Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“She has come from the dead to fetch me,” moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. “I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now – now – have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch.”

She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace’s bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.

Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands.

“Mace,” he cried, hoarsely, “speak to me, oh, speak!”

He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh’s words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true.

As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.

He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.

It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.

She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips.

A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.

But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.

“My love is dead,” he panted. “Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?”

“Skipper,” whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure. “Skipper,” the old fellow whispered hoarsely, “we bean’t cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!”

In his strange confusion of mind, Gil was for the moment ready to accept this theory, and he gazed down at the weird figure beside him, and then at Mother Goodhugh, where she lay. Was there really truth then in witchcraft, and had this old woman the power to recall the dead?

He looked at the deathly white face, the white hair, then at the cave mouth, and the surroundings of the bright sunlit ravine, and his group of wonder-stricken men, and then his every-day common sense prevailed. It was no myth, no trick of witchcraft, but a living, breathing form. It was Mace, the dead restored, his lost love, she whom he had mourned. How it was he did not know, neither could he stop to consider while she lay helpless by his side. Mace lived again, and the mystery must rest.

“Wat,” he cried, as like a flash of lightning the thought entered his brain. “The dead – the grave – it was Janet who was killed.”

The old man shook his head, but Gil paid no heed, for a low sigh had just escaped from Mace’s lips, and, bending down, he raised her head upon his arm, swept aside her long grey hair, and kissed her stony brow.

It was enough for him that she lived – that she whom he had mourned was restored to him, and raising the kerchief slightly he gazed in silent wonderment at the fast-closed eyes.

Then he awoke to the fact that it was time for action, and not for wonder, and rousing himself he began to give orders.

“Quick, my lads,” he cried; “make up a couch of the sailcloth in yonder, and carry in yon poor old creature. Wat, have a fire lit, then cut some of the ling, and make another couch.”

Their leader’s words broke the spell that seemed to have charmed the men, who hurriedly obeyed, while Gil strove hard to restore the icy frame he held to consciousness, trembling lest the shock had been too severe, and fighting hard to keep his brain from dwelling upon the mystery.

“Dead!” whispered a voice at his ear, and a pang shot through his breast as he gazed in horror at the face resting against his heart.

“No!” he cried hoarsely. “Dog! you lie.”

“No, no, skipper: the old witch – Mother Goodhugh. She be gone.”

“Art sure?” cried Gil, with a sigh of relief.

“Sartain, skipper. She was almost gone before.”

“Heaven forgive her!” said Gil, softly. “Wat, lay her decently in the furthest part of the store till we can put her to rest. See that a couch is ready. Poor sweet! she cannot bear the light.”

As he spoke, handling her as tenderly as if she had been an infant, Gil rose up and bore the insensible girl into the store, where the state of the objects around told him plainly that she must have been a prisoner for months.

In a few minutes’ time he had her lying upon a bed of soft heather, softened with a sail and a couple of heavy cloaks for coverlids, as he sought to infuse warmth, and with it life.

As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts, Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again.

He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result.

The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his evening hymn.

As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before; but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own.

But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him sternly begone, for he muttered:

“The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the dead.”

That she might live was Gil’s prayer; that, if a victim were needed to offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he could bear.

The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him. How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure, the icy coldness seemed to increase.

As the night drew on Gil knew it was impossible to get help, and in his despair he felt that he could only wait and hope. His men, saving those who watched, contrived themselves a rough tent under the shelter of the over-hanging rock, and at last, as the fire they had made died out, Gil knelt there alone with her who had been his boyhood’s love, his manhood’s deepest passion, and, feeling that she was gliding from him once again, he flung himself by her side, clasped the icy form to his breast, and sought by his despairing kisses to win from it some token of life.

It was in vain, and the warmth he sought to impart fled from his own breast to receive back the icy chill from hers.

The night stole on, and the soft whispers from the forest around were heard from time to time, or a withered leaf fell with a noise that was striking in the stillness around. Sometimes an owl swept past the cavern’s mouth on ghostly wing, making its presence known by its strange cry. The stars glittered and blinked and shed their soft light, while from time to time a faint breeze from the sea swept through the forest and up the glade, where it sighed and seemed to sob as it appeared to enter the cavern, and then fled shivering away.

