# The Master of Stair/Book 1/Chapter 19
### CHAPTER XIX THE PACT

Delia heard the door closed behind her and lifted her eyes. It was a beautiful room, all carving and gilt with heavy hangings of stamped leather and embroidered satin; the chimney-piece was of massive white marble, carved with fauns and grapes, above it a vast mirror reached to the ceiling; resting against the chimneypiece stood the Master of Stair.
His back was to the door, but Delia could see his face in the mirror; he was looking down, nor did he turn or move at her entrance.
He was quietly dressed, yet there was ostentation about his person, that ostentation from which he was never entirely free; he wore many jewels; he was like his house, of a cold, splendid appearance, a showy somberness, the magnificence of gaiety with no heart behind it; and as his correct manner often had an underlying brutality in it, so his beauty owned a lurking coarseness that only the usual coldness of his demeanor concealed.
But now, as he looked down and she stared at his face in the mirror, she saw the expression of it; a heavy sullenness a fierce impatience barely under control.
He stood perfectly still, as if he did not know that she was there, or was indifferent to her presence, and she remained a foot inside the door, staring at him.
At last he lifted his eyes and the blue of them was painfully vivid in his flushed face; he looked at her image in the mirror and there their glance met.
Then he turned slowly.
"It is strange for you to come here," he said moodily. "I wonder, madam, what you can have to say to me?"
"Do you wonder, Sir John Dalrymple?" answered Delia with a white hard face. "I come to ask you if you have those papers."
He looked at her curiously.
"Have you those papers?" she repeated, holding herself very still. "We could not tell—there was ash on the floor—that night—of burnt paper—"
For all her terrible effort at calm, her voice failed her; Sir John spoke abruptly:
"I have all the information; all the papers relating to your plot against His Majesty," he said. "I thought you knew."
"I guessed," answered Delia slowly. "And you have not used your information yet?"
"Not yet."
"I have come to ask you to give those papers back to me," she said faintly.
The Master of Stair smiled.
"You are very confident, my fair Jacobite," he said disdainfully. "Those papers were not lightly got—"
She lifted her eyes with more steadiness.
"No," she said, "you paid deep enough for them, did you not, Sir John Dalrymple? You stopped at nothing."
"I do for my cause what you do for yours," he answered coldly. "And this time I win."
"Still I have come to ask you to give me back those papers."
"You are astonishingly simple," said the Master of Stair.
"So you have found me—have you not?" she answered wildly, "a very fool, Sir John Dalrymple, to follow once the very careless lifting of your finger, and fool enough now to think you have some honor—some feeling—some pity for what you have so wantonly destroyed. Those papers stand for the lives—the honor—of thousands, and you stole them."
She put her hand to her side and came a step forward.
"By all the lies you told me," she said, "give back to me what you stole."
"The papers?" he asked quietly.
"My brother—" said Delia, "is not in your power to restore—he is dead—"
"His was a dangerous trade," returned the Master of Stair gloomily. "I spared him the gallows."
Delia stared at him; the words she had been forming seemed forgotten on her lips.
"Why did you kill him?" she asked abruptly.
Sir John suddenly moved from the hearth.
"We talk at strange cross purposes," he said. "Your brother insulted me—I did not murder him," he shrugged his shoulders. "We all take our chances—I ran some risk to gain my end—and did more mischief than I need, maybe," he looked at her curiously. "I've earned your curse—have I not?"
He made a little reckless movement with his hand as if he accepted it and flung it off.
"I have no curse for you, nor reproaches," answered Delia in an intense voice. "I have not come to call you what I might. What is done is done—and I have lived through it. I have come to ask your mercy—because of what once you said—"
She stopped, he looked at her, saying nothing, with a great effort she went on:
"Undo a little of what you have done—give me back those papers—"
"It is impossible," he said. "Impossible, you may say what you will of me—"
"I have nothing to say," she answered unsteadily. "I have dangerous stuff in me—I know it now. I shall not use a woman's means if you push me too far—I have it in me to pull your fortunes about your feet if you should prove too merciless—"
He smiled imperiously.
"I think you, too, did some lying," he said. "You used strong words to one you talk now of ruining—and half I thought you did not mean—"
But Delia interrupted him. "You lie now," she said in a stifled voice. "You know I meant it, meant it so that it touched you even through your falsity."
