But my sins
No more the pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet hardened in their course,
Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse.
The hours that we have spent
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us. Oh! and is all forgot--
Our schoolday friendship--childhood innocence?
SHAKSPEARE.
Do you remember all the sunny places
Where in bright days, long past, we played together?
Do you remember all the old home faces
That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather?
This cave, which had two arched openings, both leading to the same
interior, and supported by a colossal rocky pillar, was at low water
nearly dry, excepting near the centre, where a clear pool of brackish
water was left from one spring-tide to the next, surrounded by a bed
of the finest white sand. All this outer cave was entirely the work
of Nature, and had probably been progressively scooped out to its
present size, by the whirling eddy of water, which, during high tides
and storms, rushed in through one opening, and out at the other,
according as it was driven by the directing force of the wind. Within
this outer cave was another large recess at right angles to it, which
had at some time been assisted by the hand of man. The narrow, low
opening to this, was generally choked up by a bank of the white sand,
which, as the waters rolled round, they dashed against it; and as the
small passage behind, thus concealed, gradually rose as it opened
into the inner cave, that part was itself quite dry; and the entrance
to it being thus unsuspiciously closed from observation, it had been
thought by George, who had accidentally dug through the bank with
his fingers when a boy, that along the whole line of coast, a better
spot could not be selected, in which to stow their kegs, till an
opportunity occurred of by degrees disposing of them inland.
It appeared to Lucy as if her arrival had interrupted for the moment
a dispute between George and his Captain; and in this she was
confirmed by Collett saying, as soon as the men had returned to their
work,--
“It is true, it can’t be helped now; but it is a d---d foolish scrape
you’ve got us into: why couldn’t you leave the man alone? It’s true,
I begin to doubt his dying. Perhaps it would be better if he would,
for we can’t leave him here to blow us; and anyhow, there’ll be such
a hue-and-cry raised, that, hang me! if I know when we shall be able
to look after the cargo. The tide’s ebbing over-fast, or I’d chuck
’em in again, and take a long last leave of Morden Bay, and be d---d
to it, for an unlucky hole; but there’s not time to think of that,
so the kegs must even stay here, and we must stow this lumber in the
hold in the place of them.”
Touching Churchill’s body with his foot, and finding him still
insensible from loss of blood, he added,--
“But let me tell you, that to exchange all these _spirits_ for one
_body_ is a losing trade, either for this world or the next;” and
chuckling complacently at this last idea, as a man who thought that
the mere scoffing at serious matters in itself constitutes a good
joke, he retired towards the inner cave, calling out to George, “to
take the girl in tow, and drop down out of sight of their job.”
But George seemed stupified by the conflicting feelings which
struggled for mastery within him, and allowed himself to be silently
drawn by Lucy on to the beach, through the opposite opening of the
cave to that through which the smugglers were carrying the kegs.
“And is it come to this then, George!” she said: “these are then your
companions,--that is your friend, your master! And has all sense of
shame left you, that you could bring such a ruffian under my dear
father’s peaceful roof? And then to finish all by murdering that
poor good gentleman! Heaven, in its mercy, preserve him!” added Lucy
fervently, in a low tone.
“He’s not good--no more are you, and he’s no more a gentleman than
I am,” answered George, doggedly, his good feelings being for the
moment overpowered by the evident sympathy of Lucy for his rival.
“And it’s all along of you both, that I’ve come to this.”
“How can you say so, George? The poor man, since it offends you to
call him gentleman, never saw you till two days ago; and your present
courses you must have adopted, with these associates, long since;
and for me, it’s now more than four years since we have met at all.
And think of this spot, George--this cave. The last time we were here
together, who would have thought that it would be thus we should meet
again? Do you remember the smuggler we then saw chased by the King’s
ship; it was the last vessel of that sort, till to-night, that had
ever appeared on this coast; and the running fight, and the sound of
the guns gradually dying away in the distance, and then our suspense;
and we heard no more, till you brought that printed paper of the
travelling pedlar, which you read to me, and which told how they were
all hanged: George, dear George! why did you ever forget that paper?”
“’Tis too late to think of all that now, Lucy; though I thank you for
still caring for me, if it’s ever so little. There was a time when
you might have saved me, when I wrote to you, about my first scrape,
before I got from bad to worse.”
“You wrote to me, George! When? Never from the day you went away have
I heard once.”
“Ah, there was the mischief, then. But I wrote all about it, when I’d
lost all my money, like a fool as I then was, and am still; and how
it was a girl like you--no, not like you--but a girl, who had taken
it all; and that’s what it was, and I was rather ashamed at first to
own so to you. Yet I was easier, when I had done it, for I never felt
so much how I loved you better than all the world. And as we were a
long way off at the time, and the Atlantic rolled between us, I was
rather matched how to make sure of your getting it; but though I was
never much of a scholar, I took a sight of pains with the direction.
And I wouldn’t put Mayton on it, as they used to do on most of our
letters here; for I found, when I had got to London even, most
people there had never heard of Mayton, so I argued that a-tother
side of that great water they warn’t like to know it: so, instead,
I put ‘Lucy Darnell, Bankside Farm, England,’ for I made sure, at
least, they must have heard of England. And long I waited there in
the Indies, in hopes of an answer--and none ever came, as indeed it
wasn’t like, if you never received the letter. And so at last I took
up with the offer of this here Messmate, though at the time I had but
half a mind, for I thought you’d never approve of the like.”
“But, George, how came you in this distress? Where was the uncle with
whom you sailed?”
