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

why did they not fire? Eh?”

From past experience Master Mittachip should have known that when Sir Humphrey Challoner laughed his loudest, then was he mostly to be dreaded. Yet in this instance the attorney’s delight at his own realistic story drowned the wiser counsels of prudence. He took his Honour’s hilarity as a compliment to his own valour, and continued proudly,—

“The reason was not far to seek, for at that very moment we were both seized upon from behind by two big fellows. Then all five of them fell upon us and dragged us aside into the darkness; they tied scarves about our mouths, so that we could not cry out… Aye! and had some difficulty in doing it, for believe me, Sir Humphrey, I fought like mad! Then they rifled us of everything… despoiled us absolutely…”

At this point it struck Master Mittachip that his Honour’s continued gaiety was somewhat out of place. The narrative had become thrilling surely, exciting and blood-curdling too, and yet Sir Humphrey was laughing more lustily than ever.

“Go on, man! go on,” he gasped between his paroxysms of merriment. “Odd’s life! but ‘tis the best story I’ve heard for many a day!”

“I will swear to the truth o’ it in any court of law,” protested the attorney with somewhat less assurance.

“The fifth man was Beau Brocade. I heard the others address him so, while I was lying gagged and bound.”

“Aye! you would lie anywhere,” commented his Honour, “gagged and bound or not.”

“From your observation, Sir Humphrey, I gather that you somewhat… er… doubt my story!” murmured Master Mittachip in a quavering voice.

“Doubt it, man? ... doubt it?” laughed his Honour, holding his sides, “nay! how can I doubt it? I saw it all…”

“You, Sir Humphrey?”

“I was there, man, on the Heath. I saw it all … your vigorous defence, your noble valour, your… your…”

Master Mittachip’s sallow face had assumed a parchment-like hue. He passed his dry tongue over his parched lips, great drops of moisture appeared beneath his wig. That his fears were not unfounded was presently proved by Sir Humphrey’s sudden change of manner.

The hilarious laugh died down in his Honour’s throat, an ugly frown gathered above his deep-set eyes, and with a violent curse he brought his heavy fist down crashing upon the table.

“And now, you lying, lumbering poltroon, where’s my money?”

“B… b… but, Sir Humphrey…” stammered the attorney, now pallid with terror.

“There’s no ‘but’ about it. You collected some rents for me, thirty guineas in all, that money must lie to my account in the bank at Wirksworth tomorrow, or by G— I’ll have you clapped in jail like the thief that you are.”

“B… b… but, your Honour…”

“Silence! I’ve said my last word. If that money is not in the bank by noon to-morrow, I’ll denounce you to the Wirksworth magistrate as a fraudulent agent. Now hold your tongue about that. I’ve said my last word. The rest is your affair, not mine. I’ve more important matters to think on.”

Master Mittachip, half dead with fear, dared not offer further argument or pleading. He knew his employer well enough to realise that his honour meant every word he said, and that he himself had nothing more to hope for in the matter of the money. The deficiency extracted from him by that rascal Beau Brocade would have to be made good somehow, and Master Mittachip bethought him ruefully of his own savings, made up of sundry little commissions extorted from his Honour’s tenants.

No wonder the attorney felt none too kindly disposed towards the highwayman. He watched Sir Humphrey’s face as a hungry dog does his master’s, and noted with growing satisfaction that his Honour’s anger was cooling down gradually, and giving place to harder and more cruel determination. As he watched, the look of terror died out of his bony, sallow face, and his pale, watery eyes began to twinkle with keen and vengeful malice.

Chapter XXI

Master Mittachip’s Idea

He waited a little while, and gradually a smile of the deepest satisfaction spread over his bird-like countenance; he rubbed his meagre knees up and down with his thin hands, in obvious delight, and as soon as he saw his opportunity, he remarked slily,—

“An your Honour was on the Heath last night, you can help me to testify to highway robbery before Squire West. There are plenty of soldiers in this village. His Honour’ll have out a posse or two; the rascal can’t escape hanging this time.”

Sir Humphrey’s florid, sensual face suddenly paled with a curious intensity of hatred.

“Aye! he shall hang sure enough,” he muttered, with a loud oath.

He dragged a chair forward, facing Mittachip, and sat astride on it, drumming a devil’s tattoo on the back.

“Listen here, you old scarecrow,” he said more quietly, “for I’ve not done with you yet. You don’t understand, I suppose, what my presence here in Brassington means?”

“I confess that I am somewhat puzzled, your Honour,” replied the attorney, meekly. “I remarked on it to Master Duffy, just before he started off for Wirksworth this morning. But he could offer no suggestion.”

“Odd’s life, man! couldn’t you guess that having made my proposal to that rascally highwayman I could not rest at Aldwark unless I saw him carry it through?”

“Ah?”

“I got a horse at the Moorhen, and at nightfall I rode out on the Heath. I feared to lose my way on the bridle path, and moreover, I wished to keep her ladyship’s coach in view, so I kept to the road. It must have been close on midnight when I sighted it at last. It was at a standstill in the midst of a quagmire, and as I drew near I could see neither driver on the box, nor groom at the horses’ heads.”

