Breadalbane laughed as if he cast aside some foolish fancy.
“We hae triumphed ower the Macdonalds, Peggy—the auld thief Makian got
his deserts.”
“Yea, I ken.”
“And Ronald Macdonald—ye hated him, Peggy.”
“I ken,” she said hastily, with yearning eyes on his face. “I wad I
might forget.”
“Wherefore, Peggy?”
“Ah!—sleeping and waking—I see it—the Glen o’ Weeping—as I rode through
it that day wi’ the smoke drifting ower the corpses—and the bitter dawn
a-breaking—the bluid ower the heather and the silence, the silence.”
With a half-shudder her eyes drooped and her clasp of his arm tightened.
“This is fules’ talk,” said Breadalbane imperiously. “Sic sights are
common in the Hielands—ye ken vera weel—the Campbells hae fed the
eagles often enow—I shouldna’ hae thought that ye, Peggy, wad hae
sickened at the bluid o’ the Macdonalds.”
“I dinna—but—I canna forget.”
Breadalbane’s eyes flashed.
“Nay—because the Hielands are clear o’ the thieves—we canna forget,
when we see Argyllshire and Invernesshire free to the Campbells, when
we can ride unarmed with nae to question us—lords o’ the Hielands. Ye
say weel we canna forget.”
She warmed a little in response to his tone. “I dinna regret or
repent,” she said. “Hate o’ the Macdonalds is in the bluid—it is na
sorrow for them but fear—fear maybe, Jock, o’ the reckoning.”
“We shallna’ pay, Peggy—Lord Stair will answer to that.”
Lady Breadalbane was silent, only something like a sigh escaped her.
The last candle sank into darkness; only the pale light of the stars
and the street lamps without illumined the room.
“And he _will_ pay,” said Breadalbane.
She started from a reverie.
“Who?”
“Lord Stair.”
“Ye think he will be ruined?”
“What else? They will put it all on him—the King canna do less than
dismiss him.”
“Weel, Jock, we dinna care.”
“Nay—I never liked him.”
“Nor I—and his wife, Jock, is a fule.”
“She willna’ abide by him if he be ruined.”
“She will leave him, Jock—ye think?”
“I know and he knows—she hasna’ a tie to hold her—she will be blithe of
his disgrace.”
“She hates him—weel, I never knew ony that loved a Dalrymple—they say
Lord Stair’s mither wad sit on her husband’s judgment seat in the
likeness o’ a black cat—an she hated him—there is somewhat uncanny in
the bluid—ye couldna’ love a Dalrymple.”
“Yet Lord Stair is the handsomest gentleman in Scotland, Peggy,” smiled
Breadalbane.
“Weel—he is na winning—an there is too much of the auld Viscount, wha
made his neck awry striving to listen to the divil, aboot him.”
“The divil must be Lord Stair’s advocate noo—for there is no one else
in Scotland will be.”
A silence while they gazed at the paling sky through the long windows;
then Breadalbane spoke.
“Peggy—when we gang back to the Hielands—we’ll ride through the Glen o’
Weeping, ye and I—and ye shall hae anither picture o’ it to think on
after, when the badges and music o’ the Campbells glitter and ring
through the ruins o’ Glencoe.”
“Jock—I am a fule—I dinna regret.”
“Peggy—my dear, my dear!”
She looked up at him through the vague gray light.
“Jock!” she said passionately. “I am content—an’ no afraid o’ the
living or the—dead.”
CHAPTER IV
THE LIE ACCOMPLISHED
It was toward the end of June; the commissioners had produced their
report on the Glencoe affair, yielding to the public demand to behold
their conclusions before the pleasure of the absent King was taken.
The Estates of Scotland were considering the verdict of Tweeddale’s
commission; the verdict pronouncing in measured language that a bloody
murder had been committed three years ago upon the Macdonalds of
Glencoe, and that the entire cause of this slaughter rested with the
letters of the Master of Stair. Public excitement flamed high; the
greatest gentleman in Scotland had been declared a murderer and as the
details of his crime were discussed, there were many who hoped for the
pleasure of seeing the unpopular minister hanged in the Grassmarket.
The Parliament, clamored in strong debates, roused after the sluggish
years, voted to a man that the King’s warrant did not authorize the
slaughter of the Macdonalds.
Then Lord Stair’s enemies, in the ascendant, triumphant carried against
a feeble opposition that the Glencoe affair was murder.
The feeling of the Estates passed almost beyond control; the Jacobites
and the Presbyterians caused Lord Stair’s letters to be read aloud in
the Parliament house; the statements of the witnesses: Ian Macdonald,
Sandy, his brother, some of the surviving clansmen, Glenlyon, Keppoch
and Glengarry, were discussed; the story of the entry of the Glen by
treachery; the fortnight’s feasting and card playing, the Campbells’
rising one snowy night to slay their hosts in their beds and drive out
the women and children to perish on the mountains, all the details of
cowardice and cruelty that gave the story its horror were detailed,
canvassed and made much of.
Captain Hamilton was cited in vain at the city cross; at the first hint
of the scandal, he had fled Edinburgh. Tales that in contraband,
Jacobite pamphlets had circled for three years, were now on the lips of
grave men; it was related how, with a generous hospitality, the
Macdonalds had received the Campbells who had sworn that they came in
friendliness, how they had been made welcome with simple pleasure;
pathetic pictures were drawn of a pastoral people, virtuous and
ingenuous, living in a state of idyllic innocence. Makian was
described, venerable, beloved, trampling the snows to take the oath and
returning to his clan at peace with himself and beaming with
righteousness.
The trust of these simple folk was dwelt upon; how they had taken the
bare word of their ancient enemies and harbored them in perfect faith.
How should they, in their simplicity, have suspected treachery behind
the smile of the redcoats?
Dramatic touches, too, were not lacking to this plausible tale; it was
related how Sandy Macdonald, awaking one night, had overheard a couple
of the soldiers in talk.
“I do not like the work,” one said.
“Give me an open fight—”
Then Sandy Macdonald had gone to Glenlyon and asked, in his innocence,
if anything was intended?
Glenlyon had slapped him on the back, laughing. “Why, if there had been
anything—don’t you think I should have given you a hint?”
And Sandy Macdonald, being one of the idyllic people, had no choice but
to take a Campbell’s word against the evidence of his own senses. And
to add to it, the public passion was further inflamed by pictures of
Makian and his wife shot dead as they hurried with wine to serve their
guests, of babies lying quartered in the snow and women’s fingers
chopped off for the sake of their rings, of butchered children and of
the blood-stained Campbells driving the flocks and herds of the
slaughtered people into Fort William. There was silence as to where
these captured cattle had originally come from.
