Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”

“What?” she cried, starting.

“I say thank God that I was suspected.”

“Why?”

“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”

“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.

“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”

“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”

“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”

He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.

“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.

Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.

End of Volume I

How Janet was clasped in the Wrong Arms

A signal made with four glow-worms can be seen by many who happen to be gazing out into the darkness of the night. Janet had seen them plainly, and, as it happened, so had the founder, who took down – and buckled on his sword, and then crept cautiously to Sir Mark’s chamber.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yes, yes,” cried Sir Mark, starting up with a cry; “is aught the matter?”

“Hush, man,” whispered the founder, “or you’ll alarm the house. One would think I had told thee that one was sotting spark to the powder-barrels in the cellar.”

“Powder-barrels in the cellar?” said Sir Mark, in a hoarse whisper.

“Of course. Where would’st have them for safety? Tut, man, it is not Guido Fawkes who has come. He is here.”

“What, Fawkes?”

“Nay, how dense thou art. Up and dress quickly. He is in the garden, I’ll wager, trying to keep tryst with my child. Dress quickly, and bring thy sword. If he be not pricked to-night as a warning my name is not Cobbe. I’ll wait thee in the passage below.”

He slipped out on to the broad landing, and waited, when, to his surprise and rage, he saw a figure hooded and cloaked, glide down the stairs and out of the front door, which creaked lightly as the girl passed through.

“Curse her!” he muttered. “I could slay her at once, but I’ll take her with him. Pest on this fellow, how long he is!”

He was completely out of patience when he heard the stairs creak, and Sir Mark crept softly down.

“Quick!” the founder cried, “or we shall be too late. Now,” he whispered, “go you and watch, sword in hand, by the bridge. You can manage without going in this time, while I search the garden. We’ll trap him to-night. How dare he come?”

The couple separated, and, each taking his apportioned part, Gil Carr’s chance of escape seemed small indeed. He was beneath Mace’s window, and in another minute the founder, sword in hand, would have been upon him, had not a faint cry from another part of the garden drawn him aside to where, dimly enough, he could see Mace’s cloak and hood beside a tall dark figure.

The founder stood watching for a few minutes, and, sooth to say, hesitating; for now it had come to a point, he was loth to injure Gil, partly from a latent liking for him, partly because of his power amongst the people of the place. But the recollection of Abel Churr’s disappearance made his heart grow stern, and, with the full determination to chastise Gil for his insolence in coming to the house after being so sternly forbidden, he cautiously advanced to where the figures were standing.

The catching of a rose-thorn in his doublet and the sharp rustle the twig gave in being released sufficed to alarm the wearer of the cloak, and she glided quickly down the garden-walk with her companion, disappearing from the founder’s gaze; and, though he followed them cautiously, they must have gone down some side-path, for he could not see them again.

“Pest on them!” he muttered. “They knew I was on the watch.”

Under this impression he crept cautiously back towards the house, expecting to see them there; but, though he waited some time, there was no sign, and he went down the garden again, which, fortunately for Gil, was sufficiently extensive to allow of the meeting in progress going on unheard.

The founder was not aware of the fact, but more than once in the darkness he was literally hunting the two figures, which kept gliding on before him, avoiding him almost by a miracle, till in sheer weariness and disgust he returned to where Sir Mark was impatiently watching near the bridge.

“Well! Hast seen them?” he said.

“Nay,” said the founder, “only once. We’ll wait here and see if they come.”

The words had scarcely left his lips before he uttered an exclamation, and ran towards the house, just in time to catch a dark figure stealing towards the door.

“Quick!” he whispered to Sir Mark, who had followed him; and, half-carrying the captive within doors, the founder tore aside the hood, exclaiming against his daughter for her wanton ways.

“What will Sir Mark think of you?” he cried angrily. “He will – Why, curse the girl; it’s Janet!”

Janet it was, who on the spur of the moment had masqueraded as her mistress, gone down the garden, and with throbbing heart thrown herself as she believed in Gil’s way. For he suddenly seized her in his arms, and, though she uttered a faint cry and escaped, she took care not to go beyond his vision, but led him a Will-o’-the-Wisp kind of dance from walk to walk, till, thinking she had been sufficiently coy, she stopped short, quite out of breath, and allowed herself to be caught.

