"THERE'S NONE LIKE HER, NONE!"
There was something more than ordinary affection between Philip, Earl of
Stretton, and his sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne. Those who knew them
in the days of their happiness said they seemed more like lovers than
brother and sister, so tender, so true was their clinging devotion to
one another.
But those who knew them both intimately said that they were more like
mother and son together; though Philip was only a year or two younger
than Patience, she had all a mother's fondness, a mother's indulgence
and 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 a
more firm, more lasting hold upon him. He knew that she would act
wisely and prudently for him. For the first time for many days and
weeks he felt safe, less morbidly afraid of treachery, more ready to
fight 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 the
heavy task of pulling the cumbersome vehicle through the morass, sounded
like sweetest music in Philip's ear.
He did not dare go to meet them, but he watched the coach as it drew
nearer and nearer, very slowly, the horses going step by step urged on
by the coachman and by Timothy, who rode close at their heads, spurring
them with whip and kind words, the wheels creaking as they slowly turned
on their mud-laden axles.
Thus Patience had travelled since dawn, ever since the stranger had
brought her the letter which told her that her brother had succeeded in
reaching this secluded corner of Derbyshire, and was now in hiding with
faithful John Stich, waiting for her guidance and help to establish his
innocence.
Leaning back against the cushions of the coach, she had sat with eyes
closed and hands tightly clutched. Anxious, wearied, at times hopeful,
she had borne the terrible fatigue of this lumbering journey from
Stretton Hall, along the unmade roads of Brassing Moor, with all the
fortitude the Gascoynes had always shown for any cause they had at
heart.
At the cross-roads Thomas, the driver, brought his horses to a
standstill. Already, as the coach had passed some fifty yards from the
forge, Patience had leaned out of the window trying to get a glimpse of
the 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 within
sight of Timothy waiting some hundred yards further on, then he had
retraced his steps, and was now back at the cross-roads ready to help
Lady Patience to alight.
"Let the coach wait here," she said to the driver, "we may sleep at
Wirksworth to-night."
"Ah! my good Stich," she added, grasping the smith's hand eagerly, "my
brother, 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 at
first.
But she placed one hand on his shoulder and with a gentle motherly
gesture brushed with the other the unruly curls from the white, moist
forehead. He looked haggard and careworn, although his eyes now gleamed
with feverish hope, and hers, in spite of herself, began to fill with
tears.
"Dear, dear one," she murmured, trying to look cheerful, to push back
the tears. All would be well now that she could get to him, that they
could talk things over, that she could _do_ something for him and with
him, 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 Humphrey
Challoner 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, now
that he needed all her courage as well as his own.
"But I am innocent, dear," he said, taking both her tiny hands in his
own, 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 in
England," said Stretton, with some bitterness. "Charles Edward was very
ill-advised to cross the border at all, and in the Midlands no one cares
about the Stuarts now. But that's all ancient history," he added with a
weary sigh, "it's no use dwelling over all the wretched mistakes that
were committed last year, 'tis only the misery that has abided until
now."
"Why did you run away, Philip?" she asked.
"Because I was a fool ... and a coward," he added, while a blush of
shame 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 very
good at saying 'Nay!' I knew they would persuade me. Lovat and
Kilmarnock 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 her
conviction fighting an even battle in her heart. "But why wouldn't you
tell 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 quiver
in her voice; a note of deep anxiety, of almost hysterical alarm. But
she 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 his
standard, that he would demand shelter at Stretton Hall, and claim my
allegiance."
"Yes, yes?"
"And he thought that it would be wiser for me to put two or three
counties 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 to
notice it.
"Challoner has always been my friend," he said almost reproachfully. "I
fancy, little sister," he added with his boyish smile, "that it rests
with 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. She
was evidently hesitating whether to tell him of the fears, the
suspicions which the mention of Sir Humphrey Challoner's name had
aroused in her heart, or to leave the subject alone. At last she said
quite gently,--
"But when I came home, dear, and found you had left the Hall without a
message, without a word for me, why did you not tell me then?"
The boy hung his head. He felt the tender reproach, and there was
nothing to be said.
"I would have stood by you," she continued softly. "I think I might
have helped you. There was no disgrace in refusing to join a doomed
cause, and you were a mere child when you made friends with Lovat."
"I know all that now, dear," he said with some impatience. "Heaven
knows I am paying dearly enough for my cowardice and my folly. But even
now I cannot understand how my name became mixed up with those of the
rebels. Somebody must have sworn false information against me. But
who? I haven't an enemy in the world, have I, dear?"
"No, no," she said quickly, but even as she spoke the look of
involuntary alarm in her face belied the assurance of her lips.
But this was not the moment to add to his anxiety by futile, worrying
conjectures. He had sent for her because he wanted her, and she was
here to do for him, to help and support him in every way that her
strength 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 tried
to conquer his despondency, and with a quick gesture he tore open the
rough, woollen shirt he wore, and from beneath it drew a packet of
letters. Not only his hand now, but his whole figure seemed to quiver
with 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 my
position and realised my danger, and now, with them, I place my life in
your hands."
"Yes, Philip?"
