A LAMPOON ANSWERED
Mr. Wedderburn entered the parlor of “The Sleeping Queen,” true to his
appointed time.
He found alone, and busily writing, Sir Perseus, who greeted him
cordially in his pleasant, blunt manner.
Mr. Caryl, he said, had been summoned by his grace of Berwick, but he
expected his return shortly, and though he, Sir Perseus, actually had
the papers Mr. Wedderburn was to carry to France, it would be better if
the emissary would wait and see Mr. Caryl.
Mr. Wedderburn gave a short answer and flung himself into the chair by
the fire; he was obviously in an ill-humor.
Sir Perseus talked of the plot and the promising prospects of success;
he praised Mr. Caryl’s vast labor and skill in the cause of King James,
and hinted that the time was not far distant when the devotion of His
Majesty’s adherents would be rewarded by seeing him enjoy his own again.
Mr. Wedderburn briefly assented to these remarks and stared moodily
into the fire.
Once they were interrupted by the entrance of the printer, who laid
down a packet of pamphlets and silently withdrew.
Sir Perseus began sorting them.
“Delia is late,” he remarked. “You may have seen her if you came
through the Abbey—she often goes there.”
“Yes, I saw her,” answered Mr. Wedderburn gloomily. “Mr. Caryl, too, is
late.”
“Are you pressed for time?” asked Sir Perseus.
The other glanced at the clock.
“The boat is to call for me to-morrow noon,” he said, “and I have to
get to Romney—a delay would be impolitic.”
“It will be unnecessary,” answered Sir Perseus readily. “I have the
papers—I am sure Mr. Caryl would see the desirability of your running
no risk of delay.”
He went to a box in the corner, unlocked it and lifted out a flat
leathern case.
Mr. Wedderburn turned in his chair and watched him as he brought it to
the table and showed the contents.
“This, sir—” Sir Perseus laid a bulky sealed packet down, “is the
letter to His Majesty from his supporters in England, assuring him of
their aid should he land an English army—it is what he asked for to
show Louis.”
“It contains the names of all the conspirators?” asked Mr. Wedderburn.
“We have all, from the highest to the humblest, signed it,” was the
answer, given with a smile of satisfaction. “It should please his
Majesty and satisfy Louis. This is Mr. Caryl’s letter and report to the
King—this the Duke of Berwick’s—these three papers are all, Mr.
Wedderburn.”
“Deadly enough, were they discovered,” commented the other, dryly.
“We are confident that His Majesty selected a messenger who would see
they were not discovered,” said Sir Perseus, putting the papers back
into their case.
Mr. Wedderburn gave a sudden laugh and rose. “Sir, my life upon their
safe delivery to—the King.”
“Sir—it is a weighty trust,” answered Sir Perseus gravely. “The lives
and honors of many men—the fate of a kingdom.”
Mr. Wedderburn made no answer and presently he began to pace the room
in a manner that at last attracted the other’s attention; he began to
look at him curiously; he noticed that the King’s messenger appeared
absorbed, gloomy, as if he reined in high passions, that his face was
unnaturally pale and shadowed under his brilliant eyes as if he had
been through great pain or sleeplessness. Sir Perseus studied him
covertly, with a growing uneasiness; he did not look like a man in the
mood to undertake a difficult enterprise.
Mr. Wedderburn meanwhile continued walking heavily to and fro, as if
utterly careless of the impression he might make. It grew late; Sir
Perseus expressed a wish that Mr. Caryl might return.
“It matters not—I have a good horse without,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and
fell into his silence again.
A strange and utterly undefinable sense of distrust and fear came over
Sir Perseus; his hand went out and instinctively covered the leathern
case while he eyed his restless companion. The longer he watched this
silent man and noted his lithe strength, his brooding face, his
reckless pose and his strange, wild eyes, the more his unreasoning fear
increased; he began to long for the return of Jerome Caryl, to resolve
that he would not part with the papers until that return.
