How Master Peasegood entertained his Friend.Master Joseph Peasegood’s little parsonage was a humble quiet spot, and accorded well with the moderate income he received as clerk of Roehurst. There were four rooms, and the roof was thatched over the bedchamber casements, which looked like two bright eyes peering from beneath a pair of overhanging brows. There was a pretty garden, in which the parson often worked, sheltered from the lane by a thick hedge, beneath which was his favourite seat, where he sat and read, with a rustic table before him, and a cherry-tree overhead to shade him from the sun. It was a noble cherry-tree, that bore the blackest and juiciest of fruit, though the parson never ate it, the birds taking all the trouble off his hands.Master Peasegood was standing at his door, looking very red and warm, for he had been having a verbal encounter with Mistress Hilberry, his thin acid housekeeper and general servant in one.It began in this wise, the lady being, according to her own account, the most humble and unpresuming of women, but all the same taking upon herself to say things that a less unpresuming person would not have dared.“I don’t say anything master,” she had exclaimed sharply, “because it would be impertinence in me, but I can’t help thinking that Sir Thomas and Master Cobbe, and all the principal people, will be annoyed to see you back-sliding in this way.”“Tut—tut—thou silly woman,” said the parson. “Father Brisdone is a good and worthy man, and I may convert him to the right faith.”“Mind he does not convert thee, master,” said the housekeeper. “These priests are as cunning as old sin. Why, I know on good authority that he’s made very welcome at the Pool-house, and if they don’t mind he’ll carry ’em all to Rome.”“Not this hot weather, poor things, I hope,” said Master Peasegood. “It’s warm enough here; I don’t know what it would be there.”“Much hotter, I know,” said the woman, meaningly, as she went on spreading the table with the requisites for a meal—cold pink bacon, a tempting loaf, rich yellow butter, and a couple of ale-horns, with other requisites for the evening repast.Master Peasegood had an angry reply upon his lips, but he wiped it off with his handkerchief, and walked to the window to see if his expected guest was on the way, while Mistress Hilberry went on talking.“They’ve seen the lights again, Master Peasegood.”“Tut, woman: fie on thee! How can you believe such things.”“Because I’ve seen them myself, sir,” said the woman, tartly. “Strange ungodly lights dancing up and down, and moving through the forest, and Mistress Croftly and others have seen them since.”“Marshy exhalations, luminous vapours, terrestrial lamps, Mistress Hilberry.”“I daresay they be, sir,” said the woman with asperity. “It don’t matter to me what you call them, but they’re spirits, and just a year ago, about this time, Martin Lee was struck down by one of them with a noise like thunder. He was an ailing man for a twelvemonth after, shivering regularly at times when he should have been sound and well.”“Yes, I dare say,” said Master Peasegood. “Hah! here he is.”He waddled down to the garden-gate, to open it for a thin, pale, grey man in a priest’s cassock, who grasped his hand warmly, and then with a scared, hunted look in his eye, which made him glance uneasily around, as if in search of danger, he accompanied Master Peasegood into the parlour, where Mistress Hilberry received them with a portentous sniff.“Peace be with thee, my daughter,” the new-comer said, softly; but Mistress Hilberry seemed disposed to declare war, for she snorted, turned on her heel, and left the room with a good deal of rustling and noise.The visitor looked pained as his eyes sought those of his host in an inquiring way.“Only the weaker vessel,” said Master Peasegood, laughing. “Never heed her, Father Francis. She tells me thou wilt convert me, and I tell her I am going to convert thee. I’m glad to see you; but, ah!” he cried, holding up a warning finger, “thou hast been fasting over much. Quelling the spirit in us is one thing, making the body weak and sick another. Sit down, man, and fall to. We’ll have a long and cosy evening, and discuss politics and the matters of the world.”He placed a chair for his guest, smiling pleasantly upon him the while, and then a goodly jug of ale being brought in by Mistress Hilberry, the two clerical friends made a hearty meal, after Father Brisdone had blessed the food.“I ought not to eat this after your blessing,” said Master Peasegood, laughing, “but I shall. And now, good Father Francis, before we shelve religious matters for the evening, tell me outright, now, have you been trying to win over my little woman yonder at the Pool?”For answer, Father Francis held out his hand.“Nor the Captain?”“Nay, not a word has passed my lips to him on the subject of religion.”“Then it is agreed that there is to be a good and honest truce between us. Neither one nor the other is to play wolf round his neighbour’s sheepfold.”“Brother Joseph,” said the guest, rising, taking a step forward, and laying his hands upon the other’s broad shoulder, “shame has kept me silent heretofore. Now, dear friend, I will confess.”“Forbidden subject,” said Master Peasegood.“Nay, nay, it is not. Your suspicions were right. I was starving when you came to me, and the fastings were enforced. I could not dig, to beg I was ashamed. The few poor people of my faith I could not trouble; and it had come to this, that I felt ready to lie down and die in the land where once our Church was wealthy, when I found that the age of miracles was, after all, not passed, for the last man of whom I could expect such a service brought me aid.”“Bah, stuff! Sit down, man, and have some more bread and some of that good yellow butter. You’d have done as much for me;” and, half forcing his visitor into a chair, the host watched until he had made a hearty meal. “No more? Well, then, Mistress Hilberry shall clear away, and then I have a surprise for thee.”Going to the door, and summoning the housekeeper, that lady quickly cleared the table, a lamp was lit, another jug of ale was placed upon the board, and then, as soon as they were alone, Master Joseph Peasegood went to an old-fashioned cupboard, and tenderly taking out the pipes and bag of tobacco he had received from Gil, he placed them on the table with a smile.“Pipes? tobacco?” exclaimed Father Brisdone, drawing back his heavy chair.“Yes; do they frighten thee?” said Master Peasegood.“You do not mean to smoke?” said Father Brisdone, earnestly.“I mean for both of us to smoke,” said Master Peasegood.“Would it not be a sin?”“Nay, I think not; though our Solomon Jamie says it is. But how can we know whether we ought to forbid or no if we have not proved smoking to be a sin?”“A fallacious argument, Brother Joseph,” said the father, smiling. “We ought, then, to rob and slay and covet, to try whether they are sins before we condemn?”“Nay,” said Master Peasegood, taking up a pipe, and beginning to open the little linen bag of weed, taking some out, and carefully shredding it with a knife. “Those have all been proved to be sins. This has not.”“If you wish, I will try it, then,” said the father; and, as the tobacco was passed to him, he filled the little pipe before him, took the light provided by his friend, held it to the bowl, and puffed, while Master Joseph Peasegood did the same.One little pipeful was smoked in silence, the ashes tapped from the bowl, and they smoked another pipeful, staring stolidly one at the other, as they sat on opposite sides of the table, till they had done, when there was a pause.“What do you think of it?” said Master Peasegood, who, after several paroxysms of coughing, had refrained from trying to swallow the smoke, and contented himself with taking it into his mouth, and puffing it out.“I feel more sick than sinful,” said the father, quietly. “And you?”“I have a peculiar tightness of the brain, and a tendency to fancy I am as thin as thee, instead of as fat as I. Father Brisdone, in my present state, I think the greatest sin I should commit would be to go to my couch. Wilt try another pipe?”“Nay,” said Father Brisdone, “I think two will suffice. King James must have felt like I when he wrote his work on this wondrous weed. It strikes me as strange that man should care to burn this herb when it is so medical in its effects.”“Ay, it is,” said Master Peasegood. “It reminds me of my sensations when I was once prevailed upon by Dame—nay, she was Mistress Beckley then, for Sir Thomas had not paid a thousand pounds for his title—by Mistress Beckley to drink of a wonderful decoction of hers, made of sundry simples—agrimony, rue, marshmallow, and dandelion. It has always been my custom to drink heartily, Father Brisdone, so I drank lustily from the silver mug in which it was placed. Poor mug, it was an insult to the silver to put such villainous stuff therein. The very swine would have turned up their noses and screwed their tails; and I forsooth, for good manners’ sake, gulped it down. Here, father, drink some of this honest ale, and let us take the taste of the Indian weed from our lips.”He passed the big mug to his friend, and he drank and returned it to Master Peasegood, who quaffed most heartily; and then, with doleful visages, the two friends sat and gazed in each other’s eyes.“I don’t feel any better, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood at last. “If this be a sin, this smoking, it carries its own punishment. Let us out into the open air.”“Yes,” said his visitor, “the fresh night wind may revive us. But where got you this tobacco, did you say?”“From Captain Gil,” replied Master Peasegood; and then, as they strolled out of the gate into the soft night-air, he continued, “My mind misgives me about that lad, father. What are we to do about him?”“Warn him if he be in the way of ill, which I hope is not the case, for he is a brave, true lad, ready to help one of my faith in trouble. Many is the fugitive he has taken across to peace and safety in his ship.”“For which, were it known, he would be most surely hanged or shot.”Father Brisdone sighed.“It is strange,” he said, “that we should become such Mends, Master Peasegood.”“Ay, it is strange,” said the other; and feeling refreshed by the night-air they walked softly up and down conversing upon the political state of the country, the coming of King James’s messenger, and his stay at the Pool-house, till suddenly Master Peasegood drew his companion’s attention to a sound.They were standing in a narrow path, running at right angles from a well-marked track; and as Master Peasegood spoke there was the snort of a horse and the rattle of harness, followed by much trampling; and, going a little forward, they could dimly see the figures of armed men by the light of lanterns which two of the horses carried at their head-stalls.“Why, they are loaded with something, father,” said the stout clerk. “And, good—”He was going to say “gracious,” but the words were checked upon his lips as a couple of heavy blankets were thrown over his and Father Brisdone’s heads and they were dragged heavily to the ground.
Master Joseph Peasegood’s little parsonage was a humble quiet spot, and accorded well with the moderate income he received as clerk of Roehurst. There were four rooms, and the roof was thatched over the bedchamber casements, which looked like two bright eyes peering from beneath a pair of overhanging brows. There was a pretty garden, in which the parson often worked, sheltered from the lane by a thick hedge, beneath which was his favourite seat, where he sat and read, with a rustic table before him, and a cherry-tree overhead to shade him from the sun. It was a noble cherry-tree, that bore the blackest and juiciest of fruit, though the parson never ate it, the birds taking all the trouble off his hands.
Master Peasegood was standing at his door, looking very red and warm, for he had been having a verbal encounter with Mistress Hilberry, his thin acid housekeeper and general servant in one.
It began in this wise, the lady being, according to her own account, the most humble and unpresuming of women, but all the same taking upon herself to say things that a less unpresuming person would not have dared.
“I don’t say anything master,” she had exclaimed sharply, “because it would be impertinence in me, but I can’t help thinking that Sir Thomas and Master Cobbe, and all the principal people, will be annoyed to see you back-sliding in this way.”
“Tut—tut—thou silly woman,” said the parson. “Father Brisdone is a good and worthy man, and I may convert him to the right faith.”
“Mind he does not convert thee, master,” said the housekeeper. “These priests are as cunning as old sin. Why, I know on good authority that he’s made very welcome at the Pool-house, and if they don’t mind he’ll carry ’em all to Rome.”
“Not this hot weather, poor things, I hope,” said Master Peasegood. “It’s warm enough here; I don’t know what it would be there.”
“Much hotter, I know,” said the woman, meaningly, as she went on spreading the table with the requisites for a meal—cold pink bacon, a tempting loaf, rich yellow butter, and a couple of ale-horns, with other requisites for the evening repast.
Master Peasegood had an angry reply upon his lips, but he wiped it off with his handkerchief, and walked to the window to see if his expected guest was on the way, while Mistress Hilberry went on talking.
“They’ve seen the lights again, Master Peasegood.”
“Tut, woman: fie on thee! How can you believe such things.”
“Because I’ve seen them myself, sir,” said the woman, tartly. “Strange ungodly lights dancing up and down, and moving through the forest, and Mistress Croftly and others have seen them since.”
“Marshy exhalations, luminous vapours, terrestrial lamps, Mistress Hilberry.”
“I daresay they be, sir,” said the woman with asperity. “It don’t matter to me what you call them, but they’re spirits, and just a year ago, about this time, Martin Lee was struck down by one of them with a noise like thunder. He was an ailing man for a twelvemonth after, shivering regularly at times when he should have been sound and well.”
“Yes, I dare say,” said Master Peasegood. “Hah! here he is.”
He waddled down to the garden-gate, to open it for a thin, pale, grey man in a priest’s cassock, who grasped his hand warmly, and then with a scared, hunted look in his eye, which made him glance uneasily around, as if in search of danger, he accompanied Master Peasegood into the parlour, where Mistress Hilberry received them with a portentous sniff.
“Peace be with thee, my daughter,” the new-comer said, softly; but Mistress Hilberry seemed disposed to declare war, for she snorted, turned on her heel, and left the room with a good deal of rustling and noise.
The visitor looked pained as his eyes sought those of his host in an inquiring way.
“Only the weaker vessel,” said Master Peasegood, laughing. “Never heed her, Father Francis. She tells me thou wilt convert me, and I tell her I am going to convert thee. I’m glad to see you; but, ah!” he cried, holding up a warning finger, “thou hast been fasting over much. Quelling the spirit in us is one thing, making the body weak and sick another. Sit down, man, and fall to. We’ll have a long and cosy evening, and discuss politics and the matters of the world.”
He placed a chair for his guest, smiling pleasantly upon him the while, and then a goodly jug of ale being brought in by Mistress Hilberry, the two clerical friends made a hearty meal, after Father Brisdone had blessed the food.
