JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD
"Be you at home, Master Stich?"
A curious, wizened little figure stood in the doorway peering cautiously
into the forge.
In a moment John Stich was on the alert.
"Sh!" he whispered quickly, "have no fear, my lord, 'tis only some fool
from the village."
"Did ye say ye baint at home, Master Stich?" queried the same tremulous
voice 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 room
as possible. Dressed in a well-worn smock and shabby corduroy breeches,
he had a curious shrunken, timid air about his whole personality, as he
removed his soft felt hat and began scratching his scanty tow-coloured
locks: 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 path
on Brassing Moor.
"Morning, Mr Stich ... morning," he said with a certain air of vagueness
and apology, as with obvious admiration he stopped to watch the broad
back of the smith and his strong arms wielding the heavy hammer.
"Morning, Miggs," retorted John, not looking up from his work, "how's
the 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 cheerful
spirit.
"Why! what's the matter?"
"I dunno, Mr Stich, that there's anything the matter," explained Jock
Miggs with slow and sad deliberation, "but she's dead ... same as
yesterday."
Involuntarily Philip laughed at the quaint, fatalistic statement.
"Hello!" said Miggs, looking at him with the same apathetic wonder, "who
be yon lad?"
"That's my nephew Jim, out o' Nottingham," said John, "come to give me a
hand."
"Morning, lad," piped Miggs, in his high treble, as he extended a
wrinkled, bony hand to Stretton.
"Lud, John Stich," he exclaimed, "any one'd know he was one o' your
family from the muscle he's got."
And gently, meditatively, he rubbed one shrivelled hand against the
other, 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 be
turning 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 maybe
more 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 the
soldiers 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 .... some
say there's more o' them ... I dunno."
"Ha!" said Stich, carelessly, "What are they after?"
"_I_ dunno," commented Miggs, imperturbably. "Some say they're after
that chap Beau Brocade. There was a coach stopped on the Heath 'gain
last night. Fifty guineas he took out of it, he did...." And Jock
Miggs chuckled feebly with apparent but irresponsible delight. "Some
folk 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 our
getting twenty guineas if we shoot one o' them rebels. I'd be mighty
glad to get twenty guineas, Master Stich," he said reflectively, "but I
dunno as how I could handle a musket rightly ... and folks say them
traitors 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 so
purposeless as it at first appeared.
"He! he! he!" he chuckled, as if suddenly recollecting his errand. "I'd
almost 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 on
which lay a number of metal articles. "You'll find it on that there
bench, 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's
me that'll have to suffer."
And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stich laughed. Philip
himself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at the
quaint 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 small
feet on the mud outside, and when Jock Miggs, with more elaborate
"Mornings" and final leave-takings, once more reached the doorway, he
came in violent collision with a short, be-cloaked and closely-hooded
figure 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 one
direction, whilst the grey hood flew off the head of its wearer and
disclosed in the setting of its shell-pink lining a merry, pretty,
impudent little face, with brown eyes sparkling and red lips pouting in
obvious irritation.
"Lud, man!" said the dainty young damsel, withering the unfortunate
shepherd with a scornful glance, "why don't you look where you're
going?"
"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 pulled
at his forelock, re-adjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took his
final leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards the
Heath.
But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl's voice, Stretton
had 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 in
the 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 after
him, 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 the
remote corner of the forge. John Stich too was masking the entrance
with his burly figure.
"All the better, Mistress Betty," he said, "for a sight of your pretty
face."
He had become very red, had honest John, and his rough manner seemed
completely to have deserted him. In fact, not to put too fine a point
upon it, the worthy smith looked distinctly shy and sheepish.
She looked up at him and laughed a pleased, coquettish little laugh, the
laugh of a woman who has oft been told that she is pretty, and has not
tired of the hearing. John Stich, moreover, was so big and burly, folks
called him hard and rough, and it vastly entertained the young damsel to
see him standing there before her, as awkward and uncomfortable as Jock
Miggs himself.
