THE LURE OF VIVIEN
Six weeks later, on a snowy January day, Neil Drummond rode one of his
big roans to the Lodge of Creagh, where he had a luncheon appointment
with Malcolm Mackinnon. It was one o'clock when he breasted the last
bit of rising ground and beheld in front of him the little house
standing sheer on the edge of the Moor of Silence, its bleak outline
silhouetted against the clear grey of the sky.
The smell of Margaret Maclaren's baked meats was in his nostrils as he
turned in at the gate, whetting the appetite he had gained in his long
ride from Garrion.
Neil never looked better than when astride a horse, and he was the best
judge of horse-flesh in all the Glen. In fact, that was his one
extravagance. He was looking particularly well that day. There was an
air of buoyancy about him which would not be repressed. He had whistled
and sung all the way from Balquhidder and had given Pride of Garrion her
head in a way which that damsel particularly liked and in which she had
seldom before been indulged. Her sleek sides were wet with foam as she
ran quivering to the door, tossing her pretty head, the breath coming
fast in her delicate nostrils, life brimming over in every pore and
muscle.
Malcolm, who had been watching, opened the door immediately, bade him
good day, and in a word expressed his pleasure at sight of him.
They walked together to the stable, where Neil himself rubbed down his
horse, saw that she had a modest drink, covered her up, and then turned,
ready to accompany his host back to the house.
"Had a good time abroad--eh?" asked Malcolm with a somewhat covert
glance at Neil as they walked.
Neil threw his head up with a joyous air.
"Ripping. It's a bit thick coming back to the grey silence of the
glens. It's a white silence with us. We've heavy drifts from
Balquhidder up. You're pretty free here."
"It's coming, though," said Malcolm, with an upward glance at the snell
skies. "Come inside. The house is small, but it's easily warmed.
That's one comfort."
When Neil had washed his hands and brushed his clothes they passed into
the little snuggery, where Malcolm sat and smoked of an evening. He had
made some little alteration in the arrangement of the house, and the
room which the General had used as his library and sitting-room was now
converted into a dining-room, which it had originally been. It was a
man's house now, the few tokens of Isla's presence having long since
disappeared.
Whether Malcolm was able to keep the peace between his two elderly and
contentious servants nobody knew. Truth to tell, he never bothered his
head about them, and many a storm rose and raged in the kitchen and was
followed by many a dead and ominous calm, but of these he seemed to be
totally unaware. He had none of those finer shades of feeling which had
rendered Isla immediately conscious of any rift in the domestic lute.
Drummond stretched himself in the lounge-chair before the blazing peat
with a sigh of content. He was in the mood to be at peace with the
whole world and to give every man more than his due. It occurred to him
as he looked at Malcolm, on whose face the full light from the window
fell where he sat, that he had improved in looks of late. The
coarseness had disappeared from his features, and there was an
expression of refinement and delicacy which had been at one time wholly
absent.
It was such an improvement that Drummond decided that Mackinnon's looks
had been underrated. The keen, hard, simple life, in conjunction with
the pursuit of a certain lofty ideal, had wrought its saving grace in
Malcolm Mackinnon, as it will in any man who gives it fair play.
"Surely you didn't stop away as long as you intended," said Malcolm as
he lit up his pipe, while waiting for Diarmid's summons to eat.
"I was there three weeks--long enough to idle about, though I could have
stopped three years," said Drummond significantly.
"Your sister didn't come home with you?"
"No. They haven't any plans just yet. Aunt Betty talks about staying
over Easter, and if they stop as long of course I'll go back."
"Nice, is it, or Monte Carlo?"
"Their headquarters are at Nice. My aunt has taken a villa. The old
lady is going strong, and she is looking younger every day. What a
warrior she is! She could give points to most of the girls one sees.
She knows how to enjoy life at seventy-five. She had her birthday when
I was there, and she had a dinner party of twelve. She has unearthed all
sorts of old friends on the Riviera, and more are turning up every day.
The latest is a Russian princess, whose mother was a Scotswoman
somewhere away back in the dark ages. They're all having the time of
their lives."
Neil was making talk, and they both knew it. It was not to rehearse
these trivial items that he had come up that day to the Moor of Creagh.
Just then Diarmid made timely diversion by announcing that luncheon was
served. His manner was irreproachable and dignified, and it could not
have been excelled in the most distinguished establishment.
