How Wat Kilby fired a train and Mother Goodhugh spoke.Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small articles of cargo—silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the vessel’s stem was turned once more for home.For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change, with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same. There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.“Save her—from what?” he cried passionately, as he paced up and down the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave orders—he recalled it all—orders to ’bout ship, and they were obeyed without a word.It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had come to him with the gruff question, “Where to now, skipper?”“Home!” was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose from the crew a tremendous cheer.He recalled it all—how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back—back to what?A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace’s grave.Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel’s head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil’s eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace’s sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.“She would have urged me to do it,” he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.“What shall I do now?” said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. “Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.“Well, let him come if he will,” he added, wearily, and then rising. “Now, my lads!” he cried, “to work.”His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.“Come boys,” Wat Kilby cried, “have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together—heave ho!”As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion—injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.“Skipper,” he said, “I’m not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don’t seem to be knit together as they were. It’ll take some pounds o’ Mas’ Cobbe’s best to lift that out.”Gil frowned, for the old man’s speech brought up a host of painful recollections.“Shall we get up some powder, skipper?” said Wat.“And fire the barrels that are in the store?” said Gil sternly.“Nay,” growled the old fellow; “we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away.”“Get it then,” said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.It was soon done—a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.“Now, captain,” he said, “as soon as you like.”“Stop a moment,” said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.“What for, captain?” said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.“The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark’s fellows down.”“Nay,” cried Wat, “the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They’ll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide.”“Go on, then,” said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain’s side.From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.“There, skipper,” growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; “there be not a cask split inside I’ll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks.”Gil nodded.“Four of you bring the old woman along,” he said. “We’ll make her a bed inside. Good God!”He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Powder, powder—the cursed stuff. Cobbe’s work; Cobbe’s work. He slew my dear with it, and now—ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here.”Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.“Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped—that wedding—Mistress Anne—the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did—I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key—the powder-cellar, and laid a train—a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden—there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder,” she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.“I did it—I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me—all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark’s men—and then I struck with my flint and steel—and the fire—ran along the ground—and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and—and—why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?” she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.“She’s daft,” growled Wat. “Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits.”“Silence,” cried Gil. “Let her speak.”“Who says I’m daft?” cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. “I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store.”“She thinks it is a year ago,” muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.“Yes, yes. I’ve had my revenge,” muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, “and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!”“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Gil hoarsely, “did you fire the Pool-house?”“Yes, yes, yes; the powder,” gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. “I did it well; and now I’ll forgive him. I’ll curse Mas’ Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands—my hair, but never mind; I’ve had revenge.”“Then it was you who fired the powder there—that dreadful night,” cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.“Yes, I did it,” chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain—“but Sweet Mace—poor Sweet Mace—they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out—yes, it was you—and laid her—dead upon the ground. Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit—yes, white spirit—and she comes to see me—no: does she?—I can’t think—it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I’ve wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad.”The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned piteously; “she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps—some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There—there—look, look!” cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil’s leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. “Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!”As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old woman’s finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the party—Gil himself—shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a being of another world.
Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small articles of cargo—silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the vessel’s stem was turned once more for home.
For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change, with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same. There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.
“Save her—from what?” he cried passionately, as he paced up and down the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.
It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave orders—he recalled it all—orders to ’bout ship, and they were obeyed without a word.
It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had come to him with the gruff question, “Where to now, skipper?”
“Home!” was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose from the crew a tremendous cheer.
He recalled it all—how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.
And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.
He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back—back to what?
A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace’s grave.
Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel’s head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.
Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil’s eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.
It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace’s sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.
“She would have urged me to do it,” he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.
“What shall I do now?” said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. “Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.
“Well, let him come if he will,” he added, wearily, and then rising. “Now, my lads!” he cried, “to work.”
His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.
“Come boys,” Wat Kilby cried, “have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together—heave ho!”
As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion—injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.
“Skipper,” he said, “I’m not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don’t seem to be knit together as they were. It’ll take some pounds o’ Mas’ Cobbe’s best to lift that out.”
Gil frowned, for the old man’s speech brought up a host of painful recollections.
“Shall we get up some powder, skipper?” said Wat.
“And fire the barrels that are in the store?” said Gil sternly.
“Nay,” growled the old fellow; “we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away.”
“Get it then,” said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.
Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.
A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.
At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.
It was soon done—a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.
“Now, captain,” he said, “as soon as you like.”
“Stop a moment,” said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.
“What for, captain?” said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.
“The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark’s fellows down.”
“Nay,” cried Wat, “the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They’ll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide.”
“Go on, then,” said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain’s side.
From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.
The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.
“There, skipper,” growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; “there be not a cask split inside I’ll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks.”
Gil nodded.
“Four of you bring the old woman along,” he said. “We’ll make her a bed inside. Good God!”
He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Powder, powder—the cursed stuff. Cobbe’s work; Cobbe’s work. He slew my dear with it, and now—ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here.”
Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.
“Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped—that wedding—Mistress Anne—the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did—I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key—the powder-cellar, and laid a train—a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden—there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder,” she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.
“I did it—I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me—all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark’s men—and then I struck with my flint and steel—and the fire—ran along the ground—and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and—and—why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?” she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.
“She’s daft,” growled Wat. “Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits.”
“Silence,” cried Gil. “Let her speak.”
“Who says I’m daft?” cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. “I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store.”
“She thinks it is a year ago,” muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.
“Yes, yes. I’ve had my revenge,” muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, “and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!”
“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Gil hoarsely, “did you fire the Pool-house?”
“Yes, yes, yes; the powder,” gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. “I did it well; and now I’ll forgive him. I’ll curse Mas’ Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands—my hair, but never mind; I’ve had revenge.”
“Then it was you who fired the powder there—that dreadful night,” cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.
“Yes, I did it,” chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain—“but Sweet Mace—poor Sweet Mace—they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out—yes, it was you—and laid her—dead upon the ground. Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit—yes, white spirit—and she comes to see me—no: does she?—I can’t think—it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I’ve wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad.”
The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned piteously; “she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps—some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There—there—look, look!” cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil’s leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. “Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!”
As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old woman’s finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the party—Gil himself—shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a being of another world.
