The Master of Stair/Book 1/Chapter 13

ATE that evening the Master of Stair entered his mansion in St. James's Square and passed through the great empty house to the library at the back. This room was vast, handsomely furnished and gloomy, well-lit by hanging lamps and a great fire on the massive hearth; the walls were lined with books, the ceiling domed and painted with dark figures that appeared to mount into endless space; the chimneypiece, wreathed with heavy garlands of wooden flowers, supported a huge branched silver stand filled with candles that were reflected in the mirror behind. Dull red velvet curtains draped the long windows, and a heavy pile carpet of the same color covered the floor. In the center of the wall, facing the door, stood a large black oak desk with a bureau either side; on it lay papers and books with two grim bronze busts, labeled "Cato" and "Solon" in lettering that glittered somberly; one of the lamps hung immediately over the desk and threw a strong light down on the man who sat there reading a faded calf-bound volume.

He was quietly dressed in dark brown, and his face, wrinkled, as a walnut shell, was almost hidden by the ringlets of his enormous periwig; he was thin and bent, sixty of sixty-five and had an indescribable air of ease and comfort, as if he was in his element and vastly enjoying himself.

The Master of Stair paused on the threshold and glanced round the somber room.

"Good-evening, my lord," he said.

The man at the desk looked up, half-reluctantly.

"What o'clock is it, John?" he asked.

"Between twelve and one," answered the Master of Stair. "I am later, my lord, than I meant to be." He came into the room as he spoke, and seated himself on one of the stiff-backed chairs by the fire.

"Where is Lady Dalrymple?" he asked drearily. Viscount Stair shut his book and so turned in his chair that he faced his son.

"Gone to the ball at Kensington," he answered dryly, "accompanied by Tom Wharton."

"Why did you permit it?" flashed the Master of Stair. The father shrugged his shoulders.

"You must manage your own wife, John," he answered. "Everybody is at the ball. Tom Wharton is as good as another."

Sir John interrupted him:

"Tom Wharton is the greatest rake in England," he said. "I do not choose to have him across my threshold—when I returned from Romney this morning you told me Lady Dalrymple was at the Toyshop with him—now you tell me they have gone to the ball together."

"Why didn't you go yourself?" asked the Viscount calmly. "Who do you think is to take her about?—she must be seen at Court sometimes."

"I was better employed," answered the Master. "You know well enough, my lord, that I have it in hand to crush this rising—this plot—I am but now from one of these Jacobite dens where I have been aping the part of King's messenger from France."

"In those clothes?" asked his father sarcastically.

The Master of Stair answered impatiently: "I forgot them. I had been dining with Montague, and went straight on to the meeting-place."

Viscount Stair gave an unpleasant smile.

"Well," he said calmly, "you have a fine head, John, you make a good many slips—a number of false steps. Take care the last isn't up Tower Hill." He spoke with an air of abstraction, as if, himself indifferent to everything, he could still feel cynically amused at the blunders of others.

His son gave him an angry glance.

"I have not deserved this, my lord; I have kept inside the law during many storms, and now I am the law."

The Viscount leaned a little forward; as he moved it was noticeable that his neck was wry, a defect that gave him the appearance of leering over his shoulder as if he listened to some one who whispered there at his ear.

"I have kept you inside the law," he said. "My advice has guided you so far—you reckless fool if you had asked me you had not gone among conspirators in that habit."

He pointed mockingly at the gorgeous dress of his son whose anger rose the more at his tone.

"Sir," he said. "I have achieved my purpose for all I am such a fool—they were deceived."

"Being bigger fools," commented the Viscount.

"I say, I am at the bottom of their plot," flashed the Master. "In two days' time I shall have every detail to put before the King."

The Viscount regarded him unmoved.

"Go warily," he said, and his cunning old face wrinkled into an unfathomable smile. "You stand dangerously high, John, and you are dangerously reckless, John."

"And you, my lord?" demanded the Master.

"I? I do not meddle in your schemes, my son. I am a safe spectator—and I find it amusing—sometimes—now and then it is tiresome—your wife is tiresome, John."

"You married me to her," cried the Master bitterly. "For God's sake, sir, remember that you thrust her on me before I was well out of petticoats."

The Viscount frowned.

"I considered a Dalrymple able to manage a woman," he said dryly. "And the marriage was very politic."

"I do not doubt it, my lord," answered the Master passionately. "But do not blame me for a woman not of my choosing."

The father yawned. "I merely commented that she was tiresome," he said. "And so are you at times—but she—is quite insufferable. I assure you this house with no other occupant but that sniveling woman is a miserable place. I cannot write here, I shall have my town house refurnished."

The Master of Stair rose.

"I do not need you, my lord," he said, still in that tone of passionate bitterness, "to point out the wretchedness of my home—it is a fact obvious enough, and by God you should not fling it in my face. I cannot remember that you ever, by one word, tried to mend the unhappiness—"

"And I," returned the Viscount, "cannot remember ever saying I had—it is your life"—he shrugged his shoulders—"I have managed my own—now I only ask to be left in peace. I am not fitted for the part of mentor and never essayed to fill it."