“I ought not to eat this after your blessing,” said Master Peasegood, laughing, “but I shall. And now, good Father Francis, before we shelve religious matters for the evening, tell me outright, now, have you been trying to win over my little woman yonder at the Pool?”
For answer, Father Francis held out his hand.
“Nor the Captain?”
“Nay, not a word has passed my lips to him on the subject of religion.”
“Then it is agreed that there is to be a good and honest truce between us. Neither one nor the other is to play wolf round his neighbour’s sheepfold.”
“Brother Joseph,” said the guest, rising, taking a step forward, and laying his hands upon the other’s broad shoulder, “shame has kept me silent heretofore. Now, dear friend, I will confess.”
“Forbidden subject,” said Master Peasegood.
“Nay, nay, it is not. Your suspicions were right. I was starving when you came to me, and the fastings were enforced. I could not dig, to beg I was ashamed. The few poor people of my faith I could not trouble; and it had come to this, that I felt ready to lie down and die in the land where once our Church was wealthy, when I found that the age of miracles was, after all, not passed, for the last man of whom I could expect such a service brought me aid.”
“Bah, stuff! Sit down, man, and have some more bread and some of that good yellow butter. You’d have done as much for me;” and, half forcing his visitor into a chair, the host watched until he had made a hearty meal. “No more? Well, then, Mistress Hilberry shall clear away, and then I have a surprise for thee.”
Going to the door, and summoning the housekeeper, that lady quickly cleared the table, a lamp was lit, another jug of ale was placed upon the board, and then, as soon as they were alone, Master Joseph Peasegood went to an old-fashioned cupboard, and tenderly taking out the pipes and bag of tobacco he had received from Gil, he placed them on the table with a smile.
“Pipes? tobacco?” exclaimed Father Brisdone, drawing back his heavy chair.
“Yes; do they frighten thee?” said Master Peasegood.
“You do not mean to smoke?” said Father Brisdone, earnestly.
“I mean for both of us to smoke,” said Master Peasegood.
“Would it not be a sin?”
“Nay, I think not; though our Solomon Jamie says it is. But how can we know whether we ought to forbid or no if we have not proved smoking to be a sin?”
“A fallacious argument, Brother Joseph,” said the father, smiling. “We ought, then, to rob and slay and covet, to try whether they are sins before we condemn?”
“Nay,” said Master Peasegood, taking up a pipe, and beginning to open the little linen bag of weed, taking some out, and carefully shredding it with a knife. “Those have all been proved to be sins. This has not.”
“If you wish, I will try it, then,” said the father; and, as the tobacco was passed to him, he filled the little pipe before him, took the light provided by his friend, held it to the bowl, and puffed, while Master Joseph Peasegood did the same.
One little pipeful was smoked in silence, the ashes tapped from the bowl, and they smoked another pipeful, staring stolidly one at the other, as they sat on opposite sides of the table, till they had done, when there was a pause.
“What do you think of it?” said Master Peasegood, who, after several paroxysms of coughing, had refrained from trying to swallow the smoke, and contented himself with taking it into his mouth, and puffing it out.
“I feel more sick than sinful,” said the father, quietly. “And you?”
“I have a peculiar tightness of the brain, and a tendency to fancy I am as thin as thee, instead of as fat as I. Father Brisdone, in my present state, I think the greatest sin I should commit would be to go to my couch. Wilt try another pipe?”
“Nay,” said Father Brisdone, “I think two will suffice. King James must have felt like I when he wrote his work on this wondrous weed. It strikes me as strange that man should care to burn this herb when it is so medical in its effects.”
“Ay, it is,” said Master Peasegood. “It reminds me of my sensations when I was once prevailed upon by Dame—nay, she was Mistress Beckley then, for Sir Thomas had not paid a thousand pounds for his title—by Mistress Beckley to drink of a wonderful decoction of hers, made of sundry simples—agrimony, rue, marshmallow, and dandelion. It has always been my custom to drink heartily, Father Brisdone, so I drank lustily from the silver mug in which it was placed. Poor mug, it was an insult to the silver to put such villainous stuff therein. The very swine would have turned up their noses and screwed their tails; and I forsooth, for good manners’ sake, gulped it down. Here, father, drink some of this honest ale, and let us take the taste of the Indian weed from our lips.”
He passed the big mug to his friend, and he drank and returned it to Master Peasegood, who quaffed most heartily; and then, with doleful visages, the two friends sat and gazed in each other’s eyes.
“I don’t feel any better, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood at last. “If this be a sin, this smoking, it carries its own punishment. Let us out into the open air.”
“Yes,” said his visitor, “the fresh night wind may revive us. But where got you this tobacco, did you say?”
“From Captain Gil,” replied Master Peasegood; and then, as they strolled out of the gate into the soft night-air, he continued, “My mind misgives me about that lad, father. What are we to do about him?”
“Warn him if he be in the way of ill, which I hope is not the case, for he is a brave, true lad, ready to help one of my faith in trouble. Many is the fugitive he has taken across to peace and safety in his ship.”
“For which, were it known, he would be most surely hanged or shot.”
Father Brisdone sighed.
“It is strange,” he said, “that we should become such Mends, Master Peasegood.”
“Ay, it is strange,” said the other; and feeling refreshed by the night-air they walked softly up and down conversing upon the political state of the country, the coming of King James’s messenger, and his stay at the Pool-house, till suddenly Master Peasegood drew his companion’s attention to a sound.
They were standing in a narrow path, running at right angles from a well-marked track; and as Master Peasegood spoke there was the snort of a horse and the rattle of harness, followed by much trampling; and, going a little forward, they could dimly see the figures of armed men by the light of lanterns which two of the horses carried at their head-stalls.
“Why, they are loaded with something, father,” said the stout clerk. “And, good—”
He was going to say “gracious,” but the words were checked upon his lips as a couple of heavy blankets were thrown over his and Father Brisdone’s heads and they were dragged heavily to the ground.
How the Forest Spirits paid their Debts.At the appointed time, Captain Gil made his way to where, some twenty strong, his crew were sitting and standing beneath a wide-spreading tree, with some forty horses grouped around, one and all heavily laden with sacks, barrels slung on either side, heavy boxes, and rolls of sailcloth. Some of the men were smoking, some minding the horses, while others lolled about, half-asleep, upon the ground.If by chance any of the few rustic people, whose houses were scattered here and there, could have seen them in the shadow of the trees, they might very well have been excused for taking them for occupants of some nether region; while those whose horses did duty for the night, if they found them wet and weary, said nothing, but took it all as a matter of course, feeling as they did sure of encountering trouble if they made a stir, and being satisfied that their silence would be paid for in some indirect manner.Farmer Goodsell’s team was taken several times over; and one morning he went into the stables to find the horses so weary and dirty that he swore he would stand it no longer, and fetched his wife to see.She held up her hands and opened her eyes wide.“It be witchcraft, Jarge,” she exclaimed.“Nay—nay, girl,” he cried; “it be somebody else’s craft, and what’s that on the bin?”Mrs Farmer Goodsell took up a packet, opened, looked at it, and her eyes brightened as she ran to the light.“As fine a bit of silk as I ever see,” she said, with sparkling eyes; “and look, what’s this?”“Indian weed, my lass—tobacky,” said the farmer, with his face growing smooth. “Hi! Harry, feed these horses and give them a rub down.”This was a sample of the treatment the owners received, so as the years glided on it grew to be the custom to say nothing whatever when horses were taken, for a present of some kind was certain to follow—strangely-shaped flasks of strong waters, pieces of velvet from Italy, curious bits of silk from India and China; and, for the use of horses taken from the Pool-house, Master Cobbe, just when he had rather angrily told his daughter that he should keep the stable locked, found a heavy bale in the porch one morning, wet with dew, and on opening it he found himself the possessor of a soft carpet from the land of the Turk.It was well known that some kind of secret business was carried on, but the more sage people shut their eyes and said nothing, while the weak talked of witches and the like, and laid the strange proceedings at Mother Goodhugh’s door. For the greater the ignorance, the deeper the love of the mysterious and weird; and hence, with a monarch on the throne whose wisdom was developing itself in literary crusades against the sin of spiritual commerce, it was no wonder that when distorted verbal versions of the British Solomon’s utterances reached Roehurst they should tend to strengthen the simple-minded people’s belief in witchcraft and wise-womanry, evil spirits, and visions of the night.The appearance of Gil amongst the resting men acted like magic. A few short orders, and without a word a couple of lanterns were lit, attached to the foremost horses, and, well-armed, silent, and watchful, the little party set off in single file right through the forest, Wat Kilby taking the lead and the captain walking with the rear.Once or twice there were short halts to readjust some pack or tighten the ropes that slung some cask; but otherwise there was the quiet tread of the horses’ hoofs and an occasional snort to break the silence of the night. Not a man spoke save the gaunt old sailor Wat, who gruffly gave an order or two, and perhaps changed the direction of the convoy.Trees switched and rustled their branches as the heavy horseloads brushed against them; the wild animals of the wood scampered off at the sight of the dim lanterns; but they had been journeying on for quite an hour before a faint whistle placed Wat Kilby on thequi vive, when, seeing what was wrong, he and a couple more men stole off amongst the trees to get to the rear of those who were watching the strange file, and directly after the two clerks were struggling on the ground in utter darkness, while the horses passed on, and Gil came abreast.“What is it?” he asked, in a low voice.“We’ve made a mistake, skipper,” growled Wat Kilby. “It’s the parson and the holy father.”“What were they doing here?”“Watching,” growled Wat.“Pass on, every one,” said Gil, quietly. “I will speak to them. I’ll join you at the mouth.”The sound of the horses’ hoofs was already dying away in the distance, and Wat and his companions seemed to melt softly into the darkness, while, quietly going down on one knee, the captain drew off the rough pieces of cloth from the faces of the prostrate clerks, who, finding themselves at liberty, sat up.“I hope you are not hurt, father,” said Gil to Father Brisdone.“Ah, my son, is it you?” was the reply. “Nay, I am not hurt, though the men were rough.”“But I am hurt,” cried Master Peasegood, angrily. “I thought it was one of your games, Captain Gil Carr. Zounds, sir, Sir Thomas Beckley shall know of it, and constables and fighting-men shall come and clear your nest of hornets away. Zounds, father, if I were of your faith, I’d excommunicate him.”“You are hasty, Master Peasegood,” said Gil, quietly. “Do not rail at me. I have done nothing but set you at liberty.”“But you had us seized.”“Nay, indeed, I knew nothing until I came upon you here, and I have set you at liberty. You are quite free; go in peace.”“Quite free; go in peace!” cried Master Peasegood. “Zounds, sir, is this a free country—is this his Majesty’s high-way, or are you the lord of it all! I’ll have it stopped.”“Nay, nay, Master Peasegood, you are angry, and you will stop nothing. You must have seen the forest spirits, and they interfered with you.”“Bah! away with thy trash.”“Ah, well, call it what you like. Good-night, Master Peasegood; good-night, Father Brisdone; can I do anything for you? I must go. I shall tell the forest spirits that they need fear nothing from you, Master Peasegood. They must have thought they had captured the doughty knight Sir Mark. Good-night.”“The impudent dog! to compare my figure with that of a spindle of a knight. Bah! tush! rubbish! Come, Father Brisdone, we will get indoors; the night-air is unwholesome with these spirits about. But he’s right; I shall say nothing, and I’m sure that nothing will fall from thee.”The two friends turned and went back towards the parson’s cottage, while Gil hurried on to overtake his party of well-armed men.He was not long in reaching the last horse, and walked steadily by its side; he came to a halt in the dark ravine just below where Mistress Anne had been seated for so long upon the stone, and here a busy scene took place, the horses being rapidly unladen, and pack, chest, and barrel being carried or rolled along a shelf of rock beneath an overhanging ledge of sandstone, where the little gorge seemed to come to a sudden stop before branching out in a fresh direction.Sentries had been placed at some distance along the only approach to the place; and while they kept guard one of the lanterns was carried in through a rift in the rock, and placed upon the block of stone, where it shed its rays upon the scene, lighting up a chamber that had evidently at some very remote time been cut from the rock, another communicating with it at the back; and here on shelf and ledge were piled up in picturesque confusion what seemed to be ships’ stores, and a heterogeneous collection of barrels, bales and kegs. Some evidently contained gunpowder, while others as certainly were filled with that more humble meal—flour. Then there were rolls of sailcloth, coils of rope, racks of swords and pikes, and a couple of small pieces of artillery.There was no confusion: bale, keg, barrel, and box were carried in by the men in perfect silence, till the last load of the horses had been deposited, when Wat Kilby growled out an order, and four men put their shoulders to a huge mass of stone, which they rolled over twice, when it blocked up the low entrance to the cave; a few branches were carefully dragged back to lie athwart it, and the party once more set off as silently as they had come, but this time with the captain in front and Wat Kilby at his side.“You will have plenty of time on your hands for the next month,” said the former; “you had better keep an eye on that fellow, Abel Churr. I have been thinking which would be best: to catch and threaten him—”“That’s one way,” said Wat.“To bribe—”“Two ways.”“Or to take no notice.”“Three ways.”“If he gets in, which he could not do without help, he would only take a few odds and ends that we should never miss. The awkwardness would be another party knowing anything about the store when we are away. One might come back from a voyage to find the whole place wrecked.”“What do you say to shutting him up for a month to bring him to his senses?”“Would not do,” said Gil, as they trudged on through the forest.“Take him off with us to sea?”“No, I would not do that.”“Hang him, then, out of the way,” growled Wat. “I’ll bury him after, for he don’t deserve such a Christian burial as dropping over the side with a shot at his heels, to be standing up at the bottom of the sea ready to rise again.”No more was said, and the strange, weird-looking train passed silently on through the forest till the cultivated land was neared, when, without a word, the strength of the party seemed to gradually diminish, a team of horses dropping behind here, a pair there, a single horse further on, till at last horses and men had all disappeared, and Wat and the captain stood together in a moist-smelling glade, with the early morning air coming in gentle puffs, sometimes salt from the sea, with the faint, peculiar odour of decaying seaweed, sometimes sweetly-scented with the hay which farmers here and there were making for their winter store.“Let Abel Churr rest,” said the captain quietly. “I may find means of quieting his tongue.”“I’d like to do it myself,” growled Wat, as they separated, but only for the latter to be called back.“Have you been hanging about the Pool-house lately, Wat?”The great fellow shuffled about, and rubbed one ear.“You need not answer,” said Gil, quietly, and he walked away.
