 Chapter 1. By Act of Parliament. The gaffers stood round and shook their heads. When the corporal had finished reading the royal proclamation, one or two of them sighed in a desultory fashion. Others murmured casually, Lordy, Lordy, to think on it, dearly me. The young ones neither sighed nor murmured. They looked at one another furtively, then glanced away again, as if afraid to read each other's thoughts, and in a shame-faced manner wiped their moist hands against their rough-cored breeches. There were no women present, fortunately, there had been heavy rains on the moor these last three days, and what roads there were had become well-nigh impassable. Only a few men, some half-dozen perhaps, out of the lonely homesteads from down Brassington Way, had tramped in the wake of the little squad of soldiers, in order to hear this Act of Parliament read at the crossroads and to see the document duly pinned to the old gallows-tree. Fortunately the rain had ceased momentarily, only a cool brisk norwester came blustering across the heath, making the older men shiver beneath their thin, well-worn smocks. North and south, east and west, bracing moor stretched its mournful lengths to the distant framework of the peak far away, with mile upon mile of gray-green gorse and golden bracken and long shoots of purple-stamped bramble, and here and there patches of vivid mauve where the heather was just bursting into bloom, or anon a clump of dark furs with ruddy trunks and gaunt arms stretched menacingly over the sparse young life below. And here at the crossroads the heath seemed more desolate than ever, despite that one cottage with the blacksmith's shed beyond it, the roads themselves, the one to Aldwark, the other from Worxworth, the third little more than a morass, a shortcut to Strutton, all bore mute testimony to the remoteness, the aloofness of this forgotten corner of eighteenth century England. Then there was the old gallows whereon many a footpad or sheepstealer had paid full penalty for his crimes. True, John Stitch, the blacksmith, now used it as a signpost for his trade, a monster horseshoe hung there where once the bones of Dick Caldwell, the highwayman, had whitened in the bleak air of the moor. Still at moments like these when no one spoke, the wind seemed to bring an echo of ghostly sighs and laughter, for Dick had breathed his last with a coarse jest on his lips and the ears of the timid seemed to catch the eerie sound of his horses hooves plowing the ruddy, shallow soil of the heath. For the moment, however, the crossroads presented a scene of quite unusual animation. The corporal and his squad looked resplendent in their scarlet tunics and white buckskins, and Mr. Inch, the beetle from Brassington, was also there in his gold-laced coat, bob-tailed wig and three-cornered hat. He had lent the dignity of his presence to this solemn occasion, and in high-top boots Bell in hand had tramped five miles with the soldiers so that he might shout a stentorian, oh yes, oh yes, whenever they passed one of the few cottages along the road. But no one spoke, the corporal handed the royal proclamation to one of the soldiers. He too seemed nervous and ill at ease. The northwester, with singular want of respect for king and parliament, commenced a vigorous attack upon the great document, pulling at it in wanton frolic, almost tearing it out of the hands of the young soldier who did his best to fix it against the shaft of the old gallows. The white parchment looked uncanny and ghostlike, fluttering in the wind. No doubt the northwester would soon tear it to rags. Lordy, lordy, to think on it! There it was fixed up at last, up so that any chance traveler who could might read. But those who were now assembled there, shepherds, most of them on the moor, viewed the written characters with awe and misgiving. They had had Mr. Inch's assurance that it was all writ there, that the king himself had put his name to it, and the young corporal, who had read it out, had received the document from his own superior officer, who in his turn had had it at the hands of his grace, the Duke of Cumberland himself. It having come to the knowledge of his majesty's parliament that certain subjects of the king have lately raised the standard of rebellion, setting up the pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, above the king's most lawful majesty, it is hereby enacted that these persons are guilty of high treason, and by the laws of the kingdom are therefore condemned to death. It is further enacted that it is unlawful for any loyal subject of the king to shelter or harbor, clothe or feed any such persons who are vile traitors and rebels to their king and country, and that any subject of his majesty who kills such a traitor or rebel doth thereby commit an act of justice and loyalty for which he may be rewarded by the sum of twenty guineas. It was this last paragraph that made the gaffers shake their heads and say, Lordy, Lordy, to think on it, to think on it, for it seemed but yesterday that the old Moor, I and the Hamlets and villages of Derbyshire were ringing with the wild shouts of Prince Charlie's Highland Brigade, but yesterday that his handsome face, his green bonnet laced with gold, his Highland plaid and rich accoutrements had seemed to proclaim victory to the Stuart cause from one end of the country to the other. To be sure that glorious, mad, merry time had not lasted very long, all the wise acres had foretold disaster when the princes' standard broke just as it was taken into my Lord Exeter's house in Full Street. The shaft snapped clean in half. What could that portend but humiliation and defeat? The retreat from Derby was still fresh in everyone's memory, and there were those from Worksworth, who remembered the rearguard of Prince Charlie's army, the hussars with their half-starved horses and bedraggled finery, who had swept down on the villages and homesteads round about Ashbourne and had pillaged and plundered to their hearts content. But then those were the fortunes of war, fighting, rushing, running, plundering, wild hussars, mad cavalcades, noise, bustle, excitement, joy of victory and sorrow of defeat. But this is proclamation which the corporal had brought all the way from Derby, and which had been signed by King George himself. This meant silence, hushed footsteps, a hidden figure perhaps, pallid and gaunt, hiding behind the boulders, or amidst the gores on the moor, or perishing may have at night, lost in the bogland, up-stretten way, whilst Judas, like treads, crept stealthfully on the track. It meant treachery, too, the price of blood, a fellow creature's life, to be sold for twenty guineas. No wonder the gaffers could think of nothing to say. No wonder the young men looked at one another, shame-faced, and in fear. Who knows any Derby sure lad now might become a human bloodhound, a tracker of his fellow creatures, a hunter of men. There were twenty guineas to be earned, and out there on the heath, in the hut of the shepherd, or the forge of the smith, many a pale, wan face had been seen of late, which it was terrible to think on, for even out here, on bracing moor, there existed some knowledge of Tyburn Gate, and of Tower Hill. At last the groups began to break up, though Corporal's work was done. His Majesty's proclamation would flutter there in the cool September wind for a while. Then presently the crows would peck at it, the rain would dash it down. The last bit of dirty rag would be torn away by an October gale, but in the meanwhile the few inhabitants of Brassington and those of Aldwerke would know that they might deny a starving fellow-creature, bread and shelter, eye and shoot him to, like a wild beast in a ditch, and have twenty guineas reward to boot. I've seen not of John Stitch. Master Inch said the Corporal, at last, be he from home, and he turned to where, just in the fork of the road, the thatched cottage, with a glimpse of the shed beyond it, stood solitary and still. Nay, I have not observated that fact, Master