How Gil and Sir Mark measured Swords.“A courtier,” said Sir Mark, smiling, “Well perhaps I am; but see how I have taken to this rustic, delicious life. I have felt like another man since I have been here.”“Indeed, Sir Mark,” said Mace gravely, as they stood a couple of evenings later in the founder’s hayfield, where the stack now stood waiting for its crowning of straw.“Yes, indeed,” he cried. “Look here; I have been with your men to-day and yesterday when they piled up this sweet-scented hay, and I am growing quite a farmer. I know that Master Cobbe was rather too hurried in getting it up, and that it reeks too much, and that if it were covered in now it would go bad.”“Indeed?” said Mace, and speaking as if her thoughts were far away.“Yes, indeed,” he cried; “and I am growing wise in gun-casting and powder-making. I am learning day by day; but above all, sweet Mace, I am learning how vain and hollow is the world to which I have belonged, and how happiness is not to be found there.”“You are talking in riddles, Sir Mark,” replied Mace, dragging herself back as it were to listen to his words.“Read my riddles, then,” he cried, in a low tone, as he laid his hand upon her arm, and arrested her by the meadow-path. “Mace, dearest, listen to me—but for a few moments. No, no; do not hasten—the evening is early yet, and where could be fitter place for what I would say than this sweetly-scented mead, where the soft evening breeze seems to whisper of that which fills my heart? Mace, dearest, I love you with all my heart.”“Sir Mark,” she said, turning to look half wonderingly, half in anger, in his flushed face, “do you forget that you are my father’s guest; that this is no place of gallantry, but that I, his simple, country-born child, am a mere rustic, and unfit for such as you?”“Unfit!” he cried. “Shame, when you are beautiful as the fairest woman of King James’s court.”“The evening is growing damp, Sir Mark,” said Mace coldly.“Why are you so distant?” he whispered, trying to take her hand. “Nay, nay, this is too bad, you must have seen, you must know, that I love you.”“I have seen, sir, that it has pleased you to pass compliments, as seems to be a favourite habit of yours, and you, sir, must have seen that they caused me pain.”“Pain? When I’d give my right hand, my very life, to save you from a single pang! Mace, you know why I have lingered here, even to getting in disgrace with my Royal master, that I might be near you; and now for reward you grow cold as if we had never met before.”“Sir Mark, I must return home.”“Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?”“Sir Mark,” replied the girl, “does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?”“Pest on her particular ways,” he muttered. Then aloud, “No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet.”“If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words.”He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated—a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner.“Mace,” he said, sternly, “I want a few words with you.”“Not now; not now,” she said.“Yes, now,” he cried, angrily. “I cannot bear this coldness longer. You must, you shall, listen to me.”“No, no,” she cried; “another time.”“Why another time?” he said. “Ah, I see,” he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. “There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside.”Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl’s face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate.“Ah, my child,” he said, saluting her; “a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble.”“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered, excitedly. “A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief.”“They? Who, child?” said the father, quickly.“Sir Mark—Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel.”“Have they cause?” said the father, inquiringly. “Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph,” he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. “Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy’s to their senses.”“Mad boys—senses!” cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. “What is wrong? You don’t mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain—? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!”“Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me,” cried Mace, in hot indignation, “go and interpose before there is mischief done.”“Phew!” whistled the clerk. “Brother Brisdone, come along.”It was time they started, especially as Master Peasegood’s bravest pace was a very slow one, for no sooner had Mace hurried away than, with his anger and jealousy completely mastering him, Gil strode towards Sir Mark, who, on seeing him approach, far from attempting to avoid the meeting, leaned back against the gate, and stared at his rival with a cool exasperating mien.Gilbert Carr had been a fighting-man from the time he had first learned to handle a sword; he had also been in command of a ship in many a perilous time, and the result of his training had been to teach him the necessity of coolness in danger. This was a perilous time, and from old custom he began at once to master his excitement, and prepare himself for the encounter that he felt must take place. He was as hot and determined as ever, but he felt that he must gain the mastery over this court gallant, or he would never feel happy more. It would result in his increasing Mace’s displeasure perhaps, but in his cooler moments he might feel the deepest sorrow for having caused her pain.All the same, though, the thought came upon him that Mace’s name must be left out of the quarrel. It would be cruel in the extreme to have it known far and wide that he and this knight had fought about Mace Cobbe. It would be like a blow at her reputation, and, besides, whatever he might know in his heart of hearts, Sir Mark should not have the satisfaction of jeering at him as the successful lover.No, there should be some other cause for the fight that would ensue, and it was easy to find one.Easier than Gilbert Carr expected, for Sir Mark, stung by disappointment and the cold manner in which Mace had received his declaration, after he had, as he thought, carefully laid siege to and won her, was just in the humour to quarrel with a fly. From where he stood he had seen Gil stop and speak to the maiden, and it seemed to him that she had sent Gil on to chastise him for his insolence.“A confounded little rustic coquette!” he muttered; “and now she sends her bully to me. Curse him, he thinks I am weak with illness and easily managed. Let him mind, or I may deal differently with him to what I did with the old founder.”As Gil came nearer, asking himself how he should commence the quarrel, Sir Mark’s rage was ready to master him, for he began to feel that all his courtly adulation had been thrown away; that the founder’s daughter had listened in her calm, self-contained way, while he had fooled himself into the belief that he was moulding her, like soft wax, to his will; and all the time this Carr held the key of her heart, and was preferred.“Curse him, let him mind,” he muttered. “I know one or two stoccatos that he can never have learned; and if I had him at my feet, run through the body, why it would be a service to King James, for the fellow is no better than a buccaneer.”Gil came steadily up, towards the gate, still at a loss what to say, when Sir Mark insolently faced him, drew himself up, and, staring from his crown to his feet and back again, said sharply,—“Were you sent to talk to me?”“No,” said Gil, sharply, “I was not.”“Oh!” replied Sir Mark, caressing his pointed beard; “I thought, perhaps, the young lady of—”“Hold that prating tongue,” cried Gil, angrily, “or I may slit it, to teach it manners. I was not sent to talk to you, but I came to seek and know more of the man who has thought proper to settle himself down here. Hark ye! my good knight and follower of King James, the Solomon, the wise hater of tobacco, I want to know your business?”“Let us see,” replied Sir Mark, insolently. “Are you authorised to inquire? Recollect, fellow, that you are addressing one of his Majesty’s officers.”“I authorise myself,” said Gil, quietly, as he fought hard to keep down his rage and be cool. “As for his Majesty and his officers, tell him that down here in the south are some staunch men, who care no more for him, his laws, and his thick-tongued utterances, than they do for his messengers, however gaily they may be clad.”“You know, I suppose, that I could have you seized, good fellow, and laid by the heels in prison till such time as it pleased his Majesty to have you tried for sedition, and then hung or shot for the peace of his land.”“A way that would seem most meet to you, I presume,” said Gil, quietly.“He is beside himself with rage, and yet trying to madden me, but I’ll keep cool and urge him on,” thought Sir Mark.“I shall strike him directly, if he talks to me like that,” thought Gil.“Let me see,” said Sir Mark, gazing at his rival with half-closed eyes; “I have pretty well mastered your life, my good fellow; and the country would be purified if you were away. You are one of Raleigh’s crew of buccanneering rufflers.”“Sir,” cried Gil, proudly, “I am the son of one of the band of brave men who went out with that injured knight, and who look with the most utter contempt upon the north-country faithless puppet who sent him to the block. Pah; he and his followers stink in the nostrils of all good men and true. Let me see,” cried Gil, seizing his opportunity, “by your broad speech, sir, you are one of the paltry, ragged Scots who came south with Solomon to seek a home.”“You lie, you scurrilous knave,” said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; “I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult.”As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man’s force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.“I make way for you, Sir Mark,” he said, grimly. “Walk on first, sir, while you can.”Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion’s words; and then, full of doubt in the other’s honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.“Turn to the left, Sir Mark,” said Gil, suddenly; “I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood.”“Where would you go, then?” cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.“The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me,” said Gil, quickly. “It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard. Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls.”Sir Mark shuddered, but he made no sign; and, following the direction pointed out by Gil, the two young men came out of the wood below the wheel, crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and then, passing through two or three thick plantations, surrounding as many powder-sheds, they entered a wide stone building, whose floor was of furnace-cinder and charcoal; and, as they stood face to face, the place was far more light than the wood.Without another word, Gil divested himself of cap and doublet, drawing his sword, and throwing down belt and sheath, in all of which he was imitated by Sir Mark, who, now that he was face to face with the peril, seemed to lose a good deal of his nervousness, though the coolness of his enemy staggered him.“Your sword, sir,” said Gil, holding out his hand; but Sir Mark shrank back, and stood upon his defence.“I merely wished to measure them,” said Gil, contemptuously, as he threw his own upon the charcoal floor. “Measure them yourself.”Shamed by his rival’s greater show of confidence, Sir Mark made an effort over his suspicious nature, picked up Gil’s sword, and, holding both by the blades as they flashed in the warm red glow of the furnace, he handed them to Gil.“Nay,” he said; “measure them yourself.”Gil smiled as he took the weapons, laid the blades together, and finding his own to be fully three inches the longer, he handed it by the blade to Sir Mark.“That is not my weapon,” said the latter, suspiciously. “Give me my own sword, fellow.”