The Smuggler Part 32

"Oh, yes!" murmured Edith, "where poor Clare was found."

The baronet nodded his head: "It was there, indeed," he said. "We went down to see if there were any snipes, or wild fowl, in the bottom. It is a deep and gloomy-looking dell, with a pond of water and some rushes in the hollow, and a little brook running through it, having tall trees all around, and no road but one narrow path crossing it. As we came down, I thought I saw the form of a man move amongst the trees; and I fancied that some one was poaching there. I told Clare to go round the pond and see, while I watched the road. He did not seem inclined to go, saying, that he had not remarked anybody, but that the people round about said the place was haunted. I had been angry with him the whole morning, and a good deal out of humour with many things; so I told him to go round instantly, and not make me any answer. The man did so, in a somewhat slow and sullen humour, I thought, and returned sooner than I fancied he ought to do, saying that he could see no trace of any one. I was now very angry, for I fancied he neglected his duty. I told him that he was a liar, that I had perceived some one, whom he might have perceived as well, and that my firm belief was, he was in alliance with the poachers, and deserved to be immediately discharged. 'Well, Sir Robert,' he said, 'in regard to discharging me, that is soon settled. I will not stay another day in your service, after I have a legal right to go. As to being a liar, I am none; and as to being in league with the poachers, if you say so, you yourself lie!' Such were his words, or words to that effect. I got furious at his insolence, though perhaps, Edith--perhaps I provoked it myself--at least, I have thought so since. However, madly giving way to rage, I took my gun by the barrel to knock him down. A struggle ensued; for he caught hold of the weapon in my hand; and how I know not, but the gun went off, and Clare fell back upon the turf. What would I not have done then, to recal every hasty word I had spoken!

But it was in vain. I stooped over him; I spoke to him; I told him how sorry I was for what had happened. But he made no answer, and pressed his hand upon his right side, where the charge had entered. I was mad with despair and remorse. I knew not where to go, or what to do. The man was evidently dying; for his face had grown pale and sharp; and after trying to make him speak, and beseeching him to answer one word, I set off running as fast as I could towards the nearest village for a.s.sistance. As I was going, I saw a man on horseback, riding sharply down towards the very place. He was at some distance from me; but I easily recognised Mr. Radford, and knew that he must pa.s.s by the spot where the wounded man lay. I comforted myself with thinking that Clare would get aid without my committing myself; and I crept in amongst the trees at the edge of the wood, to make sure that Mr. Radford saw him, and to watch their proceedings. Quietly and stealthily finding my way through the bushes, I came near; and then I saw that Radford was kneeling by Clare's side with an inkhorn in his hand, which, with his old tradesmanlike-habits, he used always at that time to carry about him. He was writing busily, and I could hear Clare speak, but could not distinguish what he said. The state of my mind, at that moment, I cannot describe. It was more like madness than any thing else. Vain and foolish is it, for any man or any body of men, to argue what would be their conduct in trying situations which they have never been placed in. It is worse than folly for them to say, what would naturally be another man's conduct in any circ.u.mstances; for no man can tell another's character, or understand fully all the fine shades of feeling or emotion that may influence him. The tale I am telling you now, Edith, is true--too true, in all respects. I was very wrong, certainly; but I was not guilty of the man's murder. I never intended to fire: I never tried to fire; and yet, perhaps, I acted, afterwards, as if I had been guilty, or at all events in a way that was well calculated to make people believe I was so. But I was mad at the time--mad with agitation and grief--and every man, I believe, in moments of deep emotion is mad, more or less. However, I crept out of the wood again, and hastened on, determined to leave the man to the care of Mr. Radford, but with all my thoughts wild and confused, and no definite line of conduct laid out for myself. Before I had gone a mile, I began to think what a folly I had committed, that I should have joined Radford at once; that I should have been present to hear what the man said, and to give every a.s.sistance in my power, although it might be ineffectual, in order to stanch the blood and save his life. As soon as these reflections arose, I determined, though late, to do what I should have done at first; and, turning my steps, I walked back at a quick pace. Ere I got half way to the top of the hill which looks down upon the wood, I saw Radford coming out again on horseback; but I went on, and met him. As soon as he beheld me he checked his horse, which was going at a rapid rate, and when I came near, dismounted to speak with me. We were then little more than common acquaintances, and I had sometimes dealt hardly with him in his different transactions; but he spoke in a friendly tone, saying, 'This is a sad business, Sir Robert; but if you will take my advice you will go home as quickly as you can, and say nothing to any one till you see me. I will be with you in an hour or so. At present I must ride up to Middle Quarter, and get down men to carry home the body.' With a feeling I cannot express, I asked, if he were dead, then. He nodded his head significantly, and when I was going to put further questions, he grasped my hand, saying, 'Go home, Sir Robert--go home. I shall say nothing about the matter to any one, till I see you, except that I found him dying in the wood. His gun was discharged,' he continued, 'so there is no proof that he did not do it himself!' Little did I know what a fiend he was, into whose power I was putting myself."

