The Master of Stair 18

The Master of Stair 18

“They must not take the oaths,” he said peevishly. “If they do it must

be suppressed—surely with the aid o’ the Master o’ Stair we can do

that?”

 

“I dinna believe they will take them,” answered the Countess. “They

hate us too much and they think themselves ower safe in Glencoe.”

 

“’Tis a fearfu’ place to enter,” said her cousin.

 

“But no’ impossible ye ken—ye see—they could send the soldiers from

Fort William—and I one side and Breadalbane the other—they would be in

a trap.”

 

He looked thoughtfully into the fire and fondled the arm of his chair

with restless thin fingers.

 

“There is ane person we have no’ considered,” he remarked, “the King.”

 

“William o’ Orange?” she questioned.

 

“Yes—ye ken he is no’ a puppet King and has a fearfu’ habit o’ looking

into his affairs himself—I’m no sure of his gude-will to our scheme.”

 

She lifted her delicate shoulders scornfully.

 

“The Master o’ Stair will manage him—he is deep in his confidence.”

 

“Weel.” Argyll looked at her doubtfully, “I have written to the Master

o’ Stair that I dinna do anything without the King’s name as authority.

I will na put my neck in jeopardy.”

 

“The King’s name!” She lifted her head with a superb contempt. “Who is

king in the Hielands? Ye are MacCallum More—will ye defer to a

foreigner who canna speak your tongue—who hasna’ seen your country? By

Heaven, I think the Campbells can rule in the Hielands without a

Dutchman’s warrant!”

 

“Breadalbane is no’ o’ that mind,” sneered Argyll. “He took the oaths

fast enow.”

 

“But he dinna consult William o’ Orange every time he wishes to hang a

Macdonald,” retorted the Countess.

 

But Argyll was obstinate.

 

“I willna’ put my neck in jeopardy,” he repeated. “Show me the King’s

name and I’m content—but I’ll no’ move without it.”

 

The Countess Peggy’s thin lips compressed scornfully. “Vera weel,” she

said. “The Master o’ Stair will get the King’s authority, cousin.”

 

“You’re ower fond o’ quoting the Master o’ Stair,” said Argyll sourly;

the news of the clans coming in had frightened his irresolute mind; he

was ready to wash his hands of the whole affair.

 

“The Master o’ Stair!” repeated the Countess. “Cousin, he is the most

powerfu’ man in the Lowlands, ye ken, and great in London—he is o’ our

views—cousin, I do weel to quote the Master o’ Stair!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX

 

ON THE ROAD TO LONDON

 

 

It was drawing toward the evening of December twentieth, along the

smooth high road to Carlisle three travelers were riding swiftly, their

faces toward England. The wind blew cold and keen; the trees bordering

the roadside began to show dark and misshapen in the twilight; the

walls of Carlisle ahead of them were a welcome sight.

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh, riding between her brother and Jerome Caryl,

shuddering drew her hood closer round her face, and whipped her horse

up to keep pace with her companions.

 

Through the dusk came Jerome Caryl’s low musical voice; he was telling

her the reason of this hasty departure for London; she had been loth to

leave Scotland though, with the submission of the greater number of the

Highland chiefs their work in the North had been accomplished.

 

“My Lord Berwick,” Jerome was saying, “is come to England and lives now

in a smuggler’s hut on Romney Marsh—we have to see him about the rising

in the spring. Then I have to sound the ministers and nobles and get

what names I can to a letter promising help to King James—for you see,

Miss Delia, the French do not desire to send aid if none will join

them—then I have to meet an agent of His Majesty’s—who comes with news

from France—one, Andrew Wedderburn.”

 

Delia made no answer, but her brother spoke.

 

“Who is that fellow, Jerome? We are getting too many into this plot.”

 

“I have letters from my Lord Middleton assuring me of his perfect

loyalty,” answered Jerome. “He hath risked his life before on the

King’s service.”

 

“A Scot?” asked Sir Perseus.

 

“Yes—by the name,” smiled Jerome. “’Tis not he that troubles me, but

this getting of signatures. Men are wary of signing papers, and lip

promises are of no service.”

 

They rode in silence a while; it began to snow and the light rapidly

faded.

 

“’Tis a severe winter,” said Delia. “I would we were in Carlisle.”

 

She looked wistfully ahead, toward the city lost now in the gathering

dusk.

 

Jerome Caryl, following out his thoughts, spoke again.

 

“I have Hamilton and Athol—I nearly had Argyll—but he is too

fearful—Breadalbane is too cunning to commit himself—of course there

are Montgomery and Crauford—and in England I am sure of Marlborough,

Cornbury, Rochester and Godolphin—but I need others—there are the

common names whose weight is little—whose honor is cheapened with much

false swearing.”

 

Delia responded to the disdain in his even voice:

 

“That there should be so many traitors!” she cried impulsively.

“Sometimes I loathe them all.”

 

From the dark figure at her side came her brother’s practical voice.

 

“If you could get Devonshire, Halifax and Dorset, Jerome,” he said, “it

were enough. Shrewsbury, too....”

 

“Ah!” said Jerome softly. “Be careful—even on the open road.”

 

Again they pressed on in silence; the snow fell thickly, their hands

were numb upon the bridles, and Delia felt her limbs ache with cold.

 

“We shall not reach Carlisle to-night,” said Jerome suddenly. “You see

those lights ahead, Perseus? ’tis an inn—I remember it; a rough place,

but we will stop there.”

 

Though Caryl was the younger, Perseus never questioned his right to

command; his cold smiling way carried an authority not easy to dispute.

In a few moments more they had drawn up at the inn, a low two-storeyed

house; before it a heavy sign outlined now in snow, on it in straggling

letters the legend:

 

“The Borderers.”

 

A flickering lamp over the door gave a gusty light. As Jerome

dismounted he saw a huge coach drawn up against the side of the house.

 

“Ye have guests?” he demanded of the ostler who came forward.

 

The man nodded. “A lord and his family.”

 

Jerome hesitated, but to turn away now would look suspicious, and the

night was impossible. He helped Delia down from the saddle and the

three entered the low door.

 

A silent, depressed looking, slatternly woman showed them into a large

room that was at once both kitchen and parlor. It was lit only by a

huge fire that roared up the vast chimney; the floor was tiled in red,

the walls, plaster; heavy red curtains before the windows shut out the

night; kitchen utensils, mostly of brown earthenware, hung against the

walls and were placed about the hearth; a three-legged cauldron was in

the fire and a heavy smell of cooking onions rose from it.

 

By the low dark table stood a lady, who looked up sharply at the

new-comers.

 

She was a great contrast to her surroundings; her fur-lined coat lay on

a chair beside her, but she still wore her large beaver hat, and in one

hand she held a black muff; her gray velvet dress was open at the bosom

on a full white bodice; her attitude was elegant and indolent, she

rested against the table with her feet crossed daintily.

 

Perseus and his sister advanced at once to the fire, showing no heed of

her, but Jerome Caryl remained in the doorway, loosening his cloak; as