"Sweet Mace" (continued 6)

Then by degrees it leaked out that Sir Mark had brought a great order from the King for guns and their ammunition—an order that must lead to wealth for the founder, who was busy almost night and day.

At the end of another week half-a-score more men arrived, to be distributed through the village, lodging with different workmen, whom they assisted during the day.

They were nominally in the founder’s service, and he paid them their weekly wage, but they looked to Sir Mark for guidance in all else saving the work at the foundry, and to Master Cobbe came plenty of complaints.

For Roehurst was no longer what it had been. Sir Mark’s followers brought with them London ways, and an amount of freedom which the founder’s men had on more than one occasion to resent; though certain maidens, notably Janet, at the Pool-house, and Polly, the handmaid of Mistress Anne, thought that the place had never been so gay and bright before.

And all the time the furnaces roared and made liquid the iron from the hills which had grown the wood-coal that supplied the heat, while careful moulds were made by the founder himself, who watched the casting of every piece.

Then powder was made in large quantities, and carefully stowed away in Master Cobbe’s magazine, a cool, deep, stone cavern, half natural, half cut in the soft sand-rock.

From being generally calm and peaceful, the place now grew to be like a busy hive. Nearly every day Mace shuddered as the casements rattled with the explosion of some great piece which was being tested, and in this part of the business Sir Mark took great interest himself. Butts were made, and targets set up for practice, and one by one great black howitzers were turned out, considered perfect, and then placed aside ready for sending to London, or to one of the shipping-ports upon the coast.

Every now and then came a messenger from some one high in authority in the great city, and the despatch he bore was duly perused and replied to by Sir Mark; who passed the greater part of his time at the foundry, but paid occasional visits to the Moat, where he was always most courteously received. There were cold grave looks for the young knight at the Pool-house, but always smiles and side-long glances at the Moat; but somehow the cold, grave looks only inflamed his passion, while the sight of Mistress Anne begat dislike.

But she knew well enough how to play her part, and though after Sir Mark’s departure Polly had her ears well boxed for the first remark she made—Dame Beckley fled to her garden of simples to seek for peace, as if it were some cunning plant—and Sir Thomas blew out his cheeks, opened his eyes, and then went into his sanctum to study the King’s work on witchcraft—the tremendous storms that arose never spread outside the precincts of the Moat, and Sir Mark believed the lady to be simplicity and gentleness itself.

These visits of Sir Mark brought wealth to one inhabitant of Roehurst, to wit, Mother Goodhugh, who always received a visit from Anne Beckley directly after the visitor had left; when the old woman, who had been cunning enough to learn all the news of the place, was ready enough in pointing out how matters were working for her good.

“Don’t be afraid, dearie,” she said one day, after going through a good deal of mummery. “That spell seemed to point to the fact that Captain Gil was to be thy lord, but his terrible crime has changed all that, and Sir Mark will marry thee.”

“But he is always there!” cried Anne.

“Well, child, is it not to be near to thee? Don’t you fear. Ask thy maiden Polly to question Janet Burger, and she will learn that Mace and Sir Mark hardly meet, and when they do she be as cold as so much ice.”

“Yes,” said Anne; “that is true enough.”

“And how did you know, dearie?”

“I bade Polly question Janet.”

“Then you see how right I am, my child. Oh, yes; it will all work right. Trust me, the gallant youth be only down here that he may be near to thee.”

A few days later Anne Beckley arrived at the cottage with flaming eyes.

“Mother Goodhugh,” she cried, “you failed before, but now you must try, and try well, to work some spell on that creature at the Pool.”

“And why, child?”

“Because I hear it said that Sir Mark is going to marry her.”

“Tchch! nonsense! What put that silly notion in thine head?”

“It is true. It came from Janet.”

“Oh, pay no heed to her, my dearie. Only trust to me and all will come right in the end.”

“But, mother,” began Anne, impatiently.

“Nay, nay, child, all you have to do is to wait and see. I promise thee again that thy gallant shall never wed Jeremiah Cobbe’s child; and it will be well for her if she does not perish at the stake.”

Anne Beckley looked curiously at the old woman, who met her eyes with a malicious leer.

