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 on this
God-forsaken heath."
"Is it serious, Timothy?" queried Lady Patience, anxiously.
"I hope not, my lady. The axle is caked with mud on this side, and we
do seem stuck in some kind of morass, but if Thomas'll hurry himself..."
The latter, with many more suppressed oaths, had at last got down from
his box, and had brought a second lanthorn round to the back of the
coach, where Timothy had already started scraping shovelfuls of inky mud
from the axle of the off-wheel.
It was at this moment, and when the two men were intent upon their work,
that a voice, loud and distinct, suddenly shouted behind them,--
"Stand and deliver!"
Thomas, who was of a timorous disposition, dropped the lanthorn he held,
and in his fright knocked over the other which was on the ground. He
was a man of peace, and knew from past experience that 'tis safer not to
resist these gentlemen of the roads.
When therefore the highwayman's well-known challenge rang out in the
night, he threw up both hands in order to testify to his peaceful
intentions; but Timothy, who was younger and more audacious, drew a
couple of pistols from his belt, and at all hazards fired them off, one
after the other, in the direction whence had come the challenge. The
next moment he felt a vigorous blow on his wrists and the pistols flew
out of his hand.
"Hands up or I shoot!"
Thomas was already on his knees. Timothy, thus disarmed, thought it
more prudent to follow suit.
From within the coach could be heard Mistress Betty's shrill and
terrified voice,--
"Nay! nay! your ladyship shall not go!" followed by her ladyship's
peremptory command,--
"Silence, child! Let me go! Stay you within an you are afraid!"
There was a moment's silence, for at sound of her voice Beau Brocade had
started, then he leaned forward on his horse, listening with all his
might, wondering if indeed his ears had not misled him, if 'twas not a
dream-voice that came to him out of the gloom.
"Have I the honour of addressing Lady Rounce?" he murmured mechanically.
At this moment the darkness, which up to now had been intense, began
slowly to give place to a faint, silvery light. The moon, pale and
hazy, tried to pierce the mist that still enveloped her as with a cold,
blue mantle, and one by one tipped blackthorn and gorse with a cluster
of shimmering diamonds.
Like a ghostly panorama the heath revealed its thousand beauties, its
many mysteries: the deep, dark tangle of bramble and ling, beneath which
hide the gnomes and ghouls, the tiny blue cups of the harebells, wherein
the pixies have their home; the fairy rings in the grass, where the
sprites dance their wild saraband on nights such as this, with the
crickets to play the tunes, and the glow-worms to light them in their
revels.
But to Beau Brocade the dim radiance of the moon, shy and golden through
her veil of mist, only revealed one great, one wonderful picture: that
of his dream made real, of his heavenly vision come down to earth, the
picture of _her_ stepping out of the coach that she might speak to him.
She came forward quickly, and the hood flew back from her face. She was
looking at him with a half-puzzled, half-haughty expression in her eyes,
and Beau Brocade thought he had never seen eyes that were so deeply
blue. He murmured her name,--
"The Lady Patience!"
"Nay, sir, since you know my name," she said, with a quaint, almost
defiant toss of her small, graceful head. "I pray you, whoever you may
be, to let me depart in peace. See," she added, holding a heavy purse
out to him, "I have brought you what money I have. Will you take it and
let me go?"
But he dared not speak. He longed to turn Jack o' Lantern's head and to
gallop away quickly out of her sight, before she had recognised him and
learnt that the man on whom she had looked with such tender pity, and
with such glowing admiration, was the highway robber, the outlaw, the
notorious thief. Yet so potent was the spell of her voice, the moist
shimmer of her lips, the depth and glitter of her blue eyes, that he
felt as if iron fetters held him fast to the ground, there enchained
before her, until at least she should speak again.
He dismounted and she stepped a little closer to him, so close now that,
had he stretched out his hand, he might have touched her cloak, or even
those white finger-tips which...
"Believe me, sir," she said a little impatiently, seeing that he did not
speak, "I give you all I have freely an you molest me no more. I have
urgent, very urgent business in London, which brooks of no delay.
Kindly allow my men to go free."
She was pleading now, all the haughtiness vanished from her face. Her
voice, too, shook perceptibly; the tall, silent figure before her was
beginning to frighten her.
Yet he dared not trust himself to speak, lest by a word he should dispel
this dream. This golden vision of paradise that heaven had so
unaccountably sent to him this night! it might vanish again amidst the
stars and leave the poor outlaw to his loneliness.
This moment was so precious, so wonderful.
Madly he longed for the god-like power to stop Time in its relentless
way, to make sun, moon and stars, the earth and all eternity pause
awhile, whilst he looked upon her, as she stood there, with the pleading
look in her eyes, the honey-coloured moon above throwing a dim and
flickering light upon her upturned face ... her golden hair ... that
tiny hand stretched out to him.
She seemed to wait for his reply, and at last in a low voice, which he
tried to disguise, he murmured,--
"Madam, I entreat you, have no fear! Believe me, I would sooner never
see the sun set again than cause you even one short moment's anxiety."
Again that quaint puzzled look came into her eyes, she looked at the
black mask that hid his face, as if she would penetrate the secret which
it kept.
"Will you not take this purse?" she asked.
"Nay! I will not take the purse, fair lady," he said, still speaking
very low, "but I would fain, an you would permit it, hold but for one
instant your hand in mine. Will you not let me?"
