THE MASTER’S WIFE
Late that evening the Master of Stair entered his mansion in St.
James’s Square and passed through the great empty house to the library
at the back. This room was vast, handsomely furnished and gloomy,
well-lit by hanging lamps and a great fire on the massive hearth; the
walls were lined with books, the ceiling domed and painted with dark
figures that appeared to mount into endless space; the chimneypiece,
wreathed with heavy garlands of wooden flowers, supported a huge
branched silver stand filled with candles that were reflected in the
mirror behind. Dull red velvet curtains draped the long windows, and a
heavy pile carpet of the same color covered the floor. In the center of
the wall, facing the door, stood a large black oak desk with a bureau
either side; on it lay papers and books with two grim bronze busts,
labeled “Cato” and “Solon” in lettering that glittered somberly; one of
the lamps hung immediately over the desk and threw a strong light down
on the man who sat there reading a faded calf-bound volume.
He was quietly dressed in dark brown, and his face, wrinkled, as a
walnut shell, was almost hidden by the ringlets of his enormous
periwig; he was thin and bent, sixty or sixty-five and had an
indescribable air of ease and comfort, as if he was in his element and
vastly enjoying himself.
The Master of Stair paused on the threshold and glanced round the
somber room.
“Good-evening, my lord,” he said.
The man at the desk looked up, half-reluctantly.
“What o’clock is it, John?” he asked.
“Between twelve and one,” answered the Master of Stair. “I am later, my
lord, than I meant to be.” He came into the room as he spoke, and
seated himself on one of the stiff-backed chairs by the fire.
“Where is Lady Dalrymple?” he asked drearily.
Viscount Stair shut his book and so turned in his chair that he faced
his son.
“Gone to the ball at Kensington,” he answered dryly, “accompanied by
Tom Wharton.”
“Why did you permit it?” flashed the Master of Stair.
The father shrugged his shoulders.
“You must manage your own wife, John,” he answered. “Everybody is at
the ball. Tom Wharton is as good as another.”
Sir John interrupted him:
“Tom Wharton is the greatest rake in England,” he said. “I do not
choose to have him across my threshold—when I returned from Romney this
morning you told me Lady Dalrymple was at the Toyshop with him—now you
tell me they have gone to the ball together.”
“Why didn’t you go yourself?” asked the Viscount calmly. “Who do you
think is to take her about?—she must be seen at Court sometimes.”
“I was better employed,” answered the Master. “You know well enough, my
lord, that I have it in hand to crush this rising—this plot—I am but
now from one of these Jacobite dens where I have been aping the part of
King’s messenger from France.”
“In those clothes?” asked his father sarcastically.
The Master of Stair answered impatiently: “I forgot them. I had been
dining with Montague, and went straight on to the meeting-place.”
Viscount Stair gave an unpleasant smile.
“Well,” he said calmly, “you have a fine head, John, you make a good
many slips—a number of false steps. Take care the last isn’t up Tower
Hill.” He spoke with an air of abstraction, as if, himself indifferent
to everything, he could still feel cynically amused at the blunders of
others.
His son gave him an angry glance.
“I have not deserved this, my lord; I have kept inside the law during
many storms, and now I _am_ the law.”
The Viscount leaned a little forward; as he moved it was noticeable
that his neck was wry, a defect that gave him the appearance of leering
over his shoulder as if he listened to some one who whispered there at
his ear.
“_I_ have kept you inside the law,” he said. “_My_ advice has guided
you so far—you reckless fool if you had asked me you had not gone among
conspirators in that habit.”
He pointed mockingly at the gorgeous dress of his son whose anger rose
the more at his tone.
“Sir,” he said. “I have achieved my purpose for all I am such a
fool—they were deceived.”
“Being bigger fools,” commented the Viscount.
“I say, I am at the bottom of their plot,” flashed the Master. “In two
days’ time I shall have every detail to put before the King.”
The Viscount regarded him unmoved.