How Culverin Carr solved a Problem.Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene. For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands made it look unnatural to a degree.For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to draw its occupant back to its shades.Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace’s feet, and lay there, panting.“She has come from the dead to fetch me,” moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. “I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now—now—have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch.”She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace’s bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands.“Mace,” he cried, hoarsely, “speak to me, oh, speak!”He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh’s words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true.As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips.A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.“My love is dead,” he panted. “Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?”“Skipper,” whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure. “Skipper,” the old fellow whispered hoarsely, “we bean’t cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!”In his strange confusion of mind, Gil was for the moment ready to accept this theory, and he gazed down at the weird figure beside him, and then at Mother Goodhugh, where she lay. Was there really truth then in witchcraft, and had this old woman the power to recall the dead?He looked at the deathly white face, the white hair, then at the cave mouth, and the surroundings of the bright sunlit ravine, and his group of wonder-stricken men, and then his every-day common sense prevailed. It was no myth, no trick of witchcraft, but a living, breathing form. It was Mace, the dead restored, his lost love, she whom he had mourned. How it was he did not know, neither could he stop to consider while she lay helpless by his side. Mace lived again, and the mystery must rest.“Wat,” he cried, as like a flash of lightning the thought entered his brain. “The dead—the grave—it was Janet who was killed.”The old man shook his head, but Gil paid no heed, for a low sigh had just escaped from Mace’s lips, and, bending down, he raised her head upon his arm, swept aside her long grey hair, and kissed her stony brow.It was enough for him that she lived—that she whom he had mourned was restored to him, and raising the kerchief slightly he gazed in silent wonderment at the fast-closed eyes.Then he awoke to the fact that it was time for action, and not for wonder, and rousing himself he began to give orders.“Quick, my lads,” he cried; “make up a couch of the sailcloth in yonder, and carry in yon poor old creature. Wat, have a fire lit, then cut some of the ling, and make another couch.”Their leader’s words broke the spell that seemed to have charmed the men, who hurriedly obeyed, while Gil strove hard to restore the icy frame he held to consciousness, trembling lest the shock had been too severe, and fighting hard to keep his brain from dwelling upon the mystery.“Dead!” whispered a voice at his ear, and a pang shot through his breast as he gazed in horror at the face resting against his heart.“No!” he cried hoarsely. “Dog! you lie.”“No, no, skipper: the old witch—Mother Goodhugh. She be gone.”“Art sure?” cried Gil, with a sigh of relief.“Sartain, skipper. She was almost gone before.”“Heaven forgive her!” said Gil, softly. “Wat, lay her decently in the furthest part of the store till we can put her to rest. See that a couch is ready. Poor sweet! she cannot bear the light.”As he spoke, handling her as tenderly as if she had been an infant, Gil rose up and bore the insensible girl into the store, where the state of the objects around told him plainly that she must have been a prisoner for months.In a few minutes’ time he had her lying upon a bed of soft heather, softened with a sail and a couple of heavy cloaks for coverlids, as he sought to infuse warmth, and with it life.As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts, Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again.He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result.The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his evening hymn.As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before; but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own.But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him sternly begone, for he muttered:“The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the dead.”That she might live was Gil’s prayer; that, if a victim were needed to offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he could bear.The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him. How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure, the icy coldness seemed to increase.As the night drew on Gil knew it was impossible to get help, and in his despair he felt that he could only wait and hope. His men, saving those who watched, contrived themselves a rough tent under the shelter of the over-hanging rock, and at last, as the fire they had made died out, Gil knelt there alone with her who had been his boyhood’s love, his manhood’s deepest passion, and, feeling that she was gliding from him once again, he flung himself by her side, clasped the icy form to his breast, and sought by his despairing kisses to win from it some token of life.It was in vain, and the warmth he sought to impart fled from his own breast to receive back the icy chill from hers.The night stole on, and the soft whispers from the forest around were heard from time to time, or a withered leaf fell with a noise that was striking in the stillness around. Sometimes an owl swept past the cavern’s mouth on ghostly wing, making its presence known by its strange cry. The stars glittered and blinked and shed their soft light, while from time to time a faint breeze from the sea swept through the forest and up the glade, where it sighed and seemed to sob as it appeared to enter the cavern, and then fled shivering away.Now and again some muttered word or uneasy motion on the part of one of the men could be heard, and at stated times the gaunt form of Wat Kilby was seen to go limping past, as he changed his sentries. Then the hours slipped by, and Gil still lay there clasping the senseless form to his breast—the form of the dead he told himself again and again, till utterly worn out with grief and despair a stupor more than a sleep fell upon him, and the present passed away.It was broad daylight, and a faint flush of the coming sunshine was reflected from the side of the ravine visible from where Gil lay, while for a few moments he could not collect his thoughts. There was a strange buoyant feeling in his breast to which it had long been a stranger, and he lay wondering what it meant, till, like a flood, the recollection of the past night came upon him, and with a groan he turned his eyes to gaze upon the sweet, dead face of her he loved; but only to start up on his elbow, trembling with dread lest he should have been deceived.For it was no icy marble frame that he had clasped to his breast. The warm life-blood of his heart had seemed to communicate its vitality to her who lay insensible there, and sent the current of life, that month by month had grown more sluggish in its course, bounding through artery and vein once more; and, as he bent lower and lower, it was to feel Mace’s soft, warm breath upon his cheeks.He caught her hand in his and placed it on his breast. It was icy cold, but it was not deathly; and, when in a passion of thankfulness and joy he rained his kisses on brow and lips, the clammy, rigid feeling had quite passed away.He knew that she lived; but there was no reply to his caresses. Asleep or in a strange stupor, he could not tell which; but as he released her she lay back motionless, save that her breast heaved softly, and her breathing was regular and slow.He spoke to her with his lips to her ear, but there was no reply; he raised her in his arms and gazed in her pale face, but still there was no response; and, trembling lest she should again slip from him, he softly laid her head upon the rough pillow and tried to think of some plan to fan the tiny spark of life into a warmer glow.Rousing his followers, and regardless now of discovery, so that he could gain help, Gil despatched Wat Kilby to Roehurst, and others to the ship and the nearest town, the result being, that the same evening the insensible girl was carefully borne to Croftly’s cottage, near her ruined home.
Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene. For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands made it look unnatural to a degree.
For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to draw its occupant back to its shades.
Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace’s feet, and lay there, panting.
“She has come from the dead to fetch me,” moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. “I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now—now—have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch.”
She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace’s bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.
Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands.
“Mace,” he cried, hoarsely, “speak to me, oh, speak!”
He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh’s words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true.
As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.
He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.
It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.
She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips.
A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.
But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.
“My love is dead,” he panted. “Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?”
“Skipper,” whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure. “Skipper,” the old fellow whispered hoarsely, “we bean’t cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!”
In his strange confusion of mind, Gil was for the moment ready to accept this theory, and he gazed down at the weird figure beside him, and then at Mother Goodhugh, where she lay. Was there really truth then in witchcraft, and had this old woman the power to recall the dead?
He looked at the deathly white face, the white hair, then at the cave mouth, and the surroundings of the bright sunlit ravine, and his group of wonder-stricken men, and then his every-day common sense prevailed. It was no myth, no trick of witchcraft, but a living, breathing form. It was Mace, the dead restored, his lost love, she whom he had mourned. How it was he did not know, neither could he stop to consider while she lay helpless by his side. Mace lived again, and the mystery must rest.
“Wat,” he cried, as like a flash of lightning the thought entered his brain. “The dead—the grave—it was Janet who was killed.”
The old man shook his head, but Gil paid no heed, for a low sigh had just escaped from Mace’s lips, and, bending down, he raised her head upon his arm, swept aside her long grey hair, and kissed her stony brow.
It was enough for him that she lived—that she whom he had mourned was restored to him, and raising the kerchief slightly he gazed in silent wonderment at the fast-closed eyes.
Then he awoke to the fact that it was time for action, and not for wonder, and rousing himself he began to give orders.
“Quick, my lads,” he cried; “make up a couch of the sailcloth in yonder, and carry in yon poor old creature. Wat, have a fire lit, then cut some of the ling, and make another couch.”
Their leader’s words broke the spell that seemed to have charmed the men, who hurriedly obeyed, while Gil strove hard to restore the icy frame he held to consciousness, trembling lest the shock had been too severe, and fighting hard to keep his brain from dwelling upon the mystery.
“Dead!” whispered a voice at his ear, and a pang shot through his breast as he gazed in horror at the face resting against his heart.
“No!” he cried hoarsely. “Dog! you lie.”
“No, no, skipper: the old witch—Mother Goodhugh. She be gone.”
“Art sure?” cried Gil, with a sigh of relief.
“Sartain, skipper. She was almost gone before.”
“Heaven forgive her!” said Gil, softly. “Wat, lay her decently in the furthest part of the store till we can put her to rest. See that a couch is ready. Poor sweet! she cannot bear the light.”
As he spoke, handling her as tenderly as if she had been an infant, Gil rose up and bore the insensible girl into the store, where the state of the objects around told him plainly that she must have been a prisoner for months.
In a few minutes’ time he had her lying upon a bed of soft heather, softened with a sail and a couple of heavy cloaks for coverlids, as he sought to infuse warmth, and with it life.
As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts, Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again.
He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result.
The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his evening hymn.
As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before; but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own.
But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him sternly begone, for he muttered:
“The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the dead.”
That she might live was Gil’s prayer; that, if a victim were needed to offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he could bear.
The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him. How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure, the icy coldness seemed to increase.
As the night drew on Gil knew it was impossible to get help, and in his despair he felt that he could only wait and hope. His men, saving those who watched, contrived themselves a rough tent under the shelter of the over-hanging rock, and at last, as the fire they had made died out, Gil knelt there alone with her who had been his boyhood’s love, his manhood’s deepest passion, and, feeling that she was gliding from him once again, he flung himself by her side, clasped the icy form to his breast, and sought by his despairing kisses to win from it some token of life.
