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.”