"How do, Sir Risdon?"
The speaker was a curious-looking man of fifty, rough, sunburned, and
evidently as keen as a well-worn knife. He was dressed like a farmer
who had taken to fishing or like a fisherman who had taken to farming,
and his nautical appearance seemed strange to a man who was leading a
very meditative grey horse attached to a heavy cart, made more weighty
by the greatcoat of caked mud the vehicle wore.
He had been leading the horse along what was called in Freestone a road,
though its only pretensions to being a road was that it led from
Shackle's farm to the fields which bordered the cliff, and consisted of
two deep channels made by the farm tumbril wheels, and a shallow track
formed by horses' hoofs, the said channels being more often full of
water than of mud, and boasting the quality of never even in the hottest
weather being dry.
The person Blenheim Shackle--farmer and fisher, in his canvas sailor's
breeches, big boots, striped shirt, and red tassel cap--had accosted,
was a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking gentleman, in a broad-skirted,
shabby brown velvet coat, who was daintily picking his way, cane in
hand, over the soft turf of the field, evidently deep in thought, but
sufficiently awake to what was around to make him stoop from time to
time to pick up a glistening white-topped mushroom, and transfer it to
one of his pockets with a satisfied smile.
"Ah, Master Shackle," he said, starting slightly on being addressed.
"Well, thank you. A lovely morning, indeed."
"Ay, the morning's right enough, Sir Risdon. Picking a few mushrooms,
sir?"
"I--er--yes, Master Shackle. I have picked a few," said the tall thin
gentleman, colouring slightly. "I--beg your pardon, Master Shackle, for
doing so. I ought to have asked your leave."
"Bah! Not a bit," said the fisher-farmer, with a chuckle. "You're
welcome, squire."
"I thank you, Master Shackle--I thank you warmly. You see her ladyship
is very fond of the taste of a fresh gathered mushroom, and if I see a
few I like to take them to the Hoze."
"Ay, to be sure," said Shackle, as he thought to himself "And precious
glad to get them, you two poor half-starved creatures, with your show
and sham, and titles and keep up appearances."
"I--er--I have not got many, Master Shackle. Would you like to see?"
continued the tall thin gentleman, raising the flap of one of his
salt-box pockets.
"I don't want to see," growled the other, as he stood patting the neck
of his old grey horse. "Been to the cliff edge?"
"I--yes, Master Shackle."
"See the cutter?"
"I think I saw a small vessel lying some distance off, with white
sails."
"That's the _White Hawk_, Luff Brough. And I wanted to speak to you,
Sir Risdon."
The gentleman started.
"Not about--about that--" he stammered.
"Tchah! Yes. It was about that, man," said the other. "Don't shy at
it like a horse at a blue bogey in a windy lane."
"But I told you, man, last time, that I would have no more to do with
that wretched smuggling."
"Don't call things by ugly names."
"My good man, it is terrible. It is dishonourable, and the act is a
breaking of the laws of our country."
"Tchah! Not it, Sir Risdon," cried the other so sharply, that the grey
horse started forward, and had to be checked. "Not the king's laws, but
the laws of that Dutchman who has come and stuck himself on the throne.
Why, sir, you ought to take a pleasure in breaking his laws, after the
way he has robbed you, and turned you from a real gentleman, into a
poor, hard-pressed country squire, who--"
"Hush! Hush, Master Shackle!" said the tall gentleman huskily. "Don't
rake up my misfortunes."
"Not I, Sir Risdon. I'm full o' sorrow and respect for a noble
gentleman, who has suffered for the cause of the real king, who, when he
comes, will set us all right."
"Ah, Master Shackle, I'm losing heart."
"Nay, don't do that, Sir Risdon; and as to a few mushrooms, why, you're
welcome enough; and I'd often be sending a chicken or a few eggs, or a
kit o' butter, or drop o' milk, all to the Hoze, only we're feared her
ladyship might think it rude."
"It's--it's very good of you, Master Shackle, and I shall never be able
to repay you."
"Tchah! Who wants repaying, Sir Risdon? We have plenty at the farm,
and it was on'y day 'fore yes'day as I was out in my little lugger, and
we'd took a lot o' mackrel! `Ram,' I says to my boy Ramillies, `think
Sir Risdon would mind if I sent him a few fish up to the Hoze?'
"`Ay, father,' he says, `they don't want us to send them fish. My
lady's too proud!'"
Sir Risdon sighed, and the man watched him narrowly.
"It's a pity too," the latter continued, "specially as we often have so
much fish we puts it on the land."
"Er--if you would be good enough to send a little fish--of course very
fresh, Master Shackle, and a few eggs, and a little butter to the Hoze,
and let me have your bill by and by, I should be gratified."
