The Smuggler: A Tale. Volumes I-III

by G. P. R. James

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 manœuvres 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 but just by Saltwood, who puts him up to it all; and if ever there was an old demon in the world she is one. She is always brewing mischief, and chuckling over it all the time, as if it were her sport to see men tear each other to pieces, and to make innocent girls as bad as she was herself, and as her own daughter was, too,--the mother of this boy. The girl was killed by a chance shot, one day, in a riot between the smugglers and the Customs people; and the old woman always says it was a smuggler's shot. Oh! I could tell you such stories of that old witch."

The stories of Mr. Mowle, however, were cut short by the entrance of a servant carrying a letter, which the young officer took and opened with a look of eager anxiety. The contents were brief; but they seemed important, for various were the changes which came over his fine countenance while he read them. The predominant expression, however, was joy, though there was a look of thoughtful consideration--perhaps in a degree of embarrassment, too, on his face; and as he laid the letter down on the table, and beat the paper with his fingers, gazing up into vacancy, Mowle, judging that his presence was not desired, rose to retire.

"Stay a moment. Mr. Mowle--stay a moment," said Osborne. "This letter requires some consideration. It contains a call to a part of Kent some fifteen or sixteen miles distant; but as it is upon private business, I must not let that interfere with my public duty. You say that this enterprise of Mr. Radford's is likely to be put in execution to-morrow night."

"I cannot be sure, colonel," answered the officer: "but I think there is every chance of it."

"Then I must return before nightfall to-morrow," replied the gentleman, with a sigh.

"Your presence will be very necessary, sir," said the Custom-House officer. "There is not one of your officers who seems up to the business, except Major Digby and yourself. All the rest are such fine gentlemen that one can't get on with them."

"Let me consider for a moment," rejoined the other; but Mowle went on in the same strain, saying, "Then, sir, if you were to be absent all to-morrow, I might get very important information, and not be able to give it to you, nor arrange anything with you either."

Osborne still meditated with a grave brow for some time. "I will write," he said, at length. "It will be better--it will be only just and honourable. I will write instead of going to-morrow, Mr. Mowle; and if this affair should not take place to-morrow night, as you suppose, I will make such arrangements for the following day--on which I must go over to Woodchurch--as will enable you to communicate with me without delay, should you have any message to send. At all events, I will return to Hythe before night. Now good evening;" and while Mowle made his bow and retired, the young officer turned to the letter again, and read it over with glistening eyes.

[CHAPTER III.]

I wonder if the reader ever wandered from Saltwood Castle back to the good old town of Hythe, on a fine summer's day, with a fair companion, as full of thought and mind as grace and beauty, and with a dear child just at the age when all the world is fresh and lovely--and then missed his way, and strayed--far from the track--towards Sandgate, till dinner was kept waiting at the inn, and the party who would not plod on foot, were all tired and wondering at their friend's delay!--I wonder if the reader ever did all this. I have--and a very pleasant thing it is to do. Yes, all of it, reader. For, surely, to go from waving wood to green field, and from green field to hill-side and wood again, and to trace along the brook which we know must lead to the sea-shore, with one companion of high soul, who can answer thought for thought, and another in life's early morning, who can bring back before your eyes the picture of young enjoyment--ay, and to know that those you love most dearly and esteem most highly, are looking for your coming, with a little anxiety, not even approaching the bounds of apprehension, is all very pleasant indeed.

You, dear and excellent lady, who were one of my companions on the way, may perhaps recollect a little cottage--near the spot where we sprung a solitary partridge--whither I went to inquire the shortest road to Hythe. That cottage was standing there at the period of which I now write; and at the bottom of that hill, amongst the wood, and close by the little stream nearly where the foot-bridge now carries the traveller over dryshod, was another hut, half concealed by the trees, and covered over with well nigh as much moss and houseleek as actual thatch.

It has been long swept away, as well as its tenants; and certainly a wretched and ill-constructed place it was. Would to Heaven that all such were gone from our rich and productive land, and that every labourer, in a country which owes so much to the industry of her children, had a dwelling better fitted to a human being! But, alas, many such still exist! and it is not always, as it was in this case, that vice is the companion of misery. This is no book of idle twaddle, to represent all the wealthy as cold, hard, and vicious, and the poor all good, forbearing, and laborious; for evil is pretty equally distributed through all classes--though, God knows, the rich, with all their opportunities, ought to shew a smaller proportion of wickedness, and the poor might perhaps be expected, from their temptations, to be worse than they are! Still it is hard to think that many as honest a man as ever lived--ay, and as industrious a man, too--returns, after his hard day's toil, to find his wife and children, well nigh in starvation, in such a place as I am about to describe--and none to help them.

