"Sweet Mace" (continued 5)

“Wait a moment, child,” grumbled Mother Goodhugh, “and I’ll get thee a cup of water from the spring. There be thy basket, but bring no more such things to me; I hate them.”

“We’ll see, mother,” said Mace, smiling, as taking a cup from a shelf the old woman hurried out of the cottage to where, out in the road by the side of the lane, a dipping-place for the clear, cool iron-impregnated water had been made.

Stooping down, after glancing right and left, she dipped the cup full of the clear water; and then, removing the cork from the little phial, she poured half its contents beneath the hand that covered the cup, recorked and hid the bottle, and then with an ugly smile about her lips returned to her visitor.

“Here, child,” she said; “it be cool, and sweet, and pure. There be no curse in that;” and as she spoke she glanced involuntarily at the curtain, behind which Anne Beckley was listening, and, though no breeze penetrated the cottage, the hangings visibly shook as Mace took the cup.

Poison, a decoction of some imaginary power, or merely the juice of a plant full of tannin, the effect was the same. Mother Goodhugh was too deeply intent on watching her last visitor and the curtain to pay any heed to the contents of the cup. She had dipped it full of the iron-impregnated water, and seen that it was clear as crystal before holding it in her left hand, with the fingers extended round the rim and her palm acting as a cover. The pouring in of the liquid of the phial, too, had been done in a hasty way, without more than a glance at what she was doing.

To her surprise, then, as she handed the cup to her visitor, Mace passed it back.

“I asked you for a cup of cold water, mother,” she said quietly, “and you gave me this!”

Mother Goodhugh looked down at the cup to see that the limpid crystal water she had dipped had turned of a livid black; and, startled and convicted by the change, she gazed at it, then at the girl, and then back at the cup.

“What did you put in it, mother?” said Mace, quietly.

“I—I—put anything in?” said the old woman, humbly; “what should I put in?”

“Some one or another of your silly mixtures,” said Mace, sternly. “Why do you attempt to try them upon me?”

“Silly mixtures!” Such a term applied to her philtres in the presence of one whom she wished for her own reasons to impress fully with her potency! A moment before the old woman was shivering and cowed; now her visitor’s words roused up the spirit of opposition within her, and, with her eyes flaming defiance, she called upon her powers of well-matured dissimulation as she half shrieked:—

“I put in mixtures! Go to, white witch that thou art. Did I not see thee cast an evil eye on the drinking water, and turn it black? Look here,” she cried, seizing the cup, throwing out its contents, running to the spring, and returning with it full of clear fluid, “the water be bright and sweet. Nay, nay; thou shalt not touch it,” she cried, as Mace stretched out her hand to take the cup—“I will have no more of thy juggling tricks here. Out upon thee, witch—witch, who triest to win decent maidens’ lovers to thy side. When the time comes that justice overtakes thee for thy wicked enchantments, my voice shall be raised to tell of all I know. Go!—Away with thee!—Witch, witch!”

She stood waving her hands and stick at her who had brought her help, and a malignant look of spite and suppressed glee overspread her face, as she laughingly hugged herself upon the clever way in which she had turned the tables upon her accuser. The girl’s lips parted to speak; but finding her adversary become more voluble and ready, Mace shrank away, staggered by the words of the old woman, who followed her to the door, and stood menacing her and shrieking threats as she hurried away with the words “witch, witch,” ringing in her ears.

There was no lack of common-sense in the founder’s daughter, but for the moment she was startled by Mother Goodhugh’s words. No more superstitious than the educated people of her days, a faint belief in the sin of witchcraft lingered in her mind; and she knew by rumour of the terrible fate that had been reserved for women accused of such dealings. For, from time to time, account of fiery executions had reached the remote hamlet, and she shuddered as these memories came back.

To be accused of witchcraft by some malignant enemy meant placing the accused in a position wherein nothing she said would be believed; and, as she hurried homewards, Mace’s face was pale with anxiety and dread.

This soon passed off, though, and she laughed at her childish terrors.

“Poor old thing, she is half mad,” thought Mace; and even then she began to think about the cup; coming rapidly to the right conclusion that Mother Goodhugh had placed some one or another of her decoctions in the water.

“I’ll go there no more,” she said; “the old woman is dangerous, and to try to ward off her wishes by kindly acts seems to make things worse.”

She was, in spite of the encounter, light-hearted and glad; for though the accusation against Gil troubled her, still she knew that he was innocent, and had hoped by propitiating Mother Goodhugh to get her in time to withdraw her words. That adventure had failed; but there was a change at home that made her heart leap. Sir Mark had gone, and an incubus seemed to have been removed from her heart as she felt that the old happy days would come again; and, laughing off the scene with Mother Goodhugh, she hastened on through the pleasant, sunlit glade, where the birds hardly fled at her approach.

“There will be no spells here,” she said, laughingly, as she turned aside; and, parting the bushes, climbed down amongst the ferny stones to where the water dropped into a natural basin, from which, with a cup improvised with a broad burdock leaf, she sipped the pure sparkling fluid and quenched her thirst, seating herself afterwards to rest upon one of the mossy stones, and gazing dreamily down the ravine, through which the water flowed beneath a canopy of luxuriant ferns. As she gazed, a kingfisher, till then motionless upon a twig, suddenly darted down into a pool, rose with something silvery in its beak, and fled along the narrow valley like a streak of azure drawn across the verdure by a spirit-hand, while soon after the white coverts of a blue bar-winged jay were seen as the shy bird peered at her with corvine curiosity and then uttered an excited “Tchah—tchah!” and fled.

Mace thought not of kingfisher, jay, or the velvet-coated blackbird that came and perched so near to watch her intently, for she was considering whether Sir Mark would come back, and, if so, whether he would renew his suit. She was troubled, too, about her father, and his want of faith in Gil. It had seemed as if in his heart he did not dislike the attentions paid to her by Sir Mark; and at last, with a sigh, she rose and continued her little journey.

“Time smooths away a good many difficulties,” she said, half-laughing; “and, if it does not, I must fain follow the example of the Virgin Queen.”

To her surprise, before she was out of the wood she met her father, who rarely left the precincts of his own grounds, unless it was to visit ironstone pit, quarry, or the colliers busy charcoal-burning. He seemed to be examining her curiously as she came up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm.

“Where have you been, Tit?” he asked.

“To take Mother Goodhugh a chicken and a few little niceties, poor soul!”

“For cursing thy father so bitterly?”

“Nay, father; to try and make the poor half-crazed soul more sensible.”

“And to pay her for muttering nonsense to please a silly girl. Tit, I thought better of thee,” he said.

Mace looked at him half-wounded, half-amused.

“When did you know me guilty of such follies, father?” she asked.

“Never till now, when thy head was filled with love-nonsense by that scoundrel, Gil.”

“Father, you hurt me when you speak thus of Gil,” she cried sadly; “and when you doubt my truth.”

“Thou hast been to Mother Goodhugh, like some silly wench, to ask her for love-charms; worse still, thou hast, the moment Sir Mark has gone, run off to keep tryst with a man I forbid thee to see.”

The pained look grew deeper in Mace’s eyes as she laid both her hands upon the broad chest of the founder, and gazed full in his eyes.

“Father, dear,” she said, simply, “why should I go to bid a foolish old woman mutter silly spells, when I know that Gil loves me with all his heart.”

“Out upon his love. As he loves Anno Beckley, and every woman he meets. Shame on thee, girl—for shame!”

She smiled sadly as she still gazed up in his face.

“You don’t mean this, father, dear,” she said. “You don’t think I should be so silly as to go to Mother Goodhugh for what you say?”

“I do,” he cried, harshly.

“And you don’t in your heart think that I have been to see Gil.”

“I tell thee, I do,” he cried.

“And what is more, you don’t think your little girl would play you false.”

“What?” he cried, “has not Gil been at thy window?”

“Yes, father,” she said; “as he has scores of times when we were boy and girl together; but I have bidden him come no more. I never thought harm of it—only that it was pleasant folly,” she added, dreamily.

“Out upon such folly!” he cried.

“Gil will not come again, and I shall try to see him no more, dear, till you bid us meet; and you do not believe that I should ever deceive you.”

“You turn me round your finger, child,” he cried, catching her to his breast, and kissing her passionately. “No, no, no; I don’t believe you went to that old woman for such trash, nor to meet Gil Carr. I know you couldn’t deceive me, my darling; and if I am harsh to thee it is for thy good. Ah! Tit, Tit, what a little witch thou art!”

“Don’t, father!” she cried, starting from him with a cry of pain.

“What is it, my bird? What have I done?”

“You called me a witch,” she said, with a slight shudder, but trying to laugh it off.

“Well! an’ if I did?” he said, laughing.

“It was foolish to mind,” she said; “but Mother Goodhugh just now was angry with me, and called me witch, and uttered threats.”

“Against thee?” cried the founder, angrily. “I say, then, let her curses return upon her own head, witch that she is herself. She shall go from Roehurst before this time to-morrow.”

“Nay, nay, father,” cried Mace, hastily; “don’t visit her mad ravings upon her. Let her rest. Poor thing! she’s crazed with grief. Let her be—for my sake, let her be.”

“What, and let her some day bring evil upon us by her witcheries?”

“What, and is my stout, brave father going to have faith in what yon silly woman says!” cried Mace, laughing. “Come, father, promise me you will not have her touched.”

“I’ll promise thee anything, child,” he said, smoothing her soft hair, and bending down to kiss her cheek.

“Anything, father?” she cried.

