The Master of Stair 34
“We have all, from the highest to the humblest, signed it,” was the
answer, given with a smile of satisfaction. “It should please his
Majesty and satisfy Louis. This is Mr. Caryl’s letter and report to the
King—this the Duke of Berwick’s—these three papers are all, Mr.
Wedderburn.”
“Deadly enough, were they discovered,” commented the other, dryly.
“We are confident that His Majesty selected a messenger who would see
they were not discovered,” said Sir Perseus, putting the papers back
into their case.
Mr. Wedderburn gave a sudden laugh and rose. “Sir, my life upon their
safe delivery to—the King.”
“Sir—it is a weighty trust,” answered Sir Perseus gravely. “The lives
and honors of many men—the fate of a kingdom.”
Mr. Wedderburn made no answer and presently he began to pace the room
in a manner that at last attracted the other’s attention; he began to
look at him curiously; he noticed that the King’s messenger appeared
absorbed, gloomy, as if he reined in high passions, that his face was
unnaturally pale and shadowed under his brilliant eyes as if he had
been through great pain or sleeplessness. Sir Perseus studied him
covertly, with a growing uneasiness; he did not look like a man in the
mood to undertake a difficult enterprise.
Mr. Wedderburn meanwhile continued walking heavily to and fro, as if
utterly careless of the impression he might make. It grew late; Sir
Perseus expressed a wish that Mr. Caryl might return.
“It matters not—I have a good horse without,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and
fell into his silence again.
A strange and utterly undefinable sense of distrust and fear came over
Sir Perseus; his hand went out and instinctively covered the leathern
case while he eyed his restless companion. The longer he watched this
silent man and noted his lithe strength, his brooding face, his
reckless pose and his strange, wild eyes, the more his unreasoning fear
increased; he began to long for the return of Jerome Caryl, to resolve
that he would not part with the papers until that return.
Mr. Wedderburn broke the silence by ringing the bell and calling for
wine. When it came they drank together in a curious heavy stillness, as
if both knew something was impending, yet could not speak of it.
Mr. Wedderburn drained his glass in a kind of fierce haste, then fell
again to his pacing, the other watching intent and tense.
It struck eight.
Neither remarked on the passing of the time; the man at the table
slipped the leathern case into the breast of his coat, why, he could
not have told, save that he felt unnerved.
Mr. Wedderburn came at last to a sudden stand on the hearth, the
firelight full on his handsome face.
“What do you write?” he asked.
“Pamphlets—lampoons—” was the answer.
“Ah—on whom?”
“Naturally—the Williamites.”
“And you circulate them?”
“Successfully—into Kensington, itself.”
“You are daring—and fortunate,” frowned Mr. Wedderburn.
Sir Perseus looked at him with an honest, puzzled face; he could
neither understand the man nor his own sense of uneasiness.
“What are these?” asked the other, and crossed to the table; his rich
dark presence coming so close, still further impressed Sir Perseus with
an unaccountable feeling of mistrust.
“Ah, those are lampoons on the Master of Stair,” he answered. “We find
him a fine target.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s eyes flashed; he poured out more wine and drank it
slowly.
“The Master of Stair!” he said. “I have heard a great deal of the
Master of Stair,” he gave a half-smile, “Now what have you to say of
him?”
He set his glass down and Sir Perseus marked his strong shapely hand as
it lay round the stem.
“Come,” the other insisted in an imperious manner, leaning a little
across the table, “let me hear your skill in lampoons.”
“I do not write them—I merely collect the materials.”
“So they are true?”
“God knows, one needs not to invent lies of the Master of Stair.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s azure eyes narrowed into a steady look; he leaned
forward, his arms folded on the table; there was a little smile on his
curved lips.
“Read this same lampoon to me,” he said. “’Twill pass the time till Mr.
Caryl comes—”
Sir Perseus felt as one fumbling in the dark; he could not make this
Wedderburn out; awed, spite of uneasiness and fascinated through all
his watchful mistrust, he decided that the best thing was to wait; he
put his hand over the papers on his breast.
“Why—as you say—it will pass the time,” he answered. “Yet it is foolish
doggerel—serving only to sting our enemies.”
“And the truth, you say?”
“Else it would not sting.”
And Sir Perseus picked up the topmost printed sheet and unfolded it;
Mr. Wedderburn fixed upon him his brilliant eyes.
Sir Perseus glanced at the clock, then commenced reading in his
pleasant, even voice:
_Of all these men who make the laws,
That they may easy break the laws,
I know no knaves I could compare
With the brood begot by the Viscount Stair._
“A bold beginning,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn.
Sir Perseus continued:
_Of all this race by Heaven cursed,
John, is the eldest and the worst,
A specious knave, whose end will be
A-dancing on the gallows-tree._
He paused, thinking he heard a footstep.
“Go on,” smiled Mr. Wedderburn.
_There is no deed he would not do
Or readily put his hand thereto
So he might gain this world’s gear,
Scruples knows he not nor fear.
Born was he of a witch from Hell,
And Satan knew his father well,
A hideous curse is on his name,
Deep has he drunk of every shame—_
Sir Perseus interrupted himself: “Hardly very witty,” he remarked, “but
it impresses the people it goes among.”
“Go on,” was the brief rejoinder.
Sir Perseus caught at the means of filling time that dragged.
_His only sister miserably died
A mad and an unwilling bride,
Her husband she did try to slay,
The devil snatched her clear away
And tore her raving limb from limb,
Long had she sold her soul to him—_
Mr. Wedderburn suddenly clenched his hand on the table, his eyes were
very dark, his face very pale.
“Fine matter for your hawkers to shout and the gutter scum to read,” he
said thickly, “Go on.”
_His brother, seeing clear his end,
(Indeed he knew that God would send
The same unto them all)
Vowed he would Jack Ketch forestall
And so himself he hanged._
Sir Perseus paused to turn the paper, glancing up he noticed the face
of the man opposite. “Sir,” he asked curiously, “why do you so look at
me?”
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