How Gil and Sir Mark measured Swords.
“A courtier,” said Sir Mark, smiling, “Well perhaps I am; but see how I have taken to this rustic, delicious life. I have felt like another man since I have been here.”
“Indeed, Sir Mark,” said Mace gravely, as they stood a couple of evenings later in the founder’s hayfield, where the stack now stood waiting for its crowning of straw.
“Yes, indeed,” he cried. “Look here; I have been with your men to-day and yesterday when they piled up this sweet-scented hay, and I am growing quite a farmer. I know that Master Cobbe was rather too hurried in getting it up, and that it reeks too much, and that if it were covered in now it would go bad.”
“Indeed?” said Mace, and speaking as if her thoughts were far away.
“Yes, indeed,” he cried; “and I am growing wise in gun-casting and powder-making. I am learning day by day; but above all, sweet Mace, I am learning how vain and hollow is the world to which I have belonged, and how happiness is not to be found there.”
“You are talking in riddles, Sir Mark,” replied Mace, dragging herself back as it were to listen to his words.
“Read my riddles, then,” he cried, in a low tone, as he laid his hand upon her arm, and arrested her by the meadow-path. “Mace, dearest, listen to me—but for a few moments. No, no; do not hasten—the evening is early yet, and where could be fitter place for what I would say than this sweetly-scented mead, where the soft evening breeze seems to whisper of that which fills my heart? Mace, dearest, I love you with all my heart.”
“Sir Mark,” she said, turning to look half wonderingly, half in anger, in his flushed face, “do you forget that you are my father’s guest; that this is no place of gallantry, but that I, his simple, country-born child, am a mere rustic, and unfit for such as you?”
“Unfit!” he cried. “Shame, when you are beautiful as the fairest woman of King James’s court.”
“The evening is growing damp, Sir Mark,” said Mace coldly.
“Why are you so distant?” he whispered, trying to take her hand. “Nay, nay, this is too bad, you must have seen, you must know, that I love you.”
“I have seen, sir, that it has pleased you to pass compliments, as seems to be a favourite habit of yours, and you, sir, must have seen that they caused me pain.”
“Pain? When I’d give my right hand, my very life, to save you from a single pang! Mace, you know why I have lingered here, even to getting in disgrace with my Royal master, that I might be near you; and now for reward you grow cold as if we had never met before.”
“Sir Mark, I must return home.”
“Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?”
“Sir Mark,” replied the girl, “does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?”
“Pest on her particular ways,” he muttered. Then aloud, “No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet.”
“If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words.”
He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated—a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner.
“Mace,” he said, sternly, “I want a few words with you.”
“Not now; not now,” she said.
“Yes, now,” he cried, angrily. “I cannot bear this coldness longer. You must, you shall, listen to me.”
“No, no,” she cried; “another time.”
“Why another time?” he said. “Ah, I see,” he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. “There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside.”
Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl’s face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate.
“Ah, my child,” he said, saluting her; “a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble.”
“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered, excitedly. “A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief.”
“They? Who, child?” said the father, quickly.
“Sir Mark—Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel.”
“Have they cause?” said the father, inquiringly. “Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph,” he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. “Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy’s to their senses.”
“Mad boys—senses!” cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. “What is wrong? You don’t mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain—? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!”
“Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me,” cried Mace, in hot indignation, “go and interpose before there is mischief done.”
“Phew!” whistled the clerk. “Brother Brisdone, come along.”
It was time they started, especially as Master Peasegood’s bravest pace was a very slow one, for no sooner had Mace hurried away than, with his anger and jealousy completely mastering him, Gil strode towards Sir Mark, who, on seeing him approach, far from attempting to avoid the meeting, leaned back against the gate, and stared at his rival with a cool exasperating mien.
Gilbert Carr had been a fighting-man from the time he had first learned to handle a sword; he had also been in command of a ship in many a perilous time, and the result of his training had been to teach him the necessity of coolness in danger. This was a perilous time, and from old custom he began at once to master his excitement, and prepare himself for the encounter that he felt must take place. He was as hot and determined as ever, but he felt that he must gain the mastery over this court gallant, or he would never feel happy more. It would result in his increasing Mace’s displeasure perhaps, but in his cooler moments he might feel the deepest sorrow for having caused her pain.
All the same, though, the thought came upon him that Mace’s name must be left out of the quarrel. It would be cruel in the extreme to have it known far and wide that he and this knight had fought about Mace Cobbe. It would be like a blow at her reputation, and, besides, whatever he might know in his heart of hearts, Sir Mark should not have the satisfaction of jeering at him as the successful lover.
No, there should be some other cause for the fight that would ensue, and it was easy to find one.