“Not quite, Mace,” he said with a sigh; “but anything that is for thy good;” and they walked on through the wood together, the old man smiling and loitering as his companion kept stooping to pick some bright flower, for it put him in mind of her childhood, when sweet Mace and the wild flowers seemed each to belong to each. Now it was the bright yellow meadow vetchling, now the brilliant orange-tinted lotus, and then long sprays of the purple-blossomed tufted vetch.

Further on they came to a sunny opening where the trees had been felled, and here was quite a forest garden, where Mace paused, with the care that had shaded her face for days gone to leave it bright and childlike once more; while the founder smiled as he stood and watched her run from patch to patch, picking hastily and talking the while.

“I won’t be long, dear. Oh, how beautiful the heath is; what lovely sprays!”

Then she ran to where the orange ragwort threw up its tufts of sun-like florets, picked golden-rod and Saint John’s wort; ran a few steps to where the wood betony raised a clump of purple-waving heads. These, with delicate grasses, pink robins, lavender scabious, and soft-foliaged golden-disked flea-bane, and hawkweed, made up a goodly nosegay. But still, there was more and more to add, for as she walked on it was by a clump of golden genista, each plant a bouquet in itself; bright pink starred centaury; and then farther along by a hollow, where the water lay in a dark pool, the quaint stars of the branch bur-reed, with abundance of forget-me-not, seemed to ask the picking.

“Oh, father!” she cried merrily, as she stopped at last, with a bunch of flowers as large as her fingers could grasp, “what a shame that I should keep thee thus!”

“Nay, nay, my child,” he said, smiling, as he stroked one of her soft flushed cheeks; “it seems to do me good to see thee young again. It is like a rest on life’s journey, and a pleasant halt where one can forget one’s hurry and toil. Mace, my pet,” he said, seating himself among the heath upon a sandy bank, “I think I could give up everything, except my garden and my pipe and ale, if you and I could go on together always like this.”

“Then let us go on like this, father,” she cried, seating herself at his feet and resting her head against his knee. “Why should we let trouble come between?”

“Because we can’t help it, girl,” he replied, laughing. “He’s let in by that little mischief imp who comes unasked and holds open the door for t’other, and then the sorrows come. You know the boy I mean, Tit; his name is Love, and I s’pose it has always been the same.”

There came a curiously pained look in Mace’s eyes as she turned them quickly up to her father, then the woodland nosegay she had picked fell at her feet, and her head drooped down upon his knee.

How the Big Howitzer was Fired.

Time glided on, and Gil’s ship was fast getting ready for sea. It was to be a good trip this season; and, as she approached completion, her freight was gradually accumulated, for, as in a quiet matter-of-fact way, the captain let the relations between him and Mace stand in abeyance, the founder made some slight advances, and business arrangements were resumed.

It would have been a serious matter for both if they had stood out, for Gil formed almost the only channel through which Jeremiah Cobbe’s productions were sold, and upon him depended the supply of two of the principal ingredients with which one of the founder’s branches of industry was carried on.

So gunpowder was made and ground. Gil—though never asked to the house, nor making any attempt to see Mace, and at their casual encounters meeting her quite as a friend—spent much of his time at the founder’s works, superintending a casting, watching the purification of some batch of nitre that he had brought home, and, above all, helping at the trial of a newly-finished howitzer or culverin.

The founder was pleased, for he told himself that the young people were growing sensible, and he became more friendly to Gil, who at last, after sundry night journeys had been noted by the people about, found himself ready for another voyage.

“When do you sail, then?” said the founder to him one morning.

“I have thought of going to-morrow,” was the reply; “but the tide hardly suits.”

“Then put it off till the next day, my lad, and we’ll have out the new piece to-morrow, and try her across the Pool.”

“With all my heart,” said Gil, and the next morning he was busy and light-hearted at the foundry, with old Wat Kilby and half-a-dozen more, helping and superintending the mounting and dragging out of the great newly-finished piece of artillery, on which the founder for some time had been engaged.

“She’ll startle some of them,” he said, as he patted the great piece on the breech, just as Mace came up slowly, and saluted Gil. “You shall have the first shot with her, Tit,” he said, as the idea occurred to him.

“Will it be safe to let her?” said Gil, rather anxiously, as he saw Mace shudder and shrink back.

“Safe? Just as if one of my pieces could burst!” cried the founder, disdainfully.

“The girt barrel be ready, Mas’ Cobbe,” said Tom Croftly, as he came up to announce that he had set up a great tub on a platform of planks on the other side of the Pool.

“We’ll soon batter that down,” cried the founder, as with a loud cheer the huge piece of artillery was dragged up to the end of the lake, facing the founder’s house, the whole of the men turning out to see the first discharge.

“You’ll help me to load and train her?” said the founder, who was as excited over the trial as a boy.

“Ay, I’ll help,” cried Gil, rolling up the sleeves of his doublet, and taking the lead at charging the monster; Mace smiling as she looked on, and saw the strength he brought to bear, ramming the powder, lifting the great shot as if it were a child’s ball, and then driving it home.

“Don’t aim at the target till we get the charged shell,” said the founder. “This is only a christening shot.”

“Then we’ll call the piece ‘Mace the First,’” said Gil, laughing.

“That’s her name, then,” said the founder; “and she shall be the first of many Maces. Why are you aiming so low?”

“I want to show you a shot of mine that I should use against a Spaniard if I wished to sink her,” said Gil, smiling, as by means of wedges he depressed the muzzle of the piece.

“But stop, man, the ball will go to the bottom of the Pool, and I want you to hit yon ragged oak.”

“So I shall,” cried Gil, taking aim. “Give me leave, and you shall see.”

“There,” he said, when he had adjusted the piece to his satisfaction, “that will about do. Now, Wat, ready with that linstock. What are you looking at, man?”

Wat Kilby, whose eyes had been fixed on Janet staring out of the window, uttered a low growl, and lit the linstock.

“Now, Master Cobbe,” cried Gil, “do you feel satisfied that the piece is safe?”

“My life upon it,” cried the founder.

“Nay,” said Gil, gently; “it is thy child’s life.”

The founder frowned, and was about to speak hastily, but he refrained.

“Thou art right, friend Gil,” he said; “but have no fear, the piece is made of my toughest stuff. Come, my child, be ready with the linstock.”

Gil’s countenance betrayed his uneasiness; and, to give him confidence, Mace let her eyes meet his, with a calm, loving look, as she mastered her dread and horror, took the burning linstock, and stood ready near the breech.

There was a general rush to right and left as the lighted linstock was brought forward; only the founder, Gil, and Wat Kilby, who handed the light, remaining, the latter coolly squatting down near the mouth of the piece to watch the course of the shot.

The founder smiled grimly as he said to his child:

“A little more to the right, my lass. I warrant she don’t burst; but she’ll kick like a Castilian mule. Now, captain, if you like to stand aside, there’s no need for you to run a risk.”

Gil smiled and nodded his head as he took a final glance along the piece to satisfy himself as to the direction in which it was laid.

“There,” he said. “I am quite ready; raise your arm a little, Mace, and let the burning linstock fall softly on the touch-hole. Now, Master Cobbe, give the word, please; when you will.”

“As I cry three,” cried the founder—“Ready—One, two, three.”

Gil stood by the side of the piece, opposite to Mace, watching her face as she stood firm and unflinching; and as she lowered the linstock he inwardly cried, “Brave girl! she would face a peril that would kill any of less sterling mould.”

For, at the word “three,” she let the linstock-end, with its burning slow match, touch lightly, exactly on the point where the priming lay. Then there was a flash, a ball of white smoke, vomited from the howitzer’s mouth, a deafening roar, and the great iron ball struck the water fifty yards away, rose, dipped again, and went on skipping along the surface of the water till it crossed the lake, and split the decaying oak to fragments, where it stood blasted on the further shore.

A loud hurrah from the lookers-on told of their satisfaction; and the founder turned in admiration to the captain.

“A wonderful shot,” he said; “but how learned you that trick, friend Gil? I thought we should never see the ball again.”

“From throwing stones,” said Gil, smiling. “If a stone should bound along the surface, why not a shot? That is the deadliest shot to my mind, Master Cobbe, that one could send at an enemy’s ship, and it was bravely fired.”

“Of course,” said the founder, proudly. “If my child knew that I had made the powder, and my hands had designed and fashioned the piece, she felt she would have naught to fear. And now for a shell.”

“Yes,” said Gil, thoughtfully; “now for a shell. You think your piece will fire one straight, Master Cobbe, as well as a mortar throws one in a half-circle through the air?”

“I do,” said the founder. “I lay my life on it.”

“Then,” said Gil, “I’d like to try my plan at the same time.”

“What may that be, my lad?”

“Well, sir, it is this,” said Gil. “You load your piece, then you prepare your well-charged shell, with a piece of slow match in its eye.”

“Yes.”

“And according to whether that is long or short, so is the time before it bursts the shell.”

“Exactly, my lad.”

“And you light the fuse or match before you place it in the howitzer.”

“How else could you do it, my lad?”

“That we will try,” said Gil. “I propose that you load the piece as you would a common gun, and then put in the shell with its fuse unlit.”

“Why, that’s no better than a shot,” cried Wat Kilby.

“Nay, old lad, the powder would fire the match when the piece went off, and thus all the awkward preparation would be saved.”

“My faith, Gil,” said the founder, smiling, “it’s a grand idea, and you shall try it; for if it succeeds there ought to be a big reward for the man who invents such a plan.”

“Let’s try, then,” said Gil, quietly; and, with Wat Kilby’s help, the piece was recharged, a shell filled with powder, and, with its fuse towards the charge, rammed home. Then the great piece was laid so that it commanded the broad tub set up as a mark.

