The Master of Stair 41

The Master of Stair 41

She stopped as though she had put her whole energy into her words and

it had suddenly gone out like a sinking flame; she put her fingers to

her lips and stared at him over them.

 

“It is a great chance for you,” she said very faintly.

 

“A chance—?” repeated the Master of Stair.

 

“Of atonement,” said Delia, and her wild brown eyes flashed such a

glance of proud misery that he almost winced.

 

He was fingering with a lazy hand the wreaths that crowned the faun on

the marble beside him; he dropped his glance and again there came over

his face that curious __EXPRESSION__ of contained sullenness and defiance.

 

Delia waited in the center of the room; she could not look at him; her

gaze traveled to the long windows and the cheerless prospect of bare

trees without.

 

“Sir John Dalrymple,” she said at last. “Will you do the merciful

thing?”

 

He lifted his head; his face was flushed, his eyebrows drawn together.

 

“I will not be a perfect fool,” he said haughtily. “All they who were

in this plot shall pay for it as certainly—”

 

“As you shall pay for what you do, Sir John,” she interrupted. “As

their crimes of loyalty and courage in a losing cause shall be

punished—so shall lying treachery and false-heartedness and hard

cruelty be repaid—” she laughed suddenly. “You in the judgment

seat—you!” she cried, with her hand to her side.

 

“Yes—I,” he said imperiously. “When your Jacobites can mount it let

them judge me—meanwhile—I think he who can hold the sword wields the

sword—as I shall do.”

 

She turned from him.

 

“I have no more to say,” she said.

 

“Nor I,” he answered.

 

With her hand still at her side she crossed to the door; there she

stopped and turned to face him.

 

“I was wrong,” she said steadily. “I have something more to say—there

are those whom I can save without asking your mercy, the mercy that you

have not, Sir John.”

 

He looked at her over his shoulder.

 

“By to-night,” continued Delia, “all London will know that you plan to

massacre the Macdonalds of Glencoe.”

 

The Master of Stair swung round.

 

“It shall also be known,” said Delia, with a terrible composure, “that

the Macdonalds took the oath and that you and your allies suppress the

knowledge that you may not be cheated of your bloody scheme.”

 

The Master of Stair flushed darkly and put his hands to his black

velvet cravat as if he would have torn it in rage.

 

“Who told you that?” he exclaimed fiercely.

 

“Does it matter?” she answered. “I know, and all England shall know.

And you will not dare to touch them—not even you.”

 

“Who told you,” he repeated thickly. “What spies have I about my

affairs? Who told you?”

 

Delia laid her hand on the door.

 

“You can arrest us all,” she said quietly. “You can go to the furthest

limits of your law, use your foully-won triumph, but you cannot prevent

this truth from circling London.”

 

“Is this charity toward those savages or—revenge?” he demanded hotly.

“Pity for them or hate of me?”

 

“Call it what you will,” she answered quietly. “Nothing can stop me.

Nay, you can arrest me now, but you cannot close my mouth, nor can you

put me in any prison so close that this truth shall not escape—to the

very footstool of your Prince, who for shame must hear me—”

 

“Now, if I knew who told you—” said the Master of Stair, “who played

this trick on me.” He clenched his hand tightly against the marble

grapes.

 

Delia opened the door; it seemed as if she was to go without another

word.

 

“Stop,” cried the Master of Stair.

 

She paused, holding the door ajar, and looked back.

 

“Who is the dearer to you,” asked Sir John, “your Jacobite friends or

these Macdonalds?”

 

She stared in a slow horror.

 

“I give you your choice,” pursued the Master of Stair. “The Macdonalds

did not take the oath before the appointed time—yet they took it. If

you and your friends will keep this knowledge secret—if you will

neither warn the Highlanders nor rouse the Jacobites—then I will burn

those papers I hold.”

 

The door slipped from Delia’s fingers; she moved back and lifted a

colorless face. “What is the punishment you have for the Macdonalds?”

she asked faintly, “what are you going to do with them?”

 

“Extirpate them,” he answered, “the whole race of them. Now choose—your

friends or them.”

 

Delia put her hand to her forehead in a listless weary manner as if the

life had died within her.

 

“So—you bargain, Sir John,” she said. “And I—I have no choice between a

duty and a sentiment—give me my friends.”

 

“It is a high price,” he answered with a sudden smile. “Those papers

against your silence.”

 

“Burn them—burn them,” cried Delia. “Let me see them burnt.”

 

He laughed.

 

“Why, I shall keep them,” he answered, “and if you speak I shall send

them to His Majesty—but while you are silent you are safe—you have my

word for that.”

 

“Your word!” she echoed, “your word!”

 

“It is as good as that of other men,” he said, “at least you must take

it—or if not—well—speak and the papers go to the King.”

 

He turned on his heel abruptly as if suddenly weary of the situation

and crossed the room to an inner door which he swept through without a

backward look, and closed heavily behind him.

 

Delia came slowly from her place to where he had stood; slowly she drew

her right glove off and with her bare hand timidly touched the marble

chimneypiece; then her fingers fell to the spot where his had rested

and she caressed the wreathed faun lightly. Her face was flushed and

enthralled; fierce suppressed sobs rose in her throat; she stooped at

last and set her lips to the cold marble, rested her cheek against it

an instant, then drew herself erect, scarlet with shame.

 

She picked up her glove, her muff, and went from the room, slowly down

the gloomy magnificent stairs and out into the cold waning afternoon.

The Master of Stair, waiting her coming, watched her from an upper

window.

 

It was beginning to snow and he noticed how she struggled in the teeth

of the driving wind as she passed round the square; she was the only

soul abroad on foot.

 

As he looked at her, one of his violent impulses seized him to tear to

pieces those papers she asked for and scatter them after her; had he

had them there upon him he would have turned and cast them into the

fire; scheming and intrigue were hateful to him; he wanted the

straightforward action; to crush the Jacobites high-handedly, not hold

a terror over a woman’s head.

 

And the generous action would not in this instance be very costly; as

she had said he had his spies on all the ringleaders. Berwick was

powerless without his French army and Louis would never send an army

till he obtained those letters that would never reach him; the men who

had signed those documents would be too frightened by their loss to

sign others, certainly he could afford to forego a mere vengeance. He

proceeded to act at once on his impulse; he went to the Viscount who had the papers, and demanded them.