Now, Henry Burrel was a great deal too sincere a man, even in his
commune with himself, to endeavor by any means to cheat himself into
the belief that he was a hero. In short, he had quite sufficient real
enthusiasm in his disposition, and quite sufficient contempt for those
who affected it without having any, to make him very jealous of
letting the portion he did, possess appear openly, even before his own
eyes; and, in order to correct such propensities, he had got up, as we
have shown before, a system of apathetic indifference to every thing
that did not affect himself, which, though sometimes run away with by
his zeal or his affections, contrived generally to bridle feelings
that would otherwise have been somewhat headstrong.
Left alone in a little bed, in a little room in a smuggler's cottage,
on the loneliest part of the sea-shore--locked in, without being able
to set a foot to the ground--without a light--and with a confounded
smell of fish pervading the whole atmosphere--his first impulse, as
all these minor miseries tickled his imagination one after the other,
was to laugh heartily. But the impression lasted but a moment; and,
when he thought of the more remote, but more dreadful, circumstances
connected by an inseparable link with his temporary situation--the
murder of a helpless old man, which he doubted not had been
committed--the fearful moral offense which three of his
fellow-creatures had perpetrated--and the miserable fate of a youth in
whom he had taken considerable interest--for he had recognized, as we
have before hinted, the voice of poor Wat Harrison--when he thought of
all these circumstances, his heart smote him for the moment of levity
in which he had indulged; and poured out the full tide of its generous
and kindly feelings to wash away the fault of that one instant.
He now revolved the matter more seriously; and as he did so, of course
his own situation came again soberly under consideration. That
situation was evidently any thing but pleasant; for no man could be
expected to find his pillow very soft when it was shaken by the hands
of a gang of murderers. But Beauchamp was constitutionally a brave
man. His impulses were not those of fear: and, though he had a very
considerable share of imagination, yet when he wanted to frighten
himself about any thing, he had to think of it seriously, and call up
all the dangers one by one. Now, in the present instance, there were
so many unpleasant and perilous points in his position, which he could
neither divert nor avoid, that, after a short reflection, he found it
would be best and wisest not to think of the danger at all; and, when
he had so settled the matter, he found no great difficulty in
forgetting it altogether, although, with a degree of feverish
restlessness, he turned and re-turned in his mind the conversation
which he had heard in the adjoining room.
It was evident that Walter Harrison had not told the whole truth to
the old man who had given them shelter; and whether it was the
smuggler's previous conclusions that had led him to believe the crime,
from the consequences of which the young sailor was flying, had been
committed in an endeavor to defraud the revenue, or whether by a
direct falsehood on the lad's own part, Beauchamp naturally deduced
from every thing which he had discovered, that Willy Small, as they
called him, would be the first to shrink from the perpetrators of the
deeper offense which had really been offered to the laws of God and
man. This was, at least, some consolation; and although Beauchamp
still felt a sensation of awe and horror when he reflected calmly on
the whole transactions of that night, yet his feelings were more like
those of one who reads a horrid tale of crime and sorrow in the
newspapers than those of one around whose very person the
circumstances had been transacted, and who was in some degree a party
to the whole.
Nevertheless, he could not go to sleep over it with the easy
carelessness of one of those daily devourers of manufactured horrors,
who join to patronize the periodical press with the devout idolators
of agitation, and who, like men fed upon deviled gizzards, find that
nothing on earth has enough cayenne. Whether it was busy thoughts, or
a broken head, or an ankle that had been dislocated, that kept him
awake, I can not tell; but he lay in feverish and uneasy restlessness
long after all was quiet in the house, and even the murderers had
retired--I had almost said,--to sleep.