Easier than Gilbert Carr expected, for Sir Mark, stung by disappointment and the cold manner in which Mace had received his declaration, after he had, as he thought, carefully laid siege to and won her, was just in the humour to quarrel with a fly. From where he stood he had seen Gil stop and speak to the maiden, and it seemed to him that she had sent Gil on to chastise him for his insolence.
“A confounded little rustic coquette!” he muttered; “and now she sends her bully to me. Curse him, he thinks I am weak with illness and easily managed. Let him mind, or I may deal differently with him to what I did with the old founder.”
As Gil came nearer, asking himself how he should commence the quarrel, Sir Mark’s rage was ready to master him, for he began to feel that all his courtly adulation had been thrown away; that the founder’s daughter had listened in her calm, self-contained way, while he had fooled himself into the belief that he was moulding her, like soft wax, to his will; and all the time this Carr held the key of her heart, and was preferred.
“Curse him, let him mind,” he muttered. “I know one or two stoccatos that he can never have learned; and if I had him at my feet, run through the body, why it would be a service to King James, for the fellow is no better than a buccaneer.”
Gil came steadily up, towards the gate, still at a loss what to say, when Sir Mark insolently faced him, drew himself up, and, staring from his crown to his feet and back again, said sharply,—
“Were you sent to talk to me?”
“No,” said Gil, sharply, “I was not.”
“Oh!” replied Sir Mark, caressing his pointed beard; “I thought, perhaps, the young lady of—”
“Hold that prating tongue,” cried Gil, angrily, “or I may slit it, to teach it manners. I was not sent to talk to you, but I came to seek and know more of the man who has thought proper to settle himself down here. Hark ye! my good knight and follower of King James, the Solomon, the wise hater of tobacco, I want to know your business?”
“Let us see,” replied Sir Mark, insolently. “Are you authorised to inquire? Recollect, fellow, that you are addressing one of his Majesty’s officers.”
“I authorise myself,” said Gil, quietly, as he fought hard to keep down his rage and be cool. “As for his Majesty and his officers, tell him that down here in the south are some staunch men, who care no more for him, his laws, and his thick-tongued utterances, than they do for his messengers, however gaily they may be clad.”
“You know, I suppose, that I could have you seized, good fellow, and laid by the heels in prison till such time as it pleased his Majesty to have you tried for sedition, and then hung or shot for the peace of his land.”
“A way that would seem most meet to you, I presume,” said Gil, quietly.
“He is beside himself with rage, and yet trying to madden me, but I’ll keep cool and urge him on,” thought Sir Mark.
“I shall strike him directly, if he talks to me like that,” thought Gil.
“Let me see,” said Sir Mark, gazing at his rival with half-closed eyes; “I have pretty well mastered your life, my good fellow; and the country would be purified if you were away. You are one of Raleigh’s crew of buccanneering rufflers.”
“Sir,” cried Gil, proudly, “I am the son of one of the band of brave men who went out with that injured knight, and who look with the most utter contempt upon the north-country faithless puppet who sent him to the block. Pah; he and his followers stink in the nostrils of all good men and true. Let me see,” cried Gil, seizing his opportunity, “by your broad speech, sir, you are one of the paltry, ragged Scots who came south with Solomon to seek a home.”
“You lie, you scurrilous knave,” said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; “I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult.”
As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.
The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man’s force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.
Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.
“I make way for you, Sir Mark,” he said, grimly. “Walk on first, sir, while you can.”
Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion’s words; and then, full of doubt in the other’s honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.
“Turn to the left, Sir Mark,” said Gil, suddenly; “I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood.”
“Where would you go, then?” cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.
“The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me,” said Gil, quickly. “It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard. Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls.”
Sir Mark shuddered, but he made no sign; and, following the direction pointed out by Gil, the two young men came out of the wood below the wheel, crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and then, passing through two or three thick plantations, surrounding as many powder-sheds, they entered a wide stone building, whose floor was of furnace-cinder and charcoal; and, as they stood face to face, the place was far more light than the wood.
Without another word, Gil divested himself of cap and doublet, drawing his sword, and throwing down belt and sheath, in all of which he was imitated by Sir Mark, who, now that he was face to face with the peril, seemed to lose a good deal of his nervousness, though the coolness of his enemy staggered him.
“Your sword, sir,” said Gil, holding out his hand; but Sir Mark shrank back, and stood upon his defence.
“I merely wished to measure them,” said Gil, contemptuously, as he threw his own upon the charcoal floor. “Measure them yourself.”
Shamed by his rival’s greater show of confidence, Sir Mark made an effort over his suspicious nature, picked up Gil’s sword, and, holding both by the blades as they flashed in the warm red glow of the furnace, he handed them to Gil.
“Nay,” he said; “measure them yourself.”
Gil smiled as he took the weapons, laid the blades together, and finding his own to be fully three inches the longer, he handed it by the blade to Sir Mark.
