How Wat Kilby led the Way.In his excitement the founder hastily laid Mace on the couch and rushed out, when Sir Mark was about to run to the poor girl’s side, to seize his opportunity, and press his lips to hers, but he was forestalled by Janet, who, with flashing eyes, leaped between them to cry spitefully, “Nay; and if thou must kiss aught, kiss me. Thou can’st not want to kiss two maidens in one day.”With an angry ejaculation Sir Mark turned aside and followed the founder, who was running along the side of the Pool to where a group of his people were busy round a boat just drawn up close to the edge, with Father Brisdone and Master Peasegood in the midst, giving directions to the men who were lifting a couple of bodies towards a shed half-filled with soft dogwood charcoal.For it had been an awkward night with Gil Carr and his companion.They had plunged boldly into the Pool, finding it at the side come up to mid-thigh, and the bottom sandy; but before they had cautiously proceeded far, taking care that the water did not splash, it became shallower, and Gil asked old Wat in a whisper whether they were not too near the shore.“No,” was the reply; “I know the Pool well; this shallow runs right across. I’ve seen the shoals of little fish sunning themselves here by the thousand till some evil-minded pirate of a luce has darted amongst them and scattered them like a silver fleet in the Spanish main. You follow me, skipper, and let me lead thee for once in thy life.”“You were disobeying my orders, Wat,” said Gil, in a low whisper, as he followed his lieutenant. “What were you doing in Master Cobbe’s garden?”“Courting. Thank God for the ability to court!” growled Wat.“You dare to own it to my face!”“Nay, thou’rt behind my back,” growled Wat; “but I own it all the same. Where would’st have been if I had not said to myself, ‘there’s that pretty little soul Janet longing to see me once again, and as it’s loving—night, and the skipper’s courting the mistress, faith I’ll go and court the maid?’”“After I had forbidden it, Wat!”“I am a man, all a man, good Captain Gilbert Carr, and I say thank God for the ability to love, and liking to taste sweet lips.”“Thou arrant old coxcomb,” cried Gil, angrily. “Why thou art woman mad!”“I am, thank God!” said Wat. “Hah, skipper, what would the world be without women? Bless their bright eyes, and red lips, and pretty prattling tongues—mind that hole, it’s a bit deeper—I don’t know whether I love best to be kissed or pooked by them.”“You old fool!”“Ay, to be sure, skipper, it’s a man’s nature to be a fool over a woman. It’s nature’s remedy to keep us from being too wise. As I was saying, I don’t know which I like best. If she kisses and fondles you without a kick, why it’s all sweet sugar and milk and honey, and I smack my lips. If she cries ‘kiss me not, old bear,’ and struggles and pooks me, and pretends to tear out my eyes with the ends of her pretty fingers, and tugs my beard, and pulls out the hairs, why it is pickles and sharp sorrel-sauce, and hot peppers, and I smack my lips and like it all the same. Ah, skipper, take all the women out of the world, and you may heave me overboard whenever you like!”“Women will be thy ruin,” said Gil.“That’s what Mas’ Peasegood says, and then he went on at me for an hour as good as to say if ever I’m damned it will be for a woman’s sake, bless her for it. Mind, here’s another hole here. Zooks, I touched a big eel with my boot.”“But once for all,” said Gil, “I will not have thee hanging like a chicken-thief about Master Cobbe’s garden.”“An’ where would’st have been if I had not been here to-night, skipper? Suppose the founder had come running at thee with his naked sword? The sight of a naked sword always was too much for thee, my lad. Remember how I taught thee to fence, and you pook me your point the second time into my thigh. Why, it would have been out sword and at him, and thou mightest have hurt the old boy.”“Old boy! He’s fifteen years younger than you if a day, Wat.”“Bah! Years! What are years? He was born after I was, but look at us. I’m a younger man than he. A man’s not old till he feels old, skipper; and when he feels old heave him overboard if he be a sailor. If he be a land-goer, dig a hole in his mother-earth and pack him up warm to sprout out and grow little boys for the future times. Well, as I said, suppose you had pricked the old man or he had pricked thee?”“The better for me it seems,” said Gil, grimly. “It would be the high road to his favour. But are you sure you are right here? How dark it is!”“Right? to be sure I am,” growled Wat; “right as I was to-night in having a bit of a talk with pretty Janet, lad.”“And that I forbid for the future,” said Gil, stopping with the water nearly up to his waist.“Forbid away,” grumbled Wat, “but as long as my skipper goes amongst rocks Wat Kilby goes as well to watch over him the while.”“Then that settles it, Wat,” said Gil; “I am going no more.”“Ho, ho, ho!—ho, ho, ho!” chuckled the old sailor. “Sattles! What? have you and young mistress fallen out?”“Hold your peace!” said Gil, sharply; “and learn to obey my orders.”“Saints on earth, I’m like so much wax or Stockholm pitch in his hands, and he does with me as he likes. It’s a brave deal deeper here than I thought, skipper; wait till I have out my blade and feel my way a bit.”He pulled out his sword, and began to sound with it in the darkness; but, save in the direction of the house and garden, the water seemed to grow deeper and deeper; and, after taking a step or two in different directions, the old fellow drew back and paused grumbling.“It’s deeper than I thought,” he said; “the water goes down above my head everywhere. Let’s wait a bit.”“What for?” said Gil, angrily. “Do you think the Pool will grow shallower? This comes of trusting another.”“Well, I thought I knowed the bearings,” said Wat.“What fools we’d look if it were daylight,” said Gil; “standing up to our middles.”“Chesties,” said Wat, correctively.“Well, to our chests or chins, if you like,” cried Gil. “Heaven be praised that it is so dark.”“So don’t say I,” cried Wat, softly; “for if it was not so dark I could see which way to steer.”“Do you mean to tell me, Wat,” whispered Gil, in a low angry voice, “that you have persuaded me into trusting to your guidance, and that now you know nothing of the depth of the Pool?”“I could have sworn as that little sandy reef ran right across to the other side.”“And now there is deep water all round.”“Unless we go back.”“Confusion!” ejaculated Gil. “Am I to understand that you don’t know the way at all?”“Well, skipper,” growled Wat, “I won’t say I don’t know the bearings of the channels; but if you like to take the rudder I’ll give up to you.”This being tantamount to a declaration of his own want of knowledge, Gil began cautiously to feel his way about, with the result that the first two steps he took placed him up to his chin in water, that would, he felt, be over his head at the next.Dressed as he was, swimming was a most difficult task, the high, heavy boots he wore filling with water, and being sufficient to drag him down; and yet sooner or later he felt that he should be obliged to trust to his powers as a swimmer, and gave the hint to his companion.“Be ready to swim, Wat,” he whispered.“No, no; there be no need to swim,” was the response. “Only hit the right place, and it won’t reach above your boots.”Gil did not respond, but tried in various directions, always to find the water deepen; and at last he stood with it bubbling at his lips, and he knew that the next moment he must strike out.Even now he could have made an effort to go back ashore in the direction of the house, but it might mean an encounter with the founder, and this was to be avoided at all hazards, for Mace’s sake; and after all, he thought, what was before them was nothing more than a good swim, for he never once realised the fact that there was danger in his position: it seemed more ludicrous than full of peril.He gave a glance round, and, having decided in his own mind where lay the shore they sought to reach, he uttered a low warning to Wat, and tried to wade towards it.The second step rendered it necessary for him to swim, and striking out boldly he had gone a few yards before he turned his head to speak to Wat.“This way,” he whispered; but there was no response for a few moments, and then, with a hoarse blowing noise, the old sailor spluttered out, “Why, I went right over my head.”This added to the ridiculous side of the question, and, contenting himself with bidding Wat keep close, Gil swam on in the direction of the shore, making very slow progress, and now becoming aware for the first time of the difficulty of the task he had undertaken.Wat was swimming close at hand, making a good deal of noise, but Gil never thought for a moment that he would have any difficulty, and it was not until they had progressed slowly for about five minutes that the first intimation of danger came like a chill of dread.“Can you touch bottom, skipper?” said the old fellow.“No,” said Gil, after a pause. “We are in deep water. Why?”“Because, if we can’t directly, I shall drown!”“Nonsense, man,” whispered back Gil. “Swim slowly and steadily, and we shall soon reach the shore.”There was no more said for a few moments, and then from old Wat, in a low panting voice—“Skipper, I shan’t never reach no shore; and this ain’t even brackish water, let alone salt.”“Don’t talk,” said Gil, sharply; “but swim, man, with a long steady stroke.”“Not even salt water,” said Wat hoarsely, as if he had not heard his leader’s words. “Drowned in a miserable pond.”“Will you hold your peace,” whispered Gil, “and swim on, man? Who ever thinks of drowning at such a time as this?”“I’m nearly spent,” said Wat, hoarsely. “I didn’t think it would be so deep.”It was very hard work to keep himself afloat; and the knowledge that his old faithful companion and follower was losing heart robbed him of a good deal of the energy which he had left. But Gil Carr had been reared amongst dangers, and instead of beginning to lament that they were in such a condition, and praying or calling for help, he tried to rouse up more energy both in himself and his follower, though, as regarded the latter, with but little result, for he awoke more and more to the fact that Wat’s straggles were growing fainter each moment, and that unless he could aid him he was a drowning man.He stopped swimming away from him then, and taking a few strokes back, with his boots seeming to be made of lead, he tried to make out where Wat was swimming, and only found him by the bubbling water which was just closing over his head.It required almost superhuman energy as, with a vigorous snatch, Gil caught his follower by the beard and drew his face above water, holding him so while he drew breath.“No use—save yourself!” panted Wat. “I’m spent, skipper—spent.”“Do as I bid you,” cried Gil, angrily. “Turn over—your back—float—that’s well. Now mind: leave me free. If you clutch my arms we shall both go down.”As he spoke he tried hard to kick off his heavy boots, but they clung to his legs, and to have continued striving meant to sink. Throwing himself upon his back then, and with one hand grasping Wat Kilby’s hair, he once more struck out, gazing of necessity upwards at the starless sky, and feeling more and more that unless some miracle interposed in their favour they must both lose their lives. It was impossible to tell in what direction he was going when his every energy was directed to trying to keep them both afloat; and, strive to contain himself how he would, there was always the knowledge upon him that, moment by moment, he was growing weaker.For the water came more and more over his lips, thundered more heavily in his ears, and kept, as it were, forcing itself up his nostrils, burning, and strangling him, and causing such an intense desire to struggle with all his might for life, that, but for the disciplining of years and the power it had given him of mastering his own emotions, there would have been a minute’s desperate struggling, a few agonised cries for help, and then the water would have closed over his head.The water that had risen at each stroke to his chin was now always above his lips, then above his nostrils, and it was only by frantic efforts that he recovered himself for a few moments; but directly after his heavy boots dragged him lower and lower, and with a gasping cry he gave one more tremendous stroke, when he felt his head forced in amongst a clump of reeds, and for the moment he could breathe.He lay with the back of his head in amongst the reeds for some minutes, not daring to move lest he should glide back into deep water, but even now the waves were rippling end playing in his ears. He could not stay long, however, like that, for he had Wat Kilby to think of; and throwing one arm back over the reeds he dragged himself more amongst them, and at the same time pulled Wat close to his side.How it was done he never afterwards knew, only that he contrived somehow to rouse the old sailor sufficiently to once more take a little interest in life, and draw himself over and amongst the reeds.So far from being in safety, all they had gained was the power to breathe, for at the least movement the thin, whispering, water-grasses gave way, and their position was worse.“Can you hear me speak, Wat?” said Gil at last, in a hoarse voice, as he felt that he was once more gaining breath.“Ay, skipper,” said the old fellow, faintly; “I be not dead yet.”“Can you draw yourself more amongst the reeds?”There was a few minutes’ pause, and then Wat said with a groan, “No, skipper. If I move, it means going below; there’s nothing to hold on by.”Gil foresaw that this would be the reply, for on feeling cautiously round he could only come to the conclusion that they were half floating, half lying, among some nearly-submerged reeds, and that the slightest effort to better their condition meant the destruction of the frail support.“Wait till you get your breath, Wat, and then shout for help,” said Gil.“Nay, I’ll not call,” was the hoarse reply. “Do thou shout, skipper.”“I order you to call, Wat,” was the half-angry reply; and, in obedience, Wat uttered a hoarse hail from time to time, for his voice to go floating over the water, borne by the breeze away from the Pool-house, and here the two men lay some three hundred yards from the garden, cold, benumbed, and gradually growing more helpless, while those who were nearest slept on hearing no cries, and in utter ignorance of the peril in which the two well-known adventurers lay.The hails uttered from time to time reached one or two of the cottages, but those who heard the sounds float from off the lake merely turned once in their beds, and thought of marsh spirits, or the night-walkers that had been seen from time to time, passing along the tracks; while the less superstitious said to one another, “Captain Culverin and his men be out to-night. What be in the wind now?”Again and again did Gil make an effort to find where they lay, and see if he could not reach the boat, and come back to his companion’s help; but the darkness was made more intense by the thick mist which was heavier than ever. He was rested though, and had the nerve to make a bold effort, but those boots that clung to his legs far above his knees were like lead, and he dare hardly stir.Try how he would, he was fain to conic to the conclusion that he must lie passive amongst those reeds, saying a few words to Wat Kilby from time to time, to encourage him; for the old man, sturdy as he was, seemed to have taken quite a fatalist view of their case.“Wait for daylight, skipper?” he said, sadly. “No; I think it be morning that will have to wait for me, and I shan’t answer to my number. The cold water be getting into my joints, and I be too stiff to move.”To remain for long in their cramped and helpless situation seemed to Gil at first impossible; but hour after hour glided away, and save the rippling of the water hardly a sound greeted the sufferers’ ears. Too numbed and helpless even to cry out for help, they lay waiting for morning, hardly hoping to see the dawn, for at any moment a slip would have sent them into deep water, to go down at once.Sometimes a soft wind stirred the thick steamy mist upon the water and rustled the reeds above their heads; while, at intervals through the night, the cry of some coot or duck floated weirdly across the great Pool, but, at last, all those things seemed to Gil to be part of a confused dream, as he grew, more and more numbed and helpless. The water washed higher over his face, but he could not raise his head to avoid it, nor disturb the current of his thoughts, which were flowing placidly enough now, and quite unmingled with despair, along his life-course; and it seemed ridiculous to him that he, who had braved so many perils of the mighty sea, should perish on this pitiful pond. Then he began to think of Mace and her feelings when she heard of his death; and, with a sigh, he thought it seemed hard indeed that he should die now when he was so sure of her love. But he whispered a blessing upon her to the soft summer breeze, and thanked Heaven that they had parted so happily that night.Wat Kilby had not spoken for hours, but lay there in a state of torpor, till suddenly he exclaimed:—“You there, skipper?”“Yes, Wat.”“I wouldn’t care so much only—”There was a pause here.“Only that I have got my bag of tobacco here in my pocket, and it be quite wet through.”After that, there was utter silence.
