Nature seems to have ordained that the stricken ones should seek
solitude to find solace for their wounds. The deer injured by the shot
of the hunter plunges into the depths of the forest, and the human being
cut to the heart hides away from his kind to brood and think and wait
until time shall soften the pain.
So it was now with Gil Carr, for his steps led him slowly into the
forest depths of the old weald, where, coming at length, by means of a
cart-track, to an opening where the woodman's axe had been at work and a
hollow blackened with dust and dotted with curious little fungi, showed
where the charcoal burners had been busy, he seated himself upon a
stump, and began to think over the past--of the days when a boy he had
been his father's companion on shipboard, when he used to be shut down
in the cabin below water-line when some attack was to be made upon a
Spanish ship or fort in the Carib sea; of the love the stern,
sun-browned, grizzled man bore him, and how he had been the rough
sailors' plaything. Then of that dreadful day when lying below half
wandering with fever, when the air that came through the little cabin
window seemed burning hot, he had felt his head throb, and listened to
the noise of cannons, wondering whether they were real or only the
fancies of his aching brain. Of how he had at last with swimming head
crawled from his berth and painfully climbed on deck, where his feet
slid from under him, and he fell in a pool of blood, after which he
crawled to pass, one after the other, half a score of dead and wounded
men, to where a group was standing round one who lay upon the deck, dark
with the shades of approaching death, and with his head supported by Wat
Kilby, who was crying like a child.
How plainly it all came back as he sat there in the forest shades, with
the glowing sunbeams that flashed through the leaves and burnished the
silvery-green of the great bracken fronds, seeming like the swords that
glittered under the tropic sky, and the gleaming armour that the stout
adventurers wore when they made way for him to crawl to his father's
side.
That pale, stern face lit up--how well he remembered it!--and one feeble
hand was raised to be laid upon his head, as with his dying breath the
smitten captain, one of Elizabeth's adventurous spirits, who fought the
Spaniards under the English flag, half raised himself and cried--
"Brave lads--God's will--this is your captain now!"
And then, as he flung himself wildly upon his father's breast, there was
a loud hurrah, for the fighting-men and crew flashed their swords over
his head, and swore they would follow him to the death. Over _his_
head, for he was alone upon the deck with the dead.
How it all came back--his long illness--Wat Kilby's constant care--how
he was brought home, and their ship ascended the little river--how he
was taken to Roehurst, to gradually win his way back to health and
strength; and then there were the happy days he had spent with little
Mace as his playfellow till he rejoined the ship, and was hailed by
those on board as their very captain, under whom nominally, but with Wat
Kilby as their head, they had sailed to east and west, trading, fighting
when Spaniards were in the way, till he had really taken the helm, and
led the unquiet spirits who had always chafed at the rule of James,
their dislike culminating in hatred after they had joined in Raleigh's
luckless venture and returned. Then had come a long time of quiet
trading--the ship they sailed bearing to other shores year after year
the produce of the Roehurst forges, and bringing back the old founder's
needs; sulphur from Sicily or Iceland; Chinese salt, as they called it--
saltpetre--from the east.
And now after all these years, when the captain's love for his little
playmate had grown into the strong, absorbing passion of a man for the
woman of his heart, he was suddenly called upon to give her up.
The day wore on as Gil sat there thinking! the wood-pigeons set up their
mournful coo-coo, coo-coo, heedless of his presence; the blackbirds that
swarmed in the low coppices, where the trees had been cut down, uttered
their alarm-notes, and then came and hunted out the wild cherries close
at hand; and at last, as here and there the bright lamps of the
glow-worms were lit, the rabbits came out to frisk and feed, so still
and thoughtful was the occupant of the glade.
"No," he said at last, "I will not. My life has been, rough, but I
cannot blame myself for that; and I will not. I cannot give her up.
Mace, my darling, if I knew that by never seeing you again I should add
to your happiness, I would bear the suffering like a man. As it is,
Master Cobbe, I must go against your will."
He strode hastily away, with the wild creatures of the woods scattering
right and left at his heavy tread, and, making straight for the gabled
house, he began for the first time now to think upon its occupant.
Once or twice a pang shot through his breast as he thought of the
gaily-dressed young officer made a welcome guest at the house whose door
he was forbidden to enter; and he stopped short, with his teeth gritting
together, and his brow knit, his mind agitated by the thoughts of what
might be.
It was very still, and the soft balmy summer night-air bore the sounds
from far away, as with a faint, piercing, shrill cry the bats wheeled
around the tree beneath whose dark shadow he stood; the night-hawk
chased the moths in busy circle, and a great white-breasted owl floated
softly by, turned and flew beneath the tree, but on seeing Gil uttered a
wild and thrilling shriek as it fled away, a sound in keeping with the
words of Gil Carr, as he walked hastily on once more, exclaiming--
"I should slay him if he did."
The object of his thoughts was Sir Mark Leslie, then lying on a couch by
the open window of his room, with the sweet scents of the garden
floating in, and the soft, moist, warm night-air playing pleasantly upon
his forehead.
