“Silence,” cried Gil. “Let her speak.”
“Who says I’m daft?” cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. “I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store.”
“She thinks it is a year ago,” muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.
“Yes, yes. I’ve had my revenge,” muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, “and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!”
“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Gil hoarsely, “did you fire the Pool-house?”
“Yes, yes, yes; the powder,” gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. “I did it well; and now I’ll forgive him. I’ll curse Mas’ Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands—my hair, but never mind; I’ve had revenge.”
“Then it was you who fired the powder there—that dreadful night,” cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.
“Yes, I did it,” chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain—“but Sweet Mace—poor Sweet Mace—they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out—yes, it was you—and laid her—dead upon the ground. Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit—yes, white spirit—and she comes to see me—no: does she?—I can’t think—it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I’ve wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad.”
The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned piteously; “she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps—some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There—there—look, look!” cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil’s leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. “Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!”