Chapter XIII: Part 13

"How lovely! how lovely!" And again, "How beautiful you look!" The reflection in the mirror died away, for her eyes closed. She could not bear to look upon it longer, and, now that her eyes were shut, once more came the phantoms of her troubled, reeling brain. Gil, Sir Mark, the hideous shape of death, all had her clasped in their arms in turn. She struggled in spirit, but her body was motionless; the brain was in full action, but muscle and nerve were inert. She could only lie there and suffer tortures so horrible that she felt that if they lasted she must go mad.

Then again she was gazing at herself in the great mirror, gay with satin and lace, and once more there was the round of horrors.

How long was it to last?

There was a lucid moment when she knew that she was seriously ill. Some terrible ailment had seized her, and then came the recollection of the water like a flash through her reeling brain.

Was it poison?

"How beautiful! It is lovely, lovely, lovely!" and there was the vision again of the satin gown.

"I must be going mad," she thought; "but Janet must not see. I will be firm and wait. I must send her away soon. Let me see," she thought. "Gil will be here at midnight. I am not too ill to go with him, and, when once away in peace, I shall soon be well. How absurd to think of poison. How beautiful I look. This fever seems to have given me my colour once again. Poor fool! Why should I masquerade like this, when I am never to wear these things? It is time I put them off and sent her away. My poor head, my poor head! how it burns and throbs and reels with pain."

Then again, the wedding with Gil, and his hot kisses burning her face. No, it was Sir Mark; and then again the chilly horror of being seized by those arms and pressed nearer, nearer, to that hideous framework of ghastly bones, while the cold grinning teeth rested against her lips, and in place of kisses began to tear and rend her. Now it was her fair young cheek, now her soft bosom; and at every contact it was the burning pain of ice that froze with a touch like heated iron. She strove to struggle, to call for help, but it was in vain. The hideous teeth were now meeting in her forehead, and a pang of agony ran through her brain.

"Gil, Gil, help me, help!" she tried to say; and then there was the clash of arms, the firing of guns, the shouts of contending men--cries, oaths, shrieks, wails. What was it? Was she really mad? Had her sufferings robbed her of reason, or was she striving to rush from the room down the broad old staircase when that hideous rush of fire, and that crash of thunder, came to tear her away? Was it madness, a dream, or was it--. Her reeling senses seemed to leave her as she asked herself the final question, when she was stricken down, even as her lips uttered the question.

Was it death?

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

HOW GIL BROUGHT THE BRIDE FROM THE BURNING HOUSE.

For a few moments Gil's men and the followers of Sir Mark stood appalled by the effects of the explosion. Fully one-half had been prostrated by the terrible blast that had swept the beautiful old garden, cutting down tree and shrub as level as if with a knife. Some of the men lay groaning where they had been cast, burned, wounded, and disfigured; while those who were uninjured, of whichever side, seemed as if by mutual consent to consider their petty strife at an end in the face of so awful a catastrophe, and, sheathing their swords, stood looking at the ruined house before them, confused and unmanned by the shock.

For to a man the explosion had so shaken them that a curious feeling of helplessness had succeeded to the energy they had displayed, and no one moved even to render assistance to the wounded.

Suddenly a loud voice shouted--

"Run, my lads, run! There will be another explosion directly. It is a plot to blow up the place."

This seemed to break the spell, and there was a rush of feet towards the closed bridge, when the founder's voice arose.

"No, no," he cried; "there can be no other explosion. It was my store; I thought it safe; the powder has all--"

He stopped speaking, and reeled and nearly fell to the earth, for he had received a blow from a falling beam; but he recovered himself sufficiently to point towards the house in an appealing way that no one understood.

"Halt there!" cried Sir Mark, who now rose to his feet, from where he had been thrown, "follow me some of you, quick, before it is too late."

He might well add these last words, for, as the smoke rose like a heavy pall above the ruined house, it could be seen that, with the exception of a couple of the gables near where they stood, the place was shattered and nearly razed to the ground. There was a huge hole here, another cavernous rent there, and, piled above them, beams and rafters, blackened, smoking, and dotted with glowing embers, which began to sparkle as the portion of the house now standing burned furiously.

There was no need for light, for wood had entered largely into the construction of the building, and the powder seemed to have prepared everything to burn. With a rush great tongues of fire leaped from the embayment of the fine old parlour, whose diamond panes flew crackling out, while the lead in which they were set trickled down in a silvery stream. The whole of the parlour glowed in a few seconds like a furnace, and directly after the fire sprang forth from the two rooms above, and then again from the little window in the pointed gable, which was soon being licked from gutter to the copper vane on its summit by the orange and golden flames.

The rooms on either side rapidly followed, and soon the two gables that had remained after the explosion seemed wrapped in fire, which lit up the unscathed trees, and turned the lake as if into a pool of blood.

As Sir Mark sprang forward, a dozen men ran to his side--Gil's men, every one of them, for his own stood aloof; but as they went close up a rush of flame and smoke drove them back, scathing and scorching them so that it was impossible to face it.

"A ladder--a ladder--fetch a ladder!" cried Sir Mark.

The words were hardly uttered, before a couple of men picked up that which Wat Kilby had used as a weapon, and to which he still tightly clung, as he lay at some little distance, where he had been cast.

