No Unfitting Anchorage

Chapter One

'God help me!' he said aloud, and put a hand over his eyes.

The fingers of his other hand were still curled round the pistol. For a few moments it was as if the world was frozen into a silent picture, or a scene in a play: the stricken soldier standing at the foot of the slope with his unmoving hand upon the weapon, the group gathered round the boat and talking in urgent whispers, even the moon clothed in straggling wisps of cloud that shone in her pale light, might have been figures upon the stage. But for Keith Windham the moment was yet all too real.

When we are faced with a choice between two alternatives which seem equally impossible—when it is a question of acting and doing the unthinkable, or of not acting and allowing the unthinkable to happen—the question is often decided, in the end, by the simple fact that not acting is easier than acting. Caught in a mire of indecision, unable to bring ourselves to move, we continue not to act until, through inaction, inaction has itself become a decisive choice; and so we let the chance go by, and are left to persuade ourselves that we chose well.

Keith's character was not such as could take this passive course. Even as he stopped with the pistol in his hand, even as his mind turned over and over upon the choice before him, there was a part of him which saw what he was doing, and saw how it would end, and refused that choice, at least. He hesitated for a second more, and then, with a little broken exclamation of disgust, he flung the pistol away from him. It lay in the white sand, moonlight glinting bright upon the dark metal.

He looked towards the boat. The distant figures of the Highlanders had finished their whispered conference and were now pushing the boat down towards the sea; and as he watched them, Keith suddenly recalled the third prong of his anxiety of a few moments ago. The boat was sabotaged; he might have saved Ewen's life only to drown him by the action already taken in ignorance.

Keith's heart was beating fast, and his mind was set for action. The decisive choice was made irrevocably—it could make no difference now to his rejection of duty if he went only a little further in departing from it—and in another moment he had stepped out onto the sand with his hands raised to his mouth, ready to shout and warn Ewen. But just as he did so, one of the other figures—the burly man walking in front of Ewen—abruptly stopped, peered down into the boat with an exclamation, then fumbled in the folds of his plaid and brought out something which he pushed into the bottom of the boat, before resuming his efforts to get the boat to the sea. Keith's heart gave a great leap of relief. They had evaded his trap for themselves, then; Ewen was safe!

Perhaps this relief unsteadied the self-control which, until then, he had exercised over his eyes, for he now looked straight at Ewen, for the first time since he had thrown away the pistol. With a jolt of emotion—what emotion, he could not have said—he met Ewen's gaze; for it seemed that Ewen was looking at him too. He was too far away for Keith to be able to make out his expression.

Had he really seen Keith, or was it nothing but the fancy of an overburdened mind? There was not time to tell. The boy by Ewen's side touched him on the arm, and he turned round with the manner of one suddenly remembering where he was. The boat had reached the water at last, and Ewen's companions hurried him into it. Moments later they were upon the waves.

Now, at long last, sounds of raised voices and hurrying footsteps came from the road above the beach. The patrol had arrived. Feeling, somewhat dizzily, that they had come out of another world than the one which he had occupied for the last five minutes, Keith ran over to them. Whatever the redcoats did now could make little difference to the fugitives, who were already some way out over the water; and so he led them down towards the sea to do what remained of their duty.

The next few moments were full of the noise and chaos that had been so eerily absent before. The soldiers crowded down to the shore, their scarlet coats almost black in the shadowy moonlight, and their shouts and musket-shots alike rang out over the waves. It was to no avail. By now the little boat had made it most of the way to the ship which waited for it out in the bay; its passengers were in no danger.

If any of the soldiers, when they returned up the beach, happened to notice the discarded pistol lying upon the sand beneath the scrub-grown bank, they never said anything of it.

Keith hardly heard the lieutenant in charge of the patrol recounting to him, as they returned along the coast road to their quarters, how he and his men had stumbled across a crazed Highlander upon the road, who, although he was alone and they were so many, had given them just enough trouble to delay them by the short time that had made so much difference. But in the end he was overcome, and shot dead without ceremony. He had not seemed to be anyone of great importance.

'Although,' said Lieutenant Carter, with a sardonic little laugh, 'he may have been of great importance indeed, if he kept us from preventing the escape of the Pretender's son!' They were now safely back in their quarters, and Carter was pacing back and forth across the floor as he finished his story.

Major Windham, waking for a moment out of the stunned fog of his mind, remembered that Lieutenant Carter did not know what he knew. 'The Pretender's son has not escaped yet,' he said. 'The man at Morar tonight was not him.'

The lieutenant ceased his pacing and looked at his superior in evident surprise. 'Do you know who he was, then, sir?'

Keith nodded. 'I have met him before,' he explained. 'He is one of the Camerons—a cousin of Lochiel's, I believe.'

Lieutenant Carter whistled softly. 'Shame enough that he escaped our net, by Gad! I suppose you hadn't a chance to do more than recognise him.' He shook his head, thought for a few moments, then said, 'Well, it makes no matter now. We must be vigilant as ever.'

'Yes.' Keith made an effort. 'The French ship for which they were making is still there. It is possible that the Pretender's son will also attempt to reach it...'

A tactical conversation followed; Keith tried to pull himself together at least far enough to attend to his duty. Some far-off part of his mind remarked to himself that this ambition was all very well now.

The next few days were, outwardly, very like those before them. Major Windham, Lieutenant Carter and the men under their command continued their patrols along the coast, in the sharp cold of the morning fogs and the bright darkness of the moonlit nights. The French privateer remained in sight for another half a day or so, then vanished—if another person than Ewen Cameron was aboard her, Major Windham did not discover it—and nothing further happened to disturb them.

It was almost incredible to Keith that no one knew what he had done. How different this was, he thought, from the late affair at Fort Augustus, the last time he had gone astray from his duty for Ardroy's sake. It would have been easier to bear if he had once again been imprisoned in disgrace, if he had been brought before a court-martial and cashiered—yes, even that fate, horrible as it was, or had been, to a man with his ambitions, would have been preferable to this limbo of self-reproof.