Mr. Wedderburn broke the silence by ringing the bell and calling for
wine. When it came they drank together in a curious heavy stillness, as
if both knew something was impending, yet could not speak of it.
Mr. Wedderburn drained his glass in a kind of fierce haste, then fell
again to his pacing, the other watching intent and tense.
It struck eight.
Neither remarked on the passing of the time; the man at the table
slipped the leathern case into the breast of his coat, why, he could
not have told, save that he felt unnerved.
Mr. Wedderburn came at last to a sudden stand on the hearth, the
firelight full on his handsome face.
“What do you write?” he asked.
“Pamphlets—lampoons—” was the answer.
“Ah—on whom?”
“Naturally—the Williamites.”
“And you circulate them?”
“Successfully—into Kensington, itself.”
“You are daring—and fortunate,” frowned Mr. Wedderburn.
Sir Perseus looked at him with an honest, puzzled face; he could
neither understand the man nor his own sense of uneasiness.
“What are these?” asked the other, and crossed to the table; his rich
dark presence coming so close, still further impressed Sir Perseus with
an unaccountable feeling of mistrust.
“Ah, those are lampoons on the Master of Stair,” he answered. “We find
him a fine target.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s eyes flashed; he poured out more wine and drank it
slowly.
“The Master of Stair!” he said. “I have heard a great deal of the
Master of Stair,” he gave a half-smile, “Now what have you to say of
him?”
He set his glass down and Sir Perseus marked his strong shapely hand as
it lay round the stem.
“Come,” the other insisted in an imperious manner, leaning a little
across the table, “let me hear your skill in lampoons.”
“I do not write them—I merely collect the materials.”
“So they are true?”
“God knows, one needs not to invent lies of the Master of Stair.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s azure eyes narrowed into a steady look; he leaned
forward, his arms folded on the table; there was a little smile on his
curved lips.
“Read this same lampoon to me,” he said. “’Twill pass the time till Mr.
Caryl comes—”
Sir Perseus felt as one fumbling in the dark; he could not make this
Wedderburn out; awed, spite of uneasiness and fascinated through all
his watchful mistrust, he decided that the best thing was to wait; he
put his hand over the papers on his breast.
“Why—as you say—it will pass the time,” he answered. “Yet it is foolish
doggerel—serving only to sting our enemies.”
“And the truth, you say?”
“Else it would not sting.”
And Sir Perseus picked up the topmost printed sheet and unfolded it;
Mr. Wedderburn fixed upon him his brilliant eyes.
Sir Perseus glanced at the clock, then commenced reading in his
pleasant, even voice:
_Of all these men who make the laws,
That they may easy break the laws,
I know no knaves I could compare
With the brood begot by the Viscount Stair._
“A bold beginning,” remarked Mr. Wedderburn.
Sir Perseus continued:
_Of all this race by Heaven cursed,
John, is the eldest and the worst,
A specious knave, whose end will be
A-dancing on the gallows-tree._
He paused, thinking he heard a footstep.
“Go on,” smiled Mr. Wedderburn.
_There is no deed he would not do
Or readily put his hand thereto
So he might gain this world’s gear,
Scruples knows he not nor fear.
Born was he of a witch from Hell,
And Satan knew his father well,
A hideous curse is on his name,
Deep has he drunk of every shame—_
Sir Perseus interrupted himself: “Hardly very witty,” he remarked, “but
it impresses the people it goes among.”
“Go on,” was the brief rejoinder.
Sir Perseus caught at the means of filling time that dragged.
_His only sister miserably died
A mad and an unwilling bride,
Her husband she did try to slay,
The devil snatched her clear away
And tore her raving limb from limb,
Long had she sold her soul to him—_
Mr. Wedderburn suddenly clenched his hand on the table, his eyes were
very dark, his face very pale.
“Fine matter for your hawkers to shout and the gutter scum to read,” he
said thickly, “Go on.”
_His brother, seeing clear his end,
(Indeed he knew that God would send
The same unto them all)
Vowed he would Jack Ketch forestall
And so himself he hanged._
Sir Perseus paused to turn the paper, glancing up he noticed the face
of the man opposite. “Sir,” he asked curiously, “why do you so look at
me?”
