CHAPTER I.

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THE SMUGGLER:

A Tale

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF

"DARNLEY," "DE L'ORME," "RICHELIEU,"

ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.

1845.

DEDICATION.

* * *

TO

THE HON. CHARLES EWAN LAW, M.P.

RECORDER OF LONDON,

ETC. ETC. ETC.

* * *

My Dear Sir,

It would be almost superfluous to assure you of my esteem and regard;

but feelings of personal friendship are rarely assigned as the sole

motives of a dedication. The qualities, however, which command public

respect, and the services which have secured it to you in so high a

degree, must appear a sufficient motive for offering you this slight

tribute, in the eyes not only of those who know and love you in the

relations of private life, but of all the many who have marked your

career, either as a lawyer, alike eminent in learning and in

eloquence, or as a just, impartial, clear-sighted, and yet merciful

judge.

You will willingly accept the book, I know, for the sake of the

author; though, perhaps, you may have neither time nor inclination to

read it. Accept the dedication, also, I beg, as a sincere testimony of

respect from one who, having seen a good deal of the world, and

studied mankind attentively, is not easily induced to reverence or won

to regard.

When you look upon this page, it will probably call to your mind some

very pleasant hours, which would doubtless have been as agreeable if I

had not been there. As I write it, it brings up before my eyes many a

various scene, of which you and yours were the embellishment and the

light. At all events, such memories must be pleasant to us both; for

they refer to days almost without a shadow, when the magistrate and

the legislator escaped from care and thought, and the laborious man of

letters cast away his toil.

In the following pages you will find more than one place depicted, as

familiar to your remembrance as to mine; and if I have taken some

liberties with a few localities, stolen a mile or two off certain

distances, or deprived various hills and dales of their due

proportions, these faults are of a species of petty larceny, on which

I do not think you will pass a severe sentence, and I hope the public

will imitate your lenity.

I trust that no very striking errors will meet your eye, for I believe

I have given a correct picture of the state of society in this good

county of Kent as it existed some eighty or ninety years ago; and, in

regard to the events, if you or any of my readers should be inclined

to exclaim,--"This incident is not probable!" I have an answer ready,

quite satisfactory to myself, whatever it may be to others; namely,

that "the improbable incident" is true. All the more wild, stirring,

and what may be called romantic parts of the tale, are not alone

_founded_ upon fact, but are facts; and the narrative owes me nothing

more than a gown owes to a sempstress--namely, the mere sewing of it

together with a very common-place needle and thread. In short, a few

characters thrown in for relief, a little love, a good deal of

landscape, and a few tiresome reflections, are all that I have added

to a simple relation of transactions well known to many in this part

of the country as having actually happened, a generation or two ago.

Among these recorded incidents are the attack of Goudhurst Church by

the smugglers, its defence by the peasantry, the pursuit, and defeat

of the free-traders of those days by the Dragoons, the implication of

some persons of great wealth in the most heinous parts of the

transaction, the visit of Mowle, the officer, in disguise, to the

meeting-place of his adversaries, his accidental detection by one of

them, and the bold and daring man[oe]uvre of the smuggler, Harding, as

related near the close of the work. Another incident, but too sadly

true--namely, the horrible deed by which some of the persons taking a

chief part in the contraband trade called down upon themselves the

fierce enmity of the peasantry--I have but lightly touched upon, for

reasons you will understand and appreciate. But it is some

satisfaction to know that there were just judges in those days, as

well as at present, and that the perpetrators of one of the most

brutal crimes on record suffered the punishment they so well merited.

Happily, my dear sir, a dedication, in these days, is no compliment;

and therefore I can freely offer, and you receive it, as a true and

simple expression of high respect and regard,

From yours faithfully,

G. P. R. JAMES.

THE SMUGGLER

CHAPTER I.

It is wonderful what improvements have taken place in clocks and

watches during the last half-century; how accurately the escapements

are constructed, how delicately the springs are formed, how easily the

wheels move, and what good time they keep. After all, society is but a

clock, a very complicated piece of mechanism; and it, too, has

undergone, in many countries, the same improvements that have taken

place in the little ticking machines that we put in our pockets, or

those greater indicators of our progress towards eternity that we hang

upon our walls. From the wooden clock, with its weight and catgut, to

the exquisite chronometer which varies only by a second or two in the

course of the year, what a vast advance! and between even a period

which many still living can remember, and that in which I now write,

what a change has taken place in the machinery and organization of the

land in which we dwell!

In the times which I am about to depict, though feudal ages were gone,

though no proud barons ruled the country round from castle and

stronghold, though the tumultuous times of the great rebellion had

also passed away, and men in buff and bandolier no longer preached, or

fought, or robbed, or tyrannized under the name of law and liberty,

though the times of the second Charles and the second James, William

and Mary, and good Queen Anne, falling collars, and hats and plumes,

and floating wigs and broad-tailed coats, were all gone--bundled away

into the great lumber-room of the Past--still, dear reader, there was

a good deal of the wooden clock about the mechanism of society.

One of the parts in which rudeness of construction and coarseness of

material were most apparent, was in the Customs system of the country,

and in the impediments which it met with. The escapement was anything

but fine. Nowadays we do things delicately. If we wish to cheat the

government, we forge Exchequer bills, or bribe landing-waiters and

supervisors, or courteously insinuate to a superior officer that a

thousand pounds is not too great a mark of gratitude for enabling us

to pocket twenty thousand at the expense of the Customs. If we wish to

cheat the public, there is chalk for our milk, grains of paradise for

our beer, sago and old rags for our sugar, lime for our linen, and

devils' dust to cover our backs. Chemistry and electricity, steam and

galvanism, all lend their excellent aid to the cheat, the swindler,

and the thief; and if a man is inclined to keep himself within

respectable limits, and deceive himself and others at the same time

with perfect good faith and due decorum, are there not hom[oe]opathy,

hydropathy, and mesmerism?

In the days I speak of it was not so. There was a grander roughness

and daringness about both our rogues and our theorists. None but a

small villain would consent to be a swindler. We had more robbers than

cheats; and if a man chose to be an impostor, it was with all the

dignity and decision of a Psalmanazor, or a bottle conjuror. Gunpowder

and lead were the only chemical agents employed; a bludgeon was the

animal magnetism most in vogue, and your senses and your person were

attacked and knocked down upon the open road without having the heels

of either delicately tripped up by some one you did not see.

Still this difference was more apparent in the system of smuggling

than in anything else, and the whole plan, particulars, course of

action, and results were so completely opposed to anything that is, or

can be in the present day--the scenes, the characters, the very

localities have so totally changed, that it may be necessary to pause

a moment before we go on to tell our tale, in order to give some sort

of description of the state of the country bordering on the sea-coast,

at the period to which I allude.

Scarcely any one of the maritime counties was in those days without

its gang of smugglers; for if France was not opposite, Holland was not

far off; and if brandy was not the object, nor silk, nor wine, yet tea

and cinnamon, and hollands, and various East India goods, were things

duly estimated by the British public, especially when they could be

obtained without the payment of Custom-house dues. But besides the

inducements to smuggling which the high price that those dues imposed

upon certain articles, held out, it must be remembered that various

other commodities were totally prohibited, and, as an inevitable

consequence, were desired and sought for more than any others. The

nature of both man and woman, from the time of Adam and Eve down to

the present day, has always been fond of forbidden fruit; and it

mattered not a pin whether the goods were really better or worse, so

that they were prohibited, men would risk their necks to get them. The

system of prevention also was very inefficient, and a few scattered

Custom-House officers, aided by a cruiser here or there upon the

coast, had an excellent opportunity of getting their throats cut or

their heads broken, or of making a decent livelihood by conniving at

the transactions they were sent down to stop, as the peculiar

temperament of each individual might render such operations pleasant

to him. Thus, to use one of the smugglers' own expressions--a

_roaring_ trade in contraband goods was going on along the whole

British coast, with very little let or hindrance.

As there are land-sharks and water-sharks, so were there then (and so

are there now) land-smugglers and water-smugglers. The latter brought

the objects of their commerce, either from foreign countries or from

foreign vessels, and landed them on the coast--and a bold, daring,

reckless body of men they were; the former, in gangs, consisting

frequently of many hundreds, generally well mounted and armed,

conveyed the commodities so landed into the interior, and distributed

them to others, who retailed them as occasion required. Nor were these

gentry one whit less fearless, enterprising, and lawless than their

brethren of the sea.

We have not yet done, however, with all the ramifications of this vast

and magnificent league, for it extended itself, in the districts where

it existed, to almost every class of society. Each tradesman smuggled

or dealt in smuggled goods; each public house was supported by

smugglers, and gave them in return every facility possible; each

country gentleman on the coast dabbled a little in the interesting

traffic; almost every magistrate shared in the proceeds or partook of

the commodities. Scarcely a house but had its place of concealment,

which would accommodate either kegs or bales, or human beings, as the

case might be; and many streets in sea-port towns had private passages

from one house to another, so that the gentleman inquired for by the

officers at No. 1 was often walking quietly out of No. 20, while they

were searching for him in vain. The back of one street had always

excellent means of communication with the front of another; and the

gardens gave exit to the country with as little delay as possible.

Of all counties, however, the most favoured by nature and by art for

the very pleasant and exciting sport of smuggling, was the county of

Kent; its geographical position, its local features, its variety of

coast, all afforded it the greatest advantages; and the daring

character of the natives on the shores of the Channel was sure to turn

those advantages to the purposes in question. Sussex, indeed, was not

without its share of facilities, nor did the Sussex men fail to

improve them; but they were so much farther off from the opposite

coast, that the commerce--which we may well call the regular

trade--was, at Hastings, Rye, and Winchelsea, in no degree to be

compared to that which was carried on from the North Foreland to

Romney Hoy.

At one time, the fine level of "The Marsh," a dark night and a fair

wind, afforded a delightful opportunity for landing a cargo and

carrying it rapidly into the interior; at another time, Sandwich Flats

and Pevensey Bay presented a harbour of refuge, and a place of repose

to kegs innumerable and bales of great value; at another period, the

cliffs round Folkestone and near the South Foreland, saw spirits

travelling up by paths which seemed inaccessible to mortal foot; and

at another, the wild and broken ground at the back of Sandgate was

traversed by long trains of horses, escorting or carrying every

description of contraband articles.

The interior of the country was not less favourable to the traffic

than the coast: large masses of wood, numerous gentlemen's parks,

hills and dales tossed about in wild confusion; roads such as nothing

but horses could travel, or men on foot, often constructed with felled

trees or broad stones laid side by side; wide tracts of ground, partly

copse and partly moor, called in that county "minnisses;" and a long

extent of the Weald of Kent, through which no high way existed, and

where such thing as coach or carriage was never seen, offered the land

smugglers opportunities of carrying on their transactions with the

degree of secrecy and safety which no other county afforded. Their

numbers, too, were so great, their boldness and violence so notorious,

their powers of injuring or annoying so various, that even those who

took no part in their operations were glad to connive at their

proceedings, and at times to aid in concealing their persons or their

goods. Not a park, not a wood, not a barn, did not at some period

afford them a refuge when pursued, or become a depository for their

commodities; and many a man, on visiting his stable or his cart-shed

early in the morning, found it tenanted by anything but horses or

wagons. The churchyards were frequently crowded at night by other

spirits than those of the dead, and not even the church was exempted

from such visitations.

None of the people of the county took notice of, or opposed these

proceedings; the peasantry laughed at, or aided, and very often got a

good day's work, or, at all events, a jug of genuine hollands from the

friendly smugglers; the clerk and the sexton willingly aided and

abetted, and opened the door of vault, or vestry, or church, for the

reception of the passing goods; the clergyman shut his eyes if he saw

tubs or stone jars in his way; and it is remarkable what good brandy

punch was generally to be found at the house of the village pastor.

The magistrates of the county, when called upon to aid in pursuit of

the smugglers, looked grave, and swore in constables very slowly;

despatched servants on horseback to see what was going on, and ordered

the steward or the butler to "_send the sheep to the wood_," an

intimation that was not lost upon those for whom it was intended. The

magistrates and officers of seaport towns were in general so deeply

implicated in the trade themselves, that smuggling had a fairer chance

than the law, in any case that came before them, and never was a more

hopeless enterprise undertaken, in ordinary circumstances, than that

of convicting a smuggler, unless captured in flagrant delict.

Were it only our object to depict the habits and manners of these

worthy people, we might take any given part of the seaward side of

Kent that we chose for particular description, for it was all the

same. No railroads had penetrated through the country then; no coast

blockade was established; even martello-towers were unknown; and in

the general confederacy or understanding which existed throughout the

whole of the county, the officers found it nearly a useless task to

attempt to execute their duty. Nevertheless, as it is a tale I have to

tell, not a picture to paint, I may as well dwell for a few minutes

upon the scene of the principal adventures about to be related. A long

range of hills, varying greatly in height and steepness, runs nearly

down the centre of the county of Kent, throwing out spurs or

buttresses in different directions, and sometimes leaving broad and

beautiful valleys between. The origin or base, if we may so call it,

of this range is the great Surrey chain of hills; not that it is

perfectly connected with that chain, for in many places a separation

is found, through which the Medway, the Stour, and several smaller

rivers wind onward to the Thames or to the sea; but still the general

connexion is sufficiently marked, and from Dover and Folkestone, by

Chart, Lenham, Maidstone, and Westerham on the one side, and Barham,

Harbledown, and Rochester on the other, the road runs generally over a

long line of elevated ground, only dipping down here and there to

visit some town or city of importance which has nested itself in one

of the lateral valleys, or strayed out into the plain.

On the northern side of the county, a considerable extent of flat

ground extends along the bank and estuary of the Thames from Greenwich

to Sandwich and Deal. On the southern side, a still wider extent lies

between the high-land and the borders of Sussex. This plain or valley

as perhaps it may be called, terminates at the sea by the renowned

flat of Romney Marsh. Farther up, somewhat narrowing as it goes, it

takes the name of the Weald of Kent, comprising some very rich land

and a number of small villages, with one or two towns of no very great

importance. This Weald of Kent is bordered all along by the southern

side of the hilly range we have mentioned; but strange to say,

although a very level piece of ground was to be had through this

district, the high road perversely pursued its way up and down the

hills, by Lenham and Charing, till it thought fit to descend to

Ashford, and thence once more make its way to Folkestone. Thus a great

part of the Weald of Kent was totally untravelled; and at one village

of considerable size, which now hears almost hourly the panting and

screaming steam-engine whirled by, along its iron course, I have

myself seen the whole population of the place turn out to behold the

wonderful phenomenon of a coach-and-four, the first that was ever

beheld in the place. Close to the sea the hills are bare enough; but

at no great distance inland, they become rich in wood, and the Weald,

whether arable or pasture, or hop-garden or orchard, is so divided

into small fields by numerous hedgerows of fine trees, and so

diversified by patches of woodland, that, seen at a little distance up

the hill--not high enough to view it like a map--it assumes, in the

leafy season, almost the look of a forest partially cleared.

Along the southern edge, then, of the hills we have mentioned, and in

the plainer valley that stretches away from their feet, among the

woods, and hedgerows, and villages, and parks which embellish that

district, keeping generally in Kent, but sometimes trespassing a

little upon the fair county of Sussex, lies the scene of the tale

which is to follow, at a period when the high calling, or vocation, of

smuggling was in its most palmy days. But, ere I proceed to conduct

the reader into the actual locality where the principal events here

recorded really took place, I must pause for an instant in the

capital, to introduce him to one or two travelling companions.

CHAPTER II.

It was in the gray of the morning--and very gray, indeed, the morning

was, with much more black than white in the air, much more of night

still remaining in the sky than of day appearing in the east--when,

from the old Golden Cross, Charing Cross, or rather from the low and

narrow archway which, at that time, gave exit from its yard into the

open street exactly opposite the statue of King Charles, issued forth

a vehicle which had not long lost the name of diligence, and assumed

that of stage-coach. Do not let the reader delude himself into the

belief that it was like the stage-coach of his own recollections in

any other respect than in having four wheels, and two doors, and

windows. Let not fancy conjure up before him flat sides of a bright

claret colour, and a neat boot as smooth and shining as a looking

glass, four bays, or browns, or greys, three-parts blood, and a

coachman the pink of all propriety. Nothing of the kind was there. The

vehicle was large and roomy, capable of containing within, at least,

six travellers of large size. It was hung in a somewhat straggling

manner upon its almost upright springs, and was elevated far above any

necessary pitch. The top was decorated with round iron rails on either

side; and multitudinous were the packages collected upon the space so

enclosed; while a large cage-like instrument behind contained one or

two travellers, and a quantity of parcels. The colour of the sides was

yellow, but the numerous inscriptions which they bore in white

characters left little of the groundwork to be seen; for the name of

every place at which the coach stopped was there written for the

convenience of travellers who might desire to visit any town upon the

road; so that each side seemed more like a leaf out of a topographical

dictionary of the county of Kent than anything else. Underneath

the carriage was a large wicker basket, or cradle, also filled with

trunk-mails, and various other contrivances for holding the goods and

chattels of passengers; and the appearance of the whole was as

lumbering and heavy as that of a hippopotamus. The coachman mounted on

the box was a very different looking animal even from our friend Mr.

Weller, though the inimitable portrait of that gentleman is now, alas,

but a record of an extinct creature! However, as we have little to do

with the driver of the coach, I shall not pause to give a long account

of his dress or appearance; and, only noticing that the horses before

him formed as rough and shambling a team of nags as ever were seen,

shall proceed to speak of the travellers who occupied the interior of

the vehicle.

Although, as we have seen, the coach would have conveniently contained

six, it was now only tenanted by three persons. The first, who had

entered at the Golden Cross, Charing Cross, was a tall, thin, elderly

gentleman, dressed with scrupulous care and neatness. His linen and

his neckcloth were as white as snow, his shoes, his silk stockings,

his coat, his waistcoat, and his breeches as black as jet; his hat was

in the form of a Banbury cake; the buckles in his shoes and at his

knees were large and resplendent; and a gold-headed cane was in his

hand. To keep him from the cold, he had provided himself with a

garment which would either serve for a cloak or a coat, as he might

find agreeable, being extensive enough for the former, and having

sleeves to enable it to answer the purpose of the latter. His hair and

eyebrows were as white as driven snow, but his eyes were still keen,

quick, and lively. His colour was high, his teeth were remarkably

fine, and the expression of his countenance was both intelligent and

benevolent, though there was a certain degree of quickness in the turn

of the eyes, which, together with a sudden contraction of the brow

when anything annoyed him, and a mobility of the lips, seemed to

betoken a rather hasty and irascible spirit.

He had not been in the coach more than a minute and a half--but was

beginning to look at a huge watch which he drew from his fob, and to

"pish" at the coachman for being a minute behind his time--when he was

joined by two other travellers of a very different appearance and age

from himself. The one who entered first was a well-made, powerful man,

who might be either six-and-twenty or two-and-thirty. He could not

well be younger than the first of those two terms, for he had all the

breadth and vigorous proportions of fully-developed manhood. He could

not be well older than the latter, for not a trace of passing years,

no wrinkle, no furrow, no grayness of hair, no loss of any youthful

grace was apparent. Although covered by a large rough coat, then

commonly called a wrap-rascal, of the coarsest materials and the

rudest form, there was something in his demeanour and his look which

at once denoted the gentleman. His hat, too, his gloves, and his

boots, which were the only other parts of his dress that the loose

coat we have mentioned suffered to be seen, were all not only good,

but of the best quality. Though his complexion was dark, and his skin

bronzed almost to a mahogany colour by exposure to sun and wind, the

features were all fine and regular, and the expression high toned, but

somewhat grave, and even sad. He seated himself quietly in the corner

of the coach, with his back to the horses; and folding his arms upon

his broad chest, gazed out of the window with an abstracted look,

though his eyes were turned towards a man with a lantern who was

handing something up to the coachman. Thus the old gentleman on the

opposite side had a full view of his countenance, and seemed, by the

gaze which he fixed upon it, to study it attentively.

The second of the two gentlemen I have mentioned entered immediately

after the first, and was about the same age, but broader in make, and

not quite so tall. He was dressed in the height of the mode of that

day; and, though not in uniform, bore about him several traces of

military costume, which were, indeed, occasionally affected by the

dapper shopmen of that period, when they rode up Rotten Row or walked

the Mall, but which harmonized so well with his whole appearance and

demeanour, as to leave no doubt of their being justly assumed. His

features were not particularly good, but far from ugly, his complexion

fair, his hair strong and curly; and he would have passed rather for a

handsome man than otherwise, had not a deep scar, as if from a

sabre-wound, traversed his right cheek and part of his upper lip. His

aspect was gay, lively, and good-humoured, and yet there were some

strong lines of thought about his brow, with a slightly sarcastic turn

of the muscles round the corner of his mouth and nostrils. On

entering, he seated himself opposite the second traveller, but without

speaking to him, so that the old gentleman who first tenanted the

coach could not tell whether they came together or not; and the moment

after they had entered, the door was closed, the clerk of the inn

looked at the way-bill, the coachman bestowed two or three strokes of

his heavy whip on the flanks of his dull cattle, and the lumbering

machine moved heavily out, and rolled away towards Westminster Bridge.

The lights which were under the archway had enabled the travellers to

see each other's faces, but when once they had got into the street,

the thickness of the air, and the grayness of the dawn, rendered

everything indistinct, except the few scattered globe lamps which

still remained blinking at the sides of the pavement. The old

gentleman sunk back in his corner, wrapped his cloak about him for a

nap, and was soon in the land of forgetfulness. His slumbers did not

continue very long, however; and when he woke up at the Loompit Hill,

he found the sky all rosy with the beams of the rising sun, the

country air light and cheerful, and his two companions talking

together in familiar tones. After rousing himself, and putting down

the window, he passed about five minutes either in contemplating the

hedges by the roadside, all glittering in the morning dew, or in

considering the faces of his two fellow-travellers, and making up his

mind as to their characters and qualities. At the end of that time, as

they had now ceased speaking, he said--

"A beautiful day, gentlemen. I was sure it would be so when we set

out."

The darker and the graver traveller made no reply, but the other

smiled good-humouredly, and inquired--

"May I ask by what you judged, for to me the morning seemed to promise

anything but fine weather?"

"Two things--two things, my dear sir," answered the gentleman in

black. "An old proverb and a bad almanack."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the other. "I should have thought it a very good

almanack if it told me to a certainty what sort of weather it would

be."

"Ay, but how did it tell me?" rejoined the elderly traveller, leaning

his hand upon the gold head of his cane. "It declared we should have

torrents of rain. Now, sir, the world is composed of a great mass of

fools with a small portion of sensible men, who, like a little

quantity of yeast in a large quantity of dough, make the dumpling not

quite so bad as it might be. Of all the fools that I ever met with,

however, the worst are scientific fools, for they apply themselves to

tell all the other fools in the world that of which they themselves

know nothing, or at all events very little, which is worse. I have

examined carefully, in the course of a long life, how to deal with

these gentry, and I find that if you believe the exact reverse of any

information they give you, you will be right nine hundred and

ninety-seven times out of a thousand. I made a regular calculation of

it some years ago; and although at first sight it would seem that the

chances are equal, that these men should be right or wrong, I found

the result as I have stated, and have acted upon it ever since in

perfect security. If they trusted to mere guess work, the chances

might, perhaps, be equal, but they make such laborious endeavours to

lead themselves wrong, and so studiously avoid everything that could

lead them right, that the proportion is vastly against them."

"If such be their course of proceeding, the result will be naturally

as you say," answered the gentleman to whom he spoke; "but I should

think that as the variations of the weather must proceed from natural

causes constantly recurring, observation and calculation might arrive

at some certainty regarding them."

"Hold the sea in the hollow of your hand," cried the old gentleman,

impatiently; "make the finite contain the infinite; put twenty

thousand gallons into a pint pot,--and when you have done all that,

then calculate the causes that produce rain to-day and wind to-morrow,

or sunshine one day and clouds the next. Men say the same cause

acting under the same circumstances will always produce the same

effect--good; I grant that, merely for the sake of argument. But I

contend that the same effect may be produced by a thousand causes or

more. A man knocks you down; you fall: that's the effect produced by

one cause; but a fit of apoplexy may make you fall exactly in the same

way. Then apply the cause at the other end if you like, and trip your

foot over a stone, or over some bunches of long grass that mischievous

boys have tied across the path--down you come, just as if a

quarrelsome companion had tapped you on the head. No, no, sir; the

only way of ascertaining what the weather will be from one hour to

another is by a barometer. That's not very sure, and the best I know

of is a cow's tail, or a piece of dried seaweed. But these men of

science, they do nothing but go out mare's-nesting from morning till

night, and a precious number of horses' eggs they have found!"

Thus commenced a conversation which lasted for some time, and in which

the younger traveller seemed to find some amusement, plainly

perceiving, what the reader has already discovered, that his elderly

companion was an oddity. The other tenant of the coach made no

observation, but remained with his arms folded on his chest, sometimes

looking out of the window, sometimes gazing down at his own knee in

deep thought. About ten miles from town the coach passed some led

horses, with the grooms that were conducting them; and, as is natural

for young men, both the old gentleman's fellow-travellers put their

heads to the window, and examined the animals with a scrutinizing eye.

"Fine creatures, fine creatures--horses!" said the gentleman in black.

"Those are very fine ones," answered the graver of the two young men;

"I think I never saw better points about any beast than that black

charger."

"Ay, sir; you are a judge of horse-flesh, I suppose," rejoined the old

gentleman; "but I was speaking of horses in the abstract. They are

noble creatures indeed; and as matters have fallen out in this world,

I can't help thinking that there is a very bad arrangement, and that

those at the top of the tree should be a good way down. If all

creatures had their rights, man would not be the cock of the walk, as

he is now--a feeble, vain, self-sufficient, sensual monkey, who has no

farther advantages over other apes than being able to speak and cook

his dinner."

"May I ask," inquired the livelier of the two young men, "what is the

gentlemanly beast you would put over his head?"

"A great many--a great many," replied the other. "Dogs,

horses--elephants, certainly; I think elephants at the top. I am not

sure how I would class lions and tigers, who decidedly have one

advantage over man, that of being stronger and nobler beasts of prey.

He is only at the head of the tribe Simia, and should be described by

naturalists as the largest, cunningest, and most gluttinous of

baboons."

The gay traveller laughed aloud; and even his grave companion smiled,

saying, drily, "On my life, I believe there's some truth in it."

"Truth, sir!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "It's as true as we are

living. How dare man compare himself to a dog? an animal with greater

sagacity, stronger affections, infinitely more honour and honesty, a

longer memory, and a truer heart. I would not be a man if I could be a

dog, I can assure you."

"Many a man leads the life of a dog," said the gay traveller. "I'm

sure I have, for the last five or six years."

"If you have led as honest a life, sir," rejoined the old man, "you

may be very proud of it."

What the other would have answered cannot be told, for at that moment

the coach stopped to change horses, which was an operation in those

days, occupying about a quarter of an hour, and the whole party got

out and went into the little inn to obtain some breakfast; for between

London and Folkestone, which was to be the ultimate resting-place of

the vehicle, two hours and a half, upon the whole, were consumed with

breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper. Thus any party of travellers

proceeding together throughout the entire journey, had a much better

opportunity of becoming thoroughly acquainted with each other than

many a man has before marriage with the wife he takes to his bosom.

Though the conversation of the old gentleman was, as the reader has

perceived, somewhat morose and misanthropical, he showed himself very

polite and courteous at the breakfast table, made the tea, carved the

ham, and asked every man if he took cream and sugar. What wonderful

things little attentions are--how they smooth down our asperities and

soften us to one another! The two younger gentlemen had looked upon

their elderly companion merely as that curious compound which we have

before mentioned--an oddity, and which, like a pinch of strong snuff,

stimulates us without being very pleasant; but now they began to think

him a very nice old gentleman, and even the graver of the pair

conversed with him almost cheerfully for the short space of time their

meal occupied. When they had finished, and paid the score, the whole

party walked out together to the front of the house, where they found

a poor beggar woman with a child in her arms. Each gave her something,

but the elderly man stopped to inquire farther, and the others walked

up and down for a few minutes, till the coachman, who was making

himself comfortable by the absorption of his breakfast, and the horses

who were undergoing the opposite process in the application of their

harness, at length made their appearance. The two younger gentlemen

turned their eyes from time to time, as they walked, to their elderly

friend, who seemed to be scolding the poor woman most vehemently. His

keen black eyes sparkled, his brow contracted, he spoke with great

volubility, and demonstrated somewhat largely with the forefinger of

his right hand. What were their internal comments upon this conduct

did not appear; but both were a good deal surprised to see him, in the

end, put his hand into his breeches pocket, draw forth a piece of

money--it was not silver for it was yellow, and it was not copper for

it was too bright--and slip it quietly into the poor woman's palm. He

next gave a quiet, almost a timid glance around, to see if any one

were looking, and then stepped rapidly into the coach, as if he were

ashamed of what he had done. During all this proceeding he had taken

no notice of his two companions, nor at all listened to what they were

talking of; but as they entered the vehicle, while the horses were

being put to, the one said to the other, "I think you had better do

so, a great deal. It is as well to have the _carte du pays_ before one

commences operations."

"Well," replied the other, "you take the lead, Edward. The wound is

still painful, though it is an old one."

What they were talking of their companion could not tell; but it

excited, in some degree, his curiosity; and the manners of his two

companions had, to say the truth, pleased him, though he was one of

those men who, with very benevolent feelings at the bottom, are but

little inclined to acknowledge that they are well pleased with

anything or with anybody. For a moment or two all parties were silent;

but the elderly gentleman was the first to begin, saying, in a more

placable and complimentary tone than he was in general accustomed to

use, "I hope I am to have the pleasure of your society, gentlemen, to

the end of my journey?"

"I rather think we shall be your companions as far as you go," replied

the gayer of the two young men, "for we are wending down to the far,

wild parts of Kent; and it is probable you will not go beyond

Folkestone, unless, indeed, you are about to cross the seas."

"Not I," exclaimed the old gentleman--"I have crossed the seas enough

in my day, and never intend to set my foot out of my own country

again, till four stout fellows carry me to the churchyard. No, no;

you'll journey beyond me a long way, for I am only going to a little

place called Harbourne, some distance on the Sussex side of

Folkestone: a place quite out of the world, with no bigger a town near

it than Cranbrook, and where we see the face of a human creature above

the rank of a farmer, or a smuggler about once in the year--always

excepting the parson of the parish."

"Then you turn off from Maidstone?" said the graver traveller, looking

steadfastly in his face.

"No, I don't," replied the other. "Never, my dear sir, come to

conclusions where you don't know the premises. I go, on the contrary,

to Ashford, where I intend to sleep. I am there to be joined by a

worthy brother of mine, and then we return together to Cranbrook. You

are quite right, indeed, that my best and straightest road would be,

as you say, from Maidstone; but we can't always take the straightest

road in this world, though young men think they can, and old men only

learn too late that they cannot."

"I have good reason to know the fact," said the gayer of his two

fellow travellers; "I myself am going to the very same part of the

country you mention, but have to proceed still farther out of my way;

for I must visit Hythe and Folkestone first."

"Indeed, indeed!" exclaimed their elderly friend. "Do you know any

body in that part of Kent?--Have you ever been there before?"

"Never," replied the other; "nor have I ever seen the persons I am

going to see. What sort of a country is it?"

"Bless the young man's life!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, "does

he expect me to give him a long picturesque description of St.

Augustine's Lathe? If you wish to know my opinion of it, it is as wild

and desolate a part of the world as the backwoods of America, and the

people little better than American savages. You'll find plenty of

trees, a few villages, some farm-houses, one or two gentlemen's

seats--they had better have called them stools--a stream or two, a

number of hills and things of that kind; and your humble servant, who

would be very happy to see you, if you are not a smuggler, and are

coming to that part of the country."

"I shall not fail to pay my respects to you," replied the gentleman to

whom he spoke; "but I must first know who I am to inquire for."

"Pay your respect where it is due, my dear sir," rejoined the other.

"You can't tell a whit whether I deserve any respect or not. You'll

find out all that by and by. As to what I am called, I could give you

half a dozen names. Some people call me the Bear, some people the

Nabob, some the Misanthrope; but my real name--that which I am known

by at the post-office--is Mr. Zachary Croyland, brother of the man who

has Harbourne House: a younger brother too, by God's blessing--and a

great blessing it is."

"It is lucky when every man is pleased with his situation," answered

his young acquaintance. "Most elder brothers thank God for making them

such, and I have often had cause to do the same."

"It's the greatest misfortune that can happen to a man," exclaimed the

old gentleman, eagerly. "What are elder brothers, but people who are

placed by fate in the most desperate and difficult circumstances.

Spoilt and indulged in their infancy, taught to be vain and idle and

conceited from the cradle, deprived of every inducement to the

exertion of mind, corrupted by having always their own way, sheltered

from all the friendly buffets of the world, and left, like a pond in a

gravel pit, to stagnate or evaporate without stirring. Nine times out

of ten from mere inanition they fall into every sort of vice; forget

that they have duties as well as privileges, think that the slice of

the world that has been given to them is entirely at their own

pleasure and disposal, spend their fortunes, encumber their estates,

bully their wives and their servants, indulge their eldest son till he

is just such a piece of unkneaded dough as themselves, kick out their

younger sons into the world without a farthing, and break their

daughters' hearts by forcing them to marry men they hate. That's what

elder brothers are made for; and to be one, I say again, is the

greatest curse that can fall upon a man. But come, now I have told you

my name, tell me yours. That's but a fair exchange you know, and no

robbery, and I hate going on calling people 'sir' for ever."

"Quite a just demand," replied the gentleman whom he addressed, "and

you shall immediately have the whole particulars. My name is Digby, a

poor major in his Majesty's ---- regiment of Dragoons, to whom the two

serious misfortunes have happened of being born an eldest son, and

having a baronetcy thrust upon him."

"Couldn't be worse--couldn't be worse!" replied the old gentleman,

laughing. "And so you are Sir Edward Digby! Oh yes. I can tell you,

you are expected, and have been so these three weeks. The whole

matter's laid out for you in every house in the country. You are to

marry every unmarried woman in the hundred. The young men expect you

to do nothing but hunt foxes, course hares, and shoot partridges from

morning till night; and the old men have made up their minds that you

shall drink port, claret, or madeira, as the case may be, from night

till morning. I pity you--upon my life, I pity you. What between love

and wine and field sports, you'll have a miserable time of it! Take

care how you speak a single word to any single woman! Don't even smile

upon Aunt Barbara, or she'll make you a low curtsey, and say 'You must

ask my brother about the settlement, my dear Edward.' Ha, ha, ha!" and

he laughed a long, merry, hearty peal, that made the rumbling vehicle

echo again. Then putting the gold-headed cane to his lips, he turned a

sly glance upon the other traveller, who was only moved to a very

faint smile by all the old gentleman's merriment, asking, "Does this

gentleman come with you?--Are you to be made a martyr of too, sir? Are

you to be set running after foxes all day, like a tiger on horseback,

and to have sheep's eyes cast at you all the evening, like a man in

the pillory pelted with eggs? Are you bound to imbibe a butt of claret

in three weeks? Poor young men--poor young men! My bowels of

compassion yearn towards you."

"I shall fortunately escape all such perils," replied he whom he had

last addressed--"I have no invitation to that part of the country."

"Come, then, I'll give you one," said the old gentleman; "if you like

to come and stay a few days with an old bachelor, who will neither

make you drunk nor make you foolish, I shall be glad to see you."

"I am not very likely to get drunk," answered the other, "as an old

wound compels me to be a water drinker. Foolish enough I may be, and

may have been; but, I am sure, that evil would not be increased by

frequenting your society, my dear sir."

"I don't know--I don't know, young gentleman," said Mr. Croyland:

"every man has his follies, and I amongst the rest as goodly a

bag-full as one could well desire. But you have not given me an

answer; shall I see you? Will you come with your friend, and take up

your abode at a single man's house, while Sir Edward goes and charms

the ladies."

"I cannot come with him, I am afraid," replied the young gentleman,

"for I must remain with the regiment some time; but I will willingly

accept your invitation, and join him in a week or two."

"Oh you're in the same regiment, are you?" asked Mr. Croyland; "it's

not a whole regiment of elder sons, I hope?"

"Oh no," answered the other, "I have the still greater misfortune of

being an only son; and the greater one still, of being an orphan."

"And may I know your style and denomination?" said Mr. Croyland.

"Oh, Osborn, Osborn!" cried Sir Edward Digby, before his friend could

speak, "Captain Osborn of the ---- Dragoons."

"I will put that down in my note-book," rejoined the old gentleman.

"The best friend I ever had was named Osborn. He couldn't be your

father, though, for he had no children, poor fellow! and was never

married, which was the only blessing Heaven ever granted him, except a

good heart and a well-regulated mind. His sister married my old

schoolfellow, Leyton--but that's a bad story, and a sad story, though

now it's an old story, too."

"Indeed!" said Sir Edward Digby; "I'm fond of old stories if they are

good ones."

"But, I told you this was a bad one, Sir Ned," rejoined the old

gentleman sharply; "and as my brother behaved very ill to poor Leyton,

the less we say of it the better. The truth is," he continued, for he

was one of those who always refuse to tell a story, and tell it after

all, "Leyton was rector of a living which was in my brother's gift. He

was only to hold it, however, till my youngest nephew was of age to

take it; but when the boy died--as they both did sooner or

later--Leyton held the living on, and thought it was his own, till one

day there came a quarrel between him and my brother, and then Robert

brought forward his letter promising to resign when called upon, and

drove him out. I wasn't here then; but I have heard all about it

since, and a bad affair it was. It should not have happened if I had

been here, for Bob has a shrewd eye to the nabob's money, as well he

may, seeing that he's----but that's no business of mine. If he chooses

to dribble through his fortune, Heaven knows how, I've nothing to do

with it! The two poor girls will suffer."

"What, your brother has two fair daughters then, has he?" demanded Sir

Edward Digby. "I suppose it is under the artillery of their glances I

am first to pass; for, doubtless, you know I am going to your

brother's."

"Oh, yes, I know--I know all about it!" replied Mr. Croyland. "They

tell me everything as in duty bound--that's to say, everything they

don't wish to conceal. But I'm consulted like an oracle upon all

things unimportant; for he that was kicked out with a sixpence into

the wide world, has grown a wonderful great man since the sixpence has

multiplied itself. As to your having to pass under the artillery of

the girls' glances, however, you must take care of yourself; for you

might stand a less dangerous fire, I can tell you, even in a field of

battle. But I'll give you one warning for your safeguard. You may make

love to little Zara as long as you like--think of the fools calling

her Zara! Though she'll play a pretty game of picquet with you, you

may chance to win it; but you must not dangle after Edith, or you will

burn your fingers. She'll not have you, if you were twenty baronets,

and twenty majors of Dragoons into the bargain. She has got some of

the fancies of the old uncle about her, and is determined to die an

old maid, I can see."

"Oh, the difficulty of the enterprise would only be a soldier's reason

for undertaking it!" said Sir Edward Digby.

"It wont do--it wont do;" answered Mr. Croyland, laughing; "you may

think yourself very captivating, very conquering, quite a look-and-die

man, as all you people in red jackets fancy yourselves, but it will be

all lost labour with Edith, I can tell you."

"You excite all the martial ardour in my soul!" exclaimed Digby, with

a gay smile; "and if she be not forty, hump-backed, or one eyed, by

the fates you shall see what you shall see."

"Forty!" cried Mr. Croyland; "why she's but two-and-twenty, man!--a

great deal straighter than that crouching wench in white marble they

call the 'Venus de Medici,' and with a pair of eyes, that, on my life,

I think would have made me forswear celibacy, if I had found such

looking at me, any time before I reached fifty!"

"Do you hear that, Osborn?" cried Sir Edward Digby. "Here's a fine

field for an adventurous spirit. I shall have the start of you, my

friend; and in the wilds of Kent, what may not be done in ten days or

a fortnight?"

His companion only answered by a melancholy smile; and the

conversation went on between the old gentleman and the young baronet

till they reached the small town of Lenham, where they stopped again

to dine. There, however, Mr. Croyland drew Sir Edward Digby aside, and

inquired in a low tone, "Is your friend in love?--He looks mighty

melancholy."

"I believe he is," replied Digby. "Love's the only thing that can make

a man melancholy; and when one comes to consider all the attractions

of a squaw of the Chippeway Indians, it is no wonder that my friend is

in such a hopeless case."

The old gentleman poked him with his finger, and shook his head with a

laugh, saying--"You are a wag, young gentleman--you are a wag; but it

would be a great deal more reasonable, let me tell you, to fall in

love with a Chippeway squaw, in her feathers and wampam, than with one

of these made-up madams, all paint and satin, and tawdry bits of

embroidery. In the one case you might know something of what your love

is like; in the other, I defy you to know anything about her; and,

nine times out of ten, what, a man marries is little better than a

bale of tow and whalebone, covered over with the excrement of a

silkworm. Man's a strange animal; and one of the strangest of all his

proceedings is, that of covering up his own natural skin with all

manner of contrivances derived from every bird, beast, fish, and

vegetable, that happens to come in his way. If he wants warmth, he

goes and robs a sheep of its great coat; he beats the unfortunate

grass of the field, till he leaves nothing but shreds, to make himself

a shirt; he skins a beaver, to cover his head; and, if he wants to be

exceedingly fine, he pulls the tail of an ostrich, and sticks the

feather in his hat. He's the universal mountebank, depend upon it,

playing his antics for the amusement of creation, and leaving nothing

half so ridiculous as himself."

Thus saying, he turned round again, and joined Captain Osborn, in

whom, perhaps, he took a greater interest than even in his livelier

companion. It might be that the associations called up by the name

were pleasant to him, or it might be that there was something in his

face that interested him, for certainly that face was one which seemed

to become each moment more handsome as one grew familiar with it.

When, after dinner, they re-entered the vehicle, and rolled away once

more along the high road, Captain Osborn took a greater share in the

conversation than he had previously done; and remarking that Mr.

Croyland had put, as a condition, upon his invitation to Sir Edward,

that he should not be a smuggler, he went on to observe, "You seem to

have a great objection to those gentry, my dear sir; and yet I

understand your county is full of them."

"Full of them!" exclaimed Mr. Croyland--"it is running over with them.

They drop down into Sussex, out into Essex, over into Surrey; the

vermin are more numerous than rats in an old barn. Not that, when a

fellow is poor, and wants money, and can get it by no other

means,--not that I think very hard of him when he takes to a life of

risk and adventure, where his neck is not worth sixpence, and his gain

is bought by the sweat of his brow. But your gentleman smuggler is my

abomination--your fellow that risks little hut an exchequer process,

and gains ten times what the others do, without their labour or their

danger. Give me your bold, brave fellow, who declares war and fights

it out, There's some spirit in him."

"Gentlemen smugglers!" said Osborn; "that seems to me to be a strange

sort of anomaly. I was not aware that there were such things."

"Pooh! the country is full of them," cried Mr. Croyland. "It is not

here that the peasant treads upon the kybe of the peer; but the

smuggler treads upon the country gentlemen. Many a merchant who never

made a hundred pounds by fair trade, makes thousands and hundreds of

thousands by cheating the Customs. There is not a man in this part of

the country who does not dabble in the traffic more or less. I've no

doubt all my brandied cherries are steeped in stuff that never paid

duty; and if you don't smuggle yourself, your servants do it for you.

But I'll tell you all about it," and he proceeded to give them a true

and faithful exposition of the state of the county, agreeing in all

respects with that which has been furnished to the reader in the first

chapter of this tale.

His statement and the various conversation, which arose from different

parts of it, occupied the time fully, till the coach, as it was

growing dark, rolled into Ashford. There Mr. Croyland quitted his two

companions, shaking them each by the hand with right goodwill; and

they pursued their onward course to Hythe and Folkestone, without any

farther incident worthy of notice.

CHAPTER III.

At Hythe, to make use of a very extraordinary though not uncommon

expression, the coach stopped to sup--not that the coach itself ate

anything, for, on the contrary, it disgorged that which it had already

taken in; but the travellers who descended from it were furnished with

supper, although the distance to Folkestone might very well have

justified them in going on to the end of their journey without any

other pabulum than that which they had already received. But two or

three things are to be taken into consideration. The distance from

London to Folkestone is now seventy-one miles. It was longer in those

days by several more, besides having the disadvantage of running up

and down over innumerable hills, all of which were a great deal more

steep than they are in the present day. The journey, which the

travellers accomplished, was generally considered a feat both of

difficulty and danger, and the coach which performed that feat in one

day, was supposed to deserve right well the name which it had assumed,

of "The Phenomenon." Before it began to run, seventy-one miles in

seventeen hours was considered an impracticable journey for anything

but a man on horseback, and when first the coach appeared upon the

road, the towns-people and villagers turned out in multitudes, with

admiration and wonder, not unmixed with dread, to see the rapid rate

at which it went--very nearly six miles an hour! The old diligence,

which had preceded it, had slept one night, and sometimes two, upon

the road; and, in its first vain struggles with its more rapid

successor, it had actually once or twice made the journey in

two-and-twenty hours. To beat off this pertinacious rival, the

proprietor of the stage had been obliged to propitiate the inn-keepers

of various important towns, by dividing his favours amongst them; and

thus the traveller was forced to wait nearly one hour at Hythe, during

which he might sup if he liked, although he was only about five miles

from Folkestone.

The supper room of the inn was vacant when the two officers of

Dragoons entered, but the table, covered with its neat white cloth,

and all the preparations for a substantial meal, together with a

bright fire sparkling in the grate, rendered its aspect cheerful and

reviving after a long and tedious journey, such as that which had just

been accomplished. Sir Edward Digby looked round well pleased, turned

his back to the fire, spoke to the landlord and his maid about supper,

and seemed disposed to enjoy himself during the period of his stay. He

ordered, too, a pint of claret, which he was well aware was likely to

be procured in great perfection upon the coast of Kent. The landlord

in consequence conceived a high respect for him, and very much

undervalued all the qualities of his companion, who, seating himself

at the table, leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into deep

thought, without giving orders for anything. The host, with his

attendant star, disappeared from the room to procure the requisites

for the travellers' meal, and Sir Edward Digby immediately took

advantage of their absence to say, "Come, come, my dear Colonel, shake

this off. I think all that we have lately heard should have tended to

revive hope, and to give comfort. During all the six years that we

have been more like brothers than friends, I have never seen you so

much cast down as now, when you are taking the field under the most

favourable circumstances, with name, station, reputation, fortune, and

with the best reason to believe those true whom you had been taught to

suppose false."

"I cannot tell, Digby," replied his companion; "we shall hear more ere

long, and doubt is always well nigh as painful as the worst certainty.

Besides, I am returning to the scenes of my early youth--scenes

stored, it is true, with many a sweet and happy memory, but full also

of painful recollections. Those memories themselves are but as an

inscription on a tomb, where hopes and pleasures, the bright dreams of

youth, the ardent aspirations of first true love, the sweet

endearments of a happy home, the treasured caresses of the best of

mothers, the counsels, the kindness, the unvarying tenderness of the

noblest and highest minded of fathers, all lie buried. There may be a

pleasure in visiting that tomb, but it is a melancholy one; and when I

think that it was for me--that it was on my account, my father

suffered persecution and wrong, till a powerful mind, and a vigorous

frame gave way, there is a bitterness mingled with all my remembrances

of these scenes, from which I would fain clear my heart. I will do so,

too, but it will require some solitary thought, some renewed

familiarity with all the objects round, to take off the sharpness of

the first effect. You, go on to Folkestone and see that all is right

there, I will remain here and wait for the rest. As soon as you have

ascertained that everything is prepared to act in case we are called

upon--which I hope may not be the case, as I do not like the

service--you may betake yourself to Harbourne House, making me a

report as you pass. When I have so distributed the men that we can

rapidly concentrate a sufficient number upon any spot where they may

be required, I will come on after you to our good old friend's

dwelling. There you can see me, and let me know what is taking place."

"I think you had better not let him know who you really are," replied

Sir Edward Digby, "at least till we have seen how the land lies."

"I do not know--I will think of it," answered the other gentleman,

whom for the present we shall continue to call Osborn, though the

learned reader has already discovered that such was not his true name.

"It is evident," he continued, "that old Mr. Croyland does not

remember me, although I saw him frequently when he was in England for

a short time, some six or seven years before he finally quitted India.

However, though I feel I am much changed, it is probable that many

persons will recognise me whenever I appear in the neighbourhood of

Cranbrook, and he might take it ill, that he who was so good and true

a friend both to my uncle and my father, should be left in ignorance.

Perhaps it would be better to confide in him fully, and make him aware

of all my views and purposes."

"Under the seal of confession, then," said his friend; "for he is

evidently a very talkative old gentleman. Did you remark how he once

or twice declared he would not tell a story, that it was no business

of his, and then went on to tell it directly."

"True, such was always his habit," answered Osborn; "and his oddities

have got somewhat exaggerated during the last twelve years; but he's

as true and faithful as ever man was, and nothing would induce him to

betray a secret confided to him."

"You know best," replied the other; but the entrance of the landlord

with the claret, and the maid with the supper, broke off the

conversation, and there was no opportunity of renewing it till it was

announced that the horses were to, and the coach was ready. The two

friends then took leave of each other, both coachman and host being

somewhat surprised to find that one of the travellers was about to

remain behind.

When, however, a portmanteau, a sword-case, and a large trunk, or mail

as it was then called, had been handed out of the egregious boot,

Osborn walked into the inn once more, and called the landlord to him.

"I shall, most likely," he said, "take up my quarters with you for

some days, so you will be good enough to have a bed room prepared for

me. You must also let me have a room, however small, where I can read,

and write, and receive any persons who may come to see me, for I have

a good deal of business to transact."

"Oh, yes, sir--I understand," replied the host, with a knowing

elevation of one eye-brow and a depression of the other, "Quite snug

and private. You shall have a room at the back of the house with two

doors, so that they can come in by the one, and go out through the

other, and nobody know anything about it."

"I rather suspect you mistake," answered the guest, with a smile, "and

for fear you should say anything, under an error, that you might be

sorry for afterwards, let me tell you at once that I am an officer of

Dragoons, and that the business I speak of is merely regimental

business."

The host's face grew amazingly blank; for a smuggler in a large way

was, in his estimation, a much more valuable and important guest than

an officer in the army, even had he been Commander-in-Chief of the

forces; but Osborn proceeded to relieve his mind from some of its

anxieties by saying: "You will understand that I am neither a spy nor

an informer, my good friend, but merely come here to execute whatever

orders I may receive from government as a military man. I tell you who

I am at once, that you may, as far as possible, keep from my sight any

of those little transactions which I am informed are constantly taking

place on this coast. I shall not, of course, step over the line of my

duty, which is purely military, to report anything I see; but still I

should not like that any man should say I was cognizant of proceedings

contrary to the interests of the government. This hint, however, I

doubt not, will be enough."

"Sir, you are a gentleman," said the host, "and as a nod is as good as

a wink to a blind horse, I shall take care you have no annoyance. You

must wait a little for your bed-room though, for we did not know you

were going to stay; but we will lose no time getting it ready. Can I

do anything else to serve you, sir?"