“Ay, ay,” she said, laughing; “you’re thinking some one else might perish there, but we keep our own secrets, child, and we shall not denounce one another. Besides, our little spells are only innocent love affairs, and we keep our own counsel, dearie, only too well. Ah, I shall be glad to see thee happily wedded to the man of thy choice, and then the present you make me will keep me to the end of my days.”

It was with a strange sense of uneasiness that the two women parted; Anne biting one of her fingers as she told herself that she was an idiot to listen to the drivellings of that old woman, and yet feeling a curious superstitious dread of her, and belief that she could exercise some influence on her destiny.

“Let her mind, though,” she muttered: “let her be careful how she behaves to me. I could denounce her as a witch, only she is very dangerous; but what did she mean by saying we and one another? She dare not say I join with her.”

On the other side Mother Goodhugh watched her out of sight, and then entered her cottage, shaking her fist threateningly in the direction Anne had taken, and a laugh of no very pleasant kind escaped her lips.

“There are other philtres besides love-philtres, my dear,” she said; “and if she thinks that she will crush me she will make a great mistake.”

Mother Goodhugh might laugh the words of Janet to scorn, but that astute maiden had eyes and ears always on the qui vive for fresh news. She gave a great deal of her attention to one or another of Sir Mark’s followers, but all the same there was a willing smile for Sir Mark himself when he condescended to notice her, which was not seldom; and in spite of the freedom of her own temperament, and the liberality with which she would bestow a favour upon first one and then another, she was jealous enough in disposition to angrily resent Sir Mark’s attentions to her mistress. Hence it was that she was often on the watch, and always on the listen, with the result that by degrees she saw the founder after a hard fight gradually give way to the pressure brought to bear.

For a long time Mace could not believe it, but by degrees her eyes became opened to the fact that Sir Mark was daily getting more influence over her father.

Naturally avaricious, the founder could not withstand the temptations thrown in his way by his guest, who was diplomatic enough to be content with a little advance at a time.

The founder held out for a while, and told himself that he would not submit to this upstart from court; but, as he went over again and again the position in which he stood, he could not help seeing how troublous might be the condition into which he could be brought by an enemy.

At first he did not scruple to call his visitor an enemy, and a bitter enemy, but by degrees the thoughts of gaining thousands, of occupying the position of first ordnance-founder to the King, softened him, and the effect of Sir Mark’s words was shown in his saying to himself that it was after all but a fair thing for a man in love to try all he could to win the object of his choice.

It was the entry of the enemy into the outer works of the founder’s fortress, and as Sir Mark quietly went on sapping and mining so did Jeremiah Cobbe give way.

“I want to do the best I can for my child,” he said to himself, one evening, as he stood watching the great wheel go round. “She must not listen to Gil Carr, for that would be destroying her young life, even if he should prove to be innocent. No, that would never do, and she is getting weaned from him. He’s a fine fellow, but not good enough to be my darling’s mate.”

Then over his pipe at night he sat and considered, after Sir Mark had left him, their converse for the evening having probably been of the merits of iron or brass pieces, for the guest was cunning enough to see that with patience the besieged would fall. How would it be if he did give way? This Sir Mark was haughty, and over-bearing, and proud, but he was a gentleman, high in favour at court. He was poor certainly, but he could give his wife a great position.

“And he was honest over it,” said the founder, refilling his pipe; “I like him for that. He said he had no money. Humph, perhaps he’d like to get hold of mine! Well, and if he did he’d put me in the way of making more. First ordnance-founder to his Majesty King James!

“No—no—no!” he cried, rising to go to bed, “I’ll not give way. It would be like selling her, and I love her too well for that.”

It was clever, the way in which Sir Mark flattered the founder’s vanity. There might have been no Mace in the world, only that he was courteous and reverent to her in the extreme when they met at meals, for he never mentioned her name, but followed the founder like a shadow, inquiring into the toughness of this iron and that, and delighting his dupe by laying aside his showy doublet to take part in the trial of some piece, to come away as besmirched with powder as Gil himself.

“There’s stuff in the fellow,” said the founder; “and I blame him for what is, after all, only his education.”

The fortress was beginning to give way.

“Courts have their peculiarities, and he, fresh from ordering and commanding, thought he could do as he liked with me. It was fine, too, the way he whipped out his sword when I damned the King.”

