CHAPTER XXXII.Jacob Gray’s Fears.—The Promise.—Ada’s Meditations.How longshe remained in the passage of the house, Ada had no means of distinctly knowing, but, when she recovered from her insensibility, she found herself in the parlour alone, and nearly in total darkness.A few moments sufficed to bring to her recollection all that had occurred, and she sprang to her feet, looking anxiously around her, as well as the dim light would permit, to see if Jacob Gray was in the room.An instant inquiry satisfied her that she was alone, but scarcely had she made this discovery when a gleam of light came in from the passage, and the door was gently and cautiously pushed open. Ada did not speak, but she shrunk into a corner of the room, and saw Gray enter, carrying with him a dim light.“Ada! Ada!” he said.“I am here,” she replied.He set the light on the table, and she saw that his face looked harsh and haggard.“We cannot stay here,” he said, after a pause. “This place will be hideous now.”“Not stay here!“ cried Ada, and her heart sunk within her at the thought of being again removed at the very time when there was a chance of her being rescued by Albert Seyton, should he or any one knowing his name chance to see the paper she had given to Mad Maud.“No—no,” added Gray, “I—I would not sleep here. The very air of this place smells of the grave! We must away, Ada!”“How came I in this room?” said Ada!“After a long time when you returned not to me,” replied Gray, “I descended the staircase, and found you lying in the passage just by the door which you had evidently been trying to escape by.”Ada was deeply thankful that Jacob Gray himself put this interpretation on the circumstance of finding the door open, and she said,—“My feelings overcame me.”“Ay—Yes. The sight must have been terrible!” said Gray. “Come, Ada; ’tis a very dark night—attire yourself in the less cumbrous and safer garments of a boy, and let us leave here.”“You forget your promise,” said Ada.“My promise? What promise?”“You said you would tell me all.”“And so will I at the proper time and season, which, believe me, will be the sooner for what has chanced this night.”“And so am I deceived again,” said Ada.“Girl,” said Gray, “you are young enough yet to wait a short time. There will come a day when justice shall be done you, and the cup of my revenge will be filled to the overflowing! It will be very soon, Ada.”Ada felt that to urge Gray now that his great fear had passed away to fulfil any promise he might have made while under its influence, would be quite futile. Moreover, her great object—the escape of poor Maud—was accomplished, and she had no new spectre wherewith to frighten Jacob Gray.“For that brief time you speak of,” said she, “let us remain here. Think you the spirits of another world cannot follow you wherever you go, Jacob Gray?”“Follow me?” echoed Gray.“Ay; are not all places alike to them? Why remove from here?”Gray seemed to remain silent, then he said in a low agitated voice,—“Girl, what you say may be true. I will think of it again. To-morrow I will decide! Yes, let it be till to-morrow! You are not weary?”“Wherefore do you ask?” said Ada.“Because,” faltered Gray, “I do not wish to be alone.”“And can you ask me to save you from the horrors of that solitude which your conscience peoples with hideous forms?”“Question me not,” cried Gray, impatiently. “I—I would have desired your company—but will not enforce it.”“You cannot,” said Ada.“Cannot? You know not what you say.”“You dare not!” added Ada.She had learnt by experience that she could defy Jacob Gray to his face successfully. Her only fear of him was that he would murder her while she slept or mingle poison with her food! She could not look on him.“Leave me, then! Leave me if you will,” he said. “I will not invade your chamber.”“If you were,” said Ada, “you might perchance be frozen with horror by meeting the form you have described, with so much dread—a form which the voice of nature hints must be that of my murdered father!”As she spoke, Ada walked to the door of the room, but ere she reached it, Gray called to her.“Ada, stay yet a moment!”“You forget!”“Forget what?”“That I must this day again receive your promise to exert no contrivance for your escape from me. At twelve to-day your word expired.”“Oh!” cried Ada. “Then I was free?”“No,” said Gray, “you were not free! I knew that if you meditated escape, you would seize the first moment! I watched this house from twelve till two. Then as you came not forth, I knew I was safe.”“And you departed?”“I did.”Had Jacob Gray watched another hour he would have seen Maud hunted to the old house.“Your promise, girl,” he cried. “Before we part to-night I must have your solemn promise!”“On the same condition,” said Ada, “to preserve that life which God has given me, I will give you my promise.”“Be it so,” said Gray.“Then in the name of Heaven, I promise from, one month from now that if aid come not to me—if no one comes here to take me hence, and offer me liberty, I will remain a prisoner! So help me Heaven!”“Enough,” said Gray, “I am content. I know you will keep your word, Ada.”“How is it,” said Ada, “that you can trust thus to my word, Jacob Gray? Have you not taught me deceit? Were I to deceive you as you have deceived me, could you blame me?”“Question me not,” cried Gray. “I have said I would trust to your word. Let that suffice.”Ada turned away, and sought the solitude of her own room. She always wept bitterly after renewing her promise to Gray—it seemed like pushing hope to a further distance from her heart, and on this occasion, when she was alone, the tears dimmed her eyes as she reflected another month—another month! But then even upon the instant, a small still voice within her heart seemed to whisper to her that there were now better grounds for hope than ever. She had made an effort by the slip of paper that poor Mad Maud had taken with her—and her promise to Gray was expressly conditional, so that if Albert Seyton should seek her, she was free! How delightful did that word sound to the desolate heart of the young girl. She clasped her hands, and a smile played over her face like a sunbeam on a lake.“Oh!” she cried, “if kind Heaven has indeed joy in store for the poor, persecuted Ada, surely it will be more delightful by the contrast with what has passed! Friends will be dearer to me, because I have known none! The sunshine will to me possess a greater charm than to those who have always been so happy as to revel in its beams! The charms of music will entrance me, where they present but ordinary sounds to others, for I shall contrast then with the echoes of this dreary house. The voices of those who will love me, and use kindly phrases when they speak to me, will ring in my ears with an unknown beauty! Mere freedom—the dear gift of being able, at my own free-will, to seek the leafy glade of some old forest—or walk in the broad sunlight of an open plain, will be a rich reward for all that I have suffered! Oh! How can the world be unhappy while Heaven has left it youth, sunshine, and love?”Thus the young, ardent, enthusiastic girl beguiled the tediousness of her imprisonment. She lived in a world of romance of her own creating, a romance, too, that was mixed up with a pure and holy system of natural theology culled from her own heart, and those mysterious impulses which tell all, but those who wilfully shut their ears against the solemn glorious truth—that there is a great and good God above all—a Being to be loved more than to be feared.Ada would now sit for hours picturing to herself the meeting of poor Maud with Albert Seyton. She would frame all the dialogue that would pass between them, until Albert had, piece by piece, extracted from the wandering mind of the poor creature the exact situation of the old house in which Ada was immured; then she would imagine his joy, his rapture, until busy Fancy almost conjured up the reality of his voice in her charmed ears.The dull sons of system and calculation—the plodders through life without the capacity to look beyond the present, or reason on the past, may condemn the airy freaks of the imagination, because of their unreality; but what would the lonely, the persecuted, and the unhappy do, if Heaven, in its great mercy, had not laid up within the chambers of the brain, such stores of joy and ecstatic thought ready to be drawn forth infinitely to cheat what is real of its terrors, by contrasting it with the rare creations of the ideal. Oh, is it not a rare and amiable faculty of mind, that can thus shift, as it were, the scenes of life, and with a thought, change a dungeon to a sweet glade in some deep forest, where birds are singing for the pure love of song. Let then the dreamy “castle builder” pile story upon story of his æriel fabric,—he will be the nearer Heaven.
Jacob Gray’s Fears.—The Promise.—Ada’s Meditations.
How longshe remained in the passage of the house, Ada had no means of distinctly knowing, but, when she recovered from her insensibility, she found herself in the parlour alone, and nearly in total darkness.
A few moments sufficed to bring to her recollection all that had occurred, and she sprang to her feet, looking anxiously around her, as well as the dim light would permit, to see if Jacob Gray was in the room.
An instant inquiry satisfied her that she was alone, but scarcely had she made this discovery when a gleam of light came in from the passage, and the door was gently and cautiously pushed open. Ada did not speak, but she shrunk into a corner of the room, and saw Gray enter, carrying with him a dim light.
“Ada! Ada!” he said.
“I am here,” she replied.
He set the light on the table, and she saw that his face looked harsh and haggard.
“We cannot stay here,” he said, after a pause. “This place will be hideous now.”
“Not stay here!“ cried Ada, and her heart sunk within her at the thought of being again removed at the very time when there was a chance of her being rescued by Albert Seyton, should he or any one knowing his name chance to see the paper she had given to Mad Maud.
“No—no,” added Gray, “I—I would not sleep here. The very air of this place smells of the grave! We must away, Ada!”
“How came I in this room?” said Ada!
“After a long time when you returned not to me,” replied Gray, “I descended the staircase, and found you lying in the passage just by the door which you had evidently been trying to escape by.”
Ada was deeply thankful that Jacob Gray himself put this interpretation on the circumstance of finding the door open, and she said,—
“My feelings overcame me.”
“Ay—Yes. The sight must have been terrible!” said Gray. “Come, Ada; ’tis a very dark night—attire yourself in the less cumbrous and safer garments of a boy, and let us leave here.”
“You forget your promise,” said Ada.
“My promise? What promise?”
“You said you would tell me all.”
“And so will I at the proper time and season, which, believe me, will be the sooner for what has chanced this night.”
“And so am I deceived again,” said Ada.
“Girl,” said Gray, “you are young enough yet to wait a short time. There will come a day when justice shall be done you, and the cup of my revenge will be filled to the overflowing! It will be very soon, Ada.”
Ada felt that to urge Gray now that his great fear had passed away to fulfil any promise he might have made while under its influence, would be quite futile. Moreover, her great object—the escape of poor Maud—was accomplished, and she had no new spectre wherewith to frighten Jacob Gray.
“For that brief time you speak of,” said she, “let us remain here. Think you the spirits of another world cannot follow you wherever you go, Jacob Gray?”
“Follow me?” echoed Gray.
