The Master of Stair/Book 1/Chapter 23

S Jerome Caryl turned up the stairs of the Duke of Berwick's lodging, he was greeted by a hubbub of noise, above which rose the prolonged giggle of a man and the interchange of women's voices.

Jerome opened the door without ceremony and stepped in.

The center of the room was occupied by a long table, surrounded by a varied company, who laughed, talked, and sang with little regard for each other; at the head of the table sprawled a very tall young man in a soiled blue satin suit and torn cravat; his wig hung on the knob of his chair, his fair hair fell untidily over his blond face; his was the good-humored, high-pitched giggle that rose above all other sounds.

The rest of the company was mostly ill-clad and ill-looking, though a certain careless good nature redeemed most of the faces; of the two women present one was a dark-skinned girl with an arched nose and a quantity of heavy black hair, the other a slim and elegant lady, who sat a little apart from the others; her companion, a gentleman, better attired than the others and who showed signs of great agitation, glancing round, wringing his hands and dabbing his face with his handkerchief. At Jerome Caryl's entry he gave a great start and something like a suppressed shriek, an action that brought on him a glance of contempt from the lady.

"La!" cried the tall young man as he caught sight of the new-comer. "We wasn't expecting you, Caryl—we thought you was on a visit to little Hooknose."

"I am free, sir," answered Caryl, advancing into the company, "I thought your grace had left England," he added briefly.

"Sink me, if I can," smiled Berwick, good-humoredly. "Hunt's cottage ain't in working; who is going to take me across the Channel? Therefore here we are—eating, drinking, making merry—for to-morrow we die." And he giggled again.

Jerome Caryl's melancholy eyes traveled with a faint disgust round the company; he dropped into the vacant seat beside Berwick and briefly narrated what had occurred at Kensington.

The gathering listened eagerly, for there had been anxiety under this daredevil show.

As Caryl ceased there was silence for the space of a second, then the Duke of Berwick burst into a great laugh.

"I never thought my little cousin was just a fool!" he cried. "La! to think of it—Oh, la!" His merriment was echoed round the table; relief and the sense of safety lent a greater zest to the enjoyment; above the babble rose the scream of a woman's voice.

"A toast, gentlemen! A toast!"

The dark girl climbed onto the table with the aid of her companion and stood there among the glasses, her own in her hand.

"Here's to the squeezing of the rotten Orange!" she cried, "and may we be all there to see it done."

Vast applause greeted her from all save the lady and her companion, who withdrew still further into the background; and Jerome Caryl, who sat silent.

"Oh, dear, oh, la!" giggled Berwick. "Ain't it amusing? Celia, my dear, give us another toast!"

Celia Hunt leaped lightly from the table.

"Your turn, your Highness," she cried.

Berwick rose and made her a swaggering bow.

"May every Jack in gaol break free as cleverly as you did," he said, then slipped back into his chair as the toast was drunk amid yells of merriment.

Jerome Caryl laid his hand on the Duke's arm. "Sir," he said coldly in a low tone, "you are aware that our enterprise is done—damned? These papers on which we staked everything are gone—we shall not rouse France without them."

Berwick winked.

"We'll manage without France," he said and smiled round the table.

"Your grace knows that is impossible—and we are watched—Sir John Dalrymple knows much—it will be impossible to mature fresh schemes—to obtain those signatures again."

"La! we don't want 'em," cried Berwick. "We have a scheme of our own—suggested by Mr. Porter—" he nodded toward one of the company, "it don't want any help of the Frenchies or the Whigs—la! it's mighty clever!"

"Well, my lord," said Mr. Porter from the other end of the table, "it is quick—and effectual."

And he laughed across at Celia Hunt.

"I do not understand," said Jerome Caryl.

"There now!" giggled Berwick. "Caryl don't understand—sink me if I did at first when they started with their hints—certainly, I didn't!"

He made a lazy gesture over his shoulder. "Come here, my lady and help us explain."

The lady came forward to the table; as the light fell over her face Jerome Caryl gave a little start; he recognized her as the Countess of Breadalbane.

She appeared composed, but there was no color in her face; she addressed Berwick, utterly ignoring the rest.

"Ye ken vera weel, sir," she said in a rapid whisper, "that I and my cousin are here for the ane purpose of getting back from ye the dutiful letters my lord and my cousin indited to be sent to King James—which—seeing the plot is ruined—are better, ye ken, in the fire."

