Loe raamatut: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», lehekülg 28
How Wat Kilby fired a train and Mother Goodhugh spoke
Gil sat down beside the old woman and remained thinking of what had taken place during the past year. He had sailed away, reckless and heart-broken, caring little where he went, and, after discharging cargo in one of the Spanish ports, he had taken in provisions, and, his men rather welcoming the change, he had made sail for the far East, touching at Ceylon; then on to the Eastern Islands, the lands of spices and strange growths. It was an aimless voyage, but they took in small articles of cargo – silk here, rice there, and dye-woods; and then sailing further went north and east to China and Japan, before the vessel’s stem was turned once more for home.
For a strange sense of longing had come over Gil Carr. Months back he had felt that he could never see Roehurst more. Then came the change, with its longing void in his heart. Night and day it was ever the same. There was the old place before his eyes, and a something tugging at his heartstrings to draw him back. The face of Sweet Mace seemed gazing appealingly in his as it asked him to come and save her.
“Save her – from what?” he cried passionately, as he paced up and down the little deck, looking wild-eyed and strange, while his men whispered the one to the other, and he set his teeth firmly and his eyes flashed with anger, for he knew they thought him mad.
It was the work of a minute almost. They were sailing into a fresh port in Japan, where they could see the strangely-dressed people staring at the new comers from the decks of their junks, when Gil suddenly gave orders – he recalled it all – orders to ’bout ship, and they were obeyed without a word.
It was not until they had been sailing on for days that Wat Kilby had come to him with the gruff question, “Where to now, skipper?”
“Home!” was the single word spoken in reply; and then, as he stood gazing straight before him at the wide expanse of ocean, there arose from the crew a tremendous cheer.
He recalled it all – how he had stood gazing there while order after order was given by Wat Kilby; how sail after sail had been set and the little vessel careened to the breeze; while ever before him, with a smile upon her face, the figure of Mace seemed to stand waving him on.
And so it had been during the homeward voyage. Every sail the vessel would bear had been kept set, and she seemed to skim over the sea in fair weather, and to battle bravely in foul, to get back to the little river and her ancient moorings beneath the trees.
He recalled telling himself that he was mad, for this was but another phase of his humour. But a short time back he was restless to get farther and farther away; now he had conjured up this phantasy to call him back – back to what?
A bitter sob would struggle from his heart as he told himself it was to gaze again upon poor Mace’s grave.
Always there, sleeping or waking, never shut from his mental vision, that sweet, pale face smiling at him as the ship sped on; and only when forced by want of provisions did they enter port, till once more upon the tide the weather-beaten ship rode safely into the mouth of the little river. Then the big boat was lowered and manned, a tow-rope run out, and the men pulled cheerily to keep the little vessel’s head straight as she glided on up the fast narrowing stream, till the spars nearly touched the branches on either side, and her old moorings were made.
Wat Kilby played the part of spy, and went ashore, for now that they were back the fancy that had floated before Gil’s eyes had been seen no more; and moody and despondent he had shrunk from leaving his ship.
It was Wat Kilby then who made his way over the hills and through the forest to the village, and had borne back the news which stirred Gil to action; and for Mace’s sake, as he said, he had determined to save poor old Mother Goodhugh from so horrible a fate.
“She would have urged me to do it,” he said to himself; and, making his plans, he had been successful; while there, half dead, the poor creature lay, with the adventurer sitting meditating by her side.
“What shall I do now?” said Gil to himself in a bitter tone. “Set sail again, I suppose, for this Sir Mark, unless too busy with his wedding, will try to hunt us down.
“Well, let him come if he will,” he added, wearily, and then rising. “Now, my lads!” he cried, “to work.”
His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.
“Come boys,” Wat Kilby cried, “have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together – heave ho!”
As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion – injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.
“Skipper,” he said, “I’m not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don’t seem to be knit together as they were. It’ll take some pounds o’ Mas’ Cobbe’s best to lift that out.”
Gil frowned, for the old man’s speech brought up a host of painful recollections.
“Shall we get up some powder, skipper?” said Wat.
“And fire the barrels that are in the store?” said Gil sternly.
“Nay,” growled the old fellow; “we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away.”
“Get it then,” said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.
Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.
A slight rustle near him made him gaze upwards once to see a rabbit scurry away from a hole beneath the great stone, and this he marked as suitable for laying the charge to lift away the mass.
At last, the men came toiling up the steep ascent, and Wat Kilby busied himself in preparing a mine that should do what was required without further damage to the store.
