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

class="calibre1">It was only when the Sergeant’s momentous words, “I arrest you in the name of the King!” rang out clearly and decisively above the loud tumult which was beating in her heart, that she became aware of the deadly peril which threatened the man she loved.

True, he had come once more between her and danger, but once again he had done it at risk of his life, and was like at last to lay it down for her.

She had been standing a little to one side, turning, as all had done, toward the elegant, foppish figure in the fine clothes and dainty ruffles of lace, but now she stepped forward with mad, unreasoning impulse, thrusting herself between him and the Sergeant, and trying to shield him behind the folds of her cloak.

“No! no! no! no!” she said excitedly, “Sergeant, ‘tis all a mistake! ...I swear …”

But already Jack Bathurst had bent forward, and had contrived to whisper, unheard by all save her,—

“Hush—sh—your brother… remember his danger…”

“Your pardon, lady,” said the Sergeant, seeing that she paused, irresolute, not knowing what to do in face of this terrible alternative which was confronting her. “Your pardon, lady, but this gentleman is Philip, Earl of Stretton, is he not?”

“For your brother’s sake,” whispered Bathurst once more.

“No… yes… Oh! my God!” murmured Patience, in the agony of this appalling misery.

Her brother or the man she loved. One or the other betrayed by one word from her, now at this moment, with no time to pray to God for help or guidance, no chance of giving her own life for both!

“Out on you, friend,” said Bathurst, lightly, “do you not see her ladyship is upset. Nay! have no fear, I’ll follow you quietly!” he added, seeing that the Sergeant and soldiers were making a motion to surround him, “but you’ll grant me leave to say farewell to my sister?”

The Sergeant could not very well refuse. He was at heart a humane man, and now that he was sure of this important capture, he would have done a good deal to ingratiate himself, through little acts of courtesy, with Lady Patience Gascoyne.

However, he had no mind to be tricked again, and in face of an almost immediate execution for high treason, the prisoner seemed extraordinarily self-possessed and cheerful. But for her ladyship’s obvious despair and sorrow, the worthy Sergeant might even now have had some misgivings.

As it was, he told off three men to mount the stairs, and to stand on guard at the top of them, in case the prisoner made a dash that way, in the hopes of reaching the roof. The Sergeant still kept an idea in his mind that some supernatural agency was at work in favour of this extraordinary man, who up to now had seemed to bear a charmed life. He had the little narrow passage and hall of the inn cleared of the gaping yokels, who went off one by one, scratching their addled polls, wondering what it all meant, and who was Beau Brocade. Was he the Earl of Stretton? was he the highwayman? or some pixie from the Heath with power to change himself at will?

Sir Humphrey Challoner retired within the shadow of the stairway. On the whole he preferred to leave the events to shape their own course. In one way Fate had befriended him. Whether hanged in his own name or in that of the Earl of Stretton, the highwayman would within the next few hours be safely out of the way, and then it would be easier no doubt to obtain possession of the letters once again.

He too like the Sergeant and soldiers, felt an instinctive dread of supernatural agency in connection with Beau Brocade. In these days there existed still a deeply-rooted belief in witchcraft, and the educated classes were not altogether proof against the popular superstitions.

Sir Humphrey had a curious, intense hatred for the man who had so chivalrously championed Lady Patience’s cause. His own love for her was so selfish and lustful that overpowering jealousy formed its chief characteristic. He was frantically, madly jealous of Jack Bathurst, for with the keen eyes of the scorned suitor, he had noted the look of joy and pride in her face when the young man first appeared on the stairs, and he alone of all those present knew how to interpret her obvious despair, her terrible misery, when brought face to face with the awful alternative of giving up her brother or the man she loved.

Sir Humphrey swore some heavy oaths under his breath at thought of the scorn with which she had rejected him. Womanlike, she had yielded to the blandishments of that thief, and proud Lady Patience Gascoyne had fallen in love with a highwayman!

But now Fate meant to be kind to Sir Humphrey. With that chivalrous coxcomb out of the way, Lady Patience would be once more at his mercy. Philip was still a fugitive under the ban of attainder, and the letters could be got hold of once again, unless indeed the devil, with an army of witches and evil sprites, came to the assistance of that rascal Beau Brocade.

Chapter XXXV

Quits

Hemmed in by a compact little group of soldiers at the foot of the stairs, and with three men on guard at the head of it, Bathurst and Patience had but a few minutes in which to live these last brief moments of their love.

She clung passionately to him, throwing aside all the haughty reserve of her own proud nature: conquered by her great love: a woman only, whose very life was bound up in his.

“They shall not take you!” she moaned in the agony of her despair. “They shall not …I will not let you go!”

And he held her in his arms now, savouring with exquisite delight this happiest moment of his life, the joy of feeling her tender form clinging to him in passionate sorrow, to see the tears gathering in her blue eyes, one by one, for him and to know that her love—her great, measureless, divine love—was at last wholly his.

