Chapter XII: Part 12

"But you must not stay!" cried Janet in alarm. "If you were found here master would never forgive me."

"He is sitting smoking and drinking in his parlour, dearie, and never comes this way after dark."

"Yes, yes, he does!" cried the girl; "he comes sometimes to go down to the powder-cellar with a lantern."

"What, through that door?" said Mother Goodhugh, pointing.

"Nay, nay! That be the beer cellar. That be the way to the powder-cellar," she said, pointing to a massive door, down a couple of steps. "That be the first door, and there be another farther on at the end of the passage."

"Lawk adear!" said Mother Goodhugh, "and aren't you afraid, when they bring the stuff down?"

"They never bring it through here," said the girl. "They let the little barrels down through a hole covered with a flat stone outside there amongst the trees, and master goes along with Tom Croftly to take it, in their slippers, and then comes back and locks it up."

"Ay, and I'll be bound to say always carries the keys in his pocket, eh!"

"No," said the girl, shaking her head. "They hang on a nail in the passage by the door."

"There, I don't want to know about the powder, dearie," cried Mother Goodhugh. "Oh, the horrible stuff! I always begin to curse when I hear it mentioned, so we won't talk about it. I came to see you, and talk about love, and--"

"But you mustn't stop, indeed you mustn't stop," whispered Janet. "Suppose Mistress Mace should come?"

"But she won't come, dearie. She's in the corner of the parlour window with the handsome young spark from town."

"How do you know?" cried Janet. "How do I know, child! He-he-he! Do you think there's anything I don't know? You came to me because I was the wise woman, eh?"

"Ye-es," faltered the girl. "Well, didn't you expect me to be wise, child, eh?"

Janet shrank as far away from her as she could, and stared at her, round of eye and parted of mouth.

"Look here, dearie," whispered the old woman, "don't try to deceive me. I'm such a good friend, but such a bad enemy. You wouldn't like to make me angry, and set me cursing and ill-wishing you."

"N-no," faltered Janet, who began to be horribly frightened of the penetrating eyes that seemed to read her inmost thoughts.

"No, of course you would not. How often dids't say Mas' Cobbe went down into the powder-cellar?"

"Only once a month," said the girl, "when they've finished working."

"Then he'll be going down directly?"

"Oh, no; they finished there last week, and it will be three weeks, just," faltered Janet.

"Dear me, will it?" said the old woman. "But, as I was saying, it would be so horrible if I cursed you, though it is not me, my dear, but something in me that does it. It be an evil spirit," she whispered, "and I've known girls as handsome as you lose their round, red cheeks, and soft, smooth skin, and their eyes have grown sunken, and their foreheads wrinkled. It be very horrible, my dear, but I couldn't help it."

Janet tried to get up and go away, but her visitor's fierce, sharp eyes seemed to hold her back in her seat, a fact which Mother Goodhugh well knew and rejoiced in.

It was the only pleasure the old woman had, and she felt at times like this how it recompensed her for the dread she felt of the stringent laws. A curious smile played round her thin lips, and Janet shuddered as the old woman leaned forward till her face was close to that of her victim.

"How is the love going on, dearie?" she whispered.

"Don't--ask--me," faltered the girl.

"You didn't take the stuff, dearie, to give yourself ease?"

"How--how did you know?"

"How did I know? He-he-he!" laughed the old woman, with a cacchination that was enough to freeze the girl's blood. "I know, child, and you can't deceive me. Why didn't you take it?"

"I--I was afraid," stammered Janet. "Mary Goodsell took some once, but it killed her and her baby too."

"Afraid? Stuff! Afraid to give yourself ease when Mistress Mace was torturing you by her love-makings with the fine spark who played with you, and pretended to love you."

"He didn't pretend," said the girl, indignantly. "He did love me till she came between."

"Ah, yes, child, I suppose so; but she be a white witch and very strong, and she would come between and master him. She could lead him wherever she liked, and win him to love her with her spells. Don't trouble your poor, dear heart about him any more, my child, but take the drops, and be happy."

"I--I don't think I dare," faltered the girl.

"Dare? Pish! child, you be too brave and handsome a girl not to dare. It be a pity, too, that she should have come between," said Mother Goodhugh, musingly. "Ah! I have known cases where handsome, noble gentlemen have come down into country places and seen village girls, not so beautiful as thou, child, and married them, and taken them away; and a few years after they have come back looking fine ladies, with their diamonds, and jewels, and carriages, and servants."

Janet's eyes sparkled as this indirect piece of flattery went on.

"I'll take it," she said hastily; "I'll take it."

"Take it? Of course you will, dearie!" cried Mother Goodhugh; "and now look here, my child. I want something of thine to complete a little spell I have at work. Thou hadst a ribbon round thy neck when thou earnest to me."

