The Master of Stair 33
She thought he doubted her, and her pure face paled and flushed.
“Alas! you had not said that had I been silent longer,” she cried. “You
carried my heart too soon to value it—yet if you love me—”
“Delia—if I love you?”
“You will not doubt that my very soul is yours—ah, Heaven—forever!”
“I wonder,” he said musingly. “Nay, do not turn your face away, for it
is lovely to look upon—and mine—you say forever.”
“Yes,” she said trembling.
He seated himself beside her and took her cold hands in his; this time
she did not resist; complete silence was about them; the Abbey service
was over; long shadows filled the cloisters and the sunlight had faded
to a mere stain on the wall. Loose gray clouds sped over the sky, and a
chill little wind blew in and out the arches.
Delia rose, drawing her hand away, her face was hidden under the shadow
of her hat, her figure a shadow among shadows. He rose beside her; his
footfall echoed through the emptiness.
“My sweet child,” he said, in a voice fallen very low and soft.
She turned without a word and her head lifted slowly, he saw her eyes
were glittering with tears.
“Kiss me,” he said gently.
She shrank back.
“Ah, no,” she pleaded. “Not that—I love you so—” her voice fell
brokenly. “I mean—I—”
“Why, surely, you may kiss me, Delia?” he answered.
Further still into the shadows she withdrew.
“Love is not kisses,” she said faintly.
“Some think so, Delia,” he smiled.
“I—I would not,” she faltered.
He picked up his hat and whip.
“Sweetheart—I must go.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But I have the thought of you, which is
company enough.”
He looked at her a moment through the twilight.
“Now will that thought last till next we meet?” he asked.
“Why you know,” she said wonderingly, “do we not love each other?”
“Yet you will not kiss me?”
She drooped again in shyness.
“I have said enough—without,” she murmured.
“Then, Delia—farewell.”
She glanced at him timidly.
“I—do not use your name,” she whispered. “And yet I know it and yet I
am afraid—and know not—”
“Why, you shall call me by it now,” he answered. “And next time it
shall be nothing else—John.”
“John!” she echoed, bewildered. “But your name is Andrew.”
He stared a second, then laughed.
“But those I love do use my second name.”
“Yet I mislike it,” she said. “And ever in my thoughts you are Andrew.”
“Why do you mislike the name of John?” he asked.
“It is linked for me with the Master of Stair,” said Delia. “He is our
enemy and hateful to me—I would not call you by the name of that
accursed man.”
“Then call me what you will,” he answered swiftly. “There are strange
names you will use to me yet—God knows! Farewell!”
“Ah, stay—for I have something to say,” she whispered.
He stopped, waiting; they stood in so dark a shadow that she could only
see the outline of his figure.
“About the Macdonalds of Glencoe,” she said. “I would ask you to help
me save them.”
Her voice fell very tenderly.
“I have a great reason to wish to save them,” she continued. “There is
one among them whom I thought—ah, I thought—” She laughed happily—“I
thought I cared for till I met you—no one knew—but I believed I
cared—yet it was only pity and loneliness—yet did I vow to save him—and
now—do not you see? Out of loyalty to that old vow of mine, I am
pledged to save him still.”
He was silent. She drew timidly a little closer.
“You understand?” she asked anxiously.
“I understand,” he said gloomily. “That you should ask me! I have no
power.”
“’Twill be a service to the King,” she answered. “Ah, as you love me—”
He took the words from her lips.
“As I love you, I will do it,” he said recklessly. “Now will you kiss
me?”
She held out her hands.
“If you ask it,” she said passionately.
He took her hands in his and stared down into her surrendered face;
then suddenly let her go.
“No,” he said, “I will wait till you do offer it. Farewell.”
He turned away abruptly into the darkness.
She listened to his footsteps till they had died into the distance,
then she turned and went slowly toward the Abbey.
She entered it on tiptoe; there were lights burning on the altar, but
it was empty; she passed lightly down the chancel till she reached the
door that led into the little chapel of St. Faith. With hushed heart
she entered; here she could think she was in a church undefiled by
another faith; the reformer’s hand had passed this corner by; two
candles burnt on the low altar; the air was close and heavy; from the
dark walls leaned wild angel faces with parted lips and blown-back
hair, as if they strained out of the stone to cry aloud to those
beneath.
Delia sank to her knees on the stone floor, and her fingers fumbled
with the rosary at her breast. She was uplifted, carried out of
herself; as though those candles could burn forever, till the angels’
heads should speak and bursting from their stone, pull the church about
them in a great shout for judgement. Delia felt her senses swoon within
her; she shook and shuddered as she knelt.
“Ah, God, make me worthy of that man’s love!” she prayed passionately.
“For I have not deserved this happiness!”
CHAPTER XVI
A LAMPOON ANSWERED
Mr. Wedderburn entered the parlor of “The Sleeping Queen,” true to his
appointed time.
He found alone, and busily writing, Sir Perseus, who greeted him
cordially in his pleasant, blunt manner.
Mr. Caryl, he said, had been summoned by his grace of Berwick, but he
expected his return shortly, and though he, Sir Perseus, actually had
the papers Mr. Wedderburn was to carry to France, it would be better if
the emissary would wait and see Mr. Caryl.
Mr. Wedderburn gave a short answer and flung himself into the chair by
the fire; he was obviously in an ill-humor.
Sir Perseus talked of the plot and the promising prospects of success;
he praised Mr. Caryl’s vast labor and skill in the cause of King James,
and hinted that the time was not far distant when the devotion of His
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