be even then after all. And 'twas Beau Brocade, highwayman, thief, who
was destined in a few hours to bring her this great happiness.
"Will she ... will she smile, I wonder..."
He loved to see her smile, and to watch the soft tell-tale blush slowly
mounting to her cheek. Ah! now he was dreaming ... dreams that never,
never could be. He would bring her back the letters, for he had sworn
to her that she should have them ere the sun had risen twice o'er yon
green-clad hills. And then all would be over, and she would pass out of
his life like a beautiful comet gliding across the firmament of his
destiny.
A moment but not to stay.
In the east, far away, rose had changed to gold. From Moor and Heath and
Bogland came the sound of innumerable bird-throats singing the great and
wonderful hymn of praise, hosanna to awakening Nature.
The outlaw had kept his oath; he turned to where the first rays of the
rising sun shed their shimmering mantle over the distant Tors, and in
one great uplifting of his soul to his Maker he prayed that sweet death
might kiss him when he placed the letters at her feet.
PART IV
H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND
CHAPTER XXX
SUSPENSE
Throughout the whole range of suffering which humanity is called upon to
endure, there is perhaps nothing so hard to bear as suspense.
The uncertainty of what the immediate future might bring, the
fast-sinking hope, the slowly-creeping despair, the agony of dull, weary
hours: Patience had gone through the whole miserable gamut during that
long and terrible day when, obedient to Bathurst's wishes, she had shut
herself up in the dingy little parlour of the Packhorse and refused to
see anyone save the faithful smith.
And the news which John Stich brought to her from time to time was
horrible enough to hear.
He tried to palliate as much as possible the account of that awful
battue organised against Beau Brocade, but she guessed from the troubled
look on the honest smith's face, and from the furtive, anxious glance of
his eyes, that the man whom she had trusted with her whole heart was now
in peril, even more deadly than that which had assailed her brother.
And with the innate sympathy born of a true and loving heart, she
guessed too how John Stich's simple, faithful soul went out in
passionate longing to his friend, who, alone, wounded, perhaps helpless,
was fighting his last battle on the Heath.
Yet the trust within her had not died out. Beau Brocade had sworn to do
her service and to bring her back the letters ere the sun had risen
twice o'er the green-clad hills. To her overwrought mind it seemed
impossible that he should fail. He was not the type of man whom fate or
adverse circumstance ever succeeded in conquering, and on his whole
magnetic personality, on the intense vitality of his being, Nature had
omitted to put the mark of failure.
But the hours wore on and she was without further news. Her terror for
her brother increased the agony of her suspense. She could see that
John Stich too had become anxious about Philip. There was no doubt that
with an organised man-hunt on the Moor the lonely forge by the
cross-roads would no longer be a safe hiding-place for the Earl of
Stretton. The smithy was already marked as a suspected house, and John
Stich was known to be a firm adherent of the Gascoynes and a faithful
friend of Beau Brocade.
During the course of this eventful day the attention of the Sergeant and
soldiers had been distracted, through Bathurst's daring actions, from
Stich's supposed nephew out o' Nottingham, but as the beautiful
September afternoon turned to twilight and then to dusk, and band after
band of hunters set out to scour the Heath, it became quite clear both
to Patience and to the smith that Philip must be got away from the forge
at any cost.
He could remain in temporary shelter at the Packhorse, under the guise
of one of Lady Patience's serving-men, at anyrate until another
nightfall, when a fresh refuge could be found for him, according as the
events would shape themselves within the next few hours.
Therefore, as soon as the shadows of evening began to creep over
Brassing Moor, Stich set out for the cross-roads. He walked at a brisk
pace along the narrow footpath which led up to his forge, his honest
heart heavy at thought of his friend, all alone out there on the Heath.
The weird echo of the man-hunt did not reach this western boundary of
the Moor, but even in its stillness the vast immensity looked hard and
cruel in the gloom: the outlines of gorse bush and blackthorn seemed
akin to gaunt, Cassandra-like spectres foreshadowing some awful
disaster.
Within the forge Philip too had waited in an agony of suspense, whilst
twice the glorious sunset had clothed the Tors with gold.
Driven by hunger and cold out of the hiding-place on the Moor which
Bathurst had found for him, he had returned to the smithy the first
night, only to find John Stich gone and no trace of his newly-found
friend. His sister, he knew, must have started for London, but he was
without any news as to what had happened in the forge, and ignorant of
the gallant fight made therein by the notorious highwayman.
The hour was late then, and Philip was loth to disturb old Mistress
Stich, John's mother, who kept house for him at the cottage. Moreover,
he had the firm belief in his heart that neither Bathurst nor Stich
would have deserted him, had they thought that he was in imminent
danger.
Tired out with the excitement of the day, and with a certain amount of
hope renewed in his buoyant young heart, he curled himself up in a
corner of the shed and forgot all his troubles in a sound sleep.
The next morning found him under the care of old Mistress Stich at the
cottage. She had had no news of John, who had wandered out, so she
said, about two hours after sunset, possibly to find the Captain; but
she thrilled the young man's ears with the account of the daring fight
in the forge.
"Nay! but they'll never get our Captain!" said the worthy dame, with a
break in her gentle old voice, "and if the whole countryside was after
him they'd never get him. Leastways so says my John."
"God grant he may speak truly," replied the young man, fervently; "'tis
shame enough on me that a brave man should risk his life for me, whilst
I have to stand idly behind a cupboard door."
The absence of definite news weighed heavily upon his spirits, and as
the day wore on and neither John Stich nor Bathurst reappeared, his
hopes very quickly began to give way to anxiety and then to despair.
Philip always had a touch of morbid self-analysis in his nature: unlike
Jack Bathurst, he was ever ready to bend the neck before untoward fate,
heaping self-accusation on self-reproach, and thus allowing his spirit
to bow to circumstance, rather than to attempt to defy it.
And throughout the whole of this day he sat, moody and silent, with the
ever-recurring thought hammering in his brain,--
"I ought not to have allowed a stranger to risk his life for me. I
should have given myself up. 'Twas unworthy a soldier and a gentleman."
By the time the shadows had lengthened on the Moor, and Jack o' Lantern
covered with sweat had arrived riderless at the forge, Philip was
formulating wild plans of going to Wirksworth and there surrendering
himself to the local magistrate. He worked himself up into a fever of
heroic self-sacrifice, and had just resolved only to wait until dawn to
carry out his purpose, when John Stich appeared in the doorway of his
smithy.
One look in the honest fellow's face told the young Earl of Stretton
that most things in his world were amiss just now. A few eager
questions, and as briefly as possible Stich told him exactly how matters
stood: the letters stolen by Sir Humphrey Challoner, Bathurst's
determination to re-capture them and the organized hunt proceeding this
very night against him.
"Her ladyship and I both think, my lord, that this place is not safe for
you just now," added John, finally, "and she begs you to come to her at
Brassington as soon as you can. The road is safe enough," added the
smith, with a heavy sigh, "no one'd notice us--they are all after the
Captain, and God knows but perhaps they've got him by now."
Philip could say nothing, for his miserable self-reproaches had broken
his spirit of obstinacy. His boyish heart was overflowing with sympathy
for the kindly smith. How gladly now would he have given his own life
to save that of his gallant rescuer!
Obediently he prepared to accede to his sister's wishes. He knew what
agony she must have endured when the letters were filched from her; he
guessed that she would wish to have him near her, and in any case he
wanted to be on the spot, hoping that yet he could offer his own life in
exchange for the one which was being so nobly risked for him.
Quite quietly, therefore, and without a murmur, he prepared to accompany
Stich back to Brassington. At the Packhorse a serving-man's suit could
easily be found for him, and he would be safe enough there, for a little
while at least.
John Stich, having tended Jack o' Lantern with loving care, took a hasty
farewell of his mother. While his friend's fate and that of his young
lord hung in the balance he was not like to get back quietly to his
work.
"The Captain may come back here for shelter mayhap," he said, with a
catch in his throat, as he kissed the old dame "good-bye"; "you'll tend
to him, mother?"
"Aye! you may be sure o' that, John," replied Mistress Stich, fervently.
"He'll need a rest mayhap, and some nice warm water; he's such a dandy,
mother, you know."
"Aye! aye!"
"And you might lay out his best clothes for him; he may need 'em
mayhap."
"Aye! I've got 'em laid in lavender for him. That nice sky-blue coat,
think you, John?"
"Aye, and the fine 'broidered waistcoat, and the black silk bow for his
hair, and the lace ruffles for his wrists, and..."
Stich broke down, a great lump had risen in his throat. Would the
foppish young dandy, the handsome, light-hearted gallant, ever gladden
the eyes of honest John again?
CHAPTER XXXI
"WE'VE GOTTEN BEAU BROCADE!"
The presence of Philip at the inn had done much to cheer Patience in her
weary waiting. He and John Stich had reached the Packhorse some time
before cockcrow, and the landlord had been only too ready to do anything
in reason to further the safety of the fugitive, so long as his own
interests were not imperilled thereby.
This meant that he would give Philip a serving-man's suit and afford him
shelter in the inn, for as long as the authorities did not suspect him
of harbouring a rebel; beyond that he would not go.
Lady Patience had paid him lavishly for this help and his subsequent
silence. It was understood that the fugitive would only make a brief
halt at Brassington: some more secluded shelter would have to be found
for him on the morrow.
For the moment, of course, the thoughts of everyone in the village would
be centred in the capture of Beau Brocade. The highwayman had many
friends and adherents in the village, people whom his careless and
open-handed generosity had often saved from penury. To a man almost,
the village folk hoped to see him come out victorious from the awful and
unequal struggle which was going on on the Heath. So strong was this
feeling that the beadle, who was known to entertain revengeful thoughts
against the man who had played him so impudent a trick the day before,
did not dare to show his rubicund face in the bar-parlour of either inn
on that memorable night.
No one had gone to bed. The men waited about, consuming tankards of
small ale, whilst discussing the possibility of their hero's capture.
