Chapter XI: Part 11

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.

HOW TOM CROFTLY SPOKE HIS MIND.

It was soon known in Roehurst that Captain Culverin had returned from his voyage, and Sir Mark ground his teeth with rage as he heard the news.

"The more need to get the matter over," he said to himself; and he had at once a long interview with the founder, one which set him more at ease, for it was decided then and there that the wedding should he that day week, and Mace was summoned to hear her fate.

She heard it without a word, and from that day forward went about the house like one in a dream, but with a strange feeling of excitement ever growing in her brain.

Wedding clothes lay about her room, and presents, but she hardly glanced at them. At one of her interviews with Sir Mark she had begged that she might be left much alone, and to her great relief this was accorded to her, and she waited for the eventful eve.

She longed to visit Father Brisdone at his hiding-place in the old ironstone pit, but she dared not go, for whenever she set foot beyond the scattered houses she found either Sir Mark or a couple of his men following upon her track. She had this consolation, however, that Gil was evidently in communication with the father, for he had promised to have him on board.

At first she was all excitement to know whether Sir Mark had heard her speaking to him; but she felt sure at last that this had not been so, and so she waited.

Two or three times over her heart was in a flutter, for there were well-known voices about the place, as Gil's men arrived escorting some dozens of the country-carts chartered to bear to the foundry-works load after load of dirty-looking saltpetre bags, and sacks of pure, pale yellow stone.

These were dangerous times, for all were well-armed, and there was risk enough of encounters between the sailors and Sir Mark's men, for the former gazed with jealous eyes at the position taken by the latter amongst their old friends; while the latter, who knew of the treatment of two of their companions, longed for an open quarrel and a fight.

But the orders were strict on both sides, Gil making Wat Kilby scowl as he gave the most stern commands as to the behaviour of the men when in the little village; and so, day after day, loads and loads of the special commodities were landed and carried away, and Gil made no effort to see his love or even speak.

Mace asked her trembling heart whether Gil would know which was the wedding eve, as if he would not be sure; and so great was her desire to hear of the condition of Father Brisdone that she daily made a journey to Tom Croftly's cottage, where the news she heard was always good; and the father sent her messages to be of good cheer, for he was safe.

These visits seemed to puzzle the followers of Sir Mark, who himself had his suspicions that they were made by appointment, and that she here made rendezvous with Gil; but following her one day, the most he saw was a small basket of provisions and a little flask of wine, all of which he set down to charity, and walked back with her quite content.

The unloading of Gil's ship continued rapidly, and the followers of Sir Mark heard one or two mysterious communications about the strange processions that sometimes were seen in out-of-the-way parts at night, but their orders were to keep close to the Pool-house, and no expeditions were made to see what the processions meant.

In short, there was a lull in the little hamlet--the calm that precedes a storm--and women whispered that Mother Goodhugh had been foretelling that the time of evil for the house of Cobbe was close at hand.

Sir Mark seemed to be passing his time in busily superintending the despatch of the last piece that had been finished, after careful proof, and then in idling about the woods, or rowing upon the Pool, while the preparations for the wedding still went on.

Once or twice he occupied himself with shooting the wild fowl with arquebus or cross-bow, but all the same his eyes and ears were attent to every change.

Now that the news must have reached the Moat, he studiously avoided visiting there, for he half-laughingly wondered what Anne Beckley would say.

Jeremiah Cobbe was of opinion that his intended son-in-law was trying to make friends with all the people about the place, so frequent were his visits from cot to cot; but this was not so, for he was busy trying to learn all he could about Gil's whereabouts and habits; an inquisition in which he was aided by Master Tarpling, the temporary resident parson; but the total of their knowledge when added up amounted to _nil_.

Once or twice did the founder hesitate as to the course he was pursuing, but in his business encounters with Gil he found him calm and stern, and it struck him that Mace had of late grown resigned; so he let matters drift, fully aware though he was that Sir Mark would now have forced him to keep to his word should he have shown any disposition to draw back.

"He'll make her a good husband," he said to himself. "She don't fancy it, perhaps, at first; but a father must be the best judge of what is for his child's happiness."

