Beau Brocade: A Romance

  CHAPTER IV

  JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD

  "Be you at home, Master Stich?"

  A curious, wizened little figure stood in the doorway peering cautiouslyinto the forge.

  In a moment John Stich was on the alert.

  "Sh!" he whispered quickly, "have no fear, my lord, 'tis only some foolfrom the village."

  "Did ye say ye baint at home, Master Stich?" queried the same tremulousvoice again. "I didn't quite hear ye."

  "Yes, yes, I'm here all right, Jock Miggs," said the smith, heartily."Come in!"

  Jock Miggs came in, making as little noise, and taking up as little roomas possible. Dressed in a well-worn smock and shabby corduroy breeches,he had a curious shrunken, timid air about his whole personality, as heremoved his soft felt hat and began scratching his scanty tow-colouredlocks: he was a youngish man too, probably not much more than thirty,yet his brown face was a mass of ruts and wrinkles like a furrowed pathon Brassing Moor.

  "Morning, Mr Stich ... morning," he said with a certain air of vaguenessand apology, as with obvious admiration he stopped to watch the broadback of the smith and his strong arms wielding the heavy hammer.

  "Morning, Miggs," retorted John, not looking up from his work, "how'sthe old woman?"

  "I dunno, Mr Stich," replied Miggs, with a dubious shake of the head."Badly, I expec' ... same as yesterday," he added in a more cheerfulspirit.

  "Why! what's the matter?"

  "I dunno, Mr Stich, that there's anything the matter," explained JockMiggs with slow and sad deliberation, "but she's dead ... same asyesterday."

  Involuntarily Philip laughed at the quaint, fatalistic statement.

  "Hello!" said Miggs, looking at him with the same apathetic wonder, "whobe yon lad?"

  "That's my nephew Jim, out o' Nottingham," said John, "come to give me ahand."

  "Morning, lad," piped Miggs, in his high treble, as he extended awrinkled, bony hand to Stretton.

  "Lud, John Stich," he exclaimed, "any one'd know he was one o' yourfamily from the muscle he's got."

  And gently, meditatively, he rubbed one shrivelled hand against theother, looking with awe at the fine figure of a man before him.

  "A banging lad your nephew too," he added with a chuckle; "he'll beturning the heads of all the girls this side o' Brassington, maybe."

  "Oh! I'll warrant he's got a sweetheart at home, eh, Jim lad?--or maybemore than one. But what brings ye here this day, friend Miggs?"

  The wizened little face assumed a puzzled expression.

  "I dunno..." he said vaguely, "maybe I wanted to tell ye about thesoldiers I seed at the Royal George over Brassington way."

  "What about 'em, Miggs?"

  "_I_ dunno.... I see a corporal and lots of fellers in red .... somesay there's more o' them ... I dunno."

  "Ha!" said Stich, carelessly, "What are they after?"

  "_I_ dunno," commented Miggs, imperturbably. "Some say they're afterthat chap Beau Brocade. There was a coach stopped on the Heath 'gainlast night. Fifty guineas he took out of it, he did...." And JockMiggs chuckled feebly with apparent but irresponsible delight. "Somefolk say it were Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach over from Hartington,and no one's going to break their hearts over that! he! he! he! ... but_I_ dunno," he added with sudden frightened vagueness.

  "Be they cavalry soldiers over at the Royal George, Miggs?" asked John.

  "_I_ dunno ... I seed no horses ... looks more like foot soldiers ...but _I_ dunno. The Corporal he read out something just now about ourgetting twenty guineas if we shoot one o' them rebels. I'd be mightyglad to get twenty guineas, Master Stich," he said reflectively, "but Idunno as how I could handle a musket rightly ... and folks say themtraitors are mighty desperate fellows ... but I dunno..."

  Then with sudden resolution Jock Miggs turned to the doorway.

  "Morning, Master Stich," he said decisively. "Morning, lad! ...morning."

  "Morning, Miggs."

  However, it seemed that Jock Miggs's visit to the forge was not sopurposeless as it at first appeared.

  "He! he! he!" he chuckled, as if suddenly recollecting his errand. "I'dalmost forgot why I came. Farmer Crabtree wanted to know, Master Stich,if you'm got the wether's collar mended yet?"

