Chapter XXIV: The Champion

Malcolm Mackinnon, busy with his own concerns, had no qualms about his sister even when the weeks went by, bringing no line or sign from her. The Barras Mackinnons did not write either, but when Malcolm thought of the matter at all he concluded that she was safe with them. Obviously there could be no other explanation of the silence.

Towards the end of November, however, a somewhat disturbing note from Lady Mackinnon arrived at Creagh.

"As Isla has not chosen to answer any of our letters I am writing to ask what is the matter with her. We kept on expecting her at Wimereaux up to the last, and Uncle Tom was much disappointed that she did not come. I am writing to say that we shall be in Glasgow on Thursday night, en route for Barras, and that if you and she will come up for the night to St. Enoch's we can talk things over. If Isla likes to bring her things and go on with us to Barras we shall only be too glad."

Malcolm stood, staring stupidly at the letter, and, for the moment, he was at his wits' end. Isla had not gone to Wimereaux, their folk knew nothing of her!--where, then, was she? Had Malcolm lived in close intimacy with the folk in the Glen, as Isla had done, he would have heard by now from Elspeth Maclure that she had gone no farther than London and was there still.

Truth to tell, he had been so relieved by his sister's departure that he had not troubled his head about her or noticed the quick flight of time. Things were going well with him, and the spectre in the background was giving no unnecessary trouble. He was a great believer in luck, as many ignorant persons are, and he believed that his had turned. His chief business in life just then was the wooing of Vivien Rosmead, and he was now anticipating the day, not far distant, when he intended to ask her to be his wife.

He hoped to arrange the matter quietly when Rosmead returned to Scotland, and to have his marriage an accomplished fact as soon thereafter as possible. Then he could snap his fingers at all the phantoms of the past.

Malcolm, however, did not reckon with certain forces that are stronger than the poor planning of the human brain, and so he marched on unconcernedly to the crisis of his fate.

He received his aunt's letter one day at Lochearn when he was on his way to Glasgow to see Cattanach. At the station he met Neil Drummond, who was going up to Callander to see a man at the Dreadnought Hotel, and, being full of the news that had just come, he blurted it out to Neil, who had seemed of late disposed to be more friendly to him.

"Look here, Drummond. Has your sister ever heard from Isla since she left Glenogle?" he asked as he offered Neil his cigarette-case.

"No, she hasn't, and Kitty has wondered, of course. I suppose she's still with your uncle and aunt at Wimereaux?"

Garrion folks, in common with others, had frequently made inquiries about Isla's welfare, and Malcolm had invariably answered that she was all right. None of them had any doubt but that she had been with the Barras Mackinnons for the last two months.

"They've left the place. They're going back to Barras on Friday, but Isla isn't with them. She never has been."

"Never has been! Then, where is she?" asked Neil blankly.

"Well, old chap, to tell you the truth, I don't know. When she left she certainly said that she was going to them."

"But haven't you had any letters?"

"Not a blessed one."

Neil looked him all over with a sudden, sharp scrutiny that, to another man, would have been, to say the least of it, unpleasant.

"You say you haven't known all this time where she is?"

"I haven't known. I tell you she hasn't written to me. That's why I asked whether your sister had heard."

"And you haven't made the smallest effort to find out?"

"Why should I?" inquired Malcolm coolly. "She's of age, she knows her own mind, she had plenty of money, and she doesn't want to be harried about her private business. You don't know Isla, Neil, though you think you do, and the man who marries her will have a hard row to hoe. I can tell you that."

Drummond crushed back the desire to take Malcolm Mackinnon by the throat. He was not normal where Isla was concerned, and he took a far more serious view of the situation than there was any need to do.

"Do you mean to say that you haven't the shadow of a clue as to where she is or what she is doing? Haven't you any other friends in London to whom she could have gone?"

"None--except an old servant of Achree who lives somewhere about the Edgeware Road," said Malcolm with a sudden flash of remembrance. "Don't wear such a worried look, old chap, and don't forget that Isla is twenty-six years of age and more capable than either of us of looking after herself."

"But, hang it all, she's a woman, Malcolm, and--and your sister ought not to be adrift like that!"

"She isn't adrift," said Malcolm cheerily. "And, anyway, what can we do? If she chooses to hide herself, as she seems to be doing, who is to prevent her? She has her reasons for doing so, no doubt."

