The Master of Stair 8

The Master of Stair 8

Jerome Caryl had the figure as well as the dress of a soldier; a quiet,

easy air, a soft voice and the face of a woman saint; a face that seen

alone none would have ever taken for that of a man, so perfect was the

contour of the small, regular features, the sweet mouth, the straight

nose, the dimpled chin, the large, soft, melancholy hazel eyes, the

brilliant, smooth complexion.

 

Beside the rough blunt appearance of Sir Perseus, his face, pale with

fatigue, looked like that of a musing girl; far more soft and sweet

than the firm features of Delia Featherstonehaugh, all aglow with

excitement.

 

“How go things in London?” asked Sir Perseus. “We have had few letters.”

 

“It was not deemed safe to write,” answered Jerome Caryl in his low

melodious voice. “Pray, Mistress Delia—sit and hearken—I have dined—I

am in want of nothing save the ear of my friends—yet—have you nothing

to tell?”

 

Delia was stirring the fire into a blaze; she looked round with an

eager smile.

 

“Perseus hath been much engaged,” she said. “There is great discontent

here—and the Highlands have not taken the oaths to the government—”

 

Perseus glanced affectionately at his sister. “Is she not a valiant

plotter, Jerome?” he said. “Her spirits are enough to fire a losing

cause—but have we told you—we have here in this house a Highlander—a

Macdonald of Glencoe?” He laughed, but Jerome Caryl looked up puzzled.

 

“Was it well to trust one of those savages?” he asked.

 

Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders.

 

“He knows naught of us—I found him some weeks ago half-dead upon the

mountains; he had dragged himself, God knows how far, on a broken

ankle, then fallen in a swoon. I could not leave him in that

desolation—the horse I rode was stout: I brought him here.”

 

A smile came on the smooth face of Jerome Caryl.

 

“Like you,” he said, “and Miss Delia nursed him, I suppose?”

 

She answered quickly, not looking at him: “He is almost mended now—and

wild to return—he is not, I think, very grateful.”

 

“Gaelic is one of Delia’s accomplishments,” said Sir Perseus; “I do not

understand a word the fellow says.”

 

The subject did not appear to interest Jerome Caryl; he had weightier

matters on his mind.

 

“What was you doing in the Highlands?” he asked Perseus.

 

“Why, I was gathering what information I could as to the submission of

the clans—January first is the last day, you know, and not so far away.”

 

Jerome tapped his foot thoughtfully.

 

“Breadalbane held a conference at Kilchurn, I heard,” he remarked. “But

it has come to nothing.”

 

“Of course,” said Sir Perseus dryly. “The government had the folly to

send a Campbell—and the most hated of all the Campbells to treat.”

 

“It was thought,” answered Jerome, “that it would be to his interest to

quiet the Highlands, but he has, I think, found it more to his interest

to keep the money he was to buy them with.”

 

“God knows,” said Sir Perseus. “I think his strongest motive is not

money—but hate.”

 

Delia broke in eagerly: “You cannot guess how the Highlanders hate the

Campbells, Mr. Caryl—this Macdonald goes white to think of them—”

 

Jerome Caryl lifted his head; his beautiful face was set and hard.

 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “The Highlands hate Breadalbane—the Lowlands

hate the Master of Stair; the English hate William of Orange—in each

case ’tis thousands to one—”

 

Delia cried joyously:

 

“Surely that means all hearts turn to the true King—no government can

surely live on hate!”

 

“Indeed,” put in her brother, “I do think this seething discontent

looks well for us—what do you say, Jerome?—the odds are against the

Dutchman.”

 

Jerome looked from one to the other, then gave a bitter little laugh.

 

“No!” he cried, “the odds are most mightily against King James—and even

with the three kingdoms behind us we could do nothing against these

men—nothing!”

 

He struck his hand vehemently on his sword-hilt.

 

“I have seen it—as I intrigued and waited and watched in London—while

half the men of note would go over again to King James and the other

half follow if he was here—while the people grumble and curse the

Dutchman—while promises of anything may be had for the asking, still

three men hold us in check—three men whom every one joins in

loathing—but, by Heaven, they hold the three countries with a power we

cannot shake!”

 

He stopped, flushed with the force of his words; Delia looked at him

with surprised, indignant eyes; her brother spoke.

 

“What are these, Jerome?”

 

“William Carstairs, one; the Master of Stair, two, and three, William

of Orange.”

 

There was a little pause, then Delia made an impatient movement with

her foot.

 

“Three men, Mr. Caryl!” she cried with flashing eyes. “Have we not many

threes to match them?”

 

“Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “you remember what the Irish said

after the Boyne?—‘Change kings and we will fight it again’—I feel like

that now.”

 

“Oh, shame!” cried Delia.

 

“You seem turned rank Williamite,” remarked Sir Perseus, a little

sourly.

 

“I am not,” was the firm answer, “but I see what a rope of sand we are

without a leader: I see that we have to struggle against a man whose

genius has made him arbitrator of Europe—and he has linked himself with

William Carstairs—”

 

“A Scotch minister of no birth!” interrupted Delia.

 

“One of the cleverest men in the kingdom,” said Jerome, “and the Master

of Stair is another—if you consider the Highlands, you may add

Breadalbane for a fourth—call them devils, if you will, but they are

men impossible to defeat.”

 

Sir Perseus rose impatiently:

 

“I think you are wrong, Jerome—why, Sir John Dalrymple, the Master of

Stair, as you call him, hath roused such a storm against himself that

he hardly dares to show himself in Edinburgh—any moment he might be

arrested by the Parliament.”

 

“Nevertheless,” answered Jerome, “he holds Scotland in the hollow of

his hand, he is a close friend of William of Orange, all powerful at

St. James’s, he is hand and glove with Breadalbane and Carstairs and

his father, Sir James—curse him.” He brought the last words out so

fiercely that the others started.

 

“They defeat me at every turn, these men,” he continued passionately.

“But, by God, they shall not get the Highlands!” He turned the soft

face that was at variance with his speech toward Perseus. “That is the

question of issue now,” he said. “The Highlanders must take the oaths,

the government decrees it.”

 

“Ay,” answered Sir Perseus, “and the government does not want the

decree carried out. The government may, but the Master of Stair and

Breadalbane have other plans—don’t you see?”

 

“Yes,” nodded Sir Perseus, “they want the Highlands to put themselves