“As to reward? Theer’s my friend tu, as have told me the secret. ’Tis right us should get our deserts for smashing that cowardly dog. An’ God, He knows how poor I be. But theer’ll be a thousand golden guineas in it for you, so like as not; an’ if you take the foreigner, her’ll be worth a Jew’s-eye, for she’s a butivul thing by all accounts, though if the cutter catches her ’twill be by stealth, not sailin’.”
“’Twould make a stir,” admitted the other, cautiously. Then a sudden wave of suspicion crossed his mind.
“If you’re lying to me, you’ll repent it,” he said.
“Judge by what I lose,” retorted the old man, almost tearfully. “To put this harvest into your hands is to rob my own pocket. Baccy an’ winter drinkin’—I give up all for the hate I bear against that man. But take my word or leave it.”
Old Cramphorn’s bitterness of expression and the lean fist raised and shaken at Merry Jonathan’s empty boat hard by, went far to convince Mr. Bluett. That day he hired a horse and rode over to Dartmouth and in the evening met his secret accomplice again among the usual crowd at the bar of the “Golden Anchor.” Jonathan Godbeer was not present, but the rest of the company now knew the officer by name and treated him with outward civility and respect.
The conversation ran on Lady Emma’s death-coach. Even Parson Yates had been awakened from his abstracted existence by the reports of this singular apparition, for many had seen it of late and not a few fearfully approached their pastor upon the subject. That evening, indeed, the folk awaited news of some definite decision from Daleham’s spiritual leader, because, as Jenifer Pearn told the Exciseman, though certain ancient celebrities had objected to interference with a vision so historical, others held it a scandal that any patrician maiden’s spirit should thus continue to revisit the scenes of her life and taking off. Greater matters occupied Robert Bluett’s mind, but, sailor-like, he loved a ghost, and his life had not changed the superstitious nature of him. He listened with the rest, therefore, while Johnny related what had passed between himself and the clergyman.
“’Twas hard to shake sense into the old gen’leman. He doan’t want to believe it, though theer’s his open Bible staring him in the face every day of his life. But a man’s reason be nought against the pull of conscience; so he’m gwaine up-along to see for hisself. Then, if the things do appear to his sight, he’ll go forth in the name of the Lord to quench ’em.”
“He’ll never do it—such a timorous man as him,” said Mrs. Pearn; but Cramphorn assured her that the deed was done.
“He’ve gone to-night. I started along with un. ‘Shall I come with ’e, your reverence?’ I axed him. An’ he said ‘No,’ though he’d have liked to say ‘Ess.’ ‘Who wants man’s aid if his hand be in his Master’s?’ he sez to me. ‘Not your reverence, that’s sartain,’ I sez to him. Then he went up-along and I comed in here.”
Conversation continued and then, some half an hour later, a little man in clerical costume, with tiny legs that shook beneath him, suddenly entered the inn. He was very pale and blinked at the blazing oil lamp above the bar.