"Believe I was not insincere—only reckless of the future," he answered in a lower voice. "I did not play with you—"
"I need no explanations," she cried passionately. "Have I not said that I have lived through it? Can I not also be reckless and thank you for the pleasant passing of an hour—can I not, too, forget?"
"I have not forgotten," said the Master of Stair. "Should I have seen you now if I had? I make no excuses. What I have done I have done, but I have not forgotten."
"No," answered Delia. "I do not think you can, and so I come to you to ask your mercy." She moved a step toward him, her head held back, her face composed and very pale in the shadow of her hat.
"Ye are changed," he said somberly.
"I think I died and have arisen again," said Delia. "I am so changed I do not know myself; if I had been not changed should I be here now? Will you give me those papers?"
"No," he said. "No. Though I would do something for you, Delia, still not that."
"Do you dare to use my name?" she cried.
"Did I not dare more than that?" he answered with a little smile. "Did I not dare to risk your lifetime hate to win you for that one hour—and you were won—though you curse me threefold."
"Why did you do it?" she asked.
"I do not know." He gazed upon her moodily. "It is the Dalrymple way to curse all they touch; yet I did not lie to you. What I said I meant—though now the moment is past."
He broke off staring at her. "Why did you come here?" he said after a moment.
"Have I not told you? To obtain those papers—have you read them?"
"No," he spoke abstractedly, his gaze as if his mind was upon her and not on what she said: "I have not broken the seals; they are for the King."
"You cannot do it," she cried. "Have you not conquered us? You know that your spies watch and track us day and night; you know that we are now powerless—disarmed—is it needful to have blood? Must you know these names?"
"I guess them now," he said. "I know the smooth-faced lords who eat our bread and betray us, and by Heaven, this time I will have them exposed!"
"Not lords alone," she answered, breathing hard, "but many folk throughout the kingdom have signed that paper—all my friends—they are helpless now—helpless. If you put that paper before the Prince you will bring to the block and the gallows thousands, yea, there are more in this than ye wot of—'twill be the bloody Assizes again. Your Prince cannot and will not overlook it; but 'tis in your power to be merciful to burn those papers unread and never know the names."
She stopped as though she had put her whole energy into her words and it had suddenly gone out like a sinking flame; she put her fingers to her lips and stared at him over them.
"It is a great chance for you," she said very faintly.
"A chance—?" repeated the Master of Stair.
"Of atonement," said Delia, and her wild brown eyes flashed such a glance of proud misery that he almost winced.
He was fingering with a lazy hand the wreaths that crowned the faun on the marble beside him; he dropped his glance and again there came over his face that curious expression of contained sullenness and defiance.
Delia waited in the center of the room; she could not look at him; her gaze traveled to the long windows and the cheerless prospect of bare trees without.
"Sir John Dalrymple," she said at last: "Will you do the merciful thing?"
He lifted his head; his face was flushed, his eyebrows drawn together.
"I will not be a perfect fool," he said haughtily. "All they who were in this plot shall pay for it as certainly—"
"As you shall pay for what you do, Sir John," she interrupted. "As their crimes of loyalty and courage in a losing cause shall be punished—so shall lying treachery and false-heartedness and hard cruelty be repaid—" she laughed suddenly. "You in the judgment seat—you!" she cried, with her hand to her side.
"Yes—I," he said imperiously. "When your Jacobites can mount it let them judge me—meanwhile—I think he who can hold the sword wields the sword—as I shall do."
She turned from him.
"I have no more to say," she said.
"Nor I," he answered.
With her hand still at her side she crossed to the door; there she stopped and turned to face him.
"I was wrong," she said steadily. "I have something more to say—there are those whom I can save without asking your mercy, the mercy that you have not, Sir John."
He looked at her over his shoulder.
"By to-night," continued Delia, "all London will know that you plan to massacre the Macdonalds of Glencoe."
The Master of Stair swung round.
"It shall also be known," said Delia, with a terrible composure, "that the Macdonalds took the oath and that you and your allies suppress the knowledge that you may not be cheated of your bloody scheme."
The Master of Stair flushed darkly and put his hands to his black velvet cravat as if he would have torn it in rage.
