He shook his head at that, and once more went to bed.

The next night he was sitting alone again, indulging in his evening pipe.

"Poor little darling, it would bring some tears in her eyes if I did consent, and give her to him as his wife. _Give_; yes, give! I would not sell her; but, after all, what a position for her! I think I should like it; and, after all, I am but mortal. Why should I not wear velvet and a gold chain, and strut about as Sir Jeremiah Cobbe, Master of the King's Ordnance?"

He refilled his glass and pipe and smiled to himself, for the stones were getting very loose, and the walls of the outworks were tottering to their fall.

"My darling, too, my lady--Dame Mace Leslie. Hang the honours for myself! I'd give something, though, to see my little maiden in her gay stomacher and fardingale, with jewel-studded coif, and lace ruff, go rustling into court, all abloom with her youth and beauty, the envy of everybody in the place."

He sat and smoked as he pictured the scene.

"God bless her!" he cried; "there wouldn't be one there who was her equal. My word, how they'd all gird as they feasted their eyes on the daughter of Jeremiah Cobbe!

"Pah! What idiots my old people were! Jeremiah! What a name for a stout-hearted Englishman! I think we did better in calling our darling Mace. I don't know, though," he muttered; "it don't seem to go well with _Dame_.

"Humph! I wonder what her poor mother would say, whether she would hold out as I have done."

He sat on thinking till long past midnight, with the sapping and mining of Sir. Mark insidiously doing its work, though the founder heeded it not.

"Curse the money," he said; "I care not a jot for that, but am I doing right in standing like this in my darling's light? Suppose I said yea to Sir Mark's proposal, and let him become her suitor? What then?"

He sat and smoked out his pipe to the very ash, and then thought on as he sucked at the empty bowl:--

"Ay, what then?"

Jeremiah Cobbe sat there the long night through, and at early dawn only went up to his chamber, where, after a refreshing wash, he sat and thought again before going down, as the workers came from the various cottages to their daily toil.

As he stood by one of the windows gazing out he saw his child in the garden culling flowers, and Sir Mark watching her, but he did not follow her, only went away with bent head, and stood leaning over the breech of a gun.

The founder stayed thinking again for a little while, and then, drawing a long breath, he crossed the intervening space, clapped the young man on the shoulder, and held out his hand.

"Give me your word as a gentleman, Sir Mark, that your suit shall be in all kindliness and love,--that you will use no undue pressure, but wait patiently for my consent,--and--you understand?"

"I promise," said Sir Mark, earnestly, as he laid his hand in that of the founder, fighting hard the while to keep down a triumphant look.

Hand clasped hand, and, as if moved by the same influence, the two parties to the unholy bargain glanced towards the house, at whose door stood Mace, gazing at them with labouring, unquiet breast, for a greater trouble than that of her father's warlike weapons now assailed her heart.

Volume 2, Chapter XIV.

HOW SIR MARK PUT ON THE FIRST CHAIN.

The founder was full of repentance, and felt that evening that he dared not meet his child's clear, searching gaze.

"He's too much for me," he muttered. "He's managed to get over me when I've had more ale than's good for me, and when I've brought out the sherry sack. It's prime stuff, that dry, strong sherry, but it makes a man too easy, and he gives away more than he would when it's not in him.

I'll be more careful. I won't take so much; and yet I don't know--it's very pleasant."

He had gradually worked himself round to the belief that he was acting for the best, and then came the reaction, and he felt that he had sold his child for the sake of gain.

Nothing was said about his promises to Sir Mark, for, though he had gone into the house soon after with the express determination of speaking out frankly and imperatively his intentions, he shrank from the untoward task.

"I'll take her down the garden, and have a quiet talk in the morning,"

he said; and when the morning came he put it off till eve, plunging heart and soul into the busy toil amongst his people, who, like some little colony, looked up to him as their patriarch and the supplier of their daily food.

"The lads are pleased enough with this girt job, master," said Tom Croftly, wiping the grime and sweat from his forehead, as they stood by one of the roaring furnaces; and the founder came away smiling, but only for his smile to be chased away as he saw Mother Goodhugh going along the track, to stop and shake her stick in his direction as she seemed to be cursing him.

