Beau Brocade

Patience herself did not close an eye. Her hand clinging to that of Philip, she sat throughout that long, weary night watching and waiting, dreading the awful dawn, with the terrible news it would bring.

And it was when the first rosy light shed its delicate hue over the tiny old-world village, that the sweet-scented morning air was suddenly filled with the hoarse triumphal cry, —

"We have gotten Beau Brocade!"

"Hip! hip! hip! hurray!"

Wearied and dazed with the fatigue of her long vigil, Patience had sunk into a torpor when those shouts, rapidly drawing nearer to the village, roused her from this state of semi-consciousness.

She hardly knew what she had hoped during these past anxious hours: now that the awful certainty had come, it seemed to stun her with the unexpectedness of the blow.

"We've gotten Beau Brocade!"

The village folk turned out in melancholy groups from the parlour of the inn; they too had entertained vague hopes that their hero would emerge unscathed from the perils which encompassed him; to them too the news of his capture came as that of a sad, irretrievable catastrophe. They congregated in small, excited numbers on the village green, their stolid heads shaking sadly at sight of the squad of soldiers, who were bringing in a swathed-up bundle of humanity, smothered about the head in a scarlet coat, and with hands and legs securely strapped down with a couple of military belts. Only the fine brown cloth coat, the beautifully-embroidered waistcoat and silver-mounted pistol proclaimed that miserable, helpless bundle to be the gallant Beau Brocade.

The soldiers themselves were in a wild state of glee; they had carried their prisoner in triumph all the way from the Heath, and had never ceased shouting until they had deposited him on the green. Owing to the unusual hour, and to the absence of His Honour, Squire West, the pinioned highwayman was to be locked up in the pound until noon.

In the small private parlour of the Packhorse Patience had sat rigid as a statue, while those shouts of triumph seemed to strike her heart as with a hammer. Her fist pressed against her burning mouth, she was making desperate efforts to smother the scream of agony which would have rent her throat.

But with one bound John Stich was soon out of the Packhorse, where he, too, with aching heart and mind devoured with anxiety, had watched and waited through the night.

It did not take him long to reach the green, and using his stalwart elbows to some purpose, he quickly made a way for himself through the small crowd and was presently looking down on the huddled figure which lay helpless on the ground.

There was the Captain's fine brown coat sure enough, with its ample, silk-lined, full skirts, and rich, cut-steel buttons; there was the long, richly-embroidered waistcoat; the lace cuffs at the wrists, and the handsome sword-belt, through which the finely-chased silver handle of the pistol still protruded. But John Stich had need but to cast one glance at the hands, and another at the feet encased in rough countryman's boots, to realise with a sudden, wild exultation of his honest heart that in some way or other his Captain had succeeded in once more playing a trick on his pursuers, and that the man who lay there muffled on the ground was certainly not Beau Brocade.

But even in the suddenness of this intense joy and relief, John Stich was shrewd enough not to betray himself. Obviously every moment, during which the captors enjoyed their mistaken triumph, was a respite gained for the hunted man out on the Heath. Therefore when the Sergeant ordered the rascal to be locked up in the pound awaiting his Honour's orders, and gave Stich a vigorous rap on the shoulder, saying lustily, —

"Well, Master Stich, we've got your friend after all, you see?"

The smith quietly replied, —

"Aye! aye! you've gotten him right enough. No offence, Sergeant! Have a small ale with me before we all go to bed?"

"'Tis nowt to me," he added, seeing with intense satisfaction the heavy bolts of the pound securely pushed home on the unfortunate Jock Miggs.

The Sergeant was nothing loth, and eagerly followed Stich to the bar of the Royal George, where small ale now flowed freely until the sun was high in the heavens.

But as soon as the smith had seen the soldiers safely installed before their huge tankards, he rushed out of the inn and across the green, back to the Packhorse, to bring the joyful news to Lady Patience and her brother.

In the privacy of the little back parlour he was able to give free rein to his joy.

"They'll never get the Captain," he shouted, tossing his cap in the air, "and, saving your ladyship's presence, we was all fools to think they would."

