Chapter XVIII: Goodbye to Glenogle

Half an hour later, from the window of the room where she was doing her packing, Isla saw Malcolm ride out to the road upon his bicycle. She did not need to watch the turn he took. She knew just as well as if she had been told that he was bound for Strathyre. It was beginning to grow dusk, but the September evenings are long in Glenogle, and it would be a night of full moon.

Isla's thoughts were rather bitter as she made busy with her scanty wardrobe, laying aside every superfluous article, because she did not wish her movements to be hampered with too much baggage.

Busy with purely mechanical things as she was, her thoughts were free to tarry with the affairs of Achree. Had Malcolm been as other men--had there been no shadow on his past, no complications in his present, she could have wished for no better issue out of the tangle of their troubles than to see him win Vivien Rosmead. She was a sweet, gracious woman, a true gentlewoman, beautiful and rich--a combination not easily found in a wife. How Isla would have rejoiced to see her mistress of Achree, rearing bonnie children who would have loved her and called her Auntie Isla.

It was what ought to have been, she said with a little passionate stamp of her foot upon the floor. And now that Malcolm was in deadly earnest she did not doubt for a moment that he desired to be worthy for Vivien's sake, but spectres blocked the way. The most imminent and the most terrifying was the woman in the purple frock.

Could anything on earth ever explain her away?

She contrasted the woman and Vivien as she had seen them together on the Glenogle road, and she conjured up the supreme contempt that would gather in Vivien's eyes were she pitted against her. She would absolutely disdain such humiliation. Isla felt sure that the man who would win Vivien Rosmead from her disillusionment, who aspired to heal her hurts, must have a clean record. How dared Malcolm, with what was behind and before him, aspire to her?

Isla wondered at the audacity of men. Yet her heart was also stirred with pity for him in that he must reap the bitter harvest of his folly and his sin. Her heart was passing weary, the burden had not been lightened with her father's death, but seemed to have waxed heavier. And she must get away. She felt herself a coward in view of what might come. She could not breast anew scandal in the Glen and she must get away. Such weakness and weariness crept over her that she could have laid her head down and slept for ever. She held on bravely with her preparations, however, and when they were finished she rang the bell for Margaret Maclaren.

"The dinner iss ready, Miss Isla. Am I to send it in?" asked that competent domestic with just a touch of aggressiveness in her mien and manner.

"I don't know where Mr. Malcolm is or when he will come back. But, yes--send it in if it will make you any happier, Margaret, and lift that dour cloud from your face," she added hastily. "I know I can trust you to keep something hot for Mr. Malcolm."

"Oh, as to that, it can be done. But I'm gettin' tired of it, Miss Isla. I nefer saw such a man, or such a hoose--beggin' your pardin for my plain speech. He takes less account of times and seasons than anybody I have ever seen or heard tell of. I don't know what he thinks happens in a kitchen, or whether he knows how food is made, but he expects it to be ready when he iss, whatefer the hour of the day. It iss not in my power, Miss Isla. I'm gettin' to be an old woman and not fit for my job."

"Nonsense, Margaret. You never were fitter, and you must warstle through with it a little longer anyhow, because I am going away to-morrow for some weeks, and you must simply look after Creagh till I come back."

"Where are you goin', Miss Isla? To her Ladyship, iss it? Well, it will do you good, and it iss there you ought to haf gone long since. I will stop, then, till you come back. And I hope the change will do you good, for it iss fery thin and white-like you are gettin', my dear, and it iss time something wass done. I will do my best for Maister Malcolm, and if it should pe that we fall out peyond making up while you are away I'll write and let ye know."

Isla had not expected sympathy from Margaret, who, between Diarmid and his master, was now kept in a state of continual agitation which had a very bad effect on a temper that was not placid at the best of times.

Isla thanked her, and, with a mind considerably eased, went down to eat her solitary meal. After dinner she busied herself writing a few notes of farewell--one of them to Kitty Drummond and one to Elspeth Maclure, regarding whom her conscience was troubling her not a little. But she afterwards tore up Elspeth's, deciding that if Jamie Forbes came to Creagh in good time she would make him stop at Darrach on the way down so that she might say good-bye in a proper manner.

The evening wore on--eight, nine, ten o'clock--and still no word of Malcolm. Isla looked out again and again, and once she even walked out to the gate to see whether the twinkling light of the bicycle lamp was visible down the long vista of the road. When it was half-past ten she went to bed, for she had walked many miles that day, and her packing exertions--to say nothing of the strain of things on her mind--had left her very tired.

She was awakened long after by the banging of a door, she thought; but, listening intently, she heard nothing further, and so she fell asleep and did not wake till morning.

Breakfast had been ordered half an hour earlier than usual to give her time to catch the train, and she had nearly finished before Malcolm made his appearance. She looked at him rather keenly as he entered, and was immediately struck by his haggard looks. He appeared like one who had either not slept or had spent the night in some doubtful place.

"Good morning, dear. I owe you an apology, of course. I had a burst tyre other side of Lochearn last night, and it was near midnight when I got home. I hardly expected that you would sit up. At what time do you start?"

