Chapter XX: The Reality of Things

Towards the morning Isla fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, from which she did not awake till half-past ten o'clock.

A sense of confusion and dismay swept over her when she realized how late it was, until she remembered that, in her scheme of things, time just then was of no consequence.

Certainly she had things to do, but the hour of their doing mattered to no man or woman. She was alone, she was free, this day and other days were in front of her to do with what she willed.

She sprang up, rang for hot water, and, pulling up the blind a little way, looked out upon streets bathed in a flood of glorious autumn sunshine. Somehow, it comforted her that London did not weep at her coming. It seemed an augury of good will. She had not known how physically tired she was until she had stretched herself on her bed. And now, her strength fully restored by sleep, her spirit became less craven.

She was still joyous over her escape. Things might happen in the Glen and she would never know. She, whose interest in the smallest event there had ever been of the warm and proprietary kind, had by one drastic step cut herself off from her old life. And for the moment she had room for little else in her mind but a sense of lively relief that she had gotten clean away.

As she dressed leisurely she reviewed the events of yesterday, among which the meeting and conversation with Joe Bisley's widow stood out in odd relief.

Isla was not without a latent sense of humour. In happier circumstances she could have extracted a great deal of amusement from the passing show of life, and she was able to smile at the situation of yesterday. It had been Gilbertian to the last degree, and might have been culled from the pages of the latest comic opera.

What surprised her most was that she had no feeling of indignation or resentment against this woman who had stepped from the unknown into the Mackinnon scheme of things. Nay, she felt kindly towards her--she felt that somewhere, deep down in that undisciplined nature, there was gold. It was not the woman's fault that she had been born in another sphere, that she was so far from comprehending Isla's own points of view.

She had other qualities which are common to the whole of humanity--good feeling, honesty, kind-heartedness, and sympathy. Isla was womanly enough and just enough to concede the possession of all these to Winifred Bisley. Her own innate goodness convinced her that this woman was not, and could not be, wholly bad. And no doubt--and here her thoughts again became tinged with bitterness--in this case also Malcolm had been to blame.

She preferred to leave the unfinished story, however, to try to banish from her mind the problem of the loose threads which wanted weaving together. As for the day of unravelling, that was hid in the womb of time, but from past experience Isla had no doubt that that day would surely come.

In her mind's eye this morning Glenogle was shadowy, and even her passionate championship of Vivien Rosmead seemed to suffer some chill. She was concerned altogether with herself. And perhaps just then that was no bad thing for Isla Mackinnon, seeing that she had arrogated to herself so long the role of general burden-bearer to the community.

She felt fit and strong and hopeful as she belted her trim waist and fastened the Mackinnon badge into her black tie and set her hat firmly on her pretty hair. The memory of the nodding plumes and the moonstone hat-pins evoked a smile as she turned away from the mirror.

With that smile still lingering on her lips she went forth to conquer London!

She was the very last arrival in the breakfast-room, and she apologized for her lateness.

"I was very tired after my long journey," she said to the head waiter. "If it is too late for breakfast I must take something else.

"Too late, madam! It is never too late here for anything," he said magnificently as he directed her gallantly to a small table set comfortably near to the cheerful fire, and placed the menu card before her.

When Isla had made her choice one of the satellites was instructed to fulfil her order with dispatch, and the head waiter stood near in case that the charming lady should desire further speech with him.

"No, I don't think I shall require my room another night," she answered, when he ventured on a polite inquiry. "I have had to come up rather unexpectedly, and, immediately after breakfast, I shall go out and see the friend with whom I expect to stay while I am in London. I may leave my things here, I suppose?"

"Certainly, madam. The room's yours until the evening."

"Thank you. Have you been having good weather in London? It is lovely this morning. And please, can you tell me the best way to get from here to the Edgeware Road?"

"Underground, madam, from King's Cross. It will take you in about ten minutes."

