Beau Brocade: A Romance. Emma Orczy
'tis two hours before sunset now, and three before dark. I hope to reach Wirksworth by nine o'clock to-night. My horses have had a good rest."
"Surely you will allow me to escort you thus far, at least?"
"Your horses need a rest, Sir Humphrey," she said impatiently, "and I beg you to believe that I have sufficient escort."
With a slight inclination of the head she now turned to go. From where she stood she could just see the road winding down towards Stich's forge, and she had caught sight of Betty's trim little figure stepping briskly along.
Sir Humphrey, thus obviously dismissed, could say no more for the present. To force his escort upon her openly was unfitting the manners of a gentleman. He bit his lip and tried to look gallantly disappointed. His keen dark eyes had already perceived that in spite of her self-control she was labouring under strong excitement. He forced his harsh voice to gentleness, even to tenderness, as he said, —
"I have not dared to speak to your ladyship on the subject that lay nearest my heart."
"Sir Humphrey…"
"Nay! I pray you do not misunderstand me. I was thinking of Philip, and hoped you were not too unhappy about him."
"There is no cause for unhappiness just yet," she said guardedly, "and every cause for hope."
"Ah! that's well!" he said cheerfully. "I entreat you not to give up hope, and to keep some faith and trust in your humble servant, who would give his life for you and yours."
"My faith and trust are in God, Sir Humphrey, and in my brother's innocence," she replied quietly.
Then she turned and left him standing there, with a frown upon his good-looking face, and a muttered curse upon his lips. He watched her as she went down the road, until a sharp declivity hid her from his view.
CHAPTER IX
SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR
Mistress Pottage, sad-eyed, melancholy, and for ever sighing, had been patiently waiting to receive Sir Humphrey Challoner's orders. She had understood from his man that his Honour meant to spend the night, and she stood anxiously in the passage, wondering if he would consider her best bedroom good enough, or condescend to eat the meals she would have to cook for him.
It was really quite fortunate that Lady Patience had gone, leaving the smaller parlour, which was Mistress Pottage's own private sanctum, ready for the use of his Honour.
Sir Humphrey's mind, however, was far too busy with thoughts and plans to dwell on the melancholy landlady and her meagre fare, but he was glad of the private room, and was gracious enough to express himself quite satisfied with the prospect of the best bedroom.
Some ten minutes after his brief interview with Lady Patience he was closeted in the same little dingy room where she had been spending such weary hours. With the healthy appetite of a burly English squire, he was consuming large slabs of meat and innumerable tankards of small ale, whilst opposite to him, poised on the extreme edge of a very hard oak chair, his watery, colourless eyes fixed upon his employer, sat Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law and man of business to sundry of the quality who owned property on or about the Moor.
Master Mittachip's voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin: there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man's whole personality.
Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron.
"Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low, somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of – er – the parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed."
"Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently.
"The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship's cloak flew open."
He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing interest in Sir Humphrey's face.
"Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand."
"Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly.
"A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of…"
"Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?"
"Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master Mittachip, humbly.
There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt attention.
"Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience is taking those letters to London."
"That was the impression created in my mind, your Honour."
"And why does she take those letters to London?" said Sir Humphrey, bringing his heavy fist crashing down upon the table, and causing glasses and dishes to rattle, whilst Master Mittachip almost lost his balance. "Why does she take them to London, I say? Because they are the proofs of her brother's innocence. It is easy to guess their contents. Requests, admonitions, upbraidings on the part of the disappointed rebels, obvious proofs that Philip had held aloof."
He pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and began pacing the narrow room with great, impatient strides.
But while he spoke Master Mittachip began to lose his placid air of apologetic deference, and a look of alarm suddenly lighted his meek, colourless eyes.
"Good lack," he murmured, "then my Lord Stretton is no rebel?"
"Rebel? – not he!" asserted Sir Humphrey. "His sympathies were thought to be with the Stuarts, but he went south during the rebellion – 'twas I who advised him – that he might avoid being drawn within its net."
But at this Master Mittachip's terror became more tangible.
"But your Honour," he stammered, whilst his thin cheeks assumed a leaden hue, and his eyes sought appealingly those of his employer, "your Honour laid sworn information against Lord Stretton … and … and … I drew up the papers … and signed them with my name as your Honour commanded…"
"Well! I paid you well for it, didn't I?" said Sir Humphrey, roughly.
"But if the accusation was false, Sir Humphrey … I shall be disgraced … struck off the rolls … perhaps hanged…"
Sir Humphrey laughed; one of those loud, jovial, laughs which those in his employ soon learnt to dread.
"Adsbud!" he said, "an one of us is to hang, old scarecrow, I prefer it shall be you."
And he gave Master Mittachip a vigorous slap on the shoulder, which nearly precipitated the lean-shanked attorney on the floor.
"Good Sir Humphrey…" he murmured piteously, "b … b … b … but what was the reason of the information against Lord Stretton, since the letters can so easily prove it to be false?"
"Silence, you fool!" said his Honour, impatiently, "I did not know of the letters then. I wished to place Lord Stretton in a perilous position, then hoped to succeed in establishing his innocence in certain ways I had in my mind. I wished to be the one to save him," he added, muttering a curse of angry disappointment, "and gain her gratitude thereby. I was journeying to London for the purpose, and now…"
His language became such that it wholly disconcerted Master Mittachip, accustomed though he was to the somewhat uncertain tempers of the great folk he had to deal with. Moreover, the worthy attorney was fully conscious of his own precarious position in this matter.
"And now you've gained nothing," he moaned; "whilst I … oh! oh! I…"
His condition was pitiable. His Honour viewed him with no small measure of contempt. Then suddenly Sir Humphrey's face lighted up with animation. The scowl disappeared, and a shrewd, almost triumphant smile parted the jovial, somewhat sensuous lips.
"Easy!