Beau Brocade: A Romance
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Title: Beau Brocade: A Romance
Creator: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
Illustrator: H. M. Brock
Release date: May 24, 2012 [eBook #39786]
Most recently updated: April 16, 2018
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39786
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAU BROCADE: A ROMANCE ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE]
BEAU BROCADE
A ROMANCE
BY THE
BARONESS ORCZY
_POPULAR EDITION_
_WITH FRONTISPIECE BY H. M. BROCK_
LONDON
GREENING & CO. LTD.
1912
Copyright
in the United Kingdom
of
Great Britain and Ireland
in the
Dominion of Canada
and in the
United States of America
All dramatic rights
are strictly reserved
and protected. Entered
at Stationers' Hall, March 6th, 1906
CONTENTS
PART I.--THE FORGE.
CHAP.
I. BY ACT OF PARLIAMENT
II. THE FORGE OF JOHN STICH
III. THE FUGITIVE
IV. JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD
V. "THERE'S NONE LIKE HER, NONE!"
VI. A SQUIRE OF HIGH DEGREE
VII. THE HALT AT THE MOORHEN
VIII. THE REJECTED SUITOR
IX. SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR
X. A STRANGER AT THE FORGE
XI. THE STRANGER'S NAME
XII. THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE ROSE
XIII. A PROPOSAL AND A THREAT
XIV. THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE
PART II.--THE HEATH.
XV. THE OUTLAW
XVI. A RENCONTRE ON THE HEATH
XVII. A FAITHFUL FRIEND
XVIII. MOONLIGHT ON THE HEATH
XIX. HIS OATH
PART III.--BRASSINGTON.
XX. A THRILLING NARRATIVE
XXI. MASTER MITTACHIP'S IDEA
XXII. AN INTERLUDE
XXIII. A DARING PLAN
XXIV. HIS HONOUR, SQUIRE WEST
XXV. SUCCESS AND DISAPPOINTMENT
XXVI. THE MAN HUNT
XXVII. JOCK MIGGS'S ERRAND
XXVIII. THE QUARRY
XXIX. THE DAWN
PART IV.--H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.
XXX. SUSPENSE
XXXI. "WE'VE GOTTEN BEAU BROCADE"
XXXII. A PAINFUL INCIDENT
XXXIII. THE AWAKENING
XXXIV. A LIFE FOR A LIFE
XXXV. QUITS
XXXVI. THE AGONY OF PARTING
XXXVII. REPARATION
XXXVIII. THE JOY OF RE-UNION
BEAU BROCADE
PART I
THE FORGE
CHAPTER I
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! Dearie 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 shamefaced manner wiped their moist hands against
their rough cord 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 cross-roads, and to see the document duly pinned to the old
gallows-tree.
Fortunately the rain had ceased momentarily, only a cool, brisk
nor'-wester came blustering across the Heath, making the older men
shiver beneath their thin, well-worn smocks.
North and south, east and west, Brassing Moor stretched its mournful
lengths to the distant framework of the Peak far away, with mile upon
mile of grey-green gorse and golden bracken and long shoots of
purple-stemmed bramble, and here and there patches of vivid mauve, where
the heather was just bursting into bloom; or anon a clump of dark firs,
with ruddy trunks and gaunt arms stretched menacingly over the sparse
young life below.
And here, at the cross-roads, 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 Wirksworth, the
third little more than a morass, a short cut to Stretton, 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 foot-pad or sheep-stealer
had paid full penalty for his crimes! True, John Stich, the blacksmith,
now used it as a sign-post 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 still to catch the eerie sound of his horse's
hoofs ploughing the ruddy, shallow soil of the Heath.
For the moment, however, the cross-roads 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 beadle 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 "Oyez!
Oyez!" 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 nor'-wester,
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 ghost-like fluttering in the
wind; no doubt the nor'-wester would soon tear it to rags.
"Lordy! Lordy! to think on it!"
There it was, fixed up at last. Up, so that any chance traveller 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 harbour, 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, aye, 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 county to
the other.
To be sure, that glorious, mad, merry time had not lasted very long.
All the wiseacres had foretold disaster when the Prince's 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 Wirksworth who remembered the rear-guard 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 huzzas, mad cavalcades, noise, bustle, excitement, joy
of victory, and sorrow of defeat, but this!! ... this 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 gorse on the Moor, or perishing mayhap at night, lost in the
bog-land up Stretton way, whilst Judas-like treads crept stealthily 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 shamefaced, and in fear.
Who knows? Any Derbyshire 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 Brassing Moor, there
existed some knowledge of Tyburn Gate, and of Tower Hill.
At last the groups began to break up, the Corporal's work was done. His
Majesty's Proclamation would flutter there in the cool September wind
for awhile; 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 Aldwark would know that they might deny a starving fellow-creature
bread and shelter, aye! and shoot him too, like a wild beast in a ditch,
and have twenty guineas reward to boot.
"I've seen nought of John Stich, 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 wide-spread admiration for miles around. "I had not observated
that John Stich was from home. Though in verity it behoves me to say
that I do not hear the sound of Master Stich's hammer upon his anvil."
"Then I'll go across at once," said the Corporal. "Forward, my men!
John Stich 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 Stich is
a loyal subject of King George, and by my faith! he would not
harbourgate a rebel, take my word for it. Although, mind you, Mr
Corporal, I have oft suspicionated..."
Mr Inch, the beadle, 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 groups 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
Stretton 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 Stich, 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-humouredly, as he shook off Master
Inch's fat hand. "You'd best not whisper this confidence to John Stich
himself. As I live, he would crack your skull for you, Master Beadle,
aye, be it ever so full of dictionary words. John Stich 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
Stich 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 nettled
Mr Inch, the beadle.
"Aye, 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 Moor harbours more miscreants
than any corner of the county," laughed the young soldier, "but
methought Beau Brocade only existed in the imagination of your
half-witted yokels about here."
"There you are in grave error, Master Corporal," remarked the beadle
with dignity. "Beau Brocade, permit me to observe, does exist in the
flesh. 'Twas only last night Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach was stopped
not three miles from Hartington, and his Honour robbed of fifty guineas,
by that pernicious highwayman."
"Then you must lay this Beau Brocade by the heels, Master Inch."
"Aye! that's easily said. Lay him by the heels forsooth, 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?"
"Aye, he'll not touch a poor man; 'tis 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 round about Derby, the fame of the daring highwayman had ere
now tickled the fancy of the young soldiers of the Duke of Cumberland's
army.
"Why, I told you Sir Humphrey Challoner was robbed on the Heath last
night--robbed of fifty guineas, eh?" said Master Inch, whispering in
eager confidence. "Well, this morning, when Squire West arrived at the
court-house, 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 dolts round about here, the lads from Brassington or
Aldwark, or even from Wirksworth, would never willingly lay a hand on
Beau Brocade. The rascal knows it well enough, and carries on his
shameful trade with impunity."
"Odd's fish! but meseems 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?"
"Aye, 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
Stich'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-clad hills and
massive Tors 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 awhile, perchance to hear again that
mirthful, happy laugh.
Then came a gust of wind, the sun retreated, the soldiers gasped, and
lo! before Mr Inch or Mr Corporal had realised 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 fairy-land, there came, like
the echo of a silver bell, the sound of that mad, merry laugh.
"Beau Brocade, as I live!" murmured Mr Inch, under his breath.
CHAPTER II
THE FORGE OF JOHN STICH
John Stich too had heard that laugh; for a moment he paused in his work,
straightened his broad back and leant 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 careworn though it was, had in it a look of habitual
command, of pride not yet crushed out of ken.
John Stich gazed at him for awhile, 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
cross-roads, the soldiers ploughed their way through the mud round the
cottage and towards the forge.
"Hist!" said John, in a rapid whisper, pointing to the fire, "the
bellows! quick!"
The young man too had started in 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 Stich, the blacksmith, was an important personage all
around Brassing Moor, and he had not heard it read from beneath the old
gallows at the cross-roads 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 Stich, the blacksmith, eh?"
"Not with you alone, John Stich," 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 o' Nottingham," replied John Stich, quietly, "my
sister Hannah's child. You recollect her, Corporal? She was in service
with my Lord Exeter up at Derby."
"Oh, aye! Mistress Hannah Stich, 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 Stich,
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 Stich, '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 cross-roads just now."
"I was busy," remarked John Stich, drily, 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 harbour, 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 Stich
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 Stich 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, mind that fire," commented John Stich, turning to his "nephew
out o' Nottingham," for the latter was staring with glowing eyes and
quivering lips at the Corporal, who, not noticing him, continued
carelessly,--
"There was Lord Lovat now, you must have heard of him, John Stich, 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 Stich, over Staffordshire way."
"Aye, aye, I mind him well enough. His mother was a Papist and he clung
to the Stuart cause ... young man, too, and hiding for his life....
Well, and who else?"
"The young Earl of Stretton."
"What! him from Stretton Hall?" said John Stich 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 gy! 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 mayhap! Our Derbyshire lads
haven't much sense in their heads, have they?"
"Well, you mind the saying, Corporal, 'Derbyshire born and Derbyshire
bred...' eh?"
"'Strong i' the arm and weak i' th' 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 ... egad! 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 Stich 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 offence, friend Stich.... 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!"
"Aye! 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 offence
meant."
"That's right enough, Corporal," said John Stich, impatiently.
"So good-morrow to you, John Stich."
"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 Stich 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.
CHAPTER III
THE FUGITIVE
Inside the forge all was still, whilst the last of the muffled sounds
died away in the distance. John Stich had not resumed work. It was his
turn now to stare moodily 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 Stich 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 Stich!" 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 Stich, drawing 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 Stich 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 Stretton had brought him up, cared for him, given him a
trade, and set him up in the cottage and forge at the cross-roads, and
honest Stich 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 Gascoyne, eleventh Earl of Stretton, 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 Gascoynes 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 Gascoynes 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 Stretton, 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 "Pour le Roi."
So the Gascoynes fought for a Stuart when he was King, and against him
when he was a Pretender, and old Lord Stretton 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
where'er 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 Stretton 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 afire, he clung to that new oath of
his, idealised it and loyally resisted the blandishments and lures 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 Stretton, torn between memories of his boyhood and the duties
of his new position, feared to be inveigled 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 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 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
Stretton 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 Culloden and complete
disaster; King George's soldiers scouring the country for rebels, the
bills of attainder, the quick trials and swift executions.
Soon the suspicion grew into certainty that the fugitive Earl of
Stretton was one of the Pretender's foremost adherents. On his weary
way from Derby Prince Charles Edward had asked and obtained a night's
shelter at Stretton 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 meanwhile, 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 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 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 really
safe," 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 ... 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 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 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, an you'll 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 entrusted 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 honour to a
highwayman!!! Are you mad or drunk, John Stich?"
"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
scenting danger, or treachery.
"But a highwayman!" he repeated mechanically.
"Aye! and a gentleman!" retorted John with quiet conviction. "A
gentleman if ever there was one! Aye! and not the only one who has
ta'en 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.
"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 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!!! Beau Brocade caught!" laughed John Stich, "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 red coats,
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 awhile, as Lord
Stretton 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 Beau
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 Stich had come to the end of his power of argument. Never a
man of many words, he had only become voluble 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.
CHAPTER IV
JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD
"Be you at home, Master Stich?"
A curious, wizened little figure stood in the doorway peering cautiously
into the forge.
In a moment John Stich was on the alert.
"Sh!" he whispered quickly, "have no fear, my lord, 'tis only some fool
from the village."
"Did ye say ye baint at home, Master Stich?" 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 tow-coloured
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 Brassing Moor.
"Morning, Mr Stich ... 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 dunno, Mr Stich," replied Miggs, with a dubious shake of the head.
"Badly, I expec' ... same as yesterday," he added in a more cheerful
spirit.
"Why! what's the matter?"
"I dunno, Mr Stich, 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 o' Nottingham," said John, "come to give me a
hand."
"Morning, lad," piped Miggs, in his high treble, as he extended a
wrinkled, bony hand to Stretton.
"Lud, John Stich," he exclaimed, "any one'd know he was one o' your
family from the muscle he's got."
And gently, meditatively, he rubbed one shrivelled 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 o' Brassington, maybe."
"Oh! I'll warrant he's got a sweetheart at home, eh, Jim lad?--or maybe
more than one. But what brings ye here this day, friend Miggs?"
The wizened little face assumed a puzzled expression.
"I dunno..." he said vaguely, "maybe I wanted to tell ye about the
soldiers I seed at the Royal George over Brassington way."
"What about 'em, Miggs?"
"_I_ dunno.... I see a corporal and lots of fellers in red .... some
say there's more o' them ... I dunno."
"Ha!" said Stich, carelessly, "What are they after?"
"_I_ dunno," commented Miggs, imperturbably. "Some say they're after
that chap Beau Brocade. There was a coach stopped on the Heath 'gain
last night. Fifty guineas he took out of it, he did...." And Jock
Miggs chuckled feebly with apparent but irresponsible delight. "Some
folk say it were Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach over from Hartington,
and no one's going to break their hearts over that! he! he! he! ... but
_I_ dunno," he added with sudden frightened vagueness.
"Be they cavalry soldiers over at the Royal George, Miggs?" asked John.
"_I_ dunno ... I seed no horses ... looks more like foot soldiers ...
but _I_ dunno. The Corporal he read out something just now about our
getting twenty guineas if we shoot one o' them rebels. I'd be mighty
glad to get twenty guineas, Master Stich," he said reflectively, "but I
dunno as how I could handle a musket rightly ... and folks say them
traitors are mighty desperate fellows ... but I dunno..."
Then with sudden resolution Jock Miggs turned to the doorway.
"Morning, Master Stich," he said decisively. "Morning, lad! ...
morning."
"Morning, Miggs."
However, it seemed that Jock Miggs's 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 Stich,
if you'm got the wether'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 sold his sheep yet?"
Jock toddled up to the bench and picked up the wether's collar.
"Noa!" he muttered, "not yet, worse luck! And his temper is that hot!
So don't 'ee charge him too much for the collar, Master Stich, or it's
me that'll have to suffer."
And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stich laughed. Philip
himself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at the
quaint figure of the little shepherd with his wizened 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, be-cloaked 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 in
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 dunno," replied Jock Miggs, with his usual humble vagueness.
"Morning, miss ... morning, Master Stich ... morning."
And still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulled
at his forelock, re-adjusted 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, Stretton
had started in uncontrollable excitement.
"Betty!" he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stich's arm.
"Aye! aye!" 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 Stich!" she said, "how goes it with you?"
In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stretton had retired into the
remote corner of the forge. John Stich 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 too 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 Stich, 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 Stich?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, Mistress Betty," murmured 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 kirtle.
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 Stich! and such an
air, and oh!" added little madam with unction, "such clothes!"
But though no doubt all these fine airs 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 Stich!" 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 anyrate 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 Stich aside, and seizing
the young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly,--
"Yes? this morning, Betty? ... then ... then ... what did her ladyship
do?"
Betty was frightened, and like a child was ready to drown her fright in
tears. She had not recognised 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 o' 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 rein since we left the Hall!"
"Yes! yes!" came from two pairs of eager lips.
"And my lady 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 firs, which stood like ghostly sentinels
on the crest of the hill, just where the road turns 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 la! the mud on the
roads! 'tis fit to drown you."
But already John Stich was outside, beckoning to Mistress Betty.
"Come, mistress, quick!" he said excitedly, "her ladyship must be nigh
crazy with impatience. By 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 whole-heartedly as
he watched Betty, with many airs and graces, "Luds!" and "I vows!"
making great pretence at being unable to walk in the mud, and leaning
heavily on honest Stich'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 nor'-wester; 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 grey
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 attainder, of Tower Hill?
Did not the good nor'-wester 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 vigour, it
bore the onslaught of the wind twice, thrice, and once again. But the
nor'-wester 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 on to Derby, to London, to the place where all winds go.
CHAPTER V
"THERE'S NONE LIKE HER, NONE!"
There was something more than ordinary affection between Philip, Earl of
Stretton, and his sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne. 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
"Whoa! whoa! there! there!" as he tried to encourage his horses in the
heavy task of pulling the cumbersome vehicle through the morass, sounded
like sweetest 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 axles.
Thus Patience had travelled 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 Stich, 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 Gascoynes had always shown for any cause they had at
heart.