“Not I,” said Gil; “mine is three inches longer in the blade, and I am not going to have it said that I killed thee by taking a foul advantage. We have no seconds, sir.”Sir Mark hesitated for a few moments, and then, with the longer weapon, placed himself on guard with a good deal of the ceremony taught in the fencing-schools, while Gil quietly crossed swords with him, and the fight began.It was a curious sight in that black-floored building, lit by the ruddy glow of the charcoal-furnace, whose illuminating powers sufficed to produce a ruddy twilight—nothing more—through which the figures of the contending men could be seen in rapid motion, as their flashing blades gritted edge against edge, and passes were rapidly exchanged.Both fenced well, and at the end of a couple of minutes they fell back by mutual consent. No advantage had been obtained on either side. Each of them had, however, fully awakened to the fact that he had no contemptible enemy to deal with; and as with recovered breath they crossed swords once more it was with increased caution, and pass and parry followed with each exerting all his skill.Gil fought, in spite of his apparent calmness, with terrible fury, for he was face to face with the man whom he believed to have blasted his happiness, and three times over the keenly-pointed blade he held passed through his adversary’s linen shirt, literally grazing the skin.On his own side in the dim light he had had enough to do to hold his own, for it was only by the most skilful fencing that he was able to throw aside Sir Mark’s fierce thrusts, one of which inflicted a skin wound in his shoulder, and another grazed his hip.They pressed each other in turn to and fro near the furnace-mouth, where the man who faced it gained no advantage, for he was thrown up so distinctly to his adversary’s view, and then back right into the gloomiest corner of the great building, where it was so dark that the danger was the same.The swords gritted and flashed once or twice, emitting faint sparks; the contending men’s breath came thicker and faster as they strove on, the sweat in the heated place trickling down their faces in glittering beads; and the fight had grown furious as each, yielding to the fierce excitement of standing face to face with an enemy, strove with all his might to rob that foeman of his life.At last, being the stronger and more skilful with his weapon, Gil drove his adversary back, step by step, delivering thrusts with lightning-like rapidity, every one as it succeeded the other being more feebly parried; and at last, with a strange sense of gratified passion in his breast, Gil pressed him more sorely, as he felt that he was in his power, when, just as he felt that victory was his, the tables were turned, for Sir Mark’s sword which he held snapped short off at the hilt, and it was only by stepping sharply back that Gil saved his life.For, beside himself with fury, Sir Mark seized the opportunity, and aimed so deadly a thrust that it must have passed through his opponent’s body. Gil’s rapid retrograde movement saved him, however, for the moment, though he tripped over the remains of a mould, and fell headlong at his adversary’s feet.“Slain in fair fight,” cried Sir Mark, exultantly, as, leaping forward, he placed his foot upon his adversary’s chest, and thrust at his throat.“Not yet,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “I am a sailor.”As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark’s sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in.“Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr,” cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. “Is this thy conduct towards my father’s guest?”“Thy father’s guest would have run me through, mistress,” he said, curtly. “I did but fight for life.”“I’ll have no more of this,” cried the founder, fiercely. “Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways.”“Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me,” said Gil. “It was a fair fight, fairly provoked.”“I’ll not have my child made the prize for any fighting,” cried the founder, hotly. “Mace, this is your doing.”“If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared,” cried Mace, coldly, “he might have left it in its sheath.”“I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace,” whispered Gil. “It is cruel, indeed.”Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover’s emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again.“I forbade you my place, Gil Carr,” cried the founder. “You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels.”“I fear no officers of justice,” cried Gil, angrily; “and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves.”“But you need fear them,” cried the founder angrily. “What is this I hear of Abel Churr?”“What has he dared to tell?” cried Gil, forgetting himself for the moment.“Men with mute lips tell nought,” said the founder. “Where is Abel Churr?”“I know not,” replied Gil.“Nay, but you should know,” continued the founder, as Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone came panting in from an unsuccessful search. “Tom Croftly, tell what you heard. Abel Churr was an idle raff, but he was a man, and one of us here.”As he spoke Mace’s countenance changed, and she drew nearer to Gil.“I don’t know much, master,” said the foundryman slowly, “only that seven days ago I saw Abel Churr half drunken, and he was boasting that he knew a secret of the captain’s there which would hang him if it was known.”“He must have told you, too, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood, quickly.“Abel Churr did confess to me when I encountered him in the woods, Brother Peasegood, but the words uttered in confession are sacred. I cannot tell.”“Not if a man’s character is at stake,” cried Master Peasegood.“I’ll soon end this,” said the founder, as Gil quietly replaced his doublet and took his sword from Sir Mark’s hand. “Gil Carr, speak out like a man. Where is Abel Churr?”“I do not know,” replied Gil, firmly.“Had he some secret of yours?”Gil paused for a moment, and his eyes encountered those of Mace gazing at him in a beseeching way, when a change seemed to come over him, and he replied frankly—“Yes.”“What was it?”“A secret that I wished to keep.”“How did he find it out?” said the founder.“How do I know, sir? By creeping through the wood, and dogging my steps, I suppose.”“When did you see him last?” said the founder.“A week ago.”“Where?”“In the woods,” replied Gil, who submitted to the examination as it were in obedience to Mace’s eyes.“And what passed there?” said the founder.“I’ll tell you,” replied Gil. “I found him prying into my affairs, and I seized him.”“And threatened him?”“Yes; I swore I would hang him to the yard-arm of my ship if I caught him again.”“Yes—and then?”“Then I let him go.”“And since then?”“I have not seen him since.”Mace’s eyes brightened with satisfaction, and Gil, as he stood there alone, felt recompensed for much of the past, as it seemed to him that now he was in trouble she was turning to him.“Sir Thomas Beckley must know this,” cried the founder. “The suspicion is that Abel Churr has been foully dealt with, and that you, Gilbert Carr, are to blame.”“And I say that whoever charges me with hurt to Abel Churr lies,” cried Gil, hotly. “The scoundrel had a secret of mine in his keeping, and I did threaten him, but I let him go when I had caught him robbing me, with such a warning that I felt he would never come again.”There was truth in his bearing, but somehow there was only one present who believed him, as he stood there alone, while the founder said coldly, “Gilbert Carr, there’s a dark suspicion hanging over thee. It may be that the deed was not done by thee, but by orders to thy men; but, anyway, it behoves thee to clear thyself by finding Abel Churr. Till you can do that, come upon my premises no more. Sir Mark, we are a rough people here, and set at naught some of the laws, but we hold a man’s life in good esteem. I shall see Sir Thomas, our justice, in the morning, and no stone will be left unturned to find this wretched man.”“Gilbert Carr,” said Master Peasegood, advancing; “speak out once more—Do you know aught of this wretched man?”“I have said all I know, Master Peasegood,” replied Gil, quietly. “I can say no more.”“We must wait, Master Cobbe,” said the parson. “Seven days are but a short time. He will come back perhaps ere long.”“I hope he will,” said the founder, firmly. “Gilbert Carr, this is my land, and no place for thee.”Gil looked at him angrily, and then at Mace, whose glance disarmed him once again.“As you will, Master Cobbe,” he said. “Some day perhaps you may regret this harshness to so old a friend. Mace, as I am to be dismissed, good-bye till we meet again—in better times.”He advanced and held out his hand, but Sir Mark, who was near her, interposed.“Stand back, sir,” he said; “no man with such a suspicion resting upon him shall touch Mistress Cobbe’s hand.”Gil seized him by the shoulder, and with one swing hurled him aside.“Your hand, Mace Cobbe,” he said, holding out his own, in which she laid hers for a few moments, before hurrying to her father’s side.A dead silence had fallen on the group, and as Gil turned to go he felt that appearances were sadly against him, though it would be vain to say more then. Striding across the foundry he made for the open door, angry even unto passion, but helpless under the pressure of opinion. He was not prepared for the fresh reverse that he encountered, as, after turning to exchange a fierce glance with Sir Mark, which said plainly enough, “We shall meet again,” he was half startled by finding his way barred by Mother Goodhugh, who was standing in the doorway, full in the red light cast by the furnace.He drew back as the old woman moved her stick and stepped into the building.“Is he to be screened?” she cried aloud. “I say, is he to be screened? Your friend, Master Cobbe—the friend of your child—the man you mean to make your son. I say, is he to be screened?”“Hold thy prate,” cried the founder, angrily. “Mother Goodhugh, I am in no humour to listen to thee now.”“Nay, but thou shalt listen. I say is he to be screened? Gil Carr,” she cried, turning upon him sharply, “where is Abel Churr?”“Stand aside, woman,” cried Gil. “I know not.”“But you do know,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “He was my only friend, and I will have all brought to light. He went to follow you in the forest. You met him—speak, did you not meet him?”“I did,” said Gil sharply. “And you murdered him,” cried the old woman. “Ha, ha, ha! As I said—as I said; more care for the house of Cobbe. The curses fall thick and fast. As I said, as I said. Yes, get you gone, murderer, and you, good people, have the forest searched for the remains of his victim. He must be found—he must be found.”Gil turned upon her angrily, but he did not speak. He strode from the building, out into the summer night, hot and angry; and as he went along the lane he could hear the old woman’s shrillest tone as she shouted after him; and even the hurrying water in the race towards the wheel seemed to repeat the word “Murderer,” in his ears.
“A courtier,” said Sir Mark, smiling, “Well perhaps I am; but see how I have taken to this rustic, delicious life. I have felt like another man since I have been here.”
“Indeed, Sir Mark,” said Mace gravely, as they stood a couple of evenings later in the founder’s hayfield, where the stack now stood waiting for its crowning of straw.
“Yes, indeed,” he cried. “Look here; I have been with your men to-day and yesterday when they piled up this sweet-scented hay, and I am growing quite a farmer. I know that Master Cobbe was rather too hurried in getting it up, and that it reeks too much, and that if it were covered in now it would go bad.”
“Indeed?” said Mace, and speaking as if her thoughts were far away.
“Yes, indeed,” he cried; “and I am growing wise in gun-casting and powder-making. I am learning day by day; but above all, sweet Mace, I am learning how vain and hollow is the world to which I have belonged, and how happiness is not to be found there.”
“You are talking in riddles, Sir Mark,” replied Mace, dragging herself back as it were to listen to his words.
“Read my riddles, then,” he cried, in a low tone, as he laid his hand upon her arm, and arrested her by the meadow-path. “Mace, dearest, listen to me—but for a few moments. No, no; do not hasten—the evening is early yet, and where could be fitter place for what I would say than this sweetly-scented mead, where the soft evening breeze seems to whisper of that which fills my heart? Mace, dearest, I love you with all my heart.”
“Sir Mark,” she said, turning to look half wonderingly, half in anger, in his flushed face, “do you forget that you are my father’s guest; that this is no place of gallantry, but that I, his simple, country-born child, am a mere rustic, and unfit for such as you?”
“Unfit!” he cried. “Shame, when you are beautiful as the fairest woman of King James’s court.”
“The evening is growing damp, Sir Mark,” said Mace coldly.
“Why are you so distant?” he whispered, trying to take her hand. “Nay, nay, this is too bad, you must have seen, you must know, that I love you.”
“I have seen, sir, that it has pleased you to pass compliments, as seems to be a favourite habit of yours, and you, sir, must have seen that they caused me pain.”
“Pain? When I’d give my right hand, my very life, to save you from a single pang! Mace, you know why I have lingered here, even to getting in disgrace with my Royal master, that I might be near you; and now for reward you grow cold as if we had never met before.”
“Sir Mark, I must return home.”
“Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?”
“Sir Mark,” replied the girl, “does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?”
“Pest on her particular ways,” he muttered. Then aloud, “No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet.”
“If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words.”
He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated—a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner.
“Mace,” he said, sternly, “I want a few words with you.”
“Not now; not now,” she said.
“Yes, now,” he cried, angrily. “I cannot bear this coldness longer. You must, you shall, listen to me.”