Patience had said nothing when the smith first brought the news. She smiled kindly and somewhat mechanically at the exuberance of his joy, but when honest John once more left her, to glean more detailed account of the great man-hunt on the Heath, she turned to her brother, and falling on her knees she buried her fair head against the lad's shoulder and sobbed in the fulness of her joy as if her heart would break.

CHAPTER XXXII

A PAINFUL INCIDENT

A few hours later, when hunters and watchers had had a little rest, came the rude awakening after the hour of triumph.

Jock Miggs, still trussed and pinioned, had been hauled out of the pound. Master Inch, the beadle, resplendent in gold-laced coat and the majesty of his own importance, had taken the order of ceremony into his own hands.

His Honour, Squire West, would be round at the Court House about noon, and Inch, still smarting under the indignity put upon him through the instrumentality of the highwayman, had devised an additional little plan of revenge.

Sir Humphrey Challoner had emphatically declared that the beadle should be publicly whipped for having dared to lay hands on the Squire of Hartington's person. Master Inch remembered this possible and appalling indignity, which mayhap he would be called upon to suffer, and therefore when the bolts of the pound were first drawn, disclosing the swathed-up bundle of humanity which was supposed to be the highwayman, the beadle shouted in his most stentorian, most pompous tones, —

"To the pond with him!"

The soldiers – most of them lads recruited from the Midland counties, and a pretty rough lot to boot – were only too ready for this additional bit of horseplay.

'Twas fun enough to sit an old scold in the ducking-stool, but to carry on the same game with Beau Brocade, the notorious highwayman, who had defied the four counties and set every posse of soldiers by the ears, would be rare sport indeed.

With a shout of joy they seized Jock Miggs by the legs and shoulders, and with much laughter and many a lively sally they carried him to the shallow duck-pond at the further end of the green. Very sadly, and with many an anxious shake of the head, the village folk followed the little procession, which was headed by the Sergeant and pompous Master Inch.

At the moment when the unfortunate shepherd was being swung in mid-air, preparatory to his immersion in the water, one of the soldiers laughingly dragged away the coat which swathed poor Miggs's head and shoulders, and was near suffocating him.

"We don't want 'im to drown, do we?" he said, just as his comrades dropped the wretched man straight into the pond.

Immediately there was a loud cry from beadle and spectators, —

"Lud love us all! that bain't Beau Brocade!"

And one timid voice added, —

"Why! 'tis Jock Miggs, the shepherd!"

The beadle nearly had a fit of apoplectic rage. That cursed highwayman surely must be in league with the devil himself. The soldiers were gasping with astonishment, and staring open-mouthed at the dripping figure of Jock Miggs, who with unruffled stolidity was quietly struggling out of the water.

"Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times," he muttered in his vague, fatalistic way as he shook himself dry in the sunshine, after the manner of his own woolly sheep-dog.

"Oho! ho! ha! ha! ha!" came in merry chorus from the crowd of village folk, "look at Jock Miggs, the highwayman!"

The soldiers, were absolutely speechless. Master Inch, the beadle, had said emphatically, —

"Damn!"

Truly there was nothing more to be said: those who were inclined to be superstitious felt convinced that the devil himself had had something to do with this amazing substitution.

That it was Beau Brocade who had been captured on the Heath last night none of those who were present at the time doubted for a single instant. To their minds the highwayman had been mysteriously spirited away by the agency of Satan his friend, who had quietly deposited Jock Miggs, the shepherd, in his place.

John Stich, with Mistress Betty beside him, had watched these proceedings from the other end of the green, fully prepared to come to Miggs's assistance and to disclose the latter's identity at once if the horse-play became at all too rough. He now pushed his way through the group of soldiers, and good-naturedly taking hold of the bewildered shepherd's arm, he led him to the porch of the Royal George.

"You'd like to wet your gullet after this, eh, Jock?" he said, as he ordered a tankard of steaming ale to be brought forthwith to the dripping man.

The soldiers, somewhat shamefaced, had pressed into the bar-parlour of the inn: presently there would be a few broken heads in the village as a result of the morning's work, but for the moment the yokels had not begun to chaff: 'twas Jock who was the centre of attraction outside in the porch, sitting on a bench and sipping large quantities of hot ale.

"Let's all drink a glass of ale to the health of Jock Miggs, the highwayman!" came in merry accents from one of the gaffers.

