How Sir Mark put on the First Chain.The founder was full of repentance, and felt that evening that he dared not meet his child’s clear, searching gaze.“He’s too much for me,” he muttered. “He’s managed to get over me when I’ve had more ale than’s good for me, and when I’ve brought out the sherry sack. It’s prime stuff, that dry, strong sherry, but it makes a man too easy, and he gives away more than he would when it’s not in him. I’ll be more careful. I won’t take so much; and yet I don’t know—it’s very pleasant.”He had gradually worked himself round to the belief that he was acting for the best, and then came the reaction, and he felt that he had sold his child for the sake of gain.Nothing was said about his promises to Sir Mark, for, though he had gone into the house soon after with the express determination of speaking out frankly and imperatively his intentions, he shrank from the untoward task.“I’ll take her down the garden, and have a quiet talk in the morning,” he said; and when the morning came he put it off till eve, plunging heart and soul into the busy toil amongst his people, who, like some little colony, looked up to him as their patriarch and the supplier of their daily food.“The lads are pleased enough with this girt job, master,” said Tom Croftly, wiping the grime and sweat from his forehead, as they stood by one of the roaring furnaces; and the founder came away smiling, but only for his smile to be chased away as he saw Mother Goodhugh going along the track, to stop and shake her stick in his direction as she seemed to be cursing him.“I never minded her and her curses before,” he muttered; “but now they seem to worry me like. I haven’t done right—I haven’t done right; but I’ve given my word—I’ve given my word.”He hurriedly made for another work-shed, glancing unquietly at the old woman as she trudged along, turning from time to time to look in his direction.“Curse that old harridan!” he muttered; and then he stood thinking, perhaps for the first time in his life, that now he had, as it were, been unfaithful to his trust, Mother Goodhugh’s evil wishes against his house might have some effect.“I don’t care,” he said; “it’s for the best;” but as he said the words the remembrance of Gil Carr rose up before him, as if with reproach.“He should never have had her,” he muttered. “It was impossible. The death of that poor fellow, Churr, clings to him, say what one may. He may not have done the deed, but it was by his orders, and he is responsible for the sin.”He bit his lips angrily even as these thoughts came to his mind, for they gave him no relief, and it seemed cowardly to harbour them in Gil’s absence, just by way of excuse for his present acts.Then, too, go where he would, work hard as he might, his child’s calm, reproachful gaze seemed to be ever before him.“She knows it already; I’m sure she knows it,” he said to himself; and at last, harassed by his upbraiding thoughts, he became furious and irritable to a degree.The eve had passed, and the next morning, and the night, but still the founder did not speak. He told himself that he had but to say—“My child, Sir Mark is your future husband;” but he could not say those words, and at times he grew fiercely angry at his cowardice, for as the days glided by the task grew harder and harder, and he literally dared not speak.He had one satisfaction, though, and that made somewhat smoother the thorny way through which he was travelling, Sir Mark was gentleness itself towards Mace. He never spoke one word that was not full of tender consideration towards her. His very looks, though full of admiration, were softened by respect; but she could read in them an air of proprietorship; and to her mind they seemed to say that he knew he was safe to win her if he only waited his time.Those were not happy days at the Pool-house, and Mace, with many a bitter tear, wished herself back in the pleasant peaceful times of the past. The coming of Sir Mark’s men had wrought a complete change in the place; there were quarrels of frequent occurrence on the score of gallantries, real or suspected, with husbands and brothers, rumours of which came to the young girl’s ears; and, whenever she encountered Mother Goodhugh, the old woman had a malignant laugh for her, and a shaking finger that seemed to portend evil. Then, in her despondent state of mind, Janet became a constant source of trouble to her. She scolded, threatened to send her away, and even tried to keep her shut up in the house; but she might as well have tried to wrap up so much quicksilver in muslin as to keep back the wilful girl, for in return for bits of news and gossip carried to Mother Goodhugh, the old woman furnished Janet with philtres that were to win her the hearts of any of the gay strangers she wished to enthral.“Oh, Janet, Janet, where is your modesty?” cried her mistress. “Who was that man you talked with? Is it not the same I warned you about last night?”“No-o, mistress,” said Janet.“How can you be so shameless! Night after night I have to blame you for your wilful ways.”“Yes, mistress,” sobbed Janet; “I’m a wicked, wicked girl, but men are so nice.”“For shame! Why not heed me when I speak to you for your good?”“I do, mistress,” sobbed Janet; “but these men they plague me so. I try, oh, so very hard, to be good, and I will be a better girl. I want to be good, and something always keeps trying to make me bad; but I will be better now.”But Janet grew worse, in spite of her promises of amendment. She wept and sobbed, and avowed that she was the wickedest girl under the sun, kissed her upbraiding mistress’s hands with the full intent of leading a more modest life, and the next hour her vows were all forgotten, and she was listening to the soft whispers of some one or other of the soldierly men who hung about the place.So Mace’s days were not peaceful now, and matters at last became so unbearable as the time glided on that she determined to speak to her father, and ask him to let her leave home until his great work that troubled her so was done, and the unwelcome visitors were gone.For weeks she went about with the words on her lips, longing to say them, but she dared not on account of the shock she knew it would give her father, while he, restless and unquiet in her presence, kept back what he had to say.It was Sir Mark who brought father and daughter to an explanation.There had been a week of something like relief, for the visitor had been to London on business connected with the order, and on his return he had startled Mace by a change in his mien in speaking to her as he had not spoken since his avowal of his love that evening by the meadow-gate.It was evening, and Mace was seated alone in the big window, working, and glancing out from time to time at the pleasant garden, thinking that it did not look so bright and cheery as of old; when Sir Mark entered, and crossing the room stood close by her, gazing gently down with his hands clasped behind.She looked up at him in a timid way, and then shrank back in her chair. Her first impulse was to run from the room, but she scouted the idea as one only fit for some weak girl; and, fighting hard to recover herself, she said the first words that came to her lips, angry with herself the next moment with what she had spoken.“Mistress Anne Beckley was here with my lady this afternoon.”“Indeed!” he said, huskily, as he still gazed down.“Mistress Anne asked after your health, and bade me say that they missed you very much.”“And you, what did you say?” he asked, softly.“I said you were busy with my father, watching over the trial of great pieces of ordnance and the making of powder,” replied Mace, who was fast recovering her calmness.“Why did you not tell her I could not tear myself from the home where my every thought was centred; that I could not live away from her who was to be my wife? See, Mace, dearest, I brought you this from town. It is to grace your sweet, white throat. There, I thought the pearls were beautiful, but they look poor and mean, after all.”Mace’s hands nervously clasped Sir Mark’s wrists as, with a quick movement, he brought them from behind him, and throwing a handsome string of pearls round her neck he clasped it there.If her suitor’s wrists had burned her, she could not have snatched her hands away more quickly as she shrank back once more into her seat, gazing at him with so strange a look that the words he was about to utter failed on his lips, and he stood for a while gazing down at her in silence.“You are surprised,” he said at last, smiling. “Well, they were given clumsily, but you teach me to be humble and reverent before you, Mace. I grow speechless in your presence, as with a kind of humble adoration, as I look forward to the day when you will be my wife.”“Your—wife!” she faltered.“Yes,” he cried, catching her by the hands to cover them with kisses, “my wife, whom I shall worship, and take away from this wild, secluded spot to shine like some jewel in King James’s court.”He dropped her hand, for he heard the founder’s voice without, and left her sitting back—crouched, as it were, in her chair, cold and nerveless.She had expected this; she had looked hourly for its coming; but now that it had come it was like some fearful shock.“Gil,” she whispered, at last. “Gil,” as she felt like a bird in a fowler’s net, “why are you not here?”His name seemed to give her back her strength, and, starting up, she caught sight of her white face in the glass. Then her eyes fell upon the glistening ornament around her neck, and, feeling that it was like a chain that Sir Mark had placed there to secure her to him, she tore at it hastily, the string snapped, and the great lustrous pearls flew with a pattering noise about the floor as she hurried from the room, ran up to her chamber, and threw herself sobbing upon her knees.
The founder was full of repentance, and felt that evening that he dared not meet his child’s clear, searching gaze.
“He’s too much for me,” he muttered. “He’s managed to get over me when I’ve had more ale than’s good for me, and when I’ve brought out the sherry sack. It’s prime stuff, that dry, strong sherry, but it makes a man too easy, and he gives away more than he would when it’s not in him. I’ll be more careful. I won’t take so much; and yet I don’t know—it’s very pleasant.”
He had gradually worked himself round to the belief that he was acting for the best, and then came the reaction, and he felt that he had sold his child for the sake of gain.
Nothing was said about his promises to Sir Mark, for, though he had gone into the house soon after with the express determination of speaking out frankly and imperatively his intentions, he shrank from the untoward task.
“I’ll take her down the garden, and have a quiet talk in the morning,” he said; and when the morning came he put it off till eve, plunging heart and soul into the busy toil amongst his people, who, like some little colony, looked up to him as their patriarch and the supplier of their daily food.
“The lads are pleased enough with this girt job, master,” said Tom Croftly, wiping the grime and sweat from his forehead, as they stood by one of the roaring furnaces; and the founder came away smiling, but only for his smile to be chased away as he saw Mother Goodhugh going along the track, to stop and shake her stick in his direction as she seemed to be cursing him.
“I never minded her and her curses before,” he muttered; “but now they seem to worry me like. I haven’t done right—I haven’t done right; but I’ve given my word—I’ve given my word.”
He hurriedly made for another work-shed, glancing unquietly at the old woman as she trudged along, turning from time to time to look in his direction.
“Curse that old harridan!” he muttered; and then he stood thinking, perhaps for the first time in his life, that now he had, as it were, been unfaithful to his trust, Mother Goodhugh’s evil wishes against his house might have some effect.
“I don’t care,” he said; “it’s for the best;” but as he said the words the remembrance of Gil Carr rose up before him, as if with reproach.
“He should never have had her,” he muttered. “It was impossible. The death of that poor fellow, Churr, clings to him, say what one may. He may not have done the deed, but it was by his orders, and he is responsible for the sin.”
