Ada, the Betrayed

Ada, the Betrayed;

or,

The Murder at the Old Smithy.

A Romance of Passion.

———

John Malcolm Rymer

PREFACE

Prefaces, like prologues, have nearly gone out of fashion; but the Editor of Lloyd’s Penny Weekly Miscellany feels, that upon the completion of the first volume of his labours, he is bound to say something to his patrons, if it is but to thank them most heartily and sincerely for a degree of patronage, such as he may venture to say, few, if any, periodical publications have been able to boast of. When we first launched our Miscellany upon the stream of time, we were gratified to find that the breath of popular applause filled its sails, and bore it gallantly forward past many a proud competitor; and we have found, by the experience of twelve months, that the fair wind that urged us onwards was not “a mere passing gale,” for each week has materially increased our circulation, until the Miscellany now occupies a place in the periodical literature of Great Britain (and, in fact, wherever the English language is spoken), which may well fill the hearts of both Publisher and Editor with the most grateful feelings towards their best friends—the Public.

Having said thus much of the past, it behoves us to say something of that which is to come. First and foremost then, those pens which have already received the meed of popular applause, will still continue to

“Weave their airy fictions”

in our pages. The Author of “Ada, the Betrayed; or, the Murder at the Old Smithy,” in particular, has several novelties in progress, which from time to time will appear.

Secondly,—We shall make it our study to maintain the high majesty of virtue over the turbulence of vice, and to make our pages, while they glow with the romantic and the chivalrous, so replete with true nobility of sentiment, that we shall, as hitherto, find our way, and maintain our place, among the young and pure of heart.

In conclusion, we can only add, that as we have done so will we do, and while Lloyd’s Penny Weekly Miscellany shall lose none of its present attractions, we pledge ourselves that neither expense, time, or trouble, shall be spared to add to it every attractive feature which may grow out of the intelligence and spirit of the age, our wish bring to render it a rational companion for all classes of persons. We must likewise, in some degree, claim for ourselves the merit, if we may be allowed the term, of laying before a large and intelligent class of readers, at a charge comparatively insignificant, those same pleasures of the imagination which have hitherto, to a great extent, only graced the polished leisure of the wealthy; and, at the same time that we have done so, we have found with unmingled satisfaction that correct tastes, glowing fancies, and an admirable perception of the poetical and the beautiful, are as well to be found by the humblest fire-sides, as in the lordly mansions of the great and the noble.

To our numerous Correspondents we have to return our sincere thanks for many literary favours, as well as for much friendly commendation they have been pleased to bestow upon our labours, and with a sanguine hope that we and our Readers shall proceed as pleasantly together to the year 1844, as we have to 1843, we gratefully thus introduce our first volume to their notice.

Ada, the Betrayed;

or,

The Murder at the Old Smithy.

A Romance of Passion.

———

Around the winter’s hearth the tale is told,

To lisping infancy and hoary age;

It is a story of strange passion—of grief and tears—

Of joy and love, and all the elements of mind

Which make us what we are.

Scott.

CHAPTER I.

The Storm.—The Old Smithy.—A Deed of Blood.—The Death Cry.—The Child of the Dead.—Remorse and Despair.

It was towards the close of the year 1795 that a storm, unequalled in duration and fury, swept over one of the most fertile districts of England, spreading consternation and dismay among the inhabitants of several villages, and destroying in a few short hours the hopes of many an industrious family, who looked to the nearly ripened grain of the fertile fields for their means of subsistence through the coming winter.

The day had been lowering and overcast. An unusual sultriness had pervaded the air, and although more than sixty miles of hill and dale laid between the spot to which we allude and the Northern Ocean, which washes the eastern shore of England, several sea birds (a most unwonted sight) had flown, screeching and wailing, over the rich corn-fields and promising orchards.

The day had worn gradually on, and it was not until the sun was lost amid a mass of fiery clouds in the glowing west that any precise indications of the approaching tempest presented themselves. Then, however, when the long shadows from the trees began to lose their identity in the general gloom of the rapidly approaching night, a singular moaning wind began to blow from the north-west.

The cattle showed alarm and uneasiness—the birds flew low and uncertainly—horses trembled in their stables, and the hoarse scream of various large birds of prey as they flew over the farm-house, or settled on the roofs, had a peculiarly discordant effect. It would seem as if there was something in the air which enabled the inferior animals to know and dread the awful strife of the elements which was about to ensue.

The glowing clouds in the west rapidly disappeared, and the night fell over the land as if a black pall had been suddenly cast over the face of Nature. The wind momentarily increased in violence. Now it moaned like an evil spirit round the gable ends of the houses; then again, with a wild whistle and a rushing sound, it would sweep past the latticed windows like a wild animal seeking its prey.

Occasionally there would be a lull in the tempest, and in one of these the heavens were lit up with a flash of lightning of such power and brilliancy, that all who saw it closed instantly their eyes in dismay, and trembled with apprehension. Then followed thunder—thunder that shook the houses to their foundations, and boomed and rattled in the sky with so awful a sound that many of the villagers sunk upon their knees to pray, for they thought the end of the world was at hand, and they should never see the blessed sun again. Mothers clasped their screaming children to their breasts, and wept in bitterness of heart. Strong men shook with fear, and when again the wind arose, and, like a giant’s arm, levelled hedges, trees, haystacks, and some houses, a cry of dismay arose from the villagers, and the bells were rung in the rural churches. Some screamed—some prayed—some wept and rung their hands. All was horror, uncertainty, and despair!

The storm had lasted several hours, and still, the forked lightning darted in livid streaks from cloud to cloud. The awful thunder filled the air with its hundred echoes, and the wind swept over a scene of desolation, for the smiling corn-fields were no more; the laden fruit trees were levelled with the soil, and many a cottage had its humble thatch torn off, and presented but its bare walls to the moaning blast.

The principle fury of the land storm seemed to have been levelled at a little village which occupied the gentle slope of a beautiful and fertile valley, some few miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and through the lowest portion of which a branch of the river Derwent wound its serpentine course. The village was called Learmont, from the name of a noble family who, since the Norman conquest, had been the owners of the land.

There was scarcely a house, from the humblest cottage to the lordly mansion of the Learmonts, which had not suffered by the hurricane; and to add to the dismay of the inhabitants, who in fear and dread had rushed from their homes, there arose about the hour of midnight the dreadful cry of fire!

That fearful cry struck terror to every heart, and those who had breath to shriek joined the shout, and “fire! fire!” passed from mouth to mouth, in all the different tones and cadences of fear and hopelessness.

All uncertainty as to the precise locality of the fire was soon removed, for the flames from a large irregular building, standing somewhat apart from the other houses, quickly marked it as the spot of the conflagration.

“It’s at the Old Smithy,” cried a dozen voices.

The words had scarcely passed their lips, when a woman darted into the centre of the throng, shrieking wildly,—

“Aye—it is at the Old Smithy! The time has come—I knew. I have told you all; you, and you, and you, I’ve told. Ha! Ha! Ha! Heaven has at last forged a bolt for the Old Smithy! Do you stand aghast! Can you put out yon light? No—no—no! I know you cannot. The Old Smithy gone at last. Ha! Ha! I am happy now—happy now! You do not stir. You are right—quite right. Let him, Andrew Britton—that’s his name—let him roast and writhe in the flames—let his skin blacken in curling lights—let his flesh drop from him in the hissing, roaring fire—let his bones whiten, and glow, and crackle into long white splinters, as they will—as I know they will; but I want to see it, my masters—I want to see it. Live—live and shriek, Andrew Britton, till I come. Hark! now. I hear him. Hark!—music—music—’tis music.”

She was about to bound off in the direction of the blazing house, leaving her listeners aghast at her terrible denunciations, when a man of forbidding aspect and Herculean build rushed into the midst of the throng of villagers round her, and with one blow of his clenched hand struck her insensible to the earth.

A cry of “shame! shame!” arose, and a young man stepping forward, exclaimed,—

“Unmanly ruffian! How dared you strike the woman? You know as well as all we that she is mad. Andrew Britton, you are a coward, and well you merit your name of ‘The Savage.’”

“Down with the savage!” cried several.

“He has killed poor Mad Maud,” said one.

“Is she not always crying out against me?” growled the ruffian. “Is there anything too bad for the old beldame to say of me, Andrew Britton?”

“Not dead! not dead!” suddenly cried she whom the villagers called Mad Maud, springing to her feet. “Mind ye all, Andrew Britton is to die before I do. Ha! Ha!—Not dead! To the Smithy—to the Smithy.”

She darted off in the direction of the blazing house, and, as if by one impulse, the villagers followed her, shouting,—

“To the Smithy—to the Smithy!”

The building, which was in flames, had at one time evidently been of a much higher character than its present appearance warranted. It consisted of a large uninhabited house, with two wings, one of which had been converted into a smithy, and was in the occupation of Andrew Britton, the smith, who stood high in favour of the then Squire Learmont, whose property the old house was.

The fire was in the other wing to that which had been converted into a smithy, and when the villagers arrived they found it so enveloped in flames, that any attempt to save it seemed perfectly in vain.

“Blood—blood is spilling,” cried Mad Maud, rushing close to the flaming building. “I heard it. A deed of blood! Hark!—hark!”

The villagers were horror-stricken by hearing piercing shrieks coming from the interior of the burning house.

“There!” cried the maniac exultingly; “that’s a death cry. Ha! Ha! Ha! Brave work—brave work. Andrew Britton, where are you?”

“Here,” cried the smith. “Look at me, all of you, and swear hereafter you saw me here while—while—”

“While the murder was doing!” cried Maud.

“Murder?” said the villagers, as if with one voice.

“Drivelling idiot!” roared Britton. “By—”

Before the oath could escape his lips, there dashed from among the burning ruins a figure which might well strike terror into every heart. It was that of a man, but so blackened and scorched was he by the fire that he scarcely looked human.

“Help! Help!” he screamed. “Murder! Murder!”

Every heart was paralysed as he dashed into the centre of the throng, screaming with pain.

“The child! The child!” he screamed. “The child of the dead—save her! Save her!”

Many hands were immediately stretched forward to take from his arms an infant that the villagers now perceived he carried.

He resigned his charge, and then flinging his arms above his head, he cried,—

“Save me—save me from myself—from the glance of the dead man’s eye—from blood save me. Oh, save me from conscience. The hell has begun.”

His last words rung faintly on the ears of the horrified crowd, for having given up the child, he then bounded onwards, and was soon lost to sight and hearing in the darkness of a plantation which grew on the border of the stream that watered the valley.

Britton, the smith, glared with eyes of fury after the shrieking fugitive, then clenching his hand, he shook it wildly in the air, and breathing a bitter curse, turned from the burning portion of the house, and dashed into the wing in which was the Smithy.

CHAPTER II.

The Lull of the Tempest.—Morning is Coming.—The Child of Mystery.—The Necklace.—A Surprise and a Disappearance.—The Inscription.—The Lord of Learmont.

The startling and singular events at the Old Smithy had the effect of distracting in some measure the attention of the affrighted inhabitants of Learmont from the fury of the tempest, which was still raging, although with diminished rage, around their humble dwellings.

The forked lightning was not so frequent in its flashes, and the thunder seemed to be passing away in the direction of the wind.

Still it was a night of terror, and it was not until the wind had sensibly abated, and a few heavy drops of rain fell splashing upon the ground, that the peasants ventured to re-enter their dwellings, with a hope that the storm had done its worst.

The child which had been brought from the burning house, in so awful and mysterious a manner appeared to be little more than one year old, and it was perfectly unknown to all in the village; neither could any one give a guess as to who the strange man could be, who with such frantic cries of pain and remorse, had appeared for a moment amongst them.

The wing of the ancient building in which the fire had originated, alone had suffered from the conflagration. It lay a heap of smouldering ruins, but the rest of the large rambling habitation, including the Smithy, was quite uninjured.

The child was surrendered by common consent to the care of a kind-hearted woman, by the name of Dame Tatton, who was a widow. She looked with an eye of trembling pity upon the little innocent who nestled in her bosom in sobbing fear.

The little girl, for such she was, showed evidently by her attire that she had been in the care of those of a far higher rank in life than the kind-hearted, but humble cottager, who now strove to allay her childish terror.

Around the neck of the infant was a small necklace of pearls, and about its attire generally there were ample indications of wealth.

The little innocent soon sobbed itself to sleep upon the breast of Dame Tatton, and the village gossips, after resolving in the morning to go in a body to the Squire Learmont and ask his advice, or rather commands, concerning the disposal of the babe that had been so mysteriously thrown upon their hands, dispersed to seek that repose they were so much in need of.

Every one naturally thought that Andrew Britton, the smith, knew something of the mysterious man and the child; but none would venture to the dwelling of “The Savage,” as he was generally called, to make an inquiry, for his ferocity was too well known not to be universally dreaded.

The storm had nearly gone. A heavy fall of rain was splashing on the meadows, and beaten down vegetation, and all was still in Learmont till the morning’s sun rose on the wreck which the tempest had made in the green valley that the day before was redolent of peace and plenty.

Young and old then sought the cottage of Dame Tatton. They knocked at first gently, then more loudly, but no one answered.

“My mind misgives me,” cried the young man who had the preceding evening spoken so boldly to the smith—“my mind misgives me; but there is something wrong. Let us force the door, my masters.”

“Nay, Frank,” said an old man. “The widow sleeps soundly after the storm. Ye are too hasty—far too hasty, Frank Hartleton.”

“Nay to thee!” cried the impetuous youth. “’Tis but a broken panel at the utmost, and we do force the dame’s door, and that we can any of us mend again. What say you masters?”

“Aye, truly,” replied a little man with a red night-cap—“spoken truly—most sagely spoken.”

“But will the squire approve of it, think ye?” suggested one.

“By my shears I thought not of that,” murmured the little man, who was the garment fashioner of Learmont.

“Knock again,” cried several.

Frank Hartleton knocked loudly, and shouted,—

“Dame Tatton—Dame Tatton, I say; hast taken a sleeping draught?”

No voice replied. All was as still as the grave within the cottage.

Frank now placed his foot against the frail door, and with one vigorous push he sent it flat upon the earthen floor of the cottage, and immediately striding over it, he entered the humble dwelling.

The villagers hesitated for a moment, in order to be quite sure there was no immediate danger in following Frank Hartleton, and then they quickly thronged the little cottage, which could boast of but two small apartments, so that the whole interior was in a very few minutes examined.

The cottage was tenantless. Dame Tatton and her infant charge had both disappeared.

The simple rustics gaped at each other in speechless amazement. The bed had evidently been occupied, but there was no sign of confusion or violence—all was orderly and neat—nothing was removed or disarranged. A canary bird was singing gaily in a wicker cage; a cat slept on the hearth; but the Widow Tatton and the mysterious child—now more mysterious than ever—had both disappeared.