He, too, had his thoughts fixed upon Mace, and, perhaps by a subtle
influence, they were drawn, too, towards him whom he had seen as her
companion in the boat, the man who had played surgeon, and in whose eyes
he had seemed to read no friendly feeling towards himself.
It must have been ten o'clock when Gil came in sight of the gables
standing up against the soft, clear summer sky. The occupants of the
neighbouring cottages were asleep, and with the exception of the
beetle's drone, and the baying of some bugle-mouthed beagle, all was so
silent that the ripple and rush of the water in the stone channel seemed
to rise and fall with almost painful force.
There was a broad sloping bank some thirty or forty yards from the front
of the house, and, taking off his hat, Gil softly walked along by it for
a little distance, stooping here and there to thrust his hand in among
the long dew-wet grass, and place something in his hat.
So occupied was he with his proceedings that he did not notice a figure
seated beneath a tree nor heed the faint odour of tobacco which was
nearly overpowered in the soft, sweet woodland scents that floated by.
Neither did he notice that a window was open in one of the gables, and
that the founder was seated there, gazing out upon the summer sky.
For, lover-like, Gil Carr was just then very blind, perhaps because the
thoughts of Mace Cobbe filled his breast to the exclusion of everything
else. Turning then to his task, he walked back to the sloping bank, and
softly placed the four glow-worms he had brought diamond-wise upon the
grass, where the little creatures glimmered in the darkness like the
signal-lights of a ship at sea.
So thought Gil Carr, as he turned to look at them from a little
distance, and then, softly walking to the little swing-bridge, he
crossed it lightly in the darkness, and, leaping the fence, stood
amongst the clustering roses waiting for the opening of a window ten
feet above his head.
He had not long to wait, for the signal had been seen, and before many
moments had elapsed there was a slight grating noise and then a soft
voice that made the young man's heart throb uttered the one word--"Gil."
"Yes, dear, I am here," he replied, eagerly.
"How foolish!" came next from overhead. "Why, Gil, you were with me
this afternoon, and yet you play the love-sick swain beneath my window
now."
"I am sick with love, sweet; even unto death."
"Are you turning poet, Gil?"
"Yes, for I seem to live in a sphere of poesy when I think of thee."
"You foolish boy."
"I am," he said. "Would I could see thine eyes."
"And that they were glow-worms," she said laughingly. "There,
good-night, dear Gil. It is late, and I must to bed. If you are my
true love, come boldly to the house by day; such meetings as this become
neither thee nor me."
"Stay awhile, sweet," he said. "What of your guest?"
"Poor fellow! I have not seen him since."
Gil sighed content.
"There, I must fain go now, dear Gil. Good-night."
"Nay, nay! a moment longer," he cried.
"Why, Gil," she cried, laughing musically, "one would think you were a
lover forsaken and forlorn, condemned to stay away--forbidden the
house."
"I am."
"What?"
"I am, sweet; and condemned to stolen meetings."
"Why, Gil?" she exclaimed; and in a low voice he told her all.
Meanwhile as Gil's dark figure was seen approaching the house, the
watcher at the open window drew back to ensure being unseen, and then
proceeded to follow the young man's movements, ending by going to the
far end of the room, taking down a curious old Spanish matchlock from a
couple of slings, and then opening an oaken cabinet, from which he took
powder in a carved horn flask, and a small pouch of bullets, with which
the piece was carefully charged. Then the match was cautiously lit,
and, approaching the window, the barrel was laid upon the sill, as he
who carried it went down on one knee, and took a careful aim at the
young man where he stood.
"I could bring him down easily," muttered the watcher. "He shall not
play with me and break her heart."
"Nay," he growled, the next minute, "it would be cowardly, and he is a
brave strong lad. But he shall not trifle with either of us, and I will
not have him here.
"Shall I fire?" he said, holding the heavy piece hesitatingly; and the
long barrel shook in his hand.
The hesitation was not for long. With a sigh of annoyance he placed the
matchlock in the corner, and, going downstairs, he went out softly by
the back, and came right round by the front of the house, as if meaning
to interrupt the meeting now in progress, but instead of so doing he
went down to the great mill-wheel, and crossed the water by means of its
spokes and paddles. Then stealing softly along by the far edge of the
deep stream, he crossed it by the bridge, and by putting a long lever in
motion swung the bridge right round, leaving the way perfectly open, so
that any one coming from the house would, in place of going across the
bridge, walk in the darkness right into the deep water, and, however
strong a swimmer he might be, he would be carried down by the force of
the stream right amidst the woodwork of the wheel, perhaps past it, and
down into the lower fall amongst the rocks beneath.
"He won't drown," muttered the founder; "and it will be a lesson to
him--teach him that I don't mean play."
Walking softly back to the mill-wheel he crossed again, made his way
into the house, and then to the window, where he once more took up his
position, and began to watch the dimly-seen crossing, waiting to see the
disturber, as he termed him, of his daughter's peace, fall headlong into
the channel.
