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."