Beau Brocade, Baroness Emmuska Orczy [great book club books TXT] 📗

“nephew out o’ Nottingham,” for the latter was staring with glowing eyes and quivering lips at the Corporal, who, not noticing him, continued carelessly,—

“There was Lord Lovat now, you must have heard of him, John Stich, he was beheaded a few days ago, and so was Lord Kilmarnock… and they were lords, you see, and had a headsman all to themselves on Tower Hill, that’s up in London: some lesser folk have been hanged, and now there are only three rebels at large, and there are twenty guineas waiting for anyone who will bring the head of one of them to the nearest magistrate.”

The smith grunted. “Well, and who are they?” he asked roughly.

“Sir Andrew Macdonald up from Tweedside, then Squire Fairfield, you’d mind him, John Stich, over Staffordshire way?”

“Aye, aye, I mind him well enough. His mother was a Papist and he clung to the Stuart cause… young man, too, and hiding for his life….Well, and who else?”

“The young Earl of Stretton.”

“What! him from Stretton Hall?” said John Stich in open astonishment. “Jim, lad,” he added sternly, “thou art a clumsy fool.”

The young man had started involuntarily at sound of the last name mentioned by the Corporal; and the bellows which he had tried to wield fell with a clatter to the floor.

“Be gy! but an Act of Parliament can make thee a lawful assassin, it seems,” added honest John, with a laugh, “but let me perish if it can make thee a good smith. What think you, Master Corporal?”

“Odd’s life! the lad is too soft-hearted mayhap! Our Derbyshire lads haven’t much sense in their heads, have they?”

“Well, you mind the saying, Corporal, ‘Derbyshire born and Derbyshire bred…’ eh?”

“‘Strong i’ the arm and weak i’ the head,’” laughed the soldier, concluding the apt quotation. “That’s just it. Odd’s buds! they want some sense. What’s a rebel or a traitor but vermin, eh? and don’t we kill vermin, all of us, and don’t call it murder either—what?”

He laughed pleasantly and carelessly and tapped the side of his wallet where rested His Majesty’s Proclamation. He was a young soldier, nothing more, attentive to duty, ready to obey, neither willing nor allowed to reason for himself. He had been taught that rebels and traitors were vermin… egad! vermin they were, and as such must be got rid of for the sake of the rest of the kingdom and the safety of His Majesty the King.

John Stich made no comment on the Corporal’s profession of faith.

“We’ll talk about all that some other time, Coporal,” he said at last, “but I am busy now, you see…”

“No offense, friend Stich….Odd’s life, duty you know, John, duty, eh? His Majesty’s orders! and I had them from the Captain, who had them from the Duke of Cumberland himself. So you mind the Act, friend!”

“Aye! I mind it well enough.”

“Everyone knows you to be a loyal subject of King George,” added the Corporal in conciliatory tones, for John was a power in the district, “and I’m sure your nephew is of the same, but duty is duty, and no offence meant.”

“That’s right enough, Corporal,” said John Stich, impatiently.

“So good-morrow to you, John Stich.”

“Good-morrow.”

The Corporal nodded to the young man, then turned on his heel and presently his voice was heard ringing out the word of command,—

“Attention!—Right turn—Quick march!”

John Stich and the young man watched the half-dozen red-coated figures as they turned to skirt the cottage: the dull thud of their feet quickly dying away, as they wound their way slowly up the muddy path which leads across the Heath to Aldwark village.

Chapter III: The Fugitive

Inside the forge all was still, whilst the last of the muffled sounds died away in the distance. John Stich had not resumed work. It was his turn now to stare moodily before him.

The young man had thrown the bellows aside, and was pacing the rough earthen floor of the forge like some caged animal.

“Tracked!” he murmured at last between clenched teeth, “tracked like some wild beast! perhaps shot anon like a dangerous cur behind a hedge!”

He sighed a long and bitter sigh, full of sorrow, anxiety, disappointment. It had come to this then! His name among the others: the traitors, the rebels! and he an innocent man!

“Nay, my lord!” said the smith, quietly, “not while John Stich owns a roof that can shelter you.”

The young man paused in his feverish walk; a look of gentleness and gratitude softened the careworn expression on his face: with a boyish gesture he threw back the fair hair which fell in curly profusion over his forehead, and with a frank and winning grace he sought and grasped the wroth smith’s rough brown hand.

“Honest Stich!” he said at last, whilst his voice shook a little as he spoke, “and to think that I cannot even reward your devotion!”

“Nay, my lord,” retorted John Stich, drawing up his burly figure to its full height, “don’t talk of reward. I would gladly give my life for you and your family.”

And this was no idle talk. John Stich meant every word he said. Honest, kind, simple-hearted John! he loved those to whom he owed everything, loved them with all the devotion of his strong, faithful nature.

The late Lord Stretton had brought him up, cared for him, given him a trade, and set him up in the cottage and forge at the cross-roads, and honest Stich felt that as everything that was good in life had come from my lord and his family, so everything he could give should be theirs in return.

