There was a great deal of talk about punishing those who had rescued
Mother Goodhugh from the flames; but Sir Mark was away with his wife,
and soon after his marriage, being somewhat of a favourite of the
British Solomon, he was appointed to a diplomatic post at one of the
continental courts, and when Sir Thomas Beckley took his first steps to
vindicate the insult offered to the law he received so broad a hint that
he might suffer bodily for his interference, that he quietly shut
himself up in his old house, surrounded by the carp-haunted moat, and
took walks upon its bank to give the gaping, staring fish a model that
they might study for their benefit at will.
In fact, the rescue of Mother Goodhugh was half forgotten in the news
that was spread by the superstitious that by her subsequent death a
spell had been broken, and Sweet Mace had been set free and had returned
to life.
For by degrees she was restored, but it was only by long and patient
nursing. In the latter part of her imprisonment her faculties had
become dulled, and the shock had produced a semi-torpid state that had
its effect upon her mental powers, which were slow to recover their
tone. Gil was ever by her side, though she did not know him or her
father; but, after a month's prostration, during which she had hardly
left her couch, she began to fight her way very slowly back to strength.
Tender nursing prevailed, and, could her health, drunk in flagons of
ale, have given it back sooner, Master Peasegood would have insured her
the most robust of constitutions months before she was seated in the old
garden, an object of curiosity to all who saw her, with the face of
twenty and the silvery hair of three-score and ten.
But the ashy pallor gave way to the returning hue of health, and the
rigid, fixed features became softened and rounded. It was Sweet Mace's
old face again by the next summer, all but a couple of deeply-marked
lines in her forehead--lines of care and thought which still remained.
The founder sighed even in his joy at her return, for still there was
something wanting.
"Nay, Gil," he said, sadly, "thou hast brought me back the body of my
darling, but thou hast not brought the spirit. She smiles sadly and
gazes at me when I speak, and that is all."
"Yes, that is all," groaned Gil; "she knows me no longer."
"Poor lad, poor lad!" muttered Master Peasegood, who was present; and he
drowned his sigh in a flagon of ale.
"Art going to rebuild the old house, now?" said the parson.
"Ay," said the founder, "and at once. I have my hopes that the sight of
the old place, made as near like as can be, even to the trees, may do
the poor child good, for she seems at her best when I take her round the
garden."
Gil looked up curiously, for a thought had struck him; but he said
nothing; and, on the founder proposing that they should go and see the
men digging the foundations out, he walked with them to the old place.
As they walked down to the garden, Gil's mind ran a good deal upon the
thought that had occurred to him, but he said nothing, and waited
patiently for his opportunity.
The visit was prolonged till towards evening, when, before returning,
the founder walked down the narrow lane by the side of the Pool towards
the meadow where Sir Mark had made his first proposal to Mace.
The place was full of memories for Gil, and he sighed as he thought of
the bright sweet face he had encountered, and recalled his jealous
feelings towards the man who had forced himself into the position of his
rival.
But his attention was taken up directly after by the founder, who, with
a return of his old business briskness, thrust open the meadow gate, and
pointed to the new, sweetly-scented stack of hay just formed.
"What think you of that, Master Peasegood?" he said.
"Truly I am no judge of grass or hay, friend Cobbe, unless it be
metaphorically, and for simile's sake--grown up at noon, cut down at
night,"--was the reply. "Ask our gossip, Tom Croftly here."
"Ay, Tom Croftly is a good judge of grass and stock too, though he is
only a founder."
"I see not why a man may not be a judge of hay as well as iron," said
Master Peasegood, as Croftly drove a horse and rough tumbril through the
gate, and along the track to where the old stack of hay stood, with a
good quarter of it cut away, waiting the knife.
"Neither do I," said the founder, smiling as he thought of his own
business.
"You hear this, friend Gil Carr," said Master Peasegood; "why not give
up thy roving ways, and settle down to help friend Cobbe. There, lad,
the good time is coming: the past forgotten; sweet little Mace will be
herself again; and Master Cobbe will be ready to take thee by the hand
as son. Faith, and how deftly Tom Croftly handles that great blade, and
cuts the hay in squares. Were I a fighting man, methinks that would be
a good weapon to have in battle. Heyday! what ails the man? Does he
want to break his neck?"
For Tom Croftly suddenly threw up his hands, leaped some eight feet down
into the meadow, and came up panting and with his forehead bedewed with
sweat. His eyes were staring, and his countenance ghastly, while for a
few moments he could not speak.
"Hast seen a ghost, Tom Croftly?" cried Master Peasegood with a hearty
laugh.
"Close upon it, master," gasped Croftly. "Hey, master, but it be
terrifying."
"What is terrifying?" cried the founder.
"That, that," panted the man. "Lord forgive me; I didn't know what I
did."
"Speak out, man, speak out," cried the founder, as the poor fellow began
to tremble; and he clutched him by the arm, fearing that some new
trouble had befallen his house.
"I can't, yet, master, it be too terrifying," gasped Croftly. "The Lord
forgive me for doing such a deed!"
"Less of that last, Tom Croftly, and more explanation," said Master
Peasegood, sternly.
"Yes, Mas' Peasegood, I'll tell thee," gasped the poor fellow. "I
sharpened up as usual--the big knife, you know--and went to cut the
'lowance for the horse and pony, when I couldn't have been looking; and
he must have got up there to sleep."
"He? Who? What?" cried the founder.
"It's not I as can say, master," stammered the poor fellow; "the knife
went down hard, but I thrust the more, and then, taking up the truss of
hay, his head rolled down."
"What?" roared the founder.
"Heaven forgive me, master," cried Croftly, sinking on his knees, "I've
cut a man's head clean from his body."
The founder and Master Peasegood stared at him aghast, as if believing
he was mad, but the poor fellow was sane enough; and, on following him
to the little stack, there was the horrible truth; but Croftly was
relieved on finding his knife had decapitated the dead, and not some
sleeping man.
"Was he dead, then?" he faltered, in answer to a few words spoken by
Master Peasegood.
"Dead, man! ay, months ago. Heaven have mercy on us, it's a horrible
thing."
"You're right," said the founder, turning away with a shudder; "the poor
wretch must have lain down when we were making the stack, and more hay
have been thrown upon him. He must have been smothered."
"Some gipsy, perhaps," said Master Peasegood, whose broad face looked
white.
"Here be a bottle by him," said Tom Croftly, lifting one from beside the
body, "and here be a strap. Why, master, master!" he cried, rising up
with a scrap of clothing in his hand.
"What is it, Tom?" said the founder, shuddering. "Come away, man, come
away."
"Ay, I'll come away, Mas' Cobbe, but I've found out who it be."
"You have?" cried Master Peasegood, excitedly, as the man opened and
smelt the bottle.
"Ay, I have," said Croftly. "That be strong waters in this bottle; and
him as lay down," he continued, sagaciously, "I say, him as lay down
upon that half-built stack was drunk, and the steam of the moist hay
stifled him."
"But who think you it was?" cried the founder.
"Him as was missed," cried Croftly, triumphantly.
"Thank God!" cried Master Peasegood; "then Gil was as innocent as the
day."
"Innocent--as the day?" cried the founder, in a puzzled voice, as he
looked from one to the other. "Poor creature, how do you know? But I
don't understand. Some one who was missed? Good God!" he cried, as a
light flashed upon him, and he took a step or two up the short ladder by
the stack, and then leaped down. "'Tis Abel Churr!"
Volume 3, Chapter XIX.