"Yes," said Janet, "a red one; Mas' Wat Kilby gave it to me."

"Nay, then, child, that will not do. I only want an inch cut from it by thy left hand; but if it be tainted by an old man's love it would not do. Let me see. Thou hast not anything given thee by the young court gallant?"

"No," said the girl. Then, with a hasty glance around, she whispered "I have a piece of lace he gave to Mistress Mace, and which she would not wear."

"That will do, child; go, get me the tiniest scrap of that, and I will weave a spell that shall bring thee happiness and peace."

Janet rose and opened the door, and listened.

"They be all in the room," she whispered, as she closed the door again.

"That be well. Be quick, child, and let me get out of this place."

"Thou wilt not move while I am gone."

"Nay, nay, child, not I; but harkye, leave the door ajar while thou art gone up stairs, so that if I hear a step that be not thine I may flee."

Janet looked doubtful for a moment, and then turned to go.

"I need not bring the whole piece?" she whispered.

"Faith, no, child; I'll not rob you of it. The tiniest scrap be all I want. It must be something that the knight has touched."

Janet nodded, and slipped out of the room, but ere she reached the staircase Mother Goodhugh was at the passage door listening; and, as the last stair creaked beneath the weak girl's tread, the old woman had glided into the passage, peered about by the light of the rush-candle burning on a stand, and uttered a grunt of disappointment. The next moment, though, she saw what she wanted, in the shape of a couple of keys hanging high up, close to the ceiling; and, stepping on a chair, she just reached them, and, lightly crept back along the passage to sit down in the kitchen, panting from exertion and excitement combined.

Before she could compose herself Janet was back, too much excited herself to notice the old woman's hurried breathings.

"I've got it," she cried, producing a handsome piece of lace. "I must cut some off here. Be quick; I be in such a fright for fear some one should come."

"That will do, dearie," said the old woman, tearing off a scrap from one end. "There, put it away, and let me begone. Take the drops, child, and give thyself ease. You don't care for such love as his."

Janet did not reply, but gladly opened the door to get rid of her unwelcome visitor, who stepped out into the dark night, and hurried away across the little bridge, and into the lane, where she turned to shake her stick at the peaceful-looking house, with its lighted windows.

"Now we shall see--now we shall see!" she cried. "Two ways open, and my sayings coming to pass. There will be no wedding now."

Volume 3, Chapter II.

HOW CULVERIN CARK SEALED UP THE STORE.

The autumn sun shone brightly down into the ravine that led up to the mouth of Gil Carr's store, and the steep sides were glorious with the bright berries that glistened amongst the changing leaves. Where the briony, with its bronze green foliage, flung down its wreaths, there was cluster after cluster of orange scarlet fruit. The brambles hung down thorny strands black with rich ripeness that there was no hand to gather; and wherever a prickly holly, all glistening glossy green, had rooted in some crevice of the sand-rock, it was covered with yellow berries awaiting more kisses from the ardent sun before blushing scarlet for the Christmas-tide.

The ferns were beginning to be dappled on their dark green fronds with gorgeous dashes of orange and chrome, mingled with crimson, red as blood, and the dyes of the finger-leaved maple were nearly as bright. Where the white tails of the rabbits could be seen disappearing as their owners heard a tramp of many feet, the dense small-leaved sloe-bushes, with their cruel thorns, showed many a row of tiny plums of the richest violet, dusted with a delicate pearly bloom. The late blossoms of the yellow rag-wort clustered amidst the purple heath, and glossy ivy hung in strands swinging in the hot sunshine with the tender tips just brushing the seeded grass self-turned into useless hay.

Hot, still, and breathless lay the ravine, with all its natural riches, ripe with the fullness of the season, and now resting, waiting the coming of the cold wintry winds, that, sweeping up from the sea, should heat and tear and bear away the brightness of the autumn and turn all to desolation and death.

Suddenly a velvety blackbird, with its orange bill and yellow-circled eyes, uttered its alarm-note and flew along like a streak of night away up and along the side of the ravine to the over-hanging woods. A chat that had been busy twittering its song over a golden clump of furze stopped half-way and dived amongst the purple heath, while a glistening lizard, that had half taken the alarm from the scattering rabbits, ran beneath the leaves.

The steps in the distance grew plainer on the ear, and a greeny olive snake raised its head where it lay in a twirl upon a shelf of short, fine, sun-browned turf, darted its tongue out over its hard shiny jaws, and glided under the root of a tree, seeming to give warning of danger by its low hiss to an adder higher up the stony way, for the little viper condescended to raise its head where it lay like a scaly letter S upon the mossy stump of a hazel bush, round whose green, mouldering, gnarled stem were clustered, like chalices, so many thickly-veined fungi that looked as if roughly cast in orange-tinted deadened gold.

