The Master of Stair 36

The Master of Stair 36

CHAPTER XVII

 

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH

 

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh came home through the quiet dark streets by the

river with a heart so elate that she heeded nothing of the lateness of

the hour, the bitter little wind that whistled through the houses or

the slow falling snow.

 

A clock striking nine told her that she had lingered in the Abbey

longer than she thought, but what did that matter to-night? Perseus

would forgive her when she told him.

 

She smiled up at the bleak sky and quickened her pace.

 

At the corner of a street she noticed an old beggar huddled against a

house; she stopped under the lamp and took out her purse, emptying all

its little silver into the astonished beggar’s palm; she felt that she

had come into great riches; she was so happy, the joy within was

inexhaustible; she felt she could have played the prodigal with it and

still have the lightest heart in the world.

 

The old man called a garrulous blessing after her and she turned

lightly with a dazzling smile, then hurried on down the street.

 

There was no one abroad; the stillness of the snow lay over everything;

every tenth house alone showed a lamp and between the way was in

perfect darkness; yet Delia found in this dreariness only a strangeness

that heightened the ecstasy of her divine elation. As she turned into

the courtyard of “The Sleeping Queen” she saw Jerome Caryl dismounting

by the light of the ostler’s lanthorn.

 

“Mr. Caryl!” she cried with an impulsive desire to speak to some one.

 

He turned. “Why, you are out late,” he said abstractedly; he looked

pale and anxious had Delia had eyes for that, but she followed him into

the house and into the front parlor in a smiling silence. A serving man

set a lamp upon the table and Jerome Caryl flung him his hat and whip;

then glanced at Delia.

 

“Why, what has happened?” he asked, struck through his absorption with

her transfigured face. She stood behind the lamp, her hands resting on

the edge of the table and her head a little thrown back; her hazel

curls lay over the open collar of her red coat and her eyes shone

softly brilliant as misted fires.

 

“Ah, Jerome,” she said, trembling passionately. “Ah, I feel above

humanity to-night!”

 

He looked at her, his melancholy eyes a little wide with wonder.

 

“Tell me—” he asked.

 

Blushing, breathing fast, she drew back with low laughter. “Ah—not

yet—I must tell Perseus first.”

 

“I, too, have somewhat to tell Perseus,” said Jerome Caryl; he went to

the door and called to the servant. “Is Mr. Wedderburn here?”

 

“Yes,” came the answer. “He is, sir, in the back parlor with Sir

Perseus—”

 

Jerome Caryl returned to the table.

 

“I have been detained,” he said. “Berwick had heard from Argyll—a

letter in bad cipher—it hinted that the government knew something.”

 

Delia would not be disturbed by this to-night—not to-night. Misfortune

or the hint of misfortune was unbelievable to-night.

 

“My Lord Argyll is over fearful,” she said, with smiling eyes.

 

Jerome Caryl looked at her curiously; he had never seen her thus:

gloriously smiling, triumphantly glowing with joyous high spirits; she

was beautiful to-night with the beauty of great happiness; she caught

his glance and laughed and blushed; her hand upon the door.

 

“Perseus will be a-rating us both for this lateness,” she said, her

bosom heaving as if she had been swiftly running.

 

She opened the door and stepped lightly over the threshold, then

paused, still smiling, but a little wondering. The window opposite was

set wide open; of the two candles on the table one had been blown out

by the rising wind, the other had guttered and the wax dripped

forlornly down the stick onto the table; the fire had fallen to a few

smoldering embers.

 

“There is no one here,” said Delia marveling.

 

Yet the room did not seem empty; she felt that there was some one

there, and peered forward into the shadows.

 

“Perseus!” she cried.

 

As she advanced she noticed the ashes and charred scraps of paper lying

about the hearth: she stopped abruptly.

 

“Perseus!” she said again, but her voice was less confident and her

smile had faded; she looked at the table where she had left her brother

writing; there were his inkstand, his pen, wine and glasses on a tray;

his chair pushed back and another one knocked over; over this hung a

man’s riding-cloak—and not her brother’s—

 

Whose—then—whose?

 

She picked up the flaring candle and held it over the fallen chair.

 

Mr. Wedderburn’s cloak—she had seen him in it an hour ago.

 

She turned across the room, the candle shook and dripped in her hand.

 

“Jerome!” she said faintly, “Jerome!”

 

He was in the doorway.

 

“Where are they?” he asked swiftly.

 

She was nearing the window; the candle cast a ragged light through the

shadows.

 

“Jerome—” she whispered fast and fearfully. “Come here—there is

something here—”

 

Backing against the wall she stared down at the window-seat.

 

“God!” she shrieked suddenly. “It is a man!” The candle clattered from

her slack fingers to the floor; the room was in complete darkness.

Delia turned wildly through the blackness and caught Jerome Caryl’s arm.

 

“Who is it?” she cried. “Whom do you think it can be? Nay, answer

me—could it be—he? Ah, no, my God—it is not possible—”

 

“Hush! hush!” said Jerome gently. “I must get a light.”

 

“No, no, I could not bear to look,” she shuddered wildly. “I will not

bear it—why should you ask me to? It was his cloak—”

 

Jerome tenderly disengaged her hand. “Take courage,” he said. “If it

should be Perseus he may not be—he may be—living.”

 

She let him go; her hands fell to her sides.

 

“Perseus,” she echoed vaguely. “Do you think it might be Perseus?”

 

She turned and crept along the wall; falling to her knees, she put her

hands out through the dark, feeling blindly for what she knew was there.

 

“Andrew, Andrew,” she said crazily—“Ah!” She drew back, for she had

touched something—something soft—velvet—a velvet sleeve—she pressed her

face against the wall, her hands over it, and her fallen hair, and when

Jerome reëntered with a lantern she did not look up.

 

He crossed at once to the window, holding the light; it revealed her

crouching away with hidden face and close beside her Sir Perseus, full

on his back, his hands clutched in his disordered clothes, as if his

last act had been the defense of something he had hidden in his breast.

“Now here is an end of thy work,” said Jerome quietly.

 

He set the lantern on the window-seat and sinking on his knees, lifted

Sir Perseus someway from the floor. “Delia—bring me the wine,” he said.

“I think he still breathes—”

 

She slowly turned a wild face.

 

“So—it is Perseus—” she said, staring.

 

“Bring the wine—” said Jerome Caryl.

 

Mechanically and heavily, she obeyed him; poured it out and handed it.

“So it is Perseus,” she repeated.

 

“I think we are betrayed,” said Jerome Caryl evenly. “Now, who was it?”

He laid his hand over the heart of the wounded man; then forced some

wine between his lips.