Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times. Fenn George Manville
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at the blood.
“You bean’t going to stand that, Tom Croftly,” whispered one who was bending over him. “Get up and pook him well, if you bean’t a coward.”
The foundryman gazed in Abel Churr’s foxy eyes, and shook his head.
“Nay, nay, the master’s right enough, though he did hit hard. I ought to ha’ looked after the trade.”
“What are you doing there, Abel Churr?” cried the ironfounder. “Here, Mace, lass, fetch me that ale.”
“What am I doing here, Mas’ Cobbe?” said the adder-hunter, as Mace ran off, satisfied now that her father was not hurt. “I heard the blowing up, and I knew some one would be burned, so I came. You’ll want a bit of adder’s fat for them burns, Mas’ Cobbe.”
“Out with thy trash!” cried the founder, angrily. “Here, you Tom Croftly, rise up and I’ll smite you down again.”
The great fellow began to rise slowly, with the obedience of a dog, but the parson interposed: —
“Nay, nay, Master Cobbe; thou hast done enough beating.”
“The master’s quite right,” said the foundryman; “I ought to have looked after the trade.”
“Right! Yes, you dolt!” cried Cobbe, angrily. “Have I not told you all a hundred times that every mould must be quite dry? and here you let me run the iron into one that must be half full of water.”
“I see to it all two hours ago, master,” said the foundryman; “and it was bravely dry, but I ought to have looked again, only somehow Mother Goodhugh coming put it out of my head.”
“And what did Mother Goodhugh come to you for?” said the founder, angrily.
“She come to help me to something for my little one who’s a bit weak this last month, master.”
“If you want to see Mother Goodhugh, you go to her,” cried the founder. “But for a chance, half of us might be lying stiff and cold – nay, parson, stiff and hot, roasted and scalded, and cooked by the iron and steam. There, get to work and clear up, and we must have all put to rights again. Tom Croftly, you’ve put a hundred good pounds out of my pouch through not seeing to that mould.”
The great foundryman rose up now, nodding and shaking his head, while his master turned to his guest.
“I never thought any more about you, Sir Mark,” he said. “Not hurt, I hope,” he continued, taking the flagon from Mace, and drawing up the lid with a clink; “Here, take a draught of this.”
“More frightened than hurt,” said Sir Mark, taking the flagon, bowing to Mace, and raising it to his lips.
“It was startling,” said the founder, grimly. “I say, squire, you can put that in the report to His Majesty. Ha, ha, ha!” he continued, after a pull at the ale. “If he had been here he’d have thought all the witches in Christendom had come about his ears, and here’s Mother Goodhugh again.”
There was a buzz in the little crowd, as the old woman came near to climb upon a heap of furnace-cinder, and stand pointing to the disroofed shed, mouthing and grinning maliciously.
“Cursed,” she cried; “cursed, all cursed. Bide and rest, all of you, and see how all I say will be fulfilled. Ha, ha, ha! How the wicked fall!”
“Nay, they don’t,” cried the founder, “or thou’d’st come down off that furnace-glass. Get thee home for a foul venom-spitting toad,” he added, angrily. “Come, Mace; come, Sir Mark, I can’t contain myself to-day if she begins to play Shimei and throw her stones.”
As he spoke, he took his daughter’s hand, and walked away, leaving Mother Goodhugh gesticulating, talking to the workpeople, and prophesying evil against the house of Cobbe.
Master Peasegood stood listening to her for a few moments, and then turned to the knight.
“As well try to stop a running stream, sir,” he said, quietly. “If I dam it in one place it will break out elsewhere. She must run until she’s dry:” and he followed the founder into the house.
How Gil signalled in vain
Gil Carr proved to be a sorry companion to fair, weak, amorous Mistress Anne after the encounter with Mace Cobbe; but it troubled the maiden very little, for she was in a kind of ecstasy. She had gone, half doubting, to Mother Goodhugh, and the old dame’s teachings had proved a great success. For long enough her heart had been set on bringing the captain to her feet, for there was something romantic and dashing in his career. To her he was a perfect hero of romance, and she dwelt in her privacy upon his exploits, of which she had often heard. Then her jealous torments had been unbearable; and half in despair, half in harmony with her superstitious nature, she had had resort to the wise woman, and ended by abusing her for her want of success.
The coming of Sir Mark had turned her thoughts into a different channel, and she felt ready to oust Gil Carr from her heart. Then to her dismay she found even him gradually being drawn beneath Mace’s influence; but now all had turned in her favour: Gil had wooed her, held her in his arms, and, better still, been seen in this position, while Mace was with Sir Mark.
“She may have him and welcome,” cried Anne, with her old passion for Gil reviving moment by moment, as she felt now sure of gaining the dearest object of her heart. It was to her, then, nothing that Gil seemed cold and distant when he parted from her near her father’s house, that must needs be she felt as she warmly pressed his hand; and then with cheeks flushed with hope, and joy in her heart, she hurried home full of faith in Mother Goodhugh, and ready again to seek her aid.
Gil was in a very different frame of mind as he strode away, and had not gone far before he saw before him the broad proportions of Parson Peasegood, whom he remembered now to have seen crossing one of the fields as he was walking with Mistress Anne.
“Ah, Master Peasegood,” he cried, glad of something to divert his thoughts for the time being. “Well met. Here is what I promised you.” As he spoke he took from his pocket a couple of short, clay pipes, and a little linen bag. “Use them with care, and don’t become tobacco’s slave.”
“I thank you, captain,” said the stout parson. “I will become no slave, but since his Majesty has written so much about the Indian weed it has begotten an itching in my sinful soul to know what it is like.”
“I see,” said Gil, smiling. “Well, that is Indian weed from Virginia. Shred it up fine with your knife, press it into the pipe, and then hold to it a light, and draw the smoke through thy lips, swallow it if thou canst, and then drive it forth through thy nostrils.”
“Hold there!” said the parson, with his eyes twinkling. “I’ve watched it all, my good lad. I’ve seen Master Wat Kilby smoking away like one of friend Cobbe’s furnace-chimneys, and I’ve seen Master Cobbe himself lie back in his chair and fume and dream, and I would fain have tried myself, for how can I condemn the sin with a good conscience if I do not know how evil it may be?”
“True, sir,” said Gil, laughing; “and we all have our weak points.”
“Even to playing fast and loose with ladies’ hearts, Captain Gil,” said the parson, with a peculiar look.
Gil’s eyes flashed as he turned sharply round and faced his companion, who was about to lay one of his fat hands upon his arm; but the young man felt so irritable and unfit to listen to the other’s words that he drew back, ran up the bank, and plunged at once into the forest, crashing through the undergrowth until he struck a faint track, and then winding in and out through the dark arcades for a good hour till he reached a deep ravine, down whose bottom he made his way, along the border of a little stream which trickled over the huge masses of sandstone from pool to pool, each of which held its half-score of trout ready to dart beneath the overhanging stones and under the roots of trees, to their little havens of refuge, till the interrupter of their solitude had passed.
After an hour’s walking he came to a spot where the stream widened out a little, and he gave a nod of satisfaction as, fifty yards in front, he saw the tall gaunt form of Wat Kilby