Front matter (continued 5)

"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.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE LONDON TRAIN

The train had started before Isla's travelling companion caught a glimpse of her face. She rose up with a sudden bang from her seat, with the result that, in spite of herself, Isla lowered her paper a little to see what was going to happen. What she did see was only the purple lady removing her large and unsuitable headgear, which seemed to interfere with her comfort.

"Hats are gettin' worse every day," she said with a pleasant smile as she jabbed two immense pins with imitation moonstone tops into the stuffing of the cushions behind her. "Soon they'll need to get us hat-compartments. Eh--what? Now, where have I seen you before?"

She took some hairpins from her abundant and really pretty hair, and with a back-comb began to do her toilet.

Isla was saved the difficulty of answering by a sudden gleam of recognition wandering across the lady's face.

"Oh, I know--on the road right down there in Glenogle yesterday! Now, ain't you jolly glad to be gettin' away from that God-forsaken hole?"

"Just at the present moment I am," Isla admitted.

She wondered what means she should take to ensure for herself quiet and privacy. She was incapable of any act of studied rudeness, but the prospect of listening to the woman's talk appalled her. Should she call the guard and ask to be given another seat in another compartment, or should she politely inform her fellow-traveller that she did not care to talk.

The lady flopped upon her seat, shook her head to see whether the coils of her hair were firmer, and then settled herself back among the cushions, smoothing out the creases of her cheap blanket-coat with a plump white hand.

She had now a black frock on, but, in contrast with Isla's neat, trim, well-fitting suit of home-spun, it looked badly cut, badly worn, altogether unsuitable for a journey. There were quantities of white net--not too clean--about her neck, and many brooches and a long chain, on which hung a lorgnette, while a double eyeglass was pinned to her bosom. She wore a great many rings of sorts and a wedding one.

Isla's eyes were quick enough to detect that.

"Goin' all the way?" she asked with an engaging smile.

Isla nodded.

"So am I, and jolly glad I'll be to hear the noise and smell the good old smells of the Euston Road. How they live up there! But there--it ain't livin', is it now? Would you call it livin'--eh?"

"Well," said Isla, diverted in spite of herself, and feeling no longer the appalling dread that pursued her in Glenogle regarding this very woman, "it depends on what you call living."

"Just so. Well, I like a bit of fun myself--a night out occasionally and a bit of stir in the daytime. Them hills, and big, dark locks get on my nerves. I was four days at the little hotel at Strathyre, and I had just about enough of it."

"Visiting friends in the neighbourhood?"

"No," snapped the woman. "It was a bit of business I was on, and it was last night before I saw the party I had to see. Not but what I was comfortable there, and they do make good food. Ever stopped there? They tell me they hadn't an empty bed from Easter till now--full up with fishermen and that sort. Can't understand it--don't pretend to. It's the silence--the big empty silence that gets at me. It would drive me crazy in a month, and I'd be gettin' up in my sleep and wanderin' into that water."

"You would get used to Strathyre," said Isla, smiling a little as she raised her paper, and hoping that there might now be a reprieve.

Her passionate hope was that the woman, who had all the unreserve of her class, would not be seized with a sudden desire to confide the nature of her business to her fellow-traveller. She did not want to hear the truth from these lips. If necessary she would have to tell her somehow that she did not wish to go on talking.

"I doubt it very much! I've been about too much and seen too much life to settle down in the country. I may have to, perhaps, later on, when I get older and not so fond of racket. Nothing to hurt--don't you know?--only a night at one of the halls and a good old canter down Regent Street and Oxford Street."

"I never saw anybody riding there," said Isla in a startled voice.

"I don't mean that, of course!" laughed the stranger; "not but what I could do it and make the traffic sit up for me too. When I was in India I had me own horse every mornin' and them grinnin' black men to hold it for me till I was ready to mount. I had a figure then as slim as yours, and they all said I looked better in me habit than in anything else."

"What part of India were you in?" asked Isla, fascinated in spite of herself.

"Pretty well all over, but latterly I was in the north. My husband was in the Fighting Fifth. Ever heard of them?"

"Yes, of course. They were through the Afghan campaign. My father was a soldier, and he used to show us as children their marches on the map."

"Oh, indeed! Then you know something about the service? Any brother in it?"

"I had one," said Isla, and the colour rose hotly in her face.

"I love it. Even when I was a little nipper I always said I'd never marry anybody but a soldier. And I didn't."

"Is your husband alive still?"

"No--dead. Killed in action he was, a-savin' of his Colonel. I've got the little brown cross at home somewhere. These were the days! There never was a braver chap than Joe Bisley ever shouldered a musket. Ah, poor Joe!"

Isla, perceiving that her companion was now in the throes of reminiscence, shrank back nervously in her corner.

"Doesn't it make your head ache to talk in the train?" she asked rather hastily. "There are heaps of papers here if you like to read. You are welcome to any of them. The gentleman who saw me off bought a great many."

"Ah, I don't wonder!" said the other with an admiring glance of approval. "You are just the sort that they would buy everything for if they got the chance. A little standoffish, too--ain't that what they like? Oh, I know them through and through!"

In spite of herself, Isla laughed out loud.

"Oh, it was a very old friend of my family who was seeing me off to-day! My father's lawyer in fact."

"Ah, then, he knew what side his bread was buttered on. And are you goin' to London, may I ask?"

"Yes."

"What particular part?"

"I shall stay the night at the Euston Hotel. I may go abroad. My plans are a little indefinite at present."

"Same as mine. It ain't an easy thing for a lone woman to make up her mind, and, as I told the party I spoke of, last night, I'm gettin' tired of uncertainty. I want to know where I am. That's what for I took that long journey and stopped at that queer little hotel. I wanted to see a party and get my bearings."

"And did you get them?" asked Isla desperately.

"Yes, I think so. But, bless you, you never know where you are with them. They're as slippery as eels. If you weren't so pretty, my dear, I'd warn you to steer clear of them for the rest of your mortal life. But it ain't in reason that you'll be allowed. There must be dozens after you."

