The Collected Works of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

strange it was, how strange! He might have been going to meet Keith in that boudoir, instead of telling his mother about the circumstances of their friendship and his death. For that, of course, was why Lady Stowe wished to have speech with him.

      (2)

      The Earl of Stowe received the Highlander in his own study that afternoon. He was extremely gracious, made many references to his rescue and to his gratitude, announced that, after reflection, he had come to the conclusion that the Government would certainty do well to spare the life of so amiable and humane a gentleman as Doctor Cameron appeared to be, and that he should use his utmost endeavours to persuade them to do so. He could not, naturally, say what success would attend his efforts, and he warned his visitor not to be too sanguine. Yet a great deal of public interest and sympathy was undoubtedly being aroused by the case. For his part, he had been very favourably impressed by the Jacobite’s appearance, and by his manly and decent bearing on a most trying occasion.

      “You, I understand, Mr. Cameron, were not able to be present in the King’s Bench when he was sentenced. My son made a suggestion to me with regard to that, after seeing you this morning. I fancy, from what he said, that you would be gratified if I could procure you an order to visit Doctor Cameron in the Tower?”

      “Gratified!” exclaimed Ewen, in a tone which left no doubt of the fact. “My lord, you would be repaying my trifle of assistance last night a hundred times over! Does your lordship mean that?”

      “Certainly I do,” replied his lordship, “and I think that it is a matter within my power, since I know Lord Cornwallis somewhat well. To-day is Friday; I will try to procure you an order for next Monday. But if it is granted you would, I fear, have to submit to a search on entering the Tower, for I understand that they are keeping Doctor Cameron very strictly.”

      Ewen intimated that that process would not deter him, and, thanking the Earl almost with tears in his eyes, prepared to withdraw, a little uncertain about his next step. Was Lord Stowe, for instance, aware that the Countess also wished to see his visitor? Yes, fortunately, for he was saying so.

      “. . . And you will excuse me if I do not myself take you to my lady. An enemy who, I trust, will not attack you for many years yet is threatening me to-day, and just at present I am using this foot as little as possible.” It was with a wry smile that the Earl hobbled to the bell-pull.

      * * * * *

      A large portrait of Aveling as a ravishingly beautiful child, playing with a spaniel, hung over the fireplace in Lady Stowe’s boudoir; another of him as a young man was on the wall opposite to the door, while a miniature of a boy who could only have been he stood conspicuously on a table among various delicate trifles in porcelain or ivory. All these Ewen saw while looking eagerly round for some memento of his dead friend, of which he could detect no trace. Then a door at the other end of the warm, perfumed room opened, and the mistress of the place came in, regally tall, in dove-grey lutestring, the black ribbon, with its single dangling pearl, which clasped her slender throat, defining the still perfect contour of her little chin—a famous toast who could afford to dress simply, even when she had a mind to a fresh conquest.

      “Mr. Cameron, this is kind of you,” she said, as he bent over her hand. Save Alison’s he had heard no sweeter voice. “It is even generous, for I fear that your reception by my son last night was not what it should have been, considering the debt we all owe you.”

      Wondering not a little what explanation Lord Aveling had subsequently given his mother of his behaviour, Ewen replied that the difference which had unfortunately arisen between them in Scotland had quite justified Lord Aveling’s coldness, but that they had afterwards come to a complete understanding.

      “So my lord told me,” said the Countess, “and indeed my son also. But he was mysterious, as young men delight to be. I know not whether you disagreed over the weather, or politics, or over the usual subject—a woman.” Here she flashed a smiling glance at him. “But I see Mr. Cameron, that you are not going to tell me . . . therefore it was the last. I hope she was worth it?”

      “If it had been a woman,” replied her visitor, “surely your son’s choice, Lady Stowe, would have been such as you would have approved. However, our difference was over something quite other. You will remember that I do not share Lord Aveling’s political allegiances.”

      Lady Stowe smiled. “I suppose I must be content with that, and put away the suspicion that you fell out over . . . sharing an allegiance which was not political!”

      “As to that, my lady,” said Ewen, “I give you my word of honour.” Entirely wrong as she was in her diagnosis, the remembrance of that love-letter made him very wishful to leave the dangerous proximity of Miss Georgina Churchill, lest by any look or word he should betray the secret he had so discreditably learnt and so faithfully sworn to keep.

      “But you are standing all this while,” exclaimed Lady Stowe. “Be seated, I pray. Have you seen my lord, and is he able to do what you wish?”

      “His lordship has been most kind, and promised to use his influence,” said Ewen as he obeyed—extremely relieved at the change of subject. “And knowing that influence to be great, I have proportionate hopes.”

      “You must command me too, if there is anything that I can do,” said the Countess softly. “The Princess Amelia might be approached, for instance; no stone must be left unturned. But fortunately there is a good while yet. Do you know many people in London, Mr. Cameron?”

      Ewen replied that he did not, that he had never been there before, though he knew Paris well.

      “Ah, there you have the advantage of me, sir,” observed his hostess. “I have never been to Paris; it must by all accounts, be a prodigious fine city. Do you know the Ambassador, the Earl of Albemarle?”

      “No, my lady—not as an ambassador, at least. He was in command at Fort Augustus when I was a prisoner there in the summer of ’46. But I never saw him.”

      He wanted to talk about Keith Windham, not to exchange banalities about Paris and diplomats, and hoped that a reference to the Rising might bring about this consummation. In a measure, it did. Lady Stowe turned her powdered head away for a moment.

      “Yes, I remember,” she said in a low voice. “It was the Earl who gave my unfortunate elder son the commission which led to his death. Aveling has told me the story which he had from you—no, no need to repeat it, Mr. Cameron, for the recital must be painful to you also. And to a mother . . . you can guess . . . her first-born, murdered——” She was unable to continue; she put a frail handkerchief, with a scent like some dream of lilies, for an instant to her mouth, and Ewen could see that her beautiful eyes were full of tears.

      And he pictured Alison (or, for the matter of that, himself) bereaved by violent means of Donald. . . . He began to say, with deep feeling, how good of her it was to receive him, seeing that he had been, in a sense, the cause of Major Windham’s death, and once again the moonlit sands of Morar blotted out for a second what was before his eyes.

      “I was . . . wholly devoted to him,” went on Keith’s mother, in the same sweet, shaken voice; “so proud of his career . . . so—— But that must not make me unjust. It was to be, no doubt. . . . And I am very glad to have you here, Mr. Cameron, the last person who saw my dear son alive.”

      And she looked at him with a wonderfully soft and welcoming glance, considering what painful memories the sight of him might be supposed to call up. Who was Ewen, the least personally vain of men, and absorbed besides in far other reflections, to guess that Lady Stowe, like old Invernacree, had found him the finest piece of manhood she had ever seen, and that she was wondering whether the charm which had never yet failed her with the opposite sex would avail to bring to her feet this tall Highlander, already bound by a sentimental tie—though not exactly the tie which a lady desirous of forgetting her years would have chosen.

      She put away her handkerchief. “But it is wrong and selfish, do you not think, Mr. Cameron, to dwell too much on painful memories? I am sure