He turned over in his mind those few moments upon the white sand at Morar, comparing it to that other occasion. It was a poor enough comparison. Then, the duty from which he had turned back had been of little importance—a letter to carry, which he knew was not urgent and which, had Lord Loudoun not interfered, would have reached its destination hardly later than originally intended. This time his duty had been vitally important; it had been quite clear what he must do, and clearer still that he had utterly and deliberately failed to do it. And his reason for turning back to Fort Augustus had been a good and honourable one; he still thought so, though he regretted having acted quite so rashly. He had had reason to believe that the officers at the fort were guilty of what they had neither the duty nor the right to do, had gone back to prevent it—and had been proved right. There was no such excuse for his conduct now. Honour came before duty, yes, but one's personal feelings must not—and, whatever obligations he was under to Ardroy, it certainly had not been honour alone which led him to do what he had done.

Until now, he had thought that he had been right to go as far as he had for Ewen Cameron—and wrong to regret his own earlier actions, as he had done while they were parted. Now he wondered if any of it had ever been right. His regard for Ardroy had caused him to act rashly then, but he had done nothing of which an officer of His Majesty's army ought to be ashamed, and he had allowed himself to believe that that regard had been a good influence even upon his honour—until now. If it ended in this...

Even yet, part of him—quiet beneath the turmoil of the rest of his mind, but present nonetheless—was glad that Ewen was safe, away across the sea.

The curtains were drawn close over the windows, shutting out the deep darkness of the December evening. A bright fire cast softly moving light and shadow down the length of the living-room; at either side of the fireplace were two armchairs and, what was still a novelty for the hearthside of the house at Ardroy, both chairs were occupied.

Ewen had been reading a book of sermons, but now, his attention having wandered from it, he was simply staring reflectively into the fire. A quiet little smile was upon his face, and his heart was lulled by the gentle crackling of the flames, merging with the click of his aunt's knitting needles. He had been back at Ardroy for four weeks; Aunt Marget, the servants and his tenants had welcomed him joyfully, but he was convinced that it was he who had gained the more by his return.

'Ewen,' said his aunt now, seeing that he had abandoned the book, 'may I ask you something?'

Her tone was careful, in a way he had not heard since their reunion—a jarring note against the warm security of the evening. Ewen frowned, hoping there was no trouble about the estate that had been kept from him until now, but he said, 'Of course. What is it?'

She finished another round of the stocking she was knitting before she spoke again. 'Ewen, did you see Alison Grant while you were in France?'

He had not expected this—though perhaps he ought to have done. 'No, I did not,' he said.

'She was at Havre-de-Grâce, I believe,' she said musingly, then went on, 'but did you never think of attempting to reconcile with her?'

'I thought of it,' said Ewen slowly. He did not like to tell her the whole of it: how Archie and Donald had more than once tried to persuade him to do so, and how he had resisted them—he certainly would not repeat the arguments they had used—but, he supposed, she was entitled to some explanation. 'But I could not go,' he said. 'It was... not in me, anymore.'

'Why not?' She laid down her knitting, and gazed at him with a troubled expression.

Ewen was a long way from being crass enough to give the bluntly true answer, that he did not love her anymore; but perhaps it was not that simple, after all. Instead he evaded the question. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'I know you liked her—it must be a grief to you, not to... But it would have been false.'

Aunt Margaret looked away from him and took up the stocking again. For a while the steady sound of the knitting needles continued in silence; Ewen tried, without much success, to return to his book.

'Is there anyone else?' she said, abruptly.

'What? Oh—no,' said Ewen. 'No—I never thought of it.' Indeed, that possibility had scarcely occurred to him, either in France or now that he was again established in a life into which he might, he supposed, invite a lady.

She looked at him again, her face full of a sympathetic understanding—or what she believed was understanding, at least, which counts for much in the reckoning of a heart like hers. 'I believe you ought to think of it, Ewen,' she said. 'If—if that is quite over, there are yet many ladies in Scotland who would not disdain such an offer as you might make them. And I think you are lonely, here. I have remarked it ever since you came back.' Another few stitches, and then she continued, 'And 'tis not only for your sake that I say so. Ardroy ought to have a mistress—and not only that, Ewen...'

Perhaps it had not been necessary to repeat Dr Cameron's arguments, after all. But Ewen did not wish to think of such things now, so he merely shook his head, said, 'I shall think on it,' and took up his book again. Shortly afterwards he rose and announced that he was going to bed; but the fond smile returned to his face as he wished his aunt goodnight.

The next day Ewen went up to Slochn nan Eun, to see about some repairs being made to one of the cottages there; on the way back he lingered, walking the long way round the northern end of Loch na h-Iolaire. A bitter wind blew in his face; a rim of ice encircled the water of the loch and a thin covering of snow lay upon the shore, with the dark blue-grey clouds above threatening more snow later. Though the prospect of this place could never be unlovely to Ewen, it was yet a cold and barren scene today, and he ought not to stay out for long in such weather; but he wanted to be alone for a while, and so for a while he wandered along the low ground beside the loch, and tried to think the thing over more clearly.

The subject had been upon his mind often enough, in France and on the journey back to Ardroy; but for these last few weeks he had been too happy in the return to his home to think of very much else—happy enough, indeed, to suppose for a while that everything here was as it had been, and to forget the reasons why it was not.

Now he thought back to the last time Alison and he had seen each other, at Inverness an incomprehensibly long time ago, and of what she had said to him then.

'I am sorry. I cannot rightly explain it.' She had moved away from him when he, realising that she was demurring in the face of his request, had stopped and gently asked what was the reason of it. 'But 'tis all changed. Some shadow has blotted out the future that was to be—some premonition... Oh, Ewen—do you remember when you remarked to me, how Old Angus never "saw" me by the fireside at Ardroy? I believe he saw truly!'

It had not been the typical speech of a girl jilting her lover, and his own reaction had not been quite what he might have expected either. Indeed, for a while afterwards he had thought that it was only fitting that he should have lost her; for she seemed to him to belong to another world, the world of peaceful and happy order, a world in which to live quietly in a secure home with one's wife and children about one—in short, the future he had always hoped for and expected—was something to which a man could aspire. In the fray at Culloden, and later at Fort Augustus, that world had seemed dead indeed. So it had seemed to her, then, and perhaps for a while she had been right. But now this bleak conception of the future was no longer so convincing, for Ardroy at least was still here, and still his own. The imagined life could not be what it might have been with the cause victorious and King James upon the throne—nor what it would have been had Charles's doomed attempt never been made—but it would not have been nothing. So far his aunt had been right; and Ewen could only feel that he was failing in his duty in still rejecting it.

