It is sometimes expedient in telling a tale of this kind, to introduce the different personages quietly to the reader one after the other, and to suffer him to become familiar with them separately, before they are all brought to act together, that he may have a clear and definite notion of their various characters, dispositions, and peculiarities, and be enabled to judge at once of the motives by which they are actuated, when we recite the deeds that they perform.
Having twice or thrice mentioned one of the prominent persons in this history, without having brought him visibly upon the scene, (as, in the natural course of events, I must very soon do,) I shall now follow the plan above mentioned; and, in order to give the reader a distinct notion of Mr. Radford, his character and proceedings, will beg those who have gone on with me thus far, to step back with me to the same night, on which Mr. Warde and his young friend met the smuggler in his evening walk along the heights.
Not very far from the town of Hythe, not very far from the village of Sandgate, are still to be found the ruins of an ancient castle, which, by various deeds that have been performed within its walls, has acquired a name in English history. The foundation of the building is beyond our records; and tradition, always fond of the marvellous, carries back the period when the first stone was laid to the times of the Roman invaders of Great Britain. Others supposed that it was erected by the Saxons, but, as it now stands, it presents no trace of the handiwork of either of those two races of barbarians, and is simply one of those strongholds constructed by the Normans, or their close descendants, either to keep their hold of a conquered country, or to resist the power both of tyrannical monarchs and dangerous neighbours. Various parts of the building are undoubtedly attributable to the reign of Henry II.; and if any portion be of an earlier date, of which I have some doubts, it is but small; but a considerable part is, I believe, of a still later epoch, and in some places may be traced the architecture common in the reign of Edward III. and of his grandson. The space enclosed within the outer walls is very extensive, and numerous detached buildings, chapels, halls, and apparently a priory, are still to be found built against those walls themselves, so that it is probable that the castle in remote days gave shelter to some religious body, which is rendered still more likely from the fact of Saltwood Castle and its manor having formerly appertained to the church and see of Canterbury.
Many a remarkable scene has undoubtedly passed in the courts and halls of that now ruined building, and it is even probable that there the dark and dreadful deed, which, though probably not of his contriving, embittered the latter life of the second Henry, was planned and determined by the murderers of Thomas à Becket. With such deeds, however, and those ancient times, we have nothing here to do; and at the period to which this tale refers, the castle, though in a much more perfect state than at present, was already in ruins. The park, which formerly surrounded it, had been long thrown open and divided into fields; but still the character which its formation had given to the neighbouring scenery had not passed away; and the rich extent of old pasture, the scattered woods and clumps of trees, the brawling brook, here and there diverted from its natural course for ornament or convenience,--all bespoke the former destination of the ground, for near a mile around on every side, when magnificent Archbishop Courtenay held the castle of Saltwood as his favourite place of residence.
Though, as I have said, grey ruin had possession of the building, yet the strength of its construction had enabled it in many parts to resist the attacks of time; and the great keep, with its two lofty gate towers and wide-spreading hall, was then but very little decayed. Nevertheless, at that period no one tenanted the castle of Saltwood but an old man and his son, who cultivated a small portion of ground in the neighbourhood; and their dwelling was confined to three rooms in the keep, though they occupied several others by their implements of husbandry, occasionally diversified with sacks of grain, stores of carrots and turnips, and other articles of agricultural produce. Thus, every night, for a short time, lights were to be seen in Saltwood Castle, but all the buildings except the keep, were utterly neglected, and falling rapidly into a state of complete dilapidation.
It was towards this building, on the night I speak of, that the smuggler took his way, about a quarter of an hour after having suddenly broken off his conversation with Mr. Warde and the young officer. He walked on with a quick, bold, careless step, apparently without much thought or consideration of the interview to which he was summoned. He paused, indeed, more than once, and looked around him; but it was merely to gaze at the beauty of the scenery, for which he had a great natural taste. It is no slight mistake to suppose that the constant intercourse with, and opportunity of enjoying the beauties of nature, diminish in any degree the pleasures that we thence derive. The direct contrary is the case. Every other delight, everything that man has contrived or found for himself, palls upon the taste by frequent fruition; but not so with those sources of pleasure which are given us by God himself; and the purer and freer they are from man's invention, the more permanent are they in their capability of bestowing happiness, the more extensive seems their quality of satisfying the ever-increasing desires of the spirit within us. Were it not so, the ardent attachment which is felt by those who have been born and brought up in the midst of fine and magnificent scenery to the place of their nativity, could not exist; and it will always be found that, other things being equal, those who live most amongst the beauties of nature, are those who most appreciate them.
Many a beautiful prospect presented itself to the smuggler, as he walked on by the light of the moon. At one place, the woods swept round him and concealed the rest of the country from his eyes; but then the moonbeams poured through the branches, or streamed along the path, and every now and then, between the old trunks and gnarled roots, he caught a sight of the deeper parts of the woodland, sleeping in the pale rays. At another, issuing forth upon the side of the hill, the leafy wilderness lay beneath his feet with the broad round summit of some piece of high ground, rising dark and flat above; and at some distance further, he suddenly turned the angle of the valley, and had the tall grey ruin of Saltwood full before him, with the lines of the trees and meadows sweeping down into the dell, and the bright sky, lustrous with the moonlight, extended broad and unclouded behind. Shortly after, he came to the little stream, rushing in miniature cascades between its hollow banks, and murmuring with a soft and musical voice amongst the roots of the shrubs, which here and there hid it from the beams.
He paused but a moment or two, however, at any of these things, and then walked on again, till at length he climbed the road leading up to the castle, and passed through the arch-way of the gate. Of the history of the place he knew nothing, but from vague traditions heard in his boyhood; and yet, when he stood amongst those old grey walls, with the high towers rising before him, and the greensward, covering the decay of centuries, beneath his feet, he could not help feeling a vague impression of melancholy, not unmingled with awe, fall upon him. In the presence of ancient things, the link between all mortality seems most strongly felt. We perceive our association with the dead more strongly. The character and habits of thought of the person, of course, render it a more distinct or obscure perception; but still we all have it. With some, it is as I have before called it, an impression that we must share the same decay, meet the same fate, fall into the same tomb as those who have raised or produced the things that we behold; for every work of man is but a tombstone, if it be read aright. But with others, an audible voice speaks from the grey ruin and the ancient church, from the dilapidated houses where our fathers dwelt or worshipped, and says to every one amongst the living, "As they were, who built us, so must you be. They enjoyed, and hoped, and feared, and suffered. So do you. Where are they gone, with all their thoughts? Where will you go, think you never so highly? All down, down, to the same dust, whither we too are tending. We have seen these things, for ages past, and we shall see more."
