It was the seventeenth of July, and Keith Windham in his quarters at
Inverness was turning over an official letter which had just come to
him from Fort Augustus. It was, he saw, in the handwriting of Sir
Everard Faulkner, Cumberland’s secretary, and as he looked at it hope
whispered to him that it might, perhaps, portend the lifting of the
cloud under which he had lived for the last two months. And, not to
silence that voice too soon, he left the letter unopened for a minute
or two, and sat staring at it.
His case had never come before a court-martial; it had been privately
dealt with by Hawley and the Duke. Three things had combined to save
him from being cashiered: the fact that Cumberland was graciously
pleased to set his conduct at Fontenoy against his present lapse, that
Lord Albemarle had written some words of appreciation of him in that
despatch which Keith had never delivered, and that Hawley had
regarded, and succeeded in making Cumberland regard, Lord Loudoun’s
action in putting his staff-officer under arrest as high-handed, and
to be resented. “I can’t understand your conduct, Windham,” he had
said angrily to his erring subordinate, “but I’m damned if I’ll stand
Lord Loudoun’s!” Hawley chafed all the more because he knew his own
star to be on the decline; and thus military jealousy played no small
part in saving Keith from complete disaster.
But all was over, naturally, with his chance of being appointed to
Cumberland’s staff, nor could Hawley keep him on his, even for the
short time that should elapse before he resigned his own
none-too-fortunate command. Although Major Windham’s might be regarded
as a mere technical offence—and even Cumberland, severe as he was
showing himself in matters of discipline, did not seem to regard it as
more—Lord Loudoun’s treatment of it had given it so much publicity
that for appearances’ sake the defaulter had to be punished. Keith had
hoped that he might escape from Scotland by being sent back to his own
battalion of the Royals, now in Kent, or that perhaps he would be
attached to the second, just proceeding to Perth; but he was offered
instead a vacancy in Battereau’s regiment, which was to remain behind
with Blakeney’s when the bulk of the army should move with Cumberland
to Fort Augustus. He was, in short, put on the shelf; but he was very
plainly shown that it was a choice between accepting this position or
sending in his papers altogether. He might indeed count himself
extremely lucky that he had escaped being broke, and so the Duke
himself had told him.
The last week in May, therefore, had found him left behind in
Inverness, no longer the centre of military activity now that
Cumberland was gone, but rather a depôt for prisoners, entailing on
the two regiments remaining in the town duties which were both dull
and—to Keith Windham at least—hateful. But the shelf has an
uncommonly sobering effect upon a hot-tempered and ambitious man, and
it did not require two months of it to bring reflection to Major
Windham. Before they were half over he was viewing his own irregular
conduct in a much more critical light, and from cursing his
impetuosity he had come to marvelling at his folly. Saving Ewen
Cameron’s life he did not for an instant regret; he would have done
the same again without a moment’s hesitation, nor did he regret his
return to the shieling in the guise of the Good Samaritan; but to have
dashed in that manner back to Fort Augustus while carrying a despatch,
still more to have thrust himself into Lord Loudoun’s presence and
almost to have brawled there—was it any wonder that he had found
himself under arrest? Prudence could not undo the past, but it might
modify the future, and he therefore set himself to practise this
virtue in Inverness, much as it went against the grain. Warned by the
fate of an officer who was court-martialled for having shown the
wretched captives there some kindness, he did not go out of his way to
emulate him, nor did his old wound again furnish a pretext for his
withdrawal from scenes which he disliked. If the officers of
Battereau’s had known him previously they would have thought him
remarkably changed. General Blakeney, a hard man, had no fault to find
with Hawley’s disgraced staff-officer.
The first fruit of this new prudence had been Keith’s abstention, not
only from writing to Ewen Cameron, but even from sending him a direct
message. He had sent instead by an acquaintance in Bligh’s regiment,
when it proceeded to Fort Augustus, a verbal recommendation to
Sergeant Mullins to be faithful to the ‘commission’ which he had given
him, in the hope that the sergeant would, besides obeying this
injunction, pass on unsolicited to Ardroy the scanty news of himself
which his messenger was instructed to add. A man under a cloud could
not, he felt, afford to compromise himself still further in the matter
of open friendship with a rebel—though to Cumberland and Hawley he had
vigorously denied any such relations with Ewen Cameron. Made wary by
his experiences with Guthrie, and afraid of giving a handle against
Ewen, he had merely urged in defence of his own conduct a not
unnatural anxiety about a Scottish acquaintance—the name, of course,
he had been unable to withhold—who had shown him hospitality and
kindness _before_ the raising of the standard of rebellion. It was
disingenuous, but in the absence of close questioning the version had
served its purpose.
