The Master of Stair 21
As he obeyed he found himself face to face with a young girl; she held
a candle in her hand that guttered in the draught and sent a trail of
smoke and flame over her shoulder; round her brown bodice was a
kerchief of vivid scarlet and in her ears hoops of red-gold glittered
and swung.
“My father is out looking for you, Mr. Wedderburn,” she said with the
calm of one grown easy at a perilous trade, careless and used to danger.
“I am late,” he answered. With a heavy step he advanced into the room.
She bolted the door.
“Yes—the boat was expected two hours ago—we were there to meet you—you
missed my father, sir?—he went to the coast; he will be returning soon.”
In silence he flung off his dripping cloak and hat and half-turning,
glanced at Celia Hunt. She looked back at him with a sudden arrested
interest.
It was the most remarkable, the handsomest face that she had ever seen;
both his __EXPRESSION__ and the carriage of his splendid person indicated
an arrogance that neither speech nor action might express; it seemed as
if he forever contained a surging, passionate haughtiness; it was in
the lines of his clear-cut mouth and in the __EXPRESSION__ of his dark blue
eyes; eyes whose beauty was marred by a look, strained, slightly
distraught. He wore no peruke and his short hair was black as his heavy
brows; he was of a pale complexion naturally, and now his eyes showed
dark in a face markedly pale.
“Ye are the messenger from St. Germains?” asked Celia Hunt.
“Have I not said so?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn with a curl of his short
upper lip. “Why do you stare so, wench? I am not used to wait for my
welcome.”
“Ye are not he who came here last under the name of Andrew Wedderburn,”
said the girl.
“You must be used to feigned names here,” was the answer. “Do you doubt
me?—be satisfied.” With the slightly grandiloquent magnificence that
was his unconscious manner, he drew forth the papers from his breast
and held them out.
She saw the seal of King James on the topmost. “You will stay the night
here?” she said.
He gave a reckless little laugh and seated himself at the table.
“When did the King’s son leave here?”
“This morning.”
“I am to meet him in London. And Mr. Caryl; you have heard from him?”
“He told of your coming.”
“Ah—he also, I am to meet in London.” He leaned back in his chair as if
he was weary and stared into the fire with moody eyes.
The girl, Celia Hunt, set about getting food with an air half-awed,
half-doubting.
Of all the Jacobites, nobles, captains and gentlemen, spies and common
rufflers who had used her father’s hut in their passage to and from
France, this man was the most at ease, the most arrogant of manner, as
if his life was in no danger, nor his cause in any fear of failure; yet
at the same time she had seen none with eyes that held such excited
wildness or who kept his hand so continually on his sword. She puzzled
over him; he was no daredevil of a cavalier or knight-errant, eager for
adventure like some of these plotters; there was nothing roistering or
gay about him; he had an air of passionate coldness; like a Puritan who
disdains the worldly things about him and puts a full-blooded strength
into grave desires; he looked past the girl as if she had been an old
woman, a treatment she was not used to; she was handsome enough in her
lean, vivid way to win courtesy at least; and often more from men older
and graver than this one.
The Duke of Berwick had kissed her when he left that morning and given
her the diamond brooch that glittered on her breast; it was the Stuart
way of winning and keeping loyalty; she was shrewd enough to know it
was only a manner of paying a debt, but she liked the implied
compliment that it was not money could buy her services; this man, she
thought scornfully, might likely enough reward her at parting with a
handful of silver. Having spread the remains of the Duke of Berwick’s
breakfast on a cloth of smuggled lace and having set beside them some
bottles of the wine brought secretly from France, the girl turned to
Mr. Wedderburn.
“Your supper,” she said curtly.
He rose, flung himself before the table and began to eat absently.
“You had a rough passage,” remarked Celia, eying him.
“Yes,” he barely looked at her as he spoke.
“You are often employed by His Majesty?”
“Yes,” was his answer, given even more coldly than before.
Celia came closer, resting her firm brown hands on the edge of the
table and, leaning forward, she peered into his face.
The ragged yellow lamplight flickered over her, lighting her eyes and
her dusky hair; she spoke, very low.
“You are a Williamite spy,” she said steadily.
Mr. Wedderburn pushed his chair back and his mouth took on the scornful
curve that came there very easily.
“Prove it,” he answered quietly.
“I cannot prove it—but I know,” said Celia Hunt. “You are that damned
thing—a spy. You dare not lie deep enough to deny it.”
He rose up softly; he was outside the circle of the lamplight, but her
straining eyes saw his face was drawn.
“I dare do anything,” he said, “but I do not choose to answer.”
“There is no need,” she said, very erect and taut, “I know.”
They faced each other, the table and half the room between them; he
touched his breast lightly; a square-cut diamond ring glistened through
the lace that fell over his hand.
“I carry a something here,” he said with a light haughtiness, “that
will serve my turn against anything you may say.”
“How did you get them?” she asked. “The papers—how much do you know?”
His lids dropped over his flashing eyes; he lifted his head still
higher.
“Enough,” he said.
“To hang us all,” said Celia Hunt hoarsely. “My God!”
“Perhaps,” he assented. “Now will you try to send a warning to Jerome
Caryl?”
She had fallen back a step.
“No,” she said. “I shall prevent you leaving this place—”
He laughed. “Who will stop me?” he asked.
She swayed a little, staring at him.
“You know too much,” she panted. “Oh, my God, I would give something to
know what to do.” He laughed at her; with a lithe movement he came
close, his right hand was loosely over his sword, the other, shapely
and white, rested on his hip, thrust into the folds of his purple sash;
the carelessness of his attitude stung her like a taunt.
“I am a fool!” she cried passionately. “I should have waited till ye
slept then bid my father settle you—you hireling spy!”
“Slept here!” he answered with curling lip, “and keep a civil tongue,
baggage, or I shall strike you down. I have no ceremony with your kind.”
“Ah,” she whispered, “you would dare to murder me.”
“I have dared God, Himself,” he answered wildly, “I know nothing you
can name I would not dare—but I should disdain to murder you—”
Her horror-stricken eyes dwelt on his magnificent face; her angry
courage ebbed before his strangeness.
“Who are you?” she asked.
But he laughed, not heeding her; his eyes showed hazed and vacant.
“Accursed,” he muttered—“God knows—accursed—at least one of the masters
of the earth—mad perhaps—you have heard of me, belike—” He turned a
distracted gaze on her; she thought suddenly that he was mad—or drunk,
and cowered against the wall in personal fear.
Again he laughed loudly, and moved unsteadily, lurching toward her, it
was as if some passion of his soul had been suddenly loosed and blinded
him.
“Black magic—and blood—” he said wildly.
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