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

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, desparingly 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