Hardly had he settled himself, though, to watch, when a change came over
him.
"No, hang it," he muttered, "it is a dirty, mean trick; and Gil Carr is
too good a man to treat in such a way. I've been hard enough upon him,
and there is no need for this. I'll go and put it back."
The founder went down stairs once more, and out into the darkness with
the full intent of replacing the bridge; but he was too late. Before he
could reach the rough framework by which he had crossed, there was a
step away to the right, a cry, a tremendous splash, and, as for a few
moments he stood paralysed by the rushing stream, he caught a glimpse of
a white face amidst the black water, and then it disappeared.
The founder's repentance seemed to have come too late, and his trap had
apparently acted but too well. For the first time, perhaps, he realised
that a man's chance of life in those rushing waters was very small. He
had once helped to draw out the body of one who had been drowned in the
great pool, and who had gradually been drawn down to get entangled in
the mill-wheel, but he had never seen any one fall directly into the
race, and he was startled at the velocity with which the figure passed.
"My poor lad!" he groaned. "What have I done? Of all the passionate
fools!--"
Here he was interrupted by a couple of figures approaching out of the
darkness, one on either side of the stream, and a voice that made him
start exclaimed, "Has he passed you?"
Setting a trap is one thing, catching the right bird you set it for
quite another affair.
In this case Jeremiah Cobbe had calculated pretty well, but he had not
foreseen all the possibilities, and the consequence was that the man for
whose benefit the bridge had been drawn aside had not fallen into the
stream.
For no sooner had the founder entered the house and closed the door than
a tall, gaunt figure rose up from behind the thick hedge which sheltered
the garden, and uttered a low peculiar signal, somewhat like the cry of
a sea-bird. This he repeated twice without effect, and he was about to
risk being heard in replacing the swing-bridge when a sound from another
direction made him shrink back to his hiding-place, after giving another
signal exactly like the seamew's cry.
The sound he heard was a footstep, and the watcher knew in an instant
that it was not Gil's, both by its peculiarity and by its coming in a
fresh direction from that in which he had heard the answer to his last
signal.
"It's Cobbe come back to slew round the bridge," he muttered to himself,
as he crouched down; and hardly had he uttered the remark than there was
a slip, a loud ejaculation, and then a sharp cry and a splash.
"Then it wasn't Cobbe," exclaimed the watcher, as he sprang up, and,
repeating his signal, he soon heard his leader's footsteps hastily
approaching. "Don't try to cross," he said; "the bridge has gone and
some one has fallen in. Run to the wheel, or whoever it is will be
there first, and take a dowser into the lower bole."
Gil ran along the side of the swift channel, and, directly after
encountering the dimly-seen form of the founder, he exclaimed, "Has he
passed you?"
"Yes; quick," cried the old man, as he tried hard to recover from the
shock he had received; "we may stop him by the wheel here. Who was it?"
"Heaven knows," cried Gil; "don't stop to talk."
As he spoke he was already down on his knees beside the wheel, and made
a snatch at something which was hitched on to one of the broad slimy
paddles; but even as he stretched out his hand the shape glided away,
and went over the fall with a shoot into the black water down below.
"For God's sake, be quick," cried the founder, "or he'll be drowned,
whoever he is. Drop on to the stones below; the water is only a few
inches deep at the side, and you may reach him as he comes up with the
eddy."
Without a moment's hesitation Gil lowered himself over the wood-piles,
and dropped with a splash on to the water-worn pebbles below, where
there was a broad shelf before the water went sheer down ten or a dozen
feet into a hole caused by the washing of the heavy stream that fell
from above.
Overhung as it was by willows, and enclosed by slimy piles and masses of
fern-hung rock, it was a gruesome place, at mid-day, with the sun
shining. By night its very aspect would have been enough to deter most
men from venturing to plunge in. It, however, had no deterrent effect
upon Gil, who leaned forward, peering into the darkness, to see if he
could reach the drowning man; but finding that he was swept away by the
stream, and being drawn round by the eddy towards the falling torrent
which came over in a sheet, he plunged boldly in, caught the first part
of the drowning man's garments he could seize, and swam strongly towards
the lower part of the waste water, where Wat Kilby was ready to give him
a helping hand, half dragging him out, and at the same time whispering a
few words in his ear.
Jeremiah Cobbe was beside them directly, eagerly asking who it was they
had saved.
"It looks like your guest, Master Cobbe," said Gil sourly. "There, he
is not drowned, but coming-to fast. I'll leave you to take him home;
and, perhaps, you had better tell him to keep in the house at night, as
you have taken to the bad habit of setting traps to catch your friends."
"Not for my friends, Gil Carr, but for those who act like rats or other
vermin, and steal round my place at ungodly hours," cried the founder
angrily.
"Call it what you will, Master Cobbe," said Gil, coldly, "I'll say
good-night;" and without another word he walked away to change his wet
garments, while the founder helped his half-drowned guest back to the
house.
Volume 1, Chapter VI.