In his excitement the founder hastily laid Mace on the couch and rushed out, when Sir Mark was about to run to the poor girl’s side, to seize his opportunity, and press his lips to hers, but he was forestalled by Janet, who, with flashing eyes, leaped between them to cry spitefully, “Nay; and if thou must kiss aught, kiss me. Thou can’st not want to kiss two maidens in one day.”
With an angry ejaculation Sir Mark turned aside and followed the founder, who was running along the side of the Pool to where a group of his people were busy round a boat just drawn up close to the edge, with Father Brisdone and Master Peasegood in the midst, giving directions to the men who were lifting a couple of bodies towards a shed half-filled with soft dogwood charcoal.
For it had been an awkward night with Gil Carr and his companion.
They had plunged boldly into the Pool, finding it at the side come up to mid-thigh, and the bottom sandy; but before they had cautiously proceeded far, taking care that the water did not splash, it became shallower, and Gil asked old Wat in a whisper whether they were not too near the shore.
“No,” was the reply; “I know the Pool well; this shallow runs right across. I’ve seen the shoals of little fish sunning themselves here by the thousand till some evil-minded pirate of a luce has darted amongst them and scattered them like a silver fleet in the Spanish main. You follow me, skipper, and let me lead thee for once in thy life.”
“You were disobeying my orders, Wat,” said Gil, in a low whisper, as he followed his lieutenant. “What were you doing in Master Cobbe’s garden?”
“Courting. Thank God for the ability to court!” growled Wat.
“You dare to own it to my face!”
“Nay, thou’rt behind my back,” growled Wat; “but I own it all the same. Where would’st have been if I had not said to myself, ‘there’s that pretty little soul Janet longing to see me once again, and as it’s loving—night, and the skipper’s courting the mistress, faith I’ll go and court the maid?’”
“After I had forbidden it, Wat!”
“I am a man, all a man, good Captain Gilbert Carr, and I say thank God for the ability to love, and liking to taste sweet lips.”
“Thou arrant old coxcomb,” cried Gil, angrily. “Why thou art woman mad!”
“I am, thank God!” said Wat. “Hah, skipper, what would the world be without women? Bless their bright eyes, and red lips, and pretty prattling tongues—mind that hole, it’s a bit deeper—I don’t know whether I love best to be kissed or pooked by them.”
“You old fool!”
“Ay, to be sure, skipper, it’s a man’s nature to be a fool over a woman. It’s nature’s remedy to keep us from being too wise. As I was saying, I don’t know which I like best. If she kisses and fondles you without a kick, why it’s all sweet sugar and milk and honey, and I smack my lips. If she cries ‘kiss me not, old bear,’ and struggles and pooks me, and pretends to tear out my eyes with the ends of her pretty fingers, and tugs my beard, and pulls out the hairs, why it is pickles and sharp sorrel-sauce, and hot peppers, and I smack my lips and like it all the same. Ah, skipper, take all the women out of the world, and you may heave me overboard whenever you like!”
“Women will be thy ruin,” said Gil.
“That’s what Mas’ Peasegood says, and then he went on at me for an hour as good as to say if ever I’m damned it will be for a woman’s sake, bless her for it. Mind, here’s another hole here. Zooks, I touched a big eel with my boot.”
“But once for all,” said Gil, “I will not have thee hanging like a chicken-thief about Master Cobbe’s garden.”
“An’ where would’st have been if I had not been here to-night, skipper? Suppose the founder had come running at thee with his naked sword? The sight of a naked sword always was too much for thee, my lad. Remember how I taught thee to fence, and you pook me your point the second time into my thigh. Why, it would have been out sword and at him, and thou mightest have hurt the old boy.”
“Old boy! He’s fifteen years younger than you if a day, Wat.”
“Bah! Years! What are years? He was born after I was, but look at us. I’m a younger man than he. A man’s not old till he feels old, skipper; and when he feels old heave him overboard if he be a sailor. If he be a land-goer, dig a hole in his mother-earth and pack him up warm to sprout out and grow little boys for the future times. Well, as I said, suppose you had pricked the old man or he had pricked thee?”
“The better for me it seems,” said Gil, grimly. “It would be the high road to his favour. But are you sure you are right here? How dark it is!”
“Right? to be sure I am,” growled Wat; “right as I was to-night in having a bit of a talk with pretty Janet, lad.”
“And that I forbid for the future,” said Gil, stopping with the water nearly up to his waist.
“Forbid away,” grumbled Wat, “but as long as my skipper goes amongst rocks Wat Kilby goes as well to watch over him the while.”
“Then that settles it, Wat,” said Gil; “I am going no more.”
“Ho, ho, ho!—ho, ho, ho!” chuckled the old sailor. “Sattles! What? have you and young mistress fallen out?”
“Hold your peace!” said Gil, sharply; “and learn to obey my orders.”
“Saints on earth, I’m like so much wax or Stockholm pitch in his hands, and he does with me as he likes. It’s a brave deal deeper here than I thought, skipper; wait till I have out my blade and feel my way a bit.”
He pulled out his sword, and began to sound with it in the darkness; but, save in the direction of the house and garden, the water seemed to grow deeper and deeper; and, after taking a step or two in different directions, the old fellow drew back and paused grumbling.
“It’s deeper than I thought,” he said; “the water goes down above my head everywhere. Let’s wait a bit.”
“What for?” said Gil, angrily. “Do you think the Pool will grow shallower? This comes of trusting another.”
“Well, I thought I knowed the bearings,” said Wat.
“What fools we’d look if it were daylight,” said Gil; “standing up to our middles.”
“Chesties,” said Wat, correctively.
“Well, to our chests or chins, if you like,” cried Gil. “Heaven be praised that it is so dark.”
“So don’t say I,” cried Wat, softly; “for if it was not so dark I could see which way to steer.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Wat,” whispered Gil, in a low angry voice, “that you have persuaded me into trusting to your guidance, and that now you know nothing of the depth of the Pool?”
“I could have sworn as that little sandy reef ran right across to the other side.”
“And now there is deep water all round.”
“Unless we go back.”
“Confusion!” ejaculated Gil. “Am I to understand that you don’t know the way at all?”
“Well, skipper,” growled Wat, “I won’t say I don’t know the bearings of the channels; but if you like to take the rudder I’ll give up to you.”
This being tantamount to a declaration of his own want of knowledge, Gil began cautiously to feel his way about, with the result that the first two steps he took placed him up to his chin in water, that would, he felt, be over his head at the next.
Dressed as he was, swimming was a most difficult task, the high, heavy boots he wore filling with water, and being sufficient to drag him down; and yet sooner or later he felt that he should be obliged to trust to his powers as a swimmer, and gave the hint to his companion.
“Be ready to swim, Wat,” he whispered.
“No, no; there be no need to swim,” was the response. “Only hit the right place, and it won’t reach above your boots.”
Gil did not respond, but tried in various directions, always to find the water deepen; and at last he stood with it bubbling at his lips, and he knew that the next moment he must strike out.
Even now he could have made an effort to go back ashore in the direction of the house, but it might mean an encounter with the founder, and this was to be avoided at all hazards, for Mace’s sake; and after all, he thought, what was before them was nothing more than a good swim, for he never once realised the fact that there was danger in his position: it seemed more ludicrous than full of peril.
He gave a glance round, and, having decided in his own mind where lay the shore they sought to reach, he uttered a low warning to Wat, and tried to wade towards it.
The second step rendered it necessary for him to swim, and striking out boldly he had gone a few yards before he turned his head to speak to Wat.
“This way,” he whispered; but there was no response for a few moments, and then, with a hoarse blowing noise, the old sailor spluttered out, “Why, I went right over my head.”
This added to the ridiculous side of the question, and, contenting himself with bidding Wat keep close, Gil swam on in the direction of the shore, making very slow progress, and now becoming aware for the first time of the difficulty of the task he had undertaken.
Wat was swimming close at hand, making a good deal of noise, but Gil never thought for a moment that he would have any difficulty, and it was not until they had progressed slowly for about five minutes that the first intimation of danger came like a chill of dread.
“Can you touch bottom, skipper?” said the old fellow.
“No,” said Gil, after a pause. “We are in deep water. Why?”
“Because, if we can’t directly, I shall drown!”
“Nonsense, man,” whispered back Gil. “Swim slowly and steadily, and we shall soon reach the shore.”
There was no more said for a few moments, and then from old Wat, in a low panting voice—
“Skipper, I shan’t never reach no shore; and this ain’t even brackish water, let alone salt.”
“Don’t talk,” said Gil, sharply; “but swim, man, with a long steady stroke.”
“Not even salt water,” said Wat hoarsely, as if he had not heard his leader’s words. “Drowned in a miserable pond.”
“Will you hold your peace,” whispered Gil, “and swim on, man? Who ever thinks of drowning at such a time as this?”
