CHAPTER V
"THERE'S NONE LIKE HER, NONE!"
There was something more than ordinary affection between Philip, Earl ofStretton, and his sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne. Those who knew themin the days of their happiness said they seemed more like lovers thanbrother and sister, so tender, so true was their clinging devotion toone another.
But those who knew them both intimately said that they were more likemother and son together; though Philip was only a year or two youngerthan Patience, she had all a mother's fondness, a mother's indulgenceand sweet pity for him, he all a son's deference, a son's trust in her.
Even now, as he instinctively felt her dear presence nigh, hope took amore firm, more lasting hold upon him. He knew that she would actwisely and prudently for him. For the first time for many days andweeks he felt safe, less morbidly afraid of treachery, more ready tofight adverse fate.
The heavy coach came lumbering along the quaggy road, the old coachman's"Whoa! whoa! there! there!" as he tried to encourage his horses in theheavy task of pulling the cumbersome vehicle through the morass, soundedlike sweetest music in Philip's ear.
He did not dare go to meet them, but he watched the coach as it drewnearer and nearer, very slowly, the horses going step by step urged onby the coachman and by Timothy, who rode close at their heads, spurringthem with whip and kind words, the wheels creaking as they slowly turnedon their mud-laden axles.
Thus Patience had travelled since dawn, ever since the stranger hadbrought her the letter which told her that her brother had succeeded inreaching this secluded corner of Derbyshire, and was now in hiding withfaithful John Stich, waiting for her guidance and help to establish hisinnocence.
Leaning back against the cushions of the coach, she had sat with eyesclosed and hands tightly clutched. Anxious, wearied, at times hopeful,she had borne the terrible fatigue of this lumbering journey fromStretton Hall, along the unmade roads of Brassing Moor, with all thefortitude the Gascoynes had always shown for any cause they had atheart.
At the cross-roads Thomas, the driver, brought his horses to astandstill. Already, as the coach had passed some fifty yards from theforge, Patience had leaned out of the window trying to get a glimpse ofthe dear face which she knew would be on the lookout for her.
John Stich had escorted Betty as far as the bend in the road, and withinsight of Timothy waiting some hundred yards further on, then he hadretraced his steps, and was now back at the cross-roads ready to helpLady Patience to alight.
"Let the coach wait here," she said to the driver, "we may sleep atWirksworth to-night."
"Ah! my good Stich," she added, grasping the smith's hand eagerly, "mybrother, how is he?"
"All the better since he knows your ladyship has come," replied Stich.
A few moments later brother and sister were locked in each other's arms.
"My sweet sister! My dear, dear Patience!" was all Philip could say atfirst.
But she placed one hand on his shoulder and with a gentle motherlygesture brushed with the other the unruly curls from the white, moistforehead. He looked haggard and careworn, although his eyes now gleamedwith feverish hope, and hers, in spite of herself, began to fill withtears.
"Dear, dear one," she murmured, trying to look cheerful, to push backthe tears. All would be well now that she could get to him, that theycould talk things over, that she could _do_ something for him and withhim, instead of sitting--weary and inactive--alone at Stretton Hall,without news, a prey to devouring anxiety.
"That awful Proclamation," he said at last--"you have heard of it?"
"Aye!" she replied sadly, "even before you did, I think. Sir HumphreyChalloner sent a courier across to tell me of it."
"And my name amongst those attainted by Act of Parliament!"
She nodded, her lips were quivering, and she would not break down, nowthat he needed all her courage as well as his own.
"But I am innocent, dear," he said, taking both her tiny hands in hisown, and looking firmly, steadfastly into her face. "You believe me,don't you?"
"Of course, Philip, I believe you. But it is all so hard, so horrible,and 'tis Heaven alone who knows which was the just cause."
"There is no doubt as to which was the stronger cause, at anyrate inEngland," said Stretton, with some bitterness. "Charles Edward was veryill-advised to cross the border at all, and in the Midlands no one caresabout the Stuarts now. But that's all ancient history," he added with aweary sigh, "it's no use dwelling over all the wretched mistakes thatwere committed last year, 'tis only the misery that has abided untilnow."
"Why did you run away, Philip?" she asked.
"Because I was a fool ... and a coward," he added, while a blush ofshame darkened his young Saxon face.
"No, no..."
"I thought if I remained at Stretton Charles Edward would demand my help... and you know," he said with a quaint boyish smile, "I was never verygood at saying 'Nay!' I knew they would persuade me. Lovat andKilmarnock were such friends, and..."
"So you preferred to run away?"
"It was cowardly, wasn't it?"
"I am afraid it was," she said reluctantly, her tenderness and herconviction fighting an even battle in her heart. "But why wouldn't youtell me, dear?"
"Because I was a fool," he said, cursing himself for that same folly."You were away in London just then, you remember?"
She nodded.
"And there was no one to advise me, except Challoner."
"Sir Humphrey? Then it was he?..."
Philip looked at her in astonishment. There was such a strange quiverin her voice; a note of deep anxiety, of almost hysterical alarm. Butshe checked herself quickly, and said more calmly,--
"What did Sir Humphrey Challoner advise you to do?"