Yet the conviction remained quite firm with him that it would have been wrong, either to try to return to what he had once had with Alison, or to find another. Something had changed in him since the Rising; he thought he had seen something then which he could not now recall, something from outside the little world which he had always taken for granted, that world in which he could have married Alison and been happy—something which still pulled him away from it now.

Another memory returned to him: old Angus MacMartin, the last time he had seen him—the last time he had ever seen him, for the old man was laid in his grave before Ewen came back from France—with his eyes closed before the fire, saying 'I have seen a child running by the brink of Loch na h-Iolaire, and his name is your name.' Had that vision been false, then, also?

Yes, surely something was changed.

The clouds kept their promise, for the snow began to fall as Ewen turned his way back towards the house, in a mood still unquiet, but turning his conscious thoughts to other things. He stood for a moment at the near end of the loch and watched the snow fall, painting the hills and sky in soft shades of white and grey above the dark water. The scene recalled other memories—memories of one brighter thing which had often been on his mind ever since he left Scotland. Perhaps, now that he was returned to his home and no longer a proscribed rebel, he might somehow find Keith Windham again—he would write to him...

But the earlier restlessness remained; and he wondered now for what Keith had saved him, all that time ago. Was not his aunt right—ought it not to have been for the life that she desired for him, that he should have desired for himself? He believed he owed it to Keith to be happy.

That night at Morar, when Ewen had looked his last upon his own country for more than a year, he thought he had seen Keith. He had glanced back for a moment from the boat and the moonlit water and seen, standing at the top of the beach beneath an overgrown bank, a figure which, distant and shadowy though it was, he recognised instantly—and had immediately decided that of course it could not be, for Keith would hardly be standing there alone, in full view and not moving. So Ewen, when he next had leisure to think of the thing, had concluded that it had been only his fancy. He accepted, quite readily and without thinking any further on it, that an image of Keith Windham was a thing that his fancy might conjure for him at such a crucial moment of his own life. It did not yet occur to him to speculate any further on this.

The snow was falling thicker now, and what little light there had ever been in the day was beginning to go. Sighing, Ewen took one last look at the loch, and then turned away, glad to make for the shelter and warmth of his own hearthside once again.

'Windham!'

Keith, recognising the voice before his conscious mind registered its meaning, stopped his progress along the Lawnmarket and turned round.

It was the afternoon of a fine early spring day. Light, wispy clouds drifted across a bright blue sky above the jumbled and dingy houses of Edinburgh, a pleasing contrast, and the breeze that blew along the streets carried the fresh scents of the country from whence it had come. Major Windham was on his way back towards the Castle, carrying a message. This bright day had been as eventful a one as days ever were now—certainly much less so than the days of a year or two ago had been.

A great deal had changed since then. The worst excesses that had followed the battle of Culloden were over, and for the victorious Government there only remained the suppression of any further outbreaks of opposition, the rooting-out of non-juring meeting houses, the ongoing fight against the smuggling that was still rampant in Scotland at this time and the general keeping up of a presence which would effectually keep the still equivocal elements in the country from making any further attempts. It was to form part of this presence that Keith Windham, still temporarily on loan from the Royals to Battereau's Regiment, had been ordered to the Castle garrison, soon after it became apparent to the Government and to his superiors that the Pretender's son had evaded the snares they had so carefully set for him. His experience of Edinburgh, from having been stationed there earlier on in the rebellion, had been the reason given, but Keith could not help but feel that it was a step down from his previous station: a sign that he was still in disfavour, and perhaps a punishment for his failure in that mission. It had occurred to him—though, of course, it could not really be so—that it was only a fitting punishment for another thing.

Walking the Castle battlements, guarding prisoners and searching out suspected Jacobite activity in the city were not tasks that appealed to Keith. He would far rather have returned to Flanders and the battlefield. Nevertheless, he had thrown himself into his new duties at the Castle with undiminished spirit, although they gave him so little opportunity for what he desired from such action as he would have seen upon the Continent—a chance to atone for that which he could not forget. Had Keith been a Papist, he might have confessed his sin and, in doing the penance given him, wiped the slate clean again; but that code of honour which was the closest approach he made to a religion allowed for no such easy absolution.

Now, seeing and recognising the man whose voice had hailed him, that bitter memory returned once more in full strength. For it was Ewen Cameron himself.

'Windham,' he said again, coming up to Keith with his hand outstretched in greeting, 'what a happy chance, to find you here! You are well, I hope?—what are you doing in Edinburgh?'

Major Windham, managing to find his voice, said that he was quite well, and that he trusted Ardroy was also. Indeed, he looked well—there was little sign of the limp which had been so evident when Keith last saw him, and his eyes were shining with pleasure. 'I am stationed at the Castle,' continued Keith. 'I must return there now—I am carrying a message which cannot wait—you will excuse me.'

'Of course—I ought to have guessed that you were on duty,' said Ardroy. 'But you will come and see me later, won't you? Come and have supper with me.' And he gave the name of the inn where he was staying.

Keith hesitated for a moment, then said, against his better judgement, 'It would be my pleasure.'

He could hardly have refused the invitation, not in the face of Ardroy's manner, which was as warm and open as though they were old friends, quite disregarding the circumstances of their former meetings. But he regretted it as soon as they parted, and as he walked the rest of the way back to the Castle he wondered whether the long months of miserable guilt which he had endured had taught him anything. For the old attraction, which had led him so far wrong before, had at one sight of Ewen returned as strong as ever, and had, apparently, as much power as ever to influence his own actions.

Once returned to the inn, Ewen ordered their meal to be brought to his own rooms, that he and Keith might be able to have some conversation together in private—for the public rooms downstairs, besides being none too clean, were terribly noisy. He retreated to his little parlour now. This was a small and rather dark room upon the second floor, and contained an odd, ill-suited mix of furniture. But Ewen, much as he might long whenever he was separated from it for the bright prospects and quiet loveliness of Loch na h-Iolaire, did not mind this; it would do for the present, and at least the bed in the other room was comfortable enough.

He lit a candle, sat down in the parlour's one easy chair and took up some letters which had reached him that day; and so he passed the time until his friend arrived.

Windham and the supper reached him within a few minutes of each other—most fortuitously, for Ewen's business in the city that day had been long and tiring, and he was hungry. They sat down at the slightly rickety table and set to work on their meal—quite a passable plate of mutton chops.