“I’m nearly spent,” said Wat, hoarsely. “I didn’t think it would be so deep.”
It was very hard work to keep himself afloat; and the knowledge that his old faithful companion and follower was losing heart robbed him of a good deal of the energy which he had left. But Gil Carr had been reared amongst dangers, and instead of beginning to lament that they were in such a condition, and praying or calling for help, he tried to rouse up more energy both in himself and his follower, though, as regarded the latter, with but little result, for he awoke more and more to the fact that Wat’s straggles were growing fainter each moment, and that unless he could aid him he was a drowning man.
He stopped swimming away from him then, and taking a few strokes back, with his boots seeming to be made of lead, he tried to make out where Wat was swimming, and only found him by the bubbling water which was just closing over his head.
It required almost superhuman energy as, with a vigorous snatch, Gil caught his follower by the beard and drew his face above water, holding him so while he drew breath.
“No use—save yourself!” panted Wat. “I’m spent, skipper—spent.”
“Do as I bid you,” cried Gil, angrily. “Turn over—your back—float—that’s well. Now mind: leave me free. If you clutch my arms we shall both go down.”
As he spoke he tried hard to kick off his heavy boots, but they clung to his legs, and to have continued striving meant to sink. Throwing himself upon his back then, and with one hand grasping Wat Kilby’s hair, he once more struck out, gazing of necessity upwards at the starless sky, and feeling more and more that unless some miracle interposed in their favour they must both lose their lives. It was impossible to tell in what direction he was going when his every energy was directed to trying to keep them both afloat; and, strive to contain himself how he would, there was always the knowledge upon him that, moment by moment, he was growing weaker.
For the water came more and more over his lips, thundered more heavily in his ears, and kept, as it were, forcing itself up his nostrils, burning, and strangling him, and causing such an intense desire to struggle with all his might for life, that, but for the disciplining of years and the power it had given him of mastering his own emotions, there would have been a minute’s desperate struggling, a few agonised cries for help, and then the water would have closed over his head.
The water that had risen at each stroke to his chin was now always above his lips, then above his nostrils, and it was only by frantic efforts that he recovered himself for a few moments; but directly after his heavy boots dragged him lower and lower, and with a gasping cry he gave one more tremendous stroke, when he felt his head forced in amongst a clump of reeds, and for the moment he could breathe.
He lay with the back of his head in amongst the reeds for some minutes, not daring to move lest he should glide back into deep water, but even now the waves were rippling end playing in his ears. He could not stay long, however, like that, for he had Wat Kilby to think of; and throwing one arm back over the reeds he dragged himself more amongst them, and at the same time pulled Wat close to his side.
How it was done he never afterwards knew, only that he contrived somehow to rouse the old sailor sufficiently to once more take a little interest in life, and draw himself over and amongst the reeds.
So far from being in safety, all they had gained was the power to breathe, for at the least movement the thin, whispering, water-grasses gave way, and their position was worse.
“Can you hear me speak, Wat?” said Gil at last, in a hoarse voice, as he felt that he was once more gaining breath.
“Ay, skipper,” said the old fellow, faintly; “I be not dead yet.”
“Can you draw yourself more amongst the reeds?”
There was a few minutes’ pause, and then Wat said with a groan, “No, skipper. If I move, it means going below; there’s nothing to hold on by.”
Gil foresaw that this would be the reply, for on feeling cautiously round he could only come to the conclusion that they were half floating, half lying, among some nearly-submerged reeds, and that the slightest effort to better their condition meant the destruction of the frail support.
“Wait till you get your breath, Wat, and then shout for help,” said Gil.
“Nay, I’ll not call,” was the hoarse reply. “Do thou shout, skipper.”
“I order you to call, Wat,” was the half-angry reply; and, in obedience, Wat uttered a hoarse hail from time to time, for his voice to go floating over the water, borne by the breeze away from the Pool-house, and here the two men lay some three hundred yards from the garden, cold, benumbed, and gradually growing more helpless, while those who were nearest slept on hearing no cries, and in utter ignorance of the peril in which the two well-known adventurers lay.
The hails uttered from time to time reached one or two of the cottages, but those who heard the sounds float from off the lake merely turned once in their beds, and thought of marsh spirits, or the night-walkers that had been seen from time to time, passing along the tracks; while the less superstitious said to one another, “Captain Culverin and his men be out to-night. What be in the wind now?”
Again and again did Gil make an effort to find where they lay, and see if he could not reach the boat, and come back to his companion’s help; but the darkness was made more intense by the thick mist which was heavier than ever. He was rested though, and had the nerve to make a bold effort, but those boots that clung to his legs far above his knees were like lead, and he dare hardly stir.
Try how he would, he was fain to conic to the conclusion that he must lie passive amongst those reeds, saying a few words to Wat Kilby from time to time, to encourage him; for the old man, sturdy as he was, seemed to have taken quite a fatalist view of their case.
“Wait for daylight, skipper?” he said, sadly. “No; I think it be morning that will have to wait for me, and I shan’t answer to my number. The cold water be getting into my joints, and I be too stiff to move.”
To remain for long in their cramped and helpless situation seemed to Gil at first impossible; but hour after hour glided away, and save the rippling of the water hardly a sound greeted the sufferers’ ears. Too numbed and helpless even to cry out for help, they lay waiting for morning, hardly hoping to see the dawn, for at any moment a slip would have sent them into deep water, to go down at once.
Sometimes a soft wind stirred the thick steamy mist upon the water and rustled the reeds above their heads; while, at intervals through the night, the cry of some coot or duck floated weirdly across the great Pool, but, at last, all those things seemed to Gil to be part of a confused dream, as he grew, more and more numbed and helpless. The water washed higher over his face, but he could not raise his head to avoid it, nor disturb the current of his thoughts, which were flowing placidly enough now, and quite unmingled with despair, along his life-course; and it seemed ridiculous to him that he, who had braved so many perils of the mighty sea, should perish on this pitiful pond. Then he began to think of Mace and her feelings when she heard of his death; and, with a sigh, he thought it seemed hard indeed that he should die now when he was so sure of her love. But he whispered a blessing upon her to the soft summer breeze, and thanked Heaven that they had parted so happily that night.
Wat Kilby had not spoken for hours, but lay there in a state of torpor, till suddenly he exclaimed:—
“You there, skipper?”
“Yes, Wat.”
“I wouldn’t care so much only—”
There was a pause here.
“Only that I have got my bag of tobacco here in my pocket, and it be quite wet through.”
After that, there was utter silence.
How two went a-fishing, and what they caught.“You may argue, Brother Brisdone, till all is blue,” said Master Peasegood, “but I maintain that what I say is right. Now, look here; go back to the early days, and take your own apostle.”“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone, smiling, as they walked down the lane, soon after sunrise, one bearing a basket the other a bag. The heavy dew lay upon leaf and strand, and sparkled in the brilliant sunshine; birds sang and flitted from bough to bough, scattering the heavy drops from off each spray; and, as the two clerics had come out of the cottage after an early breakfast, they had stood breathing the soft pure air, and smiled back at smiling Nature.“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone.“Yes, Saint Peter; the rock upon which your church is built. Well, what was he—a fisherman?”“Yes,” said Father Brisdone, “before he took up his holy calling.”“Fisherman still, good brother. Did he not become a fisher of men? Depend upon it, brother, Peter, if he had been down by the lake again, would have enjoyed a good pull at the net.”“Maybe, maybe,” said the father, smiling.“Well, let’s grant it. Now, I was a fisherman before I took to the cloth, and I have been a fisherman ever since, right or wrong; and I hold that there is very little wrong in providing a dinner.”“I’ll not argue with you,” said Father Brisdone. “If all men were like you, Brother Peasegood, this would be a happier world.”“Wrong again!” cried Master Peasegood. “You see you force on an argument. If all men were like me, brother, it would be an unhappier world; for, look you, I’m too fat. I’m as big as three small men; and, if all were like me, we should be so crowding and elbowing each other that we should be quarrelling for want of room. Ha, ha, ha!” and “ha, ha, ha,” he laughed again, making the rocks and woodlands echo to his jovial mirth; the stray rabbits betrayed their whereabouts by showing their little white tails as they hopped into their holes; and snake and lizard upon sunny bank hurrying away to safety long before the footsteps could be heard.“There’s something in fishing that seems to expand the heart,” continued Master Peasegood to his willing hearer. “I never knew a man who was a good fisherman who was very wicked or brutal.”“In other matters,” said Father Brisdone, with a smile.“Well, well, well, but the fish we catch are vile, cruel things, which persecute their smaller fellows. Why, I’ve known a luce of twenty pounds seize and half swallow one of ten, and kill himself in the act. Oh, no, brother, I have no pity for a great luce or pike; and, besides, see what they are when nicely treated, well cleaned, and stuffed, and buttered, and baked. Ha, ha, ha! we have the advantage of you there, Brother Brisdone; we can be carnal-minded, and eat, and drink, and wive if we like. But come along and let’s begin. I can sniff the water now, with its soft wreaths of mist floating around. We’ll have the boat and set our lures, and fish for a couple of hours, and then take a brace of the finest to Master Cobbe, and beg some more breakfast for our pains.”“But suppose we catch no fish?”“But we shall catch fish—more, perhaps, than you expect.”The two friends trudged on, and, upon turning a corner of the narrow lane, came upon Mother Goodhugh, standing at the turning where Sir Mark had made his first acquaintance with Wat Kilby.“Good morrow, Mother Goodhugh,” said the stout parson.“Save thee, my daughter,” said Father Brisdone.“Are you both going to curse the murderer of Abel Churr?” said Mother Goodhugh, sourly.“Nay,” said Master Peasegood; “and it would behove thee better, good woman, if thou did’st not sprinkle these curses of thine about with so liberal a hand. Come along, father.”“Yes, go along,” cried the old woman, maliciously; “time-servers and makers of friendship with the ungodly as you are. But you’ll see, you’ll live to see.”“She’s a terrible old woman,” said Master Peasegood, with a curious smile upon his lip; “and she seems to make my fat go cold, like unto that of venison on an unwarmed dish. I’ve given her up, father, as a bad nut to crack. The worst of it is, that if I turn prophet my sayings are never fulfilled; while, when she raises her voice, her prophesyings come to pass, and the simple folks here believe in her more than in me. But thank goodness, here we are.”Three hundred paces brought them to the edge of the lake, over which the soft white mists were disappearing before the sun. The boat lay on the sandy beach, with a chain holding it fast to the trunk of an old willow; and, as soon as the basket and wallet had been laid in, Master Peasegood helped his friend to take his place.“I don’t think I shall swamp the boat, Brother Brisdone,” he said, laughing, as he sent the skiff well down in the water. “If I do, just you hold on tightly to my gown, for I’m too fat to sink.”A hearty “Ha, ha, ha!” floated across the lake as he finished his speech; and then, taking the little oars, he proceeded to paddle across for some distance before pausing and opening the large basket he had brought.The first thing taken out was a large can of water with a lid pierced with holes; and then from the bag were shaken out a dozen bladders, each tied round the centre with a string and a loop. From his basket Master Peasegood then brought out a dozen goodly hooks, whose points were stuck in a piece of cork, and whose strings were neatly tied in a bunch; and, as he took them off, one by one, each was baited with a fresh young gudgeon from the can, the string attached to one of the bladders, and this dropped overboard to float away.In a short time the whole of the hooks were baited, and the lake dotted with the bladders that floated here and there, borne by the breeze or tugged by the lively gudgeons. Then, and then only, did Master Peasegood nearly upset the boat by leaning over the side to wash his hands, and smile at his companion.His smile was not perceived though, for Father Brisdone was sitting with one elbow upon his knee, his cheek upon his hand, gazing out and away at the soft landscape, with the Pool-house and its works glorified by the morning sun.