Isla shook her head and then pointed suggestively to the illustrated papers, even making a remark about one of the pictures on the cover.

But the lady did not accept the hint.

"I don't read much," she confessed. "And men and women are much more interesting than books. When you've seen a bit of life, as I have, what's written in a book doesn't count for much. It's like a stuffed sawdust man beside a real flesh-and-blood one. Yes, they're a slippery crew, but they makes life--don't they, my dear?"

"They make its dispeace, anyhow," said Isla, surprised into an expression of opinion that she immediately regretted.

Her companion's face brightened, and she sat forward eagerly.

"Fancy you thinkin' that! Well, as you've had reason to say that, I don't mind tellin' you I agree. They're worth watchin', they need watchin' all the time, though most of them are like babies, with no more thought of what's goin' to happen. Now there's me! When I was in India I was pretty and slim as you are, though you wouldn't think it, and I was a toast in the station and could have had me pick after Joe died. There was the Sergeant--a splendid figure of a man with four medals and pay saved. He would have married me right off, and so would the little Corporal, and even one of the subs. that had an Earl for his grandfather; but I passed by them all and took up with one that nobody could be sure of. He's here to-day and gone to-morrow, so to speak, and even his wife couldn't keep him on the string."

Isla jumped up with her colour fluttering and threw down her paper.

"It's very hot in here, isn't it? Excuse me, but I must go out into the corridor for a little fresh air. I can't stand the heat any longer."

"Oh, poor dear, have a drop of brandy! They do have uncommon good spirits at Strathyre, but then, it's the dew of their own mountains, isn't it? Do have a drop, dearie. It'll buck you up at once."

"No, no, thank you!" cried Isla over her shoulder from the corridor. "I never touch spirits. I only want to be quiet and not talk for the rest of the journey."

Mrs. Bisley looked disappointed, but she comforted herself with a drop of the dew of the mountains and then sat down to have a look at the papers.

Once Isla glanced back at her and, in spite of herself, had to admit the prettiness of her face. She looked about thirty-five, and had she been properly dressed she could have been made to look much more attractive. There was something winning about her, too, but--oh, the irony of fate that should have brought them together in that narrow space, from which it was impossible to escape!

Isla's abnormally quick perception had easily filled in the lines of the story. She had no doubt that the party referred to by her fellow-traveller was Malcolm. And that the woman believed that she had a right to him there could be no doubt. He had not admitted her claim, Isla concluded, else surely he could never have been so base as lift his eyes to Vivien Rosmead.

She felt sick as she pressed her throbbing head against the cold glass of the corridor window, enjoying the swish of the wind on her cheek.

Should she never get away from the shadows which had darkened her life? Was it ordained that she should be pursued, far beyond the limits of Glenogle, by the sordid phantoms of Malcolm's past and present? Was fate wholly inexorable--were poor human beings but puppets, liable to be rudely moved hither and thither upon the boards of the stage of life? If it were so she might as well go back and fight it out on the Moor of Creagh.

"Feelin' better, my dear?" said Mrs. Bisley kindly, when she presently turned her head. "The first lunch will be comin' along immediately, and that'll make you feel better."

"I don't take it," said Isla, seeing a probable respite for an hour or so, during which she might either escape or rearrange her plans. "I have a few sandwiches in my dressing-bag and, later, I shall get a cup of tea. I never eat much when I am travelling."

"A mistake, my dear. Take it from me that has travelled a lot both by land and sea. If you don't eat you get so low that you can't bear yourself. Do say two for luncheon when the waiter comes along; then we'll go in together."

Isla shook her head.

"No, thank you."

The attendant came at the moment to inform them that the first luncheon would be served in about twenty minutes. Isla crept back again to her corner under the sympathetic scrutiny of her companion.

"What a colour you have, to be sure! Sorry you don't feel up to luncheon," she said cheerfully. "It's all use. When you've knocked about as much as I have you'll get more experiences. I'm up to all travelling dodges."

Isla had no doubt of it. She opened out another paper and let her eyes fall languidly on it, praying fervidly for the quick passage of the next twenty minutes. At another time she would have most thoroughly enjoyed such a travelling-companion and would undoubtedly have elicited her whole family history. But now her whole desire and aim was to stem the avalanche.

"Queer--wasn't it?--that we should meet like this," pursued her wholly unconscious tormentor. "I took to you that day when I met you on the road far more than to that other one you was with when you came back. She's a haughty piece, if you like. They told me at the hotel at Strathyre that it's expected she'll maybe be Lady of Achree some day, but we don't think!"

"Nobody pays any attention to the gossip of the Glen," said Isla, the desperate look stealing to her face again.

"Well, you may take it from me that that won't come orf," said Mrs. Bisley with cheerful emphasis, at the same time picking up a paper and beginning a languid inspection of the pictures it contained.

For about ten minutes there was a blessed silence, and then the restaurant attendant appeared to ask them to take seats for the first luncheon. Mrs. Bisley, full of pleasurable anticipation, jumped up and proceeded to arrange her hair and pin on her hat at the most becoming angle. Then she grasped her hand-bag and came out into the corridor, nodding delightedly.

"Sure you won't come, Miss? It would do you no end of good. Do be persuaded."

"Oh, no, thank you. I couldn't eat."

"Then, I leave you to keep our seats. Hope we don't have anyone else put in with us at Carlisle. Then we can have a nice chat all the afternoon."

"Heaven forbid!" said Isla in her inmost soul.

A few minutes after her companion had disappeared, and when the corridor was quite empty, she rang the bell. It was a long time before anyone answered it. Then, indeed, it was only the conductor who came. He had not even heard the bell--he merely came through by chance.

"Will you be so kind as to get me another seat at once and have my things moved?" she said, with that single touch of hauteur mingled with appeal which, somehow, always commanded immediate service.

The man touched his hat, looked inquiringly into the compartment, and, seeing no one, put a question.

"The train is rather full, ma'am. Are you not comfortable here? I don't believe there is another compartment in it with only two passengers."

