That was a bitter as well as a momentous day for Gil Carr. In the
course of the morning he made his way to the Pool-house, determined to
have a few words with Jeremiah Cobbe, and to talk calmly to him
concerning Mace and the future. He felt, too, that a little sympathy
was due to the founder after the late accident at his works.
He went straight to the house, for he had taken Mace's words to heart,
that he should go boldly to the place; but, on entering, he was only met
by Janet, who came after he had walked in according to old familiar
custom, and rapped loudly at an inner door.
Janet came down, looking red-faced and guilty, from one of the upper
chambers.
"Why, Janet," he said, "the house is as quiet as if all were dead.
Where have you been, lass? Why, that's thy mistress's kerchief on thy
head!"
The girl snatched it off, looking redder and more guilty than before,
and hid it behind her.
"I'd wager, Janet, that thou hast been upstairs trying on thy mistress's
finery. I'll tell her so."
"Nay, pray, Captain Gilbert," she cried, excitedly, "you would not make
mischief between us. I did but--"
"That's confession enough," said Gil, laughing. "Now, tell me where is
thy master?"
"Down at the furnace-house, seeing to its being new-roofed, sir,"
replied the girl.
"And thy--" Gil stopped with beating heart, for he dared not for the
moment ask the question--one that he felt he could himself answer. "One
word though," he cried, "Mistress Janet. I have something to say about
that pretty face of thine."
"Oh, Captain Carr," said the girl, blushing. "You must not talk to me
like that. What would my mistress say?"
"That I was doing right, child. Harkye, you must not be showing that
pretty face and those bright eyes to men who cannot become thy
sweethearts."
The girl's heart beat fast, and she looked up and looked down, began to
plait her apron, dropped Mace's kerchief, snatched it up, hid it behind
her; then turning her head, with the pleasant flush of surprise
deepening upon her neck.
"Why, Janet," said Gil, laughing, "you look as modest as if you were
being courted."
"Oh, Captain Carr," she simpered, "you must not talk to me like that;"
and the weak girl fell a-trembling, telling herself that now her
mistress had taken to go a-walking with the handsome young knight
staying at the house, Captain Culverin, the bold, handsome fellow, of
whom every maiden far and near had spoken as a hero, had fallen in love
with her.
"Not talk to thee, child," said Gil, laughing. "Look here, Janet, I
must be plain with thee."
He looked at her in an amused way for a moment, and then, catching one
of her hands, he took her chin between his finger and thumb, and raised
her face so that he could gaze straight into her humid eyes.
The tears stood beneath the lids, and in another moment she would have
cast herself upon the captain's breast had not a word or two more
dispelled her illusion.
"I've known thee, Janet, since thou wert a little toddler, to whom I
gave sugar from the Western Isles; and for thy mistress's sake, Janet,
would not have harm befall thee. Look you here, child, Master Wat Kilby
hangs about here to gratify his old eyes by casting them upon thy pretty
shape and face. Now, Janet, have you ever given him encouragement?"
"As if it was likely!" cried the girl, snatching herself away, and her
whole aspect undergoing a transformation. "A girt, old, ugly man like
that; I'd pook him if he dared touch me. Such trade as that!" and she
was flinging herself out of the hall when Gil checked her by saying,
sternly--
"Stop, girl! I am glad of it, for Wat Kilby is no mate for thee. Where
is thy mistress?"
"Where should she be?" cried the girl, spitefully, and with flashing
eyes she went on: "Out in the forest reading love-songs to Sir Mark,
same as she now does every day."
She ran off to hide her tears, but not before she had seen how cruel a
stab she had given her mistress's lover; and then, seeking her own
chamber, she cried for long enough over her disappointment, and as much
for sympathy for the brave young fellow whom she had, as she well knew,
cut to the quick.
Gil stood biting his lips, as he thought over the girl's words.
"No," he cried, "I won't believe it; Mace is too good and true."
He went out of the house to where the founder was directing his
workpeople, who were busily laying massive oaken beams across the
damaged building; and as Gil came up the old man nodded, talked of
ordinary things, and then excused himself on the plea of business in so
marked a manner that Gil could not but see that his presence was
irksome, and soon afterwards left.
He had hoped to have seen Mace, but he felt that he could not wait there
now, and in a purposeless way he turned off the beaten track, meaning to
throw himself down in some dry, shady spot, and try and arrange his
thoughts. As it happened, fate led him straight to an opening in the
forest, where two paths met--a place where the founder's men had cut
down the great oaks, leaving a clump of firs standing here and there,
and beneath them was a mass of dry odorous pine-needles, the collection
of many years. The old stumps left by the woodman's axe were pretty
well overgrown with moss, grass, and the various wild-flowers of the
wood; and altogether a better spot than this opening in the thick forest
could hardly have been found for noonday dreamings.
So thought Sir Mark, as he lay at Mace's feet, while she, with the
bright rays of sunshine darting through the thin needled foliage, to
lose themselves in her glossy hair, sat on one of the old stumps, and
read to him in a soft, sweet voice--one which to Gil, as he came
suddenly upon them, seemed softened and attuned to fall tenderly upon
the invalid's ear.
"He is well enough by now, I'll wager," muttered Gil, as he walked
straight up, to find that Mace rose as soon as she saw him, coloured
deeply, and greeted him in a cold and injured way.
Gil Carr's hot blood danced through his veins, and, in his haste, he
forgot to recall the last time they had met, when he was seen side by
side with Anne Beckley; and, attributing Mace's constrained manner to
her vexation at being surprised with Sir Mark, he turned upon that
gentleman fiercely, to find his glances returned with interest. For
there was a look of triumph in the visitor's eye, and a contemptuous
smile on his lip, both of which seemed to say to him, "There, you see
you have no chance; I am all conquering, and the day is mine."