The impulse was irresistible, the desire to hold her hand so strong that
he had no power to combat it. She seemed puzzled and not a little
frightened, but neither haughty nor resentful at his presumption:
perhaps she felt the influence of the mystery which surrounded the dark,
cloaked figure before her, or the more subtle spell of the mist-covered
moon. She made no movement towards him, her hand which he craved to
hold had dropped to her side.
There was magic in the vast stillness of the Moor; on each dew-tipped
point of grey-green gorse, from every frond of emerald bracken, there
glistened a tiny crystal. Timothy and Thomas had retreated to a safer
position, out of sight behind the huge vehicle, and inside the coach
Betty was cowering in terror. They stood alone, these two, away from all
the world, in a land all their own, a land of dreams, of poetry, and
romance, where men died for a look from women's eyes, and conquered the
universe for a smile.
How silent was the Heath while he looked at her, and she returned his
gaze half-trembling, wholly puzzled.
"Will you not let me?" he pleaded. And instinctively his voice trembled
in the pleading, and there came back to her mind the memory of this same
voice, young and tender, as she had heard it in the forge. But she
would not let him know that she had guessed.
"Sir," she said with sudden, unaccountable shyness, "you have
overpowered my men, they are but loutish cowards, and you are heavily
armed. I am a defenceless woman.... How can I refuse if you command?"
He took the pistols from his belt and laid them on the ground at her
feet.
"Nay, fair lady!" he said, "there is no question of command. See! I am
unarmed now, and your men are free. Give them the word and I'll not
stir hand or foot till you have worked your will with me. You see, 'tis
I am at your mercy ... yet I still crave to hold your hand ... for one
moment ... in mine..."
For one second more she hesitated: not because she was afraid, but
because there was a subtle sweetness in this moment of suspense, a
delicious feeling of expectancy for the joy that was to come.
Then she gave him her hand.
"Why! ... how it trembles," he said, "like some tiny frightened bird.
See how white it looks in my rough brown hand. You are not afraid?"
"Afraid? ... oh, no! ... but ... but the hour is late ... I pray you let
me depart ... I must not tarry ... for so much depends upon my
journey.... I pray you let me go."
"No, no! don't go," he pleaded, clinging to the little hand whose cool
touch had made his very senses reel, "don't go ... not just yet.... See
how glorious is the moon above those distant hills ... and the
mist-laden air which makes your hair glisten with a thousand diamonds,
whilst I, poor fool, holding your cool, white hand in mine, stand here
gazing on a vision that whispers to me of things which can never, never
be.... No! no, don't go just yet ... let the moon hide her light once
more behind the mist ... let the Heath sink into darkness ... let me
live in my dream one moment longer ... it will be dispelled all too
soon."
He had spoken so low, she scarce could hear, but she could feel his hand
scorching hers with its fever-heat, and when he ceased speaking she
heard a sigh, like a sob, a sigh of bitter longing, of hopeless regret,
that made her heart ache with a new pain which was greater, more holy
than pity.
A strange excitement seemed to pervade him. Madness was in his veins.
He longed to seize her, to lift her up on Jack o' Lantern's back and
gallop away with her over the Moor, far, far out beyond bracken and
heather, over those distant Tors, on, on to the mountains of the moon,
to the valley of the shadows, she lying passive in his arms, whilst he
looked for ever into the clear blue depths of her eyes. Perhaps she too
felt this excitement gradually creeping over her; she tried to withdraw
her hand, but he would not let it go. To her also there came the sense
of unreality, of a vision of dreamland, wherein no one dwelt but she and
this one man, where no sound came save that of his voice, rugged and
tender, which brought tears of joy and pity to her eyes.
In the grass at her feet a cricket began to chirp, and suddenly from a
little distance there came the quaint, sweet sound of a shepherd's pipe,
playing an old-time rigadoon.
"Hark!" she whispered.
The sound came nearer and nearer: she loved to hear the faint, elusive
echo, the fairy accompaniment to her own dreamlike mood.
"What a sweet tune," she murmured, as instinctively her foot began
tapping the measure on the ground. "I mind it well! How oft have I
danced to it beneath the Maypole!"
"Will you then dance it with me to-night?"
"Nay, sir ... you do but jest..."
But his excitement was at fever-point now. The outlaw at least could
work his will upon this Heath, of which he alone was king. He could not
carry her away on Jack o' Lantern's back, but he could make her stay
with him a while longer, dance with him, here in the moonlight, her hand
in his, his arm at times round her waist in the mazes of the dance, her
cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her breath panting, aye! for she should
feel too that reckless fire that scorched him. All the fierce, untamed
blood in him ran like molten lava in his veins. Aye! for one more brief
half-hour he--the lonely dweller on the Moor--the pariah, the outcast,
would taste the joys of the gods.
"I was never more earnest in my life!" he vowed, with that gay, mad,
merry laugh of his, "a dance with you here in the moonlight! Aye! a
dance in the midst of my dreams!"
"But indeed, indeed, sir," she pleaded, "the hour is late and my
business in London is very urgent."
"Nay, ten minutes for this dance will not much delay your journey, and I
swear by your sweet eyes that after that you shall go unmolested."
"But if I refuse?"
"An you refuse," he said, bending the knee before her, and bowing humbly
at her feet, "I will entreat you on my knees..."