“No, no,” she cried; “another time.”
“Why another time?” he said. “Ah, I see,” he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. “There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside.”
Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl’s face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate.
“Ah, my child,” he said, saluting her; “a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble.”
“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered, excitedly. “A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief.”
“They? Who, child?” said the father, quickly.
“Sir Mark—Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel.”
“Have they cause?” said the father, inquiringly. “Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph,” he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. “Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy’s to their senses.”
“Mad boys—senses!” cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. “What is wrong? You don’t mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain—? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!”
“Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me,” cried Mace, in hot indignation, “go and interpose before there is mischief done.”
“Phew!” whistled the clerk. “Brother Brisdone, come along.”
It was time they started, especially as Master Peasegood’s bravest pace was a very slow one, for no sooner had Mace hurried away than, with his anger and jealousy completely mastering him, Gil strode towards Sir Mark, who, on seeing him approach, far from attempting to avoid the meeting, leaned back against the gate, and stared at his rival with a cool exasperating mien.
Gilbert Carr had been a fighting-man from the time he had first learned to handle a sword; he had also been in command of a ship in many a perilous time, and the result of his training had been to teach him the necessity of coolness in danger. This was a perilous time, and from old custom he began at once to master his excitement, and prepare himself for the encounter that he felt must take place. He was as hot and determined as ever, but he felt that he must gain the mastery over this court gallant, or he would never feel happy more. It would result in his increasing Mace’s displeasure perhaps, but in his cooler moments he might feel the deepest sorrow for having caused her pain.
All the same, though, the thought came upon him that Mace’s name must be left out of the quarrel. It would be cruel in the extreme to have it known far and wide that he and this knight had fought about Mace Cobbe. It would be like a blow at her reputation, and, besides, whatever he might know in his heart of hearts, Sir Mark should not have the satisfaction of jeering at him as the successful lover.
No, there should be some other cause for the fight that would ensue, and it was easy to find one.
Easier than Gilbert Carr expected, for Sir Mark, stung by disappointment and the cold manner in which Mace had received his declaration, after he had, as he thought, carefully laid siege to and won her, was just in the humour to quarrel with a fly. From where he stood he had seen Gil stop and speak to the maiden, and it seemed to him that she had sent Gil on to chastise him for his insolence.
“A confounded little rustic coquette!” he muttered; “and now she sends her bully to me. Curse him, he thinks I am weak with illness and easily managed. Let him mind, or I may deal differently with him to what I did with the old founder.”
As Gil came nearer, asking himself how he should commence the quarrel, Sir Mark’s rage was ready to master him, for he began to feel that all his courtly adulation had been thrown away; that the founder’s daughter had listened in her calm, self-contained way, while he had fooled himself into the belief that he was moulding her, like soft wax, to his will; and all the time this Carr held the key of her heart, and was preferred.
“Curse him, let him mind,” he muttered. “I know one or two stoccatos that he can never have learned; and if I had him at my feet, run through the body, why it would be a service to King James, for the fellow is no better than a buccaneer.”
Gil came steadily up, towards the gate, still at a loss what to say, when Sir Mark insolently faced him, drew himself up, and, staring from his crown to his feet and back again, said sharply,—
“Were you sent to talk to me?”
“No,” said Gil, sharply, “I was not.”
“Oh!” replied Sir Mark, caressing his pointed beard; “I thought, perhaps, the young lady of—”
“Hold that prating tongue,” cried Gil, angrily, “or I may slit it, to teach it manners. I was not sent to talk to you, but I came to seek and know more of the man who has thought proper to settle himself down here. Hark ye! my good knight and follower of King James, the Solomon, the wise hater of tobacco, I want to know your business?”
“Let us see,” replied Sir Mark, insolently. “Are you authorised to inquire? Recollect, fellow, that you are addressing one of his Majesty’s officers.”
“I authorise myself,” said Gil, quietly, as he fought hard to keep down his rage and be cool. “As for his Majesty and his officers, tell him that down here in the south are some staunch men, who care no more for him, his laws, and his thick-tongued utterances, than they do for his messengers, however gaily they may be clad.”
“You know, I suppose, that I could have you seized, good fellow, and laid by the heels in prison till such time as it pleased his Majesty to have you tried for sedition, and then hung or shot for the peace of his land.”
“A way that would seem most meet to you, I presume,” said Gil, quietly.
“He is beside himself with rage, and yet trying to madden me, but I’ll keep cool and urge him on,” thought Sir Mark.
“I shall strike him directly, if he talks to me like that,” thought Gil.
“Let me see,” said Sir Mark, gazing at his rival with half-closed eyes; “I have pretty well mastered your life, my good fellow; and the country would be purified if you were away. You are one of Raleigh’s crew of buccanneering rufflers.”
“Sir,” cried Gil, proudly, “I am the son of one of the band of brave men who went out with that injured knight, and who look with the most utter contempt upon the north-country faithless puppet who sent him to the block. Pah; he and his followers stink in the nostrils of all good men and true. Let me see,” cried Gil, seizing his opportunity, “by your broad speech, sir, you are one of the paltry, ragged Scots who came south with Solomon to seek a home.”
“You lie, you scurrilous knave,” said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; “I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult.”
As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.
The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man’s force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.
Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.
“I make way for you, Sir Mark,” he said, grimly. “Walk on first, sir, while you can.”
Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion’s words; and then, full of doubt in the other’s honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.
“Turn to the left, Sir Mark,” said Gil, suddenly; “I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood.”
“Where would you go, then?” cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.
“The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me,” said Gil, quickly. “It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard. Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls.”
Sir Mark shuddered, but he made no sign; and, following the direction pointed out by Gil, the two young men came out of the wood below the wheel, crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and then, passing through two or three thick plantations, surrounding as many powder-sheds, they entered a wide stone building, whose floor was of furnace-cinder and charcoal; and, as they stood face to face, the place was far more light than the wood.
Without another word, Gil divested himself of cap and doublet, drawing his sword, and throwing down belt and sheath, in all of which he was imitated by Sir Mark, who, now that he was face to face with the peril, seemed to lose a good deal of his nervousness, though the coolness of his enemy staggered him.
“Your sword, sir,” said Gil, holding out his hand; but Sir Mark shrank back, and stood upon his defence.
“I merely wished to measure them,” said Gil, contemptuously, as he threw his own upon the charcoal floor. “Measure them yourself.”
Shamed by his rival’s greater show of confidence, Sir Mark made an effort over his suspicious nature, picked up Gil’s sword, and, holding both by the blades as they flashed in the warm red glow of the furnace, he handed them to Gil.
“Nay,” he said; “measure them yourself.”
Gil smiled as he took the weapons, laid the blades together, and finding his own to be fully three inches the longer, he handed it by the blade to Sir Mark.
“That is not my weapon,” said the latter, suspiciously. “Give me my own sword, fellow.”
“Not I,” said Gil; “mine is three inches longer in the blade, and I am not going to have it said that I killed thee by taking a foul advantage. We have no seconds, sir.”
Sir Mark hesitated for a few moments, and then, with the longer weapon, placed himself on guard with a good deal of the ceremony taught in the fencing-schools, while Gil quietly crossed swords with him, and the fight began.
It was a curious sight in that black-floored building, lit by the ruddy glow of the charcoal-furnace, whose illuminating powers sufficed to produce a ruddy twilight—nothing more—through which the figures of the contending men could be seen in rapid motion, as their flashing blades gritted edge against edge, and passes were rapidly exchanged.
Both fenced well, and at the end of a couple of minutes they fell back by mutual consent. No advantage had been obtained on either side. Each of them had, however, fully awakened to the fact that he had no contemptible enemy to deal with; and as with recovered breath they crossed swords once more it was with increased caution, and pass and parry followed with each exerting all his skill.
Gil fought, in spite of his apparent calmness, with terrible fury, for he was face to face with the man whom he believed to have blasted his happiness, and three times over the keenly-pointed blade he held passed through his adversary’s linen shirt, literally grazing the skin.
On his own side in the dim light he had had enough to do to hold his own, for it was only by the most skilful fencing that he was able to throw aside Sir Mark’s fierce thrusts, one of which inflicted a skin wound in his shoulder, and another grazed his hip.
They pressed each other in turn to and fro near the furnace-mouth, where the man who faced it gained no advantage, for he was thrown up so distinctly to his adversary’s view, and then back right into the gloomiest corner of the great building, where it was so dark that the danger was the same.
The swords gritted and flashed once or twice, emitting faint sparks; the contending men’s breath came thicker and faster as they strove on, the sweat in the heated place trickling down their faces in glittering beads; and the fight had grown furious as each, yielding to the fierce excitement of standing face to face with an enemy, strove with all his might to rob that foeman of his life.
At last, being the stronger and more skilful with his weapon, Gil drove his adversary back, step by step, delivering thrusts with lightning-like rapidity, every one as it succeeded the other being more feebly parried; and at last, with a strange sense of gratified passion in his breast, Gil pressed him more sorely, as he felt that he was in his power, when, just as he felt that victory was his, the tables were turned, for Sir Mark’s sword which he held snapped short off at the hilt, and it was only by stepping sharply back that Gil saved his life.
For, beside himself with fury, Sir Mark seized the opportunity, and aimed so deadly a thrust that it must have passed through his opponent’s body. Gil’s rapid retrograde movement saved him, however, for the moment, though he tripped over the remains of a mould, and fell headlong at his adversary’s feet.
“Slain in fair fight,” cried Sir Mark, exultantly, as, leaping forward, he placed his foot upon his adversary’s chest, and thrust at his throat.
“Not yet,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “I am a sailor.”
As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark’s sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in.
“Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr,” cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. “Is this thy conduct towards my father’s guest?”
“Thy father’s guest would have run me through, mistress,” he said, curtly. “I did but fight for life.”
“I’ll have no more of this,” cried the founder, fiercely. “Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways.”
“Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me,” said Gil. “It was a fair fight, fairly provoked.”
“I’ll not have my child made the prize for any fighting,” cried the founder, hotly. “Mace, this is your doing.”
“If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared,” cried Mace, coldly, “he might have left it in its sheath.”
“I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace,” whispered Gil. “It is cruel, indeed.”
Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover’s emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again.
“I forbade you my place, Gil Carr,” cried the founder. “You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels.”
“I fear no officers of justice,” cried Gil, angrily; “and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves.”
“But you need fear them,” cried the founder angrily. “What is this I hear of Abel Churr?”
“What has he dared to tell?” cried Gil, forgetting himself for the moment.
“Men with mute lips tell nought,” said the founder. “Where is Abel Churr?”
“I know not,” replied Gil.