“Ay; are not all places alike to them? Why remove from here?”
Gray seemed to remain silent, then he said in a low agitated voice,—
“Girl, what you say may be true. I will think of it again. To-morrow I will decide! Yes, let it be till to-morrow! You are not weary?”
“Wherefore do you ask?” said Ada.
“Because,” faltered Gray, “I do not wish to be alone.”
“And can you ask me to save you from the horrors of that solitude which your conscience peoples with hideous forms?”
“Question me not,” cried Gray, impatiently. “I—I would have desired your company—but will not enforce it.”
“You cannot,” said Ada.
“Cannot? You know not what you say.”
“You dare not!” added Ada.
She had learnt by experience that she could defy Jacob Gray to his face successfully. Her only fear of him was that he would murder her while she slept or mingle poison with her food! She could not look on him.
“Leave me, then! Leave me if you will,” he said. “I will not invade your chamber.”
“If you were,” said Ada, “you might perchance be frozen with horror by meeting the form you have described, with so much dread—a form which the voice of nature hints must be that of my murdered father!”
As she spoke, Ada walked to the door of the room, but ere she reached it, Gray called to her.
“Ada, stay yet a moment!”
“You forget!”
“Forget what?”
“That I must this day again receive your promise to exert no contrivance for your escape from me. At twelve to-day your word expired.”
“Oh!” cried Ada. “Then I was free?”
“No,” said Gray, “you were not free! I knew that if you meditated escape, you would seize the first moment! I watched this house from twelve till two. Then as you came not forth, I knew I was safe.”
“And you departed?”
“I did.”
Had Jacob Gray watched another hour he would have seen Maud hunted to the old house.
“Your promise, girl,” he cried. “Before we part to-night I must have your solemn promise!”
“On the same condition,” said Ada, “to preserve that life which God has given me, I will give you my promise.”
“Be it so,” said Gray.
“Then in the name of Heaven, I promise from, one month from now that if aid come not to me—if no one comes here to take me hence, and offer me liberty, I will remain a prisoner! So help me Heaven!”
“Enough,” said Gray, “I am content. I know you will keep your word, Ada.”
“How is it,” said Ada, “that you can trust thus to my word, Jacob Gray? Have you not taught me deceit? Were I to deceive you as you have deceived me, could you blame me?”
“Question me not,” cried Gray. “I have said I would trust to your word. Let that suffice.”
Ada turned away, and sought the solitude of her own room. She always wept bitterly after renewing her promise to Gray—it seemed like pushing hope to a further distance from her heart, and on this occasion, when she was alone, the tears dimmed her eyes as she reflected another month—another month! But then even upon the instant, a small still voice within her heart seemed to whisper to her that there were now better grounds for hope than ever. She had made an effort by the slip of paper that poor Mad Maud had taken with her—and her promise to Gray was expressly conditional, so that if Albert Seyton should seek her, she was free! How delightful did that word sound to the desolate heart of the young girl. She clasped her hands, and a smile played over her face like a sunbeam on a lake.
“Oh!” she cried, “if kind Heaven has indeed joy in store for the poor, persecuted Ada, surely it will be more delightful by the contrast with what has passed! Friends will be dearer to me, because I have known none! The sunshine will to me possess a greater charm than to those who have always been so happy as to revel in its beams! The charms of music will entrance me, where they present but ordinary sounds to others, for I shall contrast then with the echoes of this dreary house. The voices of those who will love me, and use kindly phrases when they speak to me, will ring in my ears with an unknown beauty! Mere freedom—the dear gift of being able, at my own free-will, to seek the leafy glade of some old forest—or walk in the broad sunlight of an open plain, will be a rich reward for all that I have suffered! Oh! How can the world be unhappy while Heaven has left it youth, sunshine, and love?”
Thus the young, ardent, enthusiastic girl beguiled the tediousness of her imprisonment. She lived in a world of romance of her own creating, a romance, too, that was mixed up with a pure and holy system of natural theology culled from her own heart, and those mysterious impulses which tell all, but those who wilfully shut their ears against the solemn glorious truth—that there is a great and good God above all—a Being to be loved more than to be feared.
Ada would now sit for hours picturing to herself the meeting of poor Maud with Albert Seyton. She would frame all the dialogue that would pass between them, until Albert had, piece by piece, extracted from the wandering mind of the poor creature the exact situation of the old house in which Ada was immured; then she would imagine his joy, his rapture, until busy Fancy almost conjured up the reality of his voice in her charmed ears.
The dull sons of system and calculation—the plodders through life without the capacity to look beyond the present, or reason on the past, may condemn the airy freaks of the imagination, because of their unreality; but what would the lonely, the persecuted, and the unhappy do, if Heaven, in its great mercy, had not laid up within the chambers of the brain, such stores of joy and ecstatic thought ready to be drawn forth infinitely to cheat what is real of its terrors, by contrasting it with the rare creations of the ideal. Oh, is it not a rare and amiable faculty of mind, that can thus shift, as it were, the scenes of life, and with a thought, change a dungeon to a sweet glade in some deep forest, where birds are singing for the pure love of song. Let then the dreamy “castle builder” pile story upon story of his æriel fabric,—he will be the nearer Heaven.
CHAPTER XXXIII.Britton at the Chequers.—The Visit.—A Mysterious Stranger.—The Good Company.Britton, the smith, was in truth a great man at the Chequers, in Westminster. His love of liquor suited the landlord amazingly, and his custom, when the whim took him, of treating everybody who happened to be present, turned out an exceeding good speculation for mine host. Sots and topers came from far and near to the Chequers, upon the chance of a treat from “King Britton,” as he was commonly called, and they would wait patiently drinking at their own proper costs until the smith got intoxicated enough to act the great man, and order drink for all at his own expense.This acted well for the landlord, whose liquor was constantly kept flowing at some one’s expense, and he put up patiently with the brutal jests of the smith, many of them being accompanied with personal ill-usage, rather then turn the tide of prosperity that was pouring into his house.Many were the conjectures as to the source of Britton’s ample means; but although all supposed them to proceed from some not over honest means, all were so much interested in their continuance that the curiosity excited produced no further result than whispered expressions of wonder and wise shakes of the head.It was true that Britton had been watched to Learmont’s house, but it never for a moment entered the heads of the busybodies at the Chequers that he visited the great Squire Learmont himself, and whether or not he had some accomplice at Learmont’s house, which enabled him to rob the wealthy squire, was the only thought suggested by tracing him more than once to the hall door of Learmont’s princely and much talked of abode.Daylight was commonly shut out of the old oaken parlour of the Chequers before it was all necessary, by the orders of Britton, who found himself more at home and enjoyed his liquor better by candle or lamplight than with a bright setting sun streaming in upon his drunken orgies.It was upon one of these occasions that the shutters had been closed by the obsequious landlord at least an hour earlier than necessary, and for which he had been rewarded by a crack on the pate with a pewter ale measure, and that made him dance again, that a more than usually thronged company filled the parlor of the ancient house.Britton sat in an arm-chair in the first stage of intoxication. His eyes were inflamed and blood-shot, and his whole visage betrayed the debasing influence of habitual drunkenness. He wore a strange mixture of clothing; a richly-laced coat which he had bought from the window of a tailor, who had only charged him double price for it and a kick, contrasted oddly with a coarse red night-cap that he wore, and the pipe stuck in the buttonholes of the rich laced waistcoat, presented a strange anomaly of elegance and vulgarity.The company were some smoking, some drinking, and some talking; but it was easy to see that the general attention was fixed upon Britton, who there sat, as he considered, in his glory.“Landlord!” he roared, in a voice that made the glasses ring again. “Landlord! I say, curse on you for a sluggish hand, come hither! Where’s your respect for your king, you keeper of bad butts—you thief, you purloiner of honester men’s sack?—Come hither, I say.”“Ha!—Ha!” laughed a man, who had come a long way to chance a treat at the Chequers—“Ha!—Ha!—That’s good. Ho!—Ho!”“Who are you?” roared Britton.“I—I—oh—I—I—am—a cordwainer from the Borough, sir.”“How dare you call me, ‘Sir?’”“Why—a—a—really—”Some one here charitably whispered to the cordwainer the fact of Britton’s kingly dignity! And with many winks and nods he corrected himself, and said,—“I humbly beg your majesty’s most gracious pardon.”“You be d—d!” said Britton. “You are a cordwainer, are you?—A cobbler, you mean—a patcher of leaks in bad shoes. Hark ye, Mr. Cordwainer, the next time you presume to laugh at anything I say, I’ll make a leak in your head.”“May it please you, King Britton,” interposed the landlord, “I am here!”“No you ain’t,” cried Britton, tripping up the landlord, who forthwith fell flat on the floor, “you are there!”This was a stock joke, and was perpetrated nearly every evening; so the company laughed accordingly, particularly those who had seen and heard it before, the new-comers not being fully up to the wit of it.Here the landlord rose, and rubbing the injured part of his person, said with a groan,—“Well, gentlemen, did you ever know the like of that?”“Here, come back with a bowl of punch,” cried Britton; “and, do you hear, some spiced canary—come, quick!”“May I venture to ask!” said the landlord, still affecting to writhe with pain, “if the spiced canary is to be all round?”“No, you may not ask!” said Britton; “off with you!”“We’ll drink your majesty’s health,” said a pale thin man, with great humility.“Oh, you will, will you?” said Britton.“We will—we will,” cried many voices.“Drink away, then!” roared Britton.“Your majesty has not yet ordered anything for us to drink,” said one.“No, no, his majesty don’t mean,” said Britton. “You are a set of rascals—thieves all.”“Ah,” said the cordwainer, casting his eyes up to the fly-cage that hung from the centre of the ceiling, “there is a great deal of dishonesty in the world.”“There ain’t, and you are a liar!” cried Britton.At this moment the door was flung open, and a wild figure stood in the entrance taking up the laugh of the guests in a strange discordant tone, and pointing the while at the smith with exultant look.Britton started from his chair, but he was scarcely able to stand, and staggering into it again, he muttered,—“Mad Maud, by all that is damnable!”