I mean not to say that such was exactly the aspect under which those ruins presented themselves to the eye of the man who now visited them. The voice that spoke was not so clear; but yet it was clear enough to make him feel thoughtful if not sad; and he paused to gaze up at the high keep, as the moon shone out upon the old stone-work, showing every loophole and casement. He was not without imagination in a homely way, and, following the train of thought which the sight of the castle at that hour suggested, he said to himself, "I dare say many a pretty girl has looked out of that window to talk to her lover by the moonlight; and they have grown old, and died like other folks."
How long he would have gone on in this musing mood I cannot tell, but just at that moment the boy who had come down to the beach to call him, appeared from the old doorway of the chapel, and pointing to one of the towers in the wall, whispered--"He's up there, waiting for you."
"Well, then, you run home, young Starlight," replied the smuggler. "I'll be after you in a minute, for he can't have much to say, I should think. Off with you! and no listening, or I'll break your head, youngster."
The boy laughed, and ran away through the gate; and his companion turned towards the angle which he had pointed out. Approaching the wall, he entered what might have been a door, or perhaps a window looking in upon the court, and communicating with one of those passages which led from tower to tower, with stairs every here and there leading to the battlements. He was obliged to bow his head as he passed; but after climbing a somewhat steep ascent, where the broken steps were half covered with rubbish, he emerged upon the top of the wall, where many a sentinel had kept his weary watch in times long past. At a little distance in advance, standing in the pale moonlight, was a tall, gaunt figure, leaning against a fragment of one of the neighbouring towers; and Harding did not pause to look at the splendour of the view below, though it might well, with its world of wood and meadow, bounded by the glistening sea, have attracted eyes less fond of such scenes than his; but on he walked, straight towards the person before him, who, on his part, hurried forward to meet him, whenever the sound of his step broke upon the ear.
"Good night, Harding," said Mr. Radford, in a low but still harsh tone; "what a time you have been. It will be one o'clock or more before I get back."
"Past two," answered the smuggler, bluntly; "but I came as soon as I could. It is not much more than half an hour since I got your message."
"That stupid boy has been playing the fool, then," replied the other; "I sent him----"
"Oh, he's not stupid," interrupted the smuggler; "and he's not given to play the fool either. More like to play the rogue. But what's the business now, sir? There's no doing anything on such nights as these."
"I know that--I know that," rejoined Radford. "But this will soon change. The moon will be dwindled down to cheese-paring before many days are over, and the barometer is falling. It is necessary that we should make all our arrangements beforehand, Harding, and have everything ready. We must have no more such jobs as the last two."
"I had nothing to do with them," rejoined the smuggler. "You chose your own people, and they failed. I do not mean to say it was their fault, for I don't think it was. They lost as much, for them, as you did; and they did their best, I dare say; but still that is nothing to me. I've undertaken to land the cargo, and I will do it, if I live. If I die, there's nothing to be said, you know; but I don't say I'll ever undertake another of the sort. It does not answer, Mr. Radford. It makes a man think too much, to know that other people have got so much money staked on such a venture."
"Ay, but that is the very cause why every one should exert himself," answered his companion. "I lost fifty thousand pounds by the last affair, twenty by the other; but I tell you, Harding, I have more than both upon this, and if this fail----"
He paused, and did not finish the sentence; but he set his teeth hard, and seemed to draw his breath with difficulty.
"That's a bad plan," said the smuggler--"a bad plan, in all ways. You wish to make up all at one run: and so you double the venture: but you should know by this time, that one out of four pays very well, and we have seldom failed to do one out of two or three; but the more money people get the more greedy they are of it; so that because you put three times as much as enough on one freight, you must needs put five times on the other, and ten times on the third, risking a greater loss every time for a greater gain. I'll have to do with no more of these things. I'm contented with little, and don't like such great speculations."
"Oh, if you are afraid," cried Mr. Radford, "you can give it up! I dare say we can find some one else to land the goods."
"As to being afraid, that I am not," answered Harding; "and having undertaken the run, I'll do it. I'm not half so much afraid as you are: for I've not near so much to lose--only my life or liberty and three hundred pounds. But still, Mr. Radford, I do not like to think that if anything goes wrong you'll be so much hurt; and it makes a man feel queer. If I have a few hundreds in a boat, and nothing to lose but myself and a dozen of tubs, I go about it as gay as a lark and as cool and quiet as a dogfish; but if anything were to go wrong now, why it would be----"
"Ruin--utter ruin!" said Mr. Radford.
"I dare say it would," rejoined the smuggler; "but, nevertheless, your coming down here every other day, and sending for me, does no good, and a great deal of harm. It only teazes me, and sets me always thinking about it, when the best way is not to think at all, but just to do the thing and get it over. Besides, you'll have people noticing your being so often down here, and you'll make them suspect something is going on."
"But it is necessary, my good fellow," answered the other, "that we should settle all our plans. I must have people ready, and horses and help, in case of need."
"Ay, that you must," replied the smuggler, thoughtfully. "I think you said the cargo was light goods."
"Almost all India," said Radford, in return. "Shawls and painted silks, and other things of great value but small bulk. There are a few bales of lace, too; but the whole will require well nigh a hundred horses to carry it, so that we must have a strong muster."
"Ay, and men who fight, too," rejoined Harding. "You know there are Dragoons down at Folkestone?"
"No!--when did they come?" exclaimed Hadford, eagerly. "That's a bad job--that's a bad job! Perhaps they suspect already. Perhaps some of those fellows from the other side have given information, and these soldiers are sent down in consequence--I shouldn't wonder, I shouldn't wonder."
"Pooh--nonsense, Mr. Radford!" replied Harding; "you are always so suspicious. Some day or another you'll suspect me."
"I suspect everybody," cried Radford, vehemently, "and I have good cause. I have known men do such things, for a pitiful gain, as would hang them, if there were any just punishment for treachery."
