CHAPTER XII.The Consequences of Crime.—A Familiar Friend.—A Cloud upon Learmont’s Felicity.Beinginformed by his servants that his visitor had been shown into a small room adjoining the library, Learmont took a lamp from his table, and with a frowning brow and compressed lips, walked towards the room to demand of Britton, for he guessed too well it was he, the cause of so early a visit.When he entered the room he found the smith lolling, at his ease, upon a costly couch, and although he did rise at the presence of Learmont, it was with an air and manner of extreme insolence.“To what am I indebted for so early a visit, or rather I should say intrusion?” asked Learmont in a low hollow voice.“Principally,” said Britton with an air of perfect indifference, “to assure you that I had arrived in London, perfectly safe.”“Well?” said Learmont.“Aye and well too,” answered the smith, purposely mistaking the other’s meaning. “I wish to know, likewise, if you have seen Jacob Gray?”“I have not,” replied Learmont.“Know you, squire, where in London he is to be found?”“I do not. Has he not confided that to you?”“In faith, he has not. In vain I urged him to tell me his place of abode, and if I know not where to find him how can I carry out the project we have decided upon?”“True,” said Learmont. “There must be found some means. Listen to me: when next Jacob Gray seeks me for money, I will put him off to a particular hour the next day. Be you then, at that hour, lurk about here, and follow him to his home, whither he will most likely go directly, having a sum of money with him.”“That may do,” said Britton, after a moment’s consideration. “You can send to me at any time by my real name, addressed to a little hostelrie, called ‘The Old Chequers,’ by Storey’s Gate hard by. You see, squire, I thought it handy to live near at hand.”“Promise me—swear to me, you will take this man’s life!” cried Learmont with sudden vehemence.“I have no particular objection to take his life,” replied Britton.“And the boy?”“That’s as circumstances turn out, squire. If the boy knows nothing—suspects nothing—”“Aye there’s the doubt. Britton, dispose of Gray, and your reward, as you know, is most ample. Bring, then, that boy to me.”“Agreed. You shall have him.”“Thanks, good Britton; and—and when you bring him you shall not be five minutes without your just reward.”There was a peculiarity of tone and manner about Learmont as he uttered these words, which startled the smith, and he looked for a moment or two suspiciously at his employer, then he said,—“Squire Learmont, I have been taught an useful lesson by Jacob Gray. I, too, have written a confession, and lodged it in a place of safety.”“What mean you?” said Learmont.“This—that if I should die suddenly, a packet of papers will be found, which will do no good to the Squire of Learmont. You understand me.”“I do understand you,” said Learmont; “but your suspicions are groundless.”“Be it so,” said the smith. “It’s best to be cautious.”“Take what precautions you please,” replied Learmont; “but keep your promise.”“I will keep it,” cried the smith; “for I hate this Jacob Gray, although he has made me know my own value.”“Know your value—what mean you?”“It was Jacob Gray who told me there were documents of some importance about the body of—”“Hush—hush!” cried Learmont; “name him not—it is enough. But tell me, why did Gray inform you of the existence of those papers instead of securing them himself?”“He lacked the courage to seek them where they were to be found.”“And yet I must take your word that they do prove what you say?”“Squire Learmont, these papers distinctly prove your illegitimacy. Among them is a letter from your mother, urging your father to marry her on account of her infant—that infant was yourself, for you know she died before you were one year old.”“Enough—enough,” said Learmont.—“I will believe it is so.”“So you perceive, squire, admitting your brother to—”“Cease—cease!” cried Learmont, “I want not these details.”“I was only about to remark that you were not the heir-at-law,” said Britton.“Heir to hell!” cried Learmont. “Now begone. You have delivered your message. I will send to you at the pot-house you mention when a fitting time comes. Now, away!”“Not so fast,” said Britton. “I have made a resolution.”“What resolution?”“Never to leave this house empty-handed.”“Pshaw! You forget the large sum you have received of me within these three days.”“No, squire, I do not: but I have told you my resolve—I shall charge for my visits here.”“And pray how much do you expect to receive whenever I am honoured by your presence?” sneered Learmont.“I shall leave that to your generosity,” said Britton.“And how often do you purpose coming?”“As often as the humour takes me, or my wants require,” replied the smith, insolently.Learmont evidently made a great effort to subdue his rage, and he said, in half-choked accents,—“Name your price.”“Ten pieces,” said the smith.Learmont took his purse from his pocket, and without a word, counted out required sum, and then stood with his lamp in his hand waiting for the other to leave the place.“You won’t show me your house, I suppose?” said Britton, in an aggravating voice.The dark eye of Learmont flashed with rage; but he said nothing.“Oh, very well,” cried Britton; “another time will do just as well. Recollect the sign of ‘The Old Chequers,’ I shall be very glad to see you whenever you may choose to call, and we can always find something interesting to talk about.”“Away with you—away!“ cried Learmont.“Let me see,” said Britton, with great deliberation, counting on his fingers, “this is Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—Friday—well, say Friday.”“Friday for what?”“My next visit.”“So soon?”“I don’t call that soon. Friday it shall be, squire.”The lamp trembled in the hand of Learmont as he thought—“Oh, that for my own safety’s sake I dared plunge a dagger to the hilt in his heart!”Britton, however, seemed fully to feel his entire safety, and he evidently felt an exquisite enjoyment in the agony he was inflicting upon Learmont. He lounged slowly to the door, and nodding then in an insolent, and familiar manner, he crossed the hall to the outer door, while Learmont, nearly bursting with rage, sprung up the marble staircase to the upper apartment of the house.“This is brave work,” muttered Britton when he had passed out into the street. “Humph! For ten long years did Master Learmont get the better of me in cunning, and I could not drag him down without placing a halter round my own neck; but now, thanks to the cunning of Master Jacob Gray, I have the means of toppling the squire from his height of power and grandeur without myself the least harm in the world. Ho! Ho! ’Tis brave indeed. And now for this Gray. I don’t see why I should not have charge of that young scion of an ancient stock, who is so great an eye-sore to Learmont. We shall see—we shall see, Master Gray, whether you or I will succeed best in a contest of cunning in the long run, and now for wine and jollity.”The smith had now arrived at the door of “The Old Chequers,” where, as the place most congenial to his disposition, he had taken up his abode, and where showing that he had plenty of money, he was welcomed accordingly.“Hilloa!” he roared. “Landlord, some of your best. Quick—quick, I say; I am thirsty, man.”The landlord needed no second bidding, but placed a tankard of foaming ale before the smith; who immediately took a deep draught of its contents.“Hurrah!” he cried; “I am Andrew Britton, the smith, and I don’t care who knows it.”“Certainly not, most worshipful sir,” said the landlord.“Ah,” cried Britton, “worshipful sir. That’s a very good name, and I’ll be called that for the future. Here’s a quart of the best to whoever calls me worshipful sir, and whoever don’t I’ll wring his neck.”“Hurrah! For the jolly smith“ cried a chorus of topers who were around. “We’ll drink your health, worshipful sir.”“So you shall,” cried Britton. “Here’s gold, and there’s more, too, where that comes from. Landlord, do you hear? Quarts all round. The best—the humming ale, recollect, that makes a man sing.”
The Consequences of Crime.—A Familiar Friend.—A Cloud upon Learmont’s Felicity.
Beinginformed by his servants that his visitor had been shown into a small room adjoining the library, Learmont took a lamp from his table, and with a frowning brow and compressed lips, walked towards the room to demand of Britton, for he guessed too well it was he, the cause of so early a visit.
When he entered the room he found the smith lolling, at his ease, upon a costly couch, and although he did rise at the presence of Learmont, it was with an air and manner of extreme insolence.
“To what am I indebted for so early a visit, or rather I should say intrusion?” asked Learmont in a low hollow voice.
“Principally,” said Britton with an air of perfect indifference, “to assure you that I had arrived in London, perfectly safe.”
“Well?” said Learmont.
“Aye and well too,” answered the smith, purposely mistaking the other’s meaning. “I wish to know, likewise, if you have seen Jacob Gray?”
“I have not,” replied Learmont.
“Know you, squire, where in London he is to be found?”
“I do not. Has he not confided that to you?”
“In faith, he has not. In vain I urged him to tell me his place of abode, and if I know not where to find him how can I carry out the project we have decided upon?”
“True,” said Learmont. “There must be found some means. Listen to me: when next Jacob Gray seeks me for money, I will put him off to a particular hour the next day. Be you then, at that hour, lurk about here, and follow him to his home, whither he will most likely go directly, having a sum of money with him.”
“That may do,” said Britton, after a moment’s consideration. “You can send to me at any time by my real name, addressed to a little hostelrie, called ‘The Old Chequers,’ by Storey’s Gate hard by. You see, squire, I thought it handy to live near at hand.”
“Promise me—swear to me, you will take this man’s life!” cried Learmont with sudden vehemence.
“I have no particular objection to take his life,” replied Britton.
“And the boy?”
“That’s as circumstances turn out, squire. If the boy knows nothing—suspects nothing—”
“Aye there’s the doubt. Britton, dispose of Gray, and your reward, as you know, is most ample. Bring, then, that boy to me.”
“Agreed. You shall have him.”
“Thanks, good Britton; and—and when you bring him you shall not be five minutes without your just reward.”
There was a peculiarity of tone and manner about Learmont as he uttered these words, which startled the smith, and he looked for a moment or two suspiciously at his employer, then he said,—
“Squire Learmont, I have been taught an useful lesson by Jacob Gray. I, too, have written a confession, and lodged it in a place of safety.”
“What mean you?” said Learmont.
“This—that if I should die suddenly, a packet of papers will be found, which will do no good to the Squire of Learmont. You understand me.”
“I do understand you,” said Learmont; “but your suspicions are groundless.”
“Be it so,” said the smith. “It’s best to be cautious.”