The danger seemed to be far off, for the viper lay down its spade-shaped head once more, yawned, and seemed disposing itself for another sunny sleep, but had hardly arranged its tail to its satisfaction when--_rustle--tap_--something fell from above, and struck it sharply on the back.

It was only a hazel nut that could hang no longer in its husk, but ripened into a soft warm brown, it had dried and dried till a leaf or two above it had ceased to give its shade, and then it had fallen like a warning upon the viper's back.

A moment before and the little reptile was sluggishness itself; this blow, light as it was, seemed to galvanise it into life, for a quick spasm darted through it, there was a sharp wave, and the raised head was ready to strike, while the eyes, that had a moment before resembled dim oxidised silver, now glittered like tiny jewels, as the whole creature seemed to become the picture of malicious rage, and sought where to drive deep its poison-fangs.

There was somehow a kind of resemblance between the little serpent and Anne Beckley, though there was no one by to see, as, failing an object at which to strike, the reptile seemed to consider that discretion was the better part of valour; and, slowly lowering its crest, it threw its body into a series of horizontal waves, and gradually disappeared beneath some tawny--golden bracken on the slope.

The steps came nearer, and suddenly there was a movement on the edge of the cliff, high above the store, where a bronzed man took his place, evidently on the look-out.

Directly after another was seen scaling the side of the ravine to post himself on the slope over the entrance, while again another suddenly appeared amidst the furze on the green shoulder which overlooked the sloping downs.

Gil Carr's men did not often visit the place by day, hence the precautions against being watched by some intruder.

High up above the cavern, the gaunt figure of Wat Kilby suddenly showed against the sky. Then he shrank down into a little depression half overgrown with trees, and soon after a thin, pale blueish vapour arose, and kept rising, as, pipe in mouth, the old sailor seated himself upon a block of stone to watch.

Meanwhile, up the bottom of the ravine, close down by where the clear stream wandered in its deep fern-hung mossy shades, a little party of some twenty men wound their way.

Every man seemed well-armed, and, with the exception of their leader, all appeared to be carrying a burden, either a small keg or a little chest, or a heavy packet, which they bore through the clustering bushes, which seemed to interlace their arms and try to stay them as they forced their way amongst the rocks.

After climbing pretty close to the end, at a word from Gil the loads were set down, arms laid aside, and by means of half a dozen pike-staves the great stone was rolled away.

The men then waited while Gil went in and lit a lanthorn, returning soon after to make a sign, when one by one they all lifted and bore in their loads, following their leader for some distance to where the dim light showed an inner cavern, whose sides and roof had evidently been roughly chiselled out by the hands of man.

Here the fresh additions to the stores of the place were neatly deposited, and the sailors sat down, while Gil busied himself in examining a bale or two that seemed to have been gnawed by rats.

"I wonder where the skipper shoved that spying fellow Churr--him as we searched for?" said one of the men in a low voice to his nearest comrade.

"Further in, somewhere," was the reply; "I thought I could smell him just now."

"That be rats," said the other; "I know them well enough. But does the place go in far?"

"I believe you, my lad. I once went in ever so far with old Wat and the skipper carrying lanterns."

"Did you?" said the other, eagerly; "and what be it like?"

"Like this here. All the same--hole after hole, with rough stone pillars to support it all, just as it must have been dug out."

"Bah! chap, this was never cut out," said the other. "It came natural like."

"Never cut out? Come natural like? Look here, my lad," said the sailor, rising and pointing to marks upon the wall that seemed to have been made with some rough tool.

"Yes, but anybody might have done that," said the younger man.

"You can think what you like," said the other. "I'm telling you what the skipper told old Wat, and you never knew him tell a lie. He said to old Wat, `My father found the way rabbiting when a boy, and forgot all about it till he felt the want of a place to store things in unknown to other folk, and then he recollected this.' He said it was made by folks as lived underground hundreds of thousands of years ago."

"Oh?" said the other.

"Yes; and they dug first one and then another, as they wanted them, and grew bigger in numbers, and that it went right in farther than they'd ever been on account of the bad air."

"Same as down among the bilge in the ship's hold?"

"That's so. The skipper's father was most stifled by it once when he tried to go right in."

"But do they go right in?" The elder sailor struck the top of an empty barrel a sharp rap with the hilt of his sword, and the other's question was answered, for the sound went echoing into the distance till it died away.

"It be a queer sort of place," said the other, with a half shudder. "Hang me if I'd like to be boxed up here along with Abel Churr, if the skipper's stowed him there."