  "Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the smith, pointing to a rough bench onwhich lay a number of metal articles. "You'll find it on that therebench, Jock. Farmer Crabtree sold his sheep yet?"

  Jock toddled up to the bench and picked up the wether's collar.

  "Noa!" he muttered, "not yet, worse luck! And his temper is that hot!So don't 'ee charge him too much for the collar, Master Stich, or it'sme that'll have to suffer."

  And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stich laughed. Philiphimself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at thequaint figure of the little shepherd with his wizened face and gentle,vaguely fatalistic manner.

  Thus it was that no one in the forge had perceived the patter of smallfeet on the mud outside, and when Jock Miggs, with more elaborate"Mornings" and final leave-takings, once more reached the doorway, hecame in violent collision with a short, be-cloaked and closely-hoodedfigure that was picking its way on very small, very high-heeled shoes,through the maze of puddles which guarded the entrance to the forge.

  The impact sent Jock Miggs, scared and apologetic, stumbling in onedirection, whilst the grey hood flew off the head of its wearer anddisclosed in the setting of its shell-pink lining a merry, pretty,impudent little face, with brown eyes sparkling and red lips pouting inobvious irritation.

  "Lud, man!" said the dainty young damsel, withering the unfortunateshepherd with a scornful glance, "why don't you look where you'regoing?"

  "I dunno," replied Jock Miggs, with his usual humble vagueness."Morning, miss ... morning, Master Stich ... morning."

  And still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulledat his forelock, re-adjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took hisfinal leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards theHeath.

  But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl's voice, Strettonhad started in uncontrollable excitement.

  "Betty!" he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stich's arm.

  "Aye! aye!" replied the cautious smith, "but I beg you, my lord, keep inthe background until I find out if all is safe."

  Mistress Betty's saucy brown eyes followed Jock Miggs's quaint,retreating figure.

  "Well! you're a pretty bit of sheep's wool, ain't ye?" she shouted afterhim, with a laugh and a shrug of her plump shoulders.

  Then she peered into the forge.

  "Lud love you, Master Stich!" she said, "how goes it with you?"

  In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stretton had retired into theremote corner of the forge. John Stich too was masking the entrancewith his burly figure.

  "All the better, Mistress Betty," he said, "for a sight of your prettyface."

  He had become very red, had honest John, and his rough manner seemedcompletely to have deserted him. In fact, not to put too fine a pointupon it, the worthy smith looked distinctly shy and sheepish.

  She looked up at him and laughed a pleased, coquettish little laugh, thelaugh of a woman who has oft been told that she is pretty, and has nottired of the hearing. John Stich, moreover, was so big and burly, folkscalled him hard and rough, and it vastly entertained the young damsel tosee him standing there before her, as awkward and uncomfortable as JockMiggs himself.

  "Am I not to step inside, Master Stich?" she asked.

  "Yes, yes, Mistress Betty," murmured John, who seemed to have losthimself in admiration of a pair of tiny buckled shoes muddy to theankles--such ankles!--which showed to great advantage beneath Betty'sshort green kirtle.

  An angry, impatient movement behind him, however, quickly recalled hisscattered senses.

  "Did her ladyship receive a letter, mistress?" he asked eagerly.

  "Oh, yes! a stranger brought
it," replied Betty, with a pout, for shepreferred John's mute appreciation of her small person to his interestin other matters. However, the demon of mischief no doubt whisperedsomething in her ear for the further undoing of the worthy smith, forshe put on a demure, mysterious little air, turned up her brown eyes,sighed with affectation, and murmured ecstatically,--

  "Oh! such a stranger! the fine eyes of him, Master Stich! and such anair, and oh!" added little madam with unction, "such clothes!"

  But though no doubt all these fine airs and graces wrought deadly havocin poor John's heart, he concealed it well enough under a show of eagerimpatience.

  "Yes! yes! the stranger," he said, casting a furtive glance behind him,"he gave you a letter for my lady?"

  "La! you needn't be in such a hurry, Master Stich!" retorted MistressBetty, adding with all the artifice of which she was capable, "thestranger wasn't."

  But this was too much for John. There had been such a wealth of meaningin Betty's brown eyes.

  "Oh! he wasn't? was he?" he asked with a jealous frown, "and pray whathad he to say to you? There was no message except the letter."

