"I do not often exact my lover's fees," cried Sir Mark, kissing her
passionately in spite of her struggles, while a feeling of horror half
froze her, as she thought that this man must have heard the conversation
with the father.
In a few moments, though, she had freed herself, and stood panting
before him, longing to look back, and straining to listen to every
rustle of the leaves behind her, and yet not daring so to do, lest it
should draw attention to the fugitive.
"How silent you are," he said, laughing. "A stranger would think you
feared me, and not that we were so soon to be man and wife. My darling,
is it not time we grew less distant?"
"Let me pass, Sir Mark!" cried Mace, hardly knowing what she did or
said.
"Pass! No, little meadow-sweet. I will walk home with thee, proud and
delighted to be thy champion and protector--the happiest man on earth."
He talked on as he walked by her side, turning from time to time to gaze
on her white face, as they neared the cluster of houses near the Pool,
and seeming pleased that first one head, and then another, should be
turned to gaze after them as they went across the little bridge and into
the porch.
As soon as she could escape, Mace hurried up to her own room, where she
recovered a little from the agitation, as she thought of the father, and
that there was one place to which she could flee in the event of matters
coming to the worst. She had to plan, too, that certain necessaries
should be sent to Father Brisdone, all of which relieved her of her
terrible brooding thoughts, and the feeling that she was forsaken.
Helping another, and that so old a friend, was her solace, though she
wept bitterly as she thought of how it was through her that he suffered.
One thought, too, now dominated over the others, and that was, had Sir
Mark heard her words? If he had, the father would be seized, and she
sat thinking, longing to send him warning, but afraid, for she knew
that, with all his smiling openness of countenance, Sir Mark's words
that he spoke to her on their way back were true, for he had told her
that he was jealous of her; that he trembled lest some one should rob
him of his great joy, and that his men were compelled to be watchful;
and often when she had seen a dark figure near her window at night she
was sure it was not from objects of gallantry--that Janet had not been
waited for, but that the house was being guarded as if under military
rule.
It was with a sense of relief then that she saw Sir Mark's departure for
London the next day, even though he told her, as he held her hand, that
on his return he should claim it as his own.
There would probably be a fortnight, in which time a change might come,
as Master Peasegood had said, for Sir Mark might never be permitted to
return.
The freedom from his presence, though, brought little more liberty, for
that very afternoon a quiet, smooth-faced, smiling man in clerical garb
called at the Pool-house, introducing himself as the minister who was
temporarily to hold the cure of souls.
Mace shrank from him with fear and distrust, for in him she knew she was
looking upon Sir Mark's creature, a spy upon her actions, and one who
was to bind her fast to him with chains that could never be undone.
She contrived to carry various articles down to Croftly's cottage, but
in doing that she found that she was watched, some or other of Sir
Mark's men loitering about, apparently enjoying their idleness and
freedom from their master's eye; while she soon awoke to the fact that
even her visits to the gardens were noted, and that Janet, her maid, had
been bought over to the other side.
She tried one more passionate appeal to her father, but he would not
hear her; and after this she felt that she was thrown upon herself to
make some desperate resolve, either to flee to Father Brisdone, or take
a more terrible step, one which during the past few days she had learned
to look upon almost without a shudder.
The time seemed winged by magic as it glided by, and, trembling and
excited, she knew that the hour had nearly come for Sir Mark's return.
Twice over messengers had arrived from him, in each case laden with
presents, and bearing a letter full of words meant to be tender, but
which excited her disgust. She had had to listen, also, to the fulsome
adulation of Master Peasegood's successor, who, to her horror, contrived
to get himself asked by the founder to stay at the house, where he
became a spy and an incubus of which the poor girl seemed to be never
rid.
At length a last messenger arrived, bearing a fresh order to the
founder, and requesting him to proceed with it at once, at the same time
announcing Sir Mark's arrival on the morrow.
That night Mace sat at her window debating within herself as to what she
should do. A last appeal to her father had been so met that she felt
desperate, and a hair's pull one way or the other would have been
sufficient to draw her aside.
The question she asked herself was, whether she should flee to Father
Brisdone now, or wait until the eve of the wedding, and she decided for
the latter course, as, sobbing bitterly, she told herself there was
escape for her still if the father had not been seized.
The night was dark with the darkness of autumn, and as she sat at the
open window, with her cheek upon her hand, she gazed out at the dark
Pool and listened to the murmur of the falling waters as they plashed
musically amidst the stones and piles.
Suddenly, in the midst of her despairing thoughts, her hand dropped on
the window-sill, and her eyes dilated as she gazed before her at the
broad green bank across the race, where four points of light shone out
diamond-wise as in the happy days of her young love.