“I reckon,” said Gil, “that this shell should burst just about when it strikes that mark, which should be shattered to pieces; and, if an enemy’s ship, or a fortress, terribly crippled by the effect.”

“Good, my lad, it should,” said the founder, smiling.

Without another word, Gil carefully adjusted the piece; the linstock was again handed to Mace, and, hiding a shudder, for her father’s sake she once more fired the great gun, and after a few moments, as the roar rolled like thunder over the Pool, the founder exclaimed—

“A failure, Gil, a—”

Crash!

From a mile away came the roar of the bursting shell, like an echo of the first shot.

“A success, sir, a success; but we wanted a quarter the fuse,” said Gil, smiling.

“It’s glorious—it’s grand!” cried the founder, excitedly. “Gil, your hand—nay, we don’t shake hands now. Captain Carr, you could make a name as the greatest gunner in our land. Mace, my child, bravely fired. Why, that shell must have struck the high rocks, where the new ironstone lies.”

“Ay, it has,” said Wat Kilby, who stood shading his eyes with his hand, as he gazed at the high precipitous rocks away behind the gabled house.

“Quick, there, another shot!” cried the founder. “Mace, my child, art ready for another?”

“Nay, father,” she said quietly, and with a pained look in her eyes; “you should try this time.”

“Ay, lass, and I will,” he cried, as he watched the sponging-out and reloading of the piece; while Mace, who little recked in that shot of what she had done for her future, stood now a spectator, instead of an actor in the scene.

The piece was soon ready, and this time the shell was prepared by Gil himself, with a shorter fuse.

“Lay her so that the shell may burst over the great charcoal-heap by the corner of the wood,” said the founder; and, after exercising a great deal of care, Gil laid the piece quite to his satisfaction.

“Now try,” he said. “Ready!”

“Ready,” cried the founder.

“Fire.”

The linstock was again applied; there was the same tremendous roar; the great piece leaped back several feet, and a few seconds later, crash! came the bursting of the shell once more, so near to the charcoal hill that the air was filled with the fragments that were scattered far.

“A great success, Gil; you have won a prize,” cried the founder, “one of those that the world will talk of a century hence; but hey-day! what’s this?”

There was the quick trampling of horses’ feet, and at the end of a few seconds two horsemen came tearing along the track at full speed, their riders having apparently lost all control over their steeds. The first kept his seat, and tugged hard at the bridle; but the second was well on his horse’s neck, to which he clung with all his might, his red face and his thickly-padded feather breeches showing that it was Sir Thomas Beckley, whose appearance was greeted by the founder with a roar of laughter.

Gil hardly glanced at him, for the happy sunshine of the past hours seemed to have been clouded, as the frightened horses stopped of their own accord, and he saw that the first arrival was Sir Mark, whose horse, like that of the baronet, had been startled by the bursting shell.

How Sir Mark’s Men came to Grief.

“Confound you, fool,” cried Sir Mark, leaping from his restive steed; and as he spoke his eyes rested upon Gil. “Have a care how you fire. Your blundering nearly cost worshipful Sir Thomas Beckley his life.”

Gil met his eye with a cold stare of defiance that made the hot blood dance in the other’s veins.

“It was I who fired the shell, Sir Mark,” said the founder, curtly; “and it were well when I am trying my pieces if visitors gave notice of their coming.”

“I came, sir, on the King’s business,” said Sir Mark, sharply; “and so ride where and when I will! I trust thou art not hurt, Sir Thomas.”

The worthy baronet felt for his hat, which was gone, and with it his Sunday plume, as, evidently congratulating himself that he was safe on earth again and free of his frightened steed, he raised his fat eyelids a little wider, and gaped like a fish, opening his lips and shutting them without a sound.

“See,” he continued, “the worthy justice is hurt. I ask your pardon, Mistress Mace, but I was concerned for Sir Thomas. Will you help me to lead him into the house—with your permission, Master Cobbe.”

“Permission?” cried the founder. “There, sir, leave your ceremony in town when you come to see me. Sir Thomas, I am sorry our firing startled your good nag: come in and drink a cup of wine, and you’ll be all right in a twinkling.”

Sir Thomas wanted to be dignified, and refuse, but at the same time he felt ready to give his ears for a glass of wine. He was shaken, bruised, and his nerve had gone; in fact he had given himself over for a dead man, when his horse stopped beside the group of workmen; so, sinking his dignity, he followed the founder across the little bridge and into the house, Sir Mark following, with Mace, who knew that she must be at hand to play the hostess.

Just then a couple of Sir Mark’s followers,—half soldiers, half servants,—cantered up, and, seeing at a glance that no harm was done, threw themselves from their horses, and, pitching the reins to the nearest workmen, strutted and stared about in a condescending way, as if the rusticity of the place and people was highly amusing to their London minds.

Gil leaned with his back against the gun, gazing after those who entered the house; and a feeling of bitterness came over him as he recalled the fact that the next day he sailed on a voyage that might take him three, four, or five months, and he would have to go and leave the woman he loved exposed to the persecutions of this man.

He smiled as he glanced down at himself, at his loose shirt smeared and blackened with gunpowder, his bare arms and hands smirched with the same; and he compared himself with the gaily-attired officer who had alighted and entered the house, and not to his own advantage.

“Even his grooms cut a better figure,” muttered Gil.

His musings were cut short by a growl from Wat Kilby.

“How now, old bear!” he said, bitterly. “Is thy head sore?”

“It’ll be somebody else’s head sore directly,” growled the old fellow, who had just been a witness of the fact that one of Sir Mark’s followers had seen Janet’s bright face at the window, as she gazed admiringly at the showily-dressed new arrivals, and had kissed his hand to her—a compliment the pretty handmaiden was not slow to acknowledge.

“Now, Wat, you must not heed such things,” said Gil. “What is the girl to thee?”

“This much, skipper, that if he don’t mind—there: if he affronts me I’ll stuff him head first into the gun, as I be a sinful man.”

“Silence, old fool!” cried Gil, angrily. “The girl is nothing, and never will be, to thee. Get me my doublet and cap, for the new babe is baptised and the visitors may all go home.”

“Old fool, eh?” growled Wat. “Well, perhaps I be. Never mind; it’s pleasant to be an old fool if it be on account of a pretty woman.”

As he spoke he fetched his skipper’s doublet and cap from the place where they had hung, and was turning with them to Gil, who had stooped down by the edge of the Pool, to wash off some of the tightly-clinging powder, when one of Sir Mark’s followers walked up, and, rudely slapping Gil on the shoulder, cried, “Stop there, fellow; you have not done yet.”

“No,” said the other, swaggering up; “you’ve fired for your pleasure; now, perhaps, you’ll have to fire for ours.”

“My lads,” said Gil, quietly, “I am not in a quarrelling humour to-day. Go to thy master, or maybe his livery may get sullied in the Pool.”

“Insolent!” cried one.

“What does he mean?” cried the other. “Stop, I say; keep your doublet off till Sir Mark gives you leave to put it on.”

He made a snatch at the garment Wat was handing to his leader, wondering the while how Gil could be so calm, but as the fellow snatched at the sleeve Gil’s open hand dealt him so tremendous a blow in the chest that he staggered backwards; and, as his companion leaped at Gil to help his comrade, Wat thrust out a foot and sent him sprawling on the ground.

The two men leaped up, whipped out their swords, and made at Gil, who half drew his own weapon, but thrust it back with a contemptuous “Pish!” and, as the first man made a pass at him, he struck it aside with his open hand, closed with his assailant, disarmed him, and snapped his sword in two.

The other was more cautious, but Gil watched his opportunity, tore his sword from his hand, and served it the same.

Blind with rage, the two men drew their daggers, and made at him again; but by this time Gil’s men had closed round, and Sir Mark’s followers were seized and disarmed.

“What shall we do with them, captain?” said one of the sailors; but Gil had walked away in disgust at the treatment he received from the founder, and the order came from Wat Kilby—

“Pitch ’em overboard, my lads, into the Pool.”

Meanwhile, Sir Mark had entered the old parlour, and gladly, like Sir Thomas, availed himself of the founder’s hospitality after a long, hot, and dusty ride. The exciting finish, too, had begotten thirst. He had a dozen gallant sayings to bestow upon Mace, whose mind was full of the insult he had thrown at Gil; and her heart beat with pleasure as she recalled her lover’s calm sense of contempt for the gaily-dressed fly who had stung him in the breast.

“This is not a bad glass of wine, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Thomas, who was drinking his third.

“I’m glad you like it,” said the founder, who kept glancing at Sir Mark and his child in an uneasy way; “it’s part of a cask brought me from the south of Spain itself.”

“Ah, yes,” said the worthy justice; “it is not bad.”

“The days have seemed weeks since I have been away, Mistress Cobbe,” whispered Sir Mark; “and I have tried so earnestly to come.”

“Is it on business to my father?” said Mace, who felt that she must say something, “That depends, sweet,” he said in a low voice. “I come as a friend or as an enemy, as he will, and as the fair Mistress Mace may will. His Majesty has charged me with a mission to Master Cobbe, that means—shall I speak plainly?”

“If you please, Sir Mark,” she replied. “I do not understand you else.”

“Then I will speak out, even at the risk of offending—nay, I would say hurting, one who, I hope, is very glad to welcome me back.”

“You said you would speak plainly, Sir Mark,” replied Mace.

“Ay, and so I will,” he said; “but surely I may prolong our discourse. Think how many weary weeks it is since I heard thy voice.”

