fellow we talked with – Wat Kilby – he is the captain’s head man – Captain Carr – Culverin Carr they call him here.”
“A fine, handsome, corsair-like fellow, with the look of a Spaniard and the daring of a hero?” said the visitor mockingly.
“Yes,” said the baronet quietly; “you have just described him, Sir Mark. His father, they say, went with Sir Walter Raleigh on his ill-fated expedition. The son was in the same ship, and when old Captain Carr died he left his son to the care of his crew.”
“And they made the youth their captain,” said Mistress Anne, with heightened colour.
“Yes,” said Sir Thomas, “and he has been their captain ever since.”
“But,” said Sir Mark curiously, “what are they – buccaneers – pirates?”
“Heaven knows,” said Sir Thomas, giving a glance round. “There are matters, Sir Mark,” he continued nervously, “that it is not always wise to discuss in a place where the very trees have ears.”
“Absurd!” cried Sir Mark. “Here, in his Majesty’s dominions, all men should be able to speak freely, and you excite my curiosity, Sir Thomas. Please to bear in mind that I am his Highness’s representative,” he continued stiffly, “sent here upon a special ambassage. Reports have reached the Court of a reckless buccaneering party, of the refuse and dregs of Raleigh’s freebooters, haunting the south coast; but I knew not that it was here in Sussex.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sir Mark,” whispered the baronet, mopping his face, “be advised and say no more. The place here is haunted by them, and they do what pleases them best. I am a justice, Sir Mark, but my authority is set at naught. You heard that man Kilby, how wanting in reverence he was? He is a sample of the rest, and I pray nightly when their ship sails from here that she may never return again.”
“A noble Christian-like feeling,” cried Sir Mark. “But, tut, tut, Sir Thomas, this must not be. Rouse up, man. These knaves must be brought to book if they don’t behave. Have no fear, sir; a word from me to the King, and his Majesty’s wisdom would be brought to bear on the need of sweeping this place clear of such dregs.”
Sir Thomas was gazing uneasily around, while Mistress Anne seemed to cast off her mincing ways, and her eyes flashed eagerly as she drank in the young courtier’s words.
“I know his Highness means well to all his subjects, Sir Mark,” said the baronet, nervously. “I thank him for conferring upon me my title, and he has no more loyal subject in these parts; but pray, Sir Mark, do not be too eager to report all you see. We are very lonely here, and far from cities and their ways. There is no man in these parts, sir, who is not influenced by – by – ”
“Captain Culverin?”
“Hush – hush, pray, Sir Mark,” whispered the baronet, and then to himself, “Thank heaven we are here.”
“And is this the place?” said Sir Mark, standing pointing his moustache, as they emerged from the path upon the edge of a fine spreading sheet of water, embowered in noble woods and half covered with aquatic vegetation. In various parts clusters of water-fowl sat lightly on the glistening surface; mother-ducks sailed in safety with their downy broods in and out of the reedy water-lanes; coots and gallinules jerked themselves along the surface, while high in air a colony of black-headed gulls wheeled over the reeds, their breeding-place and sanctuary, safe from harm. Here and there along the edges, where the water was shallow, gaunt grey herons stood knee-deep, making, from time to time, a dart with their javelin-bills; and so clear, so mirror-like, was the expanse, that the noble forest-trees upon the other side were reflected plainly in the depths.
At the lower end stood a quaint, gable-ended house, and away to the right, where the waters were gathered together and rushed over a weir, were several long wooden buildings, with three or four roughly built of the sandstone of the district, two having massive chimneys, from which wreaths of pale blue smoke ascended into the soft summer air.
It was a lovely spot, and seemed to be the abode of peace and plenty, more than one where dire engines of warfare were fashioned at the furnace-mouth, and that black thunder sand, whose flash means death and destruction, was mixed by begrimed men from ingredients that left alone were innocent and secure. For the gable-ended house was white with clustering roses; the bright lattice windows sparkled in the sunshine; and the water, as it ran over the weir, made silver sounds that lulled the senses, as they whispered music to the ear.
Stretching far along the edge of the great pool there was an extensive well-kept garden, rich with flowers, pleasant with its green lawn, and made glorious now with its abundant trees; while still further along the Pool, nestling in a sheltered nook, shaded by tall trees and a mighty bank of sandstone rock, a patch of hops were rapidly nearing the tops of their poles as if climbing to get a peep at the field where the barley was springing rank and green, bridegroom and bride who should in the glowing October month be wedded well and breed strong ale.
“A very Paradise,” continued Sir Mark eagerly; “and look, Sir Thomas, over yonder. Who is the maiden? Look! Out there!”
Sir Thomas glanced nervously at his daughter, whose cheeks were very red, and whose eyes flashed no longer a soft and timid light.
“It is the founder’s daughter, Sir Mark. Sweet Mace they call her here,” and he wiped his forehead and gave his feather-padded breeches another hitch as he caught his daughter’s eyes once more.
“Sweet Mace!” said the King’s messenger, inquiringly. “Mace – nutmeg – spice!”
“Nay, Sir Mark, it was her father’s fancy, so they say. Mace or meadow-sweet, it is the same: the creamy-scented blossom that grows beside the Pool.”
“A forest fairy!” cried the young man, eagerly; “and the man, Sir Thomas?”
“Hush, pray, Sir Mark,” whispered the baronet; “the water carries sound.”
“Who is it, sir, I say?” cried the visitor, with an imperious stamp, as the object of his question turned his head.
“It’s he, himself, Sir Mark,” groaned the wretched man, glancing helplessly at the speaker; “the man of whom we spake.”
“What! Jeremiah Cobbe?”
“No; Captain Carr.”
How Jeremiah Cobbe damned his Majesty King James the First
Sir Mark Leslie was too intent upon the scene before him, or he would have seen the face of Mistress Anne undergo a complete change. The soft simpering look of girlish meekness she had assumed had passed away, and, as her gaze lit on Culverin Carr, a light seemed to flash from her eyes – a bright beam of light, which darkened as she glanced at his companion in the boat to an angry glare. If ever face spoke love to one and changed on the instant to jealous hate, it was the countenance of Anne Beckley as she gazed.
It all passed away directly, as she listened eagerly to Sir Mark.
“Why, she’s fishing,” he cried. “A fair Diana, huntress of the lake. Mistress Anne, look at her, is she not beautiful?”
“Tastes differ, Sir Mark,” said the lady, with a smile that hid her annoyance. “I have seen Mace Cobbe so often that I scarcely heed her looks.”
“But your eyes, mistress, never lit on a bonnier face than that of Sweet Mace.”
Sir
