“‘And you’ll be sure to meet us the day after?’
“‘Sure as the sun will rise.’
“‘And what time should we do the trick?’
“‘As soon after dusk as you can manage it. Earlier would not be safe. Can you conceal your arms?’
“‘Easily—I’ll borrow a poacher’s gun from an old pal of mine. It comes in pieces; the barrel unscrews in the middle, and you can carry it in the hare-pocket of a shooting jacket.’
“‘Come.—You know the man and the place. Let us be off. I’m too late from home.’
“They returned through the plantation. As they approached the paling—I still hanging on their heels—I was sorely tempted to give them a barrel a piece before we parted; but I thought, as I had found out all they were after, that it was better to let them pass this time—and inform your honour of what was in the wind.”
“You acted, gallant Captain,” replied Mr. Clifford, “with excellent tact and judgment. I see clearly through the business. My existence and return are discovered—and the wretch, who caused my exile, would now consummate his villany by murder. It will only expedite the denouement—and with the failure of to-morrow night, Morley’s career will close. Come, Hector, we must not forget that you require refreshment—and while you sup, I will acquaint you with events which have occurred during your absence from the country.”
While my uncle was detailing the progress of his secret operations, I was giving him ocular proof that my appetite had not deteriorated by campaigning. But even supper and a long story has an end. The clock had struck the first hour of morning—we parted for the night—the Colonel, by no means satisfied that the assault on San Sebastian should have failed—Mr. Clifford, to mature his plans, and avail himself of the ratcatcher’s information—and I, to seek my pillow with that blessed and heart-cheering assurance, that all I loved dearest on earth were slumbering beneath the same roof-tree.
From Bromley Park we will carry the reader for a brief interval away, and follow the fosterer and his companion to the native village of the latter. It was sunset on the succeeding evening, before the stage coach on whose roof the pair were seated, stopped at the cross roads at a mile’s distance from Rawlings’s home, and there deposited the trwellers. Never did a couple of wayfarers cross a pathway more expeditiously. They had light kits and light purses—but they had what was better than any thing wealth could produce, lighter hearts—for from a fellow-passenger, William, to the inquiry, “Doth my father still live?” had received an assurance that the old man was well, and happy, and without a care, save what arose from anxiety regarding the safety of his absent son. Nor was the fosterer less gratified by the further tidings of the stranger. His mistress was looking better than she had ever done—at least, such was the village, report—and but a week ago, it was whispered that she had declined the hand of the wealthiest farmer in the neighbourhood. The colour mounted to the lover’s cheek. To hear that his mistress was fairer than before, was flattering to his pride—but to find her constancy unchangeable, was incense to the heart.