Chapter XXVII: The Call

Isla Mackinnon was sitting in the stone balustrade of the loggia in front of Lady Betty's villa at Nice, reading a letter that had been written three days before in the small hours of the morning at the Lodge of Creagh in Glenogle.

The sun was upon her hair and on her face, but her eyes were full of a wide and mute astonishment.

Lady Betty, attending to her own voluminous correspondence at the ormolu desk which stood across the open window of the drawing-room, saw that expression and wondered at it.

It was now a fortnight since Neil Drummond had left Nice, carrying Isla's promise with him, and this was Malcolm's first letter. It had cost him much travail, and as Isla read it through she felt its note of sincerity.

"I dare say you have heard from Drummond about his visit to me the other day. I have tried to write lots of times, but I haven't got the gift of the pen and I found it difficult to get words.

"Of course, I am glad, Isla, for Drummond is a ripping good chap and his prospects are rather splendid. You who are living with Lady Betty know what sort of fairy godmother she is to them. What I like best of all to think of is you as mistress at Garrion with plenty of money at your command. It will suit you down to the ground. There is no doubt that, as a family, we Mackinnons have been cursed through lack of money. It is easy to be good when one has plenty and nothing to worry about.

"I have waited, half hoping you would write first. But as you haven't, will you take this letter as an expression of my affectionate good will? We haven't quite understood each other up till now, but things are going to be better in future.

"I also have a bit of news for you, and I am wondering whether or not it will be a great surprise. Vivien Rosmead has promised to marry me, and we are not going to wait long--only until her brother comes home, which may be any day now. The last letters say that the initial difficulties of his bridge-building have been overcome and that he can be spared--at least for a few weeks.

"I hardly know how or what to write about this, Isla, because it is a thing that a man has a natural diffidence in speaking of. You know what Vivien is--how good, how far above me. I will try honestly to be worthy of her. I think I have convinced her of my sincerity.

"Of course she has a large private fortune, which will lift all the burdens off the old place and make it possible for us to start the new life unencumbered. The luck of the Mackinnons has turned at last and, after all our troubles, we may surely look forward to a little run of prosperity and peace. I hope you'll write to Vivien, even if you don't to me. I'm sure she expects it."

Isla dropped the sheet on her lap, and her eyes swept the blue line of the sea a little wildly. The colour which the soft southern air and the restful life had wooed back to her face receded and left it a little grey. The old terror, the vague, haunting dread crept over her once more, and so insistent was it that she could not push it away.

Had the luck of the Mackinnons really turned? She was pledged to marry Neil Drummond, perhaps in two months' time, and there was not an atom of joyful anticipation in her heart. Malcolm was engaged to Vivien Rosmead, and what would be the end?

In the whole of Malcolm's letter there was not one reference to the past. She knew him too well to hope for a moment that he had laid it bare to Vivien Rosmead--nay, rather was she certain that he had trusted to luck. The purple lady!--the vision of her arose before Isla's eyes and shut out the incomparable view of the terraced garden, the blossoming trees, the wide blue sweep of the southern sea.

A quick tap on the window pane attracted her attention, and, looking up, she beheld Lady Betty beckoning to her sharply. She rose slowly, picked up the letter, and went in through the open window.

"What ails ye, lass?" asked the old lady brusquely. "You look as if ye had the wail of the pibroch in your ears."

"I've had a letter from Malcolm, Lady Betty."

"Well? And is he ill pleased about you and Neil?"

"Oh, no. He tells me he is engaged to Mrs. Rodney Payne. I want to go home, Lady Betty."

Lady Betty sat back in her chair, set her eyeglass more firmly on her aristocratic old nose, and looked Isla straight in the face.

"What for do ye want to go home?"

"If I could tell you I would," she answered simply. "You have the gift, and you know that when the call comes one does not question, but just rises up to obey. That is how it is with me. The Glen is calling me. There is something for me to do at the Lodge of Creagh."

Isla spoke quite quietly, and the old lady neither flouted nor rebuked her.

"It's very unfortunate. Do you know that every day for the next month is filled up? And you have been such a success here and so many wish to know you that we need not have an idle hour."

"I shall have to go," was all that Isla said.

"And what will become of me? What will be the end of it? I have the house till Easter. Will you come back after you have answered the call? Neil could bring you."

"I can't promise anything," answered Isla. "Will you mind very much if I go to-day?"

Lady Betty did mind, but she knew that to throw obstacles in the way was useless. She might delay Isla's departure, but she could not altogether prevent it. Besides, there was the call. When it came clear and swift, as it had done to Isla, everything else had to give way.

"You would travel by yourself? You are not afraid?" she said kindly.

"Oh, I am afraid of nothing, dear Lady Betty, but the forces that work in the dark--the things we can't grapple with."

Lady Betty once or twice slowly inclined her head.

"I understand. Well, then, make your arrangements. The train-de-luxe to-night, I suppose, and London the day after to-morrow? Oh, Isla, ye mind me on nothing but a petrel that has no rest night or day from the storm. God go with ye, my dear, and at the long last give ye peace."