This was dragged from him, and a couple of men reared it, by Sir Mark's directions, against the burning casement of Mace's room.

Seizing the rounds Sir Mark climbed up, and reached the room, now all aglow, but as he felt the scorching flames, which were already burning the top of the short ladder, he rapidly descended and stood wringing his hands, while Gil's men seized poles, fetched buckets from a shed, and began to obtain water from the race.

"It is impossible! My poor girl! What shall I do?" moaned Sir Mark.

Then to the men nearest he shouted, his voice sounding shrill and strange amidst the roar and flutter of the flames, "There is a lady in yonder--a hundred golden pounds to the man who fetches her out."

There was a murmur amongst the little crowd, but no one stirred, and he repeated his offer.

"Are you men to stand there and see her burned to death?" he cried. "Two hundred pounds to the man who saves Mistress Mace Cobbe."

"Damn your two hundred pound," cried a hoarse voice, as a great gaunt blackened figure crawled into the glow. "Up the ladder, my lads, there be two women there."

"Old Wat," cried the men, in a loud chorus of excitement, as the weird looking figure stretched out its hands, and seemed to grope blindly towards the ladder, but rolled down with a groan, utterly unable to make the attempt, having received some injury to the hip.

"Is there no man here who will try to save the helpless women?" cried Sir Mark. "That's right, my brave lad," he said, as one of Gil's men took a hatchet from his belt and ran up the burning ladder.

He seemed to beat back the flames with his hands, and bravely climbed in at the window, a roar of cheers following him, as he regularly leaped into the burning room. Then there was a shower of sparks, a rush of flame, and, to the horror of all present, the brave fellow was seen to literally roll out of the parlour casement, blackened and burned, having fallen at once through the floor to the room below.

"No one can be there and live," he gasped. "Water, boys, water! I am burning: throw me in," he shrieked; and one of his companions deluged him with the contents of a bucket.

"It is all over. How horrible--how horrible!" groaned Sir Mark. "Quick lads, water, dash it in. Who is that?"

He started back almost in fear, as he saw Gil stride forward, pick up the fallen axe, and seize the ladder to drag it from the burning casement.

As he did so he staggered, for he was quite giddy yet from the blow he had received when the explosion cast him some twenty feet away; but he recovered directly, and, planting the ladder against the next window, he seemed to regain his strength, and dashed up axe in hand.

There was a lusty cheer at this, and Sir Mark gnashed his teeth, as he wondered why he had not thought of going up to the next window, where the flames seemed to burn less furiously, though the next instant they were pouring out from the shattered window beneath, and making the long trailing strands of roses and woodbine writhe and twine as if in agony, as the flames licked them up, and then seemed to wreathe themselves around the figure of Gilbert Carr.

With two vigorous blows, he dashed in the oaken divisions of the window, and as he struck the flames leaped into his face, wrapping round him; but he seemed to heed them not, for blow after blow fell, till he cleared the way, and then, leaving the burning ladder, he climbed right in, and a dead silence fell upon all present as he disappeared amidst the flames and smoke, which came rolling out more furiously than ever.

No man spoke for a while, as the fire crackled, and the tiles on the old house slipped, and fell rattling down. The copper vane suddenly began to burn in the intense heat with a vivid blue light like some firework. The ladder, which had stood out dark against the flaming windows, gradually burned till rounds and sides were so much glowing charcoal, and a dull sense of horror chilled to inaction the spectators of the gallant deed.

Suddenly Wat Kilby raised himself up on his knees, supporting his injured body with one hand, and lifting the other to wave above his head.

"His father's son!" he yelled, as the fire glistened in his wild eyes and blackened hairless face, for his grisly beard was scorched away--"his father's son--a Carr!--a Carr!--Culverin for ever! Fetch him out brave boys--a rescue--a rescue! Forward boys--Board!"

As he yelled out these words, they seemed to electrify his followers, and with a shout the crew dashed to the burning house as if about to plunge in.

There was no hesitation now, not a man flinched, but, leaping in through the lower burning window, the ladder fell in so many glowing fragments amidst the feet of the foremost, who disappeared for a few brief moments, and then re-appeared with Gil Carr, bearing out through the flames a figure that seemed to be clad in gold, so glistening and yellow seemed the satin dress, with its stomacher of pearls.

The men drew back from him as Gil bore his burden on towards what had once been the shady lawn of the garden, and laid it reverently down, tearing a handkerchief from his breast to cover the ghastly mutilation of the face, and then crushing out as he knelt the smouldering flames and sparks that had attacked the wedding-dress.

"Mace, my darling!" cried Sir Mark, passionately.

"Back!" cried Gil, fiercely; "touch her not, upon your life."

Sir Mark shrank away, appalled by the fierce gaze of the man who knelt there upon one knee, reverently arranging the garments round the dead, whom he had found comparatively untouched by the flames, but pinioned and crushed by a fallen beam. He heeded not his own sufferings, though those who stood by could see that the doublet he wore was falling from his breast in pieces; that the leather of his belt and boots had crumpled up in the intense heat; and that his hands and face were horribly scorched.

"Let me see her, let me see her," cried a harsh voice, and the little crowd parted to let Wat Kilby crawl forward. "Is it Janet? Tell me, brave boys, is it my lass? The cursed powder has taken away my sight. Tell me, brave boys, is it my little, bright, tricksy Janet?"

