Читать книгу: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», страница 10
“You lie, you scurrilous knave,” said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; “I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult.”
As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.
The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man’s force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.
Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.
“I make way for you, Sir Mark,” he said, grimly. “Walk on first, sir, while you can.”
Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion’s words; and then, full of doubt in the other’s honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.
“Turn to the left, Sir Mark,” said Gil, suddenly; “I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood.”
“Where would you go, then?” cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.
“The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me,” said Gil, quickly. “It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard. Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls.”
Sir Mark shuddered, but he made no sign; and, following the direction pointed out by Gil, the two young men came out of the wood below the wheel, crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and then, passing through two or three thick plantations, surrounding as many powder-sheds, they entered a wide stone building, whose floor was of furnace-cinder and charcoal; and, as they stood face to face, the place was far more light than the wood.
Without another word, Gil divested himself of cap and doublet, drawing his sword, and throwing down belt and sheath, in all of which he was imitated by Sir Mark, who, now that he was face to face with the peril, seemed to lose a good deal of his nervousness, though the coolness of his enemy staggered him.
“Your sword, sir,” said Gil, holding out his hand; but Sir Mark shrank back, and stood upon his defence.
“I merely wished to measure them,” said Gil, contemptuously, as he threw his own upon the charcoal floor. “Measure them yourself.”
Shamed by his rival’s greater show of confidence, Sir Mark made an effort over his suspicious nature, picked up Gil’s sword, and, holding both by the blades as they flashed in the warm red glow of the furnace, he handed them to Gil.
“Nay,” he said; “measure them yourself.”
Gil smiled as he took the weapons, laid the blades together, and finding his own to be fully three inches the longer, he handed it by the blade to Sir Mark.
“That is not my weapon,” said the latter, suspiciously. “Give me my own sword, fellow.”
“Not I,” said Gil; “mine is three inches longer in the blade, and I am not going to have it said that I killed thee by taking a foul advantage. We have no seconds, sir.”
Sir Mark hesitated for a few moments, and then, with the longer weapon, placed himself on guard with a good deal of the ceremony taught in the fencing-schools, while Gil quietly crossed swords with him, and the fight began.
It was a curious sight in that black-floored building, lit by the ruddy glow of the charcoal-furnace, whose illuminating powers sufficed to produce a ruddy twilight – nothing more – through which the figures of the contending men could be seen in rapid motion, as their flashing blades gritted edge against edge, and passes were rapidly exchanged.
Both fenced well, and at the end of a couple of minutes they fell back by mutual consent. No advantage had been obtained on either side. Each of them had, however, fully awakened to the fact that he had no contemptible enemy to deal with; and as with recovered breath they crossed swords once more it was with increased caution, and pass and parry followed with each exerting all his skill.
Gil fought, in spite of his apparent calmness, with terrible fury, for he was face to face with the man whom he believed to have blasted his happiness, and three times over the keenly-pointed blade he held passed through his adversary’s linen shirt, literally grazing the skin.
On his own side in the dim light he had had enough to do to hold his own, for it was only by the most skilful fencing that he was able to throw aside Sir Mark’s fierce thrusts, one of which inflicted a skin wound in his shoulder, and another grazed his hip.
They pressed each other in turn to and fro near the furnace-mouth, where the man who faced it gained no advantage, for he was thrown up so distinctly to his adversary’s view, and then back right into the gloomiest corner of the great building, where it was so dark that the danger was the same.
The swords gritted and flashed once or twice, emitting faint sparks; the contending men’s breath came thicker and faster as they strove on, the sweat in the heated place trickling down their faces in glittering beads; and the fight had grown furious as each, yielding to the fierce excitement of standing face to face with an enemy, strove with all his might to rob that foeman of his life.
At last, being the stronger and more skilful with his weapon, Gil drove his adversary back, step by step, delivering thrusts with lightning-like rapidity, every one as it succeeded the other being more feebly parried; and at last, with a strange sense of gratified passion in his breast, Gil pressed him more sorely, as he felt that he was in his power, when, just as he felt that victory was his, the tables were turned, for Sir Mark’s sword which he held snapped short off at the hilt, and it was only by stepping sharply back that Gil saved his life.
For, beside himself with fury, Sir Mark seized the opportunity, and aimed so deadly a thrust that it must have passed through his opponent’s body. Gil’s rapid retrograde movement saved him, however, for the moment, though he tripped over the remains of a mould, and fell headlong at his adversary’s feet.