"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, who had been listening with her head bent down till her whole face was nearly concealed, "I see it all, now! I see it all!"

"No, dear child," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a voice sad and solemn, but wonderfully calm, "you cannot see it all; no, nor one thousandth part of what I have suffered. Even the next dreadful three hours--for he was fully that time ere he came to Harbourne--were full of horror, inconceivable to any one but to him who endured them. At length, he made his appearance; calm, grave, self-possessed, with nought of his somewhat rude and bl.u.s.tering manner, and announced, with an affectation of feeling to the family, that poor Clare, my keeper, had been found dying with a wound in his side."

"I recollect the day, well!" said Edith, shuddering.

"Do you not remember, then," said Sir Robert Croyland, "that he and I went into my writing-room--that awful room, which well deserves the old prison name of the room of torture! We were closeted there for nearly two hours; and all he said I cannot repeat. His tone, however, was the most friendly in the world. He professed the greatest interest in me and in my situation; and he told me that he had come to see me before he said a word to any one, because he wished to take my opinion as to how he was to proceed. It was necessary, he said, that I should know the facts, for, unfortunately they placed me in a very dangerous situation, which he was most anxious to free me from; and then he went on to tell me, that when he had come up, poor Clare was perfectly sensible, and had his speech distinctly. 'As a magistrate,' he continued, 'I thought it right immediately to take his dying deposition, for I saw that he had not many minutes to live. Here it is,' he said, showing his pocket-book; 'and, as I luckily always have pen and ink with me, I knelt down, and wrote his words from his own lips. He had strength enough to sign the paper; and, as you may see, there is the mark of blood from his own hand, which he had been pressing on his side.' I would fain have taken the paper, but he would not let me, saying, that he was bound to keep it; and then he went on, and read the contents. In it, the unfortunate man charged me most wrongfully with having shot him in a fit of pa.s.sion; and, moreover, he said that he had been sure, beforehand, that I would do it, as I had threatened him on the preceding day, and there were plenty of people who could prove it."

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Edith.

"It was false, as I have a soul to be saved!" cried Sir Robert Croyland. "But Mr. Radford then went on, and, shrugging his shoulders, said, that he was placed in a very delicate and painful situation, and that he did not really know how to act with regard to the deposition.

'Put it in the fire!' I exclaimed--'put it in the fire!' But he said, 'No; every man must consider himself in these things, Sir Robert. I have my own character and reputation to think of--my own duty. I risk a great deal, you must recollect, by concealing a thing of this kind.

I do not know that I don't put my own life in danger; for this is clear and conclusive evidence against you, and you know, what it is to be accessory in a case of murder!' I then told him my own story, Edith; and he said, that made some difference, indeed. He was sure I would tell him the truth; but yet he must consider himself in the matter; and he added hints which I could not mistake, that his evidence was to be bought off. I offered anything he pleased to name, and the result was such as you may guess. He exacted that I should mortgage my estate, as far as it could be mortgaged, and make over the proceeds to him, and that I should promise to give your hand to his son. I promised anything, my child; for not only life and death, but honour or disgrace, were in the balance. If he had asked my life, I would have held my throat to the knife a thousand times sooner than have made such sacrifices. But to die the death of a felon, Edith--to be hanged--to writhe in the face of a grinning and execrating mult.i.tude--to have my name handed down in the annals of crime, as the man who had been executed for the murder of his own servant,--I could not bear that, my child; and I promised anything! He kept the paper, he said, as a security; and, at first, it was to be given to me, to do with it as I liked--when the money coming from the mortgage was secretly made over to him; but then, he said, that he had lost one great hold, and must keep it till the marriage was completed: for by this time the coroner's inquest was over, and he had withheld the deposition, merely testifying that he had found the man at the point of death in the wood, and had gone as fast as possible for a.s.sistance.

The jury consisted of his tenants and mine, and they were easily satisfied; but the fiend who had me in his power was more greedy; and, by the very exercise of his influence, he seemed to learn to enjoy it.