"I don't know where they are," smiled Berwick vacantly. "I enclosed 'em in my letter to my father—la! I don't know!"

Lady Breadalbane looked as if she could have shaken him with pleasure; the even voice of Jerome Caryl broke in:

"I have already told his grace that his grace's letters to France were burnt with the rest at Kensington by the Prince."

The Countess's green eyes flashed to the speaker's face; she gave him a long look and flushed.

Berwick's foolish laugh rose in the pause. "That ain't all you came for, my lady," he said. "You know Breadalbane has promised his aid—"

"Ah, hush," she said with a look at Caryl. "Ye ken that Jock is in the Hielands and that is why I came to regain the paper—which—since it is burnt—we will be taking our leave."

Berwick stared.

"La, now, ain't you cautious!" he cried, with his pale blue eyes wide open. "You ain't afraid of Caryl! Sink me if it don't look like it—why Jerome Caryl is to be trusted like your own right hand."

"I hav'na' a doot of it," she answered quickly. "But there is na occasion for ony more than need to be kenning the part my lord takes in this—"

At this a murmur arose from those who had been hushed to catch her words; Porter demanded why Breadalbane should always be shielded when better men came to the fore; and Celia Hunt muttered an audible sneer about Scottish caution.

The Countess Peggy looked round the company defiantly; her eyes fell mistrustfully to the unmoved face of Jerome Caryl; an unpleasant pause was broken by the Earl of Argyll, coming forward.

"I'm awa'," he said, lapsing in his agitation into a broad accent. "I'm no' meddling any further—I came for a paper—the whilk is burnt and I'm ganging—I willna' listen to yer treasonable practices—no, but I wish ye success," he added hastily, "but I'm ganging."

His cousin turned on him.

"Then gang, cousin Archibald," she said angrily. "Take your puir white face awa'—I willna' come with ye—I'm staying."

This redeemed her with the company who murmured approval, under cover of which Argyll slipped out.

"Supposing he goes straight to my cousin at Kensington?" asked Berwick, looking after the Earl.

"He willna'," answered the. Countess hastily, "he has gone too deep—he willna' dare to open up what will be exposing himself."

"No, but I wish ye success," mocked Berwick. "But I'm ganging!"

They all laughed.

"Even if he did want to inform—there won't be time," cried Porter. "To-day is Thursday and on Saturday—"

"We shall be meeting on Turnham Green!" shouted another.

"To drink the health of the King over the water!"

"God save His Majesty!"

"Down with little Hooknose!"

"Saturday—and don't be afraid of breaking the glass windows, Mr. Porter!"

"Nor of frightening the horses!" shrieked Celia Hunt. Through this hubbub rose Berwick's voice:

"Oh, la! Oh, dear! Ain't it amusing!"

Porter scrambled to his feet and thumping the table with a bottle till silence was obtained, commenced to sing in a powerful deep voice:

They caught up the chorus in various keys.

Berwick rose, excited by the swinging tune, his tall shadow was flung wavering up the wall and over the ceiling; his under-jawed hair face with the heavy-lidded eyes was an almost exact likeness of King James in his youth; Porter looked at him and sung:

Wildly the chorus rose:

Jerome Caryl glanced at Lady Breadalbane; she was the only one silent save himself; she sat still with downcast eyes, but he fancied that she was in great anxiety.

Again the stalwart voice of Porter rose:

Porter sat down amid ringing applause from all save Caryl, who remarked dryly:

"Surely it should not have been in the past tense, your grace, since these wonders remain yet to be performed."

Berwick slipped back into his chair.

"La, ain't you glum, Caryl! Wait till Saturday—"

The word was echoed round the table:

"Saturday! Let us drink to Saturday!"

Berwick filled his glass with no very steady hand.

"You drink," he said to Caryl, "to the sticking of the rotten Orange—to Saturday, Turnham Green—"

Jerome Caryl looked round the flushed, excited faces; there was not one there completely master of his wits, not one cool head among them; the only one who sat collected and quiet was Lady Breadalbane.

"You have not explained yourself, sir," said Jerome in a cold disgust. "I know nothing of these plans formed behind my back. I only know that the plot I had in hand has fallen through—and that every man engaged in it is better beyond seas."

Berwick laughed.

"This is none of your labored schemes for landing the French, Caryl—it is a neat little affair between me—these gentlemen and Breadalbane."