Corporal, replied Master Inch, clearing his throat for some of those fine words which had gained for him widespread admiration for miles around. I had not observated that John Stitch was from home, though in verity it behooves me to say that I do not hear the sound of Master Stitch's hammer upon his anvil. Then I'll go across at once, said the Corporal, forward my men, John Stitch might have saved me the trouble, he added, groping in his wallet for another copy of his Majesty's proclamation. Nay, Master Corporal, do not give yourself the futile trouble of traversing the muddy road, said Mr. Inch, sententiously. John Stitch is a loyal subject of King George, and by my faith he would not harbour gate a rebel. Take my word for it. Although, mind you, Mr. Corporal, I have oft suspicionated. Mr. Inch, the beetle, looked cautiously round. All the pompousness of his manner had vanished in a trice. His broad face, beneath the bob-tailed wig and three-cornered hat, looked like a rosy receptacle of mysterious information, as he laid his fat hand on the corporal's sleeve. The straggling group of yokels were fast disappearing down the muddy tracks. Some were returning to Brassington, others were tramping Aldwark way. One wizened solitary figure was slowly toiling up the road little more than a quagmire that led northwards across the heath towards Stratton Hall. The soldiers stood at attention, some fifteen yards away, mute and disinterested. From the shed beyond the cottage there suddenly came the sound of the blacksmith's hammer upon his anvil. Mr. Inch felt secure from observation. I have oft suspicionated John Stitch, the smith, of befriending the foot-pads and highwaymen that haunt this god-forsaken moor, he said, with an air of excited importance, rolling his beady eyes. Nay, laughed the corporal, good-humoredly, as he shook off Master Inch's fat hand, you'd best not whisper this confidence to John Stitch himself. As I live, he would crack your skull for you, Master Beetle. I be it ever so full of dictionary words. John Stitch is an honest man, I tell you, he added with a pleasant oath, the most honest, this side of the county, and don't you forget it. But Mr. Inch did not approve of the young soldier's tone of familiarity. He drew up his five feet of broad stature to their full height. Nay, but I designated no harm, he said, with offended dignity. John Stitch is a worthy fellow, and I spoke of no ordinary foot-pads. My mind, he added, dwelling upon that mysterious possession with conscious pride. My mind, I may say, was dominating on beau brocade. Beau brocade. And the corporal laughed with obvious incredulity, which further nettle'd Mr. Inch, the beetle. I, Beau brocade, he said hotly, the malicious, pernicious, damned rascal, who gives us, that representate the majesty of the law, a mighty deal of trouble. Indeed, sneered the corporal. I dare swear that down at Derby, retorted Mr. Inch spitefully, you have not even heard of that personage. Oh, we know well enough that brassing more harbours more miscreants than any corner of the county left the young soldier. But me thought, Beau brocade only existed in the imagination of your half-witted yokels about here. There you are in grave error, Master Corporal, remarked the beetle with dignity. Beau brocade, permit me to observe, does exist in the flesh. Twas only last night, Sir Humphrey Chaloner, coach, was stopped not three miles from Hardington, and his honor robbed of fifty guineas by that pernicious highwayman. Then you must lay this Beau brocade by the heels, Master Inch. I, that's easily said, lay him by the heels for sooth, and who's going to do that, pray? Nay, that's your affair, you don't expect his grace, the Duke of Cumberland, to lend you a portion of his army, do you? His grace might do worse, Beau brocade is a dangerous rascal to the quality. Only to the quality? I, he'll not touch a poor man, to his only the rich he is after, and uses but little of his ill-gotten gain on himself. How so, asked the Corporal, eagerly, for in spite of the excitement of camp life around about Derby, the fame of the daring highwaymen had air now tickled the fancy of the young soldiers of the Duke of Cumberland's army. Why, I told you, Sir Humphrey Chaloner was robbed on the heath last night, robbed of fifty guineas, a, said Master Inch, whispering in eager confidence. Well, this morning, when Squire West arrived at the courthouse, he found fifty guineas in the poor box. Well, well, that's not the first time, nor yet the second, that such a matter has occurred. The dolt's round about here, the lads from Brassington, or Aldwerke, or even from Worksworth, would never willingly lay a hand on Beau brocade. The rascal knows it well enough, and carries on his shameful trade with impunity. Odds fish, but me seems the trade is not so shameful after all. What is the fellow like? Nay, no one has ever seen his face, though his figure on the moor is familiar to many. He is always dressed in the latest fashion, hence the villagers have called him Beau brocade. Some say he is a royal prince in disguise. He always wears a mask. Some say he is the pretender, Charles Stuart himself. Others declare his face is pitted with smallpox. Others that he has the face of a pig, and the ears of a mule, that he is covered with hairs like a spaniel, or has a blue skin like an ape. But no one knows, and with half the villages on the heath to aid and abet him, he is not like to be laid by the heels. A fine story, Master Inch, laughed the corporal, and is there no reward for the capture of your pig-faced, hairy, blue-skinned royal prince disguised as a common highwayman? I, a reward of a hundred guineas, said Mr. Inch, in a whisper that was hardly audible above the murmur of the wind. A hundred guineas for the capture of Beau brocade. The corporal gave a long, significant whistle, and no one bold enough to attempt the capture, he said derisively. Mr. Inch shook his head sadly. No one could do it single-handed. The rascal is cunning, as well as bold, and. But at this point even Mr. Inch's voluble tongue was suddenly and summarily silenced. The words died in his throat. His bell, the badge of his important public office, fell with a mighty clatter on the ground. A laugh, a long, loud, joyous, mirthful laugh, rang clear as a silver gong, from across the lonely moor. Such a laugh as would make anyone's heart glad to hear. The laugh of a free man, of a man who is whole-hearted, of a man who has never ceased to be a boy. And pompous Mr. Inch slowly turned on his heel, as did also the young corporal, and both gazed out upon the heath. The patient little squad of soldiers, too, all fixed their eyes upon one spot, just beyond John Stitch's forge and cottage, not fifty yards away. There, clearly outlined against the cloud-laden sky, was the graceful figure of a horse and rider, the horse a sleek chestnut thoroughbred, which filled all the soldiers' hearts with envy and covetousness. The rider, a youthful upright figure whose every movement betokened strength of limb and elasticity of muscle, the very pose a model of ease and grace, the shoulders broad, the head with a black mask worn over the face, was carried high and erect. In truth it was a goodly picture to look upon, with that massive bank of white clouds and the little patches of vivid blue as a rich, shimmering dome above it, the gold-tipped bracken, the purple heather all around, and far away, as a mist-covered background, the green cloud hills and massive tours of Derbyshire. So good a picture was it that the tardy September sun peeped through the clouds and had a look at that fine specimen of eighteenth-century English manhood, then paused a while, perchance to hear again that mirthful happy laugh. Then came a gust of wind, the sun retreated, the soldiers gasped, and low, before Mr. Ench or Mr. Corporal had realized that the picture was made of flesh and blood, horse and rider had disappeared, there far out across the heath, beyond the gorse and bramble and the budding heather, with