“Britton—Andrew Britton!” shrieked Maud, clapping her hands together “I have found you—Ha!—Ha!—Ha!—I have found you!”The persons assembled in the parlour looked at each other in speechless amazement, and the majority of them in the excitement of the moment finished at once whatever liquor they had before them.“Britton!—Britton!” shrieked Maud, “are you not glad to see me? I heard your voice—too well I know it! Oh, oh, I was passing—I was crawling past this door when your voice struck upon my ear. Andrew Britton, I won’t leave you now! Stop, stop—yes, I must do my errand. I had it from one of bright things that live among the stars—I must do my errand.”She fumbled for a time among her strange mass of many-coloured clothing, and produced at length a small piece of paper. She gazed at it for a moment, and then kissed it devotedly.“It saves me from horror,” she said, in a low, unusual tone. “It saves me from cramp and colds, from the frost and the scorching heat, but I am bound to show it to you—all of you shall see it. It is blessed, and was given to poor Mad Maud by the bright spirit. Look, do—you, and you, and you. Are they not brave words—words to save and bless?”She glided among the guests, and held for a moment before the eyes of each the slip of paper that Ada had given her, till she came near the smith, when she replaced it in her bosom, saying,—“Not to you, man of blood—not to you. Ho!—Ho! Andrew Britton, not to you!”The smith had sat till now as if paralyzed; but, when Maud was making for the door, he suddenly cried with a tone of anger, while his face swelled with wild passion,—“Hold—stop that witch! Kill her—tear her to pieces—curses on her!”He rushed forward as he spoke, and would most probably have done the poor creature some fatal injury, had he not been suddenly stopped by a tall, stout man, who rushed from a corner of the room, upsetting several persons in his progress, and placed himself before Maud.“Stop!” he cried, in a voice of command—“touch the woman at your peril.”For a moment Britton paused, while his face worked with fury, and he more nearly resembled some wild animal at bay than a human being. Suddenly, then, collecting all his energies, he sprang forward with a cry of rage; but the stranger adroitly stepped on one side, at the same time that he threw a chair, on which he had his hand, across Britton’s path, who fell over it with great violence. Britton lay a moment as if stunned by the fall, and several of the company began to cry shame upon the stranger, who stood quite calm awaiting the rise of his foe.The landlord, however, who had witnessed some of the affair from the bar, now rushed in in a state of great indignation with the stranger, for not allowing King Britton to do just what he liked.“Troop out of my house,” he cried. “How dare you insult a customer of mine? Troop, I say. Go after your pretended mad woman. You want to rob the house, both of you. Troop, I say.”“Suppose I won’t go?” said the stranger.“Then suppose I make you, you vagabond?” cried the enraged landlord.“You can’t,” said the stranger.“Now by the mass that beats all the impudence ever I heard of,” cried the landlord. “Here, Gregory—Gregory! My staff! We will have this fellow out in the king’s name. My staff, I say! Was there ever such a rogue to assault my best customers; and then not run away.”The stranger laughed in spite of himself at this last remark of the landlord’s and turning to the company, he said,—“Every one here present can witness that I only interfered with this drunken ruffian to prevent him from committing an assault upon a maniac, and his present condition arises partly from intoxication, and partly from falling over a chair in an attempt to attack me.”“You are a scoundrel,” said the landlord.“Out with him! Turn him out!” cried the company, with one voice.“My staff! My staff!” roared the landlord, gathering courage from the unanimous support he seemed likely to receive.“You need not trouble yourself for your staff,” said the stranger, “I am going, and if you required a staff, I, could lend you mine, friend.”The stranger took from his pocket, as he spoke, a small bright silver staff.“W—w—what! Who—who are you?” stammered the landlord.“It matters not just now who I am,” said the stranger, “but look to your house, sir—it has grown disorderly of late.”With a slow step the stranger then left the room, amid an universal stare of astonishment from the company.“Well, I never—” cried the landlord, “a silver staff! He belongs to the office of the High Bailiff of Westminster, as I’m a sinner.”“And yet you wanted to turn him out,” said the cordwainer.“Landlord, you are an intemperate man,” said another.“The landlord’s a fool,” cried a third.“Not to know an officer!” cried a fourth.“Ah—ah!” chimed in three or four more.“Why—why you all called turn him out,” said the discomfited landlord.“Ah—yes,” said the man who had prepared to drink Britton’s health—“but we meant you.”“Yes—yes! Hear—hear!” cried everybody; “we meant turn out the landlord.”“The deuce you did.”“Where—where—is she? Curses on her—where is she—is it a dream?” murmured Britton, recovering from his mixed state of insensibility, produced by drink and a blow of his head against the floor.“Was—it true—eh?” continued Britton; “where the devil am I now? Can’t you speak, none of you?”The landlord turned to the company, and placed his fingers confidentially and knowingly against the side of his nose, in intimation that he was about to perpetrate some piece of extreme cleverness not quite consistent with truth. Then, turning to Britton, he said in a commiserating tone,—“Good luck, Master King Britton, your majesty certainly took forty winks in a chair, and by some sudden move, it has upset your majesty.”“Is—is—that it?” said Britton, looking around him with heavy eyes.“Yes all these honourable gentlemen can bear me out in what I say.”“Curse me, then, if ever I had such a dream,” said Britton.“All dreams are very disagreeable,” said the landlord.“Oh, very!” said the company.“D—n you all,” muttered Britton.The landlord now turned again to the company, and favoured them with another bit of facetiousness, which consisted in rubbing his left elbow and going through the motion of drinking in dumb show; and having so bespoken their kind and considerate attention, he turned to Britton, and added,—“Your worship’s majesty had just ordered cans of spiced canary all round, as you went off to sleep like a babe.”“Had I,” growled Britton; “I suppose they all had it then?”“No, no, no!” cried a chorus of voices.“Quite sure?”“Oh, quite.”“Then I’ll be d—d if you get it!”The landlord looked rather taken aback by this, and rubbed his chin in an abstracted manner with his apron, while the guests looked at each other in consternation.“What are you staring at, all of you?” cried Britton. “You have seen a gentleman, before, I suppose?”“Oh, yes—yes,” said everybody.“Then go to the devil while I go for a walk!” added Britton, staggering to the door, and as he passed out he muttered to himself,—“A dream! No, no—no dream. She will do me some mischief yet. I must kill her—curses on her; and he too. What did he want here? I know—it was Hartleton! But curse them all—I’ll be even with them yet. I should like to cut all their throats, and treat those beasts I have just left with cans all round of their blood! I’d make them drink—damme, I’d make them drink it!”
Britton at the Chequers.—The Visit.—A Mysterious Stranger.—The Good Company.
Britton, the smith, was in truth a great man at the Chequers, in Westminster. His love of liquor suited the landlord amazingly, and his custom, when the whim took him, of treating everybody who happened to be present, turned out an exceeding good speculation for mine host. Sots and topers came from far and near to the Chequers, upon the chance of a treat from “King Britton,” as he was commonly called, and they would wait patiently drinking at their own proper costs until the smith got intoxicated enough to act the great man, and order drink for all at his own expense.
This acted well for the landlord, whose liquor was constantly kept flowing at some one’s expense, and he put up patiently with the brutal jests of the smith, many of them being accompanied with personal ill-usage, rather then turn the tide of prosperity that was pouring into his house.
Many were the conjectures as to the source of Britton’s ample means; but although all supposed them to proceed from some not over honest means, all were so much interested in their continuance that the curiosity excited produced no further result than whispered expressions of wonder and wise shakes of the head.
It was true that Britton had been watched to Learmont’s house, but it never for a moment entered the heads of the busybodies at the Chequers that he visited the great Squire Learmont himself, and whether or not he had some accomplice at Learmont’s house, which enabled him to rob the wealthy squire, was the only thought suggested by tracing him more than once to the hall door of Learmont’s princely and much talked of abode.
Daylight was commonly shut out of the old oaken parlour of the Chequers before it was all necessary, by the orders of Britton, who found himself more at home and enjoyed his liquor better by candle or lamplight than with a bright setting sun streaming in upon his drunken orgies.
It was upon one of these occasions that the shutters had been closed by the obsequious landlord at least an hour earlier than necessary, and for which he had been rewarded by a crack on the pate with a pewter ale measure, and that made him dance again, that a more than usually thronged company filled the parlor of the ancient house.
Britton sat in an arm-chair in the first stage of intoxication. His eyes were inflamed and blood-shot, and his whole visage betrayed the debasing influence of habitual drunkenness. He wore a strange mixture of clothing; a richly-laced coat which he had bought from the window of a tailor, who had only charged him double price for it and a kick, contrasted oddly with a coarse red night-cap that he wore, and the pipe stuck in the buttonholes of the rich laced waistcoat, presented a strange anomaly of elegance and vulgarity.
The company were some smoking, some drinking, and some talking; but it was easy to see that the general attention was fixed upon Britton, who there sat, as he considered, in his glory.
“Landlord!” he roared, in a voice that made the glasses ring again. “Landlord! I say, curse on you for a sluggish hand, come hither! Where’s your respect for your king, you keeper of bad butts—you thief, you purloiner of honester men’s sack?—Come hither, I say.”
“Ha!—Ha!” laughed a man, who had come a long way to chance a treat at the Chequers—“Ha!—Ha!—That’s good. Ho!—Ho!”
“Who are you?” roared Britton.
“I—I—oh—I—I—am—a cordwainer from the Borough, sir.”
“How dare you call me, ‘Sir?’”
“Why—a—a—really—”
Some one here charitably whispered to the cordwainer the fact of Britton’s kingly dignity! And with many winks and nods he corrected himself, and said,—
“I humbly beg your majesty’s most gracious pardon.”
“You be d—d!” said Britton. “You are a cordwainer, are you?—A cobbler, you mean—a patcher of leaks in bad shoes. Hark ye, Mr. Cordwainer, the next time you presume to laugh at anything I say, I’ll make a leak in your head.”
“May it please you, King Britton,” interposed the landlord, “I am here!”
