Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times. Fenn George Manville

the open spaces where the pine and hornbeam ceased to grow, a pleasant-timbered gabled house, where it seemed, with its climbing roses and blushing flowers, that sorrow could never come – “it is builded on the sandrock, but it shall be rent asunder, and dissolve in flame, and smoke, and ruin, and destruction, and then – then” – she cried hoarsely.

      “Why then, Mother Goodhugh,” said the founder, “we’ll build it up afresh, for there’s stone and timber enough about for a dozen such houses, and close at hand.”

      “Nay,” cried the old woman, “nay,” she croaked, for her voice had gone, and she spoke now in a hoarse whisper; “listen, all of you: the very stones of the ruins will be cursed, and all the trade, and no man shall lay hands upon them to build again, lest he be accursed himself.”

      In spite of her brave true heart, Mace felt a chill strike through her as the old woman walked hurriedly away, thumping her crutch-stick on the ground, and stopping to turn and shake it threateningly at the Pool-house – even stopping by the gate to spit towards the door before she went on muttering and gesticulating, with her grey hood thrown back on her shoulders, her linen cap in her hand, and her hair streaming in the soft summer breeze, which came to the little crowd standing gazing after her as she went.

      “Poor old girl!” cried the founder, with his face lighting up once more. “Come, lads, the storm’s over; back to work.”

      The men looked at one another, and walked away with shaking head and pursed-up lip, while the women stole off in silence, to gather together at one of the cottages and talk over the wise woman’s words.

      “Poor souls!” cried the founder, cheerily; “they believe her to the bottom of their hearts. Why, hey, here’s Master Peasegood, to bear me out. I say, Master Peasegood, that if an old and ugly woman chooses to set up for a witch, and only curses hard enough, she’ll find plenty to believe in her.”

      “Ay, and as you say, Master Cobbe, if she only curse hard enough, and only prophesy, like David danced, with all his might, some of the stones are sure to hit the mark. Your servant, sir; Mace, my pretty flower, how is it with you? Bless you, my child, bless you!”

      This in a thick unctuous voice, as the speaker, an enormously fat, heavy man, in rather shabby clerical habiliments, rolled up to the group, and, taking Mace in his arms, kissed her roundly on both her cheeks, while, to Sir Mark’s hot indignation and surprise, the maiden laid her hands upon the parson’s broad breast, and kissed him in return.

      “I was coming to pay my respects to you – Sir Mark Leslie, I believe.”

      The knight bowed stiffly, with his countenance full of displeasure.

      “Sir Thomas Beckley told me of your illness, and begged me to call,” continued Master Peasegood, whose heavy cheeks wabbled as he spoke. “Aha, that’s one of the privileges of being an old, an ugly, and a horribly fat man. I may kiss my pretty little Mace here when and where I will. Master Cobbe,” he continued, as he held and patted the maiden’s soft white little hand, “if you do not place the key in these fingers, and bid our little blossom go fetch me a tankard of the coolest, brownest, beadiest ale in that rock-hewn cellar of thine, this man-mountain will lie down in the shade and faint. Zooks, gentlemen, but the sun is hot.”

      He took off his broad-brimmed soft hat, and wiped his brow as he looked at both in turn, while Mace went off for the ale.

      “Ay, it is hot, Master Peasegood; but it will be hotter in yonder directly. Come and see the casting.”

      “Not I,” said the new-comer: “I’ll go and sit in the shady room, and hold discourse with fair little Mace, and the ale. I shall stay to the next meal, so you need not hurry,” he added, to Sir Mark’s disgust.

      “You’re welcome,” said the founder. “How is the holy father? Why didn’t you bring him?”

      “Out on the malignant! I’ve done with him,” cried Master Peasegood, with much severity. “He’s all purgatory and absolution and curse. Ah, talk about cursing! So Mother Goodhugh has been at work again.”

      “Ay, with all her might.”

      “Hah! I like being cursed,” said the parson, drawing a long breath. “I’ve been cursed more than any man living, sir,” he continued, turning to Sir Mark. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! see how I flourish upon it. I like being cursed.”

      “But you don’t like cursing,” said the founder.

      “Nay, not at all,” said the parson. “Well, I’ll in to my draught of ale. Go and get you dope, and come and join me,” and, saluting Sir Mark, he, to that gentleman’s great relief, rolled slowly towards the porch, while the founder led his guest through the low arched doorway into the furnace-house, whose interior was now aglow.

      Mace awaited her stout visitor in the cool, shady parlour, with the silver flagon in her hands, then lifted the lid, and held it out to him with a smile.

      He took it, sniffed the aromatic scent, and raised it to his lips, with his eyes on Mace, but set the vessel down again, and took the maiden’s hands.

      “Give me another kiss, child, before I defile my lips with strong liquor. Hah,” he added, after the salute, “that was as fresh as the touch of a dewy blossom at early morn. God’s blessing be on the man who wins thy love, my child, and may he make thee a very, very happy wife. Nay, nay, don’t blush, child,” he continued, patting the hand he still retained. “I am a confirmed old bachelor, and shall never wed; but I hold, as opposed to Father Brisdone – the devil take him! – that there is no purer and no holier thing in life than the love of a good man for a sweet, pure woman, unless it be the love of the woman for the man.”

      “You do not drink your ale, Master Peasegood;” said Mace, blushing, and looking pained.

      “Nay, my child, that can rest, for now we are on this topic of love I want to talk to thee. Come, come, look not so angered with me. You’ve grown a beautiful woman, Mace: but I seem always to be looking at my pretty, prattling babe, who brought me flowers every Sabbath day. Ah! my child, time flies apace —tempus edax rerum, as Father Brisdone would say. But hearken to me, child, I am no father confessor, but if my little Maybud did not open her sweet young heart to me ’twould grieve me sore.”

      “Oh, Master Peasegood,” cried Mace, enlacing her hands, and resting them on his shoulder, as he seated himself on a chair, which groaned beneath his weight, “I have not a thought that I would keep from thee.”

      “I know thou hast not,” he said. “So tell me – this courtly spark, has he said words of love?”

      “Nay, Master Peasegood, but he sighs and gazes at me pensively, and lingers here as if he wished me to believe he was in love.”

      “And you? What of this little heart? What think you of his gay clothes and courtly ways, and smooth manners and gentle words?”

      “I think him a good-looking, pleasant-spoken gentleman enough,” said Mace.

      “Ah! that will do,” cried the parson, smiling, as he gazed into the maiden’s clear, bright eyes. “That will do, my rosebud; not a quiver of the eyelids; not a blush; not a trembling of the lips. Faith, child, you’ve set my heart at ease. There, keep thine own fast locked till the good, true man shall come and knock, and ask for entrance. Then, child, open it wide, and shut it, and lock him in, never to set him free.”

      Mace nodded and smiled.

      “That’s only part of my errand, child; the other is about Culverin Carr, our bold captain. What of him? Aha! does that prick?”

      He held the girl’s hand tightly, for she turned half away, with a pained look in her face, and the tears rose to her eyes.

      “Well, and ill,” cried Master Peasegood, shaking his head. “What does it mean, child? You care for him, I think?”

      “I hardly know,” sighed Mace.

      “Then you do,” said Master Peasegood, nodding his big head. “There’s no doubt about such matters, child. But tell me all – you may trust me – does he know you like him?”

      “Oh,