The Smuggler Part 11

"Then you had better send your son, sir," rejoined Harding. "He's oftener there than I am, a great deal.--Well, the matter is all settled, then. Either the night after to-morrow, or the night after that, if the men keep a good look-out, they'll see a light on Tolsford Hill. Then they must gather as fast as possible at Saltwood, and come on with anybody they may find there. Good night, Mr. Radford."

"Good night, Harding--good night," said Mr. Radford, walking on; and the other turning his steps back towards Harbourne, made his way, by the first road on the right, to the cottage where we have seen him in the earlier part of the day.

It was a pleasant aspect that the cottage presented when he went in, which he did without any of the ceremonies of knocking at the door or ringing the bell; for he was sure of a welcome. There was but one candle lighted on the table, for the dwellers in the place were poor; but the room was small, and that one was quite sufficient to shew the white walls and the neat shelves covered with crockery, and with one or two small prints in black frames. Besides, there was the fire-place, with a bright and cheerful, but not large fire; for though, in the month of September, English nights are frequently cold and sometimes frosty, the weather had been as yet tolerably mild.

Nevertheless, the log of fir at the top blazed high, and crackled amidst the white and red embers below, and the flickering flame, as it rose and fell, caused the shadows to fall more vaguely or distinctly upon the walls, with a fanciful uncertainty of outline, that had something cheerful, yet mysterious in it.

The widow was bending over the fire, with her face turned away, and her figure in the shadow. The daughter was busily working with her needle, but her eyes were soon raised--and they were very beautiful eyes--as Harding entered. A smile, too, was upon her lips; and though even tears may be lovely, and a sad look awaken deep and tender emotions, yet the smile of affection on a face we love is the brightest aspect of that bright thing the human countenance. It is what the suns.h.i.+ne is to the landscape, which may be fair in the rain or sublime in the storm, but can never harmonize so fully with the innate longing for happiness which is in the breast of every one, as when lighted up with the rays that call all its excellence and all its powers into life and being.

Harding sat down beside the girl, and took her hand in his, saying, "Well, Kate, this day three weeks, then, remember?"

"My mother says so," answered the girl, with a cheek somewhat glowing, "and then, you know, John, you are to give it up altogether. No more danger--no more secrets?"

"Oh, as for danger," answered Harding, laughing, "I did not say that, love. I don't know what life would be worth without danger. Every man is in danger all day long; and I suppose that we are only given life just to feel the pleasure of it by the chance of losing it. But no dangers but the common ones, Kate. I'll give up the trade, as you have made me promise; and I shall have enough by that time to buy out the whole vessel, in which I've got shares, and what between that and the boats, we shall do very well. You put me in mind, with your fears, of a song that wicked boy, little Starlight, used to sing. I learned it from hearing him: a more mischievous little dog does not live; but he has got a sweet pipe."

"Sing it, John--sing it!" cried Kate; "I love to hear you sing, for it seems as if you sing what you are thinking."

"No, I wont sing it," answered Harding, "for it is a sad sort of song, and that wont do when I am so happy."

"Oh, I like sad songs!" said the girl; "they please me far more than all the merry ones."

"Oh, pray sing it, Harding!" urged the widow; "I am very fond of a song that makes me cry."

"This wont do that," replied the smuggler; "but it is sadder than some that do, I always think. However, I'll sing it, if you like;" and in a fine, mellow, ba.s.s voice, to a very simple air, with a flattened third coming in every now and then, like the note of a wintry bird, he went on:--

SONG.

"Life's like a boat, Rowing--rowing Over a bright sea, On the waves to float, Flowing--flowing Away from her lea.

"Up goes the sheet!

Sailing--sailing, To catch the rising breeze, While the winds fleet, Wailing--wailing, Sigh o'er the seas.

"She darts through the waves, Gaily--gaily, Scattering the foam.

Beneath her, open graves, Daily--daily, The blithest to entomb.

"Who heeds the deep, Yawning--yawning For its destined prey, When from night's dark sleep, Dawning--dawning, Wakens the bright day?

"Away, o'er the tide!

Fearless--fearless Of all that lies beneath; Let the waves still hide, Cheerless--cheerless, All their stores of death.

"Stray where we may, Roaming--roaming Either far or near, Death is on the way, Coming--coming-- Who's the fool to fear?"

The widow did weep, however, not at the rude song, though the voice that sung it was fine, and perfect in the melody, but at the remembrances which it awakened--remembrances on which she loved to dwell, although they were so sad.

"Ay, Harding," she said, "it's very true what your song says. Whatever way one goes, death is near enough; and I don't know that it's a bit nearer on the sea than anywhere else."

