ON THE ROAD TO LONDON
It was drawing toward the evening of December twentieth, along the
smooth high road to Carlisle three travelers were riding swiftly, their
faces toward England. The wind blew cold and keen; the trees bordering
the roadside began to show dark and misshapen in the twilight; the
walls of Carlisle ahead of them were a welcome sight.
Delia Featherstonehaugh, riding between her brother and Jerome Caryl,
shuddering drew her hood closer round her face, and whipped her horse
up to keep pace with her companions.
Through the dusk came Jerome Caryl’s low musical voice; he was telling
her the reason of this hasty departure for London; she had been loth to
leave Scotland though, with the submission of the greater number of the
Highland chiefs their work in the North had been accomplished.
“My Lord Berwick,” Jerome was saying, “is come to England and lives now
in a smuggler’s hut on Romney Marsh—we have to see him about the rising
in the spring. Then I have to sound the ministers and nobles and get
what names I can to a letter promising help to King James—for you see,
Miss Delia, the French do not desire to send aid if none will join
them—then I have to meet an agent of His Majesty’s—who comes with news
from France—one, Andrew Wedderburn.”
Delia made no answer, but her brother spoke.
“Who is that fellow, Jerome? We are getting too many into this plot.”
“I have letters from my Lord Middleton assuring me of his perfect
loyalty,” answered Jerome. “He hath risked his life before on the
King’s service.”
“A Scot?” asked Sir Perseus.
“Yes—by the name,” smiled Jerome. “’Tis not he that troubles me, but
this getting of signatures. Men are wary of signing papers, and lip
promises are of no service.”
They rode in silence a while; it began to snow and the light rapidly
faded.
“’Tis a severe winter,” said Delia. “I would we were in Carlisle.”
She looked wistfully ahead, toward the city lost now in the gathering
dusk.
Jerome Caryl, following out his thoughts, spoke again.
“I have Hamilton and Athol—I nearly had Argyll—but he is too
fearful—Breadalbane is too cunning to commit himself—of course there
are Montgomery and Crauford—and in England I am sure of Marlborough,
Cornbury, Rochester and Godolphin—but I need others—there are the
common names whose weight is little—whose honor is cheapened with much
false swearing.”
Delia responded to the disdain in his even voice:
“That there should be so many traitors!” she cried impulsively.
“Sometimes I loathe them all.”
From the dark figure at her side came her brother’s practical voice.
“If you could get Devonshire, Halifax and Dorset, Jerome,” he said, “it
were enough. Shrewsbury, too....”
“Ah!” said Jerome softly. “Be careful—even on the open road.”
Again they pressed on in silence; the snow fell thickly, their hands
were numb upon the bridles, and Delia felt her limbs ache with cold.
“We shall not reach Carlisle to-night,” said Jerome suddenly. “You see
those lights ahead, Perseus? ’tis an inn—I remember it; a rough place,
but we will stop there.”
Though Caryl was the younger, Perseus never questioned his right to
command; his cold smiling way carried an authority not easy to dispute.
In a few moments more they had drawn up at the inn, a low two-storeyed
house; before it a heavy sign outlined now in snow, on it in straggling
letters the legend:
“The Borderers.”
A flickering lamp over the door gave a gusty light. As Jerome
dismounted he saw a huge coach drawn up against the side of the house.
“Ye have guests?” he demanded of the ostler who came forward.
The man nodded. “A lord and his family.”
Jerome hesitated, but to turn away now would look suspicious, and the
night was impossible. He helped Delia down from the saddle and the
three entered the low door.
A silent, depressed looking, slatternly woman showed them into a large
room that was at once both kitchen and parlor. It was lit only by a
huge fire that roared up the vast chimney; the floor was tiled in red,
the walls, plaster; heavy red curtains before the windows shut out the
night; kitchen utensils, mostly of brown earthenware, hung against the
walls and were placed about the hearth; a three-legged cauldron was in
the fire and a heavy smell of cooking onions rose from it.
By the low dark table stood a lady, who looked up sharply at the
new-comers.
She was a great contrast to her surroundings; her fur-lined coat lay on
a chair beside her, but she still wore her large beaver hat, and in one
hand she held a black muff; her gray velvet dress was open at the bosom
on a full white bodice; her attitude was elegant and indolent, she
rested against the table with her feet crossed daintily.
Perseus and his sister advanced at once to the fire, showing no heed of
her, but Jerome Caryl remained in the doorway, loosening his cloak; as
it slipped back from his shoulders to the ground, he removed his hat
and the dim red light fell full upon his face and disordered hair.
