The Master of Stair/Book 1/Chapter 11
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 slience; 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.