"And if I still refuse?" she murmured.
"Then will I uproot the trees, break the carriage that bears you away,
tear up the Heath and murder yon knaves! God in heaven only knows what
I would _not_ do an you refuse."
"No, no, sir, I pray you..." she said, alarmed at his vehemence,
puzzled, fascinated, carried away by his wild, reckless mood and the
potent spell of the witching moon. "Nay! how can I refuse? ... I am in
your power ... and must do as you bid me.... An you really wish for a
dance..."
She allowed him to lead her away to a short distance off the beaten
track, there, where a carpet of ling and grass, and walls of bramble and
gorse formed a ball-room fit for gods and goddesses to dance in. At the
further end of this clearing the quaint, shrivelled figure of Jock
Miggs, the shepherd, had just come into view. At a little distance to
the left, and close to the roadside, there was a small wooden shed, and
beyond it a pen, used by the shepherds as a shelter on rough nights when
tending their sheep on the Heath.
For the moment the pen was empty, and Jock Miggs was evidently making
his way to the hut for a few hours' sleep, and had been playing his pipe
for the sake of company.
"Aye! a dance here!" said Beau Brocade, "with the moon and stars to
light us, a shepherd to play the tune, and the sprites that haunt the
Heath for company! What ho! there! friend shepherd!" he shouted to
Miggs.
The worthy Jock caught sight of the two figures standing in the centre
of the clearing, not twenty paces away from him.
"Lud have mercy upon me!" he gasped. "Robbery! Violence! Murder!"
"Nay, friend! only merry-making," quoth Beau Brocade, gaily. "We want
to dance upon this Heath, and you to play the tune for us."
"Eh? what?" muttered the shepherd, in his vague, apologetic way,
"dancing at this hour o' the night?"
"Aye!"
"And me to play for a parcel of mad folk?"
"Well said, honest shepherd! Let us all be mad to-night! but you shall
play for us, and here!--here is the wherewithal to set your pipe in
tune."
He threw a heavy purse across to Miggs, who, still muttering something
about lunatics on the Heath, slowly stooped and picked it up.
"Guineas!" he muttered, weighing it in his hand, "guineas, as I live!
Guineas for playing a dance tune. Nay, sir, you're mad, sure enough."
"Wilt play the tune, shepherd?" shouted Beau Brocade in wild impatience.
Jock Miggs shook his head with a determined air.
"Nay! your madness is nought to me. You've paid for a tune, and you
shall have the tune. But, Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times."
He settled himself down on a clump of grass-covered earth, and stolidly
began piping the same old-time rigadoon. These were a pair of lunatics,
for sure, but since the gentleman had paid for this extraordinary
pleasure, 'twas not for a poor shepherd to refuse to earn a few honest
guineas.
Beau Brocade bowed to his lady with all the courtly grace of a town
gallant.
"Madam! your most humble, and most obedient servant."
As in a dream Patience began to tread the measure. It was all so
strange, so unreal! surely this was a dream, and she would wake anon.
She turned and twisted in the mazes of the dance, gradually the
intoxication of it all had reached her brain; she seemed to see round
her in the grass pixie faces gazing curiously upon her. All the
harebells seemed to tinkle, the shepherd's pipe sounded like fairy
bells. Through the holes in the black mask she could see a pair of
burning eyes watching her as if entranced.
She felt like a creature of some other world, a witch mayhap, dancing a
wild saraband with this man, her lord and master, a mad, merry sprite
who had arranged this moonlight Sabbath.
Her cheeks began to glow, her eyes were sparkling with the joy of this
dance. Her breath came panting through her parted lips.
Aye! mad were they both! what else? Their madness was the intoxication
which man alone can feel when his joy equals that of the gods! Quicker,
shepherd! quicker! let thy pipe wake all the fairy echoes of this
mystic, ghostlike Moor! Let all the ghouls and gnomes come running
hither, let the stars pale with envy, let fairies and sprites clap their
hands for joy, since one man in all this world was happier than all the
spirits in heaven!
How long it lasted neither of them could tell. The honey-coloured moon
lighted them all the while, the blue mist wrapped them as in a mystic
veil. Still they danced on; at times she almost lay in his arms, hot,
panting, yet never weary, then she would slip away, and with eyes aglow,
cheeks in rosy flame, beckon to him, evade, advance, then once more put
her hand in his and madden him with the touch.
Oh! that heaven-born hour! why did it ever cease?
A wild shriek, twice repeated, brought them both to a standstill.
She, with heart beating, and hand pressed to her panting bosom, was
unable to stir. Whilst the excitement kept her up she had danced, but
now, with that piercing shriek, the dream had vanished and she was back
on earth once more.
"What was that?"
Thomas and Timothy, attracted by the strange spectacle, had gradually
crept up to the clearing, and through a clump of gorse and bracken had
been watching the weird, midnight dance. On the further side, and close
to Jock Miggs, John Stich had been standing in the shadow of a thorn
bush. He had been running all the way, ever since he heard the two
pistol-shots. Amazed at the strange sight that met his honest eyes, he
had not dared to interfere. Perhaps his honest faithful heart felt with,
even if it did not altogether comprehend, the wayward, half-crazy mood
of his friend.
Betty alone, terrified and not a little sulky, had remained in the
coach. It was her shriek that roused the spectators and performers of
this phantasy on the Heath.
