Chapter XIII: The Passing of Mackinnon

A chamber-maid at the St. Enoch's Hotel in Glasgow brought a sheaf of letters to Rosmead along with shaving-water on Monday morning at half-past seven.

He glanced over them with quick carelessness, and, finding one small, square, black-edged envelope, addressed in a handwriting that he did not know, he quickly broke the seal, which bore an unfamiliar coat of arms. Once more his pulses beat high, for this was the first time Isla Mackinnon had written to him, and over a man in love the handwriting of the woman he loves wields a surprising power.

Thus did Isla write to Rosmead, and the few simple words meant more from her than whole pages of words from most women. She did not possess the gift of expression, but could only write of real things, and when these were done with the letter came to an end:--

"ACHREE, _Saturday night_.

"DEAR MR. ROSMEAD,--I am writing to say that I hope--that we all hope--that you will be able to spare the time to come out to Lochearnhead on Monday to attend my father's funeral.

"It is arranged for twelve o'clock from here, and will arrive at Balquhidder Kirkyard at half-past one, which suits the trains from both the north and the south.

"Perhaps you do not know the customs of our country, but it would please me if you would take one of the cords of the coffin as they lower it into the grave. These are taken by relatives and friends only, and, God knows, you have been a friend. It is arranged that if you are there some one will give you your place.

"My uncle, Sir Thomas Mackinnon, arrived from London to-day. He is my father's only living relative.

"Perhaps you will find it convenient either to come by the train or to drive in your motor straight to Balquhidder, in which case I should not see you.

"Please to tell your mother that by Thursday of this week I shall have gone back to Creagh or shall have gone away somewhere else. What I really mean to say is that Achree will be ready for her return. I cannot say more.

"I am, sincerely yours,
"ISLA MACKINNON."

Rosmead forgot all about his shaving-water until it grew cold, and he had to ring for more.

He had longed with a great longing to go out to the burying of Mackinnon, but he had not contemplated doing so without invitation. And, lo! the invitation had come from Isla herself, couched in warm, friendly terms which no man--least of all Rosmead--could resist.

There was a glow at his heart as he stood before the mirror, attending to the duties of his toilet, noticing for the first time, with a kind of silent rage, the lines on his face and the evidences of middle-age beginning to creep about his mouth and temples. He wanted to be for ever young for her dear sake.

She had, in the midst of her forlorn grief, taken time and thought to write to him to offer him what he understood was a family privilege, and he would go--oh, yes, there was no car fast enough to take him--right to her door, to her very feet!

Away with the train or car that would convey him only to Balquhidder when Isla had expressed even the faintest desire to see him! It would be their last meeting until he could return from America, for on Thursday he must set out upon the journey which never in all his life had he been so loth to take.

He pondered on all the details of the day in front of him, and, by copious use of the telephone in his room, had arranged them all before he went down to breakfast. He did not wait for his sisters. There was nothing to hurry them in the mornings in Glasgow, and generally they breakfasted with their mother in her sitting-room.

At nine o'clock, dressed in full motor garb, he tapped at his mother's door.

"I have had a letter from Miss Mackinnon this morning, asking me to go out to the funeral at Achree, and I'm going now. It will take me quite all my time to get there by noon."

Mrs. Rosmead smiled upon him, well pleased. She did not ask to see the letter. She only bade him take care of himself and give her love to Isla, and to assure her that there was no need to hurry away from Achree. He felt glad that neither of his sisters had yet appeared. He left a message for them and went off to the waiting car, ready for what lay in front of him.

It was not a very pleasant day in the city. There was a light fog hanging over it, through which a fine rain was beginning to filter dismally. But when they got away from the river-bed the rain stopped, and, though the sky remained grey and pensive, it was fair overhead.

No sun shone all the way, and when he came to the hills Rosmead thought it was an ideal day for a burying--just typical of the grief which overshadowed a whole glen. The sky was grey and very soft, and a mist lay upon the hills, while the heaviness of unshed tears was in the soundless air.

About eleven o'clock Rosmead, who had had a splendid run without mishap or stop, swept by the incomparable beauty of Loch Lubnaig, through bonnie Strathyre, and down upon the valley of the Earn.