It was in vain, and the warmth he sought to impart fled from his own breast to receive back the icy chill from hers.
The night stole on, and the soft whispers from the forest around were heard from time to time, or a withered leaf fell with a noise that was striking in the stillness around. Sometimes an owl swept past the cavern’s mouth on ghostly wing, making its presence known by its strange cry. The stars glittered and blinked and shed their soft light, while from time to time a faint breeze from the sea swept through the forest and up the glade, where it sighed and seemed to sob as it appeared to enter the cavern, and then fled shivering away.
Now and again some muttered word or uneasy motion on the part of one of the men could be heard, and at stated times the gaunt form of Wat Kilby was seen to go limping past, as he changed his sentries. Then the hours slipped by, and Gil still lay there clasping the senseless form to his breast—the form of the dead he told himself again and again, till utterly worn out with grief and despair a stupor more than a sleep fell upon him, and the present passed away.
It was broad daylight, and a faint flush of the coming sunshine was reflected from the side of the ravine visible from where Gil lay, while for a few moments he could not collect his thoughts. There was a strange buoyant feeling in his breast to which it had long been a stranger, and he lay wondering what it meant, till, like a flood, the recollection of the past night came upon him, and with a groan he turned his eyes to gaze upon the sweet, dead face of her he loved; but only to start up on his elbow, trembling with dread lest he should have been deceived.
For it was no icy marble frame that he had clasped to his breast. The warm life-blood of his heart had seemed to communicate its vitality to her who lay insensible there, and sent the current of life, that month by month had grown more sluggish in its course, bounding through artery and vein once more; and, as he bent lower and lower, it was to feel Mace’s soft, warm breath upon his cheeks.
He caught her hand in his and placed it on his breast. It was icy cold, but it was not deathly; and, when in a passion of thankfulness and joy he rained his kisses on brow and lips, the clammy, rigid feeling had quite passed away.
He knew that she lived; but there was no reply to his caresses. Asleep or in a strange stupor, he could not tell which; but as he released her she lay back motionless, save that her breast heaved softly, and her breathing was regular and slow.
He spoke to her with his lips to her ear, but there was no reply; he raised her in his arms and gazed in her pale face, but still there was no response; and, trembling lest she should again slip from him, he softly laid her head upon the rough pillow and tried to think of some plan to fan the tiny spark of life into a warmer glow.
Rousing his followers, and regardless now of discovery, so that he could gain help, Gil despatched Wat Kilby to Roehurst, and others to the ship and the nearest town, the result being, that the same evening the insensible girl was carefully borne to Croftly’s cottage, near her ruined home.
How Sweet Mace awakened on her Wedding-Day.A sensation of intense heat. Then a feeling as if her head were on fire, followed by a terrible pain.How long this lasted Mace never knew, but she lay there confused and troubled. One feeling, however, was dominant. It was very nearly the time when Gil would be beneath the window, and she must take off that wedding-dress, and send her maid away.What a mockery it was, that dress, and how hot and clammy it seemed. She shuddered in one of her more lucid moments, as it struck her that it was like a winding-sheet, and she recalled that she had often wished herself dead.How dark it was, and how steaming and hot. Drip, drip, drip, drip. The noise of dripping water, every drip seemed as if it struck upon her brain, and caused her suffering. Why, it rained!Well, what matter? What was rain to Gil, who, in his frail ship, dared the greatest storms that blew?He would come, let the weather be what it might.Then she seemed to be overcome with sleep, to awake once more with the pain less and her head clearer.Drip, drip, drip. The rain still falling, and she felt, in a helpless way, that she must have been to sleep again, and began to wonder how long Gil would be.It was still intensely dark, and very close and stifling, the heat seemed to be more than she could bear.How long would Gil be? Poor fellow, how cruelly he must have felt it to hear that she was to wed another, and—yes. Why, had not Janet taken off the wedding-dress before she lay down to sleep.How bad her head had been. She never remembered to have suffered such pains before; and then that terrible thirst! How horribly she had dreamed, too. She recollected now; a horrible dream. First, Gil had clasped her in his arms; then it was not Gil, but Sir Mark; and even now she shuddered at the thoughts of the grim shade which had come next.But it was a dream consequent upon the excitement she had gone through; and now she had awakened, and it must be time for Gil to be beneath her window.She did not attempt to rise, for the strange feeling of stupor still held her, and she lay quite still, till the thought that she might have slept too long came and sent a thrill through her brain, and she started up to listen, becoming conscious of a strange, suffocating odour as of dank, hot mist.How black it was! She could not see the window, and, with the confused sensation of one waking in the darkness, she sat gazing about and listening.Still that ceaseless drip, drip, drip, of water, but the gurgle of the water-pipe that went down by the side of the gable was not there, and it suddenly struck her that she could not hear the familiar rushing noise of the race, where the water hurried towards the wheel.She stretched out her hand to rise from the bed, and it touched something rough and hard, making her withdraw it, but only to stretch it forth again and find that she was touching wood and roughened stone.“Where am I?” she said, softly; and as she spoke she made out tiny sparks of light.“Gil’s signals!” she cried. “But why does he show them now?”She tried to get off the bed, but no bed was there; and, after feeling about for a few minutes, she clasped her hands to her head.“What does this terrible silence mean?” she faltered. “Where am I? Where is Gil?”There was the slow drip of the water for answer—nothing more; and she tried to recall the past.“I have been to sleep,” she said, “heavily asleep: and yet I don’t know.”She tried to collect her thoughts, but seemed to grow more confused.“I must have been very ill,” she said, at last. “And it began directly I had drunk of that water. But how long is it ago? And why is it so dark? Where am I?”Weak and prostrated by the terrible shock she had suffered, a curious sensation of stupor overcame her once more, and she crouched down to save herself from falling, as she dropped into a feverish sleep.When she awoke again her head was clearer, but she was terribly weak. It was dark as ever, but the suffocating feeling had gone, and she could no longer see the signal lights, but the peculiar drip, drip, of water was there.“I must have slept again long past the time when Gil would come,” she said, with a wild feeling of yearning for him; and now again she tried to make out where she was.“I must be mad!” she exclaimed in a despairing tone, and she started, for her voice seemed followed by a hollow whispering murmur, that sent a shudder through her frame.Crouching down once more, she waited with eyes and ears on the strain, but still there was nothing to be seen, no sound to be heard but that ceaseless drip, drip of water that fell with a faint musical plash somewhere hard by.But her senses were gradually growing clearer, her perceptions more vivid, and she tried to make out what was the meaning of a peculiar heavy odour.“It is powder!” she exclaimed, with a shudder. “Can there have been a mishap while I slept?”She paused, trying to think, and her senses grew clearer still.“Yes, it is powder; there must have been an explosion;” and she recalled the strange, dank, pungent odour that she had often breathed when some accident had occurred.“But when? How could the powder have fired?”She tried hard to think it out: but her mind was still too confused, and in a helpless manner she groped her way in the direction of the dropping water, till she felt a splash upon her head, and, stooping down, plunged her hands into what seemed to be a deep, cold pool.With the avidity of one perishing from thirst, she scooped up the water and drank again and again, each draft she took seeming to infuse new life within her veins; and, at last satisfied, she tried to master the horrible feeling of dread that was overpowering her, and to make out her position.“Let me go back,” she said, forcing herself to the point. “I will not be alarmed at what is perhaps some trifling accident. Now, then—I went to my bedroom to be ready when Gil should come. I was feverish and thirsty, and I drank from the jug upon my table. Then I grew worse, and Janet came to try on my dress. I must have lain down and had some frightful dream.“Yes, I remember it now: and I tried on the dress in a half-stupefied way. Nay, it must have been Janet as I lay half asleep, half mad—“Oh, God!” she moaned, “am I half mad now?”There was a hollow, echoing whisper, and she cowered there trembling for a time, but, recovering, she forced herself to go on.