He bit his lips angrily even as these thoughts came to his mind, for they gave him no relief, and it seemed cowardly to harbour them in Gil’s absence, just by way of excuse for his present acts.
Then, too, go where he would, work hard as he might, his child’s calm, reproachful gaze seemed to be ever before him.
“She knows it already; I’m sure she knows it,” he said to himself; and at last, harassed by his upbraiding thoughts, he became furious and irritable to a degree.
The eve had passed, and the next morning, and the night, but still the founder did not speak. He told himself that he had but to say—“My child, Sir Mark is your future husband;” but he could not say those words, and at times he grew fiercely angry at his cowardice, for as the days glided by the task grew harder and harder, and he literally dared not speak.
He had one satisfaction, though, and that made somewhat smoother the thorny way through which he was travelling, Sir Mark was gentleness itself towards Mace. He never spoke one word that was not full of tender consideration towards her. His very looks, though full of admiration, were softened by respect; but she could read in them an air of proprietorship; and to her mind they seemed to say that he knew he was safe to win her if he only waited his time.
Those were not happy days at the Pool-house, and Mace, with many a bitter tear, wished herself back in the pleasant peaceful times of the past. The coming of Sir Mark’s men had wrought a complete change in the place; there were quarrels of frequent occurrence on the score of gallantries, real or suspected, with husbands and brothers, rumours of which came to the young girl’s ears; and, whenever she encountered Mother Goodhugh, the old woman had a malignant laugh for her, and a shaking finger that seemed to portend evil. Then, in her despondent state of mind, Janet became a constant source of trouble to her. She scolded, threatened to send her away, and even tried to keep her shut up in the house; but she might as well have tried to wrap up so much quicksilver in muslin as to keep back the wilful girl, for in return for bits of news and gossip carried to Mother Goodhugh, the old woman furnished Janet with philtres that were to win her the hearts of any of the gay strangers she wished to enthral.
“Oh, Janet, Janet, where is your modesty?” cried her mistress. “Who was that man you talked with? Is it not the same I warned you about last night?”
“No-o, mistress,” said Janet.
“How can you be so shameless! Night after night I have to blame you for your wilful ways.”
“Yes, mistress,” sobbed Janet; “I’m a wicked, wicked girl, but men are so nice.”
“For shame! Why not heed me when I speak to you for your good?”
“I do, mistress,” sobbed Janet; “but these men they plague me so. I try, oh, so very hard, to be good, and I will be a better girl. I want to be good, and something always keeps trying to make me bad; but I will be better now.”
But Janet grew worse, in spite of her promises of amendment. She wept and sobbed, and avowed that she was the wickedest girl under the sun, kissed her upbraiding mistress’s hands with the full intent of leading a more modest life, and the next hour her vows were all forgotten, and she was listening to the soft whispers of some one or other of the soldierly men who hung about the place.
So Mace’s days were not peaceful now, and matters at last became so unbearable as the time glided on that she determined to speak to her father, and ask him to let her leave home until his great work that troubled her so was done, and the unwelcome visitors were gone.
For weeks she went about with the words on her lips, longing to say them, but she dared not on account of the shock she knew it would give her father, while he, restless and unquiet in her presence, kept back what he had to say.
It was Sir Mark who brought father and daughter to an explanation.
There had been a week of something like relief, for the visitor had been to London on business connected with the order, and on his return he had startled Mace by a change in his mien in speaking to her as he had not spoken since his avowal of his love that evening by the meadow-gate.
It was evening, and Mace was seated alone in the big window, working, and glancing out from time to time at the pleasant garden, thinking that it did not look so bright and cheery as of old; when Sir Mark entered, and crossing the room stood close by her, gazing gently down with his hands clasped behind.
She looked up at him in a timid way, and then shrank back in her chair. Her first impulse was to run from the room, but she scouted the idea as one only fit for some weak girl; and, fighting hard to recover herself, she said the first words that came to her lips, angry with herself the next moment with what she had spoken.
“Mistress Anne Beckley was here with my lady this afternoon.”
“Indeed!” he said, huskily, as he still gazed down.
“Mistress Anne asked after your health, and bade me say that they missed you very much.”
“And you, what did you say?” he asked, softly.
“I said you were busy with my father, watching over the trial of great pieces of ordnance and the making of powder,” replied Mace, who was fast recovering her calmness.
“Why did you not tell her I could not tear myself from the home where my every thought was centred; that I could not live away from her who was to be my wife? See, Mace, dearest, I brought you this from town. It is to grace your sweet, white throat. There, I thought the pearls were beautiful, but they look poor and mean, after all.”
Mace’s hands nervously clasped Sir Mark’s wrists as, with a quick movement, he brought them from behind him, and throwing a handsome string of pearls round her neck he clasped it there.
If her suitor’s wrists had burned her, she could not have snatched her hands away more quickly as she shrank back once more into her seat, gazing at him with so strange a look that the words he was about to utter failed on his lips, and he stood for a while gazing down at her in silence.
“You are surprised,” he said at last, smiling. “Well, they were given clumsily, but you teach me to be humble and reverent before you, Mace. I grow speechless in your presence, as with a kind of humble adoration, as I look forward to the day when you will be my wife.”
“Your—wife!” she faltered.
“Yes,” he cried, catching her by the hands to cover them with kisses, “my wife, whom I shall worship, and take away from this wild, secluded spot to shine like some jewel in King James’s court.”
He dropped her hand, for he heard the founder’s voice without, and left her sitting back—crouched, as it were, in her chair, cold and nerveless.
She had expected this; she had looked hourly for its coming; but now that it had come it was like some fearful shock.
“Gil,” she whispered, at last. “Gil,” as she felt like a bird in a fowler’s net, “why are you not here?”
His name seemed to give her back her strength, and, starting up, she caught sight of her white face in the glass. Then her eyes fell upon the glistening ornament around her neck, and, feeling that it was like a chain that Sir Mark had placed there to secure her to him, she tore at it hastily, the string snapped, and the great lustrous pearls flew with a pattering noise about the floor as she hurried from the room, ran up to her chamber, and threw herself sobbing upon her knees.
How Mace objected to her Bargain.“Am I a weak child?” cried Mace at last, as she sprang up and wiped away her tears. “I will not sit still, and be sold like this. I cannot be forced to wed a man I hate, and I will not listen to his words.“When will Gil come back?” she cried; and sitting down she tried to reckon up the number of weeks since he sailed, but her head was in a whirl; and even as she tried to think her hands burned, and she held them from her as if they had been polluted by the kisses they had received.Then, with a feeling of horror, she thought of the possibility of Gil having witnessed that scene—the clasping on of the necklace, the touch of the donor’s hands, and the tears once more rushed to her eyes as she writhed at her helpless position.“I will go away to Cousin Ellice,” she said; “I will go at once. Father cannot know of Sir Mark’s behaviour. I cannot, I will not, believe it,” she cried, passionately. “I would not marry Gil without his consent, but I cannot listen to this man.“Why, one would think I was some weak girl such as we read of in the old ballad stories!” she cried, with a laugh that was more like a hysterical cry, and, hastily washing away the traces of her tears, she determined to make a bold effort to show Sir Mark that his case was hopeless, and descended to the parlour to gather up and restore the pearls.All thought of the jewels, though, was chased away by the sight of her father just seating himself for a rest and a smoke; and, smoothing her face, she went up to him, and stood by his side with her hands resting upon his shoulder.“Are you tired, dear?” she said, passing her cool hand across his brow.“Very, child,” he replied, drawing her to him, so that she was seated upon his knee, with her head leaning against his cheek.“You work so hard now,” she continued. “This great order makes you so busy.”“Yes,” he said, laughing; “but it is for honour and wealth, child. It is a great thing, and Sir Mark as good as promises that I shall be Master of Ordnance to the King.”“Are Sir Mark’s promises all to be believed?” said Mace, quietly.“To be sure! Yes, of course, child. He is a noble gentleman, of goodly birth, and when thou art his wife—”He stopped short, for the words he had been trying to say had suddenly slipped from his lips, and he was startled by the manner in which his child leaped from his side, to stand staring down at him with flashing eyes.“What is it?” he cried, in a clumsy, faltering manner.“What was that you said, father?”“I said when thou art Sir Mark’s wife, and he takes thee to court.”“I can never be Sir Mark Leslie’s wife.”“Tut! nonsense,” cried the founder, working himself up into a passion; “why do you talk such rubbish as this? What do you know of wedlock? Sir Mark has asked for thy hand in honourable marriage. It is a great honour; and thou wilt be wed and praised at court, and become a great body. What could I wish better for my child?”“Oh, father, what do you mean?” she cried, with his own angry spirit rising up within her.“Mean?” he cried, rousing himself now, to finish the task that he had fought in vain for so long to begin. “I mean that Sir Mark is to be thy husband. He brings thee honour and me wealth. It is a great thing, child. Living here as thou hast, such a position as that thou wilt occupy is a thing almost undreamed of. Why, my darling,” he said, trying to smile, “thou wilt ride in thy grand carriage, and have lackeys to follow thee, and be admired of all the court. Zounds! but I shall be proud indeed!”“Father,” cried Mace, piteously, “you do not mean all this!”“But I do!” he cried. “There, go to, silly child; it seems a trouble, but it will be all a joy. There, there: we need talk of it no more, for perhaps it will not be for months. I have given Sir Mark my promise, and thou wilt be his wife.”Mace stood gazing at him piteously. Then throwing her arms round his neck she burst into a fit of sobbing.“No, no, dear father!” she cried, “I cannot, I cannot wed him. It would break my heart.”“Stuff!” he cried, caressing her; “what dost thou know of breaking hearts and such silly, girlish fancies? He brings thee jewels, and thou wilt have gay brocades. Why, my sweet pet, thou wilt drive Anne Beckley mad with envy. Mark me, she meant to wed Sir Mark herself.”