The Master of Stair 24

The Master of Stair 24

CHAPTER XII

 

THE LOVE OF DELIA

 

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh sat alone in the back parlor of “The Sleeping

Queen”; it was New Year’s Eve, about six o’clock and the quiet little

inn was deserted.

 

It stood in a dreary back street close to Westminster Abbey and was a

resort well-known to Jacobites and almost unheard of by others; in the

upper rooms was a printing-press that turned out hundreds of the

lampoons and pamphlets that daily strewed the city and in this dull

chamber more than one famous gentleman had drunk to the health of King

James.

 

Delia had been alone all day, her brother and Jerome Caryl had been

summoned to a meeting with Berwick, who was in hiding in Southwark; she

knew they would return to meet the messenger from France, Mr.

Wedderburn, who was due this evening, but the hour she could not tell.

 

The room was large and low with plain plaster walls and uncarpeted

floor; on the high chimneypiece two huge white china dogs grinned at

each other either side a wooden clock; the fireplace was laid with

rough brown Dutch tiles that bore the history of the fall of man in

rude bold figures; Delia sat in one of the well-worn chairs, and stared

absently at the round fat face of Eve who looked up distressfully from

the hearth, glowing red from the fire.

 

The room was full of the sound of bells, the bells of St. Margaret’s

and the Abbey chiming together steadily. The girl listened to them

dreamily, and her thoughts were in Scotland, the desolate Glencoe—the

Glen o’ Weeping—were they safe, those Macdonalds?—very far-away they

seemed, helpless, too, and pitiful for all their fierceness; she prayed

they might have taken the oaths; she did not care to think of Ronald

Macdonald as among the dead.

 

With a little sigh she leaned forward; she wore a long dress of dark

gray silk and in the heavy curls of her hazel hair was a band of velvet

of a bright pure blue; in the plain collar of her gown shone a little

turquoise brooch.

 

Her eyes, dark brown and brooding, looked soft as pansies under her

smooth white brow, and her mouth strong and gentle was very sweetly

set; it was a fair musing face she rested on her hand; a face calmly

troubled.

 

Through the bells came the sound of footsteps; she thought it might be

her brother or Caryl, but the step was too light for either.

 

She rose slowly, her eyes on the door.

 

It opened and a man stepped in.

 

“Miss Delia?” he asked softly, “the sister of Sir Perseus?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He closed the door.

 

“They sent me here to wait the coming of Mr. Caryl,” he said. “I am

Andrew Wedderburn—from France.” He came into the room, his hat in his

hand; Delia looked at him in silence, she stood with her hand on the

arm of her chair, the firelight full on her face.

 

“May I wait here?” asked Mr. Wedderburn. “I have satisfied the host of

my identity—but you—will you see my papers?”

 

“Sir—we do not question friends,” she said. “How should you be here if

you were not the King’s messenger?”

 

His blue eyes dwelt on her a second with a curious look; he laid his

hat on a chair. “Help me with my coat,” he said quietly. “Will you

not—the room is warm?”

 

She came slowly toward him with a half-hesitation.

 

He wore a light-colored roquelaure that he had unbuttoned and great

riding-gloves that he pulled off to fling beside his hat; as Delia

approached him she was aware of a heavy perfume mingled with the

atmosphere of cold outer air without, that he carried. Timidly she took

his coat by the collar and helped him with it; as she did so his hand,

ice-cold, touched hers and she colored foolishly.

 

“Thank you,” he said and crossed to the fire.

 

Delia stood still, holding his coat; the strong perfume it was redolent

of seemed to make her giddy; the close contact with his personality had

been as strong, as real a thing as if some one had struck her; she

turned to look at the man with a feeling that her head was spinning.

 

He had taken some papers from his breast and was looking at them; he

wore a suit of geranium-colored velvet, a waistcoat branched with

silver and buttoned with brilliants; his face and the front curls of

his black peruke were powdered; over his lace tie a bow of wide black

velvet was tied under his chin; the scabbard of his sword was gold and

he wore a number of ornaments that glittered as he moved, yet his

appearance was one of gloom not gaiety, and the splendor of his superb

face was marred by a look of wildness, contained and held in.

 

Delia gave a little half-cry of surprise:

 

“Sir,” she said faintly, “came you in this guise from France?”

 

He looked up as if he did not understand.

 

“I came by Romney Marsh,” he said. “Hunt’s cottage—you know it?”

 

“I mean,” explained Delia with a great flush, “that our messengers are

usually more plainly habited.”

 

He glanced over his clothes.

 

“Ah!” he gave a sudden smile, “merely the fashion of Paris, Miss

Delia—I have escaped detection—so what matters it?”

 

“Nothing,” she assented. “Only you look more like one of the Prince’s

courtiers, Mr. Wedderburn, than the King’s friends, who usually go

roughly clad.”

 

He gave her another quick look.

 

“See my commission, madam—”

 

“Oh, no—” she protested. “Show it to Mr. Caryl—”

 

“Is he coming here—soon?”

 

“Yes—to meet you, Mr. Wedderburn.”

 

She dropped into silence after that; he put his papers back and stared

at the brown tiles, suddenly he looked at her:

 

“How loud the bells sound,” he said, “it is Westminster is it not?”

 

“Yes,” said Delia.

 

He turned and stood with his back to the fire.

 

“Why do you remain there?” he asked. “Do I frighten you that you will

not come and sit down?”

 

“You—a little confuse me,” she answered, then feeling the folly of it

was silent again.

 

Mr. Wedderburn laughed.

 

“A plotter, Miss Delia, should not so easily be put out—you are an

ardent plotter, are you not?”

 

With a semblance of ease she crossed over to him. “I know not,” she

said. “I have done nothing for my cause—as you have, sir.”

 

“I have served my King well,” he answered gloomily. There fell a little

silence; they were only a foot apart and the sense of his presence over

her was as strong as if he touched her with both hands; instinctively

she made a sharp movement backwards and something fell with a rattle to

the ground.

 

“Your brooch,” said Mr. Wedderburn and picked it up.

 

She put her hand to her open collar.

 

“Ah—it is hard to fasten.”

 

“Let me try,” said he gravely.

 

She looked at him in a confused manner.

 

“Yes; the fastening is difficult,” said Mr. Wedderburn with the

sapphire in his hand—“hold up your head.”

 

Obviously nerving herself, Delia obeyed; he bent over her and his tie

brushed her bosom; his hand touched her bare throat as he adjusted the

brooch; at the sensation she gave an uncontrollable start that made the

pin again fly and prick her flesh; with a little cry she stepped back.

 

“I have hurt you!” cried Mr. Wedderburn; and his white face slightly

flushed—“Forgive me—”

 

“Ah, no, ’twas mine own fault,” said Delia, but if the scratch had been

poisoned she could not have spoken more faintly or with paler lips.

 

Mr. Wedderburn looked at her keenly and she seemed to know it though

her eyes were downcast, for her face was flushed as suddenly as his and