“Nay, but you should know,” continued the founder, as Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone came panting in from an unsuccessful search. “Tom Croftly, tell what you heard. Abel Churr was an idle raff, but he was a man, and one of us here.”
As he spoke Mace’s countenance changed, and she drew nearer to Gil.
“I don’t know much, master,” said the foundryman slowly, “only that seven days ago I saw Abel Churr half drunken, and he was boasting that he knew a secret of the captain’s there which would hang him if it was known.”
“He must have told you, too, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood, quickly.
“Abel Churr did confess to me when I encountered him in the woods, Brother Peasegood, but the words uttered in confession are sacred. I cannot tell.”
“Not if a man’s character is at stake,” cried Master Peasegood.
“I’ll soon end this,” said the founder, as Gil quietly replaced his doublet and took his sword from Sir Mark’s hand. “Gil Carr, speak out like a man. Where is Abel Churr?”
“I do not know,” replied Gil, firmly.
“Had he some secret of yours?”
Gil paused for a moment, and his eyes encountered those of Mace gazing at him in a beseeching way, when a change seemed to come over him, and he replied frankly—
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“A secret that I wished to keep.”
“How did he find it out?” said the founder.
“How do I know, sir? By creeping through the wood, and dogging my steps, I suppose.”
“When did you see him last?” said the founder.
“A week ago.”
“Where?”
“In the woods,” replied Gil, who submitted to the examination as it were in obedience to Mace’s eyes.
“And what passed there?” said the founder.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Gil. “I found him prying into my affairs, and I seized him.”
“And threatened him?”
“Yes; I swore I would hang him to the yard-arm of my ship if I caught him again.”
“Yes—and then?”
“Then I let him go.”
“And since then?”
“I have not seen him since.”
Mace’s eyes brightened with satisfaction, and Gil, as he stood there alone, felt recompensed for much of the past, as it seemed to him that now he was in trouble she was turning to him.
“Sir Thomas Beckley must know this,” cried the founder. “The suspicion is that Abel Churr has been foully dealt with, and that you, Gilbert Carr, are to blame.”
“And I say that whoever charges me with hurt to Abel Churr lies,” cried Gil, hotly. “The scoundrel had a secret of mine in his keeping, and I did threaten him, but I let him go when I had caught him robbing me, with such a warning that I felt he would never come again.”
There was truth in his bearing, but somehow there was only one present who believed him, as he stood there alone, while the founder said coldly, “Gilbert Carr, there’s a dark suspicion hanging over thee. It may be that the deed was not done by thee, but by orders to thy men; but, anyway, it behoves thee to clear thyself by finding Abel Churr. Till you can do that, come upon my premises no more. Sir Mark, we are a rough people here, and set at naught some of the laws, but we hold a man’s life in good esteem. I shall see Sir Thomas, our justice, in the morning, and no stone will be left unturned to find this wretched man.”
“Gilbert Carr,” said Master Peasegood, advancing; “speak out once more—Do you know aught of this wretched man?”
“I have said all I know, Master Peasegood,” replied Gil, quietly. “I can say no more.”
“We must wait, Master Cobbe,” said the parson. “Seven days are but a short time. He will come back perhaps ere long.”
“I hope he will,” said the founder, firmly. “Gilbert Carr, this is my land, and no place for thee.”
Gil looked at him angrily, and then at Mace, whose glance disarmed him once again.
“As you will, Master Cobbe,” he said. “Some day perhaps you may regret this harshness to so old a friend. Mace, as I am to be dismissed, good-bye till we meet again—in better times.”
He advanced and held out his hand, but Sir Mark, who was near her, interposed.
“Stand back, sir,” he said; “no man with such a suspicion resting upon him shall touch Mistress Cobbe’s hand.”
Gil seized him by the shoulder, and with one swing hurled him aside.
“Your hand, Mace Cobbe,” he said, holding out his own, in which she laid hers for a few moments, before hurrying to her father’s side.
A dead silence had fallen on the group, and as Gil turned to go he felt that appearances were sadly against him, though it would be vain to say more then. Striding across the foundry he made for the open door, angry even unto passion, but helpless under the pressure of opinion. He was not prepared for the fresh reverse that he encountered, as, after turning to exchange a fierce glance with Sir Mark, which said plainly enough, “We shall meet again,” he was half startled by finding his way barred by Mother Goodhugh, who was standing in the doorway, full in the red light cast by the furnace.
He drew back as the old woman moved her stick and stepped into the building.
“Is he to be screened?” she cried aloud. “I say, is he to be screened? Your friend, Master Cobbe—the friend of your child—the man you mean to make your son. I say, is he to be screened?”
“Hold thy prate,” cried the founder, angrily. “Mother Goodhugh, I am in no humour to listen to thee now.”
“Nay, but thou shalt listen. I say is he to be screened? Gil Carr,” she cried, turning upon him sharply, “where is Abel Churr?”
“Stand aside, woman,” cried Gil. “I know not.”
“But you do know,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “He was my only friend, and I will have all brought to light. He went to follow you in the forest. You met him—speak, did you not meet him?”
“I did,” said Gil sharply. “And you murdered him,” cried the old woman. “Ha, ha, ha! As I said—as I said; more care for the house of Cobbe. The curses fall thick and fast. As I said, as I said. Yes, get you gone, murderer, and you, good people, have the forest searched for the remains of his victim. He must be found—he must be found.”
Gil turned upon her angrily, but he did not speak. He strode from the building, out into the summer night, hot and angry; and as he went along the lane he could hear the old woman’s shrillest tone as she shouted after him; and even the hurrying water in the race towards the wheel seemed to repeat the word “Murderer,” in his ears.
How a Casement was opened.In the days which followed there was a diligent search for Abel Churr, in which Gilbert Carr’s men joined hands with those of the founder, for reasons best known to Gil; and every likely place in the forest was searched save the ravine leading to the cave entry, and that was gone over by Gil’s men alone. At times there might be one or two who felt disposed to give Gil the credit of having made away with a man who had been a spy upon his actions, but very little was said on the matter, the common people, as a body, liking the captain and his men, whose return from a voyage was heartily welcomed, even though at times they were rather more than free.Those who spoke out and sided with Mother Goodhugh received hints to keep their tongues more quiet, the hints being traceable to Wat Kilby; but there was but little need to speak. Gil was too great a favourite; and when there was some talk (on the part of Sir Thomas Beckley) of the captain being arrested and inquisitions made, Sir Thomas received so broad a hint from his daughter not to interfere with Gil, and also from the captain’s followers, to let matters rest, that he hastily obeyed.“I’m not going to blame thee, skipper,” said Wat Kilby, one day when the heat of the search was over; “but wouldn’t it have been better to have shut him up for a bit till we started, and then have taken him away?”The captain turned sharply round upon him.“Look here, Wat,” he said; “do you believe that I have murdered Abel Churr?”“Lord, no, lad, not murdered; that be too terrifying a word. Pooked him—executed him for a spy—pooked him; and quite right too.”“Once for all,” cried the captain, “let it be fully understood by you, and you can tell the men, that I caught Abel Churr in the store, and, after frightening him, I let him go, making him swear that he would never approach the place or divulge its position to a soul.”“Do you want me to tell the lads that?” said Wat.“Yes, of course.”“Nay, then I’m a mutineer. I’m not going to help ’em to such words as that.”“Why not?”“Why not, skipper? Because it would lower you in the eyes of every man of the crew. What! after the oath we swore, and after the way the boys have kept it, for you, our captain, to go and let loose a varmin who had broken in and was robbing you, perhaps hunting out the savings and trade every man has got stored up here? Nay, captain, it would be degrading you in the eyes of all.”“What would you have done, then?”“What would I have done?” said Wat. “Why, same as you did—killed him like the varmin he was, and buried him in the mixen or under the stones.”“You really believe, then, that I killed this man in cold blood?”“Why, of course, skipper; you couldn’t do otherwise. As to a man and cold blood! bah! he was a rat, and he was caught. Do you know how the lads searched the little valley?”“No.”“Crept through the wood, pooked the grass aside, and sat down and smoked,” said Wat with a chuckle.“Then they did not properly search it?”“Of course not,” cried Wat, gruffly. “You don’t suppose they wanted to find that girt fox, do you?”“Wat,” cried the captain angrily, “you disobeyed my orders. That place shall be searched, and that at once.”“What—and try to warm up the scent again, captain? Nay, he’s sattled, let sleeping dogs lie. The world’s all the better for there being no Abel Churr; and the adders and things can have a chance of marrying and having families without being pulled out of their holes by the tail.”As he spoke, the old sailor turned away, and Gil walked to the cottage where he had his temporary home.That night on the dark bank in front of the Pool-house four glow-worms shone out for the first time for weeks, and Gil Carr walked across the little swing-bridge towards the founder’s garden.The sight of a few glow-worms on that bank might have been expected after the many that had been placed there at various times by Gil, but they never stayed long, for the blackbird or thrush generally made a meal of them; and when, on that night, Mace went up to her room, glancing out as was her custom before drawing the blind, she knew that before long there would be some one waiting beneath the casement, and her heart began to beat.She had not seen Gil since the evening of his encounter with Sir Mark, and, truth to tell, she had watched night after night to see if he would try to see her, and sad of heart had gone to her sleepless couch without a sign.Sir Mark was still there, but was to leave in a day or two, having sent on his report of the works, and pleading ill-health as a reason for staying longer. But his conduct to her had changed. There was less of the sighing gallant in his manner, though he appeared pained by her coldness, and treated her with studied respect.The founder and he seemed to be growing firm friends, though Mace with pain saw that the visitor was gaining an ascendancy over her father’s actions that augured no future good.Janet was with her in her room that night, and meaningly drew her attention to the tiny lights, but received so sharp a look for her pains that she ventured to say no more, and soon after left, the room to go and stand irresolutely in the passage, thinking.“He’s there,” she said, with malicious glee lighting up her eyes; “and he’s forbidden to come. He played with me and tricked me, professing so much and then laughing at me, and telling me I was not to listen to old Wat Kilby. Suppose I trick him.”She paused, thinking for a few moments, and then slipping into a small room—half dressing-room, half bureau—she took a cloak and hood from a peg and slipped them on.Meanwhile Gil had passed softly into the garden, and stood waiting in the darkness of the summer night, to see if Mace’s looks towards him had any meaning, and he had not waited long before a faint click told him that the casement had been opened.“Mace.”“Gil.”“Why have you come?”“Because you were in trouble, Gil, and I wished to say a word or two of comfort, and to ask you of Abel Churr.”“I know what you would say,” he said, softly. “Am I guilty? Is’t not so?”“Yes.”He laughed gently as he strained his eyes to try and make out the outlines of her sweet face.“Mace,” he said, “it is like old times to be here again, and there is more light and hope in my heart than there has been for weeks. Let me answer you with another question. If I were guilty, Mace, should I be here?”“No,” she said softly, as her hand stole down, white and soft, amongst the roses, to be seized and held to his breast. “But tell me, Gil, with your own lips, that you are innocent; that this charge is not true, and I will believe you.”“Mace, child, so help me—”“Stop,” she whispered, hastily; “the man who loves me needs no oaths. Tell me on your word, Gil, as a gentleman, that you are guiltless, and I will believe.”“There is my hand,” he whispered; “place yours within it. There; does it burn?”“No,” she whispered; “it is cool and soft.”“Yes,” he said, quietly; “but if it were stained with Abel Churr’s blood it would burn and flush at the touch of your innocent palm. If I said there had never been blood upon it, child, I should lie; but it has been the blood of an enemy, shed in fair fight; and as often,” he added, with a laugh, “it has been my own. Mace, you have never misjudged me, darling? Tell me that you never believed me to be the assassin they would make me out.”“Never, Gil.”“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”“What?” she cried, starting.“I say thank God that I was suspected.”“Why?”“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”“Good-bye.”Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.End of Volume I.