"Jamie ought to be here any moment. I trysted him for half-past eight, and it's twenty past now. I hear the wheel, I think. Yes--there he is. Aren't you going to eat anything, Malcolm?"

"No. Isn't there any coffee? Oh, I forgot--she can't make coffee. It's a cup of black coffee I'd like this morning. Is the tea strong? I'm coming down with you, of course, Isla. What else did you think? Don't wait here if you want to go upstairs or to be seeing after your stuff, though we've plenty of time, really."

Isla gladly escaped. She gathered from the general appearance of her brother that care sat heavily upon him. But she had not the smallest desire to question him. Nay, her longing to get away from the increasingly sordid conditions of her life had now become a positive fever in her veins.

Rest was what she craved--rest from haunting thoughts, from phantoms of dread, from the menacing sword which seemed to be suspended over Achree and all bearing the name of Mackinnon.

But she was to prove before another twenty-four hours were over that there are things in this world from which it is impossible to get away--crosses that have to be endured--heroically if possible, but certainly endured.

Malcolm was in the back seat of the dogcart, and did not speak a single word on the way down. They halted at Darrach, where a slight disappointment was Isla's--she did not see Elspeth. Donald himself, who seemed to be minding the house--at any rate, he had the second youngest child in his arms--came out of the gate to explain that his wife had gone to Govan to see their niece Jeanie Maclure, who was down with pneumonia. She had taken the baby with her.

Isla sent many messages to her, and passed on with a little sense of relief.

When they got to Lochearnhead Station the signal was down for the Oban train, which could be seen gliding swiftly round the curve of the hill. At the last moment the drag from Garrion, with the familiar pair of roans in the shafts, drove up rapidly, and Neil Drummond came bounding up to the platform. When he saw Malcolm Mackinnon handing his sister into the train he went forward eagerly, though the man whom he had come to meet--a visitor from Oban--had already alighted, and was on the outlook for him.

"Good day, Isla. Are you travelling?" he asked; and, seeing the dressing-bag, the rug, the strapped articles on the rack, he looked a trifle blank.

"She's going to Aunt Jean and Uncle Tom at Wimereaux," answered Malcolm when Isla said nothing. "Don't you think the change will do her good?"

"Yes. But how long is she to be away?" inquired Neil.

And his tone was so imploring, that Malcolm, understanding perfectly how it was, good-naturedly stepped back to give him a chance.

"Why this sudden journey, Isla?" Neil demanded with an imperious air, which showed how much he cared about the whole affair. "Last time I saw you you said nothing on earth would induce you to go Wimereaux."

"It was Malcolm who said I was going there," said Isla demurely.

The answer puzzled Neil, and filled him with lively forebodings.

"Isla," he said a trifle hoarsely, "you're not going do anything foolish? What has happened? Have you had a quarrel with Malcolm?"

"Not at all. I only want a change, Neil. Don't worry about me. Nothing can possibly happen to a strong young woman, with her head screwed pretty firmly on her shoulders."

Neil swung himself on the footboard of the train, quite heedless of the fact that his guest was looking about for him on the platform in hopeless disappointment.

"Isla, you are going to your uncle and aunt? Unless I am assured on that point, I'll step into the train and go with you."

Isla laughed at that.

"Why should you care, Neil? I'm only going a little journey on my own. I'll probably be back before anyone has had time to miss me."

"That can't happen. It'll be a long day for me till you come back to Glenogle. And, further, I'm not happy in my mind about you. In fact, I'm most unhappy."

"Don't be, then, Neil. I'm not worth it."

"That's my business, my dear," he said, and never had he looked more manly or more attractive. "Somehow, we all seem to have lost you lately. They all say that--Kitty, Aunt Betty, even the Rosmeads. They were speaking of you the other day. You haven't treated us well, Isla, whatever you may think. And now, this beats everything."

"The train is moving, Neil. Get down, or you will be hurt," she cried nervously.

But he still hung persistently to the half-open door.

"You'll write, Isla. Promise at least that you will write either to Kitty or to me?"

"I'll write to Kitty. Give her my love and tell her she'll hear from me without fail in a week or two."

"And if you want a friend, Isla, if there's anything I can do for you, promise you'll send for me or let me know. There isn't anything I won't do. No journey would be too long or too difficult if I had the prospect of serving you at the end of it, and--and well, you know the rest, don't you? I daren't say all I want."

A strong hand behind him took him by the coat-tails and dragged him from the now swiftly moving train, and the last Isla saw of Lochearn was Neil Drummond's face and the appeal in his eyes.

Malcolm was too late for the final good-bye, but Isla, on the whole, was rather glad that she had escaped it. She pulled up the open window-sash and flung herself back in the corner with a quick, heaving sigh.

It was all over, then. The cords had been cut, and she was adrift from Glenogle and all the trammels of the old life. What would the new bring, she wondered? A little sob broke from between her trembling lips as her eyes looked through the window at the wide Glen of Balquhidder to the misty hills beyond, where the glory of the heather was beginning to be dimmed. When should she see it all again, and in what mood?