  But the demon of mischief was satisfied and Betty was disposed to bekind, even if slightly mysterious.

  "Oh, never mind!" she rejoined archly, "he gave me a letter which I gaveto my lady. That was early this morning."

  "Well? ... and?"

  But matters were progressing too slowly at anyrate for one feverish,anxious heart. Philip had tried to hold himself in check, though he wasliterally hanging on pretty Mistress Betty's lips. Now he could containhimself no longer. Lady Patience had had his letter. The mysterioushighwayman had not failed in his trust, and the news Betty had broughtmeant life or death to him.

  Throwing prudence to the winds, he pushed John Stich aside, and seizingthe young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly,--

  "Yes? this morning, Betty? ... then ... then ... what did her ladyshipdo?"

  Betty was frightened, and like a child was ready to drown her fright intears. She had not recognised my lord in those dirty clothes.

  "Don't you know me, Betty?" asked Philip, a little more quietly.

  Betty cast a timid glance at the two men before her, and smiled throughthe coming tears.

  "Of course, my lord ... I ..." she murmured shyly.

  "'Tis my nephew Jim out o' Nottingham, mistress," said John, sternly,"try and remember that: and now tell us what did her ladyship do?"

  "She had the horses put to, not an hour after the stranger had been.Thomas is driving and Timothy is our only other escort. But we've notdrawn rein since we left the Hall!"

  "Yes! yes!" came from two pairs of eager lips.

  "And my lady stopped the coach about two hundred yards from here,"continued Betty with great volubility, "and she told me to run on here,to see that the coast was clear. She knew I could find my way, and shewouldn't trust Timothy as she trusts me," added the young girl with apretty touch of pride.

  "But where is she, Betty? where is she?"

  Betty pointed to the clump of firs, which stood like ghostly sentinelson the crest of the hill, just where the road turns sharply to the east.

  "Just beyond those trees, my lord, and she made Timothy watch until Icame round the bend and in sight of the forge. But la! the mud on theroads! 'tis fit to drown you."

  But already John Stich was outside, beckoning to Mistress Betty.

  "Come, mistress, quick!" he said excitedly, "her ladyship must be nighcrazy with impatience. By your leave, my lord, I'll help Mistress Bettyon her way, and I'll keep this place in sight. I'll go no further..."

  "Yes, yes," rejoined Philip, feverishly, "go, go, fly if you can! I'llbe safe! I'll not show myself. God give you both wings, for I'll notlive now till I see my sister."

  Eager, boyish, full of wild gaiety, he seemed to have thrown off hismorbid anxiety as he would a mantle. He even laughed whole-heartedly ashe watched Betty, with many airs and graces, "Luds!" and "I vows!"making great pretence at being unable to walk in the mud, and leaningheavily on honest Stich's arm.

  He watched them as they picked their way up the so-called road, aperfect quagmire after the heavy September rains.

  The air seemed so different now, the Heath smelt good, there was vigourand life in the keen nor'-wester; how green the bracken looked, and howharmoniously it seemed to blend with the purple shoots of the brambleladen with ripening fruit! how delicate the more tender green of thegorse, and there that vivid patch of mauve, the first glimpse of openingheather! the heavy clouds too were rolling away; the September sun wasgoing to have his own way after all and spread his kingdom of blue andgold over the distant Derbyshire hills.

  Hope had come like the divine magician to chase away all that was greyand sad and dreary, and Hope had met Youth and shaken him by the hand:they are such friends, such inseparable companions, these two!

  What mattered it that some few yards away the old gallows, like someeerie witch, still spread its gaunt arm over that fluttering bit ofparchment: the Proclamation of His Majesty's Parliament? What though itspoke of death, of treachery, of bills of attainder, of Tower Hill?

  Did not the good nor'-wester from the Moor flutter round it, and inwanton frolic attack it now with madcap fury and a shrill whistle, andnow with a long-drawn-out sigh. The parchment resisted with vigour, itbore the onslaught of the wind twice, thrice, and once again. But thenor'-wester was not to be outdone, and again it renewed the attack, tookthe parchment by the corner, pulled and twisted at it, until at lastwith one terrific blast it tore the Royal Proclamation off the oldgallows, and sent it whirling in a mad gallop across the Moor, far, veryfar away on to Derby, to London, to the place where all winds go.