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, “in
seriousness I will reply.”
His beautiful eyes laughed.
“Sophistry,” he said. “Come, is life so long that we may wait years to
say what in one moment we know is true—we have not met for nothing—by
Heaven, no!”
“Then leave it at that,” faltered Delia. “Say no more—ah, for pity!”
With that gentle little cry it seemed to him that his hand closed over
her and that he held her soul, simple and white, as he pictured it to
do with as he would.
Thinking so he gave her his strange, vacant look, while she crept away
and he fell back into the gloom, surveying her sideways coldly.
The pause, terrible to Delia, was broken by the abrupt entrance of
Jerome Caryl.
“Ah,” he said; “I was told you were here.” He glanced at Mr. Wedderburn
and his brows went up ever so slightly.
“The password, sir?” he asked, his hand on the door.
Mr. Wedderburn turned and looked at him: “The white rose and the golden
lily—England and France,” he said slowly, “and here is my commission.”
He took from his pocket a parchment with swinging seals and laid it
sweepingly upon the table.
Jerome Caryl picked it up, looked at it, then turned to Sir Perseus,
who had followed him.
“This is Mr. Wedderburn, the King’s messenger,” he said gravely, then
to the other: “I am glad, sir, of your safe arrival.”
“Good-even,” said Sir Perseus, then glancing the stranger over: “they
keep you fine in France, sir,” he commented.
Mr. Wedderburn smiled disdainfully.
“My habit is not the matter under discussion,” he returned. “I dress as
fits my station—as one of His Majesty’s friends.”
Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders; Jerome Caryl seated himself rather
wearily at the table, with a gentle smile of greeting to Delia and
spoke to the King’s messenger:
“The papers you had to deliver?” he said. “I am anxious, sir, for His
Majesty’s letter.”
Mr. Wedderburn, taking the seat opposite, began the undoing of a packet
he took from his breast, the two men meanwhile observed each other;
Jerome Caryl openly with a calm frankness, the King’s messenger
covertly, sideways and very keenly.
Delia, mechanically closing the window at her brother’s bidding,
noticed how great a difference between the two at the table and thought
that Jerome Caryl had faded utterly beside the vivid presence of the
other.
Quiet, contained, grave and modest in manner, his calm melancholy face
and person were a fine contrast to Mr. Wedderburn with his over-bold
handsomeness, his over-rich dress, his passionate air of impatient
lordship, his too emphasized manner of haughtiness and power; the
bearing of a tragedy emperor, gloomy magnificence. He was not the type
of man to appeal to Jerome Caryl, who set his soft mouth sternly and
drooped his hazel eyes disdainfully to his own delicate hand resting on
the table.
Mr. Wedderburn swung a letter across the table; in silence Jerome Caryl
opened it, and the King’s messenger gave a sudden smile at Delia across
the length of the room.
Sir Perseus glanced from one to another, conscious that the silence was
awkward and unaccountable. “We saw my Lord Berwick to-day,” he
remarked. “He has had a messenger from Crauford in Scotland.”
Delia gave a little start as of one suddenly touched in his sleep.
“Scotland?” she echoed.
Mr. Wedderburn was looking at her.
“Heard ye anything of the submission of the clans?” he asked.
“We heard,” said Sir Perseus, “that every clan had come in save the
Macdonalds of Glencoe.”
“Ah!” said Delia, and she flushed and paled.
“They bear such a hatred to the Campbells, nothing will induce them to
follow the others,” continued her brother, “and—poor fools—there is no
one to trouble to warn them—doubtless you have heard, Mr. Wedderburn,
how we have preserved the Highlands to His Majesty by causing them to
take the oaths?”
“I have heard,” was the answer, “you think the government will be
vexed—disturbed at it?”
Jerome Caryl looked up from his letter.
“They were counting on settling the Highlands forever,” he smiled.
“With fire and sword—they did not reckon on more than half taking the
oaths—the Master of Stair and Breadalbane intended to massacre them
wholesale.”
“You have clever spies to have discovered that much,” said Mr.
Wedderburn, and under the table his hand was clutched tightly on his
sword-hilt.
“I am in England for that,” was the answer. “To serve His Majesty. I
have defeated the usurper on that well-planned cruelty.”
“There remain the Macdonalds,” said Mr. Wedderburn slowly.
Suddenly, up to the table, came Delia.
“They must be saved,” she said.
Her words rang in a little pause; she was clasping and unclasping her
hands nervously, she turned her pure eager face to Mr. Wedderburn.
“Sir, you will help us save them?”
He looked at her and laughed.
“I?” he said—“I?—’tis amusing—what power have I to save these Highland
savages?”
She winced and turned to Jerome Caryl.
“You promised me, Mr. Caryl—”
Sir Perseus interrupted:
“Why, Delia, what are these Macdonalds to you?”
Jerome Caryl spared her an answer: “We will do what we can—” he said.
“And they know the risk they run—even yet they may take the oaths.”
Delia glanced at him gratefully; she was pale and her brown eyes
gleamed unnaturally bright.
“Good-night, sirs,” she said faintly.