At the cross-roads 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 dear face which she knew would be on the lookout for her.
John Stich had escorted Betty as far as the bend in the road, and within
sight of Timothy waiting some hundred yards further on, then he had
retraced his steps, and was now back at the cross-roads ready to help
Lady Patience to alight.
"Let the coach wait here," she said to the driver, "we may sleep at
Wirksworth to-night."
"Ah! my good Stich," she added, grasping the smith's hand eagerly, "my
brother, how is he?"
"All the better since he knows your ladyship has come," replied Stich.
A few moments later brother and sister were locked in each other's arms.
"My sweet sister! My dear, dear Patience!" was all Philip could say at
first.
But she placed one hand on his shoulder and with a gentle motherly
gesture brushed with the other the unruly curls from the white, moist
forehead. He looked haggard and careworn, although his eyes now gleamed
with feverish hope, and hers, in spite of herself, began to fill with
tears.
"Dear, dear one," she murmured, trying to look cheerful, to push back
the tears. All would be well now that she could get to him, that they
could talk things over, that she could _do_ something for him and with
him, instead of sitting--weary and inactive--alone at Stretton Hall,
without news, a prey to devouring anxiety.
"That awful Proclamation," he said at last--"you have heard of it?"
"Aye!" she replied sadly, "even before you did, I think. Sir Humphrey
Challoner sent a courier across to tell me of it."
"And my name amongst those attainted by Act of Parliament!"
She nodded, her lips were quivering, and she would not break down, now
that he needed all her courage as well as his own.
"But I am innocent, dear," he said, taking both her tiny hands in his
own, and looking firmly, steadfastly into her face. "You believe me,
don't you?"
"Of course, Philip, I believe you. But it is all so hard, so horrible,
and 'tis Heaven alone who knows which was the just cause."
"There is no doubt as to which was the stronger cause, at anyrate in
England," said Stretton, with some bitterness. "Charles Edward was very
ill-advised to cross the border at all, and in the Midlands no one cares
about the Stuarts now. But that's all ancient history," he added with a
weary sigh, "it's no use dwelling over all the wretched mistakes that
were committed last year, 'tis only the misery that has abided until
now."
"Why did you run away, Philip?" she asked.
"Because I was a fool ... and a coward," he added, while a blush of
shame darkened his young Saxon face.
"No, no..."
"I thought if I remained at Stretton Charles Edward would demand my help
... and you know," he said with a quaint boyish smile, "I was never very
good at saying 'Nay!' I knew they would persuade me. Lovat and
Kilmarnock were such friends, and..."
"So you preferred to run away?"
"It was cowardly, wasn't it?"
"I am afraid it was," she said reluctantly, her tenderness and her
conviction fighting an even battle in her heart. "But why wouldn't you
tell me, dear?"
"Because I was a fool," he said, cursing himself for that same folly.
"You were away in London just then, you remember?"
She nodded.
"And there was no one to advise me, except Challoner."
"Sir Humphrey? Then it was he?..."
Philip looked at her in astonishment. There was such a strange quiver
in her voice; a note of deep anxiety, of almost hysterical alarm. But
she checked herself quickly, and said more calmly,--
"What did Sir Humphrey Challoner advise you to do?"
"He said that Charles Edward would surely persuade me to join his
standard, that he would demand shelter at Stretton Hall, and claim my
allegiance."
"Yes, yes?"
"And he thought that it would be wiser for me to put two or three
counties between myself and the temptation of becoming a rebel."
"He thought!..."
There was a world of bitter contempt in those two words she uttered.
Even Philip, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could not fail to
notice it.
"Challoner has always been my friend," he said almost reproachfully. "I
fancy, little sister," he added with his boyish smile, "that it rests
with you that he should become my brother."
"Hush, dear, don't speak of that."
"Why not?"
She did not reply, and there was a moment's silence between them. She
was evidently hesitating whether to tell him of the fears, the
suspicions which the mention of Sir Humphrey Challoner's name had
aroused in her heart, or to leave the subject alone. At last she said
quite gently,--
"But when I came home, dear, and found you had left the Hall without a
message, without a word for me, why did you not tell me then?"
The boy hung his head. He felt the tender reproach, and there was
nothing to be said.
"I would have stood by you," she continued softly. "I think I might
have helped you. There was no disgrace in refusing to join a doomed
cause, and you were a mere child when you made friends with Lovat."
"I know all that now, dear," he said with some impatience. "Heaven
knows I am paying dearly enough for my cowardice and my folly. But even
now I cannot understand how my name became mixed up with those of the
rebels. Somebody must have sworn false information against me. But
who? I haven't an enemy in the world, have I, dear?"
"No, no," she said quickly, but even as she spoke the look of
involuntary alarm in her face belied the assurance of her lips.
But this was not the moment to add to his anxiety by futile, worrying
conjectures. He had sent for her because he wanted her, and she was
here to do for him, to help and support him in every way that her
strength of will and her energy would dictate.
"You sent for me, Philip," she said with a cheerful, hopeful smile.
Her look seemed to put fresh life into his veins. In a moment he tried
to conquer his despondency, and with a quick gesture he tore open the
rough, woollen shirt he wore, and from beneath it drew a packet of
letters. Not only his hand now, but his whole figure seemed to quiver
with excitement as he gazed at this packet with glowing eyes.
"These letters, dear," he said in a whisper, "are my one hope of safety.
They have not left my body day or night ever since I first understood my
position and realised my danger, and now, with them, I place my life in
your hands."
"Yes, Philip?"
"They prove my innocence," he continued, as nervously he pulled at the
string that held the letters together. "Here is one from Lovat," he
added, handing one of these to Patience, "read it, dear, quickly. You
will see he begs me to join the Pretender's standard. Here's another
from Kilmarnock--that was after the retreat from Derby--he upbraids me
for holding aloof. I was in hiding at Nottingham then, but _they_ knew
where I was, and would not leave me alone. They would have followed me
if they could. And here ... better still ... is one from Charles Edward
himself, just before he fled to France, calling me a traitor for my
loyalty to King George."
Feverishly he tore open letter after letter, thrusting them into her
hand, scanning them with burning, eager eyes. She took them from him
one by one, glanced at them, then quietly folded each precious piece of
paper, and tied the packet together again. Her hand did not shake, but
beneath her cloak she pressed the letters to her heart, the letters that
meant the safety of her dear one's life.
"Oh! if I had known all this sooner!" she sighed involuntarily.
But that was the only reproach that escaped her lips for his want of
confidence in her.
"I nearly yielded to Lovat's letter," said the boy, hesitatingly.
"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 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 Stich'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 Hartington way. I thought perhaps it might be
more prudent..."
"Hartington!"
Brother and sister had uttered the exclamation simultaneously. He in
astonishment, she in obvious alarm.
"Who can it be, John, think you?" she asked with quivering lips.
"Well, it couldn't very well be anyone except Sir Humphrey Challoner, my
lady. No one else'd have occasion to come down these God-forsaken
roads. But they are some way off yet," he added reassuringly, "I saw
them first on the crest of the further hill. Maybe his Honour 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 ... 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 Stich, cheerfully. "If 'tis Sir Humphrey 'twill take his
driver some time yet to walk down the incline, and then up again to the
cross-roads. 'Tis a mile and a half for sure, and the horses'll have to
go foot pace. There's plenty of time for your ladyship 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 ladyship
to drive. 'Tis only a country inn. But they'd give your horses and men
a feed and rest, and if your ladyship'll 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 ladyship," rejoined Stich, "and
your horses could never reach Wirksworth without a long rest. 'Tis the
best plan, an your ladyship 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 ladyship," explained John,
whose kindly eyes had dropped a tear over the gracious hand held out to
him, "then to start for London to-morrow morning."
"No, no! I must start to-night. I could not bear to wait even until
dawn."
"But the footpads on the Heath, your ladyship..." 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 Wirksworth."
"None, your ladyship. This is the only possible way. Back here to the
cross-roads and on to Wirksworth from here."
"Then I'll see you again, dear," she said tenderly, clinging to
Stretton, "at sunset mayhap. 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, womanlike, 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 Stich. _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. Stich 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
Gascoyne entered her coach at the cross-roads, where Mistress Betty had
been waiting for her ladyship with as much patience as she could muster.
By the time Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach had reached the bottom of the
decline on the Hartington Road, and begun the weary ascent up to the
blacksmith's forge, Lady Patience's carriage was well out of sight
beyond the bend that led eastward to Aldwark village.
CHAPTER VI
A SQUIRE OF HIGH DEGREE
The Challoners claimed direct descent from that Sieur de Challonier who
escorted Coeur de Lion to the crusade against Saladin.
Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a De Challonier figures in the
Domesday Book, as owning considerable property in the neighbourhood 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 Hartington Manor where
James I. had slept for seven nights, a gracious guest of Mr Ilbert
Challoner, in the year 1612. The baronetcy 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 Challoners have not made
history. They took no part whatever in the great turmoil which, in the
middle of the seventeenth 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 Challoners 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 Challoner for an adherent.
They remained people of substance, even of importance, in their own
county, but nothing more.
Sir Humphrey Challoner was about this time not more than thirty-five
years of age. Hale, hearty, 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 country side.
Any traveller--let alone one of such consequence as the Squire of
Hartington--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 Aldwark and Wirksworth, and only from time to time
passed through the latter village on his way to Derby.
John Stich, the blacksmith, however, knew every one of consequence for a
great many miles around, and undoubtedly next to the Earls of Stretton
the Challoners were the most important family in the sister counties.
Therefore when Sir Humphrey's coach stopped at the cross-roads, 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 Stich.
"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 Aldwark 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 inn in that God-forsaken hole, eh?" asked
the Squire, jovially. "I've arranged to meet my man of business there,
that old scarecrow, Mittachip, but I'd wish to spend the night."
"There's only a small wayside inn, your Honour..." murmured John.
"Better than this abode of cut-throats, this Brassing Moor, anyway,"
laughed his Honour. "Begad! night overtook me some ten miles from
Hartington, 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 Challoner's
midnight adventure had culminated in fifty guineas being found in the
poor box at Brassington court-house, and Mr Inch, the beadle, had
brought the news of it even as far as the cross-roads.
"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 had 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, 'twas a thorough-bred I'd have given eighty
guineas to possess."
"And everyone 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' forsooth!
Faith! he dresses like a lord, and cuts your purse with an air of
gallantry, an he were doing you a favour."
It was difficult to tell what went on in Sir Humphrey Challoner's mind
behind that handsome, somewhat florid face of his. The task was in any
case quite beyond the powers of honest John Stich, though he would have
given quite a good deal of his worldly wealth to know for certain
whether his Honour's journey across Brassing Moor and on to Aldwark had
anything to do with that of Lady Patience along the 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?"
"Aye! when we reached the crest of the hill my man told me he could see
a coach standing at the cross-roads, 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 Gascoyne's coach," he said at last.
"Ah!" said the Squire, with the same obvious indifference. "Whither did
she go?"
"I was at work in my forge, your Honour, and her ladyship did not stop.
I fancy she drove down Wirksworth way, but I did not see or hear for I
was very busy."
"Hm!" 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 Wirksworth now before nightfall.
So have the pistols ready for me by seven o'clock to-morrow morning, eh,
mine honest friend?"
Then he entered his carriage, and slowly, with many a creak and a groan,
the cumbersome vehicle turned down the road to Aldwark, whilst John
Stich, with a dubious, anxious sigh, went back into his forge.
CHAPTER VII
THE HALT AT THE MOORHEN
Patience herself would have been quite unable to explain why she
mistrusted, almost feared, Sir Humphrey Challoner.
The fact that the Squire of Hartington had openly declared his
admiration for her, surely gave her no cause for suspecting him of
enmity towards her brother. She knew that Sir Humphrey hoped to win her
hand in marriage--this he had intimated to her on more than one
occasion, and had spoken of his love for her in no measured terms.
Lady Patience Gascoyne was one of the richest gentlewomen in the
Midlands, having inherited vast wealth from her mother, who was sister
and co-heiress of the rich Grantham of Grantham Priory. No doubt her
rent-roll added considerably to her attractions in the eyes of Sir
Humphrey; that she was more than beautiful only helped to enhance the
ardour of his suit.
Women as a rule--women of all times and of every nation--keep a kindly
feeling in their heart for the suitor whom they reject. A certain
regard for his sense of discrimination, an admiration for his
constancy--if he be constant--make up a sum of friendship for him
tempered with a gentle pity.
But in most women too there is a subtle sense which for want of a more
scientific term has been called an instinct: the sense of protection
over those whom they love.
In Patience Gascoyne that sense was abnormally developed: Philip was so
boyish, so young, she so much older in wisdom and prudence. It made her
fear Sir Humphrey, not for herself but for her brother: her baby, as in
her tender motherly heart she loved to call him.
She feared and suspected him, she scarce could tell of what. Not open
enmity towards Philip, since her reason told her that the Squire of
Hartington had nothing to gain by actively endangering her brother's
life, let alone by doing him a grievous wrong.
Yet she could not understand Sir Humphrey Challoner's motive in
counselling Philip to play so cowardly and foolish a part, as the boy
had done in the late rebellion. Vaguely she trembled at the idea that
he should know of her journey to London, or worse still, guess its
purpose. Philip, she feared, might have confided in him unbeknown to
her: Sir Humphrey, for aught she knew, might know of the existence of
the letters which would go to prove the boy's innocence.
Well! and what then? Surely the Squire could have no object in wishing
those letters to be suppressed: he could but desire that Philip's
innocence _should_ be proved.
Thus reason and instinct fought their battle in her brain as the heavy
coach went lumbering along the muddy road to the little wayside inn,
which stood midway between the cross-roads and the village of Aldwark.
Here her man Timothy made arrangements for the resting and feeding of
himself, the horses and Thomas, the driver, whilst Lady Patience asked
for a private room wherein she and her maid, Betty, could get something
to eat and perhaps an hour's sleep before re-starting on their way.
The small bar-parlour at the Moorhen was full to overflowing when her
ladyship's coach drove up. Already there had been a general air of
excitement there throughout the day, for the Corporal in his red coat,
followed by his little squad, had halted at the inn, and there once more
read aloud the Proclamation of His Majesty's Parliament.
The soldiers had stayed half an hour or so, consuming large quantities
of ale the while, then they had marched up to the village, read the
Proclamation out on the green, and finally tramped along the bridle-path
back to Brassington.
And now here was the quality putting up at the Moorhen. A most
unheard-of, unexpected event. Mistress Pottage, the sad-faced,
weary-eyed landlady, had never known such a thing to happen before,
although she had been mistress of the Moorhen for nigh on twenty years.
Usually the quality from Stretton Hall or from Hartington, or even Lady
Rounce from the Pike, preferred to drive a long way round to get to
Derby, sooner than trust to the lonely Heath, with its roads almost
impassable four days out of five.
Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law, who had ridden over from Wirksworth
with his clerk, Master Duffy, recognised her ladyship as she stepped out
of her coach.
"Sir Humphrey will be astonished," he whispered to Master Duffy, as he
rubbed his ill-shaven chin with his long bony fingers.
"He! he! he!" echoed the clerk, submissively.
Master Mittachip, who transacted business for the Squire of Hartington,
and also for old Lady Rounce and Squire West, knew the exact shade of
deference due to so great a lady as Lady Patience Gascoyne. He stood at
the door of the parlour and had the honour of bowing to her as she
followed Mistress Pottage quickly along the passage to the inner room
beyond, her long cloak flying out behind her, owing to the draught
caused by the open doors.
Alone in the small, dingy room, Patience almost fell upon the sofa in a
stupor of intense fatigue. When Mistress Pottage brought the meagre,
ill-cooked food, she felt at first quite unable to eat. She lay back
against the hard pillows with eyes closed, and hands tightly clutching
that bundle of precious letters.
Betty tried to make her comfortable. She took off her mistress's shoes
and stockings and began rubbing the cold, numb feet between her warm
hands.
But by-and-by youth and health reasserted themselves. Patience,
realising all the time how much depended upon her own strength and
energy, roused herself with an effort of will. She tried to eat some of
the food, "the mess of pottage" as she smilingly termed it, but her eyes
were for ever wandering to the clock which ticked the hours--oh! so
slowly!--that separated her from her journey.
