"What! a touch of the highway, as men used to have long ago?" said Harry Martin. "But that's not so easy done now, my boy. We have changed all that--trade has fallen off sadly too. I wish those days would come again, for there's scarce a man of us keeps a horse now."
"Why, you've got your horse and gig, Harry," said the youth.
"Ay, but one can't stop a gentleman on the road with a horse and gig."
"Very true," answered William Barham; "but if he were to go down into the country, you could go after him, and make a smash of it."
The man with whom he was talking, laughed, but seemed to think the idea not a bad one. "We can't do it for nothing, Bill," he said; "though if he puts up in a place where there's something to be got, and the thing's easy, I shouldn't mind undertaking it, for your sake, though I am not a cracksman, myself--especially if it's a good way down in the country, for you see, there's not so much chance of being pulled up for it. We could have the gig waiting, and after the job was done, get in and drive thirty miles or so, and then take the coach. All I can say is, if you choose to cut this business about your sister entirely, and want really to get out of the fellow's power, I'll help you as far as I can; so look out, there's a good boy, and let me know; for hang me, if I like to see a poor girl bought and sold, like a sheep in Smithfield!--And now, good night, Bill. I would fain see you a free man again, for now you're no better than a nigger-slave in the West Indies."
Thus saying, he left him, and I will not pause to investigate and lay bare all the curious combinations in the bosom of Harry Martin, which produced his strange and anomalous notions of honour and dishonour, honesty and dishonesty. It would be a very difficult task in his case, and perhaps if we knew all, it would not be much less so in the case of many men of far higher reputation--for too, too often, in this good world, do we see the frauds to which they are accustomed, the dishonest--ay, and criminal acts, which suit their purposes and conveniences, placed in as strange contrast with better things in the life of high and distinguished persons, "all honourable men," as the habit of plundering was, with his notions in regard to Helen Barham, in the breast of Henry Martin. The man who takes a solemn vow at the altar, in the presence of his God, and breaks it ere three months are over, would cut the throat of his dearest friend, if he called him a liar; and yet, what is he? The politician, who, on the hustings, or on the table, excites the passions of the people, vows that he is seeking their own interests solely, when his object is place, or power, or station; or he, who in his canvass promises all sorts of things that he never can, and never will perform, what is he but a hypocrite? and yet he would grin at you like a dog if you gave him his right name. I could go on for an hour to shew how we felons of high station contrive to render our notions of honour quite as compatible with crime and dishonour, of the basest sort, as were the plundering habits of William Barham's companion, with his indignation at the brother's carelessness of the sister's honour.
However, as I have said, I must not pause upon such things, for I fear very much, with the slow rate at which my story proceeds, I may be obliged to infringe the boundary which the customs of the present day ascribe to the teller of a tale. Nor will I delay the reader with all that took place between Lieberg and William Barham, previous to the embarkation of the latter in the river Thames, for a long and distant voyage. The whole business was conducted with the knowledge, and under the eye, of Morley Ernstein. Money was furnished to him for all necessary expenses, and Mr. Hamilton, who was now slowly recovering, promised his interest, at Morley's solicitation, to obtain advancement for the young man in the distant land to which he was going, if his conduct during a couple of years justified the belief that he would act honourably for the future. Before he embarked, he wrote a letter to Helen, and gave it into Morley's hands to put upon it the right address. Morley did so, and forwarded it himself, but no answer had been received at the time the ship dropped down the river.
Such were the principal events connected with the fate of William Barham which took place in London; but I must now suddenly change the scene, and beseech the reader to accompany me to a distant spot, and take up his abode for a short space in a small room--for the inn had no other but small rooms--in a house known by the distinctive appellation of "The Sandown Castle," in the small town of Deal.
It was night, and the wind had been blowing freshly from the westward during the whole day; but as the sun went down it increased to a gale, varying somewhat to the southward, with an unpromising blackness about the sky in that quarter, mingling with the faint red of evening, in the west and north. It was altogether as ominous and unpleasant a night to commence a long voyage upon, as any one could wish to see; and nobody whose destiny was not very well assured, would have chosen the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands for his night's lodging on the deep. Although the wind had got to the south, as I have said, the night was one of those which are more generally met with in this favoured climate than any other--that is to say, cold, raw, and damp, in the very midst of the summer, giving us back all our recollections of December in the heart of July.
The room of which I have spoken in the little inn, had been made as comfortable as possible, under existing circumstances. The table had been well rubbed, to take out the marks of tumblers, imprinted in rum-and-water; the windows had been opened to "air the room"--a proceeding which, to say the truth, was not a little required, as a dull and heavy atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and mixed spirits reigned within, and seemed very ill-disposed to go out, either at door or window, in that cold and boisterous night. There was a small fire, too, in the grate, and once or twice, as the evening drew in and night fell heavy over the world, a very genteel-looking personage, with a foreign countenance, and a grave, sedate air, entered the room, looked about him to see that everything was right, put this thing and that thing in order; smoothing down a great coat, that hung over the back of a chair, stirring the fire, arranging the furniture, and doing all those little acts which give notice that some personage is expected, for whom everything must be prepared in the nicest manner.