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

some noisy beaux went past, and he stopped, took Ewen’s arm, and piloted him to a more secluded spot where a hawthorn-tree invited to a seat on the bench below it. But they did not sit down.

      “Doctor Cameron will not be so fortunate as to have a trial,” resumed Mr. Galbraith. “You have not heard that—but no, I have only just heard it myself this afternoon. I was even now discussing it with a friend from the Temple.”

      “No trial!” stammered Ewen. “But, Mr. Galbraith, in Great Britain an accused man must have a trial . . . it is illegal . . . it——”

      “It is perfectly legal in this case,” said Mr. Galbraith gravely. “Have you forgotten that Doctor Cameron’s attainder of 1746 has never been reversed? He will be brought up quite soon now, it is thought, for sentence to be pronounced . . . and the sentence will probably take its course.”

      A gust of wind shook down some hawthorn petals between them. Ewen’s eyes followed them to the ground.

      “You mean to say,” and he found a difficulty in speaking, “that he will be put to death on a charge seven years old for a course of action on account of which so many have since made their peace and been amnestied?”

      “But he has never made his peace nor been amnestied. He was exempted from the Act of Indemnity, as you know, because he did not surrender himself in time. Surely if he is your kinsman you must always have known that, Ardroy?”

      “I knew, naturally, that he was exempted from the Act. But to proceed to this extremity is iniquitous,” said Ewen hotly, “—unworthy even of the Elector and his parasites! To deny a man a fair trial——”

      Mr. Galbraith put his hand on his arm. “My dear Ardroy, remember where you are, and be careful of your language! You will not help your kinsman by getting yourself arrested. Come home with me now, and we will talk the matter over quietly.”

      They left St. James’s Park and its throngs in silence. The beauty of the trees in the sunlight was hateful to Ewen; the sunlight itself was hateful, and these laughing, careless men and women in their bright clothes more hateful still. They were of the same race, too, as the Crown lawyers who were going to do this heartless thing under a show of legality.

      And yet, for all the resentment in his heart, through which throbbed the long-memoried and vengeful Celtic blood, there was also a voice there to which he did not wish to listen, appealing to the innate sense of justice which had come to him from some other strain, telling him that the English could hardly be blamed for using this weapon ready to their hand if they considered Archibald Cameron so dangerous a foe to their peace. And again another, as sombre and hollow as the wind in a lonely corrie, whispering that this was what he had always feared.

      In Mr. Galbraith’s comfortable, dark-panelled house in Westminster Ardroy talked little; he listened. No, said his compatriot, there had not been a great deal of interest shown when Doctor Cameron was brought to London in April, so many people being out of town with the Duke, horse-racing at Newmarket. Should popular feeling be sufficiently aroused; it was possible that pressure might be brought to bear on the Government. As to why the authorities preferred to rely upon the old sentence of attainder rather than to try Doctor Cameron for treason, it was said very secretly—and here Mr. Galbraith, in his own library, dropped his voice and glanced round—it was said that the Government had sufficient evidence to hang him if he were brought to trial, but did not wish to use it because to do so would probably reveal the source through which it was acquired.

      “I should not have thought their hands so clean that they need hold back for that!” commented Ewen scornfully.

      His host shook his head. “That is not the reason for their reluctance—yet, mind you, Ardroy, this is but a theory, and whispered only in corners at that! The Government are said to have the evidence from an informer whose identity they do not wish known. Whoever he may be, he is either too highly placed or too useful to expose.”

      Disgust and wrath fought together in his hearer. “An informer! Pah! But, yes, there has been treachery; I know that well. I wish I had the wringing of the scoundrel’s neck; but he is, I think, some man up in Perthshire—in Scotland at any rate. And the Government are so tender of him that they do not wish his identity disclosed! If Doctor Cameron is sacrificed I think it will not be impossible to find him, protected or no! But that’s for . . . later on. Now, Mr. Galbraith, what do you think of the chances of a rescue from the Tower?”

      “I think nothing of them,” said the Scot emphatically. “A rescue is impossible; an escape only feasible by some such stratagem as Lady Nithsdale employed to save her husband after the ’Fifteen, and such a stratagem has a very small chance of succeeding the second time. No, the only hope is that, for whatever reason, the Government should see fit to commute the sentence which is, I fear, sure to be pronounced. . . . You’ll stay and sup with me, I hope, Ardroy, for I have some friends bidden with whom I should like to make you acquainted. To-morrow evening, if you will allow me, I shall take you to the ‘White Cock’ in the Strand, and present you to some of those who frequent it. It may be,” said Mr. Galbraith somewhat doubtfully, “that in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom. . . .”

      (2)

      It was late, after eleven o’clock, when Ewen left Mr. Galbraith’s house in Westminster, and started to walk back to Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly, where he lodged over a vintner’s. All the time he wished that he were walking eastwards, towards the Tower. But what would be the use? He could not gain admission if he were.

      The hand of Care lay fast upon his shoulder, and to dull the pressure he turned his thoughts, as he walked, to the one bright spot in the last few weeks—Alison’s visit to Glenbuckie. Unknown to him, Mrs. Stewart had contrived to get word of his condition to Ardroy, and the convalescent woke one day to feel his wife’s lips upon his brow. He had made much more noticeable progress towards recovery after that.

      There were other patches of sunlight, too, in those heavy days; little Peggy Stewart had made one of them. More than once, in the early part of his illness, he had wakened to find beside him a small, sedate and very attentive watcher whose legs dangled from the chair in which she was installed, and who said, when he opened his eyes, “I will tell Mamma that you are awake, sir,” and slipped importantly down from her sentry-post. Later had come conversation: ‘Have you a little girl, sir?’ and the comment, made with great decision, when the small damsel heard of two boys, that she thought a little girl would be better. Another time it was, ‘You never eated my bread mannie! Mamma found it in your pocket.’ ‘I am very sorry, Peggy,’ Ewen had meekly replied. ‘I am sure it would have been very good.’ Peggy also expressed regret that his hair had been cutted off; and this was the first intimation which Ewen received that his fevered head had been shorn, and that when he was restored to the outer world he would in consequence have to wear a wig—as, indeed, most men did.

      Alison on her arrival, like Peggy, had lamented that operation, and when her husband, making a jest which for him held a pang, suggested that he might take the opportunity of wearing a black wig in order to change his appearance, Alison had cried out in horror. She did not desire his appearance changed . . . and then, understanding the reason of his speech, was all for anything which would serve to disguise him, particularly when she found, to her dismay, that he was set upon going to London directly the journey was possible for him, entirely abandoning his long-cherished idea of engaging an advocate for himself at Edinburgh. To that course, in the end, she became at least partially reconciled, and longed to accompany him, separated from him so long as she had been, and feeling that he would not be fit to look after himself for a while yet. But the great obstacle to this plan had been, not the children, since Aunt Margaret was back at Ardroy now, but the stark, bare obstacle which wrecks so many desires—want of money. Alison had brought her husband all that she could raise at the moment, but it would barely suffice for his own outfit, journey and maintenance in London. So she must stay behind. “And besides,” as she said bravely, “what could I do towards saving the Doctor, Ewen? I am not his wife, and cannot play the part of Lady Nithsdale.”

      Lady Nithsdale! Here, within three