“I cannot account for this,” said Frank Hartleton. “By Heavens it’s the most singular thing I ever heard of.”

“The place has a strange look,” cried one.

“A strange look!” said the rest in chorus. “So indeed it has.”

“Strange nonsense,” cried Frank. “So you are frightened all of you at an empty-room are you?”

“Master Frank,” suddenly shouted one, “look ye here, you were always a main scholar.”

Frank turned his attention to a part of the plaster wall indicated by him who spoke, and on it was traced, as if rapidly with a thumb or finger nail these words,—

“Help—the Squire and the Savage have—”

and that was all. Whoever had written that hurried scrawl had not had time to finish the sentence which would probably have thrown some light upon the inexplicable affair.

“There has been some foul play, I am convinced,” cried Frank. “My friends, let us go at once and confront the squire.”

“You need not go far, insolent hind!” cried a hoarse voice, and Frank turned suddenly to where the sound proceeded from, saw Squire Learmont himself standing upon the threshold of the cottage.

Squire Learmont of Learmont, only as he preferred being called, was a man far above the ordinary standard of height; his figure, however, was thin and emaciated, which, coupled with his height, gave him an ungainly appearance. His complexion was a dead white—there was nothing of the sallow or brown in it—it was ghastly white, and contrasting with his lank black hair which hung far down from his head straight and snake-like without the shadow of a curl, it had a hideous corpse-like appearance.

“I am glad,” said Frank, when he had recovered his first surprise at the sudden appearance of Learmont, “I am glad we have not far to go, for the business is urgent.”

Learmont waved his hand for him to proceed.

“Last night there was a storm,” continued Frank.

“Indeed!” sneered Learmont. “That is news this morning.”

Frank Hartleton felt his cheek flush with colour, but he controlled his passion and continued,—

“A wing of the old house adjoining the smithy was on fire—the house I mean that has been shut up so long because it is thought—”

“Who dared think?” cried Learmont, in a voice of violent anger. “Who dared think of me—”

“Of you, sir?”

“Aye—who dared—?”

“It was of the house I spoke.”

“But—but is it not my house, quibbler?” cried Learmont.

“Truly, sir.”

“Then on with your speech, sir, and draw no inferences from idle gossips. The wing of my house was on fire. Enough—what followed?”

“A man rushed from it in mortal agony of mind and body, carrying a child—”

“Well—well!”

“That child was given to the care of Dame Tatton, who dwelt in this cottage. Now child and dame have both disappeared.”

“I hear!” cried Learmont.

“What is to be done sir? You are the lord here.”

“And so, I presume,” sneered Learmont, “I must charge myself to bring back every old woman, who disappears from her hovel?”

“Here is an inscription on the wall,” said Frank, “which seems to refer—”

“Ah!” cried Learmont, striding forward, and reading the few words that had been scratched on the wall. “Well, what then?”

“That I ask you Squire Learmont.”

“Then I reply, nothing. Will you finish that sentence?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what further have you to say to me?”

Frank was rather confounded by the manner of the squire and was silent.

“Young man,” said Learmont, “your father did a service to the Learmonts.”

“I know it,” said Frank.

“In return for that service, the Learmonts gave him a patrimony, an estate, on the substance of which you live.”

“’Tis well known,” cried Frank. “The service was not overpaid. My father saved your father’s life.”

“True,” sneered Learmont, “but beware!”

“Beware of what?”

“The house that was powerful enough to make a peasant an independent man can again convert the audacious son of a peasant into a hind he should have been. Beware I say. You know my motto.”

“I do. ‘Constant till death!’”

“Constant till death. Constant in all things, including—revenge!”

“I scorn your threats,” cried Frank.

“Be it so,” said Learmont, as with an angry frown he strode to the door of the cottage. He turned upon the threshold, and said, “this hovel shall be closed for ever. Once more I say beware!”

With a haughty step he left the humble dwelling and took the road to his princely mansion.

CHAPTER III.

Ten Years have Flown.—The Old Rose Inn.—A Snow Storm.—Tom the Factotum.—An Arrival to the Old Smithy.—The Mysterious Stranger.

Ten years had rolled away since the storm, so memorable on account of the mysterious incidents connected with it, had swept over the village of Learmont. Ten weary years to some—to others, years of sunshine and joy—but of such chequered materials are human lives. But little change had taken place in the village. Some of the aged inhabitants had dropped into the silent tomb, and some of the young had grown grey with care—nothing, however, had occurred to cast any light upon the dark and mysterious occurrences of the well-remembered evening of the storm. The smith, Andrew Britton, still plied his hammer, and the mass of ruins which had once been the wing of the old house he inhabited, still lay as they had fallen—only they were overgrown with wild weeds, and coarse vegetation. The cottage of Dame Tatton remained uninhabited, for no one would live in what they considered an ill-omened and mysterious residence. It had, therefore, remained locked up since the unaccountable disappearance of its last occupant, and in course of time the villagers began to regard it with a superstitious feeling of fear—some even asserted that lights had been seen at night gleaming through the narrow casements—others reported that strange sounds of pain and distress had been heard proceeding from the humble dwelling—but whether or not these sights and sounds had really attacked the senses of the inhabitants of Learmont, certain it was that the cottage began by degrees to be regarded with as much dislike and dread as the large rambling habitation of Britton, the smith.

The child too—the infant who had been rescued from the flames was never heard of, and the storm—the fire—the burnt and shrieking man—the child and Dame Tatton, became all leading topics in the gossips of the villagers around their fire-sides, as well as in the old oaken parlour of the “Rose,” an ancient ale house, which stood in the very centre of Learmont, and had so stood for time out of mind.

It was in the depth of winter, ten years and some months after the storm, that a goodly collection of the village gossips—scandal-mongers and topers were seated around the cheerful, crackling, blazing fire in the before-mentioned oaken parlour of the “Rose.” The hour was waxing late, but the room was so warm and comfortable, the ale so good, and the conversation so deeply interesting, that no one seemed inclined to move, but upon the principle of “let well alone,” preferred the present good quarters to a turn out in the snow.

“How long has it snowed now, Tom?” said a jolly farmer-looking man, without taking the pipe from his capacious mouth.

“It beginned,” replied Tom the waiter, ostler, and fag in general. “It beginned at half arter eleven, and here’s a quarter arter ten. It’s snewed all that time.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said an old man. “Forty years ago, when I was a youngster, it used to think nothing of snowing for a week or a fortnight off hand.”

“Ah!” said another old man, shaking his head. “Snow now isn’t like the snow as used to be. It’s not so white, I know, for one thing—”

“Mayhap, daddy, your eyes arn’t so good?” said a good-looking young man who was the very picture of health and strength.

“I can tell you,” said the old man, with an air of indignation, “that in my days—that’s my young days, everything was different, snow and all.”

“You may say that,” remarked another. “When now shall we ever hear of a storm, such as that happened only ten years ago, and a matter of three months or thereby—eh?”

“You mean the time when Savage Britton had part of his old Smithy burnt?”

“The fire wasn’t near his Smithy,” said the old man; “I saw it, and I saw the mad fellow rush out with the child too.”

“We shall never know the rights of that business,” remarked another, “and since Frank Hartleton has gone to London, there’s no chance neither.”

“And you know who has shut himself up more than ever since.”

“The savage?”

“No—not he—some one else.”

“The squire?” said the young farmer.

“I mention no names,” said the old man, “mind I didn’t say the squire shuts himself up. Did I, Tom?”

“Not at all,” replied Tom. “Any ale wanted? Keep the pot a bilin.”

“And if you did say the squire shuts himself up,” cried the young farmer, “what then? We all know he shuts himself up, and room after room has been locked up, in Learmont house, till it’s a misery to look at the dirty windows.”

“That may be,” said the old man, “but mind I didn’t say so. Is it snowing still, Tom?”

“I believe ye,” cried Tom, pulling aside a little bit of red baize that hung by the window, as fast as ever. “It is a coming now.”

And so it was, for the large flakes of snow fell against the window with faint blows, and as far as the eye could reach was one uninterrupted field of pure white which lent an unnatural colour to the night.

“I think we may venture to remark,” said a little man who had hitherto sat silent in a corner next the fire-place, “that there won’t be many out to-night that have got a chimney-corner to crawl to.”

“That’s uncommonly true,” replied several in a breath. “Hark!” cried the young farmer, “there’s the clank of Britton’s hammer.”

“Aye, aye,” said the old man, who was so careful of speech. “In the worst weather he works hardest. I hear it—I hear it—and, friends, mind, I say nothing, but where does his work come from and when is it done, where does it go to—eh?”

“That’s the thing!” cried several. “You’ve hit the right nail on the head.”

“Mind, I said nothing—nothing at all,” cried the old man, resuming his pipe, with a self-satisfied air.

“I’ll say something, though,” cried the young farmer, “my opinion is, that he forges chains fer old Nick, and some day you’ll hear—”

Several heavy blows upon the outer door of the ale house, which was closed to keep out the snow, stopped the young farmer in his speech and attracted the attention of the whole company.

“Who’s that?” said one, looking round him. “We are all here.”

“House! House!” cried a deep hoarse voice, from without, and the blows on the door continued.

“Tom! Tom!” screamed the landlady, Mrs. Fairclaw, who was a buxom widow, fat, fair, and fifty, “Tom! You idle vagabond! Don’t you hear! There’s some one knocking—if it’s a tramper, tell him this is no house for him.”

Tom, with a knowing wink, proceeded to the door, and, in a few moments ushered into the warm parlour a tall man, who was so covered with snow, that it was difficult to make out what rank in life his appearance indicated.

He cast a hurried and uneasy glance round him, as he entered the parlour, and then taking a chair in silence, he turned to Tom, and said in a tremulous voice, “Brandy, if you please.”

“Shall I take your hat and dry it by the kitchen fire?” said Tom.

“No,” replied the stranger. “I—I must not stay long.” So saying he turned his chair, so as to leave his face very much in the shade, and sat perfectly silent.

“A rough night, sir,” remarked the young farmer.

“Eh?—yes remarkably fine,” replied the stranger.

“Fine?”

“Oh—the—the—snow you mean. Yes, very rough—very rough, indeed—I beg your pardon.”

The company looked very eagerly at each other, and then at the abstracted stranger in great wonderment and intense curiosity.

Tom now entered with the brandy. The stranger eagerly clutched the little pewter measure in which it was brought and toss’d off its contents at once. Then he drew a long breath, and turning to Tom, he said:—

“Stay—I—I want to know—”

“What?” said Tom, as the man paused a moment.

“Is—Andrew Britton—still—alive?”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“And does he,” continued the man, “does he still live at the old place?”

“The old Smithy?”

“Yes.“

“Oh, yes; he lives there still.”

“And—and is the squire—alive—”

“Ah! To be sure.”

“The smith,” said the young farmer, “still lives, sir, in his old place, part of which was burnt down ten years ago, or more.”

“Ten years!” murmured the stranger.

“Yes; the night there was a storm—”

The stranger rose, saying—

“Indeed! You talk of a storm as if there never had been but one.”

So saying he threw down a shilling to Tom, and hastily left the room.

The occupants of the parlour looked at each other in silence, and those who had pipes smoked away at such speed that in a few moments the room was full of dense blue vapour.

CHAPTER IV.

The Old Smithy.—A Lone Man.—The Alarm.—The Mysterious Conference.—Guilt and Misery.

It was the hammer of the smith which had sounded on the night air, and the clangour of which had reached the ears of the frequenters of the snug oaken parlour of the Rose Inn.

The Smithy was of great extent, for it occupied nearly the whole ground floor of the wing of the dilapidated mansion in which Britton resided.

There were about the stained windows and carved oaken chimney-piece ample evidences of ancient grandeur in the place, and it was not a little singular to notice the strange effect produced by the mixture of the rude implements of the smith with the remains of the former magnificence of the ancient hall.

A blazing fire was roaring on the hearth, and by it stood Andrew Britton, the smith, or “The Savage,” as he was called, in consequence of the known brutality of his disposition. There was no other light in the large apartment but what proceeded from the fire, and as it flared and roared up the spacious chimney it cast strange shadows on the dusky walls, and lit up the repulsive countenance of the smith with unearthly-looking brilliancy. A weighty forge hammer was in his hand, and he was busily turning in the glowing embers a piece of iron upon which he had been operating.

“Curses on his caution,” he muttered, as if following up some previous train of thought. “And yet—yet without the work—I think I might go mad; drink and work. Thus pass my days; aye, and my nights too. He is right there; I should go mad without the work. I drink—drink till my brain feels hot and scorching—then this relieves me—this hammer, and I fancy as I bring it clashing down upon the anvil that—ha! ha!—that some one’s head is underneath it. And most of all, is it rare and pleasant to imagine it his head, who turned a cowardly craven when he had work to do which required a cool head, and a quick hand. Curses on him! Curses!”

He lifted the immense hammer which no ordinary man could have wielded, and brought it down upon the anvil with so stunning a sound, that it awakened startling echoes all over the old house.

Suddenly the smith stood in the attitude of attention, for as the sounds he had himself produced died away, he fancied there mingled with them a knocking at the door of the smithy.

For a few moments he listened attentively, and then became confirmed in his opinion, that some one was knocking at his door.

“A visitor to me?” he muttered, “and at this hour—well, well—be it whom it may, he shall enter. Whether he goes forth again or not is another consideration. Men call me a savage. Let those beware who seek my den.”

He walked to the door of the smithy, and removing an iron bar which hung across it, he flung it wide open, saying, “Who knocks at Andrew Britton’s door?”

The mysterious stranger who had created so much sensation at the “Rose,” stood on the threshold. His form was clearly defined upon the snow, and the smith started as he said,—

“Andrew Britton, do you know me?”

“Know you?” said Britton.

“Aye! Look at me.”

The man took off his hat as he spoke, and stood in the full glare of the flickering fire light.

A dark scowl came over the brow of the smith, and he still continued silent while the man repeated, “Andrew Britton, do you know me?”

“Know you?” cried Britton, with a voice of rage almost goaded to fury. “Yes, I do know you—robber—thief—paltry wretch that had not courage—”

“Hush, Andrew Britton,” said the stranger. “I have travelled many weary miles to visit thee. From the moment that a stranger told me that the clank of your hammer still sounded through the village of Learmont, I guessed how you had been requited. I resolved to seek you, and tell you how to better your condition. I am here with such a purpose. Am I welcome? Or shall I turn from your door in anger, Andrew Britton? Speak at once.”

Owing to the position in which the man stood, the red glare of the smith’s fire fell full upon his working features, and after regarding them attentively for some moments, Britton spoke in a calmer tone than he had used before.