'You must tell me your news, Windham,' said Ewen presently. 'It is'—he calculated—'almost two years since I saw you last. How has time gone with you since?'

Keith swallowed a mouthful of mutton. 'It has not been a terribly eventful two years,' he said, with a wry look. 'Soon after we parted I was sent to the west coast for a time'—Ewen started at this: so he had been there... But Keith went on, 'and since that ended I have been at the Castle garrison.' He said a little more about his present position there; Ewen, who well remembered the courage and ambition which had been Keith's when he had known him, sensed that this could hardly be what he had wished for his future. Windham looked pale, he thought, and tired, and there was a strange sort of reserve in his manner towards Ewen—something which surely had not been there at their last meeting. He would frown at odd moments, and seemed reluctant to meet Ewen's eyes. 'But you must have more to tell than I,' he finished. 'You have returned to your home by now, I hope?'

'I have,' said Ewen, smiling in spite of his worries about Keith, and told him how the house of Ardroy was standing yet, and of his and his aunt's plans for the summer: the crops they would plant, and how their rebuilt cattle herd was faring. These were to him the most absorbing of topics, and he was glad of another chance to speak of them.

'And what brings you to Edinburgh?' said Keith at last.

'I am paying some visits,' said Ewen. 'I have kin in the city. My cousin Jean—Dr Cameron's wife, you will remember him?—is lodging here, and she has introduced me to a gentleman at Leith who is collecting accounts of—what happened two years ago. He was keen to hear the tale of my adventures.' Ewen thought it best not to go into any detail about the Reverend Mr Forbes's collection, which he knew contained much material of a still incriminating nature. But he said, 'I was particularly careful to tell him of your kindness to me then.'

Windham looked away. The expression of his face was not easy to read; he seemed to be working against something. 'You need not have done that,' he said at last.

'Upon the contrary,' said Ewen, smiling, 'I could hardly have told him any of the story today, had it not been for what you did for me.' But this seemed only to cause Keith more distress—which was the last thing he wanted to do. So he changed the subject for a lighter one, and they talked for some time on such inconsequential topics; and, gradually, Keith's manner towards him became more friendly.

He had little thought to see Windham again, much as he had hoped he might. He had tried to write to him, but had never received any answer; and in that silence he had remembered what Old Angus had told him about Lachlan's horribly mistaken desire for revenge, and thought how he did not know where his foster-brother had been all this time, either, for he had never been seen again at Slochd nan Eun—and that thought was an uneasy one. Now the innocent explanation for why letters directed to the Royal Scots should not have reached their destination was a relief, 'for,' said Keith, 'I certainly would have replied, had I ever seen them.' And Ewen's heart rejoiced to see the smile with which he said this. His eyes—of that curious and rather lovely hazel colour which Ewen now noticed again—held a look of warm sincerity, despite the dark shadows beneath them.

As they talked on into the night, the hopes which their fortuitous meeting in the street that afternoon had raised in his heart grew in strength; perhaps they might be friends, after all.

'Windham,' he said as Keith was, at last, preparing to leave, 'I am glad indeed to have met you again here. I hope that it may not be our last meeting. Will you write to me, at Ardroy, when I return there?'

Keith looked at him for a few moments, the troubled expression returning to his face; but then he said, 'I shall be happy to.'

A terribly short time more, and he was gone. Ewen, suddenly sensible of how tired he was, went to his bed. The uneasy dislocation which had, since that cold day beside the loch last December, so often troubled his mind, had slipped from him tonight, so easily and naturally that he did not even remark its absence. He fell asleep almost at once, to dreams full of a vaguely-defined but powerful sense of happiness.

Keith returned to the Castle. It was such a night—clear and calm, with the stars shining above and a keen sharpness in the cold air—as might have done much to ease a mind in turmoil, but he scarcely noticed his surroundings, and the coolness did nothing at all to clear his thoughts. He was glad to reach his small bedchamber at last, for it removed the necessity of concealing his emotions from those about him.

It was useless to deny that, even after so long, he still felt the strongest regard and, yes, friendship for Ewen Cameron. The warm, easy manner with which Ardroy had spoken to him and smiled at him had made it quite impossible to maintain that reserve which he had striven to place between them. Oh, he did not want anything to come between them... Ardroy had been so generous, even now—to think of him, earnestly recounting to a Jacobite chronicler Keith's own actions in defence of him!

But this was just what had caused Keith, on that night at Morar, to go against that duty which must come before any such feelings. He could not—must not—encourage himself to go down that path again, when it had taken such effort to renounce it.

The arguments with which he had challenged himself over and over again during the long days in Edinburgh returned to him with new force. His letting Ewen go had not, after all, caused any actual harm to an already victorious Government, which had wreaked more than enough vengeance upon those not so fortunate as Ardroy. Surely a sense of duty that insisted upon having all the victory, for so little gain and at such a cost, was not—but he was making excuses again, transparently self-serving.

He thought once more of Ewen's face in the candlelight of the little parlour—older than when he had seen it last, but only the more handsome for that, and looking at him with guileless liking. How could he address Ardroy as a friend now, knowing what he knew, knowing what he ought to have done?

So Keith argued with himself, long into the night, while outside the tiny window of his bedchamber the stars looked down, bright and cold, upon the dark streets of Edinburgh.

Chapter Two

From up here on the Castle battlements, the setting sun cast its rays without any obstruction over the houses of the city below. The deep gold blotted out the drab colours, and seemed to remake the familiar sight into something other than what it had been for the almost two years during which Keith had been looking down upon it. It was an odd contrast, and a pleasing sight, in its way.

'Good afternoon, Major Windham!'

He turned. Walking towards him was Captain Hamley, his companion at the Castle for most of the time he had been there. 'Good afternoon,' he said.

'I can't stop, but I thought I'd come and tell you the news.' Hamley grinned, rather humourlessly, and said, 'I had a letter from my cousin in London this morning. It seems our good friend Major Guthrie is going up in the world. He's been promoted—going to Flanders to join the Duke of Cumberland's staff for the negotiations—quite a success, don't you think?'

Before his arrival in Edinburgh, Hamley had been employed in the search for the Pretender's son in the hills of Badenoch, where he had had the good fortune to encounter Major Guthrie on several occasions. He and Major Windham had soon discovered their common acquaintance, and equally common dislike, though Keith was less inclined to jest about it. 'Really? I congratulate him,' he said now, drily.

