“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.”