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

a little while dinner was announced. The spaniel’s owner came into the dining-room and duly kissed her hand. She sat upon her host’s right, Grizel upon his left, young Invernacree at the bottom of the table. The light from the window was behind him, and Olivia observed how well his head was set upon his shoulders. They ate roast muirfowl, but the old laird had broth. The spaniel sat by her side throughout the meal, and gazed up at her with eloquent but sycophantic eyes. Young Mr. Stewart did not say much. Was he shy, or sulky?

      Olivia herself was neither, and Jacqueline, who already thought her the most beautiful being she should ever behold, was equally enraptured with her conversation. Even Invernacree, who was not accustomed to hearing brilliant talk from ladies, though at first a trifle mistrustful, ended by being subjugated by it too. After dinner the convalescent was allowed to take a turn in the garden, the old laird with his stick on one side, Jacqueline on the other, Grizel and Ian more or less in attendance. Miss Campbell was delighted with the view over Loch Linnhe, and asked the names of all the mountains she could see. Ian had to supply the names of some which his father’s old eyes could not quite distinguish; he did so with a polite readiness, but nothing more. But the old man was pleased with her enthusiasm for Appin, and forgot what blood it was which coursed through the veins of the little hand lying so lightly upon his arm. He was sorry to deliver her over to his eldest daughter, who then bore her off to her bedchamber again.

      Without Miss Campbell’s presence, something seemed lacking at supper that night; old Invernacree went so far as to put the lack into words. Ian neither agreed nor dissented; and his spaniel lay heavily on his feet under the table. But his light burnt late that night, and he read himself almost into a state of stupor before he ventured to get into bed.

      § 2

      It is true that, in consequence of this precaution, Ian slept; but he woke early. Only three days more, however, and he would no longer be forced to look at that pale, sparkling face, that mouth with the curve which took his breath away, the arch of those slender eyebrows, black as a raven’s feather, nor the wonderful grey eyes beneath them. She would be gone from Invernacree for ever, and this haunting fear—it was hardly less—would ebb back from his heart, and all would be as before. . . . Yes, and he could go and begin his wooing of Maclean of Garroch’s second daughter.

      The young man groaned, and flung himself out of bed. He must be bewitched. He plunged his face into cold water, threw on his clothes, and, early as it was, went out of the sleeping house and down to the edge of the loch with some idea of having a swim. But when he was there the intention abandoned him, and he walked for a long time to and fro on the pebbles, his hands clutched behind him. The tide was coming up Loch Linnhe, sucking gently sideways over the stones, little patches of mist were wreathing away before the sun, a gull or two was crying, and all at once, quite near the shore, Ian was aware of a dark, sleek, rounded head in the water—a young seal’s. And into his mind sprang a medley of seal legends which as a child he had drunk in from his nurse, a woman of the Outer Isles, where seals were human creatures under spells, princes and princesses, the children of the King of Lochlann, who yet married sometimes with ordinary mortals; for if a man saw a seal-woman in her shape as she truly was (and three times a year she must assume it) he went mad for love of her. Ian stopped his pacing and threw a stone at the sleek head, which vanished instantly.

      Ian was late for breakfast, an offence in the laird’s eyes. Apologising, he said that he had gone down to the loch betimes to have a swim, and had walked farther than he had realised. He forgot to add that he had not fulfilled his intention, so that Jacqueline was caused to wonder why his neatly tied-back hair was so evidently bone dry. She thought he looked rather strange, almost ill, but she knew better than to remark upon this.

      After breakfast Ian went off to one of the farms. As he returned through the garden he saw Miss Campbell sitting in a chair, which had apparently been brought out for that purpose, by some old stone balustrading, whence there was a good view down over the loch. He had to pass near her to reach the house, to pass near or to turn back altogether; and this latter he could have done without being seen, for she was not looking his way. But he did not. It was uncouth, uncivil, to avoid her; was a Stewart to show himself lacking in breeding, and before a Campbell? He approached.

      Olivia heard his step, and turned her beautiful head—like a lily on its stalk, the young man was thinking even then.

      “Good morning, Mr. Stewart. I am a shocking late riser, whereas you, no doubt, have been about much earlier.”

      He had, indeed, and she was the cause of it. Ian said, “You are under the doctor’s orders, Miss Campbell. I hope he would not disapprove of your sitting in the open air on such a morning.”

      “I regard myself,” returned Miss Campbell cheerfully, “as now emancipated from the doctor’s care. And your kindest and best of sisters, Mr. Stewart, in whose judgment I have the greatest faith, permits it. I even have a book to read while she and Miss Jacqueline are about their household duties, so you see that I intend remaining here for some time.”

      “Nevertheless, I fear that we shall have rain before long,” said Ian doubtfully, looking westwards at the mountains beyond the loch.

      “Let us not anticipate calamity,” answered Olivia gaily. “Yet, since you are looking in that direction, Mr. Stewart, will you not be my dominie, and rehearse me the names of the peaks over yonder which I tried to learn yesterday. I desire to know if I remember them aright.” She looked up and sent him a little smile, like a flower only half unfolded; but the same shaft sped through the young man again, and, tingling as though from some actual physical impact, he sat down upon the balustrade beside her and obeyed.

      From that he found himself talking of the region in general. Miss Campbell spoke of the peaks of Jura, an island which Ian did not know. Her brothers, she said, had climbed some of those heights; no doubt Mr. Stewart was familiar in the same way with some of the crests at which they were looking. “If I were not a woman,” she said, pointing over the loch, “I should like to stand on that summit yonder. Have you ever stood there, Mr. Stewart?”

      “No, never,” confessed Ian. “I have not often been on the farther side of Loch Linnhe. But I think my brother Alan once——” He pulled himself up, his colour changing, then went on rather lamely, “My brother Alan once climbed Ben Mheon.”

      “Oh, I did not know you had a brother.”

      “Nor have I . . . now,” said Ian, looking away. “He is dead.”

      “Indeed, I am sorry,” came Olivia Campbell’s voice after a moment, with real sympathy in its soft tones. “Recently?”

      Ian had a savage longing to go on, “And it is your father who is responsible for his death,” not exactly from a desire to shock and wound the girl beside him, but to remind himself that he had no business to sit here talking idly with Campbell of Cairns’ daughter because she had smiled at him. Yet, instead of flinging that reproach at her he found himself, to his surprise, bestowing something of a confidence.

      “No, not recently. Nine years ago. He was my elder—the heir, and my father’s darling. If he had lived——” Again he broke off. Often and often as he had thought how different things would have been for him if Alan were not lying with all the dead of the clan in the great grave on Culloden Moor, there came at the moment a new realisation of what the difference might have been, so startling that he got up from the balustrade. The thought was mad, traitorous! Even had he been still the younger son. . . .

      “The rain will really be here in a moment or two,” he said in a strained voice. “It is sweeping fast over Loch Linnhe. Indeed you should go indoors—allow me to carry your shawl.”

      “Mr. Stewart,” said Olivia, looking up at him with compassionate eyes, “I regret very much if I have trespassed upon memories——”

      “No, no!” he broke in. “You have done nothing. . . . And here comes Grizel to hasten you. Pray take my arm.”

      He offered it, catching up her wraps with the other hand, as Grizel came running over the grass at the first