The Master of Stair 59
“You can give them back to me, my lord, there is no need for them to
serve Tweeddale’s turn.”
The music crashed to its climax; the three Lady Stair’s advanced,
receded, bowed with the glittering shaking of a cloud of gold
embroideries.
“Send me those letters,” repeated Lord Stair. “I shall be obliged, my
lord.”
A curious look passed over Breadalbane’s face.
“They are nae langer in my possession.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tweeddale sent for them—to be examined—wi’ your letters to the
Commander of the Forces.”
Lord Stair flushed and turned quickly in his chair.
“And you sent them?”
Breadalbane smiled.
“Yes.”
“Now—by heaven, my lord, that was ill done!”
Unmoved, Breadalbane lifted his shoulders.
“I must show my authority—I canna tak’ the blame—ye wrote them, ye must
even tak’ the—credit, Lord Stair.”
“You have treated me unworthily.”
The Earl of Stair was breathing fast, he clenched his hand on the rose
petals and his angry eyes glanced disdainfully over his companion; but
Breadalbane kept his composure.
“As ye mak’ naething o’ the affair,” he remarked dryly, “ye dinna need
to care that the Marquis o’ Tweeddale will be reading your letters.”
“Care?” echoed Lord Stair. “I care for none of it—you, my lord, behave
according to your nature. I am your guest. We will let the matter of
the papers pass. After all I should not have expected otherwise, and I
am not ashamed of what I have written.”
Breadalbane was quiet, slightly discomfited by the magnificent manner
and person of the man whose reckless imprudence his cunning despised.
Lord Stair rose, sweeping the petals in a cloud onto the floor; bowed,
and passed into the ball-room.
The gavotte was over, the company stood about in little knots; as Lord
Stair passed he heard fragments of their converse; it seemed that they
talked of nothing save Glencoe, Glencoe and the impending commission.
Johnstone was there, his fellow-minister and rival; he crossed the room
to make some smiling remarks to him upon the current topic.
“Ye have some enemy at work, my lord,” said Johnstone with a pleasant
spite.
Lord Stair gazed at him in a disdainful silence, but the words pierced
the armor of his splendid scorn.
Had not Breadalbane said the same? Some secret enemy working his ruin.
He thought it over gloomily; it was part of the curse over the
Dalrymples, perchance, part of the bitter curse that at last, after he
had stifled the miseries of his personal tragedies with brilliant,
mighty success, he should be pulled to ruin by some unknown enemy.
He had seated himself in front of one of the great mirrors and gazed
frowningly at the company; his wife passed with Tom Wharton; he took no
heed of her save to wonder bitterly what she would do were he ruined,
if such a wild thing happened and he was brought low. What would she
do? He thought grimly that her company would not trouble him in that
case; doubtless she would be glad of the scandal of his disgrace to
cover the scandal of her desertion; the thin chain that held her would
be snapped, when the world turned on him so would she; he was sure of
it, and he reflected how easily his fortunes, his name, his honor could
be pulled to the dust if Tweeddale and his faction triumphed.
But his arrogance dismissed even the shadow of humiliation; he had been
howled at, reviled, threatened before; this storm would pass as others
had done; he had weathered too much for a paltry matter such as this
Glencoe affair to overthrow him.
With the calm of his conscious pride he looked round on the brilliant
crowd. He was well aware that most of them were his ill-wishers, he
would not have been to the trouble of turning his head to conciliate
one of them; they might say what they would of him, he would stoop to
neither justification nor defense.
As the music recommenced, his wife advanced into the recess. She seemed
agitated and to hesitate, and paused looking at him strangely.
“The things they say!” she breathed quickly. “Have you heard?”
His face hardened, disdaining to answer. He glanced away, but she,
ignoring the repulse, crossed the polished floor with a sweep of satin
and put her hand on the back of his chair.
“It is not true, my lord,” she asked, “this tale—it is some slander of
the Jacobites?”
He looked at her sideways in a manner that made her blench.
“Has my Lord Wharton been giving you his version of this tale?” he
asked.
She answered, very quietly.
“He—and others—it is in the air—and because I know—something of what
happened three years ago when this affair of the Macdonalds was first
broached—”
“So—you care to remind me of that?” he interrupted hotly.
Her wide eyes held a mournful steadiness.
“Why not my lord? You need not fear any knowledge of mine! That the
Macdonalds actually took the oath is now common talk—tell me—is this
story of the massacre the truth?”
Very intently and earnestly she looked at him.
“It is horrible,” she said, “the cruelty—the treachery—babies slain and
little children dying of cold—my lord, my lord, you did not sanction
it?”
He turned his head slowly toward her.
“You may think so if you will,” he answered coldly.
Her hand fell from his chair, she drew back a step.
“Then—it _is_ true?”
“I shall not deny it—if you care to think so you may.”
The look of aversion that was so at variance with her soft face sprang
into her eyes.
“Is that your answer? You will not deny it?”
“No,” he said indifferently, “neither to you nor to any other.”
“They will ruin you for it,” she cried breathing quickly.
His eyes flashed; he thought she would had she dared have finished her
sentence, “and I shall be free.”
“They may try,” he said. “It will interest you, will it not, madam?”
She flung up her head in a desperate manner.
“It interests me more to know whether you are or are not the infamous
wretch these people paint you.”
Lord Stair’s usual pallor deepened. He tightened his lips and would not
speak; his wife considered him with baffled eyes, hesitated, then broke
into open appeal.
“I would take your word,” she cried.
With a little kindness of voice or tone or look, with a gentle gesture,
a denial of the guilt that was at least not his, he could have won her
now, won her to believe in him, to stand by him; he knew it but he
would not soften, retract or explain, not by so much as a little word
would his pride deign to bridge the gulf between them.
He stared at her coldly with a bitter smile.
“Madam, I shall not offer you my word,” he answered. “It is of little
matter what you think of me.”
She moved away from him quivering, with outraged eyes.
“Very well,” she said below her breath, “I shall know what to think of
you. If you did this thing—if the blood of those babes is on your head.”
He rose suddenly; the George hanging to the collar of knots and roses
heaved and glittered with his angry breathing.
“Keep this talk for those who are your usual company, madam,” he said
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