"Plenty of room and good water," said the other, pointing down to where the source of the stream outside ran trickling through the interstices of the stone, and formed tiny pools of limpid clearness.

"Ugh! the place smells damp and cold, and I should expect to come out, if I was shut up here, all over blue mould."

"Like a bit of ship's cheese, eh? Come along: here's the skipper."

"Now, my lads!" cried Gill, just then, "work with a will, plenty to do."

He led the way, and the men followed him with a sense of relief out into the bright sunshine, where the ferns fringed the rough arch over the entrance to the hole.

They glanced at the heaps of stores and the various shipping chandlery, spare sails and cordage, but all was so familiar that nothing excited their interest.

Just as they reached the outside there was a whistle from below, and Gil uttered an impatient ejaculation. But hurrying a little distance down, he peered over a mass of rock, to see one of his men, who had been on sentry, leading a dark figure with bandaged eyes.

"Father Brisdone!" said Gil. "Bring him along, my lad."

Going forward, he quickly undid the handkerchief and threw it aside.

"I forgot to tell them, father," he said, holding out his hand; "there was no need with you."

"I do not wish to pry into any of your secrets, my son, that you do not care to trust me with," said Father Brisdone, smiling as he took the young man's hand.

"Trust you, father? Why, I'd trust you with anything. But you look weary and hot with your journey. Sit down on yon stone: this is nature's parlour. Here is something to eat. Lockyer, a bottle of that wine from the case inside on the left. The cup too."

Leading the father to a nook by the side of the entry, he placed refreshments before him, and then said--

"Now you shall see us lock up the house, for it may be a year before we return."

"Why should you show me?" said Father Brisdone, smiling.

"Why should I not show the man whom I have always looked upon as a trusty friend?" retorted Gil. "Now, my lads," he said, and, leaving the father's side, he soon had his men busy with spade and shovel. First of all the old stone was reared into its place. Then smaller blocks were thrust in here and there, so as to completely wedge it in. Then shovels of stones were thrown into fissures, and sods of earth, mingled with grass and heather, were carefully arranged; after which broad-fronded ferns, roots of rag-wort, grasses, and bramble roots were planted, dead leaves sprinkled here and there, and touch after touch given till nothing seemed left to be done but to pour water over the new earth to bind it together, and make the plants take root.

"There," said Gil to the father, as he stopped by him, hot and panting; "unless some spy has watched our work, that is safe enough, for in a week's time those things will be growing again."

"Yes, that will be secure enough," said the father, rising. "Thanks, my son, I was indeed faint for want of food. And now, what next?"

"Next, father, you will accompany my man there on board. The little ship lies ready in the river; he will take you down in the skiff. If all's well we shall be with you soon after midnight, and then heaven send us favouring gales, for we shall drop down the river on the tide, and put to sea at once."

"But no bloodshed, my son. For heaven's sake do not let the hand that leads your promised wife on board be red with the blood of a fellow-man."

"Father," said Gil, sternly, "I am no cut-throat; I am no lover of the sword. I go to-night to fetch my wife, and I go with peace and love towards all; but if that man or his followers stand in my path to prevent us, they must take what follows, for I cannot trifle now."

Father Brisdone sighed.

"You know the consequences; if I do not get her away to-night, they are to be wed at eight o' the clock, and to stay that, there must be a deadly fray. Trust me, father; and, if I can help it, no blood shall be shed."

"I trust you, my son. Go, and my blessing be with you. I shall make the little cabin a chapel, where I shall pass the time in prayer for your success."

"And then, father, a chapel where you make her mine by ties that none can break."

"Amen, my son, amen!" said Father Brisdone; and they parted, the father to follow his guide down the valley, and Gil to lead his men through one of the forest tracks in the direction of Roehurst Pool, Wat and the other watchers closing in behind.

The advance was made with caution to within a mile of the foundry, where, beneath a spreading oak, Gil called a halt, and cast his eyes over his party of twenty sturdy, well-armed men, every one of whom could handle his weapon well.

"That will do, my lads," he said in his quick, imperious way. "Now lie down, and eat and rest. Silence, every man; not a word above a whisper. Goodsell, Kingley, two hundred paces each of you along the track. A good look--out, and a quick whistle, if so much as a berry-hunting child approach."

His orders were carried out, and then with the soft autumn evening rapidly drawing nigh, Gil also went out through the forest to watch and listen for the approach of footsteps that might end in the discovery of his men.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

HOW GIL AND HIS MEN DREW SWORD.

The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours,--of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.

Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder's house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.

There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.

Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader's plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.

Hardly a word had passed between Wat and his leader, for the old man was in dudgeon. He had had his shrewd suspicions that Gil intended to carry off Mace that night, and he had come to the conclusion that his duty was to take Janet at the same time. To his anger and disgust, though, he found that this was strictly forbidden, and earlier in the day a sharp verbal contest had ensued.