"No, no, no," moaned a piteous voice; "it is my child--my darling child. Oh, Mace, Mace, joy of my poor old heart, has it come to this?"

There was so piteous an appeal in these words--so intense, so terrible was the suffering they betokened--that the men drew back as the founder staggered to the side of the dead, let himself fall upon his knees, and there crouched with his hands clasped together in his lap, gazing helplessly down.

The remains of the Pool-house burned brightly still; the flames licked up rafter and beam; the red-hot tiles cracked and splintered and fell with a crash from time to time, sending up a whirlwind of sparks; and the blaze that lit up the Pool and forest far and near made plain, as if seen by day, the piteous group on the old lawn. But no one heeded the fire now, or dreamed of there being danger of the flying embers setting light to one or other of the powder sheds. Every thought was turned to the bereaved father; and as Sir Mark stood there, among his followers and the workpeople, one of the few unscathed by the fire, he found himself, bridegroom-elect although he had been, a person apparently of very secondary import, for next to Jeremiah Cobbe men and women gazed upon Gil Carr.

Just then the founder raised one of his trembling hands and stretched it out to reach the kerchief Gil had so lovingly placed over the mutilated face, but the latter stayed him.

"No, no," he said in a low voice, "for your own sake no. Let us remember our darling as she was."

The old man's hand closed upon the scorched palm, and then he laid the other upon it and held it, gazing piteously in the other's face.

"Right, Gil," he said in a cracked voice. "Right! Let us remember _our_ darling as she was."

There was a pause here, and a beam fell in the burning house, causing a whirlwind of sparks to rise.

"Forgive me, Gil," continued the founder. "Even if this hand did slay Abel Churr, the fire has purged it. Brave boy--brave boy! I was very hard on both!"

"Over her who lies here I swear I am innocent of that man's blood," said Gil softly; and then in a lower tone, "My darling--my darling--you believed my words."

"And so do I, Gil," cried the old man piteously. "Oh, my child, my child! God in heaven, how have I sinned that I should suffer this?"

A shudder ran through the crowd, so wild and piercing suddenly rose the old man's upbraiding cry, while like an echo to his words came a shrill, harsh voice from the direction of the ruins, where, on a heap of smouldering wood and stones, stood Mother Goodhugh, like a black silhouette against the flames.

"Woe to the wicked house! Woe to the maker of deadly grains! Woe to the caster of cannon and culverin and gun!"

There was a dead silence, and then, amidst the crackling of the blazing wood and the fluttering of the flames, rose once more the voice of Mother Goodhugh, as she gesticulated and waved her stick.

"What did I say? What did I foretell against this evil man and his house? Did I not cry, it was cursed, and that the curse would fall? Look at the wicked place! And now once more I raise up my voice, and tell thee that a curse will fall on him or her who touches stick or stone to try and raise it up again. Let it burn--let it be level with the earth, and become a refuge for snakes and toads and unclean things. Let no man try to build it up, or be he cursed as well."

"Silence, hag!" cried Sir Mark passionately.

"Nay," she cried, "I will not hold my peace. Go thou, young man, and rejoice that thou art saved from to-morrow--saved from wedding to the daughter of one whom I had cursed. Who doubts the power of Mother Goodhugh now? Speak, Jeremiah Cobbe, did I not foretell the ruin of thy house?"

"My poor child. My little love--where are thy pretty sayings now, where thy prattling ways? Little Mace--pretty little Mace! How old is she to-day, mother?" said the founder, gazing at vacancy, with a smile, for the old woman's words had not reached his ears. "Six, eh? six. Why what a great age for my darling to have grown. Gil, my boy, God bless thee, lad! You have grown stout and well again, and I look to thee to protect my little one from harm. There, you must love her; take thy little sister; keep her from the pool, and mind her pretty little feet don't stray near the water side. Hey, boy, did'st ever see such bonny little feet, so white and pink, and pretty, it seems a sin to put them into leather shoes. Be good to her, my brave stout lad, and some day-- who knows?--thou may'st perhaps like to make her thy own little wife. If thou dost, ha, ha, ha! she shall not disgrace thee, boy, for she shall be a very lady in her way."

He looked round with a vacant smile, and nodded pleasantly at Gil.

"Cursed! I tell thee--cursed!" cried Mother Goodhugh. "It has been a long time coming, but it has come at length. Look how it smokes and burns. Didst hear the noise the devilish powder made? Ha! ha! ha! That which he made to destroy others has destroyed himself. Burn, flames, burn!" she cried, waving her stick; "burn wood and stones, and burn until all is level with the dust!"

The crowd stood round her at a respectful distance listening to her ravings, and had she been the wise woman she professed to be, she would have known where to stop and beat a hasty retreat, with a great increase, among the simple people, to her reputation. But it was not to be.

Just then, borne in a lumbering carriage that this time had brayed all the ruts, up came Sir Thomas Beckley, with Mistress Anne and Master Peasegood.

The old woman caught sight of Anne Beckley as she descended hastily from the carriage, and approached her with a malicious, triumphant look.

Just then the jealous girl caught sight of the prostrate body in its wedding-dress, and seemed petrified.

"What did I say--what did I say?" cried a voice behind her, and turning she encountered Mother Goodhugh's malignant eyes.

