Front matter

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON 1911

DONALD AND MARY

"For ours beyond the gate, The deep things, the untold, We only wait."

Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited By C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE INDIAN MAIL

CHAPTER II

THE OLD HOME

CHAPTER III

ISLA TAKES ACTION

CHAPTER IV

THE AMERICANS

CHAPTER V

THE BRIDGE BUILDERS

CHAPTER VI

THE HOPE OF ACHREE

CHAPTER VII

THE HOME-COMING

CHAPTER VIII

MALCOLM'S PROSPECTS

CHAPTER IX

THE MESSENGER

CHAPTER X

THE HOUSE OF WOE

CHAPTER XI

VIVIEN

CHAPTER XII

THE HAND IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XIII

THE PASSING OF MACKINNON

CHAPTER XIV

FAMILY COUNSELS

CHAPTER XV

SETTLING DOWN

CHAPTER XVI

THE PURPLE LADY

CHAPTER XVII

HER TRUE FRIENDS

CHAPTER XVIII

GOOD-BYE TO GLENOGLE

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE LONDON TRAIN

CHAPTER XX

THE REALITY OF THINGS

CHAPTER XXI

THE MARKET PLACE

CHAPTER XXII

MR. AND MRS. BODLEY-CHARD

CHAPTER XXIII

AT CROSS PURPOSES

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CHAMPION

CHAPTER XXV

THE ARCH-PLOTTERS

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LURE OF VIVIEN

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CALL

CHAPTER XXVIII

WITH HASTENING FEET

CHAPTER XXIX

THE LAST LEAF ON THE TREE

CHAPTER I

THE INDIAN MAIL

Isla Mackinnon came out from the narrow doorway of the Castle of Achree, and stood for a moment on the broad step, worn by the feet of generations, while she thoughtfully drew on a pair of shabby, old leather gloves with gauntlets which came well up her slender arms. Hers were small, fine, capable hands, in which at that moment, though she knew it not, lay the whole destiny of Achree. Its very existence was to be threatened that cool, clear March day, and there was none but Isla to step into the breach.

She did not look incompetent; nay, about her there was a fine strength and courage, in her wide grey-blue eyes an undaunted spirit.

It was a spirit that had had much to try its quality in her six-and-twenty years of life, for half of which, at least, she had been the chief buttress and hope of the house of her fathers.

She looked her age, though her figure was very slender and straight. The years that had brought her womanhood had left her the heart of a child. It looked out from the clear eyes under the delicate lashes, it was in the slightly downward curves of the small sensitive mouth that had not had sufficient occasion for smiles to bring out all its sweetness.

Her hair, under the small tweed hat turned up at the brim with a pheasant's wing, was a clear brown, with here and there a touch of the sun inclining it to ruddy gold. She wore a short skirt of Harris tweed, leather-bound, and a woollen coat of her own knitting, a pair of brown brogues well fitted to her shapely feet, and under her arm she had a shepherd's crook with a whistle at the end of it.

Presently, when its clear, low call broke the stillness of the morning, three dogs came bounding from some region beyond the house, betraying a wild excitement which even her remonstrance could not keep in check.

"Down, Murdo boy, and don't nip Bruce's ear again, or back you go to the stable. Janet, you silly old woman, at your time of life you ought to have more sense. Well then, off you go!"

The big deer-hound, the fat, glossy, sable collie, and the small, wiry Aberdeen lady who rejoiced in the sober name of Janet, thus admonished, bounded before her down the drive between the laurel and the pine trees, barking joyously as was their wont.

About fifty yards from the house the carriage-way took a sharp turn, so that the next few steps hid all except the cold slate roof and the pinnacles of the little round towers which mark that particular style of architecture called the Scottish baronial.

The old Castle of Achree was considered one of the best examples of it in the country, and it certainly was picturesque, if a little "ill-convenient," as the country-folk had it. It was a large mansion of sorts, but totally unsuited to the needs of a family and almost completely devoid of all those modern conveniences which, in these days, every artisan has at his command.

It was so cut up by winding stairs and queer little passages that there was scarcely a room of decent dimensions within its walls. It was full of legend, of tragic memories, and did not even lack the ghost, a mailed and headless warrior who haunted the dungeon-room where he had been done to death.

It was whitewashed or harled, but looked sadly in need of the washer's brush. The rains of many a year had soddened and discoloured it, while, here and there, at angles specially exposed, there were green patches where the moss and lichen clung.

Yet it made a picture of indescribable beauty, not untouched with pathos, as the cradle of every great race must be, its history woven in with its very stones. People came from far and near to see it, and many artists had lingered enchanted over its picturesque detail. It stood on a small, green plateau facing south, sheltered at the back by the pine-clad hill of Creagh, which stood, like a sentinel, guarding the great moor of Creagh that stretched away in the distance till it joined the lands of Breadalbane towards Loch Tay.

With the moor of Creagh the Mackinnon property ended on that side, but it was still a goodly-sized estate, with shooting of some value, though it had been cut down to as narrow dimensions as the extravagance of some of the Mackinnons had dared to cut it. But never, never had Achree been in such dire straits as now.

When Isla left the gateway beside the little lodge and turned down the beautiful road, she lifted her head and took a long deep breath. For the morning air was good, though there was a nip of frost in it, and the red sun lay warm and kindly on the clear summit of Ben Voirlich, of which, at that point, an exquisite view could be obtained, though it was in the next few steps lost again. The ruddy glow was reflected in the clear waters of Loch Earn, and altogether the scene was one of incomparable beauty, and it was knit into the very fibre of Isla Mackinnon's being. It was her home, and the people were her own. She had known none other.

A few rare trips to London when her cousins, the richer Barras Mackinnons, had had a house for the season, with occasional visits to them at their home in one of the islands of the western seas, comprised her whole knowledge of the world outside her own glen. But beyond that she had neither asked nor desired anything else. The things she most passionately desired and prayed for--peace for Achree and decent comfort in which to live--were denied her. She lived in hope, however; but this day was to see its utter quenching, so far as any earthly intelligence could predict.

The dogs, gambolling in front, knew their destination--the Earn village; that is, if they did not meet David Bain with the post-gig on the road.

For more than a year now it had been Isla's custom to meet the postman for the purpose of intercepting any letters which it might not be wise to let her father see. In this simple act a great part of the tragedy of Achree may be apprehended. For even such innocent deception was foreign to the soul and heart of Isla Mackinnon, which was as clear and true as the waters of her own loch.

She saw the fat, white pony presently, standing before the dry-stone dyke that shut in the garden of Darrach farm-house from the road, and she quickened her steps in order that she might reach it before he started out again, and might thus save him another stop on the steep ascent. That act was natural to her, if you like; for if at any time by her thought or speech or act she could help another, then she was happy indeed.

But David of the grim face and the silent tongue had got into the gig again, and the fat pony had ambled off before she could stop him. Presently they met where a little water-course merrily crossed the gravelly road, seeking its way to the Glenogle burn.

"Good-morning, David. I hope you are quite well. You had letters for Mrs. Maclure. Surely you are earlier than usual."

"It wass only a post-cairt from her niece, Jeanie Maclure, from the school at Govan sayin' she would come for the week-end maype," answered David, as if the matter were of moment to the whole glen. "Yes--there pe lots an' lots of letters. I hope yourself an' the General are fery well this mornin'."

"Thank you, we are," said Isla as she leaned against the shaft of the old cart, stroking the fat pony's yellow eldes, her eyes a little more bright and eager than usual.

David fingered the letters with outward and visible clumsiness, but he was most careful with them, and in all the years of his service he had never made a mistake with one or failed to deliver it to its proper recipient.

"Thank you, David; this is all I want," said Isla as her fingers closed over the thick letter enclosed in its foreign envelope. "Take the rest up to Achree. My father will be waiting for them."

"Yes, Miss Isla. That I will do, and hope it will pe good news from Maister Malcolm in foreign parts, an' that he will pe fery well."

"Thank you, David. He is sure to be well," said Isla, trying to speak lightly, but her fingers were nervously closing over the letter, and into her eyes there crept a strange shadow.

She had sometimes said that she had the gift of second sight which was so common among the Mackinnons. Certainly she knew before she opened that letter, about a hundred yards lower down the road, that it contained bad news. It was too thick to be of no consequence, for her brother Malcolm was no great letterwriter when times were easy and his credit good.

She nodded good-bye to David Bain and passed on, hastening more quickly than usual past the farm-house of Darrach, though there lived one of her best and most faithful friends in the whole glen--one Elspeth Mackay married to Donald Maclure, the big crofter who was respected in the glen, from end to end of it, as a man of his word.

But Elspeth's tongue was long and her eyes were very keen, and Isla was not ready for them yet. Therefore she hastened past the gate of Darrach, not even smiling as the rich, fine smell of Elspeth's baking was borne out through the open door. Down the hill a little way she came to the old brig that crossed the Darrach burn; and there she paused, for there was no one in sight and the slope hid her from view of Elspeth's windows.

