Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“Help me to something to eat,” he said, with a cunning smile, “and then I’ll talk to thee.”

She hastened to put before him bread and milk, and eggs, and bacon, of which he freely partook, gazing at the hostess from time to time in a peculiar way, as if he had some further plan at heart.

“You don’t tell me what you’ve found,” said Mother Goodhugh. “Come, tell me, lad. You’ll be happier for having some one to share it all.”

“Found!” he cried, laughing; “I’ve learned that about Captain Culverin that he would kill me for knowing, did he find me out. Ha, ha, ha! I shall be rich now, and can help thee back more than thou hast helped me to, Mother Goodhugh. Where are the strong waters?”

“I have none,” said the woman sulkily. “It is a lie,” he cried, sharply; and, rising, he stepped to the little chimney-piece, raised an old shell, and took out a key, which he held up, laughing.

“Nay, nay, give me the key,” cried the old woman, making a dash to seize it; but with a savage thrust, more like a blow, he sent her staggering across the brick floor, to fall heavily, and lie for a few moments half stunned, while, chuckling with glee, Churr opened a corner-cupboard and took out a quaint-looking black bottle, which he carried to the table.

“Coward – thief!” cried the old woman, as she struggled up; “thou shalt not have it;” and she ran to the table, when, with a malignant look, Churr struck her heavily with the back of his hand, sending her against the wall, where she stood panting.

“Keep away, or I’ll pook thee again,” he cried, sourly.

“Drink it, if you dare,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “It is poison of my own brewing. Drink, and die then: coward, to strike me thus.”

Abel Churr’s whole aspect changed; his yellow countenance looked haggard, and his hand shook, as he stared from the old woman’s face to the bottle, and back again.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mother Goodhugh, seeing her power; “drink away, lad, drink. I’ll see thee buried beneath some tree, and come and gather toadstools from off thy grave.”

Churr set down the bottle upon the table, and, as he did so, his hands trembling visibly, Mother Goodhugh slowly sidled up, and was about to make a pounce upon the flask, when, with a cunning flash of the eye, Churr forestalled her and snatched it up, laughing heartily as he took out the cork, and smelt the contents.

“Old mother of lies,” he cried, chuckling. “I’ll drink this poison all day long. Hah!” he ejaculated, shaking the flask so that the spirit within gurgled. “Hah!”

He placed the vessel to his lips and drank savagely, while Mother Goodhugh stood glaring at him, with head stretched forward and fingers crooked like the claws of an animal about to spring.

“Here,” he cried, pouring out a little of the spirit in a cup, and holding it to the old woman; “here, I will not take it all. Drink, mother, drink.”

The old woman eagerly snatched up the cup and drained it.

“That settles it. I thought so,” he said, laughing, as he took another draught. “Poor old Mother Goodhugh will be poisoned, too. Old fool! to think thou could’st deceive me with such shallow tricks. There,” he continued, after another draught, as he thrust in the cork, and placed the flask in his breast. “Now I be going away.”

“Help me that bottle,” cried the old woman. “Don’t take away that flask. It is mine.”

“No more thine than mine,” cried Churr, turning round at her with a snarl. “Haven’t I for years helped you in getting together what you have; helped you to cheat and trick the silly, gaping fools about here with thy mummery? Speak to me again as you did, and I’ll go and tell them all of thy tricks, and jugglery, and putting water in the founder’s moulds to blow them up, and let them see thee as a woman like themselves – old idiot that you be.”

“Tell them,” cried Mother Goodhugh, furiously, as she made an effort to tear the flask from him, but only to be driven back by another furious blow; “tell them, coward, and they will not believe thee. You mock at me – do you? You call my spells foolery. We shall see how you will fare, now that I curse thee, and tell thee that thou shalt not die upon a bed.”

“Curse away, mother,” he cried. “I have the strong waters.”

“They’ll not believe thee; while, if I say the word, there are a dozen who would slay thee for injuring me, and leave thee to rot in the forest or die on a mixen.”

“Say it then,” he cried, with a malignant grin. “Let them try if they dare.”

