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

from the grasp of the soldiers 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 over-stepping 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 Migg’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 teh 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 toim 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 ae 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 right 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