She could never afterwards recall that half-hour by the Darrach Brig without an inward shudder.

Thus did Malcolm Mackinnon, the ne'er-do-weel, write airily and lightly, telling the miserable story that well nigh broke his sister's heart:--

"DEAR ISLA,--Last time you wrote me you hoped I would have better news to send next time. I'm sorry I can't comply. I seem to have the devil's own luck here in this beastly country. In fact, I may as well say at once that it's all up with me and that I'm coming home.

"I've never been very happy in the Thirty-fifth nor got on well with old Martindale. He's a beast, if ever there was one, a regular martinet, and unless you practise the whole art of sucking up to him you may as well give up the ghost, as far as any chance of promotion or even of fair play is concerned. Of course, no Mackinnon can suck up to anybody--we've got too much beastly pride. Anyway, I haven't been able to soft-sawder Martindale enough, and I have been in his black books ever since I joined. But it's got a lot worse in the last nine months.

"When I wrote the governor last year, asking him to use his influence to get me shifted, I was quite in earnest, and if he'd done it all this row might have been prevented. We've been up country a goodish bit since I wrote last, and there again I didn't get fair play or a bit of a chance. We've had several brushes with a hostile tribe, but the other chaps got their innings every time and nothing but the dirty work was left to me. We had such a lot of beastly, unnecessary fag on our marches that most of the chaps were on the verge of mutiny; but I was the only one with the courage to speak up. Whatever garbled version of the story may get home, you may take it from me, old girl, that is the bottom truth of it. Anyhow, I've got to send in my papers--that's the long and the short of it. All the chaps, except the few that suck up to Martindale, think I've been treated most beastly badly, and unjustly besides. But of course nobody listens to a poor subaltern's defence or excuse.

"By the time you get this I shall have started for home. I'm coming by the 'Jumna,' a rotten slow boat, but I think it better for many reasons--chiefly those of economy. I shall be pleased to see the old place again, and I hope the governor won't cut up too rough. Try and get the worst over for me before I come, because naturally I'm raw enough about the whole bally thing, and couldn't stand much more. Fact is, it's all right in a crack regiment for the chaps who have big allowances. There's only one word to fit the case of poor, hard-up beggars like me, and that one I mustn't use. Poverty opens the door to all sorts of mischief and misery that a girl who never needs any money can't begin to understand.

"I'd better make a clean breast of it while I'm at it, and you'll have time to digest it before I get home. I'm in with the money-lenders both in London and in Calcutta. I owe about two thousand pounds, and how it's to be paid is keeping me awake at night. Of course, it's been advanced on Achree, so heaven only knows what will be the upshot. I'll have to see that old starched stick Cattanach the minute I get back so that the old man may not be worried.

"If only I had the place in my own hands I'd make things hum a bit. You know, Isla, everything has been shockingly neglected in the last five years, and a perfect horde of pensioners have been kept off the poor old place. The half of them ought to be chucked; it's nothing but pauperizing the glen from end to end. A bit more could be screwed out of the tenants, as most of them have their places dirt-cheap.

"Well, old girl, I'm beastly sorry, for you can't be expected to like this. But suspend your judgment, for really I'm not half so bad as I'm painted, and if I had only half a chance I might prove it to you. I must try and get somebody to introduce me to the Stock Exchange. That seems to be the only way of turning an honest penny nowadays. There are hundreds of military men on it.

"Don't be too downhearted over this. You are such a one for taking things seriously, and there's hardly anything in life worth worrying about, really. You have the best of it, for nobody expects anything of a girl, and she hasn't a chap's temptations.

"Good-bye, old girl. I shall see you soon, if I don't fancy on board the 'Jumna' that the easiest way out would be to drop quietly over the rail some night when nobody's looking.--Your affectionate, but down-on-his-luck,

"MALCOLM."

Just for the space of five minutes or so the world was a dark place to Isla Mackinnon. She had no mother, and for the last ten years she had borne a double burden--had experienced both a mother's anxiety and a sister's shame for the ne'er-do-weel. The history of Malcolm Mackinnon's misdeeds in the glen, and out of it, would fill a book. But such a book would not be worth the writing. Through him evil had fallen on an old and honourable house--its revenues had been scattered, its very existence threatened.

While Malcolm was stationed at home, at Colchester, at Sheerness, and at the Curragh, complaints had been many and his scrapes innumerable, and Isla had welcomed with abundant relief the news that his regiment was ordered to India. That was three years ago. And now the final blow had fallen. He had been dismissed the army, in itself a disgrace so overwhelming that Isla knew there must be some scandalous story behind.

Presently he would be home to loaf about in idleness, to harry the people, to wring her heart and the heart of the old man, in so far as he was able to comprehend. And, with it all, he would smile his wicked and alluring smile and get off scot-free. This was the first time condign punishment had been meted out to him, and he took it lightly and merely remarked that it was injustice. Everything was injustice that sought in any way to hamper the wayward impulses of Malcolm Mackinnon. It had been so from his youth up.

But what was to be done? That half-hour of anguish did its work on the face of Isla Mackinnon. It ploughed a few more lines on it and took away the last remnant of its girlish curve. She had a woman's work in front of her, and a man's combined, for the intellect of the old General was clouded now, and his bodily health frail. There was no one to act for Achree save her alone.

And she would act. Presently she threw her head up, and the pride of her race crept back to sustain her, and her eye even flashed with the swift strength of her new resolve.

The dogs, hovering wistfully about her feet, asking mutely why she lingered and cheated them out of their scamper down the hill, reminded her of the passage of time. She pulled herself together, thrust the letter into her bosom, and, grasping her stick, walked on with feet which faltered only at the first step.

She reached the village, gave her order at the little shop, inquired for a child who was sick in the house above, passed the time of day with all whom she met, and even listened patiently to a tinker's tale, told with the persuasive guile of her tribe. She felt herself a dual person that day. Never had the brain of the inner self been so active. Her swift planning was so intense as to make her head ache.

All her small commissions done, she breasted the hill again and so came to the gate of Darrach farm-house, where Elspeth Maclure was looking out for her.

Now it must be explained that Elspeth had been a nurse-girl at Achree and had had Isla in her absolute care for the first seven years of her life. Then she had married honest Donald Maclure and had flitted to the house of Darrach, whose chief recommendation, in her eyes, was that it stood straight on the main road and that, from its windows, she could see all who passed to and fro between the village and the old Castle.

The private life of its inmates was not hid from Elspeth. She, too, remembered and took anxious note of the Indian mail-day. As she came down the path, wiping the flour of her baking from her hands on the snow-white of her apron, her deep, dark eyes scanned the beloved face of her darling with all a mother's solicitude.

Elspeth was now considerably over forty--a comely, motherly woman with a clear, rosy face and abundant black hair, a model wife and mother, and the staunchest friend of Isla Mackinnon's whole life.

When she opened the little gate, she saw that Isla could not speak, and that her face was wan and dark under the eyes. She took her by the two hands and drew her towards the door of the house.

"It is pad news, whatefer, my lamb. I knew it wass comin' at twelve o'clock last night when that thrawn prute of a cock wouldna stop his crawin'. I wass for Donald gettin' up to thraw hiss ill neck, only he wouldna."

Isla did not speak, and, quite suddenly, when they got within the house, where the baby, in a queer little cage of Donald's making, was crowing in the middle of the floor, she threw herself into Elspeth'e arms and burst into a storm of weeping.

Now, this was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened in Elspeth's experience, and it seemed to presage such woe as she had not dreamed of.

For the Mackinnons were a proud and self-contained race, and to make parade of their feelings was impossible for them. It may be that they, as a family, had erred in repressing them too much. There had been but three in the family--the third being an elder sister who had married young and died in childbed. Her death was the first sorrow that had helped to take the spring out of the old man's heart. He had never, perhaps, been quite just to Isla, because he had loved his first-born best.

"There, there, my lammie! God forpid that you should cry your heart oot like that. Put there--it will do ye good! Oh, the man that invented the post hass a heap to answer for. In the old days the trouble had plown ower, whatefer, afore we got wind of it, especially when it happened in foreign parts. What is he sayin' till it the day, my dear? It is not impident curiosity that pids me ask, put I canna pear to see ye like this."

It was all spoken in a crooning voice which had the effect of soothing the overcharged heart of the girl. That outburst of natural tears was the very best thing which could have happened to her. Thus relieved, her heart quickly recovered its strength. She drew back, smiling weakly, begged to be forgiven for such an exhibition, and fumbled inside her blouse for the missive that had wrought such woe.

She smoothed it out and, for the moment, she thought to pass it over to her faithful friend, who, though no scholar, would have had no difficulty in reading that big, sprawling, crude schoolboy writing. But again the shame of it overcame the girl, and sitting down on the edge of a chair, she lifted her wet eyes to Elspeth's face and said mournfully:--

"It's the deluge, Eppie. I've always said it would come, and it is here."

"What hass happened? Pe pleased to tell it quickly, Miss Isla, for I nefer wass a good hand at waitin'."