It was soon done – a train laid, and a fuse prepared. Then Mother Goodhugh was carefully lifted and laid behind a corner of the rock, where harm could not befall her, and Wat Kilby stood ready to fire the fuse after seeing all the men were safe.
“Now, captain,” he said, “as soon as you like.”
“Stop a moment,” said Gil, thoughtfully, though all the time he was experiencing a fierce longing to enter the cave once more.
“What for, captain?” said Wat gruffly, as he puffed at his pipe.
“The sound may be heard, and bring Sir Mark’s fellows down.”
“Nay,” cried Wat, “the noise will run down the valley and out to sea, my lad. They’ll not hear it inland, I lay my life. Bah! and if they did, what then? No one could find his way here without a guide.”
“Go on, then,” said Gil quietly; and, drawing back to the shelter of a little recess, he stood watching the acts of Wat Kilby, a famous old gunner in his way, as, after puffing at his pipe to make it glow, he just touched the end of the fuse, laid the other end by the train, and limped coolly to the captain’s side.
From the rocky recess they could see the fuse sparkle and burn rapidly away, and listen to the buzz of the voices of the crew as they talked of the explosion; then a zigzag line of fire seemed to run along amongst the heather and ferns; there was a blinding flash, a thick white smoke, and, lastly, a heavy dull roar that rolled down the ravine, and the fall of masses of the splintered rock.
The smoke rose slowly over the face of the cliff, showing the grey and blackened traces where the fire had blasted bush and tree; while, where the large block of sandstone had lain was now a dark opening, the rock having been lifted right away, reft in twain, and thrown some yards down the slope.
“There, skipper,” growled Wat, as he limped along, and the men came up; “there be not a cask split inside I’ll wager, and a few showers of rain will hide all the marks.”
Gil nodded.
“Four of you bring the old woman along,” he said. “We’ll make her a bed inside. Good God!”
He was startled at what he saw, for the explosion seemed to have roused Mother Goodhugh, who came crawling painfully towards them to raise herself upon her knees and point, and struggle to speak.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Powder, powder – the cursed stuff. Cobbe’s work; Cobbe’s work. He slew my dear with it, and now – ha, ha, ha! I have brought it home to him. Listen, boy, come here.”
Gil stepped to her side, and she clutched at his wrist, and clung to it, as she turned her ashy, distorted face to him, but only for it to droop back upon her chest so that she gazed at him in a way that was horribly grotesque.
“Listen; do you hear. She wanted it stopped – that wedding – Mistress Anne – the jealous fool, and paid me for it all. I did – I stopped it. Do you hear? I got the key – the powder-cellar, and laid a train – a long, long, train all the way to the cellar, and hid myself in the garden – there safe away. Do you see? just down yonder,” she panted, pointing to the part of the ravine from which she had crawled.
“I did it – I did it. I waited hours and hours till you came by me – all of you, and began to fight with Sir Mark’s men – and then I struck with my flint and steel – and the fire – ran along the ground – and the powder blew up as it did when I lost my dear, and – and – why is it daylight? Why does the sun shine?” she continued, gazing wildly from one to the other.
“She’s daft,” growled Wat. “Poor soul! they have frightened away her wits.”
“Silence,” cried Gil. “Let her speak.”
“Who says I’m daft?” cried Mother Goodhugh, gathering strength. “I am not; but I know, I know. Ha, ha, ha! I wanted to stop the wedding and make my words come true. It was a judgment, too, on Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe, and I fired his powder-store.”
“She thinks it is a year ago,” muttered Gil, gazing at her with horror.
“Yes, yes. I’ve had my revenge,” muttered the old woman, gazing round wildly, as she struggled to keep her head erect, “and burnt his place. He has paid me now for my dearies, whom he killed. Poor souls! poor souls! One so white and cold when they drew him from the water; the other so blackened and so burned. But she was not so burned. Poor child! poor child! poor child!”
“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Gil hoarsely, “did you fire the Pool-house?”
“Yes, yes, yes; the powder,” gibbered the old woman, as she dragged her head up, and it once more fell back upon her chest. “I did it well; and now I’ll forgive him. I’ll curse Mas’ Cobbe no more. I did it just now. You heard it roar. See, it has burned my hands – my hair, but never mind; I’ve had revenge.”
“Then it was you who fired the powder there – that dreadful night,” cried Gil furiously, as he clutched the weak old creature by the throat.
