The Master of Stair 25
Delia smiled.
“We make no count of these lawyer’s terms, sir—”
“Nor of the law, I think,” he answered. “’Tis my profession.”
“You are a lawyer, sir?”
He smiled gloomily.
“Yes—a rare thing, you will say to find a lawyer and a conspirator in
one—”
“Oh, no,” said Delia, “but I had rather, sir, you had been a soldier.”
“I have been that, too,” he answered. “I’ve trailed a pike in France
and Holland with fine scum for company—” he turned round on her
suddenly—“that must have been before you were born, Miss Delia.”
She gave a start of surprise; he seemed a young man; he read her
thought and smiled:
“I am six and thirty; you, I think, not above eighteen; my soldiering
was more than twenty years ago—a dead thing!—but you have not answered
me—are you deeply in this plot—to assassinate the Prince?”
“I have not heard of it,” she answered. “They do not tell me
everything—yet I can answer for Mr. Caryl at least that he would not
stain his cause with murder.”
He frowned.
“Is he your lover?”
“No,” her brown eyes lifted steadily. “I have no lover.”
Mr. Wedderburn considered her curiously.
“Well, you are young enough,” he said.
“Older than you think,” she smiled; her eyelids fell again.
They both became aware of a difference in the room; Mr. Wedderburn went
to the window.
“The bells have stopped,” he said; he opened the casement with a
reckless impatient gesture, and a cloud of snow was blown in on him.
“Come here,” he said in a lowered voice. “See—’tis so dark ’tis like
looking over the edge of the world—and the flakes go by like
souls—millions of them—and all—I think lost—”
Delia crept up beside him, trembling and silent; he leaned his stately
head against the mullions and stared out on to the utter dark; the
drifting snow clung to the vivid velvet of his coat; Delia saw his
diamonds rise and fall with the quickness of his breathing and felt her
own heart beating thickly; a vague sense of unreality touched her like
the chill of the outer air and made her shiver.
“Hark!” said Mr. Wedderburn.
The bells burst out again and the sharpness of their music was a pain;
the snow went past in a slow rhythm of descent; Mr. Wedderburn turned
and looked at Delia.
“Ah—it is cold—shut the window,” she said, and she closed her eyes and
swayed as if she fainted inwardly.
But he stood motionless, the snow drifting over him, his hand on the
open window; the mad, reckless blood of his doomed race rose in him; he
spent his life in trying wild means of forgetting his great unhappiness
and here, in the pale, pure face shrinking away from him, was one way
of distraction; he was as picturesque in his thoughts as in his person
and he imagined her soul, simple, white as the snow without, standing
before him, waiting for a sign to flutter into his hand; he smiled
gloomily; she was not the first to respond to the obvious attraction of
his flaunting personality, but she had the novelty of a singular,
gracious freshness, an almost childlike simplicity of demeanor; it was
exquisite to think she knew nothing of him.
It was as if there lay a way through her soft brown eyes of momentarily
escaping from himself.
She leaned against the wall, he watching her; one little hand rested on
the paneling beside her, her white throat showed through the open
collar; her thick, dull hair cast trembling shadows on her cheeks, he
thought it a pretty color and was gloomily pleased that he could still
admire the tint of a woman’s hair.
“Delia,” he said quietly.
She looked up, to hear this man speak her name was like seeing it flash
written in stars across the sky; she shrank under it abashed and lifted
timid eyes that to his bitter wretchedness seemed soft as a caress.
He smiled.
“How little you know of me!” he said.
She found slow words to answer him.
“We have one creed, one King, one aim,” she said. “I desire to know no
more of you, sir.”
“Delia,” his voice fell very musically low. “If you knew more of
me—say, if we had known each other years—would you find it possible to
care for me?”
She stared, dumb and scarlet, the terror in her questioning eyes was
the finest compliment ever paid him: he smiled again with his curious
Puritanical haughtiness as if even while he led her on, he despised
himself and her.
“Would you find me a man easy to care for?” he said again. “I
wonder—for I—”
She interrupted: “Sir—I do not think you have failed to find those who
would answer that question.”
“Ah, let me speak,” he said gently, “let me say that I do find you made
to be loved—”
“Sir! do you usually so play with words with every stranger?” she cried.
“Why, never before,” he smiled, “and are we strangers—did you not say
we had one creed—one King—one aim?”
“Ah, I do think you palter with me!” cried Delia with the distress of
one drawn and netted against her will. “Mr. Caryl is late—”
“I would he were later,” said Mr. Wedderburn.
“There is no need for me to keep you company,” she answered faintly.
“No need?” His manner flashed into the overbearing. “Not if I ask you
to stay?”
“I will go.”
“Why?” His blue eyes lifted imperiously. “Miss Delia—do you dislike me?”
“I do not know you,” she faltered.
His face darkened.
“Ah, yes, you know me as much in these moments as you ever will—I know
you—to the bottom of your white heart.”
“Know me?” she winced and blushed.
“I know you do not dislike me,” he said, studying her curiously.
“Though your lips may say so.”
She answered bravely.
“Sir—I have not taught them to lie.”
He came a little nearer to her and again she was aware of the strong
perfume he carried, overcoming, stupefying her.
“So,” he said, “you cannot lie, and if I said—ah—if I said—” He broke
off with a little reckless laugh; his shadow was upon her; his presence
seemed to fill the world; she could no more escape it than she could
the air about her; she could only shrink away, trembling against the
wall.
“If I said—I love you,” he asked softly, “you who cannot lie—would
say—some day I might love you—would you not?”
“When you tell me that in seriousness,” she answered panting, “in
seriousness I will reply.”
His beautiful eyes laughed.
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