Beau Brocade: A Romance Read online

  Produced by Al Haines.

  Cover art]

  THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE]

  BEAU BROCADE

  A ROMANCE

  BY THE

  BARONESS ORCZY

  _POPULAR EDITION_

  _WITH FRONTISPIECE BY H. M. BROCK_

  LONDON

  GREENING & CO. LTD.

  1912

  Copyright in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland in the Dominion of Canada and in the United States of America

  All dramatic rights are strictly reserved and protected. Entered at Stationers' Hall, March 6th, 1906

  CONTENTS

  PART I.--THE FORGE.

  CHAP.

  I. BY ACT OF PARLIAMENT II. THE FORGE OF JOHN STICH III. THE FUGITIVE IV. JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD V. "THERE'S NONE LIKE HER, NONE!" VI. A SQUIRE OF HIGH DEGREE VII. THE HALT AT THE MOORHEN VIII. THE REJECTED SUITOR IX. SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR X. A STRANGER AT THE FORGE XI. THE STRANGER'S NAME XII. THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE ROSE XIII. A PROPOSAL AND A THREAT XIV. THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE

  PART II.--THE HEATH.

  XV. THE OUTLAW XVI. A RENCONTRE ON THE HEATH XVII. A FAITHFUL FRIEND XVIII. MOONLIGHT ON THE HEATH XIX. HIS OATH

  PART III.--BRASSINGTON.

  XX. A THRILLING NARRATIVE XXI. MASTER MITTACHIP'S IDEA XXII. AN INTERLUDE XXIII. A DARING PLAN XXIV. HIS HONOUR, SQUIRE WEST XXV. SUCCESS AND DISAPPOINTMENT XXVI. THE MAN HUNT XXVII. JOCK MIGGS'S ERRAND XXVIII. THE QUARRY XXIX. THE DAWN

  PART IV.--H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

  XXX. SUSPENSE XXXI. "WE'VE GOTTEN BEAU BROCADE" XXXII. A PAINFUL INCIDENT XXXIII. THE AWAKENING XXXIV. A LIFE FOR A LIFE XXXV. QUITS XXXVI. THE AGONY OF PARTING XXXVII. REPARATIONXXXVIII. THE JOY OF RE-UNION

  BEAU BROCADE

  PART I

  THE FORGE

  CHAPTER I

  BY ACT OF PARLIAMENT

  The gaffers stood round and shook their heads.

  When the Corporal had finished reading the Royal Proclamation, one ortwo of them sighed in a desultory fashion, others murmured casually,"Lordy! Lordy! to think on it! Dearie me!"

  The young ones neither sighed nor murmured. They looked at one anotherfurtively, then glanced away again, as if afraid to read each other'sthoughts, and in a shamefaced manner wiped their moist hands againsttheir rough cord breeches.

  There were no women present fortunately: there had been heavy rains onthe Moor these last three days, and what roads there were had becomewell-nigh impassable. Only a few men--some half-dozen perhaps--out ofthe lonely homesteads from down Brassington way, had tramped in the wakeof the little squad of soldiers, in order to hear this Act of Parliamentread at the cross-roads, and to see the document duly pinned to the oldgallows-tree.

  Fortunately the rain had ceased momentarily, only a cool, brisknor'-wester came blustering across the Heath, making the older menshiver beneath their thin, well-worn smocks.

  North and south, east and west, Brassing Moor stretched its mournfullengths to the distant framework of the Peak far away, with mile uponmile of grey-green gorse and golden bracken and long shoots ofpurple-stemmed bramble, and here and there patches of vivid mauve, wherethe heather was just bursting into bloom; or anon a clump of dark firs,with ruddy trunks and gaunt arms stretched menacingly over the sparseyoung life below.

  And here, at the cross-roads, the Heath seemed more desolate than ever,despite that one cottage with the blacksmith's shed beyond it. Theroads themselves, the one to Aldwark, the other from Wirksworth, thethird little more than a morass, a short cut to Stretton, all bore mutetestimony to the remoteness, the aloofness of this forgotten corner ofeighteenth-century England.

  Then there was the old gallows, whereon many a foot-pad or sheep-stealerhad paid full penalty for his crimes! True, John Stich, the blacksmith,now used it as a sign-post for his trade: a monster horseshoe hung therewhere once the bones of Dick Caldwell, the highwayman, had whitened inthe bleak air of the Moor: still, at moments like these, when no onespoke, the wind seemed to bring an echo of ghostly sighs and laughter,for Dick had breathed his last with a coarse jest on his lips, and theears of the timid seemed still to catch the eerie sound of his horse'shoofs ploughing the ruddy, shallow soil of the Heath.

