The Master of Stair 58

The Master of Stair 58

She turned suddenly in a half-desperate manner. “Do you suppose that I

_want_ to see you hurt—or killed?” she asked.

 

He lifted his eyebrows; his face with wrath was near as white as his

dress.

 

“I should not have imagined that it would, madam, have greatly

afflicted you.”

 

Her blue eyes glared at him curiously.

 

“You strangely misunderstand,” she said slowly, “you are very hard—but

I—of late, I have grown more passive—what does it all matter? Think, my

lord, what you will.” She rested her head against the cushions and her

hands fell together in her lap; her husband turned his head away

sharply; her presence was a fret, her sad face a reproach; she had been

very quiet of late; from one month’s end to another he took little

notice of her, but to-night she was forced on him; he could not help

seeing her delicate soft fairness, her drooping mouth; he could not get

away from the unhappiness she was a symbol of.

 

They drove in silence; idly Lady Stair pulled at her fan and stared out

of the window; moodily he traced patterns on the coach floor with his

scabbard point, his face turned from her. So they galloped through

Edinburgh and thundered into the courtyard of Lord Breadalbane’s house.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II

 

FOREBODINGS

 

 

The musicians were playing the delicate melody of a pavan in Lady

Breadalbane’s ball-room, the air was heavy with the scent of the white

and pink roses that decorated the walls and the rhythmical movements of

the dancers were reflected in smooth pale floors.

 

In a little card-room opening on the ball-room sat Breadalbane and the

Earl of Stair, in converse.

 

Breadalbane appeared ill and anxious; his delicate face was pale and

drawn, his manner strained to composure and quiet. Their discourse lay

round the word now in the mouth of all Scotland, Glencoe.

 

“Ye hae heard?” said Breadalbane, “that the King’s commission appointed

to make the inquiry canna be kept off it ony longer. The feeling is

ower strang.”

 

The Earl of Stair’s foot beat time softly to the pavan; he gazed with

an inscrutable face toward the distant dancers.

 

“Tweeddale and the other privy councilors will hold this investigation

in a day or so—even ye, my lord, canna stop them.”

 

Still the other made no answer.

 

“Ye hav’na’,” continued Breadalbane, “the power ye had, my lord, tho’

to the world ye seem at the pinnacle o’ fame—but the Presbyterians and

the Jacks together will be too strang for ye noo.”

 

The Earl’s blue eyes flashed.

 

“I do not dread the inquiry,” he said. “Albeit it is conducted by my

enemies—my bitter enemies, Johnstone and Tweeddale.”

 

“Ay,” answered Breadalbane, “ye hae mony enemies, and they’ll ruin ye

if they can, but ’tis _ane_ bitter enemy has wrought this.”

 

“Who mean ye?” frowned Lord Stair.

 

Breadalbane lifted his shoulders.

 

“I dinna ken—ye should ken best—some one has been at work—persistently,

during these three years this tale has been abroad, through the

non-jurors, the Jacks—to your enemies in Parliament—till all Scotland

is roused. Who is at the bottom of it?”

 

Lord Stair turned slowly to the speaker.

 

“A tale springing from the Jacks,” he said scornfully. “Will any

believe it? It does not trouble me. I have not even heard their

version.”

 

“Ye are ower sure, Lord Stair—the work has been slow but certain—the

tale is in every mouth.”

 

“What tale, my lord?”

 

“The tale o’ what they call the massacre o’ Glencoe.”

 

“What do they say?” asked Lord Stair with a disdainful smile.

 

“They say that the Macdonalds were murdered by your orders—they say

that the soldiers entered the Glen by black treachery, feigning

friendship, that they lived there ower a fortnicht, feasting and

drinking, that they rose one nicht and murdered the clan in their beds,

butchered them, men, women and children, with every cruelty—that is the

tale they tell, Lord Stair.”

 

“It is a lie.”

 

“Yea—it is a lee—but ye canna, I ken, prove it a lee. The inquiry will

be behind closed doors—it will be conducted by your enemies; ye hae all

Scotland believing this lee—and against ye.”

 

Lord Stair spoke impatiently.

 

“Every soldier under Glenlyon knows that this was a military

execution—every man among them can disprove this wild tale of the

Jacobites—”

 

“The Argyllshire regiment is in America,” said Breadalbane, “and I

hav’na’ seen Glenlyon since he left my service suddenly—disappeared—”

 

Lord Stair seemed struck into a frowning silence for a moment. At

length he asked:

 

“Whom will they examine—these commissioners?”

 

Breadalbane lifted his light eyes.

 

“Sandy and Ian Macdonald who escaped—Keppoch and Glengarry—I dinna

ken—what others—I am nae in their secrets.”

 

Again in silence Lord Stair looked out across the ball-room; the

delicate melody of the pavan came exquisitely through the roses.

 

Lord Stair’s mouth curved into a little smile; he did not fear; he

despised his enemies; that they had discovered such a weapon as this

against him roused his bitter amusement more than his wrath. He

disdained to be moved by insults raked from the very mud of the gutter;

he cared nothing for tales started in Jacobite pamphlets. No remorse

troubled him with regard to Glencoe; he was too sure of himself, his

great position, the King’s friendship, to tremble before the Scottish

Parliament.

 

“Let them open the commission,” he said loftily, “let them listen to

the lies of Highland savages. I shall not lift a finger to prevent

them. They must have a party cry—as well Glencoe as any other.”

 

He took one of the roses from the bowl on the card table and pulled

idly at the curling leaves; his eyes were carelessly following the

figure of his wife as her gold embroideries flashed among the dancers.

 

Breadalbane watched him curiously.

 

“Ye are ower easy, Lord Stair. Ye ken the ugly things the inquiry will

reveal? How they took the oath and it was suppressed—for your ain

purpose.”

 

Lord Stair flicked a torn petal from his white sleeve.

 

“I had authority to suppress what I choose, my lord,” he answered

indifferently. “The oath was invalid—as it came in too late, and so I

treated it. Besides, have you forgotten that I had the King’s warrant?”

 

A faint smile touched Breadalbane’s thin lips.

 

“Will the King stand by ye?” he asked. “Will he no’ say that he didna’

ken what he signed?”

 

Lord Stair sat silent. Breadalbane’s keen insight had brought him to

the truth. Stair thought of that day at Kensington when William had

signed the order without reading it, and for the first time a vague

uneasiness touched him; he turned at last, half-angrily.

 

“Why this anxiety on my behalf, my lord?” he demanded. “You had a share

in this business, yet you are safe—thanks to your prudence.”

 

The pavan was over. Lord Stair watched his wife till she had gone out

of sight with her partner; he had pulled the rose away to the heart and

absently he played with the pile of petals on the table beside him.