The Smuggler Part 34

"I cannot comprehend," exclaimed Leyton, in surprise. "Your father has heard, I suppose, that I am here, and has menaced you with his curse."

"Oh, no!" answered Edith; "far from it. He was here but now; he spoke of you, Henry, as you deserve. He told me how he had loved you and esteemed you in your young days; how, though angry at first at our rash engagement, he would have consented in the end; but--there was a fatal 'but,' Henry--an impediment not to be surmounted. I must not tell you what it is--I cannot, I dare not explain. But listen to what he said besides. You have heard one part of the choice; hear the other: it is to wed a man whom I abhor--despise--contemn--whose very look is fearful to me; to ask you to give me back the vows I plighted, in order--in order," and she spoke very low, "that I may sacrifice myself for my father, that I may linger out a few weeks of wretchedness, and then sink into the grave, which is now my only hope."

"And do you ask me, Edith?" inquired Leyton, in a sad and solemn tone--"do you, Edith Croyland, really and truly ask me to give you back those vows? Speak, beloved--speak; for my heart is well nigh bursting."

He paused, and she was silent; covering her eyes with her hands, while her bosom heaved, as if she were struggling for breath. "No, no, no, Harry!" she cried, at length, as if the effort were vain, "I cannot, I cannot! Oh, Harry, Harry! I wish that I were dead!" and, casting her arms round his neck, she wept upon his breast again.

Henry Leyton drew her closer to him with his left arm round her waist; but pressed his right hand on his brow, and gazed on vacancy. Both remained without speaking for a time; but at length he said, in a voice more calm than might have been expected, "Let us consider this matter, Edith. You have been terrified by some means; a tale has been told you, which has agitated and alarmed you, which has overcome your resolution, that now has endured more than six years, and doubtless that tale has been well devised.--Are you sure that it is true?--Forgive this doubt in regard to one who is near and dear to you; but when such deceits have been practised, as those which we know have been used to delude us, I must be suspicious.--Are you sure that it is true, I say?

"Too true, too true!"' answered Edith, shaking her head, mournfully--"that tale explains all, too,--even those deceits you mention. No, no, it is but too true--it could not be feigned--besides, I remember so many things, all tending to the same. It is true--I cannot doubt it."

Sir Henry Leyton paused, and twice began to speak, but twice stopped, as if the words he was about to utter, cost him a terrible struggle to speak. At length he said, "And the man, Edith--the man they wish you to marry--who is he?"

"Ever the same," answered Edith, bending down her head, and her cheek, which had been as pale as death, glowing like crimson--"the same, Richard Radford."

"What! a felon!" exclaimed Leyton, turning round, with his brows bent; "a felon, after whom my soldiers and the officers of justice are now hunting through the country! Sir Robert Croyland must be mad! But I tell you, Edith, that man shall never stand within a church again, till it be the chapel of the gaol. Let him make his peace with Heaven; for if he be caught--and caught he shall be--there is no mercy for him on earth. But surely there must be some mistake. You cannot have understood your father rightly, or he cannot know----"

"Oh! yes, yes!" replied Edith; "he knows all; and it is the same. Ay, and within four days, too--that he may take me with him in his flight."

"Ere four days be over," answered her lover, sternly, "he shall no more think of bridals."

"And what will become of my father, then!" said Edith, gazing steadily down upon the ground. "It is I--I that shall have done it. Alas, alas!

which way shall I turn?"

There was something more than sorrow in her countenance; there was anguish--almost agony; and Sir Henry Leyton was much moved. "Turn to me, Edith," he said; "turn to him who loves you better than life; and there is no sacrifice that he will not make for you, but his honour.

Tell me, have you made any promise?--have you given your father your consent?"

"No," answered Edith, eagerly; "no, I have not. He took my words as consent, though ere they were half finished, the horror and pain of all I heard overcame me, and I fainted. But I did not consent, Harry--I could not consent, without your permission.--Oh, Harry, aid and support me!"

"Listen to me, my beloved," replied Leyton; "wealth, got by any means, is this man's object. I gather from what you say, that your father has some cause to dread him--give up to him this much-coveted fortune--let him take it--ay, and share Henry Leyton's little wealth. I desire nothing but yourself."

"Alas, Henry, it is all in vain!" answered Edith; "I have offered it--I knew your n.o.ble, generous heart. I knew that wealth would make no difference to him I loved, and offered to resign everything. My father, even before he came hither, offered him my sister--offered to make her the sacrifice, as she is bound by no promises, and to give her an equal portion; but it was all refused."

"Then there is some other object," said her lover; "some object that may, perhaps, tend even to more misery than you dream of, Edith.

