Beau Brocade - Baroness Emmuska Orczy (polar express read aloud TXT) 📗

mine. Will you not let me?”

The impulse was irresistible, the desire to hold her hand so strong that he had no power to combat it. She seemed puzzled and not a little frightened, but neither haughty nor resentful at his presumption: perhaps she felt the influence of the mystery which surrounded the dark, cloaked figure before her, or the more subtle spell of the mist-covered moon. She made no movement towards him, her hand which he craved to hold had dropped to her side.

There was magic in the vast stillness of the Moor; on each dew-tipped point of grey-green gorse, from every frond of emerald bracken, there glistened a tiny crystal. Timothy and Thomas had retreated to a safer position, out of sight behind the huge vehicle, and inside the coach Betty was cowering in terror. They stood alone, these two, away from all the world, in a land all their own, a land of dreams, of poetry, and romance, where men died for a look from women’s eyes, and conquered the universe for a smile.

How silent was the Heath while he looked at her, and she returned his gaze half-trembling, wholly puzzled.

“Will you not let me?” he pleaded. And instinctively his voice trembled in the pleading, and there came back to her mind the memory of this same voice, young and tender, as she had heard it in the forge. But she would not let him know that she had guessed.

“Sir,” she said with sudden, unaccountable shyness, “you have overpowered my men, they are but loutish cowards, and you are heavily armed. I am a defenceless woman… How can I refuse if you command?”

He took the pistols from his belt and laid them on the ground at her feet.

“Nay, fair lady!” he said, “there is no question of command. See! I am unarmed now, and your men are free. Give them the word and I’ll not stir hand or foot till you have worked your will with me. You see, ‘tis I am at your mercy … yet I still crave to hold your hand … for one moment … in mine …”

For one second more she hesitated: not because she was afraid, but because there was a subtle sweetness in this moment of suspense, a delicious feeling of expectancy for the joy that was to come.

Then she gave him her hand.

“Why! ... how it trembles,” he said, “like some tiny frightened bird. See how white it looks in my rough brown hand. You are not afraid?”

“Afraid? ... oh no! ... but … but the hour is late … I pray you let me depart … I must not tarry … for so much depends upon my journey…I pray you let me go.”

“No, no! don’t go,” he pleaded, clinging to the little hand whose cool touch had made his very senses reel, “don’t go … not just yet … See how glorious is the moon above those distant hills… and the mist-laden air which makes your hair glisten with a thousand diamonds, whilst I, poor fool holding your cool, white hand in mine, stand here gazing on a vision that whispers to me of things which can never, never be … No! no, don’t go just yet … let the moon hide her light once more behind the mist … let the Heath sink into darkness … let me live in my dream one moment longer … it will be dispelled all too soon.”

He had spoken so low, she scarce could hear, but she could feel his hand scorching hers with its fever-heat, and when he ceased speaking she heard a sigh, like a sob, a sigh of bitter longing, of hopeless regret, that made her heart ache with a new pain which was greater, more holy than pity.

A strange excitement seemed to pervade him. Madness was in his veins. He longed to seize her, to lift her up on Jack o’ Lantern’s back and gallop away with her over the Moor, far, far out beyond bracken and heather, over those distant Tors, on, on to the mountains of the moon, to the valley of the shadows, she lying passive in his arms, whilst he looked for ever into the clear blue depths of her eyes.

Perhaps she too felt this excitement gradually creeping over her; she tried to withdraw her hand, but he would not let it go. To her also there came the sense of unreality, of a vision of dreamland, wherein no one dwelt but she and this one man, where no sound came save that of his voice, rugged and tender, which brought tears of joy and pity to her eyes.

In the grass at her feet a cricket began to chirp, and suddenly from a little distance there came the quaint, sweet sound of a shepherd’s pipe, playing an old-time rigadoon.

“Hark!” she whispered.

The sound, came nearer and nearer: she loved to hear the faint, elusive echo, the fairy accompaniment to her own dreamlike mood.

“What a sweet tune,” she murmured, as instictively her foot began tapping the measure on the ground. “I mind it well! How oft have I danced to it beneath the Maypole!”

“Will you then dance it with me to-night?”

“Nay, sir… you do but jest …”

But his excitement was at fever-point now. The outlaw at least could work his will upon this Heath, of which he alone was king. He could not carry her away on Jack o’ Lantern’s back, but he could make her stay with him a while longer, dance with him, here in the moonlight, her hand in his, his arm at times round her waist in the mazes of the dance, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her breath panting, aye! for she should feel too that reckless fire that scorched him. All the fierce, untamed blood in him ran like molten lava in his veins. Aye! for one more brief half-hour he—the lonely dweller on the Moor—the pariah, the outcast, would taste the joys of the gods.