"I think not," replied Osborn. "But one thing will be necessary. I

expect five horses down to-morrow, and there must be found stabling

for them, and accommodation for the servants."

The landlord, who was greatly consoled by these latter proofs of his

guest's opulence and importance, was proceeding to assure him that all

manner of conveniences, both for horse and man were to be found at his

inn, when the door of the room opened, and a third person was added to

the party within. The moment the eye of the traveller by the coach

fell upon him, his face lighted up with a well pleased smile, and he

exclaimed, "Ah, my good friend, is that you?--I little expected to

find you in this part of Kent. What brought you hither, after our long

voyage?"

"The same that brought you," answered the other: "old memories and

loved associations."

But before we proceed to notice what was Osborn's reply, we must,

though very unwilling to give long descriptions either of personal

appearance or of dress, pause to notice briefly those of the stranger

who had just entered.

He had originally been a tall man, and probably a powerful one, but he

now stooped considerably, and was extremely thin. His face had no

colour in it, and even the lips were pale, but yet the hue was not

cadaverous, or even what could be called sickly. The features were

generally small and fine, except the eyes, which were large and

bright, with a sort of brilliant but unsafe fire in them, and that

peculiar searching and intense gaze when speaking to any one, which is

common to people of strong imaginations, who try to convey to others

more than they actually say. His forehead, too, was high and grand,

but wrinkled over with the furrows of thought and care; and on the

right side was a deep indentation, with a gash across it, as if the

skull had been driven in by a blow. His hair, which was long and thin,

was milk white, and though his teeth were fine, yet the wrinkles of

his skin, the peculiar roughness of the ear, and the shrivelled hand,

all bore testimony of an advanced age. Yet, perhaps, he might be

younger than he looked, for the light in that eager eye plainly spoke

one of those quick, anxious, ever labouring spirits which wear the

frame by the internal emotions, infinitely more rapidly and more

destructively than any of the external events and circumstances of

life. One thing was very peculiar about him--at least, in this

country--for on another continent such a peculiarity might have called

for no attention. On either cheek, beginning just behind the external

corner of the eye, and proceeding in a graceful wave all along the

cheek bone, turning round, like an acanthus leaf, at the other

extremity upon the cheek itself, was a long line of very minute blue

spots, with another, and another, and another beneath it, till the

whole assumed the appearance of a rather broad arabesque painted in

blue upon his face. His dress in other respects (if this tattooing

might be called a part of his dress) though coarse in texture was

good. The whole, too, was black, except where the white turned-down

collar of his shirt appeared between his coat and his pale brownish

skin. His shoes were large and heavy like those used by the countrymen

in that part of the county, and in them he wore a pair of silver

buckles, not very large, but which in their peculiar form and

ornaments, gave signs of considerable antiquity. Though bent, as we

have said, thin, and pale, he seemed active and energetic. All his

motions were quick and eager, and he grasped the hand which Osborn

extended to him, with a warmth and enthusiasm very different from the

ordinary expression of common friendship.

"You mistake," said the young gentleman, in answer to his last

observation. "It was not old memories and loved associations which

brought me here at all, Mr. Warde. It was an order from the

commander-in-chief. Had I not received it, I should not have visited

this place for years--if ever!"

"Yes, yes, you would," replied the old man; "you could not help

yourself. It was written in the book of your fate. It was not to be

avoided. You were drawn here by an irresistible impulse to undergo

what you have to undergo, to perform that which is assigned you, and

to do and suffer all those things which are written on high."

"I wonder to hear _you_ speaking in terms so like those of a fatalist,"

answered Osborn--"you whom I have always heard so strenuously assert

man's responsibility for all his actions, and scoff at the idea of his

excusing himself on the plea of his predestination."

"True, true," answered the old man whom he called

Warde,--"predestination affords him no excuse for aught that is wrong,

for though it be an inscrutable mystery how those three great facts

are to be reconciled, yet certain it is that Omniscience cannot be

ignorant of that which will take place, any more than of that which

has taken place; that everything which God foreknows, must take place,

and has been pre-determined by his will, and that yet--as every man

must feel within himself--his own actions depend upon his volition,

and if they be evil he alone is to blame. The end is to come,

Osborn--the end is to come when all will be revealed--and doubt not

that it will be for God's glory. I often think," he continued in a

less emphatic tone, "that man with his free will is like a child with

a plaything. We see the babe about to dash it against the wall in mere

wantonness, we know that he will injure it--perhaps break it to

pieces--perhaps hurt himself with it in a degree; we could prevent it,

yet we do not, thinking perhaps that it will be a lesson--one of

those, the accumulation of which makes experience, if not wisdom. At

all events the punishment falls upon him; and, if duly warned, he has

no right to blame us for that which his own will did, though we saw

what he would do, and could have prevented him from doing so. We are

all spoilt children, Osborn, and remain so to the end, though God

gives us warning enough,--but here comes my homely meal."

At the same moment the landlord brought in a dish of vegetables, some

milk and some pottage, which he placed upon the table, giving a shrewd

look to the young officer, but saying to his companion, "There, I have

brought what you ordered, sir; but I cannot help thinking you had

better take a bit of meat. You had nothing but the same stuff this

morning, and no dinner that I know of."

"Man, I never eat anything that has drawn the breath of life," replied

Warde. "The first of our race brought death into the world and was

permitted to inflict it upon others, for the satisfaction of his own

appetites; but it was a permission, and not an injunction--except for

sacrifice. I will not be one of the tyrants of the whole creation; I

will have no more of the tiger in my nature than is inseparable from

it; and as to gorging myself some five or six times a day with

unnecessary food--am I a swine, do you think, to eat when I am not

hungry, for the sole purpose of devouring? No, no, the simplest food,

and that only for necessity, is best for man's body and his mind. We

all grow too rank and superfluous."

Thus saying, he approached the table, said a short grace over that

which was set before him, and then sitting down, ate till he was

satisfied, without exchanging a word with any one during the time that

he was thus engaged. It occupied less than five minutes, however, to

take all that he required, and then starting up suddenly, he thanked

God for what he had given him, took up his hat and turned towards the

door.

"I am going out, Osborn," he said, "for my evening walk. Will you come

with me?"

"Willingly for half an hour," answered the young officer, and, telling

the landlord as he passed that he would be back by the time that his

room was ready, he accompanied his eccentric acquaintance out into the

streets of Hythe, and thence, through some narrow walks and lanes, to

the sea-shore.

CHAPTER IV.

The sky was clear and bright; the moonlight was sleeping in dream-like

splendour upon the water, and the small waves, thrown up by the tide

more than the wind, came rippling along the beach like a flood of

diamonds. All was still and silent in the sky, and upon the earth; and

the soft rustle of the waters upon the shore seemed but to say "Hush!"

as if nature feared that any louder sound should interrupt her calm

repose. To the west, stretched out the faint low line of coast towards

Dungeness; and to the east, appeared the high cliffs near Folkestone

and Dover--grey and solemn; while the open heaven above looked down

with its tiny stars and lustrous moon upon the wide extended sea,

glittering in the silver veil cast over her sleeping bosom from on

high.

Such was the scene presented to the eyes of the two wanderers when

they reached the beach, a little way on the Sandgate side of Hythe,

and both paused to gaze upon it for several minutes in profound

silence.

"This is indeed a night to walk forth upon the sands," said the young

officer at length. "It seems to me, that of all the many scenes from

which man can derive both instruction and comfort, in the difficulties

and troubles of life, there is none so elevating, so strengthening, as

that presented by the sea shore on a moonlight night. To behold that

mighty element, so full of destructive and of beneficial power, lying

tranquilly within the bound which God affixed to it, and to remember

the words, 'Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther, and here shall

thy proud waves be stopped,' affords so grand an illustration of his

might, so fine a proof of the truth of his promises, that the heart

must be hard indeed and the mind dull, not to receive confirmation of

faith, and encouragement in hope."

"More, far more, may man receive," replied his companion, "if he be

but willing; but that gross and corrupt insect refuses all

instruction, and though the whole universe holds out blessings, still

chooses the curse. Where is there a scene whence man may not receive

benefit? What spot upon the whole earth has not something to speak to

his heart, if he would but listen? In his own busy passions, however,

and in his own fierce contentions, in his sordid creeping after gain,

in his trickery and his knavery, even in his loves and pleasures, man

turns a deaf ear to the great voice speaking to him; and the only

scene of all this earth which cannot benefit the eye that looks upon

it, is that in which human beings are the chief actors. There all is

foulness, or pitifulness, or vice; and one, to live in happiness, and

to take the moral of all nature to his heart, should live alone with

nature. I will find me out such a place, where I can absent myself

entirely, and contemplate nought but the works of God without the

presence of man, for I am sick to death of all that I have seen of him

and his, especially in what is called a civilized state."

"You have often threatened to do so, Warde," answered the young

officer, "but yet methinks, though you rail at him, you love man too

much to quit his abodes entirely. I have seen you kind and considerate

to savages of the most horrible class; to men whose daily practice

it is to torture with the most unheard of cruelty the prisoners

whom they take in battle; and will you have less regard for other

fellow-creatures, because they are what you call civilized?"

"The savage is at least sincere," replied his companion. "The want of

sincerity is the great and crowning vice of all this portion of the

globe. Cruel the wild hunters may be, but are they more cruel than the

people here? Which is the worst torment, a few hours' agony at the

stake, singing the war-song, all ended by a blow of a hatchet, or long

years of mental torture, when every scorn and contumely, every bitter

injustice, every cruel bereavement that man can inflict or suffer, is

piled upon your head, till the load becomes intolerable. Then, too, it

is done in a smooth and smiling guise. The civilized fiend looks

softly upon you while he wounds you to the heart--makes a pretext of

law, and justice, and equity--would have you fancy him a soft good

man, while there is no act of malevolence and iniquity that he does

not practise. The savage is true, at all events. The man who fractured

my skull with a blow of his tomahawk, made no pretence of friendship

or of right. He did it boldly, as an act customary with his people,

and would have led me to the stake and danced with joy to see me

suffering, had I not been rescued. He was sincere at least: but how

would the Englishman have served me? He would have wrung my heart with

pangs insupportable, and all the time have talked of his great grief

to afflict me, of the necessity of the case, of justice being on his

side, and of a thousand other vain and idle pretexts, but aggravating

the act by mocking me with a show of generosity."

"I fear my excellent friend that you have at some time suffered sadly

from man's baseness," said Osborn; "but yet I think you are wrong to

let the memory thereof affect you thus. I, too, have suffered, and

perhaps shall have to suffer more; but yet I would not part with the

best blessings God has given to man, as you have done, for any other

good."

"What have I parted with that I could keep?" asked the other, sharply:

"what blessings? I know of none!"

"Trust--confidence," replied his young companion. "I know you will say

that they have been taken from you; that you have not thrown them

away, that you have been robbed of them. But have you not parted with

them too easily? Have you not yielded at once, without a struggle to

retain what I still call the best blessings of God? There are many

villains in the world--I know it but too well; there are many knaves.

There are still more cold and selfish egotists, who, without

committing actual crimes or injuring others, do good to none; but

there are also many true and upright hearts, many just, noble, and

generous men; and were it a delusion to think so, I would try to

retain it still."

"And suffer for it in the hour of need, in the moment of the deepest

confidence," answered Warde. "If you must have confidence, place it in

the humble and the low, in the rudest and least civilized--ay, in the

very outcasts of society--rather than in the polished and the courtly,

the great and high. I would rather trust my life, or my purse, to the

honour of the common robber, and to his generosity, than to the very

gentlemanly man of fashion and high station. Now, if, as you say, you

have not come down hither for old associations, you must be sent to

hunt down honester men than those who sent you--men who break boldly

through an unjust and barbarous system, which denies to our land the

goods of another, and who, knowing that the very knaves who devised

that system, did it but to enrich themselves, stop with a strong hand

a part of the plunder on the way--or, rather, insist at the peril of

their lives, on man's inherent right to trade with his neighbours, and

frustrate the roguish devices of those who would forbid to our land

the use of that produced by another."

Osborn smiled at his companion's defence of smuggling, but replied, "I

can conceive a thousand reasons, my good friend, why the trade in

certain things should be totally prohibited, and a high duty for the

interests of the state be placed on others. But I am not going to

argue with you on all our institutions; merely this I will say, that

when we entrust to certain men the power of making laws, we are bound

to obey those laws when they are made; and it were but candid and just

to suppose that those who had made them, after long deliberation, did

so for the general good of the whole."

"For their own villanous ends," answered Warde--"for their own selfish

interests. The good of the whole!--what is it in the eyes of any of

these law-givers but the good of a party?"

"But do you not think," asked the young officer, "that we ourselves,

who are not law-givers, judge their actions but too often under the

influence of the very motives we attribute to them? Has party no share

in our own bosoms? Has selfishness--have views of our own interests,

in opposition either to the interests of others or the general weal,

no part in the judgment that we form? Each man carps at that which

suits him not, and strives to change it, without the slightest care

whether, in so doing, he be not bringing ruin on the heads of

thousands. But as to what you said just now of my being sent hither to

hunt down the smuggler, such is not the case. I am sent to lend my aid

to the civil power when called upon to do so--but nothing more; and we

all know that the civil power has proved quite ineffective in stopping

a system, which began by violation of a fiscal law, and has gone on to

outrages the most brutal, and the most daring. I shall not step beyond

the line of my duty, my good friend; and I will admit that many of

these very misguided men themselves, who are carrying on an illegal

traffic in this daring manner, fancy themselves justified by such

arguments as you have just now used--nay, more, I do believe that

there are some men amongst them of high and noble feelings, who never

dream that they are dishonest in breaking a law that they dislike. But

if we break one law thus, why should we keep any?--why not add robbery

and murder if it suits us?

"Ay, there _are_ high minded and noble men amongst them," answered

Warde, not seeming to heed the latter part of what his companion said,

"and there stands one of them. He has evil in him doubtless; for he is

a man and an Englishman; but I have found none here who has less, and

many who have more. Yet were that man taken in pursuing his

occupation, they would imprison, exile, perhaps hang him, while a

multitude of knaves in gilded coats, would be suffered to go on

committing every sin, and almost every crime, unpunished--a good man,

an excellent man, and yet a smuggler."

The young officer knew it was in vain to reason with him, for in the

frequent intercourse they had held together, he had perceived that,

with many generous and noble feelings, with a pure heart, and almost

ascetic severity of life, there was a certain perversity in the course

of Mr. Warde's thoughts, which rendered it impossible to turn them

from the direction which they naturally took. It seemed as if by long

habit they had channelled for themselves so deep a bed, that they

could never be diverted thence; and consequently, without replying at

first, he merely turned his eyes in the direction which the other

pointed out, trying to catch sight of the person of whom he spoke.

They were now on the low sandy shore which runs along between the town

of Hythe and the beautiful little watering place of Sandgate. But it

must be recollected, that at the time I speak of, the latter place

displayed no ornamental villas, no gardens full of flowers, almost

touching on the sea, and consisted merely of a few fishermen's, or

rather smuggler's, huts, with one little public house, and a

low-browed shop, filled with all the necessities that the inhabitants

might require. Thus nothing like the mass of buildings which the

watering place now can boast, lay between them and the Folkestone

cliffs; and the whole line of the coast, except at one point, where

the roof of a house intercepted the view, was open before Osborn's

eyes; yet neither upon the shore itself, nor upon the green upland,

which was broken by rocks and bushes, and covered by thick dry grass,

could he perceive anything resembling a human form. A minute after,

however, he thought he saw something move against the rugged

background, and the next moment, the head and shoulders of a man

rising over the edge of the hill caught his eyes, and as his companion

walked forward in silence, he inquired,

"Have you known him long, or is this one of your sudden judgments, my

good friend?"

"I knew him when he was a boy and a lad," answered Wilmot, "I know him

now that he is a man--so it is no sudden judgment. Come, let us speak

with him, Osborn," and he advanced rapidly, by a narrow path, up the

side of the slope.

Osborn paused a single instant, and then followed, saying, "Be upon

your guard, Warde; and remember how I am circumstanced. Neither commit

me nor let him commit himself."

"No, no, fear not," answered his friend, "I am no smuggler, young

man;" and he strode on before, without pausing for further

consultation. As they climbed the hill, the figure of the man of whom

they had been speaking became more and more distinct, while walking up

and down upon a flat space at the top of the first step or wave of

ground; he seemed to take no notice of their approach. When they came

nearer still, he paused, as if waiting for their coming; and the moon

shining full upon him, displayed his powerful form, standing in an

attitude of easy grace, with the arms folded on the chest, and the

head slightly bent forward. He was not above the middle height; but

broad in the shoulders, and long in the arms; robust and strong--every

muscle was round and swelling, and yet not heavy; for there was the

appearance of great lightness and activity in his whole figure,

strangely combined with that of vigour and power. His head was small,

and well set upon his shoulders; and the very position in which he

stood, the firm planting of his feet on the ground, the motionless

crossing of his arm upon his breast, all seemed to argue to the mind

of Osborn--and he was one not unaccustomed to judge of character by

external signs--a strong and determined spirit, well fitted for the

rough and adventurous life which he had undertaken.

"Good night, Harding," said Mr. Warde, as they came up to the spot

where he stood. "What a beautiful evening it is!"

"Goodnight, sir," answered the man, in a civil tone, and with a voice

of considerable melody. "It is indeed a beautiful evening, though

sometimes I like to see the cloudy sky, too."

"And yet I dare say you enjoy a walk by the bright sea, in the calm

moonlight, as much as I do," rejoined Mr. Warde.

"Ay, that I do, sir," replied the smuggler. "That's what brought me

out to-night, for there's nothing else doing; but I should not rest

quiet, I suppose, in my bed, if I did not take my stroll along the

downs or somewhere, and look over the sea, while she lies panting in

the moonbeams. She's a pretty creature, and I love her dearly. I

wonder how people can live inland."

"Oh, there are beautiful scenes enough inland," said Osborn, joining

in the conversation; "both wild and grand, and calm and peaceful."

"I know there are, sir, I know there are," answered the smuggler,

gazing at him attentively, "and if ever I were to live away from the

beach, I should say, give me the wild and grand, for I have seen many

a beautiful place inland, especially in Wales; but still it always

seems to me as if there was something wanting when the sea is not

there. I suppose it is natural for an Englishman."

"Perhaps it is," rejoined Osborn, "for certainly when Nature rolled

the ocean round us, she intended us for a maritime people. But to

return to what you were saying, if I could choose my own abode, it

should be amongst the calm and peaceful scenes, of which the eye never

tires, and amongst which the mind rests in repose."

"Ay, if it is repose one is seeking," replied the smuggler, with a

laugh, "well and good. Then a pleasant little valley, with trees and a

running stream, and a neat little church, and the parsonage, may do

well enough. But I dare say you and I, sir, have led very different

lives, and so have got different likings. I have always been

accustomed to the storm and the gale, to a somewhat adventurous life,

and to have that great wide sea before my eyes for ever. You, I dare

say, have been going on quietly and peacefully all your days, perhaps

in London, or in some great town, knowing nothing of hardships or of

dangers; so that is the reason you love quiet places."

"Quite the reverse!" answered Osborn, with a smile--"mine has been

nothing but a life of peril and danger, and activity, as far as it

hitherto has gone. From the time I was eighteen till now, the battle

and the skirmish, the march and the retreat, with often the hard

ground for my bed, as frequently the sky for my covering, and at best

a thin piece of canvas to keep off the blast, have been my lot, but it

is that very fact that makes me long for some repose, and love scenes

that give the picture of it to the imagination, if not the reality to

the heart. I should suppose that few men who have passed their time

thus, and known from youth to manhood nothing but strife and hourly

peril, do not sooner or later desire such tranquillity."

"I don't know, sir," said the smuggler; "it maybe so, and the time may

come with me; but yet I think habits one is bred to, get such a hold

of the heart that we can't do without them. I often fancy I should

like a month's quiet, too; but then I know before the month was out I

should long to be on the sea again."

"Man is a discontented creature," said Warde,--"not even the bounty of

God can satisfy him. I do not believe that he would even rest in

heaven, were he not wearied of change by the events of this life. Well

may they say it is a state of trial."

"I hope I shall go to heaven, too," rejoined the smuggler; "but I

should like a few trips first; and I dare say, when I grow an old man,

and stiff and rusty, I shall be well contented to take my walk here in

the sunshine, and talk of days that are gone; but at present, when one

has life and strength, I could no more sit and get cankered in

idleness than I could turn miller. This world's not a place to be

still in; and I say, Blow wind, and push off the boat."

"But one may have activity enough without constant excitement and

peril," answered Osborn.

"I don't know that there would be half the pleasure in it," replied

the smuggler, laughing--"that we strive for, that we love. Everything

must have its price, and cheap got is little valued. But who is this

coming?" he continued, turning sharply round before either of his

companions heard a sound.

The next moment, however, steps running up the face of the bank were

distinguished, and in another minute a boy of twelve or thirteen,

dressed in a sailor's jacket, came hurrying up to the smuggler, and

pulled his sleeve, saying, in a low voice, "Come hither--come hither;

I want to speak to you."

The man took a step apart, and bending down his head listened to

something which the boy whispered in his ear. "I will come--I will

come directly," he said, at length, when the lad was done. "Run on and

tell him, little Starlight; for I must get home first for a minute.

Good night, gentlemen," he continued, turning to Mr. Warde and his

companion, "I must go away for a longer walk;" and, without farther

adieu, he began to descend the bank, leaving the two friends to take

their way back to Hythe, conversing, as they went, much in the same

strain as that in which they had indulged while coming thither,

differing in almost every topic, but yet with some undefinable link of

sympathy between them, which nevertheless owed its origin, in the old

man's breast, to very different feelings from those which were

experienced by his younger companion.

CHAPTER V.

There was an old house, built in a style which acquired the mint-mark

of fashion of about the reign of George the First, and was considered

by those of the English, or opposite party, to be peculiarly well

qualified for the habitation of Hanover rats. It stood at a little

distance from the then small hamlet of Harbourne, and was plunged into

one of the southern apertures of the wood of that name, having its

gardens and pleasure-grounds around it, with a terrace and a lawn

stretching out to the verge of a small parish road, which passed at

the distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the

windows. It was all of red brick, and looked square and formal enough,

with the two wings projecting like the a-kimbo arms of some untamed

virago, straight and resolute as a redoubt. The numerous windows,

however, with very tolerable spaces between them; the numerous

chimneys, with every sort of form and angle; the numerous doors, of

every shape and size, and the square precision of the whole, bespoke

it a very capacious building, and the inside justified fully the idea

which the mind of a traveller naturally formed from the outside. It

was, in truth, a roomy, and in some cases a very convenient abode; but

it was laid out upon a particular plan, which it may not be amiss to

write down, for the practical instruction of the reader unlearned in

such edifices.

In the centre of the ground-floor was a large hall of a cruciform

shape, each of the limbs being about fifteen feet wide. The two

shorter arms of the cross stretched from side to side of the building

in its width; the two longer from end to end of its length. The

southern termination of the shorter arms was the great hall-door; the

northern arm, which formed the passage between the various ranges of

offices, extended to a door at the back, opening into a court-yard

surrounded by coach-houses, stables, cow-sheds, pig-sties, and

hen-roosts. But the offices, and the passage between them, were shut

off from the main hall and the rest of the mansion by double doors;

and the square of fifteen feet in the centre of the hall was, to the

exent of about two-thirds of the whole, occupied by a large,

low-stepped, broad-ballustraded oaken staircase. The eastern and

western limbs of the cross afforded the means of communicating with

various rooms,--such as library, dining-room, drawing-room,

music-room, magistrate's-room, gentleman's-room, and billiard-room,

with one or two others to which no name had been applied. Many of

these rooms had doors which led into the one adjacent; but this was

not invariably the case, for from the main corridor branched off

several little passages, separating in some instances one chamber from

the other, and leading out upon the terrace by the smaller doors which

we have noticed above. What was the use of these passages and doors

nobody was ever able to divine, and it remains a mystery to the

present day, which I shall not attempt to solve by venturing any

hypothesis upon so recondite a subject. The second floor above was

laid out much in the same way as the one below, except that one of the

limbs of the cross was wanting, the space over the great door being

appropriated to a very tolerable bed-room. From this floor to the

other, descended two or three staircases, the principal one being the

great open flight of steps which I have already mentioned; and the

second, or next in importance, being a stone staircase, which reached

the ground between the double doors, that shut out the main hall from

the offices.

Having thus given some idea of the interior of the building, I will

only pause to notice, that, at the period I speak of, it had one very

great defect. It was very much out of repair,--not, indeed, of that

sort of substantial repair which is necessary to comfort, but of that

pleasant repair which is agreeable to the eye. It was well and solidly

built, and was quite wind and water tight; but although the builders

of the day in which it was erected were, as every one knows,

peculiarly neat in their brick-work, yet Time would have his way even

with their constructions, and he had maliciously chiselled out the

pointing from between the sharp, well-cut bricks, scraped away the

mortar from the stone copings, and cracked and blistered the painting

of the wood-work. This labour of his had not only given a venerable,

but also a somewhat dilapidated appearance to the mansion; and some

green mould, with which he had taken the pains to dabble all the white

parts of the edifice, did not decrease the look of decay.

Sweeping round from the parish road that we have mentioned was a

branch, leading by the side of the lawn, and a gentle ascent up to the

terrace and to the great door, and carriages on arriving passed along

the whole front of the house by the western angle before they reached

the court-yard behind. But from that courtyard there were various

other means of exit. One to the kitchen garden, one to two or three

other courts, and one into the wood which came within fifty yards of

the enclosure; for, to use the ordinary romance phrase, Harbourne

House was literally "bosomed in wood." The windows, however, and the

front, commanded a fine view of a rich and undulating country,

plentifully garnished with trees, but still, for a considerable

distance, exposed to the eye, from the elevated ground upon which the

mansion was placed. A little hamlet was seen at the distance of about

two miles in front--I rather suspect it was Kenchill--and to the

eastward the house looked over the valley towards the high ground by

Woodchurch and Woodchurch Beacon, catching a blue line which probably

was Romney Marsh. Between, Woodchurch, however, and itself, was seen

standing out, straight and upright, a very trim-looking white

dwelling, flanked by some pleasant groves, and to the west were seen

one or two gentlemen's seats scattered about over the face of the

country. Behind, nothing of course was to be seen but tree-tops,

except from the window of one of the attics, whence the housemaid

could descry Biddenden Windmill and the top of Biddenden Church.

Harbourne Wood was indeed, at that time, very extensive, joining on to

the large piece of woodland, from which it is now separated, and

stretching out as far as that place with an unpleasant name, called

Gallows Green. The whole of this space, and a considerable portion of

the cultivated ground around, was within the manor of the master of

the mansion, Sir Robert Croyland, of Harbourne, the elder brother of

that Mr. Zachary Croyland, whom we have seen travelling down into Kent

with two companions in the newly established stage-coach.

About four days after that memorable journey, a traveller on

horseback, followed by a servant leading another horse, and with a

portmanteau behind him, rode up the little parish road we have

mentioned, took the turning which led to the terrace, and drew in his

bridle at the great door of Harbourne House. I would describe him

again, but I have already given the reader so correct and accurate a

picture of Sir Edward Digby, that he cannot make any mistake. The only

change which had taken place in his appearance since he set out from

London, was produced by his being now dressed in a full military

costume; but nevertheless the eyes of a fair lady, who was in the

drawing-room and had a full view of the terrace, conveyed to her mind,

as she saw him ride up, the impression that he was a very handsome man

indeed. In two minutes more, which were occupied by the opening of the

door and sundry directions given by the young baronet to his servant,

Sir Edward Digby was ushered into the drawing-room, and advanced with

a frank, free, military air, though unacquainted with any of the

persons it contained. As his arrival about that hour was expected, the

whole family of Harbourne House was assembled to receive him; and

before we proceed farther, we may as well give some account of the

different persons of whom the little circle was composed.

The first whom Sir Edward's eyes fell upon was the master of the

mansion, who had risen, and was coming forward to welcome his guest.

Sir Robert Croyland, however, was so different a person from his

brother, in every point, that the young officer could hardly believe

that he had the baronet before him. He was a large, heavy-looking man,

with good features and expressive eyes, but sallow in complexion, and

though somewhat corpulent, having that look of loose, flabby obesity,

which is generally an indication of bad health. His dress, though

scrupulously clean and in the best fashion of the time, fitted him

ill, being too large even for his large person; and the setting of the

diamond ring which he wore upon his hand was scarcely more yellow than

the hand itself. On his face he bore a look of habitual thought and

care, approaching moroseness, which even the smile he assumed on Sir

Edward's appearance could not altogether dissipate. In his tone,

however, he was courtly and kind, though perhaps a little pompous,

expressed his delight at seeing his old friend's son in Harbourne

House, shook him warmly by the hand, and then led him ceremoniously

forward to introduce him to his sister, Mrs. Barbara Croyland, and his

two daughters.

The former lady might very well have had applied to her Fielding's

inimitable description of the old maid. Her appearance was very

similar, her station and occupation much the same; but nevertheless,

in all essential points, Mrs. Barbara Croyland was a very different

person from the sister of Squire Allworthy. She was a kind-hearted

soul as ever existed; gentle in her nature, anxious to do the very

best for every body, a little given to policy for the purpose of

accomplishing that end, and consequently, nine times out of ten,

making folks very uncomfortable in order to make them comfortable, and

doing all manner of mischief for the purpose of setting things right.

No woman ever had a more perfect abnegation of self than Mrs. Barbara

Croyland, in all things of great importance. She had twice missed a

very good opportunity of marriage, by making up a match between one

who was quite ready to be her own lover and one of her female friends,

for whom he cared very little. She had lent the whole of her own

private fortune, except a small annuity, which by some chance had been

settled upon her, to her brother Sir Robert, without taking any

security whatsoever for principal or interest; and she was always

ready, when there was anything in her purse, to give it away to the

worthy or unworthy--rather, indeed, preferring the latter, from a

conviction that they were more likely to be destitute of friends than

those who had some claim upon society.

Nevertheless Mrs. Barbara Croyland was not altogether without that

small sort of selfishness which is usually termed vanity. She was

occasionally a little affronted and indignant with her friends, when

they disapproved of her spoiling their whole plans with the intention

of facilitating them. She knew that her design was good; and she

thought it very ungrateful in the world to be angry when her good

designs produced the most opposite results to those which she

intended. She was fully convinced, too, that circumstances were

perversely against her; and yet for her life she could not refrain

from trying to make those circumstances bend to her purpose,

notwithstanding all the nips on the knuckles she received; and she had

still some scheme going on, which, though continually disappointed,

rose up Hydra-like, with a new head springing out as soon as the other

was cut off. As it was at her suggestion, and in favour of certain

plans which she kept deep in the recesses of her own bosom, that Sir

Robert Croyland had claimed acquaintance with Sir Edward Digby on the

strength of an old friendship with his father, and had invited him

down to Harbourne House immediately on the return of his regiment to

England, it may well be supposed that Miss Barbara received him with

her most gracious smiles--which, to say the truth, though the face was

wrinkled with age, and the complexion not very good, were exceedingly

sweet and benignant, springing from a natural kindness of heart,

which, if guided by a sounder discretion, would have rendered her one

of the most amiable persons on the earth.

After a few words of simple courtesy on both parts, Sir Edward turned

to the other two persons who were in the room, where he found metal

more attractive--at least, for the eyes. The first to whom he was

introduced was a young lady, who seemed to be about one-and-twenty

years of age, though she had in fact just attained another year; and

though Sir Robert somewhat hurried him on to the next, who was

younger, the keen eye of the young officer marked enough to make him

aware that, if so cold and so little disposed to look on a lover as

her uncle had represented, she might well become a very dangerous

neighbour to a man with a heart not well guarded against the power of

beauty. Her hair, eyes, and eyelashes were almost black, and her

complexion of a clear brown, with the rose blushing faintly in the

cheek; but the eyes were of a deep blue. The whole form of the head,

the fall of the hair, the bend of the neck from the shoulders, were

all exquisitely symmetrical and classical, and nothing could be more

lovely than the line of the brow and the chiselled cutting of the

nose. The upper lip, small and delicately drawn, the under lip full

and slightly apart, shewing the pearl-like teeth beneath; the turn of

the ear, and the graceful line in the throat, might all have served as

models for the sculptor or the painter; for the colouring was as rich

and beautiful as the form; and when she rose and stood to receive him,

with the small hand leaning gently on the arm of the chair, he thought

he had never seen anything more graceful than the figure, or more

harmonious than its calm dignity, with the lofty gravity of her

countenance. If there was a defect in the face, it was perhaps that

the chin was a little too prominent, but yet it suited well with the

whole countenance and with its expression, giving it decision without

harshness, and a look of firmness, which the bright smile that

fluttered for a moment round the lips, deprived of everything that was

not gentle and kind. There was soul, there was thought, there was

feeling, in the whole look; and Digby would fain have paused to see

those features animated in conversation. But her father led him on,

after a single word of introduction, to present him to his younger

daughter, who, with some points of resemblance, offered a strange

contrast to her sister. She, too, was very handsome, and apparently

about two years younger; but hers was the style of beauty which,

though it deserves a better name, is generally termed pretty. All the

features were good, and the hair exceedingly beautiful; but the face

was not so oval, the nose perhaps a little too short, and the lips too

sparkling with smiles to impress the mind, at first sight, so much as

the countenance of the other. She seemed all happiness; and in looking

to the expression and at her bright blue eyes, as they looked out

through the black lashes, like violets from a clump of dark leaves, it

was scarcely possible to fancy that she had ever known a touch of care

or sorrow, or that one of the anxieties of life had ever even brushed

her lightly with its wing. She seemed the flower just opening to the

morning sunshine--the fruit, before the bloom had been washed away by

one shower. Her figure, too, was full of young grace; her movements

were all quicker, more wild and free than her sister's; and as she

rose to receive Sir Edward Digby, it was more with the air of an old

friend than a new acquaintance. Indeed, she was the first of the

family who had seen him, for hers were the eyes which had watched his

approach from the window, so that she felt as if she knew him better

than any of them.

There was something very winning in the frank and cordial greeting

with which she met him, and in an instant it had established a sort of

communication between them which would have taken hours, perhaps days,

to bring about with her sister. As Sir Edward Digby did not come there

to fall in love, he would fain have resisted such influences, even at

the beginning; and perhaps the words of old Mr. Croyland had somewhat

put him upon his guard. But it was of no use being upon his guard;

for, fortify himself as strongly as he would, Zara went through all

his defences in an instant; and, seeming to take it for granted that

they were to be great friends, and that there was not the slightest

obstacle whatever to their being perfectly familiar in a ladylike and

gentleman-like manner, of course they were so in five minutes, though

he was a soldier who had seen some service, and she an inexperienced

girl just out of her teens. But all women have a sort of experience of

their own; or, if experience be not the right name, an intuition in

matters where the other sex is concerned, which supplies to them very

rapidly a great part of that which long converse with the world

bestows on men. Too true that it does not always act as a safeguard to

their own hearts--true that it does not always guide them right in

their own actions,--but still it does not fail to teach them the best

means of winning where they wish to win; and if they do not succeed,

it is far more frequently that the cards which they hold are not good,

than that they play the game unskilfully.

Whether Sir Robert Croyland had or had not any forethought in his

invitation of Sir Edward Digby, and, like a prudent father, judged

that it would be quite as well his youngest daughter should marry a

wealthy baronet, he was too wise to let anything like design appear;

and though he suffered the young officer to pursue his conversation

with Zara for two or three minutes longer than he had done with her

sister, he soon interposed, by taking the first opportunity of telling

his guest the names of those whom he had invited to meet him that day

at dinner.

"We shall have but a small party," he said, in a somewhat apologetic

tone, "for several of our friends are absent just now; but I have

asked my good and eccentric brother Zachary to meet you to-day, Sir

Edward; and also my excellent neighbour, Mr. Radford, of Radford

Hall--a very superior man indeed under the surface, though the manner

may be a little rough. His son, too, I trust will join us;" and he

glanced his eye towards Edith, whose face grew somewhat paler than it

had been before. Sir Robert instantly withdrew his gaze; but the look

of both father and daughter had not been lost upon Digby; and he

replied--"I have the pleasure of knowing your brother already, Sir

Robert. We were fellow-travellers as far as Ashford, four or five days

ago. I hope he is well."

"Oh, quite well--quite well," answered the baronet; "but as odd as

ever--nay odder, I think, for his expedition to London. That which

seems to polish and soften other men, but renders him rougher and more

extraordinary. But he was always very odd--very odd indeed, even as a

boy."

"Ay, but he was always kind-hearted, brother Robert," observed Miss

Barbara; "and though he may be a little odd, he has been in odd

places, you know--India and the like; and besides, it does not do to

talk of his oddity, as you are doing always, for if he heard of it, he

might leave all his money away."

"He is only odd, I think," said Edith Croyland, "by being kinder and

better than other men."

Sir Edward Digby turned towards her with a warm smile, replying--"So

it struck me, Miss Croyland. He is so good and right-minded himself,

that he is at times a little out of patience with the faults and

follies of others--at least, such was my impression, from all I saw of

him."

"It was a just one," answered the young lady, "and I am sure, Sir

Edward, the more you see of him the more you will be inclined to

overlook the oddities for the sake of the finer qualities."

It seemed to Sir Edward Digby that the commendations of Sir Robert

Croyland's brother did not seem the most grateful of all possible

sounds to the ears of the Baronet, who immediately after announced

that he would have the pleasure of conducting his young guest to his

apartments, adding that they were early people in the country, their

usual dinner-hour being four o'clock, though he found that the

fashionable people of London were now in the habit of dining at

half-past four. Sir Edward accordingly followed him up the great

oaken staircase to a very handsome and comfortable room, with a

dressing-room at the side, in which he found his servant already

busily employed in disburdening his bags and portmanteau of their

contents.

Sir Robert paused for a moment--to see that his guest had everything

which he might require, and then left him. But the young baronet did

not proceed immediately to the business of the toilet, seating himself

before the window of the bed-room, and gazing out with a thoughtful

expression, while his servant continued his operations in the next

room. From time to time the man looked in as if he had something to

say, but his master continued in a reverie, of which it may be as well

to take some notice. His first thought was, "I must lay out the plan

of my campaign; but I must take care not to get my wing of the army

defeated while the main body is moving up to give battle. On my life,

I'm a great deal too good-natured to put myself in such a dangerous

position for a friend. The artillery that the old gentleman spoke of

is much more formidable than I expected. My worthy colonel did not use

so much of love's glowing colours in his painting as I supposed; but

after all, there's no danger; I am proof against all such shots, and I

fancy I must use little Zara for the purpose of getting at her

sister's secrets. There can be no harm in making a little love to her,

the least little bit possible. It will do my pretty coquette no harm,

and me none either. It may be well to know how the land lies, however;

and I dare say that fellow of mine has made some discoveries already;

but the surest way to get nothing out of him is to ask him, and so I

must let him take his own way."

His thoughts then turned to another branch of the same subject; and he

went on pondering rather than thinking for some minutes more. There is

a state of mind which can scarcely be called thought; for thought is

rapid and progressive, like the flight of a bird, whether it be in the

gyrations of the swallow, or the straightforward course of the rook;

but in the mode or condition of which I speak, the mind seems rather

to hover over a particular object, like the hawk eyeing carefully that

which is beneath it; and this state can no more be called thought than

the hovering of the hawk can be called flight. Such was the occupation

of Sir Edward Digby, as I have said, for several minutes, and then he

went on to his conclusions. "She loves him still," he said to himself;

"of that I feel sure. She is true to him still, and steadfast in her

truth. Whatever may have been said or done has not been hers, and that

is a great point gained; for now, with station, rank, distinction, and

competence at least, he presents himself in a very different position

from any which he could assume before; and unless on account of some

unaccountable prejudice, the old gentleman can have no objection. Oh,

yes, she loves him still, I feel very sure! The calm gravity of that

beautiful face has only been written there so early by some deep and

unchanged feeling. We never see the sparkling brightness of youth so

shadowed but by some powerful and ever-present memory, which, like the

deep bass notes of a fine instrument, gives a solemn tone even to the

liveliest music of life. She can smile, but the brow is still grave:

there is something underneath it; and we must find out exactly what

that is. Yet I cannot doubt; I am sure of it. Here, Somers! are not

those things ready yet? I shall be too late for dinner."

"Oh, no, sir;" replied the man, coming in, and putting up the back of

his hand to his head, in military fashion. "Your honour wont be too

late. The great bell rings always half-an-hour before, then Mr.

Radford is always a quarter-of-an-hour behind his time."

"I wonder who Mr. Radford is!" said Sir Edward Digby, as if speaking

to himself. "He seems a very important person in the county."

"I can tell you, sir," said the man, "he is or was the richest person

in the neighbourhood, and has got Sir Robert quite under his thumb,

they say. He was a merchant, or a shopkeeper, the butler told me, in

Hythe. But there was more money came in than ever went through his

counting-house, and what between trading one way or another, he got

together a great deal of riches, bought this place here in the

neighbourhood, and set up for a gentleman. His son is to be married to

Miss Croyland, they say; but the servants think that she hates him,

and fancy that he would himself rather have her sister."

The latter part of this speech was that which interested Sir Edward

Digby the most; but he knew that there was a certain sort of

perversity about his servant, which made him less willing to answer a

distinct question than to volunteer any information; and therefore he

fixed upon another point, inquiring, "What do you mean, Somers, by

saying that he is, or was, the richest man in the country?"

"Why, sir, that is as it may be," answered the man; "but one thing is

certain--Miss Croyland has three times refused to marry this young

Radford, notwithstanding all her father could say; and as for the

young gentleman himself, why he's no gentleman at all, going about

with all the bad characters in the county, and carrying on his

father's old trade, like a highwayman. It has not quite answered so

well though, for they say old Radford lost fully fifty thousand pounds

by his last venture, which was run ashore somewhere about Romney Hoy.

The boats were sunk, part of the goods seized, and the rest sent to

the bottom. You may be sure he's a dare-devil, however, for whenever

the servants speak of him, they sink their voice to a whisper, as if

the fiend were at their elbow."

Sir Edward Digby was very well inclined to hear more; but while the

man was speaking, the bell he had mentioned, rang, and the young

baronet, who had a certain regard for his own personal appearance,

hastened to dress and to descend to the drawing-room.

CHAPTER VI.

It is sometimes expedient in telling a tale of this kind, to introduce

the different personages quietly to the reader one after the other,

and to suffer him to become familiar with them separately, before they

are all brought to act together, that he may have a clear and definite

notion of their various characters, dispositions, and peculiarities,

and be enabled to judge at once of the motives by which they are

actuated, when we recite the deeds that they perform.

Having twice or thrice mentioned one of the prominent persons in this

history, without having brought him visibly upon the scene, (as, in

the natural course of events, I must very soon do,) I shall now follow

the plan above mentioned; and, in order to give the reader a distinct

notion of Mr. Radford, his character and proceedings, will beg those

who have gone on with me thus far, to step back with me to the same

night, on which Mr. Warde and his young friend met the smuggler in his

evening walk along the heights.

Not very far from the town of Hythe, not very far from the village of

Sandgate, are still to be found the ruins of an ancient castle, which,

by various deeds that have been performed within its walls, has

acquired a name in English history. The foundation of the building is

beyond our records; and tradition, always fond of the marvellous,

carries back the period when the first stone was laid to the times of

the Roman invaders of Great Britain. Others supposed that it was

erected by the Saxons, but, as it now stands, it presents no trace of

the handiwork of either of those two races of barbarians, and is

simply one of those strongholds constructed by the Normans, or their

close descendants, either to keep their hold of a conquered country,

or to resist the power both of tyrannical monarchs and dangerous

neighbours. Various parts of the building are undoubtedly attributable

to the reign of Henry II.; and if any portion be of an earlier date,

of which I have some doubts, it is but small; but a considerable part

is, I believe, of a still later epoch, and in some places may be

traced the architecture common in the reign of Edward III. and of his

grandson. The space enclosed within the outer walls is very extensive,

and numerous detached buildings, chapels, halls, and apparently a

priory, are still to be found built against those walls themselves, so

that it is probable that the castle in remote days gave shelter to

some religious body, which is rendered still more likely from the fact

of Saltwood Castle and its manor having formerly appertained to the

church and see of Canterbury.

Many a remarkable scene has undoubtedly passed in the courts and halls

of that now ruined building, and it is even probable that there the

dark and dreadful deed, which, though probably not of his contriving,

embittered the latter life of the second Henry, was planned and

determined by the murderers of Thomas à Becket. With such deeds,

however, and those ancient times, we have nothing here to do; and at

the period to which this tale refers, the castle, though in a much

more perfect state than at present, was already in ruins. The park,

which formerly surrounded it, had been long thrown open and divided

into fields; but still the character which its formation had given to

the neighbouring scenery had not passed away; and the rich extent of

old pasture, the scattered woods and clumps of trees, the brawling

brook, here and there diverted from its natural course for ornament or

convenience,--all bespoke the former destination of the ground, for

near a mile around on every side, when magnificent Archbishop

Courtenay held the castle of Saltwood as his favourite place of

residence.

Though, as I have said, grey ruin had possession of the building, yet

the strength of its construction had enabled it in many parts to

resist the attacks of time; and the great keep, with its two lofty

gate towers and wide-spreading hall, was then but very little decayed.

Nevertheless, at that period no one tenanted the castle of Saltwood

but an old man and his son, who cultivated a small portion of ground

in the neighbourhood; and their dwelling was confined to three rooms

in the keep, though they occupied several others by their implements

of husbandry, occasionally diversified with sacks of grain, stores of

carrots and turnips, and other articles of agricultural produce. Thus,

every night, for a short time, lights were to be seen in Saltwood

Castle, but all the buildings except the keep, were utterly neglected,

and falling rapidly into a state of complete dilapidation.

It was towards this building, on the night I speak of, that the

smuggler took his way, about a quarter of an hour after having

suddenly broken off his conversation with Mr. Warde and the young

officer. He walked on with a quick, bold, careless step, apparently

without much thought or consideration of the interview to which he was

summoned. He paused, indeed, more than once, and looked around him;

but it was merely to gaze at the beauty of the scenery, for which he

had a great natural taste. It is no slight mistake to suppose that the

constant intercourse with, and opportunity of enjoying the beauties of

nature, diminish in any degree the pleasures that we thence derive.

The direct contrary is the case. Every other delight, everything that

man has contrived or found for himself, palls upon the taste by

frequent fruition; but not so with those sources of pleasure which are

given us by God himself; and the purer and freer they are from man's

invention, the more permanent are they in their capability of

bestowing happiness, the more extensive seems their quality of

satisfying the ever-increasing desires of the spirit within us. Were

it not so, the ardent attachment which is felt by those who have been

born and brought up in the midst of fine and magnificent scenery to

the place of their nativity, could not exist; and it will always be

found that, other things being equal, those who live most amongst the

beauties of nature, are those who most appreciate them.

Many a beautiful prospect presented itself to the smuggler, as he

walked on by the light of the moon. At one place, the woods swept

round him and concealed the rest of the country from his eyes; but

then the moonbeams poured through the branches, or streamed along the

path, and every now and then, between the old trunks and gnarled

roots, he caught a sight of the deeper parts of the woodland, sleeping

in the pale rays. At another, issuing forth upon the side of the hill,

the leafy wilderness lay beneath his feet with the broad round summit

of some piece of high ground, rising dark and flat above; and at some

distance further, he suddenly turned the angle of the valley, and had

the tall grey ruin of Saltwood full before him, with the lines of the

trees and meadows sweeping down into the dell, and the bright sky,

lustrous with the moonlight, extended broad and unclouded behind.

Shortly after, he came to the little stream, rushing in miniature

cascades between its hollow banks, and murmuring with a soft and

musical voice amongst the roots of the shrubs, which here and there

hid it from the beams.

He paused but a moment or two, however, at any of these things, and

then walked on again, till at length he climbed the road leading up to

the castle, and passed through the arch-way of the gate. Of the

history of the place he knew nothing, but from vague traditions heard

in his boyhood; and yet, when he stood amongst those old grey walls,

with the high towers rising before him, and the greensward, covering

the decay of centuries, beneath his feet, he could not help feeling a

vague impression of melancholy, not unmingled with awe, fall upon him.

In the presence of ancient things, the link between all mortality

seems most strongly felt. We perceive our association with the dead

more strongly. The character and habits of thought of the person, of

course, render it a more distinct or obscure perception; but still we

all have it. With some, it is as I have before called it, an

impression that we must share the same decay, meet the same fate, fall

into the same tomb as those who have raised or produced the things

that we behold; for every work of man is but a tombstone, if it be

read aright. But with others, an audible voice speaks from the grey

ruin and the ancient church, from the dilapidated houses where our

fathers dwelt or worshipped, and says to every one amongst the living,

"As they were, who built us, so must you be. They enjoyed, and hoped,

and feared, and suffered. So do you. Where are they gone, with all

their thoughts? Where will you go, think you never so highly? All

down, down, to the same dust, whither we too are tending. We have seen

these things, for ages past, and we shall see more."

I mean not to say that such was exactly the aspect under which those

ruins presented themselves to the eye of the man who now visited them.

The voice that spoke was not so clear; but yet it was clear enough to

make him feel thoughtful if not sad; and he paused to gaze up at the

high keep, as the moon shone out upon the old stone-work, showing

every loophole and casement. He was not without imagination in a

homely way, and, following the train of thought which the sight of the

castle at that hour suggested, he said to himself, "I dare say many a

pretty girl has looked out of that window to talk to her lover by the

moonlight; and they have grown old, and died like other folks."

How long he would have gone on in this musing mood I cannot tell, but

just at that moment the boy who had come down to the beach to call

him, appeared from the old doorway of the chapel, and pointing to one

of the towers in the wall, whispered--"He's up there, waiting for

you."

"Well, then, you run home, young Starlight," replied the smuggler.

"I'll be after you in a minute, for he can't have much to say, I

should think. Off with you! and no listening, or I'll break your head,

youngster."

The boy laughed, and ran away through the gate; and his companion

turned towards the angle which he had pointed out. Approaching the

wall, he entered what might have been a door, or perhaps a window

looking in upon the court, and communicating with one of those

passages which led from tower to tower, with stairs every here and

there leading to the battlements. He was obliged to bow his head as he

passed; but after climbing a somewhat steep ascent, where the broken

steps were half covered with rubbish, he emerged upon the top of the

wall, where many a sentinel had kept his weary watch in times long

past. At a little distance in advance, standing in the pale moonlight,

was a tall, gaunt figure, leaning against a fragment of one of the

neighbouring towers; and Harding did not pause to look at the

splendour of the view below, though it might well, with its world of

wood and meadow, bounded by the glistening sea, have attracted eyes

less fond of such scenes than his; but on he walked, straight towards

the person before him, who, on his part, hurried forward to meet him,

whenever the sound of his step broke upon the ear.

"Good night, Harding," said Mr. Radford, in a low but still harsh

tone; "what a time you have been. It will be one o'clock or more

before I get back."

"Past two," answered the smuggler, bluntly; "but I came as soon as I

could. It is not much more than half an hour since I got your

message."