"Why can't I take her abroad?" he growled. "You're going to have a priest, and I want a wife same as other men."

"Once for all, Wat," said Gil, sternly; "I will have no paltering with the work I have on hand. Will you obey me and work to the end for my scheme?"

"Why, of course I will," grumbled the old fellow, "but I don't see why as--"

"Not another word!" cried Gil. "But what I says is this, skipper: Thou'st got a priest--"

"Silence, sir; how dare you!" roared Gil; and the old man shrank away to pull out his little pipe, and begin sucking at it viciously, jerking his long body about, and acting generally as if he had a volcanic eruption going on within him, the safety-valve to which was an explosion of muttered words now and then, which escaped after a kind of quake that shook him like a spasm from top to toe.

All the same, though, Wat made no further resistance to his leader's will, but with the energy of a long tried, well-disciplined follower, he worked away at the various preparations, and was as obedient as a dog.

As Gil stood thinking in the wood, he once more went over his plans, wondering whether there would be an encounter with Sir Mark's followers, and then smiling grimly to himself, as he half wished there might be, and thought of how he would like once more to stand face to face with the man who was so nearly robbing him of her whom he had always looked upon as his very own.

At last the time seemed to him to be a fitting one for the venture, and, giving the signal, his men started up from amongst the dewy herbage; there was the clink of arms and a rustling noise as all fell into their places; and, taking the head of his little force, Gil gave his final orders, especially commanding silence, and made for the Pool-house.

Gil's plans were well matured, and his followers fell into their respective places without confusion. Arriving pretty close to the foundry, he posted them behind the smallest of the furnace-sheds, where the black shadow of night was blacker than in the open; and then, with Wat at his elbow, he made for another shed, where he knew that a short stout ladder was kept.

This was in its place, and Wat was about to shoulder it, when in a low hoarse whisper the old fellow said:--

"You'll let me take her, too, skipper?"

For answer Gil turned angrily.

"Put that ladder down," he whispered; "and go back. Send Morris."

"No, no, skipper," whispered the old fellow hastily. "Let me go."

"Put down the ladder. Go back, and send me a trustworthy man."

"I'm the trust worthiest man you've got, skipper," growled Wat, "only I was obliged to say a word for I feel as I ought to marry the girl now. You don't know what it is to be in love, skipper, or you would not treat me thus."

"Do you go, or stay?" said Gil.

"Stay," said Wat. "I shan't leave you, skipper, come what may. I've done. Not another word about it will you hear from me."

Wat shouldered the ladder, and together the two men walked towards the water-run, and along it by the stones to the little bridge, which they softly crossed, and entered the garden.

They paused to listen, but all was very still and dark. A more suitable night could not have been chosen for the adventure, and together they made for Mace's window, where a dim light was burning.

The end of the ladder rustled slightly as it was borne amongst the trees, and they again stopped to listen; but all was still, and so intense was the darkness now before moonrise--the moon that was to light the boat down the river to where the ship lay waiting--that they could see neither to the right nor the left, even the thick bushes under the window were in the gloom.

Would she fail him at this important time? Gil's heart asked; but he crushed down the thought. No: she would come, he was sure of it, for she had promised him, and he felt no fear of her wanting in spirit for the enterprise.

"No," he muttered; "she would go through fire and water to escape his touch alone, and she would dare more to be beside me."

There was a thrill of joy at these thoughts, and he gazed anxiously at the window, waiting to see it opened, that he might raise the ladder and help her away.

It must be the hour, he thought, but the next minute he set it down to impatience.

"She will be to her time," he said.

As if warned by an instinct of coming danger, Gil Carr drew his sword, and, resting the point upon the toe of his boot, stood leaning his hands upon the hilt, while Wat placed the foot of the ladder on a flowerbed, and held the two sides, with his rusty-beard upon one of the spokes, thinking of how he wished they were going to carry off Janet, and whether she would have been willing to come.

"She did call me an old fool last time, and slapped my face," he muttered; "but that was only by way of showing how fond she was. Ha! it be terrifying work having to deal with such an arbitrary skipper as ourn."

Gil still gazed at the window, thinking that if he had changed places with Sir Mark, and a dangerous foe had been in the field, a cordon of sentries would have been placed round the house for his love's protection; whilst Sir Mark was evidently sleeping luxuriously, and dreaming, perhaps, of possessing his fair young bride. "Poor, befooled idiot!" said Gil to himself; "I do not envy him his morrow's waking. Why, if I--. Pst! Wat, your sword."