“I was lying there ill and quite asleep, and—yes—no—yes—I have some recollection of cries—a terrible shock—and—it must be—it must be.”She pressed her hands to her head, and rocked herself to and fro, for her reason was on the verge of being shattered, so horrible were her thoughts.By degrees, though, she grew calmer, and she once more tried to unravel the mystery of the thick darkness around, and to carry this out she again drank from the pool. Then her hands touched stones and timber; and at last, after a long struggle, she fully realised the facts. There could be no doubt of it, for she recognised again the peculiar odour of the powder.This had come while she slept, then, overwhelming her so suddenly that she had not awakened from the stupor in which she was plunged. The powder had exploded, and she must have fallen with the ruins down into the vault where her father had a store.She made a brave struggle against the feelings that seemed to bear down with overwhelming violence, ready to snatch her reason away, but she was only weak, and at last, with a burst of hysterical sobbing, she sank back completely overcome. It seemed as if the drugged sleep into which she had been plunged by Mother Goodhugh’s distilments had returned, for her reason became overclouded, and then all was blank.It was like awakening once more in the utter darkness that she became conscious of the drip, drip, of the water from the roof, as it fell into the pool that lay somewhere near her feet.Again she had to fight her way to a knowledge of her position; and now, with her head far clearer, she became fully conscious that this was no dream. The idea of death or madness grew weaker, while that which pointed to some terrible explosion and the destruction of the place gained better hold. The odour of the exploded gunpowder grew so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but it was still there, and had she wanted further evidence she found it upon touching some of the stones, for her hands were damp and clammy with the reek that would have been black, for she was too well versed in her father’s trade not to be certain upon such a point.There was relief even in this, for in spite of the horrors of her position, this common-sense knowledge relieved her mind of the morbid terrors that had been ready to sweep away her reason, and set her thinking of escape.The knowledge that she was literally buried alive was almost more than she could bear at times; but, us her brain grew clearer, hope began to dawn life a soft, pale ray amidst the real and mental blackness all around.There was no doubt now: the Pool-house had been destroyed by a terrible explosion, either of the powder in the cellar stores or by some calamity outside; and, shivering with horror, she gave way for the moment to the superstitious belief that it was a judgment upon her for not having faith that the wedding would be put off. She smiled, though, directly after, at the absurdity of the idea, and began to wonder how those she loved had fared.Gil? Had he been near the place? And her father, what of him—was he safe? Janet, too, poor girl! She hoped that no ill had overtaken her.Then she shuddered, for the idea had come upon her that Sir Mark might have suffered, too, and be even now alive or dead within a few yards of where she lay.In spite of a great effort she could not keep from shrieking aloud at this idea. She crouched listening, almost expecting to hear step or word, and, in place of being ready to welcome them, she was prepared to turn and flee from what, instead of seeming like a companionship, bore the aspect to her of another frightful calamity.Then, with her mind upon Gil, and the feeling strong that those above must be making a search for her, she felt that she ought to make some efforts to let them know her whereabouts.She raised her voice, and cried loudly—“Gil—father—help—I am here!” But there was no reply to her wild cry, no sound of iron bar or pick removing some heap of stones, and in spite of her efforts she could do no more than sob as if her heart would break.And now, as if to give her mental relief from the horrors that she had passed through, came long periods of sleep and dreams of happy times—bright, sunny skies, the waving trees, and flowery meads. Gil was with her, and they were fishing once more upon the lake.It seemed to be spring-time, the time of love and hope and joy; and in fancy she saw again the waving woods, the silvery bosom of the lake dotted with broad green leaves, waving sedges, and the silver and golden chalices of the lilies starting up from the water as if held out by some pixie’s hand. There, too, were the distant hills, and the empurpled heathery waste, where the golden gorse grew so densely. The meadow with its waving grass ready for the scythe. The old garden lush with flowers and advancing fruit. Its round-topped beehives, the pleasant sheltered seats and grassy walks; and then the bright scene seemed, dream-like, to fade away in the rich soft glow of evening, and she was once more at her window gazing, but blushing and happy with expectancy, for there, out on the far green bank, shone the signal lights of four glowworms, and directly after there was a noise, and a voice so deep and clear came up, making her heart beat as it uttered her name.Yes, there it was; he called her; and with her hands pressed to her heaving bosom she answered him back—“Yes, yes, Gil—love—I am here.”She started up with straining eyes, so real did it seem, and then sank back sobbing bitterly, for it was but a dream. And so was this noise of falling stones and crackling wood, with the rush as of a mass of broken fragments that had crumbled down beside her—all a dream, from which after three weary days of pain she did not care to make the effort to rouse herself. For the Pool-house had been destroyed, and she must be dead, even though Mother Goodhugh’s voice had come to her, perhaps to curse. For that was Mother Goodhugh calling to her in this dream, bidding her rise and come forth, and live again, and then all was blank.Blank to Sweet Mace, but no dream, for her cries had been heard by the old woman, as she haunted the ruins by night, picking out little objects of value, and toiling from the first to reach poor forgotten Janet, an object that kept her busy, for she could not rest till that was done. The sixth night had come before she had been able to drag away a sufficiency of thedébristo reach the imprisoned girl. She had not dared to summon help from the dread she suffered lest Sir Mark’s men should seize her once again; and when at last she succeeded in dragging the sufferer from her living tomb, and had laid her upon the ground hard by, there was none to see her in the grey of the early morning staggering with her burden to her lonely cottage in the lane.
A sensation of intense heat. Then a feeling as if her head were on fire, followed by a terrible pain.
How long this lasted Mace never knew, but she lay there confused and troubled. One feeling, however, was dominant. It was very nearly the time when Gil would be beneath the window, and she must take off that wedding-dress, and send her maid away.
What a mockery it was, that dress, and how hot and clammy it seemed. She shuddered in one of her more lucid moments, as it struck her that it was like a winding-sheet, and she recalled that she had often wished herself dead.
How dark it was, and how steaming and hot. Drip, drip, drip, drip. The noise of dripping water, every drip seemed as if it struck upon her brain, and caused her suffering. Why, it rained!
Well, what matter? What was rain to Gil, who, in his frail ship, dared the greatest storms that blew?
He would come, let the weather be what it might.
Then she seemed to be overcome with sleep, to awake once more with the pain less and her head clearer.
Drip, drip, drip. The rain still falling, and she felt, in a helpless way, that she must have been to sleep again, and began to wonder how long Gil would be.
It was still intensely dark, and very close and stifling, the heat seemed to be more than she could bear.
How long would Gil be? Poor fellow, how cruelly he must have felt it to hear that she was to wed another, and—yes. Why, had not Janet taken off the wedding-dress before she lay down to sleep.
How bad her head had been. She never remembered to have suffered such pains before; and then that terrible thirst! How horribly she had dreamed, too. She recollected now; a horrible dream. First, Gil had clasped her in his arms; then it was not Gil, but Sir Mark; and even now she shuddered at the thoughts of the grim shade which had come next.
But it was a dream consequent upon the excitement she had gone through; and now she had awakened, and it must be time for Gil to be beneath her window.
She did not attempt to rise, for the strange feeling of stupor still held her, and she lay quite still, till the thought that she might have slept too long came and sent a thrill through her brain, and she started up to listen, becoming conscious of a strange, suffocating odour as of dank, hot mist.
How black it was! She could not see the window, and, with the confused sensation of one waking in the darkness, she sat gazing about and listening.
Still that ceaseless drip, drip, drip, of water, but the gurgle of the water-pipe that went down by the side of the gable was not there, and it suddenly struck her that she could not hear the familiar rushing noise of the race, where the water hurried towards the wheel.
She stretched out her hand to rise from the bed, and it touched something rough and hard, making her withdraw it, but only to stretch it forth again and find that she was touching wood and roughened stone.
“Where am I?” she said, softly; and as she spoke she made out tiny sparks of light.
“Gil’s signals!” she cried. “But why does he show them now?”
She tried to get off the bed, but no bed was there; and, after feeling about for a few minutes, she clasped her hands to her head.
“What does this terrible silence mean?” she faltered. “Where am I? Where is Gil?”
