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!”