“Nay,” she cried, “I will not hold my peace. Go thou, young man, and rejoice that thou art saved from to-morrow—saved from wedding to the daughter of one whom I had cursed. Who doubts the power of Mother Goodhugh now? Speak, Jeremiah Cobbe, did I not foretell the ruin of thy house?”
“My poor child. My little love—where are thy pretty sayings now, where thy prattling ways? Little Mace—pretty little Mace! How old is she to-day, mother?” said the founder, gazing at vacancy, with a smile, for the old woman’s words had not reached his ears. “Six, eh? six. Why what a great age for my darling to have grown. Gil, my boy, God bless thee, lad! You have grown stout and well again, and I look to thee to protect my little one from harm. There, you must love her; take thy little sister; keep her from the pool, and mind her pretty little feet don’t stray near the water side. Hey, boy, did’st ever see such bonny little feet, so white and pink, and pretty, it seems a sin to put them into leather shoes. Be good to her, my brave stout lad, and some day—who knows?—thou may’st perhaps like to make her thy own little wife. If thou dost, ha, ha, ha! she shall not disgrace thee, boy, for she shall be a very lady in her way.”
He looked round with a vacant smile, and nodded pleasantly at Gil.
“Cursed! I tell thee—cursed!” cried Mother Goodhugh. “It has been a long time coming, but it has come at length. Look how it smokes and burns. Didst hear the noise the devilish powder made? Ha! ha! ha! That which he made to destroy others has destroyed himself. Burn, flames, burn!” she cried, waving her stick; “burn wood and stones, and burn until all is level with the dust!”
The crowd stood round her at a respectful distance listening to her ravings, and had she been the wise woman she professed to be, she would have known where to stop and beat a hasty retreat, with a great increase, among the simple people, to her reputation. But it was not to be.
Just then, borne in a lumbering carriage that this time had brayed all the ruts, up came Sir Thomas Beckley, with Mistress Anne and Master Peasegood.
The old woman caught sight of Anne Beckley as she descended hastily from the carriage, and approached her with a malicious, triumphant look.
Just then the jealous girl caught sight of the prostrate body in its wedding-dress, and seemed petrified.
“What did I say—what did I say?” cried a voice behind her, and turning she encountered Mother Goodhugh’s malignant eyes.
This was too much for Anne, who crept shuddering away, when the burning house, the kneeling figure by the dead, the whole scene seemed to swim round her, and she would have fallen but for Sir Mark, who caught her in his arms.