The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly's importunities and gave him
a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly
enjoy it they both got up early.
Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and
just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs
and snails.
It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom
working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork.
"Hallo, Tom, you here?" said the founder, looking eastward, where the
golden orange flecks told of the coming sun.
"Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave
girt bed made; but who's to work wi' such a tool as this?" and he held
up the fork.
"You, if you've any sense in your head," growled the founder, who was
sleepy yet.
"I've got some sense in my head," said Tom Croftly; "but no man can't
work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It
breaks a man's back. A fork ought to have three tines in it."
"And I say it ought to have four," said the founder, tartly. "Why, as
soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to
tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it."
"Ay, and 'most breaks a man's back," grumbled Tom Croftly. "Falls
through? Why, of course it does. That's nat'ral, and as it should.
It's the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after
wi' a shovel. 'Taint like having a holiday to work wi' a tool like
that."
"There, get on," said the founder, "and don't grumble. Lend me the
fork."
He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well,
turning afterwards to his man, "There, you can't do better than that."
"And where's your crumbs to finish off with at the top?" grumbled Tom
Croftly. "We shan't get much of a cucumber-bed, you'll see."
"Look here, Tom Croftly, if you're going to grumble like this, we'll go
back to the foundry-work."
"Nay, nay, master."
"Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said `yes,' and here it is."
"And my garden wanted it badly, master."
"Yes; but I'm not going to holiday keep with a grumbler."
"I'll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother
Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!"
The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder's man, as he
lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the
dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.
"Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life," said the
founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square
marked out by four strong pegs.
"I dunno about that, master," said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.
"Why, Tom, Tom, thou'rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and
sprites, and witches?" said the founder, arranging the stable manure
carefully with the fork.
"Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don't _believe_ in 'em, but it was curus
that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother
Goodhugh had been."
"Curious if it hadn't," cried the founder, patting down his work. "If
Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had--as I ought
to have done--there would have been no explosion."
"Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould."
"And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you're
six feet one high."
"Six foot two and a half, master," said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.
"And as strong as a horse."
"Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day."
"And yet you're afraid of that poor half-daft old woman."
"Nay, nay, master; not _afeard_," said Tom, stoutly. "I never felt
afeard o' Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be
a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything
to make her curse one."
"Curses don't do any harm, Tom, my lad," said the founder.
"I hope they don't, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal."
"Let her," said the founder.
"Shall I fetch they crumbs in a trug, master?" said Tom, watching
intently the formation of the cucumber-bed.
"We will have the bed a deal higher yet, Tom, and put the crumbs on the
top, and a couple o' hills of nice warm earth a'top o' that. We must
have some finer cucumbers this year than Dame Beckley grows up at the
Moat."
The manufacture of the cucumber-bed went on, and Tom Croftly had the
satisfaction of fetching the "crumbs" in a trug or truck-basket; after
which, the founder and he had a long turn at the patch of hops, which
had been growing rather wild and away from their poles. The wild ones
were carefully twisted round the supports, and tied at intervals with
rushes to keep them in place, after which, it being seven o'clock, the
founder proposed breakfast, and led the way to the house.
Sir Mark had accepted an invitation the previous day, after much
protesting that he was still too weak and could hardly get about, and
had gone to dine with Sir Thomas at the Moat, and stay the next day
over, so that Mace felt herself free and forgetful of her troubles. She
set aside the haunting thoughts of the fate of the weapons her father
made, and devoted herself to domestic duties that had of late fallen to
Janet's lot.
"Morning, mistress!" cried Tom, coming smiling in at the kitchen door,
through which he could see Mace with her sleeves rolled above her white
elbows busily trying the new cakes that had been baked for breakfast.
"Good morning, Tom," cried Mace. "Quick, Janet, get out the cold bacon
and draw a mug of ale."
Tom smiled broadly, as he took his place at the white, well-scrubbed
table, for it was an understood thing that whenever Tom Croftly had a
whole holiday, that is to say, had a cessation from foundry-work to go
in the garden, he had his meals at the house.