not a handful of dust to mark the way they went. Only once, from far, very far, almost from very land, there came, like the echo of a silver bell, the sound of that mad merry laugh, bow brocade as I live, murmured Mr. Ench under his breath. For a moment he paused in his work, straightened his broad back, and linked his heavy hammer upon the anvil, whilst a pleasant smile lit up his bronzed and rugged countenance. There goes the captain, he said, I wonder now what's tickling him? Ah, he added with a short sigh, the soldiers maybe, he doesn't like soldiers much, doesn't the captain? He sighed again, and looked across to where, on a rough wooden bench, sat a young man with head resting on his hand, his blue eyes staring moodily before him. The dress this young man wore was a counterpart of that in which John himself was arrayed, rough worsted stockings, thick flannel shirt, with sleeves well tucked up, over fine muscular arms, and a large greasy, well-worn leather apron, denoting the blacksmith's trade. But though the hands and face were covered with grime, a more than casual observer would soon have noticed that those same hands were slender and shapely, the fingers long, the nails neatly trimmed, whilst the face, anxious and care-worn, though it was, had in it a look of habitual command, of pride not yet crushed out of can. John Stitch gazed at him for a while, whilst a look of pity and anxiety saddened his honest face. The smith was a man of few words, he said nothing then, and presently the sound of his hammer upon the anvil once more filled the forge with its pleasant echo. But though John's tongue was slow, his ear was quick, and in one moment he had perceived the dull thud made by the corporal's squad, as having parted from Mr. Inch at the crossroads, the soldiers plowed their way through the mud round the cottage and towards the forge. Hissed, said John, in a rapid whisper pointing to the fire, the bellows quick. The young man, too, had started an obvious alarm. His ear, the ear of a fugitive, trained to every sound that betokened danger, was as alert as that of the smith. With a sudden effort, he pulled himself together and quickly seized the heavy bellows with a will. He forced his eyes to glance carelessly at the door and his lips to whistle a lively country tune. The corporal paused a moment at the entrance, taking a quick survey of the interior of the forge, his men at attention behind him. In the king's name, he said loudly as he unfolded the proclamation of his majesty's parliament. His orders were to read it in every hamlet and every homestead in the district. John Stitch, the black smith, was an important personage all around dressing more, and he had not heard it read from beneath the old gallows at the crossroads just now. Well, corporal said the worthy smith quietly as he put down his hammer out of respect for the king's name. Well, and what does his majesty, King George II, desire with John Stitch, the black smith, eh? Not with you alone, John Stitch, replied the corporal. This is an act of parliament and concerns all loyal subjects of the king. Who be yon lad? he asked, carelessly nodding towards the young man at the bellows. My nephew Jim, out of nodding him, replied John Stitch, quietly, my sister Hannah's child, you recollect her corporal. She was in service with my lord Exeter up at Derby. Oh, I, mistress Hannah Stitch, to be sure, I didn't know she had such a fine lad of her own, commented the corporal, as the young man straightened his tall figure and looked him fearlessly in the face. Lads grow up fast enough, don't they, corporal? Laughed honest Stitch, pleasantly. But come, let's hear his majesty's proclamation since you've got to read it. But you see, I'm very busy and nay, tis my duty, John Stitch, in every homestead in Derbyshire, tis to be read, so says this act of parliament. You might have saved this trouble had you come down to the crossroads just now. I was busy, remarked John Stitch, dryly, and the corporal began to read. It having come to the knowledge of his majesty's parliament, that certain subjects of the king have lately raised the standard of rebellion, setting up the pretender Charles Edward Stuart above the king's most lawful majesty, it is hereby enacted that these persons are guilty of high treason, and by the laws of the kingdom are therefore condemned to death, it is further enacted that it is unlawful for any loyal subject of the king to shelter or harbor, clothe or feed any such persons who are vile traitors and rebels to their king and country, and that any subject of his majesty who kills such a traitor or rebel doth thereby commit an act of justice and loyalty for which he may be rewarded by the sum of twenty guineas. There was a pause when the corporal had finished reading. John Stitch was leaning upon his hammer. The young man once more busied himself with the bellows. Outside the clearing shower of September rain began pattering upon the thatched roof of the forge. Well said John Stitch at last, as the corporal put the heavy parchment away in his wallet. Well, and are you going to tell us who are those persons corporal, whom our village lads are told to murder by act of parliament? How shall we know a rebel and shoot him when we see one? There were forty persons down on the list a few weeks ago. Persons who were known to be in hiding in Derbyshire, said the young soldier. But, well, what's your but, corporal? There were forty persons whom twas lawful to murder a few weeks ago. What of them? They have been caught and hanged. Most of them replied the soldier quietly. Jim, lad, mined that fire, commented John Stitch, turning to his nephew out of Nottingham, for the latter was staring with glowing eyes and quivering lips at the corporal, who, not noticing him, continued carelessly. There was Lord Lovett now. You must have heard of him, John Stitch. He was beheaded a few days ago, and so was Lord Kilmarnock. They were lords, you see, and had a headsman all to themselves on Tower Hill. That's up in London. Some lesser folk have been hanged, and now there are only three rebels at large, and there are twenty guineas waiting for anyone who will bring the head of one of them to the nearest magistrate. The smith grunted. Well, and who are they? He asked roughly. Sir Andrew MacDonald, up from Tweedside. Then, Squire Fairfield, you'd mind him, John Stitch, over Stafford Sherway. I, I, I mind him well enough. His mother was a papist, and he clung to the stewart cause. Young man, too, and hiding for his life. Well, and who else? The young Earl of Stratton. What? Him from Stratton Hall? said John Stitch in open astonishment. Jim, lad, he added sternly, Thou art a clumsy fool. The young man had started involuntarily at sound of the last name mentioned by the corporal, and the bellows which he had tried to wield fell with a clatter on the floor. Be guy, but an act of parliament can make thee a lawful assassin, it seems, added honest John with a laugh. But let me perish if it can make thee a good smith. What think you, Master Corporal? Odd's life. The lad is too soft-hearted, may have. Our Derbyshire lads haven't much sense in their heads, have they? Well, you mind the same, Corporal. Derbyshire born and Derbyshire bred, eh? Strong in the arm and weak in the head, laughed the soldier, concluding the apt quotation. That's just it. Odd's buds, they want some sense. What's a rebel or a traitor but vermin, eh? And don't we kill vermin all of us, and don't call it murder, either. What? He laughed pleasantly and carelessly, and tapped the side of his wallet, where rested his Majesty's proclamation. He was a young soldier, nothing more, attentive to duty, ready to obey, neither willing nor allowed to reason for himself. He had been taught that rebels and traitors were vermin, eh? Gad, vermin they were, and as such must be got rid of, for the sake of the rest of the kingdom, and the safety of his Majesty the King. John Stitch made no comment on the Corporal's profession of faith. We'll talk about all that some other time, Corporal, he said at last, but I am busy now, you see. No offense, Friend Stitch. Odd's life. Duty, you know. John duty, eh? His Majesty's orders, and I had them from the Captain, who had them from the Duke of Cumberland himself, so you mind the act, Friend. I, I mind it well enough. Everyone knows you to be a loyal subject of King George, added the Corporal in conciliatory tones, for John was a power in the district, and I'm sure your nephew is the same. But duty is duty, and no offense meant. That's right enough, Corporal, said John Stitch impatiently. So good morrow to you, John Stitch. Good morrow. The Corporal nodded to the young man, then turned on his heel, and presently his voice was heard ringing out the word of command. Attention, right turn, quick march. John Stitch and the young man watched the half-dozen red-coated figures as they turned to skirt the cottage, the dull thud of their feet quickly dying away, as they wound their way slowly up the muddy path which leads across the heath to Aldwark Village. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Bow Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy Inside the forge all was still, whilst the last of the muffled sounds died away in the distance, John Stitch had not resumed work. It was his turn now to stare mootily before him. The young man had thrown the bellows aside, and was pacing the rough earthen floor of the forge like some caged animal. Tracked, he murmured at last between clenched teeth, tracked like some wild beast, perhaps shot anon like a dangerous cur behind a hedge. He sighed a long and bitter sigh, full of sorrow, anxiety, disappointment. It had come to this then, his name among the others, the traitors, the rebels, and he, an innocent man. Nay, my lord, said the smith quietly, not while John Stitch owns a roof that can shelter you. The young man paused in his feverish walk. A look of gentleness and gratitude softened the care-worn expression on his face. With a boyish gesture he threw back the fair hair which fell in curly profusion over his forehead. And with a frank and winning grace he sought and grasped the worthy smith's rough brown hand. Honest stitch, he said at last, whilst his voice shook a little as he spoke, and to think that I cannot even reward your devotion. Nay, my lord, retorted John Stitch, drying up his burly figure to its full height. Don't talk of reward, I would gladly give my life for you and your family. And this was no idle talk. John Stitch meant every word he said. Honest, kind, simple-hearted, John. He loved those to whom he owed everything, loved them with all the devotion of his strong, faithful nature. The late Lord Strenton had brought him up, cared for him, given him a trade, and set him up in the cottage and forge at the crossroads. And honest Stitch felt that as everything that was good in life had come from my lord and his family, so everything he could give should be theirs in return. Ah, I fear me, sighed the young man, that it is your life you risk now by sheltering me. Yet it was all such a horrible mistake. Philip James Gascoigne, eleventh Earl of Strenton, was at this time not twenty-one years of age. There is that fine portrait of him at Brassing Hall, painted by Hogarth, just before this time. The artist has well caught the proud features, the fine blue eyes, the boyish curly head, which have been the characteristics of the Gascoigne's for many generations. He has also succeeded in indicating the sensitiveness of the mouth, that somewhat feminine turn of the lips, that all too rounded curve of the chin and jaw, which perhaps robs the handsome face of its virile manliness. There certainly is a look of indecision, of weakness, of will, about the lower part of the face. But it is so frank, so young, so insouciant, that it wins all hearts, even if it does not captivate the judgment. Of course, when he was very young, his sympathies went out to the Stuart cause, had not the Gascoigne's suffered and died for Charles Stuart, but a hundred years ago. Why the change? Why this allegiance to an alien dynasty, to a king who spoke the language of his subjects with a foreign accent? His father, the late Lord Stratton, a contented, unargumentative British nobleman of the eighteenth century, had not thought it worth his while to explain to the growing lad the religious and political questions involved in the upholding of this foreign dynasty. Perhaps he did not understand them altogether himself. The family motto is poor la Roy, so the Gascoigne's fought for a Stuart when he was king, and against him when he was a pretender, and old Lord Stratton expected his children to reverence the family motto and to have no opinions of their own. And yet, to the hearts of many, the Stuart cause made a strong appeal. From Scotland came the fame of the Bonnie Prince, who won all hearts wherever he went. Philip was young, his father's discipline was irksome, he had some friends among the Highland Lords, and while his father lived, there had as yet been no occasion in the English Midlands to do anything very daring for the Stuart pretender. When the Earl of Stratton died, Philip, a mere boy then, succeeded to title and estates in the first flush of new duties and new responsibilities, his old enthusiasm remained half forgotten. As a peer of the realm, he had registered his allegiance to King George, and with his youthful romantic nature all of fire, he clung to that new oath of his, idealized it, and loyally resisted the blandishments and lores held out to him from Scotland and from France. Then came the news that Charles Edward, backed by French money and French influence, would march upon London, and would stop at Derby to rally round his standard, his friends in the Midlands. Young Lord Stratton, torn between memories of his boyhood and the duties of his new position, feared to be invagled into breaking his allegiance to King George. The malevolent fairy, who at his birth had given him that weak mouth and softly rounded chin, had stamped his worst characteristic on the young handsome face. Philip's one hope at this juncture was to flee from temptation. He knew that Charles Edward, remembering his past ardor, would demand his help and his adherence, and that he, Philip, might be powerless to refuse. So he fled from the county, despising himself as a coward, yet boyishly clinging to the idea that he would keep the oath he had sworn to King George. He wished to put miles of country between himself and the possible breaking of that oath, the possible yielding to the Bonnie Prince, whom none could resist. He left his sister, Lady Patience, at Stratton Hall, well cared for by old retainers, and he, a loyal subject to his king, became a fugitive. Then came the catastrophe, that miserable retreat from Derby, the bedraggled remains of a disappointed army, finally colluding and complete disaster. King George's soldiers scouring the country for rebels, the bills of attainer, the quick trials and swift executions. Soon the suspicion grew into certainty that the fugitive Earl of Stratton was one of the pretenders foremost adherents. On his weary way from Derby, Prince Charles Edward had asked and obtained a knight's shelter at Stratton Hall. When Philip tried to communicate with his sister and to return to his home, he found that she was watched, and that he was himself attainted by act of parliament. Yet he felt himself guiltless and loyal. He was guiltless and loyal. How his name came to be included in the list of rebels was still a mystery to him. Someone must have lodged sworn information against him, but who, surely not his old friends, the adherents of Charles Edward out of revenge for his half-heartedness? In the meantime he, a mere lad, became an outcast, condemned to death by act of parliament. Presently all might be cleared, all would be well, but for the moment he was like a wild beast, hiding in hedges and ditches with his life at the mercy of any grasping Judas, willing to sell his fellow creature for