And as the weeks went by he had not only made no attempt to
communicate in any way with the captive Jacobite, but was careful
never to enquire for him by name whenever an officer came from Fort
Augustus, whence indisposition (induced, so they asserted, by their
melancholy surroundings) was always bringing a few. Yet, as the
clearing out of Lochaber and Badenoch proceeded, he did his best
always to ascertain what prisoners were arriving at Inverness for
transhipment to England, but he never found Ewen Cameron’s name among
them. And at last, since he felt sure that the latter would never have
been kept until July at Fort Augustus, he came to the conclusion that
he must have overlooked his name in the lists, and that he had been
shipped off from Inverness without his knowledge—unless he had been
despatched by land from Fort Augustus to Edinburgh. Keith hoped indeed
that the latter course had been taken, for he knew something of the
horrible condition in which the prisoners were kept in the ships,
packed together like cattle with nothing to lie upon but the stones
and earth of the ballast. He was sorry, very sorry, that he had not
been able to see Ardroy once more, but it was the fortune of war; and
there was no denying the fact, once recognised, that this young man,
to whom he had been so unusually attracted, had brought him nothing
but ill-luck.
* * * * * *
The letter, its seal broken at last, merely said that His Royal
Highness the Duke of Cumberland commanded Major Windham’s attendance
without delay at Fort Augustus. Now Cumberland, as Keith knew, was on
the very eve of departure for England; the summons must evidently
have some connection with that fact, and it was full of the most
hopeful speculations that he went at once to procure leave of absence
from his colonel.
And when, some five hours later, he came down the descent to Loch
Ness, he could not but remember the last time that he had ridden into
Fort Augustus, on that wet night in May, on fire with indignation and
disgust. Well, he had learnt his lesson now!
Since Cumberland’s advent, Fort Augustus had naturally become an armed
camp of a much greater size; there were hundreds more tents pitched by
the Tarff, and besides these, the women’s quarters, the horse lines of
the dragoon regiment of Kingston’s Horse, and quantities of cattle and
ponies driven in from the ravaged countryside. As had been
foreshadowed, the Earl of Albemarle, who had already been there for
some time, was to succeed the Duke as commander-in-chief on the
latter’s departure to-morrow. Remembering his lamentations at Perth in
May, Keith wondered whether his Lordship were more reconciled to the
prospect now.
But the Duke sending for _him_ at this juncture—it _must_ mean
something to his own advantage!
He asked, as he had been instructed to do, for Sir Everard Faulkner,
and found the ex-banker, ex-ambassador to Constantinople and patron of
Voltaire at a table in a tent, very busy writing.
“Good afternoon, Major Windham,” said he, looking up. “You have made
good speed hither, which is commendable.”
“So your letter bade me, sir.”
“Yes,” said Sir Everard, laying down his pen. “I sent for you by His
Royal Highness’s recommendation, to request your assistance on a
certain matter of importance to His Majesty’s Government. If you can
give it, you will lay not only me, but the Duke also, under a
considerable obligation.”
“If you will tell me what the matter is . . .” murmured Keith, amazed.
To be able to lay Cumberland under an obligation was a chance not to
be made light of, but he could not for the life of him imagine how he
had it in his power to do so unlikely a thing.
“I have for some time,” proceeded Sir Everard, fingering the sheets
before him, “been collecting evidence against such prisoners in
Inverness and elsewhere as are to be sent to England in order to take
their trials. Yesterday I received a letter from the Lord Justice
Clerk in Edinburgh transmitting a copy of the Duke of Newcastle’s
order that prisoners are to set out as soon as may be, and that
particular care is to be taken that the witnesses sent to give
evidence against them should be able to prove”—he took up a paper and
read from it—“‘that they had seen the prisoners do some hostile act on
the part of the rebels, or marching with the rebel army’. You
appreciate that point, of course?”