The women sat at home with streaming eyes, plaintively wondering who
would help them in future in their distress, if Beau Brocade ceased to
haunt the Heath.
Patience herself did not close an eye. Her hand clinging to that of
Philip, she sat throughout that long, weary night watching and waiting,
dreading the awful dawn, with the terrible news it would bring.
And it was when the first rosy light shed its delicate hue over the tiny
old-world village, that the sweet-scented morning air was suddenly
filled with the hoarse triumphal cry,--
"We have gotten Beau Brocade!"
"Hip! hip! hip! hurray!"
Wearied and dazed with the fatigue of her long vigil, Patience had sunk
into a torpor when those shouts, rapidly drawing nearer to the village,
roused her from this state of semi-consciousness.
She hardly knew what she had hoped during these past anxious hours: now
that the awful certainty had come, it seemed to stun her with the
unexpectedness of the blow.
"We've gotten Beau Brocade!"
The village folk turned out in melancholy groups from the parlour of the
inn; they too had entertained vague hopes that their hero would emerge
unscathed from the perils which encompassed him; to them too the news of
his capture came as that of a sad, irretrievable catastrophe. They
congregated in small, excited numbers on the village green, their stolid
heads shaking sadly at sight of the squad of soldiers, who were bringing
in a swathed-up bundle of humanity, smothered about the head in a
scarlet coat, and with hands and legs securely strapped down with a
couple of military belts. Only the fine brown cloth coat, the
beautifully-embroidered waistcoat and silver-mounted pistol proclaimed
that miserable, helpless bundle to be the gallant Beau Brocade.
The soldiers themselves were in a wild state of glee; they had carried
their prisoner in triumph all the way from the Heath, and had never
ceased shouting until they had deposited him on the green. Owing to the
unusual hour, and to the absence of His Honour, Squire West, the
pinioned highwayman was to be locked up in the pound until noon.
In the small private parlour of the Packhorse Patience had sat rigid as
a statue, while those shouts of triumph seemed to strike her heart as
with a hammer. Her fist pressed against her burning mouth, she was
making desperate efforts to smother the scream of agony which would have
rent her throat.
But with one bound John Stich was soon out of the Packhorse, where he,
too, with aching heart and mind devoured with anxiety, had watched and
waited through the night.
It did not take him long to reach the green, and using his stalwart
elbows to some purpose, he quickly made a way for himself through the
small crowd and was presently looking down on the huddled figure which
lay helpless on the ground.
There was the Captain's fine brown coat sure enough, with its ample,
silk-lined, full skirts, and rich, cut-steel buttons; there was the
long, richly-embroidered waistcoat; the lace cuffs at the wrists, and
the handsome sword-belt, through which the finely-chased silver handle
of the pistol still protruded. But John Stich had need but to cast one
glance at the hands, and another at the feet encased in rough
countryman's boots, to realise with a sudden, wild exultation of his
honest heart that in some way or other his Captain had succeeded in once
more playing a trick on his pursuers, and that the man who lay there
muffled on the ground was certainly not Beau Brocade.
But even in the suddenness of this intense joy and relief, John Stich
was shrewd enough not to betray himself. Obviously every moment, during
which the captors enjoyed their mistaken triumph, was a respite gained
for the hunted man out on the Heath. Therefore when the Sergeant ordered
the rascal to be locked up in the pound awaiting his Honour's orders,
and gave Stich a vigorous rap on the shoulder, saying lustily,--
"Well, Master Stich, we've got your friend after all, you see?"
The smith quietly replied,--
"Aye! aye! you've gotten him right enough. No offence, Sergeant! Have a
small ale with me before we all go to bed?"
"'Tis nowt to me," he added, seeing with intense satisfaction the heavy
bolts of the pound securely pushed home on the unfortunate Jock Miggs.
The Sergeant was nothing loth, and eagerly followed Stich to the bar of
the Royal George, where small ale now flowed freely until the sun was
high in the heavens.
But as soon as the smith had seen the soldiers safely installed before
their huge tankards, he rushed out of the inn and across the green, back
to the Packhorse, to bring the joyful news to Lady Patience and her
brother.
In the privacy of the little back parlour he was able to give free rein
to his joy.
"They'll never get the Captain," he shouted, tossing his cap in the air,
"and, saving your ladyship's presence, we was all fools to think they
would."
Patience had said nothing when the smith first brought the news. She
smiled kindly and somewhat mechanically at the exuberance of his joy,
but when honest John once more left her, to glean more detailed account
of the great man-hunt on the Heath, she turned to her brother, and
falling on her knees she buried her fair head against the lad's shoulder
and sobbed in the fulness of her joy as if her heart would break.
CHAPTER XXXII
A PAINFUL INCIDENT
A few hours later, when hunters and watchers had had a little rest, came
the rude awakening after the hour of triumph.
Jock Miggs, still trussed and pinioned, had been hauled out of the
pound. Master Inch, the beadle, resplendent in gold-laced coat and the
majesty of his own importance, had taken the order of ceremony into his
own hands.
His Honour, Squire West, would be round at the Court House about noon,
and Inch, still smarting under the indignity put upon him through the
instrumentality of the highwayman, had devised an additional little plan
of revenge.
Sir Humphrey Challoner had emphatically declared that the beadle should
be publicly whipped for having dared to lay hands on the Squire of
Hartington's person. Master Inch remembered this possible and appalling
indignity, which mayhap he would be called upon to suffer, and therefore
when the bolts of the pound were first drawn, disclosing the swathed-up
bundle of humanity which was supposed to be the highwayman, the beadle
shouted in his most stentorian, most pompous tones,--
"To the pond with him!"
The soldiers--most of them lads recruited from the Midland counties, and
a pretty rough lot to boot--were only too ready for this additional bit
of horseplay.
'Twas fun enough to sit an old scold in the ducking-stool, but to carry
on the same game with Beau Brocade, the notorious highwayman, who had
defied the four counties and set every posse of soldiers by the ears,
would be rare sport indeed.
With a shout of joy they seized Jock Miggs by the legs and shoulders,
and with much laughter and many a lively sally they carried him to the
shallow duck-pond at the further end of the green. Very sadly, and with
many an anxious shake of the head, the village folk followed the little
procession, which was headed by the Sergeant and pompous Master Inch.
At the moment when the unfortunate shepherd was being swung in mid-air,
preparatory to his immersion in the water, one of the soldiers
laughingly dragged away the coat which swathed poor Miggs's head and
shoulders, and was near suffocating him.
"We don't want 'im to drown, do we?" he said, just as his comrades
dropped the wretched man straight into the pond.
Immediately there was a loud cry from beadle and spectators,--
"Lud love us all! that bain't Beau Brocade!"
And one timid voice added,--
"Why! 'tis Jock Miggs, the shepherd!"
The beadle nearly had a fit of apoplectic rage. That cursed highwayman
surely must be in league with the devil himself. The soldiers were
gasping with astonishment, and staring open-mouthed at the dripping
figure of Jock Miggs, who with unruffled stolidity was quietly
struggling out of the water.
"Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times," he muttered in his vague,
fatalistic way as he shook himself dry in the sunshine, after the manner
of his own woolly sheep-dog.
"Oho! ho! ha! ha! ha!" came in merry chorus from the crowd of village
folk, "look at Jock Miggs, the highwayman!"
The soldiers, were absolutely speechless. Master Inch, the beadle, had
said emphatically,--
"Damn!"
Truly there was nothing more to be said: those who were inclined to be
superstitious felt convinced that the devil himself had had something to
do with this amazing substitution.
That it was Beau Brocade who had been captured on the Heath last night
none of those who were present at the time doubted for a single instant.
To their minds the highwayman had been mysteriously spirited away by the
agency of Satan his friend, who had quietly deposited Jock Miggs, the
shepherd, in his place.
John Stich, with Mistress Betty beside him, had watched these
proceedings from the other end of the green, fully prepared to come to
Miggs's assistance and to disclose the latter's identity at once if the
horse-play became at all too rough. He now pushed his way through the
group of soldiers, and good-naturedly taking hold of the bewildered
shepherd's arm, he led him to the porch of the Royal George.
"You'd like to wet your gullet after this, eh, Jock?" he said, as he
ordered a tankard of steaming ale to be brought forthwith to the
dripping man.
The soldiers, somewhat shamefaced, had pressed into the bar-parlour of
the inn: presently there would be a few broken heads in the village as a
result of the morning's work, but for the moment the yokels had not
begun to chaff: 'twas Jock who was the centre of attraction outside in
the porch, sitting on a bench and sipping large quantities of hot ale.
"Let's all drink a glass of ale to the health of Jock Miggs, the
highwayman!" came in merry accents from one of the gaffers.
"Hurrah for Jock Miggs, the highwayman!" was the universal gleeful
chorus.
"Be gy! Don't he look formidable!" quoth one of the villagers, pointing
at the shepherd's scared figure on the bench.
"Let me perish!" said another in mock alarm, "but I'se mightily afeeard
o' him."
Mistress Betty too had mixed with the throng, and was eyeing Jock, with
irrepressible laughter dancing in her saucy little face.
"Lud! 'tis that funny bit of sheep's wool!" she said gaily. "Faith! and
you do look sadly, Jock Miggs, and no mistake! Have you been in the
pond?"
"How did 'e foind that out?" queried Miggs, vaguely. "Aye! they dumped
Oi in t' pond, they did ... and nearly throttled Oi ... 'tis a blamed
shame!"
He had sipped huge tankards of hot ale until he felt thoroughly warm,
and was steaming now like a great loaf just out of the oven.
"Dumped ye in the pond?" laughed Mistress Betty. "You were no beauty
before, Jock Miggs ... but now ... Oh! Gemini! ... Why, what had you
done?"
"I'd done nowt!" retorted the bewildered shepherd. "A foine gentleman
he took a fancy to me old smock, he did ... he put a pistol to my head
... then he give me his own beautiful coat for to make me look decent
... and I were just puttin' it on when them soldiers fell on me ... and
nigh throttled me, and clapped me in the pound they did..."