“Father, dear,” said Mace, kissing him, and speaking in a low, appealing voice, “it is not like you to speak to your little girl like this. Do I care to flaunt in gay clothes—to try and best Anne Beckley? Have I any such ideas as these?”“No, no, child; may be not,” he said, stroking her hair; “but—but—I’d like to see thee a grand dame.”“Would it make you happier, dear?” she replied, kissing him fondly as she nestled to his breast.“Well, well, yes, of course,” he said hastily.“Nay, nay, father, dear, you would never, never be happy again if you sold me to that man.”“Sold!” he cried furiously, for that truthful word stung him to his heart. “How dare you say that, ungrateful girl that thou art? How dare you?”“Because it is true,” cried Mace, drawing back from him to stand, white and angry, at bay. “Father, you are trying to sell me to this man!”“It is a lie—a damned lie!” he cried furiously. “Mace, thou hast been listening to that villain—that scoundrel—that murderer—Gil Carr, again.”“It is no lie, father,” she retorted, “and Gil is no murderer—no villain—no scoundrel, but an honourable gentleman, as you know.”“I know thou hast been carrying on with him again,” cried the founder. “Curse him!” he roared, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table, so that the glasses and pipes leaped again.“I have not,” cried Mace, angrily. “You said I should not, and I obeyed you, as I always have; but,” she added proudly, “I told Gil I would never be the wife of another man, and I never will.”“Have a care, madam, have a care!” cried the founder, who was beside himself with passion. “I am a true man, but an obstinate one. I said thou should’st not wed that wild buccaneering adventurer, and I’ll keep my word.”“Father!” cried Mace, as hotly, “I am thy daughter, and I can be obstinate too. I can keep my word. I will not wed Gil, if you forbid it; but I will wed no other man.”“Curse the day he ever entered my house, and curse the day he ever enters it again! I have given Sir Mark Leslie my word that thou shalt be his wife, and that word I’ll keep. Now, I have said it, and thou knowest what to expect. I’ve indulged and spoiled thee, till, like an ingrate, thou fliest in my face, and forgettest all thy duty. Now go and learn what duty to a husband is.”“No, no, no!” cried Mace, casting off her angry fit, and flinging her arms round her father’s neck. “Forgive me, dear, I said words to you I repent of now.”“Then thou wilt meet him as thou shouldest, child?”“No, no, father, I cannot!” she cried, with a shudder; “I detest—I despise him. I do not wish to marry. Let us go back to our old happy days, dear—as we were before this man came to trouble us. Why do you wish to send your little girl away?”The founder was moved, and his arm involuntarily embraced the slight form, and drew it to his breast, while his brow grew rugged with emotion. At that moment he felt as if he would gladly have gone back to the calm old days of peace, and in his heart of hearts he wished that there was no such thing as love, or marrying and giving in marriage, on the earth.“There, there,” he said softly, as he caressed and petted her as he would have done when she was a child. “There, little one, I want to do what is best for thee, to make thee happy.”“Let us stay as we are, then, father dear,” she said, as she responded to his caresses.“No, no, child, it cannot be,” he said. “I have given my word to Sir Mark, and he is to be thy husband, and that right soon.”“No, no, father!” she cried; “you do not—you cannot mean it.”“I do mean it, and it must be,” he said firmly, as he rose, and she stepped back now, and stood gazing at him as, hastily pouring out and swallowing a glass of strong waters, he walked out of the room, leaving Mace standing with hands clasped before her, gazing at vacancy, as she realised her terrible position, and asked herself what she should do.That night she crept up to her room in a dazed, stunned fashion, and sat gazing out of her window, watching the stars rise slowly from over the sea, as she wondered whether Gil would come back and save her from the fate that threatened, where he was now, and whether she should ever look again with beating heart at their innocent little signal in the grassy bank—the four glow-worms’ lights.Where was he now? she asked herself. Was he thinking of her as his ship sailed over the blue Mediterranean? Perhaps so; but would the time come when it would be a sin for her to think of him other than as a friend?With a shudder she told herself that such a time could never be, for she would sooner take the boat some night and let it drift far out over the deepest part of the Pool, and there step over into the cold, black waters in search of the rest that she could not hope for here.And as she thought all this in a weary, despairing way, the founder sat in his own room, angry, troubled, and full of pity for his child; but all the same relieved of a heavy load, as he told himself that she knew now what was to be, and that she would soon grow happy and content.
“Am I a weak child?” cried Mace at last, as she sprang up and wiped away her tears. “I will not sit still, and be sold like this. I cannot be forced to wed a man I hate, and I will not listen to his words.
“When will Gil come back?” she cried; and sitting down she tried to reckon up the number of weeks since he sailed, but her head was in a whirl; and even as she tried to think her hands burned, and she held them from her as if they had been polluted by the kisses they had received.
Then, with a feeling of horror, she thought of the possibility of Gil having witnessed that scene—the clasping on of the necklace, the touch of the donor’s hands, and the tears once more rushed to her eyes as she writhed at her helpless position.
“I will go away to Cousin Ellice,” she said; “I will go at once. Father cannot know of Sir Mark’s behaviour. I cannot, I will not, believe it,” she cried, passionately. “I would not marry Gil without his consent, but I cannot listen to this man.
“Why, one would think I was some weak girl such as we read of in the old ballad stories!” she cried, with a laugh that was more like a hysterical cry, and, hastily washing away the traces of her tears, she determined to make a bold effort to show Sir Mark that his case was hopeless, and descended to the parlour to gather up and restore the pearls.
All thought of the jewels, though, was chased away by the sight of her father just seating himself for a rest and a smoke; and, smoothing her face, she went up to him, and stood by his side with her hands resting upon his shoulder.
“Are you tired, dear?” she said, passing her cool hand across his brow.
“Very, child,” he replied, drawing her to him, so that she was seated upon his knee, with her head leaning against his cheek.
“You work so hard now,” she continued. “This great order makes you so busy.”
“Yes,” he said, laughing; “but it is for honour and wealth, child. It is a great thing, and Sir Mark as good as promises that I shall be Master of Ordnance to the King.”
“Are Sir Mark’s promises all to be believed?” said Mace, quietly.
“To be sure! Yes, of course, child. He is a noble gentleman, of goodly birth, and when thou art his wife—”
He stopped short, for the words he had been trying to say had suddenly slipped from his lips, and he was startled by the manner in which his child leaped from his side, to stand staring down at him with flashing eyes.
“What is it?” he cried, in a clumsy, faltering manner.
“What was that you said, father?”
“I said when thou art Sir Mark’s wife, and he takes thee to court.”
“I can never be Sir Mark Leslie’s wife.”
“Tut! nonsense,” cried the founder, working himself up into a passion; “why do you talk such rubbish as this? What do you know of wedlock? Sir Mark has asked for thy hand in honourable marriage. It is a great honour; and thou wilt be wed and praised at court, and become a great body. What could I wish better for my child?”
“Oh, father, what do you mean?” she cried, with his own angry spirit rising up within her.
“Mean?” he cried, rousing himself now, to finish the task that he had fought in vain for so long to begin. “I mean that Sir Mark is to be thy husband. He brings thee honour and me wealth. It is a great thing, child. Living here as thou hast, such a position as that thou wilt occupy is a thing almost undreamed of. Why, my darling,” he said, trying to smile, “thou wilt ride in thy grand carriage, and have lackeys to follow thee, and be admired of all the court. Zounds! but I shall be proud indeed!”
“Father,” cried Mace, piteously, “you do not mean all this!”
“But I do!” he cried. “There, go to, silly child; it seems a trouble, but it will be all a joy. There, there: we need talk of it no more, for perhaps it will not be for months. I have given Sir Mark my promise, and thou wilt be his wife.”
Mace stood gazing at him piteously. Then throwing her arms round his neck she burst into a fit of sobbing.
“No, no, dear father!” she cried, “I cannot, I cannot wed him. It would break my heart.”
“Stuff!” he cried, caressing her; “what dost thou know of breaking hearts and such silly, girlish fancies? He brings thee jewels, and thou wilt have gay brocades. Why, my sweet pet, thou wilt drive Anne Beckley mad with envy. Mark me, she meant to wed Sir Mark herself.”
“Father, dear,” said Mace, kissing him, and speaking in a low, appealing voice, “it is not like you to speak to your little girl like this. Do I care to flaunt in gay clothes—to try and best Anne Beckley? Have I any such ideas as these?”
“No, no, child; may be not,” he said, stroking her hair; “but—but—I’d like to see thee a grand dame.”
“Would it make you happier, dear?” she replied, kissing him fondly as she nestled to his breast.
“Well, well, yes, of course,” he said hastily.
“Nay, nay, father, dear, you would never, never be happy again if you sold me to that man.”
“Sold!” he cried furiously, for that truthful word stung him to his heart. “How dare you say that, ungrateful girl that thou art? How dare you?”
“Because it is true,” cried Mace, drawing back from him to stand, white and angry, at bay. “Father, you are trying to sell me to this man!”
“It is a lie—a damned lie!” he cried furiously. “Mace, thou hast been listening to that villain—that scoundrel—that murderer—Gil Carr, again.”
“It is no lie, father,” she retorted, “and Gil is no murderer—no villain—no scoundrel, but an honourable gentleman, as you know.”
“I know thou hast been carrying on with him again,” cried the founder. “Curse him!” he roared, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table, so that the glasses and pipes leaped again.
“I have not,” cried Mace, angrily. “You said I should not, and I obeyed you, as I always have; but,” she added proudly, “I told Gil I would never be the wife of another man, and I never will.”
“Have a care, madam, have a care!” cried the founder, who was beside himself with passion. “I am a true man, but an obstinate one. I said thou should’st not wed that wild buccaneering adventurer, and I’ll keep my word.”
“Father!” cried Mace, as hotly, “I am thy daughter, and I can be obstinate too. I can keep my word. I will not wed Gil, if you forbid it; but I will wed no other man.”
“Curse the day he ever entered my house, and curse the day he ever enters it again! I have given Sir Mark Leslie my word that thou shalt be his wife, and that word I’ll keep. Now, I have said it, and thou knowest what to expect. I’ve indulged and spoiled thee, till, like an ingrate, thou fliest in my face, and forgettest all thy duty. Now go and learn what duty to a husband is.”