“For what reason save interest,” answered Mr. Wedderburn, in no way
altering his steady gaze. “Will you not continue?”
“If it interests you,” Sir Perseus spoke uneasily. “Mr. Caryl is late.”
“An unpardonable fault,” cried the other imperiously. “But I pray
you—continue this pleasant reading.” He pushed his chair from the
table, his right hand had slipped to his sword-hilt; he was leaning
back very easily, yet something about him made Sir Perseus hesitate,
yet impelled to fill the pause, he recommenced:
_His children, were devils born
Who laughed God to scorn
Once, in childish play,
One did the other slay.
Their father came, and smiled to see,
The red blood run so merrily.
Think you it gave HIM pain
To see his son a second Cain?_
Sir Perseus paused, watchful of his companion, but Mr. Wedderburn sat
very quietly; as though indeed he was not listening. Sir Perseus,
however, preferred passing the time in reading rather than in further
conversation; with a fervent, silent wish for Jerome Caryl, he droned
on:
_His wife too felt little grief
Or else she quickly found relief—
For her youngest newly dead
A merry life she led
And did her consolation take
In loving of a Hell-cat rake
A man with all the vices rife
A lover fit for the Master’s wife—_
“A moment, sir.”
Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward in a manner, that, although still quiet,
stopped Sir Perseus instantly.
“Where do you get your information, sir?” he asked.
Sir Perseus put down the pamphlet.
“Why, from common talk,” he said.
“Common talk!” cried the other in a strange voice, “so these things are
common talk! And this last of your gutter lies, is that common, too?”
“So common, sir, that you should know it,” answered Sir Perseus,
firing. “’Tis public property, God knows.”
Mr. Wedderburn’s intense eyes never lost their steadiness; he spoke in
the same suppressed voice:
“I have never heard anything against the fair name of Lady Dalrymple,”
he said.
Sir Perseus, angered and bewildered, gave a short laugh.
“You’ve lived too long in France, sir, or you would know that Sir John
Dalrymple’s wife is no better than the rest of his family—and that Tom
Wharton—”
Mr. Wedderburn rose so abruptly that Sir Perseus sprang also to his
feet, like a man suddenly seeing danger.
“What of Mr. Wharton?” demanded Mr. Wedderburn softly.
“What are these demands?” cried Sir Perseus hotly. “Why are you
championing the Whigs?”
“No matter for that,” interrupted the other. “I ask you—what of Mr.
Wharton?”
Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders.
“Sir, you want it put too plainly—what of my Lady Sunderland and Mr.
Sidney belike, you’ve heard that tale—even in France? And the part the
Earl takes—a common situation among these canting Whigs.”
Mr. Wedderburn came a step nearer.
“Do you couple that woman’s name with that of Lady Dalrymple,” he said
unsteadily. “Even in your foul libels?”
Sir Perseus flushed angrily.
“What brief have you in this cause? Lady Dalrymple cannot shrink from
the Countess’s company. As I said, the situation is the same—Tom
Wharton is as worthless a rake as Harry Sidney—and as fortunate a
lover,—while Sir John is as complacent a husband as the Earl—”
Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward and struck the speaker on the breast with
his clenched hand so fiercely that he staggered and almost fell, struck
him with such fury and unrestrained passion that he gave a cry,
thinking a madman attacked him, struck him with his hand and then with
his crumpled glove full on his wincing face.
“You bring your lies to the wrong market, you Papist cur!” he said
hoarsely. “I am John Dalrymple and I stand here to refute your cursed
slanders!”
He flung aside his gloves and cloak and his sword sprang out in the
candle-light.
“My God!” whispered Sir Perseus, reeling against the wall with a sick
face.
The Master of Stair came toward him; his bared sword glittering as it
shook to the quick breathing of his fury.
“You!” he said with mad eyes, dark and narrow. “You—the Frenchman’s
spy—the priest’s tool—the mouthpiece of the scandals of the gutter—you,
to drag my name through the mire to make a party cry!”
