Quiet, contained, grave and modest in manner, his calm melancholy face and person were a fine contrast to Mr. Wedderburn with his over-bold handsomeness, his over-rich dress, his passionate air of impatient lordship, his too emphasized manner of haughtiness and power; the bearing of a tragedy emperor, gloomy magnificence. He was not the type of man to appeal to Jerome Caryl, who set his soft mouth sternly and drooped his hazel eyes disdainfully to his own delicate hand resting on the table.
Mr. Wedderburn swung a letter across the table; in silence Jerome Caryl opened it, and the King’s messenger gave a sudden smile at Delia across the length of the room.
Sir Perseus glanced from one to another, conscious that the silence was awkward and unaccountable. “We saw my Lord Berwick to-day,” he remarked. “He has had a messenger from Crauford in Scotland.”
Delia gave a little start as of one suddenly touched in his sleep.
“Scotland?” she echoed.
Mr. Wedderburn was looking at her.
“Heard ye anything of the submission of the clans?” he asked.
“We heard,” said Sir Perseus, “that every clan had come in save the Macdonalds of Glencoe.”
“Ah!” said Delia, and she flushed and paled.
“They bear such a hatred to the Campbells, nothing will induce them to follow the others,” continued her brother, “and—poor fools—there is no one to trouble to warn them—doubtless you have heard, Mr. Wedderburn, how we have preserved the Highlands to His Majesty by causing them to take the oaths?”