There was the slow drip of the water for answer—nothing more; and she tried to recall the past.
“I have been to sleep,” she said, “heavily asleep: and yet I don’t know.”
She tried to collect her thoughts, but seemed to grow more confused.
“I must have been very ill,” she said, at last. “And it began directly I had drunk of that water. But how long is it ago? And why is it so dark? Where am I?”
Weak and prostrated by the terrible shock she had suffered, a curious sensation of stupor overcame her once more, and she crouched down to save herself from falling, as she dropped into a feverish sleep.
When she awoke again her head was clearer, but she was terribly weak. It was dark as ever, but the suffocating feeling had gone, and she could no longer see the signal lights, but the peculiar drip, drip, of water was there.
“I must have slept again long past the time when Gil would come,” she said, with a wild feeling of yearning for him; and now again she tried to make out where she was.
“I must be mad!” she exclaimed in a despairing tone, and she started, for her voice seemed followed by a hollow whispering murmur, that sent a shudder through her frame.
Crouching down once more, she waited with eyes and ears on the strain, but still there was nothing to be seen, no sound to be heard but that ceaseless drip, drip of water that fell with a faint musical plash somewhere hard by.
But her senses were gradually growing clearer, her perceptions more vivid, and she tried to make out what was the meaning of a peculiar heavy odour.
“It is powder!” she exclaimed, with a shudder. “Can there have been a mishap while I slept?”
She paused, trying to think, and her senses grew clearer still.
“Yes, it is powder; there must have been an explosion;” and she recalled the strange, dank, pungent odour that she had often breathed when some accident had occurred.
“But when? How could the powder have fired?”
She tried hard to think it out: but her mind was still too confused, and in a helpless manner she groped her way in the direction of the dropping water, till she felt a splash upon her head, and, stooping down, plunged her hands into what seemed to be a deep, cold pool.
With the avidity of one perishing from thirst, she scooped up the water and drank again and again, each draft she took seeming to infuse new life within her veins; and, at last satisfied, she tried to master the horrible feeling of dread that was overpowering her, and to make out her position.
“Let me go back,” she said, forcing herself to the point. “I will not be alarmed at what is perhaps some trifling accident. Now, then—I went to my bedroom to be ready when Gil should come. I was feverish and thirsty, and I drank from the jug upon my table. Then I grew worse, and Janet came to try on my dress. I must have lain down and had some frightful dream.
“Yes, I remember it now: and I tried on the dress in a half-stupefied way. Nay, it must have been Janet as I lay half asleep, half mad—
“Oh, God!” she moaned, “am I half mad now?”
There was a hollow, echoing whisper, and she cowered there trembling for a time, but, recovering, she forced herself to go on.
“I was lying there ill and quite asleep, and—yes—no—yes—I have some recollection of cries—a terrible shock—and—it must be—it must be.”
She pressed her hands to her head, and rocked herself to and fro, for her reason was on the verge of being shattered, so horrible were her thoughts.
By degrees, though, she grew calmer, and she once more tried to unravel the mystery of the thick darkness around, and to carry this out she again drank from the pool. Then her hands touched stones and timber; and at last, after a long struggle, she fully realised the facts. There could be no doubt of it, for she recognised again the peculiar odour of the powder.
This had come while she slept, then, overwhelming her so suddenly that she had not awakened from the stupor in which she was plunged. The powder had exploded, and she must have fallen with the ruins down into the vault where her father had a store.
She made a brave struggle against the feelings that seemed to bear down with overwhelming violence, ready to snatch her reason away, but she was only weak, and at last, with a burst of hysterical sobbing, she sank back completely overcome. It seemed as if the drugged sleep into which she had been plunged by Mother Goodhugh’s distilments had returned, for her reason became overclouded, and then all was blank.
It was like awakening once more in the utter darkness that she became conscious of the drip, drip, of the water from the roof, as it fell into the pool that lay somewhere near her feet.
Again she had to fight her way to a knowledge of her position; and now, with her head far clearer, she became fully conscious that this was no dream. The idea of death or madness grew weaker, while that which pointed to some terrible explosion and the destruction of the place gained better hold. The odour of the exploded gunpowder grew so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but it was still there, and had she wanted further evidence she found it upon touching some of the stones, for her hands were damp and clammy with the reek that would have been black, for she was too well versed in her father’s trade not to be certain upon such a point.
There was relief even in this, for in spite of the horrors of her position, this common-sense knowledge relieved her mind of the morbid terrors that had been ready to sweep away her reason, and set her thinking of escape.
The knowledge that she was literally buried alive was almost more than she could bear at times; but, us her brain grew clearer, hope began to dawn life a soft, pale ray amidst the real and mental blackness all around.
There was no doubt now: the Pool-house had been destroyed by a terrible explosion, either of the powder in the cellar stores or by some calamity outside; and, shivering with horror, she gave way for the moment to the superstitious belief that it was a judgment upon her for not having faith that the wedding would be put off. She smiled, though, directly after, at the absurdity of the idea, and began to wonder how those she loved had fared.
Gil? Had he been near the place? And her father, what of him—was he safe? Janet, too, poor girl! She hoped that no ill had overtaken her.
Then she shuddered, for the idea had come upon her that Sir Mark might have suffered, too, and be even now alive or dead within a few yards of where she lay.
In spite of a great effort she could not keep from shrieking aloud at this idea. She crouched listening, almost expecting to hear step or word, and, in place of being ready to welcome them, she was prepared to turn and flee from what, instead of seeming like a companionship, bore the aspect to her of another frightful calamity.
Then, with her mind upon Gil, and the feeling strong that those above must be making a search for her, she felt that she ought to make some efforts to let them know her whereabouts.
She raised her voice, and cried loudly—“Gil—father—help—I am here!” But there was no reply to her wild cry, no sound of iron bar or pick removing some heap of stones, and in spite of her efforts she could do no more than sob as if her heart would break.
And now, as if to give her mental relief from the horrors that she had passed through, came long periods of sleep and dreams of happy times—bright, sunny skies, the waving trees, and flowery meads. Gil was with her, and they were fishing once more upon the lake.
It seemed to be spring-time, the time of love and hope and joy; and in fancy she saw again the waving woods, the silvery bosom of the lake dotted with broad green leaves, waving sedges, and the silver and golden chalices of the lilies starting up from the water as if held out by some pixie’s hand. There, too, were the distant hills, and the empurpled heathery waste, where the golden gorse grew so densely. The meadow with its waving grass ready for the scythe. The old garden lush with flowers and advancing fruit. Its round-topped beehives, the pleasant sheltered seats and grassy walks; and then the bright scene seemed, dream-like, to fade away in the rich soft glow of evening, and she was once more at her window gazing, but blushing and happy with expectancy, for there, out on the far green bank, shone the signal lights of four glowworms, and directly after there was a noise, and a voice so deep and clear came up, making her heart beat as it uttered her name.
Yes, there it was; he called her; and with her hands pressed to her heaving bosom she answered him back—
“Yes, yes, Gil—love—I am here.”
She started up with straining eyes, so real did it seem, and then sank back sobbing bitterly, for it was but a dream. And so was this noise of falling stones and crackling wood, with the rush as of a mass of broken fragments that had crumbled down beside her—all a dream, from which after three weary days of pain she did not care to make the effort to rouse herself. For the Pool-house had been destroyed, and she must be dead, even though Mother Goodhugh’s voice had come to her, perhaps to curse. For that was Mother Goodhugh calling to her in this dream, bidding her rise and come forth, and live again, and then all was blank.
Blank to Sweet Mace, but no dream, for her cries had been heard by the old woman, as she haunted the ruins by night, picking out little objects of value, and toiling from the first to reach poor forgotten Janet, an object that kept her busy, for she could not rest till that was done. The sixth night had come before she had been able to drag away a sufficiency of thedébristo reach the imprisoned girl. She had not dared to summon help from the dread she suffered lest Sir Mark’s men should seize her once again; and when at last she succeeded in dragging the sufferer from her living tomb, and had laid her upon the ground hard by, there was none to see her in the grey of the early morning staggering with her burden to her lonely cottage in the lane.