His left hand involuntarily flew to the silver whistle that hung at his neck, while his sword was raised readily, and turned aside a pass that grazed his ribs. For in an instant the bushes around them seemed alive with armed men, who rose in obedience to a call, and made for Gil and his old follower.

Wat was as much upon the alert as his leader, but he had not time to draw his sword. Not that it mattered, for the short ladder became a very effective weapon in the emergency. Raising it with both hands above his head, he poised it there for a moment, keeping it well ready, and then, darting it rapidly forward again and again, he drove it into the chests of three or four assailants, sending them crashing down amongst the bushes, as he kept them sufficiently distant to prevent them from reaching him with the points of their swords.

As the first blade gritted against that of Gil's, he placed the whistle to his lips, and its note rang out shrilly on the midnight air, to be answered by the rush of feet over the little wooden bridge as his men came running up; and now there was nothing left but for the defenders of the house to be beaten back, the place itself to be forced, and Mace carried away.

"Swing the bridge!" cried a voice, which Gil recognised as that of Sir Mark. "They're trapped now. Hollo, there! Lights, quick! Surrender, you dogs, in the King's name."

There was a creaking noise as the little bridge was swung round, and Gil felt that, far from being in sleepy indolence and safety, Sir Mark had not only been well on the alert, but had cleverly made his plans according to his own lights to entrap his rival and his followers when they came, attracted, as he felt that they would be, by the bait within the founder's house.

"Poor fool!" muttered Gil, "if he thinks he can take us here."

For his men came running to his side to group round where he and Wat were standing well at bay.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

HOW THE POWDER HAD ITS SAY.

Sir Mark had not been alone in his suspicions, for the founder had had a half fancy come into his head that Gil might make some effort to prevent the marriage; and after all he could not help feeling that he would not be sorry if this were done. Now it had come so near he thought more than ever that he was doing wrong in giving his consent, for Mace's distress seemed to be ever on the increase, and he dreaded losing his child.

"But it's too late now," he muttered--"too late. Matters must go on as they are, and it will be a grand and good thing for my little girl to become my lady--Dame Leslie, who will take her place at Court with the finest of them there."

"Do you think our friend Culverin will show himself at the wedding to-morrow?" Sir Mark said.

"I cannot help thinking that he will," said the founder.

"Well, for my part," said Sir Mark, "I have a suspicion that we shall see him sooner--that he will make an effort to carry her off to-night."

"Nay!" cried the founder, flushing, "he would not dare."

"I think he would," said Sir Mark, with a cunning smile. "Why look, man, what easier? He has followers and a vessel. Depend upon it, he will try to get our darling away to his ship."

"If he dared to attempt such an outrage," cried the founder, half rising from his seat; and then, as if changing his mind, he sat back thoughtfully in his chair.

"You would spit him, eh, Master Cobbe? A most worthy proceeding. But, look here, I have made my plans."

"Plans?"

"Yes. I have, as you know, six men here, all well-armed, and to do honour to my wedding a gentleman of His Majesty's household, a friend of mine, will be here this evening, as soon as it is dusk, with eighteen fighting-men beside. These will come unseen, when I give the signal, and be placed in ambush in the garden. I shall plant two by the open bridge, and, if our friend comes, he and his men will walk into a trap, for the moment they are over, the bridge will be closed, and thus, you see, my dear father-in-law elect, I shall rid myself of an awkward rival, and his Majesty of a band of buccaneers.

"But there will be bloodshed, and on the eve of my child's wedding."

"Pish!" cried Sir Mark. "Have no fear of that. Once the rats are in the trap, and they will shriek for mercy, as such ruffians and bullies always do. My dear father-in-law, you shall have the pleasure of seeing the whole band tied two and two, and marched off, when the district will be cleared."

"And my business ruined," said the founder.

"Trust me for that, old man," said Sir Mark, smiling. "You shall make culverins and howitzers for his Majesty's troops to your heart's content, so have no fear. Powder shall you manufacture, too, but we will not talk of that. Did his Majesty know that powder was stored upon your place, ay, ever so little, he would never be your friend. But how do you like my plans?"

"Not well," said the founder, gloomily. "I liked Gil. You rob him of the woman he meant to be his wife. Why take his liberty as well?"

"Master Cobbe, this is wretched drivel," cried Sir Mark, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "What am I to think of it?"

"What you will," said the founder, sullenly; "I like not my part at all."

"And you will betray my plans?" said Sir Mark, angrily.

"Nay!" exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. "Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I'd take him myself, and deliver him into your hand."

"I did but jest, father," said Sir Mark, grasping the founder's hand. "Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans."

Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace's room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about.

Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements.

"You are master, to-day, my lady," he muttered; "to-morrow I shall rule, and you'll know it too."

Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans.

Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side.

"They'll not come," said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while.