The founder laughed heartily, and wiped the tears out of his eyes, for he was again sitting alone before retiring for the night.

“Well, it was brave and true of him. A man who would risk his life like that for the honour of his master must be a noble gentleman at heart, and would make a good husband.”

He shook his head at that, and once more went to bed.

The next night he was sitting alone again, indulging in his evening pipe.

“Poor little darling, it would bring some tears in her eyes if I did consent, and give her to him as his wife. Give; yes, give! I would not sell her; but, after all, what a position for her! I think I should like it; and, after all, I am but mortal. Why should I not wear velvet and a gold chain, and strut about as Sir Jeremiah Cobbe, Master of the King’s Ordnance?”

He refilled his glass and pipe and smiled to himself, for the stones were getting very loose, and the walls of the outworks were tottering to their fall.

“My darling, too, my lady—Dame Mace Leslie. Hang the honours for myself! I’d give something, though, to see my little maiden in her gay stomacher and fardingale, with jewel-studded coif, and lace ruff, go rustling into court, all abloom with her youth and beauty, the envy of everybody in the place.”

He sat and smoked as he pictured the scene.

“God bless her!” he cried; “there wouldn’t be one there who was her equal. My word, how they’d all gird as they feasted their eyes on the daughter of Jeremiah Cobbe!

“Pah! What idiots my old people were! Jeremiah! What a name for a stout-hearted Englishman! I think we did better in calling our darling Mace. I don’t know, though,” he muttered; “it don’t seem to go well with Dame.

“Humph! I wonder what her poor mother would say, whether she would hold out as I have done.”

He sat on thinking till long past midnight, with the sapping and mining of Sir. Mark insidiously doing its work, though the founder heeded it not.

“Curse the money,” he said; “I care not a jot for that, but am I doing right in standing like this in my darling’s light? Suppose I said yea to Sir Mark’s proposal, and let him become her suitor? What then?”

He sat and smoked out his pipe to the very ash, and then thought on as he sucked at the empty bowl:—

“Ay, what then?”

Jeremiah Cobbe sat there the long night through, and at early dawn only went up to his chamber, where, after a refreshing wash, he sat and thought again before going down, as the workers came from the various cottages to their daily toil.

As he stood by one of the windows gazing out he saw his child in the garden culling flowers, and Sir Mark watching her, but he did not follow her, only went away with bent head, and stood leaning over the breech of a gun.

The founder stayed thinking again for a little while, and then, drawing a long breath, he crossed the intervening space, clapped the young man on the shoulder, and held out his hand.

“Give me your word as a gentleman, Sir Mark, that your suit shall be in all kindliness and love,—that you will use no undue pressure, but wait patiently for my consent,—and—you understand?”

“I promise,” said Sir Mark, earnestly, as he laid his hand in that of the founder, fighting hard the while to keep down a triumphant look.

Hand clasped hand, and, as if moved by the same influence, the two parties to the unholy bargain glanced towards the house, at whose door stood Mace, gazing at them with labouring, unquiet breast, for a greater trouble than that of her father’s warlike weapons now assailed her heart.

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.

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.

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.

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.

How Tom Croftly spoke his Mind.

It was soon known in Roehurst that Captain Culverin had returned from his voyage, and Sir Mark ground his teeth with rage as he heard the news.

“The more need to get the matter over,” he said to himself; and he had at once a long interview with the founder, one which set him more at ease, for it was decided then and there that the wedding should he that day week, and Mace was summoned to hear her fate.

She heard it without a word, and from that day forward went about the house like one in a dream, but with a strange feeling of excitement ever growing in her brain.

Wedding clothes lay about her room, and presents, but she hardly glanced at them. At one of her interviews with Sir Mark she had begged that she might be left much alone, and to her great relief this was accorded to her, and she waited for the eventful eve.

She longed to visit Father Brisdone at his hiding-place in the old ironstone pit, but she dared not go, for whenever she set foot beyond the scattered houses she found either Sir Mark or a couple of his men following upon her track. She had this consolation, however, that Gil was evidently in communication with the father, for he had promised to have him on board.

At first she was all excitement to know whether Sir Mark had heard her speaking to him; but she felt sure at last that this had not been so, and so she waited.