"Malcolm has been dismissed from the Army, and he is coming home. He has sailed by now," she added, referring to the second page of the letter, "and his ship, the 'Jumna,' will arrive in about three weeks. It's a slow boat, but inside a month he'll be at Achree."

Elspeth bit her lip, and her hands worked nervously in front of her apron.

"For the good God's sake, Miss Isla, what are we to do with him here?"

"That's what I want to know. It will kill my father. He must never know that Malcolm has been sent home. He must just think that it is an ordinary leave of absence. Poor dear, it is not so hard to bamboozle him now as it once was! If he grasped the fact that Malcolm had been cashiered it would simply kill him. Now I shall be hard put to it, watching for other letters from India or from the War Office. Oh, Elspeth, I'm so tired of playing watch-dog! It's killing me. Sometimes I think I shall get up quite early one morning and go down to the little loch and just walk in, where it is all silvery with the dawn. Then everything would be over, and I should be at peace!"

"God forpid, my lamb, since ye are the one hope and salvation of Achree," said Elspeth Maclure fervently.

Isla shook her head.

"There is little hope for Achree now, and, so far as I can see, nothing can save it. My brother owes so much money, that, to get him clear, we ought to sell it. It is what he will do himself, without doubt, whenever he gets it into his own hands."

Elspeth Maclure stood, thunderstruck and horrified, staring vaguely in front of her.

"Sell Achree what hass peen the place of the Mackinnons for efer and efer!" she repeated slowly. "God forpid. He would nefer let it come to pass. Oh, Miss Isla, the laws made py men are not good laws. I'm only a plain woman, put this I see that, when a man iss like what Maister Malcolm iss, without the fear of God or man in hiss heart, he should not haf the power. I suppose he hass porrowed the money on the place, put it iss not him that will haf to pey," she added fiercely.

"No," repeated Isla, with a hard, far-away look on her face, "it is not he who will have to pay."

CHAPTER II

THE OLD HOME

Isla rose to her feet, and, suddenly, observing the baby clutching with his chubby hands at the side of his cage and smiling engagingly into her face, she stretched out her hands to him.

"Oh, you darling! Did Isla forget him, then? What a shame!"

She lifted him out, and his small chubby hands met tightly round her neck, and his cheek was laid against hers with a coo of delight. Elspeth stood smiling by, thinking of the wonder and gift of the child that can charm grief away.

"If only you had a good man of your own, Miss Isla, and a heap of little pairns, like me, things would pe easier," she said quaintly. "It's not for me to say, put I whiles think that if there had peen ither laddies in Achree, Maister Malcolm wouldna haf had it all his own wey, which would haf peen a good thing for him."

"Yes, Elspeth, what you say is true; but I shall never have a man or any little bairns," she said with a sigh. "My life-work is cut out plainly enough--and has been from the beginning. I have to save Achree somehow--and I will."

"That would be a fery good thing, no doubt, put the ither would pe petter, my lamb," said Elspeth with such yearning in her eyes that Isla, feeling her composure shaking again, hastily kissed the child and put him back in his little enclosure.

"Donald must positively patent this, Eppie--he would make money by it. It's the cleverest thing I've ever seen," she said lightly.

"It does the turn, and I'm not sayin' put that Donald is clever--clever with hiss hands. It makes up for the gift of the gab which he hass not got. I never saw a man speak less. I whiles ask him if his tongue pe not tired with too little wark."

"Ah, but his heart is of gold, Eppie. Don't you ever miscall Donald to me, for I won't listen."

"Wha's misca'in him, whatefer?" asked Elspeth with a small laugh which hid a tear. "Good-bye, Miss Isla, my ponnie dear, and may the good God go wi' ye and help ye ower this steep pit of the road."

Isla nodded and sped away, not daring to trust herself to further speech.

Left alone, Eppie Maclure sat down and incontinently began to cry. She came from one of the islands of the western seas, owned by kinsfolk of the Achree Mackinnons, and her heart was as soft as her speech, which had the roll of the western seas in its tone.

There were no tears in Isla's eyes as she breasted the hill bravely, brain and heart so busy that the good mile seemed but a stone's throw. It was half-past twelve when she stopped at the low doorway of the house, and with a wave of the hand dismissed the dogs, who went off with hanging heads, as if they were conscious of having missed something in their walk. They knew--for there are few people wiser than the dumb creatures that love us--that, though the body of their mistress had accompanied them down the familiar way, her heart was clean away from them and from all the little homely happenings that can make a country walk so pleasant.

She lifted the sneck softly and went in, closing the door behind her. It was rather a wide low hall, with a flagged stone floor washed as clean as hands and soft rain water could make it. A few deer-skins were scattered on it, some of them rather worn and bare, as it was a long time since a Mackinnon had stalked a deer in the forest of Achree. Some fine antlered heads stood out upon the wall between the stout wooden beams that supported it and were now black with age and shining with the peatreek. A fire of peat was burning now in the wide fireplace, in which there was no grate. On the oak mantelpiece there were queer, carved wooden pots, full of stag's moss and heather that had lost its bloom.

It was a bare, cold place, with very little beauty to arrest the eye, yet it had a dignity difficult to explain or to describe. The stair went up, wide and steep, from one end of the hall for a few steps, and then it became a winding one leading to all sorts of nooks and crannies having small and unexpected landings, with doors opening abruptly off them--a bewildering house, and very "ill-convenient" to quote once more the language of the glen. But Isla Mackinnon loved every stone and beam of it, and the heart of her was heavy, because she saw in the very near future the day approaching when the Mackinnons would be out of it, root and branch.

"But not before I've done my best to save it, please God," she said under her breath, as she cast her coat aside and went to look for her father.

An old serving-man in a shabby kilt emerged from the faded red-baize door that shut off the servants' quarters, bearing a tray with glasses in his hand.

"I suppose it is just on lunch time, Diarmid?" she said. "Where is the General?"

"I have just put him comfortable with the paper by the library fire, Miss Isla," said the man, as he scanned her face almost wistfully.

He, too, knew the day of the Indian mail. She motioned him to the dining-room, a long, narrow room furnished in what the irreverent called spindle-shanks, but what was in reality genuine and valuable furniture of the Chippendale period. Many old and very discoloured family portraits covered the walls, and the carpet, once a warm crimson but now almost threadbare, gave the only touch of colour to the place. The table was beautifully set, and the silver on it was fit for a king's table.

The Mackinnons were very poor, but there were certain dignities of life which they never ignored or made light of. Whatever the fare might be--and on most occasions it was simple enough--the table was always so laid that the best in the land could have been welcomed to it without shame. The damask was darned, but yet it had a sheen like satin on it such as they do not achieve on the looms of the present day.

Isla closed the door and, steadying herself against it, spoke to the old man who had served them as boy and man for five-and-forty years.

"There is a letter from Mr. Malcolm, Diarmid. He is on his way home."

Diarmid set down his tray rather suddenly, so that the glasses rang as they touched one another.

"Yes--Miss Isla?" he said almost feverishly. "But why will he come home? Is it leave he is having already so soon?"

"No, Diarmid. He is leaving the Army for good. I am telling you, because you love us all so much and understand everything. This news must be kept from the General."

"Yes, Miss Isla--but how? If Mr. Malcolm comes home he comes home, and the General will see him."

"Oh, yes, but he must think only that he is home on furlough. We must make up something that will satisfy him--for a time, at least."

"Yes, Miss Isla, and if Mr. Malcolm is to come home what will he do here in the glen, for sure he is a great big, strong gentleman--glory be to God--and it is not thinkable that he can be here doing nothing?"

"I haven't got so far as that, Diarmid," said Isla, wearily. "My head aches and aches with thinking. I sometimes wish I could fall asleep at night and never waken any more."

"Yes, Miss Isla, but then the sun would go down upon the glen for efer and efer," said the old man with twitching lips.

He had carried her as a baby in his arms, he had set her almost before she could toddle upon the back of the old sheltie that now lived, a fat pensioner, in the paddock behind the house; he had watched her grow from sweet girlhood to womanhood, and his heart had rebelled against the hardness of her destiny. She had never had her due. Other girls in her position had married well, had happy homes and devoted husbands, and little children about their knees, while she, the flower of them all, remained unplucked.

Diarmid, a religious man--as befitted one who had lived such an uneventful and happy life--was sometimes tempted to ask whether the God whom he worshipped had fallen asleep over the affairs of Achree. Of late, his rebellion had become acute. In the silence of his dingy pantry he had even been known to shake his fist over the silver he was polishing and to utter words not becoming on the lips of so circumspect a servant.

"Say nothing to the others, Diarmid. Let them think that Mr. Malcolm is only home on furlough," she pursued. "I must make it right with my father somehow. I'll go to him now and tell him about the letter."

"Yes, Miss Isla. And Mr. Malcolm, he is quite well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, he is always well. Perhaps, if he were not--but there, I must guard my tongue. The days are very dark over Achree, Diarmid, and it may be that its sun will soon set for ever."

