CHAPTER III
THE FUGITIVE
Inside the forge all was still, whilst the last of the muffled soundsdied away in the distance. John Stich had not resumed work. It was histurn now to stare moodily before him.
The young man had thrown the bellows aside, and was pacing the roughearthen floor of the forge like some caged animal.
"Tracked!" he murmured at last between clenched teeth, "tracked likesome 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 theothers--the traitors, the rebels! and he an innocent man!
"Nay, my lord!" said the smith, quietly, "not while John Stich owns aroof that can shelter you."
The young man paused in his feverish walk; a look of gentleness andgratitude softened the care-worn expression on his face: with a boyishgesture he threw back the fair hair which fell in curly profusion overhis forehead, and with a frank and winning grace he sought and graspedthe worthy smith's rough brown hand.
"Honest Stich!" he said at last, whilst his voice shook a little as hespoke, "and to think that I cannot even reward your devotion!"
"Nay, my lord," retorted John Stich, drawing up his burly figure to itsfull height, "don't talk of reward. I would gladly give my life for youand your family."
And this was no idle talk. John Stich meant every word he said.Honest, kind, simple-hearted John! he loved those to whom he owedeverything, loved them with all the devotion of his strong, faithfulnature.
The late Lord Stretton had brought him up, cared for him, given him atrade, and set him up in the cottage and forge at the cross-roads, andhonest Stich felt that as everything that was good in life had come frommy lord and his family, so everything he could give should be theirs inreturn.
"Ah! I fear me," sighed the young man, "that it is your life you risknow by sheltering me."
Yet it was all such a horrible mistake.
Philip James Gascoyne, eleventh Earl of Stretton, was at this time nottwenty-one years of age. There is that fine portrait of him at BrassingHall painted by Hogarth just before this time. The artist has wellcaught the proud features, the fine blue eyes, the boyish, curly head,which have been the characteristics of the Gascoynes for manygenerations. He has also succeeded in indicating the sensitiveness ofthe mouth, that somewhat feminine turn of the lips, that all too-roundedcurve of the chin and jaw, which perhaps robs the handsome face of itsvirile manliness. There certainly is a look of indecision, of weaknessof 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 captivatethe judgment.
Of course, when he was very young, his sympathies went out to the Stuartcause. Had not the Gascoynes suffered and died for Charles Stuart but ahundred years ago? Why the change? Why this allegiance to an aliendynasty, to a king who spoke the language of his subjects with a foreignaccent?
His father, the late Lord Stretton, a contented, unargumentative Britishnobleman of the eighteenth century, had not thought it worth his whileto explain to the growing lad the religious and political questionsinvolved in the upholding of this foreign dynasty. Perhaps he did notunderstand them altogether himself. The family motto is "Pour le Roi."So the Gascoynes fought for a Stuart when he was King, and against himwhen he was a Pretender, and old Lord Stretton expected his children toreverence 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 heartswhere'er he went. Philip was young, his father's discipline wasirksome, he had some friends among the Highland lords: and while hisfather lived there had as yet been no occasion in the English Midlandsto do anything very daring for the Stuart Pretender.
When the Earl of Stretton died, Philip, a mere boy then, succeeded totitle and estates. In the first flush of new duties and newresponsibilities his old enthusiasm remained half forgotten. As a peerof the realm he had registered his allegiance to King George, and withhis youthful romantic nature all afire, he clung to that new oath ofhis, idealised it and loyally resisted the blandishments and lures heldout to him from Scotland and from France.
Then came the news that Charles Edward, backed by French money andFrench influence, would march upon London and would stop at Derby torally round his standard his friends in the Midlands.
Young Lord Stretton, torn between memories of his boyhood and the dutiesof his new position, feared to be inveigled into breaking his allegianceto King George. The malevolent fairy who at his birth had given himthat weak mouth and softly rounded chin, had stamped his worstcharacteristic on the young handsome face. Philip's one hope at thisjuncture was to flee from temptation; he knew that Charles Edward,remembering his past ardour, 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 boyishlyclinging to the idea that he would keep the oath he had sworn to KingGeorge. He wished to put miles of country between himself and thepossible breaking of that oath, the possible yielding to the "bonniePrince" whom none could resist. He left his sister, Lady Patience, atStretton Hall, well cared for by old retainers, and he, a loyal subjectto his King, became a fugitive.
Then came the catastrophe: that miserable retreat from Derby; thebedraggled remains of a disappointed army; finally Culloden and completedisaster; King George's soldiers scouring the country for rebels, thebills of attainder, the quick trials and swift executions.