The hut--for it did not deserve the name of cottage--was but of one floor, which was formed of beaten clay, but a little elevated above the surrounding soil. It contained two rooms. The one opened into what had been a garden before it, running down nearly to the brookside; and the other communicated with the first, but had a door which gave exit into the wood behind. Windows the hut had two, one on either side; but neither contained more than two complete panes of glass. The spaces, where glass had once been, were now filled up in a strange variety of ways. Here was a piece of board nailed in; there a coarse piece of cloth kept out the wind; another broken pane was filled up with paper; and another, where some fragments of the original substance remained, was stopped with an old stocking stuffed with straw. In the garden, as it was still called, appeared a few cabbages and onions, with more cabbage-stalks than either, and a small patch of miserable potatoes. But weeds were the most plentiful of all, and chickweed and groundsel enough appeared there to have supplied a whole forest of singing birds. It had been once fenced in, that miserable garden; but the wood had been pulled down and burned for firing by its present tenants, or others as wretched in circumstances as themselves; and nought remained but a strong post here and there, with sometimes a many-coloured rag of coarse cotton fluttering upon some long, rusty nail, which had snatched a shred from passing poverty. Three or four stunted gooseberry bushes, however, marked out the limit on one side; a path ran in front between the garden and the brook; and on the other side there was a constant petty warfare between the farmer and the inhabitant of the hovel as to the possession of the border-land; and like a great and small state contending, the more powerful always gained some advantage in despite of right, but lost perhaps as much by the spiteful incursions of the foe, as if he had yielded the contested territory.

On the night of which I speak--the same on which Mowle visited the commanding officer of the dragoons at Hythe--the cottage itself, the garden, and all the squalid-looking things about the place, were hidden in the deep darkness which had again fallen over the earth as soon as night had fallen. The morning, it may be remembered--it was the same on which Sir Edward Digby had been fired at by the smugglers--had been somewhat cold and foggy; but about eleven, the day had brightened, and the evening had been sultry. No sooner, however, did the sun reach the horizon than mists began to rise, and before seven o'clock the whole sky was under cloud and the air filled with fog. He must have been well acquainted with every step of the country who could find his way from town to town. Nevertheless, any one who approached Galley Ray's cottage, as it was called, would, at the distance of at least a hundred yards, have perceived something to lead him on; for a light, red as that of a baleful meteor, was streaming through the two glazed squares of the window into the misty air, making them look like the eyes of some wild animal in a dark forest.

We must pause here, however, for a moment, to explain to the reader who Galley Ray was, and how she acquired the first of her two appellations, which certainly was not that which she had received at her baptism. Galley Ray, then, was the old woman of whom Mr. Mowle had given that favourable account, which may be seen in the last chapter; and, to say the truth, he had but done her justice. Her name was originally Gillian Ray; but, amongst a number of corrupt associates, with whom her early life was spent, the first of the two appellations was speedily transformed to Gilly or Gill. Some time afterwards--when youth began to wane, and whatever youthful graces she possessed were deviating into the virago qualities of the middle age--while watching one night the approach of a party of smugglers, with whom she had some intimacy, she perceived three or four Custom-House officers coming down to launch a galley, which they had upon the beach, for the purpose of cutting off the free-traders. But Gilly Ray instantly sprang in, and with the boat-hook set them all at defiance, till they threatened to launch her into the sea, boat and all.

It is true, she was reported to have been drunk at the time; but her daring saved the smugglers, and conveyed her for two months to jail, whence, as may be supposed, she returned not much improved in her morals. One of those whom she had befriended in the time of need, bestowed on her the name of Galley, by an easy transition from her original prænomen; and it remained by her to the last day of her life.

The reader has doubtless remarked, that amongst the lawless and the rash, there is a certain fondness for figures of speech, and that tropes and metaphors, simile and synecdoche, are far more prevalent amongst them than amongst the more orderly classes of society. Whether it is or not, that they wish to get rid of a precise apprehension of their own acts, I cannot say; but certain it is, that they do indulge in such flowers of rhetoric, and sometimes, in the midst of humour, quaintness, and even absurdity, reach the point of wit, and at times soar into the sublime. Galley Ray had, as we have seen, one daughter, whose fate has been related; and that daughter left one son, who, after his reputed father, one Mark Nightingale, was baptized Nightingale Ray. His mother, and after her death his grandmother, used to call him Little Nighty and Little Night; but following their fanciful habits, the smugglers who used to frequent the house found out an association between "Night Ray" and the beams of the bright and mystical orbs that shine upon us from afar; and some one gave him the name of Little Starlight, which remained with him, as that of Galley had adhered to his grandmother. The cottage or hut of the latter, then, beamed with an unwonted blaze upon the night I have spoken of, till long after the hour when Mowle had left the inn where his conference with the young officer had taken place. But let not the reader suppose that this illumination proceeded from any great expense of wax or oil. Only one small tallow candle, stuck into a long-necked, square-sided Dutch bottle, spread its rays through the interior of the hovel, and that was a luxury; but in the fireplace blazed an immense pile of mingled wood and driftcoal; and over it hung a large hissing pot, as huge and capacious as that of the witches in Macbeth, or of the no less famous Meg Merrilies. Galley Ray, however, was a very different person in appearance from the heroine of "Guy Mannering;" and we must endeavour to call up her image as she stood by the fire-side, watching the cauldron and a kettle which stood close to it.

