The Master of Stair 62
“You would give me no denial,” she answered. “I think what I must
think—I conclude what your silence causes me to conclude.”
“It is a matter of no moment,” said Lord Stair. “Perhaps—” and he
smiled unpleasantly, “it is as well that my downfall will at least give
no one pain.”
“Perhaps it is as well,” she assented coldly. Her ringed hand stirred
through the fountain and the water-lilies trembled at her touch; a low
passing cloud cast a shadow over the grass. Lord Stair stood silent
with a hard and angry face; his wife spoke again.
“Yet I ask you, my lord, what you mean by ruin?”
“Are there, madam, so many forms of it?”
She lifted her wet hand and drew it along the stone brim of the
fountain. “I suppose,” she said, “that His Majesty must dismiss you
from office—I suppose. That is the least he can do—am I right?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose—he might touch your estate—your life—am I right?”
“Yes.”
“The first, the least he could do would be generous—you think he will
not choose it?—again—am I right?”
“Yes.”
A spot of bright color burnt in either cheek as she looked up at him;
in the shade of her hat her eyes shone brightly.
“He will do the utmost?”
Lord Stair smiled.
“Be content, madam,” he said bitterly. “I think he will do the utmost.”
She caught her breath.
“And—you wait?”
“What else—yes, I wait.”
Lady Stair rose; as she lifted her head their eyes met.
“So,” she said very quietly. “You have given me that also—you have made
me the wife of a disgraced, ruined man, you have dragged me into a
hideous downfall of honor and estate. We of my father’s house have kept
clear of these things—I think I am the first to be linked to a
dishonored name.”
He stood silent, looking at her with an inscrutable __EXPRESSION__.
“Reproaches from me will not sting you,” continued Lady Stair. “Dear
Heaven, what are we to one another? I would have been spared this, yet
it is a fitting end—”
Her wild eyes lifted and fell; she moved a step away across the grass.
Lord Stair spoke, slowly:
“You are free to do as you will—free as the servants I can no longer
pay. Do what is in your mind to do. No doubt they will not blame you—”
“Well?” she said.
He lifted his head suddenly.
“I shall not ask you to share exile, a prison or death with me. I
cannot hold you. I know it—only—”
“Well?” she murmured again faintly.
“You said—just now—” he spoke with difficulty, a painful distinctness,
“you—had kept clear of these things—you will remember it?”
“I do not understand,” she answered.
“I think you do. You are my wife. You will soon be free of me, I think.
Until you are, I ask your loyalty. That is all.”
“Are you afraid of me?” she said.
“Of nothing,” he answered. “Least of all of meeting circumstance.
Whatever occurs I can deal with it.”
There was a curious __EXPRESSION__ on Lady Stair’s face.
“You are very confident,” she said, “yet you stood high and you fell.”
He smiled at her.
“Madam—it is a thing that may be done magnificently.”
She stood silent a while with averted eyes, then she stooped, picked up
her scarf from the grass and turned slowly toward the house.
Lord Stair watched the blue figure with the long shadow crossing the
grass; watched her as she mounted the steps, traversed the terrace and
disappeared into the house.
The beautiful garden was strangely desolate; he moved away from the
fountain and his face was ghastly in the sunlight.
The hours were intolerably leaden; he reflected that he was a free man
only till his enemies had the authority for his arrest; restlessness
and the desire to use his liberty while he might made him leave the
garden and call for his horse.
As he passed out again he saw through an open door Lady Stair sitting
idly with her hands in her lap; he did not speak to her nor turn his
head: but descended to the court and rode away through Edinburgh to the
open country, and there at a full gallop took the summer wind across
his face.
CHAPTER V
A WOMAN’S VICTORY
Twilight was gathering as Lord Stair rode back into Edinburgh; the city
lights glimmered through purple haze as the June evening deepened and
above the castle that stood black against the sky hung the first star.
Lord Stair was riding slowly from the gate when he had to draw aside to
admit the passage of a coach and four; as it swept rattling along the
narrow street he recognized the silver and murrey of Lord Wharton’s
liveries.
Evidently my lord was returning to London; the Earl glanced after the
coach with a strange satisfaction and smiled to himself as he noted
that the blinds were drawn. Lord Wharton was likely to be afraid of the
night air; he pictured him with his hands in a muff seated on cushions
as the coach swung through the open gates onto the country road.
Lord Stair went on his way; there were many people about, some
excitement or uneasiness appeared to be abroad; he wondered grimly if
the messenger from the King had arrived and if these churls mouthed his
news already.
No one recognized him in his plain riding-gear; he pulled his beaver
further over his eyes and turned into the main street; here the crowd
was denser; many were armed; he touched up his tired horse and was
breaking into a trot when a girl stepped out from the passers-by and
put her hand forcibly on his rein.
“Lord Stair!” she said in a quick whisper.
He stopped, looked down.
“Lord Stair—dinna gang hame!” she said earnestly.
He leaned from the saddle to catch her whisper. “You know me?” he asked
easily.
She nodded.
“I hae seen ye ride frae the Parliament, Lord Stair,—dinna gang hame
to-nicht!”
“Why, mistress?”
Her eyes glowed in the shadow of her hood.
“They’re ganging to burn yer house, Lord Stair—to-nicht—I ken it a’ for
ma ain Sandy is in it—sae—dinna gang hame!”
She dropped her hand, trembling with excitement.
“Ye canna save yer house, yet ye can save yer life.”
He drew himself erect in his saddle and looked in the direction of his
home.
“This is Tweeddale’s and Johnstone’s setting on.”
“Ay, Lord Stair—and the mob will make for yer life.”
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