In the days which followed there was a diligent search for Abel Churr, in which Gilbert Carr’s men joined hands with those of the founder, for reasons best known to Gil; and every likely place in the forest was searched save the ravine leading to the cave entry, and that was gone over by Gil’s men alone. At times there might be one or two who felt disposed to give Gil the credit of having made away with a man who had been a spy upon his actions, but very little was said on the matter, the common people, as a body, liking the captain and his men, whose return from a voyage was heartily welcomed, even though at times they were rather more than free.
Those who spoke out and sided with Mother Goodhugh received hints to keep their tongues more quiet, the hints being traceable to Wat Kilby; but there was but little need to speak. Gil was too great a favourite; and when there was some talk (on the part of Sir Thomas Beckley) of the captain being arrested and inquisitions made, Sir Thomas received so broad a hint from his daughter not to interfere with Gil, and also from the captain’s followers, to let matters rest, that he hastily obeyed.
“I’m not going to blame thee, skipper,” said Wat Kilby, one day when the heat of the search was over; “but wouldn’t it have been better to have shut him up for a bit till we started, and then have taken him away?”
The captain turned sharply round upon him.
“Look here, Wat,” he said; “do you believe that I have murdered Abel Churr?”
“Lord, no, lad, not murdered; that be too terrifying a word. Pooked him—executed him for a spy—pooked him; and quite right too.”
“Once for all,” cried the captain, “let it be fully understood by you, and you can tell the men, that I caught Abel Churr in the store, and, after frightening him, I let him go, making him swear that he would never approach the place or divulge its position to a soul.”
“Do you want me to tell the lads that?” said Wat.
“Yes, of course.”
“Nay, then I’m a mutineer. I’m not going to help ’em to such words as that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, skipper? Because it would lower you in the eyes of every man of the crew. What! after the oath we swore, and after the way the boys have kept it, for you, our captain, to go and let loose a varmin who had broken in and was robbing you, perhaps hunting out the savings and trade every man has got stored up here? Nay, captain, it would be degrading you in the eyes of all.”
“What would you have done, then?”
“What would I have done?” said Wat. “Why, same as you did—killed him like the varmin he was, and buried him in the mixen or under the stones.”
“You really believe, then, that I killed this man in cold blood?”
“Why, of course, skipper; you couldn’t do otherwise. As to a man and cold blood! bah! he was a rat, and he was caught. Do you know how the lads searched the little valley?”
“No.”
“Crept through the wood, pooked the grass aside, and sat down and smoked,” said Wat with a chuckle.
“Then they did not properly search it?”
“Of course not,” cried Wat, gruffly. “You don’t suppose they wanted to find that girt fox, do you?”
“Wat,” cried the captain angrily, “you disobeyed my orders. That place shall be searched, and that at once.”
“What—and try to warm up the scent again, captain? Nay, he’s sattled, let sleeping dogs lie. The world’s all the better for there being no Abel Churr; and the adders and things can have a chance of marrying and having families without being pulled out of their holes by the tail.”
As he spoke, the old sailor turned away, and Gil walked to the cottage where he had his temporary home.
That night on the dark bank in front of the Pool-house four glow-worms shone out for the first time for weeks, and Gil Carr walked across the little swing-bridge towards the founder’s garden.
The sight of a few glow-worms on that bank might have been expected after the many that had been placed there at various times by Gil, but they never stayed long, for the blackbird or thrush generally made a meal of them; and when, on that night, Mace went up to her room, glancing out as was her custom before drawing the blind, she knew that before long there would be some one waiting beneath the casement, and her heart began to beat.
She had not seen Gil since the evening of his encounter with Sir Mark, and, truth to tell, she had watched night after night to see if he would try to see her, and sad of heart had gone to her sleepless couch without a sign.
Sir Mark was still there, but was to leave in a day or two, having sent on his report of the works, and pleading ill-health as a reason for staying longer. But his conduct to her had changed. There was less of the sighing gallant in his manner, though he appeared pained by her coldness, and treated her with studied respect.
The founder and he seemed to be growing firm friends, though Mace with pain saw that the visitor was gaining an ascendancy over her father’s actions that augured no future good.
Janet was with her in her room that night, and meaningly drew her attention to the tiny lights, but received so sharp a look for her pains that she ventured to say no more, and soon after left, the room to go and stand irresolutely in the passage, thinking.
“He’s there,” she said, with malicious glee lighting up her eyes; “and he’s forbidden to come. He played with me and tricked me, professing so much and then laughing at me, and telling me I was not to listen to old Wat Kilby. Suppose I trick him.”
She paused, thinking for a few moments, and then slipping into a small room—half dressing-room, half bureau—she took a cloak and hood from a peg and slipped them on.
Meanwhile Gil had passed softly into the garden, and stood waiting in the darkness of the summer night, to see if Mace’s looks towards him had any meaning, and he had not waited long before a faint click told him that the casement had been opened.
“Mace.”
“Gil.”
“Why have you come?”
“Because you were in trouble, Gil, and I wished to say a word or two of comfort, and to ask you of Abel Churr.”
“I know what you would say,” he said, softly. “Am I guilty? Is’t not so?”
“Yes.”
He laughed gently as he strained his eyes to try and make out the outlines of her sweet face.
“Mace,” he said, “it is like old times to be here again, and there is more light and hope in my heart than there has been for weeks. Let me answer you with another question. If I were guilty, Mace, should I be here?”
“No,” she said softly, as her hand stole down, white and soft, amongst the roses, to be seized and held to his breast. “But tell me, Gil, with your own lips, that you are innocent; that this charge is not true, and I will believe you.”
“Mace, child, so help me—”
“Stop,” she whispered, hastily; “the man who loves me needs no oaths. Tell me on your word, Gil, as a gentleman, that you are guiltless, and I will believe.”
“There is my hand,” he whispered; “place yours within it. There; does it burn?”
“No,” she whispered; “it is cool and soft.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly; “but if it were stained with Abel Churr’s blood it would burn and flush at the touch of your innocent palm. If I said there had never been blood upon it, child, I should lie; but it has been the blood of an enemy, shed in fair fight; and as often,” he added, with a laugh, “it has been my own. Mace, you have never misjudged me, darling? Tell me that you never believed me to be the assassin they would make me out.”
“Never, Gil.”
“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”
“What?” she cried, starting.
“I say thank God that I was suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”
“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.
“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”
“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”
“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”
He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.
“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.
Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.
End of Volume I.