“Now we’ll sit and talk for awhile,” said Master Peasegood, smiling jollily. “What do you say to a pleasant subject for discussion—say purgatory?”“Because thou hast been putting these poor gudgeons into a state of misery, brother?” said Father Brisdone.“Let the gudgeons rest,” said Master Peasegood. “They have all gone overboard like so many finny Jonahs, for the benefit of those on board this ship; and, if they are lucky, they will soon be safe in so many whales’ insides. Ha, ha, ha! Master Brisdone, I’m afraid I’m a very irreverent disciple. By all the saints, there goes one of the Jonahs. See!”He pointed to where, just by a reed-bed towards which the bladder had drifted, there was a tremendous swirl in the water, and away it went skimming along at a rapid rate.“Ha, yes, I suppose that will be a great fish,” said Father Brisdone, sadly; “but I was thinking of the maiden at yon house—sweet little Mace.”“Bless her!” said Master Peasegood.“Amen,” said his companion. “Brother Joseph, she is at a perilous age, and I do not think her father’s to be trusted.”“You mean with her future?” said Master Peasegood. “I fear so too. Poor child, she needs a mother’s counsel!”“Think you she has a lover?” said Father Brisdone, quietly.“Two fierce luces playing round the little gudgeon,” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly. “One of them will snatch it up directly. Nay, nay,” he continued, reddening; “I meant no inference. I was thinking of yon bait. There it goes.”He pointed to where a gudgeon had leaped several times out of the water to escape a couple of fierce pike, one of which seized it and bore it off.“Lovers?” he continued. “Yes, that courtly fellow from town is trying to win her, and so is Gilbert Carr.”“And she?”“She loves Culverin Carr with all her pretty little soul, but he shall not have her unless—”“Unless what?”“He mends his ways. She shall marry no scapegrace who plays fast and loose with women’s hearts. He trifles with Mistress Anne Beckley, and the silly girl is mad for him.”“Nay, I think you wrong him, brother. I believe in Gil Carr as a true gentleman at heart. I love the brave, bold youth.”“I hope I do wrong him,” said Master Peasegood. “He’s a fine, handsome fellow, but I will not have my little white moth played with, and the tender down upon her winglets crushed by unholy hands.”“Why do you call her white moth?” said the father, dreamily.“It is a fancy of the people here, because she dresses in white; and they meet her, looking soft, and white, and ethereal, in the woody lanes at eventide where moths abound. Ah, Father Brisdone, happy men are we who early marry ourselves to the Church, and know nought of these fleshly troubles. Yes, they call her the white moth; and between ourselves it’s a glowworm that often comes wooing to her, and I fear his light will burn.”Father Brisdone sighed. “Ha, ha, ha! that’s because another Jonah has gone down,” said Master Peasegood, pointing to a flying bladder.“Nay,” said the other sadly; “I sighed at your words about our being happier without these fleshly cares. I don’t know—I don’t know.”“More do I,” said Master Peasegood; “only that I’m very fatherly fond of little Mace, and if I can stand between her and Carr I will. Now, brother, we’ll chase that first great fish. Suppose you take the oars.”Father Brisdone obeyed, and Master Peasegood fitted a large hook to the end of a stout walking-staff, directing his friend the while as he urged the boat over the limpid water, making fish dart away here and there amongst the water-lilies and flags.They approached pretty near the bladder, and then away it went, showing that the great pike was well hooked, and now commenced a chase for some ten minutes, the captive always evading the great hook just as Master Peasegood was on the point of securing the string.The chase led them right away over the deepest part of the Pool, and amidst various little islands of reeds growing on soft masses of decayed vegetation; the boat, when urged forward, passing easily amongst and over them, so lightly were they rooted in the soft vegetable fibre below.“Now then, a good pull, brother, and we shall have him,” whispered Master Peasegood. “He’s a monster, but he is tired now. Four good strokes and then hold up your oars, and let the skiff glide and I’ll—Good God! what’s that?—the other oar, man, pull!”The skiff spun round and was urged towards a clump of reeds, among which, and half covered by the water, were two ghastly faces, which settled down, gliding from their precarious hold, as the wave made by the skiff reached them.Another moment and they would have been beyond reach, but Master Peasegood thrust his arm to the shoulder into the water, as he leaned over the side, and grasped the doublet of one man, thrusting in his hook and seizing the other, and then drawing both up to the sides of the boat, as it rustled amongst the reeds, but bringing the edge down so low that the water began to pour in over the side.“Quick, brother, quick!” shouted Master Peasegood. “Hang over the other side, or we are lost!”With a promptitude that might not have been expected from him, Father Brisdone threw himself to the other side of the skiff, and raised the endangered edge so that the water ceased to pour over the gunwale, while Master Peasegood deftly leaned sideways and dragged the first body he had secured round the stern of the boat.Father Brisdone saw what he intended, and, changing his position a little, just managed to catch the doublet, and the next minute the boat was well balanced, for one of the bodies was being held up on either side.“Are—are they dead?” whispered Father Brisdone, in an awe-stricken voice. “Poor lad—poor lad.”“Heaven only knows,” cried Master Peasegood, as he changed his position and said, “Give me hold of the poor boy—his collar—that’s well. I’ve got this one the same. There, their heads are well above the water now, and I can hold them thus. Now take the oars and row for life.”“But can you hold them?” cried Father Brisdone, as he obeyed his companion, and gazed at him the while, seated with hands grasping the two men’s collars, one on either side.“I hope so. Oh, yes! They can’t drag me out of the boat, but it would be madness to try and drag them in. Row hard: never mind me.”Father Brisdone bent to his task with a will, and in a fashion that showed how he had more than once handled an oar, while Master Peasegood braced himself up, and held on to his burdens as they dragged behind.“You see who they are?” he said, as the skiff gathered way, and the water rattled under her bows.“Yes; one is the man of whom we talked.”“And the other is old Wat Kilby. I’ll never believe he is drowned,” cried Master Peasegood. “He’s born for quite another fate. Pull steady and hard, man. If my arms are jerked out of the sockets I’ll forgive thee. Ohe—ahoy—hoi—oy,” he shouted to a couple of men on the shore, and as they stopped to gaze others began to collect, so that by the time the side was reached there was plenty of willing aid, and hands ready to bear the two men into the charcoal-shed, where, by Father Brisdone’s orders, blankets were fetched and stimulants, while, under his instructions, strong hands rubbed the icy limbs.This was continued for a time, and then the founder made a proposal, which was put into effect.“Four of you, one to the corner of each blanket,” he cried; “and run them down to the little furnace. We can lay them on the hot bricks there.”“Yes, quickly,” cried Father Brisdone. “The very thing.”It was done, and the genial heat and the friction liberally applied. At first no change took place, and the founder shook his head; while Sir Mark, as he gazed at the stern, handsome countenance of Culverin Carr, felt that a dangerous rival had been removed from his path.“We were too late, brother, were we not?” said Master Peasegood, sadly.“I’ll tell thee, anon,” was the reply, as, with cassock off and sleeves up, Father Brisdone was toiling away, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead.One hour—two hours passed, and still there was no sign of life. Those who aided would have given up long before but for the father’s example, led by which they worked manfully, till, to the great joy of the operator, there was a faint quivering about his patients’ eyelids.Encouraged by this, all worked the harder, to be rewarded by a sigh from Gil, and a low growl from Wat Kilby, who now rapidly recovered consciousness, and startled all present by exclaiming:—“Who has taken my tobacco?” Gil recovered more slowly, but he was soon able to speak; and the first person upon whom his eyes fell was Sir Mark, who seemed half fascinated by his gaze.A couple of hours later the two men were sufficiently revived to bear removal; and in a gruff way, as if the show of hospitality were forced upon him, Master Cobbe offered them the use of his house.Gil’s heart gave a leap of joy at the invitation, while Sir Mark’s countenance grew black as night. It resumed, its former aspect, though, as he heard Gil refuse, and merely request permission to stay where they were for a time, after which he said they would go their way.“I’d give something to know how those two came so near being drowned,” said the founder, as he walked over the little bridge with Sir Mark.“I’d give something,” said Sir Mark to himself, “if that meddling priest had left the scoundrel to die in peace. How I hate him, to be sure.”Meanwhile, Mace, who had been upon her knees in her little chamber, praying with all her soul for her lover’s life, had now changed her prayer to thanksgiving, and at last stood by the window, and exchanged a look with him, as she saw him walk slowly away, with Wat Kilby, whose pipe was lit, and who was smoking as if nothing whatever had been amiss.As to how the accident had occurred, that was the secret of the two sufferers, the guests that evening of Master Peasegood, whose luces were not sought for till the next morning, by which time three-parts had managed to get away, or rid themselves of their steel, leaving the floating bladders alone for the parson’s crook.
“You may argue, Brother Brisdone, till all is blue,” said Master Peasegood, “but I maintain that what I say is right. Now, look here; go back to the early days, and take your own apostle.”
“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone, smiling, as they walked down the lane, soon after sunrise, one bearing a basket the other a bag. The heavy dew lay upon leaf and strand, and sparkled in the brilliant sunshine; birds sang and flitted from bough to bough, scattering the heavy drops from off each spray; and, as the two clerics had come out of the cottage after an early breakfast, they had stood breathing the soft pure air, and smiled back at smiling Nature.
“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone.
“Yes, Saint Peter; the rock upon which your church is built. Well, what was he—a fisherman?”
“Yes,” said Father Brisdone, “before he took up his holy calling.”
“Fisherman still, good brother. Did he not become a fisher of men? Depend upon it, brother, Peter, if he had been down by the lake again, would have enjoyed a good pull at the net.”
“Maybe, maybe,” said the father, smiling.
“Well, let’s grant it. Now, I was a fisherman before I took to the cloth, and I have been a fisherman ever since, right or wrong; and I hold that there is very little wrong in providing a dinner.”
“I’ll not argue with you,” said Father Brisdone. “If all men were like you, Brother Peasegood, this would be a happier world.”
“Wrong again!” cried Master Peasegood. “You see you force on an argument. If all men were like me, brother, it would be an unhappier world; for, look you, I’m too fat. I’m as big as three small men; and, if all were like me, we should be so crowding and elbowing each other that we should be quarrelling for want of room. Ha, ha, ha!” and “ha, ha, ha,” he laughed again, making the rocks and woodlands echo to his jovial mirth; the stray rabbits betrayed their whereabouts by showing their little white tails as they hopped into their holes; and snake and lizard upon sunny bank hurrying away to safety long before the footsteps could be heard.
“There’s something in fishing that seems to expand the heart,” continued Master Peasegood to his willing hearer. “I never knew a man who was a good fisherman who was very wicked or brutal.”
“In other matters,” said Father Brisdone, with a smile.
“Well, well, well, but the fish we catch are vile, cruel things, which persecute their smaller fellows. Why, I’ve known a luce of twenty pounds seize and half swallow one of ten, and kill himself in the act. Oh, no, brother, I have no pity for a great luce or pike; and, besides, see what they are when nicely treated, well cleaned, and stuffed, and buttered, and baked. Ha, ha, ha! we have the advantage of you there, Brother Brisdone; we can be carnal-minded, and eat, and drink, and wive if we like. But come along and let’s begin. I can sniff the water now, with its soft wreaths of mist floating around. We’ll have the boat and set our lures, and fish for a couple of hours, and then take a brace of the finest to Master Cobbe, and beg some more breakfast for our pains.”
“But suppose we catch no fish?”
“But we shall catch fish—more, perhaps, than you expect.”
The two friends trudged on, and, upon turning a corner of the narrow lane, came upon Mother Goodhugh, standing at the turning where Sir Mark had made his first acquaintance with Wat Kilby.
“Good morrow, Mother Goodhugh,” said the stout parson.
“Save thee, my daughter,” said Father Brisdone.
“Are you both going to curse the murderer of Abel Churr?” said Mother Goodhugh, sourly.
