Kitabı oku: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», sayfa 22
How the Powder had its Say
Sir Mark had not been alone in his suspicions, for the founder had had a half fancy come into his head that Gil might make some effort to prevent the marriage; and after all he could not help feeling that he would not be sorry if this were done. Now it had come so near he thought more than ever that he was doing wrong in giving his consent, for Mace’s distress seemed to be ever on the increase, and he dreaded losing his child.
“But it’s too late now,” he muttered – “too late. Matters must go on as they are, and it will be a grand and good thing for my little girl to become my lady – Dame Leslie, who will take her place at Court with the finest of them there.”
“Do you think our friend Culverin will show himself at the wedding to-morrow?” Sir Mark said.
“I cannot help thinking that he will,” said the founder.
“Well, for my part,” said Sir Mark, “I have a suspicion that we shall see him sooner – that he will make an effort to carry her off to-night.”
“Nay!” cried the founder, flushing, “he would not dare.”
“I think he would,” said Sir Mark, with a cunning smile. “Why look, man, what easier? He has followers and a vessel. Depend upon it, he will try to get our darling away to his ship.”
“If he dared to attempt such an outrage,” cried the founder, half rising from his seat; and then, as if changing his mind, he sat back thoughtfully in his chair.
“You would spit him, eh, Master Cobbe? A most worthy proceeding. But, look here, I have made my plans.”
“Plans?”
“Yes. I have, as you know, six men here, all well-armed, and to do honour to my wedding a gentleman of His Majesty’s household, a friend of mine, will be here this evening, as soon as it is dusk, with eighteen fighting-men beside. These will come unseen, when I give the signal, and be placed in ambush in the garden. I shall plant two by the open bridge, and, if our friend comes, he and his men will walk into a trap, for the moment they are over, the bridge will be closed, and thus, you see, my dear father-in-law elect, I shall rid myself of an awkward rival, and his Majesty of a band of buccaneers.
“But there will be bloodshed, and on the eve of my child’s wedding.”
“Pish!” cried Sir Mark. “Have no fear of that. Once the rats are in the trap, and they will shriek for mercy, as such ruffians and bullies always do. My dear father-in-law, you shall have the pleasure of seeing the whole band tied two and two, and marched off, when the district will be cleared.”
“And my business ruined,” said the founder.
“Trust me for that, old man,” said Sir Mark, smiling. “You shall make culverins and howitzers for his Majesty’s troops to your heart’s content, so have no fear. Powder shall you manufacture, too, but we will not talk of that. Did his Majesty know that powder was stored upon your place, ay, ever so little, he would never be your friend. But how do you like my plans?”
“Not well,” said the founder, gloomily. “I liked Gil. You rob him of the woman he meant to be his wife. Why take his liberty as well?”
“Master Cobbe, this is wretched drivel,” cried Sir Mark, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “What am I to think of it?”
“What you will,” said the founder, sullenly; “I like not my part at all.”
“And you will betray my plans?” said Sir Mark, angrily.
“Nay!” exclaimed the founder, sharply, as something of his old mien showed itself in his countenance. “Sir Mark Leslie, I am a rough yeoman of the country, but I have something of the gentleman at my heart. You insult me by your suspicions. I gave you my word, and my hand upon it, that my child should be your wife, and I repent me of it now; but Jeremiah Cobbe is not the man to go back from his word, and, sooner than Gil Carr should forcibly carry her away, I’d take him myself, and deliver him into your hand.”
“I did but jest, father,” said Sir Mark, grasping the founder’s hand. “Now, let us see something of pretty little Mace for an hour, before I perfect my plans.”
Janet was summoned, but she announced that her mistress was busy preparing things for her departure, and the girl hurried back to Mace’s room, to gloat over the silk dresses and presents that lay about.
Other messages were sent to Mace in the course of the evening, but she refused to come, and at last, out of patience, as the soft autumn night began to fall, Sir Mark went out to finish his arrangements.
“You are master, to-day, my lady,” he muttered; “to-morrow I shall rule, and you’ll know it too.”
Had Gil dared to post a man nearer to the house, he would have known of the preparations made to entrap him, though possibly they would not have kept him back. As it was he knew nothing of the well-armed soldiers who, punctual to the moment, marched across the bridge, and were rapidly disposed in suitable places by Sir Mark, who exhibited no mean generalship in his plans.
Then came the waiting, and Sir Mark stood listening with the founder by his side.
“They’ll not come,” said the latter, impatiently, after a weary while.
“Hist! there is one,” whispered Sir Mark, as a footstep cautiously crossed the bridge.
“Why it is a woman,” said the founder.
“A disguise,” replied Sir Mark. “Gil himself.”
“Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I’ll go and turn her back. What does she want?”
“Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids – fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I’ll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what’s that?”
It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark’s summons to surrender.
Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark’s command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.
He stamped his foot impatiently, for, though he felt no fear of being beaten, the presence of these men might hinder the carrying out of his plans.
“Surrender, you dog!” roared Sir Mark again. “In the King’s name, I say. Shoot down every man who resists.”
A scornful roar of laughter was the response; and, as the heavy guns of the period were levelled, Gil’s men, lithe and active as wild cats, leaped at their bearers with their swords, dashing the guns up, so that the scattered volley that followed sent the bullets skyward, while man after man was knocked down by a blow or the recoil of the piece.
Then commenced a furious fight; sword clashed with sword; there were groans, oaths, and cries; and, as Mace’s casement was opened, its occupant gazed down, shuddering at the hideous, torch-lit scene in the trampled garden.
“Be ready with that ladder, Wat,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “She must be got away now at any cost. Hah! there is Sir Mark.”
As he uttered the words he sprang at his rival, who had recognised him at the same moment by the flickering light of one of the torches borne by a soldier, who held it on high as he tried to take aim at Wat Kilby with a wheel-lock pistol, from beneath Mace’s window.
“Surrender!” shouted Sir Mark. “Quick, here, men, here!”
“Surrender yourself,” roared Gil, as with a rush he beat aside the other’s guard, closed with him, and forced him down, where he lay with Gil’s knee at his throat.
Their leader’s cry, though, brought half-a-dozen men to his side, and blade in hand they would have cut down Gil had it not been for Wat, whose orders had been to stay there with the ladder. Raising this, he drove it with a crash against one man, who had raised his point, and was in the act of striking another, when Sir Mark recovered himself sufficiently to get at a dagger, which he would have plunged into his opponent, had he not felt himself scorched by a blinding glare, as he, Gil, and Wat and those by him were hurled headlong amongst the trampled bushes, and, before they could realise what had happened, there was a mighty roar, as if thunder had come from earth instead of sky, and then gone rolling across the Pool, to die away in echoes amongst the hills.
How the Love Philtre worked
If Mother Goodhugh had stood by while it was done, Janet the weak would have taken the decoction placed in her hands; but, foolish as the girl was, she had her share of cunning.
“If I give it to her and it does make her love turn to hatred, he must turn to me; and, if after all she cares more for Captain Carr, why even then it may turn right for me. Does the old thing think I’d take the stuff? Clever as she be, others be clever too. But how shall I give it to her?”
Janet took the little flask out of her bosom, which was her hiding-place for particular things – ribbons, scraps of lace, a scent-bottle wonderfully like one of Mace’s – and looked at it attentively.
“A little every day,” she said; and the next morning she poured a portion into a jug that stood for drinking purposes in her mistress’s room.
That afternoon Mace went up to her bedroom with a bunch of flowers from the garden, which she placed in a shallow basin, and the contents of the jug were used to keep them alive!
The same evening, finding the jug empty, Janet refilled it, and again poured in a little of the contents of the flask.
She had just completed her task when she heard Mace’s step upon the stairs, and in her haste to replace the stopper of the flask she let it fall upon the floor, where it broke; and she had only time to throw the broken glass out of the window, and drag a piece of carpet over the stain on the floor, before her mistress entered the room.
Janet escaped as soon as possible and sought refuge in the kitchen, from whence she stole round to the garden and picked up the broken bottle, then ran back, throwing the pieces into the water-race as she hurried along.
“I dare say she will have taken enough,” she said to herself, “and, if she has not, I’ll try no more. I hate myself for doing it. Poor girl, she looks more as if she was going to be buried than married.”
In fact, Janet’s heart was not very deeply touched, and she would have been ready to hand over her young affections to anybody a little more eligible than Master Wat Kilby, who was rather too old for her taste. During these busy days, too, there was so much to take her attention, for she had all a girl’s love and excitement in an approaching wedding.
First and foremost there came a present to her from Sir Mark in the shape of what was to her a most handsome dress.
“That’s for thee, pretty Janet,” he said; “and when we come back from our wedding jaunt I’ll bring thee a handsome husband as sure as I live. One kiss for it,” he said; and he took it, and another and another. How many dozens he would have taken it is impossible to say, only the founder’s step was heard, and Janet fled with her dress by another way.
“The spell be working somehow,” she said to herself joyously. “May be he will turn her over yet, and marry me himself.”
She hurried up to her room to inspect her gown-piece, and smooth her ruffled hair.
“Oh, these men, how wicked they be!” she cried half-petulantly, as she gazed at her flushed cheeks in a damp-stained mirror.
