Chapter VII: The Home-Coming

Having been made free of his aunt's house, Malcolm arrived at Belgrave Square that afternoon in time for tea. The room seemed quite full of people, for the young Mackinnons were a gay crowd, never happier than when surrounded by their friends. Somebody had said that the London season was to be Scottish that year, and there were heaps of their own immediate friends already settled in town.

Isla was greatly in request, and it was about twenty minutes before Malcolm got a chance of having a word with her. He came up to her jauntily with an air of the utmost unconcern, and, as he might have expressed it, took the bull by the horns.

"Why were you in such a hurry this morning, Isla, and what were you doing in the purlieus of the Edgeware Road? Don't you know that's the wrong side of the Park altogether?" he said teasingly.

"I might say the same to you," she answered a trifle tartly, and her eyes, which seemed to have acquired a distaste for his face, did not meet his gaze.

"I was doing my duty--and a beastly fagging bit of duty it was too, a little commission for a pal in India--and, as I'd made up my mind to go north with you to-morrow if you really are bent on going, this was my only opportunity."

It sounded a perfectly plausible explanation, and Isla suffered her somewhat unwilling eyes to dwell for a moment on his smiling face. Never did man look more innocent and ingenuous. There was not the flicker of a lid or a tinge of colour to condemn him. Knowing perfectly well that her scrutiny was judicial, he met it without flinching.

"I did not like the look of the woman, Malcolm," was all she said. "But please, I don't want to hear any more about it."

It can hardly be said that she was convinced, but only that she realized the utter futility of trying to get to the bottom of Malcolm's mind or of ever reaching his real self. What that self would be like when she reached it she did not ask.

But a little later, watching his matchless manner with his aunt's guests and the way in which he held his little court of admiring womenkind about him, she marvelled at his powers. So long as he possessed such faculties of pleasing and could attract those with whom he came into contact, nobody need wonder at his gay aplomb. Nothing could greatly matter, for whoever might suffer or go under, it would not be Malcolm. He would sail--a little unsteadily perhaps, but still successfully--on the crest of the wave, and only those who knew him intimately and who had suffered through him would ever probe the depths of his colossal selfishness.

This was the estimate of her brother at which Isla had now arrived. The trials and hardships of the last three years had wrought a great change in her outlook upon men and things and had made her judgment a little merciless. In fact this was a very critical moment in the history of Isla Mackinnon, and but for the timely introduction of some fresh forces into her life she might have become a really hard woman.

Malcolm airily declined his aunt's rather pressing invitation to stay a week.

"I'll return, dearest aunt, a little later, when the Glen begins to pall," he whispered with that little air of personal devotion and interest which even old women found so charming. "Behold the gloom on Isla's face! She represents my duty. I shall take her home to-morrow, Pay my humble respects to the old man, and syne, if you will have me, I'll be only too glad to come back."

Lady Mackinnon nodded, well pleased.

"Come up in time for the Court. Marjorie and Sheila will never be satisfied till you see them in all their bravery. And we'll give a ball for you if you do come!"

"All right, my lady," said Malcolm with extreme satisfaction. "Fix the date and I'll come."

"I'm so sorry about Isla. I keep telling her not to take life so seriously," said Lady Mackinnon, her kind eyes wandering in the direction of her niece. "As I told her last night, it is you who ought to bear the burden of Achree. It's robbing her of her youth. She has changed greatly in the last year, don't you think?"

"Yes, and gone off decidedly, but there----"

He gave his shoulders a little shrug which expressed much that he did not say.

He dined at Belgrave Square that night and showed another side of him--the grave, quiet, attentive side, which pleased his relatives equally, if not even more.

"Why am I distrait?" he asked, when Marjorie twitted him with his quietude. "Well, the windbag was pricked last night. I couldn't sleep in my hard hotel bed for thinking of all the gas I had let out. It was pure exuberance of joy at again finding myself in such an atmosphere after hard service and a month on that beastly boat. Here's to our next merry meeting! Uncle Tom, Aunt Jean--the best of luck and nothing short of coronets for these fair heads."

Then they all laughed, and the last memory of the evening was as pleasant as possible. Next morning the whole family were at Euston to see the brother and sister off, and they duly departed in the full odour of family farewells.

"Well, that's over, thank goodness," said Malcolm as he dropped into his corner. A judicious word and a tip from Uncle Tom had secured them a compartment to themselves, in which they could talk of their private affairs. "Now, it'll be the tug-of-war--eh, Isla? Don't look so glum, old girl. Believe me, there isn't anything in life worth it."

"I don't want to be glum, but I have felt rather mean these two days, Malcolm. Perhaps we ought to have told Uncle Tom and Aunt Jean. Didn't you feel that we were there under false pretences? They would have felt differently, I mean, if they had known that you had sent in your papers."

