Читать книгу Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times - Fenn George Manville - Страница 11

Gil Carr proved to be a sorry companion to fair, weak, amorous Mistress Anne after the encounter with Mace Cobbe; but it troubled the maiden very little, for she was in a kind of ecstasy. She had gone, half doubting, to Mother Goodhugh, and the old dame’s teachings had proved a great success. For long enough her heart had been set on bringing the captain to her feet, for there was something romantic and dashing in his career. To her he was a perfect hero of romance, and she dwelt in her privacy upon his exploits, of which she had often heard. Then her jealous torments had been unbearable; and half in despair, half in harmony with her superstitious nature, she had had resort to the wise woman, and ended by abusing her for her want of success.

The coming of Sir Mark had turned her thoughts into a different channel, and she felt ready to oust Gil Carr from her heart. Then to her dismay she found even him gradually being drawn beneath Mace’s influence; but now all had turned in her favour: Gil had wooed her, held her in his arms, and, better still, been seen in this position, while Mace was with Sir Mark.

“She may have him and welcome,” cried Anne, with her old passion for Gil reviving moment by moment, as she felt now sure of gaining the dearest object of her heart. It was to her, then, nothing that Gil seemed cold and distant when he parted from her near her father’s house, that must needs be she felt as she warmly pressed his hand; and then with cheeks flushed with hope, and joy in her heart, she hurried home full of faith in Mother Goodhugh, and ready again to seek her aid.

Gil was in a very different frame of mind as he strode away, and had not gone far before he saw before him the broad proportions of Parson Peasegood, whom he remembered now to have seen crossing one of the fields as he was walking with Mistress Anne.

“Ah, Master Peasegood,” he cried, glad of something to divert his thoughts for the time being. “Well met. Here is what I promised you.” As he spoke he took from his pocket a couple of short, clay pipes, and a little linen bag. “Use them with care, and don’t become tobacco’s slave.”

“I thank you, captain,” said the stout parson. “I will become no slave, but since his Majesty has written so much about the Indian weed it has begotten an itching in my sinful soul to know what it is like.”

“I see,” said Gil, smiling. “Well, that is Indian weed from Virginia. Shred it up fine with your knife, press it into the pipe, and then hold to it a light, and draw the smoke through thy lips, swallow it if thou canst, and then drive it forth through thy nostrils.”

“Hold there!” said the parson, with his eyes twinkling. “I’ve watched it all, my good lad. I’ve seen Master Wat Kilby smoking away like one of friend Cobbe’s furnace-chimneys, and I’ve seen Master Cobbe himself lie back in his chair and fume and dream, and I would fain have tried myself, for how can I condemn the sin with a good conscience if I do not know how evil it may be?”

“True, sir,” said Gil, laughing; “and we all have our weak points.”

“Even to playing fast and loose with ladies’ hearts, Captain Gil,” said the parson, with a peculiar look.

Gil’s eyes flashed as he turned sharply round and faced his companion, who was about to lay one of his fat hands upon his arm; but the young man felt so irritable and unfit to listen to the other’s words that he drew back, ran up the bank, and plunged at once into the forest, crashing through the undergrowth until he struck a faint track, and then winding in and out through the dark arcades for a good hour till he reached a deep ravine, down whose bottom he made his way, along the border of a little stream which trickled over the huge masses of sandstone from pool to pool, each of which held its half-score of trout ready to dart beneath the overhanging stones and under the roots of trees, to their little havens of refuge, till the interrupter of their solitude had passed.

After an hour’s walking he came to a spot where the stream widened out a little, and he gave a nod of satisfaction as, fifty yards in front, he saw the tall gaunt form of Wat Kilby wading in the pools, and stooping down from time to time beneath the overhanging stony banks to thrust in his hand, and more than once retire it with a glistening speckled trout, which he thrust into a satchel hanging beneath his arm.

The old fellow straightened his back and nodded, as the captain came up to seat himself upon a stone.

“Well, skipper,” said Wat, counting the trout through the canvas of his wallet.

“Well,” said the other. “I am afraid some folk have found out the store.”

“Not they,” growled the old fellow. “How could they?”

“I went up awhile ago, and saw half-a-dozen of the men with a lady whom they had found sitting on a stone in the narrows.”

“Yes, I know,” said Wat.

“You know?”

“Yes; I saw Mother Goodhugh take her up there with her eyes shut, and leave her on the stone.”

“You saw her?”

“To be sure,” growled the old fellow; “and I watched her till the lads come and took her, and you ran up.”

“And you didn’t interfere?”

“There was nothing to interfere about, skipper, and I thought it best for her to be frightened. Keep her from going again.”

“Did she go up higher?”

“Not a step.”

“Nor Mother Goodhugh?”

“Not half a step.”