"Am I not to step inside, Master Stich?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, Mistress Betty," murmured John, who seemed to have lost
himself in admiration of a pair of tiny buckled shoes muddy to the
ankles--such ankles!--which showed to great advantage beneath Betty's
short green kirtle.
An angry, impatient movement behind him, however, quickly recalled his
scattered senses.
"Did her ladyship receive a letter, mistress?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes! a stranger brought it," replied Betty, with a pout, for she
preferred John's mute appreciation of her small person to his interest
in other matters. However, the demon of mischief no doubt whispered
something in her ear for the further undoing of the worthy smith, for
she 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 an
air, and oh!" added little madam with unction, "such clothes!"
But though no doubt all these fine airs and graces wrought deadly havoc
in poor John's heart, he concealed it well enough under a show of eager
impatience.
"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 Mistress
Betty, adding with all the artifice of which she was capable, "the
stranger wasn't."
But this was too much for John. There had been such a wealth of meaning
in Betty's brown eyes.
"Oh! he wasn't? was he?" he asked with a jealous frown, "and pray what
had he to say to you? There was no message except the letter."
But the demon of mischief was satisfied and Betty was disposed to be
kind, even if slightly mysterious.
"Oh, never mind!" she rejoined archly, "he gave me a letter which I gave
to 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 was
literally hanging on pretty Mistress Betty's lips. Now he could contain
himself no longer. Lady Patience had had his letter. The mysterious
highwayman had not failed in his trust, and the news Betty had brought
meant life or death to him.
Throwing prudence to the winds, he pushed John Stich aside, and seizing
the young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly,--
"Yes? this morning, Betty? ... then ... then ... what did her ladyship
do?"
Betty was frightened, and like a child was ready to drown her fright in
tears. 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 through
the 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 not
drawn 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 she
wouldn't trust Timothy as she trusts me," added the young girl with a
pretty touch of pride.
"But where is she, Betty? where is she?"
Betty pointed to the clump of firs, which stood like ghostly sentinels
on 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 I
came round the bend and in sight of the forge. But la! the mud on the
roads! '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 nigh
crazy with impatience. By your leave, my lord, I'll help Mistress Betty
on 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'll
be safe! I'll not show myself. God give you both wings, for I'll not
live now till I see my sister."
Eager, boyish, full of wild gaiety, he seemed to have thrown off his
morbid anxiety as he would a mantle. He even laughed whole-heartedly as
he watched Betty, with many airs and graces, "Luds!" and "I vows!"
making great pretence at being unable to walk in the mud, and leaning
heavily on honest Stich's arm.
He watched them as they picked their way up the so-called road, a
perfect quagmire after the heavy September rains.
The air seemed so different now, the Heath smelt good, there was vigour
and life in the keen nor'-wester; how green the bracken looked, and how
harmoniously it seemed to blend with the purple shoots of the bramble
laden with ripening fruit! how delicate the more tender green of the
gorse, and there that vivid patch of mauve, the first glimpse of opening
heather! the heavy clouds too were rolling away; the September sun was
going to have his own way after all and spread his kingdom of blue and
gold over the distant Derbyshire hills.
Hope had come like the divine magician to chase away all that was grey
and 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 some
eerie witch, still spread its gaunt arm over that fluttering bit of
parchment: the Proclamation of His Majesty's Parliament? What though it
spoke of death, of treachery, of bills of attainder, of Tower Hill?
Did not the good nor'-wester from the Moor flutter round it, and in
wanton frolic attack it now with madcap fury and a shrill whistle, and
now with a long-drawn-out sigh. The parchment resisted with vigour, it
bore the onslaught of the wind twice, thrice, and once again. But the
nor'-wester was not to be outdone, and again it renewed the attack, took
the parchment by the corner, pulled and twisted at it, until at last
with one terrific blast it tore the Royal Proclamation off the old
gallows, and sent it whirling in a mad gallop across the Moor, far, very
far away on to Derby, to London, to the place where all winds go.