Chapter XII: The Hand in the Dark

"It is all true--what you say," said Isla with a little shiver. "But what is to become of me? He was my life, my work, my all. I have nothing further to do in the whole wide world. My life is over."

"There is your brother," Vivien ventured to say.

She immediately saw that she had made a mistake--that here undoubtedly lay the sting and the crux of the whole sad situation.

Isla impatiently shook herself, almost as a dog might shake from him the element of water he dislikes. She made no remark, however, except to move her head in impatient dissent.

"I have no money, no prospects, no friends, I shall have to go out into the world and earn my bread. But how? That is the curse of people in our position--we are taught nothing, we are trained to take for granted that the world exists for us, that we are in some sense a privileged class. Then there is a crash, and if we go under is it to be wondered at or are we to be blamed?"

Vivien listened in the sheerest wonder. She had no idea that things were at such a low ebb with the Mackinnons. Remembering Malcolm's airy inconsequence and his jokes about his hard-up state, which seemed to sit lightly enough upon him, she was even inclined to think Isla must be exaggerating.

It was not easy for Vivien Rosmead to realize poverty. She had been reared in a luxurious home, and had married a millionaire, and, though she had never lacked in sympathy or benevolence towards the poor, she had not known one ungratified whim. She knew that poverty existed, but it was impossible to associate its more sordid aspects with Isla Mackinnon.

"But, surely out of the estate there must be ample provision for so small a family?" she ventured to say. "Achree is not a small place. The rent of it alone----"

"It is mortgaged to the hilt," interrupted Isla with a sort of dull scorn. "I could not and would not take a penny from it."

"But surely you have relatives. Is not Sir Thomas Mackinnon of Barras a relative of yours? Some friends of ours had Barras for two seasons running."

"He is my uncle, but I couldn't be dependent on him. He is not rich, and he has his own family to provide for."

"He cannot be poor. I saw the account of his daughters' presentation frocks in the fashion papers last week," said Vivien with a slight smile.

"Oh, that means nothing! They got the loan of a house for the season, and a very clever maid of Aunt Jean's, married in London, made their frocks. You are so rich in America that you haven't an idea of the makeshifts some of us have to practise here," said Isla, waxing amazingly eloquent and convincing for Vivien's enlightenment.

Vivien did not care what the theme, so long as it roused even a passing interest in the girl's mind.

"Well, I am sure that something will happen to provide a way," she said hopefully. "It is impossible to imagine Glenogle or any of the glens without you. Have you any idea, I wonder, just how they regard you? I do not go about very much, but my sister Sadie, who has made friends for miles round, is always bringing home some fresh tales about the devotion of the people to their dear Miss Isla. Only yesterday she said quite dolefully, 'We may as well give up the ghost, Vivien. If angels and archangels came to bless Lochearn and Glenogle, they would have to walk behind Isla Mackinnon.'"

In spite of herself, Isla smiled.

"It does not mean so very much--only that I have lived all my life among them."

"It means everything," said Vivien clearly. "It means that you are in their hearts, that none of them could bear hurt or sorrow to come near you."

"Oh, but that is the hurt of it all!" cried Isla most pitifully. "The more we love people the more it hurts us to know that we are powerless to keep suffering or sorrow away from them. I would have laid down my life for my father, but I could not prevent Mal----I could not prevent others from breaking his heart."

"You did what you could, though," said Vivien, again struck by the bitter allusion to Malcolm. "Now I want to give you a message from my mother. She wishes very much to see you. If only she had been able she would have come to-day instead of me. What she wishes to say is that if you would like to take your dear father down to Achree for the last few days we can go out. It seems an odd thing to say--but we should be glad to go out. We can go to the hotel, or even back to Glasgow for a few days, or even weeks. My mother came down so comfortably in the motor that it would not be a trouble, or even a risk for her to return in it. So, dear, just say the word, and we shall be gone to-morrow so that you and your dear ones may come home to your own place. This is a note from my mother to you in which she proposes this!"

Isla took the note with a murmured word of acknowledgment. She was much moved. She stood still on the green tops of the heather, and something indescribable swept across her face. She stretched out her arms so that they fell on Vivien's shoulders, and when she was drawn into her tender embrace she laid her head down on her breast.

"Oh, now I know what dear people you are! God bless you! I should like to do that if it would not hurt or trouble you. Then all the people he loved and who loved him can come and see him before they take him away to Balquhidder. Oh, thank you, thank you, I want to come and see your dear mother. I will go back with you now if you will take me."