a few guineas. It was horrible, horrible, Philip vainly tried all the day to rouse himself from his morbid reverie. At intervals he would grasp the kind Smith's hand and mutter anxiously. My letter to my sister John, you are sure she had it? And patient John would repeat a dozen times the day, I am quite sure, my lord. But since the corporal's visit, Philip's mood had become more feverish. My letter, he repeated, has patience, had my letter? Why doesn't she come? And in spite of John's entreaties, he would go to the entrance, which faced the lonely heath, and with burning eyes, look out across the wilderness of furs and bracken, towards that distant horizon, where lay his home, where waited his patient loving sister. I beg you, my lord, come away from the door, it isn't safe, not really safe, urged John Stitch again and again. Then why will you not tell me who took my letter to Stratton Hall, said the boy with feverish impatience? My lord, some stupid dolt may have, who has lost his way, or perchance betrayed me. My lord, pleaded the Smith, have I not sworn that your letter went by hands as faithful, as trusty, as my own? But I'll not rest, and you do not tell me who took it. I wish to know he added, with that sudden look of command, which all the Strattons have worn for many generations past. The old habitual deference of the retainer for his lord was strong in the heart of John, he yielded. Nay, my lord, and you will not be satisfied, he said, with a sigh. I'll tell you, though heaven knows that his safety is as dear to me as yours, both dearer than my own. Well, who was it, asked the young man eagerly? I trusted your letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman. In a moment Philip was on his feet, danger, amazement, horror, robbed him of speech for a few seconds. But the next he had gripped the Smith's arm, and like a furious, thoughtless, unreasoning child, he gasped. Beau Brocade, the highwayman. My life, my honor, to a highwayman. Are you mad or drunk, John Stitch? Neither my lord said John with great respect, but looking the young man fearlessly in the face, you don't know Beau Brocade, and there are no safer hands than his. He knows every inch of the moor, and fears neither man nor devil. Touched in spite of himself by the Smith's earnestness, Philip's wrath abated somewhat. Still he seemed dazed, not understanding, vaguely senting danger or treachery. But a highwayman, he repeated mechanically, I and a gentleman retorted John with quiet conviction, a gentleman if ever there was one. I and not the only one who has taken to the road these hard times, he added under his breath. But a thief, John, a man who might sell my letter, betray my whereabouts. A man, my lord, who would die in torture sooner than do that. The Smith's quiet and earnest conviction seemed to chase away the last vestige of Philip's wrath. Still he seemed unconvinced. A hero of romance, John, this highwayman of yours, he laughed bitterly. Honest, John, scratched the back of his curly black head. Noah, he said, somewhat puzzled. I know not about that, or what's a hero of romance, but I do know that Bo Brocade is a friend of the poor, and that our village lads won't lay their hands on him even if they could. No, not though the government have offered a hundred guineas as the price of his head. Five times the value of mine, it seems, said Philip with a sigh. But he added, with a sudden return to feverish anxiety, if he was caught last night with my letter in his hands. Caught, Bo Brocade caught, laughed John Stitch. Nay, all the soldiers of the Duke of Cumberland's army couldn't do that, my lord. Besides, I know he wasn't caught. I saw him on his chestnut horse just before the corporal came. I heard him laughing at the redcoats, maybe. Nay, my lord, I beg you have no fear. Your letter is in her ladyship's hand now. I'll lay my life on that. I had to trust someone, my lord. He said after a while, as Lord Stratton once more relapsed into gloomy silence. I could do nothing for your lordship single-handed, and you wanted that letter to reach her ladyship. I scarce knew what to do, but I did know I could trust Bo Brocade, and your secret is as safe with him as it is with me. Philip sighed wearily. Ah, well, I'll believe it all, friend John. I'll trust you and your friend, and be grateful to you both, have no fear of that. Who am I but a wretched creature whom any rascal may shoot by act of parliament? But John Stitch had come to the end of his power of argument. Never a man of many words. He had only become valuable when speaking of his friend. Philip tried to look cheerful and convinced, but he was chafing under this enforced inactivity, and the dark, close atmosphere of the forge. He had spent two days under the Smith's roof, and time seemed to creep with lead-weighted wings. Yet every sound, every strange footstep, made his nerves quiver with morbid apprehension, and even now at sound of a tremulous voice from the road, shrank, moody, and impatient into the darkest corner of the hut. Emma Orksy. This liprevox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Jines, Salt Lake City, Utah. Jock Miggs, The Shepherd. Be you at home, Master Stitch? A curious, wisened little figure stood in the doorway, peering cautiously into the forge. In a moment John Stitch was on the alert. Shhh! he whispered quickly. Have no fear, my lord, tis only some fool from the village. Did ye say ye baint at home, Master Stitch? queried the same tremulous voice again. I didn't quite hear ye. Yes, yes, I'm here all right, Jock Miggs, said the Smith heartily. Come in. Jock Miggs came in, making as little noise and taking up as little room as possible. Dressed in a well-worn smock and shabby corduroy breeches, he had a curious, shrunken, timid air about his whole personality as he removed his soft felt hat and began scratching his scanty, toe-colored locks. He was a youngish man, too, probably not much more than thirty, yet his brown face was a mass of ruts and wrinkles like a furrowed path on bracing more. Morning, Mr. Stitch, morning, he said, with a certain air of vagueness and apology, as with obvious admiration, he stopped to watch the broad back of the Smith and his strong arms wielding the heavy hammer. Morning, Miggs, retorted John, not looking up from his work. How's the old woman? I don't know, Mr. Stitch, replied Miggs, with a dubious shake of the head. Badly, I expect, same as yesterday, he added in a more cheerful spirit. Why, what's the matter? I don't know, Mr. Stitch, that there's anything the matter, explained Jock Miggs, with slow and sad deliberation, but she's dead, same as yesterday. Involuntarily, Philip laughed at the quaint, fatalistic statement. Hello, said Miggs, looking at him, with the same apathetic wonder, who be yon lad? That's my nephew Jim, out of Nottingham, said John, come to give me a hand. Morning, lad, piped Miggs in his high trouble, as he extended a wrinkled bony hand to strutten. Lad, John Stitch, he exclaimed, any one would know he's one of your family from the muscle he's got. And gently, meditatively, he rubbed one shriveled hand against the other, looking with awe at the fine figure of a man before him. A banging lad, your nephew too, he added with a chuckle. He'll be turning the heads of all the girls, this side of Brassington, maybe. Oh, a warrant, he's got a sweetheart at home. A, Jim Lad, or maybe more than one. But what brings ye here this day, friend Miggs? The wisened little face assumed a puzzled expression. I don't know, he said vaguely, maybe I wanted to tell ye about the soldiers I seed at the Royal George over Brassington Way. What about him, Miggs? I don't know, I see a corporal and lots of fellers in red, some say there's more of them. I don't know, ha, said Stitch carelessly. What are they after? I don't know, commented Miggs imperturbably, some say they're after that chap, Beau Brocade. There was a coach stopped on the heath again last night, fifty guineas he took out of it he did, and jock Miggs chuckled feebly