“You said you came as a friend, or as an enemy to my father, Sir Mark,” replied Mace, ignoring the compliment. “You must come as a friend when you enter his house and partake of his hospitality.”

“Tush! how sharp the little rustic mind can be. Nay, child; how did you know I meant to stay?” he added aloud.

“From thy manner, Sir Mark.”

“Then I trust it will be as a friend that I have come,” he said, eagerly; “and that my stay here may be long, and bring great riches to your father’s purse. It rests with him, or with thee, I hardly can tell which.”

“Your words are strange, Sir Mark,” said Mace, who kept on talking, but with her thoughts far away, for the sounds of angry voices had fallen upon her ear, and she was trembling lest anything wrong should have arisen on account of Gil.

“Nay, then, how can I speak otherwise?” whispered Sir Mark, as Sir Thomas prosed on with the founder, praising his wine, and condescending to drink deeply, for it was greatly to his taste—“how can I speak otherwise when I am so confused and stricken by thee? Let me speak plainly, then.”

“See to thy men, Sir Mark,” cried Mace, hurrying to the open window; for just then came an angry buzz of voices, shouts mingled with laughter, and cries for help, in which Sir Mark’s name was mingled.

In two strides he was at the window. The next moment he had leaped out, just as there were a couple of splashes, and he saw, just where the race commenced, his two followers plunged into the Pool.

How Wat Kilby was not Ducked.

Men, when half-angry, are in their horseplay rather disposed to be brutal, and it was so here. Sir Mark’s followers had made themselves exceedingly obnoxious to those of Gil, and they had seen him defend himself against a furious attack before, treating his enemies with contempt, he had brushed them aside and walked away. There was a fine opportunity then to avenge the insult to their leader, and to teach the gaily-dressed strangers to be a little less important and condescending to the people amongst whom they had come.

Ever since the world began there has been the desire to dress up the frail tenement of clay in which our souls do dwell, and to make it bright and gaudy. In early days it was perhaps only a daub of red earth, the blue or purple stain of a berry or leaf, or a brightly-tinted feather from some wild bird’s wing; and no sooner was the decoration donned than envy came upon the scene, mingled with dislike. Possession could not be had of the gay adornment, but there was the satisfaction of seeing the bright colours fade, the daub of gaily-hued earth washed away by the same heavy rain that bedraggled the feather, and made its plumes stick to the shaft. This same feeling exists in a.d. 1883 as it did in the year 3500+b.c., and no greater pleasure can be given to a rough mob than that of seeing some well-dressed individual come down into the mud.

The followers of Gilbert Carr then felt a real annoyance at seeing these showily-dressed men vapouring about, and hence it was with sincere pleasure that they heard Wat’s order, one which they were not slow in putting into effect.

Four of the sturdy sailor-looking men seized the strangers on the instant; while the workpeople freely helped; and the result was that, in spite of struggles, cries, and piteous appeals, first one and then the other was plunged into the rushing water of the mill-race, and borne towards the turning wheel.

As for Wat Kilby, he would have felt a grim satisfaction in seeing both swept through, over the fall into the deep hole beyond, where he would have helped to fish them out half-drowned; but there were plenty of workpeople present who would not allow matters to go to such an extremity, but were already about to lend aid as Sir Mark leaped out of the window, to be followed more deliberately by the founder through the door, Sir Thomas staying behind to have another glass of the very satisfactory wine.

Sir Mark then was in time to see his two men carefully fished out, to stand staggering and dripping on the edge of the Pool.

“How was this?” he cried. “Whose doing was it?” he repeated, stamping his foot angrily, and gazing round as his men sputtered, panted, and pressed the water out of their eyes.

For answer there was a tremendous roar of laughter, which exasperated him the more, as he looked eagerly around for Gil, or some one worthy of his steel.

The founder was more successful, for on coming up and asking a similar question, gazing angrily the while at Wat Kilby, that individual uttered a low laugh.

“This was thy doing!” the founder cried fiercely, as he scowled at the old sailor.

“Ay, and suppose it was, Master Cobbe. What then?” growled Wat.

“You dog! How dare you insult my guests?” he cried. “I’ll have no more of thy ill-conditioned drunken ways. Here, Croftly, Jenking, a dozen of you, serve this old brawler, here, the same. I will have him punished, Sir Mark, or my name is not Cobbe.”

He turned to his guest, and then his sun-browned, rugged face became purple with fury, for, of all the group of his busy workmen about, not one stirred to do his bidding.

“Do you hear?” he roared, furiously. “In with that fellow there.”

Wat Kilby laughed, and seated himself on a block of stone, took out his pipe and flint and steel with exasperating calmness, and prepared to strike a light.

Still no one moved, and Sir Mark, who was irritated beyond endurance, called to his followers to throw Wat in themselves.

But the two men shivered and glanced towards their horses, so thoroughly had they been cowed by their wetting; and, seeing this, Sir Mark made at the old fellow himself.

“Up with you, boor,” he cried, presenting his sword as if to prick the old fellow towards the water.

Wat ceased nicking the steel against the flint, blew at the tinder, lit his pipe, and puffed a cloud in the face of Sir Mark, as, rising suddenly, he towered over him, and looked down with a cool laugh.

“Put up thy sword, my fine fellow,” he cried. “Thou art not going to pook me, and there isn’t a man here who would raise a finger to help thee. I gave my lads here orders to duck your men for insulting our captain, and they did it well. Come away, boys, we are not wanted here.”

The great fellow’s coolness seemed somehow to stagger Sir Mark, while the founder made no further attempt to interfere, as Wat thrust his tobacco in one pocket, his flint and steel in the other; and, puffing away at his pipe, went slowly off, staring hard at the house for a glance at Janet. Then passing the great howitzer he gave it an affectionate slap upon the breech, and marched towards the forest.

“In with you,” cried Sir Mark to his followers; “in and get your garments dry. Master Cobbe, these men will have to be brought to book.”

He glanced round haughtily at the group of workpeople, who did not, however, seem much impressed either by him or his ways, for they merely nodded and whispered together, ending by broadly grinning at the figure cut by the two half-drowned men, who followed the founder into one of the stone furnace-sheds, where they were furnished with blankets to use as wrappers while their clothes were rapidly dried.

Sir Thomas shortly after left on foot, alleging that he was too much hurt by the saddle to attempt to mount again; and his horse was ridden back for him by one of the founder’s boys.

The worthy baronet and justice reached home looking very hot and weary, to be met on the step by his daughter.

“Where is Sir Mark?” she cried. “My dear, I left him at the Pool,” replied Sir Thomas, feebly, for the attack made by his daughter was sharp.

“Left him there? Did I not say thou wert to stay and bring him back?”

“But, my dear—”

“Oh, out upon you!” cried Mistress Anne, stamping her foot in anger. “Fie, father, fie; I try so hard to do justice to thy house, and welcome our guest back as becomes his rank. I try to let him see that he is the visitor of a baronet, and what do you do, my father, but slight him—leave him to the care of these people at the foundry, for him to stay as he stayed before. It is a shame.”

Poor Sir Thomas tried to put on his magisterial air, but failed dismally, as he always did when he tried to do battle with his child. He could frighten his different domestics till they trembled in awe of his presence; but his daughter seemed to have so great an influence over him that he was fain to open and shut his lips in fish-like muteness, and obey her to the very letter.

It was a great relief to him then when Mistress Anne flounced out of the room, and he heard a door upstairs bang very loudly, being a signal that she had shut herself, angrily, in her own bower, as it was called by the maids.

“Poor child,” he muttered; “I fear her heart is set on this young knight.”

“What’s that you say?” exclaimed Dame Beckley, who had entered, and heard a part of his speech.

“I say, I fear me that her heart is set upon this young knight, my dear.”

“Tut—tut—tut. Yes, I suppose so,” replied the dame. “But the other day it was that Captain Gil.”

“Ay, she’s a headstrong girl,” said the baronet; “and we shall have much trouble with her yet. How much she takes after my family, to be sure!”

Dame Beckley glanced sidewise at her lord, but she did not speak; and then, hearing that Sir Mark had not returned, and that Sir Thomas did not know whether he would return, she fully divined how it was that the eruption of temper had taken place; and sighing, and wishing her daughter well wed, she retired to cull simples in the garden, and feel thankful that she had outgrown all such troubles of her own.

How Sir Mark played his Cards.

There was news at the Pool-house next day that Culverin Carr’s ship had sailed; Jeremiah Cobbe hearing thereof from his man, Tom Croftly.

“Heaven send them a good voyage, master,” said the workman. “I hear the girt ship went down the river at daybreak, and there’s a brave deal of our work on board.”

“Yes,” said the founder, thoughtfully; and then he began thinking about Gil.

“He’s gone off, poor boy, and without a word of good-bye. I was rough enough to him yesterday, and yet he showed me a plan that is a little fortune in itself. Poor lad, I like him; but tut—tut; there, it can never be; Mace is no mate for him, and I’m glad that he has gone.”

He was busying himself soon after in seeing the big howitzer dragged back to the shelter of a shed, so as to be free to talk to Sir Mark, who had intimated or rather ordered him to be ready for a conference at ten of the clock; and, in spite of his bluff independence, there was that in his guest’s manner that made him rather uneasy, as much on his child’s account as upon his own.

“There’s something behind,” he said; “something I don’t understand; and, though I could fight him well enough in a fair and open quarrel, when they get to their diplomacy and policy, and underhanded-behind-your-back ways, I’m done.”

