"I have just put him comfortable with the paper by the library fire, Miss Isla," said the man, as he scanned her face almost wistfully.
He, too, knew the day of the Indian mail. She motioned him to the dining-room, a long, narrow room furnished in what the irreverent called spindle-shanks, but what was in reality genuine and valuable furniture of the Chippendale period. Many old and very discoloured family portraits covered the walls, and the carpet, once a warm crimson but now almost threadbare, gave the only touch of colour to the place. The table was beautifully set, and the silver on it was fit for a king's table.
The Mackinnons were very poor, but there were certain dignities of life which they never ignored or made light of. Whatever the fare might be--and on most occasions it was simple enough--the table was always so laid that the best in the land could have been welcomed to it without shame. The damask was darned, but yet it had a sheen like satin on it such as they do not achieve on the looms of the present day.
Isla closed the door and, steadying herself against it, spoke to the old man who had served them as boy and man for five-and-forty years.
"There is a letter from Mr. Malcolm, Diarmid. He is on his way home."
Diarmid set down his tray rather suddenly, so that the glasses rang as they touched one another.
"Yes--Miss Isla?" he said almost feverishly. "But why will he come home? Is it leave he is having already so soon?"
"No, Diarmid. He is leaving the Army for good. I am telling you, because you love us all so much and understand everything. This news must be kept from the General."
"Yes, Miss Isla--but how? If Mr. Malcolm comes home he comes home, and the General will see him."
"Oh, yes, but he must think only that he is home on furlough. We must make up something that will satisfy him--for a time, at least."