The Master of Stair
by Marjorie Bowen · English · Gutenberg #49979 · 544,097 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Master of Stair
Author: Marjorie Bowen
Release date: September 15, 2015 [eBook #49979]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER OF STAIR ***
THE
MASTER OF STAIR
BY
MARJORIE BOWEN
Author of The Viper of Milan
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
MCMVII
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips & Co._
_Published April, 1907_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_To Mark Twain
with deep gratitude for the flattering interest
shown by a great man of letters in
the work of a beginner_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER PAGE
I RONALD MACDONALD 3
II THE KISS 14
III JOCK O’BREADALBANE’S WIFE 24
IV DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH 35
V THE FOLLY OF DELIA 47
VI HATE MEETS HATE 62
VII THE POISON OF THE KISS 77
VIII MACCALLUM MORE 87
IX ON THE ROAD TO LONDON 98
X THE KING’S MESSENGER 108
XI THE MASTER OF STAIR 119
XII THE LOVE OF DELIA 131
XIII THE MASTER’S WIFE 149
XIV THE CURSE OF THE DALRYMPLES 161
XV THE AVOWAL 174
XVI A LAMPOON ANSWERED 183
XVII THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH 195
XVIII AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL 205
XIX THE PACT 217
XX ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS 227
XXI WILLIAM OF ORANGE 238
XXII THE RESOLUTION OF DESPAIR 256
XXIII JAMES FITZJAMES 261
XXIV THE LOVE OF MARGARET CAMPBELL 272
XXV GLENCOE 284
BOOK TWO
I THE RECKONING 309
II FOREBODINGS 318
III THE TRIUMPHS OF THE CAMPBELLS 329
IV THE LIE ACCOMPLISHED 335
V A WOMAN’S VICTORY 344
VI “THERE WAS NO MASSACRE IN GLENCOE” 364
EPILOGUE THE GLEN O’ WEEPING 374
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GLENCOE
_In the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Watch the giant hills are keeping
In their frozen wreaths o’ snow.
Tears from out the mists are falling
And the winds forever sigh
To the lonely eagle calling
As he circles through the sky,
With the blood o’ the Macdonalds
All red upon his claws,
The blood o’ the dead Macdonalds
Who broke the Campbell laws._
_Through the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Where the blighted trees are sleeping
And black the waters flow,
Where the dead lie in their darkness,
Their frozen hearth beside,
As the day glooms into darkness,
Come the living in their pride
Through the lines o’ dead Macdonalds
Lying naked to the blast,
Through the stern and still Macdonalds
Come the Campbells riding fast._
_Now is the Glen o’ Weeping
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
Bright with light o’ swords upleaping
And flashing to and fro;
And gallant is the seeming
Of man and horse together
As with flying harness gleaming
They ride the trampled heather
Through the homes o’ the Macdonalds
Who lie defenseless, dumb,
Through the spilt blood o’ the Macdonalds
The victor Campbells come._
_Now shall the Glen o’ Weeping,
The Valley o’ Glencoe,
When our noble heirs are reaping
The deeds that now we sow—
Lie desolate, forsaken,
Bleak to the brooding mist,
While we our way have taken,
By winged fortune kissed.
Swept from our path the Macdonalds,
Swept from our path away:
Now out o’ the Glen o’ Weeping,
Into the light o’ day!_
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
RONALD MACDONALD
Some fifty men were making slow progress through the pass of Glenorchy,
which lies in the heart of Invernesshire and so in the very depths of
the wild Highlands. A thick white mist hung over the landscape; it was
the end of October and a raw and chilly day; the dull purple heather,
disclosed now and then by the lifting vapor, the gaunt firs and faded
bracken that grew along the pass, were shivering under the weight of
dripping moisture.
The men strained their eyes to pierce the drifting mist, and drew
closer the damp tartans that showed they were of the Clan of Macdonald;
they were all on foot: some led shaggy ponies on whose rough backs were
strapped packages and what appeared to be the plunder of some great
house, for the objects included silver and gilt cups and goblets tied
together by the handles; and, slung across the saddle, handsome
garments such as the Saxons wore, and guns of a make not often seen in
a Highlander’s hands.
A drove of fine cattle were driven in the rear of the Macdonalds, and a
man who was obviously the leader walked a few paces ahead of the
others. He was distinguished from his followers by the faded laced
cloth coat under his plaid, the pistols in his belt, and his high
cowskin boots, the others being barefoot and wearing nothing but their
tartans and rude garments of untanned leather.
The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding
mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and
looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of
the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure
desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no
roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.
The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads,
and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally.
The leader of the Macdonalds shuddered in the damp cold and was making
the signal for his men to continue, when his quick ear caught a distant
sound. He paused, the train of Highlanders motionless behind him.
It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses’
hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.
With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or
hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw
themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks.
The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that
they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift
trot. It was impossible to see how many there were; they were very
swiftly gone, and utter silence fell again.
The Macdonalds began to move cautiously. The mist thickened so that
they grew uneasy, their eyes were strained for another sight of the
strangers, their ears for the sound of the bridle bells.
The eagle flew close, then past them and out of sight; they were
feeling their way a step at a time, the ponies stumbled over the wet
rocks the heather concealed, the men could hardly see each other. They
began talking in whispers, wondering who these horsemen might have
been, disputing about the way.
Then it came again, the thud thud of a horse.
The Macdonalds stopped dead; their leader softly cursed the mist and
held himself on the alert.
It seemed to be only one horse now, and very close; they could hear it
slipping among the rocks, the sound of the clinking harness, but they
could see nothing. It died into the distance; the mist rose a little
and they caught a sudden glimpse of a red figure on a dark horse in
front of them, then they lost sight of it again in the thick vapor.
They pushed on slowly, teased with the faint sound of the unseen
horsemen, ready for a stranger and enemy, yet baffled by the mist.
Suddenly the sound grew louder; the Macdonalds looked round fiercely.
Their leader was almost thrown by the swift passing of a huge brown
horse bearing a rider in a scarlet coat, who crossed in front of him
and was swallowed into the mist. He had only a glimpse, and the bells
were again tinkling in the distance; the horseman did not appear to
have seen him, but as he passed a whip had struck Macdonald lightly on
the face.
With a fierce cry the Highlander was plunging through the mist after
him; the sound guided him; he ran forward swiftly, maddened by that
slash on the cheek, striving to cleave aside the blinding fog.
All at once he heard it coming again, saw the brown horse looming
toward him, and made a wild dash at the reins. But it swept past him.
He thought he heard the rider say something or give a little cry.
The mist began to lighten, grow thinner; he saw the rider ahead and ran
after him with his dirk undrawn. His strength was almost a match for
the horse which was evidently very jaded and weary; his rider looked
back and urged him faster, but the Macdonald was gaining.
It was clear enough now for him to see who he was pursuing. A slender
figure in a scarlet roquelaure with the collar turned up to his ears,
his beaver and feather hanging limp with the rain; both his dress and
his horse were of the lowlands. The Macdonald’s eyes glowed at the
sight of the Saxon; he was too stung to care that he had missed his men
in the pursuit. He came on at a run, silently. The horseman had gained
rising ground and stood outlined against the sky.
The mist changed to a drizzling rain: they were able to see each other
distinctly; the tired horse stumbled and stopped, the rider wheeled him
round and drew up, facing the Highlander. In the vast gloomy scene he
was the only spot of color on his smooth bright chestnut horse with the
glittering harness, with his vivid red coat and the long draggled brown
feather hanging on his shoulders.
The Macdonald stopped a pace or two away from him that he might see who
this Saxon could be, sitting very still and calm, with his head
lifted—haughtily, it seemed. Then he cried out and fell back a step.
It was a woman who looked down at him from the brown horse: a proud,
still woman’s face that showed in the high collar.
She calmly viewed his utter amazement, sitting utterly motionless, very
upright.
After a second she spoke; slowly, in Gaelic.
“What do you want with me?”
Her voice sounded thin and unnatural coming through the vast open
space; she broke her words with a cough and shuddered as if she was
very cold.
The Macdonald had stood motionless, eagerly surveying her; when she
spoke he came toward her slowly, with the caution and curiosity of a
wild animal scenting the unknown.
She too looked at him, but covertly, and her face expressed no interest
as her eyes dwelt on his magnificent figure and torn and faded clothes;
she waited for him without a movement or a word.
As he came to her saddle bow he pulled off his bonnet and stood erect
in the straight rain, his frank blue eyes on her face.
“My name is Ronald,” he said, “and I am a prince of the Macdonalds of
Glencoe.”
The horsewoman coughed and shivered again before she answered; she had
noted the half-sullen, half-proud defiance of his bearing and replied
to that:
“Why do you speak so?” she said. “You give your speech a turn of
bitterness.”
He came still closer and laid his hand on her fallen reins.
“I thought you were a Campbell,” he said, and watched for the effect of
the loathed name on her; there was none; she merely shook her head.
“I am a stranger,” she answered. “I came with my kinsfolk on a mere
family affair—”
His face lightened.
“I saw them through the mist,” he said.
She looked round her.
“And now the mist hath gone and I am utterly lost.” She shivered.
Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make;
his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at
her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she
gave a slow faint smile.
“Are you too lost?” she asked.
“It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered.
“But I have missed my men.”
He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed
her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her
red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely:
“Ye _are_ a Campbell!”
Her face expressed a cold surprise.
“I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of
Campbell.”
It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald
hesitated, not knowing what to do.
“Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am
wet and cold—and most utterly lost.”
At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke.
“Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.
She shook her head. “I must find my people,” she said resolutely. “Tell
me the way—they ride in the direction of Glenorchy.”
Macdonald’s eyes flashed.
“Jock Campbell’s castle—you go there!” he cried.
“I go that way—not there,” she answered, “but to Loch Awe.”
He was appeased again. “Glenorchy is three miles from here,” he said.
“And Glencoe some ten—as you are a woman I will go with you to find
your people.”
She made no show of either gratitude or refusal. “I shall die of cold,”
she said impatiently. “Take the bridle and lead the way.”
The drizzle had settled into a steady downpour; the sky was a merciless
even gray; the distant hills wreathed with heavy rain clouds, the
gloomy rocks about them running with water.
Macdonald took the horse’s head in silence and led him across the
squelching heather. They were at the top of the ravine; the country
before them was broken and utterly wild, but he had no fear of losing
his way while he had the use of his eyes. The woman shuddered closer
into her coat. “Put me on the road to Glenorchy,” she said. “My people
will be looking for me.”
“Would you not be afraid alone, Helen Fraser?” he asked.
“No,” she answered quietly.
“Are you friendly with the Clan of Campbell?” he said, “for you must
cross their lands.”
“I know nothing of them,” came the tired voice from the great collar.
“But—I say—I am not afraid.”
He was silent again; he knew little or nothing of the distant Clan of
Frasers, he marveled at the dress and refined appearance of this woman:
he had never seen any but the Campbell’s women in this Lowland habit.
Neither spoke as they wound through the rocks and heather; he at the
horse’s head, heedless of the cold and rain; she huddled on the saddle,
shivering under it.
She spoke at last so suddenly that he turned with a start.
“Who are those?” she said.
He looked in the direction her gloved hand pointed.
From the branch of a great fir-tree two men were dangling, the rain
dripping forlornly from their soaked clothes and the fair hair that
fell over their dead faces.
“Campbells,” answered Macdonald. “Would there were more than two.”
She turned her gaze from the dead men; her face was utterly unmoved.
“How you hate these Campbells, Macdonald of Glencoe,” she said
curiously.
He was bewildered by her note of wonder, turned it over in his mind and
could think of nothing to say but:
“I am a prince of the Macdonalds.”
“God fend me from these feuds!” she cried. “My people live at peace.”
“They would not, Helen Fraser, if they were two hundred men alone in
the country of the Campbells.” He looked at her over his shoulder, his
color risen. “To one side of us we have MacCallum More himself—to the
other Jock Campbell of Breadalbane and his vassals swarm in their
hundreds—but we do no homage—because there has been no Campbell yet
dare enter Glencoe.”
He had stopped with the force of his words and his fierce eyes measured
her narrowly.
She gave her slow smile:
“Well—go on,” she said. “I have no call to be the Campbells’ friend.”
He went on at his steady even pace and she said no more.
They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the
men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she
could see them faintly, dark against the sky.
Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate
stillness.
“There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald.
“How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered
forward. “Look—ahead of us—”
A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another
circled slowly above him.
“What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly,
half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of
plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the
midst.
The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak
dripped with blood.
“Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low.
Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy.
“It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?”
She was still straining her eyes after the ghastly bundle they were
leaving behind them.
“It is a woman!” she cried.
“Yes,” he answered, “we got her yesterday from Jock Campbell’s house—we
burnt a house of his two days ago—you could see the flames from here.”
His eyes sparkled with pride. “They were three to one,” he added, “but
the Campbells always fight like Lowlanders.”
She put her hand to a face grown ghastly white.
“You keep your eagles well fed,” she said. “I would not be a Campbell
in your hands, Macdonald of Glencoe!”
He looked up, puzzled at her tone; he had not properly seen her face
nor could he see it now for the collar and the hat; it occurred to him
that she did not understand the bitterness of this hate.
“There is the sword and the flame between us two,” he said. “A Campbell
has not broken bread with a Macdonald for a thousand years—we are the
older race and by craft they have the mastery.”
“Of the whole Highlands, I do think,” she put in.
“Yes,” he cried fiercely. “But not Glencoe—we have that yet, and we
harry them and goad them to curses and slay them, and thwart them
though we are but two hundred—now my tacksman return home with the
plunder of Jock o’ Breadalbane’s house—we left his door-step wet with
blood, not for the first time!”
She caught her breath.
“Some day you will pay the price,” she said, “for he has the Saxons and
the Southrons behind him—he is a mighty man.”
The Highlander flung up his head. “Let the Saxons try to reach
Glencoe,” he said grimly. “Let Jock Campbell turn his claymores out to
touch us here—there will be more blood for the eagles at Strath Tay!”
She lapsed into silence again; the rain was growing colder, changing
into a fine sleet; she was numb and frozen.
“Give me rest,” she said faintly, “or I die—is there not one hut in all
this barrenness?”
He looked surprised that her endurance should be exhausted already;
hesitated with a desire to be rid of her encumbrance.
She put out her hand and touched him delicately on the shoulder; for
the first time he saw her eyes, green and very bright, as she leaned
forward.
“Ah,” she said very softly. “You would not leave me—when I am lost—or
make me ride when I am like to faint—find me shelter for awhile,
Macdonald!”
“I would not have left you,” he answered, “and though I know none of
you, Helen Fraser, I will find you shelter.”
There was a wattled hut near by, often used as an outpost by the
Macdonalds in their plundering raids; he turned toward it now; it was
very little off the road to Glenorchy.
Helen Fraser looked at his great figure before her, his resolute
strength, his firm face, and she gave a little inscrutable smile.
CHAPTER II
THE KISS
Ronald Macdonald had kindled a peat fire in the hut and strengthened it
with dried fir boughs from the stack of wood in the corner.
A bright flame leaped up and showed the rude interior, the mud walls,
the earth floor, the rough-hewn log seat and the figure of Helen Fraser
taking off her dripping red coat.
She flung it over the log, swept off her hat and stood straight and
slim in her close brown dress, while she held her hands over the flame.
Macdonald, leaning against the wall, looked at her and wondered.
She was young and very slender; eminently graceful; her hands were
perfect; she had an oval, clear white face, a thin scarlet mouth, eyes
narrow and brilliant, arched red brows and a quantity of red-blonde
hair that hung damp and bright onto her shoulders.
Macdonald had never seen a woman of this make before; now he had her
close and could study her at his ease, he found her grace and
self-possession wonderful things. The sight of her hair as she shook it
out to dry made his face cloud for a moment. “’Tis the Campbell color,”
he said.
She smiled over her shoulder. “I did not know that till to-day,” she
answered. “Many of the Fraser’s women have hair like this.”
She took up the long curls in her white hand, and held them in the
firelight where they glittered ruddy gold. Her green eyes surveyed him.
They looked at each other so a full minute—then he spoke.
“Why did you strike me when you rode past?”
She gave a sudden laugh.
“My whip slipped—I meant it for the horse,” she said, “not for you,
Macdonald of Glencoe—why should I?”
The thick peat smoke, that circled round the hut before it found the
rude aperture that served as a chimney, made her cough and shudder.
“Where are we now?” she asked.
“By the entrance to Glenorchy,” he answered, gazing hard at her.
“Ah,” she said, “Jock Campbell’s lands—his castle lies there, you said?”
She was leaning against the wall; her eyes indifferently on the smoke
and flame; then suddenly she lifted them and Macdonald started; they
were such a vivid color, green as those of a wildcat.
“You are bold to come so near Glenorchy when you have burnt Jock of
Breadalbane’s house,” she smiled.
“He is in the Lowlands,” Macdonald answered. “And I have said—no
Campbell would follow where I go—to Glencoe—though Campbell of
Breadalbane is serpent-cunning and very full of lies.”
“You hate him very deeply?” she questioned.
His frank eyes flew wide.
“He is the loathed devil of all the Campbells,” he cried, “surely you
know that?”
She gave a little laugh.
“What are his qualities?” she asked. “Why do you hate him so?”
“Ask every soul in the Highlands or the Lowlands,” he answered
fiercely, “and if ye find one to say a good word for Jock Campbell—then
will I tell ye of his qualities.”
He came across the hut and stood towering over her.
“I do mistrust you,” he said. “I think you are over quiet.”
She drew herself a little closer against the wall, the green eyes
glittered up at him.
“I think you are a Campbell,” said Macdonald, breathing hard.
“By Christ, I am not,” she answered resolutely. “Nor any friend of
theirs.”
There was a little pause, the heavy sweep of the rain without came
distinctly, mournfully, and a low wind howled through the rough window.
Macdonald gazed into her eyes: she did not wince, but suddenly smiled;
the color came into her cheeks.
“Ye have a wonderful face, Helen Fraser,” he said. “Are you a princess
of the clan?”
“I am Lord Fraser’s daughter,” she answered, “and heiress of our
family.”
“They should be proud of you,” said Macdonald. “Are you a maid or wife?”
“I am unwed,” she said, “and am ever like to be, for I do find it hard
to love.”
He turned away from her and pointed to the log.
“Will you sit?” he said with a grave courtesy.
She complied at once with a deepening of her smile.
In one corner was a pile of skins; Macdonald lifted these and brought
out from under them two goblets of pure gold.
As he raised them he looked at the woman; she showed through the cloudy
smoke brown and gold and brilliant; her hair was as vivid as the little
tongues of flame she held her hands over.
“From the Campbells,” he said, putting the goblets down, “and this from
the King—in France.”
He brought out a slender bottle of wine and stripped off the wicker
covering.
“We keep these things hidden here,” he explained, “so that when any
cannot reach the Glen they may find food.”
He turned over the skins and heather till he found a rough cake of
grain. Helen Fraser rose and came up behind him.
“Are these your takings from the Campbells?” she asked, and picked the
goblets up. They were very handsomely engraved with the arms of John
Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane.
Macdonald lifted the glittering wine with an eager smile.
“We drink as royally as Jock Campbell with his Lowland luxuries,” he
cried. “This is King’s wine.”
She held out one of the goblets while he filled it and let the other
drop.
He put his lips to it, then held it out to her with something like a
challenge in his eyes.
“Drink with me, Helen Fraser.”
She took it, drank, and gave it back to him with the same unmoved smile.
“Now we are pledged friends,” he cried. “But wait—ye shall break bread
with me—”
“I cannot eat,” she said. “Believe me—I am sick with weariness.”
