The Master of Stair 64

The Master of Stair 64

He stood immovable.

 

“I have thought of you. Yet I did not think this was your work.”

 

“No—you would not, Lord Stair—yet from the first whisper to the

consummation it is my work—day and night for three weary years I have

given body and soul to this end and now I think I can say—I have

avenged my dead.”

 

Her voice had no ring of triumph in it; on her last word it fell to a

sob; she leaned back against the wall and her head fell forward on her

bosom.

 

Lord Stair came a step nearer.

 

“So—you set yourself to ruin me?”

 

“Yes, I.”

 

“From you sprang the tale of Glencoe?”

 

“Yes, from me.”

 

“You caused the Macdonalds to bear false witness?”

 

“I have been at the bottom of it all, Lord Stair.”

 

She raised her head.

 

“I have put that upon you you will never be free of,” she said wildly.

“Throughout the world your name is stained with the blood of Glencoe.

Nothing can efface what I have done.”

 

He moved still closer.

 

“Women are marvelous,” he said curiously. “I did not think that you so

hated me.”

 

He took her by the shoulder and looked into her shrinking face.

 

“I did not think that you so hated me,” he repeated.

 

“Have I not cause to hate you, Lord Stair?” she demanded hoarsely. “I

swore that as you had been false, cruel and merciless, that even as

that dear blood cried out to me—you should pay to the last bitterness.”

 

His hand fell from her shoulder.

 

“Why have you come here now?”

 

She moved away blindly through the shadows, her hands clenched tight on

her bosom.

 

“Have they all gone, Lord Stair—all?”

 

“Yes—they are lackeys.”

 

“And your wife?” said Delia suddenly.

 

His utter silence answered her; she turned about in a strange and

desperate manner.

 

“Is not your wife here?”

 

“Do not push me, mistress,” he answered thickly. “My affairs will bear

no meddling.”

 

Delia cried out passionately:

 

“Poor coward—so she could not be loyal to the last—she knew perhaps

what I am come to tell you—that to-night the mob are coming here.”

 

“What you came to tell me?” he exclaimed.

 

She crushed her hands together in a helpless manner.

 

“They mean to kill you I think—Johnstone is setting them on—O God in

Heaven!”

 

She turned to the mantelpiece and pressed her forehead against the

marble slab; her hood had fallen back, and the candle-light flickered

over the soft hazel curls.

 

Lord Stair was watching her.

 

“Your three years’ work is accomplished,” he said. “You came to tell me

so?”

 

She was silent; her head drooped lower on the mantelshelf.

 

“You came to tell me so,” he demanded. “You came to triumph, Mistress

Featherstonehaugh?”

 

He smiled faintly as he looked at her; she started at the name he used.

 

“I am Captain Campbell’s wife,” she said. “Glenlyon’s wife these two

years.”

 

There was an almost imperceptible pause before he answered.

 

“That accounts for another false witness, Mistress Campbell.”

 

“Yes,” she whispered, “yes.”

 

“He has lied to please you?”

 

“What else?”

 

“You married Glenlyon that you might bend him to serve you now?”

 

This time she lifted her head and looked at him with wild eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You have not stopped at anything to attain this end,” said Lord Stair.

“Madam, you should be more triumphant now that it is gained.”

 

She advanced a step toward him.

 

“Yea, I am clear of my vow,” she said in a distracted manner. “I think

they lie quiet in their graves—I have done it—the blood of Glencoe—it

is on you—always.”

 

She sank into a chair, leaning forward over the arm staring across the

dusk as if she saw something menacing her. Lord Stair picked up the

candle and flashed it before her face.

 

“Why have you come here?”

 

She looked at him behind the candle flame, and for the first time saw

his face clearly; their glance met.

 

“Oh, you are changed!” she said in a terrified tone.

 

“And you also,” he answered somberly.

 

With a wild little laugh she bent nearer into the circle of light.

 

“I have dreamt we might meet like this—through the dark—both so

different.”

 

Her words trailed off, she put out her hands.

 

“Take away the light—I cannot look at you.”

 

She slipped from the chair to her knees.

 

“What have I done—what have I done!”

 

“Why, you should know—you have done what you set out to do.”

 

In a tone of numb despair she repeated: “What have I done—what have I

done?”

 

Lord Stair set the candle on the table.

 

“You had better go, Mistress Campbell—and join your allies who come to

burn my house.”

 

“I came because of that,” she answered wildly. “I came to warn you—my

courage failed—I could not let it happen.”

 

On her knees, with her hands clasped on her bosom and her head bent,

she leaned against the chair, heavily.

 

Lord Stair turned to her with a swift fierceness.

 

“This is a woman’s paltriness,” he cried. “To do the thing and lament

it—I had liked you better if you had led the mob you have incited

instead of this—”

 

“I would not have them kill you,” she murmured.

 

“Oh, get up from your knees,” he said, scornful. “You are true neither

to your love nor to your hate! Get back to your kind and carry through

what you have begun.”

 

There was a confused distant sound without.

 

“They are coming!” shrieked Delia.

 

“Well, you knew it,” he smiled: “Go you and join them.”

 

She rose to her feet; the noises, the shouts and the steady tramping

were coming nearer.

 

“And I have done this,” whispered Delia. “What did you mean—true to

neither love nor hate?”

 

“Look into your heart,” he answered. “Was it love that made you pull me

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