The thoughts of the previous day’s shell-firing, however, put Sir Mark out of his head; and he was thinking whether it would not be wise to have the howitzer out once more to try the same experiments, when Sir Mark, who had been waiting since breakfast to gain an interview with Mace, and quite in vain, now joined him by the edge-stone of the race.

For Mace had had hard work to maintain her composure at the morning meal; having heard, as she had from Janet only just before, that Gil’s ship had sailed.

She was not satisfied with their parting, for she felt in her heart that he would be troubled at the presence of Sir Mark, whose inopportune return had, as it were, cast a shadow on Gil’s last day.

“But he’ll trust me,” she said, with a satisfied smile; “and he may. There, I’ll fret no more, for time will make all smooth, no doubt.”

As to Sir Mark, she felt that she must be very plain with him, and trust to his being enough of a gentleman to cease what would degenerate into persecution if continued in face of her declaration that she could not listen to his suit.

So Mace brightened up, and told herself that there was no need to be at all uneasy about their guest, setting him down as a vain coxcomb, without giving him the credit for being, to gain his own ends, unscrupulous to a degree.

“Ah, Sir Mark,” exclaimed the founder, heartily; “I’ve seen thy two fellows, and a hearty breakfast has set them right. They are none the worse for their last night’s dip.”

“Bodily, perhaps not, Master Cobbe; but mentally I’ll vow that they are very ill. My followers are soldiers and gentlemen, and cannot suffer so great an affront without some heed. Those people with their leader will have to be hunted out of the place.”

“Thou’lt want ships to limit them now,” said the founder, drily; “for they are off to sea.”

“What! at sea? Why, they were here but now.”

“But now?”

“Well, last even,” said Sir Mark. “They cannot be gone.”

“Tut, man. Culverin Carr and his men work by night, when such as we are asleep. They were at the mouth of the river, where the sea beats on the sand-bar, before you woke this morning, I’ll be bound.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with their movements, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark.

“Not I,” was the reply. “When I’ve sold cargo to Captain Gil I ask no more except to have a written promise from him to pay me my money, which generally comes in sulphur and in Chinese salt. I never inquire into his sailings or comings-in. It is as well not, and they’re pretty secret over them, taking on board, sailing, and the like.”

“This is curious work, Master Cobbe, in his Majesty’s dominions. Law and order seem to be held cheaply here. It was time something was done.”

“And yet, sir, we have gone on for years, offending none, and have found life very bearable,” said the founder, warmly. “We owe no man aught, and we ask no favours from any. But you had business to do with me, Sir Mark. Shall we go in?”

“No,” said Sir Mark, “I’ll say what I have to say out here.”

The founder softly rubbed his hands and wished that the great howitzer had not been replaced in the shed, for it might have been fired again, and its wonderful strength and carrying powers exhibited to the King’s messenger. If he saw its value, and made good representations at court, that would be a large fortune for his child.

He rubbed his hands again, smiling to himself the while, till he awoke suddenly to the fact that Sir Mark was watching, when he seemed suddenly to tighten himself up, and gazed back shrewdly at his companion, who smiled and said—

“I came back to you, Master Cobbe, armed with great powers by His Majesty, to whom I have talked long and learnedly upon your works and knowledge of the arts and mysteries of making guns.”

“That is well, Sir Mark,” said the founder, smiling. “And what said his Majesty?”

“He left in my hands the power and discretion to order of you—largely—sundry munitions of war.”

“That is good,” said the founder, rubbing his hands, as if the palms began to itch to feel the money.

“Hi was satisfied with the quality and workmanship.”

“I tell thee, Sir Mark, that the equals of my pieces are not to be found in this country, search where you will. I take such pains to have naught but the toughest iron, and as to finish—”

“Exactly, Master Cobbe,” said the knight, smiling in a half-cynical manner; “but that is your view of the matter.”

“No man ever knew me to lie or to cheat in trading, Sir Mark,” said the founder, hotly. “I will compare my pieces with those of any foundry in—”

“Yes, yes, exactly, Master Cobbe, exactly. But, hark ye, I have, as I tell thee, full authority to deal with thee, but everything depends upon my report.”

“Try the report of the pieces themselves,” said the founder, chuckling. “There, speak out, my lad. If it be a case of commission, say what you require, and I’ll tell thee at once whether I’ll pay or no.”

“Do you wish to insult me, Master Cobbe?” said the knight, haughtily.

“Insult thee? No, my lad, not I. Would it be any insult to offer thee a hundred or two for thine introduction?”

“Silence, man!” cried Sir Mark, angrily. “I am no dealer seeking a bribe, but one who would do you a good turn, if possible, at a very difficult time. You have enemies.”

“If successful, didst ever know a man without?”

“And they have somehow given the King to understand that it was really you who supplied the conspirators with the powder for their deadly plot.”

“But I swear—” began the founder.

“What good will that do, sir? An enemy swears against thee, and humours the king, who, so great is his hatred of such matters, lends willing ear to the charge, and would rather believe the treason of thee than not.”

“That’s a pretty state of affairs!” cried the founder. “Do you mean to tell me, Sir Mark, that the king would willingly believe an honest man guilty?”

“His Majesty gives much of his time to two subjects—that of witchcraft and that of schemes against his person. You know how deadly a plot was laid against him by his Papist enemies?”

“Ay, I know all that; but—”

“Hear me out, Master Cobbe, then you shall speak to your heart’s content. Here is the case. It has been reported to his Majesty that you are a great factor of deadly gunpowder; that you sell it largely to his Majesty’s enemies; and that at the present time you are receiving into your house a Papist spy—one Father Brisdone, who is making arrangement for a fresh supply of powder for some new plan.”

“It’s a lie!” roared the founder, striking his doubled fist in his opened hand. “Now, look here, Master Ambassador, or whatever you call yourself, how comes his Majesty to know aught about my powder and Father Brisdone? It strikes me, sir, that yours have been the lips that made the mischief.”

Sir Mark was taken aback by this outburst, but he recovered himself pretty quickly.

“I will not take offence, neither will I argue with you upon such a point, Master Cobbe,” he said, coldly. “Let me ask you this—Was mine the speech that gave evil report of thee to the King, which said evil report first brought me down?”

“True!” exclaimed the founder. “I beg thy pardon, my lad. There is some busy meddling rascal, then, who tells tales of me and mine. Well, all I say is, let him look to it. I would not be he for a something if we two stood together some night by the mill-pool.”

“You would not throw him in?” said Sir Mark.

“No; but I might push him in, and leave him to get out how he could. But there, you can send word to his Majesty that he has been deceived. Certainly I sell powder to go abroad along with my guns—powder made of the softest dogwood charcoal we can burn.”

“Yes,” said Sir Mark; “I could, as you say, send word to his Majesty that it is not so, but it would require backing up with stronger asseveration.”

“To be sure,” said the founder; “and that you will make. You tell his Majesty that I am the last man in the kingdom to do him harm.”

“Why should I tell him this, Master Cobbe?”

“Why? Why tell him?” said the blunt founder. “Why? Because it is the truth.”

Sir Mark smiled, and stood apparently thinking for a while before he spoke again.

“Master Cobbe, I have the power to place in thy hands,” he said at last, “the supplying of as many pieces of ordnance, and as much good, strong powder, as thou could’st make, for the use of his Majesty’s forces, in an expedition to be sent to Holland. What say you; will you supply the guns?”

“Price, my lad, price? Will his Highness pay me well?”

“I will undertake to say that he will, Master Cobbe; and, what is more, I can see that it is done. Make your own fair, honest charge for the pieces and their food, and there will be no demur.”

“Look here, Sir Mark,” replied the founder, looking the speaker full in the face; “you turned angry when I talked of giving you a recompense for this order, and called it bribery. What does it all mean? Thou would’st not do all this for naught.”

“Is there no such thing as gratitude in the world, Master Cobbe?”

“Plenty, sir; but court gallants don’t come spreading it out like beaten gold over a rough country work-master, unless they want to get something back.”

“You are witty at the expense of court gallants, as you call them, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark, laughing. “Tut, man, be not so dense. Is it a surprise to you that I should have spent my time in London working hard on thy behalf? Here was an order for ordnance going a-begging. What more natural for me to say than—Here is honest Jeremiah Cobbe, who can make better pieces than his Majesty will get elsewhere, and it will force him back into the King’s esteem, instead of his lying under the stigma of being a traitor? What more likely for me to do than to get him the order?”

“Then, thou hast gotten me the order, eh, Sir Mark?”

“Nay, I have obtained for myself the power to give thee that order, Master Cobbe.”

“And at what price?”

“Tush, man, speak not of price,” cried the other, eagerly. “What are prices to us? Can you not see that our interests are one, and that I am working for myself as well as thee?”

“Nay,” said the founder, bluntly; “I see it not.”

“You will not see it, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “Why, man, I have but one thought—for thy welfare.”

“Indeed,” said the founder, bluntly; “and why?”

“Why?” cried Sir Mark. “You ask me why, when you know so well that I would do aught for the father of the woman I love.”

“Ah,” said the founder, drily; “now we have got to it at last. So that mad wish of thine is not dead yet.”

“Mad wish! Why, Master Cobbe, for what do you take me?”

“A very good hand at a bargain, Sir Mark. Nay, nay, stop you, and let me speak, for you have had a goodly say. You come to me then, now, scorning all kinds of commission for the great order you have to bestow, but you say to me all the same—Here is the order, give me thy daughter in return.”

“Master Cobbe!”

“Sir Mark Leslie! Now, sir, what manner of man do you take me to be, that you offer me goodly orders in exchange for my own poor flesh and blood?”