“Take what precautions you please,” replied Learmont; “but keep your promise.”
“I will keep it,” cried the smith; “for I hate this Jacob Gray, although he has made me know my own value.”
“Know your value—what mean you?”
“It was Jacob Gray who told me there were documents of some importance about the body of—”
“Hush—hush!” cried Learmont; “name him not—it is enough. But tell me, why did Gray inform you of the existence of those papers instead of securing them himself?”
“He lacked the courage to seek them where they were to be found.”
“And yet I must take your word that they do prove what you say?”
“Squire Learmont, these papers distinctly prove your illegitimacy. Among them is a letter from your mother, urging your father to marry her on account of her infant—that infant was yourself, for you know she died before you were one year old.”
“Enough—enough,” said Learmont.—“I will believe it is so.”
“So you perceive, squire, admitting your brother to—”
“Cease—cease!” cried Learmont, “I want not these details.”
“I was only about to remark that you were not the heir-at-law,” said Britton.
“Heir to hell!” cried Learmont. “Now begone. You have delivered your message. I will send to you at the pot-house you mention when a fitting time comes. Now, away!”
“Not so fast,” said Britton. “I have made a resolution.”
“What resolution?”
“Never to leave this house empty-handed.”
“Pshaw! You forget the large sum you have received of me within these three days.”
“No, squire, I do not: but I have told you my resolve—I shall charge for my visits here.”
“And pray how much do you expect to receive whenever I am honoured by your presence?” sneered Learmont.
“I shall leave that to your generosity,” said Britton.
“And how often do you purpose coming?”
“As often as the humour takes me, or my wants require,” replied the smith, insolently.
Learmont evidently made a great effort to subdue his rage, and he said, in half-choked accents,—
“Name your price.”
“Ten pieces,” said the smith.
Learmont took his purse from his pocket, and without a word, counted out required sum, and then stood with his lamp in his hand waiting for the other to leave the place.
“You won’t show me your house, I suppose?” said Britton, in an aggravating voice.
The dark eye of Learmont flashed with rage; but he said nothing.
“Oh, very well,” cried Britton; “another time will do just as well. Recollect the sign of ‘The Old Chequers,’ I shall be very glad to see you whenever you may choose to call, and we can always find something interesting to talk about.”
“Away with you—away!“ cried Learmont.
“Let me see,” said Britton, with great deliberation, counting on his fingers, “this is Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—Friday—well, say Friday.”
“Friday for what?”
“My next visit.”
“So soon?”
“I don’t call that soon. Friday it shall be, squire.”
The lamp trembled in the hand of Learmont as he thought—“Oh, that for my own safety’s sake I dared plunge a dagger to the hilt in his heart!”
Britton, however, seemed fully to feel his entire safety, and he evidently felt an exquisite enjoyment in the agony he was inflicting upon Learmont. He lounged slowly to the door, and nodding then in an insolent, and familiar manner, he crossed the hall to the outer door, while Learmont, nearly bursting with rage, sprung up the marble staircase to the upper apartment of the house.
“This is brave work,” muttered Britton when he had passed out into the street. “Humph! For ten long years did Master Learmont get the better of me in cunning, and I could not drag him down without placing a halter round my own neck; but now, thanks to the cunning of Master Jacob Gray, I have the means of toppling the squire from his height of power and grandeur without myself the least harm in the world. Ho! Ho! ’Tis brave indeed. And now for this Gray. I don’t see why I should not have charge of that young scion of an ancient stock, who is so great an eye-sore to Learmont. We shall see—we shall see, Master Gray, whether you or I will succeed best in a contest of cunning in the long run, and now for wine and jollity.”
The smith had now arrived at the door of “The Old Chequers,” where, as the place most congenial to his disposition, he had taken up his abode, and where showing that he had plenty of money, he was welcomed accordingly.
“Hilloa!” he roared. “Landlord, some of your best. Quick—quick, I say; I am thirsty, man.”
The landlord needed no second bidding, but placed a tankard of foaming ale before the smith; who immediately took a deep draught of its contents.
“Hurrah!” he cried; “I am Andrew Britton, the smith, and I don’t care who knows it.”
“Certainly not, most worshipful sir,” said the landlord.
“Ah,” cried Britton, “worshipful sir. That’s a very good name, and I’ll be called that for the future. Here’s a quart of the best to whoever calls me worshipful sir, and whoever don’t I’ll wring his neck.”
“Hurrah! For the jolly smith“ cried a chorus of topers who were around. “We’ll drink your health, worshipful sir.”
“So you shall,” cried Britton. “Here’s gold, and there’s more, too, where that comes from. Landlord, do you hear? Quarts all round. The best—the humming ale, recollect, that makes a man sing.”
CHAPTER XIII.A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.The Squire Learmont’sfirst night in his splendid mansion was by no means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his lips.His restless slumbers, too, were haunted by the visionary creations of his excited fancy. One moment he would be plunging a poniard into Britton’s heart, while he dragged from his breast the papers so important to his peace. Then again, at the moment of his fancied triumph, the scene would change to a court of justice, and a voice arraigned him for murder! In such fearful and disordered fancies was his night passed, and he rose in the morning pale, haggard, and un-refreshed. Hastily attiring himself, he drew aside the curtains of his chamber-window, which commanded an extensive and pleasing view into St. James’s Park. It was yet very early, but Learmont thought that he should be able to withdraw his mind from disagreeable and horrible reflections by healthful walk in the shady Mall.He accordingly took his hat and sword, and walked from his house by a garden-gate, opening into a narrow lane of trees, which terminated in the park itself. The air was very cold, for frost was on the ground, and the trees were stripped of their beautiful verdure; but it was exercise that Learmont wanted, and he rather rejoiced than otherwise at the necessity of active walking, inasmuch as he hoped exertion of body would control the excitement of his mind.The canal was then, and for many years afterwards, a mere straight cutting, strongly resembling a wet dock, for the repair of ships, and as little ornamental as it could possibly be. The walks, however, in St. James’s Park, were then preferable to what they are now, for many old trees were then existence that have now perished, and their places are, of necessity, occupied by saplings, which the present generation have been kind enough to plant for their successors.Learmont walked very quickly over the frozen ground, which crackled like glass under the feet. There were but few persons at that early hour abroad, although the day gave promise of being one of those clear, cold, frosty ones which are admired by a great many persons.Approaching, however, from the direction towards which he was proceeding, Learmont observed a gentlemanly-looking man enveloped in a large cloak. By some sort of instinct, Learmont seemed to feel a dread of this stranger’s approach, although he could not at all recognise in him, at the distance they were apart, the gait or aspect of any one that he knew. Nearer and nearer they approached each other; and, so strong was the feeling of dread in the breast of Learmont, that, had it not been for his stronger curiosity to ascertain who it was, he would have turned from the open pathway among the trees, whose huge trunks would have effectually hidden him from observation. As it was, however, he pursued his walk until he and the stranger with the cloak came nearly face to face. Then, as the stranger lifted up his eyes, which had been fixed on the ground in a meditative manner, Learmont knew him.It was the young man, by name Frank Hartleton, who had been so curious and suspicious at the period of the great storm at Learmont, when the wing of the building, in which was the smithy, had been burnt down.The recognition was evidently mutual; indeed, no one who had once seen Learmont could easily again forget him; and, although a great personal change had taken place in the appearance of Hartleton, yet the features of all who had taken any part in the proceedings of that eventful night at the little village of Learmont were too indelibly impressed upon the memory of the squire for him to find any difficulty in recognising in the staid, and somewhat grave, gentleman person before him, the Frank Hartleton who had always held him at open defiance and laughed at his power.Hartleton stopped short when he saw Learmont; and his first exclamation was,—“This is strange, indeed!”“Sir,” said Learmont, “did you address me?”“Scarcely,” replied Hartleton; “but your name is Learmont?”“Well, sir?” replied the other with considerablehauteur.“Do you know me, Squire Learmont?”“I recognised the features, and know the names of many, sir,” said Learmont, “that still are not upon my roll of friends or acquaintances.”“You do know me,” said Hartleton, “I have no desire to be rude to you, Squire Learmont; but our sudden meeting took me somewhat by surprise, and the exclamation that I uttered arose from the curious coincidence that I have been all night dreaming of you and the village of Learmont, and was in deep thought about the mysterious occurrences that took place three years ago when I suddenly came upon you.”If his hatred and dread of Hartleton would have induced Learmont to treat him in such a manner that he could not address him, his guilty fears urged him to prolong the conversation, in order to discover, if possible, the complexion of Hartleton’s thoughts with regard to him, that he might know if he had anything really to dread from that quarter. It was, therefore, with more courtesy that he said,—“The coincidences are curious. I—I believe I speak to Sir Francis Hartleton now?”“Yes,” replied Hartleton; “I was, you recollect, destined for the law, which my small patrimony just enabled me to enter with credit. I am now a justice, and a knight, as you say.”“I give you joy, sir, of your advancement,” said Learmont.“You are very kind,” replied Hartleton, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of Learmont in a manner that it required all the firmness of the latter not to quail under.“Might I presume so far,” said Learmont, “as to ask, what were the thoughts concerning me that engaged Sir Francis Hartleton even now?”“I was thinking of the mysterious man,” said Hartleton, “who rushed with such wild gestures and shrieks from the burning house.”Learmont strove to command his features to indifference; but, the effort was almost beyond his power, and he spoke to endeavour to cover his agitation.“It was very strange,” he said; “most singular!”“And the little child, too, that he had in his arms,” continued Hartleton; “what can have become of that?”“Ay—what?” said Learmont.“Did you never get any clue, Squire Learmont, to these mysterious circumstances, which must have greatly interested you?”“Interested me? How?”“Inasmuch as they occurred upon your estate, and among your own tenants.”“True—most true, sir. I—I was—and am much interested; but I know nothing—have heard nothing, and have no clue to unravel the mystery.”“We must only hope,” said Hartleton, “that some of these days, accident as it generally does, will throw a light upon the subject, and give it to us in all its details.”An awful expression came across the face of Learmont as he replied.“Yes—yes. As you say, it will be an accident. May I ask what your impression is?”“I have scarcely an impression upon the subject,” replied Hartleton; “we lawyers, you know, are particularly cautious how we take up impressions upon subjects unfounded upon evidence.”“Exceedingly proper is such caution,” said Learmont; “otherwise the innocent might be the victims of endless mistakes.”“Exactly,” replied Hartleton; “but I have no particular objection to tell you my dream without founding any impression upon it.”“I am all attention,” said Learmont.“I dreamt first that that smith, of the name of Britton, was a desperate villain, and for gold would—”“Would what?” gasped Learmont.“Do anything” said Hartleton.“Well, sir, is that all?”“Oh, no; my vision changed, and I thought I saw a gloomy passage, mouldy with the damps of time, and dripping with unwholesome moisture—creeping slimy things were all around, and in the midst I saw—”“Yes—yes,” gasped Learmont. “W—what saw you?”“A mouldering skeleton.”“Indeed!”“Yes, and the most curious circumstance of all was that in the midst of it I constantly heard the clank of the smith’s hammer. I knew the sound in a moment.”“’Tis very strange!” muttered Learmont.“Most strange!” said Hartleton; “but again my vision changed.”“What saw you then?”“A hall of judgment.”“Yes—yes.”“It was densely crowded, and some important and interesting proceeding was evidently pending; then suddenly I heard a voice cry your name.”“My name?”“Yes, and you were asked to plead to a charge of murder!”A cold sweat broke out upon the forehead of Learmont, and he could not answer, when Hartleton added,—“It was but a dream, though. I wish you a good morning, and a pleasant walk, Squire Learmont.”