'Makes one despair for the state of things, doesn't it?' said Hamley lightly. 'Well, I must be getting along—good-bye...' And he disappeared down a flight of stairs and through the heavy wooden door at the bottom, leaving Keith to resume his pacing along the battlements and to reflect upon this unexpected news.

His life at the Castle was no more satisfying to Keith now than it had been. The sorts of business on which the redcoats of Edinburgh were engaged at this time—which included, besides the vigilant guarding of the Castle against threats that were never especially pressing, such ridiculous missions as searching gentlewomen's houses for ladies dressed in rebellious tartan gowns and removing a white rose which mysteriously appeared one day clutched in the paw of the lion which adorned the crest of the Parliament House—suited his temperament and ambitions not at all. It was, therefore, all the more galling to think that Guthrie, of all men, should be rewarded with recognition and advancement while he stagnated here. Well, Guthrie finally had that advantage over his rival which he had been so vexed at not getting on another occasion. Perhaps, thought Keith bitterly, this was the continuance of his punishment for that choice which had shown him undeserving of any greater duty—perhaps, after that, Guthrie really was more deserving than he—

This thought caused him to cease his pacing for a moment, frowning in a sort of puzzled shock at his own mind. For it was not true.

Though it was never entirely absent, the memory of that night at Morar had not, of late, been much at the forefront of Keith's mind. And so this sudden remembrance was something of a shock. Perhaps, however, it was only natural that he should think of it, for the news of Guthrie, and of Cumberland, was a reminder of the past—a past he could not help remembering in more detail now. He saw again Major Guthrie as he had first seen him, long ago: standing before a fired shieling, the soldiers' muskets raised and ready to fire at his command, the stricken figure helpless upon the ground before him...

No, Keith's first thought had not been true at all. Perhaps Guthrie had been conducting himself better of late than he had done in Scotland, but to think of anyone who could act in such a way as that being rewarded was disgraceful.

Yet—his thoughts of the past widened, and brought back more memories of that time—Guthrie had hardly been alone. He had, as he had made a point of insisting, been fully to blame for his own actions; but plenty of senior officers, in the aftermath of the victory upon Culloden Moor, ordered their men to commit equally disgraceful, and more horrible, acts, while any amongst them who tried to show more humanity were punished for it. Keith had not forgotten what Inverness had been after the battle, and he remembered again what had been the fate of his fellow officers who had refused to shoot wounded men upon the field, or tried to show the prisoners some kindness... No, perhaps it was not surprising that Guthrie, and not he, should have been favoured with promotion—and fitting indeed that the promotion was to the Duke of Cumberland's staff!

Had Keith known of some of the things which Jean Cameron, amongst others, had narrated to Robert Forbes for his collection, this line of thought might have received even more fuel; but the conclusions to be drawn from the information he had were clear enough.

The sun was sinking further towards the earth. A few clouds had come up from the eastern horizon, and they now met the sharp splendour of the sunset, diffusing the red gold into a paler light. It was a scene suited to reflection; and Keith's musings upon the evil choices made by Guthrie and so many others introduced, sidelong in his mind, a new light in which to regard his own. Further removed from the immediate horror of that choice, he could perhaps think about it a little more clearly than he once had.

Keith Windham had never been such a rigid adherent of the code of duty not to think that disobeying orders which one's conscience abhorred could be a good and right action—the only honourable one, in fact, when such orders were given. The cashiered officer of Inverness had acted rightly, and Guthrie wrongly. Yes, and his own 'prudence' of that time had been wrong, also... And those evils had not been limited to the burnings and murders with which Guthrie and those like him had terrorised Badenoch and Lochaber. Those of the rebels who had been held as prisoners—here in Edinburgh as well as at Inverness, and on the ships that had made the journey to London—had met with the most appalling treatment, privation and abuse, and how many of them had never come to trial? It occurred to Keith—quite a calm and natural consequence of these thoughts—that of course it would be a right and honourable thing to let an enemy go if, taken captive, he would have no guarantee of a fair trial. Ewen Cameron—he thought the name deliberately for the first time, though it had been at the back of his mind all along—had known and accepted, with the honour of war, that by coming out in rebellion he was risking trial under the law, and the fate which the law decreed for rebels—but no more than that. To have placed him back in the power of those who would abuse their authority so awfully as they had done would have been no duty worth the name.

At this point another part of Keith's mind, waking out of the slumber of the last few months, reminded him, with an obstinate persistence in self-reproach, that these philosophical principles had not been in his mind when he threw away the pistol. He could not justify himself with reference to judgements which his thoughts at the time had not made. This was true: no such considerations had stayed his hand at Morar, but one thing only. And yet...

—and yet, he could not deny that the action, whatever its motivations, had nevertheless been right. Because Keith had not fired the pistol, Ewen had not been confined on a prison ship for months on end; had not been starved to death upon half a pound of meal a day in a dark, stinking hold; had not been sent to a trial at which he might well have been condemned upon false evidence. His heart had led him right, after all; and that his heart would—he must be honest—have shrunk from causing Ewen to face even the proper, legal consequences of rebellion was hardly relevant if this would never have been.

Keith had seen, in the last two years, quite enough of the results of putting duty above honour; but he saw now that placing duty above mercy and human feeling led just as surely, and perhaps more effectively, down the road that leads men to become such as those who had carried out Cumberland's orders without a qualm.

This was the culmination of that revelation, a very long time ago now, when the knowledge had first come to him that he and Ewen might have been friends. He had not, until now, grasped the full implications of that moment. The long years of denial and cynicism preceding it had been a contradiction. His feelings for Ewen, breaking through that denial, had allowed him to see that the best path was not necessarily that which duty commanded, or orders decreed. Love and honour were not opposed, as they had seemed to be upon the sands of Morar.

By now the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the gentle chill of a clear summer's night had descended upon the battlements. Keith did not feel the cold. As he saw the awful past in this new aspect, amazement was mingled in his heart with great relief, and he could have laughed aloud.

Perhaps this change in his thoughts, unexpected as it seemed to Keith that night, had been coming upon him for some time. For he had thought of Ewen often during the months since their last meeting, and always fondly; he had written to him once or twice, and surprised himself by how much he treasured the replies he received. And, after all, Ewen always had brought out the best in his own heart.