“No, no, Master Cobbe; you do not speak me fair.”

“I think I do, sir,” replied the founder. “Go, take thy great order elsewhere, I’ll have none of it. My child weds some day a man of her own station, who is a suitable mate. I shall not take a bribe to give her to the first who tries to tempt me.”

“Come, come, Master Cobbe, you are too hard. You know I love her.”

“Yes; you say so, sir.”

“Be not so hard, then. Give me access to her.”

“Access to her, man? You speak as if I locked her in her room. My child is free enough, and she will tell thee readily that she is no mate for Sir Mark Leslie.”

“Nay, nay, Master Cobbe!”

“Nay, nay, Sir Mark. There, sir, you are welcome to what my house affords while it pleases thee to stay, for I will not quarrel with thee; but let us have no more converse about such matters as these.”

“And the order, Master Cobbe, one that would bring thee thousands?”

“Take it elsewhere, sir; take it elsewhere. You are a very good, generous kind of devil, no doubt, but thy temptations will not succeed at so great a price.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Sir Mark. “Devil, forsooth! One would think, man, I asked for thy soul.”

“And what else dost ask for?” cried the founder, angrily, “but for the pure, sweet girl who is to me my very life and soul. There, I’ll speak no more on it. I get angered, and I’ve had repentance enough for quarrelling with you once before, good guest. There, sir, as I said before, the house is open to you and to your men. Take its hospitality; as to that order, make of it what you can.”

Evidently growing hot and angry, the founder turned away to go and cool himself—so it seemed—in his hottest furnace, while Sir Mark stood watching him till he disappeared, with a smile upon his lips.

“The old fellow is tougher than I thought,” he said. “I expected the prospect of the money would have won his consent. Well, it makes me feel a kind of respect for him after all, rough as he is. But stop a bit, Master Cobbe, you’ll execute the King’s order and make money by it. You’ll give me sweet Mace’s hand, and sooner or later I’ll have thy savings to the last penny to clear off my little debts, and enable my beautiful rustic wife to keep up such style as shall make the sneering dames at court think twice before they slight one who has beauty, power, and position.”

As he spoke, he glanced at an open window, where Mace, trembling and excited, had been an unseen spectator of the meeting, standing far back in the room, and giving a sigh of relief as she saw her father stride angrily away.

How Gil interrupted a Discussion.

There must be something very fascinating in the herb called tobacco, or else the reverend gentlemen, who had commenced taking it with distaste, would never have grown to be steady smokers; and, in spite of Mistress Hilberry’s sour looks, met evening by evening to enjoy their pipes with the regularity of a clock.

But so it was, and it grew to be quite a custom for Master Peasegood to welcome Father Brisdone daily, and lay his pipe ready to his hand when he seated himself at the table.

“Yes,” said Master Peasegood, as they sat together; “our gay spark has come back, and he has had a long talk with Jeremiah Cobbe. He wants to have our little maiden’s hand.”

“But he must not,” cried Father Brisdone, excitedly. “Better that she should enter some holy walls as the bride of Christ.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Master Peasegood; “I don’t quite agree with you there, brother; but we will not argue. I am with you that he should not marry our little maiden. By the way, he let drop to friend Cobbe something about you.”

“How know you this?” said the father. “Why Cobbe told me, to be sure.”

“Under the seal of confession?”

“Seal of stuff!” cried Master Peasegood, testily. “I don’t confess. He told me, and asked my advice, and I tell my most intimate friend. Look here, brother. It seems they won’t let thee alone.”

“Indeed! And why?”

“There’s a rumour out that thou art down here to purchase powder for some new plot, and Master Cobbe is in a fine way about it.”

“And you? What did you say to him?”

“Told him he was a fool.”

“Hah!” said Father Brisdone.

“I was just in the humour,” said Master Peasegood. “I am just in the humour now. Why I’d rather marry the poor girl myself than see her handed over to that court pie.”

“And Master Cobbe—what says he?”

“That he’d sooner see her in her grave.”

“Poor girl, poor, sweet girl!” said Father Brisdone. “It must not be, brother. We must fight on the other side.”

“There’ll be no need.”

“Nay, but there will. Yon spark is cunning and crafty, and he will work upon the old man till he consents. If they have designs against me, I may at any time be removed or have to flee. If this be so, I leave you to on that poor girl’s side to the very last.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“I was there four days since for a good and pleasant hour,” said Father Brisdone, with a sigh. “Nay,” he said, smiling, “look not so suspiciously; I said no word on religion to her. What need was there when her breast is so pure and free from guile?”

Master Peasegood stretched out his broad fat hand, and pressed that of his friend.

“Thank you, brother,” he said, smiling. “It’s strange how we have drifted together. I’ll confess it; I’ve tried hard indirectly, and hoped to get thee over to our Church.”

“Not harder than I have tried indirectly with thee,” said Father Brisdone, smiling. “Ah, brother, why should we trouble ourselves about it when we are both journeying on the highway. You like to walk in boots, and I prefer sandals.”

“Hah, yes,” said Master Peasegood; “but then I do save my feet from the grit, and dust, and thorns of the way.”

“Yes, but then I travel with shaven crown and cooler head than you in your thick flap hat.”

“Yes, perhaps so. But there, there, why should we discourse about such matters?”

“True, brother, when we are both hopeful that, in spite of contending dogma, we may reach the heavenly gate in company; and it strikes me,” he added with a smile, “that if we do the good saint may give us both a welcoming smile.”

“Brother,” said Master Peasegood, leaning across the table, “if he had not one for you, I’d, I’d—bless me that I would—I’d take him to task about the fact.”

“Take him to task!”

“Ay! Remind him of a bit of weakness of his when a certain cock did crow.”

Father Brisdone looked up with a half-amused, half-sorrowful expression. Then, with a sigh:

“If the good saint had no welcome for my companion, and held the door open for me alone, I should feel that I had been mistaken all my life, join hands with my friend, and accompany him back.”

There was another hearty shake of the hand at this, and then the two friends sat and smoked in silence for a time.

“Look here, brother,” said Master Peasegood, suddenly; “we both love and like to direct sweet Mace, and leave another roaming about like a poor lost lamb. Now, why don’t you take up Mistress Anne Beckley? She is young, and easily moulded.”

“Nay,” was the reply; “I’d rather you tried your hand. I shall not seek to make her a proselyte to our cause.”

Master Peasegood sat gazing at his friend for a while, and then exclaimed—

“The news I gave you does not seem to have much effect.”

“What news?”

“That thou art a papist emissary, and come to purchase powder for a new plot.”

“Heaven grant that such a bloody and atrocious crime be not again upon the way. It makes me shudder to think that men could have such ideas, and say that they are in the cause of the Church.”

Father Brisdone spoke excitedly, and his pale face flushed as he rose and paced the room. “Oh, brother, we live in bitter times when men can think a good and gracious God could smile down upon such crimes.”

“Ah,” said Master Peasegood, re-lighting his little pipe, “you are a bad Catholic, and I no longer wonder that thou art left here by thy party.”

Father Brisdone looked back on him, and smiled.

“The captain has sailed,” said Master Peasegood.

“Yes; he asked me to keep a protecting eye over our child.”

“He did, did he? Then I have a counter turn with him. Why did he not ask me to play that part?”

“Because he knew thee of old, and that our child would be certain of thy protection.”

“Ah!” said Master Peasegood, with a sigh; “that girl is a great strain upon my mind—bless her!”

“Ay, bless her!” said Father Brisdone, fervently. Then, after a pause, “I may have to flee one of these days, for persecutions are sometimes very bitter against such as I. If I do go suddenly, you will remember all my words.”

“Remember them! Yes. But where should you go?”

“Throw myself upon the hands of Captain Carr, and trust to his generosity.”

“Yes, if at home; but he has sailed.”

“There are the woods and rocky hills.”

“Yes,” said Master Peasegood! “and plenty of blackberries, and hips and haws, and cold night-dews, and damp ferns. Bah, man, we can’t live like hermits here in this Christian land. This is not a place where a man can be happy in a hair-shirt and a scooped-out hole in the rock, with a handful of dates and a cup of water. My word, it would puzzle some of those early fathers to exist on such terms down here. But there, have no fear, there is not a man for miles round who would not give either of us a hiding-place and a regular meal if we were in need.”

“Brother Peasegood, you are a true friend,” said Father Brisdone; “and I shall resign myself to thy advice, for I am weak, and I own that I shrink from the thought of martyrdom; for life is, after all, so very sweet.”

“Of course it is, or it wouldn’t be given to us. Bah! When you meet with a man who talks much about the weariness and wretchedness of the world, depend upon it there is something wrong.”

Father Brisdone bowed his head. “I’m afraid I have a good deal of the evil one in me, brother,” said Master Peasegood, helping himself to more tobacco. “See here, I try this herb to see what it is like, so that I may be able to follow out his Majesty’s wishes, and duly preach it down; and how do I find myself? Why, tied neck and heels, and given over to the hands of the tempter.”

“Ah, yes,” said Father Brisdone, re-lighting his own pipe, “it is a soothing and seductive weed.”

“Then again, about you? Sir Thomas at the Moat twitted me again with our intimacy, as not becoming the parson of Roehurst, and I told him I was converting you fast.”

“An untruth, brother Peasegood.”

“Yes; but it slipped out unawares. Ah, Brother Francis, I’m afraid that I resemble the unjust steward, and am making friends with such as thou against the days when thy party has the ascendancy once more, and we Protestants are of small account.”

Father Brisdone shook his head sadly.

“Nay,” he said, “the day is gone; and, if it were not, thou art not the man to stand on the order of taking care of self. But was not that a step?”

