Читать книгу The Last of Their Race - Annie S. Swan - Страница 4

"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."