"Ye, that the rising morn invidious mark,
And hate the light--because your deeds are dark."
_Pleasures of Hope._
"Ye are baith a pair o' the deevil's peats, I trow--hard token
whilk deserves the hettest corner o' his ingle side."--_Heart of
Mid Lothian._
We left L'Estrange waiting at the door of Stacy's cabin; he heard the
bolts within being unbarred, and in another moment the door was opened
by Bill himself, who beckoned L'Estrange to enter without even saying a
word of recognition, and no sooner had admitted his guest than he began
again to bar the door. Bill was somewhat beneath the average height, but
this was fully compensated for by his immense breadth of chest, and
prodigious physical strength. His hair was lank, black, and matted down
on his head; beneath his shaggy eyebrows gleamed piercing grey eyes; he
wore neither beard nor moustache, but his whiskers formed what is
commonly called a "hangman's collar," and were jagged and dusty with
snuff. In his early days Bill's features had not been ill-looking, but
time, and a life of hardship and exposure, had made sad ravages. His
face was bloated by constant use of intoxicating liquors, weather-beaten
by a seafaring life, and bronzed by exposure to a fierce tropical sun.
There was something brutal in his manners, sinister and forbidding in
his appearance. His brow was disfigured by a ghastly scar, and he
looked, what he was in reality, a pirate and smuggler. He was dressed in
sailor's costume, a sou'-wester on his head, and a rough pilot jacket
buttoned closely round his broad chest. In his mouth he carried a small
black cutty pipe, and wore on one of the little fingers of his large
tanned hand a diamond ring of immense value.
Whilst this worthy was securing his door, L'Estrange found his way along
a dark, narrow passage to old Stacy's storeroom. It was a long,
low-roofed chamber, dimly lighted by a ship lamp, which swung from the
ceiling, and shed its flickering beams on a strange and varied
assortment of smuggled goods. There was only one window, or rather
lattice, with small diamond-shaped panes of glass; it was now unsparred,
and this had been the light which guided L'Estrange to the door. On the
dusky walls hung cutlasses, pistols, and other deadly instruments of
warfare, and beneath them were ranged rows of barrels, cases of tobacco,
bales of muslin, and other foreign goods, all contraband, and scattered
here and there in inextricable confusion. In the corner of the room
furthest off a huge mastiff, chained to an empty barrel, which served
for its kennel, kept guard over the cabin, and as L'Estrange entered,
sprang out to the full length of his chain, growling and barking in the
most ferocious manner, and displaying, at the same time, a set of
splendid teeth and four terrible fangs. Woe to the intruder who came
within chain's length of Fury! It was not, however, the strange medley,
nor the desperate look of the apartment, nor the bandog's ire that made
L'Estrange start back as if an adder had bitten him--no, it was none of
these, he had seen them all before, often and often had he heard the
watchdog's challenge. It was another inmate of this den--a face he saw
where least he had expected to see it--which made our hero start back!
Seated before the fire, which was made of drift-wood, on a barrel of
gunpowder with the lid half broken off, displaying the deadly dust to
view, sat a young man smoking a small black pipe, mounted in silver. If
this pipe has not already betrayed him, our reader will at once
recognize him from his short black hair, fierce moustache, and bold dark
eye, to be none other than Captain de Vere. Beside him was a small round
oak table, on which stood a silver tankard, holding a gallon of strong
ale; a bottle of illicit whiskey, with the cork drawn; two toddy
glasses, with silver spoons inside them, and several smaller glasses; on
the floor lay a corkscrew with a cork still in it. The Captain sat with
his eyes bent on the ground, smoking abstractedly, and would probably
not have noticed the intruder had it not been for Fury's angry growl. He
picked up a piece of drift-wood lying on the hearth, and, glancing
towards the enraged animal, exclaimed, "Be still, you black devil," at
the same time hurling the piece of wreck, which struck the animal a
heavy blow, and sent it howling with pain into its barrel again. Having
stilled the dog, the Captain next turned round to see the intruder. If
L'Estrange was surprised to see De Vere, no less so was the Captain to
see him there.
For some seconds they stared at each other without speaking a word; at
last the Captain broke silence by exclaiming: "Well! I'm blowed," at the
same time emptying the burning ashes of his pipe on the top of the
barrel with the utmost nonchalance. Had one spark fallen into the
powder, no one in that room would have ever lived to tell the tale!
"You will be _blowed_ if you don't take care," replied L'Estrange,
shuddering with horror at the careless action.