"Hurrah for Jock Miggs, the highwayman!" was the universal gleeful chorus.

"Be gy! Don't he look formidable!" quoth one of the villagers, pointing at the shepherd's scared figure on the bench.

"Let me perish!" said another in mock alarm, "but I'se mightily afeeard o' him."

Mistress Betty too had mixed with the throng, and was eyeing Jock, with irrepressible laughter dancing in her saucy little face.

"Lud! 'tis that funny bit of sheep's wool!" she said gaily. "Faith! and you do look sadly, Jock Miggs, and no mistake! Have you been in the pond?"

"How did 'e foind that out?" queried Miggs, vaguely. "Aye! they dumped Oi in t' pond, they did … and nearly throttled Oi … 'tis a blamed shame!"

He had sipped huge tankards of hot ale until he felt thoroughly warm, and was steaming now like a great loaf just out of the oven.

"Dumped ye in the pond?" laughed Mistress Betty. "You were no beauty before, Jock Miggs … but now … Oh! Gemini! … Why, what had you done?"

"I'd done nowt!" retorted the bewildered shepherd. "A foine gentleman he took a fancy to me old smock, he did … he put a pistol to my head … then he give me his own beautiful coat for to make me look decent … and I were just puttin' it on when them soldiers fell on me … and nigh throttled me, and clapped me in the pound they did…"

"Ye seem to have had a rough time o' it, friend Miggs," said John Stich, kindly.

"Aye, that be so!" commented Jock, vaguely. "'Mazing times these be!"

"They mistook you in your fine clothes for Beau Brocade," explained one of the villagers.

"May be so!" quoth Miggs. "I dunno."

But Mistress Betty held up a rosy finger at the unfortunate shepherd, and said with grave severity, —

"Ye are not Beau Brocade, Jock Miggs, are ye?"

"I dunno!" replied Jock Miggs with imperturbable vagueness. "I don't rightly know who Oi be! I think them soldiers made a mistake, but I dunno."

He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, and the rest of his morning was spent in pleasant conviviality with all his friends in the village, until by about noon the worthy shepherd was really hopelessly at sea as to who he really was. At one o'clock he became quite convinced that he was Beau Brocade the highwayman – or at any rate a very dangerous character – and had only escaped hanging through his reputation of supernatural cunning and bravery.

The Sergeant and soldiers were drowning their acute disappointment in the bar-parlour of the Royal George. They certainly were not in luck, for even at the very moment when egged on by the Sergeant they were planning a fresh battue of the Heath, there came into Brassington an advance guard from the Duke of Cumberland, with the news that His Royal Highness would pass through the village with his army corps on his way to the north. The Sergeant was requisitioned to arrange for His Highness's quarters at the Royal George: the men would not be allowed to go hunting after a highwayman, in case their officers had need of them for other purposes.

All thoughts of a fresh hunt after their elusive quarry would therefore have to be abandoned until after the army had passed through Brassington, and Sergeant and soldiers could but hope that they would be left behind, in order that they might make one more gigantic attempt to earn the hundred guineas reward, offered for the capture of Beau Brocade.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE AWAKENING

John Stich could scarce contain himself for joy. Fate indeed and all the angels in heaven had ranged themselves on the side of his Captain.

That Beau Brocade should have emerged unconquered after all out of the terrible position in which he was placed last night, seemed to the worthy smith nothing short of miraculous, and only accomplished through the special agency of heaven, whose most cherished child the gallant highwayman most undoubtedly was, in his friend's enthusiastic estimation.

For the moment, therefore, the kindly smith felt tolerably happy about his friend. The presence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland with his army corps in this part of the country would do much towards keeping the Sergeant and soldiers' attention away from the Heath, at any rate for a day or two. Perhaps the squad now quartered at Brassington would be drafted to one of the regiments, and a fresh contingent, composed of men who'd have no special bone to pick with the highwayman, left behind for the still active hunt against the rebels.

But this train of thought brought the faithful smith's mind back to the Earl of Stretton and the stolen letters. Reassured momentarily as to his friend, he was still aware of the grave peril which threatened his young lord.