"They prove my innocence," he continued, as nervously he pulled at the
string that held the letters together. "Here is one from Lovat," he
added, handing one of these to Patience, "read it, dear, quickly. You
will see he begs me to join the Pretender's standard. Here's another
from Kilmarnock--that was after the retreat from Derby--he upbraids me
for holding aloof. I was in hiding at Nottingham then, but _they_ knew
where I was, and would not leave me alone. They would have followed me
if they could. And here ... better still ... is one from Charles Edward
himself, just before he fled to France, calling me a traitor for my
loyalty to King George."
Feverishly he tore open letter after letter, thrusting them into her
hand, scanning them with burning, eager eyes. She took them from him
one by one, glanced at them, then quietly folded each precious piece of
paper, and tied the packet together again. Her hand did not shake, but
beneath her cloak she pressed the letters to her heart, the letters that
meant 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 of
confidence 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 her
gentle smile. "We won't speak of the past any more. Now let us arrange
the future."
He tried to master his excitement, throwing off with an effort of will
his 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 sometimes
strikes the venial offender, letting so often the more hardened criminal
go 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 could
really trust, to whom he dared disclose his place of temporary refuge,
or confide a message for his sister. Treachery was in the air; he
suspected everyone. The bill of attainder had condemned so many men to
death, and rebel-hunting and swift executions were in that year of grace
the order of the day.
"I could do nothing without you, dear," he said more quietly. "I must
hide now like a hunted beast, and must be grateful for the sheltering
roof of honest Stich. I have been branded as a traitor by Act of
Parliament, my life is forfeit, and it is even a crime for any man to
give me food and shelter. The lowest footpad who haunts the Moor has the
right 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 as
I seemed. I could not get to you or reach the Hall."
"I quite understood that, dear. Now, tell me, you wish me to take these
letters to London?"
"At once. The sooner they are laid before the King and Council the
better. I must get to the fountain head as quickly as possible. Once I
am caught they will give me no chance of proving my innocence. I have
been 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 equerry
to the King."
"Ah! that's well! Aunt Charlotte was always fond of me. She'll be kind
to 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 have
been on the road since dawn."
They were both quite calm now, and discussed these few details as if
life or death were not the outcome of the journey.
Patience was glad to see that the boy had entirely shaken off the almost
hysterical horror he had of his unfortunate position.
They were suddenly interrupted by John Stich's cautious voice at the
entrance of the shed.
"Your ladyship's pardon," said John, respectfully, "but there's a coach
coming up the road from Hartington way. I thought perhaps it might be
more prudent..."
"Hartington!"
Brother and sister had uttered the exclamation simultaneously. He in
astonishment, 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, my
lady. No one else'd have occasion to come down these God-forsaken
roads. But they are some way off yet," he added reassuringly, "I saw
them first on the crest of the further hill. Maybe his Honour is on his
way to Derby."
Patience was trying to conquer her agitation, but it was her turn now to
seem nervous and excited.
"Oh! I didn't want him to find me here!" she said quickly. "I ... I
mistrust 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 his
driver some time yet to walk down the incline, and then up again to the
cross-roads. 'Tis a mile and a half for sure, and the horses'll have to
go foot pace. There's plenty of time for your ladyship to be well on
your 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 of
the 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 ladyship
to drive. 'Tis only a country inn. But they'd give your horses and men
a feed and rest, and if your ladyship'll pardon the liberty, you'll need
both yourself."
"Yes, yes," said Philip, anxiously regarding the beautiful face which
looked so pale and weary. "You must rest, dear. The journey to London
will be long and tedious ..."
"But Aldwark is not on my way," she said with a slight frown of
impatience.
"The inn is but a mile from here, your ladyship," rejoined Stich, "and
your horses could never reach Wirksworth without a long rest. 'Tis the
best plan, an your ladyship would trust me!"
"Trust you, John!" she said with a sweet smile, as she extended one tiny
hand to the faithful smith. "I trust you implicitly, and you shall give
me 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 to
him, "then to start for London to-morrow morning."
"No, no! I must start to-night. I could not bear to wait even until
dawn."
"But the footpads on the Heath, your ladyship..." hazarded John.
"Nay, I fear no footpads. They're welcome to what money I have, and
they'd not care to rob me of my letters," she said eagerly. "But I'll
put up at the Moorhen, John. We all need a rest. I suppose there's no
way across the Heath from thence to Wirksworth."
"None, your ladyship. This is the only possible way. Back here to the
cross-roads and on to Wirksworth from here."
"Then I'll see you again, dear," she said tenderly, clinging to
Stretton, "at sunset mayhap. I'll start as soon as I can. You may be
sure 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 ready
when I return, and perhaps write out your own petition to the King--I'll
use that or not as Lord Edbrooke advises."
Then once more, womanlike, she clung to him, hating to part from him
even 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," she
added with earnest emphasis, "and if you were found before I could reach
the 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 started
on the long journey which would mean life and safety to him.
Two minutes later, having parted from her brother, Lady Patience
Gascoyne entered her coach at the cross-roads, where Mistress Betty had
been 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 the
decline on the Hartington Road, and begun the weary ascent up to the
blacksmith's forge, Lady Patience's carriage was well out of sight
beyond the bend that led eastward to Aldwark village.