"He said that Charles Edward would surely persuade me to join hisstandard, that he would demand shelter at Stretton Hall, and claim myallegiance."
"Yes, yes?"
"And he thought that it would be wiser for me to put two or threecounties between myself and the temptation of becoming a rebel."
"He thought!..."
There was a world of bitter contempt in those two words she uttered.Even Philip, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could not fail tonotice it.
"Challoner has always been my friend," he said almost reproachfully. "Ifancy, little sister," he added with his boyish smile, "that it restswith you that he should become my brother."
"Hush, dear, don't speak of that."
"Why not?"
She did not reply, and there was a moment's silence between them. Shewas evidently hesitating whether to tell him of the fears, thesuspicions which the mention of Sir Humphrey Challoner's name hadaroused in her heart, or to leave the subject alone. At last she saidquite gently,--
"But when I came home, dear, and found you had left the Hall without amessage, without a word for me, why did you not tell me then?"
The boy hung his head. He felt the tender reproach, and there wasnothing to be said.
"I would have stood by you," she continued softly. "I think I mighthave helped you. There was no disgrace in refusing to join a doomedcause, and you were a mere child when you made friends with Lovat."
"I know all that now, dear," he said with some impatience. "Heavenknows I am paying dearly enough for my cowardice and my folly. But evennow I cannot understand how my name became mixed up with those of therebels. Somebody must have sworn false information against me. Butwho? I haven't an enemy in the world, have I, dear?"
"No, no," she said quickly, but even as she spoke the look ofinvoluntary alarm in her face belied the assurance of her lips.
But this was not the moment to add to his anxiety by futile, worryingconjectures. He had sent for her because he wanted her, and she washere to do for him, to help and support him in every way that herstrength of will and her energy would dictate.
"You sent for me, Philip," she said with a cheerful, hopeful
smile.
Her look seemed to put fresh life into his veins. In a moment he triedto conquer his despondency, and with a quick gesture he tore open therough, woollen shirt he wore, and from beneath it drew a packet ofletters. Not only his hand now, but his whole figure seemed to quiverwith excitement as he gazed at this packet with glowing eyes.
"These letters, dear," he said in a whisper, "are my one hope of safety.They have not left my body day or night ever since I first understood myposition and realised my danger, and now, with them, I place my life inyour hands."
"Yes, Philip?"
"They prove my innocence," he continued, as nervously he pulled at thestring that held the letters together. "Here is one from Lovat," headded, handing one of these to Patience, "read it, dear, quickly. Youwill see he begs me to join the Pretender's standard. Here's anotherfrom Kilmarnock--that was after the retreat from Derby--he upbraids mefor holding aloof. I was in hiding at Nottingham then, but _they_ knewwhere I was, and would not leave me alone. They would have followed meif they could. And here ... better still ... is one from Charles Edwardhimself, just before he fled to France, calling me a traitor for myloyalty to King George."
Feverishly he tore open letter after letter, thrusting them into herhand, scanning them with burning, eager eyes. She took them from himone by one, glanced at them, then quietly folded each precious piece ofpaper, and tied the packet together again. Her hand did not shake, butbeneath her cloak she pressed the letters to her heart, the letters thatmeant the safety of her dear one's life.
"Oh! if I had known all this sooner!" she sighed involuntarily.
But that was the only reproach that escaped her lips for his want ofconfidence in her.
"I nearly yielded to Lovat's letter," said the boy, hesitatingly.
"I know, I know, dear," she said with an infinity of indulgence in hergentle smile. "We won't speak of the past any more. Now let us arrangethe future."
He tried to master his excitement, throwing off with an effort of willhis feverishness and his morbid self-condemnation.
He had done a foolish and a cowardly thing; he knew that well enough.Fate had dealt him one of those cruel blows with which she sometimesstrikes the venial offender, letting so often the more hardened criminalgo scatheless.
For months now Philip had been a fugitive, disguised in rough clothes,hiding in barns and inns of doubtful fame, knowing no one whom he couldreally trust, to whom he dared disclose his place of temporary refuge,or confide a message for his sister. Treachery was in the air; hesuspected everyone. The bill of attainder had condemned so many men todeath, and rebel-hunting and swift executions were in that year of gracethe order of the day.
"I could do nothing without you, dear," he said more quietly. "I musthide now like a hunted beast, and must be grateful for the shelteringroof of honest Stich. I have been branded as a traitor by Act ofParliament, my life is forfeit, and it is even a crime for any man togive me food and shelter. The lowest footpad who haunts the Moor has theright to shoot me like a mad dog."
"Don't! don't, dear!" she pleaded.
"I only wished you to understand that I was not such an abject coward asI seemed. I could not get to you or reach the Hall."
"I quite understood that, dear. Now, tell me, you wish me to take theseletters to London?"
"At once. The sooner they are laid before the King and Council thebetter. I must get to the fountain head as quickly as possible. Once Iam caught they will give me no chance of proving my innocence. I havebeen tried by Act of Parliament, found guilty and condemned to death.You realise that, dear, don't you?"