"That stupid boy has been playing the fool, then," replied the other;

"I sent him----"

"Oh, he's not stupid," interrupted the smuggler; "and he's not given

to play the fool either. More like to play the rogue. But what's the

business now, sir? There's no doing anything on such nights as these."

"I know that--I know that," rejoined Radford. "But this will soon

change. The moon will be dwindled down to cheese-paring before many

days are over, and the barometer is falling. It is necessary that we

should make all our arrangements beforehand, Harding, and have

everything ready. We must have no more such jobs as the last two."

"I had nothing to do with them," rejoined the smuggler. "You chose

your own people, and they failed. I do not mean to say it was their

fault, for I don't think it was. They lost as much, for them, as you

did; and they did their best, I dare say; but still that is nothing to

me. I've undertaken to land the cargo, and I will do it, if I live. If

I die, there's nothing to be said, you know; but I don't say I'll ever

undertake another of the sort. It does not answer, Mr. Radford. It

makes a man think too much, to know that other people have got so much

money staked on such a venture."

"Ay, but that is the very cause why every one should exert himself,"

answered his companion. "I lost fifty thousand pounds by the last

affair, twenty by the other; but I tell you, Harding, I have more than

both upon this, and if this fail----"

He paused, and did not finish the sentence; but he set his teeth hard,

and seemed to draw his breath with difficulty.

"That's a bad plan," said the smuggler--"a bad plan, in all ways. You

wish to make up all at one run: and so you double the venture: but you

should know by this time, that one out of four pays very well, and we

have seldom failed to do one out of two or three; but the more money

people get the more greedy they are of it; so that because you put

three times as much as enough on one freight, you must needs put five

times on the other, and ten times on the third, risking a greater loss

every time for a greater gain. I'll have to do with no more of these

things. I'm contented with little, and don't like such great

speculations."

"Oh, if you are afraid," cried Mr. Radford, "you can give it up! I

dare say we can find some one else to land the goods."

"As to being afraid, that I am not," answered Harding; "and having

undertaken the run, I'll do it. I'm not half so much afraid as you

are: for I've not near so much to lose--only my life or liberty and

three hundred pounds. But still, Mr. Radford, I do not like to think

that if anything goes wrong you'll be so much hurt; and it makes a man

feel queer. If I have a few hundreds in a boat, and nothing to lose

but myself and a dozen of tubs, I go about it as gay as a lark and as

cool and quiet as a dogfish; but if anything were to go wrong now, why

it would be----"

"Ruin--utter ruin!" said Mr. Radford.

"I dare say it would," rejoined the smuggler; "but, nevertheless, your

coming down here every other day, and sending for me, does no good,

and a great deal of harm. It only teazes me, and sets me always

thinking about it, when the best way is not to think at all, but just

to do the thing and get it over. Besides, you'll have people noticing

your being so often down here, and you'll make them suspect something

is going on."

"But it is necessary, my good fellow," answered the other, "that we

should settle all our plans. I must have people ready, and horses and

help, in case of need."

"Ay, that you must," replied the smuggler, thoughtfully. "I think you

said the cargo was light goods."

"Almost all India," said Radford, in return. "Shawls and painted

silks, and other things of great value but small bulk. There are a few

bales of lace, too; but the whole will require well nigh a hundred

horses to carry it, so that we must have a strong muster."

"Ay, and men who fight, too," rejoined Harding. "You know there are

Dragoons down at Folkestone?"

"No!--when did they come?" exclaimed Hadford, eagerly. "That's a bad

job--that's a bad job! Perhaps they suspect already. Perhaps some of

those fellows from the other side have given information, and these

soldiers are sent down in consequence--I shouldn't wonder, I shouldn't

wonder."

"Pooh--nonsense, Mr. Radford!" replied Harding; "you are always so

suspicious. Some day or another you'll suspect me."

"I suspect everybody," cried Radford, vehemently, "and I have good

cause. I have known men do such things, for a pitiful gain, as would

hang them, if there were any just punishment for treachery."

Harding laughed, but he did not explain the cause of his merriment,

though probably he thought that Mr. Radford himself would do many a

thing for a small gain, which would not lightly touch his soul's

salvation. He soon proceeded, however, to reply, in a grave

tone--"That's a bad plan, Mr. Radford. No man is ever well served by

those whom he suspects. He had better never have anything to do with a

person he doubts; so, if you doubt me, I'm quite willing to give the

business up, for I don't half like it."

"Oh, no!" said Radford, in a smooth and coaxing tone, "I did not mean

you, Harding; I know you too well for as honest a fellow as ever

lived; but I do doubt those fellows on the other side, and I strongly

suspect they peached about the other two affairs. Besides, you said

something about Dragoons, and we have not had any of that sort of

vermin here for a year or more."

"You frighten yourself about nothing," answered Harding. "There is but

a troop of them yet, though they say more are expected. But what good

are Dragoons? I have run many a cargo under their very noses, and hope

I shall live to run many another. As to stopping this traffic, they

are no more good than so many old women!"

"But you must get it all over before the rest come," replied Mr.

Radford, in an argumentative manner, taking hold of the lappel of his

companion's jacket; "there's no use of running more risk than needful.

And you must remember that we have a long way to carry the goods after

they are landed. Then is the most dangerous time."

"I don't know that," said Harding; "but, however, you must provide for

that, and must also look out for _hides_[1] for the things. I wont

have any of them down with me; and when I have landed them safely,

though I don't mind giving a help to bring them a little way inland, I

wont be answerable for anything more."

---------------------

[Footnote 1: It may be as well to explain to the uninitiated reader,

that the secret places where smugglers conceal their goods after

landing, are known by the name of "Hides."]

---------------------

"No, no; that's all settled," answered his companion; "and the hides

are all ready, too. Some can come into my stable, others can be

carried up to the willow cave. Then there's Sir Robert's great barn."

"Will Sir Robert consent?" asked Harding, in a doubtful tone. "He

would never have anything to do with these matters himself, and was

always devilish hard upon us. I remember he sent my father to gaol ten

years ago, when I was a youngster."

"He must consent," replied Radford, sternly. "He dare as soon refuse

me as cut off his right hand. I tell you, Harding, I have got him in a

vice; and one turn of the lever will make him cry for mercy when I

like. But no more of him. I shall use his barn as if it were my own;

and it is in the middle of the wood, you know, so that it's out of

sight. But even if it were not for that, we've got many another place.

Thank Heaven, there are no want of hides in this county!"

"Ay, but the worst of dry goods, and things of that kind," rejoined

the smuggler, "is that they spoil with a little wet, so that one can't

sink them in a cut or canal till they are wanted, as one can do with

tubs. Who do you intend to send down for them? That's one thing I must

know."

"Oh, whoever comes, my son will be with them," answered Mr. Radford.

"As to who the others will be, I cannot tell yet. The Ramleys,

certainly, amongst the rest. They are always ready, and will either

fight or run, as it may be needed."

"I don't much like them," replied Harding; "they are a bad set. I wish

they were hanged, or out of the country; for, as you say, they will

either fight, or run, or peach, or anything else that suits them: one

just as soon as another."

"Oh, no fear of that--no fear of that!" exclaimed Mr. Radford, in a

confident tone, which seemed somewhat strange to the ears of his

companion, after the suspicions he had heard him so lately express;

but the other instantly added, in explanation, "I shall take care that

they have no means of peaching, for I will tell them nothing about it,

till they are setting off with fifty or sixty others."

"That's the best way, and the only way with such fellows as that,"

answered Harding; "but if you tell nobody, you'll find it a hard job

to get them all together."

"Only let the day be fixed," said Mr. Radford; "and I'll have all

ready--never fear."

"That must be your affair," replied Harding; "I'm ready whenever you

like. Give me a dark night and a fair wind, and my part of the job is

soon done."

"About this day week, I should think," said Mr. Radford. "The moon

will be nearly out by that time."

"Not much more than half," replied the smuggler; "and as we have got

to go far,--for the ship, you say, will not stand in,--we had better

have the whole night to ourselves. Even a bit of a moon is a bad

companion on such a trip; especially when there is so much money

risked. No, I think you had better give me three days more: then there

will be wellnigh nothing left of her, and she wont rise till three or

four. We can see what the weather's like, too, about that time; and I

can come up, and let you know. But if you'll take my advice, Mr.

Radford, you'll not be coming down here any more, till it's all over

at least. There's no good of it, and it may do mischief."

"Well, now it's all settled, I shall not need to do so," rejoined the

other; "but I really don't see, Harding, why you should so much wish

me to stay away."

"I'll tell you why, Mr. Radford," said Harding, putting his hands into

the pockets of his jacket, "and that very easily. Although you have

become a great gentleman, and live at a fine place inland, people

haven't forgot when you kept a house and a counting-house too, in

Hythe, and all that used to go on in those days; and though you are a

magistrate, and go out hunting and shooting, and all that, the good

folks about have little doubt that you have a hankering after the old

trade yet, only that you do your business on a larger scale than you

did then. It's but the other day, when I was in at South's, the

grocer's, to talk to him about some stuff he wanted, I heard two men

say one to the other, as they saw you pass, 'Ay, there goes old

Radford. I wonder what he's down here for!' 'As great an old smuggler

as ever lived,' said the other; 'and a pretty penny he's made of it.

He's still at it, they say; and I dare say he's down here now upon

some such concern.' So you see, sir, people talk about it, and that's

the reason why I say that the less you are here the better."

"Perhaps it is--perhaps it is," answered Mr. Radford, quickly; "and as

we've now settled all we can settle, till you come up, I'll take

myself home. Good night, Harding--good night!"

"Good night, sir," answered Harding, with something like a smile upon

his lip; and finding their way down again to the court below, they

parted.

"I don't like that fellow at all," said Mr. Radford to himself, as he

walked away upon the road to Hythe, where he had left his horse; "he's

more than half inclined to be uncivil. I'll have nothing more to do

with him after this is over."

Harding took his way across the fields towards Sandgate, and perhaps

his thoughts were not much more complimentary to his companion than

Mr. Radford's had been to him; but in the meantime, while each

followed his separate course homeward, we must remain for a short

space in the green, moonlight court of Saltwood Castle. All remained

still and silent for about three minutes; but then the ivy, which at

that time had gathered thickly round the old walls, might be seen to

move in the neighbourhood of a small aperture in one of the ruined

flanking towers of the outer wall, to which it had at one time

probably served as a window, though all traces of its original form

were now lost. The tower was close to the spot where Mr. Radford and

his companion had been standing; and although the aperture we have

mentioned looked towards the court, joining on to a projecting wall in

great part overthrown, there was a loop-hole on the other side,

flanking the very parapet on which they had carried on their

conversation.

After the ivy had moved for a moment, as I have said, something like a

human head was thrust out, looking cautiously round the court. The

next minute a broad pair of shoulders appeared, and then the whole

form of a tall and powerful man, who, after pausing for an instant on

the top of the broken wall, used its fragments as a means of descent

to the ground below. Just as he reached the level of the court, one of

the loose stones which he had displaced as he came down, rolled after

him and fell at his side; and, with a sudden start at the first sound,

he laid his hand on the butt of a large horse-pistol stuck in a belt

round his waist. As soon as he perceived what it was that had alarmed

him, he took his hand from the weapon again, and walked out into the

moonlight; and thence, after pacing quietly up and down for two or

three minutes, to give time for the two other visitors of the castle

to get to a distance, he sauntered slowly out through the gate. He

then turned under the walls towards the little wood which at that time

occupied a part of the valley; opposite to which he stood gazing for

about five minutes. When he judged all safe, he gave a whistle, upon

which the form of a boy instantly started out from the trees, and came

running across the meadow towards him.

"Have you heard all, Mr. Mowle?" asked the boy in a whisper, as soon

as he was near.

"All that they said, Little Starlight," replied the other. "They

didn't say enough; but yet it will do; and you are a clever little

fellow. But come along," he added, laying his hand on the boy's

shoulder, "you shall have what I promised you, and half-a-crown more;

and if you go on, and tell me all you find out, you shall be well

paid."

Thus saying, he walked on with the boy towards Hythe, and the scenery

round Saltwood resumed its silent solitude again.

CHAPTER VII.

To a very hungry man, it matters not much what is put upon the table,

so that it be eatable; but with the intellectual appetite the case is

different, and every one is anxious to know who is to be his

companion, or what is to be in his book. Now, Sir Edward Digby was

somewhat of an epicure in human character; and he always felt as great

a curiosity to enjoy any new personage brought before him, as the more

ordinary epicure desires to taste a new dish. He was equally refined,

too, in regard to the taste of his intellectual food. He liked a good

deal of flavour, but not too much: a soupçon of something, he did not

well know what, in a man's demeanour gave it great zest, as a soupçon

of two or three condiments so blended in a salmi as to defy analysis

must have charmed Vatel; and, to say the truth, the little he had seen

or heard of the house in which he now was, together with his knowledge

of some of its antecedents, had awakened a great desire for a farther

taste of its quality.

When he went down stairs, then, and opened the dining-room door, his

eye naturally ran round in search of the new guests. Only two,

however, had arrived, in the first of whom he recognised Mr. Zachary

Croyland. The other was a venerable looking old man, in black, whom he

could not conceive to be Mr. Radford, from the previous account which

he had heard of that respectable gentleman's character. It turned out,

however, that the person before him--who had been omitted by Sir

Robert Croyland in the enumeration of his expected visitors--was the

clergyman of the neighbouring village; and being merely a plain, good

man, of very excellent sense, but neither, rich noble, nor thrifty,

was nobody in the opinion of the baronet.

As soon as Sir Edward Digby appeared, Mr. Zachary Croyland, with his

back tall, straight, and stiff as a poker, advanced towards him, and

shook him cordially by the hand. "Welcome, welcome, my young friend,"

he said; "you've kept your word, I see; and that's a good sign of any

man, especially when he knows that there's neither pleasure, profit,

nor popularity to be gained by so doing; and I'm sure there's none of

either to be had in this remote corner of the world. You have some

object, of course, in coming among us; for every man has an object;

but what it is I can't divine."

"A very great object indeed, my dear sir," replied the young officer,

with a smile; "I wish to cultivate the acquaintance of an old friend

of my father's--your brother here, who was kind enough to invite me."

"A very unprofitable sort of plant to cultivate," answered Mr.

Croyland, in a voice quite loud enough to be heard by the whole room.

"It wont pay tillage, I should think; but you know your own affairs

best. Here, Edith, my love, I must make you better acquainted with my

young fellow-traveller. Doubtless, he is perfectly competent to talk

as much nonsense to you as any other young man about town, and has

imported, for the express benefit of the young ladies in the country,

all the sweet things and pretty speeches last in vogue. But he can, in

his saner moments, and if you just let him know that you are not quite

a fool, bestow upon you some small portion of common sense, which he

has picked up, Heaven knows how!--He couldn't have it by descent; for

he is an eldest son, and that portion of the family property is always

reserved for the younger children."

Mrs. Barbara Croyland, who found that her brother Zachary was riding

his horse somewhat hard, moved across the room--with the superfluity

of whalebone which she had in her stays crackling at every step, as if

expressly to attract attention--and, laying her hand on Mr. Croyland's

arm, she whispered--"Now do, brother, be a little civil and kind.

There's no use of hurting people's feelings; and, if Robert hasn't as

much sense as you, there's no use you should always be telling him

so."

"Pish! nonsense! "cried Mr. Croyland, "Hold your tongue, Bab. You're a

good soul as ever lived, but a great fool into the bargain. So don't

meddle. I should think you had burnt your fingers enough with it by

this time."

"And I'm sure you're a good soul, too, if you would but let people

know it," replied Mrs. Barbara, anxious to soften and keep down all

the little oddities and asperities of her family circle in the eyes of

Sir Edward Digby.

But she only showed them the more by so doing; for Mr. Croyland was

not to be caught by honey; and, besides, the character which she, in

her simplicity, thought fit to attribute to him, was the very last

upon the face of the earth which he coveted. Every man has his vanity;

and it is an imp that takes an infinite variety of different forms,

frequently the most hideous or the most absurd. Now Mr. Croyland's

vanity lay in his oddity and acerbity. There was nothing on earth

which he considered so foolish as good-nature; and he was heartily

ashamed of the large portion with which Heaven had endowed him.

"I a good soul!" he exclaimed. "Let me tell you, Bab, you are very

much mistaken in that, as in every other thing you say or do. I am

nothing more nor less than a very cross, ill-tempered old man; and you

know it quite well, if you wouldn't be a hypocrite."

"Well, I do believe you are," said the lady, with her own particular

vanity mortified into a state of irritation, "and the only way is to

let you alone."

While this conversation had been passing between brother and sister,

Sir Edward Digby, taking advantage of the position in which they

stood, and which masked his own operations from the rest of the party,

bent down to speak a few words to Edith, who, whatever they were,

looked up with a smile, faint and thoughtful indeed, but still

expressing as much cheerfulness as her countenance ever showed. The

topic which he spoke upon might be commonplace, but what he said was

said with grace, and had a degree of originality in it, mingled with

courtliness and propriety of expression, which at once awakened

attention and repaid it. It was not strong beer--it was not strong

spirit--but it was like some delicate kind of wine, which has more

power than the fineness of the flavour suffers to be apparent at the

first taste.

Their conversation was not long, however; for by the time that the

young gentleman and lady had exchanged a few sentences, and Mr.

Croyland had finished his discussion with his sister, the name of Mr.

Radford was announced; and Sir Edward Digby turned quickly round to

examine the appearance of the new comer. As he did so, however, his

eye fell for a moment upon the countenance of Edith Croyland, and he

thought he remarked an expression of anxiety not unmingled with pain,

till the door closed after admitting a single figure, when a look of

relief brightened her face, and she gave a glance across the room to

her sister. The younger girl instantly rose; and while her father was

busy receiving Mr. Radford with somewhat profuse attention, she

gracefully crossed the room, and seating herself by Edith, laid her

hand upon her sister's, whispering something to her with a kindly

look.

Sir Edward Digby marked it all, and liked it; for there is something

in the bottom of man's heart which has always a sympathy with

affection; but he, nevertheless, did not fail to take a complete

survey of the personage who entered, and whom I must now present to

the reader, somewhat more distinctly than I could do by the moonlight.

Mr. Richard Radford was a tall, thin, but large-boned man, with dark

eyes and overhanging shaggy brows, a hook nose, considerably depressed

towards the point, a mouth somewhat wide, and teeth very fine for his

age, though somewhat straggling and sharklike. His hair was very

thick, and apparently coarse; his arms long and powerful; and his

legs, notwithstanding the meagreness of his body, furnished with very

respectable calves. On the whole, he was a striking but not a

prepossessing person; and there was a look of keenness and cupidity,

we might almost say voracity, in his eye, with a bend in the brow,

which would have given the observer an idea of great quickness of

intellect and decision of character, if it had not been for a certain

degree of weakness about the partly opened mouth, which seemed to be

in opposition to the latter characteristic. He was dressed in the

height of the mode, with large buckles in his shoes and smaller ones

at his knees, a light dress-sword hanging not ungracefully by his

side, and a profusion of lace and embroidery about his apparel.

Mr. Radford replied to the courtesies of Sir Robert Croyland

with perfect self-possession--one might almost call it

self-sufficiency--but with no grace and some stiffness. He was then

introduced, in form, to Sir Edward Digby, bowing low, if that could be

called a bow, which was merely an inclination of the rigid spine, from

a perpendicular position to an angle of forty-five with the horizon.

The young officer's demeanour formed a very striking contrast with

that of his new acquaintance, not much in favour of the latter; but he

showed that, as Mr. Croyland had predicated of him, he was quite

prepared to say a great many courteous nothings in a very civil and

obliging tone. Mr. Radford declared himself delighted at the honour of

making his acquaintance, and Sir Edward pronounced himself charmed at

the opportunity of meeting him. Mr. Radford hoped that he was going to

honour their poor place for a considerable length of time, and Sir

Edward felt sure that the beauty of such scenery, and the delights of

such society, would be the cause of much pain to him when he was

compelled to tear himself away.

A low but merry laugh from behind them, caused both the gentlemen to

turn their heads; and they found the sparkling eyes of Zara Croyland

fixed upon them. She instantly dropped her eye-lids, however, and

coloured a little, at being detected. It was evident enough that she

had been weighing the compliments she heard, and estimating them at

their right value, which made Mr. Radford look somewhat angry, but

elicited nothing from Sir Edward Digby but a gay glance at the

beautiful little culprit, which she caught, even through the thick

lashes of her downcast eyes, and which served to reassure her.

Sir Robert Croyland himself was displeased; but Zara was in a degree a

spoiled child, and had established for herself a privilege of doing

what she liked, unscolded. To turn the conversation, therefore, Sir

Robert, in a tone of great regard, inquired particularly after his

young friend, Richard, and said, he hoped that they were to have the

pleasure of seeing him.

"I trust so--I trust so, Sir Robert," replied Mr. Radford; "but you

know I am totally unacquainted with his movements. He had gone away

upon some business, the servants told me; and I waited as long as I

could for him; but I did not choose to keep your dinner, Sir Robert;

and if he does not choose to come in time, the young dog must go

without.--Pray do not stop a moment for him."

"Business!" muttered Mr. Croyland--"either cheating the king's

revenue, or making love to a milkmaid, I'll answer for him;" but the

remark passed unnoticed, for Sir Robert Croyland, who was always

anxious to drown his brother's somewhat too pertinent observations,

without giving the nabob any offence, was loudly pressing Mr. Radford

to let them wait for half an hour, in order to give time for the young

gentleman's arrival.

His father, however, would not hear of such a proceeding; and the bell

was rung, and dinner ordered. It was placed upon the table with great

expedition; and the party moved towards the dining-room. Mr. Radford

handed in the baronet's sister, who was, to say the truth, an enigma

to him; for he himself could form no conception of her good-nature,

simplicity, and kindness, and consequently thought that all the

mischief she occasionally caused, must originate in well-concealed

spite, which gave him a great reverence for her character. Sir Edward

Digby, notwithstanding a hint from Sir Robert to take in his youngest

daughter, advanced to Miss Croyland, and secured her, as he thought,

for himself; while the brother of the master of the house followed

with the fair Zara, leaving the clergyman and Sir Robert to come

together. By a man[oe]uvre on the part of Edith, however, favoured by

her father, but nearly frustrated by the busy spirit of her aunt, Miss

Croyland got placed between Sir Robert and the clergyman, while the

youngest daughter of the house was seated by Sir Edward Digby, leaving

a chair vacant between herself and her worthy parent for young

Radford, when he should arrive.

All this being arranged, to the satisfaction of everybody but Sir

Edward Digby, grace was said, after a not very decent hint from Sir

Robert Croyland, that it ought not to be too long; and the dinner

commenced with the usual attack upon soup and fish. It must not be

supposed, however, because we have ventured to say that the

arrangement was not to the satisfaction of Sir Edward Digby, that the

young baronet was at all disinclined to enjoy his pretty little

friend's society nearer than the opposite side of the table. Nor must

it be imagined that his sage reflections, in regard to keeping himself

out of danger, had at all made a coward of the gallant soldier. The

truth is, he had a strong desire to study Edith Croyland: not on

account of any benefit which that study could be of to himself, but

with other motives and views, which, upon the whole, were very

laudable. He wished to see into her mind, and, by those slight

indications which were all he could expect her to display--but which,

nevertheless, to a keen observer, often tell a history better than a

whole volume of details--to ascertain some facts, in regard to which

he took a considerable interest. Being somewhat eager in his way, and

not knowing how long he might find it either convenient or safe to

remain in his present quarters, he had determined to commence the

campaign as soon as possible; but, frustrated in his first attack, he

determined to change his plan of operations, and besiege the fair Zara

as one of the enemy's outworks. He accordingly laughed and talked with

her upon almost every subject in the world during the first part of

dinner, skilfully leading her up to the pursuits of her sister and

herself in the country, in order to obtain a clear knowledge of their

habits and course of proceeding, that he might take advantage of it at

an after-period, for purposes of his own.

The art of conversation, when properly regarded, forms a regular

system of tactics, in which, notwithstanding the various man[oe]uvres

of your adversary, and the desultory fire kept up by indifferent

persons around, you still endeavour to carry the line of advance in

the direction that you wish, and to frustrate every effort to turn it

towards any point that may not be agreeable to you, rallying it here,

giving it a bend there; presenting a sharp angle at one place, an

obtuse one at another; and raising from time to time a barrier or a

breastwork for the purpose of preventing the adverse force from

turning your flank, and getting into your rear.

But the mischief was, in the present instance, that Sir Edward Digby's

breastworks were too low for such an active opponent as Zara Croyland.

They might have appeared a formidable obstacle in the way of a

scientific opponent; but with all the rash valour of youth, which is

so frequently successful where practice and experience fail, she

walked straight up, and jumped over them, taking one line after

another, till Sir Edward Digby found that she had nearly got into the

heart of his camp. It was all so easy and natural, however, so gay and

cheerful, that he could not feel mortified, even at his own want of

success; and though five times she darted away from the subject, and

began to talk of other things, he still renewed it, expatiating upon

the pleasures of a country life, and upon how much more rational, as

well as agreeable it was, when compared to the amusements and whirl of

the town.

Mr. Zachary Croyland, indeed, cut across them often, listening to what

they said and sometimes smiling significantly at Sir Edward Digby, or

at other times replying himself to what either of the two thought fit

to discourse upon. Thus, then, when the young baronet was descanting

sagely of the pleasures of the country, as compared with those of the

town, good Mr. Croyland laughed merrily, saying, "You will soon have

enough of it, Sir Edward; or else you are only deceiving that poor

foolish girl; for what have you to do with the country?--you, who have

lived the best part of your life in cities, and amongst their

denizens. I dare say, if the truth were told now, you would give a

guinea to be walking up the Mall, instead of sitting down here, in

this old, crumbling, crazy house, speaking courteous nonsense to a

pretty little milkmaid."

"Indeed, my dear sir, you are very much mistaken," replied Sir Edward,

gravely. "You judge all men by yourself; and because you are fond of

cities, and the busy haunts of men, you think I must be so too."

"I fond of cities and the busy haunts of men!" cried Mr. Croyland, in

a tone of high indignation; but a laugh that ran round the table, and

in which even the worthy clergyman joined, shewed the old gentleman

that he had been taken in by Sir Edward's quietly-spoken jest; and at

the same time his brother exclaimed, still laughing, "He hit you

fairly there, Zachary. He has found out the full extent of your love

for your fellow-creatures already."

"Well, I forgive him, I forgive him!" said Mr. Croyland, with more

good humour than might have been expected. "I had forgotten that I had

told him, four or five days ago, my hatred for all cities, and

especially for that great mound of greedy emmets, which,

unfortunately, is the capital of this country. I declare I never go

into that vast den of iniquity, and mingle with the stream of

wretched-looking things that call themselves human, which all its

doors are hourly vomiting forth, but they put me in mind of the white

ants in India, just the same squalid-looking, active, and voracious

vermin as themselves, running over everything that obstructs them,

intruding themselves everywhere, destroying everything that comes in

their way, and acting as an incessant torment to every one within

reach. Certainly, the white ants are the less venemous of the two

races, and somewhat prettier to look at; but still there's a wonderful

resemblance."

"I don't at all approve of your calling me a milkmaid, uncle," said

Zara, shaking her small delicate finger at Mr. Croyland, across the

table. "It's very wrong and ungrateful of you. See if ever I milk your

cow for you again!"

"Then I'll milk it myself, my dear," replied Mr. Croyland, with a

good-humoured smile at his fair niece.

"You cannot, you cannot!" cried Zara. "Fancy, Sir Edward, what a

picture it made when one day I went over to my uncle's, and found him

with a frightful-looking black man, in a turban whom he brought over

from Heaven knows where, trying to milk a cow he had just bought, and

neither of them able to manage it. My uncle was kneeling upon his

cocked hat, amongst the long grass, looking, as he acknowledges, like

a kangaroo; the cow had got one of her feet in the pail, kicking most

violently; and the black man with a white turban round his head, was

upon both his knees before her, beseeching her in some heathen

language to be quiet. It was the finest sight I ever saw, and would

have made a beautiful picture of the Worship of the Cow, which is, as

I am told, customary in the country where both the gentlemen came

from."

"Zara, my dear--Zara!" cried Mrs. Barbara, who was frightened to death

lest her niece should deprive herself of all share in Mr. Croyland's

fortune. "You really should not tell such a story of your uncle."

But the worthy gentleman himself was laughing till the tears ran down

his cheeks. "It's quite true--it's quite true!" he exclaimed, "and she

did milk the cow, though we couldn't. The ill-tempered devil was as

quiet as a lamb with her, though she is so vicious with every male

thing, that I have actually been obliged to have a woman in the

cottage within a hundred yards of the house, for the express purpose

of milking her."

"That's what you should have done at first," said Mr. Radford, putting

down the fork with which he had been diligently devouring a large

plateful of fish. "Instead of having nothing but men about you, you

should have had none but your coachman and footman, and all the rest

women."

"Ay, and married my cook-maid," replied Mr. Croyland, sarcastically.

Sir Robert Croyland looked down into his plate with a quivering lip

and a heavy brow, as if he did not well know whether to laugh or be

angry. The clergyman smiled, Mr. Radford looked furious, but said

nothing, and Mrs. Barbara exclaimed, "Oh, brother, you should not say

such things! and besides, there are many cook-maids who are very nice,

pretty, respectable people."

"Well, sister, I'll think of it," said Mr. Croyland, drily, but with a

good deal of fun twinkling in the corners of his eyes.

It was too much for the light heart of Zara Croyland; and holding down

her head, she laughed outright, although she knew that Mr. Radford had

placed himself in the predicament of which her uncle spoke, though he

had been relieved of the immediate consequence for some years.

What would have been the result is difficult to say; for Mr. Radford

was waxing wroth; but at that moment the door was flung hastily open,

and a young gentleman entered, of some three or four-and-twenty years

of age, bearing a strong resemblance to Mr. Radford, though

undoubtedly of a much more pleasant and graceful appearance. He was

well dressed, and his coat, lined with white silk of the finest

texture, was cast negligently back from his chest, with an air of

carelessness which was to be traced in all the rest of his apparel.

Everything he wore was as good as it could be, and everything became

him; for he was well formed, and his movements were free and even

graceful; but everything seemed to have been thrown on in a hurry, and

his hair floated wild and straggling round his brow, as if neither

comb nor brush had touched it for many hours. It might have been

supposed that this sort of disarray proceeded from haste when he found

himself too late and his father gone; but there was an expression of

reckless indifference about his face which led Sir Edward Digby to

imagine that this apparent negligence was the habitual characteristic

of his mind, rather than the effect of any accidental circumstance.

His air was quite self-possessed, though hurried; and a flashing

glance of his eye round the table, resting for a moment longer on Sir

Edward Digby than on any one else, seemed directed to ascertain

whether the party assembled was one that pleased him, before he chose

to sit down to the board with them. He made no apology to Sir Robert

Croyland for being too late, but shook hands with him in return for

the very cordial welcome he met with, and then seated himself in the

vacant chair, nodding to Miss Croyland familiarly, and receiving a

cold inclination of the head in return. One of the servants inquired

if he would take soup and fish; but he replied, abruptly, "No; bring

me fish. No soup--I hate such messes."

In the meantime, by one of those odd turns which sometimes take place

in conversation, Mr. Croyland, the clergyman, and Mr. Radford himself

were once more talking together: the latter having apparently overcome

his indignation at the nabob's tart rejoinder, in the hope and

expectation of saying something still more biting to him in return.

Like many a great general, however, he had not justly appreciated the

power of his adversary as compared with his own strength. Mr.

Croyland, soured at an early period of life, had acquired by long

practice and experience a habit of repartee when his prejudices or his

opinions (and they are very different things) were assailed, which was

overpowering. A large fund of natural kindness and good humour formed

a curious substratum for the acerbity which had accumulated above it,

and his love of a joke would often shew itself in a hearty peal of

laughter, even at his own expense, when the attack upon him was made

in a good spirit, by one for whom he had any affection or esteem. But

if he despised or disliked his assailant, as was the case with Mr.

Radford, the bitterest possible retort was sure to be given in the

fewest possible words.

In order to lead away from the obnoxious subject, the clergyman

returned to Mr. Croyland's hatred of London, saying, not very

advisedly perhaps, just as young Mr. Radford entered, "I cannot

imagine, my dear sir, why you have such an animosity to our

magnificent capital, and to all that it contains, especially when we

all know you to be as beneficent to individuals as you are severe upon

the species collectively."

"My dear Cruden, you'll only make a mess of it," replied Mr. Croyland.

"The reason why I do sometimes befriend a poor scoundrel whom I happen

to know, is because it is less pleasant for me to see a rascal suffer

than to do what's just by him. I have no will and no power to punish

all the villany I see, otherwise my arm would be tired enough of

flogging, in this county of Kent. But I do not understand why I should

be called upon to like a great agglomeration of blackguards in a city,

when I can have the same diluted in the country. Here we have about a

hundred scoundrels to the square mile; in London we have a hundred to

the square yard."

"Don't you think, sir, that they may be but the worse scoundrels in

the country because they are fewer?" demanded Mr. Radford.

"I am beginning to fancy so," answered Mr. Croyland, drily, "but I

suppose in London the number makes up for the want of intensity."

"Well, it's a very fine city," rejoined Mr. Radford; "the emporium of

the world, the nurse of arts and sciences, the birth-place and the

theatre of all that is great and majestic in the efforts of human

intellect."

"And equally of all that is base and vile," answered his opponent; "it

is the place to which all smuggled goods naturally tend, Radford.

Every uncustomed spirit, every prohibited ware, physical and

intellectual, there finds its mart; and the chief art that is

practised is to cheat as cleverly as may be--the chief science

learned, is how to defraud without being detected. We are improving in

the country, daily--daily; but we have not reached the skill of London

yet. Men make large fortunes in the country in a few years by merely

cheating the Customs; but in London they make large fortunes in a few

months by cheating everybody."

"So they do in India," replied Mr. Radford, who thought he had hit the

tender place.

"True, true!" cried Mr. Croyland; "and then we go and set up for

country gentlemen, and cheat still. What rogues we are, Radford!--eh?

I see you know the world. It is very well for me to say, I made all my

money by curing men, not by robbing them. Never you believe it, my

good friend. It is not in human nature, is it? No, no! tell that to

the marines. No man ever made a fortune but by plunder, that's a

certain fact."

The course of Sir Robert Croyland's dinner-party seemed to promise

very pleasantly at this juncture; but Sir Edward Digby, though

somewhat amused, was not himself fond of sharp words, and had some

compassion upon the ladies at the table. He therefore stepped in; and,

without seeming to have noticed that there was anything passing

between Mr. Radford and the brother of his host, except the most

delicate courtesies, he contrived, by some well-directed questions in

regard to India, to give Mr. Croyland an inducement to deviate from

the sarcastic into the expatiative; and having set him cantering upon

one of his hobbies, he left him to finish his excursion, and returned

to a conversation which had been going on between him and the fair

Zara, in somewhat of a low tone, though not so low as to show any

mutual design of keeping it from the ears of those around. Young

Radford had in the meantime been making up for the loss of time

occasioned by his absence at the commencement of dinner, and he seemed

undoubtedly to have a prodigious appetite. Not a word had passed from

father to son, or son to father; and a stranger might have supposed

them in no degree related to each other. Indeed, the young gentleman

had hitherto spoken to nobody but the servant; and while his mouth was

employed in eating, his quick, large eyes were directed to every face

round the table in succession, making several more tours than the

first investigating glance, which I have already mentioned, and every

time stopping longer at the countenance of Sir Edward Digby than

anywhere else. He now, however, seemed inclined to take part in that

officer's conversation with the youngest Miss Croyland, and did not

appear quite pleased to find her attention so completely engrossed by

a stranger. To Edith he vouchsafed not a single word; but hearing the

fair lady next to him reply to something which Sir Edward Digby had

said. "Oh, we go out once or twice almost every day; sometimes on

horseback; but more frequently to take a walk," he exclaimed, "Do you,

indeed, Miss Zara?--why, I never meet you, and I am always running

about the country. How is that, I wonder?"

Zara smiled, and replied, with an arch look, "Because fortune

befriends us, I suppose, Mr. Radford;" but then, well knowing that he

was not one likely to take a jest in good part, she added--"we don't

go out to meet anybody, and therefore always take those paths where we

are least likely to do so."

Still young Radford did not seem half to like her reply; but,

nevertheless, he went on in the same tone, continually interrupting

her conversation with Sir Edward Digby, and endeavouring, after a

fashion not at all uncommon, to make himself agreeable by preventing

people from following the course they are inclined to pursue. The

young baronet rather humoured him than otherwise, for he wished to see

as deeply as possible into his character. He asked him to drink wine

with him; he spoke to him once or twice without being called upon to

do so; and he was somewhat amused to see that the fair Zara was a good

deal annoyed at the encouragement he gave to her companion on the left

to join in their conversation.

He was soon satisfied, however, in regard to the young man's mind and

character. Richard Radford had evidently received what is called a

good education, which is, in fact, no education at all. He had been

taught a great many things; he knew a good deal; but that which really

and truly constitutes education was totally wanting. He had not

learned how to make use of that which he had acquired, either for his

own benefit or for that of society. He had been instructed, not

educated, and there is the greatest possible difference between the

two. He was shrewd enough, but selfish and conceited to a high degree,

with a sufficient portion of pride to be offensive, with sufficient

vanity to be irritable, with all the wilfulness of a spoiled child,

and with that confusion of ideas in regard to plain right and wrong,

which is always consequent upon the want of moral training and

over-indulgence in youth. To judge from his own conversation, the

whole end and aim of his life seemed to be excitement; he spoke of

field sports with pleasure; but the degree of satisfaction which he

derived from each, appeared to be always in proportion to the danger,

the activity, and the fierceness. Hunting he liked better than

shooting, shooting than fishing, which latter he declared was only

tolerable because there was nothing else to be done in the spring of

the year. But upon the pleasures of the chase he would dilate largely,

and he told several anecdotes of staking a magnificent horse here, and

breaking the back of another there, till poor Zara turned somewhat

pale, and begged him to desist from such themes.

"I cannot think how men can be so barbarous," she said. "Their whole

pleasure seems to consist in torturing poor animals or killing them."

Young Radford laughed. "What were they made for?" he asked.

"To be used by man, I think, not to be tortured by him," the young

lady replied.

"No torture at all," said her companion on the left. "The horse takes

as much pleasure in running after the hounds as I do, and if he breaks

his back, or I break my neck, it's our own fault. We have nobody to

thank for it but ourselves. The very chance of killing oneself gives

additional pleasure; and, when one pushes a horse at a leap, the best

fun of the whole is the thought whether he will be able by any

possibility to clear it or not. If it were not for hunting, and one or

two other things of the sort, there would be nothing left for an

English gentleman, but to go to Italy and put himself at the head of a

party of banditti. That must be glorious work!"

"Don't you think, Mr. Radford," asked Sir Edward Digby, "that active

service in the army might offer equal excitement, and a more

honourable field?"

"Oh, dear no!" cried the young man. "A life of slavery compared with a

life of freedom; to be drilled and commanded, and made a mere machine

of, and sent about relieving guards and pickets, and doing everything

that one is told like a school-boy! I would not go into the army for

the world. I'm sure if I did I should shoot my commanding officer

within a month!"

"Then I would advise you not," answered the young baronet, "for after

the shooting there would be another step to be taken which would not

be quite so pleasant."

"Oh, you mean the hanging," cried young Radford, laughing; "but I

would take care they should never hang me; for I could shoot myself as

easily as I could shoot him; and I have a great dislike to

strangulation. It's one of the few sorts of death that would not

please me."

"Come, come, Richard!" said Sir Robert Croyland, in a nervous and

displeased tone; "let us talk of some other subject. You will frighten

the ladies from table before the cloth is off."

"It is very odd," said young Radford, in a low voice, to Sir Edward

Digby, without making any reply to the master of the house--"it is

very odd, how frightened old men are at the very name of death, when

at the best they can have but two or three years to live."

The young officer did not reply, but turned the conversation to other

things; and the wine having been liberally supplied, operated as it

usually does, at the point where its use stops short of excess, in

"making glad the heart of man;" and the conclusion of the dinner was

much more cheerful and placable than the commencement.

The ladies retired within a few minutes after the desert was set upon

the table; and it soon became evident to Sir Edward Digby, that the

process of deep drinking, so disgracefully common in England at that

time, was about to commence. He was by no means incapable of bearing

as potent libations as most men; for occasionally, in those days, it

was scarcely possible to escape excess without giving mortal offence

to your entertainer; but it was by no means either his habit or his

inclination so to indulge, and for this evening especially he was

anxious to escape. He looked, therefore, across the table to Mr.

Croyland for relief; and that gentleman, clearly understanding what he

meant, gave him a slight nod, and finished his first glass of wine

after dinner. The bottles passed round again, and Mr. Croyland took

his second glass; but after that he rose without calling much

attention: a proceeding which was habitual with him. When, however,

Sir Edward Digby followed his example, there was a general outcry.

Every one declared it was too bad, and Sir Robert said, in a somewhat

mortified tone, that he feared his wine was not so good as that to

which his guest had been accustomed.

"It is only too good, my dear sir," replied the young baronet,

determined to cut the matter short, at once and for ever. "So good,

indeed, that I have been induced to take two more glasses than I

usually indulge in, and I consequently feel somewhat heated and

uncomfortable. I shall go and refresh myself by a walk through your

woods."

Several more efforts were made to induce him to stay; but he was

resolute in his course; and Mr. Croyland also came to his aid,

exclaiming, "Pooh, nonsense, Robert! let every man do as he likes.

Have not I heard you, a thousand times, call your house Liberty Hall?

A pretty sort of liberty, indeed, if a man must get beastly drunk

because you choose to do so!"

"I do not intend to do any such thing, brother," replied Sir Robert,

somewhat sharply; and in the meanwhile, during this discussion, Sir

Edward Digby made his escape from the room.

CHAPTER VIII.

On entering the drawing-room, towards which Sir Edward Digby

immediately turned his steps, he found it tenanted alone by Mrs.

Barbara Croyland, who sat in the window with her back towards the

door, knitting most diligently, with something pinned to her knee. As

it was quite beyond the good lady's conception that any body would

ever think of quitting the dining-room so early but her younger

brother, no sooner did she hear a step than, jumping at conclusions as

she usually did, she exclaimed aloud, "Isn't he a nice young man,

brother Zachary? I think it will do quite well, if that----"

Sir Edward Digby would have given a great deal to hear the conclusion

of the sentence; but his honour was as bright as his sword; and he

never took advantage of a mistake. "It is not your brother, Mrs.

Croyland," he said; and then Mrs. Barbara starting up with a face like

scarlet, tearing her gown at the same time by the tug she gave to the

pin which attached her work to her knee, he added, with the most

benevolent intentions, "I think he might have been made a very nice

young man, if he had been properly treated in his youth. But I should

imagine he was very wild and headstrong now."

Mrs. Barbara stared at him with a face full of wonder and confusion;

for her own mind was so completely impressed with the subject on which

she had begun to speak, that she by no means comprehended the turn

that he intended to give it, but thought that he also was talking of

himself, and not of young Radford. How it would have ended, no mere

mortal can tell; for when once Mrs. Barbara got into a scrape, she

floundered most awfully. Luckily, however, her brother was close

enough behind Sir Edward Digby to hear all that passed, and he entered

the room while the consternation was still fresh upon his worthy

sister's countenance.

After gazing at her for a moment, with a look of sour merriment, Mr.

Croyland exclaimed, "There! hold your tongue, Bab; you can't get your

fish out of the kettle without burning your fingers!--Now, my young

friend," he continued, taking Sir Edward Digby by the arm, and drawing

him aside, "if you choose to be a great fool, and run the risk of

falling in love with a pretty girl, whom my sister Barbara has

determined you shall marry, whether you like it or not, and who

herself, dear little soul, has no intention in the world but of

playing you like a fish till you are caught, and then laughing at you,

you will find the two girls walking in the wood behind the house, as

they do every day. But if you don't like such amusement, you can stay

here with me and Bab, and be instructed by her in the art and mystery

of setting everything to wrongs with the very best intentions in the

world."

"Thank you, my dear sir," replied Sir Edward, smiling, "I think I

should prefer the fresh air; and, as to the dangers against which you

warn me, I have no fears. The game of coquetry can be played by two."

"Ay, but woe to him who loses!" said Mr. Croyland, in a more serious

tone. "But go along with you--go along! You are a rash young man; and

if you will court your fate, you must."

The young baronet accordingly walked away, leaving Mrs. Barbara to

recover from her confusion as she best might, and Mr. Croyland to

scold her at his leisure, which Sir Edward did not in the slightest

degree doubt he would do. It was a beautiful summer's afternoon in the

end of August, the very last day of the month, the hour about a

quarter to six, so that the sun had nearly to run a twelfth part of

his course before the time of his setting. It was warm and cheerful,

too, but with a freshness in the air, and a certain golden glow over

the sky, which told that it was evening. Not wishing exactly to pass

before the dining-room windows, Sir Edward endeavoured to find his way

out into the wood behind the house by the stable and farm yards; but

he soon found himself in a labyrinth from which it was difficult to

extricate himself, and in the end was obliged to have recourse to a

stout country lad, who was walking up towards the mansion, with a

large pail of milk tugging at his hand, and bending in the opposite

direction to balance the load. Right willingly, however, the youth set

down the pail; and, leaving it to the tender mercies of some pigs, who

were walking about in the yard and did not fail to inquire into the

nature of its contents, he proceeded to show the way through the

flower and kitchen gardens, by a small door in the wall, to a path

which led out at once amongst the trees.

Now, Sir Edward Digby had not the slightest idea of which way the two

young ladies had gone; and it was by no means improbable that, if he

were left without pilotage in going and returning, he might lose his

way in the wood, which, as I have said, was very extensive. But all

true lovers are fond of losing their way; and as he had his sword by

his side, he had not the slightest objection to that characteristic of

an Amadis, having in reality a good deal of the knight-errant about

him, and rather liking a little adventure, if it did not go too far.

His adventures, indeed, were not destined that night to be very

remarkable; for, following the path about a couple of hundred yards,

he was led directly into a good, broad, sandy road, in which he

thought it would be impossible to go astray. A few clouds that passed

over the sky from time to time cast their fitful and fanciful shadows

upon the way; the trees waved on either hand; and, with a small border

of green turf, the yellow path pursued its course through the wood,

forming a fine but pleasant contrast in colour with the verdure of all

the other things around. As he went on, too, the sky overhead, and the

shades amongst the trees, began to assume a rosy hue as the day

declined farther and farther; and the busy little squirrels, as

numerous as mice, were seen running here and there up the trees and

along the branches, with their bright black eyes staring at the

stranger with a saucy activity very little mingled with fear. The

young baronet was fond of such scenes, and fond of the somewhat grave

musing which they very naturally inspire; and he therefore went on,

alternately pondering and admiring, and very well contented with his

walk, whether he met with his fair friends or not. Sir Edward, indeed,

would not allow himself to fancy that he was by any means very anxious

for Zara's company, or for Miss Croyland's either--for he was not in

the slightest hurry either to fall in love or to acknowledge it to

himself even if he were. With regard to Edith, indeed, he felt himself

in no possible danger; for had he continued to think her, as he had

done at first, more beautiful than her sister--which by this time he

did not--he was still guarded in her case by feelings, which, to a man

of his character, were as a triple shield of brass, or anything a

great deal stronger.

He walked on, however, and he walked on; not, indeed, with a very slow

pace, but with none of the eager hurry of youth after beauty; till at

length, when he had proceeded for about half an hour, he saw

cultivated fields and hedgerows at the end of the road he was

pursuing, and soon after came to the open country, without meeting

with the slightest trace of Sir Robert Croyland's daughters.

On the right hand, as he issued out of the wood, there was a small but

very neat and picturesque cottage, with its little kitchen-garden and

its flower-garden, its wild roses, and its vine.

"I have certainly missed them," said Sir Edward Digby to himself, "and

I ought to make the best use of my time, for it wont do to stay here

too long. Perhaps they may have gone into the cottage. Girls like

these often seek an object in their walk, and visit this poor person

or that;" and thus thinking, he advanced to the little gate, went into

the garden, and knocked with his knuckles at the door of the house. A

woman's voice bade him come in; and, doing so, he found a room, small

in size, but corresponding in neatness and cleanliness with the

outside of the place. It was tenanted by three persons--a middle-aged

woman, dressed as a widow, with a fine and placid countenance, who was

advancing towards the door as he entered; a very lovely girl of

eighteen or nineteen, who bore a strong resemblance to the widow; and

a stout, powerful, good-looking man, of about thirty, well dressed,

though without any attempt at the appearance of a station above the

middle class, with a clean, fine, checked shirt, having the collar

cast back, and a black silk handkerchief tied lightly in what is

usually termed a sailor's knot. The two latter persons were sitting

very close together, and the girl was smiling gaily at something her

companion had just said.

"Two lovers!" thought the young baronet; but, as that was no business

of his, he went on to inquire of the good woman of the house, if she

had seen some young ladies pass that way; and having named them, he

added, to escape scandal, "I am staying at the house, and am afraid,

if I do not meet with them, I shall not easily find my way back."

"They were here a minute ago, sir," replied the widow, "and they went

round to the east. They will take the Halden road back, I suppose. If

you make haste, you will catch them easily."

"But which is the Halden road, my good lady?" asked Sir Edward Digby;

and she, turning to the man who was sitting by her daughter, said, "I

wish you would shew the gentleman, Mr. Harding."

The man rose cheerfully enough--considering the circumstances--and led

the young baronet with a rapid step, by a footpath that wound round

the edge of the wood, to another broad road about three hundred yards

distant from that by which the young officer had come. Then, pointing

with his hand, he said, "There they are, going as slow as a Dutch

butter-tub. You can't miss them, or the road either: for it leads

straight on."

Sir Edward Digby thanked him, and walked forward. A few rapid steps

brought him close to the two ladies, who--though they looked upon

every part of the wood as more or less their home, and consequently

felt no fear--turned at the sound of a footfall so near; and the

younger of the two smiled gaily, when she saw who it was.

"What! Sir Edward Digby!" she exclaimed. "In the name of all that is

marvellous, how did you escape from the dining-room? Why, you will be

accused of shirking the bottle, cowardice, and milksopism, and crimes

and misdemeanours enough to forfeit your commission."

She spoke gaily; but Sir Edward Digby thought that the gaiety was not

exactly sterling; for when first she turned, her face had been nearly

as grave as her sister's. He answered, however, in the same tone, "I

must plead guilty to all such misdemeanours; but if they are to be

rewarded by such pleasure as that of a walk with you, I fear I shall

often commit them."

"You must not pay us courtly compliments, Sir Edward," said Miss

Croyland, "for we poor country people do not understand them. I hope,

however, you left the party peaceable: for it promised to be quite the

contrary at one time, and my uncle and Mr. Radford never agree."

"Oh, quite peaceable, I can assure you," replied Digby. "I retreated

under cover of your uncle's movements. Perhaps, otherwise, I might not

have got away so easily. He it was who told me where I should find

you."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Croyland, in a tone of surprise; and then,

casting down her eyes, she fell into thought. Her sister, however,

carried on the conversation in her stead, saying, "Well, you are the

first soldier, Sir Edward, I ever saw, who left the table before

night."

