WITH HASTENING FEET
Because this was her hour and to-morrow all would be over, Isla did not
disdain a woman's art. She wished to look beautiful for once in the
eyes of the man who loved her, even though she should henceforth
disappear from them for ever.
She put on a wonderful frock that had come from the hands of a clever
_couturiere_ at Nice--a simple black thing, fashioned with such
consummate art that it seemed moulded to her figure, showing all its
grace. As Riviera fashion dictates, it was high to the neck, with a yoke
of clear net through which her white skin shone, while a string of
pearls about her stately throat made her sole adornment.
"Oh, Miss, you do look nice!" said the chambermaid as she stepped back
from fastening the skirt.
Isla smiled into her eyes. Then she asked where she could find
eighty-nine. The girl took her down to the next floor and to the door
of the room where Rosmead, in evening dress, was waiting.
"Come," he said with a smile.
He drew her in, and the door was shut.
The warmth of the cheerful fire and the fragrance of flowers met her on
the threshold of the private room, where Rosmead had ordered the meal to
be served. This was no night for them to dine in a public
restaurant--they must be immune from prying eyes.
"You don't look so tired now! And to think I was cursing the luck that
would keep me here for another twenty-four hours! I have an appointment
at the Colonial Office to-morrow and can't go north till Friday. But I
never in my wildest dreams anticipated this."
She smiled as she took the chair he offered. Her eyes had a far-away
look, her cheeks were softly flushed, she seemed like a dream-woman, and
she was so beautiful that Rosmead blamed himself that the vision of her
he had carried with him so long had fallen so far short of the reality.
The waiter came in with the soup presently and waited upon them deftly.
But Isla ate little. While the small, daintily-appointed, and exquisite
meal was being served they talked of commonplace things--of the Riviera
in the season, of Rosmead's business in America, of the bridge whose
foundations had taken so long to lay.
"But it is accomplished, isn't it?" she asked with her swift glance
across the table. "Of course I always knew it would be. I remember
that you said that in your estimation difficulties existed only to be
demolished."
"That was a very high and mighty utterance," said Rosmead a little
shyly. "But this time I thought I was going to get beaten. Do you know
that I left the very day after the thing had passed the bar of my own
judgment, just five days after the other experts had pronounced it
unassailable."
"You always trust yourself last?" she said inquiringly.
"It is I who have to pay the price of failure, and so I leave nothing to
chance," he answered. "Will you take nothing to drink? I am a
teetotaller myself. Some day I will tell you why. But you are tired,
and wine will do you good."
She shook her head.
"No. It is delightful to think that one can dine without it. I do
believe that you are the first man I have ever met who could."
"Oh, come!" said Rosmead, laughing. "Where I come from there are many."
Isla laughed a little and shrugged her shoulders. She was feeling so
warm and comforted and happy that she wished the hour to last for ever.
"How kind of you to think of this room! As I was dressing I thought how
horrid it would be in the restaurant to-night."
"I knew it would be. I grudged it. This was the thing," he said.
And his pulses thrilled as he thought of all the days that were coming
when they should dine together alone.
It came to an end at last, and Rosmead showed haste in getting the table
cleared and the coffee-tray brought in.
Then he wheeled a big easy chair towards the fire for her, and he
himself stood against the end of the mantel-shelf, while an odd silence
fell between them.
"I am sure you want to smoke. I should like it," she said a little
nervously, fearing what she saw in his eyes.
He shook his head.
"That would be desecration. By and by, perhaps, but not yet. I wonder
if you know just what it meant to me to see you to-night downstairs,
just what it means to have you here like this, alone?"
She made no answer, and the veil dropped over her eyes, but her lips
trembled, and she worked with her fingers in the fringes of the delicate
white scarf which had fallen from her shoulders across her arms.
"You must know that I love you," he said. Then in a low voice which
vibrated keenly with intense feeling he added, "I have lived for this
hour during all these interminable months. I have risen up each new
day, thinking it brought me a day nearer to it and to you. I know all
you have suffered. Let me try to make you forget. Give your precious
life into my keeping, Isla. You are the only woman I have ever cared
for. The knowledge that you were waiting somewhere for me has kept me a
boy in heart for your sake. Will you give yourself to me?"