"God forbid! He will nefer let that happen--no, nor anypody else, forby," he said vaguely. "Keep up your brave heart, Miss Isla. I haf seen it fery dark over the loch of a morning, and again, by midday, it would clear and the sun come out. It will be like that now, nefer fear."

But though brave words were on the old man's tongue, black despair was in his heart. He was only a servingman, but he could read between the lines, and he knew that this sudden and unexpected home-coming of the ne'er-do-weel meant something dire for Achree. His hands trembled very much as he proceeded with his table duties, while his young mistress made her way across the hall again to the library, a queer little octagon room on the south side of the house, with no view to speak of from its high, narrow windows that looked out on the rising slope of a heather hill which made the beginning of the moor of Creagh. It was, however, the snuggest room in the whole house, for which reason it was used almost entirely by the General as a living place.

He was frail now, going to bed early and rising late, and seldom caring to ascend the winding stairs to his bedroom after he had once left it.

Isla entered softly, and his dull ear failed to apprise him of the opening of the door. She was thus able to look at him before he was aware of her presence. Once a very tall man, standing six feet two in his stockings in his prime, his fine figure was now sadly shrunk. He sat in a straight, high-backed chair--principally because there were very few of the other sort in the old Castle of Achree, and because there was no money to buy them with, but she could see the droop of the shoulders as they rested against the small cushion that she had filled with down to give him a little ease. He wore a velvet skullcap, from the edge of which there showed a fringe of beautiful silvery hair. His feet, in the big loose slippers of the old man, were raised on a hassock and he was holding the newspaper high before his eyes. Isla observed, from its continuous flutter, that his hands were a little more shaky than usual.

His face was very fine. In his youth Mackinnon of Achree had been the handsomest man in West Perthshire, and he was reported to have broken his full complement of hearts. Even now the classic outline of his face was plainly discernible, and he reminded one of some old war-horse that was past service, but that retained to the end all the noble characteristics that had distinguished him in the heyday of his glory.

"What news to-day, father?" asked Isla's fresh, clear voice.

When he heard it he rose to his feet with that fine courtesy towards women which had never failed him.

She laid a hand in gentle reprimand on his arm.

"Now, how often have I told you, old dear, that you are not to be so ceremonious with me? You can keep your fine manners for the great ladies who never, never now come to Achree. Your little Isla knows that they are there, and she doesn't need ocular demonstration of their presence."

He smiled and patted her cheek. He was an old man, now in his seventy-fifth year. He had been so long on foreign service that he had not married till late in life, and he had then made a marriage which had been the one mistake of his life, and into which he had been led by the softness of his own heart. Yet in battle, and in the affairs of men, he had been a terrific person, to be avoided by those who had offended him.

The fruits of that marriage, unfortunately, had come out in the son and heir in whose veins ran the wild blood of the woman who had broken Mackinnon's heart. There was no fight in the General now. He was a broken old man--very gentle, not altogether comprehending, a mere cypher in his own house, though his honour and his prestige were more jealously guarded by his household than they had ever been when he could guard them himself.

His health was frail, but he suffered apparently from no disease. The doctor from Comrie who paid a weekly visit often assured Isla that, with care, there was no reason why her father should not live for other ten years. Only he mustn't have any shock. He so often insisted upon this that Isla would ask herself after he had gone how, as circumstances were with them now, shock could be avoided. Apprehension was in the very air, and when Malcolm came home shock would most certainly be the order of the day.

"Where have you been, Isla?"

"Down to Lochearn, and I stopped at Darrach to speak to Eppie. You know how her tongue wags. Sit down, dear, and let me tell you something. Have you had any interesting letters?"

"I don't know," he said vaguely. "I looked at some of them. There is one from Cattanach, but I don't understand it. You'll explain it to me, Isla, and write what is necessary."

Cattanach was the family lawyer, the head of a big legal firm in Glasgow that had administered the affairs of Achree for many years.

Isla seized upon his letter jealously, and read it even with a feeling of foreboding. But as her eyes quickly covered the typewritten words, lo! a great relief was hers. The thing she had dreaded now manifested itself as a blessing--perhaps even as a way out.

"Father, have you read this letter?" she asked, drawing her chair to his side and still holding it in her hand.

"I read it--yes, but I don't think I understand. He says something about strange folks coming to Achree. You can write to him, Isla, and tell him that we are not in a position to entertain, as we used to be. We have not the folk about us to make guests comfortable--nor perhaps have we the heart."

"No, no; but that is not quite what he means, darling," said Isla eagerly. "Let me read it over to you quite slowly, then perhaps you will understand."

"ST. VINCENT PLACE,

"GLASGOW, March.

"DEAR GENERAL MACKINNON,--I hardly like to approach you on the subject of this letter, but a client of mine is so insistent that I don't seem to have any alternative.

"I write on behalf of Mr. Hylton Rosmead, an American gentleman who is looking for a place in your neighbourhood to rent for the season. He wants it for six months at least--from Easter to October, with the option of stopping on if agreeable to both parties.

"It seems odd that, with the whole of Scotland to choose from, he and his family should hit upon Achree which, as I told him, is not in the market. They saw it in course of a motor tour last autumn, and were so struck with it, it seems, that it is the only place they would have in the whole of Scotland.

"I may say two things that may help you to a decision. They are Americans of the best type, and he would pay a fancy price for the place.

"I have no alternative but to lay the offer before you and may I remind you that the letting of places to people of this type has become so common among the old families that it is the exception not to let them at some time or other.

"I shall be glad to hear from you at your very earliest convenience as Mr. Rosmead is anxious to get settled. Hoping you feel yourself better with the approach of spring, and that Miss Mackinnon is quite well,--I am, dear General, yours faithfully,

"ALEXANDER CATTANACH."

Long before Isla had reached the close of this letter the old man's attention had wandered and, though his eyes had not fixed themselves on the paper again, Isla saw that he was not in the smallest degree either interested or comprehending.

"You don't understand, dear, that some one wants to take Achree from us for a few months and to pay a high rent--a very high rent--for it. Why shouldn't we let it? Look how often Uncle Tom has let Barras. He has told us he couldn't get on without letting it."

"Oh, no, of course not. Read this account of affairs in Rhodesia, Isla. It's the aftermath of the war. Heavens, we'll never get to the end of that precious muddle! I said so at the time."

Isla laid down the letter quietly, intending to return to it later. It was part of the difficulty of her life, part of the hopelessness of the present acuter stage in it, that she could not get her father to comprehend facts and details which were of the utmost importance. Either he could not or he would not understand--there were times when she was at a loss to say which.

As she laid Cattanach's letter down she drew her brother's from the bosom of her blouse.

"Did you remember that this is mail-day, father? You know you can't read Malcolm's scrawl, which seems to grow more illegible with every letter. Shall I read it out to you?"

"No. Tell me what he says. His letters weary me. They are full of words I don't understand and have no use for," he said with a sudden touch of querulousness. "I can't understand why a boy that has been at Glenalmond and at Sandhurst wants to fill his letters with unintelligible jargon. How is he?"

"He's quite well. He is coming home, father. He will be here very shortly."

"Coming home! Leave again! Far too much leave in the service now. They have no time to lick them into shape. Seventeen years I served in Northern India without a break--and never a murmur; and I've known men who served thirty. Now it's leave every third or fourth year. It doesn't look like five since he was last here, but I suppose it is. Well, when is he coming?"

"In about a month."

"A bad time of year, too--nothing to kill but a stray rabbit. I think I'll write to them at the War Office and stir them up about this perpetual leave business. It's bad for the men, bad for the officers, bad for the service all through, and accounts for its unpopularity and inefficiency. In my day the Army was a man's business--the serious business of his life. Now it's his play. How can a country be kept together on these lines?"

Isla betrayed no weariness, though she knew that he had started on his interminable theme. It was the only one in which he retained any active interest, for Mackinnon had been born a soldier, and the medals he had won could not be pinned all at one time on his breast. But his failing powers prevented him from being able to adjust his mind to the new conditions of things. In his estimation, the old style of warfare was best, and all the new methods were fit only to be criticized and partly abolished.

"He doesn't say anything about the duration of his leave. I, too, am rather sorry he is coming home just now, father, for, as you say, there is nothing to kill and Malcolm isn't a man of resource. I think I'll go and see Cattanach and ask his advice."

"Cattanach? Oh, yes. What did he write about, did you say? Anything to sign? Or was he writing only for his own amusement to earn six-and-eightpence? Terrible fellows these lawyers--even the best of them are worth watching."

He laughed gently but quite mirthlessly, and his eyes glued themselves again to his paper, in which he at once became completely absorbed.

Isla, knitting her brows slightly, turned away to the table to glance through her father's letters, which he had not so much as touched.

Everything was in her hands. Something whispered that she, and she alone, must be the saviour of Achree.

CHAPTER III

ISLA TAKES ACTION

Isla, already dressed for a journey, took in her father's breakfast-tray next morning.

"You are surely early afield, my dear?" he said, looking at the trim figure with quick approbation.

