



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (Oxford University)











Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://books.google.com/books?id=q_QDAAAAQAAJ
     (Oxford University)

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






                            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 but 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 <DW72>.

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 a 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 soupcon of something, he did not
well know what, in a man's demeanour gave it great zest, as a soupcon
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
 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 beaute"


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  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 ; 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 <DW72>. 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- 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 praenomen; 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 <DW72> 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
immediately proceeded to the body of men behind; but all that Mowle
could hear was "Snave" and "Brenzet," repeated once or twice, with
some mention of Woodchurch and the road by Red Brooke Street. The
order was then given to mount, and march; and Mowle remarked that four
troopers rode off at a quick pace before the rest.

"Now, Mr. Mowle, we shall want you with us if you please," said
Captain Irby, in a civil tone. "Where is your horse?"

"Horse!--I have got none;" answered the officer of Customs, a good
deal piqued; "did I not say that I have been a prisoner with the
smugglers for the last five hours? and as to my going with you, sir, I
see no use I can be of, if you do not choose to do what I require, or
follow my advice."

"Oh, the greatest--the greatest!" replied the young officer, without
losing his temper for an instant, "and as to a horse, we will soon
supply you."

An order was immediately given; and in three minutes the horse of a
dragoon officer, fully caparisoned, was led up to Mowle's side, who,
after a moment's hesitation, mounted, and rode on with the troop. It
must not be denied that he was anything but satisfied, not alone
because he thought that he was not treated with sufficient
deference--although, having for years been accustomed to be obeyed
implicitly by the small parties of dragoons which had been previously
sent down to aid the Customs, it did seem to him very strange that his
opinions should go for nought--but also because he feared that the
public service would suffer, and that the obstinacy, as he called it,
of the young officer, would enable the smugglers to escape. Still more
was his anxiety and indignation raised, when he perceived the slow
pace at which the young officer proceeded, and that instead of taking
the road which he had pointed out, the party kept the Priory Wood on
the right hand, bearing away from Chequer-tree, to which he had
assured himself that Richard Radford and his party were tending.

He saw that many precautions were taken, however, which, attributing
them at first to a design of guarding against surprise, he thought
quite unnecessary. Two dragoons were thrown forward at a considerable
distance before the head of the troop; a single private followed about
twenty yards behind them; two more succeeded, and then another, and
last came Captain Irby himself, keeping Mr. Mowle by his side. From
time to time a word was passed down from those who led the advance,
not shouted--but spoken in a tone only loud enough to be heard by the
trooper immediately behind; and this word, for a considerable way, was
merely "All clear!"

At length, just at the end of the Priory Wood, where a path, coming
from the east, branched off towards Aldington Freight, and two roads
went away to the north and west, the order to halt was given, to the
surprise and consternation of Mr. Mowle, who conceived that the escape
of the smugglers must be an inevitable result. At length a new word
was passed from the head of the line, which was, "On before." But
still the captain of the troop gave no command to march, and the
soldiers sat idle on their horses for a quarter of an hour longer.
Mowle calculated that it must now be at least half past four or five
o'clock. He thought he perceived the approach of day; and though, in
discontented silence, he ventured to say no more, he would have given
all he had in the world to have had the command of the troop for a
couple of hours. His suspense and anxiety were brought to an end at
length; for just as he was assured, by the greyness of the sky, that
the sun would soon rise, a trooper came dashing down the right-hand
path at full speed, and Captain Irby spurred on to meet him. What
passed between them Mowle could not hear; but the message was soon
delivered, the soldier rode back to the east, by the way he came, and
the order to march was immediately given. Instead, however, of taking
the road to Stonecross, the troop directed its course to the west, but
at a somewhat quicker pace than before. Still a word was passed back
from the head of the line; and, after a short time, the troop was put
into a quick trot, Captain Irby sometimes endeavouring to lead his
companion into general conversation upon any indifferent subject, but
not once alluding to the expedition on which they were engaged. Poor
Mowle was too anxious to talk much. He did not at all comprehend the
plan upon which the young officer was acting; but yet he began to see
that there was some plan in operation, and he repeated to himself more
than once, "There must be something in it, that's clear; but he might
as well tell me what it is, I think."

At length he turned frankly round to his companion, and said, "I see
you are going upon some scheme, Captain. I wish to Heaven you would
tell me what it is; for you can't imagine how anxious I am about this
affair."

"My good friend," replied Captain Irby, "I know no more of the matter
than you do; so I can tell you nothing about it. I am acting under
orders; and the only difference between you and I is, that you, not
being accustomed to do so, are always puzzling yourself to know what
it all means, while I, being well drilled to such things, do not
trouble my head about it; but do as I am told, quite sure that it will
all go right."

"Heaven send it!" answered Mowle; "but here it is broad day-light, and
we seem to be going farther and farther from our object every minute."

As if in answer to his last observation, the word was again passed
down from the front, "On, before!" and Captain Irby immediately halted
his troop for about five minutes. At the end of that time, the march
was resumed, and shortly after the whole body issued out upon the side
of one of the hills, a few miles from Woodchurch.

The sun was now just risen--the east was glowing with all the hues of
early day--the mist was dispersed or left behind in the neighbourhood
of the Marsh; and a magnificent scene, all filled with golden light,
spread out beneath the eyes of the Custom-House officer. But he had
other objects to contemplate much more interesting to him than the
beauties of the landscape. About three-quarters of a mile in advance,
and in the low ground to the north-west of the hill on which he stood,
appeared a dark, confused mass of men and horses, apparently directing
their course towards Tiffenden; and Mowle's practised eye instantly
perceived that they were the smugglers. At first sight he thought,
"They may escape us yet:" but following the direction in which Captain
Irby's glance was turned, he saw, further on, in the open fields
towards High Halden, a considerable body of horse, whose regular line
at once showed them to be a party of the military. Then turning
towards the little place on his left, called Cuckoo Point, he
perceived, at the distance of about a mile, another troop of dragoons,
who must have marched, he thought, from Brenzet and Appledore.

The smugglers seemed to become aware, nearly at the same moment, of
the presence of the troops on the side of High Halden; for they were
observed to halt, to pause for a minute or two, then re-tread their
steps for a short distance, and take their way over the side of the
hill, as if tending towards Plurenden or Little Ingham.

"You should cut them off, sir--you should cut them off!" cried Mowle,
addressing Captain Irby, "or, by Jove, they'll be over the hill above
Brook Street; and then we shall never catch them, amongst all the
woods and copses up there. They'll escape, to a certainty!"

"I think not, if I know my man," answered Captain Irby, coolly; "and,
at all events, Mr. Mowle, I must obey my orders.--But there he comes
over the hill; so that matter's settled. Now let them get out if they
can.--You have heard of a rat-trap, Mr. Mowle?"

Mowle turned his eyes in the direction of an opposite hill, about
three-quarters of a mile distant from the spot where he himself stood,
and there, coming up at a rapid pace, appeared an officer in a plain
grey cloak, with two or three others in full regimentals, round him,
while a larger body of cavalry than any he had yet seen, met his eyes,
following their commander about fifty yards behind, and gradually
crowning the summit of the rise, where they halted. The smugglers
could not be at more than half a mile's distance from this party, and
the moment that it appeared, the troops from the side of High Halden
and from Cuckoo Point began to advance at a quick trot, while Captain
Irby descended into the lower ground more slowly, watching, with a
small glass that he carried in his hand, the motions of all the other
bodies, when the view was not cut off by the hedge-rows and copses, as
his position altered. Mowle kept his eyes upon the body of smugglers,
and upon the dragoons on the opposite hill, and he soon perceived a
trooper ride down from the latter group to the former, as if bearing
them some message.

The next instant, there was a flash or two, as if the smugglers had
fired upon the soldier sent to them; and then, retreating slowly
towards a large white house, with some gardens and shrubberies and
various outbuildings around it, they manifested a design of occupying
the grounds with the intention of there resisting the attack of the
cavalry. A trooper instantly galloped down, at full speed, towards
Captain Irby, making him a sign with his hand as he came near; and the
troop with whom Mowle had advanced instantly received the command to
charge, while the other, from the hill, came dashing down with
headlong speed towards the confused multitude below.

The smugglers were too late in their man[oe]uvre. Embarrassed with a
large quantity of goods and a number of men on foot; they had not time
to reach the shelter of the garden walls, before the party of dragoons
from the hill was amongst them. But still they resisted with fierce
determination, formed with some degree of order, gave the troopers a
sharp discharge of firearms as they came near, and fought hand to hand
with them, even after being broken by their charge.

The greater distance which Captain Irby had to advance, prevented his
troop from reaching the scene of strife for a minute or two after the
others; but their arrival spread panic and confusion amongst the
adverse party; and after a brief and unsuccessful struggle, in the
course of which, one of the dragoons was killed, and a considerable
number wounded, nothing was thought of amongst young Radford's band,
but how to escape in the presence of such a force. The goods were
abandoned--all those men who had horses were seen galloping over the
country in different directions; and if any fugitive paused, it was
but to turn and fire a shot at one of the dragoons in pursuit. Almost
every one of the men on foot was taken ere half an hour was over; and
a number of those on horseback were caught and brought back, some
desperately wounded. Several were left dead, or dying, on the spot
where the first encounter had taken place; and amongst the former,
Mowle, with feelings of deep regret, almost approaching remorse,
beheld, as he rode up towards the colonel of the regiment, the body of
his friend, the Major, shot through the head by a pistol-ball. Men of
the Custom-House officer's character, however, soon console themselves
for such things; and Mowle, as he rode on, thought to himself, "After
all, it's just as well! He would only have been hanged--so he's had an
easier death."

The young officer in the command of the regiment of dragoons was
seated on horseback, upon the top of a little knoll, with some six or
seven persons immediately around him, while two groups of soldiers,
dismounted, and guarding a number of prisoners, appeared a little in
advance. Amongst those nearest to the Colonel, Mowle remarked his
companion, Birchett, who was pointing, with a discharged pistol,
across the country, and saying, "There he goes, sir, there he goes!
I'll swear that is he, on the strong grey horse. I fired at him--I'm
sure I must have hit him."

"No, you didn't, sir," answered a sergeant of dragoons, who was busily
tying a handkerchief round his own wounded arm. "Your shot went
through his hat."

The young officer fixed his eyes keenly upon the road leading to
Harbourne, where a man, on horseback, was seen galloping away, at full
speed, with four or five of the soldiers in pursuit.

"Away after him, Sergeant Miles," he said; "take straight across the
country, with six men of Captain Irby's troop. They are fresher. If
you make haste you will cut him off at the corner of the wood; or if
he takes the road through it, in order to avoid you, leave a couple of
men at Tiffenden corner, and round by the path to the left. The
distance will be shorter for you, and you will stop him at Mrs.
Clare's cottage--a hundred guineas to any one who brings him in."

His orders were immediately obeyed; and, without noticing Mowle, or
any one else, the colonel continued to gaze after the little party of
dragoons, as, dashing on at the utmost speed of their horses, they
crossed an open part of the ground in front, keeping to the right hand
of the fugitive, and threatening to cut him off from the north side of
the country, towards which he was decidedly tending. Whether, if he
had been able to proceed at the same rate at which he was then going,
they would have been successful in their efforts or not, is difficult
to say; for his horse, though tired, was very powerful, and chosen
expressly for its fleetness. But in a flight and pursuit like that,
the slightest accident will throw the advantage on the one side or the
other; and unfortunately for the fugitive, his horse stumbled, and
came upon its knees. It was up again in a moment, and went on, though
somewhat more slowly; and the young officer observed, in a low tone,
"They will have him.--It is of the utmost importance that he should be
taken.--Ah! Mr. Mowle, is that you? Why, we have given you up for
these many hours. We have been successful, you see; and yet, but half
successful either, if their leader gets away.--You are sure of the
person, Mr. Birchett?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered the officer of Customs. "I was as near to
him, at one time, as I am now to you; and Mr. Mowle here, too, will
tell you I know him well."

"Who,--young Radford?" asked Mowle. "Oh yes, that we all do; and
besides, I can tell you, that is he on the grey horse, for I was along
with him the greater part of last night." And Mowle proceeded to
relate succinctly all that had occurred to him from ten o'clock on the
preceding evening.

The young officer, in the meanwhile, continued to follow the soldiers
with his eyes, commenting, by a brief word or two, on the various
turns taken by the pursuit.

"He is cut off," he said, in a tone of satisfaction; "the troops, from
Halden, will stop him there.--He is turning to the left, as if he
would make for Tenterden.--Captain Irby, be so good as to detach a
corporal, with as many men as you can spare, to cut him off by Gallows
Green--on the left-hand road, there. Bid them use all speed. Now he's
for Harbourne again! He'll try to get through the wood; but Miles will
be before him."

He then applied himself to examine the state of his own men and the
prisoners, and paid every humane attention to both, doing the best
that he could for their wounds, in the absence of surgical assistance,
and ordering carts to be procured from the neighbouring farms, to
carry those most severely injured into the village of Woodchurch. The
smuggled goods he consigned to the charge of the Custom-House
officers, giving them, however, a strong escort, at their express
desire; although, he justly observed, that there was but little chance
of any attempt being made by the smugglers to recover what they had
lost.

"I shall now, Mr. Mowle," he continued, "proceed to Woodchurch, and
remain there for a time, to see what other prisoners are brought in,
and make any farther arrangements that may be necessary; but I shall
be in Hythe, in all probability, before night. The custody of the
prisoners I shall take upon myself for the present, as the civil power
is evidently not capable of guarding them."

"Well, sir, you have made a glorious day's work of it," answered
Mowle, "that I must say; and I'm sure if you like to establish your
quarters, for the morning, at Mr. Croyland's there, on just before, he
will make you heartily welcome; for he hates smugglers as much as any
one."

The young officer shook his head, saying, "No, I will go to
Woodchurch."

But he gazed earnestly at the house for several minutes, before he
turned his horse towards the village; and then, leaving the minor
arrangements to be made by the inferior officers, he rode slowly and
silently away.




                             CHAPTER IX.


We must turn, dear reader, to other persons and to other scenes, but
still keep to that eventful day when the smugglers, who had almost
fancied themselves lords of Kent, first met severe discomfiture at the
hands of those sent to suppress their illicit traffic. Many small
parties had before been defeated, it is true; many a cargo of great
value, insufficiently protected, had been seized. Such, indeed, had
been the case with the preceding venture of Richard Radford; and such
had been, several times, the result of overweening confidence; but the
free-traders of Kent had still, more frequently, been successful in
their resistance of the law; and they had never dreamed that in great
numbers, and with every precaution and care to boot, they could be
hemmed in and overpowered, in a country with every step of which they
were well acquainted. They had now, however, been defeated, as I have
said, for the first time, in a complete and conclusive manner, after
every precaution had been taken, and when every opportunity had been
afforded them of trying their strength with the dragoons, as they had
often boastfully expressed a wish to do.

But we must now leave them, and turn to the interior of the house near
which the strife took place. Nay, more, we must enter a fair lady's
chamber, and watch her as she lies, during the night of which we have
already given so many scenes, looking for awhile into her waking
thoughts and slumbering dreams; for that night passed in a strange
mingling of sleepless fancies and of drowsy visions.

Far from me to encourage weak and morbid sensibilities, or to
represent life as a dream of sickly feelings, or a stage for the
action of ill-regulated passions;--it is a place of duty and of
action, of obedience to the rule of the one great guide, of endeavour,
and, alas, of trial!--But still human beings are not mere machines:
there is still something within this frame-work of dust and ashes,
besides, and very different from, the bones and muscles, the veins and
nerves, of which it is composed; and Heaven forbid that it should not
be so! There are still loves and affections, sympathies and regards,
associations and memories, and all the linked sweetness of that
strange harmonious whole, where the spirit and the matter, the soul
and the body, blended in mysterious union, act on each other, and
reciprocate, by every sense and every perception, new sources of pain
or of delight. The forms and conventionalities of society, the habits
of the age in which we live, the force of education, habit, example,
may, in very many cases, check the outward show of feeling, and in
some, perhaps, wear down to nothing the reality. But still how many a
bitter heart-ache lies concealed beneath the polished brow and smiling
lip; how many a bright aspiration, how many a tender hope, how many a
passionate throb, hides itself from the eyes of others--from the
foreigners of the heart--under an aspect of gay merriment or of cold
indifference. The silver services of the world are all, believe me,
but of plated goods, and the brightest ornaments that deck the table
or adorn the saloon but of silver-gilt.

Could we--as angels may be supposed to do--stand by the bed-side of
many a fair girl who has been laughing through an evening of apparent
merriment, and look through the fair bosom into the heart beneath, see
all the feelings that thrill therein, or trace even the visions that
chequer slumber, what should we behold? Alas! how strange a contrast
to the beaming looks and gladsome smiles which have marked the course
of the day. How often would be seen the bitter repining; the weary
sickness of the heart; the calm, stern grief; the desolation; the
despair--forming a black and gloomy background to the bright seeming
of the hours of light. How often, in the dream, should we behold "the
lost, the loved, the dead, too many, yet how few," rise up before
memory in those moments, when not only the shackles and the handcuffs
of the mind, imposed by the tyrant uses of society, are cast off, but
also when the softer bands are loosened, which the waking spirit
places upon unavailing regrets and aspirations all in vain--in those
hours, when memory, and imagination, and feeling are awake, and when
judgment, and reason, and resolution are all buried in slumber. Can it
be well for us thus to check the expression of all the deeper feelings
of the heart--to shut out all external sympathies--to lock within the
prison of the heart its brightest treasures like the miser's gold, and
only to give up to them the hours of solitude and of slumber?--I know
not; and the question, perhaps, is a difficult one to solve: but such,
however, are the general rules of society; and to its rules we are
slaves and bondsmen.

It was to her own chamber that Edith Croyland usually carried her
griefs and memories; and even in the house of her uncle, though she
was aware how deeply he loved her, she could not, or she would not,
venture to speak of her sensations as they really arose.

On the eventful day of young Radford's quarrel with Sir Edward Digby,
Edith retired at the sober hour at which the whole household of Mr.
Croyland usually sought repose; but there, for a considerable time,
she meditated as she had often meditated before, on the brief
intelligence she had received on the preceding day. "He is living,"
she said to herself: "he is in England, and yet he seeks me not! But
my sister says he loves me still!--It is strange, it is very strange.
He must have greatly changed. So eager, so impetuous as he used to be,
to become timid, cautious, reserved,--never to write, never to
send.--And yet why should I blame him? What has he not met with from
mine, if not from me? What has his love brought upon himself and his?
The ruin of his father--a parent's suffering and death--the
destruction of his own best prospects--a life of toil and danger, and
expulsion from the scenes in which his bright and early days were
spent!--Why should I wonder that he does not come back to a spot where
every object must be hateful to him?--why should I wonder that he does
not seek me, whose image can never be separated from all that is
painful and distressing to him in memory? Poor Henry! Oh, that I could
cheer him, and wipe away the dark and gloomy recollections of the
past."

Such were some of her thoughts ere she lay down to rest; and they
pursued her still, long after she had sought her pillow, keeping her
waking for some hours. At length, not long before daybreak, sleep took
possession of her brain; but it was not untroubled sleep. Wild and
whirling images for some time supplied the place of thought; but they
were all vague, and confused, and undefined for a considerable length
of time after sleep had closed her eyes, and she forgot them as soon
as she awoke. But at length a vision of more tangible form presented
itself, which remained impressed upon her memory. In it, the events of
the day mingled with those both of the former and the latter years,
undoubtedly in strange and disorderly shape, but still bearing a
sufficient resemblance to reality to show whence they were derived.
The form of young Radford, bleeding and wounded, seemed before her
eyes; and with one hand clasped tightly round her wrist, he seemed to
drag her down into a grave prepared for himself. Then she saw Sir
Edward Digby with a naked sword in his hand, striving in vain to cut
off the arm that held her, the keen blade passing through and through
the limb of the phantom without dissevering it from the body, or
relaxing its hold upon herself. Then the figure of her father stood
before her, clad in a long mourning cloak, and she heard his voice
crying, in a dark and solemn tone, "Down, down, both of you, to the
grave that you have dug for me!" The next instant the scene was
crowded with figures, both on horseback and on foot. Many a
countenance which she had seen and known at different times was
amongst them; and all seemed urging her on down into the gulf before
her; till suddenly appeared, at the head of a bright and glittering
troop, he whom she had so long and deeply loved, as if advancing at
full speed to her rescue. She called loudly to him; she stretched out
her hand towards him, and onward he came through the throng till he
nearly reached her. Then in an instant her father interposed again and
pushed him back. All became a scene of disarray and confusion, as if a
general battle had been taking place around her. Swords were drawn,
shots were fired, wounds were given and received; there were cries of
agony and loud words of command, till at length, in the midst, her
lover reached her; his arms were cast round her; she was pressed to
his bosom; and with a start, and mingled feelings of joy and terror,
Edith's dream came to an end.

Daylight was pouring into her room through the tall window; but yet
she could hardly persuade herself that she was not dreaming still; for
many of the sounds which had transmitted such strange impressions to
her mind, still rang in her ears. She heard shots and galloping horse,
and the loud word of command; and after pausing for an instant or two,
she sprang up, cast something over her, and ran to the window.

It was a bright and beautiful morning; and the room which she occupied
looked over Mr. Croyland's garden wall to the country beyond. But
underneath that garden wall was presented a scene, such as Edith had
never before witnessed. Before her eyes, mingled in strange confusion
with a group of men who, from their appearance, she judged to be
smugglers, were a number of the royal dragoons; and, though pistols
were discharged on both sides, and even long guns on the part of the
smugglers, the use of fire-arms was too limited to produce sufficient
smoke to obscure the view. Swords were out, and used vehemently; and
on running her eye over the mass before her, she saw a figure that
strongly brought back her thoughts to former days. Directing the
operations of the troops, seldom using the sword which he carried in
his own hand, yet mingling in the thickest of the fray, appeared a
tall and powerful young man, mounted on a splendid charger, but only
covered with a plain grey cloak.

The features she could scarcely discern; but there was something in
the form and in the bearing, that made Edith's heart beat vehemently,
and caused her to raise her voice to Heaven in murmured prayer. The
shots were flying thick: one of them struck the sun-dial in the
garden, and knocked a fragment off; but still she could not withdraw
herself from the window; and with eager and anxious eyes she continued
to watch the fight, till another body of dragoons swept up, and the
smugglers, apparently struck with panic, abandoned resistance, and
were soon seen flying in every direction over the ground.

One man, mounted on a strong grey horse, passed close beneath the
garden wall; and in him Edith instantly recognised young Richard
Radford. That sight made her draw back again for a moment from the
window, lest he should recognise her; but the next instant she looked
out again, and then beheld the officer whom she had seen commanding
the dragoons, stretching out his hand and arm in the direction which
the fugitive had taken, as if giving orders for his pursuit. She
watched him with feelings indescribable, and saw him more than once
turn his eyes towards the house where she was, and gaze on it long and
thoughtfully.

"Can he know whose dwelling this is?" she asked herself; "can he know
who is in it, and yet ride away?" But so it was. After he had remained
on the ground for about half an hour, she saw him depart, turning his
horse's head slowly towards Woodchurch; and Edith withdrew from the
window, and wept.

Her eyes were dry, however, and her manner calm, when she went down to
breakfast; and she heard unmoved, from her uncle, the details of the
skirmish which had taken place between the smugglers and the military.

"This must be a tremendous blow to them," said Mr. Croyland; "the
goods are reported to be of immense value, and the whole of them are
stated to have been run by that old infernal villain, Radford. I am
glad that this has happened, trebly--_felix ter et amplius_, my dear
Edith; first, that a trade which enriches scoundrels to the detriment
of the fair and lawful merchant, has received nearly its death-blow;
secondly, that these audacious vagabonds, who fancied they had all the
world at their command, and that they could do as they pleased in
Kent, have been taught how impotent they are against a powerful hand
and a clear head; and, thirdly, that the most audacious vagabond of
them all, who has amassed a large fortune by defiance of the law, and
by a system which embodies cheatery with robbery--I mean robbery of
the revenue with cheatery of the lawful merchant--has been the person
to suffer. I have heard a great deal of forcing nations to abate their
Customs dues, by smuggling in despite of them; but depend upon it,
whoever advocates such a system is--I will not say, either a rogue or
a fool, as some rash and intemperate persons might say--but a man with
very queer notions of morals, my dear. I dare say, the fellows firing
awoke you, my love. You look pale, as if you had been disturbed."

Edith replied, simply, that she had been roused by the noise, but did
not enter into any particulars, though she saw, or fancied she saw, an
inquiring look upon her uncle's face as he spoke.

During the morning many were the reports and anecdotes brought in by
the servants, regarding the encounter, which had taken place so close
to the house; and all agreed that never had so terrible a disaster
befallen the smugglers. Their bands were quite broken up, it was said,
their principal leaders taken or killed, and the amount of the
smuggled goods which--with the usual exaggeration of rumour--was
raised to three or four hundred thousand pounds, was universally
reported to be the loss of Mr. Radford. His son had been seen by many
in command of the party of contraband traders; and it was clear that
he had fled to conceal himself, in fear of the very serious
consequences which were likely to ensue.

Mr. Croyland rubbed his hands: "I will mark this day in the calendar
with a white stone!" he said. "Seldom, my dear Edith, very seldom, do
so many fortunate circumstances happen together; a party of atrocious
vagabonds discomfited and punished as they deserve; the most audacious
rogue of the whole stripped of his ill-gotten wealth; and a young
ruffian, who has long bullied and abused the whole county, driven from
that society in which he never had any business. This young officer,
this Captain Osborn, must be a very clever, as well as a very gallant
fellow."

"Captain Osborn!" murmured Edith; "were they commanded by Captain
Osborn?"

"Yes, my dear," answered the old gentleman; "I saw him myself over the
garden wall. I know him, my love; I have been introduced to him.
Didn't you hear me say, he is coming to spend a few days with me?"

Edith made no reply; but somewhat to her surprise, she heard her
uncle, shortly after, order his carriage to be at the door at
half-past twelve. He gave his fair niece no invitation to accompany
him; and Edith prepared to amuse herself during his absence as
best she might. She calculated, indeed, upon that which, to a
well-regulated mind, is almost always either a relief or a pleasure,
though too often a sad one: the spending of an hour or two in solitary
thought. But all human calculations are vain; and so were those of
poor Edith Croyland. For the present, however, we must leave her to
her fate, and follow her good uncle, Zachary, on his expedition to
Woodchurch, whither, as doubtless the reader has anticipated, his
steps, or rather those of his coach horses, were turned, just as the
hands of the clock in the vestibule pointed to a quarter to one.




                              CHAPTER X.


During the whole forenoon of the 3rd of September, the little village
of Woodchurch presented a busy and bustling, though, in truth, it
could not be called a gay scene. The smart dresses of the dragoons,
the number of men and horses, the soldiers riding quickly along the
road from time to time, the occasional sound of the trumpet, the
groups of villagers and gaping children, all had an animating effect;
but there was, mingled with the other sights which the place
presented, quite a sufficient portion of human misery, in various
forms, to sadden any but a very unfeeling heart. For some time after
the affray was over, every ten minutes, was seen to roll in one of the
small, narrow carts of the country, half filled with straw, and
bearing a wounded man, or at most, two. In the same manner, several
corpses, also, were carried in; and the number of at least fifty
prisoners, in separate detachments, with hanging hands and pinioned
arms, were marched slowly through the street to the houses which had
been marked out as affording the greatest security.

The good people of Woodchurch laughed and talked freely with the
dragoons, made many inquiries concerning the events of the skirmish,
and gave every assistance to the wounded soldiers; but it was remarked
with surprise, by several of the officers, that they showed no great
sympathy with the smugglers, either prisoners or wounded--gazed upon
the parties who were brought in with an unfriendly air, and turning
round to each other, commented, in low tones, with very little
appearance of compassion.

"Ay, that's one of the Ramleys' gang," said the stout blacksmith of
the place, to his friend and neighbour, the wheelwright, as some ten
or twelve men passed before them with their wrists tied.

"And that fellow in the smart green coat is another," rejoined the
wheelwright; "he's the man who, I dare say, ham-stringed my mare,
because I wouldn't let them have her for the last run."

"That's Tom Angel," observed the blacksmith; "he's to be married to
Jinny Ramley, they say."

"He'll be married to a halter first, I've a notion," answered the
wheelwright, "and then instead of an angel he'll make a devil! He's
one of the worst of them, bad as they all are. A pretty gaol delivery
we shall have at the next 'Sizes!"

"A good county delivery, too," replied the blacksmith; "as men have
been killed, it's felony, that's clear: so hemp will be dear, Mr.
Slatterly."

By the above conversation the feelings of the people of Woodchurch
towards the smugglers, at that particular time, may be easily divined;
but the reader must not suppose that they were influenced alone by the
very common tendency of men's nature to side with the winning party;
for such was not altogether the case, though, perhaps, they would not
have ventured to show their dislike to the smugglers so strongly, had
they been more successful. As long as the worthy gentlemen, who had
now met with so severe a reverse, had contented themselves with merely
running contraband articles--even as long as they had done nothing
more than take a man's horse for their own purposes, without his
leave, or use his premises, whether he liked it or not, as a place of
concealment for their smuggled goods, they were not only indifferent,
but even friendly; for man has always a sufficient portion of the
adventurer at his heart to have a fellow feeling for all his brethren
engaged in rash and perilous enterprises. But the smugglers had grown
insolent and domineering from long success; they had not only felt
themselves lords of the county, but had made others feel it often in
an insulting, and often in a cruel and brutal manner. Crimes of a very
serious character had been lately committed by the Ramleys and others,
which, though not traced home by sufficient evidence to satisfy the
law, were fixed upon them by the general voice of the people; and the
threats of terrible vengeance which they sometimes uttered against all
who opposed them, and the boastful tone in which they indulged, when
speaking of their most criminal exploits, probably gained them credit
for much more wickedness than they really committed.

Thus their credit with the country people was certainly on the decline
when they met with the disaster which has been lately recorded; and
their defeat and dispersion was held by the inhabitants of Woodchurch
as an augury of better times, when their women would be able to pass
from village to village, even after dusk, in safety and free from
insult, and their cattle might be left out in the fields all night,
without being injured, either by wantonness, or in lawless uses. It
will be understood, that in thus speaking, I allude alone to the land
smugglers, a race altogether different from their fellow labourers of
the sea, whom the people looked upon with a much more favourable eye,
and who, though rash and daring men enough, were generally a good
humoured free-hearted body, spending the money that they had gained at
the peril of their lives or their freedom, with a liberal hand and in
a kindly spirit.

Almost every inhabitant of Woodchurch had some cause of complaint
against the Ramleys' gang; and, to say the truth, Mr. Radford himself
was by no means popular in the county. A selfish and a cunning man is
almost always speedily found out by the lower classes, even when he
makes an effort to conceal it. But Mr. Radford took no such trouble;
for he gloried in his acuteness; and if he had chosen a motto, it
probably would have been "Every man for himself." His selfishness,
too, took several of the most offensive forms. He was ostentatious; he
was haughty; and, on the strength of riches acquired, every one knew
how, he looked upon himself as a very great man, and treated all the
inferior classes, except those of whom he had need, to use their own
expression, "as dirt under his feet." All the villagers, therefore,
were well satisfied to think that he had met with a check at last; and
many of the good folks of Woodchurch speculated upon the probability
of two or three, out of so great a number of prisoners, giving such
evidence as would bring that worthy gentleman within the gripe of the
law.

Such were the feelings of the people of that place, as well as those
of many a neighbouring village; and the scene presented by the captive
and wounded smugglers, as they were led along, was viewed with
indifference by some, and with pleasure by others. Two or three of the
women, indeed, bestowed kindly attention upon the wounded men, moved
by that beautiful compassion which is rarely if ever wanting, in a
female heart; but the male part of the population took little share,
if any, in such things, and were quite willing to aid the soldiers in
securing the prisoners, till they could be marched off to prison.

The first excitement had subsided before noon, but still, from time to
time, some little bustle took place--a prisoner was caught and brought
in, and carried to the public house where the colonel had established
himself--an orderly galloped through the street--messengers came and
went; and four or five soldiers, with their horses ready saddled,
remained before the door of the inn, ready, at a moment's notice, for
any event. The commanding officer did not appear at all beyond the
doors of his temporary abode; but continued writing, giving orders,
examining the prisoners, and those who brought them, in the same room
which he had entered when first he arrived. As few of the people of
the place had seen him, a good deal of curiosity was excited by his
quietness and reserve. It was whispered amongst the women, that he was
the handsomest man ever seen; and the men said he was a very fine
fellow, and ought to be made a general of. The barmaid communicated to
her intimate friends, that when he took off his cloak, she had seen a
star upon the breast of his coat; and that her master seemed to know
more of him, if he liked to tell; but the landlord was as silent as a
mouse.

These circumstances, however, kept up a little crowd before the
entrance of the inn, consisting of persons anxious to behold the hero
of the day; and just at the hour of two, the carriage of Mr. Croyland
rolled in, through the people, at the usual slow and deliberate pace
to which that gentleman accustomed his carriage horses.

The large heavy door of the large heavy vehicle, was opened by the two
servants who accompanied it; and out stepped Mr. Croyland, with his
back as straight and stiff as a poker, and his gold-headed cane in his
hand. The landlord, at the sight of an equipage, which he well knew,
came out in haste, bowing low, and welcoming Mr. Croyland in the
hearty good old style. The nabob himself unbent a little to his friend
of the inn, and after asking him how he did, and bestowing a word or
two on the state of the weather, proceeded to say, "And now, Miles, I
wish to speak a word or two with Captain Osborn, who is in your house,
I believe."

"No, Mr. Croyland," replied the landlord, looking at the visitor with
some surprise, "the captain is not here. He is down at Nelly South's,
and his name's not Osborn, either, but Irby."

"Then, who the deuce have you got here, with all these soldiers about
the door?" demanded Mr. Croyland.

"The colonel of the regiment, sir," answered Miles; "there has only
been one captain here all day; and that's Captain Irby."

"Not right of the lad--not right of the lad!" exclaimed Mr. Croyland,
rather testily; "no one should keep a man waiting, especially an old
man, and more especially still, a cross old man. But I'll come in and
stop a bit; for I want to see the young gentleman. Where the devil did
he go to, I wonder, after the skirmish?--Halloo, you sir, corporal!
Pray, sir, what's your officer's name?"

The man put up his hand in military fashion, and, with a strong
Hibernian accent, demanded, "Is it the colonel you're inquiring about,
sir? Why, then, his name is Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Henry Leyton,
Knight of the Bath--and mighty cold weather it was, too, when he got
the Bath; so I didn't envy him his ducking."

"Oh ho!" said Mr. Croyland, putting his finger sagaciously to the side
of his nose; "be so good as to send up that card to Lieutenant-Colonel
Sir Henry Leyton, Knight of the Bath, and tell him that the gentleman
whose appellation it bears is here, inquiring for one Captain Osborn
whom he once saw."

The corporal took the card himself to the top of the stairs, and
delivered the message, with as much precision as his intellect could
muster, to some person who seemed to be waiting on the outside of a
door above. "Why, you fool!" cried a voice, immediately, "I told you,
if Mr. Croyland came, to show him up. Sir Henry will see him." And
immediately a servant, in plain clothes, descended to perform his
function himself.

"Very grand!" murmured Mr. Croyland, as he followed.

The door above was immediately thrown open, and his name announced;
but, walking slowly, he had not entered the room before the young
officer, who has more than once been before the reader's eyes, was
half across the floor to meet him. He was now dressed in full uniform;
and certainly a finer or more commanding-looking man had seldom, if
ever, met Mr. Croyland's view. Advancing with a frank and pleasant
smile, he led him to the arm-chair which he had just occupied--it was
the only one in the room--and, after thanking him for his visit,
turned to the servant, and bade him shut the door.

"I am in some surprise, and in some doubt, Sir Henry," said Mr.
Croyland, with his sharp eyes twinkling a little. "I came here to see
one Captain Osborn; and I find a gentleman very like him, in truth,
but certainly a much smarter looking person, whom I am told is
Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Henry Leyton, Knight of the Bath, &c. &c. &c.;
and yet he seems to look upon old Zachary Croyland as a friend, too."

"He does, from his heart, I can assure you, Mr. Croyland," replied the
young officer; "and I trust you will ever permit him to do so. But if
it becomes us to deceive no man, it becomes us still more not to
deceive a friend; and on that account it was I asked your presence
here, to explain to you one or two circumstances which I thought it
but just you should know, before I ventured to present myself at your
house."

"Pray speak, Sir Henry," replied Mr. Croyland--"I am all ears."

The young officer paused for a moment, and a shadow came over his
brow, as if something painful passed through his mind; but then, with
a slight motion of his hand, as if he would have waved away unpleasant
thoughts, he said, "I must first tell you, my dear sir, that I am the
son of the Reverend Henry Leyton, whom you once knew, and the nephew
of that Charles Osborn, with whom you were also intimately
acquainted."

"The dearest friend I ever had in the world," replied Mr. Croyland,
blowing his nose violently.

"Then I trust you will extend the same friendship to his nephew," said
the colonel.

"I don't know--I don't know," answered Mr. Croyland; "that must depend
upon circumstances. I'm a very crabbed, tiresome old fellow, Sir
Henry; and my friendships are not very sudden ones. But I have patted
your head many a time when you were a child, and that's something.
Then you are very like your father, and a little like your uncle,
that's something more: so we may get on, I think. But what have you
got to say more? and what in the name of fortune made you call
yourself Captain Osborn, to an old friend of your family like myself?"

"I did not do so, if you recollect," replied the young officer. "It
was my friend Digby who gave me that name; and you must pardon me, if,
on many accounts, I yielded to the trick; for I was coming down here
on a difficult service--one that I am not accustomed to, and do not
like; and I was very desirous of seeing a little of the country, and
of learning something of the habits of the persons with whom I had to
deal, before I was called upon to act."

"And devilish well you did act when you set about it," cried Mr.
Croyland. "I watched you this morning over the wall, and wondered a
little that you did not come on to my house at once."

"It is upon that subject that I must now speak," said Sir Henry
Leyton, taking a grave tone, "and I must touch upon many painful
subjects in the past. Just when I was about to write to you, Mr.
Croyland, to say that I would come, in accordance with your kind
invitation, I learned that your niece, Miss Croyland, is staying at
your house. Now, I know not whether you have been informed, that long
ago----"

"Oh, yes, I know all about that," answered Mr. Croyland, quickly.
"There was a great deal of love and courting, and all that sort of boy
and girl's stuff."

"It must be man and woman's stuff now, Mr. Croyland," replied the
young officer, "for I must tell you fairly and at once, I love her as
deeply, as truly as ever. Years have made no difference; other scenes
have made no change. The same as I went, in every thought and feeling,
I have returned; and I can never think of her without emotion, which I
can never speak to her without expressing."

"Indeed--indeed!" said Mr. Croyland, apparently in some surprise.
"That does make some difference."

"That is what I feared," continued Sir Henry Leyton. "Your brother
disapproved of our engagement. In consequence of it, he behaved to my
father in a way--on which I will not dwell. You would not have behaved
in such a way, I know; and although I should think any means
justifiable, to see your niece when in her father's mansion, to tell
her how deeply I love her still, and to ask her to sacrifice fortune
and everything to share a soldier's fate, yet I did not think it would
be right or honourable, to come into the house of a friend under a
feigned name, and seek his niece--for seek her I should wherever I
found her--when he might share the same views as his brother, or at
all events think himself bound to support them. In short, Mr.
Croyland, I knew that when you were aware of my real name and of my
real feelings, it would make a difference, and a great one."

"Not the difference you think, Harry," replied the old gentleman,
holding out his hand to him; "but quite the reverse.--I'll tell you
what, young man, I think you a devilish fine, high-spirited,
honourable fellow, and the only one I ever saw whom I should like to
marry my Edith. So don't say a word more about it. Come and dine with
me to-day, as soon as you've got all this job over. You shall see her;
you shall talk to her; you shall make all your arrangements together;
and if there's a post-chaise in the country, I'll put you in and shut
the door with my own hands. My brother is an old fool, and worse than
an old fool, too--something very like an old rogue--at least, so he
behaved to your father, and not much better to his own child; but I
don't care a straw about him, and never did; and I never intend to
humour one of his whims."

Sir Henry Leyton pressed the old gentleman's hand in his, with much
emotion; for the prospect seemed brightening to him, and the dark
clouds which had so long overshadowed his course appeared to be
breaking away. He had been hitherto like a traveller on a strong and
spirited horse, steadfastly pursuing his course, and making his way
onward, with vigour and determination, but with a dark and threatening
sky over head, and not even a gleam of hope to lead him on.
Distinction, honours, competence, command, he had obtained by his own
talents and his own energies; he was looked up to by those below him,
by his equals, even by many of his superiors. The eyes of all who knew
him turned towards him as to one who was destined to be a leading man
in his day. Everything seemed fair and smiling around him, and no eye
could see the cloud that overshadowed him but his own. But what to him
were honours, or wealth, or the world's applause, if the love of his
early years were to remain blighted for ever? and in the tented field,
the city, or the court, the shadow had still remained upon his heart's
best feelings, not checking his energies, but saddening all his
enjoyments. How often is it in the world, that we thus see the bright,
the admired, the powerful, the prosperous, with the grave hue of
painful thoughts upon the brow, the never unmingled smile, the lapses
of gloomy meditation, and ask ourselves, "What is the secret sorrow in
the midst of all this success? what is the fountain of darkness that
turns the stream of sunshine grey? what the canker-worm that preys
upon so bright a flower?" Deep, deep in the recesses of the heart, it
lies gnawing in silence; but never ceasing, and never satisfied. Now,
however, there was a light in the heavens for him; and whether it was
as one of those rays that sometimes break through a storm, and then
pass away, no more to be seen till the day dies in darkness; or
whether it was the first glad harbinger of a serene evening after a
stormy morning, the conclusion of this tale must show.

"I'll tell you something, my dear boy," continued Mr. Croyland,
forgetting that he was speaking to the colonel of a dragoon regiment,
and going back at a leap to early days. "Your father was my old
school-fellow and dear companion; your uncle was the best friend I
ever had, and the founder of my fortune; for to his interest I owe my
first appointment to India--ay, and to his generosity the greater part
of my outfit and my passage. To them I am indebted for everything, to
my brother for nothing; and I look upon you as a relation much more
than upon him; so I have no very affectionate motives for
countenancing or assisting him in doing what is not right. I'll tell
you something more, too, Harry; I was sure that you would do what is
honourable and right--not because you have got a good name in the
world; for I am always doubtful of the world's good names, and,
besides, I never heard the name of Sir Harry Leyton till this blessed
day--but because you were the son of one honest man and the nephew of
another, and a good wild frank boy too. So I was quite sure you would
not come to my house under a false name, when my niece was in it,
without, at all events, letting me into the secret; and you have
justified my confidence, young man."

"I would not have done such a thing for the world," replied the young
officer; "but may I ask, then, my dear Mr. Croyland, if you recognised
me in the stage coach? for it must be eighteen or nineteen years since
you saw me."

"Don't call me Mr. Croyland," said the old gentleman, abruptly; "call
me Zachary, or Nabob, or Misanthrope, or Bear, or anything but that.
As to your question, I say, no. I did not recognise you the least in
the world. I saw in your face something like the faces of old friends,
and I liked it on that account. But as for the rest of the matter,
there's a little secret, my boy--a little bit of a puzzle. By one way
or another--it matters not what--I had found out that Captain Osborn
was my old friend Leyton's son; but till I came here to-day, I had no
notion that he was colonel of the regiment, and a Knight of the Bath,
to boot, as your corporal fellow took care to inform me. I thought you
had been going under a false name, perhaps, all this time, and fancied
I should find Captain Osborn quite well known in the regiment. I had a
shrewd notion, too, that you had sent for me to tell the secret; but I
was determined to let you explain yourself without helping you at all;
for I'm a great deal fonder of men's actions than their words, Harry."

"Is it fair to ask, who told you who I was?" asked Sir Henry Leyton.
"My friend Digby has some----"

"No, no," cried Mr. Croyland; "it wasn't that good, rash, rattle-pate,
coxcomb of a fellow, who is only fit to be caged with little Zara; and
then they may live together very well, like two monkeys in a show-box.
No, he had nothing to do with it, though he has been busy enough since
he came here, shooting partridges, and fighting young Radfords, and
all that sort of thing."

"Fighting young Radfords!" exclaimed Sir Henry Leyton, suddenly
grasping the sheath of his sword with his right hand. "He should not
have done that--at least, without letting me know."

"Why, he knew nothing about it himself," replied Mr. Croyland, "till
the minute it took place. The young vagabond followed him to my house;
so I civilly told my brother's pet that I didn't want to see him; and
he walked away with your friend Digby just across the lawn in front of
the house, when, after a few minutes of pleasant conversation, the
baronet applies me a horsewhip, with considerable unction and
perseverance, to the shoulders of Richard Radford, Esquire, junior;
upon which out come the pinking-irons, and in the course of the
scuffle, Sir Edward receives a little hole in the shoulder, and Mr.
Radford is disarmed and brought upon his knee, with a very unpleasant
and ungentleman-like bump upon his forehead, bestowed, with hearty
good-will, by the hilt of Master Digby's sword. Well, when he had got
him there, instead of quietly poking a hole through him, as any man of
common sense would have done, your friend lets him get up again, and
ride away, just as a man might be supposed to pinch a Cobra that had
bit him, by the tail, and then say, 'Walk off, my friend.' However, so
stands the matter; and young Radford rode away, vowing all sorts of
vengeance. He'll have it, too, if he can get it; for he's as spiteful
as a baboon; so I hope you've caught him, as he was with these
smuggling vagabonds, that's certain."

Sir Henry Leyton shook his head. "He has escaped, I am sorry to say,"
he replied. "How, I cannot divine; for I took means to catch him that
I thought were infallible. All the roads through Harbourne Wood were
guarded, but yet in that wood, all trace of him was lost. He left his
horse in the midst of it, and must have escaped by some of the
by-paths."

"He's concealed in my brother's house, for a hundred guineas!" cried
Mr. Croyland. "Robert's bewitched, to a certainty; for nothing else
but witchcraft could make a man take an owl for a cock pheasant. Oh
yes! there he is, snug in Harbourne House, depend upon it, feeding
upon venison and turbot, and with a magnum of claret and two bottles
of port to keep him comfortable--a drunken, beastly, vicious brute! A
cross between a wolf and a swine, and not without a touch of the fox
either--though the first figure is the best; for his father was the
wolf, and his mother the sow, if all tales be true."

"He cannot be in Harbourne House, I should think," replied the
colonel, "for my dragoons searched it, it seems, violating the laws a
little, for they had no competent authority with them; and besides he
would not have put himself within Digby's reach, I imagine."

"Then he's up in a tree, roosting in the day, like a bird of prey,"
rejoined Mr. Croyland, in his quick way. "It's very unlucky he has
escaped--very unlucky indeed."

"At all events," answered the young officer, "thus much have we
gained, my dear friend: he dare not shew himself in this county for
years. He was seen, by competent witnesses, at the head of these
smugglers, taking an active part with them in resistance to lawful
authority. Blood has been shed, lives have been sacrificed, and a
felony has been committed; so that if he is wise, and can manage it,
he will get out of England. If he fail of escaping, or venture to show
himself, he will grace the gallows, depend upon it."

"Heaven be praised!" cried Mr. Croyland. "Give me the first tidings,
when it is to happen, Harry, that I may order four horses, and hire a
window. I would not have him hanged without my seeing it for a hundred
pounds."

Sir Henry Leyton smiled faintly, saying, "Those are sad sights, my
dear sir, and we have too many of them in this county; but you have
not told me, from whom you received intimation that Captain Osborn and
Henry Osborn Leyton were the same person."

"That's a secret--that's a secret, Hal," answered Mr. Croyland. "So
now tell me when you'll come.--You'll be over to-night. I suppose, or
have time and wisdom tamed the eagerness of love?"

"Oh no, my dear sir," answered Leyton; "but I have still some business
to settle here, and have promised to be in Hythe to-night. Before I
go, however, I will ride over for an hour or two, for, till I have
seen that dear girl again, and have heard her feelings and her wishes
from her own lips, my thoughts will be all in confusion. I shall be
calmer and more reasonable afterwards."

"Much need!" answered Mr. Croyland. "But now I must leave you. I
shan't say a word about it all, till you come; for preparing people's
minds is all nonsense. It is only drawing them out upon the rack of
expectation, which leaves them bruised and crushed, with no power to
resist whatever is to come afterwards.--But don't be long, Harry, for
remember that delays are dangerous."

Leyton promised to set out as soon as one of his messengers, whom he
expected every instant, had returned; and going down with Mr.
Croyland, to the door of his carriage, he bade him adieu, and watched
him as he drove away, gratifying the eyes of the people of Woodchurch
with a view of his fine person, as he stood uncovered at the door. In
the meantime, Mr. Croyland took his way slowly back towards his own
dwelling.

What had happened there during his absence, we shall see presently.




                             CHAPTER XI.


All things have their several stages; and, without a knowledge of the
preceding one it is impossible to judge accurately of any event which
is the immediate subject of our contemplation. The life of every one,
the history of the whole world that we inhabit, is but a regular drama
with its scenes and acts, each depending for its interest upon that
which preceded. I therefore judge it necessary, before going on to
detail the events which took place in Mr. Croyland's house during his
absence to visit the dwelling of his brother, and give some account of
that which produced them. On the same eventful morning, then, of which
we have spoken so much already, the inhabitants of Harbourne House
slept quietly during the little engagement between the smugglers and
the dragoons, unaware that things of great importance to their little
circle were passing at no great distance. I have mentioned the
inhabitants of Harbourne House; but perhaps it would have been more
proper to have said the master, his family, and his guest; for a
number of the servants were up; the windows were opened; and the wind,
setting from Woodchurch, brought the sound of firearms thence. The
movement of the troops from the side of High Halden was also remarked
by one of the housemaids and a footman, as the young lady was leaning
out of one of the windows with the young gentleman by her side. In a
minute or two after they perceived, galloping across the country, two
or three parties of men on horseback, as if in flight and pursuit.
Most of these took to the right or left, and were soon lost to the
sight; but at length one solitary horseman came on at a furious speed
towards Harbourne House, with a small party of dragoons following him
direct at a couple of hundred yards' distance, while two or three of
the soldiery were seen scattered away to the right, and a somewhat
larger body appeared moving down at a quick pace to the left, as if to
cut the fugitive off at Gallows Green.