He looked at her keenly over the brim of the brilliant wine-cup.
“Ye shall do it,” he said. “I would be allied with thy clan.”
He broke the bread and salt that to him formed a rite impossible to
violate and gave it her with eager blue eyes on her face.
She took it slowly, afraid to show reluctance, and ate a little while
he watched her closely.
Then he put one of the skins on the log and another under her feet, and
stirred up the fire to give her warmth.
She had become very silent; she took his care with no thanks,
passively, but all the while her jewel-like eyes were covertly studying
him.
He came and sat opposite to her; his huge shadow dancing behind him.
Between them lay her steaming red coat, the gold wine-cups, and the
elegant French bottle, brilliant on the mud floor.
Outside the rain was coming down less heavily, but the wind had risen
and they could hear the rocking of the fir-trees.
She spoke at last, in her quiet voice: “Do you go to the conference
Breadalbane holds at Glenorchy?” she asked. “You know he calls the
Highlands thither to treat of peace—and loyalty to the new King.”
Macdonald laughed:
“And the gold he hath to buy us fills his own coffers—there will be no
peace while Jock Campbell treats,” he answered.
“But many great chiefs have gone,” she said, “And the whole force of
the new King is behind Breadalbane—”
“We may go,” replied Macdonald. “But we will not take the oaths.”
Another silence fell; she stirred the smoldering peat with her foot; he
seemed to be utterly absorbed in watching her; she had taken his wild
fancy most suddenly, most completely.
“I must go on,” she said at last. “They will be searching for me.”
She rose and put back her glittering hair.
“And I will go with you,” said Macdonald, rising too.
She looked over her shoulder; seemed to hesitate, a drift of the peat
smoke floated between them, through it he saw her face, white, calm,
and her narrow, brilliant eyes.
She picked up her damp coat and hat.
“I can go alone if you will put me on my road to Loch Awe,” she said.
“It cannot be far.”
“Too far for you alone,” he cried. “You—surely you are afraid?”
Helen Fraser put on her coat and turned up the great collar before she
answered.
“And are not you afraid to go any further through Jock Campbell’s
lands?”
He was stung by her poise and strangeness. “Helen Fraser, ye are mad to
think to go alone!”
She had caught up her hat and very swiftly opened the rough door.
The first blast of the wind made her shudder, but she stepped out into
the rain with a resolute carriage.
Her horse was tethered close under some fir-trees: his glittering
harness was the only bright thing in the gloomy landscape; he lifted
his head at sight of his mistress and she turned toward him.
But she was stopped by Macdonald’s hand on her shoulder.
“Look about ye, Helen Fraser—and think if ye would go alone!”
She glanced at him and then about her; below them the river Orchy,
tumbled through the ravine, about them the mountains towered into the
mist, to either side were great broken spaces of heather, moss and bog;
straight before them ran a strip of dirty white road that wound through
the Glen of Orchy. Over all was the veil of the pitiless rain and the
sound of the tossing fir-trees.
Helen Fraser, erect, bareheaded, looked on it unmoved.
“Where does that road lead?” she asked.
Macdonald’s blue eyes flashed.
“To Castle Kilchurn—Jock Campbell’s house,” he answered. “Not your
way—your kinsfolk can have no business there.”
“No,” she said, and coughed and shivered. She gave no sign of where she
was going or upon what errand she and her clan were bound, and he,
having broken bread with her, would not deign to question; she might be
concerned in some of the intricate politics or feuds of the Highlands;
he felt it no matter of his, but he also felt he would not lose sight
of her so easily.
She spoke again, suddenly:
“I would rather go alone—I can find my way—I have been here before.”
A great color came into Macdonald’s face; he put his hands on her
shoulders and turned her round so that she faced him.
“Why do you so loathe my company?” he demanded. “I am a prince.”
She breathed a little heavily to feel him holding her—but her face was
unmoved.
“I have a friendship for you and all the Macdonalds,” she said.
“Well, prove it,” he answered eagerly.
“Let go of me,” she said a little unsteadily. “I have broken bread—and
drunk with ye.” She shook her head, tossing the damp red curls off her
white forehead and her lips trembled a little.
“Let go of me,” she repeated.
He looked at her steadily and smiled: “The witches of the mountains
have brought us together, Helen Fraser—I shall find you again—and as a
pledge—ye shall kiss me.”
“I will not,” she answered. “Take your hands away, Macdonald of
Glencoe!”
But he held her gently against the mud walls of the hut; heedless of
her shudder under his touch.
A great rowan-bush full of dull berries grew close; her scarlet dress
pressed against the dripping leaves as she drew as far as she was able
away from him.
“Ye shall—” he said simply. “Why not?”
She was still and quiet though she saw she was helpless.
“We are strangers,” she said quickly.
“I would not have it so,” he answered eagerly. “Through war or peace I
would be a friend to thee and thine—and I would have thy kiss on it—so
that there may never be feud between mine and thine—kiss me, Helen
Fraser!”
She crushed further into the rowan-tree and gave one quick glance round
the utter desolation.
“No!” she said. “No! I—”
But her words were stifled, for he had caught her up to him—and kissed
her lightly, full on the mouth.
Like flames piercing ice a sudden passion flared from her calm; she
called out something fiercely in the Lowland language that he could not
understand, and wrenched away with the furious color in her face.
“A Macdonald’s kiss will not harm ye!” he cried hotly, roused by her
wrath.
At the sight of his face she controlled herself and set her lips.
“Ye have done what ye wished,” she said unsteadily. “Put something
between us that I shall remember.” She was trembling; passionately
clasping and unclasping her hands; he came toward her; she clutched at
the reins of her horse and leaped into the saddle.
She flung on her hat, her eyes shone through the floating feather and
hair; she had a perfect seat in the saddle; Macdonald noticed how
gloriously she sat and how her proud look became her face.
“I am very glad to come with ye,” he said, his fair face flushed. “I
will not leave ye, Helen Fraser, until ye find your kinsfolk.”
She had one hand in the pocket of her coat. Her green eyes were on him;
she suddenly spurred her horse forward.
Macdonald taken by surprise, stood still a moment, then impulsively
came after her. He saw her turn in the saddle with something glittering
in her hand. The next second the report of a pistol rang out; a flash
of fire through the rain.
Ronald Macdonald cried out and fell on his side, shot through the ankle.
A sweep of color came into her face as she saw his plaid prone on the
heather; she thrust the smoking pistol into her holster and turned her
horse’s head down the white road that led to Castle Kilchurn.
CHAPTER III
JOCK O’ BREADALBANE’S WIFE
Loch Awe lay vast and gloomy under the gray skies; it was twilight and
the sky burnt gold and purple with the last of the setting sun behind
Castle Kilchurn. Though it no longer rained, great black clouds lay
over the distant mountains and a thick mist hung over the placid water.
The castle itself, standing huge and magnificent on the tongue of land
that runs into the loch at the foot of Ben Cruachan, bore on the Gothic
turrets the English standard: a symbol of the authority with which the
government had invested the Earl of Breadalbane.
Along the road that wound by the edges of the loch to the castle, rode
a woman in a scarlet cloak.
The vast expanse of cloudy sky, the huge outlines of misty mountains,
the gloomy castle and the great storm-twisted fir-trees were all tinged
with an air of awe and melancholy.
The woman and her bright brown horse were reflected among the shadows
of the broken clouds in the still water; she rode slowly with her face
lifted to the flaring sky and her red hair blown back from her face.
There were lights in the windows of the Castle Kilchurn, and the outer
gates stood open.
The horsewoman rode through and up to the great entrance, where she
alighted. Before she had time to knock, four or five servants came
hurrying across the courtyard to take her horse, and the door was flung
wide.
She silently entered the vast stone hall, and looked about her; a
couple of white hounds came running up to her; a gray-haired butler
stepped forward. She asked him in Saxon:
“Is my lord here yet?”
“Nay, my lady; he is looking for your ladyship, when he found ye were
missing, he returned to find ye, my lady.”
“Let one go after him,” she answered, “to say I am arrived—is my
cousin, Colin, here?”
“Yea, my lady; and all the other gentlemen.”
She flung off her damp coat and ascended the great, bare unfurnished
stairs.
On the first landing she came into a glare of light that fell through
an open door; servants were passing to and fro, and there was the sound
of many voices.
She entered; stood in the doorway looking down the room.
It had been the dining-hall of the old castle; it was a large room with
tapestry on the walls and a huge log fire burning on the hearth.
Round the black oak table a party of gentlemen were dining by the light
of a hundred candles. At sight of the woman in the doorway they all
rose with one exclamation:
“The Countess Peggy!”
She came down the room smiling.
“Ye did expect I had fed the eagles by now?” she asked. “Weel, I’ll no
be saying but I was fearfu’ of it mysel’—welcome to Kilchurn,
gentlemen—gude even to ye, Colin.”
She held out her hand to the gentleman at the head of the table and
took her place beside him, while the others reseated themselves.
“So my lord wanders on the mountains searching for me?” she said. “And
ye’ll no be having a great opinion of my wits for getting lost.”
The green eyes glanced round; some ten men were seated there; all
fair-haired, unmistakably of one race, her own, Campbells with keen
faces.
“I was no greatly fearing for ye,” said her cousin, Colin Campbell of
Ardkinglass. “Ye will be knowing these parts vera weel, I thought ye
could find your way to Kilchurn.”
The Countess Peggy laughed.
“Weel, I’m blithe to be out of the mist and wet,” she said. “Albeit I
have gotten a great cold.”
“Ye didna’ come in with any of the murdering Hielandmen?” asked one of
the gentlemen.
The Countess poured out some wine and drank it before she answered.
“Yea—I was put on my way by one of the Glencoe men.”
A murmur ran round the table.
“Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”
Lady Breadalbane’s green eyes flashed: “Ay,” she said. “He’d been
thieving an’ murdering—burning one of my lord’s houses, he said. He
showed me Campbells rotting on the trees and—”
She checked herself abruptly; her keen glance roved round the grim
Campbell faces. “I think we’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds of
Glencoe,” she said slowly.
There was a little deadly pause; it was not easy for a Campbell to
voice his feelings for a Macdonald.
It was the Countess who spoke first: “They’re vera simple, these
savages; I told him I was a Fraser.”
“It was wise,” remarked her cousin dryly. “If he had kenned ye were
Breadalbane’s wife, weel, ye wouldna’ be here noo.”
“Indeed, they do hate my lord,” she answered. “I had to listen to some
miscalling of Jock Campbell—as they name him.” Her thin lips curled
into a bitter smile. “I tried to sound him about this conference—ye
ken—this matter my lord has on hand for quieting the Hielands—‘we’ll
never take the oaths’—he says—‘Jock Campbell’s got the money in his
coffers for himsel’—we may come,’ he says, ‘but we’ll enter into no
treaty with a Campbell.’”
“Puir fules,” said one of the company. “They think we _want_ them to be
taking the oaths to King William?”
“They’re no’ so simple as that,” answered another. “But they consider
the new government’ll need something for its money—an’ if a Campbell
can’t quiet the Hielands—some one else can try—it’s plain they’re bent
on ruining the negotiations out of spite to Breadalbane.”
The Countess Peggy set her wine-glass down fiercely: “Weel,” she said,
“’tis the end of October noo, an’ they must take the oaths by
January—they’ve been dallying for two years—but I’m no’ thinking either
we or the government will be taking any more.”
“Lochiel and Glengarry show signs of yielding,” said Colin Campbell,
“though they demand, ye ken, too much of the money—and Coll a’ the
Cows, the ould murdering thief, he’ll come in to save his ugly neck—but
Macdonald of Glencoe will na’.”
“I dinna think we shall be troubled as how to treat them,” answered
another. “They’ll be rebels—it’ll be a fine chance to be clearing the
country of a den of thieves.”
The Countess Peggy’s eyes flashed at the speaker a meaning look.
“My lord’ll be equal to them,” she smiled.
In their hearts they all assented; they knew the Earl of Breadalbane,
ruthless and cunning even for a Campbell; of a fine ability and a power
that made him next to his cousin Argyll, the master of the Highlands;
and these kinsmen of his, a body-guard of Campbells kept always about
him, regarded him with a respect that only great cunning, great
falseness and great power could have engendered in their shrewd souls.
Dinner over, they rose; they had come from Edinburgh that day and were
mostly weary.
The Countess Peggy, whose masterful spirit they obeyed, dismissed them.
She was going to wait up for the Earl, she said, and needed no company.
It was hardly late yet; but the Campbells were never of a roistering
spirit; most of them went to bed; the Countess waited alone in the
dining-hall.
It was full of the mellow light of candles and the bright glow of the
fire; the arms and trophies of the chase on the tapestried walls
glittered in points of light.
She seated herself in a large oak chair that almost concealed her
slender figure; her buckle shoes were held out to the blaze; her fine,
thin face was outlined against the ruby head cushion; she sighed,
finding herself tired.
One of the boar-hounds had found its way in and lay by her side; her
long white hand hung idly down and caressed his silky ears; all her
movements were very graceful; her body as supple as her face was
unmoved and hard.
The heavy clock in the corner had struck ten, but she gave no sign of
impatience; her lids drooped over her brilliant eyes, though her firm,
thin mouth was unrelaxed.
It struck the half-hour. She looked round; the table was set, nothing
was wanting for her husband’s welcome; she lapsed into musing again.
Presently she started into alertness; there was a sound without; the
door opened suddenly.
“Jock!” she cried and sprang up.
A slight gentleman in a shining cuirass stood in the doorway.
In a second the dog was at his side and the woman half way down the
room with out-held hands to meet him.
“Jock!” she said again; the change in her was wonderful; she flushed
into an animated color, all hardness left her face; with sparkling eyes
and parted lips she came to him.
“Weel,” he smiled, “I didna’ think ye would be lost on your own
Hielands.” He stooped and kissed her; then with a sudden half-laugh to
hide the unsteadiness in his voice:
“Ye gave me a bitter moment, Peggy, when I found ye had missed us.”
“’Twas the mist!” she cried. “I dropped my whip and turned back for
it—then the mist thickened; ah, my dear, ye canna ken how lonesome I
felt alone in the wild hills.”
She trembled; her overwrought control leaving her at sight of him; he
led her to the table and drew her down beside him; he was more relieved
at sight of her safe in Kilchurn than he would have cared to put into
words, and it was with a sigh of relief that she looked at him; she had
had disturbing visions of the wild Macdonalds meeting the hated
Breadalbane.
She sank on a little stool beside him while he eat his supper, with her
green eyes, very soft now, on his face.
He was a man of a remarkable appearance; of a very elegant build and
upright carriage, though barely of the middle height; his face was thin
and hollow in the cheeks, his lower jaw projecting gave him a sinister
expression; his nose, a high aquiline, his eyes large, light gray and
very restless; his thick brown hair of a blond so pale that it appeared
gray.
There was an air of great delicacy and dignity about him; he smiled
continually, but taken without the smile the face was hard and cruel.
When he looked at his wife, however, it entirely softened and his
unpleasant eyes flashed into a passion that redeemed them as she caught
his free hand and laid it against her cheek.
“’Tis the last time I lose sight of ye when we cross the Hielands,
Peggy,” he said. “Did ye meet any?”
“Yea,” she answered under her breath; “a Macdonald o’ Glencoe.”
The Earl turned in his chair with a flash of steel and gold.
“One of those thieves!” he cried. “What did he do?”
A deep color came into her face.
“He showed me the way,” she said. “He showed me also Campbells he’d
slain—he showed plunder from your house—he named you devil—and—”
“Ah, he didna’ ken ye were a Campbell?” asked Breadalbane.
“Why no, Jock—I told him I was a Fraser—I didna’ desire to be murdered.”
“Ye will have deceived him,” remarked the Earl. “Ye are a bonnie liar,
Peggy.”
He gave the strange compliment in all sincerity and so she took it.
“But ye hav’na’ heard the finish,” she said. “Jock—will ye ever forgive
me?”
She lifted eager glowing eyes and laid her hand on his arm.
Breadalbane put down his wine-glass.
“Weel?” he questioned. “Ye look ower serious, Peggy.”
She gave a great shudder as at the remembrance of something loathly.
“I have broken bread with a Macdonald,” she cried bitterly. “And—”
“Weel?” he insisted.
“And then—by force—he kissed me, Jock.”
The Earl’s hollow face flushed scarlet.
“A Macdonald o’ Glencoe kissed ye!” he cried.
“Ay,” she answered passionately. “But I dinna think he’ll live to boast
of it. I left him on the mountain, shot through the ankle.”
“It should have been his heart,” said Breadalbane grimly.
“Yes, I ken, but I couldna’—’tis work for you, Jock, not for me—I just
shot to prevent his following me—’tis likely he’ll die of hardship.”
She rose restlessly to her feet.
“I wish he hadna’ kissed me,” she cried. “A Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”
Breadalbane’s pale eyes flashed and narrowed, but he spoke quietly:
“The Macdonalds and I will come to issues yet, Peggy—and then—by
Heaven! I shallna’ forget this.”
“Ah, I ken, Jock—but I would he hadna’ kissed me.”
Her face flushed and trembled; the Earl set his mouth dangerously as he
marked her wrathful distress; he held his hand out to her and she very
passionately caught hold of it.
“We’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds,” she cried. “I saw the
plunder of a house of yours to-day—and murdered Campbells feeding the
eagles—”
She swung round on him with tears gathering in her eyes: “Jock, ye are
almost master in the Hielands; are ye going to leave this knot of
thieves in your midst to harry and insult ye?”
“Nay,” cried Breadalbane fiercely. “I’m only waiting, ye ken—ye canna
touch the Glencoe men openly—ye might as weel try to hunt the eagles
off Ben Cruachan as the Macdonalds out o’ Glencoe—but if they dinna
take the oaths—” He finished with one of his sudden smiles.
“Yea,” said the Countess Peggy breathlessly. “Ye’ll have the government
behind ye then, they’ll be rebels and proscribed men—ye’ll have them in
your hand, Jock. Ah, but do ye think they willna’ take the oaths?”
Breadalbane drew her down beside him and kissed her flushed forehead.
“Dinna fear, Peggy; not ane of the Hielanders will take the oaths—or if
Glengarry or Lochiel do, the Macdonalds willna’.”
“Ah!” she took a deep breath. “And then ye will have the law to help
ye.”
“I shall get letters of fire and sword from the government,” said
Breadalbane, “and clear the Hielands of the Macdonalds.”
There fell a little pause; the two utterly absorbed in themselves and
each other did not notice or heed the falling fire and guttering
candles or the lifting wail of the storm without.
The Countess spoke; under her breath:
“But at Edinburgh—in England, where they want the Hielands quiet—will
they no demand an account of ye?—will they support ye?”
The room was growing cold; unconsciously she felt it and shivered,
drawing closer to her husband.
“I have the most powerful man in Scotland behind me,” said the Earl
slowly. “And he has great weight in England—is a close friend of the
King—and he is no’ willing for the Hielands to take the oaths.”
“Who do you mean?” she questioned eagerly.
A dying log on the hearth fell and broke into a shower of sparks; a
gust of wind blew down the chimney.
“The Master of Stair,” said Breadalbane. “Being the Secretary and a
close friend of the King, he can do what he will with Scotland.”
“Yet I do think he is the most hated man in the country,” mused the
Countess. “I did notice a fury of hate in Edinburgh against his father
and him—he couldna’ be more unpopular.”
“I dinna care,” smiled Breadalbane. “He has the power—and a fine
ability. He wasna’ for buying the Hielands. Put the money into powder
and shot, he said—and now, when we’ve been dealing with them for two
years in vain—he says the same.”