This was too much for Anne, who crept shuddering away, when the burning house, the kneeling figure by the dead, the whole scene seemed to swim round her, and she would have fallen but for Sir Mark, who caught her in his arms.

"Oh, it is too dreadful--too dreadful!" she murmured, and closed her eyes.

"Master Peasegood, will you take him to your house?" said Gil. "Poor soul! the shock has been too heavy for his brain."

"Eh! Go with Master Peasegood? Yes," said the founder smiling. "Gil, brave lad, you'll see that my darling does not come to harm."

Gil bowed his head, and as the founder rose from his knees smiling and ready to accompany the parson, down whose cheeks the great tears coursed, Mother Goodhugh climbed on a heap of stones, waving her hands wildly as she saw her enemy pass.

"Woe to him; woe to his house!" she shrieked excitedly.

"Silence that vile witch's mouth," cried Sir Thomas.

"A witch, a witch!" cried a voice; and Wat Kilby, who had dragged himself up once more upon his hands and knees, waved one hand again towards the burning ruins, which had just burst forth into fiercer flames.

"A witch--a witch!" he yelled, "away with her, and let her burn."

A shout rose from Sir Mark's followers, and, with a rush, they surrounded the old woman, who struck at them with her stick as she was seized. Then, in spite of her shrieks and appeals, she was borne towards the burning ruins.

The burning of a witch was so congenial an occupation, that, failing a great triumph over Gil Carr's crew, the followers of Sir Mark took to their task with such gusto that in another minute Mother Goodhugh would have been hurled into the flames.

It was in Anne Beckley's power to save her by a quick appeal to Sir Mark; but she hesitated, for the thought flashed across her mind that, Mother Goodhugh dead, she would carry with her many secrets, and, above all, the greatest one, of how this terrible affair had been brought about. It might have been accident; but she had her doubts.

Sir Thomas looked on in puzzled guise. He knew he ought to do or say something, but without his clerk he was generally at sea, while Master Peasegood, who might have given him good advice, had gone off, leading the stricken father to his home.

It was Gil who interfered, and none too soon.

Springing up from where he had knelt on one knee, he threw himself before the would-be executioners.

"Shame on you!" he cried; and the men stopped, short, while Mother Goodhugh struggled from them to throw herself on the earth and cling to Gil's knees.

"Save, oh, save me!" she shrieked; "I cannot die."

"What are you, that you interfere?" cried one of the men.

"A witch--a witch--to the flames," cried Wat Kilby, in his harsh voice.

"Silence, old dog!" roared Gil.

"In with her, lads!" cried the first of the men, seizing Mother Goodhugh by the shoulder; but, as she shrieked with horror, the man went down from a blow given by Gil's clenched hand, which the next moment sought his sword, to find it gone.

With a shout, the others closed round Gil, but this roused his own followers, who ran up and dragged Mother Goodhugh away. They faced Sir Mark's men, and, weapons being drawn, there was an imminent risk of a renewal of the fight, when Sir Thomas's fat voice was heard, sounding weak and tremulous, for the baronet was terribly alarmed.

"Stop! my good men," he cried; "you must not burn her until she has been tried. A woman suspected of witchcraft must--er--er--must--er--er--be taken before--er--er--the nearest justice of the peace--er--er--er--that is me, you see, and--"

"Escape without a word," whispered Gil to the old woman. "I'll cover your flight."

"Bless thee for--"

"Keep thy blessings and thy curses," said Gil, sternly. "Go."

Mother Goodhugh shrank trembling away, the village people and the workers opening to let her pass, while, when Sir Mark's men advanced to try and retake her, they were met by the swords of Gil's crew.

"Don't; pray don't let them fight," whispered Anne in agony.

"Is this a seemly time for a fresh encounter, Sir Mark?" said Gil.

"Not if you give yourself up," was the reply. "I give up--to you?" said Gil. "Let who interferes with me and my men do so at his peril. This way, my lads," he cried. "There is a cloak behind yon shed. It was meant for thee, sweet," he whispered, as he bent down over the dead, "to keep thee from the cold;" and upon its being brought, the lifeless figure, in its wedding-dress, was reverently lifted and borne into Tom Croftly's house.

Sir Mark concluded to engage in no further encounter that night, telling himself that he could easily take Gil another time. So, calling off his men, he allowed him to superintend the removing of the lifeless girl, Anne Beckley now following trembling into the cottage, awe-stricken as she was at being in the presence of death, while, when at last day broke and the bright sun rose, it was upon a heap of ashes smouldering and smoking still. Where the pleasant old garden had been alive with verdure, teeming fruit-trees, and autumn flowers, was a space of trampled blackened soil, while for fifty yards round the trees had been scorched and stripped not only of their leaves, but of every minor twig and spray.

Sir Mark scowled angrily again and again at Gil, and his men gave the sailors many a menacing look, as they took upon themselves the duty of keeping watch by the house where the poor girl lay.

It was Gil's men, too, who tried to search the ashes of the Gabled House for the remains of poor Janet, the only other occupant of the building; but the task was given up, on its being found that the intense heat had fused metal, and reduced the stones so that they crumbled at the touch.

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

HOW MASTER PEASEGOOD PREACHED WISDOM.