“Yes, I did it,” chuckled the old woman; then, throwing up her hands as if in pain – “but Sweet Mace – poor Sweet Mace – they thought it killed her, too. I hated her; and yet, no; she was very good and sweet. I saw him bring her out – yes, it was you – and laid her – dead upon the ground. Yes, I saw; and she turned to a white spirit – yes, white spirit – and she comes to see me – no: does she? – I can’t think – it was just now I got her out, and she has come to me ever since, so white and sad, and she looks at me always with her great soft eyes. Poor child! poor girl! I’ve wept about her sore, for she was as good and gentle as Mistress Anne was bad.”
The spirit was in Gil Carr to strangle the old woman as she made her hideous confession, but her words of pity for sweet Mace disarmed him, and he let her sink to the earth, where she crouched, gazing feebly from one to the other, and fighting hard to sustain her tottering head.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned piteously; “she comes looking so white and sad to ask me why I killed her, and it makes my heart so sore. But I shall bring her to her senses again some day, perhaps – some day. Hush, hush! not a word. If you speak she goes again. There – there – look, look!” cried the old woman in a hoarse whisper, as, throwing one arm round Gil’s leg, she leaned her head against it, steadied herself, and pointed with her skinny fingers. “Yes, there she be. Poor child! poor child! Mace, child, I did not mean to harm thee. Wilt forgive me, dear? See! see!”
As she pointed they glanced in the direction indicated by the old woman’s finger, and Gil uttered a cry, for in the dark, powder-riven entry to the store, and not a dozen yards away, stood a weird figure with long, flowing hair. The arms and shoulders were bare, and the white hands covered the face, giving it as it stood in the obscurity of the cave a spiritual look that made even the least superstitious of the party – Gil himself – shudder, feeling that he was in the presence of a being of another world.
How Culverin Carr solved a Problem
Sweet Mace stood motionless in the opening, a soft blue reek floating gently out from the store, as the damp air of the place was driven forth by a downward current through a fissure far in its depths; and this, as it surrounded the rescued prisoner, added to the unreality of the scene. For the figure was seen through a medium that rendered it unsubstantial in aspect, added to which the deadly whiteness of the brow and hands made it look unnatural to a degree.
For some time no one spoke. The men grouped together, stared at the strange apparition in the cavern mouth, and Wat Kilby gazed from it to his leader and back, while the soft wind wafted the blue haze from the opening away from the motionless figure, and then enveloped it again, as if it were part and parcel of the subterranean abode, and it sought to draw its occupant back to its shades.
Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace’s feet, and lay there, panting.
“She has come from the dead to fetch me,” moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. “I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now – now – have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch.”
She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace’s bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch.
Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands.
“Mace,” he cried, hoarsely, “speak to me, oh, speak!”
He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh’s words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true.
As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast.
He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his.
It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms.
She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips.
A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in.
But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart.
“My love is dead,” he panted. “Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?”
“Skipper,” whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure. “Skipper,” the old fellow whispered hoarsely, “we bean’t cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!”
In his strange confusion of mind, Gil was for the moment ready to accept this theory, and he gazed down at the weird figure beside him, and then at Mother Goodhugh, where she lay. Was there really truth then in witchcraft, and had this old woman the power to recall the dead?
He looked at the deathly white face, the white hair, then at the cave mouth, and the surroundings of the bright sunlit ravine, and his group of wonder-stricken men, and then his every-day common sense prevailed. It was no myth, no trick of witchcraft, but a living, breathing form. It was Mace, the dead restored, his lost love, she whom he had mourned. How it was he did not know, neither could he stop to consider while she lay helpless by his side. Mace lived again, and the mystery must rest.
“Wat,” he cried, as like a flash of lightning the thought entered his brain. “The dead – the grave – it was Janet who was killed.”
The old man shook his head, but Gil paid no heed, for a low sigh had just escaped from Mace’s lips, and, bending down, he raised her head upon his arm, swept aside her long grey hair, and kissed her stony brow.
It was enough for him that she lived – that she whom he had mourned was restored to him, and raising the kerchief slightly he gazed in silent wonderment at the fast-closed eyes.
Then he awoke to the fact that it was time for action, and not for wonder, and rousing himself he began to give orders.
“Quick, my lads,” he cried; “make up a couch of the sailcloth in yonder, and carry in yon poor old creature. Wat, have a fire lit, then cut some of the ling, and make another couch.”