"I don't mind. I want to move," said Isla desperately. "I--I don't care for my fellow-traveller. No--she isn't in the least objectionable, but I want to move right to the other end of the train, if possible, and if there is no other accommodation I'll pay for a first-class seat."

"Very well, Miss. I'll see what I can do," he said obligingly enough as he moved on through the doorway of the corridor.

Isla feverishly began at once to gather her things together, and she had her dressing-bag in her hand and her rug over her arm when, in about eight minutes' time, the guard returned.

"There is one corner seat in the front of the train--two gentlemen and a lady in the compartment. One of them is going out at Crewe. So if you'd care to wait till then----"

"No, thank you. I'll go now," she said.

The man, still further puzzled, made up his mind to come through later and take a look at the other occupant of the compartment, now absent. He gathered up Isla's things and led the way to the front portion of the train. Isla felt that she was not particularly welcome in her new quarters. A woman, eating oranges, glared at her disagreeably, but at least she was left severely alone. She felt weak and limp after the strain of the morning, and all the afternoon every footfall in the corridor made her start, fully expecting to behold in pursuit of her the companion whom she had deserted. But she neither saw nor heard any more of her until they arrived at Euston and rubbed shoulders at the luggage barriers.

Isla did not perceive her at first, and had just called out to the man that Mackinnon was the name on her box.

At the sound of it Mrs. Bisley started back as if she had been shot, her vivid colour paled, and she put her hand to her side as if she felt some spasm.

"Well, I'm blest!" she whispered inly to herself. "So that's it! I might have known. Oh, Winnie Bisley, once more your long tongue has got you into trouble."

She had the delicacy of feeling to wish to efface herself from Isla Mackinnon's eyes, and yet she had a most insatiable desire to find out her destination. Remembering, however, that she had said she would sleep the night at the Euston Hotel she gave up the idea of discovery as impracticable.

As Isla's porter shouldered her trunk and she turned to follow him towards the hotel entrance she saw the woman again, and their eyes met.

Mrs. Bisley did not even smile, but Isla, as she passed by her, paused for the fraction of a second.

"I did not mean to be so rude as you may have thought, but my head ached dreadfully and I felt that I must get away to where it was not necessary to talk."

"I quite understand," replied Mrs. Bisley. "Don't apologize. I don't take offence easily. I'm not that sort. You're Miss Mackinnon, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"It might have saved a lot of talk if you had told me your name at the beginning," she said a trifle drily. "But, after all, perhaps there isn't any great harm done."

"I hope not. You meant to be kind, I'm sure. Good night, Mrs. Bisley."

"Bisley was my name," she said grimly. "Good night, Miss Mackinnon. If it should be that you ever want to see me again--and stranger things have happened--you'll find me at 21 Henrietta Street, off the Edgeware Road--fourth turning on your left from the Marble Arch."

"I'll remember it," said Isla hastily. "Good night."

She was glad once more to escape. She had got much fresh food for thought, and she was at a loss to know how to act in a matter which seemed to concern her, and yet with which she was loth to intermeddle.

On one point, however, her mind was absolutely made up. Malcolm should not win Vivien Rosmead under false pretences. Not for the second time should the peace and happiness of that dear woman be imperilled.

But she did not yet know how she was going to prevent the crowning act of the tragedy of Malcolm's life.

"Tragedy" was the word Isla used to herself as the whole story beat upon her brain where she lay, tossing sleepless in her noisy bedroom, disturbed by the shriek of the trains, the long dull roar of life in the Euston Road, and, above all, by the phantoms of her own sad heart.

How easily, by putting a few adroit questions, could she have wiled the whole story from her fellow-traveller's lips! It was not her pride alone that had prevented her from asking these questions. She was afraid.

She fell asleep with one last haunting thought in her mind--how much happier than she were the Mackinnons who slept their last dreamless sleep on the Braes of Balquhidder.

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 rôle 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.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MARKET PLACE

That evening, over her fire in the room which Andrew Fraser had christened "The Pictur Gallery," Isla took stock of her marketable accomplishments with the advertizing columns of the "Morning Post" and the "Daily Telegraph" spread on the table in front of her.

She had to confess that they were meagre both in quality and quantity. She had been imperfectly educated by a wholly incompetent woman, who had had to combine in one the offices of governess, housekeeper, and chaperon, and over whom for five years of the General's absence in India there had been none to exercise the slightest control.

Aunt Jean had offered to take the child to Barras to bring her up with her own, but she had altogether declined to have Malcolm even in the holidays. This had so angered the General that he had answered in the hot-headed Highland fashion that he would see to the upbringing of both his children himself and would be beholden to none.

That Isla had emerged from the process even as well equipped as she was said a good deal for her intelligence and native common sense. Her gifts of observation and her love of books had helped her to bridge the gaps in her educational training, but of the skilled attainments that fetch money in the market place she possessed none except the power to keep house with a good appearance on very slender means.

She decided, as her eyes wandered restlessly down those weary "Want" columns, that the only post she was fit for was that of a housekeeper, for which there was a limited demand. Many seemed to be in need of skilled and highly-trained governesses at substantial salaries, but against the unskilled all doors seemed to be shut.

Once more she perused the advertisement for a young person to give pet dogs an airing, and she resolved that, out of curiosity and as a preliminary canter into the unknown, she would call at the address given. It was in Westbourne Terrace, which, from inquiry, she learned was in her own neighbourhood and could be reached on foot.

She was a little subdued when she arose next morning to find "The Pictur Gallery" at eight o'clock in a sort of twilight gloom consequent upon the rain and the fog outside. After the glorious airs, the limitless freedom of the Moor of Creagh it was an experience calculated to damp the bravest spirit.

She had to ring three times before receiving the smallest attention from the squint-eyed maid, and Agnes, tired with the unexpected excitement of the previous day, had not felt herself well enough to get up before breakfast, as she had fully intended.

Much ringing of bells, some altercations in the passages, and a variety of odours were the outstanding characteristics of the Cromer Street house in the early morning hours.