As for buxom little Betty, she had fallen to with the vigorous appetite
of youth and a happy heart, and presently, like a tired child, she
curled herself up at the foot of the couch and soon dropped peacefully
to sleep.
After awhile, Patience too, feeling numb and drowsy with the weariness
of this long afternoon, closed her eyes and fell into a kind of stupor.
She lay on the sofa like a log, tired out, dreamless, her senses numbed,
in a kind of wakeful sleep.
How long she lay there she could not have told, but all of a sudden she
sat up, her eyes dilated, her heart beating fast; she was fully awake
now.
Something had suddenly roused her. What was it? She glanced at the
clock; it was just half-past three. She must have slept nearly half an
hour. Betty, on the floor beside her, still slumbered peacefully.
Then all her senses woke. She knew what had aroused her: the rumbling
of wheels, a coach pulling up, the shouts of the driver. And now she
could hear men running, more shouting, the jingle of harness and horses
being led round the house to the shed beyond.
The small lattice window gave upon the side of the house, she could not
see the coach or who this latest arrival at the Moorhen was; but what
mattered that? she knew well enough.
For a moment she stopped to think; forcibly conquering excitement and
alarm, she called to her reason to tell her what to do.
Sir Humphrey Challoner's presence here might be a coincidence, she had
no cause to suspect that he was purposely following her. But in any
case she wished to avoid him. How could that best be done?
Mittachip, the lawyer, had seen and recognised her. Within the next few
moments the Squire would hear of her presence at the inn. He too,
obviously, had come to rest his horses here. How long would he stay?
She roused Betty.
"Betty! child!" she whispered. "Wake up! We must leave this place at
once."
Betty opened her eyes: she saw her mistress's pale, excited face bending
over her, and she jumped to her feet.
"Listen, Betty," continued Patience. "Sir Humphrey Challoner has just
come by coach. I want to leave this place before he knows that I am
here."
"But the horses are not put to, my lady."
"Sh! don't talk so loud, child. I am going to slip out along the
passage, there is a door at the end of it which must give upon the back
of the house. As soon as I am gone, do you go to the parlour and tell
Thomas to have the horses put to directly they have had sufficient rest,
and to let the coach be at the cross-roads as soon as may be after
that."
"Yes, my lady."
"Then as quickly as you can, slip out of the house and follow the road
that leads to the forge. I'll be on the lookout for you. I'll not have
gone far. You quite understand?"
"Oh, yes! my lady!"
"You are not afraid?"
Mistress Betty shrugged her plump shoulders.
"In broad daylight? Oh, no, my lady! and the forge is but a mile."
Even as she spoke Patience had wrapped her dark cloak and hood round
her. She listened intently for a few seconds. The sound of voices
seemed to come from the more remote bar-parlour: moreover, the narrow
passage at this end was quite dark: she had every chance of slipping out
unperceived.
"Sh! sh!" she whispered to Betty as she opened the door.
The passage was deserted: almost holding her breath, lest it should
betray her, Patience reached the door at the further end of it, Betty
anxiously watching her from the inner room. Quickly she slipped the
bolt, and the next instant she found herself looking out upon a dingy
unfenced yard, which for the moment was hopelessly encumbered with the
two huge travelling coaches: beyond these was a long wooden shed whence
proceeded the noise of voices and laughter, and the stamping and
snorting of horses: and far away the Moor to the right and left of her
stretched out in all the majesty of its awesome loneliness.
The wind caught her cloak as she stepped out into the yard: she clutched
it tightly and held it close to her. She hoped the two coaches, which
stood between her and the shed, would effectively hide her from view
until she was past the house. The next moment, however, she heard an
exclamation behind her, then the sound of firm steps upon the
flagstones, and a second or two later she stood face to face with Sir
Humphrey Challoner.
CHAPTER VIII
THE REJECTED SUITOR
Whether he was surprised or not at finding her there, she could not say:
she was trying with all her might to appear astonished and unconcerned.
He made her a low and elaborate bow, and she responded with the deep
curtsey the fashion of the time demanded.
"Begad! the gods do indeed favour me!" he said, his good-looking, jovial
face expressing unalloyed delight. "I come to this forsaken spot on
God's earth, and find the fairest in all England treading its unworthy
soil."
"I wish you well, Sir Humphrey," she said gently, but coldly. "I had no
thought of seeing you here."
"Faith!" he laughed with some bitterness, "I had no hope that the
thought of seeing me had troubled your ladyship much. I am on my way to
Derby and foolishly thought to take this shorter way across the Moor.
Odd's life! I was well-nigh regretting it. I was attacked and robbed
last evening, and the heavy roads force me to spend the night in this
unhallowed tavern. But I little guessed what compensation the Fates had
in store for me."
"I was in a like plight, Sir Humphrey," she said, trying to speak with
perfect indifference.
"You were not robbed, surely?"
"Nay, not that, but I hoped to reach Derby sooner by taking the short
cut across the Heath, and the state of the roads has so tired the
horses, I was forced to turn off at the cross-roads and to put up at
this inn."
"Your ladyship is on your way to London?"
"On a visit to my aunt, Lady Edbrooke."
"Will you honour me by accepting my protection? 'Tis scarce fit for your
ladyship to be travelling all that way alone."
"I thank you, Sir Humphrey," she rejoined coldly. "My man, Timothy, is
with me, besides the driver. Both are old and trusted servants. I meet
some friends at Wirksworth. I shall not be alone."
"But..."
"I pray you, sir, my time is somewhat short. I had started out for a
little fresh air and exercise before re-entering my coach. The inn was
so stifling and..."
"Surely your ladyship will spend the night here. You cannot reach
Wirksworth before nightfall now. I am told the road is well-nigh
impassable."
"Nay! 'tis two hours before sunset now, and three before dark. I hope
to reach Wirksworth by nine o'clock to-night. My horses have had a good
rest."
"Surely you will allow me to escort you thus far, at least?"
"Your horses need a rest, Sir Humphrey," she said impatiently, "and I
beg you to believe that I have sufficient escort."
With a slight inclination of the head she now turned to go. From where
she stood she could just see the road winding down towards Stich's
forge, and she had caught sight of Betty's trim little figure stepping
briskly along.
Sir Humphrey, thus obviously dismissed, could say no more for the
present. To force his escort upon her openly was unfitting the manners
of a gentleman. He bit his lip and tried to look gallantly disappointed.
His keen dark eyes had already perceived that in spite of her
self-control she was labouring under strong excitement. He forced his
harsh voice to gentleness, even to tenderness, as he said,--
"I have not dared to speak to your ladyship on the subject that lay
nearest my heart."
"Sir Humphrey..."
"Nay! I pray you do not misunderstand me. I was thinking of Philip,
and hoped you were not too unhappy about him."
"There is no cause for unhappiness just yet," she said guardedly, "and
every cause for hope."
"Ah! that's well!" he said cheerfully. "I entreat you not to give up
hope, and to keep some faith and trust in your humble servant, who would
give his life for you and yours."
"My faith and trust are in God, Sir Humphrey, and in my brother's
innocence," she replied quietly.
Then she turned and left him standing there, with a frown upon his
good-looking face, and a muttered curse upon his lips. He watched her
as she went down the road, until a sharp declivity hid her from his
view.
CHAPTER IX
SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR
Mistress Pottage, sad-eyed, melancholy, and for ever sighing, had been
patiently waiting to receive Sir Humphrey Challoner's orders. She had
understood from his man that his Honour meant to spend the night, and
she stood anxiously in the passage, wondering if he would consider her
best bedroom good enough, or condescend to eat the meals she would have
to cook for him.
It was really quite fortunate that Lady Patience had gone, leaving the
smaller parlour, which was Mistress Pottage's own private sanctum, ready
for the use of his Honour.
Sir Humphrey's mind, however, was far too busy with thoughts and plans
to dwell on the melancholy landlady and her meagre fare, but he was glad
of the private room, and was gracious enough to express himself quite
satisfied with the prospect of the best bedroom.
Some ten minutes after his brief interview with Lady Patience he was
closeted in the same little dingy room where she had been spending such
weary hours. With the healthy appetite of a burly English squire, he
was consuming large slabs of meat and innumerable tankards of small ale,
whilst opposite to him, poised on the extreme edge of a very hard oak
chair, his watery, colourless eyes fixed upon his employer, sat Master
Mittachip, attorney-at-law and man of business to sundry of the quality
who owned property on or about the Moor.
Master Mittachip's voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin:
there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man's whole
personality.
Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon
the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron.
"Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low,
somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of--er--the
parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed."
"Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently.
"The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak
voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship's cloak flew open."
He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing
interest in Sir Humphrey's face.
"Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor
measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a
bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand."
"Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly.
"A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached
to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of..."
"Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?"
"Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master
Mittachip, humbly.
There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had
produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep
meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt
attention.
"Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience
is taking those letters to London."
"That was the impression created in my mind, your Honour."
"And why does she take those letters to London?" said Sir Humphrey,
bringing his heavy fist crashing down upon the table, and causing
glasses and dishes to rattle, whilst Master Mittachip almost lost his
balance. "Why does she take them to London, I say? Because they are
the proofs of her brother's innocence. It is easy to guess their
contents. Requests, admonitions, upbraidings on the part of the
disappointed rebels, obvious proofs that Philip had held aloof."
He pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and began pacing the
narrow room with great, impatient strides.
But while he spoke Master Mittachip began to lose his placid air of
apologetic deference, and a look of alarm suddenly lighted his meek,
colourless eyes.
"Good lack," he murmured, "then my Lord Stretton is no rebel?"
"Rebel?--not he!" asserted Sir Humphrey. "His sympathies were thought to
be with the Stuarts, but he went south during the rebellion--'twas I who
advised him--that he might avoid being drawn within its net."
But at this Master Mittachip's terror became more tangible.
"But your Honour," he stammered, whilst his thin cheeks assumed a leaden
hue, and his eyes sought appealingly those of his employer, "your Honour
laid sworn information against Lord Stretton ... and ... and ... I drew
up the papers ... and signed them with my name as your Honour
commanded..."
"Well! I paid you well for it, didn't I?" said Sir Humphrey, roughly.
"But if the accusation was false, Sir Humphrey ... I shall be disgraced
... struck off the rolls ... perhaps hanged..."
Sir Humphrey laughed; one of those loud, jovial, laughs which those in
his employ soon learnt to dread.
"Adsbud!" he said, "an one of us is to hang, old scarecrow, I prefer it
shall be you."
And he gave Master Mittachip a vigorous slap on the shoulder, which
nearly precipitated the lean-shanked attorney on the floor.
"Good Sir Humphrey..." he murmured piteously, "b ... b ... b ... but
what was the reason of the information against Lord Stretton, since the
letters can so easily prove it to be false?"
"Silence, you fool!" said his Honour, impatiently, "I did not know of
the letters then. I wished to place Lord Stretton in a perilous
position, then hoped to succeed in establishing his innocence in certain
ways I had in my mind. I wished to be the one to save him," he added,
muttering a curse of angry disappointment, "and gain _her_ gratitude
thereby. I was journeying to London for the purpose, and now..."
His language became such that it wholly disconcerted Master Mittachip,
accustomed though he was to the somewhat uncertain tempers of the great
folk he had to deal with. Moreover, the worthy attorney was fully
conscious of his own precarious position in this matter.
"And now you've gained nothing," he moaned; "whilst I ... oh! oh! I..."
His condition was pitiable. His Honour viewed him with no small measure
of contempt. Then suddenly Sir Humphrey's face lighted up with
animation. The scowl disappeared, and a shrewd, almost triumphant smile
parted the jovial, somewhat sensuous lips.
"Easy! easy! you old coward," he said pleasantly, "things are not so bad
as that.... Adsbud! you're not hanged yet, are you? and," he added
significantly, "Lord Stretton is still attainted and in peril of his
life."
"B ... b ... b ... but..."
"Can't you see, you fool," said Sir Humphrey with sudden earnestness,
drawing a chair opposite the attorney, and sitting astride upon it, he
viewed the meagre little creature before him steadfastly and seriously;
"can't you see that if I can only get hold of those letters now, I could
_force_ Lady Patience into accepting my suit?"
"Eh?"
"With them in my possession I can go to her and say, 'An you marry me,
those proofs of your brother's innocence shall be laid before the King:
an you refuse they shall be destroyed.'"
"Oh!" was Master Mittachip's involuntary comment: a mere gasp of
amazement, of terror at the enormity of the proposal.
He ventured to raise his timid eyes to the strong florid face before
him, and in it saw such a firm will, such unbendable determination, that
he thought it prudent for the moment to refrain from adverse comment.
"Truly," he murmured vaguely, as his Honour seemed to be waiting for him
to speak, "truly those letters mean the lady's fortune to your Honour."
"And on the day of my marriage with her, two hundred guineas for you,
Master Mittachip," said Challoner, very slowly and significantly,
looking his man of business squarely in the face.
Master Mittachip literally lost his head. Two hundred guineas! 'twas
more than he earned in four years, and that at the cost of hard work,
many kicks and constant abuse. A receiver of rents has from time
immemorial never been a popular figure. Master Mittachip found life
hard, and in those days two hundred guineas was quite a comfortable
little fortune. The attorney passed his moist tongue over his thin,
parched lips.
The visions which these imaginary two hundred guineas had conjured up in
his mind almost made his attenuated senses reel. There was that bit of
freehold property at Wirksworth which he had long coveted, aye, or
perhaps that partnership with Master Lutworth at Derby, or...
"'Twere worth your while, Master Mittachip, to get those letters for me,
eh?"
His Honour's pleasant words brought the poor man back from the land of
dreams.
"I? I, Sir Humphrey?" he murmured dejectedly, "how can I, a poor
attorney-at-law...?"
"Zounds! but that's your affair," said his Honour with a careless shrug
of his broad shoulders, "Methought you'd gladly earn two hundred
guineas, and I offer you a way to do it."
"But how, Sir Humphrey, how?"
"That's for you to think on, my man. Two hundred guineas is a tidy sum.
What? I have it," he said, slapping his own broad thigh and laughing
heartily. "You shall play the daring highwayman! put on a mask and stop
her ladyship's coach, shout lustily: 'Stand and deliver!' take the
letters from her and 'tis done in a trice!"
The idea of that meagre little creature playing the highwayman greatly
tickled Sir Humphrey's fancy, for the moment he even forgot the grave
issues he himself had at stake, and his boisterous laugh went echoing
through the old silent building.
But as his Honour spoke this pleasant conceit, Master Mittachip's thin,
bloodless face assumed an air of deep thought, immediately followed by
one of eager excitement.
"The idea of the highwayman is not a bad one, Sir Humphrey," he said
with a quiet chuckle, as soon as his patron's hilarity had somewhat
subsided, "but I am not happy astride a horse, and I know nought of
pistols, but there's no reason why we should not get a footpad to steal
those letters for you. 'Tis their trade after all."
"What do you mean? I was but jesting."
"But I was not, Sir Humphrey. I was thinking of Beau Brocade."
"The highwayman?"
"Why not? He lives by robbery and hates all the quality, whom he
plunders whene'er he has a chance. Your Honour has had experience, only
last night ... eh?"
"Well? What of it? Curse you, man, for a dotard! Why don't you
explain?"
"'Tis simple enough, your Honour. You give him the news that her
ladyship's coach will cross the Heath to-night, tell him of her money
and her jewels, offer him a hundred guineas more for the packet of
letters.... He! he! he! He'll do the rest, never fear!"
Master Mittachip rubbed his bony hands together, his colourless eyes
were twinkling, his thin lips quivering with excitement, dreams of that
freehold bit of property became tangible once more.
Sir Humphrey looked at him quietly for a moment or two: the little man's
excitement was contagious and his Honour had a great deal at stake: a
beautiful woman whom he loved and her large fortune to boot. But reason
and common-sense--not chivalry--were still fighting their battle against
his daring spirit of adventure.
"Tush, man!" he said after awhile, with the calmness of intense
excitement, "you talk arrant nonsense when you say I'm to give a
highwayman news of her ladyship's coach and offer him money for the
letters. Where am I to find him? How speak with him?"
Mittachip chuckled inwardly. His Honour then was not averse to the
plan. Already he was prepared to discuss the means of carrying it out.
"'Tis a lawyer's business to ferret out what goes on around him, Sir
Humphrey. You can send any news you please to Beau Brocade within an
hour from now."
