“He should never have had her,” he muttered. “It was impossible. The death of that poor fellow, Churr, clings to him, say what one may. He may not have done the deed, but it was by his orders, and he is responsible for the sin.”
He bit his lips angrily even as these thoughts came to his mind, for they gave him no relief, and it seemed cowardly to harbour them in Gil’s absence, just by way of excuse for his present acts.
Then, too, go where he would, work hard as he might, his child’s calm, reproachful gaze seemed to be ever before him.
“She knows it already; I’m sure she knows it,” he said to himself; and at last, harassed by his upbraiding thoughts, he became furious and irritable to a degree.
The eve had passed, and the next morning, and the night, but still the founder did not speak. He told himself that he had but to say—“My child, Sir Mark is your future husband;” but he could not say those words, and at times he grew fiercely angry at his cowardice, for as the days glided by the task grew harder and harder, and he literally dared not speak.
He had one satisfaction, though, and that made somewhat smoother the thorny way through which he was travelling, Sir Mark was gentleness itself towards Mace. He never spoke one word that was not full of tender consideration towards her. His very looks, though full of admiration, were softened by respect; but she could read in them an air of proprietorship; and to her mind they seemed to say that he knew he was safe to win her if he only waited his time.
Those were not happy days at the Pool-house, and Mace, with many a bitter tear, wished herself back in the pleasant peaceful times of the past. The coming of Sir Mark’s men had wrought a complete change in the place; there were quarrels of frequent occurrence on the score of gallantries, real or suspected, with husbands and brothers, rumours of which came to the young girl’s ears; and, whenever she encountered Mother Goodhugh, the old woman had a malignant laugh for her, and a shaking finger that seemed to portend evil. Then, in her despondent state of mind, Janet became a constant source of trouble to her. She scolded, threatened to send her away, and even tried to keep her shut up in the house; but she might as well have tried to wrap up so much quicksilver in muslin as to keep back the wilful girl, for in return for bits of news and gossip carried to Mother Goodhugh, the old woman furnished Janet with philtres that were to win her the hearts of any of the gay strangers she wished to enthral.
“Oh, Janet, Janet, where is your modesty?” cried her mistress. “Who was that man you talked with? Is it not the same I warned you about last night?”
“No-o, mistress,” said Janet.
“How can you be so shameless! Night after night I have to blame you for your wilful ways.”