The three men rose; her brother kissed her cheek; Jerome Caryl came to
the door with her, but she looked past him to Mr. Wedderburn, who
stared at her with a curious little smile; her face went even whiter;
the door fell to behind her and they heard her light footsteps hurrying
up the stairs. Jerome Caryl returned to the table.
“Mr. Wedderburn,” he said formally, “this is a letter from my Lord
Middleton—signed by the King, charging me to collect such names of
importance as I can and send the signature back by you as a means of
encouraging the French to make a descent on England—”
“His Majesty expects me in a day or so at St. Germains with the
signatures,” was the answer. “I assure you ’tis a matter for despatch,
for King Louis will not act without these names as a guarantee of a
rising in England to support him should his men land.”
“Lord Middleton also says that you will be the bearer of his grace of
Berwick’s despatches and a full account of the plot for His Majesty’s
perusal.”
Mr. Wedderburn inclined his head.
“Those were my orders.”
“A dangerous mission,” put in Sir Perseus. “You will carry a vast
responsibility with those papers.”
“I have done as dangerous in the service of the King,” said Mr.
Wedderburn. He turned to Jerome Caryl. “Sir—what names have you to send
His Majesty?”
“News from all sides is vastly satisfactory,” was the answer. “His
grace of Berwick is very confident, the discontent is huge in England;
we have the assurances and the signatures of Marlborough, Godolphin,
Rochester, Clarendon, Lord Russell, Leeds, Cornbury, Dartmouth, Sidney
and many bishops and lords—”
“The whole of the Court ye might say,” cried Mr. Wedderburn, with a
curious little laugh. “Tell me, are there any who have not signed?”
“Nottingham,” said Jerome Caryl with a smile. “Carstairs, Sunderland,
Shrewsbury, Devonshire, Dorset and the Master of Stair—these have never
to my knowledge meddled with us—Nottingham, because he is a narrow
pedant; Devonshire and Dorset for sheer laziness; Sunderland because we
would not have him in our ranks—Carstairs and the Master of Stair....”
“For honest motives, perchance,” said Mr. Wedderburn.
“I do not say so—God knows. Carstairs I believe is honest—the Master of
Stair is not full of scruples. I think he is faithful because he hates
us bitterly and because he is a man of one view—he is sworn to the
Whigs and would, I think, sell his soul for them—if it is still on the
market.”
“You hate him,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn.
“I do—he constantly thwarts me, he is a man to be feared—but to
business, Mr. Wedderburn: these papers you are to carry to France are
with his grace of Berwick—give me two days and I shall have them.”
Mr. Wedderburn rose:
“I will call again the day after to-morrow, then,” he said, “and start
immediately afterwards for France.”
He put his commission back into his pocket.
“You will not disappoint me?” he asked. “In two days—”
“I will answer for it, you have them then,” said Jerome Caryl, “where
are you staying?”
“I am undecided, but any message addressed to ‘The Blue Posts,’ Covent
Garden, will find me.”
“I will remember it.”
The King’s messenger put on his hat and coat in silence; he was not a
man for commonplaces, and his haughty manners prevented them in others.
He saluted the two men very abruptly and turned from the room.
Jerome Caryl made no attempt to accompany him: there was a quiet
dislike in his stiff bow. As the door closed, he remarked to Sir
Perseus:
“Middleton is crazed, I think, to trust that man with such a mission.”
“I do not like him,” was the answer, “but he may be very staunch.”
“He knows everything,” said Jerome Caryl, frowning. “And his
credentials are such that I must trust him—but I doubt his discretion,
and I wish Middleton could have sent me a man of whom I knew something.”
As Mr. Wedderburn was crossing the dark, outer room he felt a timid
touch on his arm; some one fleet and noiseless of foot had overtaken
him. It was Delia Featherstonehaugh,—for the moment he had utterly
forgotten her.
“Would you do me a favor?” she said panting.
He turned, but it was too dark to see her face.
“Why, tell it me,” he answered.
“I want you to help me save the Macdonalds of Glencoe—I have—a reason.”
There was a long pause; she grew frightened.
“Won’t you answer?” she said piteously.
“I have no power,” he replied sternly.
“Ah, yes, as much as any of them—and I am afraid the Macdonalds—afraid
of—” she paused.
“Of whom?”
“The Master of Stair,” she whispered.
He uttered his slight reckless laugh.
“Content ye—I will defend ye from the Master of Stair—on my soul, ye
are a sweet thing—I will see ye next time.”
She fell back, panting into the dark and he passed on into the outer
room where a man was busy sorting and arranging Jacobite pamphlets. He
rose to open the door.
“Those are lampoons ye write?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn.
The Jacobite smiled:
“Yes, sir,” he said in a low voice, “I do not write them, but they are
lampoons.”
“Against whom?”
“All the Whigs, sir—one in particular.”
Mr. Wedderburn held the open door in his hand; he spoke over his
shoulder:
“The Master of Stair?” he asked.
The Jacobite answered under his breath.
“Truly that devil—the Master of Stair.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s blue eyes flashed dark and fierce.
“Be careful, sir, how ye offend the devil,” he said, and, banging the
door furiously in the face of the Jacobite, strode off down the street.