THE
MASTER OF STAIR
BY
MARJORIE BOWEN
Author of The Viper of Milan
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
MCMVII
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips & Co._
_Published April, 1907_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_To Mark Twain
with deep gratitude for the flattering interest
shown by a great man of letters in
the work of a beginner_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER PAGE
I RONALD MACDONALD 3
II THE KISS 14
III JOCK O’BREADALBANE’S WIFE 24
IV DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH 35
V THE FOLLY OF DELIA 47
VI HATE MEETS HATE 62
VII THE POISON OF THE KISS 77
VIII MACCALLUM MORE 87
IX ON THE ROAD TO LONDON 98
X THE KING’S MESSENGER 108
XI THE MASTER OF STAIR 119
XII THE LOVE OF DELIA 131
XIII THE MASTER’S WIFE 149
XIV THE CURSE OF THE DALRYMPLES 161
XV THE AVOWAL 174
XVI A LAMPOON ANSWERED 183
XVII THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH 195
XVIII AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL 205
XIX THE PACT 217
XX ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS 227
XXI WILLIAM OF ORANGE 238
XXII THE RESOLUTION OF DESPAIR 256
XXIII JAMES FITZJAMES 261
XXIV THE LOVE OF MARGARET CAMPBELL 272
XXV GLENCOE 284
BOOK TWO
I THE RECKONING 309
II FOREBODINGS 318
III THE TRIUMPHS OF THE CAMPBELLS 329
IV THE LIE ACCOMPLISHED 335
V A WOMAN’S VICTORY 344
VI “THERE WAS NO MASSACRE IN GLENCOE” 364
EPILOGUE THE GLEN O’ WEEPING 374
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GLENCOE
_In the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Watch the giant hills are keeping
In their frozen wreaths o’ snow.
Tears from out the mists are falling
And the winds forever sigh
To the lonely eagle calling
As he circles through the sky,
With the blood o’ the Macdonalds
All red upon his claws,
The blood o’ the dead Macdonalds
Who broke the Campbell laws._
_Through the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Where the blighted trees are sleeping
And black the waters flow,
Where the dead lie in their darkness,
Their frozen hearth beside,
As the day glooms into darkness,
Come the living in their pride
Through the lines o’ dead Macdonalds
Lying naked to the blast,
Through the stern and still Macdonalds
Come the Campbells riding fast._
_Now is the Glen o’ Weeping
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Bright with light o’ swords upleaping
And flashing to and fro;
And gallant is the seeming
Of man and horse together
As with flying harness gleaming
They ride the trampled heather
Through the homes o’ the Macdonalds
Who lie defenseless, dumb,
Through the spilt blood o’ the Macdonalds
The victor Campbells come._
_Now shall the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
When our noble heirs are reaping
The deeds that now we sow—
Lie desolate, forsaken,
Bleak to the brooding mist,
While we our way have taken,
By winged fortune kissed.
Swept from our path the Macdonalds,
Swept from our path away:
Now out o’ the Glen o’ Weeping,
Into the light o’ day!_
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
RONALD MACDONALD
Some fifty men were making slow progress through the pass of Glenorchy,
which lies in the heart of Invernesshire and so in the very depths of
the wild Highlands. A thick white mist hung over the landscape; it was
the end of October and a raw and chilly day; the dull purple heather,
disclosed now and then by the lifting vapor, the gaunt firs and faded
bracken that grew along the pass, were shivering under the weight of
dripping moisture.
The men strained their eyes to pierce the drifting mist, and drew
closer the damp tartans that showed they were of the Clan of Macdonald;
they were all on foot: some led shaggy ponies on whose rough backs were
strapped packages and what appeared to be the plunder of some great
house, for the objects included silver and gilt cups and goblets tied
together by the handles; and, slung across the saddle, handsome
garments such as the Saxons wore, and guns of a make not often seen in
a Highlander’s hands.
A drove of fine cattle were driven in the rear of the Macdonalds, and a
man who was obviously the leader walked a few paces ahead of the
others. He was distinguished from his followers by the faded laced
cloth coat under his plaid, the pistols in his belt, and his high
cowskin boots, the others being barefoot and wearing nothing but their
tartans and rude garments of untanned leather.
The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding
mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and
looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of
the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure
desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no
roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.
The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads,
and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally.
The leader of the Macdonalds shuddered in the damp cold and was making
the signal for his men to continue, when his quick ear caught a distant
sound. He paused, the train of Highlanders motionless behind him.
It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses’
hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.
With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or
hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw
themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks.
The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that
they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift
trot. It was impossible to see how many there were; they were very
swiftly gone, and utter silence fell again.
The Macdonalds began to move cautiously. The mist thickened so that
they grew uneasy, their eyes were strained for another sight of the
strangers, their ears for the sound of the bridle bells.
The eagle flew close, then past them and out of sight; they were
feeling their way a step at a time, the ponies stumbled over the wet
rocks the heather concealed, the men could hardly see each other. They
began talking in whispers, wondering who these horsemen might have
been, disputing about the way.