“We shall see,” cried the old woman, stretching out one hand, and gazing fiercely at her confederate. “I do curse thee sleeping and waking. You have braved me, Abel Churr, and laughed at all my trade. Now we shall see.”

“Yes,” he said, “now we shall see;” and, putting the bottle in his breast, he turned to the door. “I fear thy threats as much as I do thy poison. Ha, ha, ha! Poison – brave poison – good poison – poison for princes. Mother, wouldn’t you like to know what I have found out about Captain Gil?”

“Nay, keep thy knowledge,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I know it, too. You will not live to enjoy it. Now, get thee gone.”

“What!” he said, jeeringly. “Shall I not share my riches with thee, my dear old partner? Shall we not join now in cheating and tricking some one better than the wretched village fools? I tell thee that Captain Gil is rich, and I have his secret: I have found his store.”

“And I tell thee, Abel Churr,” cried the old woman, “that thou hast always been a villain, a brute, and a coward to me. If thou knowest aught of Captain Gil’s secret, you will keep it, and share it with none. From this day I have neither truck nor trade with thee, so go thy way, and my curse go with thee. But take this to heart as thou goest: Captain Gil is a stern man, and if thou hast learned aught of his, and he knows it, look to thyself, or maybe thou’lt be sattled.”

Abel Churr uttered an impatient “Pish!” and left the place full of his discovery. Avoiding the cottages of the workpeople, he went round by the back of the Pool, to where, like a lawn in the wood, lay a few acres of grass cut down for hay, a part of which had been stacked, the remainder lying out to dry, for a heavy rain had checked the carrying for a day or two.

Churr looked round, listened, made sure that the field was empty, and then started and looked timidly upwards as a jay uttered a loud harsh cry and flew towards the wood. Then, crawling to the half-made stack, he climbed upon it, separated the soft, sweet-scented hay, took a draught of the spirit, corked the bottle and thrust it in the heap, and then, nestling down and drawing the hay over him, he was in a few moments fast asleep.

How Abel Churr bought a Secret

That was a bitter as well as a momentous day for Gil Carr. In the course of the morning he made his way to the Pool-house, determined to have a few words with Jeremiah Cobbe, and to talk calmly to him concerning Mace and the future. He felt, too, that a little sympathy was due to the founder after the late accident at his works.

He went straight to the house, for he had taken Mace’s words to heart, that he should go boldly to the place; but, on entering, he was only met by Janet, who came after he had walked in according to old familiar custom, and rapped loudly at an inner door.

Janet came down, looking red-faced and guilty, from one of the upper chambers.

“Why, Janet,” he said, “the house is as quiet as if all were dead. Where have you been, lass? Why, that’s thy mistress’s kerchief on thy head!”

The girl snatched it off, looking redder and more guilty than before, and hid it behind her.

“I’d wager, Janet, that thou hast been upstairs trying on thy mistress’s finery. I’ll tell her so.”

“Nay, pray, Captain Gilbert,” she cried, excitedly, “you would not make mischief between us. I did but – ”

“That’s confession enough,” said Gil, laughing. “Now, tell me where is thy master?”

“Down at the furnace-house, seeing to its being new-roofed, sir,” replied the girl.

“And thy – ” Gil stopped with beating heart, for he dared not for the moment ask the question – one that he felt he could himself answer. “One word though,” he cried, “Mistress Janet. I have something to say about that pretty face of thine.”

“Oh, Captain Carr,” said the girl, blushing. “You must not talk to me like that. What would my mistress say?”

“That I was doing right, child. Harkye, you must not be showing that pretty face and those bright eyes to men who cannot become thy sweethearts.”

The girl’s heart beat fast, and she looked up and looked down, began to plait her apron, dropped Mace’s kerchief, snatched it up, hid it behind her; then turning her head, with the pleasant flush of surprise deepening upon her neck.

“Why, Janet,” said Gil, laughing, “you look as modest as if you were being courted.”