He shrugged his shoulders, tossed his cap to the rack, and took out his cigarette case.

"Do you mind if I take a whiff? I suppose it would have made a difference, but why intrude unpleasant topics until one can't avoid them? That's a pretty good and safe philosophy of life, Isla--to lie low and keep dark about what can't be helped."

"They will know before you go back to London again, that is, if you were serious about going to them in May."

"Anything may happen between now and the month of May. The thing is to grease the ropes. Now, what earthly good would it have done to have told them the real state of affairs? It would only have depressed them and made us all most beastly uncomfortable. By the by, as we are on the subject, may I inquire how many people in the Glen you have told?"

"Only Neil Drummond."

"That young, unlicked cub! And why, in Heaven's name, should you have told him? Are you engaged to him--or what? There must be some reason why he should be taken into the family's most private counsels."

"I had to tell somebody, and it was in a manner forced on me," she said rather coldly. "But you need not be afraid of Neil telling anyone. He feels it too much."

"Very kind of him, I'm sure. Well now, tell me something about this American chap. Is he a bounder, like the rest of them?"

"No, he's a gentleman, Malcolm."

"It's an elastic term. Do you mean that he wears good clothes and that sort of thing?"

"No. I don't mean that."

"Then, he's a thorough good chap that a fellow might know?"

Isla, with a vision of Rosmead's calm, strong, fine face in front of her, sat back suddenly and began to laugh.

"What's the joke?" asked Malcolm, mildly surprised.

But she did not give him any satisfaction. She felt tempted to say that very probably had Rosmead known the facts of the case he might have declined the honour of Malcolm's acquaintance. She told herself, however, that she must try not to break the bruised reed. Yet there was not much of the appearance of the bruised reed about the airy Malcolm, who looked as if he had not a care in the world.

He was very kind and amusing on the journey, telling her lots of stories of his Indian experiences. More than once she felt herself almost completely succumbing to his spell and inclined to accept without reservation his own estimate of himself.

It was dark when they reached the station at Lochearnhead, where the wagonette from the hotel was waiting for them.

Malcolm elected to sit on the driver's seat and to take the reins from Jamie Forbes, and so Isla was left to her own contemplations in the roomy space behind. She was not sorry that it was so. Once more back in the Glen, she experienced a return of all her cares, accentuated, because the biggest one, embodied in the flesh, was in front, carrying on an animated conversation with Jamie, from whom, in a few minutes' time, he wrested the whole gossip of the Glen.

He learned that the hotel business was flourishing exceedingly, now that the making of the new railway line was coming near the head of the Loch. It had been started only a year when Malcolm last went away, and now they were at work on the viaduct, which had just escaped being built on Achree land.

"If only we'd been a mile lower down the Glen, Isla!" he looked round to say. "We might have had a haul off the Railway Companies, but that's just our luck all through. We miss it every time by the skin of our teeth. Do you mind if I just stop at the hotel and pass the time of day with Miss Macdougall?"

"Don't stop long, then, Malcolm. I want to get home to father as quickly as possible."

She sat with what patience she might for ten minutes while he was inside the hotel getting a drink, and soon after he had resumed his seat they began the gradual ascent of Glenogle. She was conscious of a quickened heart-beat as they came near to Achree; and presently the blaze of its lights could be seen through the trees.

"By Jove, Isla--no stint there!" he called over his shoulder. "Achree has never been illuminated like that within the memory of man. What are they saying about the new folk in the Glen, Jamie?"

"They like them not that pad, sir. They are fery civil-spoken and kind, forpy peing likely to spend a heap of money. They are fery anxious that whoefer hass things to sell in the Glen shall pring them to Achree. There are not many like that come now to the Glen, Maister Malcolm. The most of them do nothing put send for big boxes to come from the store. They will pe well likit, I'm thinking."

"Oh, yes, it sounds idyllic," said Malcolm drily, the meaning of which adjective Jamie did not grasp.

"It seems a shame to pass by the old place. I'm down to-morrow if I'm a living man, Americans or no Americans," said Malcolm to Isla. "Has he any women-folk?"

"I'll tell you about them later," she answered, and her voice shook a little, for she too felt a qualm as they passed by the gate and the little lodge.

It was a long cold climb to the Moor of Creagh, and she was heartily sick of it before they drew up at the unpretentious white gate from which a straight, short drive led up to the house.

Diarmid was in the porch to meet and welcome them, and, though there was an odd shrinking in the old man's eyes as they travelled with a look of anxious reproach to the young Laird's face, Malcolm himself seemed quite unaware of it. He grasped the old man's hand cordially, asked for his welfare, and then passed in to where the old General, holding himself rather erect and proudly, though leaning hard on his stick, was peering through the dim light for sight of his son.