"Ye seem to have had a rough time o' it, friend Miggs," said John Stich,
kindly.
"Aye, that be so!" commented Jock, vaguely. "'Mazing times these be!"
"They mistook you in your fine clothes for Beau Brocade," explained one
of the villagers.
"May be so!" quoth Miggs. "I dunno."
But Mistress Betty held up a rosy finger at the unfortunate shepherd,
and said with grave severity,--
"Ye are not Beau Brocade, Jock Miggs, are ye?"
"I dunno!" replied Jock Miggs with imperturbable vagueness. "I don't
rightly know who Oi be! I think them soldiers made a mistake, but I
dunno."
He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, and the rest of his morning was
spent in pleasant conviviality with all his friends in the village,
until by about noon the worthy shepherd was really hopelessly at sea as
to who he really was. At one o'clock he became quite convinced that he
was Beau Brocade the highwayman--or at any rate a very dangerous
character--and had only escaped hanging through his reputation of
supernatural cunning and bravery.
The Sergeant and soldiers were drowning their acute disappointment in
the bar-parlour of the Royal George. They certainly were not in luck,
for even at the very moment when egged on by the Sergeant they were
planning a fresh battue of the Heath, there came into Brassington an
advance guard from the Duke of Cumberland, with the news that His Royal
Highness would pass through the village with his army corps on his way
to the north. The Sergeant was requisitioned to arrange for His
Highness's quarters at the Royal George: the men would not be allowed to
go hunting after a highwayman, in case their officers had need of them
for other purposes.
All thoughts of a fresh hunt after their elusive quarry would therefore
have to be abandoned until after the army had passed through
Brassington, and Sergeant and soldiers could but hope that they would be
left behind, in order that they might make one more gigantic attempt to
earn the hundred guineas reward, offered for the capture of Beau
Brocade.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE AWAKENING
John Stich could scarce contain himself for joy. Fate indeed and all the
angels in heaven had ranged themselves on the side of his Captain.
That Beau Brocade should have emerged unconquered after all out of the
terrible position in which he was placed last night, seemed to the
worthy smith nothing short of miraculous, and only accomplished through
the special agency of heaven, whose most cherished child the gallant
highwayman most undoubtedly was, in his friend's enthusiastic
estimation.
For the moment, therefore, the kindly smith felt tolerably happy about
his friend. The presence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland
with his army corps in this part of the country would do much towards
keeping the Sergeant and soldiers' attention away from the Heath, at any
rate for a day or two. Perhaps the squad now quartered at Brassington
would be drafted to one of the regiments, and a fresh contingent,
composed of men who'd have no special bone to pick with the highwayman,
left behind for the still active hunt against the rebels.
But this train of thought brought the faithful smith's mind back to the
Earl of Stretton and the stolen letters. Reassured momentarily as to
his friend, he was still aware of the grave peril which threatened his
young lord.
Neither he nor Lady Patience could conjecture what had become of the
letters. Sir Humphrey Challoner, after his woeful adventure in
Brassington, had condescended to accept Squire West's hospitality for
the nonce. Stich had spied him in the course of the morning, walking in
the direction of the village in close conversation with his familiar,
Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law. In spite of the momentary respite in
his anxiety, the smith felt that there lay still the real danger to Beau
Brocade and to Lord Stretton. Moreover, by now he longed to see his
friend and to learn how he'd fared. Vaguely in his honest heart he
feared that the young man had succumbed on the Heath to pain and
fatigue, and mayhap had failed to reach the forge.
When he saw the entire population of Brassington busy with Jock Miggs,
and the soldiers intent on the news from the Duke of Cumberland's
advance guard, he determined to set out for the crossroads, in the hopes
of finding the Captain at the forge.
He had just crossed the green and turned into the narrow bridle-path
which led straight to his smithy, when he spied a yokel, dressed in a
long smock and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, coming slowly towards him.
The man was leaning heavily on a thick knotted stick and seemed to be
walking with obvious pain and fatigue.
Some unexplainable instinct caused the smith to wait awhile until the
yokel came a little nearer. This corner of the village was quite
deserted; the laughter of the folk assembled round the Royal George
could be heard only as a distant echo from across the green. The next
moment the smith uttered a quickly-suppressed cry of astonishment as he
recognised Bathurst's face underneath the broad-brimmed hat.
"Sh! ... sh ... sh!" whispered the young man hurriedly--"her ladyship?
... can I see her?"
"Yes! yes!" replied John, whose honest eyes were resting anxiously on
his friend's pallid face, "but you, Captain? ... you?..."
He did not like to formulate the question, and Bathurst interrupted him
quickly.
"I've rested awhile at the forge, John ... your mother was an angel ...
and now I want to see her ladyship."
John's honest heart misgave him. His friend's fresh young voice sounded
hoarse and unnatural, there was a restless, feverish glitter in his
eyes, and the slender, tapering hand which rested on the stick trembled
visibly.
"You ought to be in bed, Captain," he muttered gruffly, "and well nursed
too; you are ill..."
"I am sufficiently alive, friend, at any rate to serve Lady Patience to
the end."
"I'll go tell her ladyship," said the smith, with a sigh.
"Say a man from the village would wish to speak with her.... Don't
mention my name, John ... she'll not know me, I think.... 'Tis best
that she should not.... And I look a miserable object enough, don't I?"
he added with a feeble laugh.
"Her ladyship would command you to rest if she knew..."
"I don't wish her to know, friend," said Jack, smiling in spite of
himself at the good fellow's vehemence, "her tender pity would try to
wean me from my purpose, which is to serve her with the last breath left
in me. And now, quick, John.... Don't worry about me, old friend.... I
am only a little tired after that scramble on the Heath ... and the
wound that limb of Satan dealt me is at times rather troublesome....
But I am very tough, you know.... All my plans are made, and I'll
follow you at a little distance. Beg her ladyship to speak with me in
the passage of the inn ... 'twould excite too much attention if I went
up to her parlour.... No one'll know me, never fear."
John knew of old how useless it was to argue with the Captain once he
had set his mind on a definite course of action. Without further
protest, therefore, and yet with a heavy heart, he turned and quickly
walked back through the village to the Packhorse, followed at some
little distance by Bathurst.
In order to arouse as little suspicion as possible, it had been
necessary for the young Earl of Stretton to mix from time to time with
the servant and the barman of the inn. He was supposed to be an
additional serving-man, come to help at the Packhorse in view of her
ladyship's unexpected stay there. In this out-of-the-way village of
Brassington no one knew him by sight, and he was in comparative safety
here, until nightfall, when he meant to strike up country again for
shelter.
He was standing in the shadow behind the bar, when John Stich entered
the parlour, bearing the message from Beau Brocade. The room was dark
and narrow, over-filled with heavy clouds of tobacco smoke and with the
deafening clamour of loud discussions and exciting narratives carried on
by two or three soldiers and some half-dozen villagers over profuse
tankards of ale.
John Stich managed to reach Philip's ear without exciting attention.
The young man at once slipped out of the room, in order to tell his
sister that a yokel bearing important news would wish to speak with her
privately.
Her heart beating with eagerness and apprehension, Patience hurried down
the narrow stairs, and in the passage found herself face to face with a
man dressed in a long, dingy smock, and whose features she could not
distinguish beneath the broad brim of his hat.
He raised a respectful hand to his forelock as soon as he was in her
ladyship's presence, but did not remove his hat.
"You wished to speak with me, my man?" asked Lady Patience, eagerly.
"I have a message for to deliver to Lady Patience Gascoyne," said
Bathurst, whose voice, hoarse and quavering with fatigue, needed no
assumption of disguise. He kept his head well bent, and the passage was
very dark.
Patience, with her thoughts fixed on the gallant, upright figure she had
last seen so full of vitality and joy in the little inn-parlour
upstairs, scarce gave more than a passing glance to the stooping form,
leaning heavily on a stick before her.
"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "you have a message? From whom?"
"I don't rightly know, my lady ... a gentleman 'twas ... on the Heath
this morning ... he give me this letter for your ladyship."
Burying his tell-tale, slender hand well inside the capacious sleeve of
Jock Miggs's smock, Bathurst handed Patience a note written by himself.
She took it from him with a glad little cry, and when he turned to go
she put a restraining hand on his arm.
"Wait till I've read the letter," she said, "I may wish to send an
answer."
She unfolded the letter slowly, very slowly, he standing close beside
her and watching the tears gathering in her eyes as she began to read,
murmuring the words half audibly to herself:--
"Have no fear. I have the letters, and with your permission will take
them straight to London. I have a powerful friend there who will help
me to place them before the King and Council without delay. To carry
this safely through it is important that I should not be seen again in
Brassington, as Sir Humphrey Challoner luckily has lost track of me for
the moment, and I can be at Wirksworth before nightfall, and on my way
to London before another dawn. Your enemy will keep watch on _you_, so I
entreat you to stay in Brassington so as to engage his attention, whilst
I go to London with the letters. His lordship would be safest, I think,
in the cottage of old Widow Coggins at Aldwark. It has been my good
fortune to do her some small service; she'll befriend his lordship for
my sake. John Stich will convey him thither as soon as maybe. I
entreat you to be of good cheer. A few days will see your brother a
free man, and rid you for ever of your enemy. Believe me, the plan I
have had the honour to set forth is safe and quick, and on my knees I
beg you to allow me to carry it through in your service."
She folded the letter and then slipped it into the folds of her gown.
Through the open doorway behind her a ray of sunshine came shyly peeping
in, framing her graceful figure with a narrow fillet of gold. They were
alone in the passage, and she, intent upon the precious letter, was
taking no notice of him: thus he could feast his eyes once more upon his
dream, his beautiful white rose, drooping with the dew, the graceful
silhouette outlined against the sunlit picture beyond, the queenly head,
with its wealth of soft golden hair, bent with rapt attention on the
letter which trembled in her hand.