"Hist! there is one," whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge.

"Why it is a woman," said the founder.

"A disguise," replied Sir Mark. "Gil himself."

"Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I'll go and turn her back. What does she want?"

"Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids--fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I'll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what's that?"

It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark's summons to surrender.

Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark's command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.

He stamped his foot impatiently, for, though he felt no fear of being beaten, the presence of these men might hinder the carrying out of his plans.

"Surrender, you dog!" roared Sir Mark again. "In the King's name, I say. Shoot down every man who resists."

A scornful roar of laughter was the response; and, as the heavy guns of the period were levelled, Gil's men, lithe and active as wild cats, leaped at their bearers with their swords, dashing the guns up, so that the scattered volley that followed sent the bullets skyward, while man after man was knocked down by a blow or the recoil of the piece.

Then commenced a furious fight; sword clashed with sword; there were groans, oaths, and cries; and, as Mace's casement was opened, its occupant gazed down, shuddering at the hideous, torch-lit scene in the trampled garden.

"Be ready with that ladder, Wat," cried Gil, hoarsely. "She must be got away now at any cost. Hah! there is Sir Mark."

As he uttered the words he sprang at his rival, who had recognised him at the same moment by the flickering light of one of the torches borne by a soldier, who held it on high as he tried to take aim at Wat Kilby with a wheel-lock pistol, from beneath Mace's window.

"Surrender!" shouted Sir Mark. "Quick, here, men, here!"

"Surrender yourself," roared Gil, as with a rush he beat aside the other's guard, closed with him, and forced him down, where he lay with Gil's knee at his throat.

Their leader's cry, though, brought half-a-dozen men to his side, and blade in hand they would have cut down Gil had it not been for Wat, whose orders had been to stay there with the ladder. Raising this, he drove it with a crash against one man, who had raised his point, and was in the act of striking another, when Sir Mark recovered himself sufficiently to get at a dagger, which he would have plunged into his opponent, had he not felt himself scorched by a blinding glare, as he, Gil, and Wat and those by him were hurled headlong amongst the trampled bushes, and, before they could realise what had happened, there was a mighty roar, as if thunder had come from earth instead of sky, and then gone rolling across the Pool, to die away in echoes amongst the hills.

Volume 3, Chapter V.

HOW THE LOVE PHILTRE WORKED.

If Mother Goodhugh had stood by while it was done, Janet the weak would have taken the decoction placed in her hands; but, foolish as the girl was, she had her share of cunning.

"If I give it to her and it does make her love turn to hatred, he must turn to me; and, if after all she cares more for Captain Carr, why even then it may turn right for me. Does the old thing think I'd take the stuff? Clever as she be, others be clever too. But how shall I give it to her?"

Janet took the little flask out of her bosom, which was her hiding-place for particular things--ribbons, scraps of lace, a scent-bottle wonderfully like one of Mace's--and looked at it attentively.

"A little every day," she said; and the next morning she poured a portion into a jug that stood for drinking purposes in her mistress's room.

That afternoon Mace went up to her bedroom with a bunch of flowers from the garden, which she placed in a shallow basin, and the contents of the jug were used to keep them alive!

The same evening, finding the jug empty, Janet refilled it, and again poured in a little of the contents of the flask.

She had just completed her task when she heard Mace's step upon the stairs, and in her haste to replace the stopper of the flask she let it fall upon the floor, where it broke; and she had only time to throw the broken glass out of the window, and drag a piece of carpet over the stain on the floor, before her mistress entered the room.

Janet escaped as soon as possible and sought refuge in the kitchen, from whence she stole round to the garden and picked up the broken bottle, then ran back, throwing the pieces into the water-race as she hurried along.

"I dare say she will have taken enough," she said to herself, "and, if she has not, I'll try no more. I hate myself for doing it. Poor girl, she looks more as if she was going to be buried than married."

In fact, Janet's heart was not very deeply touched, and she would have been ready to hand over her young affections to anybody a little more eligible than Master Wat Kilby, who was rather too old for her taste. During these busy days, too, there was so much to take her attention, for she had all a girl's love and excitement in an approaching wedding.

First and foremost there came a present to her from Sir Mark in the shape of what was to her a most handsome dress.

"That's for thee, pretty Janet," he said; "and when we come back from our wedding jaunt I'll bring thee a handsome husband as sure as I live. One kiss for it," he said; and he took it, and another and another. How many dozens he would have taken it is impossible to say, only the founder's step was heard, and Janet fled with her dress by another way.

"The spell be working somehow," she said to herself joyously. "May be he will turn her over yet, and marry me himself."

She hurried up to her room to inspect her gown-piece, and smooth her ruffled hair.