The horse of the single rider seemed tired and dirty; and he was
himself without a hat; but nevertheless, they pushed on with such
rapidity, that a few seconds, from the time when they were first seen,
brought steed and horseman into the little parish road which I have
mentioned as running in front of the house, and passing round the
grounds into the wood. As the fugitive drew near, the maid exclaimed,
with a sort of a half scream, "Why, Lord ha' mercy, Matthew, it's
young Mr. Radford!"

"To be sure it is," answered the footman; "didn't you see that before,
Betsy? There's a number of the dragoons after him, too. He's been up
to some of his tricks, I'll warrant."

"Well, I hope he wont come in here, at all events," rejoined the maid,
"for I shouldn't like it, if we were to have any fighting in the
house."

"I shall go and shut the hall door," said the footman, drily--Richard
Radford not having ingratiated himself as much with the servants as he
had done with their master. But this precaution was rendered
unnecessary; for the young man showed no inclination to enter the
house, but passing along the road with the rapidity of an arrow, was
soon lost in the wood, without even looking up towards the house of
Sir Robert Croyland. Several of the dragoons followed him quickly; but
two of them planted themselves at the corner of the road, and remained
there immovable.

The maid then observed, that she thought it high time the gentlefolks
should be called; and she proceeded to execute her laudable purpose,
taking care that tidings of what she had seen concerning Mr. Radford
should be communicated to Sir Robert Croyland, to Zara, and to the
servant of Sir Edward Digby, who again carried the intelligence to his
master. The whole house was soon afoot; and Sir Robert was just out of
his room in his dressing-gown, when three of the soldiers entered the
mansion, expressing their determination to search it, and declaring
their conviction that the smuggler whom they had been pursuing had
taken refuge there.

In vain Sir Robert Croyland remonstrated, and inquired if they had a
warrant; in vain the servants assured the dragoons that no person had
entered during the morning. The Serjeant who was at their head,
persisted in asserting that the fugitive must have come in there, just
when he was hid from his pursuers by the trees, assigning as a reason
for this belief, that they had found his horse turned loose not a
hundred yards from the house. They accordingly proceeded to execute
their intention, meeting with no farther impediment till they reached
the room of Sir Edward Digby, who, though he did not choose to
interfere, not being on duty himself, warned the serjeant that he must
be careful of what he was doing, as it appeared that he had neither
magistrate, warrant, nor Custom-House officer with him.

The serjeant, however, who was a bold and resolute fellow, and
moreover a little heated and excited by the pursuit, took the
responsibility upon himself, saying that he was fully authorized by
Mr. Birchett to follow, search for, and apprehend one Richard Radford,
and that he had the colonel's orders, too. Certainly, not a nook or
corner of Harbourne House did he leave unexamined before he retired,
grumbling and wondering at his want of success.

Previous to his going, Sir Edward Digby charged him with a message to
the colonel, which proved as great an enigma to the soldier as the
escape of Richard Radford. "Tell him," said the young baronet, "that I
am ready to come down if he wants me; but that if he does not, I think
I am quite as well where I am."

The breakfast passed in that sort of hurried and desultory
conversation which such a dish of gossip as now poured in from all
quarters usually produces, when served up at the morning meal. Sir
Robert Croyland, indeed, looked ill at ease, laughed and jested in an
unnatural and strained tone upon smugglers and smuggling, and
questioned every servant that came in for further tidings. The reports
that he thus received were as full of falsehood and exaggeration as
all such reports generally are. The property captured was said to be
immense. Two or three hundred smugglers were mentioned as having been
taken, and a whole legion of them killed. Some had made confession,
and clearly proved that the whole property was Mr. Radford's; and some
had fought to the last, and killed an incredible number of the
soldiers. To believe the butler, who received his information from the
hind, who had his from the shepherd, the man called the Major, before
he died, had absolutely breakfasted on dragoons, as if they had been
prawns; but all agreed that never had such a large body of contraband
traders been assembled before, or suffered such a disastrous defeat,
in any of their expeditions.

Sir Edward Digby gathered from the whole account, that his friend had
been fully successful, that the smugglers had fought fiercely, that
blood had been shed, and that Richard Radford, after having taken an
active part in the affray, was now a fugitive, and, as the young
baronet fancied, never to appear upon the stage again. But still Sir
Robert Croyland did not seem by any means so well pleased as might
have been wished; and a dark and thoughtful cloud would frequently
come over his heavy brow, while a slight twitching of his lip seemed
to indicate that anxiety had as great a share in his feelings as
mortification.

Mrs. Barbara Croyland amused herself, as usual, by doing her best to
tease every one around her, and by saying the most malapropos things
in the world. She spoke with great commiseration of "the poor
smugglers:" every particle of her pity was bestowed upon them. She
talked of the soldiers as if they had been the most fierce and
sanguinary monsters in Europe, who had attacked, unprovoked, a party
of poor men that were doing them no harm; till Zara's glowing cheek
recalled to her mind, that these very blood-thirsty dragoons were Sir
Edward Digby's companions and friends; and then she made the
compliment more pointed by apologizing to the young baronet, and
assuring him that she did not think for a moment he would commit such
acts. Her artillery was next turned against her brother; and, in a
pleasant tone of raillery, she joked him upon the subject of young Mr.
Radford, and of the search the soldiers had made, looking with a
meaning smile at Zara, and saying, "She dared say, Sir Robert could
tell where he was, if he liked."

The baronet declared, sharply and truly, that he knew nothing about
the young man; but Mrs. Barbara shook her head and nodded, and looked
knowing, adding various agreeable insinuations of the same kind as
before--all in the best humour possible--till Sir Robert Croyland was
put quite out of temper, and would have retorted violently, had he not
known that to do so always rendered the matter ten times worse. Even
poor Zara did not altogether escape; but, as we are hurrying on to
important events, we must pass over her share of infliction.

The conclusion of Mrs. Barbara's field-day was perhaps the most signal
achievement of all. Breakfast had come to an end, though the meal had
been somewhat protracted; and the party were just lingering out a few
minutes before they rose, still talking on the subject of the skirmish
of that morning, when the good lady thought fit to remark--"Well, we
may guess for ever; but we shall soon know more about it, for I dare
say we shall have Mr. Radford over here before an hour is gone, and he
must know if the goods were his."

This seemed to startle--nay, to alarm Sir Robert Croyland. He looked
round with a sharp, quick turn of his head, and then rose at once,
saying, "Well, whether he comes or not, I must go out and see about a
good many things. Would you like to take a ride, Sir Edward Digby, or
what will you do?"

"Why, I think I must stay here for the present," replied the young
baronet; "I may have a summons unexpectedly, and ought not to be
absent."

"Well, you will excuse me, I know," answered his entertainer. "I must
leave my sister and Zara to amuse you for an hour or two, till I
return."

Thus saying, and evidently in a great bustle, Sir Robert Croyland
quitted the room and ordered his horse. But just as the three whom he
had left in the breakfast-room were sauntering quietly towards the
library--Sir Edward Digby calculating by the way how he might best get
rid of Mrs. Barbara, in order to enjoy the fair Zara's company
undisturbed--they came upon the baronet at the moment when he was
encountered by one of his servants bringing him some unpleasant
intelligence. "Please, Sir Robert," said the man, with a knowing wink
of the eye, "all the horses are out."

"Out!" cried the baronet, with a look of fury and consternation. "What
do you mean by out, fellow?"

"Why, they were taken out of the stable last night, sir," replied the
man. "I dare say you know where they went; and they have not come back
again yet."

"Pray, have mine been taken also?" demanded Sir Edward Digby, very
well understanding what sort of an expedition Sir Robert Croyland's
horses had gone upon.

"Oh dear, no, sir!" answered the man; "your servant keeps the key of
that stable himself, sir."

The young baronet instantly offered his host the use of one of his
steeds, which was gratefully accepted by Sir Robert Croyland, who,
however, thought fit to enter into an exculpation of himself, somewhat
tedious withal, assuring his guest that the horses had been taken
without his approbation or consent, and that he had no knowledge
whatsoever of the transaction in which they were engaged.

Sir Edward Digby professed himself quite convinced that such was the
case, and in order to relieve his host from the embarrassment which he
seemed to feel, explained that he was already aware that the Kentish
smugglers were in the habit of borrowing horses without the owner's
consent.

In our complicated state of society, however, everything hinges upon
trifles. We have made the watch so fine, that a grain of dust stops
the whole movement; and the best arranged plans are thrown out by the
negligence, the absence, or the folly of a servant, a friend, or a
messenger. Sir Edward Digby's groom could not be found for more than a
quarter of an hour: when he was, at length, brought to light, the
horse had to be saddled. An hour had now nearly elapsed since the
master of the house had given orders for his own horse to be brought
round immediately: he was evidently uneasy at the delay, peevish,
restless, uncomfortable; and in the end, he said he would mount at the
back door, as it was the nearest and the most convenient. He even
waited in the vestibule; but suddenly he turned, walked through the
double doors leading to the stable-yard, and said he heard the horse
coming up.

Mrs. Barbara Croyland had, in the meantime, amused herself and her
niece in the library, with the door open; and sometimes she worked a
paroquet, in green, red, and white silk embroidery--a favourite
occupation for ladies in her juvenile days--and sometimes she gazed
out of the window, or listened to the conversation of her brother and
his guest in the vestibule. At the very moment, however, when Sir
Robert was making his exit by the doors between the principal part of
the house and the offices, Mrs. Barbara called loudly after him,
"Brother Robert!--Brother Robert!--Here is Mr. Radford coming."

The baronet turned a deaf ear, and shut the door. He would have locked
it, too, if the evasion would not have then been too palpable. But
Mrs. Barbara was resolved that he should know that Mr. Radford was
coming; and up she started, casting down half-a-dozen cards of silk.
Zara tried to stop her; for she knew her father, and all the signs and
indications of his humours; but her efforts were in vain. Mrs. Barbara
dashed past her, rushed through both doors, leaving them open behind
her, and caught her brother's arms just as the horse, which he had
thought fit to hear approach a little before it really did so, was led
up slowly from the stables to the back door of the mansion.

"Robert, here is Mr. Radford!" said Mrs. Barbara, aloud. "I knew you
would like to see him."

The baronet turned his head, and saw his worthy friend, through the
open doors, just entering the vestibule. To the horror and surprise of
his sister, he uttered a low but bitter curse, adding, in tones quite
distinct enough to reach her ear, "Woman, you have ruined me!"

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Barbara; "why, I thought----"

"Hush! silence!" said Sir Robert Croyland, in a menacing tone; "not
another word, on your life;" and turning, he met Mr. Radford with the
utmost suavity, but with a certain degree of restraint which he had
not time to banish entirely from his manner.

"Ah, Mr. Radford!" he exclaimed, shaking him, too, heartily by the
hand, "I was just going out to inquire about some things of
importance;" and he gazed at him with a look which he intended to be
very significant of the inquiries he had proposed to institute. But
his glance was hesitating and ill-assured; and Mr. Radford replied,
with the coolest and most self-possessed air possible, and with a
firm, fixed gaze upon the baronet's countenance.

"Indeed, Sir Robert!" he said, "perhaps I can satisfy you upon some
points; but, at all events, I must speak with you for a few minutes
before you go. Good morning, Sir Edward Digby: have you had any sport
in the field?--I will not detain you a quarter of an hour, my good
friend. We had better go into your little room."

He led the way thither as he spoke; and Sir Robert Croyland followed
with a slow and faltering step. He knew Richard Radford; he knew what
that calm and self-possessed manner meant. He was aware of the
significance of courteous expressions and amicable terms from the man
who called him his good friend; and if there was a being upon earth,
on whose head Sir Robert Croyland would have wished to stamp as on a
viper's, it was the placid benign personage who preceded him.

They entered the room in which the baronet usually sat in a morning to
transact his business with his steward, and to arrange his affairs;
and Sir Robert carefully shut the door behind him, trying, during the
one moment that his back was turned upon his unwelcome guest, to
compose his agitated features into the expression of haughty and
self-sufficient tranquillity which they usually wore.

"Sit down, Radford," he said--"pray sit down, if it be but for ten
minutes;" and he pointed to the arm-chair on the other side of the
table.

Mr. Radford sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand, looking in
the baronet's face with a scrutinizing gaze. If Sir Robert Croyland
understood him well, he also understood Sir Robert Croyland, heart and
mind--every corporeal fibre--every mental peculiarity. He saw clearly
that his companion was terrified; he divined that he had wished to
avoid him; and the satisfaction that he felt at having caught him just
as he was going out, at having frustrated his hope of escape, had a
pleasant malice in it, which compensated for a part of all that he had
suffered during that morning, as report after report reached him of
the utter annihilation of his hopes of immense gain, the loss of a
ruinous sum of money, and the danger and narrow escape of his son. He
had not slept a wink during the whole of the preceding night; and he
had passed the hours in a state of nervous anxiety which would have
totally unmanned many a strong-minded man when his first fears were
realized. But Mr. Radford's mind was of a peculiar construction:
apprehension he might feel, but never, by any chance, discouragement.
All his pain was in anticipation, not in endurance. The moment a blow
was struck, it was over: his thoughts turned to new resources; and, in
reconstructing schemes which had been overthrown, in framing new ones,
or pursuing old ones which had slumbered, he instantly found comfort
for the past. Thus he seemed as fresh, as resolute, as unabashed by
fortune's late frowns, as ever; but there was a rankling bitterness,
an eager, wolf-like energy in his heart, which sprung both from angry
disappointment and from the desperate aspect of his present fortune;
and such feelings naturally communicated some portion of their
acerbity to the expression of his countenance, which no effort could
totally banish.

He gazed upon Sir Robert Croyland, then with a keen and inquiring
look, not altogether untinged with that sort of pity which amounts to
scorn; and, after a momentary pause, he said, "Well, Croyland, you
have heard all, I suppose!"

"No, not all--not all, Radford," answered the baronet, hesitating; "I
was going out to inquire."

"I can save you the trouble, then," replied Mr. Radford, drily. "I am
ruined. That is to say, in the two last ventures I have lost
considerably more than a hundred thousand pounds."

Sir Robert Croyland waved his head sadly, saying, "Terrible, terrible!
but what can be done?"

"Oh, several things," answered Mr. Radford, "and that is what I have
come to speak to you about, because the first must rest with you, my
excellent good friend."

"But where is your son, poor fellow?" asked the baronet, eager to
avoid, as long as possible, the point to which their conversation was
tending. "They tell me he was well nigh taken; and, after there has
been blood shed, that would have been destruction. Do you know they
came and searched this house for him?"

"No, I had not heard of that, Croyland," replied Mr. Radford; "but he
is near enough, well enough, and safe enough to marry your fair
daughter."

"Ay, yes," answered Sir Robert; "that must be thought of, and----."

"Oh dear, no!" cried the other, interrupting him; "it has been thought
of enough already, Croyland--too much, perhaps; now, it must be done."

"Well, I will go over to Edith at once," said the baronet, "and I will
urge her, by every inducement. I will tell her, that it is her duty,
that it is my will, and that she must and shall obey."

Mr. Radford rose slowly off his seat, crossed over the rug to the
place where Sir Robert Croyland was placed; and, leaning his hand upon
the arm of the other's chair, he bent down his head, saying in a low
but very clear voice and perfectly distinct words, "Tell her, her
father's life depends upon it!"

Sir Robert Croyland shrank from him, as if an asp had approached his
cheek; and he turned deadly pale. "No, Radford--no," he replied, in a
faltering and deprecatory tone; "you cannot mean such a horrible
thing. I will do all that I can to make her yield--I will, indeed--I
will insist--I will----"

"Sir Robert Croyland," said Mr. Radford, sternly and slowly, "I will
have no more trifling. I have indulged you too long. Your daughter
must be my son's wife before he quits this country--which must be the
case for a time, till we can get this affair wiped out by our
parliamentary influence. Her fortune must be his, she must be his
wife, I say, before four days are over.--Now, my good friend," he
continued, falling back, in a degree, into his usual manner, which had
generally a touch of sarcastic bitterness in it when addressing his
present companion, "what means you may please to adopt to arrive at
this desirable result I cannot tell; but as the young lady has shown
an aversion to the match, not very flattering to my son----"

"Is it not his own fault?" cried Sir Robert Croyland, roused to some
degree of indignation and resistance--"has he ever, by word or deed,
sought to remove that reluctance? Has he wooed her as woman always
requires to be wooed? Has he not rather shown a preference to her
sister, paid her all attention, courted, admired her?"

"Pity you suffered it, Sir Robert," answered Radford; "but permit me,
in your courtesy, to go on with what I was saying. As the young lady
has shown this unfortunate reluctance, I anticipate no effect from
your proposed use of parental authority. I believe your requests and
your commands will be equally unavailing; and, therefore, I say, tell
her, her father's life depends upon it; for I will have no more
trifling, Sir Robert--no more delay--no more hesitation. It must be
settled at once--this very day. Before midnight, I must hear that she
consents, or you understand!--and consent she will, if you but employ
the right means. She may show herself obstinate, undutiful, careless
of your wishes and commands; but I do not think that she would like to
be the one to tie a halter round her father's neck, or to bring what I
think you gentlemen of heraldry and coat-armour call a cross-patonce
into the family-bearing--ha, ha, ha!--Do you, Sir Robert?"

The unhappy gentleman to whom he spoke covered his eyes with his hand;
but, from beneath, his features could be seen working with the
agitation of various emotions, in which rage, impotent though it might
be, was not without its share. Suddenly, however, a gleam of hope
seemed to shoot across his mind; he withdrew his hand; he looked up
with some light in his eyes. "A thought has struck me, Radford," he
said; "Zara--we have talked of Zara--why not substitute her for Edith?
Listen to me--listen to me. You have not heard all."

Mr. Radford shook his head. "It cannot be done," he replied--"it is
quite out of the question."

"Nay, but hear!" exclaimed the baronet. "Not so much out of the
question as you think. Look at the whole circumstances, Radford. The
great obstacle with Edith, is that unfortunate engagement with young
Leyton. She looks upon herself as his wife; she has told me so a
thousand times; and I doubt even the effect of the terrible course
which you urge upon me so cruelly."

Mr. Radford's brow had grown exceedingly dark at the very mention of
the name of Leyton; but he said nothing, and, as if to keep down the
feelings that were swelling in his heart, set his teeth hard in his
under lip. Sir Robert Croyland saw all these marks of anger, but went
on--"Now, the case is different with Zara. Your son has sought her,
and evidently admires her; and she has shown herself by no means
unfavourable towards him. Besides, I can do with her what I like.
There is no such obstacle in her case; and I could bend her to my will
with a word--Yes, but hear me out. I know what you would say: she has
no fortune; all the land that I can dispose of is mortgaged to the
full--the rest goes to my brother, if he survives me.--True, all very
true!--But, Radford, listen--if I can induce my brother to give Zara
the same fortune which Edith possesses--if this night I can bring
it you under his own hand, that she shall have fifty thousand
pounds?--You shake your head; you doubt that he will do it; but I can
tell you that he would willingly give it, to save Edith from your son.
I am ready to pledge you my word, that you shall have that engagement,
under his own hand, this very night, or that Edith shall become your
son's wife within four days. Let us cast aside all idle
circumlocution. It is Edith's fortune for your son, that you require.
You can care nothing personally which of the two he marries. As for
him, he evidently prefers Zara. She is also well inclined to him. I
can--I am sure I can--offer you the same fortune with her. Why should
you object?"

Mr. Radford had resumed his seat, and with his arms folded on his
chest, and his head bent, had remained in a listening posture. But
nothing that he heard seemed to produce any change in his countenance;
and when Sir Robert Croyland had concluded, he rose again, took a step
towards him, and replied, through his shut teeth, "You are mistaken,
Sir Robert Croyland--it is not fortune alone I seek.--It is
revenge!--There, ask me no questions, I have told you my determination.
Your daughter Edith shall be my son's wife within four days, or Maidstone
jail, trial, and execution, shall be your lot. The haughty family of
Croyland shall bear the stain of felony upon them to the last
generation; and your daughter shall know--for if you do not tell her,
I will--that it is her obstinacy which sends her father to the
gallows. No more trifling--no more nonsense! Act, sir, as you think
fit; but remember, that the words--once passed my lips--can never be
recalled; that the secret I have kept buried for so many years, shall
to-morrow morning be published to the whole world, if to-night you do
not bring me your daughter's consent to what I demand. I am using no
vain threats, Sir Robert Croyland," he continued, resuming a somewhat
softened tone, "and I do not urge you to this without some degree of
regret. You have been very kind and friendly; you have done me good
service on several occasions; and it will be with great regret that I
become the instrument of your destruction. But still every man has a
conscience of some kind. Even I am occasionally troubled with qualms;
and I frequently reproach myself for concealing what I am bound to
reveal. It is a pity this marriage was not concluded long ago, for
then, connected with you by the closest ties; I should have felt
myself more justified in holding my tongue. Now, however, it is
absolutely necessary that your daughter Edith should become my son's
wife. I have pointed out the means which I think will soonest bring it
to bear; and if you do not use them, you must abide the consequences.
But mark me--no attempt at delay, no prevarication, no hesitation! A
clear, positive, distinct answer this night by twelve o'clock, or you
are lost!"

Sir Robert Croyland had leaned his arms upon the table, and pressed
his eyes upon his arms. His whole frame shook with emotion, and the
softer, and seemingly more kindly words of the man before him, were
even bitterer to him than the harsher and the fiercer. Though he did
not see his face, he knew that there was far more sarcasm than
tenderness in them. He had been his slave--his tool, for years--his
tool through the basest and most unmanly of human passions--fear; and
he felt, not only that he was despised, but that at that moment
Radford was revelling in contempt. He could have got up and stabbed
him where he stood; for he was naturally a passionate and violent man.
But fear had still the dominion; and after a bitter struggle with
himself, he conquered his anger, and gave himself up to the thought of
meeting the circumstances in which he was placed, as best he might. He
was silent for several moments, however, after Mr. Radford had ceased
speaking; and then, looking up with an anxious eye and quivering lip,
he said, "But how is it possible, Radford, that the marriage should
take place in four days? The banns could not be published; and even if
you got a licence, your son could not appear at church within the
prescribed hours, without running a fatal risk."

"We will have a special licence, my good friend," answered Mr.
Radford, with a contemptuous smile. "Do not trouble yourself about
that. You will have quite enough to do with your daughter, I should
imagine, without annoying yourself with other things. As to my son, I
will manage his part of the affair; and he can marry your daughter in
your drawing-room, or mine, at an hour when there will be no eager
eyes abroad. Money can do all things; and a special licence is not so
very expensive but that I can afford it, still. My drawing-room will
be best; for then we shall be all secure."

"But, Radford--Radford!" said Sir Robert Croyland, "if I do--if I
bring Edith at the time appointed--if she become your son's wife--you
will give me up that paper, that fatal deposition?"

"Oh, yes, assuredly," replied Mr. Radford, with an insulting smile; "I
can hand it over to you as part of the marriage settlement. You need
not be the least afraid!--and now, I think I must go; for I have
business to settle as well as you."

"Stay, stay a moment, Radford," said the baronet, rising and coming
nearer to him. "You spoke of revenge just now. What is it that you
mean?"

"I told you to ask no questions," answered the other, sharply.

"But at least tell me, if it is on me or mine that you seek revenge!"
exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland. "I am unconscious of ever having
injured or offended you in any way."

"Oh dear, no," replied Mr. Radford. "You have nothing to do with
it--no, nor your daughter either, though she deserves a little
punishment for her ill-treatment to my son. No, but there is one on
whom I will have revenge--deep and bitter revenge, too! But that is my
affair; and I do not choose to say more. You have heard my
resolutions; and you know me well enough, to be sure that I will keep
my word. So now go to your daughter, and manage the matter as you
judge best; but if you will take my advice, you will simply ask her
consent, and make her fully aware that her father's life depends upon
it; and now good-by, my dear friend. Good luck attend you on your
errand; for I would a great deal rather not have any hand in bringing
you, where destiny seems inclined to lead you very soon."

Thus saying, he turned and quitted the room; and Sir Robert Croyland
remained musing for several minutes, his thoughts first resting upon
the last part of their conversation. "Revenge!" he said; "he must mean
my brother; and it will be bitter enough, to him, to see Edith married
to this youth. Bitter enough to me, too; but it must be done--it must
be done!"

He pressed his hand upon his heart, and then went out to mount his
horse; but pausing in the vestibule, he told the butler to bring him a
glass of brandy. The man hastened to obey; for his master's face was
as pale as death, and he thought that Sir Robert was going to faint.
But when the baronet had swallowed the stimulating liquor, he walked
to the back door with a quick and tolerably steady step, mounted, and
rode away alone.

Before I follow him, though anxious to do so as quickly as possible, I
must say a few words in regard to Mr. Radford's course. After he had
reached the parish road I have mentioned,--on which one or two
dragoons were still visible, slowly patrolling round Harbourne
Wood,--the man who had exercised so terrible an influence upon poor
Sir Robert Croyland turned his horse's head upon the path which led
straight through the trees towards the cottage of Widow Clare. His
face was still dark and cloudy; and, trusting to the care and
sure-footedness of his beast, he went on with a loose rein and his
eyes bent down towards his saddle-bow, evidently immersed in deep
thought. When he had got about two-thirds across the wood, he started
and turned round his head; for there was the sound of a horse's feet
behind, and he instantly perceived a dragoon following him, and
apparently keeping him in sight. Mr. Radford rode on, however, till he
came out not far from the gate of Mrs. Clare's garden, when he saw
another soldier riding slowly round the wood. With a careless air,
however, and as if he scarcely perceived these circumstances, he
dismounted, buckled the rein of his bridle slowly over the palings of
the garden, and went into the cottage, closing the door after him. He
found the widow and her daughter busily employed with the needle,
making somewhat smarter clothes than those they wore on ordinary
occasions. It was poor Kate's bridal finery.

Mrs. Clare instantly rose, and dropped a low curtsey to Mr. Radford,
who had of late years frequently visited her cottage, and occasionally
contributed a little to her comfort, in a kindly and judicious manner.
Sometimes he had sent her down a load of wood, to keep the house warm;
sometimes he had given her a large roll of woollen cloth, a new gown
for her daughter or herself, or a little present of money. But Mr.
Radford had his object: he always had.

"Well, Mrs. Clare!" said Mr. Radford, in as easy and quiet a tone as
if nothing had happened to agitate his mind or derange his plans; "so,
my pretty little friend, Kate, is going to be married to worthy Jack
Harding, I find."

Kate blushed and held down her head, and Mrs. Clare assented with a
faint smile.

"There has been a bad business of it this morning, though," said Mr.
Radford, looking in Mrs. Clare's face; "I dare say you've heard all
about it--over there, in the valley by Woodchurch and Redbrook
Street."

Mrs. Clare looked alarmed; and Kate forgot her timidity, and
exclaimed--"Oh! is he safe?"

"Oh, yes, my dear," answered Mr. Radford, in a kindly tone; "you need
not alarm yourself. He was not in it, at all. I don't say he had no
share in running the goods; for that is pretty well known, I believe;
and he did his part of the work well; but the poor fellows who were
bringing up the things, by some folly, or mistake, I do not know
which, got in amongst the dragoons, were attacked, and nearly cut to
pieces."

"Ay, then, that is what the soldiers are hanging about here for," said
Mrs. Clare.

"It's a sad affair for me, indeed!" continued Mr. Radford,
thoughtfully.

"I am truly sorry to hear that, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Clare, "for you
have been always very kind to me."

"Well, my good lady," replied her visitor, "perhaps you may now be
able to do me a kindness in return," said Mr. Radford. "To tell you
the truth, my son was in this affray. He made his escape when he found
that they could not hold their ground; and it is for him that the
soldiers are now looking--at least, I suspect so. Perhaps you may be
able to give a little help, if he should be concealed about here?"

"That I will," said Widow Clare, "if it cost me one of my hands!"

"Oh, there will be no danger!" answered Mr. Radford; "I only wish you,
in case he should be lying where I think he is, to take care that he
has food till he can get away. It might be better for Kate here, to go
rather than yourself; or one could do it at one time, and the other at
another. With a basket on her arm, and a few eggs at the top, Kate
could trip across the wood as if she were going to Harbourne House.
You could boil the eggs hard, you know, and put some bread and other
things underneath. Then, at the place where I suppose he is, she could
quietly put down the basket and walk on."

"But you must tell me where he is, sir," answered Mrs. Clare.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Radford--"that is to say, I can tell you
where I think he is. Then, when she gets near it, she can look round
to see if there's any one watching, and if she sees no one, can say
aloud--'Do you want anything?' If he's there he'll answer; and should
he send any message to me, one of you must bring it up. I shan't
forget to repay you for your trouble."

"Oh dear, sir, it isn't for that," said Mrs. Clare--"Kate and I will
both be very glad, indeed, to show our gratitude for your kindness. It
is seldom poor people have the opportunity; and I am sure, after good
Sir Robert Croyland, we owe more to you than to any body."

"Sir Robert has been kind to you, I believe, Mrs. Clare!" replied Mr.
Radford, with a peculiar expression of countenance. "Well he may be!
He has not always been so kind to you and yours."

"Pray, sir, do not say a word against Sir Robert!" answered the widow;
"though he sometimes used to speak rather cross and angrily in former
times, yet since my poor husband's death, nothing could be more kind
than he has been. I owe him everything, sir."

"Ay, it's all very well, Mrs. Clare," replied Mr. Radford, shaking his
head with a doubtful smile--"it's all very well! However, I do not
intend to say a word against Sir Robert Croyland. He's my very good
friend, you know; and it's all very well.--Now let us talk about the
place where you or Kate are to go; but, above all things, remember
that you must not utter a word about it to any one, either now or
hereafter; for it might be the ruin of us all if you did."

"Oh, no--not for the world, sir!" answered Mrs. Clare; "I know such
places are not to be talked about; and nobody shall ever hear anything
about it from us."

"Well, then," continued Mr. Radford, "you know the way up to Harbourne
House, through the gardens. There's the little path to the right; and
then, half way up that, there's one to the left, which brings you to
the back of the stables. It goes between two sandy banks, you may
recollect; and there's a little pond with a willow growing over it,
and some bushes at the back of the willow. Well, just behind these
bushes there is a deep hole in the bank, high enough to let a man
stand upright in it, when he gets a little way down. It would make a
famous _hide_ if there were a better horse-path up to it, and
sometimes it has been used for small things such as a man can carry on
his back. Now, from what I have heard, my boy Richard must be in
there; for his horse was found, it seems, not above two or three
hundred yards from the house, broken-knee'd and knocked-up. If any one
should follow you as you go, and make inquiries, you must say that you
are going to the house; for there is a door there in the wall of the
stable-yard--though that path is seldom, if ever used now; but, if
there be nobody by, you can just set down the basket by the stump of
the willow, and ask if he wants anything more. If he doesn't answer,
speak again, and try at all events to find out whether he's there or
not, so that I may hear."

"Oh, I know the place, quite well!" said Mrs. Clare. "My poor husband
used to get gravel there. But when do you think I had better go, sir?
for if the dragoons are still lingering about, a thousand to one but
they follow me, and, more likely still, may follow Kate; so I shall go
myself to night, at all events."

"You had better wait till it is duskish," answered Mr. Radford; "and
then they'll soon lose sight of you amongst the trees; for they can't
go up there on horseback, and if they stop to dismount you can easily
get out of their way. Let me have any message you may get from
Richard; and don't forget, either, if Harding comes up here, to tell
him I want to speak with him very much. He'll be sorry enough for this
affair when he hears of it, for the loss is dreadful!"

"I'm sure he will, sir," said Kate Clare; "for he was talking about
something that he had to do, and said it would half kill him, if he
did not get it done safely."

"Ay, he's a very good fellow," answered Mr. Radford, "and you shall
have a wedding-gown from me, Kate.--Look out of the window, there's a
good girl, and see if any of those dragoons are about."

Kate did as he bade her, and replied in the negative; and Mr. Radford,
after giving a few more directions, mounted his horse and rode away,
muttering as he went--"Ay, Master Harding, I have a strong suspicion
of you; and I will soon satisfy myself. They must have had good
information, which none could give but you, I think; so look to
yourself, my friend. No man ever injured me yet who had not cause to
repent it."

Mr. Radford forgot that he no longer possessed such extensive means of
injuring others as he had formerly done; but the bitter will was as
strong as ever.




                             CHAPTER XII.


The house of Mr. Zachary Croyland was not so large or ostentatious in
appearance as that of his brother; but, nevertheless, it was a very
roomy and comfortable house; and as he was naturally a man of fine
taste--though somewhat singular in his likings and dislikings, as well
in matters of art as in his friendships, and vehement in favour of
particular schools, and in abhorrence of others--his dwelling was
fitted up with all that could refresh the eye or improve the mind. A
very extensive and well-chosen library covered the walls of one room,
in which were also several choice pieces of sculpture; and his
drawing-room was ornamented with a valuable collection of small
pictures, into which not one single Dutch piece was admitted. He was
accustomed to say, when any connoisseur objected to the total
exclusion of a very fine school--"Don't mention it--don't mention it;
I hate it in all its branches and all its styles. I have pictures for
my own satisfaction, not because they are worth a thousand pounds
apiece. I hate to see men represented as like beasts as possible; or
to refresh my eyes with swamps and canals; or, in the climate of
England, which is dull enough of all conscience, to exhilarate myself
with the view of a frozen pond and fields, as flat as a plate, covered
with snow, while half-a-dozen boors, in red night-caps and red noses,
are skating away in ten pairs of breeches--looking, in point of shape,
exactly like hogs set upon their hind legs. It's all very true the
artist may have shown very great talent; but that only shows him to be
the greater fool for wasting his talents upon such subjects."

His collection, therefore, consisted almost entirely of the Italian
schools, with a few Flemish, a few English, and one or two exquisite
Spanish pictures. He had two good Murillos and a Velasquez, one or two
fine Vandykes, and four sketches by Rubens of larger pictures. But he
had numerous landscapes, and several very beautiful small paintings of
the Bolognese school; though that on which he prided himself the most,
was an exquisite Correggio.

It was in this room that he left his niece Edith when he set out for
Woodchurch; and, as she sat--with her arm fallen somewhat listlessly
over the back of the low sofa, the light coming in from the window
strong upon her left cheek, and the rest in shade, with her rich
colouring and her fine features, the high-toned expression of soul
upon her brow, and the wonderful grace of her whole form and
attitude--she would have made a fine study for any of those dead
artists whose works lived around her.

She heard the wheels of the carriage roll away; but she gave no
thought to the question of whither her uncle had gone, or why he took
her not with him, as he usually did. She was glad of it, in fact; and
people seldom reason upon that with which they are well pleased. Her
whole mind was directed to her own situation, and to the feelings
which the few words of conversation she had had with her sister had
aroused. She thought of him she loved, with the intense, eager longing
to behold him once more--but once, if so it must be--which perhaps
only a woman's heart can fully know. To be near him, to hear him
speak, to trace the features she had loved, to mark the traces of
Time's hand, and the lines that care and anxiety, and disappointment
and regret, she knew must be busily working--oh, what a boon it would
be! Then her mind ran on, led by the light hand of Hope, along the
narrow bridge of association, to ask herself--if it would be such
delight to see him and to hear him speak--what would it be to soothe,
to comfort, to give him back to joy and peace!

The dream was too bright to last, and it soon faded. He was near her,
and yet he did not come; he was in the same land, in the same
district; he had gazed up to the house where she dwelt; if he had
asked whose it was, the familiar name--the name once so dear--must
have sounded in his ear; and yet he did not come. A few minutes of
time, a few steps of his horse, would have brought him to where she
was; but he had turned away,--and Edith's eyes filled with tears.

She rose and wiped them off, saying, "I will think of something else;"
and she went up and gazed at a picture. It was a Salvator Rosa--a fine
painting, though not by one of the finest masters. There was a rocky
scene in front, with trees waving in the wind of a fierce storm, while
two travellers stood beneath a bank and a writhing beech tree,
scarcely seeming to find shelter even there from the large grey
streams of rain that swept across the foreground. But, withal, in the
distance were seen some majestic old towers and columns, with a gleam
of golden light upon the edge of the sky; and Hope, never wearying of
her kindly offices, whispered to Edith's heart, "In life, as in that
picture, there may be sunshine behind the storm."

Poor Edith was right willing to listen; and she gave herself up to the
gentle guide. "Perhaps," she thought, "his duty might not admit of his
coming, or perhaps he might not know how he would he received. My
father's anger would be sure to follow such a step. He might think
that insult, injury, would be added. He might imagine even, that I am
changed," and she shook her head, sadly. "Yet why should he not," she
continued, "if I sit here and think so of him? Who can tell what
people may have said?--Who can tell even what falsehoods may have been
spread? Perhaps he's even now thinking of me. Perhaps he has come into
this part of the country to make inquiries, to see with his own eyes,
to satisfy himself. Oh, it must be so--it must be so!" she cried,
giving herself up again to the bright dream. "Ay, and this Sir Edward
Digby, too, he is his dear friend, his companion, may he not have sent
him down to investigate and judge? I thought it strange at the time,
that this young officer should write to inquire after my father's
family, and then instantly accept an invitation; and I marked how he
gazed at that wretched young man and his unworthy father. Perhaps he
will tell Zara more, and I shall hear when I return. Perhaps he has
told her more already. Indeed, it is very probable, for they had a
long ride together yesterday;" and poor Edith began to feel as anxious
to go back to her father's house as she had been glad to quit it. Yet
she saw no way how this could be accomplished, before the period
allotted for her stay was at an end; and she determined to have
recourse to a little simple art, and ask Mr. Croyland to take her over
to Harbourne, on the following morning, with the ostensible purpose of
looking for some article of apparel left behind, but, in truth, to
obtain a few minutes' conversation with her sister.

There are times in the life of almost every one--at least, of every
one of feeling and intellect--when it seems as if we could meditate
for ever: when, without motion or change, the spirit within the
earthly tabernacle could pause and ponder over deep subjects of
contemplation for hour after hour, with the doors and windows of the
senses shut, and without any communication with external things. The
matter before us may be any of the strange and perplexing relations of
man's mysterious being; or it may be some obscure circumstance of our
own fate--some period of uncertainty and expectation--some of those
Egyptian darknesses which from time to time come over the future, and
which we gaze on half in terror, half in hope, discovering nothing,
yet speculating still. The latter was the case at that moment with
Edith Croyland; and, as she revolved every separate point of her
situation, it seemed as if fresh wells of thought sprung up to flow on
interminably.

She had continued thus during more than half an hour after her uncle's
departure, when she heard a horse stop before the door of the house,
and her heart beat, though she knew not wherefore. Her lover might
have come at length, indeed; but if that dream crossed her mind it was
soon swept away; for the next instant she heard her father's voice,
first inquiring for herself, and then asking, in a lower tone, if his
brother was within. If Edith had felt hope before, she now felt
apprehension; for during several years no private conversation had
taken place between her father and herself without bringing with it
grief and anxiety, harsh words spoken, and answers painful for a child
to give.

It seldom happens that fear does not go beyond reality; but such was
not the case in the present instance; for Edith Croyland had to
undergo far more than she expected. Her father entered the room where
she sat, with a slow step and a stern and determined look. His face
was very pale, too; his lips themselves seemed bloodless, and the
terrible emotions which were in his heart showed themselves upon his
countenance by many an intelligible but indescribable sign. As soon as
Edith saw him, she thought, "He has heard of Henry's return to this
country. It is that which has brought him;" and she nerved her heart
for a new struggle; but still she could scarcely prevent her limbs
from shaking, as she rose and advanced to meet her parent.

Sir Robert Croyland drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly enough;
for, in truth, he loved her very dearly: and then he led her back to
the sofa, and seated himself beside her.

"How low these abominable contrivances are," he said; "I do wish that
Zachary would have some sofas that people can sit upon with comfort,
instead of these beastly things, only fit for a Turkish harem, or a
dog-kennel."

Edith made no reply; for she waited in dread of what was to follow,
and could not speak of trifles. But her father presently went on,
saying, "So, my brother is out, and not likely to return for an hour
or two!--Well, I am glad of it, Edith; for I came over to speak with
you on matters of much moment."

Still Edith was silent; for she durst not trust her voice with any
reply. She feared that her courage would give way at the first words,
and that she should burst into tears, when she felt sure that all the
resolution she could command, would be required to bear her safely
through. She trusted, indeed, that, as she had often found before, her
spirit would rise with the occasion, and that she should find powers
of resistance within her in the time of need, though she shrank from
the contemplation of what was to come.

"I have delayed long, Edith," continued Sir Robert Croyland, after a
pause, "to press you upon a subject in regard to which it is now
absolutely necessary you should come to a decision;--too long, indeed;
but I have been actuated by a regard for your feelings, and you owe me
something for my forbearance. There can now, however, be no further
delay. You will easily understand, that I mean your marriage with
Richard Radford."

Edith raised her eyes to her father's face, and, after a strong
effort, replied, "My decision, my dear father, has, as you know, been
long made. I cannot, and I will not, marry him--nothing on earth shall
ever induce me!"

"Do not say that, Edith," answered Sir Robert Croyland, with a bitter
smile; "for I could utter words, which, if I know you rightly, would
make you glad and eager to give him your hand, even though you broke
your heart in so doing. But before I speak those things which will
plant a wound in your bosom for life, that nothing can heal or
assuage, I will try every other means. I request you--I intreat you--I
command you, to marry him! By every duty that you owe me--by all the
affection that a child ought to feel for a father, I beseech you to do
so, if you would save me from destruction and despair!"

"I cannot! I cannot!" said Edith, clasping her hands. "Oh! why should
you drive me to such painful disobedience? In the first place, can I
promise to love a man that I hate, to honour and obey one whom I
despise, and whose commands can never be for good? But still more, my
father,--you must hear me out, for you force me to speak--you force me
to tear open old wounds, to go back to times long past, and to recur
to things bitter to you and to me. I cannot marry him, as I told you
once before; for I hold myself to be the wife of another."

"Folly and nonsense!" cried Sir Robert Croyland, angrily, "you are
neither his wife, nor he your husband. What! the wife of a man who has
never sought you for years--who has cast you off, abandoned you, made
no inquiry for you?--The marriage was a farce. You read a ceremony
which you had no right to read, you took vows which you had no power
to take. The law of the land pronounces all such engagements mere
pieces of empty foolery!"

"But the law of God," replied Edith, "tells us to keep vows that we
have once made. To those vows, I called God to witness with a true and
sincere heart; and with the same heart, and the same feelings, I will
keep them! I did wrong, my father--I know I did wrong--and Henry did
wrong too; but by what we have done we must abide; and I dare not, I
cannot be the wife of another."

"But, I tell you, you shall!" exclaimed her father, vehemently. "I
will compel you to be so; I will over-rule this obstinate folly, and
make you obedient, whether you choose it or not."

"Nay, nay--not so!" cried Edith. "You could not do, you would not
attempt, so cruel a thing!"

"I will, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland.

"Then, thank Heaven," answered his daughter, in a low but solemn
voice, "it is impossible! In this country, there is no clergyman who
would perform the ceremony contrary to my expressed dissent. If I
break the vows that I have taken, it must be my own voluntary act; for
there is not any force that can compel me so to do; and I call Heaven
to witness, that, even if you were to drag me to the altar, I would
say, No, to the last!"

"Rash, mad, unfeeling girl!" cried her father, starting up, and gazing
upon her with a look in which rage, and disappointment, and perplexity
were all mingled.

He stood before her for a moment in silence, and then strode
vehemently backwards and forwards in the room, with his right hand
contracting and expanding, as if grasping at something. "It must be
done!" he said, at length, pressing his hand upon his brow; "it must
be done!" and then he recommenced his silent walk, with the shadows of
many emotions coming over his countenance.

When he returned to Edith's side again, the manner and the aspect of
Sir Robert Croyland were both changed. There was an expression of deep
sorrow upon his countenance, of much agitation, but considerable
tenderness; and, to his daughter's surprise, he took her hand in his,
and pressed it affectionately.

"Edith," he said, after a short interval of silence, "I have
commanded, I have insisted, I have threatened--but all in vain. Yet,
in so doing, I have had in view to spare you even greater pain than
could be occasioned by a father's sternness. My very love for you, my
child, made me seem wanting in love. But now I must inflict the
greater pain. You require, it seems, inducements stronger than
obedience to a father's earnest commands, and you shall have them,
however terrible for me to speak and you to hear. I will tell you all,
and leave you to judge."

Edith gazed at him in surprise and terror. "Oh, do not--do not, sir!"
she said; "do not try to break my heart, and put my duty to you in
opposition to the fulfilment of a most sacred vow--in opposition to
all the dictates of my own heart and my own conscience."

"Edith, it must be done," replied Sir Robert Croyland. "I have urged
you to a marriage with young Richard Radford. I now tell you solemnly
that your father's life depends upon it."

Edith clasped her hands wildly together, and gazed, for a moment, in
his face, without a word, almost stupified with horror. But Sir Robert
Croyland had deceived her, or attempted to deceive her, on the very
same subject they were now discussing, more than once already. She
knew it; and of course she doubted; for those who have been once false
are never fully believed--those who have been once deceived are always
suspicious of those who have deceived them, even when they speak the
truth. As thought and reflection came back after the first shock,
Edith found much cause to doubt: she could not see how such a thing
was possible--how her refusal of Richard Radford could affect her
father's life; and she replied, after a time, in a hesitating tone,
"How can that be?--I do not understand it.--I do not see how----"

"I will tell you," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a low and
peculiarly-quiet voice, which had something fearful in it to his
daughter's ear. "It is a long story, Edith; but you must hear it all,
my child. You shall be your father's confidant--his only one. You
shall share the secret, dreadful as it is, which has embittered his
whole existence, rendered his days terrible, his nights sleepless, his
bed a couch of fire."

Edith trembled in every limb; and Sir Robert, rising, crossed over and
opened the door of the drawing-room, to see that there were none of
the servants near it. Then closing it again, he returned to her side,
and proceeded, holding her hand in his: "You must have remarked," he
said, "and perhaps often wondered, my dear child, that Mr. Radford, a
man greatly below myself in station, whose manners are repulsive and
disagreeable, whose practices I condemn and reprobate, whose notions
and principles I abhor, has exercised over me for many years an
influence which no other person possesses, that he has induced me to
do many things which my better sense and better feelings disapproved,
that he has even led me to consent that my best-loved daughter should
become the wife of his son, and to urge her to be so at the expense of
all her feelings. You have seen all this, Edith, and wondered. Is it
not so?"

"I have, indeed," murmured Edith. "I have been by no means able to
account for it."

"Such will not be the case much longer, Edith," replied Sir Robert
Croyland. "I am making my confession, my dear child; and you shall
hear all. I must recur, too, to the story of young Leyton. You know
well that I liked and esteemed him; and although I was offended, as I
justly might be, at his conduct towards yourself, and thought fit to
show that I disapproved, yet at first, and from the first, I
determined, if I saw the attachment continue and prove real and
sincere, to sacrifice all feelings of pride, and all considerations of
fortune, and when you were of a fit age, to confirm the idle ceremony
which had passed between you, by a real and lawful marriage."

"Oh, that was kind and generous of you, my dear father. What could
make you change so suddenly and fatally? You must have seen that the
attachment was true and lasting; you must have known that Henry was in
every way calculated to make your daughter happy."

"You shall hear, Edith--you shall hear," replied her father. "Very
shortly after the event of which I have spoken, another occurred, of a
dark and terrible character, only known to myself and one other. I was
somewhat irritable at that time. My views and prospects with regard to
yourself were crossed; and although I had taken the resolution I have
mentioned, vexation and disappointment had their effect upon my mind.
Always passionate, I gave way more to my passion than I had ever done
before; and the result was a fatal and terrible one. You may remember
poor Clare, the gamekeeper. He had offended me on the Monday morning;
and I had used violent and angry language towards him before his
companions, threatening to punish him in a way he did not expect. On
the following day, we went out again to shoot--he and I alone
together--and, on our way back, we passed through a little wood, which
lies----"

"Oh, stop--stop!" cried Edith, covering her eyes with her hands. "Do
not tell me any more!"

Her father was not displeased to see her emotion, for it answered his
purpose. Yet, it must not be supposed that the peculiar tone and
manner which he assumed, so different from anything that had been seen
in his demeanour for years, was affected as a means to an end. Such
was not the case. Sir Robert Croyland was now true, in manner and in
words, though it was the first time that he had been entirely so for
many years. There had been a terrible struggle before he could make up
his mind to speak; but yet, when he did begin, it was a relief to him,
to unburthen the overloaded breast, even to his own child. It softened
him; it made his heart expand; it took the chain off long-imprisoned
feelings, and gave a better spirit room to make its presence felt. He
did not forget his object, indeed. To save himself from a death of
horror, from accusation, from disgrace, was still his end; but the
means by which he proposed to seek it were gentler. He even wavered in
his resolution: he fancied that he could summon fortitude to leave the
decision to Edith herself, and that if that decision were against him,
would dare and bear the worst. But still he was pleased to see her
moved; for he thought that she could never hear the whole tale, and
learn his situation fully, without rushing forward to extricate him;
and he went on--"Nay, Edith, now the statement has been begun, it must
be concluded," he said. "You would hear, and you must hear all. You
know the wood I speak of, I dare say--a little to the left of Chequer
Tree?"

"Oh, yes!" murmured Edith, "where poor Clare was found."