The commissioners had been sworn to secrecy and the inquiry had been
conducted behind closed doors; of the actual depositions of the
witnesses few knew the truth, but their tales carefully invented,
artfully spread, were in every man’s mouth and the machinations of Lord
Stair’s enemies had converted the necessary execution of a gang of
lawless thieves into one of the most reviled crimes in the annals of
Scotland. England and France took up the cry; Justice, they said, had
suddenly cried aloud, and no one remarked how curiously silent Justice
had been over some of the Macdonald’s actions.
And the odium, the hatred, the scorn, the fury, were all directed
against one man,—Lord Stair.
He, they said, was the sole author of these abominations; he had
suppressed the Macdonalds’ oath, he had, under false pretenses,
obtained the warrant from the King, he had written letters breathing
blood and fire; he had exclaimed when he heard that it had been done:
“I only regret that any of the wretches have escaped.”
They had always hated him; these men, and it chimed well with their
mood to assume the part of avenging justice and take a pitying interest
in these wronged people.
Their enemy had put himself in the wrong before the world; they would
see it to that he paid the price.
An address was sent to the King in which justice was demanded and
judgment on the Lord Stair as the author of the “massacre” of Glencoe.
A haughty spectator of his own ruin, the Earl of Stair watched these
events in silence.
To have shown himself in the Parliament would have been to court
instant arrest; he was asked for no defense or vindication and his
pride would not permit him to offer one.
The King was in the Netherlands and no further action would be taken
until his pleasure was known; but all Scotland had decided that his
judgment must affect the estate and probably the life of the disgraced
minister.
For his own sake William could not show clemency; mercy to Lord Stair
would be complicity in his crime; the King dare not, if he would,
blacken himself to save his servant.
On this blue June afternoon, Lord Stair paced his garden; a festival of
flowers lying lavishing abroad to the kisses of the sun.
The narrow box-edged paths radiated round a central fountain full of
gold carp; a stone figure of Hylas rose from the water-lilies and
poured water from a Grecian urn, splashing into the basin.
Trees of box and yew cut into the shapes of peacocks and Chinese
pagodas framed the dark background to innumerable roses, hollyhocks and
bushes of sweet-brier. Leading to a back entrance to the house was a
wide flight of steps ending in a terrace, the balustrade being white
with jasmine.
Steadily up and down the smooth paths walked Lord Stair, his shadow now
before, now behind him.
On the edge of the fountain sat Lady Stair, feeding the carp with cake.
Her wide straw hat tied with black velvet under her round chin threw
half her face into transparent shadow; her stiff blue lutestring dress
embroidered with silver stars, spread over the dark green grass and
glimmered in the sunlight.
Faint clouds floated across the pearly sky and lay reflected among the
water-lilies; the gold fish darted through the leaves like jewels and
from the urn held by Hylas, sparkled the clear stream of water.
It was perfectly still, far-removed from the noises of the city; now
and then a little breeze rose stirring the perfume from the roses and
gently bending the hollyhocks.
Lord Stair stopped at last in his pacing to and fro, stopped so close
to his wife that his shadow fell over her and the fountain brim.
She looked up, then down again at the water. “I think my ruin is
assured,” said Lord Stair in a hard voice.
“You have no trust in the King?” she asked quietly.
He answered in a proud bitterness:
“The King! He has not shown himself strong enough to withstand a
faction—he, the same as the others, will cast the odium on me.”
Lady Stair again looked up.
“What do you mean by ruin?” she asked steadily.
“That, madam, is within the King’s pleasure. To save himself he will
show me the greater severity. You understand? I am to be the victim
flung to the rage of a party—the clamor of a faction.” He paused a
second, gazing over her head, then he struck his hand down on his
sword-hilt.
“It is hardly credible!” he said.
“If what they say is true, it is well-deserved,” said Lady Stair
evenly. “To your face, my lord, I say it; it is well-deserved.”
He glanced at her curiously.
“Ah—you think so?” he said in a contained voice.
“You would give me no denial,” she answered. “I think what I must
think—I conclude what your silence causes me to conclude.”
“It is a matter of no moment,” said Lord Stair. “Perhaps—” and he
smiled unpleasantly, “it is as well that my downfall will at least give
no one pain.”
“Perhaps it is as well,” she assented coldly. Her ringed hand stirred
through the fountain and the water-lilies trembled at her touch; a low
passing cloud cast a shadow over the grass. Lord Stair stood silent
with a hard and angry face; his wife spoke again.
“Yet I ask you, my lord, what you mean by ruin?”
“Are there, madam, so many forms of it?”
She lifted her wet hand and drew it along the stone brim of the
fountain. “I suppose,” she said, “that His Majesty must dismiss you
from office—I suppose. That is the least he can do—am I right?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose—he might touch your estate—your life—am I right?”
“Yes.”
“The first, the least he could do would be generous—you think he will
not choose it?—again—am I right?”
“Yes.”
A spot of bright color burnt in either cheek as she looked up at him;
in the shade of her hat her eyes shone brightly.
“He will do the utmost?”
Lord Stair smiled.
“Be content, madam,” he said bitterly. “I think he will do the utmost.”
She caught her breath.
“And—you wait?”
“What else—yes, I wait.”
Lady Stair rose; as she lifted her head their eyes met.
“So,” she said very quietly. “You have given me that also—you have made
me the wife of a disgraced, ruined man, you have dragged me into a
hideous downfall of honor and estate. We of my father’s house have kept
clear of these things—I think I am the first to be linked to a
dishonored name.”
He stood silent, looking at her with an inscrutable expression.
“Reproaches from me will not sting you,” continued Lady Stair. “Dear
Heaven, what are we to one another? I would have been spared this, yet
it is a fitting end—”
Her wild eyes lifted and fell; she moved a step away across the grass.
Lord Stair spoke, slowly:
“You are free to do as you will—free as the servants I can no longer
pay. Do what is in your mind to do. No doubt they will not blame you—”
“Well?” she said.
He lifted his head suddenly.
“I shall not ask you to share exile, a prison or death with me. I
cannot hold you. I know it—only—”
“Well?” she murmured again faintly.
“You said—just now—” he spoke with difficulty, a painful distinctness,
“you—had kept clear of these things—you will remember it?”
“I do not understand,” she answered.
“I think you do. You are my wife. You will soon be free of me, I think.
Until you are, I ask your loyalty. That is all.”
“Are you afraid of me?” she said.
“Of nothing,” he answered. “Least of all of meeting circumstance.
Whatever occurs I can deal with it.”
There was a curious expression on Lady Stair’s face.
“You are very confident,” she said, “yet you stood high and you fell.”
He smiled at her.
“Madam—it is a thing that may be done magnificently.”
She stood silent a while with averted eyes, then she stooped, picked up
her scarf from the grass and turned slowly toward the house.
Lord Stair watched the blue figure with the long shadow crossing the
grass; watched her as she mounted the steps, traversed the terrace and
disappeared into the house.