It was a great day for Diarmid, and he waited behind his young master's
chair with a secret pride, for the Laird of Garrion was a guest worthy
of honour.
The luncheon, though simple, was excellent, and they both enjoyed it to
the full. A modest bottle of claret with the cheese just unloosed their
tongues, and when Diarmid had left them Neil looked across the table
very earnestly at Mackinnon's face.
"I don't suppose it will come as a very great surprise to you, Malcolm."
"What?" asked Malcolm with a start.
"About Isla."
"What about her? You saw her, of course. I didn't like to harry you
with questions, but I suppose she's all right with Lady Betty. She has
never written. I have managed, somehow, to commit the unpardonable sin
where Isla is concerned. I'm sorry, but there isn't anything I can do
now but wait her pleasure. You see it was she who cut the knot, so to
speak."
Neil nodded as he crumbled the biscuit on his plate.
"I don't know whether you know, Malcolm, that I have always wanted Isla.
I've asked her to marry me on the average about twice a year for the
last three or four years. Last year, I believe, I asked her six times."
"Such persistence deserves its reward, and I hope you've got it, old
chap," said Malcolm, but his tone lacked warmth.
He could not understand the man who wanted Isla. To him she seemed
lacking in most, if not all, of the qualities which make a woman
desirable.
"She has said 'Yes' at last, Malcolm, and that's why I am here to-day,"
said Neil.
And his hand trembled ever so slightly as it rested on the sheer white
of the tablecloth.
"Well, and what's going to happen next?" said Malcolm with a curious dry
note in his voice. "I'm glad, of course. It--it's a mighty relief to
me to hear that anything is likely to anchor Isla or settle her. Though
nobody may have given me credit for it, Neil, I've had many a bad
hour--ay, and day--about her up here."
"I suppose you have," said Neil. "But, all the same, I can't help
saying that I don't think you ought to have left her as long as you
did--in London, I mean. That's all past, however, and there isn't any
use of going back on it now. It's the future, thank God, that concerns
us. I hope ours is going to be very bright."
"She has agreed to marry you, then? Is it likely to be soon?"
"What I should like, and what I'm hoping for, is that it may take place
at Nice. I've had to leave the details to Aunt Betty, and they're safe
with her. She's the most ripping General on earth. I owe this
happiness to her, I don't doubt. There's a Scotch church there, and we
could go south a bit for the honeymoon and get back to Garrion for the
summer."
"It sounds all right, and in that way you would escape all the fuss and
talk of the glens," said Malcolm musingly.
"I wanted to see you, Malcolm, because you're the head of the house, and
I must lay the position before you."
"Oh, but there isn't any need, Neil,--between you and me, I mean. I
haven't the right. Isla has always managed her own affairs, and she
wouldn't like my interference now, I'm sure. Of course, anything I can
do I should like to do if I'm permitted. I'd go out to Nice to give her
away if she asked me."
"We'll come to that later. I want to tell you that after I'm married
we'll have Garrion to ourselves. My aunt will get a place for herself
somewhere and take away Kitty. I'm not a very rich man, and you know
what Highland estates are in these times. But--again it's Aunt Betty to
the rescue. She says she'll give us ten thousand pounds as a wedding
gift and that there will be more to come later on. So you see you
needn't have any anxiety about Isla's financial position."
"I couldn't have any in any case if she was in your hands," said Malcolm
with difficulty. "Ten thousand pounds and Garrion clear! By Gad, Neil,
you're a lucky beggar! Try to put yourself in my place for a moment and
see whether you wouldn't have some crumbs of pity for a poor devil who
can't make ends meet and who is just as anxious to have a home as you
can possibly be."
A something swept over Malcolm's face--a spasm of infinite yearning
which oddly moved Neil Drummond. Happiness brings out all that is best
in a man. He forgot all his doubts of Malcolm Mackinnon, all his secret
and open blame of him, and he was able even to bury his anger against
him for his treatment of Isla as he stretched his hand across the table
to grasp Malcolm's.
"Never mind, old chap. The luck will turn. It's bound to sooner or
later, you know. No man goes through the hards from first to last."
Malcolm shook his head.
"I suppose most men get the luck they deserve," he said a little
heavily.
Later, these words recurred with poignancy to Drummond's mind.
They smoked another pipe of peace together in the den afterwards, and
about half-past three Drummond took his horse once more and rode through
the fine powder of the newly-fallen snow towards the home that was now
illumined by so many stars of promise.