“Oh, he and I agreed that we suited each other best at a distance,
so he got me swapped to another ship, which I liked well enough, for
I got double wages; but I soon found that the more money I had, the
less I could keep it; and when I landed in the Indian Islands, it
went in more ways than I like to tell, or think of myself now. And
then Captain Collett spoke me fair, and a merry time we had together
in the privateering line, in which he then was; and when the Peace
came, we had been too used to dangers and their reward, to take to
carrying coals along the coast. So we’ve been dodging backwards
and forwards across the Channel ever since, in defiance of the
revenue Sharks. But being a bit over-well known there now, we got a
correspondent at Flushing, and popped over here unexpected like.”
“Unexpected indeed!” said Lucy, “and that it should be most unwelcome
too; for I had rather never have seen you again, though Heaven knows
how I’ve longed to do so! than that you should come back to bring
shame on us all. And my poor father too, who was as fond of you as if
you’d been his own son. He’ll feel this more than all the rest of the
world put together--except me!” she added falteringly.
“It needed not to speak so to make me feel,” said George: “all along,
my fear has been the loss of your good thoughts; and when I came back
the other day, I had made up my mind to ask all your pardons, to give
over the connexion, and stay at home; but it maddened me to see that
you had clear forgotten your poor cousin George, for that plausible
painting chap!”
“Shame on me!” interrupted Lucy, “that I have now so long forgotten
him, whilst listening to your bad tale of yourself. That I could do
so at such a moment, may prove to you what now you shall never hear
from me, unless you learn to deserve it better, how long and how much
I have thought of you. But if you would not have me hate you, George,
instantly rescue from these ruffians, this poor person, whom your
own mad violence has placed in their power.”
George, touched by her manner, and rendered docile by shame,
instantly repaired to Collett, who was himself much puzzled to know
what to do with their prisoner, and consented to leave him behind,
provided he would bind himself solemnly not to disclose what he knew
of their proceedings; to which George, for his own sake, added the
condition, that he should instantly leave that part of the country,
and particularly Bankside Farm.
Lucy in the mean time entered the cave, to observe in what state
poor Churchill then was. She found one of the smugglers bending
over him and holding a dark-lantern close to his features, which he
appeared to be examining, and which were still fixed and insensible.
The man had undone both waistcoat and neckcloth, and evidently was
searching about his breast, as she thought, for plunder; though, as
he pretended, to find out whether he had any other wound. There was,
however, an appearance of care and attention in this man’s manner,
which she could not reconcile with his purpose. He stated that the
sufferer had shown some signs of returning animation; had called,
as he fancied, on her name, but had relapsed. Now he again began to
move, and with the first symptoms of consciousness, George made the
offer of liberation, coupled with the conditions mentioned above.
The wounded man seemed to make an effort to give force to the
articulation of his reply, as he answered,
“Never! I will make no bargain with such as you: ruffians! do your
worst, and at your peril be it.”
The smugglers, who had now finished their work, and were anxious to
depart, enraged at this untractable answer, became clamorous to
shove off with him, and Captain Collett gave the orders to bear him
to the boat; Lucy clinging wildly to George, implored him, “Oh, leave
him! leave him, for my sake leave him!”
George’s bad feelings were again roused by the manner of this appeal;
he roughly replied, shaking her from him, “For thy sake!--never!
What! that he may stay behind to hang us, and bless you!” He then
jumped into the boat, already filled with his companions, one of
whom, who had secretly helped himself too freely to one of the kegs
which had been opened that its contents might encourage them at their
work, cried out, “Oh, if the land-lubber stands in the way of our
messmate George, I’ll soon settle his business.”
He then presented a pistol to Churchill’s head. Lucy thought she
saw George spring forward and knock the pistol out of the fellow’s
hand, but neither that nor any thing afterwards could she recollect
distinctly, such had been the agitation of this dreadful evening;
and as she endeavoured to fix her eyes on the boat as it heaved
unsteadily through the surf, her brain seemed to reel responsively
within her. She fell powerless on the beach, and tearing up the
sand convulsively with her outstretched hand, she cried wildly for
help, till her senses completely abandoned her, and she lay there in
unconscious exhaustion much of that awful night.
At times she partially awoke to confused visions of Churchill’s
mangled form, and the last moments of George’s disgraceful career;
and more than once she raised herself and endeavoured to strain her
sight through the intense darkness, and to collect her scattered
senses to decide whether it was fancy only made her imagine that
another sail rose on the waters, still nearing the smugglers; but a
sound which followed, like the roar of cannon, vibrated so painfully
on her shattered nerves, that she raised her hands to her ears,
again pressed her head against the sand, and when the first dawn of
the morning found her still on the beach, with partially returning
consciousness, the first object she plainly distinguished was a crowd
of men moving towards her, in the midst of which were the crew of
smugglers, Captain Collett and George, handcuffed two and two, and
guarded by some men of the Preventive Service, and a file of soldiers.
Still half bewildered, she rushed amongst them, screaming in vain for
some one, and crying, “Where, where is the body?”
“The body!” exclaimed the man, who seemed in command of the party,
“then it was as we suspected, and a murder has been committed. Come,
my young woman, you must along with us; you will be an important
witness, I guess;” and the whole party moved on towards Hornscliff
Abbey, the seat of the nearest resident magistrate, Sir North
Saunders.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset-street, Fleet-street.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were
dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. One misspelled word was
corrected, one upside down letter was righted, and two words were
added where they appeared as blotches on the printed page. Single
quotation marks were used for quotes within quotes.