THE CHAMPION
Malcolm Mackinnon, busy with his own concerns, had no qualms about his
sister even when the weeks went by, bringing no line or sign from her.
The Barras Mackinnons did not write either, but when Malcolm thought of
the matter at all he concluded that she was safe with them. Obviously
there could be no other explanation of the silence.
Towards the end of November, however, a somewhat disturbing note from
Lady Mackinnon arrived at Creagh.
"As Isla has not chosen to answer any of our letters I am writing to ask
what is the matter with her. We kept on expecting her at Wimereaux up
to the last, and Uncle Tom was much disappointed that she did not come.
I am writing to say that we shall be in Glasgow on Thursday night, en
route for Barras, and that if you and she will come up for the night to
St. Enoch's we can talk things over. If Isla likes to bring her things
and go on with us to Barras we shall only be too glad."
Malcolm stood, staring stupidly at the letter, and, for the moment, he
was at his wits' end. Isla had not gone to Wimereaux, their folk knew
nothing of her!--where, then, was she? Had Malcolm lived in close
intimacy with the folk in the Glen, as Isla had done, he would have
heard by now from Elspeth Maclure that she had gone no farther than
London and was there still.
Truth to tell, he had been so relieved by his sister's departure that he
had not troubled his head about her or noticed the quick flight of time.
Things were going well with him, and the spectre in the background was
giving no unnecessary trouble. He was a great believer in luck, as many
ignorant persons are, and he believed that his had turned. His chief
business in life just then was the wooing of Vivien Rosmead, and he was
now anticipating the day, not far distant, when he intended to ask her
to be his wife.
He hoped to arrange the matter quietly when Rosmead returned to
Scotland, and to have his marriage an accomplished fact as soon
thereafter as possible. Then he could snap his fingers at all the
phantoms of the past.
Malcolm, however, did not reckon with certain forces that are stronger
than the poor planning of the human brain, and so he marched on
unconcernedly to the crisis of his fate.
He received his aunt's letter one day at Lochearn when he was on his way
to Glasgow to see Cattanach. At the station he met Neil Drummond, who
was going up to Callander to see a man at the Dreadnought Hotel, and,
being full of the news that had just come, he blurted it out to Neil,
who had seemed of late disposed to be more friendly to him.
"Look here, Drummond. Has your sister ever heard from Isla since she
left Glenogle?" he asked as he offered Neil his cigarette-case.
"No, she hasn't, and Kitty has wondered, of course. I suppose she's
still with your uncle and aunt at Wimereaux?"
Garrion folks, in common with others, had frequently made inquiries
about Isla's welfare, and Malcolm had invariably answered that she was
all right. None of them had any doubt but that she had been with the
Barras Mackinnons for the last two months.
"They've left the place. They're going back to Barras on Friday, but
Isla isn't with them. She never has been."
"Never has been! Then, where is she?" asked Neil blankly.
"Well, old chap, to tell you the truth, I don't know. When she left she
certainly said that she was going to them."
"But haven't you had any letters?"
"Not a blessed one."
Neil looked him all over with a sudden, sharp scrutiny that, to another
man, would have been, to say the least of it, unpleasant.
"You say you haven't known all this time where she is?"
"I haven't known. I tell you she hasn't written to me. That's why I
asked whether your sister had heard."
"And you haven't made the smallest effort to find out?"
"Why should I?" inquired Malcolm coolly. "She's of age, she knows her
own mind, she had plenty of money, and she doesn't want to be harried
about her private business. You don't know Isla, Neil, though you think
you do, and the man who marries her will have a hard row to hoe. I can
tell you that."
Drummond crushed back the desire to take Malcolm Mackinnon by the
throat. He was not normal where Isla was concerned, and he took a far
more serious view of the situation than there was any need to do.
"Do you mean to say that you haven't the shadow of a clue as to where
she is or what she is doing? Haven't you any other friends in London to
whom she could have gone?"
"None--except an old servant of Achree who lives somewhere about the
Edgeware Road," said Malcolm with a sudden flash of remembrance. "Don't
wear such a worried look, old chap, and don't forget that Isla is
twenty-six years of age and more capable than either of us of looking
after herself."
"But, hang it all, she's a woman, Malcolm, and--and your sister ought
not to be adrift like that!"
"She isn't adrift," said Malcolm cheerily. "And, anyway, what can we
do? If she chooses to hide herself, as she seems to be doing, who is to
prevent her? She has her reasons for doing so, no doubt."