Long before he reached it he was struck by the signs of activity on the usually quiet and lonely road. All sorts and conditions of vehicles moved towards Glenogle, containing all sorts and conditions of people. At the hotel door there was quite a medley of waiting traps. Rosmead drew up there and went inside to remove his motor garb and to put on the decent mourning, safely stowed at the back of the car.

He looked graver and older in the tall silk hat and dark overcoat with the black band on the arm, and he was respectfully recognized by many.

The story of how of their own accord the Americans had vacated Achree in order that the family might have it to themselves for such a great occasion had got about in the glens. It had filled all who heard it with a sort of personal gratitude and appreciation that was bound to have an aftermath. They did not love the stranger--especially the American stranger--in these remote Highland glens, though his money was sometimes necessary to the comfort of their existence. They accepted him as inevitable, like motor-cars, and new railway lines cutting into their fair hill-sides and ugly viaducts spanning their wimpling burns--all necessary evils which must be endured with fortitude.

Driving very slowly towards Achree, Rosmead was astonished at the increasing number of people both in vehicles and on foot. He was unaware that in Scotland a burying--especially the burying of a great chief--is a public event, in which every man, woman, and child of the district takes a personal interest. Everybody came as a matter of course to see Mackinnon of Achree laid to rest, and all were made welcome, though no invitations, in the ordinary sense, had been sent out.

In some doubt as to whether he should take his car up to the house, Rosmead addressed himself to a policeman--a most unusual spectacle in Glenogle--who was on duty at the gate.

"Mr. Rosmead, sir, I think?" said the man, touching his hat.

"Yes, my man."

"Then you are to go up, please. I had my orders this morning. They are expecting you at the house."

Rosmead gave the order to drive slowly, and presently he came within sight of the house where the cortege stood before the open door. There were two other cars, and the Garrion roans were conspicuous at the bend of the avenue.

Rosmead alighted and walked over to the door where Diarmid was on the look-out.

"Mr. Rosmead, sir. I haf a message from Miss Isla for you, if it pe that she would not see you pefore you leave."

"Yes, my man."

"She says will you please come pack to the house if you can spare the time after you haf peen at Balquhidder, as she would like to speak with you, whatefer."

Rosmead silently nodded. Had the American boat sailed that very afternoon it is safe to say that one passenger at least would have failed to take his berth.

Diarmid, very respectful with a touch of gratitude in his mien, waited upon Rosmead and finally ushered him to the library where a small company were already assembled for the service that was to take place at a quarter to twelve.

Malcolm, very pale and slightly haggard, came forward immediately to greet Rosmead, whom he introduced to his uncle.

"Happy to meet you, sir," said Sir Tom, as his great hand grasped the American's slender one in a grip of iron. "We, as a family, will not readily forget your kindness at this time to the son and daughter of my poor brother. It was a Christian act, sir--a Christian act."

Rosmead asked him not to say more, passing it over as if ashamed that so much should be made of it. Then he stepped back and looked about at the people in the room. Some of them he recognized, but Neil Drummond, sourly resentful of his intimate presence there, unaware, of course, that he came by Isla's special invitation, did not suffer his eyes to alight on his face.

Rosmead was impressed by the circumstance that there were no flowers upon the coffin--only the Union Jack and the old soldier's sword, to the hilt of which was tied a bunch of white heather. All was simple, severe, and impressive. The short service was quickly over. Then a sudden, weird sound broke upon the listening ears--the wailing of the pipes, which filled the soundless air with a melancholy music.

All this time Isla had not appeared, and Rosmead strained his eyes in vain for a sight of her. But it was denied him, and he had not even asked for her welfare.

It was a great burying, the like of which had not been seen in the glens for many a year. As the cortege, half a mile long, slowly defiled through Lochearnhead it was joined by a score or more of vehicles that waited it there. And so it was all the way to the Braes of Balquhidder.

Rosmead, who had left his car at Achree and entered one of the mourning coaches, felt the impressiveness of the whole scene, and was almost moved to tears when they turned away from the grave to the sweet haunting strains of the "Flowers of the Forest".

As the mourners fell away slowly from the grave-side some one touched his arm.

