GLENCOE
It was midday of the thirteenth of February and the snow clouds were
blowing up over the Valley of Glencoe.
The whole landscape, encompassed by vast and steep mountains, lay in a
cold, leaden gray light, there was no human being in sight and the only
living thing visible was the solitary eagle that circled in and out of
the fissures in the hills. The clouds rested like a girdle round the
mountains, the sides and summits of which showed rifts of the pure
melted snow. There were many entries to the valley, desolate winding
pathways between the hills, steep avenues, twisting down the rocks; and
from the mouth through the center ran a flat and silent stream.
There was no sign of the nearing of the spring; it seemed the very
depth of winter; the grass and trees were withered to a uniform tint of
grayness; the vastness of the scene made it awful, its silence made it
melancholy beyond expression, humanity appeared to have no place in
this loneliness; the cry of the eagle echoed like a dismal warning to
all who would intrude on his desolate domain and the silence seemed the
greater as his scream fell to stillness.
Descending into the valley by its mouth were two people: a shepherd
wrapped in a heavy plaid and a woman on a Highland pony. As the valley
closed round them, she raised her face constantly to the sky and the
mountain tops as if their rugged splendor pleased her; her face was
pale and of a calm nobility in the expression; her brown eyes held an
intense look and her curved mouth was firmly set; her gray hood and her
heavy, dull brown hair showed off the pure lines of her uplifted square
chin and full throat; she took little heed of her companion, a tall
gloomy Highlander and when her gaze was not on the stormy sky it was
directed down the desolate Glen.
Once she said:
“What a place to dwell—this wilderness!”
And he answered in his Gaelic:
“The Glen o’ Weeping! The Glen o’ Weeping!”
As they advanced farther into the Glen, a few scattered dull-colored
dwellings became visible, mostly situated in the windings and twistings
of the steep sides, and as they drew yet nearer the very heart of the
valley they beheld, spread before them twenty or thirty rude huts
gathered in some semblance of order round a central one of more
pretentious size.
They did not seem the habitations of human beings, but more like the
quarries or lairs of some strange wild beasts; there were no people
about, but from some of the roofs a thin curl of smoke arose.
The girl on the Highland pony, Delia Featherstonehaugh, looked long at
the cluster of huts as they neared them.
“The chief of the Macdonalds dwells here?” she asked.
He nodded taciturnly.
They came slowly over the worn and faded heather into the center of the
little colony, then Delia slipped from her horse.
“Makian’s house,” said the Highlander, pointing to the largest
dwelling, and she followed him to the door, leading her tired pony; her
garments were blown about her in the wind and her long locks escaped
and flew across her face; she lifted her eyes again to the mountains in
their grand solitude and her breast rose with the trembling of a sigh.
Her guide struck on the door and instantly it was opened; the
Highlander turned with an abrupt gesture to the woman, standing without
in the gray.
“A Saxon woman, Macdonald, with a message for you,” he said.
An old man, wrapped in a plaid, stood in the doorway, he stared from
one to the other as the shepherd continued: “She met your son Ronald in
the Lowlands, and he bid her come to me if ever she had need of finding
him, and so she came with news of disaster to you, and I brought her
thither.”
“Disaster?” echoed Makian.
Delia Featherstonehaugh stepped over the threshold. She had a glimpse
of a warmly-lighted interior and a group of men playing cards; she
stood silent a moment with her hand on the door-post and Makian stared
at her.
Then she spoke:
“I am an emissary of the King,” she said; she laid her hand on the old
Highlander’s arm and her eager eyes looked straightly up into his. “I
sent you—and all the clans a warning—by your son, you remember,
Macdonald?”
He nodded, the men round the fire had risen and were listening too; her
voice rose, gaining in steadiness.
“I warned you to take the oaths to the government—I warned you that the
Campbells were preparing a vengeance—”
Makian interrupted.
“We took the oaths—I went through the snows to Inverary and took the
oaths.”
“Too late!” she answered bitterly. “Too late! Too long you dallied—and
maybe I also am too late!”
Again he interposed.
“But we are under the government’s protection—I was assured of that.”
She came a step forward and her glance took in the men assembled
against the background of thick peat smoke; in her gray garments,
falling straight from shoulders to feet with her eager, colorless face,
she looked like some embodiment of the mists from the mountains that
had drifted through their doors; they moved a little away from her as
if they were in an awe of her person that overweighed any anxiety that
they might have felt as to her message; she saw this and trembled in
her desire to convince them of the terrible import of her warning; she
recalled to them the hatred of the Campbells; she spoke of what she
knew of the policy of the government; of how their submission had been
suppressed. She said Breadalbane was at Kilchurn arming his clan, that
Argyll was holding Inverness, that soldiers were quartered in
Argyllshire and were marching even now from Fort William; she related
her own wild journey, the difficulties, the perils, how she had come
from England, hastening, never stopping, that she might warn them of
the doom preparing; that she might arrest a bloody execution, and her
eyes went to the figure of Ronald Macdonald, who leaned quietly against
the rude wall close to her.
When the tide of her words had come to an end she stood with panting
bosom and dilated eyes, waiting.
While she spoke the circle of her audience had grown; men, women and
children, they were gathered round the hut door, while within stood the
old chief and his family with somber faces. But there was silence and
no movement from any of them. The girl turned to Ronald with a strange
smile.
“You know me, Ronald Macdonald?—you think that I speak the truth?”
He answered slowly:
“I know you and I believe.”
His father cried out, struck through his apathy at last:
“The Campbells march from Fort William?”
“Ay, I saw them on the road—I slipped past them because my guide knew
the shorter, hidden ways.”
A sound like a faint wail arose from the gathered crowd; a portentous
sense of evil, not to be measured either by exact statement or loose
phrasing, possessed them; they all turned their eyes to the Saxon woman
in their midst and she in her turn gazed on the one indifferent face
among them, the face of the young man Ronald, for the memory of whom
she had kept her vow to save him.
“We may fly through Strath Tay,” said one.
Delia shook her head.
“The laird of Weem has been secured by the government—ye are
surrounded—every avenue of the Glen is—I think, closed. I have done
little—only ye cannot be murdered unwitting in your sleep.”
“They come for that—these Campbells?” demanded Ronald sullenly. “To
slay us in our sleep?”
“They come with full power of sword and fire,” she answered.
She rested her weary head against the lintel of the door and again a
curious smile moved her lips; she thought of the last time she had seen
him and the present gray scene, the surrounding figures, the loud
cursing of the Campbell name, the shrill talk of women, fell away from
her. She recalled the little house in Glasgow and the coming of the
Highlander, and Perseus, busy writing, plotting, coming to and fro, the
even round of the days, excitement and the great hope ahead, the beacon
to lead them on, recalled all this with curiosity and no regret even as
she pictured the dead brother whom she had loved; once waiting idly in
some great house, she had noticed pictures on the walls, a carnival on
the ice, a fruit shop, a lady with a fan, she could remember them now,
every detail, and as impersonal as these did she see her life of a few
months ago, quiet, pleasant pictures, rising in succession, till
suddenly they were shattered into darkness and one rose that blotted
them out, one figure, one face.