Now and again some muttered word or uneasy motion on the part of one of the men could be heard, and at stated times the gaunt form of Wat Kilby was seen to go limping past, as he changed his sentries. Then the hours slipped by, and Gil still lay there clasping the senseless form to his breast – the form of the dead he told himself again and again, till utterly worn out with grief and despair a stupor more than a sleep fell upon him, and the present passed away.

It was broad daylight, and a faint flush of the coming sunshine was reflected from the side of the ravine visible from where Gil lay, while for a few moments he could not collect his thoughts. There was a strange buoyant feeling in his breast to which it had long been a stranger, and he lay wondering what it meant, till, like a flood, the recollection of the past night came upon him, and with a groan he turned his eyes to gaze upon the sweet, dead face of her he loved; but only to start up on his elbow, trembling with dread lest he should have been deceived.

For it was no icy marble frame that he had clasped to his breast. The warm life-blood of his heart had seemed to communicate its vitality to her who lay insensible there, and sent the current of life, that month by month had grown more sluggish in its course, bounding through artery and vein once more; and, as he bent lower and lower, it was to feel Mace’s soft, warm breath upon his cheeks.

He caught her hand in his and placed it on his breast. It was icy cold, but it was not deathly; and, when in a passion of thankfulness and joy he rained his kisses on brow and lips, the clammy, rigid feeling had quite passed away.

He knew that she lived; but there was no reply to his caresses. Asleep or in a strange stupor, he could not tell which; but as he released her she lay back motionless, save that her breast heaved softly, and her breathing was regular and slow.

He spoke to her with his lips to her ear, but there was no reply; he raised her in his arms and gazed in her pale face, but still there was no response; and, trembling lest she should again slip from him, he softly laid her head upon the rough pillow and tried to think of some plan to fan the tiny spark of life into a warmer glow.

Rousing his followers, and regardless now of discovery, so that he could gain help, Gil despatched Wat Kilby to Roehurst, and others to the ship and the nearest town, the result being, that the same evening the insensible girl was carefully borne to Croftly’s cottage, near her ruined home.

How Sweet Mace awakened on her Wedding-Day

A sensation of intense heat. Then a feeling as if her head were on fire, followed by a terrible pain.

How long this lasted Mace never knew, but she lay there confused and troubled. One feeling, however, was dominant. It was very nearly the time when Gil would be beneath the window, and she must take off that wedding-dress, and send her maid away.

What a mockery it was, that dress, and how hot and clammy it seemed. She shuddered in one of her more lucid moments, as it struck her that it was like a winding-sheet, and she recalled that she had often wished herself dead.

How dark it was, and how steaming and hot. Drip, drip, drip, drip. The noise of dripping water, every drip seemed as if it struck upon her brain, and caused her suffering. Why, it rained!

Well, what matter? What was rain to Gil, who, in his frail ship, dared the greatest storms that blew?

He would come, let the weather be what it might.

Then she seemed to be overcome with sleep, to awake once more with the pain less and her head clearer.

Drip, drip, drip. The rain still falling, and she felt, in a helpless way, that she must have been to sleep again, and began to wonder how long Gil would be.

It was still intensely dark, and very close and stifling, the heat seemed to be more than she could bear.

How long would Gil be? Poor fellow, how cruelly he must have felt it to hear that she was to wed another, and – yes. Why, had not Janet taken off the wedding-dress before she lay down to sleep.

How bad her head had been. She never remembered to have suffered such pains before; and then that terrible thirst! How horribly she had dreamed, too. She recollected now; a horrible dream. First, Gil had clasped her in his arms; then it was not Gil, but Sir Mark; and even now she shuddered at the thoughts of the grim shade which had come next.

But it was a dream consequent upon the excitement she had gone through; and now she had awakened, and it must be time for Gil to be beneath her window.

She did not attempt to rise, for the strange feeling of stupor still held her, and she lay quite still, till the thought that she might have slept too long came and sent a thrill through her brain, and she started up to listen, becoming conscious of a strange, suffocating odour as of dank, hot mist.

How black it was! She could not see the window, and, with the confused sensation of one waking in the darkness, she sat gazing about and listening.

