The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

She kens whaur tae tak ye. Come on noo, we’re gey near the place.” (And this was true, in the sense which he gave to the phrase, for Ewen’s previous wanderings in the wood had all the time been leading him back in the direction of the house above the Calair.)

      “Come, Mr. Cameron,” added Mrs. Stewart gently.

      “My name is Grant,” retorted Ewen with some irritation. “Hector Grant, an officer in the French service.” And under his breath he promptly began to sing snatches of ‘Malbrouck’.

      But when he got to ‘Ne sait quand reviendra’, he broke off. “Yes, he’s gone, and God knows when he will return. . . . ‘Madame à sa tour monte,’ it says. Will you go up into your tower, madam, to look-out for him?—But there was a man who looked in—through the roof. That is not in the song.” He wrinkled his brows, and added, like a pettish child, “When shall we be through this wood? I am so weary of it!”

      * * * * *

      Yet for the rest of the night he walked in it, always trying to find the way to Loch Lomond, long after Mrs. Stewart and James Stoddart had somehow got him into the house, and into the bed which Archie Cameron had occupied but the night before. And not until she had him lying there, still babbling faintly of doors and axes and eyes in the roof and Inversnaid and Loch Treig, and also of a stolen horse and some letter or other, and once or twice of his brother-in-law Ewen Cameron, did Mrs. Stewart, just outside the room, bring forth her pocket-handkerchief.

      “The Doctor betrayed and taken, this gentleman that tried to save him clean broke in his wits—O James, what a weary day’s work! And to think that but this morning I was baking, and the bread never came forth better! Had I the second sight, as I might have, being Highland——”

      “If ye had it, mem,” broke in James Stoddart “—not that I believe any has it; ’tis an idle and mischievous supersteetion—ye and the laird wad ne’er have ta’en the Doctor intil the hoose, and ye’d hae been spared a’ this stramash.”

      But Mrs. Stewart was already drying her eyes. “If it comes to that,” she retorted with spirit, “a body might think it wiser never to have been born, and that would be a poor choice.”

      “There’s ae man will be wishing the nicht he hadna been, I’m thinkin’,” observed the gardener uncompromisingly, “and that’s Doctor Cameron.”

      “Doctor Cameron will be wishing no such thing,” returned his mistress. “He’s a brave man, and used to running risks, though he’ll be grieving indeed for the blow his taking is to the Prince. Ah me, what will the laird say when he hears the news!”

      “Humph,” said her downright companion, “the Doctor will be grieving for mair than Prince Charlie. He kens weel they’ll hang him, the English.”

      “Nonsense, James,” retorted Mrs. Stewart. “The English have not sufficient cause nor evidence against him. He has done nothing they can lay their fingers on. But no doubt they’ll put him in prison, and for long enough, I fear.”

      “Nay, ye’ll see, mem, he’ll not bide lang in prison,” predicted James Stoddart, shaking his head with a certain gloomy satisfaction. And yet, Presbyterian and Lowlander though he was, he was perfectly staunch to his master’s political creed, and no tortures would have drawn any admissions from him. “A kind and bonny gentleman too, the Doctor,” he went on, “but for a’ he never said aught as he went aboot his business in these pairts, whatever it was, he kenned fine what wad happen him if the redcoats catched him. I saw it whiles in his ee.”

      “You have too much imagination, James Stoddart,” said Mrs. Stewart a trifle severely—and most unjustly. Turning from him she tiptoed back into the room for a moment. “I think the poor gentleman is quieting down at last,” she reported, returning. “I shall go to bed for a while. Do you sit with him and give him a drink if he asks for it—and for God’s sake hold your tongue on the subject of the Doctor’s being hanged!”

      “I’ve nae need tae hauld it,” responded the irrepressible James. “If the gentleman didna ken it too, and ower weel, wadna he hae keepit his skin hale on his back and his heid frae yon muckle dunt it’s gotten?”

      CHAPTER XVI

       THE DOOR IN ARLINGTON STREET

       Table of Contents

      (1)

      The trees of St. James’s Park this May afternoon made a bright green canopy over the hooped and powdered beauties who sailed below, over the gentlemen in their wide-skirted coats and embroidered satin waistcoats, the lap-dogs, the sedan-chairs, the attendant black boys and footmen, and also, since spring leaves flutter equally above the light heart and the heavy, over a tall, quietly dressed young man in a brown tie-wig who was making his way, with the air of looking for someone, among the loungers in the Birdcage Walk. Of the glances which, despite his plain attire, more than one fine lady bestowed upon him he was completely unconscious; he was too unhappy.

      The weeks of Ewen’s convalescence at Glenbuckie had been bad, but this was worse—to come to London directly one was physically fit for it, only to find that no scheme of real value was on foot to save Archibald Cameron from the fate which seemed to be awaiting him. Taken from Inversnaid to Stirling, and from Stirling to Edinburgh Castle, Doctor Cameron had been brought thence with a strong escort to London, arriving in the capital on the sixteenth of April, the very anniversary of Culloden. He had been examined the next day before the Privy Council at Whitehall, but it was common knowledge that they had got from him neither admissions nor disclosures, and he had been taken back a close prisoner to the Tower. That was nearly a month ago.

      At first, indeed, his bandaged head on the pillow which had been Archie’s, Ewen had known little about past or present. Mrs. Stewart, aided by Peggy (so Peggy herself was convinced), had nursed him devotedly, and the task had perhaps helped her to forget her own anxiety on her husband’s account, for Duncan Stewart had been arrested as he was returning from Perth. Luckily, however, for Ewen, once Mr. Stewart’s person was secured his house had not been searched. But a considerable harvest of suspects had been reaped, as Ewen was to find when he came perfectly to himself, for his own cousin John Cameron of Fassefern, Lochiel’s and Archie’s brother, had been imprisoned, and Cameron of Glenevis as well, and there was glee in Whig circles, where it was recognised what a blow to a dying cause was Archibald Cameron’s capture. Of Lochdornie there was no news, but a warrant had been issued against him.

      Ewen himself, who had arrived in London but the day previously, had now come to St. James’s Park merely to search for a Scottish Jacobite gentleman of his acquaintance, one Mr. Galbraith, who, on inheriting a small estate from an English relative, had settled in England and had a house in Westminster. Had he not been told that Mr. Galbraith was walking here with a friend Ewen would not have chosen so gay a promenade. It was the first time that he had ever been in London, and though he was not unaccustomed to cities, knowing Paris well, not to speak of Edinburgh, he seemed to feel here, and to resent, an unusual atmosphere of well-to-do assurance and privilege. Even the trees had not to struggle out with difficulty in this place, as in the North.

      None too soon for his wishes, he caught sight of the elderly Mr. Galbraith at a distance, talking earnestly to a tall, thin gentleman with a stoop. Just before the Highlander reached them this gentleman took his leave, and Mr. Galbraith came on alone, his head bent, his hands holding his cane behind his back, so deep in thought that he almost ran into Ewen.

      “I beg your pardon, sir . . . why, it is Mr. Cameron of Ardroy!” He held out his hand. “What are you doing in London? I am very glad to see you again, however, very glad!”

      Ewen glanced round. No one was within earshot. “I have come to try what I can do for my unfortunate kinsman in the Tower. It must be possible to do something! You have studied law, Galbraith; you can tell me of what worth is any evidence which can be brought against