Sir Perseus drew himself together desperately.
“John Dalrymple!” he cried. “You have betrayed yourself too soon—by God
you have!”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, advancing on him. “Think you I need to
use craft—to get those papers from you?”
“Not while I live,” answered Sir Perseus firmly, and he made a step
toward the door.
But the Master of Stair stood before it.
“Will you cry for help?” he demanded. “It will make no difference. The
poor knaves here cannot aid you—”
Sir Perseus stepped impulsively back and drew.
“I think you threw—spy at me,” he said through his teeth. “What word
then for you—you thief of men’s confidence?”
On this last word their swords rose and clashed.
“Did you think,” breathed Sir John passionately, above the sword play,
“that we had not men that would do for England what you do for
France—did you not reckon that we might risk and dare something to keep
what we had now—as well as you to regain what you had lost—did you
think we were fools or cowards? You and your crew of broken
schemers—you and your damned French king—ah!” He was rapidly forcing
his adversary back against the wall. Sir Perseus’s hurried defense
could not cope with the fury of his attack; he was the stronger man,
the better swordsman; Sir Perseus backed desperately into the
window-seat.
“Fools we’ve been—fools,” he muttered, white-lipped.
“Yes, fools,” flashed the Master of Stair. “To think you could fit the
Pope’s yoke about England’s neck again or give us back a King of
follies we flung to make Europe sport—so—”
Their swords crossed close to the hilt; Sir Perseus slipped and fell to
his knees in the shadows of the window.
“Sir—on your knees—” said Sir John. “Take back your lies—”
Sir Perseus, desperate, tried to catch at the descending sword, tried
to rise, to cry out, but Sir John’s thrust went through his feeble
guard and his blade quivered at his throat.
“Which King?” cried the Master of Stair. “Which cause? And what think
you now of Lady Dalrymple’s champion?”
With that Sir Perseus struggled up, slipped forward and the point of
the Master’s sword went a hand’s-breadth into his breast.
He went heavily onto his side and Sir John stepped back, elate and
passionate; slipping his sword back with a lift of his shoulders.
“Do you see me, Jacobite?” he said scornfully. “Do you see this?”
He snatched up the pamphlets, three or four at a time, and thrust them
into the candle flame. As they flared up in his hand he flung them on
the hearth and set his heel on the ashes; he turned, looked at the
prone man.
“Do you see?” he repeated. “Do you see, dog, what I make of your work?”
Sir Perseus made a faint movement.
The Master of Stair flung the last papers onto the fire, then crossed
to his prostrate enemy.
“I might have kept you for Tyburn—where your friends will go,” he said,
looking down at him with the candle in his hand. “The friends whose
names you have in that paper—”
He dropped to one knee and turned Sir Perseus over; at this the
Jacobite moaned and clutched his fingers together.
Sir John smiled as he drew the leathern case from the blood-stained
shirt.
“I have your plot in the hollow of my hand,” said the Master of Stair,
and flashed the candle into the ashy face of Sir Perseus, who stared up
speechlessly.
“You!” he said, still at the white heat of his fury, “you would sell us
to the French! You would utter foul lies of me and mine! My God,
Jacobite, I would you might live to be hanged!”
He crossed to the table and opened the case; it contained the three
papers untouched; with flashing eyes he examined them; then called over
his shoulder to the shadowy window-seat.
“Do you see me, Jacobite dog?”
From the shadow came a faint voice, a little cry.
“Delia!”
Sir John stood arrested.
“Delia,” whispered the dying man again.
Sir John stared in his direction; his high flush faded, he started a
little.
“Of course—her brother,” he murmured. For a moment he stood still,
gazing at the dark outline now still upon the floor.
“I love you utterly,” the words came again as distinctly in his ear as
if she breathed them, “one creed—one King—one cause—”
He roused himself with a reckless laugh; caught up the papers, his hat
and gloves and flinging open the window, stepped out into the street.