The Master of Stair 57

The Master of Stair 57

She waited his verdict anxiously, her slender fingers pulling

heedlessly at the roses and violets beside her.

 

“Why not send for the soldiers?” she repeated at length. “They are

dangerous to-night—these people.”

 

He lifted his shoulders contemptuously.

 

“I am not afraid of them. It is no more than they have done before. I

was never a favorite of the mob.”

 

“Yet these are in earnest—this question of Glencoe—”

 

He turned on her.

 

“Madam—do not let me hear that word. An insensate party cry—begun by

the Jacobites; spread by my enemies—a meaningless parrot call—what is

Glencoe to me? An act, two years old—a thing cursedly bungled or

Hamilton had not left any alive to start this howl.”

 

“Yet the King has ordered an inquiry and appointed a commission, has he

not?”

 

The Earl smiled bitterly.

 

“Madam, my enemies have forced the King to head the stronger party—what

does he know of it? Nothing.”

 

The servant entered with his master’s hat and cloak; Lady Stair rose

with a faint color in her cheeks and drew her hood around her face.

 

They descended the stairs in silence; below the secretary met them with

an attempt to keep the Earl within the house.

 

The footmen had refused to ride behind the coach (the Earl was not

beloved by his servants). Yet to go unattended: Lord Stair smiled

unpleasantly.

 

“Dismiss them,” he said briefly, and himself opening the door stepped

out into the portico.

 

Between him and the mob was the cobbled yard, behind the high iron

railings, yet it seemed as if this would little assure him safety so

fierce a shout burst forth when it beheld him.

 

The Master of Stair had always been hated; though his magnificence, his

generosity with money, his recklessness in politics were qualities

likely to be beloved by the populace, his excessive arrogance, the

horrible tales connected with his house, his aloofness, his lack of

amiable vices, his swift and brilliant rise from a mere advocate to the

most powerful man in Scotland, were things not to be forgiven by either

high or low.

 

And he had always been on the unpopular side, always served the law not

the people; he was merciless too, and reckless in making enemies; they

who for two years had been working to spread the tale of Glencoe, found

that to give some or any point to the general hate of the Master of

Stair was as easy as putting a match to gunpowder; the mob shouted

“Glencoe!”—as they would have shouted anything that voiced their long

dislike; high and low, all Edinburgh, had combined on this pretext to

pull the Dalrymple down.

 

The Earl stared at the mob a moment and his blue eyes darkened; he knew

well enough the value of their shout of horror at Glencoe and despised

them the more utterly; he was not afraid that all his enemies together

could accomplish his ruin; he had England behind him; and during these

three years his worldly success had swept him on and up beyond all

meddling with.

 

He helped his wife into the coach; she had turned even whiter: as the

crowd shouted she trembled: her husband took no heed of her.

 

One of the servants ran forward to open the gates: the people drew back

quietly, waiting in an ominous hush.

 

The coachman whipped up his horses and dashed through the gates at a

gallop. Howls, curses, shrieks arose and the mob made a wild onset, but

the hoofs of the four plunging horses kept a passage clear and the

coach swept free. But the crowd followed and closed about it. Lady

Stair cowered in a corner. Stones rattled on the roof and mud was

flying at the windows; stones and sticks struck the coachman, the

carriage came to a standstill and a wild shout burst forth.

 

The Earl cursed fiercely and flung the window up; they shouted up vile

names at him and mouthed foul versions of his misfortunes till his

cheek was dark with passion.

 

With a hard face he slipped his hand to his pocket.

 

“Listen!” he pulled the door open and leaned forward. “If ye do not

leave go of the horses—if one of you come a step nearer—I’ll shoot the

dog.” And he lifted his white and silver gloved hand closed round the

glitter of a pistol.

 

For an instant his firm reckless facing of them discomposed the crowd,

yet the sight of his lowering dark face as greatly roused their wrath

anew.

 

“Ye damned Dalrymple!” shouted one man. “Answer for the bluid o’

Glencoe!”

 

As he spoke he leaped to gain the open doorway of the coach.

 

The Earl seized him by the collar and hurled him backwards into the

mass. “By God!” he cried with blazing eyes, “I’ll have the law on you,

you hounds—I’ll have you whipped and hanged for this.”

 

His fierce voice rose above the clamor and stirred fury beyond awe.

There was a wild dash at the coach and in another moment the mob would

have dragged Earl Stair to his death. But Lady Stair had risen from her

place in the interior, forgotten by her husband, unknown of by the mob.

 

Now she caught his arm and slipped into view in the doorway.

 

“Don’t fire!” she said; she lifted a beseeching face.

 

The carriage lamps fell on her bright fairness and the shimmer of her

dress; the night wind blew her hair and ribbons about her; in the

sudden surprise of her appearance the crowd was silent.

 

The Earl’s hand dropped to his side.

 

“Surely you will let us pass,” she said, looking round her in a gentle

way.

 

There was no one there who had any wish to shed blood before Lady

Dalrymple; she was greatly beloved in Edinburgh and neither her beauty

nor her fearlessness failed of their effect.

 

“We willna’ touch ye, mistress,” cried a man. “Stand awa’ frae yer

husband.”

 

But she had laid her hand on the Earl’s breast and though he sought to

move her, kept her place.

 

“Ye hae a bad lord!” shouted another. “But ye are a gentle leddy—stand

frae the Earl—”

 

“Madam—retire!” cried her husband, very white.

 

But she took no heed of him.

 

“Give us leave to pass,” she said very softly.

 

They fell away from the carriage door; it was obvious that they would

not touch him while she was there; the horses, suddenly freed, dashed

ahead.

 

The Earl drew his wife inside and closed the door.

 

“Now, why, madam, why that?” he demanded breathlessly.

 

She drew away with a little shudder to the farthest corner of the coach.

 

The crowd had fallen away to right and left; they were proceeding

unhindered.

 

“What did you think I should do?” she answered.

 

He seated himself, leaning towards her. “Did you accompany me, madam,

that you might play my good angel?”

 

She looked away.

 

“I knew that they would not touch you while I was there.”

 

In utter amazement he stared at her.

 

“I am much beholden to your—charity,” he said haughtily.

 

She glanced round, saw his __EXPRESSION__, and the blood flew into her face.

 

“Spare your gratitude, my lord,” she said bitterly, “I would have done

as much for any.”

 

He frowned. “I did not think that I evoked your peculiar solicitude,”

he answered. “Doubtless you like to display your exemption from the

hatred my house is held in.”

 

“My lord!” she cried, “that savors of your father’s tongue—and is

unworthy.”

 

“You must pardon me,” he said in a proud voice, “but I am not used,

madam, to be an object of pity.”

 

Lady Stair gazed from the window blindly on the dark streets.

 

“I did not use the word, my lord.”

 

“Madam, you performed the act.”