The baronet nodded his head: "It was there, indeed," he said. "We went
down to see if there were any snipes, or wild fowl, in the bottom. It
is a deep and gloomy-looking dell, with a pond of water and some
rushes in the hollow, and a little brook running through it, having
tall trees all around, and no road but one narrow path crossing it. As
we came down, I thought I saw the form of a man move amongst the
trees; and I fancied that some one was poaching there. I told Clare to
go round the pond and see, while I watched the road. He did not seem
inclined to go, saying, that he had not remarked anybody, but that the
people round about said the place was haunted. I had been angry with
him the whole morning, and a good deal out of humour with many things;
so I told him to go round instantly, and not make me any answer. The
man did so, in a somewhat slow and sullen humour, I thought, and
returned sooner than I fancied he ought to do, saying that he could
see no trace of any one. I was now very angry, for I fancied he
neglected his duty. I told him that he was a liar, that I had
perceived some one, whom he might have perceived as well, and that my
firm belief was, he was in alliance with the poachers, and deserved to
be immediately discharged. 'Well, Sir Robert,' he said, 'in regard to
discharging me, that is soon settled. I will not stay another day in
your service, after I have a legal right to go. As to being a liar, I
am none; and as to being in league with the poachers, if you say so,
you yourself lie!' Such were his words, or words to that effect. I got
furious at his insolence, though perhaps, Edith--perhaps I provoked it
myself--at least, I have thought so since. However, madly giving way
to rage, I took my gun by the barrel to knock him down. A struggle
ensued; for he caught hold of the weapon in my hand; and how I know
not, but the gun went off, and Clare fell back upon the turf. What
would I not have done then, to recal every hasty word I had spoken!
But it was in vain. I stooped over him; I spoke to him; I told him how
sorry I was for what had happened. But he made no answer, and pressed
his hand upon his right side, where the charge had entered. I was mad
with despair and remorse. I knew not where to go, or what to do. The
man was evidently dying; for his face had grown pale and sharp; and
after trying to make him speak, and beseeching him to answer one word,
I set off running as fast as I could towards the nearest village for
assistance. As I was going, I saw a man on horseback, riding sharply
down towards the very place. He was at some distance from me; but I
easily recognised Mr. Radford, and knew that he must pass by the spot
where the wounded man lay. I comforted myself with thinking that Clare
would get aid without my committing myself; and I crept in amongst the
trees at the edge of the wood, to make sure that Mr. Radford saw him,
and to watch their proceedings. Quietly and stealthily finding my way
through the bushes, I came near; and then I saw that Radford was
kneeling by Clare's side with an inkhorn in his hand, which, with his
old tradesmanlike-habits, he used always at that time to carry about
him. He was writing busily, and I could hear Clare speak, but could
not distinguish what he said. The state of my mind, at that moment, I
cannot describe. It was more like madness than any thing else. Vain
and foolish is it, for any man or any body of men, to argue what would
be their conduct in trying situations which they have never been
placed in. It is worse than folly for them to say, what would
naturally be another man's conduct in any circumstances; for no man
can tell another's character, or understand fully all the fine shades
of feeling or emotion that may influence him. The tale I am telling
you now, Edith, is true--too true, in all respects. I was very wrong,
certainly; but I was not guilty of the man's murder. I never intended
to fire: I never tried to fire; and yet, perhaps, I acted, afterwards,
as if I had been guilty, or at all events in a way that was well
calculated to make people believe I was so. But I was mad at the
time--mad with agitation and grief--and every man, I believe, in
moments of deep emotion is mad, more or less. However, I crept out of
the wood again, and hastened on, determined to leave the man to the
care of Mr. Radford, but with all my thoughts wild and confused, and
no definite line of conduct laid out for myself. Before I had gone a
mile, I began to think what a folly I had committed, that I should
have joined Radford at once; that I should have been present to hear
what the man said, and to give every assistance in my power, although
it might be ineffectual, in order to stanch the blood and save his
life. As soon as these reflections arose, I determined, though late,
to do what I should have done at first; and, turning my steps, I
walked back at a quick pace. Ere I got half way to the top of the hill
which looks down upon the wood, I saw Radford coming out again on
horseback; but I went on, and met him. As soon as he beheld me he
checked his horse, which was going at a rapid rate, and when I came
near, dismounted to speak with me. We were then little more than
common acquaintances, and I had sometimes dealt hardly with him in his
different transactions; but he spoke in a friendly tone, saying, 'This
is a sad business, Sir Robert; but if you will take my advice you will
go home as quickly as you can, and say nothing to any one till you see
me. I will be with you in an hour or so. At present I must ride up to
Middle Quarter, and get down men to carry home the body.' With a
feeling I cannot express, I asked, if he were dead, then. He nodded
his head significantly, and when I was going to put further questions,
he grasped my hand, saying, 'Go home, Sir Robert--go home. I shall say
nothing about the matter to any one, till I see you, except that I
found him dying in the wood. His gun was discharged,' he continued,
'so there is no proof that he did not do it himself!' Little did I
know what a fiend he was, into whose power I was putting myself."

"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, who had been listening with her head bent
down till her whole face was nearly concealed, "I see it all, now! I
see it all!"

"No, dear child," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a voice sad and
solemn, but wonderfully calm, "you cannot see it all; no, nor one
thousandth part of what I have suffered. Even the next dreadful three
hours--for he was fully that time ere he came to Harbourne--were full
of horror, inconceivable to any one but to him who endured them. At
length, he made his appearance; calm, grave, self-possessed, with
nought of his somewhat rude and blustering manner, and announced, with
an affectation of feeling to the family, that poor Clare, my keeper,
had been found dying with a wound in his side."

"I recollect the day, well!" said Edith, shuddering.

"Do you not remember, then," said Sir Robert Croyland, "that he and I
went into my writing-room--that awful room, which well deserves the
old prison name of the room of torture! We were closeted there for
nearly two hours; and all he said I cannot repeat. His tone, however,
was the most friendly in the world. He professed the greatest interest
in me and in my situation; and he told me that he had come to see me
before he said a word to any one, because he wished to take my opinion
as to how he was to proceed. It was necessary, he said, that I should
know the facts, for, unfortunately they placed me in a very dangerous
situation, which he was most anxious to free me from; and then he went
on to tell me, that when he had come up, poor Clare was perfectly
sensible, and had his speech distinctly. 'As a magistrate,' he
continued, 'I thought it right immediately to take his dying
deposition, for I saw that he had not many minutes to live. Here it
is,' he said, showing his pocket-book; 'and, as I luckily always have
pen and ink with me, I knelt down, and wrote his words from his own
lips. He had strength enough to sign the paper; and, as you may see,
there is the mark of blood from his own hand, which he had been
pressing on his side.' I would fain have taken the paper, but he would
not let me, saying, that he was bound to keep it; and then he went on,
and read the contents. In it, the unfortunate man charged me most
wrongfully with having shot him in a fit of passion; and, moreover, he
said that he had been sure, beforehand, that I would do it, as I had
threatened him on the preceding day, and there were plenty of people
who could prove it."

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Edith.

"It was false, as I have a soul to be saved!" cried Sir Robert
Croyland. "But Mr. Radford then went on, and, shrugging his shoulders,
said, that he was placed in a very delicate and painful situation, and
that he did not really know how to act with regard to the deposition.
'Put it in the fire!' I exclaimed--'put it in the fire!' But he said,
'No; every man must consider himself in these things, Sir Robert. I
have my own character and reputation to think of--my own duty. I risk
a great deal, you must recollect, by concealing a thing of this kind.
I do not know that I don't put my own life in danger; for this is
clear and conclusive evidence against you, and you know, what it is to
be accessory in a case of murder!' I then told him my own story,
Edith; and he said, that made some difference, indeed. He was sure I
would tell him the truth; but yet he must consider himself in the
matter; and he added hints which I could not mistake, that his
evidence was to be bought off. I offered anything he pleased to name,
and the result was such as you may guess. He exacted that I should
mortgage my estate, as far as it could be mortgaged, and make over the
proceeds to him, and that I should promise to give your hand to his
son. I promised anything, my child; for not only life and death, but
honour or disgrace, were in the balance. If he had asked my life, I
would have held my throat to the knife a thousand times sooner than
have made such sacrifices. But to die the death of a felon, Edith--to
be hanged--to writhe in the face of a grinning and execrating
multitude--to have my name handed down in the annals of crime, as the
man who had been executed for the murder of his own servant,--I could
not bear that, my child; and I promised anything! He kept the paper,
he said, as a security; and, at first, it was to be given to me, to do
with it as I liked--when the money coming from the mortgage was
secretly made over to him; but then, he said, that he had lost one
great hold, and must keep it till the marriage was completed: for by
this time the coroner's inquest was over, and he had withheld the
deposition, merely testifying that he had found the man at the point
of death in the wood, and had gone as fast as possible for assistance.
The jury consisted of his tenants and mine, and they were easily
satisfied; but the fiend who had me in his power was more greedy; and,
by the very exercise of his influence, he seemed to learn to enjoy it.
Day after day, month after month, he took a pleasure in making me do
things that were abhorrent to me. It changed my nature and my
character. He forced me to wink at frauds that I detested; and every
year he pressed for the completion of your marriage with his son. Your
coldness, your dislike, your refusal would, long ere this, have driven
him into fury, I believe, if Richard Radford had been eager for your
hand himself. But now, Edith--now, my child, he will hear of no more
delay. He is ruined in fortune, disappointed in his expectations, and
rendered fierce as a hungry beast by some events that have taken place
this morning. He has just now been over at Harbourne, and used threats
which I know, too well, he will execute. He it was, himself, who told
me to inform you, that if you did not consent, your father's life
would be the sacrifice!"

"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, covering her eyes with her hands, "at
least, give me time to think.--Surely, his word cannot have such
power: a base, notorious criminal himself, one who every day violates
the law, who scoffs at his own oaths, and holds truth and honour but
as names--surely his word will be nothing against Sir Robert
Croyland's."

"His word is nothing, would be nothing," replied her father,
earnestly; "but that deposition, Edith! It is that which is my
destruction. Remember, that the words of a dying man, with eternity
and judgment close before his eyes, are held by the law more powerful
than any other kind of evidence; and, besides, there are those still
living, who heard the rash threat I used. Suspicion once pointed at
me, a thousand corroborative circumstances would come forth to prove
that the tale I told of parting with the dead man, some time before,
was false, and that very fact would condemn me. Cast away all such
hopes, Edith--cast away all such expectations. They are vain!--vain!
Look the truth full in the face, my child. This man has your father's
life entirely and totally in his power, and ask yourself, if you will
doom me to death."

"Oh, give me time--give me time!" cried Edith, wringing her hands.
"Let me but think over it till to-morrow, or next day."

"Not an hour ago," replied Sir Robert Croyland, "he swore, by
everything he holds sacred, that if before twelve to-night, he did not
receive your consent----"

"Stay, stay!" cried Edith, eagerly, placing her hand upon her brow.
"Let me think--let me think. It is but money that he wants--it is but
the pitiful wealth my uncle left me. Let him take it, my father!" she
continued, laying her hand upon Sir Robert's arm, and gazing brightly
in his face, as if the light of hope had suddenly been renewed. "Let
him take it all, every farthing. I would sooner work as a hired
servant in the fields for my daily bread, with the only comfort of
innocence and peace, than break my vows, and marry that bad man. I
will sign a promise this instant that he shall have all."

Sir Robert Croyland threw his arms round her, and looked up to Heaven,
as if imploring succour for them both. "My sweet child!--My dear
child!" he said, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. "But I
cannot leave you even this generous hope. This man has other designs.
I offered--I promised to give Zara to his son, and to ensure to her,
with my brother's help, a fortune equal to your own. But he would not
hear of it. He has other views, my Edith. You must know all--you must
see all as it really is. He will keep his word this very night! If
before twelve, he do not receive your consent, the intimation of the
fatal knowledge he possesses will be sent to those who will not fail
to track it through every step, as the bloodhound follows his prey. He
is a desperate man, Edith, and will keep his word, bringing down ruin
upon our heads, even if it overwhelm himself also."

Edith Croyland paused without reply for several minutes, her beautiful
face remaining pale, with the exception of one glowing spot in the
centre of her cheek. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground; and her lips
moved, but without speech. She was arguing in her own mind the case
between hope and despair; and the terrible array of circumstances on
every side bewildered her. Delay was her only refuge; and looking up
in her father's face, she said, "But why is he so hasty? Why cannot he
wait a few hours longer? I will fix a time when my answer shall be
given--it shall be shortly, very shortly--this time to-morrow. Surely,
surely, in so terrible a case, I may be allowed a few hours to
think--a short, a very short period, to decide."

"He will admit of no more than I have said," answered Sir Robert
Croyland: "it is as vain to entreat him, as to ask the hangman to
delay his fatal work. He is hard as iron, without feeling, without
heart. His reasons, too, are specious, my dear child. His son, it
seems, has taken part this morning in a smuggling affray with the
troops--blood has been shed--some of the soldiers have been
killed--all who have had a share therein are guilty of felony; and it
has become necessary that the young man should be hurried out of the
country without delay. To him such a flight is nothing: he has no
family to blacken with the record of crime--he has no honourable name
to stain--his means are all prepared; his flight is easy, his escape
secure; but his father insists that you shall be his bride before he
goes, or he gives your father up, not to justice, but to the
law--which in pretending to administer justice, but too often commits
the very crimes it seems to punish. Four short days are all that he
allows; and then you are to be that youth's bride."

"What! the bride of a felon!" cried Edith, her spirit rising for a
moment--"of one stained with every vice and every crime--to vow
falsely that I will love him whom I must ever hate--to break all my
promises to one I must ever love--to deceive, prove false and forsworn
to the noble and the true, and give myself to the base, the lawless,
and the abhorred! Oh, my father--my father! is it possible that you
can ask such a thing?"

The fate of Sir Robert Croyland and his daughter hung in the balance.
One harsh command, one unkind word, with justice and truth on her
side, and feebleness and wrong on his, might have armed her to resist;
but the old man's heart was melted. The struggle that he witnessed in
his child was, for a moment--remark, only for a moment--more terrible
than that within his own breast. There was something in the innocence
and truth, something in the higher attributes of the passions called
into action in her breast, something in the ennobling nature of the
conflicting feelings of her heart--the filial tenderness, the
adherence to her engagements, the abhorrence of the bad, the love of
the good, the truth, the honour, and the piety, all striving one with
the other, that for a time made the mean passion of fear seem small
and insignificant. "I do not ask you, my child," he said--"I do not
urge you--I ask, I urge you no more! The worst bitterness is past. I
have told my own child the tale of my sorrows, my folly, my weakness,
and my danger. I have inflicted the worst upon you, Edith, and on
myself; and I leave it to your own heart to decide. After your
generous, your noble offer, to sacrifice your property and leave
yourself nothing, for my sake, it were cruel--it were, indeed, base,
to urge you farther. To avoid this, dreadful disclosure, to shelter
you and myself from such horrible details, I have often been stern,
and harsh, and menacing.--Forgive me, Edith, but it is past! You now
know what is on the die; and it is your own hand casts it. Your
father's life, the honour of your family, the high name we have ever
borne--these are to be lost and won. But I urge it not--I ask it not.
You only must and can decide."

Edith, who had risen, stood before him, pale as ashes, with her hands
clasped so tight that the blood retreated from her fingers, where they
pressed against each other, leaving them as white as those of the
dead--her eyes fixed, straining, but sightless, upon the ground. All
that she saw, all that she knew, all that she felt, was the dreadful
alternative of fates before her. It was more than her frame could
bear--it was more than almost any human heart could endure. To condemn
a father to death, to bring the everlasting regret into her heart, to
wander, as if accurst, over the earth, with a parent's blood crying
out for vengeance! It was a terrible thought indeed. Then again, she
remembered the vows that she had taken, the impossibility of
performing those that were asked of her, the sacrifice of the innocent
to the guilty, the perjury that she must commit, the dark and dreadful
future before her, the self-reproach that stood on either hand to
follow her through life! She felt as if her heart was bursting; and
the next moment, all the blood seemed to fly from it, and leave it
cold and motionless. She strove to speak--her voice was choked; but
then, again, she made an effort; and a few words broke forth,
convulsively--"To save you, my father, I would do anything," she
cried. "I _will_ do anything--but----"

She could not finish; her sight failed her; her heart seemed crushed;
her head swam; the colour left her lips; and she fell prone at her
father's feet, without one effort to save herself.

Sir Robert Croyland's first proceeding was, to raise her and lay her
on the sofa; but before he called any one, he gazed at her a moment or
two in silence. "She has fainted," he said. "Poor child!--Poor girl!"
But then came another thought: "She said she would do anything," he
murmured; "her words were, 'I will'--It is surely a consent."

He forgot--he heeded not--he would not heed, that she had added,
"But----"

"Yes, it was a consent," he repeated; "it must have been a consent. I
will hasten to tell him. If we can but gain a few days, it is
something. Who can say what a few days may bring? At all events, it is
a relief.--It will obtain the delay she wished--I will tell him.--It
must have been a consent;" and calling the servants and Edith's own
maid, to attend upon her, he hastened out of the house, fearful of
waiting till her senses returned, lest other words should snatch from
him the interpretation he chose to put upon those which had gone
before. In an instant, however, he returned, went into the library,
and wrote down on a scrap of paper:--

"Thanks, dearest Edith!--thanks! I go in haste to tell Mr. Radford the
promise you have given."

Then hurrying out again, he put the paper, which he had folded up,
into the hands of the groom, who held his horse. "That for Miss
Croyland," he said, "when she has quite recovered; but not before;"
and, mounting with speed, he rode away as fast as he could go.



                           END OF VOL. II.


       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. III.




                               LONDON:
                 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
                                1845.






                            THE SMUGGLER.




                              CHAPTER I.


It was two o'clock when Sir Robert Croyland left his daughter; and
Edith, with the aid of her maid, soon recovered from the swoon into
which she had fallen. At first she hardly knew where she was, or what
had taken place. All seemed strange to her; for she had never fainted
before; and though she had more than once seen her sister in the state
in which she herself had just been, yet she did not apply what she had
witnessed in others to explain her own sensations.

When she could rise from the sofa, where her father had laid her, and
thought and recollection returned, Edith's first inquiry was for Sir
Robert; and the servant's answer that he had been gone a quarter of an
hour, was at first a relief. But Edith sat and pondered for a while,
applying herself to call to mind all the last words which had been
spoken. As she did so, a fear came over her--a fear that her meaning
might have been mistaken. "No!" she murmured, at length--"no! I said,
_but_--he must have heard it.--I cannot break those vows--I dare not;
I would do anything to save him--oh, yes, doom myself to wretchedness
for life; but I cannot, unless Henry gives me back my promise.--Poor
Henry! what right have I to make him suffer too?--Yet does he
suffer?--But a father's life--a father's life! That must not be the
sacrifice!--Leave me, Caroline--I am better now!" she continued aloud;
"it is very foolish to faint in this way. It never happened to me
before."

"Oh dear, Miss Edith! it happens to every one now and then," said the
maid, who had been in her service long; "and I am sure all Sir Robert
said to you to-day, was enough to make you."

"Good heaven!" cried Edith; in alarm, "did you hear?"

"I could not help hearing a part, Miss Edith," answered the maid; "for
in that little room, where I sit to be out of the way of all the black
fellows, one hears very plain what is said here. There was once a
door, I believe, and it is only just covered over."

For a moment, Edith sat mute in consternation; but at length demanded,
"What did you hear? Tell me all, Caroline--every word, if you would
ever have me regard you more."

"Oh, it was not much, Miss!" replied the maid; "I heard Sir Robert
twice say, his life depended on it--and I suppose he meant, on your
marrying young Mr. Radford. Then he seemed to tell you a long story;
but I did not hear the whole of that; for I did not try, I can assure
you, Miss Edith; and then I heard you say, 'To save you, my father, I
would do anything--I _will_ do anything, but--' and then you stopped
in the middle, because I suppose you fainted."

Edith put her hands before her eyes and thought, or tried to think;
for her ideas were still in sad confusion. "Leave me now, Caroline,"
she said; "but, remember, I expect that no part of any conversation
you have overheard between me and my father, will ever be repeated."

"Oh dear, no, Miss Edith," replied the woman, "I would not on any
account;" and she left the room.

We all know of what value are ordinary promises of secrecy, even in
the best society, as it is called. Nine times out of ten, there is one
dear friend to whom everything is revealed; and that dear friend has
others; and at each remove, the bond of secrecy is weaker and more
weak, till the whole world is made a hearer of the tale. Now Edith's
maid was a very discreet person; and when she promised not to reveal
what she had heard, she only proposed to herself, to tell it to one
person in the world. Nor was that person her lover, or her friend, or
her fellow-servant; nor was she moved by the spirit of gossip, but
really and truly by a love for her young lady, which was great, and by
a desire to serve her. Thus, she thought, as soon as she had shut the
door, "I will tell it to Miss Zara, though; for it is but right that
she should know how they are driving her sister to marry a man she
hates, as well she may. Miss Zara is active and quick, and may find
some means of helping her."

The maid had not been gone a minute, when she returned with the short
note which Sir Robert Croyland had left; and as she handed it to her
young mistress, she watched her countenance eagerly. But Edith took
it, read it, and gazed upon the paper without a word.

"Pray, Miss Edith," said the maid, "are you likely to want me soon;
for I wish to go up to the village for something?"

"No, Caroline--no," answered Edith, with an absent air; "I shall not
want you;" and she remained standing with the paper in her hand, and
her eyes fixed upon it.

The powers by which volition acts upon the mind, and in what volition
really consists, are mysteries which have never yet, that I have seen,
been explained. Yet certain it is, that there is something within us
which, when the intellectual faculties seem, under the pressure of
circumstances, to lose their functions, can by a great effort compel
them to return to their duty, rally them, and array them, as it were,
against the enemy by whom they have been routed. Edith Croyland made
the effort, and succeeded. She had been taken by surprise, and
overcome; but now she collected all the forces of her mind, and
prepared to fight the battle over again. In a few minutes, she became
calm, and applied herself to consider fully her own situation. There
were filial duty and tenderness on one side--love and a strong vow on
the other. "He has gone to tell Mr. Radford that I have consented,"
was her first distinct thought, "but his having mistaken me, must not
make me give that consent when it is wrong. Were it myself alone, I
would sacrifice all for him--I could but die--a few hours of misery
are not much to bear--I have borne many. But I am bound--Good God!
what an alternative!"

But I will not follow her thoughts: they can easily be conceived. She
was left alone, with no one to counsel, with no one to aid her. The
fatal secret she possessed was a bar to asking advice from any one.
Buried in her own bosom, the causes of her conduct, the motives upon
which she acted, must ever be secret, whatever course she pursued.
Agony was on either hand. She had to choose between two terrible
alternatives: on the one hand a breach of all her engagements, a few
years, a few weeks, perhaps, of misery, and an early death--for such
she knew must be her fate: and, on the other, a life, with love
certainly to cheer it, but poisoned by the remembrance that she had
sacrificed her father. Yet Edith now thought firmly, weighed,
considered all.

She could come to no determination. Between two such gulfs, she shrank
trembling from either.

The clock in the hall, with its clear, sharp bell, struck three; and
the moment after, the quick sound of horses' feet was heard. "Can it
be my father?" she thought. "No! he has not had time--unless he has
doubted;" but while she asked herself the question, the horses stopped
at the door, the bell rang; and she went on to say to herself,
"perhaps it is Zara. That would be a comfort indeed, though I cannot
tell her--I must not tell her all."

The old Hindoo opened the door, saying "Missy, a gentleman want to see
you--very fine gentleman."

Edith could not speak; but she bowed her head, and the servant,
receiving that token as assent, turned to some one behind him and
said, "Walk in, sir."

For a moment or two, Edith did not raise her eyes, and her lips moved.
She heard a step in the room, that made her heart flutter; she heard
the door shut; but yet for an instant she remained with her head bent,
and her hands clasped together. Then she looked up. Standing before
her, and gazing intently upon her, was a tall handsome man, dressed in
the splendid uniform of the dragoons of that time, and with a star
upon his left breast--a decoration worn by persons who had the right
to do so, more frequently in those days than at the present time. But
it was to the face that Edith's eyes were turned--to the countenance
well known and deeply loved. Changed though it was--grave where it had
been gay, pale where it had been florid, sterner in the lines, once so
full of gentle youth--still all the features were there, and the
expression too, though saddened, was the same.

He gazed on her with a look full of tenderness and love; and their
eyes met. On both of them the feelings of other years seemed to rush
with overpowering force. The interval which had since occurred, for a
moment, was annihilated; the heart went back with the rapid wing of
Memory, to the hours of joy that were gone; and Leyton opened wide his
arms, exclaiming, "Edith! Edith!"

She could not resist. She had no power to struggle. Love, stronger
than herself, was master; and, starting up, she cast herself upon his
bosom, and there wept.

"Dear, dear girl!" he said, "then you love me still,--then Digby's
assurance is true--then you have not forgotten poor Harry Leyton--then
his preserving hope, his long endurance, his unwavering love, his
efforts, his success, have not been all in vain!--Dear, dear Edith!
This hour repays me for all--for all. Dangers and adversities, and
wounds, and anguish of body and of mind, and sleepless nights, and
days of bitter thought--I would endure them all. All?--ay, tenfold
all--for this one hour!" and he pressed her closer and closer to his
heart.

"Nay, Harry--nay," cried Edith, still clinging to him; "but hear me,
hear me--or if you speak such words of tenderness, you will break my
heart, or drive me mad."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed Leyton, unclasping his arms, "what is it that
you say? Edith--my Edith--my own, my vowed, my bride! But now, you
seemed to share the joy you gave,--to love, as you are loved; and
now----"

"I do love you--oh! I do love you!" cried Edith, vehemently; "add not
a doubt of that to all I suffer. Ever, ever have I loved you, without
change, without thought of change. But yet--but yet--. I may have
fancied that you have forgotten me--I may have thought it strange that
you did not write--that my letters remained unanswered; but still I
loved, still I have been true to you."

"I did write, my Edith. I received no letters," said Leyton, sadly;
"we have both been wronged, my dear girl. My letters were returned in
a cover directed in your own hand: but that trick I understand--that I
see through. Oh, do not let any one deceive you again, beloved girl!
You have been my chief--I might say my only thought; for the memory of
you has mingled with every other idea, and made the whole your own. In
the camp and in the field, I have endured and fought for Edith; in the
council and in the court, I have struggled and striven for her; she
has been the end and object of every effort, the ruling power of my
whole mind. And now, Edith--now your soldier has returned to you. He
has won every step towards the crowning reward of his endeavours; he
has risen to competence, to command, to some honour in the service of
his country; and he can proudly say to her he loves, Cast from you the
fortune for which men dared to think I sought you--come to your lover,
come to your husband, as dowerless as he was when they parted us; and
let all the world see and know, that it was your love, not your
wealth, I coveted--this dear hand, that dear heart, not base gold,
that I desired. Oh, Edith, in Heaven's name, cast me not now headlong
down from the height of hope and joy to which you have raised me, for
fear a heart and spirit, too long depressed, should never find
strength to rise again."

Edith staggered back and sank down upon the sofa, covering her eyes,
and only murmuring--"I do love you, Harry, beyond life itself.--Oh,
that I were dead!--oh, that I were dead!"

There was a terrible struggle in Henry Leyton's bosom. He could not
understand the agitation that he witnessed; had it borne anything like
the character of joy, even of surprise, all would have been clear; but
it was evidently very different. It was joy overborne by sorrow. It
was evidently a struggle of love with some influence, perhaps not
stronger, yet terrible in its effect. He was a man of quick decision
and strong resolution--qualities not always combined; and he overcame
himself in a moment. He saw that he was loved--still deeply, truly
loved; and that was a great point. He saw that Edith was grieved to
the soul--he saw that he himself could not feel more intensely the
anguish she inflicted than she did, that she was wringing her own
heart while she was wringing his, and felt a double pang; and that was
a strong motive for calmness, if not for fortitude. Her last words, "I
wish I were dead!" restored him fully to himself; and following her to
the sofa, he seated himself beside her, gently took her hand in his,
and pressed his lips upon it.

"Edith," he said--"my own dear Edith, let us be calm! Thank you, my
beloved, for one moment of happiness, the first I have known for
years; and now let us talk, as quietly as may be, of anything that may
have arisen which should justly cause Henry Leyton's return to make
Edith Croyland wish herself dead. Your uncle will not be long ere he
arrives; I left him on the road; and it is by his full consent that I
am here."

"Oh no, Harry--no!" said Edith, turning at first to his comment on her
words, "it is not your return that makes me wish myself dead; but it
is, that circumstances--dark and terrible circumstances--which were
only made known to me an hour before your arrival, have turned all the
joy, the pure, the almost unmixed joy, that I should have felt at
seeing you again, into a well of bitterness. It is that I cannot, that
I dare not explain to you those circumstances--that you will think me
wrong, unkind--fickle, perhaps,--perhaps even mad, in whatsoever way I
may act."

"But surely you can say something, dear Edith," said her lover; "you
can give some hint of the cause of all I see. You tell me in one
breath that you love me still, yet wish you were dead; and show
evidently that my coming has been painful to you."

"No, no, Harry," she answered, mournfully, "do not say so. Painful to
me?--oh, no! It would be the purest joy that ever I yet knew, were it
not that--But why did you not come earlier, Harry? Why, when your
horse stood upon that hill, did you not turn his head hither? Would
that you had, would that you had! My fate would have been already
decided. Now it is all clouds and darkness. I knew you instantly. I
could see no feature; I could but trace a figure on horseback, wrapped
in a large cloak; but the instinct of love told me who it was. Oh! why
did you not come then?"

"Because it would have been dishonest, Edith," answered Leyton,
gravely. "Your uncle had been my father's friend, my uncle's friend.
In a kindly manner he invited me here some time ago, as a perfect
stranger, under the name of Captain Osborn. You were not here then;
and I thought I could not in honour come under his roof, when I found
you were here, without telling him who I really was. He appointed this
day to meet me at Woodchurch at two; and I dared not venture, after
all that has passed between your family and mine, to seek you in his
dwelling, ere I had seen and explained myself to him. I knew you were
here: I gazed up at these windows with a yearning of the heart that
nearly overcame my resolution----"

"I saw you gaze, Harry," answered Edith; "and I say still, would that
you had come.--Yet you were right.--It might have saved me much
misery; but you were right. And now listen to the fate that is before
me--to the choice I have to make, as far as I can explain it--and yet
what words can I use?--But it must be done. I must not leave anything
unperformed, that can prevent poor Edith Croyland from becoming an
object of hatred and contempt in Henry Leyton's eyes. Little as I can
do to defend myself, I must do it."

She paused, gazed up on high for a moment, and then laid her hand upon
his.

"Henry, I do love you," she said. "Nay, more, I am yours, plighted to
you by bonds I cannot and I dare not break--vows, I mean, the most
solemn, as well as the ties of long affection. Yet, if I wed you, I am
miserable for life. Self-reproach, eternal self-reproach--the most
terrible of all things--to which no other mental or corporeal pain can
ever reach, would prey upon my heart for ever, and bear me down into
the grave. Peace--rest, I should have none. A voice would be for ever
howling in my ear a name that would poison sleep, and make each waking
moment an hour of agony. I can tell you no more on this side of the
question; but so it is. It seems fated that I should bring misery one
way or another upon him who is dearest to me."

"I cannot comprehend," exclaimed Leyton, in surprise. "Your father has
heard, I suppose, that I am here, and has menaced you with his curse."

"Oh, no!" answered Edith; "far from it. He was here but now; he spoke
of you, Henry, as you deserve. He told me how he had loved you and
esteemed you in your young days; how, though angry at first at our
rash engagement, he would have consented in the end; but--there was a
fatal 'but,' Henry--an impediment not to be surmounted. I must not
tell you what it is--I cannot, I dare not explain. But listen to what
he said besides. You have heard one part of the choice; hear the
other: it is to wed a man whom I abhor--despise--contemn--whose very
look is fearful to me; to ask you to give me back the vows I plighted,
in order--in order," and she spoke very low, "that I may sacrifice
myself for my father, that I may linger out a few weeks of
wretchedness, and then sink into the grave, which is now my only
hope."

"And do you ask me, Edith?" inquired Leyton, in a sad and solemn
tone--"do you, Edith Croyland, really and truly ask me to give you
back those vows? Speak, beloved--speak; for my heart is well nigh
bursting."

He paused, and she was silent; covering her eyes with her hands, while
her bosom heaved, as if she were struggling for breath. "No, no, no,
Harry!" she cried, at length, as if the effort were vain, "I cannot, I
cannot! Oh, Harry, Harry! I wish that I were dead!" and, casting her
arms round his neck, she wept upon his breast again.

Henry Leyton drew her closer to him with his left arm round her waist;
but pressed his right hand on his brow, and gazed on vacancy. Both
remained without speaking for a time; but at length he said, in a
voice more calm than might have been expected, "Let us consider this
matter, Edith. You have been terrified by some means; a tale has
been told you, which has agitated and alarmed you, which has overcome
your resolution, that now has endured more than six years, and
doubtless that tale has been well devised.--Are you sure that it is
true?--Forgive this doubt in regard to one who is near and dear to
you; but when such deceits have been practised, as those which we know
have been used to delude us, I must be suspicious.--Are you sure that
it is true, I say?

"Too true, too true!"' answered Edith, shaking her head,
mournfully--"that tale explains all, too,--even those deceits you
mention. No, no, it is but too true--it could not be feigned--besides,
I remember so many things, all tending to the same. It is true--I
cannot doubt it."

Sir Henry Leyton paused, and twice began to speak, but twice stopped,
as if the words he was about to utter, cost him a terrible struggle to
speak. At length he said, "And the man, Edith--the man they wish you
to marry--who is he?"

"Ever the same," answered Edith, bending down her head, and her cheek,
which had been as pale as death, glowing like crimson--"the same,
Richard Radford."

"What! a felon!" exclaimed Leyton, turning round, with his brows bent;
"a felon, after whom my soldiers and the officers of justice are now
hunting through the country! Sir Robert Croyland must be mad! But I
tell you, Edith, that man shall never stand within a church again,
till it be the chapel of the gaol. Let him make his peace with Heaven;
for if he be caught--and caught he shall be--there is no mercy for him
on earth. But surely there must be some mistake. You cannot have
understood your father rightly, or he cannot know----"

"Oh! yes, yes!" replied Edith; "he knows all; and it is the same. Ay,
and within four days, too--that he may take me with him in his
flight."

"Ere four days be over," answered her lover, sternly, "he shall no
more think of bridals."

"And what will become of my father, then!" said Edith, gazing steadily
down upon the ground. "It is I--I that shall have done it. Alas, alas!
which way shall I turn?"

There was something more than sorrow in her countenance; there was
anguish--almost agony; and Sir Henry Leyton was much moved. "Turn to
me, Edith," he said; "turn to him who loves you better than life; and
there is no sacrifice that he will not make for you, but his honour.
Tell me, have you made any promise?--have you given your father your
consent?"

"No," answered Edith, eagerly; "no, I have not. He took my words as
consent, though ere they were half finished, the horror and pain of
all I heard overcame me, and I fainted. But I did not consent,
Harry--I could not consent, without your permission.--Oh, Harry, aid
and support me!"

"Listen to me, my beloved," replied Leyton; "wealth, got by any means,
is this man's object. I gather from what you say, that your father has
some cause to dread him--give up to him this much-coveted fortune--let
him take it--ay, and share Henry Leyton's little wealth. I desire
nothing but yourself."

"Alas, Henry, it is all in vain!" answered Edith; "I have offered it--I
knew your noble, generous heart. I knew that wealth would make no
difference to him I loved, and offered to resign everything. My
father, even before he came hither, offered him my sister--offered to
make her the sacrifice, as she is bound by no promises, and to give
her an equal portion; but it was all refused."

"Then there is some other object," said her lover; "some object that
may, perhaps, tend even to more misery than you dream of, Edith.
Believe me, my beloved--oh! believe me, did I but see how I could
deliver you--were I sure that any act of mine would give you peace, no
sacrifice on my part would seem too great. At present, however, I see
nothing clearly--all is darkness and shadow around. I know not, that
if I give you back your promise, and free you from your vow, that I
shall not be contributing to make you wretched. How, then, am I to
act? You are sure, dear one, that you have not consented?"

"Quite sure," answered Edith; "and it so happened, that there was one
who heard my words as well as my father. He, indeed, took them as
consent, and hurried away to Mr. Radford, without giving me time to
recover and say more. Read that, Harry," and she put the note her
father had left into his hands.

"It is fortunate you were heard by another," replied Leyton. "Hark!
there is your uncle's carriage coming.--Four days, did he say--four
days? Well, then, dear Edith, will you trust in me? Will you leave
your fate in the hands of one who will do anything on earth for your
happiness?--and will you never doubt, though you may be kept in
suspense, that I will so act as to deliver you, if I can, without
bringing ruin on your father."

"It is worse than ruin," answered Edith, with the tears rolling down
her cheeks--"it is death. But I will trust to you, Henry--I will trust
implicitly. But tell me how to act--tell me what I am to do."

"Leave this matter as it is," answered her lover, hearing Mr.
Croyland's carriage stop at the door;--"your father has snatched too
eagerly at your words. Perhaps he has done so to gain time; but, at
all events, the fault is his, not yours. If he speaks to you on the
subject, you must tell the truth, and say you did not consent; but in
everything else be passive--let him do with you what he will--take you
to the altar, if he so pleases; but there must be the final struggle,
Edith. There you must boldly and aloud refuse to wed a man you cannot
love. There let the memory of your vows to me be ever present with
you. It may seem cruel; but I exact it for your own sake. In the
meantime, take means to let me know everything that happens, be it
small or great--cast off all reserve towards Digby; tell him all,
everything that takes place; tell your sister, too, or any one who can
bear me the tidings. I shall be nearer than you think."

"Oh, Heaven, how will this end!" cried Edith, putting her hand in
his--"God help me, Harry--God help me!"

"He will, dear girl," answered Leyton--"I feel sure he will. But
remember what I have said. Fail not to tell Digby, or Zara, or any one
who can bear the tidings to me, everything that occurs, every word
that is spoken, every step that is taken. Think nothing too trifling.
But there is your uncle's voice in the passage. Can you not inform him
of that which you think yourself bound not to tell me? I mean the
particulars of your father's situation."

"No; oh no!" replied Edith--"I dare tell no one, especially not my
uncle. Though kind, and generous, and benevolent, yet he is hasty, and
he might ruin all. Dared I tell any one on earth, Henry, it would be
you; and if I loved you before--oh, how I must love you now, when
instead of the anger, or even heat, which I expected you to display,
you have shown yourself ready to sacrifice all for one who is hardly
worthy of you."

Leyton pressed her to his bosom, and replied, "Real love is unselfish,
Edith. I tell you, dearest, that I die if I lose you; yet, Edith
Croyland shall never do what is wrong for Henry Leyton's sake. If in
the past we did commit an error, if I should not have engaged you by
vows without your parent's consent--though God knows that error has
been bitterly visited on my head!--I am still ready to make atonement
to the best of my power; but I will not consent that you should be
causelessly made miserable, or sacrifice yourself and me, without
benefit to any one. Trust to me, Edith--trust to me."

"I will, I will!" answered Edith Croyland; "who can I trust to else?"

Mr. Croyland was considerate; and knowing that Sir Henry Leyton was
with his niece--for his young friend had passed him on the road--he
paused for a moment in the vestibule, giving various orders and
directions, in order to afford them a few minutes more of private
conversation. When he went in, he was surprised to find Edith's face
full of deep grief, and her eyes wet with tears, and still more when
Leyton, after kissing her fair cheek, advanced towards him, saying, "I
must go, my dear friend, nor can I accept your kind invitation to stay
here to-night. But I am about to show myself a bold man, and ask you
to give me almost the privilege of a son--that is, of coming and
going, for the four or five next days, at my own will, and without
question."

"What's all this?--what's all this?" cried Mr. Croyland; "a lovers'
quarrel?--Ha, Edith? Ha, Harry?"

"Oh, no," answered Edith, giving her uncle her hand; "there never can
be a quarrel between me and Henry Leyton."

"Well, then, what is it all?" exclaimed Mr. Croyland, turning
from one to the other. "Mystery--mystery! I hate mystery, Harry
Leyton.--However, you shall have your privilege; the doors shall be
open. Come--go--do what you like. But if you are not a great fool, you
will order over a post-chaise and four this very night, put her in,
and be off for Gretna Green. I'll give you my parental benediction."

"I am afraid, my dear sir," answered Leyton, "that cannot be. Edith
has told me various things since I saw her, which require to be dealt
with in a different way. I trust, that in whatever I do, my conduct
will be such as to give you satisfaction; and whether the result be
fortunate or otherwise, I shall never, till the last hour of life,
forget the kindness you have shown me. And now, my dear sir, adieu for
the present, for I have much to do this night."

Thus saying, he shook the old gentleman's hand, and departed with a
heavy heart and anxious mind. During his onward ride, his heart did
not become lighter; his mind was only more burdened with cares. As
long as he was in Edith's presence, he had borne up and struggled
against all that he felt; for he saw that she was already overwhelmed
with grief, and he feared to add to it; but now his thoughts were all
confusion. With incomplete information--in circumstances the most
difficult--anxious to save her he loved, even at any sacrifice on his
own part, yet seeing no distinct means of acting in any direction
without danger to her--he looked around him in vain for any resource;
or, if he formed a plan one moment, he rejected it the next. He knew
Edith's perfect truth, he knew the quiet firmness and power of her
mind too well to doubt one tittle of that which she had stated; and
though at first sight he thought the proofs he possessed of Mr.
Radford's participation in the late smuggling transaction were quite
sufficient to justify that person's immediate arrest, and proposed
that it should take place immediately, yet the next moment he
recollected what might be the result to Sir Robert Croyland, and
hesitated how to act. Then, again, he turned his eyes to the
circumstances in which Edith's father was placed, and asked himself,
what could be the mystery which so terribly overshadowed him? Edith
had said that his life was at stake; and Leyton tortured his
imagination in vain to find some explanation of such a fact.

"Can he have been deceiving her?" he asked himself more than once. But
then, again, he answered, "No, it must be true! He can have no
ordinary motive in urging her to such a step; his whole character, his
whole views are against it. Haughty and ostentatious, there must be
some overpowering cause to make him seek to wed his daughter to a low
ruffian--the son of an upstart, who owed his former wealth to fraud,
and who is now, if all tales be true, nearly bankrupt,--to wed Edith,
a being of grace, of beauty, and of excellence, to a villain like
this--a felon and a fugitive--and to send her forth into the wide
world, to share the wanderings of a man she hates! The love of life
must be a strange thing in some men. One would have thought that a
thousand lives were nothing to such a sacrifice. Yet, the tale must be
true; this old man must have Sir Robert's life in his power. But
how--how? that is the question. Perhaps Digby can discover something.
At all events, I must see him without delay."

In such thoughts, Sir Henry Leyton rode on fast to Woodchurch,
accomplishing in twenty minutes that which took good Mr. Croyland with
his pampered horses, more than an hour to perform; and springing from
his charger at the door of the inn, he was preparing to go up and
write to Sir Edward Digby, when Captain Irby, on the one hand, and his
own servant on the other, applied for attention.

"Mr. Warde is up stairs, sir," said the servant; "he has been waiting
about half an hour."

But Leyton turned to the officer, asking, "What is it, Captain Irby?"

"Two or three of the men, sir, who have been taken," replied Captain
Irby, "have expressed a wish to make a statement. One of them is badly
wounded, too; but I did not know how to act till you arrived, as we
had no magistrate here."

"Was it quite voluntary?" demanded the young officer; "no inducements
held out--no questions asked?"

"Quite voluntary, sir," answered the other. "They sent to ask for you;
and when I went, in your absence, they told me what it was they
desired; but I refused to take the deposition till you arrived, for
fear of getting myself into a scrape."

"It must be taken," replied the colonel. "Of whatever value it may be
judged hereafter, we must not refuse it when offered. I will come to
them in a moment, Irby;" and entering the house, but without going up
stairs, he wrote a few lines, in the bar, to Sir Edward Digby,
requesting to see him without delay. Then, calling his servant, he
said, "Tell Mr. Warde I will be with him in a few minutes; after
which, mount yourself, and carry this note over to Harbourne House, to
Sir Edward Digby. Give it into his own hand; but remember, it is my
wish that you should not mention my name there at all. Do you know the
place?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man; and, leaving him to fulfil his errand,
the colonel returned to the door of the house, to accompany Captain
Irby.




                             CHAPTER II.


We mast now return for a time to Harbourne House, where, after Sir
Robert Croyland's departure, his guest had endeavoured in vain, during
the whole morning, to obtain a few minutes' private conversation with
the baronet's youngest daughter. Now, it was not in the least degree,
that Mrs. Barbara's notions of propriety interfered to prevent the two
young people from being alone together; for, on the contrary, Mrs.
Barbara was a very lenient and gentle-minded person, and thought
it quite right that any two human beings who were likely to fall in
love with each other, should have every opportunity of doing so, to
their hearts' content. But it so happened, from a sort of fatality
which hung over all her plans, that whenever she interfered with
anything,--which, indeed, she always did, with everything she could
lay her hands upon,--the result was sure to be directly the contrary
to that which she intended. It might be, indeed, that she did not
always manage matters quite judiciously, that she acted without
considering all the circumstances of the case; and undoubtedly it
would have been quite as well if she had not acted at all when she was
not asked.

In the present instance, when she had remained in the drawing-room
with her niece and Sir Edward, for near half an hour after her brother
had departed, it just struck her that they might wish to be alone
together; for she had made up her mind by this time, that the young
officer's visit was to end in a love affair; and, as the very best
means of accomplishing the desired object, instead of going to speak
with the housekeeper, or to give orders to the dairy-maid, or to talk
to the steward,--as any other prudent, respectable, and well-arranged
aunt would have done--she said to her niece, as if a sudden thought
had occurred to her, "I don't think Sir Edward Digby has ever seen the
library. Zara, my dear, you had better show it to him. There are some
very curious books there, and the manuscript in vellum, with all the
kings' heads painted."

Zara felt that it was rather a coarse piece of work which her aunt had
just turned out of hand; and being a little too much susceptible of
ridicule, she did not like to have anything to do with it, although,
to say the truth, she was very anxious herself for the few minutes
that Mrs. Barbara was inclined to give her.

"Oh, I dare say, my dear aunt," she replied, "Sir Edward Digby does
not care anything about old books!--I don't believe they have been
opened for these fifty years."

"The greater the treasure, Miss Croyland," answered the young officer;
"I can assure you nothing delights me more than an old library; so I
think I shall go and find it out myself, if you are not disposed to
show it to me."

Zara Croyland remembered, with a smile, that Sir Edward Digby had met
with no great difficulty in finding it out for himself on a previous
occasion. She rose, however, with her colour a little heightened; for
his invitation was a very palpable one, and she did not know what
conclusions her aunt might be pleased to draw, or to insinuate to
others; and, leading the way towards the library, she opened the door,
expecting to find the room untenanted. There, however, before her
eyes, standing opposite to a book-case, with a large folio volume of
divinity in his hand, stood the clergyman of the parish; and he
instantly turned round his head, with spectacles on nose, and advanced
to pay his respects to Miss Croyland and Sir Edward Digby. Now, the
clergyman was a very worthy man; but he had one of those
peculiarities, which, if peculiarities were systematically classed,
would be referred to the bore genus. He was frequently unaware of when
people had had enough of him; and consequently on the present
occasion--after he had informed Zara, that finding that her father was
out, he had taken the liberty of walking into the library to look at a
book he wanted--he put back that book, and attacked Sir Edward Digby,
totis viribus, upon the state of the weather, the state of the
country, and the state of the smugglers. The later topic, as it was
the predominant one in every man's mind at that moment, and in that
part of the country, occupied him rather longer than a sermon, though
his parishioners occasionally thought his sermons quite sufficiently
extensive for any sleep-resisting powers of the human frame to
withstand; and then, when Sir Edward and Zara, forgetting, in the
interest which they seemed to take in his discourse, that they had
come into the library to look at the books, walked out upon the
terrace, he walked out with them; and as they turned up and down, he
turned up and down also, for full an hour.

Zara could almost have cried in the end; but, as out of the basest
refuse of our stable-yards, grow the finest flowers of our gardens, so
good is ever springing up from evil; and in the end the worthy
clergyman gave his two companions the first distinct account which
they had received of the dispersion of Mr. Radford's band of
smugglers, and of the eager pursuit of young Radford which was taking
place throughout the country. Thus passed the morning, with one event
or other of little consequence, presenting obstacles to any free
communication between two people, who were almost as desirous of some
private conversation as if they had been lovers.

A little before three o'clock, however, Zara Croyland who had been
looking out of the window, suddenly quitted the drawing-room; and Sir
Edward Digby, who maintained his post, was left to entertain Mrs.
Barbara, which he did to the best of his abilities. He was still in
full career, a little enjoying, to say sooth, some of the good lady's
minor absurdities, when Zara re-entered the room with a quick step,
and a somewhat eager look. Her fair cheek was flushed too; and her
face had in it that sort of determined expression which often betrays
that there has been a struggle in the mind, as to some step about to
be taken, and that victory has not been achieved without an effort.

"Sir Edward Digby," she said, in a clear and distinct tone, "I want to
speak with you for a few moments, if you please."

Mrs. Barbara looked shocked, and internally wondered that Zara could
not have made some little excuse for engaging Sir Edward in private
conversation.

"She might have asked him to go and see a flower, or offered to play
him a tune on the harpsichord, or taken him to look at the dovecot, or
anything," thought Mrs. Barbara.

The young officer, however, instantly started up, and accompanied his
fair inviter towards the library, to which she led the way with a
hurried and eager step.

"Let us come in here!" she said, opening the door; but the moment she
was within, she sank into a chair and clasped her hands together.

Sir Edward Digby shut the door, and then advanced towards her, a good
deal surprised and somewhat alarmed by the agitation he saw her
display. She did not speak for a moment, as if completely overpowered,
and feeling for her more deeply than he himself knew, her companion
took her hand and tried to soothe her, saying, "Be calm--be calm, my
dear Miss Croyland! You know you can trust in me, and if I can aid you
in any way, command me."

"I know not what to do, or what to say," cried Zara; "but I am sure,
Sir Edward, you will find excuses for me; and therefore I will make
none--though I may perhaps seem somewhat bold in dealing thus with one
whom I have only known a few days."

"There are circumstances which sometimes make a few days equal to many
years," replied Sir Edward Digby. "It is so, my dear young lady, with
you and I. Therefore, without fear or hesitation, tell me what it is
that agitates you, and how I can serve you. I am not fond of making
professions; but if it be in human power, it shall be done."

"I know not, whether it can be done or not," said Zara; "but if not,
there is nothing but ruin and desolation for two people, whom we both
love. You saw my father set out this morning. Did you remark the
course he took? It was over to my uncle's, for I watched him from the
window. He passed back again some time ago, but then struck off
towards Mr. Radford's. All that made me uneasy; but just now, I saw
Edith's maid coming up towards the house; and eager for tidings, I
hurried away.--Good Heavens, what tidings she has borne me!"

"They must be evil ones, I see," answered Digby; "but I trust not such
as to preclude all chance of remedying what may have gone wrong. When
two or three people act together zealously, dear lady, there are very
few things they cannot accomplish."

"Yes, but how to explain!" exclaimed Zara; "yet I must be short; for
otherwise my aunt will be in upon us. Now, Sir Edward Digby," she
continued, after thinking for a moment, "I know you are a man of
honour--I am sure you are; and I ask you to pledge me that honour,
that you will never reveal to any one what I am going to tell you; for
I know not whether I am about to do right or wrong--whether, in trying
to save one, I may not be bringing down ruin upon others. Do you give
me your honour?"

"Most assuredly!" answered her companion. "I will never repeat a word
that you say, unless with your permission, on my honour!"