Still that ceaseless drip, drip, drip, of water, but the gurgle of the water-pipe that went down by the side of the gable was not there, and it suddenly struck her that she could not hear the familiar rushing noise of the race, where the water hurried towards the wheel.

She stretched out her hand to rise from the bed, and it touched something rough and hard, making her withdraw it, but only to stretch it forth again and find that she was touching wood and roughened stone.

“Where am I?” she said, softly; and as she spoke she made out tiny sparks of light.

“Gil’s signals!” she cried. “But why does he show them now?”

She tried to get off the bed, but no bed was there; and, after feeling about for a few minutes, she clasped her hands to her head.

“What does this terrible silence mean?” she faltered. “Where am I? Where is Gil?”

There was the slow drip of the water for answer – nothing more; and she tried to recall the past.

“I have been to sleep,” she said, “heavily asleep: and yet I don’t know.”

She tried to collect her thoughts, but seemed to grow more confused.

“I must have been very ill,” she said, at last. “And it began directly I had drunk of that water. But how long is it ago? And why is it so dark? Where am I?”

Weak and prostrated by the terrible shock she had suffered, a curious sensation of stupor overcame her once more, and she crouched down to save herself from falling, as she dropped into a feverish sleep.

When she awoke again her head was clearer, but she was terribly weak. It was dark as ever, but the suffocating feeling had gone, and she could no longer see the signal lights, but the peculiar drip, drip, of water was there.

“I must have slept again long past the time when Gil would come,” she said, with a wild feeling of yearning for him; and now again she tried to make out where she was.

“I must be mad!” she exclaimed in a despairing tone, and she started, for her voice seemed followed by a hollow whispering murmur, that sent a shudder through her frame.

Crouching down once more, she waited with eyes and ears on the strain, but still there was nothing to be seen, no sound to be heard but that ceaseless drip, drip of water that fell with a faint musical plash somewhere hard by.

But her senses were gradually growing clearer, her perceptions more vivid, and she tried to make out what was the meaning of a peculiar heavy odour.

“It is powder!” she exclaimed, with a shudder. “Can there have been a mishap while I slept?”

She paused, trying to think, and her senses grew clearer still.

“Yes, it is powder; there must have been an explosion;” and she recalled the strange, dank, pungent odour that she had often breathed when some accident had occurred.

“But when? How could the powder have fired?”

She tried hard to think it out: but her mind was still too confused, and in a helpless manner she groped her way in the direction of the dropping water, till she felt a splash upon her head, and, stooping down, plunged her hands into what seemed to be a deep, cold pool.

With the avidity of one perishing from thirst, she scooped up the water and drank again and again, each draft she took seeming to infuse new life within her veins; and, at last satisfied, she tried to master the horrible feeling of dread that was overpowering her, and to make out her position.

“Let me go back,” she said, forcing herself to the point. “I will not be alarmed at what is perhaps some trifling accident. Now, then – I went to my bedroom to be ready when Gil should come. I was feverish and thirsty, and I drank from the jug upon my table. Then I grew worse, and Janet came to try on my dress. I must have lain down and had some frightful dream.

“Yes, I remember it now: and I tried on the dress in a half-stupefied way. Nay, it must have been Janet as I lay half asleep, half mad —

“Oh, God!” she moaned, “am I half mad now?”

There was a hollow, echoing whisper, and she cowered there trembling for a time, but, recovering, she forced herself to go on.

“I was lying there ill and quite asleep, and – yes – no – yes – I have some recollection of cries – a terrible shock – and – it must be – it must be.”

She pressed her hands to her head, and rocked herself to and fro, for her reason was on the verge of being shattered, so horrible were her thoughts.

By degrees, though, she grew calmer, and she once more tried to unravel the mystery of the thick darkness around, and to carry this out she again drank from the pool. Then her hands touched stones and timber; and at last, after a long struggle, she fully realised the facts. There could be no doubt of it, for she recognised again the peculiar odour of the powder.

This had come while she slept, then, overwhelming her so suddenly that she had not awakened from the stupor in which she was plunged. The powder had exploded, and she must have fallen with the ruins down into the vault where her father had a store.