“Weel, then,” she cried. “All ye have to do is to wait till after the
first day of January. Then get the letters of fire and sword—and the
Master of Stair will support ye.”
“Both he and his father,” he answered. “Both the Dalrymples. If any
take the oaths, weel, they’ll be within the law—but, as the King said
to Balcarras—let those who stay without the law, look to it—as they
must expect to be left to the law.”
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—”
He followed her into the room, and while the two men exchanged
greetings she eagerly scanned the countenance of the new-comer.
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
outside the law.”
“So that you may quiet them forever with the cold steel,” finished
Jerome. “Breadalbane wants to wipe out the hated clans—the Master of
Stair wants to exterminate this pariah race that harries the
government—but we—we want to keep alive the Highlands for King
James—and we will do it!”
“Then they must take the oaths?” whispered Delia breathlessly.
“And break them when need be,” answered Jerome, “but they must take
them—so that those who count upon their refusal may be defeated.”
“The Master of Stair does not think they will?” asked Sir Perseus.
“No—nor yet Breadalbane—they count upon them refusing to take the oath
a Campbell administers—they are waiting eagerly for the first of
January—then—letters of fire and sword and war to the death in the
Highlands.”
“What can we do?” asked Delia eagerly.
Jerome Caryl lifted his intense eyes to her flushed face.
“Miss Delia—the Highlands must be warned of the vengeance preparing for
them.”
The girl nodded, with sparkling eyes; but Sir Perseus questioned:
“How?”
“That,” answered Jerome Caryl, “is what I have come to consult with you
about—after I had clearly seen the objects of these men there seemed
but that one thing to do—to warn the Highlands and give them King
James’s permission to take the oaths.”
“But—” said Sir Perseus, “do we not by that lose the support of the
Highlands—if we should—as I hope to—organize a rising in Scotland?”
“No—a Highlander does not look on an oath as a sacred thing, my dear
Perseus, ’tis said Breadalbane himself tells them to take Prince
William’s money to spend for King James—and under what possible pretext
can we continue to ask them to hold out? The King’s last gift was a few
bottles of wine—let them take the thousands of the government and buy
muskets with it for our use.”
“Do you think,” answered Sir Perseus—“that we can overcome the fierce
hate of the Campbells? Will the clans submit to Breadalbane whatever we
say?”
“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
strong lines of his bare throat. Delia laughed.
“Whoever she was I think you love her, Macdonald,” she said.
“I want her,” he answered simply. “I want to look at her again, to
touch her, to hear her. If she is a Campbell I hate her—yet I want
her—and I cannot rest for this desire.”
Delia stood up; there was a gleam of satin as she moved, a quick
rustle; she had her hands on her bosom and they rose and fell very
quickly.
“Did she shoot you?” she asked.
“Yea,” he answered. “Against the mist I saw her harness shine, and like
the sun was her yellow hair,—she leaned from the saddle and fired—but I
had kissed her.” His breath came fast. He smiled. “I held her back
against the rowan-tree, the berries all mingled with her fallen curls—I
kissed her! She called out in your Southern tongue—then she said, “You
have put that between us that I shall not forget,” and her white lids
dropped till her red lashes touched her cheek—and I ... I cannot rest.”
Delia Featherstonehaugh laughed as relief to the effect of the romantic
wording of the soft tongue and the white coldness of the moonlight; she
steadied herself with the thought of her brother and Jerome Caryl
talking (very practically) below.
“You are free to go when you will, Macdonald,” she said. “Only—if you
will see my brother first and take his message to the clans.”
She saw his eyes open, with a quick delight, she thought. He turned his
face full toward her for the first time.
“I will do anything you wish,” he said. “If I may go at once—to-night.”
She stiffened and drew further away.
“Why not?” she answered. “You are well enough.” Her manner was
unnaturally cold, but he took no heed of her; she waited for her answer
in vain. “Why not?” she repeated at length. “We only kept you here
during your sickness, Macdonald.”
Something in her tone seemed to ask for gratitude, the expression of
some thankfulness for his life saved, but the inflection was too
delicate for him to notice it.
“I will take your message,” he repeated. “Only you must not ask us to
take the oaths to a Campbell.”
“Not to a Campbell,” she said. “To the Prince’s Government—but will you
come and see my brother?”
Instinctive fear and dislike of the Southern struggled with the
Macdonald’s desire for freedom; he reflected a while, then gave a grave
consent.
Delia, watching him, was quick to see that his impulse was to leave
without a word, stride off with no backward look at the hated town.
With her head held very stately high she preceded him down the stairs
and flung open the parlor door.
The two men turned at her entrance. She made a little gesture toward
Macdonald, and spoke in English.
“My Highlander—and he is so eager to leave us, Perseus, he would do
anything—he will take your message.”
Crossing to the fire, she seated herself, leaving Macdonald in the
doorway. He eyed the two Saxons with frank interest; his glance rested
long on the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.
“I am to translate, Perseus,” said Delia. “What do you want to say?”
Jerome looked at the huge Highlander with approval.
“Ask him to sit down,” he said. “He looks honest.”
Delia obeyed with an air almost of disdain; Jerome, glancing at her,
wondered what had damped her eager spirits; she was very grave and
pale; her eyes were fixed with a curious expression on Macdonald; her
mouth had a little lift of scorn.
She sat so, very still, translating her brother’s questions and
explanations into Gaelic, and Jerome Caryl watched her.
Macdonald listened with gravity and attention, appeared to understand
what was asked of him and received into his keeping the letters to the
Highland chiefs with a solemn promise to deliver them.
Sir Perseus gave him a rough map of his route from Glasgow to Glencoe,
a pistol and a few crowns.
These last he respected as useless; he was doubtful, too, of the
pistol, but finally stuck it in his belt. Jerome Caryl offered to see
him on his way beyond the town gates.
Macdonald declined, gazing from his high window he had marked the gates
and could well find them. With cordialities on the part of Sir Perseus,
and shy reserve from the Highlander, they took leave of each other.
“I will light you,” said Delia.
She rose and took up a candle and led the way down-stairs; Ronald
Macdonald, light-footed as a cat, followed.
In the narrow little hall she turned and faced him; in the circle of
the candle-light her brown hair glittered with threads of gold and the
yellow satin of her gown rippled into reflections and shadows.
“Maybe you will meet the lady with the red curls again,” she said.
He looked curiously at the Saxon woman who had nursed him; his blue
eyes held some wonder; he had hardly realized her as yet.
“’Tis late to start on a journey,” continued Delia; “dark already.”
“Day and night are one to me,” he answered.
“And you are very eager to be gone,” she finished with a faint smile.
He looked at her half-hesitatingly.
“You have been very hospitable to one not of your race,” he said
slowly. “Beyond Dunblane, on the beginning of the Highlands, lives an
old shepherd who knows me well—if you ever need me send to him and I
shall hear.”
She lifted her head.
“I shall ask for no gratitude, Macdonald,” she said gravely and
proudly. “Nor am I like to need you—I have my own kin.”
A puzzled expression crossed his face.
“Your brother is a Saxon,” he answered. “Most Saxons would have shot me
where I lay.”
Delia Featherstonehaugh smiled faintly:
“My brother is a gentleman.”
“And I am a prince of the Macdonalds,” said the Highlander, “and I can
bring two hundred men to serve you when you will. They would give their
lives to one who had given Ronald Macdonald his.”
This sudden high-handed overpaying of what she had done at a moment
when she was the most considering him ungrateful, brought a quick flush
of shame into her cheeks.
“I pray you do not speak of it,” she said faintly.
She was leaning against the wall and the candle shook so in her hand
that her shadow waved and danced behind her on the paneling; she was
very much aware of the nearness of his magnificent presence and the
frank half-wonder of his blue eyes turned on her, though her own were
very resolutely fixed upon her feet.
“Unbar the door,” she asked him, “’tis too heavy for me.”
He bent over the iron bolts; as he turned his back she glanced once up
then down again.
There was a hoarse creaking and the door swung slowly open on the
violet night; it was bitter cold; beneath the rising moon great masses
of gray clouds lay piled, and a low stinging wind was abroad.
Macdonald stepped over the threshold and set his face toward the gates;
a little wild smile crossed his face.
“Farewell,” he said absently, and turned to leave.
A gust of wind blew out the candle and Delia let it drop; with a swish
of skirts she came out into the cobbled road, her hair blown about her
face.
“Macdonald,” she said; he turned and gazed down at her; the moonlight
lay on her from head to foot; she was pale and her eyes looked
preternaturally large.
“Macdonald,” she repeated, then seemed to fumble for her words, “Do you
understand?—you must take the oaths.” She laid her hand on the corner
of his plaid with a timid eagerness that had its effect.
“We will go to Breadalbane’s conference,” he answered, “and if the
others submit—”
“There must be no ‘if’!” she cried impetuously. “Don’t you see? Take
the oaths or woe, woe to Glencoe! For the Campbells will get letters of
fire and sword against you, and the whole strength of England would be
behind them!”
He appeared to suddenly give heed to some of the danger threatening;
his serious face darkened.
“Maybe we will take the oaths—” he answered gloomily, “but not to
Breadalbane.”
“Lochiel, Glengarry and Keppoch will take them,” she said eagerly. “Why
not you?”
He turned on her fiercely: “Ye are Saxon! Ye cannot fathom! We hate the
Campbells!”
He loosened his plaid almost roughly from her grasp and was gone at a
swinging pace down the empty street.
Delia stood where he had left her; she put her loosened hair back and
stared after him; she shivered yet did not know it was cold; a few
houses off a flickering oil lamp hung across the street; she waited for
the great figure to show beneath it, thinking perhaps he might look
back since there he reached the turn of the road.
She saw him pass from the moonlight into the lamplight, then disappear
into the dark shadow of the houses beyond. He had not turned his head,
but with light and quickened pace had gone.
Delia Featherstonehaugh went into the house—shut the door and slowly
mounted the stairs. She could hear her brother and Jerome Caryl talking
in the parlor and the old woman who was their only servant moving about
below; she avoided both and went straight to her own room.
It was a cheerless poor place; as Delia lit the lamp and looked round a
vague, sick longing took her heart.
She had never known a home or wished for one; even when her father was
alive they had been desperately poor and she had alternated between a
foreign convent and a Scotch lodging, according as the fortunes of her
father’s master, the Duke of York, had shifted.
There had been some little prosperity for them when the Duke, as King
James, came to the throne; of that now nothing remained save the empty
baronetcy that her brother now held and the memory of her father’s
death at the Boyne.
Yet she had been happy.
She went on her knees by her bed and buried her face in the pillows; it
was strange to feel suddenly tired and lonely; she was half-frightened
at the heaviness of her heart.
After a while she rose to her feet with a shudder between shame and
fear; she felt restless, distracted, incapable of any continued thought.
She opened the door and looked out.
The house seemed quiet; she crept down-stairs and entered the parlor.
It was empty, but the light still burning. Delia, suddenly aware that
she was numb with cold, drew a chair to the fire and held her hands to
the flames. Sitting so, she fell into dreams and did not notice when
the fire sank and died and the log fell into ashes at her feet; her
thoughts were more real than the room; she suddenly called out at them
aloud and clasped her hands passionately, then, startled at herself,
looked round.
The other side of the hearth stood Jerome Caryl, his melancholy hazel
eyes fixed on her.
“Mr. Caryl!” she cried and flushed scarlet.
His small mouth curved into a smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I
startled you—”
She recovered herself with a half-laugh. “I thought you were gone with
Perseus—or abed,” she said, “and I—I have let the fire out.”
She spoke hurriedly and the color receding from her face, left her very
white.
Jerome seated himself. “Miss Delia,” he said, “this is a miserable life
for you.”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “No.”
“Yes,” he insisted gently. “For a woman and a lady, a miserable life;
you are very heroic, Miss Delia, to give up so much for King James.”
“You forget, Mr. Caryl, that I have no alternative.” She smiled frankly
at him. “And I am a born plotter,” she added, “and sanguine—so content,
Mr. Caryl.”
A silence fell between them; she turned her head away and fell to
twisting her fingers together in her lap; he could see her profile in
pure strong lines against the background of shadows, the curve of her
throat into the lace collar and the loosened knot of dull brown curls
in her neck; he studied her with gentle melancholy eyes and his mouth
drooped with lines of musing. Presently the girl spoke, shaking off the
spell of the silence with an effort.
“Mr. Caryl—do you think the Highlands will take the oath?”
“I hope so—most fervently,” he answered. “Indeed, I think so—”
“All of them?” she asked, and her voice faltered a little.
Jerome Caryl considered.
“Some might hate the Campbells more than they feared the government,”
he said, “but it would, Miss Delia, hardly matter—they would pay the
price—they could not involve the others.”
“Pay the price,” she repeated. “What would that be?—what would the
government do to those who did not take the oaths?”
She turned full toward him with grave, intent eyes.
“’Tis not a question of the government,” answered Caryl. “But of
Breadalbane and the Master of Stair—they are waiting very eagerly, Miss
Delia, for the first of January to pass, and they are preparing a great
vengeance against those who shall then be outside the law.”
“They would be pitiless, you think?” she questioned breathlessly.
“Yes,” said Jerome Caryl.
She moved impetuously in her chair. “Why?” she asked, “I can understand
Breadalbane—but why the Master of Stair? What has he against the
Highlands?”
“The contempt of the statesman for the savage,” Caryl answered with a
half-smile. “The intolerant arrogance of the powerful against those who
oppose him, and the haughty resolution of an imperious soul, Miss
Delia.”
“I loathe his make,” she cried. “Hard and cruel—I have heard horrid
tales of him—and how he is accursed—he is a fitting servant of William
of Orange!”
The color had come into her face; she set her lips resolutely and flung
up her head.
“Do you think that the Macdonalds of Glencoe will take the oaths?” she
asked abruptly.
“I cannot tell,” he answered gravely.
“And if they did not—” she stopped, then went on bravely. “They are in
the heart of the Campbell country—I suppose—I mean, do you
think—Breadalbane would—leave any alive?”
“Nay, I cannot tell,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is not likely that
he would forego this chance against his ancient enemies.”
She rose up suddenly and her clasped hands fell apart and clenched at
her sides.
“Ah!” she cried.
Then she caught his eyes on her and gave a faint laugh.
“Mr. Caryl,” she began. She could get no further; her voice broke; she
put her trembling hand to her mouth and stared down at him.
He rose.
“Miss Delia,” he said gently, “what is it to you that the Macdonalds
should take the oaths?”
The direct question threw her off her defenses; she gave him a
terrified glance and sank into the chair, turning away her head.
“What is it to you?” he repeated softly.
Her voice came muffled over her shoulder: “Why, nothing—only—you see—I—”
He saw her shoulders heave, and bent over her. She was sobbing; he
could see the tears glittering on her cheek; with a great effort she
tried for control.
“I am tired—and excited, Mr. Caryl—don’t heed me.”
He stood still and silent, watching her, his soft mouth curved into a
half-sad smile; the light from the flaring candle and his flickering
shadow rose and fell over her, now obscuring, now revealing her bent
head, and stooping shoulders.
“’Tis nothing,” she said, stifling her sobs.
“Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is a great deal.”
She suddenly broke down beyond concealment. “I think my heart is
broken,” she whispered between passionate sobs “I think I am mad—oh,—I
am ashamed!—ashamed!”
She struggled up, hiding her scarlet, tear-stained face.
“Think me mad,” she whispered through her fingers, “and forget—I am
ashamed—and most unhappy—”
She leaned her forehead against the chimneypiece and sobbed afresh; her
yellow skirt trailed in the dead ashes on the hearth, and from head to
foot she shuddered.
Jerome Caryl was neither discomposed nor confused; he surveyed her
agitation with a tender calmness and his strange melancholy smile
deepened.
“I think we can make the Macdonalds take the oaths, Miss Delia,” he
said, “as an old friend you will let me help you—in what I can?”
She lifted her head and looked at him with a half-wonder.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
His voice sank melodiously low.
“I mean I think you would not care, Miss Delia, for the man who has
left us to be massacred by the Campbells—you would like to think he and
his clan were safe.”
Delia went white and clutched at the edge of the mantelpiece; she
stared with widened eyes at the beautiful face of the man opposite.
“You know,” she said at length, “you are very gallant with my folly,
Mr. Caryl.”
“My sweet friend,” he answered, “your folly is a lovely thing—this man
is honored by your consideration and I by leave to help you—you have a
tenderness toward the life you saved; believe me it does you credit.”
A look of relief crossed her face, she gave a little gasping sigh.
“You are generous,” she said falteringly, “and I foolish—and ashamed—”
“I have seen strange things in an adventurer’s career, Miss Delia,” he
smiled, “but never any one ashamed with no cause.”
She stood abashed, yet comforted; gratitude that he had not guessed and
fear that he might struggled together at her heart; she resolved on
escape.
“Good-night,” she said, and held out her hand.
His cool, firm palm touched her trembling hot fingers; she gave him a
wistful look.
“Thank you—Jerome,” she said, and with a sweep of skirts was gone.
He noted the way she gave him his name as a great mark of confidence,
and smiled quietly.
“So she is in love with that Highlander,” he said to himself, “and
thinks her heart broken!”
He shrugged his shoulders; then yawned and picked the candle up.
“Perseus is remarkably obtuse,” he reflected. “Poor lady!” And he
yawned again.
CHAPTER VI
HATE MEETS HATE
The Earl of Breadalbane bit his pen and stared thoughtfully out of the
window at the gloomy shores of Loch Awe.
He sat in a small chamber contrived by a modern architect out of one of
the Gothic halls of the old castle; it was well furnished and contained
the luxuries (rare in the Highlands), of a carpet, wall-hangings and a
sideboard with a mirror.
These things, however, were none of them new; the Earl’s chair showed
the horsehair through the broken leather and the carpet in front of his
bureau was worn threadbare; the Earl was a wealthy man and a proud, but
above everything prudent; he kept his French furniture for Edinburgh
and used here things that had served when he was merely Sir John
Campbell of Glenorchy.
A sheet of paper was before him; clear save for the heading:
“To Sir John Dalrymple, Master of Stair.” The Earl was very clear as to
what he wished to write to the Secretary; it was merely to inform him
that there was little likelihood of many of the clans coming in by the
prescribed time; to advise him that the new regiment of his cousin,
Argyll, should be armed and quartered in Glasgow with as little
disturbance as possible.
But it was not so easy to couch this in terms satisfactory to his own
cautious mind; it must be in his own hand, his name attached; there
must be possibility of a perfectly innocent construing of it if ever it
were produced.
Breadalbane had often raised his eyebrows of late at the letters the
Master of Stair put his hand to; the utterly reckless letters of a man
too powerful to heed caution.
“But times change,” smiled Breadalbane, “he’d no’ be so powerful if
there was a revolution.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of
the Master of Stair’s letters; written mostly from Kensington and in a
powerful, picturesque style, flowing and eloquent. They set forth a
scheme evidently very passionately dear to the writer’s heart, namely,
the utter destruction of that “damnable den of thieves,” the
Highlanders.
Breadalbane took up the last and read it over again; it contained these
words:
“Your troops will destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Lochiel’s
lands, Keppoch’s, Glengarry’s and Glencoe’s. Your power shall be large
enough. I hope the soldiers will not trouble the government with
prisoners.”
The Earl folded and put the letters away. “You are very confident, Sir
John,” he reflected, “that the clans will no’ be coming in.”
