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

young accuser.

      “God forgive you for the suggestion! I wished that day that Lachlan’s dirk had been in my own breast! Major Windham was my friend, Lord Aveling, my saviour . . . and yet he came to his death through me—And you are his brother! I felt . . . yes, that was it—you have his voice.”

      “I am his brother of the half-blood,” said the young Viscount, standing very still and looking hard at him. “My mother was his mother too. . . . And so you wear his ring. But if you have not his blood upon your hands, what do you mean by saying that he came to his death through you?”

      Ewen caught his breath. “His blood on my hands! If it is on anyone’s—besides poor deluded Lachlan’s—it is on those of another British officer who—” he stopped suddenly and then went on, “—who is probably gone to his account by this time.”

      “And you are prepared to swear——”

      “Great God, should I have worn his ring all these years if what you think were true? He drew it off his finger—’twas the last thing he did—and put it into my hand. I will swear it—” he glanced down in search of the dirk which he might not wear, and made a little gesture of desperation. “I cannot; I have no weapon.”

      “Let that pass; I will take your word,” said the young Englishman, speaking with difficulty. “I can see that what you say is true, and I ask your pardon for my suspicions.” No one, indeed, could well have doubted that it was grief, not guilt, which had made the face of this Highland gentleman so drawn. “But,” added Lord Aveling after a moment, “I should be greatly your debtor if you could bring yourself to tell me a little more. All we heard was that while on patrol-duty on the western coast in the August of ’46 my unfortunate brother was murdered by a Highlander, either a Cameron or a MacDonald, and was buried where he died. It was impossible, in the then unsettled state of the country, to have his body exhumed and brought to England. And now, I suppose, if this place be as wild as we have heard, his very grave is forgotten?”

      “No, it is not forgotten,” answered Ewen, in a much quieter voice. “I have been there twice—I was there last year. There is a stone I had put. . . . He did not love the Highlands overmuch, yet ’tis a peaceful and a beautiful spot, Lord Aveling, and though the wind blows sometimes the sand is very white there, and when the moon is full . . .” He broke off, and stood with his deep-set blue eyes steady and fixed, the young man staring at him a trifle awed, since he had heard of the second sight, and the speaker was a Highlander.

      But Ardroy was seeing the past, not the future, and after a moment sat down again at the table and covered his face with his hands. His half-drained glass rolled over, and the claret stain widened on the coarse cloth. Keith Windham’s brother stood looking down at him until, an instant or two later, there came a knock at the door, when he went to it, and dismissed the intruder, the postilion anxious for his lordship to start.

      When he came back Ardroy had removed his hands and regained control of himself.

      “Since we have met so strangely, you would perhaps desire me to tell you the whole story, my lord?”

      And sitting there, sometimes gazing with a strange expression at the stain on the cloth, sometimes looking as if he saw nothing, Ewen told it to the young man in detail.

      CHAPTER XIII

       THE RELUCTANT VILLAIN

       Table of Contents

      (1)

      Lord Aveling’s elderly postilion may well have wondered when, at last, the two gentlemen came out to take their places in the chaise, why they both looked so grave and pale; yet, since he had been fidgeting over the delay, to see them come at all was welcome. He whipped up his horses, and soon the travellers, not much regarding it, had had their last glimpse of lovely Etive, had crossed the tumbling Awe, and began to enter the Pass of Brander. Close above them were the mighty flanks of Cruachan; on the right the still, black water, bewitched into strange immobility before it rushed into Loch Etive, but streaked with long threads of white as they approached its birthplace in Loch Awe.

      The emotions of the inn had left both Ewen and Lord Aveling rather silent, but at last the younger man said, indicating the view from his window:

      “As you say, Mr. Cameron, my poor brother did not like the Highlands. I, too, find them, with exceptions, uncongenial. This gloomy defile, for instance, and the great mountain beneath which we are travelling, are to me oppressive.”

      “Others, and Highlanders to boot, have found Ben Cruachan oppressive, my lord,” returned Ewen with meaning. “For were you not told at Dunstaffnage that the name of this fine mountain above us has been adopted by the Campbells as their war-cry?”

      Lord Aveling looked at him. “Your clan is no friend to the Campbells, I think.”

      Ewen smiled a trifle bitterly. He wondered whether Lord Aveling had heard that enmity in his voice, or had learnt of it otherwise.

      “Forgive me if I seem impertinent in asking of your affairs, Mr. Cameron,” went on the young man, “and believe me that they are of interest to me because of your connection with my poor brother. I understand from what you have told me that you left the country after the battle of Culloden; did you find the Highlands much changed upon your return?”

      He was obviously inspired only with a friendly interest, and Ardroy, though never very prone to talk about his own concerns, found himself, to his surprise, engaged upon it almost naturally with this unknown young Englishman, his junior, he guessed, by ten years or so. Yet how could he help it? The boy had Keith Windham’s voice.

      “And so it has been possible for you to settle down quietly,” commented Lord Aveling. “I am very pleased to hear it. Not all of your name have been so wise—but then your clan is fairly numerous, is it not? For instance, that Doctor Cameron who is such a thorn in the side of the Government . . . ah, you know him, perhaps?” For Ewen had not been able to suppress a slight movement.

      “Doctor Cameron? I . . . I met him in the Rising,” he answered carelessly. Better not to say how intimate was that knowledge, for the young man would probably shut up like an oyster, and he was not averse from hearing his views on Archie.

      “It seems,” went on the youth, “that he is one of the Pre—the Prince’s chief agents. However, he has evidently come to the end of his tether in that capacity—or so I heard from . . . from Edinburgh this morning.”

      “Indeed?” remarked Ewen a little uneasily.

      “Yes; I was told that the Lord Justice-Clerk had just received information as to his whereabouts, and, having communicated it to General Churchill, had issued a warrant, which the General immediately sent to the commander of the military post at Inver—Inversnaid, I think the name was. Probably, therefore, Doctor Cameron is captured by now.”

      “Inversnaid,” repeated Ewen, after a second or two in which his hand had furtively tightened itself on his knee; “Inversnaid—that’s on the upper end of Loch Lomond. There is a barracks near it.”

      “On Loch Lomond, you say, sir? I fear my knowledge of the geography of Scotland is but small, yet I remember that Inversnaid, or something very much like it, was the name. . . . The prospect of this long lake upon our right—Loch Awe, is it not?—is very fine, Mr. Cameron!”

      “Yes, very fine indeed,” agreed his companion perfunctorily. “But—excuse me, Lord Aveling—did your correspondent say . . . I mean, was Doctor Cameron reported to be near Loch Lomond?” A growing dismay was fettering his tongue, while his brain, on the contrary, had started to go round like a wheel, revolving possibilities. Could Archie really be in that neighbourhood?

      “Loch Lomond was not mentioned in my letter,” replied the young man. “He was said to be in Glen Something-or-other, of which