The Master of Stair 63

The Master of Stair 63

He knew very well that her words were true. “Thank you, mistress,” he

said with a sudden smile. “But I must go home—and quickly. I should

never have left the house—I did not guess at this.”

 

“Why, Lord Stair? Why must ye gang hame?”

 

“Because of the Countess: she is alone. Thank you again, mistress.”

 

He lifted his hat for a second and then turned rapidly down the street.

 

So it had come to this: often had he been face to face with popular

wrath; often had he dared and flouted the whole of Scotland and now the

crash had come. He glanced down at the people he rode through and his

soul shook to think that he should have come to be at their mercy. His

mansion was in complete darkness as he rode into the courtyard; it was

with a sense of relief that he noticed the empty streets before it, the

mob had not gathered yet.

 

No servant came forward to take his horse; he left the tired animal and

entered the house.

 

One of the footmen stood in the hall, looking pale and frightened.

 

“Are you the only one?” said Lord Stair.

 

The man assented in a cowed manner.

 

“Melville—has Melville gone?”

 

“Yes, my lord—we heard there was a design to burn the house. Mr.

Melville went and the others, my lord.”

 

“I think the information was correct,” said Lord Stair quietly. “You

had better follow. Only first there are the horses. My own is

outside—take him and the others to the old stables at the end of the

garden. I think they will be safe there. Let me know that it is done

and you shall be rewarded.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

Lord Stair was moving down the shadows of the hall when the man called

after him:

 

“There is a lady waiting for you in the drawing-room, my lord. She

would not be denied.”

 

“Waiting for me?”

 

The Earl paused on the first stair and looked back through the darkness

at the speaker.

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Her name?”

 

“My lord, she gave none.”

 

Lord Stair was silent a moment. “Where is the Countess?” he asked.

 

The man did not answer.

 

“Where is she?”

 

“My lord, my lord.”

 

At the tone, the exclamation, the Earl gave a little start.

 

“She is in the house,” he said sharply.

 

Slowly, reluctantly, came the reply.

 

“No, my lord.”

 

And as the man spoke he saw the Earl put his hand out swiftly and catch

hold of the banisters.

 

“When did she go?” came through the shadows and Lord Stair’s voice

shook a little.

 

“Soon after Mr. Melville, my lord; when she heard they meant to burn

the house, my lady put on her hat and had her mare saddled and rode

away.”

 

“Leaving no message?”

 

“None, my lord.”

 

A pause while the shadows seemed to thicken, blotting out all traces of

light; then Lord Stair spoke, quietly:

 

“That will do. Go and look to the horses.”

 

The man obeyed, disappearing quickly, and Lord Stair ascended the

gloomy stairs of his deserted house.

 

Groping aimlessly through the darkness he pushed open the first door he

came to and flung himself into a chair.

 

So—his wife had gone—he had never expected it, like this, so brutally.

 

He remembered Lord Wharton’s coach and the closed blinds and cursed

himself for a fool that he had smiled—why had not some devil’s whisper

prompted him to send a bullet through those deceitful windows and kill

the two that rode within?

 

And she had talked of her honorable house! It was part of her woman’s

cunning—that he might leave her—safely trusting her cold dignity!

 

He started up with some wild idea of following them, but by now they

would be miles on the road; he did not doubt that one day he would kill

Tom Wharton; but to-night it was madness; he was deserted and alone,

still he had himself at least in hand to face whatever came.

 

Yet the next instant his impulse was to ride after them at any cost, at

any price. She might have waited! A dull agony came over him, he

dropped his head on his outspread arms and the dark glimmered with

horror.

 

The curse! To the last shame and misery it was being meted out—an

accursed race—accursed.

 

The word beat in his brain like a drum to execution.

 

Accursed, abhorred; great and famous as he had been but yesterday,

there was not one who would stay to help him meet this moment now.

 

He was used to standing alone; he had an immeasurable courage, yet his

wife’s defection had robbed him of half his strength.

 

Let her only have waited a little longer—possibly a few poor hours

longer and she might have been free indeed.

 

He rose up blindly and felt for his sword. It was completely dark, only

the long window glimmered ghostly at the other end of the room. As he

moved he knocked a table over and there was a crash of china as the

vases struck the floor, he paused, leaning against the wall with his

hand to his sick head.

 

The room opened into the drawing-room by folding-doors; it seemed, as

if, in that other chamber, some one was moving, some one roused by the

falling table.

 

Suddenly a candle appeared like a star in the distance, coming nearer

through the dark. His blood leaped for a moment; it might be that she

had not gone—it might be that she had returned.

 

“Ulrica!” he cried hoarsely, “Ulrica!”

 

But now the candle cast a glow on the person carrying it; a woman, but

too tall and stately for Lady Stair.

 

She came to the open doors and stopped; her light gray dress appeared

luminous against the darkness, and a black hood was pushed back from

her pale, set face.

 

She held the candle in a hand so trembling that the flame wavered and

the wax dripped over her dress.

 

“Is it you, Lord Stair?” she said faintly. “Is it you?”

 

In an instant he knew her; in an instant it was all plain to him, as

the key to the cipher she explained everything; his secret enemy, the

one who had worked his ruin in the dark—he heard her words of three

years ago as if she spoke them now.

 

“If you push me too far I may pull your fortunes about your feet.”

 

He moved into the center of the room.

 

“Delia,” he said, “Delia.”

 

She shrank back.

 

“Do you know me, Lord Stair?”

 

“I know you—and—now, what you have done.”

 

The candle only faintly dispelled the thunderous summer dark; crossing

the threshold she stood it on the chimneypiece, where its double shone

from the mirror, a dim ghost. Lord Stair’s figure showed obscurely with

a trailing black shadow behind it.

 

“Why have you come?” he said in a low voice.

 

With one hand on the chimneypiece and her face showing in the

flickering candle-light, Delia spoke in a quiet shuddering manner.

 

“As your downfall has been coming—slowly, Lord Stair, have you never

thought of me? As Glencoe has been dragged to light—slowly—have you

never thought of me? As your enemies have risen around you with this

forged tale to dishonor you—have you not thought of me? As you have