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little pranks which a thrashing soon checked.
    Finally in desperation the Constables called in their new chaplain. George Brown was a hard-working and scholarly Jesuit who had been attached to the Durham missions until his superior decided that he would be a suitable priest for the Earl of Derwentwater’s reopened chapel at Dilston. Mr. Brown, therefore, had known the Constables and Charles but a month, and was impartial. When a servant had summoned him, he walked into the Hall with his breviary in his hand, his sober black suit loose on his gaunt body. Like all priests during these uncomfortable times he neither wore a cassock nor was addressed publicly as “Father.” He listened to Sir Marmaduke’s account of Charles’s insubordination, then turned to the culprit, who looked decidedly impenitent. “Well, my son, I regret to hear that you refuse to obey the commands of the good people God has put in authority over you!”
    To Charles’s astonishment there was a twinkle in the priestly eye. Charles said quickly, “I don’t, sir, at least nothing reasonable, but it’s dull here at Dilston, and I don’t see why I can’t ride out when and where I like.”
    Nor did the priest. He glanced from the tall stubborn lad to the two fussing elders, saw with an inward sigh the eternal battle of the generations in progress, and said mildly, “But you are very late, my son. Lady Constable feared you had been set on by footpads.”
    “Oh fiddle,” said Charles. “Nobody’d dare, they all seem to know the Radcliffes. Besides I can defend myself.”
    “So everyone knows your high birth,” put in Sir Marmaduke with fresh grievance. “And dressed like a filthy plowboy, unattended, without even a sword, do you think people consider you do justice to your birth -- and your brother’s rank?”
    “I’ll dress better in future,” said Charles to Mr. Brown, whom he perceived to be an ally.
    “I think,” said the priest to the Constables, “that if Master Charles will promise to watch his attire and not be out so late, he might be allowed a little freedom. Exercise is beneficial.”
    Sir Marmaduke gave an angry grunt, his wife fluttered and dabbed her eyes, but neither dared dispute their chaplain’s decision. Cousin Maud, however, had the last word, and she flung it in Charles’s triumphant face. “How glad I shall be when dear James comes home, he will know how to control a forward boy who is barely out of the nursery!”
    A chill dampened Charles. He bowed silently to his cousins and the priest, then escaped to the kitchen, where the cook glumly fed him cold meat pasty and a mug of ale.
    This episode, while it secured Charles’s immediate freedom, also emphasized the need of making the most of it while there was time.
    Two days after Charles’s ride to Gateshead a messenger arrived with a letter from the Earl to the Constables. It was written in a disconcerting mixture of French and English, and Sir Marmaduke had to call in the chaplain for help in deciphering the sprawling hand.
    Then the purport was clear enough. On the twenty-fifth of July, Queen Anne had finally granted permission for her noble kinsman and his party to return home. The party included the Earl’s next youngest brother, Francis Radcliffe, his elderly bachelor uncle, Colonel Thomas Radcliffe, a priest-tutor, Father Benjamin Petre, and a Newcastle attorney, Roger Fenwick, who had crossed over to Holland to acquaint the young Earl with his Northumbrian affairs. All these people, and their servants were gathered at Rotterdam awaiting suitable passage to London. They proposed, when they finally arrived in London, to stay with a distant cousin, Dr. John Radcliffe, who was a court physician and thought it well that the Earl should see something of his native city before proceeding North. The Earl finished by sending greeting to:
    le petit Charles, mes hommages to my kindsmen, Sir Marmed: & her Ldyship, whoume I estime profondement,
    Yr humble & obedient