"They must have been soldiers who had seen little service, I should

think," replied the young officer; "for a man called upon often for

active exertion, soon finds the necessity of keeping any brains he has

got as clear as possible, in case they should be needed. In many

countries where I have been, too, we could get no wine to drink, even

if we wanted it. Such was the case in Canada, and in some parts of

Germany."

"Have you served in Canada?" demanded Miss Croyland suddenly, raising

her eyes to his face with a look of deep interest.

"Through almost the whole of the war." replied Sir Edward Digby,

quietly, without noticing, even by a glance, the change of expression

which his words had produced. He then paused for a moment, as if

waiting for some other question; but both Miss Croyland and her sister

remained perfectly silent, and the former turned somewhat pale.

As he saw that neither of his two fair companions were likely to carry

the conversation a step further, the young officer proceeded, in a

quiet and even light tone--"This part of the country," he continued,

"is always connected in my mind with Canada; and, indeed, I was glad

to accept your father's invitation at once, when he was kind enough to

ask me to his house; for, in addition to the pleasure of making his

personal acquaintance, I longed to see scenes which I had often heard

mentioned with all the deep affection and delight which only can be

felt by a fine mind for the spot in which our brighter years are

passed."

The younger girl looked to her sister, but Edith Croyland was deadly

pale, and said nothing; and Zara inquired in a tone to which she too

evidently laboured to give the gay character of her usual demeanour,

"Indeed, Sir Edward! May I ask who gave you such a flattering account

of our poor country? He must have been a very foolish and prejudiced

person--at least, so I fear you must think, now you have seen it."

"No, no!--oh, no!" cried Digby, earnestly, "anything but that. I had

that account from a person so high-minded, so noble, so full of every

generous quality of heart, and every fine quality of mind, that I was

quite sure, ere I came here, I should find the people whom he

mentioned, and the scenes which he described, all that he had stated;

and I have not been disappointed, Miss Croyland."

"But you have not named him, Sir Edward," said Zara; "you are very

tantalizing. Perhaps we may know him, and be sure we shall love him

for his patriotism."

"He was an officer in the regiment to which I then belonged." answered

the young baronet, "and my dearest friend. His name was Leyton--a most

distinguished man, who had already gained such a reputation, that, had

his rank in the army admitted it, none could have been more desired to

take the command of the forces when Wolfe fell on the heights of

Abraham. He was too young, however, and had too little interest to

obtain that position.--Miss Croyland, you seem ill. Let me give you my

arm."

Edith bowed her head quietly, and leaned upon her sister, but answered

not a word; and Zara gave a glance to Sir Edward Digby which he read

aright. It was a meaning, a sort of relying and imploring look, as if

she would have said, "I beseech you, say no more; she cannot bear it."

And the young officer abruptly turned the conversation, observing,

"The day has been very hot, Miss Croyland. You have walked far, and

over-fatigued yourself."

"It is nothing--it is nothing," answered Edith, with a deep-drawn

breath; "it will be past in a moment, Sir Edward. I am frequently

thus."

"Too frequently," murmured Zara, gazing at her sister; and Sir Edward

Digby replied, "I am sure, if such be the case, you should consult

some physician."

Zara shook her head with a melancholy smile, while her sister walked

on, leaning upon her arm in silence, with her eyes bent towards the

ground, as if in deep thought. "I fear that no physician would do her

good," said the younger lady, in a low voice; "the evil is now

confirmed."

"Nay," replied Digby, gazing at her, "I think I know one who could

cure her entirely."

His look said more than his words; and Zara fixed her eyes upon his

face for an instant with an inquiring glance. The expression then

suddenly changed to one of bright intelligence, and she answered, "I

will make you give me his name to-morrow, Sir Edward. Not now--not

now! I shall forget it."

Sir Edward Digby was not slow in taking a hint; and he consequently

made no attempt to bring the conversation back to the subject which

had so much affected Miss Croyland; but lest a dead silence should too

plainly mark that he saw into the cause of the faintness which had

come over her, he went on talking to her sister; and Zara soon

resumed, at least to all appearance, her own light spirits again. But

Digby had seen her under a different aspect, which was known to few

besides her sister; and to say the truth, though he had thought her

sparkling frankness very charming, yet the deeper and tenderer

feelings which she had displayed towards Edith were still more to his

taste.

"She is not the light coquette her uncle represents her," he thought,

as they walked on: "there is a true and feeling heart beneath--one

whose affections, if strongly excited and then disappointed, might

make her as sad and cheerless as this other poor girl."

He had not much time to indulge either in such meditations or in

conversation with his fair companion; for, when they were within about

a mile of the house, old Mr. Croyland was seen advancing towards them

with his usual brisk air and quick pace.

"Well, young people, well," he said, coming forward, "I bring the

soberness of age to temper the lightness of youth."

"Oh, we are all very sober, uncle," replied Zara. "It is only those

who stay in the house drinking wine who are otherwise."

"I have not been drinking wine, saucy girl," answered Mr. Croyland;

"but come, Edith, I want to speak with you; and, as the road is too

narrow for four, we'll pair off, as the rascals who ruin the country

in the House of Commons term it. Troop on, Miss Zara. There's a

gallant cavalier who will give you his arm, doubtless, if you will ask

it."

"Indeed I shall do no such thing," replied the fair lady, walking on;

and, while Edith and her uncle came slowly after, Sir Edward Digby and

the youngest Miss Croyland proceeded on their way, remaining silent

for some minutes, though each, to say the truth, was busily thinking

how the conversation which had been interrupted might best be renewed.

It was Zara who spoke first, however, looking suddenly up in her

companion's face with one of her bright and sparkling smiles, and

saying, "It is a strange house, is it not, Sir Edward? and we are a

strange family?"

"Nay, I do not see that," replied the young officer. "With every new

person whose acquaintance we make, we are like a traveller for the

first time in a foreign country, and must learn the secrets of the

land before we can find our way rightly."

"Oh, secrets enough here!" cried Zara. "Every one has his secret but

myself. I have none, thank God! My good father is full of them; Edith,

you see, has hers; my uncle is loaded with one even now, and eager to

disburden himself; but my aunt's are the most curious of all, for they

are everlasting; and not only that, but though most profound, they are

sure to be known in five minutes to the whole world. Try to conceal

them how she may, they are sure to drop out before the day is over;

and, whatever good schemes she may have against any one, no defence is

needed, for they are sure to frustrate themselves.--What are you

laughing at, Sir Edward? Has she begun upon you already?"

"Nay, not exactly upon me," answered Sir Edward Digby. "She certainly

did let drop some words which showed me, she had some scheme in her

head, though whom it referred to, I am at a loss to divine."

"Nay, nay, now you are not frank," cried the young lady. "Tell me this

moment, if you would have me hold you good knight and true! Was it me

or Edith that it was all about? Nay, do not shake your head, my good

friend, for I will know, depend upon it; and if you do not tell me, I

will ask my aunt myself----"

"Nay, for Heaven's sake, do not!" exclaimed Sir Edward. "You must not

make your aunt think that I am a tell-tale."

"Oh, I know--I know!" exclaimed the fair girl, clapping her hands

eagerly--"I can divine it all in a minute. She has been telling you

what an excellent good girl Zara Croyland is, and what an admirable

wife she would make, especially for any man moving in the highest

society, and hinting, moreover, that she is fond of military men, and,

in short, that Sir Edward Digby could not do better. I know it all--I

know it all, as well as if I had heard it! But now, my dear sir," she

continued, in a graver tone, "put all such nonsense out of your head,

if you would have us such good friends as I think we may be. Leave my

dear aunt's schemes to unravel and defeat themselves, or only think of

them as a matter of amusement, and do not for a moment believe that

Zara Croyland has either any share in them, or any design of

captivating you or any other man whatsoever; for I tell you fairly,

and at once, that I never intend--that nothing would induce me--no,

not if my own dearest happiness depended upon it--to marry, and leave

poor Edith to endure all that she may be called upon to undergo. I

will talk to you more about her another time; for I think that you

already know something beyond what you have said to-day; but we are

too near the house now, and I will only add, that I have spoken

frankly to Sir Edward Digby, because I believe, from all I have seen

and all I have heard, that he is incapable of misunderstanding such

conduct."

"You do me justice, Miss Croyland," replied the young officer, much

gratified; "but you have spoken under a wrong impression in regard to

your aunt. I did not interrupt you, for what you said was too

pleasing, too interesting not to induce me to let you go on; but I can

assure you that what I said was perfectly true, and that though some

words which your aunt dropped accidentally showed me that she had some

scheme on foot, she said nothing to indicate what it was."

"Well, never mind it," answered the young lady. "We now understand

each other, I trust; and, after this, I do not think you will easily

mistake me, though, if what I suppose is true, I may have to do a

great many extraordinary things with you, Sir Edward--seek your

society when you may not be very willing to grant it, consult you,

rely upon you, confide in you in a way that few women would do, except

with a brother or an acknowledged lover, which I beg you to understand

you are on no account to be; and I, on my part, will promise that I

will not misunderstand you either, nor take anything that you may do,

at my request, for one very dear to me," (and she gave a glance over

her shoulder towards her sister, who was some way behind,) "as

anything but a sign of your having a kind and generous heart. So now

that's all settled."

"There is one thing, Miss Croyland," replied Digby, gravely, "that you

will find very difficult to do, though you say you will try it,

namely, to seek my society when I am unwilling to give it."

"Nay, nay, I will have no such speeches," cried Zara Croyland, "or I

have done with you! I never could put any trust in a man who said

civil things to me."

"What, not if he sincerely thought them?" demanded her companion.

"Then I would rather he continued to think them without speaking

them," answered the young lady. "If you did but know, Sir Edward, how

sickened and disgusted a poor girl in the country soon gets with

flattery that means nothing, from men who insult her understanding by

thinking that she can be pleased with such trash, you would excuse me

for being rude and uncivilized enough to wish never to hear a smooth

word from any man whom I am inclined to respect."

"Very well," answered the young baronet, laughing, "to please you, I

will be as brutal as possible, and if you like it, scold you as

sharply as your uncle, if you say or do anything that I disapprove

of."

"Do, do!" cried Zara; "I love him and esteem him, though he does not

understand me in the least; and I would rather a great deal have his

conversation, sharp and snappish as it seems to be, than all the honey

or milk and water of any of the smart young men in the neighbourhood.

But here we are at the house; and only one word more as a warning, and

one word as a question; first, do not let any of my good aunt's

schemes embarrass you in anything you have to do or say. Walk straight

through them as if they did not exist. Take your own course, without,

in the least degree, attending to what she says for or against."

"And what is the question?" demanded Sir Edward, as they were now

mounting the steps to the terrace.

"Simply this," replied the fair lady,--"are you not acquainted with

more of Edith's history than the people here are aware of?"

"I am," answered Digby; "and to see more of her, to speak with her for

a few minutes in private, if possible, was the great object of my

coming hither."

"Thanks, thanks!" said Zara, giving him a bright and grateful smile.

"Be guided by me, and you shall have the opportunity. But I must speak

with you first myself, that you may know all. I suppose you are an

early riser?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Sir Edward; but he added no more; for at that

moment they were overtaken by Edith and Mr. Croyland; and the whole

party entered the house together.

CHAPTER IX.

There is a strange similarity--I had nearly called it an

affinity--between the climate of any country and the general character

of its population; and there is a still stronger and more commonly

remarked resemblance between the changes of the weather and the usual

course of human life. From the atmosphere around us, and from the

alterations which affect it, poets and moralists both, have borrowed a

large store of figures; and the words, clouds, and sunshine, light

breezes, and terrible storms, are terms as often used to express the

variations in man's condition as to convey the ideas to which they

were originally applied. But it is the affinity between the climate

and the people of which I wish to speak. The sunny lightness of the

air of France, the burning heat of Italy and Spain, the cold dullness

of the skies of Holland, contrast as strongly with the climate in

which we live, as the characters of the several nations amongst

themselves; and the fiercer tempests of the south, the more foggy and

heavy atmosphere of the north, may well be taken as some compensation

for the continual mutability of the weather in our own most changeable

air. The differences are not so great here as in other lands. We

escape, in general, the tornado and the hurricane, we know little of

the burning heat of summer, or the intense cold of winter, as they are

experienced in other parts of the world; but at all events, the

changes are much more frequent; and we seldom have either a long lapse

of sunny days, or a long continued season of frost, without

interruption. So it is, too, with the people. Moveable and fluctuating

as they always are, seeking novelty, disgusted even with all that is

good as soon as they discover that it is old, our laws, our

institutions, our very manners are continually undergoing some change,

though rarely, very rarely indeed, is it brought about violently and

without due preparation. Sometimes it will occur, indeed, both morally

and physically, that a great and sudden alteration takes place, and a

rash and vehement proceeding will disturb the whole country, and seem

to shake the very foundations of society. In the atmosphere, too,

clouds and storms will gather in a few hours, and darken the whole

heaven.

The latter was the case during the first night of Sir Edward Digby's

stay at Harbourne House. The evening preceding, as well as the day,

had been warm and sunshiny; but about nine o'clock the wind suddenly

chopped round to the southward, and when Sir Edward woke on the

following morning, as he usually did, about six, he found a strong

breeze blowing and rattling the casements of the room, and the whole

atmosphere loaded with a heavy sea-mist filled with saline particles,

borne over Romney Marsh to the higher country, in which the house was

placed.

"A pleasant day for partridge-shooting," he thought, as he rose from

his bed; "what variations there are in this climate." But

nevertheless, he opened the window and looked out, when, somewhat to

his surprise, he saw fifteen or sixteen horses moving along the road,

heavily laden, with a number of men on horseback following, and eight

or ten on foot driving the weary beasts along. They were going

leisurely enough; there was no affectation of haste or concealment;

but yet all that the young officer had heard of the county and of the

habits of its denizens, led him naturally to suppose that he had a

gang of smugglers before him, escorting from the coast some contraband

goods lately landed.

He had soon a more unpleasant proof of the lawless state of that part

of England; for as he continued to lean out of the window, saying to

himself, "Well, it is no business of mine," he saw two or three of the

men pause; and a moment after, a voice shouted--"Take that, old

Croyland, for sending me to gaol last April."

The wind bore the sounds to his ear, and made the words distinct; and

scarcely had they been spoken, when a flash broke through the misty

air, followed by a loud report, and a ball whizzed through the window,

just above his head, breaking one of the panes of glass, and lodging

in the cornice at the other side of the room.

"Very pleasant!" said Sir Edward Digby to himself; but he was a

somewhat rash young man, and he did not move an inch, thinking--"the

vagabonds shall not have to say they frightened me."

They shewed no inclination to repeat the shot, however, riding on at a

somewhat accelerated pace; and as soon as they were out of sight,

Digby withdrew from the window, and began to dress himself. He had not

given his servant, the night before, any orders to call him at a

particular hour; but he knew that the man would not be later than

half-past six; and before he appeared, the young officer was nearly

dressed.

"Here, Somers," said his master, "put my gun together, and have

everything ready if I should like to go out to shoot. After that I've

a commission for you, something quite in your own way, which I know

you will execute capitally."

"Quite ready, sir," said the man, putting up his hand to his head.

"Always ready to obey orders."

"We want intelligence of the enemy, Somers," continued his master.

"Get me every information you can obtain regarding young Mr. Radford,

where he goes, what he does, and all about him."

"Past, present, or to come, sir?" demanded the man.

"All three," answered his master. "Everything you can learn about him,

in short--birth, parentage, and education."

"I shall soon have to add his last dying speech and confession, I

think, sir," said the man; "but you shall have it all before

night--from the loose gossip of the post-office down to the full,

true, and particular account of his father's own butler. But bless my

soul, there's a hole through the window, sir."

"Nothing but a musket-ball, Somers," answered his master, carelessly.

"You've seen such a thing before, I fancy."

"Yes, sir, but not often in a gentleman's bedroom," replied the man.

"Who could send it in here, I wonder?"

"Some smugglers, I suppose they were," replied Sir Edward, "who took

me for Sir Robert Croyland, as I was leaning out of the window, and

gave me a ball as they passed. I never saw a worse shot in my life;

for I was put up like a target, and it went a foot and a half above my

head. Give me those boots, Somers;" and having drawn them on, Sir

Edward Digby descended to the drawing-room, while his servant

commented upon his coolness, by saying, "Well, he's a devilish fine

young fellow, that master of mine, and ought to make a capital general

some of these days!"

In the drawing-room, Sir Edward Digby found nobody but a pretty

country girl in a mob-cap sweeping out the dust; and leaving her to

perform her functions undisturbed by his presence, he sauntered

through a door which he had seen open the night before, exposing part

of the interior of a library. That room was quite vacant, and as the

young officer concluded that between it and the drawing-room must lie

the scene of his morning's operations, he entertained himself with

taking down different books, looking into them for a moment or two,

reading a page here and a page there, and then putting them up again.

He was in no mood, to say the truth, either for serious study or light

reading. Gay would not have amused him; Locke would have driven him

mad.

He knew not well why it was, but his heart beat when he heard a step

in the neighbouring room. It was nothing but the housemaid, as he was

soon convinced, by her letting the dustpan drop and making a terrible

clatter. He asked himself what his heart could be about, to go on in

such a way, simply because he was waiting, in the not very vague

expectation of seeing a young lady, with whom he had to talk of some

business, in which neither of them were personally concerned.

"It must be the uncertainty of whether she will come or not," he

thought; "or else the secrecy of the thing;" and yet he had, often

before, had to wait with still more secrecy and still more

uncertainty, on very dangerous and important occasions, without

feeling any such agitation of his usually calm nerves. She was a very

pretty girl, it was true, with all the fresh graces of youth about

her, light and sunshine in her eyes, health and happiness on her

cheeks and lips, and

"La grace encore plus belle que la beauté"

in every movement. But then, they perfectly understood each other;

there was no harm, there was no risk, there was no reason why they

should not meet.

Did they perfectly understand each other? Did they perfectly

understand themselves? It is a very difficult question to answer; but

one thing is very certain--that, of all things upon this earth, the

most gullible is the human heart; and when it thinks it understands

itself best, it is almost always sure to prove a greater fool than

ever.

Sir Edward Digby did not altogether like his own thoughts; and

therefore, after waiting for a quarter of an hour, he walked out into

one of the little passages, which we have already mentioned, running

from the central corridor towards a door or window in the front,

between the library and what was called the music-room. He had not

been there a minute when a step--very different from that of the

housemaid--was heard in the neighbouring room; and, as the officer was

turning thither, he met the younger Miss Croyland coming out, with a

bonnet--or hat, as it was then called,--hanging on her arm by the

ribbons.

She held out her hand, frankly, towards him, saying, in a low tone,

"You must think this all very strange, Sir Edward, and perhaps very

improper. I have been taxing myself about it all night; but yet I was

resolved I would not lose the opportunity, trusting to your generosity

to justify me, when you hear all."

"It requires no generosity, my dear Miss Croyland," replied the young

baronet; "I am already aware of so much, and see the kind and deep

interest you take in your sister so clearly, that I fully understand

and appreciate your motives."

"Thank you--thank you," replied Zara, warmly; "that sets my mind at

rest. But come out upon the terrace. There, seen by all the world, I

shall not feel as if I were plotting;" and she unlocked the glass door

at the end of the passage. Sir Edward Digby followed close upon her

steps; and when once fairly on the esplanade before the house, and far

enough from open doors and windows not to be overheard, they commenced

their walk backwards and forwards.

It was quite natural that both should be silent for a few moments; for

where there is much to say, and little time to say it in, people are

apt to waste the precious present--or, at least, a part--in

considering how it may best be said. At length the lady raised her

eyes to her companion's face, with a smile more melancholy and

embarrassed than usually found place upon her sweet lips, asking, "How

shall I begin, Sir Edward?--Have you nothing to tell me?"

"I have merely to ask questions," replied Digby; "yet, perhaps that

may be the best commencement. I am aware, my dear Miss Croyland, that

your sister has loved, and has been as deeply beloved as woman ever

was by man. I know the whole tale; but what I seek now to learn is

this--does she or does she not retain the affection of her early

youth? Do former days and former feelings dwell in her heart as still

existing things? or are they but as sad memories of a passion passed

away, darkening instead of lighting the present,--or perhaps as a tie

which she would fain shake off, and which keeps her from a brighter

fate hereafter?"

He spoke solemnly, earnestly, with his whole manner changed; and Zara

gazed in his face eagerly and inquiringly as he went on, her face

glowing, but her look becoming less sad, till it beamed with a warm

and relieved smile at the close. "I was right, and she was wrong"--she

said, at length, as if speaking to herself. "But to answer your

question, Sir Edward Digby," she continued, gravely. "You little know

woman's heart, or you would not put it--I mean the heart of a true and

unspoiled woman, a woman worthy of the name. When she loves, she loves

for ever--and it is only when death or unworthiness takes from her him

she loves, that love becomes a memory. You cannot yet judge of Edith,

and therefore I forgive you for asking such a thing; but she is all

that is noble, and good, and bright; and Heaven pardon me, if I almost

doubt that she was meant for happiness below--she seems so fitted for

a higher state!"

The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke; but Sir Edward feared

interruption, and went on, asking, somewhat abruptly perhaps, "What

made you say, just now, that you were right and she was wrong?"

"Because she thought that he was dead, and that you came to announce

it to her," Zara replied. "You spoke of him in the past, you always

said, 'he was;' you said not a word of the present."

"Because I knew not what were her present feelings," answered Digby.

"She has never written--she has never answered one letter. All his

have been returned in cold silence to his agents, addressed in her own

hand. And then her father wrote to----"

"Stay, stay!" cried Zara, putting her hand to her head--"addressed in

her own hand? It must have been a forgery! Yet, no--perhaps not. She

wrote to him twice; once just after he went, and once in answer to a

message. The last letter I gave to the gardener myself, and bade him

post it. That, too, was addressed to his agent's house. Can they have

stopped the letters and used the covers?"

"It is probable," answered Digby, thoughtfully. "Did she receive none

from him?"

"None--none," replied Zara, decidedly. "All that she has ever heard of

him was conveyed in that one message; but she doubted not, Sir Edward.

She knew him, it seems, better than he knew her."

"Neither did he doubt her," rejoined her companion, "till circumstance

after circumstance occurred to shake his confidence. Her own father

wrote to him--now three years ago--to say that she was engaged, by her

own consent, to this young Radford, and to beg that he would trouble

her peace no more by fruitless letters."

"Oh, Heaven!" cried Zara, "did my father say that?"

"He did," replied Sir Edward. "And more: everything that poor Leyton

has heard since his return has confirmed the tale. He inquired, too

curiously for his own peace--first, whether she was yet married; next,

whether she was really engaged; and every one gave but one account."

"How busy they have been!" said Zara, thoughtfully. "Whoever said it,

it is false, Sir Edward; and he should not have doubted her more than

she doubted him."

"She, you admit, had one message," answered Digby; "he had none; and

yet he held a lingering hope--trust would not altogether be crushed

out. Can you tell me the tenour of the letters which she sent?"

"Nay, I did not read them," replied his fair companion; "but she told

me that it was the same story still: that she could not violate her

duty to her parent; but that she should ever consider herself pledged

and plighted to him beyond recall, by what had passed between them."

"Then there is light at last," said Digby, with a smile. "But what is

this story of young Radford? Is he, or is he not, her lover? He seemed

to pay her little attention,--more, indeed, to yourself."

The gay girl laughed. "I will tell you all about it," she answered.

"Richard Radford is not her lover. He cares as little about her as

about the Queen of England, or any body he has never seen; and, as you

say, he would perhaps pay me the compliment of selecting me rather

than Edith, if there was not a very cogent objection: Edith has forty

thousand pounds settled upon herself by my mother's brother, who was

her godfather; I have nothing, or next to nothing--some three or four

thousand pounds, I believe; but I really don't know. However, this

fortune of my poor sister's is old Radford's object; and he and my

father have settled it between them, that the son of the one should

marry the daughter of the other. What possesses my father, I cannot

divine; for he must condemn old Radford, and despise the young one;

but certain it is that he has pressed Edith, nearly to cruelty, to

give her hand to a man she scorns and hates--and presses her still. It

would be worse than it is, I fear, were it not for young Radford

himself, who is not half so eager as his father, and does not wish to

hurry matters on.--I may have some small share in the business," she

continued, laughing again, but colouring at the same time; "for, to

tell the truth, Sir Edward, having nothing else to do, and wishing to

relieve poor Edith as much as possible, I have perhaps foolishly,

perhaps even wrongly, drawn this wretched young man away from her

whenever I had an opportunity. I do not think it was coquetry, as my

uncle calls it--nay, I am sure it was not; for I abhor him as much as

any one; but I thought that as there was no chance of my ever being

driven to marry him, I could bear the infliction of his conversation

better than my poor sister."

"The motive was a kind one, at all events," replied Sir Edward Digby;

"but then I may firmly believe that there is no chance whatever of

Miss Croyland giving her hand to Richard Radford?"

"None--none whatever," answered his fair companion. But at that point

of their conversation one of the windows above was thrown up, and the

voice of Mrs. Barbara was heard exclaiming--"Zara, my love, put on

your hat; you will catch cold if you walk in that way, with your hat

on your arm, in such a cold, misty morning!"

Miss Croyland looked up, nodding to her aunt; and doing as she was

told, like a very good girl as she was. But the next instant she said,

in a low tone, "Good Heaven! there is his face at the window! My

unlucky aunt has roused him by calling to me; and we shall not be long

without him."

"Who do you mean?" asked the young officer, turning his eyes towards

the house, and seeing no one.

"Young Radford," answered Zara. "Did you not know that they had to

carry him to bed last night, unable to stand? So my maid told me; and

I saw his face just now at the window, next to my aunt's. We shall

have little time, Sir Edward, for he is as intrusive as he is

disagreeable; so tell me at once what I am to think regarding poor

Harry Leyton. Does he still love Edith? Is he in a situation to enable

him to seek her, without affording great, and what they would consider

reasonable, causes of objection?"

"He loves her as deeply and devotedly as ever," replied Sir Edward

Digby; "and all I have to tell him will but, if possible, increase

that love. Then as to his situation, he is now a superior officer in

the army, highly distinguished, commanding one of our best regiments,

and sharing largely in the late great distribution of prize-money.

There is no position that can be filled by a military man to which he

has not a right to aspire; and, moreover, he has already received,

from the gratitude of his king and his country, the high honour----"

But he was not allowed to finish his sentence; for Mrs. Barbara

Croyland, who was most unfortunately matutinal in her habits, now came

out with a shawl for her fair niece, and was uncomfortably civil to

Sir Edward Digby, inquiring how he had slept, whether he had been warm

enough, whether he liked two pillows or one, and a great many other

questions, which lasted till young Radford made his appearance at the

door, and then, with a pale face and sullen brow, came out and joined

the party on the terrace.

"Well," said Mrs. Barbara--now that she had done as much mischief as

possible--"I'll just go in and make breakfast, as Edith must set out

early, and Mr. Radford wants to get home to shoot."

"Edith set off early?" exclaimed Zara; "why, where is she going, my

dear aunt?"

"Oh, I have just been settling it all with your papa, my love,"

replied Mrs. Barbara. "I thought she was looking ill yesterday, and so

I talked to your uncle last night. He said he would be very glad to

have her with him for a few days; but as he expects a Captain Osborn

before the end of the week, she must come at once; and Sir Robert says

she can have the carriage after breakfast, but that it must be back by

one."

Zara cast down her eyes, and the whole party, as if by common consent,

took their way back to the house. As they passed in, however, and

proceeded towards the dining-room, where the table was laid for

breakfast, Zara found a moment to say to Sir Edward Digby, in a low

tone, "Was ever anything so unfortunate! I will try to stop it if I

can."

"Not so unfortunate as it seems," answered the young baronet, in a

whisper; "let it take its course. I will explain hereafter."

"Whispering! whispering!" said young Radford, in a rude tone, and with

a sneer curling his lip.

Zara's cheek grew crimson; but Digby turned upon him sharply,

demanding, "What is that to you, sir? Pray make no observations upon

my conduct, for depend upon it I shall not tolerate any insolence."

At that moment, however, Sir Robert Croyland appeared; and whatever

might have been Richard Radford's intended reply, it was suspended

upon his lips.

CHAPTER X.

Before I proceed farther with the events of that morning, I must

return for a time to the evening which preceded it. It was a dark and

somewhat dreary night, when Mr. Radford, leaving his son stupidly

drunk at Sir Robert Croyland's, proceeded to the hall door to mount

his horse; and as he pulled his large riding-boots over his shoes and

stockings, and looked out, he regretted that he had not ordered his

carriage. "Who would have thought," he said, "that such a fine day

would have ended in such a dull evening?"

"It often happens, my dear Radford," replied Sir Robert Croyland, who

stood beside him, "that everything looks fair and prosperous for a

time; then suddenly the wind shifts, and a gloomy night succeeds."

Mr. Radford was not well-pleased with the homily. It touched upon that

which was a sore subject with him at that moment; for, to say the

truth, he was labouring under no light apprehensions regarding the

result of certain speculations of his. He had lately lost a large sum

in one of these wild adventures--far more than was agreeable to a man

of his money-getting turn of mind; and though he was sanguine enough,

from long success, to embark, like a determined gambler, a still

larger amount in the same course, yet the first shadow of reverse

which had fallen upon him, brought home and applied to his own

situation the very commonplace words of Sir Robert Croyland; and he

began to fancy that the bright day of his prosperity might be indeed

over, and a dark and gloomy night about to succeed.

As we have said, therefore, he did not at all like the baronet's

homily; and, as very often happens with men of his disposition, he

felt displeased with the person whose words alarmed him. Murmuring

something, therefore, about its being "a devilish ordinary

circumstance indeed," he strode to the door, scarcely wishing the

baronet good night, and mounted a powerful horse, which was held ready

for him. He then rode forward, followed by two servants on horseback,

proceeding slowly at first, but getting into a quicker pace when he

came upon the parish road, and trotting on hard along the edge of

Harbourne Wood. He had drunk as much wine as his son; but his hard and

well-seasoned head was quite insensible to the effects of strong

beverages, and he went on revolving all probable contingencies,

somewhat sullen and out of humour with all that had passed during the

afternoon, and taking a very unpromising view of everybody and

everything.

"I've a notion," he thought, "that old scoundrel Croyland is playing

fast and loose about his daughter's marriage with my son. He shall

repent it if he do; and if Dick does not make the girl pay for all her

airs and coldness when he's got her, he's no son of mine. He seems as

great a fool as she is, though, and makes love to her sister without a

penny, never saying a word to a girl who has forty thousand pounds.

The thing shall soon be settled one way or another, however. I'll have

a conference with Sir Robert on Friday, and bring him to book. I'll

not be trifled with any longer. Here we have been kept more than four

years waiting till the girl chooses to make up her mind, and I'll not

stop any longer. It shall be, yes or no, at once."

He was still busy with such thoughts when he reached the angle of

Harbourne Wood, and a loud voice exclaimed, "Hi! Mr. Radford!"

"Who the devil are you?" exclaimed that worthy gentleman, pulling in

his horse, and at the same time putting his hand upon one of the

holsters, which every one at that time carried at his saddle bow.

"Harding, sir," answered the voice--"Jack Harding; and I want to speak

a word with you."

At the same time the man walked forward; and Mr. Radford immediately

dismounting, gave his horse to the servants, and told them to lead him

quietly on till they came to Tiffenden. Then pausing till the sound of

the hoofs became somewhat faint, he asked, with a certain degree of

alarm, "Well, Harding, what's the matter? What has brought you up in

such a hurry to-night?"

"No great hurry, sir," answered the smuggler, "I came up about four

o'clock; and finding that you were dining at Sir Robert's, I thought I

would look out for you as you went home, having something to tell you.

I got an inkling last night, that, some how or another, the people

down at Hythe have some suspicion that you are going to try something,

and I doubt that boy very much."

"Indeed! indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Radford, evidently under great

apprehension. "What have they found out, Harding?"

"Why, not much, I believe," replied the smuggler; "but merely that

there's something in the wind, and that you have a hand in it."

"That's bad enough--that's bad enough," repeated Mr. Radford. "We must

put it off, Harding. We must delay it, till this has blown by."

"No, I think not, sir," answered the smuggler. "It seems to me, on the

contrary, that we ought to hurry it; and I'll tell you why. You see,

the wind changed about five, and if I'm not very much mistaken, we

shall have a cloudy sky and dirty weather for the next week at least.

That's one thing; but then another is this, the Ramleys are going to

make a run this very night. Now, I know that the whole affair is

blown; and though they may get the goods ashore they wont carry them

far. I told them so, just to be friendly; but they wouldn't listen,

and you know their rash way. Bill Ramley answered, they would run the

goods in broad daylight, if they liked, that there was not an officer

in all Kent who would dare to stop them. Now, I know that they will be

caught to-morrow morning, somewhere up about your place. I rather

think, too, your son has a hand in the venture; and if I were you, I

would do nothing to make people believe that it wasn't my own affair

altogether. Let them think what they please; and then they are not so

likely to be on the look-out."

"I see--I see," cried Mr. Radford. "If they catch these fellows, and

think that this is my venture, they will never suspect another. It's a

good scheme. We had better set about it to-morrow night."

"I don't know," answered Harding. "That cannot well be done, I should

think. First, you must get orders over to the vessel to stand out to

sea; then you must get all your people together, and one half of them

are busy upon this other scheme, the Ramleys and young Chittenden, and

him they call the major, and all their parties. You must see what

comes of that first; for one half of them may be locked up before

to-morrow night.

"That's unfortunate, indeed!" said Mr. Radford, thoughtfully.

"One must take a little ill luck with plenty of good luck," observed

Harding; "and it's fortunate enough for you that these wild fellows

will carry through this mad scheme, when they know they are found out

before they start. Besides, I'm not sure that it is not best to wait

till the night after, or, may be, the night after that. Then the news

will have spread, that the goods have been either run and hid away, or

seized by the officers. In either case, if you manage well, they will

think that it is your venture; and the fellows on the coast will be

off their guard--especially Mowle, who's the sharpest of them all."

"Oh, I'll go down to-morrow and talk to Mowle myself," replied Mr.

Radford. "It will be well worth my while to give him a hundred guineas

to wink a bit."

"Don't try it--don't try it!" exclaimed Harding, quickly. "It will do

no good, and a great deal of harm. In the first place, you can do

nothing with Mowle. He never took a penny in his life."

"Oh, every man has his price," rejoined Mr. Radford, whose opinion of

human nature, as the reader may have perceived, was not particularly

high. "It's only because he wants to be bid up to. Mr. Mowle thinks

himself above five or ten pounds; but the chink of a hundred guineas

is a very pleasant sound."

"He's as honest a fellow as ever lived," answered Harding, "and I tell

you plainly, Mr. Radford, that if you offered him ten times the sum,

he wouldn't take it. You would only shew him that this venture is not

your grand one, without doing yourself the least good. He's a fair,

open enemy, and lets every one know that, as long as he's a

riding-officer here, he will do all he can against us."

"Then he must be knocked on the head," said Mr. Radford, in a calm and

deliberate tone; "and it shall be done, too, if he meddles with my

affairs."

"It will not be I who do it," replied Harding; "unless we come hand to

hand together. Then, every man must take care of himself; but I should

be very sorry, notwithstanding; for he's a straightforward, bold

fellow, as brave as a lion, and with a good heart into the bargain. I

wonder such an honest man ever went into such a rascally service."

The last observation of our friend Harding may perhaps sound strangely

to the reader's ears; but some allowance must be made for professional

prejudices, and it is by no means too much to say that the smugglers

of those days, and even of a much later period, looked upon their own

calling as highly honest, honourable, and respectable, regarding the

Customs as a most fraudulent and abominable institution, and all

connected with it more or less in the light of a band of swindlers and

knaves, leagued together for the purpose of preventing honest men from

pursuing their avocations in peace. Such were the feelings which

induced Harding to wonder that so good a man as Mowle could have

anything to do with the prevention of smuggling; for he was so

thoroughly convinced he was in the right himself, that he could not

conceive how any one could see the case in any other point of view.

"Ay," answered Mr. Radford, "that is a wonder, if he is such a good

sort of man; but that I doubt. However, as you say it would not do to

put oneself in his power, I'll have him looked after, and in the

meanwhile, let us talk of the rest of the business. You say the night

after to-morrow, or the night after that! I must know, however; for

the men must be down. How are we to arrange that?"

"Why, I'll see what the weather is like," was Harding's reply. "Then I

can easily send up to let you know--or, what will be better still, if

you can gather the men together the day after to-morrow, in the

different villages not far off the coast, and I should find it the

right sort of night, and get out to sea, they shall see a light on the

top of Tolsford Hill, as soon as I am near in shore again. That will

serve to guide them and puzzle the officers. Then let them gather, and

come down towards Dymchurch, where they will find somebody from me to

guide them."

"They shall gather first at Saltwood," said Mr. Radford, "and then

march down to Dymchurch. But how are we to manage about the ship?"

"Why, you must send an order," answered Harding, "for both days, and

let your skipper know that if he does not see us the first, he will

see us the second."

"You had better take it down with you at once," replied Mr. Radford,

"and get it off early to-morrow. If you'll just come up to my house,

I'll write it for you in a minute."

"Ay, but I'm not going home to-night," said the smuggler; "I can have

a bed at Mrs. Clare's; and I'm going to sleep there, so you can send

it over when you like in the morning, and I'll get it off in time."

"I wish you would not go hanging about after that girl, when we've got

such serious business in hand," exclaimed Mr. Radford, in a sharp

tone; but the next moment he added, with a sudden change of voice, "It

doesn't signify to-night, however. There will be time enough; and they

say you are going to marry her, Harding. Is that true?"

"I should say, that's my business," replied Harding, bluntly, "but

that I look upon it as an honour, Mr. Radford, that she's going to

marry me; for a better girl does not live in the land, and I've known

her a long while now, so I'm never likely to think otherwise."

"Ay, I've known her a long time, too," answered Mr. Radford--"ever

since her poor father was shot, and before; and a very good girl I

believe she is. But now that you are over here, you may as well wait

and hear what comes of these goods. Couldn't you just ride over to the

Ramleys to-morrow morning--there you'll hear all about it."

Harding laughed, but replied the next moment, in a grave tone, "I

don't like the Ramleys, sir, and don't want to have more to do with

them than I can help. I shall hear all about it soon enough, without

going there."

"But I sha'n't," answered Mr. Radford.

"Then you had better send your son, sir," rejoined Harding. "He's

oftener there than I am, a great deal.--Well, the matter is all

settled, then. Either the night after to-morrow, or the night after

that, if the men keep a good look-out, they'll see a light on Tolsford

Hill. Then they must gather as fast as possible at Saltwood, and come

on with anybody they may find there. Good night, Mr. Radford."

"Good night, Harding--good night," said Mr. Radford, walking on; and

the other turning his steps back towards Harbourne, made his way, by

the first road on the right, to the cottage where we have seen him in

the earlier part of the day.

It was a pleasant aspect that the cottage presented when he went in,

which he did without any of the ceremonies of knocking at the door or

ringing the bell; for he was sure of a welcome. There was but one

candle lighted on the table, for the dwellers in the place were poor;

but the room was small, and that one was quite sufficient to shew the

white walls and the neat shelves covered with crockery, and with

one or two small prints in black frames. Besides, there was the

fire-place, with a bright and cheerful, but not large fire; for

though, in the month of September, English nights are frequently cold

and sometimes frosty, the weather had been as yet tolerably mild.

Nevertheless, the log of fir at the top blazed high, and crackled

amidst the white and red embers below, and the flickering flame, as it

rose and fell, caused the shadows to fall more vaguely or distinctly

upon the walls, with a fanciful uncertainty of outline, that had

something cheerful, yet mysterious in it.

The widow was bending over the fire, with her face turned away, and

her figure in the shadow. The daughter was busily working with her

needle, but her eyes were soon raised--and they were very beautiful

eyes--as Harding entered. A smile, too, was upon her lips; and though

even tears may be lovely, and a sad look awaken deep and tender

emotions, yet the smile of affection on a face we love is the

brightest aspect of that bright thing the human countenance. It is

what the sunshine is to the landscape, which may be fair in the rain

or sublime in the storm, but can never harmonize so fully with the

innate longing for happiness which is in the breast of every one, as

when lighted up with the rays that call all its excellence and all its

powers into life and being.

Harding sat down beside the girl, and took her hand in his, saying,

"Well, Kate, this day three weeks, then, remember?"

"My mother says so," answered the girl, with a cheek somewhat glowing,

"and then, you know, John, you are to give it up altogether. No more

danger--no more secrets?"

"Oh, as for danger," answered Harding, laughing, "I did not say that,

love. I don't know what life would be worth without danger. Every man

is in danger all day long; and I suppose that we are only given life

just to feel the pleasure of it by the chance of losing it. But no

dangers but the common ones, Kate. I'll give up the trade, as you have

made me promise; and I shall have enough by that time to buy out the

whole vessel, in which I've got shares, and what between that and the

boats, we shall do very well. You put me in mind, with your fears, of

a song that wicked boy, little Starlight, used to sing. I learned it

from hearing him: a more mischievous little dog does not live; but he

has got a sweet pipe."

"Sing it, John--sing it!" cried Kate; "I love to hear you sing, for it

seems as if you sing what you are thinking."

"No, I wont sing it," answered Harding, "for it is a sad sort of song,

and that wont do when I am so happy."

"Oh, I like sad songs!" said the girl; "they please me far more than

all the merry ones."

"Oh, pray sing it, Harding!" urged the widow; "I am very fond of a

song that makes me cry."

"This wont do that," replied the smuggler; "but it is sadder than some

that do, I always think. However, I'll sing it, if you like;" and in a

fine, mellow, bass voice, to a very simple air, with a flattened third

coming in every now and then, like the note of a wintry bird, he went

on:--

SONG.

"Life's like a boat,

Rowing--rowing

Over a bright sea,

On the waves to float,

Flowing--flowing

Away from her lea.

"Up goes the sheet!

Sailing--sailing,

To catch the rising breeze,

While the winds fleet,

Wailing--wailing,

Sigh o'er the seas.

"She darts through the waves,

Gaily--gaily,

Scattering the foam.

Beneath her, open graves,

Daily--daily,

The blithest to entomb.

"Who heeds the deep,

Yawning--yawning

For its destined prey,

When from night's dark sleep,

Dawning--dawning,

Wakens the bright day?

"Away, o'er the tide!

Fearless--fearless

Of all that lies beneath;

Let the waves still hide,

Cheerless--cheerless,

All their stores of death.

"Stray where we may,

Roaming--roaming

Either far or near,

Death is on the way,

Coming--coming--

Who's the fool to fear?"

The widow did weep, however, not at the rude song, though the voice

that sung it was fine, and perfect in the melody, but at the

remembrances which it awakened--remembrances on which she loved to

dwell, although they were so sad.

"Ay, Harding," she said, "it's very true what your song says. Whatever

way one goes, death is near enough; and I don't know that it's a bit

nearer on the sea than anywhere else."

"Not a whit," replied Harding; "God's hand is upon the sea as well as

upon the land, Mrs. Clare; and if it is his will that we go, why we

go; and if it is his will that we stay, he doesn't want strength to

protect us."

"No, indeed," answered Mrs. Clare; "and it's that which comforts me,

for I think that what is God's will must be good. I'm sure, when my

poor husband went out in the morning, six years ago come the tenth of

October next, as well and as hearty as a man could be, I never thought

to see him brought home a corpse, and I left a lone widow with my poor

girl, and not knowing where to look for any help. But God raised me up

friends where I least expected them."

"Why you had every right to expect that Sir Robert would be kind to

you, Mrs. Clare," rejoined Harding, "when your husband had been in his

service for sixteen or seventeen years."

"No, indeed, I hadn't," said the widow; "for Sir Robert was always, we

thought, a rough, hard master, grumbling continually, till my poor man

could hardly bear it; for he was a free-spoken man, as I dare say you

remember, Mr. Harding, and would say his mind to any one, gentle or

simple."

"He was as good a soul as ever lived," answered Harding; "a little

rash and passionate, but none the worse for that."

"Ay, but it was that which set the head keeper against him," answered

the widow, "and he set Sir Robert, making out that Edward was always

careless and insolent; but he did his duty as well as any man, and

knowing that, he didn't like to be found fault with. However, I don't

blame Sir Robert; for since my poor man's death he has found out what

he was worth; and very kind he has been to me, to be sure. The

cottage, and the garden, and the good bit of ground at the back, and

twelve shillings a-week into the bargain, have we had from him ever

since."

"Ay, and I am sure nothing can be kinder than the two young ladies,"

said Kate; "they are always giving me something; and Miss Edith taught

me all I know. I should have been sadly ignorant if it had not been

for her--and a deal of trouble I gave her."

"God bless her!" cried Harding, heartily. "She's a nice young lady, I

believe, though I never saw her but twice, and then she looked very

sad."

"Ay, she has cause enough, poor thing!" said Mrs. Clare. "Though I

remember her as blithe as the morning lark--a great deal gayer than

Miss Zara, gay as she may be."

"Ay, I know--they crossed her love," answered Harding; "and that's

enough to make one sad. Though I never heard the rights of the story."

"Oh, it was bad enough to break her heart, poor thing!" replied Mrs.

Clare. "You remember young Leyton, the rector's son--a fine, handsome,

bold lad as ever lived, and as good as he was handsome. Well, he was

quite brought up with these young ladies, you know--always up at the

Hall, and Miss Edith always down at the Rectory; and one would have

thought Sir Robert blind or foolish, not to fancy that two such young

things would fall in love with each other; and so they did, to be

sure. Many's the time I've seen them down here, in this very cottage,

laughing and talking, and as fond as a pair of doves--for Sir Robert

used to let them do just whatever they liked, and many a time used to

send young Harry Leyton to take care of Miss Croyland, when she was

going out to walk any distance; so, very naturally, they promised

themselves to each other; and one day--when he was twenty and she just

sixteen--they got a Prayer-Book at the Rectory, and read over the

marriage ceremony together, and took all the vows down upon their

bended knees. I remember it quite well, for I was down at the Rectory

that very day helping the housekeeper; and just as they had done old

Mr. Leyton came in, and found them somewhat confused, and the book

open between them. He would know what it was all about, and they told

him the truth. So then he was in a terrible taking; and he got Miss

Croyland under his arm and went away up to Sir Robert directly, and

told him the whole story without a minute's delay. Every one thought

it would end in being a match; for though Sir Robert was very angry,

and insisted that Harry Leyton should be sent to his regiment

immediately--for he was then just home for a bit, on leave--he did not

show how angry he was at first, but very soon after he turned Mr.

Leyton out of the living, and made him pay, I don't know what, for

dilapidations; so that he was arrested and put in prison--which broke

his heart, poor man, and he died!"

Harding gave Sir Robert Croyland a hearty oath; and Mrs. Clare

proceeded to tell her tale, saying--"I did not give much heed to the

matter then; for it was just at that time that my husband was killed,

and I could think of nothing else; but when I came to hear of what was

going on, I found that Sir Robert had promised his daughter to this

young Radford----"

"As nasty a vermin as ever lived," said Harding.

"Well, she wont have him, I'm sure," continued the widow, "for it has

been hanging off and on for these six years. People at first said it

was because they were too young. But I know that she has always

refused, and declared that nothing should ever drive her to marry him,

or any one else; for the law might say what it liked, but her own

heart and her own conscience, told her that she was Harry Leyton's

wife, and could not be any other man's, as long as he was living.

Susan, her maid, heard her say so to Sir Robert himself; but he still

keeps teasing her about it, and tells everybody she's engaged to young

Radford."

"He'll go the devil," said Harding; "and I'll go to bed, Mrs. Clare,

for I must be up early to-morrow, to get a good many things to rights.

God bless you Kate, my love! I dare say I shall see you before I

go--for I must measure the dear little finger!" And giving her a

hearty kiss, Harding took a candle, and retired to the snug room that

had been prepared for him.

CHAPTER XI.

We must change the scene for a while, not only to another part of the

county of Kent, but to very different people from the worthy Widow

Clare and the little party assembled at her cottage. We must pass over

the events of the night also, and of the following morning up to the

hour of nine, proposing shortly to return to Harbourne House, and

trace the course of those assembled there. The dwelling into which we

must now introduce the reader, was a large, old-fashioned Kentish

farm-house, not many miles on the Sussex side of Ashford. It was

built, as many of these farm-houses still are, in the form of a cross,

presenting four limbs of strongly constructed masonry, two stories

high, with latticed windows divided into three partitions, separated

by rather neatly cut divisions of stone. Externally it had a strong

Harry-the-Eighth look about it, and probably had been erected in his

day, or in that of one of his immediate successors, as the residence

of some of the smaller gentry of the time. At the period I speak of,

it was tenanted by a family notorious for their daring and licentious

life, and still renowned in county tradition for many a fierce and

lawless act. Nevertheless, the head of the house, now waxing somewhat

in years, carried on, not only ostensibly but really, the peaceable

occupation of a Kentish farmer. He had his cows and his cattle, and

his sheep and his pigs; he grew wheat and barley, and oats and

turnips; had a small portion of hop-ground, and brewed his own beer.

But this trade of farming was only a small part of his employment,

though, to say the truth, he had given himself up more to it since his

bodily powers had declined, and he was no longer able to bear the

fatigue and exertion which the great strength of his early years had

looked upon as sport. The branch of his business which he was most

fond of was now principally entrusted to his two sons; and two strong,

handsome daughters, which made the number of his family amount to

four, occasionally aided their brothers, dressed in men's clothes, and

mounted upon powerful horses, which they managed as well as any grooms

in the county.

The reader must not think that, in this description, we are exercising

indiscreetly our licence for dealing in fiction. We are painting a

true picture of the family of which we speak, as they lived and acted

some eighty or eighty-five years ago.

The wife of the farmer had been dead ten or twelve years; and her

children had done just what they liked ever since; but it must be

admitted, that, even if she had lived to superintend their education,

we have no reason to conclude their conduct would have been very

different from what it was. We have merely said that they had done as

they pleased ever since her death, because during her life she had

made them do as she pleased, and beat them, or, as she herself termed

it, "basted" them heartily, if they did not. She was quite capable of

doing so too, to her own perfect satisfaction, for probably few arms

in all Kent were furnished with more sinewy muscles or a stouter fist

than hers could boast. It was only upon minor points of difference,

however, that she and her children ever quarrelled; for of their

general course of conduct she approved most highly; and no one was

more ready to receive packets of lace, tea, or other goods under her

fostering care, or more apt and skilful in stopping a tub of spirits

from "talking," or of puzzling a Custom-House officer when force was

not at hand to resist him.

