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

brave woman, Jean Cameron, who was Archie’s wife, was of the stuff to play it. But she was in France.

      Ewen could not throw off the shadow which dogged him. Why, why had he ever persuaded his cousin to shelter in the woodcutter’s hut? Indeed, if the fairies had put it there, as Archie had suggested, it had been for no good purpose. He saw it again, accursed little place, as he walked up St. James’s Street in surroundings so widely different, glancing back at the Palace front as he crossed to the farther side. And it occurred to him how strange it was that he should be walking about London perfectly unmolested, when if the authorities here knew of his doings at Fort William and Glenbuckie, or if he were to meet Lord Aveling coming out of one of the clubs or coffee-houses which abounded in this region—as well he might, though not perhaps at so late an hour as this . . . But he felt beyond troubling over his own fate.

      As yet the Highlander hardly knew his way about London, and at the junction of Bennet Street with Arlington Street made a mistake, turned to the left instead of to the right, and, being deep in thought, went on without at once realising that he was in a cul-de-sac. Then, brought up by the houses at the end, he stopped, wondering where he had got to. As he tried to take his bearings the door of a house on the opposite side, almost in the angle, opened a little way, and a gentleman muffled in a cloak slipped very quietly, almost stealthily, out. A man who must have been waiting for him outside stepped forward and took the burning torch out of its holder by the door to light him home—though Arlington Street itself was sufficiently well lit. The two crossed over near Ewen, whom perhaps they did not notice, and made for the little street up which he had just come. Ewen turned quickly and looked after them. For the cloaked gentleman had spoken to his attendant in Gaelic, bidding him, somewhat sharply, hold the torch more steady.

      The two were Highlanders then! Ewen stifled the half-impulse to follow and accost them which the sound of that beloved tongue had raised in him. After all they were no concern of his, and he certainly did not know the speaker, who was young and wore his reddish hair unpowdered, for his hat cocked at a rakish angle suffered the torchlight to gleam for an instant upon it.

      Some Highlander, Jacobite or Whig—more probably the latter—who knew intimately a man of position, to judge from the elegant new brick house from which he had emerged. Well, God knew he only wished that he had a friend with influence, living in this street, which looked as if it housed people of importance.

      (3)

      Next evening, a rainy one, Mr. Galbraith took Ewen, as he had promised, to the ‘White Cock’ in the Strand to introduce him to some of its habitués. The Highlander was struck with the discreet and unassuming appearance of this Jacobite resort—which some said should be called en toutes lettres ‘The White Cockade’—the narrow passage in which it was situated, the disarming and rather inconvenient short flight of steps which led into its interior. But if its accessories were discreet there did not seem to be much of that quality about its customers. Already Ardroy had been a little astonished at the openness with which Jacobite sentiments were displayed in London. But was this merely vain display? had the tendency roots, and was it likely in the present instance to bear fruit? Somehow, as he talked with the men to whom his fellow-countryman presented him, he began to doubt it.

      He had been there perhaps three-quarters of an hour or more when the door at the top of the steps, opening once again, admitted a man who removed his wet cloak to his arm and stood a moment looking round with a certain air of hesitation, as one searching for an acquaintance, or even, perhaps, a trifle unsure of his reception. Then he threw back his head in a gesture which was not unfamiliar to Ewen, who happened to be watching him, and came down the steps.

      Ardroy got up. It could not be! Yet, unlikely as it seemed, it was Hector! Ardroy hurried forward, and Hector’s eyes fell upon him.

      “Ewen! you here in London!” There was not only astonishment but unmistakable relief in Lieutenant Grant’s tone. Ewen was even more surprised to see him, but not particularly relieved. What on earth had brought Hector to London again—or had he never rejoined his regiment last January?

      “I’ll tell you in a moment why I am in England,” said the young officer hurriedly. “What incredible good fortune that you should be here! Come with me to my lodging—’tis not far off.”

      “First, however, let me present you——” began Ewen; but Hector broke in, “Another time—not to-night, another time!” and began to ascend the steps again.

      Puzzled, Ewen said that he must excuse himself to his friend Mr. Galbraith, and going back he did so. By the time he got up the steps Hector himself was outside. His face in the light of the lamp over the doorway had a strange wretchedness, or so Ewen thought.

      “Hector, is aught amiss with you?”

      “Amiss?” queried his brother-in-law with a sort of laugh. “I’m ruined, unless . . . But come to my lodging and you shall hear.” Seizing Ardroy by the arm he thereupon hurried him off through the rain. No, he had not got into trouble over his outstayed leave, and he had only arrived in London that morning.

      “And God be praised that I have met with you, Ewen—though I cannot think why you are here.”

      “Surely you can guess that,” said Ardroy. “Because of Archibald Cameron. I thought it must be the same with you.”

      “So it is,” answered Hector, with what sounded like a groan. “Here we are—beware the stair, ’tis very ill lit.” He guided his kinsman into an upstairs room, fumbled with tinder and steel, and lit a lamp so carelessly that the flame flared high and smoky without his noticing it. “Archibald Cameron—ay, my God, Archibald Cameron!” he said, and turned away.

      “Don’t take it so much to heart, Eachainn,” said Ewen kindly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “ ’Tis not quite hopeless yet.”

      “God! you don’t know yet what it is I’m taking to heart!” exclaimed Hector with startling bitterness. “Oh, I’m grieved to the soul over the Doctor . . . but unless I can disprove the slander about his capture I am ruined, as I told you, and may as well blow my brains out!”

      Ewen stared at him in astonishment. “My dear Hector, what slander? Ruined! What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?”

      Hector seized his wrist. “You have not heard it then? Nor have they, I suppose, at the ‘White Cock’ or they would have turned me out sans façon. I tell you I was in a sweat of fear when I went in; but thank God that I did go, since by it I found you, and there’s no man in the world I’d sooner have at my back . . . more by token since you know the circumstances.”

      “But those are just what I don’t know!” exclaimed Ardroy, more and more bewildered. “See, Hector, calm yourself a little and tell me what you are talking about. Has it anything to do with Archie?”

      “Everything in the world. They are saying over there in Lille, in the regiment—the Doctor’s own regiment and mine—that ’twas an officer in French service who betrayed him, and some think that the officer is——” He stopped, his mouth twitching, his eyes distracted, and made a sort of gesture of pointing to himself.

      “Good God!” ejaculated Ewen in horror. “You! On what possible——”

      “On what grounds? Because of the fatal letter which I lost that day on Loch Treig side, the letter which, you remember, we agreed at Fort William had probably never reached the authorities or done any harm at all—which in any case was taken from me by treachery and violence. But they hint, so I am told, that it was written in order to convey information, and that I gave it to the spy! O my God, that men should whisper such a thing of me, and that I cannot kill them for it!” Hector smote his hands together, and began to pace about the little room like a wild animal.

      But Ewen stood a moment half-stupefied. Too well he knew, at least from hearsay, of mutual accusations among Jacobites of divergent views. But in Hector’s own regiment, among his fellow-officers . . . Then he recovered himself.

      “Hector,” he said with emphasis,