How Janet was clasped in the Wrong Arms.A signal made with four glow-worms can be seen by many who happen to be gazing out into the darkness of the night. Janet had seen them plainly, and, as it happened, so had the founder, who took down—and buckled on his sword, and then crept cautiously to Sir Mark’s chamber.“Are you awake?” he whispered.“Yes, yes,” cried Sir Mark, starting up with a cry; “is aught the matter?”“Hush, man,” whispered the founder, “or you’ll alarm the house. One would think I had told thee that one was sotting spark to the powder-barrels in the cellar.”“Powder-barrels in the cellar?” said Sir Mark, in a hoarse whisper.“Of course. Where would’st have them for safety? Tut, man, it is not Guido Fawkes who has come. He is here.”“What, Fawkes?”“Nay, how dense thou art. Up and dress quickly. He is in the garden, I’ll wager, trying to keep tryst with my child. Dress quickly, and bring thy sword. If he be not pricked to-night as a warning my name is not Cobbe. I’ll wait thee in the passage below.”He slipped out on to the broad landing, and waited, when, to his surprise and rage, he saw a figure hooded and cloaked, glide down the stairs and out of the front door, which creaked lightly as the girl passed through.“Curse her!” he muttered. “I could slay her at once, but I’ll take her with him. Pest on this fellow, how long he is!”He was completely out of patience when he heard the stairs creak, and Sir Mark crept softly down.“Quick!” the founder cried, “or we shall be too late. Now,” he whispered, “go you and watch, sword in hand, by the bridge. You can manage without going in this time, while I search the garden. We’ll trap him to-night. How dare he come?”The couple separated, and, each taking his apportioned part, Gil Carr’s chance of escape seemed small indeed. He was beneath Mace’s window, and in another minute the founder, sword in hand, would have been upon him, had not a faint cry from another part of the garden drawn him aside to where, dimly enough, he could see Mace’s cloak and hood beside a tall dark figure.The founder stood watching for a few minutes, and, sooth to say, hesitating; for now it had come to a point, he was loth to injure Gil, partly from a latent liking for him, partly because of his power amongst the people of the place. But the recollection of Abel Churr’s disappearance made his heart grow stern, and, with the full determination to chastise Gil for his insolence in coming to the house after being so sternly forbidden, he cautiously advanced to where the figures were standing.The catching of a rose-thorn in his doublet and the sharp rustle the twig gave in being released sufficed to alarm the wearer of the cloak, and she glided quickly down the garden-walk with her companion, disappearing from the founder’s gaze; and, though he followed them cautiously, they must have gone down some side-path, for he could not see them again.“Pest on them!” he muttered. “They knew I was on the watch.”Under this impression he crept cautiously back towards the house, expecting to see them there; but, though he waited some time, there was no sign, and he went down the garden again, which, fortunately for Gil, was sufficiently extensive to allow of the meeting in progress going on unheard.The founder was not aware of the fact, but more than once in the darkness he was literally hunting the two figures, which kept gliding on before him, avoiding him almost by a miracle, till in sheer weariness and disgust he returned to where Sir Mark was impatiently watching near the bridge.“Well! Hast seen them?” he said.“Nay,” said the founder, “only once. We’ll wait here and see if they come.”The words had scarcely left his lips before he uttered an exclamation, and ran towards the house, just in time to catch a dark figure stealing towards the door.“Quick!” he whispered to Sir Mark, who had followed him; and, half-carrying the captive within doors, the founder tore aside the hood, exclaiming against his daughter for her wanton ways.“What will Sir Mark think of you?” he cried angrily. “He will—Why, curse the girl; it’s Janet!”Janet it was, who on the spur of the moment had masqueraded as her mistress, gone down the garden, and with throbbing heart thrown herself as she believed in Gil’s way. For he suddenly seized her in his arms, and, though she uttered a faint cry and escaped, she took care not to go beyond his vision, but led him a Will-o’-the-Wisp kind of dance from walk to walk, till, thinking she had been sufficiently coy, she stopped short, quite out of breath, and allowed herself to be caught.He who captured her was sharper of eyesight, and, in spite of the cloak and hood, not for a moment deceived. He had made too much use of his eyes by night for them to play him false; and, as once more he caught the girl in his arms, he held her tightly, exclaiming—“Why, Janet, you pretty little witch, have I caught thee at last?”The girl no sooner felt the rough face of her captor against hers than she struggled vigorously, though in vain.“Why, it be Mas’ Wat Kilby,” she panted.“Wat Kilby it is, my darling,” he replied in an amorous growl. “Who did you think it was?”“Never mind,” cried the girl; “loose me, you wicked old bear, or I’ll shriek for help. There—quick—there’s some one coming.”It was so true that Wat Kilby relaxed his grip, all but that upon one of the girl’s wrists, and this he held as together they hurried through the garden on tiptoe, Janet, becoming more amiable, whispering her companion to go cautiously “for heaven’s sake!”He obeyed her, and together they glided from path to path of the great bosky, tree-shadowed garden, literally hunted from place to place by the founder, until, finding that he had given up the quest, Janet freed herself from the grasp of Wat Kilby and made for the door, quite satisfied with her escapade, and only thinking now of getting safely back.“A horrible old bear!” she muttered; and then her heart sank, for a figure she knew to be that of her master made at her, and she was caught by the wrist.Meanwhile, Wat Kilby, who had followed at a short distance, muttering to himself, and calling Janet “a coy little craft,” “a tricksey little caravel,” and half-a-dozen more suitable nautical terms expressive of her distant ways and tempting prettiness, suddenly became aware of the danger to his leader. For the founder at the end of a few minutes came out of the house with Sir Mark, and posted himself where he would be certain to encounter Gil as he came away.“And then there might be mischief,” growled the old sailor. “If the skipper went down, it would break little beauty’s heart; so it would if he pricked her father. This is the second time I’ve saved him through being here. Wonder whether he’ll be ungrateful enough to turn upon me now for doing a bit o’ gentle courting on my own account.“Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckled; “just as if a man could ever be too old to love a pretty girl. Old women are old women, and not much account; but a staunch, sturdy, seasoned man, why he’s like old oak, and makes the best o’ building wood. Now, then, where’s the skipper? It’s high time for us to be sheering off.”He pretty well knew from former observations where to encounter Gil; and, creeping cautiously amongst the bushes, he waited his time, and rose up before him as he was making for the bridge.“All right, skipper,” he whispered. “Breakers ahead! Hard down, and let’s get back the other way.”Gil knew Wat too well to think that he would deceive him or be mistaken, and, placing himself under his guidance, he followed him to the back of the garden, where they leaped the fence, and at last reached the edge of the pool.“There’s no other way to get back without being seen, skipper,” whispered Wat. “We must wade across here; and, if it gets too deep, try a swim. They’re watching to pook us by the bridge.”“Who is watching?” whispered Gil.“Mas’ Cobbe and that dandy Jack.”“Let them watch!” muttered Gil, as he thought of his parting from Mace that night; and with light heart, and a feeling of readiness to encounter anything for his young love’s sake, the young man followed his companion into the cold, dark waters of the Pool.
A signal made with four glow-worms can be seen by many who happen to be gazing out into the darkness of the night. Janet had seen them plainly, and, as it happened, so had the founder, who took down—and buckled on his sword, and then crept cautiously to Sir Mark’s chamber.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“Yes, yes,” cried Sir Mark, starting up with a cry; “is aught the matter?”
“Hush, man,” whispered the founder, “or you’ll alarm the house. One would think I had told thee that one was sotting spark to the powder-barrels in the cellar.”
“Powder-barrels in the cellar?” said Sir Mark, in a hoarse whisper.
“Of course. Where would’st have them for safety? Tut, man, it is not Guido Fawkes who has come. He is here.”
“What, Fawkes?”
“Nay, how dense thou art. Up and dress quickly. He is in the garden, I’ll wager, trying to keep tryst with my child. Dress quickly, and bring thy sword. If he be not pricked to-night as a warning my name is not Cobbe. I’ll wait thee in the passage below.”
He slipped out on to the broad landing, and waited, when, to his surprise and rage, he saw a figure hooded and cloaked, glide down the stairs and out of the front door, which creaked lightly as the girl passed through.
“Curse her!” he muttered. “I could slay her at once, but I’ll take her with him. Pest on this fellow, how long he is!”
He was completely out of patience when he heard the stairs creak, and Sir Mark crept softly down.
“Quick!” the founder cried, “or we shall be too late. Now,” he whispered, “go you and watch, sword in hand, by the bridge. You can manage without going in this time, while I search the garden. We’ll trap him to-night. How dare he come?”
The couple separated, and, each taking his apportioned part, Gil Carr’s chance of escape seemed small indeed. He was beneath Mace’s window, and in another minute the founder, sword in hand, would have been upon him, had not a faint cry from another part of the garden drawn him aside to where, dimly enough, he could see Mace’s cloak and hood beside a tall dark figure.
The founder stood watching for a few minutes, and, sooth to say, hesitating; for now it had come to a point, he was loth to injure Gil, partly from a latent liking for him, partly because of his power amongst the people of the place. But the recollection of Abel Churr’s disappearance made his heart grow stern, and, with the full determination to chastise Gil for his insolence in coming to the house after being so sternly forbidden, he cautiously advanced to where the figures were standing.
The catching of a rose-thorn in his doublet and the sharp rustle the twig gave in being released sufficed to alarm the wearer of the cloak, and she glided quickly down the garden-walk with her companion, disappearing from the founder’s gaze; and, though he followed them cautiously, they must have gone down some side-path, for he could not see them again.
“Pest on them!” he muttered. “They knew I was on the watch.”
Under this impression he crept cautiously back towards the house, expecting to see them there; but, though he waited some time, there was no sign, and he went down the garden again, which, fortunately for Gil, was sufficiently extensive to allow of the meeting in progress going on unheard.
The founder was not aware of the fact, but more than once in the darkness he was literally hunting the two figures, which kept gliding on before him, avoiding him almost by a miracle, till in sheer weariness and disgust he returned to where Sir Mark was impatiently watching near the bridge.
“Well! Hast seen them?” he said.
“Nay,” said the founder, “only once. We’ll wait here and see if they come.”
The words had scarcely left his lips before he uttered an exclamation, and ran towards the house, just in time to catch a dark figure stealing towards the door.
“Quick!” he whispered to Sir Mark, who had followed him; and, half-carrying the captive within doors, the founder tore aside the hood, exclaiming against his daughter for her wanton ways.
“What will Sir Mark think of you?” he cried angrily. “He will—Why, curse the girl; it’s Janet!”
Janet it was, who on the spur of the moment had masqueraded as her mistress, gone down the garden, and with throbbing heart thrown herself as she believed in Gil’s way. For he suddenly seized her in his arms, and, though she uttered a faint cry and escaped, she took care not to go beyond his vision, but led him a Will-o’-the-Wisp kind of dance from walk to walk, till, thinking she had been sufficiently coy, she stopped short, quite out of breath, and allowed herself to be caught.
He who captured her was sharper of eyesight, and, in spite of the cloak and hood, not for a moment deceived. He had made too much use of his eyes by night for them to play him false; and, as once more he caught the girl in his arms, he held her tightly, exclaiming—
“Why, Janet, you pretty little witch, have I caught thee at last?”
The girl no sooner felt the rough face of her captor against hers than she struggled vigorously, though in vain.
“Why, it be Mas’ Wat Kilby,” she panted.
“Wat Kilby it is, my darling,” he replied in an amorous growl. “Who did you think it was?”
“Never mind,” cried the girl; “loose me, you wicked old bear, or I’ll shriek for help. There—quick—there’s some one coming.”
It was so true that Wat Kilby relaxed his grip, all but that upon one of the girl’s wrists, and this he held as together they hurried through the garden on tiptoe, Janet, becoming more amiable, whispering her companion to go cautiously “for heaven’s sake!”
He obeyed her, and together they glided from path to path of the great bosky, tree-shadowed garden, literally hunted from place to place by the founder, until, finding that he had given up the quest, Janet freed herself from the grasp of Wat Kilby and made for the door, quite satisfied with her escapade, and only thinking now of getting safely back.
“A horrible old bear!” she muttered; and then her heart sank, for a figure she knew to be that of her master made at her, and she was caught by the wrist.
Meanwhile, Wat Kilby, who had followed at a short distance, muttering to himself, and calling Janet “a coy little craft,” “a tricksey little caravel,” and half-a-dozen more suitable nautical terms expressive of her distant ways and tempting prettiness, suddenly became aware of the danger to his leader. For the founder at the end of a few minutes came out of the house with Sir Mark, and posted himself where he would be certain to encounter Gil as he came away.
“And then there might be mischief,” growled the old sailor. “If the skipper went down, it would break little beauty’s heart; so it would if he pricked her father. This is the second time I’ve saved him through being here. Wonder whether he’ll be ungrateful enough to turn upon me now for doing a bit o’ gentle courting on my own account.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckled; “just as if a man could ever be too old to love a pretty girl. Old women are old women, and not much account; but a staunch, sturdy, seasoned man, why he’s like old oak, and makes the best o’ building wood. Now, then, where’s the skipper? It’s high time for us to be sheering off.”
He pretty well knew from former observations where to encounter Gil; and, creeping cautiously amongst the bushes, he waited his time, and rose up before him as he was making for the bridge.
“All right, skipper,” he whispered. “Breakers ahead! Hard down, and let’s get back the other way.”
Gil knew Wat too well to think that he would deceive him or be mistaken, and, placing himself under his guidance, he followed him to the back of the garden, where they leaped the fence, and at last reached the edge of the pool.