His whole being ached with mad passionate longing for her, his lips
burned with a desire to cover her neck and throat with kisses, yet he
would have knelt on the flagstones before her and worshipped as did the
saints before Our Lady's shrine. In his heart was a great joy that he
could do her service, and a strange, wild hope that he might die for
her.
"The gentleman who gave you this letter..." she said with a slight catch
in her low, melodious voice. "You saw him? ... He was well? ... How did
he look?..."
Her eyes now were swimming in tears, and Bathurst had much ado to still
the mad beating of his heart, and to force his voice to a natural tone.
"Lud, my lady," he said, "but he was just like any other body Oi
thought."
"Not ill?"
"Noa! noa! not that Oi could see."
"Go back to him, friend," she said, with sudden eagerness, "tell him
that he must come to me at once ... I ... I would speak with him."
It required all Bathurst's firm strength of will not to betray himself
before her. The tender pleading in her eyes, the gentle, womanly
sympathy in her voice, set all his pulses beating. But he had made up
his mind that she should not know him just then. A look, a cry, might
give him away, and there was but one chance now to be of useful service
to her, and that was to take the letters at once to London, whilst their
joint enemy had for the nonce no thought of him.
Therefore he contrived to say quite stolidly,--
"Noa, noa, the gentleman said to Oi, 'You can bring a message, but th'
lady mustn't come nigh me!'"
She gave a quick little sigh of disappointment.
"Then, my good fellow," she said, "try to remember ... tell him ... tell
him ... I would wish to thank him ... tell him.... Nay! nay!" she
suddenly added, pulling a faded white rose from her belt, "tell him
nothing ... but give him this flower ... in token that I have received
his letter ... and will act as he bids me.... You'll remember?"
He dared not trust himself to speak, but as she held out the rose to him
he took it from her hand and involuntarily his finger-tips came in
contact with hers just for a second ... long enough for the divine
magnetism of his great love to pass from him to her.
She seized hold of his hand, for in that one magnetic touch she had
recognised him. Her heart gave a great leap of joy, the joy of being
near him once more, of again feeling the tender, grey eyes resting with
passionate longing on her face. But she uttered neither cry nor word,
for it was a great, silent and godlike moment--when at last she
understood.
He had stooped still lower and rested his burning lips upon her cool
fingers, and upon the rose which she had worn at her breast.
Neither of them spoke, for their hearts were in perfect unison, their
whole being thrilled with the wild, jubilant echo of a divine hosanna,
and around them the legions of God's angels made a rampart of snow-white
wings, to shut out all the universe from them, leaving them alone with
their love.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A LIFE FOR A LIFE
That moment was brief, as all such great and happy moments are.
But a few seconds had passed since both her hands had rested in his, and
he forgot the world in that one kiss upon her finger-tips.
The next instant a fast-approaching noise of hurrying footsteps,
accompanied by much shouting, roused them from their dream.
Both through the back and the front door a crowd of excited soldiers had
pushed their way into the inn, whilst the folk in the bar-parlour,
attracted by the sudden noise, pressed out into the narrow passage to
see what was happening.
John Stich, foremost amongst these, made a rush for Patience's side.
She found herself suddenly pressed back towards the foot of the stairs,
and face to face with a noisy group of village folk, through which the
Sergeant and some half-dozen soldiers were roughly pushing their way.
She looked round her, helpless and bewildered. Jack Bathurst had
disappeared.
The whole thing had occurred in the brief space of a few seconds, even
before Patience had had time to realise that anything was amiss.
The narrow staircase, at the foot of which she now stood, led straight
up to the private parlour, where Philip was even now awaiting her
return.
"Out of the way, you rascals," the Sergeant was shouting, whilst
elbowing his way through the small group of gaping yokels, and pressing
forward towards the stairs.
"Will your ladyship allow me the privilege of conducting you out of this
crowd?" said a suave voice at Patience's elbow.
Sir Humphrey Challoner, closely followed by the obsequious Mittachip,
had pushed his way into the inn, in the wake of the soldiers, and was
now standing between her and the crowd, bowing very deferentially and
offering her his arm, to conduct her upstairs.
But a few moments ago he had heard the startling news that Jock Miggs
had been captured on the Heath, in mistake for Beau Brocade. As far as
Sir Humphrey could ascertain nothing of importance had been found on the
shepherd's person, and in a moment he realised that, through almost
supernatural cunning, the highwayman must have succeeded in filching the
letters, and by now had no doubt once more restored them to Lady
Patience.
All the scheming, the lying, the treachery of the past few days had
therefore been in vain; but Sir Humphrey Challoner was not the man to
give up a definite purpose after the first material check to his plans.
If her ladyship was once more in possession of the letters, they must be
got away from her again. That was all. And if that cursed highwayman
was still free to-day, 'sdeath but he'll have to hang on the morrow.
In the meanwhile Philip's momentary safety was a matter of the greatest
moment to Sir Humphrey Challoner. If that clumsy lout of a Sergeant got
hold of the lad, all Sir Humphrey's schemes for forcing Lady Patience's
acceptance of his suit by means of the precious letters would
necessarily fall to the ground.
But instinctively Patience recoiled from him; his suave words, his
presence near her at this terrible crisis, frightened her more
effectually than the Sergeant's threatening attitude. She drew close to
John Stich, who had interposed his burly figure between the soldiers and
the foot of the stairs.
"Out of the way, John Stich," shouted the Sergeant, peremptorily, "this
is not your forge, remember, and by G---- I'll not be tricked again."
"Those are her ladyship's private rooms," retorted the smith, without
yielding one inch of the ground. "Landlord," he shouted at the top of
his voice, "I call upon you to protect her ladyship from these
ruffians."
"You insult His Majesty's uniform," quoth the Sergeant, briefly, "and do
yourself no good, smith. As for the landlord of this inn, he interferes
'tween me and my duty at his peril."
"But by what right do you interfere with me, Master Sergeant?" here
interposed Lady Patience, trying to assume an indifferent air of calm
haughtiness. "Do you know who I am?"
"Aye! that I do, my lady!" responded the Sergeant, gruffly, "and that's
what's brought me here this morning. Not half an hour ago I heard that
Lady Patience Gascoyne was staying at the Packhorse, and now the folks
say that a new serving-man came to give a helping hand here. He arrived
in the middle of the night, it seems. Strange time for a serving-man to
turn up, ain't it?"
"I know nothing of any servant at this inn, and I order you at once to
withdraw your men, and not to dare further to molest me."
"Your pardon, my lady, but my orders is my orders: I have been sent here
by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland hisself to hunt out all the
rebels who are in hiding in these parts. I've strict orders to be on
the lookout for Philip James Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, who, I
understand, is your ladyship's own brother, and as I've a right o'
search, I mean to see who else is staying in those rooms upstairs
besides your ladyship."
"This is an outrage, Sergeant!"
"Maybe, my lady," he retorted drily, "but with us soldiers orders is
orders, saving your presence. I was tricked at the smithy, and again on
the Heath. My belief is that we were hunting a bogey last night, There
may or mayn't be any highwayman called Beau Brocade, but there was a
fine young gallant at the forge the day afore yesterday, who did for me
and my men, and I'll take my oath that he was none other than the rebel,
Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton."
"'Tis false and you talk like a madman, Sergeant."
"Maybe! but your ladyship'll please stand aside until I've searched
those rooms upstairs, or I'll have to order my men to lay hands on your
ladyship. Now then, John Stich, stand aside in the name of the King!"
John Stich did not move, and Lady Patience still stood defiant and
haughty at the foot of the stairs. The villagers, stolid and stupid,
were staring open-mouthed, not daring to interfere. But of course it
was only a question of seconds, the worthy smith could not guard the
staircase for long against the Sergeant and a dozen soldiers, and in any
case nothing would be of any avail. Philip in the room upstairs was
trapped like a fox in its lair, and nothing could save him now from
falling into the soldiers' hands.
In vain she sought for Bathurst among the crowd: with wild, unreasoning
agony she longed for him in this moment of her greatest need, and he was
not there. She felt sure that if only he were near her he would think
of something, do something, to avert the appalling catastrophe.
"I give your ladyship one minute's time to stand quietly aside," said
the Sergeant, roughly. "After that I give my men orders to lay hands on
you, and on any one who dares to interfere."
"Give me the letters," whispered Sir Humphrey Challoner, insinuatingly,
in her ear. "I can yet save your brother."
"How?" she murmured involuntarily.
He looked up towards the top of the stairs.
"Then he _is_ up there?"
She did not reply. It was useless to deny it, the next few moments
would bring the inevitable.
"Stand back, Sergeant," quoth John Stich, defiantly. "I have the honour
to protect her ladyship's person against any outrage from you."
"Good words, smith," retorted the Sergeant, "but I tell ye I've been
tricked twice by you and I mean to know the reason why. Let her
ladyship allow me to search the room upstairs and I'll not lay hands on
her."
"Ye shall not pass," repeated the smith, obstinately.
"The letters," whispered Sir Humphrey, "give me the letters and I pledge
you my honour that I can save him yet."
But half mad with terror and misery, scornful, defiant, she turned on
him.
"Your honour!" she said, with infinite contempt.
But in her inmost heart she murmured in agonised despair,--
"What's to be done? Oh, God, protect him!"
"Stand back, John Stich," repeated the Sergeant, for the third time, "or
I give my men the order to charge. Now then, my men!"
"Ye shall not pass!" was the smith's persistent, obstinate answer to the
challenge.
"Forward!" shouted the soldier in a loud voice. "Into it, my men! Use
your bayonets if anyone interferes with ye!"
The soldiers, nothing loth, were ready for the attack: there had already
been too much parleying to suit their taste. They had been baffled too
often in the last few days to be in the mood to dally with a woman, be
she her ladyship or no.
With a loud cry they made a dash for the stairway, which behind Stich
and Lady Patience lost itself in the gloom above.
And it was from out this darkness that at this moment a light-hearted,
fresh young voice struck upon the astonished ears of all those present.
