Men, when half-angry, are in their horseplay rather disposed to be
brutal, and it was so here. Sir Mark's followers had made themselves
exceedingly obnoxious to those of Gil, and they had seen him defend
himself against a furious attack before, treating his enemies with
contempt, he had brushed them aside and walked away. There was a fine
opportunity then to avenge the insult to their leader, and to teach the
gaily-dressed strangers to be a little less important and condescending
to the people amongst whom they had come.
Ever since the world began there has been the desire to dress up the
frail tenement of clay in which our souls do dwell, and to make it
bright and gaudy. In early days it was perhaps only a daub of red
earth, the blue or purple stain of a berry or leaf, or a brightly-tinted
feather from some wild bird's wing; and no sooner was the decoration
donned than envy came upon the scene, mingled with dislike. Possession
could not be had of the gay adornment, but there was the satisfaction of
seeing the bright colours fade, the daub of gaily-hued earth washed away
by the same heavy rain that bedraggled the feather, and made its plumes
stick to the shaft. This same feeling exists in a.d. 1883 as it did in
the year 3500+b.c., and no greater pleasure can be given to a rough mob
than that of seeing some well-dressed individual come down into the mud.
The followers of Gilbert Carr then felt a real annoyance at seeing these
showily-dressed men vapouring about, and hence it was with sincere
pleasure that they heard Wat's order, one which they were not slow in
putting into effect.
Four of the sturdy sailor-looking men seized the strangers on the
instant; while the workpeople freely helped; and the result was that, in
spite of struggles, cries, and piteous appeals, first one and then the
other was plunged into the rushing water of the mill-race, and borne
towards the turning wheel.
As for Wat Kilby, he would have felt a grim satisfaction in seeing both
swept through, over the fall into the deep hole beyond, where he would
have helped to fish them out half-drowned; but there were plenty of
workpeople present who would not allow matters to go to such an
extremity, but were already about to lend aid as Sir Mark leaped out of
the window, to be followed more deliberately by the founder through the
door, Sir Thomas staying behind to have another glass of the very
satisfactory wine.
Sir Mark then was in time to see his two men carefully fished out, to
stand staggering and dripping on the edge of the Pool.
"How was this?" he cried. "Whose doing was it?" he repeated, stamping
his foot angrily, and gazing round as his men sputtered, panted, and
pressed the water out of their eyes.
For answer there was a tremendous roar of laughter, which exasperated
him the more, as he looked eagerly around for Gil, or some one worthy of
his steel.
The founder was more successful, for on coming up and asking a similar
question, gazing angrily the while at Wat Kilby, that individual uttered
a low laugh.
"This was thy doing!" the founder cried fiercely, as he scowled at the
old sailor.
"Ay, and suppose it was, Master Cobbe. What then?" growled Wat.
"You dog! How dare you insult my guests?" he cried. "I'll have no more
of thy ill-conditioned drunken ways. Here, Croftly, Jenking, a dozen of
you, serve this old brawler, here, the same. I will have him punished,
Sir Mark, or my name is not Cobbe."
He turned to his guest, and then his sun-browned, rugged face became
purple with fury, for, of all the group of his busy workmen about, not
one stirred to do his bidding.
"Do you hear?" he roared, furiously. "In with that fellow there."
Wat Kilby laughed, and seated himself on a block of stone, took out his
pipe and flint and steel with exasperating calmness, and prepared to
strike a light.
Still no one moved, and Sir Mark, who was irritated beyond endurance,
called to his followers to throw Wat in themselves.
But the two men shivered and glanced towards their horses, so thoroughly
had they been cowed by their wetting; and, seeing this, Sir Mark made at
the old fellow himself.
"Up with you, boor," he cried, presenting his sword as if to prick the
old fellow towards the water.
Wat ceased nicking the steel against the flint, blew at the tinder, lit
his pipe, and puffed a cloud in the face of Sir Mark, as, rising
suddenly, he towered over him, and looked down with a cool laugh.
"Put up thy sword, my fine fellow," he cried. "Thou art not going to
pook me, and there isn't a man here who would raise a finger to help
thee. I gave my lads here orders to duck your men for insulting our
captain, and they did it well. Come away, boys, we are not wanted
here."
The great fellow's coolness seemed somehow to stagger Sir Mark, while
the founder made no further attempt to interfere, as Wat thrust his
tobacco in one pocket, his flint and steel in the other; and, puffing
away at his pipe, went slowly off, staring hard at the house for a
glance at Janet. Then passing the great howitzer he gave it an
affectionate slap upon the breech, and marched towards the forest.
"In with you," cried Sir Mark to his followers; "in and get your
garments dry. Master Cobbe, these men will have to be brought to book."
He glanced round haughtily at the group of workpeople, who did not,
however, seem much impressed either by him or his ways, for they merely
nodded and whispered together, ending by broadly grinning at the figure
cut by the two half-drowned men, who followed the founder into one of
the stone furnace-sheds, where they were furnished with blankets to use
as wrappers while their clothes were rapidly dried.
Sir Thomas shortly after left on foot, alleging that he was too much
hurt by the saddle to attempt to mount again; and his horse was ridden
back for him by one of the founder's boys.
The worthy baronet and justice reached home looking very hot and weary,
to be met on the step by his daughter.
"Where is Sir Mark?" she cried. "My dear, I left him at the Pool,"
replied Sir Thomas, feebly, for the attack made by his daughter was
sharp.
"Left him there? Did I not say thou wert to stay and bring him back?"
"But, my dear--"
"Oh, out upon you!" cried Mistress Anne, stamping her foot in anger.
"Fie, father, fie; I try so hard to do justice to thy house, and welcome
our guest back as becomes his rank. I try to let him see that he is the
visitor of a baronet, and what do you do, my father, but slight him--
leave him to the care of these people at the foundry, for him to stay as
he stayed before. It is a shame."
Poor Sir Thomas tried to put on his magisterial air, but failed
dismally, as he always did when he tried to do battle with his child.
He could frighten his different domestics till they trembled in awe of
his presence; but his daughter seemed to have so great an influence over
him that he was fain to open and shut his lips in fish-like muteness,
and obey her to the very letter.
It was a great relief to him then when Mistress Anne flounced out of the
room, and he heard a door upstairs bang very loudly, being a signal that
she had shut herself, angrily, in her own bower, as it was called by the
maids.
"Poor child," he muttered; "I fear her heart is set on this young
knight."
"What's that you say?" exclaimed Dame Beckley, who had entered, and
heard a part of his speech.
"I say, I fear me that her heart is set upon this young knight, my
dear."
"Tut--tut--tut. Yes, I suppose so," replied the dame. "But the other
day it was that Captain Gil."
"Ay, she's a headstrong girl," said the baronet; "and we shall have much
trouble with her yet. How much she takes after my family, to be sure!"
Dame Beckley glanced sidewise at her lord, but she did not speak; and
then, hearing that Sir Mark had not returned, and that Sir Thomas did
not know whether he would return, she fully divined how it was that the
eruption of temper had taken place; and sighing, and wishing her
daughter well wed, she retired to cull simples in the garden, and feel
thankful that she had outgrown all such troubles of her own.
Volume 2, Chapter X.