Then it came again, the thud thud of a horse.
The Macdonalds stopped dead; their leader softly cursed the mist and
held himself on the alert.
It seemed to be only one horse now, and very close; they could hear it
slipping among the rocks, the sound of the clinking harness, but they
could see nothing. It died into the distance; the mist rose a little
and they caught a sudden glimpse of a red figure on a dark horse in
front of them, then they lost sight of it again in the thick vapor.
They pushed on slowly, teased with the faint sound of the unseen
horsemen, ready for a stranger and enemy, yet baffled by the mist.
Suddenly the sound grew louder; the Macdonalds looked round fiercely.
Their leader was almost thrown by the swift passing of a huge brown
horse bearing a rider in a scarlet coat, who crossed in front of him
and was swallowed into the mist. He had only a glimpse, and the bells
were again tinkling in the distance; the horseman did not appear to
have seen him, but as he passed a whip had struck Macdonald lightly on
the face.
With a fierce cry the Highlander was plunging through the mist after
him; the sound guided him; he ran forward swiftly, maddened by that
slash on the cheek, striving to cleave aside the blinding fog.
All at once he heard it coming again, saw the brown horse looming
toward him, and made a wild dash at the reins. But it swept past him.
He thought he heard the rider say something or give a little cry.
The mist began to lighten, grow thinner; he saw the rider ahead and ran
after him with his dirk undrawn. His strength was almost a match for
the horse which was evidently very jaded and weary; his rider looked
back and urged him faster, but the Macdonald was gaining.
It was clear enough now for him to see who he was pursuing. A slender
figure in a scarlet roquelaure with the collar turned up to his ears,
his beaver and feather hanging limp with the rain; both his dress and
his horse were of the lowlands. The Macdonald’s eyes glowed at the
sight of the Saxon; he was too stung to care that he had missed his men
in the pursuit. He came on at a run, silently. The horseman had gained
rising ground and stood outlined against the sky.
The mist changed to a drizzling rain: they were able to see each other
distinctly; the tired horse stumbled and stopped, the rider wheeled him
round and drew up, facing the Highlander. In the vast gloomy scene he
was the only spot of color on his smooth bright chestnut horse with the
glittering harness, with his vivid red coat and the long draggled brown
feather hanging on his shoulders.
The Macdonald stopped a pace or two away from him that he might see who
this Saxon could be, sitting very still and calm, with his head
lifted—haughtily, it seemed. Then he cried out and fell back a step.
It was a woman who looked down at him from the brown horse: a proud,
still woman’s face that showed in the high collar.
She calmly viewed his utter amazement, sitting utterly motionless, very
upright.
After a second she spoke; slowly, in Gaelic.
“What do you want with me?”
Her voice sounded thin and unnatural coming through the vast open
space; she broke her words with a cough and shuddered as if she was
very cold.
The Macdonald had stood motionless, eagerly surveying her; when she
spoke he came toward her slowly, with the caution and curiosity of a
wild animal scenting the unknown.
She too looked at him, but covertly, and her face expressed no interest
as her eyes dwelt on his magnificent figure and torn and faded clothes;
she waited for him without a movement or a word.
As he came to her saddle bow he pulled off his bonnet and stood erect
in the straight rain, his frank blue eyes on her face.
“My name is Ronald,” he said, “and I am a prince of the Macdonalds of
Glencoe.”
The horsewoman coughed and shivered again before she answered; she had
noted the half-sullen, half-proud defiance of his bearing and replied
to that:
“Why do you speak so?” she said. “You give your speech a turn of
bitterness.”
He came still closer and laid his hand on her fallen reins.
“I thought you were a Campbell,” he said, and watched for the effect of
the loathed name on her; there was none; she merely shook her head.
“I am a stranger,” she answered. “I came with my kinsfolk on a mere
family affair—”
His face lightened.
“I saw them through the mist,” he said.
She looked round her.
“And now the mist hath gone and I am utterly lost.” She shivered.
Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make;
his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at
her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she
gave a slow faint smile.
“Are you too lost?” she asked.
“It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered.
“But I have missed my men.”
He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed
her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her
red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely:
“Ye _are_ a Campbell!”
Her face expressed a cold surprise.
“I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of
Campbell.”
It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald
hesitated, not knowing what to do.
“Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am
wet and cold—and most utterly lost.”
At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke.
“Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.
She shook her head. “I must find my people,” she said resolutely. “Tell
me the way—they ride in the direction of Glenorchy.”
Macdonald’s eyes flashed.
“Jock Campbell’s castle—you go there!” he cried.
“I go that way—not there,” she answered, “but to Loch Awe.”
He was appeased again. “Glenorchy is three miles from here,” he said.
“And Glencoe some ten—as you are a woman I will go with you to find
your people.”
She made no show of either gratitude or refusal. “I shall die of cold,”
she said impatiently. “Take the bridle and lead the way.”