"On'y too glad, Sir Risdon, I will.--Think any one's been telling
tales?"
"Tales?"
"'Bout us, Sir Risdon."
"About _us_!"
"You see the revenue cutter's hanging about here a deal, and it looks
bad."
"Surely no one would betray you, Master Shackle?"
"Hope not, Sir Risdon; but it's okkard. There's a three-masted lugger
coming over from Ushant, and she may be in to-night. There's some nice
thick fogs about now, and it's a quiet sea. Your cellars are quite
empty, I s'pose?"
The last remark came so quickly, that the hearer started, and made no
reply.
"You see, Sir Risdon, we might run the cargo, and stow it all up at my
place, for we've plenty o' room; but if they got an idea of it aboard
the cutter, she'd land some men somehow, and come and search me, but
they wouldn't dare to come and search you. I've got a bad character,
but you haven't."
"No, no, Master Shackle; I cannot; I will not."
"The lads could run it up the valley, and down into your cellar, Sir
Risdon," whispered the man, as if afraid that the old grey horse would
hear; "nobody would be a bit the wiser, and you'd be doing a neighbour a
good turn."
"I--I cannot, Master Shackle; it is against the law."
"Dutchman's law, not the laws of Bonnie Prince Charlie. You will, Sir
Risdon?"
"No--no, I dare not."
"And it gives a neighbour a chance to beg your acceptance of a little
drop o' real cognac, Sir Risdon--so good in case o' sickness. And a bit
of prime tay, such as would please her ladyship. Then think how
pleasant a pipe is, Sir Risdon; I've got a bit o' lovely tobacco at my
place, and a length or two of French silk."
"Master Shackle! Master Shackle!" cried the tall thin baronet
piteously, "how can you tempt a poor suffering gentleman like this?"
"Because I want to do you a bit of good, Sir Risdon, and myself too. I
tell you it's safe enough. You've only to leave your side door open,
and go to bed; that's all."
"But I shall be as guilty as you."
"Guilty?" the man laughed. "I never could see a bit o' harm in doing
what I do. Never feel shamed to look my boy Ramillies in the face. If
a bit o' smuggling was wrong, Sir Risdon, think I'd do it? No, sir; I
think o' them as was before me. My father was in Marlborough's wars,
and he called me Blenheim, in honour of the battle he was in; and I
called my boy Ramillies, and if ever he gets married, and has a son,
he's to be Malplackey. I arn't ashamed to look him in the face."
"But I shall be afraid to look in the face of my dear child."
"Mistress Denise, Sir Risdon? Tchah! Bless her! I don' believe she'd
like her father to miss getting a lot of things that would be good for
him, and your madam. There, Sir Risdon; don't say another word about
it. Leave the door open, and go to bed. You shan't hear anybody come
or go away, and you're not obliged to look in the cellars for a few
days."
"But, my child--the old servant--suppose they hear?"
"What? The rats? Tell 'em to take no notice, Sir Risdon. Good day,
Sir Risdon. That's settled, then?"
"Ye-es--I suppose so. This once only, Master Shackle."
"Thank ye, Sir Risdon," said the man. "Jee, Dutchman!"
The horse tugged at the tumbril, and Sir Risdon went thoughtfully along
the field, toward a clump of trees lying in a hollow, while Master
Shackle went on chuckling to himself.
"Couldn't say me nay, poor fellow. Half-starved they are sometimes.
Wonder he don't give up the old place, and go away. Hope he won't.
Them cellars are too vallyble. Hallo! What now?"
This to the fair curly-headed lad, who came trotting up across the short
turf.
"Been looking at the cutter, father?"
"Oh, she don't want no looking at. Who brought those cows down here?"
"Jemmy Dadd."
"He's a fool. We shall be having some of 'em going over the cliff. Go
home and tell mother to put a clean napkin in a basket, and take two
rolls of butter, a bit of honey, and a couple of chickens up to the
Hoze."
"Yes, father."
"And see if there's any eggs to take too."
"Yes, father. But--"
"Well?"
"Think the lugger will come to-night?"
"No, I don't think anything, and don't you. Will you keep that rattle
tongue of yours quiet? Never know me go chattering about luggers, do
you?"
"No, father."
"Then set your teeth hard, or you'll never be a man worth your salt.
Want to grow into a Jemmy Dadd?"
"No, father."
"Then be off."
The boy went off at a run, and the fisher-farmer led his horse along the
two rutted tracks till he came down into the valley, and then went on
and on, towards where a couple of men were at work in a field, doing
nothing with all their might.