Harding laughed, but he did not explain the cause of his merriment, though probably he thought that Mr. Radford himself would do many a thing for a small gain, which would not lightly touch his soul's salvation. He soon proceeded, however, to reply, in a grave tone--"That's a bad plan, Mr. Radford. No man is ever well served by those whom he suspects. He had better never have anything to do with a person he doubts; so, if you doubt me, I'm quite willing to give the business up, for I don't half like it."
"Oh, no!" said Radford, in a smooth and coaxing tone, "I did not mean you, Harding; I know you too well for as honest a fellow as ever lived; but I do doubt those fellows on the other side, and I strongly suspect they peached about the other two affairs. Besides, you said something about Dragoons, and we have not had any of that sort of vermin here for a year or more."
"You frighten yourself about nothing," answered Harding. "There is but a troop of them yet, though they say more are expected. But what good are Dragoons? I have run many a cargo under their very noses, and hope I shall live to run many another. As to stopping this traffic, they are no more good than so many old women!"
"But you must get it all over before the rest come," replied Mr. Radford, in an argumentative manner, taking hold of the lappel of his companion's jacket; "there's no use of running more risk than needful. And you must remember that we have a long way to carry the goods after they are landed. Then is the most dangerous time."
"I don't know that," said Harding; "but, however, you must provide for that, and must also look out forhides[1]for the things. I wont have any of them down with me; and when I have landed them safely, though I don't mind giving a help to bring them a little way inland, I wont be answerable for anything more."
"No, no; that's all settled," answered his companion; "and the hides are all ready, too. Some can come into my stable, others can be carried up to the willow cave. Then there's Sir Robert's great barn."
"Will Sir Robert consent?" asked Harding, in a doubtful tone. "He would never have anything to do with these matters himself, and was always devilish hard upon us. I remember he sent my father to gaol ten years ago, when I was a youngster."
"He must consent," replied Radford, sternly. "He dare as soon refuse me as cut off his right hand. I tell you, Harding, I have got him in a vice; and one turn of the lever will make him cry for mercy when I like. But no more of him. I shall use his barn as if it were my own; and it is in the middle of the wood, you know, so that it's out of sight. But even if it were not for that, we've got many another place. Thank Heaven, there are no want of hides in this county!"
"Ay, but the worst of dry goods, and things of that kind," rejoined the smuggler, "is that they spoil with a little wet, so that one can't sink them in a cut or canal till they are wanted, as one can do with tubs. Who do you intend to send down for them? That's one thing I must know."
"Oh, whoever comes, my son will be with them," answered Mr. Radford. "As to who the others will be, I cannot tell yet. The Ramleys, certainly, amongst the rest. They are always ready, and will either fight or run, as it may be needed."
"I don't much like them," replied Harding; "they are a bad set. I wish they were hanged, or out of the country; for, as you say, they will either fight, or run, or peach, or anything else that suits them: one just as soon as another."
"Oh, no fear of that--no fear of that!" exclaimed Mr. Radford, in a confident tone, which seemed somewhat strange to the ears of his companion, after the suspicions he had heard him so lately express; but the other instantly added, in explanation, "I shall take care that they have no means of peaching, for I will tell them nothing about it, till they are setting off with fifty or sixty others."
"That's the best way, and the only way with such fellows as that," answered Harding; "but if you tell nobody, you'll find it a hard job to get them all together."
"Only let the day be fixed," said Mr. Radford; "and I'll have all ready--never fear."
"That must be your affair," replied Harding; "I'm ready whenever you like. Give me a dark night and a fair wind, and my part of the job is soon done."
"About this day week, I should think," said Mr. Radford. "The moon will be nearly out by that time."
"Not much more than half," replied the smuggler; "and as we have got to go far,--for the ship, you say, will not stand in,--we had better have the whole night to ourselves. Even a bit of a moon is a bad companion on such a trip; especially when there is so much money risked. No, I think you had better give me three days more: then there will be wellnigh nothing left of her, and she wont rise till three or four. We can see what the weather's like, too, about that time; and I can come up, and let you know. But if you'll take my advice, Mr. Radford, you'll not be coming down here any more, till it's all over at least. There's no good of it, and it may do mischief."
"Well, now it's all settled, I shall not need to do so," rejoined the other; "but I really don't see, Harding, why you should so much wish me to stay away."
"I'll tell you why, Mr. Radford," said Harding, putting his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "and that very easily. Although you have become a great gentleman, and live at a fine place inland, people haven't forgot when you kept a house and a counting-house too, in Hythe, and all that used to go on in those days; and though you are a magistrate, and go out hunting and shooting, and all that, the good folks about have little doubt that you have a hankering after the old trade yet, only that you do your business on a larger scale than you did then. It's but the other day, when I was in at South's, the grocer's, to talk to him about some stuff he wanted, I heard two men say one to the other, as they saw you pass, 'Ay, there goes old Radford. I wonder what he's down here for!' 'As great an old smuggler as ever lived,' said the other; 'and a pretty penny he's made of it. He's still at it, they say; and I dare say he's down here now upon some such concern.' So you see, sir, people talk about it, and that's the reason why I say that the less you are here the better."
"Perhaps it is--perhaps it is," answered Mr. Radford, quickly; "and as we've now settled all we can settle, till you come up, I'll take myself home. Good night, Harding--good night!"
"Good night, sir," answered Harding, with something like a smile upon his lip; and finding their way down again to the court below, they parted.
"I don't like that fellow at all," said Mr. Radford to himself, as he walked away upon the road to Hythe, where he had left his horse; "he's more than half inclined to be uncivil. I'll have nothing more to do with him after this is over."
Harding took his way across the fields towards Sandgate, and perhaps his thoughts were not much more complimentary to his companion than Mr. Radford's had been to him; but in the meantime, while each followed his separate course homeward, we must remain for a short space in the green, moonlight court of Saltwood Castle. All remained still and silent for about three minutes; but then the ivy, which at that time had gathered thickly round the old walls, might be seen to move in the neighbourhood of a small aperture in one of the ruined flanking towers of the outer wall, to which it had at one time probably served as a window, though all traces of its original form were now lost. The tower was close to the spot where Mr. Radford and his companion had been standing; and although the aperture we have mentioned looked towards the court, joining on to a projecting wall in great part overthrown, there was a loop-hole on the other side, flanking the very parapet on which they had carried on their conversation.