The beautiful garden was strangely desolate; he moved away from the
fountain and his face was ghastly in the sunlight.
The hours were intolerably leaden; he reflected that he was a free man
only till his enemies had the authority for his arrest; restlessness
and the desire to use his liberty while he might made him leave the
garden and call for his horse.
As he passed out again he saw through an open door Lady Stair sitting
idly with her hands in her lap; he did not speak to her nor turn his
head: but descended to the court and rode away through Edinburgh to the
open country, and there at a full gallop took the summer wind across
his face.
CHAPTER V
A WOMAN’S VICTORY
Twilight was gathering as Lord Stair rode back into Edinburgh; the city
lights glimmered through purple haze as the June evening deepened and
above the castle that stood black against the sky hung the first star.
Lord Stair was riding slowly from the gate when he had to draw aside to
admit the passage of a coach and four; as it swept rattling along the
narrow street he recognized the silver and murrey of Lord Wharton’s
liveries.
Evidently my lord was returning to London; the Earl glanced after the
coach with a strange satisfaction and smiled to himself as he noted
that the blinds were drawn. Lord Wharton was likely to be afraid of the
night air; he pictured him with his hands in a muff seated on cushions
as the coach swung through the open gates onto the country road.
Lord Stair went on his way; there were many people about, some
excitement or uneasiness appeared to be abroad; he wondered grimly if
the messenger from the King had arrived and if these churls mouthed his
news already.
No one recognized him in his plain riding-gear; he pulled his beaver
further over his eyes and turned into the main street; here the crowd
was denser; many were armed; he touched up his tired horse and was
breaking into a trot when a girl stepped out from the passers-by and
put her hand forcibly on his rein.
“Lord Stair!” she said in a quick whisper.
He stopped, looked down.
“Lord Stair—dinna gang hame!” she said earnestly.
He leaned from the saddle to catch her whisper. “You know me?” he asked
easily.
She nodded.
“I hae seen ye ride frae the Parliament, Lord Stair,—dinna gang hame
to-nicht!”
“Why, mistress?”
Her eyes glowed in the shadow of her hood.
“They’re ganging to burn yer house, Lord Stair—to-nicht—I ken it a’ for
ma ain Sandy is in it—sae—dinna gang hame!”
She dropped her hand, trembling with excitement.
“Ye canna save yer house, yet ye can save yer life.”
He drew himself erect in his saddle and looked in the direction of his
home.
“This is Tweeddale’s and Johnstone’s setting on.”
“Ay, Lord Stair—and the mob will make for yer life.”
“I will go and demand soldiers.”
“It willna’ serve, Lord Stair—they are a’ in league wi’ the mob.”
He knew very well that her words were true. “Thank you, mistress,” he
said with a sudden smile. “But I must go home—and quickly. I should
never have left the house—I did not guess at this.”
“Why, Lord Stair? Why must ye gang hame?”
“Because of the Countess: she is alone. Thank you again, mistress.”
He lifted his hat for a second and then turned rapidly down the street.
So it had come to this: often had he been face to face with popular
wrath; often had he dared and flouted the whole of Scotland and now the
crash had come. He glanced down at the people he rode through and his
soul shook to think that he should have come to be at their mercy. His
mansion was in complete darkness as he rode into the courtyard; it was
with a sense of relief that he noticed the empty streets before it, the
mob had not gathered yet.
No servant came forward to take his horse; he left the tired animal and
entered the house.
One of the footmen stood in the hall, looking pale and frightened.
“Are you the only one?” said Lord Stair.
The man assented in a cowed manner.
“Melville—has Melville gone?”
“Yes, my lord—we heard there was a design to burn the house. Mr.
Melville went and the others, my lord.”
“I think the information was correct,” said Lord Stair quietly. “You
had better follow. Only first there are the horses. My own is
outside—take him and the others to the old stables at the end of the
garden. I think they will be safe there. Let me know that it is done
and you shall be rewarded.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Stair was moving down the shadows of the hall when the man called
after him:
“There is a lady waiting for you in the drawing-room, my lord. She
would not be denied.”
“Waiting for me?”
The Earl paused on the first stair and looked back through the darkness
at the speaker.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Her name?”
“My lord, she gave none.”
Lord Stair was silent a moment. “Where is the Countess?” he asked.
The man did not answer.
“Where is she?”
“My lord, my lord.”
At the tone, the exclamation, the Earl gave a little start.
“She is in the house,” he said sharply.
Slowly, reluctantly, came the reply.
“No, my lord.”
And as the man spoke he saw the Earl put his hand out swiftly and catch
hold of the banisters.
“When did she go?” came through the shadows and Lord Stair’s voice
shook a little.
“Soon after Mr. Melville, my lord; when she heard they meant to burn
the house, my lady put on her hat and had her mare saddled and rode
away.”
“Leaving no message?”
“None, my lord.”
A pause while the shadows seemed to thicken, blotting out all traces of
light; then Lord Stair spoke, quietly:
“That will do. Go and look to the horses.”
The man obeyed, disappearing quickly, and Lord Stair ascended the
gloomy stairs of his deserted house.
Groping aimlessly through the darkness he pushed open the first door he
came to and flung himself into a chair.
So—his wife had gone—he had never expected it, like this, so brutally.
He remembered Lord Wharton’s coach and the closed blinds and cursed
himself for a fool that he had smiled—why had not some devil’s whisper
prompted him to send a bullet through those deceitful windows and kill
the two that rode within?
And she had talked of her honorable house! It was part of her woman’s
cunning—that he might leave her—safely trusting her cold dignity!
He started up with some wild idea of following them, but by now they
would be miles on the road; he did not doubt that one day he would kill
Tom Wharton; but to-night it was madness; he was deserted and alone,
still he had himself at least in hand to face whatever came.
Yet the next instant his impulse was to ride after them at any cost, at
any price. She might have waited! A dull agony came over him, he
dropped his head on his outspread arms and the dark glimmered with
horror.
The curse! To the last shame and misery it was being meted out—an
accursed race—accursed.
The word beat in his brain like a drum to execution.
Accursed, abhorred; great and famous as he had been but yesterday,
there was not one who would stay to help him meet this moment now.
He was used to standing alone; he had an immeasurable courage, yet his
wife’s defection had robbed him of half his strength.
Let her only have waited a little longer—possibly a few poor hours
longer and she might have been free indeed.
He rose up blindly and felt for his sword. It was completely dark, only
the long window glimmered ghostly at the other end of the room. As he
moved he knocked a table over and there was a crash of china as the
vases struck the floor, he paused, leaning against the wall with his
hand to his sick head.
The room opened into the drawing-room by folding-doors; it seemed, as
if, in that other chamber, some one was moving, some one roused by the
falling table.
Suddenly a candle appeared like a star in the distance, coming nearer
through the dark. His blood leaped for a moment; it might be that she
had not gone—it might be that she had returned.
