The Master of Stair 19

The Master of Stair 19

Delia caught her breath; the position had become suddenly a perilous

one, she reflected swiftly that her name was unknown, and gave it as

frankly as she was able.

 

“Ah,” said the Countess, “and your lovely friend?”

 

Delia collected herself with an effort.

 

“Your ladyship must ask him yourself,” she answered. “I cannot rob him

of that honor.”

 

The Countess lifted her brows and accepted the rebuff.

 

“We no’ intended to stay here,” she remarked with an easy change of

subject. “But the storm coming on and my lord havin’ a weak chest that

I should na wish him to catch cold on—we stopped at the first inn we

came to.”

 

So Breadalbane was with her! Delia’s heart sank; she wished she could

warn Jerome and her brother, but she was too confused to invent a

decent excuse for leaving the room, and as she stood trying to collect

herself to some definite plan of action the Countess crossed over to

the fire and took off her hat.

 

“Canna we remove that vile brewis?” she said. “The smell will make my

lord sick.”

 

Delia gave a thin hysterical laugh.

 

“’Tis all there is in the house belike,” she answered.

 

But the Countess Peggy’s keen eyes had marked other food about the

room, bacon, flour, fruit and fowls.

 

“Help me, mistress,” she commanded, and laying delicate, resolute hands

upon a cloth, she lifted off the pot and stood it on the hearth.

 

“Ah,” she said with a disgusted face. “The place reeks.”

 

Her hair had fallen over her face; she flung it back and Delia noticed

dully how it curled round her temples in little red ringlets, then

suddenly it seemed as if her blood stood still; the shock of discovery

held her silent.

 

This was the woman Macdonald had spoken of; she knew it certainly and

her fingers curled into her palm with hate. This woman—Lady

Breadalbane! With angry eyes she watched the Countess, who all

unconscious was moving about the room among the pots and pans; there

could not be two women with such eyes and hair and lips, and it was a

most likely thing that it should have been Breadalbane’s wife riding by

Glenorchy. The discovery nerved her; an angry desire to test this

woman, to prove herself right, took hold of her; her fine face flushed

and she lifted her head.

 

“Madam, your lord carries good news to London,” she said on an impulse.

“I heard all the clans had submitted.”

 

The Countess turned with a slight smile.

 

“It is no’ the truth,” she said, “all hav’na’.”

 

“Ah?” said Delia with her heart beating fast. “And who are the unhappy

rebels?”

 

There was a little pause before Lady Breadalbane answered:

 

“The Macdonalds o’ Glencoe for one. They have na’ taken the oaths.”

 

Delia saw the red and shadowy room spin round her and felt the blood

hammering in her temples; before she left Glasgow she had been assured

that the Macdonalds had come in with the other clans; she had never

questioned it; it was such an unlikely thing they, of all, should

remain obstinate; she moistened her lips and tried to frame some reply;

she was saved by Jerome Caryl opening the door.

 

“I have engaged another chamber, Miss Delia,” he said. “We need not

intrude on you, my lady.”

 

He inclined his head toward the Countess.

 

Delia felt a throb of relief to hear he had discovered the guest’s

quality, and hastened toward him.

 

“Hae ye seen my lord?” asked the Countess calmly.

 

“Yes, madam, he hath the only habitable room up-stairs,” answered

Jerome, “but he hath most generously surrendered it to Miss Delia.”

 

The Countess smiled.

 

“We are well enough here,” she said. “And ye may keep that untidy

female awa’—I wait on my lord myself. We shall gang as soon as it is

light.”

 

With a few murmured words Delia followed Jerome into the opposite room,

a dirty dingy place where Sir Perseus sat over a rough supper. She

joined him in a white agitation and glanced from one man to another.

 

“Delia—what is the matter?” asked Sir Perseus. “This encounter will do

us no harm.”

 

She was silent, one hand over her bosom; with the other she pushed her

plate aside; she was quite white.

 

“I know,” she said faintly, “But I cannot eat—I will go to bed.”

 

“That is folly,” answered Sir Perseus curtly. Then he turned to Jerome

and added in a lowered voice: “Did you speak to the Earl?”

 

“Why not?” asked Jerome calmly. “I asked him for the room and he gave

it me—cold and stiff but courteous. His wife is beautiful—is she not?”

 

They commenced their supper, but Delia sat miserably silent, with

absent eyes. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath,” beat in her

head. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath!”

 

The hostess in clumsy hurry left the door ajar behind her, enough for

them to see across the passage where in the doorway of the opposite

room stood the Countess with her sleeves rolled up over her white

elbows, and flour on her hands, her face was turned to the stairway,

upon it a lovely smile.

 

Jerome fixed on her his mournful eyes, then, as he watched, Breadalbane

crossed the passage and entered the room. The Countess closed the door.

 

“I saw a woman like that once—in a dream,” said Jerome. “The face was

strangely impressed on my mind.”

 

Sir Perseus, eating lustily, asked:

 

“What was she doing in your dream?”

 

Jerome gave his grieving smile. “She was strangling me with a long lace

tie,” he said slowly.

 

Sir Perseus laughed, but Delia broke out passionately: “A cold

Scotswoman! I loathe her—she _would_ strangle you if it needed—her eyes

are hard as stones.”

 

“Delia!” cried Sir Perseus. “The place is overrun with Campbells—have a

care—they have a whole body-guard of Highlanders at the back—”

 

“And yet she does servants’ work,” said Delia.

 

“She is devoted to him,” answered Jerome.

 

“A strange thing!” flashed Delia.

 

“Nay—give her credit for her greatest virtue,” he replied. “She would

do anything for Breadalbane. I think he is very fortunate.”

 

Delia bit her lip and dropped her eyes under Jerome’s calm gaze; she

was nervous, excited, almost beyond bearing; she rose up impatiently.

 

“Mr. Caryl—you told me the Macdonalds had taken the oath,” she said

with burning cheeks. “And she—this woman—told me they had not—and she

should know.”

 

Jerome turned in his chair to look on her.

 

“Why—’tis not January yet,” he said gently. “There is time—I have

assurance from Lochiel that all the clans will take the oaths.”

 

Sir Perseus put in curtly.

 

“And what matter for the Macdonalds if the others come in? They had

their warning....”

 

Delia moved round the room restlessly with her head lifted, her eyes

fixed absently.

 

“Believe me,” said Jerome softly, “we can do no more than we have.”

 

“No, no,” she answered hastily, “’tis only it surprised me—they leave

it late.”

 

Jerome caught a questioning look on Sir Perseus’s face and delicately

changed the subject.

 

“I hope Wedderburn will not keep me waiting,” he said in a low voice.

“He was to cross from France and arrive at Romney on the twentieth—meet

me in London at ‘The Sleeping Queen’ on Christmas Eve—where we shall

stay—I told you—’tis ostensibly an inn, but they have a secret press

there.”