“Certainly,” agreed Keith. “But surely there is no lack of such
evidence?”
“No, in most cases there is not,” replied the secretary. “But—to come
to the point—we have here in Fort Augustus a prisoner of some
importance, who is most undoubtedly guilty of overt acts of hostility
in this late unnatural rebellion, but to my chagrin (and His Royal
Highness’s) I cannot put my hand on any person who actually saw him
commit such acts, though there must be numbers who witnessed them—not
even on anyone who observed him in the company of the rebels. There is
indeed a probability—but only a probability—that if he is sent to Fort
William he may be identified by someone or other as having taken part
in the attack upon it in the spring, for it is pretty certain that he
was there with Cameron of Lochiel. The prisoner’s name, by the way,”
he added, with a carelessness too complete to be quite natural, “is
also Cameron—Ewen Cameron of Ardroy.”
There was a silence in the tent. “So he _is_ still here!” said Keith
under his breath. “And that is why you have sent for me, Sir Everard;
because you think that I can supply the evidence which will bring
Cameron of Ardroy to the scaffold?” He checked himself, and added, in
a studiously expressionless tone, “Why, to what do you suppose that I
can witness against him?”
Deceived perhaps by the manner of his last words, Sir Everard referred
complacently to his notes.
“I understand that you can testify to his taking you prisoner by force
on the outbreak of hostilities at High Bridge in Lochaber. That in
itself would be more than sufficient, but it seems that you also
encountered him in Edinburgh, and can therefore bear witness to his
being in the Pretender’s son’s so-called army.”
Keith stared at Sir Everard Faulkner’s wig, which was awry, with
dismay in his soul. Surely Ardroy could not have been so mad as to have
admitted these facts—which _he_ had so carefully suppressed—to anyone
at Fort Augustus! “Who told you these details, sir—not that I admit
their truth?”
“Major Guthrie of Campbell’s regiment was so obliging as to mention to
me the service which you could render to the Government in this
matter. And he had the facts, it seems, from you yourself, shortly
after the victory on Culloden Moor. Release from your duties at
Inverness,” pursued Sir Everard amiably, “can easily be obtained,
Major Windham, and no expense would be incurred by you for your
journey to Carlisle; it would be defrayed . . .”
But Keith was not listening; he was wishing that he had Guthrie in
some private spot with a couple of swords between them—no, better, one
horsewhip! This was his crowning piece of malevolence!
Sir Everard stopped short in his beguiling recital, which had reached
the assurance that the Duke would not forget the service which the
hearer was about to render. “What is the matter, Major Windham?” he
enquired. “You seem discomposed. Has Major Guthrie misinformed me?”
Keith did not answer that question. “Why does not Major Guthrie go as
witness himself?” he asked in a half-choked voice.
“Because he cannot testify to overt acts, as you can,” explained Sir
Everard. “It is true that he captured Cameron of Ardroy, badly
wounded—and there is no room for doubt where he took those wounds—but
a jury might not convict on that evidence alone, whereas yours, Major
Windham——”
“Whereas mine—supposing it to be what you say—would successfully hang
him?” finished Keith, looking straight at the secretary.
Sir Everard nodded with a gratified expression. “You would have the
satisfaction of rendering that service to His Majesty, and at the same
time—if you’ll permit me to be frank, Major Windham—of purging
yourself of any suspicion of undue tenderness towards the rebels. I
fancy,” he added with an air of finesse, “that the accusation arose in
connection with this very man, Ewen Cameron, did it not? You see how
triumphantly you could clear your honour of any such aspersions!” And
Sir Everard smiled good-humouredly.
“My honour must be in sad case, sir,” said Keith, “if to act hangman
to a man who spared my own life will cleanse it! I am obliged to you
for your solicitude, but I must beg to decline. Had it been some other
rebel I might perhaps have been able to gratify you, but against
Cameron of Ardroy I cannot and will not give evidence. I will
therefore wish you good day.” He bowed and turned to go, inwardly
seething.
“Stop, stop!” cried Sir Everard, jumping up; but it was not his
summons which stayed Keith (in whose head at that moment was some wild
idea of going to search for Major Guthrie), but the fact that he
almost collided with a stout young officer of exalted rank just coming
through the aperture of the tent. Keith hastily drew back, came to
attention, and saluted respectfully, for it was Cumberland himself.
