“Ah, child, mock away. I sent him on his way to London. Tell me, if thou darest, that he did not say sweet things to thee? Ay, thy face tells it. Child, he be thine.”
“Nay, mother,” cried Anne, who was thrown off her guard by the old woman’s apparent knowledge; “he is coming back soon, and he will go to the foundry-house, and—and—”
“Mace Cobbe? Nay, child, nay; the game be thine own now. He and Mace have nothing between them. He be thine if thou wilt have him.”
“How can you tell me that, mother?”
“What!” cried the old woman, “have not I worked upon him night and day, till he and that girl are at odds? I say, child; the game be thine own.”
“Mother,” whispered Anne, after a glance at the door, “I hardly believe in thy spells; but look, here is a golden piece for you. Ten more shall be yours if you can make Mace Cobbe unpleasing in Sir Mark’s eyes when he comes back. He is not half gained yet, but with your help he can be won.”
“Make her unpleasing—her face?” said Mother Goodhugh, with a peculiar look. “Hush! I want to know nothing—I will not know anything, Mother Goodhugh. Only I say make her so that he shall care for her no more.”
“But how, child, how?” said the old woman, with a malicious grin.
“Do you want me to teach you your trade?” cried Anne, sharply. “There, give me back my gold piece, and I’ll go to one who can do my bidding.”
“Nay,” cried the old woman, sharply; “I’ll do it; but if I get into trouble thou must stand by me with Sir Thomas.”