AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL
Viscount Stair listened with an amused smile to the heavy footsteps
pacing about overhead; he drew himself closer over the fire and
surveyed his lean fingers with eyes twinkling unpleasantly. His son was
evidently in an ill-humor; his restlessness had followed on a message
from my Lord Breadalbane; something was amiss in Scotland.
So the Viscount concluded; he made no attempt to discover what had
occurred, but waited patiently, hugging his amusement, confident that
his son would not leave him long out of his councils. And even sooner
than he had expected the door was flung open and Sir John entered,
stormy and frowning.
“Ill news from Scotland?” asked the Viscount indifferently.
His son gave him a look.
“The Macdonalds _have_ taken the oaths,” he answered briefly.
“Ah—more prudence among these savages than one might have expected,”
remarked the Viscount.
“Their prudence will not avail!” cried Sir John.
“They did not come in till the sixth of January.”
“How ill-considered!” said the Viscount.
Sir John sat down heavily.
“Breadalbane has sent me the whole tale,” he said. “It seems Makian
took fright when he saw the others going in and set out for Fort
William to take the oaths—of course (as the old fool fortunately did
not know) the oaths must be administered to a magistrate, Hill, I said
Hill was untrustworthy—Hill gave him a letter to the sheriff of
Argyllshire. Makian started for Inverary, but did not reach it till the
sixth—God knows why.”
“Probably through making himself drunk at every hut he passed,”
remarked the Viscount.
“He pleaded the excuse of heavy snow-storms,” said Sir John, “and the
sheriff was actually moved by his whinings to administer the oath.”
“It will make the Macdonalds feel secure,” remarked his father. “I
think that is fortunate.”
“But the sheriff has sent a letter to the council at Edinburgh with an
account of the whole transaction.”
“Need it ever reach them?” asked the Viscount. “I think if it is
privately submitted to me I can cancel it—what is an oath of surrender
taken on the sixth? Nothing.”
Sir John rose.
“It shall make no difference,” he said gloomily. “I will make an
example of them, whether they took the oath or no—but this must be kept
from the King.”
“Which reminds me,” interrupted the Viscount easily, “what of those
Jacobite papers you were to put before His Majesty? It is a good many
days since you announced them as in your hands.”
Sir John’s blue eyes lifted steadily. “I am waiting for the
conspirators to embroil themselves further,” he said thoughtfully.
The Viscount shrugged his shoulders.
“You are giving them a chance to leave the kingdom.”
“You mistake, my lord—I am having them watched and Hunt’s cottage no
longer stands their refuge.” He rose and abruptly left the room.
Hardly had he gone before an inner door was opened and Lady Dalrymple
entered.
The Viscount gave her a sharp look.
“One might be tempted to think that you played the spy, madam,” he said
dryly.
“I?” she went white, but glanced at him scornfully. “Can _I_ spy in my
husband’s house?”
“I grant, madam, that your means may not equal your will,” he answered,
“yet John is reckless—careless—”
Lady Dalrymple’s great soft eyes widened. “Wherefore should I spy upon
my husband’s affairs?” she said coldly. “I am no politician.”
“You are a woman,” smiled the Viscount. “I think you have some
curiosity.”
“Believe me—none in these affairs of blood—”
He turned on her with a soft quickness. “How do you know that they are
‘affairs of blood’?” he asked.
She stood silent with a frightened face.
“Take care,” said the Viscount, rising. “If John is imprudent, he is
also violent—the matters that he deals in will bear no meddling of
yours.”
She shrank away from him.
“Why do you so goad me, my lord?” she said in a trembling defiance. “I
came here to avoid my husband, since he declared the sight of me irks
him—and then you turn on me—what are you trying to drive me to between
you?”
“Merely prudence,” answered the Viscount. “A little prudence and
discretion.” And he left the room with an indescribable air of cold
avoidance.
Lady Dalrymple looked after him with fear and loathing, then sank down
into the chair by the fire and gazed listlessly before her, her hands
clasped on her knees; her full pink gown, her undressed pale hair under
the white lace knotted at her chin, the muslin fichu across her bosom
and the glittering gold and purple flowers on her white satin
overskirt, made her a figure of brilliant fairness in the somber
gorgeous room.
The diamonds in her ears winked in the firelight and the paste buckles
of her red silk shoes shone beneath her skirt; round her neck hung a
broad mauve ribbon, the end of which was tucked into the gold lace of
her bodice.
She sat so, very still, with the firelight glowing on her soft face,
till she was disturbed by the great doors being opened; she turned in
her seat with a little shrinking movement.
The servant was ushering in a lady, who hesitated on the threshold and
said something in a low voice to the man who answered with a bow and a
stately request for her to be seated.
Upon that the lady entered, and the servant left, closing the door.
Lady Dalrymple looked at the unexpected visitor timidly and rose with
an instinctive courtliness. The lady had paused in the center of the
room; the snow lay over her dark habit and in the full curls of her
hair.