The Duke took no notice of him, but went straight over to his
secretary. There had come in with him another stout officer of high
rank, twenty years or so his senior, in whom Keith recognised the Earl
of Albemarle. The couple of aide-de-camps who followed posted
themselves just inside the tent door.
“I hope you have completed those damned tiresome notes about evidence,
Faulkner,” said the Prince rather fretfully, “for there are a thousand
and one matters to be attended to before to-morrow, and Lord
Albemarle also desires some talk with you.”
“All are in order, your Royal Highness,” responded Sir Everard
deferentially, “save the case of Cameron of Ardroy, for which we shall
have to rely on evidence at Fort William. With your permission, my
Lord,” he turned to the Earl of Albemarle, “I will speak to your
secretary about it.”
“But have you not summoned Major Windham from Inverness, as I bade
you?” exclaimed the Duke. “You told me yourself that his testimony
would be invaluable. Why the devil didn’t you send for him?”
“Your Royal Highness’s commands were obeyed to the letter,” responded
Sir Everard with some stiffness. “But it seems that Major Windham has
scruples about giving his testimony—as he can explain in person to
your Royal Highness, since he is present.”
Cumberland swung round his bulk with an alertness which showed his
five-and-twenty years. He glanced at Keith, standing motionless at the
side of the tent. “Won’t give it—scruples? Nonsense! You must have
misunderstood him, Faulkner. Write a line to Major-General Blakeney
at once, informing him that Major Windham is seconded, as he sets out
with me for England to-morrow. Now, Major, you see how easy it is to
leave your new regiment, so no difficulty remains, eh?”
Keith’s head went round. Advancement at last—and good-bye to
Scotland! But his heart was cold. There was a condition to this favour
impossible of fulfilment.
He came forward a little. “If the honour your Royal Highness designs
to do me,” he said in a very low voice, “depends upon my giving
evidence against Cameron of Ardroy, I must beg leave, with the
greatest respect, to decline it. But if it is without such a
condition, your Royal Highness has no more grateful servant.”
“Condition, sir—what do you mean?” demanded the Prince sharply. “Are
you trying to bargain with me?”
“Indeed, no, your Royal Highness. I thought,” ventured Keith, still
very respectfully, “that it was rather the other way about . . . But I
was no doubt mistaken.”
The pale, prominent eyes stared at him a moment, and their owner gave
vent to what in any other but a scion of royalty would have been
termed a snort. “Indeed you are mistaken, sir! I do not bargain with
officers under my command; I give them orders. Be ready to start for
Edinburgh to-morrow with the rest of my staff at the time I design to
leave Fort Augustus. In England leave will be given you for the
purpose of attending the trial of this rebel at Carlisle, whenever it
shall take place. After that you will rejoin my staff and accompany
me—or follow me, as the case may be—to the Continent. It is part of
the duty of a commander-in-chief, gentlemen,” went on the Duke,
addressing the remainder of the company, “to remember and reward
individual merit, and Major Windham’s gallantry at Fontenoy has not
passed from my mind, although I have not until now been able to
recompense it as it deserves.”
The aides-de-camp, Sir Everard and even Lord Albemarle expressed in
murmurs or in dumb show their appreciation of His Royal Highness’s
gracious good memory. As for Keith, he was conscious of an almost
physical nausea, so sickened was he by the unblushing hypocrisy of the
bribe—it was nothing less. He looked at the ground as he answered.
“Your Royal Highness overwhelms me, and I hope to show my gratitude by
always doing my duty—which is no more than I did at Fontenoy. But
there are private reasons why I cannot give evidence against Cameron
of Ardroy; I am too much in his debt for services rendered in the
past. I appeal therefore to your Highness’s generosity to spare me so
odious a task.”
The Duke frowned. “You forget, I think, Major Windham, with what kind
of men we are dealing—bloody and unnatural rebels, who have to be
exterminated like vermin—like vermin, sir! Here is a chance of getting
rid of one rat the more, and you ask that your private sentiments
shall be allowed to excuse you from that duty! No, Major Windham, I
tell you that they shall not!”