It was now the third of December and none had taken the oaths; there
seemed fair ground for the Master of Stair’s eager hope that none
would; who was to warn the remote Highlands of the secret vengeance
preparing against them; of the soldiers sent quietly in readiness for
the first day of the new year, of the Master of Stair, Secretary and
Prime Minister for Scotland, waiting for that day with the terrible
calmness of a black resolve?
The Highlanders saw none of this; only the suave smile of the loathed
Campbell who was the government’s instrument, and a demand for the
avowal of submission their haughtiness would not stoop to grant.
Breadalbane put down his pen and pushed his chair back.
If the chiefs were not warned....
His light eyes glistened unpleasantly—certainly he had at least the
Macdonalds in his hand.
He was returning to his letter with a smile on his thin lips when the
door was suddenly opened and he swung round with his swift silent
movement.
It was Campbell of Ardkinglass.
“Weel?” demanded the Earl, and his tone was haughty: his common usage.
Ardkinglass gave him a strange glance. “Macdonald o’ Glencoe is below,”
he said dryly. “The chief and his twa sons asking for ye.”
Breadalbane rose stiffly:
“Macdonald o’ Glencoe—under my roof?” he said with narrowing eyes.
Ardkinglass nodded.
“They will be wishing to take the oaths,” he answered. “They’ve come to
attend the conference.”
The Earl, always mindful of his dignity before his henchmen, stifled a
fierce oath. “I’m no’ a sheriff,” he said. “Let them begone from my
roof—see to it Ardkinglass—tell them I willna’ treat with thieves.”
“They willna’ gang,” replied Campbell of Ardkinglass, “they’ve come,
they say, for their share of the bonnie English siller.”
The Earl’s control broke at that; he cried out passionately:
“The auld leeing thief! He would be asking me for the siller when he
owes me more for rent and robbery than his share twice ower!”
“I think they will be coming to see ye in your public capacity,” was
the answer. “They’re no’ taking heed of private feuds.”
Breadalbane stood silent; the angry color fled from his face and it
took on lines of cunning; his eyes shifted under their blond brows; he
stroked his chin with his delicate hand and coughed musingly; then he
glanced up with a return of his perpetual smile.
“Weel,” he said, “I’ll come, Ardkinglass.” He turned and carefully
locked away his papers; then preceded his kinsman down the great gaunt
stairs.
The Macdonalds stood in the center of the vast dining-hall, the old
chief between his two sons; all three erect with their bonnets in their
hands, all huge in height and build.
The two young men were breathing hard, flushed and defiant, their eyes
roving quickly from door to window; but the elder Makian’s fine old
face showed a dignified, placid calm in keeping with his venerable
appearance, a benevolent good-will showed in his bright blue eyes and
his lips were curved to a kindly smile.
Breadalbane, entering, gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward,
motioning to Ardkinglass to stand back against the wall. The two young
men swung round, black with mistrust, but Makian spoke in bland Lowland
Scotch:
“Ye will be wondering, why we make such a tardy appearance,” he
remarked gently, “weel, it was the weather—was ower rough.”
His manner utterly waived all thought of offense between them; he spoke
as if the Campbells and Macdonalds had been friends for centuries.
Breadalbane hitched his sword over his hip so that it lay nearer his
hand. “Weel,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll no’ be denying that I was
expecting Makian, though ’tis ower long since a Macdonald came to
Kilchurn.”
Makian waved his hand courteously as if he dismissed even the hint of
an unpleasant subject. “Ye will be guessing our errand?” he said
suavely.
There was the slightest pause; Breadalbane measured the three huge
Highlanders in their dark tartans with their dirks stuck through their
belts, and the Highlanders eyed the Earl, slender in his Lowland suit
of gray velvet with his left hand gently pulling his sword backwards
and forwards.
He was the first to speak:
“Yea,” he said, “it will be aboot the coos ye have come, Macdonald.”
Makian’s face was a pleasant blank.
“The coos?” he repeated courteously.
Breadalbane lifted his ash-gray eyes with a sinister flash.
“The coos,” he answered, “and the bonnie pasture lands—they have been
keeping ye, Macdonald, this mony year, I ken—I willna’ be mentioning
the gould and siller, the plate and furniture and sic details—for I’m
no’ doubting ye have come to return the coos.”
“I’m no’ understanding,” said Makian pleasantly. “We hav’na’ ane coo in
Glencoe.” His two sons emphasized the statement with a scowl, but the
Earl was imperturbable.
“Weel,” he remarked, “ye eat a muckle of meat in a fortnight—it is only
that time since ye took a hundred fat coos—but I make no doubt that
since ye have eaten them, Macdonald, ye have brought the siller to pay
for them.”
Again there was a slight pause; the venerable Makian’s face assumed a
still more amiable expression, but he appeared a little at a loss for
an answer; the sons exchanged fierce glances.
Breadalbane, still fondling his sword-hilt, spoke slowly.
“The market value of the coos is twa pund English apiece.”
At this one of the young Macdonalds broke out: “Ye play the fule, Jock
Campbell! We hav’na’ come to prate of coos—but of the oaths to King
Wullie.”
Breadalbane looked at him calmly.
“So you’re thinking of taking the oaths? Weel, I’m no’ a sheriff.”
Makian interposed:
“We will gang to the sheriff, Jock Campbell, but there was talk of
siller for those taking the oaths and I’d no’ be adverse to my ain
share.”
“Weel?” said Breadalbane mildly.
“We’ll no’ be asking a muckle,” said Makian generously. “King Jamie
couldna’ do more for us than fine words and a siller bawbee apiece—gie
us twa hundred of King Wullie’s money and we’ll be taking the oaths.”
“I take your meaning, Macdonald,” answered Breadalbane. “The twa
hundred pund would just pay for the coos—well, I’ll keep it and then
you’ll be still owing me the rent.”
Makian was silent, recognizing a master-stroke of cunning; Ronald had
little Lowland speech and could only frown angrily; but Ian, his elder,
made a step toward Breadalbane:
“We owe ye neither money nor friendship, Jock Campbell,” he cried
fiercely, “we come to ye because ye stand for the government—we’ll no’
be considering what there is between us here and noo.”
Breadalbane lifted his head with a little laugh. “Keep back,” he said.
“Dinna forget that I’m no’ ane of your Hieland thieves, but Campbell o’
Glenorchy and Breadalbane! Keep back, I say! Do ye ken that in
Edinburgh the lifting of my finger would hang ye before the Tolbooth?”
His eyes shone with a steady contained hate, and fire flashed in Ian
Macdonald’s gaze to meet it.
“Na doot ye could lee awa’ a mon’s life in Edinburgh, Jock Campbell,”
he answered, “but noo we stand on our ain ground.”
“Ye stand in Kilchurn Castle!” cried the Earl. “Dinna forget that,
Macdonald!”
A passionate reply was on Ian’s lips, but the old chief interposed:
“Ay, we stand in your ain castle, Jock Campbell, because we treat ye as
the government’s representative—in your public capacity, ye ken. I’ll
no’ be saying it’s greatly to our liking to treat with a Campbell, but
I will be saying it’ll no’ be greatly to your credit to be remembering
ye are a Campbell.”
Breadalbane’s hand clutched tightly round his sword-hilt; he struggled
to maintain his wonted dignity of demeanor.
“Take the oaths an’ ye will, Macdonald,” he said. “But dinna think
ye’ll get ony siller frae me—not a bawbee. Ye owe me in money and kind
mony times your share o’ the English siller.”
Makian drew himself up with stately gravity.
“Ye are wrong,” he said. “’Tis not in your right to withhold the money.”
“’Tis in my power,” flashed Breadalbane. Ian answered fiercely:
“I fling your word of thief back at ye, Jock Campbell!”
He was striding forward when his brother and father caught him by
either arm.
“We must have no fighting,” cried Ronald in Gaelic. “There are a
hundred Campbells here—woe that we ever came!”
Breadalbane, holding himself erect, smiled coldly at them; he had
himself well under control; Makian glancing at his set face felt it had
been a mistake to cross his threshold.
There was an intense pause; Ronald scowled till his blue eyes were
hidden; the wily old chief with one hand tightly on Ian’s arm was
considering a means to conciliate or to outwit the Earl.
Breadalbane looked at the silent Ardkinglass behind him, then back at
the three Highlanders and his lids drooped till his eyes were hidden.
The silence was broken by the opening of the heavy door, and the quick
entry of a woman.
It was the Countess Peggy.
She wore a green coat and there was some heavy brown fur about her
neck; she carried her hat in her hand and on her shoulders and in her
red curls was a faint powdering of snow.
At sight of the three Highlanders she stepped back and the color rushed
into her face. And Ronald had seen her; he turned full to where she
stood and cried:
“Helen Fraser!”
The two Macdonalds stared at him; but he, breathing fast and flushing,
took no heed of them; it was as if the mere sight of her had uplifted
him from all thought of aught beside.
The Earl came, very softly, nearer, but he made no attempt to interpose
when Ronald strode up to the woman.
“Helen Fraser!” he cried passionately, “what do ye under a Campbell’s
roof? Ah, God, ye broke bread with me and I cannot forget—I forgive
that ye turned on me, Helen Fraser.”
She cut him short:
“I am Margaret Campbell,” she said, very white, “and that man’s wife.”
She pointed to Breadalbane with a smile of unutterable pride and before
the glitter of her green eyes Ronald fell back.
“But—ye broke bread with me,” he stammered like a stricken man—“and ye
are—Jock Campbell’s wife!” He glared round him with bewildered eyes:
they were all silent, held in a tense hush. The Countess glanced at her
husband, then back to the magnificent figure of Macdonald.
He stared at the Earl with wide eyes, stormy and inscrutable; he spoke
very slowly: “So I have kissed Jock Campbell’s wife!” and he laughed,
as if there were tears in his voice.
The thing was done; with a sound like a rip of silk the Earl’s sword
was out and the light ran down the length of it before the eyes of the
Macdonalds.
“Take the steel’s welcome to Kilchurn!” he cried in their own language
“Thieves and liars! do ye think Campbell o’ Glenorchy is to be insulted
in his own castle?”
In a second the Highland dirks were out and the Countess had cried to
Ardkinglass: “Call my cousin, Colin—in the name of God haste!”
He dashed from the room and she flung herself forward, with eager eyes
on her husband.
He had his back against the wall and was keeping Makian and his son at
bay with the sweep of his long sword.
The sight drove the Countess wild: “Two to one!” she shrieked, “ye foul
cowards!”
“Hold the woman back!” cried Makian; he had no scruples; what chance
had they for their lives if the Campbells came? and Breadalbane was
before the door. Ronald started at his father’s voice.
“Bolt the door!” cried Ian; Ronald obeyed as if he knew not what he did.
The Countess dashed forward to stop him and a second time Makian cried:
“Hold the woman, Ronald!”
This time he turned and caught her by the arm and swung her, not
ungently, back. Under his uplifted arm that held her she saw the
crossing swords of her husband and Makian, and Ian standing grimly by;
she saw Breadalbane hopelessly overmatched and her eyes flashed to the
bolted door.
“Let me go,” she said in a quick whisper, staring up into his grave
troubled face. “Oh—take your hands away!”
But he held her as firmly against the castle wall as he had done
against the mud hut; again her green eyes glanced in agony at her
husband and she writhed in Ronald’s grip:
“They’ll kill him,” she said hoarsely.
“And you love him?” said Macdonald in Gaelic.
For answer she, realizing him in a blaze of fury, struck him full
across the face with her free hand; he flushed scarlet but never
relaxed his hold of her.
There was the sound of steps without and a thundering on the door.
“Jock!” cried the Countess, “Jock!”
Breadalbane had been forced back into the window-seat; the huge figure
of Ian almost hid him from her view; Ronald looked over his shoulder at
them.
“Jock Campbell is doomed,” he said gravely. “Answer me—do you want him
saved?”
Even in that moment she was arrested by the serious passion of his face.
“Tell me,” he insisted.
“What do you think!” she cried fiercely.
“Yes or no?” said Ronald.
With a wrench the answer came from her: “God in Heaven—yes!”
Instantly he loosed her and swung round on the fighting men; not too
soon; the Earl had slipped by the wall and Ian was over him, forcing
the sword from his grip; but Ronald caught him by the shoulder and
dragged him back with a force that shot the dagger from his hand.
“Get up!” he shouted to Breadalbane; and the Earl, dizzy from the fear
of death, staggered to his feet.
The hall was full of Campbells, the Countess had dashed to shoot back
the bolt and Ardkinglass had rushed in with a dozen of his kin at his
heels.
Makian, breathing hard, glanced round and saw the day lost for him; he
had not gathered his son’s action; but Ian turned on his brother with
bitter curses.
“Are ye mad or traitor, Ronald, that ye give us to the hands of our
enemies?”
The Earl pushed past him into the center of the room and stood between
the three Macdonalds, sullenly at bay, and the silent Campbells,
waiting the signal for slaughter.
“Fool! fool! to come to Kilchurn Castle!” said Makian, then fell into
silence.
“Will ye have us hang them as thieves?” asked Ardkinglass, “or shall we
cut them down noo?”
Breadalbane pushed the blond hair back from his eyes, and glanced round
his tacksmen. In the little pause that followed, Ian broke into a
furious taunt: “Are ye turning tender, Jock Campbell? Dinna fear the
odds—a Macdonald is worth sax Campbells!”
Down from the door came the Countess Peggy into the midst of the men;
the brown fur on her bosom was unclasped and showed the tumbled lace of
her tie; her red hair had fallen into twists of fine curls onto her
shoulders; she was flushed and most beautiful.
“Kill them, Jock,” she said.
She held out her hands, red-marked, round the wrist from Ronald’s grip.
“Kill them, Jock,” she said again, and her gaze went straight and
defiant to Ronald Macdonald.
Breadalbane did not answer her; he spoke to Makian.
“Your son gave me my life, Macdonald, and you’re three against a
hundred. I hav’na’ need to crush ye by these means and I’ll no’ be
under a debt to a Macdonald. Take your lives and gang.”
The Countess made a fierce little sound under her breath: “Ah, no,
Jock—kill them—while ye have the chance!”
“He saved my life,” the Earl answered briefly, then to the Macdonalds,
“leave Kilchurn, and remember I’m no’ under a debt to ye.”
They came slowly forward, showing little of their surprise in their
faces; Ronald’s blue eyes were devouringly on the Countess; she drew
herself up as he passed and her hand clutched into her furs.
“I wouldna’ have let ye go,” she cried bitterly, but Breadalbane turned
on her:
“Woman, will ye no’ remember, I’m master in my ain castle?”
She shrank into herself, submissive under the rebuke; but a hate not to
be controlled flashed from her eyes.
“See them out of the castle, Ardkinglass,” commanded the Earl, “see
they gang at once. I’m no wishing to be robbed under my ain eyes.”
Makian, afraid for his life, swallowed the insult and without a
backward look or any salutation to the Earl, went heavily from the
hall, his sons at his heels.
Ardkinglass and the Campbells followed.
Now they were alone, the Countess Peggy turned passionately to her
husband.
“Ah, I thought I had died! ah, my ain love, Jock—why didna’ ye kill
them?” She caught up his hand and put her cheek to it with a little
caressing movement.
He frowned at her absently and put his free hand to his sword-hilt.
“Jock, Jock,” she cried, “ye had your chance—all the hate of these
hundred years might hae been satisfied—ye shouldna’ hae let them gang
sae easily—that—Ronald—too,” her eyes flashed as she said it, “escapes
more lightly than if he’d kissed a Hieland wench against her will—is it
for naething I am Campbell o’ Glenorchy’s wife? Ah, Jock, when ye drew
your sword I thought ye had killed him for me—not let him live
to—boast—”
Breadalbane turned impatiently.
“Ye dinna understand,” he said, “he saved my life for one thing.”
“Not for love o’ ye,” she interrupted fiercely, “but to win a smile
frae me—an insult and a disgrace—if ye had killed him none had kenned
he spared your life to please your wife!”
The Earl flushed a little at her tone, but he was lapsing into his
usual calm manner.
“Woman, ye dinna ken the larger issues,” he said dryly. “If I had slain
these Macdonalds how think ye it would hae sounded in Edinburgh? Sir
John wouldna’ hae thanked me for it; it would hae pleased nane but the
Jacobites that hae been glad for this handle against me.”
She moved a step away from him.
“Ah, ye hae grown too politic,” she answered. “When I wed ye, ye
wouldna’ hae done sae—Campbell o’ Glenorchy would hae fought for me nor
been dared sae tamely by these thieving Macdonalds!”
Breadalbane looked at her calmly. “I willna’ put myself outside the law
when I may be avenged inside the law,” he said. “In a while not three,
but all o’ the Macdonalds shall be in my power and without scandal can
I use it—dinna ye understand?”
“But they will take the oaths,” she answered.
“Not after this—they willna’,” said the Earl, grimly.
But the Countess Peggy was not appeased; she looked with a frown at the
fading marks on her wrist and rebellion against her lord rose within
her.
“I’m no’ convinced,” she said, half under her breath.
Breadalbane gave her a cold glance.
“Let a man judge o’ a man’s affairs,” he said curtly, “I’m no’ needing
your advice on matters o’ policy.”
He turned to leave the room, but the Countess swung round and caught
his coat.
“Nay, Jock,” she cried, with tears in her eyes, “dinna leave me in
anger—forgive me—’tis only that I couldna’ bear to think they should
live to—to laugh at ye.”
“I’m no’ angry with ye, Peggy,” smiled the Earl, “and for the
Macdonalds—dinna fear; they willna’ lang be troubling us.”
CHAPTER VII
THE POISON OF THE KISS
The three Macdonalds trudged in silence over the flat moors beyond Loch
Awe. Behind them lay Kilchurn Castle, black against the vapors of Ben
Cruachan, the mist-soaked standard of England hanging red and gold
above it.
The heavy gray sky seemed to hang low enough to be touched with an
uplifted arm; there was no wind; a few flakes of snow fell slowly.
Makian walked a little ahead of his two sons, and reflected on the
absolute failure of his attempt to wring money from Jock Campbell: it
had been a bold attempt and there was little wonder that it had not
succeeded. Whether they took the oaths or no, Makian was very sure that
they would not get a guinea of the English money; it was a bitter
wrong, he thought, that the government should have chosen for its agent
a man with whom so many clans were at feud. He meant to take the oaths:
the letters Ronald had delivered had frightened him as well as others;
he was shrewd and wily; the tribes favorable to King William; the
Frasers, the Macnaughtens and Grants had warned him that submission
would be the wiser part.
He knew he would have his sons against him, their hate of the Campbells
overweighed every consideration of prudence he could bring forward. He
decided he would wait: there was time yet. Let some of the others come
in first, let Keppoch of Glenroy, Glengarry or Lochiel lend their pride
before he lowered his.
Ian and Ronald followed him in silence; though Makian had condoned his
son’s saving of Breadalbane as a piece of prudence that had preserved
their lives, Ian felt bitter about it and turned a sullen face on his
father.
Ronald took no heed of any; his blue eyes were gazing blankly ahead; he
walked in an absorbed gravity with his mouth set sternly.
They had crossed the moor and were entering a ravine between the hills,
when Makian stopped, and looking back, motioned ahead.
A man on horseback with a following on foot was coming toward them.
They were near enough for the Macdonalds to distinguish the tartan of
the Camerons, and the three lifted their bonnets as they drew close.
The horseman raised his hat. He was a magnificent figure, bearing the
dress and manners of a Lowlander, though about him was a Cameron plaid,
and he spoke in pure Gaelic.
“Well met, Macdonald of Glencoe,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You
come from Kilchurn?”
“Yes,” frowned Makian. “And you, Ewen Cameron?”