“Ulrica!” he cried hoarsely, “Ulrica!”
But now the candle cast a glow on the person carrying it; a woman, but
too tall and stately for Lady Stair.
She came to the open doors and stopped; her light gray dress appeared
luminous against the darkness, and a black hood was pushed back from
her pale, set face.
She held the candle in a hand so trembling that the flame wavered and
the wax dripped over her dress.
“Is it you, Lord Stair?” she said faintly. “Is it you?”
In an instant he knew her; in an instant it was all plain to him, as
the key to the cipher she explained everything; his secret enemy, the
one who had worked his ruin in the dark—he heard her words of three
years ago as if she spoke them now.
“If you push me too far I may pull your fortunes about your feet.”
He moved into the center of the room.
“Delia,” he said, “Delia.”
She shrank back.
“Do you know me, Lord Stair?”
“I know you—and—now, what you have done.”
The candle only faintly dispelled the thunderous summer dark; crossing
the threshold she stood it on the chimneypiece, where its double shone
from the mirror, a dim ghost. Lord Stair’s figure showed obscurely with
a trailing black shadow behind it.
“Why have you come?” he said in a low voice.
With one hand on the chimneypiece and her face showing in the
flickering candle-light, Delia spoke in a quiet shuddering manner.
“As your downfall has been coming—slowly, Lord Stair, have you never
thought of me? As Glencoe has been dragged to light—slowly—have you
never thought of me? As your enemies have risen around you with this
forged tale to dishonor you—have you not thought of me? As you have
heard of witnesses suborned, of cunning lies to displace you, have you
never thought of me?”
He stood immovable.
“I have thought of you. Yet I did not think this was your work.”
“No—you would not, Lord Stair—yet from the first whisper to the
consummation it is my work—day and night for three weary years I have
given body and soul to this end and now I think I can say—I have
avenged my dead.”
Her voice had no ring of triumph in it; on her last word it fell to a
sob; she leaned back against the wall and her head fell forward on her
bosom.
Lord Stair came a step nearer.
“So—you set yourself to ruin me?”
“Yes, I.”
“From you sprang the tale of Glencoe?”
“Yes, from me.”
“You caused the Macdonalds to bear false witness?”
“I have been at the bottom of it all, Lord Stair.”
She raised her head.
“I have put that upon you you will never be free of,” she said wildly.
“Throughout the world your name is stained with the blood of Glencoe.
Nothing can efface what I have done.”
He moved still closer.
“Women are marvelous,” he said curiously. “I did not think that you so
hated me.”
He took her by the shoulder and looked into her shrinking face.
“I did not think that you so hated me,” he repeated.
“Have I not cause to hate you, Lord Stair?” she demanded hoarsely. “I
swore that as you had been false, cruel and merciless, that even as
that dear blood cried out to me—you should pay to the last bitterness.”
His hand fell from her shoulder.
“Why have you come here now?”
She moved away blindly through the shadows, her hands clenched tight on
her bosom.
“Have they all gone, Lord Stair—all?”
“Yes—they are lackeys.”
“And your wife?” said Delia suddenly.
His utter silence answered her; she turned about in a strange and
desperate manner.
“Is not your wife here?”
“Do not push me, mistress,” he answered thickly. “My affairs will bear
no meddling.”
Delia cried out passionately:
“Poor coward—so she could not be loyal to the last—she knew perhaps
what I am come to tell you—that to-night the mob are coming here.”
“What you came to tell me?” he exclaimed.
She crushed her hands together in a helpless manner.
“They mean to kill you I think—Johnstone is setting them on—O God in
Heaven!”
She turned to the mantelpiece and pressed her forehead against the
marble slab; her hood had fallen back, and the candle-light flickered
over the soft hazel curls.
Lord Stair was watching her.
“Your three years’ work is accomplished,” he said. “You came to tell me
so?”
She was silent; her head drooped lower on the mantelshelf.
“You came to tell me so,” he demanded. “You came to triumph, Mistress
Featherstonehaugh?”
He smiled faintly as he looked at her; she started at the name he used.
“I am Captain Campbell’s wife,” she said. “Glenlyon’s wife these two
years.”
There was an almost imperceptible pause before he answered.
“That accounts for another false witness, Mistress Campbell.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “yes.”
“He has lied to please you?”
“What else?”
“You married Glenlyon that you might bend him to serve you now?”
This time she lifted her head and looked at him with wild eyes.
“Yes.”
“You have not stopped at anything to attain this end,” said Lord Stair.
“Madam, you should be more triumphant now that it is gained.”
She advanced a step toward him.
“Yea, I am clear of my vow,” she said in a distracted manner. “I think
they lie quiet in their graves—I have done it—the blood of Glencoe—it
is on you—always.”
She sank into a chair, leaning forward over the arm staring across the
dusk as if she saw something menacing her. Lord Stair picked up the
candle and flashed it before her face.
“Why have you come here?”
She looked at him behind the candle flame, and for the first time saw
his face clearly; their glance met.
“Oh, you are changed!” she said in a terrified tone.
“And you also,” he answered somberly.
With a wild little laugh she bent nearer into the circle of light.
“I have dreamt we might meet like this—through the dark—both so
different.”
Her words trailed off, she put out her hands.
“Take away the light—I cannot look at you.”
She slipped from the chair to her knees.
“What have I done—what have I done!”
“Why, you should know—you have done what you set out to do.”
In a tone of numb despair she repeated: “What have I done—what have I
done?”
Lord Stair set the candle on the table.
“You had better go, Mistress Campbell—and join your allies who come to
burn my house.”
“I came because of that,” she answered wildly. “I came to warn you—my
courage failed—I could not let it happen.”
On her knees, with her hands clasped on her bosom and her head bent,
she leaned against the chair, heavily.
Lord Stair turned to her with a swift fierceness.
“This is a woman’s paltriness,” he cried. “To do the thing and lament
it—I had liked you better if you had led the mob you have incited
instead of this—”
“I would not have them kill you,” she murmured.
“Oh, get up from your knees,” he said, scornful. “You are true neither
to your love nor to your hate! Get back to your kind and carry through
what you have begun.”
There was a confused distant sound without.
“They are coming!” shrieked Delia.
“Well, you knew it,” he smiled: “Go you and join them.”
She rose to her feet; the noises, the shouts and the steady tramping
were coming nearer.
“And I have done this,” whispered Delia. “What did you mean—true to
neither love nor hate?”
“Look into your heart,” he answered. “Was it love that made you pull me
down—was it hate that sent you here to-night?”
She caught at the chair with cold fingers.
“I have made my affections stronger than my love—I have put honor and
loyalty above my heart—and I came to-night because my soul turned weak
as water to think of your death.”
She paused; her breathing came with difficulty.
“Will you not go, Lord Stair?”