Neil Drummond was conscious of a growing indignation, of a swift return of his old rage against Malcolm, and of scorn of that careless, irresponsible being who had made life such a burden to the woman whom Neil himself loved. He withdrew with a snort into his own corner and jumped out at Callander with a very curt good-bye.

He put through his business there very quickly and returned to Lochearnhead by the earliest possible train. During the whole journey he was racking his brains as to how and where he could discover the address of the old servant of whom Malcolm had spoken. He knew Isla's ways, and he was aware that it had always been her delight when in London to look up any of her own folk who were settled there. He ran over in his memory the servants at Achree with whom he had been familiar, but he could not fix his mind on anyone in particular. Diarmid, however, who had been with the Mackinnons for nearly thirty years, would surely be able to help him. He would go to Diarmid.

His bicycle had been left at the station, because the train had offered a quicker way of getting over the heavy roads to Callander. He now took it out and rode swiftly down the hill to Lochearn and up Glenogle towards Creagh.

Neil had all the swift impetuosity of the Celt in his blood, and he did not let the grass grow under his feet.

He was fortunate, however, in obtaining the information he desired about half way up, at the farm-house of Darrach, where he came upon Elspeth Maclure taking her washing down off the lines in the front garden.

He swung himself off his machine, set it against the drystone dyke, and pushed open the little gate.

Elspeth, surprised and pleased by this little attention, hastened to ask him into the house.

He thanked her, but declined.

"I am seeking information, Mrs. Maclure. I was on my way to Creagh to see Diarmid, but perhaps you will do. Do you remember the name of an old servant of the Mackinnons who married in London and settled somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Edgeware Road?"

A curious flicker crossed Elspeth's eager face.

"You mean Agnes Fraser that was under housemaid at Achree when I was upper of three, do ye, Maister Drummond?"

"I suppose I do if the description answers," he said with a laugh. "But I don't know her name."

"She lives at 18 Cromer Street, Edgeware Road, sir," answered Elspeth. "If ye'll just come intil the hoose I'll write it doon."

"Here you are," said Neil, drawing out a notebook and a pencil. "18 Cromer Street, Edgeware Road. Thank you very much. That saves me that stiff pull to Creagh, and the roads are heavy to-day. I was glad to leave my machine at the station and take a handy train to Callander. Maclure and all the young folks well, I hope?"

"Yes, sir, thank you," said Elspeth, but the odd, eager expression did not leave her face as she followed the Laird of Garrion to the gate. "I had a letter from Mrs. Fraser not so long ago, Maister Drummond."

"You had--eh? And what was her news?"

"She said she had had Miss Mackinnon stoppin' at her hoose. That was aboot a month ago."

"Do you think she is there still?" asked Neil with apparent carelessness, though his hand as he stooped to his bicycle trembled a little.

"I'm no sure, but I think, Maister Drummond, that Agnes wass troubled apoot her. I haf been troubled mysel'. For, look you, it iss an awfu' thing for the Glen that Miss Isla should haf peen spirited away like this. It iss not the same at all. And nopody efer speakin' her naame or tryin' to get her pack--that iss the worst thing of all. If you please. Maister Drummond, askin' your pardon for my free speech----"

Drummond sprang to his machine and waved his hand in parting.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Maclure. I'll bring Miss Isla back if it can be done. But keep a quiet tongue in your head--not a word to a soul."

He rode off at break-neck speed and, to the great astonishment of his folk, announced that he had to leave Garrion that very night for London, having business there.

Drummond slept soundly in the train, for he was young and strong, and he had had a tiring and exciting day.

Arrived at Euston, he entered the hotel and made himself fit for his great quest. But after he had finished his toilet and gone through the whole menu of the table d'hote breakfast it was only half-past eight. Even an old friend may not presume to call on a lady at such an unholy hour of the morning.

London had no bright welcome for the Laird of Garrion. One of the worst fogs of a particularly foggy November lay like a thick yellow pall over everything, and through its impenetrable folds weird shapes and shadows loomed, and strange, half-stifled cries troubled the air as if there were some invisible and ghostly warfare waged in the streets.

"How long do you suppose it will take me to get to the Edgeware Road in this--eh?" he asked the big porter in the hall.

