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

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      “Ready! You are not ready!” burst out the old man impatiently. “Why say you are? Your unreadiness is what I am complaining of.”

      “I am ready if you will give me a little longer,” declared his son.

      Alexander Stewart smote his hand upon the arm of his chair. “Delay, delay! A very gallant suitor to keep a lady waiting! Ian, procrastination always has a motive, however secret. You will kindly tell me, before we go further, what it is you hope to gain by yours.”

      “To gain? Nothing—nothing in the world,” answered Ian a trifle wildly. “I only ask you not to press me to attempt what I cannot . . . yet. In a couple of months, perhaps. . . .”

      “A couple of months! And why, pray, will you find it easier to ask for the hand of Miss Maclean in a couple of months?”

      Ian shaded his eyes with his hand and said nothing. He did not know that he would find it easier; and how could he explain? Through the open window came the murmur of Jacqueline’s doves, which would always now bring back Olivia’s face to him. The wind of Kilrain played again about his temples; under his feet was the hillside heather, and in his arms. . . .

      Suddenly and most unexpectedly he felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder. “Ian, my son,”—Invernacree’s old voice was charged with the feelings which he had been combating all the time—“my only son, I would to God I had your confidence! I have nothing to complain of in your conduct hitherto. Can you not tell me what is at the bottom of this strange reluctance of yours? Are you—I can scarcely think it of you, yet I suppose it is possible—are you entangled with some girl, and asking me for time in the hope that you will shortly be free? I beg you to tell me frankly if it is so; you will not find me unduly harsh.”

      “No, I am not entangled with any girl,” said Ian quietly. “I shall never be freer than I am now.”

      A pause. Ian heard Invernacree sigh. “I should like to know what you mean by that?”

      Ian did not supply the interpretation.

      “Do you mean, my boy, that you are in love, though not engaged in an intrigue, with some woman?”

      His father’s voice was so unusually gentle; besides, how could he say, No? Ian said, “Yes, I do mean that.”

      The words fell like stones; and Invernacree asked, as slowly, “Does she know it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is it impossible for you to marry her? I would not stand in the way of your happiness, Ian, if I could avoid it.”

      “And what about Miss Maclean, to whom you have practically affianced me?” asked his son, dropping his hand. “But it is impossible—quite impossible . . . and you would be the first to say so.”

      “Why should I?” asked his father, still gently. He could see now how ravaged the boy’s face looked. “I could speak to Garroch of a prior attachment, unknown to me when I made my proposal.—But I suppose the lady is already married, or promised. Is that so?”

      Ian shook his head. “Let us put her out of mind, as I have, or am trying to. That I have not yet fully succeeded is my reason for begging a little delay before . . . before trying my fortune elsewhere.”

      The unintentional turn of the phrase inevitably brought upon him the question, “She refused your suit, then?”

      A wintry sort of smile dawned round the young man’s mouth. “No, sir. I never pressed it.”

      “Yet you say that you love her? This is a strange business. You do not, I expect, wish to tell me her name, and I suppose I must not ask it. ’Tis, perhaps, some lady whom you met while you were in Glasgow recently?”

      “I did meet her while I was away, yes,” admitted Ian after a moment’s hesitation. He glanced up. His father was looking at him so wistfully that, against his better judgment, against his own desires and instincts, he was moved to add, “You will not be the happier for knowing her name, sir, but that you may not feel I am withholding my confidence from you, I will tell you. It is Miss Campbell of Cairns.”

      And with that, not wishing to see the change which his avowal would work on that old face, he got up and looked steadily at the clock on the mantelshelf, already feeling a traitor, to what he did not quite know, for having delivered up his secret.

      And to one to whom it had dealt a shattering blow. The old laird had fallen back in his chair, his hand at his throat, “God, God, what have I done to deserve this!”

      In Ian’s heart two streams of pity were coursing at the same time—for his father and for himself. He had surrendered his heart’s desire that no real stroke might fall upon that silvery head; it was he himself who was bleeding from it. “Father,” he said, kneeling beside him, “you need have no fear! We shall never meet again, Miss Campbell and I. It was impossible, and I knew it; no one of our house could wed the daughter of Campbell of Cairns. I shall never of my own will set eyes upon her again. You can trust me, sir! It is over.”

      He gripped the old man’s shrunken wrists in his eagerness, and looked into his eyes. Alexander Stewart still drew his breath as one who has been plunged into some icy current. “It was an evil day when Fate brought her here. . . . I might have known it. She was fair enough to bewitch any man. . . . Ian, Ian, you say this now, yet you ask for delay. If I should die before your two months’ grace is up, what then?”

      Ian winced, but he had to allay his father’s fear without showing that the doubt hurt him. “It would make no difference,” he said unsteadily. “If in my own heart I did not feel the impossibility of making her my wife, should I have thrust her out of it . . . to break it, I think, as I am doing, solely for my duty to you . . . and Alan, and our house, and the clan? You have called me not man enough to win a bride—if it were not for that here which forbids me,” he struck his breast, “I had ridden off with her to the Lowlands and lived with her in a shepherd’s hut sooner than let her go! No, you need not fear to come back after death, Father, and find a Campbell bride in this house!”

      The passion with which he had spoken shook him, shook his father also. Alexander Stewart lifted a trembling hand and laid it on the dark head beside him. “Bless you, my poor boy. . . . I’ll not press you . . . You shall have time. I will write to Maclean; I’ll find something to say, too, that will not betray your——”

      The door opened very suddenly. Ian jumped up. It was Grizel looking in, with a question in her face.

      “One moment, my dear,” said her father hastily. “Come again in a few minutes, if you will. Ian and I are just discussing something of importance.”

      If Invernacree had allowed his daughter to enter, and his interview with Ian had broken off upon that note of concord, subsequent events might have fallen otherwise. As it was it slackened the thread of it. The laird rose from his chair and took a turn up and down the room, while Ian stood with bent head by the hearth; then the old man stopped on the far side of the writing table and mechanically began to shift some piles of papers, looking at his son the while.

      “I am deeply sorry for you, Ian. I only hope that time will bring healing, especially as you had known Miss Campbell for so short a space. By the way, what did you mean when you said that you had met her when you were in Glasgow?”

      Ian raised his head. What a foolish admission that had been! Still, СКАЧАТЬ