They ceased speaking, for it was plainly enough a step, and directly after the door was unceremoniously opened and a figure stood on the threshold.

“Gilbert Carr!” cried Master Peasegood; “why I thought thee miles away.”

“And so I should be,” was the reply; “but I could not go without first saying a few words.”

Master Peasegood rose from his chair, and made way for his fresh visitor to take a seat; but Gil laid his hands upon the stout clerk’s shoulders, and gently pressed him back.

“Sit still,” he said; “I have not a minute to stay. I have come across from Curtport, and must be back at daybreak, or my vessel will have to wait another tide.”

“Have you a horse?”

“No; I walked,” said Gil, smiling.

“Why, it is nearly thirty miles,” said Father Brisdone.

“Quite,” was the reply. “Look here, Master Peasegood, I can speak before Father Brisdone, for he is a friend.”

“But first have bite and sup,” cried Master Peasegood, essaying to rise.

“I have both in my wallet here,” said Gil. “Now, listen to me: I am uneasy about matters at the house by the Pool.”

“And thou would’st have me watch over some one there?” said Master Peasegood.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Be easy in thy mind, then, lad, for it is done. Not that I favour thee, or think well of thy suit, mind; but rely on my taking care of the little treasure there.”

“I am content, Master Peasegood,” said Gil, holding out his hand.

“But you did not walk across country from Curtpool to tell me this?” said Master Peasegood.

“I did; and why not, Master Peasegood? There, my mission is ended, so good night to both.”

Before either could reply he had passed out into the darkness, and they heard his steps die away in the distance.

“A true-hearted, brave man!” said Father Brisdone, fervently. “Heaven’s blessing be upon him!”

“Heaven’s blessing be upon him, by all means,” said Master Peasegood drily; “and I hope it will do him good.”

“Why do you speak so cynically of the young man?”

“Because I don’t like him after all for our child, and he shall never have her with my consent.”

“Poor girl! And yet she loves him.”

“He’s not good enough man for her,” growled Master Peasegood.

“No man that I know is,” replied Father Brisdone. “But, there, we cannot dislike him for his love for one so sweet and true. Good night, brother; I must be for home. It grows late.”

“I’ll see thee half-way back,” cried Master Peasegood; and after a short walk with his friend he returned to his cottage, and was soon making the bed vibrate with his heavy breathing, which often degenerated into a snore. But he had not been sleeping many minutes before there was a loud pattering at the casement, one that was repeated again and again.

“He gave them hailstones for rain,” muttered Master Peasegood, in his sleep.

Patter, patter, patter again at the casement, when Master Peasegood started up, and the bed gave forth a dismal groan.

Patter, patter, patter at the window once more.

“There’s some one ill,” said the stout clerk, and, rising hastily, while the bedstead emitted a sound like a sigh of relief, he threw on his old gown, went to the window and threw it open.

“Hallo!” he cried.

“Hallo, parson,” came up out of the darkness in a deep growl.

“What is it thou, old son of Belial,” said Master Peasegood, sourly, for he had been awakened from a pleasant sleep.

“Ay, Wat Kilby it is.”

“I thought thee with thy master, far at sea—safe enough, for thou’lt be hanged some day, Wat Kilby, and never drowned.”

“Thou’rt a false prophet,” growled Wat Kilby.

“Thou’rt a villainous old unbeliever, worse than a Jew!” cried Master Peasegood, angrily.

“I wish all thy country flock were as good as Jews, parson.”

“I wish they were,” said Master Peasegood, angrily. “And now why art thou here?”

“We’re at anchor. Skipper’s ashore.”

“He was here an hour ago, man.”

“Eh? Was he then? I must get me back. Here, hold down thy hand; I’ve brought thee some tobacco. I know thou’rt converted, parson, and can smoke.”

“I’ll come down, if I can convert thee, Wat Kilby.”

“Convert me, Master Peasegood; why, what’s amiss with me?”

“Amiss, thou wicked old reprobate? Why thou’rt an open sinner, and never com’st to church.”

“Eh, but I would if thou’dst let me smoke my pipe by the open door.”

“Then you are repenting of your evil ways.”

“Nay, I’ve nothing to repent of, but a love or two.”

“And spiriting away poor Abel Churr.”

“Nay, parson, I never did; I wish I had,” growled Wat.

“Then that’s as bad.”

“Nay, parson, don’t preach; I arn’t a bad ’un after all. I always tries, and gets along pretty well for a time, but, just as I’ve got as perfect as can be, down comes the devil with a pretty girl, and then I’m done.”

“Out upon thee, Wat Kilby, my cheeks burn with shame.”

“Ay, it do make the cheeks burn, parson. But it always was so, parson, and that’s the devil’s way. He always did serve me so, and you may preach at me and preach, and preach, and preach, but unless you can preach all the pretty women off the earth, if you’re right in what you say, I’m sartain to be burnt.”

“But you must resist the devil and he’ll flee, Wat Kilby.”

“Nay: not he, parson. He knows his man too well. There, it’s all no good. Reach down thy hand—got it. That’s well.”

“Thanks, Wat Kilby. Man, it is a goodly offering of the precious weed.”

“Thou and the king said it was devilish poison.”

“Ah, um, yes; but my ideas are being modified, my man. And now what does this mean?”

“Well, you see, parson, it’s all about a woman I have come.”

“Is this a time man to speak about a wedding?”

“Yes, parson; when you have to go by orders.”

“Well speak out quick, for the night is chill.”

“I will, parson. It’s like this: I love pretty Mistress Janet at the Pool.”

“For a grandchild, Wat Kilby?”

“Nay, master; for a wife. I wanted to get speech of her, but could not get me near. Tell her, and keep thy eye on her as well, that Wat Kilby han’t forgot, and will come back and wed her.”

“Well man, well?”

“And I ask thee, parson, not to wed her to any other man.”

“But man, how can I help—”

“Why, forbid it all, and I’ll sattle down to be a better man and come to church when I be not at sea. Sometimes I’ll come and sit in the porch o’ Sunday afternoons. And now I must hasten to catch the skipper. Tell her from me, parson, Wat Kilby will come and make her an honest woman, and be true; and now good night.”

“Here, stop, you vile old sinner!” cried Master Peasegood, but he only heard old Wat Kilby striding rapidly away, and after listening for a few moments he closed the lattice with a slam.

“The place gets worse the more I preach,” he cried, angrily. “Master and man. A nice charge, verily—but Wat and that Janet! My preaching must be stronger, yet. That wicked wench!”

Five minutes later Master Peasegood was fast asleep, and the casement-frames vibrated to his snore.

How the Game went against Master Cobbe.

A very different scene was enacting at the Pool-house on that very evening. Sir Mark had spent the day mostly out of doors, and had sought out the founder, who, finding that he made no further allusions to his child, but turned the conversation to the works, readily showed him the busy tasks in progress, where, about a mile from the house, men were digging ironstone from out of a pit. Then on the way back he pointed with pride to the deep hole in the face of a precipitous mass of stone, where the shell had torn for itself a place in which to explode, and then rent out the rock in splintered fragments, which lay about side by side with the pieces of iron of which the shell was composed.

“Does that hole go in far?” said Sir Mark, eyeing it curiously.

“Goodness knows,” was the reply. “Deep enough. That shot would destroy part of an enemy’s stronghold, or drive in the side of a ship. But come, and you shall see them get ready a furnace for my next gun.”

Sir Mark followed, and watched the process as layers of ironstone were alternated with charcoal from a mighty heap that lay hard by.

A visit to one of the powder-sheds came next, after Sir Mark had left outside his sword, dagger, and spurs.

“Are you not too particular?” he said, rather disdainfully.

“Not a bit,” was the bluff reply. “Would’st have his Majesty’s Ambassador blown into fragments, like one of my shells? I am none too particular,” he said, as he saw his companion shudder. “I have had so many accidents here that you must allow me to know what is best.”

After this Sir Mark seemed disposed to shirk the visit, but he made an effort, and walked through the place more manfully, looking with curious eyes at the dull black grains, or masses of composition in an unfinished state.

“How would his Majesty like a run through here?” said the founder, with a chuckle. “Powder will always have an ill savour in his nostrils.”

It was with no little sense of relief that Sir Mark found himself outside, close by the shed where the great howitzer had been placed, and at his solicitation the founder readily consented to have the gun out once more, and with boyish eagerness devoted himself to test the powers of the piece and its bursting shells, when loaded after Gil’s own fashion.

At last the founder and his guest had returned, partaken of the evening meal, which Mace dispensed with the calmness of one whose heart was quite at rest; and finally she had retired to find occasion to take Janet to task for being giggling and whispering in the shrubbery with one of Sir Mark’s gaily-dressed men, for by dint of careful drying and smoothing, the traces of the plunge into the mill-race had been made to disappear.

“Now, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark, “let us calmly and in friendly spirit talk over our affairs again. Suppose you fill your glass.”

“That I will,” said the founder; “and you do the same.”

“I’ll drink with you and welcome,” said Sir Mark, filling his glass, nodding, and then wetting his lips, while the founder took a hearty draught.

“That’s better,” he said. “And now, sir, what is it to be—a good order for his Majesty’s troops?”

“Yes, and fortune for you Master Cobbe. This order will be but the introduction to many. Why should you not be ordnance-master to his Majesty?”

“Why, indeed, my lad,” said the founder, composedly. “I should gain, of course, but the King would be no loser.”

“Then why not have it so, Master Cobbe. Come, I appeal to you—I plead to you. Are you blind to your daughter’s advantages? I am not a moneyed man, but I offer position and a title.”