"How?"
"John Stich, the blacksmith over at the crossroads, is his ally and his
friend. Most folk think 'tis he always gives news to the rogue whene'er
a coach happen to cross the Moor. But that's as it may be. If your
Honour will call at the forge just before sunset, you'll mayhap see a
chestnut horse tethered there and there'll be a stranger talking to John
Stich; a stranger young and well-looking. He's oft to be seen at the
forge. The folk about here never ask who the stranger is, for all have
heard of the chivalrous highwayman who robs the rich and gives to the
poor. He! he! he! Do you call at the forge, Sir Humphrey, you can
arrange this little matter there.... Your news and offer of money will
get to Beau Brocade, never fear."
Sir Humphrey was silent. All the boisterous jollity had gone out of his
face, leaving only a dark scowl behind, which made the ruddy face look
almost evil in its ugliness. Mittachip viewed him with ill-concealed
satisfaction. The plan had indeed found favour with his Honour; it was
quick, daring, sure: the fortune of a lifetime upon one throw. Sir
Humphrey, even before the attorney had finished speaking, had resolved
to take the risk. He himself was safe in any case, nothing could connect
his name with that of the notorious highwayman who had cut his purse but
the night before.
"I'd not have her hurt," was the first comment he made after a few
minutes' silent cogitation.
"Hurt?" rejoined Mittachip. "Why should she be hurt? Beau Brocade
would not hurt a pretty woman. He'll get the letters from her, I'll
stake my oath on that."
"Aye! and blackmail me after that to the end of my days. My good name
would be at the mercy of so damned a rascal."
"What matter, Sir Humphrey, once Lady Patience is your wife and her
fortune in your pocket? Everything is fair in love, so I've been told."
Sir Humphrey ceased to argue. Chivalry and honour had long been on the
losing side.
"Moreover, Sir Humphrey," added the crafty attorney, slily, "once you
have the letters, you can denounce the rogue yourself, and get him
hanged safely out of your way."
"He'd denounce me."
"And who'd believe the rascal's word against your Honour's flat denial?
Not Squire West, for sure, before whom he'd be tried, and your Honour
can have him kept in prison until after your marriage with Lady
Patience."
It seemed as if even reason would range herself on the side of this
daring plan. There seemed practically no risk as far as Sir Humphrey
himself was concerned, and every chance of success, an that rascal Beau
Brocade would but consent.
"He would," asserted Mittachip, "an your Honour told him that the coach,
the money, and the letters belonged to Lady Rounce, and the young lady
travelling in the coach but a niece of her ladyship. Lady Rounce is a
hard woman who takes no excuse from a debtor. He! he! he! she has the
worst reputation in the two counties, save your Honour!"
The lawyer chuckled at this little joke, but Sir Humphrey was too
absorbed to note the impertinence. He was pacing up and down the narrow
room in a last agony of indecision.
Mittachip evidently was satisfied with his day's work. The two hundred
guineas he looked upon as a certainty already. After a while, noting
the look of stern determination upon his Honour's face, he turned the
conversation to matters of business. He had been collecting some rents
for Sir Humphrey and also for Squire West and Lady Rounce, and would
have to return to Wirksworth to bank the money.
Since Sir Humphrey Challoner was occupying the only available bedroom at
the Moorhen, there would be no room for Master Mittachip and Master
Duffy, his clerk. He hoped to reach Brassington by the bridle path
before the footpads were astir, thence at dawn on to Wirksworth.
He had shot his poisonous arrow and did not stop to ascertain how far it
had gone home. He bade farewell to his employer, with all the deference
which many years of intercourse with the quality had taught him, and
never mentioned Beau Brocade, Lady Patience or John Stich's forge again.
But when he had bowed and scraped himself out of his Honour's presence,
and was sitting once more beside Master Duffy in the bar-parlour, there
was a world of satisfaction in his pale, watery eyes.
CHAPTER X
A STRANGER AT THE FORGE
In the meanwhile Lady Patience, with Betty by her side, had been walking
towards the forge as rapidly as the state of the road permitted.
A sudden turn of the path brought her within sight of the cross-ways and
of the old gallows, on which a fragment of rain-spattered rag still
fluttered ghostlike in the wind.
But here, within a few yards of her goal, she stopped suddenly, with
eyes dilated, and hands pressed convulsively to her heart, in an agony
of terror. Walking quickly on the road from Wirksworth towards Stich's
cottage were some half-dozen red-coated figures, the foremost man
amongst them wearing three stripes upon his sleeve.
Soldiers with a sergeant at the forge! What could it mean but awful
peril for the fugitive?
Her halt had been but momentary, the next instant she was flying down
the pathway closely followed by Betty, and had reached the shed just as
the soldiers were skirting the cottage towards it.
She glanced within, and gave a quick sigh of relief: there was no sign
of her brother, and John was busy at his anvil.
Already the smith had caught sight of her.
"Hush!" he whispered reassuringly, "have no fear, my lady. I've had
soldiers here before."
"But they'll recognise me, perhaps ... or guess..."
"No, no! my lady! Do you pretend to be a waiting wench. They are men
from Derby mostly, and not like to know your face."
There was not a moment to be lost. Patience realised this, together
with the certainty that her own coolness and presence of mind might
prove the one chance of safety for her brother.
"Halt!" came in loud accents from the sergeant outside.
"The lock, Master Stich," said Patience, loudly and carelessly, as the
sergeant stepped into the doorway, "is it ready? Her ladyship's coach
is following me from Aldwark, and will be at the cross-roads anon."
"Quite ready, mistress," replied the smith, casting a rapid glance at
the soldier, who stood in the entrance with hand to hat in military
salute.
The latter took a rapid survey of the interior of the forge, then said
politely,--
"Your pardon, ladies!"
"Well, and what is it now, Sergeant?" queried John, with affected
impatience.
"I have heard that there's a stranger at your forge, smith," replied the
soldier. "My corporal came down from Aldwark early this afternoon and
told me about him. I'd like just to have a talk with him."
"One moment, Sergeant," said John, interposing his burly figure between
Patience and the prying eyes of the young soldier.
"I think you'll find the lock quite secure now, mistress," he said,
trying, good, honest fellow that he was, to put as much meaning into the
careless sentence as he dared. She mutely thanked him with her eyes,
took the padlock from his hands, and gave him over some money for his
pains, the while her heart was nearly bursting with the agony of
suspense.
"No stranger, Sergeant," rejoined the smith, once more turning with
well-assumed indifference to the soldier, "only my nephew out o'
Nottingham. Your corporal was a Derby man, and knew the lad's mother, my
sister Hannah!"
"Quite so, quite so, smith," quoth the Sergeant, pleasantly; "then you
won't mind my searching your forge and cottage just for form's sake."
Even then Patience did not betray herself either by a look or a quiver
of the voice.
"Lud! how tiresome be those soldiers," she said with an affected pout.
"I'd hoped to wait here in peace, friend smith, until the arrival of her
ladyship's coach."
"Nay, mistress, you need not be disturbed," said the smith, jovially,
"the Sergeant is but jesting, eh, friend?" he added, turning to the
soldier. "There! I give you my word, Master Sergeant, that there is
nought here for you to find."
"I've my orders, smith," said the Sergeant, more curtly.
"Nay, friend," interposed Lady Patience, "surely you overstep your
orders. John Stich is honest and loyal, you do him indignity by such
unjust suspicions."
"Your pardon, ma'am, but I know my duty. There's no suspicion against
the smith, but there are many rebels in hiding about here, and I've
strict orders to be on the lookout for one in particular, Philip
Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, who is known to be in these parts."
John Stich interrupted him with a loud guffaw.
"Lud, man!" he said, "there's no room for a noble lord in a wayside
smithy; you waste your time."
"My orders say I've the right to search," quoth the Sergeant, firmly,
"and search I'm going to."
Then he turned to his squad, who were standing at attention outside.
"Follow me, men," he said, as he stepped forward into the forge.
Fortunately the remote corners of the shed were dark, and Patience still
had her hood and cloak wrapped closely round her, or her deathlike
pallor, the wild, terrified look in her eyes, would at this moment have
betrayed her in spite of herself.
But honest John was standing in the way of the Sergeant.
"Look'ee here, Sergeant," he said quietly, "I'm a man of few words, but
I'm a free-born Englishman, and my home is my castle. It's an insult to
a free and loyal citizen for soldiers to search his home, as if he were
a felon. I say you _shall not_ enter, so you take yourself off, before
you come by a broken head."
"Smith, you're a fool," commented the Sergeant with a shrug of the
shoulders, "and do yourself no good."
"That's as it may be, friend," quoth John. "There are fools in every
walk in life. You be a stranger in these parts and don't know me, but
folk'll tell you that what John Stich once says, that he'll stick to.
So forewarned is forearmed, friend Sergeant. Eh?"
But to this the Sergeant had but one reply, and that was directed to his
own squad.
"Now then, my men," he said, "follow me! and you, John Stich," he added
loudly and peremptorily, "stand aside in the name of the King!"
The men were ranged round the Sergeant with muskets grasped, ready to
rush in the next moment at word of command. John Stich stood between
them and a small wooden door, little more than a partition, behind which
Philip, Earl of Stretton, was preparing to sell his life dearly.
That death would immediately follow capture was absolutely clear both to
him and to his devoted sister, who with almost superhuman effort of will
was making heroic efforts to keep all outward show of alarm in check.
Even amongst these half-dozen soldiers any one of them might know Lord
Stretton by sight, and was not likely to forget that twenty guineas--a
large sum in those days--was the price the Hanoverian Government was
prepared to pay for the head of a rebel.
Philip was a man condemned to death by Act of Parliament. If he were
captured now, neither prayer, nor bribes, nor even proofs of innocence
would avail him before an officious magistrate intent on doing his duty.
A brief halt at Brassington court-house, an execution in the early
dawn!... these were the awesome visions which passed before Patience's
eyes, as with a last thought of anguish and despair she turned to God
for help!
No doubt John Stich was equally aware of the imminence of the peril,
and, determined to fight for the life of his lord, he brandished his
mighty hammer over his head, and there was a look in the powerful man's
eyes that made even the Sergeant pause awhile ere giving the final word
of command.
Thus there was an instant's deadly silence whilst so many hearts were
wildly beating in tumultuous emotion. Just one instant--a few seconds,
mayhap, whilst even Nature seemed to stand still, and Time to pause
before the next fateful minute.
And then a voice--a fresh, young, happy voice--was suddenly heard to
sing, "My beautiful white rose."
It was not very distant: but twenty yards at most, and even now seemed
to be making for the forge, drawing nearer and nearer.
Instinctively--what else could they do?--soldiers and Sergeant turned to
look out upon the Heath. There was such magic in that merry, boyish
voice, clear as that of the skylark, singing the quaint old ditty.
They looked and saw a stranger dressed in elegant, almost foppish
fashion, his brown hair free from powder, tied with a large bow at the
nape of the neck, dainty lace at his throat and wrists, scarce a speck
of mud upon his fine, well-cut coat. He was leading a beautiful
chestnut horse by the bridle and had been singing as he walked.
Patience, too, catching at this happy interruption like a drowning man
does at a straw, turned to look at the approaching stranger.
Her eyes were the first to meet his as he reached the entrance of the
forge, and with an elaborate, courtly gesture he raised his
three-cornered hat and made her a respectful bow.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Ho! ho! ho! but here's a pretty to-do. Why, John Stich, my friend, you
look a bit out of temper."
He stood there framed in the doorway, with the golden light of the
afternoon sun throwing into bold silhouette his easy, graceful stature,
and the pleasant picture of him, with one arm round the beautiful
horse's neck and his slender fingers gently fondling its soft, quivering
nose.
John Stich, at first sound of the stranger's voice, had relaxed from his
defiant attitude, and a ray of hope had chased away the threatening look
in his eyes.
"So would you be, Captain," he said gruffly, "with these red coats
inside your house, and all their talk of rebels."
"Captain?" murmured the Sergeant.
"Aye, Captain Bathurst, my man, of His Majesty's White Dragoons," said
the stranger, carelessly, as without more ado he led his horse within
the forge and tethered it close to the entrance. Then he came forward
and slapped the Sergeant vigorously on the back.
"And I'll go bail, Sergeant, that John Stich is no rebel. He's far too
big a fool!" he added in an audible whisper, and with a merry twinkle in
his grey eyes.
Patience still stood rigid, expectant, terrified in the darker corner of
the shed. She had not yet realised whether she dared to hope, whether
this young stranger, with his pleasant, boyish voice and debonnair
manner, would have the power to stay the hand of Fate, which was even
now raised against her brother.
Betty, behind her mistress, was too terrified to speak.
But already the Sergeant had recovered from his momentary surprise. At
mention of the stranger's military rank he had raised his hand to his
tricorne hat. Now he was ready to perform his duty, and gladly noted
the smith's less aggressive attitude.
"At your service, Captain," he said, "and now I have my orders. I've a
right o' search and..."
But like veritable quicksilver, Captain Bathurst was upon him in a
moment.
"A right o' search!" he said excitedly. "A right o' search, did you
say, Sergeant? Odd's my life, but I'm in luck! Sergeant, you're the
very man for me."
And he pulled the Sergeant by the sleeve.
"I pray you, sir..." protested the latter.
But the young man was not to be denied.
"Sergeant," he whispered significantly, "would you like to earn a
hundred guineas?"
"One hundred guineas," rejoined the soldier readily enough; "that I
would, sir, if you'll tell me how."
He kept an eye on the little wooden door behind John Stich, but his ear
leaned towards the stranger; the bait was a tempting one, a hundred
guineas was something of a fortune to a soldier of King George II.
"Listen then," said Bathurst, mysteriously. "You've heard of Beau
Brocade, the highwayman, haven't you?"
"Aye, aye," nodded the Sergeant, "who hasn't?"
"Well then you know that there is a price of a hundred guineas for his
capture, eh? ... Think of it, Sergeant! ... A hundred guineas! ... a
little fortune, eh?"
The Sergeant's eyes twinkled at the thought. The soldiers too listened
with eager interest, for the stranger was no longer talking in a
whisper. A hundred guineas! three little words of wondrous magic, which
had the power to rouse most men to excitement in those days of penury.
Lady Patience's whole soul seemed to have taken refuge in her eyes. Her
body leaning forward, her lips parted with a quick-drawn breath, she
gazed upon the stranger, wondering what he would do. That he was
purposely diverting the Sergeant's attention from his purpose she did
not dare to think, that he was succeeding beyond her wildest hopes was
not in doubt for a moment.
And yet there did not seem much gained by averting the fearful
catastrophe for the span of a few brief minutes.
"Aye! a fortune indeed!" sighed the Sergeant, with obvious longing.
"And I have sworn to lay that dare-devil highwayman by the heels,"
continued the young man. "I know where he lies hidden at this very
moment, but, by Satan and all his crew, I cannot lay hands upon the
rascal."
"How so?"
"The house is private! worse luck! _I_ have no right of search!"
The Sergeant gave a knowing wink.
"Hm!" he said. "I understand."
Then he added significantly,--
"But the reward?"
"Odd's life! you shall have the whole of that, Sergeant, and, if your
men will help me, there shall be another hundred to divide between them.
I have sworn to lay the rogue by the heels for my honour's sake. Would
you believe me, Sergeant, 'tis but a week ago that rascally highwayman
robbed me in broad daylight! ... fifty guineas he took from me. Now
I've a bet with Captain Borrowdale, five hundred guineas aside, that
I'll bring about the rogue's capture."
There was no doubt now that the Sergeant's interest was fully aroused;
the soldiers, at mention of the reward which was to be theirs, hung upon
their Sergeant's lips, hoping for the order to march on this very
lucrative errand.
"Hm!" muttered the latter, with a knowing wink, "perhaps that highwayman
is a personal enemy of yours as well, sir!"
"Aye!" sighed Captain Bathurst, pathetically, "the worst I ever had."
"And you'd be mightily glad to see him hanged, an I mistake not. What?"
"Zounds! but I wouldn't say that exactly, Sergeant, but ... I have no
love for him ... 'tis many an ill turn he has done me of late."
"I understand! Then the reward?"
"You shall have every penny of it, friend, and a hundred guineas for
your men. What say you, gallant soldiers?" And he turned gaily to the
little squad, who had stood at very close attention all this while.