“Nay,” said Master Peasegood; “and it would behove thee better, good woman, if thou did’st not sprinkle these curses of thine about with so liberal a hand. Come along, father.”
“Yes, go along,” cried the old woman, maliciously; “time-servers and makers of friendship with the ungodly as you are. But you’ll see, you’ll live to see.”
“She’s a terrible old woman,” said Master Peasegood, with a curious smile upon his lip; “and she seems to make my fat go cold, like unto that of venison on an unwarmed dish. I’ve given her up, father, as a bad nut to crack. The worst of it is, that if I turn prophet my sayings are never fulfilled; while, when she raises her voice, her prophesyings come to pass, and the simple folks here believe in her more than in me. But thank goodness, here we are.”
Three hundred paces brought them to the edge of the lake, over which the soft white mists were disappearing before the sun. The boat lay on the sandy beach, with a chain holding it fast to the trunk of an old willow; and, as soon as the basket and wallet had been laid in, Master Peasegood helped his friend to take his place.
“I don’t think I shall swamp the boat, Brother Brisdone,” he said, laughing, as he sent the skiff well down in the water. “If I do, just you hold on tightly to my gown, for I’m too fat to sink.”
A hearty “Ha, ha, ha!” floated across the lake as he finished his speech; and then, taking the little oars, he proceeded to paddle across for some distance before pausing and opening the large basket he had brought.
The first thing taken out was a large can of water with a lid pierced with holes; and then from the bag were shaken out a dozen bladders, each tied round the centre with a string and a loop. From his basket Master Peasegood then brought out a dozen goodly hooks, whose points were stuck in a piece of cork, and whose strings were neatly tied in a bunch; and, as he took them off, one by one, each was baited with a fresh young gudgeon from the can, the string attached to one of the bladders, and this dropped overboard to float away.
In a short time the whole of the hooks were baited, and the lake dotted with the bladders that floated here and there, borne by the breeze or tugged by the lively gudgeons. Then, and then only, did Master Peasegood nearly upset the boat by leaning over the side to wash his hands, and smile at his companion.
His smile was not perceived though, for Father Brisdone was sitting with one elbow upon his knee, his cheek upon his hand, gazing out and away at the soft landscape, with the Pool-house and its works glorified by the morning sun.
“Now we’ll sit and talk for awhile,” said Master Peasegood, smiling jollily. “What do you say to a pleasant subject for discussion—say purgatory?”
“Because thou hast been putting these poor gudgeons into a state of misery, brother?” said Father Brisdone.
“Let the gudgeons rest,” said Master Peasegood. “They have all gone overboard like so many finny Jonahs, for the benefit of those on board this ship; and, if they are lucky, they will soon be safe in so many whales’ insides. Ha, ha, ha! Master Brisdone, I’m afraid I’m a very irreverent disciple. By all the saints, there goes one of the Jonahs. See!”
He pointed to where, just by a reed-bed towards which the bladder had drifted, there was a tremendous swirl in the water, and away it went skimming along at a rapid rate.
“Ha, yes, I suppose that will be a great fish,” said Father Brisdone, sadly; “but I was thinking of the maiden at yon house—sweet little Mace.”
“Bless her!” said Master Peasegood.
“Amen,” said his companion. “Brother Joseph, she is at a perilous age, and I do not think her father’s to be trusted.”
“You mean with her future?” said Master Peasegood. “I fear so too. Poor child, she needs a mother’s counsel!”
“Think you she has a lover?” said Father Brisdone, quietly.
“Two fierce luces playing round the little gudgeon,” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly. “One of them will snatch it up directly. Nay, nay,” he continued, reddening; “I meant no inference. I was thinking of yon bait. There it goes.”
He pointed to where a gudgeon had leaped several times out of the water to escape a couple of fierce pike, one of which seized it and bore it off.
“Lovers?” he continued. “Yes, that courtly fellow from town is trying to win her, and so is Gilbert Carr.”
“And she?”
“She loves Culverin Carr with all her pretty little soul, but he shall not have her unless—”
“Unless what?”
“He mends his ways. She shall marry no scapegrace who plays fast and loose with women’s hearts. He trifles with Mistress Anne Beckley, and the silly girl is mad for him.”
“Nay, I think you wrong him, brother. I believe in Gil Carr as a true gentleman at heart. I love the brave, bold youth.”
“I hope I do wrong him,” said Master Peasegood. “He’s a fine, handsome fellow, but I will not have my little white moth played with, and the tender down upon her winglets crushed by unholy hands.”
“Why do you call her white moth?” said the father, dreamily.
“It is a fancy of the people here, because she dresses in white; and they meet her, looking soft, and white, and ethereal, in the woody lanes at eventide where moths abound. Ah, Father Brisdone, happy men are we who early marry ourselves to the Church, and know nought of these fleshly troubles. Yes, they call her the white moth; and between ourselves it’s a glowworm that often comes wooing to her, and I fear his light will burn.”
Father Brisdone sighed. “Ha, ha, ha! that’s because another Jonah has gone down,” said Master Peasegood, pointing to a flying bladder.
“Nay,” said the other sadly; “I sighed at your words about our being happier without these fleshly cares. I don’t know—I don’t know.”
“More do I,” said Master Peasegood; “only that I’m very fatherly fond of little Mace, and if I can stand between her and Carr I will. Now, brother, we’ll chase that first great fish. Suppose you take the oars.”
Father Brisdone obeyed, and Master Peasegood fitted a large hook to the end of a stout walking-staff, directing his friend the while as he urged the boat over the limpid water, making fish dart away here and there amongst the water-lilies and flags.
They approached pretty near the bladder, and then away it went, showing that the great pike was well hooked, and now commenced a chase for some ten minutes, the captive always evading the great hook just as Master Peasegood was on the point of securing the string.
The chase led them right away over the deepest part of the Pool, and amidst various little islands of reeds growing on soft masses of decayed vegetation; the boat, when urged forward, passing easily amongst and over them, so lightly were they rooted in the soft vegetable fibre below.
“Now then, a good pull, brother, and we shall have him,” whispered Master Peasegood. “He’s a monster, but he is tired now. Four good strokes and then hold up your oars, and let the skiff glide and I’ll—Good God! what’s that?—the other oar, man, pull!”
The skiff spun round and was urged towards a clump of reeds, among which, and half covered by the water, were two ghastly faces, which settled down, gliding from their precarious hold, as the wave made by the skiff reached them.
Another moment and they would have been beyond reach, but Master Peasegood thrust his arm to the shoulder into the water, as he leaned over the side, and grasped the doublet of one man, thrusting in his hook and seizing the other, and then drawing both up to the sides of the boat, as it rustled amongst the reeds, but bringing the edge down so low that the water began to pour in over the side.
“Quick, brother, quick!” shouted Master Peasegood. “Hang over the other side, or we are lost!”
With a promptitude that might not have been expected from him, Father Brisdone threw himself to the other side of the skiff, and raised the endangered edge so that the water ceased to pour over the gunwale, while Master Peasegood deftly leaned sideways and dragged the first body he had secured round the stern of the boat.
Father Brisdone saw what he intended, and, changing his position a little, just managed to catch the doublet, and the next minute the boat was well balanced, for one of the bodies was being held up on either side.
“Are—are they dead?” whispered Father Brisdone, in an awe-stricken voice. “Poor lad—poor lad.”
“Heaven only knows,” cried Master Peasegood, as he changed his position and said, “Give me hold of the poor boy—his collar—that’s well. I’ve got this one the same. There, their heads are well above the water now, and I can hold them thus. Now take the oars and row for life.”
“But can you hold them?” cried Father Brisdone, as he obeyed his companion, and gazed at him the while, seated with hands grasping the two men’s collars, one on either side.
“I hope so. Oh, yes! They can’t drag me out of the boat, but it would be madness to try and drag them in. Row hard: never mind me.”
Father Brisdone bent to his task with a will, and in a fashion that showed how he had more than once handled an oar, while Master Peasegood braced himself up, and held on to his burdens as they dragged behind.
“You see who they are?” he said, as the skiff gathered way, and the water rattled under her bows.
“Yes; one is the man of whom we talked.”
“And the other is old Wat Kilby. I’ll never believe he is drowned,” cried Master Peasegood. “He’s born for quite another fate. Pull steady and hard, man. If my arms are jerked out of the sockets I’ll forgive thee. Ohe—ahoy—hoi—oy,” he shouted to a couple of men on the shore, and as they stopped to gaze others began to collect, so that by the time the side was reached there was plenty of willing aid, and hands ready to bear the two men into the charcoal-shed, where, by Father Brisdone’s orders, blankets were fetched and stimulants, while, under his instructions, strong hands rubbed the icy limbs.
This was continued for a time, and then the founder made a proposal, which was put into effect.
“Four of you, one to the corner of each blanket,” he cried; “and run them down to the little furnace. We can lay them on the hot bricks there.”
“Yes, quickly,” cried Father Brisdone. “The very thing.”
It was done, and the genial heat and the friction liberally applied. At first no change took place, and the founder shook his head; while Sir Mark, as he gazed at the stern, handsome countenance of Culverin Carr, felt that a dangerous rival had been removed from his path.
“We were too late, brother, were we not?” said Master Peasegood, sadly.
“I’ll tell thee, anon,” was the reply, as, with cassock off and sleeves up, Father Brisdone was toiling away, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead.
One hour—two hours passed, and still there was no sign of life. Those who aided would have given up long before but for the father’s example, led by which they worked manfully, till, to the great joy of the operator, there was a faint quivering about his patients’ eyelids.
Encouraged by this, all worked the harder, to be rewarded by a sigh from Gil, and a low growl from Wat Kilby, who now rapidly recovered consciousness, and startled all present by exclaiming:—
“Who has taken my tobacco?” Gil recovered more slowly, but he was soon able to speak; and the first person upon whom his eyes fell was Sir Mark, who seemed half fascinated by his gaze.
A couple of hours later the two men were sufficiently revived to bear removal; and in a gruff way, as if the show of hospitality were forced upon him, Master Cobbe offered them the use of his house.
Gil’s heart gave a leap of joy at the invitation, while Sir Mark’s countenance grew black as night. It resumed, its former aspect, though, as he heard Gil refuse, and merely request permission to stay where they were for a time, after which he said they would go their way.
“I’d give something to know how those two came so near being drowned,” said the founder, as he walked over the little bridge with Sir Mark.
“I’d give something,” said Sir Mark to himself, “if that meddling priest had left the scoundrel to die in peace. How I hate him, to be sure.”
Meanwhile, Mace, who had been upon her knees in her little chamber, praying with all her soul for her lover’s life, had now changed her prayer to thanksgiving, and at last stood by the window, and exchanged a look with him, as she saw him walk slowly away, with Wat Kilby, whose pipe was lit, and who was smoking as if nothing whatever had been amiss.
As to how the accident had occurred, that was the secret of the two sufferers, the guests that evening of Master Peasegood, whose luces were not sought for till the next morning, by which time three-parts had managed to get away, or rid themselves of their steel, leaving the floating bladders alone for the parson’s crook.