But the moments were brief, and the Sergeant below was already waxing impatient. He drew her gently into a dark angle of the stairs, up against the banisters, and taking the packet of letters from his pocket, he pressed them into her hand.

“The letters! quick!” he whispered. “God guard you and him!”

“The letters?” she murmured mechanically.

“Aye! I can do nothing now… but try to see the Duke of Cumberland before you go to London, show him the letters… He may be in this village to-day … if not, you can see him at Wirksworth …He has power to stay execution even if your brother is arrested … he might use it if he had seen the letters …”

“Yes! yes!” she murmured.

Sorrow seemed to have dazed her, she did not quite know what she was doing, but her left hand closed instinctively over the precious packet then dropped listlessly by her side.

Neither she nor Bathurst had perceived a thin, attenuated figure hoisting itself monkey-wise over the dark portion of the banisters.

“Try and hear what those two are saying,” Sir Humphrey had whispered, and the attorney, obedient and obsequious, had made a desperate effort to do as he was bid. The staircase was but partially lighted by a glimmer of daylight, which came slanting round the corner from the passage. The banisters were in complete shadow, and the Sergeant and soldiers were too intent on watching their prisoner to notice Master Mittachip or Sir Humphrey.

The next moment Patience felt a terrific wrench on all her fingers; even as she uttered a cry of pain and alarm, the packet of letters was torn out of her hand from behind, and she was dimly conscious of a dark figure clambering over the banister and disappearing into the darkness below.

But with a mad cry of rage Jack Bathurst had bounded after that retreating figure; wholly taken by surprise, he only saw the dim outline of Mittachip’s attenuated form, as the latter hastily dropped the packet of letters at Sir Humphrey Challoner’s feet, who stooped to pick them up. Like an infuriated wild beast Jack fell on Sir Humphrey.

“You limb of Satan!” he gasped. “You … you … give me back those letters! ...Stich! Stich! quick! ...”

The force of the impact had thrown both men to the ground. Bathurst was gripping his antagonist by the throat with fingers of steel. But already the Sergeant and his men had come to the rescue, dragging Jack away from the prostrate figure of Sir Humphrey, whilst the soldiers from above had run down and were forcibly keeping John Stich in check.

freed from his powerful antagonist, his Honour quietly picked himself up, readjusted his crumpled neckcloth and flicked the dust from off his coat. He was calmly thrusting the packet of letters in his pocket, whilst the Sergeant was giving orders to his men to bind their prisoner securely, if he offered further resistance.

“Sergeant!” said Bathurst, despairingly, “that miscreant has just stolen some letters belonging to her ladyship.”

“Silence, prisoner!” commented the Sergeant. “You do yourself no good by this violence.”

It seemed as if Fate meant to underline this terrible situation with a final stroke of her ironical pen, for just then the quiet village street beyond suddenly became alive with repeated joyous shouts and noise of trampling feet. In a moment the dull, monotonous air of Brassington was filled with a magnetic excitement which seemed to pervade all its inhabitants at once, and even penetrated within the small dingy inn, where the last act of a momentous drama was at this moment being played.

“It must be the Duke of Cumberland’s army!” quoth the Sergeant, straining his ears to catch the sound of a fast-approaching cavalcade.

“Then you’ll please His Royal Highness with the smart capture you’ve made, Sergeant,” said Sir Humphrey, with easy condescension.

This was indeed Fate’s most bitter irony. “The Duke has power to stay execution, and would use it if you showed him the letters!” These were the last words of counsel Bathurst had given Patience, and now with freedom for her brother almost within her grasp, she was powerless to do aught to save him.

“The letters, Sir Humphrey!” she murmured imploringly, “an you’ve a spark of honour left in you.”

“Nay!” he retorted under his breath, with truly savage triumph, “an you don’t close your lover’s mouth, I’ll hand your brother over to these soldiers too, and then destroy the letters before your eyes.”

He turned, and for a moment regarded with an almost devilish sneer the spectacle of his enemy rendered helpless at last. Bathurst, like some fettered lion caught in a trap, was still making frantic efforts to free himself, until a violent wrench on his wounded shoulder threw him half unconscious on his knees.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Sir Humphrey, “I think, my chivalrous friend, you and I are even at last.”

“Come, prisoner, you’d best follow me quietly now,” said the Sergeant, touched in spite of himself by Patience’s terrible sorrow.

But at Sir Humphrey’s final taunt Jack Bathurst had shaken off the deadly feeling of sickness which was beginning to conquer him. He threw back his head, and with the help of the soldiers struggled again to his feet. The clamour outside was beginning to be louder and more continuous: through it all came the inspiriting sound of a fast-approaching regimental band.

“The Duke of Cumberland, is it, Sergeant?” he said suddenly.

“Marching through the village on his way to the north,” assented the Sergeant. “Now then, prisoner…”

“Nay, then, Sergeant,” shouted Jack in a loud voice, as, wrenching his right arm