The red and fitful light flashed upon no tall, gaunt form, and lighted up no wild and commanding features. There was nothing at all poetical in her aspect: it was such as may be seen every day in the haunts of misery and vice. Originally of the middle height, though once strong and upright, she had somewhat sunk down under the hand of Time, and was now rather short than otherwise. About fifty she had grown fat and heavy; but fifteen years more had robbed her flesh of firmness and her skin of its plumped out smoothness; and though she had not yet reached the period when emaciation accompanies decrepitude, her muscles were loose and hanging, her face withered and sallow. Her hair, once as black as jet, was now quite grey, not silver--but with the white greatly predominating over the black. Yet, strange to say, her eyes were still clear and bright, though small, and somewhat red round the lids; and, stranger still, her front teeth were white as ivory, offering a strange contrast to the wrinkled and yellow skin. Her look was keen; but there was that sort of habitual jocularity about it, which in people of her caste is often partly assumed--as an ever ready excuse for evading a close question, or covering a dangerous suggestion by a jest--and partly natural, or at least springing from a fearful kind of philosophy, gained by the exhaustion of all sorts of criminal pleasures, which leaves behind, too surely, the impression that everything is but a mockery on earth. Those who have adopted that philosophy never give a thought beyond this world. Her figure was somewhat bowed, and over her shoulders she had the fragments of a coarse woollen shawl, from beneath which appeared, as she stirred the pot, her sharp yellow elbows and long arms. On her head she wore a cap, which had remained there, night and day, for months; and, thrust back from her forehead, which was low and heavy, appeared the dishevelled grey hair, while beneath the thick and beetling brows came the keen eyes, and a nose somewhat aquiline and depressed at the point.

Near her, on the opposite side of the hearth, was the boy whom the reader has already seen, and who has been called little Starlight; and, even at that late hour, for it was near midnight, he seemed as brisk and active as ever. Night and day, indeed, appeared to him the same; for he had none of the habits of childhood. The setting sun brought no drowsiness to his eyelids: mid-day often found him sleeping after a night of watchfulness and activity. The whole course of his existence and his thoughts had been tainted: there was nothing of youth either in his mind or his ways. The old beldam called him, and thought him, the shrewdest boy that ever lived; but, in truth, she had left him no longer a boy, in aught but size and looks. Often--indeed generally--he would assume the tone of his years, for he found it served his purpose best; but he only laughed at those who thought him a child, and prided himself on the cunning of the artifice.

There might be, it is true, some lingering of the faults of youth, but that was all. He was greedy and voracious, loved sweet things as well as strong drink, and could not always curb the truant and erratic spirit of childhood; but still, even in his wanderings there was a purpose, and often a malevolence. He would go to see what one person was about; he would stay away because another wanted him. It may be asked, was this natural wickedness?--was his heart so formed originally? Oh no, reader; never believe such things. There are certainly infinite varieties of human character; and I admit that the mind of man is not the blank sheet of paper on which we can write what we please, as has been vainly represented. Or, if it be, the experience of every man must have shown him, that that paper is of every different kind and quality--some that will retain the finest line, some that will scarce receive the broadest trace. But still education has immense power for good or evil. By education I do not mean teaching. I mean that great and wonderful process by which, commencing at the earliest period of infancy--ay, at the mother's breast--the raw material of the mind is manufactured into all the varieties that we see. I mean the sum of every line with which the paper is written as it passes from hand to hand. That is education; and most careful should we be that, at an early period, nought should be written but good, for every word once impressed is well nigh indelible.

Now what education had that poor boy received? The people of the neighbouring village would have said a very good one; for there was what is called a charity school in the neighbourhood, where he had been taught to read and write, and cast accounts. But this was teaching, not education. Oh, fatal mistake! when will Englishmen learn to discriminate between the two? His education had been at home--in that miserable hut--by that wretched woman--by her companions in vice and crime! What had all the teaching he had received at the school done for him, but placed weapons in the hand of wickedness? Had education formed any part of the system of the school where he was instructed--had he been taught how best to use the gifts that were imparted--had he been inured to regulate the mind that was stored--had he been habituated to draw just conclusions from all he read, instead of merely being taught to read, that would have been in some degree education, and it might have corrected, to a certain point, the darker schooling he received at home. Well might the great philosopher, who in some things most grossly misused the knowledge he himself possessed, pronounce that "Knowledge is power;" but, alas, he forgot to add, that it is power for good or evil! That poor child had been taught that which to him might have been either a blessing or a bane; but all his real education had been for evil; and there he stood, corrupted to the heart's core.