In her recital she had not named the Master of Stair; she had blamed
Breadalbane, the Campbells, the government, but she had not named the
name of the man whom she knew to be behind it all; she had not hinted
that the hand of the Master of Stair was guiding Breadalbane, all of
them, that his will and his power were behind the redcoats marching for
Glencoe.
They brought her to the fire and made her lay aside her cloak and warm
her cold hands; and showed her rough hospitality. She obeyed silently
and sat down meekly in the heavy peat reek with a lassitude not to be
explained; as if there were no momentous hour at hand, as if her life
ran smoothly ahead, as if there were no white faces and eager voices
about her, as if no army was marching nearer, with the slow fading of
the light, nearer.
One of the women brought her some milk, and came and kissed her hand
and blessed her; she took no notice of either; she was picturing a
finely-dressed lady, who held out a miniature from the end of a mauve
ribbon.
“My children.”
She heard the words again and saw the action, but again the thrill of
exquisite anguish with which her own words had come:
“How like!—how like!”
So he had looked when he had bargained with her; when he had given her
his word for the safety of her friends; so, too, had he looked when he
had betrayed them, only perhaps then he had smiled, he had contemplated
her hanged or beheaded and most probably had smiled; he had thought of
her utter folly and lifted his shoulders in contempt; and she, the
woman who had the picture of his children hanging round her neck,
perhaps he had told her something and she had also smiled—or pitied.
These thoughts had been her companions during her journey; they would
not be shaken off now. As ghosts they grinned through the peat smoke.
Unbearable, they became at last; she went to the door and watched the
clan assemble.
Over everything was that sense of fear aroused, of wrath held in leash,
before every one was that picture of the passes filling silently with
red-coated Campbells; of strangely-armed soldiers coming from Fort
William, steadily, with bloody purpose, still nearer; in every mind was
there thought of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane, wronged, insulted,
moving at last from his quiet with a terrible revenge. To all the
little glens and colonies messengers went out; Sandy and Ian Macdonald
dragged out ancient guns with watchful eyes up the pass, Makian gave
commands calmly, women looked on grimly and put their children behind
them; over everything that sense of oppression of disaster gathering in
silence; before all that vision of the Campbells coming steadily.
One man alone stood apart, Ronald Macdonald wrapped in his plaid,
indifferent against the open door.
The gray day was growing grayer; up from rifts and hidden valleys in
the hills came the tacksmen of Macdonald; contained, silent, in a
moment comprehending, in a moment seeing that picture of the Campbells,
of Strath Tay held, of Breadalbane rising in Invernesshire, of Argyll
rising in Argyllshire, of themselves surrounded, trapped, sport for the
enemy, food for his sword. Small they appeared beneath the vastness of
the hills, the wild splendor of the tossing clouds, the wide spread of
the sky, not more than seventy men, all told, and Delia’s heart cried
out within her.
As the daylight faded it grew colder; so cold that the children were
taken back into the huts; a few flakes of snow fell across the grayness
of the sky and drifted lightly onto the shoulders of the men.
Would they wait till it was dark? Would they come to-night?
The question went from mouth to mouth; Makian bitterly cursed the
government that had so foully deceived him; he spoke of the assurances
the sheriff had given him that they were safe. And Delia thought of the
suppressed oath and her cheeks went hot with shame; they misplaced
their curses; one and only one deserved them, but she could not speak
his name.
They were gathered together to leave the valley, packing their few poor
goods, calling up their herds, their ponies—there must be some outlet
to the Glen unguarded, unknown to any.
They said very little; dread and fear were among them as a living
devil, clutching the throat of each; only the little children wailed,
miserably, because of the cruel cold and the strangeness of this
desertion of the fireside for the chill heather.
Delia turned to Ronald who gave no sign.
“You do not come?” she said; she noticed that he was pale, haggard and
preoccupied; he lifted wild eyes to hers.
“Her husband will be among them—I gave him his life once—I shall not
touch him now—I will not fight the clan that holds Margaret Campbell,
though she spurn me for a coward.”
Then he added simply: “I shall be very glad to die.”
His carelessness threw about him a grandeur, lifting him above the
others, each one eager for his own life; Delia looked at him and laid
her hand on his folded arms.
“I too,” she said quietly, “better to be dead than to be—alone. And I
have no purpose in life.”
The long line of ponies had come up; the bundles were strapped on them;
the Macdonalds were moving to and fro.
Then it happened Delia dropped her hand from Ronald’s arm and cried out:
“The soldiers!”
They had come at a full gallop round a turn in the Glen; at a full
gallop they came over the heather and at a shout from their leader drew
up a few paces off.
As suddenly as the falling snow or the rain will cover the ground, so
suddenly had these soldiers appeared and spread themselves across the
Glen before the Macdonalds could fly or scream or warn each other;
before they could do anything save realize their peril.
The leader of the redcoats was almost in their midst, in the security
of his steel cuirass he defied them; he was a large red man with a
freckled face showing under his black beaver; his horse was panting
with the speed of his gallop, he patted her neck carelessly, while he
spoke:
“Macdonald! surrender, in the name of the King—” he swept his glance
over the confused array; he noted the preparations for flight.
“So ye have been warned of my coming!” he said and laughed.
Across the Glen spread the soldiers, cavalry and foot; the last light
gleamed in their steel collars and muskets; Makian, at the head of his
people, looked sternly at the leader who swept off his hat with another
laugh; his red hair was blown back from his face and his light eyes
gleamed as he spoke for the third time: “Ye know me, Macdonald?”
“Ay,” answered Makian in an impassive voice. “I know you, Robert
Campbell of Glenlyon. I know not your errand.”
Captain Campbell lifted a gauntleted hand against the darkening sky,
beckoning his men nearer.
“I come to root out your cursed den of thieves,” he said. “By the
command of Scotland and the King.”
“Ye lying Campbell!” cried Makian. “We are under the protection of the
King! I took the oath.”
“Too late,” smiled Glenlyon. “Ye are approved traitors and rebels,
therefore surrender.”
At this Delia Featherstonehaugh came from the side of Ronald and
crossed the wet heather between the Campbells and Macdonald till she
came to Glenlyon’s saddle bow.
“Captain Campbell,” she said.
He looked down at her in a quick surprise.
“Take care,” said Delia. “I know—I know that the submission of these
people has been suppressed.” Glenlyon frowned, and his eyes were
curiously intent on her.
“Who are you, mistress?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Her words came quickly, she put her hand on his rein;
both soldiers and Highlanders watched her in silence. “What authority
have you? Take care how ye satisfy a private feud under cover of the
law.”
“I obey my commands,” answered Glenlyon, still gazing at her, “I have
the letter here,” he touched his breast. “Higher than I, mistress, must
answer for this day’s work; Hill, Hamilton, Breadalbane and the Master
of Stair.”
He smiled at her slow look of horror.
“What are the Macdonalds to you?” he asked.
“I came from London to warn them,” said Delia in a vague manner. “But
surely it is in vain—what are you going to do?”
“My orders are to slay every Macdonald under seventy—and pay particular
attention to the old fox and his cubs.”
“My God! oh, my God!” she slipped to her knees and clung to his stirrup
in a distracted manner, with her wild eyes staring fixedly; she made no
appeal beyond that cry and the agony of her glance; she knelt there
ready for his horse to trample her to death.
