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

It was terrible work to sit there in that profound silence, listening and wondering where she was; and at last it was with a feeling of relief that Anne awoke to the fact that she must be out in the daylight; for suddenly the mournful caw of a rook passing far overhead fell upon her ear.

Then the place did not seem so solitary, for a wandering wind swept softly by her, stirring the leaves which rustled together, as it cooled her cheek, and soon after there was the pleasant chirp of a woodland bird, followed by the familiar little prattle of the yellow-hammer.

She began now to realise that she must be in some deep ravine, one of the many that gashed the primeval forest, and felt half ready to laugh at her fears, as she uttered a short cough, which came back repeated strangely from the opposite wall of the rock.

“Frightened by an echo,” she muttered, “and—oh, what a weak-pated fool am I, and how I do let that wicked old beldame play upon me. It is absurd. She has no such power as she pretends; and here have I let her bring me here to sit like a shallow-brained, love-sick girl, with my eyes shut, waiting to see my lover. Eyes shut! How can I see my love. I’ll open them. Nay; there may be truth in the spell after all, and, if there is, why should I spoil it when I have gone so far. I wonder whether he will come. How my poor heart beats!”

“Coo—coo—oo—oo. Coo—coo—coo—coo—coo—oo,” came from somewhere far below.

“That’s a lover’s cry,” she said, half laughing, to herself; “but he will not come to me in the form of a dove, unless my heart’s set on Jupiter himself. How absurd I am.”

Quite a quarter of an hour passed away, and still with a wonderful power over her desires she sat upon the piece of sandrock waiting for the fulfilment of Mother Goodhugh’s promises.

“I’ll wait no longer,” she cried at last, petulantly. “I cannot keep my eyes closed like this. Where am I? How am I to find my way back home? Oh, what a sorry idiot am I! I’ll open my eyes at once, and put an end to this mystery. Hark, what’s that?”

A low doleful wail was heard overhead, and as she listened it was repeated.

“It was a seamew,” she whispered, “and that wicked hag must have brought me nearer the shore. What’s that?”

She bent down a little, listening, for she fancied that she heard a voice, but the sound was not repeated. Then there was a gentle rustle of a leaf, as if some rabbit had passed by, but still she kept her eyes closed, with a lingering faith that the old woman’s words might prove true, and all the while her heart went throb throb against the flask containing the love philtre in her bosom.

All silent as the grave once more, and she trembled as she heard her own voice.

“I’ll count a hundred,” she whispered to herself, “and then—”

She did not finish her sentence, but began slowly under her breath to count one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on right away, heedless of a faint rustle repeated again and again, close at hand, and she went on getting slower and slower in a disappointed manner, as she reluctantly felt that she must keep her word, and open her eyes; and at last it was, “Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, and—Help, help, help! Oh!”

Mistress Anne’s voice was smothered, and she felt herself tightly held by strong hands. For as she came to the end of her counting task, and sharply opened her eyes, it was to gaze at a broad handkerchief held by two brown hands, drawn tightly across the next moment and secured behind her head, while a second stifled her cries as it was tied over her mouth.

“There, my little birdie,” said a rough voice, “that will stop your singing for the present. If you can’t breathe, give a kick, and we’ll ease it off. There, there, don’t struggle like that, or you’ll rumple your plumage.”

“Got her, lads?” said another voice.

“Got her, ah! I see her sitting on the stone there, fast asleep, crope up the bank, and off with my handkerchief, and clapped it over her eyes, while Morgan covered her mouth.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Help her to old Wat, I think,” said the first voice. “He always wants a wife.”

“Nay, lads; I shall keep her myself. Steady, lass! it’s no use to struggle.”

Anne Beckley’s heart sank within her breast as she wondered into whose hands she had fallen, and she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. The conversation that ensued the next moment, though, served as a stimulus, and she waited with bated breath, and without struggling, as the principal speaker considered the question, holding her tightly the while by the arm.

“Where be going to take her?” said a fresh voice.

“Oh, up yonder,” was the reply.

“Nay, nay; that won’t do. The skipper won’t stand these games, my lad.”

“The skipper!”

Those two words sent a thrill of hope through the heart of the girl as she asked herself could it be Captain Gil.

“Yes, yes; it must be,” she thought directly after; and these were some of the rough, adventurous men of whom she heard whispers at the Moat—the crew of bold, daring fellows, who sailed round the world and braved all dangers, even laughing at the laws; for one of Captain Gil’s men had been taken before her father for some offence, and when the worthy baronet was about to condemn him to fine and imprisonment, amercing him in coin as well as time, he had leaned forward and whispered that in the justice’s ears which had made him reconsider the case and dismiss the prisoner in the end.

It was into the hands of these men she had fallen she felt sure, and should Captain Gil find out what was done she knew she had nothing to fear, unless, finding her in his power, he should carry her off to his ship somewhere in the little river and bear her away to be a rover’s bride.

The silly little heart of Anne Beckley, full as it was of trouble, was ready to make room for this romantic notion, and she gave up all thought of resistance as her captors led her away, merely pointing to the bandage across her mouth, which half stifled her.

“Ah, you shall have that off, my dear, if you will not squeal,” said the same voice; and the girl breathed more freely as the wrapper was taken away.

“Now, be careful how you come or you’ll break your pretty neck, and then—Curse it, here be the skipper.”

“What’s this?” cried a well-known voice. “Whom have you here? Mistress Anne Beckley?”

“Oh, Captain Gil, save me—save me,” cried the girl, stretching out her hands in the direction of the voice, and nestling close to him as his strong arm was thrown round her.