He had gone toward the window; a vast crowd were gathering without, the
red light of torches flickered across the courtyard, and threw into
view faces here and there in the sea of people.
The door was suddenly burst open and the solitary servant rushed in.
“My lord, my lord! they are certainly going to destroy us! They have
gunpowder with them.”
“Save yourself,” interrupted Lord Stair,—he took a purse from his
pocket and tossed it across the room.
The man groped for it in the shadows.
“There is Lumley’s, the jewelers in the Cannon Gate my lord—he is under
great obligations to your lordship—if you would take shelter there.”
“You are a good fellow,” said the Earl. “Go to Lumley—I may follow—the
horses are in safety?”
“My lord, yes.”
The man hesitated at the door.
“Your lordship will not try to save some of the things—papers—or
plate—?”
Lord Stair laughed, a fierce sound through the darkness:
“No—nothing. What value is any of this to me compared to what I have
already lost? Get you gone.”
The servant withdrew and the Earl turned swiftly to Delia.
“And you mistress, go and join your people without—do you not hear them
shouting? Go and add your voice to those cursing the Dalrymples—and be
content—for to-night all curses are fulfilled.”
She moved slowly nearer to him.
“And what is your thought of me, Lord Stair?”
He made an imperious gesture as if he would have swept her intruding
presence aside.
“I have no thought at all for you.”
He stopped, listening; from the confusion of sounds without arose the
crackling of flames; he went to the window; fagots and gunpowder had
been piled in the court and flaming tarred torches flung into the
midst; red lights began to dance in reflections over the floor; and
smoke swept in faint clouds past the windows. Lord Stair felt a cold
hand touch his and turned to look into the face of Delia.
“For God’s sake,” she whispered, “for pity’s sake.”
He made an impatient attempt to shake her off, but she clung to his
hand desperately in a frenzy of entreaty.
“It is burning—don’t you see that it is burning—make haste—at the back
through the garden.”
The triumphant shout of the crowd as they saw the flames rise almost
drowned her voice; an unnatural red glare blinding, horrible, filled
the room from end to end.
Lord Stair glanced round.
“Your work, mistress, your work,” he wrenched himself free of her. “Go
without there yonder and laugh at it.”
She was crying and sobbing like a mad woman.
“What have I done—I have been crazy—crazy—”
With fallen hair and the red light over her from head to foot, she ran
to the door; he followed. The door was burning, the oak stair
threatened; flames were already showing in the hall.
Delia wrung her hands, shrieking and moaning to herself, calling on the
living and the dead in her distraction; she ran a little way down the
wide stairs, then at sight of the flaming door fell back with a scream.
“Ye should not have come,” said Lord Stair.
“Your place is with those who lit the fire.”
Her wild eyes lifted to his figure.
“Do you think I am afraid for myself?” she cried. She came back to him
with outstretched hands and thrown back head; as she stood there,
poised above the smoking hallway with the flickering light and shade
across her distorted face, she seemed as unearthly, as terribly strange
as her surroundings.
Lord Stair, gazing at her, saw the look in her eyes he had seen in his
sister’s and in his own; it was as if there fronted him the evil genius
of his house; once this woman had looked at him differently; as he
stared at her he recalled that other expression, the other look her
brown eyes had once held in place of the madness that flashed in them
now.
Certainly, she was mad; he saw her against the background of the
polished stairway where the flames were reflected; he saw her lean back
against the balustrade with those wild eyes upon him in her uplifted
face; he noticed the crimson light on the long line of her throat and
in the curve of her white lips.
“Lord Stair.”
She bent forward, touched him, the hideous noise of flames gaining
power, the shouting and cracking of timbers filled the air with a
terrible menace.
“Lord Stair.”
Her fingers touched his arm, closed round; and he could not escape from
her face, turn his eyes away.
“Speak to me,” she said; she was as calm as she had been frantic; her
long hair, loosened, glowed a dusky red behind her marble white face.
But he thought of his wife and would not.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
He caught hold of her, not tenderly nor roughly, indifferent, merely.
“Make haste—down the stairs,” he said. “On the first landing you may
cross the library and gain the garden.”
The grasp tightened on her arm.
“Come,” he commanded, and drew her after him, leading the way.
She did not speak until he paused to open the library door, then she
looked back into the flame-lit hall and cried out she would die.
Paying no heed he was dragging her into the dark room when something
rushed out of the door, between them and up the stair.
“What was that?” cried Lord Stair; he let go his hold upon the woman
and stepped back.
Half-way up the stairs a little black cat peered through the oaken
rails with ears cocked and its green eyes glittering with excitement;
round its neck was a tumbled bow of scarlet.
For a moment the man and the animal gazed at each other, then the Earl
began reascending the stairs.
“What are you going to do?” cried Delia, barring his way. “You are not
going back? My God! Look how the flames are mounting—they will cut off
your escape.”
Lord Stair looked up at the kitten.
“It is alive,” he said, “and I cannot let it burn.”
“You are mad!” shrieked Delia, clinging to him. “The house has only a
few minutes to stand—they have gunpowder.”
He pushed her aside.
“Then get you into the garden,” he answered, pointing to the library
door. “There is time for that.”
“Will you leave me? Will you go to your death?”
“My life is of no moment,” he said grimly, “I shall not leave mourners—”
She caught hold of him anew.
“I love you, I love you, and you shall not leave me. I love you—I love
you.”
He gave a little laugh.
“’Tis a strange affection, mistress—it has done the work of hate—let go
of me.”
He twisted his arm free of her, his eyes shone curiously.
“I love you,” she whispered in bitter agony and fell back against the
wall. With no look at her he mounted the stairs; she shrieked after
him, called and cried. He stopped and looked down, she was standing as
he had left her, half within the library door, her way of escape was
clear behind her.
The little cat fled at his approach and galloped ahead of him.
He followed it almost to the top of the house across a landing and
through an open door. By the red light from without he could distinctly
see this room and all that it contained.
It was his wife’s bed-chamber, it looked as if she had that moment left
it; by a chair stood her high-heeled house shoes, and the garden hat
she had worn that morning; her dressing-table was covered with
trinkets, evidently she had taken nothing with her.
He gazed strangely about the room; a little drawing caught his eye; he
knew it well, Samuel Cooper’s portrait of his dead son; he went up to
it and took it from the wall.
She had left it behind, she was Harry’s mother and she had done this
hideous thing.
As he stood in her deserted room among the details redolent of her, he
could think of nothing but this, the bitterness of the thing she had
done; he forgot why he had come here, he forgot the burning house and
Delia, heavily he sat down with the picture in his hand and gazed round
the emptiness.
Irremediable as death and more terrible was this action of hers; he
tried to adjust his mind to the difference it must make to his life.
Then he considered that it was not life but death ahead of them.