"Nay! too much zeal, friend Stich. Stand aside, I pray you. Faith!
it'll give me great pleasure to converse with these gallant lobsters."
And Jack Bathurst, pushing the bewildered smith gently to one side, came
down the stairs with a smile upon his face, calm, debonnair, dressed as
for a feast.
He had discarded Jock Miggs's long smock, broad-brimmed hat and
kerchief, and appeared in all the gorgeous finery of the beautiful
lavender-scented clothes, he had donned at the forge with the kindly aid
of Mistress Stich. He was still very pale and there were a few lines of
weariness and of bodily pain round the firm, sensitive mouth, but his
grey eyes, deep-sunk and magnetic, glowed with the keen fire of intense
excitement. The coat of fine blue cloth set off his tall, trim figure
to perfection. His left hand was tucked into the opening of his
exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, and dainty ruffles of delicate
Mechlin lace adorned his neckcloth and wrists. As he appeared there,
handsome, foppish and smiling, 'twas no wonder that the countryside had
nicknamed him Beau Brocade.
"Well! my gallant friend!" he said, addressing the Sergeant, since the
latter seemed too astonished to speak, "what is it you want with me,
eh?"
The Sergeant was gradually recovering his breath. Fate apparently was
playing into his hands. It was almost too bewildering for any bluff
soldier to realise, but it certainly seemed pretty clear that the rebel
Earl of Stretton and Beau Brocade the highwayman were one and the same
person.
"You are Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton?" he asked at last.
"Faith! you've guessed that, have you?" responded Bathurst, gaily.
"Odd's life, 'tis marvellous how much penetration lies hidden beneath
that becoming coat of yours."
"Then, Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, you are attainted by
Parliament for high treason, and I arrest you in the name of the King!"
There were indeed many conflicting emotions raging in the hearts of all
those present whilst this brief colloquy was going on.
John Stich, accustomed to implicit obedience where his Captain's actions
were concerned, had not dared to speak or stir. Sir Humphrey Challoner,
completely thrown off his mental balance by the unexpected appearance of
Bathurst, was hastily trying to make up his bewildered mind as to what
was now best to be done.
As to Patience herself, at first a great, an overwhelming joy and pride
had seized her at the thought that he was near her now, that he had not
deserted her in the hour of her greatest need, that once again he had
interposed his magnetic, powerful personality between her and the danger
which threatened her and Philip.
It was only when the Sergeant's momentous words, "I arrest you in the
name of the King!" rang out clearly and decisively above the loud tumult
which was beating in her heart, that she became aware of the deadly
peril which threatened the man she loved.
True, he had come once more between her and danger, but once again he
had done it at risk of his life, and was like at last to lay it down for
her.
She had been standing a little to one side, turning, as all had done,
toward the elegant, foppish figure in the fine clothes and dainty
ruffles of lace, but now she stepped forward with mad, unreasoning
impulse, thrusting herself between him and the Sergeant, and trying to
shield him behind the folds of her cloak.
"No! no! no! no!" she said excitedly. "Sergeant, 'tis all a mistake! ...
I swear..."
But already Jack Bathurst had bent forward, and had contrived to
whisper, unheard by all save her,--
"Hush--sh--your brother ... remember his danger..."
"Your pardon, lady," said the Sergeant, seeing that she paused,
irresolute, not knowing what to do in face of this terrible alternative
which was confronting her. "Your pardon, lady, but this gentleman is
Philip, Earl of Stretton, is he not?"
"For your brother's sake," whispered Bathurst once more.
"No ... yes ... Oh! my God!" murmured Patience, in the agony of this
appalling misery.
Her brother or the man she loved. One or the other betrayed by one word
from her, now at this moment, with no time to pray to God for help or
guidance, no chance of giving her own life for both!
"Out on you, friend," said Bathurst, lightly, "do you not see her
ladyship is upset. Nay! have no fear, I'll follow you quietly!" he
added, seeing that the Sergeant and soldiers were making a motion to
surround him, "but you'll grant me leave to say farewell to my sister?"
The Sergeant could not very well refuse. He was at heart a humane man,
and now that he was sure of this important capture, he would have done a
good deal to ingratiate himself, through little acts of courtesy, with
Lady Patience Gascoyne.
However, he had no mind to be tricked again, and in face of an almost
immediate execution for high treason, the prisoner seemed
extraordinarily self-possessed and cheerful. But for her ladyship's
obvious despair and sorrow, the worthy Sergeant might even now have had
some misgivings.
As it was, he told off three men to mount the stairs, and to stand on
guard at the top of them, in case the prisoner made a dash that way, in
the hopes of reaching the roof. The Sergeant still kept an idea in his
mind that some supernatural agency was at work in favour of this
extraordinary man, who up to now had seemed to bear a charmed life. He
had the little narrow passage and hall of the inn cleared of the gaping
yokels, who went off one by one, scratching their addled polls,
wondering what it all meant, and who was Beau Brocade. Was he the Earl
of Stretton? was he the highwayman? or some pixie from the Heath with
power to change himself at will?
Sir Humphrey Challoner retired within the shadow of the stairway. On
the whole he preferred to leave the events to shape their own course.
In one way Fate had befriended him. Whether hanged in his own name or
in that of the Earl of Stretton, the highwayman would within the next
few hours be safely out of the way, and then it would be easier no doubt
to obtain possession of the letters once again.
He too like the Sergeant and soldiers, felt an instinctive dread of
supernatural agency in connection with Beau Brocade. In these days
there existed still a deeply-rooted belief in witchcraft, and the
educated classes were not altogether proof against the popular
superstitions.
Sir Humphrey had a curious, intense hatred for the man who had so
chivalrously championed Lady Patience's cause. His own love for her was
so selfish and lustful that overpowering jealousy formed its chief
characteristic. He was frantically, madly jealous of Jack Bathurst, for
with the keen eyes of the scorned suitor, he had noted the look of joy
and pride in her face when the young man first appeared on the stairs,
and he alone of all those present knew how to interpret her obvious
despair, her terrible misery, when brought face to face with the awful
alternative of giving up her brother or the man she loved.
Sir Humphrey swore some heavy oaths under his breath at thought of the
scorn with which she had rejected him. Womanlike, she had yielded to
the blandishments of that thief, and proud Lady Patience Gascoyne had
fallen in love with a highwayman!
But now Fate meant to be kind to Sir Humphrey. With that chivalrous
coxcomb out of the way, Lady Patience would be once more at his mercy.
Philip was still a fugitive under the ban of attainder, and the letters
could be got hold of once again, unless indeed the devil, with an army
of witches and evil sprites, came to the assistance of that rascal Beau
Brocade.
CHAPTER XXXV
QUITS
Hemmed in by a compact little group of soldiers at the foot of the
stairs, and with three men on guard at the head of it, Bathurst and
Patience had but a few minutes in which to live these last brief moments
of their love.
She clung passionately to him, throwing aside all the haughty reserve of
her own proud nature: conquered by her great love: a woman only, whose
very life was bound up in his.
"They shall not take you!" she moaned in the agony of her despair.
"They shall not.... I will not let you go!"
And he held her in his arms now, savouring with exquisite delight this
happiest moment of his life, the joy of feeling her tender form clinging
to him in passionate sorrow, to see the tears gathering in her blue
eyes, one by one, for him and to know that her love--her great,
measureless, divine love--was at last wholly his.
But the moments were brief, and the Sergeant below was already waxing
impatient. He drew her gently into a dark angle of the stairs, up
against the banisters, and taking the packet of letters from his pocket,
he pressed them into her hand.
"The letters! quick!" he whispered. "God guard you and him!"
"The letters?" she murmured mechanically.
"Aye! I can do nothing now ... but try to see the Duke of Cumberland
before you go to London, show him the letters.... He may be in this
village to-day ... if not, you can see him at Wirksworth.... He has
power to stay execution even if your brother is arrested ... he might
use it, if he had seen the letters..."
"Yes! yes!" she murmured.
Sorrow seemed to have dazed her, she did not quite know what she was
doing, but her left hand closed instinctively over the precious packet,
then dropped listlessly by her side.
Neither she nor Bathurst had perceived a thin, attenuated figure
hoisting itself monkey-wise over the dark portion of the banisters.
"Try and hear what those two are saying," Sir Humphrey had whispered,
and the attorney, obedient and obsequious, had made a desperate effort
to do as he was bid. The staircase was but partially lighted by a
glimmer of daylight, which came slanting round the corner from the
passage. The banisters were in complete shadow, and the Sergeant and
soldiers were too intent on watching their prisoner to notice Master
Mittachip or Sir Humphrey.
The next moment Patience felt a terrific wrench on all her fingers; even
as she uttered a cry of pain and alarm, the packet of letters was torn
out of her hand from behind, and she was dimly conscious of a dark
figure clambering over the banisters and disappearing into the darkness
below.
But with a mad cry of rage Jack Bathurst had bounded after that
retreating figure; wholly taken by surprise, he only saw the dim outline
of Mittachip's attenuated form, as the latter hastily dropped the packet
of letters at Sir Humphrey Challoner's feet, who stooped to pick them
up. Like an infuriated wild beast Jack fell on Sir Humphrey.
"You limb of Satan!" he gasped. "You ... you.... Give me back those
letters! ... Stich! Stich! quick!..."
The force of the impact had thrown both men to the ground. Bathurst was
gripping his antagonist by the throat with fingers of steel. But
already the Sergeant and his men had come to the rescue, dragging Jack
away from the prostrate figure of Sir Humphrey, whilst the soldiers from
above had run down and were forcibly keeping John Stich in check.
Freed from his powerful antagonist, his Honour quietly picked himself
up, readjusted his crumpled neckcloth and flicked the dust from off his
coat. He was calmly thrusting the packet of letters in his pocket,
whilst the Sergeant was giving orders to his men to bind their prisoner
securely, if he offered further resistance.
"Sergeant!" said Bathurst, despairingly, "that miscreant has just stolen
some letters belonging to her ladyship."