Gil's ship, with Father Brisdone on board, after waiting in vain for its freight, grounded as the tide went down. The old priest, who had been on deck, leaning over the bulwarks gazing up the river for the boat that did not come, had been startled by a great flash of light which suddenly shot up above the hills, and then by a heavy clap as of thunder, followed shortly by a fierce glow in the sky, all of which told him only too plainly of some terrible catastrophe at the powder-works.

He was not surprised, then, that the boat did not arrive till the long, weary night had passed away, and the bright sun shone once more upon the dancing waters, but even then noon was fast approaching before there was the measured dip of oars, and the boat came round a wooded point.

He looked earnestly for Mace, but, not seeing her, he sighed.

"My eyes fail me a good deal now," he said; and, shading them with his hand, he stood watching till, as the boat neared the ship, he could see that she had four men lying in the stern sheets, and he concluded that there had been an encounter.

"A bad augur," he said, sadly; "bloodshed on the eve of a wedding. Poor boy though, there seems no chance of a wedding, for he has not won his love."

His hands trembled as he stood at the gangway, while the boat was run up to the side and Gil painfully climbed on board.

"Failed, my son?" cried Father Brisdone and here he stopped short as he saw the terrible look of anguish in the young man's eyes.

"Help my poor lads, father," he said sadly. "They have been lying hurt these many hours."

One by one four injured men were hoisted on board, and laid beneath the shelter of a sail, while Gil and the father attended to their injuries with rough but sensible surgery. There was a severe sword-wound and plenty of terrible burns, but the worst sufferer was poor Wat Kilby, whose face was blackened by the explosion, hair and beard burned off, and his thigh-bone broken.

He was in a high fever and wandering when slung on board, turning angrily upon those who had helped him.

"Don't I tell you the poor lass is burning?" he cried. "This is your doing, skipper," he moaned. "You were always against it, and now you leave the poor lass to burn, and keep me here. Father, this is the boy I watched over and brought up, and taught. This be the way he treats me now I am in trouble."

It was with great difficulty that they could keep the poor old fellow sufficiently quiet to enable them to perform the necessary bandaging, but at last he sank into the heavy sleep of exhaustion; and Gil, having satisfied himself that his injured men were cared for, saw to his own burns, gave orders for the ship to be floated up to her old berth on the next tide, and then returned to the Pool.

For the next seven days he was almost constantly at Roehurst, in company with the stricken father, whom affliction seemed to have turned back to him as his only friend; and together they hung about the ruins, which still smouldered slightly, and crumbled more and more into a shapeless heap, overhung by a few masses of tottering wall.

Gil would have tried to persuade the old man to leave the spot, but that it had so terrible a fascination for him as well, and together they would sit hour after hour gazing at the ruins, and rebuilding the place mentally and occupying it as of old.

The people of the sparsely inhabited district came to gaze at the wreck, and from far and near they gathered together two days after the fire, to see Gil's men carry the flower-sprinkled bier from Croftly's house to the little rustic churchyard two miles away, the men taking it in turns to bear her, four and four about. The place was densely crowded, thinly populated as was the country there, to see Gil Carr and the weak, broken founder, who seemed to have aged in one night to a venerable old man, walk hand in hand behind, and stand bareheaded while Master Peasegood read, and sobbed, and read, and finally letting fall his book, went down upon his knees in the soft earth, and prayed beside the grave.

Sir Mark chafed more and more, but it was in vain. He was to have been chief actor in another scene; here he was completely set aside again, and Gil Carr had resumed his place.

Fortunately for Sir Mark, his old acquaintance Sir Thomas Beckley came forward to offer his hospitality, and he took up his abode with him, feeling that he could not leave the place with his task undone, and in a bitter mood he received the attempts at consolation offered to him by Anne, who, however, always kept very much aloof, playing the part of the injured woman, but promising herself a sharp revenge, if ever the King's messenger should again lay siege unto her heart.

Up to the day of the funeral the founder had been almost childish from the effects of the shock; but after that he seemed to have recovered himself, though he looked aged and bent, and changed to a remarkable degree.

"I was very hard upon you, Gil," he said to him one evening, as they stood leaning against one of the posts that had helped to support the swing bridge now completely swept away, and whose place was occupied by a couple of stout planks laid across the race. "I was very hard upon you, my lad, but, though I made that affair of Abel Churr's an excuse, I don't think I believed at heart that you did away with the poor wandering wretch."

Gil looked at him sadly, and bowed his head without speaking.

"What are you going to do now, my lad?" continued the founder, gazing at him with a yearning look as one his lost child had loved.

"To do?" said Gil, in a low hopeless tone, "to do? What is there left to do, sir, but die?"

"Hush, my lad," said the founder, laying a trembling hand upon the young man's arm; "that is for me to say. I am old and stricken: the storm has torn one great branch from the trunk, and the old tree will slowly wither and die. You are young yet, and hope will come to you again as time goes on."

"Hush, for God's sake, hush!" cried Gil, turning upon him almost fiercely; then, gazing round him in the gathering gloom of the evening, he let himself sink, upon his knees lower and lower, with his hands covering his face, as for the first time in the solitude of that blasted home he gave full vent to the pent-up agony that for days and days he had striven to hide.

"Hope," he groaned, "hope?" as his broad shoulders heaved and the despairing sobs tore their way from his weary breast. "He does not know what she was to me--he cannot tell how I loved her. Mace, Mace, my darling, would to God I were lying by thy side!"