The lady looked at him with a frank and slightly insolent admiration;
her green eyes traveled consideringly over his tall figure, evidently
noting his plain attire and the graceful way he wore it; she gave a
quick glance at the two ordinary people by the fire, then stared again
at the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.
He gave her one look, grave and calm, from his melancholy hazel eyes,
then ignored her obvious scrutiny.
“Perseus,” he said quietly, “I must find the woman to know what
accommodation she hath—will you come?”
They went from the room in silence, leaving Delia by the fire. She
glanced with a timid friendliness at the stranger and chafed her numb
hands together.
The lady looked at her, and to Delia the clear-cut white face with the
green eyes and red lips was as sinister as it was lovely; the cold
expression prevented her from making any attempt to speak; but the
other broke the silence.
“Was that gentleman your husband, madam?” she demanded.
“Oh, neither of them,” smiled Delia.
“Your brother then?” asked the lady.
“One,” answered Delia. “My brother and his friend, merely, madam. He in
the red coat is my brother.”
The other smiled.
“I hav’na’ seen before sic a fair face on a man as your friend
carries,” she said. “Who are ye, mistress? I am Margaret Campbell o’
Breadalbane.”
Delia caught her breath; the position had become suddenly a perilous
one, she reflected swiftly that her name was unknown, and gave it as
frankly as she was able.
“Ah,” said the Countess, “and your lovely friend?”
Delia collected herself with an effort.
“Your ladyship must ask him yourself,” she answered. “I cannot rob him
of that honor.”
The Countess lifted her brows and accepted the rebuff.
“We no’ intended to stay here,” she remarked with an easy change of
subject. “But the storm coming on and my lord havin’ a weak chest that
I should na wish him to catch cold on—we stopped at the first inn we
came to.”
So Breadalbane was with her! Delia’s heart sank; she wished she could
warn Jerome and her brother, but she was too confused to invent a
decent excuse for leaving the room, and as she stood trying to collect
herself to some definite plan of action the Countess crossed over to
the fire and took off her hat.
“Canna we remove that vile brewis?” she said. “The smell will make my
lord sick.”
Delia gave a thin hysterical laugh.
“’Tis all there is in the house belike,” she answered.
But the Countess Peggy’s keen eyes had marked other food about the
room, bacon, flour, fruit and fowls.
“Help me, mistress,” she commanded, and laying delicate, resolute hands
upon a cloth, she lifted off the pot and stood it on the hearth.
“Ah,” she said with a disgusted face. “The place reeks.”
Her hair had fallen over her face; she flung it back and Delia noticed
dully how it curled round her temples in little red ringlets, then
suddenly it seemed as if her blood stood still; the shock of discovery
held her silent.
This was the woman Macdonald had spoken of; she knew it certainly and
her fingers curled into her palm with hate. This woman—Lady
Breadalbane! With angry eyes she watched the Countess, who all
unconscious was moving about the room among the pots and pans; there
could not be two women with such eyes and hair and lips, and it was a
most likely thing that it should have been Breadalbane’s wife riding by
Glenorchy. The discovery nerved her; an angry desire to test this
woman, to prove herself right, took hold of her; her fine face flushed
and she lifted her head.
“Madam, your lord carries good news to London,” she said on an impulse.
“I heard all the clans had submitted.”
The Countess turned with a slight smile.
“It is no’ the truth,” she said, “all hav’na’.”
“Ah?” said Delia with her heart beating fast. “And who are the unhappy
rebels?”
There was a little pause before Lady Breadalbane answered:
“The Macdonalds o’ Glencoe for one. They have na’ taken the oaths.”
Delia saw the red and shadowy room spin round her and felt the blood
hammering in her temples; before she left Glasgow she had been assured
that the Macdonalds had come in with the other clans; she had never
questioned it; it was such an unlikely thing they, of all, should
remain obstinate; she moistened her lips and tried to frame some reply;
she was saved by Jerome Caryl opening the door.
“I have engaged another chamber, Miss Delia,” he said. “We need not
intrude on you, my lady.”
He inclined his head toward the Countess.
Delia felt a throb of relief to hear he had discovered the guest’s
quality, and hastened toward him.
“Hae ye seen my lord?” asked the Countess calmly.
“Yes, madam, he hath the only habitable room up-stairs,” answered
Jerome, “but he hath most generously surrendered it to Miss Delia.”
The Countess smiled.
“We are well enough here,” she said. “And ye may keep that untidy
female awa’—I wait on my lord myself. We shall gang as soon as it is
light.”