Two or three times over her heart was in a flutter, for there were well-known voices about the place, as Gil’s men arrived escorting some dozens of the country-carts chartered to bear to the foundry-works load after load of dirty-looking saltpetre bags, and sacks of pure, pale yellow stone.

These were dangerous times, for all were well-armed, and there was risk enough of encounters between the sailors and Sir Mark’s men, for the former gazed with jealous eyes at the position taken by the latter amongst their old friends; while the latter, who knew of the treatment of two of their companions, longed for an open quarrel and a fight.

But the orders were strict on both sides, Gil making Wat Kilby scowl as he gave the most stern commands as to the behaviour of the men when in the little village; and so, day after day, loads and loads of the special commodities were landed and carried away, and Gil made no effort to see his love or even speak.

Mace asked her trembling heart whether Gil would know which was the wedding eve, as if he would not be sure; and so great was her desire to hear of the condition of Father Brisdone that she daily made a journey to Tom Croftly’s cottage, where the news she heard was always good; and the father sent her messages to be of good cheer, for he was safe.

These visits seemed to puzzle the followers of Sir Mark, who himself had his suspicions that they were made by appointment, and that she here made rendezvous with Gil; but following her one day, the most he saw was a small basket of provisions and a little flask of wine, all of which he set down to charity, and walked back with her quite content.

The unloading of Gil’s ship continued rapidly, and the followers of Sir Mark heard one or two mysterious communications about the strange processions that sometimes were seen in out-of-the-way parts at night, but their orders were to keep close to the Pool-house, and no expeditions were made to see what the processions meant.

In short, there was a lull in the little hamlet—the calm that precedes a storm—and women whispered that Mother Goodhugh had been foretelling that the time of evil for the house of Cobbe was close at hand.

Sir Mark seemed to be passing his time in busily superintending the despatch of the last piece that had been finished, after careful proof, and then in idling about the woods, or rowing upon the Pool, while the preparations for the wedding still went on.

Once or twice he occupied himself with shooting the wild fowl with arquebus or cross-bow, but all the same his eyes and ears were attent to every change.

Now that the news must have reached the Moat, he studiously avoided visiting there, for he half-laughingly wondered what Anne Beckley would say.

Jeremiah Cobbe was of opinion that his intended son-in-law was trying to make friends with all the people about the place, so frequent were his visits from cot to cot; but this was not so, for he was busy trying to learn all he could about Gil’s whereabouts and habits; an inquisition in which he was aided by Master Tarpling, the temporary resident parson; but the total of their knowledge when added up amounted to nil.

Once or twice did the founder hesitate as to the course he was pursuing, but in his business encounters with Gil he found him calm and stern, and it struck him that Mace had of late grown resigned; so he let matters drift, fully aware though he was that Sir Mark would now have forced him to keep to his word should he have shown any disposition to draw back.

“He’ll make her a good husband,” he said to himself. “She don’t fancy it, perhaps, at first; but a father must be the best judge of what is for his child’s happiness.”

He was down at one of his powder-sheds, busying himself, and thinking that the Pool-house would soon be no longer the same, when he came upon Croftly, who, on the strength of his old service, said what he pleased.

“Oh, look here, Tom,” said the founder, “Thursday’s to be the wedding-day; you ought to set the men to work getting ready something in honour of the event. It’s a busy time, but I shall not take any notice if some of you stop to rig up a sort of arch.”

“Rig up!” said Tom Crofty. “Hadn’t you better ask some of the Captain’s men? It’s more in their way.”

“No, no,” said the founder, hastily. “Make an arch of green boughs and flowers, and that sort of thing. You know better than I do; go up to the village and bid the men get the case of viols, and let there be a dance—the girls will be pleased. Tell the men they shall have their shilling and plenty of ale; and you can get some powder—a keg of coarse black—and the two little old guns, and fire ’em off. You can have what wood you like, too, for a bonfire at night. Do the thing well, my lad, and take a holiday all of you. I’ll find the ale.”

Tom Croftly took off his cap, and wiped his grimy brow with a blacker hand, as he seated himself on the bottom of an empty keg.

“We had a girt meeting ’bout it in the ’ood last night, master,” said Croftly; “and talked it all over.”

