The Master of Stair 53

The Master of Stair 53

She came a step forward and her glance took in the men assembled

against the background of thick peat smoke; in her gray garments,

falling straight from shoulders to feet with her eager, colorless face,

she looked like some embodiment of the mists from the mountains that

had drifted through their doors; they moved a little away from her as

if they were in an awe of her person that overweighed any anxiety that

they might have felt as to her message; she saw this and trembled in

her desire to convince them of the terrible import of her warning; she

recalled to them the hatred of the Campbells; she spoke of what she

knew of the policy of the government; of how their submission had been

suppressed. She said Breadalbane was at Kilchurn arming his clan, that

Argyll was holding Inverness, that soldiers were quartered in

Argyllshire and were marching even now from Fort William; she related

her own wild journey, the difficulties, the perils, how she had come

from England, hastening, never stopping, that she might warn them of

the doom preparing; that she might arrest a bloody execution, and her

eyes went to the figure of Ronald Macdonald, who leaned quietly against

the rude wall close to her.

 

When the tide of her words had come to an end she stood with panting

bosom and dilated eyes, waiting.

 

While she spoke the circle of her audience had grown; men, women and

children, they were gathered round the hut door, while within stood the

old chief and his family with somber faces. But there was silence and

no movement from any of them. The girl turned to Ronald with a strange

smile.

 

“You know me, Ronald Macdonald?—you think that I speak the truth?”

 

He answered slowly:

 

“I know you and I believe.”

 

His father cried out, struck through his apathy at last:

 

“The Campbells march from Fort William?”

 

“Ay, I saw them on the road—I slipped past them because my guide knew

the shorter, hidden ways.”

 

A sound like a faint wail arose from the gathered crowd; a portentous

sense of evil, not to be measured either by exact statement or loose

phrasing, possessed them; they all turned their eyes to the Saxon woman

in their midst and she in her turn gazed on the one indifferent face

among them, the face of the young man Ronald, for the memory of whom

she had kept her vow to save him.

 

“We may fly through Strath Tay,” said one.

 

Delia shook her head.

 

“The laird of Weem has been secured by the government—ye are

surrounded—every avenue of the Glen is—I think, closed. I have done

little—only ye cannot be murdered unwitting in your sleep.”

 

“They come for that—these Campbells?” demanded Ronald sullenly. “To

slay us in our sleep?”

 

“They come with full power of sword and fire,” she answered.

 

She rested her weary head against the lintel of the door and again a

curious smile moved her lips; she thought of the last time she had seen

him and the present gray scene, the surrounding figures, the loud

cursing of the Campbell name, the shrill talk of women, fell away from

her. She recalled the little house in Glasgow and the coming of the

Highlander, and Perseus, busy writing, plotting, coming to and fro, the

even round of the days, excitement and the great hope ahead, the beacon

to lead them on, recalled all this with curiosity and no regret even as

she pictured the dead brother whom she had loved; once waiting idly in

some great house, she had noticed pictures on the walls, a carnival on

the ice, a fruit shop, a lady with a fan, she could remember them now,

every detail, and as impersonal as these did she see her life of a few

months ago, quiet, pleasant pictures, rising in succession, till

suddenly they were shattered into darkness and one rose that blotted

them out, one figure, one face.

 

In her recital she had not named the Master of Stair; she had blamed

Breadalbane, the Campbells, the government, but she had not named the

name of the man whom she knew to be behind it all; she had not hinted

that the hand of the Master of Stair was guiding Breadalbane, all of

them, that his will and his power were behind the redcoats marching for

Glencoe.

 

They brought her to the fire and made her lay aside her cloak and warm

her cold hands; and showed her rough hospitality. She obeyed silently

and sat down meekly in the heavy peat reek with a lassitude not to be

explained; as if there were no momentous hour at hand, as if her life

ran smoothly ahead, as if there were no white faces and eager voices

about her, as if no army was marching nearer, with the slow fading of

the light, nearer.