A strange restlessness was upon Malcolm Mackinnon when he was left
alone, and, after a little deliberation, he took to his horse--the poor
common cob that had so often filled Drummond with compassion for the man
who had to mount it--and rode slowly down Glenogle.
Though not bred in any of the glens, the cob had learned the way to
Achree and needed no guiding when he came to the gate. Achree, with the
delicate powder of the snow lying upon it and lightly touching the
exquisite tracery of the trees, was a dream-place that looked the fit
cradle for a thousand lovely hopes.
Malcolm took his horse to the stables, and when he presented himself at
the door asked for Mrs. Rodney Payne.
"She has gone to the village, to the post, sir," the man answered.
This information caused Malcolm to turn about and walk away without
another word. What he had to say were perhaps better said in the open,
where none could hear and where there would be room to breathe and to
think. He had a die to cast that day which would make or mar the rest
of his life.
It was below the Darrach Brig he met Vivien walking alone with step a
little fleet, the snow sprinkled over her long coat and lightly
powdering her beautiful hair. She was pleased to see him, but her
colour did not rise, nor were there about her any of the signs the
impatient lover can interpret to his own joy.
That was the lure of Vivien. She was so still, like the waters of Loch
Earn on the quiet autumn days or in the hush of the early morning when
the dawn was waking upon its breast.
"It is not a day for you to be out in. We are going to have a great
storm. At Creagh, Diarmid predicts the drift of the year. You must be
more careful of yourself."
"Oh, but I love it!" she cried, her eyes lighting up. "There is
something ethereal in it all. I should like to walk on and on in it to
the limit of the world. Have you been at the house, and is there nobody
at home?"
"I asked only for you," he made answer, greatly daring.
But still the clear paleness of her face had no touch of flame upon it.
"I had Drummond to lunch. Perhaps you met him? He went down the Glen in
front of me. I didn't ride with him, because I couldn't pit my sorry
old hack against his fine bit of horse-flesh."
"He does have lovely horses, and he loves them--and don't they know it!"
said Vivien musingly. "Even a horse thrives best in an atmosphere of
appreciation and of kindly care."
"And that's a true word, Mrs. Payne. May I tell you about Drummond and
what was his business with me to-day? It was a bit of family business,
but I hope you will do me the honour to be interested in it."
"Surely, if you care to tell me I shall be interested," she answered
without a moment's hesitation.
"You know, of course, that he has just come back from Nice?"
"I knew he had gone anyhow, because Sadie has had budgets from Kitty."
"And you know, too, that my sister is there with Lady Betty Neil?"
"Yes," she answered quietly, "I knew that, too."
"She is going to marry Drummond," said Malcolm then, not looking at her.
It did not occur to him that she could have any acute personal interest
in the news. As for Rosmead, in his absence he had in more senses than
one dropped out of the count.
"She is going to marry Neil Drummond!" said Vivien after a while, and
her voice was a little faint as if the news staggered her. "How very
extraordinary and unexpected!"
"Why do you say that?" he asked anxiously.
"Well, because, somehow, one never expected to hear that in this world.
Did you?"
"I wasn't surprised. He has been in love with her since they were
children. He told me he had asked her six times last year."
"Oh!" said Vivien with a little gasp. "Then one can only hope that they
will be very happy," she added, as if recovering herself by an effort of
the will.
But her reception of the news was all very half-hearted, and Malcolm was
deeply disappointed.
"I thought you would be pleased."
"I am, if you are. I suppose you would like Mr. Drummond for a
brother-in-law."
"Drummond is a very good sort. But what chiefly pleases me is that Isla
will have a proper home at Garrion and the position she ought to have.
It's a fine old place, and Drummond will be a rich man one day when Lady
Betty Neil is done with her money. She is to give them ten thousand
pounds as a wedding present."
"'The Ancestor' has come up to expectation," said Vivien with a little
smile. "Have you heard from your sister? Is she very happy?"
"I haven't heard from her," he answered lamely. "I'll be writing this
evening. May I send her a message from you?"
"If you like. But I shall write myself--unless she is coming home
soon."
"That is unlikely. Drummond talks of a marriage at the Scotch church at
Nice. In that case I, of course, would have to go there. But nothing
can be arranged till I have heard from Isla."
"Don't you feel a little sore because she did not write to tell you
herself?" asked Vivien straightly and in a puzzled voice.