"A truce to your puns, and tell me what in the name of heaven has
brought you to such a place at such an hour?"
"I might ask the same question of you, De Vere. I came, however, to see
Stacy on some private business."
"So you have steered for old Bill, have you?"
"And what in the name of the foul fiend had you to say to me, my
messmate?" muttered the old man, who had since entered the apartment.
"I had much to see you about, Bill--some private business of the
greatest consequence."
"Private business be hanged," shouted the Captain, "there are no secrets
here; was it with the black-eyed Antonia your private business lay, eh,
L'Estrange?"
"No, De Vere, it was on very different matters I wanted Bill's advice."
"Bill's advice--a good one--his advice is the fiend's own counsel," said
the Captain, disregarding Bill's angry look, who exclaimed, "And if he
wants my advice, why shouldn't he have it, you scoundrel?"
"Stow that, old badger," interrupted the Captain. "Stow that, Bill; no
brawling, remember; but I say again, d--n all secrets--out with it, Ned,
you know me, I am no sieve."
"But, De Vere, this concerns your own family. I cannot tell it to you
yet--by-and-by I may--not now."
"And why not now? If it concerns my family who has a better right to
know it? and if I am to know it some day, why not now?"
L'Estrange still hesitated.
"Hark you," said the Captain, rising flushed with anger, and striking
the table such a blow with his clenched hand as set all the glasses
waltzing, "you shall trifle with me no more: I wish to know that secret,
and by heaven I will! Look you here, my fine fellow, no one saw you come
in here, and devil a one shall see you go out, unless you turf your
secret! it is as safe with me as with Bill, and unless I know it, you
never leave this room living."
His whole frame seemed to dilate with passion as he shouted, rather than
spoke, these words.
"Out with it, Ned; devil a fear of the Cap's turning traitor, he will
rap through right and wrong," said old Bill Stacy.
L'Estrange knowing the desperate character of these two men, and feeling
sure they would feel small scruples in fulfilling their threat, should
he longer hesitate, thought the best part of valour was discretion, and
told them he would make a clean breast of it.
"But, remember, De Vere," said he, "you force me to do it, and you must
not grow wrath if you don't like it."
"Small fear of that," said the Captain, reseating himself on the barrel.
"Come here, Ned, sit down, make yourself comfortable first. What will
you have? ale--whiskey--or old Tom? all here."
"Some whiskey; I am partial to it, I don't know why."
"And capital whiskey it is," said the Captain, pouring him out a glass;
"trust Bill for good spirits! And now for the tale; cut along, Ned."
Having emptied his glass, L'Estrange commenced his narrative, and made,
as he said, a clean breast of it. During the recital, to have judged by
the looks of the two desperates, you would have fancied they had little
or no interest in it, and vastly preferred their pipes and the frequent
drams they drank; but it was far otherwise, and thoughtless as they
looked they were both drinking in every word, sifting every phrase, and
turning over the whole in their minds. It was some time ere L'Estrange
finished, and a long time elapsed before another word was spoken. The
Captain broke silence and said, as he tossed off another dram--
"So ho! sets the wind that way? I thought as much. You love a pretty
girl--and she is pretty too--she loves you. My brother comes in--she
likes him better--jilts you, and no wonder; most girls would prefer a
coronet, when they can get one, to none. And you want to get her back,
that's all. Is that your fine secret? Why, Lord bless me, you might have
proclaimed that in the market-place."
The Captain laughed bitterly.
"No, that's not all, you forget if your brother marries _your_ hopes of
a coronet are for ever gone too."
"Egad," said the Captain, using his favourite expression, "you are right
there, Ned; I never thought of that! True, I'd as lief see Wentworth
beneath the sod as married. But what is that to you? if the girl don't
like you--if she likes him better--you won't get her back. I know the
sex well; let one of them take a thing into their heads and they will
move heaven and earth till they get it. If Ellen Ravensworth has taken
it into her head to be a countess, she is safe to be so, despite you and
me, Ned. But you are sure Wentworth gave her that ring?"
"Sure as death."
"Ha! that looks bad! And what are you going to do?"
"That is what I came here for, to find out--that is exactly what I don't
know--can you assist me? Let's hear what you can devise, Bill."
"Look you--this here is my advice, trap him--snare 'im--net him--set
another girl in his way--a springe to catch woodcocks--eh Ned? get him
to marry another girl--get the lass to forget him!"
"Sage advice that, you muddle-pated idiot--that would be a joke!
Wentworth marry another--if he must marry, why the devil not Ellen
Ravensworth? Well, you are a greater fool than I took you for, Bill."