Their leader’s words broke the spell that seemed to have charmed the men, who hurriedly obeyed, while Gil strove hard to restore the icy frame he held to consciousness, trembling lest the shock had been too severe, and fighting hard to keep his brain from dwelling upon the mystery.
“Dead!” whispered a voice at his ear, and a pang shot through his breast as he gazed in horror at the face resting against his heart.
“No!” he cried hoarsely. “Dog! you lie.”
“No, no, skipper: the old witch – Mother Goodhugh. She be gone.”
“Art sure?” cried Gil, with a sigh of relief.
“Sartain, skipper. She was almost gone before.”
“Heaven forgive her!” said Gil, softly. “Wat, lay her decently in the furthest part of the store till we can put her to rest. See that a couch is ready. Poor sweet! she cannot bear the light.”
As he spoke, handling her as tenderly as if she had been an infant, Gil rose up and bore the insensible girl into the store, where the state of the objects around told him plainly that she must have been a prisoner for months.
In a few minutes’ time he had her lying upon a bed of soft heather, softened with a sail and a couple of heavy cloaks for coverlids, as he sought to infuse warmth, and with it life.
As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts, Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again.
He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result.
The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his evening hymn.
As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before; but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own.
But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him sternly begone, for he muttered:
“The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the dead.”
That she might live was Gil’s prayer; that, if a victim were needed to offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he could bear.
The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him. How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure, the icy coldness seemed to increase.
As the night drew on Gil knew it was impossible to get help, and in his despair he felt that he could only wait and hope. His men, saving those who watched, contrived themselves a rough tent under the shelter of the over-hanging rock, and at last, as the fire they had made died out, Gil knelt there alone with her who had been his boyhood’s love, his manhood’s deepest passion, and, feeling that she was gliding from him once again, he flung himself by her side, clasped the icy form to his breast, and sought by his despairing kisses to win from it some token of life.
It was in vain, and the warmth he sought to impart fled from his own breast to receive back the icy chill from hers.
The night stole on, and the soft whispers from the forest around were heard from time to time, or a withered leaf fell with a noise that was striking in the stillness around. Sometimes an owl swept past the cavern’s mouth on ghostly wing, making its presence known by its strange cry. The stars glittered and blinked and shed their soft light, while from time to time a faint breeze from the sea swept through the forest and up the glade, where it sighed and seemed to sob as it appeared to enter the cavern, and then fled shivering away.
Now and again some muttered word or uneasy motion on the part of one of the men could be heard, and at stated times the gaunt form of Wat Kilby was seen to go limping past, as he changed his sentries. Then the hours slipped by, and Gil still lay there clasping the senseless form to his breast – the form of the dead he told himself again and again, till utterly worn out with grief and despair a stupor more than a sleep fell upon him, and the present passed away.
It was broad daylight, and a faint flush of the coming sunshine was reflected from the side of the ravine visible from where Gil lay, while for a few moments he could not collect his thoughts. There was a strange buoyant feeling in his breast to which it had long been a stranger, and he lay wondering what it meant, till, like a flood, the recollection of the past night came upon him, and with a groan he turned his eyes to gaze upon the sweet, dead face of her he loved; but only to start up on his elbow, trembling with dread lest he should have been deceived.
For it was no icy marble frame that he had clasped to his breast. The warm life-blood of his heart had seemed to communicate its vitality to her who lay insensible there, and sent the current of life, that month by month had grown more sluggish in its course, bounding through artery and vein once more; and, as he bent lower and lower, it was to feel Mace’s soft, warm breath upon his cheeks.
He caught her hand in his and placed it on his breast. It was icy cold, but it was not deathly; and, when in a passion of thankfulness and joy he rained his kisses on brow and lips, the clammy, rigid feeling had quite passed away.
He knew that she lived; but there was no reply to his caresses. Asleep or in a strange stupor, he could not tell which; but as he released her she lay back motionless, save that her breast heaved softly, and her breathing was regular and slow.
He spoke to her with his lips to her ear, but there was no reply; he raised her in his arms and gazed in her pale face, but still there was no response; and, trembling lest she should again slip from him, he softly laid her head upon the rough pillow and tried to think of some plan to fan the tiny spark of life into a warmer glow.
Rousing his followers, and regardless now of discovery, so that he could gain help, Gil despatched Wat Kilby to Roehurst, and others to the ship and the nearest town, the result being, that the same evening the insensible girl was carefully borne to Croftly’s cottage, near her ruined home.