At a quarter past nine Isla's French breakfast was brought up on a slatternly tray, and, finding it impossible to drink the coffee, she had to ask--and she did so in quite humble tones--for a fresh pot of tea.

"I ain't 'ad no borders about brekfus for 'The Pitcsher Gallery,' Miss," quoth Arabella in a rather high and mighty voice. "But I'll get the tea. It ain't all beer and skittles 'ere of a mornin', I kin tell yer, wiv hall the bells in the 'ouse a-ringin' at onct, the missus in 'er bed, and ole Flatfeet on the warpath in the kitching."

When the door had closed Isla sat down on the front of her bed and laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. The dreariness of the place in which she sat, the dead ashes on the cold hearth, the indescribable lack of the comforts--even of the decencies--of life appalled her.

Yet just in such conditions, and in others infinitely worse, must thousands of Londoners awake to the duty of each new day. She wondered that the multitude had any heart for the day's work.

She could not start to clean her room or light a fire, and she had been reared in the belief that a bed required a thorough airing before it could be made.

After she had partaken of her meagre breakfast therefore she opened the window and, donning her mackintosh and heavy boots, prepared to sally forth. Even the streets would be preferable to her present surroundings.

She decided not to go up to see Agnes, who probably felt the situation more acutely than she herself did. Perhaps, after all, it might be better, if it was not indeed absolutely necessary, that she should find some other lodging in a smaller house, where she could have a sitting-room and a bedroom. The prospect of unlimited hours spent in "The Pictur Gallery" was a little dismaying.

The rain was falling heavily when she left the house, but the clean, sharp patter on the pavements, somehow, cheered her. It was clean, it was wholesome, it would help to wash away some of the impurity from the streets. The rain, rolling in over the hills upon the Moor of Creagh and sweeping down Glenogle--how often had she welcomed its pure sting on her cheek and revelled in it! But here all was depressing, dark, dismal, and soul-crushing.

In such mood did Isla arrive at the address in Westbourne Terrace, which, in conjunction with three others, she had written on a small piece of paper and placed in her purse.

A man-servant, in a blue coat with brass buttons and a striped waistcoat, opened the door and stood, obligingly waiting to take her message.

"I have called in reference to the advertisement in the 'Morning Post' this morning. Please, can I see the lady of the house?"

The man looked doubtful, but said politely in imperfect English with a very German accent that if she would come in and sit down in the hall he would inquire.

At the moment the door of the breakfast-room at the end of the hall was opened and a lady in a very elaborate morning robe much trimmed with lace and with two black-and-white Japanese spaniels in her arms, looked out.

"Who is that, Fritz?" she asked in a high and rather fretful voice.

"Pleas'm, a young lady about the advertisement in the paper."

"Oh, she can come in here."

She re-entered the breakfast-room, and Isla, in some inward amusement, followed. She felt like a person in a play, but it said something for her courage and determination that, on the second morning of her London life, she should seek such an experience.

She closed the door behind her and said good morning to the lady, altogether unconscious that, instead of looking like a suppliant, she had the air of one about to bestow a favour.

Her possible employer was a woman of about her own age, with a kind of artificial prettiness which depended a good deal on art for its preservation. She had a pleasant enough manner, however, and was quite civil to her visitor.

"You have called?" she said inquiringly, with her head on one side like a bird and her cheek against the glossy coat of one of the spaniels.

"I have called in reference to the advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" said Isla with difficulty, for the reality, instead of being amusing, was distinctly trying. "But I don't think it will be any use. I am sure I would not be suitable."

"Oh, sit down, and let us talk it over now that you are here," said the lady affably. "I am Madame Schultze. Yes--I am English. My husband is a Viennese. He is on the Stock Exchange. He had only just left the house as you entered. Perhaps you saw him?"

Isla said she had not seen anybody resembling Mr. Schultze.

"I am not strong, and almost immediately I am going off with my husband to Schwalbach. It is very late in the year for Schwalbach, but he has not been able to get away before now. It is about my little darlings! Look at them! Aren't they sweet loves? This is Koshimo, and this is Sada, and this is Tito, and the little one, who was born here, is Babs. Did you ever see anything so perfectly sweet?"

Isla was at a loss what to say. She knew nothing of the cult of pet dogs, or of how enslaved an idle woman can become by them, and she thought the adoration visible in Madame Schultze's eyes was rather foolish.

There were four separate baskets lined with padded wool, with little rugs over them, and other comforts such as many a poor baby lacked. To Isla the creatures looked stolid, overfed, unintelligent, and uninteresting. But she could not say so.

"I suppose they are very valuable?" was all she could bring herself to say.

"I should say so. Koshimo, as a puppy, cost a hundred and fifty guineas. My Karl gave him to me on the anniversary of our wedding. We can't take them to Schwalbach with us, and the other person I had to look after them was a wretch. Behind my back she used to pinch Koshimo, and the poor darling's spirit is quite broken."

"Yet you are going to leave them behind in the care of--of the person you engage?"

"That is what I thought of doing. I have no alternative. They don't permit dogs at the Cure Hotel."

"Then would she be required to live in the house?"

"Oh, no--only to come for a half-day every morning. Sundays included, to bathe the darlings, make their toilets, and take them for a walk in the Park. After that they will be in the care of Fritz, the house-boy, who is quite good. Only he has not a woman's delicacy of touch and sympathy. They need sympathy quite as much as a human being does, if not more so."

Isla repressed an almost overpowering desire to laugh aloud, and she politely inquired what would be the remuneration for this occupation.

"Seven-and-sixpence a week and luncheon. I reckoned that by the time you had returned from the Park it would be one or half-past one, and the servants' dinner would be going on, so that your luncheon would never be missed," said Madame Schultze with an engaging frankness. "Of course, the work is not hard, and it is delightful, besides. You don't know what a privilege it is to have the care of such pets. They are so dainty and so very, very human."

Isla thanked her and said that she was afraid the post would not suit her.

"Oh, but why not come for a few days and try it?" said the odd woman, who had taken a fancy to Isla. "You look different from the creatures who usually call when one wants anybody. You look even as if you might have had pet dogs of your own."

