The Master of Stair 45

The Master of Stair 45

Jerome Caryl bowed.

 

“I do not look for ease in Kensington, your Highness,” he answered, and

remained standing.

 

The King took a packet from the bureau drawer, and placed it beside his

hand. At sight of it the color came anew into Jerome Caryl’s face. He

recognized the familiar leathern case.

 

“Milor’ Stair,” said William, “send this me—it is yours—you know

it—_n’est pas?_”

 

“It is mine,” replied Jerome coldly. “It was stolen from me by one of

your Highness’ ministers.”

 

The King looked at him steadily.

 

“Yes, it is so,” he said. “You ’ave been outwit’. Mon Dieu! sometime it

is to be expect’! Sir John ’ave not a ’ead for plot—but you—you ’ave

behave’—like the fools.”

 

With the same perfect composure and unmoved face, he opened the case

and took out the papers. Jerome noticed that the seals were not yet

broken.

 

“We are prepared to pay for being fools, your Highness,” he said coldly.

 

“It is to be hope’,” remarked William dryly. “You can all do that—you

foreigners—when you ’ave play’ the fool you can pay for it.”

 

His eyes flashed for a moment to Jerome Caryl’s steady presence, then

fell to the letter he held.

 

“This,” he said, “is a letter for my uncle at St. Germains. I believe

’e get many such—_pourquoi non?_”

 

He took up the next paper, then put it down and laid his small,

high-bred hand over it; the upper part of his face was hidden in the

shadow of his hat, but Jerome fancied he detected a faint smile on the

thin lips, and it fired his blood.

 

“Sir,” he demanded, “may I ask what you want of me? Where this leads? I

deny nothing.”

 

“It would be mos’ foolish,” interrupted William. “It is prove’.”

 

“Will your Highness then make an end?”

 

“That is not the way in this mos’ advance’ country,” answered William,

and now there was no mistaking the smile. “My cousin in France ’as the

_lettres de cachet_—but ’ere we ’ave the trial, the witness, the

lawyer—all mos’ fair.”

 

He leaned back on his chair and his smile deepened.

 

“It is amusin’ ’ow you plot for the King you yoursel’ throw out. This

is a list for my cousin (or Monsieur de Louvois) signe’ by all you

could persuade—_n’est pas?_”

 

He sat up with a rattle of his sword-hilt against the chair.

 

“Who of my courtiers ’ave their names there?” he said, tapping the

sealed paper. “It is mos’ amusin’, but, monsieur, it is not new to me.

Per’aps you think I am thick head, and do not know who betray me—Mon

Dieu! I think I tell you almos’ all the names there.”

 

“Your Highness employs many of the men whose names you will find

there,” said Jerome, “and there are many more whom your Highness has

never heard of, country gentlemen, honest small folk all over England

whom you can ruin at once—you can be revenged on your servants and

these others, your Highness, by merely opening that paper.”

 

“You, monsieur, speak like a enemy of me,” said William calmly. “You

think it is my pleasure to shed blood—you are of those who write that

when I was outside Bruxelles I burn alive my wounded soldiers, and that

I poisone’ my Uncle Charles—I ’ave read these things in your leaflets.”

 

Jerome flushed.

 

“I have had no hand in those,” he answered. “I find my cause too good

an one to need lies to support it. I deny that you are King of England,

your Highness,—I am not blind to your qualities.”

 

“Yet, Mr. Caryl, you speak to me of being revenge’—which is a thing for

men like Milor’ Mordaunt. This is not, Mon Dieu, the firs’ plot I ’ave

discover’ since I was child. I ’ave learn’ to take insult and betrayal.”

 

He rose and came into the room, the paper in his hand.

 

“The nobles, I know,” he said. “An’ they serve me so they stay—if I

send to the Tower all who write to St. Germains—who ’ave I left? And I

will spare them my forgiveness.”

 

“And we pay for your clemency, sir,” replied Jerome Caryl bitterly. “We

humbler plotters.”

 

William turned and looked at him. They were standing very near each

other. The King took his hat off and flung it down on the chair beside

him.

 

“Mr. Caryl,” he said, “you are _gentilhomme_—cannot you see that I will

not do something? I will not ’unt down these bourgeois—what are they? I

will not know their name’.”

 

He held the papers out to the Jacobite.

 

“I am tire’ of your plot,” he finished. “Put that in the fire and let

me ’ear no more of it.”

 

Jerome Caryl stared at him, utterly bewildered and confused; the sense

of what this meant rushed over him, making him giddy.

 

“Put these in the fire,” repeated the King. “I ’ave no more time.”

 

The Jacobite took the papers; with a great rush of crimson to his face,

he thought of Delia and the hundreds to whom this would mean salvation.

 

“Your Highness is magnanimous,” he said unsteadily. “Your generosity

disarms me.”

 

“You ’ave mistake’ me,” answered William coldly. “Wherefore did you

think I would wish to be revenge’? Sir John think to serve me with this

an’ I am indebt’ to ’im that he preserve peace, but I do not stoop, Mr.

Caryl, to revenge.”

 

He went back to his seat at the bureau; there was a pause, a silence,

then Jerome Caryl put the papers into the fire; the great flare they

made lit up the pale face of William of Orange and the beautiful

flushed countenance of the Jacobite.

 

Across the narrow bright room the eyes of the two men met, as if they

measured each other; then the King dropped his glance to the letters

before him.

 

“You ’ave nothing more to say?” he asked coldly. “Then you may depar’.”

 

“I shall not soon forget your Highness’ generosity,” said Jerome Caryl

unsteadily, and the sincerity of his voice made amends for the

conventional wording.

 

“Call it my policy,” answered William with a slight lift of his green

eyes. “And so, Mr. Caryl, you will be spare’ an obligation.”

 

Jerome Caryl waited for him to demand some oath or promise, to attach

some condition to this cold magnanimity; he felt more utterly at this

man’s mercy than when those papers lay under his hand.

 

Suddenly the King looked up.

 

“For what do you wait?” he demanded. “You are free—go back—to your plot

if you will, only I give you this advice—take care ’ow you sign

paper’—it is dangerous—_n’est pas?_”

 

Jerome colored painfully.

 

“My duty to my King,” he said, “must make me appear ungrateful, but

without disloyalty to my cause I can assure your Highness that I will

follow no unworthy means of serving your enemies.”

 

“Such as Monsieur Grandval use’?” answered William, with a half-smile.

 

“By Heaven, no,” cried Jerome vehemently, “I have never been of that

kind.”

 

William slightly shrugged his shoulders.

 

“My cousin of France is _gentilhomme_,” he said, “but ’e and my uncle

send Monsieur Grandval to—what would you say?—murder me—_voila tout_.”

 

Jerome Caryl stood silent; mention of the Grandval affair was painful

to any follower of the Stuart cause; the King touched the bell on his

desk, and the high-nosed young man entered. William addressed him in

his fluent French.

 

“Show out this gentleman,” he said, “and if Sir John be here send him

in.”

 

He inclined his head gravely toward Caryl, who bowed slightly, not