“No, no, no!” cried Mace, casting off her angry fit, and flinging her arms round her father’s neck. “Forgive me, dear, I said words to you I repent of now.”
“Then thou wilt meet him as thou shouldest, child?”
“No, no, father, I cannot!” she cried, with a shudder; “I detest—I despise him. I do not wish to marry. Let us go back to our old happy days, dear—as we were before this man came to trouble us. Why do you wish to send your little girl away?”
The founder was moved, and his arm involuntarily embraced the slight form, and drew it to his breast, while his brow grew rugged with emotion. At that moment he felt as if he would gladly have gone back to the calm old days of peace, and in his heart of hearts he wished that there was no such thing as love, or marrying and giving in marriage, on the earth.
“There, there,” he said softly, as he caressed and petted her as he would have done when she was a child. “There, little one, I want to do what is best for thee, to make thee happy.”
“Let us stay as we are, then, father dear,” she said, as she responded to his caresses.
“No, no, child, it cannot be,” he said. “I have given my word to Sir Mark, and he is to be thy husband, and that right soon.”
“No, no, father!” she cried; “you do not—you cannot mean it.”
“I do mean it, and it must be,” he said firmly, as he rose, and she stepped back now, and stood gazing at him as, hastily pouring out and swallowing a glass of strong waters, he walked out of the room, leaving Mace standing with hands clasped before her, gazing at vacancy, as she realised her terrible position, and asked herself what she should do.
That night she crept up to her room in a dazed, stunned fashion, and sat gazing out of her window, watching the stars rise slowly from over the sea, as she wondered whether Gil would come back and save her from the fate that threatened, where he was now, and whether she should ever look again with beating heart at their innocent little signal in the grassy bank—the four glow-worms’ lights.
Where was he now? she asked herself. Was he thinking of her as his ship sailed over the blue Mediterranean? Perhaps so; but would the time come when it would be a sin for her to think of him other than as a friend?
With a shudder she told herself that such a time could never be, for she would sooner take the boat some night and let it drift far out over the deepest part of the Pool, and there step over into the cold, black waters in search of the rest that she could not hope for here.
And as she thought all this in a weary, despairing way, the founder sat in his own room, angry, troubled, and full of pity for his child; but all the same relieved of a heavy load, as he told himself that she knew now what was to be, and that she would soon grow happy and content.
How Sir Mark knocked away two Props.A week, a fortnight, a month glided by, as time will gallop on, when some unwished-for season is ahead. Matters at the Moat were as of old. Sir Thomas dispensed justice, Dame Beckley prepared simples, and Mistress Anne purchased love-philtres, vowing each time that this was the last, but still, in spite of her better judgment, keeping on, for Gil was away, and might never come back, while Sir Mark was present and might be won.He came sometimes to the Moat, and was very pleasant and courtly. He condescended to flirt with her a little, and filled her with hope that her vanity fed, as it grew dim on his departure. She was gentleness and innocence itself when he was present, but her eyes flashed when he left; and there was that in her looks which seemed to say that she would as readily poison him as give him cunning decoctions to win his love.These were no pleasant times for the people at the Moat, for no sooner had the visitor departed, after regaling all present with accounts of how the gun-making went on, than Anne’s temper blazed forth—Polly said like a blow-up at the Pool—and for hours and hours Sir Thomas would not venture to leave his study, nor Dame Beckley her garden of herbs.For Anne Beckley had painted and patched, and worn her different brocades; she had tried tenderness, laughing looks, patience, and threatenings of Mother Goodhugh, all to no purpose; and her heart grew hot within her as she vowed vengeance against her rival.At the Pool the busy works were in full swing, and the founder had good excuse for keeping away from his daughter; while Sir Mark, now that the ice was broken, left no opportunity unseized to hasten on his suit. Progress he made none, but he did not complain. “The love will come after marriage,” he said, laughingly, and as patiently kept on working for the future.To Mace’s horror he assumed a quiet tone of proprietorship over her, and on paying fresh visits to the metropolis he seemed to spare no expense in buying presents and necessaries for the wedding, which he assumed to be a matter of course, laughing at the girl’s cold and distant behaviour, while he never failed to treat her with the most tender consideration.She made appeal after appeal to her father, but with the sole effect of angering him. For he had been long in making up his mind to give his consent, but when it was given the obstinacy of his nature made him deaf to all appeals; while, even had he been yielding, there was one at hand always ready to back up the weak part, as he by degrees gained so great an influence over the founder that, though the latter was ignorant of it, his will had been pretty well mastered by his guest, who dealt with him almost as he pleased.They were busy times, and the calls made upon his attention prevented the founder from paying much heed to his child’s pale looks and restless mien. Guns were finished, and dragged by heavy teams of horses through the sandy lanes to the little port, and there shipped along with casks of black-grained powder to go round to London or some other depot. There were heavy sums of money, too, paid into the founder’s hands by Sir Mark, making the old man’s eyes sparkle as, with a few well-turned words, the royal messenger told him of the satisfaction felt by Ministers and King at the way in which the orders were being carried out.“You will be a great man,father-in-law,” said Sir Mark, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Work away, for I have placed matters in train for another order when this one is done. I don’t see why my relative should not be rich.”“Thanks, my lad,” said the founder, whose face softened. “Go on, and remember this, that in turning a stream of gold into my pockets it is providing a great dam like yon Pool to work thine own mill-wheel by-and-by.”“I have thought that many times,” said Sir Mark to himself. Then aloud, “This order, you see, was all in good faith, and the money has been paid. I look now for my reward—payment in advance, before I bring in the next. When is our wedding to take place?”The founder looked grave for a few minutes, and then gazed full in Sir Mark’s face.“There are no half measures with me, my lad,” he said, laying his hand in Sir Mark’s. “Whenever you like. Shall we say when the last gun is finished and—”“And payments made,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “Good! it shall be so. I start to-morrow for town, and from there I’ll bring the moneys, and I hope the new order, along with presents and wedding ornaments for my darling. Is it to be so?”“Yes,” replied the founder; and he turned sharply, for a low sigh had reached his ear, and he was just in time to see Mace disappear from the door, which she was about to enter when she caught his words—words which sounded to her like a death-warrant, and which rang in her ears as she hurried to her chamber and locked herself within.There was a peculiar look upon Mace Cobbe’s countenance as she sat gazing straight before her, thinking of her position. Gil had been gone four months now, and might not return for a couple more; though, if he did, what could she do?She shuddered at the thought, and for a time was overcome.The next day, though, she was all feverish energy, and, setting off as if for a walk, she made for Master Peasegood’s cottage, where, after a little hesitation, she plunged desperately into the matter in hand.“I have not been idle, my little one,” said the stout clerk, “but have on more than one occasion roundly taken thy father to task about this matter.”“Yes, yes,” said Mace, excitedly, “and what did he say?”“Bade me look after people’s souls and let them look after their bodies themselves.”“Ay,” said Mace, with a sigh, “it is what he would say.”“Sir Mark has been here to me about—about—”“The wedding?” said Mace. “Speak out, Master Peasegood, I am ready to hear aught of thee.”“Yes, my child. He came in his big commanding way to say that he should require me to be ready at a certain time.”“Yes, and you—what did you say?”“That I would sooner—”“Speak! Pray tell me,” cried Mace, passionately; “you torture me, you are so slow.”“I said an unkindly thing, my child,” replied Master Peasegood, sadly. “I said that I would rather read the burial service over thee than wed thee to such as he.”“Thank you, Master Peasegood!” she cried, eagerly. “And you will keep to that, for I cannot wed this man.”“My child,” said the stout parson, “I promised friend Gil—for thy sake, not his—that I would be like a second father to thee, and I will; so come to me when thou art in trouble, and I will give thee counsel and aid.”“But I am in trouble, Master Peasegood, and want thy counsel and aid.”“Here they are then, little one,” he said. “Go home and wait patiently. It is not thy wedding-day yet. Who knows how this gay spark stands at court? At any hour he may be recalled, and all his matrimonial plans be knocked upon the head. Fair Mistress Anne would give her ears to wed with him: and if she has set her mind upon it, mark me, she will likely enough take steps to stay his wedding you. There is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, child, and maybe this trouble of thine will settle itself without action on our part. It will be time to take stringent steps on the eve of the wedding if nothing happens before, and something may. At all events he shall not wed thee in Roehurst church while I am parson there. Hah! who may these be?”There were steps at the door, and a sharp rapping, which the parson responded to himself, to find confronting him a stern, semi-military looking man in dark doublet, with two followers cut exactly upon his pattern.“Master Joseph Peasegood, Clerk of Roehurst?” said the stern-looking man.“Yes,” said the parson; “I am that person, sir.”“Here is a paper of attachment for thy person, Master Peasegood. Thou wilt with me at once to London.”“I—go—to London—attachment—what for?”“I cannot answer thy question, sir,” was the reply. “I am only executioner of this warrant. I believe it is something to do with Popish practices. Come, sir, I have a carriage waiting. The roads are bad, and we want to be going.”“Popish practices! I, of all men in the world! But my people—who will take charge of them?”“A reverend gentleman is on his way, sir,” was the reply.Master Peasegood read the document, bowed his head, and hastened his few preparations, standing at last finally with Mace’s hand clasped in his.“Tell Father Brisdone I commend thee to his charge, my child, and bid him from me take thee away from thy father’s care sooner than let thee become the wife of this man. Tell him, too, that I am puzzled about this seizure of my person. I know not what it means, unless it be for consorting with him.”“I know, Master Peasegood,” said Mace, pressing his great hand. “You have an enemy who has done this thing.”“Ay, child, and who may that be?”“The man who asked a service of thee, which thou did’st refuse.”“Sir Mark? Yes, thou art right. Good-bye, my child, good-bye.”Mace’s heart sank as she saw the stout figure of her old friend go towards where a great lumbering, open vehicle was standing, and as it disappeared she felt that she had one friend the less. It was, then, with a mute feeling of despair that she turned down the narrow, winding lane to meet a little further on three men, who, at a short distance, seemed to be the same she had so lately seen depart.On a nearer approach, however, she found that it was their uniform, or livery, only that was the same.They looked at her curiously as they passed, and then a shiver ran through her as the thought struck home,—what was their object there?“Father Brisdone!” she ejaculated. “They have been after him.”A cold feeling of despair crept over her as she read in all this the power of the man who sought to make her his wife. He was evidently at work insidiously removing her friends, to replace them with people of his own, and more than ever she felt how helpless her position had become.With her heart beating a slow, heavy, despairing throb, she passed on a rising piece of ground to gaze through the trees at a portion of the Pool which lay gleaming in the sunshine; when her brow contracted strangely, and her eyes half closed, as sinister thoughts, like those of some temptation, came upon her.She was to be alone and friendless if Father Brisdone was taken away: her father had literally sold her to this man, and sooner than he should take her in his arms and call her wife she felt that she would seek for rest in the great Pool.“Pst! pst!”Mace turned sharply, and, gazing in the direction from which the sound had come, she saw high up amidst the bushes on the bank the rusty cassock of him who had so lately been in her thoughts.“Dear father!” she cried. “You there?”“Hist, child, hist! Don’t look in my direction, but stoop, pick flowers, and talk to me as you bend down.”“Why are you there, father?” she said softly, as she obeyed his words.“It is the old story, child. I am one of a proscribed set of men now, and I have had warning from Tom Croftly that there are those here who seek to make me a prisoner.”“Yes, father, I have seen them.”“Then I must take to hiding, child. When Gilbert Carr’s ship returns he will give me safe passage to France. Till then I shall make my home in the iron-pits—the disused ones in the old beechwood.”“Where I’ll bring thee food and covers, father,” cried Mace, who found relief from her own troubles in helping others.“Nay, child, thou wilt be watched by one at the Pool. Tom Croftly will bring me all I want, if thou givest it to him. He is trusty, and will bring any message or letter with faith and care. I shall be watching over thee still, though I am in the old hole of the rock. It is not the first time that I have had to hide for life and liberty. But hark here, my child, I have said come not. If matters occur that make it necessary for thee to flee thine home sooner than wed a man thou dost despise, come to me in the forest, and maybe together we may escape to where I can find thee a home with a holy sister, and rest and peace.”“Thanks, father, oh, thanks!” cried Mace. “But listen: Master Peasegood has been taken away.”“So soon? But I am not surprised. It is because he refused the same offer as I.”“Were you asked, father?”“Nay, child, I was ordered; and that is the real reason why I am hunted down. Hist! steps! Go on.”Mace involuntarily walked on through the wood, bitterly lamenting that she should bring indirectly such misery upon those she esteemed, when a slight rustle in the bushes made her turn her head and utter a faint cry, as she was tightly clasped in Sir Mark Leslie’s arms.