At the appointed time, Captain Gil made his way to where, some twenty strong, his crew were sitting and standing beneath a wide-spreading tree, with some forty horses grouped around, one and all heavily laden with sacks, barrels slung on either side, heavy boxes, and rolls of sailcloth. Some of the men were smoking, some minding the horses, while others lolled about, half-asleep, upon the ground.
If by chance any of the few rustic people, whose houses were scattered here and there, could have seen them in the shadow of the trees, they might very well have been excused for taking them for occupants of some nether region; while those whose horses did duty for the night, if they found them wet and weary, said nothing, but took it all as a matter of course, feeling as they did sure of encountering trouble if they made a stir, and being satisfied that their silence would be paid for in some indirect manner.
Farmer Goodsell’s team was taken several times over; and one morning he went into the stables to find the horses so weary and dirty that he swore he would stand it no longer, and fetched his wife to see.
She held up her hands and opened her eyes wide.
“It be witchcraft, Jarge,” she exclaimed.
“Nay—nay, girl,” he cried; “it be somebody else’s craft, and what’s that on the bin?”
Mrs Farmer Goodsell took up a packet, opened, looked at it, and her eyes brightened as she ran to the light.
“As fine a bit of silk as I ever see,” she said, with sparkling eyes; “and look, what’s this?”
“Indian weed, my lass—tobacky,” said the farmer, with his face growing smooth. “Hi! Harry, feed these horses and give them a rub down.”
This was a sample of the treatment the owners received, so as the years glided on it grew to be the custom to say nothing whatever when horses were taken, for a present of some kind was certain to follow—strangely-shaped flasks of strong waters, pieces of velvet from Italy, curious bits of silk from India and China; and, for the use of horses taken from the Pool-house, Master Cobbe, just when he had rather angrily told his daughter that he should keep the stable locked, found a heavy bale in the porch one morning, wet with dew, and on opening it he found himself the possessor of a soft carpet from the land of the Turk.
It was well known that some kind of secret business was carried on, but the more sage people shut their eyes and said nothing, while the weak talked of witches and the like, and laid the strange proceedings at Mother Goodhugh’s door. For the greater the ignorance, the deeper the love of the mysterious and weird; and hence, with a monarch on the throne whose wisdom was developing itself in literary crusades against the sin of spiritual commerce, it was no wonder that when distorted verbal versions of the British Solomon’s utterances reached Roehurst they should tend to strengthen the simple-minded people’s belief in witchcraft and wise-womanry, evil spirits, and visions of the night.
The appearance of Gil amongst the resting men acted like magic. A few short orders, and without a word a couple of lanterns were lit, attached to the foremost horses, and, well-armed, silent, and watchful, the little party set off in single file right through the forest, Wat Kilby taking the lead and the captain walking with the rear.
Once or twice there were short halts to readjust some pack or tighten the ropes that slung some cask; but otherwise there was the quiet tread of the horses’ hoofs and an occasional snort to break the silence of the night. Not a man spoke save the gaunt old sailor Wat, who gruffly gave an order or two, and perhaps changed the direction of the convoy.
Trees switched and rustled their branches as the heavy horseloads brushed against them; the wild animals of the wood scampered off at the sight of the dim lanterns; but they had been journeying on for quite an hour before a faint whistle placed Wat Kilby on thequi vive, when, seeing what was wrong, he and a couple more men stole off amongst the trees to get to the rear of those who were watching the strange file, and directly after the two clerks were struggling on the ground in utter darkness, while the horses passed on, and Gil came abreast.
“What is it?” he asked, in a low voice.
“We’ve made a mistake, skipper,” growled Wat Kilby. “It’s the parson and the holy father.”
“What were they doing here?”
“Watching,” growled Wat.
“Pass on, every one,” said Gil, quietly. “I will speak to them. I’ll join you at the mouth.”
The sound of the horses’ hoofs was already dying away in the distance, and Wat and his companions seemed to melt softly into the darkness, while, quietly going down on one knee, the captain drew off the rough pieces of cloth from the faces of the prostrate clerks, who, finding themselves at liberty, sat up.
“I hope you are not hurt, father,” said Gil to Father Brisdone.
“Ah, my son, is it you?” was the reply. “Nay, I am not hurt, though the men were rough.”
“But I am hurt,” cried Master Peasegood, angrily. “I thought it was one of your games, Captain Gil Carr. Zounds, sir, Sir Thomas Beckley shall know of it, and constables and fighting-men shall come and clear your nest of hornets away. Zounds, father, if I were of your faith, I’d excommunicate him.”
“You are hasty, Master Peasegood,” said Gil, quietly. “Do not rail at me. I have done nothing but set you at liberty.”
“But you had us seized.”
“Nay, indeed, I knew nothing until I came upon you here, and I have set you at liberty. You are quite free; go in peace.”
“Quite free; go in peace!” cried Master Peasegood. “Zounds, sir, is this a free country—is this his Majesty’s high-way, or are you the lord of it all! I’ll have it stopped.”
“Nay, nay, Master Peasegood, you are angry, and you will stop nothing. You must have seen the forest spirits, and they interfered with you.”
“Bah! away with thy trash.”
“Ah, well, call it what you like. Good-night, Master Peasegood; good-night, Father Brisdone; can I do anything for you? I must go. I shall tell the forest spirits that they need fear nothing from you, Master Peasegood. They must have thought they had captured the doughty knight Sir Mark. Good-night.”
“The impudent dog! to compare my figure with that of a spindle of a knight. Bah! tush! rubbish! Come, Father Brisdone, we will get indoors; the night-air is unwholesome with these spirits about. But he’s right; I shall say nothing, and I’m sure that nothing will fall from thee.”
The two friends turned and went back towards the parson’s cottage, while Gil hurried on to overtake his party of well-armed men.
He was not long in reaching the last horse, and walked steadily by its side; he came to a halt in the dark ravine just below where Mistress Anne had been seated for so long upon the stone, and here a busy scene took place, the horses being rapidly unladen, and pack, chest, and barrel being carried or rolled along a shelf of rock beneath an overhanging ledge of sandstone, where the little gorge seemed to come to a sudden stop before branching out in a fresh direction.
Sentries had been placed at some distance along the only approach to the place; and while they kept guard one of the lanterns was carried in through a rift in the rock, and placed upon the block of stone, where it shed its rays upon the scene, lighting up a chamber that had evidently at some very remote time been cut from the rock, another communicating with it at the back; and here on shelf and ledge were piled up in picturesque confusion what seemed to be ships’ stores, and a heterogeneous collection of barrels, bales and kegs. Some evidently contained gunpowder, while others as certainly were filled with that more humble meal—flour. Then there were rolls of sailcloth, coils of rope, racks of swords and pikes, and a couple of small pieces of artillery.
There was no confusion: bale, keg, barrel, and box were carried in by the men in perfect silence, till the last load of the horses had been deposited, when Wat Kilby growled out an order, and four men put their shoulders to a huge mass of stone, which they rolled over twice, when it blocked up the low entrance to the cave; a few branches were carefully dragged back to lie athwart it, and the party once more set off as silently as they had come, but this time with the captain in front and Wat Kilby at his side.
“You will have plenty of time on your hands for the next month,” said the former; “you had better keep an eye on that fellow, Abel Churr. I have been thinking which would be best: to catch and threaten him—”
“That’s one way,” said Wat.
“To bribe—”
“Two ways.”
“Or to take no notice.”
“Three ways.”
“If he gets in, which he could not do without help, he would only take a few odds and ends that we should never miss. The awkwardness would be another party knowing anything about the store when we are away. One might come back from a voyage to find the whole place wrecked.”
“What do you say to shutting him up for a month to bring him to his senses?”
“Would not do,” said Gil, as they trudged on through the forest.
“Take him off with us to sea?”
“No, I would not do that.”
“Hang him, then, out of the way,” growled Wat. “I’ll bury him after, for he don’t deserve such a Christian burial as dropping over the side with a shot at his heels, to be standing up at the bottom of the sea ready to rise again.”
No more was said, and the strange, weird-looking train passed silently on through the forest till the cultivated land was neared, when, without a word, the strength of the party seemed to gradually diminish, a team of horses dropping behind here, a pair there, a single horse further on, till at last horses and men had all disappeared, and Wat and the captain stood together in a moist-smelling glade, with the early morning air coming in gentle puffs, sometimes salt from the sea, with the faint, peculiar odour of decaying seaweed, sometimes sweetly-scented with the hay which farmers here and there were making for their winter store.
“Let Abel Churr rest,” said the captain quietly. “I may find means of quieting his tongue.”
“I’d like to do it myself,” growled Wat, as they separated, but only for the latter to be called back.
“Have you been hanging about the Pool-house lately, Wat?”
The great fellow shuffled about, and rubbed one ear.
“You need not answer,” said Gil, quietly, and he walked away.
