He drank heartily and passed the flagon to the founder, who tapped the lid up and down as he said with a look of pride: "My own barley, parson--malted myself; my own hops--grew yonder; and the ale--brewed in my own tub. Good as Dame Beckley's home-made wine, eh?"

"Don't talk about it, goodman," cried the parson, with a look of disgust. "Come, thou hast raised a desire to take the taste out of my mouth that seemed to come in. Give me the flagon once again."

The founder passed the ale, and the visitor took another draught of so vigorous a kind that, after the operation, Mace started off to refill the vessel.

"Ah!" sighed Master Peasegood, "the dreadful draughts that good, weak woman has presented me to drink are something terrible to think of:-- agrimony tea, balm wine, camomile tea, and a score more; but the worst of all is that dreadful juice of her sour well-squeezed grapes, that she calleth wine. Master Cobbe, will you kindly pass the ale, and methinks I'll take a pipe."

The parson dined with them, and stayed on as if to supper; Tom Croftly enjoying the rest of his holiday his own way, which was in "terrifying weeds," as he called it, chopping away with a hoe at the luxuriance that sprang up in the moist, fertile garden. In the evening the seat beneath the apple-tree was occupied, and they sat and talked as the soft running murmur of the water came pleasantly to their ears, while Mace, in the enjoyment of the pleasant hours, and forgetful of her love-troubles for the time, worked as long as she could see. Sir Mark was forgotten, and, in spite of one painful remembrance, Gil's bronzed, handsome face filled her fancy as she listened to the whirr of the nightjar from the oak plantation, and from the bosky clumps away towards the ironstone hills the thrush's evening hymn; and then away and away for miles till the sweet songs sounded faint and died away.

Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such joys.

Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the handle of his hoe.

She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come.

"I've about terrified all them weeds, mistress," he said, "and I'm going home. The bees be all right, and I've had a rare fine day; but there be some'at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don't quite like to speak."

"What is it, Tom?" said Mace. "Is it any thing I can do for you?"

"Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I ought to tell'ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?"

"Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day's picking."

"That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best 'ood I could.

All alder 'ood, and well seasoned; and--"

"You want me to do something for you, Tom?"

"Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I've knowed ever since thou couldst toddle. Thou won't be hurt like and rate me if I speak?"

"No, Tom, I will not," said Mace, wondering what his request would be.

"Then don't you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark, mistress, for he's a bad 'un, fond o' wenching, and not good enough for thee."

Tom Croftly did not wait for an answer to his prayer, but hurried away in a shamefaced fashion, leaving Mace with her breast heaving and the colour burning in her cheeks. The tears rose to her eyes, and she seemed to awaken once more to the realities of the present, and, as if to complete the disillusioning of her heart, she heard the tramp of a horse, and as she rejoined her father she heard the stout parson say--

"Hey, Master Cobbe, here comes thy gay visitor. I think I'll not stay supper. I'll say good-night. Ah, Mace, my child, you there? Farewell, my darling. Good-night."

He rolled off, meeting Sir Mark by the bridge, as the latter caught sight of Mace's dress through the trees, and effectually blocking the knight's way as he tried to be polite, till such time as Mace had reached her room to sit for hours thinking of Sir Mark's return. Then she found herself wondering what Gil was doing, and whether she ought ever to give him a thought now as she recalled the scene which she had witnessed with Mistress Anne.

Volume 1, Chapter XVII.

HOW GIL AND SIR MARK MEASURED SWORDS.

"A courtier," said Sir Mark, smiling, "Well perhaps I am; but see how I have taken to this rustic, delicious life. I have felt like another man since I have been here."

"Indeed, Sir Mark," said Mace gravely, as they stood a couple of evenings later in the founder's hayfield, where the stack now stood waiting for its crowning of straw.

"Yes, indeed," he cried. "Look here; I have been with your men to-day and yesterday when they piled up this sweet-scented hay, and I am growing quite a farmer. I know that Master Cobbe was rather too hurried in getting it up, and that it reeks too much, and that if it were covered in now it would go bad."

"Indeed?" said Mace, and speaking as if her thoughts were far away.

"Yes, indeed," he cried; "and I am growing wise in gun-casting and powder-making. I am learning day by day; but above all, sweet Mace, I am learning how vain and hollow is the world to which I have belonged, and how happiness is not to be found there."

"You are talking in riddles, Sir Mark," replied Mace, dragging herself back as it were to listen to his words.

"Read my riddles, then," he cried, in a low tone, as he laid his hand upon her arm, and arrested her by the meadow-path. "Mace, dearest, listen to me--but for a few moments. No, no; do not hasten--the evening is early yet, and where could be fitter place for what I would say than this sweetly-scented mead, where the soft evening breeze seems to whisper of that which fills my heart? Mace, dearest, I love you with all my heart."

"Sir Mark," she said, turning to look half wonderingly, half in anger, in his flushed face, "do you forget that you are my father's guest; that this is no place of gallantry, but that I, his simple, country-born child, am a mere rustic, and unfit for such as you?"

"Unfit!" he cried. "Shame, when you are beautiful as the fairest woman of King James's court."

"The evening is growing damp, Sir Mark," said Mace coldly.

"Why are you so distant?" he whispered, trying to take her hand. "Nay, nay, this is too bad, you must have seen, you must know, that I love you."

"I have seen, sir, that it has pleased you to pass compliments, as seems to be a favourite habit of yours, and you, sir, must have seen that they caused me pain."

"Pain? When I'd give my right hand, my very life, to save you from a single pang! Mace, you know why I have lingered here, even to getting in disgrace with my Royal master, that I might be near you; and now for reward you grow cold as if we had never met before."

"Sir Mark, I must return home."

"Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?"

"Sir Mark," replied the girl, "does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?"

"Pest on her particular ways," he muttered. Then aloud, "No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet."

"If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words."

He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated--a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner.

"Mace," he said, sternly, "I want a few words with you."

"Not now; not now," she said.

"Yes, now," he cried, angrily. "I cannot bear this coldness longer.

You must, you shall, listen to me."

"No, no," she cried; "another time."

"Why another time?" he said. "Ah, I see," he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. "There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside."

Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl's face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate.

"Ah, my child," he said, saluting her; "a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble."

"Yes, yes, father," she whispered, excitedly. "A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief."