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

might not be in London at this moment. Above all, Ewen’s was a stubborn courage as well as, on occasions, a hot-brained one; he never relished running away. He therefore went on up the wide, shallow staircase, and was looked down upon with haughty disapproval by Aveling’s ancestors.

      Outside a door the Earl paused. “May I know the name of my preserver?”

      “I beg your pardon, my lord,” returned Ewen. “I forgot that I had not made myself known to you. My name is Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, at your service.”

      Now, what had Lord Stowe heard of Ewen Cameron of Ardroy? If anything at all, nothing of good, that was certain. The bearer of that name lifted his head with a touch of defiance, for its utterance had certainly brought about a change in his host’s expression.

      “A kinsman of the unfortunate Doctor Cameron’s, perhaps?” he inquired.

      “Yes. He is my cousin—and my friend,” answered Ewen uncompromisingly.

      “Ah,” observed Lord Stowe with a not unsympathetic intonation, “a sad business, his! But come, Mr. Cameron.” And, opening the heavy inlaid door, he ushered him into an enormous room of green and gold, where every candle round the painted walls burned, but burned low, and where the disposition of the furniture spoke of a gathering now dispersed. But the most important person still remained. On a sofa, in an attitude of incomparable grace, languor and assurance, with a little book poised lazily between her long fingers, half-sat, half-reclined the most beautiful woman whom Ewen had ever seen. And then only, in the suddenness of these events and introductions, did he realise that he was in the presence of Keith Windham’s mother as well as of Lord Aveling’s.

      As the door shut Lady Stowe half-turned her head, and said in silver tones, “You are returned at last, my lord. Do I see that you bring a guest?”

      “I do, my love,” replied her husband, “and one to whom we owe a very great debt indeed.” And Ewen was led forward across the acres of carpet to that gilt sofa, and kissed the cool, fragrant hand extended to him, but faintly conscious of embarrassment at the praises of his courage which the Earl was pouring forth, and with all thoughts of an avenging Aveling dissipated. It was of Lady Stowe’s elder son, his dead friend, whom he thought as he looked at that proud and lovely face. Not that there was any likeness. But surely this could not have been Keith Windham’s mother; she seemed no older, at least by candle-light, than he when he died seven years ago!

      Then Ewen found himself in a chair, with the Countess saying flattering things to him, rallying him gently, too, in those seductive tones.

      “You are a Scot, sir, a kinsman of that unfortunate gentleman who is in all our minds just now, and yet you come to the rescue of an Englishman and a Whig!”

      “It was an Englishman and a Whig, Lady Stowe, who once saved me from a far greater danger,” replied Ewen. He said it of set purpose, for he wished to discover if she knew what her elder son had been to him.

      Apparently Lady Stowe did not, nor was she curious to learn to what he referred, for she merely said: “Indeed; that is gratifying!” and, in fact, before the subject could be enlarged upon from either side, Lord Stowe was remarking to the guest by way of conversation suitable to his nationality, “My son has recently been visiting Scotland for the first time.”

      The menace of Aveling returned to Ewen’s memory. By the tense it seemed as if that young gentleman had now returned from the North.

      “You are from the Highlands, I suppose, Mr. Cameron,” went on the Earl pleasantly. “My son visited them also for a short while, going to Dunstaffnage Castle in Lorne. Do you happen to know it?”

      Ewen intimated that he did, from the outside. And now a voice was crying out to him to end the difficult situation in which he stood (though neither his host nor his hostess was aware of it) by offering of his own will some explanation of the episode at Dalmally. For, with this mention of Lord Aveling in the Highlands, not to acknowledge that they had made each other’s acquaintance there seemed so unnatural and secretive as to throw an even worse light upon his behaviour towards him. At the very least it made him appear ashamed of it. He pulled himself together for the plunge.

      “I must tell you, my lord——” he was beginning, when his voice was withered on his lips by an extraordinary grating, screeching sound which, without warning, rent the air of the great drawing-room. Startled as at some supernatural intervention, Ewen glanced hastily round in search of its source.

      “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Cameron,” came Lady Stowe’s cool tones through the disturbance. “ ’Tis only that my macaw has waked up . . . but I apologise for the noise he makes.”

      And then the Highlander beheld, in a corner not very far away, a gilded cage, and therein a large bird of the most gorgeous plumage, with a formidable curved beak and a tail of fire and azure, who was pouring forth what sounded like a stream of imprecations.

      “For Heaven’s sake!” cried the Earl, jumping to his feet. “I thought you had given up having that creature in this room, my lady! Is there no means to make him stop?” For the deafening scolding went on without intermission.

      Lady Stowe leant forward. “If you will have the goodness to cover him up,” she said with complete calm, “he will be quiet.”

      Both men looked round helplessly for something with which to carry out this suggestion; Ewen, too, had got to his feet. “Cover him up with what, pray?” asked Lord Stowe indignantly. “Good Gad, this is insupportable!” And, slightly red in the face, he tugged at the nearest bell-pull. Meanwhile the infernal screeching continued unceasingly, except for one short moment when the macaw made a vicious grab at the Earl’s lace-bordered handkerchief, with which he was exasperatedly flapping the bars of the cage in an endeavour to silence its inmate.

      A footman appeared. “Remove this bird at once!” shouted his master angrily. (He was obliged to shout.) The man hesitated.

      “Montezuma will bite him, and he knows it,” observed Lady Stowe, raising her voice but slightly. “Send Sambo, John.”

      The man bowed and withdrew with alacrity. “This is worse than footpads!” declared the Earl, with his hands to his ears. “I cannot sufficiently apologise, Mr. Cameron!”—he had almost to bawl the words. “Really, my lady, if I could wring your pet’s neck without getting bitten, I would!”

      “I know it, my love,” returned her ladyship, with her slow, charming smile. “And so, I am sure, would poor Mr. Cameron.”

      Then black Sambo appeared in his scarlet turban and jutting white plume. Smiling broadly, he strutted off with the great gilt cage, whose occupant continued to scream, but made no onslaught upon those dusky fingers.

      “I really cannot sufficiently apologise,” began the Earl once more to his half-deafened guest, “for my wife’s fancy——”

      “What?” called a young, laughing voice from the door, “has Montezuma been misbehaving again?” Someone had come in just as the exiled and vociferating fowl was borne out. “But for that noise, I had thought you gone to bed by this time. You promised, my dear mother, that he——” But here the speaker realised that there was a stranger in his family circle, pulled out a handkerchief, flicked some probably imaginary grains of powder off his gleaming coat, and advanced across the wilderness of carpet to the three by the sofa, a veritable Prince Charming in peach-coloured satin and a deal of lace. And Ewen, watching his fate advance upon him in the person of this smiling and elegant young man, silently cursed the departed macaw with a mortification a thousand times deeper than the Earl’s. But for that ridiculous contretemps he might either have made his confession, or escaped meeting his late victim, or both.

      But there was no escape now. Lord Aveling, still smiling, got within a yard or two of the group when he saw who the stranger was. He stopped; the smile died, his face froze, and the hand with the filmy handkerchief fell, gripping the Mechlin.

      Lord Stowe must have been blind had he not noticed the startling change on the countenance of his heir. But, if not blind, he was possibly short-sighted, for he did not by