He who captured her was sharper of eyesight, and, in spite of the cloak and hood, not for a moment deceived. He had made too much use of his eyes by night for them to play him false; and, as once more he caught the girl in his arms, he held her tightly, exclaiming —

“Why, Janet, you pretty little witch, have I caught thee at last?”

The girl no sooner felt the rough face of her captor against hers than she struggled vigorously, though in vain.

“Why, it be Mas’ Wat Kilby,” she panted.

“Wat Kilby it is, my darling,” he replied in an amorous growl. “Who did you think it was?”

“Never mind,” cried the girl; “loose me, you wicked old bear, or I’ll shriek for help. There – quick – there’s some one coming.”

It was so true that Wat Kilby relaxed his grip, all but that upon one of the girl’s wrists, and this he held as together they hurried through the garden on tiptoe, Janet, becoming more amiable, whispering her companion to go cautiously “for heaven’s sake!”

He obeyed her, and together they glided from path to path of the great bosky, tree-shadowed garden, literally hunted from place to place by the founder, until, finding that he had given up the quest, Janet freed herself from the grasp of Wat Kilby and made for the door, quite satisfied with her escapade, and only thinking now of getting safely back.

“A horrible old bear!” she muttered; and then her heart sank, for a figure she knew to be that of her master made at her, and she was caught by the wrist.

Meanwhile, Wat Kilby, who had followed at a short distance, muttering to himself, and calling Janet “a coy little craft,” “a tricksey little caravel,” and half-a-dozen more suitable nautical terms expressive of her distant ways and tempting prettiness, suddenly became aware of the danger to his leader. For the founder at the end of a few minutes came out of the house with Sir Mark, and posted himself where he would be certain to encounter Gil as he came away.

“And then there might be mischief,” growled the old sailor. “If the skipper went down, it would break little beauty’s heart; so it would if he pricked her father. This is the second time I’ve saved him through being here. Wonder whether he’ll be ungrateful enough to turn upon me now for doing a bit o’ gentle courting on my own account.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckled; “just as if a man could ever be too old to love a pretty girl. Old women are old women, and not much account; but a staunch, sturdy, seasoned man, why he’s like old oak, and makes the best o’ building wood. Now, then, where’s the skipper? It’s high time for us to be sheering off.”

He pretty well knew from former observations where to encounter Gil; and, creeping cautiously amongst the bushes, he waited his time, and rose up before him as he was making for the bridge.

“All right, skipper,” he whispered. “Breakers ahead! Hard down, and let’s get back the other way.”

Gil knew Wat too well to think that he would deceive him or be mistaken, and, placing himself under his guidance, he followed him to the back of the garden, where they leaped the fence, and at last reached the edge of the pool.

“There’s no other way to get back without being seen, skipper,” whispered Wat. “We must wade across here; and, if it gets too deep, try a swim. They’re watching to pook us by the bridge.”

“Who is watching?” whispered Gil.

“Mas’ Cobbe and that dandy Jack.”

“Let them watch!” muttered Gil, as he thought of his parting from Mace that night; and with light heart, and a feeling of readiness to encounter anything for his young love’s sake, the young man followed his companion into the cold, dark waters of the Pool.

How Sir Mark Showed His Heart

“Have I drunk some love potion?” muttered Sir Mark to himself very early the next morning, “or am I going back to my calf-love days? Here have I enjoyed more conquests than any man at the court. I came down to the Moat, and pretty Mistress Anne Beckley throws herself into my arms; then I come on here to find myself regularly taken – trapped as it were. She does what she likes with me, even as she does with that bully, Carr. I fight against it, and make myself worse. I declare I will think of her no more, but go back and swear allegiance to pretty red-haired Mistress Anne, when Mace’s eyes rise up before me, and turn me from my way. She is so calm and sweet, and seems so pure, that I am beaten.”