“I think I understand you now,” he said. “Come in—come in.”

“One word before I accept your hospitality,” said the stranger.

“Such conversation as ours,” remarked the smith, “is safest carried on within.”

“But what I have to say is safest said now, and more to the purpose, as I stand here upon your threshold.”

“Say on,” cried Britton, impatiently.

“’Tis three days’ journey by the quickest conveyances and the nearest road to where I have hidden my head for ten years—ten weary years. In my chamber lies a sealed packet, on which is written the date of my departure, and accompanying it are these words: ‘If I return not, or send no message with assurance of my safety by the time eight days have expired, take this packet to the nearest justice and bid him open and read its contents.’”

The dark countenance of the smith turned to a pallid hue as the stranger spoke, and his gigantic frame perceptibly trembled as he said in a low husky whisper, “And that packet contains—.”

“A confession.”

“You are cautious; but, you were safe without so deeply laid a plan.”

“I may have been; nay, I think I should have been safe when I explained to you, Britton, the motive of my journey hither; but the mind is never so free to act as when safety is doubly assured.”

“Come in—come in,” said Britton, “the night air is chilling, and the snow flakes dash upon the floor. Come in at once.”

“Freely,” said the stranger, stepping into the smith’s strange abode.

Britton carefully barred the door, and without speaking for a few moments, he threw coals upon his forge fire and stirred up the glowing embers until a cheerful blaze of light illuminated the whole interior of the smithy.

The stranger, from the moment of his entrance, had fixed his eyes upon a large oaken door at the further end of the ancient hall, and he continued to gaze at it, as if under the influence of some fascination which he could not resist.

“Britton“ he said at length, while a shudder for one instant convulsed his frame, “have you ever passed through that door since—since—”

“Since the night of the storm?” said Britton. “Yes, I have passed through it.”

“You are bold.”

“I had a motive, and since your candour has been such as to tell me of that little contrivance of yours about the packet you have left with such urgent directions, I will tell you my motive, and ha! Ha! We—we—shall better understand our relative situations.”

“What was the motive?”

“Can you form no guess?”

“I cannot; how—how should I Britton?”

“Did you lose nothing, ten years since?”

“Yes—yes—I did lose a knife—but not here—not here!”

“You did lose it here.”

“And you found it, good Britton, and will give it to me. ’Twas an old keepsake from a friend. You will give it to me, Andrew Britton?”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith in his discordant manner. “You know the mind is free when safety is doubly secured.”

“The knife—the knife!” cried the stranger, earnestly. “My name is—is—”

“On the handle,” added Britton, “which makes it all the more valuable. You say it was a keepsake. It shall be a keepsake still. I will keep it for my own sake. I would not barter it for its worth in gold.”

“Perhaps you have not got it.”

“Do not please yourself with such a supposition, I will show it to you.”

Britton walked to an old press which stood in an obscure and dark corner of the room, and then returned with a large knife in his hand, the blade of which opened and remained fast by touching a spring.

“Do you know that?” he said, holding it to the eyes of his visitor. The man groaned.

“Give it to me. Oh, give it to me, Britton,” he said.

“No,” said the smith. “You have taught me a lesson, I shall write a confession and wrap it round this knife with ample directions to the nearest justice, in case anything should happen to me. Do you understand, my friend?”

The man’s lips became white with fear, and he faltered—

“If—if you will not give it me—take it away—out of my sight with it. It makes my blood curdle in my veins, and a cold perspiration hangs upon my brow. Curses! Curses! That I should have come thus far to be so tortured.”

“Nay,” said the smith, in a tone of sneering exultation, “you shall be convinced. Look at that name upon the blood-stained haft.”

“Away! Away, with it,” shrieked the stranger, covering his eyes with his hands.

“Joseph Gray!” said Britton, reading the name on the knife. “Ha! Ha! Master Gray, is not this a damning evidence?”

“Away! I say—oh, God, take it away.”

“Nay, your curiosity shall be amply satisfied,” continued the smith, approaching his mouth closer to the ear of him who we shall henceforth call Gray. “It was a week before I—even I, savage Britton, as they call me, ventured to unbar that door, and when I did it was at midnight.”

Gray shook with emotion and groaned deeply.

“I knew the spot,” continued Britton, and he lowered his voice to a whisper, while deep sighs of anguish burst from the labouring breast of his listener. The snow pattered against the windows of the smithy—a howling wind swept round the ruined pile of building, and not more wild and awful was the winter’s storm without than the demoniac passions and fearful excitement of those two men of blood who conversed in anxious whispers in the Old Smithy, until the grey tints of morning began to streak with sober beauty the eastern sky.

CHAPTER V.

The Morning.—A Visit.—Blasted Hopes.—The Arranged Meeting.—The Packet.—And the Knife.

The snow storm had ceased, and a clear cold winter’s sun rose upon Learmont, making even stern winter look most beautiful. The snow hung in sparkling masses upon every tree and shrub, and in the valley where the village nestled, it was in some places many feet in depth. The little streamlet which ran through the village in the summer time, with a happy murmuring sound, was now still and voiceless, and scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding land. Curling masses of dense smoke arose from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. The robin sang his plaintive ditty on the window sills, and occasionally might be seen a group of children with their scanty garments repairing to the frozen stream to gambol on its slippery surface.

Far above every other habitation in the place, towered the feudal residence of the Learmonts. It was an ancient residence built in Gothic style of architecture, and its blackened walls and time-worn towers looked more than usually stern and desolate now that they were contrasted with the pure white patches of snow that had lodged on every projecting stone and window ledge.

In a chamber situated nearly in the very centre of the mansion, the windows of which were provided with painted blinds, representing the most beautiful and glowing Arcadian landscapes, and the temperature of which was raised fully to that of summer, sat the same tall, dark-browed man, who ten years before had visited the deserted hovel of the Widow Tatton. Time had not swept harmlessly over Squire Learmont. His raven locks were largely mixed with “hoary grey.” The deep olive of his complexion had given way to a sickly sallow tint, which was peculiarly disagreeable to look upon—but in all other respects the man was the same. There was the same contemptuous curl of the lip—the same angry contraction of the brow, and the same ever-shifting glance and restlessness of manner which betokened a heart ill at ease with itself.

An open letter lay before him which he occasionally referred to, as if to guide the wandering current of his thoughts, and after perusing several times he rose from his seat, and for a time walked backwards and for in the room in silence—then he spoke in indistinct and muttered sentences. “Surely,” he muttered, “I may at last venture to enjoy what I have plunged so deeply to obtain. What a vast accumulation of wealth have I not now in my grasp, and shall I longer hesitate? Have I not now the means to sit down by royalty and outvie its grandeur? I have—ample—ample. Again let me read the dear assurance of unbounded wealth. Truly, this money scrivener has done his duty with the large sums I have entrusted to his care. Let me see.”

He stood by the table, and again perused the letter in an audible voice.

Noble and Honoured Sir,—Agreeable to your most kind instructions I send an account of the disposal of all the moneys from time to time entrusted by your most noble worship, to the care of your most humble servant. Your honour will perceive by the annexed schedule, that like a river augmented by a thousand little streams, you honour’s real property has swollen to nearly one million sterling.

“A million,” cried Learmont, drawing himself up to his full height and casting a flashing glance around him. “A million pieces of those golden slaves that are ever ready to yield enjoyment. A million of those glittering sprites which are more powerful than the genii of old romance. Can I not now triumph? What refinement of life—what exquisite enjoyments can now be denied to me!”

The door now softly opened, and an old servant appeared.

“What now?” cried Learmont abruptly.

“Britton, the smith, comes for your worship’s orders,” said the servant.

A gloom spread itself over the countenance of Learmont.

“Show him this way,” he said, as he sank into a chair with his back to the light.

“He brings one with him, too, who craves to see your worship.”

“No! No!” cried Learmont, springing to his feet. “’Tis false—false as hell. Has he dared to—to—the villain!—His own destruction is as certain.”

The domestic looked amazed, but before he could make any remark, Britton the smith, accompanied by Jacob Gray, stood on the threshold of the door.

The hand of Learmont was plunged deep beneath the breast of his coat, as he said.

“Well? What—who is that?”

“A friend,” said Britton, in a low voice.

For a moment Learmont regarded the face of the smith with attentive earnestness, and then slowly withdrawing his hand, which had doubtless clasped some weapon of defence, he said to the servant, “Leave the room. Well, Britton; I—I am glad you have come about the—steel gauntlets. Leave the room, I say.”

The servant who had lingered from curiosity, reluctantly left and closed the door.

His curiosity, however, was far from satisfied, and after lingering a moment or two, he fairly knelt down outside the door and placed his ear as flat against the key-hole as it was possible so to do. A confused murmur of voices was all that by his utmost exertions he could hear.

“A plague on them,” he muttered. “If they would but get in a passion now and speak loud.”

His wish was gratified, for at the moment Learmont’s voice rose above its ordinary pitch, as he said, “A thousand pounds upon the assurance of the fact, beyond a doubt.”

The reply was too indistinct to hear, much to the torture of the servants and in another moment his curiosity received a disagreeable check by his master exclaiming, “I’ll get it, and return to you immediately,” and before Oliver, which was the old domestic’s name, could rise from his knees, the door opened, and his master nearly fell over him on the threshold.

“Ha!” cried Learmont, drawing back. “Fool, you have ensured your destruction.”

“Mercy, sir! Oh, mercy!” cried the old man.

Learmont took a sword from a corner of the room and unsheathed it.

“Hold, sir, a moment,” said Gray. “I do not think it possible he could hear much.”

“Dotard!” cried Learmont, to the trembling Oliver. “What could induce you to throw away the remnant of your worthless life by such folly?”

“Oh, sir, I heard nothing—I know nothing,” cried the old man, “I—I was only passing the door to—to go to the picture gallery, and stooped to pick up—a nail—that’s all, upon my word, sir.”

“Where is the nail?” said the smith.

“Here,” said Oliver, pointing to the oaken floor. “I thought it was loose, but found it fast.”

“It matters not,” said Learmont, suddenly casting the sword from him; “I don’t like even the most trifling affairs to be pryed into; but since you know all, Oliver, will you assist us?”

“Sir, I am at your service,” said Oliver; “but, on my soul, I heard nothing but your honour say you would get something.”

“Pooh,—pooh!” cried Learmont. “I forgive thee listening. Would money tempt you, Oliver?”

“To what, sir?” said Oliver, with such a look of real innocence, that Learmont turned aside, saying,—

“Enough—he knows nothing. Begone!”

With precipitation the old servant left the apartment, and when he was fairly gone, Learmont turned to his visitors and said,—

“Rest quiet till to-night. I will then meet you at the smithy.”

“That may scarcely be,” said the smith, “for this gentleman—this considerate Master Gray, must get hence again with all expedition.”

“There will be time, then,” said Gray, “and a day to spare.”

“Be it so, then,” said the smith.

“To-night at the Smithy,” again said Learmont.

“At what hour?”

“After midnight. I will tap thrice at your door. Reflect upon my offer, Gray; ’tis a large sum.”

Gray turned his small cunning eyes upon Learmont as he replied,—

“There is an old fable, of the Goose and the Golden Eggs. You cannot expect me to kill my goose so soon.”

“Nor can you expect me to comply constantly with extortionate demands,” replied Learmont, trembling with passion.

“We will settle all to-night,” said the smith. “Do not fail us, sir.”

“Be assured I will not. But recollect, I come to purchase the silence, not of a well kept secret, but of the grave.”

They parted, and once again the Squire of Learmont was alone with his own thoughts. He threw himself into a chair, with a deep groan, saying, “There must be more blood—more blood, ere I can dream of safety.”

CHAPTER VI.

Night Again.—The Ruins.—The Conference.—The Old Oaken Door.—The Resolve.

Great was the surprise in the village of Learmont at the non-appearance of the stranger who had arrived during the snow storm at the village. He had been seen with the smith proceeding to Learmont House, but that one should willingly take up even a day residence with Savage Britton, at the old Smithy, was quite beyond the comprehension of the simple villagers.

But such appeared, however, to be the fact, for every one was confident the stranger had not left Learmont, so it was quite clear he was with the smith.

Such was the terror which Britton and his house were held in that none ventured to go sufficiently near it to ascertain the fact, and the day passed away in endless conjectures as to what the stranger could by possibility want at Learmont, first, with the smith, and then with the squire. Night came without in the least assuaging the general curiosity, or adding any new food to it, and as the sun sunk in the far west, and the cold evening wind swept moaning and sighing among the leafless trees, the heavy clank of the smith’s hammer was heard as usual at intervals till near midnight.

Then when the clock in the high tower of Learmont struck twelve, a tall figure enveloped in an ample cloak stalked through the village, and took the direct route to the Old Smithy.

The night had set in very dark, there was no moonlight, for masses of heavy clouds obscured its light, although it was nearly at the full, and the long straggling building, one wing of which was inhabited by the smith, showed but faintly against the black sky.

The Squire of Learmont, for it was he, who at the silent hour of midnight, had stolen out to keep his appointment, paused when he reached the wing of the house which had been burnt down on the night of the storm, and the crumbling ruins of which remained by his orders just as they had fallen.

A shudder came ever his frame as he regarded them and he muttered, “Can I? Dare I leave this spot with the knowledge of what it conceals? And yet, I am surely safe now. If these men—these tools by which I have hewn my path to wealth; if these could be safely disposed of—then—ah, then, I might know peace. At least this anxious fever of wild apprehension that gnaws at my heart would subside, and if I had a pang it would be for the past and not from a dread of that which was to come.”

He folded his cloak closer around him, and with hasty steps passed onwards to the smithy.

Thrice he struck the heavy door with the hilt of his sword, and in a moment the smith’s voice from within called loudly, “Who knocks?”

“Learmont,” was the answer; the door was flung open and the squire stood as the stranger had stood the preceding evening in the glare of the fire from the smithy.

“You are punctual, sir,” said Gray, advancing with an air of mock ceremony.

Learmont waved his hand in reply, and stalked into the old hall.

“Now,” he said, when Britton had barred the door, “I am here. Make your proposition.”

“Are you not afraid, sir,” sneered Gray, “to trust your worshipful person alone with two such old acquaintances?”

“No,” answered Learmont fearlessly, “I know you both too well. You calculate. My life is valuable to you. My death, in the accomplishment of which you might get some chance injury yourselves, would be a perfectly gratuitous act.”

“Enough of this folly,” growled Britton. “Let us to business.”

“I persevere then in my offer,” said Learmont, with a slight trembling of his voice. “A thousand pounds.”

The smith was silent, but Gray spoke.

“We have decided, worshipful sir,” he said.

“And your decision is—”

“This. We think, with your worship, that London is the most delightful of cities, and we purpose to follow you thither; to live ever near you, and to trust to your liberality for our wants.”