The founder's breakfast was ready, but he was called away, so Mace
remained busy about the kitchen, going in and out of the dairy where the
golden butter lay in rolls, and the yellow cream was so thick in the
broad pans that it went into wrinkles and crinkles, like an old woman's
face when it was skimmed.
The glorious sunshine came in at the open door, with the scent of the
flowers, and the bees buzzed about the blossoms as they journeyed to and
from their round-topped hives, while Tom Croftly took a long draught of
ale, sighed, and then began work upon the new loaf and bacon.
"This be a fine cut o' bacon, mistress," said he, as Mace came near.
"I am glad you like it, Tom."
"Ay, I like the bacon, mistress, but this here knife's a wonder."
"What, isn't it sharp, Tom?"
"Sharp, mistress, bean't nothing to it. It be terrifying sharp, and it
be as keen at the back as it be at the front, and that's what I don't
like, for it's risky like at the corners o' your mouth, and when a man's
mouth is already two sizes too large, it's a pity to cut it bigger."
"Take another, Tom," said Mace, placing one for him.
"Thanky, mistress, that's kindy of you," said Tom. "Eh, but you be
grown into a flower. Here, only t'other day, and I see thee balancing
thyself on thy two pretty little pink legs, and couldn't get on wi' my
work for watching thee--lest thou should fall."
"You always were very kind to me, Tom," said Mace, smiling.
"And always will be," said Tom Croftly; "for, mistress, it did my heart
good to see thee stick up for the master again that old Mother
Goodhugh."
"Poor weak woman!" said Mace, sadly.
"Ay, poor weak old woman; but she's got a sore heart, mistress, like
as--as--some one else have as I knows on."
"Who's that, Tom?" said Mace.
"Captain Culverin Carr," said Tom, striking the table with the haft of
the knife. "Ah, I don't like dressed-up jay-birds from London."
Mace was silent, but she looked at their old workman with eyes that were
half alarmed, half angry, and hearing her father's voice hurriedly left
the kitchen.
"Ay, so his heart is sore," muttered Tom Croftly, after a glance round
to see that he had not been heard. "If I thought that ill-wishing that
London spark would keep him away from here, I'd give Mother Goodhugh my
biggest couple o' ducks--that girt young 'un and his brother."
Tom Croftly stopped and sighed for a long time over his bread and bacon
before returning to the enjoyment of his holiday the founder did not
join him, however, for a good half-hour longer, when Mace was by his
side.
That was a golden day to both--a holiday indeed. No allusion was made
to the departure of their visitor, neither was Gil's name mentioned;
but, as if some burden had been removed from both their hearts, they
seemed to have made up their minds to have one day such as they had been
accustomed to in what seemed like the olden times.
With a straw hat to shade her bright face, Mace was now looking on,
while the raspberry canes that had broken loose were retied to their
stakes, and then she held the knife as she had a score of times in
childhood while the founder went down upon his knees to take the
bindings off from some freshly-grafted trees, commenting upon his work,
and boasting of its superiority over the grafting done at Dame
Beckley's.
Then there were the cuttings of those curious plants to see to that Gil
had brought back from his last voyage, and they seemed to be progressing
well, all but one that was being eaten by a grub.
Mace listened eagerly, thinking that her father would mention Gil's name
now, but he went on weeding out a few interlopers before he seemed to
recall whence the cuttings came, and then he frowned and turned off to
another part of the garden.
The cloud passed away directly, and they were chatting merrily again or
listening to Tom Croftly, who possessed a very long tongue, and had
plenty to say.
"Lor', Miss Mace, look at my apple-trees, how they be a-hinging down
a'ready!" cried Tom Croftly. "Look at the girt big uns lumpeting all
down the boughs. I'll have to put a strod under yon branch, or a wilt
be breaking down."
"They look lovely, Tom. No scarcity this year."
"Not there, mistress. It all comes o' well wassailing the trees. If
there's anything I like, its a good apple-howling in due season."
"But you don't think it makes any difference, Tom?"
"Not make any differ, mistress? Why look at my trees this year."
"Oh, they are loaded enough, Tom," said Mace, smiling; "but would they
not have borne as well without that noise the lads made on New Year's
Eve?"