"My lady! my lady!" screamed Betty once more at the top of her voice.
Then, all of a sudden, Patience understood. Fairyland had indeed
vanished. The awful reality came upon her with appalling cruelty.
"My letters!" she gasped, and started running towards the coach.
But already Jack Bathurst had bounded across the clearing, closely
followed by John Stich. Patience's cry of mad, terror-stricken appeal
had gone straight to his brain, and dissipated in the fraction of a
second the reckless excitement of the past hour.
The wild creature of one moment's wayward mood was in that same fraction
of time re-transformed into the cool and daring dweller of the Moor, on
whose head the law had set a price, and who in revenge had made every
law his slave.
His keen, quick eye had already sighted the smith.
"After me, John!" he commanded, "and run for your life."
When the two men had fought their way through the clumps of gorse and
bracken which screened the clearing from the road, they were just in
time to see a man quickly mounting a dark brown horse, which stood some
twenty yards in front of the coach.
The carriage door nearest to them was open, and poor Mistress Betty lay
on the ground close beside it, still screaming at the top of her voice.
With one bound Beau Brocade had reached Jack o' Lantern, who, accustomed
to his unfettered life on the Heath, had quietly roamed about at will,
patiently waiting for his master's call. The young man was unarmed,
since he had placed his pistols awhile ago at Patience's feet, but Jack
o' Lantern was swift-footed as the deer, and would overtake any strange
horseman easily.
Beau Brocade's hand was on his horse's bridle and there were barely a
few yards between him and the mysterious horseman, who was preparing to
gallop away, when the latter turned, and suddenly pointing a pistol at
his pursuer, fired two shots in rapid succession.
The young man did not stop at once. He clutched Jack o' Lantern's
bridle and tried to mount, but he staggered and almost fell.
"After him, John," he cried in a hoarse voice, as, staggering once more,
he fell upon one knee. "After him! quick! take Jack o' Lantern, don't
mind me!"
John had no need to be told twice. He seized the horse's bridle and
swung himself into the saddle as quickly as he could.
But these few seconds had given the horseman a sufficient start.
Although the moon was bright the mist was thick, and the bracken and
thorn bushes very dense on the other side of the road. Already he had
disappeared from view, and John's ears and eyes were not so keen as
those of Beau Brocade, the highwayman, the wounded monarch of the Heath.
CHAPTER XIX
HIS OATH
Patience's first thought as soon as she reached the road was for Betty;
she helped the poor girl to her feet and tried to get some coherent
explanation from her.
"I was listening to the tune, my lady, and leaning my head out of the
window," moaned Mistress Betty, who was more frightened than hurt, "when
suddenly the carriage door was torn open, I was dragged out and left
screaming on the ground.... That's all I know."
But one glance at the interior of the coach had revealed the whole awful
truth. It had been ransacked, and the receptacle beneath the cushions,
where had lain the all-important letters, was now obviously empty.
"The letters! oh, the letters!" moaned Patience in an agony of misery
and remorse. "Philip, my dear, dear one, you entrusted your precious
life in my hands, and I have proved unworthy of the trust."
Her spirit wholly broken by the agony of this cruel thought, she cowered
on the step of the carriage, her head buried in her hands, in a passion
of heart-broken tears.
"My lady..."
She looked down, and by the dim light of the moon she saw a figure on
its knees, dragging itself with a visibly painful effort slowly towards
her.
In a moment she was on her feet, tall, haughty, a world of scorn in her
eyes; she looked down with horror at the prostrate figure before her.
"Nay, sir," she said with icy contempt, "an you have a spark of honour
left in you, take off that mask, let me at least see who you are."
The agony of shame was more than she could bear. She who had deemed
herself so proud, so strong, that she should have been thus fooled,
duped, tricked, and by this man! this thief! this low class robber who
had dared to touch her hand! All the pride of race and caste rose in
revolt within her. Who was he that he should dare to have spoken to her
as he did? Her cheeks glowed with shame at the memory of that voice
which she had loved to hear, the tender accent in it, and oh! she had
been his plaything, his tool, for this infamous trick which had placed
her dear, dear brother's life in peril worse than before.
Meekly he had obeyed her, his own proud spirit bent before her grief.
His face--ashy pale now and drawn with pain and weakness--looked up in
mute appeal for forgiveness.
"A poor wretch," he murmured feebly, "whose mad and foolish whim..."
But she turned from him in bitter loathing, drawing herself up to her
full height, trying by every means in her power to show the contempt
which she felt for him. So absorbed was she in her grief and
humiliation, in her agony of remorse for her broken trust, that she did
not realise that he was hurt, and fainting with loss of blood.
"You ... you..." she murmured with horror and contempt. "Nay! I pray
you do not speak to me.... You ... you have duped and tricked me, and I
... I ... Oh!" she added with a wealth of bitter reproach, "what wrong
had I or my dear brother done to you that you should wish to do him so
much harm? What price had his enemies set upon his head that you should
_sell_ it to them?"
He tried to interrupt her, for her words hurt him ten thousand times
more than the wound in his shoulder: with almost superhuman effort he
dragged himself to his feet, clinging to the bracken to hold himself
upright. He would not let her see how she made him suffer. She! his
beautiful white rose, whom unwittingly he had, it seemed, so grievously
wronged. Her mind was distraught, she did not understand, and oh! it
was impossible that she _could_ realise the cruelty of her words, more
hard to endure than any torture the fiendish brain of man could devise.