The other laughed. “I go there,” he answered. “A tacksman of yours
brought me a letter from King James—I must thank ye for the warning it
contained,” he added. “I go now to twist what money I can wring out of
my slippery cousin, Breadalbane.”
“Will ye take the oaths?” demanded Ian Macdonald.
Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel laughed again, and patted the neck of his
black horse. “It were the wiser thing for ye to do,” he said. “Will you
not profit by your own warning?”
Ronald broke in:
“Nay, we will take no oaths to a Campbell.”
Lochiel’s sharp eyes traveled keenly over the three faces; his own fell
to gravity.
“Why, you would play the fool,” he said. “These letters are from Caryl,
an accredited agent of King James, and His Majesty gives us leave to
take the oath to the Dutchman—and to break it.”
Ronald’s face grew harder.
“It is no question of the kings—I’d see either of them hanged for a
gold piece—it’s a question of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane,” he said
sullenly.
Lochiel, bred in cities and used to courts, smiled at the young
Highlander’s unreasoning venom. “Ye have stubborn stuff there,” he said
to Makian. “But let me warn ye—take the oaths before it be too late.”
Macdonald was flattered by the friendliness of so great a man, but was
too proud to show it; and sore from his recent encounter with
Breadalbane, spoke with an assurance he was far from feeling.
“I am not afraid,” he said loftily. “I will consider about taking the
oaths—and ye, Ewen Cameron, will ye be the _first_ to come in?”
Lochiel drew himself up haughtily and his dark cheek flushed.
“Nay, ’tis a point of honor with me—I will not be the first,” he
answered. “But my tacksmen are free to do as they choose, and my
tacksmen understand me. Farewell.”
He touched his horse up and the Camerons moved on.
As Lochiel, haughty and splendid, passed the Macdonalds, he turned a
little in the saddle and smiled in the winning way that had won King
Charles’s heart.
“I will not be the first, Macdonald o’ Glencoe, for my honor’s sake,”
he said. “But I would not be the last, for my head’s sake—look to the
warning.”
His gloved hand touched his black horse, and the Camerons passed on
over the wet moor toward Kilchurn.
Ronald scowled after him; Ian cursed impatiently, but Makian resolved
that his prudence would do well to take the hint his pride had received
ungraciously.
Before Lochiel was out of sight they were on their way again.
The snow began to fall faster; it was late afternoon and the light
fading to a heavy grayness; against the hard color of the sky the
flakes showed a dazzling white, and in the hollows of the rocks they
began to lie in tiny drifts. Beside a narrow cave that looked full on
the ravine, the Macdonalds halted.
In the shelter of an overhanging rock, Ian kindled with some difficulty
a fire; and Makian produced provisions from his wallet, and laid them
in silence before his sons.
Ronald sat over the thin smoky flames, morose and sullen; he pushed
away the food offered with the back of his hand, and sat staring over
the blank landscape, while the others ate. But he was not left long
alone. Presently Ian, warmed with his food and forgetting his
grievance, came and flung himself beside him. Ronald eyed him coldly,
then turned his head away. He was desperately out of humor and had no
care about the hiding of it.
Ian, in every respect the same to look on, save that he was darker,
rougher in make and fiercer in manner, was yet of a nature more simple,
more easily pleased if as easily angered; secretly, he greatly admired
his younger brother. He glanced over his shoulder at Makian, sitting
placid in the mouth of the cave with blank blue eyes considering
mischief, and spoke in a whisper to Ronald.
“Did ye mark Lochiel’s coat?” he said eagerly. “With the gold braid on
it—and his satin vest and gloves like the King? Lochiel’s a great man.”
Ronald gave no answer.
“And his sword,” continued Ian. “An Andrea Ferrara with a basket hilt—”
“I did not mark it,” answered Ronald without looking round, but Ian was
not to be repulsed.
“Macdonald o’ Keppoch has a red coat like that—of the fine cloth with
gilt buttons—I saw it when I was in Glenroy—Keppoch got it when he
sacked Inverary and he carries it about with him, valuing it greatly.”
His eyes shone with a fierce envy. “I would have a coat like that, and
boots with buckles and fringes.”
“Lochiel bought those clothes in King Charlie’s time—they’re years
old,” returned Ronald scornfully.
But Ian cast a wistful glance at his weather-stained plaid. “Glengarry
has an Andrea Ferrara,” he said, with eager blue eyes on his brother.
“Let him keep it,” returned Ronald shortly. “I am content with my bow
and my dirk.”
“You are in an ill mood,” said Ian. “I remember when ye could not sleep
for longings such as these—and when ye found nothing o’ wearing apparel
in Jock Campbell’s burning house ye raged extremely.”
Ronald turned fiercely.
“Do not talk to me o’ Jock Campbell!” he cried.
“Ye did not maybe mark how he was decked in satin and velvet like a
woman,” Ian interrupted.
“I had him under my sword—I had my hand on his wizened throat—when you,
you fool, pulled me away. ’Tis you who, for shame, should not talk o’
Jock Campbell!”
Ronald flushed and his eyes darkened.
“Why—‘for shame’?” he questioned hotly.
Ian flung up his head with a laugh.
“Because the woman cozened ye—it was not for any motives of prudence,
but to please the woman that ye saved his life.”
There was a little pause; peering through the gathering dusk Ian marked
his brother’s face grow white, and he laughed again, good-naturedly
enough.
“Will ye deny it?” he asked. “And little thanks ye got—‘I would kill
ye,’ she said, and showed her teeth like a cat.”
Ronald stared at him as if he had not heard. “Is it not an awful
thing,” he said very low, “that she should be Jock Campbell’s wife?”
“Do ye care?” asked Ian incredulously. “’Tis an ordinary woman—and I
like not green eyes; also she is false to her finger-tips—like a
Campbell.”
“Ah, yes,” cried Ronald wildly, “she is false and doubly false. She has
the trick of smiling when she lies—there is a poison in her breath that
doth infect her kisses with a deadly sweetness, and in her eyes a
witchcraft lurks to drive the blood too fast for bearing—I would that
she or I were dead!”
A low wind was abroad; it blew the ice-cold snowflakes hissing into the
lazy fire, and shook the tassels of the firs against the darkening
trail of clouds.
Ian drew himself up in silence; Makian was asleep behind them, close
wrapped in his plaid. It was too dark to see more than the outline of
his figure.
The vast forms of the distant mountains were fast absorbed into the
general grayness; it grew colder and a great sense of awe came with the
dark as if an unseen presence whispered: “Hush!”
“I would be fighting,” said Ronald suddenly through the dusk, “I would
be in the press and sweep of arms, the lift and music of the
battle-cries—or I would lie dead and careless of the eagles that pluck
at my heart—smiling perhaps—not heedful of the pain that stabs there
now!”
“But ye have had your fill o’ fighting,” said Ian, shuddering under the
sting of the wind. “At Killicrankie—when Dundee died. I have need to
repine, who stayed guarding Glencoe while ye fought.”
Ronald’s voice came in answer, melodiously.
“It was most glorious. My God! I would give ten years of peace for such
another fight—but what mattered the victory? Dundee was slain.” His
voice fell to gloom. “I loved Dundee, though he was a Lowlander—this
Saxon Caryl that I’ve told ye of: he had a face like his, a girl’s
face, always calm. I would have died for Dundee. He was a great
gentleman, full of courtliness.”
He rested his head on his hand and gazed sadly at the slow moving
clouds.
“The day before the battle,” he went on, “he called us to his tent:
Keppoch, Glengarry, Lochiel and us—he was writing a letter to the Duke
o’ Gordon when we came in. ‘How do ye spell the name o’ yonder castle?’
he asked; Lochiel told him. ‘That’s Castle Blair,’ and he laughed and
said he had little learning. He told us his plans as he sealed his
letter, and how we were to meet Mackay’s men: he was very confident. ‘I
was not born to be forgotten,’ he said smiling.
“There was a spy-glass on his table, a wonderful thing; as we left I
asked leave to look at it and he showed me how it worked, most patient
and most courteously.
“With the first daylight we were in our ranks; the mist hung over the
pass like the standard o’ the Highlands; we could see no further than
each other, but we could hear the rattle o’ the Lowland guns as they
dragged them up the pass. They fired, and hideous was the sound of it.
I saw a Cameron drop, close to Lochiel, and Glengarry wince from his
place. We were new to the muskets, but we did what we might; the mist
rose, but up the glen the cannon smoke rolled thick and white, we could
not see. Once I looked up and saw the sky overhead was clear and blue;
it seemed a strange thing and turned me giddy. The sun began to glitter
down our muskets. Dundee came up at the head of his Lowland horse; he
spoke to Lochiel and I saw him strain forward and look down the pass;
then he gave the word. We threw down our plaids and Lochiel tossed his
shoes aside; we gave the war-cry in a great shout. Up from the smoking
glen came a shaking cheer in answer, and Lochiel laughed up at Dundee.
‘The thing is done, my lord. Do men who are going to win shout so?’
“‘Charge!’ cried Dundee; there was a great flush on his face.
“We flung aside the muskets and were out with the dirks. I would have
charged into the cannon’s mouth for I felt immortal, but as I rushed I
fell and the flying feet of the Macdonalds bruised me to the earth. I
could not rise. I saw Dundee motion to his men, but they hesitated—the
Lowland cowards hesitated.
“Dundee rose in the saddle; he lifted his hat and the sun glittered,
very brightly, on his hair; from where I lay I shouted at the cowards
behind him, then a cloud of smoke hid him. I struggled to my feet; the
air was full of confusion and cries of victory; the Lowlanders were
running like sheep. I saw the gunners struggling in the press, the
standard o’ Lochiel flying through the smoke, and, midst it all,
Dundee’s black horse dash riderless down the glen!”
Ronald stopped abruptly, with a shudder of excitement at the
remembrance of that day. Ian, thrilled to forgetfulness of the cold and
the dead fire, waited with eyes eager through the dark.
“One came up to me,” continued Ronald, “and asked me for my plaid.
‘Dundee is dying,’ he said; I followed to where he lay. Dunfermline
held him off the ground; they took my plaid and laid it under him to
keep him off the heather.
“‘How goes the day?’ he asked faintly.
“Dunfermline answered, very white: ‘Well, for King James, but I am
sorry for ye, Jock.’
“‘If ’tis well for the King, ’tis the less matter for me,’ said Dundee,
but there was an awful look in his eyes and I think he thought of his
wife and the boy he had never seen. He did not speak again; I think he
would not; he turned his face away and died as the victory shout rose
up the glen.
“Dunfermline covered him with my plaid. ‘The war is over,’ he said in a
broken voice. ‘Dundee is dead.’
“I helped to carry him to his grave, and I took his spy-glass from his
sash; ’twas broken with his fall, but I kept it for rememberance. I
loved Dundee. Would I lay with him in his nameless grave in Blair
Athol!”
His voice sank miserably into silence, and there was no sound.
The clouds drifted apart over a snowy moon; there was a sense of utter
desolation abroad, the cold peace of loneliness.
Ronald rose and walked away from his brother toward the moonlight with
the wind cool on his face; he shook with a stormy agony and cried out
low and passionately:
“Would I had died with Dundee before I had been poisoned with love o’
thee, Margaret Campbell!”
CHAPTER VIII
MACCALLUM MORE
The Countess Peggy sat in the drawing-room of her lord’s handsome house
in Edinburgh and measured out tea with a heavy rat-tailed spoon.
It was a fine chamber with smooth polished cream-colored walls and long
French windows, hung with flowered curtains of a dull pink; the
furniture, black and a little heavy, caught in its clear-cut Jacobean
facets the light from the dozen candles in a silver stand that burnt
over the tea-table. The Countess wore a purple gown with paniers and a
fine lace kerchief fastened with diamonds on her bosom; a screen of
drawn red silk stood between her and the fire and cast a glow over her
face and neck, lay reflected, too, in the hollow of the shining white
and pink cups.
There was a fragrant smell of tea and the gentle hiss of boiling water
from the silver kettle; it was a comfortable room, a comfortable hour;
the Countess’s green eyes were soft with content like a soothed petted
cat’s before a fire.
Her one companion lay back lazily on a low settee and gazed, rather
vacantly, into the fire; he was a slight man with a fretful weak face,
pale eyes too full, and a thin irresolute mouth.
He was handsomely dressed, and for all his unprepossessing appearance,
carried an air of high lineage, wealth, position and power.
The Countess finished mixing the tea, then glanced at the man opposite;
there was impatience and a slow amused scorn in her eyes; she spoke and
it was in the tone of one who speaks down to his hearer.
“Cousin,” she said, “I am glad to be out of the Hielands—Kilchurn is
ower damp and cold this weather.”
She handed him his tea and he put out a feeble white hand to take it.
“Ye should pull it down,” he said half-peevishly. “I canna ken how ye
can live there—I’d as soon step in my grave as live in Inverary in the
winter.”
His accent was very slight; he had the speech of a man who had lived
abroad and learned many tongues.
The Countess Peggy smiled.
“Ye are the first Argyll, cousin,” she said, “who has disliked Inverary
Castle, and as for pulling down Kilchurn, we’re no’ intending it. Jock
is ower busy building up what the Macdonalds destroy.”
Argyll drew closer to the fire, balancing his tea-cup with the anxiety
of a man to whom a slop in the saucer would be a disaster.
“I’m weary of the name of Macdonald, cousin,” he said. “I marvel
Breadalbane hath let them gain such an upper hand; they should be
hanged and done with.”
“My lord—that consummation approaches,” she answered, hardening,
through her smile, at his implied slight to her husband. “’Tis no’ the
lack o’ power but policy has held Jock’s hand.”
The Earl of Argyll lifted his eyes fretfully.
“Policy! Always this talk of policy! If it had na been for my father’s
‘policy’ in joining Monmouth in ’85, he would na have lost his head or
the Campbells the Hielands....”
She interrupted.
“But the triumph o’ your return, cousin, made full amends for your
father’s downfall.”
He shrugged his shoulders, sipping his tea; he had the manner of a man
with a grievance.
“Certainly I return to the Hielands, but what do I find?” he
complained. “The Macdonalds overrunning everything, Campbells hanged at
sight, my houses gone to ruin—long arrears of rent due and the Stewarts
o’ Appin, the Camerons, the Macnaughtens, and these cursed Macdonalds
refusing to pay a farthing.”
The Countess Peggy gave him a bright glance. “We have our chance noo,”
she said. “Our chance, Cousin Archibald, for our revenge.” She offered
him as she spoke a little glass dish of macaroons, and he carefully
selected one not too sugared before he answered.
“We?” he questioned. “You and Breadalbane have little to complain of—I
dinna call to mind any misfortune in your branch.”
There was a note of bitterness in his voice; he could not forget that
while he had been living in a Dutch garret his cousin Breadalbane had
managed to keep even with every government and come out at the end with
unimpaired estates and a title as good as his own.
The Countess understood this and smiled.
“Dinna forget that we are Campbells, too,” she said. “And we hae had
many wrongs frae the Hielands.” She tilted the tea-urn with half-shut
eyes—“Particularly the Macdonalds,” she added.
Argyll looked at her a second.
“Does Breadalbane think they willna’ come in?” he asked.
“Cousin, he is sure of it—vera few will.”
“Ah!” Argyll gave a luxurious little sigh of satisfaction. “I thought
so—I had orders to quarter my regiment at Dunblane—and quietly.”
“Orders frae the Master of Stair?”
“Yes.”
“He is at Kensington noo?” asked the Countess.
“Yes—he and Carstairs rule Scotland between them—the King gives no ear
to any other.”
“And he, the Master—is ane with Jock!” she said eagerly. “And there are
only twa weeks more—cousin—I think the thing is done.”
Some animation came into Argyll’s languid eyes.
“Almost, I think so,” he said. “Breadalbane goes to London soon?”
“He comes up frae Kilchurn to-morrow,” she answered, “and will be ready
to accompany ye to Court.” Their eyes met.
“He will see the King?” asked Argyll.
“And the Master of Stair,” she answered. “And ’twill be done. We shall
come back to the Hielands in the new year. The plans are laid.”
A little half-foolish smile crept round Argyll’s weak mouth. “’Twill
gratify me vastly to see those Hielanders swept out,” he said.
“’Twill be a blow to the hopes of King James ye ken,” remarked the
Countess.
Argyll looked up quickly: “Ye think so?” he asked. He always showed a
great respect for his cousin’s opinion, consulted her and deferred to
her in a way her husband never did, and she despised him in proportion.
“Ye think there is no hope for King James?” he asked again,
half-anxiously.
She looked full at him and laughed. “Cousin, cousin,” she cried. “Dinna
gang ower far with the Jacks because I dinna imagine that there _is_
much hope for King James.”
He stared at her, went red and white, and his tea-cup danced in his
hand.
“Madam!” he gasped.
Her look of amusement deepened.
“I ken vera weel,” she said, “that ye are tampering with King James’s
agents—weel, cousin, we all do the same. A wise man will be keeping
square with both sides.”
Argyll, looking agitated and foolish, began to protest.
“Cousin, I assure ye that I have na engaged in any treasonable plots—”
She cut him short.
“Ye need no’ be so cautious with me, Cousin Archibald.”
He looked at her, half-reassured, but the memory of his grandfather’s
and his father’s fate was strong within him. He spoke peevishly.
“Dinna talk so freely o’ these dangerous subjects—I hav’na’ a wish to
be traveling to Holland again.”
“Leave plotting alone then,” she answered with flashing eyes; her lord,
she thought, not this poltroon, should have been MacCallum More.
“I hav’na’ been plotting,” retorted the Earl angrily. “I was approached
by an agent of James—Jerome Caryl—he had some great names—some great
names—he spoke....” His voice sank—“Of a rising in the spring—the
French have offered troops and Berwick is coming over.”
“And you?”
“Weel, I hedged—I spoke him fair, but I said nothing dangerous—mark ye,
nothing dangerous.”
His eyes wandered round the room furtively; he was eager to change the
subject, a little afraid of this sharp wife of his cousin’s.
“We’re safe with either government,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard of
this rising—Jock will of course wait. There is nae hurry.”
“No,” assented Argyll, eager to reassure himself of the safety of his
position. “And I dinna doubt that everybody has a finger in the plot.
They say ye can count on one hand the men at Kensington who hav’na’
regular letters from St. Germains.”
“And who are those few, cousin?”
“Weel—they say Carstairs, Shrewsbury and the Master of Stair—but I’m
thinking that’s merely because they are more cunning than most.”
The Countess laughed. At the same moment there was a tap on the door
and as she looked up a servant entered.
“Captain Campbell of Glenlyon to see your ladyship.”
“He is frae Kilchurn?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Bid him come in,” she said, and as the door closed again she looked at
her cousin.
“What has happened that Jock sends to me?”
Argyll trifled with his teaspoon in silence and looked at her with a
lazy half-sneer, for she had risen with a changed face, and that any
one should be troubled lest anything should happen to Breadalbane was
to his cousin a most amusing thing.
Captain Campbell of Glenlyon entered and stood a moment abashed by the
light, glowing room, the elegant lady all purple and gold; his master
usually employed him on rougher work than carrying messages to his wife.
“My lord is weel?” asked the Countess swiftly.
“Vera weel, my lady,” answered Glenlyon awkwardly.
The sneer on Argyll’s face deepened.
“Will ye be closing the door after ye?” he asked sourly. “I’m in a
fearful draught.”
With nervous salutations, Glenlyon obeyed; he was a red-haired, florid
man, obviously ill at ease in the presence of Argyll and the Countess.
There was a little pause: the Earl, fretful at having his tea
disturbed, pointedly ignored Glenlyon, who, after delivering his
letter, stood uncomfortably by the door.