Confusion was over him, he could not think clearly; he rested his head
against his arm and groaned aloud, then the image of Tom Wharton
flashed through his agony and he rose with a bitter curse.
He slipped the picture into his pocket; where were they now? On the
road to London—London. Something soft brushed against him, and he
mechanically glanced down.
It was the black cat.
He remembered now why he had come and laughed weakly at his own folly
as he caught up the kitten and thrust it inside his waistcoat.
Somehow, hardly knowing what he did, he stumbled to the door.
Smoke was now rising up the stairs; he felt the air heavy and stifling.
In a confused way he thought of Delia, of how he had last seen her
standing by the library door and what she had said.
As he descended into the smoke and glare he thought that he heard her
again, calling after him, shrieking:
“Lord Stair! I love you!”
He imagined that he saw her running up the stairs toward him with her
hair flaming behind her and her hands out-thrown; he felt again her
fingers on his wrist and gazed into her haunting face, and then it
seemed that it was not Delia, but Janet in her night-dress with a
ghastly smile on her face and a ghastly smear on her arm; then again it
was his wife with a face full of loathing, spurning him bitterly.
With one hand over the black cat, he made his way down to the library
door.
The flames had reached it; he looked on an utter ruin; part of the
outer wall had fallen and the fire roared and hissed through the black
gaps of the masonary louder than the yells of the triumphant mob.
And there between the door and the foot of the stairs lay Delia, face
downwards.
He cried out to her hoarsely; the flames were curling round the edge of
her dress; he beat them out and dragged her up; there was a mark like a
purple stain on her forehead; she had been struck down by some falling
wood.
He pulled her to her feet; she hung unconscious over his arm; the house
was crashing about them and the strengthening flames rippled and sang
as they leaped upwards. With the strength of desperation he dragged her
to the library window and there laid her down while he flung aside the
encumbrances of his coat, sword and peruke.
The terrace was still clear though it glowed brightly in the light of
the flames, and the garden was illumined from end to end.
Delia moaned and sat up; he helped her to her feet; she leaned heavily
against him while he unfastened the long windows. With difficulty he
got her across the terrace and down the gardens, and heard the mob as
if it saw them; she was slipping into insensibility again; feebly she
clung to him, impeding his progress, and when they reached the fountain
of Hylas she fell forward heavily in his arms.
He looked down at her in a kind of cold fury. Behind him was his
burning home; he saw before him a ruined life; he thought of Lady
Stair—her work—all of it her work.
By the dead weight of her body he knew her unconscious; he let her slip
to the grass and turned to face the burning mansion behind him.
The flames rose through the summer night magnificently terrible; the
whole sky was alight with them; they blotted out the stars. And she,
lying quiet enough at his feet now,—she had done it.
“My lord,” came a timid voice. “My lord.”
The servant who had remained came forward from the shadows of the trees.
“My lord,” he cried again, startled at his master’s appearance and the
woman huddled on the grass.
The Earl stared at him vacantly.
“Why did you stay?”
“I did not think that they could enter the garden, my lord, and I
waited for your lordship—escape is easy, my lord, by the lane beyond
the stables.”
Lord Stair put his hand to his head.
“Can you get this woman to Lumley’s?”
“There are the horses, my lord—if we could carry her.”
Lord Stair was gazing at his house, flaring, flaming into the sky. He
turned and helped the man to carry Delia down the garden.
“Put her on one horse, mount behind. Take with you a couple of the
others.”
“Ah, my lord, quick. I see figures entering the garden.”
Lord Stair motioned to the man to begone.
“Go ahead and acquaint Lumley of my approach.”
CHAPTER VI
“THERE WAS NO MASSACRE IN GLENCOE”
In the back parlor of Lumley’s shop in the Cannon Gate, Lord Stair sat
with his elbows on the table, smoking a long clay-pipe.
Along the oak settle which was drawn up close to the fire lay Delia
with her head motionless on a pile of brilliant cushions and her hands
slackly clasped on her bosom.
For her pallor and her stillness she might have been of marble, but now
and then she moaned a little and her breast rose with her troubled
breath.
Sweeping the great bruise on her temple the long hazel curls fell
straightly to the floor and glimmered in the firelight.
It was a little room hung with thick and very rich stamped leather and
containing the choicest of Lumley’s stock as silversmith and jeweler;
on the wide mantelshelf stood a full-rigged ship in beaten gold, a
great crystal glowing at the poop; either side of this were two
bloodstone candlesticks finely set in silver.
A handsome walnut sideboard held goblets and vessels of all sizes and
shapes, glasses cut and painted and a huge china punch-bowl decorated
with flowers.
On the table at which Lord Stair sat were curios of beautiful
workmanship: a salt-cellar in the form of a silver whale with a
mother-of-pearl body; a warrior in rock crystal with an agate helmet; a
dish of Limoges enamel, purple and green; a gold embossed vase with a
ruby-eyed nymph curling round it; a Venice glass, milk-white and blue;
a bronze clock with an enamel face; an Eastern dagger and women’s
ornaments.
Lord Stair gazed at these things with vacant eyes; in and out of the
gold and silver ran the little black cat, lightly in a ghostly silence.
There were arms and swords against the wall, flashings of steel, bronze
and gold came from them as the candles flickered in their massive
stand; the room was strange, gloomy, full, it seemed, of memories and
ghosts of the past.
The Earl, in his frilled shirt, his long black embroidered waistcoat,
his riding-boots, spurs and glittering rings; swordless, with his lace
cravat undone and hanging to his knees, with his unnatural pallor and
his close hair, looked in keeping with his curious background, as if he
too had been called up from some earlier day; to do penance for a crime
or brood over a tragedy among these tokens of wealth and splendor.
Now and then he glanced toward the woman on the settle, but with
neither pity nor tenderness, coldly, indifferently, as if he cared
nothing whether she lived or died.
And up through the somber air rose the thin wreaths of smoke, thin blue
from his pipe and the little cat played in and out of the silverware
and the drooping lace and cambric of Lord Stair’s sleeve, trailing his
scarlet ribbon.
Opposite the table were the two windows, close shuttered, and between
them stood a black bureau that bore a casket in bright enamel; above
this hung a mirror and Lord Stair could see his own ghastly face
reflected there, the dim room behind it like a mockery of himself and
his thoughts.
Occasionally Delia’s little moan would break the heavy stillness and
then he would look toward her with pitiless blue eyes.
She might be dying; they could do nothing for her; there was not even a
better place in which to put her; Lumley did not live over his shop,
the rest of the house was empty; Lord Stair’s servant had gone in
search of a doctor; it was not likely, with the city in an uproar, that
he would find one to come on a dangerous errand; and with every breath
she drew her life was ebbing, or so, gazing on her unmoved, he thought.