For a moment it seemed, by the convulsive working of the countenance of Learmont, that he was about to burst into an uncontrollable fit of passion; but if such was his feeling he succeeded in suppressing it, and replied with an affectation of calmness, “Preposterous! You must think me weak, indeed, to be thus dictated to, Master Gray.”

“Then I must to London,” said Gray, “and my only regret is that I have wasted valuable time.”

“Look ye, Squire Learmont,” said Britton, folding his huge arms across his breast, and glaring with his ferocious eyes in the face of his patron. “I was to have been well paid for a black job. You know I have been ill paid, on the plea that it was not completed.”

“I have constantly supplied your wants,” said Learmont, shrinking under the savage gaze of the smith.

“I have not starved, truly,” continued Britton. “But now I will have wealth.”

“Wealth? How can I divide sufficient among us three to make you wealthy?”

“Master Gray,” continued Britton, “has a ready wit and the news he brings shall enrich us.”

“If I absolutely refuse?“

“Then we bargain for impunity for the past, while we—”

“Denounce me?”

“Exactly.”

“And to what extent, most considerate gentlemen, do you contemplate making me your banker?”

“More or less as the case may be,” said Gray; “but we will be moderate in a gentlemanly way. Eh, Britton?”

“Certainly,” growled Britton, with the laugh of a hyena.

“The sum! The sum!” said, Learmont, impatiently.

“Five hundred pounds each as a start,” said Jacob Gray, with the most unblushing effrontery.

“Enormous!” cried Learmont.

“As you please, sir. Our conference then is over.”

“Britton, answer me one question,” said the squire.

“A dozen, if you please,” replied the smith.

“Have you been through that doorway, since—”

“I have, Squire Learmont.”

“And in what state—”

“Can you venture to look for yourself?” said the smith, with a sneer.

Learmont hesitated, and then said, “I can. Give me a light.”

The smith lit a lamp and handed it to the squire, along with a key.

“Can you give me any directions?” said Learmont.

“Take the second passage to your right and look closely on the ground as you go on.”

Learmont took the lamp and advanced to the old oaken door. His hand trembled as he turned the rusty lock, and in another moment he had passed through, and was lost to the sight of the confederates in the smithy.

In less than two minutes, he returned and staggered to a seat.

“You have seen it?” said Britton.

“No,” answered Learmont. “I—I thought I had the nerve—but for my life I could not proceed three steps in that awful place.”

“Do you consent now to our conditions?” asked Gray.

“Who has the—the papers?”

“I,” replied Britton.

“And I a more dreaded secret,” still whispered Gray.

“I—I consent,” said Learmont. “I consent.”

CHAPTER VII.

The Conference, Continued.—Mutual Security.—The Oaken Door and the Strange Appearance.—Mysteries Thicken.

For several minutes neither of the three men whose crimes had brought them into such strange fellowship, spoke. They regarded each with the most strange and mixed emotions. Upon the face of the haughty Lord of Learmont were pride, hate, and fear, each struggling for mastery. The smith looked, as he always looked, brutally ferocious, but upon this occasion there was an air of exultant villany upon his swarthy visage, which made him like a fiend in human shape. Gray, the cautious and politic villain, with just sufficient relenting in his cold heart to make him stop short at the consummation of some dark deed, while he waded recklessly through all the preliminary proceedings to it; he, too, wore a triumphant look, but it was one strangely mingled with suspicion and doubt, whether or not some sudden occurrence would damp his joy, and turn his self-congratulations to laments.

He was the first to break the silence.

“Had we not now better separate?” he said. “We can see you on the morrow, squire.”

“There is yet one thing which remains to be considered,” said Learmont, in a low voice.

“What is that?” cried the smith.

“When we are all gone, may not some one’s curiosity be prompted to visit this house?”

“That is true,” said Gray, turning pale.

“If they do,” cried Britton, “they shall find nothing; I will see to that.”

“Let it be so, then,” said Learmont, rising.

“Before we separate now,” interposed Gray, “there is one thing which we should all feel thoroughly assured, and that is, that our mutual safety depends upon our mutual preservation; that is, I mean, if one falls the others are in danger.”

“We understand that, most politic Master Gray,” sneered Learmont, as he clasped his cloak, preparatory to leaving the smithy.

“Perhaps, not fully,” said Gray.

“I am sure, not fully,” cried Britton, with a hoarse laugh. “I have a hold upon our good friend the squire, which I will not even trust to the good-keeping of Master Jacob Gray.”

“Ha!” cried Learmont, turning ghastly pale. “What—what mean you?”

“This way,” said the smith, beckoning the squire to the further end of the apartment. Learmont obeyed the invitation, and whatever was the communication he received, it was conveyed very briefly, for he suddenly exclaimed—

“Enough! enough!” and strode to the door.

“Your worshipful squireship,” said Gray, “will always please to recollect that my little packet, that is at home, would be an exceedingly awkward revelation, should anything happen to me.”

“Hear me, both of you!” cried Learmont, turning with flashing eyes upon the two men who so mocked him with their power. “I know;—I admit that you both possess secrets that would prove my destruction; aye, my death. We do understand one another, and we may as well speak openly. What you would say is this, Jacob Gray, that I dare not for my own safety take your vile life; and you the same, Britton; you have me in your toils, I grant it; there needs no insinuations. We have waded through too much blood to feel any delicacy of speech towards each other. You have power, but beware how you use it, or you will rouse a devil that you cannot quell again. Be moderate and faithful, and it will not be worth my while to seek for safe means for your destruction. Drive me too far, and you perish, though I call on hell to aid me!”

So saying, without waiting for an answer, he strode from the smithy with his face distorted by passion, leaving the two confederates, who had not expected such a burst of fury, abashed, even in spite of their deep villanies and abounding craft.

“Gray!” said the smith, after a few moments’ silence.

Jacob Gray started and cried, “What shall we do now? Squire Learmont is a man of wild passion.”

“What is his wild passion to us?” said Britton; “we have the means of stripping him of his wealth, and leading him to a scaffold.”

“But you forget, Master Britton, that upon that same scaffold you and I would be accommodated with prominent situations.”

“Pshaw!” cried the smith. “That is a thought that does not haunt me. We are as adventurous miners, Gray, who have suddenly hit upon a vein of wealth, which it requires but ordinary skill to work to our mutual profit.”

“True,” said Gray, “and we will work it, always my friend, Britton, remembering that we are so situated that we stand or fall together.”

“Agreed,” cried the smith. “If I fall I care not who stands; only thus much I will take pains to do—drag all I can within the sphere of my own ruin.”

“You are very considerate,” said Gray. “And now you must recollect that my absence from London must be limited. There is danger in a longer stay.”

“Away, then, with you at once.”

“What! leave Learmont with nothing but sounding promises, and an empty purse? No, Britton. I must again see Squire Learmont, before I take my leave of this place, which I hate.”

“True,” said the smith. “And before you go, there is another small matter in which I claim your assistance.”

“What is that?”

“Beyond that ancient door is a sight which must be placed beyond human recognition.”

Gray turned ghastly pale, as he said, “Britton, your nerves are strong. You will feel little in—in—disposing securely of whatever is there that would blast the gaze of another.”

“Jacob Gray,” said Britton in a determined tone, “you share the advantages. You have by your cunning so hedged yourself in with precautions, that I, even I, feel how impolitic it would be to scatter your brains with yon forge-hammer.”

Gray started to his feet, as he exclaimed:

“You surely did not mean to murder me?”

“I did!” roared the smith. “And now, Jacob Gray, we understand each other, and you know you are safe with me. But I will have no flinching, there is a work to be performed which you shall aid in, although you shrink from it as you would from the mouth of hell. If it turn your blood to liquid flame you shall do it. If your reason fail you at the ghastly sight, for ghastly it is, you shall do it; nay, should you die in gasping terror, and involve me and Learmont in one common destruction by the wily narrative you have left in London, you shall do it.”

“Spare me! spare me!” said Gray.

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith, with a discordant yell that echoed through the lofty hall. “Spare you? spare Jacob Gray?”

“I implore you,” cried Gray. “Spare me this task and I will pay you handsomely.”

“You forget,” said Britton “that I have a better-filled purse than yours to apply to. I love money, because it is enjoyment and power, but I have my fancies, and one of them is, that you shall do your full share of this necessary work. Your safety, as well as mine, demands that it should be done. Any prying rustic who could so far call upon his curiosity as to master his fears and penetrate from this hall through yon door, would find food for gossip and inquiry, that would raise a spirit, even all the wealth of Learmont could not quell. It must be done, I say, and by the infernal powers you shall do it.”

Gray shuddered, and he said in a low voice, “When shall we again see Learmont?”

“By the morning’s light,” answered the smith, “I will take you to the mansion by a secret means, known only to myself. You can then procure the means you immediately require. He dare not refuse you, and post-horses will carry you to London, in ample time to take possession of the little document you have so providentially left behind you.”

“Yes—yes,” said Gray. “Oh, yes, there will be time and—and Britton, I will hand to you one-half of the sum that I procure from Learmont’s fears, if—if you will do this work that must be done alone.”

“No!” cried Britton. “A hundred times, no! The world’s wealth, Jacob Gray, should not tempt me to let you off.”

He took a flambeau from a corner as he spoke, and lighting it by the forge fire, he held it high above his head, and while its flickering light cast many dancing shadows upon the time-blackened walls of the Old Smithy, he pointed to the oaken door, and exclaimed to the trembling Gray:—

“Come, now, at once. ’Tis a work should be done at such an hour as this.”

“Mercy! mercy!” cried Gray, clasping his hands.

“Rare sport! rare sport!” shouted the smith, in an ecstasy of mirth. “Come on.”

“Britton, you do not mean it; I beseech, I implore.”

“Come on!” roared the smith.

“On my knees, I beg—”

“Coward! Come on! I could revile thee, trembling wretch, but that it delights my very soul to see you suffer such mortal agony. Come on; you knew him once. Come on, I say, and see if you could recognise him now.”

Holding the torch in one hand, so as to throw a red glare of light over the vast apartment, the smith clutched with the other the trembling companion of his guilt, and dragged him with irresistible force towards the oaken door. In vain did Gray beseech for mercy. In vain did he beg and implore, and pray to be released. And now they reached the door, and he clung to the damp wall and screamed, but the smith heeded him not; he answered him but with shouts and wild laughter, and lifting his foot he, with one heavy kick, dashed the door open.

About two paces within the entrance stood a figure, tall and erect. The glare from the torch fell upon it for one moment; with a shriek of the most horrifying description, Gray fell insensible to the ground, and even the iron nerves of the smith were shaken: the flambeau dropped from his hand, and with a cry of surprise and horror he rushed from the spot, trampling in his way upon the prostrate form of Gray, nor stopping till he stood at the further end of the now gloomy hall, with the outer door in his hand.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Mansion.—Offers of Magnitude.—The Double Plot.

Who or what the form was that so unexpectedly met the terrified gaze of the savage smith, and his more nervous and timid companion in the Old Smithy, we must leave to be discovered in the progress of our eventful and strange narrative.

By the first gray tint of morning light, there sat three persons in a small room of the mansion of Learmont; they were the smith, Gray, and the squire himself. A quantity of money lay upon the table before them, upon which Gray’s eyes were fixed with eager expression. The smith was evidently not indifferent to the sparkling treasure before him, but he did not exhibit his feelings so openly as Jacob Gray, while the Lord of Learmont himself sat with his back to the dim light in moody silence.

“I shall be off,” cried Gray, “before another cock can proclaim the day is coming.”

Learmont merely inclined his head.

“And I,” said Britton, “leave here for London in the course of the day.”

“Once more,” said Learmont, in a deep hollow voice—“once more I offer you the large sum I have mentioned, if you will accede to my two propositions.”

“No sir,” replied Gray, “I say no.”

“And you, Britton?”

“I say no, likewise,” replied the smith.

“I double my offer,” cried Learmont.

“Double?” echoed Gray.

“Aye, double. Let me but be sure that he is no more, and upon your arrival in any part of America you may choose, you will find an order there for the amount.”

“No! No!” cried Britton.

“’Tis a large sum, a very large sum,” murmured Gray.

“Hark ye!” cried Learmont, his face glowing with excitement. “Hark ye! your presence will be my curse. Every time I see you will blast my eyes with the remembrance of what I intend to forget in the vortex of pleasure. My double offer amounts to no less a sum than two thousand pounds to each of you. Once more, I raise your price, I will make those sums three thousand each.”

“It is useless,” said Britton. “A night at the gaming table, and we are beggars again. No, Learmont, there is nothing like a constant resource.”

“Very true,” said Gray. “That is exceedingly true; besides; my feelings would not allow me to take the life of—of—”

“Your feelings?” cried Learmont. “Wretch! If among us three there be one more doubly damned by crime than another, that one is Jacob Gray. If there be one villain more coldly calculating than another, it is thou. Talk of thy feelings? thou sneaking ruffian—thou shrinking cut-throat!”

The smith threw himself back in his chair, and burst into a peal of uproarious laughter.

“Capital! Oh, capital!” he cried. “That’s you, good, politic Master Gray. Ho! Ho! How well we all understand each other! There are no needless delicacies. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Gray rose from his chair without saying a word, but his very lips were pale with suppressed rage. He hastily collected the money that lay before him, and having bestowed it away in safety, he cast a malignant scowl upon Learmont, and said,—“We shall meet again soon, sir, when, should you happen to raise your voice do high, there may be listeners, who will say we judge of Learmont by his company. Now to London.” So saying, without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

The dark eyes of the Squire of Learmont flashed with rage, as Gray gave utterance to this taunt, and when the last echo of his retreating footsteps had died away, Britton broke the silence that ensued, by saying,—

“Yon knave knows his power.”

“Aye, does he!” cried Learmont, striking the table with his clenched hand. “But we, Britton, are not altogether powerless.”

“What can we do?” said the smith.

“Jacob Gray and his secret must perish together.”

“With all my heart, squire, but the fellow’s caution is so excessive, that we are more interested in his preservation than his destruction.”

“True,” replied Learmont. “His caution is great, as you say, but there are times when the most cautious are off their guard. Remember this, Britton, that every guinea that finds its way into the purse of Jacob Gray, is a guinea torn from you.”

“I know it,” cried the smith, “and I would have scattered his brains upon the hearth-stone of the Old Smithy, but that he averred he had taken the precaution of leaving the written statement of all he knew at home, to be opened if he returned not within a given time, and although I doubted that he had done so, even to the verge of positive disbelief, yet was the risk too great, and I let him live.”

“For a time—only for a time,” said Learmont.

A grim smile crossed the face of Britton, as he said;

“Should Jacob Gray die suddenly, and leave no trace behind, him, shall I be entitled to the whole of what is now divided?”