“There’s no other way to get back without being seen, skipper,” whispered Wat. “We must wade across here; and, if it gets too deep, try a swim. They’re watching to pook us by the bridge.”
“Who is watching?” whispered Gil.
“Mas’ Cobbe and that dandy Jack.”
“Let them watch!” muttered Gil, as he thought of his parting from Mace that night; and with light heart, and a feeling of readiness to encounter anything for his young love’s sake, the young man followed his companion into the cold, dark waters of the Pool.
How Sir Mark Showed His Heart.“Have I drunk some love potion?” muttered Sir Mark to himself very early the next morning, “or am I going back to my calf-love days? Here have I enjoyed more conquests than any man at the court. I came down to the Moat, and pretty Mistress Anne Beckley throws herself into my arms; then I come on here to find myself regularly taken—trapped as it were. She does what she likes with me, even as she does with that bully, Carr. I fight against it, and make myself worse. I declare I will think of her no more, but go back and swear allegiance to pretty red-haired Mistress Anne, when Mace’s eyes rise up before me, and turn me from my way. She is so calm and sweet, and seems so pure, that I am beaten.”He walked up and down the old parlour, where Janet was bringing in the various preparations for the breakfast, coquetting about till she caught his eye and smiled and looked down, throwing out invitation after invitation, when, as she passed close to him, he caught her in his arms and kissed her, easily overcoming the girl’s faint opposition, and repeating the salute till she broke away and made off, leaving him smiling at his success.“Why, there isn’t a woman living that I could not win,” he said to himself. “Bah! What an idiot I am. What are the kisses of such a creature as that worth compared to the slightest smile of such a girl as Mace? I am sick at heart!”He walked up and down again, and just then Janet came back, mincing and blushing, and making a great pretence of being terribly alarmed, when, to her disgust, she found that Sir Mark was so abstracted that he paid not the slightest heed to her presence, but walked straight to the window, and stood gazing out into the garden.Poor Janet’s face was a study as she rattled the breakfast-plates and knives, thumped dishes down upon the table, and coughed to take the visitor’s attention, but all in vain. She had rapidly recovered from the snubbing administered by her master, and was congratulating herself upon her conquest, when now, all at once, when the visitor’s last kiss was still wet upon her lips, he had turned away.Janet tried in vain to take his attention, and ended by flouncing out of the old parlour, hot with indignant wrath.“No,” mused Sir Mark, whose eyes were resting upon Mace, where, sweet and fresh as the flowers she was picking, she wandered down one of the garden-walks; “the old man is wrong. She is not the girl to trifle. She is not the woman a man might make his mistress. It is all folly about their meetings. Carr may play the Spanish gallant beneath her window, but if any meeting has been held it has been with that gamesome, wanton jade—Janet.”“How beautiful she is!” he muttered, as, forgetful of Janet’s presence and the kisses he had taken, he gazed with kindling eyes at the gentle, pallid face, lit up with the consciousness of love for Gil and of his truth. For there was a happy smile on Mace’s lip that morning, and her face, that had of late been pale, was now tinged with a tender peachy bloom. There was grace in her every movement, and Mark Leslie’s heart beat fast.“No,” he said, “she is too pure and innocent to become the mistress of any man. Curse it all, no one could be such a villain as to wrong her,” he cried, with a sudden access of morality that had not existed in his composition a few weeks back. “She is lovely enough to be the wife of any man. Suppose that simple stuff gown and white linen kerchief, cap, and cuffs were exchanged for a rich brocade, with jewels in her hair, and round that soft, sweet neck, which would tempt a man to risk his salvation that he might clasp it. Curse me, I wish I were one of the flowers she is plucking with those delicious fingers. What does it mean—has she bewitched me, or, as I say, has some love-philtre been at work?”“Curse me, if I care what it is!” he cried at last, excitedly, as he still gazed through the casement at the unconscious girl. “She’d be a wife for a prince. Her knowledge is wonderful; her mien purity and sweetness combined; her voice low and silvery, as if music had assisted at her birth. Why not win her and wed her, and at once?”“Humph!” he muttered. “Why not? Old Cobbe must be as rich as any Jew, whilst I am as poor as a beggar. He’d be glad enough to see her Dame Leslie—Dame Mace Leslie. How provoking that I must go so soon, when I might have been making sure my position. Never mind, it may not be too late. And, curse me, I’ll do it, for she is lovely.”“Ah, Sir Mark, stolen glances at that jade?” said the founder, who had just entered the room unperceived, and who was watching curiously the interest taken by the young man in his daughter.“Master Cobbe!” exclaimed Sir Mark, loudly and angrily. “Shame upon you, sir, to speak of your child like that.”“She should behave more seemly, then,” said the founder, gruffly.“More seemly!” cried Sir Mark. “Look at her. Did’st ever see one more sweet and pure of mien? See the candour and gentleness upon her brow and lip. You are wrong, Master Cobbe, you are wrong; my life upon it you wrong her by your suspicions of her interviews with Carr.”“Do I?” said the founder, hotly. “Let’s have her in, then, and ask her. I grant that she is too truthful to lie.”“Nay, nay!” cried Sir Mark, excitedly; “I would not have her insulted by such suspicions. Your daughter is a lady. It would be cruel.”“Odds life, man,” cried the founder, half-amused by the other’s earnestness. “Whom have we here—the King’s champion?”“The Queen’s, you should say, Master Cobbe,” replied the other. “Master Cobbe, you do not understand your daughter’s ways.”“I understand my own,” said the founder, gruffly, “and I made her. She’s my own flesh and blood, Sir Mark. Bah! I understand her whims and follies better than you.”“Nay!” cried Sir Mark. “You roused me up last night to come and be a witness of the truth of thy suspicions that sweet Mistress Mace held clandestine meetings with Captain Carr, though I would have wagered my life upon the suspicions being false.”“Thou did’st not say such a word last night,” said the founder drily.“Nay, how could I force my opinion upon you?” said Sir Mark. “I could only follow, and pray that you were wrong; and what did you show me for result, when you had, as you thought, forced me to be an unwilling witness of sweet Mistress Mace’s shame?”“I saw no unwillingness,” said the founder, drily; “I thought thou obeyed’st it with eager joy.”“Nay, but I was unwilling: and my alacrity was to have revenge upon the man who was searing my poor heart. And then what did you show me when you had made your capture? That wretched drab of a serving-girl.”“Am I?” muttered Janet, who had half entered the room, and had heard his words.“Well, I am wrong,” growled the founder; “and I am glad of it. I’d give something to know that Gil Carr’s visits had all been to see yon wench.”“Rely upon it they were, Master Cobbe. My life upon it they were,” said Sir Mark, eagerly.“Hah!” ejaculated the founder; “rely upon it, eh? And why, pray, Sir Mark, dost thou take so sudden an interest in my child?”“Sudden, sir? Nay, it is not sudden. From the first moment I saw Mistress Mace—”“Thou loved’st her. Of course; the old story that has been poured into silly maidens’ ears from the beginning of the world. Stop, sir, listen to me,” he continued, as Sir Mark was about to speak. “I am not a learned theology man, like Master Peasegood or Father Brisdone, but, as you say, I’d wager my life that, when the serpent urged pretty little, innocent Mistress Eve to take the forbidden fruit, he gave her a lesson or two in the art of love, and upset her for the rest of her life.”“Maybe he did,” said Sir Mark, smiling; “but the serpent was insincere, and I am no serpent.”“How do I know that, young man?” said the founder, laying his hand upon the other’s breast. “I’ve been thinking a good deal about your visit lately, and I will tell you flat that I have kept you here as a scarecrow.”“A scarecrow?”“Yes, to frighten off that marauding kite, Gil Carr, who was getting far too sweet upon my simple child.”“Scarecrow! Serpent! Nay, Master Cobbe, I am neither,” cried Sir Mark, whose eyes had rested upon Mace as her father spoke, and gained such an access of passion as they had lit bee-like on the honey-scented blossom that he was ready to speak out plainly now.“As I said before, how do I know that?”“Because I tell you now, as a gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household, that I love Mistress Mace with all my heart.”“And I tell thee flat again, Sir Mark, that, gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household though you be, I would sooner believe the words as coming from some simple gentleman of our parts.”“What am I to say to you, then?” said Sir Mark, excitedly.“Nothing at all,” replied the founder, bluntly. “Of course you love the girl—everyone does who sees her; but what of that?”“What of that? Why, Master Cobbe, I would fain make her my dear wife.”“Thy wife? My little Mace—my simple-hearted child, wife of a gay spark of a courtier—a knight of King James. Nonsense, man; nonsense! Trash!”“It does take thee by surprise, no doubt,” said Sir Mark, with a little hauteur; “but it would not be the first time that a knight of my position had stooped to many a worthy yeoman’s daughter.”“Thou’rt a modest youth,” said the founder, with a dry chuckle; “and I suppose it would be a great stoop for the hawk to come down from on high to pick up my little dove. And to keep up this style of language, good Sir Mark, I suppose thy hawk’s nest is very well feathered—thou art rich?”“Well—no,” said Sir Mark, hesitating; “not rich; but my position warrants my assuming to take a wife from the highest in the land.”“So you come and pick my little tit,” said the founder. “Well, and a very good taste, Sir Mark. She is, as you say, a beautiful girl, and she will have fifteen thousand pounds down on her wedding-day for portion.”“Fifteen thousand pounds!” exclaimed Sir Mark.“And twice as much more—perhaps three times—when I die,” said the founder, with a smile of self-satisfaction, which increased as he saw Sir Mark move his hand as he recovered from his surprise.“Money is no object to me,” he said; “I love Mistress Mace for her worth alone.”“And you’d marry her without a penny.”“Ye-es, of course,” cried Sir Mark; “give me your consent.”“Nay—nay, my lad, not I,” said the founder. “My Mace is no meet match for thee; and, as my guest, I ask you to say no foolish nonsense to the child. She has had silly notions enough put into her head by Gil Carr.”“But that is all over now, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark. “I pray you give me your consent. I may be recalled to-day.”“I am glad to hear it,” said the founder. “You have been here too long, and I don’t know, even now, that it is all over with Gil Carr. I’m not going to break my child’s heart, and—hey-day, tit, child, what’s wrong?” he cried, as, with a face white as ashes, and her eyes dilate with horror, Mace ran quickly into the room followed by Janet.“Gil! father,” she cried, hoarsely; and then, with a shudder, her eyes closed and her head sank upon his breast.“Why, child, what now? Has he dared? Speak, wench,” he cried, stamping his foot, as he turned upon the trembling serving-maid, “what is it?”“Captain Culverin, master,” she whispered, trembling—“Mas’ Wat Kilby.”“What of them, fool?” cried the founder, excitedly.“Drowned, master—in the Pool, and they’re bringing their bodies now ashore!”