She was like a creature transformed, and while the sight touched Vivien Rosmead inexpressibly it also filled her with a great sadness. For, if this was how Isla Mackinnon regarded the house of her fathers, what must it be to her to see strangers in it and to have before her eyes the prospect of losing it altogether?

"Come, then," said Vivien with alacrity. "The evenings are so long and golden now that we can easily bring you back before dark. My brother will drive you himself."

"I am thinking," said Isla, and as they turned to go, it almost seemed as if the spring had come back to her step, "I am thinking why should you go out? There is plenty of room for us all. If you would only lend us one or two rooms for a few days and let us have the freedom of the house----"

"It would not be the same at all," said Vivien decidedly. "What you want is to shut the door upon the outside world and forget all about us, to have only your own people about you and to have to consider nobody but them. It is only in this way that my mother will arrange it. I am sure that you will find that this is the best arrangement?"

"It is a great thing for you to do," said Isla breathlessly. "I have never heard or known of anybody who would think of a thing so beautiful."

"Oh, nonsense. There are many far more beautiful things done in the world every day, and nobody hears of them. It will cost us nothing, you see. And, moreover, it is the right thing to do. It would be clearly wrong for the Chief of the Mackinnons to be carried to his last rest from this lonely and inaccessible place, beautiful though it is. He ought to be--he must be, borne from the house of his fathers."

"Yes, yes," said Isla, with a little sob in her voice. "To think that you feel like that, that--you understand everything! Now, I'm so very glad that you have Achree."

Her hardness had melted and the desperate hunted look had gone from her eyes. Once more she was alert, full of affairs, thinking of all there was to do and ready for all emergencies.

As she drove down Glenogle beside the smart groom on the front seat of the dogcart her face did not once lose its uplifted look.

Her eyes swam in tears as Vivien and she swept through the familiar gates of Achree.

"Tell me, dear Mrs. Rodney Payne, was it your mother her own self, who thought of this--this beautiful thing?"

"No, my dear," answered Vivien quietly, "it was my brother. He is like that. He thinks always of the thing that will make most people happy and of how to do it in the happiest way."

"I thought he was like that when he was up at Creagh with me to-day," said Isla simply. "What it must be to have a brother like that--a brother who thinks of others first!"

But she paused there, and it was as if she rebuked herself.

Peter Rosmead, from the window of his dressing-room, where he was getting ready for dinner, was thunderstruck by the vision of Isla Mackinnon driving up to the door.

"Bravo, Vivien!" he said to himself, and his pulses quickened as he made haste with his black tie, achieving a bow less pleasing than usual to his fastidious taste.

He had reached the bottom of the stair when his sister and Isla came in by the hall door; and, seeing him for the first time in evening dress, Isla was immediately struck by his air of distinction.

"I have come to see your mother, Mr. Rosmead," she said simply. "I can't say any more. Your sister must explain and say all that is necessary for me. Where shall I find your mother?"

It was Peter who took her to the door of his mother's room, nay, who entered it with her. Isla herself saw no significance in that simple and natural act, but Peter, who intended it to be significant, felt a high courage, an indefinable joy at his heart.

"Mother, this is Miss Mackinnon. Vivien has been so fortunate as to get her to come down."

Isla stood still just inside the door, looking wistfully--even questioningly at the small elegant figure on the couch, at the beautiful, softly-coloured face framed by its white hair, and her eyes had a yearning look.

She had never known her mother and, though Aunt Jean had been passing kind, there was little softness about her. Certainly she had never sought to mother the self-reliant, independent Isla, even when she was only a long-limbed girl, needing guiding and making many mistakes.

Sweetness and love had been the rule of Mrs. Rosmead's life. By these she had won and kept her children so near and close to her that they kept nothing hidden from her.

Her eyes, too, were full of questioning as they travelled to the girl's pale pathetic face. Peter had been no common son to her, and it was to no common woman that she could give him up.

"Come here, my dear. You have no mother. I have room for you in my heart," she said.

And Rosmead, with smarting eyes, went out by the door and closed it very softly behind him.

"God bless her! God bless them both!" he said very softly, under his breath, as he went down to Vivien.

"I am all blown to pieces by the winds of the Moor of Creagh, Peterkin," she said. "If you are very good you can come up and sit in my dressing-room while I make myself decent. Then I can tell you what happened."

This dear intimacy, so precious to them both, had never been more precious than on that night. Half an hour later Isla sat down to eat with them in the old familiar room, and by that time the distress, the strain, the awful hopeless misery had gone from her face. She talked quite rationally and naturally of all the affairs of the Glen, and when she said that she would like to go home as soon after dinner as they could conveniently let her away, Peter asked whether he might have the privilege of driving her.