Erect and slender in the center of the room stood the Countess, the
soft light glittering on the stiff folds of her silk gown. She broke
the seal of the letter and with eager eyes glanced over it, her fair
face anxious and absorbed. She had her back to Argyll, and he marked
with a slow cold admiration the curve of her neck rising from the webs
and blossoms of her d’Alençon lace kerchief and the long, fine,
gleaming gold curls that fell over her shoulders; drooping against the
soft turn of her cheek hung the brilliant in her ear: it winked with a
thousand colors in the candle-light and trembled a little with the
quick moving of her breath.
There was a silence in the cream-colored room. Glenlyon began to note
the things about him with furtive red eyes, and cautiously shifted his
feet from the edge of the pink carpet onto the polished boards.
Suddenly, the Countess looked up and turned to Argyll.
“Cousin,” she cried, “the clans are coming in!”
The paper shook in her hand and her eyes flashed under lifted brows.
“Lochiel’s tacksmen are taking the oaths by the hundreds, the
Macphersons and the Frasers, the Munros and the Macleods are come in—”
Her voice was sharp and angry. “’Tis most sudden—most unexpected!” she
cried.
Argyll sat up in his chair, roused from his sneer. “And the Macdonalds
o’ Glencoe?” he asked.
“They hav’na’ come in yet,” she answered. “Nor yet Clanronald or
Keppoch—but it looks ill that these should submit—Jock seems disturbed.”
Argyll put down his tea-cup and rose. “They have been warned,” he said.
Their eyes met.
“By whom?” asked the Countess.
Argyll shrugged his shoulders. “By some agent of King James.”
“But how could any know?”
“’Tis their business,” answered Argyll, “to discover these matters—of a
certainty these men have been warned.”
The Countess turned to Glenlyon.
“Captain Campbell, know ye more than is writ here?”
“No, my lady, my lord will be with ye to-morrow, and I’ve no’ any
knowledge. My lord didna’ gie me aught but the message.”
“Ye may gang, sir,” she answered. “Thank ye for your service.”
Glenlyon bowed himself from the room, and the Countess turned again to
her letter.
“This will be a blow to the Master of Stair,” said Argyll
“But it is no’ _all_ the clans hae come in,” she answered quickly.
Argyll smiled.
“But the Master of Stair was reckoning on all, cousin.” He drew a
letter from his pocket and unfolded it. “See, the last he wrote me.”
He pointed to a sentence and read it aloud.
“‘As I wrote to you formerly, if the rest are willing to concur, to
pull down Glencoe’s nest this winter, as the crows do—thus destroying
him and his clan, ’twill be as fully acceptable as if he had come in.
This answers all ends and satisfies those who complain of the King’s
too great gentleness.’ Ye see,” commented Argyll, “he is very bitter—he
would like to sweep the Hielands wi’ fire and sword. He wrote to me
that if none came in—he hoped six thousand might be slain.”
“But they hae come in!” cried the Countess impatiently. “Still—if the
Macdonalds dinna—if we can be freed o’ that nest o’ murdering thieves,
’twill be somewhat—Keppoch too, and the ither chiefs may stand out.”
Argyll put his letter back in his pocket.
“They must not take the oaths,” he said peevishly. “If they do it must
be suppressed—surely with the aid o’ the Master o’ Stair we can do
that?”
“I dinna believe they will take them,” answered the Countess. “They
hate us too much and they think themselves ower safe in Glencoe.”
“’Tis a fearfu’ place to enter,” said her cousin.
“But no’ impossible ye ken—ye see—they could send the soldiers from
Fort William—and I one side and Breadalbane the other—they would be in
a trap.”
He looked thoughtfully into the fire and fondled the arm of his chair
with restless thin fingers.
“There is ane person we have no’ considered,” he remarked, “the King.”
“William o’ Orange?” she questioned.
“Yes—ye ken he is no’ a puppet King and has a fearfu’ habit o’ looking
into his affairs himself—I’m no sure of his gude-will to our scheme.”
She lifted her delicate shoulders scornfully.
“The Master o’ Stair will manage him—he is deep in his confidence.”
“Weel.” Argyll looked at her doubtfully, “I have written to the Master
o’ Stair that I dinna do anything without the King’s name as authority.
I will na put my neck in jeopardy.”
“The King’s name!” She lifted her head with a superb contempt. “Who is
king in the Hielands? Ye are MacCallum More—will ye defer to a
foreigner who canna speak your tongue—who hasna’ seen your country? By
Heaven, I think the Campbells can rule in the Hielands without a
Dutchman’s warrant!”
“Breadalbane is no’ o’ that mind,” sneered Argyll. “He took the oaths
fast enow.”
“But he dinna consult William o’ Orange every time he wishes to hang a
Macdonald,” retorted the Countess.
But Argyll was obstinate.
“I willna’ put my neck in jeopardy,” he repeated. “Show me the King’s
name and I’m content—but I’ll no’ move without it.”
The Countess Peggy’s thin lips compressed scornfully. “Vera weel,” she
said. “The Master o’ Stair will get the King’s authority, cousin.”
“You’re ower fond o’ quoting the Master o’ Stair,” said Argyll sourly;
the news of the clans coming in had frightened his irresolute mind; he
was ready to wash his hands of the whole affair.
“The Master o’ Stair!” repeated the Countess. “Cousin, he is the most
powerfu’ man in the Lowlands, ye ken, and great in London—he is o’ our
views—cousin, I do weel to quote the Master o’ Stair!”
CHAPTER IX
ON THE ROAD TO LONDON
It was drawing toward the evening of December twentieth, along the
smooth high road to Carlisle three travelers were riding swiftly, their
faces toward England. The wind blew cold and keen; the trees bordering
the roadside began to show dark and misshapen in the twilight; the
walls of Carlisle ahead of them were a welcome sight.
Delia Featherstonehaugh, riding between her brother and Jerome Caryl,
shuddering drew her hood closer round her face, and whipped her horse
up to keep pace with her companions.
Through the dusk came Jerome Caryl’s low musical voice; he was telling
her the reason of this hasty departure for London; she had been loth to
leave Scotland though, with the submission of the greater number of the
Highland chiefs their work in the North had been accomplished.
“My Lord Berwick,” Jerome was saying, “is come to England and lives now
in a smuggler’s hut on Romney Marsh—we have to see him about the rising
in the spring. Then I have to sound the ministers and nobles and get
what names I can to a letter promising help to King James—for you see,
Miss Delia, the French do not desire to send aid if none will join
them—then I have to meet an agent of His Majesty’s—who comes with news
from France—one, Andrew Wedderburn.”
Delia made no answer, but her brother spoke.
“Who is that fellow, Jerome? We are getting too many into this plot.”
“I have letters from my Lord Middleton assuring me of his perfect
loyalty,” answered Jerome. “He hath risked his life before on the
King’s service.”
“A Scot?” asked Sir Perseus.
“Yes—by the name,” smiled Jerome. “’Tis not he that troubles me, but
this getting of signatures. Men are wary of signing papers, and lip
promises are of no service.”
They rode in silence a while; it began to snow and the light rapidly
faded.
“’Tis a severe winter,” said Delia. “I would we were in Carlisle.”
She looked wistfully ahead, toward the city lost now in the gathering
dusk.
Jerome Caryl, following out his thoughts, spoke again.
“I have Hamilton and Athol—I nearly had Argyll—but he is too
fearful—Breadalbane is too cunning to commit himself—of course there
are Montgomery and Crauford—and in England I am sure of Marlborough,
Cornbury, Rochester and Godolphin—but I need others—there are the
common names whose weight is little—whose honor is cheapened with much
false swearing.”
Delia responded to the disdain in his even voice:
“That there should be so many traitors!” she cried impulsively.
“Sometimes I loathe them all.”
From the dark figure at her side came her brother’s practical voice.
“If you could get Devonshire, Halifax and Dorset, Jerome,” he said, “it
were enough. Shrewsbury, too....”
“Ah!” said Jerome softly. “Be careful—even on the open road.”
Again they pressed on in silence; the snow fell thickly, their hands
were numb upon the bridles, and Delia felt her limbs ache with cold.
“We shall not reach Carlisle to-night,” said Jerome suddenly. “You see
those lights ahead, Perseus? ’tis an inn—I remember it; a rough place,
but we will stop there.”
Though Caryl was the younger, Perseus never questioned his right to
command; his cold smiling way carried an authority not easy to dispute.
In a few moments more they had drawn up at the inn, a low two-storeyed
house; before it a heavy sign outlined now in snow, on it in straggling
letters the legend:
“The Borderers.”
A flickering lamp over the door gave a gusty light. As Jerome
dismounted he saw a huge coach drawn up against the side of the house.
“Ye have guests?” he demanded of the ostler who came forward.
The man nodded. “A lord and his family.”
Jerome hesitated, but to turn away now would look suspicious, and the
night was impossible. He helped Delia down from the saddle and the
three entered the low door.
A silent, depressed looking, slatternly woman showed them into a large
room that was at once both kitchen and parlor. It was lit only by a
huge fire that roared up the vast chimney; the floor was tiled in red,
the walls, plaster; heavy red curtains before the windows shut out the
night; kitchen utensils, mostly of brown earthenware, hung against the
walls and were placed about the hearth; a three-legged cauldron was in
the fire and a heavy smell of cooking onions rose from it.
By the low dark table stood a lady, who looked up sharply at the
new-comers.
She was a great contrast to her surroundings; her fur-lined coat lay on
a chair beside her, but she still wore her large beaver hat, and in one
hand she held a black muff; her gray velvet dress was open at the bosom
on a full white bodice; her attitude was elegant and indolent, she
rested against the table with her feet crossed daintily.
Perseus and his sister advanced at once to the fire, showing no heed of
her, but Jerome Caryl remained in the doorway, loosening his cloak; as
it slipped back from his shoulders to the ground, he removed his hat
and the dim red light fell full upon his face and disordered hair.
The lady looked at him with a frank and slightly insolent admiration;
her green eyes traveled consideringly over his tall figure, evidently
noting his plain attire and the graceful way he wore it; she gave a
quick glance at the two ordinary people by the fire, then stared again
at the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.
He gave her one look, grave and calm, from his melancholy hazel eyes,
then ignored her obvious scrutiny.
“Perseus,” he said quietly, “I must find the woman to know what
accommodation she hath—will you come?”
They went from the room in silence, leaving Delia by the fire. She
glanced with a timid friendliness at the stranger and chafed her numb
hands together.
The lady looked at her, and to Delia the clear-cut white face with the
green eyes and red lips was as sinister as it was lovely; the cold
expression prevented her from making any attempt to speak; but the
other broke the silence.
“Was that gentleman your husband, madam?” she demanded.
“Oh, neither of them,” smiled Delia.
“Your brother then?” asked the lady.
“One,” answered Delia. “My brother and his friend, merely, madam. He in
the red coat is my brother.”
The other smiled.
“I hav’na’ seen before sic a fair face on a man as your friend
carries,” she said. “Who are ye, mistress? I am Margaret Campbell o’
Breadalbane.”
Delia caught her breath; the position had become suddenly a perilous
one, she reflected swiftly that her name was unknown, and gave it as
frankly as she was able.
“Ah,” said the Countess, “and your lovely friend?”
Delia collected herself with an effort.
“Your ladyship must ask him yourself,” she answered. “I cannot rob him
of that honor.”
The Countess lifted her brows and accepted the rebuff.
“We no’ intended to stay here,” she remarked with an easy change of
subject. “But the storm coming on and my lord havin’ a weak chest that
I should na wish him to catch cold on—we stopped at the first inn we
came to.”
So Breadalbane was with her! Delia’s heart sank; she wished she could
warn Jerome and her brother, but she was too confused to invent a
decent excuse for leaving the room, and as she stood trying to collect
herself to some definite plan of action the Countess crossed over to
the fire and took off her hat.
“Canna we remove that vile brewis?” she said. “The smell will make my
lord sick.”
Delia gave a thin hysterical laugh.
“’Tis all there is in the house belike,” she answered.
But the Countess Peggy’s keen eyes had marked other food about the
room, bacon, flour, fruit and fowls.
“Help me, mistress,” she commanded, and laying delicate, resolute hands
upon a cloth, she lifted off the pot and stood it on the hearth.
“Ah,” she said with a disgusted face. “The place reeks.”
Her hair had fallen over her face; she flung it back and Delia noticed
dully how it curled round her temples in little red ringlets, then
suddenly it seemed as if her blood stood still; the shock of discovery
held her silent.
This was the woman Macdonald had spoken of; she knew it certainly and
her fingers curled into her palm with hate. This woman—Lady
Breadalbane! With angry eyes she watched the Countess, who all
unconscious was moving about the room among the pots and pans; there
could not be two women with such eyes and hair and lips, and it was a
most likely thing that it should have been Breadalbane’s wife riding by
Glenorchy. The discovery nerved her; an angry desire to test this
woman, to prove herself right, took hold of her; her fine face flushed
and she lifted her head.
“Madam, your lord carries good news to London,” she said on an impulse.
“I heard all the clans had submitted.”
The Countess turned with a slight smile.
“It is no’ the truth,” she said, “all hav’na’.”
“Ah?” said Delia with her heart beating fast. “And who are the unhappy
rebels?”
There was a little pause before Lady Breadalbane answered:
“The Macdonalds o’ Glencoe for one. They have na’ taken the oaths.”
Delia saw the red and shadowy room spin round her and felt the blood
hammering in her temples; before she left Glasgow she had been assured
that the Macdonalds had come in with the other clans; she had never
questioned it; it was such an unlikely thing they, of all, should
remain obstinate; she moistened her lips and tried to frame some reply;
she was saved by Jerome Caryl opening the door.
“I have engaged another chamber, Miss Delia,” he said. “We need not
intrude on you, my lady.”
He inclined his head toward the Countess.
Delia felt a throb of relief to hear he had discovered the guest’s
quality, and hastened toward him.
“Hae ye seen my lord?” asked the Countess calmly.
“Yes, madam, he hath the only habitable room up-stairs,” answered
Jerome, “but he hath most generously surrendered it to Miss Delia.”
The Countess smiled.
“We are well enough here,” she said. “And ye may keep that untidy
female awa’—I wait on my lord myself. We shall gang as soon as it is
light.”
With a few murmured words Delia followed Jerome into the opposite room,
a dirty dingy place where Sir Perseus sat over a rough supper. She
joined him in a white agitation and glanced from one man to another.
“Delia—what is the matter?” asked Sir Perseus. “This encounter will do
us no harm.”
She was silent, one hand over her bosom; with the other she pushed her
plate aside; she was quite white.
“I know,” she said faintly, “But I cannot eat—I will go to bed.”
“That is folly,” answered Sir Perseus curtly. Then he turned to Jerome
and added in a lowered voice: “Did you speak to the Earl?”
“Why not?” asked Jerome calmly. “I asked him for the room and he gave
it me—cold and stiff but courteous. His wife is beautiful—is she not?”
They commenced their supper, but Delia sat miserably silent, with
absent eyes. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath,” beat in her
head. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath!”
The hostess in clumsy hurry left the door ajar behind her, enough for
them to see across the passage where in the doorway of the opposite
room stood the Countess with her sleeves rolled up over her white
elbows, and flour on her hands, her face was turned to the stairway,
upon it a lovely smile.
Jerome fixed on her his mournful eyes, then, as he watched, Breadalbane
crossed the passage and entered the room. The Countess closed the door.
“I saw a woman like that once—in a dream,” said Jerome. “The face was
strangely impressed on my mind.”
Sir Perseus, eating lustily, asked:
“What was she doing in your dream?”
Jerome gave his grieving smile. “She was strangling me with a long lace
tie,” he said slowly.
Sir Perseus laughed, but Delia broke out passionately: “A cold
Scotswoman! I loathe her—she _would_ strangle you if it needed—her eyes
are hard as stones.”
“Delia!” cried Sir Perseus. “The place is overrun with Campbells—have a
care—they have a whole body-guard of Highlanders at the back—”
“And yet she does servants’ work,” said Delia.
“She is devoted to him,” answered Jerome.
“A strange thing!” flashed Delia.
“Nay—give her credit for her greatest virtue,” he replied. “She would
do anything for Breadalbane. I think he is very fortunate.”
Delia bit her lip and dropped her eyes under Jerome’s calm gaze; she
was nervous, excited, almost beyond bearing; she rose up impatiently.
“Mr. Caryl—you told me the Macdonalds had taken the oath,” she said
with burning cheeks. “And she—this woman—told me they had not—and she
should know.”
Jerome turned in his chair to look on her.
“Why—’tis not January yet,” he said gently. “There is time—I have
assurance from Lochiel that all the clans will take the oaths.”
Sir Perseus put in curtly.
“And what matter for the Macdonalds if the others come in? They had
their warning....”
Delia moved round the room restlessly with her head lifted, her eyes
fixed absently.
“Believe me,” said Jerome softly, “we can do no more than we have.”
“No, no,” she answered hastily, “’tis only it surprised me—they leave
it late.”
Jerome caught a questioning look on Sir Perseus’s face and delicately
changed the subject.
“I hope Wedderburn will not keep me waiting,” he said in a low voice.
“He was to cross from France and arrive at Romney on the twentieth—meet
me in London at ‘The Sleeping Queen’ on Christmas Eve—where we shall
stay—I told you—’tis ostensibly an inn, but they have a secret press
there.”
“Ah—with Breadalbane in the next room—hush!” said Perseus anxiously.
“Breadalbane himself will be one of us before we have finished,” smiled
Jerome. “And besides I have faith in the walls—as I was saying, I can
hardly proceed without these instructions from France, and I hope the
storms will not delay Wedderburn.”
As he spoke they heard the wind whistle and struggle at the ill-fitting
windows and the snow falling down the chimney hiss into the fire.
“Dangerous weather for the packet to cross,” whispered Delia.
“It has done it in worse,” said Jerome. “And there is less fear of
detection—government spies are not likely to be on Romney Marsh this
time of the year.”
Sir Perseus laughed.
“What fools the Dutchman is served with!” he said. “Think of the times
that packet has run to and fro—think of the messages sent—the cargoes
of Jacobites shipped—and no one has ever suspected—”
“Our agent, Hunt the smuggler, is trustworthy—and well-paid,” answered
Jerome. “And his hut is desolate enough.”
Delia suddenly stopped by the table and caught up her untasted wine.
“God give us luck once more!” she said impulsively. “To the safety of
King James’s messenger!”
“Heaven preserve him,” cried Sir Perseus, drinking.
His sister gave him a bright defiant glance.
“Him and the Macdonalds o’ Glencoe!” she said a little wildly. “God
preserve!”
“Amen!” said Jerome Caryl.
CHAPTER X
THE KING’S MESSENGER
It was snowing fast over Romney Marsh; the whole wide, desolate fenland
sweeping to the sea lay gray under the storm; it was near nightfall and
almost dark; in the landscape one light burning brightly through the
snowflakes; to judge by its steadiness it came from a window, by its
size it was far-off.
There was the steady sound of the thud of the distant waves, now and
then broken by the thin cry of the curlew or the hungry shriek of the
sea-gull.
In the broken marsh-ground grew a group of withered trees; the foremost
bent and blasted by lightning and against this one leaned a man wrapped
in a long cloak.
He was looking toward the sea in an attitude, alert but easy; he
appeared to be affected neither by his isolated position, the gloomy
scene or the bitter storm; now and then he turned toward the distant
light as if to assure himself it was still there, or moved to shake the
snow off his shoulders and hat.