“I pray you do not let me trouble you,” she said in a manner,
unnaturally quiet and composed. “My business, madam, is with Sir John
Dalrymple—I have been asked to await him here.”
“Will you not sit down,” said Lady Dalrymple gently. “I do not know
your name, but you are very welcome.”
She moved her seat from the fire and in a winning way indicated a chair
opposite; but the coldness of the other’s face and voice did not relax.
“My name is Delia Featherstonehaugh,” she said. “And I am neither cold
nor tired—only impatient, madam, to get my errand done.”
Lady Dalrymple shrank under the rebuff; her soft eyes took in the
stranger; she noted the set face, the proud, contained mouth, the
defiantly upheld head, the girl’s whole carriage as if disdaining
everything about her.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked timidly.
Delia’s brown eyes swept over her.
“No,” she answered coldly, then with sudden force. “Yes—in terrible
trouble—but in want, madam, of neither pity nor comfort.”
“Alas!” said Lady Dalrymple. “I would not so repulse either were they
offered me—and do not you be hard to me—for I would help you an’ I
could.”
“Madam, you cannot—in myself alone lies help—and you—do you lack pity
or sympathy?” The tone was coldly contemptuous, but Lady Dalrymple
answered gently.
“I did not say so, madam—I say I would not refuse them.”
“Madam—” said Delia. “Who are you?”
“I am Lady Dalrymple,” was the quiet answer, “and at your service.”
Delia drew herself together and held her head still higher.
“I want not your help,” she said coldly. “Why was I brought here—I did
not come to see you.”
“My husband,” said Lady Dalrymple gently, “is full of affairs—you must
pardon him if he keeps you waiting.”
Delia caught at the chair by which she stood.
“Your husband,” she repeated under her breath; and at sight of her wild
white face the other advanced a step.
“Madam—did you speak?”
Delia clenched her hands and turned her head with a quick look of
loathing.
“I said naught,” she answered.
Lady Dalrymple considered her; she was interested, sure that beneath
her proud containment this girl was in deep distress, and she pitied
her.
“Come you on matters of politics?” she asked.
Standing very erect and cold, Delia answered:
“Yes.”
“For Scottish affairs?” said Lady Dalrymple.
“Yes,” said Delia with wild eyes. “Yes.”
Lady Dalrymple again studied her a moment.
“Alas! A matter of life—or death?” she said.
“Yes,” answered Delia hoarsely.
“Poor soul!” cried Lady Dalrymple. “Indeed, you must tell it me—”
At the sympathy in her voice and face Delia turned in an agony that
almost broke beyond control.
“You must not ask me,” she panted. “I pray you that you do not question
me.”
“But I might serve you,” said Lady Dalrymple. The fair face framed in
the lace scarce was grieved, tender, a little wondering.
“Doubtless,” answered Delia, forcing back her unnatural calm, “Sir
John’s wife would have great influence with her lord—yet will I even do
without her favor.”
And she smiled very bitterly.
A fine flush crept over Lady Dalrymple’s face: “You are hard,” she said.
“Maybe,” replied Delia. “I am different of late—perhaps I am hard, I do
not know.”
She caught the other woman’s eyes on her and flushed, then broke
desperately and swiftly into speech.
“I have come to discover if the Macdonalds of Glencoe have taken the
oaths to the government.”
“Ah,” said Lady Dalrymple. “You have friends among them? These
Macdonalds—who are they?”
Delia bent her head.
“I wish to know if they are safe or no from the vengeance of—the
government.”
Lady Dalrymple sank into her chair again, a flutter of ribbons and
lace, her blue eyes held a curious look. “If they have testified
allegiance, they are beyond the law,” she said. “So I have heard; I
know little of it.”
“’Tis, madam, what I which to discover: the Secretary for Scotland must
know.”
Lady Dalrymple lifted her lovely hand and dropped it again.
“He knows,” she said.
“Well,” cried Delia, “I want to save those people. If they, despite all
warnings, have remained obdurate, there will be a horried vengeance
taken, you know, belike?”
“I know,” said Lady Dalrymple.
“But if they have taken the oaths—and it is blown abroad enough—no one,
for shame, could touch them.”
“Do you think Sir John will answer you?”
“I will essay it,” answered Delia.
A little silence fell; an unusual look of resolution came into Lady
Dalrymple’s gentle face as she gazed into the fire; Delia, standing
with her hands clasped on the chair-back gazed upon her fairness with
sick aversion that mounted to her brain and set her mouth into lines of
cruelty. At last, with a shiver of satin, Lady Dalrymple moved and
looked at the other.
“The Macdonalds _have_ taken the oaths,” she said quietly, “but it will
be suppressed. That is Viscount Stair’s work—and the Earl of
Breadalbane’s.”
“I thought so!” cried Delia fiercely. “The Viscount’s work, you say! I
think Sir John has had a hand in it.”
“I will not discuss my husband’s politics,” interrupted Lady Dalrymple.
“I tell you this because I would prevent an injustice and a crime. It
is true, and the Macdonalds are doomed, if you can save them—do so—”
“If I can save them!” flashed Delia, “I tell you this shall be over all
England to-morrow!”
