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

been her meaning if she had. But it was the Campbell emblem, and she was a Campbell . . . O God, if only she were not!

      § 3

      And now Captain Hector Grant’s courtship began to prosper less conspicuously, for the home-coming of young Invernacree cast a perceptible blight upon its hitherto very rapid growth. It was not only that his physical presence was inconvenient, seeing that he was much more likely to come unexpectedly upon the lovers than was the old laird or Grizel, but it also reacted mentally upon Jacqueline herself, who began to close up as the anemone touched by a rash finger furls the pretty fringe which the tide has set waving in the pool. She was very fond of Ian, and sensitive to a disapproval which she felt the more, perhaps, that it was unexpressed. Hector cursed to himself, but he was unable to do much save see all he could of his lady, and as little as possible of her brother. He wondered how much longer he could with decency prolong his visit. Ian Stewart’s covert hostility, which he could not quite understand, was additionally trying because he himself was in Ian’s debt over the old Fort William business. And he had not yet approached the laird on the subject of his younger daughter—did not even know whether he suspected anything of his feelings. Suppose it was Invernacree’s son who first enlightened the old man; that would be awkward in the extreme! Endowed with all the sensitive pride of a Highlander, Hector was uneasy lest he should have placed himself in a false position, and that in the house of another Highlander. And on the third afternoon after Ian’s return he spoke of his perplexities to Jacqueline herself, driven to it by the knowledge that her brother was actually closeted with Invernacree at the very moment—at least, he had seen Ian go into the old man’s study a little while ago, and, as far as he knew, he had not come out again. He and Jacqueline were seated in the window-seat of the drawing-room, and he was holding a skein of green silk for her to wind. But when he made the suggestion of asking her father for her hand without further delay the girl ceased winding, and looked intensely troubled.

      “But I did not wish my father . . . anyone . . . to know just yet!” she objected.

      “My darling! Yet your brother guesses, I think. I should have spoken to your father already,” said Hector, slipping the skein off his hands.

      “But,” said Jacqueline, looking down at it, “I hoped . . . it is so short a time that you have been here . . . O, pray, Mr. Grant . . .”

      “Mr. Grant!”

      “Hector, then,” she said in a small voice, her fingers all the while doing a good deal of damage to the skein.

      He captured the little ravagers. “ ‘O pray, Hector’—what then?” he asked smiling. “ ‘O pray, Hector’—silence! But, my heart’s treasure, what if your brother has forestalled me!”

      “He cannot—he would not do such a thing! Ian is too fond of me!”

      “Cela n’empêche pas le moins du monde,” her lover assured her, in the tongue which was almost as natural to him as his own. “All the more reason, on the contrary, that he should. He does not love me with any great affection, I am sure, and he will be the less anxious to lose you. I should have been beforehand with your father. Directly I can be sure that your brother has left his room I shall ask for an interview and make a formal demand for—this.” He lifted the little hand to his lips as he spoke.

      “Yes, I suppose you must,” murmured Jacqueline, still looking down. “But if my father should refuse——” She came to a stop, and when she raised her eyes they had become homes of tragedy.

      “He’ll not refuse,” returned Captain Grant with much assurance. “But if he should, I’ll get round him somehow. I will procure Ewen Cameron, for instance, to plead my cause.”

      “That would be a good notion,” said the girl, brightening. “My father thinks a great deal of Cousin Ewen. . . . But you say that Ian is with him now. Suppose they were already speaking of . . . us!”

      “That, mon amour,” observed the young man, “as I was saying, is just what I am afraid of.”

      But before he could enlarge upon this possibility they were somewhat apologetically interrupted by Grizel, who needed Jacqueline’s presence on household affairs.

      CHAPTER X

       FATHER AND SON

       Table of Contents

      Aug. 19th (continued).

      The couple on the window-seat, however, need not have been apprehensive. A delicate matter was indeed under discussion at the moment in Alexander Stewart’s study, but it did not affect them. Indeed their affairs were miles away from the mind of the young man who stood there, somewhat like a criminal before a judge, and tried to fend off for a while longer the necessity to which, willing or unwilling, he would in the end have to yield.

      “But if I understand you rightly,” his father was saying, “you practically refuse to continue the prosecution of your suit to Miss Margaret Maclean. Or do I not, by good fortune, understand you rightly?”

      Ian moistened his dry lips. “One cannot prosecute what is not yet begun.”

      “Don’t quibble with me, sir! In essence it is begun. Before you went to Glasgow you assured me that the match was not disagreeable to you, and that upon your return you would pay your addresses to the lady. Acting on your promise, when I met Garroch at Ballachulish one day in your absence——”

      “Good God!” cried his unfortunate son, “you have not already opened the matter to him?”

      “And why not, pray?” demanded Invernacree. “Was I to suppose the word of a son of mine to be a mere tuft of bog-cotton, blowing hither and thither in the wind? I was more than justified in sounding Garroch on the subject; ’twas the proper path to pursue, and he expressed much satisfaction at the prospect of the alliance. But if you are not man enough to win the lady for yourself——” He paused, perhaps expecting his taunt, by drawing blood, to rouse some angry reaction in this strangely reluctant and impassive suitor. But instead of displaying any healthy resentment (though indeed a slight quiver appeared to go through him) Ian Stewart turned his back and went and gazed out of the window in silence; and after a second or two put a hand over his eyes.

      Whatever emotions of dismay or ruth were in the old laird’s soul as he looked at the figure of all the son that was left to him, and whatever momentary compassion showed for an instant on his face, there was no faltering in his voice as he pursued mercilessly:

      “If, as I say, you are not man enough, you must employ an ambassador. Shall I offer myself?”

      Ian turned round. Against the faded grey paint of the folded shutters his face looked grey too, but Alexander Stewart’s eyes were old. “Father . . . I will go . . . but not yet—not yet! Give me a little time, for pity’s sake!” The desperation in his voice was unmistakable.

      “Time!” exclaimed the old man harshly, though his heart fluttered at the note. “You have had time enough, my son. You assured me that you knew your duty—which ought, if you have the common instincts of humanity, to be something more than a duty. I am not proposing to you an ill-favoured or misshapen bride; I should be the last to wish such an one to become the mother of your sons. Miss Maclean is a modest and comely girl of good family. And you have been at liberty to choose elsewhere if you had so desired, and your choice had my approval. What more do you wish?”

      “Or what less?” muttered Ian.

      “Come nearer to me, if you please,” said Invernacree irritably. “I cannot hear what you say, and you give the impression of trying to escape into the garden. Come and sit down here, and let us discuss this matter in a reasonable spirit.”

      Ian obeyed in silence. He sat down at the library table not far from his father, who was ensconced restlessly in a big chair near the empty hearth; but by leaning his elbow on the table’s edge the young man