The Master of Stair 38

The Master of Stair 38

CHAPTER XVIII

 

AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL

 

 

Viscount Stair listened with an amused smile to the heavy footsteps

pacing about overhead; he drew himself closer over the fire and

surveyed his lean fingers with eyes twinkling unpleasantly. His son was

evidently in an ill-humor; his restlessness had followed on a message

from my Lord Breadalbane; something was amiss in Scotland.

 

So the Viscount concluded; he made no attempt to discover what had

occurred, but waited patiently, hugging his amusement, confident that

his son would not leave him long out of his councils. And even sooner

than he had expected the door was flung open and Sir John entered,

stormy and frowning.

 

“Ill news from Scotland?” asked the Viscount indifferently.

 

His son gave him a look.

 

“The Macdonalds _have_ taken the oaths,” he answered briefly.

 

“Ah—more prudence among these savages than one might have expected,”

remarked the Viscount.

 

“Their prudence will not avail!” cried Sir John.

 

“They did not come in till the sixth of January.”

 

“How ill-considered!” said the Viscount.

 

Sir John sat down heavily.

 

“Breadalbane has sent me the whole tale,” he said. “It seems Makian

took fright when he saw the others going in and set out for Fort

William to take the oaths—of course (as the old fool fortunately did

not know) the oaths must be administered to a magistrate, Hill, I said

Hill was untrustworthy—Hill gave him a letter to the sheriff of

Argyllshire. Makian started for Inverary, but did not reach it till the

sixth—God knows why.”

 

“Probably through making himself drunk at every hut he passed,”

remarked the Viscount.

 

“He pleaded the excuse of heavy snow-storms,” said Sir John, “and the

sheriff was actually moved by his whinings to administer the oath.”

 

“It will make the Macdonalds feel secure,” remarked his father. “I

think that is fortunate.”

 

“But the sheriff has sent a letter to the council at Edinburgh with an

account of the whole transaction.”

 

“Need it ever reach them?” asked the Viscount. “I think if it is

privately submitted to me I can cancel it—what is an oath of surrender

taken on the sixth? Nothing.”

 

Sir John rose.

 

“It shall make no difference,” he said gloomily. “I will make an

example of them, whether they took the oath or no—but this must be kept

from the King.”

 

“Which reminds me,” interrupted the Viscount easily, “what of those

Jacobite papers you were to put before His Majesty? It is a good many

days since you announced them as in your hands.”

 

Sir John’s blue eyes lifted steadily. “I am waiting for the

conspirators to embroil themselves further,” he said thoughtfully.

 

The Viscount shrugged his shoulders.

 

“You are giving them a chance to leave the kingdom.”

 

“You mistake, my lord—I am having them watched and Hunt’s cottage no

longer stands their refuge.” He rose and abruptly left the room.

 

Hardly had he gone before an inner door was opened and Lady Dalrymple

entered.

 

The Viscount gave her a sharp look.

 

“One might be tempted to think that you played the spy, madam,” he said

dryly.

 

“I?” she went white, but glanced at him scornfully. “Can _I_ spy in my

husband’s house?”

 

“I grant, madam, that your means may not equal your will,” he answered,

“yet John is reckless—careless—”

 

Lady Dalrymple’s great soft eyes widened. “Wherefore should I spy upon

my husband’s affairs?” she said coldly. “I am no politician.”

 

“You are a woman,” smiled the Viscount. “I think you have some

curiosity.”

 

“Believe me—none in these affairs of blood—”

 

He turned on her with a soft quickness. “How do you know that they are

‘affairs of blood’?” he asked.

 

She stood silent with a frightened face.

 

“Take care,” said the Viscount, rising. “If John is imprudent, he is

also violent—the matters that he deals in will bear no meddling of

yours.”

 

She shrank away from him.

 

“Why do you so goad me, my lord?” she said in a trembling defiance. “I

came here to avoid my husband, since he declared the sight of me irks

him—and then you turn on me—what are you trying to drive me to between

you?”

 

“Merely prudence,” answered the Viscount. “A little prudence and

discretion.” And he left the room with an indescribable air of cold

avoidance.

 

Lady Dalrymple looked after him with fear and loathing, then sank down

into the chair by the fire and gazed listlessly before her, her hands

clasped on her knees; her full pink gown, her undressed pale hair under

the white lace knotted at her chin, the muslin fichu across her bosom

and the glittering gold and purple flowers on her white satin

overskirt, made her a figure of brilliant fairness in the somber

gorgeous room.

 

The diamonds in her ears winked in the firelight and the paste buckles

of her red silk shoes shone beneath her skirt; round her neck hung a

broad mauve ribbon, the end of which was tucked into the gold lace of

her bodice.

 

She sat so, very still, with the firelight glowing on her soft face,

till she was disturbed by the great doors being opened; she turned in

her seat with a little shrinking movement.

 

The servant was ushering in a lady, who hesitated on the threshold and

said something in a low voice to the man who answered with a bow and a

stately request for her to be seated.

 

Upon that the lady entered, and the servant left, closing the door.

 

Lady Dalrymple looked at the unexpected visitor timidly and rose with

an instinctive courtliness. The lady had paused in the center of the

room; the snow lay over her dark habit and in the full curls of her

hair.

 

“I pray you do not let me trouble you,” she said in a manner,

unnaturally quiet and composed. “My business, madam, is with Sir John

Dalrymple—I have been asked to await him here.”

 

“Will you not sit down,” said Lady Dalrymple gently. “I do not know

your name, but you are very welcome.”

 

She moved her seat from the fire and in a winning way indicated a chair

opposite; but the coldness of the other’s face and voice did not relax.

 

“My name is Delia Featherstonehaugh,” she said. “And I am neither cold

nor tired—only impatient, madam, to get my errand done.”

 

Lady Dalrymple shrank under the rebuff; her soft eyes took in the

stranger; she noted the set face, the proud, contained mouth, the

defiantly upheld head, the girl’s whole carriage as if disdaining

everything about her.

 

“Are you in trouble?” she asked timidly.

 

Delia’s brown eyes swept over her.

 

“No,” she answered coldly, then with sudden force. “Yes—in terrible

trouble—but in want, madam, of neither pity nor comfort.”

 

“Alas!” said Lady Dalrymple. “I would not so repulse either were they

offered me—and do not you be hard to me—for I would help you an’ I

could.”

 

“Madam, you cannot—in myself alone lies help—and you—do you lack pity

or sympathy?” The tone was coldly contemptuous, but Lady Dalrymple

answered gently.

 

“I did not say so, madam—I say I would not refuse them.”

 

“Madam—” said Delia. “Who are you?”