"Not a whit," replied Harding; "G.o.d's hand is upon the sea as well as upon the land, Mrs. Clare; and if it is his will that we go, why we go; and if it is his will that we stay, he doesn't want strength to protect us."

"No, indeed," answered Mrs. Clare; "and it's that which comforts me, for I think that what is G.o.d's will must be good. I'm sure, when my poor husband went out in the morning, six years ago come the tenth of October next, as well and as hearty as a man could be, I never thought to see him brought home a corpse, and I left a lone widow with my poor girl, and not knowing where to look for any help. But G.o.d raised me up friends where I least expected them."

"Why you had every right to expect that Sir Robert would be kind to you, Mrs. Clare," rejoined Harding, "when your husband had been in his service for sixteen or seventeen years."

"No, indeed, I hadn't," said the widow; "for Sir Robert was always, we thought, a rough, hard master, grumbling continually, till my poor man could hardly bear it; for he was a free-spoken man, as I dare say you remember, Mr. Harding, and would say his mind to any one, gentle or simple."

"He was as good a soul as ever lived," answered Harding; "a little rash and pa.s.sionate, but none the worse for that."

"Ay, but it was that which set the head keeper against him," answered the widow, "and he set Sir Robert, making out that Edward was always careless and insolent; but he did his duty as well as any man, and knowing that, he didn't like to be found fault with. However, I don't blame Sir Robert; for since my poor man's death he has found out what he was worth; and very kind he has been to me, to be sure. The cottage, and the garden, and the good bit of ground at the back, and twelve s.h.i.+llings a-week into the bargain, have we had from him ever since."

"Ay, and I am sure nothing can be kinder than the two young ladies,"

said Kate; "they are always giving me something; and Miss Edith taught me all I know. I should have been sadly ignorant if it had not been for her--and a deal of trouble I gave her."

"G.o.d bless her!" cried Harding, heartily. "She's a nice young lady, I believe, though I never saw her but twice, and then she looked very sad."

"Ay, she has cause enough, poor thing!" said Mrs. Clare. "Though I remember her as blithe as the morning lark--a great deal gayer than Miss Zara, gay as she may be."

"Ay, I know--they crossed her love," answered Harding; "and that's enough to make one sad. Though I never heard the rights of the story."

"Oh, it was bad enough to break her heart, poor thing!" replied Mrs.

Clare. "You remember young Leyton, the rector's son--a fine, handsome, bold lad as ever lived, and as good as he was handsome. Well, he was quite brought up with these young ladies, you know--always up at the Hall, and Miss Edith always down at the Rectory; and one would have thought Sir Robert blind or foolish, not to fancy that two such young things would fall in love with each other; and so they did, to be sure. Many's the time I've seen them down here, in this very cottage, laughing and talking, and as fond as a pair of doves--for Sir Robert used to let them do just whatever they liked, and many a time used to send young Harry Leyton to take care of Miss Croyland, when she was going out to walk any distance; so, very naturally, they promised themselves to each other; and one day--when he was twenty and she just sixteen--they got a Prayer-Book at the Rectory, and read over the marriage ceremony together, and took all the vows down upon their bended knees. I remember it quite well, for I was down at the Rectory that very day helping the housekeeper; and just as they had done old Mr. Leyton came in, and found them somewhat confused, and the book open between them. He would know what it was all about, and they told him the truth. So then he was in a terrible taking; and he got Miss Croyland under his arm and went away up to Sir Robert directly, and told him the whole story without a minute's delay. Every one thought it would end in being a match; for though Sir Robert was very angry, and insisted that Harry Leyton should be sent to his regiment immediately--for he was then just home for a bit, on leave--he did not show how angry he was at first, but very soon after he turned Mr.

Leyton out of the living, and made him pay, I don't know what, for dilapidations; so that he was arrested and put in prison--which broke his heart, poor man, and he died!"

Harding gave Sir Robert Croyland a hearty oath; and Mrs. Clare proceeded to tell her tale, saying--"I did not give much heed to the matter then; for it was just at that time that my husband was killed, and I could think of nothing else; but when I came to hear of what was going on, I found that Sir Robert had promised his daughter to this young Radford----"

"As nasty a vermin as ever lived," said Harding.

"Well, she wont have him, I'm sure," continued the widow, "for it has been hanging off and on for these six years. People at first said it was because they were too young. But I know that she has always refused, and declared that nothing should ever drive her to marry him, or any one else; for the law might say what it liked, but her own heart and her own conscience, told her that she was Harry Leyton's wife, and could not be any other man's, as long as he was living.

Susan, her maid, heard her say so to Sir Robert himself; but he still keeps teasing her about it, and tells everybody she's engaged to young Radford."