“Have I drunk some love potion?” muttered Sir Mark to himself very early the next morning, “or am I going back to my calf-love days? Here have I enjoyed more conquests than any man at the court. I came down to the Moat, and pretty Mistress Anne Beckley throws herself into my arms; then I come on here to find myself regularly taken—trapped as it were. She does what she likes with me, even as she does with that bully, Carr. I fight against it, and make myself worse. I declare I will think of her no more, but go back and swear allegiance to pretty red-haired Mistress Anne, when Mace’s eyes rise up before me, and turn me from my way. She is so calm and sweet, and seems so pure, that I am beaten.”
He walked up and down the old parlour, where Janet was bringing in the various preparations for the breakfast, coquetting about till she caught his eye and smiled and looked down, throwing out invitation after invitation, when, as she passed close to him, he caught her in his arms and kissed her, easily overcoming the girl’s faint opposition, and repeating the salute till she broke away and made off, leaving him smiling at his success.
“Why, there isn’t a woman living that I could not win,” he said to himself. “Bah! What an idiot I am. What are the kisses of such a creature as that worth compared to the slightest smile of such a girl as Mace? I am sick at heart!”
He walked up and down again, and just then Janet came back, mincing and blushing, and making a great pretence of being terribly alarmed, when, to her disgust, she found that Sir Mark was so abstracted that he paid not the slightest heed to her presence, but walked straight to the window, and stood gazing out into the garden.
Poor Janet’s face was a study as she rattled the breakfast-plates and knives, thumped dishes down upon the table, and coughed to take the visitor’s attention, but all in vain. She had rapidly recovered from the snubbing administered by her master, and was congratulating herself upon her conquest, when now, all at once, when the visitor’s last kiss was still wet upon her lips, he had turned away.
Janet tried in vain to take his attention, and ended by flouncing out of the old parlour, hot with indignant wrath.
“No,” mused Sir Mark, whose eyes were resting upon Mace, where, sweet and fresh as the flowers she was picking, she wandered down one of the garden-walks; “the old man is wrong. She is not the girl to trifle. She is not the woman a man might make his mistress. It is all folly about their meetings. Carr may play the Spanish gallant beneath her window, but if any meeting has been held it has been with that gamesome, wanton jade—Janet.”
“How beautiful she is!” he muttered, as, forgetful of Janet’s presence and the kisses he had taken, he gazed with kindling eyes at the gentle, pallid face, lit up with the consciousness of love for Gil and of his truth. For there was a happy smile on Mace’s lip that morning, and her face, that had of late been pale, was now tinged with a tender peachy bloom. There was grace in her every movement, and Mark Leslie’s heart beat fast.
“No,” he said, “she is too pure and innocent to become the mistress of any man. Curse it all, no one could be such a villain as to wrong her,” he cried, with a sudden access of morality that had not existed in his composition a few weeks back. “She is lovely enough to be the wife of any man. Suppose that simple stuff gown and white linen kerchief, cap, and cuffs were exchanged for a rich brocade, with jewels in her hair, and round that soft, sweet neck, which would tempt a man to risk his salvation that he might clasp it. Curse me, I wish I were one of the flowers she is plucking with those delicious fingers. What does it mean—has she bewitched me, or, as I say, has some love-philtre been at work?”
“Curse me, if I care what it is!” he cried at last, excitedly, as he still gazed through the casement at the unconscious girl. “She’d be a wife for a prince. Her knowledge is wonderful; her mien purity and sweetness combined; her voice low and silvery, as if music had assisted at her birth. Why not win her and wed her, and at once?”
“Humph!” he muttered. “Why not? Old Cobbe must be as rich as any Jew, whilst I am as poor as a beggar. He’d be glad enough to see her Dame Leslie—Dame Mace Leslie. How provoking that I must go so soon, when I might have been making sure my position. Never mind, it may not be too late. And, curse me, I’ll do it, for she is lovely.”
“Ah, Sir Mark, stolen glances at that jade?” said the founder, who had just entered the room unperceived, and who was watching curiously the interest taken by the young man in his daughter.
“Master Cobbe!” exclaimed Sir Mark, loudly and angrily. “Shame upon you, sir, to speak of your child like that.”
“She should behave more seemly, then,” said the founder, gruffly.
“More seemly!” cried Sir Mark. “Look at her. Did’st ever see one more sweet and pure of mien? See the candour and gentleness upon her brow and lip. You are wrong, Master Cobbe, you are wrong; my life upon it you wrong her by your suspicions of her interviews with Carr.”
“Do I?” said the founder, hotly. “Let’s have her in, then, and ask her. I grant that she is too truthful to lie.”
“Nay, nay!” cried Sir Mark, excitedly; “I would not have her insulted by such suspicions. Your daughter is a lady. It would be cruel.”
“Odds life, man,” cried the founder, half-amused by the other’s earnestness. “Whom have we here—the King’s champion?”
“The Queen’s, you should say, Master Cobbe,” replied the other. “Master Cobbe, you do not understand your daughter’s ways.”
“I understand my own,” said the founder, gruffly, “and I made her. She’s my own flesh and blood, Sir Mark. Bah! I understand her whims and follies better than you.”
“Nay!” cried Sir Mark. “You roused me up last night to come and be a witness of the truth of thy suspicions that sweet Mistress Mace held clandestine meetings with Captain Carr, though I would have wagered my life upon the suspicions being false.”
“Thou did’st not say such a word last night,” said the founder drily.
“Nay, how could I force my opinion upon you?” said Sir Mark. “I could only follow, and pray that you were wrong; and what did you show me for result, when you had, as you thought, forced me to be an unwilling witness of sweet Mistress Mace’s shame?”
“I saw no unwillingness,” said the founder, drily; “I thought thou obeyed’st it with eager joy.”
“Nay, but I was unwilling: and my alacrity was to have revenge upon the man who was searing my poor heart. And then what did you show me when you had made your capture? That wretched drab of a serving-girl.”
“Am I?” muttered Janet, who had half entered the room, and had heard his words.
“Well, I am wrong,” growled the founder; “and I am glad of it. I’d give something to know that Gil Carr’s visits had all been to see yon wench.”
“Rely upon it they were, Master Cobbe. My life upon it they were,” said Sir Mark, eagerly.
“Hah!” ejaculated the founder; “rely upon it, eh? And why, pray, Sir Mark, dost thou take so sudden an interest in my child?”
“Sudden, sir? Nay, it is not sudden. From the first moment I saw Mistress Mace—”
“Thou loved’st her. Of course; the old story that has been poured into silly maidens’ ears from the beginning of the world. Stop, sir, listen to me,” he continued, as Sir Mark was about to speak. “I am not a learned theology man, like Master Peasegood or Father Brisdone, but, as you say, I’d wager my life that, when the serpent urged pretty little, innocent Mistress Eve to take the forbidden fruit, he gave her a lesson or two in the art of love, and upset her for the rest of her life.”
“Maybe he did,” said Sir Mark, smiling; “but the serpent was insincere, and I am no serpent.”
“How do I know that, young man?” said the founder, laying his hand upon the other’s breast. “I’ve been thinking a good deal about your visit lately, and I will tell you flat that I have kept you here as a scarecrow.”
“A scarecrow?”
“Yes, to frighten off that marauding kite, Gil Carr, who was getting far too sweet upon my simple child.”
“Scarecrow! Serpent! Nay, Master Cobbe, I am neither,” cried Sir Mark, whose eyes had rested upon Mace as her father spoke, and gained such an access of passion as they had lit bee-like on the honey-scented blossom that he was ready to speak out plainly now.
“As I said before, how do I know that?”
“Because I tell you now, as a gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household, that I love Mistress Mace with all my heart.”
“And I tell thee flat again, Sir Mark, that, gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household though you be, I would sooner believe the words as coming from some simple gentleman of our parts.”
“What am I to say to you, then?” said Sir Mark, excitedly.
“Nothing at all,” replied the founder, bluntly. “Of course you love the girl—everyone does who sees her; but what of that?”
“What of that? Why, Master Cobbe, I would fain make her my dear wife.”
“Thy wife? My little Mace—my simple-hearted child, wife of a gay spark of a courtier—a knight of King James. Nonsense, man; nonsense! Trash!”
“It does take thee by surprise, no doubt,” said Sir Mark, with a little hauteur; “but it would not be the first time that a knight of my position had stooped to many a worthy yeoman’s daughter.”
“Thou’rt a modest youth,” said the founder, with a dry chuckle; “and I suppose it would be a great stoop for the hawk to come down from on high to pick up my little dove. And to keep up this style of language, good Sir Mark, I suppose thy hawk’s nest is very well feathered—thou art rich?”
“Well—no,” said Sir Mark, hesitating; “not rich; but my position warrants my assuming to take a wife from the highest in the land.”
“So you come and pick my little tit,” said the founder. “Well, and a very good taste, Sir Mark. She is, as you say, a beautiful girl, and she will have fifteen thousand pounds down on her wedding-day for portion.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds!” exclaimed Sir Mark.
“And twice as much more—perhaps three times—when I die,” said the founder, with a smile of self-satisfaction, which increased as he saw Sir Mark move his hand as he recovered from his surprise.
“Money is no object to me,” he said; “I love Mistress Mace for her worth alone.”
“And you’d marry her without a penny.”
“Ye-es, of course,” cried Sir Mark; “give me your consent.”
“Nay—nay, my lad, not I,” said the founder. “My Mace is no meet match for thee; and, as my guest, I ask you to say no foolish nonsense to the child. She has had silly notions enough put into her head by Gil Carr.”
“But that is all over now, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark. “I pray you give me your consent. I may be recalled to-day.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said the founder. “You have been here too long, and I don’t know, even now, that it is all over with Gil Carr. I’m not going to break my child’s heart, and—hey-day, tit, child, what’s wrong?” he cried, as, with a face white as ashes, and her eyes dilate with horror, Mace ran quickly into the room followed by Janet.
“Gil! father,” she cried, hoarsely; and then, with a shudder, her eyes closed and her head sank upon his breast.
“Why, child, what now? Has he dared? Speak, wench,” he cried, stamping his foot, as he turned upon the trembling serving-maid, “what is it?”
“Captain Culverin, master,” she whispered, trembling—“Mas’ Wat Kilby.”
“What of them, fool?” cried the founder, excitedly.
“Drowned, master—in the Pool, and they’re bringing their bodies now ashore!”