The Dark Mile (Historical Novel). D. K. Broster

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 drops of the shower.

      That evening Miss Campbell was with them until eight o’clock, but no longer, so that, as yesterday, supper seemed a dullish meal. And yet Ian had a shamed sense of safety. When he could not see the King of Lochlann’s daughter he could not, surely, be bewitched by her.

      But when he went to bed he found this a most fallacious doctrine. He was in the toils of something which he shrank from putting a name to. Was it only a little more than a week ago, when Ewen Cameron was here, that he had sat at this window and reflected how rapture had passed him by, and he must make a mere humdrum marriage? This was not rapture, God knew—it was enslavement, sorcery . . . and all to no purpose. He must forget the spell-weaver as fast as possible, for she could never be his wife.

      He descended next morning, after a wretched night, to find Miss Campbell at breakfast with the rest of his family. During the meal it transpired that she had already heard that one of her brothers was coming to fetch her away the day after to-morrow. Lamentations from Grizel and Jacqueline, and polite regrets from the old laird. Ian alone said nothing. What was he to say, he who was so much relieved at the idea?

      But was he relieved?

      At any rate, since Miss Campbell was leaving so soon, he might safely show her some civility. He thought of offering to accompany her and Jacqueline to some spot whence they would have a good prospect, but the morning, which early had been fine, deteriorated with that blighting rapidity characteristic of the Western Highlands, and by the afternoon the steady drizzle had become torrents of rain, loch and mountains were blotted out, and Grizel had a fire burning in the drawing-room.

      And there, about four o’clock, Ian somehow found himself playing chess with their guest, while Jacqueline looked on and Grizel sewed at a little distance. Miss Campbell proved to be a moderately good player; Ian was usually something more than that. Yet since, against his will, he paid more attention to the fair hand which moved the pieces than to the pieces themselves, it was not wonderful that in the end he was badly beaten.

      “I verily believe,” said Olivia laughingly to Jacqueline, “that your brother has allowed himself to be defeated out of chivalry. Else he could never have overlooked the disgraceful blunder which I made some twenty minutes ago.”

      “I thought you were laying a trap for me,” retorted Ian with a smile. “But indeed I have no pretensions to being a great chess player. I but learnt in order to please my father.”

      “And I to tease mine,” averred Olivia. “He used to say that all women played chess (when they played at all) without judgment, and I thought to disprove it.”

      “I am sure,” said Jacqueline admiringly, “that he cannot say so now!”

      Miss Campbell laughed her low, captivating laugh. “Now he says that they play without true judgment, so I have not done much to convert him from his opinion!”

      And for a moment there was merriment round the fire. The rain lashing against the windows only made this warm, cheerful seclusion the more desirable, in the pleasant and homely room with the faded carpet whose red and yellow roses Ian could remember as long as he remembered anything, except perhaps the twin ivory elephants which his grandfather had brought, so he had always understood, from the mysterious land of China itself. He could see them now in the cabinet behind Miss Campbell’s head, as he sat opposite her in her gown of green silk with a silver shine in its folds. All these years, and the familiar old room had never known its proud destiny—to enclose her; nor the battered old knights and castles theirs—to be touched by those beautiful fingers. . . . The spell snapped, as like a bitter, searing wind there blew into Ian’s soul the remembrance of the identity of the father at whose prejudices the girl here by the hearth was gently laughing, and he and his sisters with her—the man of that greatly hated race whose action had cut off their brother Alan from that very fireside, to lie for ever out in the cold and the rain. With darkening eyes he rose from his seat opposite her, and to give some colour to the movement, threw another log on to the fire. Perhaps the chill which had swept over his spirit, as well as the fact that he was thinking of something else, was the reason why he threw on so many. The flame shot up hot and crackling.

      “Why, Ian,” said Grizel in surprise, “you’ll roast us all! I am sure Miss Campbell, near the fire as she is, will be incommoded by such a blaze.”

      “I beg your pardon,” said her brother mechanically, glancing round for a second at the guest. “I was not thinking what I was about.” No more did he seem to be thinking of it now, when he remedied his absentmindedness by taking hold of the last log which he had thrown on and pulling it off again, not without cost to himself.

      “Mr. Stewart, did you not burn your hand then?” exclaimed Olivia Campbell, leaning forward. “Oh, why did you not leave that log where it was!”

      “It had not caught fire,” replied Ian carelessly, pointing with his left hand to the piece of birch. The right was already thrust deep into his pocket, for, though the log in question was not alight, the flame through which he had plunged that member had licked his wrist and scorched his sleeve.

      “Yes, but something has caught fire,” said Grizel, putting down her work. “I can smell singeing. Ian, how could you be so foolish! Let me see what you have done to yourself!”

      “Nonsense,” said her brother. “ ’Tis only my sleeve. I felt nothing.” He came and resumed his place at the little table opposite Olivia. “Miss Campbell, will you allow me the opportunity of my revenge, or am I too unworthy a foe?”

      But Miss Campbell seemed in distress . . . and how lovely in it! “Mr. Stewart, I implore you to allow your sister to look at your hand!” And as Ian, shaking his head with a smile, and saying again that it was nothing, began to replace his pieces on the board with his left hand, she leant over and said in a pleading tone, “Do not refuse me this favour!”

      Ian set his king firmly where his queen should have stood. What a fool he had been to cause all this pother—and, incidentally, this pain to himself! His wrist was smarting like hell. But he answered with polite nonchalance, “When we have had our game, Miss Campbell, with pleasure.”

      “Jacqueline,” said Grizel, rising from her chair, “pray go up to the cupboard in my room and bring what I have there in readiness for burns.—If you will not seek a leech, Ian, the leech must e’en come to you.”