The relations between Mackinnon and his sister had always puzzled and
saddened Vivien, and in her heart of hearts she had sometimes blamed
Isla. At other times, recalling the glimpse of the real woman she had
obtained on that never-to-be-forgotten day at the Lodge of Creagh, she
wondered whether there was not something in the background which, if
known, would have explained everything and justified Isla.
"Well, you see, we are not a writing family, and I was so long abroad
that we got a little out of touch," said Malcolm lamely again.
Vivien was fully conscious that there was evasion in the answer, but it
was not her business to probe into depths with which she had no personal
concern.
Quite suddenly Malcolm stood still on the road and looked at her
straightly with a kind of dull fire in his eyes.
"Vivien, I must speak! I haven't the right, for there is very little I
have to offer you. But I love you as my own soul--no, as some higher
thing, for my soul is a poor thing to mate with yours. Will you--will
you--be my wife?"
He had often anticipated this hour and had conned in secret the phrases
in which he would plead with this woman for his very life.
But all the fine, set phrases fell away from him and left him bare, so
that he could only blurt out his immense desire in words that had no
grace of diction to commend them. Yet they were warmed by an honest
passion, and they reached the heart of the woman to whom they were
spoken and awoke some response in her eyes.
But she put up her hand as if she would ward off that which she feared.
"Oh, don't!" she said rather brokenly. "I don't want to hear it. I--I
am afraid!"
"Afraid of what?" he asked.
And a new-born tenderness enveloped him and lifted him up from base
depths to the full height of the manhood that ought to have been his had
he not trailed his heritage in the dust. "Not afraid of me,
my--my--darling?" he said, and it was as if the torrent was let loose.
"Listen. This once will I speak, and then be silent, if you bid me, for
ever. I am not worthy of you. No man could be--but I am less worthy
than most. Yet if you would stoop and give the chance to prove what a
man might be and could be for your sake I should worship you to the last
day of my life and make your happiness, and that only, my chiefest care.
For God's sake, don't send me away! At least give me a crumb of
comfort. If I had but known there was a woman like you somewhere in the
world--my God, if I had only known!"
The anguish of his voice appealed to the very woman in her, and, though
her face was very white, she stretched out a trembling hand and touched
his arm.
"Don't speak like that. It--it hurts me," she said, and her whole body
seemed to quiver as if all the springs of being were stirred. "You have
never heard my story. You can't know that I, too, have been down in the
depths. I have suffered all, I think, that a woman can suffer. And
now, I am afraid! It is--it is so terrible a thing when one is bound
and there is no hope."
It was all she could permit herself to say, but the unstudied intensity
of her words was more self-revealing than any deliberate account of her
unhappy married life could have been.
Malcolm stood awed before it, and knew for the first time in his life
what a white thing the soul of a good woman can be, and how great are
the sufferings that can rend it.
And in that moment he knew that he had not the right to take her life
into his; that there were no floods deep enough to wash him clean enough
to mate with this woman who had been down in the depths--and who knew.
"Don't you see I am so afraid! I could not live through it a second
time. I don't know you well. And I am afraid! Let us put it away now,
and let us be friends, as we have been."
"It can't be," said Malcolm simply. "If that is your final answer, I
will go away out of the Glen and never set foot in it again."
"Oh, but that would be terrible! It is I who can go, for what does it
matter where I live now? This is your place. These are your people.
You can't leave them. You ought to be proud that you were born here and
that Achree is yours. It is a place that grows into one's heart. I love
it more than any place I have ever seen."
"Then keep it, stay in it! Come to me, Vivien, and bless it and me," he
said, moved to an eloquence which amazed even himself. "I make no
pretensions. I have not been what a man should be. But there is
nothing I would not try to be and to do for your sake."
She shivered slightly, but there was wavering in her eyes.
"I vowed I would never marry again. I have been often asked," she said
simply. "But I have always given the same answer. It is a little
harder to-day--that is all."
She suffered her eyes to meet his, and the next moment his arms were
round about her, and he knew that he had won.
It was a strange wooing, and when Vivien crept back to the house,
knowing that she had pledged herself to another venture on the sea of
matrimony, her eyes had unfathomed depths in them.
Yet when she went to her mother's side she said never a word about her
own story, but with a little accent of sad wonder in her voice asked,
"Mother, Isla Mackinnon is going to marry Drummond of Garrion and who is
going to tell Peter?"