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 powered 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.