A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.
The Squire Learmont’sfirst night in his splendid mansion was by no means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his lips.
His restless slumbers, too, were haunted by the visionary creations of his excited fancy. One moment he would be plunging a poniard into Britton’s heart, while he dragged from his breast the papers so important to his peace. Then again, at the moment of his fancied triumph, the scene would change to a court of justice, and a voice arraigned him for murder! In such fearful and disordered fancies was his night passed, and he rose in the morning pale, haggard, and un-refreshed. Hastily attiring himself, he drew aside the curtains of his chamber-window, which commanded an extensive and pleasing view into St. James’s Park. It was yet very early, but Learmont thought that he should be able to withdraw his mind from disagreeable and horrible reflections by healthful walk in the shady Mall.
He accordingly took his hat and sword, and walked from his house by a garden-gate, opening into a narrow lane of trees, which terminated in the park itself. The air was very cold, for frost was on the ground, and the trees were stripped of their beautiful verdure; but it was exercise that Learmont wanted, and he rather rejoiced than otherwise at the necessity of active walking, inasmuch as he hoped exertion of body would control the excitement of his mind.
The canal was then, and for many years afterwards, a mere straight cutting, strongly resembling a wet dock, for the repair of ships, and as little ornamental as it could possibly be. The walks, however, in St. James’s Park, were then preferable to what they are now, for many old trees were then existence that have now perished, and their places are, of necessity, occupied by saplings, which the present generation have been kind enough to plant for their successors.
Learmont walked very quickly over the frozen ground, which crackled like glass under the feet. There were but few persons at that early hour abroad, although the day gave promise of being one of those clear, cold, frosty ones which are admired by a great many persons.
Approaching, however, from the direction towards which he was proceeding, Learmont observed a gentlemanly-looking man enveloped in a large cloak. By some sort of instinct, Learmont seemed to feel a dread of this stranger’s approach, although he could not at all recognise in him, at the distance they were apart, the gait or aspect of any one that he knew. Nearer and nearer they approached each other; and, so strong was the feeling of dread in the breast of Learmont, that, had it not been for his stronger curiosity to ascertain who it was, he would have turned from the open pathway among the trees, whose huge trunks would have effectually hidden him from observation. As it was, however, he pursued his walk until he and the stranger with the cloak came nearly face to face. Then, as the stranger lifted up his eyes, which had been fixed on the ground in a meditative manner, Learmont knew him.
It was the young man, by name Frank Hartleton, who had been so curious and suspicious at the period of the great storm at Learmont, when the wing of the building, in which was the smithy, had been burnt down.
The recognition was evidently mutual; indeed, no one who had once seen Learmont could easily again forget him; and, although a great personal change had taken place in the appearance of Hartleton, yet the features of all who had taken any part in the proceedings of that eventful night at the little village of Learmont were too indelibly impressed upon the memory of the squire for him to find any difficulty in recognising in the staid, and somewhat grave, gentleman person before him, the Frank Hartleton who had always held him at open defiance and laughed at his power.
Hartleton stopped short when he saw Learmont; and his first exclamation was,—
“This is strange, indeed!”
“Sir,” said Learmont, “did you address me?”
“Scarcely,” replied Hartleton; “but your name is Learmont?”
“Well, sir?” replied the other with considerablehauteur.
“Do you know me, Squire Learmont?”
“I recognised the features, and know the names of many, sir,” said Learmont, “that still are not upon my roll of friends or acquaintances.”
“You do know me,” said Hartleton, “I have no desire to be rude to you, Squire Learmont; but our sudden meeting took me somewhat by surprise, and the exclamation that I uttered arose from the curious coincidence that I have been all night dreaming of you and the village of Learmont, and was in deep thought about the mysterious occurrences that took place three years ago when I suddenly came upon you.”
If his hatred and dread of Hartleton would have induced Learmont to treat him in such a manner that he could not address him, his guilty fears urged him to prolong the conversation, in order to discover, if possible, the complexion of Hartleton’s thoughts with regard to him, that he might know if he had anything really to dread from that quarter. It was, therefore, with more courtesy that he said,—
“The coincidences are curious. I—I believe I speak to Sir Francis Hartleton now?”
“Yes,” replied Hartleton; “I was, you recollect, destined for the law, which my small patrimony just enabled me to enter with credit. I am now a justice, and a knight, as you say.”
“I give you joy, sir, of your advancement,” said Learmont.
“You are very kind,” replied Hartleton, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of Learmont in a manner that it required all the firmness of the latter not to quail under.
“Might I presume so far,” said Learmont, “as to ask, what were the thoughts concerning me that engaged Sir Francis Hartleton even now?”
“I was thinking of the mysterious man,” said Hartleton, “who rushed with such wild gestures and shrieks from the burning house.”
Learmont strove to command his features to indifference; but, the effort was almost beyond his power, and he spoke to endeavour to cover his agitation.
“It was very strange,” he said; “most singular!”
“And the little child, too, that he had in his arms,” continued Hartleton; “what can have become of that?”
“Ay—what?” said Learmont.
“Did you never get any clue, Squire Learmont, to these mysterious circumstances, which must have greatly interested you?”
“Interested me? How?”
“Inasmuch as they occurred upon your estate, and among your own tenants.”
“True—most true, sir. I—I was—and am much interested; but I know nothing—have heard nothing, and have no clue to unravel the mystery.”
“We must only hope,” said Hartleton, “that some of these days, accident as it generally does, will throw a light upon the subject, and give it to us in all its details.”
An awful expression came across the face of Learmont as he replied.
“Yes—yes. As you say, it will be an accident. May I ask what your impression is?”
“I have scarcely an impression upon the subject,” replied Hartleton; “we lawyers, you know, are particularly cautious how we take up impressions upon subjects unfounded upon evidence.”
“Exceedingly proper is such caution,” said Learmont; “otherwise the innocent might be the victims of endless mistakes.”
“Exactly,” replied Hartleton; “but I have no particular objection to tell you my dream without founding any impression upon it.”
“I am all attention,” said Learmont.
“I dreamt first that that smith, of the name of Britton, was a desperate villain, and for gold would—”
“Would what?” gasped Learmont.
“Do anything” said Hartleton.
“Well, sir, is that all?”
“Oh, no; my vision changed, and I thought I saw a gloomy passage, mouldy with the damps of time, and dripping with unwholesome moisture—creeping slimy things were all around, and in the midst I saw—”
“Yes—yes,” gasped Learmont. “W—what saw you?”
“A mouldering skeleton.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, and the most curious circumstance of all was that in the midst of it I constantly heard the clank of the smith’s hammer. I knew the sound in a moment.”
“’Tis very strange!” muttered Learmont.
“Most strange!” said Hartleton; “but again my vision changed.”
“What saw you then?”
“A hall of judgment.”
“Yes—yes.”
“It was densely crowded, and some important and interesting proceeding was evidently pending; then suddenly I heard a voice cry your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, and you were asked to plead to a charge of murder!”
A cold sweat broke out upon the forehead of Learmont, and he could not answer, when Hartleton added,—
“It was but a dream, though. I wish you a good morning, and a pleasant walk, Squire Learmont.”
