The Master of Stair 17

The Master of Stair 17

Argyll looked up quickly: “Ye think so?” he asked. He always showed a

great respect for his cousin’s opinion, consulted her and deferred to

her in a way her husband never did, and she despised him in proportion.

“Ye think there is no hope for King James?” he asked again,

half-anxiously.

 

She looked full at him and laughed. “Cousin, cousin,” she cried. “Dinna

gang ower far with the Jacks because I dinna imagine that there _is_

much hope for King James.”

 

He stared at her, went red and white, and his tea-cup danced in his

hand.

 

“Madam!” he gasped.

 

Her look of amusement deepened.

 

“I ken vera weel,” she said, “that ye are tampering with King James’s

agents—weel, cousin, we all do the same. A wise man will be keeping

square with both sides.”

 

Argyll, looking agitated and foolish, began to protest.

 

“Cousin, I assure ye that I have na engaged in any treasonable plots—”

 

She cut him short.

 

“Ye need no’ be so cautious with me, Cousin Archibald.”

 

He looked at her, half-reassured, but the memory of his grandfather’s

and his father’s fate was strong within him. He spoke peevishly.

 

“Dinna talk so freely o’ these dangerous subjects—I hav’na’ a wish to

be traveling to Holland again.”

 

“Leave plotting alone then,” she answered with flashing eyes; her lord,

she thought, not this poltroon, should have been MacCallum More.

 

“I hav’na’ been plotting,” retorted the Earl angrily. “I was approached

by an agent of James—Jerome Caryl—he had some great names—some great

names—he spoke....” His voice sank—“Of a rising in the spring—the

French have offered troops and Berwick is coming over.”

 

“And you?”

 

“Weel, I hedged—I spoke him fair, but I said nothing dangerous—mark ye,

nothing dangerous.”

 

His eyes wandered round the room furtively; he was eager to change the

subject, a little afraid of this sharp wife of his cousin’s.

 

“We’re safe with either government,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard of

this rising—Jock will of course wait. There is nae hurry.”

 

“No,” assented Argyll, eager to reassure himself of the safety of his

position. “And I dinna doubt that everybody has a finger in the plot.

They say ye can count on one hand the men at Kensington who hav’na’

regular letters from St. Germains.”

 

“And who are those few, cousin?”

 

“Weel—they say Carstairs, Shrewsbury and the Master of Stair—but I’m

thinking that’s merely because they are more cunning than most.”

 

The Countess laughed. At the same moment there was a tap on the door

and as she looked up a servant entered.

 

“Captain Campbell of Glenlyon to see your ladyship.”

 

“He is frae Kilchurn?” she asked.

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

“Bid him come in,” she said, and as the door closed again she looked at

her cousin.

 

“What has happened that Jock sends to me?”

 

Argyll trifled with his teaspoon in silence and looked at her with a

lazy half-sneer, for she had risen with a changed face, and that any

one should be troubled lest anything should happen to Breadalbane was

to his cousin a most amusing thing.

 

Captain Campbell of Glenlyon entered and stood a moment abashed by the

light, glowing room, the elegant lady all purple and gold; his master

usually employed him on rougher work than carrying messages to his wife.

 

“My lord is weel?” asked the Countess swiftly.

 

“Vera weel, my lady,” answered Glenlyon awkwardly.

 

The sneer on Argyll’s face deepened.

 

“Will ye be closing the door after ye?” he asked sourly. “I’m in a

fearful draught.”

 

With nervous salutations, Glenlyon obeyed; he was a red-haired, florid

man, obviously ill at ease in the presence of Argyll and the Countess.

There was a little pause: the Earl, fretful at having his tea

disturbed, pointedly ignored Glenlyon, who, after delivering his

letter, stood uncomfortably by the door.

 

Erect and slender in the center of the room stood the Countess, the

soft light glittering on the stiff folds of her silk gown. She broke

the seal of the letter and with eager eyes glanced over it, her fair

face anxious and absorbed. She had her back to Argyll, and he marked

with a slow cold admiration the curve of her neck rising from the webs

and blossoms of her d’Alençon lace kerchief and the long, fine,

gleaming gold curls that fell over her shoulders; drooping against the

soft turn of her cheek hung the brilliant in her ear: it winked with a

thousand colors in the candle-light and trembled a little with the

quick moving of her breath.

 

There was a silence in the cream-colored room. Glenlyon began to note

the things about him with furtive red eyes, and cautiously shifted his

feet from the edge of the pink carpet onto the polished boards.

 

Suddenly, the Countess looked up and turned to Argyll.

 

“Cousin,” she cried, “the clans are coming in!”

 

The paper shook in her hand and her eyes flashed under lifted brows.

 

“Lochiel’s tacksmen are taking the oaths by the hundreds, the

Macphersons and the Frasers, the Munros and the Macleods are come in—”

Her voice was sharp and angry. “’Tis most sudden—most unexpected!” she

cried.

 

Argyll sat up in his chair, roused from his sneer. “And the Macdonalds

o’ Glencoe?” he asked.

 

“They hav’na’ come in yet,” she answered. “Nor yet Clanronald or

Keppoch—but it looks ill that these should submit—Jock seems disturbed.”

 

Argyll put down his tea-cup and rose. “They have been warned,” he said.

 

Their eyes met.

 

“By whom?” asked the Countess.

 

Argyll shrugged his shoulders. “By some agent of King James.”

 

“But how could any know?”

 

“’Tis their business,” answered Argyll, “to discover these matters—of a

certainty these men have been warned.”

 

The Countess turned to Glenlyon.

 

“Captain Campbell, know ye more than is writ here?”

 

“No, my lady, my lord will be with ye to-morrow, and I’ve no’ any

knowledge. My lord didna’ gie me aught but the message.”

 

“Ye may gang, sir,” she answered. “Thank ye for your service.”

 

Glenlyon bowed himself from the room, and the Countess turned again to

her letter.

 

“This will be a blow to the Master of Stair,” said Argyll

 

“But it is no’ _all_ the clans hae come in,” she answered quickly.

 

Argyll smiled.

 

“But the Master of Stair was reckoning on all, cousin.” He drew a

letter from his pocket and unfolded it. “See, the last he wrote me.”

 

He pointed to a sentence and read it aloud.

 

“‘As I wrote to you formerly, if the rest are willing to concur, to

pull down Glencoe’s nest this winter, as the crows do—thus destroying

him and his clan, ’twill be as fully acceptable as if he had come in.

This answers all ends and satisfies those who complain of the King’s

too great gentleness.’ Ye see,” commented Argyll, “he is very bitter—he

would like to sweep the Hielands wi’ fire and sword. He wrote to me

that if none came in—he hoped six thousand might be slain.”

 

“But they hae come in!” cried the Countess impatiently. “Still—if the

Macdonalds dinna—if we can be freed o’ that nest o’ murdering thieves,

’twill be somewhat—Keppoch too, and the ither chiefs may stand out.”

 

Argyll put his letter back in his pocket.