  For the moment, however, the cross-roads presented a scene of quiteunusual animation: the Corporal and his squad looked resplendent intheir scarlet tunics and white buckskins, and Mr Inch, the beadle fromBrassington, was also there in his gold-laced coat, bob-tailed wig andthree-cornered hat: he had lent the dignity of his presence to thissolemn occasion, and in high top-boots, bell in hand, had tramped fivemiles with the soldiers, so that he might shout a stentorian "Oyez!Oyez!" whenever they passed one of the few cottages along the road.

  But no one spoke. The Corporal handed the Royal Proclamation to one ofthe soldiers; he too seemed nervous and ill at ease. The nor'-wester,with singular want of respect for King and Parliament, commenced avigorous attack upon the great document, pulling at it in wanton frolic,almost tearing it out of the hands of the young soldier, who did hisbest to fix it against the shaft of the old gallows.

  The white parchment looked uncanny and ghost-like fluttering in thewind; no doubt the nor'-wester would soon tear it to rags.

  "Lordy! Lordy! to think on it!"

  There it was, fixed up at last. Up, so that any chance traveller whocould might read. But those who were now assembled there--shepherds,most of them, on the Moor--viewed the written characters with awe andmisgiving. They had had Mr Inch's assurance that it was all writ there,that the King himself had put his name to it; and the young Corporal,who had read it out, had received the document from his own superiorofficer, who in his turn had had it at the hands of His Grace the Dukeof Cumberland himself.

  "It having come to the knowledge of His Majesty's Parliament that certain subjects of the King have lately raised the standard of rebellion, setting up the Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, above the King's most lawful Majesty, it is hereby enacted that these persons are guilty of high treason and by the laws of the kingdom are therefore condemned to death. It is further enacted that it is unlawful for any loyal subject of the King to shelter or harbour, clothe or feed any such persons who are vile traitors and rebels to their King and country: and that any subject of His Majesty who kills such a traitor or rebel doth thereby commit an act of justice and loyalty, for which he may be rewarded by the sum of twenty guineas."

  It was this last paragraph that made the gaffers shake their heads andsay "Lordy! Lordy! to think on it! to think on it!" For it seemed butyesterday that the old Moor, aye, and the hamlets and villages ofDerbyshire, were ringing with the wild shouts of Prince Charlie'sHighland Brigade, but yesterday that his handsome face, his green bonnetlaced with gold, his Highland plaid and rich accoutrements, had seemedto proclaim victory to the Stuart cause from one end of the county tothe other.


  To be sure, that glorious, mad, merry time had not lasted very long.All the wiseacres had foretold disaster when the Prince's standardbroke, just as it was taken into my Lord Exeter's house in Full Street.The shaft snapped clean in half. What could that portend buthumiliation and defeat?

  The retreat from Derby was still fresh in everyone's memory, and therewere those from Wirksworth who remembered the rear-guard of PrinceCharlie's army, the hussars with their half-starved horses andbedraggled finery, who had swept down on the villages and homesteadsround about Ashbourne and had pillaged and plundered to their hearts'content.

  But then those were the fortunes of war; fighting, rushing, running,plundering, wild huzzas, mad cavalcades, noise, bustle, excitement, joyof victory, and sorrow of defeat, but this!! ... this Proclamation whichthe Corporal had brought all the way from Derby, and which had beensigned by King George himself, this meant silence, hushed footsteps, ahidden figure perhaps, pallid and gaunt, hiding behind the boulders, oramidst the gorse on the Moor, or perishing mayhap at night, lost in thebog-land up Stretton way, whilst Judas-like treads crept stealthily onthe track. It meant treachery too, the price of blood, afellow-creature's life to be sold for twenty guineas.

  No wonder the gaffers could think of nothing to say; no wonder the youngmen looked at one another shamefaced, and in fear.

  Who knows? Any Derbyshire lad now might become a human bloodhound, atracker of his fellow-creatures, a hunter of men. There were twentyguineas to be earned, and out there on the Heath, in the hut of theshepherd or the forge of the smith, many a pale wan face had been seenof late, which...