Something caught at Isla's throat as she remembered.

"I have had them. But, thank you, I'm sorry I can't come. The--the money is much too small. I shall have to find something to do which will keep me. I am not well off. Good morning, Madame Schultze."

"You won't leave your name? I might find you something. My husband has a large acquaintance on the Stock Exchange, and we move in very good society," said Madame Schultze with a kind of indolent good-humour.

But Isla, with another hasty word of thanks, withdrew. She felt almost hysterical as the door was politely closed upon her by the foreign butler, and she dashed something like a tear from her eye.

"Serves you right, Isla Mackinnon, for all the airs you give yourself! Seven-and-six a week and the servants' luncheon! What would they say at home?"

She said "they," but it was the face of Peter Rosmead that came persistently before her--of Peter the Bridge-builder, with thousands in his pocket that he could not spend! Would Peter, if he met her in the park airing pet dogs for a livelihood, pass by, like a Levite, on the other side?

Her lip curled whimsically at the thought. She did not welcome the memory of Rosmead, which had come unsought. In her secret heart she felt disappointed that he had not written. True, he had not promised to do so, nor had he even asked whether he might. But other men did not wait for permission. Neil Drummond never lost an opportunity of speaking or writing to her, and often she did not trouble to read his letters through.

She was brought back from her reveries sharply by finding herself once more in the Bayswater Road with the rest of the day in front of her.

"I do want a good breakfast," she said to herself dolefully, for a few mouthfuls of the doubtful bread and butter provided by Arabella had more than satisfied her in "The Pictur Gallery".

Looking down the road towards Kensington, she saw that shops seemed to abound, and she proceeded to walk on. At length she came to a tea-shop, which she entered. There she ordered tea and a couple of poached eggs. These she consumed at a small round table drawn invitingly near a bright fire, where she was able to dry her boots and where she passed a very comfortable half-hour.

But it was all unreal. Once more she had the weird feeling that she was a character in a play and that she would soon awaken to the reality of things.

After her experience in Westbourne Terrace she decided that, instead of calling at any more private addresses, she would go to some of the employment agents, who, judging from their advertisements, seemed to possess particulars of every conceivable kind of opening. She would there give a true account of her meagre accomplishments and candidly inquire what was their market value.

She did not shrink from doing this, because all her life long she had been facing things and making the best of untoward circumstances. But, somehow, it was difficult here in London. In Glenogle all was familiar and most dear. Besides, whatever the state of the exchequer, Miss Mackinnon of Achree had an unassailable position.

Her name counted for nothing here, however. Nay, it were better perhaps that she should exchange it for one less pretentious and betraying.

The rain having ceased, she rode on the top of an omnibus the whole length of the Bayswater Road to Oxford Street, where she presented herself in the office of one of the well-known employment agencies that advertise extensively in all the newspapers.

She had to wait some little time among others, and when her turn came she was again in thrall to the odd feeling of unreality which had possessed her for most of the day.

"What kind of post, madam, and what experience?" said the very middle-aged lady who sat, pen in hand, ready to take the particulars.

Isla explained as clearly as possible what she wanted, and she did not fail to observe that while she was speaking the face of her questioner fell. While she was listening she was, however, observing Isla keenly, and she very quickly came to the conclusion that she was not one of the ordinary applicants, but rather was one who had been driven into the ranks of the workers by stress of circumstances.

"Of course, madam," she said kindly but with great brevity and decision, "you are not unaware that you are handicapped? Our books"--here she patted an immense ledger lying on the table beside her--"our books are full of names of ladies requiring employment, and most of these are very thoroughly equipped. But, even with all the resources at our command, we would never be able to supply all their wants, for the very simple reason that the necessary vacancies do not exist."

"There are so many thousands seeking situations, then?" said Isla hesitatingly.

"Thousands. We have no difficulty with our skilled workers. There is always a demand for them, but for the gentlewoman class--to which you evidently belong--for whom the earning of a living has become a sad necessity, we have practically no demand. You are a good housekeeper, you say, but you would not care to take a working-housekeeper's place?"

"I could not. At least, I should not care to do actual housework, and I can only cook theoretically. I could order a lady's house, and order it well. I've been used until quite lately to superintend a fairly large establishment."

"In your father's house?" said the agent with an understanding nod.

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Well, I have only one post on my books at present which would seem to come anywhere near your requirements, and I tell you quite frankly that I have already sent at least half a dozen ladies after it."

"Where is it?" asked Isla interestedly, "and what sort of a place is it?"

"It is to be a sort of companion-housekeeper to a lady who is not strong. The duties, I think, are not very arduous, but I consider it only right to tell you that this is the fourth time in twelve months that this post has become vacant."

"Why has it been like that?"

"I prefer not to enter into reasons. There have always been faults on both sides, of course. I have myself interviewed Mrs. Bodley-Chard here when she was able to drive out. Latterly, I think, she has not been able. I have always liked her. I'm afraid that the trouble is with Mr. Bodley-Chard."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind him," said Isla quietly. "And, after all, his wife's housekeeper need not see much of him."

The agent smiled.

"I can give you the address if you like. You will be the third who has gone to-day. But that, I think, does not matter. Mrs. Chard, I know, intends to be very, very particular this time."

"What is the salary?"

"Twenty-five pounds a year."

"And to live in the house?"

"Why, of course."

"She would not engage a person who wished to lodge outside?"

"My dear madam, picture a companion-housekeeper who arrived with the milk--shall we say?--and left with the last post at night! It's unpractical, to say the least."

Isla smiled and sighed a little as she rose.

"I see that beggars can't be choosers and that one must give up something in order to earn one's living. I wish, however, that it was not one's freedom. May I have the address, if you really think there is the smallest use in my calling?"

"I am sure that it is worth your while calling. I have even a sort of odd feeling that Mrs. Chard's choice might fall on you. You see, you are just a little different from the average run of reduced ladies who come here."

"Thank you," said Isla, not knowing whether to take the words as a compliment or the reverse.

The agent wrote the name and address on one of the office cards and then noted Isla's in her book.