Glenlyon stooped from the saddle and loosened her hands gently; then he
beckoned to one of his soldiers.
“Take her away,” he said with a flushed face. “Take care of her,” and
as the man lifted Delia from the ground, his gray eyes dwelt on her
face in a troubled manner.
She made no resistance as the man led her away, and Glenlyon turned
fiercely to the Macdonalds. “Lay down yours arms and surrender,” he
commanded. “I’ll not wait much longer.”
They had watched his parley with the girl in silence, knowing well that
there was no escape for them; that on their first movement the soldiers
would fire; so they stood, gathered together with somber faces,
fronting the Campbells. The snow was falling faster; the great clouds
had almost obscured the mountains.
Glenlyon drew out his watch.
“Hamilton said five,” he muttered.
It was now five minutes past; he glanced over his men; the Argyllshire
regiment, all Campbells, then repeated his commands to the Macdonalds
to surrender.
Makian refused and a full murmur of scorn went up from the Macdonalds.
“Then I shall fall on ye without mercy—men, women and children,” said
Glenlyon.
There was no sound from the Macdonalds save the faint wail of a
frightened child; the chief stood in front of them, his sons beside
him. Ronald was not there.
“Fire!” cried Glenlyon.
The volley of musketry echoed down the Glen; a savage cry of triumph
broke from the Campbells, as, flinging their guns aside and drawing
their swords, they dashed on the Macdonalds.
Delia Featherstonehaugh saw the world about her struck with strange
confusion; she slipped from the soldier who held her and ran blindly
down the Glen through the smoke.
The report of the guns echoed from the mountains, rang in her ears; she
saw smoke curling from the huts and one burst suddenly into a bright
flame that rose heavenwards.
She heard the guns discharge again and a distant answer to them float
from the hills; horsemen flew past her; one fell and his companion
leaped over man and animal and was gone into the smoke; screams rose
and thick cries of triumph and hate; figures formed out of the smoke
and were lost again; a second time came the roll of musketry from the
hills, nearer now. Delia found herself leaning against the rocky side
of the valley, watching, listening, dumb—not blind. A shrieking boy
rushed past her, two soldiers after him; one had a bleeding face.
From the burning hut a woman came running, alight from head to foot;
there was no outcry; she flung up her hands above her blazing hair and
fell forward on her face.
The musketry cracked again; a horseman galloped by with a Highlander
clinging to the saddle; they were striking at each other with knives;
the Macdonald dragged the Campbell from the saddle and the maddened
horse plunged over both.
It was almost dark; Delia stumbled forward from her place and ran along
the rocks, crying to herself.
She came into a circle of light cast by the burning dwelling and
stopped, moaning.
A rider swept up, cried out at sight of her and flung himself from the
saddle. She felt him seize her and drag her away.
“Ye will be slain,” he kept saying and he hurried her from the
shrieking confusion into the dark of the cold rocks and wet heather;
once her companion put his arms about her and lifted her over a fallen
man. He held her close against his breast a moment; the musketry still
cracked in their ears and the snow was falling over them.
Delia struggled away to stare into her rescuer’s face.
It was Glenlyon.
He had her firmly by the arm.
“Ye must come into safety,” he said hoarsely, and he drew her along,
supporting her over the rough way; her cloak had fallen and he put it
about her.
At that she spoke.
“Why are ye so careful of me, Robert Campbell? There are women dying
down there.” She pointed to the dip of the valley they were leaving
where the red light and the smoke rose through the darkness.
“It is over now,” he answered in a troubled manner. “We killed no women
if we could help it—Hamilton is coming—I must get ye into his camp.”
“There are others will die of cold this night—let me join them, Robert
Campbell!”
But he held her firmly. “Who have ye among the Macdonalds?” he asked
quickly.
“Robert Campbell—let me go!”
Through the dark his voice came strained and labored.
“I cannot—ye will be hurt—let me be with ye—ye can command me.”
She gave her arm such a sudden wrench that his grasp was slackened for
a second and in that second she had freed herself and was running back
through the darkness toward the deadly circle of light.
As she reached the first hut the red glare that lit the way showed
things that made her blood run cold.
The soldiers had left their work to pursue those that had fled into the
mountains; Hamilton was late; it had been bungled; some of the avenues
from the Glen were left unguarded and so many of the Macdonalds had
escaped.
She hurried on through smoking ruins and sinking fires; to right and
left lay the dead, frozen in their blood; stained and torn plaids were
scattered over the heather; here and there a musket was flung down or a
dirk, or a household implement hastily snatched up and cast aside.
The flames of the burning huts were sinking under the snow; the cold
numbed Delia’s very senses, horror and dread were frozen into apathy;
the icy air, the bitter soft snowflakes chilled the heat of wrath and
terror in her blood.
She came through the dismantled dwellings to Makian’s house; it still
stood; the door was broken off and a man with his plaid over his face
lay across the threshold; by his white beard, blood-stained and trodden
into the mire, she knew it for the old chief.
She crept past him and into his ruined home; the peat fire still
flickered upon the hearth; the place was warm despite the wind that
whined through the torn door.
In the very center of the room a man lay on his back with his hands
outspread.
Delia stole to the fire and stirred it into flame, casting on peat from
the pile beside her; then, as the light leaped up she turned to the
prostrate man and saw that he was Ronald Macdonald; she went on her
knees in silence and lifted his head onto her lap; he made a little
movement and put his hand over his breast; she saw that his coat was
torn and stained and that the sluggish blood was dripping from a cut in
his forehead. With a shudder she looked about her, called aloud till
she grew frightened of her own echoing voice and was silent for very
horror. Half-mechanically she tore off the cambric ruffles from her
sleeves and then gently laying him back upon the floor, crept to the
door. In a little hollow of the rocks she saw the snow had collected;
hither she carried an earthenware pot and filled it and brought it back
and set it on the fire and waited its melting with a silent, wild face
and busy fingers tearing her ruffles into strips.
She searched the hut for wine, but there was none; broken, empty
bottles lay among the fallen cards.
As best she could she washed his wounds and bound them up, made her
cloak into a pillow for him and edged him a little nearer the fire.
Then she fell into sick weeping, shuddering tears as she wiped the
blood from her fingers.
He moved again and spoke:
“Have they gone?”
She caught the whisper and bent over him.
“Yes.”
He moaned faintly.
“I am so cold—and sick—lift me up a little.”
She took his head onto her lap again; his eyes, a ghastly, icy blue in
his white face, fluttered open.
“Have any escaped?” he whispered.
“God knows—Macdonald.”
So cold it was, so cold, and she so helpless; she cast more peat on the
fire and prayed that some one might come; that some one, in this valley
of the dead, might be living and come.
Through the long, bitter night she knelt so, holding him, till her
limbs were stiff with his weight; he spoke no word, only his struggling
breath showed that he lived.
With the first breaking of the pale gray dawn, he turned his head
toward the open door.
“I hear horses,” he said.
Delia started from a half-swoon.
“I hear none,” she answered.
“They come,” he whispered. “I am dying so slowly—”
“God knows,” she said wildly.