A week, a fortnight, a month glided by, as time will gallop on, when some unwished-for season is ahead. Matters at the Moat were as of old. Sir Thomas dispensed justice, Dame Beckley prepared simples, and Mistress Anne purchased love-philtres, vowing each time that this was the last, but still, in spite of her better judgment, keeping on, for Gil was away, and might never come back, while Sir Mark was present and might be won.
He came sometimes to the Moat, and was very pleasant and courtly. He condescended to flirt with her a little, and filled her with hope that her vanity fed, as it grew dim on his departure. She was gentleness and innocence itself when he was present, but her eyes flashed when he left; and there was that in her looks which seemed to say that she would as readily poison him as give him cunning decoctions to win his love.
These were no pleasant times for the people at the Moat, for no sooner had the visitor departed, after regaling all present with accounts of how the gun-making went on, than Anne’s temper blazed forth—Polly said like a blow-up at the Pool—and for hours and hours Sir Thomas would not venture to leave his study, nor Dame Beckley her garden of herbs.
For Anne Beckley had painted and patched, and worn her different brocades; she had tried tenderness, laughing looks, patience, and threatenings of Mother Goodhugh, all to no purpose; and her heart grew hot within her as she vowed vengeance against her rival.
At the Pool the busy works were in full swing, and the founder had good excuse for keeping away from his daughter; while Sir Mark, now that the ice was broken, left no opportunity unseized to hasten on his suit. Progress he made none, but he did not complain. “The love will come after marriage,” he said, laughingly, and as patiently kept on working for the future.
To Mace’s horror he assumed a quiet tone of proprietorship over her, and on paying fresh visits to the metropolis he seemed to spare no expense in buying presents and necessaries for the wedding, which he assumed to be a matter of course, laughing at the girl’s cold and distant behaviour, while he never failed to treat her with the most tender consideration.
She made appeal after appeal to her father, but with the sole effect of angering him. For he had been long in making up his mind to give his consent, but when it was given the obstinacy of his nature made him deaf to all appeals; while, even had he been yielding, there was one at hand always ready to back up the weak part, as he by degrees gained so great an influence over the founder that, though the latter was ignorant of it, his will had been pretty well mastered by his guest, who dealt with him almost as he pleased.
They were busy times, and the calls made upon his attention prevented the founder from paying much heed to his child’s pale looks and restless mien. Guns were finished, and dragged by heavy teams of horses through the sandy lanes to the little port, and there shipped along with casks of black-grained powder to go round to London or some other depot. There were heavy sums of money, too, paid into the founder’s hands by Sir Mark, making the old man’s eyes sparkle as, with a few well-turned words, the royal messenger told him of the satisfaction felt by Ministers and King at the way in which the orders were being carried out.
“You will be a great man,father-in-law,” said Sir Mark, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Work away, for I have placed matters in train for another order when this one is done. I don’t see why my relative should not be rich.”
“Thanks, my lad,” said the founder, whose face softened. “Go on, and remember this, that in turning a stream of gold into my pockets it is providing a great dam like yon Pool to work thine own mill-wheel by-and-by.”
“I have thought that many times,” said Sir Mark to himself. Then aloud, “This order, you see, was all in good faith, and the money has been paid. I look now for my reward—payment in advance, before I bring in the next. When is our wedding to take place?”
The founder looked grave for a few minutes, and then gazed full in Sir Mark’s face.
“There are no half measures with me, my lad,” he said, laying his hand in Sir Mark’s. “Whenever you like. Shall we say when the last gun is finished and—”
“And payments made,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “Good! it shall be so. I start to-morrow for town, and from there I’ll bring the moneys, and I hope the new order, along with presents and wedding ornaments for my darling. Is it to be so?”
“Yes,” replied the founder; and he turned sharply, for a low sigh had reached his ear, and he was just in time to see Mace disappear from the door, which she was about to enter when she caught his words—words which sounded to her like a death-warrant, and which rang in her ears as she hurried to her chamber and locked herself within.
There was a peculiar look upon Mace Cobbe’s countenance as she sat gazing straight before her, thinking of her position. Gil had been gone four months now, and might not return for a couple more; though, if he did, what could she do?
She shuddered at the thought, and for a time was overcome.
The next day, though, she was all feverish energy, and, setting off as if for a walk, she made for Master Peasegood’s cottage, where, after a little hesitation, she plunged desperately into the matter in hand.
“I have not been idle, my little one,” said the stout clerk, “but have on more than one occasion roundly taken thy father to task about this matter.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mace, excitedly, “and what did he say?”
“Bade me look after people’s souls and let them look after their bodies themselves.”
“Ay,” said Mace, with a sigh, “it is what he would say.”
“Sir Mark has been here to me about—about—”
“The wedding?” said Mace. “Speak out, Master Peasegood, I am ready to hear aught of thee.”
“Yes, my child. He came in his big commanding way to say that he should require me to be ready at a certain time.”
“Yes, and you—what did you say?”
“That I would sooner—”
“Speak! Pray tell me,” cried Mace, passionately; “you torture me, you are so slow.”
“I said an unkindly thing, my child,” replied Master Peasegood, sadly. “I said that I would rather read the burial service over thee than wed thee to such as he.”
“Thank you, Master Peasegood!” she cried, eagerly. “And you will keep to that, for I cannot wed this man.”
“My child,” said the stout parson, “I promised friend Gil—for thy sake, not his—that I would be like a second father to thee, and I will; so come to me when thou art in trouble, and I will give thee counsel and aid.”
“But I am in trouble, Master Peasegood, and want thy counsel and aid.”
“Here they are then, little one,” he said. “Go home and wait patiently. It is not thy wedding-day yet. Who knows how this gay spark stands at court? At any hour he may be recalled, and all his matrimonial plans be knocked upon the head. Fair Mistress Anne would give her ears to wed with him: and if she has set her mind upon it, mark me, she will likely enough take steps to stay his wedding you. There is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, child, and maybe this trouble of thine will settle itself without action on our part. It will be time to take stringent steps on the eve of the wedding if nothing happens before, and something may. At all events he shall not wed thee in Roehurst church while I am parson there. Hah! who may these be?”
There were steps at the door, and a sharp rapping, which the parson responded to himself, to find confronting him a stern, semi-military looking man in dark doublet, with two followers cut exactly upon his pattern.
“Master Joseph Peasegood, Clerk of Roehurst?” said the stern-looking man.
“Yes,” said the parson; “I am that person, sir.”
“Here is a paper of attachment for thy person, Master Peasegood. Thou wilt with me at once to London.”
“I—go—to London—attachment—what for?”
“I cannot answer thy question, sir,” was the reply. “I am only executioner of this warrant. I believe it is something to do with Popish practices. Come, sir, I have a carriage waiting. The roads are bad, and we want to be going.”
“Popish practices! I, of all men in the world! But my people—who will take charge of them?”
“A reverend gentleman is on his way, sir,” was the reply.
Master Peasegood read the document, bowed his head, and hastened his few preparations, standing at last finally with Mace’s hand clasped in his.
“Tell Father Brisdone I commend thee to his charge, my child, and bid him from me take thee away from thy father’s care sooner than let thee become the wife of this man. Tell him, too, that I am puzzled about this seizure of my person. I know not what it means, unless it be for consorting with him.”