“That is not my weapon,” said the latter, suspiciously. “Give me my own sword, fellow.”
“Not I,” said Gil; “mine is three inches longer in the blade, and I am not going to have it said that I killed thee by taking a foul advantage. We have no seconds, sir.”
Sir Mark hesitated for a few moments, and then, with the longer weapon, placed himself on guard with a good deal of the ceremony taught in the fencing-schools, while Gil quietly crossed swords with him, and the fight began.
It was a curious sight in that black-floored building, lit by the ruddy glow of the charcoal-furnace, whose illuminating powers sufficed to produce a ruddy twilight—nothing more—through which the figures of the contending men could be seen in rapid motion, as their flashing blades gritted edge against edge, and passes were rapidly exchanged.
Both fenced well, and at the end of a couple of minutes they fell back by mutual consent. No advantage had been obtained on either side. Each of them had, however, fully awakened to the fact that he had no contemptible enemy to deal with; and as with recovered breath they crossed swords once more it was with increased caution, and pass and parry followed with each exerting all his skill.
Gil fought, in spite of his apparent calmness, with terrible fury, for he was face to face with the man whom he believed to have blasted his happiness, and three times over the keenly-pointed blade he held passed through his adversary’s linen shirt, literally grazing the skin.
On his own side in the dim light he had had enough to do to hold his own, for it was only by the most skilful fencing that he was able to throw aside Sir Mark’s fierce thrusts, one of which inflicted a skin wound in his shoulder, and another grazed his hip.
They pressed each other in turn to and fro near the furnace-mouth, where the man who faced it gained no advantage, for he was thrown up so distinctly to his adversary’s view, and then back right into the gloomiest corner of the great building, where it was so dark that the danger was the same.
The swords gritted and flashed once or twice, emitting faint sparks; the contending men’s breath came thicker and faster as they strove on, the sweat in the heated place trickling down their faces in glittering beads; and the fight had grown furious as each, yielding to the fierce excitement of standing face to face with an enemy, strove with all his might to rob that foeman of his life.
At last, being the stronger and more skilful with his weapon, Gil drove his adversary back, step by step, delivering thrusts with lightning-like rapidity, every one as it succeeded the other being more feebly parried; and at last, with a strange sense of gratified passion in his breast, Gil pressed him more sorely, as he felt that he was in his power, when, just as he felt that victory was his, the tables were turned, for Sir Mark’s sword which he held snapped short off at the hilt, and it was only by stepping sharply back that Gil saved his life.
For, beside himself with fury, Sir Mark seized the opportunity, and aimed so deadly a thrust that it must have passed through his opponent’s body. Gil’s rapid retrograde movement saved him, however, for the moment, though he tripped over the remains of a mould, and fell headlong at his adversary’s feet.
“Slain in fair fight,” cried Sir Mark, exultantly, as, leaping forward, he placed his foot upon his adversary’s chest, and thrust at his throat.
“Not yet,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “I am a sailor.”
As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark’s sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in.
“Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr,” cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. “Is this thy conduct towards my father’s guest?”
“Thy father’s guest would have run me through, mistress,” he said, curtly. “I did but fight for life.”
“I’ll have no more of this,” cried the founder, fiercely. “Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways.”
“Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me,” said Gil. “It was a fair fight, fairly provoked.”
“I’ll not have my child made the prize for any fighting,” cried the founder, hotly. “Mace, this is your doing.”
“If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared,” cried Mace, coldly, “he might have left it in its sheath.”
“I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace,” whispered Gil. “It is cruel, indeed.”
Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover’s emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again.
“I forbade you my place, Gil Carr,” cried the founder. “You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels.”
“I fear no officers of justice,” cried Gil, angrily; “and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves.”
“But you need fear them,” cried the founder angrily. “What is this I hear of Abel Churr?”
“What has he dared to tell?” cried Gil, forgetting himself for the moment.
“Men with mute lips tell nought,” said the founder. “Where is Abel Churr?”
“I know not,” replied Gil.
“Nay, but you should know,” continued the founder, as Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone came panting in from an unsuccessful search. “Tom Croftly, tell what you heard. Abel Churr was an idle raff, but he was a man, and one of us here.”
As he spoke Mace’s countenance changed, and she drew nearer to Gil.
“I don’t know much, master,” said the foundryman slowly, “only that seven days ago I saw Abel Churr half drunken, and he was boasting that he knew a secret of the captain’s there which would hang him if it was known.”
“He must have told you, too, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood, quickly.
“Abel Churr did confess to me when I encountered him in the woods, Brother Peasegood, but the words uttered in confession are sacred. I cannot tell.”
“Not if a man’s character is at stake,” cried Master Peasegood.
“I’ll soon end this,” said the founder, as Gil quietly replaced his doublet and took his sword from Sir Mark’s hand. “Gil Carr, speak out like a man. Where is Abel Churr?”
