The Master of Stair 37
Delia reeled forward into the room and sat down heavily at the table,
her face blank, her fingers at her mouth; there was everything on the
table as it had been; the familiar things of common use about the
room—what had happened that it was all so strange? Nothing—what could
happen? It seemed as if her heart had stopped; all she felt was a
little tired wonder. She was roused by a light touch on her arm, and
looked up dully into Jerome Caryl’s face.
He lifted her hand from the table.
“For his sake,” he said very softly, “Call up your courage now—”
She stared with an unchanged look.
“Is he dead?” she said. “Perseus?”
“God help thee,” he answered, and his voice broke a little. “We are all
undone—”
“But—Perseus?” she repeated. “Is he dead? Can’t he see me? Won’t he
hear me when I tell him—why—what was I going to tell him? When I came
home I sang for joy, oh, my love, my love!” She dropped her head,
sobbing heavily. “Come and comfort me,” she cried between her bitter
tears. “I only want you—ah, I would have told him—dead—what is it to be
dead?”
She looked up.
Jerome Caryl had left her; she rose and crept slowly to where her
brother lay with Jerome’s handkerchief across his face.
“Perseus—” she sobbed, “I was so happy—dear—I wanted to make you happy,
too—he loves me! Perseus—do you hear?”
She bent lower.
“Will you never know now?” she asked fearfully. “But he shall avenge
you—he loves me! Oh, Perseus, cannot the wonder of it make you rise and
speak to me?”
A moment she listened with stilled breath, then slowly she shrank back
from the still and stiffened figure on the floor.
“Andrew—” she whispered pitifully, then her gaze fell on his cloak and
she caught it up to her breast for comfort. Suddenly Jerome Caryl
entered; a little paper showed in his hand; his face was strongly moved.
“It is explained!” he cried passionately, “that damned devil has undone
us utterly—see what has come from the man Hunt—in prison in Romney—he
contrived to send this. Look at it—fated fools we are!” He held out to
her a soiled scrap of crumpled paper; her wild eyes fell to it and she
read in scrawling characters:
“Mr. Andrew Wedderburn is the Master of Stair.”
She made no movement, spoke no word; Jerome Caryl thought that, in her
grief, she was careless as to what this could mean.
“He has those papers,” he said fiercely. “He must have those
papers—Perseus died defending them—”
“Perseus—died?” she said. “He—killed—Perseus?”
“What else?” cried Jerome Caryl. “For what was he here? It all proves
it—Argyll’s warning—Hunt’s message—and that—”
He pointed to Perseus and her eyes followed his gesture; she was
standing very stiffly, her hand resting on the table edge.
“It is a lie,” she said, “a monstrous lie.”
“It is the bitter truth and we are ruined.”
“No, it is a fearful lie,” said Delia slowly. “I _know_ it is a lie.”
Jerome Caryl made no answer; he was bending over the charred papers on
the hearth.
“These might be they;” he said, looking up and across at the dead man.
“Now what would I not give for one word from you—one word, yes—or no—”
Delia gave no hint; she stepped forward suddenly and faced Jerome.
“Tell me,” she asked. “What did you say just now? What was that
paper—show it to me.” Her voice sank to an intense appeal.
“Ah—show it to me,” she cried hoarsely. He looked at her in a quick
pity.
“Forgive me—I have been blunt—poor soul, ’tis terrible for you,” he
said gently.
She took no notice of his words; with the same set face she came closer
and caught hold of his sleeve.
“What was it?” she said in a frozen voice. “Some lie rang in my
head—something too horrible—Jerome—what have I ever done that you
should so torture me—will you not tell me?”
So strange was her voice, so disconnected and yet intensely earnest
were her words, that Caryl feared for her reason.
“Delia,” he said pityingly. “I would do anything to comfort thee—yet I
can give thee no hope—he is dead.”
“Yes!” she cried frantically. “But who killed him?”
“This man—this devilish villain—the Master of Stair—”
“The Master of Stair!” she echoed, clinging to him desperately. “What
has he to do with us; we do not know him—I have never seen him—”
“Nay—he called himself Andrew Wedderburn—”
“No—no,” she whispered thickly, “that is not true, and you shall say
so. My God! It is not true. I am mad and all the world is chaos if that
is true—”
“I know it as if I had seen him do it,” he answered. “What did your
brother say—the Master of Stair!”
“No! no! he did not!” shrieked Delia.
“Did they not tell us he was in this room with Perseus—did he not quit
by the window in such haste that he left his cloak—there at your feet?”
His cloak! His cloak that she had clutched to her heart for
comfort—this to be cited at evidence against him—
“I say it could not be!” she cried; she put her hands before her face
as if fire had suddenly struck her blind and cowered and shrank
together.
Gently Jerome Caryl put her into the chair by the desolate hearth.
“We must leave here at once,” he said. “I must send a warning to
Berwick and destroy the printing-press and all papers—there is a
kingdom hanging on our prudence now.”
She looked at him blankly.
“The Master of Stair,” she muttered. “The Master of Stair.”
She drew herself together in the chair and, half-swooning, dreams
mounted to her brain; reality ebbed away; she was conscious of feeling
cold and yet when she put her hand to her forehead she seemed to touch
fire; she thought the Abbey was about her, the sunlight at her feet,
and—he—stood on the bishop’s grave—“call me John,” he said—Sir John
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