How Sir Mark visited Dame Beckley’s Garden of Simples.In the course of the morning a mounted messenger came on to the Pool-house with a despatch for Sir Mark, whose brow clouded as he read that it was a peremptory recall to town.He handed the despatch to the founder, who read it quietly, and returned it.“Hah,” he said, “then I am to lose my guest. I hope Sir Mark does not quarrel with my hospitality.”“Nay, but I do,” said Sir Mark, petulantly. “You deny me the very one thing I ask.”“And what is that?” said the founder.“Your daughter’s hand, Master Cobbe.”“Nay, nay, she’s no mate for thee, my lad, so let that rest.”“But I cannot,—I will not,” cried Sir Mark.“But thou must, and thou shalt,” said the founder. “Now, what can I do to speed thee on thy journey?”“Nothing,” was the reply, “for Sir Thomas has sent a spare horse for my service. Good Master Cobbe, hearken to me. Come: you will accept me as your son-in-law of the future?”“Go back to the fine madams of the court, my lad, and you’ll forget my little lass in a week.”“Nay, by Heaven, I never shall.”“And we shall never see thee more.”“You consent?”“No,” said the founder, sternly. “Good-bye, my lad, and I hope thou forgivest me the prick in the shoulder I gave thee.”“Forgive? I bless you for it,” cried Sir Mark, enthusiastically; “and as to our never meeting again, why, man, I shall be back here ere a month has gone by.”“Harkye,” cried the founder, laying his hand on the other’s arm, “this can only be by some trick or other of thine in thy report. Sir Mark Leslie, if thou play’st me false, look well to thyself.”“Play thee false, Master Cobbe! Nay, I’ll only play to win sweet Mace—and your money,” he added to himself. “I shall be back, I tell you, and before long. Now to make my adieux to your daughter.”But Mace returned for answer through Janet that she was too ill to see Sir Mark; and the message was conveyed to him when he was alone.“And now, pretty Janet, what’s it to be,” he said—“a kiss or this gold piece?”“Both,” said Janet, promptly, as she held out hand and cheek.“There they are, then, and mind this, Janet: help me in my suit to win thy mistress, and thou shalt have the handsomest gown thou canst choose, with a gilded stomacher like they wear at court.”“Shall I?” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.“Ay, and aught else you like to ask for. Now, farewell.”He printed another kiss on Janet’s rosy cheek and a few on her lips, and stayed some little time before he once more sought the founder, who had, however, gone to one of his sheds.Here a farewell of anything but a friendly nature took place; and, forgetting to bestow any present on the workmen, Sir Mark mounted the horse awaiting him and rode away, to see what sort of a reception he should have from the pompous baronet and his child.Sir Mark had had his mind so set upon Mace Cobbe that, when at Roehurst, he could think of nothing else, and his every thought on leaving the place was about how to get back from London with a good excuse for staying.“I must get the old fellow a big order for powder and cannon,” he said, “and play my cards so that I have the commission to see the order executed, test the guns and the grains, and then I shall have the old man in my fingers. Only let him accept the Royal order, and I can work him. Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, “powder not of required strength; flaw in this gun; want of carrying power in that; failure in accuracy in another. Why my dear father-in-law, thou wilt be at my mercy; and if I cannot work you to my ends, in spite of all independence and defiance, my name is not Mark Leslie.”“Why,” he added, laughing, “if I failed in managing thee in any other way, Master Cobbe, I have only to hint to His Majesty that here is a clever artificer who maketh strong powder, which he supplies to the Papist, and I could have a score or two of men down to lay you by the heels. Surely I could manage it all if driven to urge him very hard. But, there, I can get on better by driving him with a light hand. Let me see, why war materials will be wanted for Holland! Tut, lad, it will be easy enough to do.”He rode gently on, having a care to prevent his horse from setting his feet in the deeper holes; and now began a fresh set of thoughts, to wit, concerning Mistress Anne.“By Bacchus and Venus, and all the gods and goddesses who had to do with the making of love,” he cried, “and am I to face that bright-eyed, ruddy-haired piece of tyranny? She was ready to fall in love with me at the first meeting, and here have I treated her and Sir Thomas most scurvily. How am I to behave? Apologise, or take the high hand?”“The latter!” he cried, touching the fat horse he rode with the spur. “If I am humble, I shall be slighted. Hang it, I will be courted, for I am from the court.”He rode on through the pleasant woodlands, enjoying the sweet-scented breeze, but only for the agreeable sensations it afforded him; and, almost leaving the horse to follow its own bent, he at last came in sight of the stone pillars which supported the gates leading up to the Moat.It was a spot that would have delighted poet or artist, that long, embowering avenue of trees, at the end of which stood the mossy pillars, each supporting an impossible monster, which seemed to be putting out its tongue derisively at the visitors to the old house.Riding along the avenue and through the gates, Sir Mark passed a park-like stretch of grass, and then a belt of trees which almost hid the house, till he was close up to the old moat, from which it took its name; a broad, deep dyke of water that surrounded the building, bordered with a wide-spreading lawn of soft green turf, which was kept closely-shaven, and was dotted with spreading trees, and gnarled, rugged old hawthorns. This wide lawn ran from the edge of the moat to the ivy-grown walls of the quaint mansion, evidently the work, with its florid red brick, of some clever architect of Henry VII’s days. To a lover of the picturesque, the place was perfect, with its ivy-softened walls and buttresses, quaintly-shaped windows, shady corners, seats beneath hawthorns, and clipped yews that dotted the old pleasaunce; and nothing could have been more attractive than the wild garden formed by the great lawn, broken by mossy boles, which ran down to the great lily-dappled moat.Sir Mark drew rein upon the old stone bridge, and gazed around him for a while at the broad leaves floating on the dark, clear water, where some great carp every now and then thrust up its broad snout and with a loud smack sucked down a hapless fly. There was something very attractive about the place; the quaint red building seen amongst the oaks and firs; the dashes of colour here and there of Dame Beckley’s flower-beds, many of which were rich with strange plants that Gil Carr had brought from foreign lands and given to Mace for the garden at the Pool-house, and of which Dame Beckley had begged or taken cuttings.There was an air of sleepy calmness about the old moat that had its effect upon Sir Mark, whose musings upon the bridge took something of this form.“I am in debt; I get more deeply so; and I can never recover myself, as my expenses increase, without wedding a rich wife. Sir Thomas Beckley, Baronet, cannot live for ever; and this would be a charming place for me to settle down to when I get middle-aged and stout, and have grown to care little for the court.“But then the lady!“Hah!” he sighed, “It is the way of the world. If rustic Mace, with her sweet beauty, had thrown herself at me, and dropped like a luscious fruit into my hands, I should have wearied of her in a week; but she is hard to reach so I strive the more; while Mistress Anne, here—“Hah! I will not be too rash. Suppose I temporise, and am gentle and respectful by turns. Even if I marry Mace, there is no reason why I should scorn one who is nearly as fair. Besides which, if Master Culverin is in favour, then a little revenge upon him by tasting the sweet lips of his other love would not come amiss. Only I must be cautious, or I may go wrong. By Bacchus! here is the lady herself!”He touched the flank of his horse, for just then he caught sight of the gay colours of Mistress Anne’s brocaded gown, where she sat upon a rustic seat, reading beneath a shady tree, of course sublimely ignorant of Sir Mark’s approach, as she had been watching for him ever since the messenger had left; and, though her eyes were fixed upon her book, she had read no words since she had seen him pause upon the bridge, and her heart went fluttering beneath its hard belaced cage.Sir Mark did not know it, but the lady who sat before him in the old pleasaunce, not far from the moat, had come to precisely the same determination as himself. Could she win Gil she would, for his dashing life of adventure always made him seem quite a hero of romance; but, failing Gil, Sir Mark would do. So once more she determined to play a cautious waiting game of the two-strings-to-the-bow fashion; and, therefore, when Sir Mark leaped from the fat cob, sent by Sir Thomas by her special command, and approached her hat in hand, no stranger could possibly have imagined that there was such a place in the world as the Pool-house, where dwelt sweet Mace Cobbe, to whose greater attractions Sir Mark had yielded, and stayed away. The handsome courtier from town might have just returned from a visit to the foundry after but a few hours’ absence so smiling and pleasant was his reception beneath the trees.“By Bacchus, she’s a sensible girl after all,” thought Sir Mark.“I may bring him to my knees yet,” thought Mistress Anne; “and, if I do, I’ll hold him till Gil Carr asks me to be his wife, and then—”A flash sped from her eye full of malicious glee, as, taking her hand once moreà la minuet, Sir Mark led her up towards the house, where, well-schooled by his daughter, Sir Thomas squeezed his fat face into a smile, and declared he was glad to see his guest again.“Your inspection has taken you a long time, Sir Mark,” he said.“It has been a tedious task,” was the reply; “and even now I have not done.”“Indeed?” said Mistress Anne.“Nay,” he replied; “it is quite possible that I may have to return within the month to continue my report.”As he spoke he glanced furtively at Mistress Anne, to see what effect it would have upon her. To his satisfaction, she clapped her hands joyously.“Iamso glad,” she cried, with childlike glee. Then, as if ashamed of her outburst, she looked down and blushed, ending by glancing timidly at Sir Mark.“She’s very charming, after all,” he thought, as he smiled upon her. “Poor girl, she can’t help it, I suppose;” and he felt a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction and conceit run through his veins.“We see so little company,” simpered Anne.“Really, you’ve seen very little of me,” said Sir Mark. “But duty—duty, Sir Thomas. I felt bound to stay there and keep matters well under my own eyes.”“It must have been very tedious and tiresome,” said Anne, innocently; “but then, Mace Cobbe is very nice and pleasant, is she not?”Sir Mark looked sharply to the speaker to see if this was a venomed shaft, but Mistress Anne’s eyes were as wide open as her face was vacant and smooth.“Yes,” he said, quickly; “a very pleasant, sensible girl. Well educated, too.”“Yes,” said Anne, dreamily. “I like Mace Cobbe, only dear father and my mother don’t quite approve of my making her an intimate.”The faint “Oh!” that escaped from Sir Thomas Beckley’s lips must have been caused by a twinge of gout, for he did not venture to speak when he caught his daughter’s eye.“Will you not come and see my mother, Sir Mark?” continued Anne, sweetly. “She is down in her simple-garden, by the southern wall.”“I shall be delighted,” was the reply; and rising, he escorted the lady out through an open bay window, and along the closely-shaven lawn.“Anne means to marry him,” said Sir Thomas, gazing after his daughter, and rubbing his nose in a vexed manner. “What a smooth, soft puss it is! Who’d think she had such claws?”“She’s innocence itself,” said Sir Mark to himself, as he twisted his moustache-points, and smiled down tenderly at his companion, who blushed and trembled and faltered when he spoke to her, as naturally as a simple-hearted girl who had been longing for his return. “By all the gods it would be much easier work to make up matters here!”“Let me run on, and tell my mother you have come, Sir Mark,” said Anne, ingenuously.“Nay, nay,” said the guest, pressing the trembling little white hand he took; “I have not many hours to stay.”“Oh!” cried Anne, gazing with piteous wide open eyes. “You are not going away to-day?”“In two hours’ time, sweet, I must be on the road to London. Must—I must.”To give Anne credit for her efforts, she tried very hard to squeeze two little tears out of the corners of her eyes; but they were obstinate, and refused to come. She heaved a deep sigh, though, and gazed sadly down at her little silk shoes, as they toddled over the short grass, her heels being packed up on the bases of a couple of inverted pyramids, which just allowed her toes to reach the ground.“Poor child!” thought Sir Mark; and the desire was very strong upon him to just bend down and kiss her. But he resisted the temptation bravely, his strength of mind being fortified by the knowledge that they were well in sight of the latticed windows.A minute later, and they had to go through a narrow path, winding through and overarched by broad-leaved nut-stubbs, which formed quite a bower belaced with golden sunbeams, that seemed to fall in drops upon the enchanter’s night-shade, the briony, and patches of long thick grass.“Is this the way to the simple-garden, Mistress Anne?” he said, playing with the hand that lay upon his arm.