"I shall be glad if you will drive back to Achree with me, Mr. Rosmead," said the voice of Sir Thomas Mackinnon. "I should like to have a little talk with you."

This was noted by the curious, and it was afterwards said that more attention could not have been paid to the American if he had been sib to the Mackinnons. But there was not one who added that the attention was misplaced.

"A sad affair, isn't it, for those who are left?" said Sir Thomas as they drove slowly away, "for my niece especially. You see, her father was her life-work, so to speak, and now that it is taken out of her hands she will feel stranded for a bit."

"Miss Mackinnon is one who will always find something to occupy her heart and her hands," said Rosmead.

Uncle Tom assented.

"They tell me you have Achree on an option, Mr. Rosmead," he said--and it was evident that that was the thing uppermost in his mind. "I hope that you like the place, and feel minded to stop on."

"I should like to, but I have not yet had any conversation about it. I shall have to see Mr. Mackinnon to-day, as I leave Scotland on Thursday."

"You leave Scotland? But I understood that you were here indefinitely."

"No. The business which brought me is concluded, and there is work lying to my hand in America."

"Then, do you leave your ladies here?"

"Yes, for six months. Our tenancy of Achree does not expire till the end of October, and nothing, therefore, need be decided now. But I think that my mother likes the place so well that we might take a lease of it--that is, if Mr. Mackinnon does not wish possession for himself. Will the General's death alter nothing?"

"Nothing. They can't afford to live in Achree--and that's the plain truth of it, Mr. Rosmead. In these days very few of us can afford to live in the place of our fathers. Here am I stranded in a London house, like a bull in a china shop. I loathe the life, but I haven't any choice. A relation of my wife offered the loan of the house for the season: my girls had to come out, and we couldn't afford to refuse. I don't know what's to become of us now, as our mourning will stop all the gaiety. But about the Achree Mackinnons? It is a most unfortunate thing that Malcolm resigned his commission just when he did. Of course, it was on his father's account. The best thing he could do would be to try and get back to the Army. I haven't approached him on the subject--that is, closely. He seems uncommonly touchy about it. So does Isla. But it stands to reason and common sense that he can't loaf about Glenogle."

"No. I can imagine that would be quite impossible. But if he does not return to the Army he will probably seek something else. There is room in the colonies for such as he."

"Is there?" inquired Sir Tom with the doubtful air of a man who would be difficult to convince. "Well, they present a problem. She must come back with me to her aunt in London. I don't see what else is to be done with her. She can't remain eating her heart out in that God-forsaken place up at Creagh. I'll never believe anything but that the change killed my brother Donald."

Rosmead recalled the picture of the General's prostrate figure on the narrow hearthrug at Creagh, the letter clasped like a vice in the poor dead fingers, and he had his own thoughts. Such at least had not been Isla's opinion, but it was certainly no part of his business to stir up strife or sow the seeds of suspicion among the members of the family, who were evidently outside the real issue of the case.

Sir Tom was very friendly and communicative, talking to the strange American as if he had been at least an intimate friend of the family--an attitude which was largely due to what Isla had said about the vacating of Achree.

Just a few of the mourners went back to the house for tea, and perhaps to hear whether there was a will. But, though Cattanach was present, there was no mention of a will, and it was speedily whispered about that the General had left none. It was quite well known that for five years at least he had not been capable of transacting business, and, as he had had practically no money to dispose of, and the estate had to pass in entail to his only son, a will would have been superfluous.

But it was of Isla that most of them were thinking, and when they watched the slender, black-robed figure so quietly dispensing tea in the drawing-room, assisted by Kitty Drummond, they wondered what her future was to be.

Neil Drummond was there also, and had taken up his position close to the tea-table, with the result that Rosmead could not get near for a private word.

But his mind was made up that he would not leave Achree until he had seen Isla by herself to bid her good-bye.

He was in no haste--he never was in any of the affairs of life--having proved that most things come to the man who bides his time. But perhaps just there he made one mistake, arising from ignorance of the quick Celtic temperament, which cannot brook slowness or delay.

Isla's eyes met his just once across the room, and there was quite clearly a message for him in the look. It bade him wait.

