How Sir Mark knocked away two Props.
A week, a fortnight, a month glided by, as time will gallop on, when some unwished-for season is ahead. Matters at the Moat were as of old. Sir Thomas dispensed justice, Dame Beckley prepared simples, and Mistress Anne purchased love-philtres, vowing each time that this was the last, but still, in spite of her better judgment, keeping on, for Gil was away, and might never come back, while Sir Mark was present and might be won.
He came sometimes to the Moat, and was very pleasant and courtly. He condescended to flirt with her a little, and filled her with hope that her vanity fed, as it grew dim on his departure. She was gentleness and innocence itself when he was present, but her eyes flashed when he left; and there was that in her looks which seemed to say that she would as readily poison him as give him cunning decoctions to win his love.
These were no pleasant times for the people at the Moat, for no sooner had the visitor departed, after regaling all present with accounts of how the gun-making went on, than Anne’s temper blazed forth—Polly said like a blow-up at the Pool—and for hours and hours Sir Thomas would not venture to leave his study, nor Dame Beckley her garden of herbs.
For Anne Beckley had painted and patched, and worn her different brocades; she had tried tenderness, laughing looks, patience, and threatenings of Mother Goodhugh, all to no purpose; and her heart grew hot within her as she vowed vengeance against her rival.
At the Pool the busy works were in full swing, and the founder had good excuse for keeping away from his daughter; while Sir Mark, now that the ice was broken, left no opportunity unseized to hasten on his suit. Progress he made none, but he did not complain. “The love will come after marriage,” he said, laughingly, and as patiently kept on working for the future.
To Mace’s horror he assumed a quiet tone of proprietorship over her, and on paying fresh visits to the metropolis he seemed to spare no expense in buying presents and necessaries for the wedding, which he assumed to be a matter of course, laughing at the girl’s cold and distant behaviour, while he never failed to treat her with the most tender consideration.
She made appeal after appeal to her father, but with the sole effect of angering him. For he had been long in making up his mind to give his consent, but when it was given the obstinacy of his nature made him deaf to all appeals; while, even had he been yielding, there was one at hand always ready to back up the weak part, as he by degrees gained so great an influence over the founder that, though the latter was ignorant of it, his will had been pretty well mastered by his guest, who dealt with him almost as he pleased.
They were busy times, and the calls made upon his attention prevented the founder from paying much heed to his child’s pale looks and restless mien. Guns were finished, and dragged by heavy teams of horses through the sandy lanes to the little port, and there shipped along with casks of black-grained powder to go round to London or some other depot. There were heavy sums of money, too, paid into the founder’s hands by Sir Mark, making the old man’s eyes sparkle as, with a few well-turned words, the royal messenger told him of the satisfaction felt by Ministers and King at the way in which the orders were being carried out.
“You will be a great man, father-in-law,” said Sir Mark, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Work away, for I have placed matters in train for another order when this one is done. I don’t see why my relative should not be rich.”
“Thanks, my lad,” said the founder, whose face softened. “Go on, and remember this, that in turning a stream of gold into my pockets it is providing a great dam like yon Pool to work thine own mill-wheel by-and-by.”
“I have thought that many times,” said Sir Mark to himself. Then aloud, “This order, you see, was all in good faith, and the money has been paid. I look now for my reward—payment in advance, before I bring in the next. When is our wedding to take place?”
The founder looked grave for a few minutes, and then gazed full in Sir Mark’s face.
“There are no half measures with me, my lad,” he said, laying his hand in Sir Mark’s. “Whenever you like. Shall we say when the last gun is finished and—”
“And payments made,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “Good! it shall be so. I start to-morrow for town, and from there I’ll bring the moneys, and I hope the new order, along with presents and wedding ornaments for my darling. Is it to be so?”
“Yes,” replied the founder; and he turned sharply, for a low sigh had reached his ear, and he was just in time to see Mace disappear from the door, which she was about to enter when she caught his words—words which sounded to her like a death-warrant, and which rang in her ears as she hurried to her chamber and locked herself within.
There was a peculiar look upon Mace Cobbe’s countenance as she sat gazing straight before her, thinking of her position. Gil had been gone four months now, and might not return for a couple more; though, if he did, what could she do?
She shuddered at the thought, and for a time was overcome.
The next day, though, she was all feverish energy, and, setting off as if for a walk, she made for Master Peasegood’s cottage, where, after a little hesitation, she plunged desperately into the matter in hand.
“I have not been idle, my little one,” said the stout clerk, “but have on more than one occasion roundly taken thy father to task about this matter.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mace, excitedly, “and what did he say?”
“Bade me look after people’s souls and let them look after their bodies themselves.”
“Ay,” said Mace, with a sigh, “it is what he would say.”
“Sir Mark has been here to me about—about—”
“The wedding?” said Mace. “Speak out, Master Peasegood, I am ready to hear aught of thee.”
“Yes, my child. He came in his big commanding way to say that he should require me to be ready at a certain time.”
“Yes, and you—what did you say?”
“That I would sooner—”
“Speak! Pray tell me,” cried Mace, passionately; “you torture me, you are so slow.”
“I said an unkindly thing, my child,” replied Master Peasegood, sadly. “I said that I would rather read the burial service over thee than wed thee to such as he.”
“Thank you, Master Peasegood!” she cried, eagerly. “And you will keep to that, for I cannot wed this man.”