There was terror, anguish, hopelessness in her eyes. She gave a small
shuddering sigh and buried her face in her hands. Instantly he was on
his knees beside her, trying with a very gentle force to take her hands
away.
Suddenly she drew back, rose to her feet, and faced him--very pale, very
stricken, but wholly calm.
"Oh, please don't say any more. I--I must not listen. It was even
wicked of me to come here when I knew--when I knew--and even hoped that
you would speak. I--I am not free. I am the promised wife of another
man."
Rosmead's face became set like a stone.
"But you are the woman God has given to me," he said quietly. "Who is
the man?"
"Neil Drummond," she answered feverishly. "Don't look at me like that!
Let me sit down again, and you stand where you were before and I will
tell you how it came about. You said that you knew all I have suffered.
But you don't. I want to tell you everything. Then you will
understand."
He obeyed her to the letter, and with the breadth of the hearth between
them she began her recital.
She went back a long way, even to the days of her troubled girlhood,
keeping nothing back, telling him in simple language all the story of
her life.
All unconscious was she of its complete self-revelation. Peter Rosmead,
listening, with only a brief word interjected here and there, was filled
with a pity so vast that he did not know how to contain himself. He saw
this young woman-creature, at the time when she ought to have been
enjoying girlhood, doing not only a woman's work in the world but also
forced to act the man's part--to face abnormal difficulties, to solve
the problems of existence in loneliness and without help.
And when she came to the end and related simply, yet with a sort of bald
power, the story of her London experiences, he could bear no more.
"My God, Isla, you must cease! I tell you I can't hear any more."
"You must," she said clearly, "because this is the part which
explains--which explains--why I am not free. You see, I had got so very
tired and hopeless, and my money was all done, and I had no more heart
left to fight. And just then Neil Drummond came, and he was like a
brother to me, and--and he had loved me all my life, and I thought I,
too, could care a little, and that we might be happy together."
He put his hand up to his forehead with a sudden gesture and kept it
there until he felt the flash of Isla's mournful reproach on his face.
"If only you had written a single line!" she said almost piteously. "If
I had ever known or guessed that you remembered my existence I could
have held out. But I was so tired, so tired!"
She who had been strong so long, whom trouble had never daunted, gave
way before the insistent clamour of her woman's heart. For the moment
she could not forgo the real heritage of her womanhood--could not make
the final renunciation. For she was not old yet, and life can be very
long to the sad.
Rosmead was as one who took swift and decisive counsel with himself.
He lifted a chair to the hearth in front of her and sat down so that he
could the better see her face.
"Listen to me, my dear," he said in his quiet, compelling voice. "We
must face this thing together, try to grasp exactly what it means, and
decide what is to be done. Let us do it quietly, try to deal with it as
if we were not the chief actors in it."
Isla sat back and folded her hands on her lap. She was willing to
listen--nay, listen she must. And, somehow, she did not seem to care.
She had rolled away the stone from the door of her heart. Peter Rosmead
knew that she loved him, just as she knew that he loved her. Well, he
was strong and good, he would decide and act for her. Hence the peace
upon her face, at which Rosmead, himself torn with conflict, wondered.
"It does not mean only a disappointment to me--a lifelong
disappointment, the overthrow of everything that I have been waiting
for," he began slowly. "It means the shipwreck of three lives. If you
don't care for Drummond how can you be a good wife to him or make him
happy?"
"There are many women who are married to men they do not care very much
for. I have seen them, and they seem to get along," was all she said.
"What other women might do with impunity you couldn't. You are the soul
of truth, and, moreover, you cannot hide what you think and feel. If
you could have done it better, dear woman, life might perhaps have been
a little less hard for you."
"But after a while," she said in a low voice, "it might be possible. I
should try very hard. And, after all, it is not happiness we are here
for. One has only to look around to see how very little of it there is
in this world."
"By heaven, Isla, I can't accept that--no, I can't! God means us to be
happy. It is what He has created us for. Only we do wrong things. It
is we who make the shipwreck, and I believe that if you go on with this
marriage you will ruin three lives."
She only shook her head.
"Is Drummond the man--do you think?--to be contented with what you
purpose to give him--wifely duty, without wifely love?"
"He is very good," she said wearily. "His kindness and his patience
never fail."