"Well, then," replied Zara, in a faint voice, "Mr. Radford has my
father's life in his power. How, I know not--how, I cannot tell. But
so it is; and such are the tidings that Caroline has just brought us.
Mr. Radford's conference with him this morning was not for nothing.
Immediately after, he went over to Edith; he told her some tale which
the girl did not distinctly hear; but, it seems, some paper which Mr.
Radford possesses was spoken of, and the sum of the whole matter was,
that my poor, sweet sister was told, if she did not consent, within
four days, to marry that hateful young man, she would sacrifice her
father's life. He left her fainting, and has ridden over to bear her
consent to Mr. Radford."

"But, did she consent?" exclaimed Sir Edward Digby, in surprise and
consternation--"Did she really yield?"

"No--no!" answered Zara, "she did not! The girl said she heard her
words, and they were not in truth a consent. But my father chose to
take them as such, and left her even before she recovered."

I have already shown the effect of the same account upon Sir Henry
Leyton, with all the questions which it suggested to his mind; and the
impression produced upon his friend, as a man of sense and a man of
the world, were so similar, that it may be needless to give any
detailed statement of his first observations or inquiries. Zara soon
satisfied him, however, that the tale her father had told, was not a
mere device to frighten Edith into a compliance with his wishes; and
then came the question, What was to be done?

"It is, in truth, a most painful situation in which your sister is
placed," said Digby, after some consideration; "but think you that
this man, this Radford, cannot be bought off? Money must be to him--if
he be as totally ruined as people say--the first consideration; and I
know Leyton so well, that I can venture to promise nothing of that
kind shall stand in the way, if we can but free your sister from the
terrible choice put before her."

Zara shook her head sadly, saying, "No; that hope is vain!--The girl
tells me," she added, with a faint smile, which was quickly succeeded
by a blush, "that she heard my father say, he had offered me--poor me!
to Richard Radford, with the same fortune as Edith, but had been
refused."

"And would you have consented?" demanded Sir Edward Digby, in a more
eager tone than he had yet used.

"Nay," replied Zara, "that has nought to do with the present question.
Suffice it, that this proves that gold is not his only object."

"Nay, but answer me," persevered her companion; "would you have
consented? It may have much to do with the question yet." He fixed his
eyes gravely upon her face, and took the fair, small hand, that lay
upon the arm of the chair, in his.--It was something very like making
love, and Zara felt a strange sensation at her heart; but she turned
away her face, and answered, with a very pale cheek, "I would die for
my father, Sir Edward; but I could not wed Richard Radford."

Sir Edward raised her hand to his lips, and pressed them on it. "I
thought so!" he said--"I thought so! And now, heart, and mind, and
hand, and spirit, to save your sister, Zara! I have hunted many a fox
in my day, and I don't think the old one of Radford Hall will escape
me. The greatest difficulty is, not to compromise your father in any
way; but that shall be cared for, too, to the very best of my power,
be assured. Henceforth, dear lady, away with all reserve between us.
While I am in this house, it will be absolutely necessary for you to
communicate with me freely, and probably very often. Have no
hesitation; have no scruple as to hour, or manner, or means. Trust to
my honour as you have trusted this day; and you shall never find it
fail you. I will enter into such explanations with my servant, Somers,
in regard to poor Leyton, as will make him think it nothing strange,
if you send him for me at any time. He is as discreet as a privy
councillor; and you must, therefore, have no hesitation."

"I will not," answered Zara; "for I would do anything to save my
sister from such a fate; and I do believe you will not think--you will
not imagine----"

She paused in some confusion; and Sir Edward Digby answered, with a
smile--but a kindly and a gentlemanly one, "Let my imagination do as
it will, Zara. Depend upon it, it shall do you no wrong; and believe
me when I say, that I can hardly feel so much pain at these
circumstances as I otherwise might, since they bring me into such near
and frequent communication with you."

"Hush, hush!" she answered, somewhat gravely; "I can think of nothing
now but my poor sister; and you must not, Sir Edward, by one
compliment, or fine speech--nay, nor by one kind speech either," she
added, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking up in his face, with
a glowing cheek--"for I know you mean it as kind--you must not,
indeed, throw any embarrassment over an intercourse, which is
necessary at present, and which is my only hope and resource, in the
circumstances in which we are placed. So now tell me what you are
going to do; for you seemed, but now, as if you were about to set out
somewhere."

"I am going to Woodchurch instantly," replied Digby. "Sir Henry Leyton
must be there still----"

"Sir Henry Leyton!" exclaimed Zara; "then he has, indeed, been a
successful campaigner."

"Most successful, and most deservedly so," answered his friend. "No
man but Wolfe won more renown; and if he can but gain this battle,
Leyton will have all that he desires on earth. But I will not stay
here, skirmishing on the flanks, dear lady, while the main body is
engaged. I will ride over as fast as possible, see Leyton, consult
with him, and be back, if possible, by dinner time. If not, you must
tell your father not to wait for me, as I was suddenly called away on
business."

"But how shall I know the result of your expedition?" demanded Zara;
"we shall be surrounded, I fear, by watchful eyes."

"We must trust to fortune and our own efforts to afford us some means
of communication," replied Digby. "But remember, dearest lady, that
for this great object, you have promised to cast away all reserve. For
the time, at least, you must look upon Edward Digby as a brother, and
treat him as such."

"That I will!" answered the fair girl, heartily; and Digby, leaving
her to explain their conduct to her aunt as she best might, ordered
his horse, and rode away towards Woodchurch, in haste.

Pulling in his rein at the door of the little inn, he inquired which
was Sir Henry Leyton's room, and was directed up stairs; but on
opening the door of the chamber which had been pointed out, he found
no one in it, but the somewhat strange-looking old man, whom we have
once before seen with Leyton, at Hythe.

"Ah, Mr. Warde, you here!" exclaimed Sir Edward Digby. "Leyton told me
you were in England. But where is he? I have business of some
importance to talk with him upon;" and as he spoke, he shook the old
man's hand warmly.

"I know you have," answered Mr. Warde, gazing upon him--"at least, I
can guess that such is the case.--So have I; and doubtless the subject
is the same."

"Nay, I should think not," refilled Digby; "mine refers only to
private affairs."

The old man smiled; and that sharp featured, rude countenance assumed
an expression of indescribable sweetness: "Mine is the same," he said.
"You come to speak of Edith Croyland--so do I."

"Indeed!" cried his companion, a good deal surprised; "you are a
strange being, Mr. Warde. You seem to learn men's secrets, whether
they will or not."

"There is nothing strange on earth, but man's blindness," answered the
other; "everything is so simple, when once explained, that its
simplicity remains the only marvel.--But here he comes. Let me
converse with him first. Then, when he is aware of all that I know,
you shall have my absence, or my presence, as it suits you."

While he was speaking, the voice of Henry Leyton was heard below, and
then his step upon the stairs; and, before Digby could answer, he was
in the room. His face was grave, but not so cloudy as it had been when
he returned to Woodchurch, half-an-hour before. He welcomed Mr. Warde
frankly, and cordially; but turned immediately to Sir Edward Digby,
saying, "You have been quick indeed, Digby. I could not have conceived
that my letter had reached you."

"I got no letter," answered Digby; "perhaps it missed me on the way;
for, the corn being down, I came straight across the country."

"It matters not--it matters not," answered Leyton; "so you are
here--that is enough. I have much to say to you, and that of immediate
importance."

"I know it already," answered Digby. "But here is our good friend,
Warde, who seems to have something to say to you on the same subject."

Sir Henry Leyton turned towards the old man with some surprise. "I
think Digby must be mistaken," he said, "for though, I am aware, from
what you told me some little time ago, that you have been in this part
of the country before, yet it must have been long ago, and you can
know nothing of the events which have affected myself since."

The old man smiled, and shook his head. "I know more than you
imagine," he answered. "It is, indeed, long since first I was in this
land; but not so long since I was here last; and all its people and
its things, its woods, its villages, its hills, are as familiar to
me--ay, more so than to you. Of yourself, Leyton, and your fate, I
also know much--I might say I know all; for certainly I know more than
you do, can do more than you are able to do, will do more than you
can. To show you what I know; I will give you a brief summary of your
own history--at least, that part of it, of which you think I know
nothing. Young, eager, and impatient, you were thrown constantly into
the society of one, good, beautiful, gentle, and true. You had much
encouragement from those who should not have given it, unless they had
the intention of continuing it to the end. You loved, and were
beloved; and then, in the impatience of your boyish ardour, you bound
Edith Croyland to yourself, without her parent's knowledge and
consent, by vows which, whatever human laws may say, are indissoluble
by the law of Heaven; and therein you did wrong. It was a great
error.--Do I say right?"

"It was, indeed," answered Sir Henry Leyton, casting down his eyes
sternly on the ground--"it was, indeed."

"More--I will tell you more," continued Mr. Warde; "you have bitterly
repented it, and bitterly suffered for it. You are suffering even
now."

"Not for it," replied the young officer--"not for it. My sufferings
are not consequences of my fault."

"You are wrong," answered the old man; "wrong, as you will find. But I
will go on, and tell you what you have done this day. Those who have
behaved ill to you have been punished likewise; and their punishment
is working itself out, but sweeping you in within its vortex. You have
been over to see Edith Croyland. She has told you her tale. You have
met in love, and parted in sorrow.--Is it not so? And now you know not
which way to turn for deliverance."

"It is so, indeed, my good friend," said Leyton, sadly; "but how you
have discovered all this, I cannot divine."

"That has nought to do with the subject," answered Warde. "Now tell
me, Leyton, tell me--and remember you are dearer to me than you
know--are you prepared to make atonement for your fault? The only
atonement in your power--to give back to Edith the vows she plighted,
to leave her free to act as she may judge best. I have marked you
well, as you know, for years. I have seen you tried as few men,
perhaps, are tried; and you have come out pure and honest. The last
trial is now arrived; and I ask you here, before your friend, your
worldly friend, if you are ready to act honestly still, and to annul
engagements that you had no right to contract?"

"I am," answered Sir Henry Leyton; "I am, if----"

"Ay, if! There is ever an 'if'  when men would serve their own
purposes against their conscience," said Mr. Warde, sternly.

"Nay, but hear me, my good friend," replied the young officer. "I have
every respect for you. Your whole character commands it and deserves
it, as well as your profession; but, at the same time, though I may
think fit to answer you candidly, in matters where I would reject any
other man's interference, yet I must shape my answer as I think
proper, and rule my conduct according to my own views. You must,
therefore, hear me out. I say that I am ready to give back to Edith
Croyland the vows she plighted me, to set her free from all
engagements, to leave her, as far as possible, as if she had never
known Henry Leyton, whatever pang it may cost me--_if_ it can be
proved to me that by so doing I have not given her up to misery, as
well as myself. My own wretchedness I can bear--I have borne it long,
cheered by one little ray of hope. I can bear it still, even though
that light go out; but to know that by any act of mine--however
seemingly generous, or, as you term it, honest--I had yielded her up
to a life of anguish, that I could not bear. Show me that this will
not be the case; and, as I have said before, I am ready to make the
sacrifice, if it cost me life. Nay, more: I returned hither prepared,
if at the last, and with every effort to avert it, I found that
circumstances of which I know not the extent, rendered the keeping of
her vows to me more terrible in its consequences than her union with
another, however hateful he may be,--I came hither prepared, I say, in
such a case, to set her free; and I will do it!"

The old man took both his hands, and gazed on him with a look of glad
satisfaction. "Honest to the last," he said--"honest to the last! The
resolution to do this, is as good as the deed; for I know you are not
one to fail where you have resolved.--But those who might exact the
sacrifice are not worthy of it. Your willingness has made the
atonement, Leyton; and I will deliver you from your difficulty."

"You, Mr. Warde!" exclaimed Sir Edward Digby; "I cannot suppose that
you really have the power; or, perhaps, after all, you do not know the
whole circumstances."

"Hush, hush, young man!" answered Warde, with a wave of the hand; "I
know all, I see all, where you know little or nothing. You are a good
youth, as the world goes--better than most of your bad class and
station; but these matters are above you. Listen to me, Leyton. Did
not Edith tell you that her father had worked upon her, by fears for
his safety--for his honour--for his life, perhaps?"

"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Leyton, eagerly, and with a ray of hope
beginning to break upon him. "Was the tale not true, then?"

"I guessed so," answered the old man. "I was sure that would be the
course at last. Nevertheless, the tale he told was true--too true. It
was forced from him by circumstances. Yet, I have said I will deliver
you from your difficulty; and I will. Pursue your own course; as you
have commenced, go on to the end. I ask you not now to give Edith back
her promises. Nay, I tell you, that her misery, her wretchedness--ay,
tenfold more than any you could suffer--would be the consequence, if
you did so. Let her go on firmly in her truth to the last; but tell
her, that deliverance will come. Now I leave you; but, be under no
doubt. Your course is clear; do all you can by your own efforts to
save her; but it is I who must deliver her in the end."

Without any further farewell, he turned and left the room; and Sir
Henry Leyton and his friend remained for a minute or two in thought.

"His parting advice is the best," said Digby, at length; "and
doubtless you will follow it, Leyton; but, of course, you will not
trust so far to the word of a madman, as to neglect any means that may
present themselves."

"He is not mad," answered Leyton, shaking his head. "When first he
joined us in Canada, before the battle of Quebec, I thought as you do;
but he is not mad, Digby. There are various shades of reason; and
there may be a slight aberration in his mind from the common course of
ordinary thought. He may be wrong in his reasonings, rash in his
opinions, somewhat overexcited in imagination; but that is not
madness. His promises give me hope, I will confess; but still I will
act as if they had not been made. Now let us speak of our plans; and
first tell me what has taken place at Harbourne; for you seem to know
all the particulars already, which I sent for you to communicate,
though how you learned them I cannot divine."

"Oh, my dear Leyton, if I were to tell you all that has happened,"
replied Sir Edward Digby, "I should have to go on as long as a
Presbyterian minister, or a popular orator. I had better keep to the
point;" and he proceeded to relate to his friend the substance of the
conversation which had last taken place between himself and Zara.

"It is most fortunate," answered Leyton, "that dear girl has thus
become acquainted with the facts; for Edith would not have told her,
and now we have some chance of obtaining information of all that
occurs, which must be our great security. However--since I returned, I
have obtained valuable information, which puts good Mr. Radford's
liberty, if not his life, in my power. Three of the men whom we have
taken, distinctly state that he sent them upon this expedition
himself--armed, and mounted them; and therefore he is a party to the
whole transaction. I have sent off a messenger to Mowle, the
officer--as faithful and as true a fellow as ever lived--begging him
to bring me up, without a moment's delay, a magistrate in whom he can
trust; for one of the men is at the point of death, and all the
justices round this place are so imbued with the spirit of smuggling,
that I do not choose the depositions to be taken by them. I have
received and written down the statements made, before witnesses; and
the men have signed them; but I have no power in this case to
administer an oath. As soon as the matter is in more formal train, I
shall insist upon the apprehension of Mr. Radford, whatever be the
consequences to Sir Robert Croyland; for here my duty to the country
is concerned, and the very powers with which I am entrusted, render it
imperative upon me so to act."

"If you can catch him--if you can catch him!" replied Sir Edward
Digby. "But be sure, my dear Leyton, if he once discovers that you
have got such a hold upon him, he will take care to render that matter
difficult. You may find it troublesome, also, to get a magistrate to
act as you desire; for they are all of the same leaven; and I fancy
you have no power to do anything yourself except in aid and support of
the civil authorities. You must be very careful, too, not to exceed
your commission, where people might suspect that personal feelings are
concerned."

"Personal feelings shall not bias me, Digby, even in the slightest
degree," replied his friend. "I will act towards Mr. Radford, exactly
as I would towards any other man who had committed this offence; and,
as to the imputation of motives, I can well afford to treat such
things with contempt. Were I, indeed, to act as I wish, I should not
pursue this charge against the chief offender, in order not to bring
down his vengeance suddenly upon Sir Robert Croyland's head, or should
use the knowledge I possess merely to impose silence upon him through
fear. But my duty is plain and straightforward; and it must be done.
As to my powers, they are more extensive than you suppose. Indeed, I
would have sooner thrown up my commission, than have undertaken a
service I disliked, without sufficient authority to execute it
properly. Thus, if no magistrate could be found to act as I might
require, I would not scruple, with the aid of any officer of Customs,
or even without, to apprehend this man on my own responsibility. But I
think we shall easily find one who will do his duty."

"At all events," replied Sir Edward Digby, "you had better be
cautious, my dear Leyton. If you are not too quick in your movements,
you may perhaps trap the old bird and the young one together; and that
will be a better day's sport than if you only got a single shot."

"Heaven send it may be before these fatal four days are over!"
answered Leyton; "for then the matter will be decided and Edith
delivered."

"Why, if you were to catch the young one, it would be sufficient for
that object," said his friend.

But Leyton shook his head. "I fear not," he replied; "yet that purpose
must not be neglected. Where he has concealed himself I cannot divine.
It would seem certain that he never got out of Harbourne Wood, unless,
indeed, it was by some of the bye-paths; and in that case, he surely
must have been seen. I will have it searched, to-morrow, from end to
end."

In the same strain the conversation proceeded for half-an-hour more,
without any feasible plan of action having been decided upon, and with
no further result than the arrangement of means for frequent and
private communication. It was settled, indeed, that Leyton should fix
his head-quarters at Woodchurch, and that two or three of the dragoons
should be billeted at a small public-house on the road to Harbourne.
To them any communication from Sir Edward Digby was to be conveyed by
his servant, Somers, for the purpose of being forwarded to Woodchurch.
Such matters being thus arranged, as far as circumstances admitted,
the two friends parted; and Digby rode back to Harbourne House, which
he reached, as may be supposed, somewhat later than Sir Robert
Croyland's dinner-hour.




                             CHAPTER III.


About six o'clock on the evening of the same day, the cottage of Mrs.
Clare was empty. The good widow herself stood at the garden gate, and
looked up the road into the wood, along which the western sun was
streaming low. After gazing for a moment in that direction, she turned
her eyes to the left, and then down the edge of the wood, which
stretched along in a tolerably even line till it reached the farther
angle. The persevering dragoons were patrolling round it still; and
Mrs. Clare murmured to herself, "How will he ever get out, if they
keep such a watch?"

She was then going into the cottage again, when a hurried step caught
her ear, coming apparently from the path which led from the side of
Halden to the back of the house, and thence round the little garden
into the road.

"That sounds like Harding's step," thought the widow; and her ear had
not deceived her. In another minute, she beheld him turn the corner of
the fence and come towards her; but there was a heated and angry look
upon his face, which she had never seen there before; and--although
she had acted for the best, and not without much consideration, in
sending Kate upon Mr. Radford's commission, and not going herself--she
feared that her daughter's lover might not be well pleased his bride
should undertake such a task. As he came near, the symptoms of anger
were more apparent still. There was the cloudy brow, the flashing eye,
the hurried and impetuous walk, which she had often seen in her own
husband--a man very similar in character to him who now approached
her--when irritated by harsh words; and Widow Clare prepared to do all
she could to soothe him ere Kate's return.

But Harding did not mention her he loved, demanding, while yet at some
distance, "Where is Mr. Radford, Mrs. Clare?"

"He is not here, Mr. Harding," replied the widow; "he has not been
here since the morning. But what makes you look so cross, Harding? You
seem angry."

"And well I may be," answered Harding, with an oath. "What do you
think they have set about?--That I informed against them, and betrayed
them into the hands of the dragoons: when, they know, I saw them safe
out of the Marsh; and it must have been their own stupidity, or the
old man's babbling fears, that ruined them--always trusting people
that were sure to be treacherous, and doubting those he knew to be
honest. But I'll make him eat his words, or cram them down his throat
with my fist."

"Why, he spoke quite kindly of you this morning, Harding," said the
widow; "there must be some mistake."

"Mistake!" cried the smuggler, sharply; "there is no mistake.--It is
all over Hythe and Folkestone already; and every one says that it came
from him. Can you not tell me where he is gone?--Which way did he
turn?"

"Towards his own house," replied Mrs. Clare; "but you had better come
in, Harding, and get yourself cool before you go to him. You will
speak angrily now, and mischief may come of it. I am sure there is
some mistake."

"I" will not sit down till I have made him own it," answered the
smuggler. "Perhaps he is up at Harbourne. I'll go there. Where is
Kate, Mrs. Clare?"

"She has gone towards Harbourne House," said the widow, not choosing,
in the excited state of his feelings, to tell him her daughter's
errand; "but she will be back in one minute, if you will but come in."

"No," he replied; "I will come back by-and-by. Perhaps I shall meet
her as I go;" and he was turning towards the wood, when suddenly, at
the spot where the road entered amongst the trees, the pretty figure
of Kate Clare, as trim, and neat, and simple as a wild flower,
appeared walking slowly back towards the cottage. But she was not
alone. By her side was a tall, handsome young man, dressed in full
military costume, with his heavy sword under his arm, and a star upon
his breast. He was bending down, talking to his fair companion with a
friendly air, and she was answering him with a gay smile.

A pang shot through Harding's bosom: the first that ever the poor girl
had caused; nor, indeed, would he have felt it then, had he not been
irritated; for his was a frank and confiding heart, open as the day,
in which that foul and dangerous guest, Suspicion, usually could find
no lurking place. At first he did not recognise, in the glittering
personage before his eyes, the grave, plain-looking stranger, who, a
week or two before, had conversed with him for a few minutes on the
cliffs near Sandgate; but he saw, as the two came on, that Kate raised
her eyes; and as soon as she perceived him standing by her mother, a
look of joy lighted up her face, which made him murmur to himself,
"I'm a fool!"

The stranger, too, saw him; but it made no change in his demeanour;
and the next moment, to Harding's surprise, the officer came forward
somewhat more quickly, and took Widow Clare by the hand, saying, with
a grave smile, "Do you not know me, Mrs. Clare?"

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the widow, drawing back and gazing at him,
"Can it be you, sir?"

"Yes, indeed!" he answered. "Why, Kate here knew me directly, though
she was but ten or eleven, I think, when I went away."

"Oh, that was because you were always so fond of her, Mr. Henry,"
replied Widow Clare. "Gracious! how you are changed!"

Harding was talking to Kate while these few words passed, but he heard
them; nor did he fail to remark that two mounted dragoons, one leading
a horse by the rein, followed the young officer from the wood. He now
recognised him also; and by his dress perceived the rank he held in
the army, though Mrs. Clare called him "Mr. Henry."

"Yes, I am changed, indeed!" replied Leyton, to the widow's last
remark, "in body and health, Mrs. Clare, but not in heart, I can
assure you; and as I was obliged to visit this wood, I resolved I
would not be so near you without coming in to see how you were going
on, with your pretty Kate here."

"My pretty Kate, very soon!" said Harding, aloud; and the young
officer turned suddenly round, and looked at him more attentively than
before.

"Ah, Mr. Harding!" he exclaimed, "is that you? We have met before,
though perhaps you don't remember me."

"Oh yes, I do, sir," replied the smuggler, drily. "But I must go,
Kate;" and he added, in a low tone, "I shall be back by-and-by."

Thus saying, he walked away; but before he had taken ten steps, Leyton
followed, and took him by the arm. "What do you want with me, sir?"
asked the smuggler, turning sharply round, and putting his hand in the
bosom of his coat.

"Hush!" replied the young officer; "I seek no harm to you--merely
one word. For Heaven's sake, Harding, quit this perilous life of
yours!--at least, before you marry that poor girl--if I have
understood you rightly, that you are about to marry her. I speak as a
friend."

"Thank you, sir!" answered the smuggler, "I dare say you mean it kind;
but it was hardly fair of you, either, to come and talk with me upon
the cliff, if you are, as I suppose, the Sir Henry Leyton all the
folks are speaking about."

"Why, my good friend, my talking with you did you no harm," replied
the young officer; "you cannot say that I led you to speak of anything
that could injure either you or others. Besides, I have nothing to do
with you gentlemen of the sea, though I may with your friends on land.
But take the advice of one well disposed towards you; and, above all,
do not linger about this place at present, for it is a dangerous
neighbourhood for any one who has had a share in the late
transactions."

"That advice I shall take, at all events," answered Harding, bluntly;
"and perhaps the other too, for I am sick of all this!" And thus
saying, he walked away, passing close by the two dragoons, who offered
no obstruction.

In the meanwhile Leyton, returning to Widow Clare and her daughter,
went into the cottage, and talked to them, for a few minutes, of old
days. Gradually, however, he brought the conversation round to the
inhabitants of Harbourne House, and asked if either the widow or Kate
ever went up there.

"Oh, Kate goes twice every day, sir," said Mrs. Clare, "for we have
all the finest of the poultry to keep down here. But are you not going
there yourself, Mr. Henry?"

"Alas, no!" answered Leyton, with a sigh. "Those days have gone by,
Mrs. Clare; and I am now a stranger where I was once loved."

"Don't say so, sir," replied the widow, "don't say so! For, I am sure,
where you were best loved of all, there you are best loved still."

"That I believe," answered Leyton; "but, at all events, I am not going
there at present; and if Kate would do me a service, she would, the
first time she sees Miss Zara Croyland alone, tell her, that if ever
she rides or walks out along the road by the Chequers, she will find
an old friend by the way."

"Miss Zara, sir, did you say?" asked Widow Clare.

"Yes, mother--yes," cried Kate; "you forget Miss Edith is not there
now; she is down at Mr. Croyland's."

"But remember, Kate," continued Leyton, "I do not wish my name
mentioned to many persons in the house. Indeed, it will be better not
to speak of me at all to any one but Zara. It must be soon known that
I am here, it is true; but I wish to let events take their course till
then. And now, Mrs. Clare, good evening. I shall see you again some
day soon; and you must let me know when Kate's wedding-day is fixed."

The mother looked at her daughter with a smile, and Kate blushed and
laughed. "It is to be this day week, sir," answered Mrs. Clare.

Leyton nodded his head, saying, "I will not forget," and, mounting his
horse at the door, rode away.

"Now, did you find him, Kate?" asked Mrs. Clare, in a low tone, the
moment Sir Henry Leyton was gone.

"Oh yes," replied her daughter; "the dragoons did not follow me, as
you thought they would, mother; and I set down the basket close to the
willow. At first he did not answer when I asked if he wanted anything;
but when I spoke again, he said, 'No. A thousand thanks for what you
have brought;' and he spoke kind and civilly. Then, just as I was
going away, he said, 'Kate, Kate! let me know when the soldiers are
gone.--If you could bring me a woman's dress, I could easily get
away.' I should not be afraid of going any more, mother," the girl
continued; "for he seems quite changed by his misfortune, and not rude
and jesting as he always used to be, whenever I saw him before."

The idea of the woman's clothes seemed to strike Mrs. Clare very much;
and the good widow and her daughter set their wits to work, to
consider how all that was necessary could be procured; for a very
serious impediment thrust itself in the way of either mother or child
lending him a suit of their own apparel. Neither of them were very
tall women; and though young Radford was himself not above the middle
height, yet Kate's gown would not have fallen further than half way
down his leg; and the poor girl laughed merrily, to think of what a
figure he would make dressed in her garments. It would have been the
old story of the wolf in sheep's clothing, assuredly.

"If we could but accomplish it, and enable him to escape," thought
Mrs. Clare, "especially after Harding has just been up here, it would
show Mr. Radford, clearly enough, that John had nothing to do with
informing against him." But the question, of where fitting apparel was
to be procured, still remained unsettled, till Kate suggested, that
perhaps her aunt's, at Glassenbury, might do. "She is very tall,"
continued the girl, "and I am sure she would lend them to me; for she
and my uncle have always been so kind. Suppose I walk over early
to-morrow, and ask her."

Now the little farm which Mrs. Clare's brother held, was somewhat more
than seven miles off, on the other side of Cranbrook. But still, what
is the exertion which woman will not make for a fellow-creature in
distress; and Mrs. Clare determined that she would rise betimes, and
go to William Harris's herself, certain of a kind reception and ready
consent from those who had always displayed towards her, in adversity,
the feelings of affection, which the more worldly-minded generally
shower upon prosperity alone.

It was far for her daughter to walk, she thought; and besides, Harding
might come, and it would not do for Kate to be absent. Thus had she
settled it in her own mind, when Mr. Radford entered the cottage to
inquire after his son.

High were the praises that he bestowed upon Kate and Mrs. Clare, for
their kindness; and he expressed his warm approval of their little
scheme. Nevertheless, he turned the matter in his mind, in order to
see whether he could not save Mrs. Clare the trouble of going nearly
to Goudhurst, by obtaining the necessary articles of female apparel
somewhere else. His own women servants, however, were all short and
stout; the only other persons whom he could think of, as at all
approaching his son in height, he did not choose to trust; and
therefore it was, at length, determined that the original plan should
be followed. But the worthy gentleman laid strict injunctions upon
Mrs. Clare, to be early in her proceedings, as he feared much, from
all he had gathered, that the wood might be more strictly searched, in
the course of the following day.

When this was settled, and Mr. Radford had expressed his thanks, more
than once, Mrs. Clare thought it a good opportunity of turning the
conversation to Harding; and she asked Mr. Radford if he had seen him,
adding, "He has gone to look for you, sir, and seems very quick and
angry, because the people down about his place have got a report that
he informed about the run; and he fancies you have said so."

"Pooh, nonsense, Mrs. Clare, I never said anything of the kind!"
replied Mr. Radford. "It is a story put about by the Custom-House
officers themselves, just to cover the persons from whom they had the
information. But we shall discover them some day, and pay them
handsomely. Tell Harding not to mind what people say, for I never
thought of such a thing."

"That I will, sir," replied the widow; "for I'm sure it will set his
mind at rest.--You must know very well, sir, that he's as honest a man
as ever lived."

"To be sure--to be sure," answered Mr. Radford, with great warmth of
manner; "no one knows that better than I do, Mrs. Clare."

But whether Mr. Radford really felt the warmth which he assumed, may
be another question. His seemings were not always the best indications
of his real sentiments; and when he left Mrs. Clare's cottage, after
all had been arranged, his first thought was, "We will reckon with Mr.
Harding by-and-by.--The account is not made up yet."

Before I proceed to other scenes, it may be as well to go on with the
part assigned in this history to Mrs. Clare and her daughter, at
least, till the morning of the following day. About eight o'clock at
night, Harding returned, still irritable and discontented, having
failed to find Mr. Radford. The account, however, which the widow gave
of her conversation with that gentleman, soothed him a good deal; but
he would not stay the night, as he had done before, saying that he
must absolutely be at home as soon as possible, and would return,
perhaps, the next day, or, at all events, the day after.

"I must do the best I can, Mrs. Clare," he continued, "to help these
fellows out of the scrape they've run into. Two or three of them are
good men enough; and, as they risk their necks if they are taken, I
should like to get them down, and give them a passage to the other
side. So you see I shall be going about here a good deal, for the next
four or five days, and will look in, from time to time, to see you and
my dear little Kate."

"But are you going to walk all the way back to-night, John?" asked
Kate, as he rose to depart.

"No, my love," he answered, "I've got a horse up at Plurendon; but the
beast cast a shoe as I was coming, and I was obliged to leave him at
the blacksmith's."

No sooner was Harding gone, than a little kindly contest rose between
mother and daughter, as to which should go over to Glassenbury; but
Mrs. Clare persisted, against all her child's remonstrances; and, in
order that they might rise before daylight, both retired to bed early,
and slept calmly and peacefully, unknowing what the morrow, to which
they both looked anxiously forward, was to bring. The sun was yet some
way below the horizon, when Mrs. Clare set out; but she met with no
impediment, and, walking on stoutly, arrived, at an early hour, at a
little farm-house, inhabited by her brother. She found farmer Harris
and his wife, with their two sons and Mrs. Harris's nephew (three
stout, good humoured, young men) seated at their breakfast; and warm
and joyful was the reception of Aunt Clare; one joking her upon Kate's
approaching marriage; another declaring Jack Harding, whom they all
knew, was a capital fellow; and all striving to make her comfortable,
and pressing her to partake of their morning meal.

Every one of the party was eager to obtain some information from her,
who lived so much nearer to the spot, in regard to the late
discomfiture of the smugglers, although none seemed to take any great
interest in them, all declaring that the Ramleys, and their gang, were
the pest of the country, and that young Dick Radford was not a bit
better. Such opinions, regarding that young gentleman, acted as a
warning to Mrs. Clare, not to mention the object of the loan she came
to solicit; and when, after having rested about twenty minutes, she
preferred her petition to Mrs. Harris, it was readily granted by the
tall farmer's wife, although not without some expression of curiosity,
as to what her sister-in-law could want a dress of hers for.

"Kate or I will bring it back to-night or to-morrow morning," replied
Mrs. Clare, "and I'll tell you what we want it for, at the wedding,
which, remember, is to be yesterday week."

"Ay, we will all come down with white favours, and our best buckles,"
said young William, the farmer's eldest son; "and I'll have a kiss of
the bride."

A gown and cloak of Mrs. Harris's, having been brought down--they were
not her best--and neatly folded up in a shawl-handkerchief, Mrs. Clare
set forward on her way home, hurrying her steps as much as possible,
lest any untoward event should prevent the execution of her scheme. A
stout country woman, accustomed to exercise, the widow accomplished
the walk in as short a time as possible; yet it was nine o'clock
before she reached the cottage, and she instantly dispatched her
daughter to the "hide" in the wood, with the clothes folded up in as
small a space as possible, and laid in the bottom of a basket, covered
over with eggs.

The only difficulty was, in regard to a bonnet; and, after earnest
consultation between mother and child, it was determined that, as Mrs.
Clare's head was somewhat larger than Kate's, her bonnet should be put
over her daughter's, which was easily accomplished. Both were of
straw, and both were plain enough; but, to conceal the contrivance
from the eyes of any one whom Kate might meet, Mrs. Clare pinned a
small piece of lace--which had been bought for the wedding--into the
inside of her own bonnet, remarking, that it would do to hide young
Mr. Radford's face a bit.

Furnished with all that was needful, and having had the instructions
which Mr. Radford had left, repeated carefully to her, by her mother,
fair Kate Clare set out upon her expedition, passing one of the
dragoons, who were still patrolling round the wood, near the place
where the road entered it. The man said something to her, as she went
by, but did not attempt to follow; and Kate walked on, looking behind
her, from time to time, till she was satisfied that her proceedings
were unwatched. Then, hurrying on, with a quicker step, she turned to
the path, which led to the back of the gardens of Harbourne House, and
approached the old willow, and the brushwood which covered the place
where Richard Radford was concealed.

"Mr. Radford," she said, as soon as she was quite close, "Mr. Radford!
Here is what you wanted. Take it as fast as you can."

"Is there any one near but you, Kate?" asked the voice of Richard
Radford.

"Oh, no!" she replied; "but the soldiers are still on the outside of
the wood watching."

"I know that," rejoined the voice again, "for I saw them last night,
when I tried to get out. But are you sure that none of them followed
you, Kate?"

"Oh, quite sure," she answered, "for I looked behind all the way!"

"Well, stay and help me to put the things on," said Richard Radford,
issuing forth from behind the bushes, like a snake out of its hole.
Kate Clare willingly agreed to help him, and while the gown and the
cloak were thrown over his other clothes, told him all that his father
had said, desiring him not to come up to Radford Hall till he heard
more; but to go down to the _lone house_, near Iden Green, where he
would find one or two friends already collected.

"Why, these are never your own clothes, Kate!" said young Radford, as
she pinned on the gown for him. "They fit as if they were made for
me."

"Not at the back," answered Kate, laughing, "I cannot get the gown to
meet there; but that will be covered up by the cloak, so it does not
matter.--No, they are my aunt's, at Glassenbury; and you must let me
have them back, Mr. Radford, as soon as ever you have got to Iden
Green; for my mother has promised to return them to-night."

"I don't know howl shall get them back, Kate," answered Richard
Radford; "for none of our people will like to venture up here. Can't
you come down and fetch them? It is not much out of your way."

"No, I can't do that," answered Kate, who did not altogether like
going to the lone house she had mentioned; "but you can send them down
to Cranbrook, at all events; and there they can be left for me, at
Mrs. Tims's shop. They'll be quite safe; and I will call for them
either to-night or to-morrow morning."

"Well, I will do that, my love," replied Richard Radford, taking the
bonnet and putting it on his head.

"Very well, sir," answered Kate, not well pleased with the epithet he
had bestowed upon her, and taking a step to move away, "I will call
for them there."

But young Radford threw his arm round her waist, saying, "Come, Kate!
I must have a kiss before you go.--You give plenty to Harding, I dare
say."

"Let me go, sir!" cried Kate Clare, indignantly. "You are a base,
ungrateful young man!"

But young Radford did not let her go. He took the kiss she struggled
against, by force; and he was proceeding to farther insult, when Kate
exclaimed, "If you do not let me go, I will scream till the soldiers
are upon you.--They are not far."

She spoke so loud, that her very tone excited his alarm; and he
withdrew his arm from her waist, but still held her hand tight,
saying, "Come, come, Kate! Nonsense, I did not mean to offend you! Go
up to Harbourne House, there's a good girl, and stay as long as you
can there, till I get out of the wood."

"You do offend me--you do offend me!" cried Kate Clare, striving to
withdraw her hand from his grasp.

"Will you promise to go up to Harbourne, then?" said Richard Radford,
"and I will let you go."

"Yes, yes," answered Kate, "I will go;" and the moment her hand was
free, she darted away, leaving the basket she had brought behind her.

As soon as she was gone, Richard Radford cursed her for a saucy jade,
as if the offence had been hers, not his; and then taking up the
basket, he threw it, eggs and all, together with his own hat, into the
deep hole in the sandbank. Advancing along the path till he reached
the open road, he hurried on in the direction of Widow Clare's
cottage. Of a daring and resolute disposition--for his only virtue was
courage--he thought of passing the soldiers, as a good joke rather
than a difficult undertaking; but still recollecting the necessity of
caution, as he came near the edge of the wood he slackened his pace,
tried to shorten his steps, and assumed a more feminine demeanour.
When he was within a couple of hundred yards of the open country, he
saw one of the dragoons slowly pass the end of the road and look up;
and, on issuing forth from the wood, he perceived that the man had
paused, and was gazing back. But at that distance, the female garments
which he wore deceived the soldier; and he was suffered to walk on
unopposed towards Iden Green.




                             CHAPTER IV.


Sir Robert Croyland himself did not return to Harbourne House, till
the hands of the clock pointed out to every one that went through the
hall, that it was twenty minutes past the usual dinner hour; and,
though he tried to be as expeditious as he could, he was yet fully ten
minutes longer in dressing than usual. He was nervous; he was
agitated; all the events of that day had shaken and affected him; he
was angry with his servant; and several times he gave the most
contradictory orders. Although for years he had been undergoing a slow
and gradual change, under the painful circumstances in which he had
been placed, and had, from the gay, rash, somewhat noisy and
overbearing country gentleman, dwindled down into the cold, silent,
pompous, and imperative man of family, yet the alteration during that
day had been so great and peculiar that the valet could not help
remarking it, and wondering if his master was ill.

Sir Robert tried to smoothe his look and compose his manner for the
drawing-room, however; and when he entered, he gazed round for Sir
Edward Digby, observing aloud: "Why, I thought soldiers were more
punctual. However, as it happens, to-day I am glad Sir Edward is not
down."

"Down!" cried Mrs. Barbara, who had a grand objection to dinners being
delayed; "why, he is out; but you could expect no better; for
yesterday you were so long that the fish was done to rags; so I
ordered it not to be put in till he made his appearance."

"I told you, my dear aunt, that he said he might not be back before
dinner," replied her niece, "and, therefore, it will be vain to wait
for him. He desired me to say so, papa."

"Oh yes! Zara knows all about it," said Mrs. Barbara, with a shrewd
look; "they were talking together for ten minutes in the library; and
I cannot get her to tell me what it was about."

It is, indeed, conscience that makes cowards of us all; and had the
fair girl's conversation with her new friend been on any other subject
than that to which it related--had it been about love, marriage, arms,
or divinity, she would have found no difficulty in parrying her aunt's
observations, however mal-a-propos they might have been. At present,
however, she was embarrassed by doubts of the propriety of what she
was doing, more especially as she felt sure that her father would be
inquisitive and suspicious, if the tale the maid had told was true.
Acting, however, as she not unfrequently did, in any difficulty, she
met Mrs. Barbara's inuendoes at once, replying, "Indeed I shall not
say anything about it to any one, my dear aunt. I will manage some
matters for myself; and the only thing I shall repeat is Sir Edward's
last dying speech, which was to the effect, that he feared he might be
detained till after our dinner hour, but would be back as soon as ever
he could, and trusted my father would not wait."

"Do you know where he is gone, and why?" asked Sir Robert Croyland, in
a much quieter tone than she expected. But poor Zara was still puzzled
for an answer; and, as her only resource, she replied vaguely,
"Something about some of the smugglers, I believe."

"Then had he any message or intelligence brought him?" inquired Sir
Robert Croyland.

"I do not know--Oh, yes, I believe he had," replied his daughter,
in a hesitating tone and with a cheek that was beginning to grow red.
"He spoke with one of the soldiers at the corner of the road, I
know;--and, oh yes, I saw a man ride up with a letter."

"That was after he was gone," observed Mrs. Barbara; but Sir Robert
paid little attention, and, ringing, ordered dinner to be served.
Could we see into the breasts of others, we should often save
ourselves a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. Zara forgot that
her father was not as well aware that Sir Edward Digby was
Leyton's dearest friend, as she was; but, in truth, all that he
concluded--either from the pertinent remarks of Mrs. Barbara or from
Zara's embarrassment--was, that the young baronet had been making a
little love to his daughter, which, to say sooth, was a consummation
that Sir Robert Croyland was not a little inclined to see.

In about a quarter of an hour more, the dinner was announced; and the
master of the house, his sister, and Zara, sat down together. Hardly
had the fish and soup made any progress, when the quick canter of Sir
Edward Digby's horse put his fair confidante out of her anxiety; and,
in a few minutes after, he appeared himself, and apologized gracefully
to his host, for having been too late. "You must have waited for me, I
fear," he added, "for it is near an hour after the time; but I thought
it absolutely necessary, from some circumstances I heard, to go over
and see my colonel before he returned to Hythe, and then I was
detained."

"Pray, who does command your regiment?" asked Mrs. Barbara. But Sir
Edward Digby was, at that moment, busily engaged in taking his seat by
Zara's side; and he did not hear. The lady repeated the question when
he was seated; but then he replied, "No, I thank you, my dear madam,
no soup to-day--a solid meal always after a hard ride; and I have
galloped till I have almost broken my horse's wind.--By the way, Sir
Robert, I hope you found my bay a pleasant goer. I have only ridden
him twice since I bought him, though he cost two hundred guineas."

"He is well worth the money," replied the Baronet--"a very powerful
animal--bore me like a feather, and I ride a good weight."

"Have your own horses come back?" asked the young officer, with a
laugh.

Sir Robert Croyland answered in the negative, adding, "And that
reminds me I must write to my brother, to let Edith have his carriage
to-morrow, to bring her back; for mine are gone--coach-horses, and
all."

"Edith, to-morrow!" exclaimed Mrs. Barbara, in surprise; "why, I
thought she was going to stay four or five days."

"She is coming back to-morrow, Bab," replied Sir Robert, sharply; and
instantly turned the conversation.

During the rest of the evening, Sir Edward Digby remained very
constantly by fair Zara's side; and, moreover, he paid her most
particular attention, in so marked a manner, that both Sir Robert
Croyland and Mrs. Barbara thought matters were taking their course
very favourably. The father busied himself in writing a letter and one
or two notes, which he pronounced to be of consequence--as, indeed,
they really were--while the aunt, worked diligently and discreetly at
embroidering, not interrupting the conference of her niece and their
guest above ten times in a minute. Sir Edward, indeed, kept himself
within all due and well-defined rules. He never proceeded beyond what
a great master of the art has pronounced to be "making love"--"a
course of small, quiet, attentions, not so pointed as to alarm, nor so
vague as to be misunderstood." Strange to say, Zara was very much
obliged to him for following such a course, as it gave an especially
good pretext for intimacy, for whispered words and quiet conversation,
and even for a little open seeking for each other's society, which
would have called observation, if not inquiry, upon them, had not her
companion's conduct been what it was. She thought fit to attribute it,
in her own mind, entirely to his desire of communicating to her,
without attracting notice, whatever he had learned, that could in any
way affect her sister's fate; and she judged it a marvellous good
device that they should appear for the time as lovers, with full
powers on both parts to withdraw from that position whenever it suited
them. Poor girl! she knew not how far she was entangling herself.

Sir Edward Digby, in the meanwhile, took no alarming advantage of his
situation. The whispered word was almost always of Edith or of Leyton.
He never spoke of Zara herself, or of himself, or of his own feelings;
not a word could denote to her that he was making love, though his
whole demeanour had very much that aspect to those who sat and looked
on. Oh, those who sit and look on, what a world they see! and what a
world they don't see! Ever more than those who play the game, be they
shrewd as they may: ever less than the cards would show, were they
turned up. By fits and snatches, he communicated to his fair
companion, while he was playing with this ball of gold thread, or
winding and unwinding that piece of crimson silk, as much of what had
passed between himself and Sir Henry Leyton, as he thought necessary;
and then he asked her to sing--as her aunt had given him a quiet hint
that her niece did sometimes do such a thing--saying, in a low tone,
while he preferred the request, "Pray, go on with the song, though I
may interrupt you sometimes with questions, not quite relevant to the
subject."

"I understand--I quite understand," answered Zara; but it may be a
question whether that sweet girl really quite understood either
herself or him. It is impossible that any two free hearts, can go on
long, holding such intimate and secret communion, on subjects deeply
interesting to both, without being drawn together by closer bonds,
than perhaps they fancy can ever be established between them--unless
there be something inherently repulsive on one part or the other.
Propinquity is certainly much, in the matter of love; but there are
circumstances, not rarely occurring in human life, which mightily
abridge the process; and such are--difficulties and dangers
experienced together--a common struggle for a common object--but more
than all--mutual and secret communion with, and aid of each other in
things of deep interest. The confidence that is required, the
excitement of imagination, the unity of effort, and of purpose, the
rapid exercise of mind to catch the half-uttered thought, the enforced
candour from want of time, which admits of no disguise or
circumlocution, the very mystery itself--all cast that magic chain
around those so circumstanced, within which they can hardly escape
from the power of love. Nine times out of ten, they never try; and,
however Zara Croyland might feel, she rose willingly enough to sing,
while Sir Edward Digby leaned over her chair, as she sat at the
instrument, which in those days supplied the place of that which is
now absurdly enough termed in England, a piano. Her voice, which was
fine though not very powerful, wavered a little as she began, from
emotions of many kinds. She wished to sing well; but she sang worse
than she might have done; yet quite well enough to please Sir Edward
Digby, though his ear was refined by art, and good by nature.
Nevertheless, though he listened with delight, and felt the music
deeply, he forgot not his purpose, and between each stanza asked some
question, obtaining a brief reply. But I will not so interrupt the
course of an old song, and will give the interrogatory a separate
place:


                           THE LADY'S SONG.

      "Oh! there be many, many griefs,
         In this world's sad career,
       That shun the day, that fly the gaze,
         And never, never meet the ear.

       But what is darkest--darkest of them all?
         The pang of love betray'd?--
       The hopes of youth all fleeting by--
         Spring flowers that early, early fade?

       But there are griefs--ay, griefs as deep:
         The friendship turn'd to hate--
       And, deeper still--and deeper still,
         Repentance come too late!--too late!

       The doubt of those we love; and more
         The rayless, dull despair,
       When trusted hearts are worthless found,
         And all our dreams are air--but air.

       Deep in each bosom's secret cell,
         The hermit-sorrows lie;
       And thence--unheard on earth--they raise
         The voice of prayer on high--on high.

       Oh! there be many, many griefs,
         In this world's sad career,
       That shun the day, that fly the gaze,
         And, never, never meet the ear."


Thus sang the lady; and one of her hearers, at least, was delighted
with the sweet voice, and the sweet music, and the expression which
she gave to the whole. But though he listened with deep attention,
both to words and tones, as long as her lips moved, yet, when the mere
instrumental part of the music recommenced, which was the case between
every second and third stanza--and the symphonetic parts of every song
were somewhat long in those days--he instantly remembered the object
with which he had first asked her to sing, (little thinking that such
pleasure would be his reward;) and bending down his head, as if he
were paying her some lover-like compliment on her performance, he
asked her quietly, as I have said before, a question or two, closely
connected with the subject on which both their minds were at that
moment principally bent.

Thus, at the first pause, he inquired--"Do you know--did you ever see,
in times long past, a gentleman of the name of Warde--a clergyman--a
good and clever man, but somewhat strange and wild?"

"No," answered Zara, looking down at the keys of the harpsichord; "I
know no one of that name;" and she recommenced the song.

When her voice again ceased, the young officer seemed to have thought
farther; and he asked, in the same low tone, "Did you ever know a
gentleman answering that description--his features must once have been
good--somewhat strongly marked, but fine and of an elevated
expression, with a good deal of wildness in the eye, but a peculiarly
bland and beautiful smile when he is pleased--too remarkable to be
overlooked or forgotten?"

"Can you be speaking of Mr. Osborn?" asked Zara, in return. "I barely
recollect him in former days; but I and Edith met him about ten days
ago; and he remembered and spoke to her."

The song required her attention; and though she would fain have played
the symphony over again, she was afraid her father would remark it,
and went on to sing the last two stanzas. As soon as she had
concluded, however, she said, in a low, quick voice, "He is a very
extraordinary man."

"Can you give me any sign by which I should know him?" asked Digby.

"He has now got a number of blue lines traced on his face," answered
Zara; "he went abroad to preach to the savages, I have heard. He is a
good man, but very eccentric."

At the same moment the voice of her father was raised, saying, "I
wish, my dear, you would not sing such melancholy things as that.
Cannot you find something gayer? I do not like young ladies singing
such dull ditties, only fit for sentimental misses of the true French
school."

What was the true French school of his day, I cannot tell. Certainly,
it must have been very different from the present.

"Perhaps Sir Edward will sing something more cheerful himself?"
answered Zara.

"Oh, I am a very bad musician," replied the young officer; "I cannot
even accompany myself. If you will, and have any of the few things I
know, I shall be very happy.--In everything, one can but try," he
added, in a low voice, "still hoping for the best."

Zara looked over her collection of music with him; and at last she
opened one song which was somewhat popular in those times, though it
has long fallen into well-merited oblivion. "Can you venture to sing
that?" she asked, pointing to the words rather than the music; "it is
quite a soldier's song."