“Oh, you did?” said the founder, looking pleased. “Well, and what did you settle?”

“First find foremost, master, we sattled that we’d muffle the three bells up in the tower o’ the church.”

“Why, it’s two miles away, man, and the sound wouldn’t hardly be heard here.”

“And then we’d toll ’em all day long.”

“Toll them?” cried the founder.

“Ay, master, for it be like to us as if young mistress had been put in her grave.”

“Nonsense, my lad. She’ll come back sometimes. And it’s a happy day for her.”

“Happy, eh, master?” said Croftly roughly. “Look here, you asked for this, so you may as well have it slap i’ th’ mooth. I talked to the boys, and they talked to me; and at last of all they, swore as they’d be damned, every man Jack of ’em, if they didn’t treat the whole thing as a fun’ral, and that, if any of Sir Mark’s chaps tried to get up an ale shouting, they’d shove ’em in the Pool.”

“But you musn’t take it like that, Tom,” cried the founder. “It’s very good of the lads to take on so about losing their young mistress, but you must rejoice. It’s to be a happy day.”

“She looks like it, master,” cried Tom. “Why her face be terrifying. Where be her bright sperrits, and her sparkling eyes? Don’t you make a mistake about it, master. We don’t take on about losing her, none of us, and we’d half bust every old gun on the place and raise such a girt bonfire as would set the country alight, if she was going to wed the man of her choice. But this gay fly-golding ladybird chap fro’ London! Ah, master, you be doing wrong, and that be what we all say.”

“You, Tom Croftly,” roared the founder, angrily, as he writhed beneath the lash of his man’s words, “how dare you speak to me like that?”

“Cause it be right,” said Croftly, stoutly. “Haven’t she and the captain been like two lovers ever since they was little children, and sent my heart in my mouth to see ’em playing so nigh the edge of the race?”

“I will not listen to such insolence,” cried the founder. “You, Tom Croftly, come for your wage on Saturday night, and give up the cottage the week after.”

“And maybe you’ll put William Goodley in my place, eh?” said the foreman.

“Maybe I shall,” cried the founder. “You ungrateful rascal!”

“Nay,” said the foreman, “you need not trouble yourself, mas’ Bill Goodley would not step into my shoes, nor another man in the place. And, just to show as I beant ungrateful as you say, I’ll stop on.”

“Stop on!” roared the founder. “Ay, stop on. Haven’t you just took another good order? Haven’t you got all that ’ood ready for the colliers; and haven’t you just got in a shipload of sulphur and Chinese salt? Lookye here, mas’, you don’t know, I s’pose, that if I left here every man and boy would go as well. No, master, we beant ungrateful, none of us; but we don’t like to see our young mistress sold, and him as should have had her thrown over.”

“And pray who is that?” cried the founder.

“Captain Culverin, mas’; that be the man she meant to have.”

“A wild adventurer—a man who murdered that wretch Churr.”

“Nay, master, there beant a man of us here who thinks that he did,” said the workman, sturdily; “and if Captain Gil was here you wouldn’t say it to he.”

“I am here, Tom Croftly,” said Gil, stepping into the big powder-shed, “and I thank you and your fellows for your good opinion. But take no notice of this. Master Cobbe here does not believe what he said.”

“But I do,” cried the founder, furiously.

“Tom Croftly,” said Gil, quietly, but with a flush in his cheek, “go, and leave me with Master Cobbe here. I want to talk with him.”

“All right, captain!” said the workman. “Bah!” he added to himself, “if he be’d the lad I thought him, he’d make no more ado but upset the whole of this London trade, and carry young mistress off. I would.”

“Now, Gil Carr,” cried the founder, as soon as they were alone. “We’ve done our business. You’ve delivered all your cargo that I want, and you’ve been paid your money. Wouldn’t it have been more decent if you had kept away?”

“Perhaps so, Master Cobbe; but there are times when a man feels that he must speak. But, first of all, why do you rake up that wretched story about Abel Churr?”

“Because I believe it,” cried the founder, angrily.

“Nay, you do not. You know I am innocent, or I should not dare to come to you now, and ask you by all you hold dear to give up this wretched business.”

“What wretched business?” cried the founder.

