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“Aveling,” said the Earl of Stowe with determination, one morning eight days later, “I have decided to go about this matter to-day to one of the Secretaries of State, Jardyne for choice.”

“But, my lord,” protested his son in astonishment, “you cannot—you are quite unfit to leave the house.”

For the enemy whose approach Lord Stowe had announced to Ewen Cameron a fortnight ago, if still kept more or less at bay, had not yet withdrawn from the assault; and his lordship was still confined to his bedroom, where he sat at this moment in a dressing-gown, one swathed foot supported on a rest.

“My dear child,” said Lord Stowe, “consider the situation! Here we are at the second of June, and in five days, unless a miracle be performed for him, that unfortunate gentleman suffers at Tyburn. For all my promises to Mr. Cameron, and for all the representations which I have made to those in authority, I have accomplished nothing on his kinsman’s behalf. Nor can I see any sign of the petitions delivered to His Majesty and the two princesses at the beginning of this week having had any effect whatsoever. I must make yet another effort, for when a man’s life is at stake, what is a gouty toe? Call Rogers, let him dress me, and I will be carried down to my coach, and go to see Mr. Jardyne.”

Lord Aveling looked at his father with real admiration; and, indeed, who shall say that heroism is confined to the young and heroic? Then he rang the bell for Rogers, and to that horrified elderly valet Lord Stowe conveyed his self-sacrificing intention.

Meanwhile Aveling went to visit his mother, whom he found at her toilet-table, her woman in attendance.

“Your father is completely crazy,” she said, on hearing the news. “I have no patience with such foolishness! Why should he so put himself about for this Doctor Cameron, who is less than nothing to him? If the Government mean to hang and quarter him they will, and no amount of inflammation to my lord’s toe will save him—Willis, give me the hare’s foot and the last pot of rouge that I commanded, the new kind. I am a thought too pale to-day.”

“I do not think,” said her son, studying his mother’s delicate profile as she leant forward to the mirror and put the last touches to her complexion—he was never admitted at any unbecoming stage of her toilet, and all fashionable people rouged as a matter of course—“I do not think that the Earl is doing this entirely on Doctor Cameron’s account. He considers, as you know, that he owes a heavy debt to Mr. Ewen Cameron, and to use his influence on his kinsman’s behalf is the manner in which he undertook to discharge it.”

Lady Stowe dabbed with the hare’s foot a moment before saying anything, and when she spoke her tone was a curious one. “I, too, made an offer to that young man—that I would tell him anything he wished to know about your poor brother, and that he should be admitted for that purpose at any hour when I was not receiving. I cannot learn that he has ever tried to avail himself of the opportunity.”

“No doubt he has been very much occupied,” suggested Lord Aveling. “It was probably he who escorted Mrs. Cameron when she went to deliver her petition to His Majesty last Sunday at Kensington, and fainted, poor lady, ere she could present it.”

The Countess laid down the hare’s foot and surveyed the result. “To be frank, I think that unfortunate woman must be making herself a great nuisance to the Royal Family. The King, the Princess Amelia, and the Princess Dowager of Wales all battered with petitions! I do not wonder that she has been shut up in the Tower with her husband, to prevent her from troubling any more people of position in that way.”

“Shut up in the Tower!” exclaimed Aveling. “I had not heard that.”

“It may be only a rumour,” admitted his mother. “If it be true, then perhaps we shall see Mr. Cameron here again . . . I wish you would tell me, Aveling, what you quarrelled about in Scotland?” And she darted a sudden glance at him.

Francis Lord Aveling shook his head smiling. “About nothing that you could possibly imagine! And we are excellent friends now.”

“For your half-brother’s sake, I suppose,” observed Lady Stowe, taking up a gold pouncet box and sniffing the essence in it.

“I am not sure that that is the reason.”

“Well, whatever be the attraction, you can tell your new friend, when next you see him, that if he is tired of escorting females in distress about London, my invitation still remains open.” Lady Stowe rose, and sweeping away towards the long mirror at a little distance, examined the fall of her sacque. Then, a tiny spot of colour burning under the rouge, she said carelessly, “Do bring him again, Francis! I vow his Highland strangeness diverts me.”

Only Mrs. Willis, her woman, noticed that her ladyship’s right hand was clenched hard round the pouncet box which she still held.

* * * * *

The heroic, no doubt, must pay for their admirable deeds; nevertheless, the consciousness of their heroism is probably sustaining during the latter process. Besides, this particular piece of heroism had not been in vain. When, about an hour and a half later, Lord Aveling heard the rumble of his father’s returning coach, he hurried down to find the courageous nobleman being assisted from it, and hardly suppressing his cries of anguish.

“No, no—not like that! Jenkins, don’t be so damned clumsy! Yes, that’s better. My God, what an infernal invention is gout! Is that you, Aveling? I am going straight to bed; come and see me in a quarter of an hour.”

But when he entered the bedchamber Lord Aveling found his parent disposed in an easy chair as before.

“No, I was sure I could not endure the pressure of the bedclothes. The foot is better thus. Oh—h—h, damn it, don’t speak, there’s a good fellow!”

The young man went and looked out of the window at the swaying green in the square garden. More and more did he respect his progenitor. Yet it must be worse to hang . . . and the rest . . . in beautiful summer weather too.

“ ’Tis easier now, for the moment,” said the sufferer’s voice. “Come and sit down by me, Francis—only, for God’s sake, nowhere near my foot! At any rate, I have got something out of this inferno. . . . I only wonder that it never occurred to me before, when I might have spared myself these torments. Jardyne put the case in a nutshell. ‘Why’, asked he, ‘do you come to me? Go to the Duke of Argyll. If he will but intercede for Doctor Cameron’s life, he will not be refused. He is our first man in Scotland, and it is not our interest to deny him a favour when he thinks proper to ask it.’ So you see, Aveling, that if only the Duke can be got to make intercession for Doctor Cameron the thing is done! Now, why did no one ever think of applying to him before, for there is no doubt that Jardyne is right?”