“Slain in fair fight,” cried Sir Mark, exultantly, as, leaping forward, he placed his foot upon his adversary’s chest, and thrust at his throat.
“Not yet,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “I am a sailor.”
As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark’s sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in.
“Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr,” cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. “Is this thy conduct towards my father’s guest?”
“Thy father’s guest would have run me through, mistress,” he said, curtly. “I did but fight for life.”
“I’ll have no more of this,” cried the founder, fiercely. “Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways.”
“Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me,” said Gil. “It was a fair fight, fairly provoked.”
“I’ll not have my child made the prize for any fighting,” cried the founder, hotly. “Mace, this is your doing.”
“If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared,” cried Mace, coldly, “he might have left it in its sheath.”
“I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace,” whispered Gil. “It is cruel, indeed.”
Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover’s emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again.
“I forbade you my place, Gil Carr,” cried the founder. “You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels.”
“I fear no officers of justice,” cried Gil, angrily; “and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves.”
“But you need fear them,” cried the founder angrily. “What is this I hear of Abel Churr?”
“What has he dared to tell?” cried Gil, forgetting himself for the moment.
“Men with mute lips tell nought,” said the founder. “Where is Abel Churr?”
“I know not,” replied Gil.
“Nay, but you should know,” continued the founder, as Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone came panting in from an unsuccessful search. “Tom Croftly, tell what you heard. Abel Churr was an idle raff, but he was a man, and one of us here.”
As he spoke Mace’s countenance changed, and she drew nearer to Gil.
“I don’t know much, master,” said the foundryman slowly, “only that seven days ago I saw Abel Churr half drunken, and he was boasting that he knew a secret of the captain’s there which would hang him if it was known.”
“He must have told you, too, Father Brisdone,” said Master Peasegood, quickly.
“Abel Churr did confess to me when I encountered him in the woods, Brother Peasegood, but the words uttered in confession are sacred. I cannot tell.”
“Not if a man’s character is at stake,” cried Master Peasegood.
“I’ll soon end this,” said the founder, as Gil quietly replaced his doublet and took his sword from Sir Mark’s hand. “Gil Carr, speak out like a man. Where is Abel Churr?”
“I do not know,” replied Gil, firmly.
“Had he some secret of yours?”
Gil paused for a moment, and his eyes encountered those of Mace gazing at him in a beseeching way, when a change seemed to come over him, and he replied frankly —
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“A secret that I wished to keep.”
“How did he find it out?” said the founder.
“How do I know, sir? By creeping through the wood, and dogging my steps, I suppose.”
“When did you see him last?” said the founder.
“A week ago.”
“Where?”
“In the woods,” replied Gil, who submitted to the examination as it were in obedience to Mace’s eyes.
“And what passed there?” said the founder.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Gil. “I found him prying into my affairs, and I seized him.”
“And threatened him?”
“Yes; I swore I would hang him to the yard-arm of my ship if I caught him again.”
“Yes – and then?”
“Then I let him go.”
“And since then?”
“I have not seen him since.”
Mace’s eyes brightened with satisfaction, and Gil, as he stood there alone, felt recompensed for much of the past, as it seemed to him that now he was in trouble she was turning to him.
“Sir Thomas Beckley must know this,” cried the founder. “The suspicion is that Abel Churr has been foully dealt with, and that you, Gilbert Carr, are to blame.”
“And I say that whoever charges me with hurt to Abel Churr lies,” cried Gil, hotly. “The scoundrel had a secret of mine in his keeping, and I did threaten him, but I let him go when I had caught him robbing me, with such a warning that I felt he would never come again.”
There was truth in his bearing, but somehow there was only one present who believed him, as he stood there alone, while the founder said coldly, “Gilbert Carr, there’s a dark suspicion hanging over thee. It may be that the deed was not done by thee, but by orders to thy men; but, anyway, it behoves thee to clear thyself by finding Abel Churr. Till you can do that, come upon my premises no more. Sir Mark, we are a rough people here, and set at naught some of the laws, but we hold a man’s life in good esteem. I shall see Sir Thomas, our justice, in the morning, and no stone will be left unturned to find this wretched man.”
“Gilbert Carr,” said Master Peasegood, advancing; “speak out once more – Do you know aught of this wretched man?”
“I have said all I know, Master Peasegood,” replied Gil, quietly. “I can say no more.”
“We must wait, Master Cobbe,” said the parson. “Seven days are but a short time. He will come back perhaps ere long.”
“I hope he will,” said the founder, firmly. “Gilbert Carr, this is my land, and no place for thee.”