“You shall,” cried Learmont, eagerly. “Assure me of the death of this man, who, from my soul, I abhor, and I will add to rather than diminish the sum, which will now be divided between you, and further, mark me, Master Britton. Should you find it in your way to dispose quietly and surely of—of that one being who stands between me and the assurance of my safety—”

“You mean the boy?”

“I do.”

“It would be worth a large price, Squire Learmont, to rid you of Jacob Gray—the boy, and place in your hands the document which the wily Jacob has composed.”

“It would be worth a price,” cried Learmont, “so high a price that—that, Britton, you should yourself name it, and then, be it what it might, couple it with but the condition that you leave England for ever, and it is yours.”

“’Tis a tempting offer,” said the smith.

“I mean it to be such,” replied Learmont. “Insinuate yourself, Britton, into the confidence of this man, Gray; steal his very heart’s inmost secrets; make common cause with him; get inmates at his home, and then—then take some propitious moment to possess yourself of his written confession, if he have really produced one, and crush him at a blow.”

“I should name thousands as the price of such a piece of work,” said the smith.

“Name thousands, if you will. You shall have them.”

“Agreed, then, Squire Learmont, I accept the work. We shall meet in London.”

“Yes, in London.”

“And in the meantime these shining pieces will make a gentleman of Britton, the smith,” said the ruffian, as he took from the table a number of gold pieces. “Fare you well, squire! You are liberal at last.”

“Farewell,” said Learmont. “To-morrow evening I shall be in London.”

“And I likewise. Whenever I seek your worship’s presence I will send a message to you in these words—‘A message from the Old Smithy.’”

A dark scowl passed over the face of Learmont; but before he could object to the pass-words which the brutal smith had adopted, he had left the room, and the wealthy but ill-at-ease owner of Learmont and its huge possessions was left to the communion of his own brooding thoughts.

For a time he sat in silence, with his head resting upon his hand. Then he rose and paced the apartment with unequal strides, muttering to himself in disjointed sentences.

“Yes—yes,” he said, “this is politic—most politic. If Britton can be so far wrought upon by his love of gold as to destroy this Jacob Gray, and bring me his written confession, all will be well. Ha! Ha! Good Master Britton, I will be well prepared for thee on that auspicious and eventful day. You shall have your reward. You shall assure me, convince me, past a doubt, that I am rid of Gray, and then a dagger shall be found to reach your own heart. ’Tis well—exceedingly well. These knaves will destroy each other in this way—Britton destroys Gray—and I destroy Britton, so all will be well. That child will then be innoxious. No one can know who it is: it will be a child of mystery; and if I, in my abundant charity, support it, my praises will be in the mouths of all good men. By the fiends! it shall be my slave—shall tend me—wait upon my every nod and beck. What a glorious revenge! Let me consider—those papers which Britton says he has, and which he likewise asserts prove me—what?—Illegitimate? I know I am illegitimate, but is there proof, and has he such proof? Let me recollect what he said—that Gray had taught him more craft, and he took care of the papers he had. Yes, that was it. Shall I employ Gray to do by Britton even as I have urged Britton to do by Gray? I will—I will—it is a master-stroke. I cannot well deal with the two, but whichever succeeds in being the destroyer of the other will, at least, rid me of one-half my trouble. It shall be so—it shall be so.”

So saying, with a smile of anticipated triumph in his face, Learmont left the room.

CHAPTER IX.

London in 1742.—Gray’s Home.—The Child.—The Voice of Conscience.—A Visit.

The course of our narrative compels us now to leave the little village of Learmont and all its mysteries to direct the reader’s attention to the great metropolis, not as it is now, crowded with costly buildings, and its shops vying with palaces in splendour, but as it was a hundred years since, before Regent-street was thought of, and when we were still enjoying that piece of wisdom of our dear ancestors which induced them to make every street as narrow as possible, every house as dark as possible, and everything as inconvenient as possible.

In a long narrow street, which began somewhere about where the County Fire Office now stands, and terminated Heaven knows where, inasmuch as it branched off into a thousand intricacies of lanes, courts, and alleys, there stood one house in particular, to which we wish to call attention. It was a narrow, gloomy-looking habitation, and stood wedged in between two shops of very questionable character.

The person who rented this house was a Mistress Bridget Strangeways, and she did not belie her name, for her ways were strange indeed. This lady (from courtesy) professed to be a widow and she gained a very comfortable subsistence by letting to anybody and everybody the various furnished apartments in her house. With the curious collection of lodgers which Mrs. Strangeways had in her house on the occasion to which we refer—namely, the winter of 1742—we have little or nothing to do. The only one of her lodgers to whom we shall at present introduce the reader, was sitting alone in a back room boasting but of few comforts, and the walls of which were of a deep brown colour from age.

Still, if the furniture and appointments of the room were few, mean, and scanty, everything was arranged with great neatness and order. The hearth was cleanly swept, the little fire that blazed in the small grate was carefully tended, the windows were scrupulously clean, and it was clear that the most had been made of the scanty means of comfort which the place afforded.

Seated in a high-backed, ancient-looking chair, was a boy reading. His face was inclined towards his book, and a mass of raven curls, which he held from covering his face with his hand, fell, however, sufficiently over his countenance to hide it from observation. His figure was slight in the extreme, and the long tapered fingers which held back the tresses of his hair, were exquisitely white and delicate. The dress of the period was ill-suited to set off the figure to advantage, but still cumbrous and ungraceful, as was the long-flapped waistcoat, broad-skirted coat, and heavy shoe-buckles, no one could look for a moment upon that young boy without confessing him to be eminently handsome.

He was most intently engaged upon his book, and he moved neither hand nor foot for many minutes, so absorbed was he in the narrative he was reading. Suddenly, however, he lifted his head, and shaking back from his brow the clustering hair, he cried in a voice of enthusiasm,—

“Oh, what a dear romance! How these treasures of books cheat the hours of their weariness.”

As he spoke he turned his head to the window. What a world of intelligence and gentle beauty was in that face! It was a face to gaze at for hours and speculate upon.

“Five days my uncle has been gone now,” he said—“five whole days, and what should I have done without these dear books? How kind of Albert Seyton to lend them to me! I do love Albert Seyton, and if—if—no—no, I must not breathe that even to myself. Oh, Heavens! That I should be so unfortunate. When—oh, when will my uncle, who is so stern, and yet tender—so cruel, and yet sometimes so kind—when will he explain to me the awful mystery he hints at when with tears I urge him to let me—”

A low knock at the room door now attracted his attention, and the boy cried cheerfully,—

“Ha! I know that tap, ’Tis Albert. Come in—come in, Albert, I am here, and all alone.”

The door was immediately opened, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen years of age, whose long flaxen hair and ruddy complexion proclaimed him to be of true Saxon origin, bounded into the room.

“Your uncle still absent, Harry?” he cried.

“Yes,” replied the lad who had been reading. “Five days now, Albert, he has been gone. What should I have done without you?”

“You know I love you, Harry Gray,” said Seyton. “You are very young, but you are a great deal more sensible than many lads of twice your age.”

“I’m past eleven!” said he who was called Harry Gray.

“That’s a great age,” said the other, laughing. “If you don’t think your uncle would pop in unawares, I would sit with you an hour. My poor father is out again. Ah, Harry, he still hopes to procure a recompense from the count. He lost his all in the cause of the present royal family, and now you see they have left him and myself to starve. It’s too bad!”

“It’s wicked,” said Harry Gray.

“So it is,” replied Albert. “But we won’t talk about it any more now.”

The lad who was the occupant of the apartment was silent for a few moments, then he said sadly,—

“Five days gone—five days. Albert, I think I will tell you a secret.”

“A secret, Harry?”

“Yes; it is a very strange one, and has made me very unhappy. Come here.”

He took the hand of his companion and led him to a corner of the room where there was a large, old-fashioned oaken chest, and taking from his breast a key, he opened it, and lifting the lid, disclosed lying at the bottom of it a roll of paper, and under that a large sealed packet.

Harry Gray lifted out the roll of paper and handed it to Albert, saying, “Read what is written there,” pointing to a few lines on the wrapper.

Albert read with surprise the following words:—

Wednesday.—Harry,—If I am not with you by twelve of the clock on next Wednesday, take this roll of papers to Sir Francis Hartleton, who lives in the Bird-cage. Walk by the Park. Do not let any hand but his own take it from you.

J.G.

“That’s very odd,” said Albert. “Sir Francis Hartleton is a great man. The king knighted him lately, I heard, and he is a magistrate. This is quite a mystery, my dear Harry. I dare say you are some prince, really.”

Harry looked up with a beaming smile in the face of his young friend, as he said,—

“Be I who or what I may, I shall never forget Albert Seyton.”

“You have a good heart, Harry,” cried Albert, throwing his arm affectionately round his young friend’s neck, “and when my father gets his own again, I will get him to ask your uncle to let you stay with us.”

“That would be joy,” said Harry, clasping his hands—“oh, such joy!”

“You are a little delicate thing, you know,” continued Albert, “and you want somebody to take care you are not affronted nor imposed upon; and woe to anybody who dared so much as to—”

The door was at this moment suddenly flung open, and, livid with rage, Jacob Gray stood on the threshold.

Harry gave a faint cry of alarm, and Albert started to his feet from kneeling by the box, and boldly confronted Gray.

“So,” cried Gray, striding into the room, and shutting the door violently behind him—“so, it is thus I find you engaged!”

“Sir,” said Albert Seyton, “if you have any fault to find, find it with me and not with Harry. If he has done wrong, it was my fault; and—and—”

“And what, young sir?”

“I suppose I must fight you,” added Albert.

“Brat! beggar’s brat!” shrieked Gray, rushing towards the box. “What have you seen—what have you done?”

“Seen very little, and done nothing,” said Albert.

Gray aimed a blow at Harry, which was warded by Albert, who cried,—

“For shame, sir—for shame to strike him. By Heavens! Mr. Gray, if you hurt Harry I’ll just go to Sir Francis Hartleton, and tell him there is something that concerns him in your big box here.”

Jacob Gray stood with his aim uplifted, as if paralysed at this threat. He trembled violently, and sank into a chair. Several times he tried to speak, and at length he said, with a forced smile, which sat hideously upon his distorted features,—

“Well—well, it’s not much matter. Never mind, Harry, I—I have come back, you see, so there need be no appeal made to the kindness of Sir Francis in your behalf. It was—that is, the papers merely say you were an orphan, and ask him to do something for you: but no matter—no matter.”

“Then you forgive Harry?” said Seyton.

“Yes, yes—oh, yes.”

“Thank you, sir—thanks; he meant no wrong. Good-bye, dear Harry. Your uncle will say no more about it now.”

Harry Gray raised his head from the edge of the box, and his eyes were filled with tears. He took Albert’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

CHAPTER X.

The Disappearance.—Mrs. Bridget Strangeways and the Old Oaken Chest.—Albert’s Grief and Despair.

There were cries of pain and deep sobs heard proceeding from the room occupied by Jacob Gray long after Albert Seyton had left them. None of the inhabitants of the house thought it necessary to interfere, although it was shrewdly suspected that Master Gray was not very kind to his poor, delicate little nephew.

It’s a true adage that what is everybody’s business turns out to be nobody’s. Surely it was everybody’s business to interfere and prevent ill-usage in any shape, and yet no one did interfere; and Albert Seyton had left home in search of his father, so that poor Harry Gray had no friend.

The night set in cold and dreary, and before the evening had far advanced, Jacob Gray left the house, locking Harry in while he was gone, and presently returned with several bottles of wine under his arm. The neighbours then heard him alternately cursing, laughing, shouting, and singing till past midnight; then all became suddenly still, and those who had been kept awake by his voice went comfortably to sleep, while Mrs. Bridget Strangeways made a mental determination and a strong vow that the next morning she would give Mr. Jacob Gray notice to quit forthwith and at the same time take the opportunity of telling him “a piece of her mind,” that she would.

Now Mrs. Strangeways enjoyed nothing better than telling people “pieces of her mind,” and, by some strange fatality, such mental extracts were never of a complimentary character, and whatever charms the mind of Mrs. Strangeways might possess as a whole, it was quite well known that, given forth in “pieces” each piece was enough to set a city by the ears, and would have most surely come under the cognizance of that clause in the New Police Act, so Mrs. Strangeways made up her mind very composedly and comfortably to give Mr. Jacob Gray such a “hearing” as he never had in his life, and never would have again, except he provoked Mrs. Strangeways on some future occasion to an equal pitch of wrath.

The morning came, and Mrs. Bridget Strangeways having communicated her intentions with respect to Mr. Jacob Gray to a select few of her lodgers and neighbours, fortified herself with a tolerable dose of “cordial,” and setting her arms a-kimbo, she walked majestically up to the room of her troublesome lodger. She knocked and knocked, and knocked again; but Jacob Gray was obstinate, and would not say “come in;” so at length Mrs. Strangeways opened the door with a rush, and entered the room, exclaiming,—

“Muster Gray, I’d have you to know, Muster Gray, as this house is—”

The lady had got so far when she saw that there was no Muster Gray, to hear the piece of her mind, and her eyes dilated as she glanced round the room and saw nothing but vacancy.

On the table lay a little piece of paper, and on the little piece of paper lay some money. Mrs. Strangeways clutched at both, and, as she afterwards declared, “you might have knocked her down with a small feather” when she read,—

Mrs. Strangeways’ rent. Her lodger, Jacob Gray, is going to the other end of the world, and he has taken his nephew with him.

The lady gave a great shriek (after pocketing the money), which roused the house, and in a few minutes the room was full of company, among whom was Albert Seyton, with apprehension in his looks.

“Good Heavens!” he cried, “is anything the matter with Harry?”

“What is it—what is it?” cried a dozen voices at once.

“Oh, that villain, Jacob Gray!” gasped Mrs. Strangeways.

“Where is he?” cried everybody.

“At the other end of the world,” replied Mrs. Strangeways.

“Harry! Harry!—where are you?” shouted Albert, at once rushing into the little closet which had been the sleeping-chamber of the delicate and sensitive boy. All was still and empty. Harry’s little bed had evidently never been slept in. Jacob Gray’s was in the same state. Every little article that had belonged to them was removed. There was nothing in the rooms but what was the lawful property of Mrs. Strangeways, except the old oaken chest.

“That chest,” said Albert—”he has left that.”

“It’s mine,” cried Mrs. Strangeways. “The villain has run away, as you all see, and cheated a lone and defenceless, delicate female out of her lawful rent. Oh, the wretch!”

Albert Seyton sprang to the box. It was locked.

“I think we ought to see what’s in here,” he cried.