Soon the suspicion grew into certainty that the fugitive Earl ofStretton was one of the Pretender's foremost adherents. On his wearyway from Derby Prince Charles Edward had asked and obtained a night'sshelter at Stretton Hall. When Philip tried to communicate with hissister, and to return to his home, he found that she was watched, andthat 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 amystery to him: someone must have lodged sworn information against him.But who?--Surely not his old friends--the adherents of CharlesEdward--out of revenge for his half-heartedness?
In the meanwhile, he, a mere lad, became an outcast, condemned to deathby 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 andditches, with his life at the mercy of any grasping Judas willing tosell his fellow-creature for a few guineas.
It was horrible! horrible! Philip vainly tried all the day to rousehimself from his morbid reverie. At intervals he would grasp the kindsmith'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 shecome?"
And spite of John's entreaties he would go to the entrance which facedthe lonely Heath, and with burning eyes look out across the wildernessof furze 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 reallysafe," urged John Stich again and again.
"Then why will you not tell me who took my letter to Stretton Hall?"said the boy with feverish impatience.
"My lord..."
"Some stupid dolt mayhap, who has lost his way ... or ... perchancebetrayed me..."
"My lord," pleaded the smith, "have I not sworn that your letter went byhands as faithful, as trusty as my own?"
"But I'll not rest an you do not tell me who took it. I wish to know,"he added with that sudden look of command which all the Strettons haveworn for ma
ny generations past.
The old habitual deference of the retainer for his lord was strong inthe heart of John. He yielded.
"Nay, my lord, an you'll not be satisfied," he said with a sigh, "I'lltell you, though Heaven knows that his safety is as dear to me asyours--both dearer than my own."
"Well, who was it?" asked the young man, eagerly.
"I entrusted your letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, thehighwayman--"
In a moment Philip was on his feet: danger, amazement, horror, robbedhim of speech for a few seconds, but the next he had gripped the smith'sarm and like a furious, thoughtless, unreasoning child, he gasped,--
"Beau Brocade!! ... the highwayman!!! ... My life, my honour to ahighwayman!!! Are you mad or drunk, John Stich?"
"Neither, my lord," said John with great respect, but looking the youngman fearlessly in the face. "You don't know Beau Brocade, and there areno safer hands than his. He knows every inch of the Moor and fearsneither man nor devil."
Touched in spite of himself by the smith's earnestness, Philip's wrathabated somewhat; still he seemed dazed, not understanding, vaguelyscenting danger, or treachery.
"But a highwayman!" he repeated mechanically.
"Aye! and a gentleman!" retorted John with quiet conviction. "Agentleman if ever there was one! Aye! and not the only one who hasta'en to the road these hard times," he added under his breath.
"But a thief, John! A man who might sell my letter, betray mywhereabouts!..."
"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 lastvestige of Philip's wrath. Still he seemed unconvinced.
"A hero of romance, John, this highwayman of yours," he laughedbitterly.
Honest John scratched the back of his curly black head.
"Noa!" he said, somewhat puzzled. "I know nought about that or what's a... a hero of romance. But I do know that Beau Brocade is a friend ofthe poor, and that our village lads won't lay their hands on him, evenif they could. No! not though the Government have offered a hundredguineas 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 wascaught last night, with my letter in his hands..."
"Caught!!! Beau Brocade caught!" laughed John Stich, "nay, all thesoldiers 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 justbefore the Corporal came. I heard him laughing, at the red coats,maybe. Nay! my lord, I beg you have no fear, your letter is in herladyship's hand now, I'll lay my life on that."
"I had to trust someone, my lord," he said after awhile, as LordStretton once more relapsed into gloomy silence. "I could do nothingfor your lordship single-handed, and you wanted that letter to reach herladyship. I scarce knew what to do. But I did know I could trust BeauBrocade, 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 yourfriend, and be grateful to you both: have no fear of that! Who am I buta wretched creature, whom any rascal may shoot by Act of Parliament."
But John Stich had come to the end of his power of argument. Never aman of many words, he had only become voluble when speaking of hisfriend. Philip tried to look cheerful and convinced, but he was chafingunder this enforced inactivity and the dark, close atmosphere of theforge.
He had spent two days under the smith's roof and time seemed to creepwith lead-weighted wings: yet every sound, every strange footstep, madehis nerves quiver with morbid apprehension, and even now at sound of atremulous voice from the road, shrank, moody and impatient, into cornerof the hut.