Isla thanked him again, and when he laid the morning paper before her she felt that a hotel could be a very comfortable place. She was glad to hear about the Underground, because her riches were not great, and she must be careful about small expenses.

About noon she sallied forth on foot to find the Metropolitan station at King's Cross. She was an absolute stranger to that part of London. True, she had frequently arrived at the great termini, but on these occasions she had simply got into a cab or carriage and been quickly conveyed westward.

She enjoyed the new experience--she was in the mood at the moment to enjoy everything and to put the best face even on her difficulties.

At the Edgeware Road station she felt confused by the frightful congestion in the streets until, in answer to an inquiry, a friendly policeman told her that the street she wished to find was near the Park end of the wide thoroughfare.

"About ten minutes' walk, Miss," he assured her.

And, though a policeman's ten minutes is an elastic measure, Isla was not unduly tired by the time she reached Agnes Fraser's door.

Before she rang the bell she looked critically up and down Cromer Street, contemplating the fact that for some time to come it would limit her horizon. It was eminently respectable but dull, and some of the houses had a dingy look. Even Mrs. Fraser's, Isla thought, was less bright and cheerful than usual. The brass furnishings on the doors looked as if they had not been polished for several days, and the raindrops had dried upon the "Apartments" plate which, the last time Isla had seen it, had shone like gold.

An exceedingly untidy slip of a girl about sixteen, in response to her ring, opened the door just a few inches. She had a squint in one eye, which perhaps accounted for her cap being set awry on her unkempt hair.

"Is Mrs. Fraser at home?" asked Isla imperiously.

"Yus, Miss, but she ain't well, she's in bed. You can't see her."

This dashed Isla's fine spirits for a moment.

"In bed is she? What is the matter--anything serious?"

"She's 'ad newmonier, been mortial bad, Miss, but she's gettin' better. Only if it's apartments yer after, there ain't any."

She delivered herself of this statement wholly on her own initiative, and in order to get rid as quickly as possible of her questioner.

"Is Mrs. Fraser very ill? Has she been able to see anyone just lately?"

"Yus, Miss, she's bin up at midday since Monday. She's settin' up now in 'er room."

"I'll come inside," said Isla decidedly. "Go upstairs and tell her that Miss Mackinnon from Achree has called and would like very much to see her."

"Yus, Miss," said the girl stolidly, and, opening the door a little more widely, permitted Isla to step into the hall.

"There ain't anywheer but Mr. Carswell's room. The drorin'-room lidy ain't out this mornin'. Yus--yer can sit 'ere if yer likes. But Missis Fraser, she don't like me leavin' folks in the hall since a werry decent-looking man took away three umbrellas and Mister Carswell's best greatcoat."

Isla sat down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs and asked the girl to make haste to convey her message. Very soon she heard the quick shutting of various doors, the rushing about of feet upstairs, and, after about five minutes, the damsel appeared out of breath and with her cap more awry than ever.

"Yer can come up," she said laconically.

Isla proceeded to ascend the somewhat dark staircase, which received all the light it possessed from a dome in the roof three floors up. All these stairs had Isla to ascend, for Mrs. Fraser was fully let, and she had had to retire to one of the attics when she was laid aside.

It was a very bare room, but a bright fire made it fairly cheerful, and Agnes herself in a red flannelette dressing-gown, blushing all over her face, was in the middle of the room to welcome Isla when she reached the door.

"I'm very sorry, dear Miss Isla, to bring you up all this way. But could I help it? Oh, what I have suffered bein' shut up here, an' the hoose at the mercy o' thae rubbitch in the kitchen! Hoo mony times had ye to ring?--three or fewer, I'll be bound."

"No, only once--and don't worry yourself, dear soul," said Isla, whose joy at sight of Mrs. Fraser's homely and welcoming face could not be dimmed by the recital of sordid details. "I hope you are really getting better."

"Oh ay. I'm to get doon the morn. I'm very sorry I'm no doon the day for ye. If ye had written I wad hae been doon. Noo I canna offer ye onything--no even a cup o' tea. I wad never be sure hoo it wad come up."