Toward morning however, exhaustion overcame all, and he slept long and
profoundly. How long indeed he did not know, for he had forgot to wind
up his watch; but, at all events, he woke refreshed and calm, his
headache gone, and the pain of his hurt ankle so much relieved, that
he fancied he could do any thing, and at once sprang out of bed. He
instantly found his mistake; for the moment he attempted to set that
foot to the ground, he reeled, and would have fallen but for his hold
of the bedstead; and, on examining more closely, he found his leg
enormously swelled, and bidding fair, as the smuggler had predicted,
to confine him to the house for more than one day. Notwithstanding
this discovery, he determined to make his way to the window before any
one interrupted him, in order to examine the locale, and what was
passing without; and by means of the table and the chairs he contrived
to effect his purpose.
The scene that presented itself was one that may be met with about
once every three miles along the greater part of the southern and
eastern coasts of England--a small sandy bay, opening out into the
wide blue sea, with two or three high cliffs on either hand, and
nothing more. In the present instance, however, an object struck the
eyes of Henry Beauchamp, which was not without its peculiar interest.
It was a small low-rigged cutter, just making her way out to sea, with
a full steady wind, and a press of sail. He looked up to the sky, and,
as far as he could judge from the position of the sun, concluded that
one or two hours must have passed since noon. At the same time, there
was no sound of voices below. A lad was seen mending one of the boats
on the shore; and a man, in whom he easily distinguished the old
smuggler, was standing on the nearest bank, with a glass to his eye,
either watching the progress of the cutter, or examining a vessel that
could just be seen hull down in the offing. All seemed to imply that
those who had brought him thither had effected their escape from
England; and after gazing out for a moment, he returned to his bedside,
and proceeded to dress himself as well as he could. The gentleman who
threaded the Dædalian labyrinth, and slew Mrs. Pasephæ's illegitimate
son at the end of it, had not half such a piece of work of it as Henry
Beauchamp had to get into his clothes. It is wonderful how much more use
one makes of one's foot even in dressing one's self than one knows any
thing about; and what would have come of it in the present instance can
hardly be divined, had it not so happened that, after Beauchamp had
struggled with innumerable difficulties for nearly half an hour, the old
smuggler presented himself, as a somewhat rude valet-de-chambre, and
saved his guest from martyrdom.
The old man, in his quality of surgeon, blamed Beauchamp highly for
getting up at all; and, pointing out the swelled state of his ankle,
declared that he would only let him remain up on condition that he
would keep it raised upon a chair during the rest of the day.
Beauchamp was perhaps a little irritable with the contention he had
just gone through with various parts of his apparel; and,
consequently, seating himself calmly on the nearest chair, he informed
the old man, in a cool, determined tone, that it was his intention
immediately to proceed to Dorchester, which, as far as he could
calculate, was the nearest large town. He was met by the smuggler,
however, in a way that he did not expect, and this, of course, gave a
sudden change to the current of his feelings. Instead of telling him
that he could not go, or that he should not go, or any of those things
which would have rendered him more determined than ever, the old man
replied, in a civil tone, "Well, sir, you can do as you like but I
don't see how you can manage it to-night, for it is now near
four--Dorchester's twenty miles off--and even were I to send for a
shay, it can't come down within two mile of this place, 'cause there
is no road.
"Past four, is it?" cried Beauchamp. "I must have slept sound."
"I dare say you were tired enough, sir," replied the old man; "but it
is past four, indeed--and, as I was saying, Dorchester is twenty
miles, and the next town is ten. You are very welcome to your bed,
sir; and I think you had a great deal better stay till you can walk a
bit."
Beauchamp mused; for his situation was certainly a very unpleasant
one. He knew it to be his duty to give immediate information of what
had occurred to himself, to those persons who might investigate the
matter thoroughly, and discover whether a greater offense had not been
committed. At the same time, he felt the impossibility of walking two
miles, if his life had been at stake; while he did not think it would
be either wise or safe to intrust to a man of so doubtful a character
as this Willy Small, even his suspicions in regard to persons, with
one of whom, at least, the smuggler was on terms of friendship. It was
impossible to say what the fear of being implicated in such a
transaction as Beauchamp believed to have taken place, might cause him
to do, if he found that he had in his power the only person who could
prove his connection with the culprits. At the same time, the man's
tone was perfectly civil, and even kind; and as soon as Beauchamp
found that no opposition was intended to the exercise of his
free-will, he of course dropped the more peremptory manner he had
assumed, and determined to try milder means instead, though he well
knew that no measures would have proved successful had the smuggler
made up his mind to risk after consequences in order to gain the
present object.