Neil Drummond was conscious of a growing indignation, of a swift return
of his old rage against Malcolm, and of scorn of that careless,
irresponsible being who had made life such a burden to the woman whom
Neil himself loved. He withdrew with a snort into his own corner and
jumped out at Callander with a very curt good-bye.
He put through his business there very quickly and returned to
Lochearnhead by the earliest possible train. During the whole journey he
was racking his brains as to how and where he could discover the address
of the old servant of whom Malcolm had spoken. He knew Isla's ways, and
he was aware that it had always been her delight when in London to look
up any of her own folk who were settled there. He ran over in his
memory the servants at Achree with whom he had been familiar, but he
could not fix his mind on anyone in particular. Diarmid, however, who
had been with the Mackinnons for nearly thirty years, would surely be
able to help him. He would go to Diarmid.
His bicycle had been left at the station, because the train had offered
a quicker way of getting over the heavy roads to Callander. He now took
it out and rode swiftly down the hill to Lochearn and up Glenogle
towards Creagh.
Neil had all the swift impetuosity of the Celt in his blood, and he did
not let the grass grow under his feet.
He was fortunate, however, in obtaining the information he desired about
half way up, at the farm-house of Darrach, where he came upon Elspeth
Maclure taking her washing down off the lines in the front garden.
He swung himself off his machine, set it against the drystone dyke, and
pushed open the little gate.
Elspeth, surprised and pleased by this little attention, hastened to ask
him into the house.
He thanked her, but declined.
"I am seeking information, Mrs. Maclure. I was on my way to Creagh to
see Diarmid, but perhaps you will do. Do you remember the name of an
old servant of the Mackinnons who married in London and settled
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Edgeware Road?"
A curious flicker crossed Elspeth's eager face.
"You mean Agnes Fraser that was under housemaid at Achree when I was
upper of three, do ye, Maister Drummond?"
"I suppose I do if the description answers," he said with a laugh. "But
I don't know her name."
"She lives at 18 Cromer Street, Edgeware Road, sir," answered Elspeth.
"If ye'll just come intil the hoose I'll write it doon."
"Here you are," said Neil, drawing out a notebook and a pencil. "18
Cromer Street, Edgeware Road. Thank you very much. That saves me that
stiff pull to Creagh, and the roads are heavy to-day. I was glad to
leave my machine at the station and take a handy train to Callander.
Maclure and all the young folks well, I hope?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," said Elspeth, but the odd, eager expression did
not leave her face as she followed the Laird of Garrion to the gate. "I
had a letter from Mrs. Fraser not so long ago, Maister Drummond."
"You had--eh? And what was her news?"
"She said she had had Miss Mackinnon stoppin' at her hoose. That was
aboot a month ago."
"Do you think she is there still?" asked Neil with apparent
carelessness, though his hand as he stooped to his bicycle trembled a
little.
"I'm no sure, but I think, Maister Drummond, that Agnes wass troubled
apoot her. I haf been troubled mysel'. For, look you, it iss an awfu'
thing for the Glen that Miss Isla should haf peen spirited away like
this. It iss not the same at all. And nopody efer speakin' her naame or
tryin' to get her pack--that iss the worst thing of all. If you please.
Maister Drummond, askin' your pardon for my free speech----"
Drummond sprang to his machine and waved his hand in parting.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Maclure. I'll bring Miss Isla back if it can be done.
But keep a quiet tongue in your head--not a word to a soul."
He rode off at break-neck speed and, to the great astonishment of his
folk, announced that he had to leave Garrion that very night for London,
having business there.
Drummond slept soundly in the train, for he was young and strong, and he
had had a tiring and exciting day.
Arrived at Euston, he entered the hotel and made himself fit for his
great quest. But after he had finished his toilet and gone through the
whole menu of the table d'hote breakfast it was only half-past eight.
Even an old friend may not presume to call on a lady at such an unholy
hour of the morning.
London had no bright welcome for the Laird of Garrion. One of the worst
fogs of a particularly foggy November lay like a thick yellow pall over
everything, and through its impenetrable folds weird shapes and shadows
loomed, and strange, half-stifled cries troubled the air as if there
were some invisible and ghostly warfare waged in the streets.
"How long do you suppose it will take me to get to the Edgeware Road in
this--eh?" he asked the big porter in the hall.
"Ten minutes by the underground, sir," he answered. "After that, I don't
know!"
