"Have I drunk some love potion?" muttered Sir Mark to himself very early
the next morning, "or am I going back to my calf-love days? Here have I
enjoyed more conquests than any man at the court. I came down to the
Moat, and pretty Mistress Anne Beckley throws herself into my arms; then
I come on here to find myself regularly taken--trapped as it were. She
does what she likes with me, even as she does with that bully, Carr. I
fight against it, and make myself worse. I declare I will think of her
no more, but go back and swear allegiance to pretty red-haired Mistress
Anne, when Mace's eyes rise up before me, and turn me from my way. She
is so calm and sweet, and seems so pure, that I am beaten."
He walked up and down the old parlour, where Janet was bringing in the
various preparations for the breakfast, coquetting about till she caught
his eye and smiled and looked down, throwing out invitation after
invitation, when, as she passed close to him, he caught her in his arms
and kissed her, easily overcoming the girl's faint opposition, and
repeating the salute till she broke away and made off, leaving him
smiling at his success.
"Why, there isn't a woman living that I could not win," he said to
himself. "Bah! What an idiot I am. What are the kisses of such a
creature as that worth compared to the slightest smile of such a girl as
Mace? I am sick at heart!"
He walked up and down again, and just then Janet came back, mincing and
blushing, and making a great pretence of being terribly alarmed, when,
to her disgust, she found that Sir Mark was so abstracted that he paid
not the slightest heed to her presence, but walked straight to the
window, and stood gazing out into the garden.
Poor Janet's face was a study as she rattled the breakfast-plates and
knives, thumped dishes down upon the table, and coughed to take the
visitor's attention, but all in vain. She had rapidly recovered from
the snubbing administered by her master, and was congratulating herself
upon her conquest, when now, all at once, when the visitor's last kiss
was still wet upon her lips, he had turned away.
Janet tried in vain to take his attention, and ended by flouncing out of
the old parlour, hot with indignant wrath.
"No," mused Sir Mark, whose eyes were resting upon Mace, where, sweet
and fresh as the flowers she was picking, she wandered down one of the
garden-walks; "the old man is wrong. She is not the girl to trifle.
She is not the woman a man might make his mistress. It is all folly
about their meetings. Carr may play the Spanish gallant beneath her
window, but if any meeting has been held it has been with that gamesome,
wanton jade--Janet."
"How beautiful she is!" he muttered, as, forgetful of Janet's presence
and the kisses he had taken, he gazed with kindling eyes at the gentle,
pallid face, lit up with the consciousness of love for Gil and of his
truth. For there was a happy smile on Mace's lip that morning, and her
face, that had of late been pale, was now tinged with a tender peachy
bloom. There was grace in her every movement, and Mark Leslie's heart
beat fast.
"No," he said, "she is too pure and innocent to become the mistress of
any man. Curse it all, no one could be such a villain as to wrong her,"
he cried, with a sudden access of morality that had not existed in his
composition a few weeks back. "She is lovely enough to be the wife of
any man. Suppose that simple stuff gown and white linen kerchief, cap,
and cuffs were exchanged for a rich brocade, with jewels in her hair,
and round that soft, sweet neck, which would tempt a man to risk his
salvation that he might clasp it. Curse me, I wish I were one of the
flowers she is plucking with those delicious fingers. What does it
mean--has she bewitched me, or, as I say, has some love-philtre been at
work?"
"Curse me, if I care what it is!" he cried at last, excitedly, as he
still gazed through the casement at the unconscious girl. "She'd be a
wife for a prince. Her knowledge is wonderful; her mien purity and
sweetness combined; her voice low and silvery, as if music had assisted
at her birth. Why not win her and wed her, and at once?"
"Humph!" he muttered. "Why not? Old Cobbe must be as rich as any Jew,
whilst I am as poor as a beggar. He'd be glad enough to see her Dame
Leslie--Dame Mace Leslie. How provoking that I must go so soon, when I
might have been making sure my position. Never mind, it may not be too
late. And, curse me, I'll do it, for she is lovely."
"Ah, Sir Mark, stolen glances at that jade?" said the founder, who had
just entered the room unperceived, and who was watching curiously the
interest taken by the young man in his daughter.
"Master Cobbe!" exclaimed Sir Mark, loudly and angrily. "Shame upon
you, sir, to speak of your child like that."
"She should behave more seemly, then," said the founder, gruffly.
"More seemly!" cried Sir Mark. "Look at her. Did'st ever see one more
sweet and pure of mien? See the candour and gentleness upon her brow
and lip. You are wrong, Master Cobbe, you are wrong; my life upon it
you wrong her by your suspicions of her interviews with Carr."
"Do I?" said the founder, hotly. "Let's have her in, then, and ask her.
I grant that she is too truthful to lie."
"Nay, nay!" cried Sir Mark, excitedly; "I would not have her insulted by
such suspicions. Your daughter is a lady. It would be cruel."
"Odds life, man," cried the founder, half-amused by the other's
earnestness. "Whom have we here--the King's champion?"
"The Queen's, you should say, Master Cobbe," replied the other. "Master
Cobbe, you do not understand your daughter's ways."
"I understand my own," said the founder, gruffly, "and I made her.
She's my own flesh and blood, Sir Mark. Bah! I understand her whims
and follies better than you."
"Nay!" cried Sir Mark. "You roused me up last night to come and be a
witness of the truth of thy suspicions that sweet Mistress Mace held
clandestine meetings with Captain Carr, though I would have wagered my
life upon the suspicions being false."