How Mother Goodhugh cursed Abel Churr.The rocky ravine which looked in the darkness like the entrance to some mystic region had hardly been vacated by Captain Gil’s crew, and the storehouse that he had formed in this stronghold of nature left to its solitude, before there was a curious rustling noise on high; a piece of bark fell to the ground; then a dry, dead twig; then the rustling was continued, and ceased for quite a quarter of an hour before it began again.This time it was commenced more loudly, and a branch of a tree overhead in the darkness quivered and jerked.“Too—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—o—hoo—o—o—o—o!” cried an owl somewhere close at hand, when the noise suddenly ceased, and all was silent once more for a good half-hour. Then the rustling was resumed, and in the dim starlight a figure was seen to descend a tree, rustling and scraping the bark till it reached the patch of soil in which the gnarled oak was rooted, and, thrusting aside the bushes, the figure made its way down to the trickling stream, which, after running apparently from the rock, coursed amongst the stones and ferns, half-hidden from the light of day, down the ravine bottom, to join some larger rivulet miles away.The dimly-seen figure crept cautiously along for some distance without venturing to stand erect, but at last, feeling apparently free from danger, it began to walk with less circumspection, though always in a flinching, animal-like fashion.Day was breaking as it reached Mother Goodhugh’s cottage, and after glancing up at the window, to be sure that the inmate was not stirring, the visitor crept up the bank opposite, and beneath a spreading fir-tree, where, curling itself up in an animal way, it went off to sleep.Some three hours later Mother Goodhugh was partaking of her breakfast—no simple meal, but one of substance, graced as it was with eggs and goodly bacon-rashers, gifts of foolish peasants’ wives who came to consult her concerning sick pigs, failing poultry, and milk-dry cows—the door was wide open, and the sparrows, after chirping about amongst the thatch, dropped down one by one, hopped right in, and kept picking up the crumbs the old woman threw from time to time upon the red brick floor.Sometimes she made a sound with her lips which brought others down to partake of her bounty, much to the annoyance of an old one-eyed magpie, which hopped to and fro in a wicker-cage, and cried, “chark,” and “ha,ha,ha!” the former being the nearest approach it ever got to charcoal, a word which, with brimstone and powder, Mother Goodhugh intended to form her pet’srepertoire.The sparrows hopped in over the lintel, seized crumbs, and flew off over and over again. Then there was a loud fluttering of wings, the birds departed, and Abel Churr entered, brushing off the fir-needles which clung to his hair and gaberdine.“Just in time, mother,” he chuckled. “Here, I’ve brought you the toad weed picked at midnight, and here are stink-horns and toadstools, fit to brew the strongest charms you will. Give me some breakfast.”“Shame upon thee, idler, for wanting to live on a lone widow’s substance!” cried Mother Goodhugh.“Don’t I help thee to all kinds of trade to make the substance rich?” chuckled Abel Churr; “but wait a bit, mother, I’ve found a treasure-house; a store of riches; and I’m a made man. I know where to find all that I want from time to time. Would’st like to share it?”“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, eagerly; “what have you found, Abel?”“Help me to something to eat,” he said, with a cunning smile, “and then I’ll talk to thee.”She hastened to put before him bread and milk, and eggs, and bacon, of which he freely partook, gazing at the hostess from time to time in a peculiar way, as if he had some further plan at heart.“You don’t tell me what you’ve found,” said Mother Goodhugh. “Come, tell me, lad. You’ll be happier for having some one to share it all.”“Found!” he cried, laughing; “I’ve learned that about Captain Culverin that he would kill me for knowing, did he find me out. Ha, ha, ha! I shall be rich now, and can help thee back more than thou hast helped me to, Mother Goodhugh. Where are the strong waters?”“I have none,” said the woman sulkily. “It is a lie,” he cried, sharply; and, rising, he stepped to the little chimney-piece, raised an old shell, and took out a key, which he held up, laughing.“Nay, nay, give me the key,” cried the old woman, making a dash to seize it; but with a savage thrust, more like a blow, he sent her staggering across the brick floor, to fall heavily, and lie for a few moments half stunned, while, chuckling with glee, Churr opened a corner-cupboard and took out a quaint-looking black bottle, which he carried to the table.“Coward—thief!” cried the old woman, as she struggled up; “thou shalt not have it;” and she ran to the table, when, with a malignant look, Churr struck her heavily with the back of his hand, sending her against the wall, where she stood panting.“Keep away, or I’ll pook thee again,” he cried, sourly.“Drink it, if you dare,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “It is poison of my own brewing. Drink, and die then: coward, to strike me thus.”Abel Churr’s whole aspect changed; his yellow countenance looked haggard, and his hand shook, as he stared from the old woman’s face to the bottle, and back again.“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mother Goodhugh, seeing her power; “drink away, lad, drink. I’ll see thee buried beneath some tree, and come and gather toadstools from off thy grave.”Churr set down the bottle upon the table, and, as he did so, his hands trembling visibly, Mother Goodhugh slowly sidled up, and was about to make a pounce upon the flask, when, with a cunning flash of the eye, Churr forestalled her and snatched it up, laughing heartily as he took out the cork, and smelt the contents.“Old mother of lies,” he cried, chuckling. “I’ll drink this poison all day long. Hah!” he ejaculated, shaking the flask so that the spirit within gurgled. “Hah!”He placed the vessel to his lips and drank savagely, while Mother Goodhugh stood glaring at him, with head stretched forward and fingers crooked like the claws of an animal about to spring.“Here,” he cried, pouring out a little of the spirit in a cup, and holding it to the old woman; “here, I will not take it all. Drink, mother, drink.”The old woman eagerly snatched up the cup and drained it.“That settles it. I thought so,” he said, laughing, as he took another draught. “Poor old Mother Goodhugh will be poisoned, too. Old fool! to think thou could’st deceive me with such shallow tricks. There,” he continued, after another draught, as he thrust in the cork, and placed the flask in his breast. “Now I be going away.”“Help me that bottle,” cried the old woman. “Don’t take away that flask. It is mine.”“No more thine than mine,” cried Churr, turning round at her with a snarl. “Haven’t I for years helped you in getting together what you have; helped you to cheat and trick the silly, gaping fools about here with thy mummery? Speak to me again as you did, and I’ll go and tell them all of thy tricks, and jugglery, and putting water in the founder’s moulds to blow them up, and let them see thee as a woman like themselves—old idiot that you be.”“Tell them,” cried Mother Goodhugh, furiously, as she made an effort to tear the flask from him, but only to be driven back by another furious blow; “tell them, coward, and they will not believe thee. You mock at me—do you? You call my spells foolery. We shall see how you will fare, now that I curse thee, and tell thee that thou shalt not die upon a bed.”“Curse away, mother,” he cried. “I have the strong waters.”“They’ll not believe thee; while, if I say the word, there are a dozen who would slay thee for injuring me, and leave thee to rot in the forest or die on a mixen.”“Say it then,” he cried, with a malignant grin. “Let them try if they dare.”“We shall see,” cried the old woman, stretching out one hand, and gazing fiercely at her confederate. “I do curse thee sleeping and waking. You have braved me, Abel Churr, and laughed at all my trade. Now we shall see.”“Yes,” he said, “now we shall see;” and, putting the bottle in his breast, he turned to the door. “I fear thy threats as much as I do thy poison. Ha, ha, ha! Poison—brave poison—good poison—poison for princes. Mother, wouldn’t you like to know what I have found out about Captain Gil?”“Nay, keep thy knowledge,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I know it, too. You will not live to enjoy it. Now, get thee gone.”“What!” he said, jeeringly. “Shall I not share my riches with thee, my dear old partner? Shall we not join now in cheating and tricking some one better than the wretched village fools? I tell thee that Captain Gil is rich, and I have his secret: I have found his store.”“And I tell thee, Abel Churr,” cried the old woman, “that thou hast always been a villain, a brute, and a coward to me. If thou knowest aught of Captain Gil’s secret, you will keep it, and share it with none. From this day I have neither truck nor trade with thee, so go thy way, and my curse go with thee. But take this to heart as thou goest: Captain Gil is a stern man, and if thou hast learned aught of his, and he knows it, look to thyself, or maybe thou’lt be sattled.”Abel Churr uttered an impatient “Pish!” and left the place full of his discovery. Avoiding the cottages of the workpeople, he went round by the back of the Pool, to where, like a lawn in the wood, lay a few acres of grass cut down for hay, a part of which had been stacked, the remainder lying out to dry, for a heavy rain had checked the carrying for a day or two.Churr looked round, listened, made sure that the field was empty, and then started and looked timidly upwards as a jay uttered a loud harsh cry and flew towards the wood. Then, crawling to the half-made stack, he climbed upon it, separated the soft, sweet-scented hay, took a draught of the spirit, corked the bottle and thrust it in the heap, and then, nestling down and drawing the hay over him, he was in a few moments fast asleep.
The rocky ravine which looked in the darkness like the entrance to some mystic region had hardly been vacated by Captain Gil’s crew, and the storehouse that he had formed in this stronghold of nature left to its solitude, before there was a curious rustling noise on high; a piece of bark fell to the ground; then a dry, dead twig; then the rustling was continued, and ceased for quite a quarter of an hour before it began again.
This time it was commenced more loudly, and a branch of a tree overhead in the darkness quivered and jerked.
“Too—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—o—hoo—o—o—o—o!” cried an owl somewhere close at hand, when the noise suddenly ceased, and all was silent once more for a good half-hour. Then the rustling was resumed, and in the dim starlight a figure was seen to descend a tree, rustling and scraping the bark till it reached the patch of soil in which the gnarled oak was rooted, and, thrusting aside the bushes, the figure made its way down to the trickling stream, which, after running apparently from the rock, coursed amongst the stones and ferns, half-hidden from the light of day, down the ravine bottom, to join some larger rivulet miles away.
The dimly-seen figure crept cautiously along for some distance without venturing to stand erect, but at last, feeling apparently free from danger, it began to walk with less circumspection, though always in a flinching, animal-like fashion.
Day was breaking as it reached Mother Goodhugh’s cottage, and after glancing up at the window, to be sure that the inmate was not stirring, the visitor crept up the bank opposite, and beneath a spreading fir-tree, where, curling itself up in an animal way, it went off to sleep.
Some three hours later Mother Goodhugh was partaking of her breakfast—no simple meal, but one of substance, graced as it was with eggs and goodly bacon-rashers, gifts of foolish peasants’ wives who came to consult her concerning sick pigs, failing poultry, and milk-dry cows—the door was wide open, and the sparrows, after chirping about amongst the thatch, dropped down one by one, hopped right in, and kept picking up the crumbs the old woman threw from time to time upon the red brick floor.
Sometimes she made a sound with her lips which brought others down to partake of her bounty, much to the annoyance of an old one-eyed magpie, which hopped to and fro in a wicker-cage, and cried, “chark,” and “ha,ha,ha!” the former being the nearest approach it ever got to charcoal, a word which, with brimstone and powder, Mother Goodhugh intended to form her pet’srepertoire.
The sparrows hopped in over the lintel, seized crumbs, and flew off over and over again. Then there was a loud fluttering of wings, the birds departed, and Abel Churr entered, brushing off the fir-needles which clung to his hair and gaberdine.
“Just in time, mother,” he chuckled. “Here, I’ve brought you the toad weed picked at midnight, and here are stink-horns and toadstools, fit to brew the strongest charms you will. Give me some breakfast.”
“Shame upon thee, idler, for wanting to live on a lone widow’s substance!” cried Mother Goodhugh.
“Don’t I help thee to all kinds of trade to make the substance rich?” chuckled Abel Churr; “but wait a bit, mother, I’ve found a treasure-house; a store of riches; and I’m a made man. I know where to find all that I want from time to time. Would’st like to share it?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, eagerly; “what have you found, Abel?”
“Help me to something to eat,” he said, with a cunning smile, “and then I’ll talk to thee.”
She hastened to put before him bread and milk, and eggs, and bacon, of which he freely partook, gazing at the hostess from time to time in a peculiar way, as if he had some further plan at heart.
“You don’t tell me what you’ve found,” said Mother Goodhugh. “Come, tell me, lad. You’ll be happier for having some one to share it all.”
“Found!” he cried, laughing; “I’ve learned that about Captain Culverin that he would kill me for knowing, did he find me out. Ha, ha, ha! I shall be rich now, and can help thee back more than thou hast helped me to, Mother Goodhugh. Where are the strong waters?”
“I have none,” said the woman sulkily. “It is a lie,” he cried, sharply; and, rising, he stepped to the little chimney-piece, raised an old shell, and took out a key, which he held up, laughing.
“Nay, nay, give me the key,” cried the old woman, making a dash to seize it; but with a savage thrust, more like a blow, he sent her staggering across the brick floor, to fall heavily, and lie for a few moments half stunned, while, chuckling with glee, Churr opened a corner-cupboard and took out a quaint-looking black bottle, which he carried to the table.
“Coward—thief!” cried the old woman, as she struggled up; “thou shalt not have it;” and she ran to the table, when, with a malignant look, Churr struck her heavily with the back of his hand, sending her against the wall, where she stood panting.
“Keep away, or I’ll pook thee again,” he cried, sourly.
“Drink it, if you dare,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “It is poison of my own brewing. Drink, and die then: coward, to strike me thus.”
Abel Churr’s whole aspect changed; his yellow countenance looked haggard, and his hand shook, as he stared from the old woman’s face to the bottle, and back again.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mother Goodhugh, seeing her power; “drink away, lad, drink. I’ll see thee buried beneath some tree, and come and gather toadstools from off thy grave.”
Churr set down the bottle upon the table, and, as he did so, his hands trembling visibly, Mother Goodhugh slowly sidled up, and was about to make a pounce upon the flask, when, with a cunning flash of the eye, Churr forestalled her and snatched it up, laughing heartily as he took out the cork, and smelt the contents.
“Old mother of lies,” he cried, chuckling. “I’ll drink this poison all day long. Hah!” he ejaculated, shaking the flask so that the spirit within gurgled. “Hah!”
He placed the vessel to his lips and drank savagely, while Mother Goodhugh stood glaring at him, with head stretched forward and fingers crooked like the claws of an animal about to spring.
“Here,” he cried, pouring out a little of the spirit in a cup, and holding it to the old woman; “here, I will not take it all. Drink, mother, drink.”
The old woman eagerly snatched up the cup and drained it.
“That settles it. I thought so,” he said, laughing, as he took another draught. “Poor old Mother Goodhugh will be poisoned, too. Old fool! to think thou could’st deceive me with such shallow tricks. There,” he continued, after another draught, as he thrust in the cork, and placed the flask in his breast. “Now I be going away.”
“Help me that bottle,” cried the old woman. “Don’t take away that flask. It is mine.”
“No more thine than mine,” cried Churr, turning round at her with a snarl. “Haven’t I for years helped you in getting together what you have; helped you to cheat and trick the silly, gaping fools about here with thy mummery? Speak to me again as you did, and I’ll go and tell them all of thy tricks, and jugglery, and putting water in the founder’s moulds to blow them up, and let them see thee as a woman like themselves—old idiot that you be.”
“Tell them,” cried Mother Goodhugh, furiously, as she made an effort to tear the flask from him, but only to be driven back by another furious blow; “tell them, coward, and they will not believe thee. You mock at me—do you? You call my spells foolery. We shall see how you will fare, now that I curse thee, and tell thee that thou shalt not die upon a bed.”
“Curse away, mother,” he cried. “I have the strong waters.”
“They’ll not believe thee; while, if I say the word, there are a dozen who would slay thee for injuring me, and leave thee to rot in the forest or die on a mixen.”
“Say it then,” he cried, with a malignant grin. “Let them try if they dare.”
“We shall see,” cried the old woman, stretching out one hand, and gazing fiercely at her confederate. “I do curse thee sleeping and waking. You have braved me, Abel Churr, and laughed at all my trade. Now we shall see.”
“Yes,” he said, “now we shall see;” and, putting the bottle in his breast, he turned to the door. “I fear thy threats as much as I do thy poison. Ha, ha, ha! Poison—brave poison—good poison—poison for princes. Mother, wouldn’t you like to know what I have found out about Captain Gil?”
“Nay, keep thy knowledge,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I know it, too. You will not live to enjoy it. Now, get thee gone.”
“What!” he said, jeeringly. “Shall I not share my riches with thee, my dear old partner? Shall we not join now in cheating and tricking some one better than the wretched village fools? I tell thee that Captain Gil is rich, and I have his secret: I have found his store.”
“And I tell thee, Abel Churr,” cried the old woman, “that thou hast always been a villain, a brute, and a coward to me. If thou knowest aught of Captain Gil’s secret, you will keep it, and share it with none. From this day I have neither truck nor trade with thee, so go thy way, and my curse go with thee. But take this to heart as thou goest: Captain Gil is a stern man, and if thou hast learned aught of his, and he knows it, look to thyself, or maybe thou’lt be sattled.”
Abel Churr uttered an impatient “Pish!” and left the place full of his discovery. Avoiding the cottages of the workpeople, he went round by the back of the Pool, to where, like a lawn in the wood, lay a few acres of grass cut down for hay, a part of which had been stacked, the remainder lying out to dry, for a heavy rain had checked the carrying for a day or two.