Neil took the risks. About half-past ten o'clock he emerged from the
underground fastness of the Edgeware Road Station and began to grope his
way about for his ultimate destination. But it was a sorry business.
He seemed to be wandering round in a circle, and by noon he did not know
which end of the Road he was at.
Then a sudden miracle, often seen in the case of a London fog, was
wrought by some invisible force in the upper air. The thick veil was
drawn back as if by unseen hands, a few feeble rays of wintry sunshine
filtered through the gloom, and London became free and visible once
more.
Neil then found that he had wandered into Maida Vale, where he was
totally stranded. He hailed a passing hansom and, giving the address,
sat back comfortably with his cigarette, all unconscious, until he took
a peep into the little mirror at the side of the cab, that his face was
exceedingly grimy and that there were various smudges on his collar.
Neil was not vain, but a man likes to look his best when he goes to see
the girl he loves. He did what he could to remedy the defects, and was
fairly satisfied with the results when the cab set him down at his
destination.
The jingling cab bells reached Agnes Fraser's ears in the dining-room,
where, with a polishing cloth, she was trying to remove the traces of
the fog from her furniture.
She herself opened the door and had no doubt when she saw a tall young
man alighting from the hansom that he was only some fresh seeker after
"accommodation," which is the word used in her business. She had of
course, seen the Laird of Garrion when he was a boy but she did not
recognize him now.
He paid the man and came smilingly to the door.
"Mrs. Fraser? You don't know me, I can see, though you must have seen
me sometimes at Achree--Drummond of Garrion."
Agnes's face flushed warmly.
"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I micht hae kent; but there--of course ye
are cheenged. Will you come inside, sir? It's a prood woman I am to
bid ye to my hoose."
He entered the house, and, with his hat in his hand, put the one
straight question on his lips.
"Is Miss Mackinnon here?"
A great light broke over Agnes Fraser's mind. She nodded silently,
pointing to the dining-room, and followed him in.
"This is God-sent, Mr. Drummond. I wad hae written to the Glen the day
if ye hadna come."
"But what is wrong? I hope Miss Mackinnon is not ill?" he said with
eager apprehension.
"Not ill in her body, though she has got very thin. But will you not sit
down, and I will tell you? She is not in the hoose at this very meenit,
though I think I can tell ye whaur to find her."
Neil took the chair and waited for all that he might hear.
"She has been in this hoose, sir--let me see--ten weeks a'thegither,
coontin' frae the time she cam' first. Three weeks of that time she was
at that queer hoose in Hans Crescent."
"What queer house?"
Agnes then grasped the fact that nobody in Glenogle or Balquhidder knew
aught of Isla's movements since she had come to London, and she
proceeded in her own terse and graphic way to describe them.
"Weel, ye see, she cam' here--for why, I dinna ken. Them that's left in
the Glen are the wans that should ken that bit of it. But she cam', not
intendin' at a' to go to foreign places to Lady Mackinnon, but jist to
live by hersel' and get her ain livin'."
Neil started in his chair. The thing was unthinkable--intolerable. It
could not be Isla of whom the woman was talking, yet her broad, comely
face was so full of honest concern and her voice rang so true that he
could not doubt a word.
"I was wae for her, for I ken London through and through, and what a
hole it is--bar for them that hae money and heaps o' folk. In the Glen,
see, ye can live withoot onybody and no be that ill aff, but London
is--is fair hell unless ye hae folk; I'm sayin' that, that kens. I telt
her weel, though I was a prood woman to hae her in my hoose, and wad hae
dune ony mortal thing for her. But it was not the hoose for her that
had been brocht up in the Castle o' Achree wi' servants at her ca'. Her
idea was to lodge wi' me and work in the day-time, but she could get
naething like that to do."
Agnes paused, breathless, and dashed away something from her eye.
"When I tell ye ye'll maybe lauch, and maybe ye'll greet. It's what I
felt mair like. The first place she gaed to was to a woman that wantit
somebody to tak' oot her pet dogs for an airin' in the Park. Yes, she
went after that--Miss Mackinnon of Achree!--she did! And that'll show
ye far better than I can tell ye what London is for the woman-body that
has neither money nor folk."
Drummond was silent, but the veins began to rise on his ruddy forehead,
and his kind eyes flashed fire.