After the ivy had moved for a moment, as I have said, something like a human head was thrust out, looking cautiously round the court. The next minute a broad pair of shoulders appeared, and then the whole form of a tall and powerful man, who, after pausing for an instant on the top of the broken wall, used its fragments as a means of descent to the ground below. Just as he reached the level of the court, one of the loose stones which he had displaced as he came down, rolled after him and fell at his side; and, with a sudden start at the first sound, he laid his hand on the butt of a large horse-pistol stuck in a belt round his waist. As soon as he perceived what it was that had alarmed him, he took his hand from the weapon again, and walked out into the moonlight; and thence, after pacing quietly up and down for two or three minutes, to give time for the two other visitors of the castle to get to a distance, he sauntered slowly out through the gate. He then turned under the walls towards the little wood which at that time occupied a part of the valley; opposite to which he stood gazing for about five minutes. When he judged all safe, he gave a whistle, upon which the form of a boy instantly started out from the trees, and came running across the meadow towards him.
"Have you heard all, Mr. Mowle?" asked the boy in a whisper, as soon as he was near.
"All that they said, Little Starlight," replied the other. "They didn't say enough; but yet it will do; and you are a clever little fellow. But come along," he added, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "you shall have what I promised you, and half-a-crown more; and if you go on, and tell me all you find out, you shall be well paid."
Thus saying, he walked on with the boy towards Hythe, and the scenery round Saltwood resumed its silent solitude again.
To a very hungry man, it matters not much what is put upon the table, so that it be eatable; but with the intellectual appetite the case is different, and every one is anxious to know who is to be his companion, or what is to be in his book. Now, Sir Edward Digby was somewhat of an epicure in human character; and he always felt as great a curiosity to enjoy any new personage brought before him, as the more ordinary epicure desires to taste a new dish. He was equally refined, too, in regard to the taste of his intellectual food. He liked a good deal of flavour, but not too much: a soupçon of something, he did not well know what, in a man's demeanour gave it great zest, as a soupçon of two or three condiments so blended in a salmi as to defy analysis must have charmed Vatel; and, to say the truth, the little he had seen or heard of the house in which he now was, together with his knowledge of some of its antecedents, had awakened a great desire for a farther taste of its quality.
When he went down stairs, then, and opened the dining-room door, his eye naturally ran round in search of the new guests. Only two, however, had arrived, in the first of whom he recognised Mr. Zachary Croyland. The other was a venerable looking old man, in black, whom he could not conceive to be Mr. Radford, from the previous account which he had heard of that respectable gentleman's character. It turned out, however, that the person before him--who had been omitted by Sir Robert Croyland in the enumeration of his expected visitors--was the clergyman of the neighbouring village; and being merely a plain, good man, of very excellent sense, but neither, rich noble, nor thrifty, was nobody in the opinion of the baronet.
As soon as Sir Edward Digby appeared, Mr. Zachary Croyland, with his back tall, straight, and stiff as a poker, advanced towards him, and shook him cordially by the hand. "Welcome, welcome, my young friend," he said; "you've kept your word, I see; and that's a good sign of any man, especially when he knows that there's neither pleasure, profit, nor popularity to be gained by so doing; and I'm sure there's none of either to be had in this remote corner of the world. You have some object, of course, in coming among us; for every man has an object; but what it is I can't divine."
"A very great object indeed, my dear sir," replied the young officer, with a smile; "I wish to cultivate the acquaintance of an old friend of my father's--your brother here, who was kind enough to invite me."
"A very unprofitable sort of plant to cultivate," answered Mr. Croyland, in a voice quite loud enough to be heard by the whole room. "It wont pay tillage, I should think; but you know your own affairs best. Here, Edith, my love, I must make you better acquainted with my young fellow-traveller. Doubtless, he is perfectly competent to talk as much nonsense to you as any other young man about town, and has imported, for the express benefit of the young ladies in the country, all the sweet things and pretty speeches last in vogue. But he can, in his saner moments, and if you just let him know that you are not quite a fool, bestow upon you some small portion of common sense, which he has picked up, Heaven knows how!--He couldn't have it by descent; for he is an eldest son, and that portion of the family property is always reserved for the younger children."
Mrs. Barbara Croyland, who found that her brother Zachary was riding his horse somewhat hard, moved across the room--with the superfluity of whalebone which she had in her stays crackling at every step, as if expressly to attract attention--and, laying her hand on Mr. Croyland's arm, she whispered--"Now do, brother, be a little civil and kind. There's no use of hurting people's feelings; and, if Robert hasn't as much sense as you, there's no use you should always be telling him so."
"Pish! nonsense! "cried Mr. Croyland, "Hold your tongue, Bab. You're a good soul as ever lived, but a great fool into the bargain. So don't meddle. I should think you had burnt your fingers enough with it by this time."
"And I'm sure you're a good soul, too, if you would but let people know it," replied Mrs. Barbara, anxious to soften and keep down all the little oddities and asperities of her family circle in the eyes of Sir Edward Digby.
But she only showed them the more by so doing; for Mr. Croyland was not to be caught by honey; and, besides, the character which she, in her simplicity, thought fit to attribute to him, was the very last upon the face of the earth which he coveted. Every man has his vanity; and it is an imp that takes an infinite variety of different forms, frequently the most hideous or the most absurd. Now Mr. Croyland's vanity lay in his oddity and acerbity. There was nothing on earth which he considered so foolish as good-nature; and he was heartily ashamed of the large portion with which Heaven had endowed him.
"I a good soul!" he exclaimed. "Let me tell you, Bab, you are very much mistaken in that, as in every other thing you say or do. I am nothing more nor less than a very cross, ill-tempered old man; and you know it quite well, if you wouldn't be a hypocrite."
"Well, I do believe you are," said the lady, with her own particular vanity mortified into a state of irritation, "and the only way is to let you alone."
