“Perhaps so, Master Cobbe; but there are times when a man feels that he must speak. But, first of all, why do you rake up that wretched story about Abel Churr?”
“Because I believe it,” cried the founder, angrily.
“Nay, you do not. You know I am innocent, or I should not dare to come to you now, and ask you by all you hold dear to give up this wretched business.”
“What wretched business?” cried the founder.
“I mean this proposed marriage. Listen to me, Master Cobbe. You have known me from a boy. I have been wayward and rough, perhaps, but fairly honest, for my love for Mace has kept me a better man than I should have been.”
“What does all this mean, Gil Carr?”
“It means, sir, that I make my last appeal to you before it is too late. I love Mace dearly. Give up this wedding and wait a year—two years—any time you will, till you are satisfied I am innocent of the death of Abel Churr, and then give me your consent. Don’t condemn us both to a life of wretchedness and pain.”
Gil had made his appeal at the wrong time. No matter when he had come, he would have met with a stern refusal; but now, when the founder was irritated beyond measure to find the echo of his own feelings in the breast of his very workmen, who, with true British sturdiness, refused to a man to take part in what they looked upon as the selling of his child, he was unable to contain himself, and the pent-up anger came pouring forth.
“Go!” he cried, white with rage, as he pointed to the entry. “Go, ere I’m mad enough to strike. Thou hast come now to try and breed fresh dissension—to try and raise my poor, foolish child in rebellion against me. I am not a man of blood, but, look you, your presence near my house from now till when this wedding has taken place will be the signal for my people, or those of Sir Mark, to use force.”
“But you will not let the wedding take place, Master Cobbe? For all our sakes, pause in time.”