Lady Dalrymple rose and came toward her.
“So you can save your friends,” she said gently.
“Will you not thank me a little?”
Delia stared at her.
“Why should I thank you?” she demanded.
“For what Sir John would not have told you,” was the answer. “This news
should mean much to you.”
“I do thank you, madam,” said Delia coldly, drawing back.
Lady Dalrymple came nearer, leaned forward over the table.
“Ah, sit down,” she said, sweetly and sadly. “I have few to talk to—”
“Wherefore, madam?” demanded Delia.
“Because—because it is my will, I mean, they are all employed here—”
She put her hands in a troubled manner to her heart and her restless
fingers pulled the mauve ribbon; a closed gold miniature case fell
lightly onto the table.
Lady Dalrymple took it up in silence and looked at it with the air of
some one who holds something very precious, and who, wishful to display
it, yet dreads a scornful reception. She fingered the case a moment in
silence and took a timid glance at Delia, who gazed blankly with a
troubled face.
Lady Dalrymple encouraged by her look, snapped open the case and held
it out hesitating, pleading, making a great effort to be calm.
“My children,” she said.
Delia gave one glance, then motioned it away with a gesture of horror.
“How like,” she said fearfully.
“How like whom?” asked Lady Dalrymple startled. “They are beautiful
faces—are they not? Why do you turn away? I crave people to gaze on
them—”
“They are like—Sir John,” faltered Delia with quivering lips. “It
startled me—”
“Why—you have seen him?”
“Yes.”
Lady Dalrymple frowned. “I do not think they are so like,” she said,
and shutting the case, put it back into her bosom.
Delia uttered a hard laugh.
“’Tis the same face,” she said cruelly.
The other laughed at her.
“We are well hated,” she said in a changed tone. “I think he has a name
well loathed—but remember, whatever he had planned against the
Macdonalds, statecraft well requires it—and I have given you the power
to save them.”
Delia made no answer; Lady Dalrymple stood by the table, making no
further attempt to speak; the silence was broken by the quiet entry of
a servant.
“Sir John will see you now, madam,” he said, and to Lady Dalrymple he
gave a letter.
“Sent by Mr. Wharton’s lackey, my lady.”
She took it absently; her eyes turned wistfully to Delia, but she, with
the slightest cold inclination of her head, left the room without a
word.
Lady Dalrymple, chilled and repulsed, even more lonely than before this
stranger’s coming, sat down again by the fire and the tears welled up
into her large eyes.
Yet she was glad that she had spoken about the Macdonalds; something
she knew and something she guessed of the plans being laid for their
destruction, and it had troubled her; now this girl could see to it
that they were saved.
But she might have to pay the price; she remembered the Viscount’s last
words, “John is reckless and violent,” still she was glad of what she
had done.
Her glance fell to Mr. Wharton’s letter; she broke the seal and opened
it; spread it out in the fading light of the winter afternoon and read:
January 10, 1692.
MY LADY,
I have been away, or I had sooner answered your letter, which
giveth me surprise as well as pain. You ask me to no longer attend
you at your house, as Sir John speaketh of me with increased
dislike and cannot bear even the mention of my name. I cannot
understand that you should pay any attention to a silly prejudice
unworthy of a man of sense. Sir John is at full liberty to tell me
himself what he mislikes in my conduct, which never (as you can
bear me witness) has been in any way offensive to him or wanting in
the respect that I, in common with every Whig, have for his
abilities. If any fancied affront irks him, he knows how to obtain
satisfaction, and I trust that he will either take this course or
meet me with the courtesy that I shall always be ready to offer him
and that you will not suffer his whim to interrupt a friendship
that I have the vanity to believe is not displeasing to you, and is
the greatest of honors to your ladyship’s humble servant,
THOMAS WHARTON.
Lady Dalrymple folded the letter away slowly; she was not clever at
reading between the lines, and fine phrasing a little confused her; but
she caught the spirit of the writer; she saw that it only needed a word
from her for Tom Wharton to challenge her husband on the first excuse
that came. It was a curious thought; Tom Wharton had fought no duel in
which he had not killed or (through good nature) disarmed his man; his
perfect swordsmanship was a charm that kept men civil to him through
all the offenses of his lax and lazy life, since a duel with him was
death or the disgrace of mercy given; she knew her husband’s temper too
well to think he would accept the last.
She sat thinking quietly; she liked Tom Wharton; he was good-natured,
pleasant-mannered, open-hearted, open-handed, he treated her with a
flattering deference; though they had never exchanged confidences, she
felt he understood a little of her position; Harry had liked him.
She read his letter through again; her heart swelled at the thought
that she was forbidden the only pleasant company of which she knew; she
struggled for a moment with rebellion and wild thoughts of swords
behind Montague House, of freedom and release—then she sat down to the
Viscount’s desk and wrote to Tom Wharton a gentle letter in which she
desired to be left to obey Sir John’s wishes, however unreasonable they
might seem.
She sealed it slowly and with a sigh.