“I mean this proposed marriage. Listen to me, Master Cobbe. You have known me from a boy. I have been wayward and rough, perhaps, but fairly honest, for my love for Mace has kept me a better man than I should have been.”

“What does all this mean, Gil Carr?”

“It means, sir, that I make my last appeal to you before it is too late. I love Mace dearly. Give up this wedding and wait a year—two years—any time you will, till you are satisfied I am innocent of the death of Abel Churr, and then give me your consent. Don’t condemn us both to a life of wretchedness and pain.”

Gil had made his appeal at the wrong time. No matter when he had come, he would have met with a stern refusal; but now, when the founder was irritated beyond measure to find the echo of his own feelings in the breast of his very workmen, who, with true British sturdiness, refused to a man to take part in what they looked upon as the selling of his child, he was unable to contain himself, and the pent-up anger came pouring forth.

“Go!” he cried, white with rage, as he pointed to the entry. “Go, ere I’m mad enough to strike. Thou hast come now to try and breed fresh dissension—to try and raise my poor, foolish child in rebellion against me. I am not a man of blood, but, look you, your presence near my house from now till when this wedding has taken place will be the signal for my people, or those of Sir Mark, to use force.”

“But you will not let the wedding take place, Master Cobbe? For all our sakes, pause in time.”

“In time!” cried the founder; “what do you mean? There, no more.”

As he spoke he turned and hurried out of the powder-shed, and past two or three more, to enter at last one of the stone buildings, where the casting was carried on; but Gil stuck to his heels, following him closely without noticing Sir Mark, who, on catching sight of him, raised a finger as a signal to one of his men.

“You will not sell poor Mace like this,” cried Gil, as the founder turned upon him as if at bay. “Master Cobbe, for both our sakes, pause while there is yet time.”

“Out upon thee, Gil Carr; thou maddenest me!” cried the founder. “Yet time? What do you mean by speaking to me like this? Am I not my own master?”

“Yes,” replied Gil, humbly; “and this is why I appeal.”

“Why you rebel against me, you should say,” cried the founder, passionately. “What am I to understand that you mean by ‘yet time’?”

“I mean before it is too late,” said Gil, speaking humbly and imploringly as he forced himself into making this last appeal, before venturing on an act that was repugnant to him, and which on calmer consideration he would have avoided for Mace’s sake.

“Gil Carr!” cried the founder, furiously, “go thy way, and let me go mine. I will not be dictated to by the man who has come like a blight upon my threshold. Like a treacherous adder, thou hast stung the hand that warmed thee back to life. Coward—villain—thou could’st do nothing better than set thy snares to trap my weak child. Now go, or—”

He raised his hand and dropped it again.

“For heaven’s sake, listen to me!” cried Gil, excitedly. “Master Cobbe, I would be an honourable gentleman for my father’s sake, to thee and thine, but you drive me to despair.”

In his eagerness he caught the founder by the arm, but the latter turned upon him furiously, mad as he was with rage against himself as much as with the suppliant, whom he struck heavily across the face, and then strode away.

Gil staggered back as much from surprise as from the weight of the blow, and the blood in a hot flush of passion suffused his face.

“For thy sake, darling,” he said, calming down, “for thy sake. There, Master Cobbe, I have done my duty as a man; if blood be shed in what follows, I wash my hands of it; for ’fore God I swear, that if I fail in one way, I’d kill my darling at the altar before she should become that fellow’s wife.”

“Captain—quick—this way, Captain!” cried a voice in a hasty whisper.

“What is it, Croftly?”

“This way, skipper. Here in at this furnace-mouth; it is open behind. Follow me.”

“What for, man?” cried Gil, sternly, as he saw the grimy face of Croftly at the opening to one of the great brick smelting-furnaces now void and cold.

“Sir Mark, with a dozen men be surrounding the place.”

Gil’s hand flew to his sword, but he let it fall.

“Nay,” he said, “we must have the wisdom of the serpent here. We’ll try that first, and if it fails—the sword.”

Entering the furnace, then, Croftly helped him into a black passage beyond, which let them pass between two vast stacks of charcoal to the rough track into the forest, which Gil reached unseen, while Sir Mark, with a dozen men, searched the powder-sheds and furnaces in vain.