Day after day, month after month, he took a pleasure in making me do things that were abhorrent to me. It changed my nature and my character. He forced me to wink at frauds that I detested; and every year he pressed for the completion of your marriage with his son. Your coldness, your dislike, your refusal would, long ere this, have driven him into fury, I believe, if Richard Radford had been eager for your hand himself. But now, Edith--now, my child, he will hear of no more delay. He is ruined in fortune, disappointed in his expectations, and rendered fierce as a hungry beast by some events that have taken place this morning. He has just now been over at Harbourne, and used threats which I know, too well, he will execute. He it was, himself, who told me to inform you, that if you did not consent, your father's life would be the sacrifice!"

"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, covering her eyes with her hands, "at least, give me time to think.--Surely, his word cannot have such power: a base, notorious criminal himself, one who every day violates the law, who scoffs at his own oaths, and holds truth and honour but as names--surely his word will be nothing against Sir Robert Croyland's."

"His word is nothing, would be nothing," replied her father, earnestly; "but that deposition, Edith! It is that which is my destruction. Remember, that the words of a dying man, with eternity and judgment close before his eyes, are held by the law more powerful than any other kind of evidence; and, besides, there are those still living, who heard the rash threat I used. Suspicion once pointed at me, a thousand corroborative circ.u.mstances would come forth to prove that the tale I told of parting with the dead man, some time before, was false, and that very fact would condemn me. Cast away all such hopes, Edith--cast away all such expectations. They are vain!--vain!

Look the truth full in the face, my child. This man has your father's life entirely and totally in his power, and ask yourself, if you will doom me to death."

"Oh, give me time--give me time!" cried Edith, wringing her hands.

"Let me but think over it till to-morrow, or next day."

"Not an hour ago," replied Sir Robert Croyland, "he swore, by everything he holds sacred, that if before twelve to-night, he did not receive your consent----"

"Stay, stay!" cried Edith, eagerly, placing her hand upon her brow.

"Let me think--let me think. It is but money that he wants--it is but the pitiful wealth my uncle left me. Let him take it, my father!" she continued, laying her hand upon Sir Robert's arm, and gazing brightly in his face, as if the light of hope had suddenly been renewed. "Let him take it all, every farthing. I would sooner work as a hired servant in the fields for my daily bread, with the only comfort of innocence and peace, than break my vows, and marry that bad man. I will sign a promise this instant that he shall have all."

Sir Robert Croyland threw his arms round her, and looked up to Heaven, as if imploring succour for them both. "My sweet child!--My dear child!" he said, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. "But I cannot leave you even this generous hope. This man has other designs.

I offered--I promised to give Zara to his son, and to ensure to her, with my brother's help, a fortune equal to your own. But he would not hear of it. He has other views, my Edith. You must know all--you must see all as it really is. He will keep his word this very night! If before twelve, he do not receive your consent, the intimation of the fatal knowledge he possesses will be sent to those who will not fail to track it through every step, as the bloodhound follows his prey. He is a desperate man, Edith, and will keep his word, bringing down ruin upon our heads, even if it overwhelm himself also."

Edith Croyland paused without reply for several minutes, her beautiful face remaining pale, with the exception of one glowing spot in the centre of her cheek. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground; and her lips moved, but without speech. She was arguing in her own mind the case between hope and despair; and the terrible array of circ.u.mstances on every side bewildered her. Delay was her only refuge; and looking up in her father's face, she said, "But why is he so hasty? Why cannot he wait a few hours longer? I will fix a time when my answer shall be given--it shall be shortly, very shortly--this time to-morrow. Surely, surely, in so terrible a case, I may be allowed a few hours to think--a short, a very short period, to decide."

"He will admit of no more than I have said," answered Sir Robert Croyland: "it is as vain to entreat him, as to ask the hangman to delay his fatal work. He is hard as iron, without feeling, without heart. His reasons, too, are specious, my dear child. His son, it seems, has taken part this morning in a smuggling affray with the troops--blood has been shed--some of the soldiers have been killed--all who have had a share therein are guilty of felony; and it has become necessary that the young man should be hurried out of the country without delay. To him such a flight is nothing: he has no family to blacken with the record of crime--he has no honourable name to stain--his means are all prepared; his flight is easy, his escape secure; but his father insists that you shall be his bride before he goes, or he gives your father up, not to justice, but to the law--which in pretending to administer justice, but too often commits the very crimes it seems to punish. Four short days are all that he allows; and then you are to be that youth's bride."