"I'd have given you gold," she continued, whilst heavy sobs choked the
voice in her throat, "if 'twas gold you wanted.... Here is the purse
you did not take just now! Two hundred guineas for you, sir, an you
bring me back those letters!"
And with a last gesture of infinite scorn she threw the purse on the
ground before him.
A cry escaped him then: the terrible, heart-rending cry of the wild
beast wounded unto death. But it was momentary; that great love he bore
her helped him to understand. Love is never selfish--always kind. Love
_always_ understands.
He could scarcely speak now, and the seconds were very precious, but
with infinite gentleness he contrived to murmur faintly,--
"Madam! I swear by those sweet lips of yours now turned in anger
against me that you do me grievous wrong. My fault, alas! is great! I
cannot deny it, since in this short, mad hour of the dance my eyes were
blind and mine ears deaf to all save to your own dear presence."
"Aye! 'twas a clever trick," she retorted, lashing herself to scorn,
wilfully deaf to the charm of that faint voice, turning away from the
tender appeal of his eyes: "a trick from beginning to end! Your
chivalry at the forge! your _role_ of gallant gentleman of the road! the
while you plotted with a boon companion to rob me of the very letters
that would have saved my brother's life."
"Letters? ... that would have saved your brother's life? ... What
letters?..."
"Nay, sir! I pray you fool me no further. Heaven only knows how you
learnt our secret, for I'll vouch that John Stich was no traitor. Those
letters were stolen, sir, by your accomplice, whilst you tricked me into
this dance."
He pulled himself together with a vigorous effort of will, forcing
himself to speak quietly and firmly, conquering the faintness and
dizziness which was rapidly overpowering him.
"Madam!" he said gently, "dare I hope that you will believe me when I
say that I know naught of those letters? ... John Stich, as you know, is
loyal and true ... not even to me would he have revealed your secret ...
nay, more! ... it seems that I too have been tricked to further a
villain's ends. Will you not try and believe that had I known what
those letters were I would have guarded them, for your sweet sake, with
my last dying breath?"
She did not reply: for the moment she could not, for her tears choked
her, and there was the magic of that voice which she could not resist.
Still she would not look at him.
"Sir!" she said a little more calmly, "Heaven has given you a gentle
voice, and the power of tender words, with which to cajole women. I
would wish to believe you, but..."
She was interrupted by the sound of voices, those of Thomas and Timothy,
her men, who had kept a lookout for John Stich. The next moment the
smith himself, breathless and panting, came into view. He had ridden
hard, for Jack o' Lantern's flanks were dripping with sweat, but there
was a look of grave disappointment on the honest man's face.
"Well?" queried Beau Brocade, excitedly, as soon as John had dismounted.
"I'm feared that I've lost the scoundrel's track," muttered John,
ruefully.
"No?"
"At first I was in hot pursuit, he galloping towards Brassington;
suddenly he seemed to draw rein, and the next moment a riderless horse
came tearing past me, and then disappeared in the direction of Aldwark."
"A riderless horse?"
"Aye! I thought at first that maybe he'd been thrown; I scoured the
Heath for half a mile around, but ... the mist was so thick in the
hollow, and there was not a sound.... I'd have needed a blood-hound to
track the rascal down."
An exclamation of intense disappointment escaped from the lips of Lady
Patience and of Beau Brocade.
"Do you know who it was, John?" queried the latter.
"No doubt of that, Captain. It was Sir Humphrey Challoner right
enough."
"Sir Humphrey Challoner!" cried Patience, in accents of hopeless
despair, "the man who covets my fortune now holds my brother's life in
the hollow of his hand."
Excitedly, defiantly, she once more turned to Beau Brocade.
"Nay, sir," she said, "an you wish me to believe that you had no part in
this villainy, get those letters back for me from Sir Humphrey
Challoner!"
He drew himself up to his full height, his pride at least was equal to
her own.
"Madam! I swear to you..." he began. He staggered and would have
fallen, but faithful Stich was nigh, and caught him in his arms.
"You are hurt, Captain?" he whispered, a world of anxiety in his kindly
eyes.
"Nay! nay!" murmured Beau Brocade, faintly, "'tis nothing! ... help me
up, John! ... I have something to say ... and must say it ... standing!"
But Nature at last would have her will with him, the wild, brave spirit
that had kept him up all this while was like to break at last. He fell
back dizzy and faint against faithful John's stout breast.
Then only did she understand and realise. She saw his young face, once
so merry and boyish, now pale with a hue almost of death; she saw his
once laughing eyes now dimmed with the keenness of his suffering. Her
woman's heart went out to him, she loathed herself for her cruelty, her
heart, overburdened with grief, nearly broke at the thought of what she
had done.
"You are hurt, sir," she said, as she bent over him, her eyes swimming
in tears, "and I ... I knew it not."
The spell of her voice brought his wandering spirit back to earth and to
her.
"Aye, hurt, sweet dream!" he murmured feebly, "deeply wounded by those
dear lips, which spoke such cruel words; but for the rest 'tis naught.
See!" he added, trying to raise himself and stretching a yearning hand
towards her, "the moon has hid her face behind that veil of mist ... and
I can no longer see the glory of your hair! ... my eyes are dim, or is
it that the Heath is dark? ... I would fain see your blue eyes once
again.... By the tender memory of my dream born this autumn afternoon,
I swear, sweet lady, that your brother's life shall be safe! ... Whilst
I have one drop of blood left in my veins, I will protect him."