She was naturally of so strong a constitution, and so well built a

frame, that it is wonderful she died at all; but having caught cold

one night, poor thing!--it is supposed, in setting fire to a

neighbouring farm-house, the inmates of which were suspected of having

informed against her husband--her very strength and vigour gave a

tendency to inflammation, which speedily reduced her very low. A

surgeon, who visited the house in fear and trembling, bled her

largely, and forbade the use of all that class of liquids which she

was accustomed to imbibe in considerable quantities; and for three or

four days the fear of death made her follow his injunctions. But at

the end of that period, when the crisis of the disease was imminent,

finding herself no better, and very weak, she declared that the doctor

was a fool, and ought to have his head broken, and directed the maid

to bring her the big green bottle out of the corner cupboard. To this

she applied more than once, and then beginning to get a little

riotous, she sent for her family to witness how soon she had cured

herself. Sitting up in her bed, with a yellow dressing-gown over her

shoulders, and a gay cap overshadowing her burning face, she sung them

a song in praise of good liquor--somewhat panting for breath, it must

be owned--and then declaring that she was "devilish thirsty," which

was probably accurate to the letter, she poured out a large glass from

the big green bottle, which happened to be her bed-fellow for the

time, and raised it to her lips. Half the contents went down her

throat; but, how it happened I do not know, the rest was spilt upon

the bed clothes, and good Mrs. Ramley fell back in a doze, from which

nobody could rouse her. Before two hours were over she slept a still

sounder sleep, which required the undertaker to provide against its

permanence.

The bereaved widower comforted himself after a time. We will not say

how many hours it required to effect that process. He was not a

drunken man himself; for the passive participle of the verb to "drink"

was not often actually applicable to his condition. Nevertheless,

there was a great consumption of hollands in the house during the next

week; and, if it was a wet funeral that followed, it was not with

water, salt or fresh.

There are compensations for all things; and if Ramley had lost his

wife, and his children a mother, they all lost also a great number of

very good beatings, for, sad to say, he who could thrash all the

country round, submitted very often to be thrashed by his better half,

or at all events underwent the process of either having his head made

closely acquainted with a candlestick, or rendered the means of

breaking a platter. After that period the two boys grew up into as

fine, tall, handsome, dissolute blackguards as one could wish to look

upon; and for the two girls, no term perhaps can be found in the

classical authors of our language; but the vernacular supplies an

epithet particularly applicable, which we must venture to use. They

were two _strapping wenches_, nearly as tall as their brothers, full,

rounded, and well formed in person, fine and straight cut in features,

with large black shining eyes, a well-turned foot and ancle, and, as

was generally supposed, the invincible arm of their mother.

We are not here going to investigate or dwell upon the individual

morality of the two young ladies. It is generally said to have been

better in some respects than either their ordinary habits, their

education, or their language would have led one to expect; and,

perhaps being very full of the stronger passions, the softer ones had

no great dominion over them.

There, however, they sat at breakfast on the morning of which we have

spoken, in the kitchen of the farm-house, with their father seated at

the head of the table. He was still a great, tall, raw-boned man, with

a somewhat ogre-ish expression of countenance, and hair more white

than grey. But there were four other men at the table besides himself,

two being servants of the farm, and two acknowledged lovers of the

young ladies--very bold fellows as may well be supposed; for to marry

a she-lion or a demoiselle bear would have been a light undertaking

compared to wedding one of the Miss Ramleys. They seemed to be upon

very intimate terms with those fair personages, however, and perhaps

possessed as much of their affection as could possibly be obtained;

but still the love-making seemed rather of a feline character, for the

caresses, which were pretty prodigal, were mingled with--we must not

say interrupted by--a great deal of grumbling and growling, some

scratching, and more than one pat upon the side of the head, which did

not come with the gentleness of the western wind. The fare upon the

table consisted neither of tea, coffee, cocoa, nor any other kind of

weak beverage, but of beef and strong beer, a diet very harmonious

with the appearance of the persons who partook thereof. It was

seasoned occasionally with roars of laughter, gay and not very

delicate jests, various pieces of fun, which on more than one occasion

went to the very verge of an angry encounter, together with a good

many blasphemous oaths, and those testimonies of affection which I

have before spoken of as liberally bestowed by the young ladies upon

their lovers in the shape of cuffs and scratches. The principal topic

of conversation seemed to be some adventure which was even then going

forward, and in which the sons of the house were taking a part. No

fear, no anxiety, however, was expressed by any one, though they

wondered that Jim and Ned had not yet returned.

"If they don't come soon they won't get much beef, Tom, if you swallow

it at that rate," said the youngest Miss Ramley to her sweetheart;

"you've eaten two pounds already, I'm sure."

The young gentleman declared that it was all for love of her, but that

he hadn't eaten half so much as she had, whereupon the damsel became

wroth, and appealed to her father, who, for his part, vowed, that,

between them both, they had eaten and swilled enough to fill the big

hog-trough. The dispute might have run high, for Miss Ramley was not

inclined to submit to such observations, even from her father; but,

just as she was beginning in good set terms, which she had learnt from

himself, to condemn her parent's eyes, the old man started up,

exclaiming, "Hark! there's a shot out there!"

"To be sure," answered one of the lovers. "It's the first of

September, and all the people are out shooting."

Even while he was speaking, however, several more shots were heard,

apparently too many to proceed from sportsmen in search of game, and

the next moment the sound of horses' feet could be heard running quick

upon the road, and then turning into the yard which lay before the

house.

"There they are!--there they are!" cried half-a-dozen voices; and, all

rushing out at the front door, they found the two young men with

several companions, and four led horses, heavily laden. Jim, the elder

brother, with the assistance of one of those who accompanied him, was

busily engaged in shutting the two great wooden gates which had been

raised by old Ramley some time before--nobody could tell why--in place

of a five-barred gate, which, with the tall stone wall, formerly shut

out the yard from the road. The other brother, Edward, or Ned Ramley,

as he was called, stood by the side of his horse, holding his head

down over a puddle; and, for a moment, no one could make out what he

was about. On his sister Jane approaching him, however, she perceived

a drop of blood falling every second into the dirty water below, and

exclaimed, "How hast thou broken thy noddle, Ned?"

"There, let me alone, Jinny," cried the young man, shaking off the

hand she had laid upon his arm, "or I shall bloody my toggery. One of

those fellows has nearly cracked my skull, that's all; and he'd have

done it, too, if he had but been a bit nearer. This brute shied just

as I was firing my pistol at him, or he'd never have got within arm's

length. It's nothing--it's but a scratch.--Get the goods away; for

they'll be after us quick enough. They are chasing the major and his

people, and that's the way we got off."

One of the usual stories of the day was then told by the rest--of how

a cargo had been run the night before, and got safe up into the

country: how, when they thought all danger over, they had passed

before old Bob Croyland's windows, and how Jim had given him a shot as

he stood at one of them; and then they went on to say that, whether it

was the noise of the gun, or that the old man had sent out to call the

officers upon them, they could not tell; but about three miles further

on, they saw a largish party of horse upon their right. Flight had

then become the order of the day; but, finding that they could not

effect it in one body, they were just upon the point of separating,

Ned Ramley declared, when two of the riding officers overtook them,

supported by a number of dragoons. Some firing took place, without

much damage, and, dividing into three bodies, the smugglers scampered

off, the Ramleys and their friends taking their way towards their own

house, and the others in different directions. The former might have

escaped unpursued, it would seem, had not the younger brother, Ned,

determined to give one of the dragoons a shot before he went: thus

bringing on the encounter in which he had received the wound on his

head.

While all this was being told to the father, the two girls, their

lovers, the farm-servants, and several of the men, hurried the

smuggled goods into the house, and raising a trap in the floor of the

kitchen--contrived in such a manner that four whole boards moved up at

once on the western side of the room--stowed the different articles

away in places of concealment below, so well arranged, that even if

the trap was discovered, the officers would find nothing but a vacant

space, unless they examined the walls very closely.

The horses were then all led to the stable; and Edward Ramley, having

in some degree stopped the bleeding of his wound, moved into the

house, with most of the other men. Old Ramley and the two

farm-servants, however, remained without, occupying themselves in

loading a cart with manure, till the sound of horses galloping down

was heard, and somebody shook the gates violently, calling loudly to

those within to open "in the King's name."

The farmer instantly mounted upon the cart, and looked over the wall;

but the party before the gates consisted only of five or six dragoons,

of whom he demanded, in a bold tone, "Who the devil be you, that I

should open for you? Go away, go away, and leave a quiet man at

peace!"

"If you don't open the gates, we'll break them down," said one of the

men.

"Do, if you dare," answered old Ramley, boldly; "and if you do, I'll

shoot the best of you dead.--Bring me my gun, Tom.--Where's your

warrant, young man? You are not an officer, and you've got none with

you, so I shan't let any boiled lobsters enter my yard, I can tell

you."

By this time he was provided with the weapon he had sent for; and one

of his men, similarly armed, had got into the cart beside him. The

appearance of resistance was rather ominous, and the dragoons were

well aware that if they did succeed in forcing an entrance, and blood

were spilt, the whole responsibility would rest upon themselves, if no

smuggled goods should be found, as they had neither warrant nor any

officer of the Customs with them.

After a short consultation, then, he who had spoken before, called to

old Ramley, saying, "We'll soon bring a warrant. Then look to

yourself;" and, thus speaking, he rode off with his party. Old Ramley

only laughed, however, and turned back into the house, where he made

the party merry at the expense of the dragoons. All the men who had

been out upon the expedition were now seated at the table, dividing

the beef and bread amongst them, and taking hearty draughts from the

tankard. Not the least zealous in this occupation was Edward Ramley,

who seemed to consider the deep gash upon his brow as a mere scratch,

not worth talking about. He laughed and jested with the rest; and when

they had demolished all that the board displayed, he turned to his

father, saying, not in the most reverent tone, "Come, old fellow,

after bringing our venture home safe, I think you ought to send round

the true stuff: we've had beer enough. Let's have some of the

Dutchman."

"That you shall, Neddy, my boy," answered the farmer, "only I wish you

had shot that rascal you fired at. However, one can't always have a

steady aim, especially with a fidgetty brute like that you ride;" and

away he went to bring the hollands, which soon circulated very freely

amongst the party, producing, in its course, various degrees of mirth

and joviality, which speedily deviated into song. Some of the ditties

that were sung were good, and some of them very bad; but almost all

were coarse, and the one that was least so was the following:--

SONG.

"It's wonderful, it's wonderful, is famous London town,

With its alleys

And its valleys,

And its houses up and down;

But I would give fair London town, its court, and all its

people,

For the little town of Biddenden, with the moon above

the steeple.

"It's wonderful, it's wonderful, to see what pretty faces

In London streets

A person meets

In very funny places;

But I wouldn't give for all the eyes in London town one sees,

A pair, that by the moonlight, looks out beneath the trees.

"It's wonderful, in London town, how soon a man may hold,

By art and sleight,

Or main and might,

A pretty sum of gold;

Yet give me but a pistol, and one rich squire or two,

A moonlight night, a yellow chaise, and the high road will do."

This was not the last song that was sung; but that which followed was

interrupted by one of the pseudo-labourers coming in from the yard, to

say that there was a hard knocking at the gate.

"I think it is Mr. Radford's voice," added the man, "but I'm not sure;

and I did not like to get up into the cart to look."

"Run up stairs to the window, Jinny!" cried old Ramley, "and you'll

soon see."

His daughter did, on this occasion, as she was bid, and soon called

down from above, "It's old Radford, sure enough; but he's got two men

with him!"

"It's all right, if he's there," said Jim Ramley; and the gates were

opened in a minute, to give that excellent gentleman admission.

Now, Mr. Radford, it must be remembered, was a magistrate for the

county of Kent; but his presence created neither alarm nor confusion

in the house of the Ramleys; and when he entered, leaving his men in

the court for a minute, he said, with a laugh, holding the father of

that hopeful family by the arm, "I've come to search, and to stop the

others. Where are the goods?"

"Safe enough," answered the farmer. "No fear--no fear!"

"But can we look under the trap?" asked Mr. Radford, who seemed as

well acquainted with the secrets of the place as the owner thereof.

"Ay, ay!" replied the old man. "Don't leave 'em too long--that's all."

"I'll go down myself," said Radford; "they've got scent of it, or I

wouldn't find it out."

"All right--all right!" rejoined the other, in a low voice; and the

magistrate, raising his tone, exclaimed, "Here, Clinch and Adams--you

two fools! why don't you come in? They say there is nothing here; but

we must search. We must not take any man's word; not to say that I

doubt yours, Mr. Ramley; but it is necessary, you know."

"Oh, do what you like, sir," replied the farmer. "I don't care!"

A very respectable search was then commenced, and pursued from room to

room--one of the men who accompanied Mr. Radford, and who was an

officer of the Customs, giving old Ramley a significant wink with his

right eye as he passed, at which the other grinned. Indeed, had the

whole matter not been very well understood between the great majority

of both parties, it would have been no very pleasant or secure task

for any three men in England to enter the kitchen of that farm-house

on such an errand. At length, however, Mr. Radford and his companions

returned to the kitchen, and the magistrate thought fit to walk

somewhat out of his way towards the left-hand side of the room, when

suddenly stopping, he exclaimed, in a grave tone, "Hallo! Ramley,

what's here? These boards seem loose!"

"To be sure they are," answered the farmer; "that's the way to the old

beer cellar. But there's nothing in it, upon my honour!"

"But we must look, Ramley, you know," said Mr. Radford. "Come, open

it, whatever it is!

"Oh, with all my heart," replied the man; "but you'll perhaps break

your head. That's your fault, not mine, however,"--and, advancing to

the side of the room, he took a crooked bit of iron from his

pocket--not unlike that used for pulling stones out of a horse's

hoofs--and insinuating it between the skirting-board and the floor,

soon raised the trap-door of which we have spoken before.

A vault of about nine feet deep was now exposed, with the top of a

ladder leading into it; and Mr. Radford ordered the men who were with

him to go down first. The one who had given old Ramley the wink in

passing, descended without ceremony; but the other, who was also an

officer, hesitated for a moment.

"Go down--go down, Clinch!" said Mr. Radford. "You _would_ have a

search, and so you shall do it thoroughly."

The man obeyed, and the magistrate paused a moment to speak with the

smuggling farmer, saying, in a low voice, "I don't mind their knowing

I'm your friend, Ramley. Let them think about that as they like.

Indeed, I'd rather that they did see we understand each other; so give

me a hint if they go too far; I'll bear it out."

Thus saying, he descended into the cellar, and old Ramley stood gazing

down upon the three from above, with his gaunt figure bending over the

trap-door. At the end of a minute or two he called down, "There--that

ought to do, I'm sure! We can't be kept bothering here all day!"

Something was said in a low tone by one of the men below; but then the

voice of Mr. Radford was heard, exclaiming, "No, no; that will do!

We've had enough of it! Go up, I say! There's no use of irritating

people by unreasonable suspicions, Mr. Clinch. Is it not quite enough,

Adams? Are you satisfied!"

"Oh! quite, sir," answered the other officer; "there's nothing but bare

walls and an empty beer barrel."

The next moment the party began to reappear from the trap, the officer

Clinch coming up first, with a grave look, and Mr. Radford and the

other following, with a smile upon their faces.

"There, all is clear enough," said Mr. Radford; "so you, gentlemen,

can go and pursue your search elsewhere. I must remain here to wait

for my son, whom I sent for to join me with the servants, as you know;

not that I feared any resistance from you, Mr. Ramley; but smuggling

is so sadly prevalent now-a-days, that one must be on one's guard, you

know."

A horse laugh burst from the whole party round the table; and in the

midst of it the two officers retired into the yard, where, mounting

their horses, they opened the gates and rode away.

As soon as they were gone, Mr. Radford shook old Ramley familiarly by

the hand, exclaiming, "This is the luckiest thing in the world, my

good fellow! If I can but get them to accuse me of conniving at this

job, it will be a piece of good fortune which does not often happen to

a man."

Ramley, as well he might, looked a little confounded; but Mr. Radford

drew him aside, and spoke to him for a quarter of an hour, in a voice

raised hardly above a whisper. Numerous laughs, and nods, and signs of

mutual understanding passed between them; and the conversation ended

by Mr. Radford saying, aloud, "I wonder what can keep Dick so long; he

ought to have been here before now! I sent over to him at eight; and

it is past eleven."

CHAPTER XII.

We will now, by the reader's good leave, return for a short time to

Harbourne House, where the party sat down to breakfast, at the

inconveniently early hour of eight. I will not take upon myself to say

that it might not be a quarter-of-an-hour later, for almost everything

is after its time on this globe, and Harbourne House did not differ in

this respect from all the rest of the world. From the face of young

Radford towards the countenance of Sir Edward Digby shot some very

furious glances as they took their places at the breakfast-table; but

those looks gradually sunk down into a dull and sullen frown, as they

met with no return. Sir Edward Digby, indeed, seemed to have forgotten

the words which had passed between them as soon as they had been

uttered; and he laughed, and talked, and conversed with every one as

gaily as if nothing had happened. Edith was some ten minutes behind

the rest at the meal, and seemed even more depressed than the night

before; but Zara had reserved a place for her at her own side; and

taking the first opportunity, while the rest of the party were busily

talking together, she whispered a few words in her ear. Sir Edward

Digby saw her face brighten in a moment, and her eyes turn quickly

towards himself; but he took no notice; and an interval of silence

occurring the next moment, the conversation between the two sisters

was interrupted.

During breakfast, a servant brought in a note and laid it on the

side-board, and after the meal was over, Miss Croyland retired to her

own room to make ready for her departure. Zara was about to follow;

but good Mrs. Barbara, who had heard some sharp words pass between the

two gentlemen, and had remarked the angry looks of young Radford, was

determined that they should not quarrel without the presence of

ladies, and consequently called her youngest niece back, saying, in a

whisper, "Stay here, my dear. I have a particular reason why I want

you not to go."

"I will be back in a moment, my dear aunt," replied Zara; but the

worthy old lady would not suffer her to depart; and the butler

entering at that moment, called the attention of Richard Radford to

the note which had been brought in some half-an-hour before, and which

was, in fact, a sudden summons from his father.

The contents seemed to give him no great satisfaction; and, turning to

the servant, he said, "Well, tell them to saddle my horse, and bring

him round;" and as he spoke, he directed a frowning look towards the

young baronet, as if he could scarcely refrain from shewing his anger

till a fitting opportunity occurred for expressing it.

Digby, however, continued talking lightly with Zara Croyland, in the

window, till the horse had been brought round, and the young man had

taken leave of the rest of the party. Then sauntering slowly out of

the room, he passed through the hall door, to the side of Richard

Radford's horse, just as the latter was mounting.

"Mr. Radford," he said, in a low tone, "you were pleased to make an

impertinent observation upon my conduct, which led me to tell you what

I think of yours. We were interrupted; but I dare say you must wish

for further conversation with me. You can have it when and where you

please."

"At three o'clock this afternoon, in the road straight from the back

of the house," replied young Radford, in a low, determined tone,

touching the hilt of his sword.

Sir Edward Digby nodded, and then turning on his heel, walked coolly

into the house.

"I am sure, Sir Edward," cried Mrs. Barbara, as soon as she saw him,

while Zara fixed her eyes somewhat anxiously upon his countenance--"I

am sure you and Mr. Radford have been quarrelling."

"Oh no, my dear madam," replied Sir Edward Digby; "nothing of the

kind, I can assure you. Our words were very ordinary words, and

perfectly civil, upon my word. We had no time to quarrel."

"My dear Sir Edward," said Sir Robert Croyland, "you must excuse me

for saying it, I must have no such things here. I am a magistrate for

this county, and bound by my oath to keep the peace. My sister tells

me that high words passed between you and my young friend Radford

before breakfast?"

"They were very few, Sir Robert," answered Digby, in a careless tone;

"he thought fit to make an observation upon my saying a few words to

your daughter, here, in a low tone, which I conceive every gentleman

has a right to do to a fair lady. I told him, I thought his conduct

insolent; and that was all that passed. I believe the youth has got a

bad headache from too much of your good wine, Sir Robert; therefore, I

forgive him. I dare say, he'll be sorry enough for what he said,

before the day is over; and if he is not, I cannot help it."

"Well, well, if that's all, it is no great matter!" replied the master

of the house; "but here comes round the carriage; run and call Edith,

Zara."

Before the young lady could quit the room, however, her sister

appeared; and the only moment they obtained for private conference was

at the door of the carriage, after Edith had got in, and while her

father was giving some directions to the coachman. No great

information could be given or received, indeed, for Sir Robert

returned to the side of the vehicle immediately, bade his daughter

good-bye, and the carriage rolled away.

As soon as it was gone, Sir Edward Digby proposed, with the permission

of Sir Robert Croyland, to go out to shoot; for he did not wish to

subject himself to any further cross-examination by the ladies of the

family, and he read many inquiries in fair Zara's eyes, which he

feared might be difficult to answer. Retiring, then, to put on a more

fitting costume, while gamekeepers and dogs were summoned to attend

him, he took the opportunity of writing a short letter, which he

delivered to his servant to post, giving him, at the same time, brief

directions to meet him near the cottage of good Mrs. Clare, about

half-past two, with the sword which the young officer usually wore

when not on military service. Those orders were spoken in so ordinary

and commonplace a tone that none but a very shrewd fellow would have

discovered that anything was going forward different from the usual

occurrences of the day; but Somers was a very shrewd fellow; and in a

few minutes--judging from what he had observed while waiting on his

master during dinner on the preceding day--he settled the whole matter

entirely to his own satisfaction, thinking, according to the

phraseology of those times, "Sir Edward will pink him--and a good

thing too; but it will spoil sport here, I've a notion."

As he descended to the hall, in order to join the keepers and their

four-footed coadjutors, the young baronet encountered Mrs. Barbara and

her niece; and he perceived Zara's eyes instantly glance to his

sword-belt, from which he had taken care to remove a weapon that could

only be inconvenient to him in the sport he was about to pursue. She

was not so easily to be deceived as her father; but yet the absence of

the weapon usually employed in those days, as the most efficacious for

killing a fellow-creature, put her mind at ease, at least for the

present; and, although she determined to watch the proceedings of the

young baronet during the two or three following days--as far, at

least, as propriety would permit--she took no further notice at the

moment, being very anxious to prevent her good aunt from interfering

more than necessary in the affairs of Sir Edward Digby.

Mrs. Barbara, indeed, was by no means well pleased that Sir Edward was

going to deprive her schemes of the full benefit which might have

accrued from his passing the whole of that day unoccupied, with Zara,

at Harbourne House, and hinted significantly that she trusted if he

did not find good sport he would return early, as her niece was very

fond of a ride over the hills, only that she had no companion.

The poor girl coloured warmly, and the more so as Sir Edward could not

refrain from a smile.

"I trust, then, I shall have the pleasure of being your companion

to-morrow, Miss Croyland," he said, turning to the young lady. "Why

should we not ride over, and see your excellent uncle and your sister?

I must certainly pay my respects to him; and if I may have the honour

of escorting you, it will give double pleasure to my ride."

Zara Croyland was well aware that many a matter, which if treated

seriously may become annoying--if not dangerous, can be carried

lightly off by a gay and dashing jest: "Oh, with all my heart," she

said; "only remember, Sir Edward, we must have plenty of servants with

us, or else all the people in the country will say that you and I are

going to be married; and as I never intend that such a saying should

be verified, it will be as well to nip the pretty little blossom of

gossip in the bud."

"It shall be all exactly as you please," replied the young officer,

with a low bow and a meaning smile; but at the very same moment, Mrs.

Barbara thought fit to reprove her niece, wondering how she could talk

so sillily; and Sir Edward took his leave, receiving his host's

excuses, as he passed through the hall, for not accompanying him on

his shooting expedition.

"The truth is, my dear sir," said Sir Robert Croyland, "that I am now

too old and too heavy for such sports."

"You were kind enough to tell me, this is Liberty Hall," replied the

young baronet, "and you shall see, my dear sir, that I take you at

your word, both in regard to your game and your wine, being resolved,

with your good permission, and for my own health, to kill your birds

and spare your bottles."

"Certainly, certainly," answered the master of the mansion--"you shall

do exactly as you like;" and with this licence, Sir Edward set out

shooting, with tolerable success, till towards two o'clock, when,

quite contrary to the advice and opinion of the gamekeepers--who

declared that the dogs would have the wind with them in that

direction, and that as the day was now hot, the birds would not lie a

minute--he directed his course towards the back of Harbourne Wood,

finding, it must be confessed, but very little sport. There,

apparently fatigued and disgusted with walking for a mile or two

without a shot, he gave his gun to one of the men, and bade him take

it back to the house, saying, he would follow speedily. As soon as he

had seen them depart, he tracked round the edge of the wood, towards

Mrs. Clare's cottage, exactly opposite to which he found his trusty

servant, provided as he had directed.

Sir Edward then took the sword and fixed it in his belt, saying, "Now,

Somers, you may go!"

"Certainly, sir," replied the man, touching his hat with a look of

hesitation; but he added, a minute after, "you had better let me know

where it's to be, sir, in case----"

"Well," rejoined Sir Edward Digby, with a smile, "you are an old

soldier and no meddler, Somers; so that I will tell you, 'in

case,'--that the place is in a straight line between this and

Harbourne House. So now, face about to the right, and go back by the

other road."

The man touched his hat again, and walked quickly away, while the

young officer turned his steps up the road which he had followed

during the preceding evening in pursuit of the two Miss Croylands. It

was a good broad open way, in which there was plenty of fencing room,

and he thought to himself as he walked on, "I shall not be sorry to

punish this young vagabond a little. I must see what sort of skill he

has, and if possible wound him without hurting him much. If one could

keep him to his bed for a fortnight, we should have the field more

clear for our own campaign; but these things must always be a chance."

Thus meditating, and looking at his watch to see how much time he had

to spare, Major Sir Edward Digby walked on till became within sight of

the garden wall and some of the out-buildings of Harbourne House. The

reader, if he has paid attention, will remember that the road did not

go straight to the back of the house itself: a smaller path, which led

to the right, conducting thither; but as the gardens extended for

nearly a quarter of a mile on that side, it followed the course of the

wall to the left to join the parish road which ran in front of the

mansion, leaving the green court, as it was called, or lawn, and the

terrace, on the right hand.

As there was no other road in that direction, Sir Edward Digby felt

sure that he must be on the ground appointed, but yet, as is the case

in all moments of expectation, the time seemed so long, that when he

saw the brick-work he took out his watch again, and found there were

still five minutes to spare. He accordingly turned upon his steps,

walking slowly back for about a quarter of a mile, and then returned,

looking sharply out for his opponent, but seeing no one. He was now

sure that the time must be past; but, resolved to afford young Radford

every opportunity, he said to himself, "Watches may differ, and

something may have detained him. I will give him a full half hour, and

then if he does not come I shall understand the matter."

As soon, then, as he saw the walls once more, he wheeled round and

re-trod his steps, then looked at his watch, and found that it was a

quarter past three. "Too bad!" he said,--"too bad! The fellow cannot

be coward, too, as well as blackguard. One turn more, and then I've

done with him." But as he advanced on his way towards the house, he

suddenly perceived the flutter of female garments before him, and

saying to himself, "This is awkward!" he gazed round for some path, in

order to get out of the way for a moment, but could perceive none. The

next instant, coming round a shrub which started forward a little

before the rest of the trees, he saw the younger Miss Croyland

advancing with a quick step, and, he could not help thinking, with a

somewhat agitated air. Her colour was heightened, her eyes eagerly

looking on; but, as soon as she saw him, she slackened her pace, and

came forward in a more deliberate manner.

"Oh, Sir Edward!" she said, in a calm, sweet tone, "I am glad to see

you. You have finished your shooting early, it seems."

"Why, the sport was beginning to slacken," answered Sir Edward Digby.

"I had not had a shot for the last half hour, and so thought it best

to give it up."

"Well then, you shall take a walk with me," cried Zara, gaily. "I am

just going down to a poor friend of ours, called Widow Clare, and you

shall come too."

"What! notwithstanding all your sage and prudent apprehensions in

regard to what people might say if we were seen alone together!"

exclaimed Sir Edward Digby, with a smile.

"Oh! I don't mind that," answered Zara. "Great occasions, you know,

Sir Edward, require decisive measures; and I assuredly want an escort

through this terrible forest, to protect me from all the giants and

enchanters it may contain."

Sir Edward Digby looked at his watch again, and saw that it wanted but

two minutes to the half hour.

"Oh!" said Zara, affecting a look of pique, "if you have some

important appointment, Sir Edward, it is another affair--only tell me

if it be so?"

Sir Edward Digby took her hand in his: "I will tell you, dear lady,"

he replied, "if you will first tell me one thing, truly and

sincerely--What brought you here?"

Zara trembled and coloured; for with the question put in so direct a

shape, the agitation, which she had previously overcome, mastered her

in turn, and she answered, "Don't, don't, or I shall cry."

"Well, then, tell me at least if I had anything to do with it?" asked

the young baronet.

"Yes, you had!" replied Zara; "I can't tell a falsehood. But now, Sir

Edward, don't, as most of you men would do, suppose that it's from any

very tender interest in you, that I did this foolish thing. It was

because I thought--I thought, if you were going to do what I imagined,

it would be the very worst thing in the world for poor Edith."

"I shall only suppose that you are all that is kind and good,"

answered Digby--perhaps a little piqued at the indifference which she

so studiously assumed; "and even if I thought, Miss Croyland, that you

did take some interest in my poor self, depend upon it, I should not

be inclined to go one step farther in the way of vanity than you

yourself could wish. I am not altogether a coxcomb. But now tell me,

how you were led to suspect anything?"

"Promise me first," said Zara, "that this affair shall not take place.

Indeed, indeed, Sir Edward, it must not, on every account!"

"There is not the slightest chance of any such thing," replied Sir

Edward Digby. "You need not be under the slightest alarm."

"What! you do not mean to say," she exclaimed, with her cheeks glowing

and her eyes raised to his face, "that you did not come here to fight

him?"

"Not exactly," answered Sir Edward Digby, laughing; "but what I do

mean to say, my dear young lady, is, that our friend is half an hour

behind his time, and I am not disposed to give him another opportunity

of keeping me waiting."

"And if he had been in time," cried Zara, clasping her hands together

and casting down her eyes, "I should have been too late."

"But tell me," persisted Sir Edward Digby, "how you heard all this.

Has my servant, Somers, been indiscreet?"

"No, no," replied Zara; "no, I can assure you! I saw you go out in

your shooting dress, and without a sword. Then I thought it was all

over, especially as you had the gamekeepers with you; but some time

ago I found that your servant had gone out, carrying a sword under his

arm, and had come straight up this road. That made me uneasy. When the

gamekeepers came back without you, I was more uneasy still; but I

could not get away from my aunt for a few minutes. When I could,

however, I got my hat and cloak, and hurried away, knowing that you

would not venture to fight in the presence of a woman. As I went out,

all my worst fears were confirmed by seeing your servant come back

without the sword; and then--not very well knowing, indeed, what I was

to say or do--I hurried on as fast as possible. Now you have the whole

story, and you must come away from this place."

"Very willingly," answered the young officer; adding, with a smile,

"which way shall we go, Miss Croyland? To Widow Clare's?"

"No, no!" answered Zara, blushing again. "Do not tease me. You do not

know how soon, when a woman is agitated, she is made to weep. My

father is out, indeed," she added, in a gayer tone, "so that I should

have time to bathe my eyes before dinner, which will be half an hour

later than usual; but I should not like my aunt to tell him that I

have been taking a crying walk with Sir Edward Digby."

"Heaven forbid that I should ever give you cause for a tear!" answered

the young baronet; and then, with a vague impression that he was doing

something very like making love, he added, "but let us return to the

house, or perhaps we may have your aunt seeking us."

"The most likely thing in the world," replied Zara; and taking their

way back, they passed through the gardens and entered the house by one

of the side doors.

CHAPTER XIII.

It was a custom of those days, I believe, not altogether done away

with in the present times, for magistrates to assemble in petty

sessions, or to meet at other times for the dispatch of any

extraordinary business, in tavern, public-house, or inn--a custom more

honoured in the breach than the observance, except where no other

place of assembly can be found. It thus happened that, on the day of

which we have been speaking, some half-dozen gentlemen, all justices

of the peace for the county of Kent, were gathered together in a

good-sized room of the inn, at the little town of * * * * * . There

was a table drawn across the room, at which was placed the

magistrates' clerk, with sundry sheets of paper before him, several

printed forms, and two books, one big and the other little. The

magistrates themselves, however, were not seated in due state and

dignity, but, on the contrary, were in general standing about and

talking together, some looking out of the window into the street, some

leaning with their backs against the table and the tails of their

coats turned over their hands, while one occupied an arm-chair placed

sideways at the board, with one knee thrown over the other--a

favourite position which he could not have assumed had he sat with his

face to the table.

The latter was Sir Robert Croyland, who had been sent for in haste by

his brother justices, to take part in their proceedings relative to a

daring act of smuggling which had just been perpetrated. Sir Robert

would willingly have avoided giving his assistance upon this occasion;

but the summons had been so urgent that he could not refuse going; and

he was now not a little angry to find that there were more than

sufficient justices present to make a quorum, and to transact all the

necessary business. Some one, however, it would seem, had--as usual in

all county arrangements--been very busy in pressing for as full an

attendance as possible; and those who knew the characters of the

gentlemen assembled might have perceived that the great majority of

them were not very well qualified to sit as judges upon a case of this

nature, as almost every one was under suspicion of leaning towards the

side of the smugglers, most of them having at some time engaged more

or less in the traffic which they were called upon to stop. Sir Robert

Croyland was the least objectionable in this point of view; for he had

always borne a very high name for impartiality in such matters, and

had never had anything personally to do with the illicit traffic

itself. It is probable, therefore, that he was sent for to give a mere

show of justice to the proceedings; for Mr. Radford was expected to be

there; and it was a common observation of the county gentlemen, that

the latter could now lead Sir Robert as he liked. Mr. Radford, indeed,

had not yet arrived, though two messengers had been despatched to

summon him; the answer still being that he had gone over towards

Ashford. Sir Robert, therefore, sat in the midst--not harmonizing much

in feeling with the rest, and looking anxiously for his friend's

appearance, in order to obtain some hint as to how he was to act.

At length, a considerable noise was heard in the streets below, and a

sort of constable door-keeper presented himself, to inform the

magistrates that the officers and dragoons had arrived, bringing in

several prisoners. An immediate bustle took place, the worshipful

gentlemen beginning to seat themselves, and one of them--as it is

technically termed--moving Sir Robert into the chair. In order to shew

that this was really as well as metaphysically done, Sir Robert

Croyland rose, sat down again, and wheeled himself round to the table.

A signal was then given to the constable; and a rush of several

persons from without was made into the temporary justice room, which

was at once nearly filled with custom-house officers, soldiers,

smugglers, and the curious of the village.

Amongst the latter portion of the auditory,--at least, so he supposed

at first,--Sir Robert Croyland perceived his young friend, Richard

Radford; and he was in the act of beckoning him to come up to the

table, in order to inquire where his father was, and how soon he would

return, when one of the officers of the Customs suddenly thrust the

young gentleman out of the way, exclaiming, "Stand farther back! What

are you pushing forward for? Your turn will come soon enough, I

warrant."

Sir Robert Croyland was confounded; and for a moment or two he sat

silent in perplexity and surprise. Not that he ever entertained a

doubt of old Mr. Radford still nourishing all the propensities of his

youth; nor that he was not well aware they had formed part of the

inheritance of the son; but there were certain considerations of some

weight which made Sir Robert feel that it would have been better for

him to be in any other spot of the habitable globe than that where he

was at the moment. Recovering himself, however, after a brief pause of

anxious indecision, he made a sign to the constable door-keeper, and

whispered to him, as soon as the man reached his side, to inquire into

the cause of Mr. Richard Radford's being there. The man was shrewd and

quick, and while half the magistrates were speaking across the table

to half the officers and some of the dragoons, he went and returned to

and from the other side of the room, and then whispered to the

baronet, "For smuggling, sir--caught abetting the others--his name

marked upon some of the goods!"

Sir Robert Croyland was not naturally a brilliant man. Though hasty in

temper in his early days, he had always been somewhat obtuse in

intellect; but this was a case of emergency; and there is no greater

sharpener of the wits than necessity. In an instant, he had formed his

plan to gain time, which was his great object at that moment; and,

taking out his watch, he laid it on the table, exclaiming aloud,

"Gentlemen! gentlemen! a little regularity, if you please. My time is

precious. I have an important engagement this afternoon, and I----"

But his whole scheme had nearly been frustrated by the impetuosity of

young Radford himself, who at once pushed through officers and

soldiers, saying, "And so have I, Sir Robert, a very important

engagement this afternoon. I claim to be heard as speedily as

possible."

Sir Robert, however, was determined to carry his point, and to avoid

having aught to do with the case of his young friend, even at the risk

of giving him offence and annoyance. "Stand back, sir!" he said. "In

this court, there is no friendship or favour. You will have attention

in turn, but not before. Mr. Mowle, bring forward the prisoners one

after the other, as near as possible, in the order of--the order

of--of their capture," he added, at length, after hesitating for a

moment to consider whether it was or was not probable that young

Radford had been amongst those last taken; "and let all the others be

removed, under guard, into the next room."

"Wont that make it a long affair, Sir Robert?" asked Mr. Runnington, a

neighbouring squire.

"Oh dear, no!" replied the chairman; "by regularity we shall save

time. Do as you are directed, Mowle!"

Young Radford showed a strong disposition to resist, or, at least, to

protest against this arrangement; but the officer to whom the baronet

had spoken, treated the prisoner with very little reverence; and he,

with the rest of the gang, was removed from the room, with the

exception of three, one of whom, with a smart cockade in his hat, such

as was worn at that time by military men in undress, swaggered up to

the table with a bold air, as if he were about to address the

magistrates.

"Ah, major, is that you?" asked a gentleman on Sir Robert's right,

known in the country by the name of Squire Jollyboat, though his

family being originally French, his real appellation was Jollivet.

"Oh yes, squire," answered the prisoner, in a gay, indifferent tone,

"here I am. It is long since I have had the pleasure of seeing your

worship. I think you were not on the bench the last time I was

committed, or I should have fared better."

"I don't know that, major," replied the gentleman; "on the former

occasion I gave you a month, I think."

"Ay, but the blackguards that time gave me two," rejoined the major.

"Because it was the second offence," said Squire Jollyboat.

"The second! Lord bless you, sir!" answered the major, with a look of

cool contempt; and turning round with a wink to his two companions,

they all three laughed joyously, as if it were the finest joke in the

world.

It might not be very interesting to the reader were we to give in

detail the depositions of the various witnesses upon a common case of

smuggling in the last century, or to repeat all the various arguments

which were bandied backwards and forwards between the magistrates,

upon the true interpretation of the law, as expressed in the 9th

George II., cap. 35. It was very evident, indeed, to the officers of

Customs, to the serjeant of dragoons, and even to the prisoners

themselves, that the worthy justices were disposed to take as

favourable a view of smuggling transactions as possible. But the law

was very clear; the case was not less so; Mowle, the principal riding

officer, was a straightforward, determined, and shrewd man; and

although Sir Robert Croyland, simply with a view of protracting the

investigation till Mr. Radford should arrive, started many questions

which he left to the other magistrates to settle, yet in about half an

hour the charge of smuggling, with riot, and armed resistance to the

Custom-House officers, was clearly made out against the major and his

two companions; and as the act left no discretion in such a case, the

resistance raising the act to felony, all three were committed for

trial, and the officers bound over to prosecute.

The men were then taken away, laughing and jesting; and Sir Robert

Croyland looked with anxiety for the appearance of the next party; but

two other men were now introduced without Richard Radford; and the

worthy baronet was released for the time. The case brought forward

against these prisoners differed from that against those who preceded

them, inasmuch as no resistance was charged. They had simply been

found aiding and abetting in the carriage of the smuggled goods, and

had fled when they found themselves pursued by the officers, though

not fast enough to avoid capture. The facts were speedily proved, and,

indeed, much more rapidly than suited the views of Sir Robert

Croyland. He therefore raised the question, when the decision of the

magistrates was about to be pronounced, whether this was the first or

the second offence, affecting some remembrance of the face of one of

the men. The officers, also, either really did recollect, or pretended

to do so, that the person of whom he spoke had been convicted before;

but the man himself positively denied it, and defied them to bring

forward any proof. A long discussion thus commenced, and before it was

terminated the baronet was relieved by the appearance of Mr. Radford

himself, who entered booted and spurred, and covered with dust, as if

just returned from a long ride.

Shaking hands with his brother magistrates, and especially with Sir

Robert Croyland, he was about to seat himself at the end of that

table, when the baronet rose, saying, "Here, Radford, you had better

take my place, as I must positively get home directly, having

important business to transact."

"No, no, Sir Robert," replied that respectable magistrate, "we cannot

spare you in this case, nor can I take that place. My son, I hear, is

charged with taking part in this affair; and some sharp words have

been passing between myself and that scoundrel of a fellow called

Clinch, the officer, who applied to me for aid in searching the

Ramleys' house. When I agreed to go with him, and found out a very

snug place for hiding, he was half afraid to go down; and yet, since

then, he has thought fit to insinuate that I had something to do with

the run, and did not conduct the search fairly."

The magistrates looked round to each other and smiled; and Radford

himself laughed heartily, very much as if he was acting a part in a

farce, without any hope or expectation of passing off his zeal in the

affair, upon his fellow magistrates, as genuine. Mowle, the officer,

at the same time turned round, and spoke a few words to two men who

had followed Mr. Radford into the room, one of whom shrugged his

shoulders with a laugh, and said nothing, and the other replied

eagerly, but in a low tone.

Sir Robert Croyland, however, urged the necessity of his going, put

his watch in his pocket, and buttoned up his coat. But Mr. Radford,

assuming a graver air and a very peculiar tone, replied, "No, no, Sir

Robert; you must stay, indeed. We shall want you. Your known

impartiality will give weight to our decisions, whatever they may be."

The baronet sat down again, but evidently with so much unwillingness,

that his brethren marvelled not a little at this fresh instance of the

influence which Mr. Radford exerted over his mind.

"Who is the next prisoner, Mr. Mowle?" demanded Sir Robert Croyland,

as soon as he had resumed his seat.

"Mr. Richard Radford, I suppose, sir," said Mowle; "but these two men

are not disposed of."

"Well, then," said Mr. Jollivet, who was very well inclined to

commence a career of lenity, "as no proof has been given that this is

the second offence, I think we must send them both for a month. That

seems to me the utmost we can do."

The other magistrates concurred in this decision; and the prisoners

were ordered to be removed; but ere they went, the one against whom

the officers had most seriously pressed their charge, turned round

towards the bench, exclaiming, in a gay tone, "Thank you, Squire

Jollyboat. Your worship shall have a chest of tea for this, before I'm

out a fortnight."

A roar of laughter ran round the magistrates--for such matters were as

indecently carried on in those days, on almost all occasions, as they

sometimes are now; and in a moment or two after, young Radford was

brought in, with a dark scowl upon his brow.

"How is this, Dick?" cried his father. "Have you been dabbling in a

run, and suffered yourself to be caught?"

"Let these vagabonds make their accusation, and bring their

witnesses," replied the young man, sullenly, "and then I'll speak for

myself."

"Well, your worships," said Mowle, coming forward, "the facts are

simply these: I have long had information that goods were to be run

about this time, and that Mr. Radford had some share in the matter.

Last night, a large quantity of goods were landed in the Marsh, though

I had been told it was to be near about Sandgate, or between that and

Hythe, and was consequently on the look-out there. As soon as I got

intimation, however, that the run had been effected, I got together as

many men as I could, sent for a party of dragoons from Folkestone,

and, knowing pretty well which way they would take, came across by

Aldington, Broadoak and Kingsnorth, and then away by Singleton Green,

towards Four-Elms, where, just under the hill, we came upon those two

men who have just been convicted, and two others, who got off. We

captured these two, and three horse-loads they had with them, for

their beasts were tired, and they had lagged behind. There were two or

three chests of tea, and a good many other things, and all of them

were marked, just like honest bales of goods, 'Richard Radford,

Esquire, Junior.' As we found, however, that the great party was on

before, we pursued them as far as Rouse-end, where we overtook them

all; but there they scattered, some galloping off towards Gouldwell,

as if they were going to the Ramleys; some towards Usherhouse, and

some by the wood towards Etchden. Four or five of the dragoons pushed

after those running for Gouldwell, but I and the rest stuck to the

main body, which went away towards the wood, and who showed fight.

There was a good deal of firing amongst the trees, but not much damage

done, except to my horse, who was shot in the shoulder. But just as we

were chasing them out of the wood, up came Mr. Richard Radford, who

was seen for a minute speaking to one of the men who were running, and

riding along beside him for some way. He then turned, and came up to

us, and tried to stop us as we were galloping after them, asking what

the devil we were about, and giving us a great deal of bad language. I

didn't mind him, but rode on, knowing we could take him at any time;

but Mr. Birchett, the other chief officer, who had captured the major

a minute or two before, got angry, and caught him by the collar,

charging him to surrender, when he instantly drew his sword, and

threatened to run him through. One of the dragoons, however, knocked

it out of his hand, and then he was taken. This affray in the middle

of the road enabled the greater part of the rest to get off; and we

only captured two more horses and one man."

Several of the other officers, and the dragoons, corroborated Mowle's

testimony; and the magistrates, but especially Sir Robert Croyland,

began to look exceedingly grave. Mr. Radford, however, only laughed,

turning to his son, and asking, "Well, Dick! what have you to say to

all this?"

Richard Radford, however, merely tossed up his head, and threw back

his shoulders, without reply, till Sir Robert Croyland addressed him,

saying, "I hope, Mr. Radford, you can clear yourself of this charge,

for you ought to know that armed resistance to the King's officers is

a transportable offence."

"I will speak to the magistrates," replied young Radford, "when I can

speak freely, without all these people about me. As to the goods they

mention, marked with my name, I know nothing about them."

"Do you wish to speak with the magistrates alone?" demanded old Mr.

Radford.

"I must strongly object to any such proceeding," exclaimed Mowle.

"Pray, sir, meddle with what concerns you," said old Radford, turning

upon him fiercely, "and do not pretend to dictate here. You gentlemen

are greatly inclined to forget your place. I think that the room had

better be cleared of all but the prisoner, Sir Robert."

The baronet bowed his head; Squire Jollivet concurred in the same

opinion; and, though one or two of the others hesitated, they were

ultimately overruled, and the room was cleared of all persons but the

magistrates and the culprit.

Scarcely was this done, when, with a bold free air, and contemptuous

smile, young Radford advanced to the side of the table, and laid his

left hand firmly upon it; then, looking round from one to another, he

said, "I will ask you a question, worshipful gentlemen.--Is there any

one of you, here present, who has never, at any time, had anything to

do with a smuggling affair?--Can you swear it upon your oaths?--Can

you, sir?--Can you? Can you?"

The magistrates to whom he addressed himself, looked marvellously

rueful, and replied not; and at last, turning to his father, he said,

"Can you, sir? though I, methinks, need hardly ask the question."

"No, by Jove, Dick, I can't!" replied his father, laughing. "I wish to

Heaven you wouldn't put such awful interrogatories; for I believe, for

that matter, we are all in the same boat."

"Then I refuse," said young Radford, "to be judged by you. Settle the

matter as you like.--Get out of the scrape as you can; but don't

venture to convict a man when you are more guilty than he is himself.

If you do, I may tell a few tales that may not be satisfactory to any

of you."

It had been remarked, that, in putting his questions, the young

gentleman had entirely passed Sir Robert Croyland; and Mr. Jollivet

whispered to the gentleman next him, "I think we had better leave him

and Sir Robert to settle it, for I believe the baronet is quite clear

of the scrape."

But Mr. Radford had overheard, and he exclaimed, "No, no; I think the

matter is quite clear how we must proceed. There's not the slightest

proof given that he knew anything about these goods being marked with

his name, or that it was done by his authority. He was not with the

men either, who were carrying the goods; and they were going quite

away from his own dwelling. He happened to come there accidentally,

just when the fray was going on. That I can prove, for I sent him a

note this morning, telling him to join me at Ashford as fast as

possible."

"I saw it delivered myself," said Sir Robert Croyland.

"To be sure," rejoined Mr. Radford; "and then, as to his talking to

the smugglers when he did come up, I dare say he was telling them to

surrender, or not to resist the law. Wasn't it so, Dick?"

"Not a bit of it," answered Richard Radford, boldly. "I told them to

be off as fast as they could. But I did tell them not to fire any

more. That's true enough!"

"Ay, to be sure," cried Mr. Radford. "He was trying to persuade them

not to resist legitimate authority."

Almost all the magistrates burst into a fit of laughter; but, no way

disconcerted, worthy Mr. Radford went on saying--"While he was doing

this, up comes this fellow, Birchett, and seizes him by the collar;

and, I dare say, he abused him into the bargain."

"He said I was a d--d smuggling blackguard myself," said young

Radford.

"Well, then, gentlemen, is it at all wonderful that he drew his

sword?" demanded his respectable father. "Is every gentleman in the

county to be ridden over, rough-shod, by these officers and their

dragoons, and called 'd--d smuggling blackguards,' when they are

actually engaged in persuading the smugglers not to fire? I promise

you, my son shall bring an action against that fellow, Birchett, for

an assault. It seems to me that the case is quite clear."

"It is, at all events, rendered doubtful," said Sir Robert Croyland,

"by what has been suggested. I think the officers had better now be

recalled; and, by your permission, I will put a few questions to

them."

In a very few minutes the room was, once more, nearly filled, and the

baronet addressed Mowle, in a grave tone, saying--"A very different

view of this case has been afforded us, Mr. Mowle, from that which you

gave just now. It is distinctly proved, and I myself can in some

degree testify to the fact, that Mr. Radford was on the spot

accidentally, having been sent for by his father to join him at

Ashford----"

"At the Ramleys', I suppose you mean, sir," observed Mowle, drily.

"No, sir; at Ashford," rejoined Mr. Radford; and Sir Robert Croyland

proceeded to say:

"The young gentleman also asserts that he was persuading the smugglers

to submit to lawful authority, or, at all events, not to fire upon

you. Was there any more firing after he came up?"

"No; there was not," answered Mowle. "They all galloped off as hard as

they could."

"Corroborative proof of his statement," observed Sir Robert, solemnly.

"The only question, therefore, remaining, seems to be, as to whether

Mr. Radford, junior, had really anything to do with the placing of his

name upon the goods. Now, one strong reason for supposing such not to

be the case is, that they were not found near his house, or going

towards it, but the contrary."

"Why, he's as much at home in the Ramleys' house as at his own," said

a voice from behind; but Sir Robert took no notice, and proceeded to

inquire--"Have you proof, Mr. Mowle, that he authorized any one to

mark these goods with his name?"

Mr. Radford smiled; and Mowle, the officer, looked a little puzzled.

At length, however, he answered--"No, I can't say we have, Sir Robert;

but one thing is very certain, it is not quite customary to ask for

such proof in this stage of the business, and in the cases of inferior

men."

"I am sorry to hear it," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a dignified

and sententious tone, "for it is quite necessary that in all cases the

evidence should be clear and satisfactory to justify the magistrates

in committing any man to prison, even for trial. In this instance

nothing is proved, and not even a fair cause for suspicion made out.

Mr. Radford was there accidentally; the goods were going in a

different direction from his house; he was seized, we think upon

insufficient grounds, while endeavouring to dissuade the smugglers

from resisting the king's officers and troops; and though we may judge

his opposition imprudent, it was not wholly unjustifiable. The

prisoner is therefore discharged."