“No you ain’t,” cried Britton, tripping up the landlord, who forthwith fell flat on the floor, “you are there!”
This was a stock joke, and was perpetrated nearly every evening; so the company laughed accordingly, particularly those who had seen and heard it before, the new-comers not being fully up to the wit of it.
Here the landlord rose, and rubbing the injured part of his person, said with a groan,—
“Well, gentlemen, did you ever know the like of that?”
“Here, come back with a bowl of punch,” cried Britton; “and, do you hear, some spiced canary—come, quick!”
“May I venture to ask!” said the landlord, still affecting to writhe with pain, “if the spiced canary is to be all round?”
“No, you may not ask!” said Britton; “off with you!”
“We’ll drink your majesty’s health,” said a pale thin man, with great humility.
“Oh, you will, will you?” said Britton.
“We will—we will,” cried many voices.
“Drink away, then!” roared Britton.
“Your majesty has not yet ordered anything for us to drink,” said one.
“No, no, his majesty don’t mean,” said Britton. “You are a set of rascals—thieves all.”
“Ah,” said the cordwainer, casting his eyes up to the fly-cage that hung from the centre of the ceiling, “there is a great deal of dishonesty in the world.”
“There ain’t, and you are a liar!” cried Britton.
At this moment the door was flung open, and a wild figure stood in the entrance taking up the laugh of the guests in a strange discordant tone, and pointing the while at the smith with exultant look.
Britton started from his chair, but he was scarcely able to stand, and staggering into it again, he muttered,—
“Mad Maud, by all that is damnable!”
“Britton—Andrew Britton!” shrieked Maud, clapping her hands together “I have found you—Ha!—Ha!—Ha!—I have found you!”
The persons assembled in the parlour looked at each other in speechless amazement, and the majority of them in the excitement of the moment finished at once whatever liquor they had before them.
“Britton!—Britton!” shrieked Maud, “are you not glad to see me? I heard your voice—too well I know it! Oh, oh, I was passing—I was crawling past this door when your voice struck upon my ear. Andrew Britton, I won’t leave you now! Stop, stop—yes, I must do my errand. I had it from one of bright things that live among the stars—I must do my errand.”
She fumbled for a time among her strange mass of many-coloured clothing, and produced at length a small piece of paper. She gazed at it for a moment, and then kissed it devotedly.
“It saves me from horror,” she said, in a low, unusual tone. “It saves me from cramp and colds, from the frost and the scorching heat, but I am bound to show it to you—all of you shall see it. It is blessed, and was given to poor Mad Maud by the bright spirit. Look, do—you, and you, and you. Are they not brave words—words to save and bless?”
She glided among the guests, and held for a moment before the eyes of each the slip of paper that Ada had given her, till she came near the smith, when she replaced it in her bosom, saying,—
“Not to you, man of blood—not to you. Ho!—Ho! Andrew Britton, not to you!”
The smith had sat till now as if paralyzed; but, when Maud was making for the door, he suddenly cried with a tone of anger, while his face swelled with wild passion,—
“Hold—stop that witch! Kill her—tear her to pieces—curses on her!”
He rushed forward as he spoke, and would most probably have done the poor creature some fatal injury, had he not been suddenly stopped by a tall, stout man, who rushed from a corner of the room, upsetting several persons in his progress, and placed himself before Maud.
“Stop!” he cried, in a voice of command—“touch the woman at your peril.”
For a moment Britton paused, while his face worked with fury, and he more nearly resembled some wild animal at bay than a human being. Suddenly, then, collecting all his energies, he sprang forward with a cry of rage; but the stranger adroitly stepped on one side, at the same time that he threw a chair, on which he had his hand, across Britton’s path, who fell over it with great violence. Britton lay a moment as if stunned by the fall, and several of the company began to cry shame upon the stranger, who stood quite calm awaiting the rise of his foe.
The landlord, however, who had witnessed some of the affair from the bar, now rushed in in a state of great indignation with the stranger, for not allowing King Britton to do just what he liked.
“Troop out of my house,” he cried. “How dare you insult a customer of mine? Troop, I say. Go after your pretended mad woman. You want to rob the house, both of you. Troop, I say.”
“Suppose I won’t go?” said the stranger.
“Then suppose I make you, you vagabond?” cried the enraged landlord.
“You can’t,” said the stranger.
“Now by the mass that beats all the impudence ever I heard of,” cried the landlord. “Here, Gregory—Gregory! My staff! We will have this fellow out in the king’s name. My staff, I say! Was there ever such a rogue to assault my best customers; and then not run away.”
The stranger laughed in spite of himself at this last remark of the landlord’s and turning to the company, he said,—
“Every one here present can witness that I only interfered with this drunken ruffian to prevent him from committing an assault upon a maniac, and his present condition arises partly from intoxication, and partly from falling over a chair in an attempt to attack me.”
“You are a scoundrel,” said the landlord.
“Out with him! Turn him out!” cried the company, with one voice.
“My staff! My staff!” roared the landlord, gathering courage from the unanimous support he seemed likely to receive.
“You need not trouble yourself for your staff,” said the stranger, “I am going, and if you required a staff, I, could lend you mine, friend.”
The stranger took from his pocket, as he spoke, a small bright silver staff.
“W—w—what! Who—who are you?” stammered the landlord.
“It matters not just now who I am,” said the stranger, “but look to your house, sir—it has grown disorderly of late.”
With a slow step the stranger then left the room, amid an universal stare of astonishment from the company.
“Well, I never—” cried the landlord, “a silver staff! He belongs to the office of the High Bailiff of Westminster, as I’m a sinner.”
“And yet you wanted to turn him out,” said the cordwainer.
“Landlord, you are an intemperate man,” said another.
“The landlord’s a fool,” cried a third.
“Not to know an officer!” cried a fourth.
“Ah—ah!” chimed in three or four more.
“Why—why you all called turn him out,” said the discomfited landlord.
“Ah—yes,” said the man who had prepared to drink Britton’s health—“but we meant you.”
“Yes—yes! Hear—hear!” cried everybody; “we meant turn out the landlord.”
“The deuce you did.”
“Where—where—is she? Curses on her—where is she—is it a dream?” murmured Britton, recovering from his mixed state of insensibility, produced by drink and a blow of his head against the floor.
“Was—it true—eh?” continued Britton; “where the devil am I now? Can’t you speak, none of you?”
The landlord turned to the company, and placed his fingers confidentially and knowingly against the side of his nose, in intimation that he was about to perpetrate some piece of extreme cleverness not quite consistent with truth. Then, turning to Britton, he said in a commiserating tone,—
“Good luck, Master King Britton, your majesty certainly took forty winks in a chair, and by some sudden move, it has upset your majesty.”
“Is—is—that it?” said Britton, looking around him with heavy eyes.
“Yes all these honourable gentlemen can bear me out in what I say.”
“Curse me, then, if ever I had such a dream,” said Britton.
“All dreams are very disagreeable,” said the landlord.
“Oh, very!” said the company.
“D—n you all,” muttered Britton.
The landlord now turned again to the company, and favoured them with another bit of facetiousness, which consisted in rubbing his left elbow and going through the motion of drinking in dumb show; and having so bespoken their kind and considerate attention, he turned to Britton, and added,—
“Your worship’s majesty had just ordered cans of spiced canary all round, as you went off to sleep like a babe.”
“Had I,” growled Britton; “I suppose they all had it then?”
“No, no, no!” cried a chorus of voices.
“Quite sure?”
“Oh, quite.”
“Then I’ll be d—d if you get it!”
The landlord looked rather taken aback by this, and rubbed his chin in an abstracted manner with his apron, while the guests looked at each other in consternation.
“What are you staring at, all of you?” cried Britton. “You have seen a gentleman, before, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes—yes,” said everybody.
“Then go to the devil while I go for a walk!” added Britton, staggering to the door, and as he passed out he muttered to himself,—
“A dream! No, no—no dream. She will do me some mischief yet. I must kill her—curses on her; and he too. What did he want here? I know—it was Hartleton! But curse them all—I’ll be even with them yet. I should like to cut all their throats, and treat those beasts I have just left with cans all round of their blood! I’d make them drink—damme, I’d make them drink it!”
