How Mace objected to her Bargain.
“Am I a weak child?” cried Mace at last, as she sprang up and wiped away her tears. “I will not sit still, and be sold like this. I cannot be forced to wed a man I hate, and I will not listen to his words.
“When will Gil come back?” she cried; and sitting down she tried to reckon up the number of weeks since he sailed, but her head was in a whirl; and even as she tried to think her hands burned, and she held them from her as if they had been polluted by the kisses they had received.
Then, with a feeling of horror, she thought of the possibility of Gil having witnessed that scene—the clasping on of the necklace, the touch of the donor’s hands, and the tears once more rushed to her eyes as she writhed at her helpless position.
“I will go away to Cousin Ellice,” she said; “I will go at once. Father cannot know of Sir Mark’s behaviour. I cannot, I will not, believe it,” she cried, passionately. “I would not marry Gil without his consent, but I cannot listen to this man.
“Why, one would think I was some weak girl such as we read of in the old ballad stories!” she cried, with a laugh that was more like a hysterical cry, and, hastily washing away the traces of her tears, she determined to make a bold effort to show Sir Mark that his case was hopeless, and descended to the parlour to gather up and restore the pearls.
All thought of the jewels, though, was chased away by the sight of her father just seating himself for a rest and a smoke; and, smoothing her face, she went up to him, and stood by his side with her hands resting upon his shoulder.
“Are you tired, dear?” she said, passing her cool hand across his brow.
“Very, child,” he replied, drawing her to him, so that she was seated upon his knee, with her head leaning against his cheek.
“You work so hard now,” she continued. “This great order makes you so busy.”
“Yes,” he said, laughing; “but it is for honour and wealth, child. It is a great thing, and Sir Mark as good as promises that I shall be Master of Ordnance to the King.”
“Are Sir Mark’s promises all to be believed?” said Mace, quietly.
“To be sure! Yes, of course, child. He is a noble gentleman, of goodly birth, and when thou art his wife—”
He stopped short, for the words he had been trying to say had suddenly slipped from his lips, and he was startled by the manner in which his child leaped from his side, to stand staring down at him with flashing eyes.
“What is it?” he cried, in a clumsy, faltering manner.
“What was that you said, father?”
“I said when thou art Sir Mark’s wife, and he takes thee to court.”
“I can never be Sir Mark Leslie’s wife.”
“Tut! nonsense,” cried the founder, working himself up into a passion; “why do you talk such rubbish as this? What do you know of wedlock? Sir Mark has asked for thy hand in honourable marriage. It is a great honour; and thou wilt be wed and praised at court, and become a great body. What could I wish better for my child?”
“Oh, father, what do you mean?” she cried, with his own angry spirit rising up within her.
“Mean?” he cried, rousing himself now, to finish the task that he had fought in vain for so long to begin. “I mean that Sir Mark is to be thy husband. He brings thee honour and me wealth. It is a great thing, child. Living here as thou hast, such a position as that thou wilt occupy is a thing almost undreamed of. Why, my darling,” he said, trying to smile, “thou wilt ride in thy grand carriage, and have lackeys to follow thee, and be admired of all the court. Zounds! but I shall be proud indeed!”
“Father,” cried Mace, piteously, “you do not mean all this!”
“But I do!” he cried. “There, go to, silly child; it seems a trouble, but it will be all a joy. There, there: we need talk of it no more, for perhaps it will not be for months. I have given Sir Mark my promise, and thou wilt be his wife.”
Mace stood gazing at him piteously. Then throwing her arms round his neck she burst into a fit of sobbing.
“No, no, dear father!” she cried, “I cannot, I cannot wed him. It would break my heart.”
“Stuff!” he cried, caressing her; “what dost thou know of breaking hearts and such silly, girlish fancies? He brings thee jewels, and thou wilt have gay brocades. Why, my sweet pet, thou wilt drive Anne Beckley mad with envy. Mark me, she meant to wed Sir Mark herself.”
“Father, dear,” said Mace, kissing him, and speaking in a low, appealing voice, “it is not like you to speak to your little girl like this. Do I care to flaunt in gay clothes—to try and best Anne Beckley? Have I any such ideas as these?”
