In spite of her brave true heart, Mace felt a chill strike through her as the old woman walked hurriedly away, thumping her crutch-stick on the ground, and stopping to turn and shake it threateningly at the Pool-house—even stopping by the gate to spit towards the door before she went on muttering and gesticulating, with her grey hood thrown back on her shoulders, her linen cap in her hand, and her hair streaming in the soft summer breeze, which came to the little crowd standing gazing after her as she went.
“Poor old girl!” cried the founder, with his face lighting up once more. “Come, lads, the storm’s over; back to work.”
The men looked at one another, and walked away with shaking head and pursed-up lip, while the women stole off in silence, to gather together at one of the cottages and talk over the wise woman’s words.
“Poor souls!” cried the founder, cheerily; “they believe her to the bottom of their hearts. Why, hey, here’s Master Peasegood, to bear me out. I say, Master Peasegood, that if an old and ugly woman chooses to set up for a witch, and only curses hard enough, she’ll find plenty to believe in her.”
“Ay, and as you say, Master Cobbe, if she only curse hard enough, and only prophesy, like David danced, with all his might, some of the stones are sure to hit the mark. Your servant, sir; Mace, my pretty flower, how is it with you? Bless you, my child, bless you!”
This in a thick unctuous voice, as the speaker, an enormously fat, heavy man, in rather shabby clerical habiliments, rolled up to the group, and, taking Mace in his arms, kissed her roundly on both her cheeks, while, to Sir Mark’s hot indignation and surprise, the maiden laid her hands upon the parson’s broad breast, and kissed him in return.
“I was coming to pay my respects to you—Sir Mark Leslie, I believe.”
The knight bowed stiffly, with his countenance full of displeasure.
“Sir Thomas Beckley told me of your illness, and begged me to call,” continued Master Peasegood, whose heavy cheeks wabbled as he spoke. “Aha, that’s one of the privileges of being an old, an ugly, and a horribly fat man. I may kiss my pretty little Mace here when and where I will. Master Cobbe,” he continued, as he held and patted the maiden’s soft white little hand, “if you do not place the key in these fingers, and bid our little blossom go fetch me a tankard of the coolest, brownest, beadiest ale in that rock-hewn cellar of thine, this man-mountain will lie down in the shade and faint. Zooks, gentlemen, but the sun is hot.”
He took off his broad-brimmed soft hat, and wiped his brow as he looked at both in turn, while Mace went off for the ale.