When all the tea had been served, and she had answered as composedly as she could the remarks made to her by Neil, she rose and quite deliberately walked across the room to the place where Rosmead stood talking to her Uncle Tom.

"You have a long way to go back to Glasgow, Mr. Rosmead. Are you in haste to leave us?"

"Not in haste to leave you, but I must be going soon. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"

"Yes, it is why I have come. Will you come down to the library?" she said.

And Neil Drummond, with eyes that had something of the baleful glow of the watch-fires in them, had the chagrin of beholding them leave the room together, as if it were quite a matter of course.

"Don t you think that American bounder has presumed a lot to-day, Malcolm?" he said gruffly to Mackinnon, who happened to pass near him at the moment.

Malcolm looked the surprise he felt.

"I don't think so, Neil. He has been most awfully kind, don't you know? I dare say Isla has some message for his mother about when they can come back to the house."

Neil tried to accept this perfectly feasible explanation, but if he had seen the two talking earnestly together at the library window his mind would undoubtedly have been most seriously disturbed.

"It was so very kind of you to come to-day and take all the trouble for us," said Isla, as the door closed upon them. "Do you still intend to sail away on Thursday?"

"On Friday. My boat sails from Liverpool," he corrected gently. "I go to London on Thursday."

"And when will you come back?"

"Not before Christmas, I am afraid. I've had more than six months' furlough already, you see, and I haven't the ghost of an excuse for stopping on this side any longer."

"Except your mother. You will not like leaving her, I am sure."

"I don't. But she is accustomed to my journeyings to and fro in the earth and up and down in it. I shall be very happy, thinking of her here in this house. She has never felt so much at home since she left Virginia. I have had a talk with your brother, and it is practically settled that we take a two years' lease of Achree. I was fortunate in finding Cattanach here to-day also, and so the thing can be put on a proper basis without delay."

"Yes," said Isla, and her tone had a singularly spiritless note in it.

He looked steadily into her face, wondering just how much he might say, or whether he might say anything at all. But she was not looking at him. She was thinking how strange it would be to realize that this man had gone away clean out of the Glen, and that soon the ocean would roll between him and her. She had never felt so in her life about any human being outside of her family circle, and she was disturbed.

"I hope that you will not think I presume if I ask what is going to become of you in the immediate future," said Rosmead presently. "Will you go back to London with your uncle, as he seems to expect?"

"No, I shall simply go back to Creagh," she answered steadily.

Rosmead was silent for a moment, trying to picture the life she would lead there, alone and without occupation, in the company of her brother from whom her heart was estranged.

"To Creagh? It seems impossible! I can't bear to think of you there. It is unthinkable!"

"Oh, no--nothing is unthinkable, or even impossible. People can do anything in this world--anything," she answered. "I have proved it."

"Then, shall I find you at Creagh when I come back?" he asked with an odd persistence, his eyes cleaving to her face.

A tremor ran over it, and had he but known it the opportunity was his. Her heart turned--nay, cried out to him. Had he spoken the word then she would have gone away with him without a question or a doubt.

But he blundered on, longing for her mightily, yet wholly afraid, believing that he dared not begin to woo her until he had given her heart time to recover from its present shock.

Some one tapped lightly at the door.

"It is au revoir, then, not good-bye," he said with an effort, and held out his hand.

She gave hers to his warm, kindly clasp, and her eyes, over which the veil had already fallen, uplifted themselves to his.

"I hope it is, but six months is a long time in life. So many things can happen. I hope you will have a safe journey and a successful issue to all your affairs, and--and that the difficulties you spoke of will all be swept from your path."

"Some of them are big enough. But when I come back I will address myself to the biggest undertaking of my life, and the dearest."

The door was opened, and Malcolm's voice announced that the motor was waiting outside.

Rosmead raised her hand to his lips and turned away, scarcely master of himself.

Isla spoke no more. But, for once in his life, Peter Rosmead had erred on the side of caution. The incomparable chance had been his, and he had passed it by.

When the door had closed upon them Isla leaned her head against the black oak of the window shutters, and a little sobbing breath that was almost a cry, broke from her lips.

Her last prop had gone, but none knew--least of all the man whose one desire on earth was to take her to his heart.