"Yes, dear. I am going to Glasgow to see Mr. Cattanach, because I found when I started out to answer his letter that I couldn't say half I wanted."

"His letter wasn't very clear, I thought. Ask him why he doesn't learn to express himself better. I thought that was a lawyer's business. But it seems a long way to go to Glasgow to say that to him. When do you get your train?"

"Nine-thirty, and Jamie Forbes has come up from the hotel to drive me to Balquhidder. So good-bye, dear. Diarmid will look after you till I come back, and you may expect me about tea-time."

He did not ask any other question. His mind was now curiously detached from all immediate happenings, and he lived more and more in the past. Even his reading of the newspapers was coloured by the tendency to retrospect.

Isla got away with a considerable sense of relief, and when she mounted to the side of Jamie Forbes in the hotel dogcart her eyes even sparkled. There was now no horse of any kind, nor was there any carriage in the stableyard of Achree, though the old people, even Diarmid himself, could sadly recall the time when it had been full.

Isla was glad to be doing something. She had all the restlessness of an active nature that could not endure a policy of drift. They had been drifting so long with the ebb tide at Achree that she welcomed the crisis which made it necessary to take an immediate step.

She went ostensibly to ask the lawyer's advice, but her own mind was made up as to the best course to pursue. Her judgment was singularly clear, and she was not now in the smallest doubt as to the right--nay, the only--thing to be done in the circumstances.

At Balquhidder Station a few passengers were waiting for the Oban train, and, slightly to Isla's chagrin, directly she appeared on the platform a tall young man in a tweed suit and a covert coat came forward, with evident signs of satisfaction, to greet her.

"Good morning, Isla. This is an uncommon bit of luck. Are you going to town?"

"To Glasgow," she unwillingly admitted. "And you?"

"Glasgow too," he answered joyfully. "I was cursing my luck as I drove over the hill from Garrion, but if I had known, I should have driven with a lighter heart."

Isla scarcely smiled. She liked Neil Drummond very well as a friend, for they had known each other since their childhood. But in the last three years he had spoiled that friendship by periodically asking her to marry him. The expression in his eyes now indicated that very little provocation would make him ask her again on the spot, for he was very much in earnest. He was two years younger than Isla, and she always treated him like a young and very inexperienced brother, which incensed him a good deal.

He had just come into the property from his uncle, and wanted nothing but a wife to make Garrion complete. He was a finely-built, good-looking young fellow, with an honest, kindly face, with not a very high type of intellect perhaps, but with sufficient common sense and sound judgment to fill admirably the position to which he had been called.

He and his sister Kitty, being orphans, had been brought up by their uncle at Garrion, and had known no other home. Kitty and Isla were friends, of course, though there was not so very much in common between that dashing, high-spirited, happy-go-lucky girl and the more staid and placid Isla.

"How's Kitty? We haven't seen her for a long time," she said as they began to pace to and fro on the platform--objects of much interest of a significant kind to those who knew them.

"Kitty's alone, but when are you coming to Garrion? Aunt Betty is always asking why you don't come."

"That's easily answered. It's five miles to Garrion, and I haven't either a horse or a bicycle; but tell Lady Betty I'll walk over one of these days."

"You needn't do that, Isla--and very well you know it. All you have to do is to say the word, and the best bit of horse-flesh in Garrion stables is at your command."

"I haven't much time," she said rather quickly. "Father seems to need me more of late, and----"

She hesitated, and then came to a stop, deciding that she would not just yet mention a word about Malcolm's coming home. It was not that she could not trust Neil Drummond, but the shame of that home-coming held her back from speaking of it even to a friend of such long standing.

"It is very unusual for you to go to Glasgow, isn't it?" said Neil, looking down with a slightly rueful expression at the bonnie, winsome face by his side.

"It is very unusual. Last night father had a letter from Mr. Cattanach, which we found rather difficult to answer, so I came to the conclusion that it might save further complications if I went up and had a talk with him about it."

"Well, if that's all, you can come and lunch with me, can't you? St. Enoch's Hotel, one sharp. I'm only after a horse. It won't take me more than an hour."

Isla hesitated, but finally promised.

"I must get the two-ten train, and if anything happens to prevent me from keeping the appointment, don't wait. I'll be there at one if I'm coming."

"All right," said Drummond joyfully. "This is a red-letter day--and no mistake. Shows that a fellow never knows when his next bit of good luck is going to turn up."

He looked so young and boyish at the moment that Isla suddenly smiled upon him.

"What a boy you are, Neil! I don't believe anything will ever make you grow up. Even being Laird of Garrion hasn't had the smallest effect. Here's the train. Now I warn you I won't speak to you on the journey, because I have heaps and heaps of things to arrange in my mind. Remember, I'm going to a lawyer's office, and nobody goes there unprepared."

"All right. So long as I am sitting next to you, and preventing anybody else from speaking to you, I shan't grumble," said Neil calmly as he helped her into a corner of the third-class carriage.

He had a first-class ticket himself, which he carefully hid from her. Had he dared he would have paid the difference for the privilege of having a compartment to themselves, but Isla would not have permitted that.

Shortly after eleven o'clock they arrived at Glasgow and, saying that it was necessary for him to have a cab to take him to his destination at the south-side, he put Isla in and drove her the short distance to the lawyer's door. Then with the prospect of meeting her at lunch in little more than an hour's time, he departed in the seventh heaven of delight.

Miss Mackinnon, sending in her name, was not kept waiting an unnecessary moment. Indeed, so much was she respected in the office that Cattanach turned over a rather important client to his junior partner and at once went to see Miss Mackinnon, escorting her to his private room.

"I came in consequence of your letter to papa yesterday, Mr. Cattanach," said Isla as they shook hands. "It was of such importance that I thought I would come and have a talk with you about it."

Cattanach was not an old man, and he bore his fifty years lightly. He had a somewhat heavy yet keen face, was a little stern in repose. But, when his genial smile irradiated his face, the sternness was forgotten. His reputation in the city was that of being one of the first lawyers of the day, and business simply flowed in upon his firm.

His father had been at the helm of Achree affairs when they were in a more prosperous state, and he had been a life-long friend and admirer of the General. He had managed to communicate his sincere and sympathetic interest to his son, who had done much more for the Mackinnons than they could have had the right to expect from their man of business or than could ever be repaid. He had indeed helped young Mackinnon out of several scrapes for his father's and his sister's sake, though doing that had been a service very ill to his liking. An interview with Isla herself, however, was a pure pleasure, which, on this occasion, was all the keener that it was wholly unexpected.

"Yes, thank you, I am quite well and father too, though he is failing, I think," she said rather sadly. "I came in answer to your letter and in order to show you this."

She had a small bag of curiously-wrought Moorish leather on her arm, from which she produced the letter that had come yesterday by the Indian mail. She did not immediately pass it over, however, or read any extract from it, but, leaning slightly forward in her chair, she fixed her clear, grave eyes on the lawyer's face as he stood in quite characteristic attitude in front of his desk, leaning one hand slightly on the table.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Cattanach? I'm afraid I must take up quite a lot of your time this morning--an hour perhaps. I have to lunch at the St. Enoch's Hotel at one."

"Then I shall not have the pleasure of taking you to lunch myself."

"Not to-day, thank you," said Isla, and he imagined her colour rose slightly. "It is about your letter I first want to speak. My father did not comprehend it, I am afraid. He sent the message to you," she added with a faint, wandering smile, "that he was surprised that a lawyer did not express himself better. But of course to me what you said was perfectly clear. Tell me about this man who wishes to take poor old Achree. Is he--is he at all a possible person?"

There was just the slightest suggestion of hauteur in the question, which, at another time, might have amused Cattanach hugely. Out in the hard world of men and business things were called by their right names, and there would have been small sympathy expressed for the Mackinnon pride.

But he understood. This fine creature, product of an ancient race and embodiment in her own personality of all that was best in it, appealed to him beyond any power of his to express. He was prepared to meet her and to help her, not only to the best of his ability but even beyond what his prudence and his better judgment would have permitted. And it would not be the first time in the record of his transactions with Achree that service had been rendered by Alexander Cattanach from purely disinterested motives--service that had never found its way into the columns of any ledger.

"He is a very possible person indeed, Miss Mackinnon, quite the best type of educated American--and the type is very good."

"Is it?" asked Isla with a little shiver. "I have never encountered it. The few specimens that come to the glen are not--are not what one would call the best type. And the people who had Edinard for two seasons running!--shall one ever forget them? Their flying motors with screaming hooters, their impossible costumes, their disregard for our quiet Sabbaths, their noise--all were indescribable. I should not like such people as they at Achree. But, indeed, I don't suppose such people would so much as look at it. Lady Eden told me that the first year it cost her half the rent to put into the house what her tenants wanted. They were so mean in regard to trifles that they would not buy the simplest thing."

Cattanach smiled understandingly. He also had some acquaintance with that type.