The Master of Stair laughed.

"Peace!" he echoed with wild eyes on his father. "Did your lordship sow peace that you expect to reap it? Not in me, at least, not in me or mine!"

The Viscount had picked up his book again.

"Where is the third volume of Cicero?" he said. "I could not find it. You have the library of a careless man."

"The servants are at your lordship's service," answered the Master and turned on his heel, chafing.

"You forget," remarked his father, "it is New Year's Eve, the season I believe of festivities, good-will and other such antique pleasantries, and I understand the servants are mostly abroad."

The Master gave a wild look round the gloomy room.

"New Year's Eve! We are spending it in an exemplary way!" he cried. "This place looks like good-will and festivity, does it not? How many homes look as gloomy as this tonight!"

"Very few, I should imagine," said the Viscount. "Will you bring me that book if you have it?"

The Master gave him a bitter glance; before he could answer the entrance curtain was drawn aside and a lady entered, a gentleman behind her.

She was wrapped in a long purple cloak, the hood drawn over her head.

At sight of the Master of Stair she hesitated, and the man behind, slipping past her, came into the center of the room.

He was blond, good-humored, elegant; he smiled delightfully as he bowed to the silent figure by the hearth.

"Good-even, Sir John," he said. "I have brought my lady back from Kensington."

"Good-even Mr. Wharton," answered the Master, staring past him.

The atmosphere was decidedly oppressive; the Viscount gave a malicious smile. Lady Dalrymple came forward in a heavy silence, but Tom Wharton knew no such word as embarrassment he smiled still more good-humoredly.

"I was not aware Sir John had returned," he said, addressing the Viscount.

"So I supposed when I saw you enter," said the Master haughtily. "Good-night, Mr. Wharton."

Tom Wharton bowed.

"I take my—dismissal," he smiled. "I shall hope to see you at Kensington, Sir John—au revoir, my lady."

She made a slight inclination of her head.

"Good-night, my lord." Tom Wharton's face was dimpled with the most mirthful of smiles; he bowed himself out exquisitely, and when the door closed on him the room seemed the gloomier by contrast.

The silence remained unbroken; the Viscount was making notes on the margin of his book; the Master stood with his back to his wife and stared into the fire; she slowly flung her cloak off with no attempt at speech.

She was a perfect type of Lely's heroines: he had painted her more than once and had delighted in her blonde loveliness, her small features, her great languishing blue eyes, her soft foolish mouth, the pale yellow hair smooth as satin in its great curls, the white shoulders and rosy fingers, the full throat and entrancing little dimple in her chin; she should now have been at the height of her beauty, but unhappiness had worn her delicate face, dimmed her eyes and dragged her mouth, marring the whole with an expression of fretful misery.

Still, to-night rouge, powder and patches had made amends for tears; she was splendidly dressed in flowing white satin, hung about with pearls, and in this soft light no one could have detected a flaw in her beauty, as she sat droopingly, with her hands in her lap.

The Master of Stair turned at last.

"Why did you go with Mr. Wharton?" he demanded. "I desired you not to continue this acquaintance."

"I told you when I wrote," she began.

He interrupted impatiently. "Do you think I have time to read your letters? You knew my wishes—and when I returned this morning I heard that you were with Mr. Wharton at the Toyshop—on my soul—a pretty epitome of your life, I think!—with Tom Wharton at a Toyshop!"

"Everybody goes to them," she answered weakly, "I must do something—this house is unendurable."

"You do not contribute to its gaiety," he said fiercely.

She dropped her blonde head into her hands and broke into crying. He turned his back on her again.

"I am so miserable," she sobbed, "so desolate. Oh, I think my heart is broken."

"You have remarked it before," said her husband bitterly.

She sobbed the louder, crushing her handkerchief to her eyes. "You never think of me," she wailed. "It's killing me—I think—but you don't care—no one does. I am utterly alone—since—Harry—died."

At the mention of his dead son, Sir John swung round on her

"On my soul, madam," he said hoarsely, "I will not hear you on that subject."

She lifted blurred eyes. "No," she panted, "but you can't—make me—forgive—you can't take away the—empty house—or—my God!—the pain in my heart!"

"Have the other boy back," he flung out, "I am willing."

"No, no," she shrieked. "Harry's murderer—I will never see him again. I wish he was dead—I wish I was dead!"

She burst into uncontrolled hysterical sobs and buried her face in the chair cushions. Her husband's face darkened furiously; he moved away from her, his teeth in his lip. The Viscount looked up from his desk.

"If you have not a Cicero," he said, "perhaps you have an Epictetus? This allusion I must verify."

The Master of Stair walked impatiently to the shelves and finding a volume gave it to his father, then he turned to his wife.

"Madam, cease that wailing," he said. "You will try me beyond endurance."

She made a show of stifling her sobs, and rose, dabbing at her eyes; her fair hair and her white dress seemed to gather all the light in the room; she gleamed from head to foot.