CHAPTER XXXIV.TheFête.—Villany Prospers for a Season.—An Interruption.—The Dance.Thatnight the halls of the princely residence of Learmont presented to the eye one blaze of light, brilliant costumes, costly decorations, and everything that his imagination could suggest as calculated to entrance the senses, and convey a notion of his boundless wealth and unlimited prodigality. Learmont was now in truth carrying out to its utmost the mode of life he had so often proposed to himself as that alone which could smother the stings of conscience, and by not allowing him time to think of the past, enable him to extract some enjoyment from the gaudy glittering present.To the entertainment which he now gave, he invited scores of persons which he knew only by name, but who scrupled not to accept the bidding of a man who was supposed to be rich beyond all comparison.There were members of Parliament—of both houses, holy ministers of the church, high legal functionaries. In fact, Learmont, from the mere rumour of his enormous wealth—a rumour which he had himself originated, and to which he lent countenance by his great expenses, found no difficulty in filling his saloons with all that were considered illustrious or great in the metropolis.Learmont was not a man to allow anything to be wanting at such an entertainment as that he was now giving. He possessed education, talent, and taste, although all were perverted by the utter absence of all moral feeling in his mind.The most delightful music, breathing low dulcet sounds, mingled sweetly and harmoniously, with the hum of conversation among his courtly guests. The saloons rivalled the mid-day splendour of a summer’s day, by the colour and profusion of the lights, which lent a charm to everything within their glittering influence.There were beaufets loaded with costly luxuries, to which the guests helped themselves at discretion; and all this, heightened as it was by brilliant costumes, civil and military, created a scene of magnificence that astonished and delighted every one there to witness it.The guests would congregate together in small knots,—those who knew each other, to wonder at the glory and enchantment around them, and many were the whispered surmises as to how the owner of such riches had spent his early life, when now he manifested so prodigal a spirit, and showed such rare taste and royal magnificence in his mode of life.Some of the more superstitious would have it that he was an alchemist, and had discovered the transmutation of metals, by which he could turn lead and copper to gold. Others looked upon it with the jaundiced eye of party politics upon the scene, and whispered to a friend that the lord of so much wealth must be a spy in the service of the dethroned family, whose rights, real or fancied, were not at that period, set at rest in this realm.It was strange that but one of all the guests of Learmont suggested a probably and creditable mode of accounting for his great wealth, and sudden freak of spending it; that was that he had lived many years in melancholy seclusion, making mercantile ventures secretly with his large revenues, which proving successful, had placed some enormous sum at his disposal, the possession of which had dazzled his brain, and induced him to fly from the pecuniary economy to that of profuse and lavish expenditure.This supposition was, however, far too commonplace and reasonable to find many supporters, and the majority decidedly inclined to the more marvellous opinion.Learmont himself, attired in a handsome dress, which set off his tall figure to the best advantage, seemed upon this occasion to have cast off his habitual gloom and asperity of manner. He mingled freely with his guests, jesting with one, discussing some knotty political point with another in forcible and lofty language, cautiously complimenting a third, and in fact, winning from all those golden opinions which ever wait upon a known cold, proud, and haughty man, when he chooses to unbend himself, and make an effort to become agreeable.By degrees, however, he confined almost all his attention to a few well-known political characters who were at thefête, and who were the agents of ministers in the barter of a baronetcy for a certain sum of money invested in parliamentary seats with Learmont. This baronetcy to procure which Learmont had lent all his abilities of intrigue, he fairly considered as the first grand step up the ladder of ambition; for even supposing the remote probability of his legitimate claim to the Learmont estates to be disputed successfully, he would still have higher dignities of his own acquisition to fall back upon.Thus it will be seen that the wily Learmont was playing a complicated game of public ambition, while at the same time, he was privately tortured by doubts and fears, concerning the fidelity of his accomplices in crime—the crafty Jacob Gray, and the dissipated and ruffianly Britton.Thefêtewas to conclude with a ball in a style of unparalleled splendour: one of the largest of the saloons had been fitted up as the ball-room, in a style of costly and rare elegance; the chalked flooring alone costing five hundred pounds in execution, it being designed by some of the first artists of the day.This room was kept carefully closed, until Learmont himself should perceive that his guests were desirous of some changes of amusement, when upon a signal given by him, the folding doors were to be thrown open.This signal he did not give until late; and he had been assured of the baronetcy in the following week, before he fancied it time to change the scene.“Your exceedingly patriotic conduct, sir,” said an eminent political personage present, “has been represented to his majesty, who at once acceded to the proposed baronetcy, which he was gracious enough to say should be but the prelude to much greater things.”“I trust that my future patriotism will be equally appreciated,” replied Learmont, courteously, and with the smallest dash of satire in his manner; “the next step up the ladder of nobility, I am quite aware is not so easy of access.”“Real patriotism,” replied the political personage, with, a low bow to Learmont, “will accomplish wonders.”“Would three more seats in the Commons be of service to the minister?” said Learmont, in a low tone.“I should say, decidedly,” replied the other in a suppressed voice; “and a-hem, Baron Learmont would sound well.”“There is nothing like patriotism,” said the squire.“Oh! Nothing,” replied the political personage.“And it should be rewarded.”“I quite agree with you, sir.”Learmont then took another round of his saloons, and conversed gaily and appropriately with several groups of his guests.A new arrival was now announced, which Learmont had been most anxiously looking for. Not the least important of the schemes of Learmont was to unite himself by marriage to some noble and influential family, who would feel their own dignity and importance interested in upholding him against any untoward circumstance that might occur of a nature to depreciate him; and the announcement that now greeted his ears, of the arrival of Lord Brereton, Lady Brereton, and the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, their only daughter, was the most welcome that had occurred. This family had all the mean, proud vices of the aristocracy, with scarcely any of their redeeming virtues; but they were of ancient race, and numbered among their connexions all the principal nobles of England, claiming likewise a distant alliance with royalty itself.Her father was one of those men who fancy they and their extravagancies have some sort of claim upon society at large for support, and all thoughts of usefulness or prudence were with him quite out of the question, and derogatory to his dignity. The family estates were mortgaged to the last farthing; the family plate and diamonds were only their possession on hire from the money scriveners. Still the income of Lord Brereton was immense, for he was in various shapes quartered upon the public purse as a holder of sinecure appointments with large salaries, on account of his high birth.His lady was silly, weak, and egotistical—the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, it was well understood, was for sale to the highest bidder; she was proud, supercilious, and handsome.Lord Brereton, it was understood, would settle upon his daughter an estate worth ten thousand pounds per annum, always provided the happy man who made her his wife was in a condition to advance the sum necessary to redeem the title deeds from the money-lenders. Therefore was the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, with all her pride and all her insolence, put up for sale at the goodly sum claimed by divers lords as mortgagees of the estate which was to be settled upon her.Into this family Learmont thought it policy to enter. They had all the influence of high rank, and were unscrupulous in using it. For the Honourable Georgiana he cared no more than for the feathers that danced in her head-dress. She might be proud, haughty, insolent, silly, but her pride was nothing to his; her haughtiness must cringe before his, associated as his was with intellect of a high order. Her indolence, too, he could treat with contempt. She was, in his eyes, merely one of the props to his ambition, and he approached the family, that he despised in his heart, with a smile of welcome of the most engaging character he could assume.“Welcome to my humble house,” said Learmont; “no longer humble, however, when graced by your presence, ladies.”Lady Brereton bowed, and agitated all her feathers, while the honourable daughter took no notice whatever of the courteous salutation of the master of the house.“You are well lodged here, sir,” remarked Lord Brereton. “I hear it is his Majesty’s intention to create a baronetcy for you.”“His Majesty is very gracious,” replied Learmont.“I think it judicious,” added the lord; “wealth should never be allowed to remain in the hands of untitled persons. Either they, if fitted, should be raised to rank, or the wealth should be by some means taken from them.”“There is much sound philosophy in what your lordship says,” answered Learmont.“It is my opinion,” said Lord Brereton, with affected dignity.“Certainly,” added Learmont; “and that should be sufficient to settle the question for ever, my lord.”Lord Brereton bowed stiffly.Learmont now cast his eyes around the saloon, and fancying he saw an air of satiety creeping over his guests, he resolved upon opening the ball-room, which he felt sure would give an impetus to the flagging spirits of the company, who were really getting tired of the incessant glitter of all around them.
TheFête.—Villany Prospers for a Season.—An Interruption.—The Dance.
Thatnight the halls of the princely residence of Learmont presented to the eye one blaze of light, brilliant costumes, costly decorations, and everything that his imagination could suggest as calculated to entrance the senses, and convey a notion of his boundless wealth and unlimited prodigality. Learmont was now in truth carrying out to its utmost the mode of life he had so often proposed to himself as that alone which could smother the stings of conscience, and by not allowing him time to think of the past, enable him to extract some enjoyment from the gaudy glittering present.
To the entertainment which he now gave, he invited scores of persons which he knew only by name, but who scrupled not to accept the bidding of a man who was supposed to be rich beyond all comparison.
There were members of Parliament—of both houses, holy ministers of the church, high legal functionaries. In fact, Learmont, from the mere rumour of his enormous wealth—a rumour which he had himself originated, and to which he lent countenance by his great expenses, found no difficulty in filling his saloons with all that were considered illustrious or great in the metropolis.
Learmont was not a man to allow anything to be wanting at such an entertainment as that he was now giving. He possessed education, talent, and taste, although all were perverted by the utter absence of all moral feeling in his mind.
The most delightful music, breathing low dulcet sounds, mingled sweetly and harmoniously, with the hum of conversation among his courtly guests. The saloons rivalled the mid-day splendour of a summer’s day, by the colour and profusion of the lights, which lent a charm to everything within their glittering influence.
There were beaufets loaded with costly luxuries, to which the guests helped themselves at discretion; and all this, heightened as it was by brilliant costumes, civil and military, created a scene of magnificence that astonished and delighted every one there to witness it.
The guests would congregate together in small knots,—those who knew each other, to wonder at the glory and enchantment around them, and many were the whispered surmises as to how the owner of such riches had spent his early life, when now he manifested so prodigal a spirit, and showed such rare taste and royal magnificence in his mode of life.
Some of the more superstitious would have it that he was an alchemist, and had discovered the transmutation of metals, by which he could turn lead and copper to gold. Others looked upon it with the jaundiced eye of party politics upon the scene, and whispered to a friend that the lord of so much wealth must be a spy in the service of the dethroned family, whose rights, real or fancied, were not at that period, set at rest in this realm.
It was strange that but one of all the guests of Learmont suggested a probably and creditable mode of accounting for his great wealth, and sudden freak of spending it; that was that he had lived many years in melancholy seclusion, making mercantile ventures secretly with his large revenues, which proving successful, had placed some enormous sum at his disposal, the possession of which had dazzled his brain, and induced him to fly from the pecuniary economy to that of profuse and lavish expenditure.
This supposition was, however, far too commonplace and reasonable to find many supporters, and the majority decidedly inclined to the more marvellous opinion.
Learmont himself, attired in a handsome dress, which set off his tall figure to the best advantage, seemed upon this occasion to have cast off his habitual gloom and asperity of manner. He mingled freely with his guests, jesting with one, discussing some knotty political point with another in forcible and lofty language, cautiously complimenting a third, and in fact, winning from all those golden opinions which ever wait upon a known cold, proud, and haughty man, when he chooses to unbend himself, and make an effort to become agreeable.
By degrees, however, he confined almost all his attention to a few well-known political characters who were at thefête, and who were the agents of ministers in the barter of a baronetcy for a certain sum of money invested in parliamentary seats with Learmont. This baronetcy to procure which Learmont had lent all his abilities of intrigue, he fairly considered as the first grand step up the ladder of ambition; for even supposing the remote probability of his legitimate claim to the Learmont estates to be disputed successfully, he would still have higher dignities of his own acquisition to fall back upon.