“Oh, Captain Carr,” she simpered, “you must not talk to me like that;” and the weak girl fell a-trembling, telling herself that now her mistress had taken to go a-walking with the handsome young knight staying at the house, Captain Culverin, the bold, handsome fellow, of whom every maiden far and near had spoken as a hero, had fallen in love with her.

“Not talk to thee, child,” said Gil, laughing. “Look here, Janet, I must be plain with thee.”

He looked at her in an amused way for a moment, and then, catching one of her hands, he took her chin between his finger and thumb, and raised her face so that he could gaze straight into her humid eyes.

The tears stood beneath the lids, and in another moment she would have cast herself upon the captain’s breast had not a word or two more dispelled her illusion.

“I’ve known thee, Janet, since thou wert a little toddler, to whom I gave sugar from the Western Isles; and for thy mistress’s sake, Janet, would not have harm befall thee. Look you here, child, Master Wat Kilby hangs about here to gratify his old eyes by casting them upon thy pretty shape and face. Now, Janet, have you ever given him encouragement?”

“As if it was likely!” cried the girl, snatching herself away, and her whole aspect undergoing a transformation. “A girt, old, ugly man like that; I’d pook him if he dared touch me. Such trade as that!” and she was flinging herself out of the hall when Gil checked her by saying, sternly —

“Stop, girl! I am glad of it, for Wat Kilby is no mate for thee. Where is thy mistress?”

“Where should she be?” cried the girl, spitefully, and with flashing eyes she went on: “Out in the forest reading love-songs to Sir Mark, same as she now does every day.”

She ran off to hide her tears, but not before she had seen how cruel a stab she had given her mistress’s lover; and then, seeking her own chamber, she cried for long enough over her disappointment, and as much for sympathy for the brave young fellow whom she had, as she well knew, cut to the quick.

Gil stood biting his lips, as he thought over the girl’s words.

“No,” he cried, “I won’t believe it; Mace is too good and true.”

He went out of the house to where the founder was directing his workpeople, who were busily laying massive oaken beams across the damaged building; and as Gil came up the old man nodded, talked of ordinary things, and then excused himself on the plea of business in so marked a manner that Gil could not but see that his presence was irksome, and soon afterwards left.

He had hoped to have seen Mace, but he felt that he could not wait there now, and in a purposeless way he turned off the beaten track, meaning to throw himself down in some dry, shady spot, and try and arrange his thoughts. As it happened, fate led him straight to an opening in the forest, where two paths met – a place where the founder’s men had cut down the great oaks, leaving a clump of firs standing here and there, and beneath them was a mass of dry odorous pine-needles, the collection of many years. The old stumps left by the woodman’s axe were pretty well overgrown with moss, grass, and the various wild-flowers of the wood; and altogether a better spot than this opening in the thick forest could hardly have been found for noonday dreamings.

So thought Sir Mark, as he lay at Mace’s feet, while she, with the bright rays of sunshine darting through the thin needled foliage, to lose themselves in her glossy hair, sat on one of the old stumps, and read to him in a soft, sweet voice – one which to Gil, as he came suddenly upon them, seemed softened and attuned to fall tenderly upon the invalid’s ear.

“He is well enough by now, I’ll wager,” muttered Gil, as he walked straight up, to find that Mace rose as soon as she saw him, coloured deeply, and greeted him in a cold and injured way.

Gil Carr’s hot blood danced through his veins, and, in his haste, he forgot to recall the last time they had met, when he was seen side by side with Anne Beckley; and, attributing Mace’s constrained manner to her vexation at being surprised with Sir Mark, he turned upon that gentleman fiercely, to find his glances returned with interest. For there was a look of triumph in the visitor’s eye, and a contemptuous smile on his lip, both of which seemed to say to him, “There, you see you have no chance; I am all conquering, and the day is mine.”

Very few words passed before Mace, who feared a quarrel, said —

“Will you return with me now, Sir Mark? The sun is growing hot, and my father will be waiting.”

He bowed in his most courtly manner, and, taking her hand, helped her over a fallen tree, and again across a rift in the earth, while Gil, trembling with rage, disappointment, and mortification, stood gnawing his lip.

