Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating
gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth
by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as
it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene.
For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial
in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands
made it look unnatural to a degree.
For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the
strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to
his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the
opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as
if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to
draw its occupant back to its shades.
Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards
the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace's feet, and
lay there, panting.
"She has come from the dead to fetch me," moaned the old woman, whose
reason seemed to wander. "I know her. See how white, and cold, and
strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and
now--now--have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch."
She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace's bare, white feet, and
laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her
eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.
Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his
faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran
forward with outstretched hands.
"Mace," he cried, hoarsely, "speak to me, oh, speak!"
He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after
Mother Goodhugh's words, that the woman he loved had come back from the
dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that
it was true.
As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from
her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some
venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that
her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.
He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea
of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his
slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.
It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry,
Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.
She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf
was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly
closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of
sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before
clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her
lips.
A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only
substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the
cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.
But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection,
one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.
"My love is dead," he panted. "Did not those hands lay her in her
grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?"
"Skipper," whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat
standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure.
"Skipper," the old fellow whispered hoarsely, "we bean't cowards, but
the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!"
In his strange confusion of mind, Gil was for the moment ready to accept
this theory, and he gazed down at the weird figure beside him, and then
at Mother Goodhugh, where she lay. Was there really truth then in
witchcraft, and had this old woman the power to recall the dead?
He looked at the deathly white face, the white hair, then at the cave
mouth, and the surroundings of the bright sunlit ravine, and his group
of wonder-stricken men, and then his every-day common sense prevailed.
It was no myth, no trick of witchcraft, but a living, breathing form.
It was Mace, the dead restored, his lost love, she whom he had mourned.
How it was he did not know, neither could he stop to consider while she
lay helpless by his side. Mace lived again, and the mystery must rest.
"Wat," he cried, as like a flash of lightning the thought entered his
brain. "The dead--the grave--it was Janet who was killed."
The old man shook his head, but Gil paid no heed, for a low sigh had
just escaped from Mace's lips, and, bending down, he raised her head
upon his arm, swept aside her long grey hair, and kissed her stony brow.
It was enough for him that she lived--that she whom he had mourned was
restored to him, and raising the kerchief slightly he gazed in silent
wonderment at the fast-closed eyes.
Then he awoke to the fact that it was time for action, and not for
wonder, and rousing himself he began to give orders.
"Quick, my lads," he cried; "make up a couch of the sailcloth in yonder,
and carry in yon poor old creature. Wat, have a fire lit, then cut some
of the ling, and make another couch."
Their leader's words broke the spell that seemed to have charmed the
men, who hurriedly obeyed, while Gil strove hard to restore the icy
frame he held to consciousness, trembling lest the shock had been too
severe, and fighting hard to keep his brain from dwelling upon the
mystery.
"Dead!" whispered a voice at his ear, and a pang shot through his breast
as he gazed in horror at the face resting against his heart.
"No!" he cried hoarsely. "Dog! you lie."
"No, no, skipper: the old witch--Mother Goodhugh. She be gone."
"Art sure?" cried Gil, with a sigh of relief.
"Sartain, skipper. She was almost gone before."
"Heaven forgive her!" said Gil, softly. "Wat, lay her decently in the
furthest part of the store till we can put her to rest. See that a
couch is ready. Poor sweet! she cannot bear the light."
As he spoke, handling her as tenderly as if she had been an infant, Gil
rose up and bore the insensible girl into the store, where the state of
the objects around told him plainly that she must have been a prisoner
for months.
In a few minutes' time he had her lying upon a bed of soft heather,
softened with a sail and a couple of heavy cloaks for coverlids, as he
sought to infuse warmth, and with it life.
As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the
rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts,
Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again.
He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his
heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after
trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to
promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result.
The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one
blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the
linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and
crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst
the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his
evening hymn.
As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in
death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth
and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before;
but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was
reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and
kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour
that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own.
But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly
up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst
founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were
married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him
sternly begone, for he muttered:
"The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the
dead."
That she might live was Gil's prayer; that, if a victim were needed to
offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it
was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient
resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many
happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he
could bear.
The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and
in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him.
How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay
dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the
contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the
light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to
a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he
fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure,
the icy coldness seemed to increase.
As the night drew on Gil knew it was impossible to get help, and in his
despair he felt that he could only wait and hope. His men, saving those
who watched, contrived themselves a rough tent under the shelter of the
over-hanging rock, and at last, as the fire they had made died out, Gil
knelt there alone with her who had been his boyhood's love, his
manhood's deepest passion, and, feeling that she was gliding from him
once again, he flung himself by her side, clasped the icy form to his
breast, and sought by his despairing kisses to win from it some token of
life.
It was in vain, and the warmth he sought to impart fled from his own
breast to receive back the icy chill from hers.
The night stole on, and the soft whispers from the forest around were
heard from time to time, or a withered leaf fell with a noise that was
striking in the stillness around. Sometimes an owl swept past the
cavern's mouth on ghostly wing, making its presence known by its strange
cry. The stars glittered and blinked and shed their soft light, while
from time to time a faint breeze from the sea swept through the forest
and up the glade, where it sighed and seemed to sob as it appeared to
enter the cavern, and then fled shivering away.
Now and again some muttered word or uneasy motion on the part of one of
the men could be heard, and at stated times the gaunt form of Wat Kilby
was seen to go limping past, as he changed his sentries. Then the hours
slipped by, and Gil still lay there clasping the senseless form to his
breast--the form of the dead he told himself again and again, till
utterly worn out with grief and despair a stupor more than a sleep fell
upon him, and the present passed away.
It was broad daylight, and a faint flush of the coming sunshine was
reflected from the side of the ravine visible from where Gil lay, while
for a few moments he could not collect his thoughts. There was a
strange buoyant feeling in his breast to which it had long been a
stranger, and he lay wondering what it meant, till, like a flood, the
recollection of the past night came upon him, and with a groan he turned
his eyes to gaze upon the sweet, dead face of her he loved; but only to
start up on his elbow, trembling with dread lest he should have been
deceived.
For it was no icy marble frame that he had clasped to his breast. The
warm life-blood of his heart had seemed to communicate its vitality to
her who lay insensible there, and sent the current of life, that month
by month had grown more sluggish in its course, bounding through artery
and vein once more; and, as he bent lower and lower, it was to feel
Mace's soft, warm breath upon his cheeks.
He caught her hand in his and placed it on his breast. It was icy cold,
but it was not deathly; and, when in a passion of thankfulness and joy
he rained his kisses on brow and lips, the clammy, rigid feeling had
quite passed away.
He knew that she lived; but there was no reply to his caresses. Asleep
or in a strange stupor, he could not tell which; but as he released her
she lay back motionless, save that her breast heaved softly, and her
breathing was regular and slow.
He spoke to her with his lips to her ear, but there was no reply; he
raised her in his arms and gazed in her pale face, but still there was
no response; and, trembling lest she should again slip from him, he
softly laid her head upon the rough pillow and tried to think of some
plan to fan the tiny spark of life into a warmer glow.
Rousing his followers, and regardless now of discovery, so that he could
gain help, Gil despatched Wat Kilby to Roehurst, and others to the ship
and the nearest town, the result being, that the same evening the
insensible girl was carefully borne to Croftly's cottage, near her
ruined home.
Volume 3, Chapter XVI.