with a parent but irresponsible delight. Some folks say it were Sir Humphrey Chaloner's coach over from Hardington, and no one's going to break their hearts over that, he, he, he. But I don't know, he added with sudden frightened vagueness, be they cavalry soldiers over at the Royal George, Miggs, asked John. I don't know, I seed no horses, looks more like foot soldiers, but I don't know. The corporal, he read out something just now about our getting twenty guineas. If we shoot one of them rebels, I'd be mighty glad to get twenty guineas, Master Stitch, he said reflectively. But I don't know as how I could handle a musket rightly, and folks say them traitors are mighty desperate fellows. But I don't know. Then with sudden resolution, jock Miggs turned to the doorway. Morning, Master Stitch, he said decisively. Morning, lad, morning, morning, Miggs. However, it seemed that jock Miggs' visit to the forge was not so purposeless as it at first appeared. He, he, he, he chuckled as if suddenly recollecting his errand. I'd almost forgot why I came. Farmer Crabtree wanted to know, Master Stitch, if you've got the weather's collar mended yet. Oh yes, to be sure, replied the smith, pointing to a rough bench on which lay a number of metal articles. You'll find it on that there bench, jock. Farmer Crabtree, soji his sheep yet. Jock toddled up to the bench and picked up the weather's collar. Noah, he muttered, not yet, worse luck, and his temper is that hot, so don't ye charge him too much for the collar, Master Stitch, or it's me that'll have to suffer. And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stitch laughed. Philip himself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at the quaint figure of the little shepherd with his wise and face and gentle, vaguely fatalistic manner. Thus it was that no one in the forge had perceived the patter of small feet on the mud outside, and when jock Miggs, with more elaborate mornings and final leave takings once more reached the doorway, he came in violent collision with a short, becloaked and closely hooded figure that was picking its way on very small, very high-heeled shoes through the maze of puddles, which guarded the entrance to the forge. The impact sent jock Miggs scared and apologetic, stumbling in one direction, whilst the grey hood flew off the head of its wearer and disclosed in the setting of its shell-pink lining a merry, pretty, impudent little face, with brown eyes sparkling and red lips pouting an obvious irritation. Lud, man, said the dainty young damsel, withering the unfortunate shepherd with a scornful glance, why don't you look where you're going? I don't know, replied jock Miggs with his usual humble vagueness, morning, miss, morning, master stitch, morning, and still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulled at his forelock, readjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took his final leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards the heath. But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl's voice, Stratton had started in uncontrollable excitement. Betty, he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stitch's arm. I, I, replied the cautious smith, but I beg you, my lord, keep in the background until I find out if all is safe. Mistress Betty's saucy brown eyes followed jock Miggs's quaint, retreating figure. Well, you're a pretty bit of sheep's wool, ain't ye? She shouted after him with a laugh and a shrug of her plump shoulders. Then she peered into the forge. Lud, love you, master stitch? She said, how goes it with you? In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stratton had retired into the remote corner of the forge. John Stitch, too, was masking the entrance with his burly figure. All the better, Mistress Betty, he said, for a sight of your pretty face. He had become very red, had honest John, and his rough manner seemed completely to have deserted him. In fact, not to put to fine a point upon it, the worthy smith looked distinctly shy and sheepish. She looked up at him and laughed a pleased, coquettish, little laugh, the laugh of a woman who has oft been told that she is pretty, and has not tired of the hearing. John Stitch, moreover, was so big and burly, folks called him hard and rough, and it vastly entertained the young damsel to see him standing there before her as awkward and uncomfortable as Jock Miggs himself. Am I not to step inside, Master Stitch? she asked. Yes, yes, Mistress Betty, murmur John, who seemed to have lost himself in admiration of a pair of tiny buckled shoes muddy to the ankles, such ankles, which showed to great advantage beneath Betty's short, green curdle. An angry, impatient movement behind him, however, quickly recalled his scattered senses. Did her ladyship receive a letter, Mistress? he asked eagerly. Oh, yes, a stranger brought it, replied Betty, with a pout, for she preferred John's mute appreciation of her small person to his interest in other matters. However, the demon of Mischief, no doubt, whispered something in her ear for the further undoing of the worthy smith, for she put on a demure, mysterious little air, turned up her brown eyes, sighed with affectation, and murmured ecstatically, Oh, such a stranger, the fine eyes of him, Master Stitch, and such an air, and, oh, added little Madame with unction, such clothes. But though, no doubt, all these fine errors and graces wrought deadly havoc in poor John's heart, he concealed it well enough under a show of eager impatience. Yes, yes, the stranger, he said, casting a furtive glance behind him, he gave you a letter for my lady. La, you needn't be in such a hurry, Master Stitch, retorted Mistress Betty, adding, with all the artifice of which she was capable, the stranger wasn't. But this was too much for John. There had been such a wealth of meaning in Betty's brown eyes. Oh, he wasn't, was he? he asked, with a jealous frown, and pray what had he to say to you, there was no message except the letter. But the demon of mischief was satisfied, and Betty was disposed to be kind, even if slightly mysterious. Oh, never mind, she rejoined archly, he gave me a letter which I gave to my lady, that was early this morning. Well, and? But matters were progressing too slowly at any rate for one feverish, anxious heart. Philip had tried to hold himself in check, though he was literally hanging on pretty Mistress Betty's lips. Now he could contain himself no longer. Lady Patience had had his letter. The mysterious highwayman had not failed in his trust, and the news Betty had brought meant life or death to him. Throwing prudence to the winds, he pushed John Stitch aside, and seizing the young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly, Yes, this morning, Betty, then what did her ladyship do? Betty was frightened, and like a child, was ready to drown her fright in tears. She had not recognized my lord in those dirty clothes. Don't you know me, Betty? asked Philip a little more quietly. Betty cast a timid glance at the two men before her, and smiled through the coming tears. Of course, my lord, I, she murmured shyly, Tis my nephew Jim out of Nottingham, Mistress, said John sternly, try and remember that. And now tell us, what did her ladyship do? She had the horses put to, not an hour after the stranger had been. Thomas is driving, and Timothy is our only other escort, but we've not drawn rain since we left the hall. Yes, yes, came from two pairs of eager lips. And my ladys stopped the coach about two hundred yards from here, continued Betty, with great volubility, and she told me to run on here, to see that the coast was clear. She knew I could find my way, and she wouldn't trust Timothy, as she trusts me, added the young girl, with a pretty touch of pride. But where is she, Betty? Where is she? Betty pointed to the clump of furs, which stood like ghostly sentinels on the crest of the hill, just where the road turned sharply to the east. Just beyond those trees, my lord, and she made Timothy watch, until I