"And what happens if I am engaged?" she asked with a little humorous smile about her mouth. "Is it like a servants' registry office? Do I come back and pay a fee, or do I pay it now?"

"The fee would be half a sovereign in this case--that is if you are engaged. There is no charge otherwise. I hope you will be successful, Miss Mackinnon."

"I don't know whether I hope so or not," answered Isla.

Her ease of manner, so different from the usual bearing of the agent's clients, made a strong impression on her listener.

"I shall be pleased to see you in any case. And perhaps something else may turn up, if you are not successful," she said with a cordiality which surprised even herself.

Usually the seekers after employment were merely units of the system to be dismissed as soon as possible. But this applicant had drawn out her interest and her sympathy in a very strong degree, principally because she had not proffered a single plea for special consideration, and because she had been so candid about her capabilities.

When Isla got outside she stopped on the stairs and read the name and address on the agent's card--Mrs. Bodley-Chard, Hans Crescent, S.W.

A look of satisfaction crossed her face just for a moment, because this locality was within that part of the area of London with which she was perfectly familiar. As Malcolm might have said, it was on the right side of the Park. But again, that had its disadvantages, one of them being that she might be more easily discovered and recognized.

But some instinct made her decide to go, and to go as quickly as possible. She hailed a passing hansom and got in, calculating that she would reach Hans Crescent in time to catch Mrs. Bodley-Chard immediately after luncheon.

CHAPTER XXII

MR. AND MRS. BODLEY-CHARD

Isla was familiar with the outward aspect of the pretty houses in Hans Crescent, and she had on more than one occasion, in the company of her aunt, made acquaintance with the interior of one.

The town house of the Murdoch-Graemes of Baltasound was in Hans Crescent, but they, too, were poor and, until their daughter married a rich financier, had not been able to occupy their London house in the season.

But there is a vast difference between fashionable London in May or June and in October. More than the half of the houses are shut up in the late autumn, and Isla had no fear of meeting anyone who would recognize her.

Her hansom drew up, jingling, at the door of one of the most important houses, beautifully appointed outside, with real lace curtains at the windows and with everything indicating ample means. A sedate, middle-aged manservant of irreproachable mien noiselessly opened the door and stood at attention to hear Isla's message.

"Mrs. Bodley-Chard is at home, Miss, but she only sees callers by appointment," he said civilly, but firmly.

"Please to take my name," said Isla quietly, "and tell her I have come from Madame Vibert in Oxford Street."

The man shook his head.

"There have been three already this morning, and my mistress has told me she will not see any more. She lies down after luncheon. Still, Miss, I can tell her you are here if you will kindly step in."

Isla was grateful, and the respectful manner of the man was like balm to her perturbed spirit. Here she felt at home, and beyond doubt the man knew--for the preceptions of his class are very keen in certain directions--that she differed in almost every essential from those who had come before her.

He placed a chair for her by the fireplace in the pretty lounge-hall and departed upstairs. Isla glanced round her interestedly. The house was very bright, painted in white with warm crimson walls, and full of pretty things. It was all very modern, however, and a trifle fantastic. A very large brown bear, mounted on a pedestal and standing up with a pole between his forepaws, struck rather a grotesque note. It was neither a useful nor an ornamental object, and it was instantly banned by Isla's simple, correct taste. The pictures, of which there were many, all struck the same bold note of bizarre taste, and the effect was neither restful nor pleasing.

Isla was not kept waiting long.

"Mrs. Bodley-Chard will see you," said the man when he re-appeared.

She followed him up the white and crimson staircase, her feet giving forth no sound in the deep, luxurious tread of the Axminster carpet. The house seemed to widen out on the upper landing and gave an impression of roominess.

The servant opened a door a little way along the corridor and announced Isla by name. She was ushered into a room in semi-darkness--a sort of boudoir, luxuriously furnished, whose atmosphere was laden with perfume and with the heavy odour of many cut flowers.

A smart French maid with a most coquettish cap moved back from the side of a large couch when the door opened, and as she stepped out of the room she took a very keen look at Isla.

A voice came out of the gloom--a somewhat thin, fretful voice.

"Come forward, please, to where I can see you. You have called at a very awkward hour. I expressly wrote to Madame Vibert that I would not see anyone after lunch."

"I can easily go away, madam, and call at a more convenient season," said Isla quietly.

Her eyes, becoming accustomed to the half-light, now discerned quite clearly on the couch the figure of a middle-aged woman, half-sitting, with a silk shawl about her shoulders, and a trifle of lace--a so-called boudoir cap--resting on her elaborately dressed hair.

"Bring a chair forward and sit down. I'm not strong. I am obliged to lie down all the afternoon. Did Madame Vibert tell you what I really required? She keeps sending me the most tiresome and impossible people--fools, in fact. Are you a fool? Come and tell me."

Isla carried over one of the gilt-brocade chairs, thinking at the same time that it was a little service the French maid ought to have rendered to a caller before she left the room.

"I don't see you very well. Will you ring for Fifine to draw up one of the blinds a little?"

"I can do it myself," said Isla promptly, "if you will tell me which one."

Mrs. Bodley-Chard indicated the window at the end of the room, and Isla very quickly caused a little light to shine in the darkness. The trim lines of her figure were silhouetted against the clear glass of the window, and Mrs. Bodley-Chard looked keenly at her face, when she came back, to see whether it corresponded with the distinction of the figure.

"You are different. Sit down and tell me what that viper, Madame Vibert, told you about me."

"She told me very, very little indeed, Mrs. Chard. Only that you wished a sort of companion-housekeeper. I could act as that, I think, though Madame Vibert as good as told me this morning I had no market value."

Isla had no hesitation in making this damaging statement. As yet she was only at play. In her purse she had sixteen pounds of good money, which, she had calculated, would keep her in modest comfort at Agnes Fraser's for at least two months. And surely in the course of two months among all the teeming millions of London she would find something to do.

