How a Casement was opened.
In the days which followed there was a diligent search for Abel Churr, in which Gilbert Carr’s men joined hands with those of the founder, for reasons best known to Gil; and every likely place in the forest was searched save the ravine leading to the cave entry, and that was gone over by Gil’s men alone. At times there might be one or two who felt disposed to give Gil the credit of having made away with a man who had been a spy upon his actions, but very little was said on the matter, the common people, as a body, liking the captain and his men, whose return from a voyage was heartily welcomed, even though at times they were rather more than free.
Those who spoke out and sided with Mother Goodhugh received hints to keep their tongues more quiet, the hints being traceable to Wat Kilby; but there was but little need to speak. Gil was too great a favourite; and when there was some talk (on the part of Sir Thomas Beckley) of the captain being arrested and inquisitions made, Sir Thomas received so broad a hint from his daughter not to interfere with Gil, and also from the captain’s followers, to let matters rest, that he hastily obeyed.
“I’m not going to blame thee, skipper,” said Wat Kilby, one day when the heat of the search was over; “but wouldn’t it have been better to have shut him up for a bit till we started, and then have taken him away?”
The captain turned sharply round upon him.
“Look here, Wat,” he said; “do you believe that I have murdered Abel Churr?”
“Lord, no, lad, not murdered; that be too terrifying a word. Pooked him—executed him for a spy—pooked him; and quite right too.”
“Once for all,” cried the captain, “let it be fully understood by you, and you can tell the men, that I caught Abel Churr in the store, and, after frightening him, I let him go, making him swear that he would never approach the place or divulge its position to a soul.”
“Do you want me to tell the lads that?” said Wat.
“Yes, of course.”
“Nay, then I’m a mutineer. I’m not going to help ’em to such words as that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, skipper? Because it would lower you in the eyes of every man of the crew. What! after the oath we swore, and after the way the boys have kept it, for you, our captain, to go and let loose a varmin who had broken in and was robbing you, perhaps hunting out the savings and trade every man has got stored up here? Nay, captain, it would be degrading you in the eyes of all.”
“What would you have done, then?”
“What would I have done?” said Wat. “Why, same as you did—killed him like the varmin he was, and buried him in the mixen or under the stones.”
“You really believe, then, that I killed this man in cold blood?”
“Why, of course, skipper; you couldn’t do otherwise. As to a man and cold blood! bah! he was a rat, and he was caught. Do you know how the lads searched the little valley?”
“No.”
“Crept through the wood, pooked the grass aside, and sat down and smoked,” said Wat with a chuckle.
“Then they did not properly search it?”
“Of course not,” cried Wat, gruffly. “You don’t suppose they wanted to find that girt fox, do you?”
“Wat,” cried the captain angrily, “you disobeyed my orders. That place shall be searched, and that at once.”
“What—and try to warm up the scent again, captain? Nay, he’s sattled, let sleeping dogs lie. The world’s all the better for there being no Abel Churr; and the adders and things can have a chance of marrying and having families without being pulled out of their holes by the tail.”
As he spoke, the old sailor turned away, and Gil walked to the cottage where he had his temporary home.
That night on the dark bank in front of the Pool-house four glow-worms shone out for the first time for weeks, and Gil Carr walked across the little swing-bridge towards the founder’s garden.
The sight of a few glow-worms on that bank might have been expected after the many that had been placed there at various times by Gil, but they never stayed long, for the blackbird or thrush generally made a meal of them; and when, on that night, Mace went up to her room, glancing out as was her custom before drawing the blind, she knew that before long there would be some one waiting beneath the casement, and her heart began to beat.
She had not seen Gil since the evening of his encounter with Sir Mark, and, truth to tell, she had watched night after night to see if he would try to see her, and sad of heart had gone to her sleepless couch without a sign.
Sir Mark was still there, but was to leave in a day or two, having sent on his report of the works, and pleading ill-health as a reason for staying longer. But his conduct to her had changed. There was less of the sighing gallant in his manner, though he appeared pained by her coldness, and treated her with studied respect.
The founder and he seemed to be growing firm friends, though Mace with pain saw that the visitor was gaining an ascendancy over her father’s actions that augured no future good.
Janet was with her in her room that night, and meaningly drew her attention to the tiny lights, but received so sharp a look for her pains that she ventured to say no more, and soon after left, the room to go and stand irresolutely in the passage, thinking.
“He’s there,” she said, with malicious glee lighting up her eyes; “and he’s forbidden to come. He played with me and tricked me, professing so much and then laughing at me, and telling me I was not to listen to old Wat Kilby. Suppose I trick him.”
She paused, thinking for a few moments, and then slipping into a small room—half dressing-room, half bureau—she took a cloak and hood from a peg and slipped them on.
Meanwhile Gil had passed softly into the garden, and stood waiting in the darkness of the summer night, to see if Mace’s looks towards him had any meaning, and he had not waited long before a faint click told him that the casement had been opened.
“Mace.”
“Gil.”
“Why have you come?”
“Because you were in trouble, Gil, and I wished to say a word or two of comfort, and to ask you of Abel Churr.”
“I know what you would say,” he said, softly. “Am I guilty? Is’t not so?”
“Yes.”
He laughed gently as he strained his eyes to try and make out the outlines of her sweet face.
“Mace,” he said, “it is like old times to be here again, and there is more light and hope in my heart than there has been for weeks. Let me answer you with another question. If I were guilty, Mace, should I be here?”
“No,” she said softly, as her hand stole down, white and soft, amongst the roses, to be seized and held to his breast. “But tell me, Gil, with your own lips, that you are innocent; that this charge is not true, and I will believe you.”
“Mace, child, so help me—”
“Stop,” she whispered, hastily; “the man who loves me needs no oaths. Tell me on your word, Gil, as a gentleman, that you are guiltless, and I will believe.”
“There is my hand,” he whispered; “place yours within it. There; does it burn?”
“No,” she whispered; “it is cool and soft.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly; “but if it were stained with Abel Churr’s blood it would burn and flush at the touch of your innocent palm. If I said there had never been blood upon it, child, I should lie; but it has been the blood of an enemy, shed in fair fight; and as often,” he added, with a laugh, “it has been my own. Mace, you have never misjudged me, darling? Tell me that you never believed me to be the assassin they would make me out.”
“Never, Gil.”
“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”
“What?” she cried, starting.
“I say thank God that I was suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”
“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.
“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”
“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”
“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”
He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.
“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.
Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.
End of Volume I.