"Yes, Philip, I do," she replied very quietly.
"Once in London, who do you think can best help you?"
"Lady Edbrooke, of course. Her husband has just been appointed equerryto the King."
"Ah! that's well! Aunt Charlotte was always fond of me. She'll be kindto you, I know."
"I think you should write to her. I'd take that letter too."
"When can you start?"
"Not for a few hours unfortunately. The horses must be put up. We havebeen on the road since dawn."
They were both quite calm now, and discussed these few details as iflife or death were not the outcome of the journey.
Patience was glad to see that the boy had entirely shaken off the almosthysterical horror he had of his unfortunate position.
They were suddenly interrupted by John Stich's cautious voice at theentrance of the shed.
"Your ladyship's pardon," said John, respectfully, "but there's a coachcoming up the road from Hartington way. I thought perhaps it might bemore prudent..."
"Hartington!"
Brother and sister had uttered the exclamation simultaneously. He inastonishment, she in obvious alarm.
"Who can it be, John, think you?" she asked with quivering lips.
"Well, it couldn't very well be anyone except Sir Humphrey Challoner, mylady. No one else'd have occasion to come down these God-forsakenroads. But they are some way off yet," he added reassuringly, "I sawthem first on the crest of the further hill. Maybe his Honour is on hisway to Derby."
Patience was trying to conquer her agitation, but it was her turn now toseem nervous and excited.
"Oh! I didn't want him to find me here!" she said quickly. "I ... Imistrust that man, Philip ... foolishly perhaps, and ... if he sees me... he might guess ... he might suspect..."
"Nay, my lady, there's not much fear of that, craving your pardon,"hazarded John Stich, cheerfully. "If 'tis Sir Humphrey 'twill take hisdriver some time yet to walk down the incline, and then up again to thecross-roads. 'Tis a mile and a half for sure, and the horses'll have togo foot pace. There's plenty of time for your ladyship to be well onyour way before they get here."
She felt reassured evidently, for she said more calmly,--
"I'll have to put up somewhere, John, for a few hours, for the sake ofthe horses. Where had that best be?"
"Up at Aldwark, I should say, my lady, at the Moorhen."
"Perhaps I could get fresh horses there, and make a start at once."
"Nay, my lady, they have no horses at the Moorhen fit for your ladyshipto drive. 'Tis only a country inn. But they'd give your horses and mena feed and rest, and if your ladyship'll pardon the liberty, you'll needboth yourself."
"Yes, yes," said Philip, anxiously regarding the beautiful face whichlooked so pale and weary. "You must rest, dear. The journey to Londonwill be long and tedious ..."
"But Aldwark is not on my way," she said with a slight frown ofimpatience.
"The inn is but a mile from here, your ladyship," rejoined Stich, "andyour horses could never reach Wirksworth without a long rest. 'Tis thebest plan, an your ladyship would trust me!"
"Trust you, John!" she said with a sweet smile, as she extended one tinyhand to the faithful smith. "I trust you implicitly, and you shall giveme your advice. What is it?"
"To put up at the Moorhen for the night, your ladyship," explained John,whose kindly eyes had dropped a tear over the gracious hand held out tohim, "then to start for London to-morrow morning."
"No, no! I must start to-night. I could not bear to wait even untildawn."
"But the footpads on the Heath, your ladyship..." hazarded John.
"Nay, I fear no footpads. They're welcome to what money I have, andthey'd not care to rob me of my letters," she said eagerly. "But I'llput up at the Moorhen, John. We all need a rest. I suppose there's noway across the Heath from thence to Wirksworth."
"None, your ladyship. This is the only possible way. Back here to thecross-roads and on to Wirksworth from here."
"Then I'll see you again, dear," she said tenderly, clinging toStretton, "at sunset mayhap. I'll start as soon as I can. You may besure of that."
"And guard the letters, little sister," he said as he held her closely,closely to his heart. "Guard them jealously, they are my only hope."
"You'll write the letter to Lady Edbrooke," she added. "Have
it readywhen I return, and perhaps write out your own petition to the King--I'lluse that or not as Lord Edbrooke advises."
Then once more, womanlike, she clung to him, hating to part from himeven for a few hours.
"In the meanwhile you will be prudent, Philip," she pleaded tenderly."Trust _nobody_ but John Stich. _Any_ man may prove an enemy," sheadded with earnest emphasis, "and if you were found before I could reachthe King..."
She tore herself away from him. Her eyes now were swimming in tears,and she meant to seem brave to the end. Stich was urging her to hurry.After all she would see Philip again before sunset, before she startedon the long journey which would mean life and safety to him.
Two minutes later, having parted from her brother, Lady PatienceGascoyne entered her coach at the cross-roads, where Mistress Betty hadbeen waiting for her ladyship with as much patience as she could muster.
By the time Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach had reached the bottom of thedecline on the Hartington Road, and begun the weary ascent up to theblacksmith's forge, Lady Patience's carriage was well out of sightbeyond the bend that led eastward to Aldwark village.
Beau Brocade: A Romance Page 5