The Master of Stair 20

The Master of Stair 20

As he spoke they heard the wind whistle and struggle at the ill-fitting

windows and the snow falling down the chimney hiss into the fire.

 

“Dangerous weather for the packet to cross,” whispered Delia.

 

“It has done it in worse,” said Jerome. “And there is less fear of

detection—government spies are not likely to be on Romney Marsh this

time of the year.”

 

Sir Perseus laughed.

 

“What fools the Dutchman is served with!” he said. “Think of the times

that packet has run to and fro—think of the messages sent—the cargoes

of Jacobites shipped—and no one has ever suspected—”

 

“Our agent, Hunt the smuggler, is trustworthy—and well-paid,” answered

Jerome. “And his hut is desolate enough.”

 

Delia suddenly stopped by the table and caught up her untasted wine.

 

“God give us luck once more!” she said impulsively. “To the safety of

King James’s messenger!”

 

“Heaven preserve him,” cried Sir Perseus, drinking.

 

His sister gave him a bright defiant glance.

 

“Him and the Macdonalds o’ Glencoe!” she said a little wildly. “God

preserve!”

 

“Amen!” said Jerome Caryl.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X

 

THE KING’S MESSENGER

 

 

It was snowing fast over Romney Marsh; the whole wide, desolate fenland

sweeping to the sea lay gray under the storm; it was near nightfall and

almost dark; in the landscape one light burning brightly through the

snowflakes; to judge by its steadiness it came from a window, by its

size it was far-off.

 

There was the steady sound of the thud of the distant waves, now and

then broken by the thin cry of the curlew or the hungry shriek of the

sea-gull.

 

In the broken marsh-ground grew a group of withered trees; the foremost

bent and blasted by lightning and against this one leaned a man wrapped

in a long cloak.

 

He was looking toward the sea in an attitude, alert but easy; he

appeared to be affected neither by his isolated position, the gloomy

scene or the bitter storm; now and then he turned toward the distant

light as if to assure himself it was still there, or moved to shake the

snow off his shoulders and hat.

 

As it grew darker the snow began to cease over the sea, and the heavy

sky broke into a patch of gloomy red and crimson; it was possible now

to discern the dreary line of shore and sand and the dim form of the

dark waves.

 

The man gazed round him, then made slowly toward the sea. The sodden

earth and wide logs impeded him; he trod cautiously, but for all his

ease sank now and then to his ankles in mud or half-fell over the

broken stones and boulders.

 

Slowly he made painful progress to the edge of the fen where it dipped

in a sudden slope of clay straight onto the beach.

 

There halting he stared out to sea; the snow and the rising mist of the

winter night hid all from him save the line of waves breaking on the

wet sand; melancholy and terrible was the perfect loneliness; the

watcher drew himself up and looked back at the light, then round again

at the ghastly yellow sunset that seemed to be far distant; a mere

slash of gloomy color in the mist and gray. Then suddenly he drew back;

a little boat was pushing through the waves; he could hear the grind of

the keel on the pebbles as it struck on the beach and a man leaped from

it into the surf.

 

The man upon the shore watched him struggling up the beach, saw him

turn and wave to his companion as the boat disappeared again into the

mist, then advance as rapidly as he was able toward the ridge of the

fen.

 

The sun faded to a mere stain; the mist drifted off the sea mingled

with sleet and snow; the man on the beach drew nearer the other, all

unconscious that any soul was watching him.

 

With labor and difficulty he threaded his way onward and up the

shelving ledge, the other watching him the while as he drew nearer,

nearer. Suddenly they met—face to face—a few yards apart; the new-comer

stood motionless with surprise and his hand flew to his sword.

 

“For which King?” cried the man in waiting. His voice sounded strange

and hollow through the damp silence; the new arrival drew a step

nearer, searching the strange figure; he was a slight, fair young man

and showed a face white and strained.

 

“Which King?” he repeated, moistening his lips.

 

“Are there two?” came the answer from the folds of the heavy cloak. “I

stand for King James.”

 

“Ah!” with a sigh of relief the young man relaxed the tension of his

attitude. “You were sent to meet me then?”

 

“Yes,” said the other quietly, “to take your papers.”

 

“My papers?” the new arrival again showed alarm. “I am to take them to

London.”

 

“I will take them to London.”

 

“Sir, your authority?”

 

“The King’s.”

 

The messenger smiled, regaining his presence of mind.

 

“Sir, I pray you show it me—this is a strange request—I go to Hunt’s

hut; will you accompany me?”

 

“Yes—but first your papers.”

 

The Jacobite laughed. “You grow peremptory—let me pass.”

 

“I desire your papers.”

 

“I will not part with them.”

 

“It were wiser.”

 

“Do you threaten me?”

 

“By God, yes!”

 

The King’s messenger laughed again; his eyes blazed in a white face.

 

“William of Orange is ill-served in such clumsy knaves as you!” he

cried.

 

“Give me the papers, damn you!”

 

“Do you think me a traitor?”

 

“By God—I know you a fool!”

 

“Stand out of my way!” and the messenger made a step forward, but the

other seized him by the arm.

 

“Do you think,” he cried fiercely, “that I am going to let you go? By

Heaven—I have not waited here for nothing.”

 

The King’s messenger wrenched himself free: “Spy—who betrayed us?” he

burst forth, and he gave a wild glance round the desolate fen; the

other seemed to read his thoughts.

 

“There is no ambush,” he said scornfully, “’tis you and I alone. Who

think you is the better man? Will you try issues with me?”

 

The King’s messenger an instant studied his opponent; he saw a man of

regal height and make, whose face was hidden by his drooping beaver and

whose figure was shrouded in a heavy traveling cloak; a hopeless look

crossed his face; he stepped back desperately.

 

“You or I,” he said through his teeth—“Well—” he put his hand to his

bosom and there was the dull gleam of metal. But the other had marked

his action and instantly his hand flew from his cloak; there was the

flash and report of a pistol-shot and the King’s messenger fell

backwards silently into the mist.

 

“How is William of Orange served now?” cried the man peering forward;

his smoking pistol in his hand, “where are you, you popish dog?”

 

He sprang forward through the pools and morasses, and confused by the

gathering gloom, stumbled over the body. The King’s messenger had

fallen prone, his head down among the mud and stones; his slayer lifted

him up, and taking his face in his hands peered down into it.

 

The Jacobite was quite dead; from a little hole in his temple the thin

black blood trickled; it had been a true shot; the man who held him

smiled.

 

“I was afraid—in this cursed light,” he muttered, “that I might have

bungled.” Opening the dead man’s coat, he went swiftly through the

pockets. He found papers, sealed and loose; a purse and a few trinkets.