Keith drew himself up, and this time he met Cumberland’s gaze full.
“I would beg leave to say to your Royal Highness, speaking as a
soldier to the most distinguished soldier in Britain, that it is no
part of military duty, even in the crushing of a rebellion, to play
the informer.”
The faces of the aides-de-camp (one of them a most elegant young man)
expressed the kind of shock produced on a refined mind by an
exhibition of bad taste; Lord Albemarle shook his head and put his
hand over his mouth, but Sir Everard Faulkner’s demonstration of
horror could not be seen, since he was behind his royal master, and
the latter had almost visibly swollen in size.
“What, you damned impertinent dog, are you to tell _me_ what is a
soldier’s duty!” he got out. “Why, this is mutiny!”
“Nothing is farther from my thoughts,” replied Keith quietly and
firmly. “Give me any order that a soldier may fitly execute and your
Royal Highness will soon see that. But I have been accustomed to meet
the enemies of my country in the field, and not in the dock.” And as
the Duke was still incoherent from fury and incredulity he repeated,
“With the utmost respect, I must decline to give evidence in this
case.”
“Damn your respect, sir!” shouted the Commander-in-Chief, finding his
tongue again. “You’re little better than a rebel yourself! A
soldier—any soldier—under my command does what he is ordered, or I’ll
know the reason why!” He stamped his royal foot. “By Heaven, you
_shall_ go to Carlisle, if I have to send you there under guard! But
you need not flatter yourself that there will be any vacancy for you
on my staff after this. Now, will you go willingly as a witness, or
must the provost-marshal take you?”
Keith measured his princely and well-fed opponent, the adulated
victor, the bloodstained executioner. He was tolerably certain that
the Duke, for all his powers, could not force him to give evidence,
and that this talk of sending him to Carlisle by force was only a
threat. But he knew that civilians, at all events, could be subpœnaed
as witnesses, and was not too sure of his own ultimate position. He
brought out therefore a new and unexpected weapon.
“If my presence should be constrained at the trial, I must take leave
to observe to your Royal Highness that I shall then be obliged to give
the whole of my testimony—how Mr. Cameron spared my life when he had
me at his mercy after the disaster at High Bridge last summer, and
how, in Edinburgh, he saved me from the hands of the Cameron guard and
gave me my liberty when I was abandoned by the soldiers with me and
trapped. Since those facts would undoubtedly have some influence on an
English jury, I cannot think that I should prove an altogether
satisfactory witness for the Crown.”
The victor of Culloden stood a moment stupefied with rage. When he
could command his voice he turned to his secretary. “Is this true,
Faulkner, what this—mutineer says?” (For indeed, owing to Keith’s
calculated reticence at Inverness, it was news to him.) To Sir
Everard’s reply that he did not know, the Duke returned furiously,
“It’s your business to know, you blockhead!” and after that the storm
was loosed on Keith, and a flood of most unprincely invective it was.
The names he was called, however, passed him by without really
wounding him much. They were nothing compared to those he would have
called himself had he sold Ardroy’s life as the price of his own
advancement.
But it was pretty clear that he had finally consummated his own ruin,
and when he heard the angry voice declaring its owner’s regret that he
had overlooked his previous ill-conduct with regard to this
misbegotten rebel, Keith fully expected the Duke to add that he
intended to break him for his present. Perhaps that would come later;
for the moment the Duke contented himself with requesting him, in
language more suggestive of the guardroom than the palace, to take his
—— face where he would never see it again. “And you need not think,”
he finished, out of breath, “that you will save the rascally rebel who
has suborned you from your duty; there are plenty other witnesses who
will see to it that he hangs!”
But that Keith did not believe, or the Duke and Sir Everard would not
have been so eager to secure his evidence. And as, at last, he saluted
and rather dizzily left the tent where he had completed the wreck of
his ambitions, it was resentment which burnt in him more fiercely than
any other emotion. That it should be supposed that anyone—even a
Prince of the blood—could bribe him into an action which revolted
him!
Late as it was, he would much have preferred to start back to
Inverness that evening, but his horse had to be considered. And, while
he was seeing that the beast was being properly looked after, he was
surprised to find himself accosted by an elegant young officer whom he
recognised as one of the two aides-de-camp present at the recent
scene.
