The Master of Stair 35

The Master of Stair 35

“A moment, sir.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward in a manner, that, although still quiet,

stopped Sir Perseus instantly.

 

“Where do you get your information, sir?” he asked.

 

Sir Perseus put down the pamphlet.

 

“Why, from common talk,” he said.

 

“Common talk!” cried the other in a strange voice, “so these things are

common talk! And this last of your gutter lies, is that common, too?”

 

“So common, sir, that you should know it,” answered Sir Perseus,

firing. “’Tis public property, God knows.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn’s intense eyes never lost their steadiness; he spoke in

the same suppressed voice:

 

“I have never heard anything against the fair name of Lady Dalrymple,”

he said.

 

Sir Perseus, angered and bewildered, gave a short laugh.

 

“You’ve lived too long in France, sir, or you would know that Sir John

Dalrymple’s wife is no better than the rest of his family—and that Tom

Wharton—”

 

Mr. Wedderburn rose so abruptly that Sir Perseus sprang also to his

feet, like a man suddenly seeing danger.

 

“What of Mr. Wharton?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn softly.

 

“What are these demands?” cried Sir Perseus hotly. “Why are you

championing the Whigs?”

 

“No matter for that,” interrupted the other. “I ask you—what of Mr.

Wharton?”

 

Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Sir, you want it put too plainly—what of my Lady Sunderland and Mr.

Sidney belike, you’ve heard that tale—even in France? And the part the

Earl takes—a common situation among these canting Whigs.”

 

Mr. Wedderburn came a step nearer.

 

“Do you couple that woman’s name with that of Lady Dalrymple,” he said

unsteadily. “Even in your foul libels?”

 

Sir Perseus flushed angrily.

 

“What brief have you in this cause? Lady Dalrymple cannot shrink from

the Countess’s company. As I said, the situation is the same—Tom

Wharton is as worthless a rake as Harry Sidney—and as fortunate a

lover,—while Sir John is as complacent a husband as the Earl—”

 

Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward and struck the speaker on the breast with

his clenched hand so fiercely that he staggered and almost fell, struck

him with such fury and unrestrained passion that he gave a cry,

thinking a madman attacked him, struck him with his hand and then with

his crumpled glove full on his wincing face.

 

“You bring your lies to the wrong market, you Papist cur!” he said

hoarsely. “I am John Dalrymple and I stand here to refute your cursed

slanders!”

 

He flung aside his gloves and cloak and his sword sprang out in the

candle-light.

 

“My God!” whispered Sir Perseus, reeling against the wall with a sick

face.

 

The Master of Stair came toward him; his bared sword glittering as it

shook to the quick breathing of his fury.

 

“You!” he said with mad eyes, dark and narrow. “You—the Frenchman’s

spy—the priest’s tool—the mouthpiece of the scandals of the gutter—you,

to drag my name through the mire to make a party cry!”

 

Sir Perseus drew himself together desperately.

 

“John Dalrymple!” he cried. “You have betrayed yourself too soon—by God

you have!”

 

“No,” said the Master of Stair, advancing on him. “Think you I need to

use craft—to get those papers from you?”

 

“Not while I live,” answered Sir Perseus firmly, and he made a step

toward the door.

 

But the Master of Stair stood before it.

 

“Will you cry for help?” he demanded. “It will make no difference. The

poor knaves here cannot aid you—”

 

Sir Perseus stepped impulsively back and drew.

 

“I think you threw—spy at me,” he said through his teeth. “What word

then for you—you thief of men’s confidence?”

 

On this last word their swords rose and clashed.

 

“Did you think,” breathed Sir John passionately, above the sword play,

“that we had not men that would do for England what you do for

France—did you not reckon that we might risk and dare something to keep

what we had now—as well as you to regain what you had lost—did you

think we were fools or cowards? You and your crew of broken

schemers—you and your damned French king—ah!” He was rapidly forcing

his adversary back against the wall. Sir Perseus’s hurried defense

could not cope with the fury of his attack; he was the stronger man,

the better swordsman; Sir Perseus backed desperately into the

window-seat.

 

“Fools we’ve been—fools,” he muttered, white-lipped.

 

“Yes, fools,” flashed the Master of Stair. “To think you could fit the

Pope’s yoke about England’s neck again or give us back a King of

follies we flung to make Europe sport—so—”

 

Their swords crossed close to the hilt; Sir Perseus slipped and fell to

his knees in the shadows of the window.

 

“Sir—on your knees—” said Sir John. “Take back your lies—”

 

Sir Perseus, desperate, tried to catch at the descending sword, tried

to rise, to cry out, but Sir John’s thrust went through his feeble

guard and his blade quivered at his throat.

 

“Which King?” cried the Master of Stair. “Which cause? And what think

you now of Lady Dalrymple’s champion?”

 

With that Sir Perseus struggled up, slipped forward and the point of

the Master’s sword went a hand’s-breadth into his breast.

 

He went heavily onto his side and Sir John stepped back, elate and

passionate; slipping his sword back with a lift of his shoulders.

 

“Do you see me, Jacobite?” he said scornfully. “Do you see this?”

 

He snatched up the pamphlets, three or four at a time, and thrust them

into the candle flame. As they flared up in his hand he flung them on

the hearth and set his heel on the ashes; he turned, looked at the

prone man.

 

“Do you see?” he repeated. “Do you see, dog, what I make of your work?”

 

Sir Perseus made a faint movement.

 

The Master of Stair flung the last papers onto the fire, then crossed

to his prostrate enemy.

 

“I might have kept you for Tyburn—where your friends will go,” he said,

looking down at him with the candle in his hand. “The friends whose

names you have in that paper—”

 

He dropped to one knee and turned Sir Perseus over; at this the

Jacobite moaned and clutched his fingers together.

 

Sir John smiled as he drew the leathern case from the blood-stained

shirt.

 

“I have your plot in the hollow of my hand,” said the Master of Stair,

and flashed the candle into the ashy face of Sir Perseus, who stared up

speechlessly.

 

“You!” he said, still at the white heat of his fury, “you would sell us

to the French! You would utter foul lies of me and mine! My God,

Jacobite, I would you might live to be hanged!”

 

He crossed to the table and opened the case; it contained the three

papers untouched; with flashing eyes he examined them; then called over

his shoulder to the shadowy window-seat.

 

“Do you see me, Jacobite dog?”

 

From the shadow came a faint voice, a little cry.