He was down at one of his powder-sheds, busying himself, and thinking that the Pool-house would soon be no longer the same, when he came upon Croftly, who, on the strength of his old service, said what he pleased.

"Oh, look here, Tom," said the founder, "Thursday's to be the wedding-day; you ought to set the men to work getting ready something in honour of the event. It's a busy time, but I shall not take any notice if some of you stop to rig up a sort of arch."

"Rig up!" said Tom Crofty. "Hadn't you better ask some of the Captain's men? It's more in their way."

"No, no," said the founder, hastily. "Make an arch of green boughs and flowers, and that sort of thing. You know better than I do; go up to the village and bid the men get the case of viols, and let there be a dance--the girls will be pleased. Tell the men they shall have their shilling and plenty of ale; and you can get some powder--a keg of coarse black--and the two little old guns, and fire 'em off. You can have what wood you like, too, for a bonfire at night. Do the thing well, my lad, and take a holiday all of you. I'll find the ale."

Tom Croftly took off his cap, and wiped his grimy brow with a blacker hand, as he seated himself on the bottom of an empty keg.

"We had a girt meeting 'bout it in the 'ood last night, master," said Croftly; "and talked it all over."

"Oh, you did?" said the founder, looking pleased. "Well, and what did you settle?"

"First find foremost, master, we sattled that we'd muffle the three bells up in the tower o' the church."

"Why, it's two miles away, man, and the sound wouldn't hardly be heard here."

"And then we'd toll 'em all day long."

"Toll them?" cried the founder.

"Ay, master, for it be like to us as if young mistress had been put in her grave."

"Nonsense, my lad. She'll come back sometimes. And it's a happy day for her."

"Happy, eh, master?" said Croftly roughly. "Look here, you asked for this, so you may as well have it slap i' th' mooth. I talked to the boys, and they talked to me; and at last of all they, swore as they'd be damned, every man Jack of 'em, if they didn't treat the whole thing as a fun'ral, and that, if any of Sir Mark's chaps tried to get up an ale shouting, they'd shove 'em in the Pool."

"But you musn't take it like that, Tom," cried the founder. "It's very good of the lads to take on so about losing their young mistress, but you must rejoice. It's to be a happy day."

"She looks like it, master," cried Tom. "Why her face be terrifying. Where be her bright sperrits, and her sparkling eyes? Don't you make a mistake about it, master. We don't take on about losing her, none of us, and we'd half bust every old gun on the place and raise such a girt bonfire as would set the country alight, if she was going to wed the man of her choice. But this gay fly-golding ladybird chap fro' London! Ah, master, you be doing wrong, and that be what we all say."

"You, Tom Croftly," roared the founder, angrily, as he writhed beneath the lash of his man's words, "how dare you speak to me like that?"

"Cause it be right," said Croftly, stoutly. "Haven't she and the captain been like two lovers ever since they was little children, and sent my heart in my mouth to see 'em playing so nigh the edge of the race?"

"I will not listen to such insolence," cried the founder. "You, Tom Croftly, come for your wage on Saturday night, and give up the cottage the week after."

"And maybe you'll put William Goodley in my place, eh?" said the foreman.

"Maybe I shall," cried the founder. "You ungrateful rascal!"

"Nay," said the foreman, "you need not trouble yourself, mas' Bill Goodley would not step into my shoes, nor another man in the place. And, just to show as I beant ungrateful as you say, I'll stop on."

"Stop on!" roared the founder. "Ay, stop on. Haven't you just took another good order? Haven't you got all that 'ood ready for the colliers; and haven't you just got in a shipload of sulphur and Chinese salt? Lookye here, mas', you don't know, I s'pose, that if I left here every man and boy would go as well. No, master, we beant ungrateful, none of us; but we don't like to see our young mistress sold, and him as should have had her thrown over."

"And pray who is that?" cried the founder.

"Captain Culverin, mas'; that be the man she meant to have."

"A wild adventurer--a man who murdered that wretch Churr."

"Nay, master, there beant a man of us here who thinks that he did," said the workman, sturdily; "and if Captain Gil was here you wouldn't say it to he."

"I am here, Tom Croftly," said Gil, stepping into the big powder-shed, "and I thank you and your fellows for your good opinion. But take no notice of this. Master Cobbe here does not believe what he said."