He walked up and down the old parlour, where Janet was bringing in the various preparations for the breakfast, coquetting about till she caught his eye and smiled and looked down, throwing out invitation after invitation, when, as she passed close to him, he caught her in his arms and kissed her, easily overcoming the girl’s faint opposition, and repeating the salute till she broke away and made off, leaving him smiling at his success.

“Why, there isn’t a woman living that I could not win,” he said to himself. “Bah! What an idiot I am. What are the kisses of such a creature as that worth compared to the slightest smile of such a girl as Mace? I am sick at heart!”

He walked up and down again, and just then Janet came back, mincing and blushing, and making a great pretence of being terribly alarmed, when, to her disgust, she found that Sir Mark was so abstracted that he paid not the slightest heed to her presence, but walked straight to the window, and stood gazing out into the garden.

Poor Janet’s face was a study as she rattled the breakfast-plates and knives, thumped dishes down upon the table, and coughed to take the visitor’s attention, but all in vain. She had rapidly recovered from the snubbing administered by her master, and was congratulating herself upon her conquest, when now, all at once, when the visitor’s last kiss was still wet upon her lips, he had turned away.

Janet tried in vain to take his attention, and ended by flouncing out of the old parlour, hot with indignant wrath.

“No,” mused Sir Mark, whose eyes were resting upon Mace, where, sweet and fresh as the flowers she was picking, she wandered down one of the garden-walks; “the old man is wrong. She is not the girl to trifle. She is not the woman a man might make his mistress. It is all folly about their meetings. Carr may play the Spanish gallant beneath her window, but if any meeting has been held it has been with that gamesome, wanton jade – Janet.”

“How beautiful she is!” he muttered, as, forgetful of Janet’s presence and the kisses he had taken, he gazed with kindling eyes at the gentle, pallid face, lit up with the consciousness of love for Gil and of his truth. For there was a happy smile on Mace’s lip that morning, and her face, that had of late been pale, was now tinged with a tender peachy bloom. There was grace in her every movement, and Mark Leslie’s heart beat fast.

“No,” he said, “she is too pure and innocent to become the mistress of any man. Curse it all, no one could be such a villain as to wrong her,” he cried, with a sudden access of morality that had not existed in his composition a few weeks back. “She is lovely enough to be the wife of any man. Suppose that simple stuff gown and white linen kerchief, cap, and cuffs were exchanged for a rich brocade, with jewels in her hair, and round that soft, sweet neck, which would tempt a man to risk his salvation that he might clasp it. Curse me, I wish I were one of the flowers she is plucking with those delicious fingers. What does it mean – has she bewitched me, or, as I say, has some love-philtre been at work?”

“Curse me, if I care what it is!” he cried at last, excitedly, as he still gazed through the casement at the unconscious girl. “She’d be a wife for a prince. Her knowledge is wonderful; her mien purity and sweetness combined; her voice low and silvery, as if music had assisted at her birth. Why not win her and wed her, and at once?”

“Humph!” he muttered. “Why not? Old Cobbe must be as rich as any Jew, whilst I am as poor as a beggar. He’d be glad enough to see her Dame Leslie – Dame Mace Leslie. How provoking that I must go so soon, when I might have been making sure my position. Never mind, it may not be too late. And, curse me, I’ll do it, for she is lovely.”

“Ah, Sir Mark, stolen glances at that jade?” said the founder, who had just entered the room unperceived, and who was watching curiously the interest taken by the young man in his daughter.

“Master Cobbe!” exclaimed Sir Mark, loudly and angrily. “Shame upon you, sir, to speak of your child like that.”

“She should behave more seemly, then,” said the founder, gruffly.

“More seemly!” cried Sir Mark. “Look at her. Did’st ever see one more sweet and pure of mien? See the candour and gentleness upon her brow and lip. You are wrong, Master Cobbe, you are wrong; my life upon it you wrong her by your suspicions of her interviews with Carr.”

“Do I?” said the founder, hotly. “Let’s have her in, then, and ask her. I grant that she is too truthful to lie.”

“Nay, nay!” cried Sir Mark, excitedly; “I would not have her insulted by such suspicions. Your daughter is a lady. It would be cruel.”