"The goods were going to the Ramleys," said the man, Clinch, who now,

emboldened by the presence of several other officers, spoke loud and

decidedly. "Here are two or three of the dragoons, who can swear that

they followed a party of the smugglers nearly to the house, and had

the gates shut in their face when they came up; and I can't help

saying, that the search of the house by Mr. Radford was not conducted

as it ought to have been. The two officers were left without, while he

went in to speak with old Ramley, and there were a dozen of men, or

more, in the kitchen."

"Pooh! nonsense, fellow!" cried Mr. Radford, interrupting him with a

laugh; "I did it for your own security."

"And then," continued Clinch, "when we had gone down into the

concealed cellar below, which was as clear a _hide_ for smuggled goods

as ever was seen, he would not let me carry out the search, though I

found that two places at the sides were hollow, and only covered with

boards."

"Why, you vagabond, you were afraid of going down at all!" said Mr.

Radford. "Where is Adams? He can bear witness of it."

"Clinch didn't seem to like it much, it must be confessed," said

Adams, without coming forward; "but, then, the place was so full of

men, it was enough to frighten one."

"I wasn't frightened," rejoined Mr. Radford.

"Because it was clear enough that you and the Ramleys understood each

other," answered Clinch, boldly.

"Pooh--pooh, nonsense!" said Squire Jollivet. "You must not talk such

stuff here, Mr. Clinch. But, however that may be, the prisoner is

discharged; and now, as I think we have no more business before us, we

may all go home; for it's nearly five o'clock, and I, for one, want my

dinner."

"Ay, it is nearly five o'clock," said young Radford, who had been

standing with his eyes cast down and his brow knit; "and you do not

know what you have all done, keeping me here in this way."

He added an oath, and then flung out of the room, passing through the

crowd of officers and others, in his way towards the door, without

waiting for his father, who had risen with the rest of the

magistrates, and was preparing to depart.

Sir Robert Croyland and Mr. Radford descended the stairs of the inn

together; and at the bottom, Mr. Radford shook the baronet heartily by

the hand, saying, loud enough to be heard by everybody. "That was

admirably well done, Sir Robert! Many thanks--many thanks."

"None to me, my dear sir," answered Sir Robert Croyland. "It was but

simple justice;" and he turned away to mount his horse.

"Very pretty justice, indeed!" said Mowle, in a low voice, to the

sergeant of dragoons; "but I can't help fancying there's something

more under this than meets the eye. Mr. Radford isn't a gentleman who

usually laughs at these matters so lightly. But if he thinks to cheat

me, perhaps he may find himself mistaken."

In the meantime the baronet hastened homewards, putting his horse into

a quick pace, and taking the nearest roads through the woods, which

were then somewhat thickly scattered over that part of Kent. He had no

servant with him; and when at about two miles from his own house, he

passed through a wild and desolate part of the country, near what is

now called Chequer Tree, he looked on before and around him on every

side, somewhat anxiously, as if he did not much admire the aspect of

the place.

He pushed on, however, entered the wood, and rode rapidly down into a

deep dell, which may still be seen in that neighbourhood, though its

wild and gloomy character is now almost altogether lost. At that time,

tall trees grew up round it on either hand, leaving, in the hollow, a

little patch of about half an acre, filled with long grass and some

stunted willows, while the head of a stream bubbling up in their

shade, poured on its clear waters through a fringe of sedges and

rushes towards some larger river.

The sun had yet an hour or two to run before his setting; but it was

only at noon of a summer's day that his rays ever penetrated into that

gloomy and secluded spot; and towards the evening it had a chilly and

desolate aspect, which made one feel as if it were a place debarred

for ever of the bright light of day. The green tints of spring, or the

warmer brown of autumn, seemed to make no difference, for the shades

were always blue, dull and heavy, mingling with the thin filmy mist

that rose up from the plashy ground on either side of the road.

A faint sort of shudder came over Sir Robert Croyland, probably from

the damp air; and he urged his horse rapidly down the hill without any

consideration for the beast's knees. He was spurring on towards the

other side, as if eager to get out of it, when a voice was heard from

amongst the trees, exclaiming, in a sad and melancholy tone, "Robert

Croyland! Robert Croyland! what look you for here?"

The baronet turned on his saddle with a look of terror and anguish;

but, instead of stopping, he dug his spurs into the horse's sides, and

gallopped up the opposite slope. As if irresistibly impelled to look

at that which he dreaded, he gazed round twice as he ascended, and

each time beheld, standing in the middle of the road, the same figure,

wrapped in a large dark cloak, which he had seen when first the voice

caught his ear. Each time he averted his eyes in an instant, and

spurred on more furiously than ever. His accelerated pace soon carried

him to the top of the hill, where he could see over the trees; and in

about a quarter of an hour, he reached Halden, when he began to check

his horse, and reasoned with himself on his own sensations. There was

a great struggle in his mind; but ere he arrived at Harbourne House he

had gained sufficient mastery over himself to say, "What a strange

thing imagination is!"

END OF VOL. I.

T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden.

THE SMUGGLER:

A Tale

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF

"DARNLEY," "DE L'ORME," "RICHELIEU,"

ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.

1845.

THE SMUGGLER.

CHAPTER I.

What a varying thing is the stream of life! How it sparkles and

glitters! Now it bounds along its pebbly bed, sometimes in sunshine,

and sometimes in shade; sometimes sporting round all things, as if its

essence were merriment and brightness; sometimes flowing solemnly on,

as if it were derived from Lethe itself. Now it runs like a liquid

diamond along the meadow; now it plunges in fume and fury over the

rock; now it is clear and limpid, as youth and innocence can make it;

now it is heavy and turbid, with the varying streams of thought and

memory that are ever flowing into it, each bringing its store of

dulness and pollution as it tends towards the end. Its voice, too,

varies as it goes; now it sings lightly as it dances on; now it roars

amidst the obstacles that oppose its way; and now it has no tone but

the dull low murmur of exhausted energy.

Such is the stream of life! yet, perhaps, few of us would wish to

change our portion of it for the calm regularity of a canal--even if

one could be constructed without locks and floodgates upon it to hold

in the pent-up waters of the heart till they are ready to burst

through the banks.

Life was in its sparkling aspect with Zara Croyland and Sir Edward

Digby, when they set out on horseback for the house of old Mr.

Croyland, cantering easily along the roads of that part of the

country, which, in the days I speak of, were soft and somewhat sandy.

Two servants followed behind at a discreet distance; and lightly

passing over hill and dale, with all the loveliness of a very bright

portion of our fair land stretched out around them, the young lady and

her companion drew in, through the eyes, fresh sensations of happiness

from all the lovely things of nature. The yellow woods warmed their

hearts; the blue heaven raised their thoughts; the soft air refreshed

and cheered all their feelings; and, when a passing cloud swept over

the sky, it only gave that slight shadowy tone to the mind, which

wakens within us the deep, innate, and elevating movements of the

spirit, that seem to connect the aspect of God's visible creation,

with a higher and a purer state of being. Each had some spring of

happiness in the heart fresh opened; for, to the fair girl who went

bounding along through that gay world, the thought that she was

conveying to a dear sister tidings of hope, was in itself a joy; and

to her companion a new subject of contemplation was presenting itself,

in the very being who accompanied him on the way--a subject quite

untouched and novel, and, to a man of his character and disposition, a

most interesting one.

Sir Edward Digby had mingled much with the world; he had seen many

scenes of different kinds; he had visited various countries, the most

opposite to each other; he had frequented courts, and camps, and

cities; and he had known and seen a good deal of woman, and of

woman's heart; but he had never yet met any one like Zara Croyland.

The woman of fashion and of rank in all the few modifications of

character that her circumstances admit--for rank and fashion are sadly

like the famous bed of the robber of Attica, on which all men are cut

down or stretched out to a certain size,--was well known to him, and

looked upon much in the light of an exotic plant, kept in an

artificial state of existence, with many beauties and excellences,

perhaps, mingling with many deformities and faults, but still weakened

and deprived of individuality by long drilling in a round of

conventionalities. He had seen, too, the wild Indian, in the midst of

her native woods, and might have sometimes admired the free grace and

wild energy of uncultivated and unperverted nature; but he was not

very fond of barbarism, and though he might admit the existence of

fine qualities, even in a savage, yet he had not been filled with any

great enthusiasm in favour of Indian life, from what he had seen in

Canada. The truth is, he had never been a very dissolute, or, as it is

termed, a very gay man--he was not sated and surfeited with the vices

of civilization, and consequently was not inclined to seek for new

excitement in the very opposite extreme of primeval rudeness.

Most of the gradations between the two, he had seen at different

periods and in different lands; but yet in her who now rode along

beside him, there was something different from any. It was not a want,

but a combination of the qualities he had remarked in others. There

was the polish and the cultivation of high class and finished

training, with a slight touch of the wildness and the originality of

the fresh unsophisticated heart. There was the grace of education, and

the grace of nature; and there seemed to be high natural powers of

intellect, uncurbed by artificial rules, but supplied with materials

by instruction.

All this was apparent; but the question with him was, as to the heart

beneath, and its emotions. He gazed upon her as they went on--when she

was not looking that way--he watched her countenance, the habitual

expression of the features, and the varying expression which every

emotion produced. Her face seemed like a bright looking-glass, which a

breath will dim, and a touch will brighten; but there is so much

deceit in the world, and every man who has mingled with that world

must have seen so much of it, and every man, also, has within himself

such internal and convincing proofs of our human nature's fondness for

seeming, that we are all inclined--except in very early youth--to

doubt the first impression, to inquire beyond the external appearance,

and to inquire if the heart of the fruit corresponds with the beauty

of the outside.

He asked himself what was she really?--what was true, and what was

false, in that bright and sparkling creature? Whether, was the gaiety

or the sadness the real character of the mind within? or whether the

frequent variation from the one to the other--ay, and from energy to

lightness, from softness to firmness, from gentleness to vigour--were

not all the indications of a character as various as the moods which

it assumed.

Sir Edward Digby was resolved not to fall in love, which is the most

dangerous resolution that a man can take: for it is seldom, if ever,

taken, except in a case of great necessity--one of those hasty

outworks thrown up against a powerful enemy, which are generally taken

in a moment and the cannon therein turned against ourselves.

Nevertheless, he had resolved, as I have said, not to fall in love;

and he fancied that, strengthened by that resolution, he was quite

secure. It must not be understood, indeed, that Sir Edward Digby never

contemplated marriage. On the contrary, he thought of it as a remote

evil that was likely to fall upon him some day, by an inevitable

necessity. It seemed a sort of duty, indeed, to transmit his name, and

honours, and wealth to another generation; and as duties are not

always very pleasant things, he, from time to time, looked forward to

the execution of his, in this respect, in a calm, philosophical,

determined manner. Thirty-five, he thought, would be a good time to

marry; and when he did so, he had quite made up his mind to do it with

the utmost deliberation and coolness. It should be quite a _mariage de

raison_. He would take it as a dose of physic--a disagreeable thing,

to be done when necessary, but not a minute before; and in the

meantime, to fall in love, was quite out of the question.

No, he was examining and investigating and contemplating Zara

Croyland's character, merely as a matter of interesting speculation;

and a very dangerous speculation it was, Sir Edward Digby! I don't

know which was most perilous, that, or your resolution.

It is very strange, he never recollected that, in no other case in his

whole career, had he found it either necessary to take such a

resolution, or pleasant to enter into such a speculation. If he had,

perhaps he might have begun to tremble for himself. Nor did he take

into the calculation the very important fact that Zara Croyland was

both beautiful and pretty--two very different things, reader, as you

will find, if you examine. A person may be very pretty without being

the least beautiful, or very beautiful without being the least pretty;

but when those two qualities are both combined, and when, in one girl,

the beauty of features and of form that excites admiration, is joined

with that prettiness of expression, and colouring, and arrangement

that wakens tenderness and wins affection, Lord have mercy upon the

man who rides along with her through fair scenes, under a bright sky!

Digby did not at all find out, that he was in the most dangerous

situation in the world; or, if some fancy ever came upon him, that he

was not quite safe, it was but as one of those vague impressions of

peril that float for a single instant over the mind when we are

engaged in any very bold and exciting undertaking, and pass away again

as fast.

Far from guarding himself at all, Sir Edward Digby went on in his

unconsciousness, laying himself more and more open to the enemy. In

pursuit of his scheme of investigation, he proceeded, as they rode

along, to try the mind of his fair companion in a thousand different

ways; and every instant he brought forth some new and dangerous

quality. He found that, in the comparative solitude in which she

lived, she had had time for study as well as thought, and had acquired

far more, and far more varied stores of information, than was common

with the young women of her day. It was not alone that she could read

and spell--which a great many could not, in those times,--but she had

read a number of different works upon a number of different subjects;

knew as much of other lands, and of the habits of other people, as

books could give, and was tastefully proficient in the arts that

brighten life, even where their cultivation is not its object.

Thus her conversation had always something new about it. The very

images that suggested themselves to her mind were derived from such

numerous sources, that it kept the fancy on the stretch to follow her

in her flights, and made their whole talk a sort of playful chase,

like that of one bird after another in the air. Now she borrowed a

comparison for something sensible to the eye from the sweet music that

charms the ear--now she found out links of association between the

singing of the birds and some of the fine paintings that she had seen

or heard of--now combined a bright scene, or a peculiar moment of

happiness, with the sweet odours of the flowers or the murmur of the

stream. With everything in nature and art she sported, apparently

unconscious; and often, too, in speaking of the emotions of the heart

or the thoughts of the mind, she would, with a bright flash of

imagination, cast lights upon those dark and hidden things, from

objects in the external world, or from the common events of life.

Eagerly Digby led her on--pleased, excited, entertained himself; but

in so doing he produced an effect which he had not calculated upon. He

made a change in her feelings towards himself. She had thought him a

very agreeable man from the first; she had seen that he was a

gentleman by habit, and divined that he was so by nature; but now she

began to think that he was a very high-toned and noble-minded man,

that he was one worthy of high station and of all happiness--she did

not say--of affection, nor let the image of love pass distinctly

before her eyes. There might be a rosy cloud in the far sky wherein

the god was veiled; but she did not see him--or, was it that she would

not? Perhaps it was so; for woman's heart is often as perverse and

blind, in these matters, as man's. But one thing is clear, no two

people can thus pour forth the streams of congenial thought and

feeling--to flow on mingling together in sweet communion--for any

great length of time, without a change of their sensations towards

each other; and, unless the breast be well guarded by passion for

another, it is not alone that mind with mind is blended, but heart

with heart.

Though the distance was considerable,--that is to say, some three or

four miles, and they made it more than twice as long by turning up

towards the hills, to catch a fine view of the wooded world below, on

whose beauty Zara expatiated eloquently,--and though they talked of a

thousand different subjects, which I have not paused to mention here,

lest the detail should seem all too tedious, yet their ride passed

away briefly, like a dream. At length, coming through some green

lanes, overhung by young saplings and a crown of brambles and other

hedge-row shrubs--no longer, alas, in flower--they caught sight of the

chimneys of a house a little way farther on, and Zara said, with a

sigh, "There is my uncle's house."

Sir Edward Digby asked himself, "Why does she sigh?" and as he did so,

felt inclined to sigh, too; for the ride had seemed too short, and had

now become as a pleasant thing passed away. But then he thought, "We

shall enjoy it once again as we return;" and he took advantage of

their slackened pace to say, "As I know you are anxious to speak with

your sister, Miss Croyland, I will contrive to occupy your uncle for a

time, if we find him at home. I fear I shall not be able to obtain an

opportunity of talking with her myself on the subjects that so deeply

interest her, as at one time I hoped to do; but I am quite sure, from

what I see of you, that I may depend upon what you tell me, and act

accordingly."

As if by mutual consent, they had avoided, during their expedition of

that morning, the subject which was, perhaps, most in the thoughts of

each; but now Zara checked her horse to a slow walk, and replied,

after a moment's thought, "I should think, if you desire it, you could

easily obtain a few minutes' conversation with her at my uncle's.--I

only don't know whether it may agitate her too much or not. Perhaps

you had better let me speak with her first, and then, if she wishes

it, she will easily find the means. You may trust to me, indeed, Sir

Edward, in Edith's case, though I do not always say exactly what I

mean about myself. Not that I have done otherwise with you; for,

indeed, I have neither had time nor occasion; but with the people that

occasionally come to the house, sometimes it is necessary, and

sometimes I am tempted, out of pure perversity, to make them think me

very different from what I am. It is not always with those that I hate

or despise either, but sometimes with people that I like and esteem

very much. Now, I dare say poor Harry Leyton has given you a very sad

account of me?"

"No, indeed," answered Sir Edward Digby; "you do him wrong; I have not

the least objection to tell you exactly what he said."

"Oh, do--do!" cried Zara; "I should like to hear very much, for I am

afraid I used to tease him terribly."

"He said," replied Digby, "that when last he saw you, you were a gay,

kind-hearted girl of fourteen, and that he was sure, if I spoke to you

about him, you would tell me all that I wanted to know with truth and

candour."

"That was kind of him," said Zara, with some emotion, "that was very

kind. I am glad he knows me; and yet that very candour, Sir Edward,

some people call affectation, and some impudence. I am afraid that

those who know much of the world never judge rightly of those who know

little of it. Sincerity is a commodity so very rare, I am told, in the

best society, that those who meet with it never believe that they have

got the genuine article."

"I know a good deal of the world," replied the young baronet, "but

yet, my dear Miss Croyland, I do not think that I have judged you

wrongly;" and he fell into thought.

The next moment they turned up to the house of old Mr. Croyland; and

while the servants were holding the horses, and Zara, with the aid of

Sir Edward Digby, dismounting at the door, they saw, to her horror and

consternation, a large, yellow coach coming down the hill towards the

house, which she instantly recognised as her father's family vehicle.

"My aunt, my aunt, upon my life!" exclaimed Zara, with a rueful shake

of the head. "I must speak one word with Edith before she comes; so

forgive me, Sir Edward," and she darted into the house, asking a black

servant, in a shawl turban and a long white gown, where Miss Croyland

was to be found.

"She out in de garden, pretty missy," replied the man; and Zara ran on

through the vestibule before her. Unfortunately, vestibules will have

doors communicating with them, which, I have often remarked, have an

unhappy propensity to open when any one is anxious to pass by them

quietly. It was so in the present instance: roused from a reverie by

the ringing of the bell, and the sound of voices without, Mr. Croyland

issued forth just at the moment when Zara's light foot was carrying

her across to the garden; and catching her by the arm, he detained

her, asking, "What brought you here, saucy girl, and whither are you

running so fast?"

Now Zara, though she was not good Mr. Zachary's favourite, had a very

just appreciation of her uncle's character, and knew that the simple

truth was less dangerous with him than with nine hundred and

ninety-nine persons out of a thousand in civilized society. She,

therefore, replied at once. "Don't stop me, uncle, there's a good man!

I came to speak a few words to Edith, and wish to speak them before my

aunt arrives."

"What! plot and counterplot, I will warrant!" exclaimed Mr. Croyland,

freeing her arm. "Well, get you gone, you graceless monkey! Ha! who

have we here? Why, my young friend, the half-bottle man! Are you one

of the plotters too, Sir Edward?"

"Oh, I am a complete master in the art of domestic strategy, I assure

you," answered the young officer, "and I propose--having heard what

Miss Croyland has just said--that we take up a position across these

glass doors, in order to favour her operations. We can then impede

the advance of Mrs. Barbara's corps, by throwing forward the

light-infantry of small-talk, assure her it is a most beautiful day,

tell her that the view from the hill is lovely, and that the slight

yellowness of September gives a fine warmth to the green foliage--with

various other pieces of information which she does not desire--till

the man[oe]uvres in our rear are complete."

"Ah, you are a sad knave," replied Mr. Zachary Croyland, laughing,

"and, I see, are quite ready to aid the young in bamboozling the old."

But, alas, the best schemed campaign is subject to accidental

impediments in execution, which will often deprive it of success!

Almost as Mr. Croyland spoke, the carriage rolled up; and not small

was the horror of the master of the house, to see riding behind it, on

a tall grey horse, no other than young Richard Radford. Sir Edward

Digby, though less horrified, was not well pleased; but it was Mr.

Croyland who spoke, and that in rather a sharp and angry tone,

stepping forward, at the same time, over the threshold of his door:

"Mr. Radford," he said--"Mr. Radford, I am surprised to see you! You

must very well know, that although I tolerate, and am obliged to

tolerate, a great many people whom I don't approve, at my brother's

house, your society is not that which I particularly desire."

Young Radford's eyes flashed, but, for once in his life, he exercised

some command over himself. "I came here at your sister's suggestion,

sir," he said.

"Oh, Barbara, Barbara! barbarous Barbara!" exclaimed Mr. Zachary

Croyland, shaking his head at his sister, who was stepping out of the

carriage. "The devil himself never invented an instrument better

fitted to torment the whole human race, than a woman with the best

intentions in the world."

"Why, my dear brother," said Mrs. Barbara, with the look of a martyr,

"you know quite well that Robert wishes Mr. Radford to have the

opportunity of paying his addresses to Edith, and so I proposed----"

"He shan't have the opportunity here, by Vishnoo!" cried the old

gentleman.

"To say the truth," said Mr. Radford, interposing, "such was not my

object in coming hither to-day. I wished to have the honour of saying

a few words to a gentleman I see standing behind you, sir, which was

also the motive of my going over to Harbourne House. Otherwise, well

knowing your prejudices, I should not have troubled you; for, I can

assure you, that _your_ company is not particularly agreeable to

_me_."

"If mine is what you want, sir," replied Sir Edward Digby, stepping

forward and passing Mr. Croyland, "it is very easily obtained; but, as

it seems you are not a welcome guest here, perhaps we had better walk

along the lane together."

"A less distance than that will do," answered Richard Radford,

throwing the bridle of his horse to one of the servants, and taking

two or three steps away from the house.

"Oh, Zachary, my dear brother, do interfere!" exclaimed Mrs. Barbara.

"I forgot they had quarrelled yesterday morning, and unfortunately let

out that Sir Edward was here. There will be a duel, if you don't stop

them."

"Not I," cried Mr. Croyland, rubbing his hands; "it's a pleasure to

see two fools cut each other's throats. I'd lay any wager--if I ever

did such a thing as lay wagers at all--that Digby pricks him through

the midriff. There's a nice little spot at the end of the garden quite

fit for such exercises."

Mr. Zachary Croyland was merely playing upon his sister's

apprehensions, as the best sort of punishment he could inflict for the

mischief she had brought about; but he never had the slightest idea

that Sir Edward Digby and young Radford would come to anything like

extreme measures in his sister's presence, knowing the one to be a

gentleman, and mistakenly believing the other to be a coward. The

conversation of the two who had walked away was not of long duration:

nor, for a time, did it appear very vehement. Mr. Radford said

something, and the young Baronet replied; Mr. Radford rejoined, and

Digby answered the rejoinder. Then some new observation was made by

the other, which seemed to cause Sir Edward to look round to the

house, and, seeing Mr. Croyland and his sister still on the step, to

make a sign for young Radford to follow to a greater distance. The

latter, however, planted the heel of his boot tight in the gravel, as

if to give emphasis to what he said, and uttered a sentence in a

louder tone, and with a look so fierce, meaning, and contemptuous,

that Mr. Croyland saw the matter was getting serious, and stepped

forward to interfere.

In an instant, however, Sir Edward Digby, apparently provoked beyond

bearing, raised the heavy horsewhip which he had in his hand, and laid

it three or four times, with great rapidity, over Mr. Radford's

shoulders. The young man instantly dropped his own whip, drew his

sword, and made a fierce lunge at the young officer's breast. The

motion was so rapid, and the thrust so well aimed, that Digby had

barely time to put it aside with his riding-whip, receiving a wound in

his left shoulder as he did so. But the next moment his sword was also

out of the sheath, and, after three sharp passes, young Radford's

blade was flying over the neighbouring hedge, and a blow in the face

from the hilt of Sir Edward Digby's weapon brought him with his knee

to the ground.

The whole of this scene passed as quick as lightning; and I have not

thought fit to interrupt the narration for the purpose of recording,

in order, the four, several, piercing shrieks with which Mrs. Barbara

Croyland accompanied each act of the drama. The first, however, was

loud enough to call Zara from the garden, even before she had found

her sister; and she came up to her aunt's side just at the moment that

young Radford was disarmed, and then struck in the face by his

opponent.

Slightly heated, Sir Edward gazed at him with his weapon in his hand;

and the young lady, clasping her hands, exclaimed aloud, "Hold, Sir

Edward! Sir Edward! for Heaven's sake!"

Sir Edward Digby turned round with a faint smile, thrust his sword

back into the sheath, and, without bestowing another word on his

adversary, walked slowly back to the door of the house, and apologized

to Mrs. Barbara for what had occurred, saying, "I beg you ten thousand

pardons, my dear madam, for treating you to such a sight as this; but

I can assure you it is not my seeking. That person, who failed to keep

an appointment with me yesterday, thought fit twice just now to call

me coward; and as he would not walk to a little distance, I had no

resource but to horsewhip him where I stood."

"Pity you didn't ran him through the liver!" observed Mr. Croyland.

While these few words were passing, young Radford rose slowly, paused

for an instant to gaze upon the ground, and then, gnawing his lip,

approached his horse's side. There is, perhaps, no passion of the

human heart more dire, more terrible than impotent revenge, or more

uncontrollable in its effect upon the human countenance. The face of

Richard Radford, handsome as it was in many respects, was at the

moment when he put his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up to

the saddle, perfectly frightful, from the fiend-like expression of

rage and disappointment that it bore. He felt that he was

powerless--for a time, at least; that he had met an adversary greatly

superior to himself, both in skill and strength; and that he had

suffered not only defeat but disgrace, before the eyes of a number of

persons whom his own headstrong fury had made spectators of a scene so

painful to himself. Reining his horse angrily back to clear him of the

carriage, he shook his fist at Sir Edward Digby, exclaiming, "Sooner

or later, I will have revenge!" Then, striking the beast's flank with

his spurs, he turned and galloped away.

Digby had, as we have seen, addressed his apologies to Mrs. Barbara

Croyland; but after hearing, with a calm smile, his vanquished

opponent's empty threat, he looked round to the fair companion of his

morning's ride, and saw her standing beside her uncle, with her cheek

very pale and her eyes cast down to the ground.

"Do not be alarmed. Miss Croyland," he said, bending down his head,

and speaking in a low and gentle tone. "This affair can have no other

results. It is all over now."

Zara raised her eyes to his face, but, as she did so, turned more pale

than before; and pointing to his arm--where the cloth of his coat was

cut through, and the blood flowing down over his sleeve and dropping

from the ruffle round his wrist--she exclaimed, "You are hurt, Sir

Edward! Good Heaven! he has wounded you!"

"A scratch--a scratch," said Digby; "a mere nothing. A

pocket-handkerchief tied round it, will soon remedy all the mischief

he has done, though not all he intended."

"Oh! come in--come in, and have it examined!" cried Zara, eagerly.

The rest of the party gathered round, joined, just at that moment, by

Edith from the garden; and Mr. Croyland, tearing the coat wider open,

looked at the wound with more experienced eyes, saying, "Ah, a flesh

wound! but in rather an awkward place. Not as wide as a church door,

nor as deep as a draw-well, as our friend has it; but if it had been

an inch and a half to the right, it would have divided the subclavian

artery--and then, my dear sir, 'it would have done.' This will get

well soon. But come, Sir Neddy, let us into the house; and I will do

for you what I haven't done for ten or twelve years--_id est_, dress

your wound myself: and mind, you must not drink any wine to-night."

The whole party began to move into the house, Sir Edward Digby keeping

as near the two Miss Croylands as possible, and laying out a little

plan in his head for begging the assistance of Mrs. Barbara while his

wound was dressed, and sending the two young ladies out of the room to

hold their conference together. He was, however, destined to be

frustrated here also. To Zara Croyland, it had been a day of unusual

excitement; she had enjoyed, she had been moved, she had been agitated

and terrified, and she was still under much greater alarm than perhaps

was needful, both regarding Sir Edward Digby's wound and the threat

which young Radford had uttered. She felt her head giddy and her heart

flutter as if oppressed; but she walked on steadily enough for four or

five steps, while her aunt, Mrs. Barbara, was explaining to Edith, in

her own particular way, all that had occurred. But just when the old

lady was saying--"Then, whipping out his sword in an instant, he

thrust at Sir Edward's breast, and I thought to a certainty he was run

through--" Zara sunk slowly down, caught by her sister as she fell,

and the hue of death spread over her face.

"Fainted!" cried Mr. Croyland. "I wish to Heaven, Bab, you would hold

your tongue! I will tell Edith about it afterwards. What's the use of

bringing it all up again before the girl's mind, when the thing's done

and over? There, let her lie where she is; the recumbent position is

the right thing. Bring a cushion out of the drawing-room, Edith, my

love, and ask Baba for the hartshorn drops. We'll soon get her better;

and then the best thing you can do, Bab, is to put her into the

carriage, take her home again, and hold your tongue to my brother

about this foolish affair--if anything can hold a woman's tongue. I'll

plaster up the man's arm, and then, like many another piece of damaged

goods, he'll be all right--on the outside at least."

Mrs. Barbara Croyland followed devoutly one part of her brother's

injunctions. As soon as Zara was sufficiently recovered, she hurried

her to the carriage, without leaving her alone with Edith for one

moment; and Sir Edward Digby, having had his wound skilfully dressed

by Mr. Zachary Croyland's own hands, thanked the old gentleman

heartily for his care and kindness, mounted his horse, and rode back

to Harbourne House.

CHAPTER II.

We must now return to the town of Hythe, and to the little room in the

little inn, which that famous borough boasted as its principal

hostelry, at the period of our tale. It was about eleven o'clock at

night, perhaps a few minutes earlier; and in that room was seated a

gentleman, whom we have left for a long time, though not without

interest in himself and his concerns. But, as in this wayfaring world

we are often destined for weeks, months--ay, and long years--to quit

those whom we love best, and to work for their good in distant scenes,

with many a thought given to them, but few means of communication; so,

in every picture of human life which comprises more than one

character, must we frequently leave those in whom we are most

interested, while we are tracing out the various remote cords and

pulleys of fate, by which the fabric of their destiny is ultimately

reared.

The gentleman, then, who had been introduced to Mr. Croyland as

Captain Osborne, was seated at a table, writing. A number of papers,

consisting of letters, accounts, and several printed forms, unfilled

up, were strewed upon the table around, which was moreover encumbered

by a heavy sword and belt, a large pair of thick buckskin gloves, and

a brace of heavy silver-mounted pistols. He looked pale and somewhat

anxious; but nevertheless he went on, with his fine head bent, and

the light falling from above upon his beautifully cut classical

features--sometimes putting down a name, and adding a sum in figures

opposite--sometimes, when he came to the bottom of the page, running

up the column with rapidity and ease, and then inscribing the sum

total at the bottom.

It was perhaps, rather an unromantic occupation that the young officer

was employed in; for it was evident that he was making up, with steady

perseverance, some rather lengthy accounts; and all his thoughts

seemed occupied with pounds, shillings, and pence. It was not so,

indeed, though he wished it to be so; but, if the truth must be

spoken, his mind often wandered afar; and his brain seemed to have got

into that state of excitement, which caused sounds and circumstances

that would at any other time have passed without notice, to trouble

him and disturb his ideas on the present occasion.

There had been a card and punch club in one of the neighbouring rooms.

The gentlemen had assembled at half-past six or seven, had hung up

their wigs upon pegs provided for the purpose, and had made a great

deal of noise in coming in and arranging themselves. There was then

the brewing of the punch, the lighting of the pipes, and the laughing

and jesting to which those important events generally give rise, at

the meeting of persons of some importance in a country town; and then

the cards were produced, and a great deal of laughing and talking, as

usual, succeeded, in regard to the preliminaries, and also respecting

the course of the game.

There had been no slight noise, also, in the lower regions of the inn,

much speaking, and apparently some merriment; and, from all these

things put together--to say nothing of, every now and then, the

pleasures of a comic song, given by one of the parties above or

below--the young officer had been considerably disturbed, and had been

angry with himself for being so. His thoughts, too, would wander,

whether he liked it or not.

"Digby must have seen her," he said to himself, "unless she be absent;

and surely he must have found some opportunity of speaking with

herself or her sister by this time. I wonder I have not heard from

him. He promised to write as soon as he had any information; and he is

not a man to forget. Well, it is of no use to think of it;" and he

went on--"five and six are eleven, and four are fifteen, and six are

twenty-one."

At this interesting point of his calculation, a dragoon, who was

stationed at the door, put his head into the room, and said, "Mr.

Mowle, sir, wants to speak to you."

"Let him come in," answered the officer; and, laying down his pen, he

looked up with a smile. "Well, Mr. Mowle!" he continued, "what news do

you bring? Have you been successful?"

"No very good news, and but very little success, sir," answered the

officer of customs, taking a seat to which the other pointed. "We have

captured some of their goods, and taken six of the men, but the

greater part of the cargo, and the greatest villain of them all, have

been got off."

"Ay, how happened that?" asked the gentleman to whom he spoke. "I gave

you all the men you required; and I should certainly have thought you

were strong enough."

"Oh yes, sir, that was not what we lacked," answered Mowle, in a

somewhat bitter tone; "but I'll tell you what we did want--honest

magistrates, and good information. Knowing the way they were likely to

take, I cut straight across the country by Aldington, Kingsnorth, and

Singleton-green, towards Four Elms----"

"It would have been better, I should think, to go on by Westhawk,"

said the young officer; "for though the road is rather hilly, you

would by that means have cut them off, both from Singleton, Chart

Magna, and Gouldwell, towards which places, I think you said, they

were tending.

"Yes, sir," replied the officer of Customs, "but we found, on the

road, that we were rather late in the day, and that our only chance

was by hard riding. We came up with four of them, however, who had

lagged behind, about Four Elms. Two of these we got, and all their

goods; and, from the information they gave, we galloped on as hard as

we could to Rousend."

"Did you take the road, or across the country?" demanded the young

officer.

"Birchett would take the road," answered Mowle.

"He was wrong--he was quite wrong," replied the other. "If you had

passed by Newstreet, then straight over the fields and meadows, up to

the mill, you would have had them in a trap. They could not have

reached Chart, or New Purchase, or Gouldwell, or Etchden, without your

catching them; and if they had fallen back, they must have come upon

the men I stationed at Bethersden, with whom was Adams, the officer."

"Why, you seem to know the country, sir," said his companion, with

some surprise, "as if you had lived in it all your days."

"I do know it very well," answered the officer of dragoons; "and you

must be well aware that what I say is right. It was the shortest way,

too, and presents no impediments but a couple of fences, and a ditch."

"All very true, sir," answered Mowle, "and so I told Birchett; but

Adams had gone off for another officer, and is very little use to us

himself.--There's no trusting him, sir.--However, we came up with them

at Rousend, but there, after a little bit of a tussle, they

separated;" and he went on to give his account of the affray with the

smugglers, nearly in the same words which he had employed when

speaking to the magistrates, some six or seven hours before. His

hearer listened with grave attention; but when Mowle came to mention

the appearance of Richard Radford, and his capture, the young

officer's eyes flashed, and his brow knit; and as the man went on to

describe the self-evident juggle which had been played, to enable the

youth to evade the reach of justice, he rose from the table, and

walked once or twice hastily up and down the room. Then, seating

himself again, to all appearance as calm as before, he said, "This is

too bad, Mr. Mowle, and shall be reported."

"Ay, sir; but you have not heard the worst," answered Mowle. "These

worthy justices thought fit to send the five men whom they had

committed, off to gaol in a wagon, with three or four constables to

guard them, and of course you know what took place."

"Oh, they were all rescued, of course!" replied the officer.

"Before they got to Headcorn," said Mowle. "But the whole affair was

arranged by Mr. Radford; for these fellows say themselves, that it is

better to work for him at half price, than for any one else, because

he always stands by his own, and will see no harm come to them. If

this is to go on, sir, you and I may as well leave the county."

"It shall not go on," answered the officer; "but we must have a little

patience, my good friend. Long impunity makes a man rash. This worthy

Mr. Radford seems to have become so already; otherwise, he would never

have risked carrying so large a venture across the country in open

day----"

"I don't think that, in this, he was rash at all, sir," answered

Mowle, lowering his tone, and speaking in a whisper; "and if you will

listen for a moment, I'll tell you why. My belief is, that the whole

of this matter is but a lure to take us off the right scent; and I

have several reasons for thinking so. In the first place, the run was

but a trifling affair, as far as I can learn--not worth five hundred

pounds. I know that what we have got is not worth a hundred; and it

has cost me as good a horse as I ever rode in my life. Now from all I

hear, the cargo that Mr. Radford expects is the most valuable that

ever was run from Dungeness Point to the North Foreland. So, if my

information is correct, and I am sure it----"

"Who did you get it from?" demanded the officer, "if the question is a

fair one."

"Some such questions might not be," answered Mowle, "but I don't mind

answering this, Colonel. I got it from Mr. Radford himself.--Ay, sir,

you may well look surprised; but I heard him, with my own ears, say

that it was worth at least seventy thousand pounds. So you see my

information is pretty good. Now, knowing this, as soon as I found out

what value was in this lot, I said to myself, this is some little spec

of young Radford's own. But when I came to consider the matter, I

found, that must be a mistake too; for the old man helped the Ramleys

out of their scrape so impudently, and took such pains to let it be

well understood that he had an interest in the affair, that I felt

sure there was some motive at the bottom, sir. In all these things, he

has shown himself from a boy, as cautious as he is daring, and that's

the way he has made such a power of money. He's not a man to appear

too much in a thing, even for his son's sake, if he has not some

purpose to answer; and, depend upon it, I'm right, when I say that

this run was nothing but a trap, or a blind as they call it, to make

us think--in case we've got any information of the great venture--that

the thing is all over. Why did they choose the day, when they might

have done it all at night? Why did Mr. Radford go on laughing with the

magistrates, as if it was a good joke? No, no, sir, the case is clear

enough: they are going to strike their great stroke sooner than we

supposed; and this is but a trifle."

"But may you not have made some mistake in regard to Mr. Radford's

words?" demanded the young officer. "I should think it little likely

that so prudent a man, as you represent him to be, would run so great

a risk for such a purpose."

"I made no mistake," answered Mowle; "I heard the words clear enough;

and, besides, I've another proof. The man who is to run the goods for

him, had nothing to do with this affair. I've got sharp eyes upon him;

and though he was away from home the other night, he was not at sea.

That I've discovered. He was up in the county, not far from Mr.

Radford's own place, and most likely saw him, though that I can't find

out. However, sir, I shall hear more very soon. Whenever it is to be

done, we shall have sharp work of it, and must have plenty of men."

"My orders are to assist you to the best of my power," said the young

officer, "and to give you what men you may require; but as I have been

obliged to quarter them in different places, you had better give me as

speedy information of what force you are likely to demand, and on what

point you wish them to assemble, as you can."

"Those are puzzling questions, Colonel," replied Mowle. "I do not

think the attempt will be made to-night; for their own people must be

all knocked up, and they cannot bring down enough to carry as well as

run--at least, I think not. But it will probably be made to-morrow, if

they fancy they have lulled us; and that fancy I shall take care to

indulge, by keeping a sharp look out, without seeming to look out at

all. As to the point, that is what I cannot tell. Harding will start

from the beach here; but where he will land is another affair; and the

troops are as likely to be wanted twenty miles down the coast, or

twenty miles up, as anywhere else. I wish you would give me a general

order for the dragoons to assist me wherever I may want them."

"That is given already, Mr. Mowle," answered the officer; "such are

the commands we have received; and even the non-commissioned officers

are instructed, on the very first requisition made by a chief officer

of Customs, to turn out and aid in the execution of the law. Wherever

any of the regiment are quartered, you will find them ready to

assist."

"Ay, but they are so scattered, sir," rejoined Mowle, "that it may be

difficult to get them together in a hurry."

"Not in the least," replied Osborne; "they are so disposed that I can,

at a very short notice, collect a sufficient force, at any point, to

deal with the largest body of smugglers that ever assembled."

"You may, perhaps, sir, but I cannot," answered the Custom-House

officer; "and what I wish is, that you would give them a general order

to march to any place where I require them, and to act as I shall

direct."

"Nay, Mr. Mowle," said the other, shaking his head, "that, I am

afraid, cannot be. I have no instructions to such effect; and though

the military power is sent here, to assist the civil, it is not put

under the command of the civil. I do not conceal from you that I do

not like the service; but that shall only be a motive with me for

executing my duty the more vigorously; and you have but to give me

intimation of where you wish a force collected, and it shall be done

in the shortest possible time."

Mowle did not seem quite satisfied with this answer; and after

musing for a few minutes, he replied, "But suppose I do not know

myself--suppose it should be fifteen or twenty miles from Hythe, and I

myself, on the spot, how am I to get the requisition sent to you--and

how are you to move your men to the place where I may want

them--perhaps, farther still?".

"As to my moving my men, you must leave that to me," answered the

young officer; "and as to your obtaining the information, and

communicating it, I might reply, that _you_ must look to that; but as

I sincerely believe you to be a most vigilant and active person, who

will leave no means unemployed to obtain intelligence, I will only

point out, in the first place, that our best efforts sometimes fail,

but that we may always rest at ease, when we have used our best; and,

in the second, I will suggest to you one or two means of ensuring

success. Wherever you may happen to find that the landing of these

goods is intended, or wherever you may be when it is effected, you

will find within a circle of three miles, several parties of dragoons,

who, on the first call, will render you every aid. With them, upon the

system I have laid down for them, you will be able to keep your

adversaries in check, delay their operations, and follow them up. Your

first step, however, should be, to send off a trooper to me with all

speed, charging him, if verbally, with as short and plain a message as

possible--first, stating the point where the 'run,' as you call it,

has been effected; and secondly, in what direction, to the best of

your judgment, the enemy--that is to say, the smugglers--are marching.

If you do that, and are right in your conjecture, they shall not go

far without being attacked. If you are wrong, as any man may be, in

regard to their line of retreat, they shall not be long unpursued. But

as to putting the military under the command of the Customs, as I said

before, I have no orders to that effect, and do not think that any

such will ever be issued. In the next place, in order to obtain the

most speedy information yourself, and to ensure that I shall be

prepared, I would suggest that you direct each officer on the coast,

if a landing should be effected in his district, first, to call for

the aid of the nearest military party, and then to light a beacon on

the next high ground. As soon as the first beacon is lighted, let the

next officer on the side of Hythe, light one also, and, at the same

time, with any force he can collect, proceed towards the first. Easy

means may be found to transmit intelligence of the route of the

smugglers to the bodies coming up; and, in a case like the present, I

shall not scruple to take the command myself, at any point where I may

be assured formidable resistance is likely to be offered."

"Well, sir, I think the plan of the beacons is a good one," answered

Mowle, "and it would be still better, if there were any of the coast

officers on whom we could depend; but a more rascally set of mercenary

knaves does not exist. Not one of them who would not sell the whole of

the King's revenue for a twenty pound or so; and, however clear are

the orders they receive, they find means to mistake them. But I will

go and write the whole down, and have it copied out for each station,

so that if they do not choose to understand, it must be their own

fault. I am afraid, however, that all this preparation will put our

friends upon their guard, and that they will delay their run till they

can draw us off somewhere else."

"There is some reason for that apprehension," replied the young

officer, thoughtfully. "You imagine, then, that it is likely to take

place to-morrow night, if we keep quiet?"

"I have little doubt of it," replied Mowle; "or if not, the night

after.--But I think it will be to-morrow. Yes, they won't lose the

opportunity, if they fancy we are slack; and then the superintendent

chose to fall sick to-day, so that the whole rests with me, which will

give me enough to do, as they are well aware."

"Well, then," replied the gentleman to whom he spoke, "leave the

business of the beacons to me. I will give orders that they be lighted

at every post, as soon as application is made for assistance. You will

know what it means when you see one; and, in the meantime, keep quite

quiet--affect a certain degree of indifference, but not too much, and

speak of having partly spoiled Mr. Radford's venture.--Do you think he

will be present himself?"

"Oh, not he--not he!" answered Mowle. "He is too cunning for that, by

a hundred miles. In any little affair like this of to-day, he might

not, perhaps, be afraid of showing himself--to answer a purpose; but

in a more serious piece of business, where his brother justices could

not contrive to shelter him, and where government would certainly

interfere, he will keep as quiet and still as if he had nought to do

with it. But I will have him, nevertheless, before long; and then all

his ill-gotten wealth shall go, even if we do not contrive to

transport him."

"How will you manage that?" asked the young officer; "if he abstains

from taking any active part, you will have no proof, unless, indeed,

one of those he employs should give evidence against him, or inform

beforehand for the sake of the reward."

"They wont do that," said Mowle, thoughtfully, "they wont do

that.--I do not know how it is, sir," he continued, after a moment's

pause, "but the difference between the establishment of the Customs

and the smugglers is a very strange one; and I'll tell you what it is:

there is not one of these fellows who run goods upon the coast, or

carry them inland, who will, for any sum that can be offered, inform

against their employers or their comrades; and there's scarce a

Custom-House officer in all Kent, that, for five shillings, would not

betray his brother or sell his country. The riding officers are

somewhat better than the rest; but these fellows at the ports think no

more of taking a bribe to shut their eyes than of drinking a glass of

rum. Now you may attempt to bribe a smuggler for ever--not that I ever

tried; for I don't like to ask men to sell their own souls; but

Birchett has, often. I cannot well make out the cause of this

difference; but certainly there is such a spirit amongst the smugglers

that they wont do a dishonest thing, except in their own way, for any

sum. There are the Ramleys, even--the greatest blackguards in Europe,

smugglers, thieves, and cut-throats--but they wont betray each other.

There is no crime they wont commit but that; and that they would

sooner die than do; while we have a great many men amongst us, come of

respectable parents, well brought up, well educated, who take money

every day to cheat their employers."

"I rather suspect that it is the difference of consequences in the two

cases," answered Osborne, "which makes men view the same act in a

different way. A Custom-House officer who betrays his trust, thinks

that he only brings a little loss upon a government which can well

spare it--he is not a bit the less a rogue for that, for honesty makes

no such distinctions--but the smuggler who betrays his comrade or

employer, must be well aware that he is not only ruining him in purse,

but bringing on him corporeal punishment."

"Ay, sir, but there's a spirit in the thing," said Mowle, shaking his

head; "the very country people in general love the smugglers, and help

them whenever they can. There's not a cottage that will not hide them

or their goods; scarce a gentleman in the county who, if he finds all

the horses out of his stable in the morning, does not take it quietly,

without asking any more questions; scarce a magistrate who does not

give the fellows notice as soon as he knows the officers are after

them. The country folks, indeed, do not like them so well as they did;

but they'll soon make it up."

"A strange state, certainly," said the officer of dragoons; "but what

has become of the horses you mention, when they are thus found

absent?"

"Gone to carry goods, to be sure," answered Mowle. "But one thing is

very clear, all the country is in the smugglers' favour, and I cannot

help thinking that the people do not like the Custom's dues, that they

don't see the good of them, and are resolved to put them down."

"Ignorant people, and, indeed, all people, do not like taxation of any

kind," replied Osborne; "and every class objects to that tax which

presses on itself, without the slightest regard either for the

necessity of distributing the burdens of the country equally, or any

of the apparently minute but really important considerations upon

which the apportionment has been formed. However, Mr. Mowle, we have

only to do our duty according to our position--you to gain all the

information that you can--I to aid you, to the best of my ability, in

carrying the law into effect."

"From the smugglers themselves, little is the information I can get,

sir," answered Mowle, returning to the subject from which their

conversation had deviated, "and often I am obliged to have recourse to

means I am ashamed of. The principal intelligence I receive is from a

boy who offered himself one day--the little devil's imp--and

certainly, by his cunning, and by not much caring myself what risks I

run, I have got some very valuable tidings. But the little vagabond

would betray me, or anyone else, to-morrow. He is the grandson of an

old hag who lives at a little hut just by Saltwood, who puts him up to

it all; and if ever there was an old demon in the world she is one.

She is always brewing mischief, and chuckling over it all the time, as

if it were her sport to see men tear each other to pieces, and to make

innocent girls as bad as she was herself, and as her own daughter was,

too,--the mother of this boy. The girl was killed by a chance shot,

one day, in a riot between the smugglers and the Customs people; and

the old woman always says it was a smuggler's shot. Oh! I could tell

you such stories of that old witch."

The stories of Mr. Mowle, however, were cut short by the entrance of a

servant carrying a letter, which the young officer took and opened

with a look of eager anxiety. The contents were brief; but they seemed

important, for various were the changes which came over his fine

countenance while he read them. The predominant expression, however,

was joy, though there was a look of thoughtful consideration--perhaps

in a degree of embarrassment, too, on his face; and as he laid the

letter down on the table, and beat the paper with his fingers, gazing

up into vacancy, Mowle, judging that his presence was not desired,

rose to retire.

"Stay a moment. Mr. Mowle--stay a moment," said Osborne. "This letter

requires some consideration. It contains a call to a part of Kent some

fifteen or sixteen miles distant; but as it is upon private business,

I must not let that interfere with my public duty. You say that this

enterprise of Mr. Radford's is likely to be put in execution to-morrow

night."

"I cannot be sure, colonel," answered the officer: "but I think there

is every chance of it."

"Then I must return before nightfall to-morrow," replied the

gentleman, with a sigh.

"Your presence will be very necessary, sir," said the Custom-House

officer. "There is not one of your officers who seems up to the

business, except Major Digby and yourself. All the rest are such fine

gentlemen that one can't get on with them."

"Let me consider for a moment," rejoined the other; but Mowle went on

in the same strain, saying, "Then, sir, if you were to be absent all

to-morrow, I might get very important information, and not be able to

give it to you, nor arrange anything with you either."

Osborne still meditated with a grave brow for some time. "I will

write," he said, at length. "It will be better--it will be only just

and honourable. I will write instead of going to-morrow, Mr. Mowle;

and if this affair should not take place to-morrow night, as you

suppose, I will make such arrangements for the following day--on which

I must go over to Woodchurch--as will enable you to communicate with

me without delay, should you have any message to send. At all events,

I will return to Hythe before night. Now good evening;" and while

Mowle made his bow and retired, the young officer turned to the letter

again, and read it over with glistening eyes.

CHAPTER III.

I wonder if the reader ever wandered from Saltwood Castle back to the

good old town of Hythe, on a fine summer's day, with a fair companion,

as full of thought and mind as grace and beauty, and with a dear child

just at the age when all the world is fresh and lovely--and then

missed his way, and strayed--far from the track--towards Sandgate,

till dinner was kept waiting at the inn, and the party who would not

plod on foot, were all tired and wondering at their friend's delay!--I

wonder if the reader ever did all this. I have--and a very pleasant

thing it is to do. Yes, all of it, reader. For, surely, to go from

waving wood to green field, and from green field to hill-side and wood

again, and to trace along the brook which we know must lead to the

sea-shore, with one companion of high soul, who can answer thought for

thought, and another in life's early morning, who can bring back

before your eyes the picture of young enjoyment--ay, and to know that

those you love most dearly and esteem most highly, are looking for

your coming, with a little anxiety, not even approaching the bounds of

apprehension, is all very pleasant indeed.