"But I do," cried the founder, furiously.

"Tom Croftly," said Gil, quietly, but with a flush in his cheek, "go, and leave me with Master Cobbe here. I want to talk with him."

"All right, captain!" said the workman. "Bah!" he added to himself, "if he be'd the lad I thought him, he'd make no more ado but upset the whole of this London trade, and carry young mistress off. I would."

"Now, Gil Carr," cried the founder, as soon as they were alone. "We've done our business. You've delivered all your cargo that I want, and you've been paid your money. Wouldn't it have been more decent if you had kept away?"

"Perhaps so, Master Cobbe; but there are times when a man feels that he must speak. But, first of all, why do you rake up that wretched story about Abel Churr?"

"Because I believe it," cried the founder, angrily.

"Nay, you do not. You know I am innocent, or I should not dare to come to you now, and ask you by all you hold dear to give up this wretched business."

"What wretched business?" cried the founder.

"I mean this proposed marriage. Listen to me, Master Cobbe. You have known me from a boy. I have been wayward and rough, perhaps, but fairly honest, for my love for Mace has kept me a better man than I should have been."

"What does all this mean, Gil Carr?"

"It means, sir, that I make my last appeal to you before it is too late. I love Mace dearly. Give up this wedding and wait a year--two years-- any time you will, till you are satisfied I am innocent of the death of Abel Churr, and then give me your consent. Don't condemn us both to a life of wretchedness and pain."

Gil had made his appeal at the wrong time. No matter when he had come, he would have met with a stern refusal; but now, when the founder was irritated beyond measure to find the echo of his own feelings in the breast of his very workmen, who, with true British sturdiness, refused to a man to take part in what they looked upon as the selling of his child, he was unable to contain himself, and the pent-up anger came pouring forth.

"Go!" he cried, white with rage, as he pointed to the entry. "Go, ere I'm mad enough to strike. Thou hast come now to try and breed fresh dissension--to try and raise my poor, foolish child in rebellion against me. I am not a man of blood, but, look you, your presence near my house from now till when this wedding has taken place will be the signal for my people, or those of Sir Mark, to use force."

"But you will not let the wedding take place, Master Cobbe? For all our sakes, pause in time."

"In time!" cried the founder; "what do you mean? There, no more."

As he spoke he turned and hurried out of the powder-shed, and past two or three more, to enter at last one of the stone buildings, where the casting was carried on; but Gil stuck to his heels, following him closely without noticing Sir Mark, who, on catching sight of him, raised a finger as a signal to one of his men.

"You will not sell poor Mace like this," cried Gil, as the founder turned upon him as if at bay. "Master Cobbe, for both our sakes, pause while there is yet time."

"Out upon thee, Gil Carr; thou maddenest me!" cried the founder. "Yet time? What do you mean by speaking to me like this? Am I not my own master?"

"Yes," replied Gil, humbly; "and this is why I appeal."

"Why you rebel against me, you should say," cried the founder, passionately. "What am I to understand that you mean by `yet time'?"

"I mean before it is too late," said Gil, speaking humbly and imploringly as he forced himself into making this last appeal, before venturing on an act that was repugnant to him, and which on calmer consideration he would have avoided for Mace's sake.

"Gil Carr!" cried the founder, furiously, "go thy way, and let me go mine. I will not be dictated to by the man who has come like a blight upon my threshold. Like a treacherous adder, thou hast stung the hand that warmed thee back to life. Coward--villain--thou could'st do nothing better than set thy snares to trap my weak child. Now go, or--"

He raised his hand and dropped it again.

"For heaven's sake, listen to me!" cried Gil, excitedly. "Master Cobbe, I would be an honourable gentleman for my father's sake, to thee and thine, but you drive me to despair."

In his eagerness he caught the founder by the arm, but the latter turned upon him furiously, mad as he was with rage against himself as much as with the suppliant, whom he struck heavily across the face, and then strode away.

Gil staggered back as much from surprise as from the weight of the blow, and the blood in a hot flush of passion suffused his face.