Mrs. Chard gave a small, hard laugh. She had a large, uninteresting face with the unhealthy colour of the woman who takes very little outdoor exercise, and there was a lassitude about her which seemed to Isla to arise from lack of will-power rather than from lack of physical health.

"It is what I do want--a common-sense woman in the house who can hold her tongue and keep her eyes on two places at once. I'm being robbed on every side. The only decent person in the house is the butler Robbins. Madame Vibert has sent me nothing but fools, who were either afraid of the servants or in league with them. Have you been out before?"

"No."

"Where did you come from?"

"From Scotland. My father died a few months ago, and I have been left without resources."

"What was he?"

"My father?--oh, he was a soldier."

"What rank?"

Isla hesitated a moment.

"He was a General," she said in a low voice then, as if afraid the fact would militate against her chance.

"I'm not surprised. You look as if you might be a General's daughter. Well, then, you don't need to have your duties defined to you. You will have to keep the house--to run it, in fact--pay the servants' wages and prevent them from worrying me. You will write any letters I want, and you will drive out with me when I do go out, but that won't be often now that the winter is coming on. Then, you will have to dine with Mr. Bodley-Chard in the evening and keep him amused when he is in the house."

"Oh!" said Isla with a small gasp, "will you tell me quite what that means?"

"It means just what it says," answered Mrs. Chard with her wandering, somewhat stupid smile. "It is slow for him at home, of course, for I am hardly ever able to be down."

"Have you been out of health a long while?"

"Yes--about two years now. I have got worse in the last six months. Perhaps I shall not live long. I don't mind. I haven't had much happiness. People soon get tired of a dull old woman, don't they?"

"But why be dull?" asked Isla cheerfully. "You have the means of making life pleasant."

"But there is nobody to care, you see."

Isla wondered about Mr. Bodley-Chard, but she did not ask any questions.

She felt sorry for the woman who, in the midst of her luxurious surroundings, looked like a person from whom all the zest for life had departed, leaving her with a withered heart.

One thing interested her--she felt that she would like to see Mr. Bodley-Chard, possibly because in him might be found a partial solution of the problem of the heaviness of his wife's life.

"Well, will you come? No--I don't want to ask any questions. Either you're the right person or the wrong one. All the others I've ever engaged have been the wrong ones, and, somehow, I knew it before they began their duties. I believe you are going to be the right one. Will you take it on?"

"Yes, if you think I can do what you require."

"I'm sure you can. It ought not to be hard. When I was able to be about I had no difficulty in managing my house. But a fool can't manage servants. That's the chief difficulty--to keep them in their place. And you look as if you could do that. Can you come to-day?"

"Not to-day. To-morrow I might. May I ask you another question? It is about dress. I have only one evening frock. It is old and very shabby. Should I be expected to go down to dinner every night in an evening frock? That is the only thing I can't be happy about. If I could only have my evenings free!"

"You'll have a good many of them free, because Mr. Bodley-Chard is a club-man and is fond of the theatre. Most of them have complained of the deadly dulness. I go to sleep early, you see."

"I shall come to-morrow afternoon, then," said Isla, rising.

She did so, for she saw that a drowsiness was creeping over Mrs. Chard and that the heavy white lids were drooping over the dull eyes.

The impression Isla carried away was one of hopelessness, of absolute lack of interest in life on the part of her future employer. She was not attractive physically, yet there was something kindly and pitiful about her.

As she left the room Isla registered a vow that she would do what she could to arouse her and to give her some fresh interest in life. Probably Mrs. Chard had a doctor--that kind of woman always had a fashionable physician in close attendance. Perhaps he and she could consult together and devise some remedial measure. The prospect of grappling with a fresh difficulty exhilarated her.

When she closed the door she was surprised to see Fifine, the French maid, unconcernedly walk away from it as though she had been listening. She turned quite coolly to Isla, and put her head on one side, while her small, pretty hands met in front of her dainty person.

"Have you got ze job, Mees?" she asked pertly.

Isla coloured, looked very straightly and haughtily at her, and passed her by.

An English servant would have fully understood the rebuke, and even Fifine knew that she had been put in her proper place. She shook her small fist after the retreating figure on the stairs, and from that moment Isla had an enemy in the house.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when she got back to Cromer Street, where she found Agnes Fraser in some perturbation regarding her long absence.

Agnes was now fully dressed in her neat black frock with the little Puritan collar, and the whole house looked more comfortable and better cared for. Isla forgot the abomination of desolation that had reigned in the morning, and she greeted Agnes with a gay smile as she came out of the dining-room to meet her.

"I'm so glad to see you down, Agnes. Where have I been? Oh, in search of adventure. Where can we sit down till I tell you all about it?"

The Frasers chiefly occupied a very small breakfast-room at the back--a place which seldom got the sun, but which looked cosy enough on a dull afternoon, with a cheerful fire in the grate and a tea-tray on the end of the table.

"Eh, but I'm tired, Miss Isla. I've been in the kitchen since eleven o'clock. What a place! But I've set them to clean up and, now that I'll be up in the mornin's mysel' things will get a' richt. I was fair upset when I heard ye had gane oot so early this mornin' and withoot a proper breakfast. Hae ye had onything to eat since?"

Isla explained so gaily that Agnes concluded that she must have had some good luck. When she heard the story of the morning she uplifted her hands in sheer astonishment.

"The thing that beats me is that ye should hae got something so quick, Miss Isla. I've had them here lookin' for weeks, and weeks, and weeks. It's a sad business, but I hope thae folk wi' the queer name will be a' richt."

"They interest me, and I'm not in the least afraid. No, there aren't any dark mysteries, I'm sure."

"Eh, but London's a michty queer place, Miss Isla, and ye never ken wha's your next-door neibour. But ye can aye--day or nicht--tak' a hansom and come ower to me, if onything gangs wrang. I'll no let 'The Pictur Gallery' the noo. Very likely I'll no hae the chance till after Christmas. So if ye like to leave onything in it ye can."

They had a long cosy chat over their tea. Then Isla retired to "The Pictur Gallery" to make a fresh inventory of her clothes.