It had grown quite dark now, and the founder sank upon his knees in the black ashes to lay his hands upon the young man's head.

"Gil, my son," he whispered hoarsely, "forgive me, for I never knew your heart till now. In her name I ask you to forgive me for the wrong I would have done you both in tearing you apart. I thought I was doing right, but I am punished for my fault."

"Forgive you!" groaned Gil, who, for the first time in his life, was quite unmanned. "Yes, I forgive you, if there is aught to forgive."

He pressed the old man's hand, as he rose after a time, weak and desolate, to sit down upon one of the stones cast from the main building by the blast. Some distance away a couple of windows shed their feeble light, as if they were signals to Mace to open her casement once again, and a groan rose to Gil's lips as he thought of the past. Then, like a wandering spirit, a white, filmy-looking owl swept by them, turned and came back once more, as if attracted by the blackened ruins, glided to and fro for a few minutes, and it seemed to the two men that it shrieked faintly just over the very centre of the ruined house before it glided away.

Gil sat watching the bird in a dreamy, hopeless way, and, as he gazed through the darkness, he felt that the place would become the home of such creatures.

He was aroused from his reverie by the founder.

"How did it happen, Gil?" he said.

He spoke in a low, hoarse voice, but his Words sounded very plain in the silence of the autumn even.

"How did it happen?" said Gil, repeating his words.

"Yes, my boy, tell me all. I cannot believe that God would make that old woman with her curses his instrument to punish me."

"I have little to tell," said Gil. "I saw our darling again and again, begging that she would go with me; but she refused till she found it hopeless to move you, and that the wedding was to be."

"Yes, yes--go on," groaned the founder.

"Then she consented, and I made my plans."

"Yes, I see," replied the founder, "you were there with your men, and Sir Mark felt sure that you were coming. But yours was a mad revenge on him, and meant ruin and destruction to all."

"I do not understand you," said Gil, quietly.

"Did you think by blowing down part of the place to get her away in the confusion?"

"Blow down? The place?" said Gil. "We had not a charge of powder with us. I left it all on board."

"Then it was the store below caught first," said the founder, musingly; "but how--how?"

"I cannot tell," said Gil.

"Wat Kilby," exclaimed the founder, jumping at a cause for the terrible disaster; "he was smoking his tobacco by the entry, and must have thrown down the burning pipe."

"Nay, he did not smoke; he was by my side bearing a ladder."

"Are you speaking frankly to me, Gil?" said the founder. "I prithee keep nothing back."

"Can you speak to me like that?" replied Gil, in a grave, reproachful tone. "Master Cobbe, I have kept nothing back; I have added nothing to my story; I have only left out that there was the priest awaiting on board of my ship, to be our darling's companion until we were made man and wife."

"Forgive me, Gil," said the founder. "I know now that you are keeping nothing back. But how could it have happened?"

"A shot from one of Sir Mark's men's pieces must have gone through to your store of powder," said Gil. "They did fire, but my men struck their pieces aside."

The founder accepted this theory, and they sat in silence for a few moments, till they were interrupted by the approach of a great, dark figure, who seemed at last to make them out.

"Ah! friend Cobbe," it said, in the thick rich tones of Master Peasegood, "I was seeking thee. Come; the night-dew is falling, and it is time you were safely housed. Ah! Gil, my good lad, you here?"

"Yes," was the curt response. "Master Peasegood, hadst thou but done thy duty by her who was thy charge, these troubles might not have been."

"Reproach me not, good lad, I was taken away through Sir Mark's scurvy tricks and carried up to London. And there I was, day after day, half prisoner, half free. Sometimes they'd let me fly a little bit, like a bird with a string at its leg. Other times they'd keep me in, and never a word could I get to know of my offence."

"Not a legal prisoner, then?"

"Nay, lad, not at all. Though, had I tried to flee I had been tied fast enough, I'll warrant. I took advantage of my freedom to see Saint Paul's, and should be sorry to preach there. I bought me though, as I had my money with me and the chance was good, six yards of cloth in Paul's churchyard to make me a goodly cloak--four pounds sixteen it cost me--and seven yards of calamanko for a cassock; one pound four and sixpence that, besides a pound for a new hat, and six shillings for a lutestring hood for Mistress Hilberry. I lightened my pocket, Gil, but I was heavy enough at heart."

Gil nodded.

"I grew so hot of blood and angry at last with the way they kept me in, and the too free use I made of the most villainous ale, Master Cobbe, I ever put to my lips, that had I not been blooded freely by a chirurgeon, I should have been ill. It was not the proper time--the haemeroyal time, though close upon the full, but I let him take a good ten ounces from my veins, and felt a better man."

"It would have been better, Master Peasegood, had you been here."

"True, lad, but I was not my own ruler. That Sir Mark never trusted me. I had hard work to get free again, and hurried down to get to our darling's side. You saw me when I came--that night? Sir Thomas Beckley overtook me, and he brought me on."

Gil bent his head, and held out his hand, which the other pressed.

"When do you sail again?" said the parson.

"I sail again? Maybe never," said Gil. "Why should I sail?"