"I say, Mother Ray," he exclaimed, "that smells cursed nice--can't you give us a drop before the coves come?"

"No, no, you young devil," replied the old woman with a grin, "one can't tell when they'll show their mugs at the door; and it wouldn't do for them to find you gobbling up their stuff. But bring me that big porringer, and we'll put by enough for you and me. I've nimmed one half of the yellow-boy they sent, so we'll have a quart of moonshine to-morrow to help it down."

"I could get it very well down without," answered little Starlight, bringing her a large earthen pot, with a cracked cover, into which she ladled out about half a gallon of the soup.

"There, take and put that far under the bed in t'other room," said the old woman, adding several expletives of so peculiar and unpleasant a character, that I must omit them; and, indeed, trusting to the reader's imagination, I shall beg leave to soften, as far as possible, the terms of both the boy and his grandmother for the future, merely premising, that when conversing alone together, hardly a sentence escaped their lips without an oath or a blasphemy.

Little Starlight soon received the pot from the hands of his worthy ancestress, and conveyed it into the other room, where he stayed so long that she called him to come forth, in what, to ordinary ears, would have seemed the most abusive language, but which, on her lips, was merely the tone of endearment. He had waited, indeed, to cool the soup, in order to steal a portion of the stolen food; but finding that he should be detected if he remained longer, he ventured to put his finger in to taste it. The result was that he scalded his hand; but he was sufficiently Spartan to utter no cry or indication of pain; and he escaped all inquiry; for the moment after he had returned, the door burst violently open, and some ten or twelve men came pouring in, nearly filling the little room.

Various were their garbs, and strangely different from each other were they in demeanour as well as dress. Some were clad in smock-frocks, and some in sailors' jackets; some looked like respectable tradesmen, some were clothed in a sort of fanciful costume of their own, smacking a little of the brigand; and one appeared in the ordinary riding-dress of a gentleman of that period; but all were well armed, without much concealment of the pistols, which they carried about them in addition to the sword that was not uncommonly borne by more than one class in England at that time. They were all young men except one or two; and three of the number bore evident marks of some recent affray. One had a broad strip of plaster all the way down his forehead, another had his upper lip terribly cut, and a third--the gentleman, as I am bound to call him, as he assumed the title of Major--had a patch over his eye, from beneath which appeared several rings of various colours, which showed that the aforesaid patch was not merely a means of disguise.

They were all quite familiar with Galley Ray and her grandson; some slapped her on the shoulder; some pulled her ear; some abused her horribly in jocular tones; and all called upon her eagerly to set their supper before them, vowing that they had come twenty miles since seven o'clock that night, and were as hungry as fox-hunters.

To each and all Galley Ray had something to say in their own particular way. To some she was civil and coaxing, addressed them as "gentlemen," and to others slang and abusive, though quite in good humour, calling them, "you blackguards," and "you varmint," with sundry other delectable epithets, which I shall forbear to transcribe.

To give value to her entertainment, she of course started every objection and difficulty in the world against receiving them, asking how, in the name of the fiend, they could expect her to take in so many? where she was to get porringers or plates for them all? and hoping heartily that such a troop weren't going to stay above half an hour.

"Till to-morrow night, Galley, my chicken," replied the Major. "Come, don't make a fuss. It must be so, and you shall be well paid. We shall stay in here to-night; and to-morrow we shall take to cover in the wood; but young Radford will come down some time in the day, and then you must send up little Starlight to us, to let me know."

The matter of the supper was soon arranged to their contentment. Some had tea-cups, and some saucers; some had earthen pans, some wooden platters. Two were honoured with china plates; and the large pot being taken off the fire, and set on the ground in the midst of them, each helped himself, and went on with his meal. A grand brewing of smuggled spirits and water then commenced; and a number of horn cups were handed round, not enough, indeed, for all the guests; but each vessel was made to serve two or three; and the first silence of hunger being over, a wild, rambling, and desultory conversation ensued, to which both Galley Ray and her grandson lent an attentive ear.

The Major said something to the man with the cut upon his brow, to which the other replied, by condemning his own soul, if he did not blow Harding's brains out--if it were true. "But, I don't believe it," he continued. "He's no friend of mine; but he's not such a blackguard as to peach."