How Mother Goodhugh missed her Revenge.“Dead, and they’ve buried her!” cried the old woman, as she stood beside the bed, whereon she had lain Mace. “Dead, and they’ve buried her; and Jeremiah Cobbe can feel now what it be to lose one that he loves!”“Let him feel it,” she snarled, “let him feel it, and gnaw his heart for a time. I’ll tell him naught.”Then she glanced uneasily at the door, and drew the curtain that screened her bed.“No one can see her now,” she muttered. “I’ll keep her as long as I can. She be weak and half-childish with what she has gone through. Let her rest; but I’m glad she be not killed.”A feeling of satisfaction glowed for a time in the old woman’s heart, but it was mingled with annoyance that, after all, Jeremiah Cobbe would know rest, while she could never recall her dead.As the days glided by, to her surprise Mother Goodhugh found that Mace did not recover. She partook of food mechanically when it was offered to her, but she did not speak, only looked vacantly about her, and seemed to be without even the power to think.“Why should I lose my revenge?” thought the old woman. “Why should I even let him think that she lives? It will be another to keep until he finds her out, and that may be months first, if she stops as she be now. But I can keep her easily,” she said with a chuckle, “since corn grows on the moonbeams, and meal can be had for all my wants from out the earth.”A month had gone by, and Mace showed no sign of being roused from her dull, apathetic state. She made no attempt to move, but sat where she was placed, gazing straight before her, and never a word passed her lips. Whether the old woman was by her or she was away on some errand, it was all the same, Mace stayed where she was left, unseen by a soul, for since the explosion at the Pool-house no one had cared to go near Mother Goodhugh, and but for her foresight she might have starved.But the old woman had a means of keeping body and soul together that people little dreamed of, for one day, while herb-gathering in the woodlands, far away behind the founder’s house, she had kicked against a fragment of iron, which proved to be a portion of a shell; and, passing further in search of more, she came upon a hole in the sandstone rock beside the scarped mass that rose behind the Pool-house.Such a place had its interest for her; for, by the fragments of iron about and the blackened appearance of the rock, she could tell that it was the work of one of Jeremiah Cobbe’s pieces of ordnance.Parting the ferns and tangled growth with her stick, and muttering a curse or two upon him and his belongings, the old woman found that there was an opening large enough to pass through; and, investigating further, she could see that the great shell had broken through what was but a thin crust of rock, and that within there was a narrow passage-like opening, worn apparently by the waters of some ancient stream.Another day she examined further, for the place interested her, and she penetrated some distance and returned.Another time she came, and brought a lanthorn to search further, for anything bordering on mystery was valuable to her, ending, after winding in and out for some distance, by coming to the conclusion that this was the place of which Abel Churr had spoken—that she had long sought in vain, and that she knew Gil Carr’s secret, having hit upon another entrance to his store.It was a long and tedious way in, but that mattered little to her; while, ignorant of the fact that he had been the means of breaking a way into his own treasure-house, Gil Carr duly, as he believed, sealed it up and set sail.Here one night, when the fear was upon her that Mace might be discovered at her cottage, and the malignant fit was stronger than usual, Mother Goodhugh brought the helpless girl. A touch of the hand was sufficient to lead her where her gaoler willed, and, docile as a child, Mace accompanied her to what was hereafter to be her prison, whose dark shadows seemed to accord with her helpless state; and here she would sit and seem to doze away her life.It was a safe place, only visited by the old woman at night, and she found it easy to feed her prisoner from the ship-stores; but now and then a fit of remorse would seize upon her, and she would, on leaving the place, resolve to restore the poor girl to her home.A dozen times over she threw herself in Jeremiah Cobbe’s way to tell him all, but the sight of the founder seemed to raise up gall and bitterness in her heart, and she went away chuckling and laughing.“Let him suffer a little longer—a little longer,” was her cry. “Some day the girl will recover her senses, then I’ll speak.”But the time flew by, and sense was as it were dead in Sweet Mace’s brain; while, having gone so far, Mother Goodhugh dreaded at last to bring her back. There were strange rumours afloat about her, and her position was not so safe as it had been of yore. So in utter fear she would fasten up her cottage and take refuge in Gil’s store for days together, dreading lest ill should befall her; but at the end of a week passed in this gloomy abode she would be ready to revile herself for her cowardice, and go back. At these times she was more than ever prepared to own that she could not restore Mace to her father.“Let him suffer, as I have done,” she would cry again. “She can stay till Gil Carr comes back. Let him take the poor stricken idiot if he will. I’ve had revenge, and a sweet one after all.”In this spirit Mother Goodhugh would return to her cottage, and the tale of her evil doings grew longer, for there were those who said that she disappeared for days together—none knew where; and that she had always meal in plenty, while the miller swore none ever came from him, and that she was a witch indeed.
“Dead, and they’ve buried her!” cried the old woman, as she stood beside the bed, whereon she had lain Mace. “Dead, and they’ve buried her; and Jeremiah Cobbe can feel now what it be to lose one that he loves!”
“Let him feel it,” she snarled, “let him feel it, and gnaw his heart for a time. I’ll tell him naught.”
Then she glanced uneasily at the door, and drew the curtain that screened her bed.
“No one can see her now,” she muttered. “I’ll keep her as long as I can. She be weak and half-childish with what she has gone through. Let her rest; but I’m glad she be not killed.”
A feeling of satisfaction glowed for a time in the old woman’s heart, but it was mingled with annoyance that, after all, Jeremiah Cobbe would know rest, while she could never recall her dead.
As the days glided by, to her surprise Mother Goodhugh found that Mace did not recover. She partook of food mechanically when it was offered to her, but she did not speak, only looked vacantly about her, and seemed to be without even the power to think.
“Why should I lose my revenge?” thought the old woman. “Why should I even let him think that she lives? It will be another to keep until he finds her out, and that may be months first, if she stops as she be now. But I can keep her easily,” she said with a chuckle, “since corn grows on the moonbeams, and meal can be had for all my wants from out the earth.”
A month had gone by, and Mace showed no sign of being roused from her dull, apathetic state. She made no attempt to move, but sat where she was placed, gazing straight before her, and never a word passed her lips. Whether the old woman was by her or she was away on some errand, it was all the same, Mace stayed where she was left, unseen by a soul, for since the explosion at the Pool-house no one had cared to go near Mother Goodhugh, and but for her foresight she might have starved.
But the old woman had a means of keeping body and soul together that people little dreamed of, for one day, while herb-gathering in the woodlands, far away behind the founder’s house, she had kicked against a fragment of iron, which proved to be a portion of a shell; and, passing further in search of more, she came upon a hole in the sandstone rock beside the scarped mass that rose behind the Pool-house.
Such a place had its interest for her; for, by the fragments of iron about and the blackened appearance of the rock, she could tell that it was the work of one of Jeremiah Cobbe’s pieces of ordnance.
Parting the ferns and tangled growth with her stick, and muttering a curse or two upon him and his belongings, the old woman found that there was an opening large enough to pass through; and, investigating further, she could see that the great shell had broken through what was but a thin crust of rock, and that within there was a narrow passage-like opening, worn apparently by the waters of some ancient stream.
Another day she examined further, for the place interested her, and she penetrated some distance and returned.
Another time she came, and brought a lanthorn to search further, for anything bordering on mystery was valuable to her, ending, after winding in and out for some distance, by coming to the conclusion that this was the place of which Abel Churr had spoken—that she had long sought in vain, and that she knew Gil Carr’s secret, having hit upon another entrance to his store.
It was a long and tedious way in, but that mattered little to her; while, ignorant of the fact that he had been the means of breaking a way into his own treasure-house, Gil Carr duly, as he believed, sealed it up and set sail.
Here one night, when the fear was upon her that Mace might be discovered at her cottage, and the malignant fit was stronger than usual, Mother Goodhugh brought the helpless girl. A touch of the hand was sufficient to lead her where her gaoler willed, and, docile as a child, Mace accompanied her to what was hereafter to be her prison, whose dark shadows seemed to accord with her helpless state; and here she would sit and seem to doze away her life.
