Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had
taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and
heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo
in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men
rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching
at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and
strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small
articles of cargo--silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then
sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the
vessel's stem was turned once more for home.
For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he
had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change,
with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same.
There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his
heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing
appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.
"Save her--from what?" he cried passionately, as he paced up and down
the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered
the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed
with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.
It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port
in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at
the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave
orders--he recalled it all--orders to 'bout ship, and they were obeyed
without a word.
It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had
come to him with the gruff question, "Where to now, skipper?"
"_Home_!" was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood
gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose
from the crew a tremendous cheer.
He recalled it all--how he had stood gazing there while order after
order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the
little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a
smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.
And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel
would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in
fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little
river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.
He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another
phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get
farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call
him back--back to what?
A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to
gaze again upon poor Mace's grave.
Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision,
that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when
forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon
the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the
little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run
out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel's head
straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars
nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were
made.
Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they
were back the fancy that had floated before Gil's eyes had been seen no
more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.
It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the
forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to
action; and for Mace's sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor
old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.
"She would have urged me to do it," he said to himself; and, making his
plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature
lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.
"What shall I do now?" said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. "Set sail
again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding,
will try to hunt us down.
"Well, let him come if he will," he added, wearily, and then rising.
"Now, my lads!" he cried, "to work."
His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one
year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the
mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones
loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained,
and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their
efforts to dislodge it.
"Come boys," Wat Kilby cried, "have you left all your strength in the
Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together--heave ho!"
As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped
the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never
recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the
explosion--injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid
during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.
"Skipper," he said, "I'm not quite so strong as I was, and my bones
don't seem to be knit together as they were. It'll take some pounds o'
Mas' Cobbe's best to lift that out."
Gil frowned, for the old man's speech brought up a host of painful
recollections.
"Shall we get up some powder, skipper?" said Wat.
"And fire the barrels that are in the store?" said Gil sternly.
"Nay," growled the old fellow; "we could hoist out that stone without
reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away."
"Get it then," said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were
despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the
keg, which they carried in turn.
Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with
half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.
A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit
scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as
suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.
At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied
himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without
further damage to the store.
It was soon done--a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother
Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock,
where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the
fuse after seeing all the men were safe.
"Now, captain," he said, "as soon as you like."
"Stop a moment," said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was
experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.
"What for, captain?" said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.
"The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark's fellows down."
"Nay," cried Wat, "the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my
lad. They'll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did,
what then? No one could find his way here without a guide."
"Go on, then," said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a
little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old
gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he
just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and
limped coolly to the captain's side.
From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly
away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of
the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst
the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke,
and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall
of masses of the splintered rock.
The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and
blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where
the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock
having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down
the slope.
"There, skipper," growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up;
"there be not a cask split inside I'll wager, and a few showers of rain
will hide all the marks."
Gil nodded.
"Four of you bring the old woman along," he said. "We'll make her a bed
inside. Good God!"
He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused
Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise
herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.
"Yes, yes," she cried. "Powder, powder--the cursed stuff. Cobbe's
work; Cobbe's work. He slew my dear with it, and now--ha, ha, ha! I
have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here."
Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it,
as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop
back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly
grotesque.
"Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped--that wedding--Mistress
Anne--the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did--I stopped it.
Do you hear? I got the key--the powder-cellar, and laid a train--a
long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the
garden--there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder," she panted,
pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.
"I did it--I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me--all
of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark's men--and then I struck with
my flint and steel--and the fire--ran along the ground--and the powder
blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and--and--why is it daylight?
Why does the sun shine?" she continued, gazing wildly from one to the
other.
"She's daft," growled Wat. "Poor soul! they have frightened away her
wits."
"Silence," cried Gil. "Let her speak."
"Who says I'm daft?" cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. "I am
not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and
make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas' Jeremiah
Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store."
"She thinks it is a year ago," muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.
"Yes, yes. I've had my revenge," muttered the old woman, gazing round
wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, "and burnt his place.
He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor
souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the
other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor
child! poor child! poor child!"
"Mother Goodhugh," cried Gil hoarsely, "did you fire the Pool-house?"
"Yes, yes, yes; the powder," gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her
head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. "I did it well; and
now I'll forgive him. I'll curse Mas' Cobbe no more. I did it just
now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands--my hair, but
never mind; I've had revenge."
"Then it was you who fired the powder there--that dreadful night," cried
Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.
"Yes, I did it," chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as
if in pain--"but Sweet Mace--poor Sweet Mace--they thought it killed
her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw
him bring her out--yes, it was you--and laid her--dead upon the ground.
Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit--yes, white spirit--and she
comes to see me--no: does she?--I can't think--it was just now I got her
out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks
at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I've
wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was
bad."
The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her
hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him,
and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from
one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.
"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned piteously; "she comes looking so white and
sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I
shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps--some day. Hush,
hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There--there--look,
look!" cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm
round Gil's leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and
pointed with her skinny fingers. "Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor
child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me,
dear? See! see!"
As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old
woman's finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven
entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure
with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the
white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of
the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the
party--Gil himself--shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a
being of another world.
Volume 3, Chapter XV.