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

you a bachelor, since it seems to displease you. Tell me of your wife and children.”

      “There is little to tell,” responded Ewen. At least, there seemed little to tell this fine lady.

      “Seven years,” said her ladyship reflectively. “Then you were married soon after the Re—the Rising?”

      “No, during it,” replied her guest. “About five weeks before the battle of Culloden—But I am sure that this cannot interest you, my lady.”

      “On the contrary,” said Lady Stowe, smiling her sweet, slow smile. “And your wife—how romantical! Tell me, did she seek and find you upon the battlefield . . . for something tells me that you were left there for dead?”

      “My wife was then in France,” replied Ardroy rather shortly.

      “But you were left upon the battlefield?” pursued Lady Stowe, looking at him with fresh interest.

      “Yes, I was,” admitted Ewen, with a good deal of unwillingness. “But you must forgive me for saying once more that I do not see of what interest it can be to your ladyship whether I was or no.”

      “O Mr. Cameron, do not snub me so!” cried the Countess. Secretly she was charmed; what man in the whole of London would have spoken to her with such uncompromising directness? “I protest I meant nothing uncomplimentary in the assumption—rather the reverse!”

      “Few men who were so left were lucky enough to come off with their lives,” remarked Ewen grimly.

      “Why? Ah, I remember hearing that it was very cold in the North then. Did you suffer from the severity of the weather?”

      “I suppose I did,” admitted Ardroy, “though I knew little about it at the time. And it was not, for the most part, the weather which killed our wounded. . . . But I am occupying too much of your ladyship’s time, and if you will permit me I will take my leave.” And he rose from his chair with that intention.

      But Lady Stowe remained sitting there, looking up at him. “Have you taken a vow never to speak of your past life, Mr. Cameron? For I protest that you are singularly uncommunicative, which is, I believe, a trait of your countrymen from the Lowlands. That provokes a woman, you know, for she is naturally all curiosity about persons in whom she is interested. And in your case, too, there is the link with my poor Keith. Did you tell him nothing?”

      “It was about him, not myself, that I came to talk,” was almost upon Ewen’s lips; but he kept the remark unuttered. If Keith’s mother wanted to know more of his past history he supposed he must gratify the desire; moreover, he was afraid that he had taken up a churlish attitude towards this gracious and beautiful lady. He had not yet got over the jolt.

      So he tried to make amends. “I fear that I am being extremely uncivil, and that you will think me very much of a barbarian, Lady Stowe. Anything that you care to hear about me I am very ready to tell you; and in exchange you will perhaps (if I do not ask too much) tell me something of Major Windham. I knew so little of his past life.”

      The Countess of Stowe studied him as he stood there in her boudoir, nothing of the barbarian about him save, perhaps, his stalwart height. He would evidently come to see her to talk about her dead son, though he would not come to a rout or a tea-party. Very well then. And for how many occasions could she make her reminiscences of Keith last out? There must not be too many served up at each meeting. And would those deep blue eyes look at her again with that appealing gaze? On such a strong face that fleeting expression held an irresistible charm . . . but then so had his very different air when she tried to make him speak of what he had no mind to. Like a true connoisseur Lady Stowe decided to cut short the present interview in order to have the pleasure of looking forward to others. She glanced at the cupid-supported clock on the mantelpiece, gave an exclamation and rose.

      “I had forgotten the time . . . I must go and dress. . . . Then it is a bargain, Mr. Cameron? You’ll come again and hear of my poor boy? Come at any time when you are not conspiring, and I will give orders that you shall be instantly admitted—that is, if I am without company. You shall not, since you do not wish it, find yourself in the midst of any gatherings. Nor indeed,” she added with a faint sigh, “could we then speak of my dear Keith.” And with that, swaying ever so little towards him, she gave him her hand.

      No, thought Ewen as he went down the great staircase, but they might have spoken of him this afternoon a great deal more than they had done. Lady Stowe had told him nothing, yet the shock of Keith’s death, even to a mother’s heart, must be a little softened after seven years. And what could it have mattered to her whether or no he had been left out all night on a battlefield, and whether he were married or single? He concluded that fashionable ladies were strange creatures, and wondered what Alison would have made of the Countess of Stowe.

      * * * * *

      Not far from the steps of Stowe House, when Ewen got into the square, there was waiting an extremely respectable elderly man who somehow gave the impression of being in livery, though he was not. As Ardroy came towards him he stepped forward, and, saluting him in the manner of an upper servant, asked very respectfully for the favour of a few words with him.

      “Certainly,” said Ewen. “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?”

      “I understand, sir,” said the man, “that you are the gentleman that was with Major Windham when he was killed, and was telling my lady his mother how it happened. I’m only a servant, sir, but if you would have the goodness . . . I taught him to ride, sir, held him on his first pony, in the days when I was with Colonel Philip Windham his father, and I was that fond of him, sir, and he always so good to me! ’Twas he got me the place in his lordship’s household that I have still; and if, sir, you could spare me a moment to tell me of his end among those murdering Highlanders . . . ?” His voice was shaking, and his face, the usually set, controlled face of a superior and well-trained servant, all quivering with emotion.

      Ewen was touched; moreover no chance of learning more of the friend about whom he really knew so little, was to be lost. “Come back with me to my lodging,” he said, “and I will tell you anything you desire to know.”

      The man protested at first, but, on Ewen’s insisting, followed him at a respectful distance to Half Moon Street. So yet another inmate of Stowe House came to the vintner’s that day. The name of this one was Masters, and Ewen, bidding him sit down, told him the whole story.

      “It must have been a terrible grief to Lady Stowe,” he ended sympathetically, and was surprised to see a remarkable transformation pass over the old servant’s saddened face.

      “Did her ladyship give you that impression, sir? Nay, I can see that she did.” He hesitated, his hand over his mouth, and then broke out: “I must say it—in justice to him I must say it—and I’m not in her service, but in my lord’s—Mr. Cameron, she never cared the snap of a finger for Mr. Keith, and when he was a boy it used near to break his heart, for he worshipped her, lovely as she was. But ’twas my young lord she cared for, when he came, and rightly, for he is a very sweet-natured young gentleman. Yet she had Mr. Keith’s devotion before her second marriage, when he was her only son, and she took no heed of it—she neglected him. I could tell you stories, sir . . . but ’tis better not, and he’s dead now, my Mr. Keith, and few enough people in his life to appreciate him as they should have done. But if you did, sir, that’s a great thing for me to think of . . . and your being with him at the end, too. . . . Might I look at that ring of his you spoke of, sir, if not asking too great a favour? Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!”

      For Ewen had taken off Keith Windham’s signet ring and put it into the old man’s hand. Then he went to the window and stood looking out.

      He could not but believe the old servant. What he had told him interpreted the whole of this afternoon’s interview. Lady Stowe had avoided speaking of Keith to him at any length not from grief, but from indifference. He could hardly credit it, yet it must have been so—unless perchance it was from remorse. Well, now he knew what he thought of ladies of fashion. Poor Keith, poor Keith!

      “Masters,”