“Do you, Jackanapes?” screamed Mrs. Strangeways, who by no means wished, should there be anything worth having in the chest, to let every one know it. “I’d have you to know, Master Albert Seyton, as it’s no business of yours.”

“It’s locked,” cried Albert; “but the poker, I dare say, will open it.”

“Do you dare say the poker will open it!” screamed Mrs. Strangeways. “Let anybody touch it if they dare.”

So saying the lady, to make sure of her real or fancied prize, rushed forward and sat herself down on the old, chest with such a thump, that the crazy lid gave way, and with a shriek Mrs. Strangeways fell in a singular position into it.

When she was hauled out by the united exertions of everybody, it was satisfactorily discovered that the chest was empty. Albert Seyton saw at a glance that it was so, and he immediately left the deserted rooms in grief for the loss of his young friend Harry, to whom he felt warmly attached. He went to his father’s apartments, and throwing himself into a chair, he burst into tears, exclaiming—

“My poor Harry, I shall never see you again!”

Albert Seyton’s father had been a gentleman of considerable property, but he had lost all by his adherence to the royal family, who, now at the end, as they thought, of a civil war, were seated on the throne of England. In vain he had sought compensation. A scanty pension just sufficient to keep him and his only boy Albert from actual want, was all he could wring from the government, and now, day after day, he haunted the court with the hope of calling attention at some fortunate moment to his just claims.

He was out when all this conversation took place in the house, where circumstances had compelled him to take up his humble home.

While Albert was still suffering from the first real gush of heartfelt sorrow which had dimmed the brightness of his early youth, his father returned home, and seeing his son in tears, was at once alarmed and afflicted, nor could he be convinced that something had not happened until Albert had related to him the history of the oaken chest and what it had contained. This, coupled with the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Jacob Gray, led Mr. Seyton to think that there was a great deal more in the matter than met the eye.

Moreover, he had another reason which he did not disclose to Albert, but which the reader will know in its right place, for suspecting that a great mystery was connected in some way with Jacob Gray and his young nephew. Full of these thoughts, Mr. Seyton debated with himself whether it was his duty to inform Sir Francis Hartleton of all the circumstances; but then when he came to consider how bald and disjointed a narrative he had to tell, and how he must terminate it by saying that he had no clue whatever to the whereabouts of the parties who he suspected of he knew not what, he gave up, the idea as premature, and turning to his son, he said,—

“Albert, did young Harry Gray ever confide to you any particulars of his early life?”

“Never, father,” said Albert. “He always told me he was the child of mystery, and that his life was a romance. Then he would sigh and weep, and hope that the day would come when he could confide all to me. So, sir, I could not press him.”

“Press him!—certainly not. To have wormed his secret from him unwillingly would have been unjustifiable in the extreme. In truth, he was a gentle boy.”

“Oh, father, I loved him, dearly loved him.”

Mr. Seyton was silent for some moments, then beckoning his son to him, he whispered a few words in his ear, which brought the eloquent blood in a full rush to the cheeks of Albert, and he gasped rather than said, “Indeed, no father; I—I—never thought—”

“Then never mention what I have suggested, just now,” said Mr. Seyton, “till I give you leave, and Albert, depend upon my using my utmost exertions to endeavour to discover the mystery which envelopes the fate of your young friend.”

Albert listened to his father with rapt attention, when he threw himself into his arms, crying, “Oh, find them! Find them, and I shall be happy.”

“This very day shall be devoted to inquiries,” said Seyton. “I am greatly interested by all that has occurred, and perchance it will withdraw my mind from sorrows and disappointments of my own, to turn my mind and energies to unravel the mystery connected with your pretty playmate.”

Albert, looked his gratitude, and after the morning’s scanty meal was despatched, he saw his father depart upon his promised expedition with a heart elate with hope and expectant joy.

For a time the youthful Albert remained at home in deep thought; then he suddenly rose, saying, “Why should I be idle? I may do something in this matter. Just Heaven! If that bad man should have murdered him? Alas! My poor—poor Harry. My mind misgives me, that he loves you not. Oh, had I but some clue—some means of commencing in the right path of inquiry, I should then have some hope.”

So saying, with a desponding air, the youth left the house and wandered onwards without any definite idea of whither he was going or how he was to set about his self imposed task of endeavouring to discover the retreat of Jacob Gray and the young Harry.

CHAPTER XI.

Learmont in London.—The Endeavour to Drown Thought.—Life in 1742.—All is not Gold that Glitters.

Many spacious mansions which adorned the old city of Westminster at the date of our story have long since been swept from the ground to give place to more modern structures, and where the stately home of the noble or wealthy commoner reared its lofty walls are now to be seen but lines of streets, and the busy hum of commerce has superseded the stately aristocratic silence which used to reign undisturbed in many parts of the ancient district.

In a mansion of princely splendour, which has long since been pulled down to build some approaches to Westminster Bridge, dwelt the head of the house of Learmont, whenever business or inclination called him to the metropolis. In that house, however, as yet, the present Squire of Learmont had never resided. He had resided in deep seclusion ever since he had been acknowledged as the head of his house. A small part of his history was well known, but there were darker portions which the public eye might in vain attempt to fathom. He was a younger brother of the house he now represented, but his senior, from deep distress at the loss of a young and lovely wife in the first year of his marriage, had resolved by travelling in foreign countries, to endeavour to forget his irreparable loss, leaving the present squire in undisputed authority over his domains and extensive property. Then shortly came news of the decease, at Rome, of the elder brother. The present squire entered on his own account into undisputed possession of the vast accumulated property, for the relatives of the family were very few and very distant. This was all that was really known of the history of Squire Learmont, and his sudden determination, after nearly fourteen years of seclusion, to visit London, and launch out into a style of expensive living which, although it was well known he could afford, yet astonished everybody, were the themes of very general gossip. The old mansion had been hastily put in order for his reception. The complement of servants was greatly increased; an immense sum was spent in costly liveries and interior adornments; expectation was on the utmost stretch, and when Learmont did arrive and stalked into his ancient house, he created a scarcely less sensation than as if he had been some petty monarch.

No one liked the dark penetrating eye that scowled around, as if suspicious of everything and everybody, but there was no absolute stain upon his character; moreover he was immensely rich, and reported, of course, to be a great deal richer than he really was, so that when it became known that he intended to give a series of entertainments, unequalled in effect and magnificence by any commoner, numbers of old friends of the family sprung up from all quarters, and had his spacious halls been ten times as spacious he would have found no difficulty in filling them with glittering throngs whenever he chose.

Certainly Learmont seemed to be at the height of his ambition. The possessor of a princely revenue which had been allowed to accumulate, first by his elder brother, who was a man of frugal habits, for several years, and then by himself, for a number of years more, until he found himself possessed of a sum of money in actual cash, which had the worthy associates, Britton and Gray, but fancied to be a third of its real amount, would materially have assisted them in putting a high price upon their services whatever they were.

On the evening of his arrival, Learmont sat alone and silent for a considerable time in the magnificent library of his mansion; then, when he could no longer look upon the gorgeous hangings and superb decorations of the apartment, in consequence of the rapidly darkening sky, he rung a small silver hand-bell which was immediately answered by a page, attired in crimson and gold livery, who waited respectfully for orders.

“Bid my steward,” said Learmont, “with my chamberlain and the officers of the several departments of my household, attend me with lights. I will walk through the house.”

The page-bowed and retired.

“Yes,” muttered Learmont, when he was again alone, “I will sate my eyes with gazing upon the glorious magnificence I have wanted for so long; I will see the glitter and the beauty of what I have so dearly purchased. Attended by those who are taught to watch the slightest indication of my pleasure, I will traverse the stately and gorgeous mansion, which years since I used to wildly dream might once be mine, and smile when I awoke to think of the extreme improbability of the vision.”

The door was now thrown open and the same page who had before attended upon Learmont, respectfully announced that his commands had been obeyed, and that his servants were in waiting to escort him over his mansion.

He rose from his seat and strode with a haughty air to the door, “Lead the way,” he cried, “I’ll follow.”

The servants bowed, and while some preceded him, conveying large wax lights, others again followed, so that a full glare of light was thrown upon the path of the proud man, who had purged his very soul for the purpose of procuring such purchased and empty homage.

Saloon after saloon was traversed, and in each Learmont paused and ordered the chandeliers and clustering lamps to be lighted, in order that he might judge of the effect by night of the gorgeous decorations of those noble apartments. Everything rich or rare that money could produce was there congregated. The walls were hung with the most superb tapestry; the ceilings were freshly and vigorously painted by artists of celebrity, and the highly polished oaken floors shone like mirrors, reflecting all the brilliancy and lustre of both roof and walls.

The heart of Learmont swelled with pride and triumph as he glanced round upon all this luxury and refinement, and whispered to himself “it is mine—all mine.”

“Lead on,” was his only cry as room after room was lighted and examined.

Now the mansion had been nearly traversed, and the chandeliers and lamps being kept lighted, the whole house shone and glittered with unparalleled brilliancy. There was but one other state-apartment which Learmont had not visited, and that was a spacious ball-room, upon which an enormous sum had been lavished. He wished, he hoped to be greatly struck by the splendour of that noble room, and he sent the domestics on before to light its numerous lustres, in order that he might judge of its first effect upon the eye as any one entered it.

The steward of the household returned to say that all was ready, and preceding his master with a long white wand in his hand, tipped with gold, he led the way to the ball-room.

“Perfect!” was the exclamation of Learmont, when he stood in the centre of that hall. To attempt a description of it would be in vain. It was one gorgeous glitter; all that mirrors, gilding, hangings, painting, lights and flowers could do to render it a scene of enchantment was done.

Learmont’s colour deepened with pride as he looked around him and could see nothing that he would have altered. All was as he wished, and he felt conscious that such another apartment was not to be found in London.

“This is the broad path to honour and distinction,” he muttered to himself. “If you would be regarded among men as little short of a divinity, you have but to throw gold-dust in their eyes, and through that glittering medium they will see you are a very god.”

Now there suddenly burst upon the air from a balcony at the further end of the hall, a strain of exquisite music. The lofty room echoed with the melodious strains, and when the gay and spirit-stirring strains were over the steward advanced with a self-satisfied air, and said, “Sir, those are the musicians you are pleased to order should be engaged to wait upon your pleasure, as part of your household, I thought your worship might be pleased to judge of their skill and the effect of their music in this apartment.”

“’Tis well,” said Learmont, inclining his head. “Bid them play again.”

Obedient to a signal, the musicians again filled the air with joyous sounds, and Learmont stood and listened with delight, forgetting in those moments everything but his own present greatness and wealth.

“Yes,” he said, when the strain ceased, as if pursuing a previous train of thought: “this is the way to forget. Steep the senses in enjoyment, and the conscience will have no room for action; wine, music, the dance, the smile of beauty, all shall contribute to my enjoyment, and life shall be—”

“May it please you, honourable sir, some one desires speech of you,” said a domestic.

“Say I am occupied,” replied Learmont, and he again resumed his glowing meditations. “Nobility,” he muttered, “will crowd to my fêtes, even royalty might borrow new grace and dignity from the halls of Squire Learmont. But that shall not long be my designation. Wealth in England can purchase anything, and titles are easily procured where the price is of little moment. I will be ennobled and—”

“Your pardon, sir,” said the servant, returning, “but; the stranger will not take a refusal.”

“Ha! He will not?”

“An’ it please you, sir, he will not go.”

“Have I not idle knaves enough about me to drive an insolent intruder from my doors?”

“’Tis a rude knave, your worship.”

“Cast him into the street. How dare he say he will see the master of Learmont?”

“It shall be done, sir. To come here talking about an Old Smithy.”

Learmont caught the muttered words of the man as he was hurrying from the hall, and a cry of pain and horror escaped him as he rushed forward, and seizing the terrified servant by the arm, he cried—

“What—what manner of man is he who seeks me with such pertinacity?”

“A rough knave, an’ please you, sir; coarse of speech and appearance.”

“And—and he said—what?”

“He said he brought a message from the Old Smithy!”

A deadly paleness came across Learmont’s face, as he said in a husky whisper, “Show him into a private room and tell him I will be with him soon. Begone, knave, nor stand gaping there.”

The terrified servant darted from the hall, and Learmont turning to the throng of domestics who were standing at a respectful distance from him, cried—

“Lead on. To my chamber, and bid yon knave bring me word in what apartment he has placed this—this—visitor.”

The servants hastened to throw the doors wide open for their imperious master to pass out, but his mood was changed. The glow of triumph, and gratified pride no longer lent a glow to his sallow cheek, nor lit up his deep-sunken eyes with brilliancy. There was a load of care and anxiety, almost amounting to agony, upon his face. His contracted brow bespoke deep and anxious thought, and his limbs trembled as he left his hall of light and beauty to seek an interview with the man who, he had always dreaded, would exercise the power he had of stepping between him and his moments of forgetfulness and consequent enjoyment.

CHAPTER XII.

The Consequences of Crime.—A Familiar Friend.—A Cloud upon Learmont’s Felicity.

Being informed by his servants that his visitor had been shown into a small room adjoining the library, Learmont took a lamp from his table, and with a frowning brow and compressed lips, walked towards the room to demand of Britton, for he guessed too well it was he, the cause of so early a visit.

When he entered the room he found the smith lolling, at his ease, upon a costly couch, and although he did rise at the presence of Learmont, it was with an air and manner of extreme insolence.

“To what am I indebted for so early a visit, or rather I should say intrusion?” asked Learmont in a low hollow voice.

“Principally,” said Britton with an air of perfect indifference, “to assure you that I had arrived in London, perfectly safe.”

“Well?” said Learmont.

“Aye and well too,” answered the smith, purposely mistaking the other’s meaning. “I wish to know, likewise, if you have seen Jacob Gray?”

“I have not,” replied Learmont.

“Know you, squire, where in London he is to be found?”

“I do not. Has he not confided that to you?”

“In faith, he has not. In vain I urged him to tell me his place of abode, and if I know not where to find him how can I carry out the project we have decided upon?”

“True,” said Learmont. “There must be found some means. Listen to me: when next Jacob Gray seeks me for money, I will put him off to a particular hour the next day. Be you then, at that hour, lurk about here, and follow him to his home, whither he will most likely go directly, having a sum of money with him.”

“That may do,” said Britton, after a moment’s consideration. “You can send to me at any time by my real name, addressed to a little hostelrie, called ‘The Old Chequers,’ by Storey’s Gate hard by. You see, squire, I thought it handy to live near at hand.”

“Promise me—swear to me, you will take this man’s life!” cried Learmont with sudden vehemence.

“I have no particular objection to take his life,” replied Britton.

“And the boy?”

“That’s as circumstances turn out, squire. If the boy knows nothing—suspects nothing—”

“Aye there’s the doubt. Britton, dispose of Gray, and your reward, as you know, is most ample. Bring, then, that boy to me.”