“Major Windham, is it not? General Lord Albemarle requests that you
will not leave the camp without further orders, and that you will wait
upon him at some time after His Royal Highness’s departure to-morrow.”
“Do you mean, sir,” asked Keith bluntly, “that I am to consider myself
under arrest?”
“Oh, my dear Major, by no means!” answered the young man, greatly
shocked. “On the contrary! His Lordship—but I am being prodigious,
indiscreet—recognised in you, it seems, an acquaintance, so do not
fail to wait upon him to-morrow.”
“I will do so,” said Keith. “Meanwhile, can you tell me if a certain
Major Guthrie of Campbell’s regiment is in camp?”
“Major Guthrie—la, sir, I’ve not the pleasure of his acquaintance. But
stay, part of Campbell’s regiment marched the day before yesterday for
Badenoch, so it is like the Major is gone with them.”
“If it be a question of further burnings and floggings, I am sure
he will be gone with them,” commented Keith. “Perhaps it is as
well. . . . Tell his Lordship that I will certainly obey his commands
to-morrow.”
Once again he spent a night at Fort Augustus after a clash with
authority. But this time it was a collision with a much more
devastating force than Lord Loudoun. Cumberland was not likely to
forget or forgive. And Keith felt quite reckless, and glad to be rid
of the prudence which had shackled him since May. He had no more to
lose now. If he could have shaken the life out of Guthrie it would
have been some consolation. From Lord Albemarle’s message it did not
seem as if he were going to be relieved of his commission after all;
but, if he were, then, by God, he would get at Guthrie somehow, and
challenge him!
* * * * * *
When Cumberland first came to Fort Augustus he had been housed in a
‘neat bower’ which was specially constructed for him, and
Lieutenant-General Lord Albemarle evidently preferred this abode of
his predecessor’s to a tent. It was there, at any rate, that he received
Major Windham next afternoon when the racket of the Duke’s departure
was over.
William Anne Keppel, second Earl of Albemarle, the son of King
William’s Dutch favourite, was at this time forty-two years of age,
but his portly habit of body made him look older. Plain as well as
stout, he gave the impression of a kind but easily flustered nature.
“We met at Perth, did we not, Major Windham?” he asked, and as Keith
bowed and assented the Earl said pleasantly, “I should like a few
minutes’ conversation with you. You can leave us, Captain Ferrers.”
And when the elegant aide-de-camp had withdrawn, Albemarle, pacing
up and down with short steps, his hands behind his broad back, began:
“I must say that I am very sorry, Major Windham, that you felt
constrained to take up such an attitude towards His Royal Highness
yesterday.”
“So am I, my Lord,” returned the culprit, with truth. “But I had no
choice. I hope your Lordship is not going to renew the same request,
for there are some things which a man cannot do, and one of those is,
to help hang a man who has spared his own life.”
“Is that so—the prisoner in question spared your life?” asked
Albemarle with an appearance of surprise, though, thought Keith,
unless he had not been listening he must have learnt that fact
yesterday. “Surely you did not make that clear to His Royal Highness,
who is as remarkable for clemency as for just severity!”
Keith looked at him askance; was my Lord Albemarle joking or sincere?
“No, Major Windham,” went on the new Commander-in-Chief, “I do not
intend to renew the request, for I should not presume to flatter
myself that I could succeed where one with so much stronger a claim on
your obedience has failed. Your revealing this fact alters matters; I
sympathise with your scrupulosity, and so must the excellent Prince
have done had you but presented the case fairly to him. A pity, Major
Windham!”
Keith inclined his head, but said nothing. A grim amusement possessed
him, and he could not imagine why Lord Albemarle should be at pains to
make this elaborate pretence.
“His Royal Highness’s zeal has been wonderful,” pursued the Earl. He
sighed, sat down, and began to drum his fingers on the table beside
him. “How I am expected to replace him I do not know. He has indeed
accomplished most of his great task, but I am left with part of it
still upon my hands—the capturing of the Pretender’s son, if indeed he
has escaped the last search party of fifteen hundred men sent out from
here and from Fort William three days ago. . . . And again, I fear
that relations with the Scottish authorities may be sadly difficult.