"Ten minutes by the underground, sir," he answered. "After that, I don't know!"

Neil took the risks. About half-past ten o'clock he emerged from the underground fastness of the Edgeware Road Station and began to grope his way about for his ultimate destination. But it was a sorry business. He seemed to be wandering round in a circle, and by noon he did not know which end of the Road he was at.

Then a sudden miracle, often seen in the case of a London fog, was wrought by some invisible force in the upper air. The thick veil was drawn back as if by unseen hands, a few feeble rays of wintry sunshine filtered through the gloom, and London became free and visible once more.

Neil then found that he had wandered into Maida Vale, where he was totally stranded. He hailed a passing hansom and, giving the address, sat back comfortably with his cigarette, all unconscious, until he took a peep into the little mirror at the side of the cab, that his face was exceedingly grimy and that there were various smudges on his collar.

Neil was not vain, but a man likes to look his best when he goes to see the girl he loves. He did what he could to remedy the defects, and was fairly satisfied with the results when the cab set him down at his destination.

The jingling cab bells reached Agnes Fraser's ears in the dining-room, where, with a polishing cloth, she was trying to remove the traces of the fog from her furniture.

She herself opened the door and had no doubt when she saw a tall young man alighting from the hansom that he was only some fresh seeker after "accommodation," which is the word used in her business. She had of course, seen the Laird of Garrion when he was a boy but she did not recognize him now.

He paid the man and came smilingly to the door.

"Mrs. Fraser? You don't know me, I can see, though you must have seen me sometimes at Achree--Drummond of Garrion."

Agnes's face flushed warmly.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I micht hae kent; but there--of course ye are cheenged. Will you come inside, sir? It's a prood woman I am to bid ye to my hoose."

He entered the house, and, with his hat in his hand, put the one straight question on his lips.

"Is Miss Mackinnon here?"

A great light broke over Agnes Fraser's mind. She nodded silently, pointing to the dining-room, and followed him in.

"This is God-sent, Mr. Drummond. I wad hae written to the Glen the day if ye hadna come."

"But what is wrong? I hope Miss Mackinnon is not ill?" he said with eager apprehension.

"Not ill in her body, though she has got very thin. But will you not sit down, and I will tell you? She is not in the hoose at this very meenit, though I think I can tell ye whaur to find her."

Neil took the chair and waited for all that he might hear.

"She has been in this hoose, sir--let me see--ten weeks a'thegither, coontin' frae the time she cam' first. Three weeks of that time she was at that queer hoose in Hans Crescent."

"What queer house?"

Agnes then grasped the fact that nobody in Glenogle or Balquhidder knew aught of Isla's movements since she had come to London, and she proceeded in her own terse and graphic way to describe them.

"Weel, ye see, she cam' here--for why, I dinna ken. Them that's left in the Glen are the wans that should ken that bit of it. But she cam', not intendin' at a' to go to foreign places to Lady Mackinnon, but jist to live by hersel' and get her ain livin'."

Neil started in his chair. The thing was unthinkable--intolerable. It could not be Isla of whom the woman was talking, yet her broad, comely face was so full of honest concern and her voice rang so true that he could not doubt a word.

"I was wae for her, for I ken London through and through, and what a hole it is--bar for them that hae money and heaps o' folk. In the Glen, see, ye can live withoot onybody and no be that ill aff, but London is--is fair hell unless ye hae folk; I'm sayin' that, that kens. I telt her weel, though I was a prood woman to hae her in my hoose, and wad hae dune ony mortal thing for her. But it was not the hoose for her that had been brocht up in the Castle o' Achree wi' servants at her ca'. Her idea was to lodge wi' me and work in the day-time, but she could get naething like that to do."

Agnes paused, breathless, and dashed away something from her eye.

"When I tell ye ye'll maybe lauch, and maybe ye'll greet. It's what I felt mair like. The first place she gaed to was to a woman that wantit somebody to tak' oot her pet dogs for an airin' in the Park. Yes, she went after that--Miss Mackinnon of Achree!--she did! And that'll show ye far better than I can tell ye what London is for the woman-body that has neither money nor folk."

Drummond was silent, but the veins began to rise on his ruddy forehead, and his kind eyes flashed fire.