“Yes, Sir Mark,” she faltered; “it is close at hand.”It might have been a mile away as far as seeing what went on in the nutwalk was concerned; and feeling this, and a very tender sensation of pitying sorrow for the weak girl at his side, Sir Mark thought that to yield to the temptation would be only kindness, and an act that would solace the poor child, so he said with a sigh:“Yes, Mistress Anne, I must away in a couple of hours.”“So soon?” she whispered.“Yes; so soon.”And then somehow, sweet Mistress Anne, in her girlish innocency, thought not of resistance, as her companion drew her softly nearer and nearer to him, one of his arms passing round her slight waist, so that she hung upon it, with her head thrown slightly back. Her veined lids drooped over her eyes, her lips were half parted to show her white teeth, and the lips themselves were red and moist as her soft perfumed breath. For she was very young, and did not know what it was to be taken in the arms of a man, saving upon such an occasion as that when Gil had held her and half borne her along. It was quite natural, then, that when Sir Mark’s lips drew nearer and pressed hers, at first so softly that a gnat would have hardly felt the touch, then harder, more closely, and ended by joining them tightly, that she should not shrink from the contact, but, though motionless, seem to passively return kiss for kiss—a score of kisses joined in one.This one might have lasted an hour or a moment—Sir Mark did not know. All he knew was that for the time being Mace Cobbe was forgotten, and that the kiss was very nice. In fact, it seemed to him that he was just in the middle of it when an excited voice broke it right in half by exclaiming—“Oh, my gracious!”Looking up, he found himself face to face with dumpy, chubby Dame Beckley, staring vacantly astounded, in her spectacles and garden-gloves, her basket having dropped from her hand.“I—beg—I—”“Oh, Sir Mark!” exclaimed the lady, angrily; and then, catching her daughter’s eye, she went on in a trembling, fluttering way; “I never thought—I couldn’t see—I really—Oh, dear me; how do you do, Sir Mark? I—I—I am glad to see you back.”He held out his hand, smiling in her face the while, and in her confusion Dame Beckley placed therein a little trowel, making him start. Then, starting herself, she grew more confused, and snatched the trowel away, dropped it, and nearly struck her head against the visitor, as he stooped quickly to pick up the fallen tool.“I beg your pardon, Sir Mark,” she stammered, as she finally succeeded in getting trowel and garden-gloves comfortably settled in the basket, a frown from her daughter hastening her pace.“Sir Mark was coming with me to see you in the simple-garden, mother,” said Mistress Anne, calmly enough. “Will you show him some of your choicest plants?”“Oh, yes, child, if I—that is—bless me, I hardly know what I am saying. This way, Sir Mark, this way,” and turning abruptly she led the little party down the garden.Sir Mark pressed Mistress Anne’s hand, and gave her a meaning look and smile, but he was disconcerted to find his companion’s face as innocent and guileless-looking as her limpid eyes.“Confound it all,” he muttered; “I must not trifle with her, or I shall break the poor girl’s heart.”“These are my simples, Sir Mark,” said the dame, pointing to the various old-fashioned herbs growing beneath the shelter of a sunny wall; lavender, rosemary, rue, and balm; peppermint, spearmint, and lemon-thyme; pennyroyal, basil, and marigold; wall-hyssop; and sweet marjoram, borage, and dill, with a score more,—which she hastened to point out to hide her confusion.“That is agrimony, Sir Mark, for fevers, and that is the new long snake-rooted glycorice from Spain, a fine thing for colds and burning throats. These are the echeverias for making up when there are scalds and burns, and applying cool to the place.”“And what is that great long-leaved plant, madame?” said Sir Mark, showing an interest in what he saw.“The Indian weed—tobacco, sir, and this is a strange new gourd from the same land; and this is a root that grows into curious floury lumps or balls, when underground. But maybe you have heard of them before we simple people in the country. It is the batata.”“Yes; I have heard of that, and tasted it too,” said Sir Mark.“Would you like to see my vines, Sir Mark?” said the lady, eagerly. “They are in the shelter of the old walls here, and I ripen my grapes, and make my wine, that you shall taste when we go in.”“I thank you, madam, and shall be right glad.”“Here, too, is my woodsage, or germander,” cried Dame Beckley, eagerly. “It is a fine bitter, with which we make our ale. I have tried to get Cobbe at the Pool to use it when he brews, but he is obstinate and headstrong, and will take the strange-smelling hop-nettle, which twines and runs up the stakes. Maybe Sir Mark has seen the plantation there.”“Ay, that I have,” said Sir Mark, smiling at Anne, while her mother prattled on.“The founder has a goodly garden, but not like mine,” said the little lady, proudly. “He never grows such apples as these, nor yet such berries or such plums. I have told him much and given him many seeds, but he is a headstrong and a hard man to teach.”Sir Mark bowed.“I gave him the graft to place in his stock for the choice Christmas pippins,—the Noel beauty, Sir Mark,—or he would not have had a worthy apple in his garden. Now, I prithee, come and see my bees.”“Perhaps Sir Mark would not care to see the bees, mother,” said Mistress Anne, demurely; “he might get stung.”“I should be too pleased to see them,” said Sir Mark, eagerly; and he was led up this long walk, down that, between the closely-cropped yew-trees and the edges of box, all kept in wondrously-regular order, and the beds lush with many-coloured, sweet-scented plants, which grew in clusters luxuriant and strong.Sir Mark assumed a look of pleasure, and Mistress Anne was innocence itself; her eyes downcast and a trembling, hesitating expression in her countenance, though she plainly saw that Sir Mark was wearied out and longed to go in and rest.“There is the orchard, that Sir Mark has not yet seen,” cried Dame Beckley, to her daughter’s great delight, as she hung upon the visitor’s arm.“But, ladies, I must be thinking of my journey back to town.”“Not without tasting our hospitality, Sir Mark,” exclaimed Dame Beckley, apparently in answer to a signal from her child, and leading the way. So he was amply feasted and petted for the time, until, mounting horse once more, he rode over the bridge, and stopped to wave his hand before the trees hid Mistress Anne and her mother from view, with Sir Thomas in his feather-stuffed breeches and cock-tail hat.
In the course of the morning a mounted messenger came on to the Pool-house with a despatch for Sir Mark, whose brow clouded as he read that it was a peremptory recall to town.
He handed the despatch to the founder, who read it quietly, and returned it.
“Hah,” he said, “then I am to lose my guest. I hope Sir Mark does not quarrel with my hospitality.”
“Nay, but I do,” said Sir Mark, petulantly. “You deny me the very one thing I ask.”
“And what is that?” said the founder.
“Your daughter’s hand, Master Cobbe.”
“Nay, nay, she’s no mate for thee, my lad, so let that rest.”
“But I cannot,—I will not,” cried Sir Mark.
“But thou must, and thou shalt,” said the founder. “Now, what can I do to speed thee on thy journey?”
“Nothing,” was the reply, “for Sir Thomas has sent a spare horse for my service. Good Master Cobbe, hearken to me. Come: you will accept me as your son-in-law of the future?”
“Go back to the fine madams of the court, my lad, and you’ll forget my little lass in a week.”
“Nay, by Heaven, I never shall.”
“And we shall never see thee more.”
“You consent?”
“No,” said the founder, sternly. “Good-bye, my lad, and I hope thou forgivest me the prick in the shoulder I gave thee.”
“Forgive? I bless you for it,” cried Sir Mark, enthusiastically; “and as to our never meeting again, why, man, I shall be back here ere a month has gone by.”
“Harkye,” cried the founder, laying his hand on the other’s arm, “this can only be by some trick or other of thine in thy report. Sir Mark Leslie, if thou play’st me false, look well to thyself.”
“Play thee false, Master Cobbe! Nay, I’ll only play to win sweet Mace—and your money,” he added to himself. “I shall be back, I tell you, and before long. Now to make my adieux to your daughter.”
But Mace returned for answer through Janet that she was too ill to see Sir Mark; and the message was conveyed to him when he was alone.
“And now, pretty Janet, what’s it to be,” he said—“a kiss or this gold piece?”
“Both,” said Janet, promptly, as she held out hand and cheek.
“There they are, then, and mind this, Janet: help me in my suit to win thy mistress, and thou shalt have the handsomest gown thou canst choose, with a gilded stomacher like they wear at court.”
“Shall I?” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.
“Ay, and aught else you like to ask for. Now, farewell.”
He printed another kiss on Janet’s rosy cheek and a few on her lips, and stayed some little time before he once more sought the founder, who had, however, gone to one of his sheds.
Here a farewell of anything but a friendly nature took place; and, forgetting to bestow any present on the workmen, Sir Mark mounted the horse awaiting him and rode away, to see what sort of a reception he should have from the pompous baronet and his child.
Sir Mark had had his mind so set upon Mace Cobbe that, when at Roehurst, he could think of nothing else, and his every thought on leaving the place was about how to get back from London with a good excuse for staying.
“I must get the old fellow a big order for powder and cannon,” he said, “and play my cards so that I have the commission to see the order executed, test the guns and the grains, and then I shall have the old man in my fingers. Only let him accept the Royal order, and I can work him. Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, “powder not of required strength; flaw in this gun; want of carrying power in that; failure in accuracy in another. Why my dear father-in-law, thou wilt be at my mercy; and if I cannot work you to my ends, in spite of all independence and defiance, my name is not Mark Leslie.”
“Why,” he added, laughing, “if I failed in managing thee in any other way, Master Cobbe, I have only to hint to His Majesty that here is a clever artificer who maketh strong powder, which he supplies to the Papist, and I could have a score or two of men down to lay you by the heels. Surely I could manage it all if driven to urge him very hard. But, there, I can get on better by driving him with a light hand. Let me see, why war materials will be wanted for Holland! Tut, lad, it will be easy enough to do.”
He rode gently on, having a care to prevent his horse from setting his feet in the deeper holes; and now began a fresh set of thoughts, to wit, concerning Mistress Anne.
“By Bacchus and Venus, and all the gods and goddesses who had to do with the making of love,” he cried, “and am I to face that bright-eyed, ruddy-haired piece of tyranny? She was ready to fall in love with me at the first meeting, and here have I treated her and Sir Thomas most scurvily. How am I to behave? Apologise, or take the high hand?”
“The latter!” he cried, touching the fat horse he rode with the spur. “If I am humble, I shall be slighted. Hang it, I will be courted, for I am from the court.”
He rode on through the pleasant woodlands, enjoying the sweet-scented breeze, but only for the agreeable sensations it afforded him; and, almost leaving the horse to follow its own bent, he at last came in sight of the stone pillars which supported the gates leading up to the Moat.
It was a spot that would have delighted poet or artist, that long, embowering avenue of trees, at the end of which stood the mossy pillars, each supporting an impossible monster, which seemed to be putting out its tongue derisively at the visitors to the old house.
Riding along the avenue and through the gates, Sir Mark passed a park-like stretch of grass, and then a belt of trees which almost hid the house, till he was close up to the old moat, from which it took its name; a broad, deep dyke of water that surrounded the building, bordered with a wide-spreading lawn of soft green turf, which was kept closely-shaven, and was dotted with spreading trees, and gnarled, rugged old hawthorns. This wide lawn ran from the edge of the moat to the ivy-grown walls of the quaint mansion, evidently the work, with its florid red brick, of some clever architect of Henry VII’s days. To a lover of the picturesque, the place was perfect, with its ivy-softened walls and buttresses, quaintly-shaped windows, shady corners, seats beneath hawthorns, and clipped yews that dotted the old pleasaunce; and nothing could have been more attractive than the wild garden formed by the great lawn, broken by mossy boles, which ran down to the great lily-dappled moat.
Sir Mark drew rein upon the old stone bridge, and gazed around him for a while at the broad leaves floating on the dark, clear water, where some great carp every now and then thrust up its broad snout and with a loud smack sucked down a hapless fly. There was something very attractive about the place; the quaint red building seen amongst the oaks and firs; the dashes of colour here and there of Dame Beckley’s flower-beds, many of which were rich with strange plants that Gil Carr had brought from foreign lands and given to Mace for the garden at the Pool-house, and of which Dame Beckley had begged or taken cuttings.
There was an air of sleepy calmness about the old moat that had its effect upon Sir Mark, whose musings upon the bridge took something of this form.
“I am in debt; I get more deeply so; and I can never recover myself, as my expenses increase, without wedding a rich wife. Sir Thomas Beckley, Baronet, cannot live for ever; and this would be a charming place for me to settle down to when I get middle-aged and stout, and have grown to care little for the court.