“Go warily,” he said, and his cunning old face wrinkled into an
unfathomable smile. “You stand dangerously high, John, and you are
dangerously reckless, John.”
“And you, my lord?” demanded the Master.
“I? I do not meddle in your schemes, my son. I am a safe spectator—and
I find it amusing—sometimes—now and then it is tiresome—your wife is
tiresome, John.”
“You married me to her,” cried the Master bitterly. “For God’s sake,
sir, remember that you thrust her on me before I was well out of
petticoats.”
The Viscount frowned.
“I considered a Dalrymple able to manage a woman,” he said dryly. “And
the marriage was very politic.”
“I do not doubt it, my lord,” answered the Master passionately. “But do
not blame me for a woman not of my choosing.”
The father yawned. “I merely commented that she was tiresome,” he said.
“And so are you at times—but she—is quite insufferable. I assure you
this house with no other occupant but that sniveling woman is a
miserable place. I cannot write here, I shall have my town house
refurnished.”
The Master of Stair rose.
“I do not need you, my lord,” he said, still in that tone of passionate
bitterness, “to point out the wretchedness of my home—it is a fact
obvious enough, and by God you should not fling it in my face. I cannot
remember that you ever, by one word, tried to mend the unhappiness—”
“And I,” returned the Viscount, “cannot remember ever saying I had—it
is your life”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I have managed my own—now I
only ask to be left in peace. I am not fitted for the part of mentor
and never essayed to fill it.”
The Master of Stair laughed.
“Peace!” he echoed with wild eyes on his father. “Did your lordship sow
peace that you expect to reap it? Not in me, at least, not in me or
mine!”
The Viscount had picked up his book again.
“Where is the third volume of Cicero?” he said. “I could not find it.
You have the library of a careless man.”
“The servants are at your lordship’s service,” answered the Master and
turned on his heel, chafing.
“You forget,” remarked his father, “it is New Year’s Eve, the season I
believe of festivities, good-will and other such antique pleasantries,
and I understand the servants are mostly abroad.”
The Master gave a wild look round the gloomy room.
“New Year’s Eve! We are spending it in an exemplary way!” he cried.
“This place looks like good-will and festivity, does it not? How many
homes look as gloomy as this to-night!”
“Very few, I should imagine,” said the Viscount. “Will you bring me
that book if you have it?”
The Master gave him a bitter glance; before he could answer the
entrance curtain was drawn aside and a lady entered, a gentleman behind
her.
She was wrapped in a long purple cloak, the hood drawn over her head.
At sight of the Master of Stair she hesitated, and the man behind,
slipping past her, came into the center of the room.
He was blond, good-humored, elegant; he smiled delightfully as he bowed
to the silent figure by the hearth.
“Good-even, Sir John,” he said. “I have brought my lady back from
Kensington.”
“Good-even Mr. Wharton,” answered the Master, staring past him.
The atmosphere was decidedly oppressive; the Viscount gave a malicious
smile. Lady Dalrymple came forward in a heavy silence, but Tom Wharton
knew no such word as embarrassment; he smiled still more good-humoredly.
“I was not aware Sir John had returned,” he said, addressing the
Viscount.
“So I supposed when I saw you enter,” said the Master haughtily.
“Good-night, Mr. Wharton.”
Tom Wharton bowed.
“I take my—dismissal,” he smiled. “I shall hope to see you at
Kensington, Sir John—_au revoir_, my lady.”
She made a slight inclination of her head.
“Good-night, my lord.” Tom Wharton’s face was dimpled with the most
mirthful of smiles; he bowed himself out exquisitely, and when the door
closed on him the room seemed the gloomier by contrast.
The silence remained unbroken; the Viscount was making notes on the
margin of his book; the Master stood with his back to his wife and
stared into the fire; she slowly flung her cloak off with no attempt at
speech.
She was a perfect type of Lely’s heroines: he had painted her more than
once and had delighted in her blonde loveliness, her small features,
her great languishing blue eyes, her soft foolish mouth, the pale
yellow hair smooth as satin in its great curls, the white shoulders and
rosy fingers, the full throat and entrancing little dimple in her chin;
she should now have been at the height of her beauty, but unhappiness
had worn her delicate face, dimmed her eyes and dragged her mouth,
marring the whole with an expression of fretful misery.
