"What, to my house!" said Mrs. Hawker; "well! what will people say next. I'm sure I should never have thought of such a thing; but pray satisfy yourselves—search wherever you please."
The officers looked about the shop and the back parlour, and went up stairs. The place where the silk was concealed was, however, so well contrived, as to escape their observation; and Mrs. Hawker put on the appearance of innocence so completely, that the men began to think that they really had been misinformed. The young ladies trembled with apprehension when they heard them come into the kitchen, and still more, when, as they passed the pantry, one of the men called out, "What door is that?" "O," said Mrs. Hawker, "that is a sort of out building, but it let in so much cold wind to the kitchen, that we had it nailed up before Michaelmas;—but, I dare say, we can get it open, if you wish to see it;—I'm sure I want no concealment;—run, Molly, run down to Mr. Bellows, the blacksmith—you know where he lives—near the pier."—"Why, I believe, we need not give you that trouble," said Scroggins; "I must say that you have been very ready to let us search every where: and, to tell you the truth, we are just now rather in a hurry, and it would be some time before Bellows with his lame leg could hobble here."
"Well, as you please," said Mrs. Hawker, "it's all one to me—I only hope that another time, Mr. Scroggins, you will not be quite so ready to believe idle stories that people make against their neighbours." The officers wished her good day, and walked off.
She watched them to a considerable distance before she ventured to release her prisoners from their confinement. They had been sadly frightened, but could not help laughing when they got out, though the eldest of them had greased the bottom of her pelisse against a flitch of bacon, which was lying on the bricks under the dresser; and the feathers of her sister were not improved by the intercourse which had taken place between them and a bunch of tallow candles, which were suspended from the low ceiling.
Having directed the silks which they had purchased to be wrapped up in a few yards of Manchester cotton and sent after them, and having put half a dozen pair of French gloves in their reticules, they set out on their return to Sandgate, where their father, Admiral Mowbray, had passed the greatest part of the autumn.
Before descending the hill, they stopped, as in their walks back from Folkestone they generally did, to contemplate the scene before them, which though, perhaps, not remarkably striking, has something of a pleasing character. Immediately beneath them was Sandgate, sheltered from the east and north by a range of sand hills of no great height, but presenting considerable variety of form. From the top of this range a nearly level tract of country stretched along to the foot of the chalk ridge, the line of which is here relieved by several singular conical hills, which stand forward as detached outworks of the principal rampart of chalk. Close under them on the left was the castle, the grey tints and roughnesses of which have been smoothed and polished away by modern trowels, till it has acquired the appearance of a cluster of Martello towers. Beyond Sandgate were some traces of the unfinished works, once destined to protect the commencement of the military canal, and the sea, now nearly at high water, almost breaking over the road. The middle distance was formed by the town of Hythe, with its church on the bold rising ground to the north, its lancet-shaped east window peeping through the trees; and far to the left ran the long line of low land terminating in Dunge Ness. The fishing boats of Hythe and Romney, with a revenue cutter and three or four brigs, gave animation to the near sea view; while, at a considerable distance, a couple of Indiamen were majestically making their way down the channel.
After admiring the prospect, the two sisters were slowly descending the hill, when they heard behind them the footsteps of two persons, who seemed to be rapidly approaching. Their imaginations were filled with the idea of custom-house officers, and they immediately concluded that they were pursued. They therefore walked on as fast as they could, being apprehensive that if they ran they should confirm the suspicions of their pursuers. The same apprehension prevented them from looking back. The strangers, however, continued to gain upon them, but when almost ready to sink with alarm, the young ladies found that their fears were groundless. They were overtaken and passed by a remarkably well-made active man, with a stout bludgeon in his hand, in company with a woman of a slight and elegant form, who contrived to keep pace with him, though she had a child in her arms.
They were in earnest conversation; the woman appearing to be using entreaties, to which the man refused to listen. Just after they had passed them, they heard the man say in a voice, at once expressive of determination and of an agitated state of feeling, "Come—there's no use in trying to persuade me; I've told you that I must be in the marsh to-night. Do you go home and mind the children, I shall not be absent long, and shall, most likely, get back to you before to-morrow night." He then seemed to make an effort, disengaged himself from his companion, and went on with a hurried step.
The poor woman gazed after him for some time, and then turned back with an expression of anxiety and woe, which went to the hearts of the two sisters. Their compassion and benevolence prompted them to endeavour to offer some consolation, but delicacy prevented them from intruding on the sorrows of a perfect stranger. Upon looking at her more attentively, they recognized the same woman whom they had seen, not long before, at Mrs. Hawker's, and by whose remark upon their smuggling purchases they had been surprised and shocked. They could not resist bringing it to her recollection, and asking her what she meant. Poor Mary immediately burst into a flood of tears; the violence of her grief affected and alarmed the young ladies; and while they were trying to soothe both her and her child, the eldest of the young ladies exclaimed, "Surely you are—but no, it is not likely:—you cannot be the Mary Allen, who, about ten years since lived as house-maid with Mrs. Stanwick in Hertfordshire?"
Surprise and a sensation of pleasure checked the current of Mary's sorrow. "Yes, indeed, I am," said she; "and is it possible that you young ladies are my dear mistress's nieces, who used so often to be staying with her when your father, the Admiral, was at sea? Oh! how kind you were to me, and how fond I used to be of you both! But then you were both little girls, and I could venture to talk to you with freedom."