  It was terrible to think on; for even out here, on Brassing Moor, thereexisted some knowledge of Tyburn Gate, and of Tower Hill.

  At last the groups began to break up, the Corporal's work was done. HisMajesty's Proclamation would flutter there in the cool September windfor awhile; then presently the crows would peck at it, the rain woulddash it down, the last bit of dirty rag would be torn away by an Octobergale, but in the meanwhile the few inhabitants of Brassington and thoseof Aldwark would know that they might deny a starving fellow-creaturebread and shelter, aye! and shoot him too, like a wild beast in a ditch,and have twenty guineas reward to boot.

  "I've seen nought of John Stich, Master Inch," said the Corporal atlast. "Be he from home?"

  And he turned to where, just in the fork of the road, the thatchedcottage, with a glimpse of the shed beyond it, stood solitary and still.

  "Nay, I have not observated that fact, Master Corporal," replied MasterInch, clearing his throat for some of those fine words which had gainedfor him wide-spread admiration for miles around. "I had not observatedthat John Stich was from home. Though in verity it behoves me to saythat I do not hear the sound of Master Stich's hammer upon his anvil."

  "Then I'll go across at once," said the Corporal. "Forward, my men!John Stich might have saved me the trouble," he added, groping in hiswallet for another copy of His Majesty's Proclamation.

  "Nay, Master Corporal, do not give yourself the futile trouble oftraversing the muddy road," said Mr Inch, sententiously. "John Stich isa loyal subject of King George, and by my faith! he would notharbourgate a rebel, take my word for it. Although, mind you, MrCorporal, I have oft suspicionated..."

  Mr Inch, the beadle, looked cautiously round; all the pompousness of hismanner had vanished in a trice. His broad face beneath the bob-tailedwig and three-cornered hat looked like a rosy receptacle of mysteriousinformation, as he laid his fat hand on the Corporal's sleeve.

  The straggling groups of yokels were fast disappearing down the muddytracks; some were returning to Brassington, others were tramping Aldwarkway; one wizened, solitary figure was slowly toiling up the road, littlemore than a quagmire, that led northwards across the Heath towardsStretton Hall.

  The soldiers stood at attention some fifteen yards away, mute anddisinterested. From the shed beyond the cottage there suddenly came thesound of the blacksmith's hammer upon his anvil. Mr Inch felt securefrom observation.

  "I have oft suspicionated John Stich, the smith, of befriending thefoot-pads and highwaymen that haunt this God-forsaken Moor," he said,with an air of excited importance, rolling his beady eyes.

  "Nay," laughed the Corporal, good-humouredly, as he shook off MasterInch's fat hand. "You'd best not whisper this confidence to John Stichhimself. As I live, he would crack your skull for you, Master Beadle,aye, be it ever so full of dictionary words. John Stich is an honestman, I tell you," he added with a pleasant oath, "the most honest thisside of the county, and don't you forget it."

  But Mr Inch did not approve of the young soldier's tone of familiarity.He drew up his five feet of broad stature to their full height.

  "Nay, but I designated no harm," he said, with offended dignity. "JohnStich is a worthy fellow, and I spoke of no ordinary foot-pads. Mymind," he added, dwelling upon that mysterious possession with consciouspride, "my mind, I may say, was dominating on Beau Brocade."

  "Beau Brocade!!!"

  And the Corporal laughed with obvious incredulity, which further nettledMr Inch, the beadle.

  "Aye, Beau Brocade," he said hotly, "the malicious, pernicious, damnedrascal, who gives us, that representate the majesty of the law, a mightydeal of trouble."

  "Indeed?" sneered the Corporal.

  "I dare swear that down at Derby," retorted Mr Inch, spitefully, "youhave not even heard of that personage."

  "Oh! we know well enough that Brassing Moor harbours more miscreantsthan any corner of the county," laughed the young soldier, "butmethought Beau Brocade only existed in the imagination of yourhalf-witted yokels about here."

  "There you are in grave error, Master Corporal," remarked the beadlewith dignity. "Beau Brocade, permit me to observe, does exist in theflesh. 'Twas only last night Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach was stoppednot three miles from Hartington, and his Honour robbed of fifty guineas,by that pernicious highwayman."

  "Then you must lay this Beau Brocade by the heels, Master Inch."

  "Aye! that's easily said. Lay him by the heels forsooth, and who'sgoing to do that, pray?"

