The Master of Stair 32
Close under her feet was the brass gravestone of a bishop, who had been
dust for three hundred years; his Latin titles, shining in the sun,
measured many paces; against the wall near by was a tablet to the
memory of one three years dead, and this was all it bore beside her
name: “Dear childe.”
Faintly through the Abbey walls came the choir’s singing as
disembodied, as grave as angels’; Delia’s hands slipped out of her muff
and onto the stone beside her; her lips parted and her head sank back
against the gray old wall; under her red coat her heart was heaving
passionately.
Suddenly the singing grew louder; she heard the first outburst of the
Cantate Domino.
“O sing unto the Lord a new song—for He hath done marvelous things.”
She sat up and looked round; a man was entering the cloisters from the
Abbey, as he closed the door behind him the singing sank again to
faintness.
Delia sat upright, motionless, looking toward the new-comer; it was Mr.
Wedderburn.
The cloister echoed to his firm footstep as he came toward her; his
riding-cloak was over his arm; he swung his hat and whip in his hand;
seeing her he gave a little start, then came on and halted, his figure
between her and the winter sunlight:
“Delia!” he said, and he half-smiled.
She could find no words to answer him; she turned her face away and
stared down at her own still hand.
“You often come here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He came nearer and leaned against the wall beside her easily, as if it
were the most likely thing that they should have met thus.
“I am on my way to ‘The Sleeping Queen,’” he said, “to see your
brother—but I have time upon my hands.”
She looked up at him; the sunshine touched his face and his plain dark
attire.
He smiled again.
“Will you be sorry when I leave for France?” he said.
The brown eyes widened.
“Why do you ask?” she murmured faintly.
“My faith—I wondered.”
“Why, sir, do you, can you care whether it matters to me or no?” cried
Delia, a little wildly.
“Yes, I care,” he answered.
There was a pause; the singing had ceased. Delia bent her head and
rested unseeing eyes upon the bishop’s tombstone.
“You take, sir, a curious tone for a stranger,” she said at last.
“I would not have us strangers, Delia—did not you say the same King,
the same faith, the same cause?”
She turned as some one standing on defense.
“What do you mean?”
A slight smile crossed his face; it might have been sadness or
contempt; he leaned heavily against the Abbey wall and his shadow was
over Delia.
“What do I mean?” he repeated; he looked at her in a very gentle
manner. “I mean I should like to be in your thoughts sometimes—”
She rose, and her muff fell unnoticed between them.
“Am I in yours?” she asked slowly.
“You have the sweetest face I have ever met,” he said quietly, “Is it
likely I should forget you?”
She went very pale and put her hands together in a bewildered way; he
surveyed her gravely with a half-sad interest, standing very much at
his ease and carelessly while she was tense and painfully still.
“Delia,” he smiled. “Delia.”
She stepped back.
“What is it you want with me?” she said.
He moved from his place. “Do you care for me?” he asked. “Could you
ever care for me?”
She fell back before him. “Oh, why do you ask?” she cried.
His eyes rested on her with a curious __EXPRESSION__ as of yearning.
“Because I care for you,” he answered. “Don’t you understand, Delia?”
The first notes of the anthem were sounding through the silence as she
answered faintly:
“It cannot be you mean this....”
She sat down heavily and clasped her trembling hands very tightly.
“Well—but if I did mean it?” he inquired.
“If you did mean it?” she whispered, looking up. “Ah, if you did mean
it—”
Her voice died away, she sat silent as if terrified; and now the sun
left him and lay behind her head halo-wise and sparkled in her brown
eyes.
Mr. Wedderburn, looking very intently down at her, bent a little nearer.
“Sweetheart—ye shall answer me,” he said. “Nay, ye shall—”
“Ah, what will you force me to say?” she answered desperately. “What do
you want?”
He bent till the ringlets on his breast touched her shoulder; he very
delicately smiled into her pale face.
“Delia, answer me.”
“Ah, my heart, I cannot!” she cried, with wild eyes on his face.
“Surely I am answered,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and a slight flush passed
over his pallor. “Surely you think of me as I of you, Delia—”
With a little cry she rose up against the wall.
“Indeed, I love you,” she said, breathing hard. “Ah, indeed—indeed—”
Then she sank down again, hiding her face in her fluttering hands.
He looked at her curiously, his lips touched with his little lazy
half-smile.
“I do not deserve it, Delia,” he said; then in a strange voice: “You
and I—by such ways to this! You and I—look up and speak to me.”
She dropped her hands and looked at him.
“I may speak,” she said hoarsely, “but never shall I tell how utterly I
love you—beyond all reason—all measure. Ah, since I first saw you the
world has stopped about me, and there has been nothing but this one
thought of you!”
He caught his breath.
“Why—are these things possible?” he asked. “And you do not know me.”
She rose and turned to him in a triumphant passion, her hand lightly on
her heart.
“No, I only love you,” she said. “And that makes it seem as if you had
been one with my life from the first. Ah, can you think of time?”
“God knows, of nothing,” he answered; he held his ungloved hand out as
if to take hers, but she fell back.
“Ah, don’t touch me,” she said unsteadily. “Not yet—not yet. I am so
happy, that I am afraid, and if you touch me you may break the spell,
and my dream go away.”
He laughed gently.
“But this is no dream, sweetheart, do you not hear the anthem yonder in
the church? And all around us the graves? There are no graves in
dreams.”
“Nor surely often such joy on earth,” whispered Delia. “As mine—as
mine—yet what have I said? Shame should hold me silent—but you have
disarmed me and laid me defenseless at your feet—ah, leave me, for I
have said too much!”
He laid his hand very lightly on her shoulder.
“You make mine unworthiness a heavy thing,” he said somberly. “If you are sincere—Delia—”
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