The Master of Stair 22

The Master of Stair 22

CHAPTER XI

 

THE MASTER OF STAIR

 

 

The sound of his own name seemed to sober the man; he sank down heavily

into a chair, clutching his sword, his wild vacant eyes staring before

him. Celia Hunt stood dumbly regarding him, disbelief and fear in her

face. The Master of Stair!

 

She had heard of him as the fiercest of Whigs, one of the most powerful

men in the three Kingdoms, the friend of William of Orange—and the

ruler of Scotland—yet he was here doing spy’s work and needlessly

revealing himself! It was incredible; yet she had heard that the

Dalrymples were mad—and accursed: if this were not he, why should he

lie: claim so burdensome a title.

 

She crept a little closer.

 

“You are the Master of Stair?” she whispered. “You ask me to believe

that?”

 

He looked up at her and his eyes were not the eyes of any mere ordinary

man, she thought.

 

“I am John Dalrymple,” he said, “what have you heard of me that you

shrink away so?”

 

“And you do this work!” she cried.

 

“I would trust no other man to do this work I have in hand,” he

answered. “Nobles and princes are among your Jacobite plotters—we do

not send hired scum to combat them. I am the Master of Stair.”

 

“Ah! and why do you tell me?”

 

“You!” his eyes flickered over her scornfully. “Why should I not tell

you?”

 

“Would you bribe me to your side?” she asked breathlessly.

 

“No,” he answered; “I have accomplished my end. I know all I need to

know. I touched the bottom of their plot days ago.” He rose with a

sudden laugh. “Berwick and his fellow-fools! They have been too

secure—did they think we had neither eyes nor ears!”

 

Celia Hunt moistened her lips slowly with the tip of her red tongue.

 

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

 

He hesitated, glanced at her with gloomy scorn. “I am going to London

as Andrew Wedderburn; to-morrow night I shall meet Jerome Caryl and

obtain from him the names of all concerned in this last plot.”

 

“Then?”

 

“Then, wench, I shall put that list before the King,” he answered, “and

the business will be done with—this popish scum will lie quiet a while.”

 

“Clean work for a gentleman, Sir John,” she cried in a clear scorn. “I

know some dirty knaves would not go to such lengths of treachery to

save their necks—”

 

He swung round on her; but she laughed up into his face without

flinching.

 

“Why, you can kill me,” she said, “I am a Jacobite, a smuggler, I’ve

helped many a fugitive out of England and many a conspirator in—and if

you are what you say, I am doubly glad to be the enemy of the

government whose ministers are such as you!”

 

“You are very reckless,” said the Master of Stair. “I shall not forget

you are outside the law.”

 

“As you are outside hope of Heaven!” she answered him fiercely.

“Accursed, root and branch—you damned Dalrymples—oh, I have heard some

tales of you—if you indeed be he they call the Master of Stair.”

 

He put his hand to his side and stared down at her; he had grown

ghastly white.

 

Lithe and quick in her movements she swung close to him, the blood

flushing her dark cheek.

 

“How did your sister die?” she mocked with the courage of desperation.

 

“As any man’s might have done,” he answered hoarsely.

 

“How did your brother die?” she cried.

 

“Stop!” cried the Master of Stair, “Stop!”

 

But she drew herself up defiantly and flung out “How did your son die,

Sir John Dalrymple! Surely there is a curse on you!”

 

He stood motionless, staring.

 

“I think his brother killed him,” whispered Celia Hunt. “I think your

brother shot himself for hate of you—I think your sister went mad and

slew her bridegroom—”

 

“Does all the world know this?” he said in a strange voice.

 

“Your family has been a fine subject for common talk these many years,”

she answered.

 

He gave a vacant laugh and turned on his heel.

 

“I have borne too much for your tongue to move me much—yet—if you speak

of _him_ again—my God!—I shall strike you silent!”

 

Despite herself his tone awed her; she shrank back into the shadows and

her venom died on her tongue.

 

There was a silence.

 

The Master of Stair picked up his hat and cloak and turned toward the

door. He took a whistle from his breast and blew three times into the

night.

 

Celia Hunt cried as figures formed out of the blackness.

 

“Arrest this girl for high treason, Captain,” said the Master of Stair

in a manner quiet and courteous as a couple of soldiers stepped into

the room, “and search the house—see to it she sends no messages—you

will find me in Romney to-night—to-morrow in London.”

 

“I was glad to hear your signal, Sir John,” answered the soldier, “’tis

cold on these fens.”

 

“A vile place,” said the Master of Stair. “I think the Jacobites will

use it no more. You have arrested the man, Hunt?”

 

“Yes, Sir John; we found him on the fens.”

 

“Good-night, Captain.” He lifted his hat and was gone into the dark.

 

Celia Hunt unpinned the Duke of Berwick’s brooch and slipped it inside

her bosom before they came to tie her hands.

 

“Maybe,” said the officer, “he or both of you will choose to turn

informer.”

 

Celia flung up her head with a jerk that loosened her hair from its

pins and sent it rippling down her back: she laughed.

 

* * * * *

 

Sir John Dalrymple sat in his room in Romney a few hours later writing.

 

The room was warm and comfortable; a bright fire burned on the

red-tiled hearth; a lamp hung over the table; Sir John wore a scarlet

satin dressing-gown that fell open on his shirt and cravat; a crystal

decanter stood empty beside him and a half-filled wine-glass.

 

He wrote with a reckless air of carelessness, his hand flew fast over

the paper in a bold trailing writing; as he finished a sheet he tossed

it across the table and took another. He was interrupted by some one

softly entering; he looked up with an absorbed frown to see his

secretary coming toward him with letters in his hand.

 

Sir John pushed his chair back and flung down his pen; his brilliant

eyes were shadowed underneath and there was a curious drag at the

corners of his mouth as if he had been in great pain.

 

“From London?” he demanded as he took the letters.

 

“Yes, Sir John—forwarded by my lord your father to the name you gave

him.”

 

“Sit down,” said the Master of Stair. “I may need you, Melville.”

 

The secretary, meek and fair, sat down at the further end of the table

and began mending a pen.

 

Sir John took up the first of his letters and glanced over it eagerly.

 

“From Breadalbane,” he said. “More of these cursed clans have come

in—but the Macdonalds remain obdurate—I am glad of it.”

 

He dashed the letter down.

 

“Melville, you will get me those maps of the Highlands I spoke of—I

must see Breadalbane—he is in London now—his caution allows him to put

but little on paper.”