"Oh, these men, how wicked they be!" she cried half-petulantly, as she gazed at her flushed cheeks in a damp-stained mirror.

"I be handsomer than mistress pale-face down stairs," she cried, giving her head a toss. "Fie on her! why does she not go and wed with Captain Culverin, and leave me Sir Mark."

The gown-piece again took her attention, and she folded it in pleats and tucks, and draped herself in it, ending by doubling it over and over, and laying it flat beneath her bed.

"I'll go see her presents now," she said; and she descended to Mace's room to find the jug untouched.

"Perhaps shell never wear these gauds after all," muttered Janet, as she went to the dressing-table and examined the presents Sir Mark had brought, rich jewels some of them, with laces and ribbons enough for a dozen weddings; but the white satin dress hanging across a chair was the great attraction for Janet, with its puckers and folds, and great stomacher dotted with pearls.

"It be brave!" she cried, as she went down upon her knees to gaze at it, and lay portions of the skirt across her arm, or feel its softness against her cheek.

And so the time glided on till the eve of the wedding, when, pale and dark of eye with want of sleep, Mace felt that the excitement was more than she could bear.

It was very terrible, she told herself, and again and again she asked her conscience whether she was doing wisely in listening to Gil's prayers. It was an act of disobedience to her father, whom she dearly loved, and yet she felt that she clung to her lover more. But even now she would, in obedience to her father's wishes, have refused Gil and remained unwed. To be forced, though, to become the wife of one whom she utterly detested she felt was impossible, and she knew that she must go.

She had no one to counsel, none to take her part; and she knelt down and sobbed bitterly as she thought of the mother who had been taken away so long ago.

Then rising from her knees, quite calm and peaceful at heart, she sat down in her sweet-scented old chamber waiting, for she told herself it was inevitable, and that time would soften her father's anger, and all be happiness once more.

"He feels it is for my welfare," she said, "but he does not know poor Gil."

The whispered mention of Gil's name sent a thrill through her, and, with a smile of hope and love upon her worn, pale face, she sat dreaming of him, and mentally praying that no mishap might accompany their flight.

At last, feeling flushed and hot, she drank from the jug of water which Janet had left unchanged.

There was a peculiar taste in it, but her thoughts were too much occupied to pay much attention, and, taking her seat by the window, she sat, watching the darkness coming on of this the last day in her old home.

How the old happy hours of the past came back to torture her with their recollections; and now she told herself it would have been better that she should have died young, in peace and innocency, ere she knew the bitter heart-grievings of the present. For in these last hours her breast was racked by contending emotions; the love of parent fought hard with the stronger, more engrossing love of the maiden for the man of her choice, but the latter won.

Agitated as she was, it seemed to her that she grew feverish and thirsty--a thirst she turned to the water-vessel more than once to assuage, but without effect; and at last, with a curious, excited sensation upon her, mingled with weariness, she went to the glass to find that her checks were flushed, and that there was a strange dilated look about her eyes, whose unusual lustre startled her.

"I have had too little sleep lately," she said, with a sad smile, as she thought of the long, restless nights she had passed; and at last she threw herself upon the bed, and closed her eyes, just as a tap was heard upon the panel of the door.

"Come in, Janet," she said, as she unclosed her eyes to gaze round at the confusion that reigned with half-packed garments, and upon a couch her wedding-dress, facing her like the flaccid shade of herself lying upon a bier.

There was something very weird in that dress, and it seemed to influence her with thoughts of death which made her shudder.

"I be come to try on the wedding robe again, mistress," said Janet. "I did alter those strings and that fastening, and now it will fit you well."

"That's kind of you, Janet," said Mace, drowsily. "Thank you for all you have done. You will think kindly of me when I am gone?"

"Why, of course, mistress. But, there, dear heart alive, don't talk like that. Why it be as if you was going to be buried. La! You ought to be as blithe as blithe."

"Should you be, Janet?" said Mace. "Oh, my head--my head, it burns--it burns!"

"La, mistress, yes; as joyous as a bird to wed with so handsome and courtly a man. Art ill, mistress?"

"Sleepy, Janet, sleepy."

"There, then, let's get on the dress, and see how you look, and then you shall have a long sleep, and I'll see that no one disturbs you."

"No, no," said Mace, hoarsely. "I must not sleep, child--I will not sleep. Try on the dress and go away. I shall sit by the open window."

"La, mistress, thou'lt get the ager-shakes that come off the Pool. I wouldn't sit by the open window to-night. Come, get up, dear, and let me take off your gown. I'll unlace it, and now we'll have on the beautiful white robe. Lovely, lovely!"

And again, "Lovely, lovely!"

And then, "How beautiful you look!"

And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped in her lover's arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away. It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its breast.

At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.