There can be no man who is wholly bad, and the sight of big father--that pathetic and yet noble figure, a brave soldier who had spent himself for his country, shook Malcolm Mackinnon as his sister's appealing eyes had altogether failed to do. He now realized that if his father was ever able to grasp the fact of his dismissal from the Army it would kill him. He should never know, Malcolm swore to himself, as he bent low and ashamed over the outstretched hand and saw the quiver of the thin, pale face.

"How are you, sir?" faltered Malcolm.

And Isla, seeing his expression and noting the tremor in his voice, placed that bit of genuine feeling to his credit and wiped something off the slate.

"Glad to see you home, my boy, though this is a queer little house you are come to. Ask Isla about that. She's the culprit, but it's a very comfortable place, and I like it well. We'll have some happy days here, my son. Welcome home."

"Glad to see you well, father," answered Malcolm, though in truth he did not think the old man looked long for this world.

Then there was a greeting of sheer affection for Isla, and a look passed between father and daughter which told of a most perfect understanding.

Malcolm had a sniff of scorn for the cramped little house and, when presently, with the grime of his journey washed off and his dinner-jacket on, he came to the queer little room for the evening meal, he looked round rather grimly until his significant gaze rested on his sister's face.

"You'll never be able to stick it, Isla," he said in his most aggressive tones. "There isn't room in it to swing a cat."

The old man was in good form. The coming of his son seemed to awaken him for a little space to a fresh interest in life.

"Was there anything brought up from Achree cellar, Diarmid?" he asked as the old servant passed the plates.

"Yes, sir," answered Diarmid, not daring to say how very low the cellar at Achree had fallen and how its precious store had been diminished without the smallest hope of replenishment.

They were very abstemious folks at Achree, and the General, being forbidden all stimulants except a little whisky when he needed it, had hitherto asked no questions.

"A bottle of Pommery, then, to drink Mr. Malcolm's health," he said, with the air of old times, when there had been big parties round the table at Achree and when the wine had flowed at his bidding.

Diarmid looked desperately--imploringly at his young mistress, who rose, smiling slightly.

The Pommery had long since disappeared; but, in anticipation of this reunion, she had laid in one bottle of champagne in order that her father might not be disappointed. So it was brought and duly drawn by Diarmid, who filled the glasses and then helped his master to his feet.

"Welcome home, my son. Long life, good health, and honourable prosperity to you and to Achree. God bless you and make you a blessing. Isla, my dear, your best health."

Isla's eyes suddenly swam in tears, and Malcolm had the good feeling to bend his head in honest shame. The General did little more than taste from his glass and then set it down with a little sigh of disappointment.

"It is bad for good wine to be shifted," he said. "Never mind, Malcolm. When we go back to Achree you shall have your pick of the cellar."

The wine was good. The change was in his palate, which had lost its verve. He was very tired after dinner, and his rambling thoughts could not be kept in check. He babbled a good deal of old days, for which indeed Isla was thankful, since it kept him from asking questions about the present ones.

She had dreaded what might happen on the night of the home-coming, but she now clearly saw that her father was less and less likely to disturb himself about any untoward happenings. He accepted everything--a circumstance which certainly considerably relieved the strain.

"He looks jolly bad, poor old chap," said Malcolm, when Isla came down about ten o'clock from seeing him safely in bed. "He can't last long. It was a pity that you didn't let him see it out at Achree."

"He has not got any worse in the last six months that I can see. Of course the excitement to-night wore him out. He will be brighter in the morning."

"I still think it was a beastly shame to bring him up here. There isn't even decent comfort. This is the only room worth mentioning."

"Well, he has it. He is quite comfortable," said Isla, stoutly. "We must take what is left."

"In wet weather, of which Glenogle has its full share, we shall fight like Kilkenny cats," said Malcolm with a grimace.

Isla passed over the vulgarity of the remark in silence, and, after a moment, said quite straightly. "But surely you won't stop long in the Glen, Malcolm. You'll try to get an appointment of some kind."

"I'd be glad if you'd mention the sort of appointment I'd be likely to get," he answered carelessly. "I must say it's very cold cheer you have for a chap, Isla, after three years' absence. If I weren't the most unsuspicious of men I might suspect you of having underhand motives."

Isla, staring hard into the crackling embers of the peat-fire, answered nothing.

"It strikes me from all I can gather that the place wants a good deal of looking into. I'll make that my first business. I thought them all slack when I was home before, and Heaven only knows what they'll be like now. Then, I must be on the spot on account of the way the old man is. I shouldn't like to be out of the way if anything should happen."

Isla rose to her feet and bade him good night. She had had just about as much as her tired body and strained mind could stand.

"Dead men's shoes" were the words that beat upon her brain through the hours of a restless night.