As it grew darker the snow began to cease over the sea, and the heavy
sky broke into a patch of gloomy red and crimson; it was possible now
to discern the dreary line of shore and sand and the dim form of the
dark waves.
The man gazed round him, then made slowly toward the sea. The sodden
earth and wide logs impeded him; he trod cautiously, but for all his
ease sank now and then to his ankles in mud or half-fell over the
broken stones and boulders.
Slowly he made painful progress to the edge of the fen where it dipped
in a sudden slope of clay straight onto the beach.
There halting he stared out to sea; the snow and the rising mist of the
winter night hid all from him save the line of waves breaking on the
wet sand; melancholy and terrible was the perfect loneliness; the
watcher drew himself up and looked back at the light, then round again
at the ghastly yellow sunset that seemed to be far distant; a mere
slash of gloomy color in the mist and gray. Then suddenly he drew back;
a little boat was pushing through the waves; he could hear the grind of
the keel on the pebbles as it struck on the beach and a man leaped from
it into the surf.
The man upon the shore watched him struggling up the beach, saw him
turn and wave to his companion as the boat disappeared again into the
mist, then advance as rapidly as he was able toward the ridge of the
fen.
The sun faded to a mere stain; the mist drifted off the sea mingled
with sleet and snow; the man on the beach drew nearer the other, all
unconscious that any soul was watching him.
With labor and difficulty he threaded his way onward and up the
shelving ledge, the other watching him the while as he drew nearer,
nearer. Suddenly they met—face to face—a few yards apart; the new-comer
stood motionless with surprise and his hand flew to his sword.
“For which King?” cried the man in waiting. His voice sounded strange
and hollow through the damp silence; the new arrival drew a step
nearer, searching the strange figure; he was a slight, fair young man
and showed a face white and strained.
“Which King?” he repeated, moistening his lips.
“Are there two?” came the answer from the folds of the heavy cloak. “I
stand for King James.”
“Ah!” with a sigh of relief the young man relaxed the tension of his
attitude. “You were sent to meet me then?”
“Yes,” said the other quietly, “to take your papers.”
“My papers?” the new arrival again showed alarm. “I am to take them to
London.”
“I will take them to London.”
“Sir, your authority?”
“The King’s.”
The messenger smiled, regaining his presence of mind.
“Sir, I pray you show it me—this is a strange request—I go to Hunt’s
hut; will you accompany me?”
“Yes—but first your papers.”
The Jacobite laughed. “You grow peremptory—let me pass.”
“I desire your papers.”
“I will not part with them.”
“It were wiser.”
“Do you threaten me?”
“By God, yes!”
The King’s messenger laughed again; his eyes blazed in a white face.
“William of Orange is ill-served in such clumsy knaves as you!” he
cried.
“Give me the papers, damn you!”
“Do you think me a traitor?”
“By God—I know you a fool!”
“Stand out of my way!” and the messenger made a step forward, but the
other seized him by the arm.
“Do you think,” he cried fiercely, “that I am going to let you go? By
Heaven—I have not waited here for nothing.”
The King’s messenger wrenched himself free: “Spy—who betrayed us?” he
burst forth, and he gave a wild glance round the desolate fen; the
other seemed to read his thoughts.
“There is no ambush,” he said scornfully, “’tis you and I alone. Who
think you is the better man? Will you try issues with me?”
The King’s messenger an instant studied his opponent; he saw a man of
regal height and make, whose face was hidden by his drooping beaver and
whose figure was shrouded in a heavy traveling cloak; a hopeless look
crossed his face; he stepped back desperately.
“You or I,” he said through his teeth—“Well—” he put his hand to his
bosom and there was the dull gleam of metal. But the other had marked
his action and instantly his hand flew from his cloak; there was the
flash and report of a pistol-shot and the King’s messenger fell
backwards silently into the mist.
“How is William of Orange served now?” cried the man peering forward;
his smoking pistol in his hand, “where are you, you popish dog?”
He sprang forward through the pools and morasses, and confused by the
gathering gloom, stumbled over the body. The King’s messenger had
fallen prone, his head down among the mud and stones; his slayer lifted
him up, and taking his face in his hands peered down into it.
The Jacobite was quite dead; from a little hole in his temple the thin
black blood trickled; it had been a true shot; the man who held him
smiled.
“I was afraid—in this cursed light,” he muttered, “that I might have
bungled.” Opening the dead man’s coat, he went swiftly through the
pockets. He found papers, sealed and loose; a purse and a few trinkets.
The money he flung out into the marsh; the other matters he thrust
carefully into the breast of his coat; it was not light enough to
distinguish the papers; he took every scrap the dead man carried,
without pausing to select.
Then he rose beside the body and looked round. It would soon be utterly
dark; the snow was recommencing to fall heavily; it was now nearly
completely dark; he had to feel his way cautiously over the marsh as he
turned in the direction of the light that glanced through the
snow-storm.
He made steadily toward it; the snow stinging in his face, and saw it
grow larger till he could discern the snowflakes drifting swiftly
through the faint halo it cast upon the dark.
The ground grew firmer under foot; he had gained a tongue of dry land,
and in front of him, barely visible, was the black outline of the
smuggler’s hut with the lamp flaring yellow in the square window; with
this aid he found his way to the door and, using the hilt of his sword,
knocked heavily.
There was a little silence, then the sound of cautious footsteps.
The door was slowly unbolted, opened an inch or so.
“Who is it?” said a woman’s voice in a quick whisper.
“Mr. Wedderburn—the King’s messenger,” he answered.
“The password?”
“The white rose and the golden lily—England and France.”
She opened the door at that and motioned him to enter.
As he obeyed he found himself face to face with a young girl; she held
a candle in her hand that guttered in the draught and sent a trail of
smoke and flame over her shoulder; round her brown bodice was a
kerchief of vivid scarlet and in her ears hoops of red-gold glittered
and swung.
“My father is out looking for you, Mr. Wedderburn,” she said with the
calm of one grown easy at a perilous trade, careless and used to danger.
“I am late,” he answered. With a heavy step he advanced into the room.
She bolted the door.
“Yes—the boat was expected two hours ago—we were there to meet you—you
missed my father, sir?—he went to the coast; he will be returning soon.”
In silence he flung off his dripping cloak and hat and half-turning,
glanced at Celia Hunt. She looked back at him with a sudden arrested
interest.
It was the most remarkable, the handsomest face that she had ever seen;
both his expression and the carriage of his splendid person indicated
an arrogance that neither speech nor action might express; it seemed as
if he forever contained a surging, passionate haughtiness; it was in
the lines of his clear-cut mouth and in the expression of his dark blue
eyes; eyes whose beauty was marred by a look, strained, slightly
distraught. He wore no peruke and his short hair was black as his heavy
brows; he was of a pale complexion naturally, and now his eyes showed
dark in a face markedly pale.
“Ye are the messenger from St. Germains?” asked Celia Hunt.
“Have I not said so?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn with a curl of his short
upper lip. “Why do you stare so, wench? I am not used to wait for my
welcome.”
“Ye are not he who came here last under the name of Andrew Wedderburn,”
said the girl.
“You must be used to feigned names here,” was the answer. “Do you doubt
me?—be satisfied.” With the slightly grandiloquent magnificence that
was his unconscious manner, he drew forth the papers from his breast
and held them out.
She saw the seal of King James on the topmost. “You will stay the night
here?” she said.
He gave a reckless little laugh and seated himself at the table.
“When did the King’s son leave here?”
“This morning.”
“I am to meet him in London. And Mr. Caryl; you have heard from him?”
“He told of your coming.”
“Ah—he also, I am to meet in London.” He leaned back in his chair as if
he was weary and stared into the fire with moody eyes.
The girl, Celia Hunt, set about getting food with an air half-awed,
half-doubting.
Of all the Jacobites, nobles, captains and gentlemen, spies and common
rufflers who had used her father’s hut in their passage to and from
France, this man was the most at ease, the most arrogant of manner, as
if his life was in no danger, nor his cause in any fear of failure; yet
at the same time she had seen none with eyes that held such excited
wildness or who kept his hand so continually on his sword. She puzzled
over him; he was no daredevil of a cavalier or knight-errant, eager for
adventure like some of these plotters; there was nothing roistering or
gay about him; he had an air of passionate coldness; like a Puritan who
disdains the worldly things about him and puts a full-blooded strength
into grave desires; he looked past the girl as if she had been an old
woman, a treatment she was not used to; she was handsome enough in her
lean, vivid way to win courtesy at least; and often more from men older
and graver than this one.
The Duke of Berwick had kissed her when he left that morning and given
her the diamond brooch that glittered on her breast; it was the Stuart
way of winning and keeping loyalty; she was shrewd enough to know it
was only a manner of paying a debt, but she liked the implied
compliment that it was not money could buy her services; this man, she
thought scornfully, might likely enough reward her at parting with a
handful of silver. Having spread the remains of the Duke of Berwick’s
breakfast on a cloth of smuggled lace and having set beside them some
bottles of the wine brought secretly from France, the girl turned to
Mr. Wedderburn.
“Your supper,” she said curtly.
He rose, flung himself before the table and began to eat absently.
“You had a rough passage,” remarked Celia, eying him.
“Yes,” he barely looked at her as he spoke.
“You are often employed by His Majesty?”
“Yes,” was his answer, given even more coldly than before.
Celia came closer, resting her firm brown hands on the edge of the
table and, leaning forward, she peered into his face.
The ragged yellow lamplight flickered over her, lighting her eyes and
her dusky hair; she spoke, very low.
“You are a Williamite spy,” she said steadily.
Mr. Wedderburn pushed his chair back and his mouth took on the scornful
curve that came there very easily.
“Prove it,” he answered quietly.
“I cannot prove it—but I know,” said Celia Hunt. “You are that damned
thing—a spy. You dare not lie deep enough to deny it.”
He rose up softly; he was outside the circle of the lamplight, but her
straining eyes saw his face was drawn.
“I dare do anything,” he said, “but I do not choose to answer.”
“There is no need,” she said, very erect and taut, “I know.”
They faced each other, the table and half the room between them; he
touched his breast lightly; a square-cut diamond ring glistened through
the lace that fell over his hand.
“I carry a something here,” he said with a light haughtiness, “that
will serve my turn against anything you may say.”
“How did you get them?” she asked. “The papers—how much do you know?”
His lids dropped over his flashing eyes; he lifted his head still
higher.
“Enough,” he said.
“To hang us all,” said Celia Hunt hoarsely. “My God!”
“Perhaps,” he assented. “Now will you try to send a warning to Jerome
Caryl?”
She had fallen back a step.
“No,” she said. “I shall prevent you leaving this place—”
He laughed. “Who will stop me?” he asked.
She swayed a little, staring at him.
“You know too much,” she panted. “Oh, my God, I would give something to
know what to do.” He laughed at her; with a lithe movement he came
close, his right hand was loosely over his sword, the other, shapely
and white, rested on his hip, thrust into the folds of his purple sash;
the carelessness of his attitude stung her like a taunt.
“I am a fool!” she cried passionately. “I should have waited till ye
slept then bid my father settle you—you hireling spy!”
“Slept here!” he answered with curling lip, “and keep a civil tongue,
baggage, or I shall strike you down. I have no ceremony with your kind.”
“Ah,” she whispered, “you would dare to murder me.”
“I have dared God, Himself,” he answered wildly, “I know nothing you
can name I would not dare—but I should disdain to murder you—”
Her horror-stricken eyes dwelt on his magnificent face; her angry
courage ebbed before his strangeness.
“Who are you?” she asked.
But he laughed, not heeding her; his eyes showed hazed and vacant.
“Accursed,” he muttered—“God knows—accursed—at least one of the masters
of the earth—mad perhaps—you have heard of me, belike—” He turned a
distracted gaze on her; she thought suddenly that he was mad—or drunk,
and cowered against the wall in personal fear.
Again he laughed loudly, and moved unsteadily, lurching toward her, it
was as if some passion of his soul had been suddenly loosed and blinded
him.
“Black magic—and blood—” he said wildly.
“Cursed—always blood—and witchery—you cannot get rid of it—the thought
of Hell—and the faces of your dead who died foully—your disfigured
dead—and your child slaying your child—both damned—and singeing in
Hell!”
He stared at her with his blue eyes vague and fixed; she shrieked out
thinly:
“God’s name—who are you?”
“We conjure in the Devil’s name!” he answered madly. “I am of the
cursed Dalrymples—and I am damned in the name of John, Master of Stair!”
CHAPTER XI
THE MASTER OF STAIR
The sound of his own name seemed to sober the man; he sank down heavily
into a chair, clutching his sword, his wild vacant eyes staring before
him. Celia Hunt stood dumbly regarding him, disbelief and fear in her
face. The Master of Stair!
She had heard of him as the fiercest of Whigs, one of the most powerful
men in the three Kingdoms, the friend of William of Orange—and the
ruler of Scotland—yet he was here doing spy’s work and needlessly
revealing himself! It was incredible; yet she had heard that the
Dalrymples were mad—and accursed: if this were not he, why should he
lie: claim so burdensome a title.
She crept a little closer.
“You are the Master of Stair?” she whispered. “You ask me to believe
that?”
He looked up at her and his eyes were not the eyes of any mere ordinary
man, she thought.
“I am John Dalrymple,” he said, “what have you heard of me that you
shrink away so?”
“And you do this work!” she cried.
“I would trust no other man to do this work I have in hand,” he
answered. “Nobles and princes are among your Jacobite plotters—we do
not send hired scum to combat them. I am the Master of Stair.”
“Ah! and why do you tell me?”
“You!” his eyes flickered over her scornfully. “Why should I not tell
you?”
“Would you bribe me to your side?” she asked breathlessly.
“No,” he answered; “I have accomplished my end. I know all I need to
know. I touched the bottom of their plot days ago.” He rose with a
sudden laugh. “Berwick and his fellow-fools! They have been too
secure—did they think we had neither eyes nor ears!”
Celia Hunt moistened her lips slowly with the tip of her red tongue.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He hesitated, glanced at her with gloomy scorn. “I am going to London
as Andrew Wedderburn; to-morrow night I shall meet Jerome Caryl and
obtain from him the names of all concerned in this last plot.”
“Then?”
“Then, wench, I shall put that list before the King,” he answered, “and
the business will be done with—this popish scum will lie quiet a while.”
“Clean work for a gentleman, Sir John,” she cried in a clear scorn. “I
know some dirty knaves would not go to such lengths of treachery to
save their necks—”
He swung round on her; but she laughed up into his face without
flinching.
“Why, you can kill me,” she said, “I am a Jacobite, a smuggler, I’ve
helped many a fugitive out of England and many a conspirator in—and if
you are what you say, I am doubly glad to be the enemy of the
government whose ministers are such as you!”
“You are very reckless,” said the Master of Stair. “I shall not forget
you are outside the law.”
“As you are outside hope of Heaven!” she answered him fiercely.
“Accursed, root and branch—you damned Dalrymples—oh, I have heard some
tales of you—if you indeed be he they call the Master of Stair.”
He put his hand to his side and stared down at her; he had grown
ghastly white.
Lithe and quick in her movements she swung close to him, the blood
flushing her dark cheek.
“How did your sister die?” she mocked with the courage of desperation.
“As any man’s might have done,” he answered hoarsely.
“How did your brother die?” she cried.
“Stop!” cried the Master of Stair, “Stop!”
But she drew herself up defiantly and flung out “How did your son die,
Sir John Dalrymple! Surely there is a curse on you!”
He stood motionless, staring.
“I think his brother killed him,” whispered Celia Hunt. “I think your
brother shot himself for hate of you—I think your sister went mad and
slew her bridegroom—”
“Does all the world know this?” he said in a strange voice.
“Your family has been a fine subject for common talk these many years,”
she answered.
He gave a vacant laugh and turned on his heel.
“I have borne too much for your tongue to move me much—yet—if you speak
of _him_ again—my God!—I shall strike you silent!”
Despite herself his tone awed her; she shrank back into the shadows and
her venom died on her tongue.
There was a silence.
The Master of Stair picked up his hat and cloak and turned toward the
door. He took a whistle from his breast and blew three times into the
night.
Celia Hunt cried as figures formed out of the blackness.
“Arrest this girl for high treason, Captain,” said the Master of Stair
in a manner quiet and courteous as a couple of soldiers stepped into
the room, “and search the house—see to it she sends no messages—you
will find me in Romney to-night—to-morrow in London.”
“I was glad to hear your signal, Sir John,” answered the soldier, “’tis
cold on these fens.”
“A vile place,” said the Master of Stair. “I think the Jacobites will
use it no more. You have arrested the man, Hunt?”
“Yes, Sir John; we found him on the fens.”
“Good-night, Captain.” He lifted his hat and was gone into the dark.
Celia Hunt unpinned the Duke of Berwick’s brooch and slipped it inside
her bosom before they came to tie her hands.
“Maybe,” said the officer, “he or both of you will choose to turn
informer.”
Celia flung up her head with a jerk that loosened her hair from its
pins and sent it rippling down her back: she laughed.
* * * * *
Sir John Dalrymple sat in his room in Romney a few hours later writing.
The room was warm and comfortable; a bright fire burned on the
red-tiled hearth; a lamp hung over the table; Sir John wore a scarlet
satin dressing-gown that fell open on his shirt and cravat; a crystal
decanter stood empty beside him and a half-filled wine-glass.
He wrote with a reckless air of carelessness, his hand flew fast over
the paper in a bold trailing writing; as he finished a sheet he tossed
it across the table and took another. He was interrupted by some one
softly entering; he looked up with an absorbed frown to see his
secretary coming toward him with letters in his hand.
Sir John pushed his chair back and flung down his pen; his brilliant
eyes were shadowed underneath and there was a curious drag at the
corners of his mouth as if he had been in great pain.
“From London?” he demanded as he took the letters.
“Yes, Sir John—forwarded by my lord your father to the name you gave
him.”
“Sit down,” said the Master of Stair. “I may need you, Melville.”
The secretary, meek and fair, sat down at the further end of the table
and began mending a pen.
Sir John took up the first of his letters and glanced over it eagerly.
“From Breadalbane,” he said. “More of these cursed clans have come
in—but the Macdonalds remain obdurate—I am glad of it.”
He dashed the letter down.
“Melville, you will get me those maps of the Highlands I spoke of—I
must see Breadalbane—he is in London now—his caution allows him to put
but little on paper.”
“Yes, Sir John,” answered the secretary and noting his master’s angry
tone he gave him a furtive glance and saw him still brooding gloomily
over Breadalbane’s letter.
There followed a long pause of utter silence; then the secretary was
roused into a start by a letter being flung down the table with a force
that sent it onto the carpet by his feet; he was used to sitting quiet
under stormy episodes and with an unmoved face he went on mending the
pen; but he gave a covert glance at the letter. It was one of those he
had brought up; the seal was still unbroken and the inscription was in
a woman’s hand; a writing the secretary knew very well since it was
that of Sir John’s wife.
Another silence broken at last by the Master of Stair:
“A letter from the King,” he said, “put it with the others, Melville.”
“His Majesty does not know you have left London, Sir John?”
“No—nor need he—I intend to say nothing of this plot till I have
discovered everything. I’ll have no more Dangerfield scares to make the
Jacks laugh. You will take heed, Melville, that you do not mention to
any this visit to Romney.”
The secretary assented meekly. The Master of Stair leaned back in his
chair; above his red gown his colorless face showed of a ghastly pallor.
“I will write to Breadalbane,” he said, “I will dictate the letter.”
Melville drew a sheet of paper toward him and dipped his pen in the ink.
“Head it Kensington,” said Sir John. “And say—I am sorry Glengarry and
Keppoch are safe—but glad Makian has not come in—it will be a great
work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable race—the worst
in all the Highlands. I rejoice that they have not taken the oaths.”
