The Master of Stair 23
The secretary assented meekly. The Master of Stair leaned back in his
chair; above his red gown his colorless face showed of a ghastly pallor.
“I will write to Breadalbane,” he said, “I will dictate the letter.”
Melville drew a sheet of paper toward him and dipped his pen in the ink.
“Head it Kensington,” said Sir John. “And say—I am sorry Glengarry and
Keppoch are safe—but glad Makian has not come in—it will be a great
work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable race—the worst
in all the Highlands. I rejoice that they have not taken the oaths.”
The secretary’s pen went busily over the paper; Sir John took up his
wine-glass and emptied it slowly.
“That is all,” he said. “Fill that out.”
The secretary handed the finished letter across the table and Sir John
signed it, then fell back again in his chair. In silence, Melville put
the papers together.
“There in my own hand—for my son in Holland,” said the Master of Stair.
“Put them up—maybe the child will never read them, nevertheless send
them.” He put his hand to his head and the strange distortion of his
mouth deepened, marring his face.
Melville cleared the table and put the letters neatly into a portfolio;
wiped the pens and took away the inkstands; his quiet movements did not
disturb the silence.
“Give me that letter on the floor,” said the Master of Stair, suddenly.
The secretary obeyed; Sir John took it with the tips of his fingers and
laid it on the bare table in front of him.
“You may go now—Melville,” he said. “I shall start by daybreak, but
alone—I shall see you in London to-morrow evening—you may come again
presently and help me to undress—”
“Yes, Sir John.”
The secretary moved to the door and there stopped, struck by something
utterly tragic and forlorn in the figure of the man he was leaving. The
Master of Stair was leaning back with his head uplifted against the
stiff black back of his chair, his hands lay slackly on the arms and
his eyes were set and vacant:
“Sir John,” said the secretary timidly. “Will you not go to bed?”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, without moving, “No.”
Still Melville lingered.
“You look tired, Sir John,” he ventured.
“Why should you care?” was the answer. “Take your own rest, Melville.”
The secretary came back into the room. “Sir, as you ride to London so
early, it would be better if you slept.”
Sir John sat up and looked at the speaker with wide eyes.
“If I might choose I would never sleep again,” he said. “And I would
never see the dark.” He gave a short laugh and took up his wife’s
letter; there was a little pause; the secretary waited, ill at ease.
“Melville—” the Master of Stair spoke abruptly, “when did my sister
die?”
A little painful silence, then the secretary answered awkwardly: “It
was before I came to you, Sir John, about twenty years ago, I think.”
Sir John turned the unopened letter over in his hands.
“It seems longer,” he said gloomily. “’Tis an old tale now—but I had it
flung in my face to-day—that—and other things. I thought I had
forgotten—but I remember now that I can never bear to open a door that
resists—for fear—for fear of seeing again what I saw then. When I
thrust open that resisting door and saw her murdered bridegroom across
the threshold—and her eyes blinking at me over it—Melville, her mad
eyes—that looked as I have seen mine—” He dashed his hand on the table
and his black brows contracted into a frown of agony; his was the
fierce pride that disdains control and restraint; he was reckless of
the watching curiosity of the other man.
“Why did that wench remind me?” he cried bitterly. “I hear Janet’s
scream again—and see over her bare arm the—faugh! these things are not
terrible to hear, Melville; they are easily told—but when you _see_
them—by God! when you _see_ them—I think you do not forget.”
He lifted his wild, blue eyes with something almost like appeal in them.
“It makes a tale for common folk to mouth,” he said. “Can nothing be
buried too deep for spite to unearth it? Twenty years ago! I remember I
wore my first sword that day—cursed—what sins have we done to be so
cursed? Melville—you were there when they brought my dead son home—” He
leaned across the table and his voice sank. “Tell me,” he said
hoarsely, “did he not look terrible?”
Melville shrank away.
“Sir,” he faltered, “no more than any dead who die so.”
“Who has died so since Cain?” demanded the Master wildly: “slain by his
brother—God and man call it an awful thing.”
“Sir—’twas in mimic fight—a most unhappy accident.”
“So we call it; so we gloss it over—but you and I know better,
Melville,” answered the Master—“They hated each other—like I hated my
brother—but he shot himself—better than if I had done it—yet this
child’s guilt is mine—Melville, he was only twelve, but the black
Dalrymple blood rose in him—my sins return to lay my house in ruins and
dishonor me.”
He rose, thrusting his chair back; with his great height emphasized by
the flowing scarlet gown, his white face and his passionate eyes dark
with pain, he looked almost terrible; the secretary drew further
outside the circle of the lamplight.
“Many men, Sir John,” he said in his even official voice, “would gladly
have your sorrows to enjoy your fortunes. Worldly greatness such as
yours is a fine balance to private misfortunes.”
This smooth axiom was unheeded by the other, but he caught and dwelt on
the sense of what was said.
“What do I live for, Melville? Why have I flung myself into the plot—to
work with my own hands? Why do I plan to sweep the Highlands bare of
thieves—to rein in a kingdom and fly grandly above the breath of
popular hate? It is only that I may forget—even for a while—I wish to
plunge knee-deep through the press of factions, to mount, and ever
mount, to grasp power, and, by Heaven, wield it—that I may cheat myself
into thinking I forget what I shall never forget—unto the end!” As he
spoke he began pacing the room; there was a curious lightness in his
step; as if he feared to walk heavily; as if he dreaded waking echoes;
he still held his wife’s letter in his hand.
“Melville, get you to rest,” he said over his shoulder and his tone
invited no dallying with his command; the secretary turned and the door
closed softly on his departure.
Sir John stopped under the lamp and broke the seal of his letter.
It was dated from his London house and written in a trembling, much
blotted, hand.
It began:
SIR JOHN,
Indeed you must come home, indeed I cannot bear—I know not where
you are. Was such your commands? My lord, your father, says he will
send this with the other letters, the Lord can alone tell if you
will get this, as my lord, your father, as you know, lies to me
without pity, yet complaints of him are not the reason of my
writing, yet I would say few women would take from him what I do
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