[CHAPTER XII.]
There was a solitary light in an upstairs window of Farmer Harris's house; and, by its dim ray, sat Harding the smuggler, watching the inanimate form of her upon whom all the strong affections of his heart had been concentrated. No persuasions could induce him to entrust "the first watch," as he called it, to others; and there he sat, seldom taking his eyes from that pale but still beautiful countenance, and often stooping over to print a kiss upon the cold and clay-like forehead of the dead. His tears were all shed: he wept not--he spoke not; but the bitterness which has no end was in his heart, and, with a sleepless eye, he watched through the livelong night. It was about three o'clock in the morning, when a hard knocking was heard at the door of the farm; and, without a change of feature, Harding rose and went down in the dark. He unlocked the door, and opened it, when a hand holding a paper was thrust in, and instantly withdrawn, as Harding took the letter.
"What is this?" he said; but the messenger ran away without reply; and the smuggler returned to the chamber of death.
The paper he had taken was folded in the shape of a note, but neither sealed nor addressed; and, without ceremony, Harding opened it, and read. It was written in a free, good hand, which he recognised at once, with rage and indignation all the more intense because he restrained them within his own breast. He uttered not a word; his face betrayed, only in part, the workings of strong passion within him. It is true, his lip quivered a little, and his brow became contracted, but it soon relaxed its frown; and, without oath or comment--though very blasphemous expletives were then tolerated in what was called the best society, and were prevalent amongst all the inferior classes,--he proceeded to read the few lines which the letter contained, and which something--perhaps the emotions he felt--had prevented him from seeing distinctly at first.
The epistle was, as we have seen, addressed to no one, and was drawn up, indeed, more in the form of a general notice than anything else. Many, of nearly the same import, as was afterwards discovered, had been delivered at various farm-houses in the neighbourhood; but, as all were in substance the same, one specimen will suffice.
"We give you to know," so the letter ran, "that, unless Edward Ramley and his two comrades are set free before daylight to-morrow, we will come to Goudhurst, and burn the place. Neither man, woman, nor child, shall escape. We are many--more than you think--and you know we will keep our word. So look to it, if you would escape--
"Vengeance!"
Harding approached the bed, with the letter in his hand, gazed steadfastly upon the corpse for several minutes, and then, without a word, quitted the room. He went straight to the chamber which Farmer Harris and his wife now occupied, and knocked sharply at the door, exclaiming, "Harris--Harris! I want to speak with you!"
The good farmer was with difficulty roused; for though no man felt more warmly, or, indeed, more vehemently, yet the corporeal had its full share with the mental; and when the body was fatigued with more than its ordinary portion of labour, the mind did not keep the whole being waking. At length, however, he came out, still drowsy, and taking the letter, gazed on it by the light of the candle, "with lack lustre eye!" But Harding soon brought him to active consciousness, by saying, "They threaten to burn the village, Harris, unless the murderers be suffered to escape. I am going up to the church, where they are kept.--Wake some one to sit up-stairs.--I will die before a man of them goes out."
"And so will I," cried Harris; "let me see--let me see! My heart's asleep still, but I'll soon wake up. Why, where the mischief did this come from?" and he read the letter over again, with more comprehension of its contents. When he had done, he swore vehemently, "They shall find that the men of Goudhurst can match them," he cried; "but we must set about it quick, Harding, and call up all the young men.--They will come, that is certain; for the devil himself has not their impudence; but they must be well received when they do come. We'll give them a breakfast, Harding, they shan't forget. It shall be called the Goudhurst breakfast, as long as men can remember. Stay, I'll just put on my coat, and get out the gun and the pistols--we shall want as many of those things as we can muster. I'll be back in a minute."