Sir Edward Digby read the first line; and thinking he observed a
double meaning in her question, he answered, "Oh, yes, that I will, if
you will consent to accompany me."

Zara smiled, and sat down to the instrument again; and the reader must
judge from the song itself whether the young officer's conjecture that
her words had an enigmatical sense was just or not.


                         THE OFFICER'S SONG.

      "A star is still beaming
         Beyond the grey cloud;
       Its light rays are streaming,
         With nothing to shroud;
       And the star shall be there
         When the clouds pass away;
       Its lustre unchanging,
         Immortal its ray.

      "'Tis the guide of the true heart,
         In field, or on sea;
       'Tis the hope of the slave,
         And the trust of the free;
       The light of the lover,
         Whatever assail;
       The strength of the honest,
         That never can fail.

      "Waft, waft, thou light wind,
         From the peace-giving ray,
       The vapours of sorrow,
         That over it stray;
       And let it pour forth,
         All unshrouded and bright,
       That those who now mourn,
         May rejoice in its light."


"God grant it!" murmured the voice of Sir Robert Croyland. Zara said,
"Amen," in her heart; and in a minute or two after, her father rose,
and left the room.

During the rest of the evening, nothing very important occurred in
Harbourne House. Mrs. Barbara played her usual part, and would
contribute to Sir Edward Digby's amusement in a most uncomfortable
manner. The following morning, too, went by without any incident of
importance, till about ten o'clock, when breakfast just being over,
and Zara having been called from the room by her maid, Sir Robert's
butler announced to his master, that the groom had returned from Mr.
Croyland's.

"Where is the note?" demanded his master, eagerly.

"He has not brought one, Sir Robert," replied the servant, "only a
message, sir, to say that Mr. Croyland is very sorry he cannot spare
the horses to-day, as they were out a long way yesterday."

Sir Robert Croyland started up in a state of fury not at all becoming.
He stamped, he even swore. But we have got rid of a great many of the
vices of those times; and swearing was so common at the period I speak
of, that it did not even startle Mrs. Barbara. Her efforts, however,
to soothe her brother, only served to irritate him the more; and next
he swore at her, which did surprise her mightily.

He then fell into a fit of thought, which ended in his saying aloud,
"Yes, that must be the way. It is his business, and so----" But
Sir Robert did not conclude the sentence, retiring to his own
sitting-room, and there writing a letter.

When he had done, he paused and meditated, his mind rambling over many
subjects, though still occupied intensely with only one. "I am a most
unfortunate man," he thought. "Nothing since that wretched day has
ever gone right with me. Even trifles combine to frustrate everything
I attempt. Would I had died many years ago! Poor Edith--poor girl--she
must know more sorrow still, and yet it must be done, or I am
lost!--If that wretched youth had been killed in that affray
yesterday, it would have all been over. Was there no bullet that could
find him?--and yet, perhaps, it might not have had the effect.--No,
no; there would have been some new kind of demand from that greedy,
craving scoundrel.--May there not be such even now? Will he give up
that fatal paper?--He shall--by Heaven, he shall!--But I must send the
letter. Sir Edward Digby will think this all very strange. How
unfortunate, that it should have happened just when he was here. Would
to Heaven I had any one to consult with! But I am lone, lone indeed.
My wife, my sons, my friends,--gone, gone, all gone! It is very sad;"
and after having mused for several minutes more, he rang the bell,
gave the servant who appeared the letter which he had just written,
and directed him to take it over to Mr. Radford's as soon as possible.

Returning to the room which he had previously left--without bestowing
one word upon Mrs. Barbara, whom he passed in the corridor, Sir
Robert Croyland entered into conversation with Sir Edward Digby, and
strove--though with too evident an effort--to appear careless and
unconcerned.

In the meantime, however, we must notice what was passing in the
corridor; for it was of some importance, though, like many other
important things, it was transacted very quietly.

Mrs. Barbara had overheard Sir Robert's directions to the servant; and
she had seen the man--as he went away to get ready the pony, which was
usually sent in the morning to the post--deposit the note he had
received upon an antique piece of furniture--a large marble table,
with great sprawling gilt legs--which stood in the hall, close to the
double doors that led to the offices.

Now, Mrs. Barbara was one of the most benevolent people upon earth:
she literally overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and, if a
few drops of that same milk occasionally spotted the apron of her
morality, which we cannot help acknowledging was sometimes the case,
she thought, as a great many other people do of a great many other
sins, that "there was no great harm in it, if the motive was good."
This was one of those cases and occasions when the milk was beginning
to run over. She had a deep regard for her brother: she would have
sacrificed her right hand for him; and she was quite sure that
something very sad had happened to vex him, or he never would have
thought of swearing _at her_. She would have done, she was ready to
do, anything in the world, to help him; but how could she help him,
without knowing what he was vexed about? It is wonderful how many
lines the devil always has out, for those who are disposed to take a
bait. Something whispered to Mrs. Barbara, as she gazed at the letter,
"The whole story is in there!" Ah, Mrs. Barbara, do not take it up,
and look at the address!--It is dangerous--very dangerous.

But Mrs. Barbara did take it up, and looked at the address--and then
at the two ends. It was folded as a note, unfortunately; and she
thought--"There can be no harm, I'm sure--I won't open it--though I've
seen him open Edith's letters, poor thing!--I shall hear the man pull
back the inner door, and can put it down in a minute. Nobody else can
see me here; and if I could but find out what is vexing him, I might
have some way of helping him; I'm sure I intend well."

All this argumentation in Mrs. Barbara's mind took up the space of
about three seconds; and then the note, pressed between two fingers in
the most approved fashion, was applied as a telescope to her eye, to
get a perspective view of the cause of her brother's irritation. I
must make the reader a party to the transaction, I am afraid, and let
him know the words which Mrs. Barbara read:--

"My dear Radford," the note began--"As misfortune would have it, all
my horses have been taken out of the stable, and have not been brought
back. I fear that they have fallen into other hands than those that
borrowed them; and my brother Zachary has one of his crabbed moods
upon him, and will not lend his carriage to bring Edith back. If your
horses have not gone as well as mine, I should feel particularly
obliged by your sending them down here, to take over my coach to
Zachary's and bring Edith back; for I do not wish her to stay there
any longer, as the marriage is to take place so soon. If you can come
over to-morrow, we can settle whether it is to be at your house or
here--though I should prefer it here, if you have no objection."

There seemed to be a few words more; but it took Mrs. Barbara longer
to decipher the above lines, in the actual position of the note, than
it might have done, had the paper been spread out fair before her; so
that, just as she was moving it a little, to get at the rest, the
sound of the farther of the two doors being thrown open, interrupted
her proceedings; and, laying down the letter quickly, she darted away,
full of the important intelligence which she had acquired.




                              CHAPTER V.


There are periods in the life of some men, when, either by a
concatenation of unfortunate events, or by the accumulated
consequences of their own errors, the prospect on every side becomes
so clouded, that there is no resource for them, but to shut their eyes
to the menacing aspect of all things, and to take refuge in the moral
blindness of thoughtless inaction, against the pressure of present
difficulties. "I dare not think," is the excuse of many a man, for
continuing in the same course of levity which first brought
misfortunes upon him; but such is not always the case with those who
fly to wretched merriment in the hour of distress; and such was not
the case with Sir Robert Croyland.

He had thought for long years, till his very heart sickened at the
name of reflection. He had looked round for help, and had found none.
He had tried to discover some prospect of relief; and all was
darkness. The storm he had long foreseen was now bursting upon his
head; it was no longer to be delayed; it was not to be warded off. His
daughter's misery, or his own destruction, was the only choice before
him; and he was resolved to think no more--to let events take their
course, and to meet them as he best might.

But to resolve is one thing--to execute, another; and Edith's father
was not a man who could keep such a determination long. He might
indeed, for a time, cease to think of all the painful particulars of
his situation; but there will ever come moments when thought is forced
even upon the thoughtless, and events will arise, to press reflection
upon any heart. His efforts were, at first, very successful. After he
had despatched the letter to Mr. Radford, he had said, "I must really
pay my visitor some attention. It will serve to occupy my mind, too.
Anything to escape from the torturing consideration of questions,
which must ever be solved in wretchedness." And when he returned to
Sir Edward Digby, his conversation was particularly gay and cheerful.
It first turned to the unpleasant fact of the abstraction of all his
horses; but he now spoke of it in a lighter and less careful manner
than before.

"Doubtless," he said, "they have been taken without leave, as usual,
by the smugglers, to use for their own purposes. It is quite a common
practice in this county; and yet we all go on leaving our stable-doors
open, as if to invite all who pass to enter, and choose what they
like. Then, I suppose, they have been captured with other spoil, in
the strife of yesterday morning, and are become the prize of the
conquerors; so that I shall never see them again."

"Oh, no!" answered the young officer, "they will be restored, I am
quite sure, upon your identifying them, and proving that they were
taken, without your consent, by the smugglers. I shall go over to
Woodchurch by-and-by; and if you please, I will claim them for you."

"It is scarcely worth while," replied the baronet; "I doubt that I
shall ever get them back. These are little losses which every man in
this neighbourhood must suffer, as a penalty for remaining in a half
savage part of the country.--What are you disposed to do this morning,
Sir Edward? Do you again walk the stubbles?"

"I fear it 'would be of little use," answered Digby; "there has been
so much galloping lately, that I do not think a partridge has been
left undisturbed in its furrow; and the sun is too high for much
sport."

"Well, then, let us walk in the garden for a little," said Sir Robert;
"it is curious, in some respects, having been laid out long before
this house was built, antiquated as it is."

Sir Edward Digby assented, but looked round for Zara, as he certainly
thought her society would be a great addition to her father's. She had
not yet returned to the room, however; and Sir Robert, as if he
divined his young companion's feelings, requested his sister to tell
her niece, when she came, that he and their guest were walking in the
garden. "It is one of her favourite spots, Sir Edward," he continued,
as they went out, "and many a meditative hour she spends there; for,
gay as she is, she has her fits of thought, too."

The young baronet internally said, "Well she may, in this house!" but
making a more civil answer to his entertainer, he followed him to the
garden; and so well and even cheerfully did Sir Robert Croyland keep
up the conversation, so learnedly did he descant upon the levelling
and preservation of turf in bowling-greens, and upon the clipping of
old yew-trees--both before and after Zara joined them--that Digby
began to doubt, notwithstanding all he had heard, whether he could
really have such a load upon his heart as he himself had stated to
Edith, and to fancy that, after all, it might be a stratagem to drive
her to compliance with his wishes.

A little incident, of no great moment in the eyes of any one but a
very careful observer of his fellow-men--and Digby was far more so
than he seemed--soon settled the doubt. As they were passing under an
old wall of red brick--channelled by time and the shoots of pears and
peaches--which separated the garden from the different courts, a door
suddenly opened behind them, just after they had passed it; and while
Sir Edward's eyes were turned to the face of the master of the house,
Sir Robert's ear instantly caught the sound, and his cheek became as
pale as ashes.

"There is some dark terror there!" thought the young officer; but,
turning to Zara, he finished the sentence he had been uttering, while
her father's coachman, who was the person that had opened the door,
came forward to say that one of the horses had returned.

"Returned!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland; "has been brought back, I
suppose you mean?"

"Ay, Sir Robert," replied the man; "a fellow from the lone house by
Iden Green brought him; and in a sad state the poor beast is. He's got
a cut, like with a knife, all down his shoulder."

"Your dragoon swords are sharp, Sir Edward," said the old baronet,
gaily, to his guest; "however, I will go and see him myself, and
rejoin you here in a minute."

"I am so glad to have a moment alone," cried Zara, as soon as her
father was gone, "that you must forgive me if I use it directly. I am
going to ask you a favour, Sir Edward. You must take me a ride, and
lend me a horse. I have just had a message from poor Harry Leyton; he
wishes to see me, but I am afraid to go alone, with so many soldiers
about."

"Are they such terrible animals?" asked her companion, with a smile,
adding, however, "I shall be delighted, if your father will consent;
for I have already told him that I am going to Woodchurch this
afternoon."

"Oh! you must ask me yourself, Sir Edward," replied Zara, "quite in a
civil tone; and then when you see that I am willing, you must be very
pressing with my father--quite as if you were a lover; and he will not
refuse you.--I'll bear you harmless, as I have heard Mr. Radford say;"
she added, with a playful smile that was quickly saddened.

"You shall command for the time," answered Digby, as gaily; "perhaps
after that, I may take my turn, sweet lady. But I have a good deal to
say to you, too, which I could not fully explain last night."

"As we go--as we go," replied Zara; "my father will be back directly,
otherwise I would tell you a long story about my aunt, who has
evidently got some great secret which she is all impatience to
divulge. If I had stayed an hour with her, I might have arrived at it;
but I was afraid of losing my opportunity here.--Oh, that invaluable
thing, opportunity! Once lost, what years of misery does it not
sometimes leave behind.--Would to Heaven that Edith and Leyton had run
away with each other when they were about it.--We should all have been
happier now."

"And I should never have known you," replied Digby. Zara smiled, and
shook her head, as if saying, "That is hardly fair;" but Sir Robert
Croyland was seen coming up the walk; and she only replied, "Now do
your _devoir_, gallant knight, and let me see if you do it zealously."

"I have been trying in your absence, my dear sir," said Digby, rather
maliciously, as the baronet joined them, "to persuade your fair
daughter to run away with me. But she is very dutiful, and will not
take such a rash step, though the distance is only to Woodchurch,
without your consent. I pray you give it; for I long to mount her on
my quietest horse, and see her try her skill in horsemanship again."

Sir Robert Croyland looked grave; and ere the words were half spoken,
Sir Edward Digby felt that he had committed an error in his game; for
he was well aware that when we have a favour to ask, we should not
call up, by speech or look, in the mind of the person who is to grant
it, any association having a contrary tendency.

"I am afraid that I have no servant whom I could send with you, Sir
Edward," replied her father; "one I have just dispatched to some
distance, and you know I am left without horses, for this poor beast
just come back, is unfit. Neither do I think it would be altogether
consistent with decorum, for Zara to go with you quite alone."

Sir Edward Digby mentally sent the word decorum back to the place from
whence it came; but he was resolved to press his point; and when Zara
replied, "Oh, do let me go, papa!" he added, "My servant can accompany
us, to satisfy propriety, Sir Robert; and you know I have quartered
three horses upon you. Then, as I find the fair lady is somewhat
afraid of a multitude of soldiers, I promise most faithfully not even
to dismount in Woodchurch, but to say what I have to say, to the
officer in command there, and then canter back over the country."

"Who is the officer in command?" asked Sir Robert Croyland.

Zara drew her breath quick, but Sir Edward Digby avoided the dangerous
point. "Irby has one troop there," he replied; "and there are parts of
two others. When I have made interest enough here," he continued, with
a half bow to Zara, "I shall beg to introduce Irby to you, Sir Robert;
you will like him much, I think. I have known him long."

"Pray invite him to dinner while he stays," said Sir Robert Croyland;
"it will give me much pleasure to see him."

"Not yet--not yet!" answered Digby, laughing; "I always secure my own
approaches first."

Sir Robert Croyland smiled graciously, and, turning to Zara, said,
"Well, my dear, I see no objection, if you wish it. You had better go
and get ready."

Zara's cheek was glowing, and she took her father at the first word;
but when she was gone, Sir Robert thought fit to lecture his guest a
little, upon the bad habit of spoiling young ladies which he seemed to
have acquired. He did it jocularly, but with his usual pompous and
grave air; and no one would have recognised in the Sir Robert Croyland
walking in the garden, the father whom we have lately seen humbled
before his own child. There is no part of a man's character which he
keeps up so well to the world as that part which is not his own. The
assertion may seem to be a contradiction in terms; but there is no
other way of expressing the sense clearly; and whether those terms be
correct or not, will depend upon whether character is properly innate
or accumulated.

Sir Edward Digby answered gaily, for it was his object to keep his
host in good humour at least, for the time. He denied the possibility
of spoiling a lady, while he acknowledged his propensity to attempt
impossibilities in that direction; and at the same time, with a good
grace, and a frankness, real yet assumed--for his words were true,
though they might not have been spoken just then, under any other
circumstances--he admitted that, of all people whom he should like to
spoil, the fair being who had just left them was the foremost. The
words were too decided to be mistaken. Sir Edward Digby was evidently
a gentleman, and known to be a man of honour. No man of honour trifles
with a woman's affections; and Sir Robert Croyland, wise in this
instance if not in others, did as all wise fathers would do, held his
tongue for a time that the matter might cool and harden, and then
changed the subject.

Digby, however, had grown thoughtful. Did he repent what he had said?
No, certainly not. He wished, indeed, that he had not been driven to
say it so soon; for there were doubts in his own mind whether Zara
herself were altogether won. She was frank, she was kind, she trusted
him, she acted with him; but there was at times a shade of reserve
about her, coming suddenly, which seemed to him as a warning. She had
from the first taken such pains to ensure that her confidence--the
confidence of circumstances--should not be misunderstood; she had
responded so little to the first approaches of love, while she had
yielded so readily to those of friendship, that there was a doubt in
his mind which made him uneasy; and, every now and then, her uncle's
account of her character rung in his ear, and made him think--"I have
found this artillery more dangerous than I expected."

What a pity it is that uncles will not hold their tongues!

At length, he bethought him that it would be as well to order the
horses, which was accordingly done; and some time before they were
ready, the fair girl herself appeared, and continued walking up and
down the garden with her father and their guest, looking very lovely,
both from excitement, which gave a varying colour to her cheek, and
from intense feelings, which, denied the lips, looked out with deeper
soul from the eyes.

"I think, Zara," said Sir Robert Croyland, when it was announced that
the horses and the servant were ready, "that you took Sir Edward to
the north, when you went over to your uncle's. You had better,
therefore, in returning--for I know, in your wild spirits, when once
on horseback, you will not be contented with the straight road--you
had better, I say, come by the southwest."

"Oh, papa, I could never learn the points of the compass in my life!"
answered Zara, laughing; "I suppose that is the reason why, as my aunt
says, I steer so ill."

"I mean--by the lower road," replied her father; and he laid such
emphasis on the words, that Zara received them as a command.

They mounted and set out, much to the surprise of Mrs. Barbara
Croyland, who saw them from the window, and thence derived her first
information of their intended expedition; for Zara was afraid of her
aunt's kindnesses, and never encountered them when she could help it.
When they were a hundred yards from the house, the conversation began;
but I will not enter into all the details; for at first they related
to facts with which the reader is already well acquainted. Sir Edward
Digby told her at large, all that had passed between himself and
Leyton on the preceding day, and Zara, in return, informed him of the
message she had received from his friend, and how it had been
conveyed. Their minds then turned to other things, or rather to other
branches of the same subjects; and, what was to be done? was the next
question; for hours were flying--the moment that was to decide the
fate of the two beings in whom each felt a deep though separate
interest, was approaching fast; and no progress had apparently been
made.

Zara's feelings seemed as much divided as Edith's had been. She shrank
from the thought, that her sister, whom she loved with a species of
adoration, should sacrifice herself on any account to such a fate as
that which must attend the wife of Richard Radford. She shrank also,
as a young, generous woman's heart must ever shrink, from the thought
of any one wedding the abhorred, and separating for ever from the
beloved; but then, when she came to turn her eyes towards her father,
she trembled for him as much as for Edith; and, with her two hands
resting on the pommel of the saddle, she gazed down in anxious and
bitter thought.

"I know not your father as well as you do, my dear Miss Croyland,"
said her companion, at length, as he marked these emotions; "and
therefore I cannot tell what might be his conduct under particular
circumstances." Zara suddenly raised her eyes, and fixed them on his
face; but Digby continued. "I do not speak of the past, but of the
future. I take it for granted--not alone as a courtesy, but from all I
have seen--that Sir Robert Croyland cannot have committed any act,
that could justly render him liable to danger from the law."

"Thank you--thank you!" said Zara, dropping her eyes again; "you judge
rightly, I am sure."

"But at the same time," he proceeded, "it is clear that some
unfortunate concurrence of circumstances has placed him either really,
or in imagination, in Mr. Radford's power. Now, would he but act a
bold and decided part--dare the worst--discountenance a bad man and a
villain--even, if necessary, in his magisterial capacity, treat him as
he deserves--he would take away the sting from his malice. Any
accusation this man might bring would have _enmity_ too strongly
written upon it, to carry much weight; and all the evidence in favour
of your father would have double force."

"He cannot--he will not," answered Zara, sadly, "unless he be actually
driven. I know no more than you, Sir Edward, how all this has
happened; but I know my father, and I know that he shrinks from
disgrace more than death. An accusation, a public trial, would kill
him by the worst and most terrible kind of torture. Mr. Radford, too,
has wound the toils round him completely--that I can see. He could say
that Sir Robert Croyland has acted contrary to all his own principles,
at his request; and he could point to the cause. He could say that Sir
Robert Croyland suddenly became, and has been for years the most
intimate friend and companion of a man he scorned and avoided;
and he could assert that it was because the proud man was in the
cunning man's power. If, for vengeance, he chooses to avow his own
disgrace--and what is there not Mr. Radford would avow to serve his
ends?--believe me, he has my father in a net, from which it will be
difficult to disentangle him."

They both fell into thought again; but Zara did not sink in Digby's
estimation, from the clear and firm view which she took of her
father's position.

"Well," he said, at length, "let us wait, and hear what poor Leyton
has to tell you. Perhaps he may have gained some further insight, or
may have formed some plan; and now, Zara, let us for a moment speak of
ourselves. You see, to-day, I have been forced to make love to you."

"Too much," said Zara, gravely. "I am sure you intended it for the
best; but I am sorry it could not be avoided."

"And yet it is very pleasant," answered Digby, half jestingly, half
seriously.

Zara seemed agitated: "Do not, do not!" she replied; "my mind is too
full of sad things, to think of what might be pleasant or not at
another time;" and she turned a look towards him, in which kindness,
entreaty, and seriousness were all so blended, that it left him in
greater doubt than ever, as to her sensations. "Besides," she added,
the serious predominating in her tone, "consider what a difference one
rash word, on either part, may make between us. Let me regard you, at
least for the present, as a friend--or a brother, as you once said,
Digby; let me take counsel with you, seek your advice, call for your
assistance, without one thought or care to shackle or restrain me. In
pity, do; for you know not how much I need support."

"Then I am most ready to give it, on your own terms, and in your own
way," answered Digby, warmly; but, immediately afterwards, he fell
into a reverie, and in his own mind thought--"She is wrong in her
view; or indifferent towards me. With a lover to whom all is
acknowledged, and with whom all is decided, she would have greater
confidence, than with a friend, towards whom the dearest feelings of
the heart are in doubt. This must be resolved speedily, but not now;
for it evidently agitates her too much.--Yet, after all, in that
agitation is hope."

Just as his meditations had reached this point, they passed by the
little public house of the Chequers, then a very favourite sign in
England, and especially in that part of the country; and in five
minutes after, they perceived a horseman on the road, riding rapidly
towards them.

"There is Leyton," said Sir Edward Digby, as he came somewhat nearer;
but Zara gazed forward with surprise, at the tall, manly figure,
dressed in the handsome uniform of the time, the pale but noble
countenance, and the calm commanding air. "Impossible!" she cried.
"Why, he was a gay, slight, florid, young man."

"Six or seven years ago," answered Digby; "but that, my dear Miss
Croyland, is Sir Henry Leyton, depend upon it."

Now, it may seem strange that Edith should have instantly recognised,
even at a much greater distance, the man whom her sister did not,
though the same period had passed since each had seen him; but, it
must be remembered, that Edith was between two and three years older
than Zara; and those two or three years, at the time of life which
they had reached when Leyton left England, are amongst the most
important in a woman's life--those when new feelings and new thoughts
arise, to impress for ever, on the woman's heart, events and persons
that the girl forgets in an hour.

Leyton, however, it certainly was; and when Zara could see his
features distinctly, she recalled the lines. Springing from his horse
as soon as he was near, her sister's lover cast the bridle of his
charger over his arm, and, taking the hand she extended to him, kissed
it affectionately: "Oh, Zara, how you are changed!" he said. "But so
am I; and you have gained, whilst I have lost. It is very kind of you
to come thus speedily."

"You could not doubt, Leyton, that I would, if possible," answered
Zara; "but all things are much changed in our house, as well as
ourselves; and that wild liberty which we formerly enjoyed, of running
whithersoever we would, is sadly abridged now. But what have you to
say, Leyton? for I dare not stay long."

Digby was dropping behind, apparently to speak to his servant for a
moment; but Leyton called to him, assuring him that he had nothing to
say, which he might not hear.

"Presently, presently," answered Zara's companion; and leaving them
alone, he rode up to good Mr. Somers, who, with his usual discretion,
had halted, as they halted, at a very respectful distance. The young
officer seemed to give some orders, which were rather long, and then
returned at a slow pace. In the meantime, the conversation of Leyton
and Zara had gone on; but his only object, it appeared, was to see
her, and to entreat her to aid and support his Edith in any trial she
might be put to. "I spent a short period of chequered happiness with
her last night," he said; "and she then told me, dear Zara, that she
was sure her father would send for her in the course of this day. If
such be the case, keep with her always as far as possible; bid her
still remember Harry Leyton; bid her resist to the end; and assure her
that he will come to her deliverance ultimately. Were it myself alone,
I would sacrifice anything, and set her free; but when I know that, by
so doing, I should make her wretched for ever--that her own heart
would be broken, and nothing but an early death relieve her, I cannot
do it, Zara--no one can expect it."

"Perhaps not--perhaps not, Leyton;" answered Zara, with the tears in
her eyes; "but yet--my father! However, I cannot advise--I cannot even
ask anything. All is so dark and perplexed, I am lost!"

"I am labouring now, dear Zara," replied the young officer, "to find
or devise means of rendering his safety sure. Already I have the power
to crush the bad man in whose grasp he is, and render his testimony,
whatever it may be, nearly valueless. At all events, the only course
before us, is that which I have pointed out; and while Digby is with
you, you can never want the best and surest counsel and assistance.
You may confide in him fully, Zara. I have now known him many years;
and a more honourable and upright man, or one of greater talent, does
not live."

There was something very gratifying to Zara in what he said of his
friend; and had she been in a mood to scrutinize her own feelings
accurately, the pleasure that she experienced in hearing such words
spoken of Sir Edward Digby--the agitated sort of pleasure--might have
given her an insight into her own heart. As it was, it only sent a
passing blush into her cheek, and she replied, "I am sure he is all
you say, Harry; and indeed, it is to his connivance that I owe my
being able to come hither to-day. These smugglers took away all my
father's horses; and I suppose, from what I hear, that some of them
have been captured by your men."

"If such is the case they shall be sent back," replied Leyton; "for I
am well aware that the horses being found with the smugglers, is no
proof that they were therewith the owner's consent. To-morrow, I trust
to be able to give you a further insight into my plans, for I am
promised some information of importance to-night; and perhaps, even
before you reach home, I shall have put a bar against Mr. Richard
Radford's claims to Edith, which he may find insurmountable."

As he was speaking, Sir Edward Digby returned, quickening his horse's
pace as he came near, and pointing with his hand. "You have got a
detachment out, I see, Leyton," he said--"Is there any new affair
before you?"

"Oh, no," replied the Colonel, "it is merely Irby and a part of his
troop, whom I have despatched to search the wood, for I have certain
intelligence that the man we are seeking is concealed there."

"They may save themselves the trouble," replied Zara, shaking her
head; "for though he was certainly there all yesterday, he made his
escape this morning."

Leyton hit his lip, and his brow grew clouded. "That is unfortunate,"
he said, "most unfortunate!--I do not ask you how you know, Zara; but
are you quite sure?"

"Perfectly," she answered--"I would not deceive you for the world,
Leyton; and I only say what I have said, because I think that, if you
do search the wood, it may draw attention to your being in this
neighbourhood, which as yet is not known at Harbourne, and it may
embarrass us very much."

"I am not sure, Leyton," said Sir Edward Digby, "that as far as your
own purposes are concerned, it might not be better to seem, at all
events, to withdraw the troops, or at least a part of them, from this
neighbourhood. Indeed, though I have no right to give you advice upon
the subject, I think also it might be beneficial in other respects,
for as soon as the smugglers think you gone, they will act with more
freedom."

"I propose to do so, to-morrow," replied the colonel; "but I have some
information already, and expect more, upon which I must act in the
first place. It will be as well, however, to stop Irby's party, if
there is no end to be obtained by their proceedings."

He then took leave of Zara and his friend, mounted his horse, and rode
back to meet the troop that was advancing; while Zara and Sir Edward
Digby, after following the same road up to the first houses of
Woodchurch, turned away to the right, and went back to Harbourne, by
the small country road which leads from Kennardington to Tenterden.

Their conversation, as they went, would be of very little interest to
the reader; for it consisted almost altogether of comments upon
Leyton's changed appearance, and discussions of the same questions of
doubt and difficulty which had occupied them before. They went slowly,
however; and when they reached the house it did not want much more
than three quarters of an hour to the usual time of dinner. Sir Robert
Croyland they found looking out of the glass-door, which commanded a
view towards his brother's house, and his first question was, which
way they had returned. Sir Edward Digby gave an easy and unconcerned
reply, describing the road they had followed, and comparing it,
greatly to its disadvantage, with that which they had pursued on their
former expedition.

"Then you saw nothing of the carriage, Zara?" inquired her father. "It
is very strange that Edith has not come back."

"No, we saw no carriage of any kind; but a carrier's cart," replied
the young lady. "Perhaps if Edith did not know you were going to send,
she might not be ready."

This reason, however, did not seem to satisfy Sir Robert Croyland; and
after talking with him for a few minutes more as he stood, still
gazing forth over the country, Zara and Digby retired to change their
dress before dinner; and the latter received a long report from his
servant of facts which will be shown hereafter. The man was
particularly minute and communicative, because his master asked him no
questions, and suffered him to tell his tale his own way. But that
tale fully occupied the time till the second bell rang, and Digby
hurried down to dinner.

Still, Miss Croyland had not returned; and it was evident that Sir
Robert Croyland was annoyed and uneasy. All the suavity and
cheerfulness of the morning was gone; for one importunate source of
care and thought will always carry the recollection back to others;
and he sat at the dinner table in silence and gloom, only broken by
brief intervals of conversation, which he carried on with a laborious
effort.

Just as Mrs. Barbara rose to retire, however, the butler re-entered
the room, announcing to Sir Robert Croyland that Mr. Radford had
called, and wished to speak with him. "He would not come in, sir,"
continued the man, "for he said he wanted to speak with you alone, so
I showed him into the library."

Sir Robert Croyland instantly rose, but looked with a hesitating
glance at his guest, while Mrs. Barbara and Zara retired from the
room.

"Pray, do not let me detain you, Sir Robert," said the young officer;
"I have taken as much wine as I ever do, and will go and join the
ladies in the drawing-room."

The customs of the day required that the master of the house should
press the bottle upon his guest; and Sir Robert Croyland did not fail
to do so. But Digby remained firm, and, to settle the question, walked
quietly to the door and entered the drawing-room. There, he found Zara
seated; but Mrs. Barbara was standing near the table, and apparently
in a state, for which the English language supplies but one term, and
that not a very classical one. I mean, she was in a _fidget_.

The reader is aware that the library of Harbourne House was adjacent
to the drawing-room, and that there was a door between them. It was a
thick, solid, oaken door, however, such as shut out the wind in the
good old times; and, moreover, it fitted very close. Thus, though the
minute after Sir Edward had entered the room, a low murmur, as of
persons speaking somewhat loud, was heard from the library, not a
single syllable could be distinguished; and Mrs. Barbara looked at the
keyhole, with a longing indescribable. After about thirty seconds'
martyrdom, Mrs. Barbara quitted the room: Zara, who knew her aunt,
candidly trusting, that she had gone to put herself out of temptation;
and Sir Edward Digby never for a moment imagining, that she could have
been in any temptation at all. It may now be necessary, however, to
follow Sir Robert Croyland to the library, and to reveal to the reader
all that Mrs. Barbara was so anxious to learn.

He found Mr. Radford, booted and spurred, standing, with his tall,
bony figure, in as easy an attitude as it could assume, by the
fire-place; and the baronet's first question was, "In the name of
Heaven, Radford, what has become of Edith?--Neither she nor the
carriage have returned."

"Oh, yes, the carriage has, half an hour ago!" replied Mr. Radford;
"and I met the horses going back as I came.--Didn't you get my message
which I sent by the coachman?"

"No, I must have been at dinner," answered Sir Robert Croyland, "and
the fools did not give it to me."

"Well, it is no great matter," rejoined Mr. Radford, in the quietest
possible tone. "It was only to say that I was coming over, and would
explain to you all about Miss Croyland."

"But where is she? Why did she not come?" demanded her father, with
some of the old impetuosity of his youth.

"She is at my house," answered the other, deliberately; "I thought it
would be a great deal better, Croyland, to bring her there at once, as
you left to me the decision of where the marriage was to be. She could
be quite as comfortable there as here. My son will be up to-morrow;
and the marriage can take place quietly, without any piece of work.
Now, here it would be difficult to manage it; for, in the first place,
it would be dangerous for my son. You have got a stranger in the
house, and a whole heap of servants, who cannot be trusted. I have
arranged everything for the marriage, and for their going off quietly
on their little tour. We shall soon get a pardon for this affair with
the dragoons; and that will be all settled."

Sir Robert Croyland had remained mute; not with any calm or tranquil
feelings, but with indignation and astonishment. "Upon my life and
soul," he cried, "this is too bad! Do you mean to say, sir, that you
have ventured, without my knowledge or consent, to change my
daughter's destination, and take her to your house when I wished her
to be brought here?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Mr. Radford, with the most perfect calmness.

"Well then, sir," exclaimed the baronet, irritated beyond all
endurance--"I have to tell you, that you have committed a gross,
insolent, and unjustifiable act; and I have to insist that she be
brought back here this very night."

"Nay, my dear friend--nay," replied Mr. Radford, in a half jeering
tone. "These are harsh words that you use; but you must hear me first,
before I pay any attention to them."

"I want to hear nothing, sir," cried Sir Robert Croyland, his anger
still carrying him forward. "But if you do not send her back to her
own home, I will get horses over from Tenterden, and bring her
myself.--Her slavery has not yet commenced, Mr. Radford."

"I shall not be able to bring her over," answered Mr. Radford, still
maintaining the same provoking coolness; "because, in case of her
return, I should be obliged to use my horses myself, to lay certain
important facts, which we both know of, before a brother magistrate."

He paused, and Sir Robert Croyland winced. But still indignation was
uppermost for the time; and rapidly as lightning the thoughts of
resistance passed through his mind. "This man's conduct is too bad,"
he said to himself. "After such a daring act as this, with his
character blackened by so many stains, and so clear a case of revenge,
the magistrates will surely hardly listen to him." But as he continued
to reflect, timidity--the habitual timidity of many years--began to
mingle with and dilute his resolution; and Mr. Radford, who knew him
to the very heart, after having suffered him to reflect just long
enough to shake his firmness, went on in a somewhat different tone,
saying, "Come, Sir Robert! don't be unreasonable; and before you
quarrel irretrievably with an old friend, listen quietly to what he
has got to say."

"Well, sir, well," said Sir Robert Croyland, casting himself into a
chair--"what is it you have got to say?"

"Why, simply this, my dear friend," answered Mr. Radford, "that you
are not aware of all the circumstances, and therefore cannot judge yet
whether I have acted right or wrong. You and I have decided, I think,
that there can no longer be any delay in the arrangement of our
affairs. I put it plainly to you yesterday, that it was to be now or
never; and you agreed that it should be now. You brought me your
daughter's consent in the afternoon; and so far the matter was
settled. I don't want to injure you; and if you are injured, it is
your own fault--"

"But I gave no consent," said Sir Robert Croyland, "that she should be
taken to your house. The circumstances--the circumstances, Mr.
Radford!"

"Presently, presently," replied his companion. "I take it for
granted, that, when you have pledged yourself to a thing, you are
anxious to accomplish it. Now I tell you, there was no sure way of
accomplishing this, but that which I have taken. Do you know who is
the commander of this dragoon regiment which is down here?--No. But I
do. Do you know who is the man, who, like a sub-officer of the
Customs, attacked our friends yesterday morning, took some fifty of
them prisoners, robbed me of some seventy thousand pounds, and is now
hunting after my son, as if he were a fox?--No. But I do; and I will
tell you who he is.--One Harry Leyton, whom you may have heard
of--now, Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Henry Leyton, Knight of the Bath,
forsooth!"

Sir Robert Croyland gazed upon him in astonishment; but, whatever were
his other sensations, deep grief and bitter regret mingled with them,
when he thought that circumstances should ever have driven or tempted
him to promise his daughter's hand to a low, dissolute, unprincipled
villan, and to put a fatal barrier between her and one whom he had
always known to be generous, honorable, and high principled, and who
had now gained such distinction in the service of his country. He
remained perfectly silent, however; and the expression of surprise and
consternation which his countenance displayed, was misinterpreted by
Mr. Radford to his own advantage.

"Now, look here, Sir Robert," he continued; "if your daughter were in
your house, you could not help this young man having some
communication with her. He has already been over at your brother's,
and has seen her, I doubt not. Here, then, is your fair daughter Miss
Zara, your guest Sir Edward Digby--his intimate friend, I dare
say--all your maids and half your men servants, even dear Mrs. Barbara
herself, with her sweet meddling ways, would all be ready to fetch and
carry between the lovers. In short, our whole plans would be
overturned; and I should be compelled to do that which would be very
disagreeable to me, and to strike at this upstart Henry Leyton through
the breast of Sir Robert Croyland. In my house, he can have no access
to her; and though some mischief may already have been done, yet it
can go no further."

"Now I understand what you mean by revenge," said the baronet, in a
low tone, folding his hands together.--"Now I understand."

"Well, but have I judged rightly or wrongly?" demanded Mr. Radford.

"Rightly, I suppose," said Sir Robert Croyland, sadly. "It can't be
helped;--but poor Edith, how does she bear it?"

"Oh, very well," answered Mr. Radford, quietly. "She cried a little at
first, and when she found where they were going, asked the coachman
what he meant. It was my coachman, you know, not yours; and so he
lied, like a good, honest fellow, and said you were waiting for her at
my house. I was obliged to make up a little bit of a story too, and
tell her you knew all about it; but that was no great harm; for I was
resolved, you should know all about it, very soon."

"Lied like a good honest fellow!" murmured Sir Robert Croyland, to
himself. "Well," he continued, aloud, "at all events I must come over
to-morrow, and try to reconcile the poor girl to it."

"Do so, do so," answered Mr. Radford; "and in the meantime, I must be
off; for I've still a good deal of work to do to-night. Did you see,
they have withdrawn the dragoons from the wood? They knew it would be
of no use to keep them there. So now, good night--that's all settled."

"All settled, indeed," murmured Sir Robert Croyland as Mr. Radford
left him; and for nearly half an hour after, he continued sitting in
the library, with his hands clasped upon his knee, exactly in the same
position.




                             CHAPTER VI.


Sir Edward Digby did not take advantage of the opportunity which Mrs.
Barbara's absence afforded him. This may seem extraordinary conduct in
a good soldier and quick and ready man; but he had his reasons for it.
Not that he was beginning to hesitate, as some men do, when--after
having quite made up their minds--they begin to consider all the
perils of their situation, and retreat, without much regard for their
own consistency, or the feelings of the other persons interested. But,
no--Digby justly remembered that what he had to say might require some
time, and that it might produce some agitation. Moreover, he
recollected that there are few things so disagreeable on earth, as
being interrupted at a time when people's eyes are sparkling or in
tears, when the cheek is flushed or deadly pale; and as he knew not
when Mrs. Barbara might return, and certainly did not anticipate that
she would be long absent, he resolved to wait for another opportunity.

When he found minute after minute slip by, however, he began to repent
of his determination; and certainly, although the word love never
passed his lips, something very like the reality shone out in his
eyes. Perhaps, had Zara been in any of her usual moods, more serious
words might have followed. Had she been gay and jesting, or calm and
thoughtful, a thousand little incidents might have led on naturally to
the unfolding of the heart of each. But, on the contrary, she was
neither the one nor the other. She was evidently anxious,
apprehensive, ill at ease; and though she conversed rationally enough
for a person whose mind was in such a state, yet she frequently turned
her eyes towards the door of the adjoining room, from which the sound
of her father's voice and that of Mr. Radford might still be heard.

Sir Edward Digby endeavoured to gain her attention to himself, as much
with a view to withdraw it from unpleasant subjects as anything else;
and it was very natural that--with one so fair and so excellent, one
possessing so much brightness, in spite of a few little spots--it was
natural that his tone should become tenderer every minute. At length,
however, she stopped him, saying, "I am very anxious just now. I fear
there is some mischief going on there, which we cannot prevent, and
may never know. Edith's absence is certainly very strange; and I fear
they may foil us yet."

In a minute or two after, Mrs. Barbara Croyland returned, but in such
a flutter that she spoilt her embroidery, which she snatched up to
cover her agitation, dropped her finest scissars, and broke the point
off, and finally ran the needle into her finger, which, thereupon,
spotted the silk with blood. She gave no explanation indeed of all
this emotion, but looked several times at Zara with a meaning glance;
and when, at length, Sir Robert Croyland entered the drawing-room, his
whole air and manner did not tend to remove from his daughter's mind
the apprehension which his sister's demeanour had cast over it.

There is a general tone in every landscape which it never entirely
loses; yet how infinite are the varieties which sunshine and cloud and
storm, and morning, evening, and noon, bring upon it; and thus with
the expression and conduct of every man, although they retain certain
distinctive characteristics, yet innumerable are the varieties
produced by the moods, the passions, and the emotions of the mind. Sir
Robert Croyland was no longer irritably thoughtful; but he was stern,
gloomy, melancholy. He strove to converse, indeed; but the effort was
so apparent, the pain it gave him so evident, that Sir Edward Digby
felt, or fancied, that his presence was a restraint. He had too much
tact, however, to show that he imagined such to be the case; and he
only resolved to retire to his own room as soon as he decently could.
He was wrong in his supposition, indeed, that his host might wish to
communicate something privately to Zara, or to Mrs. Barbara. Sir
Robert had nothing to tell; and therefore the presence of Sir Edward
Digby was rather agreeable to him than not, as shielding him from
inquiries, which it might not have suited him to answer. He would have
talked if he could, and would have done his best to make his house
agreeable to his young guest; but his thoughts still turned, with all
the bitterness of smothered anger, to the indignity he had suffered;
and he asked himself, again and again, "Will the time ever come, when
I shall have vengeance for all this?"

The evening passed gloomily, and in consequence slowly; and at length,
when the clock showed that it still wanted a quarter to ten, Digby
rose and bade the little party good night, saying that he was somewhat
tired, and had letters to write.

"I shall go to bed too," said Sir Robert Croyland, ringing for his
candle. But Digby quitted the room first; and Zara could not refrain
from saying, in a low tone, as she took leave of her father for the
night, and went out of the room with him, "There is nothing amiss with
Edith, I trust, my dear father?"

"Oh dear, no!" answered Sir Robert Croyland, with as careless an air
as he could assume. "Nothing at all, but that she does not come home
to-night, and perhaps may not to-morrow."

Still unsatisfied, Zara sought her own room; and when her maid had
half performed her usual functions for the night, she dismissed her,
saying, that she would do the rest herself. When alone, however, Zara
Croyland did not proceed to undress, but remained thinking over all
the events of the day, with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes
cast down. The idea of Edith and her fate mingled with other images.
The words that Digby had spoken, the increasing tenderness of his tone
and manner, came back to memory, and made her heart flutter with
sensations unknown till then. She felt alarmed at her own feelings;
she knew not well what they were; but still she said to herself at
every pause of thought--"It is all nonsense!--He will go away and
forget me; and I shall forget him! These soldiers have always some
tale of love for every woman's ear. It is their habit--almost their
nature." Did she believe her own conclusions? Not entirely; but she
tried to believe them; and that was enough for the present.

Some minutes after, however, when a light knock was heard at the door,
she started almost as if some one had struck her; and Fancy, who is
always drawing upon improbability, made her believe, for an instant,
that it might be Digby. She said, "Come in," however, with tolerable
calmness; and the next instant, the figure of her aunt presented
itself, with eagerness in her looks and importance in her whole air.

"My dear child!" she said, "I did not know whether your maid was gone;
but I am very happy she is, for I have something to tell you of very
great importance indeed. What do you think that rascal Radford has
done?" and as she spoke, she sank, with a dignified air, into a chair.

"I really can't tell, my dear aunt," replied Zara, not a little
surprised to hear the bad epithet which her aunt applied to a
gentleman, towards whom she usually displayed great politeness. "I am
sure he is quite capable of anything that is bad."

"Ah, he is very much afraid of me, and what he calls my sweet meddling
ways," said the old lady; "but, perhaps, if I had meddled before, it
might have been all the better. I am sure I am the very last to
meddle, except when there is an absolute occasion for it, as you well
know, my dear Zara."

The last proposition was put in some degree as a question; but Zara
did not think fit to answer it, merely saying, "What is it, my dear
aunt?--I am all anxiety and fear regarding Edith."

"Well you may be, my love," said Mrs. Barbara; and thereupon she
proceeded to tell Zara, how she had overheard the whole conversation
between Mr. Radford and her brother, through the door of the library,
which opened into the little passage, that ran between it and the
rooms beyond. She did not say that she had put her ear to the keyhole;
but that Zara took for granted, and indeed felt somewhat like an
accomplice, while listening to secrets which had been acquired by such
means.

Thus almost everything that had passed in the library--with a few very
short variations and improvements, but with a good deal of comment,
and a somewhat lengthy detail--was communicated by Mrs. Barbara to her
niece; and when she had done, the old lady added, "There, my dear, now
go to bed and sleep upon it; and we will talk it all over in the
morning, for I am determined that my niece shall not be treated in
such a way by any vagabond smuggler like that. Dear me! one cannot
tell what might happen, with Edith shut up in his house in that way.
Talk of my meddling, indeed! He shall find that I will meddle now to
some purpose! Good night, my dear love--good night!" But Mrs. Barbara
stopped at the door, to explain to Zara that she had not told her
before, "Because, you know," said the good lady, "I could not speak of
such things before a stranger, like Sir Edward Digby; and when he was
gone, I didn't dare say anything to your father. Think of it till
to-morrow, there's a dear girl, and try and devise some plan."

"I will," said Zara--"I will;" but as soon as her aunt had
disappeared, she clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Good Heaven!
what plan can I form? Edith is lost! They have her now completely in
their power. Oh, that I had known this before Sir Edward Digby went to
sleep. He might have gone over to Leyton to-morrow, early; and they
might have devised something together. Perhaps he has not gone to rest
yet. He told me to throw off all restraint, to have no ceremony in
case of need. Leyton told me so, too--that I might trust in him--that
he is a man of honour. Oh, yes, I am sure he is a man of honour! but
what will he think?--He promised he would think no harm of anything I
might be called upon to do; and I promised I would trust him. I will
go! He can speak to me in the passage. No one sleeps near, to
overhear. But I will knock softly; for though he said he had letters
to write, he may have gone to bed by this time."

Leaving the lights standing where they were, Zara cast on a long
dressing-gown, and crept quietly out into the passage, taking care not
to pull the door quite to. All was silent in the house; not a sound
was heard; and with her heart beating as if it would have burst
through her side, she approached Sir Edward Digby's door;--but there
she paused. Had she not paused, but gone on at once, and knocked, all
would have been well; for, so far from being in bed, he was sitting
calmly reading. But ladies' resolutions, and men's, are made of very
much the same materials. The instant her foot stopped, her whole host
of woman's feelings crowded upon her, and barred the way. First, she
thought of modesty, and propriety, and decency; and then, though she
might have overcome the whole of that squadron for Edith's sake, the
remembrance of many words that Digby had spoken, the look, the tone,
the manner, all rose again upon her memory. She felt that he was a
lover; and putting her hand to her brow, she murmured--"I cannot; no,
I cannot. Had he been only a friend, I would.--I will see him early
to-morrow. I will sit up all night, that I may not sleep, and miss the
opportunity; but I cannot go to-night;" and, returning as quietly to
her own chamber as she had come thence, she shut the door and locked
it. She had never locked it in her life before; and she knew not why
she did it.

Then, drawing the arm-chair to the hearth, Zara Croyland trimmed the
fire, wrapped herself up as warmly as she could; and putting out one
of the candles, that she might not be left in darkness by both being
burnt out together, she took up a book, and began to read. From time
to time, during that long night, her eyes grew heavy, and she fell
asleep; but something always woke her. Either her own thoughts
troubled her in dreams, or else the book fell out of her hand, or the
wind shook the window, or the cold chill that precedes the coming
morning disturbed her; and at length she looked at her watch, and,
finding it past five o'clock, she congratulated herself at having
escaped the power of the drowsy god, and, dressing in haste, undrew
the curtains, and looked out by the light of the dawning day. When she
saw the edge of the sun coming up, she said to herself, "He is often
very early. I will go down." But, bethinking herself that no time was
to be lost, she hurried first to her maid's room, and waking her, told
her to see Sir Edward Digby's servant, as soon as he rose, and to bid
him inform his master that she wanted to speak with him in the
library. "Speak not a word of this to any one else, Eliza," she said;
and then, thinking it necessary to assign some reason for her conduct,
she added, "I am very anxious about my sister; her not coming home
yesterday alarms me, and I want to hear more."

"Oh dear! you needn't frighten yourself, Miss Zara," replied the
maid--"I dare say there's nothing the matter."

"But I cannot help frightening myself," replied Zara; and going down
into the library, she unclosed one of the shutters.

The maid was very willing to gratify her young lady, for Zara was a
favourite with all; but thinking from the look of the sky, that it
would be a long time before the servant rose, and having no such
scruples as her mistress, she went quietly away to his room, and
knocked at his door, saying, "I wish you would get up, Mr. Somers--I
want to speak with you."

Zara remained alone for twenty minutes in the library, or not much
more, and then she heard Digby's step in the passage. There was a good
deal of alarm and surprise in his look when he entered; but his fair
companion's tale was soon told; and that sufficiently explained her
sudden call for his presence. He made no comment at the moment, but
replied, "Wait for me here one instant. I will order my horse, and be
back directly."

He was speedily by her side again; and then, taking her hand in his,
he said, "I wish I had known this, last night.--You need not have been
afraid of disturbing me, for I was up till nearly one."

Zara smiled: "You do not know," she answered, "how near I was to your
door, with the intention of calling you."

"And why did you not?" asked Digby, eagerly. "Nay, you must tell me,
why you should hesitate when so much was at stake."