As the firelight rose and fell over the crystal warrior, the ruby-eyed
nymph and the still face of the dying woman, as the candles flickered
and burnt nearer to their silver sticks, as the shadows advanced and
receded from all dim corners, the Earl of Stair sat motionless with a
hard face, and the smoke curled upwards and away round the ceiling.
Time did not exist here, it had died with the stopping of the enamel
clock; everything was very old and dead, yet immortal, this room had
known many yesterdays; it held no promise of a to-morrow; it owned the
peace of dust and ashes, the silence of things ended, done with. Here
was a place to meet fate, not to avert it; as the fire dropped to
ashes, as the woman swooned into eternity, the placid warrior and the
red-eyed nymph smiled up at Lord Stair with the smiles of a hundred
years ago, and the emptiness of the hollow armor grinned into the
likeness of a skull.
Shadows advancing, receding, and her slow breath as her soul drifted
away.
If by putting out his hand he could have stopped her flight, he would
not have done it; if by raising a finger he could have recalled her
fainting life, he would not have done it.
It was the inevitable; let her die as the fire sank to ashes, as the
ashes dropped dismally into the hearth; it was the inevitable.
Still the little cat played lightly to and fro, leaped over the hand
dropped by his side and pulled at the lace on his sleeve.
The mother-of-pearl whale glittered with many colors, the candle-light
circled the milk-white glass like bright wine, the immortal warrior
gazed up under his agate helmet, and the siren’s eyes gave forth red
sparks of light.
In a little while she would be as they; as silent as cold in death as
they; as utterly beyond all speech, all question or demand,
inscrutable. He looked at the clear-cut features, the sweep of the
lashes, the parted lips, the locked hands and the long still figure.
She had said she loved him.
She held him guilty of things he had not done; of her friend’s
betrayal, which was his father’s work; of Jerome Caryl’s mysterious
death, perhaps if she had known—But none of it mattered; the tragedy
was played to its close and death would draw the curtain over all
explanations.
She had loved him.
He knew of no other who had; in his whole life no other.
Let her go—unquestioned.
In apathy of soul, he gazed on her and as he gazed she opened her dark
eyes.
Opened wide her eyes and sat up, leaning on her elbow.
“Lord Stair.”
He could not tell if she could see him, her glance was dim and vague as
if she addressed some fancied image of him.
“The blood of Glencoe,” she said slowly. “They shall never speak of you
without they curse you—for Glencoe—”
She stared at the candle-light, leaning forward.
“Have I damned myself, my love—to fix this stain on you?—I feel the
flames—and I have lied—you also, Lord Stair—you lied to me.”
A look of horror settled on her face.
“Don’t go—stay with me—don’t you see them—the flames? so they rose in
Glencoe—you are paid—”
Her voice sank to a whisper; the last log on the hearth fell into ashes.
“Kiss me—why have you never kissed me?—you asked me when they were
singing—‘for the ways of the Lord are wonderful—’ Kiss me—”
His pipe fell from his inert hand and broke into fragments on the floor.
“Lord Stair.”
He did not move from his seat.
She had fallen back on her pillow; one hand trailed along the floor.
“You asked me—Andrew—”
He remembered when he had asked her; the Abbey, her words and his.
“When you ask me—”
And now—A great silence settled on the room; shadows advancing,
receding, and her breath stilled forever. The nymph’s ruby eyes flashed
brilliantly; the crystal warrior smiled the same; she had gone,
forever. Beyond question or explanation, inscrutable, silent. After a
while he rose and went to look at her; she had died as if she had
fallen asleep, he lifted her cold hand from the floor and laid it on
her breast.
Then he went to the window and undid the shutters.
The slipping back of the bolts made a dismal creaking; the hinges
groaned; he opened the shutters and gazed through the glimmering
window-pane. A wine-colored dawn was breaking over the housetops like a
stain over the sky.
From the corners of the room the shadows lifted; on all the old gold
and gems a faint white light; on all the wonders of precious
workmanship and on that most wonderful thing of all, the woman lying
along the settle with the veil of her hair falling to the floor and her
head thrown back on the bronze and purple Persian cushion which bore a
sprawling dragon with emerald eyes.
Her curved mouth was parted as if that last breathing of his name had
drawn her soul with it and left her lips cleft; there was no line in
her smooth face, beneath the soft lashes were delicate shadows and
across the sweep of her throat lay a strand of hair and its double in
shade.
She was the hue of a white rose against the vivid tints of her
cushions; her face was as unfathomable as her silence.
The fire had dropped into ashes; the dawn strengthening showed dust on
everything; dust on the tarnished silver, on the sails of the gold
ship, on the empty armor.
There were cobwebs, high up among the shelves that showed now; cobwebs
clinging to and obscuring the splendor of the gold and silver.
The black cat leaped from the table, ran round the room, then began
playing amid the ashes and the ends of Delia’s hair.
Lord Stair crossed to the head of the settle and stood looking at the
dawn behind the diamond panes.
The curse of the Dalrymples was fulfilled now; surely, to the last
bitterness, completed.
He glanced down at Delia—what had she said?—“for the ways of the Lord
are wonderful”—Wonderful! he laughed to himself—she had loved him, had
ruined him, and had died because she could not face what she had done.
Was she a fool or a heroine?—he could look at her coldly now and
wonder, though she had moved him once.
The sun rose slowly, majestic into the clear sky; red-gold rays struck
into the room and caused the candle-light to look faint and sickly; the
armor, swords and pistols, shone as if on fire; Lord Stair put his hand
before his eyes and leaned heavily against the carved post of the
settle.
The deathly stillness was broken by the soft opening of the door, the
soft closing of it, and a gentle step into the room.
Lord Stair looked round.
Standing against the armor, in the strange faint lights and shades was
a woman in a light dress with the red glow of the dawn in her blonde
hair and over her pale face; Lady Stair, looking at him intently,
eagerly, with questioning blue eyes.
“Ulrica!” he could utter no word but her name; the blood rushed into
his face as he stared at her, incredulous, amazed.
“I was too late,” she said faintly; she sat down at his seat at the
table; there were lines of weariness under her eyes, and her dress was
tumbled. “My woman told you?” her hands holding a riding-whip, fell
between the crystal warrior and the nymph on her gold vase. Lord Stair
came in front of Delia, hiding her from sight.
“I have heard nothing,” he said hoarsely. “When I returned the house
was empty save for one man—”
“Oh!” she glanced up, bewildered by his manner. “I heard that they were
going to burn the house—I did not trust the servants—I went myself to
ask the Marquis for a guard—he sent me on to the castle—and there they
put such difficulties in the way—and—I was too late.”
She leaned back wearily.
“They sent some men—they are putting the fire out now—the city was in
such an uproar that I could not return sooner—I thought that you might
be here so I came. You never got my message?”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“What is the matter, my lord? I did all I could.”
“Yes—ah, yes.”
He was looking at her very strangely. “Did you not guess where I had
gone?”