CHAPTER XIV.The Dark Threat.—The Biter Bit.—Another Murder Projected.—Learmont’s Reasoning.Learmontstood for a few moments gazing after the retreating figure of Sir Francis Hartleton; then, shaking his clenched hand in the direction he was proceeding, he muttered between his teeth,—“Beware—beware, Sir Magistrate!—beware! You may rouse a spirit you cannot quell again. I am not the man to allow such as thou to be a stumbling-block in my path.”So saying, with a dark scowl upon his brow, the squire retraced his steps towards his own house. The morning sun was now gilding with beauty the housetops, and the icicles, which, pendant from every tree, shone like gems of the purest water and brilliancy. Unheedful, however, of the beauties of nature around, the wealthy Learmont passed onwards, his thoughts, dark and gainful as they were, fully absorbing all his attention. He passed up the little lane which was the nearest route to his own house; and, as he was about to emerge from it, he was startled (for the guilty are ever timid) by some one touching his shoulder. Turning quickly round, he saw Jacob Gray, with a sickly, disagreeable smile upon his face, standing close to him.“Your worship rises early,” said Gray.“Yes; you—you have been seeking me?”“I have, squire. Your servants sought you, it appears, and found you were not within; and, as I knew it was much the custom of the great gentry, such as your worship, to gather an appetite for breakfast by a stroll in the park, I made bold to seek you.”“I am now proceeding homeward,” said Learmont. “In half an hour from now I shall be at leisure.”“As your worship pleases,” said Gray; “but methought there was an inclination on the part of your lackeys to deny me speech of you. Now, squire, if you would have the goodness to leave a message in your hall to the effect that your old and trusty friend Jacob Gray was always to be admitted, it would save us both trouble.”Learmont was exceedingly impatient during this speech, and, at its conclusion, he said, in a vexed tone,—“Well—well—I will leave proper orders. In half an hour I shall expect you.”“Your worship shall not be disappointed,” said Gray, with a bow which had more of burlesque mockery in it than respect.Learmont turned haughtily from him, and in a few moments he entered the gardens of his mansion, by the same private door through which he had proceeded to the park. He ordered a sumptuous breakfast to be immediately prepared for him, and took an opportunity to say, in a careless manner, to the servant, whose special province it was to answer the silver bell which always was at Learmont’s elbow,—“Tell them in the hall that I expect one Jacob Gray. Let him be admitted.”The servant respectfully retired to communicate the message, and Learmont, after a pause of thought, said, in a low voice,—“Yes, Jacob Gray, you shall be admitted as often as you call; but it will go hard with me if I do not take thy life soon. Assuming wretch!—Oh! Can there be a state of more abject slavery than his, who, after carving the way to his ambitious height, then finds himself at the mercy of the mean and despicable tools he has used, and would fain throw aside, and forget for ever! We shall see: we shall see. Surely I, who have already done so much when so little seemed possible, am not to be scared through life by such two ruffians as Britton and Gray. They must destroy each other! Yes; that is the true policy, and now to work on the fears and cupidity of this Jacob Gray!”He had scarcely whispered to himself these reflections, when the object of them was announced.“Bring him hither,” said Learmont, and in a few moments Jacob Gray was introduced. The moment the servant had left the room, and closed the door behind him, Gray seated himself with an air of insolent familiarity, which, under any other circumstances, would have produced a storm of passion in Learmont; but he felt the necessity of temporising; and, severe as was the struggle to him, he nevertheless succeeded in keeping down his passion sufficiently to address Gray calmly.“You reached London in safety, of course?”“Even so,” replied Gray. “Permit me to congratulate you upon your house. It really is—”“Yes, yes,” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Let us to business, Master Gray. You found the papers your extreme prudence had left in London, when you favoured me with a visit, quite safe, I trust?”“Perfectly safe, and untouched,“ said Gray; “and—and—permit me to add, that I have placed them again under such circumstances as must ensure their delivery to one who has power and will to use them, should anything sudden—you understand—happen to your humble servant, Jacob Gray.”“May I ask whose hands you consider so peculiarly adapted for those papers?”“Oh, certainly; a neighbour of yours, Sir Francis Hartleton.”“Sir Francis Hartleton?” exclaimed Learmont.“Yes,” replied Gray; “one of the most acute lawyers and active justices in London.”“As you please,” said Learmont. “Now, with regard to the—the—child?”“He is quite well, squire, and likely to continue so.”“Humph! Is he tall?”“Not over tall, but slim and active.”“Enough of him at present. I wish to speak to you of another matter. The sums demanded of me by Britton are large.”“Doubtless, squire; ’tis an extravagant knave.”“Now those sums, Gray, added to what you yourself receive, would make a goodly income.”“In faith you speak, truly, squire.”“Now, Gray, I will deal frankly with you,” continued Learmont. “This Britton is fond of wine, and in his cups some day he may hint or say enough to—to hang you, Master Gray.”“Eh?” cried Gray. “Hang me?”“Even so.”“Oh, I understand, along with your worship, of course.”“I don’t know that, Jacob Gray,” remarked Learmont, calmly and firmly. “I have a long purse, you see, which you have not.”“There—is—something in that,” muttered Gray.“A man of your acuteness must perceive that there is a great deal in that,” continued Learmont.“Yes, truly; but still there would be danger, most imminent danger, squire.”“That I grant you, but yours, Jacob Gray, would far exceed mine. Be that, however, as it may, you must see how very desirable a consummation it would be if this swilling drunken knave, Britton, were some day to choke himself.”“Or be choked by Jacob Gray?” added Gray, with a smile of dark meaning.“Exactly,” said Learmont. “It may be done easily. Invite him to your house; feast with him, plan and plot with him; give him wine; and then, some day, when time and circumstances are fitting, I will give you a drug of such potency, that, if ever so slightly used in his wine-cup, will seize upon the springs of life, and at once, you will see, Master Gray, you are rid of this dangerous man.”“And rid you likewise of him,” interposed Gray.“Of course; but I gain little—you everything—by his death—safety and wealth!”“It might be done,” murmured Gray, “if it could be done safely.”“With your caution,” suggested Learmont, “with but a little of the admirable cunning you have as yet displayed in this business, methinks it might be possible, Master Gray, for you to overreach in some way so dull-witted a villain as this Britton, who, you see, stands so much in the way of your fortunes.”“If,” muttered Gray, “it can be done at all by me, that poison draught you mentioned is, to my mind, the most ready, and—and—”“Safe,” added Learmont.“Well, safe be it,” said Gray. “There is no occasion for a greater risk than necessary.”“None in the least,” sneered Learmont: “you will then do your best, Master Gray, to rid yourself of this sot, this incubus upon you, this villain, whom I hate as—as—”“As you hate me!” said Gray, twinkling his small eyes, and peering in the face of Learmont.“No,” said Learmont; “you are not so dangerous because you are more cautious; but, Jacob Gray, is it not possible that, should you succeed in ridding yourself of this Britton, you may think it worth your while to name some price for the only thing I dread?”“The child?”“Yes: think of my words.”“I will think,” said Gray; “but now I must be gone.”Learmont placed in his hands a purse of gold, and with a shifting, low-cunning glance of his little grey eyes, the wily villain left the place muttering—“Humph!—He wants to kill my goose, to get all the golden eggs at once. Indeed!—we shall see!”
The Dark Threat.—The Biter Bit.—Another Murder Projected.—Learmont’s Reasoning.
Learmontstood for a few moments gazing after the retreating figure of Sir Francis Hartleton; then, shaking his clenched hand in the direction he was proceeding, he muttered between his teeth,—
“Beware—beware, Sir Magistrate!—beware! You may rouse a spirit you cannot quell again. I am not the man to allow such as thou to be a stumbling-block in my path.”
So saying, with a dark scowl upon his brow, the squire retraced his steps towards his own house. The morning sun was now gilding with beauty the housetops, and the icicles, which, pendant from every tree, shone like gems of the purest water and brilliancy. Unheedful, however, of the beauties of nature around, the wealthy Learmont passed onwards, his thoughts, dark and gainful as they were, fully absorbing all his attention. He passed up the little lane which was the nearest route to his own house; and, as he was about to emerge from it, he was startled (for the guilty are ever timid) by some one touching his shoulder. Turning quickly round, he saw Jacob Gray, with a sickly, disagreeable smile upon his face, standing close to him.
“Your worship rises early,” said Gray.
“Yes; you—you have been seeking me?”
“I have, squire. Your servants sought you, it appears, and found you were not within; and, as I knew it was much the custom of the great gentry, such as your worship, to gather an appetite for breakfast by a stroll in the park, I made bold to seek you.”
“I am now proceeding homeward,” said Learmont. “In half an hour from now I shall be at leisure.”
“As your worship pleases,” said Gray; “but methought there was an inclination on the part of your lackeys to deny me speech of you. Now, squire, if you would have the goodness to leave a message in your hall to the effect that your old and trusty friend Jacob Gray was always to be admitted, it would save us both trouble.”
Learmont was exceedingly impatient during this speech, and, at its conclusion, he said, in a vexed tone,—
“Well—well—I will leave proper orders. In half an hour I shall expect you.”
“Your worship shall not be disappointed,” said Gray, with a bow which had more of burlesque mockery in it than respect.
Learmont turned haughtily from him, and in a few moments he entered the gardens of his mansion, by the same private door through which he had proceeded to the park. He ordered a sumptuous breakfast to be immediately prepared for him, and took an opportunity to say, in a careless manner, to the servant, whose special province it was to answer the silver bell which always was at Learmont’s elbow,—
“Tell them in the hall that I expect one Jacob Gray. Let him be admitted.”
The servant respectfully retired to communicate the message, and Learmont, after a pause of thought, said, in a low voice,—
“Yes, Jacob Gray, you shall be admitted as often as you call; but it will go hard with me if I do not take thy life soon. Assuming wretch!—Oh! Can there be a state of more abject slavery than his, who, after carving the way to his ambitious height, then finds himself at the mercy of the mean and despicable tools he has used, and would fain throw aside, and forget for ever! We shall see: we shall see. Surely I, who have already done so much when so little seemed possible, am not to be scared through life by such two ruffians as Britton and Gray. They must destroy each other! Yes; that is the true policy, and now to work on the fears and cupidity of this Jacob Gray!”
He had scarcely whispered to himself these reflections, when the object of them was announced.
