How Merry Jonathan under these distracting circumstances could continue to be merry, his friends and neighbours wondered. Indeed, twice within a week he had brought back from the sea pollock and conger—his legitimate objects of pursuit at this season. But that Jonathan Godbeer should sell fish was a significant sign of the times, and already folks said that Mr. Cramphorn was avenged.
Gentle snow fell through a grey night as a party of men and women marched up Red Hill upon the following Tuesday evening. An invisible moon made all this clear. Parson Yates led the way with his cassock hitched out of the snow and with a stout boy on either side of him. One lad bore a candle, and the other, a little bell.
“Butivul night for a holy deed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cramphorn. Mrs. Pearn, Jenifer and Mr. Bluett walked beside him and a dozen villagers accompanied them. The matter, however, at their pastor’s desire had been kept as far as possible from the general ear.
“I hope as you’m lookin’ sharp to the roads an’ the quay an’ Smugglers’ Lane as usual,” whispered Johnny to Robert Bluett. “Some long tongue be sure to blab this business; an’ if the Frenchman’s laying off, they might signal her in to-night, ’stead of to-morrow.”
“Not so much as a sea-otter could go from sea to shore without one of my men would know it,” answered the other.
“Then a great load be off my mind, I assure ’e.”
Red Hill above Daleham was a sandstone bluff that sprang up near three hundred feet abruptly from the sea, and, save at low tides, deep water always ran beneath. Upon its head a rough tonsure of wind-worn pine trees circled the grey ruins of Stapledon manor-house, and inland therefrom extended the fishermen’s gardens and stretched two roads. One of these ways led to Daleham Church and the country; the other was that up which Parson Yates and his company now climbed from the village.
“Here will we stand,” said the good man, “and should anything in the nature of a superhuman visitation occur, you must light your candle, Richard Trout, and you, Noah Collins, after I have lifted my voice the first time, must strike upon the bell thrice—for each Person of the Ever-blessed Trinity. And see no wax falls from the candle on to my book, boy.”