But there was no need to make this direct appeal. The men were only too
ready to be up and doing, to earn the reward and leave John Stich and
the very problematical rebel to look after themselves.
"Now, quick's the word," said the young man, briskly, "there's not a
moment to be lost."
"At your service, Captain," replied the Sergeant, turning once more
towards the inner door before which John Stich still held guard, "as
soon as I've searched this forge..."
"Nay, man, an you waste a minute, you and your men will miss Beau
Brocade and the hundred guineas reward. Quick, man!" he added
hurriedly, seeing that the soldier had paused irresolute, "quick! with
your fellows straight up the road that leads northward. I'm on
horseback--I'll overtake you as soon as may be."
"But..."
"You'll see a lonely cottage about half a mile from here, then a bridle
path on the left; follow that, you'll come to a house that was once an
inn. The rascal is there. I saw him not half an hour ago."
"But the rebel, Captain..." feebly protested the Sergeant, "my duty..."
"Nay, Sergeant, as you will," said Bathurst, coolly, with a great show
of complete indifference; "but while you parley here, Beau Brocade will
slip through your fingers. He is at the house now: he may be gone by
sunset. Odd's life! search for your rebels! go on! waste time! and the
hundred guineas are lost to you and your men for ever."
It was obvious that both sergeant and men were determined not to lose
this opportunity of a bold bid for fortune.
"Done with you, sir," he said resolutely. "After all," he added, as a
concession to his own sense of duty, "I can always come back and search
the forge afterwards."
All the soldiers seemed as one man to be uttering a sigh of relief and
eager anticipation, and even before the Sergeant had spoken the word,
they turned to go.
"You are a wise man, Sergeant," said Bathurst, jovially. "Off with you!
straight along that road you see before you. The cottage is just beyond
that clump of distant firs, there you'll see the bridle path. But I'll
overtake you before then, never fear. Time to give my horse a handful
of oats..."
But even while he spoke the Sergeant had called "Attention!"
"I'll not fail you, sir," he shouted excitedly. "A hundred guineas!
odd's my life! 'tis a fortune! Left turn! Quick march!"
The young man stood in the doorway and watched the little squad as,
preceded by their Sergeant, they plodded their way northwards in quest
of fortune. John Stich too followed them with his eyes, until the bend
in the road hid the red coats from view. Then both turned and came
within.
But Lady Patience through it all never looked at the soldiers; her eyes,
large, glowing, magnetic, were fixed upon the stranger in the forge, as
if in a trance of joy and gratitude.
CHAPTER XI
THE STRANGER'S NAME
Mistress Betty was the first to recover from terror and surprise. She
too had fixed a pair of large and wondering eyes upon the stranger.
"'Tis the gentleman who brought the letter from his lordship last
night," she whispered to her mistress.
Patience closed her eyes for a moment: her spirit, which had gone
a-roaming into the land of dreams, where dwell heroes and proud knights
of old, came back to earth once more.
"Then he must have guessed my brother was here," she murmured, "and did
it to save him."
But the tension being relaxed, already the bright and sunny nature,
which appeared to be the chief characteristic of the stranger, quickly
re-asserted itself, and soon he was laughing merrily.
"Oh! ho! gone, by my faith!" he said to John. "Odd's life! but he
swallowed that, clean as a mullet after bait, eh, friend Stich?"
It seemed as if he purposely avoided looking at Patience: perhaps, with
the innate delicacy of a kindly nature, he wished to give her time to
recover her composure. But now she came forward, turning to him with a
gentle smile that had an infinity of pathos in it.
"Sir," she said, "I would wish to thank you..."
He put up his hand, with a gesture of self-deprecation.
"To thank me, madam?" he said, with profound deference. "Nay! you do
but jest. I have done nothing to deserve so great a favour."
He bowed to her with perfect courtly grace, but she would not be
gainsaid. She wished to think that he had acted thus for her.
"Sir, you wrong your own most noble deed," she said. "Will you not
allow me to keep the sweet illusion, that what you did just now, you did
from the kindness of your heart, and because you saw that we were all
anxious ... and that ... I was unhappy..."
She looked divinely fair as she stood there beside him, with the rays of
the slanting September sun touching the halo of her hair with a wand of
gold. Her voice was musical and low, and there was a catch in her throat
as she held out one tiny, trembling hand to him.
He took it in his own strong grasp, and kept it a prisoner therein for
awhile, then he bent his slim young figure and touched her finger-tips
with his lips.
"Faith, madam!" he said, "by that sweet illusion, an it dwell awhile in
your memory, I am more than repaid."
In the meanwhile John had pushed open the small door which led to the
inner shed.
"Quite safe, my lord!" he shouted gaily, "only friends present."
Brother and sister, regardless of all save their own joy in this averted
peril, were soon locked in each other's arms. Captain Bathurst had
heard her happy cry: "Philip!" had seen the look of gladness brighten
her tear-dimmed eyes, and a curious feeling of wrath, which he could not
explain, caused him to turn away with a frown and a sigh.
Patience was clinging to her brother, half hysterical, nervous, excited.
"You are safe, dear," she murmured, touching with trembling motherly
hands the dear head so lately in peril, "quite safe ... let me feel your
precious hands ... oh! it was so horrible! ... another moment and you
were discovered! ... Sir!" she added once more, turning to the stranger
with the sweet impulse of her gratitude, "my thanks just now must have
seemed so poor ... I was nervous and excited ... but see! here is one
who owes you his life, and who, I know, would wish to join his thanks to
mine."
But there was a change in his manner now. He bowed slightly before her
and said very coldly,--
"Nay, madam! let me assure you once again that I have done naught to
deserve your thanks. John Stich is my friend, and he seemed in trouble
... if I have had the honour to serve you at the same time, 'tis I who
should render thanks."
She sighed, somewhat disappointed at his coldness. But Philip, with
boyish impulse, held out both hands to him.
"Nay, sir," he said, "I know not who you are, but I heard everything
from behind that door, and I know that I owe you my life..."
"I beg you, sir..."
"Another moment and I had rushed out and sold my life dearly. Your
noble effort, sir, did more than save that life," he added, taking
Patience's hand in his, "it spared a deep sorrow to one who is
infinitely dear to me ... my only sister."
"Your ... your sister?"
"Aye! my sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne, I am the Earl of Stretton,
unjustly attainted by Act of Parliament. The life you have just saved,
sir, is henceforth at your command."
"Indeed, Philip," added Patience, gently, "we already are deeply in this
gentleman's debt. Betty, who saw him, tells me that it was he who
brought me your letter yester night."
"You, sir!" exclaimed Stretton in profound astonishment, "then you
are..."
He paused instinctively, for he had remembered his conversation with
John Stich earlier in the day; he remembered the anger, the wonder,
which he had felt when the smith told him that he had entrusted the
precious letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman ...
"Then you are...?" repeated Philip, mechanically.
Patience was clinging to her brother, with her back towards the
stranger, so she did not see the swift look of appeal the slender finger
put up in a mute, earnest prayer for silence. But now she turned and
looked inquiringly at him, her eyes asking for a name by which she could
remember him.
"Captain Jack Bathurst," he said, bowing low, "at your command."
CHAPTER XII
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE ROSE
But of course there was no time to be lost. Captain Jack Bathurst was
the first to give the alarm.
"Those gallant lobsters won't be long in finding out that they've been
hoodwinked," he said, "an I mistake not, they'll return here anon with a
temper slightly the worse for wear. They must not find your lordship
here at anyrate," he added earnestly.
"But what's to be done?" asked Patience, all her anxiety returning in a
trice, and instinctively turning for guidance to the man who already had
done so much for her.
"For the next hour or two at anyrate his lordship would undoubtedly be
safer on the open Moor," said Bathurst, decisively. "'Tis nigh on
sunset, and the shepherds are busy gathering in their flocks. There'll
be no one about, and 'twould be safer."
"On the open Moor?"
"Aye! 'tis not a bad place," he said, with a touch of sadness in his
fresh young voice. "I myself..."
He checked himself and continued more quietly,--
"Your lordship could return here after sundown. You'd be safe enough for
the night. After that, an you'll grant me leave, my friend Stich and I
will venture to devise some better plan for your safety. For the moment,
I pray you, be guided by this good advice, and seek the protection of
the open Moor."
He had spoken so earnestly, with such obvious heartfelt concern, and at
the same time with such quiet firmness, that instinctively Philip felt
inclined to obey; the weaker nature turned for support to the stronger
one, to whose dominating influence it felt compelled to yield. He
turned to Patience, and her eyes seemed to tell him that she was ready
to trust this stranger.
"Aye! I'll go, sir!" he sighed wearily.
He kissed his sister with all the fondness of his aching heart. All his
hopes for the future were centred in her and in the long journey she was
about to undertake for his sake.
Bathurst discreetly left brother and sister alone. He knew nothing of
their affairs, of their plans, their hopes. Stich was too loyal to
speak of his lord, even to a man whom he trusted and respected as he did
the Captain. The latter knew that a hunted man was in hiding in the
smith's forge, he had taken a message from the man to the lady at
Stretton Hall, now he knew for certain that the fugitive was the Earl of
Stretton. But that was all.
Being outside the pale of the law himself, his sympathies at once ranged
themselves on the side of the fugitive. Whether the latter were guilty
or innocent mattered little to Jack Bathurst; what did matter to him was
that the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on was unhappy and in
tears.
Philip, seeing that he could talk to his sister unobserved, whispered
eagerly,--
"The letters, dear, have a care; how will you carry them?"
"In the drawer underneath the seat of the coach," she whispered in
reply. "I'll not leave the coach day or night until I've reached
London. From Wirksworth onwards I'll be travelling with relays: I need
neither spare horses nor waste a moment's time. I can be in town in
less than six days."
"When will your coach be ready?"
"In a few minutes now, and I'll start at once: but go, go now, dear,"
she urged tenderly, "since Captain Bathurst thinks it better that you
should."
She kissed him again and again, her heart full of hope and excitement at
thought of what she could do for him, yet aching because of this
parting. It was terrible to leave him in this awful peril, to be far
away if danger once again became imminent!
When at last he had torn himself away from her, he made quickly for the
door, where Bathurst had been waiting for him.
"Ah, sir!" sighed Philip, bitterly, "'tis a sorry plight for a soldier
and a gentleman to hide for his life like a coward and a thief."
But Bathurst before leaving was looking back at the beautiful picture of
Patience's sweet face bathed in tears.
"Like a thief?" he murmured. "Nay, sir, thieves have no angels to guard
and love them: methinks you have no cause to complain of your fate."
There was perhaps just a thought of bitterness in his voice as he said
this, and Patience turned to him, and gazed at him in tender womanly
pity through her tears. At once the electrical, sunny nature within him
again gained the upper hand. Laughter and gaiety seemed with him to be
always close to the surface, ready to ripple out at any moment, and
calling forth hope and confidence in those around.
"An you'll accept my escort, sir," he said cheerfully to Philip, "I'll
show you a sheltered spot known only to myself ... and to Jack o'
Lantern," he added, giving a passing tender tap to his beautiful horse.
"He and I are very fond of the Moor, eh, Jack, old friend? ... We are
the two Jacks, you see, sir, and seldom are seen apart. Together we
discovered the spot which I will show you, sir, and where you can lie
_perdu_ until nightfall. 'Tis safe and lonely and but a step from this
forge."
Philip accepted the offer gratefully. Like his sister, he too felt that
he could trust Jack Bathurst. As he walked by his side along the
unbeaten track on the Heath, he viewed with some curiosity, not unmixed
with boyish admiration, the tall, well-knit figure of his gallant
rescuer. He tried to think of him as the notorious highwayman, Beau
Brocade, on whose head the Government had put the price of a hundred
guineas.
A hero of romance he was in the hearts of the whole country-side, yet a
felon in the eyes of the law. Philip could just see his noble profile,
with the well-cut features, the boyish, sensitive mouth, firm chin and
straight, massive brow, over which a mass of heavy brown curls clustered
in unruly profusion.
A brave man, surely--Philip had experienced that; a wise one too in
spite of his youth. Stretton guessed his companion to be still under
thirty years of age, and yet there was at times, in spite of the
inherently sunny disposition below, a look of melancholy, of
disappointment, in the deep, grey eyes, which spoke of a wasted life, of
opportunities lost perhaps, or of persistent adverse fate.
Through it all there was that quaint air of foppishness, the manners and
appearance of a dandy about the Court. The caped coat was dark and
serviceable, but it was of the finest cloth and of the latest, most
fashionable cut, and beneath it peeped a dainty silk waistcoat,
delicately embroidered.
The lace at throat and wrists was of the finest Mechlin, and the boots,
though stout and heavy, betrayed the smallness and the arch of the foot.
Though Jack Bathurst had obviously been riding, he carried neither whip
nor cane.
All that Philip observed in this rapid walk to the place of shelter
which Bathurst had thought out for him, Patience, with a woman's quick
perception, had noted from the first. To her, of course, the Captain
was but a gallant stranger, good to look at and replete with all the
chivalrous attributes this troublous century called forth in the hearts
of her sons. She knew naught of Beau Brocade the highwayman, and
probably would have recoiled in horror at thought of connecting the name
of a thief with that of her newly-found hero of romance.
She stood in the doorway for some time, watching with glowing eyes the
figures of the two men, until they disappeared behind a high clump of
gorse: then with a curious little sigh she turned and went within.
John Stich and Mistress Betty were carrying on an animated conversation
in a remote corner of the forge. Patience did not wish to disturb them:
she was deeply grateful to John, and felt kindly disposed towards the
suggestion of romance conveyed by the smith's obvious appreciation of
pretty Mistress Betty.
She crossed the shed, and opening the door at the further end of it, she
found that it gave upon a small yard which separated the forge from the
cottage, and in which Stich and his mother, who kept house for him, had
with tender care succeeded in cultivating a few flowers: only one or two
tall hollyhocks, some gay-looking sunflowers, and a few sweet-scented
herbs. And on the south aspect a lovely trail of creeping white rose,
the kind known as "Five Sisters," threw its delicate fragrance over this
little oasis in the wilderness of the Moor.
And, almost mechanically, whilst her fancy once more went a-roaming in
the land of dreams, Patience began to hum the quaint old ditty: "My
beautiful white rose."
Suddenly--at a quick thought mayhap--her eyes grew dim, her cheeks began
to burn: she drew towards her a cluster of snowy blossoms, on which the
earlier rains had left a mantle of glittering diamonds, and buried her
glowing face in its pure, cool depths. Then she detached one lovely
white rose from the parent bough, and, sighing, pinned it to her belt.
CHAPTER XIII
A PROPOSAL AND A THREAT
Sir Humphrey Challoner had not been long in making up his mind to take
Master Mittachip's pernicious advice. He twisted the old adage that
"everything is fair in love" to a justification of his own evil purpose.
He was not by any means a bad man. Save for his somewhat inordinate
love of money, he had none of the outrageous vices which were looked
upon with leniency in the quality in those days.
He drank hard, and exacted his pound of flesh equally from all his
tenants, but neither of these characteristics was unusual in an English
squire of the early eighteenth century: a great many of them were
impecunious, and all were fond of good cheer. Originally he had meant
no harm to the young Earl of Stretton. His plan, as he clumsily
conceived it, was to get Philip into trouble first, then to extricate
him from it, for the sake of earning the gratitude of the richest
heiress in the Midlands and the most beautiful woman in England to boot.
Sir Humphrey Challoner was not a diplomatist: he was a rough country
gentleman of that time, with but scant notions of abstract right and
wrong where his own desires were at stake.
His original plan had failed through that very Act of Parliament which
placed Philip's life in immediate and imminent peril. Sir Humphrey did
not desire the lad's death: of course not. He had nothing to gain
thereby, and only wished for the sister's hand in marriage. He started
for London post-haste, hoping still to use what influence he had, and
also what knowledge he possessed of Philip's attitude at the time of the
rebellion, in order to bring about the boy's justification and release.
That Patience had evidently found a means of proving her brother's
innocence without his help was a bitter disappointment to Sir Humphrey.
He knew that she would never marry him of her own free will, but only on
compulsion or from gratitude.
The latter was now out of the question. He could do nothing to earn it.
Compulsion was the only course, and Mittachip, with crafty persuasion,
had shown him the possible way; therefore he went to the forge of John
Stich to carry through the plan to that end.