You, dear and excellent lady, who were one of my companions on the

way, may perhaps recollect a little cottage--near the spot where we

sprung a solitary partridge--whither I went to inquire the shortest

road to Hythe. That cottage was standing there at the period of which

I now write; and at the bottom of that hill, amongst the wood, and

close by the little stream nearly where the foot-bridge now carries

the traveller over dryshod, was another hut, half concealed by the

trees, and covered over with well nigh as much moss and houseleek as

actual thatch.

It has been long swept away, as well as its tenants; and certainly a

wretched and ill-constructed place it was. Would to Heaven that all

such were gone from our rich and productive land, and that every

labourer, in a country which owes so much to the industry of her

children, had a dwelling better fitted to a human being! But, alas,

many such still exist! and it is not always, as it was in this case,

that vice is the companion of misery. This is no book of idle twaddle,

to represent all the wealthy as cold, hard, and vicious, and the poor

all good, forbearing, and laborious; for evil is pretty equally

distributed through all classes--though, God knows, the rich, with all

their opportunities, ought to shew a smaller proportion of wickedness,

and the poor might perhaps be expected, from their temptations, to be

worse than they are! Still it is hard to think that many as honest a

man as ever lived--ay, and as industrious a man, too--returns, after

his hard day's toil, to find his wife and children, well nigh in

starvation, in such a place as I am about to describe--and none to

help them.

The hut--for it did not deserve the name of cottage--was but of one

floor, which was formed of beaten clay, but a little elevated above

the surrounding soil. It contained two rooms. The one opened into what

had been a garden before it, running down nearly to the brookside; and

the other communicated with the first, but had a door which gave exit

into the wood behind. Windows the hut had two, one on either side; but

neither contained more than two complete panes of glass. The spaces,

where glass had once been, were now filled up in a strange variety of

ways. Here was a piece of board nailed in; there a coarse piece of

cloth kept out the wind; another broken pane was filled up with paper;

and another, where some fragments of the original substance remained,

was stopped with an old stocking stuffed with straw. In the garden, as

it was still called, appeared a few cabbages and onions, with more

cabbage-stalks than either, and a small patch of miserable potatoes.

But weeds were the most plentiful of all, and chickweed and groundsel

enough appeared there to have supplied a whole forest of singing

birds. It had been once fenced in, that miserable garden; but the wood

had been pulled down and burned for firing by its present tenants, or

others as wretched in circumstances as themselves; and nought remained

but a strong post here and there, with sometimes a many-coloured rag

of coarse cotton fluttering upon some long, rusty nail, which had

snatched a shred from passing poverty. Three or four stunted

gooseberry bushes, however, marked out the limit on one side; a path

ran in front between the garden and the brook; and on the other side

there was a constant petty warfare between the farmer and the

inhabitant of the hovel as to the possession of the border-land; and

like a great and small state contending, the more powerful always

gained some advantage in despite of right, but lost perhaps as much by

the spiteful incursions of the foe, as if he had yielded the contested

territory.

On the night of which I speak--the same on which Mowle visited the

commanding officer of the dragoons at Hythe--the cottage itself, the

garden, and all the squalid-looking things about the place, were

hidden in the deep darkness which had again fallen over the earth as

soon as night had fallen. The morning, it may be remembered--it

was the same on which Sir Edward Digby had been fired at by the

smugglers--had been somewhat cold and foggy; but about eleven, the day

had brightened, and the evening had been sultry. No sooner, however,

did the sun reach the horizon than mists began to rise, and before

seven o'clock the whole sky was under cloud and the air filled with

fog. He must have been well acquainted with every step of the country

who could find his way from town to town. Nevertheless, any one who

approached Galley Ray's cottage, as it was called, would, at the

distance of at least a hundred yards, have perceived something to lead

him on; for a light, red as that of a baleful meteor, was streaming

through the two glazed squares of the window into the misty air,

making them look like the eyes of some wild animal in a dark forest.

We must pause here, however, for a moment, to explain to the reader

who Galley Ray was, and how she acquired the first of her two

appellations, which certainly was not that which she had received at

her baptism. Galley Ray, then, was the old woman of whom Mr. Mowle had

given that favourable account, which may be seen in the last chapter;

and, to say the truth, he had but done her justice. Her name was

originally Gillian Ray; but, amongst a number of corrupt associates,

with whom her early life was spent, the first of the two appellations

was speedily transformed to Gilly or Gill. Some time afterwards--when

youth began to wane, and whatever youthful graces she possessed were

deviating into the virago qualities of the middle age--while watching

one night the approach of a party of smugglers, with whom she had some

intimacy, she perceived three or four Custom-House officers coming

down to launch a galley, which they had upon the beach, for the

purpose of cutting off the free-traders. But Gilly Ray instantly

sprang in, and with the boat-hook set them all at defiance, till they

threatened to launch her into the sea, boat and all.

It is true, she was reported to have been drunk at the time; but her

daring saved the smugglers, and conveyed her for two months to jail,

whence, as may be supposed, she returned not much improved in her

morals. One of those whom she had befriended in the time of need,

bestowed on her the name of Galley, by an easy transition from her

original prænomen; and it remained by her to the last day of her life.

The reader has doubtless remarked, that amongst the lawless and the

rash, there is a certain fondness for figures of speech, and that

tropes and metaphors, simile and synecdoche, are far more prevalent

amongst them than amongst the more orderly classes of society. Whether

it is or not, that they wish to get rid of a precise apprehension of

their own acts, I cannot say; but certain it is, that they do indulge

in such flowers of rhetoric, and sometimes, in the midst of humour,

quaintness, and even absurdity, reach the point of wit, and at times

soar into the sublime. Galley Ray had, as we have seen, one daughter,

whose fate has been related; and that daughter left one son, who,

after his reputed father, one Mark Nightingale, was baptized

Nightingale Ray. His mother, and after her death his grandmother, used

to call him Little Nighty and Little Night; but following their

fanciful habits, the smugglers who used to frequent the house found

out an association between "Night Ray" and the beams of the bright and

mystical orbs that shine upon us from afar; and some one gave him the

name of Little Starlight, which remained with him, as that of Galley

had adhered to his grandmother. The cottage or hut of the latter,

then, beamed with an unwonted blaze upon the night I have spoken of,

till long after the hour when Mowle had left the inn where his

conference with the young officer had taken place. But let not the

reader suppose that this illumination proceeded from any great expense

of wax or oil. Only one small tallow candle, stuck into a long-necked,

square-sided Dutch bottle, spread its rays through the interior of the

hovel, and that was a luxury; but in the fireplace blazed an immense

pile of mingled wood and driftcoal; and over it hung a large hissing

pot, as huge and capacious as that of the witches in Macbeth, or of

the no less famous Meg Merrilies. Galley Ray, however, was a very

different person in appearance from the heroine of "Guy Mannering;"

and we must endeavour to call up her image as she stood by the

fire-side, watching the cauldron and a kettle which stood close to it.

The red and fitful light flashed upon no tall, gaunt form, and lighted

up no wild and commanding features. There was nothing at all poetical

in her aspect: it was such as may be seen every day in the haunts of

misery and vice. Originally of the middle height, though once strong

and upright, she had somewhat sunk down under the hand of Time, and

was now rather short than otherwise. About fifty she had grown fat and

heavy; but fifteen years more had robbed her flesh of firmness and her

skin of its plumped out smoothness; and though she had not yet reached

the period when emaciation accompanies decrepitude, her muscles were

loose and hanging, her face withered and sallow. Her hair, once as

black as jet, was now quite grey, not silver--but with the white

greatly predominating over the black. Yet, strange to say, her eyes

were still clear and bright, though small, and somewhat red round the

lids; and, stranger still, her front teeth were white as ivory,

offering a strange contrast to the wrinkled and yellow skin. Her look

was keen; but there was that sort of habitual jocularity about it,

which in people of her caste is often partly assumed--as an ever ready

excuse for evading a close question, or covering a dangerous

suggestion by a jest--and partly natural, or at least springing from a

fearful kind of philosophy, gained by the exhaustion of all sorts of

criminal pleasures, which leaves behind, too surely, the impression

that everything is but a mockery on earth. Those who have adopted that

philosophy never give a thought beyond this world. Her figure was

somewhat bowed, and over her shoulders she had the fragments of a

coarse woollen shawl, from beneath which appeared, as she stirred the

pot, her sharp yellow elbows and long arms. On her head she wore a

cap, which had remained there, night and day, for months; and, thrust

back from her forehead, which was low and heavy, appeared the

dishevelled grey hair, while beneath the thick and beetling brows came

the keen eyes, and a nose somewhat aquiline and depressed at the

point.

Near her, on the opposite side of the hearth, was the boy whom the

reader has already seen, and who has been called little Starlight;

and, even at that late hour, for it was near midnight, he seemed as

brisk and active as ever. Night and day, indeed, appeared to him the

same; for he had none of the habits of childhood. The setting sun

brought no drowsiness to his eyelids: mid-day often found him sleeping

after a night of watchfulness and activity. The whole course of his

existence and his thoughts had been tainted: there was nothing of

youth either in his mind or his ways. The old beldam called him, and

thought him, the shrewdest boy that ever lived; but, in truth, she had

left him no longer a boy, in aught but size and looks. Often--indeed

generally--he would assume the tone of his years, for he found it

served his purpose best; but he only laughed at those who thought him

a child, and prided himself on the cunning of the artifice.

There might be, it is true, some lingering of the faults of youth, but

that was all. He was greedy and voracious, loved sweet things as well

as strong drink, and could not always curb the truant and erratic

spirit of childhood; but still, even in his wanderings there was a

purpose, and often a malevolence. He would go to see what one person

was about; he would stay away because another wanted him. It may be

asked, was this natural wickedness?--was his heart so formed

originally? Oh no, reader; never believe such things. There are

certainly infinite varieties of human character; and I admit that the

mind of man is not the blank sheet of paper on which we can write what

we please, as has been vainly represented. Or, if it be, the

experience of every man must have shown him, that that paper is of

every different kind and quality--some that will retain the finest

line, some that will scarce receive the broadest trace. But still

education has immense power for good or evil. By education I do not

mean teaching. I mean that great and wonderful process by which,

commencing at the earliest period of infancy--ay, at the mother's

breast--the raw material of the mind is manufactured into all the

varieties that we see. I mean the sum of every line with which the

paper is written as it passes from hand to hand. That is education;

and most careful should we be that, at an early period, nought should

be written but good, for every word once impressed is well nigh

indelible.

Now what education had that poor boy received? The people of the

neighbouring village would have said a very good one; for there was

what is called a charity school in the neighbourhood, where he had

been taught to read and write, and cast accounts. But this was

_teaching_, not _education_. Oh, fatal mistake! when will Englishmen

learn to discriminate between the two? His education had been at

home--in that miserable hut--by that wretched woman--by her companions

in vice and crime! What had all the teaching he had received at the

school done for him, but placed weapons in the hand of wickedness? Had

education formed any part of the system of the school where he was

instructed--had he been taught how best to use the gifts that were

imparted--had he been inured to regulate the mind that was stored--had

he been habituated to draw just conclusions from all he read, instead

of merely being taught to read, that would have been in some degree

education, and it might have corrected, to a certain point, the darker

schooling he received at home. Well might the great philosopher, who

in some things most grossly misused the knowledge he himself

possessed, pronounce that "Knowledge is power;" but, alas, he forgot

to add, that it is power _for good or evil!_ That poor child had been

taught that which to him might have been either a blessing or a bane;

but all his real education had been for evil; and there he stood,

corrupted to the heart's core.

"I say, Mother Ray," he exclaimed, "that smells cursed nice--can't you

give us a drop before the coves come?"

"No, no, you young devil," replied the old woman with a grin, "one

can't tell when they'll show their mugs at the door; and it wouldn't

do for them to find you gobbling up their stuff. But bring me that big

porringer, and we'll put by enough for you and me. I've nimmed one

half of the yellow-boy they sent, so we'll have a quart of moonshine

to-morrow to help it down."

"I could get it very well down without," answered little Starlight,

bringing her a large earthen pot, with a cracked cover, into which she

ladled out about half a gallon of the soup.

"There, take and put that far under the bed in t'other room," said the

old woman, adding several expletives of so peculiar and unpleasant a

character, that I must omit them; and, indeed, trusting to the

reader's imagination, I shall beg leave to soften, as far as possible,

the terms of both the boy and his grandmother for the future, merely

premising, that when conversing alone together, hardly a sentence

escaped their lips without an oath or a blasphemy.

Little Starlight soon received the pot from the hands of his worthy

ancestress, and conveyed it into the other room, where he stayed so

long that she called him to come forth, in what, to ordinary ears,

would have seemed the most abusive language, but which, on her lips,

was merely the tone of endearment. He had waited, indeed, to cool the

soup, in order to steal a portion of the stolen food; but finding that

he should be detected if he remained longer, he ventured to put his

finger in to taste it. The result was that he scalded his hand; but he

was sufficiently Spartan to utter no cry or indication of pain; and he

escaped all inquiry; for the moment after he had returned, the door

burst violently open, and some ten or twelve men came pouring in,

nearly filling the little room.

Various were their garbs, and strangely different from each other were

they in demeanour as well as dress. Some were clad in smock-frocks,

and some in sailors' jackets; some looked like respectable tradesmen,

some were clothed in a sort of fanciful costume of their own, smacking

a little of the brigand; and one appeared in the ordinary riding-dress

of a gentleman of that period; but all were well armed, without much

concealment of the pistols, which they carried about them in addition

to the sword that was not uncommonly borne by more than one class in

England at that time. They were all young men except one or two; and

three of the number bore evident marks of some recent affray. One had

a broad strip of plaster all the way down his forehead, another had

his upper lip terribly cut, and a third--the gentleman, as I am bound

to call him, as he assumed the title of Major--had a patch over his

eye, from beneath which appeared several rings of various colours,

which showed that the aforesaid patch was not merely a means of

disguise.

They were all quite familiar with Galley Ray and her grandson; some

slapped her on the shoulder; some pulled her ear; some abused her

horribly in jocular tones; and all called upon her eagerly to set

their supper before them, vowing that they had come twenty miles since

seven o'clock that night, and were as hungry as fox-hunters.

To each and all Galley Ray had something to say in their own

particular way. To some she was civil and coaxing, addressed them as

"gentlemen," and to others slang and abusive, though quite in good

humour, calling them, "you blackguards," and "you varmint," with

sundry other delectable epithets, which I shall forbear to transcribe.

To give value to her entertainment, she of course started every

objection and difficulty in the world against receiving them, asking

how, in the name of the fiend, they could expect her to take in so

many? where she was to get porringers or plates for them all? and

hoping heartily that such a troop weren't going to stay above half an

hour.

"Till to-morrow night, Galley, my chicken," replied the Major. "Come,

don't make a fuss. It must be so, and you shall be well paid. We shall

stay in here to-night; and to-morrow we shall take to cover in the

wood; but young Radford will come down some time in the day, and then

you must send up little Starlight to us, to let me know."

The matter of the supper was soon arranged to their contentment. Some

had tea-cups, and some saucers; some had earthen pans, some wooden

platters. Two were honoured with china plates; and the large pot being

taken off the fire, and set on the ground in the midst of them, each

helped himself, and went on with his meal. A grand brewing of smuggled

spirits and water then commenced; and a number of horn cups were

handed round, not enough, indeed, for all the guests; but each vessel

was made to serve two or three; and the first silence of hunger being

over, a wild, rambling, and desultory conversation ensued, to which

both Galley Ray and her grandson lent an attentive ear.

The Major said something to the man with the cut upon his brow, to

which the other replied, by condemning his own soul, if he did not

blow Harding's brains out--if it were true. "But, I don't believe it,"

he continued. "He's no friend of mine; but he's not such a blackguard

as to peach."

"So I think; but Dick Radford says he is sure he did," answered the

Major; "Dick fancies that he's jealous of not having had yesterday's

job too, and that's why he spoiled it. We know he was up about that

part of the country on the pretence of his seeing his Dolly; but

Radford says he went to inform, and that he'll wring his liver out, as

soon as this job of his father's is over."

A torrent of blasphemies poured forth by almost every person present

followed, and they all called down the most horrid condemnation on

their own heads, if they did not each lend a hand to punish the

informer. In the midst of this storm of big words, Galley Ray put her

mouth to the Major's ear, saying, "I could tell young Radford how he

could wring his heart out, and that's better than his liver. There's

no use of trying to kill him, for he doesn't care two straws about

that. Sharp steel and round lead are what he looks for every day. But

I could show you how to plague him worse."

"Why, you old brute," replied the Major, "you're a friend of his!--But

you may tell him, if you like. We have all sworn it, and we'll do it;

only hold your tongue till after to-morrow night, or I'll cure your

bacon for you."

"I'm no friend of his," cried Galley Ray. "The infernal devil, wasn't

it he that shot my girl, Meg? Ay, ay, I know he says he didn't, and

that he didn't fire a pistol that day, but kept all to the cutlash;

but he did, I'm sure, and a-purpose too; for didn't he turn to, that

morning, and abuse her like the very dirt under his feet, because she

came, a little in liquor, down to his boat-side?--Ay, I'll have my

revenge--I've been looking for it long, but now it's a-coming--it's

a-coming very fast; and afore I've done with him, I'll wring him out

like a wet cloth, till he's not got one pleasure left in his whole

carcase, nor one thing to look to, for as long as he may live!--Ay,

ay, he thinks an old woman nothing; but he shall see--he shall see;"

and the beldam wagged her frightful head backwards and forwards with a

look of well-contented malice that made it more horrible than ever.

"What an old devil!" cried the Major, glancing round the table with a

look of mock surprise; and then they all burst into a roar of laughter

which shook the miserable hovel in which they sat.

"Come, granny, give us some more lush, and leave off preaching," cried

Ned Ramley, the man with the cut upon his brow. "You can tell it all

to Dick Radford, to-morrow; for he's fond of cutting up people's

hearts."

"But how is it--how is it?" asked the Major. "I should like to hear."

"Ay, but you shan't hear all," answered Galley Ray. "Let Dick do his

part, and I'll do mine, so we'll both have our revenge; but I know one

thing, if I were a gentleman, and wanted a twist at Jack Harding, I'd

get his Kate away from him. She's a light-hearted lass, and would

listen to a gentleman, I dare say; but, however, I'll have her away

some way, and then kick her out into Folkestone streets, to get her

bread like many a better woman than herself."

"Pooh, nonsense!" said Ned Ramley--"that's all stuff. Harding is going

to marry her; and she knows better than to play the fool."

"Ay," answered the old woman, with a look of spite, "I shouldn't

wonder if Harding spoiled this job for old Radford, too."

"Not he!" cried Ramley, "he would pinch himself there, old tiger; for

his own pay depends upon it."

"Ay, upon landing the stuff safely," answered the old woman, with a

grin, "but not upon getting it clear up into the Weald. He may have

both, Neddy, my dear--he may have both pays; first for landing and

then for peaching. Play booty for ever!--that's the way to make money;

and who knows but you may get another crack of your own pretty skull,

or have your brains sent flying out, like the inside of an egg against

the pillory."

"By the fiend, he had better not," said Ned Ramley, "for there will be

some of us left, at all events, to pay him."

"Come, speak out, old woman," cried another of the men; "have you or

your imp there got any inkling that the Custom House blackguards have

nosed the job. If we find they have, and you don't tell, I'll send you

into as much thick loam as will cover you well, I can tell you;" and

he added a horrible oath to give force to his words.

"Not they, as yet," answered the beldam, "of that I am quite sure; for

as soon as the guinea and the message came, I went down to buy the

beef, and mutton, and the onions; and there I saw Mowle talking to

Gurney the grocer, and heard him say that he had spoiled Mr. Radford's

venture this morning, for one turn at least; and after that, I sent

down little Nighty there, to watch him and his cronies; and they all

seemed very jolly, he said, when he came back half an hour ago, and

crowing like so many young cocks, as if they had done a mighty deal.

Didn't they, my dear?"

"Ay, that they did, Granny," replied the boy, with a look of

simplicity; "and when I went to the tap of the Dragon to get

twopennorth, I heard the landlord say that Mowle was up with the

dragoon Colonel, telling him all about the fine morning's work they

had made."

"Devilish fine, indeed!" cried Ned Ramley. "Why they did not get one

quarter of the things; and if we can save a third, that's enough to

pay very well, I can tell them."

"No, no! they know nothing as yet," continued the old woman, with a

sapient shake of the head; "I can't say what they may hear before

to-morrow night; but, if they do hear anything, I know where it will

come from--that's all. People may be blind if they like; but I'm not,

that's one thing."

"No, no! you see sharp enough, Galley Ray," answered the Major. "But

hark, is not that the sound of a horse coming down?"

All the men started up; and some one exclaimed, "I shouldn't wonder if

it were Mowle himself.--He's always spying about."

"If it is, I'll blow his brains out," said Ned Ramley, motioning to

the rest to make their way into the room behind.

"Ay, you had best, I think, Neddy," said Galley Ray, in a quiet,

considerate tone, answering his rash threat as coolly as if she had

been speaking of the catching of a trout. "You'll have him here all

snug, and may never get such another chance. 'Dead men tell no tales,'

Neddy. But, get back--'tis a horse, sure enough! You can take your own

time, if you go in there."

The young man retreated; and bending down her lips to the boy's ear,

the old witch inquired in a whisper, "Is t'other door locked, and the

window fast?"

"Yes," said the boy, in the same tone; "and the key hid in the

sacking."

"Then if there are enough to take 'em," murmured Gaily Ray to

herself--"take 'em they shall!--If there's no one but Mowle, he must

go--that's clear. Stretch out that bit o' sail, boy, to catch the

blood."

But before the boy could obey her whisper, the door of the hut was

thrown open; and instead of Mowle there appeared the figure of Richard

Radford.

"Here, little Starlight!" he cried, "hold my horse--why, where are all

the men? Have they not come?"

The old woman arranged her face in an instant into the sweetest smile

it was capable of assuming, and replied, instantly, "Oh dear, yes:

bless your beautiful face, Mr. Radford, but we didn't expect you

to-night, and thought it was some of the Custom-House blackguards when

we heard the horse. Here, Neddy!--Major!--It's only Mr. Radford."

Ere she had uttered the call, the men, hearing a well-known voice,

were entering the room again; and young Radford shook hands with

several of them familiarly, congratulating the late prisoners on their

escape.

"I found I couldn't come to-morrow morning," he said, "and so I rode

down to-night. It's all settled for to-morrow, and by this time

Harding's at sea. He'll keep over on the other side till the sun is

low; and we must be ready for work by ten, though I don't think he'll

get close in before midnight."

"Are you quite sure of Harding, Mr. Radford?" asked the Major. "I

thought you had doubts of him about this other venture."

"Ay, and so I have still," answered Richard Radford, a dark scowl

coming over his face, "but we must get this job over first. My father

says, he will have no words about it, till this is all clear, and

after that I may do as I like. Then, Major, then----"

He did not finish the sentence; but those who heard him knew very well

what he meant; and the Major inquired, "But is he quite safe in this

business? The old woman thinks not."

Young Radford mused with a heavy brow for a minute or two, and then

replied, after a sudden start, "But it's no use now--he's at sea by

this time; and we can't mend it. Have you heard anything certain of

him, Galley Ray?"

"No, nothing quite for certain, my beauty," said the old woman; "but

one thing I know: he was seen there upon the cliffs, with two strange

men, a-talking away at a great rate; and that was the very night he

saw your father, too; but that clear little cunning devil, my boy,

Nighty--he's the shrewdest lad that ever lived--found it all out."

"What did he find out?" demanded young Radford, sharply.

"Why, who the one was, he could never be sure," answered the

beldam--"a nasty-looking ugly brute, all tattooed in the face, like a

wild Indian; but the other was the colonel of dragoons--that's

certain, so Nighty says--he is the shrewdest boy that----"

Richard Radford and his companions gazed at each other with very

meaning and very ill-satisfied looks; but the former, at length, said,

"Well, we shall see--we shall see! and if he does, he shall rue it. In

the meantime, Major, what we must do is, to have force enough to set

them, dragoons and all, at defiance. My father has got already a

hundred men, and I'll beat up for more to-morrow.--I can get fifty or

sixty out of Sussex. We'll all be down with you early. The soldiers

are scattered about in little parties, so they can never have very

many together; and the devil's in it, if we can't beat a handful of

them."

"Give us a hundred men," said Ned Ramley, "and we'll beat the whole

regiment of them."

"Why, there are not to be found twenty of them together in any one

place," answered young Radford, "except at Folkestone, and we shan't

have the run within fifteen or sixteen miles of that; so we shall

easily do for them; and I should like to give those rascals a

licking."

"Then, what's to be done with Harding?" asked Ned Ramley.

"Leave him to me--leave him to me, Ned," replied the young gentleman,

"I'll find a way of settling accounts with him."

"Why, the old woman was talking something about it," said the Major.

"Come, speak up, old brute!--What is it you've got to say?"

"Oh, I'll tell him quietly when he's a going," answered Galley Ray.

"It's no business of yours, Major."

"She hates him like poison," said the Major, in a whisper, to young

Radford; "so that you must not believe all she says about him."

The young man gave a gloomy smile, and then, after a few words more,

unceremoniously turned the old woman out of her own hovel, telling her

he would come and speak to her in a moment. As soon as the hut was

clear of her presence, he proceeded to make all his final arrangements

with the lawless set who were gathered together within.

"I thought that Harding was not to set off till to-morrow morning,"

said one of the more staid-looking of the party, at length; "I wonder

your father lets him make such changes, Mr. Radford--it looks

suspicious, to my thinking."

"No, no; it was by my father's own orders," said young Radford;

"there's nothing wrong in that. I saw the note sent this evening; so

that's all right. By some contrivance of his own, Harding is to give

notice to one of the people on Tolsford Hill, when he is well in land

and all is safe; and then we shall see a fire lighted on the top,

which is to be our signal, to gather down on the beach. It's all right

in that respect, at least.

"I'm glad to hear it," answered the other; "and now, as all is

settled, had you not better take a glass of grog before you go."

"No, no," replied the young man, "I'll keep my head cool for

to-morrow; for I've got a job to do in the morning that may want a

clear eye and a steady hand."

"Well, then, good luck to you!" said Ned Ramley, laughing; and with

this benediction, the young gentleman opened the cottage door.

He found Galley Ray holding his horse alone; and, as soon as she saw

him, she said, "I've sent the boy away, Mr. Radford, because I wanted

to have a chat with you for a minute, all alone, about that

blackguard, Harding;" and sinking her voice to a whisper, she

proceeded for several minutes, detailing her own diabolical notions,

of how young Radford might best revenge himself on Harding, with a

coaxing manner, and sweet tone, which contrasted strangely and

horribly, both with the words which she occasionally used, and the

general course of her suggestions. Young Radford sometimes laughed,

with a harsh sort of bitter, unpleasant merriment, and sometimes asked

questions, but more frequently remained listening attentively to what

she said.

Thus passed some ten minutes, at the end of which time, he exclaimed,

with an oath, "I'll do it!" and then, mounting his horse, he rode away

slowly and cautiously, on account of the thick fog and the narrow and

stony road.

No sooner was he gone, than little Starlight crept out from between

the cottage and a pile of dried furze-bushes, which had been cast down

on the left of the hut--at once affording fuel to the inhabitants, and

keeping out the wind from a large crack in the wall, which penetrated

through and through, into the room where young Radford had been

conversing with the smugglers.

"Did you hear them, my kiddy?" asked the old woman, as soon as the boy

approached her.

"Every word, Mother Ray," answered little Starlight. "But, get in,

get in, or they will be thinking something; and I'll tell you all

to-morrow."

The old woman saw the propriety of his suggestion; and, both entering

the hovel, the door was shut. With it, I may close a scene, upon which

I have been obliged to pause longer than I could have wished.

CHAPTER IV.

The man who follows a wolf goes straight on after him till he rides

him down; but, in chasing a fox, it is always expedient and fair to

take across the easiest country for your horse or for yourself, to

angle a field, to make for a slope when the neighbouring bank is too

high, to avoid a clay fallow, or to skirt a shaking moss. Very

frequently, however, one beholds an inexperienced sportsman (who does

not well know the country he is riding, and sees the field broken up

into several parties, each taking its own course after the hounds)

pause for several minutes, not knowing which to follow. Such is often

the case with the romance writer also, when the broken nature of the

country over which his course lies, separates his characters, and he

cannot proceed with all of them at once.

Now, at the present moment, I would fain follow the smugglers to the

end of their adventure; but, in so doing, dear reader, I should (to

borrow a shred of the figure I have just used) get before my hounds;

or, in other words, I should too greatly violate that strict

chronological order which is necessary in an important history like

the present. I must, therefore, return, by the reader's good leave, to

the house of Mr. Zachary Croyland, almost immediately after Sir Edward

Digby had ridden away, on the day following young Radford's recently

related interview with the smugglers, at which day--with a sad

violation of the chronological order I have mentioned above--I had

already arrived, as the reader must remember, in the first chapter of

the present volume.

Mr. Croyland then stood in the little drawing-room, fitted up

according to his own peculiar notions, where Sir Edward's wound had

been dressed; and Edith, his niece, sat at no great distance on one of

the low ottomans, for which he had an oriental predilection. She was a

little excited, both by all that she had witnessed, and all that she

had not; and her bright and beautiful eyes were raised to her uncle's

face, as she inquired, "How did all this happen? You said you would

tell me when they were gone."

Mr. Croyland gazed at her with that sort of parental tenderness which

he had long nourished in his heart towards her; and certainly, as she

sat there, leaning lightly upon her arm, and with the sunshine falling

upon her beautiful form, her left hand resting upon her knee, and one

small beautiful foot extended beyond her gown, he could not help

thinking her the loveliest creature he had ever beheld in his life,

and asking himself--"Is such a being as that, so full of grace in

person, and excellence in mind, to be consigned to a rude, brutal

bully, like the man who has just met with deserved chastisement at my

door?"

He had just begun to answer her question, thinking how he might best

do so without inflicting more pain upon her than necessary, when the

black servant I have mentioned entered the drawing-room, saying, "A

man want to speak to you, master."

"A man!" cried Mr. Croyland, impatiently. "What man? I don't want any

man! I've had enough of men for one morning, surely, with those two

fools fighting just opposite my house!--What sort of a man is it?"

"Very odd man, indeed, master," answered the Hindoo. "Got great blue

pattern on him's face. Strange looking man. Think him half mad," and

he made a deferential bow, as if submitting his judgment to that of

his master.

"Well, I like odd men," exclaimed Mr. Croyland. "I like strange men

better than any others. I'm not sure I do not like them a _leetle_

mad--not too much, not too much, you know, Edith, my dear! Not

dangerous; just mad enough to be pleasant, but not furious or

obstreperous.--Where have you put him?"

"In de library, master," replied the man; "and he begin taking down

the books directly."

"High time I should go and see, who is so studiously inclined," said

Mr. Croyland; "or he may not only take down the books, but take them

away. That wouldn't do, you know, Edith, my dear--that wouldn't do.

Without my niece and my books, what would become of me? I don't intend

to lose either the one or the other. So that you are never to marry,

my love; mind that, you are never to marry!"

Edith smiled faintly--very faintly indeed; but for the world she would

not have made her uncle feel that he had touched upon a tender point.

"I do not think I ever shall, my dear uncle," she answered; and

saying, "That's a good girl!" the old gentleman hurried out of the

room to see his unknown visitor.

Edith remained for some time where she was, in deep and even painful

thoughts. All that she had learnt from her sister, since Zara's

explanation with Sir Edward Digby, amounted but to this, that he whom

she had so deeply loved--whom she still loved so deeply--was yet

living. Nothing more had reached her; and, though hope, the fast

clinger to the last wreck of probability, yet whispered that he might

love her still--that she might not be forgotten--that she might not be

abandoned, yet fear and despondency far predominated, and their hoarse

tones nearly drowned the feeble whisper of a voice which once had been

loud and gay in her heart.

After meditating, then, for some minutes, she rose and left the

drawing-room, passing, on her way to the stairs, the door of the

library to which her uncle had previously gone. She heard him talking

loud as she went along; but the sounds were gay, cheerful, and

anything but angry; and another voice was answering, in mellower

tones, somewhat melancholy, indeed, but still not sad. Going rapidly

by, this was all she distinguished; but after she reached her own

room, which was nearly above the library, the murmur of the voices

still rose up for more than an hour, and at length Mr. Croyland and

his guest came out, and walked through the vestibule to the door.

"God bless you, Harry--God bless you!" said Mr. Croyland, with an

appearance of warmth and affection which Edith had seldom known him to

display towards any one; "if you wont stay, I can't help it. But mind

your promise--mind your promise! In three or four days, you know;" and

with another cordial farewell they parted.

When the stranger was gone, however, Mr. Croyland remained standing in

the vestibule for several minutes, gazing down upon the floor-cloth,

and murmuring to himself various broken sentences, from time to time.

"Who'd have thought it," he said; "thirty years come Lady-day next,

since we saw each other!--But this isn't quite right of the boy: I

will scold him--I will frighten him, too. He shouldn't deceive--nobody

should deceive--it's not right. But after all, in love and war, every

stratagem is fair, they say; and I'll work for him, that I will. Here,

Edith, my love," he continued, calling up the stairs, for he had heard

his niece's light foot above, "come, and take a walk with me, my dear:

it will do us both good."

Edith came down in a moment, with a hat (or bonnet) in her hand; and

although Mr. Croyland affected, on most occasions, to be by no means

communicative, yet there was in his whole manner, and in the

expression of his face, quite sufficient to indicate to his niece,

that he was labouring under the pressure of a secret, which was not a

very sad or dark one.

"There, my dear!" he exclaimed, "I said just now that I would not have

you marry; but I shall take off the restriction. I will not prohibit

the banns--only in case you should wish to marry some one I don't

approve. But I've got a husband for you--I've got a husband for you,

better than all the Radfords that ever were christened; though, by the

way, I doubt whether these fellows ever were christened at all--a set

of unbelieving, half-barbarous sceptics. I do not think, upon my

conscience, that old Radford believes in anything but the existence of

his own individuality."

"But who is the husband you have got for me?" demanded Edith, forcing

herself to assume a look of gaiety which was not natural to her. "I

hope he's young, handsome, rich, and agreeable."

"All, all!" cried Mr. Croyland. "Those are absolute requisites in a

lady's estimation, I know. Never was such a set of grasping monkeys as

you women. Youth, beauty, riches, and a courtly air--you must have

them all, or you are dissatisfied; and the ugliest, plainest, poorest

woman in all Europe, thinks that she has every right to a ph[oe]nix

for her companion--an angel--a demi-god. But you shall see--you shall

see; and in the true spirit of a fond parent, if you do not see with

my eyes, hear with my ears, and understand with my understanding--why,

I'll disinherit you.--But who the mischief is this, now?" he

continued, looking out at the door--"another man on horseback, upon my

life, as if we had not had enough of them already. Never, since I have

been in this county of Kent, has my poor, quiet, peaceable door been

besieged in this manner before."

"It's only a servant with a note, my dear uncle," said Edith.

"Ah, something more on your account," cried Mr. Croyland. "It's all

because you are here. Baba, Baba! see what that fellow wants!--It's

not your promised husband, my dear, so you need not eye him so

curiously."

"Oh, no!" answered Edith, smiling. "I took it for granted that my

promised husband, as you call him, was to be this same odd,

strange-looking gentleman, who has been with you for the last hour."

"Pooh--no!" cried Mr. Croyland; "and yet, my lady, I can tell you, you

could not do better in some respects, for he's a very good man--a very

excellent man indeed, and has the advantage of being a _leetle_ mad,

as I said before--that is, he's wise enough not to care what fools

think of him. That's what is called being mad now-a-days. Who is it

from, Baba?

"Didn't say, master," answered the Indian, who had just handed him a

note. "He wait an answer."

"Oh, very well!" answered Mr. Croyland. "He may get a shorter one than

he expects. I've no time to be answering notes. People in England

spend one half of their lives in writing notes that mean nothing, and

the other half in sealing them. Why can't the fools send a message?"

While he had been thus speaking, the worthy old gentleman had been

adjusting the spectacles to his nose, and walking with his usual brisk

step to the window in the passage, against which he planted his back,

so that the light might fall over his shoulder upon the paper; but as

he read, a great change came over his countenance.

"Ah, that's right!--That's well!--That's honest," he said: "I see what

he means, but I'll let him speak out himself. Walk into the garden,

Edith, my love, till I answer this man's note. Baba, bid the fellow

wait for a moment," and stepping into the library, Mr. Croyland sought

for a pen that would write, and then scrawled, in a very rude and

crooked hand, which soon made the paper look like an ancient Greek

manuscript, a few lines, to the beauty of which he added the effect of

bad blotting-paper. Then folding his note up, he sealed and addressed

it, first reading carefully over again the epistle which he had just

received, and with which it may be as well to make the reader

acquainted, though I shall abstain from looking into Mr. Croyland's

answer till it reaches its destination. The letter which the servant

had brought was to the following effect:

"The gentleman who had the pleasure of travelling with Mr. Croyland

from London, and who was introduced to him by the name of Captain

Osborn, was about to avail himself of Mr. Croyland's invitation, when

some circumstances came to his knowledge, which seem to render it

expedient that he should have a few minutes' conversation with Mr.

Croyland before he visits his house. He is at present at Woodchurch,

and will remain there till two o'clock, if it is convenient for Mr.

Croyland to see him at that place to-day.--If not, he will return to

Woodchurch to-morrow, towards one, and will wait for Mr. Croyland till

any hour he shall appoint."

"There! give that to the gentleman's servant," said Mr. Croyland; and

then depositing his spectacles safely in their case, he walked out

into the garden to seek Edith.

The servant, in the meanwhile, went at a rapid pace, over pleasant

hill and dale, till he reached the village of Woodchurch, and stopped

at a little public-house, before the door of which stood three

dragoons, with their horses' bridles over their arms. As speedily as

possible, the man entered the house, and walked up stairs, where he

found his master talking to a man, covered with dust from the road.

"Mr. Mowle should have given me farther information," the young

officer said, looking at a paper in his hand. "I could have made my

combinations here as well as at Hythe."

"He sent me off in a great hurry, sir," answered the man; "but I'll

tell him what you say."

"Stay, stay!" said the officer, holding out his hand to his servant

for the note which he had brought. "I will tell you more in a minute,

and breaking open the seal, he read Mr. Croyland's epistle, which was

to the following effect.

"Mr. Croyland presents his compliments to Captain Osborn, and has had

the honour of receiving his letter, although he cannot conceive why

Captain Osborn should wish to speak with him at Woodchurch, when he

could so easily speak with him in his own house, yet Mr. Croyland is

Captain Osborn's very humble servant, and will do as he bids him. As

it is now past one o'clock, as it would take half-an-hour to get Mr.

Croyland's carriage ready, and an hour to reach Woodchurch, and as it

is some years since Mr. Croyland has got upon the back of anything but

an ass, or a hobby-horse,--having moreover no asses at hand with the

proper proportion of legs, though many, deficient in number--it is

impossible for him to reach Woodchurch by the time stated to-day. He

will be over at that place, however, by two o'clock to-morrow, and

hopes that Captain Osborn will be able to return with him, and spend a

few days in an old bachelor's house."

The young officer's face was grave as he read the first part of the

letter, but it relaxed into a smile towards the end. He then gave,

perhaps, ten seconds to thought; after which, rousing himself

abruptly, he turned to the dusty messenger from Hythe, and fixing a

somewhat searching glance upon the man's face, he said--"Tell Mr.

Mowle that I will be over with him directly, and as the troops, it

seems, will be required on the side of Folkestone, he must have

everything prepared on his part; for we shall have no time to spare."

The man bowed with a stolid look, and withdrew; and after he had left

the room, the officer remained silent for a moment or two, looking out

of the window till he saw him mount his horse and depart. Then,

descending in haste to the inn door, he gave various orders to the

dragoons, who were there waiting. To one they were, "Ride off to

Folkestone as fast as you can go, and tell Captain Irby to march

immediately with his troop to Bilsington, which place he must reach

before two o'clock in the morning." To another: "You gallop off to

Appledore, and bid the sergeant there bring his party down to Brenzet

Corner, in the Marsh, and put himself under the orders of Cornet

Joyce." To the third: "You, Wood, be off to Ashford, and tell

Lieutenant Green to bring down all his men as far as Bromley Green,

taking up the party at Kingsnorth. Let him be there by three; and

remember, these are private orders. Not a word to any one."

The men sprang into the saddle, as soon as the last words were spoken,

and rode away in different directions; and, after bidding his servant

bring round his horse, the young officer remained standing at the door

of the inn, with his tall form erect, his arms crossed upon his chest,

and his eyes gazing towards Harbourne House. He was in the midst of

the scenes where his early days had been spent. Every object around

him was familiar to his eye: not a hill, not a wood, not a church

steeple or a farm house, but had its association with some of those

bright things which leave a lustre in the evening sky of life, even

when the day-star of existence has set. There were the pleasant hours

of childhood, the sports of boyhood, the dreams of youth, the love of

early manhood. The light that memory cast upon the whole might not be

so strong and powerful, might not present them in so real and definite

a form, as in the full day of enjoyment; but there is a great

difference between that light of memory, when it brightens a period of

life that may yet renew the joys which have passed away for a time,

and when it shines upon pleasures gone for ever. In the latter case it

is but as the moonlight--a reflected beam, without the warmth of

fruition or the brilliancy of hope; but in the former, it is as the

glow of the descending sun, which sheds a purple lustre through the

vista of the past, and gives a promise of returning joy even as it

sinks away. He stood, then, amongst the scenes of his early years,

with hope refreshed, though still with the remembrance of sorrows

tempering the warmth of expectation, perhaps shading the present. It

wanted, indeed, but some small circumstance, by bearing afar, like

some light wind, the cloud of thought, to give to all around the

bright hues of other days; and that was soon afforded. He had not

remained there above two or three minutes when the landlord of the

public-house came out, and stood directly before him.

"Oh, I forgot your bill, my good fellow," said the young officer.

"What is my score?"

"No, sir, it is not that," answered the man, "but I think you have

forgotten me. I could not let you go, however, without just asking you

to shake hands with me, though you are a great gentleman now, and I am

much what I was."

The young officer gazed at him for a moment, and let his eye run over

the stout limbs and portly person of the landlord, till at length he

said, in a doubtful tone, "Surely, you cannot be young Miles, the son

of my father's clerk?"

"Ay, sir, just the same," replied the host; "but young and old, we

change, just as women do their names when they marry. Not that six or

seven years have made me old either; but I was six and twenty when you

went away, and as thin as a whipping post; now I'm two and thirty, and

as fat as a porker. That makes a wonderful difference, sir. But I'm

glad you don't forget old times."

"Forget them, Miles!" said the young officer, holding out his hand to

him, "oh no, they are too deeply written in my heart ever to be

blotted out! I thought I was too much changed myself for any one to

remember me, but those who were most dear to me. What between the

effects of time and labour, sorrow and war, I hardly fancied that any

one in Kent would know me. But you are changed for the better, I for

the worse. Yet I am very glad to see you, Miles; and I shall see you

again to-morrow; for I am coming back here towards two o'clock. In the

meantime, you need not say you have seen me; for I do not wish it to

be known that I am here, till I have learned a little of what

reception I am likely to have."

"Oh, I understand, sir--I understand," replied the landlord; "and if

you should want to know how the land lies, I can always tell you; for

you see, I have the parish-clerks' club, which meets here once a week;

and then all the news of the country comes out; and besides, many a

one of them comes in here at other times, to have a gossip with old

Rafe Miles's son, so that I hear everything that goes on in the county

almost as soon as it is done; and right glad shall I be to tell you

anything you want to know, just for old times' sake; when you used to

go shooting snipes by the brooks, and I used to come after for the

sport--that is to say, anything about your own people; not about the

smugglers, you know; for they say you are sent here to put them down;

and I should not like to peach, even to you. I heard that some great

gentleman had come down--a Sir Harry Somebody. But I little thought it

was you, till I saw you just now standing looking so melancholy

towards Harbourne, and thinking, I dare say, of the old house at

Tiffenden."

"Indeed I was," answered the young officer, with a sigh. "But as to

the smugglers, my good friend, I want no information. I am sent down

with my regiment merely to aid the civil power, which seems totally

incompetent to stop the daring outrages that are every day committed.

If this were suffered to go on, all law, not only regarding the

revenue, but even that affecting the protection of life and property,

would soon be at an end."

"That it would, sir," answered the landlord; "and it's well nigh at an

end already, for that matter."

"Well," continued the officer, "though the service is not an agreeable

one, and I think, considering all things, might have been entrusted to

another person, yet I have but to obey; and consequently, being here,

am ready whenever called upon to support the officers, either of

justice or the revenue, both by arms and by advice. But I have no

other duty to perform, and indeed would rather not have any

information regarding the proceedings of these misguided men, except

through the proper channels. If I had the absolute command of the

district, with orders to put down smuggling therein, it might be a

different matter; but I have not."

"Ay, I thought there was a mistake about it," replied Miles; "but here

is your horse, sir. I shall see you to-morrow, then?"

"Certainly," answered the officer; and having paid his score, he

mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER V.

The colonel of the dragoon regiment rode into Hythe coolly and calmly,

followed by his servant; for though, to say the truth, he had pushed

his horse very fast for some part of the way, he judged it expedient

not to cause any bustle in the town by an appearance of haste and

excitement. It was customary in those days for officers in the army in

active service, even when not on actual duty, to appear in their

regimental uniform; but this practice the gentleman in question had

dispensed with since he left London, on many motives, both public and

personal; and though he wore the cockade--at that time the sign and

symbol of a military man, or of one who affected that position, yet he

generally appeared in plain clothes, except when any large body of the

troops were gathered together.

At the door of the inn where he had fixed his headquarters, and in the

passage leading from it into the house, were a number of private

soldiers and a sergeant; and amongst them appeared Mr. Mowle, the

Custom-House officer, waiting the arrival of the commander of the

dragoons. As the latter dismounted, Mowle advanced to his side, saying

something in a low voice. The young officer looked at the sky, which

was still glowing bright with the sun, which had about an hour and

a-half to run ere it reached the horizon.

"In an hour, Mr. Mowle," replied the officer: "there will be time

enough. Make all your own arrangements in the meanwhile."

"But, sir, if you have to send to Folkestone?" said Mowle. "You

misunderstood me, I think."

"No, no," answered the colonel, "I did not. You misunderstood me. Come

back in an hour.--If you show haste or anxiety, you will put the enemy

on his guard."

After having said these few words in a low tone, he entered the house,

gave some orders to the soldiers, several of whom sauntered away

slowly to their quarters, as if the business of the day were over; and

then, proceeding to his own room, he rang the bell and ordered dinner.

"I thought there was a bit of a bustle, sir?" said the landlord,

inquiringly, as he put the first dish upon the table.

"Oh dear, no," replied the colonel. "Did you mean about these men who

have escaped?"

"I didn't know about what, colonel," answered the landlord, "but

seeing Mr. Mowle waiting for you----"

"You thought it must be about them," added the officer; "but you are

mistaken, my good friend. There is no bustle at all. The men will,

doubtless, soon be taken, one after the other, by the constables. At

all events, that is an affair with which I can have nothing to do."

The landlord immediately retreated, loaded with intelligence, and

informed two men who were sipping rum-and-water in the tap-room, that

Mowle had come to ask the colonel to help in apprehending "the Major"

and others who had been rescued, and that the colonel would have

nothing to do with it.

The men finished their grog much more rapidly than they had begun it,

and then walked out of the house, probably to convey the tidings

elsewhere. Now, the town of Hythe is composed, as every one knows, of

one large and principal street nearly at the bottom of the hill, with

several back streets--or perhaps lanes we might call them--running

parallel to the first, and a great number of shorter ones running up

and down the hill, and connecting the principal thoroughfare with

those behind it. Many--nay, I might say most--of the houses in the

main street had, at the time I speak of, a back as well as a front

entrance. They might sometimes have even more than one; for there were

trades carried on in Hythe, as the reader has been made aware, which

occasionally required rapid and secret modes of exit. Nor was the

house in which the young commander of dragoons resided without its

conveniences in this respect; but it happened that Mowle, the officer,

was well acquainted with all its different passages and contrivances;

and consequently he took advantage, on his return at the end of an

hour, of one of the small lanes, which led him by a back way into the

inn. Then ascending a narrow staircase without disturbing anybody, he

made his way to the room he sought, where he found the colonel of the

regiment quietly writing some letters after his brief meal was over.

"Well, Mr. Mowle!" said the young officer, folding up, and sealing the

note he had just concluded--"now, let me hear what you have

discovered, and where you wish the troops to be."

"I am afraid, sir, we have lost time," answered Mowle; "for I can't

tell at what time the landing will take place."

"Not before midnight," replied his companion; "there is no vessel in

sight, and, with the wind at this quarter, they can't be very quick in

their movements."

"Why, probably not before midnight, sir," answered Mowle; "but there

are not above fifty of your men within ten miles round, and if you've

to send for them to Folkestone and Ashford, and out almost to

Staplehurst, they will have no time to make ready and march; and the

fellows will be off into the Weald before we can catch them."

The young officer smiled: "Then you think fifty men will not be

enough?" he asked.

"Not half enough," answered Mowle, beginning to set down his companion

as a person of very little intellect or energy--"why, from what I

hear, there will be some two or three hundred of these fellows down,

to carry the goods after they are run, and every one of them equal to

a dragoon, at any time."

"Well, we shall see!" said the young officer, coolly. "You are sure

that Dymchurch is the place?"

"Why, somewhere thereabouts, sir; and that's a long way off," answered

Mowle; "so if you have any arrangements to make, you had better make

them."

"They are all made," replied the colonel; "but tell me, Mr. Mowle,

does it not frequently take place that, when smugglers are pursued in

the marsh, they throw their goods into the cuts and canals and creeks

by which it is intersected."

"To be sure they do, sir," exclaimed the officer; "and they'll do that

to a certainty, if we can't prevent them landing; and, if we attack

them in the Marsh----"

"To prevent them landing," said the gentleman, "seems to me impossible

in the present state of affairs; and I do not know whether it would be

expedient, even if we could. Your object is to seize the goods, both

for your own benefit and that of the state, and to take as many

prisoners as possible. Now, from what you told me yesterday, I find

that you have no force at sea, except a few miserable boats----"

"I sent off for the revenue cruiser this morning, sir," answered

Mowle.

"But she is not come," rejoined the officer; "and, consequently, must

be thrown out of our combinations. If we assemble a large force at any

point of the coast, the smugglers on shore will have warning. They may

easily find means of giving notice of the fact to their comrades at

sea--the landing may be effected at a different point from that now

proposed, and the goods carried clear off before we can reach them. It

seems to me, therefore, better for you to let the landing take place

quietly. As soon as it has taken place, the beacons will be lighted by

my orders; the very fact of a signal they don't understand will throw

the smugglers into some confusion; and they will hurry out of the

Marsh as fast as possible----"

"But suppose they separate, and all take different roads," said Mowle.

