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

tone. “What is the obstacle? Ah, I remember, your clans are not friendly. But if Doctor Cameron can countenance——”

      “He knows nothing about it,” said Ewen sharply.

      “And his wife, not being a Cameron born, does not understand your natural repugnance.”

      “She does,” answered Ewen starkly, “for she is a Cameron born. She knows what it means to me, but she implores me . . . and could I, in any case, hold back if I thought there were the faintest chance of success? And now you tell me that one of the Secretaries of State actually counsels it. God pity me, that I must go through with it, then, and kneel to MacCailein Mor for Archibald Cameron’s sake! I’d not do it for my own!”

      The blank-eyed busts which topped the bookshelves in Lord Stowe’s sleepy, decorous library must have listened in amazement to this unchaining of Highland clan feeling, a phenomenon quite new to them, for even Lord Aveling was taken aback by the bitter transformation it had worked in a man already wrought upon by grief and protracted anxiety.

      “Let me go, then, Cameron!” he cried. “God knows I am sorry enough for your cousin, and I have no objection to appealing to the Duke of Argyll. I would do my very utmost, I promise you . . . Or, perhaps, you could find some other substitute?”

      “You are goodness itself,” said Ewen in a softened tone. “No, I am the man, since Jean Cameron cannot go. It may be,” he added in a rather strangled voice, “that, just because I am a Cameron and an enemy, MacCailein Mor may be moved to do a magnanimous act . . . O God, he must do it, for all other hopes are breaking . . . and there is so little time left!”

      (2)

      It was with that despairing cry in his ears that Aveling had hastened upstairs to his father’s room and held council with him. As a result of this conclave Lord Stowe wrote a fresh letter to the Duke of Argyll, saying that he was anxious to wait upon his Grace with a friend whom he was desirous of presenting to him (he did not mention the friend’s name, lest by chance the audience should be refused), but that as he was himself confined to his room with gout he would send his son in his stead, if the Duke would allow. The same afternoon the Duke replied very civilly by messenger that he would receive Lord Aveling and his friend at eleven o’clock on Monday morning. The Sabbath, he explained, he kept strictly as a day set apart from all worldly matters.

      So two days were lost; but, as Aveling assured that friend, the Duke’s influence was so great that he could no doubt have Doctor Cameron reprieved on the very steps of the scaffold. And to those the Jacobite would not come till Thursday.

      Nor did Ardroy have to go to the Duke of Argyll with his hat in his hand and a letter of recommendation, like a lackey seeking a place (as he had pictured himself) since he went under the auspices of the Earl of Stowe, and accompanied by that nobleman’s heir.

      “I shall present you,” said Aveling to him as they went, “and then take my leave at the first opportunity. Is not that what you would prefer?”

      “As you will,” replied Ewen; and then, forcing a smile, “Yes, I believe I should prefer it. You are always consideration itself, my dear lord.”

      That was almost all that passed between them till they came to Argyll House. And waiting in the portico, into which there drifted a faint perfume of late lilacs from the Duke’s garden, Ewen thought, “When next I stand here, the die will have been cast, one way or the other.” His heart began to beat violently, and when the door was flung open he was so pale that his companion looked at him with some uneasiness.

      But as he stepped over MacCailein Mor’s threshold Ardroy had gathered up his forces, and regained at least his outward composure. The two were ushered into a large and lofty room, sparsely but massively furnished, at the end of which hung a great blue velvet curtain suggesting another room beyond. Over the hearth voyaged the lymphad, the proud galley of Lorne, a sinister device to many a clan of the West. Ewen averted his eyes from it. How long, he wondered, would he on whose ancestral banners it had fluttered keep the suppliant waiting? . . . but fortunately he neither knew as yet what name that suppliant bore, nor, indeed, that he came to sue.

      But the Duke was punctual to the moment. A large clock by the wall with a heavy pendulum of gilt and crystal struck the hour, and the echo of its chimes had not died away before the velvet curtain parted in the middle, held back by an announcing lackey.

      “His Grace the Duke of Argyll!”

      And he who was sometimes called the King of Scotland came through—a man of seventy, upright, dignified, and rather cold, plainly but richly dressed, with a heavy full-bottomed wig framing a delicate-featured face of much intelligence—a man who had long wielded great authority, though he had only succeeded his brother the second Duke a decade ago. For more than forty years Archibald Campbell, once Lord Islay, had been the mainstay of the English Government in the North; and all this was written, without ostentation, in his air.

      Lord Aveling, who had never seen the Duke at close quarters, was impressed, and wondered what the Highlander by his side was feeling, but abstained from looking at him.

      “My Lord Aveling, I think?” said Argyll pleasantly, and the young man bowed. “I am sorry to hear that the Earl of Stowe is indisposed; it gives me, however, the chance of making your acquaintance.”

      He came forward with a little smile and held out his hand. “Pray present me also to this gentleman, whose name I have not the honour of knowing.”

      And all at once young Lord Aveling, used as he was to all the demands of society, knew nervousness—though not for himself. Something of it was apparent in his voice as he replied, “This, your Grace, is Mr. Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, a near kinsman of the gentleman now under sentence in the Tower.”

      What age had left of the Duke’s eyebrows lifted. A line appeared on either side of his mouth. “And what does Mr. Ewen Cameron”—there was the faintest stress on the patronymic—“want of me?”

      And his gaze, not hostile, not piercing, but unmistakably the gaze of command, rested on Aveling’s tall companion.

      “Your Grace,” began Ewen; but it seemed to him that his voice was frozen in his throat. It was not awe which enchained it, for he was not in the least overawed, but realisation of this man’s power for life or death, and of his personality. He was MacCailein Mor, the Chief of the hated, swarming and triumphant race of Campbell . . . and he seemed to be feigning ignorance of why he, the Cameron, was there to wait upon him, so that he might have the reason, which he could well have guessed, put by the petitioner into words. The moment was as bitter as death to Ardroy, and he hoped that Lord Aveling would leave them alone together. But he finished his sentence.

      “Your Grace, I am come on behalf of Mrs. Cameron, and by her express desire, she now having made herself close prisoner with her husband, and being therefore unable to wait upon you herself.”

      “You come as the emissary of a lady, sir?” inquired the Duke smoothly. “Your errand must have my best attention then. But we stand all this while. Pray be seated, gentlemen.” He waved them towards chairs.

      “If your Grace will excuse me,” put in Lord Aveling, “I will withdraw. I came but to present Mr. Cameron in my father’s stead.”

      “Both of you deputies, in fact,” said Argyll, looking from one to the other, and again he smiled the little smile which did not reach his eyes. “I am sorry to lose your company, my lord, but I know that you young men (if you’ll forgive me for calling you one) have better things to occupy you than talking affairs with an old one. Mr. Cameron and I will then bid you farewell, with regret. Commend me, if you please, to his lordship, and convey to him my condolences on his indisposition.” He shook hands again with every appearance of cordiality, a footman appeared, and Aveling was gone.

      The Duke turned with equal courtesy to the visitor who remained.

      “And now Mr. Cameron—Cameron of Ardroy, is it not . . . Ardroy near Loch Arkaig, if I am not mistaken? Pray be seated,