“But then the lady!
“Hah!” he sighed, “It is the way of the world. If rustic Mace, with her sweet beauty, had thrown herself at me, and dropped like a luscious fruit into my hands, I should have wearied of her in a week; but she is hard to reach so I strive the more; while Mistress Anne, here—
“Hah! I will not be too rash. Suppose I temporise, and am gentle and respectful by turns. Even if I marry Mace, there is no reason why I should scorn one who is nearly as fair. Besides which, if Master Culverin is in favour, then a little revenge upon him by tasting the sweet lips of his other love would not come amiss. Only I must be cautious, or I may go wrong. By Bacchus! here is the lady herself!”
He touched the flank of his horse, for just then he caught sight of the gay colours of Mistress Anne’s brocaded gown, where she sat upon a rustic seat, reading beneath a shady tree, of course sublimely ignorant of Sir Mark’s approach, as she had been watching for him ever since the messenger had left; and, though her eyes were fixed upon her book, she had read no words since she had seen him pause upon the bridge, and her heart went fluttering beneath its hard belaced cage.
Sir Mark did not know it, but the lady who sat before him in the old pleasaunce, not far from the moat, had come to precisely the same determination as himself. Could she win Gil she would, for his dashing life of adventure always made him seem quite a hero of romance; but, failing Gil, Sir Mark would do. So once more she determined to play a cautious waiting game of the two-strings-to-the-bow fashion; and, therefore, when Sir Mark leaped from the fat cob, sent by Sir Thomas by her special command, and approached her hat in hand, no stranger could possibly have imagined that there was such a place in the world as the Pool-house, where dwelt sweet Mace Cobbe, to whose greater attractions Sir Mark had yielded, and stayed away. The handsome courtier from town might have just returned from a visit to the foundry after but a few hours’ absence so smiling and pleasant was his reception beneath the trees.
“By Bacchus, she’s a sensible girl after all,” thought Sir Mark.
“I may bring him to my knees yet,” thought Mistress Anne; “and, if I do, I’ll hold him till Gil Carr asks me to be his wife, and then—”
A flash sped from her eye full of malicious glee, as, taking her hand once moreà la minuet, Sir Mark led her up towards the house, where, well-schooled by his daughter, Sir Thomas squeezed his fat face into a smile, and declared he was glad to see his guest again.
“Your inspection has taken you a long time, Sir Mark,” he said.
“It has been a tedious task,” was the reply; “and even now I have not done.”
“Indeed?” said Mistress Anne.
“Nay,” he replied; “it is quite possible that I may have to return within the month to continue my report.”
As he spoke he glanced furtively at Mistress Anne, to see what effect it would have upon her. To his satisfaction, she clapped her hands joyously.
“Iamso glad,” she cried, with childlike glee. Then, as if ashamed of her outburst, she looked down and blushed, ending by glancing timidly at Sir Mark.
“She’s very charming, after all,” he thought, as he smiled upon her. “Poor girl, she can’t help it, I suppose;” and he felt a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction and conceit run through his veins.
“We see so little company,” simpered Anne.
“Really, you’ve seen very little of me,” said Sir Mark. “But duty—duty, Sir Thomas. I felt bound to stay there and keep matters well under my own eyes.”
“It must have been very tedious and tiresome,” said Anne, innocently; “but then, Mace Cobbe is very nice and pleasant, is she not?”
Sir Mark looked sharply to the speaker to see if this was a venomed shaft, but Mistress Anne’s eyes were as wide open as her face was vacant and smooth.
“Yes,” he said, quickly; “a very pleasant, sensible girl. Well educated, too.”
“Yes,” said Anne, dreamily. “I like Mace Cobbe, only dear father and my mother don’t quite approve of my making her an intimate.”
The faint “Oh!” that escaped from Sir Thomas Beckley’s lips must have been caused by a twinge of gout, for he did not venture to speak when he caught his daughter’s eye.
“Will you not come and see my mother, Sir Mark?” continued Anne, sweetly. “She is down in her simple-garden, by the southern wall.”
“I shall be delighted,” was the reply; and rising, he escorted the lady out through an open bay window, and along the closely-shaven lawn.
“Anne means to marry him,” said Sir Thomas, gazing after his daughter, and rubbing his nose in a vexed manner. “What a smooth, soft puss it is! Who’d think she had such claws?”
“She’s innocence itself,” said Sir Mark to himself, as he twisted his moustache-points, and smiled down tenderly at his companion, who blushed and trembled and faltered when he spoke to her, as naturally as a simple-hearted girl who had been longing for his return. “By all the gods it would be much easier work to make up matters here!”
“Let me run on, and tell my mother you have come, Sir Mark,” said Anne, ingenuously.
“Nay, nay,” said the guest, pressing the trembling little white hand he took; “I have not many hours to stay.”
“Oh!” cried Anne, gazing with piteous wide open eyes. “You are not going away to-day?”
“In two hours’ time, sweet, I must be on the road to London. Must—I must.”
To give Anne credit for her efforts, she tried very hard to squeeze two little tears out of the corners of her eyes; but they were obstinate, and refused to come. She heaved a deep sigh, though, and gazed sadly down at her little silk shoes, as they toddled over the short grass, her heels being packed up on the bases of a couple of inverted pyramids, which just allowed her toes to reach the ground.
“Poor child!” thought Sir Mark; and the desire was very strong upon him to just bend down and kiss her. But he resisted the temptation bravely, his strength of mind being fortified by the knowledge that they were well in sight of the latticed windows.
A minute later, and they had to go through a narrow path, winding through and overarched by broad-leaved nut-stubbs, which formed quite a bower belaced with golden sunbeams, that seemed to fall in drops upon the enchanter’s night-shade, the briony, and patches of long thick grass.
“Is this the way to the simple-garden, Mistress Anne?” he said, playing with the hand that lay upon his arm.
“Yes, Sir Mark,” she faltered; “it is close at hand.”
It might have been a mile away as far as seeing what went on in the nutwalk was concerned; and feeling this, and a very tender sensation of pitying sorrow for the weak girl at his side, Sir Mark thought that to yield to the temptation would be only kindness, and an act that would solace the poor child, so he said with a sigh:
“Yes, Mistress Anne, I must away in a couple of hours.”
“So soon?” she whispered.
“Yes; so soon.”
And then somehow, sweet Mistress Anne, in her girlish innocency, thought not of resistance, as her companion drew her softly nearer and nearer to him, one of his arms passing round her slight waist, so that she hung upon it, with her head thrown slightly back. Her veined lids drooped over her eyes, her lips were half parted to show her white teeth, and the lips themselves were red and moist as her soft perfumed breath. For she was very young, and did not know what it was to be taken in the arms of a man, saving upon such an occasion as that when Gil had held her and half borne her along. It was quite natural, then, that when Sir Mark’s lips drew nearer and pressed hers, at first so softly that a gnat would have hardly felt the touch, then harder, more closely, and ended by joining them tightly, that she should not shrink from the contact, but, though motionless, seem to passively return kiss for kiss—a score of kisses joined in one.
This one might have lasted an hour or a moment—Sir Mark did not know. All he knew was that for the time being Mace Cobbe was forgotten, and that the kiss was very nice. In fact, it seemed to him that he was just in the middle of it when an excited voice broke it right in half by exclaiming—
“Oh, my gracious!”
Looking up, he found himself face to face with dumpy, chubby Dame Beckley, staring vacantly astounded, in her spectacles and garden-gloves, her basket having dropped from her hand.
“I—beg—I—”
“Oh, Sir Mark!” exclaimed the lady, angrily; and then, catching her daughter’s eye, she went on in a trembling, fluttering way; “I never thought—I couldn’t see—I really—Oh, dear me; how do you do, Sir Mark? I—I—I am glad to see you back.”
He held out his hand, smiling in her face the while, and in her confusion Dame Beckley placed therein a little trowel, making him start. Then, starting herself, she grew more confused, and snatched the trowel away, dropped it, and nearly struck her head against the visitor, as he stooped quickly to pick up the fallen tool.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Mark,” she stammered, as she finally succeeded in getting trowel and garden-gloves comfortably settled in the basket, a frown from her daughter hastening her pace.
“Sir Mark was coming with me to see you in the simple-garden, mother,” said Mistress Anne, calmly enough. “Will you show him some of your choicest plants?”
“Oh, yes, child, if I—that is—bless me, I hardly know what I am saying. This way, Sir Mark, this way,” and turning abruptly she led the little party down the garden.
Sir Mark pressed Mistress Anne’s hand, and gave her a meaning look and smile, but he was disconcerted to find his companion’s face as innocent and guileless-looking as her limpid eyes.
“Confound it all,” he muttered; “I must not trifle with her, or I shall break the poor girl’s heart.”
“These are my simples, Sir Mark,” said the dame, pointing to the various old-fashioned herbs growing beneath the shelter of a sunny wall; lavender, rosemary, rue, and balm; peppermint, spearmint, and lemon-thyme; pennyroyal, basil, and marigold; wall-hyssop; and sweet marjoram, borage, and dill, with a score more,—which she hastened to point out to hide her confusion.
“That is agrimony, Sir Mark, for fevers, and that is the new long snake-rooted glycorice from Spain, a fine thing for colds and burning throats. These are the echeverias for making up when there are scalds and burns, and applying cool to the place.”
“And what is that great long-leaved plant, madame?” said Sir Mark, showing an interest in what he saw.
“The Indian weed—tobacco, sir, and this is a strange new gourd from the same land; and this is a root that grows into curious floury lumps or balls, when underground. But maybe you have heard of them before we simple people in the country. It is the batata.”
“Yes; I have heard of that, and tasted it too,” said Sir Mark.
“Would you like to see my vines, Sir Mark?” said the lady, eagerly. “They are in the shelter of the old walls here, and I ripen my grapes, and make my wine, that you shall taste when we go in.”
“I thank you, madam, and shall be right glad.”
“Here, too, is my woodsage, or germander,” cried Dame Beckley, eagerly. “It is a fine bitter, with which we make our ale. I have tried to get Cobbe at the Pool to use it when he brews, but he is obstinate and headstrong, and will take the strange-smelling hop-nettle, which twines and runs up the stakes. Maybe Sir Mark has seen the plantation there.”
“Ay, that I have,” said Sir Mark, smiling at Anne, while her mother prattled on.
“The founder has a goodly garden, but not like mine,” said the little lady, proudly. “He never grows such apples as these, nor yet such berries or such plums. I have told him much and given him many seeds, but he is a headstrong and a hard man to teach.”
Sir Mark bowed.
“I gave him the graft to place in his stock for the choice Christmas pippins,—the Noel beauty, Sir Mark,—or he would not have had a worthy apple in his garden. Now, I prithee, come and see my bees.”
“Perhaps Sir Mark would not care to see the bees, mother,” said Mistress Anne, demurely; “he might get stung.”
“I should be too pleased to see them,” said Sir Mark, eagerly; and he was led up this long walk, down that, between the closely-cropped yew-trees and the edges of box, all kept in wondrously-regular order, and the beds lush with many-coloured, sweet-scented plants, which grew in clusters luxuriant and strong.
Sir Mark assumed a look of pleasure, and Mistress Anne was innocence itself; her eyes downcast and a trembling, hesitating expression in her countenance, though she plainly saw that Sir Mark was wearied out and longed to go in and rest.
“There is the orchard, that Sir Mark has not yet seen,” cried Dame Beckley, to her daughter’s great delight, as she hung upon the visitor’s arm.
“But, ladies, I must be thinking of my journey back to town.”
“Not without tasting our hospitality, Sir Mark,” exclaimed Dame Beckley, apparently in answer to a signal from her child, and leading the way. So he was amply feasted and petted for the time, until, mounting horse once more, he rode over the bridge, and stopped to wave his hand before the trees hid Mistress Anne and her mother from view, with Sir Thomas in his feather-stuffed breeches and cock-tail hat.