The Master of Stair 52
She dragged at her hair with a curious aimless gesture and crouched far
into the corner, hiding her face in the cushions. From the darkness no
sound save the gentle one of the rain and the jingle of harness as one
of the horses moved.
Then suddenly footsteps, and in the open door one of her Highlanders
with blood on his face.
“Ah—so soon! So soon!”
“He has a knife in his pocket—he is fighting for his life like a
devil.” The man put his hand to his bleeding forehead.
“What do you want?” she asked in a quick horror, yet resolute still.
“Something to tie his hands—”
Her fingers go to her cravat; she loosens it and flings it through the
door; it is all she has—why does he fight—she thought he was unarmed,
she wanted this to be swift and sudden.
The Highlander catches the twist of lace and is gone.
She stands there staring across the heath, upright in the coach door.
All her senses are quickened; she fancies that she can see even through
the darkness, one man struggling with two, defending himself with a
clasp-knife—she sees them slip a lace scarf over his head, tighten it
round his throat—she sees blood—scarlet as flame, before her eyes and
shakes her hands as if she felt it running from them; then she looks at
the peaceful, tired, white horses standing with drooping heads in the
circle of misty lantern-light; she sees the patches of wet lying on the
clay under their hoofs; the bare thorn-tree behind them, the dim
hurrying clouds above and the whole scene is impressed on her as
something strange and terrible, every little detail to the slender line
of the whip on the empty coachman’s seat stands out clearly, never to
be forgotten while she shall live.
Up out of the black mystery of the heath come her two Highlanders.
“Is it done—is—sh!—done?”
They answer her that it is done; they are in no way moved; they have
been sent on fiercer deeds even than this in the Highlands; one is
twisting a rag round his hand.
She takes up the sword from the floor; it feels strange and heavy in
her hands.
“Put that beside him—drawn—as if he died fighting—highwaymen are common
here.”
She gives it to them; then picks up her gray fur and puts it about her
shoulders.
“Empty his pockets,” she calls after them, and even as she speaks she
looks into the corner of the coach as if she saw him there, staring at
her.
The rain ceases, and the chill, creeping wind blows stronger, ruffles
her hair and the manes of the white horses.
They come back, her silent Highlanders; they lay on the floor of the
coach the contents of his pockets; some money, not much; a
handkerchief, a watch with the face shivered; a little book with a worn
blue velvet cover, some papers tied with a ribbon.
The Highlanders, having done their duty, mount the box.
She stares at these things on the floor, picks up the packet of papers
and opens it; a long lock of pale hair falls out and some dust that
might have been a pressed flower.
“Where shall I drive, Lady Breadalbane?”
“To Scotland—to the Highlands—to Glencoe! Glencoe!”
She flings herself back on the seat and the door is closed; over her
hand hangs the yellow curl and the winter night has fallen in chaos
about her.
“To Glencoe! Glencoe!”
CHAPTER XXV
GLENCOE
It was midday of the thirteenth of February and the snow clouds were
blowing up over the Valley of Glencoe.
The whole landscape, encompassed by vast and steep mountains, lay in a
cold, leaden gray light, there was no human being in sight and the only
living thing visible was the solitary eagle that circled in and out of
the fissures in the hills. The clouds rested like a girdle round the
mountains, the sides and summits of which showed rifts of the pure
melted snow. There were many entries to the valley, desolate winding
pathways between the hills, steep avenues, twisting down the rocks; and
from the mouth through the center ran a flat and silent stream.
There was no sign of the nearing of the spring; it seemed the very
depth of winter; the grass and trees were withered to a uniform tint of
grayness; the vastness of the scene made it awful, its silence made it
melancholy beyond __EXPRESSION__, humanity appeared to have no place in
this loneliness; the cry of the eagle echoed like a dismal warning to
all who would intrude on his desolate domain and the silence seemed the
greater as his scream fell to stillness.
Descending into the valley by its mouth were two people: a shepherd
wrapped in a heavy plaid and a woman on a Highland pony. As the valley
closed round them, she raised her face constantly to the sky and the
mountain tops as if their rugged splendor pleased her; her face was
pale and of a calm nobility in the __EXPRESSION__; her brown eyes held an
intense look and her curved mouth was firmly set; her gray hood and her
heavy, dull brown hair showed off the pure lines of her uplifted square
chin and full throat; she took little heed of her companion, a tall
gloomy Highlander and when her gaze was not on the stormy sky it was
directed down the desolate Glen.
Once she said:
“What a place to dwell—this wilderness!”
And he answered in his Gaelic:
“The Glen o’ Weeping! The Glen o’ Weeping!”
As they advanced farther into the Glen, a few scattered dull-colored
dwellings became visible, mostly situated in the windings and twistings
of the steep sides, and as they drew yet nearer the very heart of the
valley they beheld, spread before them twenty or thirty rude huts
gathered in some semblance of order round a central one of more
pretentious size.
They did not seem the habitations of human beings, but more like the
quarries or lairs of some strange wild beasts; there were no people
about, but from some of the roofs a thin curl of smoke arose.
The girl on the Highland pony, Delia Featherstonehaugh, looked long at
the cluster of huts as they neared them.
“The chief of the Macdonalds dwells here?” she asked.
He nodded taciturnly.
They came slowly over the worn and faded heather into the center of the
little colony, then Delia slipped from her horse.
“Makian’s house,” said the Highlander, pointing to the largest
dwelling, and she followed him to the door, leading her tired pony; her
garments were blown about her in the wind and her long locks escaped
and flew across her face; she lifted her eyes again to the mountains in
their grand solitude and her breast rose with the trembling of a sigh.
Her guide struck on the door and instantly it was opened; the
Highlander turned with an abrupt gesture to the woman, standing without
in the gray.
“A Saxon woman, Macdonald, with a message for you,” he said.
An old man, wrapped in a plaid, stood in the doorway, he stared from
one to the other as the shepherd continued: “She met your son Ronald in
the Lowlands, and he bid her come to me if ever she had need of finding
him, and so she came with news of disaster to you, and I brought her
thither.”
“Disaster?” echoed Makian.
Delia Featherstonehaugh stepped over the threshold. She had a glimpse
of a warmly-lighted interior and a group of men playing cards; she
stood silent a moment with her hand on the door-post and Makian stared
at her.
Then she spoke:
“I am an emissary of the King,” she said; she laid her hand on the old
Highlander’s arm and her eager eyes looked straightly up into his. “I
sent you—and all the clans a warning—by your son, you remember,
Macdonald?”
He nodded, the men round the fire had risen and were listening too; her
voice rose, gaining in steadiness.
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