The Master of Stair 26

The Master of Stair 26

Jerome Caryl picked it up, looked at it, then turned to Sir Perseus,

who had followed him.

 

“This is Mr. Wedderburn, the King’s messenger,” he said gravely, then

to the other: “I am glad, sir, of your safe arrival.”

 

“Good-even,” said Sir Perseus, then glancing the stranger over: “they

keep you fine in France, sir,” he commented.

 

Mr. Wedderburn smiled disdainfully.

 

“My habit is not the matter under discussion,” he returned. “I dress as

fits my station—as one of His Majesty’s friends.”

 

Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders; Jerome Caryl seated himself rather

wearily at the table, with a gentle smile of greeting to Delia and

spoke to the King’s messenger:

 

“The papers you had to deliver?” he said. “I am anxious, sir, for His

Majesty’s letter.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn, taking the seat opposite, began the undoing of a packet

he took from his breast, the two men meanwhile observed each other;

Jerome Caryl openly with a calm frankness, the King’s messenger

covertly, sideways and very keenly.

 

Delia, mechanically closing the window at her brother’s bidding,

noticed how great a difference between the two at the table and thought

that Jerome Caryl had faded utterly beside the vivid presence of the

other.

 

Quiet, contained, grave and modest in manner, his calm melancholy face

and person were a fine contrast to Mr. Wedderburn with his over-bold

handsomeness, his over-rich dress, his passionate air of impatient

lordship, his too emphasized manner of haughtiness and power; the

bearing of a tragedy emperor, gloomy magnificence. He was not the type

of man to appeal to Jerome Caryl, who set his soft mouth sternly and

drooped his hazel eyes disdainfully to his own delicate hand resting on

the table.

 

Mr. Wedderburn swung a letter across the table; in silence Jerome Caryl

opened it, and the King’s messenger gave a sudden smile at Delia across

the length of the room.

 

Sir Perseus glanced from one to another, conscious that the silence was

awkward and unaccountable. “We saw my Lord Berwick to-day,” he

remarked. “He has had a messenger from Crauford in Scotland.”

 

Delia gave a little start as of one suddenly touched in his sleep.

 

“Scotland?” she echoed.

 

Mr. Wedderburn was looking at her.

 

“Heard ye anything of the submission of the clans?” he asked.

 

“We heard,” said Sir Perseus, “that every clan had come in save the

Macdonalds of Glencoe.”

 

“Ah!” said Delia, and she flushed and paled.

 

“They bear such a hatred to the Campbells, nothing will induce them to

follow the others,” continued her brother, “and—poor fools—there is no

one to trouble to warn them—doubtless you have heard, Mr. Wedderburn,

how we have preserved the Highlands to His Majesty by causing them to

take the oaths?”

 

“I have heard,” was the answer, “you think the government will be

vexed—disturbed at it?”

 

Jerome Caryl looked up from his letter.

 

“They were counting on settling the Highlands forever,” he smiled.

“With fire and sword—they did not reckon on more than half taking the

oaths—the Master of Stair and Breadalbane intended to massacre them

wholesale.”

 

“You have clever spies to have discovered that much,” said Mr.

Wedderburn, and under the table his hand was clutched tightly on his

sword-hilt.

 

“I am in England for that,” was the answer. “To serve His Majesty. I

have defeated the usurper on that well-planned cruelty.”

 

“There remain the Macdonalds,” said Mr. Wedderburn slowly.

 

Suddenly, up to the table, came Delia.

 

“They must be saved,” she said.

 

Her words rang in a little pause; she was clasping and unclasping her

hands nervously, she turned her pure eager face to Mr. Wedderburn.

 

“Sir, you will help us save them?”

 

He looked at her and laughed.

 

“I?” he said—“I?—’tis amusing—what power have I to save these Highland

savages?”

 

She winced and turned to Jerome Caryl.

 

“You promised me, Mr. Caryl—”

 

Sir Perseus interrupted:

 

“Why, Delia, what are these Macdonalds to you?”

 

Jerome Caryl spared her an answer: “We will do what we can—” he said.

“And they know the risk they run—even yet they may take the oaths.”

 

Delia glanced at him gratefully; she was pale and her brown eyes

gleamed unnaturally bright.

 

“Good-night, sirs,” she said faintly.

 

The three men rose; her brother kissed her cheek; Jerome Caryl came to

the door with her, but she looked past him to Mr. Wedderburn, who

stared at her with a curious little smile; her face went even whiter;

the door fell to behind her and they heard her light footsteps hurrying

up the stairs. Jerome Caryl returned to the table.

 

“Mr. Wedderburn,” he said formally, “this is a letter from my Lord

Middleton—signed by the King, charging me to collect such names of

importance as I can and send the signature back by you as a means of

encouraging the French to make a descent on England—”

 

“His Majesty expects me in a day or so at St. Germains with the

signatures,” was the answer. “I assure you ’tis a matter for despatch,

for King Louis will not act without these names as a guarantee of a

rising in England to support him should his men land.”

 

“Lord Middleton also says that you will be the bearer of his grace of

Berwick’s despatches and a full account of the plot for His Majesty’s

perusal.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn inclined his head.

 

“Those were my orders.”

 

“A dangerous mission,” put in Sir Perseus. “You will carry a vast

responsibility with those papers.”

 

“I have done as dangerous in the service of the King,” said Mr.

Wedderburn. He turned to Jerome Caryl. “Sir—what names have you to send

His Majesty?”

 

“News from all sides is vastly satisfactory,” was the answer. “His

grace of Berwick is very confident, the discontent is huge in England;

we have the assurances and the signatures of Marlborough, Godolphin,

Rochester, Clarendon, Lord Russell, Leeds, Cornbury, Dartmouth, Sidney

and many bishops and lords—”

 

“The whole of the Court ye might say,” cried Mr. Wedderburn, with a

curious little laugh. “Tell me, are there any who have not signed?”

 

“Nottingham,” said Jerome Caryl with a smile. “Carstairs, Sunderland,

Shrewsbury, Devonshire, Dorset and the Master of Stair—these have never

to my knowledge meddled with us—Nottingham, because he is a narrow

pedant; Devonshire and Dorset for sheer laziness; Sunderland because we

would not have him in our ranks—Carstairs and the Master of Stair....”

 

“For honest motives, perchance,” said Mr. Wedderburn.

 

“I do not say so—God knows. Carstairs I believe is honest—the Master of

Stair is not full of scruples. I think he is faithful because he hates

us bitterly and because he is a man of one view—he is sworn to the

Whigs and would, I think, sell his soul for them—if it is still on the

market.”

 

“You hate him,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn.

 

“I do—he constantly thwarts me, he is a man to be feared—but to

business, Mr. Wedderburn: these papers you are to carry to France are

with his grace of Berwick—give me two days and I shall have them.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn rose:

 

“I will call again the day after to-morrow, then,” he said, “and start

immediately afterwards for France.”