"Not they, mistress. I like the boys to come round to the orchards, and
shout and go round the apple-trees in a ring," he said, stopping to hold
his reaping-hook horizontally, and making a movement with his left hand,
as if to complete the circle, while he closed his eyes and repeated the
following doggerel, as if it were some sacred verse:--
`Stand fast, root; bear well, top;
Pray the God send us a good howling crop.
Every twig apples big;
Every bough apples enow;
Hats full, caps full,
Full quarters sacks full.'
"That's it, mistress; that brings the apples. There's a fine cluster o'
little wild strawbries here," he cried, as he "brushed," as he called
it, the thistles and nettles that were springing up under the orchard
trees.
"I'll bring a basket and pick them, Tom," cried Mace; and she ran
quickly back to the house.
"A swap soon gets dull, master," said Tom, stopping to sharpen the
broad-bladed reaping-hook he held, and gazing the while after Mace.
"Eh, but it ought to be a girt and good man, master, who has young
mistress for a wife. A king wouldn't be good enough for she."
"Right, Tom," said the founder. "Hallo, what's the matter?" he cried,
as Mace came running back in a state of great excitement.
"The bees, father--a swarm."
Down went Tom Croftly's hook and whet-stone, and away he and the founder
ran to where the bees were in full flight, a late colony, after hanging
in a pocket-shaped cluster outside their straw dome for days, having at
last persuaded their queen to start.
It was a headlong flight, but not off and away, for as the founder and
his man came up it was to find that the busy little insects were darting
to and fro, as if bound to describe as many elongated diamonds as they
could in the hot sunshine. There was a sharp angry buzzing hum in the
air, and, after running into the kitchen, Tom came back with a broken
poker and the brass preserving-pan, which he belaboured wildly like a
gong, evidently under the belief that the bees would be charmed or
stunned into repose.
"Nothing like dinging 'em well, master," he cried, as the bees darted
here and there. "They won't sting thee, mistress. There, look at the
pretties!" he cried. "Well done! What a cast, and as big as a May-day
swarm."
This was as he saw that the queen had settled upon a pendent branch of a
young plum-tree, the workers clustering round and over and under, and
clinging one to the other, till there was a great insect mass, which
made the bough drop lower and lower till it nearly touched the ground.
"That be the very place to have 'em, master," he cried. "Now, mistress,
thou'lt take them, won't thee? It's a fine girt swarm. Ye marn't be
afraid, and they won't hurt thee. I'll fetch a hive."
He trotted off, leaving father and daughter watching the great mass of
bees hanging some two feet from the ground; and soon after Tom Croftly
returned with a clean hive, which he busily rubbed with sugar dissolved
in beer, while he held a bee-board under his arm.
"Now, mistress, art ready?" he cried.
"Nay, Tom, I'll take them myself," said the founder. "We mustn't have
her stung."
He took the hive from his man, placed it beneath the great ball of
insects, and gave the branch a quick sharp shake, with the result that
nearly all fell into the hive. Another shake sent in the rest, so that
it seemed as if they must be crushed or infuriated into stinging him to
death; but, though some rose and buzzed around his head, he quietly
placed the bee-board, handed to him by Tom, over the open hive, deftly
reversed it, placed it under the shade of the tree, and left it there
for the insects to settle in their new home.
The bees had been left but a few minutes, when, with his face lit up
with smiles, the founder exclaimed, "Why, Mace, that's been a warm job.
Tom Croftly would like a mug of ale to drink success to the swarm."
"And you will have one, too, under the apple-tree, father; and--just one
pipe."
"Get out!" cried the founder, "putting temptation in a weak man's way."
But he went to the large seat under the old apple-tree, that spread its
longest branches over the Pool, and had just settled himself down as
Mace returned with his big silver tankard, pipe, and tobacco.
"Hah! that's prime!" he said, as he seated himself in an easier
position, gazing through his half-closed eyes at his luxuriant garden
and the glistening surface of the Pool. "Why, here comes the parson.
Hey there, Master Peasegood: just in time!"
