It was evening, and Mace was seated alone in the big window, working, and glancing out from time to time at the pleasant garden, thinking that it did not look so bright and cheery as of old; when Sir Mark entered, and crossing the room stood close by her, gazing gently down with his hands clasped behind.

She looked up at him in a timid way, and then shrank back in her chair.

Her first impulse was to run from the room, but she scouted the idea as one only fit for some weak girl; and, fighting hard to recover herself, she said the first words that came to her lips, angry with herself the next moment with what she had spoken.

"Mistress Anne Beckley was here with my lady this afternoon."

"Indeed!" he said, huskily, as he still gazed down.

"Mistress Anne asked after your health, and bade me say that they missed you very much."

"And you, what did you say?" he asked, softly.

"I said you were busy with my father, watching over the trial of great pieces of ordnance and the making of powder," replied Mace, who was fast recovering her calmness.

"Why did you not tell her I could not tear myself from the home where my every thought was centred; that I could not live away from her who was to be my wife? See, Mace, dearest, I brought you this from town. It is to grace your sweet, white throat. There, I thought the pearls were beautiful, but they look poor and mean, after all."

Mace's hands nervously clasped Sir Mark's wrists as, with a quick movement, he brought them from behind him, and throwing a handsome string of pearls round her neck he clasped it there.

If her suitor's wrists had burned her, she could not have snatched her hands away more quickly as she shrank back once more into her seat, gazing at him with so strange a look that the words he was about to utter failed on his lips, and he stood for a while gazing down at her in silence.

"You are surprised," he said at last, smiling. "Well, they were given clumsily, but you teach me to be humble and reverent before you, Mace.

I grow speechless in your presence, as with a kind of humble adoration, as I look forward to the day when you will be my wife."

"Your--wife!" she faltered.

"Yes," he cried, catching her by the hands to cover them with kisses, "my wife, whom I shall worship, and take away from this wild, secluded spot to shine like some jewel in King James's court."

He dropped her hand, for he heard the founder's voice without, and left her sitting back--crouched, as it were, in her chair, cold and nerveless.

She had expected this; she had looked hourly for its coming; but now that it had come it was like some fearful shock.

"Gil," she whispered, at last. "Gil," as she felt like a bird in a fowler's net, "why are you not here?"

His name seemed to give her back her strength, and, starting up, she caught sight of her white face in the glass. Then her eyes fell upon the glistening ornament around her neck, and, feeling that it was like a chain that Sir Mark had placed there to secure her to him, she tore at it hastily, the string snapped, and the great lustrous pearls flew with a pattering noise about the floor as she hurried from the room, ran up to her chamber, and threw herself sobbing upon her knees.

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

HOW MACE OBJECTED TO HER BARGAIN.

"Am I a weak child?" cried Mace at last, as she sprang up and wiped away her tears. "I will not sit still, and be sold like this. I cannot be forced to wed a man I hate, and I will not listen to his words.

"When will Gil come back?" she cried; and sitting down she tried to reckon up the number of weeks since he sailed, but her head was in a whirl; and even as she tried to think her hands burned, and she held them from her as if they had been polluted by the kisses they had received.

Then, with a feeling of horror, she thought of the possibility of Gil having witnessed that scene--the clasping on of the necklace, the touch of the donor's hands, and the tears once more rushed to her eyes as she writhed at her helpless position.

"I will go away to Cousin Ellice," she said; "I will go at once. Father cannot know of Sir Mark's behaviour. I cannot, I will not, believe it,"

she cried, passionately. "I would not marry Gil without his consent, but I cannot listen to this man.

"Why, one would think I was some weak girl such as we read of in the old ballad stories!" she cried, with a laugh that was more like a hysterical cry, and, hastily washing away the traces of her tears, she determined to make a bold effort to show Sir Mark that his case was hopeless, and descended to the parlour to gather up and restore the pearls.

All thought of the jewels, though, was chased away by the sight of her father just seating himself for a rest and a smoke; and, smoothing her face, she went up to him, and stood by his side with her hands resting upon his shoulder.

"Are you tired, dear?" she said, passing her cool hand across his brow.

"Very, child," he replied, drawing her to him, so that she was seated upon his knee, with her head leaning against his cheek.

"You work so hard now," she continued. "This great order makes you so busy."

"Yes," he said, laughing; "but it is for honour and wealth, child. It is a great thing, and Sir Mark as good as promises that I shall be Master of Ordnance to the King."

"Are Sir Mark's promises all to be believed?" said Mace, quietly.

"To be sure! Yes, of course, child. He is a noble gentleman, of goodly birth, and when thou art his wife--"

He stopped short, for the words he had been trying to say had suddenly slipped from his lips, and he was startled by the manner in which his child leaped from his side, to stand staring down at him with flashing eyes.

"What is it?" he cried, in a clumsy, faltering manner.

"What was that you said, father?"

"I said when thou art Sir Mark's wife, and he takes thee to court."

"I can never be Sir Mark Leslie's wife."

"Tut! nonsense," cried the founder, working himself up into a passion; "why do you talk such rubbish as this? What do you know of wedlock?

Sir Mark has asked for thy hand in honourable marriage. It is a great honour; and thou wilt be wed and praised at court, and become a great body. What could I wish better for my child?"

"Oh, father, what do you mean?" she cried, with his own angry spirit rising up within her.

"Mean?" he cried, rousing himself now, to finish the task that he had fought in vain for so long to begin. "I mean that Sir Mark is to be thy husband. He brings thee honour and me wealth. It is a great thing, child. Living here as thou hast, such a position as that thou wilt occupy is a thing almost undreamed of. Why, my darling," he said, trying to smile, "thou wilt ride in thy grand carriage, and have lackeys to follow thee, and be admired of all the court. Zounds! but I shall be proud indeed!"

"Father," cried Mace, piteously, "you do not mean all this!"

"But I do!" he cried. "There, go to, silly child; it seems a trouble, but it will be all a joy. There, there: we need talk of it no more, for perhaps it will not be for months. I have given Sir Mark my promise, and thou wilt be his wife."

Mace stood gazing at him piteously. Then throwing her arms round his neck she burst into a fit of sobbing.

"No, no, dear father!" she cried, "I cannot, I cannot wed him. It would break my heart."

"Stuff!" he cried, caressing her; "what dost thou know of breaking hearts and such silly, girlish fancies? He brings thee jewels, and thou wilt have gay brocades. Why, my sweet pet, thou wilt drive Anne Beckley mad with envy. Mark me, she meant to wed Sir Mark herself."

"Father, dear," said Mace, kissing him, and speaking in a low, appealing voice, "it is not like you to speak to your little girl like this. Do I care to flaunt in gay clothes--to try and best Anne Beckley? Have I any such ideas as these?"

"No, no, child; may be not," he said, stroking her hair; "but--but--I'd like to see thee a grand dame."

"Would it make you happier, dear?" she replied, kissing him fondly as she nestled to his breast.

"Well, well, yes, of course," he said hastily.