It was close on sunset. On the Moor, gorse, bramble and heather were
bathed in ruddy gold, the brilliant aftermath of this glowing September
afternoon.
Sir Humphrey had walked over from the Moorhen; as soon as he entered the
forge, the first thing he noticed was the beautiful chestnut horse
tethered against the door-post, the same which he himself had declared
that very day to be worth a small fortune. Fate was obviously playing
into his hands. Mittachip had neither deceived him nor lured him with
false hopes.
Otherwise the shed was empty: there was no sign of John Stich, or of the
stranger who rode the chestnut horse. Sir Humphrey went within and, as
patiently as he could, set himself to wait.
When therefore Jack Bathurst returned to the forge some few minutes
later, he found that her ladyship, Betty and Stich had gone, whilst,
sitting on the edge of the rough deal table, and impatiently tapping his
boot with a riding-whip, was no less a personage than the Squire of
Hartington.
Jack had caught a glimpse of his Honour the night before on the Heath,
under circumstances which even now brought a smile to his lips, and
which incidentally had made the poor of Brassington richer by fifty
guineas.
For a moment he hesitated whether he would go in or no. He had been
masked during that incident, of course, and knew not even the ABC of
fear. His dare-devil spirit of fun and adventure quickly gained the
upper hand, and the next moment he had greeted his Honour with all the
courtly grace he had at command.
Sir Humphrey looked at him keenly for a moment or two. Young and
well-looking! Oft to be seen at the forge at sundown! ... Odd's life
but...
"Your servant, sir!" he said, returning the salutation.
Sir Humphrey was in no hurry. He firmly believed that Fate had decided
to be kind to him in this matter, but he feared to brusque the
situation, and thereby to imperil the successful issue of his scheme.
Therefore he passed the time of day with this well-looking stranger, he
talked of the weather and the rains on the Moors, the bad state of the
roads and the insufficiency of police in the county, of the late
rebellion and the newest fashion in coats.
Jack Bathurst seemed to fall into his mood. He was shrewd enough to
perceive that Sir Humphrey Challoner was in his own estimation playing a
diplomatic game of cat and mouse, and it much intrigued Bathurst to know
what his ultimate purpose might be. He had not long to wait; after some
five minutes of casual conversation, Sir Humphrey went straight for his
goal.
"Odd's life!" he said suddenly, interrupting his own flow of small talk,
"it wonders me how long that rascally smith'll stay away from his work.
Adsbud! but he's a lazy vagabond. What say you, sir?"
"Nay! you, sir, wrong an honest man," replied Bathurst. "John Stich is
a steady worker. Shall I call him for you? I know my way about his
cottage."
"Nay, I thank you, sir! my purpose can wait. Truth to tell," added his
Honour, carelessly, "'twas not the blacksmith's work I needed, but his
help in a trifling matter of business."
"Indeed?"
"You'll be surprised perhaps at my question, sir, but have you ever
heard mention of that fellow, Beau Brocade?"
"Oh! ... vaguely..."
"A highwayman, sir, and a consummate rogue, yet your honest John Stich
is said to be his friend."
"Indeed?"
"Now, an you'll believe me, sir, I have a mind to speak with the
rascal."
"Indeed? then you are bolder than most, sir," said Jack, cheerfully. He
was really beginning to wonder what the Squire of Hartington was driving
at.
"It seems strange, doesn't it? but to be frank with you, I'm in two
minds about that rogue."
"How so?"
"Well! I have a score to settle with him, and a business to propose;
and I cannot decide which course to adopt."
"You, sir, being so clever, might perhaps manage both," said Bathurst
with a touch of sarcasm.
"Hm! I wonder now," continued Sir Humphrey, not wishing to notice the
slight impertinence. "I wonder now what an independent gentleman like
yourself would advise me to do. I have not the honour of knowing who
you are," he added with grave condescension, "but I can see that you
_are_, like myself, a gentleman."
Bathurst bowed in polite acknowledgment.
"I should be proud to serve you with advice, sir, since you desire it."
"Well! as I have said, I have a score to settle with the rogue. He
stole fifty guineas from me last night."
"Ah me!" sighed Jack, with a melancholy shake of the head, "then I fear
me he'll never haunt the Heath again."
"What mean you, sir?"
"Nay! I can picture the rascal now, after you, sir, had punished him
for his impudence! A mangled, bleeding wreck! But there! I have no
pity for him! Daring to measure his valour against your noted prowess!"
"Quite so! quite so!" quoth his Honour, whilst smothering a curse at
this more obvious piece of insolence.
"But I entreat your pardon. I was interrupting the story."
"I saw the rogue, sir," said Sir Humphrey, glancing significantly at the
young man, "saw him clearly by the light of my carriage lanthorns. He
was masked, of course, but I'd know him anywhere, and could denounce him
to-morrow."
He had risen to his feet, and with legs apart, standing face to face
with Bathurst, he spoke every word as if he meant them to act as a
threat.
"There are plenty of soldiers about these parts now, even if the country
folk won't touch their vaunted hero of romance. I could get him hanged,
sir, within a week. A cordon of soldiers round this Heath, my word to
swear his identity, and.... But there!" he added with a jovial laugh,
"'tis no concern of yours is it, sir? You were kind enough to promise
me your advice. This is one of my alternatives, the score I'd wish to
settle; there's still the business I could offer the rogue."
Sir Humphrey had looked the young man squarely in the face whilst he
uttered his threat, but had seen nothing there, save the merriest, the
most light-hearted of smiles.
"I can scarce advise you, sir," said Bathurst, still smiling, "unless I
know the business as well."
"Well, sir, you know of old Lady Rounce, do you not? the meanest,
ugliest old witch in the county, eh? Well! she is on her way to London,
and carries with her a mass of money, wrung from her miserable tenants."
"Faith, sir! you paint a most entrancing picture of the lady."
"Now, an that rascal Beau Brocade were willing to serve me, he could at
one stroke save his own neck from the gallows, enrich himself, right the
innocent and confound a wicked old woman."
"And how could this galaxy of noble deeds be accomplished at one stroke,
sir?"
"Her ladyship's coach will pass over the Heath to-night. It should be
at the cross-roads soon. There will be all the old harridan's money and
jewels to be got out of it."
"Of course."
"And also a packet of love-letters, which doubtless will be hidden away
in the receptacle beneath the seat."
"Letters?" queried Bathurst. "Hm! I doubt me if love-letters would
tempt a gentleman of the road."
"Nay, sir," replied his Honour, now dropping his voice to a confidential
whisper, "these are letters which, if published, would compromise an
artless young lady, whom old Lady Rounce pursues with her hatred and
spite. Now I would give a hundred guineas to any person who will bring
me those letters at the Moorhen to-morrow. Surely to a gentleman of the
road the game would be worth the candle. Lady Rounce carries money with
her besides, and her diamonds. What think you of it, sir?"
"'Tis somewhat difficult to advise," said Bathurst, meditatively.
"Ah well!" said Sir Humphrey with affected indifference, "'tis really
not much to me. On the whole perhaps I would prefer to deliver the
rascal into the hands of my friend Squire West at Brassington. Anyway, I
have the night to think the matter over; 'tis too late now to wait for
that lout, John Stich. I would have preferred to have had your advice,
sir. I daresay 'tis difficult to give. And you a stranger too. I
would have liked to save a young girl from the clutches of that old
witch, Lady Rounce, and if Beau Brocade rendered me that service, I'd be
tempted to hold my tongue about him.... He should have the hundred
guineas to-morrow and have nought to fear from me, if he brought me
those letters. If not ... well! ... well! ... we shall see.... The old
gallows here have long been idle ... we shall see ... we shall see....
Good-day to you, sir ... proud to have met you.... No ... I'll not wait
for John Stich. Is this your horse? ... pretty creature! ... Good-day,
sir ... good-day."
His Honour was extremely condescending and pleasant. He bowed very
politely to Bathurst, patted the beautiful chestnut horse, and showed no
further desire to talk with John Stich.
Bathurst, with a frown on his handsome face, watched the Squire of
Hartington's burly figure disappear round the bend in the road.
"I wonder now," he mused, "what mischief he's brewing. He seemed to me
up to no good. I suppose he guessed who I was."
While he stood there watching, John Stich quickly entered the forge from
the rear.
"I was in the cottage, Captain," he said, "my mother was serving the
ladies with some milk. But just now I saw Sir Humphrey Challoner
walking away from the forge. I feared he might see you."
"He did see me, honest friend," said Jack, lightly. "His Honour and I
have just had a long and animated conversation together."
"Great Heavens! the man is furious with you, Captain!" said the smith,
with genuine anxiety in his gruff voice, "he saw you distinctly on the
Heath last night. He may have recognised you to-day."
"He did recognise me."
"And may be brewing the devil's own mischief against you."
"Oh, ho!" laughed the young man, with a careless shrug of the shoulders,
"against me? ... Well! you know, honest John, I am bound to end on the
gallows..."
"Sooner or later! Sooner or later!" he added merrily, noting John's
look of sorrowful alarm. "They've not got me yet, though there are so
many soldiers about, as that piece of underdone roast-beef said just
now."
"You'll not tell me what Sir Humphrey Challoner spoke to you about?"
"No, friend, I will not," said Jack, with a look of infinite kindness
and placing a slender white hand on the smith's broad shoulder. "You
are my friend, you know, you shoe and care after my horse, you shelter
and comfort me. May Heaven's legions of angels bless you for that. Of
my life on the Heath I'll never tell you aught, whatever you may guess.
'Tis better so. I'll not have you compromised, or implicated in my
adventures. In case ... well! ... if they do catch me, you know,
friend, 'tis better for your sake that you should know nothing."
"But you'll not go on the Heath to-night, Captain," pleaded the smith,
with a tremor in his voice.
"Aye! that I will, John Stich," rejoined Bathurst, with a careless
laugh, which now had an unmistakable ring of bitterness in it, "to stop
a coach, to lift a purse! that's my business.... Aye! I'll to the
Heath, friend, 'tis my only home, you know, ere I find a resting-place
on the gallows yonder."
John sighed and turned away, and thus did not hear the faint murmur that
came of a great and good heart over-full with longing and
disappointment.
"My beautiful white rose! ... how pale she looked ... and how
exquisitely fair! ... Ah! me ... if only.... Jack! Jack! don't be a
fool!" he added with a short, deep sigh, "'tis too late; remember, for
Beau Brocade to go galloping after an illusion!"
CHAPTER XIV
THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE
John Stich ventured no further opposition, well knowing the reckless
spirit which his own quiet devotion was powerless to keep in check;
moreover, Lady Patience, closely followed by the ever-faithful Betty,
had just entered by the door that gave from the yard.
"I was wondering, honest Stich," she said, "if my coach were yet in
sight. Meseems the horses must have had sufficient rest by now."
"I'll just see, my lady," said John.
At first sound of her low, musical voice, Bathurst had turned to her,
and now his eyes rested with undisguised admiration on her graceful
figure, dimly outlined in the fast-gathering shadows. She too caught
sight of him, and sorely against her will a vivid blush mounted to her
cheeks. She pulled her cloak close to her, partly to hide the bunch of
white roses that nestled in her belt.
Thus there was an instant's silent pause, during which two hearts, both
young, both ardent, and imbued with the spirit of romance, beat--unknown
to one another--in perfect unison.
And yet at this supreme moment in their lives--supreme though they
themselves knew it not--neither of them had begun to think of love. In
her there was just that delightful feeling of feminine curiosity,
mingled with the subtle homage of a proud woman for the man who, in her
presence, and for her sake, had proved himself brave, resourceful, full
of invention and of pluck: there was also an unexplainable sense of the
magnetism caused by the real _personality_, by the unmistakable
_vitality_ of the man. He lived, he felt, he thought differently to
anyone else, in a world quite apart and entirely his own, and she felt
the magic of this sunny nature, of the merry, almost boyish laugh,
overlying as it were the undercurrent of disappointment and melancholy
which had never degenerated into cynicism.
But in him? Ah! in him there was above all a wild, passionate longing!
the longing of an intensely human, aching heart, when it is brought nigh
to its own highest ideal, and knows that that ideal is infinitely beyond
his reach.
The broken-down gentleman! the notorious hero of midnight adventures!
highwayman! robber! thief! what right had he even to look upon her, the
perfect embodiment of exquisite womanhood, the beautiful realisation of
man's tenderest dreams?
Perhaps at this one supreme moment in his reckless career the wild
adventurer felt the first pang of humbled pride, of that pride which had
defied existing laws and built up a code of its own. He understood then
all at once the stern, iron-bound rule which makes of man--free lord of
creation though he be--the slave of those same laws which he himself has
set up for his own protection.
Beau Brocade, the highwayman, closed his eyes, and no longer dared to
look on his dream.
He turned to his horse, and with great tenderness began stroking Jack o'
Lantern's soft, responsive nose.
The next moment Stich, who had been busy with his work, looked up in
sudden alarm.
"The soldiers!" he said briefly, "all running ... the Sergeant's at the
head o' them, and some of the shepherds at their heels."
At first Patience did not understand where the actual danger lay.
"My brother!" she gasped, terrified.
But a look from Bathurst reassured her.
"Absolutely safe," he said quickly and decisively, "a hiding-place known
to no one but me. I give your ladyship my word of honour that there is
not the remotest danger for him."
She felt all her terrors vanishing. But these few words spoken to
comfort her went nigh to costing Bathurst dear. In those few brief
seconds he had lost the opportunity of jumping on Jack o' Lantern's back
and getting well away before the soldiers had reached the entrance of
the forge, and had effectually barred his chance of escape.
As it was, he had only just undone the halter, and before he had time to
lead Jack o' Lantern out, the voice of the Sergeant was heard quite
close to the doorway, shouting breathlessly,--
"Forward! quick! Arrest that man!"
"My sword, John! for your life!" was Bathurst's ready answer to the
challenge.
Stich darted to a corner of the forge. Lady Patience gave a quick,
short gasp, she had suddenly realised that for some reason which she
could not quite fathom, the man who had so pluckily saved her brother
from the soldiers an hour ago, was now himself in imminent danger.
Jack snatched the sword eagerly which the smith was holding out to him,
and resting the point of the blade on the ground before him, he tested
with evident satisfaction the temper of the steel. Not a moment too
soon this, for already the Sergeant, running, panting, infuriated by the
trick played upon him, had appeared in the doorway, closely followed by
two of his men.
Caught like a rat in a hole, Jack was prepared to fight. Perhaps at
bottom he was glad that circumstances had not compelled him to show a
clean pair of heels before this new danger to himself. Alone, he might
have liked to flee, before _her_ he preferred to fight.
"Odd's my life!" he said merrily, "'tis my friend, the Sergeant."
"You sent me on a fool's errand," shouted the latter as loudly as his
scant breath would allow, "and 'tis my belief you are one of them rebel
lords yourself: at anyrate you shall give an account of yourself before
the magistrate. And if the smith dares to interfere, he does so at his
peril," he added, seeing that John Stich had seized his hammer, and was
handling it ominously, fully prepared to resist the established
authority on behalf of his friend.
But whilst the Sergeant parleyed, Jack, with the rapid keen eye of a
practised fencer, and the wary glance of a child of the Moor, had taken
note of every advantage, however slight, which his present precarious
position had left him.
The Sergeant and two men were in the doorway, momentarily pausing in
order to recover their breath. Three more of the squad were running
forward along the road, but were still some little distance off, and
would be a few minutes before they reached the smithy.
Further on still there were the others, at present only appearing as
scarlet dots on the Heath. Close on the heels of the Sergeant, two or
three shepherds, with Jock Miggs in their rear, had come to see what was
happening in the forge.
It had taken Jack Bathurst only a couple of seconds to note all these
details. Luck so far favoured him that, for the next minute or two at
least, he would only have to deal with the Sergeant and two soldiers.
"Into it, my men! Arrest him in the name of the King!" shouted the
Sergeant, and the two soldiers, grasping their bayonets, made a rush for
the interior of the shed, ready to surround Jack and his horse.
But quick as a lightning flash, Bathurst gave Jack o' Lantern a slight
prick in the ribs with his sword; the nervous creature, already rendered
restive by the sudden noise, began to plunge and rear, and thus, as his
master had hoped, scattered the compact group of assailants momentarily
away from the vicinity of his hoofs.