"For thy sake, darling," he said, calming down, "for thy sake. There, Master Cobbe, I have done my duty as a man; if blood be shed in what follows, I wash my hands of it; for 'fore God I swear, that if I fail in one way, I'd kill my darling at the altar before she should become that fellow's wife."

"Captain--quick--this way, Captain!" cried a voice in a hasty whisper.

"What is it, Croftly?"

"This way, skipper. Here in at this furnace-mouth; it is open behind. Follow me."

"What for, man?" cried Gil, sternly, as he saw the grimy face of Croftly at the opening to one of the great brick smelting-furnaces now void and cold.

"Sir Mark, with a dozen men be surrounding the place."

Gil's hand flew to his sword, but he let it fall.

"Nay," he said, "we must have the wisdom of the serpent here. We'll try that first, and if it fails--the sword."

Entering the furnace, then, Croftly helped him into a black passage beyond, which let them pass between two vast stacks of charcoal to the rough track into the forest, which Gil reached unseen, while Sir Mark, with a dozen men, searched the powder-sheds and furnaces in vain.

Volume 2, Chapter XIX.

HOW MOTHER GOODHUGH WENT TO WORK.

"Thou wicked old hag," cried Anne Beckley, angrily, as she stood in Mother Goodhugh's cottage. "Here have I, against my better sense, trusted to thee, and laid bare the secrets of my heart, and for what?" Mother Goodhugh smiled maliciously. "To make thee rich with gold pieces while thou hast done naught but mock at me and laugh."

"Nay, sweet Mistress," said the old woman, "I smiled not at thee. I thought of what had passed."

"And what had passed?"

"Thou hast not known thine own heart, and one day it has been set on Captain Culverin, and another day on the gay young knight of London."

Anne gave her foot an impatient stamp.

"What is that to thee?"

"Naught, sweet Mistress, with the beautiful eyes and lips. Ah, would I were a man and young," said the wily old flatterer. "But it be much to spells. The spirits will not be mocked at. Thou comest to me and sayest, `Mix me powerful philtres that shall win Sir Mark's love', and, when thou dost administer it according to the form I gave, thy thoughts be all the while on Culverin Carr. How canst blame me if they do not act!"

Anne stamped on the floor again.

"I don't care," she cried. "What did you promise me? Was it not that I could win the love of either."

"Ay," said Mother Goodhugh; "and I worked hard; but Mistress Mace Cobbe worked hard too, and had better luck."

"Don't mention her wretched name."

"But I must, sweet child. How her beautiful eyes fire up and sparkle!" she said, as if to herself. "She be a white witch, and weaves powerful spells with her father's wealth. For his money helps her to buy costly things my pittance will not touch."

"I have given thee crowns and pounds," cried Anne.

"All spent on thee and thy philtres," returned Mother Goodhugh. "Then Abel Churr has been taken away through the tricks of that white witch Mace, who has forced Culverin Carr to slay him, that I might not battle against her. Ah, fair Mistress Anne, she be a potent witch."

"Then she shall be burned," cried Anne Beckley, savagely. "I have but to swear against her before my father, the justice, of her goings on, and she would be seized and pinioned and tortured."

"And serve her duly," cried the old woman, with malicious glee.

"Even as I could have thee seized, Mother Goodhugh," cried Anne, "if I so willed."

"Nay, but thou would'st not be so cruel to one who has served thee so well."

"Served me so well?" cried Anne, fiercely. "What have you done?"

"Tried to win thee lovers," said Mother Goodhugh, whining.

"Ay, and Gilbert Carr treats me with scorn, and Sir Mark marries that thing--that creature, Mace Cobbe."

"Nay," cried the old woman, "it be not so."

"But it is so," cried Anne, "and I am scorned by both. I heard Sir Mark talking the wedding over with Master Peasegood, and it will be at the Pool."

"Both scorned thee!" cried Mother Goodhugh, raising her hands; "and thou so beautiful to the eye, and I'll warrant me so sweet to the touch. She be a powerful witch indeed."

"Then I'll denounce her for one!" cried Anne, passionately; and the old woman's face lit up with glee, but became serious directly after, as she grew thoughtful.

"Nay, child, it would be in vain."

"But this marriage shall not be."

"Why not wed Captain Culverin?"