Churr looked round, listened, made sure that the field was empty, and then started and looked timidly upwards as a jay uttered a loud harsh cry and flew towards the wood. Then, crawling to the half-made stack, he climbed upon it, separated the soft, sweet-scented hay, took a draught of the spirit, corked the bottle and thrust it in the heap, and then, nestling down and drawing the hay over him, he was in a few moments fast asleep.
How Abel Churr bought a Secret.That was a bitter as well as a momentous day for Gil Carr. In the course of the morning he made his way to the Pool-house, determined to have a few words with Jeremiah Cobbe, and to talk calmly to him concerning Mace and the future. He felt, too, that a little sympathy was due to the founder after the late accident at his works.He went straight to the house, for he had taken Mace’s words to heart, that he should go boldly to the place; but, on entering, he was only met by Janet, who came after he had walked in according to old familiar custom, and rapped loudly at an inner door.Janet came down, looking red-faced and guilty, from one of the upper chambers.“Why, Janet,” he said, “the house is as quiet as if all were dead. Where have you been, lass? Why, that’s thy mistress’s kerchief on thy head!”The girl snatched it off, looking redder and more guilty than before, and hid it behind her.“I’d wager, Janet, that thou hast been upstairs trying on thy mistress’s finery. I’ll tell her so.”“Nay, pray, Captain Gilbert,” she cried, excitedly, “you would not make mischief between us. I did but—”“That’s confession enough,” said Gil, laughing. “Now, tell me where is thy master?”“Down at the furnace-house, seeing to its being new-roofed, sir,” replied the girl.“And thy—” Gil stopped with beating heart, for he dared not for the moment ask the question—one that he felt he could himself answer. “One word though,” he cried, “Mistress Janet. I have something to say about that pretty face of thine.”“Oh, Captain Carr,” said the girl, blushing. “You must not talk to me like that. What would my mistress say?”“That I was doing right, child. Harkye, you must not be showing that pretty face and those bright eyes to men who cannot become thy sweethearts.”The girl’s heart beat fast, and she looked up and looked down, began to plait her apron, dropped Mace’s kerchief, snatched it up, hid it behind her; then turning her head, with the pleasant flush of surprise deepening upon her neck.“Why, Janet,” said Gil, laughing, “you look as modest as if you were being courted.”“Oh, Captain Carr,” she simpered, “you must not talk to me like that;” and the weak girl fell a-trembling, telling herself that now her mistress had taken to go a-walking with the handsome young knight staying at the house, Captain Culverin, the bold, handsome fellow, of whom every maiden far and near had spoken as a hero, had fallen in love with her.“Not talk to thee, child,” said Gil, laughing. “Look here, Janet, I must be plain with thee.”He looked at her in an amused way for a moment, and then, catching one of her hands, he took her chin between his finger and thumb, and raised her face so that he could gaze straight into her humid eyes.The tears stood beneath the lids, and in another moment she would have cast herself upon the captain’s breast had not a word or two more dispelled her illusion.“I’ve known thee, Janet, since thou wert a little toddler, to whom I gave sugar from the Western Isles; and for thy mistress’s sake, Janet, would not have harm befall thee. Look you here, child, Master Wat Kilby hangs about here to gratify his old eyes by casting them upon thy pretty shape and face. Now, Janet, have you ever given him encouragement?”“As if it was likely!” cried the girl, snatching herself away, and her whole aspect undergoing a transformation. “A girt, old, ugly man like that; I’d pook him if he dared touch me. Such trade as that!” and she was flinging herself out of the hall when Gil checked her by saying, sternly—“Stop, girl! I am glad of it, for Wat Kilby is no mate for thee. Where is thy mistress?”“Where should she be?” cried the girl, spitefully, and with flashing eyes she went on: “Out in the forest reading love-songs to Sir Mark, same as she now does every day.”She ran off to hide her tears, but not before she had seen how cruel a stab she had given her mistress’s lover; and then, seeking her own chamber, she cried for long enough over her disappointment, and as much for sympathy for the brave young fellow whom she had, as she well knew, cut to the quick.Gil stood biting his lips, as he thought over the girl’s words.“No,” he cried, “I won’t believe it; Mace is too good and true.”He went out of the house to where the founder was directing his workpeople, who were busily laying massive oaken beams across the damaged building; and as Gil came up the old man nodded, talked of ordinary things, and then excused himself on the plea of business in so marked a manner that Gil could not but see that his presence was irksome, and soon afterwards left.He had hoped to have seen Mace, but he felt that he could not wait there now, and in a purposeless way he turned off the beaten track, meaning to throw himself down in some dry, shady spot, and try and arrange his thoughts. As it happened, fate led him straight to an opening in the forest, where two paths met—a place where the founder’s men had cut down the great oaks, leaving a clump of firs standing here and there, and beneath them was a mass of dry odorous pine-needles, the collection of many years. The old stumps left by the woodman’s axe were pretty well overgrown with moss, grass, and the various wild-flowers of the wood; and altogether a better spot than this opening in the thick forest could hardly have been found for noonday dreamings.So thought Sir Mark, as he lay at Mace’s feet, while she, with the bright rays of sunshine darting through the thin needled foliage, to lose themselves in her glossy hair, sat on one of the old stumps, and read to him in a soft, sweet voice—one which to Gil, as he came suddenly upon them, seemed softened and attuned to fall tenderly upon the invalid’s ear.“He is well enough by now, I’ll wager,” muttered Gil, as he walked straight up, to find that Mace rose as soon as she saw him, coloured deeply, and greeted him in a cold and injured way.Gil Carr’s hot blood danced through his veins, and, in his haste, he forgot to recall the last time they had met, when he was seen side by side with Anne Beckley; and, attributing Mace’s constrained manner to her vexation at being surprised with Sir Mark, he turned upon that gentleman fiercely, to find his glances returned with interest. For there was a look of triumph in the visitor’s eye, and a contemptuous smile on his lip, both of which seemed to say to him, “There, you see you have no chance; I am all conquering, and the day is mine.”Very few words passed before Mace, who feared a quarrel, said—“Will you return with me now, Sir Mark? The sun is growing hot, and my father will be waiting.”He bowed in his most courtly manner, and, taking her hand, helped her over a fallen tree, and again across a rift in the earth, while Gil, trembling with rage, disappointment, and mortification, stood gnawing his lip.“And this is woman’s faith!” he cried, as he strode away. “Oh, that my ship were fit for sea, or that I had something I could do.”He stopped, thinking for a few minutes, and then walked away straight for the ravine, partly to pass the time, partly because he felt uneasy about his store; while, sad at heart, poor Mace walked beside her companion, who sighed and never ceased to try and show her how hopelessly he was in love.It was very unfavourable for the progress of vegetation where Gil Carr strode over the ground, trampling down the tender forest herbage, tearing aside the young growth, and leaving a harsh track through the forest, till, getting nearer to his destination, he seemed to grow more careful, and ended by waking to the fact that any one might easily trace him by his trail.Altering his mind then, he struck down beside one of the rivulets, and followed its course pretty closely to the river—a small enough stream, but one which at times carried a considerable depth of water.A mile along here brought him to a busy nook, where, around a goodly-sized vessel, a score of men were hard at work with hatchet and adze repairing and restoring plank and timber that had been torn and riven by the rocks and waves of a long cruise. It was only the hull, every bit of rigging having been removed to lighten her for the men at work; and seated upon a barrel, smoking, giving orders or directions, was Wat Kilby, who rose to make his report on seeing his skipper approach.Gil did not stay long. He saw that his men were working hard, and that they were well provided for in the sheltered nook by the little river side, which he had made his vessel’s port; and at last, as the evening was coming, entered the boarded hut which formed Wat’s home for the time, partook of a rough meal with him, gave him certain orders, and turned once more towards Roehurst, meaning to go up the ravine on the way.He was weary with much walking, and low-spirited. What had been a pleasant sojourn ashore had become wearisome and full of pain, due, he felt, rightly or wrongly, to the coming of Sir Mark, the recollection of whom made his brows knit and his hands involuntarily clench.These thoughts stayed him in his course, and more than once he sat down thinking whether it would not be better to get away to one of the ports, and charter a small vessel for a trip, so as to occupy his mind.“And leave the field open to the enemy?” he cried, springing up. “Nay, that’s not like Gil Carr.”With sundry plans in his head, then, he now went straight on, climbing up the rugged sides of the ravine, heedless of the growing darkness, and at last reaching the entrance to his store.His intention had been to glance at it, and make sure that it was all right, and then to go on to Roehurst for the night, hoping to gain an interview with Mace, and take her to task for her change, when he had spoken of himself.But as he reached the entrance his heart stood still, for his worst fears were confirmed. The retreat that he had taken such pains to keep a secret, and had shrouded with enough mystery to make the goings and comings of his men an object, not of curiosity amongst the simple superstitious people, but alarm, had been discovered, and by some one full enough of enterprise and daring to make his way inside.The first thing that struck his attention was a tall, stout fir-pole, which had evidently been used as a lever to dislodge the stone that stopped the entrance, and on going close up and peering in he could see a dim light burning upon one of the barrels, while a figure was down upon its knees hard at work opening a case.“The pitiful thief!” said Gil, as a movement on the intruder’s part let the light fall upon his face. “As I thought—Abel Churr. Well, Master Churr,” he muttered, as a hard look came over his face, “you have discovered a secret that should be paid for—with death—the due meed awarded to a thief.”He drew his long, thin sword, and, holding it before him, stepped cautiously forward; but altering his mind, he thrust it back into the sheath with an impatient ejaculation, and once more peered over the stones between them at where the marauder was busily prising open the case.“The fool!” muttered Gil; “if that candle burned down he would be blown to pieces. What cursed luck that he should have found us out.”He took another step forward cautiously, to avoid being heard, lest Churr should dash by and escape; but, once inside, the captain’s person blocked the way, and stepping boldly forward, Churr started up with a shrill cry, like some beast when tracked to its lair.“You dog!” cried Gil, as he dashed at him, receiving, as he did so, a heavy blow from the iron bar with which the adder-hunter had been wrenching open the case.He staggered back, and Churr was springing over him, but he was too late, for, recovering himself, Gil seized him tightly, and a fierce struggle began.Churr had sprung forward so sharply that Gil Carr was driven to the narrow platform beyond the stone, and the struggle took place outside the cave. But it was not of long duration, for Churr was no match for the well-built, muscular young man, who, after wrestling with him here and there, ended by wrenching from him the iron bar, and they fell heavily on the narrow shelf of rock, from which, if either slipped, he would go down some forty feet perpendicular, and then crash through the bushes into the dark bed of the rivulet far below.“What—what are you going to do?” panted Churr at last, as he was held half over the side.“To kill you, as I would any other thieving rat or vermin who came to steal. But tell me first who knows of this place beside you?”“No one, not a soul,” howled Churr. Then, feeling that he had made a mistake, he added hastily, “Only a few trusty friends.”“The first words were the truth,” said Gil, sharply, as his hand sought his belt; “the last were added to make me afraid to kill you, lest others should come and be aware of the deed. Abel Churr, you have learned a secret, and you must have known the risk.”“But I’ll never tell, and I’ll never come again. I’ll never help it to a soul, or say a word about the trade.”“Never,” said Gil in a low stern voice.It was quite dark now, and the gloom of the ravine seemed heavier than ever as Abel Churr, who felt that his end was near, wrenched himself slightly round to gaze shudderingly into the depths below; and then as he fancied that he saw the flash of a knife in Gil’s disengaged hand, while the other held him tightly by the belt, he uttered a loud shriek, that was repeated from the rock in front, to die off in whispers as if the man condemned to death were already on his way to the unknown shore, and his voice could be heard farther and farther as he onward sped.
That was a bitter as well as a momentous day for Gil Carr. In the course of the morning he made his way to the Pool-house, determined to have a few words with Jeremiah Cobbe, and to talk calmly to him concerning Mace and the future. He felt, too, that a little sympathy was due to the founder after the late accident at his works.
He went straight to the house, for he had taken Mace’s words to heart, that he should go boldly to the place; but, on entering, he was only met by Janet, who came after he had walked in according to old familiar custom, and rapped loudly at an inner door.
Janet came down, looking red-faced and guilty, from one of the upper chambers.
“Why, Janet,” he said, “the house is as quiet as if all were dead. Where have you been, lass? Why, that’s thy mistress’s kerchief on thy head!”
The girl snatched it off, looking redder and more guilty than before, and hid it behind her.
“I’d wager, Janet, that thou hast been upstairs trying on thy mistress’s finery. I’ll tell her so.”
“Nay, pray, Captain Gilbert,” she cried, excitedly, “you would not make mischief between us. I did but—”
“That’s confession enough,” said Gil, laughing. “Now, tell me where is thy master?”
“Down at the furnace-house, seeing to its being new-roofed, sir,” replied the girl.
“And thy—” Gil stopped with beating heart, for he dared not for the moment ask the question—one that he felt he could himself answer. “One word though,” he cried, “Mistress Janet. I have something to say about that pretty face of thine.”
“Oh, Captain Carr,” said the girl, blushing. “You must not talk to me like that. What would my mistress say?”
“That I was doing right, child. Harkye, you must not be showing that pretty face and those bright eyes to men who cannot become thy sweethearts.”
The girl’s heart beat fast, and she looked up and looked down, began to plait her apron, dropped Mace’s kerchief, snatched it up, hid it behind her; then turning her head, with the pleasant flush of surprise deepening upon her neck.
“Why, Janet,” said Gil, laughing, “you look as modest as if you were being courted.”