“Well?”

“Well! that’s all! there was a wench inside the coach; I threw her out and searched for the letters; I found them! That rascalling highwayman had played me false. Some distance from the road I spied him dancing a rigadoon in the moonlight with her ladyship, whilst her men, the dolts, were watching the spectacle! Ha! ha! ha! ‘twas a fine sight too, I tell you! So now the sooner I get that chivalrous highwayman hanged, the better I shall like it.”

“Then … am I to understand that your Honour has the letters?”

“Aye! I have the letters right enough!” said Sir Humphrey, with an oath between his clenched teeth, “but I fear me her ladyship has cajoled the rogue into her service. Else why this dance? I did not know what to make of it. Madness, surely, or she never would have left the letters unprotected. He bewitched her mayhap, and the devil, his master, lent him a helping hand. I’ll see him hang, I tell you … Hang … Hang!”

Master Mittachip’s attenuated frame quaked with terror. There was so much hatred, so much lust for revenge in Sir Humphrey’s half-choked voice, that instictively the attorney cowered, as before some great and evil thing which he only half understood.

After awhile Sir Humphrey managed to control himself. He was ashamed of having allowed his agent this one peep into the darkness of his soul.

His love for Patience, though brutish and grasping, was as strong as his sensuous nature was capable of: his jealousy and hatred had been aroused by the strange scene he had witnessed on the Heath, and he was as conscious now of the longing for revenge, as of the desire to possess himself of Lady Patience and her fortune.

“‘Sdeath!” he said more calmly, “Beau Brocade and that rascal John Stich were after me in a trice, and they’d have had the letters back from me, had I not put a bullet into the damned thief!”

“And wounded him, your Honour?” queried Mittachip, eagerly.

“Nay! I could not wait to see! but I hoped I had killed him, for ‘twas John Stich who rode after me, fortunately. He was too big a fool to do me any harm and I quickly made him lose my track.”

“And you’ve destroyed the letters, Sir Humphrey?”

“Destroyed them, you fool? Nay, it would ill suit my purpose if Stretton were to die. Can’t you see that now,” he said excitedly, “with those letters in my hand, I can force Lady Patience’s acceptance of my suit? While her brother’s life hangs in the balance I can offer her the letters, on condition that she consent to marry me, and threaten to destroy them if she refuse!”

“Aye! aye!” murmured the attorney, “‘twere a powerful argument!”

“And remember,” added his Honour, significantly, “there’ll be two hundred guineas for you the day that I wed Lady Patience. That is, if you render me useful assistance to the end.”

“Two hundred guineas!!! Good lack, Sir Humphrey, I hope you’ve got those letters safe!”

“Aye! safe enough for the present!”

“About your person?”

“Nay! you idiot! about my person? With so cunning a rascal as Beau Brocade at my heels!”

“Then in your valise, Sir Humphrey?”

“What? in a strange inn? Think you the fellow would be above breaking into my room? How do I know that mine host is not one of his boon companions? The rascal has many friends hereabouts.”

“B… b … but what have you done with them, Sir Humphrey?” queried the attorney, in despair.

“In your ear, Master Mittachip,” quoth his Honour, instinctively lowering his voice, lest the walls of the old inn had ears. “I thought the best plan was to hide the letters there, where Lady Patience and her chivalrous highwayman would least expect to find them.”

“How so, good Sir Humphrey?”

“I was hard pressed, mind you, and had but a few seconds in which to make up my mind. I dismounted, then lashed my horse into a panic. As I expected he made straight for his own stables, at any rate, he galloped off like mad in the direction of Aldwark, whilst I remained cowering in the dense scrub, grateful for the mist, which was very dense in the hollow. There I remained hidden for about half an hour, until all sound died away on the Heath. What happened to that damned highwayman or to John Stich I know not, but I did not feel that the letters were safe whilst they were about my person. I knew that I was some distance from this village, and still further from Aldwark, and feared that I should be pursued and overtaken. At any rate, I crept out of my hiding-place, and presently found myself close to a wooden hut, not far from the roadside: and there, underneath some bramble and thorny stuff, I hid the letters well out of sight.”

“Oh! but they won’t be safe there, Sir Humphrey,” moaned Mittachip, who seemed to see the golden vision of two hundred guineas vanishing before his eyes. “Think of it. Any moment they might be unearthed by some dolt of a shepherd!”

“‘Sdeath! I know that, you fool! They’re in a dry place now, but I only mean them to remain there until you can take them to your own house at Wirksworth, and put them in your strong room till I have need of them.”

But this suggestion so alarmed Master Mittachip that he lost his balance and nearly fell off the edge of his chair.

“I, Sir Humphrey? ...I … cross that lonely Heath again? ... and with those letters about my person? ...”

“Tush, man! the footpads wouldn’t take letters from you, and Beau Brocade will be keeping an eye