The Master of Stair 9

The Master of Stair 9

“If they are frightened enough,” said Jerome. “If they realize that all

England is behind him they will submit.”

 

Delia broke in suddenly:

 

“And my Highlander shall take the warning,” she cried. “He shall carry

home this news.”

 

Jerome looked up interested: “A Macdonald, did you say?”

 

“Ronald Macdonald,” she answered, “and son of the chief of his clan.”

 

“He may be trusted,” said Sir Perseus, “for his very simplicity. He

could take letters to Lochiel, Glengarry, Keppoch—I know not about his

gratitude. He is, I think, faithful.”

 

“I will answer for him,” said Delia. “Indeed, I can assure you of his

great honesty.”

 

Jerome Caryl smiled.

 

“Why—you seem to know him very well, Miss Delia.”

 

She answered his look with a straight glance. “I have talked to him—he

has told me things of himself and his people.”

 

“They come from Glencoe?”

 

“Yes,” she answered. “In our tongue, you know, it is the Glen of

Weeping—they call it so because of the mists that hang there day and

night—’tis an awful place in the heart of the Campbell country.”

 

“And they are murdering thieves, are they not?” questioned Jerome.

 

Delia lifted her strong face, flushed rosy from the fire: “I think

these Highlanders have other standards than ours,” she said quietly.

“They own stronger virtues and franker vices.”

 

“The same,” returned Jerome, “may be said of all savages, Miss Delia.”

 

Sir Perseus interposed:

 

“But I think the fellow is to be trusted, and who but a born Highlander

could traverse this chaotic country with safety and advantage?”

 

Jerome Caryl shrugged his shoulders and stirred the log on the hearth

with the toe of his boot.

 

“Well, let the matter rest. Only the thing must be done if we are to

defeat Breadalbane and the Master of Stair.”

 

Sir Perseus laughed: “Why, I believe you dislike the Secretary as much

as the Edinburgh mob do.”

 

“I hate his power,” answered Jerome. “The way he rules us all against

our will—he and he only prevents Scotland returning to King James—”

 

“They do say he is accursed of a cursed family,” said Delia. “There are

horrid mysteries whispered of him—you have heard?”

 

“Yes, and I do not think them all vulgar spite—they are a dark race,

these Dalrymples,” answered Jerome.

 

There was a pause, then Delia spoke: “Have you ever seen him?” she

asked.

 

“Once—in Edinburgh—he was riding an ash-colored horse; there was a

great train of rabble at his heels, who hooted and pelted him—I did not

see his face; he had his hat over his eyes and never looked back.”

 

“He is used to being mobbed,” said Sir Perseus; “they say that is why

he left Edinburgh.”

 

“I was of the mob,” said Jerome Caryl fiercely, “and I said with the

mob what I say now: damnation to the Master of Stair!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V

 

THE FOLLY OF DELIA

 

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh shut the door on Jerome Caryl and her brother

and began mounting the stairs of the quiet little house. She could hear

the low murmur of the men’s voices through the frail door and a fine

pencil of yellow light fell between the paneling onto the blackness

without. Delia stood still a moment in an attitude of hesitation, then

went on lightly and swiftly.

 

At the top of the stairs she fumbled in the dark along the wall, found

what she sought, a door-handle, turned it and entered. She was in a

small room with a sloping roof and a deep bow-window; there was no

light, but through this window poured a great flood of moonshine that

showed the plaster walls, the simple wooden furniture and the figure of

a man wrapped in a plaid, who leaned on his elbow at the window and

gazed over the city.

 

The rough outline of his profile was clear against the square of cold

blue sky, and above the housetops above him hung the great white moon.

 

Delia let the door slip into its latch with a click, and he turned his

head.

 

“You are longing to be away,” she said in her English Gaelic. “And why

have you no light, Macdonald?”

 

“I have no need,” he said mournfully.

 

Delia gave a nervous little laugh and came up to him.

 

“Why, you are well now,” she said, “and will soon be free—you have no

need to brood in the dark.”

 

He shook his head gloomily.

 

“’Tis always dark to me,” he answered. “I would I had died.”

 

There was a soft stir of satin as Delia seated herself on a wooden

stool beyond the patch of moonlight; out of the shadows came her

hesitating voice.

 

“Do not talk so—we have a mission for you, my brother and I.”

 

He made no answer, only dropped his head into his hand and stared at

the moon. Delia locked her fingers together; she seemed to have to make

an effort to speak, at last she told him of the discussion between her

brother and Jerome Caryl, tried to put it forcibly and clearly and

ended by offering him the mission of carrying the warning to the

Highlands that they must take the oaths of submission to King William.

 

He listened as if she spoke of something of no importance; the names of

the rival kings, of the Master of Stair, had clearly no meaning to him,

but he flushed when she mentioned Breadalbane.

 

“The others may do what they will,” he flung out, “but the Macdonalds

of Glencoe will never submit to a Campbell.”

 

Delia strove, somewhat falteringly, to show him the unreasonableness of

this; presently he said drearily: “For the sake of your bread that I’ve

eaten, I will do your errand.”

 

A silence fell. Delia put her foot forward into the moonlight, and

watched the long shadow it made; she shivered once or twice for the

room was cold. Ronald Macdonald seemed to have forgotten her the moment

her voice ceased; she looked up at him and said, faintly:

 

“You promised to tell me before you left, Macdonald, the adventure that

brought you to the plight my brother found you in.”

 

That appeared to rouse him; he looked round sharply.

 

“Ye found me near to death, did ye not?” he demanded.

 

“You have been in great fever,” she answered softly. “Yes, very sick.”

 

“Ah!” He drew himself up in the window-seat and frowned reflectively.

“I think she was a Campbell.”

 

“Who?” asked Delia, a little breathlessly.

 

He did not heed her question. “She was like none I have ever seen,” he

went on. “I would have fought a clan for her—she wore a coat of the

Saxon red, but she was of our country—a Campbell—was she a cursed

Campbell?”

 

“Who was she?” said Delia again, still so faintly that he did not hear.

 

“Certainly she lied to me,” he continued moodily. “And ‘fair and false

as a Campbell,’ they say—she fooled me. I would I had killed her before

I let her fool me.”

 

It was the first time he had ever spoken of this mysterious woman.

Delia fumbled in vain for the meaning.

 

“What was she like?” she asked.

 

He flushed and turned his frank eyes toward her.

 

“She had hair of the Campbell red, and curly like little oak leaves

round her face; her eyes were like a wildcat’s, that the light runs in

and out of; her mouth was bright as blood, and her face white and

sharp; she coughed and shivered, her voice was very cold. I kissed her

and she would have killed me for it—yet could it have been only that?—I

think she was a Campbell.”

 

He sat up and gazed earnestly into the shadows where Delia sat; his

plaid had fallen back and showed the rough hide coat underneath and the