With a few murmured words Delia followed Jerome into the opposite room,
a dirty dingy place where Sir Perseus sat over a rough supper. She
joined him in a white agitation and glanced from one man to another.
“Delia—what is the matter?” asked Sir Perseus. “This encounter will do
us no harm.”
She was silent, one hand over her bosom; with the other she pushed her
plate aside; she was quite white.
“I know,” she said faintly, “But I cannot eat—I will go to bed.”
“That is folly,” answered Sir Perseus curtly. Then he turned to Jerome
and added in a lowered voice: “Did you speak to the Earl?”
“Why not?” asked Jerome calmly. “I asked him for the room and he gave
it me—cold and stiff but courteous. His wife is beautiful—is she not?”
They commenced their supper, but Delia sat miserably silent, with
absent eyes. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath,” beat in her
head. “The Macdonalds have not taken the oath!”
The hostess in clumsy hurry left the door ajar behind her, enough for
them to see across the passage where in the doorway of the opposite
room stood the Countess with her sleeves rolled up over her white
elbows, and flour on her hands, her face was turned to the stairway,
upon it a lovely smile.
Jerome fixed on her his mournful eyes, then, as he watched, Breadalbane
crossed the passage and entered the room. The Countess closed the door.
“I saw a woman like that once—in a dream,” said Jerome. “The face was
strangely impressed on my mind.”
Sir Perseus, eating lustily, asked:
“What was she doing in your dream?”
Jerome gave his grieving smile. “She was strangling me with a long lace
tie,” he said slowly.
Sir Perseus laughed, but Delia broke out passionately: “A cold
Scotswoman! I loathe her—she _would_ strangle you if it needed—her eyes
are hard as stones.”
“Delia!” cried Sir Perseus. “The place is overrun with Campbells—have a
care—they have a whole body-guard of Highlanders at the back—”
“And yet she does servants’ work,” said Delia.
“She is devoted to him,” answered Jerome.
“A strange thing!” flashed Delia.
“Nay—give her credit for her greatest virtue,” he replied. “She would
do anything for Breadalbane. I think he is very fortunate.”
Delia bit her lip and dropped her eyes under Jerome’s calm gaze; she
was nervous, excited, almost beyond bearing; she rose up impatiently.
“Mr. Caryl—you told me the Macdonalds had taken the oath,” she said
with burning cheeks. “And she—this woman—told me they had not—and she
should know.”
Jerome turned in his chair to look on her.
“Why—’tis not January yet,” he said gently. “There is time—I have
assurance from Lochiel that all the clans will take the oaths.”
Sir Perseus put in curtly.
“And what matter for the Macdonalds if the others come in? They had
their warning....”
Delia moved round the room restlessly with her head lifted, her eyes
fixed absently.
“Believe me,” said Jerome softly, “we can do no more than we have.”
“No, no,” she answered hastily, “’tis only it surprised me—they leave
it late.”
Jerome caught a questioning look on Sir Perseus’s face and delicately
changed the subject.
“I hope Wedderburn will not keep me waiting,” he said in a low voice.
“He was to cross from France and arrive at Romney on the twentieth—meet
me in London at ‘The Sleeping Queen’ on Christmas Eve—where we shall
stay—I told you—’tis ostensibly an inn, but they have a secret press
there.”
“Ah—with Breadalbane in the next room—hush!” said Perseus anxiously.
“Breadalbane himself will be one of us before we have finished,” smiled
Jerome. “And besides I have faith in the walls—as I was saying, I can
hardly proceed without these instructions from France, and I hope the
storms will not delay Wedderburn.”
As he spoke they heard the wind whistle and struggle at the ill-fitting
windows and the snow falling down the chimney hiss into the fire.
“Dangerous weather for the packet to cross,” whispered Delia.
“It has done it in worse,” said Jerome. “And there is less fear of
detection—government spies are not likely to be on Romney Marsh this
time of the year.”
Sir Perseus laughed.
“What fools the Dutchman is served with!” he said. “Think of the times
that packet has run to and fro—think of the messages sent—the cargoes
of Jacobites shipped—and no one has ever suspected—”
“Our agent, Hunt the smuggler, is trustworthy—and well-paid,” answered
Jerome. “And his hut is desolate enough.”
Delia suddenly stopped by the table and caught up her untasted wine.
“God give us luck once more!” she said impulsively. “To the safety of
King James’s messenger!”
“Heaven preserve him,” cried Sir Perseus, drinking.
His sister gave him a bright defiant glance.
“Him and the Macdonalds o’ Glencoe!” she said a little wildly. “God
preserve!”
“Amen!” said Jerome Caryl.