought to disturb her. By the time the train
reached Callander she was calm again, and she arrived at Glasgow, quite
composed. She left her luggage in the cloak-room and walked, since she
had plenty of time, to the lawyer's office in St. Vincent Place.
Mr. Cattanach was able to see her at once, and he received her with his
usual kindness of manner. He had thought a good deal about her of late
and had wondered how she was getting on at Creagh with Malcolm, with
whom he had had several rather stormy interviews.
"I'm on my way to London, Mr. Cattanach, and as I had an hour to spare
before my train starts I thought I should like to see you."
"Surely. On your way to London, are you? For a long visit?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Sir Thomas and Lady Mackinnon are still across the Channel, I think. I
saw in the News one night lately that they are not expected at Barras
till November?"
"That's right, I believe," said Isla.
"Are you joining them?"
"Not just yet."
Cattanach scrutinized her rather closely. He did not know how far she
might stand questioning, but he gathered from a certain quiet
determination in her manner that she had some quite definite plan in her
mind.
"Mr. Cattanach," said Isla clearly, "you have always been kind to me and
have understood things right through. I can never forget how kind you
were just before my brother came home. I can't go on living at Creagh
with him any longer."
"I'm not surprised. I've been expecting to hear this for some time."
"I'm a dependent on his bounty. I ought not to have been left like
that, but I don't want to grumble about it. He thinks I'm going to
Wimereaux to my aunt and uncle. But I have no such intention."
"Indeed! I hope that you have at least some satisfactory haven in view,
Miss Mackinnon," he said, with distinct anxiety in his voice.
"I have several very clear ideas. To-night I shall stay at the Euston
Hotel and to-morrow I shall go to an old servant of Achree who is
married in the West End of London. She keeps a boarding-house. From
her house it is my intention to seek some employment."
Cattanach looked the surprise he felt. His disapproval, he decided, he
had better keep to himself.
"I am honoured by this conference, Miss Mackinnon, and since you have
told me so much I am encouraged to ask more. What sort of employment,
may I ask, does Miss Mackinnon of Achree think she will find in London?"
Her eyes flashed a little mournfully.
"I belong to the great sad army of the partially equipped, Mr.
Cattanach, but I know my limitations and I shall keep within them. Also
I shall be able to earn my daily bread. I have come to you,
because,--for reasons which I don't think I could really explain, even
if I tried--I feel that I should like at least one responsible person to
know where I am and precisely what I am doing. But I require that,
unless circumstances arise which render it absolutely necessary that it
should be known, you will not give that information to anybody in
Glenogle or at Balquhidder," she added as an after-thought.
"You forget. I have no communication with Glenogle or Balquhidder now
except through your brother. He is not likely to ask me your
whereabouts. Will you give me your address?"
"I'll send it," she said diplomatically. "I want to get clean away from
everything for a while, Mr. Cattanach, for really I don't quite know
where I am standing. I even feel as if I were some strange, new sort of
person with whom I have to get freshly acquainted. Can you understand
that?"
"I understand that life has been very hard for you, my dear," he said
involuntarily. "And I have often prayed that your day of brightness
would come."
"It won't come," she said with a little nod. "I'm one of those
predestined to gloom. Tell me, Mr. Cattanach, before I go," she added
with a little touch of wistful tenderness that wholly became her, "how
do you think it is with my brother now? You have seen him several
times. Is--is he doing well? You wonder perhaps that I should ask.
But my judgment, where he is concerned, has become entirely distorted.
That is one of the reasons why I want to get away, because I am seeing
nothing clearly, fairly, or justly, especially in relation to him."
"I think he means well. But he is not fitted for the life of a country
laird. He would have made a better soldier. It is a thousand pities
that he had to leave the Army."
"It is. Don't you think," she added after a moment's hesitation, "don't
you think it a very wonderful thing that the true story of his leaving
the Army has never got about?"
"I think it more than wonderful. There must have been somebody very
high in power, manipulating the strings in the background. But it is a
very good thing for you that the story was hushed up."
"But I don't think that Malcolm realizes how he has been spared. He is
not so grateful as he ought to be," she said.
And then she bit her lip, as if she regretted the condemnatory words and
as if she wished to recall them.
"I can take you out to lunch to-day, I hope?" said the lawyer, pulling
out his watch. "Unless Mr. Drummond is waiting somewhere round the
corner?" he added with a smile.
"No, I am quite alone, and I shall be very pleased to go to lunch with
you," said Isla.
She found the next hour quite pleasant. Cattanach took her to the
station, transferred her luggage, and secured for her a comfortable seat
in the London train. He could not wait until its departure, however, as
he had a West-End appointment at two o'clock. They parted cordially and
Isla repeated her promise to send him her London address as soon as she
herself was quite sure of it.
She spread her things about and then, tucking her rug about her, began
to glance over some of the illustrated papers. So far, no one had
interfered with her privacy by entering the compartment. She had no
expectation, however, that she would be allowed to retain it all the
way.
About three minutes before the train started there was a great bustle
and talking outside the carriage window, and presently a porter, laden
with sundry small packages, most of them rolled up in brown paper,
entered the compartment, followed by a large woman in a brown tweed
travelling coat of ample dimensions.
Isla looked over the rim of her paper in mild curiosity and then quite
suddenly she paled a little and hastily withdrew behind her screen.
It was the lady of the purple gown.