"I don't think you would find the Rosmeads like that. I should say myself that they are simple gentlefolks and that, this summer at least, they would be certain to live quietly. They wish the place for retirement on account of Mrs. Rosmead, who is recovering from a long illness, and for their elder daughter, who has just had an unpleasant experience in the Divorce Court--one of those curious matrimonial entanglements of which America seems to be full. She was here on Tuesday with her brother. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen."

"Poor thing--and had she a bad husband?"

"I understand so, but, of course, the subject was not mentioned. There is a younger daughter called Sadie, and there is also a boy at Yale or Harvard, who would spend only his summer here. I think you would like the family, and they would be willing to pay three hundred for the house, and five with the shooting."

"Five hundred!" murmured Isla, and her eyes had a sort of hungry look.

Money for its own sake did not exist for her. She was naturally of a generous, even of a prodigal mind, and she was certainly made for the gracious dispensation of great wealth. But she had had to count the pence so long that she had arrived, by many painful processes, at full appreciation of their market value.

"We could certainly live at Creagh on three hundred; then two could be laid by, couldn't they, Mr. Cattanach?"

He turned swiftly away, for there was something in the eager question, almost childishly put, which gripped him by the throat.

"Yes, of course. In the country life is simple," he said at last. "I gather from what you say that you would be willing at least to consider the offer of Mr. Hylton P. Rosmead."

"I haven't any alternative now," she said, as she pulled the strings of the leather bag again and produced her brother's letter. "Please to read that, Mr. Cattanach."

She passed over the thin, and now crumpled sheet covered with Malcolm's sprawling undignified handwriting, which the lawyer's eyes quickly scanned. The expression of his face as its full significance dawned upon him quite changed and perceptibly hardened. When he refolded it again it was a moment before the suitable word came to him. He knew that words of pity or condolence would be quite out of place, if spoken to Isla Mackinnon, and that the truest kindness he could show her would be to accept the situation as a matter of course and do his utmost to help, as he had opportunity, or could make it where he had it in his power.

"This makes acceptance of Rosmead's offer imperative, as you say, Miss Mackinnon. Perhaps the best thing I can do is to send him to Achree to see you. He is in the city this week. He has many friends here connected with the engineering profession. I believe that in his own country he is a distinguished engineer, and he certainly is a very gentlemanly, well-informed man."

He praised the American of a set purpose, deeming it best to direct Miss Mackinnon's thoughts to the pleasant side of the inevitable.

"Do you think they would wish a great deal of money spent on the house? It is very bare, really, and rather dilapidated. But if he wanted even a tithe of the things that Lady Eden's tenants asked for I'm afraid the bargain would have to be off. I could not owe money myself, even to let Achree."

"I don't think there will be any difficulty. They are without doubt very wealthy people, and, further, they are so anxious for the place that they will take it at your terms. You spoke of the Lodge of Creagh a moment ago. You would go there to live in the interval?"

"Yes. It happens to be empty since Mrs. Macdonald died last autumn, and if it were well fired and aired we could be quite comfortable there. Of course, it is small, but I would give up the dining-room to my father, and, so long as he is comfortable and does not suffer by the change, nothing else matters much."

"It is very remote," suggested Cattanach, "and the road across the moor is nothing to boast of, if I remember it rightly."

"Of course it is only a shooting-lodge--and a small one at that; but its remoteness won't matter to me, and, as for my brother, perhaps it would be a very good thing for him to be shut off by the moor of Creagh."

Cattanach nodded gravely.

Then she put another question to him of a more disconcerting kind.

"Mr. Cattanach, why are men usually dismissed from the Army? What are the offences, I mean? They must be grave, of course, because it is so serious a thing to cut short a man's career at the very commencement."

"It is a serious thing, and it is not done on trifling grounds," he answered quietly, not dreaming of evading her question. "What your brother says about injustice is, of course, nonsense. It exists in small things in the Army, as elsewhere, but it would never reach the length of, as you say, cutting short a man's career."

She sighed a little as she rose to her feet. He had not specified, but she was answered.

"It is all very dreadful, and it would certainly kill my father if he knew. Happily--how strange it is that I can use the word in relation to what has been such a sorrow to me, but happily--his failing faculties don't permit him to grasp the affairs of life. He understands that Malcolm is coming home, and he is full of wrath at the amount of leave allowed in the service in these days. It will thus be all right for a little while, but if Malcolm is to live on as a loafer," she said with a sad inflexion of scorn in her voice, "he will be troubled about it. Oh, Mr. Cattanach, what is to be done with Malcolm?"

Her brave voice shook, and again there was in her eyes that agony of appeal which a far less kind-hearted man than Cattanach could not have resisted.

"Dear Miss Mackinnon, the trouble is very real and awful, but it is not on us just yet. Let us get the question of the tenancy of Achree settled, and then we shall have time to tackle the other. The Rosmeads wish to get settled in the place before Easter. Would that be possible?"

"I shall make it so, and I want to be at Creagh before Malcolm arrives. He would create all sorts of difficulties, and it will be far better to get the people into Achree before then."

"And your father?"

"Ah, that will be difficult, but I have never been beaten yet, Mr. Cattanach, though sometimes I have been very near it. Yesterday I thought I was, but to-day, when I woke up, I felt quite strong and able, and now, after your kindness, I am sure we shall get through."

"I shall help to the very best of my ability. I can come down to Achree if you think I can be of any use to you in persuading the General."

"Thank you. I shall write if I think it necessary for you to come. But he is so like a child! He will be quite pleased to go to Creagh, I believe, and he will not understand why we have to leave Achree. I am glad that it is so now. If he had been his old self it would have been so difficult for him."

"Undoubtedly it would."

"And Malcolm's affair too! He must not be allowed to idle about indefinitely in the glen, or I shall never have a moment's peace. I'm going to talk very straightly to him when he comes. He has always got off too easily. But this money--how is it to be found? If they begin to press for it would they take Achree?"

"We shall prevent that. You must leave this in my hands, Miss Mackinnon. The best thing your brother could do would be to emigrate to one of the new countries--to Canada, or the Cape, or even the Argentine. As you say, it will not be possible to allow him to loaf about the glen."

"But he is so difficult, because, you see, he thinks nothing matters, and his only desire is to have what he calls a good time. Even if he has it at other people's expense he will have it. About this money he owes? I will do my utmost to save for it out of the money the Americans will pay. They will not do anything drastic about it, I hope--seize upon Achree or any part of it," she repeated wistfully, as if yet unconvinced.

"I can deal with them, Miss Mackinnon. You must leave that part of the business for your brother and me to settle between us. You may trust me to do what will be absolutely for the good of yourself and your brother."

"Oh, I know," she said with eloquent eyes. "Thank you so much. You are always so kind. Things seem easier when one has seen you. Good-bye, then. And you will send the American man to view the land soon? I hope I shall be able to please him."

A clock on the mantelshelf struck, and she made haste to the door.

"I have to lunch with Mr. Neil Drummond of Garrion at one. I must run," she said.

The lawyer himself escorted her to the street door, put her into a cab, and, as he returned slowly up the stairs, rubbed his hands together meditatively.

"Drummond of Garrion! Well, well, perhaps it might be the best thing she could do. Poor, poor girl, but game to the innermost fibre of her being! Where would our old families be but for such as she--but for the fine fibre of their women? Garrion! Garrion! By Gad, I must look into it and see whether it would be worth her while."

CHAPTER IV

THE AMERICANS

"Did you ever see such a shabby room, Peter? It positively reeks of poverty."

Thus did Sadie Rosmead deliver herself to her brother after the drawing-room door had been shut upon them at Achree, and Diarmid had gone to seek his mistress.

On the Monday following Isla's visit to Glasgow, and, in consequence of a letter from Cattanach, the Rosmeads had made a hurried journey out to Glenogle for the purpose of making acquaintance with the interior of the house that they so much admired, and, if possible, of coming to terms with its owners.

They were a handsome pair. Rosmead himself, a man of about thirty-five, well, but quietly, dressed, and carrying his firmly-knit figure with conscious ease and strength, had a strong, fine face, lit by pleasant grey eyes that gave a very fair index to his character. He was a man who, by his own effort, by the sheer force of his ability, which, in his own domain amounted to genius, had achieved a distinction and a success manifest in his very bearing.

Once seen, Peter Rosmead would not be readily forgotten. He was a man who could not be in any company without leaving the mark of his personality upon it.

His sister was small, but elegant; dressed with conspicuous plainness, but in a style which has to be paid for with considerable cheques. The feature of her costume was undoubtedly her veil, which, when worn by a really elegant American woman such as Sadie Rosmead certainly was, becomes a thing of distinction. It was only a long width of blue chiffon attached to a small felt hat of the same hue, but it made a most becoming setting to her dark, piquant face.

"Yes--it positively reeks of poverty. Look at the darn in the carpet, Peter!" she said severely. "This is a house of makeshifts, but it's decent poverty, and I've never seen anything so clean in the whole of my life. It would charm mother. How I wish she could have come to-day!"

