Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times. Fenn George Manville
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thrust into a satchel hanging beneath his arm.
The old fellow straightened his back and nodded, as the captain came up to seat himself upon a stone.
“Well, skipper,” said Wat, counting the trout through the canvas of his wallet.
“Well,” said the other. “I am afraid some folk have found out the store.”
“Not they,” growled the old fellow. “How could they?”
“I went up awhile ago, and saw half-a-dozen of the men with a lady whom they had found sitting on a stone in the narrows.”
“Yes, I know,” said Wat.
“You know?”
“Yes; I saw Mother Goodhugh take her up there with her eyes shut, and leave her on the stone.”
“You saw her?”
“To be sure,” growled the old fellow; “and I watched her till the lads come and took her, and you ran up.”
“And you didn’t interfere?”
“There was nothing to interfere about, skipper, and I thought it best for her to be frightened. Keep her from going again.”
“Did she go up higher?”
“Not a step.”
“Nor Mother Goodhugh?”
“Not half a step.”
“Why did she bring her there?”
“Hocus pocus. To scare her, to make her mutter charms or something. It was the out-of-the-way-est, ugliest place the old woman knew, so she took her there.”
“Do you think that’s the case?”
“To be sure. Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised if Mother Goodhugh did get to know about it, either hunting herself or through that long, lanky, lizardly fellow, Abel Churr.”
“If Abel Churr did find out, and tell tales, I’d hang him to the yard-arm of our ship.”
“And bless the world by so doing,” said Wat, grimly. “Twenty-one,” he added, softly.
“What’s twenty-one?” said Gil, sharply.
“One-and-twenty trout,” replied Wat, who had finished his counting.
“Hang your trout!” cried Gil, impatiently.
“No; hang Abel Churr,” said Wat; “for he’s a lazy, sneaking, mischief-loving reptile. I’d like to put the rope around his neck.”
“Now go,” said Gil, sharply. “See the lads and get them together. We’ll have those stores up to-night.”
“The flour and all?”
“Everything. The sooner it is under cover the better. You can land all by the beeches at once, and to-night we’ll get it up.”
“What time shall we begin?”
“Leave the river at twelve. It will be two before we get all to the store, and we can be back soon after three.”
Wat nodded, and turned upon his heel; while Gil sat down beneath a shady tree, where he dreamily went over his position with respect to Mace, till evening was giving place to night, when he made his way back towards the foundry.
As he rose and left the stone where he had been sitting thinking so long, there was a slight rustle close at hand, such as might have been made by a snake or a lizard; but it was caused by no reptile, for a human head rose slowly from out a clump of bracken, and, after waiting patiently and listening with all the caution of some wild animal, the head was lowered again. A low rustling noise followed, the grass and ferns quivering as something passed beneath them, and the track by which the owner of the head was slowly creeping away could be traced along the side of the ravine in the dim light, as if some hare or fox were cautiously working its way.
Quite half-a-mile was passed over in this wild-animal fashion before the bushes were parted, and Abel Churr rose up with a grim satisfied smile upon his face, to walk slowly away, rubbing his hands together, and evidently in high glee with something upon his mind.
Meanwhile, after waiting till the lights in the Pool-house began to go out one by one, Gil betook himself to his old tactics with the signal-sparks, for he argued that, after the serious result of Master Cobbe’s last hindrance to his coming, the founder would try traps no more.
The night was again close and heavy, and he had no difficulty in obtaining four glow-worms, whose bright tails shed their liquid golden light, as he carefully raised them, bore them to the bank, and placed them diamond-wise, as of old. Then going cautiously to the edge of the river, he saw the bridge was in its place; crossed, listened, found all perfectly still, and went on to the open space beneath the projecting gable where Mace’s window looked out from its clustering roses.
The light was out and the casement closed, and, though he waited, she made no sign.
To have called to her or whistled would have been to give notice of his presence to the founder, who might in his choler open a window and fire upon him. He did, however, venture to throw up a few tiny pebbles, which rattled loudly upon the glass, but that was all.
There was still no reply, not that Mace had not seen the glow-worms nor heard the other signals, but she felt that she could not respond to him that night. Her heart was sore within her, and, think of what she would, there ever before her was the little scene in the lane, with Mistress Anne leaning so lovingly upon Gil, and in spite of all that had passed – words, protestations, and the like – there was always the feeling upon her that Gil must have spoken tender words to Anne Beckley, or she would never have behaved to him as she did.
Then came other, older troubles, the thoughts of Mother Goodhugh and her curses on her father’s trade – the trade that gave her many an aching heart – for living in that sylvan home it seemed so terrible and sad that all her father’s works should be given to that one aim, the making of weapons of war, and the powder that should be used therein. Great pieces of artillery cast and finished with such care – the black shiny grains of powder, and for what? Solely to crush out life, to wage war, with misery, suffering, and pain. It seemed so terrible, and strange, and wrong, that those she loved should treat this trade so lightly, and readily distribute all that could be made.
Sweet Mace sighed, for her spirits were low indeed, and the thoughts that had haunted her these many years, even from childhood, came stronger than ever. Death, shadowy death, seemed to follow all her father’s works, so that she asked herself was she not guilty in being there a participator as it were in all her father’s acts, and whether she ought not to protest against his trade, and pray him to change his forges to the furtherance of a more peaceful end?
Close upon a couple of hours passed away, during which time Mace’s heart went out to her lover, for she could not control it; but she herself sat silently sobbing in the corner of her room behind the snowy window curtains, whence she could dimly see the figure of Gil gazing up, the misty starry light of the summer night making it just visible, till tired out and heart-sick she saw it gradually melt away as he went back across the bridge to keep the appointment arranged with Wat Kilby.
How Master Peasegood entertained his Friend
Master Joseph Peasegood’s little parsonage was a humble quiet spot, and accorded well with the moderate income he received as clerk of Roehurst. There were four rooms, and the roof was thatched over the bedchamber casements, which looked like two bright eyes peering from beneath a pair of overhanging brows. There was a pretty garden, in which the parson often worked, sheltered from the lane by a thick hedge, beneath which was his favourite seat, where he sat and read, with a rustic table before him, and a cherry-tree overhead to shade him from the sun. It was a noble cherry-tree, that bore the blackest and juiciest of fruit, though the parson never ate it, the birds taking all the trouble off his hands.
Master Peasegood was standing at his door, looking very red and warm, for he had been having a verbal encounter with Mistress Hilberry, his thin acid housekeeper and general servant in one.
It began in this wise, the lady