Another silence as a faint light filled the room and the winter dawn
spread above the mountains; then he spoke:
“When I am dead—take my pouch,” he said through labored breaths. “It
holds—Dundee’s spy-glass—I want ye to have it—for staying by me now—”
She cried out in a passionate pity.
“I would not have left a dog, Macdonald!”
“So cold,” he whispered. “The world is freezing into death—I see the
mountains changing into snow and falling—I feel the earth dissolve into
an icy sky and all my life ebb from me—so cold—hark!—the horses!”
Delia could hear them now.
“Why, there is hope,” she cried, “some help is here.”
Even while she uttered the words the entrance was darkened by the
approaching horsemen. Now some one had slipped from the saddle and was
standing on the threshold.
The dying man shuddered in Delia’s arms. “Margaret Campbell!” he
murmured.
Lady Breadalbane turned sharply to him.
“So one Macdonald lives!” she said, and shivered through her heavy furs.
“Have ye brought forty Campbells to murder him!” shrieked Delia.
Lady Breadalbane looked in keen curiosity at the haggard woman who held
the Macdonald’s head.
“Do not use that word!” she cried. “We are innocent of this night’s
work—innocent, I say! Who are you to look so at me?”
“Why have ye come?” asked Delia bitterly.
For answer the Countess swept across the room, dropped on her knees
beside Ronald and took his hand.
“I came,” she said in an eager tone, “to find if any lived—to find
you—Ronald—we are innocent, you understand—innocent!”
He was gazing up into her lovely face with a passion even the chill of
death could not quench utterly.
“What do you want—Margaret Campbell!”
She snatched a paper from her bosom and held it with a trembling hand
out to him.
“Put your mark to this,” she answered hoarsely, “to prove ye believe
that my lord is guiltless of this—”
“Ah!” burst out Delia, “is not Glenlyon your husband’s man?”
“Silence!” commanded the Countess. “I speak to him—”
“What has he to gain from you that his last act should be to testify to
a lie?”
“It is no lie—this is government work not ours!”
Delia raised flashing eyes.
“Then if Breadalbane is innocent—wherefore do ye trouble?” she cried.
“That he may prove to all the world the Macdonalds hold him
guiltless—Ronald—will ye put your mark.”
“No,” said Delia. “She asks too much—by Heaven, too much!”
“Ronald—I will kiss thee,” breathed the Countess. “I will put my arms
about thee—hold thee even as she does—to my bosom—so thou mark’st this.”
He turned from Delia toward her.
“Breadalbane is blood-guilty to the soul,” he gasped. “Yet kiss me—and
I will sign—thy lie.”
She took a pen and inkhorn from her pocket, dipped the pen and put it
between his slack fingers—while Delia tried to force her back.
“Ye shall not do it!” she cried desperately to Ronald.
But he took no heed of her.
“Kiss me—” he murmured, “Margaret! Margaret!”
She caught hold of him, thrusting Delia aside. “Margaret!”
“Sign!” shrieked the Countess at sight of his face, but he rolled out
of her arms between them.
“Ye are too late!” cried Delia, springing up.
Lady Breadalbane gave one look at his dead face, then rose also.
“Well, we do not care, Jock and I,” she said in a quiet fury. “I think
there are no Macdonalds left to harry us—and we can face the world.”
She turned to the doorway and beckoned the man who stood there.
“The man is dead,” she said, flinging back her red hair. “And he has
not given testimony, Glenlyon.”
“No, thank God, thank God!” sobbed Delia wildly.
Glenlyon looked from one to another.
“My lord must bear his own deeds,” he said slowly.
The Countess’s green eyes blazed.
“This deed is not his,” she cried. “But thine, Robert Campbell!”
“Do you deny me, then?” he answered heavily.
“Ay—thee and they works—never look to my lord to share the burden of
the blood that ye have shed to-night!”
“So—ye cast me off?” asked Glenlyon thickly.
She laughed magnificently.
“If you say that my lord bid you do what you have done—why then we
do—cast you off, Glenlyon.”
“There are others know the truth.”
It was Delia spoke.
Lady Breadalbane glanced at her fiercely.
“You?” she said.
“I—and Jerome Caryl.”
The Countess fell back before the name and clutched at the lintel of
the door; then recovered herself and laughed aloud.
“He is dead—your Caryl.”
Delia shrieked.
“Dead!”
“Who was he that he should not die?”
“Dead!”
“Have I not said so?”
“How died he?”
Lady Breadalbane put her hand to her bosom and drew herself to her full
height.
“Put the deed down to those who did this work about you—there are those
who did not care to see him go free from Kensington.”
“He was—murdered?”
“He was found dead.”
“Jerome dead! By whose orders?” Delia’s tone had dropped to dullness.
She seemed to be re-acting some old and ghostly dream; she had said
such words before—and now the answer came the same.
“The Master of Stair,” said the Countess, looking her full in the face.
“They found him dead on Hounslow Heath; which was the more
likely—highwaymen or the Master of Stair?”
“Ye think that by his orders Jerome Caryl was slain?”
“I leave it to ye,” answered the Countess and with a fierce abruptness
she was gone.
They heard the thunder of her escort down the Glen as the Campbells
swept away.
Delia came forward with clenched hands.
“Three,” she said in a choked voice, staring down at Ronald. “God bear
witness that it is three that he has taken from me—three men wantonly
slain.”
She put her hand over her distorted face and swung round toward
Glenlyon.
“Why have ye stayed?” she asked.
He came slowly near to her, looking at her strangely. “What are you
going to do?” he asked.
“Live. Live to—” she dropped her hand from her face and pressed it to
her bosom. “I am going—to make a man pay the price of the blood he has
shed—to pay the price.”
“What is your name?” asked Glenlyon.
“Delia,” she said indifferently, and she moved toward the door; the
cold light was full on her pale face and her long fallen hair dark over
her shoulders.
Glenlyon followed, his sword clanking on the floor.
“Come with me.”
His voice came unsteadily. “You may command me,” he said.
As if she suddenly realized him, Delia lifted her head; he flushed
under his tan, and in a troubled way took off his beaver. “Give me—your
hand—if I might.”
The brown eyes considered him: “Robert Campbell—what do ye mean?” she
asked wildly. “I have my life’s work—I have told you—”
“Will you come with me?” he asked again. “Will you—trust me?”
Delia’s glance fell to the dead man; then she looked away down the
valley: slowly back at Glenlyon.
“I think I will,” she said, and held out her hand.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
THE RECKONING
It was the very height of spring in Edinburgh; the middle of May, 1695;
the warm sunny day was fading into dusk and the street lamps were lit
and glittering yellow through the twilight. Before a magnificent
mansion in the finest part of the city, a large crowd was gathered, an
angry crowd that surged up and down, murmuring dangerously.
And in the front room of the mansion a man sat alone and listened to
that ominous sound without.
The vast room was unlit and the long windows open to the balcony and
fresh spring air; the heavy furnishing was splendid to excess; its one
occupant sat before a gold harpsichord, leaning against it, with face
turned toward the window; close to his elbow stood a crystal vase of
early white roses and violets and on the white wall behind him was
painted a cluster of hollyhocks and pinks.