“Agreed. You shall have him.”

“Thanks, good Britton; and—and when you bring him you shall not be five minutes without your just reward.”

There was a peculiarity of tone and manner about Learmont as he uttered these words, which startled the smith, and he looked for a moment or two suspiciously at his employer, then he said,—

“Squire Learmont, I have been taught an useful lesson by Jacob Gray. I, too, have written a confession, and lodged it in a place of safety.”

“What mean you?” said Learmont.

“This—that if I should die suddenly, a packet of papers will be found, which will do no good to the Squire of Learmont. You understand me.”

“I do understand you,” said Learmont; “but your suspicions are groundless.”

“Be it so,” said the smith. “It’s best to be cautious.”

“Take what precautions you please,” replied Learmont; “but keep your promise.”

“I will keep it,” cried the smith; “for I hate this Jacob Gray, although he has made me know my own value.”

“Know your value—what mean you?”

“It was Jacob Gray who told me there were documents of some importance about the body of—”

“Hush—hush!” cried Learmont; “name him not—it is enough. But tell me, why did Gray inform you of the existence of those papers instead of securing them himself?”

“He lacked the courage to seek them where they were to be found.”

“And yet I must take your word that they do prove what you say?”

“Squire Learmont, these papers distinctly prove your illegitimacy. Among them is a letter from your mother, urging your father to marry her on account of her infant—that infant was yourself, for you know she died before you were one year old.”

“Enough—enough,” said Learmont.—“I will believe it is so.”

“So you perceive, squire, admitting your brother to—”

“Cease—cease!” cried Learmont, “I want not these details.”

“I was only about to remark that you were not the heir-at-law,” said Britton.

“Heir to hell!” cried Learmont. “Now begone. You have delivered your message. I will send to you at the pot-house you mention when a fitting time comes. Now, away!”

“Not so fast,” said Britton. “I have made a resolution.”

“What resolution?”

“Never to leave this house empty-handed.”

“Pshaw! You forget the large sum you have received of me within these three days.”

“No, squire, I do not: but I have told you my resolve—I shall charge for my visits here.”

“And pray how much do you expect to receive whenever I am honoured by your presence?” sneered Learmont.

“I shall leave that to your generosity,” said Britton.

“And how often do you purpose coming?”

“As often as the humour takes me, or my wants require,” replied the smith, insolently.

Learmont evidently made a great effort to subdue his rage, and he said, in half-choked accents,—

“Name your price.”

“Ten pieces,” said the smith.

Learmont took his purse from his pocket, and without a word, counted out required sum, and then stood with his lamp in his hand waiting for the other to leave the place.

“You won’t show me your house, I suppose?” said Britton, in an aggravating voice.

The dark eye of Learmont flashed with rage; but he said nothing.

“Oh, very well,” cried Britton; “another time will do just as well. Recollect the sign of ‘The Old Chequers,’ I shall be very glad to see you whenever you may choose to call, and we can always find something interesting to talk about.”

“Away with you—away!“ cried Learmont.

“Let me see,” said Britton, with great deliberation, counting on his fingers, “this is Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—Friday—well, say Friday.”

“Friday for what?”

“My next visit.”

“So soon?”

“I don’t call that soon. Friday it shall be, squire.”

The lamp trembled in the hand of Learmont as he thought—“Oh, that for my own safety’s sake I dared plunge a dagger to the hilt in his heart!”

Britton, however, seemed fully to feel his entire safety, and he evidently felt an exquisite enjoyment in the agony he was inflicting upon Learmont. He lounged slowly to the door, and nodding then in an insolent, and familiar manner, he crossed the hall to the outer door, while Learmont, nearly bursting with rage, sprung up the marble staircase to the upper apartment of the house.

“This is brave work,” muttered Britton when he had passed out into the street. “Humph! For ten long years did Master Learmont get the better of me in cunning, and I could not drag him down without placing a halter round my own neck; but now, thanks to the cunning of Master Jacob Gray, I have the means of toppling the squire from his height of power and grandeur without myself the least harm in the world. Ho! Ho! ’Tis brave indeed. And now for this Gray. I don’t see why I should not have charge of that young scion of an ancient stock, who is so great an eye-sore to Learmont. We shall see—we shall see, Master Gray, whether you or I will succeed best in a contest of cunning in the long run, and now for wine and jollity.”

The smith had now arrived at the door of “The Old Chequers,” where, as the place most congenial to his disposition, he had taken up his abode, and where showing that he had plenty of money, he was welcomed accordingly.

“Hilloa!” he roared. “Landlord, some of your best. Quick—quick, I say; I am thirsty, man.”

The landlord needed no second bidding, but placed a tankard of foaming ale before the smith; who immediately took a deep draught of its contents.

“Hurrah!” he cried; “I am Andrew Britton, the smith, and I don’t care who knows it.”

“Certainly not, most worshipful sir,” said the landlord.

“Ah,” cried Britton, “worshipful sir. That’s a very good name, and I’ll be called that for the future. Here’s a quart of the best to whoever calls me worshipful sir, and whoever don’t I’ll wring his neck.”

“Hurrah! For the jolly smith“ cried a chorus of topers who were around. “We’ll drink your health, worshipful sir.”

“So you shall,” cried Britton. “Here’s gold, and there’s more, too, where that comes from. Landlord, do you hear? Quarts all round. The best—the humming ale, recollect, that makes a man sing.”

CHAPTER XIII.

A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.

The Squire Learmont’s first night in his splendid mansion was by no means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his lips.

His restless slumbers, too, were haunted by the visionary creations of his excited fancy. One moment he would be plunging a poniard into Britton’s heart, while he dragged from his breast the papers so important to his peace. Then again, at the moment of his fancied triumph, the scene would change to a court of justice, and a voice arraigned him for murder! In such fearful and disordered fancies was his night passed, and he rose in the morning pale, haggard, and un-refreshed. Hastily attiring himself, he drew aside the curtains of his chamber-window, which commanded an extensive and pleasing view into St. James’s Park. It was yet very early, but Learmont thought that he should be able to withdraw his mind from disagreeable and horrible reflections by healthful walk in the shady Mall.

He accordingly took his hat and sword, and walked from his house by a garden-gate, opening into a narrow lane of trees, which terminated in the park itself. The air was very cold, for frost was on the ground, and the trees were stripped of their beautiful verdure; but it was exercise that Learmont wanted, and he rather rejoiced than otherwise at the necessity of active walking, inasmuch as he hoped exertion of body would control the excitement of his mind.

The canal was then, and for many years afterwards, a mere straight cutting, strongly resembling a wet dock, for the repair of ships, and as little ornamental as it could possibly be. The walks, however, in St. James’s Park, were then preferable to what they are now, for many old trees were then existence that have now perished, and their places are, of necessity, occupied by saplings, which the present generation have been kind enough to plant for their successors.

Learmont walked very quickly over the frozen ground, which crackled like glass under the feet. There were but few persons at that early hour abroad, although the day gave promise of being one of those clear, cold, frosty ones which are admired by a great many persons.

Approaching, however, from the direction towards which he was proceeding, Learmont observed a gentlemanly-looking man enveloped in a large cloak. By some sort of instinct, Learmont seemed to feel a dread of this stranger’s approach, although he could not at all recognise in him, at the distance they were apart, the gait or aspect of any one that he knew. Nearer and nearer they approached each other; and, so strong was the feeling of dread in the breast of Learmont, that, had it not been for his stronger curiosity to ascertain who it was, he would have turned from the open pathway among the trees, whose huge trunks would have effectually hidden him from observation. As it was, however, he pursued his walk until he and the stranger with the cloak came nearly face to face. Then, as the stranger lifted up his eyes, which had been fixed on the ground in a meditative manner, Learmont knew him.

It was the young man, by name Frank Hartleton, who had been so curious and suspicious at the period of the great storm at Learmont, when the wing of the building, in which was the smithy, had been burnt down.

The recognition was evidently mutual; indeed, no one who had once seen Learmont could easily again forget him; and, although a great personal change had taken place in the appearance of Hartleton, yet the features of all who had taken any part in the proceedings of that eventful night at the little village of Learmont were too indelibly impressed upon the memory of the squire for him to find any difficulty in recognising in the staid, and somewhat grave, gentleman person before him, the Frank Hartleton who had always held him at open defiance and laughed at his power.

Hartleton stopped short when he saw Learmont; and his first exclamation was,—

“This is strange, indeed!”

“Sir,” said Learmont, “did you address me?”

“Scarcely,” replied Hartleton; “but your name is Learmont?”

“Well, sir?” replied the other with considerable hauteur.

“Do you know me, Squire Learmont?”

“I recognised the features, and know the names of many, sir,” said Learmont, “that still are not upon my roll of friends or acquaintances.”

“You do know me,” said Hartleton, “I have no desire to be rude to you, Squire Learmont; but our sudden meeting took me somewhat by surprise, and the exclamation that I uttered arose from the curious coincidence that I have been all night dreaming of you and the village of Learmont, and was in deep thought about the mysterious occurrences that took place three years ago when I suddenly came upon you.”

If his hatred and dread of Hartleton would have induced Learmont to treat him in such a manner that he could not address him, his guilty fears urged him to prolong the conversation, in order to discover, if possible, the complexion of Hartleton’s thoughts with regard to him, that he might know if he had anything really to dread from that quarter. It was, therefore, with more courtesy that he said,—

“The coincidences are curious. I—I believe I speak to Sir Francis Hartleton now?”

“Yes,” replied Hartleton; “I was, you recollect, destined for the law, which my small patrimony just enabled me to enter with credit. I am now a justice, and a knight, as you say.”

“I give you joy, sir, of your advancement,” said Learmont.

“You are very kind,” replied Hartleton, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of Learmont in a manner that it required all the firmness of the latter not to quail under.

“Might I presume so far,” said Learmont, “as to ask, what were the thoughts concerning me that engaged Sir Francis Hartleton even now?”

“I was thinking of the mysterious man,” said Hartleton, “who rushed with such wild gestures and shrieks from the burning house.”

Learmont strove to command his features to indifference; but, the effort was almost beyond his power, and he spoke to endeavour to cover his agitation.

“It was very strange,” he said; “most singular!”

“And the little child, too, that he had in his arms,” continued Hartleton; “what can have become of that?”

“Ay—what?” said Learmont.

“Did you never get any clue, Squire Learmont, to these mysterious circumstances, which must have greatly interested you?”

“Interested me? How?”

“Inasmuch as they occurred upon your estate, and among your own tenants.”

“True—most true, sir. I—I was—and am much interested; but I know nothing—have heard nothing, and have no clue to unravel the mystery.”

“We must only hope,” said Hartleton, “that some of these days, accident as it generally does, will throw a light upon the subject, and give it to us in all its details.”

An awful expression came across the face of Learmont as he replied.

“Yes—yes. As you say, it will be an accident. May I ask what your impression is?”

“I have scarcely an impression upon the subject,” replied Hartleton; “we lawyers, you know, are particularly cautious how we take up impressions upon subjects unfounded upon evidence.”

“Exceedingly proper is such caution,” said Learmont; “otherwise the innocent might be the victims of endless mistakes.”

“Exactly,” replied Hartleton; “but I have no particular objection to tell you my dream without founding any impression upon it.”

“I am all attention,” said Learmont.

“I dreamt first that that smith, of the name of Britton, was a desperate villain, and for gold would—”

“Would what?” gasped Learmont.

“Do anything” said Hartleton.

“Well, sir, is that all?”

“Oh, no; my vision changed, and I thought I saw a gloomy passage, mouldy with the damps of time, and dripping with unwholesome moisture—creeping slimy things were all around, and in the midst I saw—”

“Yes—yes,” gasped Learmont. “W—what saw you?”

“A mouldering skeleton.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, and the most curious circumstance of all was that in the midst of it I constantly heard the clank of the smith’s hammer. I knew the sound in a moment.”

“’Tis very strange!” muttered Learmont.

“Most strange!” said Hartleton; “but again my vision changed.”

“What saw you then?”

“A hall of judgment.”

“Yes—yes.”

“It was densely crowded, and some important and interesting proceeding was evidently pending; then suddenly I heard a voice cry your name.”

“My name?”

“Yes, and you were asked to plead to a charge of murder!”

A cold sweat broke out upon the forehead of Learmont, and he could not answer, when Hartleton added,—

“It was but a dream, though. I wish you a good morning, and a pleasant walk, Squire Learmont.”

CHAPTER XIV.

The Dark Threat.—The Biter Bit.—Another Murder Projected.—Learmont’s Reasoning.

Learmont stood for a few moments gazing after the retreating figure of Sir Francis Hartleton; then, shaking his clenched hand in the direction he was proceeding, he muttered between his teeth,—

“Beware—beware, Sir Magistrate!—beware! You may rouse a spirit you cannot quell again. I am not the man to allow such as thou to be a stumbling-block in my path.”

So saying, with a dark scowl upon his brow, the squire retraced his steps towards his own house. The morning sun was now gilding with beauty the housetops, and the icicles, which, pendant from every tree, shone like gems of the purest water and brilliancy. Unheedful, however, of the beauties of nature around, the wealthy Learmont passed onwards, his thoughts, dark and gainful as they were, fully absorbing all his attention. He passed up the little lane which was the nearest route to his own house; and, as he was about to emerge from it, he was startled (for the guilty are ever timid) by some one touching his shoulder. Turning quickly round, he saw Jacob Gray, with a sickly, disagreeable smile upon his face, standing close to him.

“Your worship rises early,” said Gray.

“Yes; you—you have been seeking me?”

“I have, squire. Your servants sought you, it appears, and found you were not within; and, as I knew it was much the custom of the great gentry, such as your worship, to gather an appetite for breakfast by a stroll in the park, I made bold to seek you.”

“I am now proceeding homeward,” said Learmont. “In half an hour from now I shall be at leisure.”

“As your worship pleases,” said Gray; “but methought there was an inclination on the part of your lackeys to deny me speech of you. Now, squire, if you would have the goodness to leave a message in your hall to the effect that your old and trusty friend Jacob Gray was always to be admitted, it would save us both trouble.”

Learmont was exceedingly impatient during this speech, and, at its conclusion, he said, in a vexed tone,—

“Well—well—I will leave proper orders. In half an hour I shall expect you.”

“Your worship shall not be disappointed,” said Gray, with a bow which had more of burlesque mockery in it than respect.

Learmont turned haughtily from him, and in a few moments he entered the gardens of his mansion, by the same private door through which he had proceeded to the park. He ordered a sumptuous breakfast to be immediately prepared for him, and took an opportunity to say, in a careless manner, to the servant, whose special province it was to answer the silver bell which always was at Learmont’s elbow,—

“Tell them in the hall that I expect one Jacob Gray. Let him be admitted.”