"If these places be so far by land," he said, at length, "is it not
possible that I can get a boat to carry me to the next town on the
coast!--I see two lying there upon the beach; and I will pay well for
one; if it can be procured."
"Why, sir, for the matter of that," answered the smuggler, "one of the
boats has not been sea-worthy these three months, and the other
unfortunately got badly damaged this morning in taking those fellows
and the woman to the cutter. They would not wait till high water, and
seemed in a devil of a hurry to get aboard; and how my boy managed it,
or whether the old un had a hand in it, I don't know, but they had all
near been swamped, and the boat can't be reckoned on, d'ye see!"
Beauchamp's lip curled, as he thought he perceived a determination to
oppose his departure by fair means, if not by force; but the smuggler
instantly caught it, and interpreting it aright, replied with a
glowing cheek and a look of candor, that went farther to convince his
hearer than all the oratory or bullying in the world would have done.
"Well, well! I see what it is," he said. "You think that I want to
keep you, while those fellows sheer off clear. But they are gone, and
that's done; and sorry am I that I ever saw their faces, for I've a
notion that there's somewhat worse at the bottom than I thought for.
But never mind that. Your honor's a gentleman, at least such I take
you to be; and d--me if I have a hand in stopping your going wherever
you like. If you like to get under weigh to-night, why, I say nothing;
and I will even send the boy Bill over to ---- for horses and a shay,
though I think you had better stay here, a devil of a deal; and as for
the boat, you may hop down and look at her yourself, and you will see
that it will be this time to-morrow before all's right again. So your
honor may just do as you like--I say nothing, do you see!"
"You have said enough to make me believe you an honest man," replied
Beauchamp; "and if what I suspect of your late inmates be true, you
may find my testimony in your favor no light matter. What they have
done," he added, seeing the old man's curiosity awakened; "I can only
suspect, as you do yourself. All I know, of my own personal knowledge,
is that, as I was accidentally coming upon them unawares, they thought
fit to knock me down, and brought me hither; but I should certainly
think you would find it most safe and most creditable to go
immediately to the next magistrate and give information."
"No, no, no!" cried the smuggler--"No, by--, I won't peach; and,
besides, I know nothing about them."
"I am well aware, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, "that you have
been deceived; for I will tell you fairly that I heard unwillingly all
that passed between you and the young sailor, in the next room, last
night. Take my word for it, however, that there has been no smuggling
in the business."
The man started, but Beauchamp went on "Smuggling had nothing to do
with it; but as I know that your ideas of honor are very different
from mine, I shall not of course press you to inform against men,
whose crime you do not fully know, and whose guilt I myself could not
clearly prove. Nevertheless, I must do my duty, and, well or ill, I
must make my way to Dorchester to-morrow, in executing which purpose I
am sure you will aid me."
"That I will, sir! that I will!" answered the old man. "I will leave
Bill to mend the boat, and I will set out for ---- by daylight, and
you shall have a shay down at the red stile by two o'clock at
farthest. No! no! I will never peach against a poor lad, who trusted
me: but somehow, what your honor has said has made me feel a little
queerish--I should like to know the truth of the business vastly--I
don't like these jobs, that I don't--any thing in the way of business
I don't mind--but I don't--no, I don't like these jobs at all!"
It was very evident, from the changed and anxious countenance which
the old smuggler now presented, that what he said was very true; and
though he could talk with the utmost coolness of killing a king's
officer in a smuggling brawl, yet the vague and doubtful nature of the
transactions into which he had been unwittingly entrapped, filled him
with anxious apprehensions.