Thus it will be seen that the wily Learmont was playing a complicated game of public ambition, while at the same time, he was privately tortured by doubts and fears, concerning the fidelity of his accomplices in crime—the crafty Jacob Gray, and the dissipated and ruffianly Britton.
Thefêtewas to conclude with a ball in a style of unparalleled splendour: one of the largest of the saloons had been fitted up as the ball-room, in a style of costly and rare elegance; the chalked flooring alone costing five hundred pounds in execution, it being designed by some of the first artists of the day.
This room was kept carefully closed, until Learmont himself should perceive that his guests were desirous of some changes of amusement, when upon a signal given by him, the folding doors were to be thrown open.
This signal he did not give until late; and he had been assured of the baronetcy in the following week, before he fancied it time to change the scene.
“Your exceedingly patriotic conduct, sir,” said an eminent political personage present, “has been represented to his majesty, who at once acceded to the proposed baronetcy, which he was gracious enough to say should be but the prelude to much greater things.”
“I trust that my future patriotism will be equally appreciated,” replied Learmont, courteously, and with the smallest dash of satire in his manner; “the next step up the ladder of nobility, I am quite aware is not so easy of access.”
“Real patriotism,” replied the political personage, with, a low bow to Learmont, “will accomplish wonders.”
“Would three more seats in the Commons be of service to the minister?” said Learmont, in a low tone.
“I should say, decidedly,” replied the other in a suppressed voice; “and a-hem, Baron Learmont would sound well.”
“There is nothing like patriotism,” said the squire.
“Oh! Nothing,” replied the political personage.
“And it should be rewarded.”
“I quite agree with you, sir.”
Learmont then took another round of his saloons, and conversed gaily and appropriately with several groups of his guests.
A new arrival was now announced, which Learmont had been most anxiously looking for. Not the least important of the schemes of Learmont was to unite himself by marriage to some noble and influential family, who would feel their own dignity and importance interested in upholding him against any untoward circumstance that might occur of a nature to depreciate him; and the announcement that now greeted his ears, of the arrival of Lord Brereton, Lady Brereton, and the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, their only daughter, was the most welcome that had occurred. This family had all the mean, proud vices of the aristocracy, with scarcely any of their redeeming virtues; but they were of ancient race, and numbered among their connexions all the principal nobles of England, claiming likewise a distant alliance with royalty itself.
Her father was one of those men who fancy they and their extravagancies have some sort of claim upon society at large for support, and all thoughts of usefulness or prudence were with him quite out of the question, and derogatory to his dignity. The family estates were mortgaged to the last farthing; the family plate and diamonds were only their possession on hire from the money scriveners. Still the income of Lord Brereton was immense, for he was in various shapes quartered upon the public purse as a holder of sinecure appointments with large salaries, on account of his high birth.
His lady was silly, weak, and egotistical—the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, it was well understood, was for sale to the highest bidder; she was proud, supercilious, and handsome.
Lord Brereton, it was understood, would settle upon his daughter an estate worth ten thousand pounds per annum, always provided the happy man who made her his wife was in a condition to advance the sum necessary to redeem the title deeds from the money-lenders. Therefore was the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, with all her pride and all her insolence, put up for sale at the goodly sum claimed by divers lords as mortgagees of the estate which was to be settled upon her.
Into this family Learmont thought it policy to enter. They had all the influence of high rank, and were unscrupulous in using it. For the Honourable Georgiana he cared no more than for the feathers that danced in her head-dress. She might be proud, haughty, insolent, silly, but her pride was nothing to his; her haughtiness must cringe before his, associated as his was with intellect of a high order. Her indolence, too, he could treat with contempt. She was, in his eyes, merely one of the props to his ambition, and he approached the family, that he despised in his heart, with a smile of welcome of the most engaging character he could assume.
“Welcome to my humble house,” said Learmont; “no longer humble, however, when graced by your presence, ladies.”
Lady Brereton bowed, and agitated all her feathers, while the honourable daughter took no notice whatever of the courteous salutation of the master of the house.
“You are well lodged here, sir,” remarked Lord Brereton. “I hear it is his Majesty’s intention to create a baronetcy for you.”
“His Majesty is very gracious,” replied Learmont.
“I think it judicious,” added the lord; “wealth should never be allowed to remain in the hands of untitled persons. Either they, if fitted, should be raised to rank, or the wealth should be by some means taken from them.”
“There is much sound philosophy in what your lordship says,” answered Learmont.
“It is my opinion,” said Lord Brereton, with affected dignity.
“Certainly,” added Learmont; “and that should be sufficient to settle the question for ever, my lord.”
Lord Brereton bowed stiffly.
Learmont now cast his eyes around the saloon, and fancying he saw an air of satiety creeping over his guests, he resolved upon opening the ball-room, which he felt sure would give an impetus to the flagging spirits of the company, who were really getting tired of the incessant glitter of all around them.
CHAPTER XXXV.The Ball-room.—A Noble Family.—The Interruption.—Unexpected End of Learmont’sFête.Clappinghis hands as a signal to the attendants, who were in waiting, the whole of one end of the saloon vanished, as if by magic, being slid away like a scene at a theatre, and disclosed the magnificent ball-room, brilliantly illuminated, and adorned with the most exquisite plants and flowers. A murmur of delight and astonishment at the suddenness of the change arose among the guests, and then the younger portion eagerly pressed forward to enjoy the delight of the dance.A choice band of music struck up in an enlivening strain, and in a few moments, scarcely a guest remained in the first saloon, in which, the numerous domestics began to lay a costly supper.Even the apathetic Georgiana Brereton condescended to remark to her noble mother that the poor man, meaning Learmont, ought not to be blamed or despised, for he was evidently doing his best, to which the mother replied, in an affected languid tone,—“Certainly, my dear. They say he is very rich. I declare it’s quite sinful for people with no names at all to have the means of doing these things.”“Papa says,” added the young lady, who, by-the-by, was thirty years of age, “papa says that the Learmont family came in with the conquest, as a Learmont was a standard-bearer to William.”“Indeed, my love! Well, there is something in that, and should he propose, we can make inquiry.”“Exactly,” drawled the daughter.The ball-room was now filled with the guests, and altogether, a more brilliant spectacle could scarcely be conceived.Learmont made a signal to the musicians to cease playing, while the partners were chosen for the dance. With a gallant air, he stepped up to the Brereton party, and offered his hand to the Honourable Georgiana, which was graciously accepted, so far as the tips of that young lady’s fingers extended.All eyes were upon him and his patrician partner as he led her across the richly-chalked floor. There was an impressive silence for a few seconds, when from a side-door a servant appeared, and gliding among the guests, approached Learmont, and stood for a moment as if he had something to say to him.“Well, knave!” cried Learmont, his face slightly flushed with anger, at being interrupted at that moment.“An please you, sir, there—there—is—”The Honourable Georgiana tossed her plumed head with a look of great displeasure, and Learmont forgetting everything on the impulse of the moment, cried angrily,—“Speak your message, sirrah!”“A message from the Old Smithy,” said the trembling servant.Learmont’s cheek blanched in an instant, and his lips quivered with agitation.“How dare you?” he gasped.“An please your honour,” said the man, in a submissive tone, “your honour ordered that—the—the—message from the Old Smithy should be always brought to your honour, and—he—he won’t go away—he—has knocked out two of Timothy’s teeth, your honour, besides, he—he—”“Peace!” cried Learmont. “Peace, I say. Ho! Music there—music!”The band immediately struck up an enlivening air, and the guests gazed at Learmont with bewildered looks, for he presented more the appearance of a madman than the high-bred courteous gentleman he had seemed during the evening.The servant slowly retreated, but Learmont could not, dared not, let him go without some answer to the savage.“Will your ladyship excuse me one moment?” he said to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, in an agitated manner.“For as many as you please, sir,” answered the haughty damsel, with a tone of pique and insolence.Learmont strode after the servant, and just as the latter reached the door, he caught, him, and said,—“Tell him to wait.”“Yes, your honour,” said the servant.Learmont hurried back to where he had left the honourable lady, but she was not there. He glanced hurriedly around him, and saw her with her noble relatives at a distant part of the room. In a minute he was with them.“Pardon my rudeness,” he said, “in leaving you. I am a bachelor, and have so many troublesome domestic matters to arrange that I am compelled sometimes to appear rude where I would most of all wish to be otherwise.”“The interruption,” said the young lady, “was so very extraordinary.”“Yes—a—a—rather an ill-bred knave,” said Learmont. “My servants want a mistress sadly.”“Such a strange thing in a ball-room,” added Georgiana.“Eh!” said Lord Brereton. “If it be pronounceable, my dear, what was it?”“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Learmont; “an absurd mistake. Is not that a divine strain they are playing?”“Delightful!” said the lady. “But the words were a message from the Old Smithy!”“The old who?” exclaimed Lord Brereton, with a shrug.“The Old Smithy. I cannot pretend to know what it means.”“Frightful!” exclaimed Lady Brereton.Learmont tried to smile, but the distortion of his features looked as if occasioned by some acute pain rather than any sensation approaching to the mirthful.“It was most absurd,” he said, “and might make one angry, but that it is too laughable.”As he spoke a voice behind him said in a tone of trembling apprehension,—“And it please your honour—he—he—”Learmont positively gasped, and clutched the back of a chair for support, as he turned and faced another servant, the former one being afraid to venture into the presence of his fiery master again.“W—what now?” he said.“He won’t go, an it please your honour.”“Won’t go?” echoed Learmont, in such a confusion of mind that he scarcely knew what he said, and the servant, emboldened by the apparent placidity of his master, added,—“No, your honour, and he says he won’t wait either.”“Thrust him from my door,” shrieked Learmont; “kill him—no—no—tell him to come to-morrow—yes, to-morrow.”Learmont’s noble guests looked at each other in mute surprise. The voice in which Learmont had spoken was loud and strange, and attracted all eyes to the spot on which he stood. A glance around the ball-room at once showed him that he was the observed of all, and he felt the necessity of controlling his passion.