She thanked him with her eyes.

"Where I have to be grateful for so much there are not any words left," she said simply. "I will say good-bye to your mother, if you please, only until to-morrow."

"You are coming back to Achree to-morrow, then?" said Rosmead, when, with exceeding care and gentleness, he had tucked her into the comfortable cart.

"Yes, to-morrow. May we talk of it as we go up? I don't know how to thank you for so kindly driving me home. When I think of what otherwise it would have been like, I am quite speechless."

"So much the better," he answered with a smile. "Look back, dear Miss Mackinnon. The girls are waving to you."

Isla turned round in her seat and blew a kiss on the wings of the evening breeze.

"Is it Mrs. Hylton P. Rosmead--eh, Vivien?" said Sadie whimsically. "Did you ever see anyone more mightily pleased with himself than our Peterkin?"

Vivien smiled, but said neither yea nor nay.

"What have you arranged with my mother, then?" asked Rosmead.

"We are to come down to-morrow evening, Mr. Rosmead. She says you will take her to Glasgow in the car to-morrow. Are you quite sure it can be done comfortably?"

"Quite. Then, you and your brother will bring him down to Achree to-morrow? I suppose Mr. Mackinnon will make all the necessary arrangements."

Isla was silent, a little chill creeping all over her and causing her to shiver. Her companion bent over her anxiously.

"I had forgotten Malcolm," she said quite frankly. "I have always been used to arrange things for my father, you see."

"I understand. But now your brother is the head of the house," said Rosmead gently. "Probably I shall see him when we get up to Creagh, and can make the final arrangements with him. I should like to tell him that the Achree stables are at his disposal. We shall all go to-morrow by the car, and so you will be perfectly free of the house."

"Thank you very much," said Isla.

But her voice was very low, and the spiritless note had crept into it again. Rosmead found the sudden change difficult to grasp, and it confirmed him in the opinion that there was some serious breach between the brother and sister.

"When do you propose that the burial shall take place, and where will it be?"

"The Mackinnon burying-place is at Balquhidder, of course," she said, as if surprised at the question. "I have not thought about the day, but probably now it must be Monday."

They became silent then, driving in the track of the young moon towards the hills and the moor of the great silence. Isla felt no need of speech. A great sense of peace and comfort was hers as she nestled there by Rosmead's side, the thick frieze of his driving-coat making for her a buttress from the wind. She, who had so long cared for others was fully conscious of the sweetness of being cared for. She was in no haste for the drive to end.

Up at the Lodge of Creagh there was desolation and woe--and there also was the brother between whom and herself there was a great gulf fixed. She had not seen him since she had driven him forth from her presence with hard words, and she had no idea of the dreary vigil he had kept, wrestling with remorse and shame up there on the heather of Creagh.

Rosmead was perfectly happy. He loved this woman with a great and growing love, and her nearness to him filled all his being. To render her the smallest service was such a joy to him that just then he asked for no more. All the chivalry of a singularly chivalrous race, all the fine gallant tenderness of the best in old Virginia was uppermost in Rosmead that night, which for both was a night of remembrance.

"I shall always think of this night," said Isla very low as they drew near to the gate of Creagh. "This afternoon I thought it would close in despair. It is you and your dear people who have lifted me out of it, and God will bless and reward you. I never can."

Rosmead, greatly daring, took the small gloved hand which lay outside the rug and raised it to his lips. But no word did he speak, good nor bad.

Presently Isla made a little exclamation of surprise.

"There is a machine of some kind at the door, Mr. Rosmead. Don't you see the lights?" she said rather excitedly. "I wonder who it can be at this time of night. It must be nearly nine o'clock.'

"Close on it. Probably it is some neighbour calling on your brother."

"It might be Mr. Drummond from Garrion. I know of nobody else who would take the trouble," said Isla.

A minute later she proved her surmise to be right. The high-stepping Garrion roans were champing their bits and pawing the ground in front of the narrow doorway.

Rosmead sprang down and with great tenderness helped Isla to alight.

"You will come in of course, as you wish to see my brother."

"I will come in if you desire it, but I do not forget that older friends may have the prior right, Miss Mackinnon."

"I do desire it. It will be a help to me," she said.

And together they passed over the threshold. Diarmid hastened out to meet them, and behind, from the library, came Malcolm and Neil Drummond.