This gave the young man the desired opportunity. Nimble as a fox when
hotly pursued, he stepped back and with one bound took up a position on
the top of a solid oak table, which stood in the deep shadow caused by
the doorway, thus, for the moment, leaving Jack o' Lantern as a barrier
between himself and his enemies.
"Friend Stich," he shouted from this exalted height, "do you stand by
the ladies. Stir not from their side whatever happens, nor interfere
'tween me and the soldiers at your peril."
The lust of battle was upon him now. He was satisfied with his position
and longed to begin the fight. On his left was the outside wall of the
shed, and guarding his right was the huge furnace of the smithy, out of
which the burning embers cast fitful flickering lights upon his tall,
slim figure, and drew from his blade sparks of blood-red gold.
He had wrapped the thick capes of his heavy cloth coat round his left
arm: the folds of it hung down to his feet, forming a shield round the
lower part of his figure.
Already the soldiers had recovered from the short panic caused by Jack
o' Lantern's timely rearing. One of them now seized the horse by the
bridle and led him out into the open, thus exposing Bathurst more fully
to the onslaught of their bayonets.
Jack was fully prepared for them, and as soon as the Sergeant had given
the order to attack, his steel began to dart in and out of the gloom
like some live snake, with tongue of steel; illumined by the fitful
embers of the furnace fire, it seemed to give forth a thousand sparks of
witch-like flame with every turn of the cunning wrist. The outline of
his head and shoulders was lost in the dense shadows above, whilst his
assailants stood in the full glare of the setting sun, which, hot and
blinding, came streaming into the shed.
Dazed by the flickering light of the furnace and the sunset glow beyond,
the soldiers made very ineffectual plunges into the dark shadow, whence,
fencing and parrying, and with many a quip and sally, Jack had at first
an easy task in keeping them at bay.
This was mere child's play to him; already one of the men had an ugly
gash in his cheek, and the next moment saw the Sergeant reeling
backwards, with a well-directed thrust through his right arm.
But easy and exciting as was this brilliant sword-play, it could not in
the long run be of much avail. Hardly had the Sergeant fallen back than
three more soldiers, also hot and furious, came rushing in to reinforce
their comrades. Bathurst had in his day been counted the finest fencer
in England, his wrist was as fresh and strong as the steel which he
held, but the odds were beginning to accumulate against him.
Five men in the shed, and the others could not be very far away!
John Stich felt his muscles nearly cracking with the vigorous effort to
maintain his quiescent position and not to come to the rescue of his
hard-pressed friend.
Suddenly one of the soldiers levelled his musket.
Patience saw it and gave a cry of horror. Stich, throwing prudence to
the winds, would have rushed forward, to prevent this awful thing at any
cost, but the Sergeant, though wounded, had lost none of his zest, and
his eye had been fixed on the smith.
"Keep back the smith!" he shouted, "use your bayonets! quick!"
And as two of his men obeyed him, he himself threw his full weight
against John, and together the three men succeeded in rendering the
worthy fellow momentarily powerless.
"Captain! Captain!" he shouted desperately, "have a care!"
Of course Jack had realised his danger. The group of his assailants
stood out in every detail before him, like a clear-cut sunlit picture.
But against the musket levelled at him he could do nothing, it was
Luck's chance to do him a good turn; he himself was hard pressed by two
men close to his knees.
Patience felt as if her heart would cease to beat, her impulse was to
rush blindly, stupidly forward, when suddenly a piping voice, vague and
uncertain, was heard above the click of Jack's sword.
"Don't 'ee let 'em get 'ee, sir!" and Jock Miggs, with trembling, yet
determined hands, gave a vigorous tug to the coat tails of the soldier,
who was even now pulling the trigger of his musket. The latter, who had
been aiming very deliberately for the one bright patch on Jack's person
caused by the red glow of the furnace, lost his aim: there was a loud
report, and a bullet went whizzing high above Bathurst's head, and
buried itself in the woodwork above him.
This was the signal for a new phase of this curious and unequal
struggle. The shepherds, at first, knowing nothing of the cause of this
quarrel, had stood open-mouthed, somewhat frightened and awaiting
events, at a short distance from the scene of the scuffle.
But when the chestnut horse had been led out into the open, they
suddenly had an inkling as to who its owner was. Jack o' Lantern,
bearing the masked highwayman on his back, was well known to the poor
folk on Brassing Moor.
Beau Brocade, who but yesterday had left fifty guineas in the
Brassington poor box! Beau Brocade, the hero of the Heath! He! to be
caught by a parcel of red coats?
Never! Jock Miggs but voiced the feeling of the majority.
"Noa! Noa!" they shouted lustily. "Don't 'ee let 'em get 'ee, sir!"
"Not if I can help it, friends!" rejoined Bathurst in gay response.
They did not resist the soldiers; not they! Your Derbyshire yokel is
too cautious an individual to run absolutely counter to established
authority, but they saw their friend, their helper and benefactor, in
trouble and they did what they could to help him. They got in the way,
jostled the soldiers when they dared, kept the attention of one or two
occupied, preventing a general onslaught on the oak table, on which
Bathurst, still alert, still keen, was holding his own against such
terrible odds.
"There's for you, my gallant lobster," quoth Jack, gaily.
He was standing far back on the table, entrenched between the wall on
one side and the furnace on the other, and every time one of the
soldiers ventured too near, his sword would dart out of the gloom: it
seemed like a living creature of fire and steel, so quick and bold were
his feints and parries, his sudden attacks in quarte and sixte, and all
the while he kept one eye on the open Moor, where Jack o' Lantern,
quivering with impatience, stood pawing the ground, and sniffing the
keen evening air, ready to carry his master away, out upon the Heath,
out of sight and out of danger.
Obviously the unequal contest could not last much longer. Jack knew
that as well as any one. Already the red dots in the far distance had
drawn considerably nearer, the next few minutes would bring this fresh
reinforcement to the wearied, exhausted assailants.
The Sergeant too was ready to seize his best opportunity. He still kept
two men on guard over the smith, but he soon saw that the two, who were
storming Bathurst's improvised citadel, were no match with their clumsy
bayonets against a brilliant fencer who, moreover, had the advantage of
light and shadow, and of his elevated position.
Though he was wounded, and bleeding profusely, he had set his heart on
the capture of this mysterious stranger, and having cast a glance on the
open Moor beyond, he saw with renewed zest two more of his men hurrying
along. With all the strength he had left he shouted to them to come on,
and then turned to encourage the others.
"Take it easy, my men! Hold out a moment longer. We've got the rebel
at last."
But Jack too had seen and understood. He was neither tired nor hurt,
but two more men against him would inevitably prove his undoing.
Already he could hear the shouts of the soldiers hurrying in response to
their Sergeant's call. The next minute they would be in the forge.
A sudden change of tactics led his two assailants to venture nearer than
they had done hitherto; he drew back into the shadows, and they, fired
by the lust of capture, under the impression that he was at last
exhausted, ventured nearer and nearer still; already they were leaning
over the edge of the table, one man was thrusting at Bathurst's legs,
when the latter, with a rapidity that seemed quicker than a flash of
lightning, disengaged his left arm from his heavy coat, and with both
hands threw it right over the heads of the two men. Before they had
time to release themselves from its folds, Jack, with one bound was off
the table, and the next instant he had torn open the door of the furnace
and dragged out the huge iron poker with which the smith raked his fire,
and with a cry of triumph slung this new and formidable weapon high over
his head.
The effect of this sudden move was one of uncontrollable panic: the
red-hot metal, as he swung it over his head, dropped a far-reaching
shower of burning sparks; soldiers and Sergeant all drew back
instinctively, and Jack, still brandishing his weapon, reached the
entrance and was out in the open before any one dared to stop him.
There he flung the great glowing thing in the direction of his
assailants, who even now were rallying to the attack.
But the moment had been precious to Bathurst, and Jack o' Lantern was a
king among horses. Without use of stirrup or rein, Jack, like the true
child of the wild Moor that he was, flung himself upon the beautiful
creature's back.
Thus Patience saw him for one brief second, framed in the doorway of the
forge, the last rays of the setting sun forming a background of crimson
and gold for his slim, upright figure, and the brown curls on his head.
It was but a moment's vision, but one she would carry enshrined in her
memory through all the years to come. His eyes, large, glowing,
magnetic, met hers in a flash, and hers, bright with unshed tears, met
his in quick response.
"Soldiers!" he shouted, as he rode away, "an you think I am a rebel
lord, then after me, quick! whilst I ride towards the sunset."
PART II
THE HEATH
CHAPTER XV
THE OUTLAW
Beau Brocade drew rein on the spur of the hill. He had galloped all the
way from the forge, out towards the sunset, then on, ever on, over gorse
and bracken, on red sandy soil and soft carpet of ling, on, still on!
Overhead, on the blue-green dome of the evening sky, a giant comet, made
up of myriads of tiny, rose-tipped clouds, formed a fairy way, ever
diminishing, ever more radiant, pointing westwards to the setting sun,
where orange and crimson and blue melted in one glorious mist of gold.
Out far away, the distant Tors glowed in the evening light, like great
barriers to some mystic elusive land beyond.
Jack o' Lantern had responded to his master's mood. The reins falling
loosely on his neck, needing neither guide nor spur, save the excitement
of his own mad career, he had continued his wild gallop on the Heath,
until a sudden jerk of the reins brought him to a standstill on the very
edge of a steep declivity, with quivering flanks and sensitive nerves
all a-tremble, even as the last ruddy glow died out in the western sky.
One by one the myriads of rose-tipped clouds now put on their grey
cloaks of evening. From the rain-soaked ground and dripping branches of
bramble or fern, a blue mist was rising upwards, blending deep shadows
and tender lights in one hazy monotone.
Gradually every sound died out upon the Heath, only from afar came
intermittently the mournful booming of a solitary bittern, astray from
its nest, or now and then the sudden quaking of a tuft of grass, a
tremor amidst the young fronds of the bracken, there, where a melancholy
toad was seeking shelter for the night.
Awesome, silent, majestic, the great Moor was at peace. The passions,
the strife, the turmoil of mankind seemed far, very far away: further
than that twinkling star which peeped down, shy and solitary, from
across the rolling billows of boundless universe.
Beau Brocade stretched out both arms, and sighed in an agony of longing.
Fire was in his veins, a burning thirst in his heart, for something he
dared not define.
How empty seemed his life! how wrecked! how hopelessly wasted!
Yet he loved the Moor, the peace, the solitude: he loved the sunset on
the Heath and every sound of animal life in this lonesome vastness.
But to-night!...
One smile from a woman's lips, a glow of pride in her eyes, just one
cluster of snow-white roses at her breast, and all the glories of Nature
in her most lavish mood seemed tame, empty, oh! unutterably poor.
Nay! he would have bartered his very soul at this moment to undo the
past few years. To be once more Jack Bathurst of His Majesty's regiment
of Guards, before one evening's mistake ruined the whole of his life. A
quarrel over a game of cards, a sudden blind, unreasoning rage, a blow
against his superior officer, and this same Jack Bathurst, the dandy
about town, the gallant, enthusiastic, promising young soldier, was
degraded from his military rank and thrown, resourceless, disgraced,
banished, upon a merciless world, that has neither pity nor pardon for
failures or mistakes.
But, quite unlike the young Earl of Stretton, Jack Bathurst indulged in
no morbid self-condemnation. Fate and he had thrown the dice, and he had
lost. But there was too much of the untamed devil in him, too much
spirit of wild adventure, to allow him to stoop to the thousand and one
expedients, the shifts, the humiliations which the world holds in store
for the broken-down gentleman.
Moneyless, friendless, with his career irretrievably ruined, he yet
scorned the life of the outcast or the pariah, of that wretched fragment
of humanity that hangs on the fringe of society, envying the pleasures
it can no longer share, haunting the gambling booths or noisy brothels
of the towns, grateful for a nod, a handshake, from some other fragment
less miserable than itself.
No! a thousand times no!
Jack Bathurst looked the future that was before him squarely in the
face, then chose the life of the outlaw with a price upon his head.
Aye! and forced that life to yield to him its full measure of delights:
the rough, stormy nights on the Moor! the wild gallops over gorse and
bramble, with the keen nor'-wester lashing his face and whipping up his
blood, and with a posse of soldiers at his heels! the devil-may-care,
mad, merry existence of the outlaw, who cuts a purse by night, and
carries his life on his saddle-bow!
That he chose and more! for he chose the love of the poor for miles
around! the blessings spoken by suffering and patient lips upon the name
of the highwayman, of Beau Brocade, who took from the rich at risk of
his life in order to give to the needy.
And now at even, on Brassing Moor, when a lonely shepherd caught sight
of a chestnut horse bearing a slim, masked figure on its back, or heard
in the distance a young voice, fresh as a skylark, singing some
half-sad, half-lively ditty, he would turn his weary eyes in simple
faith upwards to the stars and murmur gently,--
"God bless Beau Brocade!"
Perhaps He had!
The stars knew, but they did not tell!
CHAPTER XVI
A RENCONTRE ON THE HEATH
Master Mittachip, on his lean nag, with his clerk, Master Duffy, on the
pillion behind him, was on his way to Brassington.
Sir Humphrey Challoner had not returned to the Moorhen after his visit
to the forge until the sun was very low down in the west. He had bidden
the attorney to await him at the inn, and Master Mittachip had not dared
to disobey.
Yet the delay meant the crossing of the Heath along the bridle path to
Brassington, well after the shadows of evening had lent the lonely Moor
an air of awesome desolation. There were the footpads, and the pixies,
the human and fairy midnight marauders, who all found the steep
declivities, the clumps of gorse and bracken, the hollows and the pits,
safe resting-places by day, but who were wont to emerge from their lair
after dark for the terror and better undoing of the unfortunate, belated
traveller.
Then there was Beau Brocade!
Master Duffy too was very timid, and clung with trembling arms to the
meagre figure of the attorney.
"Nay! Master Duffy!" quoth Mittachip, with affected firmness, "why do
you pry about so? Are you afraid?"
"Nay! nay! Master Mittachip," replied the clerk, whose teeth were
chattering audibly, "I am ... n ... n ... not af ... f ... f ... fraid."
"Tush, man, you have me near you," rejoined Mittachip, boldly. "See! I
am armed! Look at my pistols!"
And he leant back in the saddle, so as to give Master Duffy a good view
of a pair of huge pistols that protruded ostentatiously from his belt.
Yet all around the air was still, the solitary Heath was at peace, even
the breezy nor'-wester, that had blustered throughout the day, seemed to
have lain down to rest.
Far out eastwards, the moon, behind a fast dispersing bank of clouds,
was casting a silver radiance that was not yet a light, but only a
herald of the glittering radiance to come.
The Moor was silent and at peace: only at times there came the sound of
a gentle flutter, a moorhen perhaps within its nest, or a belated lizard
seeking its home.
Whenever these slight sounds occurred, Master Mittachip's hands that
held the reins trembled visibly, and his clerk clung more closely to
him.
"What was that?" said the attorney in an awed whisper, as his frightened
ears caught a more distinct noise.
"W ... w ... why don't you draw your p ... p ... pistols, Master
Mittachip?" murmured Duffy, in mad alarm.
The noise was hushed again, but to the overwrought nerves of the two men
in terror, there came the certain, awful perception that someone was on
the Heath besides themselves, someone not far off, whom the mist hid
from their view, but who knew that they were travelling along the bridle
path, who could see and perhaps hear them.
"Truth to tell, Master Duffy," whispered the attorney, whose teeth too
had begun to chatter. "Truth to tell, it's no use my drawing them ...
they ... they are not loaded."
Master Duffy nearly fell off the pillion in his fright.
"What?"
"There's neither powder nor shot in them," continued Master Mittachip,
ruefully.
"Th ... th ... then we are lost!" was Master Duffy's ejaculation of woe.
"Eh?--what?" quoth Mittachip, "but your pistols are charged."
And his pointed elbow sought behind it for the handles of two formidable
weapons, which were stuck in Master Duffy's belt.
"N ... n ... nay!" whispered the clerk, who now was blue with terror.
"I dared not carry the weapons loaded.... I trusted to your valour,
Master Mittachip, to protect us."
"What was that?"
Again that noise! this time a good deal nearer, and it seemed to Master
Mittachip's affrighted eyes as if he saw something moving on the bridle
path before him. But he would not show too many signs of fear before
his own clerk.