It was a safe place, only visited by the old woman at night, and she found it easy to feed her prisoner from the ship-stores; but now and then a fit of remorse would seize upon her, and she would, on leaving the place, resolve to restore the poor girl to her home.
A dozen times over she threw herself in Jeremiah Cobbe’s way to tell him all, but the sight of the founder seemed to raise up gall and bitterness in her heart, and she went away chuckling and laughing.
“Let him suffer a little longer—a little longer,” was her cry. “Some day the girl will recover her senses, then I’ll speak.”
But the time flew by, and sense was as it were dead in Sweet Mace’s brain; while, having gone so far, Mother Goodhugh dreaded at last to bring her back. There were strange rumours afloat about her, and her position was not so safe as it had been of yore. So in utter fear she would fasten up her cottage and take refuge in Gil’s store for days together, dreading lest ill should befall her; but at the end of a week passed in this gloomy abode she would be ready to revile herself for her cowardice, and go back. At these times she was more than ever prepared to own that she could not restore Mace to her father.
“Let him suffer, as I have done,” she would cry again. “She can stay till Gil Carr comes back. Let him take the poor stricken idiot if he will. I’ve had revenge, and a sweet one after all.”
In this spirit Mother Goodhugh would return to her cottage, and the tale of her evil doings grew longer, for there were those who said that she disappeared for days together—none knew where; and that she had always meal in plenty, while the miller swore none ever came from him, and that she was a witch indeed.
How Croftly cut the Hay in the Two-Year Stack.There was a great deal of talk about punishing those who had rescued Mother Goodhugh from the flames; but Sir Mark was away with his wife, and soon after his marriage, being somewhat of a favourite of the British Solomon, he was appointed to a diplomatic post at one of the continental courts, and when Sir Thomas Beckley took his first steps to vindicate the insult offered to the law he received so broad a hint that he might suffer bodily for his interference, that he quietly shut himself up in his old house, surrounded by the carp-haunted moat, and took walks upon its bank to give the gaping, staring fish a model that they might study for their benefit at will.In fact, the rescue of Mother Goodhugh was half forgotten in the news that was spread by the superstitious that by her subsequent death a spell had been broken, and Sweet Mace had been set free and had returned to life.For by degrees she was restored, but it was only by long and patient nursing. In the latter part of her imprisonment her faculties had become dulled, and the shock had produced a semi-torpid state that had its effect upon her mental powers, which were slow to recover their tone. Gil was ever by her side, though she did not know him or her father; but, after a month’s prostration, during which she had hardly left her couch, she began to fight her way very slowly back to strength.Tender nursing prevailed, and, could her health, drunk in flagons of ale, have given it back sooner, Master Peasegood would have insured her the most robust of constitutions months before she was seated in the old garden, an object of curiosity to all who saw her, with the face of twenty and the silvery hair of three-score and ten.But the ashy pallor gave way to the returning hue of health, and the rigid, fixed features became softened and rounded. It was Sweet Mace’s old face again by the next summer, all but a couple of deeply-marked lines in her forehead—lines of care and thought which still remained.The founder sighed even in his joy at her return, for still there was something wanting.“Nay, Gil,” he said, sadly, “thou hast brought me back the body of my darling, but thou hast not brought the spirit. She smiles sadly and gazes at me when I speak, and that is all.”“Yes, that is all,” groaned Gil; “she knows me no longer.”“Poor lad, poor lad!” muttered Master Peasegood, who was present; and he drowned his sigh in a flagon of ale.“Art going to rebuild the old house, now?” said the parson.“Ay,” said the founder, “and at once. I have my hopes that the sight of the old place, made as near like as can be, even to the trees, may do the poor child good, for she seems at her best when I take her round the garden.”Gil looked up curiously, for a thought had struck him; but he said nothing; and, on the founder proposing that they should go and see the men digging the foundations out, he walked with them to the old place.As they walked down to the garden, Gil’s mind ran a good deal upon the thought that had occurred to him, but he said nothing, and waited patiently for his opportunity.The visit was prolonged till towards evening, when, before returning, the founder walked down the narrow lane by the side of the Pool towards the meadow where Sir Mark had made his first proposal to Mace.The place was full of memories for Gil, and he sighed as he thought of the bright sweet face he had encountered, and recalled his jealous feelings towards the man who had forced himself into the position of his rival.But his attention was taken up directly after by the founder, who, with a return of his old business briskness, thrust open the meadow gate, and pointed to the new, sweetly-scented stack of hay just formed.“What think you of that, Master Peasegood?” he said.“Truly I am no judge of grass or hay, friend Cobbe, unless it be metaphorically, and for simile’s sake—grown up at noon, cut down at night,”—was the reply. “Ask our gossip, Tom Croftly here.”“Ay, Tom Croftly is a good judge of grass and stock too, though he is only a founder.”“I see not why a man may not be a judge of hay as well as iron,” said Master Peasegood, as Croftly drove a horse and rough tumbril through the gate, and along the track to where the old stack of hay stood, with a good quarter of it cut away, waiting the knife.“Neither do I,” said the founder, smiling as he thought of his own business.“You hear this, friend Gil Carr,” said Master Peasegood; “why not give up thy roving ways, and settle down to help friend Cobbe. There, lad, the good time is coming: the past forgotten; sweet little Mace will be herself again; and Master Cobbe will be ready to take thee by the hand as son. Faith, and how deftly Tom Croftly handles that great blade, and cuts the hay in squares. Were I a fighting man, methinks that would be a good weapon to have in battle. Heyday! what ails the man? Does he want to break his neck?”For Tom Croftly suddenly threw up his hands, leaped some eight feet down into the meadow, and came up panting and with his forehead bedewed with sweat. His eyes were staring, and his countenance ghastly, while for a few moments he could not speak.“Hast seen a ghost, Tom Croftly?” cried Master Peasegood with a hearty laugh.“Close upon it, master,” gasped Croftly. “Hey, master, but it be terrifying.”“What is terrifying?” cried the founder.“That, that,” panted the man. “Lord forgive me; I didn’t know what I did.”“Speak out, man, speak out,” cried the founder, as the poor fellow began to tremble; and he clutched him by the arm, fearing that some new trouble had befallen his house.“I can’t, yet, master, it be too terrifying,” gasped Croftly. “The Lord forgive me for doing such a deed!”“Less of that last, Tom Croftly, and more explanation,” said Master Peasegood, sternly.“Yes, Mas’ Peasegood, I’ll tell thee,” gasped the poor fellow. “I sharpened up as usual—the big knife, you know—and went to cut the ’lowance for the horse and pony, when I couldn’t have been looking; and he must have got up there to sleep.”“He? Who? What?” cried the founder.“It’s not I as can say, master,” stammered the poor fellow; “the knife went down hard, but I thrust the more, and then, taking up the truss of hay, his head rolled down.”“What?” roared the founder.“Heaven forgive me, master,” cried Croftly, sinking on his knees, “I’ve cut a man’s head clean from his body.”The founder and Master Peasegood stared at him aghast, as if believing he was mad, but the poor fellow was sane enough; and, on following him to the little stack, there was the horrible truth; but Croftly was relieved on finding his knife had decapitated the dead, and not some sleeping man.“Was he dead, then?” he faltered, in answer to a few words spoken by Master Peasegood.“Dead, man! ay, months ago. Heaven have mercy on us, it’s a horrible thing.”“You’re right,” said the founder, turning away with a shudder; “the poor wretch must have lain down when we were making the stack, and more hay have been thrown upon him. He must have been smothered.”“Some gipsy, perhaps,” said Master Peasegood, whose broad face looked white.“Here be a bottle by him,” said Tom Croftly, lifting one from beside the body, “and here be a strap. Why, master, master!” he cried, rising up with a scrap of clothing in his hand.“What is it, Tom?” said the founder, shuddering. “Come away, man, come away.”“Ay, I’ll come away, Mas’ Cobbe, but I’ve found out who it be.”“You have?” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly, as the man opened and smelt the bottle.“Ay, I have,” said Croftly. “That be strong waters in this bottle; and him as lay down,” he continued, sagaciously, “I say, him as lay down upon that half-built stack was drunk, and the steam of the moist hay stifled him.”“But who think you it was?” cried the founder.“Him as was missed,” cried Croftly, triumphantly.“Thank God!” cried Master Peasegood; “then Gil was as innocent as the day.”“Innocent—as the day?” cried the founder, in a puzzled voice, as he looked from one to the other. “Poor creature, how do you know? But I don’t understand. Some one who was missed? Good God!” he cried, as a light flashed upon him, and he took a step or two up the short ladder by the stack, and then leaped down. “’Tis Abel Churr!”