"I don't need anything," said Isla, as she closed the door and put Agnes back in her chair. "I've only just come out from my breakfast at the Euston Hotel."

"You're not stoppin' wi' Lady Mackinnon, then?"

"No. They are still abroad. They will not come back, I think, for about two months yet."

Agnes looked a trifle puzzled, but sat waiting respectfully for further enlightenment.

"Your little maid told me downstairs that you are full up when she supposed I was looking for accommodation," said Isla presently. "I hope she only said that to get rid of me. I want a room here, Agnes."

Mrs. Fraser's face flushed again with the quick nervous flush of the invalid who is not yet quite able to cope with everyday affairs.

"Oh, Miss Isla, this is not the place for you--and very well ye ken it. I can gie ye another address. Ye mind Lady Eden's own maid Martin? She's in Seymour Street, and doin' well. Ye should go and see her. She wad be very prood to get ye, I am sure."

Isla shook her head, drew her chair a little nearer that of Agnes, and looked at her very straightly.

"I can't afford to go to Martin, even if I liked her--which I never did. Things have not been going very well with me lately, Agnes, and--and it became imperative that I should get away. I can't explain it to you this morning, and I know you will never ask questions."

"I hope I ken my place a little better than that, Miss Isla," said Mrs. Fraser.

But her tone was sad.

"I'm not at all well off, and, in fact, I must look about immediately for something to do."

At this strange announcement Mrs. Fraser fell back in her chair, as if overcome.

"Oh, Miss Isla, ye don't say so! It's awful, my dear! You to be seekin' something to do! It's no richt--it canna be richt. Oh, my dear, what is the meanin' o' it?"

Isla dashed away a sudden moisture from her eyes.

"It's difficult to explain. You must have known that things were not going well at Achree for a long time, not even in my father's lifetime. Since he died and my brother has become the Laird affairs have got all muddled, and the outlook is hopeless. Further, we don't get on, Agnes. You knew Malcolm as a boy of seven years. So perhaps I needn't say much more."

"No. But to let you go out into the world like this--it's a cryin' shame! You--a Mackinnon o' Achree! It shouldna be," said Agnes desperately.

"Oh, he did not actually send me out, you know, Agnes. In fact, he thinks I am on my way to France--to my aunt and uncle."

"And surely he is richt. That is where ye should be, Miss Isla. Oh, tak' my advice and go now. London's a cauld, cruel place for them that has to get their livin'. It's me and Fraser that kens that. And for you to be oot in it! It minds me on naething but a lamb that has wandered frae its mither amang the little hills and wi' the snaw comin' doon like to blind it. Ye canna do it, Miss Isla. Tak' it frae me that kens--ye canna do it!"

"I must, Agnes, and if you can't encourage me you must hold your tongue, dear soul," said Isla bravely. "Let us get back to the point. Can you let me have a room? In fact, you must let me have a room--quite cheap, though at its market-value and not a penny less. All I want to make sure of is that I am under your roof. Nothing else matters."

Agnes, still flushed and nervous, gave the matter rapid consideration.

"The drawing-room floor is what ye ocht to hae, Miss Isla."

"But I couldn't pay for it. So, what comes next?"

"There's the floor below this--the back room. It's big and very quiet, but it doesna get much sun. There has been a French artist in it, and he painted things on the doors and on the mantelpiece. Some thinks them very bonnie. He gaed oot only last week awa' back to his ain country, and he was apparently very sorry to leave. He was a very decent man for a Frenchman."

"That sounds more like it," said Isla cheerfully. "How much, Agnes? Honest Indian, now--how much did the Frenchman pay?"

"Twelve shillings a week, and he had his breakfast for that. But it was a French breakfast--naething but coffee and rolls. I would never charge you that, though. Miss Isla; if ye would just tak' the room it's a prood woman I'd be, and as for Fraser, he would be neither to haud nor bind aboot it."