"Well, well, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, whose object was not
to alarm him too much on his own account, "at all events you have
nothing to do with it, and I can bear witness to the conversation
which took place between you and the young sailor last night, and
which would at any time establish your ignorance of the whole facts."
"Thank your honor! thank your honor!" cried the old man, with evident
heartfelt satisfaction. "Your honor's a gentleman--that you are; and I
am sure that I would do any thing your honor tells me--that's to say,
I wouldn't like to peach, d'ye see--but any thing else."
"All that can be required of you," replied Beauchamp, "is not to
obstruct the course of justice; and, therefore, I shall trust to you
to set out as early as possible to-morrow to get me some conveyance;
and farther, should you be called upon hereafter to give evidence in
this business, take my advice, and tell the whole truth boldly and
straightforwardly; for depend upon it, to tell a falsehood, or to
prevaricate, is the most dishonorable thing a man can do, whether his
station be high or low."
"That it is, sir, surely--that it is!" replied the smuggler; "and I
will tell the truth when I am asked. But that is different, your honor
knows, from going and telling without any one asking me."
"Certainly it is," said Beauchamp; "and I do not ask you to do more
than tell it when it is asked; but now, my good sir, can I get dinner,
or breakfast as it is to me; for I begin to feel that I have not eaten
any thing for several hours?"
"Now, that's what I call being d--d stupid!" cried Willy Small, much
to Beauchamp's surprise, who at first concluded that the smuggler's
censure was addressed to him. "If my old woman did not send me up on
purpose to tell your honor that she had done you three mackerel, and
that, with a rasher of pickled pork, and some fried--"
"Good Heaven!" cried Beauchamp, "I trust that she does not intend me
to eat three mackerel, pickled pork, and fried any thing! But never
mind--let me see them, by all means. I will eat what I can, and she
must excuse me the rest."
Beauchamp's dinner was accordingly placed before him; and, with his
usual perversity of disposition, it must be acknowledged that, in a
smuggler's cottage, with a lame leg, and disappointed in love, he ate
a better dinner of mackerel in October, salted pork, and fried eggs,
than he had done since he left the Grand St. Bernard. There's a hero!
Ulysses was nothing to him, though, dressed, in a dishclout, the hero
of the Odyssey did sit down with twenty fellows who were making love
to his own wife, and supped heartily upon "the entrails fat, enriched
with blood," by which Homer undoubtedly meant black puddings.
When he had concluded--as Beauchamp could, when he liked it, cast off
his reserve, mingle freely with all classes, and examine nature
wherever he found it--he declared that, as the evening was somewhat
chilly, he would come down and spend the rest of it by the kitchen
fire; and, getting to the bottom of the stairs the best way he could,
by the help of the old man and his son, he soon rendered himself
familiar with the whole family, winning their love, while he made them
more and more inclined to declare that he was really a gentleman.
Nor did the time pass unpleasantly to himself. He had got a notion, in
direct opposition to generally received opinions, that nature was to
be found only in the highest and in the lowest classes--more
especially, indeed, in the highest, because the persons of which it is
constituted have little inducement to conceal their feelings or
thoughts, and certainly no wish to affect the manners of any other
caste. Nature, however, as modified by the education of the lower
classes, was more interesting to him, from being less frequently
before his eyes; and though he certainly liked the nature of his own
rank best, yet he was not sorry occasionally to observe the other a
little nearer. Thus the time wore imperceptibly away; and the more
tranquil passing of the night was only interrupted by the smuggler's
son showing his father a powder-flask which, he said, one of the
gentlemen had dropped upon the beach that morning. Beauchamp took it
carelessly in his hand, and returned it without observation; but a
single glance had shown him that it was one which, from some fault in
its construction, he had given to his servant, Harding, a few days
before. The sight, though it but confirmed former suspicions, threw
him into a fit of musing for several minutes; but he shook it off as
fast as possible, and soon resumed the easy tone in which he had been
previously conversing.