“Bring him hither,” said Learmont, and in a few moments Jacob Gray was introduced. The moment the servant had left the room, and closed the door behind him, Gray seated himself with an air of insolent familiarity, which, under any other circumstances, would have produced a storm of passion in Learmont; but he felt the necessity of temporising; and, severe as was the struggle to him, he nevertheless succeeded in keeping down his passion sufficiently to address Gray calmly.
“You reached London in safety, of course?”
“Even so,” replied Gray. “Permit me to congratulate you upon your house. It really is—”
“Yes, yes,” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Let us to business, Master Gray. You found the papers your extreme prudence had left in London, when you favoured me with a visit, quite safe, I trust?”
“Perfectly safe, and untouched,“ said Gray; “and—and—permit me to add, that I have placed them again under such circumstances as must ensure their delivery to one who has power and will to use them, should anything sudden—you understand—happen to your humble servant, Jacob Gray.”
“May I ask whose hands you consider so peculiarly adapted for those papers?”
“Oh, certainly; a neighbour of yours, Sir Francis Hartleton.”
“Sir Francis Hartleton?” exclaimed Learmont.
“Yes,” replied Gray; “one of the most acute lawyers and active justices in London.”
“As you please,” said Learmont. “Now, with regard to the—the—child?”
“He is quite well, squire, and likely to continue so.”
“Humph! Is he tall?”
“Not over tall, but slim and active.”
“Enough of him at present. I wish to speak to you of another matter. The sums demanded of me by Britton are large.”
“Doubtless, squire; ’tis an extravagant knave.”
“Now those sums, Gray, added to what you yourself receive, would make a goodly income.”
“In faith you speak, truly, squire.”
“Now, Gray, I will deal frankly with you,” continued Learmont. “This Britton is fond of wine, and in his cups some day he may hint or say enough to—to hang you, Master Gray.”
“Eh?” cried Gray. “Hang me?”
“Even so.”
“Oh, I understand, along with your worship, of course.”
“I don’t know that, Jacob Gray,” remarked Learmont, calmly and firmly. “I have a long purse, you see, which you have not.”
“There—is—something in that,” muttered Gray.
“A man of your acuteness must perceive that there is a great deal in that,” continued Learmont.
“Yes, truly; but still there would be danger, most imminent danger, squire.”
“That I grant you, but yours, Jacob Gray, would far exceed mine. Be that, however, as it may, you must see how very desirable a consummation it would be if this swilling drunken knave, Britton, were some day to choke himself.”
“Or be choked by Jacob Gray?” added Gray, with a smile of dark meaning.
“Exactly,” said Learmont. “It may be done easily. Invite him to your house; feast with him, plan and plot with him; give him wine; and then, some day, when time and circumstances are fitting, I will give you a drug of such potency, that, if ever so slightly used in his wine-cup, will seize upon the springs of life, and at once, you will see, Master Gray, you are rid of this dangerous man.”
“And rid you likewise of him,” interposed Gray.
“Of course; but I gain little—you everything—by his death—safety and wealth!”
“It might be done,” murmured Gray, “if it could be done safely.”
“With your caution,” suggested Learmont, “with but a little of the admirable cunning you have as yet displayed in this business, methinks it might be possible, Master Gray, for you to overreach in some way so dull-witted a villain as this Britton, who, you see, stands so much in the way of your fortunes.”
“If,” muttered Gray, “it can be done at all by me, that poison draught you mentioned is, to my mind, the most ready, and—and—”
“Safe,” added Learmont.
“Well, safe be it,” said Gray. “There is no occasion for a greater risk than necessary.”
“None in the least,” sneered Learmont: “you will then do your best, Master Gray, to rid yourself of this sot, this incubus upon you, this villain, whom I hate as—as—”
“As you hate me!” said Gray, twinkling his small eyes, and peering in the face of Learmont.
“No,” said Learmont; “you are not so dangerous because you are more cautious; but, Jacob Gray, is it not possible that, should you succeed in ridding yourself of this Britton, you may think it worth your while to name some price for the only thing I dread?”
“The child?”
“Yes: think of my words.”
“I will think,” said Gray; “but now I must be gone.”
Learmont placed in his hands a purse of gold, and with a shifting, low-cunning glance of his little grey eyes, the wily villain left the place muttering—
“Humph!—He wants to kill my goose, to get all the golden eggs at once. Indeed!—we shall see!”
CHAPTER XV.Chase.—A Long Race, And its Results.WhenGray left the splendid mansion of Learmont, he stood for a few moments in the street, turning round him cautiously to see if he was watched, for his suspicions had been awakened by Learmont, once during this interview, ringing for an attendant, and giving some order outside the door in a very low whisper.Now Jacob was extremely cunning. He refined upon ordinary duplicity, and now, as he stood in the street casting cautious glances up and down its silent extent, he muttered to himself,—“Humph! My way is westward. Now, your ordinary clever fellow would go westward, for fear of being watched; but I—I, Jacob Gray, have got beyond such cunning. Learmont knows well I am a careful man. Should he have set a spy upon me, it will be with the certainty that I will not go directly to my home; and to defeat that I will go—not directly home, but in the direction of home. Ho! Ho! Squire Learmont, you are not yet a match for Jacob Gray!”Continuing muttering to himself, and peeping into every doorway that he passed, Gray then betook himself to the river side, and, ordering a boat, he desired the waterman to take him across the stream.Well did Jacob Gray’s cunning teach him that the difficulty of following a person crossing the river was immeasurably greater than on shore, for, if followed by a boat, concealment of the person pursuing would be nearly out of the question, and to make a palpabledetourfor the sake of crossing a bridge would most probably ensure the complete escape of the watched party. Jacob Gray did not know that he was watched, but he knew that, had he been Learmont, and Learmont, Gray, he would then have been watched with the keenest of eyes that could be procured for that duty.When the boatman neared the centre of the stream, Jacob Gray desired him to pause upon his oars for a few moments, ostensibly that he, Gray, might admire the bright sunshine on the frosted spires of the various churches, but really to see if any other boat was about leaving the point from which he had started. Nor was he disappointed; for scarcely had the wherry floated idly in the stream for a few brief seconds, when Jacob observed a boat push off, in which were two rowers, and a third muffled in a cloak, and seated very low in the stern of it.The waterman was now upon the point of urging his boat forward again, when Gray said quietly:—“Hold still a moment, my friend. Your time shall be paid for. Surely yon boat is making speed through the water.”The waterman looked in the direction of the wherry with the two rowers, and exclaimed:—“Some one is in haste. Yet, no,—they are pulling but lazily suddenly.”Gray’s small eyes twinkled as he replied:—“I have altered my mind; row easily up the stream.”The boat’s head was turned in the required direction, and the waterman, with regular and long sweeps of his oars, propelled the wherry towards Westminster Bridge, and presently glided beneath one of its gloomy arches. For a few moments the rowers in the boat in which Jacob Gray suspected was some one upon his track, appeared quite undecided what to do; then, in obedience to some order apparently from the cloaked figure, they gently followed in the wake of Gray’s wherry.“So,” muttered Gray to himself between his clenched teeth; “I am followed;—and with what intent?—my safe destruction, of course. Waterman,” he said, in a louder tone, “we are going with the tide?”“Scarcely,” replied the man; “it is just on the turn.”“When it is fairly running down,” said Gray, “I will go back. Keep on, however, as you are for a short time.”The waterman now shading his eyes with one hand from the sun, while the oar idly played in the rollocks, said:—“It seems to me, master, that yon skiff is following us for some reason.”“Indeed!” says Gray. “What have you been doing, that you should be followed on the Thames?”“I doing!” cried the man.“Ay.—You suspect you are followed.”“Mayhap it’s yourself, master, they follow,” remarked the man, rather surlily.Gray smiled as he replied:—“Oh, no;—they suspect you of being one of the notorious pirates of the Thames we have heard so much of lately.”“The tide has turned,” said the waterman, looking into the stream as it appeared, in preference to making any reply to this vague charge.“Hark ye!” said Gray, as if a sudden thought had struck up in his brain. “If you are inclined sometimes to earn more money at once than a year’s plying as waterman on the river could produce you, it is possible I may throw a job in your way.”The man glanced uneasily at Gray, as he replied in a low tone,—“Your lordship might trust me—if—”“If what, my friend?”“If I might trust your worship.”“You may, or rather the trusting is all on my side. All I want of you is this; when I shall some day give you notice that I shall want a wherry at a particular hour and at the stairs I shall name, will you be there?”“Certainly,” replied the man. “But that is not quite all?”“You are right,” said Gray. “I shall bring one with me; we will take with us wherewithal to make us merry. I am abstemious, but my friend is not, and I have often told him that some of these days, when drinking in a wherry he will become so confused, that he will accidentally fall into the Thames, do you understand?”“I—think—I—do.”“I am sure you do,” added Gray.The man nodded.“Your reward shall be ample,” continued his tempter.“I don’t see why I should turn away a job,” said the man; “if I wasn’t to take it, some one else would, of course.”“A very true remark,” cried Jacob Gray. “You consent then to do this little service?”“I do, master.”“Give me your name and address then.”“Sheldon is my name, and I am always at the stairs at which you hired me, unless away as might be now, when I return again as, soon as possible.”“That will do,” said Gray. “Now turn your boat’s head and go back with the stream.”The wherry, with the two rowers, had kept at a considerable distance in the rear; and now that Gray’s boat was suddenly turned and rapidly going down the stream, there seemed some little confusion on board the other wherry; but before the two boats could meet or pass each other, the pursuers had shot off on one side, as if with the intention of landing near Westminster.“Follow them,” cried Gray; “and wherever they land, do you land me.”The waterman was a powerful man, and he bent to the oars with such effect, that the wherry shot through the water with amazing speed.It was curious to see the pursued become the pursuers, for such seemed to be the state of things, as no sooner did it become evident that Jacob Gray’s waterman was making fast for the boat with the two rowers, than in obedience to a violent gesture from the person in the cloak they pulled rigorously towards the shore.“I must see that man in the cloak,” said Gray, “if it be possible.”The waterman said nothing, but with his long sinewy arms, he took tremendous sweeps with the oars, and sent the boat forward at each pull with a force that astonished Gray.The two wherries were not now above a quarter of the width of the river apart from each other, when the foremost one ran upon the muddy beach, and the man, in the cloak springing up, made an effort to jump on shore, in which he fell over the seats of the boat. In the next moment the other wherry was within two boats’ lengths of the shore.With an oath, the cloaked-man scrambled to his feet, and without turning, rushed on shore, and was soon lost to sight among the mean habitations that crowded the banks of the river.“It is the smith!” muttered Gray. “I see it all now, he has a commission for my destruction, as I have for his, and in either case, Squire Learmont betters his condition. Waterman, row me across now, as I originally asked you.”Again the wherry shot into the stream, and with his eyes fixed upon the water, Jacob Gray appeared absorbed in deep thought.The boat’s head grated against some stone steps that were on the opposite landing, and Gray sprung to his feet, and stepped on shore.Handing the waterman then a liberal gratuity, and whispering in his ear the word “remember,” he walked at a rapid pace in the direction of the ancient suburb of Lambeth.