"I never minded her and her curses before," he muttered; "but now they seem to worry me like. I haven't done right--I haven't done right; but I've given my word--I've given my word."

He hurriedly made for another work-shed, glancing unquietly at the old woman as she trudged along, turning from time to time to look in his direction.

"Curse that old harridan!" he muttered; and then he stood thinking, perhaps for the first time in his life, that now he had, as it were, been unfaithful to his trust, Mother Goodhugh's evil wishes against his house might have some effect.

"I don't care," he said; "it's for the best;" but as he said the words the remembrance of Gil Carr rose up before him, as if with reproach.

"He should never have had her," he muttered. "It was impossible. The death of that poor fellow, Churr, clings to him, say what one may. He may not have done the deed, but it was by his orders, and he is responsible for the sin."

He bit his lips angrily even as these thoughts came to his mind, for they gave him no relief, and it seemed cowardly to harbour them in Gil's absence, just by way of excuse for his present acts.

Then, too, go where he would, work hard as he might, his child's calm, reproachful gaze seemed to be ever before him.

"She knows it already; I'm sure she knows it," he said to himself; and at last, harassed by his upbraiding thoughts, he became furious and irritable to a degree.

The eve had passed, and the next morning, and the night, but still the founder did not speak. He told himself that he had but to say--"My child, Sir Mark is your future husband;" but he could not say those words, and at times he grew fiercely angry at his cowardice, for as the days glided by the task grew harder and harder, and he literally dared not speak.

He had one satisfaction, though, and that made somewhat smoother the thorny way through which he was travelling, Sir Mark was gentleness itself towards Mace. He never spoke one word that was not full of tender consideration towards her. His very looks, though full of admiration, were softened by respect; but she could read in them an air of proprietorship; and to her mind they seemed to say that he knew he was safe to win her if he only waited his time.

Those were not happy days at the Pool-house, and Mace, with many a bitter tear, wished herself back in the pleasant peaceful times of the past. The coming of Sir Mark's men had wrought a complete change in the place; there were quarrels of frequent occurrence on the score of gallantries, real or suspected, with husbands and brothers, rumours of which came to the young girl's ears; and, whenever she encountered Mother Goodhugh, the old woman had a malignant laugh for her, and a shaking finger that seemed to portend evil. Then, in her despondent state of mind, Janet became a constant source of trouble to her. She scolded, threatened to send her away, and even tried to keep her shut up in the house; but she might as well have tried to wrap up so much quicksilver in muslin as to keep back the wilful girl, for in return for bits of news and gossip carried to Mother Goodhugh, the old woman furnished Janet with philtres that were to win her the hearts of any of the gay strangers she wished to enthral.

"Oh, Janet, Janet, where is your modesty?" cried her mistress. "Who was that man you talked with? Is it not the same I warned you about last night?"

"No-o, mistress," said Janet.

"How can you be so shameless! Night after night I have to blame you for your wilful ways."

"Yes, mistress," sobbed Janet; "I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but men are so nice."

"For shame! Why not heed me when I speak to you for your good?"

"I do, mistress," sobbed Janet; "but these men they plague me so. I try, oh, so very hard, to be good, and I will be a better girl. I want to be good, and something always keeps trying to make me bad; but I will be better now."

But Janet grew worse, in spite of her promises of amendment. She wept and sobbed, and avowed that she was the wickedest girl under the sun, kissed her upbraiding mistress's hands with the full intent of leading a more modest life, and the next hour her vows were all forgotten, and she was listening to the soft whispers of some one or other of the soldierly men who hung about the place.

So Mace's days were not peaceful now, and matters at last became so unbearable as the time glided on that she determined to speak to her father, and ask him to let her leave home until his great work that troubled her so was done, and the unwelcome visitors were gone.

For weeks she went about with the words on her lips, longing to say them, but she dared not on account of the shock she knew it would give her father, while he, restless and unquiet in her presence, kept back what he had to say.

It was Sir Mark who brought father and daughter to an explanation.

There had been a week of something like relief, for the visitor had been to London on business connected with the order, and on his return he had startled Mace by a change in his mien in speaking to her as he had not spoken since his avowal of his love that evening by the meadow-gate.