The founder was full of repentance, and felt that evening that he dared
not meet his child's clear, searching gaze.
"He's too much for me," he muttered. "He's managed to get over me when
I've had more ale than's good for me, and when I've brought out the
sherry sack. It's prime stuff, that dry, strong sherry, but it makes a
man too easy, and he gives away more than he would when it's not in him.
I'll be more careful. I won't take so much; and yet I don't know--it's
very pleasant."
He had gradually worked himself round to the belief that he was acting
for the best, and then came the reaction, and he felt that he had sold
his child for the sake of gain.
Nothing was said about his promises to Sir Mark, for, though he had gone
into the house soon after with the express determination of speaking out
frankly and imperatively his intentions, he shrank from the untoward
task.
"I'll take her down the garden, and have a quiet talk in the morning,"
he said; and when the morning came he put it off till eve, plunging
heart and soul into the busy toil amongst his people, who, like some
little colony, looked up to him as their patriarch and the supplier of
their daily food.
"The lads are pleased enough with this girt job, master," said Tom
Croftly, wiping the grime and sweat from his forehead, as they stood by
one of the roaring furnaces; and the founder came away smiling, but only
for his smile to be chased away as he saw Mother Goodhugh going along
the track, to stop and shake her stick in his direction as she seemed to
be cursing him.
"I never minded her and her curses before," he muttered; "but now they
seem to worry me like. I haven't done right--I haven't done right; but
I've given my word--I've given my word."
He hurriedly made for another work-shed, glancing unquietly at the old
woman as she trudged along, turning from time to time to look in his
direction.
"Curse that old harridan!" he muttered; and then he stood thinking,
perhaps for the first time in his life, that now he had, as it were,
been unfaithful to his trust, Mother Goodhugh's evil wishes against his
house might have some effect.
"I don't care," he said; "it's for the best;" but as he said the words
the remembrance of Gil Carr rose up before him, as if with reproach.
"He should never have had her," he muttered. "It was impossible. The
death of that poor fellow, Churr, clings to him, say what one may. He
may not have done the deed, but it was by his orders, and he is
responsible for the sin."
He bit his lips angrily even as these thoughts came to his mind, for
they gave him no relief, and it seemed cowardly to harbour them in Gil's
absence, just by way of excuse for his present acts.
Then, too, go where he would, work hard as he might, his child's calm,
reproachful gaze seemed to be ever before him.
"She knows it already; I'm sure she knows it," he said to himself; and
at last, harassed by his upbraiding thoughts, he became furious and
irritable to a degree.
The eve had passed, and the next morning, and the night, but still the
founder did not speak. He told himself that he had but to say--"My
child, Sir Mark is your future husband;" but he could not say those
words, and at times he grew fiercely angry at his cowardice, for as the
days glided by the task grew harder and harder, and he literally dared
not speak.
He had one satisfaction, though, and that made somewhat smoother the
thorny way through which he was travelling, Sir Mark was gentleness
itself towards Mace. He never spoke one word that was not full of
tender consideration towards her. His very looks, though full of
admiration, were softened by respect; but she could read in them an air
of proprietorship; and to her mind they seemed to say that he knew he
was safe to win her if he only waited his time.
Those were not happy days at the Pool-house, and Mace, with many a
bitter tear, wished herself back in the pleasant peaceful times of the
past. The coming of Sir Mark's men had wrought a complete change in the
place; there were quarrels of frequent occurrence on the score of
gallantries, real or suspected, with husbands and brothers, rumours of
which came to the young girl's ears; and, whenever she encountered
Mother Goodhugh, the old woman had a malignant laugh for her, and a
shaking finger that seemed to portend evil. Then, in her despondent
state of mind, Janet became a constant source of trouble to her. She
scolded, threatened to send her away, and even tried to keep her shut up
in the house; but she might as well have tried to wrap up so much
quicksilver in muslin as to keep back the wilful girl, for in return for
bits of news and gossip carried to Mother Goodhugh, the old woman
furnished Janet with philtres that were to win her the hearts of any of
the gay strangers she wished to enthral.
"Oh, Janet, Janet, where is your modesty?" cried her mistress. "Who was
that man you talked with? Is it not the same I warned you about last
night?"