He was sumptuously attired in heavy white satin that shimmered in the
dusk; round his neck hung the dull gold knots and roses of the collar
of St. George, and below his knees the bright blue of the Garter
showed; there were patches on his face and his black ringlets were
elaborately curled and powdered in the front.
His unbuckled sword lay along the harpsichord; now and then as the
murmur rose to a shout he laid his hand upon it and his black brows
frowned. For John Dalrymple, first Earl of Stair, felt very keenly
to-night what it meant to be the best hated man in Scotland.
After a while he arose with a stir of perfume and crossed midway to the
window.
The crowd below had gathered in numbers; they pressed close against his
iron gates; and from the confusion of voices one word rose distinctly:
“Glencoe! Glencoe!”
The Earl of Stair stepped onto the balcony and at the sight of him
there rose a howl of execration; he frowned down on them with the
bitterest scorn and turned into the room again.
A stone crashed up at the balcony and again came: “Glencoe!”
He glanced at the clock and rang a bell; when the servant appeared in
answer, he asked for lights. “And order the coach,” he said.
The man hesitated, stopped.
“My lord—my lord—you will not go abroad?”
“To my Lord Breadalbane’s reception,” answered the Earl.
“My lord—does your lordship hear the mob?”
The Earl flared with impatience.
“I do not ask your attendance—if there be one man in my service not a
coward let him drive, it will suffice.”
The servant bowed and withdrew, and the Earl stood silent in the center
of the room until the man returned and, lifting the candles, set the
room in a soft glow.
“Draw the curtains,” commanded the Earl.
The servant obeyed and as the pink satin was drawn over the dark,
without a low groan rose from the waiting crowd.
The Earl crossed to the harpsichord, picked up his sword and buckled it
on.
The servant softly left the room, and the inner silence was unbroken
till the rattle of the coach into the yard below. The crowd gave it a
low, dangerous greeting as they passed and clamored against the iron
railing.
The Earl turned a glance out of narrowed eyes at the shrouded windows
and his ringed finger shifted his sword up and down in the scabbard.
A light footstep made him turn; it was his wife.
He frowned; she passed in silence to the harpsichord and with an
agitated look at him sank into the seat there.
“Will you not send for the soldiers, my lord?”
She spoke in a troubled way; with halting utterance and a nervous foot
tapping the floor; the Earl considered her a moment; she was pale, her
blonde head set off against the crimson and purple of the painted
flowers behind her; her mauve and gold gown shone in a bright
reflection on the polished boards; a cloak of a delicate opal color was
clasped with diamonds over her bosom, the rich black and white of the
ermine lining showing as it fell apart.
“You are not coming with me?” was his answer, noting her.
“Yes—” she gave back hurriedly. “You see—I am dressed—”
“Yesterday, you said you would not accompany me, madam,” he commented
coldly, “and I see no need.”
“I should prefer to, my lord.”
“Why?” he frowned.
“I—I do not care to be alone—these people outside frighten me.”
“There are the servants.”
She moved uneasily. “I do not trust servants—indeed, I would rather
come.”
He looked at her curiously; it was rare indeed for her to be anxious
for his company; though since his father’s death with no one to foment
it, the bitterness between them had grown less active, still he was
surprised that she should so far depart from her usual silent avoidance
of him as to desire to accompany him to-night—to-night when his
servants shrank from driving with him through Edinburgh Town.
She waited his verdict anxiously, her slender fingers pulling
heedlessly at the roses and violets beside her.
“Why not send for the soldiers?” she repeated at length. “They are
dangerous to-night—these people.”
He lifted his shoulders contemptuously.
“I am not afraid of them. It is no more than they have done before. I
was never a favorite of the mob.”
“Yet these are in earnest—this question of Glencoe—”
He turned on her.
“Madam—do not let me hear that word. An insensate party cry—begun by
the Jacobites; spread by my enemies—a meaningless parrot call—what is
Glencoe to me? An act, two years old—a thing cursedly bungled or
Hamilton had not left any alive to start this howl.”
“Yet the King has ordered an inquiry and appointed a commission, has he
not?”
The Earl smiled bitterly.
“Madam, my enemies have forced the King to head the stronger party—what
does he know of it? Nothing.”
The servant entered with his master’s hat and cloak; Lady Stair rose
with a faint color in her cheeks and drew her hood around her face.
They descended the stairs in silence; below the secretary met them with
an attempt to keep the Earl within the house.
The footmen had refused to ride behind the coach (the Earl was not
beloved by his servants). Yet to go unattended: Lord Stair smiled
unpleasantly.
“Dismiss them,” he said briefly, and himself opening the door stepped
out into the portico.
Between him and the mob was the cobbled yard, behind the high iron
railings, yet it seemed as if this would little assure him safety so
fierce a shout burst forth when it beheld him.
The Master of Stair had always been hated; though his magnificence, his
generosity with money, his recklessness in politics were qualities
likely to be beloved by the populace, his excessive arrogance, the
horrible tales connected with his house, his aloofness, his lack of
amiable vices, his swift and brilliant rise from a mere advocate to the
most powerful man in Scotland, were things not to be forgiven by either
high or low.
And he had always been on the unpopular side, always served the law not
the people; he was merciless too, and reckless in making enemies; they
who for two years had been working to spread the tale of Glencoe, found
that to give some or any point to the general hate of the Master of
Stair was as easy as putting a match to gunpowder; the mob shouted
“Glencoe!”—as they would have shouted anything that voiced their long
dislike; high and low, all Edinburgh, had combined on this pretext to
pull the Dalrymple down.
The Earl stared at the mob a moment and his blue eyes darkened; he knew
well enough the value of their shout of horror at Glencoe and despised
them the more utterly; he was not afraid that all his enemies together
could accomplish his ruin; he had England behind him; and during these
three years his worldly success had swept him on and up beyond all
meddling with.
He helped his wife into the coach; she had turned even whiter: as the
crowd shouted she trembled: her husband took no heed of her.
One of the servants ran forward to open the gates: the people drew back
quietly, waiting in an ominous hush.
The coachman whipped up his horses and dashed through the gates at a
gallop. Howls, curses, shrieks arose and the mob made a wild onset, but
the hoofs of the four plunging horses kept a passage clear and the
coach swept free. But the crowd followed and closed about it. Lady
Stair cowered in a corner. Stones rattled on the roof and mud was
flying at the windows; stones and sticks struck the coachman, the
carriage came to a standstill and a wild shout burst forth.
The Earl cursed fiercely and flung the window up; they shouted up vile
names at him and mouthed foul versions of his misfortunes till his
cheek was dark with passion.
With a hard face he slipped his hand to his pocket.
“Listen!” he pulled the door open and leaned forward. “If ye do not
leave go of the horses—if one of you come a step nearer—I’ll shoot the
dog.” And he lifted his white and silver gloved hand closed round the
glitter of a pistol.
For an instant his firm reckless facing of them discomposed the crowd,
yet the sight of his lowering dark face as greatly roused their wrath
anew.
“Ye damned Dalrymple!” shouted one man. “Answer for the bluid o’
Glencoe!”
As he spoke he leaped to gain the open doorway of the coach.
The Earl seized him by the collar and hurled him backwards into the
mass. “By God!” he cried with blazing eyes, “I’ll have the law on you,
you hounds—I’ll have you whipped and hanged for this.”