The change came upon him now, not with the sudden stark illumination of a lightning flash, but with the surer and steadier brightness of the dawn. He thought back over many things from the past—his attraction to Ewen on first knowing him, his incessant thoughts of him when he was first in Edinburgh, his 'philanthropy' of Fort Augustus—and he saw that the final choice at Morar was not different at all, merely the culmination of a change that had only ever been for the better.

Soon afterwards, another officer arrived to relieve him from guard duty, and Keith returned to his bedchamber, where he slept quite soundly and without anything to trouble him for the rest of the night. And after a while, the sun rose.

'This way—there, you can see back down to the loch from here.'

Keith took the way which Ewen indicated and joined him upon the large flat rock which interrupted the sweep of purple heather, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. 'Indeed! We have made some progress in our morning's walking,' he observed.

It was a bright day in September; the sun was still warm, and the heather in bloom, but the birches that fringed the loch below were beginning to turn from green to gold. Ewen thought to himself, with some pride, that the place appeared today in one of its best aspects—as was only fitting.

Ardroy had been a busy and a happy place for the last few months. First Jean and the children had come down from Edinburgh to visit them, bringing news of life in the town and another letter from Ewen's new friend Mr Forbes. Then Allan, another of Ewen's Cameron cousins, had come to stay for some weeks with his wife Anne and their two little girls. Allan Cameron's fortunes had been rather worse than Ewen's own during the Rising. He was a poor man now, and he and his family had suffered many troubles in the last few years; and so Ewen and Aunt Marget were glad indeed to be able to offer them the peace and respite which the hospitality of Ardroy provided. They had certainly appreciated it. The girls were delighted with Loch na h-Iolaire, and repeatedly begged Ewen to take them out in the rowing-boat, which he happily did.

So the house had been alive with guests for most of the summer; and now, what was to Ewen the greatest joy of all, Keith was here.

It was the second day of his visit. Seeing the weather so fine this morning, Ewen had suggested they set out to climb Meall an Tagraidh, the great hill which lay to the west of the loch. Keith, though regarding the steep slopes with a somewhat sceptical gaze, had agreed; and now they were most of the way to the summit.

They set off again, Ewen leading the way. He stopped to pull some sprigs of the heather, and showed it to Keith, demonstrating the intricate detail of the flowers—'truly, 'tis a marvellous thing, to be so beautiful up close and still so lovely in a mass at a great distance,' he added, indicating with a sweep of his arm the hillside behind him—and pointing out the differences between the common heather and the bell-heather, both of which grew upon these slopes. Keith took the flowers and examined them with some interest.

'I am glad,' said Ewen, when they had finished their botanical investigations and continued on their way, 'to see you looking so well, Windham.'

'Thank you,' said Keith, with a look that might have been embarrassment; but he went on, 'I believe I am in better health than when we last met.'

'The mountain air must be good for you,' said Ewen happily.

'Perhaps it is.' And Ewen, glancing down at him, met a little smile.

For that odd reserve which had been in Keith's manner at their last meeting was, apparently, quite gone from him, and Ewen was glad indeed to see this. It had worried him; for he had been thinking very often of Keith since that evening at Edinburgh—had seen him not a few times in his dreams, smiling at him in the lamplight of the strange room. He had felt at first that there was something left unresolved by that meeting—some part of that enigma which Keith had once seemed to him, which he still did not comprehend. Keith Windham's friendship had been such an unexpected thing to him; it was something he had never looked to find, and yet, once found, so welcome, and for far more reasons than what Ewen owed to the sacrifices Keith had made on his behalf. An English officer in the service of the Elector, and personally such a mystery when Ewen first knew him, he had found out an empty place in Ewen's life and fitted perfectly into an absence he had barely known was there. Perhaps the very unlooked-for quality of the thing added to the significance of the impression it made upon his heart; Keith's kindness to him, what he had been willing to do for Ewen's sake, had shown him something outside his own knowledge, and had somehow made life a better thing than he had thought to expect it.

It had taken Ewen some time to understand all this; but, thinking along these lines as often as he had, it became gradually more obvious to him what had been keeping him from thoughts of marriage.

This revelation might have shocked him—he could have rejected it outright as a sin or perversion, and before the Rising and all that had happened during it he might well have done so. But it was not so now. His heart felt lighter and more at ease with itself than it had done in a long time. It seemed such a natural development of what he had always felt for Keith, and what grew stronger the more he knew of him, and thinking of Keith now he could only be happy. And the realignment in his thoughts brought an end to that unease which had been upon Ewen for so long. Far from perverting anything, he felt that he had set his heart in its own right course at last; and, in doing so, he laid all those old doubts of it to rest.

Yes, indeed that year had changed him—but how much for the better...

They reached the summit, a broad piece of flat ground with a little pool just below it and the higher peak of Meall na h-Eilde above them to the northwest. Keith spread his coat upon the ground—it was not his uniform coat, which he had evidently left behind in Edinburgh, but an old grey woollen one, fit for the chill of early autumn upon the high hills—and they sat down to eat the provisions they had brought with them.

A group of plovers flew past, between them and the higher hill, their pointed wings glinting golden in the bright sun. Ewen, following their flight with his eyes, pursed his lips and whistled to them, in imitation of their own high, piping calls. The birds replied to him, and two or three changed their course and flew in closer towards where he and Keith sat, as if to investigate, and settled at the edge of the pool below them.

Keith frowned. 'Can you do that for all the birds of the Highlands?' he said.

'Only the plover,' said Ewen, laughing, 'but it is a useful enough trick, when one is out with a fowling-piece! Oh, but 'tis good to see them for themselves, too, of course. They shall leave us soon—they're not birds of winter.'

Keith grinned and looked away from him, back down towards where the plovers, having re-formed their small flock, were now flying rapidly away down the glen. Ewen did not do the same; he kept his eyes upon Keith's face, watching the little changes in his expression and finding them all impossibly dear.

He had been looking at Keith in odd moments like this all the morning; and, from what he observed, had derived some greater hope that his own feelings might be returned. But a little anxious uncertainty was inevitable upon such an occasion, and he did not wish to break the peaceful happiness of this moment. Yes, he would speak to Keith of how he felt—not yet, but soon...

That evening, after supper, the three of them—Ewen, Keith and Aunt Margaret—sat together by the fireside in the living-room. Keith and Aunt Margaret were talking together: she was telling him about the history of Ardroy, of when the house was built, the elements of the coat of arms displayed above the porch, the family stories and legends about the Camerons of Ardroy of earlier days. Ewen leant back in his chair, closing his eyes, and listened to his aunt's narratives and Keith's interested replies. He was glad that they were evidently getting to like each other.