Believe me, my beloved--oh! believe me, did I but see how I could deliver you--were I sure that any act of mine would give you peace, no sacrifice on my part would seem too great. At present, however, I see nothing clearly--all is darkness and shadow around. I know not, that if I give you back your promise, and free you from your vow, that I shall not be contributing to make you wretched. How, then, am I to act? You are sure, dear one, that you have not consented?"

"Quite sure," answered Edith; "and it so happened, that there was one who heard my words as well as my father. He, indeed, took them as consent, and hurried away to Mr. Radford, without giving me time to recover and say more. Read that, Harry," and she put the note her father had left into his hands.

"It is fortunate you were heard by another," replied Leyton. "Hark!

there is your uncle's carriage coming.--Four days, did he say--four days? Well, then, dear Edith, will you trust in me? Will you leave your fate in the hands of one who will do anything on earth for your happiness?--and will you never doubt, though you may be kept in suspense, that I will so act as to deliver you, if I can, without bringing ruin on your father."

"It is worse than ruin," answered Edith, with the tears rolling down her cheeks--"it is death. But I will trust to you, Henry--I will trust implicitly. But tell me how to act--tell me what I am to do."

"Leave this matter as it is," answered her lover, hearing Mr.

Croyland's carriage stop at the door;--"your father has s.n.a.t.c.hed too eagerly at your words. Perhaps he has done so to gain time; but, at all events, the fault is his, not yours. If he speaks to you on the subject, you must tell the truth, and say you did not consent; but in everything else be pa.s.sive--let him do with you what he will--take you to the altar, if he so pleases; but there must be the final struggle, Edith. There you must boldly and aloud refuse to wed a man you cannot love. There let the memory of your vows to me be ever present with you. It may seem cruel; but I exact it for your own sake. In the meantime, take means to let me know everything that happens, be it small or great--cast off all reserve towards Digby; tell him all, everything that takes place; tell your sister, too, or any one who can bear me the tidings. I shall be nearer than you think."

"Oh, Heaven, how will this end!" cried Edith, putting her hand in his--"G.o.d help me, Harry--G.o.d help me!"

"He will, dear girl," answered Leyton--"I feel sure he will. But remember what I have said. Fail not to tell Digby, or Zara, or any one who can bear the tidings to me, everything that occurs, every word that is spoken, every step that is taken. Think nothing too trifling.

But there is your uncle's voice in the pa.s.sage. Can you not inform him of that which you think yourself bound not to tell me? I mean the particulars of your father's situation."

"No; oh no!" replied Edith--"I dare tell no one, especially not my uncle. Though kind, and generous, and benevolent, yet he is hasty, and he might ruin all. Dared I tell any one on earth, Henry, it would be you; and if I loved you before--oh, how I must love you now, when instead of the anger, or even heat, which I expected you to display, you have shown yourself ready to sacrifice all for one who is hardly worthy of you."

Leyton pressed her to his bosom, and replied, "Real love is unselfish, Edith. I tell you, dearest, that I die if I lose you; yet, Edith Croyland shall never do what is wrong for Henry Leyton's sake. If in the past we did commit an error, if I should not have engaged you by vows without your parent's consent--though G.o.d knows that error has been bitterly visited on my head!--I am still ready to make atonement to the best of my power; but I will not consent that you should be causelessly made miserable, or sacrifice yourself and me, without benefit to any one. Trust to me, Edith--trust to me."

"I will, I will!" answered Edith Croyland; "who can I trust to else?"

Mr. Croyland was considerate; and knowing that Sir Henry Leyton was with his niece--for his young friend had pa.s.sed him on the road--he paused for a moment in the vestibule, giving various orders and directions, in order to afford them a few minutes more of private conversation. When he went in, he was surprised to find Edith's face full of deep grief, and her eyes wet with tears, and still more when Leyton, after kissing her fair cheek, advanced towards him, saying, "I must go, my dear friend, nor can I accept your kind invitation to stay here to-night. But I am about to show myself a bold man, and ask you to give me almost the privilege of a son--that is, of coming and going, for the four or five next days, at my own will, and without question."

"What's all this?--what's all this?" cried Mr. Croyland; "a lovers'

quarrel?--Ha, Edith? Ha, Harry?"

"Oh, no," answered Edith, giving her uncle her hand; "there never can be a quarrel between me and Henry Leyton."

"Well, then, what is it all?" exclaimed Mr. Croyland, turning from one to the other. "Mystery--mystery! I hate mystery, Harry Leyton.--However, you shall have your privilege; the doors shall be open. Come--go--do what you like. But if you are not a great fool, you will order over a post-chaise and four this very night, put her in, and be off for Gretna Green. I'll give you my parental benediction."

"I am afraid, my dear sir," answered Leyton, "that cannot be. Edith has told me various things since I saw her, which require to be dealt with in a different way. I trust, that in whatever I do, my conduct will be such as to give you satisfaction; and whether the result be fortunate or otherwise, I shall never, till the last hour of life, forget the kindness you have shown me. And now, my dear sir, adieu for the present, for I have much to do this night."