“If I sell her to thee,” said the founder, looking through the wine in his glass.

“Tush! Why call things by such hard names? ’tis no sale—I love her dearly, and to help my cause I own that I do try to press upon thee by means of the interest I have at court.”

“What should I make by your order, Sir Mark?” said the founder, musingly.

“How can I tell?” cried Sir Mark, eagerly. “What do I know of the profits? All I know is that I can give you an order for guns and ammunition, to the value of three thousand pounds, to be paid in hard coin. You shall supply as many of those great howitzers and shells as you can, and then take on more men and make others, for from what I have seen of the performance of those guns you have made both name and fortune.”

The founder sat gazing through his wine again, as if musing, and the visitor watched the play of his features with anxiety.

“Harkye, Master Cobbe,” he whispered, “I offer marriage and a place at court for your child. Of course I know that there has been some love-talk between her and this Carr, as they call him, but he has sailed away, and what could be a better opportunity for my suit?”

“But, suppose she loves this Gilbert Carr, Sir Mark?”

“Tush, man; a girl’s fancy! She will forget him in a week. The sight of a wedding-dress would drive him out of her head. You but give me access to her and your aid, and, trust me, she will be a willing bride. There, it is settled, is it not?”

“Sir Mark Leslie,” said the founder, sitting back in his chair; “if you could offer me ten times three thousand pounds in orders I would say the same. Sir, I am a bluff south-country yeoman, and I would sooner become the meanest beggar that crawls than sell my poor child as I would chaffer away a gun. There, I’ll listen to no more. Stay, if you please; you are just as welcome. But I’ll hear no more from you or any man upon this point.”

He gazed frankly into his guest’s eye as Sir Mark’s brow knit, and the young man strove hard to keep down the annoyance he felt at the rejection of his suit by this, in his eyes, common man.

For some minutes neither spoke, and then Sir Mark began in a low husky voice.

“Master Cobbe, I have come to you offering you friendship, and you reject it. I cannot be your enemy for your child’s sake; but you compel me to bring force to bear.”

“Force, sir, what force?” cried the founder angrily. “Do you mean you’ll carry her away? ’fore Heaven I warn you that the lives of you and your servants would not be worth a snap of the fingers did you try such a thing. There are more men here in this neighbourhood than you think for, ready and willing to fight for her at word of mine.”

“No, Master Cobbe; the force I bring to bear is of another sort. Mind, you bring me to this by your obstinate rejection of my suit. I now tell you that Mace must and shall be my wife, and that you will give her to me.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes,” said Sir Mark, “and soon. Listen: I hold the power here to seize upon this place in his Majesty’s name; to arrest you for high treason as the man who supplied his Majesty’s enemies, and as one who is now in league with papist emissaries. Stop, sir, hear me out. You are leagued with one Father Brisdone, a notorious follower of Spain; with a rough adventurer named Carr, who is more pirate than trader. In fact, you and yours are attainted, and at a word from me ruin falls upon you all.”

“And you will do all this with two men whom the very boys who work for me would throw into the Pool?”

“I came in peace, with two men only, Master Cobbe; but a messenger would fetch twenty, fifty, or a hundred good swordsmen and harquebusiers to my side to seize your person, raze the works to the ground, and then—yes, then, Master Cobbe, your daughter would become an easy prize.”

“What you say is all false!” cried the founder, who sat aghast as he felt what a web the man before him had contrived to spread around.

“False or true, I am no judge, Master Cobbe. I am here to execute the King’s commands. The case is left in my hands to act as I see fit. If you prove a good subject of his Majesty, and supply him with the ordnance, well. If you refuse, you stamp yourself a rebel, and as one guilty of high treason.”

“But I do not refuse, Sir Mark; I offer to supply his Majesty.”

“You refuse the proposal of his servant.”

“Did his Majesty bid thee truck and bargain with me, making my child the price at which I should obtain this order?” said the founder, curtly.

“His Majesty bade me do what seemed the best,” said Sir Mark; “so what is it to be, Master Cobbe—Peace or war?”

“War,” cried the founder, angrily; and he brought his fist down heavily on the table.

“As you will, Master Cobbe; but I warn you of your folly. You lose heavily in wealth and liberty, and you deprive your child of her natural protector, leaving her almost entirely at my mercy.”

“No,” cried the founder, “not so. If by your lies and trickery I am snatched from her, there are two men who would take upon themselves the part of guardian. Father Brisdone would—”

“Be in prison or a fugitive,” said Sir Mark, quietly.

“Then Master Peasegood would—”

“Be suspended from his office for evil dealing, and allowing himself to be won over to the Papist cause.”

“Then I’d trust Gil Carr, and bid him wed my child.”

“Gilbert, otherwise Culverin, Carr’s ship, when it returned, would by my orders be watched and seized, as a suspected vessel, and its captain and crew imprisoned to await their trial.”

“Then Sir Thomas Beckley, justice and just man, with all his faults, would protect my daughter.”

“Sir Thomas Beckley might be called upon to seize the person of Mistress Mace Cobbe, for divers malpractices, held in common with a woman here known as Mother Goodhugh, a notorious witch. His Majesty has determined to put down and root out of his kingdom all those vile traffickers with the works of darkness, and has placed great power in the hands of the magistrates of this realm.”

“What!” cried the founder, half in anger, half-laughing. “My child a witch!”

“I say not so, Master Cobbe; I only speak of the common report. Both thy daughter and her maid have been regular visitors to this notorious woman, and by this they have exposed themselves to great risk; for to be attainted now of witchcraft, even of holding communion with the powers of darkness, may mean the stake.”

“Curse thy quibbling, glib, plot-weaving ways?” cried the founder. “Failing those I have named there is not a man, woman, or boy in Roehurst who would not raise a hand for the white moth.”

“Yes,” said Sir Mark, quickly; “that is it. Even that tells against her. She is known commonly as the White Moth of Roehurst; and there are those who whisper that she is a witch.”

“Sir Mark Leslie!” cried the founder, who was white with anger, “I will not quarrel with thee again. I forgot myself once towards my guest; I hope to control myself now, but you try me sore.”

“It grieves me, Master Cobbe, and, though I speak this, it is not as an enemy but as a friend. I merely place my position before you, and say is it not better to avoid all this trouble, when instead the way is open to wealth and honour, and a peaceful old age?”

“Who and what are you?” cried the founder, passionately; “and why do you come to disturb my peaceful home?”

“I am his Majesty’s servant, Master Cobbe. I came here at his command to investigate certain malpractices alleged against thee. I found them to be true, but I found here also a greater king than his Majesty James the First. I found here that all-powerful monarch—Love, and, vanquished by him, I suffered thy sword; I made reports that softened thy case; I returned from my mission with so goodly an account that the King gave me leave to offer thee honour and wealth if, in place of being of doubtful allegiance, thou becomest his faithful liege subject, and work for him as you have been accused of working for others. There, Master Cobbe, it is late, and thou art angry. Think over it all; sleep on it; take time to consider. I am one who can wait; for, believe me, I would rather see thee honoured than know that a lingering imprisonment was sapping thy vital forces and bringing thee low. Good night, Master Cobbe, good night.”

Sir Mark held out his hand, but it was not noticed; the founder sitting back in his stiff old-fashioned chair, and going over the words of his guest, who, with a peculiar smile, glanced at him mockingly, and slowly ascended to his chamber, leaving his host to sit thinking hour after hour, and at last to stumble off heavily to bed with the feeling upon him that he had been playing at some game with heavy stakes, and that the luck had been all upon the other side.

How Mistress Anne was Unquiet, and how the Founder came to Terms.

The coming back of Sir Mark had the effect of driving Mace to her room, where she stayed as much as possible. Gil need have had no jealous fears, could he have read her heart, for her every thought was of him. Seated at her window, looking over the Pool, her eyes might be gazing at some azure kingfisher darting across the shallows, or seated on some twig, ready to plunge down and emerge from the water with the drops falling like glistening pearls from its sides, as it bore away a tiny silvery fish; or her pensive look be fixed upon the heron, so grey and lank of mien, standing motionless, deep in the water, amidst the varied aquatic growth, where it seemed at times to launch its long beak, like some javelin, at a luckless fish, to stab or seize it for its prey; or at even, when the soft wreaths of mist came floating over the Pool, she watched the flight of the owl as it uttered its peculiar cry, and swept by so softly that it passed as noiselessly as a ghost, while the white moths flitted and danced amidst the roses round her casement by night, as the golden flies and gauzy-winged dragons darted and played about in the sun. By soft balmy day, or cool delicious dreamy night, Mace sat at her window, watching and thinking, but it was always of the white sails of a ship, ever gliding farther and farther away.

These thoughts formed her bright dreams, to which she turned when fancies about Sir Mark became obtrusive; for the days glided on, and he stayed, growing each hour more courtly and respectful to her. While he was bright and full of compliments she could fence with him, and turn away the points of his speeches, but now that he had become grave and earnest she was full of fears.

A greater cause for fear though was the conduct of her father, who seemed to be giving way to their guest, though at times he broke out with his old independent ways, and appeared to be setting him at defiance.

Mace was puzzled, for she could not comprehend her father’s manner. He had never been more tender and affectionate, but there was something behind which troubled her.

Sir Mark left at last, to her great relief, and for the next fortnight she was as joyous as a bird, singing about the house, and in the highest of spirits, when, to her horror, the guest returned, accompanied by a dozen well-armed followers, who proved to be artisans, and began work the very next morning, assisting the founder’s staff.