"That may be true. But afterwards would come the crucial test. You
can't do it, Isla--you can't! There is--there must be a way out, and we
must find it together. Will you leave it to me?"
"I'll leave everything! I am so tired! I can do nothing more. But I
will be true to Neil Drummond. I may tell him, but I will keep my
promise if he holds me to it, and if you will let me go now I will say
good night. It is nearly ten o'clock. I have been travelling for two
days, and I feel as if I could not bear any more."
He instantly forgot his own sore disappointment and was concerned only
for her with that great and tender concern which belongs to the strong
and which the tired woman felt so perilously sweet.
"Just a moment; what about to-morrow? Can't you wait until Friday? If
I could get away I would travel with you to-morrow, but it is impossible
to do so without giving offence in quarters where it is important not to
give offence. Will you wait till Friday? You are not fit to travel
alone."
She looked up at him, and her eyes wavered.
"I should like to, but I can't stay here. Let us meet in the morning
and decide. At least, I need not travel until the two o'clock train."
He suffered her to go then, merely touching her hand at parting, because
of the barrier that was between.
Rosmead had boasted that difficulties in his way existed only for the
purpose of being demolished, but he was now in front of one that taxed
his boasted powers.
Isla slept the dreamless sleep of complete exhaustion, but he fought
with the problem the night through, and in the morning he was no nearer
its solution. They did not meet at breakfast, but at ten o'clock she
sent him a message that she would see him in the drawing-room.
She met him, tranquil and calm-eyed, a little pale, but without trace of
stress or strain. Rosmead himself had a slightly haggard look.
"Good morning," she said quietly. "I think I shall wait until
to-morrow. To-day I shall go back to my old quarters in Cromer Street,
Bayswater, and I shall meet you to-morrow at the station."
"And am I not to see you to-day at all?" he asked, and his eyes
travelled hungrily over her face.
She shook her head.
"I don't think so. If there is any more to be said there will be time
to say it to-morrow. You will help me to do the right thing, won't you?
It is--it is what I look for in you."
The words were a rebuke to Peter Rosmead, but he took it well.
"I will do the right thing--yes," he answered humbly, "but only until we
get back to Glenogle. Then, I warn you, I'm going to fight for you with
all the powers I possess. I don't know how it is going to be done, but
win you I shall. You have not come into my life only to go out of it
again."
She smiled as she turned away, and a strange, deep contentment, gathered
in her eyes. She asked no questions, troubled herself not at all about
what was coming. So far as she was concerned the fight was over, and
the issue lay with Peter Rosmead. Her trust in him was so large and
fine a thing that she was content to leave herself and her cause in his
strong, tender hands and to let him undertake for her.
They parted then, and they met no more until they entered the train
together at Euston next morning. But during the hours of that
interminable day there was no sense of distance or of separation between
them. The same sky covered them, they breathed the same air, they were
within call of each other; it sufficed.
Rosmead went early to the station, and he had made his full arrangements
for Isla's comfort by the time she arrived. She smiled when she saw a
first-class compartment marked "reserved," but she made neither remark
nor demur. She had left him to legislate for her and would not cavil at
trifles. That she was happy for the moment there was no need to ask.
Many times that day when Rosmead looked at her dear face he registered a
mighty vow that the man did not live who would be able to keep her from
him. Drummond must take his defeat like a man. He was young, and there
were others to choose from. In all his life Rosmead had not, until now,
met a woman who could stir his pulses or make him long to lay his
freedom at her feet as a thing for which he had no further use.
The train glided out of the station, and the sunshine was upon their
faces and in their hearts. Rosmead, an accomplished traveller, had left
nothing undone to secure the comfort of his fellow-traveller, but all
his love and care were powerless to save her from the last bomb flung by
fate.
She did not care for papers, she said, but she begged him to look at
his, while she watched the swift retreat of London roofs before the
speeding train.
He unfolded the pages of the "Daily Telegraph," and had Isla happened to
glance round at the moment she must have discovered that something fresh
and terrible had happened.
On the first page this paragraph confronted Rosmead's eyes under large
head-lines:--
"TRAGEDY IN SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.