“I know, Master Peasegood,” said Mace, pressing his great hand. “You have an enemy who has done this thing.”
“Ay, child, and who may that be?”
“The man who asked a service of thee, which thou did’st refuse.”
“Sir Mark? Yes, thou art right. Good-bye, my child, good-bye.”
Mace’s heart sank as she saw the stout figure of her old friend go towards where a great lumbering, open vehicle was standing, and as it disappeared she felt that she had one friend the less. It was, then, with a mute feeling of despair that she turned down the narrow, winding lane to meet a little further on three men, who, at a short distance, seemed to be the same she had so lately seen depart.
On a nearer approach, however, she found that it was their uniform, or livery, only that was the same.
They looked at her curiously as they passed, and then a shiver ran through her as the thought struck home,—what was their object there?
“Father Brisdone!” she ejaculated. “They have been after him.”
A cold feeling of despair crept over her as she read in all this the power of the man who sought to make her his wife. He was evidently at work insidiously removing her friends, to replace them with people of his own, and more than ever she felt how helpless her position had become.
With her heart beating a slow, heavy, despairing throb, she passed on a rising piece of ground to gaze through the trees at a portion of the Pool which lay gleaming in the sunshine; when her brow contracted strangely, and her eyes half closed, as sinister thoughts, like those of some temptation, came upon her.
She was to be alone and friendless if Father Brisdone was taken away: her father had literally sold her to this man, and sooner than he should take her in his arms and call her wife she felt that she would seek for rest in the great Pool.
“Pst! pst!”
Mace turned sharply, and, gazing in the direction from which the sound had come, she saw high up amidst the bushes on the bank the rusty cassock of him who had so lately been in her thoughts.
“Dear father!” she cried. “You there?”
“Hist, child, hist! Don’t look in my direction, but stoop, pick flowers, and talk to me as you bend down.”
“Why are you there, father?” she said softly, as she obeyed his words.
“It is the old story, child. I am one of a proscribed set of men now, and I have had warning from Tom Croftly that there are those here who seek to make me a prisoner.”
“Yes, father, I have seen them.”
“Then I must take to hiding, child. When Gilbert Carr’s ship returns he will give me safe passage to France. Till then I shall make my home in the iron-pits—the disused ones in the old beechwood.”
“Where I’ll bring thee food and covers, father,” cried Mace, who found relief from her own troubles in helping others.
“Nay, child, thou wilt be watched by one at the Pool. Tom Croftly will bring me all I want, if thou givest it to him. He is trusty, and will bring any message or letter with faith and care. I shall be watching over thee still, though I am in the old hole of the rock. It is not the first time that I have had to hide for life and liberty. But hark here, my child, I have said come not. If matters occur that make it necessary for thee to flee thine home sooner than wed a man thou dost despise, come to me in the forest, and maybe together we may escape to where I can find thee a home with a holy sister, and rest and peace.”
“Thanks, father, oh, thanks!” cried Mace. “But listen: Master Peasegood has been taken away.”
“So soon? But I am not surprised. It is because he refused the same offer as I.”
“Were you asked, father?”
“Nay, child, I was ordered; and that is the real reason why I am hunted down. Hist! steps! Go on.”
Mace involuntarily walked on through the wood, bitterly lamenting that she should bring indirectly such misery upon those she esteemed, when a slight rustle in the bushes made her turn her head and utter a faint cry, as she was tightly clasped in Sir Mark Leslie’s arms.
How Mace made a Promise.“I do not often exact my lover’s fees,” cried Sir Mark, kissing her passionately in spite of her struggles, while a feeling of horror half froze her, as she thought that this man must have heard the conversation with the father.In a few moments, though, she had freed herself, and stood panting before him, longing to look back, and straining to listen to every rustle of the leaves behind her, and yet not daring so to do, lest it should draw attention to the fugitive.“How silent you are,” he said, laughing. “A stranger would think you feared me, and not that we were so soon to be man and wife. My darling, is it not time we grew less distant?”“Let me pass, Sir Mark!” cried Mace, hardly knowing what she did or said.“Pass! No, little meadow-sweet. I will walk home with thee, proud and delighted to be thy champion and protector—the happiest man on earth.”He talked on as he walked by her side, turning from time to time to gaze on her white face, as they neared the cluster of houses near the Pool, and seeming pleased that first one head, and then another, should be turned to gaze after them as they went across the little bridge and into the porch.As soon as she could escape, Mace hurried up to her own room, where she recovered a little from the agitation, as she thought of the father, and that there was one place to which she could flee in the event of matters coming to the worst. She had to plan, too, that certain necessaries should be sent to Father Brisdone, all of which relieved her of her terrible brooding thoughts, and the feeling that she was forsaken. Helping another, and that so old a friend, was her solace, though she wept bitterly as she thought of how it was through her that he suffered.One thought, too, now dominated over the others, and that was, had Sir Mark heard her words? If he had, the father would be seized, and she sat thinking, longing to send him warning, but afraid, for she knew that, with all his smiling openness of countenance, Sir Mark’s words that he spoke to her on their way back were true, for he had told her that he was jealous of her; that he trembled lest some one should rob him of his great joy, and that his men were compelled to be watchful; and often when she had seen a dark figure near her window at night she was sure it was not from objects of gallantry—that Janet had not been waited for, but that the house was being guarded as if under military rule.It was with a sense of relief then that she saw Sir Mark’s departure for London the next day, even though he told her, as he held her hand, that on his return he should claim it as his own.There would probably be a fortnight, in which time a change might come, as Master Peasegood had said, for Sir Mark might never be permitted to return.The freedom from his presence, though, brought little more liberty, for that very afternoon a quiet, smooth-faced, smiling man in clerical garb called at the Pool-house, introducing himself as the minister who was temporarily to hold the cure of souls.Mace shrank from him with fear and distrust, for in him she knew she was looking upon Sir Mark’s creature, a spy upon her actions, and one who was to bind her fast to him with chains that could never be undone.She contrived to carry various articles down to Croftly’s cottage, but in doing that she found that she was watched, some or other of Sir Mark’s men loitering about, apparently enjoying their idleness and freedom from their master’s eye; while she soon awoke to the fact that even her visits to the gardens were noted, and that Janet, her maid, had been bought over to the other side.She tried one more passionate appeal to her father, but he would not hear her; and after this she felt that she was thrown upon herself to make some desperate resolve, either to flee to Father Brisdone, or take a more terrible step, one which during the past few days she had learned to look upon almost without a shudder.The time seemed winged by magic as it glided by, and, trembling and excited, she knew that the hour had nearly come for Sir Mark’s return. Twice over messengers had arrived from him, in each case laden with presents, and bearing a letter full of words meant to be tender, but which excited her disgust. She had had to listen, also, to the fulsome adulation of Master Peasegood’s successor, who, to her horror, contrived to get himself asked by the founder to stay at the house, where he became a spy and an incubus of which the poor girl seemed to be never rid.At length a last messenger arrived, bearing a fresh order to the founder, and requesting him to proceed with it at once, at the same time announcing Sir Mark’s arrival on the morrow.That night Mace sat at her window debating within herself as to what she should do. A last appeal to her father had been so met that she felt desperate, and a hair’s pull one way or the other would have been sufficient to draw her aside.The question she asked herself was, whether she should flee to Father Brisdone now, or wait until the eve of the wedding, and she decided for the latter course, as, sobbing bitterly, she told herself there was escape for her still if the father had not been seized.The night was dark with the darkness of autumn, and as she sat at the open window, with her cheek upon her hand, she gazed out at the dark Pool and listened to the murmur of the falling waters as they plashed musically amidst the stones and piles.Suddenly, in the midst of her despairing thoughts, her hand dropped on the window-sill, and her eyes dilated as she gazed before her at the broad green bank across the race, where four points of light shone out diamond-wise as in the happy days of her young love.“Gil,” she cried below her breath, and her heart beat painfully as she gazed intently at the lights, which faded as quickly as they had appeared.Was it fancy—a trick, or some treachery? There were no glow-worms now. It was long past the time when they shed their tiny lights, and the appearance, if it were not fancy, could only be some accidental resemblance which she had magnified in her excited state.It was nothing, she said, as a feeling of misery came over her, and the tears rose to her eyes as she wondered where Gil could be, and whether he thought of her at that moment, when there was a slight rustle below, and she reached out of the window, as her name was uttered in a low, deep voice which she could not mistake.“Mace!”“Gil!”For answer a foot was placed upon the sill below. He sprang, and caught the mullion of her window, drew himself up and clung there, with both hands, as she flung her arms round his neck, and laid her face against his cheek.They were moments of ecstasy mingled with grief and pain, as in her delight at Gil’s return Mace began to whisper to him of her terrible position.“I know all, sweet,” he whispered back. “But hush, speak beneath your breath. You are watched at every turn, and it was only by setting two of my men to lead the spies upon a false scent that I could get to the window. Oh, my darling, I could die now after this joyful meeting. I have not doubted of thy love—not much; but I did not know how thou mightest be forced.”“Oh! Gil, Gil, I am most miserable,” she moaned.“I know it, sweet. Father Brisdone has told me all. But, there, you will listen to me now. Mace, dearest, you will not wed this man?”“Gil, I was thinking when you came to-night I’d make the Pool my wedding-bed.”“My own!” he whispered, as he longed to press her in his arms—the arms that clung painfully to the window-sill to keep his face on a level with hers.“I was so miserable I wished myself dead.”“But now?” he asked.“Now,” she said, forgetting all timidity in her joy, as she clung more closely to him, “Now I wish to live.”“And you will go with me?”“What? leave my home—my father?” she said, half in amaze that he should propose such a thing, and with all a woman’s inconsistency, though so few minutes before she had thought of fleeing to Father Brisdone to seek a home abroad.“Yes, when it is no longer a home to thee, sweet. Give me the name of husband, Mace, my own old love. I have but moments to say it to thee. Come with me now from this window. I have half a dozen men waiting. Four shall help to guard you to our hiding-place while two go to the old iron-pits and fetch thence Father Brisdone. He shall wed us at once. Or we will away to my boat in the little river and go down to my ship, where let even the King seek thee if he dare.”