His fierce voice rose above the clamor and stirred fury beyond awe.
There was a wild dash at the coach and in another moment the mob would
have dragged Earl Stair to his death. But Lady Stair had risen from her
place in the interior, forgotten by her husband, unknown of by the mob.
Now she caught his arm and slipped into view in the doorway.
“Don’t fire!” she said; she lifted a beseeching face.
The carriage lamps fell on her bright fairness and the shimmer of her
dress; the night wind blew her hair and ribbons about her; in the
sudden surprise of her appearance the crowd was silent.
The Earl’s hand dropped to his side.
“Surely you will let us pass,” she said, looking round her in a gentle
way.
There was no one there who had any wish to shed blood before Lady
Dalrymple; she was greatly beloved in Edinburgh and neither her beauty
nor her fearlessness failed of their effect.
“We willna’ touch ye, mistress,” cried a man. “Stand awa’ frae yer
husband.”
But she had laid her hand on the Earl’s breast and though he sought to
move her, kept her place.
“Ye hae a bad lord!” shouted another. “But ye are a gentle leddy—stand
frae the Earl—”
“Madam—retire!” cried her husband, very white.
But she took no heed of him.
“Give us leave to pass,” she said very softly.
They fell away from the carriage door; it was obvious that they would
not touch him while she was there; the horses, suddenly freed, dashed
ahead.
The Earl drew his wife inside and closed the door.
“Now, why, madam, why that?” he demanded breathlessly.
She drew away with a little shudder to the farthest corner of the coach.
The crowd had fallen away to right and left; they were proceeding
unhindered.
“What did you think I should do?” she answered.
He seated himself, leaning towards her. “Did you accompany me, madam,
that you might play my good angel?”
She looked away.
“I knew that they would not touch you while I was there.”
In utter amazement he stared at her.
“I am much beholden to your—charity,” he said haughtily.
She glanced round, saw his expression, and the blood flew into her face.
“Spare your gratitude, my lord,” she said bitterly, “I would have done
as much for any.”
He frowned. “I did not think that I evoked your peculiar solicitude,”
he answered. “Doubtless you like to display your exemption from the
hatred my house is held in.”
“My lord!” she cried, “that savors of your father’s tongue—and is
unworthy.”
“You must pardon me,” he said in a proud voice, “but I am not used,
madam, to be an object of pity.”
Lady Stair gazed from the window blindly on the dark streets.
“I did not use the word, my lord.”
“Madam, you performed the act.”
She turned suddenly in a half-desperate manner. “Do you suppose that I
_want_ to see you hurt—or killed?” she asked.
He lifted his eyebrows; his face with wrath was near as white as his
dress.
“I should not have imagined that it would, madam, have greatly
afflicted you.”
Her blue eyes glared at him curiously.
“You strangely misunderstand,” she said slowly, “you are very hard—but
I—of late, I have grown more passive—what does it all matter? Think, my
lord, what you will.” She rested her head against the cushions and her
hands fell together in her lap; her husband turned his head away
sharply; her presence was a fret, her sad face a reproach; she had been
very quiet of late; from one month’s end to another he took little
notice of her, but to-night she was forced on him; he could not help
seeing her delicate soft fairness, her drooping mouth; he could not get
away from the unhappiness she was a symbol of.
They drove in silence; idly Lady Stair pulled at her fan and stared out
of the window; moodily he traced patterns on the coach floor with his
scabbard point, his face turned from her. So they galloped through
Edinburgh and thundered into the courtyard of Lord Breadalbane’s house.
CHAPTER II
FOREBODINGS
The musicians were playing the delicate melody of a pavan in Lady
Breadalbane’s ball-room, the air was heavy with the scent of the white
and pink roses that decorated the walls and the rhythmical movements of
the dancers were reflected in smooth pale floors.
In a little card-room opening on the ball-room sat Breadalbane and the
Earl of Stair, in converse.
Breadalbane appeared ill and anxious; his delicate face was pale and
drawn, his manner strained to composure and quiet. Their discourse lay
round the word now in the mouth of all Scotland, Glencoe.
“Ye hae heard?” said Breadalbane, “that the King’s commission appointed
to make the inquiry canna be kept off it ony longer. The feeling is
ower strang.”
The Earl of Stair’s foot beat time softly to the pavan; he gazed with
an inscrutable face toward the distant dancers.
“Tweeddale and the other privy councilors will hold this investigation
in a day or so—even ye, my lord, canna stop them.”
Still the other made no answer.
“Ye hav’na’,” continued Breadalbane, “the power ye had, my lord, tho’
to the world ye seem at the pinnacle o’ fame—but the Presbyterians and
the Jacks together will be too strang for ye noo.”
The Earl’s blue eyes flashed.
“I do not dread the inquiry,” he said. “Albeit it is conducted by my
enemies—my bitter enemies, Johnstone and Tweeddale.”
“Ay,” answered Breadalbane, “ye hae mony enemies, and they’ll ruin ye
if they can, but ’tis _ane_ bitter enemy has wrought this.”
“Who mean ye?” frowned Lord Stair.
Breadalbane lifted his shoulders.
“I dinna ken—ye should ken best—some one has been at work—persistently,
during these three years this tale has been abroad, through the
non-jurors, the Jacks—to your enemies in Parliament—till all Scotland
is roused. Who is at the bottom of it?”
Lord Stair turned slowly to the speaker.
“A tale springing from the Jacks,” he said scornfully. “Will any
believe it? It does not trouble me. I have not even heard their
version.”
“Ye are ower sure, Lord Stair—the work has been slow but certain—the
tale is in every mouth.”
“What tale, my lord?”
“The tale o’ what they call the massacre o’ Glencoe.”
“What do they say?” asked Lord Stair with a disdainful smile.
“They say that the Macdonalds were murdered by your orders—they say
that the soldiers entered the Glen by black treachery, feigning
friendship, that they lived there ower a fortnicht, feasting and
drinking, that they rose one nicht and murdered the clan in their beds,
butchered them, men, women and children, with every cruelty—that is the
tale they tell, Lord Stair.”
“It is a lie.”
“Yea—it is a lee—but ye canna, I ken, prove it a lee. The inquiry will
be behind closed doors—it will be conducted by your enemies; ye hae all
Scotland believing this lee—and against ye.”
Lord Stair spoke impatiently.
“Every soldier under Glenlyon knows that this was a military
execution—every man among them can disprove this wild tale of the
Jacobites—”
“The Argyllshire regiment is in America,” said Breadalbane, “and I
hav’na’ seen Glenlyon since he left my service suddenly—disappeared—”
Lord Stair seemed struck into a frowning silence for a moment. At
length he asked:
“Whom will they examine—these commissioners?”
Breadalbane lifted his light eyes.
“Sandy and Ian Macdonald who escaped—Keppoch and Glengarry—I dinna
ken—what others—I am nae in their secrets.”
Again in silence Lord Stair looked out across the ball-room; the
delicate melody of the pavan came exquisitely through the roses.
Lord Stair’s mouth curved into a little smile; he did not fear; he
despised his enemies; that they had discovered such a weapon as this
against him roused his bitter amusement more than his wrath. He
disdained to be moved by insults raked from the very mud of the gutter;
he cared nothing for tales started in Jacobite pamphlets. No remorse
troubled him with regard to Glencoe; he was too sure of himself, his
great position, the King’s friendship, to tremble before the Scottish
Parliament.
