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.
Volume 1, Chapter XII.