"What! the bride of a felon!" cried Edith, her spirit rising for a moment--"of one stained with every vice and every crime--to vow falsely that I will love him whom I must ever hate--to break all my promises to one I must ever love--to deceive, prove false and forsworn to the n.o.ble and the true, and give myself to the base, the lawless, and the abhorred! Oh, my father--my father! is it possible that you can ask such a thing?"

The fate of Sir Robert Croyland and his daughter hung in the balance.

One harsh command, one unkind word, with justice and truth on her side, and feebleness and wrong on his, might have armed her to resist; but the old man's heart was melted. The struggle that he witnessed in his child was, for a moment--remark, only for a moment--more terrible than that within his own breast. There was something in the innocence and truth, something in the higher attributes of the pa.s.sions called into action in her breast, something in the enn.o.bling nature of the conflicting feelings of her heart--the filial tenderness, the adherence to her engagements, the abhorrence of the bad, the love of the good, the truth, the honour, and the piety, all striving one with the other, that for a time made the mean pa.s.sion of fear seem small and insignificant. "I do not ask you, my child," he said--"I do not urge you--I ask, I urge you no more! The worst bitterness is past. I have told my own child the tale of my sorrows, my folly, my weakness, and my danger. I have inflicted the worst upon you, Edith, and on myself; and I leave it to your own heart to decide. After your generous, your n.o.ble offer, to sacrifice your property and leave yourself nothing, for my sake, it were cruel--it were, indeed, base, to urge you farther. To avoid this, dreadful disclosure, to shelter you and myself from such horrible details, I have often been stern, and harsh, and menacing.--Forgive me, Edith, but it is past! You now know what is on the die; and it is your own hand casts it. Your father's life, the honour of your family, the high name we have ever borne--these are to be lost and won. But I urge it not--I ask it not.

You only must and can decide."

Edith, who had risen, stood before him, pale as ashes, with her hands clasped so tight that the blood retreated from her fingers, where they pressed against each other, leaving them as white as those of the dead--her eyes fixed, straining, but sightless, upon the ground. All that she saw, all that she knew, all that she felt, was the dreadful alternative of fates before her. It was more than her frame could bear--it was more than almost any human heart could endure. To condemn a father to death, to bring the everlasting regret into her heart, to wander, as if accurst, over the earth, with a parent's blood crying out for vengeance! It was a terrible thought indeed. Then again, she remembered the vows that she had taken, the impossibility of performing those that were asked of her, the sacrifice of the innocent to the guilty, the perjury that she must commit, the dark and dreadful future before her, the self-reproach that stood on either hand to follow her through life! She felt as if her heart was bursting; and the next moment, all the blood seemed to fly from it, and leave it cold and motionless. She strove to speak--her voice was choked; but then, again, she made an effort; and a few words broke forth, convulsively--"To save you, my father, I would do anything," she cried. "I _will_ do anything--but----"

She could not finish; her sight failed her; her heart seemed crushed; her head swam; the colour left her lips; and she fell p.r.o.ne at her father's feet, without one effort to save herself.

Sir Robert Croyland's first proceeding was, to raise her and lay her on the sofa; but before he called any one, he gazed at her a moment or two in silence. "She has fainted," he said. "Poor child!--Poor girl!"

But then came another thought: "She said she would do anything," he murmured; "her words were, 'I will'--It is surely a consent."

He forgot--he heeded not--he would not heed, that she had added, "But----"

"Yes, it was a consent," he repeated; "it must have been a consent. I will hasten to tell him. If we can but gain a few days, it is something. Who can say what a few days may bring? At all events, it is a relief.--It will obtain the delay she wished--I will tell him.--It must have been a consent;" and calling the servants and Edith's own maid, to attend upon her, he hastened out of the house, fearful of waiting till her senses returned, lest other words should s.n.a.t.c.h from him the interpretation he chose to put upon those which had gone before. In an instant, however, he returned, went into the library, and wrote down on a sc.r.a.p of paper:--

"Thanks, dearest Edith!--thanks! I go in haste to tell Mr. Radford the promise you have given."

Then hurrying out again, he put the paper, which he had folded up, into the hands of the groom, who held his horse. "That for Miss Croyland," he said, "when she has quite recovered; but not before;"

and, mounting with speed, he rode away as fast as he could go.

END OF VOL. II.

T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden.

THE SMUGGLER:

A Tale

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF

"DARNLEY," "DE L'ORME," "RICHELIEU,"

ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.