“No, no, child; may be not,” he said, stroking her hair; “but—but—I’d like to see thee a grand dame.”
“Would it make you happier, dear?” she replied, kissing him fondly as she nestled to his breast.
“Well, well, yes, of course,” he said hastily.
“Nay, nay, father, dear, you would never, never be happy again if you sold me to that man.”
“Sold!” he cried furiously, for that truthful word stung him to his heart. “How dare you say that, ungrateful girl that thou art? How dare you?”
“Because it is true,” cried Mace, drawing back from him to stand, white and angry, at bay. “Father, you are trying to sell me to this man!”
“It is a lie—a damned lie!” he cried furiously. “Mace, thou hast been listening to that villain—that scoundrel—that murderer—Gil Carr, again.”
“It is no lie, father,” she retorted, “and Gil is no murderer—no villain—no scoundrel, but an honourable gentleman, as you know.”
“I know thou hast been carrying on with him again,” cried the founder. “Curse him!” he roared, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table, so that the glasses and pipes leaped again.
“I have not,” cried Mace, angrily. “You said I should not, and I obeyed you, as I always have; but,” she added proudly, “I told Gil I would never be the wife of another man, and I never will.”
“Have a care, madam, have a care!” cried the founder, who was beside himself with passion. “I am a true man, but an obstinate one. I said thou should’st not wed that wild buccaneering adventurer, and I’ll keep my word.”
“Father!” cried Mace, as hotly, “I am thy daughter, and I can be obstinate too. I can keep my word. I will not wed Gil, if you forbid it; but I will wed no other man.”
“Curse the day he ever entered my house, and curse the day he ever enters it again! I have given Sir Mark Leslie my word that thou shalt be his wife, and that word I’ll keep. Now, I have said it, and thou knowest what to expect. I’ve indulged and spoiled thee, till, like an ingrate, thou fliest in my face, and forgettest all thy duty. Now go and learn what duty to a husband is.”
“No, no, no!” cried Mace, casting off her angry fit, and flinging her arms round her father’s neck. “Forgive me, dear, I said words to you I repent of now.”
“Then thou wilt meet him as thou shouldest, child?”
“No, no, father, I cannot!” she cried, with a shudder; “I detest—I despise him. I do not wish to marry. Let us go back to our old happy days, dear—as we were before this man came to trouble us. Why do you wish to send your little girl away?”
The founder was moved, and his arm involuntarily embraced the slight form, and drew it to his breast, while his brow grew rugged with emotion. At that moment he felt as if he would gladly have gone back to the calm old days of peace, and in his heart of hearts he wished that there was no such thing as love, or marrying and giving in marriage, on the earth.
“There, there,” he said softly, as he caressed and petted her as he would have done when she was a child. “There, little one, I want to do what is best for thee, to make thee happy.”
“Let us stay as we are, then, father dear,” she said, as she responded to his caresses.
“No, no, child, it cannot be,” he said. “I have given my word to Sir Mark, and he is to be thy husband, and that right soon.”
“No, no, father!” she cried; “you do not—you cannot mean it.”
“I do mean it, and it must be,” he said firmly, as he rose, and she stepped back now, and stood gazing at him as, hastily pouring out and swallowing a glass of strong waters, he walked out of the room, leaving Mace standing with hands clasped before her, gazing at vacancy, as she realised her terrible position, and asked herself what she should do.
That night she crept up to her room in a dazed, stunned fashion, and sat gazing out of her window, watching the stars rise slowly from over the sea, as she wondered whether Gil would come back and save her from the fate that threatened, where he was now, and whether she should ever look again with beating heart at their innocent little signal in the grassy bank—the four glow-worms’ lights.
Where was he now? she asked herself. Was he thinking of her as his ship sailed over the blue Mediterranean? Perhaps so; but would the time come when it would be a sin for her to think of him other than as a friend?
With a shudder she told herself that such a time could never be, for she would sooner take the boat some night and let it drift far out over the deepest part of the Pool, and there step over into the cold, black waters in search of the rest that she could not hope for here.
And as she thought all this in a weary, despairing way, the founder sat in his own room, angry, troubled, and full of pity for his child; but all the same relieved of a heavy load, as he told himself that she knew now what was to be, and that she would soon grow happy and content.