“Let them open the commission,” he said loftily, “let them listen to
the lies of Highland savages. I shall not lift a finger to prevent
them. They must have a party cry—as well Glencoe as any other.”
He took one of the roses from the bowl on the card table and pulled
idly at the curling leaves; his eyes were carelessly following the
figure of his wife as her gold embroideries flashed among the dancers.
Breadalbane watched him curiously.
“Ye are ower easy, Lord Stair. Ye ken the ugly things the inquiry will
reveal? How they took the oath and it was suppressed—for your ain
purpose.”
Lord Stair flicked a torn petal from his white sleeve.
“I had authority to suppress what I choose, my lord,” he answered
indifferently. “The oath was invalid—as it came in too late, and so I
treated it. Besides, have you forgotten that I had the King’s warrant?”
A faint smile touched Breadalbane’s thin lips.
“Will the King stand by ye?” he asked. “Will he no’ say that he didna’
ken what he signed?”
Lord Stair sat silent. Breadalbane’s keen insight had brought him to
the truth. Stair thought of that day at Kensington when William had
signed the order without reading it, and for the first time a vague
uneasiness touched him; he turned at last, half-angrily.
“Why this anxiety on my behalf, my lord?” he demanded. “You had a share
in this business, yet you are safe—thanks to your prudence.”
The pavan was over. Lord Stair watched his wife till she had gone out
of sight with her partner; he had pulled the rose away to the heart and
absently he played with the pile of petals on the table beside him.
“Mae mon’s prudence,” remarked Breadalbane a little bitterly, “can take
account of such a mischance as this—some one hae been working in the
dark—some black steady malice hae been accomplishing this.”
“The malice of the Jacks,” suggested Lord Stair with a smile.
“It’s mair than that, my lord—is this story that makes England and
France shout shame on us and the mob pelt us as we pass, a mere
invention of the Jacks? Ye hae a bitter secret enemy—my lord—canna ye
guess at one wha might do this thing?”
Lord Stair dragged the pilfered rose across the table, leaving the gold
pollen dust staining the inlaid wood; he still smiled.
“I know of none—my enemies are numerous—but not—my lord, secret.”
The violins commenced a gavotte. Lady Stair crossed the floor, Mr.
Wharton was her partner; her husband looked at them and reflected that
Mr. Wharton was too often in Edinburgh; these three years had not
softened his dislike of the good-humored beau.
Breadalbane spoke again.
“Ye are mistaken—the maist deadly of your enemies is the hidden one wha
hae trumped up this tale.”
“Maybe it is an enemy of your own,” answered Lord Stair. “Maybe you, my
lord, are the object of this spite.”
“It is na directed against me—if I fall it will be only in complication
wi’ ye—they hav’na’ mentioned me—it is always ye, Lord Stair.”
A little silence fell; no voices broke the spirited measure of the
gavotte; Lord Stair trifled lazily with the ruined rose; Breadalbane
watched him covertly.
The candle-light gleamed softly on the round arms and bare shoulders of
the women as they passed between their partners and courtesied, each
reflected in the long mirrors lining the room, so that three Lady
Stairs appeared to be dancing, one in profile, one full face, one with
her back, all clad in satin that caught rippling lights and gleaming
shadows, all smiling, faintly.
Lord Stair spoke at length.
“My letters—that I wrote at the time of this affair—you kept them?”
“They were vera imprudent—yes, I kept them.”
Lord Stair lifted his blue eyes; they were dark, a little troubled.
“You can give them back to me, my lord, there is no need for them to
serve Tweeddale’s turn.”
The music crashed to its climax; the three Lady Stair’s advanced,
receded, bowed with the glittering shaking of a cloud of gold
embroideries.
“Send me those letters,” repeated Lord Stair. “I shall be obliged, my
lord.”
A curious look passed over Breadalbane’s face.
“They are nae langer in my possession.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tweeddale sent for them—to be examined—wi’ your letters to the
Commander of the Forces.”
Lord Stair flushed and turned quickly in his chair.
“And you sent them?”
Breadalbane smiled.
“Yes.”
“Now—by heaven, my lord, that was ill done!”
Unmoved, Breadalbane lifted his shoulders.
“I must show my authority—I canna tak’ the blame—ye wrote them, ye must
even tak’ the—credit, Lord Stair.”
“You have treated me unworthily.”
The Earl of Stair was breathing fast, he clenched his hand on the rose
petals and his angry eyes glanced disdainfully over his companion; but
Breadalbane kept his composure.
“As ye mak’ naething o’ the affair,” he remarked dryly, “ye dinna need
to care that the Marquis o’ Tweeddale will be reading your letters.”
“Care?” echoed Lord Stair. “I care for none of it—you, my lord, behave
according to your nature. I am your guest. We will let the matter of
the papers pass. After all I should not have expected otherwise, and I
am not ashamed of what I have written.”
Breadalbane was quiet, slightly discomfited by the magnificent manner
and person of the man whose reckless imprudence his cunning despised.
Lord Stair rose, sweeping the petals in a cloud onto the floor; bowed,
and passed into the ball-room.
The gavotte was over, the company stood about in little knots; as Lord
Stair passed he heard fragments of their converse; it seemed that they
talked of nothing save Glencoe, Glencoe and the impending commission.
Johnstone was there, his fellow-minister and rival; he crossed the room
to make some smiling remarks to him upon the current topic.
“Ye have some enemy at work, my lord,” said Johnstone with a pleasant
spite.
Lord Stair gazed at him in a disdainful silence, but the words pierced
the armor of his splendid scorn.
Had not Breadalbane said the same? Some secret enemy working his ruin.
He thought it over gloomily; it was part of the curse over the
Dalrymples, perchance, part of the bitter curse that at last, after he
had stifled the miseries of his personal tragedies with brilliant,
mighty success, he should be pulled to ruin by some unknown enemy.
He had seated himself in front of one of the great mirrors and gazed
frowningly at the company; his wife passed with Tom Wharton; he took no
heed of her save to wonder bitterly what she would do were he ruined,
if such a wild thing happened and he was brought low. What would she
do? He thought grimly that her company would not trouble him in that
case; doubtless she would be glad of the scandal of his disgrace to
cover the scandal of her desertion; the thin chain that held her would
be snapped, when the world turned on him so would she; he was sure of
it, and he reflected how easily his fortunes, his name, his honor could
be pulled to the dust if Tweeddale and his faction triumphed.
But his arrogance dismissed even the shadow of humiliation; he had been
howled at, reviled, threatened before; this storm would pass as others
had done; he had weathered too much for a paltry matter such as this
Glencoe affair to overthrow him.
With the calm of his conscious pride he looked round on the brilliant
crowd. He was well aware that most of them were his ill-wishers, he
would not have been to the trouble of turning his head to conciliate
one of them; they might say what they would of him, he would stoop to
neither justification nor defense.
As the music recommenced, his wife advanced into the recess. She seemed
agitated and to hesitate, and paused looking at him strangely.
“The things they say!” she breathed quickly. “Have you heard?”