How Mother Goodhugh went to Work.

“Thou wicked old hag,” cried Anne Beckley, angrily, as she stood in Mother Goodhugh’s cottage. “Here have I, against my better sense, trusted to thee, and laid bare the secrets of my heart, and for what?” Mother Goodhugh smiled maliciously. “To make thee rich with gold pieces while thou hast done naught but mock at me and laugh.”

“Nay, sweet Mistress,” said the old woman, “I smiled not at thee. I thought of what had passed.”

“And what had passed?”

“Thou hast not known thine own heart, and one day it has been set on Captain Culverin, and another day on the gay young knight of London.”

Anne gave her foot an impatient stamp.

“What is that to thee?”

“Naught, sweet Mistress, with the beautiful eyes and lips. Ah, would I were a man and young,” said the wily old flatterer. “But it be much to spells. The spirits will not be mocked at. Thou comest to me and sayest, ‘Mix me powerful philtres that shall win Sir Mark’s love’, and, when thou dost administer it according to the form I gave, thy thoughts be all the while on Culverin Carr. How canst blame me if they do not act!”

Anne stamped on the floor again.

“I don’t care,” she cried. “What did you promise me? Was it not that I could win the love of either.”

“Ay,” said Mother Goodhugh; “and I worked hard; but Mistress Mace Cobbe worked hard too, and had better luck.”

“Don’t mention her wretched name.”

“But I must, sweet child. How her beautiful eyes fire up and sparkle!” she said, as if to herself. “She be a white witch, and weaves powerful spells with her father’s wealth. For his money helps her to buy costly things my pittance will not touch.”

“I have given thee crowns and pounds,” cried Anne.

“All spent on thee and thy philtres,” returned Mother Goodhugh. “Then Abel Churr has been taken away through the tricks of that white witch Mace, who has forced Culverin Carr to slay him, that I might not battle against her. Ah, fair Mistress Anne, she be a potent witch.”

“Then she shall be burned,” cried Anne Beckley, savagely. “I have but to swear against her before my father, the justice, of her goings on, and she would be seized and pinioned and tortured.”

“And serve her duly,” cried the old woman, with malicious glee.

“Even as I could have thee seized, Mother Goodhugh,” cried Anne, “if I so willed.”

“Nay, but thou would’st not be so cruel to one who has served thee so well.”

“Served me so well?” cried Anne, fiercely. “What have you done?”

“Tried to win thee lovers,” said Mother Goodhugh, whining.

“Ay, and Gilbert Carr treats me with scorn, and Sir Mark marries that thing—that creature, Mace Cobbe.”

“Nay,” cried the old woman, “it be not so.”

“But it is so,” cried Anne, “and I am scorned by both. I heard Sir Mark talking the wedding over with Master Peasegood, and it will be at the Pool.”

“Both scorned thee!” cried Mother Goodhugh, raising her hands; “and thou so beautiful to the eye, and I’ll warrant me so sweet to the touch. She be a powerful witch indeed.”

“Then I’ll denounce her for one!” cried Anne, passionately; and the old woman’s face lit up with glee, but became serious directly after, as she grew thoughtful.

“Nay, child, it would be in vain.”

“But this marriage shall not be.”

“Why not wed Captain Culverin?”

“Hideous old fool, I tell thee he scorns me!” cried the passionate woman. “He loves that wretched creature. I’ll denounce her, that I will. I’d like to see her burn.”

“She deserves it, too, child; but it would be in vain. Sir Mark and his men and Culverin Carr and his men would defend her. She has witched them to her side.”

“But the wedding must not be.”

“Nay, it shall not, then,” cried the old woman.

Anne Beckley walked up and down the little room for a few minutes, and then with an ugly look disfiguring her handsome, weak face, she stopped short before the old woman.

“Dost know how they served the old woman over at Morbledon?” she said, with a malicious smile.

“Yes, yes,” cried Mother Goodhugh, hastily; “I heard.”

“They tied her neck and heels, and threw her into the pond to see if she would swim.”

“Yes, yes; the idiots and fools.”

“They nearly drowned her. Eh? Does that touch thee, Mother Goodhugh?” said Mistress Anne, maliciously, as she saw the old woman fall a-trembling.