“Oh, Captain Carr,” she simpered, “you must not talk to me like that;” and the weak girl fell a-trembling, telling herself that now her mistress had taken to go a-walking with the handsome young knight staying at the house, Captain Culverin, the bold, handsome fellow, of whom every maiden far and near had spoken as a hero, had fallen in love with her.
“Not talk to thee, child,” said Gil, laughing. “Look here, Janet, I must be plain with thee.”
He looked at her in an amused way for a moment, and then, catching one of her hands, he took her chin between his finger and thumb, and raised her face so that he could gaze straight into her humid eyes.
The tears stood beneath the lids, and in another moment she would have cast herself upon the captain’s breast had not a word or two more dispelled her illusion.
“I’ve known thee, Janet, since thou wert a little toddler, to whom I gave sugar from the Western Isles; and for thy mistress’s sake, Janet, would not have harm befall thee. Look you here, child, Master Wat Kilby hangs about here to gratify his old eyes by casting them upon thy pretty shape and face. Now, Janet, have you ever given him encouragement?”
“As if it was likely!” cried the girl, snatching herself away, and her whole aspect undergoing a transformation. “A girt, old, ugly man like that; I’d pook him if he dared touch me. Such trade as that!” and she was flinging herself out of the hall when Gil checked her by saying, sternly—
“Stop, girl! I am glad of it, for Wat Kilby is no mate for thee. Where is thy mistress?”
“Where should she be?” cried the girl, spitefully, and with flashing eyes she went on: “Out in the forest reading love-songs to Sir Mark, same as she now does every day.”
She ran off to hide her tears, but not before she had seen how cruel a stab she had given her mistress’s lover; and then, seeking her own chamber, she cried for long enough over her disappointment, and as much for sympathy for the brave young fellow whom she had, as she well knew, cut to the quick.
Gil stood biting his lips, as he thought over the girl’s words.
“No,” he cried, “I won’t believe it; Mace is too good and true.”
He went out of the house to where the founder was directing his workpeople, who were busily laying massive oaken beams across the damaged building; and as Gil came up the old man nodded, talked of ordinary things, and then excused himself on the plea of business in so marked a manner that Gil could not but see that his presence was irksome, and soon afterwards left.
He had hoped to have seen Mace, but he felt that he could not wait there now, and in a purposeless way he turned off the beaten track, meaning to throw himself down in some dry, shady spot, and try and arrange his thoughts. As it happened, fate led him straight to an opening in the forest, where two paths met—a place where the founder’s men had cut down the great oaks, leaving a clump of firs standing here and there, and beneath them was a mass of dry odorous pine-needles, the collection of many years. The old stumps left by the woodman’s axe were pretty well overgrown with moss, grass, and the various wild-flowers of the wood; and altogether a better spot than this opening in the thick forest could hardly have been found for noonday dreamings.
So thought Sir Mark, as he lay at Mace’s feet, while she, with the bright rays of sunshine darting through the thin needled foliage, to lose themselves in her glossy hair, sat on one of the old stumps, and read to him in a soft, sweet voice—one which to Gil, as he came suddenly upon them, seemed softened and attuned to fall tenderly upon the invalid’s ear.
“He is well enough by now, I’ll wager,” muttered Gil, as he walked straight up, to find that Mace rose as soon as she saw him, coloured deeply, and greeted him in a cold and injured way.
Gil Carr’s hot blood danced through his veins, and, in his haste, he forgot to recall the last time they had met, when he was seen side by side with Anne Beckley; and, attributing Mace’s constrained manner to her vexation at being surprised with Sir Mark, he turned upon that gentleman fiercely, to find his glances returned with interest. For there was a look of triumph in the visitor’s eye, and a contemptuous smile on his lip, both of which seemed to say to him, “There, you see you have no chance; I am all conquering, and the day is mine.”
Very few words passed before Mace, who feared a quarrel, said—
“Will you return with me now, Sir Mark? The sun is growing hot, and my father will be waiting.”
He bowed in his most courtly manner, and, taking her hand, helped her over a fallen tree, and again across a rift in the earth, while Gil, trembling with rage, disappointment, and mortification, stood gnawing his lip.
“And this is woman’s faith!” he cried, as he strode away. “Oh, that my ship were fit for sea, or that I had something I could do.”
He stopped, thinking for a few minutes, and then walked away straight for the ravine, partly to pass the time, partly because he felt uneasy about his store; while, sad at heart, poor Mace walked beside her companion, who sighed and never ceased to try and show her how hopelessly he was in love.
It was very unfavourable for the progress of vegetation where Gil Carr strode over the ground, trampling down the tender forest herbage, tearing aside the young growth, and leaving a harsh track through the forest, till, getting nearer to his destination, he seemed to grow more careful, and ended by waking to the fact that any one might easily trace him by his trail.
Altering his mind then, he struck down beside one of the rivulets, and followed its course pretty closely to the river—a small enough stream, but one which at times carried a considerable depth of water.
A mile along here brought him to a busy nook, where, around a goodly-sized vessel, a score of men were hard at work with hatchet and adze repairing and restoring plank and timber that had been torn and riven by the rocks and waves of a long cruise. It was only the hull, every bit of rigging having been removed to lighten her for the men at work; and seated upon a barrel, smoking, giving orders or directions, was Wat Kilby, who rose to make his report on seeing his skipper approach.
Gil did not stay long. He saw that his men were working hard, and that they were well provided for in the sheltered nook by the little river side, which he had made his vessel’s port; and at last, as the evening was coming, entered the boarded hut which formed Wat’s home for the time, partook of a rough meal with him, gave him certain orders, and turned once more towards Roehurst, meaning to go up the ravine on the way.
He was weary with much walking, and low-spirited. What had been a pleasant sojourn ashore had become wearisome and full of pain, due, he felt, rightly or wrongly, to the coming of Sir Mark, the recollection of whom made his brows knit and his hands involuntarily clench.
These thoughts stayed him in his course, and more than once he sat down thinking whether it would not be better to get away to one of the ports, and charter a small vessel for a trip, so as to occupy his mind.
“And leave the field open to the enemy?” he cried, springing up. “Nay, that’s not like Gil Carr.”
With sundry plans in his head, then, he now went straight on, climbing up the rugged sides of the ravine, heedless of the growing darkness, and at last reaching the entrance to his store.
His intention had been to glance at it, and make sure that it was all right, and then to go on to Roehurst for the night, hoping to gain an interview with Mace, and take her to task for her change, when he had spoken of himself.
But as he reached the entrance his heart stood still, for his worst fears were confirmed. The retreat that he had taken such pains to keep a secret, and had shrouded with enough mystery to make the goings and comings of his men an object, not of curiosity amongst the simple superstitious people, but alarm, had been discovered, and by some one full enough of enterprise and daring to make his way inside.
The first thing that struck his attention was a tall, stout fir-pole, which had evidently been used as a lever to dislodge the stone that stopped the entrance, and on going close up and peering in he could see a dim light burning upon one of the barrels, while a figure was down upon its knees hard at work opening a case.
“The pitiful thief!” said Gil, as a movement on the intruder’s part let the light fall upon his face. “As I thought—Abel Churr. Well, Master Churr,” he muttered, as a hard look came over his face, “you have discovered a secret that should be paid for—with death—the due meed awarded to a thief.”
He drew his long, thin sword, and, holding it before him, stepped cautiously forward; but altering his mind, he thrust it back into the sheath with an impatient ejaculation, and once more peered over the stones between them at where the marauder was busily prising open the case.
“The fool!” muttered Gil; “if that candle burned down he would be blown to pieces. What cursed luck that he should have found us out.”
He took another step forward cautiously, to avoid being heard, lest Churr should dash by and escape; but, once inside, the captain’s person blocked the way, and stepping boldly forward, Churr started up with a shrill cry, like some beast when tracked to its lair.
“You dog!” cried Gil, as he dashed at him, receiving, as he did so, a heavy blow from the iron bar with which the adder-hunter had been wrenching open the case.
He staggered back, and Churr was springing over him, but he was too late, for, recovering himself, Gil seized him tightly, and a fierce struggle began.
Churr had sprung forward so sharply that Gil Carr was driven to the narrow platform beyond the stone, and the struggle took place outside the cave. But it was not of long duration, for Churr was no match for the well-built, muscular young man, who, after wrestling with him here and there, ended by wrenching from him the iron bar, and they fell heavily on the narrow shelf of rock, from which, if either slipped, he would go down some forty feet perpendicular, and then crash through the bushes into the dark bed of the rivulet far below.
“What—what are you going to do?” panted Churr at last, as he was held half over the side.
“To kill you, as I would any other thieving rat or vermin who came to steal. But tell me first who knows of this place beside you?”
“No one, not a soul,” howled Churr. Then, feeling that he had made a mistake, he added hastily, “Only a few trusty friends.”
“The first words were the truth,” said Gil, sharply, as his hand sought his belt; “the last were added to make me afraid to kill you, lest others should come and be aware of the deed. Abel Churr, you have learned a secret, and you must have known the risk.”
“But I’ll never tell, and I’ll never come again. I’ll never help it to a soul, or say a word about the trade.”
“Never,” said Gil in a low stern voice.
It was quite dark now, and the gloom of the ravine seemed heavier than ever as Abel Churr, who felt that his end was near, wrenched himself slightly round to gaze shudderingly into the depths below; and then as he fancied that he saw the flash of a knife in Gil’s disengaged hand, while the other held him tightly by the belt, he uttered a loud shriek, that was repeated from the rock in front, to die off in whispers as if the man condemned to death were already on his way to the unknown shore, and his voice could be heard farther and farther as he onward sped.
How Tom Croftly had a Holiday.The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly’s importunities and gave him a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly enjoy it they both got up early.Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs and snails.It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork.“Hallo, Tom, you here?” said the founder, looking eastward, where the golden orange flecks told of the coming sun.“Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave girt bed made; but who’s to work wi’ such a tool as this?” and he held up the fork.“You, if you’ve any sense in your head,” growled the founder, who was sleepy yet.“I’ve got some sense in my head,” said Tom Croftly; “but no man can’t work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It breaks a man’s back. A fork ought to have three tines in it.”“And I say it ought to have four,” said the founder, tartly. “Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it.”“Ay, and ’most breaks a man’s back,” grumbled Tom Croftly. “Falls through? Why, of course it does. That’s nat’ral, and as it should. It’s the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi’ a shovel. ’Taint like having a holiday to work wi’ a tool like that.”“There, get on,” said the founder, “and don’t grumble. Lend me the fork.”He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, “There, you can’t do better than that.”“And where’s your crumbs to finish off with at the top?” grumbled Tom Croftly. “We shan’t get much of a cucumber-bed, you’ll see.”“Look here, Tom Croftly, if you’re going to grumble like this, we’ll go back to the foundry-work.”“Nay, nay, master.”“Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said ‘yes,’ and here it is.”“And my garden wanted it badly, master.”“Yes; but I’m not going to holiday keep with a grumbler.”“I’ll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!”The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder’s man, as he lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.“Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life,” said the founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square marked out by four strong pegs.“I dunno about that, master,” said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.“Why, Tom, Tom, thou’rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and sprites, and witches?” said the founder, arranging the stable manure carefully with the fork.“Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don’tbelievein ’em, but it was curus that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother Goodhugh had been.”“Curious if it hadn’t,” cried the founder, patting down his work. “If Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had—as I ought to have done—there would have been no explosion.”“Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould.”“And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you’re six feet one high.”“Six foot two and a half, master,” said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.“And as strong as a horse.”“Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day.”“And yet you’re afraid of that poor half-daft old woman.”“Nay, nay, master; notafeard,” said Tom, stoutly. “I never felt afeard o’ Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything to make her curse one.”“Curses don’t do any harm, Tom, my lad,” said the founder.“I hope they don’t, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal.”“Let her,” said the founder.“Shall I fetch they crumbs in a trug, master?” said Tom, watching intently the formation of the cucumber-bed.“We will have the bed a deal higher yet, Tom, and put the crumbs on the top, and a couple o’ hills of nice warm earth a’top o’ that. We must have some finer cucumbers this year than Dame Beckley grows up at the Moat.”The manufacture of the cucumber-bed went on, and Tom Croftly had the satisfaction of fetching the “crumbs” in a trug or truck-basket; after which, the founder and he had a long turn at the patch of hops, which had been growing rather wild and away from their poles. The wild ones were carefully twisted round the supports, and tied at intervals with rushes to keep them in place, after which, it being seven o’clock, the founder proposed breakfast, and led the way to the house.Sir Mark had accepted an invitation the previous day, after much protesting that he was still too weak and could hardly get about, and had gone to dine with Sir Thomas at the Moat, and stay the next day over, so that Mace felt herself free and forgetful of her troubles. She set aside the haunting thoughts of the fate of the weapons her father made, and devoted herself to domestic duties that had of late fallen to Janet’s lot.“Morning, mistress!” cried Tom, coming smiling in at the kitchen door, through which he could see Mace with her sleeves rolled above her white elbows busily trying the new cakes that had been baked for breakfast.“Good morning, Tom,” cried Mace. “Quick, Janet, get out the cold bacon and draw a mug of ale.”Tom smiled broadly, as he took his place at the white, well-scrubbed table, for it was an understood thing that whenever Tom Croftly had a whole holiday, that is to say, had a cessation from foundry-work to go in the garden, he had his meals at the house.The founder’s breakfast was ready, but he was called away, so Mace remained busy about the kitchen, going in and out of the dairy where the golden butter lay in rolls, and the yellow cream was so thick in the broad pans that it went into wrinkles and crinkles, like an old woman’s face when it was skimmed.The glorious sunshine came in at the open door, with the scent of the flowers, and the bees buzzed about the blossoms as they journeyed to and from their round-topped hives, while Tom Croftly took a long draught of ale, sighed, and then began work upon the new loaf and bacon.