"You take no thought of me," she said wretchedly. "Neither you nor my lord there seem to think—there—is any pity to be felt for—me." She gave a bitter glance toward the placid figure of the Viscount. "He does not care," she panted, "nor do you—what have I done to be so punished?" She turned her tear-blurred face to her husband. "I do not come of a cursed family," she said hoarsely. "Why should I be dragged into your evil fortunes? Why should I pay for your wicked blood, my God, why?"

She clasped her hands passionately in the intensity of the revolt of a weak thing; her eyes were unnaturedly dilated, her bosom rose and fell with her struggling breath; terror and aversion were expressed in every line of her shrinking figure.

"I have done nothing that my children should be cursed," she said wildly. "It is you—you—"

The Master of Stair interrupted her.

"Take care," he said, very white. "You utter the unforgivable—"

"I shall not ask you to forgive," she answered. "I do not want your favor—you and your blighted race have crazed me—I will say it—I am haunted—day and night—and it is unjust." Her voice was shrill and tortured. "It is unjust that I should so pay because I was foolish and very young—and married you. God knows I never loved you!"

Her words rang cruelly round the vast room and seemed to echo through the pause that followed; the only sound was the rustle of the leaves of the Viscount's book as he turned them and the scratch of his pen as he made a note; the Master of Stair looked sternly before him, his face hardened to a great bitterness.

Lady Dalrymple shuddered; the reaction of her passion came in the heavy tears that rolled down her face. With a childish gesture she put up the back of her hand to hide them, and turned miserably away across the room.

Down the whole gloomy length she went slowly with a weary air of hopelessness; the Viscount looked up from his book, watched her and when the door closed on her gave a little sigh of relief.

"She gets onto a note very irritating to the nerves," he remarked. "It is astonishing how few women will learn to use their words with effect—they throw at you all they can think of—then burst into tears—which is neither logical nor pleasing."

The Master of Stair made no answer; at his feet was a beautiful pink rose his wife had dropped; he picked it up and flung it into the fire.

The Viscount shut his book and turned with a yawn.

"I saw the King to-day," he said. "He asked where you were—Argyll and Breadalbane are desirous to see you about these Highlands."

"Yes," said the Master gloomily. "But the damned thieves have all come in except the Macdonalds of Glencoe—which minds me. I should send those letters to-night—I have the maps of Glencoe. The pass of Rannoch must be secured. The Laird of Weem must close Strath Tay—then with Breadalbane one side, Argyll the other—I think I have the villains."

The Viscount drew a paper out of his desk.

"I had the report from Scotland this morning," he said composedly. "The Macdonalds have taken the oath."

The Master of Stair turned, incredulous, furious.

"Taken the oath!" he cried.

"Yes." His father twisted his wry neck over the paper. "So the commander of the forces says."

Sir John stood silent a moment; when he spoke it was in a quiet tone.

"It need make no difference—I have vowed to make an example of those Glencoe men and will do it."

The Viscount nodded.

"As Lord President of the Court of Session I could suppress this," he said. "And you as Prime Minister for Scotland should be able to accomplish the rest."

"Yes," answered the Master. "I must write to Hill who commands in Fort William—he must be removed—the second in command, Hamilton, is an able man."

"But first you must see Breadalbane," said the Viscount. "Better go carefully."

Sir John lifted his shoulders with a magnificent gesture of disregard.

"I have put myself above caution, my lord," he said. "Give me the letter—" He took it eagerly from his father. "This must be shown to the King?" he questioned.

"Yes."

"Lend me your pen, my lord."

The Viscount handed him the quill, and Sir John dashed it through the passage relating to the Macdonalds.

"If it become necessary to show this paper your lordship can do so," he said. "And I will do the same for the minutes that are to go before the Council at Edinburgh."

His father laughed.

"A bold way of handling difficulties, John," he commented.

"It needs boldness to deal with these cursed Jacks," answered the Master fiercely. "I am going to teach them a lesson this time—they have defied us and laughed at us long enough. This race of thieves goes—utterly."

The Viscount suddenly rose with a little sound of warning. Sir John turned.

Close behind them stood Lady Dalrymple.

She saw by their faces their thought, and drew herself together defiantly "I was not spying," she cried feverishly. "You did not hear me enter."

"You were remarkably quiet, madam," remarked the Viscount dryly.

She gave him a frightened look and in a strained silence crossed to the hearth.

"I dropped a flower," she said faintly. "I came back for that."

She looked along the floor and in the chair.

"Do not trouble, madam," said her husband, watching her. "I make no doubt Mr. Wharton's hothouses can supply you with others."

Lady Dalrymple lifted her head, and stared at him with parted lips and flushed face, and a curious little movement of her hand like horror.

"The Queen gave it to me for Harry's grave," she said simply.

The Master of Stair flushed and started as if from a blow.

"You have burnt it?" asked Lady Dalrymple, with a glance at the fire.

The silence answered her.

"Well, well," she said desperately, "I suppose you do not care that his little grave should go bare—only—to-morrow was his birthday—good-night, sir."

She went quietly out of the room.

The Viscount glanced sideways at his son's face, and was silent.