"Gil," she cried below her breath, and her heart beat painfully as she
gazed intently at the lights, which faded as quickly as they had
appeared.
Was it fancy--a trick, or some treachery? There were no glow-worms now.
It was long past the time when they shed their tiny lights, and the
appearance, if it were not fancy, could only be some accidental
resemblance which she had magnified in her excited state.
It was nothing, she said, as a feeling of misery came over her, and the
tears rose to her eyes as she wondered where Gil could be, and whether
he thought of her at that moment, when there was a slight rustle below,
and she reached out of the window, as her name was uttered in a low,
deep voice which she could not mistake.
"Mace!"
"Gil!"
For answer a foot was placed upon the sill below. He sprang, and caught
the mullion of her window, drew himself up and clung there, with both
hands, as she flung her arms round his neck, and laid her face against
his cheek.
They were moments of ecstasy mingled with grief and pain, as in her
delight at Gil's return Mace began to whisper to him of her terrible
position.
"I know all, sweet," he whispered back. "But hush, speak beneath your
breath. You are watched at every turn, and it was only by setting two
of my men to lead the spies upon a false scent that I could get to the
window. Oh, my darling, I could die now after this joyful meeting. I
have not doubted of thy love--not much; but I did not know how thou
mightest be forced."
"Oh! Gil, Gil, I am most miserable," she moaned.
"I know it, sweet. Father Brisdone has told me all. But, there, you
will listen to me now. Mace, dearest, you will not wed this man?"
"Gil, I was thinking when you came to-night I'd make the Pool my
wedding-bed."
"My own!" he whispered, as he longed to press her in his arms--the arms
that clung painfully to the window-sill to keep his face on a level with
hers.
"I was so miserable I wished myself dead."
"But now?" he asked.
"Now," she said, forgetting all timidity in her joy, as she clung more
closely to him, "Now I wish to live."
"And you will go with me?"
"What? leave my home--my father?" she said, half in amaze that he should
propose such a thing, and with all a woman's inconsistency, though so
few minutes before she had thought of fleeing to Father Brisdone to seek
a home abroad.
"Yes, when it is no longer a home to thee, sweet. Give me the name of
husband, Mace, my own old love. I have but moments to say it to thee.
Come with me now from this window. I have half a dozen men waiting.
Four shall help to guard you to our hiding-place while two go to the old
iron-pits and fetch thence Father Brisdone. He shall wed us at once.
Or we will away to my boat in the little river and go down to my ship,
where let even the King seek thee if he dare."
"Oh, Gil--dear Gil, I cannot!" she faltered.
"Quick," he whispered. "Hold me tightly, sweet, for my arms are
failing. Look here, Janet shall come if thou wilt."
"Nay, nay, she is false."
"Then come without her, sweet. Come, and be my own wife, and let us
laugh at this intruder, who would rob us both of a happy life."
"No, no, no!" she faltered, as she clung to him. "I cannot come--I
cannot come."
"You do not trust me," he said.
"Oh! hush, hush, Gil!" she moaned. "I do trust you, and love you with
all my heart. I will die sooner than that man shall clasp me as his
wife, but I cannot, cannot flee my home like this."
"Yes, yes, dearest, quick, you must decide," he whispered, as a faint
chirp was heard.
"I cannot, Gil. My father--my poor father, I cannot leave him."
"Mace, dearest, you torture me and yourself. You will come."
"Nay, nay, I cannot."
"What! Will you stay to be this man's wife?"
"No! Sooner death," she cried. "He may not return."
"He is on his way."
"Oh, no, no," she whispered, shuddering. "I could not be his wife. He
may not come--a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt
me to do wrong."
"Nay, nay, I'll not tempt thee, sweet. 'Tis no temptation to say, `Be
my wife.' Is it so sad a fate?"
"Gil--husband--thy wife or death's!" she sobbed, as she passionately
kissed his sunburned face.
"Then you will come, sweet!" he cried. "Quick, thy cloak and hood."
"Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave."
"Mace!"
"Do not reproach me," she said, sadly. "Gil, dear Gil, I love thee with
all my heart, but I could not flee from here while hope remained."
"And does it remain here?" he said, bitterly.
"Yes, dearest," she whispered. "My father may repent; Sir Mark may
never return. While there is either of those to cling to, I could not
go."
"But, if they were gone, would you come? Tell me quickly."
There was a dead silence, during which the chirp, as of a bird, was once
more heard.
"There is something wrong, sweet, and I must go; but tell me, were both
those hopes gone, would you come?"
Again there was silence, and then once more the chirp of the bird.