There was a great deal of talk about punishing those who had rescued Mother Goodhugh from the flames; but Sir Mark was away with his wife, and soon after his marriage, being somewhat of a favourite of the British Solomon, he was appointed to a diplomatic post at one of the continental courts, and when Sir Thomas Beckley took his first steps to vindicate the insult offered to the law he received so broad a hint that he might suffer bodily for his interference, that he quietly shut himself up in his old house, surrounded by the carp-haunted moat, and took walks upon its bank to give the gaping, staring fish a model that they might study for their benefit at will.
In fact, the rescue of Mother Goodhugh was half forgotten in the news that was spread by the superstitious that by her subsequent death a spell had been broken, and Sweet Mace had been set free and had returned to life.
For by degrees she was restored, but it was only by long and patient nursing. In the latter part of her imprisonment her faculties had become dulled, and the shock had produced a semi-torpid state that had its effect upon her mental powers, which were slow to recover their tone. Gil was ever by her side, though she did not know him or her father; but, after a month’s prostration, during which she had hardly left her couch, she began to fight her way very slowly back to strength.
Tender nursing prevailed, and, could her health, drunk in flagons of ale, have given it back sooner, Master Peasegood would have insured her the most robust of constitutions months before she was seated in the old garden, an object of curiosity to all who saw her, with the face of twenty and the silvery hair of three-score and ten.
But the ashy pallor gave way to the returning hue of health, and the rigid, fixed features became softened and rounded. It was Sweet Mace’s old face again by the next summer, all but a couple of deeply-marked lines in her forehead—lines of care and thought which still remained.
The founder sighed even in his joy at her return, for still there was something wanting.
“Nay, Gil,” he said, sadly, “thou hast brought me back the body of my darling, but thou hast not brought the spirit. She smiles sadly and gazes at me when I speak, and that is all.”
“Yes, that is all,” groaned Gil; “she knows me no longer.”
“Poor lad, poor lad!” muttered Master Peasegood, who was present; and he drowned his sigh in a flagon of ale.
“Art going to rebuild the old house, now?” said the parson.
“Ay,” said the founder, “and at once. I have my hopes that the sight of the old place, made as near like as can be, even to the trees, may do the poor child good, for she seems at her best when I take her round the garden.”
Gil looked up curiously, for a thought had struck him; but he said nothing; and, on the founder proposing that they should go and see the men digging the foundations out, he walked with them to the old place.
As they walked down to the garden, Gil’s mind ran a good deal upon the thought that had occurred to him, but he said nothing, and waited patiently for his opportunity.
The visit was prolonged till towards evening, when, before returning, the founder walked down the narrow lane by the side of the Pool towards the meadow where Sir Mark had made his first proposal to Mace.
The place was full of memories for Gil, and he sighed as he thought of the bright sweet face he had encountered, and recalled his jealous feelings towards the man who had forced himself into the position of his rival.
But his attention was taken up directly after by the founder, who, with a return of his old business briskness, thrust open the meadow gate, and pointed to the new, sweetly-scented stack of hay just formed.
“What think you of that, Master Peasegood?” he said.
“Truly I am no judge of grass or hay, friend Cobbe, unless it be metaphorically, and for simile’s sake—grown up at noon, cut down at night,”—was the reply. “Ask our gossip, Tom Croftly here.”
“Ay, Tom Croftly is a good judge of grass and stock too, though he is only a founder.”
“I see not why a man may not be a judge of hay as well as iron,” said Master Peasegood, as Croftly drove a horse and rough tumbril through the gate, and along the track to where the old stack of hay stood, with a good quarter of it cut away, waiting the knife.
“Neither do I,” said the founder, smiling as he thought of his own business.
“You hear this, friend Gil Carr,” said Master Peasegood; “why not give up thy roving ways, and settle down to help friend Cobbe. There, lad, the good time is coming: the past forgotten; sweet little Mace will be herself again; and Master Cobbe will be ready to take thee by the hand as son. Faith, and how deftly Tom Croftly handles that great blade, and cuts the hay in squares. Were I a fighting man, methinks that would be a good weapon to have in battle. Heyday! what ails the man? Does he want to break his neck?”
For Tom Croftly suddenly threw up his hands, leaped some eight feet down into the meadow, and came up panting and with his forehead bedewed with sweat. His eyes were staring, and his countenance ghastly, while for a few moments he could not speak.
“Hast seen a ghost, Tom Croftly?” cried Master Peasegood with a hearty laugh.
“Close upon it, master,” gasped Croftly. “Hey, master, but it be terrifying.”
“What is terrifying?” cried the founder.
“That, that,” panted the man. “Lord forgive me; I didn’t know what I did.”
“Speak out, man, speak out,” cried the founder, as the poor fellow began to tremble; and he clutched him by the arm, fearing that some new trouble had befallen his house.
“I can’t, yet, master, it be too terrifying,” gasped Croftly. “The Lord forgive me for doing such a deed!”
“Less of that last, Tom Croftly, and more explanation,” said Master Peasegood, sternly.
“Yes, Mas’ Peasegood, I’ll tell thee,” gasped the poor fellow. “I sharpened up as usual—the big knife, you know—and went to cut the ’lowance for the horse and pony, when I couldn’t have been looking; and he must have got up there to sleep.”
“He? Who? What?” cried the founder.
“It’s not I as can say, master,” stammered the poor fellow; “the knife went down hard, but I thrust the more, and then, taking up the truss of hay, his head rolled down.”
“What?” roared the founder.
“Heaven forgive me, master,” cried Croftly, sinking on his knees, “I’ve cut a man’s head clean from his body.”
The founder and Master Peasegood stared at him aghast, as if believing he was mad, but the poor fellow was sane enough; and, on following him to the little stack, there was the horrible truth; but Croftly was relieved on finding his knife had decapitated the dead, and not some sleeping man.
“Was he dead, then?” he faltered, in answer to a few words spoken by Master Peasegood.
“Dead, man! ay, months ago. Heaven have mercy on us, it’s a horrible thing.”
“You’re right,” said the founder, turning away with a shudder; “the poor wretch must have lain down when we were making the stack, and more hay have been thrown upon him. He must have been smothered.”
“Some gipsy, perhaps,” said Master Peasegood, whose broad face looked white.
“Here be a bottle by him,” said Tom Croftly, lifting one from beside the body, “and here be a strap. Why, master, master!” he cried, rising up with a scrap of clothing in his hand.
“What is it, Tom?” said the founder, shuddering. “Come away, man, come away.”
“Ay, I’ll come away, Mas’ Cobbe, but I’ve found out who it be.”
“You have?” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly, as the man opened and smelt the bottle.
“Ay, I have,” said Croftly. “That be strong waters in this bottle; and him as lay down,” he continued, sagaciously, “I say, him as lay down upon that half-built stack was drunk, and the steam of the moist hay stifled him.”
“But who think you it was?” cried the founder.
“Him as was missed,” cried Croftly, triumphantly.
“Thank God!” cried Master Peasegood; “then Gil was as innocent as the day.”
“Innocent—as the day?” cried the founder, in a puzzled voice, as he looked from one to the other. “Poor creature, how do you know? But I don’t understand. Some one who was missed? Good God!” he cried, as a light flashed upon him, and he took a step or two up the short ladder by the stack, and then leaped down. “’Tis Abel Churr!”