"So I think; but Dick Radford says he is sure he did," answered the Major; "Dick fancies that he's jealous of not having had yesterday's job too, and that's why he spoiled it. We know he was up about that part of the country on the pretence of his seeing his Dolly; but Radford says he went to inform, and that he'll wring his liver out, as soon as this job of his father's is over."

A torrent of blasphemies poured forth by almost every person present followed, and they all called down the most horrid condemnation on their own heads, if they did not each lend a hand to punish the informer. In the midst of this storm of big words, Galley Ray put her mouth to the Major's ear, saying, "I could tell young Radford how he could wring his heart out, and that's better than his liver. There's no use of trying to kill him, for he doesn't care two straws about that. Sharp steel and round lead are what he looks for every day. But I could show you how to plague him worse."

"Why, you old brute," replied the Major, "you're a friend of his!--But you may tell him, if you like. We have all sworn it, and we'll do it; only hold your tongue till after to-morrow night, or I'll cure your bacon for you."

"I'm no friend of his," cried Galley Ray. "The infernal devil, wasn't it he that shot my girl, Meg? Ay, ay, I know he says he didn't, and that he didn't fire a pistol that day, but kept all to the cutlash; but he did, I'm sure, and a-purpose too; for didn't he turn to, that morning, and abuse her like the very dirt under his feet, because she came, a little in liquor, down to his boat-side?--Ay, I'll have my revenge--I've been looking for it long, but now it's a-coming--it's a-coming very fast; and afore I've done with him, I'll wring him out like a wet cloth, till he's not got one pleasure left in his whole carcase, nor one thing to look to, for as long as he may live!--Ay, ay, he thinks an old woman nothing; but he shall see--he shall see;" and the beldam wagged her frightful head backwards and forwards with a look of well-contented malice that made it more horrible than ever.

"What an old devil!" cried the Major, glancing round the table with a look of mock surprise; and then they all burst into a roar of laughter which shook the miserable hovel in which they sat.

"Come, granny, give us some more lush, and leave off preaching," cried Ned Ramley, the man with the cut upon his brow. "You can tell it all to Dick Radford, to-morrow; for he's fond of cutting up people's hearts."

"But how is it--how is it?" asked the Major. "I should like to hear."

"Ay, but you shan't hear all," answered Galley Ray. "Let Dick do his part, and I'll do mine, so we'll both have our revenge; but I know one thing, if I were a gentleman, and wanted a twist at Jack Harding, I'd get his Kate away from him. She's a light-hearted lass, and would listen to a gentleman, I dare say; but, however, I'll have her away some way, and then kick her out into Folkestone streets, to get her bread like many a better woman than herself."

"Pooh, nonsense!" said Ned Ramley--"that's all stuff. Harding is going to marry her; and she knows better than to play the fool."

"Ay," answered the old woman, with a look of spite, "I shouldn't wonder if Harding spoiled this job for old Radford, too."

"Not he!" cried Ramley, "he would pinch himself there, old tiger; for his own pay depends upon it."

"Ay, upon landing the stuff safely," answered the old woman, with a grin, "but not upon getting it clear up into the Weald. He may have both, Neddy, my dear--he may have both pays; first for landing and then for peaching. Play booty for ever!--that's the way to make money; and who knows but you may get another crack of your own pretty skull, or have your brains sent flying out, like the inside of an egg against the pillory."

"By the fiend, he had better not," said Ned Ramley, "for there will be some of us left, at all events, to pay him."

"Come, speak out, old woman," cried another of the men; "have you or your imp there got any inkling that the Custom House blackguards have nosed the job. If we find they have, and you don't tell, I'll send you into as much thick loam as will cover you well, I can tell you;" and he added a horrible oath to give force to his words.

"Not they, as yet," answered the beldam, "of that I am quite sure; for as soon as the guinea and the message came, I went down to buy the beef, and mutton, and the onions; and there I saw Mowle talking to Gurney the grocer, and heard him say that he had spoiled Mr. Radford's venture this morning, for one turn at least; and after that, I sent down little Nighty there, to watch him and his cronies; and they all seemed very jolly, he said, when he came back half an hour ago, and crowing like so many young cocks, as if they had done a mighty deal. Didn't they, my dear?"

"Ay, that they did, Granny," replied the boy, with a look of simplicity; "and when I went to the tap of the Dragon to get twopennorth, I heard the landlord say that Mowle was up with the dragoon Colonel, telling him all about the fine morning's work they had made."

"Devilish fine, indeed!" cried Ned Ramley. "Why they did not get one quarter of the things; and if we can save a third, that's enough to pay very well, I can tell them."

"No, no! they know nothing as yet," continued the old woman, with a sapient shake of the head; "I can't say what they may hear before to-morrow night; but, if they do hear anything, I know where it will come from--that's all. People may be blind if they like; but I'm not, that's one thing."