“I do not know,” replied Gil, firmly.
“Had he some secret of yours?”
Gil paused for a moment, and his eyes encountered those of Mace gazing at him in a beseeching way, when a change seemed to come over him, and he replied frankly—
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“A secret that I wished to keep.”
“How did he find it out?” said the founder.
“How do I know, sir? By creeping through the wood, and dogging my steps, I suppose.”
“When did you see him last?” said the founder.
“A week ago.”
“Where?”
“In the woods,” replied Gil, who submitted to the examination as it were in obedience to Mace’s eyes.
“And what passed there?” said the founder.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Gil. “I found him prying into my affairs, and I seized him.”
“And threatened him?”
“Yes; I swore I would hang him to the yard-arm of my ship if I caught him again.”
“Yes—and then?”
“Then I let him go.”
“And since then?”
“I have not seen him since.”
Mace’s eyes brightened with satisfaction, and Gil, as he stood there alone, felt recompensed for much of the past, as it seemed to him that now he was in trouble she was turning to him.
“Sir Thomas Beckley must know this,” cried the founder. “The suspicion is that Abel Churr has been foully dealt with, and that you, Gilbert Carr, are to blame.”
“And I say that whoever charges me with hurt to Abel Churr lies,” cried Gil, hotly. “The scoundrel had a secret of mine in his keeping, and I did threaten him, but I let him go when I had caught him robbing me, with such a warning that I felt he would never come again.”
There was truth in his bearing, but somehow there was only one present who believed him, as he stood there alone, while the founder said coldly, “Gilbert Carr, there’s a dark suspicion hanging over thee. It may be that the deed was not done by thee, but by orders to thy men; but, anyway, it behoves thee to clear thyself by finding Abel Churr. Till you can do that, come upon my premises no more. Sir Mark, we are a rough people here, and set at naught some of the laws, but we hold a man’s life in good esteem. I shall see Sir Thomas, our justice, in the morning, and no stone will be left unturned to find this wretched man.”
“Gilbert Carr,” said Master Peasegood, advancing; “speak out once more—Do you know aught of this wretched man?”
“I have said all I know, Master Peasegood,” replied Gil, quietly. “I can say no more.”
“We must wait, Master Cobbe,” said the parson. “Seven days are but a short time. He will come back perhaps ere long.”
“I hope he will,” said the founder, firmly. “Gilbert Carr, this is my land, and no place for thee.”
Gil looked at him angrily, and then at Mace, whose glance disarmed him once again.
“As you will, Master Cobbe,” he said. “Some day perhaps you may regret this harshness to so old a friend. Mace, as I am to be dismissed, good-bye till we meet again—in better times.”
He advanced and held out his hand, but Sir Mark, who was near her, interposed.
“Stand back, sir,” he said; “no man with such a suspicion resting upon him shall touch Mistress Cobbe’s hand.”
Gil seized him by the shoulder, and with one swing hurled him aside.
“Your hand, Mace Cobbe,” he said, holding out his own, in which she laid hers for a few moments, before hurrying to her father’s side.
A dead silence had fallen on the group, and as Gil turned to go he felt that appearances were sadly against him, though it would be vain to say more then. Striding across the foundry he made for the open door, angry even unto passion, but helpless under the pressure of opinion. He was not prepared for the fresh reverse that he encountered, as, after turning to exchange a fierce glance with Sir Mark, which said plainly enough, “We shall meet again,” he was half startled by finding his way barred by Mother Goodhugh, who was standing in the doorway, full in the red light cast by the furnace.
He drew back as the old woman moved her stick and stepped into the building.
“Is he to be screened?” she cried aloud. “I say, is he to be screened? Your friend, Master Cobbe—the friend of your child—the man you mean to make your son. I say, is he to be screened?”
“Hold thy prate,” cried the founder, angrily. “Mother Goodhugh, I am in no humour to listen to thee now.”
“Nay, but thou shalt listen. I say is he to be screened? Gil Carr,” she cried, turning upon him sharply, “where is Abel Churr?”
“Stand aside, woman,” cried Gil. “I know not.”
“But you do know,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “He was my only friend, and I will have all brought to light. He went to follow you in the forest. You met him—speak, did you not meet him?”
“I did,” said Gil sharply. “And you murdered him,” cried the old woman. “Ha, ha, ha! As I said—as I said; more care for the house of Cobbe. The curses fall thick and fast. As I said, as I said. Yes, get you gone, murderer, and you, good people, have the forest searched for the remains of his victim. He must be found—he must be found.”
Gil turned upon her angrily, but he did not speak. He strode from the building, out into the summer night, hot and angry; and as he went along the lane he could hear the old woman’s shrillest tone as she shouted after him; and even the hurrying water in the race towards the wheel seemed to repeat the word “Murderer,” in his ears.