to which was the stronger cause, at anyrate in England," said Stretton, with some bitterness. "Charles Edward was very ill-advised to cross the border at all, and in the Midlands no one cares about the Stuarts now. But that's all ancient history," he added with a weary sigh, "it's no use dwelling over all the wretched mistakes that were committed last year, 'tis only the misery that has abided until now."
"Why did you run away, Philip?" she asked.
"Because I was a fool ... and a coward," he added, while a blush of shame darkened his young Saxon face.
"No, no..."
"I thought if I remained at Stretton Charles Edward would demand my help ... and you know," he said with a quaint boyish smile, "I was never very good at saying 'Nay!' I knew they would persuade me. Lovat and Kilmarnock were such friends, and..."
"So you preferred to run away?"
"It was cowardly, wasn't it?"
"I am afraid it was," she said reluctantly, her tenderness and her conviction fighting an even battle in her heart. "But why wouldn't you tell me, dear?"
"Because I was a fool," he said, cursing himself for that same folly. "You were away in London just then, you remember?"
She nodded.
"And there was no one to advise me, except Challoner."
"Sir Humphrey? Then it was he?..."
Philip looked at her in astonishment. There was such a strange quiver in her voice; a note of deep anxiety, of almost hysterical alarm. But she checked herself quickly, and said more calmly, —
"What did Sir Humphrey Challoner advise you to do?"
"He said that Charles Edward would surely persuade me to join his standard, that he would demand shelter at Stretton Hall, and claim my allegiance."
"Yes, yes?"
"And he thought that it would be wiser for me to put two or three counties between myself and the temptation of becoming a rebel."
"He thought!..."
There was a world of bitter contempt in those two words she uttered. Even Philip, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could not fail to notice it.
"Challoner has always been my friend," he said almost reproachfully. "I fancy, little sister," he added with his boyish smile, "that it rests with you that he should become my brother."
"Hush, dear, don't speak of that."
"Why not?"
She did not reply, and there was a moment's silence between them. She was evidently hesitating whether to tell him of the fears, the suspicions which the mention of Sir Humphrey Challoner's name had aroused in her heart, or to leave the subject alone. At last she said quite gently, —
"But when I came home, dear, and found you had left the Hall without a message, without a word for me, why did you not tell me then?"
The boy hung his head. He felt the tender reproach, and there was nothing to be said.
"I would have stood by you," she continued softly. "I think I might have helped you. There was no disgrace in refusing to join a doomed cause, and you were a mere child when you made friends with Lovat."
"I know all that now, dear," he said with some impatience. "Heaven knows I am paying dearly enough for my cowardice and my folly. But even now I cannot understand how my name became mixed up with those of the rebels. Somebody must have sworn false information against me. But who? I haven't an enemy in the world, have I, dear?"
"No, no," she said quickly, but even as she spoke the look of involuntary alarm in her face belied the assurance of her lips.
But this was not the moment to add to his anxiety by futile, worrying conjectures. He had sent for her because he wanted her, and she was here to do for him, to help and support him in every way that her strength of will and her energy would dictate.
"You sent for me, Philip," she said with a cheerful, hopeful smile.
Her look seemed to put fresh life into his veins. In a moment he tried to conquer his despondency, and with a quick gesture he tore open the rough, woollen shirt he wore, and from beneath it drew a packet of letters. Not only his hand now, but his whole figure seemed to quiver with excitement as he gazed at this packet with glowing eyes.
"These letters, dear," he said in a whisper, "are my one hope of safety. They have not left my body day or night ever since I first understood my position and realised my danger, and now, with them, I place my life in your hands."
"Yes, Philip?"
"They prove my innocence," he continued, as nervously he pulled at the string that held the letters together. "Here is one from Lovat," he added, handing one of these to Patience, "read it, dear, quickly. You will see he begs me to join the Pretender's standard. Here's another from Kilmarnock — that was after the retreat from Derby — he upbraids me for holding aloof. I was in hiding at Nottingham then, but they knew where I was, and would not leave me alone. They would have followed me if they could. And here ... better still ... is one from Charles Edward himself, just before he fled to France, calling me a traitor for my loyalty to King George."
Feverishly he tore open letter after letter, thrusting them into her hand, scanning them with burning, eager eyes. She took them from him one by one, glanced at them, then quietly folded each precious piece of paper, and tied the packet together again. Her hand did not shake, but beneath her cloak she pressed the letters to her heart, the letters that meant the safety of her dear one's life.
"Oh! if I had known all this sooner!" she sighed involuntarily.
But that was the only reproach that escaped her lips for his want of confidence in her.
"I nearly yielded to Lovat's letter," said the boy, hesitatingly.
"I know, I know, dear," she said with an infinity of indulgence in her gentle smile. "We won't speak of the past any more. Now let us arrange the future."
He tried to master his excitement, throwing off with an effort of will his feverishness and his morbid self-condemnation.
He had done a foolish and a cowardly thing; he knew that well enough. Fate had dealt him one of those cruel blows with which she sometimes strikes the venial offender, letting so often the more hardened criminal go scatheless.
For months now Philip had been a fugitive, disguised in rough clothes, hiding in barns and inns of doubtful fame, knowing no one whom he could really trust, to whom he dared disclose his place of temporary refuge, or confide a message for his sister. Treachery was in the air; he suspected everyone. The bill of attainder had condemned so many men to death, and rebel-hunting and swift executions were in that year of grace the order of the day.
"I could do nothing without you, dear," he said more quietly. "I must hide now like a hunted beast, and must be grateful for the sheltering roof of honest Stich. I have been branded as a traitor by Act of Parliament, my life is forfeit, and it is even a crime for any man to give me food and shelter. The lowest footpad who haunts the Moor has the right to shoot me like a mad dog."
"Don't! don't, dear!" she pleaded.
"I only wished you to understand that I was not such an abject coward as I seemed. I could not get to you or reach the Hall."
"I quite understood that, dear. Now, tell me, you wish me to take these letters to London?"
"At once. The sooner they are laid before the King and Council the better. I must get to the fountain head as quickly as possible. Once I am caught they will give me no chance of proving my innocence. I have been tried by Act of Parliament, found guilty and condemned to death. You realise that, dear, don't you?"
"Yes, Philip, I do," she replied very quietly.
"Once in London, who do you think can best help you?"
"Lady Edbrooke, of course. Her husband has just been appointed equerry to the King."
"Ah! that's