“And this is woman’s faith!” he cried, as he strode away. “Oh, that my ship were fit for sea, or that I had something I could do.”

He stopped, thinking for a few minutes, and then walked away straight for the ravine, partly to pass the time, partly because he felt uneasy about his store; while, sad at heart, poor Mace walked beside her companion, who sighed and never ceased to try and show her how hopelessly he was in love.

It was very unfavourable for the progress of vegetation where Gil Carr strode over the ground, trampling down the tender forest herbage, tearing aside the young growth, and leaving a harsh track through the forest, till, getting nearer to his destination, he seemed to grow more careful, and ended by waking to the fact that any one might easily trace him by his trail.

Altering his mind then, he struck down beside one of the rivulets, and followed its course pretty closely to the river – a small enough stream, but one which at times carried a considerable depth of water.

A mile along here brought him to a busy nook, where, around a goodly-sized vessel, a score of men were hard at work with hatchet and adze repairing and restoring plank and timber that had been torn and riven by the rocks and waves of a long cruise. It was only the hull, every bit of rigging having been removed to lighten her for the men at work; and seated upon a barrel, smoking, giving orders or directions, was Wat Kilby, who rose to make his report on seeing his skipper approach.

Gil did not stay long. He saw that his men were working hard, and that they were well provided for in the sheltered nook by the little river side, which he had made his vessel’s port; and at last, as the evening was coming, entered the boarded hut which formed Wat’s home for the time, partook of a rough meal with him, gave him certain orders, and turned once more towards Roehurst, meaning to go up the ravine on the way.

He was weary with much walking, and low-spirited. What had been a pleasant sojourn ashore had become wearisome and full of pain, due, he felt, rightly or wrongly, to the coming of Sir Mark, the recollection of whom made his brows knit and his hands involuntarily clench.

These thoughts stayed him in his course, and more than once he sat down thinking whether it would not be better to get away to one of the ports, and charter a small vessel for a trip, so as to occupy his mind.

“And leave the field open to the enemy?” he cried, springing up. “Nay, that’s not like Gil Carr.”

With sundry plans in his head, then, he now went straight on, climbing up the rugged sides of the ravine, heedless of the growing darkness, and at last reaching the entrance to his store.

His intention had been to glance at it, and make sure that it was all right, and then to go on to Roehurst for the night, hoping to gain an interview with Mace, and take her to task for her change, when he had spoken of himself.

But as he reached the entrance his heart stood still, for his worst fears were confirmed. The retreat that he had taken such pains to keep a secret, and had shrouded with enough mystery to make the goings and comings of his men an object, not of curiosity amongst the simple superstitious people, but alarm, had been discovered, and by some one full enough of enterprise and daring to make his way inside.

The first thing that struck his attention was a tall, stout fir-pole, which had evidently been used as a lever to dislodge the stone that stopped the entrance, and on going close up and peering in he could see a dim light burning upon one of the barrels, while a figure was down upon its knees hard at work opening a case.

“The pitiful thief!” said Gil, as a movement on the intruder’s part let the light fall upon his face. “As I thought – Abel Churr. Well, Master Churr,” he muttered, as a hard look came over his face, “you have discovered a secret that should be paid for – with death – the due meed awarded to a thief.”

He drew his long, thin sword, and, holding it before him, stepped cautiously forward; but altering his mind, he thrust it back into the sheath with an impatient ejaculation, and once more peered over the stones between them at where the marauder was busily prising open the case.

“The fool!” muttered Gil; “if that candle burned down he would be blown to pieces. What cursed luck that he should have found us out.”

He took another step forward cautiously, to avoid being heard, lest Churr should dash by and escape; but, once inside, the captain’s person blocked the way, and stepping boldly forward, Churr started up with a shrill cry, like some beast when tracked to its lair.

“You dog!” cried Gil, as he dashed at him, receiving, as he did so, a heavy blow from the iron bar with which the adder-hunter had been wrenching open the case.