"Hideous old fool, I tell thee he scorns me!" cried the passionate woman. "He loves that wretched creature. I'll denounce her, that I will. I'd like to see her burn."

"She deserves it, too, child; but it would be in vain. Sir Mark and his men and Culverin Carr and his men would defend her. She has witched them to her side."

"But the wedding must not be."

"Nay, it shall not, then," cried the old woman.

Anne Beckley walked up and down the little room for a few minutes, and then with an ugly look disfiguring her handsome, weak face, she stopped short before the old woman.

"Dost know how they served the old woman over at Morbledon?" she said, with a malicious smile.

"Yes, yes," cried Mother Goodhugh, hastily; "I heard."

"They tied her neck and heels, and threw her into the pond to see if she would swim."

"Yes, yes; the idiots and fools."

"They nearly drowned her. Eh? Does that touch thee, Mother Goodhugh?" said Mistress Anne, maliciously, as she saw the old woman fall a-trembling.

"Yes, yes, yes. It was very cruel."

"And then she was committed to prison on my father's warrant, and perchance she will be burned at the stake."

"Nay, nay, it be too horrible," said the old woman, whose face was now blanched with terror.

"It is only what they'd do to thee, Mother Goodhugh, if I denounced thee for witches' practices."

"Then I'd denounce thee, too!" cried the old woman, turning upon her like the trampled worm.

"And, if you did, who would believe thee, thou wrinkled, ugly, spiteful crone, who goest cursing through the village, and evil-eyeing all around? Denounce me? Ha, ha, ha!" cried the girl, throwing back her head as her eyes flashed, and she looked really handsome; "Do I look like a witch?"

"No, no, no, dearie, you are lovely as woman can be," cried the old crone.

"Then I'll get thee burned for deceiving me!" cried Anne.

"Nay, child, nay," cried the old woman, piteously; "thou would'st not be so cruel."

"I can, and I will," cried the girl, stamping her foot. "I have been a fool to listen to thee, and thou hast taken advantage of me to get my money, and laughed at my weakness because I was sick with love; but I'm not such a fool as to be unable to get revenge. Mother Goodhugh, I'd come to see thee burnt."

"Nay, nay," cried the old woman, grovelling on the floor before her; "don't talk so, dearie, it be too horrible."

"A great stake and a chain, and faggots piled round thee, and the fire blazing, and Mother Goodhugh roasting. Ha, ha, ha! it would be a gay revenge on an old witch."

"Nay, child, nay, but I be not a witch," cried the old woman, who seemed palsied with dread.

"Then why did'st profess to me that thou wast?" cried Anne, striking her again and again, the old woman only cowering down as she received the blows, and piteously begging her tormentor not to denounce her. "Thou deceived'st me scores of times, and I, fool that I was, listened, and was befooled more and more. Now, hark ye, Mother Goodhugh, I have thee tight. Thou canst not win their love for me, but thou can'st get me revenge. Look here: stop that wedding."

"I will, child; I will, dearie."

"_You shall_!" cried Anne. "Mind this: I warn you. If that wedding takes place, and Mace Cobbe becomes Dame Leslie--"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried the old woman.

"I'll denounce thee as a witch, and laugh to scorn any accusations or railings against me; and I'll come and spit at thee as thou burnest at the stake."

"Oh!" half shrieked the old woman, tearing at her bosom as she heard the other's words, and felt their power. Then, recovering herself, she began to fawn upon her visitor.

"Have no fear, dearie. The wedding shall not be. I can stay it--I can stay it. I have but to lift up my hand, and it is done."

"I believe thee not!" cried Anne, "but I warn thee. If that wedding takes place, pray to all thy familiars to save thee, or flee from here, for if not I'll have thee dragged to the stake and burned. Thou knowest that I can," she said, as she turned to go.

"Yes, child--yes, dearie."

"Then remember!"

Anne went out of the cottage as she said the last words, and, as Mother Goodhugh thought of the atrocities that had been committed against weak old women who had professed some occult art, she shivered, and in imagination saw the flames rising round her withered limbs.

"She could do it, she could do it," she cried piteously. "But I'll stop it: I'll stop it. The house is cursed, and the wedding shall not be; for I can stop it, and I will."

