The Master of Stair 40

The Master of Stair 40

Lady Dalrymple folded the letter away slowly; she was not clever at

reading between the lines, and fine phrasing a little confused her; but

she caught the spirit of the writer; she saw that it only needed a word

from her for Tom Wharton to challenge her husband on the first excuse

that came. It was a curious thought; Tom Wharton had fought no duel in

which he had not killed or (through good nature) disarmed his man; his

perfect swordsmanship was a charm that kept men civil to him through

all the offenses of his lax and lazy life, since a duel with him was

death or the disgrace of mercy given; she knew her husband’s temper too

well to think he would accept the last.

 

She sat thinking quietly; she liked Tom Wharton; he was good-natured,

pleasant-mannered, open-hearted, open-handed, he treated her with a

flattering deference; though they had never exchanged confidences, she

felt he understood a little of her position; Harry had liked him.

 

She read his letter through again; her heart swelled at the thought

that she was forbidden the only pleasant company of which she knew; she

struggled for a moment with rebellion and wild thoughts of swords

behind Montague House, of freedom and release—then she sat down to the

Viscount’s desk and wrote to Tom Wharton a gentle letter in which she

desired to be left to obey Sir John’s wishes, however unreasonable they

might seem.

 

She sealed it slowly and with a sigh.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX

 

THE PACT

 

 

Delia heard the door closed behind her and lifted her eyes. It was a

beautiful room, all carving and gilt with heavy hangings of stamped

leather and embroidered satin; the chimneypiece was of massive white

marble, carved with fauns and grapes, above it a vast mirror reached to

the ceiling; resting against the chimneypiece stood the Master of Stair.

 

His back was to the door, but Delia could see his face in the mirror;

he was looking down, nor did he turn or move at her entrance.

 

He was quietly dressed, yet there was ostentation about his person,

that ostentation from which he was never entirely free; he wore many

jewels; he was like his house, of a cold, splendid appearance, a showy

somberness, the magnificence of gaiety with no heart behind it; and as

his correct manner often had an underlying brutality in it, so his

beauty owned a lurking coarseness that only the usual coldness of his

demeanor concealed.

 

But now, as he looked down and she stared at his face in the mirror,

she saw the __EXPRESSION__ of it; a heavy sullenness a fierce impatience

barely under control.

 

He stood perfectly still, as if he did not know that she was there, or

was indifferent to her presence, and she remained a foot inside the

door, staring at him.

 

At last he lifted his eyes and the blue of them was painfully vivid in

his flushed face; he looked at her image in the mirror and there their

glance met.

 

Then he turned slowly.

 

“It is strange for you to come here,” he said moodily. “I wonder,

madam, what you can have to say to me?”

 

“Do you wonder, Sir John Dalrymple?” answered Delia with a white hard

face. “I come to ask you if you have those papers.”

 

He looked at her curiously.

 

“Have you those papers?” she repeated, holding herself very still. “We

could not tell—there was ash on the floor—that night—of burnt paper—”

 

For all her terrible effort at calm, her voice failed her; Sir John

spoke abruptly:

 

“I have all the information; all the papers relating to your plot

against His Majesty,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

 

“I guessed,” answered Delia slowly. “And you have not used your

information yet?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“I have come to ask you to give those papers back to me,” she said

faintly.

 

The Master of Stair smiled.

 

“You are very confident, my fair Jacobite,” he said disdainfully.

“Those papers were not lightly got—”

 

She lifted her eyes with more steadiness.

 

“No,” she said, “you paid deep enough for them, did you not, Sir John

Dalrymple? You stopped at nothing.”

 

“I do for my cause what you do for yours,” he answered coldly. “And

this time I win.”

 

“Still I have come to ask you to give me back those papers.”

 

“You are astonishingly simple,” said the Master of Stair.

 

“So you have found me—have you not?” she answered wildly, “a very fool,

Sir John Dalrymple, to follow once the very careless lifting of your

finger, and fool enough now to think you have some honor—some

feeling—some pity for what you have so wantonly destroyed. Those papers

stand for the lives—the honor—of thousands, and you stole them.”

 

She put her hand to her side and came a step forward.

 

“By all the lies you told me,” she said, “give back to me what you

stole.”

 

“The papers?” he asked quietly.

 

“My brother—” said Delia, “is not in your power to restore—he is dead—”

 

“His was a dangerous trade,” returned the Master of Stair gloomily. “I

spared him the gallows.”

 

Delia stared at him; the words she had been forming seemed forgotten on

her lips.

 

“Why did you kill him?” she asked abruptly.

 

Sir John suddenly moved from the hearth.

 

“We talk at strange cross purposes,” he said. “Your brother insulted

me—I did not murder him,” he shrugged his shoulders. “We all take our

chances—I ran some risk to gain my end—and did more mischief than I

need, maybe,” he looked at her curiously. “I’ve earned your curse—have

I not?”

 

He made a little reckless movement with his hand as if he accepted it

and flung it off.

 

“I have no curse for you, nor reproaches,” answered Delia in an intense

voice. “I have not come to call you what I might. What is done is

done—and I have lived through it. I have come to ask your mercy—because

of what once you said—”

 

She stopped, he looked at her, saying nothing, with a great effort she

went on:

 

“Undo a little of what you have done—give me back those papers—”

 

“It is impossible,” he said. “Impossible, you may say what you will of

me—”

 

“I have nothing to say,” she answered unsteadily. “I have dangerous

stuff in me—I know it now. I shall not use a woman’s means if you push

me too far—I have it in me to pull your fortunes about your feet if you

should prove too merciless—”

 

He smiled imperiously.

 

“I think you, too, did some lying,” he said. “You used strong words to

one you talk now of ruining—and half I thought you did not mean—”

 

But Delia interrupted him. “You lie now,” she said in a stifled voice.

“You _know_ I meant it, meant it so that it touched you even through

your falsity.”

 

“Believe I was not insincere—only reckless of the future,” he answered

in a lower voice. “I did not play with you—”

 

“I need no explanations,” she cried passionately. “Have I not said that

I have lived through it? Can I not also be reckless and thank you for

the pleasant passing of an hour—can I not, too, forget?”

 

“I have not forgotten,” said the Master of Stair. “Should I have seen