The words were very solemnly, very tenderly spoken, and Isla with a swift movement knelt beside the old lady's chair.

"Dearest Lady Betty! How can I thank you? I won't even try. You know--don't you?--oh, you must know how full my heart is!----"

Lady Betty dropped her fine white hand with its sparkling rings on the girl's bent head.

"I know nothing but good of you, Isla Mackinnon, and I love ye as ye were my own. But, oh, lass, my heart is heavy, and I would fain rise up and away to the hills with ye! My one consolation is that you are going back to Neil. I will wire to him this evening."

"No, don't, dear Lady Betty. It would be certain to bring him to London. I want no one to meet me there. If I have to sleep the night I will go to Agnes Fraser's. I--I would rather be alone."

Then something smote hard and cold on Lady Betty's heart, and she knew by the inward vision of her soul that the thing on which she had built high her pride and her hope would never take place. She did not know what was going to happen to prevent it, but she felt that Neil's cause was lost from that hour!

She suffered no depression to manifest itself, however. She undertook to still Kitty's garrulous questioning, and she herself saw Isla off at the station by the night train. But she did not close an eye all that night, being haunted by a sense of the futility of earthly planning and of the vanity of human hopes.

Isla arrived at Charing Cross Station at five o'clock in the afternoon of one of the loveliest of spring days. By that time she had a quite clear idea of what she wished to do. Speaking of it afterwards, she declared that each step of the way seemed to have been planned out for her, leaving her in no doubt whatever about the next.

She had her luggage transferred to the Charing Cross Hotel, engaged a room for the night, and, having enjoyed a very excellent cup of tea, sallied forth to take an omnibus for the West End.

Those weeks spent under Agnes Fraser's roof, and the long days she had utilized in traversing the length and breadth of London in search of impossible employment, had given her an intimate knowledge of the best and quickest and most economical means of transit.

But on a pleasant spring evening the omnibus was the most enjoyable. She had bought a copy of the "Morning Post" at the station, and she unfolded it in her seat with a view to taking a glance through the pages. There two items of intelligence which were of the deepest interest to her met her eyes. The first was purely personal and occurred a little way down the page, below the Court Circular.

"A marriage has been arranged, and will take place before the end of the season, between Malcolm John Mackinnon, Esq. of Achree and Glenogle, and Mrs. Rodney Payne of Carleton, Virginia, and 31 Avenue Castellare, Champs Elysees, Paris."

Her face flushed as she read these significant words and for the moment she felt as if all her fellow-travellers had read them with her and were aware of their meaning.

She sat a long time pondering, surprised beyond measure at the announcement, which seemed premature. She wondered who was responsible for its appearance, but decided that it was probably Malcolm who had sent it to the newspaper for the purpose of establishing his credit and consolidating his position. As yet Isla was disposed to be hard on him and to credit him with merely sordid motives.

Turning over the page she discovered the second item of intelligence, which riveted her attention immediately and sent her thoughts flying in another direction. It was under the heading of Wills and Bequests, and merely stated that the will of Mrs. Jane Bodley-Chard had been proved at seventy-five thousand pounds, the greater part of which passed to her husband, who was her sole executor.

By the time Isla had come out of the reverie induced by the reading of these paragraphs the omnibus had rolled her to her destination.

She alighted at the Marble Arch, crossed the way, and proceeded quickly along the Edgeware Road until she reached the end of the street where she had first seen Malcolm with the purple lady. She had not made a note of the address, but she remembered it vividly, and she made no mistake about the number.

Her slightly hesitating ring was answered by a person who seemed to be a charwoman, and who, in reply to her inquiry for Mrs. Bisley, shook her head.

"She ain't 'ere, Miss."

"But can't you tell me where she is, or at least how long she has been gone?"

"Oh, she ain't bin gone long--only since this mornin'. Are you a friend of 'ers?" she asked, peering rather inquisitively into Isla's face.

"At least I can claim to know her, and I particularly wished to see her to-day."

"Well, you carn't. She's gone to Scotland. She was orful upset this mornin' by sumfink she saw in the papers, and she went orf all of a 'eap, like, not even takin' proper luggage wiv 'er. Said she didn't know w'en she'd be back."

Isla turned away, so sick at heart that her dismay was visible on her face.

"I don't know nothink, but it's got summat to do wiv that military gent. she knew in India. A toff, 'e was, and she expected to marry 'im, don't you see? And 'e'es given 'er the slip--leastways that's wot I think. But, of course, I don't know nothink for certing, and you needn't say as I said anythink. I didn't hev no call fer to say anythink, reely."

Isla thanked her and turned away.

She was just one day too late. What could she do now? Even if she were to hasten by the night train to Glenogle, what could she do there? A meeting between Vivien and this woman seemed inevitable. At least Malcolm would have to explain his position and, if possible, justify himself.

