The unloading of Gil’s ship continued rapidly, and the followers of Sir Mark heard one or two mysterious communications about the strange processions that sometimes were seen in out-of-the-way parts at night, but their orders were to keep close to the Pool-house, and no expeditions were made to see what the processions meant.
In short, there was a lull in the little hamlet—the calm that precedes a storm—and women whispered that Mother Goodhugh had been foretelling that the time of evil for the house of Cobbe was close at hand.
Sir Mark seemed to be passing his time in busily superintending the despatch of the last piece that had been finished, after careful proof, and then in idling about the woods, or rowing upon the Pool, while the preparations for the wedding still went on.
Once or twice he occupied himself with shooting the wild fowl with arquebus or cross-bow, but all the same his eyes and ears were attent to every change.
Now that the news must have reached the Moat, he studiously avoided visiting there, for he half-laughingly wondered what Anne Beckley would say.
Jeremiah Cobbe was of opinion that his intended son-in-law was trying to make friends with all the people about the place, so frequent were his visits from cot to cot; but this was not so, for he was busy trying to learn all he could about Gil’s whereabouts and habits; an inquisition in which he was aided by Master Tarpling, the temporary resident parson; but the total of their knowledge when added up amounted to nil.
Once or twice did the founder hesitate as to the course he was pursuing, but in his business encounters with Gil he found him calm and stern, and it struck him that Mace had of late grown resigned; so he let matters drift, fully aware though he was that Sir Mark would now have forced him to keep to his word should he have shown any disposition to draw back.
“He’ll make her a good husband,” he said to himself. “She don’t fancy it, perhaps, at first; but a father must be the best judge of what is for his child’s happiness.”
He was down at one of his powder-sheds, busying himself, and thinking that the Pool-house would soon be no longer the same, when he came upon Croftly, who, on the strength of his old service, said what he pleased.
“Oh, look here, Tom,” said the founder, “Thursday’s to be the wedding-day; you ought to set the men to work getting ready something in honour of the event. It’s a busy time, but I shall not take any notice if some of you stop to rig up a sort of arch.”