"Silence, prisoner!" commented the Sergeant. "You do yourself no good by
this violence."
It seemed as if Fate meant to underline this terrible situation with a
final stroke of her ironical pen, for just then the quiet village street
beyond suddenly became alive with repeated joyous shouts and noise of
tramping feet. In a moment the dull, monotonous air of Brassington was
filled with a magnetic excitement which seemed to pervade all its
inhabitants at once, and even penetrated within the small dingy inn,
where the last act of a momentous drama was at this moment being played.
"It must be the Duke of Cumberland's army!" quoth the Sergeant,
straining his ears to catch the sound of a fast-approaching cavalcade.
"Then you'll please His Royal Highness with the smart capture you've
made, Sergeant," said Sir Humphrey, with easy condescension.
This was indeed Fate's most bitter irony. "The Duke has power to stay
execution, and would use it if you showed him the letters!" These were
the last words of counsel Bathurst had given Patience, and now with
freedom for her brother almost within her grasp, she was powerless to do
aught to save him.
"The letters, Sir Humphrey!" she murmured imploringly, "an you've a
spark of honour left in you."
"Nay!" he retorted under his breath, with truly savage triumph, "an you
don't close your lover's mouth, I'll hand your brother over to these
soldiers too, and then destroy the letters before your eyes."
He turned, and for a moment regarded with an almost devilish sneer the
spectacle of his enemy rendered helpless at last. Bathurst, like some
fettered lion caught in a trap, was still making frantic efforts to free
himself, until a violent wrench on his wounded shoulder threw him half
unconscious on his knees.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Humphrey, "I think, my chivalrous friend, you
and I are even at last."
"Come, prisoner, you'd best follow me quietly now," said the Sergeant,
touched in spite of himself by Patience's terrible sorrow.
But at Sir Humphrey's final taunt Jack Bathurst had shaken off the
deadly feeling of sickness which was beginning to conquer him. He threw
back his head, and with the help of the soldiers struggled again to his
feet. The clamour outside was beginning to be louder and more
continuous: through it all came the inspiriting sound of a
fast-approaching regimental band.
"The Duke of Cumberland, is it, Sergeant?" he said suddenly.
"Marching through the village on his way to the north," assented the
Sergeant. "Now then, prisoner..."
"Nay, then, Sergeant," shouted Jack in a loud voice, as, wrenching his
right arm from the grasp of the soldier who held him, he pointed to Sir
Humphrey Challoner, "detain that man! ... An I am the rebel Earl of
Stretton, he was my accomplice, and has all the papers relating to our
great conspiracy at this moment about his person ... the door!--the
door!" he added excitedly, "take care! ... he'll escape you! ... and he
has papers on him now that would astonish the King."
Instinctively the soldiers had rushed for both the doorways, and when
Sir Humphrey, with a shrug of the shoulders, made a movement as if to
go, the Sergeant barred the way and said,--
"One moment, sir."
"You would dare?" retorted Sir Humphrey, haughtily. "Are you such a
consummate fool as not to see that that man is raving mad?"
"Search him, Sergeant!" continued Bathurst, excitedly, "you'll find the
truth of what I say.... Search him ... her ladyship knows he was my
accomplice.... Search him!--the loss of those papers'd cost you your
stripes."
The Sergeant was not a little perplexed. Already, the day before, the
seizure of Sir Humphrey Challoner's person had been attended with
disastrous consequences for the beadle of Brassington, and now....
No doubt the Sergeant would never have ventured, but the near approach
of the Duke of Cumberland's army, and of his own superior officers, gave
the worthy soldier a certain amount of confidence. He had full rights
and powers of search, and had been sent to this part of the country to
hunt for rebels. He had been tricked and hoodwinked more often than he
cared to remember, and he knew that his superior officers would never
blame him for following up a clue, even if thereby he was somewhat
overstepping his powers.
"The papers," continued Bathurst, "the papers which'll prove his guilt
... the papers! or he'll destroy them."
The Sergeant gave a last look at his prisoner. He seemed secure enough
guarded by three men, who were even now strapping his hands behind his
back. The accusation therefore could be no trick to save his own skin,
and who knows? if the Earl of Stretton was a rebel lord, then why not
the Squire of Hartington?
"Seize him, and search him!" commanded the Sergeant, "in the name of the
King!"
"Your pardon, sir," he added deferentially, "but the Duke of Cumberland
is within earshot almost, and I should be cashiered if I neglected my
duty."
"This is an outrage!" cried Sir Humphrey, who had become purple with
rage.
"It's doing your Honour no harm! and if I've done wrong no doubt I shall
be punished. Search him, my men!"
It was Sir Humphrey's turn now to be helpless in the hands of the
soldiers. He knew quite well that the Sergeant was within his duty and
would certainly not get punished for this. Worse outrages than this
attempt on his august person had been committed in the Midlands on
important personages, on women and even children, during this terrible
campaign against fugitive rebels.
Less than five seconds had elapsed when the soldier drew the packet of
letters from Sir Humphrey's pocket and handed it to his Sergeant.
"They'd best be for His Royal Highness's own inspection," said the
latter, quietly, as he slipped them inside his scarlet coat.
"Aye! for His Royal Highness!" quoth Jack Bathurst in mad, wild,
feverish glee. "Oh, now is it that your Honour thought you could be
even with me? What?"
Sir Humphrey was speechless with the hopelessness of his baffled rage.
But Patience, almost hysterical with the intensity of her relief after
the terrible suspense which she had just endured, had fallen back half
fainting against the stairs, and murmuring,--
"The letters! ... Before His Royal Highness! ... Thank God! ... Thank
God!..."
Then suddenly she drew herself up, and laughing, crying, joyous, happy,
she flew upstairs shouting,--
"Philip!--Philip!--come down!--come down! ... you are safe!..."
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE AGONY OF PARTING
About half an hour ago, when Jack Bathurst suddenly burst in upon Lord
Stretton in the dingy little parlour upstairs, he gave the lad no
inkling of what was happening down below. He had hastily discarded Jock
Miggs's smock and hat and extracted a solemn promise from Philip not to
stir from the parlour, whatever might be the tumult downstairs.
Then he had left the boy chafing like a wild beast in its cage. The
heavy oak doors and thick walls of the old-fashioned inn deadened all
the sounds from below, and Bathurst had taken the precaution of locking
the door behind him. But for this, no doubt Philip would have broken
his word, sooner than allow his chivalrous friend once more to risk his
life for him.
As the noise below grew louder and louder, Stretton became more and more
convinced that some such scene as had been enacted a day or two ago at
the forge was being repeated in the hall of the Packhorse. He tried
with all his might to force open the door which held him imprisoned, and
threw his full weight against it once or twice, in a vain endeavour to
break the thick oaken panels.
But the old door, fashioned of stout, well-seasoned wood, resisted all
his efforts, whilst the noise he made thereby never reached the ears of
the excited throng.
Like a fettered lion he paced up and down the narrow floor of the dingy
inn parlour, chafing under restraint, humiliated at the thought of being
unable to join in the fight, that was being made for his safety.
His sister's cry came to him in this agonising moment like the most
joyful, the most welcome call to arms.
"The door! ... quick!..." he shouted as loudly as he could, "it is
locked!"
She found the bolt and tore open the door, and the next instant he was
running downstairs, closely followed by Patience.
The Sergeant and soldiers had been not a little puzzled at hearing her
ladyship suddenly calling in mad exultation on her brother, whom they
believed they were even now holding prisoner.
The appearance of Philip at the foot of the stairs, and dressed in a
serving-man's suit, further enhanced their bewilderment.
But already Patience stood proud, defiant, and almost feverish in her
excitement, confronting the astonished group of soldiers.
"This, Sergeant!" she said, taking hold of her brother's hand, "is
Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, my brother. Arrest _him_ if you
wish, he surrenders to you willingly, but I call upon you to let your
prisoner go free."
The Sergeant was sorely perplexed. The affair was certainly getting too
complicated for his stolid, unimaginative brain. He would have given
much to relinquish command of this puzzling business altogether.
"Then you, sir," he said, addressing Philip, "you are the Earl of
Stretton?"
"I am Philip James Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, your prisoner, Sergeant,"
replied the lad, proudly.
"But then, saving your ladyship's presence," said the soldier, in
hopeless bewilderment, "who the devil is my prisoner?"
"Surely, Sergeant," quoth Sir Humphrey, with a malicious sneer, "you've
guessed that already?"
Jack Bathurst, exhausted and faint after his long fight and victory, had
listened motionless and silent to what was going on around him. With
the letters safely bestowed in the Sergeant's wallet and about to be
placed before His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland himself, he felt
that indeed his task was accomplished.
Fate had allowed him the infinite happiness of having served his
beautiful white rose to some purpose. Philip now would be practically
safe; what happened to himself after that he cared but little.
At sound of Sir Humphrey's malicious taunt, an amused smile played round
the corners of his quivering mouth; but Patience, with a rapid movement,
had interposed herself between Sir Humphrey and the Sergeant.
"Your silence, Sir Humphrey," she commanded excitedly, "an you've any
chivalry left in you."
"Aye!" he replied in her ear, "my silence now ... at a price."
"Name it."
"Your hand."
So low and quick had been questions and answers that the bewildered
Sergeant and his soldiers had not succeeded in catching the meaning of
the words, but Sir Humphrey's final eager whisper, "Your hand!" reached
Jack Bathurst's sensitive ear. The look too in the Squire of
Hartington's face had already enabled him to guess the purport of the
brief colloquy.
"Nay, Sir Humphrey Challoner," he said loudly, "but 'tis not a
marketable commodity you are offering to this lady for sale. I'll break
your silence for you. What is the information that you would impart to
these gallant lobsters? ... That besides being my mother's son I am also
the highwayman, Beau Brocade!"
"No! no! no!" protested Patience, excitedly.
"Odd's my life!" quoth the Sergeant, "but methought..."
"Aye, Beau Brocade," said Sir Humphrey, with a sneer, "robber, vagabond
and thief, that's what this ... _gentleman_ means."
