Beau Brocade by Baroness Emmuska Orczy (hardest books to read .txt) 📖

was raging within him. A few moments of intense suspense, and then Master Mittachip reappeared from beneath the scrub, covered with wet earth, still trembling, but holding a packet of letters triumphantly in his hand.

Sir Humphrey snatched it from him.

“Quick! find the shepherd now! Don’t waste time!” he whispered, pushing the cowering attorney roughly before him. “One feels as if every blade of grass had a pair of ears on this damned Heath!” he muttered under his breath.

Jock Miggs, the shepherd, had counted over his sheep, closed the gate of the pen, and was just turning into the hut for the night, when he was hailed by Master Mittachip.

“Shepherd! hey! shepherd!”

Miggs looked about him, vaguely astonished.

Since his adventure of the previous night, when he had been made to play a tune for mad folks to dance to, he felt that nothing would seriously surprise him.

When therefore he felt himself seized by the arm without more ado and dragged into the darkest corner of the hut, he did not even protest.

“Did you wish to speak with me, sir?” he asked plaintively, rubbing his arm, for Sir Humphrey’s impatient grip had been very strong and hard.

“Yes!” said the latter, speaking in a rapid whisper, “here’s Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law, whom you know well, eh?”

“Aye, aye,” murmured Jock Miggs, pulling at his forelock, “t’sheep belong to his Honour Oi believe.”

“Exactly, Miggs,” interposed Master Mittachip, spurred to activity by a vigorous kick from Sir Humphrey, “and I have come out here on purpose to see you, for it is very important that you should go at once on to Wirksworth for me, with a packet and a note for Master Duffy, my clerk.”

“What, now? This time o’ night?” quoth Jock, vaguely.

“Aye, aye, Miggs … you are not afraid, are you?”

Sir Humphrey had taken up his stand outside the hut, leaving Mittachip to arrange this matter with the shepherd. He had leaned his powerful frame against the wall of the shed, and was grasping his heavily-weighted riding-crop, ready and alert in case of attack. The darkness round him at this moment was intense, and his sharp eyes vainly tried to pierce the gloom, which seemed to be closing in upon him, but his ears were keenly alive to every sound which came to him out of the blackness of the night.

And all the while he tried not to lose one word of the conversation between Mittachip and the shepherd.

“That’s true, Jock,” the attorney was saying. “Well! then if you’ll go to Wirksworth for me, now, at once, there’ll be a guinea for you.”

“A guinea!” came in bewildered accents from the worthy shepherd, “Lordy! Lordy! but these be ‘mazing times!”

“All I want you to do, Jock, is to take a packet for me to my house in Fulsome Street. You understand?”

But here there was a pause. Miggs was evidently hesitating.

“Well?” queried Mittachip.

“Oi’m thinking, sir…”

“What?”

“How can Oi go on your errand when Oi’ve got to guard this ‘ere sheep for you?”

“Oh, damn the sheep!” quoth Master Mittachip, emphatically.

“Well, sir! if you be satisfied…”

“You know my house at Wirksworth?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’ll give you a packet. You are to take it to Wirksworth now at once, and to give it to my clerk, Master Duffy, at my house in Fulsome Street. You are quite sure you understand?”

“I dunno as I do!” quoth Jock, vaguely.

But with an impatient oath Sir Humphrey turned into the hut: matters were progressing much too slowly for his impatient temperament. He pushed Mittachip aside, and said peremptorily,—

“Look here, shepherd, you want to earn a guinea, don’t you?”

“Aye, sir, that I do.”

“Well, here’s the packet, and here’s a letter for Master Duffy at Master Mittachip’s house in Fulsome Street. When Master Duffy has the packet and reads the letter he will give you a guinea. Is that clear?”

And he handed the packet of letters, and also a small note, to Jock Miggs, who seemed to have done with hesitation, for he took them with alacrity.

“Oh! aye! that’s clear enough,” he said, “‘tis writ in this paper that I’m to get the guinea?”

“In Master Mittachip’s own hand. But mind! no gossiping, and no loitering. You must get to Wirksworth before cock-crow.”

Jock Miggs slipped the packet and the note into the pocket of his smock. The matter of the guinea having been satisfactorily explained to him, he was quite ready to start.

“Noa, for sure!” he said, patting the papers affectionately. “Mum’s the word! I’ll do your bidding, sir, and the papers’ll be safe with me, seeing it’s writ on them that I’m to get a guinea.”

“Exactly. So you mustn’t lose them, you know.”

“Noa! noa! I bain’t afeeard o’ that, nor of the highwaymen; and Beau Brocade wouldn’t touch the loikes o’ me, bless ‘im. But Lordy! Lordy! these be ‘mazing times!”

Already Sir Humphrey was pushing him impatiently out of the hut.

“And here,” added his Honour, pressing a piece of money into the shepherd’s hand, “here’s half-a-crown to keep you on the go.”

“Thank ‘ee, sir, and if you think t’ sheep will be all right…”

“Oh, hang the sheep!...”

“All right, sir … if Master Mittachip be satisfied … and I’ll leave t’ dog to look after t’ sheep.”

