The Master of Stair 28
“I do not need you, my lord,” he said, still in that tone of passionate
bitterness, “to point out the wretchedness of my home—it is a fact
obvious enough, and by God you should not fling it in my face. I cannot
remember that you ever, by one word, tried to mend the unhappiness—”
“And I,” returned the Viscount, “cannot remember ever saying I had—it
is your life”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I have managed my own—now I
only ask to be left in peace. I am not fitted for the part of mentor
and never essayed to fill it.”
The Master of Stair laughed.
“Peace!” he echoed with wild eyes on his father. “Did your lordship sow
peace that you expect to reap it? Not in me, at least, not in me or
mine!”
The Viscount had picked up his book again.
“Where is the third volume of Cicero?” he said. “I could not find it.
You have the library of a careless man.”
“The servants are at your lordship’s service,” answered the Master and
turned on his heel, chafing.
“You forget,” remarked his father, “it is New Year’s Eve, the season I
believe of festivities, good-will and other such antique pleasantries,
and I understand the servants are mostly abroad.”
The Master gave a wild look round the gloomy room.
“New Year’s Eve! We are spending it in an exemplary way!” he cried.
“This place looks like good-will and festivity, does it not? How many
homes look as gloomy as this to-night!”
“Very few, I should imagine,” said the Viscount. “Will you bring me
that book if you have it?”
The Master gave him a bitter glance; before he could answer the
entrance curtain was drawn aside and a lady entered, a gentleman behind
her.
She was wrapped in a long purple cloak, the hood drawn over her head.
At sight of the Master of Stair she hesitated, and the man behind,
slipping past her, came into the center of the room.
He was blond, good-humored, elegant; he smiled delightfully as he bowed
to the silent figure by the hearth.
“Good-even, Sir John,” he said. “I have brought my lady back from
Kensington.”
“Good-even Mr. Wharton,” answered the Master, staring past him.
The atmosphere was decidedly oppressive; the Viscount gave a malicious
smile. Lady Dalrymple came forward in a heavy silence, but Tom Wharton
knew no such word as embarrassment; he smiled still more good-humoredly.
“I was not aware Sir John had returned,” he said, addressing the
Viscount.
“So I supposed when I saw you enter,” said the Master haughtily.
“Good-night, Mr. Wharton.”
Tom Wharton bowed.
“I take my—dismissal,” he smiled. “I shall hope to see you at
Kensington, Sir John—_au revoir_, my lady.”
She made a slight inclination of her head.
“Good-night, my lord.” Tom Wharton’s face was dimpled with the most
mirthful of smiles; he bowed himself out exquisitely, and when the door
closed on him the room seemed the gloomier by contrast.
The silence remained unbroken; the Viscount was making notes on the
margin of his book; the Master stood with his back to his wife and
stared into the fire; she slowly flung her cloak off with no attempt at
speech.
She was a perfect type of Lely’s heroines: he had painted her more than
once and had delighted in her blonde loveliness, her small features,
her great languishing blue eyes, her soft foolish mouth, the pale
yellow hair smooth as satin in its great curls, the white shoulders and
rosy fingers, the full throat and entrancing little dimple in her chin;
she should now have been at the height of her beauty, but unhappiness
had worn her delicate face, dimmed her eyes and dragged her mouth,
marring the whole with an __EXPRESSION__ of fretful misery.
Still, to-night rouge, powder and patches had made amends for tears;
she was splendidly dressed in flowing white satin, hung about with
pearls, and in this soft light no one could have detected a flaw in her
beauty, as she sat droopingly, with her hands in her lap.
The Master of Stair turned at last.
“Why did you go with Mr. Wharton?” he demanded. “I desired you not to
continue this acquaintance.”
“I told you when I wrote,” she began.
He interrupted impatiently. “Do you think I have time to read your
letters? You knew my wishes—and when I returned this morning I heard
that you were with Mr. Wharton at the Toyshop—on my soul—a pretty
epitome of your life, I think!—with Tom Wharton at a Toyshop!”
“Everybody goes to them,” she answered weakly, “I must do
something—this house is unendurable.”
“You do not contribute to its gaiety,” he said fiercely.
She dropped her blonde head into her hands and broke into crying. He
turned his back on her again.
“I am so miserable,” she sobbed, “so desolate. Oh, I think my heart is
broken.”
“You have remarked it before,” said her husband bitterly.
She sobbed the louder, crushing her handkerchief to her eyes. “You
never think of me,” she wailed. “It’s killing me—I think—but you don’t
care—no one does. I am utterly alone—since—Harry—died.”
At the mention of his dead son, Sir John swung round on her.
“On my soul, madam,” he said hoarsely, “I will not hear you on that
subject.”
She lifted blurred eyes. “No,” she panted, “but you can’t—make
me—forgive—you can’t take away the—empty house—or—my God!—the pain in
my heart!”
“Have the other boy back,” he flung out, “I am willing.”
“No, no,” she shrieked. “Harry’s murderer—I will never see him again. I
wish he was dead—I wish I was dead!”
She burst into uncontrolled hysterical sobs and buried her face in the
chair cushions. Her husband’s face darkened furiously; he moved away
from her, his teeth in his lip. The Viscount looked up from his desk.
“If you have not a Cicero,” he said, “perhaps you have an Epictetus?
This allusion I must verify.”
The Master of Stair walked impatiently to the shelves and finding a
volume gave it to his father, then he turned to his wife.
“Madam, cease that wailing,” he said. “You will try me beyond
endurance.”
She made a show of stifling her sobs, and rose, dabbing at her eyes;
her fair hair and her white dress seemed to gather all the light in the
room; she gleamed from head to foot.
“You take no thought of me,” she said wretchedly. “Neither you nor my
lord there seem to think—there—is any pity to be felt for—me.” She gave
a bitter glance toward the placid figure of the Viscount. “He does not
care,” she panted, “nor do you—what have I done to be so punished?” She
turned her tear-blurred face to her husband. “I do not come of a cursed
family,” she said hoarsely. “Why should I be dragged into your evil
fortunes? Why should I pay for your wicked blood, my God, why?”
She clasped her hands passionately in the intensity of the revolt of a
weak thing; her eyes were unnaturedly dilated, her bosom rose and fell
with her struggling breath; terror and aversion were expressed in every
line of her shrinking figure.
“I have done nothing that my children should be cursed,” she said
wildly. “It is you—you—”
The Master of Stair interrupted her.
“Take care,” he said, very white. “You utter the unforgivable—”
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