While this conversation had been passing between brother and sister, Sir Edward Digby, taking advantage of the position in which they stood, and which masked his own operations from the rest of the party, bent down to speak a few words to Edith, who, whatever they were, looked up with a smile, faint and thoughtful indeed, but still expressing as much cheerfulness as her countenance ever showed. The topic which he spoke upon might be commonplace, but what he said was said with grace, and had a degree of originality in it, mingled with courtliness and propriety of expression, which at once awakened attention and repaid it. It was not strong beer--it was not strong spirit--but it was like some delicate kind of wine, which has more power than the fineness of the flavour suffers to be apparent at the first taste.
Their conversation was not long, however; for by the time that the young gentleman and lady had exchanged a few sentences, and Mr. Croyland had finished his discussion with his sister, the name of Mr. Radford was announced; and Sir Edward Digby turned quickly round to examine the appearance of the new comer. As he did so, however, his eye fell for a moment upon the countenance of Edith Croyland, and he thought he remarked an expression of anxiety not unmingled with pain, till the door closed after admitting a single figure, when a look of relief brightened her face, and she gave a glance across the room to her sister. The younger girl instantly rose; and while her father was busy receiving Mr. Radford with somewhat profuse attention, she gracefully crossed the room, and seating herself by Edith, laid her hand upon her sister's, whispering something to her with a kindly look.
Sir Edward Digby marked it all, and liked it; for there is something in the bottom of man's heart which has always a sympathy with affection; but he, nevertheless, did not fail to take a complete survey of the personage who entered, and whom I must now present to the reader, somewhat more distinctly than I could do by the moonlight. Mr. Richard Radford was a tall, thin, but large-boned man, with dark eyes and overhanging shaggy brows, a hook nose, considerably depressed towards the point, a mouth somewhat wide, and teeth very fine for his age, though somewhat straggling and sharklike. His hair was very thick, and apparently coarse; his arms long and powerful; and his legs, notwithstanding the meagreness of his body, furnished with very respectable calves. On the whole, he was a striking but not a prepossessing person; and there was a look of keenness and cupidity, we might almost say voracity, in his eye, with a bend in the brow, which would have given the observer an idea of great quickness of intellect and decision of character, if it had not been for a certain degree of weakness about the partly opened mouth, which seemed to be in opposition to the latter characteristic. He was dressed in the height of the mode, with large buckles in his shoes and smaller ones at his knees, a light dress-sword hanging not ungracefully by his side, and a profusion of lace and embroidery about his apparel.
Mr. Radford replied to the courtesies of Sir Robert Croyland with perfect self-possession--one might almost call it self-sufficiency--but with no grace and some stiffness. He was then introduced, in form, to Sir Edward Digby, bowing low, if that could be called a bow, which was merely an inclination of the rigid spine, from a perpendicular position to an angle of forty-five with the horizon. The young officer's demeanour formed a very striking contrast with that of his new acquaintance, not much in favour of the latter; but he showed that, as Mr. Croyland had predicated of him, he was quite prepared to say a great many courteous nothings in a very civil and obliging tone. Mr. Radford declared himself delighted at the honour of making his acquaintance, and Sir Edward pronounced himself charmed at the opportunity of meeting him. Mr. Radford hoped that he was going to honour their poor place for a considerable length of time, and Sir Edward felt sure that the beauty of such scenery, and the delights of such society, would be the cause of much pain to him when he was compelled to tear himself away.
A low but merry laugh from behind them, caused both the gentlemen to turn their heads; and they found the sparkling eyes of Zara Croyland fixed upon them. She instantly dropped her eye-lids, however, and coloured a little, at being detected. It was evident enough that she had been weighing the compliments she heard, and estimating them at their right value, which made Mr. Radford look somewhat angry, but elicited nothing from Sir Edward Digby but a gay glance at the beautiful little culprit, which she caught, even through the thick lashes of her downcast eyes, and which served to reassure her.
Sir Robert Croyland himself was displeased; but Zara was in a degree a spoiled child, and had established for herself a privilege of doing what she liked, unscolded. To turn the conversation, therefore, Sir Robert, in a tone of great regard, inquired particularly after his young friend, Richard, and said, he hoped that they were to have the pleasure of seeing him.
"I trust so--I trust so, Sir Robert," replied Mr. Radford; "but you know I am totally unacquainted with his movements. He had gone away upon some business, the servants told me; and I waited as long as I could for him; but I did not choose to keep your dinner, Sir Robert; and if he does not choose to come in time, the young dog must go without.--Pray do not stop a moment for him."
"Business!" muttered Mr. Croyland--"either cheating the king's revenue, or making love to a milkmaid, I'll answer for him;" but the remark passed unnoticed, for Sir Robert Croyland, who was always anxious to drown his brother's somewhat too pertinent observations, without giving the nabob any offence, was loudly pressing Mr. Radford to let them wait for half an hour, in order to give time for the young gentleman's arrival.
His father, however, would not hear of such a proceeding; and the bell was rung, and dinner ordered. It was placed upon the table with great expedition; and the party moved towards the dining-room. Mr. Radford handed in the baronet's sister, who was, to say the truth, an enigma to him; for he himself could form no conception of her good-nature, simplicity, and kindness, and consequently thought that all the mischief she occasionally caused, must originate in well-concealed spite, which gave him a great reverence for her character. Sir Edward Digby, notwithstanding a hint from Sir Robert to take in his youngest daughter, advanced to Miss Croyland, and secured her, as he thought, for himself; while the brother of the master of the house followed with the fair Zara, leaving the clergyman and Sir Robert to come together. By a manœuvre on the part of Edith, however, favoured by her father, but nearly frustrated by the busy spirit of her aunt, Miss Croyland got placed between Sir Robert and the clergyman, while the youngest daughter of the house was seated by Sir Edward Digby, leaving a chair vacant between herself and her worthy parent for young Radford, when he should arrive.