"I can but answer, because my heart failed me," replied Zara. "You
know women's hearts are weak foolish things."

"Nay," said Digby, "you must explain further.--Why did your heart fail
you? Tell me, Zara. I cannot rest satisfied unless you tell me."

"Indeed, there is no time now for explanation," she replied, feeling
that her admission had drawn her into more than she had anticipated;
"your horse will soon be here--and--and there is not a moment to
lose."

"There is time enough for those who will," answered Digby, in a
serious tone; "you promised me that you would not hesitate, whenever
necessity required you to apply to me for counsel or aid--you have
hesitated, Zara. Could you doubt me--could you be apprehensive--could
you suppose that Edward Digby would, in word, deed, or thought, take
advantage of your generous confidence?"

"No, no--oh, no!" answered Zara, warmly, blushing, and trembling at
the same time, "I did not--I could not, after all you have done--after
all I have seen. No, no; I thought you would think it strange--I
thought----"

"Then you supposed I would wrong you in thought!" he replied, with
some mortification in his manner; "you do not know me yet."

"Oh yes, indeed I do," she answered, feeling that she was getting
further and further into difficulties; and then she added, with one of
her sudden bursts of frankness, "I will tell you how it was--candidly
and truly. Just as I was at your door, and about to knock, the memory
of several things you had said--inadvertently, perhaps--crossed my
mind; and, though I felt that I could go at any hour to consult a
friend in such terrible circumstances, I could not--no, I could not do
so with a--with one--You see what harm you have done by such fine
speeches!"

She thought, that by her last words, she had guarded herself securely
from any immediate consequences of this unreserved confession; but she
was mistaken. She merely hurried on what might yet have rested for a
day or two.

Sir Edward Digby took her other hand also, and held it gently yet
firmly, as if he was afraid she should escape from him. "Zara," he
said, "dear Zara, I have done harm, by speaking too much, or not
enough. I must remedy it by the only means in my power.--Listen to me
for one moment, for I cannot go till all is said. You must cast off
this reserve--you must act perfectly freely with me; I seek to bind
you by no engagement--I will bear my doubt; I will not construe
anything you do, as an acceptance of my suit; but you must know--nay,
you do know, you do feel, that I am your lover. It was doubt of your
own sensations towards me, that made you hesitate--it was fear that
you should commit yourself, to that which you might, on consideration,
be indisposed to ratify.--You thought that I might plead such
confidence as a tacit promise; and that made you pause. But hear me,
as I pledge myself--upon my honour, as a gentleman--that if you act
fearlessly and freely, in the cause in which we are both engaged--if
you confide in me--trust in me, and never hesitate to put yourself, as
you may think, entirely in my power, I will never look upon anything
as plighting you to me in the slightest degree, till I hear you say
the words, 'Digby, I am yours'--if ever that happy day should come. In
the meantime, however, to set you entirely free from all apprehension
of what others may say, I hold myself bound to you by every promise
that man can make; and this very day I will ask your father's
approbation of my suit. But I am well aware, though circumstances have
shown me in a marvellous short time, that your heart and mind is equal
to your beauty, yet it is not to be expected that such a being can be
won in a few short days, and that I must wait in patience--not without
hope, indeed, but with no presumption. By your conduct, at least, I
shall know, whether I have gained your esteem.--Your love, perhaps,
may follow; and now I leave you, to serve your sister and my friend,
to the best of my power."

Thus saying, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and moved
towards the door.

There was a sad struggle in Zara's breast; but as he was laying his
hand upon the lock to open it, she said, "Digby--Digby--Edward!"

He instantly turned, and ran towards her; for her face had become very
pale. She gave him her hand at once, however, "Kind, generous man!"
she said, "you must not go without hearing my answer. Such a pledge
cannot be all on one part. I am yours, Digby, if you wish it; yet know
me better first before you answer--see all my faults, and all my
failings. Even this must show you how strange a being I am--how unlike
other girls--how unlike perhaps, the woman you would wish to call your
wife!----"

"Wish it!" answered Digby, casting his arm round her, "from my
heart--from my very soul, Zara. I know enough, I have seen enough, for
I have seen you in circumstances that bring forth the bosom's inmost
feelings; and though you are unlike others--and I have watched many in
their course--that very dissimilarity is to me the surpassing charm.
They are all art, you are all nature--ay, and nature in its sweetest
and most graceful form; and I can boldly say, I never yet saw woman
whom I should desire to call my wife till I saw you. I will not wait,
dear girl; but, pledged to you as you are pledged to me, will not
press this subject further on you, till your sister's fate is sealed.
I must, indeed, speak with your father at once, that there may be no
mistake, no misapprehension; but till all this sad business is
settled, we are brother and sister, Zara; and then a dearer bond."

"Oh, yes, yes--brother and sister!" cried Zara, clinging to him at a
name which takes fear from woman's heart, "so will we be, Edward; and
now all my doubts and hesitations will be at an end. I shall never
fear more to seek you when it is needful."

"And my suit will be an excuse and a reason to all others, for free
interviews, and solitary rambles, and private conference, and every
dear communion," answered Digby, pleased, and yet almost amazed at the
simplicity with which she lent herself to the magic of a word, when
the heart led her.

But Zara saw he was a little extending the brother's privilege; and
with a warm cheek but smiling lip, she answered, "There, leave me now;
I see you are learned in the art of leading on from step to step. Go
on your way, Edward; and, oh! be kind to me, and do not make me feel
this new situation too deeply at first. There, pray take away your
arm; none but a father's or a sister's has been there before; and it
makes my heart beat, as if it were wrong."

But Digby kept it where it was for a moment or two longer, and gave a
few instants to happiness, in which she shared, though it agitated
her. "Nay, go," she said, at length, in a tone of entreaty, "and I
will lie down and rest for an hour; for I have sat up all night by the
fire, lest I should be too late.--You must go, indeed. There is your
horse upon the terrace; and we must not be selfish, but remember poor
Edith before we think of our own happiness."

There was a sweet and frank confession in her words that pleased Digby
well; and leaving her with a heart at rest on his own account, he
mounted his horse and rode rapidly away towards the quarters of Sir
Henry Leyton.




                             CHAPTER VII.


The reader has doubtless remarked--for every reader who peruses a book
to any purpose must remark everything, inasmuch as the most important
events are so often connected with insignificant circumstances, that
the one cannot be understood without the other--the reader has
doubtless remarked, that Mr. Radford, on leaving Sir Robert Croyland,
informed his unhappy victim, that he had still a good deal of business
to do that night. Now, during the day he had--as may well be judged
from his own statement of all the preparations he had already
made--done a great deal of very important business; but the details of
his past proceedings I shall not enter into, and only beg leave to
precede him by a short time, to the scene of those farther operations
which he had laid out as the close of that evening's labours. It is to
the lone house, as it was called, near Iden Green, that I wish to
conduct my companions, and a solitary and gloomy looking spot it was,
at the time I speak of. All that part of the country is now very
thickly inhabited: the ground bears nearly as large a population as it
can support; and though there are still fields, and woods, and
occasional waste places, yet no such events could now happen as those
which occurred eighty or a hundred years ago, when one might travel
miles, in various parts of Kent, without meeting a living soul. The
pressure of a large population crushes out the bolder and more daring
sorts of crime, and leaves small cunning to effect, in secret, what
cannot be accomplished openly, under the police of innumerable eyes.

But it was not so in those days; and the lone house near Iden Green,
whatever it was originally built for, had become the refuge and the
lurking-place of some of the most fierce and lawless men in the
country. It was a large building, with numerous rooms and passages;
and it had stables behind it, but no walled courtyard; for the close
sweeping round of the wood, a part of which still exists in great
beauty, was a convenience on which its architect seemed to have
calculated. Standing some way off the high road, and about half a mile
from Collyer Green, it was so sheltered by trees that, on whichever
side approached, nothing could be seen but the top of the roof and
part of a garret-window, till one was within a short distance of the
edifice. But that garret-window had its advantages; for it commanded a
view over a great part of the country, on three sides, and especially
gave a prospect of the roads in the neighbourhood.

The building was not a farm-house, for it had none of the requisites;
it could not well be a public-house, though a sign swung before it;
for the lower windows were boarded up, and the owner or tenant
thereof, if any traveller whom he did not know, stopped at his
door--which was, indeed, a rare occurrence--told him that it was all a
mistake, and cursing the sign, vowed he would have it cut down.
Nevertheless, if the Ramleys, or any of their gang, or, indeed, any
members of a similar fraternity, came thither, the doors opened as if
by magic; and good accommodation for man and horse was sure to be
found within.

It was also remarked, that many a gentleman in haste went in there,
and was never seen to issue forth again till he appeared in quite a
different part of the country; and, had the master of the house lived
two or three centuries earlier, he might on that very account have
risked the fagot, on a charge of dealing with the devil. As it was, he
was only suspected of being a coiner; but in regard to that charge,
history has left no evidence, pro or con.

It was in this house, however, on the evening of the day subsequent to
the discomfiture of the smugglers, that six men were assembled in a
small room at the back, all of whom had, more or less, taken part in
the struggle near Woodchurch. The two younger Ramleys were there, as
well as one of the principal members of their gang, and two other men,
who had been long engaged in carrying smuggled goods from the coast,
as a regular profession; but who were, in other respects, much more
respectable persons than those by whom they were surrounded. At the
head of the table, however, was the most important personage of the
whole: no other than Richard Radford himself, who had joined his
comrades an hour or two before. The joy and excitement of his escape
from the wood, the temporary triumph which he had obtained over the
vigilance of the soldiery, and the effect produced upon a disposition
naturally bold, reckless, and daring, by the sudden change from
imminent peril to comparative security, had all raised his spirits to
an excessive pitch; and, indeed, the whole party, instead of seeming
depressed by their late disaster, appeared elevated with that wild and
lawless mirth, which owns no tie or restraint, reverences nothing
sacred or respectable. Spirits and water were circulating freely
amongst them; and they were boasting of their feats in the late
skirmish, or commenting upon its events, with many a jest and many a
falsehood.

"The Major did very well, too," said Ned Ramley, "for he killed one of
the dragoons, and wounded another, before he went down himself, poor
devil!"

"Here's to the Major's ghost!" cried young Radford, "and I'll try to
give it satisfaction by avenging him. We'll have vengeance upon them
yet, Ned."

"Ay, upon all who had any concern in it," answered Jim Ramley, with a
meaning look.

"And first upon him who betrayed us," rejoined Richard Radford; "and I
will have it, too, in a way that shall punish him more than if we
flogged him to death with horse-whips, as the Sussex men did to Chater
at the Flying Bull, near Hazlemere."

The elder of the two Ramleys gave a look towards the men who were at
the bottom of the table; and Richard Radford, dropping his voice,
whispered something to Ned Ramley, who replied aloud, with an oath,
"I'd have taken my revenge, whatever came of it."

"No, no," answered Radford, "the red-coats were too near. However,
all's not lost that's delayed. I wonder where that young devil, little
Starlight's gone to. I sent him three hours ago to Cranbrook with the
clothes, and told him to come back and tell me if she passed. She'll
not go now, that's certain; for she would be in the dark. Have you any
notion, Ned, how many men we could get together in case of need?"

"Oh, fifty or sixty!" said one of the men from the bottom of the
table, who seemed inclined to have his share in the conversation, as
soon as it turned upon subjects with which he was familiar; "there are
seven or eight hid away down at Cranbrook, and nine or ten at
Tenterden, with some of the goods, too."

"Ah, that's well!" answered young Radford; "I thought all the goods
had been taken."

"Oh, dear no," replied Jim Ramley, "we've got a thousand pounds' worth
in this house, and I dare say double as much is scattered about in
different hides. The light things were got off; but they are the most
valuable."

"I'll tell you what, my men," cried young Radford, "as soon as these
soldiers are gone down to the coast again, we'll all gather together,
and do some devilish high thing, just to show them that they are not
quite masters of the country yet. I've a great mind to burn their inn
at Woodchurch, just for harbouring them. If we don't make these
rascally fellows fear us, the trade will be quite put down in the
county."

"I swear," exclaimed Ned Ramley, with a horrible blasphemy, "that if I
can catch any one who has peached, even if it be but by one word, I
will split his head like a lobster."

"And I, too!" answered his brother; and several others joined in the
oath.

The conversation then took another turn; and while it went on
generally around the table, young Radford spoke several times in a low
voice to the two who sat next to him, and the name of Harding was more
than once mentioned. The glass circulated very freely also; and
although none of them became absolutely intoxicated, yet all of them
were more or less affected by the spirits, when the boy, whom we have
called Little Starlight, crept quietly into the room, and approached
Mr. Radford.

"She's not come, sir," he said; "I waited a long while, and then went
and asked the old woman of the shop, telling her that I was to be sure
and see that Kate Clare got the bundle; but she said that she
certainly wouldn't come to-night."

"That's a good boy," said young Radford. "Go and tell the people to
bring us some candles; and then I'll give you a glass of Hollands for
your pains. It's getting infernally dark," he continued, "and as
nothing more is to be done to-day, we may as well make a night of it."

"No, no," answered one of the men at the bottom of the table, "I've
had enough, and I shall go and turn in."

Nobody opposed him; and he and his companion soon after left them. A
smile passed round amongst the rest as soon as the two had shut the
door.

"Now those puny fellows are gone," said Jim Ramley, "we can say what
we like. First, let us talk about the goods, Mr. Radford, for I don't
think they are quite safe here. They had better be got up to your
father's as soon as possible, for if the house were to be searched, we
could get out into the wood, but they could not."

"Hark!" said young Radford; "there's some one knocking hard at the
house door, I think."

"Ay, trust all that to Obadiah," said Ned Ramley. "He wont open the
door till he sees who it is."

The minute after, however, old Mr. Radford stood amongst them; and he
took especial care not to throw any damp upon their spirits, but
rather to encourage them, and make light of the late events. He sat
down for a few minutes by his son, took a glass of Hollands and water,
and then whispered to his hopeful heir that he wanted to speak with
him for a minute. The young man instantly rose, and led the way out
into the room opposite, which was vacant.

"By Heaven, Dick, this is an awkward job!" said his father; "the loss
is enormous, and never to be recovered."

"The things are not all lost," answered Richard Radford. "A great
quantity of the goods are about the country. There's a thousand
pounds' worth, they say, in this house."

"We must have them got together as fast as possible," said Mr.
Radford, "and brought up to our place. All that is here had better be
sent up about three o'clock in the morning."

"I'll bring them up myself," replied his son.

"No, no, no!" said Mr. Radford; "you keep quiet where you are, till
to-morrow night."

"Pooh, nonsense," answered the young man; "I'm not at all
afraid.--Very well--very well, they shall come up, and I'll follow
to-morrow night, if you think I can be at the Hall in safety."

"I don't intend you to be long at the Hall," answered Mr. Radford:
"you must take a trip over the sea, my boy, till we can make sure of a
pardon for you. There! you need not look so blank. You shan't go
alone. Come up at eleven o'clock; and you will find Edith Croyland
waiting to give you her hand, the next day.--Then a post-chaise and
four, and a good tight boat on the beach, and you are landed in France
in no time. Everything is ready--everything is settled; and with her
fortune, you will have enough to live like a prince, till you can come
back here."

All this intelligence did not seem to give Richard Radford as much
satisfaction as his father expected. "I would rather have had little
Zara, a devilish deal!" he replied.

"Very likely," answered his father, with his countenance changing, and
his brow growing dark; "but that wont do, Dick. We have had enough
nonsense of all sorts; and it must now be brought to an end. It's not
the matter of the fortune alone; but I am determined that both you and
I shall have revenge."

"Revenge!" said his son; "I don't see what revenge has to do with
that."

"I'll tell you," answered old Mr. Radford, in a low tone, but bitter
in its very lowness. "The man who so cunningly surrounded you and the
rest yesterday morning, who took all my goods, and murdered many of
our friends, is that very Harry Leyton, whom you've heard talk of. He
has come down here on purpose to ruin you and me, if possible, and to
marry Edith Croyland; but he shall never have her, by----," and he
added a fearful oath which I will not repeat.

"Ay, that alters the case," replied Richard Radford, with a demoniacal
smile; "oh, I'll marry her and make her happy, as the people say. But
I'll tell you what--I'll have my revenge, too, before I go, and upon
one who is worse than the other fellow--I mean the man who betrayed us
all."

"Who is that?" demanded the father.

"Harding," answered young Radford--"Harding."

"Are you sure that it was he?" asked the old gentleman; "I have
suspected him myself, but I have no proof."

"But I have," replied his son: "he was seen several nights before, by
little Starlight, talking for a long while with this very Colonel of
Dragoons, upon the cliff. Another man was with him, too--most likely
Mowle; and then, again, yesterday evening, some of these good fellows
who were on the look-out to help me, saw him speaking to a dragoon
officer at Widow Clare's door; so he must be a traitor, or they would
have taken him."

"Then he deserves to be shot," said old Radford, fiercely; "but take
care, Dick: you had better not do it yourself. You'll find him
difficult to get at, and may be caught."

"Leave him to me--leave him to me," answered his hopeful son; "I've a
plan in my head that will punish him better than a bullet. But the
bullet he shall have, too; for all the men have sworn that they will
take his blood; but that can be done after I'm gone."

"But what's your plan, my boy?" asked old Mr. Radford.

"Never mind, never mind!" answered Richard, "I'll find means to
execute it.--I only wish those dragoons were away from Harbourne
Wood."

"Why, they are," exclaimed his father, laughing. "They were withdrawn
this afternoon, and a party of them, too, marched out of Woodchurch,
as if they were going to Ashford. I dare say, by this time to-morrow
night, they will be all gone to their quarters again."

"Then it's all safe!" said his son; and after some more conversation
between the two--and various injunctions upon the part of the old man,
as to caution and prudence, upon the part of the young one, they
parted for the time. Young Radford then rejoined his companions, and
remained with them till about one o'clock in the morning, when the
small portion of smuggled goods which had been saved, was sent off,
escorted by two men, towards Radford Hall, where they arrived safely,
and were received by servants well accustomed to such practices. They
consisted of only one horse-load, indeed, so that the journey was
quickly performed; and the two men returned before five. Although
Richard Radford had given his father every assurance that he would
remain quiet, and take every prudent step for his own concealment, his
very first acts showed no disposition to keep his word. Before eight
o'clock in the morning, he, the two Ramleys, and one or two other men,
who had come in during the night, were out amongst the fields and
woods, "reconnoitring," as they called it; but, with a spirit in their
breasts, which rendered them ready for any rash and criminal act that
might suggest itself. Thus occupied, I shall for the present leave
them, and show more of their proceedings at a future period.




                            CHAPTER VIII.


Having now led the history of a great part of the personages in our
drama up to the same point of time, namely, the third morning after
the defeat of the smugglers, we may as well turn to follow out the
course of Sir Edward Digby, on a day that was destined to be eventful
to all the parties concerned. On arriving at Woodchurch, he found a
small body of dragoons, ready mounted, at the door of the little inn,
and two saddled horses, held waiting for their riders. Without
ceremony, he entered, and went up at once to Leyton's room, where he
found him, booted and spurred to set out, with Mowle the officer
standing by him, looking on, while Sir Henry placed some papers in a
writing-desk, and locked them up.

The young commander greeted his friend warmly; and then, turning to
the officer of Customs, said, "If you will mount, Mr. Mowle, I will be
down with you directly;" and as soon as Mowle, taking the hint,
departed, he continued, in a quick tone, but with a faint smile upon
his countenance, "I know your errand, Digby, before you tell it. Edith
has been transferred to the good charge and guidance of Mr. Radford;
but that has only prepared me to act more vigorously than ever. My
scruples on Sir Robert Croyland's account are at an end.--Heaven and
earth! Is it possible that a man can be so criminally weak, as to give
his child up--a sweet, gentle girl like that--to the charge of such a
base unprincipled scoundrel!"

"Nay, nay, we must do Sir Robert justice," answered Digby. "It was
done without his consent--indeed, against his will; and, a more
impudent and shameless piece of trickery was never practised. You must
listen for one moment, Leyton, though you seem in haste;" and he
proceeded to detail to him, as succinctly as possible, all that had
occurred between Mr. Radford and Edith's father on the preceding
evening, stating his authority, and whence Zara had received her
information.

"That somewhat alters the case, indeed;" answered Leyton; "but it must
not alter my conduct. I am, indeed, in haste, Digby, for I hope, ere
two or three hours are over, to send the young scoundrel, for whose
sake all this is done, a prisoner to the gaol. Mowle has somehow got
information of where he is--from undoubted authority, he says; and we
are away to Iden Green, in consequence. We shall get more information
by the way; and I go with the party for a certain distance, in order
to be at hand, in case of need; but, as it does not do for me, in my
position, to take upon me the capture of half-a-dozen smugglers, the
command of the party will rest with Cornet Joyce. We will deal with
Mr. Radford, the father, afterwards. But, in the meantime, Digby, as
your information certainly gives a different view of the case, from
that which I had before taken, you will greatly oblige me if you can
contrive to ride over to Mr. Croyland's, and see if you can find Mr.
Warde there. Beg him to let me have the directions he promised, by
four o'clock to-day; and if you do not find him, leave word to that
effect, with Mr. Croyland himself."

"You seem to place great faith in Warde," said Sir Edward Digby,
shaking his head.

"I have cause--I have cause, Digby," answered his friend. "But I must
go, lest this youth escape me again."

"Well, God speed you, then," replied Digby. "I will go to Mr. Croyland
at once, and can contrive, I dare say, to get back to Harbourne by
breakfast time. It is not above two or three miles round, and I will
go twenty, at any time, to serve you, Leyton."

Sir Edward Digby found good Mr. Zachary Croyland walking about in his
garden, in a state of irritation indescribable. He, also, was aware,
by this time, of what had befallen his niece; and such was his
indignation, that he could scarcely find it in his heart to be even
commonly civil to any one. On Sir Edward Digby delivering his message,
as he found that Mr. Warde was not there, the old gentleman burst
forth, exclaiming, "What have I to do with Warde, sir, or your friend
either, sir?--Your friend's a fool! He might have walked out of that
door with Edith Croyland in his hand; and that's no light prize, let
me tell you; but he chose to be delicate, and gentlemanly, and all
that sort of stupidity, and you see what has come of it. And now,
forsooth, he sends over to ask advice and directions from Warde. Well,
I will tell the man, if I see him--though Heaven only knows whether
that will be the case or not."

"Sir Henry Leyton seems to place great confidence in Mr. Warde,"
replied Digby, "which I trust may be justified."

Mr. Croyland looked at him sharply, for a moment, from under his
cocked hat, and then exclaimed, "Pish! you are a fool, young
man.--There, don't look so fierce. I've given over fighting for these
twenty years; and, besides--you wouldn't come to the duello with
little Zara's uncle, would you? Ha, ha, ha!--Ha, ha, ha!--Ha, ha, ha!"
and he laughed immoderately, but splenetically enough at the same
time. "But I ought to have put my meaning as a question, not as a
proposition," he continued. "Are you such a fool as not to know the
difference between an odd man and a madman, an eccentric man and a
lunatic? If so, you had better get away as fast as possible; for you
and I are likely soon to fall out. I understand what you mean about
Warde, quite well; but I can tell you, that if you think Warde mad,
I'm quite as mad as he is, only that his oddities lie all on the side
of goodness and philanthropy, and mine now and then take a different
course. But get you gone--get you gone; you are better than the rest
of them, I believe. I do hope and trust you'll marry Zara; and then
you'll plague each other's souls, to my heart's content."

He held his hand out as he spoke; and Digby shook it, laughing
good-humouredly; but, ere he had taken ten steps towards the
door of the house, through which he had to pass before he could
mount his horse, Mr. Croyland called after him, "Digby, Digby!--Sir
Eddard!--Eldest son! I say,--how could you be such a fool as not to
run that fellow through the stomach when you had him at your feet? You
see what a quantity of mischief has come of it. You are all fools
together, you soldiers, I think;--but it's true, a fool does as well
as anything else to be shot at.--How's your shoulder? Better, I
suppose."

"I have not thought of it for the last two days," replied Digby.

"Well, that will do," said Mr. Croyland. "Cured by the first
intention. There, you may go: I don't want you. Only, pray tell my
brother, that I think him as great a rascal as old Radford.--He'll
know how much that means.--One's a weak rascal, and the other's a
strong one; that's the only difference between them; and Robert may
fit on which cap he likes best."

Digby did not think it necessary to stop to justify Sir Robert
Croyland in his brother's opinion; but, mounting his horse, he rode
back across the country towards Harbourne as fast as he could go. He
reached the house before the usual breakfast hour; but he found that
everybody there had been an early riser as well as himself; the table
was laid ready for breakfast; and Sir Robert Croyland was waiting in
the drawing-room with some impatience in his looks.

"I think I am not too late, Sir Robert," said Digby, taking out his
watch, and bowing with a smile to Zara and Mrs. Barbara.

"No, oh dear, no, my young friend," replied the baronet; "only in such
a house as this, breakfast is going on all the morning long; and I
thought you would excuse me, if I took mine a little earlier than
usual, as I have got some way to go this morning."

This was said as they were entering the breakfast-room; but Sir Edward
Digby replied, promptly, "I must ask you to spare me five minutes
before you go, Sir Robert, as I wish to speak with you for a short
time."

His host looked uneasy; for he was in that nervous and agitated state
of mind, in which anything that is not clear and distinct seems
terrible to the imagination, from the consciousness that many
ill-defined calamities are hanging over us. He said, "Certainly,
certainly!" however, in a polite tone; but he swallowed his breakfast
in haste; and the young officer perceived that his host looked at
every mouthful he took, as if likely to procrastinate the meal. Zara's
face, too, was anxious and thoughtful; and consequently he hurried his
own breakfast as fast as possible, knowing that the signal to rise
would be a relief to all parties.

"If you will come into my little room, Sir Edward," said the master of
the house, as soon as he saw that his guest was ready, "I shall be
very happy to hear what you have to say."

Sir Edward Digby followed in silence; and, to tell the truth, his
heart beat a good deal, though it was not one to yield upon slight
occasions.

"I will not detain you a moment, Sir Robert," he said, when they had
entered, and the door was shut, "for what I have to say will be easily
answered. I am sensible, that yesterday my attention to your youngest
daughter must have been remarked by you, and, indeed, my manner
altogether must have shown you, and herself also, that I feel
differently towards her and other women. I do not think it would be
right to continue such conduct for one moment longer, without your
approbation of my suit; and I can only further say, that if you grant
me your sanction, I feel that I can love her deeply and well, that I
will try to make her happy to the best of my power, and that my
fortune is amply sufficient to maintain her in the station of life in
which she has always moved, and to make such a settlement upon her as
I trust will be satisfactory to you. I will not detain you to
expatiate upon my feelings; but such is a soldier's straightforward
declaration, and I trust you will countenance and approve of my
addressing her."

Sir Robert Croyland shook him warmly by the hand. "'My dear Sir
Edward," he said, "you are your father's own son--frank, candid, and
honourable. He was one of the most gentlemanly and amiable men I ever
knew; and it will give me heartfelt pleasure to see my dear child
united to his son. But--indeed, I must deal with you as candidly----"
He hesitated for a moment or two, and then went on--"Perhaps you think
that circumstances here are more favourable than they really are.
Things may come to your knowledge--things may have to be
related--Zara's fortune will be----"

Sir Edward Digby saw that Sir Robert Croyland was greatly embarrassed;
and for an instant--for love is a very irritable sort of state, at
least for the imagination, and he was getting over head and ears in
love, notwithstanding all his good resolutions--for an instant, I say,
he might think that Zara had been engaged before, and that Sir Robert
was about to tell him, that it was not the ever-coveted, first
freshness of the heart he was to possess in her love, even if it were
gained entirely. But a moment's thought, in regard to her father's
situation, together with the baronet's last words, dispelled that
unpleasant vision, and he replied, eagerly, "Oh, my dear sir, that can
make no difference in my estimation. If I can obtain her full and
entire love, no external circumstance whatsoever can at all affect my
views.--I only desire her hand."

"No external circumstances whatsoever!" said Sir Robert Croyland,
pausing on the words. "Are you sure of your own firmness, Sir Edward
Digby? If her father were to tell you he is a ruined man--if he had
many circumstances to relate which might make it painful to you to
connect yourself with him--I do not say that it is so; but if it
were?"

"Rather an awkward position!" thought Sir Edward Digby; but his mind
was fully made up; and he replied, without hesitation, "It would still
make no difference in my eyes, Sir Robert. I trust that none of these
terrible things are the case, for your sake; but I should despise
myself, if, with enough of my own, I made fortune any ingredient in my
considerations, or if I could suffer my love for a being perfectly
amiable in herself, to be affected by the circumstances of her
family."

Sir Robert Croyland wrung his hand hard; and Digby felt that it was a
sort of compact between them. "I fear I must go," said Zara's father,
"and therefore I cannot explain more; but it is absolutely necessary
to tell you that all my unmortgaged property is entailed, and will go
to my brother, that Edith's fortune is totally independent, and that
Zara has but a tithe of what her sister has."

"Still I say, as I said before," replied Digby, "that nothing of that
kind can make any difference to me; nor will I ever suffer any
consideration, not affecting your daughter personally--and I beg this
may be clearly understood--to make any change in my views. If I can
win her love--her entire, full, hearty love--with your sanction, she
is mine. Have I that sanction. Sir Robert?"

"Fully, and from my heart," replied Sir Robert Croyland, with the
unwonted tears coursing over his cheeks. "Go to her, my dear
friend--go to her, and make what progress you may, with my best
wishes. This is indeed a great happiness--a great relief!"

Thus saying, he followed Sir Edward Digby out of the room; and,
mounting a new horse which had been brought up from his bailiff's, he
rode slowly and thoughtfully away. As he went, a faint hope--nay, it
could hardly be called a hope--a vague, wild fancy of explaining his
whole situation to Sir Edward Digby, and gaining the blessed relief of
confidence and counsel, arose in Sir Robert Croyland's breast.

Alas! what an unhappy state has been brought about by the long
accumulation of sin and deceit which has gathered over human society!
that no man can trust another fully! that we dare not confide our
inmost thoughts to any! that there should be a fear--the necessity for
a fear--of showing the unguarded heart to the near and dear! that
every man should--according to the most accursed axiom of a corrupt
world--live with his friend as if he were one day to be his enemy. Oh,
truths and honour, and sincerity! oh, true Christianity! whither are
ye gone? Timidity soon banished such thoughts from the breast of Sir
Robert Croyland, though there was something in the whole demeanour of
his daughter's lover which showed him that, if ever man was to be
trusted, he might trust there; and had he known how deeply Digby was
already acquainted with much that concerned him, he might perhaps have
gone one step farther, and told him all. As it was, he rode on, and
soon gave himself up to bitter thoughts again.

In the meantime. Sir Edward Digby returned to Zara and Mrs. Barbara in
the drawing-room, with so well satisfied a look, that it was evident
to both, his conversation with Sir Robert had not referred to any
unpleasant subject, and had not had any unpleasant result. He excited
the elder lady's surprise, however, and produced some slight agitation
in the younger, by taking Zara by the hand, and in good set terms of
almost formal courtesy, requesting a few minutes' private audience.
Her varying colour, and her hesitating look, showed her lover that she
apprehended something more unpleasant than he had to say; and he
whispered, as they went along towards the library, "It is nothing--it
is nothing but to tell you what I have done, and to arrange our plan
of campaign."

Zara looked up in his face with a glad smile, as if his words took
some terror from her heart; and as soon as he was in the room, he let
go her hand, and turned the key in such a manner in the door, that the
key-hole could not serve the purpose of a perspective glass, even if
it might that of an ear-trumpet.

"Forgive me, dear Zara," he said, "if I take care to secure our
defences; otherwise, as your good aunt is perfectly certain that I am
about to fall on my knees, and make my declaration, she might be
seized with a desire to witness the scene, not at all aware that it
has been performed already. But not to say more," he continued, "on a
subject on which you have kindly and frankly set a lover's heart at
rest, let me only tell you that your father has fully sanctioned my
suit, which I know, after what you have said, will not be painful to
you to hear."

"I was sure he would," answered Zara; "not that he entered into any of
my aunt's castles in the air, or that he devised my schemes, Digby;
but, doubtless, he wishes to see a fortuneless girl well married, and
would have been content with a lover for her, who might not have
suited herself quite so well. You see I deal frankly with you, Digby,
still; and will do so both now and hereafter, if you do not check me."

"Never, never will I!" answered Sir Edward Digby; "it was so you first
commanded my esteem, even before my love; and so you will always keep
it."

"Before your love?" said Zara, in an unwontedly serious tone; "your
love is very young yet, Digby; and sometimes I can hardly believe all
this to be real.--Will it last? or will it vanish away like a dream,
and leave me waking, alone and sorrowful?"

"And yours for me, Zara?" asked her lover; but then, he added,
quickly, "no, I will not put an unfair question: and every question is
unfair that is already answered in one's own heart. Yours will, I
trust, remain firm for me--so mine, I know, will for you, because we
have seen each other under circumstances which have called forth the
feelings, and displayed fully all the inmost thoughts which years of
ordinary intercourse might not develop. But now, dear Zara, let us
speak of our demeanour to each other. It will, perhaps, give us
greater advantage if you treat me--perhaps, as a favoured, but not yet
as an accepted lover. I will appear willingly as your humble slave and
follower, if you will, now and then, let me know in private that I am
something dearer; and by keeping up the character with me, which has
gained you your uncle's commendation as a fair coquette, you may,
perhaps, reconcile Mrs. Barbara to many things, which her notions of
propriety might interfere with, if they were done as between the
betrothed."

"I fear I shall manage it but badly, Digby," she answered. "It was
very easy to play the coquette before, when no deeper feelings were
engaged, when I cared for no one, when all were indifferent to me. It
might be natural to me, then; but I do not think I could play the
coquette with the man I loved. At all events, I should act the part
but badly, and should fancy he was always laughing at me in his heart,
and triumphing over poor Zara Croyland, when he knew right well that
he had the strings of the puppet in his hand. However, I will do my
best, if you wish it; and I do believe, from knowing more of this
house than you do, that your plan is a good one. The airs I have given
myself, and the freedom I have taken, have been of service both to
myself and Edith--to her in many ways, and to myself in keeping from
me all serious addresses from men I could not love.--Yours is the
first proposal I have ever had, Digby; so do not let what my uncle has
said, make you believe that you have conquered a queen of hearts, who
has set all others at defiance."

"No _gentleman_ was ever refused by a _lady_," answered Digby, laying
a strong emphasis on each noun-substantive.

"So, then, you were quite sure, before you said a word!" cried Zara,
laughing. "Well, that is as frank a confession as any of my own! And
yet you might have been mistaken; for esteeming you as I did, and
circumstanced as I was, I would have trusted you as much, Digby, if
you had been merely a friend."

"But you would not have shown me the deeper feelings of your heart
upon other indifferent subjects," replied her lover.

Zara blushed, and looked down; then suddenly changed the course of
conversation, saying, "But you have not told me what Leyton thought of
all this, and what plans you have formed. What is to be done? Was he
not deeply grieved and shocked?"

Sir Edward Digby told her all that had passed, and then added, "I
intend now to send out my servant, Somers, to reconnoitre. He shall
waylay Leyton on his return, and bring me news of his success. If this
youth be safely lodged in gaol, his pretensions are at an end, at
least for the present; but if he again escape, I think, ere noon
to-morrow, I must interfere myself. I have now a better right to do so
than I have hitherto had; and what I have heard from other quarters
will enable me to speak boldly--even to your father, dear one--without
committing either you or Edith."

Zara paused and thought; but all was still dark on every side, and she
could extract no ray of light from the gloom. Digby did not fail (as,
how could a lover neglect?) to try to lead her mind to pleasanter
themes; and he did so in some degree. But we have been too long
eaves-dropping upon private intercourse, and we will do so no more.
The rest of the day passed in that mingled light and shade, which has
a finer interest than the mere broad sunshine, till the return of Sir
Robert Croyland, when the deep sadness that overspread his countenance
clouded the happiness of all the rest.

Shortly after, Zara saw her lover's servant ride up the road, at
considerable speed; and as it wanted but half-an-hour to dinner-time,
Digby, who marked his coming also, retired to dress. When he returned
to the drawing-room, there was a deeper and a sterner gloom upon his
brow than the fair girl had ever seen; but her father and aunt were
both present, and no explanation could take place. After dinner, too,
Sir Robert Croyland and his guest returned to the drawing-room
together; and though the cloud was still upon Digby's countenance, and
he was graver than he had ever before appeared, yet she whom he loved
could gain no tidings. To her he was still all tenderness and
attention; but Zara could not play the part she had undertaken; and
often her eyes rested on his face, with a mute, sad questioning, which
made her aunt say to herself, "Well, Zara is in love at last!"

Thus passed a couple of hours, during which not above ten words were
uttered by Sir Robert Croyland. At length, lights were brought in,
after they had been for some time necessary; and at the end of about
ten minutes more, the sound of several horses coming at a quick pace
was heard. The feet stopped at the great door, the bell rang, and
voices sounded in the hall. The tones of one, deep, clear, and mellow,
made both Zara and her father start; and in a minute after, the butler
entered--he was an old servant--saying, in a somewhat embarrassed
manner, "Colonel Sir Henry Leyton, sir, wishes to speak with you
immediately on business of importance."

"Who--who?" demanded Sir Robert, "Sir Henry Leyton!--Well, well, take
him in somewhere!"

He rose from his chair, but staggered perceptibly for a moment; then,
overcoming the emotion that he could not but feel, he steadied himself
by the arm of his chair, and left the room. Zara gazed at Digby, and
he at her he loved; but this night Mrs. Barbara thought fit to sit
where she was; and Digby, approaching Zara's seat, bent over her,
whispering, "Leyton has a terrible tale to tell; but not affecting
Edith. She is safe.--What more he seeks, I do not know."




                             CHAPTER IX.


After parting with Sir Edward Digby at Woodchurch, Henry Leyton had
ridden on at a quick pace to Park-gate, and thence along the high
road, to Cranbrook. He himself was habited in the undress of his
regiment, though with pistols at his saddle, and a heavy sword by his
side. One of his servants followed him similarly accoutred, and an
orderly accompanied the servant, while by the young officer's side
appeared our good friend Mr. Mowle, heavily armed, with the somewhat
anomalous equipments of a riding officer of Customs in those days. At
a little distance behind this first group, came Cornet Joyce, and his
party of dragoons; and in this order they all passed through
Cranbrook, about nine o'clock; but a quarter of a mile beyond the
little town they halted, and Mowle rode on for a short way alone, to
the edge of Hangley Wood, which was now close before them. There he
dismounted, and went in amongst the trees; but he was not long absent,
for in less than five minutes he was by the colonel's side again.
"All's right, sir," he said, "the boy assures me that they were all
there still, at six this morning, and that their captain, Radford,
does not move till after dark, to-night. So now we shall have the
worst fellows amongst them--the two Ramleys and all."

"Well, then," answered Leyton, "you had better go on at once with the
party, keeping through the wood. I will remain behind, coming on
slowly; and if wanted, you will find me somewhere in the Hanger.
Cornet Joyce has his orders in regard to surrounding the house; but of
course he must act according to circumstances."

No more words were needed: the party of dragoons moved on rapidly,
with Mowle at their head; and Leyton, after pausing for a few minutes
on the road, dismounted, and giving his rein to the servant, walked
slowly on into the wood, telling the two men who accompanied him, to
follow. There was, at that time, as there is now, I believe, a broad
road through Hangley Wood, leading into the cross-road from Biddenden
to Goudhurst; but at that period, instead of being tolerably straight
and good, it was very tortuous, rough, and uneven. Along this forest
path, for so it might be called, the dragoons had taken their way, at
a quick trot; and by it their young colonel followed, with his arms
crossed upon his chest, and his head bent down, in deep and anxious
meditation. The distance across the wood at that part is nearly a
mile; and when he had reached the other side, Leyton turned upon his
steps again, passed his servant and the orderly, and walked slowly on
the road back to Cranbrook. The two men went to the extreme verge of
the wood, and looked out towards Iden Green for a minute or two before
they followed their officer, so that in the turnings of the road, they
were out of sight by the time he had gone a quarter of a mile.

Leyton's thoughts were busy, as may be well supposed; but at length
they were suddenly interrupted by loud, repeated, and piercing
shrieks, apparently proceeding from a spot at some distance before
him. Darting on, with a single glance behind, and a loud shout to call
the men up, he rushed forward along the road, and the next instant
beheld a sight which made his blood boil with indignation. At first,
he merely perceived a girl, struggling in the hands of some five or
six ruffians, who were maltreating her in the most brutal manner; but
in another instant, as, drawing his sword, he rushed forward, he
recognised--for it can scarcely be said, he saw--poor Kate Clare. With
another loud shout to his men to come up, he darted on without pause
or hesitation; but his approach was observed--the ruffians withdrew
from around their victim; and one of them exclaimed, "Run, run! the
dragoons are coming!"

"D--me! give her a shot before you go," cried another, "or she'll
peach."

"Let her," cried young Radford--"but here goes;" and, turning as he
hurried away, he deliberately fired a pistol at the unhappy girl, who
was starting up wildly from the ground. She instantly reeled and fell,
some seconds before Leyton could reach her; for he was still at the
distance of a hundred yards.

All this had taken place in an inconceivably short space of time; but
the next minute, the panic with which the villains had been seized
subsided a little. One turned to look back--another turned--they
beheld but one man on the road; and all the party were pausing, when
Leyton reached poor Kate Clare, and raised her in his arms. It might
have fared ill with him had he been alone; but just at that moment the
orderly appeared at the turn, coming up at the gallop, with the young
officer's servant behind him; and not doubting that a large party was
following, Radford and his companions fled as fast as they could.

"On after them, like lightning!" cried Leyton, as the men came up.
"Leave the horse, leave the horse, and away! Watch them wherever they
go, especially the man in the green coat! Take him if you can--shoot
him dead if he resist. Ah, my poor girl!" he cried, with the tears
rising in his eyes, "this is sad, indeed!--Where has he wounded you?"

"There," said Kate, faintly, taking away her hand, which was pressed
upon her right side; "but that was his kindest act.--Thank God, I am
dying!"

"Nay, nay," answered Leyton, "I trust not!" But the blood poured
rapidly out, staining all her dress, which was torn and in wild
disorder, and so rapidly did it flow, that Leyton clearly saw her
words would probably prove too true. "Who was that villain?" he cried;
"I will punish him if there be justice on earth!"

"Don't you know him?" said Kate, her voice growing more and more low.
"I thought you were seeking him--Richard Radford."

"The atrocious scoundrel!" said Leyton; and drawing his handkerchief
from his breast, he tied it tightly over her side, trying, though he
saw it was nearly in vain, to stanch the blood, while at the same time
he supported her against his knee with one arm thrown round her waist.
Poor Kate closed her eyes with a faint shudder; and for a moment
Leyton thought she was dead. She appeared to be reviving again,
however, when a loud voice, not far distant, exclaimed, "Ha,--halloo!
What the devil is this?"

Leyton looked suddenly up--for his eyes had been bent upon the poor
girl's face for several minutes--and then beheld, hurrying up the road
with a look of fury in his countenance, Kate's promised husband,
Harding. With a violent oath the man rushed on, exclaiming, "Kate,
what is all this?--Villain, have you misused the girl?"

"Hush, hush!" cried Leyton, with a stern gesture of his hand; "she is
dying!--I would have saved her if I could; but alas, I came too late!"

The whole expression of Harding's countenance changed in an instant.
Grief and terror succeeded to rage; and, catching her franticly in his
arms, he exclaimed--"Kate, Kate, speak to me!--Tell me, who has done
this?"

"I can tell you," answered Leyton--"Richard Radford."

While he was speaking, Kate Clare opened her eyes again, and gazed on
Harding's face, moving her right hand faintly round and placing it
upon his.

"Give me that handkerchief from your neck," said Leyton; "if we can
stop the blood, we may save her, yet. I have seen very bad wounds
recovered from----"

"No, no!" said Kate Clare; "thank God, I am dying--I would rather
die!--Harding, I am not in fault--they caught me in the wood--oh, they
treated me horribly. Mr. Radford said it was revenge--God forgive him,
God forgive him! But I would rather die thus in your arms--do not try
to stop it--it is all in vain."

Leyton and Harding still persisted, however, and bound another
handkerchief tight over the wound, in some degree diminishing the
stream of blood, but yet, not stopping it entirely.

"Let us carry her to some house," cried Leyton, "and then send for
assistance. See! her lips are not so pale."

"I will carry her," cried Harding, raising her in his powerful arms.

"To my aunt's, then--to my aunt's, Harding," murmured Kate; "I would
sooner die there than in any other place." And on Harding sped,
without reply, while Leyton, sheathing his sword, which he had cast
down, followed him, inquiring, "Is it far?"

"But a step, sir," answered the smuggler. "Pray, come with us.--This
must be avenged."

"It shall," replied Leyton, sternly; "but I must stay here for a
minute or two, till you can send somebody to me, to take my place, and
let my men know where I am when they return."

Harding nodded his head, and then turned his eyes upon the face of the
poor girl whom he bore in his arms, hurrying on without a moment's
pause, till he was lost to the young officer's sight.

It is needless to describe the feelings of a high-minded and noble man
like Leyton, when left alone to meditate over the horrible outrage
which had been committed under his very eyes. He gave way to no burst
of indignation, indeed, but with a frowning brow walked back upon the
road, caught his horse without difficulty, and mounting, remained
fixed near the spot where poor Kate had received her death-wound, like
a soldier upon guard. In less than ten minutes, a lad ran up, saying,
"Mr. Harding sent me, sir."

"Well, then, walk up and down here, my good boy," replied Leyton,
"till some one comes to inquire for me. If it should be a servant, or
a single soldier, send him down to the place which you came from, and
wait where you are till a larger party of dragoons come up, when you
must tell them the same--to go down to me there. If the party come
first, wait for the servant and the soldier."

Having given these directions, he was turning away, but paused again
to inquire his way to the place where Harding was; and then pointing
to a bundle that lay upon the road, he said--"You had better bring
that with you."

Following the boy's direction, as soon as he issued out of the wood,
Sir Henry Leyton turned through a little field to the left; and seeing
a small farm-house at some distance before him, he leaped his horse
over two fences to abridge the way. Then riding into the farm-yard, he
sprang to the ground, looking round for some one to take his charger.
Several men of different ages were running about with eagerness and
haste in their faces. Horses were being led forth from the stable;
guns were in the hands of several; and one of them--a fine, tall,
powerful young fellow--exclaimed, as soon as he saw Leyton--"We will
catch them, sir--we will catch them! and by----they shall be hanged as
high as Haman for hurting the poor dear girl. Here, take his honour's
horse, Bill."

"Is she still living?" asked Leyton.

"Oh dear, yes, sir!" cried the young man; "she seemed somewhat better
for what mother gave her."

"Well, then," rejoined the young officer, "if you are going to search
for these scoundrels, gallop up to the wood as fast as you can; you
will find my servant and a trooper watching. They will give you
information of which way the villains are gone. I will join you in a
minute or two with a stronger force."

"Oh, sir, we shall do--we shall do," cried William Harris; "we will
raise the whole county as we go, and will hunt them down like foxes.
Do they think that our sisters and our wives are to be ill-used and
murdered by such scum as they are?" and at the same time he sprang
upon his horse's back. Leyton turned towards the house, but met the
old farmer himself coming out with a great cavalry sword in his hand,
and the butt end of a pistol sticking out of each pocket. "Quick,
quick! to your horses!" he cried, "they shall rue the day--they shall
rue the day!--Ah, sir, go in," he continued, seeing Leyton; "she is
telling my wife and Harding all about it; but I can't stop to hear.--I
will have that young Radford's blood, if I have a soul to be saved!"

"Better take him alive, and hand him over to justice," said Leyton,
going into the house.

"D----n him, I'll kill him like a dog!" cried the farmer; and mounting
somewhat less nimbly than his son, he put himself at the head of the
whole party assembled, and rode fast away towards Hangley Wood.

In the meantime, Leyton entered the kitchen of the farm; but it was
quite vacant. Voices, however, were heard speaking above, and he
ventured to go up and enter the room. Three or four women were
assembled there round good Mrs. Harris's own bed, on which poor Kate
Clare was stretched, with Harding on his knees beside her, and her
hand in his, the hot tears of man's bitterest agony, coursing each
other down his bronzed and weather-beaten cheek.

"There, there!" said Mrs. Harris; "don't take on so, Harding--you only
keep down her spirits. She might do very well, if she would but take
heart. You see she is better for the cordial stuff I gave her."

Harding made no reply; but Kate Clare faintly shook her head; and
Leyton, after having gazed on the sad scene for a moment, with bitter
grief and indignation in his heart, drew back, thinking that his
presence would only be a restraint to Kate's family and friends. He
made a sign, however, to one of the women before he went, who followed
him out of the room.

"I merely wish to tell you," he said, in a low voice, when the woman
joined him at the top of the stairs, "that I am going back to the
wood, to aid in the pursuit of these villains; for I can be of no use
here, and may be there. If any of my people come, tell them where to
find me; bid them follow me instantly, and stop every man on foot they
see quitting the wood, till he gives an account of himself.--But had
you not better send for a surgeon?"

"One is sent for, sir," replied the woman; "but I think she is not so
bad as she was.--I'll take care and tell your people. I do hope they
will catch them, for this is _too_ bad."

Without more words Leyton went down, remounted his horse, and galloped
back towards the edge of the wood. The news of what had happened,
however, seemed to have spread over the country with the speed of
lightning; for he saw four or five of the peasantry on horseback,
already riding in the same direction across the fields. Two stout
farmers joined him as he went, and both were already full of the story
of poor Kate Clare. Rage and indignation were universal amongst the
people; but as usual on such occasions, one proposed one plan, and
another the other, so that by want of combination in their operations,
all their resolution and eagerness were likely to be fruitlessly
employed.

Leyton knew that it was of little use to argue on such points with
undisciplined men; and his only trust was in the speedy arrival of the
soldiers from Iden Green. When he reached the edge of the wood,
however, with his two companions, they came upon farmer Harris's
party, now swelled to twelve or thirteen men; and at the same moment
his own servant rode round, exclaiming, as soon as he saw his master,
"They are still in the wood, sir, if they have not come out this way.
They dispersed so that we could not follow them on horseback, and we
galloped out by different ways to watch."

"They haven't come here," cried Farmer Harris, "or we should have seen
them. So now we have them safe enough."