Neither he nor Lady Patience could conjecture what had become of the letters. Sir Humphrey Challoner, after his woeful adventure in Brassington, had condescended to accept Squire West's hospitality for the nonce. Stich had spied him in the course of the morning, walking in the direction of the village in close conversation with his familiar, Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law. In spite of the momentary respite in his anxiety, the smith felt that there lay still the real danger to Beau Brocade and to Lord Stretton. Moreover, by now he longed to see his friend and to learn how he'd fared. Vaguely in his honest heart he feared that the young man had succumbed on the Heath to pain and fatigue, and mayhap had failed to reach the forge.

When he saw the entire population of Brassington busy with Jock Miggs, and the soldiers intent on the news from the Duke of Cumberland's advance guard, he determined to set out for the crossroads, in the hopes of finding the Captain at the forge.

He had just crossed the green and turned into the narrow bridle-path which led straight to his smithy, when he spied a yokel, dressed in a long smock and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, coming slowly towards him. The man was leaning heavily on a thick knotted stick and seemed to be walking with obvious pain and fatigue.

Some unexplainable instinct caused the smith to wait awhile until the yokel came a little nearer. This corner of the village was quite deserted; the laughter of the folk assembled round the Royal George could be heard only as a distant echo from across the green. The next moment the smith uttered a quickly-suppressed cry of astonishment as he recognised Bathurst's face underneath the broad-brimmed hat.

"Sh! … sh … sh!" whispered the young man hurriedly – "her ladyship? … can I see her?"

"Yes! yes!" replied John, whose honest eyes were resting anxiously on his friend's pallid face, "but you, Captain? … you?.."

He did not like to formulate the question, and Bathurst interrupted him quickly.

"I've rested awhile at the forge, John … your mother was an angel … and now I want to see her ladyship."

John's honest heart misgave him. His friend's fresh young voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, there was a restless, feverish glitter in his eyes, and the slender, tapering hand which rested on the stick trembled visibly.

"You ought to be in bed, Captain," he muttered gruffly, "and well nursed too; you are ill…"

"I am sufficiently alive, friend, at any rate to serve Lady Patience to the end."

"I'll go tell her ladyship," said the smith, with a sigh.

"Say a man from the village would wish to speak with her… Don't mention my name, John … she'll not know me, I think… 'Tis best that she should not… And I look a miserable object enough, don't I?" he added with a feeble laugh.

"Her ladyship would command you to rest if she knew…"

"I don't wish her to know, friend," said Jack, smiling in spite of himself at the good fellow's vehemence, "her tender pity would try to wean me from my purpose, which is to serve her with the last breath left in me. And now, quick, John… Don't worry about me, old friend… I am only a little tired after that scramble on the Heath … and the wound that limb of Satan dealt me is at times rather troublesome… But I am very tough, you know… All my plans are made, and I'll follow you at a little distance. Beg her ladyship to speak with me in the passage of the inn … 'twould excite too much attention if I went up to her parlour… No one'll know me, never fear."

John knew of old how useless it was to argue with the Captain once he had set his mind on a definite course of action. Without further protest, therefore, and yet with a heavy heart, he turned and quickly walked back through the village to the Packhorse, followed at some little distance by Bathurst.

In order to arouse as little suspicion as possible, it had been necessary for the young Earl of Stretton to mix from time to time with the servant and the barman of the inn. He was supposed to be an additional serving-man, come to help at the Packhorse in view of her ladyship's unexpected stay there. In this out-of-the-way village of Brassington no one knew him by sight, and he was in comparative safety here, until nightfall, when he meant to strike up country again for shelter.

He was standing in the shadow behind the bar, when John Stich entered the parlour, bearing the message from Beau Brocade. The room was dark and narrow, over-filled with heavy clouds of tobacco smoke and with the deafening clamour of loud discussions and exciting narratives carried on by two or three soldiers and some half-dozen villagers over profuse tankards of ale.

John Stich managed to reach Philip's ear without exciting attention. The young man at once slipped out of the room, in order to tell his sister that a yokel bearing important news would wish to speak with her privately.

Her heart beating with eagerness and apprehension, Patience hurried down the narrow stairs, and in the passage found herself face to face with a man dressed in a long, dingy smock, and whose features she could not distinguish beneath the broad brim of his hat.