“I be handsomer than mistress pale-face down stairs,” she cried, giving her head a toss. “Fie on her! why does she not go and wed with Captain Culverin, and leave me Sir Mark.”
The gown-piece again took her attention, and she folded it in pleats and tucks, and draped herself in it, ending by doubling it over and over, and laying it flat beneath her bed.
“I’ll go see her presents now,” she said; and she descended to Mace’s room to find the jug untouched.
“Perhaps shell never wear these gauds after all,” muttered Janet, as she went to the dressing-table and examined the presents Sir Mark had brought, rich jewels some of them, with laces and ribbons enough for a dozen weddings; but the white satin dress hanging across a chair was the great attraction for Janet, with its puckers and folds, and great stomacher dotted with pearls.
“It be brave!” she cried, as she went down upon her knees to gaze at it, and lay portions of the skirt across her arm, or feel its softness against her cheek.
And so the time glided on till the eve of the wedding, when, pale and dark of eye with want of sleep, Mace felt that the excitement was more than she could bear.
It was very terrible, she told herself, and again and again she asked her conscience whether she was doing wisely in listening to Gil’s prayers. It was an act of disobedience to her father, whom she dearly loved, and yet she felt that she clung to her lover more. But even now she would, in obedience to her father’s wishes, have refused Gil and remained unwed. To be forced, though, to become the wife of one whom she utterly detested she felt was impossible, and she knew that she must go.
She had no one to counsel, none to take her part; and she knelt down and sobbed bitterly as she thought of the mother who had been taken away so long ago.
Then rising from her knees, quite calm and peaceful at heart, she sat down in her sweet-scented old chamber waiting, for she told herself it was inevitable, and that time would soften her father’s anger, and all be happiness once more.
“He feels it is for my welfare,” she said, “but he does not know poor Gil.”
The whispered mention of Gil’s name sent a thrill through her, and, with a smile of hope and love upon her worn, pale face, she sat dreaming of him, and mentally praying that no mishap might accompany their flight.
At last, feeling flushed and hot, she drank from the jug of water which Janet had left unchanged.
There was a peculiar taste in it, but her thoughts were too much occupied to pay much attention, and, taking her seat by the window, she sat, watching the darkness coming on of this the last day in her old home.
How the old happy hours of the past came back to torture her with their recollections; and now she told herself it would have been better that she should have died young, in peace and innocency, ere she knew the bitter heart-grievings of the present. For in these last hours her breast was racked by contending emotions; the love of parent fought hard with the stronger, more engrossing love of the maiden for the man of her choice, but the latter won.
Agitated as she was, it seemed to her that she grew feverish and thirsty – a thirst she turned to the water-vessel more than once to assuage, but without effect; and at last, with a curious, excited sensation upon her, mingled with weariness, she went to the glass to find that her checks were flushed, and that there was a strange dilated look about her eyes, whose unusual lustre startled her.
“I have had too little sleep lately,” she said, with a sad smile, as she thought of the long, restless nights she had passed; and at last she threw herself upon the bed, and closed her eyes, just as a tap was heard upon the panel of the door.
“Come in, Janet,” she said, as she unclosed her eyes to gaze round at the confusion that reigned with half-packed garments, and upon a couch her wedding-dress, facing her like the flaccid shade of herself lying upon a bier.
There was something very weird in that dress, and it seemed to influence her with thoughts of death which made her shudder.
“I be come to try on the wedding robe again, mistress,” said Janet. “I did alter those strings and that fastening, and now it will fit you well.”
“That’s kind of you, Janet,” said Mace, drowsily. “Thank you for all you have done. You will think kindly of me when I am gone?”
“Why, of course, mistress. But, there, dear heart alive, don’t talk like that. Why it be as if you was going to be buried. La! You ought to be as blithe as blithe.”
“Should you be, Janet?” said Mace. “Oh, my head – my head, it burns – it burns!”
“La, mistress, yes; as joyous as a bird to wed with so handsome and courtly a man. Art ill, mistress?”
“Sleepy, Janet, sleepy.”
“There, then, let’s get on the dress, and see how you look, and then you shall have a long sleep, and I’ll see that no one disturbs you.”
“No, no,” said Mace, hoarsely. “I must not sleep, child – I will not sleep. Try on the dress and go away. I shall sit by the open window.”
“La, mistress, thou’lt get the ager-shakes that come off the Pool. I wouldn’t sit by the open window to-night. Come, get up, dear, and let me take off your gown. I’ll unlace it, and now we’ll have on the beautiful white robe. Lovely, lovely!”
And again, “Lovely, lovely!”
And then, “How beautiful you look!”
And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped in her lover’s arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away. It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its breast.
At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.
“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?