“This be a fine cut o’ bacon, mistress,” said he, as Mace came near.“I am glad you like it, Tom.”“Ay, I like the bacon, mistress, but this here knife’s a wonder.”“What, isn’t it sharp, Tom?”“Sharp, mistress, bean’t nothing to it. It be terrifying sharp, and it be as keen at the back as it be at the front, and that’s what I don’t like, for it’s risky like at the corners o’ your mouth, and when a man’s mouth is already two sizes too large, it’s a pity to cut it bigger.”“Take another, Tom,” said Mace, placing one for him.“Thanky, mistress, that’s kindy of you,” said Tom. “Eh, but you be grown into a flower. Here, only t’other day, and I see thee balancing thyself on thy two pretty little pink legs, and couldn’t get on wi’ my work for watching thee—lest thou should fall.”“You always were very kind to me, Tom,” said Mace, smiling.“And always will be,” said Tom Croftly; “for, mistress, it did my heart good to see thee stick up for the master again that old Mother Goodhugh.”“Poor weak woman!” said Mace, sadly.“Ay, poor weak old woman; but she’s got a sore heart, mistress, like as—as—some one else have as I knows on.”“Who’s that, Tom?” said Mace.“Captain Culverin Carr,” said Tom, striking the table with the haft of the knife. “Ah, I don’t like dressed-up jay-birds from London.”Mace was silent, but she looked at their old workman with eyes that were half alarmed, half angry, and hearing her father’s voice hurriedly left the kitchen.“Ay, so his heart is sore,” muttered Tom Croftly, after a glance round to see that he had not been heard. “If I thought that ill-wishing that London spark would keep him away from here, I’d give Mother Goodhugh my biggest couple o’ ducks—that girt young ’un and his brother.”Tom Croftly stopped and sighed for a long time over his bread and bacon before returning to the enjoyment of his holiday the founder did not join him, however, for a good half-hour longer, when Mace was by his side.That was a golden day to both—a holiday indeed. No allusion was made to the departure of their visitor, neither was Gil’s name mentioned; but, as if some burden had been removed from both their hearts, they seemed to have made up their minds to have one day such as they had been accustomed to in what seemed like the olden times.With a straw hat to shade her bright face, Mace was now looking on, while the raspberry canes that had broken loose were retied to their stakes, and then she held the knife as she had a score of times in childhood while the founder went down upon his knees to take the bindings off from some freshly-grafted trees, commenting upon his work, and boasting of its superiority over the grafting done at Dame Beckley’s.Then there were the cuttings of those curious plants to see to that Gil had brought back from his last voyage, and they seemed to be progressing well, all but one that was being eaten by a grub.Mace listened eagerly, thinking that her father would mention Gil’s name now, but he went on weeding out a few interlopers before he seemed to recall whence the cuttings came, and then he frowned and turned off to another part of the garden.The cloud passed away directly, and they were chatting merrily again or listening to Tom Croftly, who possessed a very long tongue, and had plenty to say.“Lor’, Miss Mace, look at my apple-trees, how they be a-hinging down a’ready!” cried Tom Croftly. “Look at the girt big uns lumpeting all down the boughs. I’ll have to put a strod under yon branch, or a wilt be breaking down.”“They look lovely, Tom. No scarcity this year.”“Not there, mistress. It all comes o’ well wassailing the trees. If there’s anything I like, its a good apple-howling in due season.”“But you don’t think it makes any difference, Tom?”“Not make any differ, mistress? Why look at my trees this year.”“Oh, they are loaded enough, Tom,” said Mace, smiling; “but would they not have borne as well without that noise the lads made on New Year’s Eve?”“Not they, mistress. I like the boys to come round to the orchards, and shout and go round the apple-trees in a ring,” he said, stopping to hold his reaping-hook horizontally, and making a movement with his left hand, as if to complete the circle, while he closed his eyes and repeated the following doggerel, as if it were some sacred verse:—‘Stand fast, root; bear well, top;Pray the God send us a good howling crop.Every twig apples big;Every bough apples enow;Hats full, caps full,Full quarters sacks full.’“That’s it, mistress; that brings the apples. There’s a fine cluster o’ little wild strawbries here,” he cried, as he “brushed,” as he called it, the thistles and nettles that were springing up under the orchard trees.“I’ll bring a basket and pick them, Tom,” cried Mace; and she ran quickly back to the house.“A swap soon gets dull, master,” said Tom, stopping to sharpen the broad-bladed reaping-hook he held, and gazing the while after Mace. “Eh, but it ought to be a girt and good man, master, who has young mistress for a wife. A king wouldn’t be good enough for she.”“Right, Tom,” said the founder. “Hallo, what’s the matter?” he cried, as Mace came running back in a state of great excitement.“The bees, father—a swarm.”Down went Tom Croftly’s hook and whet-stone, and away he and the founder ran to where the bees were in full flight, a late colony, after hanging in a pocket-shaped cluster outside their straw dome for days, having at last persuaded their queen to start.It was a headlong flight, but not off and away, for as the founder and his man came up it was to find that the busy little insects were darting to and fro, as if bound to describe as many elongated diamonds as they could in the hot sunshine. There was a sharp angry buzzing hum in the air, and, after running into the kitchen, Tom came back with a broken poker and the brass preserving-pan, which he belaboured wildly like a gong, evidently under the belief that the bees would be charmed or stunned into repose.“Nothing like dinging ’em well, master,” he cried, as the bees darted here and there. “They won’t sting thee, mistress. There, look at the pretties!” he cried. “Well done! What a cast, and as big as a May-day swarm.”This was as he saw that the queen had settled upon a pendent branch of a young plum-tree, the workers clustering round and over and under, and clinging one to the other, till there was a great insect mass, which made the bough drop lower and lower till it nearly touched the ground.“That be the very place to have ’em, master,” he cried. “Now, mistress, thou’lt take them, won’t thee? It’s a fine girt swarm. Ye marn’t be afraid, and they won’t hurt thee. I’ll fetch a hive.”He trotted off, leaving father and daughter watching the great mass of bees hanging some two feet from the ground; and soon after Tom Croftly returned with a clean hive, which he busily rubbed with sugar dissolved in beer, while he held a bee-board under his arm.“Now, mistress, art ready?” he cried.“Nay, Tom, I’ll take them myself,” said the founder. “We mustn’t have her stung.”He took the hive from his man, placed it beneath the great ball of insects, and gave the branch a quick sharp shake, with the result that nearly all fell into the hive. Another shake sent in the rest, so that it seemed as if they must be crushed or infuriated into stinging him to death; but, though some rose and buzzed around his head, he quietly placed the bee-board, handed to him by Tom, over the open hive, deftly reversed it, placed it under the shade of the tree, and left it there for the insects to settle in their new home.The bees had been left but a few minutes, when, with his face lit up with smiles, the founder exclaimed, “Why, Mace, that’s been a warm job. Tom Croftly would like a mug of ale to drink success to the swarm.”“And you will have one, too, under the apple-tree, father; and—just one pipe.”“Get out!” cried the founder, “putting temptation in a weak man’s way.” But he went to the large seat under the old apple-tree, that spread its longest branches over the Pool, and had just settled himself down as Mace returned with his big silver tankard, pipe, and tobacco.“Hah! that’s prime!” he said, as he seated himself in an easier position, gazing through his half-closed eyes at his luxuriant garden and the glistening surface of the Pool. “Why, here comes the parson. Hey there, Master Peasegood: just in time!”The stout clerk had seen the founder in his garden, and came panting up, his face seeming to grow broader as he neared the apple-tree.“Hah!” he sighed, shaking hands as he sat down, “what weak creatures mortals are. Here have I been murmuring against the heat, and the great burden of flesh I have to bear, and all the time there is rest and refreshment waiting to be offered to me. Mace, my darling, if I were not a parson, I’d say by the hand of an angel. Thanks, child, thanks! Cobbe, here’s thy good health, man. May’st thou never be as fat as I.”He drank heartily and passed the flagon to the founder, who tapped the lid up and down as he said with a look of pride: “My own barley, parson—malted myself; my own hops—grew yonder; and the ale—brewed in my own tub. Good as Dame Beckley’s home-made wine, eh?”“Don’t talk about it, goodman,” cried the parson, with a look of disgust. “Come, thou hast raised a desire to take the taste out of my mouth that seemed to come in. Give me the flagon once again.”The founder passed the ale, and the visitor took another draught of so vigorous a kind that, after the operation, Mace started off to refill the vessel.“Ah!” sighed Master Peasegood, “the dreadful draughts that good, weak woman has presented me to drink are something terrible to think of:—agrimony tea, balm wine, camomile tea, and a score more; but the worst of all is that dreadful juice of her sour well-squeezed grapes, that she calleth wine. Master Cobbe, will you kindly pass the ale, and methinks I’ll take a pipe.”The parson dined with them, and stayed on as if to supper; Tom Croftly enjoying the rest of his holiday his own way, which was in “terrifying weeds,” as he called it, chopping away with a hoe at the luxuriance that sprang up in the moist, fertile garden. In the evening the seat beneath the apple-tree was occupied, and they sat and talked as the soft running murmur of the water came pleasantly to their ears, while Mace, in the enjoyment of the pleasant hours, and forgetful of her love-troubles for the time, worked as long as she could see. Sir Mark was forgotten, and, in spite of one painful remembrance, Gil’s bronzed, handsome face filled her fancy as she listened to the whirr of the nightjar from the oak plantation, and from the bosky clumps away towards the ironstone hills the thrush’s evening hymn; and then away and away for miles till the sweet songs sounded faint and died away.Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such joys.Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the handle of his hoe.She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come.“I’ve about terrified all them weeds, mistress,” he said, “and I’m going home. The bees be all right, and I’ve had a rare fine day; but there be some’at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don’t quite like to speak.”“What is it, Tom?” said Mace. “Is it any thing I can do for you?”“Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I ought to tell’ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?”“Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day’s picking.”“That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best ’ood I could. All alder ’ood, and well seasoned; and—”“You want me to do something for you, Tom?”“Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I’ve knowed ever since thou couldst toddle. Thou won’t be hurt like and rate me if I speak?”“No, Tom, I will not,” said Mace, wondering what his request would be.“Then don’t you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark, mistress, for he’s a bad ’un, fond o’ wenching, and not good enough for thee.”Tom Croftly did not wait for an answer to his prayer, but hurried away in a shamefaced fashion, leaving Mace with her breast heaving and the colour burning in her cheeks. The tears rose to her eyes, and she seemed to awaken once more to the realities of the present, and, as if to complete the disillusioning of her heart, she heard the tramp of a horse, and as she rejoined her father she heard the stout parson say—“Hey, Master Cobbe, here comes thy gay visitor. I think I’ll not stay supper. I’ll say good-night. Ah, Mace, my child, you there? Farewell, my darling. Good-night.”He rolled off, meeting Sir Mark by the bridge, as the latter caught sight of Mace’s dress through the trees, and effectually blocking the knight’s way as he tried to be polite, till such time as Mace had reached her room to sit for hours thinking of Sir Mark’s return. Then she found herself wondering what Gil was doing, and whether she ought ever to give him a thought now as she recalled the scene which she had witnessed with Mistress Anne.
The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly’s importunities and gave him a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly enjoy it they both got up early.
Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs and snails.
It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork.
“Hallo, Tom, you here?” said the founder, looking eastward, where the golden orange flecks told of the coming sun.
“Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave girt bed made; but who’s to work wi’ such a tool as this?” and he held up the fork.
“You, if you’ve any sense in your head,” growled the founder, who was sleepy yet.
“I’ve got some sense in my head,” said Tom Croftly; “but no man can’t work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It breaks a man’s back. A fork ought to have three tines in it.”
“And I say it ought to have four,” said the founder, tartly. “Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it.”
“Ay, and ’most breaks a man’s back,” grumbled Tom Croftly. “Falls through? Why, of course it does. That’s nat’ral, and as it should. It’s the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi’ a shovel. ’Taint like having a holiday to work wi’ a tool like that.”
“There, get on,” said the founder, “and don’t grumble. Lend me the fork.”
He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, “There, you can’t do better than that.”
“And where’s your crumbs to finish off with at the top?” grumbled Tom Croftly. “We shan’t get much of a cucumber-bed, you’ll see.”
“Look here, Tom Croftly, if you’re going to grumble like this, we’ll go back to the foundry-work.”
“Nay, nay, master.”
“Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said ‘yes,’ and here it is.”
“And my garden wanted it badly, master.”
“Yes; but I’m not going to holiday keep with a grumbler.”
“I’ll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!”
The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder’s man, as he lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.
“Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life,” said the founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square marked out by four strong pegs.
“I dunno about that, master,” said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.
“Why, Tom, Tom, thou’rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and sprites, and witches?” said the founder, arranging the stable manure carefully with the fork.
“Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don’tbelievein ’em, but it was curus that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother Goodhugh had been.”
“Curious if it hadn’t,” cried the founder, patting down his work. “If Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had—as I ought to have done—there would have been no explosion.”
“Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould.”
“And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you’re six feet one high.”
“Six foot two and a half, master,” said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.
“And as strong as a horse.”
“Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day.”
“And yet you’re afraid of that poor half-daft old woman.”
“Nay, nay, master; notafeard,” said Tom, stoutly. “I never felt afeard o’ Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything to make her curse one.”
“Curses don’t do any harm, Tom, my lad,” said the founder.
“I hope they don’t, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal.”
“Let her,” said the founder.