At Strathyre her eyes were too red to permit her to look out, and happily no passenger sought to disturb her. By the time the train reached Callander she was calm again, and she arrived at Glasgow, quite composed. She left her luggage in the cloak-room and walked, since she had plenty of time, to the lawyer's office in St. Vincent Place.

Mr. Cattanach was able to see her at once, and he received her with his usual kindness of manner. He had thought a good deal about her of late and had wondered how she was getting on at Creagh with Malcolm, with whom he had had several rather stormy interviews.

"I'm on my way to London, Mr. Cattanach, and as I had an hour to spare before my train starts I thought I should like to see you."

"Surely. On your way to London, are you? For a long visit?"

"Yes. I think so."

"Sir Thomas and Lady Mackinnon are still across the Channel, I think. I saw in the News one night lately that they are not expected at Barras till November?"

"That's right, I believe," said Isla.

"Are you joining them?"

"Not just yet."

Cattanach scrutinized her rather closely. He did not know how far she might stand questioning, but he gathered from a certain quiet determination in her manner that she had some quite definite plan in her mind.

"Mr. Cattanach," said Isla clearly, "you have always been kind to me and have understood things right through. I can never forget how kind you were just before my brother came home. I can't go on living at Creagh with him any longer."

"I'm not surprised. I've been expecting to hear this for some time."

"I'm a dependent on his bounty. I ought not to have been left like that, but I don't want to grumble about it. He thinks I'm going to Wimereaux to my aunt and uncle. But I have no such intention."

"Indeed! I hope that you have at least some satisfactory haven in view, Miss Mackinnon," he said, with distinct anxiety in his voice.

"I have several very clear ideas. To-night I shall stay at the Euston Hotel and to-morrow I shall go to an old servant of Achree who is married in the West End of London. She keeps a boarding-house. From her house it is my intention to seek some employment."

Cattanach looked the surprise he felt. His disapproval, he decided, he had better keep to himself.

"I am honoured by this conference, Miss Mackinnon, and since you have told me so much I am encouraged to ask more. What sort of employment, may I ask, does Miss Mackinnon of Achree think she will find in London?"

Her eyes flashed a little mournfully.

"I belong to the great sad army of the partially equipped, Mr. Cattanach, but I know my limitations and I shall keep within them. Also I shall be able to earn my daily bread. I have come to you, because,--for reasons which I don't think I could really explain, even if I tried--I feel that I should like at least one responsible person to know where I am and precisely what I am doing. But I require that, unless circumstances arise which render it absolutely necessary that it should be known, you will not give that information to anybody in Glenogle or at Balquhidder," she added as an after-thought.

"You forget. I have no communication with Glenogle or Balquhidder now except through your brother. He is not likely to ask me your whereabouts. Will you give me your address?"

"I'll send it," she said diplomatically. "I want to get clean away from everything for a while, Mr. Cattanach, for really I don't quite know where I am standing. I even feel as if I were some strange, new sort of person with whom I have to get freshly acquainted. Can you understand that?"

"I understand that life has been very hard for you, my dear," he said involuntarily. "And I have often prayed that your day of brightness would come."

"It won't come," she said with a little nod. "I'm one of those predestined to gloom. Tell me, Mr. Cattanach, before I go," she added with a little touch of wistful tenderness that wholly became her, "how do you think it is with my brother now? You have seen him several times. Is--is he doing well? You wonder perhaps that I should ask. But my judgment, where he is concerned, has become entirely distorted. That is one of the reasons why I want to get away, because I am seeing nothing clearly, fairly, or justly, especially in relation to him."

"I think he means well. But he is not fitted for the life of a country laird. He would have made a better soldier. It is a thousand pities that he had to leave the Army."

"It is. Don't you think," she added after a moment's hesitation, "don't you think it a very wonderful thing that the true story of his leaving the Army has never got about?"

"I think it more than wonderful. There must have been somebody very high in power, manipulating the strings in the background. But it is a very good thing for you that the story was hushed up."

"But I don't think that Malcolm realizes how he has been spared. He is not so grateful as he ought to be," she said.

And then she bit her lip, as if she regretted the condemnatory words and as if she wished to recall them.

"I can take you out to lunch to-day, I hope?" said the lawyer, pulling out his watch. "Unless Mr. Drummond is waiting somewhere round the corner?" he added with a smile.

"No, I am quite alone, and I shall be very pleased to go to lunch with you," said Isla.

She found the next hour quite pleasant. Cattanach took her to the station, transferred her luggage, and secured for her a comfortable seat in the London train. He could not wait until its departure, however, as he had a West-End appointment at two o'clock. They parted cordially and Isla repeated her promise to send him her London address as soon as she herself was quite sure of it.

She spread her things about and then, tucking her rug about her, began to glance over some of the illustrated papers. So far, no one had interfered with her privacy by entering the compartment. She had no expectation, however, that she would be allowed to retain it all the way.

About three minutes before the train started there was a great bustle and talking outside the carriage window, and presently a porter, laden with sundry small packages, most of them rolled up in brown paper, entered the compartment, followed by a large woman in a brown tweed travelling coat of ample dimensions.

Isla looked over the rim of her paper in mild curiosity and then quite suddenly she paled a little and hastily withdrew behind her screen.

It was the lady of the purple gown.