The Master of Stair 12

The Master of Stair 12

A look of relief crossed her face, she gave a little gasping sigh.

 

“You are generous,” she said falteringly, “and I foolish—and ashamed—”

 

“I have seen strange things in an adventurer’s career, Miss Delia,” he

smiled, “but never any one ashamed with no cause.”

 

She stood abashed, yet comforted; gratitude that he had not guessed and

fear that he might struggled together at her heart; she resolved on

escape.

 

“Good-night,” she said, and held out her hand.

 

His cool, firm palm touched her trembling hot fingers; she gave him a

wistful look.

 

“Thank you—Jerome,” she said, and with a sweep of skirts was gone.

 

He noted the way she gave him his name as a great mark of confidence,

and smiled quietly.

 

“So she is in love with that Highlander,” he said to himself, “and

thinks her heart broken!”

 

He shrugged his shoulders; then yawned and picked the candle up.

 

“Perseus is remarkably obtuse,” he reflected. “Poor lady!” And he

yawned again.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VI

 

HATE MEETS HATE

 

 

The Earl of Breadalbane bit his pen and stared thoughtfully out of the

window at the gloomy shores of Loch Awe.

 

He sat in a small chamber contrived by a modern architect out of one of

the Gothic halls of the old castle; it was well furnished and contained

the luxuries (rare in the Highlands), of a carpet, wall-hangings and a

sideboard with a mirror.

 

These things, however, were none of them new; the Earl’s chair showed

the horsehair through the broken leather and the carpet in front of his

bureau was worn threadbare; the Earl was a wealthy man and a proud, but

above everything prudent; he kept his French furniture for Edinburgh

and used here things that had served when he was merely Sir John

Campbell of Glenorchy.

 

A sheet of paper was before him; clear save for the heading:

 

“To Sir John Dalrymple, Master of Stair.” The Earl was very clear as to

what he wished to write to the Secretary; it was merely to inform him

that there was little likelihood of many of the clans coming in by the

prescribed time; to advise him that the new regiment of his cousin,

Argyll, should be armed and quartered in Glasgow with as little

disturbance as possible.

 

But it was not so easy to couch this in terms satisfactory to his own

cautious mind; it must be in his own hand, his name attached; there

must be possibility of a perfectly innocent construing of it if ever it

were produced.

 

Breadalbane had often raised his eyebrows of late at the letters the

Master of Stair put his hand to; the utterly reckless letters of a man

too powerful to heed caution.

 

“But times change,” smiled Breadalbane, “he’d no’ be so powerful if

there was a revolution.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of

the Master of Stair’s letters; written mostly from Kensington and in a

powerful, picturesque style, flowing and eloquent. They set forth a

scheme evidently very passionately dear to the writer’s heart, namely,

the utter destruction of that “damnable den of thieves,” the

Highlanders.

 

Breadalbane took up the last and read it over again; it contained these

words:

 

“Your troops will destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Lochiel’s

lands, Keppoch’s, Glengarry’s and Glencoe’s. Your power shall be large

enough. I hope the soldiers will not trouble the government with

prisoners.”

 

The Earl folded and put the letters away. “You are very confident, Sir

John,” he reflected, “that the clans will no’ be coming in.”

 

It was now the third of December and none had taken the oaths; there

seemed fair ground for the Master of Stair’s eager hope that none

would; who was to warn the remote Highlands of the secret vengeance

preparing against them; of the soldiers sent quietly in readiness for

the first day of the new year, of the Master of Stair, Secretary and

Prime Minister for Scotland, waiting for that day with the terrible

calmness of a black resolve?

 

The Highlanders saw none of this; only the suave smile of the loathed

Campbell who was the government’s instrument, and a demand for the

avowal of submission their haughtiness would not stoop to grant.

 

Breadalbane put down his pen and pushed his chair back.

 

If the chiefs were not warned....

 

His light eyes glistened unpleasantly—certainly he had at least the

Macdonalds in his hand.

 

He was returning to his letter with a smile on his thin lips when the

door was suddenly opened and he swung round with his swift silent

movement.

 

It was Campbell of Ardkinglass.

 

“Weel?” demanded the Earl, and his tone was haughty: his common usage.

 

Ardkinglass gave him a strange glance. “Macdonald o’ Glencoe is below,”

he said dryly. “The chief and his twa sons asking for ye.”

 

Breadalbane rose stiffly:

 

“Macdonald o’ Glencoe—under my roof?” he said with narrowing eyes.

 

Ardkinglass nodded.

 

“They will be wishing to take the oaths,” he answered. “They’ve come to

attend the conference.”

 

The Earl, always mindful of his dignity before his henchmen, stifled a

fierce oath. “I’m no’ a sheriff,” he said. “Let them begone from my

roof—see to it Ardkinglass—tell them I willna’ treat with thieves.”

 

“They willna’ gang,” replied Campbell of Ardkinglass, “they’ve come,

they say, for their share of the bonnie English siller.”

 

The Earl’s control broke at that; he cried out passionately:

 

“The auld leeing thief! He would be asking me for the siller when he

owes me more for rent and robbery than his share twice ower!”

 

“I think they will be coming to see ye in your public capacity,” was

the answer. “They’re no’ taking heed of private feuds.”

 

Breadalbane stood silent; the angry color fled from his face and it

took on lines of cunning; his eyes shifted under their blond brows; he

stroked his chin with his delicate hand and coughed musingly; then he

glanced up with a return of his perpetual smile.

 

“Weel,” he said, “I’ll come, Ardkinglass.” He turned and carefully

locked away his papers; then preceded his kinsman down the great gaunt

stairs.

 

The Macdonalds stood in the center of the vast dining-hall, the old

chief between his two sons; all three erect with their bonnets in their

hands, all huge in height and build.

 

The two young men were breathing hard, flushed and defiant, their eyes

roving quickly from door to window; but the elder Makian’s fine old

face showed a dignified, placid calm in keeping with his venerable

appearance, a benevolent good-will showed in his bright blue eyes and

his lips were curved to a kindly smile.

 

Breadalbane, entering, gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward,

motioning to Ardkinglass to stand back against the wall. The two young

men swung round, black with mistrust, but Makian spoke in bland Lowland

Scotch:

 

“Ye will be wondering, why we make such a tardy appearance,” he

remarked gently, “weel, it was the weather—was ower rough.”

 

His manner utterly waived all thought of offense between them; he spoke

as if the Campbells and Macdonalds had been friends for centuries.

 

Breadalbane hitched his sword over his hip so that it lay nearer his

hand. “Weel,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll no’ be denying that I was

expecting Makian, though ’tis ower long since a Macdonald came to

Kilchurn.”

 

Makian waved his hand courteously as if he dismissed even the hint of

an unpleasant subject. “Ye will be guessing our errand?” he said

suavely.

 

There was the slightest pause; Breadalbane measured the three huge

Highlanders in their dark tartans with their dirks stuck through their

belts, and the Highlanders eyed the Earl, slender in his Lowland suit

of gray velvet with his left hand gently pulling his sword backwards

and forwards.

 

He was the first to speak:

 

“Yea,” he said, “it will be aboot the coos ye have come, Macdonald.”

 

Makian’s face was a pleasant blank.

 

“The coos?” he repeated courteously.

 

Breadalbane lifted his ash-gray eyes with a sinister flash.