"Gil," whispered Mace, with her lips to his ear, "I cannot leave my
father while there is hope. If this fails me, on the eve of my
wedding-day, come, and I will flee with thee to the great world's end."
"Seal it," he whispered. "Gil!"
"Seal thy promise, sweet," he whispered. "My arms fail me; I cannot
draw thee to my breast. Kiss me, sweet wife, for my wife thou art."
Her lips slowly lowered themselves to his, rested there for long, and
then were raised, as a thrill of joy shot through the young man's
breast.
"On the eve of the day appointed for the wedding, then, I will be here,
to take thee away. Father Brisdone shall be on board my ship, the boat
lie waiting, and there shall be good men and true to protect thee, love.
You will not fail?"
"I will not fail," she whispered.
"There goes one hope," he said, as lights shone through the trees on the
track beside the Pool. "Sir Mark has come."
Mace uttered a faint cry.
"Nay, love, that should be a cry of joy," he whispered. "I go hence
happy, for the prize is mine."
Her arms relaxed, and he dropped from the window, and stole cautiously
away; but on every hand he found that some one was on the watch, and
that Sir Mark's people, who were more able than he had expected, were at
every turn.
They had not seen him come, but partly from suspicion, partly because
they half expected that the announcement of Sir Mark's return upon the
following night might be merely a ruse to throw them off their guard,
they were particularly watchful; and, as they had anticipated, so it
happened, for there was their leader at the gate.
A few blows and a struggle, and Gil could easily have escaped, but that
would have interfered with his plans; and hence he was doubly cautious,
the result being that just as the horsemen bearing lights reached the
house, Gil had crept back and crouched beneath his mistress's window,
unable to get unseen away.
"Gil," she whispered.
"I am here, sweet. They will see me if you stay. Go in, and close thy
casement."
"Nay, nay," she whispered, agitatedly. "You will be taken--there will
be blood shed. Come--quick--in here till they are gone."
With a bound Gil reached the heavy window-sill, and drew himself up, got
one arm over, then with a slight struggle he was half in, then leaped
lightly down, and caught Mace to his panting breast.
"Hush! for heaven's sake, hush!" she whispered as she clung to him, "you
might be heard."
"And if I were," he said fondly, "I should have blurred my darling's
fame. Mace, sweet wife, that I love thee thou shalt have no doubt.
Heaven bless thee, child. Good night."
Before she could speak he had placed one foot on the sill and leaped out
on to the grass, coming down so lightly that as she darted to the window
she hardly heard his footfalls. There was a slight rustle though on her
left, which must have been he; and then as she drew back there was the
sound of low voices talking, and she became aware that they were those
of her father and Sir Mark.
She shrank away from the window with a shiver, for the voice of Sir Mark
sounded hateful to her; but fear lest her lover should be heard drew her
back, and she stood listening, but heard no sound to cause her dread.
Once more there was the chirp as of a bird, and then came an answering
chirp as from off the water, after which all was silent, and she closed
her window to sit down and wonder how Gil had produced those tiny sparks
of light, and then she knelt down and laid her cheek against her bed as
she prayed with all her heart for forgiveness if she were wrong in
feeling so joyous--so glad of soul that her lover had returned.
For there was a delicious sense of ecstasy--of freedom from all pain--
pervading her. She was safe from Sir Mark and his machinations. He
might take away Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone, but Gil he dared
not touch; and she closed her eyes and sighed content as she thought of
her stout, brave lover--so strong, so manly, and so true.
Was it the same life, she asked herself, that she was living a few hours
ago? It seemed impossible; and she rose at length so refreshed and calm
that she was ready enough to answer when there was a step on the stairs,
and her father's voice speaking.
"Art abed, lass?" he cried.
"No, father."
"Then come down. Sir Mark would see thee and show thee the presents he
has brought from London town."
Mace hesitated for a few moments, and, had it been the night before, she
would have refused to go. This night she felt so at peace within
herself that she was ready enough, and went down to read in the eyes of
both that they were ignorant of Gil's return, though she repented
afterwards, and felt that she was playing a double part, as she listened
to Sir Mark's adulation, and saw the rich presents he had purchased for
his bride.
It was while she was listening to his words that she suddenly
recollected the necklace of pearls which she had scattered about the
room where they were seated, and wondered where they had gone, for she
had thought of them no more.
At last, at a very late hour for the simple country-place, she was able
to retire, and when she did, and received her father's customary kiss,
the words he uttered we're few but they shot through her like a pang.
For they were words of thanks for her less reserved demeanour towards
Sir Mark; and, as the poor girl ascended once more to her room, it was
with the feeling strong upon her that the second hope to which she had
clung had just been swept away.
Volume 2, Chapter XVIII.