"He'll go the devil," said Harding; "and I'll go to bed, Mrs. Clare, for I must be up early to-morrow, to get a good many things to rights.

G.o.d bless you Kate, my love! I dare say I shall see you before I go--for I must measure the dear little finger!" And giving her a hearty kiss, Harding took a candle, and retired to the snug room that had been prepared for him.

CHAPTER XI.

We must change the scene for a while, not only to another part of the county of Kent, but to very different people from the worthy Widow Clare and the little party a.s.sembled at her cottage. We must pa.s.s over the events of the night also, and of the following morning up to the hour of nine, proposing shortly to return to Harbourne House, and trace the course of those a.s.sembled there. The dwelling into which we must now introduce the reader, was a large, old-fas.h.i.+oned Kentish farm-house, not many miles on the Suss.e.x side of Ashford. It was built, as many of these farm-houses still are, in the form of a cross, presenting four limbs of strongly constructed masonry, two stories high, with latticed windows divided into three part.i.tions, separated by rather neatly cut divisions of stone. Externally it had a strong Harry-the-Eighth look about it, and probably had been erected in his day, or in that of one of his immediate successors, as the residence of some of the smaller gentry of the time. At the period I speak of, it was tenanted by a family notorious for their daring and licentious life, and still renowned in county tradition for many a fierce and lawless act. Nevertheless, the head of the house, now waxing somewhat in years, carried on, not only ostensibly but really, the peaceable occupation of a Kentish farmer. He had his cows and his cattle, and his sheep and his pigs; he grew wheat and barley, and oats and turnips; had a small portion of hop-ground, and brewed his own beer.

But this trade of farming was only a small part of his employment, though, to say the truth, he had given himself up more to it since his bodily powers had declined, and he was no longer able to bear the fatigue and exertion which the great strength of his early years had looked upon as sport. The branch of his business which he was most fond of was now princ.i.p.ally entrusted to his two sons; and two strong, handsome daughters, which made the number of his family amount to four, occasionally aided their brothers, dressed in men's clothes, and mounted upon powerful horses, which they managed as well as any grooms in the county.

The reader must not think that, in this description, we are exercising indiscreetly our licence for dealing in fiction. We are painting a true picture of the family of which we speak, as they lived and acted some eighty or eighty-five years ago.

The wife of the farmer had been dead ten or twelve years; and her children had done just what they liked ever since; but it must be admitted, that, even if she had lived to superintend their education, we have no reason to conclude their conduct would have been very different from what it was. We have merely said that they had done as they pleased ever since her death, because during her life she had made them do as she pleased, and beat them, or, as she herself termed it, "basted" them heartily, if they did not. She was quite capable of doing so too, to her own perfect satisfaction, for probably few arms in all Kent were furnished with more sinewy muscles or a stouter fist than hers could boast. It was only upon minor points of difference, however, that she and her children ever quarrelled; for of their general course of conduct she approved most highly; and no one was more ready to receive packets of lace, tea, or other goods under her fostering care, or more apt and skilful in stopping a tub of spirits from "talking," or of puzzling a Custom-House officer when force was not at hand to resist him.

She was naturally of so strong a const.i.tution, and so well built a frame, that it is wonderful she died at all; but having caught cold one night, poor thing!--it is supposed, in setting fire to a neighbouring farm-house, the inmates of which were suspected of having informed against her husband--her very strength and vigour gave a tendency to inflammation, which speedily reduced her very low. A surgeon, who visited the house in fear and trembling, bled her largely, and forbade the use of all that cla.s.s of liquids which she was accustomed to imbibe in considerable quant.i.ties; and for three or four days the fear of death made her follow his injunctions. But at the end of that period, when the crisis of the disease was imminent, finding herself no better, and very weak, she declared that the doctor was a fool, and ought to have his head broken, and directed the maid to bring her the big green bottle out of the corner cupboard. To this she applied more than once, and then beginning to get a little riotous, she sent for her family to witness how soon she had cured herself. Sitting up in her bed, with a yellow dressing-gown over her shoulders, and a gay cap overshadowing her burning face, she sung them a song in praise of good liquor--somewhat panting for breath, it must be owned--and then declaring that she was "devilish thirsty," which was probably accurate to the letter, she poured out a large gla.s.s from the big green bottle, which happened to be her bed-fellow for the time, and raised it to her lips. Half the contents went down her throat; but, how it happened I do not know, the rest was spilt upon the bed clothes, and good Mrs. Ramley fell back in a doze, from which n.o.body could rouse her. Before two hours were over she slept a still sounder sleep, which required the undertaker to provide against its permanence.

The bereaved widower comforted himself after a time. We will not say how many hours it required to effect that process. He was not a drunken man himself; for the pa.s.sive participle of the verb to "drink"