"No, no! you see sharp enough, Galley Ray," answered the Major. "But hark, is not that the sound of a horse coming down?"

All the men started up; and some one exclaimed, "I shouldn't wonder if it were Mowle himself.--He's always spying about."

"If it is, I'll blow his brains out," said Ned Ramley, motioning to the rest to make their way into the room behind.

"Ay, you had best, I think, Neddy," said Galley Ray, in a quiet, considerate tone, answering his rash threat as coolly as if she had been speaking of the catching of a trout. "You'll have him here all snug, and may never get such another chance. 'Dead men tell no tales,' Neddy. But, get back--'tis a horse, sure enough! You can take your own time, if you go in there."

The young man retreated; and bending down her lips to the boy's ear, the old witch inquired in a whisper, "Is t'other door locked, and the window fast?"

"Yes," said the boy, in the same tone; "and the key hid in the sacking."

"Then if there are enough to take 'em," murmured Gaily Ray to herself--"take 'em they shall!--If there's no one but Mowle, he must go--that's clear. Stretch out that bit o' sail, boy, to catch the blood."

But before the boy could obey her whisper, the door of the hut was thrown open; and instead of Mowle there appeared the figure of Richard Radford.

"Here, little Starlight!" he cried, "hold my horse--why, where are all the men? Have they not come?"

The old woman arranged her face in an instant into the sweetest smile it was capable of assuming, and replied, instantly, "Oh dear, yes: bless your beautiful face, Mr. Radford, but we didn't expect you to-night, and thought it was some of the Custom-House blackguards when we heard the horse. Here, Neddy!--Major!--It's only Mr. Radford."

Ere she had uttered the call, the men, hearing a well-known voice, were entering the room again; and young Radford shook hands with several of them familiarly, congratulating the late prisoners on their escape.

"I found I couldn't come to-morrow morning," he said, "and so I rode down to-night. It's all settled for to-morrow, and by this time Harding's at sea. He'll keep over on the other side till the sun is low; and we must be ready for work by ten, though I don't think he'll get close in before midnight."

"Are you quite sure of Harding, Mr. Radford?" asked the Major. "I thought you had doubts of him about this other venture."

"Ay, and so I have still," answered Richard Radford, a dark scowl coming over his face, "but we must get this job over first. My father says, he will have no words about it, till this is all clear, and after that I may do as I like. Then, Major, then----"

He did not finish the sentence; but those who heard him knew very well what he meant; and the Major inquired, "But is he quite safe in this business? The old woman thinks not."

Young Radford mused with a heavy brow for a minute or two, and then replied, after a sudden start, "But it's no use now--he's at sea by this time; and we can't mend it. Have you heard anything certain of him, Galley Ray?"

"No, nothing quite for certain, my beauty," said the old woman; "but one thing I know: he was seen there upon the cliffs, with two strange men, a-talking away at a great rate; and that was the very night he saw your father, too; but that clear little cunning devil, my boy, Nighty--he's the shrewdest lad that ever lived--found it all out."

"What did he find out?" demanded young Radford, sharply.

"Why, who the one was, he could never be sure," answered the beldam--"a nasty-looking ugly brute, all tattooed in the face, like a wild Indian; but the other was the colonel of dragoons--that's certain, so Nighty says--he is the shrewdest boy that----"

Richard Radford and his companions gazed at each other with very meaning and very ill-satisfied looks; but the former, at length, said, "Well, we shall see--we shall see! and if he does, he shall rue it. In the meantime, Major, what we must do is, to have force enough to set them, dragoons and all, at defiance. My father has got already a hundred men, and I'll beat up for more to-morrow.--I can get fifty or sixty out of Sussex. We'll all be down with you early. The soldiers are scattered about in little parties, so they can never have very many together; and the devil's in it, if we can't beat a handful of them."

"Give us a hundred men," said Ned Ramley, "and we'll beat the whole regiment of them."

"Why, there are not to be found twenty of them together in any one place," answered young Radford, "except at Folkestone, and we shan't have the run within fifteen or sixteen miles of that; so we shall easily do for them; and I should like to give those rascals a licking."

"Then, what's to be done with Harding?" asked Ned Ramley.

"Leave him to me--leave him to me, Ned," replied the young gentleman, "I'll find a way of settling accounts with him."

"Why, the old woman was talking something about it," said the Major. "Come, speak up, old brute!--What is it you've got to say?"

"Oh, I'll tell him quietly when he's a going," answered Galley Ray. "It's no business of yours, Major."

"She hates him like poison," said the Major, in a whisper, to young Radford; "so that you must not believe all she says about him."