She found that the room had been swept and garnished, and a cheerful fire relieved its gloom, with the result that all things, even "The Pictur Gallery," contributed to her hopeful mood. She was promising herself no end of amusement and interest in her new environment.

She felt very much as a child might who is about to be taken to a pantomime for the first time; and certainly she was quite lifted up beyond all the more sordid and disagreeable aspects of her own private life.

But the good Agnes was conscious of sundry misgivings when she bade Isla good-bye about four o'clock next afternoon and saw the cab roll away.

"You'll promise noo, Miss Isla, that if there's onything wrang, or onything even that ye dinna like, that ye'll come richt back. I canna say I'm as comfortable in my mind aboot ye as I micht be. I wakened Andra up in the nicht-time to tell him I wasna."

"Nonsense, Agnes. It's just because you've grown accustomed to thinking of me in different circumstances that you are anxious about me. I'm going to enjoy myself immensely and see a bit of life."

"And you'll write to them, Miss Isla--either to Mr. Malcolm or to Lady Mackinnon? I want them to ken where you are."

"But I don't. I'll write and give them your address, but I forbid you to breathe the name of Hans Crescent. Besides, I should certainly be dismissed if a horde of my folk appeared at Mrs. Bodley-Chard's," she added with a little whimsical smile. "I didn't ask, but I feel sure that no followers would be allowed."

Agnes was left with a smile on her face, but it faded before she had watched the four-wheeler out at the end of the street.

"Puir thing! She disna ken a thing aboot life! I hope the Lord will look after her. Naebody else can."

Isla had no misgivings when she arrived at her destination. She was received with respectful consideration by Robbins, who passed her on to a house-maid who, with a polite but distant air showed her to her room. It was on the third floor, but it was a large and beautiful chamber, with which even the most fastidious person could not have found a single fault.

"Mrs. Bodley-Chard has waited tea for you in the boudoir, Miss," said the girl.

"Thank you; and may I ask your name? We shall probably have to see a good deal of each other, so we may as well be friendly. I am Miss Mackinnon."

"I'm Cecilia Owen. I'm called Owen upstairs and Cissy in the kitchen," answered the girl, surprised into cordiality of tone.

"And which do you prefer?"

"I don't mind. I shall like whatever you call me, Miss."

"Then we shall say Cissy. In the country--where I come from--we don't call our women-servants by their surnames," said Isla pleasantly as she laid her gloves down and poured out some water.

"I'll get you some hot, Miss, and if you like I'll unpack after tea downstairs. I'd like to help you."

So, in spite of much warning, Cissy capitulated to the newcomer's undoubted personal charm, and from that moment she was Isla's faithful ally and friend.

As she descended the stair Isla met the French maid, and wished her a cool good-afternoon.

"They're waiting tea now, mees; please to hurry," she said pertly, and Isla passed on.

She found the door without mistake, tapped lightly, and entered by invitation of Mrs. Bodley-Chard's thin, reedy voice, which seemed very weak to proceed from such a substantial body.

To her chagrin there was some one else in the room--a youngish man, dressed in a lounge suit of blue serge. He had a slim figure, very dark hair and eyes, and a rather florid complexion. A large moustache, very carefully trimmed, was evidently his pride. He was good-looking after his type, but that was a type which Isla did not admire. He had a gardenia in his button-hole, and the impression created was that of a dandy who gave much consideration to his clothes.

She concluded he was some privileged caller who had dropped in, and, without noticing him, she made her way to Mrs. Chard's couch.

"So you have arrived? Glad to see you, Miss Mackinnon. Let me introduce my husband. Gerald, this is Miss Mackinnon."

Isla gave a start of extreme surprise as she hastily turned to receive Mr. Bodley-Chard's greeting. It was a painful surprise, because the man looked almost young enough to be the son of the woman on the sofa, and the disparity between them in almost every respect seemed in her eyes almost insurmountable.

Mr. Bodley-Chard was most affable, even complimentary, and in that first interview Isla conceived a dislike of him, which was destined to increase with every opportunity she had of seeing more of him.

"Miss Mackinnon will pour out the tea, Edgar," said his wife. "She may as well start right now. Come here, and sit by me."

"Right you are, old lady. See how I am kept in leading-strings, Miss Mackinnon," he said, smiling all over his smooth-featured face. "I came home from business an hour earlier than usual this afternoon just on purpose to receive you."

"It was unnecessary," said Isla quite coolly. "Can I get you another cushion, Mrs. Chard? You don't seem to sit very comfortably. I have been used to waiting on an invalid. Do let me help you before I make tea."

Her deft and willing left arm went round Mrs. Chard's shoulders and raised her up a bit. She then shook the cushions, and made her as comfortable as she could, Mr. Chard looking on approvingly the while.

"You're in luck this time, Jenny. Among all the fools you have had there wasn't one who had the art of making you really comfortable--eh?"

Mrs. Chard smiled, and her eyes gratefully followed the girl's slim figure back to the tea-table. The discontented, uneasy expression had died out of her eyes, giving place to one of peace, which imparted an unexpected charm to her face.

Isla, quite unconscious of the favourable impression she was creating, and only wishing with all her heart that Mr. Chard would make himself scarce, busied herself about her new duties, and, when there was likely to be silence, made small talk with an ease that surprised herself.

Mr. Chard was evidently extremely anxious to hear her talk, and it was he who put the questions. But Isla only answered such as she chose, and, at the end of twenty minutes, she left him very much where he was at the beginning.

Her coolness and cleverness piqued him. He had been accustomed to see his wife's companions shrink before him and efface themselves in his presence.

"The old lady doesn't allow me a whiff here, Miss Mackinnon. Hard lines, don't you think? Much as I should like to stop, I must tear myself away. We shall meet at dinner later on, I hope, and resume our interesting conversation."

Isla bowed slightly, and when the door closed she rose and came over to the side of the couch, where Mrs. Chard sat smiling happily.

"You can't think how glad I am that you have come," she said, putting out an impulsive hand. "I woke up this morning wondering what pleasant thing was going to happen, and then I remembered that it was your coming."