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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 was able easily to raise a hand at need to shade his face. “There is nothing to discuss, sir,” he said dully. “I am ready to fulfil your wishes and my duty.”

“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, he had already bared his secret. “I did meet her when I was away. It was then that I made the resolve I have told you of. . . . Need we speak of the matter any more, sir?”

But his father was going on. “I could not quite understand why you found it necessary to spend so long in Glasgow. What was Miss Campbell doing there? And, by the way, how could she be there? I distinctly remember Grizel receiving a letter from her saying that she was going to the goats’ whey at Kilrain about this time. It must have been her ‘fetch’ that you saw in Glasgow, my poor boy,” concluded Invernacree, essaying a mild pleasantry.

“It was not her fetch,” answered Ian steadily. “Nor was it in Glasgow that I met her—I never said so. It was at Kilrain.”

“At Kilrain! But you would not pass that way. Do you mean to tell me that you went to Kilrain of set purpose?”

“I did,” answered Ian. “I went there in order to see her. It was there that I took farewell of her.”

“And you told me the other day,” said his father, a little colour coming into his cheeks, “that Mr. Buchanan had kept you waiting in Glasgow! You went half a day’s journey out of your way after Miss Campbell, and spent—how long?—in her company?”

“Does that matter?” asked Ian wearily. “ ’Tis all over and done with now.”

“Do you think,” enquired his father, roused and stern, “that you can put deceit behind you as easily as that? And what else, may I ask, have you put behind as ‘over and done with’?”

“What do you mean?” asked the young man, roused also.

“Who else was at Kilrain—who saw you there? If you have given cause for scandal—if you have compromised Miss Campbell——”

“——You fear that I might have to marry her!” finished Ian bitterly. “Then I wish to God that I had compromised her! Unfortunately I cannot think that I did!”

The wrath which could still burn in the old Highlander lit up like fire among summer heather. “You wish you had compromised her! I see what all your protestations are worth, all your fair speeches about my ghost and the barrier in your own heart! You have shown me the truth——”

Ian started forward. “Father—no, as God is my witness! I do mean every word that I have spoken. Cannot you understand—you were young once—I said good-bye to her for ever . . . but it was cruelly hard, and is still. . . .”

Alexander Stewart had become dry and cold now. “We had better look at this dispassionately. Apart from your lying to me, your action may have a consequence which you would evidently welcome only too eagerly. For Campbell of Cairns, thickskinned like all his race, would probably raise no particular objection to his daughter marrying a Stewart—indeed, if matters turn out as you evidently hope, he would have to swallow any such objection. What if he holds that you have fatally injured her reputation—what then?”

Ian gave no intelligible reply. He had turned his back and laid his head against the hands which gripped the mantelshelf.

“Answer me what I have already asked you! Who else was at Kilrain?”

“Miss Campbell’s woman—no one else.”

“How long were you there?”

“Two days.”

“And two nights?”

“Yes.”

“And you mean to tell me that there was no one else at Kilrain then, taking the whey? It is a fashionable enough occupation for gouty, scandalmongering old men!”

“There was no one else.”

“And no traveller passed through the clachan? It lies on a highroad, I believe.”

“One traveller passed.”

“He did not see you together, I hope?”

“Your hope is not justified.”

“He did see you! But—please God—he did not know either of you?”

Ian was silent.

“Answer me that, if you please—and try not to lie again!”

Ian suppressed all retort. “He knew Miss Campbell—well, it seemed, and she him. He had known her since she was a child.”

“My God! A friend of the family—of her father’s?”

“Apparently.”

“Then if he did his duty he would go straight and tell Cairns what he had seen!”

“As it happened,” said Ian, with infinitely more coolness than he was feeling, “he was on his way into Lochaber. In any case he did not appear at all perturbed about Miss Campbell.”

“ ‘He did not appear’,” repeated his father scornfully. “How can you tell what was in a stranger’s mind, and what he would report? Your madness has—but there, what use to speak of it? I will give you credit for meaning what you said just now about having put away the idea of marrying Miss Campbell—you could not be a Stewart and my son, with a brother lying under the sod of Culloden, without meaning it—but your disastrous folly has rendered all that unavailing. But the day that you are forced to marry Olivia Campbell, if it disgracefully comes to that, will see me carried to my grave . . . and I think you will not greatly care!”

Ian turned round; he was the colour of chalk. “I will never marry Olivia Campbell—not if Cairns begged me to!—Father, I have done more than cut off my right hand that I might not fail in my duty to you and to the blood in my veins . . . and you can say such a thing as that about your death!”

“You have shaken my confidence too severely,” was the old man’s unmoved reply. “You may have done what you say, and I do not doubt your sincerity at the time, but——”

“In short, you don’t trust me!” said Ian, flaring up. “I have trampled my life’s happiness under my feet—for you—and this is all the thanks I get for it! ’Tis true I never looked for thanks . . . but reproaches and distrust are a little too much to swallow quietly.—I think we had best bring this interview to an end!” And, seething with indignation, but impelled, too, by a fear of saying to his father what he would afterwards regret, he crossed quickly to the door and went out of the room, out of the house altogether.