"Then all, or almost all, the different parties will be met with and

stopped," replied the officer.

"But your men cannot act without a requisition from the Customs, sir,"

answered Mowle, "and they are so devilish cautious of committing

themselves----"

"But I am not," rejoined the colonel; "and every party along the whole

line has notice that the firing of the beacons is to be taken as a

signal that due requisition has been made, and has orders also to stop

any body of men carrying goods that they may meet with. But I do not

think that these smugglers will separate at all, Mr. Mowle. Their only

chance of safety must seem to them--not knowing how perfectly prepared

we are--to lie in their numbers and their union. While acting

together, their numbers, it appears from your account, would be

sufficient to force any one post opposed to them, according to the

arrangements which they have every reason to believe still exist; and

they will not throw away that chance. It is, therefore, my belief that

they will make their way out of the Marsh in one body. After that,

leave them to me. I will take the responsibility upon myself."

"Very well, colonel--very well!" said Mowle; "if you are ready without

my knowing anything about it, all the better. Only the fellow I sent

you brought back word something about Folkestone."

"That was merely because I did not like the man's look," replied the

young officer, "and thought you would understand that a message sent

you in so public a manner, upon a business which required secrecy,

must not be read in its direct sense."

"Oh, I see, colonel--I see," cried the officer of Customs; "it was

stupid enough not to understand. All my people are ready, however; and

if we could but discover the hour the run is to be made, we should

have a pretty sure game of it."

"Cannot the same person who gave you so much intelligence, give you

that also?" asked his companion.

"Why, no; either the imp can't, or he wont," said Mowle. "I had to pay

him ten pounds for what tidings I got, for the little wretch is as

cunning as Satan."

"Are you sure the intelligence was correct?" demanded the officer of

dragoons.

"Oh yes, sir," replied Mowle. "His tidings have always been quite

right; and besides, I've the means of testing this myself; for he told

me where they are to meet--at least a large party of them--before

going down to the shore. I've a very great mind to disguise myself,

and creep in among them."

"A very hazardous experiment, I should think," said the colonel; "and

I do not see any object worth the risk."

"Why, the object would be to get information of the hour," answered

Mowle. "If we could learn that, some time before, we could have

everything ready, and have them watched all through the Marsh."

"Well, you must use your own judgment in that particular!" answered

the young officer; "but I tell you, I am quite prepared myself; and

such a large body as you have mentioned cannot cross a considerable

extent of country without attracting attention."

"Well, I'll see, sir--I'll see," answered Mowle; "but had I not better

send off two or three officers towards Dymchurch, to give your men

notice as soon as the goods are landed?"

"Undoubtedly," answered the colonel. "There's a party at New Romney,

and a party at Burmarsh. They both have their orders, and as soon as

they have intimation, will act upon them. I would have enough men

present, if I were you, to watch the coast well, but with strict

orders to do nothing to create alarm."

Some minor arrangements were then entered into, of no great importance

to the tale; and Mowle took his leave, after having promised to give

the colonel the very first intimation he received of the farther

proceedings of the smugglers.

The completion of his own arrangements took the Custom-House officer

half an hour more, and at the end of that time he returned to his own

dwelling, and sat down for a while, to think over the next step. He

felt a strong inclination to visit the meeting place of the smugglers

in person. He was, as we have shown, a man of a daring and adventurous

disposition, strong in nerve, firm in heart, and with, perhaps, too

anxious a sense of duty. Indeed, he was rather inclined to be rash

than otherwise, from the apprehension of having anything like fear

attributed to him in the execution of the service he had undertaken;

but still he could not shut his eyes to the fact that the scheme he

meditated was full of peril to himself. The men amongst whom he

proposed to venture were lawless, sanguinary, and unscrupulous; and,

if discovered, he had every reason to believe that his life would be

sacrificed by them without the slightest hesitation or remorse. He was

their most persevering enemy; he had spared them on no occasion; and

although he had dealt fairly by them, yet many of those who were

likely to be present, had suffered severe punishment at his

instigation and by his means. He hesitated a little, and called to

mind what the colonel had said regarding the hazard of the act, and

the want of sufficient object; but then, suddenly starting up, he

looked forward with a frowning brow, exclaiming, "Why, hang it, I'm

not afraid! I'll go, whatever befals me. It's my duty not to leave any

chance for information untried. That young fellow is mighty cool about

the business; and if these men get off, it shall not be any fault of

mine."

Thus saying, he lighted a candle, and went into an adjoining room,

where, from a large commode, filled with a strange medley of different

dresses and implements, he chose out a wagoner's frock, a large pair

of leathern leggings, or gaiters, and a straw hat, such as was very

commonly used at that time amongst the peasantry of England. After

gazing at them for a moment or two, and turning them over once or

twice, he put them on, and then, with a pair of sharp scissors, cut

away, in a rough and unceremonious fashion, a considerable quantity of

his black hair, which was generally left rough and floating. High up

over his neck, and round his chin, he tied a large blue handkerchief,

and when thus completely accoutred, gave himself a glance in the

glass, saying, "I don't think I should know myself."

He seemed considerably reassured at finding himself so completely

disguised; and then looking at his watch, and perceiving that the hour

named for the meeting was approaching, he put a brace of pistols in

his breast, where they could be easily reached through the opening in

front of the smock-frock.

He had already reached the door, when something seemed to strike

him; and saying to himself--"Well, there's no knowing what may

happen!--it's better to prepare against anything," he turned back to

his sitting-room, and wrote down on a sheet of paper:

"Sir,--I am gone up to see what they are about. If I should not be

back by eleven, you may be sure they have caught me, and then you must

do your best with Birchett and the others. If I get off, I'll call in

as I come back, and let you know.

"Sir, your very obedient servant,

"William Mowle."

As soon as this was done, he folded the note up, addressed, and sealed

it; and then, blowing the light out, he called an old female servant

who had lived in his house for many years, and whom he now directed to

carry the epistle to the colonel of dragoons who was up at the inn,

adding that she was to deliver it with her own hand.

The old woman took it at once; and knowing well, how usual it was for

the Custom-House officers to disguise their persons in various ways,

she took no notice of the strange change in Mr. Mowle's appearance,

though it was so complete that it could not well escape her eyes, even

in the darkness which reigned throughout the house.

This having been all arranged, and the maid on her way to convey the

letter, Mowle himself walked slowly forward through the long narrow

lanes at the back of the town, and along the path up towards Saltwood.

It was dusk when he set out, but not yet quite dark; and as he went,

he met two people of the town, whom he knew well, but who only replied

to the awkward nod of the head which he gave them, by saying, "Good

night, my man," and walked on, evidently unconscious that they were

passing an acquaintance.

As he advanced, however, the night grew darker and more dark; and a

fog began to rise, though not so thick as that of the night before.

Mowle muttered to himself, as he observed it creeping up the hill from

the side of the valley, "Ay, this is what the blackguards calculated

upon, and they are always sure to be right about the weather; but it

will serve my turn as well as theirs;" and on he went in the direction

of the castle, keeping the regular road by the side of the hill, and

eschewing especially the dwelling of Galley Ray and her grandson.

Born in that part of the country, and perfectly well prepared, both to

find his way about every part of the ruins, and to speak the dialect

of the county in its broadest accent, if he should be questioned, the

darkness was all that he could desire; and it was with pleasure that

he found the obscurity so deep that even he could not see the large

stones which at that time lay in the road, causing him to stumble more

than once as he approached the castle. He was in some hope, indeed, of

reaching the ruins before the smugglers began to assemble, and of

finding a place of concealment whence he could overhear their sayings

and doings; but in this expectation, he discovered, as he approached

the walls, that he should be disappointed; for in the open road

between the castle and the village, he found a number of horses tied,

and two men watching. He trudged on past them, however, with a slow

step and a slouching gait; and when one of the men called out, "Is

that you, Jack?" he answered, "Ay, ay!" without stopping.

At the gate of the court he heard a good many voices talking within;

and, it must be acknowledged, that, although as brave a man as ever

lived, he was not without a strong sense of the dangers of his

situation. But he suffered it not to master him in the least; and

advancing resolutely, he soon got the faint outline of several groups

of men--amounting in the whole to about thirty--assembled on the green

between the walls and the keep. Walking resolutely up to one of these

little knots, he looked boldly amongst the persons it comprised as if

seeking for somebody. Their faces could scarcely be distinguished; but

the voices of one or two who were talking together, showed him that

the group was a hazardous one, as it contained several of the most

notorious smugglers of the neighbourhood, who had but too good cause

to be well acquainted with his person and his tongue. He went on,

consequently, to the next little party, which he soon judged, from the

conversation he overheard, to be principally composed of strangers.

One man spoke of how they did those things in Sussex, and told of how

he had aided to haul up, Heaven knows how many bales of goods over the

bare face of the cliff between Hastings and Winchelsea. Judging,

therefore, that he was here in security, the officer attached himself

to this group, and, after a while, ventured to ask, "Do ye know what's

to be the hour, about?"

The man he spoke to answered "No!" adding that, they could not tell

anything "till the gentleman came." This, however, commenced a

conversation, and Mowle was speedily identified with that group,

which, consisting entirely of strangers, as he had supposed, did not

mingle much with the rest. Every one present was armed; and he found

that though some had come on foot like himself, the greater part had

journeyed on horseback. He had a good opportunity also of learning

that, notwithstanding every effort made by the Government, the system

of smuggling was carried on along the coast to a much greater extent

than even he himself had been aware of. Many of his brother officers

were spoken of in high terms of commendation, which did not sound very

satisfactory to his ears; and many a hint for his future operations,

he gained from the gossip of those who surrounded him.

Still time wore on, and he began to be a little uneasy lest he should

be detained longer than the hour which he had specified in his note to

the colonel of dragoons. But at length, towards ten o'clock, the quick

tramping of a number of horses were heard, and several voices

speaking; and a minute after, five or six and twenty men entered the

grass court, and came up hastily to the rest.

"Now, are you all ready?" cried a voice, which Mowle instantly

recognised as that of young Radford.

"Yes, we've been waiting these two hours," answered one of those in

the group which the officer had first approached; "but you'll never

have enough here, sir."

"Never you mind that," rejoined Richard Radford, "there are eighty

more at Lympne, and a good number down at Dymchurch already,

with plenty of horses. Come, muster, muster, and let us be off,

for the landing will begin at one, and we have a good long way to

go.--Remember, every one," he continued, raising his voice, "that

the way is by Butter's Bridge, and then down and along the shore. If

any one takes the road by Burmarsh he will fall in with the dragoons.

Troop off, my men, troop off. You Ned, and you Major, see that the

court is quite cleared; we must have none lagging behind."

This precaution did not at all disconcert our good friend Mowle, for

he judged that he should very easily find the means of detaching

himself from the rest, at the nearest point to Hythe; and accordingly

he walked on with the party he had joined, till they arrived at the

spot where they had seen the horses tied. There, however, the greater

part mounted, and the others joined a different body, which Mowle was

well aware was not quite so safe; for acting as the chief thereof, and

looking very sharply after his party too, was no other than our friend

the Major. Mowle now took good care to keep silence--a prudent step,

which was enjoined upon them all by Mr. Radford and some others, who

seemed to have the direction of the affair. But notwithstanding every

care, the tread of so many men and so many horses made a considerable

noise; and just as they were passing a small cottage, not a quarter of

a mile from Saltwood, the good dame within opened the door to see what

such a bustle could be about. As she did so, the light from the

interior fell full upon Mowle's face, and the eyes of the Major,

turned towards the door at the same moment, rested upon him for an

instant, and were then withdrawn. It were vain to say, that the worthy

officer felt quite as comfortable at that moment as if he had been in

his own house; but when no notice was taken, he comforted himself with

the thought that his disguise had served him well, and trudged on with

the rest, without showing any hesitation or surprise. About half a

mile farther lay the turning which he proposed to take to reach Hythe;

and he contrived to get over to the left side of the party, in order

to drop off in that direction unperceived. When he was within ten

steps of it, however, and was congratulating himself that the party,

having scattered a little, gave him greater facilities for executing

his scheme, an arm was familiarly thrust through his own, and a pair

of lips, close to his ear, said in a low, but very distinct tone, "I

know you--and if you attempt to get off, you are a dead man! Continue

with the party, and you are safe. When the goods are landed and gone,

you shall go; but the least suspicious movement before, shall bring

twenty bullets into your head. You did me a good turn yesterday

morning before the Justices, in not raking up old offences; and I am

willing to do you a good turn now; but this is all I can do for you."

Mowle turned round, well knowing the voice, nodded his head, and

walked on with the rest in the direction of Lympne.

CHAPTER VI.

Towards half-past ten o'clock at night, the Inn at Hythe was somewhat

quieter than it had been on the evening before. This was not a punch

club night; there was no public dinner going forward; a great many

accustomed guests were absent, and the house was left nearly vacant of

all visitors, except the young commandant of the dragoons, his two or

three servants, and three stout-looking old soldiers, who had come in

about ten, and taken possession of the tap-room, in their full

uniform, scaring away, as it would seem, a sharp-looking man, who had

been previously drinking there in solitude, only cheered by the

occasional visits and brief conversation of the landlord. The officer

himself was up stairs in his room, with a soldier at his door, as

usual, and was supposed by all the household to be busy writing; but,

in the meanwhile, there was a good deal of bustle in the stables; and

about a quarter before eleven, the ostler came in, and informed the

landlord, that they were saddling three of the colonel's horses, and

his two grooms' horses.

"Saddling three!" cried the host; "why, he can't ride three horses at

once, anyhow; and where can he be going to ride to-night? I must run

and see if I can pump it out of the fellows;" and away he walked

to the stables, where he found the men--two grooms, and two

helpers--busily engaged in the occupation which the ostler had stated.

"Ah," said the landlord, "so there is something going on to-night?"

"Not that I know of," answered the head groom. "Tie down that holster,

Bill. The thongs are loose--don't you see?"

"Oh, but there must be something in the wind," rejoined the landlord,

"the colonel wouldn't ride out so late else."

"Lord bless you!" replied the man, "little you know of his ways. Why,

sometimes he'll have us all up at two or three in the morning, just to

visit a post of perhaps twenty men. He's a smart officer, I can tell

you; and no one must be caught napping in his regiment, that's

certain."

"But you have saddled three horses for him!" said the landlord,

returning to his axiom; "and he can't ride three at once, any how."

"Ay, but who can tell which he may like to ride?" rejoined the groom,

"we shan't know anything about that, till he comes into the stable,

most likely."

"And where is he going to, to-night?" asked the landlord.

"We can't tell that he's going anywhere," answered the man; "but if he

does, I should suppose it would be to Folkestone. The major is away on

leave, you know; and it is just as likely as not, that he'll go over

to see that all's right there."

The worthy host was not altogether satisfied with the information he

received; but as he clearly saw that he should get no more, he

retired, and went into the tap, to try the dragoons, without being

more successful in that quarter than he had been in the stables.

In the meantime, his guest up stairs had finished his letters--had

dressed himself in uniform--armed himself, and laid three brace of

pistols, charged, upon the table, for the holsters of his saddles; and

then taking a large map of the county, he leaned over it, tracing the

different roads, which at that time intersected the Weald of Kent. Two

or three times he took out his watch; and as the hour of eleven drew

near, he began to feel considerable alarm for the fate of poor Mowle.

"If they discover him, they will murder him, to a certainty," he

thought; "and I believe a more honest fellow does not live.--It was a

rash and foolish undertaking. The measures I have adopted could not

fail.--Hark! there is the clock striking. We must lose no more time.

We may save him yet, or at all events, avenge him." He then called the

soldier from the door, and sent off a messenger to the house of the

second officer of Customs, named Birchett, who came up in a few

minutes.

"Mr. Birchett," said the colonel, "I fear our friend Mowle has got

himself into a scrape;" and he proceeded to detail as many of the

circumstances as were necessary to enable the other to comprehend the

situation of affairs; and ended by asking, "Are you prepared to act in

Mr. Mowle's absence?"

"Oh, yes, sir," answered Birchett. "Mowle did not tell me the

business; but he said, I must have my horse saddled. He was always a

close fellow, and kept all the intelligence to himself."

"In this case it was absolutely necessary," replied the colonel; "but

without any long explanations, I think you had better ride down

towards Dymchurch at once, with all the men you can trust, keeping as

sharp a look-out as you can on the coast, and sending me information

the moment you receive intelligence that the run has been effected. Do

not attempt to attack the smugglers without sufficient force; but

despatch two men by different roads, to intimate the fact to me at

Aldington Knowle, where I shall be found throughout the night."

"Ay, sir," answered the officer, "but suppose the fellows take along

by Burmarsh, and so up to Hardy Pool. They will pass you, and be off

into the country before anything can be done."

"They will be stopped at Burmarsh," replied the colonel; "orders have

been given to barricade the road at nightfall, and to defend the

hamlet against any one coming from the sea. I shall establish another

post at Lympne as I go. Leave all that to me."

"But you must have a requisition, sir, or I suppose you are not

authorized to act," said the officer. "I will get one for you in a

minute."

"I have one," answered the Colonel, laying hand on the papers before

him; "but even were it not so, I should act on my own responsibility.

This is no ordinary case, Mr. Birchett. All you have to do is to ride

off towards Dymchurch as fast as you can, to give me notice that the

smugglers have landed their goods as soon as you find that such is the

case, and to add any information that you can gain respecting the

course they have taken. Remember, not to attack them unless you find

that you have sufficient force, but follow and keep them in sight as

far as you can."

"It's such a devilish foggy night, sir," said Birchett.

"It will be clearer inland," replied the young officer; "and we shall

catch them at day break. We can only fail from want of good

information; so see that I have the most speedy intelligence. But

stay--lest anything should go wrong, or be misunderstood with regard

to the beacons, you may as well, if you have men to spare, send off as

you pass, after the run has been effected, to the different posts at

Brenzet, at Snave, at Ham Street, with merely these words, 'The goods

are landed. The smugglers are at such a place.' The parties will act

upon the orders they have already received. Now away, and lose no

time!"

The riding officer hurried off, and the colonel of the regiment

descended to the court-yard. In three minutes more the sound of a

trumpet was heard in the streets of Hythe, and in less than ten, a

party of about thirty dragoons were marching out of the town towards

Lympne. A halt for about five minutes was made at the latter place,

and the small party of soldiers was diminished to about half its

number. Information, too, was there received, from one of the

cottagers, of a large body of men (magnified in his account into three

or four hundred) having gone down into the marshes about half an hour

before; but the commanding officer made no observation in reply, and

having given the orders he thought necessary, rode on towards

Aldington. The fog was thick in all the low ground, but cleared away a

good deal upon the more elevated spots; and as they were rising one of

the hills, the Serjeant who was with the party exclaimed, "There is

something very red up there, sir! It looks as if there were a beacon

lighted up, if we could see it for the fog."

The young officer halted for a moment, looked round, and then rode on

till he reached the summit of the hill, whence a great light, clearly

proceeding from a beacon, was discovered to the north-east.

"That must be near Postling," he said. "We have no party there. It

must be some signal of their own." And as he rode on, he thought, "It

is not impossible that poor Mowle's rashness may have put these men on

their guard, and thus thwarted the whole scheme. That is clearly some

warning to their boats."

But ere a quarter of an hour more had passed, he saw the probability

of still more disastrous effects, resulting from the lighting of the

beacon on Tolsford Hill; for another flame shot up, casting a red

glare through the haze from the side of Burmarsh, and then another and

another, till the dim air seemed all tinged with flame.

"An unlucky error," he said to himself. "Serjeant Jackson should have

known that we have no party in that quarter; and the beacons were only

to be lighted, from the first towards Hythe. It is very strange how

the clearest orders are sometimes misunderstood."

He rode on, however, at a quick pace, till he reached Aldington

Knowle, and had found the highest ground in the neighbourhood, whence,

after pausing for a minute or two to examine the country, as marked

out by the various fires, he dispatched three of the dragoons in

different directions, with orders to the parties in the villages round

to disregard the lights they saw, and not to act upon the orders

previously given, till they received intimation that the smugglers

were on the march.

It was now about midnight, and during nearly two hours the young

officer remained stationed upon the hill without any one approaching,

or any sound breaking the stillness of the night but the stamping of

the horses of his little force and the occasional clang of the

soldiers' arms. At the end of that period, the tramp of horse coming

along the road at a quick pace from the side of Hythe, was heard by

the party on the more elevated ground at a little distance from the

highway. There was a tightening of the bridle and a movement of the

heel amongst the men, to bring their chargers into more regular line;

but not a word was said, and the colonel remained in front, with his

arms crossed upon his chest and his rein thrown down, while what

appeared from the sound to be a considerable body of cavalry, passed

before him. He could not see them, it is true, from the darkness of

the night; but his ear recognised in a moment the jingling of the

dragoons' arms, and he concluded rightly, that the party consisted of

the company which he had ordered from Folkestone down to Bilsington.

As soon as they had gone on, he detached a man to the next cross road

on the same side, with orders, if he perceived any body of men coming

across from the side of the Marsh, to ride forward at once to the

officer in command at Bilsington, and direct him to move to the north,

keeping the Priory wood on the right, till he reached the cross-roads

at the corner, and wait there for further orders. The beacons had by

this time burnt out; and all remained dark and still for about half an

hour more, when the quick galloping of a horse was heard coming from

the side of the Marsh. A pause took place as soon as the animal

reached the high road, as if the rider had halted to look for some one

he had expected; and--dashing down instantly through the gate of the

field, which had been opened by the dragoons to gain the highest point

of ground--the young officer exclaimed, "Who goes there?"

"Ah, colonel, is that you?" cried the voice of Birchett. "They are

coming up as fast as they can come, and will pass either by Bilsington

or Bonnington. There's a precious lot of them--I never saw such a

number gathered before. Mowle's gone, poor fellow, to a certainty; for

we've seen nothing of him down there."

"Nor I either," answered the young officer, with a sigh. "I hope you

have left men to watch them, Mr. Birchett."

"Oh yes, sir," replied the officer. "I thought it better to come up

myself, than trust to any other. But I left Clinch and the rest there,

and sent off, as you told me, to all your posts."

"You are sure they will come by Bilsington or Bonnington, and not

strike off by Kitsbridge, towards Ham Street or Warehorn?" demanded

the young officer.

"If they do, they'll have to turn all the way back," answered

Birchett; "for I saw them to the crossing of the roads, and then came

across by Sherlock's Bridges and the horse-road to Hurst."

"And are you quite sure," continued the colonel, "that your messengers

will reach the parties at Brenzet or Snave?"

"Quite, sir," answered the Custom-House officer; "for I did not send

them off till the blackguards had passed, and the country behind was

clear."

"That was judicious; and we have them," rejoined the young officer. "I

trust they may take by Bonnington; but it will be necessary to

ascertain the fact. You shall go down, Mr. Birchett, yourself, with

some of the troopers, and reconnoitre. Go as cautiously as possible;

and if you see or hear them passing, fall back quietly. If they do not

appear in reasonable time, send me intelligence. You can calculate the

distances better than I can."

"I believe they will go by Bonnington," said the Customs officer; "for

it's much shorter, and I think they must know of your party at

Bilsington; though, to be sure, they could easily force that, for it

is but a sergeant's guard."

"You are mistaken," answered the colonel.

"Captain Irby is there with his troop; and, together with the parties

moving up, on a line with the smugglers from the Marsh, he will have a

hundred and fifty men, either in Bilsington, or three miles in his

rear. Nevertheless, we must give him help, in case they take that

road; so you had better ride down at once, Mr. Birchett."

And, ordering three of the privates to accompany the Custom-House

officer, with renewed injunctions to caution and silence, he resumed

his position on the hill, and waited in expectation of the result.

CHAPTER VII.

The cottages round Dymchurch, and the neighbourhood of the Gut, as it

is called, showed many a cheerful light about eleven o'clock, on the

night of which we have just been speaking; and, as the evening had

been cold and damp, it seemed natural enough to the two officers of

Customs stationed in the place--or at least they chose to think

so--that the poor people should have a fire to keep them warm. If they

had judged it expedient to go forth, instead of remaining in the house

appropriated to them, they might indeed have discovered a fragrant

odour of good Hollands, and every now and then a strong smell of

brandy, issuing from any hovel door that happened to open as they

passed. But the two officers did not judge it expedient to go forth;

for it was late, they were warm and comfortable where they were, a

good bowl of punch stood before them, and one of them, as he ladled

out the exhilarating liquor to the other, remarked, with philosophical

sagacity, "It's such a foggy night, who the deuce could see anything

on the water even if they went to look for it?"

The other laughed, with a meaning wink of his eye, and perfectly

agreed in the justice of his companion's observation. "Well, we must

go out, Jim, about twelve," he said, "just to let old Mowle see that

we are looking about; but you can go down to High Nook, and I can

pretend I heard something suspicious in the Marsh, farther up.

Otherwise, we shall be broke, to a certainty."

"I don't care, if I am broke," answered the other. "I've got all that

I want now, and can set up a shop."

"Well, I should like to hold on a little longer," replied his more

prudent companion; "and besides, if they found us out, they might do

worse than discharge us."

"But how the deuce should they find us out?" asked the other. "Nobody

saw me speak to the old gentleman; and nobody saw you. I didn't: nor

did you see me. So we can say nothing, and nobody else can say

anything--I shan't budge."

"Well, I shall!" said the other. "'Tis but a walk; and you know quite

well, Jim, that if we keep to the westward, it's all safe."

It was evident to the last speaker that his comrade had drunk quite

enough punch; but still they went on till the bowl was finished; and

then, the one going out, the other did not choose to remain, but

issued forth also, cursing and growling as he went. The murmur of a

good many voices to the eastward of Dymchurch saluted their ears the

moment they quitted the house; but that sound only induced them to

hasten their steps in the opposite direction.

The noise which produced this effect upon the officers, had also been

heard by another person, who was keeping his solitary watch on the low

shore, three or four hundred yards from the village; and to him it was

a pleasant sound. He had been on the look-out there for nearly two

hours; and no sight had he seen, nor sound had he heard, but the water

coming up as the tide made, and every now and then driving him further

back to avoid the ripple of the wave. Two or three minutes after, a

step could be distinguished; and some one gave a whistle.

The watcher whistled in return; and the next instant he was joined by

another person, somewhat taller than himself, who inquired, "Have you

heard anything of them yet?"

"No, sir," answered the man, in a respectful tone. "Everything has

been as still and as sleepy as an old woman's cat."

"Then what the devil's the meaning of these fires all over the

country?" asked young Radford; for he it was who had come down.

"Fires, sir?" said the man. "Why they were to light one upon Tolsford

Hill, when Harding sent up the rockets; but I have heard of none but

that, and have seen none at all."

"Why, they are blazing all over the country," cried young Radford,

from Tolsford to Dungeness. "If it's any of our people that have done

it, they must be mad."

"Well, if they have lighted the one at Tolsford,"' answered the man,

"we shall soon have Tom Hazlewood down to tell us more; for he was to

set off and gallop as fast as possible, whenever he saw anything."

Young Radford made no reply, but stood musing in silence for two or

three minutes; and then starting, he exclaimed, "Hark! wasn't that a

cheer from the sea?"

"I didn't hear it," answered the man; "but I thought I heard some one

riding."

Young Radford listened; but all seemed still for a moment, till,

coming upon harder ground, a horse's feet sounded distinctly.

"Tom Hazlewood, I think," cried Radford. "Run up, and see, Bill!"

"He'll come straight down here, sir," replied the man; "he knows where

to find me." And almost as he spoke, a man on horseback galloped up,

saying, "They must be well in shore now."

"Who the devil lighted all those fires?" exclaimed young Radford. "Why

they will alarm the whole country!"

"I don't know, sir," answered the man on horseback; "I lighted the one

at Tolsford, but I've nothing to do with the others, and don't know

who lighted them."

"Then you saw the rockets?" demanded the young gentleman.

"Quite clear, sir," replied Hazlewood; "I got upon the highest point

that I could find, and kept looking out over the sea, thinking I

should see nothing; for though it was quite clear up so high, and the

stars shining as bright as possible, yet all underneath was like a

great white cloud rolled about; but suddenly, as I was looking over

this way, I saw something like a star shoot up from the cloud and

burst into a thousand bright sparks, making quite a blaze all round

it; and then came another, and then another. So, being quite sure that

it was Jack Harding at sea, I ran down as hard as I could to where I

had left Peter by the pile of wood and the two old barrels, and taking

the candle out of his lantern, thrust it in. As soon as it was in a

blaze, I got outside my horse and galloped down; for he could not be

more than two or three miles out when I saw the rockets."

"Then he must be close in now," answered Richard Radford; "and we had

better get all the men down, and spread out."

"There will be time enough, sir, I should think," observed the man on

foot, "for he'll get the big boats in, as near as he can, before he

loads the little ones."

"I will fire a pistol, to let him know where we are," answered young

Radford; and drawing one from his belt, he had cocked it, when the man

on foot stopped him, saying, "There are two officers in Dymchurch, you

know, sir, and they may send off for troops."

"Pooh--nonsense!" replied Richard Radford, firing the pistol in the

air; "do you think we would have left them there, if we were not sure

of them?"

In somewhat less than a minute, a distinct cheer was heard from the

sea; and at the sound of the pistol, a crowd of men and horses, which

in the mist and darkness seemed innumerable, began to gather down upon

the shore, as near to the water's edge as they could come. A great

many lanterns were produced, and a strange and curious sight it was to

see the number of wild-looking faces which appeared by that dim,

uncertain light.

"Ned Ramley!" cried young Radford.

"Here I am, sir," answered a voice close at hand.

"Where's the Major?"

"Major! Major!" shouted Ramley.

"Coming," answered a voice at some distance. "Stand by him, and do as

I told you!"

"What's the matter?" demanded Richard Radford, as the Major came up.

"Oh, nothing, sir!" replied the other; "only a man I found larking

about. He says he's willing to help; but I thought it best to set a

watch upon him, as I don't know him."

"That was right," said the young gentleman. "But, hark!--there are the

oars!" And the sound of the regular sweep, and the shifting beat of

the oar against the rowlocks, was distinctly heard by all present.

Some of the men waded down into the water, there being very little sea

running, and soon, through the mist, six boats of a tolerable size

could be seen pulling hard towards the land. In another moment, amidst

various cries and directions, they touched the shore. Several men

jumped out of each into the water, and a number of the party which had

come down to meet them, running in, caught hold of the ropes that were

thrown out of the boats, and with marvellous rapidity they were drawn

up till they were high and dry.

"Ah, Harding, is that you?" said young Radford, addressing the

smuggler, who had been steering the largest boat. "This is capitally

managed. You are even earlier than I expected; and we shall get far

into the country before daylight."

"We were obliged to use the sweeps, sir," said Harding, bluntly; "but

don't let's talk. Get the things out, and load the horses; for we

shall have to make two more trips back to the luggers before they are

all cleared."

Everything was now bustle and activity; a number of bales and packages

were taken out of the boats and placed upon the horses in one way or

another, not always the most convenient to the poor animals; and as

soon as Harding had made Mr. Radford count the number of the articles

landed, the boats were launched off again to some larger vessels,

which it seems were lying out at a little distance, though

indiscernible in the fog.

Harding himself remained ashore; and turning to one or two of those

about him, he asked, "What was all that red blaze I saw half over the

country?"

"None of us can tell," answered young Radford. "The moment the fire at

Tolsford was lighted, a dozen more were flaming up, all along to

Dungeness."

"That's devilish strange!" said Harding. "It does not look well.--How

many men have you got with you, Mr. Radford?"

"Why, well nigh upon two hundred," answered Ned Ramley, for his

comrade.

"Ah, then you'll do," answered Harding, with a laugh; "but still you

won't be the worse for some more. So I and some of the lads will see

you safe across the Marsh. The Customs have got nothing at sea about

here; so the boats will be safe enough."

"Thank you, Harding--thank you, Jack;" said several of the voices.

"Once out of the Marsh, with all these ditches and things, and we

shall do very well. How far are the luggers off?"

"Not a hundred fathom," answered Harding. "I would have run them

ashore if there had been any capstan here to have drawn them up. But

they wont be a minute, so have every thing ready. Move off those

horses that are loaded, a bit, my lads, and bring up the others."

Harding's minute, however, extended to nearly ten, and then the boats

were again perceived approaching, and the same process was followed as

before. The third trip was then made with equal success and ease. Not

the slightest difficulty occurred, not the slightest obstruction was

offered; the number of packages was declared to be complete, the

horses were all loaded, and the party began to move off in a long

line, across the Marsh, like a caravan threading the mazes of the

desert.

Leaving a few men with the boats that were ashore, Harding and the

rest of the seamen, with Mr. Radford, and several of his party,

brought up the rear of the smugglers, talking over the events which

had taken place, and the course of their farther proceedings. All

seemed friendly and good-humoured; but there is such a thing as

seeming, even amongst smugglers, and if Harding could have seen the

real feelings of some of his companions towards him, it is very

probable that he would not have given himself the trouble to accompany

them on the way.

"I will pay you the money when I get to Bonnington," said young

Radford, addressing his companion. "I can't very well get at it till I

dismount."

"Oh, there's no matter for that, sir," replied the smuggler. "Your

father can pay me some other time.--But what are you going to

Bonnington for? I should have thought your best way would have been by

Bilsington, and so straight into the Weald. Then you would have had

the woods round about you the greater part of the way; or I don't know

that I might not have gone farther down still, and so by Orleston."

"There's a party of dragoons at Bilsington," said young Radford, "and

another at Ham Street."

"Ay, that alters the case," answered the smuggler; "but they are all

so scattered about and so few, I should think they could do you no

great harm. However, it will be best for you to go by Bonnington, if

you are sure there are no troops there."

"If there are, we must fight: that's all," answered young Radford; and

so ended the conversation for the time. One of those pauses of deep

silence succeeded, which--by the accidental exhaustion of topics and

the recurrence of the mind to the thoughts suggested by what has just

passed--so frequently intervene in the conversation even of great

numbers, whether occupied with light or serious subjects. How often do

we find, amidst the gayest or the busiest assembly, a sudden stillness

pervade the whole, and the ear may detect a pin fall. In the midst of

the silence, however, Harding laid his hand upon young Radford's

bridle, saying, in a low voice, "Hark! do you not hear the galloping

of horses to the east there?"

The young man, on the first impulse, put his hand to his holster; but

then withdrew it, and listened. "I think I do," he answered; "but now

it has stopped."

"You are watched, I suspect," said Harding; "they did not seem many,

however, and may be afraid to attack you. If I were you, I would put

the men into a quicker pace; for these fellows may gather as they

go.--If you had got such things with you as you could throw into the

cuts, it would not much matter; for you could fight it out here, as

well as elsewhere; but, if I understood your father rightly, these

goods would all be spoiled, and so the sooner you are out of the Marsh

the better. Then you will be safe enough, if you are prudent. You may

have to risk a shot or two; but that does not much matter."

"And what do you call prudent, Harding?" asked young Radford, in a

wonderfully calm tone, considering his vehement temperament, and the

excitement of the adventure in which he was engaged; "how would you

have me act, when I do get out of the Marsh?"

"Why, that seems clear enough," replied the smuggler. "I would send

all the goods and the men on foot, first, keeping along the straight

road between the woods; and then, with all those who have got horses,

I would hang behind a quarter of a mile or so, till the others had

time to get on and disperse to the different hides, which ought to be

done as soon as possible. Let a number drop off here, and a number

there--one set to the willow cave, close by Woodchurch hill, another

to the old Priory in the wood, and so on: you still keeping behind,

and facing about upon the road, if you are pursued. If you do that,

you are sure to secure the goods, or by far the greater part of them."

The advice was so good--as far as young Radford knew of the condition

of the country, and the usual plan of operations which had hitherto

been pursued by the Customs in their pursuit of smugglers--that he

could offer no reasonable argument against it; but when prejudice has

taken possession of a man's mind, it is a busy and skilful framer of

suspicions; and he thought within his own breast, though he did not

speak his intentions aloud, "No! Hang me if I leave the goods till I

see them safe housed. This fellow may want to ruin us, by separating

us into small parties."

The rest of the party had, by this time, resumed their conversation;

and both Radford and Harding well knew that it would be vain to

attempt to keep them quiet; for they were a rash and careless set,

inclined to do everything with dash and swagger; and although, in the

presence of actual and apparent danger, they could be induced to

preserve some degree of order and discipline, and to show some

obedience to their leaders, yet as soon as the peril had passed away,

or was no longer immediately before their eyes, they were like

schoolboys in the master's absence, and careless of the consequences

which they did not see. Twice Harding said, in a low voice, "I hear

them again to the east, there!" and twice young Radford urged his men

to a quicker pace; but many of them had come far; horses and men were

tired; every one considered that, as the goods were safely landed, and

no opposition shown, the battle was more than half won; and all forgot

the warning of the day before, as man ever forgets the chastisements

which are inflicted by Heaven for his good, and falls the next day

into the very same errors, for the reproof of which they were sent.

"Now," said Harding, as they approached the spot where the Marsh road

opened upon the highway to Bonnington, "spread some of your men out on

the right and left, Mr. Radford, to keep you clear in case the enemy

wish to make an attack. Your people can easily close in, and follow

quickly, as soon as the rest have passed."

"If they do make an attack," thought young Radford, "your head shall

be the first I send a ball through;" but the advice was too judicious

to be neglected; and he accordingly gave orders to Ned Ramley and the

Major, with ten men each, to go one or two hundred yards on the road

towards Bilsington on the one hand, and Hurst on the other, and see

that all was safe. A little confusion ensued, as was but natural in so

badly disciplined a body; and in the meanwhile the laden horses

advanced along the road straight into the heart of the country, while

Richard Radford, with the greater part of his mounted men, paused to

support either of his parties in case of attack. He said something in

a low voice regarding the money, to Harding, who replied abruptly,

"There--never mind about that; only look out, and get off as quickly

as you can. You are safe enough now, I think; so good night."

Thus saying, he turned, and with the six or eight stout fellows who

accompanied him, trod his way back into the Marsh. What passed through

young Radford's brain at that moment it may be needless to dwell upon;

but Harding escaped a peril that he little dreamed of, solely by the

risk of ruin to the whole scheme which a brawl at that spot and moment

must have entailed.

The men who had been detached to the right, advanced along the road to

the distance specified, proceeding slowly in the fog, and looking

eagerly out before. "Look out," said Ned Ramley, at length, to one of

his companions, taking a pistol from his belt at the same time, "I see

men on horseback there, I think."

"Only trees in the fog," answered the other.

"Hush!" cried Ramley, sharply; but the other men were talking

carelessly, and whether it was the sound of retreating horses or not,

that he heard, he could not discover. After going on about three

hundred yards, Ned Ramley turned, saying, "We had better go back now,

and give warning; for I am very sure those were men I saw."

The other differed with him on that point; and, on rejoining Richard

Radford, they found the Major and his party just come back from the

Bilsington road, but with one man short. "That fellow," said the

Major, "has taken himself off. I was sure he was a spy, so we had

better go on as fast as possible. We shall have plenty of time before

he can raise men enough to follow."

"There are others to the east, there," replied Ned Ramley. "I saw two

or three, and there is no time to be lost, I say, or we shall have the

whole country upon us. If I were you, Mr. Radford, I'd disperse in as

small numbers as possible whenever we get to the Chequer-tree; and

then if we lose a few of the things, we shall keep the greater

part--unless, indeed, you are minded to stand it out, and have a fight

upon the Green. We are enough to beat them all, I should think."

"Ay, Ned, that is the gallant way," answered Richard Radford; "but we

must first see what is on before. We must not lose the goods, or risk

them; otherwise nothing would please me better than to drub these

dragoons; but in case it should be dark still when they come near

us--if they do at all--we'll have a blow or two before we have done, I

trust. However, let us forward now, for we must keep up well with the

rest."

The party moved on at a quick pace, and soon overtook the train of

loaded horses, and men on foot, which had gone on before. Many a time

a glance was given along the road behind, and many a time an attentive

ear was turned listening for the sound of coming horse; but all was

still and silent; and winding on through the thick woods, which at

that time overspread all the country in the vicinity of their course,

and covered their line of advance right and left, they began to lose

the sense of danger, and to suppose that the sounds which had been

heard, and the forms which had been seen, were but mere creations of

the fancy.

About two miles from the border of Romney Marsh, the mist grew

lighter, fading gradually away as the sea air mingled with the clearer

atmosphere of the country. At times a star or two might be seen above;

and though at that hour the moon gave no light, yet there was a

certain degree of brightening in the sky which made some think they

had miscalculated the hour, and that it was nearer the dawn than they

imagined, while others contended that it was produced merely by the

clearing away of the fog. At length, however, they heard a distant

clock strike four. They were now at a spot where three or four roads

branch off in different directions, at a distance of not more than

half-a-mile from Chequer-tree, having a wide extent of rough,

uncultivated land, called Aldington Freight, on their right, and part

of the Priory wood on their left; and it yet wanted somewhat more than

an hour to the actual rising of the sun. A consultation was then held;

and, notwithstanding some differences of opinion, it was resolved to

take the road by Stonecross Green, where they thought they could get

information from some friendly cottagers, and thence through Gilbert's

Wood towards Shaddoxhurst. At that point, they calculated that they

could safely separate in order to convey the goods to the several

_hides_, or places of concealment, which had been chosen beforehand.

At Stonecross Green, they paused again, and knocked hard at a cottage

door, till they brought forth the sleepy tenant from his bed. But the

intelligence gained from him was by no means satisfactory; he spoke of

a large party of dragoons at Kingsnorth, and mentioned reports which

had reached him of a small body having shown itself, at Bromley Green,

late on the preceding night; and it was consequently resolved, after

much debate, to turn off before entering Gilbert's Wood, and, in some

degree retreading their steps towards the Marsh, to make for

Woodchurch beacon and thence to Redbrook Street. The distance was thus

rendered greater, and both men and horses were weary; but the line of

road proposed lay amidst a wild and thinly inhabited part of the

country, where few hamlets or villages offered any quarters for the

dragoons. They calculated, too, that having turned the dragoons who

were quartered at Bilsington, they should thus pass between them and

those at Kingsnorth and Bromley Green: and Richard Radford, himself,

was well aware that there were no soldiers, when he left that part of

the country, in the neighbourhood of High Halden or Bethersden. This

seemed, therefore, the only road that was actually open before them;

and it was accordingly taken, after a general distribution of spirits

amongst the men, and of hay and water to the horses. Still their

progress was slow, for the ground became hilly in that neighbourhood,

and by the time they arrived at an elevated spot, near Woodchurch

Beacon, whence they could see over a wide extent of country round, the

grey light of the dawn was spreading rapidly through the sky, showing

all the varied objects of the fair and beautiful land through which

they wandered.

But it is now necessary to turn to another personage in our history,

of whose fate, for some time, we have had no account.

CHAPTER VIII.

We left our friend, Mr. Mowle, in no very pleasant situation; for

although the generosity of the Major, in neither divulging the

discovery he had made, to the rest of the smugglers, nor blowing the

brains of the intruder out upon the spot, was, perhaps, much more than

could be expected from a man in his situation and of his habits, yet

it afforded no guarantee whatsoever to the unfortunate Custom-House

officer, that his life would not be sacrificed on the very first

danger or alarm. He also knew, that if such an accident were to happen

again, as that which had at first displayed his features to one of

those into whose nocturnal councils he had intruded, nothing on earth

could save him; for amongst the gang by whom he was surrounded, were a

number of men who had sworn to shed his blood on the very first

opportunity.

He walked along, therefore, as the reader may well conceive, with the

feeling of a knife continually at his throat; and a long and weary

march it seemed to him, as, proceeding by tortuous ways and zig-zag

paths, the smugglers descended into Romney Marsh, and advanced

rapidly towards Dymchurch. Mowle was, perhaps, as brave and daring a

man as any that ever existed; but still the sensation of impending

death can never be very pleasant to a person in strong health, and

well-contented with the earth on which he is placed; and Mowle felt

all the disagreeable points in his situation, exactly as any other man

would do. It would not be just to him, however, were we not to state,

that many other considerations crossed his mind, besides that of his

own personal safety. The first of these was his duty to the department

of government which he served; and many a plan suggested itself for

making his escape here or there, in which he regarded the apprehension

of the smugglers, and the seizure of the goods that they were going to

escort into the country, fully as much as his own life.

His friend the Major, however, took means to frustrate all such plans,

and seemed equally careful to prevent Mr. Mowle from effecting his

object, and to guard against his being discovered by the other

smugglers. At every turn and corner, at the crossing of every stream

or cut, the Major was by his side; and yet once or twice he whispered

a caution to him to keep out of the way of the lights, more especially

as they approached Dymchurch. When they came near the shore, and a

number of men with lanterns issued forth to aid them from the various

cottages in the vicinity, he told Mowle to keep back with one party,

consisting of hands brought out of Sussex, who were stationed in the

rear with a troop of the horses. But at the same time Mowle heard his

compassionate friend direct two of the men to keep a sharp eye upon

him, as he was a stranger, of whom the leaders were not quite sure,

adding an injunction to blow his brains out at once, if he made the

slightest movement without orders.

In the bustle and confusion which ensued, during the landing of the

smuggled goods and the loading of the horses, Mowle once or twice

encouraged a hope that something would favour his escape. But the two

men strictly obeyed the orders they had received, remained close to

his side during more than an hour and a half, which was consumed upon

the beach, and never left him till he was rejoined by the Major, who

told him to march on with the rest.

"What's to come of this?" thought Mowle, as he proceeded, "and what can

the fellow intend to do with me?--If he drags me along with them till

daylight, one half of them will know me; and then the game's up--and

yet he can't mean me harm, either. Well, I may have an opportunity of

repaying him some day."

When the party arrived at Bonnington, however, and, as we have already

stated, two small bodies were sent off to the right and left, to

reconnoitre the ground on either side, Mowle was one of those selected

by the Major to accompany him on the side of Bilsington. But after

having gone to the prescribed distance, without discovering anything

to create suspicion, the worthy field-officer gave the order to

return; and contriving to disentangle Mowle from the rest, he

whispered in his ear, "Off with you as fast as you can, and take back

by the Marsh, for if you give the least information, or bring the

soldiers upon us, be you sure that some of us will find means to cut

your throat.--Get on, get on fast!" he continued aloud, to the other

men. "We've no time to lose;" and Mowle, taking advantage of the hurry

and confusion of the moment, ran off towards Bilsington as fast as his

legs could carry him.

"He's off!" cried one of the men. "Shall I give him a shot?"

"No--no," answered the Major, "it will only make more row. He's more

frightened than treacherous, I believe. I don't think he'll peach."

Thus saying, he rejoined the main body of the smugglers, as we have

seen; and Mowle hurried on his way without pause, running till he was

quite out of breath. Now, the Major, in his parting speech to Mowle,

though a shrewd man, had miscalculated his course, and mistaken the

person with whom he had to deal. Had he put it to the Custom-House

officer, as a matter of honour and generosity, not to inform against

the person who had saved his life, poor Mowle would have been in a

situation of great perplexity; but the threat which had been used,

relieved him of half the difficulty. Not that he did not feel a

repugnance to the task which duty pointed out--not that he did not ask

himself, as soon as he had a moment to think of anything, "What ought

I to do? How ought I to act?" But still the answer was, that his duty

and his oath required him immediately to take steps for the pursuit

and capture of the smugglers; and when he thought of the menace he

said to himself, "No, no; if I don't do what I ought, these fellows

will only say that I was afraid."

Having settled the matter in his own mind, he proceeded to execute his

purpose with all speed, and hurried on towards Bilsington, where he

knew there was a small party of dragoons, proposing to send off

messengers immediately to the colonel of the regiment and to all the

different posts around. It was pitch dark, so that he did not perceive

the first houses of the hamlet, till he was within a few yards of

them; and all seemed still and quiet in the place. But after having

passed the lane leading to the church, Mowle heard the stamping of

some horses' feet, and the next instant a voice exclaimed, "Stand! who

goes there?"

'"A friend!" answered Mowle. "Where's the sergeant?"

"Here am I," replied another voice. "Who are you?

"My name is Mowle," rejoined our friend, "the chief officer of Customs

at Hythe."

"Oh, come along, Mr. Mowle; you are just the man we want," said the

sergeant, advancing a step or two. "Captain Irby is up here, and would

be glad to speak with you."

Mowle followed in silence, having, indeed, some occasion to set his

thoughts in order, and to recover his breath. About sixty or seventy

yards farther on, a scene broke upon him, which somewhat surprised

him; for, instead of a dozen dragoons at the most, he perceived, on

turning the corner of the next cottage, a body of at least seventy or

eighty men, as well as he could calculate, standing each beside his

horse, whose breath was seen mingling with the thick fog, by the light

of a single lantern held close to the wall of the house which

concealed the party from the Bonnington Road. Round that lantern were

congregated three or four figures, besides that of the man who held

it; and, fronting the approach, was a young gentleman,[2] dressed in

the usual costume of a dragoon officer of that period. Before him

stood another, apparently a private of the regiment; and the light

shone full upon the faces of both, showing a cold, thoughtful, and

inquiring look upon the countenance of the young officer, and anxious

haste upon that of the inferior soldier.

---------------------

[Footnote 2: It will be seen that I have represented all my officers

as young men, even up to the very colonel of the regiment; but it must

be remembered, that, in those days, promotion in the service was

regulated in a very different manner from the present system. I

remember a droll story, of a visitor at a nobleman's house, inquiring

of the butler what was the cause of an obstreperous roaring he heard

up stairs, when the servant replied, "Oh, sir, it is nothing but the

little general crying for his pap."]

---------------------

"Here is Mr. Mowle, the chief officer, captain," said the sergeant, as

they advanced.

"Ha, that is fortunate!" replied Captain Irby. "Now we shall get at

the facts, I suppose. Well, Mr. Mowle, what news?"

"Why, sir, the cargo is landed," exclaimed Mowle, eagerly; "and the

smugglers passed by Bonnington, up towards Chequer-tree, not twenty

minutes ago."

"So this man says," rejoined Captain Irby, not the least in the world

in haste. "Have you any fresh orders from the colonel?"

"No, sir; he said all his orders were given when last I saw him,"

replied the officer of Customs; "but if you move up quick towards

Chequer-tree, you are sure to overtake them."

"How long is it since you saw Sir Henry?" demanded Captain Irby,

without appearing to notice Mowle's suggestion.

"Oh, several hours ago," answered the Custom-House agent, somewhat

provoked at the young officer's coolness. "I have been kept prisoner

by the smugglers since ten o'clock--but that is nothing to the

purpose, sir. If you would catch the smugglers, you have nothing for

it but to move up to Chequer-tree after them; and that is what I

require you to do."

"I have my orders," answered the captain of the troop, with a smile at

the impetuous tone of the Custom-House officer, "and if you bring me

none later, those I shall obey, Mr. Mowle."

"Well, sir, you take the responsibility upon yourself, then," said

Mowle; "I have expressed my opinion, and what I require at your

hands."

"The responsibility will rest where it ought," replied Captain Irby,

"on the shoulders of him whom I am bound to obey. For your opinion I

am obliged to you, but it cannot be followed; and as to what you

require, I am under superior authority, which supersedes your

requisition."

He then said a word or two to one of the men beside him, who