"No-o, mistress," said Janet.
"How can you be so shameless! Night after night I have to blame you for
your wilful ways."
"Yes, mistress," sobbed Janet; "I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but men are
so nice."
"For shame! Why not heed me when I speak to you for your good?"
"I do, mistress," sobbed Janet; "but these men they plague me so. I
try, oh, so very hard, to be good, and I will be a better girl. I want
to be good, and something always keeps trying to make me bad; but I will
be better now."
But Janet grew worse, in spite of her promises of amendment. She wept
and sobbed, and avowed that she was the wickedest girl under the sun,
kissed her upbraiding mistress's hands with the full intent of leading a
more modest life, and the next hour her vows were all forgotten, and she
was listening to the soft whispers of some one or other of the soldierly
men who hung about the place.
So Mace's days were not peaceful now, and matters at last became so
unbearable as the time glided on that she determined to speak to her
father, and ask him to let her leave home until his great work that
troubled her so was done, and the unwelcome visitors were gone.
For weeks she went about with the words on her lips, longing to say
them, but she dared not on account of the shock she knew it would give
her father, while he, restless and unquiet in her presence, kept back
what he had to say.
It was Sir Mark who brought father and daughter to an explanation.
There had been a week of something like relief, for the visitor had been
to London on business connected with the order, and on his return he had
startled Mace by a change in his mien in speaking to her as he had not
spoken since his avowal of his love that evening by the meadow-gate.
It was evening, and Mace was seated alone in the big window, working,
and glancing out from time to time at the pleasant garden, thinking that
it did not look so bright and cheery as of old; when Sir Mark entered,
and crossing the room stood close by her, gazing gently down with his
hands clasped behind.
She looked up at him in a timid way, and then shrank back in her chair.
Her first impulse was to run from the room, but she scouted the idea as
one only fit for some weak girl; and, fighting hard to recover herself,
she said the first words that came to her lips, angry with herself the
next moment with what she had spoken.
"Mistress Anne Beckley was here with my lady this afternoon."
"Indeed!" he said, huskily, as he still gazed down.
"Mistress Anne asked after your health, and bade me say that they missed
you very much."
"And you, what did you say?" he asked, softly.
"I said you were busy with my father, watching over the trial of great
pieces of ordnance and the making of powder," replied Mace, who was fast
recovering her calmness.
"Why did you not tell her I could not tear myself from the home where my
every thought was centred; that I could not live away from her who was
to be my wife? See, Mace, dearest, I brought you this from town. It is
to grace your sweet, white throat. There, I thought the pearls were
beautiful, but they look poor and mean, after all."
Mace's hands nervously clasped Sir Mark's wrists as, with a quick
movement, he brought them from behind him, and throwing a handsome
string of pearls round her neck he clasped it there.
If her suitor's wrists had burned her, she could not have snatched her
hands away more quickly as she shrank back once more into her seat,
gazing at him with so strange a look that the words he was about to
utter failed on his lips, and he stood for a while gazing down at her in
silence.
"You are surprised," he said at last, smiling. "Well, they were given
clumsily, but you teach me to be humble and reverent before you, Mace.
I grow speechless in your presence, as with a kind of humble adoration,
as I look forward to the day when you will be my wife."
"Your--wife!" she faltered.
"Yes," he cried, catching her by the hands to cover them with kisses,
"my wife, whom I shall worship, and take away from this wild, secluded
spot to shine like some jewel in King James's court."
He dropped her hand, for he heard the founder's voice without, and left
her sitting back--crouched, as it were, in her chair, cold and
nerveless.
She had expected this; she had looked hourly for its coming; but now
that it had come it was like some fearful shock.
"Gil," she whispered, at last. "Gil," as she felt like a bird in a
fowler's net, "why are you not here?"
His name seemed to give her back her strength, and, starting up, she
caught sight of her white face in the glass. Then her eyes fell upon
the glistening ornament around her neck, and, feeling that it was like a
chain that Sir Mark had placed there to secure her to him, she tore at
it hastily, the string snapped, and the great lustrous pearls flew with
a pattering noise about the floor as she hurried from the room, ran up
to her chamber, and threw herself sobbing upon her knees.
Volume 2, Chapter XV.