Stacy gave an angry grunt when he saw his error.
"No, no! Wentworth must not marry, that's flat!"
"How will you prevent him, De Vere?"
"How prevent him? lots of ways! If the thing depended on such
thickheaded fools as you and Bill, you would want your lass, as the
Scotch say, and Wentworth would _not_ want his. But, thank heaven, you
have a wily customer in me, and if I don't bring matters straight call
me a fool--an idiot! Now what do you think of this?" he continued, and
for several minutes, in a low voice, whispered some dark plan or scheme.
The changing expression of L'Estrange's face from gloom and doubt, till
at last, when the Captain ceased, he exclaimed with joy, "Bravo! well
done! it is the counsel of a Nestor," showed he at least thought well of
it, and augured its success.
"You're a gallows bird--a crafty old fox--a rascally dog, you are," said
Bill; "and what, my hearty, if I refuse, what if Bill says his daughter
shan't?"
"Then I say I'll twist your neck, you old smuggler, and rid the world of
such a scoundrel, and be thanked for doing so! that's what I say; so you
had best comply."
"Ye dursn't, you dog."
"Daren't I?" said the Captain, springing up from his seat. "Dead dogs
tell no tales, and why should I not? I dare anything--I neither fear God
nor regard man--I fear neither angel, spirit, nor devil! and think you I
fear an old rascal like you?"
Some terrible catastrophe might have happened had it not been for
L'Estrange, who saw they were both inflamed with drink; he interposed
himself between the brawlers, and tried to make peace by insisting on
the Captain accompanying him home, and Bill's appeasing his wrath,
saying they had been there quite long enough; the plan was a famous
one, and if they left Bill to himself he would soon come round to it.
Muttering indistinct oaths and curses old Bill unbarred the door once
more, and let the two friends--if we may so call them--out. Taking
L'Estrange's arm, the Captain proceeded with him across the bleak
common.
"Are you not glad you told me all, you unbelieving fellow?"
"I am. I hope it will succeed."
"Sure to succeed. By-the-by, how did you come out here? marched like me,
I suppose, and a cold tramp we shall have of it," said the Captain,
buttoning up his coat.
"No, I rode out."
"Rode, and where the deuce did you leave your horse? If you left it on
the common, ten to one some dog of a smuggler has noosed it."
"Never you fear, I brought my man with me, and he is taking care of
them."
"He rode too? aha, then, I can ride his nag for him--it will save the
grind; that'll do nicely," said the Captain, quickening his pace and
advancing to where the man and horses stood. "By Gad he's asleep; I'll
freshen him up," said he, laying his riding-whip pretty smartly across
the Irishman's shoulders.
When Pat had smoked out his pipe, and found he had no more tobacco to
replenish it with, again anathematizing L'Estrange for his nocturnal
freaks, he dismounted, and leaning against his charger's side, which
proved a capital defence against the cold south-easter that blew chilly
over the downs, still white with snow, he actually fell asleep; and in
dreamland once more visited his emerald isle, green Erin, and like
Campbell's dreaming soldier, hastened to his wife's embrace, and vowed
he would leave them no more for a soldier's life! Poor Pat's dream was
somewhat rudely broken by the blow of De Vere's whip. Rubbing his eyes
he looked round to see his disturber.
"Rouse up, you sleepy dog," said the Captain, as his lash again
descended--"rouse up and hold the stirrup for me."
Mechanically the Irishman obeyed, knowing the Captain of old, and he had
the mortification of beholding him firmly seated on his horse, and as
soon as L'Estrange was mounted they both set off at full gallop towards
Brighton, the Captain telling him he might get back the best way he
could, and that a double quick would warm him after his slumbers.
"Divil resave 'em for a set of thieves," cried the enraged Paddy, as
soon as his tormentor was gone. "A pretty trick to play an honest
man--ill luck to 'em both." He then began his solitary plod home over
the bleak plains. "An' they niver thought I might be murthered, and not
even a dhrap of the rale good stuff to keep the cold out have they left
me--ill luck to 'em." With such kindly expressions Pat Malony cheered
his way, and after a four mile trudge, reached the barracks at past
three in the morning; and as he could not, or would not give an account
of himself he was placed in guard for absence without leave, until
L'Estrange released him from his prison and comforted the son of Erin's
offended pride by a sovereign, for which piece of generosity he was
rewarded by as many blessings as he had received cursings the previous
night, and assured of Pat's willingness to endure fifty such nightly
perambulations.