“Oh, Gil—dear Gil, I cannot!” she faltered.“Quick,” he whispered. “Hold me tightly, sweet, for my arms are failing. Look here, Janet shall come if thou wilt.”“Nay, nay, she is false.”“Then come without her, sweet. Come, and be my own wife, and let us laugh at this intruder, who would rob us both of a happy life.”“No, no, no!” she faltered, as she clung to him. “I cannot come—I cannot come.”“You do not trust me,” he said.“Oh! hush, hush, Gil!” she moaned. “I do trust you, and love you with all my heart. I will die sooner than that man shall clasp me as his wife, but I cannot, cannot flee my home like this.”“Yes, yes, dearest, quick, you must decide,” he whispered, as a faint chirp was heard.“I cannot, Gil. My father—my poor father, I cannot leave him.”“Mace, dearest, you torture me and yourself. You will come.”“Nay, nay, I cannot.”“What! Will you stay to be this man’s wife?”“No! Sooner death,” she cried. “He may not return.”“He is on his way.”“Oh, no, no,” she whispered, shuddering. “I could not be his wife. He may not come—a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt me to do wrong.”“Nay, nay, I’ll not tempt thee, sweet. ’Tis no temptation to say, ‘Be my wife.’ Is it so sad a fate?”“Gil—husband—thy wife or death’s!” she sobbed, as she passionately kissed his sunburned face.“Then you will come, sweet!” he cried. “Quick, thy cloak and hood.”“Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave.”“Mace!”“Do not reproach me,” she said, sadly. “Gil, dear Gil, I love thee with all my heart, but I could not flee from here while hope remained.”“And does it remain here?” he said, bitterly.“Yes, dearest,” she whispered. “My father may repent; Sir Mark may never return. While there is either of those to cling to, I could not go.”“But, if they were gone, would you come? Tell me quickly.”There was a dead silence, during which the chirp, as of a bird, was once more heard.“There is something wrong, sweet, and I must go; but tell me, were both those hopes gone, would you come?”Again there was silence, and then once more the chirp of the bird.“Gil,” whispered Mace, with her lips to his ear, “I cannot leave my father while there is hope. If this fails me, on the eve of my wedding-day, come, and I will flee with thee to the great world’s end.”“Seal it,” he whispered. “Gil!”“Seal thy promise, sweet,” he whispered. “My arms fail me; I cannot draw thee to my breast. Kiss me, sweet wife, for my wife thou art.”Her lips slowly lowered themselves to his, rested there for long, and then were raised, as a thrill of joy shot through the young man’s breast.“On the eve of the day appointed for the wedding, then, I will be here, to take thee away. Father Brisdone shall be on board my ship, the boat lie waiting, and there shall be good men and true to protect thee, love. You will not fail?”“I will not fail,” she whispered.“There goes one hope,” he said, as lights shone through the trees on the track beside the Pool. “Sir Mark has come.”Mace uttered a faint cry.“Nay, love, that should be a cry of joy,” he whispered. “I go hence happy, for the prize is mine.”Her arms relaxed, and he dropped from the window, and stole cautiously away; but on every hand he found that some one was on the watch, and that Sir Mark’s people, who were more able than he had expected, were at every turn.They had not seen him come, but partly from suspicion, partly because they half expected that the announcement of Sir Mark’s return upon the following night might be merely a ruse to throw them off their guard, they were particularly watchful; and, as they had anticipated, so it happened, for there was their leader at the gate.A few blows and a struggle, and Gil could easily have escaped, but that would have interfered with his plans; and hence he was doubly cautious, the result being that just as the horsemen bearing lights reached the house, Gil had crept back and crouched beneath his mistress’s window, unable to get unseen away.“Gil,” she whispered.“I am here, sweet. They will see me if you stay. Go in, and close thy casement.”“Nay, nay,” she whispered, agitatedly. “You will be taken—there will be blood shed. Come—quick—in here till they are gone.”With a bound Gil reached the heavy window-sill, and drew himself up, got one arm over, then with a slight struggle he was half in, then leaped lightly down, and caught Mace to his panting breast.“Hush! for heaven’s sake, hush!” she whispered as she clung to him, “you might be heard.”“And if I were,” he said fondly, “I should have blurred my darling’s fame. Mace, sweet wife, that I love thee thou shalt have no doubt. Heaven bless thee, child. Good night.”Before she could speak he had placed one foot on the sill and leaped out on to the grass, coming down so lightly that as she darted to the window she hardly heard his footfalls. There was a slight rustle though on her left, which must have been he; and then as she drew back there was the sound of low voices talking, and she became aware that they were those of her father and Sir Mark.She shrank away from the window with a shiver, for the voice of Sir Mark sounded hateful to her; but fear lest her lover should be heard drew her back, and she stood listening, but heard no sound to cause her dread.Once more there was the chirp as of a bird, and then came an answering chirp as from off the water, after which all was silent, and she closed her window to sit down and wonder how Gil had produced those tiny sparks of light, and then she knelt down and laid her cheek against her bed as she prayed with all her heart for forgiveness if she were wrong in feeling so joyous—so glad of soul that her lover had returned.For there was a delicious sense of ecstasy—of freedom from all pain—pervading her. She was safe from Sir Mark and his machinations. He might take away Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone, but Gil he dared not touch; and she closed her eyes and sighed content as she thought of her stout, brave lover—so strong, so manly, and so true.Was it the same life, she asked herself, that she was living a few hours ago? It seemed impossible; and she rose at length so refreshed and calm that she was ready enough to answer when there was a step on the stairs, and her father’s voice speaking.“Art abed, lass?” he cried.“No, father.”“Then come down. Sir Mark would see thee and show thee the presents he has brought from London town.”Mace hesitated for a few moments, and, had it been the night before, she would have refused to go. This night she felt so at peace within herself that she was ready enough, and went down to read in the eyes of both that they were ignorant of Gil’s return, though she repented afterwards, and felt that she was playing a double part, as she listened to Sir Mark’s adulation, and saw the rich presents he had purchased for his bride.It was while she was listening to his words that she suddenly recollected the necklace of pearls which she had scattered about the room where they were seated, and wondered where they had gone, for she had thought of them no more.At last, at a very late hour for the simple country-place, she was able to retire, and when she did, and received her father’s customary kiss, the words he uttered we’re few but they shot through her like a pang.For they were words of thanks for her less reserved demeanour towards Sir Mark; and, as the poor girl ascended once more to her room, it was with the feeling strong upon her that the second hope to which she had clung had just been swept away.
“I do not often exact my lover’s fees,” cried Sir Mark, kissing her passionately in spite of her struggles, while a feeling of horror half froze her, as she thought that this man must have heard the conversation with the father.
In a few moments, though, she had freed herself, and stood panting before him, longing to look back, and straining to listen to every rustle of the leaves behind her, and yet not daring so to do, lest it should draw attention to the fugitive.
“How silent you are,” he said, laughing. “A stranger would think you feared me, and not that we were so soon to be man and wife. My darling, is it not time we grew less distant?”
“Let me pass, Sir Mark!” cried Mace, hardly knowing what she did or said.
“Pass! No, little meadow-sweet. I will walk home with thee, proud and delighted to be thy champion and protector—the happiest man on earth.”
He talked on as he walked by her side, turning from time to time to gaze on her white face, as they neared the cluster of houses near the Pool, and seeming pleased that first one head, and then another, should be turned to gaze after them as they went across the little bridge and into the porch.
As soon as she could escape, Mace hurried up to her own room, where she recovered a little from the agitation, as she thought of the father, and that there was one place to which she could flee in the event of matters coming to the worst. She had to plan, too, that certain necessaries should be sent to Father Brisdone, all of which relieved her of her terrible brooding thoughts, and the feeling that she was forsaken. Helping another, and that so old a friend, was her solace, though she wept bitterly as she thought of how it was through her that he suffered.
One thought, too, now dominated over the others, and that was, had Sir Mark heard her words? If he had, the father would be seized, and she sat thinking, longing to send him warning, but afraid, for she knew that, with all his smiling openness of countenance, Sir Mark’s words that he spoke to her on their way back were true, for he had told her that he was jealous of her; that he trembled lest some one should rob him of his great joy, and that his men were compelled to be watchful; and often when she had seen a dark figure near her window at night she was sure it was not from objects of gallantry—that Janet had not been waited for, but that the house was being guarded as if under military rule.
It was with a sense of relief then that she saw Sir Mark’s departure for London the next day, even though he told her, as he held her hand, that on his return he should claim it as his own.
There would probably be a fortnight, in which time a change might come, as Master Peasegood had said, for Sir Mark might never be permitted to return.
The freedom from his presence, though, brought little more liberty, for that very afternoon a quiet, smooth-faced, smiling man in clerical garb called at the Pool-house, introducing himself as the minister who was temporarily to hold the cure of souls.
Mace shrank from him with fear and distrust, for in him she knew she was looking upon Sir Mark’s creature, a spy upon her actions, and one who was to bind her fast to him with chains that could never be undone.
She contrived to carry various articles down to Croftly’s cottage, but in doing that she found that she was watched, some or other of Sir Mark’s men loitering about, apparently enjoying their idleness and freedom from their master’s eye; while she soon awoke to the fact that even her visits to the gardens were noted, and that Janet, her maid, had been bought over to the other side.
She tried one more passionate appeal to her father, but he would not hear her; and after this she felt that she was thrown upon herself to make some desperate resolve, either to flee to Father Brisdone, or take a more terrible step, one which during the past few days she had learned to look upon almost without a shudder.
The time seemed winged by magic as it glided by, and, trembling and excited, she knew that the hour had nearly come for Sir Mark’s return. Twice over messengers had arrived from him, in each case laden with presents, and bearing a letter full of words meant to be tender, but which excited her disgust. She had had to listen, also, to the fulsome adulation of Master Peasegood’s successor, who, to her horror, contrived to get himself asked by the founder to stay at the house, where he became a spy and an incubus of which the poor girl seemed to be never rid.