The Countess glanced up at her husband's name and looked quickly at Caryl as he answered:

"You still speak in riddles, your grace."

"La! ain't you tiresome? Don't you remember the Grandval affair?"

"My God! Is this such another?"

"No—it ain't so clumsy—Grandval was a damned crazy foreigner who bungled the job—"

"But your intentions, your grace, are the same."

"I tell you—we ain't going to bungle!"

"No firing—the cold steel!" cried Porter.

Jerome Caryl rose from his seat beside Berwick and looked down the table; the light was strong on his grave face and the Countess Peggy never took her gaze from him.

"So—you plan to murder the Prince of Orange?" said Jerome calmly.

There was an annoyed silence; a half-sullen uneasiness seemed to pervade the company, then Berwick said, in an unwilling manner: "It ain't murder—we're just going to take him off—when he changes coaches at the river—as he always does on Saturday when he goes hunting—"

"Twenty men to one," answered Jerome. "It is murder."

Berwick flushed to the roots of his hair. "You use ugly words, Caryl."

"Yet I state your meaning, sir."

"I said nothing of—murder."

"You spoke of making away with the Prince."

"A lucky thrust—a lucky shot."

"Such as might happen any day," finished Porter.

"In war," said Caryl.

"Isn't it always war—till the King returns?"

"You plan murder."

"By God, Caryl, you go too far."

"Your grace goes farther,"

"In the service of the King—yes."

"Perhaps—honor is above the King."

"No cant, Mr. Caryl," shouted Porter.

"I will not commit murder."

"Who asked it? We want no help."

"But my silence is to condone it."

"You need know no more—if you arc afraid."

"I know too much already—by Heaven—too much."

"These words of yours spell—traitor!"

"I am not afraid of that imputation."

"Nor we of you—Mr. Caryl."

"I said only this—"

"What?—no shilly-shallying."

"I will not do this thing."

"You will not?"

"No—nor see it done."

"You cannot help it."

"Mr. Porter, I can endeavor to help it."

"That means—traitor!"

"Your insult is powerless."

"Mr. Caryl—you are a coward."

Here Berwick, who, like every one, had been listening intently to the sharp exchange of words, interposed "I don't think you quite understand, Caryl—la! It has been tried before, ain't it?"

Jerome Caryl turned to the Duke.

"I think you do not understand," he said calmly.

"You know, sir, that we all owe our lives to the clemency of this man whom you would assassinate?"

"Bah!" said Berwick fretfully.

Jerome continued steadily.

"He would not even know the names—he would not even lay on us the humiliation of a pardon. He could have sent us to the gallows by the lifting of his finger."

"Well, why didn't he do it?" demanded Berwick. "Because he was afraid, of course; because he didn't dare touch us."

A loud assent went up; Caryl stepped back a little from his place with a gleam in his eyes.

"This is not the way to win England for the Stuarts," he said.

"Traitor!" yelled Porter again, rising from his seat.

"It is you who soil your cause by these vile suggestions," flung back Jerome.

Berwick rose; his narrow face crimson; he made as if to speak; but Porter, in ungovernable fury, had seized one of the candlesticks and flung it past the Duke at Jerome; as it crashed to the ground, some one drew his sword and Celia Hunt climbed onto the table, shrieking.

"A pretty fellow you to talk!" she cried. "You who let the Master of Stair rob you under your nose—I knew him at sight for a spy—and so did you—you canting rogue!"

Jerome did not look at her, but, in the diversion she caused the whole company, glanced round the confusion for Lady Breadalbane; she had disappeared.

"Speak for yourself, Caryl," said Berwick, through the hubbub. "I ain't believing that you wouldn't fall in with us."

But ere Caryl could answer Porter, who had fought his way through the press, struck him full on the chest and Caryl staggering, the two men closed, struggled together, forcing each other toward the door; a yell rose from the room; Berwick gave a loud hysterical giggle; now Jerome Caryl had Porter by the collar, shaking him furiously; he flung him to the ground, instantly opened the door and darted through it.

There was a bolt on the outside and he slipped it; a confusion of noise rose from within; laughter seemingly at Porter's discomfiture; he heard Celia Hunt screaming and Berwick's falsetto rising higher and higher.

"Oh, la! ain't it amusing! Oh, dear, oh, la!"

Waiting for no more Jerome Caryl turned swiftly down the stairs while behind him rose a drunken shout: