The Master of Stair 39
“But I might serve you,” said Lady Dalrymple. The fair face framed in
the lace scarce was grieved, tender, a little wondering.
“Doubtless,” answered Delia, forcing back her unnatural calm, “Sir
John’s wife would have great influence with her lord—yet will I even do
without her favor.”
And she smiled very bitterly.
A fine flush crept over Lady Dalrymple’s face: “You are hard,” she said.
“Maybe,” replied Delia. “I am different of late—perhaps I am hard, I do
not know.”
She caught the other woman’s eyes on her and flushed, then broke
desperately and swiftly into speech.
“I have come to discover if the Macdonalds of Glencoe have taken the
oaths to the government.”
“Ah,” said Lady Dalrymple. “You have friends among them? These
Macdonalds—who are they?”
Delia bent her head.
“I wish to know if they are safe or no from the vengeance of—the
government.”
Lady Dalrymple sank into her chair again, a flutter of ribbons and
lace, her blue eyes held a curious look. “If they have testified
allegiance, they are beyond the law,” she said. “So I have heard; I
know little of it.”
“’Tis, madam, what I which to discover: the Secretary for Scotland must
know.”
Lady Dalrymple lifted her lovely hand and dropped it again.
“He knows,” she said.
“Well,” cried Delia, “I want to save those people. If they, despite all
warnings, have remained obdurate, there will be a horried vengeance
taken, you know, belike?”
“I know,” said Lady Dalrymple.
“But if they have taken the oaths—and it is blown abroad enough—no one,
for shame, could touch them.”
“Do you think Sir John will answer you?”
“I will essay it,” answered Delia.
A little silence fell; an unusual look of resolution came into Lady
Dalrymple’s gentle face as she gazed into the fire; Delia, standing
with her hands clasped on the chair-back gazed upon her fairness with
sick aversion that mounted to her brain and set her mouth into lines of
cruelty. At last, with a shiver of satin, Lady Dalrymple moved and
looked at the other.
“The Macdonalds _have_ taken the oaths,” she said quietly, “but it will
be suppressed. That is Viscount Stair’s work—and the Earl of
Breadalbane’s.”
“I thought so!” cried Delia fiercely. “The Viscount’s work, you say! I
think Sir John has had a hand in it.”
“I will not discuss my husband’s politics,” interrupted Lady Dalrymple.
“I tell you this because I would prevent an injustice and a crime. It
is true, and the Macdonalds are doomed, if you can save them—do so—”
“If I can save them!” flashed Delia, “I tell you this shall be over all
England to-morrow!”
Lady Dalrymple rose and came toward her.
“So you can save your friends,” she said gently.
“Will you not thank me a little?”
Delia stared at her.
“Why should I thank you?” she demanded.
“For what Sir John would not have told you,” was the answer. “This news
should mean much to you.”
“I do thank you, madam,” said Delia coldly, drawing back.
Lady Dalrymple came nearer, leaned forward over the table.
“Ah, sit down,” she said, sweetly and sadly. “I have few to talk to—”
“Wherefore, madam?” demanded Delia.
“Because—because it is my will, I mean, they are all employed here—”
She put her hands in a troubled manner to her heart and her restless
fingers pulled the mauve ribbon; a closed gold miniature case fell
lightly onto the table.
Lady Dalrymple took it up in silence and looked at it with the air of
some one who holds something very precious, and who, wishful to display
it, yet dreads a scornful reception. She fingered the case a moment in
silence and took a timid glance at Delia, who gazed blankly with a
troubled face.
Lady Dalrymple encouraged by her look, snapped open the case and held
it out hesitating, pleading, making a great effort to be calm.
“My children,” she said.
Delia gave one glance, then motioned it away with a gesture of horror.
“How like,” she said fearfully.
“How like whom?” asked Lady Dalrymple startled. “They are beautiful
faces—are they not? Why do you turn away? I crave people to gaze on
them—”
“They are like—Sir John,” faltered Delia with quivering lips. “It
startled me—”
“Why—you have seen him?”
“Yes.”
Lady Dalrymple frowned. “I do not think they are so like,” she said,
and shutting the case, put it back into her bosom.
Delia uttered a hard laugh.
“’Tis the same face,” she said cruelly.
The other laughed at her.
“We are well hated,” she said in a changed tone. “I think he has a name
well loathed—but remember, whatever he had planned against the
Macdonalds, statecraft well requires it—and I have given you the power
to save them.”
Delia made no answer; Lady Dalrymple stood by the table, making no
further attempt to speak; the silence was broken by the quiet entry of
a servant.
“Sir John will see you now, madam,” he said, and to Lady Dalrymple he
gave a letter.
“Sent by Mr. Wharton’s lackey, my lady.”
She took it absently; her eyes turned wistfully to Delia, but she, with
the slightest cold inclination of her head, left the room without a
word.
Lady Dalrymple, chilled and repulsed, even more lonely than before this
stranger’s coming, sat down again by the fire and the tears welled up
into her large eyes.
Yet she was glad that she had spoken about the Macdonalds; something
she knew and something she guessed of the plans being laid for their
destruction, and it had troubled her; now this girl could see to it
that they were saved.
But she might have to pay the price; she remembered the Viscount’s last
words, “John is reckless and violent,” still she was glad of what she
had done.
Her glance fell to Mr. Wharton’s letter; she broke the seal and opened
it; spread it out in the fading light of the winter afternoon and read:
January 10, 1692.
MY LADY,
I have been away, or I had sooner answered your letter, which
giveth me surprise as well as pain. You ask me to no longer attend
you at your house, as Sir John speaketh of me with increased
dislike and cannot bear even the mention of my name. I cannot
understand that you should pay any attention to a silly prejudice
unworthy of a man of sense. Sir John is at full liberty to tell me
himself what he mislikes in my conduct, which never (as you can
bear me witness) has been in any way offensive to him or wanting in
the respect that I, in common with every Whig, have for his
abilities. If any fancied affront irks him, he knows how to obtain
satisfaction, and I trust that he will either take this course or
meet me with the courtesy that I shall always be ready to offer him
and that you will not suffer his whim to interrupt a friendship
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