Left alone to her thoughts, Mother Goodhugh began to suffer from a fit of terror, which completely gained the mastery over her, as she recalled all that she knew about the terrible sentences passed upon reputed witches. There was something fascinating in being able to gain the fear of the common people, and to be looked up to as a kind of prophetess; but she avowed now that the price paid was very dear. She had won many triumphs, and been looked up to as a wise woman, but if she were denounced as a witch, those who had feared and paid her for her utterances would turn upon her, for she was ready to own how seldom her prophetic promises had come true.

One in a hundred, however, was quite sufficient to keep up her character; and when there were failures there were always some side utterances that could be brought to bear to soften defeat or turn the matter to her advantage. And so for years she had managed to keep up the character of a wise woman, and amass no inconsiderable amount of the rustic people's savings, for there was always something upon which she could be consulted, and, in spite of her fears, she sat hugging herself upon her success as she thought of this.

"What be I to do?" she muttered; "and how be I to go to Cobbers house? If I go I shall be sent away. Why be not Abel Churr here to help me?"

In spite of her efforts to fight back her dread, the recollections of the death scenes she had heard described made her tremble, and, when a hasty step was heard outside, she rose with a cry of horror, and darted towards the inner chamber, but paused on the threshold, as she heard a woman's voice repeat her name.

"Mother Goodhugh, Mother Goodhugh!"

"Yes; who be it?" she said, and, tottering to the door, she opened the latch with trembling hand to as it were admit a ray of light to her breast, for the visitor brought hope.

It was Janet.

"Well, child," she said, "and why have you come?"

"Don't ask me yet, mother," whispered the girl, hurrying in, and helping to close the door. "If Mas' Cobbe knew I be come here he would half kill me."

"Of course, of course, child! It be very wrong to come and visit poor Mother Goodhugh. Aren't you afraid I should curse you, child?"

"Oh no, mother!" cried the girl, who, now that she was inside, recovered herself. "I want you to bless me."

"Ah, child, and how?"

"Oh, mother," giggled the girl, "you know. How do young women want to be blest?"

"With a husband, eh, dearie?" said the old woman with a cunning leer, as she scanned Janet's pretty, weak face, and thought about how her good fortune had played into her hands by sending her a tool with which, if she were skilful, she could work her ends.

"But thou should'st not make me say it out loud, mother," said Janet, with another giggle; "but, when there be so much courting and love-making up at home, how can a girl help thinking about such things?"

"Ay, truly, dear, how indeed! But why should not so bonnie a maiden win a husband, I should like to know."

"What, as Mistress Mace?" said Janet, pouting.

"Nay, as Mistress Janet," said the old woman, chuckling. "Well, well, and who is it to be, and what can I tell thee?"

"I want--I want to know--"

"Ay, ay, speak out, dearie."

"I want to know," faltered Janet, glancing at the door of the inner room and then at that of the entrance, "I want to know--Oh, I daren't ask it," she said, turning red and pale by turns.

"Thou would'st know the name of thy husband."

"Ay, how could you tell that?" cried the simple girl.

"Such things be as plain to me as if they were written in a book. Sit down there," she cried, pointing to a stool in the middle of the room.

Janet hesitated, but the old woman took up her crutch-handled stick and struck the floor imperiously, with the result that the girl took the seat, and Mother Goodhugh drew a rough circle round her as she stood behind the stool.

"I want to go back now; I must go back now," said the girl, with trembling voice.

"Thou canst not go now until the spell is off," whispered Mother Goodhugh, as she thrust her hand into a capacious pocket and took out a ball of glass, lined inside with some white metal, which gave it the appearance of a convex mirror.

"Shall I see anything very dreadful, and will it pook me?" faltered the girl.

"I hope not, but I cannot promise," said Mother Goodhugh. "Sit quite still, and if anything dreadful comes I will answer for it that thou be not hurt much."

Janet's heart throbbed as she saw the old woman come before her and go down upon her knees, her face convulsed, and lips moving rapidly; then, holding the glass in both hands, her brow puckered as she gazed straight into it.