Chase.—A Long Race, And its Results.
WhenGray left the splendid mansion of Learmont, he stood for a few moments in the street, turning round him cautiously to see if he was watched, for his suspicions had been awakened by Learmont, once during this interview, ringing for an attendant, and giving some order outside the door in a very low whisper.
Now Jacob was extremely cunning. He refined upon ordinary duplicity, and now, as he stood in the street casting cautious glances up and down its silent extent, he muttered to himself,—
“Humph! My way is westward. Now, your ordinary clever fellow would go westward, for fear of being watched; but I—I, Jacob Gray, have got beyond such cunning. Learmont knows well I am a careful man. Should he have set a spy upon me, it will be with the certainty that I will not go directly to my home; and to defeat that I will go—not directly home, but in the direction of home. Ho! Ho! Squire Learmont, you are not yet a match for Jacob Gray!”
Continuing muttering to himself, and peeping into every doorway that he passed, Gray then betook himself to the river side, and, ordering a boat, he desired the waterman to take him across the stream.
Well did Jacob Gray’s cunning teach him that the difficulty of following a person crossing the river was immeasurably greater than on shore, for, if followed by a boat, concealment of the person pursuing would be nearly out of the question, and to make a palpabledetourfor the sake of crossing a bridge would most probably ensure the complete escape of the watched party. Jacob Gray did not know that he was watched, but he knew that, had he been Learmont, and Learmont, Gray, he would then have been watched with the keenest of eyes that could be procured for that duty.
When the boatman neared the centre of the stream, Jacob Gray desired him to pause upon his oars for a few moments, ostensibly that he, Gray, might admire the bright sunshine on the frosted spires of the various churches, but really to see if any other boat was about leaving the point from which he had started. Nor was he disappointed; for scarcely had the wherry floated idly in the stream for a few brief seconds, when Jacob observed a boat push off, in which were two rowers, and a third muffled in a cloak, and seated very low in the stern of it.
The waterman was now upon the point of urging his boat forward again, when Gray said quietly:—
“Hold still a moment, my friend. Your time shall be paid for. Surely yon boat is making speed through the water.”
The waterman looked in the direction of the wherry with the two rowers, and exclaimed:—
“Some one is in haste. Yet, no,—they are pulling but lazily suddenly.”
Gray’s small eyes twinkled as he replied:—
“I have altered my mind; row easily up the stream.”
The boat’s head was turned in the required direction, and the waterman, with regular and long sweeps of his oars, propelled the wherry towards Westminster Bridge, and presently glided beneath one of its gloomy arches. For a few moments the rowers in the boat in which Jacob Gray suspected was some one upon his track, appeared quite undecided what to do; then, in obedience to some order apparently from the cloaked figure, they gently followed in the wake of Gray’s wherry.
“So,” muttered Gray to himself between his clenched teeth; “I am followed;—and with what intent?—my safe destruction, of course. Waterman,” he said, in a louder tone, “we are going with the tide?”
“Scarcely,” replied the man; “it is just on the turn.”
“When it is fairly running down,” said Gray, “I will go back. Keep on, however, as you are for a short time.”
The waterman now shading his eyes with one hand from the sun, while the oar idly played in the rollocks, said:—
“It seems to me, master, that yon skiff is following us for some reason.”
“Indeed!” says Gray. “What have you been doing, that you should be followed on the Thames?”
“I doing!” cried the man.
“Ay.—You suspect you are followed.”
“Mayhap it’s yourself, master, they follow,” remarked the man, rather surlily.
Gray smiled as he replied:—
“Oh, no;—they suspect you of being one of the notorious pirates of the Thames we have heard so much of lately.”
“The tide has turned,” said the waterman, looking into the stream as it appeared, in preference to making any reply to this vague charge.
“Hark ye!” said Gray, as if a sudden thought had struck up in his brain. “If you are inclined sometimes to earn more money at once than a year’s plying as waterman on the river could produce you, it is possible I may throw a job in your way.”
The man glanced uneasily at Gray, as he replied in a low tone,—
“Your lordship might trust me—if—”
“If what, my friend?”
“If I might trust your worship.”
“You may, or rather the trusting is all on my side. All I want of you is this; when I shall some day give you notice that I shall want a wherry at a particular hour and at the stairs I shall name, will you be there?”
“Certainly,” replied the man. “But that is not quite all?”
“You are right,” said Gray. “I shall bring one with me; we will take with us wherewithal to make us merry. I am abstemious, but my friend is not, and I have often told him that some of these days, when drinking in a wherry he will become so confused, that he will accidentally fall into the Thames, do you understand?”
“I—think—I—do.”
“I am sure you do,” added Gray.
The man nodded.
“Your reward shall be ample,” continued his tempter.
“I don’t see why I should turn away a job,” said the man; “if I wasn’t to take it, some one else would, of course.”
“A very true remark,” cried Jacob Gray. “You consent then to do this little service?”
“I do, master.”
“Give me your name and address then.”
“Sheldon is my name, and I am always at the stairs at which you hired me, unless away as might be now, when I return again as, soon as possible.”
“That will do,” said Gray. “Now turn your boat’s head and go back with the stream.”
The wherry, with the two rowers, had kept at a considerable distance in the rear; and now that Gray’s boat was suddenly turned and rapidly going down the stream, there seemed some little confusion on board the other wherry; but before the two boats could meet or pass each other, the pursuers had shot off on one side, as if with the intention of landing near Westminster.
“Follow them,” cried Gray; “and wherever they land, do you land me.”
The waterman was a powerful man, and he bent to the oars with such effect, that the wherry shot through the water with amazing speed.
It was curious to see the pursued become the pursuers, for such seemed to be the state of things, as no sooner did it become evident that Jacob Gray’s waterman was making fast for the boat with the two rowers, than in obedience to a violent gesture from the person in the cloak they pulled rigorously towards the shore.
“I must see that man in the cloak,” said Gray, “if it be possible.”
The waterman said nothing, but with his long sinewy arms, he took tremendous sweeps with the oars, and sent the boat forward at each pull with a force that astonished Gray.
The two wherries were not now above a quarter of the width of the river apart from each other, when the foremost one ran upon the muddy beach, and the man, in the cloak springing up, made an effort to jump on shore, in which he fell over the seats of the boat. In the next moment the other wherry was within two boats’ lengths of the shore.
With an oath, the cloaked-man scrambled to his feet, and without turning, rushed on shore, and was soon lost to sight among the mean habitations that crowded the banks of the river.
“It is the smith!” muttered Gray. “I see it all now, he has a commission for my destruction, as I have for his, and in either case, Squire Learmont betters his condition. Waterman, row me across now, as I originally asked you.”
Again the wherry shot into the stream, and with his eyes fixed upon the water, Jacob Gray appeared absorbed in deep thought.
The boat’s head grated against some stone steps that were on the opposite landing, and Gray sprung to his feet, and stepped on shore.
Handing the waterman then a liberal gratuity, and whispering in his ear the word “remember,” he walked at a rapid pace in the direction of the ancient suburb of Lambeth.
