Produced by Al Haines. THE LAST OF THEIR RACE BY ANNIE S. SWAN 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 MALCOLMâS 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 pheasantâs 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 shepherdâs 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 donât nip Bruceâs 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 washerâs 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 Mackinnonâs 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 Islaâs 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 sayinâ 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 anâ lots of letters. I hope yourself anâ the General are fery well this morninâ." "Thank you, we are," said Isla as she leaned against the shaft of the old cart, stroking the fat ponyâs 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, anâ 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 Elspethâs 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 Elspethâs 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 Elspethâs windows. She could never afterwards recall that half-hour by the Darrach Brig without an inward shudder. Thus did Malcolm Mackinnon, the neâer-do-weel, write airily and lightly, telling the miserable story that well nigh broke his sisterâs heart:-- "DEAR ISLA,--Last time you wrote me you hoped I would have better news to send next time. Iâm sorry I canât comply. I seem to have the devilâs own luck here in this beastly country. In fact, I may as well say at once that itâs all up with me and that Iâm coming home. "Iâve never been very happy in the Thirty-fifth nor got on well with old Martindale. Heâs 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--weâve got too much beastly pride. Anyway, I havenât been able to soft-sawder Martindale enough, and I have been in his black books ever since I joined. But itâs 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 heâd done it all this row might have been prevented. Weâve been up country a goodish bit since I wrote last, and there again I didnât get fair play or a bit of a chance. Weâve 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, Iâve got to send in my papers--thatâs the long and the short of it. All the chaps, except the few that suck up to Martindale, think Iâve been treated most beastly badly, and unjustly besides. But of course nobody listens to a poor subalternâs defence or excuse. "By the time you get this I shall have started for home. Iâm coming by the âJumna,â 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 wonât cut up too rough. Try and get the worst over for me before I come, because naturally Iâm raw enough about the whole bally thing, and couldnât stand much more. Fact is, itâs all right in a crack regiment for the chaps who have big allowances. Thereâs only one word to fit the case of poor, hard-up beggars like me, and that one I mustnât use. Poverty opens the door to all sorts of mischief and misery that a girl who never needs any money canât begin to understand. "Iâd better make a clean breast of it while Iâm at it, and youâll have time to digest it before I get home. Iâm in with the money-lenders both in London and in Calcutta. I owe about two thousand pounds, and how itâs to be paid is keeping me awake at night. Of course, itâs been advanced on Achree, so heaven only knows what will be the upshot. Iâll 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 Iâd 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; itâs 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, Iâm beastly sorry, for you canât be expected to like this. But suspend your judgment, for really Iâm not half so bad as Iâm 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. "Donât be too downhearted over this. You are such a one for taking things seriously, and thereâs hardly anything in life worth worrying about, really. You have the best of it, for nobody expects anything of a girl, and she hasnât a chapâs temptations. "Good-bye, old girl. I shall see you soon, if I donât fancy on board the âJumnaâ that the easiest way out would be to drop quietly over the rail some night when nobodyâs 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 motherâs anxiety and a sisterâs shame for the neâer-do-weel. The history of Malcolm Mackinnonâs 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 womanâs work in front of her, and a manâs 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 tinkerâs 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 motherâs 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 Mackinnonâs 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 cominâ at twelve oâclock last night when that thrawn prute of a cock wouldna stop his crawinâ. I wass for Donald gettinâ 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 Donaldâs making, was crowing in the middle of the floor, she threw herself into Elspethâe arms and burst into a storm of weeping. Now, this was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened in Elspethâs 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 manâs 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 sayinâ 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 Elspethâs face and said mournfully:-- "Itâs the deluge, Eppie. Iâve 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 waitinâ." "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 âJumna,â will arrive in about three weeks. Itâs a slow boat, but inside a month heâll be at Achree." Elspeth bit her lip, and her hands worked nervously in front of her apron. "For the good Godâs sake, Miss Isla, what are we to do with him here?" "Thatâs 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, Iâm so tired of playing watch-dog! Itâs 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. Iâm 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. "Itâs 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. Itâs the cleverest thing Iâve ever seen," she said lightly. "It does the turn, and Iâm not sayinâ 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. Donât you ever miscall Donald to me, for I wonât listen." "Whaâs miscaâin 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 wiâ 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 Islaâs eyes as she breasted the hill bravely, brain and heart so busy that the good mile seemed but a stoneâs 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 stagâs 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 Iâve 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 servantsâ 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 kingâs 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 havenât 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. Iâll 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 manâs 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 neâer-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 Islaâs 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 doesnât 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 Mackinnonâs 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 mustnât 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 donât know," he said vaguely. "I looked at some of them. There is one from Cattanach, but I donât understand it. Youâll 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 donât 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 donât 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 manâs 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 donât 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 shouldnât we let it? Look how often Uncle Tom has let Barras. He has told us he couldnât get on without letting it." "Oh, no, of course not. Read this account of affairs in Rhodesia, Isla. Itâs the aftermath of the war. Heavens, weâll 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 Cattanachâs letter down she drew her brotherâs from the bosom of her blouse. "Did you remember that this is mail-day, father? You know you canât read Malcolmâs 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 donât understand and have no use for," he said with a sudden touch of querulousness. "I canât understand why a boy that has been at Glenalmond and at Sandhurst wants to fill his letters with unintelligible jargon. How is he?" "Heâs 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 Iâve known men who served thirty. Now itâs leave every third or fourth year. It doesnât 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 Iâll write to them at the War Office and stir them up about this perpetual leave business. Itâs 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 manâs business--the serious business of his life. Now itâs 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 doesnât 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 isnât a man of resource. I think Iâll 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 fatherâs 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 fatherâs 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 couldnât say half I wanted." "His letter wasnât very clear, I thought. Ask him why he doesnât learn to express himself better. I thought that was a lawyerâs 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
{'title': 'The Last of Their Race by Annie S. Swan', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}