"What be this I see?" she cried in a hoarse voice; "a dark, tall, sun-browned man with pointed beard, half soldier, half sailor, who looks upon thee with eyes full of scorn."

"Has he dark grey eyes, mother?" whispered Janet, in an awe-stricken voice.

"Ay, child, and a dashing, roving look."

"It be Culverin Carr," muttered the girl, pressing her hand to her throbbing heart.

"And now I see an old rough, grey man, big, and harsh, and stark, who would wed thee, but I know him not, for he keeps his head away."

"Mas' Wat Kilby!" muttered Janet, with a sigh.

"And now I see another, who is at thy feet, child; a handsome man in silk and velvet, who looks prayerfully in thy face, and asks thee to let him love thee."

"Tell me more of him!" cried Janet, eagerly.

"I can see but little more, child, only that he has white hands with rings upon them, and a sword is hanging to his belt. He looks a handsome and a courtly youth, such as we have not in these parts here."

"'Tis Sir Mark," said Janet to herself.

"He looks love to thee, but a woman of thy size and shape steps in between thee, and tears him away."

"What be she like?" cried Janet.

"I cannot see, child, for her head be turned away, but surely it be thee, from the turn of the head. How be this? Thou tightest against thyself."

"Nay, 'tis Mistress Mace Cobbe. Let me look."

"Thou art right; it be thy young mistress; and see, the gallant tries to reach thee, and her hand be raised to strike, and--How strange!"

"What be it, mother?"

"The glass has grown dim, as if a black shadow had passed over it, and I can see no more. Try thou, my child."

"Nay, nay, I dare not; it be too terrifying!" cried Janet, thrusting back the crystal.

"'Tis better not," said the old woman. "It be dangerous at times. There, child, I can tell thee no more to-day."

"But tell me, mother, what can I do? Pray give me your help."

"Help, child! How can I help thee?"

"It be all so true," whispered Janet. "He loves me, and she has come between us, and I hate her. What shall I do?"

"Does she love him?"

"I think so. I don't know."

"What could I do to help her?" muttered Mother Goodhugh, as if communing with herself, but loud enough for the silly girl to hear. "I could give her a philtre that would turn her own love for this gallant to hate, and so comfort her poor suffering heart. See, child," she said aloud, "I will give thee a potion that thou shalt take a little at a time in every meal; and, at the end of a week, thou shalt feel so strong a hatred of this lover of thine that thou shalt feel perfect rest. Will that do?"

"No, no!" cried Janet; "I don't want to--Yes, yes!" she cried, as an idea seemed to flash across her brain, and Mother Goodhugh's eyes sparkled as she saw how well her plans would be carried out by the foolish girl who, she felt sure, would administer the drops to Mace in place of to herself; and, going into the inner room, she remained away for some few minutes before returning to Janet, and, pressing a little bottle in her hand--

"Take that, child, but let no soul know whence thou hadst it."

"Trust me for that, mother," cried Janet, joyously. "What shall I pay you?"

"Pay me, child!" cried the old woman. "Nothing, dearie; I am no old money-getting witch, but a simple, decent woman, who does these things for love. There, dearie, give me a bonny kiss of those red lips, and go thy way; Mother Goodhugh will help thee again if thou should'st come."

"But mother," said Janet, glancing back at the door.

"Yes, child, yes?"

"Will this act quickly and soon?"

"Yes, child; why?"

Janet reddened and hesitated, while the old woman's eyes seemed to search her through and through.

"Speak to me at once, child. But just as thou wilt, I can read thy thoughts, I know," and she laughed maliciously.

"Oh, mother!" cried Janet, bursting into tears.

"I think thou hast been very wicked, Janet."

"Nay, mother, I could not help it; I tried so hard to be good."

"My duty should be to tell Mas' Jeremiah Cobbe."

"Nay, nay, mother, he'd drive me hence, and Mas' Peasegood would make me stand out before all the people in the church. Nay, good mother, give me something, pray. Sir Mark's stout followers be rude wicked men. And Mas' Wat Kilby, too," she sobbed.

"I've given thee that which will help thee--I can do no more," said Mother Goodhugh, sternly.

"Now thou'rt angered with me, mother," pouted the girl. "I wish I had not come and told thee, that I do."