CHAPTER XVI.The Lone House in Ancient Lambeth.—The Boy.—A Solitary Heart.In adistrict of Lambeth, which is now the mart of trade, but which at the period of our narrative was scarcely inhabited, and consisted but of a mass of old melancholy-looking buildings, which had been long since condemned as dangerous, there stood one house in particular, the exterior of which presented to the eye an appearance of such utter decay that it would have required an adventurous person to venture within its crumbling walls and mossy prisons, who, for the sake of a short cut to some of the high roads passed the old building, would walk out into the road way rather than run even the momentary risk of walking close to its dilapidated walls.The world, however, is ever being taken in by appearances. Not only was this house much stronger and more substantial than its neighbours, but within it there was a degree of comfort and even luxury which no one could for a moment have surmised. It is true the windows were either broken, or so much begrimed with dirt that it was impossible to say if they were glass or not, and here and there a brick was displaced so naturally that it seemed to have fallen out by the natural decay incidental to the age of the structure. Such, however was not the case, for these signs and tokens of insecurity had been manufactured in the silence of the night for the express purpose of deterring any person from entering the gloomy house, or supposing for a moment that it was inhabited by other than rats and mice.There were no persons living very close to this wretched-looking residence, and the poor squalid creatures, who did occasionally seek a shelter for a few nights in some of the “condemned” houses, never approached that one, for it had the reputation of being haunted, inasmuch as twice had strangers, in passing through the locality after nightfall, called attention to lights dimly observable in the house, and once a man had entered a little hostelry in the immediate neighbourhood, and while his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with fear, and he trembled in every limb, he said he had seen a sight at one of the lower windows of that particular house, which he would not see again for his soul’s sake, and after fortifying himself with a bumper of spiced canary, he had taken his leave, being firmly believed, and leaving behind the character of the house, which lost nothing by being repeated from mouth to mouth, and which produced so powerful an effect upon the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity that it is doubtful if any bribe of sufficient magnitude could possibly be offered to induce any one of them ever to pass it even after at sunset.Into this mysterious house we will conduct the reader. The room to which we would direct attention was small, but by no means destitute of comforts; a wood fire burnt within the grate, and its low flickering light disclosed several articles of domestic convenience about the apartment. The only coarse appearance the place had was owing to some rough ragged edged planks being nailed across the window on the inside, so as effectually to close it against the egress of any wandering stream of light from the fire.The room was consequently dark, for the process of preventing the fire-light from showing through the window likewise excluded the daylight, and, although it was mid-day without, that apartment presented the appearance of midnight within.Stretched on the hearth before the fire was a large gaunt-looking dog, apparently in a deep slumber, and sitting on an old-fashioned chair, with his head buried in his hands, and resting on the table, was the young boy, who has been already introduced to the reader as Harry Gray, and who passed as a nephew of wily Jacob Gray. His remarkable long and beautiful hair fell in masses upon the table, and the fine light glistened on the glossy ringlets as they strayed in wild luxuriance over his hands.So still was that young creature, that he might have been thought sleeping, and, perhaps, he had been, and had awakened from some dreams of happiness to weep, for a deep sob burst from his heart, and looking up, he cried, in accents of deep misery and despair,—“I am very unhappy—I wish I could die.”The dog, upon the sound of the voice, immediately rose, and with a low whine placed his fore paws upon the knee of the boy, and looked in his face with an expression of sagacious affection, which of all the inferior animals dogs alone are capable of.For a moment the boy did not heed him, but wept bitterly, and kept repeating,—“If I could but die—if I could but die!”Then passing his delicate hands across his brow to part back the clustering hair he looked in the face of the dumb animal, that again with a low whine claimed his attention.“You love me,” he cried; “yes—yes—I know you love me, my poor dog. I found you starving in this lone house, and made a friend of you. I called you ‘Joy,’ because it was joy to me to find you, and I can talk to you, and fancy that you understand me as you gaze thus at me with your honest face of dumb intelligence. There are two have loved me; you are one, my poor dumb Joy, and the—the other—I shall never—see—again—it was Albert Seyton, and he has left me—even he. Oh, Albert, if I were free as thou art, and thou wert hidden—”Sinking his head upon his hands, again the beautiful boy burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly that the dog howled piteously, in unison with its master’s grief.“Hush—hush, Joy, hush!” said, the boy. “My faithful kind friend, ifhehad heard you, you would have an unkind word and a blow for this. It is weak of me to give way thus to tears, but my spirits are subdued, and my heart is nearly broken—broken—broken,” he repeated.Then suddenly starting to his feet, he stood for a few moments in a listening attitude.“’Tis he,” he suddenly exclaimed. “Too well I know that step.”In another moment the door opened, and Jacob Gray stood on the threshold of the apartment.His look was ferocious, and he pointed to the dog as he said, or rather growled in an angry tone,—“I heard that cur.”Harry laid his arm over the dog’s neck, but made no answer.“I told you,” continued Gray striding into the room—“I told you that I would knock out the brains of that creature if ever I heard it bark, or even whine too loudly.”The boy held the dog tighter as Gray advanced and said,—“Uncle, spare him this once—’twas my fault.”“Pshaw!” cried Gray, “I tell you the cur shall die.”A flush of colour came across the face of the boy as Gray spoke, and pushing the dog behind him, he drew his slim figure up to its full height, and confronted Gray with his dark, lustrous eyes, flashing with unusual brilliancy.“Then I tell you he shall not die!” he cried firmly.Gray for a moment quailed beneath the glance of that singularly beautiful child, and twice he tried to summon courage to meet that look of proud defiance ere he could accomplish it, then he said slowly,—“So you are bold. How long is it since you have plucked up so much spirit?”“From the moment that it was necessary to protect the only friend I have against your violence,” replied the boy.“Indeed!” answered Gray.“Aye indeed!” said the boy, trembling with excitement.“Your only friend?” continued Gray. “Humph! You think more, then, of that dog than of me?”“The hound,” said Harry, in a lower tone, “is kind, affectionate, and faithful—’tis in its way, poor thing, tender and devoted; Uncle Gray, are you all that?”Gray laughed hysterically, as he replied,—“Ha! Ha! Is that all? Have you quite summed up the virtues of your hound?”“Its virtues,” said Harry, “are much to me, for they are the only ones I have now an opportunity of noting. Its kindly instincts and dumb affection appear to me so great and estimable because I have no human ones with which to contrast them. I do love the dog, for I have nothing else to love.”“Now,” cried Gray, “by hell—”“Hold, uncle—for shame!” said Harry. “Love the dog, and the dog will love you. They never betray their masters.”A livid paleness came across Gray’s face as he held by the table, and gasped,—“Wh—what—do—you mean by that?”“I say,” repeated Harry, “that dogs never betray their masters.”“Never betray—their—their masters!” said Gray. “Oh, that is what you mean—that is all?”“Nay, uncle, what do you mean?” said the boy, surprised at the awful and convulsive agitation of Gray.“Mean?” echoed Gray—“What can I mean—I—I have said nothing. Recollect—I know I said nothing, I am quite sure.”“I know not the cause of your agitation,” remarked Harry; “but I cannot have my poor hound injured.”“He shall die!” shrieked Gray. “Heaven nor hell shall not save him. You don’t know how or why, but you have sealed his fate.”“I sealed his fate?”“Yes, you—you, by your prating of his virtues.”“Impossible, uncle; you do but jest. This noble creature is a safeguard to you as well as to me. Dogs have been known to famish by the murdered body of their master.”“Cease—cease!” cried Gray. “Do you want to drive me mad?”“Mad, uncle, because dogs are faithful?”“No more, I say. Stand aside.”“I will not forsake my dog. Joy, defend yourself.”The dog uttered a low growl, and showed rather a formidable row of glistening teeth.“Harry,” said Gray, “do you know who and what you are?”A mantling flush colour crimsoned the pale brow of the boy, as he said,—“You have told me.”“You know your utter dependence is upon me?”“I know it, and I feel it.”“You are base born.”“You have not omitted to let me know that before,” said the boy, proudly.“So that, although I am your father’s brother,” added Gray, “you call me uncle but by courtesy.”The boy was silent, and Gray continued,—“Stand aside, then, and baulk me not in such a matter as the life of a hound.”“No,” cried Harry; “were you ten times my uncle from courtesy, you should not harm him!”Gray clutched his hands convulsively, as if he felt an inclination to rush upon the weak, defenceless boy, and crush him in his fury. He, however, restrained himself, and said,—“You are mad—quite mad. How can you hope for a moment to resist my will?”“Uncle,” said the boy, “I have done much to please you; I immure myself here alone with you, and you are not always kind, as you know. Once, then, rouse my suffering heart to resentment, and I will leave you but one of two resources.”“What are they?” cried Gray eagerly.“Touch with an unkind hand my poor dumb companion here, and I will fly from window to window of this ill-omened house, shrieking for aid.”“You would?”“Ay, would I, uncle, and you should not stop me by the other alternative.”“And what is that?”“My murder!”“Pshaw!” cried Gray; “you are ill, your mind is deranged. Go to rest.”“God knows I have need of rest,” said the boy. “Come, Joy—come with me.”The dog followed closely upon the heels of the boy as he slowly left the room. When he had quite gone, Gray lit a lamp, and without speaking, stole into the passage and listened attentively. Then returning, he threw himself into the chair in which the boy had been sitting, and commenced a murmuring colloquy with himself.“The sight of this young thing,” he said, “always freezes my blood, and yet I dare not murder. Oh, if by some grand stroke of fortune now I could be revenged on the whole of them for the disquiet they have caused me, I think I should be happy. What am I now? Am I even calm? There was a time when I fancied gold had but to be possessed to bring joy in its train. ’Twas a great mistake. I have gold. A large sum is in my hands, and yet, by some damnable train of circumstances, I dare not use it. I must think and contrive some means of freeing myself from the shackles that bind me. Well may Learmont hand me the glittering price of my silence with a smile. ’Tis so much dross to me. I dare not for fear of my life, which I know he thirsts for, even let him know, where I lay my head at night. I am still a fugitive, although rich! And—and that smith, too, is on my track like a blood-hound. If I could get a large sum from Learmont, and then dispose of this young creature I have here, I might fly to some other country and use my wealth. It must be so. More—blood—more blood—blood! Bloo—bl—”His head dropped upon his breast, and yielding to the fatigue he had undergone and the somnolent influence of the fire, he dropped into a deep slumber by the dull red embers that still smouldered in the grate.
The Lone House in Ancient Lambeth.—The Boy.—A Solitary Heart.
In adistrict of Lambeth, which is now the mart of trade, but which at the period of our narrative was scarcely inhabited, and consisted but of a mass of old melancholy-looking buildings, which had been long since condemned as dangerous, there stood one house in particular, the exterior of which presented to the eye an appearance of such utter decay that it would have required an adventurous person to venture within its crumbling walls and mossy prisons, who, for the sake of a short cut to some of the high roads passed the old building, would walk out into the road way rather than run even the momentary risk of walking close to its dilapidated walls.
The world, however, is ever being taken in by appearances. Not only was this house much stronger and more substantial than its neighbours, but within it there was a degree of comfort and even luxury which no one could for a moment have surmised. It is true the windows were either broken, or so much begrimed with dirt that it was impossible to say if they were glass or not, and here and there a brick was displaced so naturally that it seemed to have fallen out by the natural decay incidental to the age of the structure. Such, however was not the case, for these signs and tokens of insecurity had been manufactured in the silence of the night for the express purpose of deterring any person from entering the gloomy house, or supposing for a moment that it was inhabited by other than rats and mice.