“The dance, the dance,” he cried; “the most precious hours of gladness and joy. The dance! The dance!”These words were scarcely spoken, when his attention was arrested by an unusual commotion at the further end of the saloon, accompanied by cries, the trampling of feet, and a few oaths, which sounded strangely in that gaudy scene.Learmont’s heart sunk within him, and at that moment he suffered a pang greater than any he had ever power to inflict, as the conviction came across his mind that Britton was forcing his way into the ball-room, despite of every obstacle.This was an event which could not have happened under ordinary circumstances, but the whole of Learmont’s household were aware that the strange man who came with the message from the Old Smithy had some sort of power over their master and their ignorance of its extent, paralysed their exertions in opposing his entrance to the ball-room, although had they felt themselves free to act, he would never have reached beyond the hall of the mansion.Thus it was that the proud, wealthy, and haughty Learmont, surrounded by troops of servants, and evidently exercising the most despotic sway over them appeared to his assembled guests in the curious and anomalous position of being unable to keep a drunken brawler from the very penetralia of his mansion.Too well the squire knew the voice of the smith not to feel convinced that it was he, who in some freak of wilfulness or drunkenness was thus invading his gay saloons. Defy him, he dared not; kill him he dared not; nay, it was questionable if he dared even be rude to the burly, and perhaps infuriated savage. A deep groan burst from Learmont’s labouring breast, as the conviction came across his mind quicker than we can relate the various steps of thought that led to it, that he would always be subject to these visitations, even in his hours of greatest enjoyment, when he was making the attempt to drown reflections in a crowd of the gay and the trifling.None of the guests seemed disposed to place themselves in the way of Britton, and when the contest ceased between him and the servants, which it did at the door of the ball-room, he found himself free and unimpeded.With a reeling gait he walked to the very centre of the splendid apartment, and for the space of about a minute he seemed confused and half stupified by the glare of light around; and the brilliant costumes and decorations that everywhere met his drunken gaze.“Hulloa!” he cried at length, “the squire’s coming out at last. A dance, by h—ll I’m your man—I’ll dance with the best of you; I tread on no one’s toes if they avoid mine; I’ve had a little drop, but what matters? There are lights enough here to make a sober man’s brain dance again; what do you all stare at me for? I came with a message from the Old Smithy—tell that to the squire, and then hear what he says. Ho—ho—ho! We are old friends, very old friends, but he didn’t invite me to-night: it was d—d shabby; but here I am—the messenger from the Old Smithy, at ten guineas a visit. What do you think of that? If anybody says I’m drunk, I’ll take his life—his life I say—Hurrah for a dance! A dance! Hurrah!”Britton had all the ball-room nearly to himself, for the guests shrank from him on all sides, and Learmont seemed for the moment completely unmanned and powerless.Shaking off, however, by a violent effort the confusion of his senses, he suddenly advanced and confronted Britton.The smith shrunk for a moment before the pale face of Learmont, in which was an expression of concentrated rage and hate that might well have appalled even a far bolder man.Britton, however, was not in a state to admit of any moral control; drink was inflaming his brain, and there was a recklessness about him that, if not carefully treated, might involve both Learmont and himself in one common destruction.The haughty squire felt fully the precarious situation in which he stood, and therefore was it that in the midst of a wild passion that made him tremble, he felt obliged to temporise with the man whose life’s blood flowing at his feet would scarcely have satisfied his feelings of awful hatred.“Andrew Britton,” he said, in a half-choked voice, which he wished no one to hear but the smith.“Well, Squire Learmont,” replied the ruffian, endeavouring to stand steadily the fixed gaze of the other.“For your own life’s sake go away from here—you are drunk, and know not what you do.”“Drunk, am I? Well, there’s many a better man been drunk before to-day!”“What do you want?”“Ten—ten—guineas and—a (hiccup) dance; I tell you what it is—it’s infernally unfriendly of you not to invite me. You know I’m a gentleman now. Never—never—never—to show me—your nobles—curse me if I—stand it. In—introduce me to the rest of the gentlefolks, can’t you, and be d—d to you. I—I ain’t such a sneak as that cursed Jacob Gray. No—no, I’m a gentleman every—every inch a gentleman. Hurrah! Hurrah!”“Are you mad?” said Learmont.To his agony the squire now observed that, impelled by curiosity, his guests were slowly creeping closer around him and the savage smith. He raised his voice suddenly and cried—“My noble and honoured guests, this is a poor mad fellow, who from motives of charity, I support. I do not like to commit violence on one so afflicted by Heaven. Here, take this purse and go.”“Oh, yes,” hiccupped Britton; “that’s all very well as regards the purse, but I don’t mean to go yet. I’ll have a dance. Let me see—I’ve got something to say to you, squire.”“Another time,” cried Learmont.“No—no—time like the present. Life is so very un—uncertain. I tell you what—you—you recollect that infernal Frank Hartleton?”“Mad,—mad—quite mad,” said Learmont, striving to stop the smith.“Beware,” said Britton, with drunken solemnity. “I say beware. He’s on the look-out—curse him—and that infernal mad woman too—curse her! They want to hang us—curse all the world. Beware, I say, that’s all—never mind me, ladies and gentlemen—I’m a gentleman—I live on my means—I’m King Britton, and hope to see you all at the Chequers. Thank you ma’am.”This last observation was addressed to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who having given her head a toss of disdain upon meeting the anxious eye of the confounded Learmont, imparted such a nodding reaction for some seconds to her feathers that the intoxicated smith took it as a complimentary acknowledgment of his invitation to the Chequers.Some of the guests now began to laugh, and others to complain to each other in no very measured terms of the intrusion among them, of so very questionable a character as the smith appeared to be; while several, among whom were the Brereton family, made a move to depart, fearful how the singular scene would end.For a moment Learmont had his hand on his sword hilt, and the turn of a hair would have induced him to plunge the weapon, at all risks, into the heart of Britton, but the latter seeing the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who he supposed had been so civil to him, about to depart, made a sudden rush forward, and before any one could be aware of his intentions, he clasped her round the waist with one arm, and commenced dragging her along in a wild dance, entirely of his own invention. A general rush now took place to rescue the shrieking female, and a scene ensued of the greatest confusion.—Britton grew absolutely furious, and dealt blows and oaths about him with equal liberality. In the midst of all this Learmont was in a state of mind bordering on distraction. He rushed into the midst of the throng, and seizing Britton by the throat, tore him from among the guests, nor relaxed his hold till he had dragged him through the outer saloon, and flung him into a small ante-room, the door of which he locked and placed the key in his pocket. Partly with the fumes of what he had drunk, and partly with the heavy fall Learmont had given him, the smith dropped into a lethargic state of half insensibility and half sleep, so that at all events he was for a time quiet in the room where he was thrown.Dispirited, angry, and his apparel disarranged, Learmont returned to his ball-room. His guests would not, however, be persuaded to remain, and despite all his protestations that the “madman” was properly secured, he could not restore the confidence or hilarity of the company.Upon one excuse or another, they one and all departed, and not a single dance took place in the elaborately and expensively prepared ball-room of the ambitious and mortified squire.With a forced civility he saw the last of his numerous guests to his door. The lights were still blazing in his saloons, but there was silence and loneliness in the midst of all his splendour, which now looked such a mockery of gaiety.He sunk upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands for many minutes in an agony of painful reflection.Learmont’s first grandfêtewas over, and a signal failure.
The Ball-room.—A Noble Family.—The Interruption.—Unexpected End of Learmont’sFête.
Clappinghis hands as a signal to the attendants, who were in waiting, the whole of one end of the saloon vanished, as if by magic, being slid away like a scene at a theatre, and disclosed the magnificent ball-room, brilliantly illuminated, and adorned with the most exquisite plants and flowers. A murmur of delight and astonishment at the suddenness of the change arose among the guests, and then the younger portion eagerly pressed forward to enjoy the delight of the dance.
A choice band of music struck up in an enlivening strain, and in a few moments, scarcely a guest remained in the first saloon, in which, the numerous domestics began to lay a costly supper.
Even the apathetic Georgiana Brereton condescended to remark to her noble mother that the poor man, meaning Learmont, ought not to be blamed or despised, for he was evidently doing his best, to which the mother replied, in an affected languid tone,—
“Certainly, my dear. They say he is very rich. I declare it’s quite sinful for people with no names at all to have the means of doing these things.”
“Papa says,” added the young lady, who, by-the-by, was thirty years of age, “papa says that the Learmont family came in with the conquest, as a Learmont was a standard-bearer to William.”
“Indeed, my love! Well, there is something in that, and should he propose, we can make inquiry.”
“Exactly,” drawled the daughter.
The ball-room was now filled with the guests, and altogether, a more brilliant spectacle could scarcely be conceived.
Learmont made a signal to the musicians to cease playing, while the partners were chosen for the dance. With a gallant air, he stepped up to the Brereton party, and offered his hand to the Honourable Georgiana, which was graciously accepted, so far as the tips of that young lady’s fingers extended.
All eyes were upon him and his patrician partner as he led her across the richly-chalked floor. There was an impressive silence for a few seconds, when from a side-door a servant appeared, and gliding among the guests, approached Learmont, and stood for a moment as if he had something to say to him.
“Well, knave!” cried Learmont, his face slightly flushed with anger, at being interrupted at that moment.
“An please you, sir, there—there—is—”
The Honourable Georgiana tossed her plumed head with a look of great displeasure, and Learmont forgetting everything on the impulse of the moment, cried angrily,—
“Speak your message, sirrah!”
“A message from the Old Smithy,” said the trembling servant.
Learmont’s cheek blanched in an instant, and his lips quivered with agitation.
“How dare you?” he gasped.
“An please your honour,” said the man, in a submissive tone, “your honour ordered that—the—the—message from the Old Smithy should be always brought to your honour, and—he—he won’t go away—he—has knocked out two of Timothy’s teeth, your honour, besides, he—he—”
“Peace!” cried Learmont. “Peace, I say. Ho! Music there—music!”