"Thou did'st not say such a word last night," said the founder drily.
"Nay, how could I force my opinion upon you?" said Sir Mark. "I could
only follow, and pray that you were wrong; and what did you show me for
result, when you had, as you thought, forced me to be an unwilling
witness of sweet Mistress Mace's shame?"
"I saw no unwillingness," said the founder, drily; "I thought thou
obeyed'st it with eager joy."
"Nay, but I was unwilling: and my alacrity was to have revenge upon the
man who was searing my poor heart. And then what did you show me when
you had made your capture? That wretched drab of a serving-girl."
"Am I?" muttered Janet, who had half entered the room, and had heard his
words.
"Well, I am wrong," growled the founder; "and I am glad of it. I'd give
something to know that Gil Carr's visits had all been to see yon wench."
"Rely upon it they were, Master Cobbe. My life upon it they were," said
Sir Mark, eagerly.
"Hah!" ejaculated the founder; "rely upon it, eh? And why, pray, Sir
Mark, dost thou take so sudden an interest in my child?"
"Sudden, sir? Nay, it is not sudden. From the first moment I saw
Mistress Mace--"
"Thou loved'st her. Of course; the old story that has been poured into
silly maidens' ears from the beginning of the world. Stop, sir, listen
to me," he continued, as Sir Mark was about to speak. "I am not a
learned theology man, like Master Peasegood or Father Brisdone, but, as
you say, I'd wager my life that, when the serpent urged pretty little,
innocent Mistress Eve to take the forbidden fruit, he gave her a lesson
or two in the art of love, and upset her for the rest of her life."
"Maybe he did," said Sir Mark, smiling; "but the serpent was insincere,
and I am no serpent."
"How do I know that, young man?" said the founder, laying his hand upon
the other's breast. "I've been thinking a good deal about your visit
lately, and I will tell you flat that I have kept you here as a
scarecrow."
"A scarecrow?"
"Yes, to frighten off that marauding kite, Gil Carr, who was getting far
too sweet upon my simple child."
"Scarecrow! Serpent! Nay, Master Cobbe, I am neither," cried Sir Mark,
whose eyes had rested upon Mace as her father spoke, and gained such an
access of passion as they had lit bee-like on the honey-scented blossom
that he was ready to speak out plainly now.
"As I said before, how do I know that?"
"Because I tell you now, as a gentleman of his Majesty King James's
household, that I love Mistress Mace with all my heart."
"And I tell thee flat again, Sir Mark, that, gentleman of his Majesty
King James's household though you be, I would sooner believe the words
as coming from some simple gentleman of our parts."
"What am I to say to you, then?" said Sir Mark, excitedly.
"Nothing at all," replied the founder, bluntly. "Of course you love the
girl--everyone does who sees her; but what of that?"
"What of that? Why, Master Cobbe, I would fain make her my dear wife."
"Thy wife? My little Mace--my simple-hearted child, wife of a gay spark
of a courtier--a knight of King James. Nonsense, man; nonsense!
Trash!"
"It does take thee by surprise, no doubt," said Sir Mark, with a little
hauteur; "but it would not be the first time that a knight of my
position had stooped to many a worthy yeoman's daughter."
"Thou'rt a modest youth," said the founder, with a dry chuckle; "and I
suppose it would be a great stoop for the hawk to come down from on high
to pick up my little dove. And to keep up this style of language, good
Sir Mark, I suppose thy hawk's nest is very well feathered--thou art
rich?"
"Well--no," said Sir Mark, hesitating; "not rich; but my position
warrants my assuming to take a wife from the highest in the land."
"So you come and pick my little tit," said the founder. "Well, and a
very good taste, Sir Mark. She is, as you say, a beautiful girl, and
she will have fifteen thousand pounds down on her wedding-day for
portion."
"Fifteen thousand pounds!" exclaimed Sir Mark.
"And twice as much more--perhaps three times--when I die," said the
founder, with a smile of self-satisfaction, which increased as he saw
Sir Mark move his hand as he recovered from his surprise.
"Money is no object to me," he said; "I love Mistress Mace for her worth
alone."
"And you'd marry her without a penny."
"Ye-es, of course," cried Sir Mark; "give me your consent."
"Nay--nay, my lad, not I," said the founder. "My Mace is no meet match
for thee; and, as my guest, I ask you to say no foolish nonsense to the
child. She has had silly notions enough put into her head by Gil Carr."
"But that is all over now, Master Cobbe," cried Sir Mark. "I pray you
give me your consent. I may be recalled to-day."
"I am glad to hear it," said the founder. "You have been here too long,
and I don't know, even now, that it is all over with Gil Carr. I'm not
going to break my child's heart, and--hey-day, tit, child, what's
wrong?" he cried, as, with a face white as ashes, and her eyes dilate
with horror, Mace ran quickly into the room followed by Janet.
"Gil! father," she cried, hoarsely; and then, with a shudder, her eyes
closed and her head sank upon his breast.
"Why, child, what now? Has he dared? Speak, wench," he cried, stamping
his foot, as he turned upon the trembling serving-maid, "what is it?"
"Captain Culverin, master," she whispered, trembling--"Mas' Wat Kilby."
"What of them, fool?" cried the founder, excitedly.
"Drowned, master--in the Pool, and they're bringing their bodies now
ashore!"
Volume 2, Chapter III.