Still, to-night rouge, powder and patches had made amends for tears;
she was splendidly dressed in flowing white satin, hung about with
pearls, and in this soft light no one could have detected a flaw in her
beauty, as she sat droopingly, with her hands in her lap.
The Master of Stair turned at last.
“Why did you go with Mr. Wharton?” he demanded. “I desired you not to
continue this acquaintance.”
“I told you when I wrote,” she began.
He interrupted impatiently. “Do you think I have time to read your
letters? You knew my wishes—and when I returned this morning I heard
that you were with Mr. Wharton at the Toyshop—on my soul—a pretty
epitome of your life, I think!—with Tom Wharton at a Toyshop!”
“Everybody goes to them,” she answered weakly, “I must do
something—this house is unendurable.”
“You do not contribute to its gaiety,” he said fiercely.
She dropped her blonde head into her hands and broke into crying. He
turned his back on her again.
“I am so miserable,” she sobbed, “so desolate. Oh, I think my heart is
broken.”
“You have remarked it before,” said her husband bitterly.
She sobbed the louder, crushing her handkerchief to her eyes. “You
never think of me,” she wailed. “It’s killing me—I think—but you don’t
care—no one does. I am utterly alone—since—Harry—died.”
At the mention of his dead son, Sir John swung round on her.
“On my soul, madam,” he said hoarsely, “I will not hear you on that
subject.”
She lifted blurred eyes. “No,” she panted, “but you can’t—make
me—forgive—you can’t take away the—empty house—or—my God!—the pain in
my heart!”
“Have the other boy back,” he flung out, “I am willing.”
“No, no,” she shrieked. “Harry’s murderer—I will never see him again. I
wish he was dead—I wish I was dead!”
She burst into uncontrolled hysterical sobs and buried her face in the
chair cushions. Her husband’s face darkened furiously; he moved away
from her, his teeth in his lip. The Viscount looked up from his desk.
“If you have not a Cicero,” he said, “perhaps you have an Epictetus?
This allusion I must verify.”
The Master of Stair walked impatiently to the shelves and finding a
volume gave it to his father, then he turned to his wife.
“Madam, cease that wailing,” he said. “You will try me beyond
endurance.”
She made a show of stifling her sobs, and rose, dabbing at her eyes;
her fair hair and her white dress seemed to gather all the light in the
room; she gleamed from head to foot.
“You take no thought of me,” she said wretchedly. “Neither you nor my
lord there seem to think—there—is any pity to be felt for—me.” She gave
a bitter glance toward the placid figure of the Viscount. “He does not
care,” she panted, “nor do you—what have I done to be so punished?” She
turned her tear-blurred face to her husband. “I do not come of a cursed
family,” she said hoarsely. “Why should I be dragged into your evil
fortunes? Why should I pay for your wicked blood, my God, why?”
She clasped her hands passionately in the intensity of the revolt of a
weak thing; her eyes were unnaturedly dilated, her bosom rose and fell
with her struggling breath; terror and aversion were expressed in every
line of her shrinking figure.
“I have done nothing that my children should be cursed,” she said
wildly. “It is you—you—”
The Master of Stair interrupted her.
“Take care,” he said, very white. “You utter the unforgivable—”
“I shall not ask you to forgive,” she answered. “I do not want your
favor—you and your blighted race have crazed me—I will say it—I am
haunted—day and night—and it is unjust.” Her voice was shrill and
tortured. “It is unjust that I should so pay because I was foolish and
very young—and married you. God knows I never loved you!”
Her words rang cruelly round the vast room and seemed to echo through
the pause that followed; the only sound was the rustle of the leaves of
the Viscount’s book as he turned them and the scratch of his pen as he
made a note; the Master of Stair looked sternly before him, his face
hardened to a great bitterness.