"Who told you that?" he exclaimed fiercely.
"Does it matter?" she answered. "I know, and all England shall know. And you will not dare to touch them—not even you."
"Who told you," he repeated thickly. "What spies have I about my affairs? Who told you?"
Delia laid her hand on the door.
"You can arrest us all," she said quietly. "You can go to the furthest limits of your law, use your foully-won triumph, but you cannot prevent this truth from circling London."
"Is this charity toward those savages or—revenge?" he demanded hotly. "Pity for them or hate of me?"
"Call it what you will," she answered quietly. "Nothing can stop me. Nay, you can arrest me now, but you cannot close my mouth, nor can you put me in any prison so close that this truth shall not escape—to the very footstool of your Prince, who for shame must hear me—"
"Now, if I knew who told you—" said the Master of Stair, "who played this trick on me." He clenched his hand tightly against the marble grapes.
Delia opened the door; it seemed as if she was to go without another word.
"Stop," cried the Master of Stair.
She paused, holding the door ajar, and looked back.
"Who is the dearer to you," asked Sir John, "your Jacobite friends or these Macdonalds?"
She stared in a slow horror.
"I give you your choice," pursued the Master of Stair. "The Macdonalds did not take the oath before the appointed time—yet they took it. If you and your friends will keep this knowledge secret—if you will neither warn the Highlanders nor rouse the Jacobites—then I will burn those papers I hold."
The door slipped from Delia's fingers; she moved back and lifted a colorless face. "What is the punishment you have for the Macdonalds?" she asked faintly, "what are you going to do with them?"
"Extirpate them," he answered, "the whole race of them. Now choose—your friends or them."
Delia put her hand to her forehead in a listless weary manner as if the life had died within her.
"So—you bargain, Sir John," she said. "And I—I have no choice between a duty and a sentiment—give me my friends."
"It is a high price," he answered with a sudden smile. "Those papers against your silence."
"Burn them—burn them," cried Delia. "Let me see them burnt."
He laughed.
"Why, I shall keep them," he answered, "and if you speak I shall send them to His Majesty—but while you are silent you are safe—you have my word for that."
"Your word!" she echoed, "your word!"
"It is as good as that of other men," he said, "at least you must take it—or if not—well—speak and the papers go to the King."
He turned on his heel abruptly as if suddenly weary of the situation and crossed the room to an inner door which he swept through without a backward look, and closed heavily behind him.
Delia came slowly from her place to where he had stood; slowly she drew her right glove off and with her bare hand timidly touched the marble chimneypiece; then her fingers fell to the spot where his had rested and she caressed the wreathed faun lightly. Her face was flushed and enthralled; fierce suppressed sobs rose in her throat; she stooped at last and set her lips to the cold marble, rested her cheek against it an instant, then drew herself erect, scarlet with shame.
She picked up her glove, her muff, and went from the room, slowly down the gloomy magnificent stairs and out into the cold waning afternoon. The Master of Stair, waiting her coming, watched her from an upper window.
It was beginning to snow and he noticed how she struggled in the teeth of the driving wind as she passed round the square; she was the only soul abroad on foot.
As he looked at her, one of his violent impulses seized him to tear to pieces those papers she asked for and scatter them after her; had he had them there upon him he would have turned and cast them into the fire; scheming and intrigue were hateful to him; he wanted the straightforward action; to crush the Jacobites high-handedly, not hold a terror over a woman's head.
And the generous action would not in this instance be very costly; as she had said he had his spies on all the ringleaders. Berwick was powerless without his French army and Louis would never send an army till he obtained those letters that would never reach him; the men who had signed those documents would be too frightened by their loss to sign others, certainly he could afford to forego a mere vengeance. He proceeded to act at once on his impulse; he went to the Viscount who had the papers, and demanded them.
His father looked up and laughed.
"You want to destroy them," he said dryly. "I have been expecting it—why were you keeping them so long? You are not as adamant as you suppose, John—some one has moved you."
"Give me the papers, my lord," answered Sir John sullenly.
The Viscount shrugged his shoulders. "It is impossible."
"Why, my lord?"
His father twisted his wry neck and gave a little smile. "I sent them to His Majesty this morning."