  "Nay, that's your affair. You don't expect His Grace the Duke ofCumberland to lend you a portion of his army, do you?"

  "His Grace might do worse. Beau Brocade is a dangerous rascal to thequality."

  "Only to the quality?"

  "Aye, he'll not touch a poor man; 'tis only the rich he is after, anduses but little of his ill-gotten gain on himself."

  "How so?" asked the Corporal, eagerly, for in spite of the excitement ofcamp life round about Derby, the fame of the daring highwayman had erenow tickled the fancy of the young soldiers of the Duke of Cumberland'sarmy.

  "Why, I told you Sir Humphrey Challoner was robbed on the Heath lastnight--robbed of fifty guineas, eh?" said Master Inch, whispering ineager confidence. "Well, this morning, when Squire West arrived at thecourt-house, he found fifty guineas in the poor box."

  "Well?"

  "Well, that's not the first time nor yet the second that such a matterhas occurred. The dolts round about here, the lads from Brassington orAldwark, or even from Wirksworth, would never willingly lay a hand onBeau Brocade. The rascal knows it well enough, and carries on hisshameful trade with impunity."

  "Odd's fish! but meseems the trade is not so shameful after all. Whatis the fellow like?"

  "Nay, no one has ever seen his face, though his figure on the Moor isfamiliar to many. He is always dressed in the latest fashion, hence thevillagers have called him Beau Brocade. Some say he is a royal princein disguise--he always wears a mask; some say he is the Pretender,Charles Stuart himself; others declare his face is pitted with smallpox;others that he has the face of a pig, and the ears of a mule, that he iscovered with hairs like a spaniel, or has a blue skin like an ape. Butno one knows, and with half the villages on the Heath to aid and abethim, he is not like to be laid by the heels."

  "A fine story, Master Inch," laughed the Corporal. "And is there noreward for the
capture of your pig-faced, hairy, blue-skinned royalprince disguised as a common highwayman?"

  "Aye, a reward of a hundred guineas," said Mr Inch, in a whisper thatwas hardly audible above the murmur of the wind. "A hundred guineas forthe capture of Beau Brocade."

  The Corporal gave a long significant whistle.

  "And no one bold enough to attempt the capture?" he said derisively.

  Mr Inch shook his head sadly.

  "No one could do it single-handed; the rascal is cunning as well asbold, and..."

  But at this point even Mr Inch's voluble tongue was suddenly andsummarily silenced. The words died in his throat; his bell, the badgeof his important public office, fell with a mighty clatter on theground.

  A laugh, a long, loud, joyous, mirthful laugh, rang clear as a silvergong from across the lonely Moor. Such a laugh as would make anyone'sheart glad to hear, the laugh of a free man, of a man who iswhole-hearted, of a man who has never ceased to be a boy.

  And pompous Mr Inch slowly turned on his heel, as did also the youngCorporal, and both gazed out upon the Heath; the patient little squad ofsoldiers too, all fixed their eyes upon one spot, just beyond JohnStich's forge and cottage, not fifty yards away.

  There, clearly outlined against the cloud-laden sky, was the gracefulfigure of a horse and rider; the horse, a sleek chestnut thoroughbred,which filled all the soldiers' hearts with envy and covetousness; therider, a youthful, upright figure, whose every movement betokenedstrength of limb and elasticity of muscle, the very pose a model of easeand grace, the shoulders broad; the head, with a black mask worn overthe face, was carried high and erect.

  In truth it was a goodly picture to look upon, with that massive bank ofwhite clouds, and the little patches of vivid blue as a rich, shimmeringdome above it, the gold-tipped bracken, the purple heather all around,and far away, as a mist-covered background, the green-clad hills andmassive Tors of Derbyshire.

  So good a picture was it that the tardy September sun peeped through theclouds and had a look at that fine specimen of eighteenth-centuryEnglish manhood, then paused awhile, perchance to hear again thatmirthful, happy laugh.

  Then came a gust of wind, the sun retreated, the soldiers gasped, andlo! before Mr Inch or Mr Corporal had realised that the picture was madeof flesh and blood, horse and rider had disappeared, there, far outacross the Heath, beyond the gorse and bramble and the budding heather,with not a handful of dust to mark the way they went.

  Only once from far, very far, almost from fairy-land, there came, likethe echo of a silver bell, the sound of that mad, merry laugh.

  "Beau Brocade, as I live!" murmured Mr Inch, under his breath.