“Ah! I fear me!” sighed the young man, “that it is your life you risk now by sheltering me.”

Yet it was all such a horrible mistake.

Philip James Cascoyne, eleventh Earl of Stretton was at this time not twenty-one years of age. There is that fine portrait of him at Brassing Hall painted by Hogarth just before this time. The artist has well caught the proud features, the fine blue eyes, the boyish, curly head, which have been the characteristics of the Gascoynes for many generations. He has also succeeded in indicating the sensitiveness of the mouth, that somewhat feminine turn of the lips, that all too-round curve of the chin and jaw, which perhaps robs the handsome face of its virile manliness. There certainly is a look of indecision, of weakness of will about the lower part of the face, but it is so frank, so young, so insouciant, that it wins all hearts, even if it does not captivate the judgment.

Of course, when he was very young, his sympathies went out to the Stuart cause. Had not the Gascoynes suffered and died for Charles Stuart but a hundred years ago? Why the change? Why this allegiance to an alien dynasty, to a king who spoke the language of his subjects with a foreign accent?

His father, the late Lord Stretton, a contented, unargumentative British nobleman of the eighteenth century, had not thought it worth his while to explain to the growing lad the religious and political questions involved in the upholding of this foreign dynasty. Perhaps he did not understand them altogether himself. The family motto is “Pour le Roi.” So the Gascoynes fought for a Stuart when he was King, and against him when he was a Pretender, and old Lord Stretton expected his children to reverence the family motto, and have no opinions of their own.

And yet to the hearts of many the Staurt cause made a strong appeal. From Scotland came the fame of the “bonnie Prince” who won all hearts where’er he went. Philip was young, his father’s discipline was irksome, he had some friends among the Highland lords: and while his father lived there had as yet been no occasion in the English Midlands to do anything very daring for the Stuart Pretender.

When the Earl of Stretton died, Philip, a mere boy then, succeeded to title and estates. In the first flush of new duties and new responsibilities his old enthusiasm remained half forgotten. As a peer of the realm he had registered his allegiance to King George, and with his youthful romantic nature all afire, he clung to that new oath of his, idealized it and loyally resisted the blandishments and lures held out to him from Scotland and from France.

Then came the news that Charles Edward, backed by French money and French influence, would march upon London and would stop at Derby to rally round his standard his friends in the Midlands.

Young Lord Stretton, torn between memories of his boyhood and the duties of his new position, feared to be inveigled into breaking his allegiance to King George. The malevolent fairy who at his birth had given him that weak mouth and softly rounded chin, had stamped his worst characteristic on the young handsome face. Philip’s one hope at this juncture was to flee from temptation; he knew that Charles Edward, remembering his past ardour, would demand his help and his adherence, and that he, Philip, might be powerless to resist.

So he fled from the county: despising himself as a coward, yet boyishly clinging to the idea that he would keep the oath he had sworn to King George. He wished to put miles of country between himself and the possible breaking

of that oath, the possible yielding to the “bonnie Prince” whom none could resist. He left his sister, Lady Patience, at Stretton Hall, well cared for by old retainers, and he, a loyal subject to his King, became a fugitive.

Then came the catastrophe: that miserable retreat from Derby, the bedraggled remains of a disappointed army; finally Culloden and complete disaster; King George’s soldiers scouring the country for rebels, the bills of attainder, the quick trials and swift executions.

Soon the suspicion grew into certainty that the fugitive Earl of Stretton was one of the Pretender’s foremost adherents. On his weary way from Derby Prince Charles Edward had asked and obtained a night’s shelter at Stretton Hall. When Philip tried to communicate with his sister, and to return to his home, he found that she was watched, and that he was himself attainted by Act of Parliament.

Yet he felt himself guiltless and loyal. He was guiltless and loyal: how his name came to be included in the list of rebels was still a mystery to him: someone must have lodged sworn information against him. But who?—Surely not his old friends—the adherents of Charles Edward—out of revenge for his defection?

In the meanwhile, he, a mere lad, became an outcast, condemned to death by Act of Parliament. Presently all might be cleared, all would be well, but for the moment he was like a wild beast, hiding in hedges and ditches, with his life at the mercy of any grasping Judas willing to sell his fellow-creature for a few guineas.

It was horrible! horrible! Philip vainly tried all the days to rouse himself from his morbid reverie. At intervals he would grasp the kind smith’s hand and mutter anxiously,—

“My letter to my sister, John?—You are sure she had it?”

And patient John would repeat a dozen times the day,—

“I am quite sure, my lord.”

But since the Corporal’s visit Philip’s mood had become more feverish.

“My letter,” he repeated, “has Patience had my letter? Why doesn’t she come?”

And spite of John’s entreaties he would go to the entrance which faced the lonely Heath, and with burning eyes look out across the wilderness of furze and bracken towards that distant horizon where lay his home, where waited his patient, loving sister.

“I beg you, my lord, come away from