"Ride off towards Iden Green," said Leyton to the servant, "and direct
Cornet Joyce to bring down his men at the gallop to the edge of the
copse. Let him dismount twelve on the north side of the wood, and,
with all the farm-servants and country people he can collect, sweep
it down, while the rest of the mounted men advance, on a line, on
either side.--Stay, I will write;" and tearing a leaf out of his
pocket-book, he put down his orders in pencil.

The man had just galloped away, when the young farmer, William Harris,
shouted, "There they go--there they go! After them!--after them! Tally
ho!" and instantly set spurs to his horse. All the rest but Leyton
followed at full speed; but he paused, and, directing his eyes along
the edge of the wood, clearly saw, at the distance of somewhat more
than half a mile, three men, who seemed to have issued forth from
amongst the trees, running across the fields as fast as they could go.
It would seem that they had not been aware of the numbers collected to
intercept them, till they had advanced too far to retreat; but
they had got a good start; the country was difficult for any but
well-trained horses; and darting on, they took their way towards
Goudhurst, passing within a hundred yards of the spot where the victim
of their horrid barbarity lay upon the bed of death.

Taking the narrow paths, leaping the stiles and gates, they at first
seemed to gain upon the mass of peasantry who followed them, though
their pursuers were on horseback and they on foot. But, well knowing
the country, the farmers spread out along the small bridle-roads; and,
while the better mounted horsemen followed direct across the fields,
the others prepared to cut off the ruffians on the right and left.
Gradually a semi-circle, enclosing them within its horns, was thus
formed; and all chance of escape by flight was thus cut off.

In this dilemma, the three miscreants made straight towards a
farm-house at which they occasionally received hospitality in their
lawless expeditions, and which bears the name of "Smuggler Farm" to
this day; but they knew not that all hearts had been raised against
them by their late atrocities, and that the very tenant of the farm
himself was now one of the foremost in pursuit. Rushing in, then, with
no farther ceremony than casting the door open, they locked and barred
it, just as some of the peasantry were closing in upon them; and then,
hurrying to the kitchen, where the farmer's wife, his sister, and a
servant was collected, Ned Ramley, who was the first, exclaimed, "Have
you no hide, good dame?"

"Hide!" replied the stout farmer's wife, eyeing him askance--"not for
such villains as you! Give me the spit, Madge; I've a great mind to
run him through." Ned Ramley drew a pistol from his pocket; but at
that moment the window was thrown up, the back door of the house was
cast open, and half-a-dozen of the stout yeomanry rushed in. The
smugglers saw that resistance would be vain; but still they resisted;
and though, in the agitation of the moment, Ned Ramley's pistol was
discharged innocuously, he did not fail to aim it at the head of young
William Harris, who was springing towards him. The stout farmer,
however, instantly levelled him with the ground by a thundering blow
upon the head; and the other two men, after a desperate struggle, were
likewise taken and tied.

"Lucky for you it was me, and not my father, Master Ramley," said
William Harris. "He'd have blown your brains out; but you're only
saved to be hanged, anyhow.--Ay, here he comes!--Stop, stop, old
gentleman! he's a prisoner; don't you touch him.--Let the law have the
job, as the gentleman said."

"Oh, you accursed villain--oh, you hellish scoundrel," cried old
Harris, kept back with difficulty by his son and the rest. "You were
one of the foremost of them. But where is the greatest villain of them
all?--where's that limb of the devil, young Radford?--I will have him!
Let me go, Will--I will have him, I say!"

Ned Ramley laughed aloud: "You wont, though," he answered, bitterly;
"he's been gone this half hour, and will be at the sea, and over the
sea, before you can catch him.--You may do with me what you like, but
he's safe enough."

"Some one ride off and tell the officer what he says!" cried the
farmer. But when the intelligence was conveyed to Sir Henry Leyton, he
was already aware that some of the men must have made their escape
unobserved; for his servant had met Cornet Joyce and the party of
dragoons by the way, and with the aid of a number of farm servants
from Iden Green and its neighbourhood, the wood had been searched with
such strictness, that the pheasants, which were at that time numerous
there, had flown out in clouds, as if a battue had been going on. He
mistrusted Ned Ramley's information, however; knowing that the
hardened villain would find a sort of pride in misleading the pursuers
of young Radford, even though taken himself. Riding quickly across to
the farm, then, together with Mowle and the Cornet, he interrogated
the men separately, but found they were all in the same story, from
which they varied not in the least--that Richard Radford had crept out
by the hedges near the wood, and had gone first to a place where a
horse was in waiting for him, and thence would make straight to the
sea-side, where a boat was already prepared. Instant measures to
prevent him from executing this plan now became necessary; and Leyton
directed the Cornet to hasten away as fast as possible in pursuit,
sending information from Woodchurch to every point of the coast where
the offender was likely to pass, spreading out his men so as to cover
all the roads to the sea, and only leaving at the farm a sufficient
guard to secure the prisoners.

On hearing the latter part of this order, however, Farmer Harris
exclaimed, "No, no, sir; no need of that. We've taken them, and we'll
keep them safe enough. I'll see these fellows into prison myself--ay,
and hanged too, please God! and we'll guard them sure, don't you be
afraid."

Leyton looked to Mowle, saying, "I must abide by your decision, Mr.
Mowle." But the officer answered: "Oh, you may trust them, sir, quite
safely, after all I hear has happened. But I think, Mr. Harris, you
had better have just a few men to help you. You've got no place to
keep them here; and they must be taken before a magistrate first,
before they can be committed."

"Oh, we'll keep them safe enough," replied the farmer. "We'll put them
in Goudhurst church, till we can send them off, and, in the meantime,
I'll have them up before Squire Broughton. My son's a constable, so
they are in proper hands."

"Very well," answered Leyton; "in this case I have no right to
interfere; but, of course, you are responsible for their safe
custody."

"I say, Mowle," cried Ned Ramley, in his usual daring manner, "bid
them give me something to drink, for I'm devilish thirsty; and I'll
give you some information, if you will."

Mowle obtained some beer for him, and then demanded, "Well, what is
it, Ned?"

"Why, only this," said Ned Ramley, after they had held the beer to his
lips, and he had taken a deep draught--"you will have your brains
blown out, before ten days are over."

"I am not afraid," replied Mowle, laughing.

"That's right," answered Ned Ramley. "But it will happen; for fifty of
us have sworn it. We have had our revenge of your spy, Harding; and we
have only you to settle with now."

"Harding!" cried Mowle. "He's no spy of mine.--It was not he that
peached, you young scoundrel; it was one of those whom you trusted
more than him."

"Ah, well," answered Ned Ramley, indifferently; "then he'll have a
sore heart to-night, that he didn't work for. But you'll have your
turn yet, Mr. Mowle, so look that you make good use of your brains,
for they wont be long in your skull."

"You are a hardened villain," said Sir Henry Leyton. "You had better
march them off as fast as you can, my good friends; take them before a
magistrate; and above all things, get them to prison ere nightfall, or
we may have another rescue."

"No fear, no fear!" answered Farmer Harris. "To rescue a smuggler is
one thing--I never liked to see them taken myself--but bloodthirsty
villains like these, that would ill use a poor, dear, good girl, and
murder her in cold blood,--why, there is not a man in the county would
not help to hang them. But I wish, sir, you would go yourself, and see
and stop that other great villain. If he isn't hanged too, I don't
think I shall ever rest in my bed again."

"I will do my best, depend upon it," replied Leyton; "but I must
first, Mr. Harris, go to your house, and see the state of that poor
girl. I have known her since she was a child, and feel for her almost
as if she were a sister."

"Thank you, sir--thank you!" cried old Harris, shaking him by the
hand. "There, boys," he continued, dashing away the tears from his
eyes--"make a guard, and take these blackguards off in the middle of
you. We'll have them up to Squire Broughton's at once; and then I must
go back, too."

On his way to the farm, Leyton desired Mowle to return to Woodchurch,
and to wait for him there, taking every step that he might think
necessary, with the aid of Captain Irby. "I will not be long," he
added.

"Pray don't, sir," rejoined Mowle; "for we have other business to do
to-night;" and, sinking his voice to a whisper, he added, "I've got
the information I wanted, sir. A part of the goods are certainly at
Radford Hall, and if we can seize them there, that, with the
deposition of the men at Woodchurch, will bring him in for the whole
offence."

"I shall, very likely, overtake you by the way," replied Leyton. "But,
at all events, I shall be there before four."

Most such calculations are vain, however. Leyton turned aside to the
Harris's farm, where he found poor Kate Clare sinking rapidly. The
curate of the parish had been sent for, and, by his advice, Mr.
Broughton, the magistrate, who had entered the house but two or three
minutes before Leyton himself. Though her voice now scarcely rose
above a whisper, she made her dying declaration with clearness and
accuracy. It is not necessary here to give any of the details; but, as
she concluded, she turned her faint and swimming eyes towards Leyton,
saying, "That gentleman, who has always been such a good friend to me
and mine, can tell you more, sir, for he came up to my help, just as
they shot me."

The magistrate raised his eyes, and inquired, in a low tone, "Who is
he?"

"Sir Henry Leyton," replied the poor girl, loud enough for that
officer to hear; and thinking that she asked for him, he approached
nearer, and stood by Harding's side. Kate raised her hand a little
from the bedclothes, as if she would have given it to him; and he took
it kindly in his, speaking some words of comfort.

"Thank you, sir--thank you, for all your kindness," said Kate. "I am
glad you have come, that I may wish you good-bye, and ask you to be
kind to poor Harding, too. It will soon be over now; and you had
better all leave me. Not you, Harding--not you.--You must close my
eyes, as my poor mother is not here."

A groan burst from the stout seaman's breast; and giving way to all
his feelings, he sobbed like a child. According to her desire, Leyton
and Mr. Broughton retired from the room; and the young officer
informed the magistrate, that the prisoners who had been taken were
waiting for examination at his house.

"We shall want your evidence, Sir Henry," said the magistrate. "It is
absolutely necessary, if, as I understand, you were eye-witness to the
murder."

Leyton saw the propriety of the magistrate's demand, and he yielded
immediately. But the investigation was prolonged by several
circumstances; and, what between the time that it took up, and that
which had been previously spent in the pursuit of the murderers, it
was past three o'clock before Leyton mounted his horse at Mr.
Broughton's door. He paused for an instant at the gate of the Harris's
farm-yard, where a girl was standing with tears in her eyes; but
before he could ask any question, she replied to that which was rising
to his lips. "She is gone, sir," said the girl--"she is gone. She did
not last half-an-hour after you were here."

With a sad heart, Leyton rode on, passing at a quick pace through
Harbourne Wood, and not trusting himself to stop at Mrs. Clare's
cottage. The windows, however, were closed; and the young officer
concluded from that circumstance, that the tidings of her daughter's
fate must by this time have reached the childless widow. Not far
beyond her gate, he was met by Sir Edward Digby's servant; but eager
to arrive at Woodchurch, Leyton did not stop to speak with him, and
Somers, turning his horse with the orderly and his old companion,
Leyton's servant, gleaned what information he could from them as he
went.

Notwithstanding all the speed he could use, however, it was half-past
four before Leyton reached Woodchurch; and, on inquiring for Mr.
Warde, he found that gentleman had called, but gone away again, saying
he would return in an hour.




                              CHAPTER X.


Such as we have described in the last chapter, were the fatal events
to which Sir Edward Digby had alluded in the few words he had spoken
to Zara Croyland; and it may be needless to explain to the reader,
that he had learned the tale from his servant just before he came down
to dinner.

Sir Robert Croyland, as we have shown, after some agitation and
hesitation, quitted the drawing-room to meet,--the first time for many
years--the son of a man, whom, at the instigation of others, he had
cruelly persecuted. He paused as soon as he got into the passage,
however, to summon courage, and to make up his mind as to the
demeanour which he should assume--always a vain and fruitless task;
for seldom, if ever, do circumstances allow any man to maintain the
aspect which he has predetermined to affect. Sir Robert Croyland
resolved to be cold, stately, and repulsive--to treat Sir Henry Leyton
as a perfect stranger, and if he alluded to their former intimacy, to
cut the conversation short by telling him that, as all the feelings of
those days were at an end, he did not wish to revive their memory in
any shape. He did not calculate, indeed, upon the peculiar state of
Leyton's mind, at the moment--nay, nor even upon the effect of his
former favourite's personal appearance upon himself; and when he
entered the library and saw the tall, powerful, dignified-looking man,
the pale, thoughtful, stern countenance, and the haughty air, he felt
all his predeterminations vain.

Leyton, on his part, had done the same as Sir Robert Croyland, and in
setting out from Woodchurch had made up his mind to see in the man he
went to visit, nothing but Edith's father--to treat him kindly,
gently, and with compassion for his weakness, rather than anger at his
faults; but as he rode along, and conversed with one who accompanied
him thither, the memory of much that Sir Robert Croyland had done in
former days, came painfully back upon him, and combining with his
treatment of Edith, raised up bitter and indignant feelings that he
could have wished to quell. The scenes which he had passed through
that day, too, had given a tone of sternness to his mind which was not
usual; and the few minutes he had waited in the library, when every
moment seemed of value, added impatience to his other sensations.

The baronet entered as firmly as he could, bowing his head and
motioning coldly to a chair. But Leyton did not sit down, gazing for
an instant on the countenance of Sir Robert, struck and astonished by
the change that he beheld. That steadfast gaze was painful to its
object, and sank his spirit still farther; but Leyton, the moment
after, began to speak; and the well-known tones of his clear, mellow
voice, awakened the recollection of the days when they were once
pleasant to hear.

"Sir Robert Croyland," he said, "I have come to you on business of
importance, in which it is necessary for you to act immediately in
your magisterial capacity."

"I have no clerk with me, sir," answered the baronet, in a hesitating
manner; "at this late hour, it is not usual, except under
circumstances----"

"The circumstances admit of no delay, Sir Robert Croyland," replied
Leyton. "As the nearest magistrate, I have applied to you in the first
instance; and have done so for many other reasons besides your being
the nearest magistrate."

"Well, sir, what is your application?" demanded Edith's father. "I
wish, indeed, you had applied to somebody else, at this time of night;
but I will do my duty--oh, yes, I will do my duty."

"That is all that is required, sir," answered the young officer. "My
application is for a warrant to search the house of one Richard
Radford; and I have to tender you, on oath, information that
customable goods, which have been introduced without the payment
of duty, are concealed on his premises.--One moment more, if you
please--I have also to apply to you, upon similar evidence, for a
warrant to search his house for his son, Richard Radford, charged with
murder; and, in the end, if you would allow me to advise you, you
would instantly mount your horse, and superintend the search
yourself."

There was a marked and peculiar emphasis on the last few words, which
Sir Robert Croyland did not understand. The manner was not agreeable
to him; but it was scarcely perhaps to be expected that it should be;
for there had been nothing in his own, to invite that kindly candour,
which opens heart to heart. All that had of late years passed between
him and Sir Henry Leyton, had been of a repulsive kind. For one
youthful error, he had not only repelled and shut his house against
the son, but he had persecuted, ruined, and destroyed the father, who
had no part in that fault. Every reason too, which he had given, every
motive he had assigned, for his anger at Henry Leyton's pretensions to
Edith's hand, he had set at nought, or forgotten in the case of him
whom he had chosen for her husband. Even now, although his manner was
wavering and timid, it was cold and harsh; and it was a hard thing for
Henry Leyton to assume the tone of kindness towards Sir Robert
Croyland, or to soften his demeanour towards him, with all the busy
memories of the past and the feelings of the present thronging upon
him, on his first return to the house where he had spent many happy
days in youth. I am painting a man, and nothing more; and he could
not, and did not overcome the sensations of human nature.

His words did not please Sir Robert Croyland, but they somewhat
alarmed him. Everything that was vague in his present situation,
did produce fear; but after a moment's thought, he replied,
coldly, "Oh dear no, sir, I do not see that it is at all necessary I
should go myself. I really think the application altogether
extraordinary, seeing that it comes from, I am led to imagine, the
lieutenant-colonel, commanding the ---- regiment of dragoons,
quartered in this district, who has no primary power, or authority, or
even duty in such affairs; but can only act as required by the
officers of Customs, to whom he is so far subordinate.--But still I am
ready to receive the informations tendered, and then shall decide in
regard to my own conduct, as the case may require."

"You are wrong in all respects, but one, Sir Robert Croyland,"
answered Leyton, at once; "I am empowered to act very differently from
any officer who has been in command here before me. If my powers are
beyond that which the law authorizes, those who gave them are
responsible to their country; but, for an extraordinary case,
extraordinary means are requisite; and as I require of you nothing but
what the law requires, I shall not pause to argue, whether I am
exactly the proper person to make the application. It might easily be
made by another, who is without: but I have reasons for what I am
doing--and reasons, believe me," he added, after a moment's pause and
reflection, "not unfriendly to Sir Robert Croyland."

Again his words and manner were peculiar. Sir Robert Croyland began to
feel some apprehension lest he might push his coldness too far. But he
did not see how he could change his tone; and he was proceeding, with
the same distant reserve, to repeat that he was ready to receive the
information in a formal manner, when Leyton suddenly interrupted him,
after a severe struggle with himself.

"Sir Robert Croyland," he said, "let us speak as friends. Let griefs
and complaints on both sides be forgotten for the moment; let us bury,
for the time, seven years in oblivion. Look upon me, if it be but for
a few minutes, as the Henry Leyton you knew before anything arose to
produce one ill feeling between us; for, believe me, I come to you
with kindly sentiments. Your own fate hangs in the balance at this
hour. I would decide it favourably for you, if you would let me.
But--you must shake off doubt and timidity; you must act boldly and
decidedly, and all will be well."

"I do not understand what you mean, sir," cried Sir Robert Croyland,
astonished at his change of tone, and without time to collect his
ideas, and calculate the probabilities. "My fate!--How can you affect
my fate?"

"More than you are aware," answered Leyton; "even now I affect your
fate, by giving you the choice of at once proceeding in the line of
your duty, against a bad man who has overruled your better nature, too
long,--by allowing you to conduct the search, which must be instituted
either by yourself or others.--In one word, Sir Robert Croyland, I
know all; and would serve you, if you would let me."

"You know all!" exclaimed Edith's father, in a dull, gloomy tone--"you
know all! she has told you, then! That explains it--that shows how she
retracted her consent--how she was willing to-day to sacrifice her
father. You have seen her--you have taught her her part!--Yes, she has
betrayed her parent's confidence."

Leyton could bear no more. Himself, he could have heard slandered
calmly; but he could not hear such words of her he loved: "It is
false!" he said; "she did not betray your confidence! She told me no
more than was needful to induce me to release her from bonds she was
too faithful and true to break. From her I have heard nothing
more--but from others I have heard all; and now, Sir Robert Croyland,
you have chosen your part, I have but to call in those who must lay
the required information. Our duty must be done, whatever be the
consequences; and as you reject the only means of saving yourself from
much grief--though, I trust, not the danger you apprehend--we must act
without you;" and he rose and walked towards the door.

"Stay, Leyton--stay!" cried Sir Robert Croyland, catching him eagerly
by the arm--"yet a moment--yet a moment. You say you know all. Do you
know all?--all?--everything?"

"All!--everything!" answered Leyton, firmly; "every word that was
spoken--every deed that was done--more than you know yourself."

"Then, at least, you know I am innocent," said the old man.

A calm but grave serenity took the place, on Sir Henry Leyton's
countenance, of the impetuous look with which he had last spoken.
"Innocent," he said, "of intentional murder; but not innocent of rash
and unnecessary anger; and, oh! Sir Robert Croyland--if I must say
it--most culpable in the consequences which you have suffered to flow
from one hasty act. Mark me; and see the result!--Your own dear child,
against your will, is in the hands of a man whom you hate and abhor.
You are anxious to make her the wife of a being you condemn and
despise! The child of the man that your own hand slew, is now lying a
corpse, murdered by him to whom you would give your daughter! Your own
life is----"

"What, Kate!--Kate Clare!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland, with a
sudden change coming over his countenance--"murdered by Richard
Radford!"

"By his own hand, after the most brutal usage," replied Leyton.

Sir Robert Croyland sprang to the bell, and rang it violently, then
threw open the door and called aloud--"My horse!--my horse!--saddle my
horse!--If it cost me land and living, life and honour, she shall be
avenged!" he added, turning to Leyton, and raising his head erect, the
first time for many years. "It is over--the folly, and the weakness,
and crime, are at an end. I have been bowed and broken; but there is a
spark of my former nature yet left. I vowed to God in Heaven, that I
would ever protect and be a father to that child, as an atonement--as
some--some compensation, however small; and I will keep my vow."

"Oh! Sir Robert," cried Leyton, taking his hand and pressing it in
his, "be ever thus, and how men will love and venerate you!"

The barrier was broken down--the chain which had so long bound him was
cast away; and Sir Robert returned Leyton's grasp with equal warmth.
"Harry," he said, "I have done you wrong; but I will do so no more. I
was driven--I was goaded along the road to all evil, like a beast
driven to the slaughter. But you have done wrong, too, young
man--yours was the first offence."

"It was," answered Leyton--"I own it--I did do wrong; and I will make
no excuse, though youth, and love as true as ever man felt, might
afford some. But let me assure you, that I have been willing to make
reparation--I have been willing to sacrifice all the brightest hope of
years to save you, even now. I assured Edith that I would, when she
told me the little she could venture to tell; but it was her misery
that withheld me--it was the life-long wretchedness, to which she was
doomed if I yielded, that made me resist. Nothing else on earth should
have stopped me; but now, Sir Robert, the prospect is more clear for
you."

"Nay, do not speak of that," replied Sir Robert Croyland; "I will
think of it no more--I have now chosen my path; and I will pursue it,
without looking at the consequences to myself. Let them come when they
must come; for once in life, I will do what is just and right."

"And by so doing, my dear sir, you will save yourself," answered
Leyton. "Moved by revenge--with no doubt whatsoever of his
motive--after a concealment of six years, this base man's accusation
will be utterly valueless. Your bare statement of the real
circumstances will be enough to dissipate every cloud. I shall require
that all his papers be seized; and I have many just reasons for
wishing that they should be in your hands."

"I understand you, Harry, and I thank you," said Sir Robert Croyland;
"but with my present feelings I would not----"

"You do not understand me fully, Sir Robert," replied Leyton. "I wish
you only to act as you will find just, right, and honourable, and wait
for the result. It will be, or I am much mistaken, more favourable to
you, personally, than you imagine. Now, as you have decided on the
true and upright course, let us lose no time in carrying it into
execution. I will call in the men who have to lay the information; and
when you have received it, I will place before you depositions which
will justify the most vigorous measures against both father and son.
In regard to the latter, I must act under your authority in my
military capacity, as I have no civil power there; but in regard to
the former, I am already called upon, by the officers of the revenue,
to aid them in entering his house by force, and searching it
thoroughly."

"Call them in, Harry--call them in!" replied Sir Robert Croyland;
"every man is justified by the law in apprehending a murderer. But you
shall have full authority.--Kate Clare!--How could this have
happened?"

"I will explain, as we ride on," answered Leyton, going to the door;
and speaking to one of the servants who was standing in the hall, he
added, "Desire Mr. Mowle to walk in, and bring the boy with him."

In another minute, Mowle entered the room with another man, holding by
the arm the boy Ray, whom the smugglers had chosen to denominate
Little Starlight. He came, apparently, unwillingly; for though ever
ready, for money, to spy and to inform secretly, he had a great
abhorrence of being brought publicly forward; and when on coming to
Mowle that evening with more information--he was detained and told he
must go before a magistrate, he had made every possible effort to
escape.

He was now somewhat surprised, on being brought forward after Mowle
had laid the information, to find that he was not questioned upon any
point affecting the smuggling transactions which had lately taken
place, as the evidence upon that subject was sufficient without his
testimony. But in regard to the proceedings of young Radford, and to
the place where he was concealed, he was interrogated closely. It was
all in vain, however. To obtain a straightforward answer from him was
impossible; and although Mowle repeated distinctly that the boy had
casually said, the murderer of poor Kate Clare had gone to his
father's house, Little Starlight lied and prevaricated at every word,
and impudently, though not unskilfully attempted to put another
meaning on his previous admission.

As time was wearing away, however, Sir Henry Leyton, at length,
interposed--"I think it is unnecessary, Sir Robert," he said, "to push
this inquiry further at present. As the whole house and premises must
be searched on other grounds, we shall discover the villain if he is
there. Mr. Mowle and I have adopted infallible means, I think, to
prevent his escaping from any point of the coast; and the magistrates
at every port were this evening furnished with such information that,
if they act with even a moderate degree of ability, he must be taken."

"Besides, sir," rejoined Mowle, "the frigate has come round; and she
will take care that, with this wind, not a boat big enough to carry
him over shall get out. We had better set out, your worship, if you
please; for if old Radford gets an inkling of what is going on, he
will double upon us some way."

"I am quite ready," said Sir Robert Croyland. "I will call my clerk to
accompany us as we go, in case of any further proceedings being
necessary. We must pass through the village where he lives."

With a firm step he moved towards the door; and, strange as it may
seem, though for six years, while supposing he was taking the only
means of self-preservation, he had lived in constant terror and
anxiety, he felt no fear, no trepidation now, when he had determined
to do what was right at every personal risk. An enfeebling spell
seemed to have been taken off his mind; and the lassitude of doubt and
indecision was gone. But such is almost always the result, even upon
the nerves of our corporeal frame, of a strong effort of mental
energy. It is one thing certainly to resolve, and another to do; but
the very act of resolution, if it be sincerely exerted, affords a
degree of vigour, which is sure to produce as great results as the
means at our disposal can accomplish. Energetic determination will
carry men through things that seem impossible, as a bold heart will
carry them over Alps, that, viewed from their base, appear
insurmountable.

Sir Robert Croyland did not venture into the drawing-room before he
went; but he told the butler, who was waiting in the hall, to inform
Sir Edward Digby and the family that he had been called away on
business, and feared he should not return till a late hour; and having
left this message, he went out upon the terrace. He found there a
number of persons assembled, with some twenty or thirty of the
dragoons. Five or six officers of the Customs were present, besides
Mowle; but the darkness was too great to admit of their faces being
seen; and Sir Robert Croyland mounted without speaking to any one. Sir
Henry Leyton paused for an instant to give orders, that the boy should
be taken back to Woodchurch, and kept there under a safe guard. He
then spoke a few words to Digby's servant, Somers, and springing on
his horse placed himself at Sir Robert Croyland's side.

The night was as dark as either of the two which had preceded it; the
same film of cloud covered the sky; not a star was to be seen; the
moon was far below the horizon; and slowly the whole party moved on,
two and two abreast, through the narrow lanes and tortuous roads of
that part of the country. It halted for a minute in the nearest
village, while Sir Robert Croyland stopped at his clerk's house, and
directed him to follow as fast as possible to Mr. Radford's; and then,
resuming their march, the dragoons, and those who accompanied them,
wound on for between four or five miles further, when, as they turned
the angle of a wood, some lights, apparently proceeding from the
windows of a house half way up a gentle <DW72>, were seen shining out
in the midst of the darkness.

"Halt!" said Sir Henry Leyton; and before he proceeded to give his
orders, for effectually surrounding the house and grounds of Mr.
Radford, he gazed steadfastly for a moment or two upon the building
which contained her who was most dear to him, and whose heart he well
knew was at that moment wrung with the contention of many a painful
feeling. "I promised her I would bring her aid, dear girl," he
thought, "and so I have.--Thanks be to God, who has enabled me!"

Sir Robert Croyland, too, gazed--with very different feelings, it is
true, but still with a stern determination that was not shaken in the
least. It seemed, when he thought of Kate Clare, that he was atoning
to the spirit of the father, by seeking to avenge the child; and the
whole tale of her wrongs and death, which he had heard from Leyton, as
they came, had raised the desire of so doing almost to an enthusiasm.
Human passions and infirmities, indeed, will mingle with our best
feelings; and as he gazed upon Mr. Radford's house, and remembered all
that he had endured for the last six years, he said to himself, with
some bitterness, "That man shall now taste a portion of the same cup
he has forced upon others."

Sir Henry Leyton woke from his reverie sooner than his companion; and
turning his horse, he spoke for a few moments with Mowle, somewhat
longer with another person wrapped in a dark horseman's coat behind,
and then gave various distinct orders to the dragoons, who immediately
separated into small parties, and, taking different roads, placed
themselves in such positions as to command every approach to the
house. Then riding forward with Sir Robert Croyland, the officers of
Customs, and one or two soldiers, he turned up the little avenue which
led from the road, consulting with Edith's father as he went. At about
a couple of hundred yards from the house he paused, turning his head
and saying to Mowle, "You had better, I think, all dismount; and,
making fast the horses, get behind the nearest laurels and evergreens,
while Sir Robert and I ride on alone, and ask admission quietly. When
the door is opened, you can come up and make yourselves masters of the
servants till the search is over. I do not anticipate any resistance;
but if the young man be really here, it may be made."

He then rode on with the baronet at a quicker pace, the noise of their
horses' feet, as they trotted on and approached the great doors,
covering the sound of the movements of the party they left behind.

The house, to which the actual possessor had given the name of Radford
Hall, was an old-fashioned country mansion, and presented, like many
another building at that time, several large, iron hooks, standing out
from the brickwork on each side of the doorway, on which it was
customary for visitors on horseback to hang their rein while they rang
the bell, or till a servant could be called to take them to the
stable. Sir Robert Croyland was acquainted with this peculiarity
of the house, though Leyton was not, and he whispered to his
companion--"Let us hook up our horses, before we ring."

This was accordingly done; and then taking the long iron handle
of the bell, Leyton pulled it gently. A minute or two after, a step
sounded in the hall, and a servant appeared--a stout, red-faced,
shrewd-looking fellow, who at first held the great door only half
open. As soon, however, as he saw Sir Robert Croyland's face, he threw
it back, replying, in answer to the baronet's question as to whether
Mr. Radford was at home, "Yes, Sir Robert, he has been home this
hour."

Leyton had stood back, and, in the darkness, the man did not see him,
or took him for a groom; but when the young officer advanced, and the
uniform of the dragoon regiment became apparent, Mr. Radford's servant
suddenly stretched his hand towards the door again, as if about to
throw it violently to. But Leyton's strong grasp was on his shoulder
in a moment. "You are my prisoner," he said, in a low tone; "not a
word--not a syllable, if you would not suffer for it. No harm will
happen to you, if you are only quiet."

At the same moment, Mowle and the rest came running across the lawn,
and, giving the man into their hands, Leyton entered the house with
Sir Robert Croyland.




                             CHAPTER XI.


About an hour before the event took place, which we have last related,
Edith Croyland sat in a small drawing-room at the back of Mr.
Radford's house, in which she had been kept captive--for we may well
use that term--ever since her removal from Mr. Croyland's. Her first
day had been spent in tears and indignation; for immediately after her
arrival, on finding that her father was not really there, she became
convinced that she had been deceived, and naturally doubted that it
was with his consent she had been removed. Nor had Mr. Radford's
manner at all tended to do away with this impression. He laughed at
her remonstrances and indignation, treated her tears with cold
indifference, and told his servants, before her face, that she was on
no account to be suffered to go out, or to see any one but Sir Robert
Croyland. In other respects, he treated her well--did all in his power
to provide for her comfort; and, as his whole establishment was
arranged upon a scale of luxury and extravagance rarely met with in
the old country houses of the gentry of that time, none of the
materials of that which is commonly called comfort were wanting.

But it was the comfort of the heart which Edith required, and did not
find. Mr. Radford handed her down to dinner himself, and with as much
ceremonious politeness as he could show, seated her at the end of his
ostentatious table: but Edith did not eat. She retired at night to the
downy bed prepared for her: but Edith did not sleep. Thus passed the
first day and the morning of the second; and when, about noon, Sir
Robert Croyland arrived, he found her pale and wan with anxiety and
watching; and he left her paler still; for he resisted all her
entreaties to take her thence; and her last hope of relief was gone.

He had spoken kindly--tenderly, indeed; he had even shed tears; but
his mind at the time of his visit was still in a state of suspense,
irritated by injuries and insult, but not yet roused by indignation to
dare the worst that Mr. Radford could do; and, though he heard her
express her determination never to marry Richard Radford unless set
free from her vows to Henry Leyton, without remonstrance, only begging
her to keep that resolution secret till the last moment, yet, with the
usual resource of weakness, he sought to postpone the evil hour by
seeming to enter into all his enemy's views.

Thus had passed Edith's time; and it is unnecessary to enter into a
more detailed account of her thoughts and feelings previous to the
period we have mentioned--namely, one hour before the arrival of her
father and Henry Leyton at the door of the house. She was sitting,
then, in that small back drawing-room, with her fair cheek leaning on
her hand, her eyes bent down upon the table, and her mind busy with
the present and the future. "It is foolish," she thought, "thus to
alarm myself. No harm can happen. They dare not show me any violence;
and no clergyman in England will venture to proceed with the service
against my loud dissent. My uncle, and Leyton too, must soon hear of
this, and will interfere.--I will not give way to such terrors any
more."

As she thus meditated, she heard a rapid step upon the great stairs;
and the next moment Mr. Radford entered--booted, spurred, and dusty,
as from a journey, and with a heavy horsewhip in his hand. His face
betrayed more agitation than she had ever seen it display. There
was a deep line between his brows, as if they had been long bent into
such a frown, that they could not readily be smoothed again. His long
upper-lip was quivering with a sort of impatient vehemence that would
not be restrained; and his eye was flashing, as if under the influence
of some strong passion.

"Well, Miss Croyland," he said, throwing his horsewhip down upon the
table, and casting himself into a chair, "I hope they have made you
comfortable during my absence?"

Edith merely bowed her head, without reply.

"Well, that's civil!" cried Mr. Radford; "but I think every body is
going mad, and so it is no wonder that women do! Miss Croyland, I have
a piece of news for you--there's going to be a wedding in our house,
to-night!"

Still Edith was silent, and looked towards the fire.

"I tell you of the fact," continued Mr. Radford, "because it may be
necessary for you to make some little preparation for your journey. I
don't know whether you hear or not; but you are to be married to my
son, to-night. It is now nine; the clergyman and Richard will be here
by eleven; and the marriage will take place half an hour before
twelve. So you have two hours and a half to prepare."

"You are mistaken altogether, Mr. Radford," replied Edith, in as firm
a tone as she could assume. "It is not my intention to marry your son
at all. I have often told you so--I now repeat it."

"You do, do you!" exclaimed Mr. Radford, giving her a furious glance
across the table; "then I will tell you something, young woman. Your
consent was given to your father; and I will have no trifling
backwards and forwards. Circumstances have arisen to-day--curses be
upon them all!--which render it necessary that the marriage should
take place four-and-twenty hours before it was first fixed, and it
shall take place, by----!" and he added a terrible oath.

"You will find it will not take place, Mr. Radford," replied Edith, in
the same tone as before, "for, in the first place, I never did
consent. My father left me fainting, without waiting to hear what I
had to say, or he would not have so deceived himself."

"Then he shall die the death of a felon," cried Mr. Radford, "and you
yourself shall be the person to put the rope round his neck."

"Whatever be the consequences, I shall be firm," replied Edith; "but
at the same time, let me tell you, I do not believe you have the power
you suppose. You may bring a false accusation--an accusation you know
to be false; but such things are never so well prepared but they are
discovered at last; and so it will be in your case."

"A false accusation!" exclaimed Mr. Radford vehemently--"an accusation
I know to be false! I'll soon show you that, girl;" and starting up
from his seat, he hurried out of the room.

Contrary to Edith's expectation, Mr. Radford was absent for a long
time; but when he returned he had several papers in his hand, some
apparently freshly written, and one which bore the yellow marks of
age. His face was stern and resolute, but displayed less excitement
than when he left her. He entered with a slow step, leaving the door
partly open behind him, seated himself, and gazed at her for a moment,
then spread out the small yellow paper on the table, but held his hand
tight upon the lower part, as if he feared she might snatch it up and
destroy it.

"There, look at that, Miss Croyland!" he said; "you spoke of false
accusations; look at that, and be ashamed of bringing them yourself."

Edith gave a glance towards it with a sensation of awe, but did not
attempt to read it. Her eye rested upon the words, "Deposition
of--" and upon a stain of blood at the bottom of the page, and she
turned away with a shudder. "I have heard of it before," she answered,
"yet every word in it may be false."

"False, or not false," replied Mr. Radford, "it sends your father to
gaol to-morrow, and to the gallows a month after--if you do not
instantly sign that!" and he laid another freshly written page open
before her.

Edith took it in her hand, and read--"I hereby consent and promise,
when called upon, to marry Richard Radford, junior, Esquire, the son
of Richard Radford, of Radford Hall."

"You have your choice, Miss Croyland," continued her persecutor, in a
low and bitter tone, "either to save your father, or to put him to
death with your own hands; for I swear, by all that I hold sacred,
that if you do not instantly sign that paper--ay, and fulfil its
engagement, I will send off this deposition to the bench of
magistrates, with the letter I have just written, giving an account of
all the circumstances, and explaining how, out of weak kindness and
friendship for Sir Robert Croyland, I have been prevailed upon to keep
back the information until now. Do not deceive yourself, and think
that his fortune or his station will save him. A peer of the realm has
been hanged before now for the murder of his own servant. Neither must
you suppose that upon that deposition alone rests the proof of his
guilt. There was other evidence given at the Coroner's inquest, all
bearing upon the same point, which requires but this light, to be made
plain. The threats your father previously used, the falsehoods he told
regarding where he had been--all these things can be proved, for I
have taken care to preserve that evidence."

"That was like a friend, indeed!" murmured Edith; "but such are the
friendships of the world."

"I am acting like a friend to you, Miss Croyland," rejoined Mr.
Radford, apparently neither touched nor hurt by her words, "in letting
you see clearly your father's situation, while I give you the
opportunity of saving him if you will. Do as you please--there is the
paper. Sign it if you like; but sign it quickly; for this night brings
all tergiversation to an end. I will have no more of it; and five
minutes decides your father's life or death. Do not say I do it. It is
you. His pardon is before you. You have nothing to do but to put your
name. If you do not, you sign his death warrant!"

"Five minutes!" said Edith, with her heart beating violently.

"Ay, five minutes," answered Mr. Radford, who saw, from the wild look
of her beautiful eyes, and the ashy paleness of her cheek and lips,
how powerfully he had worked upon her--"five minutes, no longer;" and
he laid his watch upon the table. Then, turning somewhat
ostentatiously to a small fixed writing-desk, which stood near, he
took up a stick of sealing-wax, and laid it down beside the letter he
had written, as if determined not to lose a moment beyond the period
he had named.

Edith gazed upon the paper for an instant, agitated and trembling
through her whole frame; but her eye fell upon the name of Richard
Radford. His image rose up before her, recalling all the horror that
she felt whenever he was in her presence; then came the thought of
Leyton, and of her vows to him yet uncancelled. "Richard Radford!" she
said to herself--"Richard Radford!--marry him--vow that I will love
him--call God to witness, when I know I shall abhor him more and
more--when I love another? I cannot do it--I will not do it!" and she
pushed the paper from her, saying, aloud, "No, I will not sign it!"

"Very well," said Mr. Radford--"very well. Your parent's blood be upon
your head;" and he proceeded to fold up slowly the deposition he had
shown her, in the letter he had written. But he stopped in the midst;
and then, abandoning the calm, low tone, and stern but quiet demeanour
which he had lately used, he started up, striking the table violently
with his hand, and exclaiming, in a loud and angry tone, "Wretched,
miserable girl, dare you bring upon your head the guilt of parricide?
What was the curse of Cain to that? How will you bear the day of your
father's trial--ay, how bear the day of his death--the lingering agony
of his imprisonment--the public shame of the court of justice--the
agony of the gallows and the cord?--the proud Sir Robert Croyland
become the gaze of hooting boys, the spectacle of the rude multitude,
expiring, through his daughter's fault, by the hand of the common
hangman! Ay, think of it all, for in another minute it will be too
late! Once gone from my hand, this paper can never be recalled."

Edith uttered a faint cry; but at the same moment a voice behind Mr.
Radford said, "Nor can it, now!" and Sir Robert Croyland himself laid
his hand upon the papers.

Mr. Radford turned round fiercely, and was darting forward to seize
them from him; but he was held back by a more powerful arm; and the
baronet went on, in a voice grave and sad, but firm and strong--"Sir
Henry Leyton," he said, "I give these papers into your hands to do
with exactly as you may think right, as a man of honour, a gentleman,
and a respecter of the law. I ask not to hold them for one moment."

"Do not struggle, sir,--do not struggle!" cried Leyton, holding Mr.
Radford fast by the collar--"you are a prisoner."

"A prisoner!" exclaimed Mr. Radford. "What! in my own house--a
magistrate!"

"Anywhere, sir," answered Leyton; "and for the time, you are a
magistrate no longer.--Ho! without there!--send some one in!"

Edith had sunk down in her seat; for she knew not whether to rejoice
or grieve. The first feeling undoubtedly was joy; but the next was
bitter apprehension for her father. At first she covered her eyes with
her hands; for she thought to hear the terrible truth proclaimed
aloud; but when she looked up, Sir Robert Croyland's face was so calm,
so resolute, so unlike what it had ever appeared of late years, that
fear gave way to surprise, and surprise began to verge into hope. As
that bright flame arose again in her heart, she started up, and cast
herself upon her father's bosom, murmuring, while the tears flowed
rapidly from her eyes, "Are you safe--are you safe?"

"I know not, my dear child," replied Sir Robert Croyland; "but I am
now doing my duty, and that gives me strength."

In the meantime, a dragoon had appeared at the door, and as soon as
Mr. Radford beheld him, he exclaimed, "This is a base and infamous
plot to defeat the ends of justice. I understand it all: the military
power called in, right willingly, I have no doubt, to take away the
documents which prove that felon's guilt. But this shall be bitterly
repaid, and I hold you responsible, sir, for the production of these
papers."

"Certainly, Mr. Radford," replied Leyton, with a calm smile, "I will
be responsible. But as you object to the military power, we will hand
you over to the civil. Hart," he continued, speaking to the soldier,
"call up Mowle or Birchett, or any of the other officers, and let them
bring one of the constables with them, for this is not purely a case
for the Customs. Then tell Serjeant Shaw to bring on his men from the
back, as I directed, seeing that nothing--not an inch of ground, not a
shed, not a tool-house, remains unexamined."

"Of what am I accused, sir, that you dare to pursue such a course in
my house?" demanded Mr. Radford.

"Of murder, sir," replied Sir Henry Leyton.

"Murder!" exclaimed Mr. Radford, and then burst into an affected
laugh.

"Yes, sir," replied the young officer; "and you may find it not so
much a jest as you suppose; for though the law, in consequence of the
practices of yourself and others, has slept long ineffective, it is
not dead. I say for murder! as an accessory before the fact, to the
armed resistance of lawful authority, in which his majesty's subjects
have been killed in the execution of their duty; and as an accessory
after the fact, in harbouring and comforting the actual culprits,
knowing them to be such."

Mr. Radford's countenance fell; for he perceived that the matter was
much more serious than he at first supposed. He trusted, indeed, from
the laxity with, which the law had lately been carried into execution,
that he might escape from the gravest part of the charge; but still,
if Sir Henry Leyton was in a condition to prove the participation of
which he accused him, in the crimes that had been committed, nothing
short of transportation for life could be anticipated. But he had
other sources of anxiety. His wretched son, he expected to present
himself every minute; and well aware of the foul deed which Richard
Radford had that morning perpetrated, and of his person having been
recognised, he was perfectly certain, that his apprehension would take
place. He would have given worlds to speak for a single instant with
one of his own servants; but none of them appeared; and while these
thoughts were passing rapidly through his brain, the officer Birchett
entered the room with a constable, and several other persons followed
them in. He was startled from his reverie, however, by Sir Henry
Leyton's voice demanding--"Have you brought handcuffs, constable?"

"Oh, ay, sir," answered the man, "I've got the bracelets."

"Good evening, Mr. Radford," said Birchett; "we have hold of you at
last, I fancy."

Mr. Radford was silent, and the young officer demanded, "Have you
found anything else, Birchett?"

"Oh yes, sir, plenty," answered Birchett, "and besides the run goods,
things enough to prove all the rest even if we had not proof
sufficient before--one of your own dragoon's swords, sir, that must
have been snatched up from some poor fellow who was killed. Corporal
Hart says, he thinks it belonged to a man named Green."

"Well, there is your prisoner," replied Leyton,--"you and the
constable must take care that he be properly secured. No unnecessary
harshness, I beg; but you know how rescue is sometimes attempted, and
escape effected. You had better remove him to another room; for we
must have all the papers and different articles of smuggled goods
brought hither."

"I protest against the whole of this proceeding," exclaimed Mr.
Radford, on whom the constable was now unceremoniously fixing a pair
of handcuffs, "and I beg every body will take notice of my protest.
This person, who is, I suppose, a military officer, is quite going
beyond his duty, and acting as if he were a civil magistrate."

"I am acting under the orders and authority of a magistrate, sir,"
replied Sir Henry Leyton, "and according to my instructions.--Dear
Edith," he continued, crossing over to her, and taking her hand as she
still clung to her father; for all that I have described had taken
place with great rapidity--"you had better go into another room till
this is over. We shall have some papers to examine, and I trust
another prisoner before the search is finished.--Had she not better
retire, Sir Robert?"

But Mr. Radford raised his voice again, as the constable was moving
him towards the door, exclaiming, "At all events, I claim my right to
witness all these extraordinary proceedings. It is most unjust and
illegal for you to seize and do what you will with my private papers,
in my absence."

"It is a very common occurrence," said Sir Henry Leyton, "in criminal
cases like your own."

"Let him remain--let him remain!" said Sir Robert Croyland. "He can
but interrupt us a little.--Oh, here is the clerk at last!--Now,
Edith, my love, you had better go; these are no scenes for you."

Leyton took her by the hand, and led her to the door, bending down his
head and whispering as he went, "Be under no alarm, dear girl. All
will go well."

"Are you sure, Harry--are you sure?" asked Edith, gazing anxiously in
his face.

"Certain," he replied; "your father's decision has saved him."

As he spoke, there was a violent ringing at the bell; and Mr. Radford
said to himself, "It is that unhappy boy; he will be taken, to a
certainty." But the next instant, he thought, "No--no, he would never
come to the front door. It must be some more of their party."

Sir Robert Croyland, in the meantime, seated himself at the end of the
table, and handed over a number of papers, which Leyton had given him
at his own house, to the clerk, who, by his direction, seated himself
near. "I have no objection, Mr. Radford," he said, turning to the
prisoner, "that you should hear read, if you desire it, the
depositions on which I have granted a warrant for your apprehension,
and, at the requisition of the officers of Customs, have authorized
your premises to be searched for the smuggled goods, a part of which
has been found upon them. The depositions are those of a man named
George Jones, since dead, and of Michael Scalesby, and Edward
Larchant, at present in the hands of justice; and the information is
laid by John Mowle and Stephen Birchett."

At the recital of the names of several of the men whom he himself had
furnished with arms and directions, Mr. Radford's heart sunk; but the
moment after, a gleam of bitter satisfaction sprang up in his breast,
as the door opened, and Mr. Zachary Croyland entered, exclaiming,
"How's this--how's this? I came to take a dove out of a hawk's nest,
and here I find the dogs unearthing a fox."

"I am very glad you are come, sir," replied Mr. Radford, before any
one else could speak; "for, though you are the brother of that person
sitting there, you are a man of honour, and an honest man----"

"More than I can say for you, Radford," grumbled Mr. Croyland.

"And, moreover, a magistrate for this county," continued Mr. Radford.

"I never act--I never act!" cried the old gentleman. "I never have
acted; I never will act."

"But in this case I shall insist upon your acting," said the prisoner;
"for your brother, who is now proceeding thus virulently against me,
does it to shield himself from a charge of murder, which he knew I was
about to bring against him."

"Fiddlesticks' ends!" cried Mr. Croyland. "This is what people call
turning the tables, I think. But it wont succeed with me, my good
friend. I am an old bird--a very old bird, indeed--and I don't like
chaff at all, Radford. If you have any charge to make against my
brother, you must make it where you are going. I'll have nothing to do
with it. I always knew him to be a fool; but never suspected him of
being anything else."

"At all events," said Mr. Radford, in a gloomy tone, "since simple
justice is denied me at all hands, I require that the papers which
have been seized in this house, be placed in proper hands, and duly
authenticated. The important evidence of the crime of which I charge
him, has been given by your brother, sir, to one who has but too great
an interest, I believe, to conceal or destroy it. I say it boldly,
those papers are not safe in the keeping of Sir Henry Leyton; and I
demand that they be given up, duly marked by the clerk, and signed by
myself, and some independent person."

Leyton's eyes flashed for a moment, at the insinuation which the
prisoner threw out; but he overcame his anger instantly, and took the
papers which had been handed him, from his pocket, saying, "I will
most willingly resign these documents, whatever they may be. Mr.
Croyland, this person seems to wish that you should keep them, rather
than myself; but here is another paper on the table, which may throw
some light upon the whole transaction;" and he took up the written
promise, which Mr. Radford had been urging Edith to sign--and on which
his own eyes had been fixed during the last few minutes--and handed
it, with the rest, to her uncle.

"Stay, stay a moment!" said Mr. Croyland, putting on his spectacles.
"I will be responsible for the safe keeping of nothing of which I do
not know the contents;" and he proceeded to read aloud the engagement
to wed Richard Radford, which Edith had rejected. "Ay, a precious
rascally document, indeed!" said the old gentleman, when he had
concluded; "written in the hand of the said Richard Radford, Esq.,
senior, and which, I suppose, Miss Croyland refused to sign under any
threats. Be so good as to put your name on that, at the back, Mr.
Clerk. I will mark it, too, that there be no mistake."

"And now, sir, since you have read the one, will you be good enough to
read the other?" exclaimed Mr. Radford, with a triumphant smile.
"Even-handed justice, if you please, Mr. Zachary Croyland; the
enclosure first, then the letter, if you will. I see there are a
multitude of persons present; I beg they will all attend."

"I will read it certainly," replied Mr. Croyland, drawing one of the
candles somewhat nearer. "It seems to be somewhat indistinct."

Sir Robert Croyland leaned his head upon his hand, and covered his
eyes; and several persons pressed forward, to hear what seemed of
importance--in the eyes of the prisoner, at least.

Mr. Croyland ran over the writing, as a preliminary to reading it
aloud; but, as he did so, his countenance fell, and he paused and
hesitated. The next moment, however, he exclaimed, "No, hang it! It
shall be read--'The deposition of William Clare, now lying at the
point of death, and with the full assurance that he has not many
minutes to live, made before Richard Radford, Esquire, J. P.; this
24th day of September, in the year of grace 17--;" and he proceeded to
read, with a voice occasionally wavering indeed, but in general firm
and clear, the formal setting forth of the same tale which the reader
has heard before, in the statement of Sir Robert Croyland to his
daughter.