The band immediately struck up an enlivening air, and the guests gazed at Learmont with bewildered looks, for he presented more the appearance of a madman than the high-bred courteous gentleman he had seemed during the evening.
The servant slowly retreated, but Learmont could not, dared not, let him go without some answer to the savage.
“Will your ladyship excuse me one moment?” he said to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, in an agitated manner.
“For as many as you please, sir,” answered the haughty damsel, with a tone of pique and insolence.
Learmont strode after the servant, and just as the latter reached the door, he caught, him, and said,—
“Tell him to wait.”
“Yes, your honour,” said the servant.
Learmont hurried back to where he had left the honourable lady, but she was not there. He glanced hurriedly around him, and saw her with her noble relatives at a distant part of the room. In a minute he was with them.
“Pardon my rudeness,” he said, “in leaving you. I am a bachelor, and have so many troublesome domestic matters to arrange that I am compelled sometimes to appear rude where I would most of all wish to be otherwise.”
“The interruption,” said the young lady, “was so very extraordinary.”
“Yes—a—a—rather an ill-bred knave,” said Learmont. “My servants want a mistress sadly.”
“Such a strange thing in a ball-room,” added Georgiana.
“Eh!” said Lord Brereton. “If it be pronounceable, my dear, what was it?”
“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Learmont; “an absurd mistake. Is not that a divine strain they are playing?”
“Delightful!” said the lady. “But the words were a message from the Old Smithy!”
“The old who?” exclaimed Lord Brereton, with a shrug.
“The Old Smithy. I cannot pretend to know what it means.”
“Frightful!” exclaimed Lady Brereton.
Learmont tried to smile, but the distortion of his features looked as if occasioned by some acute pain rather than any sensation approaching to the mirthful.
“It was most absurd,” he said, “and might make one angry, but that it is too laughable.”
As he spoke a voice behind him said in a tone of trembling apprehension,—
“And it please your honour—he—he—”
Learmont positively gasped, and clutched the back of a chair for support, as he turned and faced another servant, the former one being afraid to venture into the presence of his fiery master again.
“W—what now?” he said.
“He won’t go, an it please your honour.”
“Won’t go?” echoed Learmont, in such a confusion of mind that he scarcely knew what he said, and the servant, emboldened by the apparent placidity of his master, added,—
“No, your honour, and he says he won’t wait either.”
“Thrust him from my door,” shrieked Learmont; “kill him—no—no—tell him to come to-morrow—yes, to-morrow.”
Learmont’s noble guests looked at each other in mute surprise. The voice in which Learmont had spoken was loud and strange, and attracted all eyes to the spot on which he stood. A glance around the ball-room at once showed him that he was the observed of all, and he felt the necessity of controlling his passion.
“The dance, the dance,” he cried; “the most precious hours of gladness and joy. The dance! The dance!”
These words were scarcely spoken, when his attention was arrested by an unusual commotion at the further end of the saloon, accompanied by cries, the trampling of feet, and a few oaths, which sounded strangely in that gaudy scene.
Learmont’s heart sunk within him, and at that moment he suffered a pang greater than any he had ever power to inflict, as the conviction came across his mind that Britton was forcing his way into the ball-room, despite of every obstacle.
This was an event which could not have happened under ordinary circumstances, but the whole of Learmont’s household were aware that the strange man who came with the message from the Old Smithy had some sort of power over their master and their ignorance of its extent, paralysed their exertions in opposing his entrance to the ball-room, although had they felt themselves free to act, he would never have reached beyond the hall of the mansion.
Thus it was that the proud, wealthy, and haughty Learmont, surrounded by troops of servants, and evidently exercising the most despotic sway over them appeared to his assembled guests in the curious and anomalous position of being unable to keep a drunken brawler from the very penetralia of his mansion.
Too well the squire knew the voice of the smith not to feel convinced that it was he, who in some freak of wilfulness or drunkenness was thus invading his gay saloons. Defy him, he dared not; kill him he dared not; nay, it was questionable if he dared even be rude to the burly, and perhaps infuriated savage. A deep groan burst from Learmont’s labouring breast, as the conviction came across his mind quicker than we can relate the various steps of thought that led to it, that he would always be subject to these visitations, even in his hours of greatest enjoyment, when he was making the attempt to drown reflections in a crowd of the gay and the trifling.
None of the guests seemed disposed to place themselves in the way of Britton, and when the contest ceased between him and the servants, which it did at the door of the ball-room, he found himself free and unimpeded.
With a reeling gait he walked to the very centre of the splendid apartment, and for the space of about a minute he seemed confused and half stupified by the glare of light around; and the brilliant costumes and decorations that everywhere met his drunken gaze.
“Hulloa!” he cried at length, “the squire’s coming out at last. A dance, by h—ll I’m your man—I’ll dance with the best of you; I tread on no one’s toes if they avoid mine; I’ve had a little drop, but what matters? There are lights enough here to make a sober man’s brain dance again; what do you all stare at me for? I came with a message from the Old Smithy—tell that to the squire, and then hear what he says. Ho—ho—ho! We are old friends, very old friends, but he didn’t invite me to-night: it was d—d shabby; but here I am—the messenger from the Old Smithy, at ten guineas a visit. What do you think of that? If anybody says I’m drunk, I’ll take his life—his life I say—Hurrah for a dance! A dance! Hurrah!”
Britton had all the ball-room nearly to himself, for the guests shrank from him on all sides, and Learmont seemed for the moment completely unmanned and powerless.
Shaking off, however, by a violent effort the confusion of his senses, he suddenly advanced and confronted Britton.
The smith shrunk for a moment before the pale face of Learmont, in which was an expression of concentrated rage and hate that might well have appalled even a far bolder man.
Britton, however, was not in a state to admit of any moral control; drink was inflaming his brain, and there was a recklessness about him that, if not carefully treated, might involve both Learmont and himself in one common destruction.
The haughty squire felt fully the precarious situation in which he stood, and therefore was it that in the midst of a wild passion that made him tremble, he felt obliged to temporise with the man whose life’s blood flowing at his feet would scarcely have satisfied his feelings of awful hatred.
“Andrew Britton,” he said, in a half-choked voice, which he wished no one to hear but the smith.
“Well, Squire Learmont,” replied the ruffian, endeavouring to stand steadily the fixed gaze of the other.
“For your own life’s sake go away from here—you are drunk, and know not what you do.”
“Drunk, am I? Well, there’s many a better man been drunk before to-day!”
“What do you want?”
“Ten—ten—guineas and—a (hiccup) dance; I tell you what it is—it’s infernally unfriendly of you not to invite me. You know I’m a gentleman now. Never—never—never—to show me—your nobles—curse me if I—stand it. In—introduce me to the rest of the gentlefolks, can’t you, and be d—d to you. I—I ain’t such a sneak as that cursed Jacob Gray. No—no, I’m a gentleman every—every inch a gentleman. Hurrah! Hurrah!”
“Are you mad?” said Learmont.
To his agony the squire now observed that, impelled by curiosity, his guests were slowly creeping closer around him and the savage smith. He raised his voice suddenly and cried—
“My noble and honoured guests, this is a poor mad fellow, who from motives of charity, I support. I do not like to commit violence on one so afflicted by Heaven. Here, take this purse and go.”
“Oh, yes,” hiccupped Britton; “that’s all very well as regards the purse, but I don’t mean to go yet. I’ll have a dance. Let me see—I’ve got something to say to you, squire.”
“Another time,” cried Learmont.
“No—no—time like the present. Life is so very un—uncertain. I tell you what—you—you recollect that infernal Frank Hartleton?”
“Mad,—mad—quite mad,” said Learmont, striving to stop the smith.
“Beware,” said Britton, with drunken solemnity. “I say beware. He’s on the look-out—curse him—and that infernal mad woman too—curse her! They want to hang us—curse all the world. Beware, I say, that’s all—never mind me, ladies and gentlemen—I’m a gentleman—I live on my means—I’m King Britton, and hope to see you all at the Chequers. Thank you ma’am.”
This last observation was addressed to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who having given her head a toss of disdain upon meeting the anxious eye of the confounded Learmont, imparted such a nodding reaction for some seconds to her feathers that the intoxicated smith took it as a complimentary acknowledgment of his invitation to the Chequers.
Some of the guests now began to laugh, and others to complain to each other in no very measured terms of the intrusion among them, of so very questionable a character as the smith appeared to be; while several, among whom were the Brereton family, made a move to depart, fearful how the singular scene would end.
For a moment Learmont had his hand on his sword hilt, and the turn of a hair would have induced him to plunge the weapon, at all risks, into the heart of Britton, but the latter seeing the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who he supposed had been so civil to him, about to depart, made a sudden rush forward, and before any one could be aware of his intentions, he clasped her round the waist with one arm, and commenced dragging her along in a wild dance, entirely of his own invention. A general rush now took place to rescue the shrieking female, and a scene ensued of the greatest confusion.—
Britton grew absolutely furious, and dealt blows and oaths about him with equal liberality. In the midst of all this Learmont was in a state of mind bordering on distraction. He rushed into the midst of the throng, and seizing Britton by the throat, tore him from among the guests, nor relaxed his hold till he had dragged him through the outer saloon, and flung him into a small ante-room, the door of which he locked and placed the key in his pocket. Partly with the fumes of what he had drunk, and partly with the heavy fall Learmont had given him, the smith dropped into a lethargic state of half insensibility and half sleep, so that at all events he was for a time quiet in the room where he was thrown.
Dispirited, angry, and his apparel disarranged, Learmont returned to his ball-room. His guests would not, however, be persuaded to remain, and despite all his protestations that the “madman” was properly secured, he could not restore the confidence or hilarity of the company.
Upon one excuse or another, they one and all departed, and not a single dance took place in the elaborately and expensively prepared ball-room of the ambitious and mortified squire.
With a forced civility he saw the last of his numerous guests to his door. The lights were still blazing in his saloons, but there was silence and loneliness in the midst of all his splendour, which now looked such a mockery of gaiety.
He sunk upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands for many minutes in an agony of painful reflection.
Learmont’s first grandfêtewas over, and a signal failure.