“You dogs, how dare you?” roared Gil, while, with a sense of indescribable joy, Mistress Anne held her head against his broad breast, heard the resonant utterances which seemed to echo in his chest, and listened to the firm, strong beating of his heart. She never for a moment thought of tearing away the bandage; but, when she did raise her fingers, Gil’s stout hand prisoned both of hers and held them tightly, where they stayed without resistance, nothing loth.

“We couldn’t help it, captain,” said a voice. “I be coming along here, and I see my young mistress there seated on yon stone, with her head bent down, asleep.”

“Mother Goodhugh has spoken truth, then,” whispered Anne to herself; “I have not seen, but I have felt, and feel the touch of my future lord.”

“Is this truth?” cried Gil, gazing round at his men, who one and all shrank from his angry eye.

“True, captain? It be true enough,” was chorused. “Jack Bray then went softly behind her and clapped a kerchief over her eyes and mouth, and we were taking her yonder when you come.”

“But how came she here?” exclaimed Gil, looking round at his men, who stared at one another, but made no reply till their leader angrily repeated his question.

“Don’t know, captain,” said the man Anne had first heard speak; “she was sitting on yonder stone.”

“Was no one near? But that will do. Tell me one thing,” he said aside to one of his men, “where were you coming from?”

“We’d been down to the river, captain, and were on the look-out for Mas’ Wat, when—”

“That will do,” said Gil sternly. “Now stand aside.”

As he spoke he placed his left arm round Anne, and took her hand with his right.

“Let me lead you back to the path from which you have strayed, Mistress Beckley,” he said. “You are quite safe now. Nay—nay, let that bandage rest for awhile. The sight of these rough seamen here might startle you afresh,” he added, as the late prisoner raised her hand that was at liberty to her face.

She lowered it directly with a satisfied sigh, and, leaning heavily upon her protector’s arm, she suffered him to lead her down what seemed to be a rugged slope, and then amidst trees and bushes, and up one ascent, down another, and all the while with the bandage upon her eyes, while Gil looked down at her, half-puzzled, half-amused, and at times annoyed at the timid, trusting way in which she seemed to have thrown herself upon him.

He was debating within himself as to whether he should ask her how she came to be where she was found, little thinking that she had been taken there almost as thoroughly blindfolded as she had been when brought away. But Gilbert Carr’s heart told him plainly enough without vanity that he had been the attraction that had drawn her thither, and he bit his lip with vexation as he heard his companion sigh, and felt her hang more heavily upon his arm.

Finally he decided that he would say nothing upon the subject, but trust that she had made no discoveries, though he could not help arguing that if she had, and he gave her offence, he might find her an angry woman who would do him a serious ill.

At last by many a devious track he had taken her to where the lane leading from the Pool-house led through the scattered cottages of the workers at the furnaces and foundries towards the Moat, and here Gil paused.

“That thick bandage must be hot and comfortless, Mistress Beckley,” he said; “let me remove it now.”

“Oh! no!” she cried quickly, “pray don’t take it away. I feel quite safe with you, Captain Carr;” and she sighed again, and laid her other hand upon his.

“But you are safe now,” he said, smiling, “and close to the lane. There is nothing more to fear. My unmannerly lads shall be punished for all this.”

“No, no,” she said softly, “don’t punish them—for my sake. Say you will forgive them. I beg—I entreat.”

“If it is your wish, the punishment shall not take place,” he said. “There, let me remove the kerchief.”

Anne would gladly have resisted, for it was very sweet to be so dependent on Gil Carr. He had been so gentle and kindly towards her that her heart was filled to bursting with hope that she would win him after all, though her siege had now lasted for months without avail, and she had been ready to raise it in favour of the new-comer, Sir Mark.

She felt, though, that she might not be serving her cause by making any objections, and, resigning herself to her protector’s will, she suffered him to remove the kerchief, but uttered a quick cry of pain, as she opened and then closed her eyes.

“My poor girl,” he cried, holding her tightly, as she clung to him, “are you injured? Tell me; what is it?”

“It is nothing,” said Anne, faintly; “a sudden pang—the intense light—I shall be well anon.”

It did not occur to Gil that the position he occupied was a strange one, if seen by a looker-on, for he was too much concerned by the apparent suffering of his charge, and, as her fright had been caused by his followers, he felt in duty bound to try and make up for their insolence by his consideration for her weakness. He stood, then, supporting her as she held her hands pressed to her aching eyes, and smiled encouragement as she at last looked timidly up at him with a very pitiful expression of countenance, and ended by catching his hand in hers in the excess of her gratitude for her deliverance, and kissing it passionately, as she burst into a storm of sobs and tears.

“Why, come, come, Mistress Timidity,” he said, playfully, “where is your brave little heart? One would think I had been some brave hero of old, who had rescued you from an angry dragon, instead of a poor sea-captain, who did nothing but order some insolent mariners to—”

Gil stopped short, his eyes fixed, and a sense of the awkwardness of his position coming fully upon him, as at the distance of some twenty or thirty yards there passed Mace Cobbe, leading Sir Mark by the hand.

He saw her only for a few moments, but he knew that Mace had seen him too, and that Anne Beckley had followed the direction of his eyes, for he had felt her start, and a red glow had come upon her cheeks.

In his angry excitement he felt ready to dash her from him, but his better feelings prevailed, and he stood with knitted brow thinking, while Anne felt careless of having been seen by Sir Mark, since Mace had seen her too, and reclining in her lover’s arms.