He took up his long, knotted stick, and still shaking his head and muttering “Lordy! Lordy!” the worthy shepherd slowly began to wend his way along the footpath, which from this point leads straight to Wirksworth.

Sir Humphrey watched the quaint, wizened figure for a few seconds, until it disappeared in the gloom, then he listened for awhile.

All round him the Heath was silent and at peace, the plaintive bleating of the sheep in the pen added a note of subdued melancholy to the vast and impressive stillness. Only from afar there came the weird echo of hound and men on the hut.

His Honour swore a round oath.

“Zounds!” he muttered, “the rogue must be hard pressed, and he’s not like to give us further trouble. Even if he come on us now, eh, you old scarecrow?” ... the letters are safe at last! What?”

“Lud preserve me!” sighed the attorney, “but I hope so.”

“Back to Brassington then,” quoth Sir Humphrey, lustily. “Beau Brocade can attack us now, eh? Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed in his wonted boisterous way, “methinks we have outwitted that gallant highwayman after all.”

“For sure, Sir Humphrey,” echoed Mittachip, who was meekly following his Honour’s lead across the road to where their horses were in readiness for them.

“As for my Lady Patience! ... Ha!” said his Honour, jovially, “her brother’s life is… well! ... in my hands, to save or to destroy, according as she will frown on me or smile. But meseems her ladyship will have to smile, eh?”

He laughed pleasantly, for he was in exceedingly good temper just now.

“As for that chivalrous Beau Brocade,” he added as he hoisted himself into the saddle, “he shall, an I mistake not, dangle on a gibbet before another nightfall.”

“Hark!” he added, as the yelping of the blood-hound once more woke the silent Moor with its eerie echo.

Mittachip’s scanty locks literally stood up beneath his bob-tail wig. Even Sir Humphrey could not altogether repress a shudder as he listened to the shouts, the cries, the snarls, which were rapidly drawing nearer.

“We should have waited to be in at the death,” he said, with enforced gaiety. “Meseems our fox is being run to earth at last.”

He tried to laugh, but his laughter sounded eerie and unnatural, and suddenly it was interrupted by the loud report of a pistol shot, followed by what seemed like prolonged yells of triumph.

Master Mittachip could bear it no longer; with the desperation of intense and unreasoning terror he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and like a madman, galloped at breakneck speed down the hillside into the valley below.

Sir Humphrey followed more leisurely. He had gained his end and was satisfied.

Chapter XXVIII

The Quarry

Some few minutes before this the hunted man had emerged upon the road.

As, worn-out, pallid, aching in every limb, he dragged himself wearily forward on hands and knees, it would have been difficult to recognise in this poor, suffering fragment of humanity the brilliant, dashing gentleman of the road, the foppish, light-hearted dandy, whom the country-side had nicknamed Beau Brocade.

The wound in his shoulder, inflamed and throbbing after the breakneck ride from the Court House to the Heath, had caused him almost unendurable agony, against which he had at first resolutely set his teeth. But now his whole body had become numb to every physical sensation. Covered with mud and grime, his hair matted against his damp forehead, the lines of pain and exhaustion strongly marked round his quivering mouth, he seemed only to live through his two senses: his sight and his hearing.

The spirit was there though, indomitable, strong, the dogged obstinacy of the man who has nothing more to lose. And with it all the memory of the oath he had sworn to her.

All else was a blank.

Hunted by men, and with a hound on his track, he had—physically—become like the beasts of the Moor, alert to every sound, keen only on eluding his pursuers, on putting off momentarily the inevitable instant of capture and of death.

Early in the day he had been forced to part from his faithful companion. Jack o’ Lantern was exhausted and might have proved an additional source of danger. The gallant beast, accustomed to every bush and every corner of the Heath, knew its way well to its habitual home: the forge of John Stich. Jack Bathurst watched it out of sight, content that it would look after itself, and that being riderless it would be allowed to wend its way unmolested whither it pleased, on the Moor.

And thus he had seen the long hours of this glorious September afternoon drag on their weary course; he had seen the beautiful day turn to late, glowing afternoon, then the sun gradually set in its mantle of purple and gold, and finally the grey dusk throw its elusive and mysterious veil over Tors and Moor. And he, like the hunted beast, crept from gorse bush to scrub, hiding for his life, driven out of one stronghold into another, gasping with thirst, panting with fatigue, determined in spirit, but broken down in body at last.

By instinct and temperament Jack Bathurst was essentially a brave man. Physical fear was entirely alien to his nature: he had never known it, never felt it. During the earlier part of the afternoon, with a score of men at his heels, some soldiers, others but indifferently-equipped louts, he had really enjoyed the game of hide-and-seek on the Heath: to him, at first, it had been nothing more. It was but a part of that wild, mad life he had chosen, the easily-endured punishment for the breaking of conventional laws.

He knew every shrub and crag on this wild corner of the earth which had become his home, and could have defied a small army, when hidden in the natural strongholds known only to himself.

But when he first heard the yelping of the blood-hound set upon his track by the fiendish cunning of an avowed enemy, an icy horror seemed to creep into his very marrow: a horror born of the feeling of powerlessness, of the inevitableness of it all. His one thought now was lest his hand, trembling and numb with fatigue, would refuse him service when he would wish to