Presently Aunt Margaret announced her intention of going to bed. Keith and Ewen both wished her good night; she disappeared upstairs, and they were left alone.

They sat in silence for a while. The gentle light from the fire—for, although the day had been so bright, the evenings were already cold enough to require one—softened the slight harshness of Keith's features, as, perhaps, did the expression with which he was gazing towards it. The contrast pleased Ewen; he believed Keith looked more lovely than ever, and became rather lost for a while in his own admiring thoughts.

At length Keith lifted his gaze from the fire and said, 'May I ask you something, Ardroy?'

'Of course,' said Ewen. 'What is it?'

Keith paused for a moment, considering how to put his question. Then he said, 'When we met in Edinburgh—I mean the first time, not our meeting earlier this year... you chose to let me go, when I was an enemy officer and you might have taken me prisoner. I have often wondered why. What were your reasons?'

Ewen had not expected this choice of subject—and the reminder of their enmity in those early days, when the state of things between them now was so much happier, was hardly pleasant to him. He frowned, but said, 'I suppose I thought that it could not do much good my taking one more prisoner, after the victory at Gladsmuir. And then you had acted in such a—I mean, your manner towards me, after that unfortunate accident, and after your men left you. I believe I felt for you... some prescient shadow of what I now feel,' he finished, not caring if this was too strong.

Keith looked at him with a peculiar expression. It was as though he wanted to say more, but could not think how to begin. Ewen, who could not fathom his reasons for asking about such a thing now, was unable to help him. But the question set his own thoughts turning upon the past, and in doing so he recalled a mystery about which he had long wanted to ask Keith—and with that thought, perhaps, came a dim suspicion of Keith's motives in questioning him.

'If I may—' he began, at the same time as Keith said, 'There was—'

'Go on,' said Keith.

Ewen collected his thoughts. 'If I may ask you something also,' he said slowly, '...I remember you told me that you were stationed on the west coast late in the summer of '46. I was there also, once—when I went to meet the ship that took me to France. It was at Morar in September. That night, when I was going down to the sea, I believe I saw you, standing upon the beach. I could not be sure... Was my sight deceiving me?'

There was a pause; then Keith met his eyes, and said, 'It was not.'

Hesitantly, Ewen said, 'Windham, I believe I have had more to thank you for than I knew, even now...'

There was another silence, during which Ewen read acknowledgement, and something else, in his friend's eyes. 'I feel I ought to apologise,' said Keith at last, 'for my manner towards you at our last meeting. I was needlessly cold to you. I intended no offence—and 'twas no fault of yours! But... it took me some time to understand what happened—what I did—that night. I understand it now, I believe.'

Ewen, abandoning his own hesitancy, leaned over towards Keith's chair and took his hand. 'You need not apologise,' he said softly. 'Of course I do not think of it. Besides, I have already seen that it is all over now,' he added, with a smile. 'Did I not remark only today how you were looking in better health?' He thought for a few moments, and then continued, 'It was one thing to take pity on an enemy when I might easily do so, but what you have done—no, you have nothing to apologise for. And, Windham, that is all over... and I am glad to call you my friend.'

Keith gripped his hand. 'I am glad also,' he said. And that would have been a fitting end to their conversation; but Keith's face still showed some struggle of conflicting emotions, of something more to be said. Perhaps the tacit confession of the truth about that night at Morar could not be made alone. After a few moments more he continued, in an altered tone, 'Indeed, Ardroy, I cannot say that that is all I feel for you—I must tell you something more of my reasons... When I acted as I did—every time, from the beginning—I believe it was from another feeling.' True Englishman that he was, to lay bare his emotions in such plain language as this was no small feat; but he kept on determinedly, not looking away from Ewen, and managed to get as far as, 'Ardroy, I—'

And at this Ewen said, 'Keith, come here,' and got up from his chair and took Keith into his arms. The house about them was quiet in its nighttime peace; the crackling of the fire, and the little movements of Keith's body as he nestled closer to Ewen, were the only sounds in the room, and for all Ewen cared there might have been nothing else in the world.

Ewen, who had still not settled on what words he might use to speak of his own feelings, now found that he could convey them well enough by other means. Drawing back a little from the embrace, he brought one hand up to cup Keith's cheek, nudging his head back a little, and leaned down to kiss him.

After a while Ewen broke the kiss to say, 'Ah, Keith, how I have been thinking of this!'

The corner of Keith's mouth turned up in that familiar smile. 'I wondered,' he said, 'from the way you looked at me out on the hill this morning. But I could not be sure... I see now,' he went on, holding Ewen's gaze, 'that I was quite right as to the meaning of that look.'

They kissed again, and held each other more tightly. Ewen could still feel Keith smiling against his own mouth. Moving his hand slowly across Keith's back, he felt that all the emptiness and dislocation of the last two years were truly at an end. He had been right; this was what he had wanted all along.

Finally they drew apart once more, and Ewen, feeling that he had nothing to hold back tonight, said, 'Come to bed.'

Keith's eyes held his answer to this. A short while afterwards, the living-room was left with nothing at all to disturb its quiet sleep.

It was a few days later, and Keith was lying in the big, ancient oaken bed in Ewen's room, listening to the rain falling steadily outside the window. Ewen—who, he had learnt, had a slight tendency to allow his limbs to sprawl out across his surroundings while asleep—had arranged himself more comfortably against Keith's side, and was now half-dozing with his head upon Keith's shoulder. It was perhaps six o'clock in the morning; they had some time before breakfast yet.

Presently Ewen stirred, raised his head, looked at Keith for a few moments and then said, 'What are you thinking of, dear?'

Keith considered saying that he had been thinking of how appalling this Highland weather was, but found he could not stomach the thought of such a falsehood. 'You, mostly,' he said, leaning down to kiss Ewen's hair. Ewen laughed and leaned against him.

It was a comfortable attitude in which to muse upon the happiness which had, indeed, occupied his thoughts for most of the last several days. 'How did you first know,' said Keith after a while, 'that—your feelings were what they are?'