She made a brave struggle against the feelings that seemed to bear down with overwhelming violence, ready to snatch her reason away, but she was only weak, and at last, with a burst of hysterical sobbing, she sank back completely overcome. It seemed as if the drugged sleep into which she had been plunged by Mother Goodhugh’s distilments had returned, for her reason became overclouded, and then all was blank.

It was like awakening once more in the utter darkness that she became conscious of the drip, drip, of the water from the roof, as it fell into the pool that lay somewhere near her feet.

Again she had to fight her way to a knowledge of her position; and now, with her head far clearer, she became fully conscious that this was no dream. The idea of death or madness grew weaker, while that which pointed to some terrible explosion and the destruction of the place gained better hold. The odour of the exploded gunpowder grew so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but it was still there, and had she wanted further evidence she found it upon touching some of the stones, for her hands were damp and clammy with the reek that would have been black, for she was too well versed in her father’s trade not to be certain upon such a point.

There was relief even in this, for in spite of the horrors of her position, this common-sense knowledge relieved her mind of the morbid terrors that had been ready to sweep away her reason, and set her thinking of escape.

The knowledge that she was literally buried alive was almost more than she could bear at times; but, us her brain grew clearer, hope began to dawn life a soft, pale ray amidst the real and mental blackness all around.

There was no doubt now: the Pool-house had been destroyed by a terrible explosion, either of the powder in the cellar stores or by some calamity outside; and, shivering with horror, she gave way for the moment to the superstitious belief that it was a judgment upon her for not having faith that the wedding would be put off. She smiled, though, directly after, at the absurdity of the idea, and began to wonder how those she loved had fared.

Gil? Had he been near the place? And her father, what of him – was he safe? Janet, too, poor girl! She hoped that no ill had overtaken her.

Then she shuddered, for the idea had come upon her that Sir Mark might have suffered, too, and be even now alive or dead within a few yards of where she lay.

In spite of a great effort she could not keep from shrieking aloud at this idea. She crouched listening, almost expecting to hear step or word, and, in place of being ready to welcome them, she was prepared to turn and flee from what, instead of seeming like a companionship, bore the aspect to her of another frightful calamity.

Then, with her mind upon Gil, and the feeling strong that those above must be making a search for her, she felt that she ought to make some efforts to let them know her whereabouts.

She raised her voice, and cried loudly – “Gil – father – help – I am here!” But there was no reply to her wild cry, no sound of iron bar or pick removing some heap of stones, and in spite of her efforts she could do no more than sob as if her heart would break.

And now, as if to give her mental relief from the horrors that she had passed through, came long periods of sleep and dreams of happy times – bright, sunny skies, the waving trees, and flowery meads. Gil was with her, and they were fishing once more upon the lake.

It seemed to be spring-time, the time of love and hope and joy; and in fancy she saw again the waving woods, the silvery bosom of the lake dotted with broad green leaves, waving sedges, and the silver and golden chalices of the lilies starting up from the water as if held out by some pixie’s hand. There, too, were the distant hills, and the empurpled heathery waste, where the golden gorse grew so densely. The meadow with its waving grass ready for the scythe. The old garden lush with flowers and advancing fruit. Its round-topped beehives, the pleasant sheltered seats and grassy walks; and then the bright scene seemed, dream-like, to fade away in the rich soft glow of evening, and she was once more at her window gazing, but blushing and happy with expectancy, for there, out on the far green bank, shone the signal lights of four glowworms, and directly after there was a noise, and a voice so deep and clear came up, making her heart beat as it uttered her name.

Yes, there it was; he called her; and with her hands pressed to her heaving bosom she answered him back —

“Yes, yes, Gil – love – I am here.”

She started up with straining eyes, so real did it seem, and then sank back sobbing bitterly, for it was but a dream. And so was this noise of falling stones and crackling wood, with the rush as of a mass of broken fragments that had crumbled down beside her – all a dream, from which after three weary days of pain she did not care to make the effort to rouse herself. For the Pool-house had been destroyed, and she must be dead, even though Mother Goodhugh’s voice had come to her, perhaps to curse. For that was Mother Goodhugh calling to her in this dream, bidding her rise and come forth, and live again, and then all was blank.