All this being arranged, to the satisfaction of everybody but Sir Edward Digby, grace was said, after a not very decent hint from Sir Robert Croyland, that it ought not to be too long; and the dinner commenced with the usual attack upon soup and fish. It must not be supposed, however, because we have ventured to say that the arrangement was not to the satisfaction of Sir Edward Digby, that the young baronet was at all disinclined to enjoy his pretty little friend's society nearer than the opposite side of the table. Nor must it be imagined that his sage reflections, in regard to keeping himself out of danger, had at all made a coward of the gallant soldier. The truth is, he had a strong desire to study Edith Croyland: not on account of any benefit which that study could be of to himself, but with other motives and views, which, upon the whole, were very laudable. He wished to see into her mind, and, by those slight indications which were all he could expect her to display--but which, nevertheless, to a keen observer, often tell a history better than a whole volume of details--to ascertain some facts, in regard to which he took a considerable interest. Being somewhat eager in his way, and not knowing how long he might find it either convenient or safe to remain in his present quarters, he had determined to commence the campaign as soon as possible; but, frustrated in his first attack, he determined to change his plan of operations, and besiege the fair Zara as one of the enemy's outworks. He accordingly laughed and talked with her upon almost every subject in the world during the first part of dinner, skilfully leading her up to the pursuits of her sister and herself in the country, in order to obtain a clear knowledge of their habits and course of proceeding, that he might take advantage of it at an after-period, for purposes of his own.
The art of conversation, when properly regarded, forms a regular system of tactics, in which, notwithstanding the various manœuvres of your adversary, and the desultory fire kept up by indifferent persons around, you still endeavour to carry the line of advance in the direction that you wish, and to frustrate every effort to turn it towards any point that may not be agreeable to you, rallying it here, giving it a bend there; presenting a sharp angle at one place, an obtuse one at another; and raising from time to time a barrier or a breastwork for the purpose of preventing the adverse force from turning your flank, and getting into your rear.
But the mischief was, in the present instance, that Sir Edward Digby's breastworks were too low for such an active opponent as Zara Croyland. They might have appeared a formidable obstacle in the way of a scientific opponent; but with all the rash valour of youth, which is so frequently successful where practice and experience fail, she walked straight up, and jumped over them, taking one line after another, till Sir Edward Digby found that she had nearly got into the heart of his camp. It was all so easy and natural, however, so gay and cheerful, that he could not feel mortified, even at his own want of success; and though five times she darted away from the subject, and began to talk of other things, he still renewed it, expatiating upon the pleasures of a country life, and upon how much more rational, as well as agreeable it was, when compared to the amusements and whirl of the town.
Mr. Zachary Croyland, indeed, cut across them often, listening to what they said and sometimes smiling significantly at Sir Edward Digby, or at other times replying himself to what either of the two thought fit to discourse upon. Thus, then, when the young baronet was descanting sagely of the pleasures of the country, as compared with those of the town, good Mr. Croyland laughed merrily, saying, "You will soon have enough of it, Sir Edward; or else you are only deceiving that poor foolish girl; for what have you to do with the country?--you, who have lived the best part of your life in cities, and amongst their denizens. I dare say, if the truth were told now, you would give a guinea to be walking up the Mall, instead of sitting down here, in this old, crumbling, crazy house, speaking courteous nonsense to a pretty little milkmaid."
"Indeed, my dear sir, you are very much mistaken," replied Sir Edward, gravely. "You judge all men by yourself; and because you are fond of cities, and the busy haunts of men, you think I must be so too."
"I fond of cities and the busy haunts of men!" cried Mr. Croyland, in a tone of high indignation; but a laugh that ran round the table, and in which even the worthy clergyman joined, shewed the old gentleman that he had been taken in by Sir Edward's quietly-spoken jest; and at the same time his brother exclaimed, still laughing, "He hit you fairly there, Zachary. He has found out the full extent of your love for your fellow-creatures already."
"Well, I forgive him, I forgive him!" said Mr. Croyland, with more good humour than might have been expected. "I had forgotten that I had told him, four or five days ago, my hatred for all cities, and especially for that great mound of greedy emmets, which, unfortunately, is the capital of this country. I declare I never go into that vast den of iniquity, and mingle with the stream of wretched-looking things that call themselves human, which all its doors are hourly vomiting forth, but they put me in mind of the white ants in India, just the same squalid-looking, active, and voracious vermin as themselves, running over everything that obstructs them, intruding themselves everywhere, destroying everything that comes in their way, and acting as an incessant torment to every one within reach. Certainly, the white ants are the less venemous of the two races, and somewhat prettier to look at; but still there's a wonderful resemblance."
"I don't at all approve of your calling me a milkmaid, uncle," said Zara, shaking her small delicate finger at Mr. Croyland, across the table. "It's very wrong and ungrateful of you. See if ever I milk your cow for you again!"
"Then I'll milk it myself, my dear," replied Mr. Croyland, with a good-humoured smile at his fair niece.
"You cannot, you cannot!" cried Zara. "Fancy, Sir Edward, what a picture it made when one day I went over to my uncle's, and found him with a frightful-looking black man, in a turban whom he brought over from Heaven knows where, trying to milk a cow he had just bought, and neither of them able to manage it. My uncle was kneeling upon his cocked hat, amongst the long grass, looking, as he acknowledges, like a kangaroo; the cow had got one of her feet in the pail, kicking most violently; and the black man with a white turban round his head, was upon both his knees before her, beseeching her in some heathen language to be quiet. It was the finest sight I ever saw, and would have made a beautiful picture of the Worship of the Cow, which is, as I am told, customary in the country where both the gentlemen came from."
"Zara, my dear--Zara!" cried Mrs. Barbara, who was frightened to death lest her niece should deprive herself of all share in Mr. Croyland's fortune. "You really should not tell such a story of your uncle."
But the worthy gentleman himself was laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. "It's quite true--it's quite true!" he exclaimed, "and she did milk the cow, though we couldn't. The ill-tempered devil was as quiet as a lamb with her, though she is so vicious with every male thing, that I have actually been obliged to have a woman in the cottage within a hundred yards of the house, for the express purpose of milking her."
"That's what you should have done at first," said Mr. Radford, putting down the fork with which he had been diligently devouring a large plateful of fish. "Instead of having nothing but men about you, you should have had none but your coachman and footman, and all the rest women."
"Ay, and married my cook-maid," replied Mr. Croyland, sarcastically.
Sir Robert Croyland looked down into his plate with a quivering lip and a heavy brow, as if he did not well know whether to laugh or be angry. The clergyman smiled, Mr. Radford looked furious, but said nothing, and Mrs. Barbara exclaimed, "Oh, brother, you should not say such things! and besides, there are many cook-maids who are very nice, pretty, respectable people."