Thus saying, he shook the old gentleman's hand, and departed with a heavy heart and anxious mind. During his onward ride, his heart did not become lighter; his mind was only more burdened with cares. As long as he was in Edith's presence, he had borne up and struggled against all that he felt; for he saw that she was already overwhelmed with grief, and he feared to add to it; but now his thoughts were all confusion. With incomplete information--in circ.u.mstances the most difficult--anxious to save her he loved, even at any sacrifice on his own part, yet seeing no distinct means of acting in any direction without danger to her--he looked around him in vain for any resource; or, if he formed a plan one moment, he rejected it the next. He knew Edith's perfect truth, he knew the quiet firmness and power of her mind too well to doubt one t.i.ttle of that which she had stated; and though at first sight he thought the proofs he possessed of Mr.

Radford's partic.i.p.ation in the late smuggling transaction were quite sufficient to justify that person's immediate arrest, and proposed that it should take place immediately, yet the next moment he recollected what might be the result to Sir Robert Croyland, and hesitated how to act. Then, again, he turned his eyes to the circ.u.mstances in which Edith's father was placed, and asked himself, what could be the mystery which so terribly overshadowed him? Edith had said that his life was at stake; and Leyton tortured his imagination in vain to find some explanation of such a fact.

"Can he have been deceiving her?" he asked himself more than once. But then, again, he answered, "No, it must be true! He can have no ordinary motive in urging her to such a step; his whole character, his whole views are against it. Haughty and ostentatious, there must be some overpowering cause to make him seek to wed his daughter to a low ruffian--the son of an upstart, who owed his former wealth to fraud, and who is now, if all tales be true, nearly bankrupt,--to wed Edith, a being of grace, of beauty, and of excellence, to a villain like this--a felon and a fugitive--and to send her forth into the wide world, to share the wanderings of a man she hates! The love of life must be a strange thing in some men. One would have thought that a thousand lives were nothing to such a sacrifice. Yet, the tale must be true; this old man must have Sir Robert's life in his power. But how--how? that is the question. Perhaps Digby can discover something.

At all events, I must see him without delay."

In such thoughts, Sir Henry Leyton rode on fast to Woodchurch, accomplishing in twenty minutes that which took good Mr. Croyland with his pampered horses, more than an hour to perform; and springing from his charger at the door of the inn, he was preparing to go up and write to Sir Edward Digby, when Captain Irby, on the one hand, and his own servant on the other, applied for attention.

"Mr. Warde is up stairs, sir," said the servant; "he has been waiting about half an hour."

But Leyton turned to the officer, asking, "What is it, Captain Irby?"

"Two or three of the men, sir, who have been taken," replied Captain Irby, "have expressed a wish to make a statement. One of them is badly wounded, too; but I did not know how to act till you arrived, as we had no magistrate here."

"Was it quite voluntary?" demanded the young officer; "no inducements held out--no questions asked?"

"Quite voluntary, sir," answered the other. "They sent to ask for you; and when I went, in your absence, they told me what it was they desired; but I refused to take the deposition till you arrived, for fear of getting myself into a sc.r.a.pe."

"It must be taken," replied the colonel. "Of whatever value it may be judged hereafter, we must not refuse it when offered. I will come to them in a moment, Irby;" and entering the house, but without going up stairs, he wrote a few lines, in the bar, to Sir Edward Digby, requesting to see him without delay. Then, calling his servant, he said, "Tell Mr. Warde I will be with him in a few minutes; after which, mount yourself, and carry this note over to Harbourne House, to Sir Edward Digby. Give it into his own hand; but remember, it is my wish that you should not mention my name there at all. Do you know the place?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man; and, leaving him to fulfil his errand, the colonel returned to the door of the house, to accompany Captain Irby.

CHAPTER II.

We mast now return for a time to Harbourne House, where, after Sir Robert Croyland's departure, his guest had endeavoured in vain, during the whole morning, to obtain a few minutes' private conversation with the baronet's youngest daughter. Now, it was not in the least degree, that Mrs. Barbara's notions of propriety interfered to prevent the two young people from being alone together; for, on the contrary, Mrs.

Barbara was a very lenient and gentle-minded person, and thought it quite right that any two human beings who were likely to fall in love with each other, should have every opportunity of doing so, to their hearts' content. But it so happened, from a sort of fatality which hung over all her plans, that whenever she interfered with anything,--which, indeed, she always did, with everything she could lay her hands upon,--the result was sure to be directly the contrary to that which she intended. It might be, indeed, that she did not always manage matters quite judiciously, that she acted without considering all the circ.u.mstances of the case; and undoubtedly it would have been quite as well if she had not acted at all when she was not asked.