"A sad occurrence took place yesterday on Loch Earn in Western
Perthshire--one of those deplorable accidents which show what care
should be taken in handling small boats on these treacherous inland
seas. Full particulars are not to hand, but it seems that late last
evening Mr. Malcolm Mackinnon of Achree and Glenogle, who had been in
Lochearnhead earlier in the day, left there, ostensibly to go to his
home at the Lodge of Creagh, four miles distant. That he had not done
so was clearly evidenced by the fact that his body was found by a
boatman, washed up on the shores of Loch Earn at a point about two miles
from its head. The boat, bottom upwards, was floating near. The day
had been one of the very stormiest of the season, with blinding showers
and a squally wind. Mr. Mackinnon was a skilled oarsman, but it is
supposed that he had been caught by one of the sudden squalls which so
frequently rise on these Highland lochs and constitute a danger that it
is necessary to guard against. It is not known why Mr. Mackinnon should
have gone on the loch late in the afternoon, and he had no fishing gear
with him. The occurrence has cast a gloom over the whole Glen, where
the family are so well known and so beloved. The tragedy is accentuated
by the fact that Mr. Mackinnon had only recently become engaged to Mrs.
Rodney Payne, whose family are the present tenants of Achree. We
understand that Mr. Mackinnon's only sister is at present abroad. Much
sympathy is felt and expressed for her."
Rosmead, with the paper held high in front of him. stared steadily at
it, his face very white and set, his lips twitching. It was a full
minute before he obtained complete control of himself and dared to
glance over the edge of the paper at his companion.
But she apparently had forgotten him. Her chin was resting on her hand,
and her eyes were fixed upon the landscape, bathed in sunshine, which
was speeding past them. She did not even look round when he carefully
folded the paper and put it well under his travelling-rug in the tar
corner of the rack. Then he lifted the "Times" and glanced through it,
only to find on the second page the same item of intelligence
considerably condensed. That also he removed, and took up one of the
magazines.
He was totally unaware that he was holding it upside down. He had to
find some way out of this awful difficulty--to coin words which would
acquaint Isla with what seemed to be the final tragedy of her life. He
was scarcely alive to the fact that he now learned for the first time of
Mackinnon's engagement to Vivien, the letter informing him of it having
only reached America the day after he had left it.
He had concern only for one at the moment, and his sole consideration
was how to break the news to her. One moment he thought of giving her
the newspaper casually, and thus getting over it; the next he thought he
would keep it from her to the last moment. But they were speeding
towards Glenogle, where the last act of Malcolm Mackinnon's tragic life
had been played.
Presently Isla turned to him with a smile.
"It is very pleasant to be going home, don't you think? I was just
counting how many weeks I had been out of Glenogle and thinking how glad
I shall be to see it again. When I left it I never thought I should wish
to come back any more."
"I am glad you feel like that," he said with an odd note of strain in
his voice. "I have ordered the car to meet us at Stirling, so that we
shall get home ahead of the train."
Her eyes sparkled with a child-like enjoyment.
"Oh, that will be delightful! I wrote to Malcolm yesterday. He will
probably be waiting at Lochearnhead Station. I must wire to him at
Crewe."
"I'll see to it," said Rosmead heavily, and his tongue felt as if it
were cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
He took her to lunch, and she enjoyed it all, though it concerned her
that he ate so little. She was not troubling herself that the other
matter seemed to have disappeared into the background, and that he made
not the smallest allusion to it. She was grateful to him for his
consideration, but she was not surprised. From Peter Rosmead she would
expect only the best. He would neither say nor do that which would vex
the heart of a woman or increase by a hairsbreadth her perplexities.
Oh, she had made no mistake! she thought as she glanced confidently
across at his grave, strong face, when she left him to act for her.
After carefully observing that the papers were out of the way, he got
out at Crewe and made his way hastily to the telegraph office to send an
explanatory message to his mother. By that time he had arrived at a
quite clear estimate of what was in front and at a decision as to the
right thing to do.
He would tell Isla after they were in the car, and prepare her as best
he might for what she had to meet.
But he was spared the need. All his carefully concerted plan for saving
her was rendered unavailing by the shrill tones of a newsboy's voice.
The passing of the smallest coin of the realm in exchange for the first
edition of an evening paper, and Rosmead got back to the compartment to
discover that Isla knew the truth.