The Master of Stair 10

The Master of Stair 10

Delia Featherstonehaugh laughed as relief to the effect of the romantic

wording of the soft tongue and the white coldness of the moonlight; she

steadied herself with the thought of her brother and Jerome Caryl

talking (very practically) below.

 

“You are free to go when you will, Macdonald,” she said. “Only—if you

will see my brother first and take his message to the clans.”

 

She saw his eyes open, with a quick delight, she thought. He turned his

face full toward her for the first time.

 

“I will do anything you wish,” he said. “If I may go at once—to-night.”

 

She stiffened and drew further away.

 

“Why not?” she answered. “You are well enough.” Her manner was

unnaturally cold, but he took no heed of her; she waited for her answer

in vain. “Why not?” she repeated at length. “We only kept you here

during your sickness, Macdonald.”

 

Something in her tone seemed to ask for gratitude, the __EXPRESSION__ of

some thankfulness for his life saved, but the inflection was too

delicate for him to notice it.

 

“I will take your message,” he repeated. “Only you must not ask us to

take the oaths to a Campbell.”

 

“Not to a Campbell,” she said. “To the Prince’s Government—but will you

come and see my brother?”

 

Instinctive fear and dislike of the Southern struggled with the

Macdonald’s desire for freedom; he reflected a while, then gave a grave

consent.

 

Delia, watching him, was quick to see that his impulse was to leave

without a word, stride off with no backward look at the hated town.

With her head held very stately high she preceded him down the stairs

and flung open the parlor door.

 

The two men turned at her entrance. She made a little gesture toward

Macdonald, and spoke in English.

 

“My Highlander—and he is so eager to leave us, Perseus, he would do

anything—he will take your message.”

 

Crossing to the fire, she seated herself, leaving Macdonald in the

doorway. He eyed the two Saxons with frank interest; his glance rested

long on the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.

 

“I am to translate, Perseus,” said Delia. “What do you want to say?”

 

Jerome looked at the huge Highlander with approval.

 

“Ask him to sit down,” he said. “He looks honest.”

 

Delia obeyed with an air almost of disdain; Jerome, glancing at her,

wondered what had damped her eager spirits; she was very grave and

pale; her eyes were fixed with a curious __EXPRESSION__ on Macdonald; her

mouth had a little lift of scorn.

 

She sat so, very still, translating her brother’s questions and

explanations into Gaelic, and Jerome Caryl watched her.

 

Macdonald listened with gravity and attention, appeared to understand

what was asked of him and received into his keeping the letters to the

Highland chiefs with a solemn promise to deliver them.

 

Sir Perseus gave him a rough map of his route from Glasgow to Glencoe,

a pistol and a few crowns.

 

These last he respected as useless; he was doubtful, too, of the

pistol, but finally stuck it in his belt. Jerome Caryl offered to see

him on his way beyond the town gates.

 

Macdonald declined, gazing from his high window he had marked the gates

and could well find them. With cordialities on the part of Sir Perseus,

and shy reserve from the Highlander, they took leave of each other.

 

“I will light you,” said Delia.

 

She rose and took up a candle and led the way down-stairs; Ronald

Macdonald, light-footed as a cat, followed.

 

In the narrow little hall she turned and faced him; in the circle of

the candle-light her brown hair glittered with threads of gold and the

yellow satin of her gown rippled into reflections and shadows.

 

“Maybe you will meet the lady with the red curls again,” she said.

 

He looked curiously at the Saxon woman who had nursed him; his blue

eyes held some wonder; he had hardly realized her as yet.

 

“’Tis late to start on a journey,” continued Delia; “dark already.”

 

“Day and night are one to me,” he answered.

 

“And you are very eager to be gone,” she finished with a faint smile.

 

He looked at her half-hesitatingly.

 

“You have been very hospitable to one not of your race,” he said

slowly. “Beyond Dunblane, on the beginning of the Highlands, lives an

old shepherd who knows me well—if you ever need me send to him and I

shall hear.”

 

She lifted her head.

 

“I shall ask for no gratitude, Macdonald,” she said gravely and

proudly. “Nor am I like to need you—I have my own kin.”

 

A puzzled __EXPRESSION__ crossed his face.

 

“Your brother is a Saxon,” he answered. “Most Saxons would have shot me

where I lay.”

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh smiled faintly:

 

“My brother is a gentleman.”

 

“And I am a prince of the Macdonalds,” said the Highlander, “and I can

bring two hundred men to serve you when you will. They would give their

lives to one who had given Ronald Macdonald his.”

 

This sudden high-handed overpaying of what she had done at a moment

when she was the most considering him ungrateful, brought a quick flush

of shame into her cheeks.

 

“I pray you do not speak of it,” she said faintly.

 

She was leaning against the wall and the candle shook so in her hand

that her shadow waved and danced behind her on the paneling; she was

very much aware of the nearness of his magnificent presence and the

frank half-wonder of his blue eyes turned on her, though her own were

very resolutely fixed upon her feet.

 

“Unbar the door,” she asked him, “’tis too heavy for me.”

 

He bent over the iron bolts; as he turned his back she glanced once up

then down again.

 

There was a hoarse creaking and the door swung slowly open on the

violet night; it was bitter cold; beneath the rising moon great masses

of gray clouds lay piled, and a low stinging wind was abroad.

 

Macdonald stepped over the threshold and set his face toward the gates;

a little wild smile crossed his face.

 

“Farewell,” he said absently, and turned to leave.

 

A gust of wind blew out the candle and Delia let it drop; with a swish

of skirts she came out into the cobbled road, her hair blown about her

face.

 

“Macdonald,” she said; he turned and gazed down at her; the moonlight

lay on her from head to foot; she was pale and her eyes looked

preternaturally large.

 

“Macdonald,” she repeated, then seemed to fumble for her words, “Do you

understand?—you must take the oaths.” She laid her hand on the corner

of his plaid with a timid eagerness that had its effect.

 

“We will go to Breadalbane’s conference,” he answered, “and if the

others submit—”

 

“There must be no ‘if’!” she cried impetuously. “Don’t you see? Take

the oaths or woe, woe to Glencoe! For the Campbells will get letters of

fire and sword against you, and the whole strength of England would be

behind them!”

 

He appeared to suddenly give heed to some of the danger threatening;

his serious face darkened.

 

“Maybe we will take the oaths—” he answered gloomily, “but not to

Breadalbane.”

 

“Lochiel, Glengarry and Keppoch will take them,” she said eagerly. “Why

not you?”

 

He turned on her fiercely: “Ye are Saxon! Ye cannot fathom! We hate the

Campbells!”

 

He loosened his plaid almost roughly from her grasp and was gone at a

swinging pace down the empty street.

 

Delia stood where he had left her; she put her loosened hair back and

stared after him; she shivered yet did not know it was cold; a few

houses off a flickering oil lamp hung across the street; she waited for

the great figure to show beneath it, thinking perhaps he might look

back since there he reached the turn of the road.

 

She saw him pass from the moonlight into the lamplight, then disappear

into the dark shadow of the houses beyond. He had not turned his head,

but with light and quickened pace had gone.

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh went into the house—shut the door and slowly

mounted the stairs. She could hear her brother and Jerome Caryl talking