And father and son looked at each other.

“It must be done at once,” said Lord Stowe. “The Duke, I think, is in town.”

“But who is to do it?”

“Why, the person best qualified—the poor gentleman’s wife.”

Aveling nodded. “But what if it be true, as my mother seems to have heard, that Mrs. Cameron has been shut up in the Tower with her husband? What then?”

“Shut up in the Tower!” exclaimed the Earl. “Oh, surely not!” He turned his head. “What is it, Rogers?”

“I understand, my lord, from the footman, that Mr. Cameron is below, inquiring for my Lord Aveling.”

“Mr. Cameron? I’ll see him at once,” quoth Aveling, getting up. “This is very opportune; I can tell him this hopeful news of yours, my lord.”

“Yes; and tell him to urge the poor lady to appeal to the Duke without wasting an hour . . . don’t for Heaven’s sake come near this foot, boy! . . . Tell him that I will give her an introduction to His Grace. Egad, I’ll be writing now to the Duke to ask for an audience for her, while you interview Mr. Cameron.”

“I’ll tell him, too, sir, at what cost you gained this promising notion,” said the young man, smiling at his father as he left the bedchamber.

Downstairs, in the library which had witnessed their reconciliation, Ewen Cameron was standing, staring at the marble caryatides of the hearth so fixedly that he hardly seemed to hear the door open. Aveling went up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I have some hopeful news for you, my dear Mr. Cameron.”

Ewen turned. Aveling thought him looking very pale and harassed. “I have need of it, my lord.”

“In spite of his gout, my father has just been to see one of the Secretaries of State—no, no,” he added quickly, for such a light had dawned upon the Highlander’s face that out of consideration he hastened to quench it—“ ’tis no promise of anything, but an excellent piece of advice. Mr. Secretary Jardyne says that if his Grace of Argyll would intercede for Doctor Cameron’s life the Government would undoubtedly grant his request. Neither my father nor I can imagine why we never thought of that course earlier.”

A strange, hot wave of colour passed over Ardroy’s face, leaving it more haggard looking than before.

“Then I suppose it must be done,” he said in a sombre voice. “Do you know why I am here, Lord Aveling?—’tis a sufficiently strange coincidence to be met with this recommendation. I came to ask what his lordship thought of the prospects of an application to the Duke of Argyll!”

“Why,” cried the younger man, “this is indeed extraordinary, that you, also, should have thought of making application in that quarter!”

“Not I! I doubt if I should ever have thought of it,” responded Ewen, frowning. “The notion is Mrs. Cameron’s.”

“Excellent!” cried Lord Aveling, “because she is the one person to carry it out, as my father and I were just agreeing. If she will go, he will give her——”

“She cannot go,” broke in Ardroy. “That is the difficulty. She is herself a prisoner in the Tower now, at her own request, in order that she may be with her husband for . . . for the few days that remain. The only way, it seems, in which this request could be complied with was to make her as close a prisoner as he is. It was done the night before last. This morning I received a distracted letter from her; evidently this thought of appealing to the Duke to use his influence had come to her there—too late for her to carry it out.” He paused; his hands clenched and unclenched themselves. “So . . . she has asked me to be her deputy.”

“Well, after all,” said Aveling reflectively, “you are a near kinsman of her husband’s, are you not, which would lend you quite sufficient standing. My father will give you an introduction to the Duke; indeed, I believe he is now writing to him on Mrs. Cameron’s behalf.”

“Yes, I suppose I must do it,” said Ewen between his teeth. He was gazing at an impassive caryatid again.

“You will not carry so much less weight than poor Mrs. Cameron,” observed Aveling consolingly. “Of course—to put it brutally—there is much appeal in a woman’s tears, but on the other hand you will be able to plead more logically, more——”

“Plead!” exclaimed Ewen, facing round with flashing eyes. “Ay, that’s it, plead—beg mercy from a Campbell!”

Aveling stared at him, startled at his look and tone. “What is the obstacle? Ah, I remember, your clans are not friendly. But if Doctor Cameron can countenance——”

“He knows nothing about it,” said Ewen sharply.

“And his wife, not being a Cameron born, does not understand your natural repugnance.”

“She does,” answered Ewen starkly, “for she is a Cameron born. She knows what it means to me, but she implores me . . . and could I, in any case, hold back if I thought there were the faintest chance of success? And now you tell me that one of the Secretaries of State actually counsels it. God pity me, that I must go through with it, then, and kneel to MacCailein Mor for Archibald Cameron’s sake! I’d not do it for my own!”

The blank-eyed busts which topped the bookshelves in Lord Stowe’s sleepy, decorous library must have listened in amazement to this unchaining of Highland clan feeling, a phenomenon quite new to them, for even Lord Aveling was taken aback by the bitter transformation it had worked in a man already wrought upon by grief and protracted anxiety.

“Let me go, then, Cameron!” he cried. “God knows I am sorry enough for your cousin, and I have no objection to appealing to the Duke of Argyll. I would do my very utmost, I promise you . . . Or, perhaps, you could find some other substitute?”

“You are goodness itself,” said Ewen in a softened tone. “No, I am the man, since Jean Cameron cannot go. It may be,” he added in a rather strangled voice, “that, just because I am a Cameron and an enemy, MacCailein Mor may be moved to do a magnanimous act . . . O God, he must do it, for all other hopes are breaking . . . and there is so little time left!”