The young man gave a gloomy smile, and then, after a few words more, unceremoniously turned the old woman out of her own hovel, telling her he would come and speak to her in a moment. As soon as the hut was clear of her presence, he proceeded to make all his final arrangements with the lawless set who were gathered together within.

"I thought that Harding was not to set off till to-morrow morning," said one of the more staid-looking of the party, at length; "I wonder your father lets him make such changes, Mr. Radford--it looks suspicious, to my thinking."

"No, no; it was by my father's own orders," said young Radford; "there's nothing wrong in that. I saw the note sent this evening; so that's all right. By some contrivance of his own, Harding is to give notice to one of the people on Tolsford Hill, when he is well in land and all is safe; and then we shall see a fire lighted on the top, which is to be our signal, to gather down on the beach. It's all right in that respect, at least.

"I'm glad to hear it," answered the other; "and now, as all is settled, had you not better take a glass of grog before you go."

"No, no," replied the young man, "I'll keep my head cool for to-morrow; for I've got a job to do in the morning that may want a clear eye and a steady hand."

"Well, then, good luck to you!" said Ned Ramley, laughing; and with this benediction, the young gentleman opened the cottage door.

He found Galley Ray holding his horse alone; and, as soon as she saw him, she said, "I've sent the boy away, Mr. Radford, because I wanted to have a chat with you for a minute, all alone, about that blackguard, Harding;" and sinking her voice to a whisper, she proceeded for several minutes, detailing her own diabolical notions, of how young Radford might best revenge himself on Harding, with a coaxing manner, and sweet tone, which contrasted strangely and horribly, both with the words which she occasionally used, and the general course of her suggestions. Young Radford sometimes laughed, with a harsh sort of bitter, unpleasant merriment, and sometimes asked questions, but more frequently remained listening attentively to what she said.

Thus passed some ten minutes, at the end of which time, he exclaimed, with an oath, "I'll do it!" and then, mounting his horse, he rode away slowly and cautiously, on account of the thick fog and the narrow and stony road.

No sooner was he gone, than little Starlight crept out from between the cottage and a pile of dried furze-bushes, which had been cast down on the left of the hut--at once affording fuel to the inhabitants, and keeping out the wind from a large crack in the wall, which penetrated through and through, into the room where young Radford had been conversing with the smugglers.

"Did you hear them, my kiddy?" asked the old woman, as soon as the boy approached her.

"Every word, Mother Ray," answered little Starlight. "But, get in, get in, or they will be thinking something; and I'll tell you all to-morrow."

The old woman saw the propriety of his suggestion; and, both entering the hovel, the door was shut. With it, I may close a scene, upon which I have been obliged to pause longer than I could have wished.

[CHAPTER IV.]

The man who follows a wolf goes straight on after him till he rides him down; but, in chasing a fox, it is always expedient and fair to take across the easiest country for your horse or for yourself, to angle a field, to make for a slope when the neighbouring bank is too high, to avoid a clay fallow, or to skirt a shaking moss. Very frequently, however, one beholds an inexperienced sportsman (who does not well know the country he is riding, and sees the field broken up into several parties, each taking its own course after the hounds) pause for several minutes, not knowing which to follow. Such is often the case with the romance writer also, when the broken nature of the country over which his course lies, separates his characters, and he cannot proceed with all of them at once.

Now, at the present moment, I would fain follow the smugglers to the end of their adventure; but, in so doing, dear reader, I should (to borrow a shred of the figure I have just used) get before my hounds; or, in other words, I should too greatly violate that strict chronological order which is necessary in an important history like the present. I must, therefore, return, by the reader's good leave, to the house of Mr. Zachary Croyland, almost immediately after Sir Edward Digby had ridden away, on the day following young Radford's recently related interview with the smugglers, at which day--with a sad violation of the chronological order I have mentioned above--I had already arrived, as the reader must remember, in the first chapter of the present volume.

Mr. Croyland then stood in the little drawing-room, fitted up according to his own peculiar notions, where Sir Edward's wound had been dressed; and Edith, his niece, sat at no great distance on one of the low ottomans, for which he had an oriental predilection. She was a little excited, both by all that she had witnessed, and all that she had not; and her bright and beautiful eyes were raised to her uncle's face, as she inquired, "How did all this happen? You said you would tell me when they were gone."

Mr. Croyland gazed at her with that sort of parental tenderness which he had long nourished in his heart towards her; and certainly, as she sat there, leaning lightly upon her arm, and with the sunshine falling upon her beautiful form, her left hand resting upon her knee, and one small beautiful foot extended beyond her gown, he could not help thinking her the loveliest creature he had ever beheld in his life, and asking himself--"Is such a being as that, so full of grace in person, and excellence in mind, to be consigned to a rude, brutal bully, like the man who has just met with deserved chastisement at my door?"