“Shall I fetch they crumbs in a trug, master?” said Tom, watching intently the formation of the cucumber-bed.
“We will have the bed a deal higher yet, Tom, and put the crumbs on the top, and a couple o’ hills of nice warm earth a’top o’ that. We must have some finer cucumbers this year than Dame Beckley grows up at the Moat.”
The manufacture of the cucumber-bed went on, and Tom Croftly had the satisfaction of fetching the “crumbs” in a trug or truck-basket; after which, the founder and he had a long turn at the patch of hops, which had been growing rather wild and away from their poles. The wild ones were carefully twisted round the supports, and tied at intervals with rushes to keep them in place, after which, it being seven o’clock, the founder proposed breakfast, and led the way to the house.
Sir Mark had accepted an invitation the previous day, after much protesting that he was still too weak and could hardly get about, and had gone to dine with Sir Thomas at the Moat, and stay the next day over, so that Mace felt herself free and forgetful of her troubles. She set aside the haunting thoughts of the fate of the weapons her father made, and devoted herself to domestic duties that had of late fallen to Janet’s lot.
“Morning, mistress!” cried Tom, coming smiling in at the kitchen door, through which he could see Mace with her sleeves rolled above her white elbows busily trying the new cakes that had been baked for breakfast.
“Good morning, Tom,” cried Mace. “Quick, Janet, get out the cold bacon and draw a mug of ale.”
Tom smiled broadly, as he took his place at the white, well-scrubbed table, for it was an understood thing that whenever Tom Croftly had a whole holiday, that is to say, had a cessation from foundry-work to go in the garden, he had his meals at the house.
The founder’s breakfast was ready, but he was called away, so Mace remained busy about the kitchen, going in and out of the dairy where the golden butter lay in rolls, and the yellow cream was so thick in the broad pans that it went into wrinkles and crinkles, like an old woman’s face when it was skimmed.
The glorious sunshine came in at the open door, with the scent of the flowers, and the bees buzzed about the blossoms as they journeyed to and from their round-topped hives, while Tom Croftly took a long draught of ale, sighed, and then began work upon the new loaf and bacon.
“This be a fine cut o’ bacon, mistress,” said he, as Mace came near.
“I am glad you like it, Tom.”
“Ay, I like the bacon, mistress, but this here knife’s a wonder.”
“What, isn’t it sharp, Tom?”
“Sharp, mistress, bean’t nothing to it. It be terrifying sharp, and it be as keen at the back as it be at the front, and that’s what I don’t like, for it’s risky like at the corners o’ your mouth, and when a man’s mouth is already two sizes too large, it’s a pity to cut it bigger.”
“Take another, Tom,” said Mace, placing one for him.
“Thanky, mistress, that’s kindy of you,” said Tom. “Eh, but you be grown into a flower. Here, only t’other day, and I see thee balancing thyself on thy two pretty little pink legs, and couldn’t get on wi’ my work for watching thee—lest thou should fall.”
“You always were very kind to me, Tom,” said Mace, smiling.
“And always will be,” said Tom Croftly; “for, mistress, it did my heart good to see thee stick up for the master again that old Mother Goodhugh.”
“Poor weak woman!” said Mace, sadly.
“Ay, poor weak old woman; but she’s got a sore heart, mistress, like as—as—some one else have as I knows on.”
“Who’s that, Tom?” said Mace.
“Captain Culverin Carr,” said Tom, striking the table with the haft of the knife. “Ah, I don’t like dressed-up jay-birds from London.”
Mace was silent, but she looked at their old workman with eyes that were half alarmed, half angry, and hearing her father’s voice hurriedly left the kitchen.
“Ay, so his heart is sore,” muttered Tom Croftly, after a glance round to see that he had not been heard. “If I thought that ill-wishing that London spark would keep him away from here, I’d give Mother Goodhugh my biggest couple o’ ducks—that girt young ’un and his brother.”
Tom Croftly stopped and sighed for a long time over his bread and bacon before returning to the enjoyment of his holiday the founder did not join him, however, for a good half-hour longer, when Mace was by his side.
That was a golden day to both—a holiday indeed. No allusion was made to the departure of their visitor, neither was Gil’s name mentioned; but, as if some burden had been removed from both their hearts, they seemed to have made up their minds to have one day such as they had been accustomed to in what seemed like the olden times.
With a straw hat to shade her bright face, Mace was now looking on, while the raspberry canes that had broken loose were retied to their stakes, and then she held the knife as she had a score of times in childhood while the founder went down upon his knees to take the bindings off from some freshly-grafted trees, commenting upon his work, and boasting of its superiority over the grafting done at Dame Beckley’s.
Then there were the cuttings of those curious plants to see to that Gil had brought back from his last voyage, and they seemed to be progressing well, all but one that was being eaten by a grub.
Mace listened eagerly, thinking that her father would mention Gil’s name now, but he went on weeding out a few interlopers before he seemed to recall whence the cuttings came, and then he frowned and turned off to another part of the garden.
The cloud passed away directly, and they were chatting merrily again or listening to Tom Croftly, who possessed a very long tongue, and had plenty to say.
“Lor’, Miss Mace, look at my apple-trees, how they be a-hinging down a’ready!” cried Tom Croftly. “Look at the girt big uns lumpeting all down the boughs. I’ll have to put a strod under yon branch, or a wilt be breaking down.”
“They look lovely, Tom. No scarcity this year.”
“Not there, mistress. It all comes o’ well wassailing the trees. If there’s anything I like, its a good apple-howling in due season.”
“But you don’t think it makes any difference, Tom?”
“Not make any differ, mistress? Why look at my trees this year.”
“Oh, they are loaded enough, Tom,” said Mace, smiling; “but would they not have borne as well without that noise the lads made on New Year’s Eve?”
“Not they, mistress. I like the boys to come round to the orchards, and shout and go round the apple-trees in a ring,” he said, stopping to hold his reaping-hook horizontally, and making a movement with his left hand, as if to complete the circle, while he closed his eyes and repeated the following doggerel, as if it were some sacred verse:—
‘Stand fast, root; bear well, top;Pray the God send us a good howling crop.Every twig apples big;Every bough apples enow;Hats full, caps full,Full quarters sacks full.’
‘Stand fast, root; bear well, top;Pray the God send us a good howling crop.Every twig apples big;Every bough apples enow;Hats full, caps full,Full quarters sacks full.’
“That’s it, mistress; that brings the apples. There’s a fine cluster o’ little wild strawbries here,” he cried, as he “brushed,” as he called it, the thistles and nettles that were springing up under the orchard trees.
“I’ll bring a basket and pick them, Tom,” cried Mace; and she ran quickly back to the house.
“A swap soon gets dull, master,” said Tom, stopping to sharpen the broad-bladed reaping-hook he held, and gazing the while after Mace. “Eh, but it ought to be a girt and good man, master, who has young mistress for a wife. A king wouldn’t be good enough for she.”
“Right, Tom,” said the founder. “Hallo, what’s the matter?” he cried, as Mace came running back in a state of great excitement.
“The bees, father—a swarm.”
Down went Tom Croftly’s hook and whet-stone, and away he and the founder ran to where the bees were in full flight, a late colony, after hanging in a pocket-shaped cluster outside their straw dome for days, having at last persuaded their queen to start.
It was a headlong flight, but not off and away, for as the founder and his man came up it was to find that the busy little insects were darting to and fro, as if bound to describe as many elongated diamonds as they could in the hot sunshine. There was a sharp angry buzzing hum in the air, and, after running into the kitchen, Tom came back with a broken poker and the brass preserving-pan, which he belaboured wildly like a gong, evidently under the belief that the bees would be charmed or stunned into repose.
“Nothing like dinging ’em well, master,” he cried, as the bees darted here and there. “They won’t sting thee, mistress. There, look at the pretties!” he cried. “Well done! What a cast, and as big as a May-day swarm.”
This was as he saw that the queen had settled upon a pendent branch of a young plum-tree, the workers clustering round and over and under, and clinging one to the other, till there was a great insect mass, which made the bough drop lower and lower till it nearly touched the ground.
“That be the very place to have ’em, master,” he cried. “Now, mistress, thou’lt take them, won’t thee? It’s a fine girt swarm. Ye marn’t be afraid, and they won’t hurt thee. I’ll fetch a hive.”
He trotted off, leaving father and daughter watching the great mass of bees hanging some two feet from the ground; and soon after Tom Croftly returned with a clean hive, which he busily rubbed with sugar dissolved in beer, while he held a bee-board under his arm.
“Now, mistress, art ready?” he cried.
“Nay, Tom, I’ll take them myself,” said the founder. “We mustn’t have her stung.”
He took the hive from his man, placed it beneath the great ball of insects, and gave the branch a quick sharp shake, with the result that nearly all fell into the hive. Another shake sent in the rest, so that it seemed as if they must be crushed or infuriated into stinging him to death; but, though some rose and buzzed around his head, he quietly placed the bee-board, handed to him by Tom, over the open hive, deftly reversed it, placed it under the shade of the tree, and left it there for the insects to settle in their new home.
The bees had been left but a few minutes, when, with his face lit up with smiles, the founder exclaimed, “Why, Mace, that’s been a warm job. Tom Croftly would like a mug of ale to drink success to the swarm.”
“And you will have one, too, under the apple-tree, father; and—just one pipe.”
“Get out!” cried the founder, “putting temptation in a weak man’s way.” But he went to the large seat under the old apple-tree, that spread its longest branches over the Pool, and had just settled himself down as Mace returned with his big silver tankard, pipe, and tobacco.
“Hah! that’s prime!” he said, as he seated himself in an easier position, gazing through his half-closed eyes at his luxuriant garden and the glistening surface of the Pool. “Why, here comes the parson. Hey there, Master Peasegood: just in time!”
The stout clerk had seen the founder in his garden, and came panting up, his face seeming to grow broader as he neared the apple-tree.
“Hah!” he sighed, shaking hands as he sat down, “what weak creatures mortals are. Here have I been murmuring against the heat, and the great burden of flesh I have to bear, and all the time there is rest and refreshment waiting to be offered to me. Mace, my darling, if I were not a parson, I’d say by the hand of an angel. Thanks, child, thanks! Cobbe, here’s thy good health, man. May’st thou never be as fat as I.”
He drank heartily and passed the flagon to the founder, who tapped the lid up and down as he said with a look of pride: “My own barley, parson—malted myself; my own hops—grew yonder; and the ale—brewed in my own tub. Good as Dame Beckley’s home-made wine, eh?”
“Don’t talk about it, goodman,” cried the parson, with a look of disgust. “Come, thou hast raised a desire to take the taste out of my mouth that seemed to come in. Give me the flagon once again.”
The founder passed the ale, and the visitor took another draught of so vigorous a kind that, after the operation, Mace started off to refill the vessel.
“Ah!” sighed Master Peasegood, “the dreadful draughts that good, weak woman has presented me to drink are something terrible to think of:—agrimony tea, balm wine, camomile tea, and a score more; but the worst of all is that dreadful juice of her sour well-squeezed grapes, that she calleth wine. Master Cobbe, will you kindly pass the ale, and methinks I’ll take a pipe.”
The parson dined with them, and stayed on as if to supper; Tom Croftly enjoying the rest of his holiday his own way, which was in “terrifying weeds,” as he called it, chopping away with a hoe at the luxuriance that sprang up in the moist, fertile garden. In the evening the seat beneath the apple-tree was occupied, and they sat and talked as the soft running murmur of the water came pleasantly to their ears, while Mace, in the enjoyment of the pleasant hours, and forgetful of her love-troubles for the time, worked as long as she could see. Sir Mark was forgotten, and, in spite of one painful remembrance, Gil’s bronzed, handsome face filled her fancy as she listened to the whirr of the nightjar from the oak plantation, and from the bosky clumps away towards the ironstone hills the thrush’s evening hymn; and then away and away for miles till the sweet songs sounded faint and died away.
Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such joys.
Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the handle of his hoe.
She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come.
“I’ve about terrified all them weeds, mistress,” he said, “and I’m going home. The bees be all right, and I’ve had a rare fine day; but there be some’at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don’t quite like to speak.”
“What is it, Tom?” said Mace. “Is it any thing I can do for you?”
“Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I ought to tell’ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?”
“Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day’s picking.”
“That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best ’ood I could. All alder ’ood, and well seasoned; and—”
“You want me to do something for you, Tom?”
“Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I’ve knowed ever since thou couldst toddle. Thou won’t be hurt like and rate me if I speak?”
“No, Tom, I will not,” said Mace, wondering what his request would be.
“Then don’t you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark, mistress, for he’s a bad ’un, fond o’ wenching, and not good enough for thee.”
Tom Croftly did not wait for an answer to his prayer, but hurried away in a shamefaced fashion, leaving Mace with her breast heaving and the colour burning in her cheeks. The tears rose to her eyes, and she seemed to awaken once more to the realities of the present, and, as if to complete the disillusioning of her heart, she heard the tramp of a horse, and as she rejoined her father she heard the stout parson say—
“Hey, Master Cobbe, here comes thy gay visitor. I think I’ll not stay supper. I’ll say good-night. Ah, Mace, my child, you there? Farewell, my darling. Good-night.”
He rolled off, meeting Sir Mark by the bridge, as the latter caught sight of Mace’s dress through the trees, and effectually blocking the knight’s way as he tried to be polite, till such time as Mace had reached her room to sit for hours thinking of Sir Mark’s return. Then she found herself wondering what Gil was doing, and whether she ought ever to give him a thought now as she recalled the scene which she had witnessed with Mistress Anne.