“My child,” said the stout parson, “I promised friend Gil—for thy sake, not his—that I would be like a second father to thee, and I will; so come to me when thou art in trouble, and I will give thee counsel and aid.”
“But I am in trouble, Master Peasegood, and want thy counsel and aid.”
“Here they are then, little one,” he said. “Go home and wait patiently. It is not thy wedding-day yet. Who knows how this gay spark stands at court? At any hour he may be recalled, and all his matrimonial plans be knocked upon the head. Fair Mistress Anne would give her ears to wed with him: and if she has set her mind upon it, mark me, she will likely enough take steps to stay his wedding you. There is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, child, and maybe this trouble of thine will settle itself without action on our part. It will be time to take stringent steps on the eve of the wedding if nothing happens before, and something may. At all events he shall not wed thee in Roehurst church while I am parson there. Hah! who may these be?”
There were steps at the door, and a sharp rapping, which the parson responded to himself, to find confronting him a stern, semi-military looking man in dark doublet, with two followers cut exactly upon his pattern.
“Master Joseph Peasegood, Clerk of Roehurst?” said the stern-looking man.
“Yes,” said the parson; “I am that person, sir.”
“Here is a paper of attachment for thy person, Master Peasegood. Thou wilt with me at once to London.”
“I—go—to London—attachment—what for?”
“I cannot answer thy question, sir,” was the reply. “I am only executioner of this warrant. I believe it is something to do with Popish practices. Come, sir, I have a carriage waiting. The roads are bad, and we want to be going.”
“Popish practices! I, of all men in the world! But my people—who will take charge of them?”
“A reverend gentleman is on his way, sir,” was the reply.
Master Peasegood read the document, bowed his head, and hastened his few preparations, standing at last finally with Mace’s hand clasped in his.
“Tell Father Brisdone I commend thee to his charge, my child, and bid him from me take thee away from thy father’s care sooner than let thee become the wife of this man. Tell him, too, that I am puzzled about this seizure of my person. I know not what it means, unless it be for consorting with him.”
“I know, Master Peasegood,” said Mace, pressing his great hand. “You have an enemy who has done this thing.”
“Ay, child, and who may that be?”
“The man who asked a service of thee, which thou did’st refuse.”
“Sir Mark? Yes, thou art right. Good-bye, my child, good-bye.”
Mace’s heart sank as she saw the stout figure of her old friend go towards where a great lumbering, open vehicle was standing, and as it disappeared she felt that she had one friend the less. It was, then, with a mute feeling of despair that she turned down the narrow, winding lane to meet a little further on three men, who, at a short distance, seemed to be the same she had so lately seen depart.
On a nearer approach, however, she found that it was their uniform, or livery, only that was the same.
They looked at her curiously as they passed, and then a shiver ran through her as the thought struck home,—what was their object there?
“Father Brisdone!” she ejaculated. “They have been after him.”
A cold feeling of despair crept over her as she read in all this the power of the man who sought to make her his wife. He was evidently at work insidiously removing her friends, to replace them with people of his own, and more than ever she felt how helpless her position had become.
With her heart beating a slow, heavy, despairing throb, she passed on a rising piece of ground to gaze through the trees at a portion of the Pool which lay gleaming in the sunshine; when her brow contracted strangely, and her eyes half closed, as sinister thoughts, like those of some temptation, came upon her.
She was to be alone and friendless if Father Brisdone was taken away: her father had literally sold her to this man, and sooner than he should take her in his arms and call her wife she felt that she would seek for rest in the great Pool.
“Pst! pst!”
Mace turned sharply, and, gazing in the direction from which the sound had come, she saw high up amidst the bushes on the bank the rusty cassock of him who had so lately been in her thoughts.
“Dear father!” she cried. “You there?”
“Hist, child, hist! Don’t look in my direction, but stoop, pick flowers, and talk to me as you bend down.”
“Why are you there, father?” she said softly, as she obeyed his words.
“It is the old story, child. I am one of a proscribed set of men now, and I have had warning from Tom Croftly that there are those here who seek to make me a prisoner.”
“Yes, father, I have seen them.”
“Then I must take to hiding, child. When Gilbert Carr’s ship returns he will give me safe passage to France. Till then I shall make my home in the iron-pits—the disused ones in the old beechwood.”
“Where I’ll bring thee food and covers, father,” cried Mace, who found relief from her own troubles in helping others.
“Nay, child, thou wilt be watched by one at the Pool. Tom Croftly will bring me all I want, if thou givest it to him. He is trusty, and will bring any message or letter with faith and care. I shall be watching over thee still, though I am in the old hole of the rock. It is not the first time that I have had to hide for life and liberty. But hark here, my child, I have said come not. If matters occur that make it necessary for thee to flee thine home sooner than wed a man thou dost despise, come to me in the forest, and maybe together we may escape to where I can find thee a home with a holy sister, and rest and peace.”
“Thanks, father, oh, thanks!” cried Mace. “But listen: Master Peasegood has been taken away.”
“So soon? But I am not surprised. It is because he refused the same offer as I.”
“Were you asked, father?”
“Nay, child, I was ordered; and that is the real reason why I am hunted down. Hist! steps! Go on.”
Mace involuntarily walked on through the wood, bitterly lamenting that she should bring indirectly such misery upon those she esteemed, when a slight rustle in the bushes made her turn her head and utter a faint cry, as she was tightly clasped in Sir Mark Leslie’s arms.