“Odds life, man,” cried the founder, half-amused by the other’s earnestness. “Whom have we here – the King’s champion?”

“The Queen’s, you should say, Master Cobbe,” replied the other. “Master Cobbe, you do not understand your daughter’s ways.”

“I understand my own,” said the founder, gruffly, “and I made her. She’s my own flesh and blood, Sir Mark. Bah! I understand her whims and follies better than you.”

“Nay!” cried Sir Mark. “You roused me up last night to come and be a witness of the truth of thy suspicions that sweet Mistress Mace held clandestine meetings with Captain Carr, though I would have wagered my life upon the suspicions being false.”

“Thou did’st not say such a word last night,” said the founder drily.

“Nay, how could I force my opinion upon you?” said Sir Mark. “I could only follow, and pray that you were wrong; and what did you show me for result, when you had, as you thought, forced me to be an unwilling witness of sweet Mistress Mace’s shame?”

“I saw no unwillingness,” said the founder, drily; “I thought thou obeyed’st it with eager joy.”

“Nay, but I was unwilling: and my alacrity was to have revenge upon the man who was searing my poor heart. And then what did you show me when you had made your capture? That wretched drab of a serving-girl.”

“Am I?” muttered Janet, who had half entered the room, and had heard his words.

“Well, I am wrong,” growled the founder; “and I am glad of it. I’d give something to know that Gil Carr’s visits had all been to see yon wench.”

“Rely upon it they were, Master Cobbe. My life upon it they were,” said Sir Mark, eagerly.

“Hah!” ejaculated the founder; “rely upon it, eh? And why, pray, Sir Mark, dost thou take so sudden an interest in my child?”

“Sudden, sir? Nay, it is not sudden. From the first moment I saw Mistress Mace – ”

“Thou loved’st her. Of course; the old story that has been poured into silly maidens’ ears from the beginning of the world. Stop, sir, listen to me,” he continued, as Sir Mark was about to speak. “I am not a learned theology man, like Master Peasegood or Father Brisdone, but, as you say, I’d wager my life that, when the serpent urged pretty little, innocent Mistress Eve to take the forbidden fruit, he gave her a lesson or two in the art of love, and upset her for the rest of her life.”

“Maybe he did,” said Sir Mark, smiling; “but the serpent was insincere, and I am no serpent.”

“How do I know that, young man?” said the founder, laying his hand upon the other’s breast. “I’ve been thinking a good deal about your visit lately, and I will tell you flat that I have kept you here as a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow?”

“Yes, to frighten off that marauding kite, Gil Carr, who was getting far too sweet upon my simple child.”

“Scarecrow! Serpent! Nay, Master Cobbe, I am neither,” cried Sir Mark, whose eyes had rested upon Mace as her father spoke, and gained such an access of passion as they had lit bee-like on the honey-scented blossom that he was ready to speak out plainly now.

“As I said before, how do I know that?”

“Because I tell you now, as a gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household, that I love Mistress Mace with all my heart.”

“And I tell thee flat again, Sir Mark, that, gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household though you be, I would sooner believe the words as coming from some simple gentleman of our parts.”

“What am I to say to you, then?” said Sir Mark, excitedly.

“Nothing at all,” replied the founder, bluntly. “Of course you love the girl – everyone does who sees her; but what of that?”

“What of that? Why, Master Cobbe, I would fain make her my dear wife.”

“Thy wife? My little Mace – my simple-hearted child, wife of a gay spark of a courtier – a knight of King James. Nonsense, man; nonsense! Trash!”

“It does take thee by surprise, no doubt,” said Sir Mark, with a little hauteur; “but it would not be the first time that a knight of my position had stooped to many a worthy yeoman’s daughter.”

“Thou’rt a modest youth,” said the founder, with a dry chuckle; “and I suppose it would be a great stoop for the hawk to come down from on high to pick up my little dove. And to keep up this style of language, good Sir Mark, I suppose thy hawk’s nest is very well feathered – thou art rich?”

“Well – no,” said Sir Mark, hesitating; “not rich; but my position warrants my assuming to take a wife from the highest in the land.”

