CHAPTER IX
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.”