Gil looked at him angrily, and then at Mace, whose glance disarmed him once again.
“As you will, Master Cobbe,” he said. “Some day perhaps you may regret this harshness to so old a friend. Mace, as I am to be dismissed, good-bye till we meet again – in better times.”
He advanced and held out his hand, but Sir Mark, who was near her, interposed.
“Stand back, sir,” he said; “no man with such a suspicion resting upon him shall touch Mistress Cobbe’s hand.”
Gil seized him by the shoulder, and with one swing hurled him aside.
“Your hand, Mace Cobbe,” he said, holding out his own, in which she laid hers for a few moments, before hurrying to her father’s side.
A dead silence had fallen on the group, and as Gil turned to go he felt that appearances were sadly against him, though it would be vain to say more then. Striding across the foundry he made for the open door, angry even unto passion, but helpless under the pressure of opinion. He was not prepared for the fresh reverse that he encountered, as, after turning to exchange a fierce glance with Sir Mark, which said plainly enough, “We shall meet again,” he was half startled by finding his way barred by Mother Goodhugh, who was standing in the doorway, full in the red light cast by the furnace.
He drew back as the old woman moved her stick and stepped into the building.
“Is he to be screened?” she cried aloud. “I say, is he to be screened? Your friend, Master Cobbe – the friend of your child – the man you mean to make your son. I say, is he to be screened?”
“Hold thy prate,” cried the founder, angrily. “Mother Goodhugh, I am in no humour to listen to thee now.”
“Nay, but thou shalt listen. I say is he to be screened? Gil Carr,” she cried, turning upon him sharply, “where is Abel Churr?”
“Stand aside, woman,” cried Gil. “I know not.”
“But you do know,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “He was my only friend, and I will have all brought to light. He went to follow you in the forest. You met him – speak, did you not meet him?”
“I did,” said Gil sharply. “And you murdered him,” cried the old woman. “Ha, ha, ha! As I said – as I said; more care for the house of Cobbe. The curses fall thick and fast. As I said, as I said. Yes, get you gone, murderer, and you, good people, have the forest searched for the remains of his victim. He must be found – he must be found.”
Gil turned upon her angrily, but he did not speak. He strode from the building, out into the summer night, hot and angry; and as he went along the lane he could hear the old woman’s shrillest tone as she shouted after him; and even the hurrying water in the race towards the wheel seemed to repeat the word “Murderer,” in his ears.
How a Casement was opened
In the days which followed there was a diligent search for Abel Churr, in which Gilbert Carr’s men joined hands with those of the founder, for reasons best known to Gil; and every likely place in the forest was searched save the ravine leading to the cave entry, and that was gone over by Gil’s men alone. At times there might be one or two who felt disposed to give Gil the credit of having made away with a man who had been a spy upon his actions, but very little was said on the matter, the common people, as a body, liking the captain and his men, whose return from a voyage was heartily welcomed, even though at times they were rather more than free.
Those who spoke out and sided with Mother Goodhugh received hints to keep their tongues more quiet, the hints being traceable to Wat Kilby; but there was but little need to speak. Gil was too great a favourite; and when there was some talk (on the part of Sir Thomas Beckley) of the captain being arrested and inquisitions made, Sir Thomas received so broad a hint from his daughter not to interfere with Gil, and also from the captain’s followers, to let matters rest, that he hastily obeyed.
“I’m not going to blame thee, skipper,” said Wat Kilby, one day when the heat of the search was over; “but wouldn’t it have been better to have shut him up for a bit till we started, and then have taken him away?”
The captain turned sharply round upon him.
“Look here, Wat,” he said; “do you believe that I have murdered Abel Churr?”
“Lord, no, lad, not murdered; that be too terrifying a word. Pooked him – executed him for a spy – pooked him; and quite right too.”
“Once for all,” cried the captain, “let it be fully understood by you, and you can tell the men, that I caught Abel Churr in the store, and, after frightening him, I let him go, making him swear that he would never approach the place or divulge its position to a soul.”
“Do you want me to tell the lads that?” said Wat.
“Yes, of course.”
“Nay, then I’m a mutineer. I’m not going to help ’em to such words as that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, skipper? Because it would lower you in the eyes of every man of the crew. What! after the oath we swore, and after the way the boys have kept it, for you, our captain, to go and let loose a varmin who had broken in and was robbing you, perhaps hunting out the savings and trade every man has got stored up here? Nay, captain, it would be degrading you in the eyes of all.”
“What would you have done, then?”
“What would I have done?” said Wat. “Why, same as you did – killed him like the varmin he was, and buried him in the mixen or under the stones.”