came round the bend, and in sight of the forge, but law the mud on the roads, tis fit to drown you. But already John Stitch was outside, beckoning to Mistress Betty. Come, Mistress, quick, he said excitedly, her ladyship must be nigh crazy with impatience. Buy your leave, my lord, I'll help Mistress Betty on her way, and I'll keep this place in sight. I'll go no further. Yes, yes, rejoined Philip feverishly. Go, go, fly, if you can. I'll be safe. I'll not show myself. God give you both wings, for I'll not live now till I see my sister. Eager boyish, full of wild gaiety, he seemed to have thrown off his morbid anxiety as he would a mantle. He even laughed wholeheartedly as he watched Betty with many heirs and graces, lads and eye vows, making great pretence at being unable to walk in the mud and leaning heavily on honest Stitch's arm. He watched them as they picked their way up the so-called road, a perfect quagmire after the heavy September rains. The air seemed so different now, the heath smelt good. There was vigour and life in the keen Norwester, how green the bracken looked, and how harmoniously it seemed to blend with the purple shoots of the bramble laden with ripening fruit, how delicate the more tender green of the gorse, and there that vivid patch of mauve, the first glimpse of opening heather. The heavy clouds, too, were rolling away. The September sun was going to have his own way after all, and spread his kingdom of blue and gold over the distant Derbyshire Hills. Hope had come, like the divine magician, to chase away all that was gray and sad and dreary, and hope had met youth and shaken him by the hand. They are such friends, such inseparable companions, these two. What mattered it that some few yards away, the old gallows, like some eerie witch, still spread its gaunt arm over that fluttering bit of parchment, the proclamation of his Majesty's Parliament. What, though it spoke of death, of treachery, of bills, of a tainter, of Tower Hill, did not the good Norwester from the Moor flutter round it, and in wanton frolic attack it now with madcap fury and a shrill whistle, and now with a long drawn-out sigh. The parchment resisted with vigor. It bore the onslaught of the wind twice, thrice, and once again. But the Norwester was not to be outdone, and again it renewed the attack, took the parchment by the corner, pulled and twisted at it until at last, with one terrific blast, it tore the royal proclamation off the old gallows, and sent it whirling in a mad gallop across the Moor, far, very far away, onto Derby, to London, to the place where all winds go. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Boe Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. There's none like her, none. There was something more than ordinary affection between Philip, Earl of Stratton, and his sister, Lady Patience Gascoigne. 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 woa, woa there, there, as he tried to encourage his horses in the heavy task of pulling the cumbersome vehicle through the morass. Sounded like sweet 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 axels. Thus patience had traveled 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 Stitch, 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 gas coins had always shown for any cause they had at heart. At the crossroads 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 deer face which she knew would be on the lookout for her. John Stitch 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 crossroads ready to help Lady Patience to alight. Let the coach wait here, she said to the driver, we may sleep at Worxworth tonight. Ah, my good Stitch, she added, grasping the smith's hand eagerly. My brother, how is he? All the better, since he knows your ladyship has come, replied Stitch. 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, have you heard of it? I, she replied sadly, even before you did, I think Sir Humphrey Chulliner 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 it is heaven alone who knows which was the just cause. There is no doubt as to which was the stronger cause at any rate 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 stewards 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 to his 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 sex and 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, love it, 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 and 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 Chaliner. 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 Chaliner advise you to do? He said that Charles Edward would surely persuade me to join his standard, and he would demand shelter at Stratton 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. Chaliner 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 Chaliner'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 Lovett. 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, woolen 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 realized 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 love it, he added, handing one of these to patients. 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 Lovett'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 anymore. 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 ends 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 Attainer 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 stitch. 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 hull. 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 Fountainhead 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 realize 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 equity 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 Stitch'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 Hardington Way. I thought, perhaps, it might be more prudent. Hardington, brother and sister, had uttered the exclamation simultaneously. He in astonishment, she in obvious alarm. Who can it be, John? Thank you, she asked with quivering lips. Well, it couldn't very well be anyone except Sir Humphrey Chaloner, my lady. No one else had have occasion to come down these Godforsaken roads. But they are some way off yet, he added reassuringly. I saw them first on the crest of the further hill. Maybe his honor 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 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 Stitch cheerfully. If Tiz Sir Humphrey will take his driver some time yet to walk down the incline, and then up again to the crossroads, Tiz a mile and a half for sure, and the horses will have to go foot pace. There's plenty of time for your ladieship 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 ladieship to drive, Tiz only a country in. But they'd give your horses and men a feed and rest. If your ladieship will 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 ladieship rejoined stitch, and your horses could never reach worksworth without a long rest. Tiz, the best plan and your ladieship 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 ladieship, explained John, whose kindly eyes had dropped a tear over the gracious hand held out to him. Then to start for London tomorrow morning. No, no, I must start tonight. I could not bear to wait even until dawn. But the footpads on the heath, your ladieship, 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 worksworth. None, your ladieship, this is the only possible way, back here to the crossroads and on to worksworth from here. Then I'll see you again, dear, she said tenderly, clinging to Stretton, at sunset may have. 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, woman like, 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 Stitch. 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. Stitch 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 Gascoigne entered her coach at the crossroads, where Mistress Betty had been waiting for her ladyship with as much patience as she could muster. By the time Sir Humphrey Chaliner's coach had reached the bottom of the decline on the Hardington Road and begun the weary ascent up to the Blacksmiths Forge, Lady Patience's carriage was well out of sight beyond the bend that led eastward to Aldwark Village. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Bo Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. A squire of high degree. The Chaliner's claimed direct descent from that sword de Chaliner, who escorted Cord de Leon to the crusade against Saladin. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a de Chaliner figures in the Domesday Book as owning considerable property in the neighborhood of the peak. That they had been very influential and wealthy people at one time, there could be no doubt. There was a room at old Hardington Manor where James I had slept for seven nights, a gracious guest of Mr. Ilbert Chaliner in the year 1612. The Baronessy then conferred upon the family dates from that same year, probably as an act of recognition to his host on the part of the royal guest. Since that memorable time, however, the Chaliner's have not made history. They took no part, whatever, in the great turmoil which, in the middle of the 17th century, shook the country to its very foundations, lighting the lurid torch of civil war, setting brother against brother, friend against friend, threatening a constitution and murdering a king. The Chaliner's had held aloof throughout all that time, intent on preserving their property and in amassing wealth. The later conflict between a Catholic king and his Protestant people touched them even less. Neither pretender could boast of a Chaliner for an adherent. They remained people of substance, even of importance, in their own county, but nothing more. Sir Humphrey Chaliner was about this time not more than thirty-five years of age. Hale, hardy, boisterous, he might have been described as a typical example of an English squire of those days, but for a certain taint of parsimoniousness of greed and love of money in his constitution which had gained for him a not-too-enviable reputation in the Midlands. He was thought to be wealthy, no doubt he was, but at the cost of a good deal of harshness towards the tenants on his estates, and he was famed throughout Staffordshire for driving a harder bargain than anyone else this countryside. Any traveller, let alone one of such consequence as the squire of Hardington, was indeed rare in these out-of-the-way parts that were on the way to nowhere. Sir Humphrey himself was but little known in the neighbourhood of Aldwerke and Worxworth, and only from time to time passed through the latter village on his way to Derby. John Stitch, the blacksmith, however, knew every one of consequence for a great many miles around, and undoubtedly, next to the Earls of Stratton, the challengers were the most important family in the sister counties. Therefore, when Sir Humphrey's coach stopped at the crossroads and the squire himself alighted therefrom and walked towards the Smith's cottage, the latter came forward with all the deference due to a personage of such consequence, and asked respectfully what he might do for his honour. Only repair this pistol for me, Master Smith, said Sir Humphrey, you might also examine the lock of its fellow. One needs them in these parts. He laughed, a not unpleasant, boisterous laugh, as he handed a pair of silver-mounted pistols to John Stitch. Will your honour wait while I get them done? asked John with some hesitation. They won't take long. Nay, I'll be down this way again to-morrow, replied his honour. I am putting up at Aldwerke for the night. John said nothing. Probably he mistrusted the language which rose to his lips at this announcement of Sir Humphrey's plans. In a moment he remembered Lady Patience's look of terror when the squire's coach first came into view on the crest of the distant hill, and his faithful, honest heart quivered with apprehension at the thought that a man whom she so obviously mistrusted was so close upon her track. I suppose there is a decent in, in that God-forsaken whole, eh? asked the squire jovially. I've arranged to meet my man of business there, that old scarecrow, middichip, but I'd wished to spend the night. There's only a small waist-side in, your honour, murmur John. Better than this abode of cutthroats, this brassing moor, anyway, laughed his honour. Begad! night overtook me some ten miles from Hardington, and I was attacked by a damned rascal who robbed me of fifty guineas. My men were a pair of cowards, and I was helpless inside my coach. John tried to repress a smile. The story of Sir Humphrey Chaloner's midnight adventure had culminated in fifty guineas being found in the poor box at Brassington Courthouse, and Mr. Inch, the beetle, had brought the news of it even as far as the crossroads. I must see squire west about this business, muttered Sir Humphrey, whilst John stood silent, apparently intent on examining the pistols, tis a scandal to the whole country, this constant highway robbery on Brassing Moor. The impudent rascal who attacked me was dressed like a prince, and rode a horse worth eighty guineas at the least. I suspect him to be the man they call Beau Brocade. Did your honour see him plainly? asked John, somewhat anxiously. See him, laughed Sir Humphrey, does one ever see these rascals? Begad! He had stopped my coach, plundered me, and galloped off ere I could shout, damn you, thrice, just for one moment, though one of my lanterns flashed upon the impudent thief. He was masked, of course, but I tell thee, honest friend, he had on a coat the Prince of Wales might envy. As for his horse, t'was a thoroughbred. I'd have given eighty guineas to possess. And every one knows your honour is clever at a bargain, said John, with a suspicion of malice. Humph! grunted the squire. By gad, he added, with his usual jovial laugh, the rogue does not belie his name. Beau Brocade! For sooth, faith, he dresses like a lord, and cuts your purse with an air of gallantry, and he were doing you a favour. It was difficult to tell what went on in Sir Humphrey Chaloner's mind, behind that handsome, somewhat florid face of his. The task was, in any case, quite beyond the powers of honest John Stitch, though he would have given quite a good deal of his worldly wealth, to know for certain whether his honour's journey across Brossingmore, and on to Aldwark, had anything to do with that of lady patience along this same road. Nothing the squire said, however, helped John towards making a guess in that direction. Just as Sir Humphrey, having left the pistols in the smith's hands, turned to go back to his coach, he said quite casually, Whose was the coach that passed here about half an hour before mine? The coach, your honour? I, when we reached the crest of the hill, my man told me he could see a coach standing at the crossroads. Whose was it? For one moment, John hesitated, the situation was just a little too delicate for the worthy smith to handle. But he felt, as Sir Humphrey was going to Aldwark, and therefore would surely meet Lady Patience, that lying would be worse than useless, and might even arouse unpleasant suspicions. Twas Lady Patience, gas-goins, coach, he said at last. Ah! said the squire, with the same obvious indifference. Whether did she go? I was at work in my forge, your honour, and her ladyship did not stop. I fancy she drove down worksworth way, but I did not see or hear, for I was very busy. Hum! commented his honour, whilst a shrewd and somewhat sarcastic smile played round the corners of his full lips. I'll stay the night at Aldwark, he said, nodding to the smith, faith no more travelling after dark for me on this unhallowed moor, and for sure my horses could not reach worksworth now before nightfall. So have the pistols ready for me by seven o'clock tomorrow morning, eh, my honest friend? Then he entered his carriage, and slowly, with many a creek and a groan, the cumbersome vehicle turned down the road to Aldwark, whilst John Stitch, with a dubious, anxious sigh, went back into his forge.