"To give thyself occupation--work--toil-weary evening and restful night. Up, man, and work. Bear thy load bravely till Heaven send the soft touch of time to make it lighter. Thou art young; thy ship waits. Go across the sea and do thy work. This is no place for thee."

"Why do you interfere with me, Master Peasegood?" cried Gil, testily. "I am none of thy followers."

"Nay, my lad, thou art not; but I give thee good advice that my lips seemed urged to speak. Go and toil, and sit not down sobbing like a fretful child."

"Man, you would madden me if I listened," cried Gil.

"Nay, but thou shalt listen," said Master Peasegood, "and I will quell thy madness. Thou hast received one terrible loss like a man; I would not have thee do it like a woman. Then, too, Master Cobbe, when are these fires to be relit, and the wreathing curls of smoke to rise from each furnace chimney?"

"Never," said the founder sadly, "my energy has gone, and I am spent."

"Tut, tut, man; fie!"

"What have I to live for?" cried the founder, as angry now as Gil.

"Not for thyself," cried Master Peasegood. "Not both of ye to indulge a moping selfish regret, but for others--for the memory of one dead. Tut! man, those do not pay most respect to their dead who sit and sigh, and groan, and work themselves into fevers. Gil Carr, thy men call for thee to lead them in some seafaring adventure. Jeremiah Cobbe, thou hast got together here some fifty souls--workmen, their wives, and the children they have begotten. Thou didst bring them to do thy work, and now the furnaces are cold, the busy wheel has ceased to turn, and thy workmen lean against the doorposts, and idle, and get out of trim. Come, come! up, and be doing."

"For whom?" cried the founder angrily, "for whom should I toil?"

"Not for thyself, but for thy people. Nay, nay! don't take it ill, and think me unfeeling. To both of you I say it is your duty, and, in the name of yon sweet girl whom we all so dearly loved, I say keep her memory green in your heart of hearts, but cease unmanly repinings against fate."

"Ah! Master Peasegood," said the founder more gently, "thou hast never been a father."

"Had I been sweet Mace's father could I have loved her better, Jeremiah Cobbe? Have not mine eyes oft filled with tears at the memory of her sweet face; has not my voice choked, and have not my words failed when I have tried to speak, Gil Carr? Tut, man, give me credit for loving her as well. Thou hast felt sore against me because I tried to keep you two apart; but why was it, Gil, why was it? Had I not seen that which made me think thou would'st prove a faithless lover to her, poor child. Give me your hand, man, my love for her was different to thine, but it was quite as deep."

Gil's hand was laid in the heavy palm of the parson of Roehurst, and they joined in a close firm grip without another word.

"When shall these fires be going again, Master Cobbe," continued the parson; "when shall the busy wheel turn plashing round? Come, come, promise me that thy mourning shall not be quite out of bounds."

The founder had turned his back, and remained gazing away from them at the blackened heap.

"You will be up and doing, will you not, Master Cobbe?" continued the parson, urging him on. "Come: for thy child's sake. Would'st have this place left a ruin? Come, promise me thou wilt."

A deep sigh seemed to tear itself from the founder's breast, and he turned to gaze in the direction of his works.

"Thou art right, parson," he said; "it is not fair that the workmen I brought here to feed and furnish with hard labour should suffer for my sake. The fires shall be lit again."

"Ay, that's well," said Master Peasegood earnestly. "It will be glad news for many a heart. Then I shall see the axe busy again as the leaves fall, and the glow of the charcoal fire in the woods; and meantime thy men will delve for iron, and the furnaces go roaring on. Is it not so?"

"Yes."

"Bravely spoken, brave heart," said Master Peasegood; "and thou, Gil Carr, off to thy ship once more, and bear away her freight. Come back to us laden with the pale yellow brimstone and the grey-white salt. Tut, tut, tut, of what am I speaking?" he muttered, as Gil shuddered. "You will go, my brave lad, eh?"

"I suppose so: yes," said Gil slowly; and the parson laid his hand upon the founder's shoulder once more.

"And the dear old house, Master Cobbe? There is sandstone waiting in the quarry to be borne here, and thou hast oaken timber enough cut to build it up. When wilt begin to repair thy loss?"

"Never," cried the founder fiercely. "Parson Peasegood, I'll work and toil and invent and strive day and night to keep things going here, but it is for others' sake, not mine."

"Nay, nay, but the house must be restored."

"Never," cried the founder; "never, Master Peasegood; never, Gil Carr. I care nothing for the words of that reviling old woman and her curses. Punishments come from Heaven, not from Hell, and, if she be a witch, 'tis devil's work she does; but no hand shall touch yon heap, neither stone nor ash shall be disturbed. The flowers may spring up again, and the grass will grow, but to touch it would be to me like disturbing my poor child's grave. Our dear old home died with my darling. Let them rest."

He turned away and walked firmly across the planks towards the lane where Tom Croftly's cottage stood, followed by the parson and Gil, who stepped back as the founder rapped upon the cottage door.

"Tom," he said, as the door was opened, and the light of a rush-candle shone upon his deeply-lined face, "go round to the men and bid them light the big furnace in the morning, and you see about the mixing up of another batch of powder."

"Hurray, master," cried the man. "Give me my hat, wife. Dal me! but that's good news again."

"Thou'lt go on making powder again--so soon?" said Master Peasegood, as the founder joined them, and they went down the lane.