The drizzle had settled into a steady downpour; the sky was a merciless
even gray; the distant hills wreathed with heavy rain clouds, the
gloomy rocks about them running with water.
Macdonald took the horse’s head in silence and led him across the
squelching heather. They were at the top of the ravine; the country
before them was broken and utterly wild, but he had no fear of losing
his way while he had the use of his eyes. The woman shuddered closer
into her coat. “Put me on the road to Glenorchy,” she said. “My people
will be looking for me.”
“Would you not be afraid alone, Helen Fraser?” he asked.
“No,” she answered quietly.
“Are you friendly with the Clan of Campbell?” he said, “for you must
cross their lands.”
“I know nothing of them,” came the tired voice from the great collar.
“But—I say—I am not afraid.”
He was silent again; he knew little or nothing of the distant Clan of
Frasers, he marveled at the dress and refined appearance of this woman:
he had never seen any but the Campbell’s women in this Lowland habit.
Neither spoke as they wound through the rocks and heather; he at the
horse’s head, heedless of the cold and rain; she huddled on the saddle,
shivering under it.
She spoke at last so suddenly that he turned with a start.
“Who are those?” she said.
He looked in the direction her gloved hand pointed.
From the branch of a great fir-tree two men were dangling, the rain
dripping forlornly from their soaked clothes and the fair hair that
fell over their dead faces.
“Campbells,” answered Macdonald. “Would there were more than two.”
She turned her gaze from the dead men; her face was utterly unmoved.
“How you hate these Campbells, Macdonald of Glencoe,” she said
curiously.
He was bewildered by her note of wonder, turned it over in his mind and
could think of nothing to say but:
“I am a prince of the Macdonalds.”
“God fend me from these feuds!” she cried. “My people live at peace.”
“They would not, Helen Fraser, if they were two hundred men alone in
the country of the Campbells.” He looked at her over his shoulder, his
color risen. “To one side of us we have MacCallum More himself—to the
other Jock Campbell of Breadalbane and his vassals swarm in their
hundreds—but we do no homage—because there has been no Campbell yet
dare enter Glencoe.”
He had stopped with the force of his words and his fierce eyes measured
her narrowly.
She gave her slow smile:
“Well—go on,” she said. “I have no call to be the Campbells’ friend.”
He went on at his steady even pace and she said no more.
They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the
men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she
could see them faintly, dark against the sky.
Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate
stillness.
“There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald.
“How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered
forward. “Look—ahead of us—”
A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another
circled slowly above him.
“What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly,
half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of
plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the
midst.
The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak
dripped with blood.
“Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low.
Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy.
“It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?”
She was still straining her eyes after the ghastly bundle they were
leaving behind them.
“It is a woman!” she cried.
“Yes,” he answered, “we got her yesterday from Jock Campbell’s house—we
burnt a house of his two days ago—you could see the flames from here.”
His eyes sparkled with pride. “They were three to one,” he added, “but
the Campbells always fight like Lowlanders.”
She put her hand to a face grown ghastly white.
“You keep your eagles well fed,” she said. “I would not be a Campbell
in your hands, Macdonald of Glencoe!”
He looked up, puzzled at her tone; he had not properly seen her face
nor could he see it now for the collar and the hat; it occurred to him
that she did not understand the bitterness of this hate.
“There is the sword and the flame between us two,” he said. “A Campbell
has not broken bread with a Macdonald for a thousand years—we are the
older race and by craft they have the mastery.”
“Of the whole Highlands, I do think,” she put in.
“Yes,” he cried fiercely. “But not Glencoe—we have that yet, and we
harry them and goad them to curses and slay them, and thwart them
though we are but two hundred—now my tacksman return home with the
plunder of Jock o’ Breadalbane’s house—we left his door-step wet with
blood, not for the first time!”
She caught her breath.
“Some day you will pay the price,” she said, “for he has the Saxons and
the Southrons behind him—he is a mighty man.”
The Highlander flung up his head. “Let the Saxons try to reach
Glencoe,” he said grimly. “Let Jock Campbell turn his claymores out to
touch us here—there will be more blood for the eagles at Strath Tay!”
She lapsed into silence again; the rain was growing colder, changing
into a fine sleet; she was numb and frozen.
“Give me rest,” she said faintly, “or I die—is there not one hut in all
this barrenness?”
He looked surprised that her endurance should be exhausted already;
hesitated with a desire to be rid of her encumbrance.
She put out her hand and touched him delicately on the shoulder; for
the first time he saw her eyes, green and very bright, as she leaned
forward.
“Ah,” she said very softly. “You would not leave me—when I am lost—or
make me ride when I am like to faint—find me shelter for awhile,
Macdonald!”
“I would not have left you,” he answered, “and though I know none of
you, Helen Fraser, I will find you shelter.”
There was a wattled hut near by, often used as an outpost by the
Macdonalds in their plundering raids; he turned toward it now; it was
very little off the road to Glenorchy.
Helen Fraser looked at his great figure before her, his resolute
strength, his firm face, and she gave a little inscrutable smile.