The next morning he awoke earlier than the day before, but he found,
from the smuggler's son, that the old man, true to his word, had
already set out to procure a post-chaise for him from the nearest
town. Many an hour passed by, however, without his return, and it was
again nearly four o'clock ere Beauchamp, whose sole amusement had been
looking out upon the ever varying sea, beheld him walking sturdily
along over the high grounds to the west. He was soon down the little
path, and into the house; but Beauchamp remarked that he paused not
below, as he naturally might have done, to speak with his wife, but,
on the contrary, with a hurried pace, proceeded straight up-stairs,
and entered the stranger's room at once. He was far too much agitated
to think of ceremonies; and, leaning on the table, without taking off
his hat, he stood before Beauchamp, pale, trembling, and out of
breath, for several moments, before he could utter a word.
"Oh, your honor!" he cried at length; "Oh, your honor! I hope to God
you will stand my friend; for this is a horrible business I have got
into, and, without help, I shall sink, that's certain!"
"What is the matter! What has happened!" demanded Beauchamp eagerly;
but then, seeing the fearful state of agitation which shook the old
man's powerful frame, he added, "Calm yourself! Calm yourself, Small!
You have done nothing that I know of that can injure you! Let me hear
what it is alarms you!"
"Thank you, sir, for that!" replied the smuggler, catching at
Beauchamp's consolation. "Thank you for that! If you stand by me, I
dare say I shall do. But what is it that alarms me? you ask. Why, what
should it be! Why, when I went into the town of ----, what should I
see but a number of people standing round the town-hall, just at a
particular spot like; and something misgave me, so I went up, and
there I saw stuck up against the wall a large sheet of paper, and at
the top was printed, _Five Hundred Pounds Reward_; and then, when I
looked below, I saw, in bigger letters still, _Murder!_ At first I
could not see any more, my brain turned round so; but when I could
read on, I saw in the _Blagard_, as the people called it, how those
infernal villains, who were here the night afore last, had murdered a
poor old helpless man at a place they call Ryebury. It did not just
say it was them, indeed, but I am sure it was. Oh, I am quite sure it
was them!"
The last declaration of his conviction was made more faintly, as if he
entertained some slight hope that Beauchamp would contradict him; but,
on the contrary, that gentleman replied, "I am afraid it was, indeed;
for it was at that very place, Ryebury, and at the door of that old
man's house, that they met me, and stunned me by a blow on the head.
But what more did the placard say!"
"Oh, it mentioned a Captain Somebody," replied the smuggler. "I
forget the name. It was a Frenchified name, however. It was that
black-looking ---- with the whiskers, I'll bet a puncheon!"
"Was it Harding," demanded Beauchamp, fixing his eyes upon him
eagerly, to catch his answer from his look, even before he had time to
utter it.
"No, no, no!" answered the smuggler. "It was not Harding. It was some
Frenchified name; and then there came some person or persons unknown.
But now your honor will stand by me, I am sure; for if the justices
find out that I helped them off the coast, they will make me out as
having a hand in it; and I am sure that if I had known what they had
been doing, I would sooner have scuttled the cutter, and sent them all
to the bottom, if I had gone down with them myself."
"I really believe you would," replied Beauchamp; "and I do not think
that, with the evidence which I can give, and which I will give in
your favor, should any thing be brought against you, there is the
slightest cause for your entertaining any apprehension."
"Thank you, sir! Thank you for that!" replied the smuggler. "That will
make me easy, and now I'll go and tell the old woman."
"But stay, stay, my good friend!" cried Beauchamp. "Is the
post-chaise--"
"Lord-a'-mercy, now!" cried the man, before his guest could finish,
the sentence, at the same time pulling off his hat, and throwing it
down upon the ground with a despairing sort of fling. "Lord-a'-mercy,
now, if I did not forget all about it! This murder has turned my
brain, I do think; for I never went into a house or shed in the whole
place, but set off home as hard as I could go, to ask if your honor
would stand by me."
"Humph!" said Beauchamp, "this is pleasant."