With trembling hand he sought the white rose which still lay close to
her breast: she allowed him to take it, and he pressed it to his lips.
Then, with a final effort he drew himself up once more, and said loudly
and clearly,--
"By this dear token I swear that I will get those letters back for you
before the sun has risen twice o'er our green-clad hills."
"Sir ... I..."
"Tell me but once that you believe me ... and I will have the strength
that moves the mountains."
"I believe you, sir," she said simply. "I believe you absolutely."
"Then place your dear hand in mine," he whispered, "and trust in me."
And the last thought of which he was conscious was of her cool, white
fingers grasping his fevered hand. Then the poor aching head fell back
on John's shoulder, the burning eyes were closed, kindly Nature had
taken the outlaw to her breast and spread her beneficent mantle of
oblivion over his weary senses at last.
PART III
BRASSINGTON
CHAPTER XX
A THRILLING NARRATIVE
Mr Inch, beadle of the parish of Brassington, was altogether in his
element.
Dressed in his gold-laced coat, bob-tail wig and three-cornered hat, his
fine calves encased in the whitest of cotton stockings, his buckled
shoes veritable mirrors of shiny brilliancy, he was standing, wand of
office in hand, outside the door of the tiny Court House, where Colonel
West, Squire of Brassington, was sitting in judgment on the poachers and
footpads of the neighbourhood.
Before Mr Inch stood no less a person than Master Mittachip,
attorney-at-law. Master Mittachip desired to speak with Squire West,
and the pompous beadle was in the proud position of standing between
this presumptuous desire and the supreme Majesty of the Law.
"Them's my orders, sir," he said, with all the solemnity which this
extraordinary event demanded. "Them's my orders. Squire West's own
orders. 'Inch,' he says to me--my name being Jeremiah Inch, sir--'Inch,'
he says, 'the odours which perambulate the court-room'--and mind ye,
sir, he didn't use such polite language either--'the odours is more than
I can endurate this hot morning!' As a matter of fact, sir, truth
compellates me to state that Squire West's own words were: 'Inch, this
room stinks like hell! too many sweating yokels about!' Then he gave me
his orders: 'The room is too full as it is, don't admit anyone else, on
any pretext or cause whatsoever.'"
Master Mittachip had made various misguided efforts to interrupt Mr
Inch's wonderful flow of eloquence. It was only when the worthy beadle
paused to take breath, that the attorney got in a word edgewise.
"Harkee, my good man..." he began impatiently.
"I am extra-ordinarily grieved, sir," interrupted Master Inch, who had
not nearly finished, "taking into consideration that I am somewhat
dubersome, whether what his Honour said about the odours could apply
individually to you, but orders is orders, sir, and the Squire as a
legal luminosity must be obeyed in all things."
Mr Inch heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. It was not often that he
had the opportunity of showing off his marvellous eloquence and
wonderful flow of language before so distinguished a gentleman as Master
Mittachip, attorney-at-law. But the latter seemed not to appreciate the
elegance of the worthy beadle's diction; on the contrary, he had
throughout shown signs of the greatest impatience, and now, directly Mr
Inch heaved this one sigh, Master Mittachip produced a silver
half-crown, and toying with it, in apparent indifference, said
significantly,--
"I am sure, friend Beadle, that if you were to acquaint Squire West that
his Honour, Sir Humphrey Challoner, desired to speak with him..."
Mr Inch stroked his fat, clean-shaven chin, and eyed the silver
half-crown with an anxious air.
"Ah! perhaps!" he suggested with as much dignity as the new circumstance
allowed, "perhaps if I did so far contravene my orders..."
"I feel sure that Sir Humphrey would see fit to reward you," suggested
the attorney, still idly fingering that tempting half-crown.
But Master Inch was still "dubersome."
"But then, you understand," he said, "it is against the regulations that
I should vacuate my post until after the sitting is over ... so..."
"Sir Humphrey Challoner is partaking of breakfast at the Royal George,
Master Inch, he would wish Squire West to know that he'll attend on him
here in half an hour."
Master Inch closed one eye, and with the other keenly watched Master
Mittachip's movements. The attorney turned the half-crown over in his
lean hand once or twice, then he made as if he would put it back in his
pocket.
This decided the beadle.
"I'll go and reconnoitre-ate," he said, "and perhaps I can despatch a
menial to impart to the Squire, Sir Humphrey's wishes and cognomen."
Thus the majestic beadle felt that his dignity had not been impaired.
With a magnificent turn of his portly person, and an imposing flourish
of his wand of office, he disappeared within the precincts of the Court.
Master Mittachip slipped the half-crown back in his pocket, and did not
wait for the beadle's return. He was quite satisfied that Sir Humphrey's
wishes would be acceded to. He turned his back on the Court House and
slowly crossed the green.
Opposite to him was the Royal George, where he and Master Duffy had put
up for the night. In the small hours of the morning he had been aroused
from peaceful slumbers by a great disturbance at the inn. Sir Humphrey
Challoner, booted and spurred, but alone, on foot, and covered with mud,
was peremptorily demanding admittance.