Still Peter did not answer. There was something about the room which pained him, but he could not have explained what it was. It seemed to him indecent that two strangers, such as they were, should have come to view the poverty of the land. Cattanach had told Rosmead several things that he had not mentioned to any of his women folks; therefore, he was very eager and interested to see Miss Mackinnon.

Sadie babbled on.

"If it were not so clean it would be impossible. But there are some awfully pretty things. Look at that bit of tapestry on the end wall and at that coat of arms worked on the banner screen. It's just too sweet for anything. Now, what are you looking at, Peter?--oh, the miniatures! Anything good?"

There was a small collection on the mantelpiece, framed in ebony and standing on little brass tripods--very exquisite things in their way, and part of the few remaining treasures of Achree. Rosmead was studying them intently, and his sister was examining with interest the various bits of old needlework in the room, when the door was opened by rather a quick, nervous hand, and some one came in.

Rosmead turned back from the mantelpiece, and Sadie dropped the cushion with the peacock sewn upon its cover, and turned with a charming smile.

"Don't be angry, Miss Mackinnon. We are not sampling anything, but we are Americans--don't you know--and everything in this lovely old house appeals to us. You are Miss Mackinnon, aren't you? I'm Sadie Rosmead, and this is my brother Peter."

It was charmingly done, and it brought a slight smile, in spite of herself, to Isla's parted lips. She had been walking very fast, and the colour was high in her cheek. Her jacket was thrown back to show the neat flannel shirt belted trimly to her waist, and the black tie held in its place by the silver brooch, curiously wrought and displaying the arms of the Mackinnons, the same design being repeated in the buckle of her belt.

"I am so sorry you have been kept waiting. I was at the other side of the wood, seeing a sick woman. How-do-you-do?"

She shook hands with Sadie, but it was at the brother that she looked.

And she was well pleased with what she saw. She was not concerned at all about the impression she might be making on them. The only thing that mattered was that the people who were coming to Achree should not be objectionable.

Just for a moment she had been a trifle dismayed by Miss Rosmead's very obvious nationality--by the twang in her voice and by the familiarity of her manner. Isla's own manner inclined to hauteur. She fought against it, for the person who has goods to sell cannot afford to be too high and mighty in procedure. Yet she carried herself, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, like one who had a favour to bestow.

An intensely good-natured person, overflowing with the milk of human kindness, Sadie Rosmead did not even notice this characteristic manner, but not a shade of it was lost on Rosmead himself. It did not, however, either irritate or repel him. He had an immense gift of understanding, and he knew what this interview meant to the girl before them, whose face, now that the little flush of excitement had died from it, was pale, and even a little haggard.

"I am sorry you did not let me know, so that you could have been met at the station and could have come to luncheon. Have you had any?"

"Oh, yes," answered Sadie, "a very good snack at the station buffet at Glasgow, hadn't we, Peter? We should like a cup of tea perhaps, by and by, after we have seen the house. I have heard of your Scotch scones and butter and honey. They have very good imitations of them at the hotels, but we've been told--haven't we, Hylton?--that they don't begin to taste like the real thing."

Isla noticed the change of name, and she decided that the more dignified one suited the brother better. "Peter" was certainly ridiculous, and yet it had a kindly human sound and she preferred to think of him as kindly to thinking of him as dignified at the moment. Achree so much needed kindness, and she--poor girl!--more than all, though she was hardly conscious of her own need.

Rosmead was fully conscious of it. He had never in the whole course of his experience met with anything that touched or appealed to him more than the sight of this tall, slight girl upon whose shoulders rested what made her life a burden--the whole responsibility of the house of her fathers. Cattanach, a discerning man, had told him just sufficient to arouse his compassionate interest. Though he spoke so little, Isla felt comforted by his presence. The thing that had been a nightmare resolved itself, under his kindly touch, into something that might not only be possible, but might also prove good.

This man, of alien race though he was, would never harry Achree, nor would he bring to it strange new ways of life and thought. He looked strong, generous, and simple--as the truly strong always are.

While this subtle bond was being established between these two thus so strangely brought together, Sadie did the talking.

"Yes, we would like to see the house--every bit of it--but not to poke. Only, however, if it is convenient and only what you are willing to show--eh, Peter? We don't want to rush Miss Mackinnon, and we can easily come out another day and bring Vivien."

"Vivien is your sister?" said Isla inquiringly, as she laid her jacket down on the end of the high-backed old sofa.

Sadie nodded.

"She had a headache. She is not so very strong, and she can't stand racket. I'm the untirable, uncrushable, wholly inextinguishable member of the family. But not a bad sort--eh, Peter?"

Peter indulgently smiled.

"I hope General Mackinnon is quite well?" he inquired. "I have heard from Mr. Cattanach that his health has not been good of late."

"No--he is not so very strong. To-day, because it felt really like spring, he has gone for a little walk. I was with him. But, yes--he is quite all right. One of the men is coming back with him. If you don't mind, will you come and see the library before he returns? It is the room he sits in chiefly, and I am afraid it will be a little difficult for him to understand what you are doing in it if he should see you there. We can come back here, of course, for tea."

She led the way down the winding stair and across the flagged hall, which Sadie mutely pointed out to her brother as they silently followed their guide. All the windows in the library were open, and the cool, fresh air met them on the threshold. Again the same note of shabbiness and painful care was evident, but the room was well-furnished with books, which completely lined the walls.

"I suppose they are centuries old," said Sadie in an awe-struck whisper. "There--Peter, surely now you will be able to read your fill."

"Some of them are very old, I believe, and there are first editions among them," answered Isla, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if unaware that she talked of treasures which could be exchanged for gold. "You see this is quite a good room, and everyone likes the shape of it. It is so warm in winter, and so cool in summer."

It was duly admired, and they made their way from it again to the dining-room. They also took a quick glance at the servants' premises, where Sadie's sharp eyes took in most of the details.

"Now--upstairs," said Isla with evident relief. "And on the first landing, where the little door opens, just here is the dungeon-room. It has a trap-door and a stair going right down from it."

Sadie's eyes grew positively wide with excitement.

"A dungeon-room," she repeated again, in an awe-stricken whisper. "And where does this stair lead to? Can anyone go down?"

"Oh, yes. It leads to the dungeon, and there used to be--about the fourteenth century--a passage from it going both ways, one to Killin and down to the Earn, but it has not been opened for hundreds of years."

"Do you hear that, Hylton Rosmead? The fourteenth century! Where were we then? How do you see down?"

"If Mr. Rosmead will be so kind----"

She stooped to pull back the faded strip of home-made carpet, and so revealed the rusty hinges set level with the floor.

Rosmead stooped also and, with one swing of his strong arm, he raised the heavy door, so that they could look into the depths beneath. A curious odour met them, and Sadie, her imagination now wrought to a high pitch, fancied she heard mysterious sounds ascending from below.

"I should love to go down, but we can explore later when we come to live here. Fancy a place like this right in the middle of one's house and stairs and passages leading all over the country! It's positively creepy, but most fascinating. And a room with a bed in it too! I wonder whether I should get any sleep in it if I took it for my own?"

"It is rather small, isn't it?" said Isla with a smile. "It was used as a sentinel's or guard's room chiefly in the old days, I fancy. Now, will you come up and see the bedrooms?"

"I'll take a turn outside if I may," said Rosmead. "My sister will accompany you, Miss Mackinnon. I'm perfectly satisfied with what I have seen."

"Can you find your way? There are two staircases, but you can get out by either," said Isla, and they stood just a moment on the narrow landing till Rosmead had found his way out.

He passed out into the mellow sunshine of the afternoon with a sense of relief. The old house saddened him. It seemed to be peopled with dead hopes and with old memories and to have no kinship with the warm and happy life of men.

As he stepped on the gravel the sound of wheels broke the stillness, and a dogcart, in which was a beautiful, high-stepping chestnut horse, was rapidly driven up to the door. It contained two persons--a man and a woman, both young--who had evidently come to pay a call at Achree.

Raising his hat slightly, he turned aside to walk round by the gable-end of the house in order to see it from the back.

Just beyond the rolled gravel he came upon another pathetic sight--the old General in his Inverness cloak and with his bonnet on his thin white hair, leaning heavily on his stick and watching the antics of a little brown dog in front of a rabbit-hole. He was quite alone; and Rosmead, in whom reverence for the old was a passion as well as a virtue, involuntarily took off his hat.

"Come back, you little vixen!" the old man called with a little chuckle to the brown dog.

And, just at the moment, Janet, conscious of the approach of a stranger, gave a short, sharp bark and ran back.

The General looked round and, seeing the stranger, took his bonnet from his head. Rosmead had then no alternative but to introduce himself.

"My name is Rosmead, sir. I am here owing to correspondence with Mr. Cattanach."

"Cattanach? Oh, yes--very decent fellow, Cattanach, but not a good writer. Have you seen my daughter, and has your horse been put up?" he said with all the fine dignity of the hospitable old laird, always ready to welcome the stranger within his gates.

"We have only a hired trap, and it is waiting in the stable-yard. We have to get back to catch the four-thirty train."