Just for one brief moment she regretted having acted on the swift impulse to leave the pleasant sanctuary she had found by the Mediterranean Sea. What good had she done, or could she do? She had only once more committed the mistake of thinking that she could arbitrate in the destiny of others--she, who had so sadly mismanaged her own!

She crept dejectedly along the street, still clutching the paper in her hand, and when she reached the wider thoroughfare crossed it in a slanting direction and, as if through force of habit, turned in at Cromer Street and made her way to Agnes Fraser's familiar door.

It was the busiest hour of that good woman's day, because her first floor came in to dinner at half-past seven and it was now half-past six. But when she heard who it was that had asked for her she ran up the kitchen stairs, several steps at a time.

"Oh, Miss Isla, excuse my apron and the flour on my hands. But I couldna wait. I'm terribly busy jist for a meenit or twa. Can you come in and wait till I get the denners fairly on the road? It'll no tak' me mair nor a quarter o' an 'oor."

"I can't wait, dear woman--at least not now. I didn't mean to see you to-night, really, but I had business in this neighbourhood, and I just ran in for a look at you. I shall be in Glenogle to-morrow night."

"Yes," said Agnes breathlessly. "And it is true that ye are going to marry Mr. Drummond? I've aye been expeckin' to hear from yoursel' aboot it. But Elspeth Maclure says that it's quite true and that everybody is pleased I am, I'm sure. I jist sat doon and had a guid greet when Elspeth's letter cam'. And Andra lauched at me and said it wasna a thing to greet ower. But that wass hoo I felt."

Isla nodded, and her proud mouth trembled.

"You're lookin' fine--quite like yersel'," resumed Agnes. "And when is it to be, Miss Isla? Oh, hang their denners! Come in here and let me hear ye speak."

But Isla, laughing a little hysterically, shook her head, and began to move towards the door.

"It was very bad of me not to write, but I've been passing through all sorts of phases, Agnes, and even now I don't know quite where I am. When I get home I'll sit down and write you a very long letter. Have you seen the 'Morning Post' to-day with the announcement of my brother's engagement to Mrs. Rodney Payne?"

"No, but that news was in Elspeth's letter, too, and so Achree is on the mend again, thank God. Are ye awa'? Oh, I am sorry, Miss Isla! I would have liked to keep you for the nicht. Can ye not come back?"

"Not to-night. But probably I shall be in London again soon. Good night, dear soul, and thank you very much. Whatever the future may hold for me, Agnes Fraser will have a warm place in it. I hope that some day I shall be able to thank you properly for all you did for me."

Agnes was able to give only a very divided attention to the cooking when she returned to the gloom of her underground kitchen, while Isla rode back the way she had come, singularly out of love with life.

She had done no good by her impetuous journey--none at all. She was half minded to take the night mail to Calais again and throw herself once more on the tender mercies of Lady Betty. Her uppermost feeling was one of shrinking from Glenogle and all that might happen there.

The dusk was falling when she got down at Trafalgar Square, where she crossed to the hotel entrance at Charing Cross. It is always busy there, arrivals and departures taking place at all hours of the day and night. A four-wheeler, piled high with luggage, stood before the door, and a tall man in a long travelling-coat with a fur collar was directing the hotel porter what he wished to be done with the larger boxes.

He turned his head as Isla was about to pass in, and he found herself face to face with Peter Rosmead.

It was a supreme moment for them both. All Rosmead's heart leaped to his eyes, he dropped his dispatch-case, and grasped both her hands while his gaze covered her with an overmastering and encompassing tenderness.

"This is a bit of God's own luck!" he said, and his voice was thick with the passion of his soul. "How is it you are here?"

"I came from Nice only to-day. I am going home to Glenogle to-morrow," she answered, and her voice had a faint, far-away sound in it, as if she suddenly felt very tired. "And you?"

"Just arrived by the Norddeutscher-Lloyd steamer at Southampton at noon to-day. Are you here alone for the night?"

She inclined her head.

"It's God's own luck," he repeated. "You'll dine with me, then--in half an hour or an hour, or at any time that you choose to name?"

She hesitated just a moment. Should she refuse? But why? In another day it would be all over. Only the present hour was hers. She nodded and sped from him quickly, ascending to her room on the third floor by the lift.

When she entered it she turned the key and looked round a little wildly, working her hands in front of her nervously. Then, with a sob, she threw herself face downwards on the bed and buried her face.

She wanted to weep, but a song was in her heart, because, though she was pledged to marry Neil Drummond and was bound to him by every tie of gratitude and honour, she belonged to Peter Rosmead and he to her, and nothing could alter it. For the moment she, who had had so little of the joy of life, gave herself up to the vision of the might-have-been. And it was so glorious that it transformed the bleak hotel bedroom into a heavenly place.

After a long time, when she had risen and was making her toilet, there came a quick tap at the door. When she opened it a chambermaid stood without, smiling.

"Please, Miss, can I help you? The gentleman is waiting, and dinner is served in eighty-nine."