He raised a respectful hand to his forelock as soon as he was in her ladyship's presence, but did not remove his hat.

"You wished to speak with me, my man?" asked Lady Patience, eagerly.

"I have a message for to deliver to Lady Patience Gascoyne," said Bathurst, whose voice, hoarse and quavering with fatigue, needed no assumption of disguise. He kept his head well bent, and the passage was very dark.

Patience, with her thoughts fixed on the gallant, upright figure she had last seen so full of vitality and joy in the little inn-parlour upstairs, scarce gave more than a passing glance to the stooping form, leaning heavily on a stick before her.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "you have a message? From whom?"

"I don't rightly know, my lady … a gentleman 'twas … on the Heath this morning … he give me this letter for your ladyship."

Burying his tell-tale, slender hand well inside the capacious sleeve of Jock Miggs's smock, Bathurst handed Patience a note written by himself. She took it from him with a glad little cry, and when he turned to go she put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Wait till I've read the letter," she said, "I may wish to send an answer."

She unfolded the letter slowly, very slowly, he standing close beside her and watching the tears gathering in her eyes as she began to read, murmuring the words half audibly to herself: —

"Have no fear. I have the letters, and with your permission will take them straight to London. I have a powerful friend there who will help me to place them before the King and Council without delay. To carry this safely through it is important that I should not be seen again in Brassington, as Sir Humphrey Challoner luckily has lost track of me for the moment, and I can be at Wirksworth before nightfall, and on my way to London before another dawn. Your enemy will keep watch on you, so I entreat you to stay in Brassington so as to engage his attention, whilst I go to London with the letters. His lordship would be safest, I think, in the cottage of old Widow Coggins at Aldwark. It has been my good fortune to do her some small service; she'll befriend his lordship for my sake. John Stich will convey him thither as soon as maybe. I entreat you to be of good cheer. A few days will see your brother a free man, and rid you for ever of your enemy. Believe me, the plan I have had the honour to set forth is safe and quick, and on my knees I beg you to allow me to carry it through in your service."

She folded the letter and then slipped it into the folds of her gown.

Through the open doorway behind her a ray of sunshine came shyly peeping in, framing her graceful figure with a narrow fillet of gold. They were alone in the passage, and she, intent upon the precious letter, was taking no notice of him: thus he could feast his eyes once more upon his dream, his beautiful white rose, drooping with the dew, the graceful silhouette outlined against the sunlit picture beyond, the queenly head, with its wealth of soft golden hair, bent with rapt attention on the letter which trembled in her hand.

His whole being ached with mad passionate longing for her, his lips burned with a desire to cover her neck and throat with kisses, yet he would have knelt on the flagstones before her and worshipped as did the saints before Our Lady's shrine. In his heart was a great joy that he could do her service, and a strange, wild hope that he might die for her.

"The gentleman who gave you this letter…" she said with a slight catch in her low, melodious voice. "You saw him? … He was well? … How did he look?.."

Her eyes now were swimming in tears, and Bathurst had much ado to still the mad beating of his heart, and to force his voice to a natural tone.

"Lud, my lady," he said, "but he was just like any other body Oi thought."

"Not ill?"

"Noa! noa! not that Oi could see."

"Go back to him, friend," she said, with sudden eagerness, "tell him that he must come to me at once … I … I would speak with him."

It required all Bathurst's firm strength of will not to betray himself before her. The tender pleading in her eyes, the gentle, womanly sympathy in her voice, set all his pulses beating. But he had made up his mind that she should not know him just then. A look, a cry, might give him away, and there was but one chance now to be of useful service to her, and that was to take the letters at once to London, whilst their joint enemy had for the nonce no thought of him.

Therefore he contrived to say quite stolidly, —

"Noa, noa, the gentleman said to Oi, 'You can bring a message, but th' lady mustn't come nigh me!'"

She gave a quick little sigh of disappointment.

"Then, my good fellow," she said, "try to remember … tell him … tell him … I would wish to thank him … tell him… Nay! nay!" she suddenly added, pulling a faded white rose from her belt, "tell him nothing … but give him this flower … in token that I have received his letter … and will act as he bids me… You'll remember?"