"Tchah! she says, _fold me_," laughed the old woman, "when I knew as well as all the world will soon know, Janet, an' thou do not use my philtre."

Janet turned pale.

"Pray forgive me, mother, I'll use the drops."

"Ay, go and use them, and through them win a husband, child. Then all will be well."

"Yes, yes, mother!" cried Janet, eagerly.

"There, I forgive thee; but get thee a husband quick. Kiss me, child. Now go."

The girl eagerly pressed her ripe red mouth to the pale and withered lips of the old woman, and then, after a glance outside to see that she was not watched, she hurried back towards the Pool, while Mother Goodhugh stood looking after her, and softly rubbed her hands.

"If aught should happen," she muttered, "the girl dare not speak, for I gave her the stuff to take herself. It would be her doing, and the wedding would not take place. But what would Mistress Anne Beckley say?"

She stood thinking for a few minutes before she spoke again.

"Nothing. She dare say nothing. But I be a witch, be I, madam? Have a care, then, for thyself. If one of two people is to die, why should it be I? But we shall see, we shall see: there be time enough yet."

End of Volume II.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

HOW THE WITCH SAID THERE SHOULD BE NO WEDDING.

"That Mother Goodhugh must have a care of herself," said Sir Thomas a day or two later; and Anne let fall her work upon her knee to listen to her father's words.

"And pray why?" said Dame Beckley, who was shaking up some strange infusion of herbs in a bottle.

"I hear strange things of her," said Sir Thomas; "things that, as a justice, I shall be bound to stay."

"And why?" said the dame, as she took out the stopper and had a long sniff at the contents of the bottle.

"Because they savour of witchcraft and the use of spells. His Majesty has opened a stem commission against such dealings, and as one whom he has delighted to honour I feel bound to show my zeal."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" cried Dame Beckley; "show thy zeal by growing wiser, Thomas. Smell that!"

As the dame held the bottle beneath her lord's nose, Anne glided out of the room, and made her way towards Mother Goodhugh's cot, where she found the old woman ready to meet her with a suspicious look, and, with a feeling of gratified malice, told her of the words her father had let drop.

"But you could stay him, dearie," said the old woman, with a look of terror which she could not conceal.

"Yes. But tell me--what have you done?"

"Wait, dearie, wait," whispered the old woman. "The wedding will never be."

"But it takes place in four days!" cried Anne. "Sir Mark actually dared to come over and tell my father."

"And he told thee, dearie?"

"Nay, he told my mother, and she told me."

"Four days," said the old woman trembling; "four days. The time be short, but it will do. I tell thee the wedding will never be."

"Can I believe thee this time, Mother Goodhugh?" cried the girl excitedly.

"Give me thy word as a lady, that I shall not be ill-treated by thy father and his people, and I swear to you the wedding shall never be."

"There is my hand," said Anne; and, as the old woman held it, there was a strange look on the girl's face as she bent down and Mother Goodhugh whispered to her for a few minutes, after which she hurried from the cottage.

"And they call me witch, and think me ready to do any evil!" she muttered as she gazed after the girl; "while that young, fairly-formed creature has a heart full of devilry such as never entered mine. But it must be done--it must be done."

She sat brooding over her cold hearth till evening: and then, as soon as it was dark, put on her cloak, took her stick, and walked cautiously to the Pool-house, where she succeeded in getting to the kitchen window unperceived, reaching in and touching Janet on the shoulder with her stick as she sat nodding near it in her chair.

The girl started, and as her eyes fell upon the face of the visitor her lips parted to utter a cry, but the peculiar look on the old woman's face seemed to fascinate her, and she sat back gazing at her as Mother Goodhugh climbed in at the casement, and stood by her side.

"Wh-what do you want?" faltered the girl.

"I've come to see thee, dearie," said the old woman, smiling. "I want to know how you be getting on."

"But you must not stay here!" cried Janet, making an effort to recover herself. "If master knew he would drive me hence."

"Go and tell him, then, child," said Mother Goodhugh mockingly. "Go and tell him that Mother Goodhugh has come to ask thee about thy love affairs, and the philtre she gave thee. What? You will not? He, he, he, he! What a strange girl you are."