Lady Dalrymple shuddered; the reaction of her passion came in the heavy
tears that rolled down her face. With a childish gesture she put up the
back of her hand to hide them, and turned miserably away across the
room.
Down the whole gloomy length she went slowly with a weary air of
hopelessness; the Viscount looked up from his book, watched her and
when the door closed on her gave a little sigh of relief.
“She gets onto a note very irritating to the nerves,” he remarked. “It
is astonishing how few women will learn to use their words with
effect—they throw at you all they can think of—then burst into
tears—which is neither logical nor pleasing.”
The Master of Stair made no answer; at his feet was a beautiful pink
rose his wife had dropped; he picked it up and flung it into the fire.
The Viscount shut his book and turned with a yawn.
“I saw the King to-day,” he said. “He asked where you were—Argyll and
Breadalbane are desirous to see you about these Highlands.”
“Yes,” said the Master gloomily. “But the damned thieves have all come
in except the Macdonalds of Glencoe—which minds me. I should send those
letters to-night—I have the maps of Glencoe. The pass of Rannoch must
be secured. The Laird of Weem must close Strath Tay—then with
Breadalbane one side, Argyll the other—I think I have the villains.”
The Viscount drew a paper out of his desk.
“I had the report from Scotland this morning,” he said composedly. “The
Macdonalds have taken the oath.”
The Master of Stair turned, incredulous, furious.
“Taken the oath!” he cried.
“Yes.” His father twisted his wry neck over the paper. “So the
commander of the forces says.”
Sir John stood silent a moment; when he spoke it was in a quiet tone.
“It need make no difference—I have vowed to make an example of those
Glencoe men and will do it.”
The Viscount nodded.
“As Lord President of the Court of Session I could suppress this,” he
said. “And you as Prime Minister for Scotland should be able to
accomplish the rest.”
“Yes,” answered the Master. “I must write to Hill who commands in Fort
William—he must be removed—the second in command, Hamilton, is an able
man.”
“But first you must see Breadalbane,” said the Viscount. “Better go
carefully.”
Sir John lifted his shoulders with a magnificent gesture of disregard.
“I have put myself above caution, my lord,” he said. “Give me the
letter—” He took it eagerly from his father. “This must be shown to the
King?” he questioned.
“Yes.”
“Lend me your pen, my lord.”
The Viscount handed him the quill, and Sir John dashed it through the
passage relating to the Macdonalds.
“If it become necessary to show this paper your lordship can do so,” he
said. “And I will do the same for the minutes that are to go before the
Council at Edinburgh.”
His father laughed.
“A bold way of handling difficulties, John,” he commented.
“It needs boldness to deal with these cursed Jacks,” answered the
Master fiercely. “I am going to teach them a lesson this time—they have
defied us and laughed at us long enough. This race of thieves
goes—utterly.”
The Viscount suddenly rose with a little sound of warning.
Sir John turned.
Close behind them stood Lady Dalrymple.
She saw by their faces their thought, and drew herself together
defiantly. “I was not spying,” she cried feverishly. “You did not hear
me enter.”
“You were remarkably quiet, madam,” remarked the Viscount dryly.
She gave him a frightened look and in a strained silence crossed to the
hearth.
“I dropped a flower,” she said faintly. “I came back for that.”
She looked along the floor and in the chair.
“Do not trouble, madam,” said her husband, watching her. “I make no
doubt Mr. Wharton’s hothouses can supply you with others.”
Lady Dalrymple lifted her head, and stared at him with parted lips and
flushed face, and a curious little movement of her hand like horror.
“The Queen gave it to me for Harry’s grave,” she said simply.
The Master of Stair flushed and started as if from a blow.
“You have burnt it?” asked Lady Dalrymple, with a glance at the fire.
The silence answered her.
“Well, well,” she said desperately, “I suppose you do not care that his
little grave should go bare—only—to-morrow was his birthday—good-night,
sir.”
She went quietly out of the room.
The Viscount glanced sideways at his son’s face, and was silent.