"Oh, yes. Well, you will see my daughter, and you will at least have some tea before you go away. Can I direct you back to the house? I was taking my walk in the sun. I am not so strong as I was, and I have to choose my days. That is what we have to come to, sir,--we choose our days, when they are not chosen for us. Well, if you can find your way back to the house, I shall continue my walk."

He touched his bonnet and turned away, as if he had dismissed the man and the incident from his mental vision.

Rosmead immediately grasped the whole facts. He saw that the old man was wholly detached from the affairs of life, and more and more his heart ached with compassion for Isla Mackinnon. He walked right round the house, admiring its outline, even the huddled little towers touching his fancy, and he made up his mind on the spot that this should be his future dwelling-place. No matter what should be the price, he would pay it, because something told him that here was a place in which his money could be of use.

There was something deeper, however--the conviction that destiny had willed it that his life was somehow to be bound up with this old house and its inmates. The idea appealed to him and gave him a quickened interest in the place.

When he returned to the drawing-room in about ten minutes' time he found that it now contained four persons--his sister and their hostess and the two who had arrived to call.

"This is Mr. Rosmead, Kitty," said Isla, in whose face the pink spot of excitement burned again. "Miss Drummond, Mr. Neil Drummond, Mr. Rosmead."

Rosmead gravely saluted, but though Kitty beamed upon the handsome stranger, Neil was hostile. His face positively gloomed, and he had hardly a word to say.

His manners did not show to advantage that day. He seemed a boor beside the smooth, polished man of the world that Rosmead, by contrast, appeared. When tea was brought, it was Rosmead who established himself by the table, leaving his sister to chatter to the Drummonds. He did this of a set purpose, because he wished to say a word in Isla's private ear, and there did not seem to be any opportunity--unless he made one--of saying it.

"Miss Mackinnon, Mr. Cattanach has told you that we are anxious to get settled soon on account of my mother's health. Do you think you could give me a definite answer as to what you intend to do regarding the letting of the house to-day?"

"Yes, easily. If you care for it, now you have seen it, please take it," she answered without looking up.

The tone of her voice slightly disconcerted him, because he knew that her depth of feeling must be occasioning her the greatest pain.

"We would not hurry you--or seem to embarrass you in any way. My mother is the kindest and most reasonable of women, and I hope that you will permit her to know you if she comes to Achree. Are you likely to stay in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes," she answered, and her breath came a little faster. "We are going to the lodge at Creagh, at the other side of the moor."

The information seemed to please him.

"Then, perhaps you will write to Mr. Cattanach when your arrangements are made."

"Yes, I will do so, but there is something I must say first. I tried to say it to your sister, but somehow I could not," she said, still hurriedly and with her eyes on her tray. "I am sure that you will find that the house needs many things. We have been so poor that it has not been replenished, as it would have been in different circumstances. That must be taken into consideration in settling the question of the rent to be paid. I will tell Mr. Cattanach so. I hope I make myself plain?" she said, lifting her eyes to his face when he gave her no answer. "I am saying, Mr. Rosmead, that we can't spend any money on the house, and that whatever you find it lacks you will supply for yourselves."

"I quite understand that. Pray, don't speak of it--it is not worth mentioning. I understand that it is a sacrifice for you to let us have the house at all. I wish I did not realize that so keenly."

She looked at him again, and the expression in her eyes wholly changed. The child-look came back--the look of trust, of ingenuousness, of innocent sweetness, and it moved Rosmead profoundly. A very reticent, self-contained, observant man, he was interested and drawn by the tragedy, the unfathomable sadness of this girl's life. To possess Achree, and thus to come within sight and possible touch of Isla Mackinnon, had suddenly become to him a matter of personal moment.

But it was not so with Isla; she liked him; she was grateful to him for his reticence and his consideration, but to her he was simply the man who wanted Achree, and for whom they must leave it.

"You are very kind, but in a matter of this kind business must be the basis," she said presently, with a sudden return of her original hauteur. "I shall write to Mr. Cattanach to-night, and ask him to arrange things. Our removal to Creagh is only a matter of two or three days for the gathering together of our few personal belongings--that is all. I hope there will not be any difficulties in the way, and that you will be able to come to Achree, for your mother's sake, at the time you wish."

His next words arrested her attention, in spite of herself.

"If there are difficulties I shall do my best to overcome them. That has been the business of my life up till now."

"How do you mean?" she asked with an involuntary interest.

"I am a builder of bridges," he answered.

At this moment the Laird of Garrion, glowering like his own moor in a snell winter day, came stalking across the room, his step and his manner indicating that he considered that the stranger had already presumed too much.

Rosmead, in no way perturbed, drew out his watch.

"Sadie, it's time we went if we are to catch that train," he said to his sister, who, deep in girlish talk with Kitty Drummond, rose reluctantly.

The good-byes were quickly made, and, though her more kindly impulses prompted Isla to go down and speed the parting guests, she bade them good-bye at the drawing-room door with the slightest suggestion of stiffness, and left Diarmid to show them out.

"Who are these people, Isla?" asked Drummond impetuously the moment the door closed. "He's insufferable. Whence these airs of his? Who is he?"

"A rich American, and they are likely to take Achree for six months, or perhaps a year," answered Isla quietly, realizing that the thing could not be any longer hid.

Kitty gave a little exclamation of dismay, but on Drummond's face the scowl rose again.

"Let Achree! Heaven forbid! Isla, you won't do it. It's unthinkable--it's--it's, I want to say it, only I mustn't. Kitty, go down and find the General. I must speak to Isla alone."

CHAPTER V

THE BRIDGE BUILDERS

Kitty did not look so surprised as might have been expected. She walked with alacrity to the door in spite of Isla's rather eager protest.

"It's my belief, Isla, that you shut up the poor old General to prevent people from seeing him. I should not be at all surprised to find him in the dungeon-room," she said saucily over her shoulder as she disappeared round the sharp turning of the stair.

Isla reluctantly re-entered the drawing-room, fully aware of what was coming.

"Don't, Neil," she said, lifting a deprecating hand. "It has got to be done, so there isn't any use of talking about it."

"But, Isla!" he groaned, "it can't be done. Why, it will kill the General! Does he know what is in contemplation?"

"I have tried to tell him, but he can't understand," said Isla pitifully.

"He'll understand quickly enough when it comes to the bit--when you take him away from the old house. Why, it's the house he was born in, and he can't leave it now when he is old and frail. It's worth any sacrifice to let him have his last days in peace."

"It is; but I have made all the sacrifices possible, and have reached the end of my tether. If somebody could awaken the sense of sacrifice in Malcolm it would be different."

"Malcolm will be furious! Have you written and asked him, for after all he's the heir, you know, and a step--a big, drastic, horrible step like letting a property--can't be, or at least ought not to be, taken without consulting the heir."

Isla smiled drearily as she dropped into a chair.

Her old friend's anger was quite understandable and natural; but, oh, if people only knew how futile it all was!

"Listen, Neil. I thought of telling you the other day when we went to Glasgow together, but it was too new and raw then. Of course, that was the business I had to see Cattanach about. It is Malcolm who has caused this--who has wrought the red ruin of Achree."

Drummond was silent before the poignancy of her tone. Nor could he say that he was altogether astonished, since he knew Malcolm Mackinnon, and was fully aware of part at least of his unspeakable folly and misdoing.

"I may as well tell you now," went on Isla hotly. "Soon it will be the common property of the glen. Malcolm has had to send in his papers."

"My God, Isla, you don't say so!" said Drummond, and his fresh, kindly face grew a little white under the shock.

She nodded.

"Yes--and he owes over two thousand pounds to money-lenders, and our account is over-drawn at the bank. So now you know why the Americans must come to Achree."

She leaned back, and a small, very dismal smile just hovered about the corners of her sad, proud mouth.

Neil Drummond could scarcely have looked more thunderstruck and overwhelmed had the disaster come to his own Garrion, nor could he have felt it more acutely. He took a turn across the floor, and then he came and stood in front of her, his broad shoulders squared, a sudden look of strength and determination upon his kindly face.

"Why didn't you let us know before things got to this stage, Isla? What are friends for--that's what I'd like to know? Your silence just shows what a poor place, after all, any of us have in your estimation."

"No, no, Neil. But don't you see it was such a big, desperate, hopeless thing that nobody could give any help in the matter? And the dearer the friends are, the more impossible it would be to take money from them. You must understand that. You do understand it--only it pleases you to be denser than I have ever known you in the whole course of our acquaintance."

"The whole course of our acquaintance!" he repeated, half-eagerly, half-wistfully. "It's been spread over a pretty long period of years now, hasn't it, Isla?"

"Yes, but it looks like centuries. To-day I feel a century old myself."

"What you're needing, my dear, is somebody to take care of you," he said with a great gentleness. "I must speak again, though I promised to be silent till you gave me leave to speak. Won't you let me step into the breach, Isla? Marry me, and I'll do my best to smooth things over, and the General shall certainly not leave Achree. Garrion coffers are not so very full just at present, but I think there might be enough raised to prevent that unthinkable catastrophe."