Since then Master Mittachip had had an interview with his employer,
wherein his Honour had expressed the desire to speak with Squire West
after he, himself, had partaken of late breakfast. That interview had
been a very brief one, but it had sufficed to show to the lean attorney
that Sir Humphrey's temper was none of the best this morning.
His Honour had desired Master Mittachip's presence again, and the latter
was now making his way slowly back to the Royal George, his knees
quaking under him, his throat dry, and his tongue parched with terror.
Sir Humphrey Challoner was not pleasant to deal with when his temper was
up.
The attorney found his Honour installed at breakfast in the private
parlour of the inn, and consuming large mugs full of ale and several
rashers of fried bacon.
"Well?" queried Sir Humphrey, impatiently, as soon as the attorney's
lean, bird-like face appeared in the doorway.
"I sent word to his Honour, Squire West," explained the latter, coming
forward timidly, "saying that you would wish to see him at the Court
House in half an hour. And, unless your Honour would wish me to speak
to the Squire for you..."
"No!" rejoined his Honour, curtly. "'Sdeath! don't stand there
fidgeting before me," he added. "Sit down!"
Master Mittachip meekly obeyed. He selected the straightest chair in
the room, placed it as far away from his Honour as he could, and sat
down on the extreme edge of it.
"Well! you lean-faced coward," began his Honour, whose temper did not
seem to have improved after his substantial breakfast, "you allowed
yourself to be robbed of my money last night, eh?"
Thus much Sir Humphrey knew already, for his first inquiry on meeting
Mittachip at the inn had been after his rents. Since then the attorney
had had half an hour in which to reflect on what he would say when his
Honour once more broached the subject. Therefore he began to protest
with a certain degree of assurance.
"On my honour, Sir Humphrey, you misjudge me," he said deliberately.
"As my clerk and I passed the loneliest spot on the Heath, and without
any previous warning, two masked men leapt into the path in front of us,
and presented pistols. A third man called to us to stand."
Here Master Mittachip made an effective pause, the better to watch the
impression which his narrative was making on his employer. The latter
was quietly picking his teeth, and merely remarked quietly,--
"Well? and what did you do?"
Thus encouraged Mittachip waxed more bold.
"In a flash I drew a pistol," he continued glibly, "and so did Duffy ...
for I must say he bore himself bravely. We both fired and my ball
knocked the hat off the fellow nearest to me, but Master Duffy's ball
unfortunately missed. I was drawing my other pistol, determined to make
a desperate fight, and I believe Duffy did as much.... I was amazed
that the fellows did not fire upon us in return..."
He was distinctly warming up to his subject. But here he was interrupted
by a loud guffaw. Sir Humphrey was evidently vastly amused at the
thrilling tale, and his boisterous laugh went echoing along the
blackened rafter of the old village inn.
"Odd's my life! 'tis perfect! marvellous, I call it! And tell me,
Master Mittachip," added his Honour, whose eyes were streaming and whose
sides were shaking with laughter, "tell me, why did they not fire? Eh?"
From past experience Master Mittachip should have known that when Sir
Humphrey Challoner laughed his loudest, then was he mostly to be
dreaded. Yet in this instance the attorney's delight at his own
realistic story drowned the wiser counsels of prudence. He took his
Honour's hilarity as a compliment to his own valour, and continued
proudly,--
"The reason was not far to seek, for at that very moment we were both
seized upon from behind by two big fellows. Then all five of them fell
upon us and dragged us aside into the darkness; they tied scarves about
our mouths, so that we could not cry out.... Aye! and had some
difficulty in doing it, for believe me, Sir Humphrey, I fought like mad!
Then they rifled us of everything ... despoiled us absolutely..."
At this point it struck Master Mittachip that his Honour's continued
gaiety was somewhat out of place. The narrative had become thrilling
surely, exciting and blood-curdling too, and yet Sir Humphrey was
laughing more lustily than ever.
"Go on, man! go on," he gasped between his paroxysms of merriment.
"Odd's fish! but 'tis the best story I've heard for many a day!"
"I will swear to the truth o' it in any court of law," protested the
attorney with somewhat less assurance. "The fifth man was Beau Brocade.
I heard the others address him so, while I was lying gagged and bound."
"Aye! you would _lie_ anywhere," commented his Honour, "gagged and bound
or not."
"From your observation, Sir Humphrey, I gather that you somewhat ... er
... doubt my story!" murmured Master Mittachip in a quavering voice.
"Doubt it, man? ... doubt it?" laughed his Honour, holding his sides,
"nay! how can I doubt it? I saw it all..."
"You, Sir Humphrey?"
"I was there, man, on the Heath. I saw it all ... your vigorous
defence, your noble valour, your ... your..."
Master Mittachip's sallow face had assumed a parchment-like hue. He
passed his dry tongue over his parched lips, great drops of moisture
appeared beneath his wig. That his fears were not unfounded was
presently proved by Sir Humphrey's sudden change of manner.
The hilarious laugh died down in his Honour's throat, an ugly frown
gathered above his deep-set eyes, and with a violent curse he brought
his heavy fist down crashing upon the table.
"And now, you lying, lumbering poltroon, where's my money?"
"B ... b ... but, Sir Humphrey..." stammered the attorney, now pallid
with terror.
"There's no 'but' about it. You collected some rents for me, thirty
guineas in all, that money must lie to my account in the bank at
Wirksworth to-morrow, or by G---- I'll have you clapped in jail like the
thief that you are."