“You really believe, then, that I killed this man in cold blood?”
“Why, of course, skipper; you couldn’t do otherwise. As to a man and cold blood! bah! he was a rat, and he was caught. Do you know how the lads searched the little valley?”
“No.”
“Crept through the wood, pooked the grass aside, and sat down and smoked,” said Wat with a chuckle.
“Then they did not properly search it?”
“Of course not,” cried Wat, gruffly. “You don’t suppose they wanted to find that girt fox, do you?”
“Wat,” cried the captain angrily, “you disobeyed my orders. That place shall be searched, and that at once.”
“What – and try to warm up the scent again, captain? Nay, he’s sattled, let sleeping dogs lie. The world’s all the better for there being no Abel Churr; and the adders and things can have a chance of marrying and having families without being pulled out of their holes by the tail.”
As he spoke, the old sailor turned away, and Gil walked to the cottage where he had his temporary home.
That night on the dark bank in front of the Pool-house four glow-worms shone out for the first time for weeks, and Gil Carr walked across the little swing-bridge towards the founder’s garden.
The sight of a few glow-worms on that bank might have been expected after the many that had been placed there at various times by Gil, but they never stayed long, for the blackbird or thrush generally made a meal of them; and when, on that night, Mace went up to her room, glancing out as was her custom before drawing the blind, she knew that before long there would be some one waiting beneath the casement, and her heart began to beat.
She had not seen Gil since the evening of his encounter with Sir Mark, and, truth to tell, she had watched night after night to see if he would try to see her, and sad of heart had gone to her sleepless couch without a sign.
Sir Mark was still there, but was to leave in a day or two, having sent on his report of the works, and pleading ill-health as a reason for staying longer. But his conduct to her had changed. There was less of the sighing gallant in his manner, though he appeared pained by her coldness, and treated her with studied respect.
The founder and he seemed to be growing firm friends, though Mace with pain saw that the visitor was gaining an ascendancy over her father’s actions that augured no future good.
Janet was with her in her room that night, and meaningly drew her attention to the tiny lights, but received so sharp a look for her pains that she ventured to say no more, and soon after left, the room to go and stand irresolutely in the passage, thinking.
“He’s there,” she said, with malicious glee lighting up her eyes; “and he’s forbidden to come. He played with me and tricked me, professing so much and then laughing at me, and telling me I was not to listen to old Wat Kilby. Suppose I trick him.”
She paused, thinking for a few moments, and then slipping into a small room – half dressing-room, half bureau – she took a cloak and hood from a peg and slipped them on.
Meanwhile Gil had passed softly into the garden, and stood waiting in the darkness of the summer night, to see if Mace’s looks towards him had any meaning, and he had not waited long before a faint click told him that the casement had been opened.
“Mace.”
“Gil.”
“Why have you come?”
“Because you were in trouble, Gil, and I wished to say a word or two of comfort, and to ask you of Abel Churr.”
“I know what you would say,” he said, softly. “Am I guilty? Is’t not so?”
“Yes.”
He laughed gently as he strained his eyes to try and make out the outlines of her sweet face.
“Mace,” he said, “it is like old times to be here again, and there is more light and hope in my heart than there has been for weeks. Let me answer you with another question. If I were guilty, Mace, should I be here?”
“No,” she said softly, as her hand stole down, white and soft, amongst the roses, to be seized and held to his breast. “But tell me, Gil, with your own lips, that you are innocent; that this charge is not true, and I will believe you.”
“Mace, child, so help me – ”
“Stop,” she whispered, hastily; “the man who loves me needs no oaths. Tell me on your word, Gil, as a gentleman, that you are guiltless, and I will believe.”
“There is my hand,” he whispered; “place yours within it. There; does it burn?”
“No,” she whispered; “it is cool and soft.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly; “but if it were stained with Abel Churr’s blood it would burn and flush at the touch of your innocent palm. If I said there had never been blood upon it, child, I should lie; but it has been the blood of an enemy, shed in fair fight; and as often,” he added, with a laugh, “it has been my own. Mace, you have never misjudged me, darling? Tell me that you never believed me to be the assassin they would make me out.”
“Never, Gil.”
“Thank God, then, that I was suspected.”
“What?” she cried, starting.
“I say thank God that I was suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because it has swept away the clouds between us, and turned your gentle heart to me because I was in pain and trouble: that is all.”
“Is that all, Gil? Did I ever turn from thee?” she faltered.
“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”
“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”
“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”
He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.
“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.
Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.
