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.