“So you come and pick my little tit,” said the founder. “Well, and a very good taste, Sir Mark. She is, as you say, a beautiful girl, and she will have fifteen thousand pounds down on her wedding-day for portion.”

“Fifteen thousand pounds!” exclaimed Sir Mark.

“And twice as much more – perhaps three times – when I die,” said the founder, with a smile of self-satisfaction, which increased as he saw Sir Mark move his hand as he recovered from his surprise.

“Money is no object to me,” he said; “I love Mistress Mace for her worth alone.”

“And you’d marry her without a penny.”

“Ye-es, of course,” cried Sir Mark; “give me your consent.”

“Nay – nay, my lad, not I,” said the founder. “My Mace is no meet match for thee; and, as my guest, I ask you to say no foolish nonsense to the child. She has had silly notions enough put into her head by Gil Carr.”

“But that is all over now, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark. “I pray you give me your consent. I may be recalled to-day.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the founder. “You have been here too long, and I don’t know, even now, that it is all over with Gil Carr. I’m not going to break my child’s heart, and – hey-day, tit, child, what’s wrong?” he cried, as, with a face white as ashes, and her eyes dilate with horror, Mace ran quickly into the room followed by Janet.

“Gil! father,” she cried, hoarsely; and then, with a shudder, her eyes closed and her head sank upon his breast.

“Why, child, what now? Has he dared? Speak, wench,” he cried, stamping his foot, as he turned upon the trembling serving-maid, “what is it?”

“Captain Culverin, master,” she whispered, trembling – “Mas’ Wat Kilby.”

“What of them, fool?” cried the founder, excitedly.

“Drowned, master – in the Pool, and they’re bringing their bodies now ashore!”

How Wat Kilby led the Way

In his excitement the founder hastily laid Mace on the couch and rushed out, when Sir Mark was about to run to the poor girl’s side, to seize his opportunity, and press his lips to hers, but he was forestalled by Janet, who, with flashing eyes, leaped between them to cry spitefully, “Nay; and if thou must kiss aught, kiss me. Thou can’st not want to kiss two maidens in one day.”

With an angry ejaculation Sir Mark turned aside and followed the founder, who was running along the side of the Pool to where a group of his people were busy round a boat just drawn up close to the edge, with Father Brisdone and Master Peasegood in the midst, giving directions to the men who were lifting a couple of bodies towards a shed half-filled with soft dogwood charcoal.

For it had been an awkward night with Gil Carr and his companion.

They had plunged boldly into the Pool, finding it at the side come up to mid-thigh, and the bottom sandy; but before they had cautiously proceeded far, taking care that the water did not splash, it became shallower, and Gil asked old Wat in a whisper whether they were not too near the shore.

“No,” was the reply; “I know the Pool well; this shallow runs right across. I’ve seen the shoals of little fish sunning themselves here by the thousand till some evil-minded pirate of a luce has darted amongst them and scattered them like a silver fleet in the Spanish main. You follow me, skipper, and let me lead thee for once in thy life.”

“You were disobeying my orders, Wat,” said Gil, in a low whisper, as he followed his lieutenant. “What were you doing in Master Cobbe’s garden?”

“Courting. Thank God for the ability to court!” growled Wat.

“You dare to own it to my face!”

“Nay, thou’rt behind my back,” growled Wat; “but I own it all the same. Where would’st have been if I had not said to myself, ‘there’s that pretty little soul Janet longing to see me once again, and as it’s loving – night, and the skipper’s courting the mistress, faith I’ll go and court the maid?’”

“After I had forbidden it, Wat!”

“I am a man, all a man, good Captain Gilbert Carr, and I say thank God for the ability to love, and liking to taste sweet lips.”

“Thou arrant old coxcomb,” cried Gil, angrily. “Why thou art woman mad!”

“I am, thank God!” said Wat. “Hah, skipper, what would the world be without women? Bless their bright eyes, and red lips, and pretty prattling tongues – mind that hole, it’s a bit deeper – I don’t know whether I love best to be kissed or pooked by them.”