"She didna think she wad tak' that at seevin-an'-saxpence a week," pursued Agnes with merciless candour, "and syne she gaed to the Hans Crescent place to be a kind o' companion-hoosekeeper to a leddy. O' a' the traps there is set in London for a woman-body--that's the warst, for, look ye, Maister Drummond, a servant-lass kens what she is and what she has to dae, but when you're that," she said, with a scornful snap of her fingers, "you're neither fish nor flesh nor guid red herrin'. But gang she would. It seems that Mrs. Bodley-Chard--sic a name to begin wi'--but they're a' daft wi' their double-barrelled names here!--was an auld wife married to a young man that had been her first man's clerk. It was her money he was efter, and Miss Isla thocht he was tryin' to get rid o' her wi' some pooshonous drug. Ye ken Miss Isla. Nae joukery-pawkery can live near whaur she is, and she began to fecht the scoondrel quietly-like, daein' what she could for the puir woman. But at the end o' three weeks she was dismissed at a moment's notice, her money flung at her--like. She didna tak' that, and she cam' back here, whaur she's been ever since. And she's got naething to dae sin syne, and her money's near dune, and--and she's--weel, if ye see her, ye'll ken what wey I was gaun to write to the Glen this very day."

Drummond rose up from his chair, and he was like a man ready to fight the whole of London for Isla's sake.

"But what did she mean by it?" he said a little hoarsely. "There was no need----"

"She seemed to think there was. Forby, she was not pu'in' in the same boat wi' Maister Malcolm--the Laird, I mean--and she has never written to him or heard frae him since she cam'. That I do ken."

"Well, and where is she? I must see her and, if possible, take her back with me to the Glen."

"When the fog lifted she gaed oot for a walk in the Park. She hasna been gane twenty minutes or so. Ye can easy follow her. Do ye ken London, sir?"

"Not this part of it, I am afraid."

"But ye canna go wrang. Gang oot into the Edgeware Road, and turn to your left, and gang on till ye come to the Marble Arch. Syne you're in the Park. She's very fond o' walkin' roond by the Serpentine. Ony bobby will tell ye which wey to tak' when you're inside the gates."

Drummond departed without further parley, and Agnes, with a big sigh of relief, returned to her polishing.

She had given the entire story away without ever having paused to inquire whether the Laird of Garrion had the right to hear it. He had certainly assumed some such right, and, anyhow, the time had come when something had to be done.

The desperate look in Isla's eyes that morning had haunted and terrified her. Each week Isla had insisted on scrupulously paying the full amount for "The Picture Gallery" and for such food as she ate in the house, and now her little store was well-nigh exhausted.

It was a very searching and cruel experience for Isla, the memory of which never afterwards wholly faded from her remembrance, though she always said she could never regret the period of "Sturm und Drang" which had given her such insight into the lives of thousands of women battling with adverse circumstances from the cradle to the grave.

Garrion's temper worked itself into fever-heat as his great, swinging stride took him through the swirl of the traffic at the Marble Arch and into the cool, wide spaces of the Park. Against Malcolm Mackinnon his anger burned with an unholy fire. He would never forgive him for this--for his callous indifference to his sister's fate, for his absolute failure to make the smallest inquiry on her behalf. In future she should be removed from her brother's jurisdiction altogether, and he would have to answer to him.

Such was Neil's mighty resolve as he strode along, his restless eyes, sweeping from side to side in search of the dear, slim figure of the woman he loved. There was very little alloy of self in his thoughts that winter morning as he swept round by the windy Serpentine in search of Isla. It was all of her he thought with a vast, encompassing tenderness which equalled Rosmead's, and was less cautious and deliberate in its operations.

He did not doubt in the least that he would find her, but he had to walk a little farther than he expected. At the end of the beautiful sheet of water there is a winding path, and, passing there, he looked up and saw, sitting on one of the seats, a solitary figure which he thought looked like Isla. Only at the distance he could not be quite certain. It did not take him long to cover it. Dashing past the smart nursemaids and the bonnie bairns, whose sweet freshness even London fogs could not dim, he came presently to her side. And Isla, sitting with her head slightly turned away, was not aware of his presence till the gravel crunched under his impetuous foot and her name was spoken in the quick accents of apprehensive love.

She rose up a little wildly, stretched out her hands, essayed to speak, then went white all over, and collapsed, a little heap of unconscious humanity, on the seat.