The Master of Stair 7

The Master of Stair 7

He rose abruptly and crossed to the fire, where the last light from the

glowing embers was reflected in his cuirass.

 

His wife followed him with shining eyes; it was the first time even she

had so enjoyed his confidence; the first time he had so spoken of his

affairs, though he had always been assured of her passionate sympathy.

He fell into silence as he leaned against the heavy chimneypiece and

she noticed that his delicate face had fallen into lines of weariness.

 

“Ye look tired, Jock,” she said tenderly.

 

“Unlace me,” he smiled. “This thing is heavy.”

 

She came up and unstrapped his armor; as he shook himself free of it,

he gave a sigh of relief.

 

“I shallna’ need to be riding my own lands armed when the Macdonalds of

Glencoe are—weel, treated as to their desserts,” he remarked as he

shook out his crumpled buff coat.

 

As she laid down his cuirass he spoke again:

 

“What was the name of this Macdonald to-day?” he asked quietly.

 

“Ronald—the chief’s son he said,” she answered.

 

Breadalbane yawned, then glanced with half-shut eyes at his sword hilt.

 

“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he said—“maybe the laddie will live.”

 

He glanced at his wife.

 

“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he repeated. “Weel, a Campbell always has

a vera gude memory.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH

 

 

In a small chamber of a quiet house in Glasgow, a girl was standing at

the window and looking down the empty street.

 

The November evening was closing in; the room somber and gloomy at any

time, was in darkness save for the fire over which a young man sat,

writing on a paper that he held on his knee. The firelight showed a

resolute brown face, close-clipped brown hair and a large figure very

plainly clad in a neat, dark cloth suit.

 

The scanty furniture consisted of a bureau, a few chairs, and a small

table piled with papers.

 

“He is late, Perseus,” said the girl in a tired voice. “It struck four

some time since.”

 

Both her accent and her face marked her as English; when the man

glanced up it was easy to see he was her brother.

 

“He will come,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And he fell to his busy

writing again.

 

“Why not?” echoed the girl impatiently. “I think, Perseus, there are

many reasons why a gentleman in King James’s service may not cross

England and Scotland in perfect safety.”

 

“I have perfect confidence in Jerome Caryl,” answered her brother, this

time without an upward look. “A man who has been an adventurer all his

life knows how to play the spy.”

 

She let the curtain fall.

 

“I wish you would not use that word, Perseus,” she said vexedly.

 

With a half-humorous sigh Sir Perseus Featherstonehaugh put aside the

writing he could no longer see.

 

“My sweet Delia,” he said. “We—Jerome, you, and I and all our friends

represent a losing or a lost cause—”

 

“A rightful one,” she put in.

 

“Certainly,” he smiled, “but unfortunately at the present, a lost

one—we are, my dear, without the law—in plain English, Jacobite spies

dabbling in high treason—I want you to understand that, Delia.”

 

His voice fell to gravity on the last words, but the girl bit her lip

and tapped her foot impatiently.

 

“While we have King James’s countenance we can never be spies—or guilty

of treason in outwitting his enemies,” she said impetuously.

 

“Nay,” answered Sir Perseus, “but we may be hanged, my dear.”

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh flung up her head: “And we may give the King

again his kingdom,” she smiled.

 

“God grant it,” answered her brother gently, “but before we go any

further—before we hear Jerome’s news, before we make any more plans—I

want you to see it as it is—Delia, we are staking our lives in the

King’s service.”

 

“But you would not turn back!” she cried.

 

“Why, no,” he answered. “But you are not bound to follow my fortunes.”

 

Delia swept into the center of the room, her heavy satin dress

rustling; a noble dim figure in the dusk.

 

“Are you not all I have, Perseus?” she said unsteadily. “Is it so long

ago since father was slain by the Boyne and we vowed to serve the King

he died for? Oh, my dear, why should you think I want to turn aside

into placid safety?”

 

“Delia!” Sir Perseus held out his hand, “’tis only that sometimes I

think you do not see the danger—”

 

“Why, I do love it,” she interrupted gaily. “The excitement is life to

me—and you forget—are there so few faithful in England? We are only two

of thousands who plot, and wait and long for the rightful King again!”

 

With a little laugh she came behind him and put her hand on his

shoulder, while she gazed over his head into the fire.

 

“Yea, we will do it,” said Sir Perseus quietly. “We will oust the

Dutchman, I think, Delia—there is a huge discontent everywhere.” He

tapped the papers he had been writing, “there—in my reports to his

Majesty, I have to mention many great men who would welcome him back—”

he smiled grimly. “Many of them, those who welcomed William—”

 

“If his Majesty would but himself come over,” sighed Delia. “I think

all England would rise to greet him!”

 

“Indeed,” answered her brother, “William has no friend in England—I

marvel he holds the throne—at all—”

 

“’Twill not be for long,” cried Delia, with glittering eyes—“But—hark!”

 

A knock resounded through the empty house; Sir Perseus rose. “’Tis

Jerome Caryl,” he said.

 

His sister gave a little pant of suppressed excitement; the bold and

restless spirit of Jerome Caryl was akin to her own; he was the soul of

this plot in which she was engaged; of her own religion, her own views;

a man whom next to her brother she admired of all others.

 

And for six months she had not seen him; the while he plotted in

London, they plotted in Scotland; he might have great news to tell; she

was confident his fervor and ability could remove obstacles that to the

slower mind of her brother seemed insurmountable.

 

Her fingers shaking, she lit the candles on the chimneypiece; as the

pointed flames sprang up they showed the face of Delia; a strong face

with great brown eyes and a passionate mouth; a low-browed fair face,

very eager and bright with the thick hazel hair falling round the full,

curved white throat and lace collar.

 

She caught up one of the candles and ran out on to the head of the

stairs.

 

A man was coming up; she could hear the jingle of his spurs and the

drag of his sword.

 

“Mr. Caryl!” she cried, leaning over the baluster.

 

He came now into the circle of the candle-light, a tall figure in steel

and leather, with a long, dark traveling cloak over his shoulder.

 

“Himself, madam,” he answered, and looked up with a smile.

 

She came running down the stairs to meet him and gave him her hand

between laughing and crying.

 

“Oh, sir, Mr. Caryl—you have some news?” she panted.

 

He kissed her hand ceremoniously. “News of a kind, yes,” he

answered—“and you?”

 

“Oh, things go well in Scotland!” she cried, “but—enter—sir—”