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips and her lids fluttered in a
weary manner.
Lord Stair came to the other side of the table.
“So, Ulrica, you stay to share my fallen fortunes?” he asked in a low
voice.
She looked at him calmly.
“Did you think anything else of me?”
“My thoughts!” he said wildly. “Let my thoughts go—I know not what I
thought—”
Their eyes met across the table of gold and silver—
“Ulrica—what made you stay?”
Her eyes widened.
“It never crossed my mind to go. Whatever they say—my place is not
among your enemies.”
A little pause, then he said in a labored way: “Ulrica—I am innocent of
what they impute to me—there was no massacre in Glencoe.”
“I thought so,” she answered quietly. “My lord, I thought so.”
Her hood had slipped back from her smooth hair and her sweet face was
pure and pale in the rich light.
“Have you saved anything?” she asked.
Lord Stair pointed to the kitten at his feet with a half-smile.
“That,” he said, “and this—”
He drew Cooper’s drawing from his pocket and laid it by the crystal
warrior.
Lady Stair’s eyes fell to it, then lifted to his face; a color came
into her cheeks and she rose trembling.
As she turned she caught sight of Delia and cried out in a frightened
way with blanched cheeks.
“Hush!” said Lord Stair; he was beside her looking at the dead woman.
“She has fixed on me the blood of Glencoe—and she has paid—hush!”
Lady Stair shrank away, still with terror in her eyes. “Who was she?”
came her whisper.
“Do you want to know? Does it matter now?”
“No! no!”
She shuddered against the table, gazing at Delia’s terrible calm
against the background of the strange room.
Lord Stair looked at the burning sunrise and held out his right hand;
the glowing light fell on it, a crimson stain.
“You see—the blood of Glencoe!”
He laughed magnificently and turned to his wife; his face was wild in
expression, his eyes wide open. “And you, of all of them, have been
faithful!”
She took her gaze from the dead woman, put out her hand and clasped
his, so that the red was over her wrist, too.
“You of all!” he repeated, and his voice was unsteady. He drew her up
to the table edge, close to him, her grasp of his hand tightened; her
breath came fast.
“John! John!”
He looked at her in a curious manner. “You of all!” he repeated, and
his eyes wandered to Delia; he turned from the living to the dead whose
lie was his judgment and his punishment and he smiled bitterly.
“John!” said Lady Stair again, faintly, softly.
With a little start he turned and looked at her.
“Ah—do you understand?” she said. “At last?” In the wild light of the
red morn her blonde hair glimmered against his shoulder.
“At last—Ulrica—” his voice broke, but his eyes shone as his fingers
closed over hers. “My dear! my dear!” And the day dawned upon their
kiss.
EPILOGUE
THE GLEN O’ WEEPING
The sun that so rarely pierces the mists that shroud the Valley of
Glencoe, was to-day shining mournfully on the solitude of the Glen of
Weeping.
It was mid-July and above the snow-topped mountains the sky shone
coldly blue.
A keen wind whistled through the winding ravines and patches of purple,
dull gold and scarlet, showed where the heather, the gorse and the
rowan bloomed.
The grass was studded with harebells and the pines grew fresh and green.
Yet the scene was desolation, utter desolation; in all the vast expanse
there was no human being in sight, no animal nor bird. Only, bare to
the wide sky, lay the scattered, ruined huts of the Macdonalds; the
little creeping wild flowers had overgrown the ashes of the charred
door-posts which lay half-hidden in the grass; the storms and winds of
three winters had nearly demolished what the vengeance of the Campbells
had left, but still above the rough graves made by the surviving
Macdonalds for their kindred rose some few traces of the village of
Makian.
And now it is past midday and the sad sun has disappeared behind the
distant snows; a cold mournful light fills the valley, and the hollow
about the sullen water is full of shadows, to right and left silence
save for the crying of the wind and sound of the swaying fir-trees.
Then the noise of bridle bells and horses coming rapidly across the
heather and a cavalcade of some hundred men gallop down the mouth of
the Glen; Campbells with red-blond hair.
Their leader is Breadalbane, he rides a white horse with steel and
scarlet trappings, and his green and blue tartan blows out behind him
across his shining cuirass; he rides easily, swiftly, with one hand on
his hip above his sword and the other lightly on his reins; in his
bonnet is a sprig of myrtle and his hair flutters pale as silver back
from his face.
By his side is the Countess Peggy, her plaid floats from her shoulder
and over her black horse; she leans forward a little in the saddle and
her red curls frame a pale triumphant face.
After these come the Campbells, red gentlemen in dark tartans with
faces singularly contained and hard light eyes.
Silently they ride through Glencoe, the Glen o’ Weeping, their horses’
hoofs stir the dead ashes from under the heather, they pass through the
dismantled ruins, they gallop over the graves of their enemies but they
raise no shout of victory, make no gesture of triumph.
It is the Campbell way.
Only as they pass through desolation, the Countess Peggy looks at her
husband and he at her; their eyes meet and flash and her thin lips
curve into a smile.
There—somewhere under their horses’ hoofs lies Ronald Macdonald and the
Campbells are free of Glencoe and all the Highlands.
Out of the Glen o’ Weeping they come, the Campbells hard-faced, riding
swiftly, and Breadalbane’s wife looks at him with a deepening of her
smile.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Silently corrected obvious punctuation errors; retained
non-standard spellings and dialect.
Other changes:
• Page 018: He looked as her keenly → He looked at her keenly
• Page 031: me—tis likely → me—’tis likely
• Page 066: There was the sightest pause → There was the slightest
pause
• Page 068: forget that. Macdonald → forget that, Macdonald
• Page 109: pebbles as is struck on → pebbles as it struck on
• Page 133: black peruke were powered → black peruke were powdered
• Page 149: and paessd through → and passed through
• Page 149: sixty of sixty-five → sixty or sixty-five
• Page 154: word as embarrassment he → word as embarrassment; he
• Page 182: wild angel face → wild angel faces
• Page 186: with an uuaccountable feeling → with an unaccountable
feeling
• Page 189: his sword-hilt he was → his sword-hilt; he was
• Page 203: It is not ture → It is not true
• Page 206: conspirators so embroil → conspirators to embroil
• Page 218: wth a white hard face → with a white hard face
• Page 232: as she tooked up → as she looked up
• Page 244: I burn, alive my → I burn alive my
• Page 249: afraid of ’im’” → afraid of ’im,”
• Page 254: your Majesty” said → your Majesty,” said
• Page 259: that in vived blue → that in vivid blue
• Page 270: words, interposed “I don’t → words, interposed; “I don’t
• Page 291: the enemy food for → the enemy, food for
• Page 294: been suppressed. Glenlyon → been suppressed.” Glenlyon
• Page 304: Hounslow Heath which was → Hounslow Heath; which was
• Page 309: curled and powered → curled and powdered