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

as the gentleman bids you, James,” said his employer, and the postillion left the now freed horse, which, subdued by its recent experience, got to its hind legs and remained there trembling. Ian had thought at first that by bending in through the window, with the man to hold him, he could haul the lady out, but he soon saw that she was too far away from his reach in this position. One of them must get down into the box and lift her up to the other; he had only been deterred from doing this at once by the fear that he should trample on her. However, he must risk that. He tugged off his riding boots, and taking a careful view of what lay beneath him, lowered himself through the door and felt about with his stockinged feet until he encountered something flat and solid upon which to rest his weight. He did not know what it was; it was enough that he stood neither upon the lady nor the broken glass of the undermost window. Water lapped cold about his ankles as he removed his arms from the doorway.

      And there at his feet was the girl, as pale as the swansdown collar of her cloak. Ian stooped and very gently lifted her by the shoulders; her head fell limply back. He touched her face; it was not even wet. Thank God, her mouth and nose had not, then, been under water, though he could feel that parts of her clothing were saturated. Laying an inexpert hand upon her pulse he found it beating, as it seemed to him, regularly enough. But it was not too easy, in that confined space, and with uncertain footing, to raise the injured lady and hold her up to the postillion leaning ready to receive her at the aperture above, and Ian was afraid that the man might let her slip; however he himself supported most of her weight from below. At last the postillion had her safe and drew her through; the rescuer scrambled after her to the upper side of the coach, and together they lowered her into the arms of the agitated gentleman waiting to receive her.

      A moment or two later young Invernacree, somewhat breathless, was once again looking down on the girl. Now, however, she lay on the pebbles of the foreshore, half supported in the arms of her father, who had taken off her bonnet and was gazing with deep distress at the cut, scarcely more than a scratch, which its removal had disclosed above one shapely eyebrow. Ian went and dipped his handkerchief in the loch, and the traveller, accepting it, wiped away the blood.

      “I think the wound is but slight, sir,” said Ian earnestly. “A splinter of broken glass, perhaps. But we will get the lady at once to shelter. My father’s house is a bare mile from here. There is no vehicle obtainable, but surely the postillion and I could carry her upon a cloak; and on the way there is a small farmhouse whence I could despatch a messenger to warn my sister to have a bed ready, and where I could also arrange to have your missing horse sought for.”

      The traveller thanked him warmly, premising only that he himself would assist the man to carry his daughter, in order that the rescuer should ride on ahead as messenger. But, on attempting this arrangement, it appeared that the gentleman’s own fall from the coach had not been entirely innocuous, and that a slight wrench to one knee, of which in his devouring anxiety he had hardly been aware, would prevent that modification being carried out. He, and not Ian, must therefore ride the latter’s mare; yet, having mounted, he did not push on ahead, preferring to ride behind, leading the remaining carriage-horse, as Ian and the postillion slowly carried his daughter along. It was a strange little procession, greeted with sympathetic outcries at the farmhouse when they stopped to exchange the cloak for a more convenient hurdle, and to send on a messenger to Miss Stewart.

      When at last they came up the avenue at Invernacree, there was Grizel in the open doorway, with Jacqueline behind her, capable Grizel, skilled in leechcraft and nursing. She already had a bed prepared. Ian and the postillion carried the hurdle with its light burden up the stairs, the gentleman following them. The young lady was laid upon the bed, and Ian, descending again, gave orders that a man should ride at once for the doctor. Then he returned to the landing to wait for the young lady’s father to emerge, and to conduct him downstairs. His own father, he had ascertained, was out.

      He had not waited long before the bedroom door opened and the traveller came forth.

      “I think you were right about that cut, sir,” he said. “I thank God it is so little. But she is still senseless. Can one have a doctor here?”

      “I have already sent a man on horseback for one, sir,” said Ian, looking sympathetically at this poor father’s haggard face. “Meanwhile, will you not come downstairs, and let me offer you a glass of wine or eau-de-vie after your accident?”

      The gentleman thanked him and they went down. Old Invernacree, evidently just come into the house, was standing in the hall.

      “I was out, and have but this moment heard of your mishap, sir,” he said courteously. “I hope your daughter is not severely hurt. Will you please to come in here?” And he opened the door of his study.

      The stranger sank into a chair and rested his brow on his hands, and there was silence for a moment or two. A servant brought in brandy; Ian took it from him and advanced to the guest’s elbow.

      “May I pour you out a glass of eau-de-vie, Mr.——sir?” he corrected himself.

      “Thank you, I should be glad of it.” The traveller raised his head. “My name is Campbell—Campbell of Cairns.”

      Ian’s hand shook suddenly, and he poured a little stream of brandy on to the salver which held the glass. He heard his father draw his breath sharply, and saw that, standing there, he had put a hand to the table as if to steady himself. Mr. Campbell of Cairns, between past shock and present anxiety, noticed nothing; with a murmured word of thanks he drained the glass and a little colour came into his thin, hard face.

      “I thank you, sir,” he said, looking up at Ian. “When my brain is a trifle clearer . . . I have a great deal, I know, to thank you for. I think I heard the name of Stewart used. Am I right?”

      “Yes, our name is Stewart, Mr. Campbell,” said the old laird, standing very still and regarding him fixedly. “Stewart of Invernacree. This is my remaining son, Ian. My firstborn fell on Drummossie Moor.”

      “Like many another brave man,” murmured Mr. Campbell. At that moment the door opened, and he turned his head and got up. It was Grizel.

      “Madam, what news of my daughter?”

      “I think, sir,” said Miss Stewart, “that you may be easy. She has come to herself. We may expect the doctor—if he is at home—before nightfall.”

      “She has come to herself? Then I will go to her,” exclaimed Mr. Campbell. “That is, unless you think it inadvisable?”

      “No,” said Grizel, “I think you might well see her for a few moments, sir, for she has asked for you and is anxious for your safety.” And on that, with a murmured apology to his host, the anxious father followed her out.

      “Ian,” said old Invernacree when the door was shut, “do you realise who that man is?”

      “Yes,” answered his son very gravely. “But even Alan in his grave would not have us refuse him and his daughter shelter.”

      “No,” acquiesced the old man. He seemed to have aged by ten years in the last few minutes. “No, that is the worst of it! . . . O God, give me charity!”

      Once more the door opened; this time it was Jacqueline who came in, looking even prettier than usual in her excitement. “Father, Ian, the young lady has recovered her senses! Did you pull her out of the coach, Ian—and was it running away all the while—and who are they?”

      It was her father who answered the last query.

      “That is the man, Jacqueline,” he said, with a deep and steady sternness, “who commanded the Campbell militia at the battle of Culloden; and they, as you know, were the troops who shot down your brother Alan.”

      § 2

      Supper that night at Invernacree was an uncomfortable meal, at least for all the Stewarts at the board, though it was not in old Invernacree to show a grudging hospitality. As for Mr. Campbell of Cairns, his anxiety for his daughter and his own recent escape from serious accident,