His face hardened, disdaining to answer. He glanced away, but she,
ignoring the repulse, crossed the polished floor with a sweep of satin
and put her hand on the back of his chair.
“It is not true, my lord,” she asked, “this tale—it is some slander of
the Jacobites?”
He looked at her sideways in a manner that made her blench.
“Has my Lord Wharton been giving you his version of this tale?” he
asked.
She answered, very quietly.
“He—and others—it is in the air—and because I know—something of what
happened three years ago when this affair of the Macdonalds was first
broached—”
“So—you care to remind me of that?” he interrupted hotly.
Her wide eyes held a mournful steadiness.
“Why not my lord? You need not fear any knowledge of mine! That the
Macdonalds actually took the oath is now common talk—tell me—is this
story of the massacre the truth?”
Very intently and earnestly she looked at him.
“It is horrible,” she said, “the cruelty—the treachery—babies slain and
little children dying of cold—my lord, my lord, you did not sanction
it?”
He turned his head slowly toward her.
“You may think so if you will,” he answered coldly.
Her hand fell from his chair, she drew back a step.
“Then—it _is_ true?”
“I shall not deny it—if you care to think so you may.”
The look of aversion that was so at variance with her soft face sprang
into her eyes.
“Is that your answer? You will not deny it?”
“No,” he said indifferently, “neither to you nor to any other.”
“They will ruin you for it,” she cried breathing quickly.
His eyes flashed; he thought she would had she dared have finished her
sentence, “and I shall be free.”
“They may try,” he said. “It will interest you, will it not, madam?”
She flung up her head in a desperate manner.
“It interests me more to know whether you are or are not the infamous
wretch these people paint you.”
Lord Stair’s usual pallor deepened. He tightened his lips and would not
speak; his wife considered him with baffled eyes, hesitated, then broke
into open appeal.
“I would take your word,” she cried.
With a little kindness of voice or tone or look, with a gentle gesture,
a denial of the guilt that was at least not his, he could have won her
now, won her to believe in him, to stand by him; he knew it but he
would not soften, retract or explain, not by so much as a little word
would his pride deign to bridge the gulf between them.
He stared at her coldly with a bitter smile.
“Madam, I shall not offer you my word,” he answered. “It is of little
matter what you think of me.”
She moved away from him quivering, with outraged eyes.
“Very well,” she said below her breath, “I shall know what to think of
you. If you did this thing—if the blood of those babes is on your head.”
He rose suddenly; the George hanging to the collar of knots and roses
heaved and glittered with his angry breathing.
“Keep this talk for those who are your usual company, madam,” he said
fiercely. “What do you think the brats of savages are to me?”
And he swung out of the recess into the ball-room.
Lady Stair looked after him, and her gentle face grew hard: her
delicate hand waved her fan to and fro, slowly under her chin; she
stood erect, silent.
The music crept to her ears in a slow melody; the gently moving fan
kept time with it; with narrowed eyes she turned and looked at herself
in the mirror.
It was a tragic face she saw there, a hopeless face.
With a curious impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the lips of her
reflection, kissed the cold glass and smiled into her own eyes, with an
utter sadness.
CHAPTER III
THE TRIUMPH OF THE CAMPBELLS
The guests had gone; the roses hung limp and faded; guttering, dying
candles cast a dull light over the Countess Peggy as she stood in her
deserted ball-room.
She leaned against a mirror; her red hair fell over her bare white
shoulders and purple dress; at her bosom drooped a cluster of crimson
roses; with anxious eyes she looked at the gray-clad figure of her
husband, who sat beside her in an attitude of utter weariness.
“What will be the end of it, Jock?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Ruin for the Earl o’ Stair,” he answered, “They’ve set their minds to
it, Tweeddale and his crew, and they’ll na be letting him escape, there
is enough against him to hang him—though he’ll no’ be persuaded of it.”
“Let Lord Stair go,” said the Countess, “I dinna care—what will be the
end of it for _ye_, Jock?”
He gave her a tender look.
“Why—they hay’na’ ony evidence against me, Peggy—I didna’ put my name
to rash letters—they canna prove onything—I’m safe enow—and sae is
Argyll—though he is half-demented wi’ fear.”
“But this trumped up foolery o’ Glenlyon feasting a fortnicht in the
Glen, Jock—that touches us—”
The Earl smiled.
“It doesna’—Glenlyon had his commands frae Hamilton na frae me—and
Glenlyon—Glenlyon hae been bought by the Jacks—I hae heard—this vera
evening—that he hae appeared and will be examined before the
commissioners.”
“But however Glenlyon lee—we can disprove that the Campbells were in
the Glen a fortnicht.”
“We can,” answered the Earl, “but we willna’. Dinna ye see, Peggy—we
must ken naething o’ what occurred—we were miles awa’—at Kilchurn, we
must say—we ken naething—naething. If we disprove lees that dinna harm
us we must reveal the truth—which wad be vera damaging.”
“Then Lord Stair will indeed be ruined,” said the Countess slowly. “But
it is na ony business o’ ours. Ye may trust my silence, Jock.”
She moved to the window and pulled aside the curtain; the stars hung
bright and luminous above the sleeping city; a church clock struck one.
The Countess Peggy leaned her head against the mullions and her face
fell into lines of weariness; she twisted the ends of her bright hair
in and out of slack fingers and the withered roses on her breast,
crushed against the window-frame, shed their faded leaves at her feet.
Many of the candles had guttered to the socket and gone out; only two
or three, burning ghostly before the tall mirrors, remained to cast a
light through the darkened room.
Silence and loneliness were abroad; the Countess gazed up at the
infinite distance of the stars and shivered through her slender body;
against the sky rose a misty vision often seen by her: the vision of a
man with a beautiful face and clothes clay-stained and bloody, holding
a lace cravat and looking at her with mournful eyes.
She smiled bitterly as she thought of the uselessness of that blood on
her soul; Jerome Caryl might have lived. An obscure traitor had
informed and the plot to be carried out at Turnham Green had come to
nothing.
She turned from the stars and her eyes sought her husband.
“Jock!” she cried, and there was a world of tenderness, of appeal, of
passion in her voice. “Jock!”
She crossed the great shadowy room to where he sat and went on her
knees beside him.
“I did it for ye,” she murmured, as if answering an accusation. “Jock—I
hae served ye weel?”
He took her hands in his and smiled down at her.
“Peggy, ye ken vera weel ye are all the world to me,” he said most
tenderly.
Her head drooped against his arm.
“Then I dinna care for onything,” she whispered. “Yet at times I’m no’
sae brave—I’m afraid.”
Breadalbane’s wide light eyes gazed across the dark.
“Afraid o’ what, Peggy?”
She drew a little closer to him.
“Of wraiths—o’ the dead.”
He smiled, fondling her hair.
“I wad’na’ fear when dead what I had’na’ feared when living, Peggy.”
“Nay, nay, I dinna fear—at least I’m no’ afraid, Jock, when ye are
close—but—Ah, Jock—wad I could forget!”
He frowned above his smile.
“Are ye thinking of the Macdonalds, Peggy?”
With a little uneasy movement she lifted her head; her long throat
gleamed unnaturally white above her dark dress.