THE RESOLUTION OF DESPAIR
Delia Featherstonehaugh sat in her miserable little lodgings in
Southwark and looked across the gaunt room at Jerome Caryl. He had told
her how the cold clemency of the King had thwarted all the schemes of
the Master of Stair, how all evidence against them was destroyed.
Delia listened with no look of joy or relief; she gave a bitter laugh.
“So it has all been for nothing—nothing,” she said. “Why could not he
have been merciful rather than the Prince—why could not _he_ have done
the fine things?”
“It is not in his nature,” answered Jerome Caryl.
“No,” shuddered Delia; the thought of how he must have gone straight
from the shameful bargain he had made with her to break it, of how he
must have laughed at her simplicity; had he had his way he would have
had her and all of them at Tyburn; the thought was as blasphemy, but it
was true.
“What will you do?” she asked with the listlessness of misery.
Jerome Caryl smiled faintly; he was as a man whose heart has left his
work, there seemed no longer any zest for him in what till now had been
his life-work.
“I must go and put Berwick’s mind at rest,” he said, “and the
others—they will be with him, I suppose. As for the plot—”
Delia interrupted him “For me the plot is dead—I care nothing what man
reigns. What are Kings and countries when your own heart is touched?
Has not all we have done turned to nothing! Did not Perseus die for
nothing? My God, I have done with plots.”
Jerome Caryl made no answer; he thought of his own tangled cause, of
the King he fought for, of the shouting, lying, pushing, intriguing mob
that followed him, of the weapons they stooped to, and he thought of
William of Orange in his little room at Kensington, ruling half Europe
and disdaining even to notice their designs against him and it seemed
to him he had been striving to oppose a rock with a straw.
Delia came suddenly across to him.
“I cannot talk to-night,” she said hoarsely, “will you come again
to-morrow, Jerome?”
He looked at her in a pitying, troubled manner.
“You are wondering what is to become of me?” she asked, meeting his
glance. “Well, to-morrow will be soon enough: come again to-morrow.”
She sat down and turned her face away as if she dismissed him; Jerome
Caryl rose heavily.
“Do you want money?” asked Delia in a weary voice. “There is plenty—you
know Perseus had the last sent over by the King. I have it here.”
“It is all too little for your own needs,” he answered. “Keep it,
Delia.”
Her head had sunk back against the plaster wall.
“To-morrow, then,” she said, and seemed as if she wished to say no
more; but when he had his hand on the latch he was startled by her: she
rose, her apathy changed into sudden passion.
“Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” she cried, hurrying to him. “Thank God for such
as you. Thank God for truth and honor and faithfulness. Give me your
hand and look at me and say—God bless you, Delia!” She swayed toward
him with a little sob and caught his arm; he was greatly moved.
“While I live, sweet soul,” he answered, “I would not have you fear
anything. God bless you truly, dear, God bless you, Delia—”
She bent her head and kissed his hand, then lifted her eyes to his with
a strange took. “Farewell, Jerome,” she said in a broken voice, and
fell back against the wall; the contrast of her pitiful pale youth and
the sordid surroundings touched Jerome Caryl deeply.
“You must leave this place,” he said.
She stopped him with that word again. “To-morrow.”
And so, leaning against the wall, she stood till he had gone, then
turned about, murmuring to herself.
“An honorable gentleman—why could not I have loved an honorable
gentleman?”
She paced to and fro with unheeding steps.
“False and false—liar and dishonored—yet—” Her tears rose beyond
control; she fell to her knees and wept with hidden face, bitterly and
silently.
The fire dropped to a heap of gray ashes; the light had faded when at
length Delia rose, and moving to the window, set it wider open.
The sun was sinking behind the housetops; heavy snow-laden clouds lay
to the right and left of it and the whole west was golden. A cold wind
touched her tear-stained face and ruffled her tumbled hair; the sun’s
reflection burnt like flame in the window-pane and cast a dazzle along
the thin frosting of snow on the ledges opposite.
It was silent as night; she was too high to view the street; but a sign
hanging from one of the houses opposite, she caught sight of, the image
of a peacock in full splendor and the sun glittered on that in vivid
blue and green.
Then gradually the sky faded into a soft violet and the great clouds
closed over the sun.
Delia left the window and taking her cloak from the wall, put it on
with steady hands; then she dragged a small box from the corner into
the light and opened it.
From the many little articles it contained, she selected a plain ring
that had belonged to Perseus, a leathern purse of money and a gilt
button that had once belonged to her father’s uniform.
These things she placed carefully within her pocket, then taking pen
and paper from the box, she sat down and wrote across it:
Even had there been no other motive to take me away, I could never
have stayed to be a burden on your charity. I set out to do the one
thing that maketh life worth the holding. Do not regret or pity me
and God keep ye always for the comfort ye have been to me.
She folded this and addressed it to Jerome Caryl, her eyes lifted to
the fast-darkening sky; her lips were resolutely set. With a steady
step she turned from the room and down the narrow stairs.
Calling the woman of the house, she gave her money and the letter for
Caryl.
“He will come to-morrow,” she said. “Do not fail to remember to give
him that.”
The woman began to whimper.
“Woe is me for the Good cause!” she cried dismally. “Will there be a
to-morrow for any of us?”
“Ye are all safe,” answered Delia steadily, “I do not fly for
fear—farewell.”
She turned abruptly into the quiet street and turned toward the country.