He staggered back, and Churr was springing over him, but he was too late, for, recovering himself, Gil seized him tightly, and a fierce struggle began.

Churr had sprung forward so sharply that Gil Carr was driven to the narrow platform beyond the stone, and the struggle took place outside the cave. But it was not of long duration, for Churr was no match for the well-built, muscular young man, who, after wrestling with him here and there, ended by wrenching from him the iron bar, and they fell heavily on the narrow shelf of rock, from which, if either slipped, he would go down some forty feet perpendicular, and then crash through the bushes into the dark bed of the rivulet far below.

“What – what are you going to do?” panted Churr at last, as he was held half over the side.

“To kill you, as I would any other thieving rat or vermin who came to steal. But tell me first who knows of this place beside you?”

“No one, not a soul,” howled Churr. Then, feeling that he had made a mistake, he added hastily, “Only a few trusty friends.”

“The first words were the truth,” said Gil, sharply, as his hand sought his belt; “the last were added to make me afraid to kill you, lest others should come and be aware of the deed. Abel Churr, you have learned a secret, and you must have known the risk.”

“But I’ll never tell, and I’ll never come again. I’ll never help it to a soul, or say a word about the trade.”

“Never,” said Gil in a low stern voice.

It was quite dark now, and the gloom of the ravine seemed heavier than ever as Abel Churr, who felt that his end was near, wrenched himself slightly round to gaze shudderingly into the depths below; and then as he fancied that he saw the flash of a knife in Gil’s disengaged hand, while the other held him tightly by the belt, he uttered a loud shriek, that was repeated from the rock in front, to die off in whispers as if the man condemned to death were already on his way to the unknown shore, and his voice could be heard farther and farther as he onward sped.

How Tom Croftly had a Holiday

The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly’s importunities and gave him a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly enjoy it they both got up early.

Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs and snails.

It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork.

“Hallo, Tom, you here?” said the founder, looking eastward, where the golden orange flecks told of the coming sun.

“Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave girt bed made; but who’s to work wi’ such a tool as this?” and he held up the fork.

“You, if you’ve any sense in your head,” growled the founder, who was sleepy yet.

“I’ve got some sense in my head,” said Tom Croftly; “but no man can’t work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It breaks a man’s back. A fork ought to have three tines in it.”

“And I say it ought to have four,” said the founder, tartly. “Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it.”

“Ay, and ’most breaks a man’s back,” grumbled Tom Croftly. “Falls through? Why, of course it does. That’s nat’ral, and as it should. It’s the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi’ a shovel. ’Taint like having a holiday to work wi’ a tool like that.”

“There, get on,” said the founder, “and don’t grumble. Lend me the fork.”

He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, “There, you can’t do better than that.”

“And where’s your crumbs to finish off with at the top?” grumbled Tom Croftly. “We shan’t get much of a cucumber-bed, you’ll see.”

“Look here, Tom Croftly, if you’re going to grumble like this, we’ll go back to the foundry-work.”

“Nay, nay, master.”

“Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said ‘yes,’ and here it is.”

“And my garden wanted it badly, master.”

“Yes; but I’m not going to holiday keep with a grumbler.”

“I’ll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!”

The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder’s man, as he lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.

“Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life,” said the founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square marked out by four strong pegs.

“I dunno about that, master,” said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.

“Why, Tom, Tom, thou’rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and sprites, and witches?” said the founder, arranging the stable manure carefully with the fork.

“Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don’t believe in ’em, but it was curus that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother Goodhugh had been.”

“Curious if it hadn’t,” cried the founder, patting down his work. “If Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had – as I ought to have done – there would have been no explosion.”

“Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould.”

“And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you’re six feet one high.”

“Six foot two and a half, master,” said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.

“And as strong as a horse.”

“Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day.”

“And yet you’re afraid of that poor half-daft old woman.”

“Nay, nay, master; not afeard,” said Tom, stoutly. “I never felt afeard o’ Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything to make her curse one.”

“Curses don’t do any harm, Tom, my lad,” said the founder.

“I hope they don’t, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal.”