“I was never more earnest in my life!” he vowed, with that gay, mad, merry laugh of his, “a dance with you here in the moonlight! Aye! a dance in the midst of my dreams!”

“But indeed, indeed, sir,” she pleaded, “the hour is late and my business in London is very urgent.”

“Nay, ten minutes for this dance will not much delay your journey, and I swear by your sweet eyes that after that you shall go unmolested.”

“But if I refuse?”

“An you refuse,” he said, bending the knee before her, and bowing humbly at her feet, “I will entreat you on my knees…”

“And if I still refuse?” she murmured.

“Then will I uproot the trees, break the carriage that bears you away, tear up the Heath and murder yon knaves! God in heaven only knows what I would not do an you refuse.”

“No, no, sir, I pray you…” she said, alarmed at his vehemence, puzzled, fascinated, carried away by his wild, reckless mood and the potent spell of the witching moon. “Nay! how can I refuse? ... I am in your power … and must do as you bid me … An you really wish for a dance …”

She allowed him to lead her away to a short distance off the beaten track, there, where a carpet of ling and grass, and walls of bramble and gorse formed a ballroom fit for gods and goddesses to dance in. At the further end of this clearing the quaint, shrivelled figure of Jock Miggs, the shepherd, had just come into view. At a little distance to the left, and close to the roadside, there was a small wooden shed, and beyond it a pen, used by the shepherds as a shelter on rough nights when tending their sheep on the Heath.

For the moment the pen was empty, and Jock Miggs was evidently making his way to the hut for a few hours’ sleep, and had been playing his pipe for the sake of company.

“Aye! a dance here!” said Beau Brocade, “with the moon and stars to light us, a shepherd to play the tune, and the sprites that haunt the Heath for company! What ho! there! friend shepherd!” he shouted to Miggs.

The worthy Jock caught sight of the two figure standing in the centre of the clearing, not twenty paces away from him.

“Lud, have mery upon me!” he gasped. “Robbery! Violence! Murder!”

“Nay, friend! only merry-making,” quoth Beau Brocade, gaily. “We want to dance upon this Heath, and you to play the tune for us.”

“Eh? what?” muttered the shepherd, in his vague, apologetic way, “dancing at this hour o’ the night?”

“Aye!”

“And me to play for a parcel of mad folk?”

“Well said, honest shepherd! Let us all be mad to-night! but you shall play for us, and here!—here is the wherewithal to set your pipe in tune.”

He threw a heavy purse across to Miggs, who, still muttering something about lunatics on the Heath, slowly stooped and picked it up.

“Guineas!” he muttered, weighing it in his hand, “guineas, as I live! Guineas for playing a dance tune. Nay, sir, you’re mad, sure enough.”

“Wilt play the tune, shepherd?” shouted Beau Brocade in wild impatience.

Jock Miggs shook his head with a determined air.

“Nay! your madness is naught to me. You’ve paid for a tune, and you shall have the tune. But, Lordy! Lordy! these be ‘mazing times.”

He settled himself down on a clump of grass-covered earth, and stolidly began piping the same old-time rigadoon. These were a pair of lunatics, for sure, but since the gentleman had paid for this extraordinary pleasure, ‘twas not for a poor shepherd to refuse to earn a few honest guineas.

Beau Brocade bowed to his lady with all the courtly grace of a town gallant.

“Madam! your most humble, and most obedient servant.”

As in a dream Patience began to tread the measure. It was all so strange, so unreal! surely this was a dream, and she would wake anon.

She turned and twisted in the mazes of the dance, gradually the intoxication of it all had reached her brain; she seemed to see round her in the grass pixie faces gazing curiously upon her. All the harebells seemed to tinkle, the shepherd’s pipe sounded like fairy bells. Through the holes in the black mask she could see a pair of burning eyes watching her as if entranced.

She felt like a creature of some other world, a witch mayhap, dancing a wild saraband with this man, her lord and master, a mad, merry sprite who had arranged this moonlight Sabbath.

Her cheeks began to glow, her eyes were sparkling with the joy of this dance. Her breath came panting through her parted lips.

Aye! mad were they both! what else? Their madness was the intoxication which man alone can feel when his joy equals that of the gods! Quicker, shepherd! quicker! let thy pipe wake all the fairy echoes of this mystic, ghostlike Moor! Let all the ghouls and gnomes come running hither, let the stars pale with envy, let fairies and sprites clap their hands for joy, since one man in all this world was happier than all the spirits in heaven!

How long it lasted neither of them could tell. The honey-coloured moon lighted them all the while, the blue mist wrapped them as in a mystic veil. Still they danced on; at times she almost lay in his arms, hot, panting, yet never weary, then she would slip away, and with eyes aglow, cheeks in rosy flame, beckon to him, evade, advance, then once more put her hand in his and