_L’Ecosse est ma bête_, Major Windham, as I think I said to you
before, on a certain occasion when I was very indiscreet. Had I
then had an indiscreet listener I might have harmed myself by my
imprudence.” He stopped drumming and looked up. “I shall see what I
can do for you, Major Windham,” he concluded, with a suddenness which
took Keith’s breath away.
“Your Lordship . . .” he stammered, and found no more words. Albemarle
smiled.
“The opportunity may shortly present itself of employing you. I must
see. Meanwhile I wish you to remain here; I will arrange that with
Major-General Blakeney and your colonel.”
And Keith murmured he knew not what. It seemed impossible that at
Perth he should have made an impression so deep as to lead to this;
and in a moment it appeared that there was another factor in the case,
for Lord Albemarle, fidgeting with the sandbox on the table, revealed
it.
“Years ago,” he said reflectively, “when I was a younger man, I used
to know a lady—the most beautiful, I think, whom I have ever met in my
life. Perhaps you can guess whom I mean? . . . I did not know when you
brought me the despatch at Perth, Major Windham, that Lady Stowe was
your mother; I have learnt it since. It would give me pleasure to
extend to her son a trifle of help at a crisis in his fortunes.—No,
say no more about it, Windham; ’tis but the payment of a debt to
Beauty, who allowed unreproved worship at her shrine!”
And he raised his eyes to the roof of the neat bower, apparently
absorbed in sentimental retrospect, while Keith, startled, grateful,
yet rather sardonically amused, tried to picture this plain and
unwieldy Anglo-Dutch peer paying his devoirs to a lady who had almost
certainly made game of him behind his back. Or had she found him
useful, like Lord Orkney, who, when Keith was a mere boy, had promised
the pair of colours in the Royal Scots which had saved his mother so
much trouble and expense—and had deprived him of any choice in the
matter of a regiment.
But the adorer in question at this moment had now brought his eyes to
the ordinary level again.
“You are not like the Countess, Major Windham,” he observed.
“My Lord, I am only too well aware of that. My half-brother Aveling
resembles her much more closely. He is a very handsome youth.”
“I must make Lord Aveling’s acquaintance some day,” said the Earl
rising. “Commend me meanwhile to Lady Stowe.”
“I shall not fail to do so, my Lord,” replied Keith, preparing to
withdraw, but hesitating. Yes, this unlooked-for and melting mood was
certainly that in which to proffer his request. “Your Lordship’s
extreme generosity towards a disgraced man,” he went on, “emboldens me
to ask a small favour, which is, that I may see Cameron of Ardroy once
before he goes south to his trial—giving my most sacred word of
honour that nothing shall pass between us relative to escape. I desire
only to say farewell to him, and your Lordship, who has shown yourself
so sensible of my obligation towards him——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted his Lordship, putting up a plump hand. “Yes,
before he goes you shall see him, I promise you, Major Windham. But
not at present—not at present,” he added, as if he felt that the line
of his complaisance must be drawn somewhere. “Send me in Captain
Ferrers, if you please, as you go out.”
So Keith left, meditating on the hopeful change in his outlook. It was
strange that Lord Albemarle did not fear Cumberland’s wrath, if the
Duke ever learnt of the favour shown to a man under his extremest
displeasure. If it was solely for the sake of the beautiful Countess
of Stowe that his Lordship was braving this possibility, the situation
was still more ironical, for Keith knew well that his mother would not
feel any particular gratitude for this clemency towards her elder son.
She would rather that some special token of favour had fallen on the
head of his young half-brother, who had no need of it.
The next few days went slowly by, and Keith began to wonder whether
Lord Albemarle’s lenity were not going to end in nothing but the
assurance to him of an idle existence at Fort Augustus. He was glad,
however, to be there, for he could fairly well assure himself that
Ardroy was not taken away without his knowledge. Enquiries revealed
the fact that old Sergeant Mullins was no longer his gaoler, but Keith
got speech with his successor, a Scot, and learnt that Ewen was to be
taken on the twenty-fifth of the month to Fort William to be
identified. On the morning of the twenty-fourth, fearing to wait any
longer, he sought out the exquisite Captain Ferrers and begged him to
recall to Lord Albemarle’s mind his promise that he should see the
prisoner before departure; and in the afternoon was duly handed a
signed order permitting an interview.