His brother paused, and held the paper in his hand for a moment after
he had done, while Leyton, who had been standing close beside him,
bore a strange, almost sarcastic smile upon his lip, which strongly
contrasted with the sad and solemn expression of Mr. Croyland's
countenance.

"What is this great red blot just below the man's name?" asked the old
gentleman, at length, looking to Mr. Radford.

"That, sir," replied the prisoner, in a calm, grave tone, which had
much effect upon the hearers, "is the poor fellow's own blood, as I
held him up to sign the declaration. He had been pressing his right
hand upon the wound, and where it rested on the paper it gave that
bloody witness to the authenticity of the document."

There was something too fine in the reply, and Mr. Croyland repeated,
"Bloody witness!--authenticity of the document!"

But Leyton stretched out his hand, saying, "Will you allow me to look
at the paper, Mr. Croyland?" and then added, as soon as he received
it, "Can any one tell me whether William Clare was left-handed?"

"No!" replied Sir Robert Croyland, suddenly raising his head--"no, he
was not.--Why do you ask?"

"That I can answer for," said the constable, coming forward, "for he
carved the stock of a gun for me; and I know he never used his left
hand when he could use his right one."

"Why do you ask, Harry?--why do you ask?" exclaimed Mr. Croyland.

"Because, my dear sir," answered Leyton, aloud and clear, "this is the
print of the thumb of a man's right hand. To have made it at all, he
must have held the paper with his right, while he signed with his
left, and even then, he could have done it with difficulty, as it is
so near the signature, that his fingers would not have room to move;"
and as he ended, he fixed his eyes sternly on Mr. Radford's face.

The prisoner's countenance had changed several times while Sir Henry
Leyton spoke, first becoming fiery red, then deadly pale, then red
again.

"However it happened, so it was," he said, doggedly.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Croyland, sharply, "your evidence will fetch
what it is worth!--I hope, clerk, you have got down Mr. Radford's
statement."

"He has written the same down here, your worship," replied the man,
pointing to the letter in which the deposition had been enclosed, and
which, having been cast down by Mr. Zachary, had been busily read by
the clerk.

"Well, then, we will read that too," observed the old gentleman.
"Silence there!" he continued; for there was a good deal of noise at
the side of the room, as the different persons present conversed over
the events that were passing; "but first, we had better docket this
commodity which we have just perused. Mr. Clerk, will you have the
goodness to sign it also--on the back?"

"Stay," said a voice from behind the rest, "let me sign it first;" and
the man who had accompanied Leyton thither, wrapped in the dark
horseman's coat, advanced between Mr. Croyland and the clerk.

"Any one that likes--any one that likes," answered the former. "Ah, is
that you, my old friend?"

Both Mr. Radford and Sir Robert Croyland gazed, with looks of surprise
not unmingled with more painful feelings, on the countenance of Mr.
Warde, though each doubted his identity with one whom they had known
in former years. But, without noticing any one, the strange-looking
old man took the paper from the clerk, dipped the pen in the ink, and,
in a bold, free hand, wrote some words upon the back.

"Ha, what is this?" cried Mr. Croyland, taking the paper, and
reading--"An infamous forgery--Henry Osborn!"

"Villain, you are detected!" cried the person who has been called Mr.
Warde. "I wrote from a distant land to warn you, that I was present
when you knelt by William Clare--that I heard all--that I heard you
try to prompt the dying man to an accusation he would not make--that I
saw you stain the paper with his blood--ay, and sign it, too, after
life had quitted him--I wrote to warn you; for I suspected you, from
all I heard of your poor tool's changed conduct; and I gave you due
notice, that if you ceased not, the day of retribution would arrive.
It is come; and I am here, though you thought me dead! All your shifts
and evasions are at an end. There is no collusion here--there is no
personal interest. I have not conversed with that weak man for many
years--and he it was who persecuted my sister's husband unto death!"

"At his suggestion--from his threats!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland,
pointing with his hand to Mr. Radford.

"Take me away," said the prisoner, turning to the constable--"I am
faint--I am sick--take me away!"

Mr. Croyland nodded his head; and, supported by the constable and
Birchett, Mr. Radford was led into the adjoining room.

The scene that followed is indescribable. It was all confusion; every
one spoke at once; some strove to make themselves heard above the
rest; some seemed little to care whether they were heard or not; if
any man thought he could fix another's attention, he tried to converse
with him apart--many fixed upon the person nearest; but one or two
endeavoured to make others hear across the room; and all order and
common form were at an end.

I have said every one spoke; but I should have made one exception. Sir
Robert Croyland talked eagerly with his brother, and said a few low
words to Mr. Osborn; but Leyton remained profoundly silent for several
minutes. The din of many voices did not seem to disturb him; the
strange turn that events had taken, appeared to produce no surprise;
but he remained fixed to the same spot, with his eyes bent upon the
table, and his mind evidently absent from all that was passing round.
It was the abstraction of profound emotion; the power which the heart
sometimes exercises over the mind, in withdrawing all its perceptions
and its operative faculties from external things, to fix them
concentrated upon some great problem within. At length, however, a
sense of higher duties made him shake off the thoughts of his own fate
and situation--of the bright and glorious hopes that were rising out
of the previous darkness, like the splendour of the coming star after
a long night--of the dreams of love and joy at length--of the growing
light of "trust in the future," still faintly overshadowed by the dark
objects of the past. With a quick start, as if he had awakened from
sleep, he looked round, and demanded of one of the soldiers, many of
whom were in the room, "Have you found the person accused--Richard
Radford, I mean--has any one been taken in the premises and the house,
besides the servants?"

"Yes, sir, a person just arrived in a post-chaise," replied the
sergeant.

"We must have order, Sir Robert," continued Leyton, his powerful voice
rising above the din; "there is much more to be done! Clear the room
of your men, sergeant. They are not wanted here--but stay, I will
speak with Mr. Haveland;" and he went out, followed by the sergeant
and some half-dozen of the dragoons, who had accompanied their
non-commissioned officer into the room.

Leyton soon returned; but the precautions he had gone to enforce were
vain. The person who had arrived in the chaise, proved to be a
somewhat disreputable clergyman from a distant parish. Young Richard
Radford was not taken; another fate awaited him. A man, indeed, on
horseback, was seen to approach the grounds of Radford Hall towards
eleven o'clock; but the lights, that were apparent through many
windows, seemed to startle him, as he rode along the road. He paused
for a moment, and gazed, and then advanced more slowly; but the
eagerness of the small guard at that point, perhaps, frustrated their
object, for it is not certain to this day who the person was. When he
again halted, and seemed to hesitate, they dashed out after him; but
instantly setting spurs to his horse, he galloped off into the woods;
and knowing the country better than they did, he was soon lost to
their pursuit.

In the meantime, the result of the search in Mr. Radford's house was
made known, in a formal manner, to the party assembled in the small
drawing-room. Abundant evidence was found of his having been
implicated in all the most criminal parts of the late smuggling
transactions; and the business of the night concluded, by an order to
remand him, to be brought before the bench of magistrates on the
following day; for Sir Robert Croyland declined to commit him on his
own responsibility.

"He has preferred a charge against me," he said, in the same firm tone
he had lately assumed--"let us see whether he will sustain it
to-morrow."

Before all was concluded, it was near midnight; and then every one
rose to depart. Mr. Croyland eagerly asked for Edith, saying he would
convey her home in his carriage; but Leyton interposed, replying, "We
will bring her to you in a moment, my dear friend.--Sir Robert, it may
be as well that you and I should seek Miss Croyland alone. I think I
saw her maid below."

"Certainly," answered her father, "let us go, my dear Henry, for it is
growing very late."

Mr. Croyland smiled, saying, "Well, well, so be it;" and the other two
left the room. They found Edith, after some search, seated in the
dining hall. She looked pale and anxious; but the expression of
Leyton's face relieved her of her worst apprehensions--not that it was
joyful; for there was a touch of sadness in it; but she knew that his
aspect could not be such, if her father's life were in any real
danger.

Leyton advanced towards her at once, even before her father, took her
hand in his, and kissed it tenderly. "I told you, dearest Edith," he
said, "that I would bring you aid; and I have, thank God, been able to
redeem that promise; but now I have another task to perform. Your
father's safety is placed beyond doubt--his innocence made clear; and
your happiness, beloved one, is not sacrificed. The chance of
endangering that happiness was the only cause of my not doing what,
perhaps, you desired for his sake--what I do now. Sir Robert Croyland,
I did wrong in years long past--in boyhood and the intemperance of
youthful love and hope--by engaging your daughter to myself by vows,
which she has nobly though painfully kept. As an atonement to you, as
a satisfaction to my own sense of right, I now, as far as in me lies,
set her free from those engagements, leaving to her own self how she
will act, and to you how you will decide. Edith, beloved, you are
free, as far as I can make you so; and, Sir Robert, I ask your
forgiveness for the wrong act I once committed."

Edith Croyland turned somewhat pale, and looked at her father
earnestly; but Sir Robert did not answer for a moment.--Was it that he
hesitated?--No; but there was an oppressive weight at his heart, when
he thought of all that he had done--all that he had inflicted, not
only on the man before him, but on others guiltless of all offence,
which seemed almost to stop its beating. But at length, he took
Edith's hand and put it in Leyton's, saying, in a low, tremulous
voice, "She is yours, Henry--she is yours; and, oh, forgive the father
for the daughter's sake!"




                             CHAPTER XII.


There was a solitary light in an upstairs window of Farmer Harris's
house; and, by its dim ray, sat Harding the smuggler, watching the
inanimate form of her upon whom all the strong affections of his heart
had been concentrated. No persuasions could induce him to entrust "the
first watch," as he called it, to others; and there he sat, seldom
taking his eyes from that pale but still beautiful countenance, and
often stooping over to print a kiss upon the cold and clay-like
forehead of the dead. His tears were all shed: he wept not--he spoke
not; but the bitterness which has no end was in his heart, and, with a
sleepless eye, he watched through the livelong night. It was about
three o'clock in the morning, when a hard knocking was heard at the
door of the farm; and, without a change of feature, Harding rose and
went down in the dark. He unlocked the door, and opened it, when a
hand holding a paper was thrust in, and instantly withdrawn, as
Harding took the letter.

"What is this?" he said; but the messenger ran away without reply; and
the smuggler returned to the chamber of death.

The paper he had taken was folded in the shape of a note, but neither
sealed nor addressed; and, without ceremony, Harding opened it, and
read. It was written in a free, good hand, which he recognised at
once, with rage and indignation all the more intense because he
restrained them within his own breast. He uttered not a word; his face
betrayed, only in part, the workings of strong passion within him. It
is true, his lip quivered a little, and his brow became contracted,
but it soon relaxed its frown; and, without oath or comment--though
very blasphemous expletives were then tolerated in what was called the
best society, and were prevalent amongst all the inferior classes,--he
proceeded to read the few lines which the letter contained, and which
something--perhaps the emotions he felt--had prevented him from seeing
distinctly at first.

The epistle was, as we have seen, addressed to no one, and was drawn
up, indeed, more in the form of a general notice than anything else.
Many, of nearly the same import, as was afterwards discovered, had
been delivered at various farm-houses in the neighbourhood; but, as
all were in substance the same, one specimen will suffice.

"We give you to know," so the letter ran, "that, unless Edward Ramley
and his two comrades are set free before daylight to-morrow, we will
come to Goudhurst, and burn the place. Neither man, woman, nor child,
shall escape. We are many--more than you think--and you know we will
keep our word. So look to it, if you would escape--

                                  "Vengeance!"


Harding approached the bed, with the letter in his hand, gazed
steadfastly upon the corpse for several minutes, and then, without a
word, quitted the room. He went straight to the chamber which Farmer
Harris and his wife now occupied, and knocked sharply at the door,
exclaiming, "Harris--Harris! I want to speak with you!"

The good farmer was with difficulty roused; for though no man felt
more warmly, or, indeed, more vehemently, yet the corporeal had its
full share with the mental; and when the body was fatigued with more
than its ordinary portion of labour, the mind did not keep the whole
being waking. At length, however, he came out, still drowsy, and
taking the letter, gazed on it by the light of the candle, "with lack
lustre eye!" But Harding soon brought him to active consciousness, by
saying, "They threaten to burn the village, Harris, unless the
murderers be suffered to escape. I am going up to the church, where
they are kept.--Wake some one to sit up-stairs.--I will die before a
man of them goes out."

"And so will I," cried Harris; "let me see--let me see! My heart's
asleep still, but I'll soon wake up. Why, where the mischief did this
come from?" and he read the letter over again, with more comprehension
of its contents. When he had done, he swore vehemently, "They shall
find that the men of Goudhurst can match them," he cried; "but we must
set about it quick, Harding, and call up all the young men.--They will
come, that is certain; for the devil himself has not their impudence;
but they must be well received when they do come. We'll give them a
breakfast, Harding, they shan't forget. It shall be called the
Goudhurst breakfast, as long as men can remember. Stay, I'll just put
on my coat, and get out the gun and the pistols--we shall want as many
of those things as we can muster. I'll be back in a minute."

From that hour till five o'clock, the little village of Goudhurst was
all alive. Intimation of the danger was sent to all the neighbouring
farmers; every labouring man was roused from his bed with directions
to meet the rest in the church-yard; and there, as the sky became
grey, a busy scene was displayed, some sixty stout men being assembled
before the porch, most of them armed with old muskets or fowling
pieces. Amongst those to whom age or habitual authority assigned the
chief place, an eager consultation went on as to their proceedings;
and though there was, as is generally the case in such meetings, a
great difference upon many points, yet three acts were unanimously
decided upon; first, to send all the women and children out of the
village--next, to despatch a messenger to Woodchurch for military
aid--and, next, to set about casting bullets immediately, as no shot
larger than slugs were to be found in the place.

The reader will probably ask, with a look of surprise, "Is this a
scene in North America, where settlers were daily exposed to the
incursions of the savages?"--and he may add, "This could not have
happened in England!" But I beg to say, this happened in the county of
Kent, less than a century ago; and persons are still living, who
remember having been sent with the women and children out of the
village, that the men might not be impeded by fear for those they
loved, while defending the spot on which they were born.

A fire of wood was speedily lighted by some of the men in the
church-yard; others applied themselves, with what moulds could be
procured, to the casting of ball; others, again, woke the still
slumbering inhabitants of the cottages and houses round, and warned
the women to remove to the neighbouring farms, and the men to come and
join their friends at the rendezvous; and a few of the best instructed
proceeded to arrange their plan of defence, barricading the gates of
the cemetery, and blocking up a stile, which at that time led from the
right hand wall, with an old grave-stone, against which they piled up
a heap of earth.

The vestry, in which the prisoners had been confined--after having
been brought from Mr. Broughton's at too late an hour to convey them
to gaol--was luckily protected by strong iron bars over the windows,
and a heavy plated door between it and the church; and the old tower
of the building afforded a strong point in the position of the
villagers, which they flattered themselves could not easily be forced.

"How many men do you think they can muster, Harding?" asked Farmer
Harris, when their first rude preparations were nearly complete.

"I can but guess," answered the smuggler; "perhaps two hundred. They
had more than that in the Marsh, of whom I hear some fifty were taken
or killed; but a good many were not there, who may, and will be here
to-day--old Ramley for one, I should think."

"Then we had better get into the church when they come," replied the
farmer; "they cannot force us there till the soldiers come."

"Did you send for them?" asked Harding.

"Oh, yes," answered the farmer, "half-an-hour ago. I sent the young
boy, who would be of no good here, on the pony; and I told him to let
Sir Robert know, as he passed; for I thought the soldiers might not
meddle if they had not a magistrate with them."

"Very well," replied Harding, and set himself to work away again.

Six o'clock was now past, seven approached and went by; the hand of
the dial moved half-way on to eight, and yet nothing indicated the
approach of the smugglers. In a few minutes after, however, the sound
of horses' feet galloping was heard; and a young man, who had been
placed in the belfry to look out, shouted down to those below, "Only
two!" and the next moment a horseman in military half dress, with a
servant behind him, rode up at speed to the principal entrance of the
church-yard.

"I am come to help you, my men," cried Sir Edward Digby, springing to
the ground, and giving his rein to his servant--"Will you let us in to
your redoubt? The dragoons will soon be over; I sent your messenger
on."

"Perhaps, sir, you may have your trouble for your pains, after all,"
answered young Harris, opening the gate, to let Digby and his horses
in; "the fellows have not shown themselves, and very likely wont
come."

"Oh, yes, they will," said the young baronet, advancing amongst
them, and looking round on every side, "I saw a long line of men on
horseback moving over the hill as I came. Put the horses under cover
of that shed, Somers. You should cut down those thick bushes near the
wall. They will conceal their movements.--Have you any axes?"

"Here is one," cried a young man, and immediately he set to work,
hewing down the shrubs and bushes to which Digby pointed.

In the meantime, the young officer ran over the groups with his eye,
calculating their numbers, and at length he said: "You had better
confine yourselves to defending the church--you are not enough to meet
them out here. I counted a hundred and fifty, and there may be more.
Station your best marksmen at the windows and on the roof of the
tower, and put a few stout resolute fellows to guard the door in case
these scoundrels get nearer than we wish them. As we all act upon our
own responsibility, however, we had better be cautious, and abstain
from offensive measures, till they are absolutely necessary for the
defence of ourselves and the security of the prisoners. Besides, if
they are kept at bay for some time, the dragoons will take them in
flank, and a good number may be captured."

"We can deal with them ourselves," said the voice of Harding, in a
stern tone. He had been standing by, listening, in grave silence, with
a gun in his hand, which he had borrowed at farmer Harris's; and now,
as soon as he had spoken, he turned away, walked into the church, and
climbed to the roof of the tower. There, after examining the priming
of the piece, he seated himself coolly upon the little parapet, and
looked out over the country. The moment after, his voice was heard,
calling from above--"They are coming up, Harris!--Tell the officer."

Sir Edward Digby had, in the meantime, advanced to the gates to
insure that they were securely fastened; but he heard what Harding
said, and turning his head, exclaimed--"Go into the church; and
garnish the windows with marksmen, as I said! I will be with you in a
moment.--Here, Somers, help me here for a moment. They will soon pull
this down;" and he proceeded calmly to fasten the barricade more
strongly. Before he had accomplished this to his satisfaction, men on
horseback were seen gathering thick in the road, and on the little
open space in front; but he went on without pausing to look at them,
till a loud voice exclaimed--"What are you about there?--Do you intend
to give the men up, or not?"

Sir Edward Digby then raised his head, and replied: "Certainly
not!--Oh, Mr. Richard Radford--you will have the goodness to remark
that, if you advance one step towards these gates, or attempt to pass
that wall, you will be fired on from the church."

While he was speaking, he took a step back, and then walked slowly
towards the building, making his servant go first; but half-way
thither he paused, and turning towards the ruffians congregated at a
little distance from the wall, he added aloud, addressing Richard
Radford--"You had better tell your gang what I say, my good friend,
for they will find we will keep our word."

As he spoke, some one from the mass fired a pistol at him; but the
ball did not take effect, and Digby raised his hand, waving to those
in the church not to fire, and at the same time hurrying his pace a
little till he had passed the door and ordered it to be shut.

"They have now fair warning," he said to one of the young Harris's,
who was on guard at the door; "but I will go up above and call to you
when I think anything is necessary to be done.--Remember, my good
fellows, that some order must be kept; and as you cannot all be at the
windows, let those who must stand back, load while the rest fire."

Thus saying, he mounted to the top of the tower with a quick step, and
found Harding and five others on the roof. The horsemen in front of
the church, were all gathered together at a little distance, and
seemed in eager consultation; and amongst them the figures of young
Radford and the two Ramleys, father and son, were conspicuous from the
vehement gestures that they made--now pointing to the top of the
tower, now to the wall of the churchyard.

"I think we could bring a good many down as they stand now," said
young William Harris, moving his gun towards his shoulder, as if the
inclination to fire were almost irresistible.

"Stay--stay! not yet," replied Sir Edward Digby; "let it be clearly in
our own defence. Besides, you must remember these are but fowling
pieces. At that distance, few shots would tell."

"One shall tell, at least, before this day is over," said Harding, who
had remained seated, hardly looking at the party without. "Something
tells me, I shall have vengeance this day."

"Hallo! they are going to begin!" cried another man; and the same
moment, the gang of miscreants spread out, and while some advanced on
horseback towards the wall, at least fifty, who were armed with guns,
dismounted and aimed deliberately at the tower and the windows.

"Down with your heads behind the parapet!" cried Digby, though he did
not follow the caution himself; "no use of exposing your lives
needlessly. Down--down, Harding!"

But Harding sat where he was, saying, bitterly, "They'll not hit
me.--I know it--they've done worse already." As he spoke, a single gun
was fired, and then a volley, from the two sides of the churchyard
wall. One of the balls whizzed close by Sir Edward Digby's head, and
another struck the parapet near Harding; but neither were touched, and
the stout seaman did not move a muscle.

"Now up, and give it them back!" exclaimed Digby; and, speaking down
the trap that led to the stairs, he called to those below, "Fire now,
and pick them off!--Steadily--steadily!" he continued, addressing his
companions on the roof, who were becoming somewhat too much excited.
"Make every shot tell, if you can--a good aim--a good aim!"

"Here goes for one!" cried William Harris, aiming at Jim Ramley, and
hitting him in the thigh; and instantly, from the roof and the windows
of the church, blazed forth a sharp fire of musketry, which apparently
was not without severe effect; for the men who had dismounted were
thrown into great confusion, and the horsemen who were advancing
recoiled, with several of their horses plunging violently.

The only one on the roof who did not fire was Harding, and he remained
with his gun resting on the parapet beside him, gazing, with a stern,
dark brow, upon the scene.

"There are three down," cried one of the men, "and a lot of horses!"

But Richard Radford was seen gesticulating vehemently; and at length
taking off his hat, he waved it in the air, shouting, so loud that his
words reached those above, "I will show you the way, then; let every
brave man follow me!" And as he spoke he struck his spurs into his
horse's sides, galloped on, and pushed his beast at the low wall of
the churchyard.

The animal, a powerful hunter, which had been sent to him by his
father the day before, rose to the leap as if with pride. But just
then, Harding raised his gun, aimed steadily, and pulled the trigger.
The smoke for a moment obscured Digby's view; but the instant after he
saw Richard Radford falling headlong from the saddle, and his shoulder
striking the wall as the horse cleared it. The body then fell over,
bent up, with the head leaning against a tombstone and the legs upon
an adjoining grave.

"There!--that's done!" said Harding; and laying down the gun again, he
betook himself quietly to his seat upon the parapet once more.

"The dragoons! the dragoons!" cried a young man from the other side of
the tower. But ere he spoke, the gang of villains were already in
retreat, several galloping away, and the rest wavering.

Loading as fast as they could, the stout yeomanry in the church
continued firing from the windows and from the roof, accelerating the
movements of their assailants, who seemed only to pause for the
purpose of carrying off their wounded companions. Sir Edward Digby,
however, ran round to the opposite side of the tower, and, clearly
seeing the advance of some cavalry from the side of Cranbrook--though
the trees prevented him from ascertaining their numbers--he bade the
rest follow, and ran down into the body of the church.

"Now out, and after them!" he exclaimed; "we may make some prisoners!"
But as soon as the large wooden doors were thrown back and the
peasantry were seen pouring forth, old Ramley, who was amongst the
last that lingered, turned his horse and galloped away, his companions
following as fast as they could. Four men were found on the outside of
the churchyard wall, of whom two were living; but Sir Edward Digby
advanced with several others to the spot where Richard Radford was
lying. He did not appear to have moved at all since he fell; and on
raising his head, which had fallen forward on his chest as he lay
propped up by the gravestone, a dark red spot in the centre of the
forehead, from which a small quantity of blood had flowed down over
his eyes and cheeks, told how fatally true the shot had gone to the
mark.

When he had gazed on him for a moment, Digby turned round again, to
look for Harding; but the man who had slain him, did not approach the
corpse of Richard Radford; and Digby perceived him standing near a low
shed, which at that time encumbered the churchyard of Goudhurst, and
under which the young baronet's horses had been placed. Thither the
strong hunter, which Radford had been riding, had trotted as soon as
his master fell; and Harding had caught it by the bridle, and was
gazing at it with a thoughtful look.

The last time Sir Edward Digby had seen him, before that morning, he
was in high happiness by the side of poor Kate Clare; and when the
young officer looked at him, as he stood there, with a sort of dull
despair in his whole aspect, he could not but feel strong and painful
sympathy with him, in his deep grief.

"Mr. Harding," he said, approaching him, "the unhappy man is quite
dead."

"Oh, yes, sir," answered Harding, "dead enough, I am sure. I hope he
knew whose hand did it."

"I am sorry to give you any further pain or anxiety, at this moment,"
continued Digby, sinking his voice, "but I have heard that you are
supposed to have taken some part in landing the goods which were
captured the other day. For aught we know, there may be information
lodged against you; and probably there will be some officer of Customs
with the troop that is coming up. Would it not be better for you to
retire from this scene for a little?"

"Thank you, sir,--thank you! That is kind!" answered Harding. "Life's
a load to me; but a prison is another thing. I would have given any of
those clumsy fellows a hundred guineas to have shot me as I sat there
but no man shall ever take me, and clap me up in a cell. I could not
bear that; and my poor Kate lying dead there, too!--I'll go, as you
say."

But before he could execute his purpose, a small party of dragoons,
commanded by a lieutenant, with Birchett, the riding officer, and two
or three of his companions, came up at a trot, and poured through the
gate of the churchyard, which was now open.

Sir Edward Digby advanced at once towards them--if the truth must be
told, to cover Harding's retreat; but Birchett's quick, shrewd eye had
run round the place in an instant; and, before the young baronet had
taken two steps along the path, he cried, "Why, there is Harding! Stop
him!--stop him! We have information against him. Don't let him pass!"

"I _will_ pass, though," cried Harding, leaping at once upon the back
of Richard Radford's horse. "Now, stop me if you can!" and striking it
with his heel, he turned the animal across the churchyard, taking an
angle, away from the dragoons. Birchett spurred after him in a moment;
and the other officers followed; but the soldiers did not move.
Passing close by the spot where young Radford lay, as the officers
tried to cut him off from the gate, Harding cried, with a wild and
bitter laugh, "He is a good leaper, I know!" and instantly pushed his
horse at the wall.

The gallant beast took it at once, and dashed away with its rider
along the road. The officers of Customs dared not trust their own
cattle with the same feat; but Birchett exclaimed, in a loud and
imperative tone, turning to the lieutenant of dragoons, "I require
your aid in capturing that man. He is one of the most daring smugglers
on the whole coast. We can catch him easily, if we are quick."

"I do not know that I am authorized," said the lieutenant, not well
pleased with the man's manner; "where no armed resistance is
apprehended, I doubt if----"

"But there may be resistance, sir," replied Birchett, vehemently; "he
is gone to join his comrades.--Well, the responsibility be on your
head! I claim your aid! Refuse it or not, as you shall think fit.--I
claim and require it instantly!"

"What do you think, sir?" asked the young officer, turning to Digby.

"Nay, I am not in command here," answered the other; "you know your
orders."

"To give all lawful aid and assistance," said the lieutenant. "Well,
take a Serjeant's guard, Mr. Birchett."

In haste, the men were drawn out, and followed: Birchett leading them
furiously on the pursuit; but ere they had quitted the churchyard,
Harding was half-a-mile upon the road; and that was all he desired.




                            CHAPTER XIII.


There was a large lugger lying off at no great distance from the
beach, near Sandgate, and a small boat, ready for launching, on the
shore. At the distance of two or three miles out, might be seen a
vessel of considerable size, and of that peculiar rig and build which
denoted, to nautical eyes, that there lay a king's vessel. She was,
indeed, a frigate of inferior class, which had been sent round to
co-operate with the Customs, in the suppression of the daring system
of smuggling, which, as we have shown, was carried on in Romney Marsh,
and the neighbouring country. By the lesser boat, upon the shore,
stood four stout fellows, apparently employed in making ready to put
off; and upon the high ground above, was seen a single officer of
Customs, walking carelessly to and fro, and apparently taking little
heed of the proceedings below. Some movements might be perceived on
board the ship; the sails, which had been furled, now began to flutter
in the wind, which was blowing strong; and it seemed evident that the
little frigate was about to get under weigh. The lugger, however,
remained stationary; and the men near the boat continued their labours
for nearly an hour after they seemed in reality to have nothing more
to do.

At length, however, coming at a furious pace, down one of the narrow
foot-paths from the high ground above, which led away towards Cheriton
and Newington, was seen a horseman, waving his hand to those below,
and passing within fifty yards of the officer of Customs. The sailors,
who were standing by the boat, instantly pushed her down to the very
verge of the water; the officer hallooed after the bold rider, but
without causing him to pause for an instant in his course; and down,
at thundering speed, across the road, and over the sand and shingle,
Harding, the smuggler, dashed on, till the horse that bore him stood
foaming and panting beside the boat. Instantly springing out of the
saddle, he cast the bridle on the tired beasts neck, and jumped into
the skiff, exclaiming, "Shove her off!"

"Arn't there some more, Jack?" asked one of the men.

"None but myself," replied Harding, "and me they shan't catch.--Shove
her off, I say--you'll soon see who are coming after!"

The men obeyed at once; the boat was launched into the water; and
almost at the same instant, the party of dragoons in pursuit appeared
upon the top of the rise, followed, a moment after, by Birchett, and
another officer of the Customs. The vehement and angry gestures of the
riding officer indicated plainly enough that he saw the prey had
escaped him; but while the dragoons and his fellow officer made their
way slowly down the bank, to the narrow road which at that time ran
along the beach, he galloped off towards a signal-post, which then
stood upon an elevated spot, not far from the place where the
turnpike, on the road between Sandgate and Folkestone, now stands. In
a few minutes various small flags were seen rapidly running up to the
top of the staff; and, as speedily as possible afterwards, signals of
the same kind were displayed on board the frigate.

In the meantime, however, Harding and his party had rowed rapidly
towards the lugger, the sails of which were already beginning to fill;
and in less than two minutes she was scudding through the water as
fast as the wind would bear her. But the frigate was also under weigh;
and, to both experienced and inexperienced eyes, it seemed that the
bold smuggler had hardly one chance of escape. Between Dungeness
Point, and the royal vessel, there appeared to be no space for any of
those daring man[oe]uvres by which the small vessels, engaged in the
contraband trade, occasionally eluded the pursuit of their larger and
more formidable opponents; but Harding still pursued his course,
striving to get into the open sea, before the frigate could cut him
off.

Bending under the press of sail, the boat rushed through the waves,
with the uptide running strong against her, and the spray dashing over
her from stem to stern; but still, as she took an angle, though an
acute one, with the course of the frigate, the latter gained upon her
every moment, till at length a shot, whistling across her bows, gave
her the signal to bring to. It is needless to tell the reader, that
signal received no attention; but, still steered with a firm hand, and
carrying every stitch of canvas she could bear, the lugger pursued her
way. A minute had scarcely passed, ere flash and report came again
from the frigate, and once more a ball whistled by. Another and
another followed; but, no longer directed across the lugger's bows,
they were evidently aimed directly at her; and one of them passed
through the foresail, though without doing any farther damage. The
case seemed so hopeless, not only to those who watched the whole
proceeding from the shore, but to most of those who were in the
lugger, that a murmured consultation took place among the men; and
after two or three more shots had been fired, coming each time nearer
and nearer to their flying mark, one of the crew turned to Harding,
who had scarcely uttered a word since he entered the boat, and said,
"Come, sir, I don't think this will do.--We shall only get ourselves
sunk for no good.--We had better douse."

Harding looked sternly at him for a moment without reply; and a
somewhat bitter answer rose to his lips. But he checked himself, and
said, at length, "There's no use sacrificing your lives. You've got
wives and children--fathers and mothers. I have no one to care for
me.--Get into the boat, and be off. Me they shall never catch, dead or
alive; and if I go to the bottom, it's the best berth for me now.
Here, just help me reeve these tiller-ropes that I may take shelter
under the companion; and then be off as fast as you can."

The men would fain have remonstrated; but Harding would hear nothing;
and, covering himself as much as he could from the aim of small arms
from the vessel, he insisted that the whole of his crew should go and
leave him.

A short pause in the lugger's flight was observable from the shore;
and everybody concluded that she had struck. The row-boat, filled with
men, was seen to pull off from her, and the large heavy sails to flap
for an instant in the wind. But then her course was altered in a
moment; the sails filled again with the full breeze; and going like a
swallow over the waves, she dashed on towards the frigate, and,
passing her within pistol-range immediately after, shot across upon
her weather-bow.

A cloud of smoke ran all along the side of the frigate, as this bold
and extraordinary man[oe]uvre was executed. The faint report of small
arms was wafted by the wind to the shore, as well as the sound of
several cannon; but still, whether Harding was wounded or not wounded,
living or dead, his gallant boat dashed steadily on, and left the
frigate far behind, apparently giving up the chase, as no longer
presenting any chance of success. On, on, went the lugger, diminishing
as it flew over the waves, till at length, to the eyes even of those
who watched from the heights, its dark, tanned sails grouped
themselves into one small speck, and were then lost to the sight.

The after-fate of that adventurous man, who thus, single and unaided,
trusted himself to the wide waves, is wrapped in obscurity. The writer
of these pages, indeed, did once see a stern-looking old man of the
same name, who had returned some few years before from distant
lands--no one well knew whence--to spend the last few years of a life,
which had been protracted considerably beyond the ordinary term of
human existence, in a seaport not very far from Folkestone. The
conversation of the people of the place pointed him out as one who had
done extraordinary deeds, and seen strange sights; but whether he was,
indeed, the Harding of this tale or not, I cannot say. Of one thing,
however, the reader may be certain, that in all the statements
regarding the smuggler's marvellous escape, the most scrupulous
accuracy has been observed, and that every fact is as true as any part
of history, and a great deal more so than most.

Having now disposed of one of our principal characters, let me take
the reader gently by the hand, and lead him back to Harbourne House.
The way is somewhat long, but still, not more than a stout man can
walk without fatigue upon a pleasant morning; and it lies, too,
amongst sweet and interesting scenes--which, to you and me, dear
reader, are, I trust, embellished by some of the charms of
association.

It was about six days after the attack, upon the church at Goudhurst,
when a great number of those personages with whom it has been
necessary to make the reader acquainted, were assembled in the
drawing-room of Sir Robert Croyland's mansion. One or two, indeed,
were wanting, even of the party which might have been expected there,
but their absence shall be accounted for hereafter. The baronet
himself was seated in the arm-chair, which he generally occupied more
as a mark of his state and dignity, than for comfort and convenience.
In the present instance, however, he seemed to need support, for he
leaned heavily upon the arm of the chair, and appeared languid and
feeble. His face was very pale, his lips somewhat livid; and yet,
though suffering evidently under considerable corporeal debility,
there was a look of mental relief in his eyes, and a sweet placidity
about his smile, that no one had seen on his countenance for many
years.

Mrs. Barbara was, as usual, seated at her everlasting embroidery; and
here we may as well mention a fact which we omitted to mention before,
but which some persons may look upon as indicative of her mental
character--namely, that the embroidery, though it had gone on all her
life, by no means proceeded in an even course of progression. On the
contrary, to inexperienced eyes, it seemed as if no sooner was a
stitch put in than it was drawn out again, the point of the needle
being gently thrust under the loop of the thread, and then the arm
extended with an even sweep, so as to withdraw the silk from its hole
in the canvas. Penelope's web was nothing to Mrs. Barbary Croyland's
embroidery; for the queen of Ithaca only undid what she had previously
done, every night; and Aunt Bab undid it every minute. On the present
occasion, she was more busy in the retroactive process than ever, not
only pulling out the silk she had just put in, but a great deal more;
so that the work of the last three days, was in imminent danger of
total destruction.

Mr. Zachary Croyland never sat down when he could stand; for there was
about him, a sort of mobility and activity of spirits, which always
inclined him to keep his body ready for action. He so well knew that,
when seated, he was incessantly inclined to start up again, that
probably he thought it of little use to sit down at all; and
consequently he was even now upon his feet, midway between his brother
and his sister, rubbing his hands, and giving a gay, but cynical
glance from one to the other.

In a chair near the window, with his wild, but fine eye gazing over
the pleasant prospect which the terrace commanded, and apparently
altogether absent in mind from the scene in the drawing-room, was
seated Mr. Osborn; and not far from Mr. Croyland stood Sir Henry
Leyton, in an ordinary riding-dress, with his left hand resting on the
hilt of his sword, speaking in an easy, quiet tone to Sir Robert
Croyland; and nearly opposite to him was Edith, with her arm resting
on the table, and her cheek supported on her hand. Her face was still
pale, though the colour had somewhat returned; and the expression was
grave, though calm. Indeed, she never recovered the gay and sparkling
look which had characterized her countenance in early youth; but the
expression had gained in depth and intensity more than it had lost in
brightness; and then, when she did smile, it was with ineffable
sweetness: a gleam of sunshine upon the deep sea. Her eyes were fixed
upon her lover; and those who knew her well could read in them
satisfaction, love, hope--nay, more than hope--a pride, the only pride
that she could know--that he whom she had chosen in her girlhood, to
whom she had remained true and faithful through years of sorrow and
unexampled trial, had proved himself in every way worthy of her first
affection and her long constancy.

But where was Zara?--where Sir Edward Digby? for neither of them were
present at the time. From the laws of attraction between different
terrestrial bodies, we have every reason to infer that Digby and Zara
were not very far apart. However, they had been somewhat eccentric
in their orbits; for Zara had gone out about a couple of hours
before--Digby being then absent, no one knew where--upon a charitable
errand, to carry consolation and sympathy to the cottage of poor Mrs.
Clare, whose daughter had been committed to the earth the day before.
How it happened, Heaven only knows, but certain it is, that at the
moment I now speak of, she and Digby were walking home together,
towards Harbourne House, while his servant led his horse at some
distance behind.

Before they reached the house, however, a long conversation had taken
place between the personages in the drawing-room, of which I shall
only give the last few sentences.

"It is true, Harry, it is true," said Sir Robert Croyland, in reply to
something just spoken by Leyton; "and we have both things to forgive;
but you far more than I have; and as you have set me an example of
doing good for evil, and atoning, by every means, for a slight error,
I will not be backward to do the same, and to acknowledge that I have
acted most wrongly towards you--for which may Heaven forgive me, as
you have done. I have small means of atoning for much that is past;
but to do so, as far as possible: freely, and with my full consent,
take the most valuable thing I have to give--my dear child's
hand,--nay, hear me yet a moment. I wish your marriage to take place
as soon as possible. I have learned to doubt of time, and never to
trust the future. Say a week--a fortnight, Edith; but let it be
speedily. It is my wish--let me say, for the last time, it is my
command."

"But, brother Robert," exclaimed Mrs. Barbara, ruining her embroidery
irretrievably in the agitation of the moment, "you know it can't be so
very soon; for there are all the dresses to get ready, and the
settlements to be drawn up, and a thousand things to buy; and our
cousins in Yorkshire must be informed, and----"

"D--n our cousins in Yorkshire!" exclaimed Mr. Zachary Croyland. "Now,
my dear Bab, tell me candidly, whether you have or have not any nice
little plan ready for spoiling the whole, and throwing us all into
confusion again. Don't you think you could just send Edith to visit
somebody in the small-pox? or get Harry Leyton run through in a duel?
or some other little comfortable consummation, which may make us all
as unhappy as possible?"

"Really, brother Zachary, I don't know what you mean," said Mrs.
Barbara, looking the picture of injured innocence.

"I dare say not, Bab," answered Mr. Croyland; "but I understand what
you mean; and I tell you it shall not be. Edith shall fix the day; and
as a good child, she will obey her father, and fix it as early as
possible. When once fixed, it shall not be changed or put off, on any
account or consideration whatever, if my name's Croyland. As for the
dresses, don't you trouble your head about that; I'll undertake the
dresses, and have them all down from London by the coach. Give me the
size of your waist, Edith, upon a piece of string, and your length
from shoulder to heel, and leave all the rest to me. If I don't dress
her like a Mahommedan princess, may I never hear _Bismillah_ again."

Edith smiled, but answered, "I don't think it will be at all
necessary, my dear uncle, to put you to the trouble; and I do not
think it would answer its purpose if you took it."

"But I will have my own way," said Mr. Croyland--"you are my pet; and
all the matrimonial arrangements shall be mine. If you don't mind, and
say another word, I'll insist upon being bridesmaid too; for I can
encroach in my demands, I can tell you, as well as a lady, or a prime
minister."

As he spoke, the farther progress of the discussion was interrupted by
the entrance of Zara, followed by Sir Edward Digby. Her colour was a
little heightened, and her manner somewhat agitated; but she shook
hands with her uncle and Leyton, neither of whom she had seen before
during that morning; and then passing by her father, in her way
towards Edith, she whispered a word to him as she went.

"What, what!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland, turning suddenly round
towards Digby, with a look of alarm, and pressing his left hand upon
his side, "she says you have something important to tell me, Sir
Edward.--Pray speak! I have no secrets from those who are around me."

"I am sure, what I have to say will shock all present!" replied Sir
Edward Digby, gravely; "but the fact is, I heard a report this
morning, from my servant, that Mr. Radford had destroyed himself last
night in prison; and I rode over as fast as I could, to ascertain if
the rumour was correct. I found that it was but too accurate, and that
the unhappy man terminated a career of crime, by the greatest that he
could commit."

"Well, there's one rascal less in the world--that's some comfort,"
said Mr. Zachary Croyland; "I would rather, indeed, he had let some
one else hang him, instead of doing it himself; for I don't approve of
suicide at all--it's foolish, and wicked, and cowardly. Still, nothing
else could be expected from such a man--but what's the matter with
you, Robert? you seem ill--surely, you can't take this man's death
much to heart?"

Sir Robert Croyland did not reply, but made a faint sign to open the
window, which was immediately done; and he revived under the influence
of the air.

"I will go out for a few minutes," he said, rising; and Edith,
instantly starting up, approached to go with him. He would not suffer
her, however--"No, my child," he replied to her offer, "no: you can
understand what I feel; but I shall be better presently. Stay here,
and let all this be settled; and remember, Edith, name the earliest
day possible--arrange with Zara and Digby. Theirs can take place at
the same time."

Thus saying, he went out, and was seen walking slowly to and fro upon
the terrace, for some minutes after. In the meanwhile, the war had
commenced between Mr. Zachary Croyland and his younger niece. "Ah,
Mrs. Madcap!" he exclaimed, "so I hear tales of you. The coquette has
been caught at length! You are going to commit matrimony; and as birds
of a feather flock together, the wild girl and the wild boy must
pair."

With her usual light, graceful step, and with her usual gay and
brilliant smile, Zara left Sir Edward Digby's side, and crossing over
to her uncle, rested both her hands upon his arm, while he stood as
erect and stiff as a finger post, gazing down upon her with a look of
sour fun, But in Zara's eyes, beautiful and beaming as they were,
there was a look of deeper feeling than they usually displayed when
jesting, as was her wont, with Mr. Croyland.

"Well, Chit," he said, "well, what do you want?--a new gown, or a
smart hat, or a riding-whip, with a tiger's head in gold at the top?"

"No, my dear uncle," she answered, "but I want you not to tease me,
nor to laugh at me, nor to abuse me, just now. For once in my life, I
feel that I must be serious; and I think even less teasing than
ordinary might be too much for me. Perhaps, one time or another, you
may find out that poor Zara's coquetry was more apparent than real,
and that though she had an object, it was a better one than you, in
your benevolence, were disposed to think."

An unwonted drop swam in her eyes as she spoke; and Mr. Croyland gazed
down upon her tenderly for a moment. Then throwing his arms round her,
he kissed her cheek--"I know it, my dear," he said--"I know it. Edith
has told me all; and she who has been a kind, good sister, will, I am
sure, be a kind, good wife. Here, take her away, Digby. A better girl
doesn't live, whatever I may have said. The worst of it is, she is a
great deal too good for you, or any other wild, harem-scarem fellow.
But stay--stay," he continued, as Digby came forward, laughing, and
took Zara's hand; "here's something with her; for, as I am sure you
will be a couple of spendthrifts, it is but fit that you should have
something to set out upon."

Mr. Croyland, as he spoke, put his hand into the somewhat wide and
yawning pocket of his broad-tailed coat, and produced his pocket-book,
from which he drew forth a small slip of paper.

Digby took it, and looked at it, but instantly held it out again to
Mr. Croyland, saying, "My dear sir, it is quite unnecessary. I claim
nothing but her hand; and that is mine by promises which I hope will
not be very long ere they are fulfilled."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried Mr. Croyland, putting away the paper with
the back of his hand; "did ever any one see such a fool?--I tell you,
Sir Edward Digby, I'm as proud a man as you are, and you shall not
marry my niece without receiving the same portion as her sister
possesses. I hate all eldest sons, as you well know; and I don't see
why eldest daughters should exist either. I'll have them all equal. No
differences here. I've made up to Zara, the disparity which one fool
of an uncle thought fit to put between her and Edith. Such was always
my intention; and moreover, let it clearly be understood, that when
you have put this old carrion under ground, what I leave is to be
divided between them--all equal, all equal--co-heiresses, of Zachary
Croyland, Esq., surnamed the Nabob, alias the Misanthrope--and then,
if you like it, you may each bear in your arms a crow rampant, on an
escutcheon of pretence."

"Thank you, thank you, my dear uncle," answered Edith Croyland, while
Zara's gay heart was too full to let her speak--"thank you for such
thought of my sweet sister; for, indeed, to me, during long years of
sorrow and trouble, she has been the spirit of consolation, comfort,
strength--even hope."

Poor Zara was overpowered; and she burst into tears. It seemed as if
all the feelings, which for the sake of others she had so long
suppressed--all the emotions, anxieties, and cares which she had
conquered or treated lightly, in order to give aid and support to
Edith, rushed upon her at once in the moment of joy, and overwhelmed
her.

"Why, what's the foolish girl crying about?" exclaimed Mr. Croyland;
but then, drawing her kindly to him, he added, "Come, my dear, we will
make a truce, upon the following conditions--I wont tease you any
more; and you shall do everything I tell you. In the first place,
then, wipe your eyes, and dry up your tears; for if Digby sees how red
your cheeks can look, when you've been crying, he may find out that
you are not quite such a Venus as he fancies just now--There, go
along!" and he pushed her gently away from him.

While this gayer conversation had been going on within, Mr. Osborn had
passed through the glass doors, and was walking slowly up and down
with Sir Robert Croyland. The subject they spoke upon must have been
grave; for there was gloom upon both their faces when they returned.

"I know it," said Sir Robert Croyland to his companion as they entered
the room; "I am quite well aware of it; it is that which makes me urge
speed."

"If such be your view," replied Mr. Osborn, "you are right, Sir
Robert; and Heaven bless those acts, which are done under such
impressions."

The party in the drawing-room heard no more; and, notwithstanding the
kindly efforts of Mrs. Barbara, and a thousand little impediments,
which, "with the very best motives in the world," she created or
discovered, all the arrangements for the double marriage were made
with great promptitude and success. At the end of somewhat less than a
fortnight, without any noise or parade, the two sisters stood together
at the altar, and pledged their troth to those they truly loved. Sir
Robert Croyland seemed well and happy; for during the last few days
previous to the wedding, both his health and spirits had apparently
improved. But, ere a month was over, both his daughters received a
summons to return, as speedily as possible, to Harbourne House. They
found him on the bed of death, with his brother and Mr. Osborn sitting
beside him. But their father greeted them with a well-contented smile,
and reproved their tears in a very different tone from that which he
had been generally accustomed to use.

"My dear children," he said, in a feeble voice, "I have often longed
for this hour; and though life has become happier now, I have, for
many weeks, seen death approaching, and have seen it without regret. I
did not think it would have been so slow; and that was the cause of my
hurrying your marriage; for I longed to witness it with my own eyes,
yet was unwilling to mingle the happiness of such a union, with the
thought that it took place while I was in sickness and danger. My
brother will be a father to you, I am sure, when I am gone; but still
it is some satisfaction to know that you have both better protectors,
even here on earth, than he or I could be. I trust you are happy; and
believe me, I am not otherwise--though lying here with death before
me."

Towards four o'clock on the following day, the windows of Harbourne
House were closed; and, about a week after, the mortal remains of Sir
Robert Croyland were conveyed to the family vault in the village
church. Mr. Croyland succeeded to the estates and title of his
brother; but he would not quit the mansion which he himself had built,
leaving Mrs. Barbara, with a handsome income, which he secured to her,
to act the Lady Bountiful of Harbourne House.

The fate of Edith and Zara we need not farther trace. It was such as
might be expected from the circumstances in which they were now
placed. We will not venture to say that it was purely happy; for when
was ever pure and unalloyed happiness found on earth? There were
cares, there were anxieties, there were griefs, from time to time: for
the splendid visions of young imagination may be prophetic of joys
that shall be ours, if we deserve them in our trial here, but are
never realized within the walls of our mortal prison, and recede
before us, to take their stand for ever beyond the portals of the
tomb. But still they were as happy as human beings, perhaps, ever
were; for no peculiar pangs or sufferings were destined to follow
those which had gone before; and in their domestic life, having chosen
well and wisely, they found--as every one will find, who judges upon
such grounds--that love, when it is pure, and high, and true, is a
possession, to the brightness of which even hope can add no sweetness,
imagination no splendour that it does not in itself possess.

The reader may be inclined to ask the after fate of some of the other
characters mentioned in this work. In regard to many of them, I must
give an unsatisfactory reply. What became of most, indeed, I do not
know. The name of Mowle, the officer of Customs, is still familiar to
the people of Hythe and its neighbourhood. It is certain that Ramley
and one of his sons were hanged; but the rest of the records of that
respectable family are, I fear, lost to the public. Little Starlight
seems to have disappeared from that part of the country, for some
time; and in truth, I have no certainty that the well-known
pickpocket, Night Ray, who was transported to Botany Bay, some
thirty years after the period of this tale, and was shot in an attempt
to escape, was the same person whose early career is here recorded.
But of one thing the reader maybe perfectly certain, that--whatever
was the fortune which attended any of the persons I have
mentioned--whether worldly prosperity, or temporary adversity befel
them--the real, the solid good, the happiness of spirit, was awarded
in exact proportion to each, as their acts were good, and their hearts
were pure.



                               THE END.




       T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos Street, Covent Garden.









End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Smuggler: (Vol's I-III), by
G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford James

*** 