"Yes," said the founder firmly. "Gil, when thou com'st back, my lad, there will be some score barrels of the best and strongest make. I want to show people that an old hag's curses are as light as wind."

"Ay, and that a bad mishap is not to be taken as a judgment, because a would-be soothsayer says 'tis so," cried Master Peasegood. "Thou'rt right, Master Cobbe. I thank Heaven I spoke to you both as bravely as I did, for my heart misgave me all the while."

The next morning the smoke rolled up once more from the furnace chimney. The great wheel turned and plashed as it shed showers of silver from its broad paddles and spokes; blackened men bore baskets of soft dogwood charcoal to be ground, and others shovelled up the pale yellow sulphur and the crystals of potash for mixing into powder once again. Two heavy tumbrils jolted and blundered down the cinder-made lane to fetch great loads of ironstone from the pits in the woods whence it was dug, and then fierce furnaces were charged with layers of ore and charcoal ready for smelting, while the horses tugged at their loads in answer to the uncouth cries of the men. It was as if the people of Roehurst had awakened from sleep, and all were rejoicing in the gladsome feeling of being once more at work after their enforced idleness, the change acting like a spur. There was shouting over the various works, and now and then some one burst forth into a song, some doleful love-ditty about a sweet young maiden, sung in a minor key.

Tom Croftly was in his element once more, and after seeing the furnaces started and the men preparing the next batch of powder, he anxiously set his colliers to work to get him more coal.

It was no sending down a set of blackened miners with their Davy lamps crowding a cage that dropped slowly into the gas and choke-damp charged bowels of the earth, but the superintending of couples of men who attacked some cords of wood--long, low stackings of the loppings of the trees cut down the previous winter--and, clearing out a circular space, throwing out the earth all round, they set up a pole in the centre. Then picking the branches that were some four feet long, they carefully began to build them round the centre pole, standing all on end, and going on round and round till a low circular stack was built, when the stout central pole was taken away, the space it occupied being filled with light brushwood, which was then set alight ready to communicate with the wood around, while the air running in through spaces left at the sides soon made a swift fire. This, however, was not allowed to burn fiercely, for old charcoal powder mixed with dry earth lay ready, and, after the stack had been covered with a litter of weeds, dry grass, and thin twigs from the fallen trees sufficient to keep it from falling through, the earth was shovelled on all over the stack wherever there was a sign of flame or thin smoke breaking forth, till at last the flames were stifled and the thick smoke rose only from the centre.

"More loam on," cried Tom Croftly, who, spade in hand, danced excitedly round the charcoal pile like a grim black demon busy over some fiery task, and the men worked and watched, smothering the flames with more earth and water till not a gleam was seen, though all the while the fire was glowing fiercely and burning out the watery gases of the wood.

And this went on night and day, the colliers having a shelter rigged up to keep off the night-air when they needed rest, this being called turn and turn, for, should there be no one ready to throw on shovels-full of loam when the fire began to work a way through, the burning would be spoiled.

But there were no burnings spoiled with Tom Croftly, who, had the men been disposed to fail, would have been there to catch them lapsing and take the shovel in hand himself. So the charcoal burned its time, glowing slowly in the well-closed heat till by gentle testing here and there it was declared to be quite fit, when the earth was cleared away, water used liberally for quenching, and the erst flaming heap allowed to cool, the effect being that the branches of rough wood were turned into black clinking metallic-sounding charcoal, hard and brittle to the touch, and ready to fuse the ironstone or turn into potent powder in the mill.

Then by slow degrees the traces of the explosion were softened down, and a new bridge took the place of that which had been swept away. A fresh fence, too, was made of riven oak, and surrounded the ruined garden, so that Master Peasegood had hopes that the founder had re-considered his words.

But he had not. The fence was there to protect the ruins from the feet of straying cattle. It was not needed to keep off the people of the little place, for they gazed upon it with awe, and whispered that it was haunted by the dead. And, when Master Peasegood asked thereof, the founder said his words stood firm. But this was when weeks had glided by, and Gil Carr's ship was tossing far away upon the sea.

Volume 3, Chapter VIII.

HOW THE BECKLEY PULLET RULED THE ROOST.

Dame Beckley was one of the happiest women under the sun, for she had scarcely a care. Her sole idea of home management was obedience, and she obeyed her lord implicitly. Next to him she yielded no little show of duty to her daughter, who ruled her with a rod of iron, which she changed for one of steel when dealing with her father.

"Well, my dear," said the dame, "speaking as a woman of the world, I must say I think it hardly becoming of us to keep Sir Mark here after his behaviour to us before. See how he slighted us. Fancy a man who calls himself a courtier telling a lady of title that her camomile tea that she has made with her own hands--it was the number one, my dear, flavoured with balm--was no better than poison."

"Never mind the camomile tea, mother. I tell you I wish Sir Mark to be persuaded to stay."

"Ah, well, my dear, if you wish it, of course he shall be pressed. I'll tell him that you insisted--"

"Mother!"

"La! my dear, what have I done now?" cried Dame Beckley. "You quite startle me when you stamp your feet and look like that."

"How can you be so foolish, mother? Go--go, and tell Sir Mark--insist upon his staying here."

"Well, my dear, and very proud he ought to be, I'm sure. Why, when I was young, if a gentleman had--"

"Mother!"