"Faith! is that what I meant?" retorted Jack Bathurst, lightly. "I
didn't know it for sure!"
But with a wild cry Patience had turned to the Sergeant.
"It's a lie, Sergeant!" she repeated, "a lie, I tell you. This
gentleman is ... my friend ... my..."
"Well, whichever you are, sir," quoth the Sergeant, turning to Beau
Brocade decisively, "rebel, lord or highwayman, you are my prisoner,
and," he added roughly, for many bitter remembrances of the past two
days had surged up in his stolid mind, "and either way you hang for it."
"Aye! hang for it!" continued Sir Humphrey, savagely. "So, now
methinks, my chivalrous young friend, that we can cry quits at last.
And now, Sergeant," said his Honour, peremptorily, "that you've found
out the true character of your interesting prisoner, you can restore me
my letters, which he caused you to filch from me."
But the Sergeant was not prepared to do that. He had been tricked and
hoodwinked so often, that he would not yield one iota of the advantage
which he had contrived to gain.
"Your pardon, sir," he said deferentially yet firmly, "I don't exactly
know the rights o' that. I think I'd best show them to His Royal
Highness, and you, sir, will be good enough to explain yourself before
his Honour, Squire West."
"You'll suffer for this insolence, Sergeant," retorted Sir Humphrey,
purple with rage. "I command you to return me those letters, and I warn
you that if you dare lay hands on me or hinder me in any way, I'll have
you degraded and publicly whipped along with that ape the beadle."
But the Sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders and ordered off three of
his men to surround Sir Humphrey Challoner and to secure his hands if he
attempted to resist. His Honour's wild threats of revenge did not in
the least frighten the soldier, now that he felt himself on safe ground
at last.
The rapid approach of the army gave him a sense of security; he knew
that if he had erred through excess of zeal, a reprimand would be the
only punishment meted out to him, whilst he risked being degraded if he
neglected his duty. Whether the Squire of Hartington had or had not
been a party to the late rebellion, he neither knew nor cared, but
certainly he was not going to give up a packet of letters over which
there had been so much heated discussion on both sides.
The fast-approaching tumult in the street confirmed him in his resolve.
He turned a deaf ear to all Sir Humphrey's protestations, and only
laughed at his threats.
Already the soldiers were chafing with eagerness to see the entry of His
Royal Highness with his staff: the village folk one by one had gone out
to see the more joyful proceedings, and left the Sergeant and his
prisoners to continue their animated discussion.
"Are you ready, my lord?" asked the Sergeant, turning to Philip.
"Quite ready!" replied the lad, cheerfully, as he prepared to follow the
soldiers. He gave his sister a look of joy and hope, for he was going
to temporary imprisonment only; within a few moments perhaps his safety
would be assured. Lady Patience Gascoyne, in virtue of her rank and
position, could easily obtain an audience of the Duke of Cumberland, and
in the meanwhile the letters proving Philip's innocence would have been
laid before His Royal Highness. No wonder that as the lad, marching
light-heartedly between two soldiers, passed close to Jack Bathurst, he
held out his hand to his brave rescuer in gratitude too deep for words.
"Are you ready, sir?" quoth the Sergeant now, as he turned to Beau
Brocade.
But here there was no question of either joy or hope: no defence, no
proofs of innocence. The daring outlaw had chosen his path in life, and
being conquered at the last, had to pay the extreme penalty which his
country demanded of him for having defied its laws.
As he too prepared to follow the soldiers out into the open, Patience,
heedless of the men around her, clung passionately, despairingly to the
man who had sacrificed his brave life in her service, and whom she had
rewarded with the intensity, the magnitude of her love.
"They shall not take you," she sobbed, throwing her protecting arms
round the dearly-loved form, "they shall not ... they shall not..."
The cry had been so bitter, so terribly pathetic in its despair, that
instinctively the soldiers stood aside, awed in spite of their stolid
hearts at the majesty of this great sorrow; they turned respectfully
away, leaving a clear space round Patience and Bathurst.
Thus for a moment he had her all to himself, passive in her despair,
half crazed with her grief, clinging to him with all the passionate
abandonment of her great love for him.
"What? ... tears?" he whispered gently, as with a tender hand he pressed
back the graceful drooping head, and looked into her eyes, "one ... two
... three ... four glittering diamonds ... and for me! ... My sweet
dream!" he added, the intensity of his passion causing his low, tender
voice to quiver in his throat, "my beautiful white rose, but yesterday
for one of those glittering tears I'd gladly have endured hell's worst
tortures, and to-day they flow freely for me.... Why! I would not
change places with a King!"
"Your life ... your brave, noble life ... thus sacrificed for me....
Oh, why did I ever cross your path?"
"Nay, my _dear_," he said with an infinity of tenderness, and an
infinity of joy. "Faith! it must have been because God's angels took
pity on a poor vagabond and let him get this early glimpse of paradise."
His fingers wandered lovingly over her soft golden hair, he held her
close, very close to his heart, drinking in every line of her exquisite
loveliness, rendered almost ethereal through the magnitude of her
sorrow: her eyes shining with passion through her tears, the delicate
curve of throat and chin, the sensitive, quivering nostrils, the moist
lips on which anon he would dare to imprint a kiss.
"And life now to me," she whispered 'twixt heart-broken sobs, "what will
it be? ... how shall I live but in one long memory?"
"My life, my saint," he murmured. "Nay! lift your dear face up to me
again! let me take away as a last memory the radiant vision of your eyes
... your hair ... your lips..."
His arms tightened round her, her head fell back as if in a swoon, she
closed her eyes and her soul went out to him in the ecstasy of that
first kiss.
"Ah! it is a lovely dream I dreamt," he whispered, "and 'tis meet that
the awakening shall be only in death!"
He tried to let her go but she clung to him passionately, her arms round
him, in the agony of her despair.
"Take me with you," she sobbed, half fainting. "I cannot bear it ... I
cannot..."
Gently he took hold of both her hands, and again and again pressed them
to his lips.
"Farewell, sweet dream!" he said. "There! dry those lovely tears! ...
If you only knew how happy I am, you would not mourn for me.... I have
spun the one thread in life which was worth the spinning, the thread
which binds me to your memory.... Farewell!"
The Sergeant stepped forward again. It was time to go.
"Are you ready, sir?" he asked kindly.
"Quite ready, Sergeant."
She slid out of his arms, her eyes quite dry now, her hands pressed to
her mouth to smother her screams of misery. She watched the soldiers
fall into line, with their prisoner in their midst, and turn to the
doorway of the inn, through which the golden sunshine came gaily peeping
in.
Outside a roll of drums was heard and shouts of "The Duke! The Duke!"
The excitement had become electrical. His Royal Highness, mounted on a
magnificent white charger, was making his entry into the village at the
head of his general staff, and followed at some distance by the bulk of
his army corps, who would camp on the Heath for the night.
Squire West, his stiff old spine doubled in two, was in attendance on
the green, holding a parchment in his hand, which contained his loyal
address and that of the inhabitants of Brassington: the beadle, more
pompous than ever, and resplendent in blue cloth and gold lace, stood
immediately behind his Honour.
In the midst of all this gaiety and joyful excitement the silent group,
composed of the soldiers with their three prisoners, appeared in strange
and melancholy contrast. Philip and Bathurst were to be confined in the
Court House, under a strong guard, pending his Honour the Squire's
decision, and as the little squad emerged upon the green, 'twas small
wonder that they caught His Royal Highness's eye.
He had been somewhat bored by Squire West's long-winded harangue, and
was quite glad of an excuse for cutting it short.
"Odd's buds!" he said, "and what have we here? Eh?"
The Sergeant and soldiers stood still at attention, some twenty yards
away from the brilliant group of His Highness's general staff. The
little diversion had caused Squire West to lose the thread of his
speech, and much relieved, the Duke beckoned the Sergeant to draw
nearer.
"Who are your prisoners, Sergeant?" queried His Highness, looking with
some interest at the two young men, one of whom was a mere lad, whilst
the other had a strange look of joy and pride in his pale face, an air
of aloofness and detachment from all his surroundings, which puzzled and
interested the Duke not a little.
"'Tis a bit difficult to explain, your Royal Highness," replied the
Sergeant, making the stiff military salute.
"Difficult to explain who your prisoners are?" laughed the Duke,
incredulously.
"Saving your Highness's presence," responded the Sergeant, "one of these
gentlemen is Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton."
"Oho! the young reprobate rebel who was hand-in-glove with the
Pretender! I mind his case well, Sergeant, and the capture does your
zeal great credit. Which of your prisoners is the Earl of Stretton?"
"That's just my trouble, your Royal Highness. But I hope that these
papers will explain."
And the Sergeant drew from his wallet the precious packet of letters and
handed them respectfully to the Duke.
"What are these letters?"
"They were found on the person of that gentleman, sir," replied the
Sergeant, indicating Sir Humphrey Challoner, who stood behind the two
younger men, silent and sulky, and nursing desperate thoughts of
revenge. "He is said to be an accomplice and I thought 'twas my duty to
bring him before a magistrate. If I've done wrong...".
"You've done quite right, Sergeant," said the Duke, firmly. "You were
sent here to rid the country of rebels, whom an Act of Parliament has
convicted of high treason, and it had been gross neglect of duty not to
refer such a case to the nearest magistrate. Give me the papers, I'll
look through them anon. See your prisoners safely under guard, then
come back to my quarters."
"Damnation!" muttered Sir Humphrey, as he saw the Duke take the packet
of letters from the Sergeant's hand, and then turn away to listen to the
fag end of Squire West's loyal address.
Throughout his chagrin, however, the Squire of Hartington was able to
gloat over one comforting idea. He had now lost all chance of pressing
his suit on Lady Patience, his actions in the past three days would
inevitably cause her to look upon him with utter hatred and contempt,
but the man who was the cause of his failure, the chivalrous and
meddlesome highwayman, Beau Brocade, would, as sure as the sun would set
this night, dangle on the nearest gibbet to-morrow.