 

One of the women brought her some milk, and came and kissed her hand

and blessed her; she took no notice of either; she was picturing a

finely-dressed lady, who held out a miniature from the end of a mauve

ribbon.

 

“My children.”

 

She heard the words again and saw the action, but again the thrill of

exquisite anguish with which her own words had come:

 

“How like!—how like!”

 

So he had looked when he had bargained with her; when he had given her

his word for the safety of her friends; so, too, had he looked when he

had betrayed them, only perhaps then he had smiled, he had contemplated

her hanged or beheaded and most probably had smiled; he had thought of

her utter folly and lifted his shoulders in contempt; and she, the

woman who had the picture of his children hanging round her neck,

perhaps he had told her something and she had also smiled—or pitied.

 

These thoughts had been her companions during her journey; they would

not be shaken off now. As ghosts they grinned through the peat smoke.

Unbearable, they became at last; she went to the door and watched the

clan assemble.

 

Over everything was that sense of fear aroused, of wrath held in leash,

before every one was that picture of the passes filling silently with

red-coated Campbells; of strangely-armed soldiers coming from Fort

William, steadily, with bloody purpose, still nearer; in every mind was

there thought of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane, wronged, insulted,

moving at last from his quiet with a terrible revenge. To all the

little glens and colonies messengers went out; Sandy and Ian Macdonald

dragged out ancient guns with watchful eyes up the pass, Makian gave

commands calmly, women looked on grimly and put their children behind

them; over everything that sense of oppression of disaster gathering in

silence; before all that vision of the Campbells coming steadily.

 

One man alone stood apart, Ronald Macdonald wrapped in his plaid,

indifferent against the open door.

 

The gray day was growing grayer; up from rifts and hidden valleys in

the hills came the tacksmen of Macdonald; contained, silent, in a

moment comprehending, in a moment seeing that picture of the Campbells,

of Strath Tay held, of Breadalbane rising in Invernesshire, of Argyll

rising in Argyllshire, of themselves surrounded, trapped, sport for the

enemy, food for his sword. Small they appeared beneath the vastness of

the hills, the wild splendor of the tossing clouds, the wide spread of

the sky, not more than seventy men, all told, and Delia’s heart cried

out within her.

 

As the daylight faded it grew colder; so cold that the children were

taken back into the huts; a few flakes of snow fell across the grayness

of the sky and drifted lightly onto the shoulders of the men.

 

Would they wait till it was dark? Would they come to-night?

 

The question went from mouth to mouth; Makian bitterly cursed the

government that had so foully deceived him; he spoke of the assurances

the sheriff had given him that they were safe. And Delia thought of the

suppressed oath and her cheeks went hot with shame; they misplaced

their curses; one and only one deserved them, but she could not speak

his name.

 

They were gathered together to leave the valley, packing their few poor

goods, calling up their herds, their ponies—there must be some outlet

to the Glen unguarded, unknown to any.

 

They said very little; dread and fear were among them as a living

devil, clutching the throat of each; only the little children wailed,

miserably, because of the cruel cold and the strangeness of this

desertion of the fireside for the chill heather.

 

Delia turned to Ronald who gave no sign.

 

“You do not come?” she said; she noticed that he was pale, haggard and

preoccupied; he lifted wild eyes to hers.

 

“Her husband will be among them—I gave him his life once—I shall not

touch him now—I will not fight the clan that holds Margaret Campbell,

though she spurn me for a coward.”

 

Then he added simply: “I shall be very glad to die.”

 

His carelessness threw about him a grandeur, lifting him above the

others, each one eager for his own life; Delia looked at him and laid

her hand on his folded arms.

 

“I too,” she said quietly, “better to be dead than to be—alone. And I

have no purpose in life.”

 

The long line of ponies had come up; the bundles were strapped on them;

the Macdonalds were moving to and fro.