"Tush, man!" he said with as much boldness as he could command. "'Tis
only a lizard in the grass mayhap. We'll ride on quite boldly. We
can't be far from Brassington now, and no footpads would dare to attack
two lusty fellows on horseback, with pistols showing in their belts! ...
Lord!" he added with a shudder, "how lonely this place appears!"
"And that rascal, Beau Brocade, haunts this Heath every night, I'm
told," murmured Master Duffy, who felt more dead than alive.
"Sh! sh! sh! speak not of the devil, Master Duffy, lest he appear!..."
"Hark!!!"
The two men now clung trembling to one another; not ten paces from them
there came the sound of a horse's snorting, then suddenly a voice rang
out clearly through the mist-laden air,--
"Hello! who goes there!"
"The Lord have mercy upon us!" whispered Mittachip.
"It must be Beau Brocade himself," echoed the clerk.
The next moment a horse and rider came into view. Master Mittachip and
his clerk were too terrified even to look. The former had jerked the
reins and brought his lean nag to a standstill, and both men now sat
with eyes closed, teeth chattering, their very faces distorted with
fear.
Beau Brocade had reined his horse quite close to them, and was peering
through his black mask at the two terror-stricken faces. Evidently they
amused him vastly, for he burst out laughing.
"Odd's my life! here's a pretty pair of scarecrows! ... Well! I see
you can stand, so now let's see what you've got to deliver!"
At this Master Mittachip contrived to open his eyes for a second; but
the black mask, and the heavily cloaked figure looked so ghostlike, so
awful in the mist, that he promptly closed them again, and murmured with
a shudder.--
"Mercy, oh, noble sir! We ... we are poor men!..."
"Poor-spirited men, you mean?" quoth Beau Brocade, giving the trembling
figure a quick, vigorous shake. "Now then! off that nag of yours!
Quick's the word!"
But even before this word of command Master Mittachip, dragging his
clerk after him, had tumbled, quaking, off his horse. They now stood
clinging to each other, a miserable bundle of frightened humanity.
"Come!" said Beau Brocade, looking down with some amusement at the
spectacle. "I'm not going to hurt you--I never shoot at snipe! But
you'll have to turn out your pockets and sharp too, an you want to
resume your journey to-night."
He had seized Master Duffy by the collar. The clerk was an all
too-ready prey for any highwayman, and stooping from his saddle, Beau
Brocade had quickly extracted a leather bag from the pocket of his coat.
"Oho! guineas, as I live!"
"Kind sir," began Duffy, tremblingly.
"Now, listen to me, both of you," said Beau Brocade, trying to hide his
enjoyment of the scene under an air of great sternness. "I know who you
are. I know what work you've been doing this afternoon. Extorting
rents barely due from a few wretched people, for your employers as
hard-hearted as yourselves."
"Kind sir..."
"Silence! or I shoot! Besides, 'twere no use to tell me lies. The
people about here know me. They call me Beau Brocade. I know them and
their troubles. I happened to hear, for instance, that you extracted
two guineas from the Widow Coggins, threatening her with a process for
dilapidations unless she gave you hush money."
"'Twas not our fault, kind sir..."
"Then there was Mistress Haddakin, from whom you extracted fifty
shillings for a new gate, which you don't intend to put up for her: and
this, although she has only just buried her husband, and had a baby sick
at home. You put on finer airs with the poor people than you do with
me, eh?"
"'Tis not our money, sir," protested Master Mittachip, humbly.
"Some of it goes into your own pockets. Hush money, blood money, I call
it. That's what I want from you, and then a bit over for the poor box
on behalf of your employers."
He weighed the leather bag which he had taken out of Master Duffy's
pocket.
"This'll do for the poor box. Now I want the five pounds you extorted
from Widow Coggins and Mistress Haddakin. The poor women'll be glad of
it on the morrow."
"I haven't a penny more than that bagful, sir," protested Master
Mittachip. "My employers took all the money from me. 'Twere their
rents I was collecting. I swear it, sir, kind sir! on my word of
honour! And I am an honest man!"
"Come here!"
And Beau Brocade reined his horse back a few paces.
"Come here!" he repeated.
Mittachip was too frightened to disobey. He came forward, limping very
perceptibly.
"Why do you walk like that?" asked Beau Brocade.
"I'm a feeble old man and rheumatic," whined Mittachip, despondently.
"Then 'twere better to ease the load out of your boot, friend. Sit down
here and take it off."
And he pointed to a piece of boulder projecting through the shallow
earth.
But this Master Mittachip seemed very loth to do.
"Kind sir..." he protested again.
"Sit down and take off the right boot!" repeated Beau Brocade more
peremptorily, and with a gay laugh and mock threatening gesture he
pointed the muzzle of his pistol at the terror-stricken attorney.
There was naught to do but to obey: and quickly too. Master Mittachip
cursed the rascally highwayman under his breath, and even consigned him
to eternal damnation, before he finally handed him up his boot.
Beau Brocade turned it over, shook it, and a bag of jingling guineas
fell at Jack o' Lantern's feet.
"Give me that bag!"
"Sir! kind sir!" moaned Master Mittachip, as he obediently handed up the
bag of gold to his merciless assailant. "Have pity! I am a ruined man!
'Tis Sir Humphrey Challoner's money. I've been collecting it for him
... and he's a hard man!"
"Oh!" said Beau Brocade, "'tis Sir Humphrey Challoner's money, is it?
Nay! you old scarecrow, but 'tis his Honour himself sent me on the Heath
to-night. Oho!" he added, whilst his merry, boyish laugh went echoing
through the evening air, "methinks Sir Humphrey will enjoy the joke. Do
you tell him, friend--an you see him in the morn--that you've met Beau
Brocade and that he'll do his Honour's bidding."
He counted some of the money out of the bag and put it in his pocket:
the remainder he handed back to the astonished lawyer.
"There!" he said with sudden earnestness, "I'll only make restitution to
the poor whom you have robbed. You may thank your stars that an angel
came down from heaven to-day and cast eyes of tender pity upon me, so
that I care not to rob you, save for those in dire want. You may mount
that nag of yours now, and continue your journey to Brassington. No
turning aside, remember, and answer me when I challenge your
good-night."
Master Mittachip and his clerk had no call to be told twice. They
mounted with as much agility as their trembling limbs would allow.
Truly they considered themselves lucky in having saved some money out of
the clutches of the rogue, and did not care to speculate on the cause of
their good fortune.
A few minutes later their lean horse was once more on its way, bearing
its double burden. At first they had both looked back, attracted--now
that their terror was gone--by the sight of that tall, youthful figure
on the beautiful thoroughbred standing there on the crest of the hill
and gradually growing more and more dim in the fast-gathering mist.
The bridle path at this point dips very suddenly and a sharp declivity
leads thence, straight on to Brassington.
Beau Brocade's sharp eyes, accustomed to the gloom, watched horse and
riders until the mist enveloped them and hid them from his view. Then
he called loudly,--
"Good-night!"
And faintly echoing came the quaking reply,--
"Good-night!"
After that there was silence again. The outlaw was alone upon the Heath
once more, the Heath which had been his home for so long.
For him it had no cruelty and held no terror: the tall gorse and bracken
oft sheltered him from the rain! Wrapped in his greatcoat, he had oft
watched the tiny lizards darting to and fro in the grass, or listened to
the melancholy cry of moorhen or heron. The tiny rough branches of the
heather had been a warm carpet on which he had slept on lazy afternoons.
The outlaw found a friend in great and lonely Nature, and when he was
aweary he laid his head on her motherly breast, and like a child found
rest.
CHAPTER XVII
A FAITHFUL FRIEND
How long he stood there on the spur of the hill he could not afterwards
have told. It may have been a few seconds, perhaps it was an eternity.
During those few seconds or that eternity, the world was re-created for
him: for him it became more beautiful than he had ever conceived it in
his dreams. A woman's smile had changed it into an earthly paradise. A
new and strange happiness filled his being, and set brain and sinews on
fire. A happiness so great that his heart well nigh broke with the
burden of it, and the bitter longing for what could never be.
The cry of a moorhen thrice repeated at intervals roused him from his
dreams.
"John Stich," he murmured, "I wonder now what brings him out to-night!"
And with a final sigh of deep regret, a defiant toss of the head, Beau
Brocade turned Jack o' Lantern's head northwards whence the cry had
come.
There a rough track, scarce perceptible amongst the bracken, led
straight up to the forge of John Stich. Horse and rider knew every inch
of the way, although for the moment the fitful moon still hid her light
behind a bank of clouds, and the mist now enveloped the Moor in a thick
mantle of gloom.
Soon the sensitive ears of the highwayman, accustomed to every sound,
had perceived heavy footsteps on the unbeaten track, and presently a
burly figure detached itself from the darkness beyond and came rapidly
forward.
"Odd's my life! but it's friend John!" said Beau Brocade, with a great
show of severity. "Zounds! but this is rank insubordination! How dare
you follow me on the Heath, you villain, and leave your noble guest
unprotected? What?"
"His lordship is safe enough, Captain," said the smith, who at sight of
the young man had heaved an obvious sigh of relief, "and I could not
rest until I'd seen you again."
"Faith! you can't do that in this confounded mist, eh, John?" quoth
Bathurst, lightly. But his fresh young voice had softened with a quaint
tenderness, whilst he looked down, smiling, at the upturned face of his
devoted friend.
"Well! what about my friend, the Sergeant and the soldiers, eh?" he
added gaily.
"Oh! the Sergeant is too sick to speak," rejoined the smith, earnestly,
"but the men vow you're a rebel lord. Those that were fit walked down
to Brassington directly after you left: one man, who was wounded in the
arm, started for Aldwark: they've gone to get help, Captain; either more
soldiers, or loafers from the villages who may be tempted by the reward.
They'll scour this Heath for you, from Aldwark to the cross-roads, and
from Brassington to Wirksworth, and..."
"And so much the better, friend Stich, for while they hunt for me his
lordship will be safe."
"But have a care, Captain! they're determined men, now, for you've
fooled them twice. Be gy! but you've never been in so tight a corner
before."
"Pshaw!" quoth Beau Brocade, lightly, "life is none too precious a boon
for me that I should make an effort to save it."
"Captain..." murmured Stich, reproachfully.
"There, friend John," added the young man, with that same touch of
almost womanly tenderness, that had endeared him to the heart of honest
Stich, "there! there! have no fear for me! I tell thee, man, they'll
not get me on this Heath! Think you the furze and bracken, the heron or
peewit would betray me? Me, their friend! Not they! I am safe
enough!" he continued, while a strange ring of excitement made his young
voice quiver. "Let them after me, and leave _her_ brother in peace! And
then, John! when he is safe ... perhaps I may see her smile once more!
... Heigh-ho! A fool am I, friend! A fool, I tell thee! fit for the
gallows-tree outside thy forge!"
John said nothing: he could not see Jack's face in the gloom, and did
not understand his wild, mad mood, but his faithful heart ached to hear
the ring of bitter longing in the voice of his friend.
There was a moment's pause, whilst Bathurst made a visible effort to
control his excitement. Then he said more calmly,--
"Here, John! take this money, friend!"
He dived in the pocket of his big caped coat and then placed in John's
hand the two bags of money he had extracted from Master Mittachip and
his clerk.
"I've just got it from a blood-sucking agent of Sir Humphrey
Challoner's: 'tis money wrung from poor people, who can ill afford it."
"Aye! aye!" quoth John, with a sigh.
"I want two guineas to go to Mistress Haddakin, who has just lost her
husband: the poor wretch is nigh to starving. Then thirty shillings are
for the Widow Coggins, up Hartington way: those blood-suckers took her
last shilling yesterday. Wilt see to it, friend John?"
"Aye! aye!"
"The rest is for the poor box at Aldwark this time. Perhaps there'll be
more before the morn."
"Captain..."
"Hush! don't begin to lecture, John!" said Beau Brocade, with curious
earnestness. "I tell thee, friend, there's madness in my veins
to-night. I pray thee go back home, and leave me to myself."
"Don't send me away, Captain," pleaded John, "I ... I ... am uneasy,
and..."
"Dear, kind, faithful John," murmured Bathurst. "Zounds! but I'm an
ungrateful wretch, for I vow thou dost love me, friend."
"You know I do, Captain. I ... I ... I'd give..."
"Nay ... nothing!" interrupted Jack, quickly, "give me nothing but that
love of thine, friend ... it is more precious than life ... but I pray
thee, let me be to-night ... I swear to thee I'll do no harm.... I'll
see thee in the morn, John.... I'll be safe ... never fear!"
John Stich sighed. He knew that further protest was useless. Already
Beau Brocade had turned Jack o' Lantern's head once more towards the
crest of the hill. The smith waited awhile, listening while he could to
the sound of the horse's hoofs on the rain-sodden earth. His honest
heart was devoured with anxiety both for his friend and for the brave
young lady who was journeying townwards to-night.
Suddenly it seemed to him as if far away he could hear the creaking of
wheels on the distant Wirksworth road. The air was so still, that
presently he could hear it quite distinctly. 'Twas her ladyship's
coach, no doubt, plying its slow, wearying way along the quaggy road.
It would be midway to the little town by now. The narrow track on which
John stood cut the road at right angles, about a mile and a half away.
The smith took to blaming himself that he had kept her ladyship's
journey a secret from Beau Brocade. The latter was a monarch on the
Heath: he would have kept footpads at bay, watched and guarded the
coach, and seen it, mayhap, safely as far as Wirksworth.
Never for a moment did the slightest fear cross the smith's mind that
the notorious highwayman would stop Lady Patience's coach. Still, a
warning would not have come amiss. Perhaps it was not too late. The
road wound in and out a good deal, skirting bogland or massive boulders.
John hoped that on the path he might yet come across Jack o' Lantern and
his master, before they had met the coach.
He started to run and had covered nearly a mile when suddenly he heard a
shout, which made his honest heart almost stop in its beating, a shout,
followed by two pistol shots in rapid succession.
The shout had rung out clear and distinct in the fresh, lusty voice of
Beau Brocade.
"Stand and deliver!"
John dared not think what the pistol shots had meant.
With elbows now pressed to his sides, he began running at a wild gallop
along the rough, unbeaten track, towards the point whence shots and
shout had come.
CHAPTER XVIII
MOONLIGHT ON THE HEATH
The jolting of the carriage along the quaggy road had been well nigh
unendurable. Mistress Betty was groaning audibly. But Lady Patience,
with her fair head resting against the cushions, was forgetting all
bodily ailments, whilst absorbed in mental visions that flitted, swift
and ever-changing, before her excited brain.
There was the dear brother in peril of his life, his young face looking
wan and anxious, then Sir Humphrey Challoner, the man she instinctively,
unreasonably dreaded, and John Stich, the faithful retainer, brave and
burly, guarding his lord's life with his own. These faces and figures
wandered ghostlike before her eyes, and then vanished, leaving before
her mental vision but one form and face, a pair of merry, deep-set grey
eyes, that at times looked so inexpressibly sad, a head crowned with a
mass of unruly curls, a figure, lithe and active, sitting upon a
chestnut horse and riding away towards the sunset.
It was a pleasant picture: no wonder Patience allowed her mind to dwell
on it, and in fancy to hear that full-toned voice either in lively song
or gay repartee, or at times with that ring of tenderness in it, which
had brought the tears of pity to her eyes.
The hours sped slowly on, the cumbrous vehicle jostled onwards, plunging
and creaking, whilst Thomas urged the burdened horses along.
Suddenly a jerk, more vigorous than before, roused Patience from her
half-wakeful dreams. The heavy coach had seemed to take a plunge on its
side, there was fearful creaking, and much swearing from the driver's
box, a shout or two, panting efforts on the part of the horses, and
finally the vehicle came to a complete standstill.
Mistress Betty had started up in alarm.
"Lud preserve us!" she shouted, putting a very sleepy head out of the
carriage window, "what's the matter now, Thomas?"
"We be stuck in a quagmire," muttered the latter worthy, vainly trying
to smother more forcible language, out of respect for her ladyship's
presence.
Timothy, the groom, had dismounted: lanthorn in hand, he was examining
the cause of the catastrophe.
"Get the other lanthorn, Thomas!" he shouted to the driver, "and come
and give me a hand, else we'll have to spend the night
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