The Smuggler: A Tale. Volumes I-III. G. P. R. James
comments upon this conduct did not appear; but both were a good deal surprised to see him, in the end, put his hand into his breeches pocket, draw forth a piece of money--it was not silver for it was yellow, and it was not copper for it was too bright--and slip it quietly into the poor woman's palm. He next gave a quiet, almost a timid glance around, to see if any one were looking, and then stepped rapidly into the coach, as if he were ashamed of what he had done. During all this proceeding he had taken no notice of his two companions, nor at all listened to what they were talking of; but as they entered the vehicle, while the horses were being put to, the one said to the other, "I think you had better do so, a great deal. It is as well to have the carte du pays before one commences operations."
"Well," replied the other, "you take the lead, Edward. The wound is still painful, though it is an old one."
What they were talking of their companion could not tell; but it excited, in some degree, his curiosity; and the manners of his two companions had, to say the truth, pleased him, though he was one of those men who, with very benevolent feelings at the bottom, are but little inclined to acknowledge that they are well pleased with anything or with anybody. For a moment or two all parties were silent; but the elderly gentleman was the first to begin, saying, in a more placable and complimentary tone than he was in general accustomed to use, "I hope I am to have the pleasure of your society, gentlemen, to the end of my journey?"
"I rather think we shall be your companions as far as you go," replied the gayer of the two young men, "for we are wending down to the far, wild parts of Kent; and it is probable you will not go beyond Folkestone, unless, indeed, you are about to cross the seas."
"Not I," exclaimed the old gentleman--"I have crossed the seas enough in my day, and never intend to set my foot out of my own country again, till four stout fellows carry me to the churchyard. No, no; you'll journey beyond me a long way, for I am only going to a little place called Harbourne, some distance on the Sussex side of Folkestone: a place quite out of the world, with no bigger a town near it than Cranbrook, and where we see the face of a human creature above the rank of a farmer, or a smuggler about once in the year--always excepting the parson of the parish."
"Then you turn off from Maidstone?" said the graver traveller, looking steadfastly in his face.
"No, I don't," replied the other. "Never, my dear sir, come to conclusions where you don't know the premises. I go, on the contrary, to Ashford, where I intend to sleep. I am there to be joined by a worthy brother of mine, and then we return together to Cranbrook. You are quite right, indeed, that my best and straightest road would be, as you say, from Maidstone; but we can't always take the straightest road in this world, though young men think they can, and old men only learn too late that they cannot."
"I have good reason to know the fact," said the gayer of his two fellow travellers; "I myself am going to the very same part of the country you mention, but have to proceed still farther out of my way; for I must visit Hythe and Folkestone first."
"Indeed, indeed!" exclaimed their elderly friend. "Do you know any body in that part of Kent?--Have you ever been there before?"
"Never," replied the other; "nor have I ever seen the persons I am going to see. What sort of a country is it?"
"Bless the young man's life!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, "does he expect me to give him a long picturesque description of St. Augustine's Lathe? If you wish to know my opinion of it, it is as wild and desolate a part of the world as the backwoods of America, and the people little better than American savages. You'll find plenty of trees, a few villages, some farm-houses, one or two gentlemen's seats--they had better have called them stools--a stream or two, a number of hills and things of that kind; and your humble servant, who would be very happy to see you, if you are not a smuggler, and are coming to that part of the country."
"I shall not fail to pay my respects to you," replied the gentleman to whom he spoke; "but I must first know who I am to inquire for."
"Pay your respect where it is due, my dear sir," rejoined the other. "You can't tell a whit whether I deserve any respect or not. You'll find out all that by and by. As to what I am called, I could give you half a dozen names. Some people call me the Bear, some people the Nabob, some the Misanthrope; but my real name--that which I am known by at the post-office--is Mr. Zachary Croyland, brother of the man who has Harbourne House: a younger brother too, by God's blessing--and a great blessing it is."
"It is lucky when every man is pleased with his situation," answered his young acquaintance. "Most elder brothers thank God for making them such, and I have often had cause to do the same."
"It's the greatest misfortune that can happen to a man," exclaimed the old gentleman, eagerly. "What are elder brothers, but people who are placed by fate in the most desperate and difficult circumstances. Spoilt and indulged in their infancy, taught to be vain and idle and conceited from the cradle, deprived of every inducement to the exertion of mind, corrupted by having always their own way, sheltered from all the friendly buffets of the world, and left, like a pond in a gravel pit, to stagnate or evaporate without stirring. Nine times out of ten from mere inanition they fall into every sort of vice; forget that they have duties as well as privileges, think that the slice of the world that has been given to them is entirely at their own pleasure and disposal, spend their fortunes, encumber their estates, bully their wives and their servants, indulge their eldest son till he is just such a piece of unkneaded dough as themselves, kick out their younger sons into the world without a farthing, and break their daughters' hearts by forcing them to marry men they hate. That's what elder brothers are made for; and to be one, I say again, is the greatest curse that can fall upon a man. But come, now I have told you my name, tell me yours. That's but a fair exchange you know, and no robbery, and I hate going on calling people 'sir' for ever."
"Quite a just demand," replied the gentleman whom he addressed, "and you shall immediately have the whole particulars. My name is Digby, a poor major in his Majesty's ---- regiment of Dragoons, to whom the two serious misfortunes have happened of being born an eldest son, and having a baronetcy thrust upon him."
"Couldn't be worse--couldn't be worse!" replied the old gentleman, laughing. "And so you are Sir Edward Digby! Oh yes. I can tell you, you are expected, and have been so these three weeks. The whole matter's laid out for you in every house in the country. You are to marry every unmarried woman in the hundred. The young men expect you to do nothing but hunt foxes, course hares, and shoot partridges from morning till night; and the old men have made up their minds that you shall drink port, claret, or madeira, as the case may be, from night till morning. I pity you--upon my life, I pity you. What between love and wine and field sports, you'll have a miserable time of it! Take care how you speak a single word to any single woman! Don't even smile upon Aunt Barbara, or she'll make you a low curtsey, and say 'You must ask my brother about the settlement, my dear Edward.' Ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed a long, merry, hearty peal, that made the rumbling vehicle echo again. Then putting the gold-headed cane to his lips, he turned a sly glance upon the other traveller, who was only moved to a very faint smile by all the old gentleman's merriment, asking, "Does this gentleman come with you?--Are you to be made a martyr of too, sir? Are you to be set running after foxes all day, like a tiger on horseback, and to have sheep's eyes cast at you all the evening, like a man in the pillory pelted with eggs? Are you bound to imbibe a butt of claret in three weeks? Poor young men--poor young men! My bowels of compassion yearn towards you."
"I shall fortunately escape all such perils," replied he whom he had last addressed--"I have no invitation to that part of the country."
"Come, then, I'll give you one," said the old gentleman; "if you like to come and stay a few days with an old bachelor, who will neither make you drunk nor make you foolish, I shall be glad to see you."
"I am not very likely to get drunk," answered the other, "as an old wound compels me to be a water drinker. Foolish enough I may be, and may have been; but, I am sure, that evil would not be increased by frequenting your society, my dear sir."
"I don't know--I don't know, young gentleman," said Mr. Croyland: "every man has his follies, and I amongst the rest as goodly a bag-full as one could well desire. But you have not given me an answer; shall I see you? Will you come with your friend,