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

it – that’s better,” said Gilbert Carr, quietly. “You need have no fear for the consequences, sir. It is a clean cut, and will soon heal in our pure, fresh air.”

      “I thank you,” said Sir Mark, rather stiffly; “I do not fear. Madam, I grieve to have caused you this trouble,” he continued, addressing Mace, who stood close by.

      “Nay, sir; pray do not say that. It is we who are grieved – my father.”

      “Ay, she’s right,” said Cobbe, advancing. “My brave lad, I feel ashamed to face you after such a stroke.”

      “Ashamed!” said Sir Mark, with a quiet glance at Mace; and then, seeing his advantage, he said, smiling as he held out his uninjured hand, “Never be ashamed, sir, of so gallant a handling of your sword. They tell me in London I can fence, and that enemies who have fought make the best of friends.”

      “You are a brave true gentleman, sir,” cried the founder, wringing the outstretched hand; “and I humbly ask your forgiveness for my choler. I was hot and angry. There, God bless the King; and I beg his Majesty’s pardon for what I said.”

      “It is granted,” said Sir Mark, smiling faintly, “for he will never know.”

      “Now let me say a word,” said Gil, who had been uneasily looking on. “Fever may come on if he is excited. Take my advice, sir, lie back and go to sleep. Mace – no, here is Janet – fetch a pillow for this gentleman.”

      The girl ran out, and returned bearing one of snowy hue, which Gil adjusted beneath the wounded man’s head.

      “Now, sir, sleep for awhile, and you will be refreshed. Your arm is all right. I have dressed many a sword-cut in my time.”

      “Thanks,” said Sir Mark, faintly; “but some one will stay with me in the room?”

      He glanced at Mace.

      “Of course,” said the founder. “Mace, my child.”

      “Yes,” said Gil, quietly, “go away, Mace; Janet will stay and watch by this gentleman’s side.”

      Mace glanced at him wonderingly, and Janet coloured with pleasure as, frowning slightly, Sir Mark closed his eyes, and the girl half drew the blind, while, headed by the founder, after removing all traces of the conflict, Gilbert Carr and Mace went softly out, and closed the door.

      “Why do you look at me like that?” said Mace, as they stood alone. “Gil, do you doubt me?”

      “Doubt you?” he said softly as he bent down and kissed her white forehead. “No, I could not, for you are not as other women are. I did not wish you, though, to be ’tendant to this spark from the Court, for such he seems to be. Nay, Mace, I’ve no jealousy in me. But there is your pike,” he added, pointing to the fish, a great fellow four feet long, which lay on the red bricks at their feet. “Here is your father, and he’ll tell us how the quarrel rose.”

      “Quarrel! it was not worth calling a quarrel,” cried the founder, shortly. “It seems that some meddlesome fool has been telling them in London of my works, and this gentleman has been sent down to inspect the place. He vexed me, and said something about the King, which made me rap out an oath. He drew: I drew.”

      “And our visitor went down,” said Gil Carr, smiling. “Well, Master Cobbe, there’s not much harm done.”

      “But I shall have to send over to the Moat, Gil, and tell Sir Thomas; he was here a piece back.”

      “Nay,” said Gil, “ill news flies apace, there is no need to hasten it. Leave it to the gentleman himself.”

      “Perhaps you are right,” returned the founder. “Of course he will not be fit to leave for a day or two. Mace, child, get the south chamber ready for our guest: let’s try and make up for the ill that we have done.”

      Gilbert Carr half-closed his eyes and stood silent till Mace left the open hall, where they were standing, to prepare the chamber for the wounded man, when he replied to the founder’s remark: —

      “It depends so upon the man.”

      “Eh? How?”

      “Well, if you had a scratch or pin-thrust like that you would go and see to the grinding of your last batch of powder. If I had it, I should.”

      “Well?” said the founder.

      “I should tie it up – tightly,” replied Gil, drily. “Your guest there will make a month’s illness of it for the sake of being petted by the women and nursed.”

      “That’s a pretty jealous kind of remark, Captain Gil,” said the founder sharply. “I noticed how you took me up short when I bade Mace stop in the room with the poor young man. Come down here, I want to talk to you. We may as well say it now as at any other time. Let’s walk down to the empty furnace. No one will heed us there.”

      “With all my heart,” said Gil, and, with a cloud gathering on his brow, he walked after the founder, along by the side of the rushing water, past the mill-wheel, and down to a good-sized stone building, beside which was a great pile of charcoal.

      “Now, Gil Carr,” said the founder, seating himself on the ledge of an open window, “I’m not going to quarrel.”

      “That you are not,” said the other, smiling frankly; “and if you did you are not going to fight, for I won’t draw. One wounded man is enough for one day.”

      “Tut – tut – yes,” cried the founder. “But now look here, Captain Gil – ”

      “Suppose we drop the captain, and let it be plain Gil again, as it has been these many years. Master Cobbe, we are very old friends.”

      “Yes, yes, of course, Gil, so we are,” said the founder, looking annoyed and puzzled. “But now, look here, tell me why did you interfere when I was going to tell my child to sit in the room with that injured gentleman. Come now, be frank.”

      “I will,” said Gil, quietly. “It was because I did not think it seemly for her to stay and tend a man whose eyes had just openly bespoken admiration, and I thought that Janet would do as well.”

      “Like your insolence,” cried the choleric old man.

      “Gently, Master Cobbe,” said the other smiling; “too much powder again.”

      “Confound it, yes,” he cried, calming down, but only to grow wroth the next moment, as he saw the smile upon his companion’s face. “You are laughing at me, Gil; and now, hark ye here, I think it is quite time we came to a proper understanding.”

      “About Mace?” said Gil, quietly.

      “Yes, about my child,” said the founder.

      “I think so, too,” said Gil, calmly, but with the bronze hue of his cheek becoming a little more deeply tinted.

      “Oh! you do,” said the founder, with a peculiar hesitancy, now it had come to the point, and an aspect of being slightly in awe of the other and his calm, firm way – the peculiar quiet assertion of one born to and accustomed to command.

      “I do,” said Gil, gazing him full in the eyes; “and I am glad that you have opened a subject I wanted to discuss.”

      “Then it is soon done,” said the founder; “and look here, Gil, my dear lad, after the talk is over, we go back to our old positions as good friends, and it is to be as if we had never spoken.”

      “Have no fear,” said Gil, smiling; “as I told you, we shall not quarrel.”

      “Well, then, look here,” said the founder, making a plunge at once into the subject. “Gil Carr, you are growing too intimate with my child.”

      “Indeed!” said Gil, raising his eyebrows. “Let me see, Master Cobbe: it is sixteen years since Wat Kilby brought me, a delicate boy of twelve, low from an attack of a fever caught in the Western Isles, and you and your good wife nursed me into strength.”

      “Yes, yes, quite true,” said the founder, hastily. “Poor Rachel! poor Rachel!” he muttered, and his face clouded.

      “If