"That I can't do, Agnes, even to see the expansion of Fraser. If you like to give me the room and a French breakfast, with a very occasional egg when they are good and cheap, for twelve shillings a week--why, then, I'll take it gladly and pay a week in advance if I can come in to-day."

"Oh, but, Miss Isla, I am not able yet to see properly to things, and, as I say, I've naething but rubbitch in the kitchen. Even at the very best, my hoose is not what you hae been accustomed to, and I should never hae an easy or a happy mind aboot ye."

"That's sad, for I am going to be very easy and happy about myself, dear soul. So, do say I may come in this very afternoon. My things are all at the Euston Hotel, and, of course, staying there is beyond my means altogether."

Mrs. Fraser sat back in her chair, and her face was troubled.

"Come, of course, and welcome, my dear. But I am wae for ye. And what is it ye think of tryin' to do? Is it to go as a companion to an old leddy--or what? There is so very little a leddy like you can do."

"I read an advertisement in the 'Morning Post' this morning for a young person to take pet dogs for an airing in the Park. My physical powers would be equal to that, I believe, and it would not need much brain power at least."

Agnes hardly even laughed at the suggestion.

"I ken what I'm speakin' aboot, Miss Isla. I have not kept an apartment hoose in London for seven years for naething. The things I hae seen, they would fill a book."

"I have no doubt of it, but I'm not going to add to your tragic reminiscences, Agnes. Fortune is now going to begin to smile on me. Don't let us meet trouble half-way, anyhow. We'll change the subject. Haven't you anything to ask about your old friends and neighbours in the Glen?"

"I dinna hear frae ony o' them noo, Miss Isla. Oot o' sicht oot o' mind. Hoo's Elspeth Maclure, and has she ony mair bairns?"

"None since the last," laughed Isla.

"And is her tongue ony quater? Eh, that lassie! When we were neibours at Achree I tell ye she fair deaved a body. You'll no mind--ye were young at the time--that I had to ask the hoosekeeper to let me sleep in anither room. Naebody could sleep wi' Elspeth. She wud speak even in her sleep. We were a' sorry for Maclure. But, of course, he was a quate man, or there wad hae been ructions."

Isla retailed a few items of Glenogle and Lochearn gossip for Mrs. Fraser's benefit, and finally returned to the subject of the room.

"I can tak' ye doon to see it, Miss Isla. I was as far as the dining-room yesterday."

Isla thanked her, and together they went down one flight of stairs and entered a large, wide room with two long windows looking out upon a microscopic back-yard, in which was a solitary tree. Though it was little more than noon the room was rather gloomy, and Agnes pointed out that it was the projecting portions of the neighbouring houses that darkened the windows.

"If I get employment I shall be out most of the day, and in the evenings I shall have a fire, and then it will be quite cosy. So these are the Frenchman's pictures! Why, some of them are very pretty."

He had done some sketches in water colour on the panels of the door and also on the sides of the mantel-piece; and, though the furniture was a little hopeless and rather suggestive of the cheaper end of the Tottenham Court Road, Isla was thankful to get it.

But Agnes Fraser felt a little despondent about it all the afternoon, and when Fraser, who was steward at a West-End club, came home at tea-time to see how she was, he found that she had been crying.

He also took a gloomy view of Miss Mackinnon's venture into the unknown.

"It's only her fad, Nance. And afore she has had time to get tired o't or even to get a grup o' the rael thing she'll rue it, or some o' them will come and tak' her away. So let her come, and dinna you fash your heid aboot her. Eh, woman, I'm gled to see ye in a frock at last!"

About six o'clock that evening a four-wheeler trundled up to Mrs. Fraser's house in Cromer Street, and Isla with all her belongings was admitted to her new quarters.

She slept soundly that night, secure in the haven found under the roof of an old friend.

But Agnes herself, who knew the hardships of London life and had very special knowledge of the extreme difficulty the indigent gentlewoman experienced in finding employment, never closed an eye.