"She didna think she wad tak' that at seevin-an'-saxpence a week,"
pursued Agnes with merciless candour, "and syne she gaed to the Hans
Crescent place to be a kind o' companion-hoosekeeper to a leddy. O' a'
the traps there is set in London for a woman-body--that's the warst,
for, look ye, Maister Drummond, a servant-lass kens what she is and what
she has to dae, but when you're that," she said, with a scornful snap of
her fingers, "you're neither fish nor flesh nor guid red herrin'. But
gang she would. It seems that Mrs. Bodley-Chard--sic a name to begin
wi'--but they're a' daft wi' their double-barrelled names here!--was an
auld wife married to a young man that had been her first man's clerk.
It was her money he was efter, and Miss Isla thocht he was tryin' to get
rid o' her wi' some pooshonous drug. Ye ken Miss Isla. Nae
joukery-pawkery can live near whaur she is, and she began to fecht the
scoondrel quietly-like, daein' what she could for the puir woman. But
at the end o' three weeks she was dismissed at a moment's notice, her
money flung at her--like. She didna tak' that, and she cam' back here,
whaur she's been ever since. And she's got naething to dae sin syne,
and her money's near dune, and--and she's--weel, if ye see her, ye'll
ken what wey I was gaun to write to the Glen this very day."
Drummond rose up from his chair, and he was like a man ready to fight
the whole of London for Isla's sake.
"But what did she mean by it?" he said a little hoarsely. "There was no
need----"
"She seemed to think there was. Forby, she was not pu'in' in the same
boat wi' Maister Malcolm--the Laird, I mean--and she has never written
to him or heard frae him since she cam'. That I do ken."
"Well, and where is she? I must see her and, if possible, take her back
with me to the Glen."
"When the fog lifted she gaed oot for a walk in the Park. She hasna
been gane twenty minutes or so. Ye can easy follow her. Do ye ken
London, sir?"
"Not this part of it, I am afraid."
"But ye canna go wrang. Gang oot into the Edgeware Road, and turn to
your left, and gang on till ye come to the Marble Arch. Syne you're in
the Park. She's very fond o' walkin' roond by the Serpentine. Ony bobby
will tell ye which wey to tak' when you're inside the gates."
Drummond departed without further parley, and Agnes, with a big sigh of
relief, returned to her polishing.
She had given the entire story away without ever having paused to
inquire whether the Laird of Garrion had the right to hear it. He had
certainly assumed some such right, and, anyhow, the time had come when
something had to be done.
The desperate look in Isla's eyes that morning had haunted and terrified
her. Each week Isla had insisted on scrupulously paying the full amount
for "The Picture Gallery" and for such food as she ate in the house, and
now her little store was well-nigh exhausted.
It was a very searching and cruel experience for Isla, the memory of
which never afterwards wholly faded from her remembrance, though she
always said she could never regret the period of "Sturm und Drang" which
had given her such insight into the lives of thousands of women battling
with adverse circumstances from the cradle to the grave.
Garrion's temper worked itself into fever-heat as his great, swinging
stride took him through the swirl of the traffic at the Marble Arch and
into the cool, wide spaces of the Park. Against Malcolm Mackinnon his
anger burned with an unholy fire. He would never forgive him for
this--for his callous indifference to his sister's fate, for his
absolute failure to make the smallest inquiry on her behalf. In future
she should be removed from her brother's jurisdiction altogether, and he
would have to answer to him.
Such was Neil's mighty resolve as he strode along, his restless eyes,
sweeping from side to side in search of the dear, slim figure of the
woman he loved. There was very little alloy of self in his thoughts
that winter morning as he swept round by the windy Serpentine in search
of Isla. It was all of her he thought with a vast, encompassing
tenderness which equalled Rosmead's, and was less cautious and
deliberate in its operations.
He did not doubt in the least that he would find her, but he had to walk
a little farther than he expected. At the end of the beautiful sheet of
water there is a winding path, and, passing there, he looked up and saw,
sitting on one of the seats, a solitary figure which he thought looked
like Isla. Only at the distance he could not be quite certain. It did
not take him long to cover it. Dashing past the smart nursemaids and
the bonnie bairns, whose sweet freshness even London fogs could not dim,
he came presently to her side. And Isla, sitting with her head slightly
turned away, was not aware of his presence till the gravel crunched
under his impetuous foot and her name was spoken in the quick accents of
apprehensive love.
She rose up a little wildly, stretched out her hands, essayed to speak,
then went white all over, and collapsed, a little heap of unconscious
humanity, on the seat.