There can be no man who is wholly bad, and the sight of big father--that pathetic and yet noble figure, a brave soldier who had spent himself for his country, shook Malcolm Mackinnon as his sister’s appealing eyes had altogether failed to do. He now realized that if his father was ever able to grasp the fact of his dismissal from the Army it would kill him. He should never know, Malcolm swore to himself, as he bent low and ashamed over the outstretched hand and saw the quiver of the thin, pale face.
And Isla, seeing his expression and noting the tremor in his voice, placed that bit of genuine feeling to his credit and wiped something off the slate.
"Glad to see you home, my boy, though this is a queer little house you are come to. Ask Isla about that. She’s the culprit, but it’s a very comfortable place, and I like it well. We’ll have some happy days here, my son. Welcome home."
"Glad to see you well, father," answered Malcolm, though in truth he did not think the old man looked long for this world.
Then there was a greeting of sheer affection for Isla, and a look passed between father and daughter which told of a most perfect understanding.
Malcolm had a sniff of scorn for the cramped little house and, when presently, with the grime of his journey washed off and his dinner-jacket on, he came to the queer little room for the evening meal, he looked round rather grimly until his significant gaze rested on his sister’s face.
"You’ll never be able to stick it, Isla," he said in his most aggressive tones. "There isn’t room in it to swing a cat."
The old man was in good form. The coming of his son seemed to awaken him for a little space to a fresh interest in life.
"Was there anything brought up from Achree cellar, Diarmid?" he asked as the old servant passed the plates.
"Yes, sir," answered Diarmid, not daring to say how very low the cellar at Achree had fallen and how its precious store had been diminished without the smallest hope of replenishment.
They were very abstemious folks at Achree, and the General, being forbidden all stimulants except a little whisky when he needed it, had hitherto asked no questions.
"A bottle of Pommery, then, to drink Mr. Malcolm’s health," he said, with the air of old times, when there had been big parties round the table at Achree and when the wine had flowed at his bidding.