The stout clerk had seen the founder in his garden, and came panting up,
his face seeming to grow broader as he neared the apple-tree.
"Hah!" he sighed, shaking hands as he sat down, "what weak creatures
mortals are. Here have I been murmuring against the heat, and the great
burden of flesh I have to bear, and all the time there is rest and
refreshment waiting to be offered to me. Mace, my darling, if I were
not a parson, I'd say by the hand of an angel. Thanks, child, thanks!
Cobbe, here's thy good health, man. May'st thou never be as fat as I."
He drank heartily and passed the flagon to the founder, who tapped the
lid up and down as he said with a look of pride: "My own barley,
parson--malted myself; my own hops--grew yonder; and the ale--brewed in
my own tub. Good as Dame Beckley's home-made wine, eh?"
"Don't talk about it, goodman," cried the parson, with a look of
disgust. "Come, thou hast raised a desire to take the taste out of my
mouth that seemed to come in. Give me the flagon once again."
The founder passed the ale, and the visitor took another draught of so
vigorous a kind that, after the operation, Mace started off to refill
the vessel.
"Ah!" sighed Master Peasegood, "the dreadful draughts that good, weak
woman has presented me to drink are something terrible to think of:--
agrimony tea, balm wine, camomile tea, and a score more; but the worst
of all is that dreadful juice of her sour well-squeezed grapes, that she
calleth wine. Master Cobbe, will you kindly pass the ale, and methinks
I'll take a pipe."
The parson dined with them, and stayed on as if to supper; Tom Croftly
enjoying the rest of his holiday his own way, which was in "terrifying
weeds," as he called it, chopping away with a hoe at the luxuriance that
sprang up in the moist, fertile garden. In the evening the seat beneath
the apple-tree was occupied, and they sat and talked as the soft running
murmur of the water came pleasantly to their ears, while Mace, in the
enjoyment of the pleasant hours, and forgetful of her love-troubles for
the time, worked as long as she could see. Sir Mark was forgotten, and,
in spite of one painful remembrance, Gil's bronzed, handsome face filled
her fancy as she listened to the whirr of the nightjar from the oak
plantation, and from the bosky clumps away towards the ironstone hills
the thrush's evening hymn; and then away and away for miles till the
sweet songs sounded faint and died away.
Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and
song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows
of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked
herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such
joys.
Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he
had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as
supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the
handle of his hoe.
She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go
to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come.
"I've about terrified all them weeds, mistress," he said, "and I'm going
home. The bees be all right, and I've had a rare fine day; but there be
some'at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don't quite like to
speak."
"What is it, Tom?" said Mace. "Is it any thing I can do for you?"
"Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I
ought to tell'ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?"
"Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day's picking."
"That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best 'ood I could.
All alder 'ood, and well seasoned; and--"
"You want me to do something for you, Tom?"
"Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I've knowed ever
since thou couldst toddle. Thou won't be hurt like and rate me if I
speak?"
"No, Tom, I will not," said Mace, wondering what his request would be.
"Then don't you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark,
mistress, for he's a bad 'un, fond o' wenching, and not good enough for
thee."
Tom Croftly did not wait for an answer to his prayer, but hurried away
in a shamefaced fashion, leaving Mace with her breast heaving and the
colour burning in her cheeks. The tears rose to her eyes, and she
seemed to awaken once more to the realities of the present, and, as if
to complete the disillusioning of her heart, she heard the tramp of a
horse, and as she rejoined her father she heard the stout parson say--
"Hey, Master Cobbe, here comes thy gay visitor. I think I'll not stay
supper. I'll say good-night. Ah, Mace, my child, you there? Farewell,
my darling. Good-night."
He rolled off, meeting Sir Mark by the bridge, as the latter caught
sight of Mace's dress through the trees, and effectually blocking the
knight's way as he tried to be polite, till such time as Mace had
reached her room to sit for hours thinking of Sir Mark's return. Then
she found herself wondering what Gil was doing, and whether she ought
ever to give him a thought now as she recalled the scene which she had
witnessed with Mistress Anne.
Volume 1, Chapter XVII.