“Why did she bring her there?”

“Hocus pocus. To scare her, to make her mutter charms or something. It was the out-of-the-way-est, ugliest place the old woman knew, so she took her there.”

“Do you think that’s the case?”

“To be sure. Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised if Mother Goodhugh did get to know about it, either hunting herself or through that long, lanky, lizardly fellow, Abel Churr.”

“If Abel Churr did find out, and tell tales, I’d hang him to the yard-arm of our ship.”

“And bless the world by so doing,” said Wat, grimly. “Twenty-one,” he added, softly.

“What’s twenty-one?” said Gil, sharply.

“One-and-twenty trout,” replied Wat, who had finished his counting.

“Hang your trout!” cried Gil, impatiently.

“No; hang Abel Churr,” said Wat; “for he’s a lazy, sneaking, mischief-loving reptile. I’d like to put the rope around his neck.”

“Now go,” said Gil, sharply. “See the lads and get them together. We’ll have those stores up to-night.”

“The flour and all?”

“Everything. The sooner it is under cover the better. You can land all by the beeches at once, and to-night we’ll get it up.”

“What time shall we begin?”

“Leave the river at twelve. It will be two before we get all to the store, and we can be back soon after three.”

Wat nodded, and turned upon his heel; while Gil sat down beneath a shady tree, where he dreamily went over his position with respect to Mace, till evening was giving place to night, when he made his way back towards the foundry.

As he rose and left the stone where he had been sitting thinking so long, there was a slight rustle close at hand, such as might have been made by a snake or a lizard; but it was caused by no reptile, for a human head rose slowly from out a clump of bracken, and, after waiting patiently and listening with all the caution of some wild animal, the head was lowered again. A low rustling noise followed, the grass and ferns quivering as something passed beneath them, and the track by which the owner of the head was slowly creeping away could be traced along the side of the ravine in the dim light, as if some hare or fox were cautiously working its way.

Quite half-a-mile was passed over in this wild-animal fashion before the bushes were parted, and Abel Churr rose up with a grim satisfied smile upon his face, to walk slowly away, rubbing his hands together, and evidently in high glee with something upon his mind.

Meanwhile, after waiting till the lights in the Pool-house began to go out one by one, Gil betook himself to his old tactics with the signal-sparks, for he argued that, after the serious result of Master Cobbe’s last hindrance to his coming, the founder would try traps no more.

The night was again close and heavy, and he had no difficulty in obtaining four glow-worms, whose bright tails shed their liquid golden light, as he carefully raised them, bore them to the bank, and placed them diamond-wise, as of old. Then going cautiously to the edge of the river, he saw the bridge was in its place; crossed, listened, found all perfectly still, and went on to the open space beneath the projecting gable where Mace’s window looked out from its clustering roses.

The light was out and the casement closed, and, though he waited, she made no sign.

To have called to her or whistled would have been to give notice of his presence to the founder, who might in his choler open a window and fire upon him. He did, however, venture to throw up a few tiny pebbles, which rattled loudly upon the glass, but that was all.

There was still no reply, not that Mace had not seen the glow-worms nor heard the other signals, but she felt that she could not respond to him that night. Her heart was sore within her, and, think of what she would, there ever before her was the little scene in the lane, with Mistress Anne leaning so lovingly upon Gil, and in spite of all that had passed – words, protestations, and the like – there was always the feeling upon her that Gil must have spoken tender words to Anne Beckley, or she would never have behaved to him as she did.

Then came other, older troubles, the thoughts of Mother Goodhugh and her curses on her father’s trade – the trade that gave her many an aching heart – for living in that sylvan home it seemed so terrible and sad that all her father’s works should be given to that one aim, the making of weapons of war, and the powder that should be used therein. Great pieces of artillery cast and finished with such care – the black shiny grains of powder, and for what? Solely to crush out life, to wage war, with misery, suffering, and pain. It seemed so terrible, and strange, and wrong, that those she loved should treat this trade so lightly, and readily distribute all that could be made.

Sweet Mace sighed, for her spirits were low indeed, and the thoughts that had haunted her these many years, even from childhood, came stronger than ever. Death, shadowy death, seemed to follow all her father’s works, so that she asked herself was she not guilty in being there a participator as it were in all her father’s acts, and whether she ought not to protest against his trade, and pray him to change his forges to the furtherance of a more peaceful end?

Close upon a couple of hours passed away, during which time Mace’s heart went out to her lover, for she could not control it; but she herself sat silently sobbing in the corner of her room behind the snowy window curtains, whence she could dimly see the figure of Gil gazing up, the misty starry light of the summer night making it just visible, till tired out and heart-sick she saw it gradually melt away as he went back across the bridge to keep the appointment arranged with Wat Kilby.