Beau Brocade. Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
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.