CHAPTER XXXVII
REPARATION
It was in the middle of the afternoon when His Royal Highness, having
attended to other important affairs, and partaken of a hasty meal at the
Royal George, finally found leisure to look through the letters handed
up to him by the Sergeant.
As he read one through, and then the other, Lord Lovat's letter urging
the Earl of Stretton to join the rebellion, that of Kilmarnock
upbraiding the lad for holding aloof, and finally the autograph of
Charles Edward himself at the end of a long string of reproaches,
calling Philip a traitor for his loyalty to King George,--
"There has been a terrible blunder here!" quoth His Royal Highness,
emphatically. "Bring the Earl of Stretton to me at once," he added,
speaking to his orderly.
Ten minutes later Philip, with Patience by his side, was in the presence
of the Duke of Cumberland, who, on behalf of his country and its
government, was tendering apologies to the Earl of Stretton for grievous
blunders committed.
"It seems you have suffered unjustly, my lord," said His Highness, with
easy graciousness. "It will be my privilege to keep you under my
personal protection until these letters have been placed before the King
and Council."
"I myself will guarantee your brother's safety, Lady Patience," he
added, turning with a genial smile to her; "you will entrust him to my
care, will you not? Your father and I were old friends, you know. In
my young days I had the pleasure of staying at Stretton Hall, and the
privilege of dandling you on my knees, for you were quite a baby then.
I little thought I should have the honour of being of service to you in
later years."
With courtly gallantry the Duke raised her cold finger-tips to his lips.
He looked at her keenly, for he could not understand the almost dead
look of hopeless misery in her face which she bravely, but all in vain,
tried to hide from him. Evidently she was quite unable to speak. When
her brother had been brought before His Highness she had begged for and
easily obtained the favour of being present at the interview, but even
at the Duke's most genial and encouraging words she had not smiled.
"It was lucky," added His Royal Highness, kindly patting her hand, "that
so strange a Fate should have placed these letters in my hand."
But at these gentle, almost fatherly words, Patience's self-control
entirely gave way. With a heart-broken sob she threw herself at the
Duke's feet.
"Nay! not Fate, your Royal Highness," she moaned, "but the devotion of a
brave man, who has sacrificed his life to save my brother and me... Save
him, your Highness! ... save him! ... he is noble, brave, loyal, and you
are powerful ... save him! ... save him!..."
It was impossible to listen unmoved to the heart-rending sorrow
expressed in this appeal. The Duke very gently raised her to her feet.
"Nay, fair lady ... I pray you rise," he said respectfully. "Odd's my
life! but 'tis not beauty's place to kneel.... There! there!" he added,
leading her to a chair and sitting beside her, "you know how to plead a
cause; will you deign to confide somewhat more fully in your humble
servant? We owe your family some reparation at anyrate, and you some
compensation for the sorrow you have endured."
And speaking very low at first, then gradually gaining confidence,
Patience began to relate the history of the past few days, the
treachery, of which she had been a victim, the heroic self-sacrifice of
the man who was about to lay down his life because of his devotion to
her and to her cause.
His Highness listened quietly and very attentively, whilst she, wrapped
up in the bitter joy of memory, lived through these last brief and happy
days all over again. Even before she had finished, he had sent word to
the Sergeant to bring both his other prisoners before him at once.
Sir Humphrey and Jack Bathurst were actually in the room before Patience
had quite completed her narrative. Bathurst ill and pale, but with that
strange air of aloofness still clinging about his whole person. He
seemed scarce to live, for his mind was far away in the land of dreams,
dwelling on that last exquisite memory of his beautiful white rose lying
passive in his arms, the memory of that first and last, divinely
passionate kiss.
The Duke looked up when the prisoners entered the room; although he knew
neither of them by sight, he had no need to ask whose cause the
beautiful girl beside him had been pleading so earnestly.
"What do you wish to say, sir?" he said, addressing Sir Humphrey
Challoner first. "You are no doubt aware of her ladyship's grievances
against you. They are outside my province, and unfortunately outside
the province of our country's justice. But I would wish to know why you
should have pursued the Earl of Stretton and that gentleman, your
fellow-prisoner, with so much hatred and malice."
"I have neither hatred nor malice against the Earl of Stretton," replied
Sir Humphrey, with a shrug of the shoulders, "but no doubt her ladyship
would wish to arouse your Royal Highness's sympathy for a notorious
scoundrel. That gentleman is none other than Beau Brocade, the most
noted footpad and most consummate thief that ever haunted Brassing
Moor."
The Duke of Cumberland looked with some surprise, not altogether unmixed
with kindliness, at the slim, youthful figure of the most notorious
highwayman in England. He felt all a soldier's keen delight in the
proud bearing of the man, the straight, clean limbs, the upright,
gallant carriage of the head, which neither physical pain nor adverse
circumstances had taught how to bend.
Then he remembered Lady Patience's enthusiastic narrative, and said,
smiling indulgently,--
"Odd's my life! but I did not know gentlemen of the road were so
chivalrous!"
"Your Royal Highness..." continued Sir Humphrey.
"Silence, sir!"
Then the Duke rose from his chair, and went up close to Bathurst, who,
half-dreaming, had listened to all that was going on around him, but had
scarce heard, for he was looking at Patience and thinking only of her.
"Your name, sir?" asked the Duke very kindly, for the look of love akin
to worship which illumined Jack Bathurst's face had made a strong appeal
to his own manly heart.
"Jack Bathurst," replied the young man, almost mechanically, and rousing
himself with an effort in response to the Duke's kind words, "formerly
captain in the White Dragoons."
"Bathurst? ... Bathurst?" repeated the Duke, not a little puzzled. "Ah,
yes!" he added after a slight pause, "who was condemned and cashiered
for striking his superior officer after a quarrel."
"The same, your Royal Highness."
"'Twas Colonel Otway, who, we found out afterwards, was a scoundrel, a
liar, and a cheat," said His Highness with sudden eager enthusiasm, "and
fully deserving the punishment you, sir, had been brave enough to give
him."
"Aye! he deserved all he got," replied Jack, with a wistful sigh and
smile, "I'll take my oath of that."
"But ... I remember now," continued the Duke, "a tardy reparation was to
have been offered you, sir ... but you were nowhere to be found."
"I'd become a scoundrel myself by then, and moneyless, friendless,
disgraced, had taken to the road, like many another broken gentleman."
"Then take to the field now, man," exclaimed His Highness, gaily. "We
want good soldiers and gallant gentlemen such as you, and your country
still owes you reparation. You shall come with me, and in the glorious
future which I predict for you, England shall forget your past."
He extended a kindly hand to Bathurst, who, still dreaming, still not
quite realising what had happened, instinctively bent the knee in
gratitude.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE JOY OF RE-UNION
On the green outside, the crowd of village folk were shouting themselves
hoarse,--
"Three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland!"
Already the news had gone the round that Beau Brocade, the highwayman,
had been granted a special pardon by His Royal Highness.
John Stich, half crazy with joy, was tossing his cap in the air, and in
the fulness of his heart was stealing a few kisses from Mistress Betty's
pretty mouth.
The appearance of Sir Humphrey Challoner in the porch of the Royal
George, looking as black as thunder and followed by his obsequious
familiar, Master Mittachip, was the signal for much merriment and some
quickly-suppressed chaff.
"Stand aside, you fool!" quoth Sir Humphrey, pushing Jock Miggs roughly
out of his way.
"Nay, stand aside all of ye!" admonished John Stich, solemnly, "and mind
if any of ye've got any turnips about ... be gy!..."
The Squire of Hartington raised his riding-crop menacingly.
"You dare!" he muttered.
But Mistress Betty interposed her pretty person 'twixt her lover and his
Honour's wrath.
"Saving your presence, sir," she said pertly, "my intent was only going
to tell the lads to keep their turnips for this old scarecrow."
And laughing all over her dimpled little face she pointed to Master
Mittachip, who was clinging terrified to Sir Humphrey's coat-tails.
"Sir Humphrey..." he murmured anxiously, as Betty's sally was received
with a salvo of applause, "good Sir Humphrey ... do not let them harm
me.... I've served you faithfully..."
"You've served me like a fool," quoth Sir Humphrey, savagely, shaking
himself free from the mealy-mouthed attorney. "Damn you," he added, as
he walked quickly out of the crowd and across the green, "don't yap at
my heels like a frightened cur."
"God speed your Honour," shouted Stich after him.
"Think you, John, he'll come to our wedding?" murmured Betty, saucily,
at which honest John hugged her with all his might before the entire
company.
"Be gy! I marvel if the old fox'll go to her ladyship's and the
Captain's wedding, eh?"
"Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times," commented Jock Miggs, vaguely.
----
But within the small parlour of the Royal George all this noise and
gaiety only came as a faint, merry echo.
His Royal Highness had gone, followed by the Sergeant and soldiers, and
Bathurst was alone with his beautiful white rose.
"And 'tis to you I owe my life," he whispered for the twentieth time, as
kneeling at her feet he buried his head in the folds of her gown.
"I have done so little," she murmured, "one poor prayer ... when you had
done so much."
"And now," he said, looking straight into the exquisite depths of her
blue eyes, "now you have robbed me of one great happiness, which may
never come to me again."
"Robbed you? ... of happiness?..."
"The happiness of dying for you."
But she looked down at him, smiling now through a mist of happy tears.
"Nay, sir," she whispered, "and when the Duke has no longer need of you,
will you not live ... for me?"
He folded her in his arms, and held her closely, very closely to his
strong, brave heart.
"Always at your feet," he murmured passionately, "and as your humble
slave, my dream."
And as his lips sought hers once more, she whispered under her breath,--
"My husband!"
"My dream!--My wife!"
----
Outside the crowd of villagers were shouting lustily,--
"Three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland!"
L. UPCOTT GILL, LONDON AND COUNTY, PRINTING WORKS, DRURY LANE, W.C.