Ewen thought about this for a few moments. 'It was not easy,' he said. 'I—you can imagine that this is not exactly where I expected ever to be.' Keith smiled at this. 'I was in something of a muddle about it for a while.' And he described, so far as he could, the readjustment through which he had passed before he was aware of his own feelings. Keith—who for his own part had never considered himself duty-bound to marry, and who, when he first knew Ewen, had rather envied him the position, with all its security and easy warmth, which the laird of Ardroy enjoyed in the society that surrounded him—listened in some interest, gazing towards the window and running one hand lazily over Ewen's hair. He supposed he had altered that position not a little. 'So, you see,' concluded Ewen, 'I had to adjust to quite a new idea of what was... fitting.'

At this Keith looked back towards him. 'I believe,' he said, 'I could say the same.'

Ewen smiled; and then he went on in a different tone of voice, 'But I am glad to have found it now. Indeed, you gave me more than I knew...'

Keith could not but agree with this. He remembered those long, anguished nights of turning over his choice to let Ewen, his enemy, go. How simple it all seemed now: for Ewen, what he now was, he could never have acted any differently, and it was only right that it should be so. He was beginning to think that his great revelation of a few months ago had been more valuable in allowing him to love Ewen—which in itself he had done all along—without restraint or denial, than for its direct effect upon his own conscience.

At this point Ewen, who had been smiling fondly upon the last few moments of reflection, interrupted his thoughts by leaning upwards and kissing him—which Keith returned with some feeling. He was a long way yet from being used to Ewen's kisses, which could have at once a passionate intensity and a perfect gentleness, a little overwhelming in combination—but entirely welcome.

Ewen looked at him, when they eventually drew apart, with an expression which mingled radiant happiness with a sort of satisfied pride. 'I hope,' he said quietly, 'to get as much of this as we may while you remain here—too short a time as it is!'

'But,' said Keith, 'I trust there will be many times after that, also.'

'Oh, my heart,' said Ewen, 'always...'

The bright day was making itself felt with all the quiet insistence of early spring. A ray of sunlight fell across the desk from the open window of the study, and the leaves of the ivy which framed the window on the outside stirred in a soft breeze. Ewen, sitting at the desk in his shirtsleeves, raised his head from the papers he had been studying and allowed himself to be distracted for a few moments by the view: the fluffy clouds, which had let fall a shower of rain earlier in the morning but which now moved innocently across a sky whose vivid blue they set off strikingly; the hints of green beginning to appear amongst the dark brown of winter heather; Loch na h-Iolaire, looking as lovely as it ever had amidst them.

Looking upon these sights, he thought suddenly of his foster-brothers, with whom he had so often shared those familiar scenes in days gone by—and who would never see them again. He had heard, since Keith's first confession, a little more about that night at Morar; and, upon learning that the party of soldiers who ought to have accompanied Keith had been delayed by a Highlander who had attacked them apparently without reason, he had remembered Lachlan's awful, misguided promise to hunt down Keith himself, and it had not been difficult to put the pieces together in his mind. It had been a painful thing to realise; but now, he took comfort in the thought that Lachlan had, however unwittingly, given Ewen himself the time he had needed to escape. In that thought, and in the brightness upon Ardroy today, he could feel that his foster-brother's memory was put to a worthy rest.

He returned to his writing. The matter was an important one, and he must not be distracted from it for long. He was making a will, a copy of which would be sent to the family lawyer later that week. The details were not terribly complicated: he made a generous provision for Aunt Margaret, should she survive him, and then left the house and lands of Ardroy to his cousin, Allan Cameron, and his heirs after him.

He had been considering this step for some time, and ever since he and Keith had come to their happy understanding he had been more or less decided upon doing something of the sort. The choice of Allan had not been a difficult one. Ewen had first written to suggest the idea a short time ago, giving his cousin to understand that he did not expect ever to marry (Allan, who knew something of Ewen's history, had too much delicacy to enquire further), and that therefore he must make some arrangement for the future of his estate—and Allan, surprised but much gratified, had accepted. He and his family had been so happy here—had seemed, Ewen thought, to understand the place with something of the feeling he had for it himself—and so he was as certain as he could be that Ardroy would be left in good hands, and not, as Archie had once warned him, those of a stranger.

Indeed, this was as good a time as could be to make the thing official; for his latest letter from Allan had informed him of the recent safe arrival of a new member of the family, whom, in recognition of Ewen's kindness to them, the happy parents had chosen to name after him. And so this was the fulfilment of Old Angus's prophecy. Ewen hoped it would be a fitting one.

He had discussed the decision with his aunt several times. She had taken it surprisingly well. Though she was clearly grieved to see his resolve so firmly set against the future she had wanted for him, she nevertheless admired his taking responsibility in this way, and when he had, a while ago, asked her approval for his final choice, she had given it. 'And,' she had said to him yesterday evening, when they spoke of it again, 'I do believe it is a fitting choice. I am glad to think of it.'

'Of course they will visit very often,' he had said, 'and perhaps I shall invite young Ewen to live here for a while when he is older.'

'I should like that,' she said, with a look that spoke of something deeper than simple affection for her relations. She, who had seen so much loss and pain fall upon the house of Ardroy, ought indeed to see it glad and alive again.

So this last conversation had been a tearful scene, but not a sad one; at the end they had embraced with some warmth, and Ewen was happy to think that his late 'muddle' was resolved in all its consequences, and not only for his own heart.

He stood up and contemplated the finished document for a moment. Then he looked across to the slightly disarranged collection of papers on the other side of the desk, and smiled—for on top of the pile was his most recent letter from Keith. They had been writing as often as they practically could ever since Keith returned to Edinburgh, where he was still posted at the Castle garrison—though, he said, he had hopes ('bittersweet as they must now be, my friend') of being soon promoted to a situation better suiting him. Still, for now he was only a few days' journey away; and Ewen believed he might contrive a necessity, connected with his present legal business, for making a trip to Edinburgh before long.

He was pulled out of these happy reflections by the sound of voices beneath the window. One was his aunt's, and the other was that of young Angus MacMartin—whom, Ewen remembered, he had enlisted to help him today with the building of an extension to the garden wall. He leaned out of the window and waved to Angus. 'You are punctual, my young friend!' he said. 'Wait there—I shall be down in a minute.'

The day outside looked, if anything, even more beautiful than it had earlier, and Ewen was gladdened indeed by the thought that he had not missed the best of it. He put his papers away in a drawer, took his coat from where it lay over the back of a chair and left the study to go downstairs.