Rosmead, while apparently observing nothing, took note of two things--the curious, half-shrinking, half-defiant expression on Malcolm Mackinnon's face, and the distinct antagonism that marked the manner of Neil Drummond towards himself.

"So you have come back, Isla?" said Malcolm awkwardly. "Neil and I were just discussing whether we should come to Achree to fetch you."

"Mr. Rosmead was so kind as to bring me up, and I think he wishes to speak to you, Malcolm," said Isla. "Good evening, Neil."

Neil came forward with outstretched hand, his honest eyes full of deepest sympathy and compassion.

"I need not say what I feel about this, Isla. I heard it at Strathyre this evening, at six o'clock, and I couldn't believe it. I was only on my bicycle, so I went home straight and got the horses. My dear, this is a terrible thing."

Isla nodded and, seeing that Malcolm had disappeared into the library with Rosmead, she asked Neil to come to the little dining-room which he and Malcolm had recently left, and where the remains of Malcolm's evening meal still stood on the table.

Drummond closed the door, and Isla sat down, as if very weary. He was surprised to behold her so calm and self-possessed.

"What took you away to Achree, Isla?" he asked jealously. "Malcolm has been frightfully anxious about you."

"He needn't have been. I left a message with Diarmid," she answered listlessly.

"But it seemed odd for you to go there to these new people. They are not your friends, Isla. We have a better right."

"Not my friends!" she said in tones of wonderment. "You say that because you don't understand--because you don't know what they are. I think there cannot be many people like them in the world, Neil. Do you know that they are all turning out of Achree to-morrow--even the frail invalid mother--and going right back to Glasgow on their motor-car in order that we may have Achree to ourselves for the funeral?"

Drummond looked the surprise he felt.

"Are they, though? That is uncommonly good of them," he admitted, though only half-heartedly. "Then, you go back to Achree to-morrow with the poor old General?"

"Yes. Mr. Rosmead is arranging the whole matter with Malcolm now, I expect. I am very tired, Neil. I think I shall have to go to bed soon."

"Yes, of course--poor dear girl, you must be! Kitty sent her love. She would have come over with me, she said, only she was not sure whether you would be able to see people. She will come over to-morrow if you'll give her leave."

"Very kind," murmured Isla, thinking of the woman who had not waited for leave--who had come of her own free will and gathered her to her heart. "I don't think she should come to-morrow, Neil," she said, rousing herself with an effort on perceiving his disappointment. "I shall be busy most of the day, you see. To-morrow night, perhaps--if you don't mind. It will not be so far to come to Achree as up here. Give her my love."

Drummond shifted rather restlessly from one foot to the other.

"Isla, I hate to say it, but it is what I feel. I'm beastly jealous of these American outsiders. You must not let them absorb you. Of course we know that their money can do a lot of things. We can't all afford thousand pound motors for quick transit, but our hearts are in the right place and we'd go down on our knees to serve you--every one of us."

Isla's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"I know, Neil. Don't trouble about it. They have been very kind. Of course I know that if you had had Achree you would have done just the same thing. Was that Malcolm calling? We had better go out."

Neil opened the door, and they passed into the narrow hall again, where Malcolm and Rosmead stood together.

For just the fraction of a moment nobody spoke.

"Mr. Rosmead has told me of their great, unheard-of kindness, Isla," said Malcolm in a queer strained voice, "and we have arranged it all. To-morrow afternoon--late about six o'clock we shall take him down to Achree. Mr. Rosmead is to run his fast motor to Callander in the morning in order to make the necessary arrangements. I have told him we can't thank him."

"No," answered Isla very low, "we can't."

"That's all right," said Rosmead cheerily. "Good night then, Miss Mackinnon. Go to bed and have a good sleep. Good night, Mr. Drummond."

"Good night," said Neil, and he affected not to see the outstretched hand.

Rosmead took no offence. He was too big-hearted, and perhaps he had an inkling of how it was with the young man.

"I had better go, too, I suppose," said Neil a little stiffly, and Isla bade them both good night.

When Malcolm returned from seeing them off he could not find Isla, and when he went upstairs her door was shut.

He tapped lightly at it, and she opened it just a few inches.

"You'll excuse me to-night, won't you, Malcolm?" she said gently but coldly. "I am very tired. I couldn't discuss anything to-night. To-morrow we can talk things over, but I want just to say that I am sorry I spoke as I did this afternoon. He would not have liked it, I am sure."

Malcolm had not a word to say. He murmured good night and went downstairs to the lonely hearth, where he tried to extract some comfort from his pipe.

But his quiet was disturbed by the low sound of his sister's sobbing from the room above.