There were no persons living very close to this wretched-looking residence, and the poor squalid creatures, who did occasionally seek a shelter for a few nights in some of the “condemned” houses, never approached that one, for it had the reputation of being haunted, inasmuch as twice had strangers, in passing through the locality after nightfall, called attention to lights dimly observable in the house, and once a man had entered a little hostelry in the immediate neighbourhood, and while his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with fear, and he trembled in every limb, he said he had seen a sight at one of the lower windows of that particular house, which he would not see again for his soul’s sake, and after fortifying himself with a bumper of spiced canary, he had taken his leave, being firmly believed, and leaving behind the character of the house, which lost nothing by being repeated from mouth to mouth, and which produced so powerful an effect upon the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity that it is doubtful if any bribe of sufficient magnitude could possibly be offered to induce any one of them ever to pass it even after at sunset.
Into this mysterious house we will conduct the reader. The room to which we would direct attention was small, but by no means destitute of comforts; a wood fire burnt within the grate, and its low flickering light disclosed several articles of domestic convenience about the apartment. The only coarse appearance the place had was owing to some rough ragged edged planks being nailed across the window on the inside, so as effectually to close it against the egress of any wandering stream of light from the fire.
The room was consequently dark, for the process of preventing the fire-light from showing through the window likewise excluded the daylight, and, although it was mid-day without, that apartment presented the appearance of midnight within.
Stretched on the hearth before the fire was a large gaunt-looking dog, apparently in a deep slumber, and sitting on an old-fashioned chair, with his head buried in his hands, and resting on the table, was the young boy, who has been already introduced to the reader as Harry Gray, and who passed as a nephew of wily Jacob Gray. His remarkable long and beautiful hair fell in masses upon the table, and the fine light glistened on the glossy ringlets as they strayed in wild luxuriance over his hands.
So still was that young creature, that he might have been thought sleeping, and, perhaps, he had been, and had awakened from some dreams of happiness to weep, for a deep sob burst from his heart, and looking up, he cried, in accents of deep misery and despair,—
“I am very unhappy—I wish I could die.”
The dog, upon the sound of the voice, immediately rose, and with a low whine placed his fore paws upon the knee of the boy, and looked in his face with an expression of sagacious affection, which of all the inferior animals dogs alone are capable of.
For a moment the boy did not heed him, but wept bitterly, and kept repeating,—
“If I could but die—if I could but die!”
Then passing his delicate hands across his brow to part back the clustering hair he looked in the face of the dumb animal, that again with a low whine claimed his attention.
“You love me,” he cried; “yes—yes—I know you love me, my poor dog. I found you starving in this lone house, and made a friend of you. I called you ‘Joy,’ because it was joy to me to find you, and I can talk to you, and fancy that you understand me as you gaze thus at me with your honest face of dumb intelligence. There are two have loved me; you are one, my poor dumb Joy, and the—the other—I shall never—see—again—it was Albert Seyton, and he has left me—even he. Oh, Albert, if I were free as thou art, and thou wert hidden—”
Sinking his head upon his hands, again the beautiful boy burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly that the dog howled piteously, in unison with its master’s grief.
“Hush—hush, Joy, hush!” said, the boy. “My faithful kind friend, ifhehad heard you, you would have an unkind word and a blow for this. It is weak of me to give way thus to tears, but my spirits are subdued, and my heart is nearly broken—broken—broken,” he repeated.
Then suddenly starting to his feet, he stood for a few moments in a listening attitude.
“’Tis he,” he suddenly exclaimed. “Too well I know that step.”
In another moment the door opened, and Jacob Gray stood on the threshold of the apartment.
His look was ferocious, and he pointed to the dog as he said, or rather growled in an angry tone,—
“I heard that cur.”
Harry laid his arm over the dog’s neck, but made no answer.
“I told you,” continued Gray striding into the room—“I told you that I would knock out the brains of that creature if ever I heard it bark, or even whine too loudly.”
The boy held the dog tighter as Gray advanced and said,—
“Uncle, spare him this once—’twas my fault.”
“Pshaw!” cried Gray, “I tell you the cur shall die.”
A flush of colour came across the face of the boy as Gray spoke, and pushing the dog behind him, he drew his slim figure up to its full height, and confronted Gray with his dark, lustrous eyes, flashing with unusual brilliancy.
“Then I tell you he shall not die!” he cried firmly.
Gray for a moment quailed beneath the glance of that singularly beautiful child, and twice he tried to summon courage to meet that look of proud defiance ere he could accomplish it, then he said slowly,—
“So you are bold. How long is it since you have plucked up so much spirit?”
“From the moment that it was necessary to protect the only friend I have against your violence,” replied the boy.
“Indeed!” answered Gray.
“Aye indeed!” said the boy, trembling with excitement.
“Your only friend?” continued Gray. “Humph! You think more, then, of that dog than of me?”
“The hound,” said Harry, in a lower tone, “is kind, affectionate, and faithful—’tis in its way, poor thing, tender and devoted; Uncle Gray, are you all that?”
Gray laughed hysterically, as he replied,—
“Ha! Ha! Is that all? Have you quite summed up the virtues of your hound?”
“Its virtues,” said Harry, “are much to me, for they are the only ones I have now an opportunity of noting. Its kindly instincts and dumb affection appear to me so great and estimable because I have no human ones with which to contrast them. I do love the dog, for I have nothing else to love.”
“Now,” cried Gray, “by hell—”
“Hold, uncle—for shame!” said Harry. “Love the dog, and the dog will love you. They never betray their masters.”
A livid paleness came across Gray’s face as he held by the table, and gasped,—
“Wh—what—do—you mean by that?”
“I say,” repeated Harry, “that dogs never betray their masters.”
“Never betray—their—their masters!” said Gray. “Oh, that is what you mean—that is all?”
“Nay, uncle, what do you mean?” said the boy, surprised at the awful and convulsive agitation of Gray.
“Mean?” echoed Gray—“What can I mean—I—I have said nothing. Recollect—I know I said nothing, I am quite sure.”
“I know not the cause of your agitation,” remarked Harry; “but I cannot have my poor hound injured.”
“He shall die!” shrieked Gray. “Heaven nor hell shall not save him. You don’t know how or why, but you have sealed his fate.”
“I sealed his fate?”
“Yes, you—you, by your prating of his virtues.”
“Impossible, uncle; you do but jest. This noble creature is a safeguard to you as well as to me. Dogs have been known to famish by the murdered body of their master.”
“Cease—cease!” cried Gray. “Do you want to drive me mad?”
“Mad, uncle, because dogs are faithful?”
“No more, I say. Stand aside.”
“I will not forsake my dog. Joy, defend yourself.”
The dog uttered a low growl, and showed rather a formidable row of glistening teeth.
“Harry,” said Gray, “do you know who and what you are?”
A mantling flush colour crimsoned the pale brow of the boy, as he said,—
“You have told me.”
“You know your utter dependence is upon me?”
“I know it, and I feel it.”
“You are base born.”
“You have not omitted to let me know that before,” said the boy, proudly.
“So that, although I am your father’s brother,” added Gray, “you call me uncle but by courtesy.”
The boy was silent, and Gray continued,—
“Stand aside, then, and baulk me not in such a matter as the life of a hound.”
“No,” cried Harry; “were you ten times my uncle from courtesy, you should not harm him!”
Gray clutched his hands convulsively, as if he felt an inclination to rush upon the weak, defenceless boy, and crush him in his fury. He, however, restrained himself, and said,—
“You are mad—quite mad. How can you hope for a moment to resist my will?”
“Uncle,” said the boy, “I have done much to please you; I immure myself here alone with you, and you are not always kind, as you know. Once, then, rouse my suffering heart to resentment, and I will leave you but one of two resources.”
“What are they?” cried Gray eagerly.
“Touch with an unkind hand my poor dumb companion here, and I will fly from window to window of this ill-omened house, shrieking for aid.”
“You would?”
“Ay, would I, uncle, and you should not stop me by the other alternative.”
“And what is that?”
“My murder!”
“Pshaw!” cried Gray; “you are ill, your mind is deranged. Go to rest.”
“God knows I have need of rest,” said the boy. “Come, Joy—come with me.”
The dog followed closely upon the heels of the boy as he slowly left the room. When he had quite gone, Gray lit a lamp, and without speaking, stole into the passage and listened attentively. Then returning, he threw himself into the chair in which the boy had been sitting, and commenced a murmuring colloquy with himself.
“The sight of this young thing,” he said, “always freezes my blood, and yet I dare not murder. Oh, if by some grand stroke of fortune now I could be revenged on the whole of them for the disquiet they have caused me, I think I should be happy. What am I now? Am I even calm? There was a time when I fancied gold had but to be possessed to bring joy in its train. ’Twas a great mistake. I have gold. A large sum is in my hands, and yet, by some damnable train of circumstances, I dare not use it. I must think and contrive some means of freeing myself from the shackles that bind me. Well may Learmont hand me the glittering price of my silence with a smile. ’Tis so much dross to me. I dare not for fear of my life, which I know he thirsts for, even let him know, where I lay my head at night. I am still a fugitive, although rich! And—and that smith, too, is on my track like a blood-hound. If I could get a large sum from Learmont, and then dispose of this young creature I have here, I might fly to some other country and use my wealth. It must be so. More—blood—more blood—blood! Bloo—bl—”
His head dropped upon his breast, and yielding to the fatigue he had undergone and the somnolent influence of the fire, he dropped into a deep slumber by the dull red embers that still smouldered in the grate.