"B ... b ... but, your Honour..."
"Silence! I've said my last word. If that money is not in the bank by
noon to-morrow, I'll denounce you to the Wirksworth magistrate as a
fraudulent agent. Now hold your tongue about that. I've said my last
word. The rest is your affair, not mine. I've more important matters to
think on."
Master Mittachip, half dead with fear, dared not offer further argument
or pleading. He knew his employer well enough to realise that his
honour meant every word he said, and that he himself had nothing more to
hope for in the matter of the money. The deficiency extracted from him
by that rascal Beau Brocade would have to be made good somehow, and
Master Mittachip bethought him ruefully of his own savings, made up of
sundry little commissions extorted from his Honour's tenants.
No wonder the attorney felt none too kindly disposed towards the
highwayman. He watched Sir Humphrey's face as a hungry dog does his
master's, and noted with growing satisfaction that his Honour's anger
was cooling down gradually, and giving place to harder and more cruel
determination. As he watched, the look of terror died out of his bony,
sallow face, and his pale, watery eyes began to twinkle with keen and
vengeful malice.
CHAPTER XXI
MASTER MITTACHIP'S IDEA
He waited a little while, and gradually a smile of the deepest
satisfaction spread over his bird-like countenance; he rubbed his meagre
knees up and down with his thin hands, in obvious delight, and as soon
as he saw his opportunity, he remarked slily,--
"An your Honour was on the Heath last night, you can help me testify to
highway robbery before Squire West. There are plenty of soldiers in
this village. His Honour'll have out a posse or two; the rascal can't
escape hanging this time."
Sir Humphrey's florid, sensual face suddenly paled with a curious
intensity of hatred.
"Aye! he shall hang sure enough," he muttered, with a loud oath.
He dragged a chair forward, facing Mittachip, and sat astride on it,
drumming a devil's tattoo on the back.
"Listen here, you old scarecrow," he said more quietly, "for I've not
done with you yet. You don't understand, I suppose, what my presence
here in Brassington means?"
"I confess that I am somewhat puzzled, your Honour," replied the
attorney, meekly. "I remarked on it to Master Duffy, just before he
started off for Wirksworth this morning. But he could offer no
suggestion."
"Odd's life, man! couldn't you guess that having made my proposal to
that rascally highwayman I could not rest at Aldwark unless I saw him
carry it through?"
"Ah?"
"I got a horse at the Moorhen, and at nightfall I rode out on the Heath.
I feared to lose my way on the bridle path, and moreover, I wished to
keep her ladyship's coach in view, so I kept to the road. It must have
been close on midnight when I sighted it at last. It was at a
standstill in the midst of a quagmire, and as I drew near I could see
neither driver on the box, nor groom at the horses' heads."
"Well?"
"Well! that's all! there was a wench inside the coach; I threw her out
and searched for the letters; I found them! That rascally highwayman
had played me false. Some distance from the road I spied him dancing a
rigadoon in the moonlight with her ladyship, whilst her men, the dolts,
were watching the spectacle! Ha! ha! ha! 'twas a fine sight too, I tell
you! So now the sooner I get that chivalrous highwayman hanged, the
better I shall like it."
"Then ... am I to understand that your Honour has the letters?"
"Aye! I have the letters right enough!" said Sir Humphrey, with an oath
between his clenched teeth, "but I fear me her ladyship has cajoled the
rogue into her service. Else why this dance? I did not know what to
make of it. Madness, surely, or she never would have left the letters
unprotected. He bewitched her mayhap, and the devil, his master, lent
him a helping hand. I'll see him hang, I tell you.... Hang.... Hang!"
Master Mittachip's attenuated frame quaked with terror. There was so
much hatred, so much lust for revenge in Sir Humphrey's half-choked
voice, that instinctively the attorney cowered, as before some great and
evil thing which he only half understood. After awhile Sir Humphrey
managed to control himself. He was ashamed of having allowed his agent
this one peep into the darkness of his soul. His love for Patience,
though brutish and grasping, was as strong as his sensuous nature was
capable of: his jealousy and hatred had been aroused by the strange
scene he had witnessed on the Heath, and he was as conscious now of the
longing for revenge, as of the desire to possess himself of Lady
Patience and her fortune.
"'Sdeath!" he said more calmly, "Beau Brocade and that rascal John Stich
were after me in a trice, and they'd have had the letters back from me,
had I not put a bullet into the damned thief!"
"And wounded him, your Honour?" queried Mittachip, eagerly.
"Nay! I could not wait to see! but I hoped I had killed him, for 'twas
John Stich who rode after me, fortunately. He was too big a fool to do
me any harm and I quickly made him lose my track."
"And you've destroyed the letters, Sir Humphrey?"
"Destroyed them, you fool? Nay, it would ill suit my purpose if
Stretton were to die. Can't you see that _now_," he said excitedly,
"with those letters in my hand, I can force Lady Patience's acceptance
of my suit? While her brother's life hangs in the balance I can offer
her the letters, on condition that she consent to marry me, and threaten
to destroy them if she refuse!"
"Aye! aye!" murmured the attorney, "'twere a powerful argument!"
"And remember," added his Honour, significantly, "there'll be two
hundred guineas for you the day that I wed Lady Patience. That is, _if_
you render me useful assistance to the end."