“Yes, yes, yes. It was very cruel.”

“And then she was committed to prison on my father’s warrant, and perchance she will be burned at the stake.”

“Nay, nay, it be too horrible,” said the old woman, whose face was now blanched with terror.

“It is only what they’d do to thee, Mother Goodhugh, if I denounced thee for witches’ practices.”

“Then I’d denounce thee, too!” cried the old woman, turning upon her like the trampled worm.

“And, if you did, who would believe thee, thou wrinkled, ugly, spiteful crone, who goest cursing through the village, and evil-eyeing all around? Denounce me? Ha, ha, ha!” cried the girl, throwing back her head as her eyes flashed, and she looked really handsome; “Do I look like a witch?”

“No, no, no, dearie, you are lovely as woman can be,” cried the old crone.

“Then I’ll get thee burned for deceiving me!” cried Anne.

“Nay, child, nay,” cried the old woman, piteously; “thou would’st not be so cruel.”

“I can, and I will,” cried the girl, stamping her foot. “I have been a fool to listen to thee, and thou hast taken advantage of me to get my money, and laughed at my weakness because I was sick with love; but I’m not such a fool as to be unable to get revenge. Mother Goodhugh, I’d come to see thee burnt.”

“Nay, nay,” cried the old woman, grovelling on the floor before her; “don’t talk so, dearie, it be too horrible.”

“A great stake and a chain, and faggots piled round thee, and the fire blazing, and Mother Goodhugh roasting. Ha, ha, ha! it would be a gay revenge on an old witch.”

“Nay, child, nay, but I be not a witch,” cried the old woman, who seemed palsied with dread.

“Then why did’st profess to me that thou wast?” cried Anne, striking her again and again, the old woman only cowering down as she received the blows, and piteously begging her tormentor not to denounce her. “Thou deceived’st me scores of times, and I, fool that I was, listened, and was befooled more and more. Now, hark ye, Mother Goodhugh, I have thee tight. Thou canst not win their love for me, but thou can’st get me revenge. Look here: stop that wedding.”

“I will, child; I will, dearie.”

“You shall!” cried Anne. “Mind this: I warn you. If that wedding takes place, and Mace Cobbe becomes Dame Leslie—”

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the old woman.

“I’ll denounce thee as a witch, and laugh to scorn any accusations or railings against me; and I’ll come and spit at thee as thou burnest at the stake.”

“Oh!” half shrieked the old woman, tearing at her bosom as she heard the other’s words, and felt their power. Then, recovering herself, she began to fawn upon her visitor.

“Have no fear, dearie. The wedding shall not be. I can stay it—I can stay it. I have but to lift up my hand, and it is done.”

“I believe thee not!” cried Anne, “but I warn thee. If that wedding takes place, pray to all thy familiars to save thee, or flee from here, for if not I’ll have thee dragged to the stake and burned. Thou knowest that I can,” she said, as she turned to go.

“Yes, child—yes, dearie.”

“Then remember!”

Anne went out of the cottage as she said the last words, and, as Mother Goodhugh thought of the atrocities that had been committed against weak old women who had professed some occult art, she shivered, and in imagination saw the flames rising round her withered limbs.

“She could do it, she could do it,” she cried piteously. “But I’ll stop it: I’ll stop it. The house is cursed, and the wedding shall not be; for I can stop it, and I will.”

Left alone to her thoughts, Mother Goodhugh began to suffer from a fit of terror, which completely gained the mastery over her, as she recalled all that she knew about the terrible sentences passed upon reputed witches. There was something fascinating in being able to gain the fear of the common people, and to be looked up to as a kind of prophetess; but she avowed now that the price paid was very dear. She had won many triumphs, and been looked up to as a wise woman, but if she were denounced as a witch, those who had feared and paid her for her utterances would turn upon her, for she was ready to own how seldom her prophetic promises had come true.

One in a hundred, however, was quite sufficient to keep up her character; and when there were failures there were always some side utterances that could be brought to bear to soften defeat or turn the matter to her advantage. And so for years she had managed to keep up the character of a wise woman, and amass no inconsiderable amount of the rustic people’s savings, for there was always something upon which she could be consulted, and, in spite of her fears, she sat hugging herself upon her success as she thought of this.