He had just begun to answer her question, thinking how he might best do so without inflicting more pain upon her than necessary, when the black servant I have mentioned entered the drawing-room, saying, "A man want to speak to you, master."

"A man!" cried Mr. Croyland, impatiently. "What man? I don't want any man! I've had enough of men for one morning, surely, with those two fools fighting just opposite my house!--What sort of a man is it?"

"Very odd man, indeed, master," answered the Hindoo. "Got great blue pattern on him's face. Strange looking man. Think him half mad," and he made a deferential bow, as if submitting his judgment to that of his master.

"Well, I like odd men," exclaimed Mr. Croyland. "I like strange men better than any others. I'm not sure I do not like them a leetle mad--not too much, not too much, you know, Edith, my dear! Not dangerous; just mad enough to be pleasant, but not furious or obstreperous.--Where have you put him?"

"In de library, master," replied the man; "and he begin taking down the books directly."

"High time I should go and see, who is so studiously inclined," said Mr. Croyland; "or he may not only take down the books, but take them away. That wouldn't do, you know, Edith, my dear--that wouldn't do. Without my niece and my books, what would become of me? I don't intend to lose either the one or the other. So that you are never to marry, my love; mind that, you are never to marry!"

Edith smiled faintly--very faintly indeed; but for the world she would not have made her uncle feel that he had touched upon a tender point. "I do not think I ever shall, my dear uncle," she answered; and saying, "That's a good girl!" the old gentleman hurried out of the room to see his unknown visitor.

Edith remained for some time where she was, in deep and even painful thoughts. All that she had learnt from her sister, since Zara's explanation with Sir Edward Digby, amounted but to this, that he whom she had so deeply loved--whom she still loved so deeply--was yet living. Nothing more had reached her; and, though hope, the fast clinger to the last wreck of probability, yet whispered that he might love her still--that she might not be forgotten--that she might not be abandoned, yet fear and despondency far predominated, and their hoarse tones nearly drowned the feeble whisper of a voice which once had been loud and gay in her heart.

After meditating, then, for some minutes, she rose and left the drawing-room, passing, on her way to the stairs, the door of the library to which her uncle had previously gone. She heard him talking loud as she went along; but the sounds were gay, cheerful, and anything but angry; and another voice was answering, in mellower tones, somewhat melancholy, indeed, but still not sad. Going rapidly by, this was all she distinguished; but after she reached her own room, which was nearly above the library, the murmur of the voices still rose up for more than an hour, and at length Mr. Croyland and his guest came out, and walked through the vestibule to the door.

"God bless you, Harry--God bless you!" said Mr. Croyland, with an appearance of warmth and affection which Edith had seldom known him to display towards any one; "if you wont stay, I can't help it. But mind your promise--mind your promise! In three or four days, you know;" and with another cordial farewell they parted.

When the stranger was gone, however, Mr. Croyland remained standing in the vestibule for several minutes, gazing down upon the floor-cloth, and murmuring to himself various broken sentences, from time to time. "Who'd have thought it," he said; "thirty years come Lady-day next, since we saw each other!--But this isn't quite right of the boy: I will scold him--I will frighten him, too. He shouldn't deceive--nobody should deceive--it's not right. But after all, in love and war, every stratagem is fair, they say; and I'll work for him, that I will. Here, Edith, my love," he continued, calling up the stairs, for he had heard his niece's light foot above, "come, and take a walk with me, my dear: it will do us both good."

Edith came down in a moment, with a hat (or bonnet) in her hand; and although Mr. Croyland affected, on most occasions, to be by no means communicative, yet there was in his whole manner, and in the expression of his face, quite sufficient to indicate to his niece, that he was labouring under the pressure of a secret, which was not a very sad or dark one.

"There, my dear!" he exclaimed, "I said just now that I would not have you marry; but I shall take off the restriction. I will not prohibit the banns--only in case you should wish to marry some one I don't approve. But I've got a husband for you--I've got a husband for you, better than all the Radfords that ever were christened; though, by the way, I doubt whether these fellows ever were christened at all--a set of unbelieving, half-barbarous sceptics. I do not think, upon my conscience, that old Radford believes in anything but the existence of his own individuality."

"But who is the husband you have got for me?" demanded Edith, forcing herself to assume a look of gaiety which was not natural to her. "I hope he's young, handsome, rich, and agreeable."

"All, all!" cried Mr. Croyland. "Those are absolute requisites in a lady's estimation, I know. Never was such a set of grasping monkeys as you women. Youth, beauty, riches, and a courtly air--you must have them all, or you are dissatisfied; and the ugliest, plainest, poorest woman in all Europe, thinks that she has every right to a phœnix 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.

"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 manœuvre. 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.