The Master of Stair 11
She had never known a home or wished for one; even when her father was
alive they had been desperately poor and she had alternated between a
foreign convent and a Scotch lodging, according as the fortunes of her
father’s master, the Duke of York, had shifted.
There had been some little prosperity for them when the Duke, as King
James, came to the throne; of that now nothing remained save the empty
baronetcy that her brother now held and the memory of her father’s
death at the Boyne.
Yet she had been happy.
She went on her knees by her bed and buried her face in the pillows; it
was strange to feel suddenly tired and lonely; she was half-frightened
at the heaviness of her heart.
After a while she rose to her feet with a shudder between shame and
fear; she felt restless, distracted, incapable of any continued thought.
She opened the door and looked out.
The house seemed quiet; she crept down-stairs and entered the parlor.
It was empty, but the light still burning. Delia, suddenly aware that
she was numb with cold, drew a chair to the fire and held her hands to
the flames. Sitting so, she fell into dreams and did not notice when
the fire sank and died and the log fell into ashes at her feet; her
thoughts were more real than the room; she suddenly called out at them
aloud and clasped her hands passionately, then, startled at herself,
looked round.
The other side of the hearth stood Jerome Caryl, his melancholy hazel
eyes fixed on her.
“Mr. Caryl!” she cried and flushed scarlet.
His small mouth curved into a smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I
startled you—”
She recovered herself with a half-laugh. “I thought you were gone with
Perseus—or abed,” she said, “and I—I have let the fire out.”
She spoke hurriedly and the color receding from her face, left her very
white.
Jerome seated himself. “Miss Delia,” he said, “this is a miserable life
for you.”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “No.”
“Yes,” he insisted gently. “For a woman and a lady, a miserable life;
you are very heroic, Miss Delia, to give up so much for King James.”
“You forget, Mr. Caryl, that I have no alternative.” She smiled frankly
at him. “And I am a born plotter,” she added, “and sanguine—so content,
Mr. Caryl.”
A silence fell between them; she turned her head away and fell to
twisting her fingers together in her lap; he could see her profile in
pure strong lines against the background of shadows, the curve of her
throat into the lace collar and the loosened knot of dull brown curls
in her neck; he studied her with gentle melancholy eyes and his mouth
drooped with lines of musing. Presently the girl spoke, shaking off the
spell of the silence with an effort.
“Mr. Caryl—do you think the Highlands will take the oath?”
“I hope so—most fervently,” he answered. “Indeed, I think so—”
“All of them?” she asked, and her voice faltered a little.
Jerome Caryl considered.
“Some might hate the Campbells more than they feared the government,”
he said, “but it would, Miss Delia, hardly matter—they would pay the
price—they could not involve the others.”
“Pay the price,” she repeated. “What would that be?—what would the
government do to those who did not take the oaths?”
She turned full toward him with grave, intent eyes.
“’Tis not a question of the government,” answered Caryl. “But of
Breadalbane and the Master of Stair—they are waiting very eagerly, Miss
Delia, for the first of January to pass, and they are preparing a great
vengeance against those who shall then be outside the law.”
“They would be pitiless, you think?” she questioned breathlessly.
“Yes,” said Jerome Caryl.
She moved impetuously in her chair. “Why?” she asked, “I can understand
Breadalbane—but why the Master of Stair? What has he against the
Highlands?”
“The contempt of the statesman for the savage,” Caryl answered with a
half-smile. “The intolerant arrogance of the powerful against those who
oppose him, and the haughty resolution of an imperious soul, Miss
Delia.”
“I loathe his make,” she cried. “Hard and cruel—I have heard horrid
tales of him—and how he is accursed—he is a fitting servant of William
of Orange!”
The color had come into her face; she set her lips resolutely and flung
up her head.
“Do you think that the Macdonalds of Glencoe will take the oaths?” she
asked abruptly.
“I cannot tell,” he answered gravely.
“And if they did not—” she stopped, then went on bravely. “They are in
the heart of the Campbell country—I suppose—I mean, do you
think—Breadalbane would—leave any alive?”
“Nay, I cannot tell,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is not likely that
he would forego this chance against his ancient enemies.”
She rose up suddenly and her clasped hands fell apart and clenched at
her sides.
“Ah!” she cried.
Then she caught his eyes on her and gave a faint laugh.
“Mr. Caryl,” she began. She could get no further; her voice broke; she
put her trembling hand to her mouth and stared down at him.
He rose.
“Miss Delia,” he said gently, “what is it to you that the Macdonalds
should take the oaths?”
The direct question threw her off her defenses; she gave him a
terrified glance and sank into the chair, turning away her head.
“What is it to you?” he repeated softly.
Her voice came muffled over her shoulder: “Why, nothing—only—you see—I—”
He saw her shoulders heave, and bent over her. She was sobbing; he
could see the tears glittering on her cheek; with a great effort she
tried for control.
“I am tired—and excited, Mr. Caryl—don’t heed me.”
He stood still and silent, watching her, his soft mouth curved into a
half-sad smile; the light from the flaring candle and his flickering
shadow rose and fell over her, now obscuring, now revealing her bent
head, and stooping shoulders.
“’Tis nothing,” she said, stifling her sobs.
“Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is a great deal.”
She suddenly broke down beyond concealment. “I think my heart is
broken,” she whispered between passionate sobs “I think I am mad—oh,—I
am ashamed!—ashamed!”
She struggled up, hiding her scarlet, tear-stained face.
“Think me mad,” she whispered through her fingers, “and forget—I am
ashamed—and most unhappy—”
She leaned her forehead against the chimneypiece and sobbed afresh; her
yellow skirt trailed in the dead ashes on the hearth, and from head to
foot she shuddered.
Jerome Caryl was neither discomposed nor confused; he surveyed her
agitation with a tender calmness and his strange melancholy smile
deepened.
“I think we can make the Macdonalds take the oaths, Miss Delia,” he
said, “as an old friend you will let me help you—in what I can?”
She lifted her head and looked at him with a half-wonder.
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기