The secretary’s pen went busily over the paper; Sir John took up his
wine-glass and emptied it slowly.
“That is all,” he said. “Fill that out.”
The secretary handed the finished letter across the table and Sir John
signed it, then fell back again in his chair. In silence, Melville put
the papers together.
“There in my own hand—for my son in Holland,” said the Master of Stair.
“Put them up—maybe the child will never read them, nevertheless send
them.” He put his hand to his head and the strange distortion of his
mouth deepened, marring his face.
Melville cleared the table and put the letters neatly into a portfolio;
wiped the pens and took away the inkstands; his quiet movements did not
disturb the silence.
“Give me that letter on the floor,” said the Master of Stair, suddenly.
The secretary obeyed; Sir John took it with the tips of his fingers and
laid it on the bare table in front of him.
“You may go now—Melville,” he said. “I shall start by daybreak, but
alone—I shall see you in London to-morrow evening—you may come again
presently and help me to undress—”
“Yes, Sir John.”
The secretary moved to the door and there stopped, struck by something
utterly tragic and forlorn in the figure of the man he was leaving. The
Master of Stair was leaning back with his head uplifted against the
stiff black back of his chair, his hands lay slackly on the arms and
his eyes were set and vacant:
“Sir John,” said the secretary timidly. “Will you not go to bed?”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, without moving, “No.”
Still Melville lingered.
“You look tired, Sir John,” he ventured.
“Why should you care?” was the answer. “Take your own rest, Melville.”
The secretary came back into the room. “Sir, as you ride to London so
early, it would be better if you slept.”
Sir John sat up and looked at the speaker with wide eyes.
“If I might choose I would never sleep again,” he said. “And I would
never see the dark.” He gave a short laugh and took up his wife’s
letter; there was a little pause; the secretary waited, ill at ease.
“Melville—” the Master of Stair spoke abruptly, “when did my sister
die?”
A little painful silence, then the secretary answered awkwardly: “It
was before I came to you, Sir John, about twenty years ago, I think.”
Sir John turned the unopened letter over in his hands.
“It seems longer,” he said gloomily. “’Tis an old tale now—but I had it
flung in my face to-day—that—and other things. I thought I had
forgotten—but I remember now that I can never bear to open a door that
resists—for fear—for fear of seeing again what I saw then. When I
thrust open that resisting door and saw her murdered bridegroom across
the threshold—and her eyes blinking at me over it—Melville, her mad
eyes—that looked as I have seen mine—” He dashed his hand on the table
and his black brows contracted into a frown of agony; his was the
fierce pride that disdains control and restraint; he was reckless of
the watching curiosity of the other man.
“Why did that wench remind me?” he cried bitterly. “I hear Janet’s
scream again—and see over her bare arm the—faugh! these things are not
terrible to hear, Melville; they are easily told—but when you _see_
them—by God! when you _see_ them—I think you do not forget.”
He lifted his wild, blue eyes with something almost like appeal in them.
“It makes a tale for common folk to mouth,” he said. “Can nothing be
buried too deep for spite to unearth it? Twenty years ago! I remember I
wore my first sword that day—cursed—what sins have we done to be so
cursed? Melville—you were there when they brought my dead son home—” He
leaned across the table and his voice sank. “Tell me,” he said
hoarsely, “did he not look terrible?”
Melville shrank away.
“Sir,” he faltered, “no more than any dead who die so.”
“Who has died so since Cain?” demanded the Master wildly: “slain by his
brother—God and man call it an awful thing.”
“Sir—’twas in mimic fight—a most unhappy accident.”
“So we call it; so we gloss it over—but you and I know better,
Melville,” answered the Master—“They hated each other—like I hated my
brother—but he shot himself—better than if I had done it—yet this
child’s guilt is mine—Melville, he was only twelve, but the black
Dalrymple blood rose in him—my sins return to lay my house in ruins and
dishonor me.”
He rose, thrusting his chair back; with his great height emphasized by
the flowing scarlet gown, his white face and his passionate eyes dark
with pain, he looked almost terrible; the secretary drew further
outside the circle of the lamplight.
“Many men, Sir John,” he said in his even official voice, “would gladly
have your sorrows to enjoy your fortunes. Worldly greatness such as
yours is a fine balance to private misfortunes.”
This smooth axiom was unheeded by the other, but he caught and dwelt on
the sense of what was said.
“What do I live for, Melville? Why have I flung myself into the plot—to
work with my own hands? Why do I plan to sweep the Highlands bare of
thieves—to rein in a kingdom and fly grandly above the breath of
popular hate? It is only that I may forget—even for a while—I wish to
plunge knee-deep through the press of factions, to mount, and ever
mount, to grasp power, and, by Heaven, wield it—that I may cheat myself
into thinking I forget what I shall never forget—unto the end!” As he
spoke he began pacing the room; there was a curious lightness in his
step; as if he feared to walk heavily; as if he dreaded waking echoes;
he still held his wife’s letter in his hand.
“Melville, get you to rest,” he said over his shoulder and his tone
invited no dallying with his command; the secretary turned and the door
closed softly on his departure.
Sir John stopped under the lamp and broke the seal of his letter.
It was dated from his London house and written in a trembling, much
blotted, hand.
It began:
SIR JOHN,
Indeed you must come home, indeed I cannot bear—I know not where
you are. Was such your commands? My lord, your father, says he will
send this with the other letters, the Lord can alone tell if you
will get this, as my lord, your father, as you know, lies to me
without pity, yet complaints of him are not the reason of my
writing, yet I would say few women would take from him what I do
patiently being past long since all attempts to move either you or
him to any consideration for me whose fate is the heartbroken and
neglected, with no friend but one whom you know—and do not like, I
mean Tom Wharton, who is often here now; but I cannot help it; he
knew my boy and the house is killing me with its emptiness and
loneliness; my lord is morose and hates me and therefore, though
God knows I would be willing never to see your face again, I do ask
you to come back if you would not find me mad or flown; perhaps you
do not care that my heart is broken and that since the boy—
The Master of Stair tore the letter savagely across.
“Why did I open it?” he cried passionately. “Why does she reproach me?
Can I give her back her boy?”
He crossed to the dying fire and thrust the half-unread, ill-written
letter into the heart of the flames and his face was very bitter.
“Had I not mated with a fool, my luck might have been better,” he said
fiercely. “When I have fought and silenced all the world her wails rise
to unnerve me—the boy!—what does she know what it was to me to lose
that boy! But you shall not forget grief, madam, in the company of Tom
Wharton.” He flung himself into his old place at the table; outside a
clock struck three; on the hearth his wife’s letter flared into a tall
thin flame above the dead coals.
“God knows I would be willing never to see your face again—”
The sentence recurred to him dully; so utterly alone—who was there that
would care to see him again?
He knew of none; the boy was dead.
“I care not,” he muttered to himself. “I am the Master of Stair. I am
Scotland. I do not need a home—a woman’s affection—those things are for
smaller men and what matter if they point at me as a man accursed—is
not my name stately high above it all? I care not.” Yet even as he
spoke his head sank wearily into his hand and the helpless, useless
tears were blinding him.
CHAPTER XII
THE LOVE OF DELIA
Delia Featherstonehaugh sat alone in the back parlor of “The Sleeping
Queen”; it was New Year’s Eve, about six o’clock and the quiet little
inn was deserted.
It stood in a dreary back street close to Westminster Abbey and was a
resort well-known to Jacobites and almost unheard of by others; in the
upper rooms was a printing-press that turned out hundreds of the
lampoons and pamphlets that daily strewed the city and in this dull
chamber more than one famous gentleman had drunk to the health of King
James.
Delia had been alone all day, her brother and Jerome Caryl had been
summoned to a meeting with Berwick, who was in hiding in Southwark; she
knew they would return to meet the messenger from France, Mr.
Wedderburn, who was due this evening, but the hour she could not tell.
The room was large and low with plain plaster walls and uncarpeted
floor; on the high chimneypiece two huge white china dogs grinned at
each other either side a wooden clock; the fireplace was laid with
rough brown Dutch tiles that bore the history of the fall of man in
rude bold figures; Delia sat in one of the well-worn chairs, and stared
absently at the round fat face of Eve who looked up distressfully from
the hearth, glowing red from the fire.
The room was full of the sound of bells, the bells of St. Margaret’s
and the Abbey chiming together steadily. The girl listened to them
dreamily, and her thoughts were in Scotland, the desolate Glencoe—the
Glen o’ Weeping—were they safe, those Macdonalds?—very far-away they
seemed, helpless, too, and pitiful for all their fierceness; she prayed
they might have taken the oaths; she did not care to think of Ronald
Macdonald as among the dead.
With a little sigh she leaned forward; she wore a long dress of dark
gray silk and in the heavy curls of her hazel hair was a band of velvet
of a bright pure blue; in the plain collar of her gown shone a little
turquoise brooch.
Her eyes, dark brown and brooding, looked soft as pansies under her
smooth white brow, and her mouth strong and gentle was very sweetly
set; it was a fair musing face she rested on her hand; a face calmly
troubled.
Through the bells came the sound of footsteps; she thought it might be
her brother or Caryl, but the step was too light for either.
She rose slowly, her eyes on the door.
It opened and a man stepped in.
“Miss Delia?” he asked softly, “the sister of Sir Perseus?”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
“They sent me here to wait the coming of Mr. Caryl,” he said. “I am
Andrew Wedderburn—from France.” He came into the room, his hat in his
hand; Delia looked at him in silence, she stood with her hand on the
arm of her chair, the firelight full on her face.
“May I wait here?” asked Mr. Wedderburn. “I have satisfied the host of
my identity—but you—will you see my papers?”
“Sir—we do not question friends,” she said. “How should you be here if
you were not the King’s messenger?”
His blue eyes dwelt on her a second with a curious look; he laid his
hat on a chair. “Help me with my coat,” he said quietly. “Will you
not—the room is warm?”
She came slowly toward him with a half-hesitation.
He wore a light-colored roquelaure that he had unbuttoned and great
riding-gloves that he pulled off to fling beside his hat; as Delia
approached him she was aware of a heavy perfume mingled with the
atmosphere of cold outer air without, that he carried. Timidly she took
his coat by the collar and helped him with it; as she did so his hand,
ice-cold, touched hers and she colored foolishly.
“Thank you,” he said and crossed to the fire.
Delia stood still, holding his coat; the strong perfume it was redolent
of seemed to make her giddy; the close contact with his personality had
been as strong, as real a thing as if some one had struck her; she
turned to look at the man with a feeling that her head was spinning.
He had taken some papers from his breast and was looking at them; he
wore a suit of geranium-colored velvet, a waistcoat branched with
silver and buttoned with brilliants; his face and the front curls of
his black peruke were powdered; over his lace tie a bow of wide black
velvet was tied under his chin; the scabbard of his sword was gold and
he wore a number of ornaments that glittered as he moved, yet his
appearance was one of gloom not gaiety, and the splendor of his superb
face was marred by a look of wildness, contained and held in.
Delia gave a little half-cry of surprise:
“Sir,” she said faintly, “came you in this guise from France?”
He looked up as if he did not understand.
“I came by Romney Marsh,” he said. “Hunt’s cottage—you know it?”
“I mean,” explained Delia with a great flush, “that our messengers are
usually more plainly habited.”
He glanced over his clothes.
“Ah!” he gave a sudden smile, “merely the fashion of Paris, Miss
Delia—I have escaped detection—so what matters it?”
“Nothing,” she assented. “Only you look more like one of the Prince’s
courtiers, Mr. Wedderburn, than the King’s friends, who usually go
roughly clad.”
He gave her another quick look.
“See my commission, madam—”
“Oh, no—” she protested. “Show it to Mr. Caryl—”
“Is he coming here—soon?”
“Yes—to meet you, Mr. Wedderburn.”
She dropped into silence after that; he put his papers back and stared
at the brown tiles, suddenly he looked at her:
“How loud the bells sound,” he said, “it is Westminster is it not?”
“Yes,” said Delia.
He turned and stood with his back to the fire.
“Why do you remain there?” he asked. “Do I frighten you that you will
not come and sit down?”
“You—a little confuse me,” she answered, then feeling the folly of it
was silent again.
Mr. Wedderburn laughed.
“A plotter, Miss Delia, should not so easily be put out—you are an
ardent plotter, are you not?”
With a semblance of ease she crossed over to him. “I know not,” she
said. “I have done nothing for my cause—as you have, sir.”
“I have served my King well,” he answered gloomily. There fell a little
silence; they were only a foot apart and the sense of his presence over
her was as strong as if he touched her with both hands; instinctively
she made a sharp movement backwards and something fell with a rattle to
the ground.
“Your brooch,” said Mr. Wedderburn and picked it up.
She put her hand to her open collar.
“Ah—it is hard to fasten.”
“Let me try,” said he gravely.
She looked at him in a confused manner.
“Yes; the fastening is difficult,” said Mr. Wedderburn with the
sapphire in his hand—“hold up your head.”
Obviously nerving herself, Delia obeyed; he bent over her and his tie
brushed her bosom; his hand touched her bare throat as he adjusted the
brooch; at the sensation she gave an uncontrollable start that made the
pin again fly and prick her flesh; with a little cry she stepped back.
“I have hurt you!” cried Mr. Wedderburn; and his white face slightly
flushed—“Forgive me—”
“Ah, no, ’twas mine own fault,” said Delia, but if the scratch had been
poisoned she could not have spoken more faintly or with paler lips.
Mr. Wedderburn looked at her keenly and she seemed to know it though
her eyes were downcast, for her face was flushed as suddenly as his and
she set her teeth in her under lip.
“What is your part in these plots?” he asked abruptly.
Still looking down she answered.
“Sir, I do what I am bid—at present little enough—if a chance came I
should pray to be worthy of it—I would give my life for the cause.”
“What cause?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn. “The invasion of England and the
assassination of the King?”
“The King?” she echoed, amazed.
“King William—”
“Ah—the Prince!” cried Delia. “Do they, sir, call him King at St.
Germains?”
Mr. Wedderburn looked vexed: “King _de facto_ he is, Miss Delia—even
when you acknowledge James King _de jure_!”
Delia smiled.
“We make no count of these lawyer’s terms, sir—”
“Nor of the law, I think,” he answered. “’Tis my profession.”
“You are a lawyer, sir?”
He smiled gloomily.
“Yes—a rare thing, you will say to find a lawyer and a conspirator in
one—”
“Oh, no,” said Delia, “but I had rather, sir, you had been a soldier.”
“I have been that, too,” he answered. “I’ve trailed a pike in France
and Holland with fine scum for company—” he turned round on her
suddenly—“that must have been before you were born, Miss Delia.”
She gave a start of surprise; he seemed a young man; he read her
thought and smiled:
“I am six and thirty; you, I think, not above eighteen; my soldiering
was more than twenty years ago—a dead thing!—but you have not answered
me—are you deeply in this plot—to assassinate the Prince?”
“I have not heard of it,” she answered. “They do not tell me
everything—yet I can answer for Mr. Caryl at least that he would not
stain his cause with murder.”
He frowned.
“Is he your lover?”
“No,” her brown eyes lifted steadily. “I have no lover.”
Mr. Wedderburn considered her curiously.
“Well, you are young enough,” he said.
“Older than you think,” she smiled; her eyelids fell again.
They both became aware of a difference in the room; Mr. Wedderburn went
to the window.
“The bells have stopped,” he said; he opened the casement with a
reckless impatient gesture, and a cloud of snow was blown in on him.
“Come here,” he said in a lowered voice. “See—’tis so dark ’tis like
looking over the edge of the world—and the flakes go by like
souls—millions of them—and all—I think lost—”
Delia crept up beside him, trembling and silent; he leaned his stately
head against the mullions and stared out on to the utter dark; the
drifting snow clung to the vivid velvet of his coat; Delia saw his
diamonds rise and fall with the quickness of his breathing and felt her
own heart beating thickly; a vague sense of unreality touched her like
the chill of the outer air and made her shiver.
“Hark!” said Mr. Wedderburn.
The bells burst out again and the sharpness of their music was a pain;
the snow went past in a slow rhythm of descent; Mr. Wedderburn turned
and looked at Delia.
“Ah—it is cold—shut the window,” she said, and she closed her eyes and
swayed as if she fainted inwardly.
But he stood motionless, the snow drifting over him, his hand on the
open window; the mad, reckless blood of his doomed race rose in him; he
spent his life in trying wild means of forgetting his great unhappiness
and here, in the pale, pure face shrinking away from him, was one way
of distraction; he was as picturesque in his thoughts as in his person
and he imagined her soul, simple, white as the snow without, standing
before him, waiting for a sign to flutter into his hand; he smiled
gloomily; she was not the first to respond to the obvious attraction of
his flaunting personality, but she had the novelty of a singular,
gracious freshness, an almost childlike simplicity of demeanor; it was
exquisite to think she knew nothing of him.
It was as if there lay a way through her soft brown eyes of momentarily
escaping from himself.
She leaned against the wall, he watching her; one little hand rested on
the paneling beside her, her white throat showed through the open
collar; her thick, dull hair cast trembling shadows on her cheeks, he
thought it a pretty color and was gloomily pleased that he could still
admire the tint of a woman’s hair.
“Delia,” he said quietly.
She looked up, to hear this man speak her name was like seeing it flash
written in stars across the sky; she shrank under it abashed and lifted
timid eyes that to his bitter wretchedness seemed soft as a caress.
He smiled.
“How little you know of me!” he said.
She found slow words to answer him.
“We have one creed, one King, one aim,” she said. “I desire to know no
more of you, sir.”
“Delia,” his voice fell very musically low. “If you knew more of
me—say, if we had known each other years—would you find it possible to
care for me?”
She stared, dumb and scarlet, the terror in her questioning eyes was
the finest compliment ever paid him: he smiled again with his curious
Puritanical haughtiness as if even while he led her on, he despised
himself and her.
“Would you find me a man easy to care for?” he said again. “I
wonder—for I—”
She interrupted: “Sir—I do not think you have failed to find those who
would answer that question.”
“Ah, let me speak,” he said gently, “let me say that I do find you made
to be loved—”
“Sir! do you usually so play with words with every stranger?” she cried.
“Why, never before,” he smiled, “and are we strangers—did you not say
we had one creed—one King—one aim?”
“Ah, I do think you palter with me!” cried Delia with the distress of
one drawn and netted against her will. “Mr. Caryl is late—”
“I would he were later,” said Mr. Wedderburn.
“There is no need for me to keep you company,” she answered faintly.
“No need?” His manner flashed into the overbearing. “Not if I ask you
to stay?”
“I will go.”
“Why?” His blue eyes lifted imperiously. “Miss Delia—do you dislike me?”
“I do not know you,” she faltered.
His face darkened.
“Ah, yes, you know me as much in these moments as you ever will—I know
you—to the bottom of your white heart.”
“Know me?” she winced and blushed.
“I know you do not dislike me,” he said, studying her curiously.
“Though your lips may say so.”
She answered bravely.
“Sir—I have not taught them to lie.”
He came a little nearer to her and again she was aware of the strong
perfume he carried, overcoming, stupefying her.
“So,” he said, “you cannot lie, and if I said—ah—if I said—” He broke
off with a little reckless laugh; his shadow was upon her; his presence
seemed to fill the world; she could no more escape it than she could
the air about her; she could only shrink away, trembling against the
wall.
“If I said—I love you,” he asked softly, “you who cannot lie—would
say—some day I might love you—would you not?”
“When you tell me that in seriousness,” she answered panting
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