"Well, sister, I'll think of it," said Mr. Croyland, drily, but with a good deal of fun twinkling in the corners of his eyes.
It was too much for the light heart of Zara Croyland; and holding down her head, she laughed outright, although she knew that Mr. Radford had placed himself in the predicament of which her uncle spoke, though he had been relieved of the immediate consequence for some years.
What would have been the result is difficult to say; for Mr. Radford was waxing wroth; but at that moment the door was flung hastily open, and a young gentleman entered, of some three or four-and-twenty years of age, bearing a strong resemblance to Mr. Radford, though undoubtedly of a much more pleasant and graceful appearance. He was well dressed, and his coat, lined with white silk of the finest texture, was cast negligently back from his chest, with an air of carelessness which was to be traced in all the rest of his apparel. Everything he wore was as good as it could be, and everything became him; for he was well formed, and his movements were free and even graceful; but everything seemed to have been thrown on in a hurry, and his hair floated wild and straggling round his brow, as if neither comb nor brush had touched it for many hours. It might have been supposed that this sort of disarray proceeded from haste when he found himself too late and his father gone; but there was an expression of reckless indifference about his face which led Sir Edward Digby to imagine that this apparent negligence was the habitual characteristic of his mind, rather than the effect of any accidental circumstance. His air was quite self-possessed, though hurried; and a flashing glance of his eye round the table, resting for a moment longer on Sir Edward Digby than on any one else, seemed directed to ascertain whether the party assembled was one that pleased him, before he chose to sit down to the board with them. He made no apology to Sir Robert Croyland for being too late, but shook hands with him in return for the very cordial welcome he met with, and then seated himself in the vacant chair, nodding to Miss Croyland familiarly, and receiving a cold inclination of the head in return. One of the servants inquired if he would take soup and fish; but he replied, abruptly, "No; bring me fish. No soup--I hate such messes."
In the meantime, by one of those odd turns which sometimes take place in conversation, Mr. Croyland, the clergyman, and Mr. Radford himself were once more talking together: the latter having apparently overcome his indignation at the nabob's tart rejoinder, in the hope and expectation of saying something still more biting to him in return. Like many a great general, however, he had not justly appreciated the power of his adversary as compared with his own strength. Mr. Croyland, soured at an early period of life, had acquired by long practice and experience a habit of repartee when his prejudices or his opinions (and they are very different things) were assailed, which was overpowering. A large fund of natural kindness and good humour formed a curious substratum for the acerbity which had accumulated above it, and his love of a joke would often shew itself in a hearty peal of laughter, even at his own expense, when the attack upon him was made in a good spirit, by one for whom he had any affection or esteem. But if he despised or disliked his assailant, as was the case with Mr. Radford, the bitterest possible retort was sure to be given in the fewest possible words.
In order to lead away from the obnoxious subject, the clergyman returned to Mr. Croyland's hatred of London, saying, not very advisedly perhaps, just as young Mr. Radford entered, "I cannot imagine, my dear sir, why you have such an animosity to our magnificent capital, and to all that it contains, especially when we all know you to be as beneficent to individuals as you are severe upon the species collectively."
"My dear Cruden, you'll only make a mess of it," replied Mr. Croyland. "The reason why I do sometimes befriend a poor scoundrel whom I happen to know, is because it is less pleasant for me to see a rascal suffer than to do what's just by him. I have no will and no power to punish all the villany I see, otherwise my arm would be tired enough of flogging, in this county of Kent. But I do not understand why I should be called upon to like a great agglomeration of blackguards in a city, when I can have the same diluted in the country. Here we have about a hundred scoundrels to the square mile; in London we have a hundred to the square yard."
"Don't you think, sir, that they may be but the worse scoundrels in the country because they are fewer?" demanded Mr. Radford.
"I am beginning to fancy so," answered Mr. Croyland, drily, "but I suppose in London the number makes up for the want of intensity."
"Well, it's a very fine city," rejoined Mr. Radford; "the emporium of the world, the nurse of arts and sciences, the birth-place and the theatre of all that is great and majestic in the efforts of human intellect."
"And equally of all that is base and vile," answered his opponent; "it is the place to which all smuggled goods naturally tend, Radford. Every uncustomed spirit, every prohibited ware, physical and intellectual, there finds its mart; and the chief art that is practised is to cheat as cleverly as may be--the chief science learned, is how to defraud without being detected. We are improving in the country, daily--daily; but we have not reached the skill of London yet. Men make large fortunes in the country in a few years by merely cheating the Customs; but in London they make large fortunes in a few months by cheating everybody."
"So they do in India," replied Mr. Radford, who thought he had hit the tender place.
"True, true!" cried Mr. Croyland; "and then we go and set up for country gentlemen, and cheat still. What rogues we are, Radford!--eh? I see you know the world. It is very well for me to say, I made all my money by curing men, not by robbing them. Never you believe it, my good friend. It is not in human nature, is it? No, no! tell that to the marines. No man ever made a fortune but by plunder, that's a certain fact."
The course of Sir Robert Croyland's dinner-party seemed to promise very pleasantly at this juncture; but Sir Edward Digby, though somewhat amused, was not himself fond of sharp words, and had some compassion upon the ladies at the table. He therefore stepped in; and, without seeming to have noticed that there was anything passing between Mr. Radford and the brother of his host, except the most delicate courtesies, he contrived, by some well-directed questions in regard to India, to give Mr. Croyland an inducement to deviate from the sarcastic into the expatiative; and having set him cantering upon one of his hobbies, he left him to finish his excursion, and returned to a conversation which had been going on between him and the fair Zara, in somewhat of a low tone, though not so low as to show any mutual design of keeping it from the ears of those around. Young Radford had in the meantime been making up for the loss of time occasioned by his absence at the commencement of dinner, and he seemed undoubtedly to have a prodigious appetite. Not a word had passed from father to son, or son to father; and a stranger might have supposed them in no degree related to each other. Indeed, the young gentleman had hitherto spoken to nobody but the servant; and while his mouth was employed in eating, his quick, large eyes were directed to every face round the table in succession, making several more tours than the first investigating glance, which I have already mentioned, and every time stopping longer at the countenance of Sir Edward Digby than anywhere else. He now, however, seemed inclined to take part in that officer's conversation with the youngest Miss Croyland, and did not appear quite pleased to find her attention so completely engrossed by a stranger. To Edith he vouchsafed not a single word; but hearing the fair lady next to him reply to something which Sir Edward Digby had said. "Oh, we go out once or twice almost every day; sometimes on horseback; but more frequently to take a walk," he exclaimed, "Do you, indeed, Miss Zara?--why, I never meet you, and I am always running about the country. How is that, I wonder?"