At length a last messenger arrived, bearing a fresh order to the founder, and requesting him to proceed with it at once, at the same time announcing Sir Mark’s arrival on the morrow.
That night Mace sat at her window debating within herself as to what she should do. A last appeal to her father had been so met that she felt desperate, and a hair’s pull one way or the other would have been sufficient to draw her aside.
The question she asked herself was, whether she should flee to Father Brisdone now, or wait until the eve of the wedding, and she decided for the latter course, as, sobbing bitterly, she told herself there was escape for her still if the father had not been seized.
The night was dark with the darkness of autumn, and as she sat at the open window, with her cheek upon her hand, she gazed out at the dark Pool and listened to the murmur of the falling waters as they plashed musically amidst the stones and piles.
Suddenly, in the midst of her despairing thoughts, her hand dropped on the window-sill, and her eyes dilated as she gazed before her at the broad green bank across the race, where four points of light shone out diamond-wise as in the happy days of her young love.
“Gil,” she cried below her breath, and her heart beat painfully as she gazed intently at the lights, which faded as quickly as they had appeared.
Was it fancy—a trick, or some treachery? There were no glow-worms now. It was long past the time when they shed their tiny lights, and the appearance, if it were not fancy, could only be some accidental resemblance which she had magnified in her excited state.
It was nothing, she said, as a feeling of misery came over her, and the tears rose to her eyes as she wondered where Gil could be, and whether he thought of her at that moment, when there was a slight rustle below, and she reached out of the window, as her name was uttered in a low, deep voice which she could not mistake.
“Mace!”
“Gil!”
For answer a foot was placed upon the sill below. He sprang, and caught the mullion of her window, drew himself up and clung there, with both hands, as she flung her arms round his neck, and laid her face against his cheek.
They were moments of ecstasy mingled with grief and pain, as in her delight at Gil’s return Mace began to whisper to him of her terrible position.
“I know all, sweet,” he whispered back. “But hush, speak beneath your breath. You are watched at every turn, and it was only by setting two of my men to lead the spies upon a false scent that I could get to the window. Oh, my darling, I could die now after this joyful meeting. I have not doubted of thy love—not much; but I did not know how thou mightest be forced.”
“Oh! Gil, Gil, I am most miserable,” she moaned.
“I know it, sweet. Father Brisdone has told me all. But, there, you will listen to me now. Mace, dearest, you will not wed this man?”
“Gil, I was thinking when you came to-night I’d make the Pool my wedding-bed.”
“My own!” he whispered, as he longed to press her in his arms—the arms that clung painfully to the window-sill to keep his face on a level with hers.
“I was so miserable I wished myself dead.”
“But now?” he asked.
“Now,” she said, forgetting all timidity in her joy, as she clung more closely to him, “Now I wish to live.”
“And you will go with me?”
“What? leave my home—my father?” she said, half in amaze that he should propose such a thing, and with all a woman’s inconsistency, though so few minutes before she had thought of fleeing to Father Brisdone to seek a home abroad.
“Yes, when it is no longer a home to thee, sweet. Give me the name of husband, Mace, my own old love. I have but moments to say it to thee. Come with me now from this window. I have half a dozen men waiting. Four shall help to guard you to our hiding-place while two go to the old iron-pits and fetch thence Father Brisdone. He shall wed us at once. Or we will away to my boat in the little river and go down to my ship, where let even the King seek thee if he dare.”
“Oh, Gil—dear Gil, I cannot!” she faltered.
“Quick,” he whispered. “Hold me tightly, sweet, for my arms are failing. Look here, Janet shall come if thou wilt.”
“Nay, nay, she is false.”
“Then come without her, sweet. Come, and be my own wife, and let us laugh at this intruder, who would rob us both of a happy life.”
“No, no, no!” she faltered, as she clung to him. “I cannot come—I cannot come.”
“You do not trust me,” he said.
“Oh! hush, hush, Gil!” she moaned. “I do trust you, and love you with all my heart. I will die sooner than that man shall clasp me as his wife, but I cannot, cannot flee my home like this.”
“Yes, yes, dearest, quick, you must decide,” he whispered, as a faint chirp was heard.
“I cannot, Gil. My father—my poor father, I cannot leave him.”
“Mace, dearest, you torture me and yourself. You will come.”
“Nay, nay, I cannot.”
“What! Will you stay to be this man’s wife?”
“No! Sooner death,” she cried. “He may not return.”
“He is on his way.”
“Oh, no, no,” she whispered, shuddering. “I could not be his wife. He may not come—a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt me to do wrong.”
“Nay, nay, I’ll not tempt thee, sweet. ’Tis no temptation to say, ‘Be my wife.’ Is it so sad a fate?”
“Gil—husband—thy wife or death’s!” she sobbed, as she passionately kissed his sunburned face.
“Then you will come, sweet!” he cried. “Quick, thy cloak and hood.”
“Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave.”
“Mace!”
“Do not reproach me,” she said, sadly. “Gil, dear Gil, I love thee with all my heart, but I could not flee from here while hope remained.”
“And does it remain here?” he said, bitterly.
“Yes, dearest,” she whispered. “My father may repent; Sir Mark may never return. While there is either of those to cling to, I could not go.”
“But, if they were gone, would you come? Tell me quickly.”
There was a dead silence, during which the chirp, as of a bird, was once more heard.
“There is something wrong, sweet, and I must go; but tell me, were both those hopes gone, would you come?”
Again there was silence, and then once more the chirp of the bird.
“Gil,” whispered Mace, with her lips to his ear, “I cannot leave my father while there is hope. If this fails me, on the eve of my wedding-day, come, and I will flee with thee to the great world’s end.”
“Seal it,” he whispered. “Gil!”
“Seal thy promise, sweet,” he whispered. “My arms fail me; I cannot draw thee to my breast. Kiss me, sweet wife, for my wife thou art.”
Her lips slowly lowered themselves to his, rested there for long, and then were raised, as a thrill of joy shot through the young man’s breast.
“On the eve of the day appointed for the wedding, then, I will be here, to take thee away. Father Brisdone shall be on board my ship, the boat lie waiting, and there shall be good men and true to protect thee, love. You will not fail?”
“I will not fail,” she whispered.
“There goes one hope,” he said, as lights shone through the trees on the track beside the Pool. “Sir Mark has come.”
Mace uttered a faint cry.
“Nay, love, that should be a cry of joy,” he whispered. “I go hence happy, for the prize is mine.”
Her arms relaxed, and he dropped from the window, and stole cautiously away; but on every hand he found that some one was on the watch, and that Sir Mark’s people, who were more able than he had expected, were at every turn.
They had not seen him come, but partly from suspicion, partly because they half expected that the announcement of Sir Mark’s return upon the following night might be merely a ruse to throw them off their guard, they were particularly watchful; and, as they had anticipated, so it happened, for there was their leader at the gate.
A few blows and a struggle, and Gil could easily have escaped, but that would have interfered with his plans; and hence he was doubly cautious, the result being that just as the horsemen bearing lights reached the house, Gil had crept back and crouched beneath his mistress’s window, unable to get unseen away.
“Gil,” she whispered.
“I am here, sweet. They will see me if you stay. Go in, and close thy casement.”
“Nay, nay,” she whispered, agitatedly. “You will be taken—there will be blood shed. Come—quick—in here till they are gone.”
With a bound Gil reached the heavy window-sill, and drew himself up, got one arm over, then with a slight struggle he was half in, then leaped lightly down, and caught Mace to his panting breast.
“Hush! for heaven’s sake, hush!” she whispered as she clung to him, “you might be heard.”
“And if I were,” he said fondly, “I should have blurred my darling’s fame. Mace, sweet wife, that I love thee thou shalt have no doubt. Heaven bless thee, child. Good night.”
Before she could speak he had placed one foot on the sill and leaped out on to the grass, coming down so lightly that as she darted to the window she hardly heard his footfalls. There was a slight rustle though on her left, which must have been he; and then as she drew back there was the sound of low voices talking, and she became aware that they were those of her father and Sir Mark.
She shrank away from the window with a shiver, for the voice of Sir Mark sounded hateful to her; but fear lest her lover should be heard drew her back, and she stood listening, but heard no sound to cause her dread.
Once more there was the chirp as of a bird, and then came an answering chirp as from off the water, after which all was silent, and she closed her window to sit down and wonder how Gil had produced those tiny sparks of light, and then she knelt down and laid her cheek against her bed as she prayed with all her heart for forgiveness if she were wrong in feeling so joyous—so glad of soul that her lover had returned.
For there was a delicious sense of ecstasy—of freedom from all pain—pervading her. She was safe from Sir Mark and his machinations. He might take away Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone, but Gil he dared not touch; and she closed her eyes and sighed content as she thought of her stout, brave lover—so strong, so manly, and so true.
Was it the same life, she asked herself, that she was living a few hours ago? It seemed impossible; and she rose at length so refreshed and calm that she was ready enough to answer when there was a step on the stairs, and her father’s voice speaking.
“Art abed, lass?” he cried.
“No, father.”
“Then come down. Sir Mark would see thee and show thee the presents he has brought from London town.”
Mace hesitated for a few moments, and, had it been the night before, she would have refused to go. This night she felt so at peace within herself that she was ready enough, and went down to read in the eyes of both that they were ignorant of Gil’s return, though she repented afterwards, and felt that she was playing a double part, as she listened to Sir Mark’s adulation, and saw the rich presents he had purchased for his bride.
It was while she was listening to his words that she suddenly recollected the necklace of pearls which she had scattered about the room where they were seated, and wondered where they had gone, for she had thought of them no more.
At last, at a very late hour for the simple country-place, she was able to retire, and when she did, and received her father’s customary kiss, the words he uttered we’re few but they shot through her like a pang.
For they were words of thanks for her less reserved demeanour towards Sir Mark; and, as the poor girl ascended once more to her room, it was with the feeling strong upon her that the second hope to which she had clung had just been swept away.