Zara smiled, and replied, with an arch look, "Because fortune befriends us, I suppose, Mr. Radford;" but then, well knowing that he was not one likely to take a jest in good part, she added--"we don't go out to meet anybody, and therefore always take those paths where we are least likely to do so."
Still young Radford did not seem half to like her reply; but, nevertheless, he went on in the same tone, continually interrupting her conversation with Sir Edward Digby, and endeavouring, after a fashion not at all uncommon, to make himself agreeable by preventing people from following the course they are inclined to pursue. The young baronet rather humoured him than otherwise, for he wished to see as deeply as possible into his character. He asked him to drink wine with him; he spoke to him once or twice without being called upon to do so; and he was somewhat amused to see that the fair Zara was a good deal annoyed at the encouragement he gave to her companion on the left to join in their conversation.
He was soon satisfied, however, in regard to the young man's mind and character. Richard Radford had evidently received what is called a good education, which is, in fact, no education at all. He had been taught a great many things; he knew a good deal; but that which really and truly constitutes education was totally wanting. He had not learned how to make use of that which he had acquired, either for his own benefit or for that of society. He had been instructed, not educated, and there is the greatest possible difference between the two. He was shrewd enough, but selfish and conceited to a high degree, with a sufficient portion of pride to be offensive, with sufficient vanity to be irritable, with all the wilfulness of a spoiled child, and with that confusion of ideas in regard to plain right and wrong, which is always consequent upon the want of moral training and over-indulgence in youth. To judge from his own conversation, the whole end and aim of his life seemed to be excitement; he spoke of field sports with pleasure; but the degree of satisfaction which he derived from each, appeared to be always in proportion to the danger, the activity, and the fierceness. Hunting he liked better than shooting, shooting than fishing, which latter he declared was only tolerable because there was nothing else to be done in the spring of the year. But upon the pleasures of the chase he would dilate largely, and he told several anecdotes of staking a magnificent horse here, and breaking the back of another there, till poor Zara turned somewhat pale, and begged him to desist from such themes.
"I cannot think how men can be so barbarous," she said. "Their whole pleasure seems to consist in torturing poor animals or killing them."
Young Radford laughed. "What were they made for?" he asked.
"To be used by man, I think, not to be tortured by him," the young lady replied.
"No torture at all," said her companion on the left. "The horse takes as much pleasure in running after the hounds as I do, and if he breaks his back, or I break my neck, it's our own fault. We have nobody to thank for it but ourselves. The very chance of killing oneself gives additional pleasure; and, when one pushes a horse at a leap, the best fun of the whole is the thought whether he will be able by any possibility to clear it or not. If it were not for hunting, and one or two other things of the sort, there would be nothing left for an English gentleman, but to go to Italy and put himself at the head of a party of banditti. That must be glorious work!"
"Don't you think, Mr. Radford," asked Sir Edward Digby, "that active service in the army might offer equal excitement, and a more honourable field?"
"Oh, dear no!" cried the young man. "A life of slavery compared with a life of freedom; to be drilled and commanded, and made a mere machine of, and sent about relieving guards and pickets, and doing everything that one is told like a school-boy! I would not go into the army for the world. I'm sure if I did I should shoot my commanding officer within a month!"
"Then I would advise you not," answered the young baronet, "for after the shooting there would be another step to be taken which would not be quite so pleasant."
"Oh, you mean the hanging," cried young Radford, laughing; "but I would take care they should never hang me; for I could shoot myself as easily as I could shoot him; and I have a great dislike to strangulation. It's one of the few sorts of death that would not please me."
"Come, come, Richard!" said Sir Robert Croyland, in a nervous and displeased tone; "let us talk of some other subject. You will frighten the ladies from table before the cloth is off."
"It is very odd," said young Radford, in a low voice, to Sir Edward Digby, without making any reply to the master of the house--"it is very odd, how frightened old men are at the very name of death, when at the best they can have but two or three years to live."
The young officer did not reply, but turned the conversation to other things; and the wine having been liberally supplied, operated as it usually does, at the point where its use stops short of excess, in "making glad the heart of man;" and the conclusion of the dinner was much more cheerful and placable than the commencement.
The ladies retired within a few minutes after the desert was set upon the table; and it soon became evident to Sir Edward Digby, that the process of deep drinking, so disgracefully common in England at that time, was about to commence. He was by no means incapable of bearing as potent libations as most men; for occasionally, in those days, it was scarcely possible to escape excess without giving mortal offence to your entertainer; but it was by no means either his habit or his inclination so to indulge, and for this evening especially he was anxious to escape. He looked, therefore, across the table to Mr. Croyland for relief; and that gentleman, clearly understanding what he meant, gave him a slight nod, and finished his first glass of wine after dinner. The bottles passed round again, and Mr. Croyland took his second glass; but after that he rose without calling much attention: a proceeding which was habitual with him. When, however, Sir Edward Digby followed his example, there was a general outcry. Every one declared it was too bad, and Sir Robert said, in a somewhat mortified tone, that he feared his wine was not so good as that to which his guest had been accustomed.
"It is only too good, my dear sir," replied the young baronet, determined to cut the matter short, at once and for ever. "So good, indeed, that I have been induced to take two more glasses than I usually indulge in, and I consequently feel somewhat heated and uncomfortable. I shall go and refresh myself by a walk through your woods."
Several more efforts were made to induce him to stay; but he was resolute in his course; and Mr. Croyland also came to his aid, exclaiming, "Pooh, nonsense, Robert! let every man do as he likes. Have not I heard you, a thousand times, call your house Liberty Hall? A pretty sort of liberty, indeed, if a man must get beastly drunk because you choose to do so!"
"I do not intend to do any such thing, brother," replied Sir Robert, somewhat sharply; and in the meanwhile, during this discussion, Sir Edward Digby made his escape from the room.