The servant respectfully retired to communicate the message, and Learmont, after a pause of thought, said, in a low voice,—

“Yes, Jacob Gray, you shall be admitted as often as you call; but it will go hard with me if I do not take thy life soon. Assuming wretch!—Oh! Can there be a state of more abject slavery than his, who, after carving the way to his ambitious height, then finds himself at the mercy of the mean and despicable tools he has used, and would fain throw aside, and forget for ever! We shall see: we shall see. Surely I, who have already done so much when so little seemed possible, am not to be scared through life by such two ruffians as Britton and Gray. They must destroy each other! Yes; that is the true policy, and now to work on the fears and cupidity of this Jacob Gray!”

He had scarcely whispered to himself these reflections, when the object of them was announced.

“Bring him hither,” said Learmont, and in a few moments Jacob Gray was introduced. The moment the servant had left the room, and closed the door behind him, Gray seated himself with an air of insolent familiarity, which, under any other circumstances, would have produced a storm of passion in Learmont; but he felt the necessity of temporising; and, severe as was the struggle to him, he nevertheless succeeded in keeping down his passion sufficiently to address Gray calmly.

“You reached London in safety, of course?”

“Even so,” replied Gray. “Permit me to congratulate you upon your house. It really is—”

“Yes, yes,” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Let us to business, Master Gray. You found the papers your extreme prudence had left in London, when you favoured me with a visit, quite safe, I trust?”

“Perfectly safe, and untouched,“ said Gray; “and—and—permit me to add, that I have placed them again under such circumstances as must ensure their delivery to one who has power and will to use them, should anything sudden—you understand—happen to your humble servant, Jacob Gray.”

“May I ask whose hands you consider so peculiarly adapted for those papers?”

“Oh, certainly; a neighbour of yours, Sir Francis Hartleton.”

“Sir Francis Hartleton?” exclaimed Learmont.

“Yes,” replied Gray; “one of the most acute lawyers and active justices in London.”

“As you please,” said Learmont. “Now, with regard to the—the—child?”

“He is quite well, squire, and likely to continue so.”

“Humph! Is he tall?”

“Not over tall, but slim and active.”

“Enough of him at present. I wish to speak to you of another matter. The sums demanded of me by Britton are large.”

“Doubtless, squire; ’tis an extravagant knave.”

“Now those sums, Gray, added to what you yourself receive, would make a goodly income.”

“In faith you speak, truly, squire.”

“Now, Gray, I will deal frankly with you,” continued Learmont. “This Britton is fond of wine, and in his cups some day he may hint or say enough to—to hang you, Master Gray.”

“Eh?” cried Gray. “Hang me?”

“Even so.”

“Oh, I understand, along with your worship, of course.”

“I don’t know that, Jacob Gray,” remarked Learmont, calmly and firmly. “I have a long purse, you see, which you have not.”

“There—is—something in that,” muttered Gray.

“A man of your acuteness must perceive that there is a great deal in that,” continued Learmont.

“Yes, truly; but still there would be danger, most imminent danger, squire.”

“That I grant you, but yours, Jacob Gray, would far exceed mine. Be that, however, as it may, you must see how very desirable a consummation it would be if this swilling drunken knave, Britton, were some day to choke himself.”

“Or be choked by Jacob Gray?” added Gray, with a smile of dark meaning.

“Exactly,” said Learmont. “It may be done easily. Invite him to your house; feast with him, plan and plot with him; give him wine; and then, some day, when time and circumstances are fitting, I will give you a drug of such potency, that, if ever so slightly used in his wine-cup, will seize upon the springs of life, and at once, you will see, Master Gray, you are rid of this dangerous man.”

“And rid you likewise of him,” interposed Gray.

“Of course; but I gain little—you everything—by his death—safety and wealth!”

“It might be done,” murmured Gray, “if it could be done safely.”

“With your caution,” suggested Learmont, “with but a little of the admirable cunning you have as yet displayed in this business, methinks it might be possible, Master Gray, for you to overreach in some way so dull-witted a villain as this Britton, who, you see, stands so much in the way of your fortunes.”

“If,” muttered Gray, “it can be done at all by me, that poison draught you mentioned is, to my mind, the most ready, and—and—”

“Safe,” added Learmont.

“Well, safe be it,” said Gray. “There is no occasion for a greater risk than necessary.”

“None in the least,” sneered Learmont: “you will then do your best, Master Gray, to rid yourself of this sot, this incubus upon you, this villain, whom I hate as—as—”

“As you hate me!” said Gray, twinkling his small eyes, and peering in the face of Learmont.

“No,” said Learmont; “you are not so dangerous because you are more cautious; but, Jacob Gray, is it not possible that, should you succeed in ridding yourself of this Britton, you may think it worth your while to name some price for the only thing I dread?”

“The child?”

“Yes: think of my words.”

“I will think,” said Gray; “but now I must be gone.”

Learmont placed in his hands a purse of gold, and with a shifting, low-cunning glance of his little grey eyes, the wily villain left the place muttering—

“Humph!—He wants to kill my goose, to get all the golden eggs at once. Indeed!—we shall see!”

CHAPTER XV.

Chase.—A Long Race, And its Results.

When Gray left the splendid mansion of Learmont, he stood for a few moments in the street, turning round him cautiously to see if he was watched, for his suspicions had been awakened by Learmont, once during this interview, ringing for an attendant, and giving some order outside the door in a very low whisper.

Now Jacob was extremely cunning. He refined upon ordinary duplicity, and now, as he stood in the street casting cautious glances up and down its silent extent, he muttered to himself,—

“Humph! My way is westward. Now, your ordinary clever fellow would go westward, for fear of being watched; but I—I, Jacob Gray, have got beyond such cunning. Learmont knows well I am a careful man. Should he have set a spy upon me, it will be with the certainty that I will not go directly to my home; and to defeat that I will go—not directly home, but in the direction of home. Ho! Ho! Squire Learmont, you are not yet a match for Jacob Gray!”

Continuing muttering to himself, and peeping into every doorway that he passed, Gray then betook himself to the river side, and, ordering a boat, he desired the waterman to take him across the stream.

Well did Jacob Gray’s cunning teach him that the difficulty of following a person crossing the river was immeasurably greater than on shore, for, if followed by a boat, concealment of the person pursuing would be nearly out of the question, and to make a palpable detour for the sake of crossing a bridge would most probably ensure the complete escape of the watched party. Jacob Gray did not know that he was watched, but he knew that, had he been Learmont, and Learmont, Gray, he would then have been watched with the keenest of eyes that could be procured for that duty.

When the boatman neared the centre of the stream, Jacob Gray desired him to pause upon his oars for a few moments, ostensibly that he, Gray, might admire the bright sunshine on the frosted spires of the various churches, but really to see if any other boat was about leaving the point from which he had started. Nor was he disappointed; for scarcely had the wherry floated idly in the stream for a few brief seconds, when Jacob observed a boat push off, in which were two rowers, and a third muffled in a cloak, and seated very low in the stern of it.

The waterman was now upon the point of urging his boat forward again, when Gray said quietly:—

“Hold still a moment, my friend. Your time shall be paid for. Surely yon boat is making speed through the water.”

The waterman looked in the direction of the wherry with the two rowers, and exclaimed:—

“Some one is in haste. Yet, no,—they are pulling but lazily suddenly.”

Gray’s small eyes twinkled as he replied:—

“I have altered my mind; row easily up the stream.”

The boat’s head was turned in the required direction, and the waterman, with regular and long sweeps of his oars, propelled the wherry towards Westminster Bridge, and presently glided beneath one of its gloomy arches. For a few moments the rowers in the boat in which Jacob Gray suspected was some one upon his track, appeared quite undecided what to do; then, in obedience to some order apparently from the cloaked figure, they gently followed in the wake of Gray’s wherry.

“So,” muttered Gray to himself between his clenched teeth; “I am followed;—and with what intent?—my safe destruction, of course. Waterman,” he said, in a louder tone, “we are going with the tide?”

“Scarcely,” replied the man; “it is just on the turn.”

“When it is fairly running down,” said Gray, “I will go back. Keep on, however, as you are for a short time.”

The waterman now shading his eyes with one hand from the sun, while the oar idly played in the rollocks, said:—

“It seems to me, master, that yon skiff is following us for some reason.”

“Indeed!” says Gray. “What have you been doing, that you should be followed on the Thames?”

“I doing!” cried the man.

“Ay.—You suspect you are followed.”

“Mayhap it’s yourself, master, they follow,” remarked the man, rather surlily.

Gray smiled as he replied:—

“Oh, no;—they suspect you of being one of the notorious pirates of the Thames we have heard so much of lately.”

“The tide has turned,” said the waterman, looking into the stream as it appeared, in preference to making any reply to this vague charge.

“Hark ye!” said Gray, as if a sudden thought had struck up in his brain. “If you are inclined sometimes to earn more money at once than a year’s plying as waterman on the river could produce you, it is possible I may throw a job in your way.”

The man glanced uneasily at Gray, as he replied in a low tone,—

“Your lordship might trust me—if—”

“If what, my friend?”

“If I might trust your worship.”

“You may, or rather the trusting is all on my side. All I want of you is this; when I shall some day give you notice that I shall want a wherry at a particular hour and at the stairs I shall name, will you be there?”

“Certainly,” replied the man. “But that is not quite all?”

“You are right,” said Gray. “I shall bring one with me; we will take with us wherewithal to make us merry. I am abstemious, but my friend is not, and I have often told him that some of these days, when drinking in a wherry he will become so confused, that he will accidentally fall into the Thames, do you understand?”

“I—think—I—do.”

“I am sure you do,” added Gray.

The man nodded.

“Your reward shall be ample,” continued his tempter.

“I don’t see why I should turn away a job,” said the man; “if I wasn’t to take it, some one else would, of course.”

“A very true remark,” cried Jacob Gray. “You consent then to do this little service?”

“I do, master.”

“Give me your name and address then.”

“Sheldon is my name, and I am always at the stairs at which you hired me, unless away as might be now, when I return again as, soon as possible.”

“That will do,” said Gray. “Now turn your boat’s head and go back with the stream.”

The wherry, with the two rowers, had kept at a considerable distance in the rear; and now that Gray’s boat was suddenly turned and rapidly going down the stream, there seemed some little confusion on board the other wherry; but before the two boats could meet or pass each other, the pursuers had shot off on one side, as if with the intention of landing near Westminster.

“Follow them,” cried Gray; “and wherever they land, do you land me.”

The waterman was a powerful man, and he bent to the oars with such effect, that the wherry shot through the water with amazing speed.

It was curious to see the pursued become the pursuers, for such seemed to be the state of things, as no sooner did it become evident that Jacob Gray’s waterman was making fast for the boat with the two rowers, than in obedience to a violent gesture from the person in the cloak they pulled rigorously towards the shore.

“I must see that man in the cloak,” said Gray, “if it be possible.”

The waterman said nothing, but with his long sinewy arms, he took tremendous sweeps with the oars, and sent the boat forward at each pull with a force that astonished Gray.

The two wherries were not now above a quarter of the width of the river apart from each other, when the foremost one ran upon the muddy beach, and the man, in the cloak springing up, made an effort to jump on shore, in which he fell over the seats of the boat. In the next moment the other wherry was within two boats’ lengths of the shore.

With an oath, the cloaked-man scrambled to his feet, and without turning, rushed on shore, and was soon lost to sight among the mean habitations that crowded the banks of the river.

“It is the smith!” muttered Gray. “I see it all now, he has a commission for my destruction, as I have for his, and in either case, Squire Learmont betters his condition. Waterman, row me across now, as I originally asked you.”

Again the wherry shot into the stream, and with his eyes fixed upon the water, Jacob Gray appeared absorbed in deep thought.

The boat’s head grated against some stone steps that were on the opposite landing, and Gray sprung to his feet, and stepped on shore.

Handing the waterman then a liberal gratuity, and whispering in his ear the word “remember,” he walked at a rapid pace in the direction of the ancient suburb of Lambeth.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Lone House in Ancient Lambeth.—The Boy.—A Solitary Heart.

In a district of Lambeth, which is now the mart of trade, but which at the period of our narrative was scarcely inhabited, and consisted but of a mass of old melancholy-looking buildings, which had been long since condemned as dangerous, there stood one house in particular, the exterior of which presented to the eye an appearance of such utter decay that it would have required an adventurous person to venture within its crumbling walls and mossy prisons, who, for the sake of a short cut to some of the high roads passed the old building, would walk out into the road way rather than run even the momentary risk of walking close to its dilapidated walls.

The world, however, is ever being taken in by appearances. Not only was this house much stronger and more substantial than its neighbours, but within it there was a degree of comfort and even luxury which no one could for a moment have surmised. It is true the windows were either broken, or so much begrimed with dirt that it was impossible to say if they were glass or not, and here and there a brick was displaced so naturally that it seemed to have fallen out by the natural decay incidental to the age of the structure. Such, however was not the case, for these signs and tokens of insecurity had been manufactured in the silence of the night for the express purpose of deterring any person from entering the gloomy house, or supposing for a moment that it was inhabited by other than rats and mice.

There were no persons living very close to this wretched-looking residence, and the poor squalid creatures, who did occasionally seek a shelter for a few nights in some of the “condemned” houses, never approached that one, for it had the reputation of being haunted, inasmuch as twice had strangers, in passing through the locality after nightfall, called attention to lights dimly observable in the house, and once a man had entered a little hostelry in the immediate neighbourhood, and while his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with fear, and he trembled in every limb, he said he had seen a sight at one of the lower windows of that particular house, which he would not see again for his soul’s sake, and after fortifying himself with a bumper of spiced canary, he had taken his leave, being firmly believed, and leaving behind the character of the house, which lost nothing by being repeated from mouth to mouth, and which produced so powerful an effect upon the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity that it is doubtful if any bribe of sufficient magnitude could possibly be offered to induce any one of them ever to pass it even after at sunset.

Into this mysterious house we will conduct the reader. The room to which we would direct attention was small, but by no means destitute of comforts; a wood fire burnt within the grate, and its low flickering light disclosed several articles of domestic convenience about the apartment. The only coarse appearance the place had was owing to some rough ragged edged planks being nailed across the window on the inside, so as effectually to close it against the egress of any wandering stream of light from the fire.

The room was consequently dark, for the process of preventing the fire-light from showing through the window likewise excluded the daylight, and, although it was mid-day without, that apartment presented the appearance of midnight within.

Stretched on the hearth before the fire was a large gaunt-looking dog, apparently in a deep slumber, and sitting on an old-fashioned chair, with his head buried in his hands, and resting on the table, was the young boy, who has been already introduced to the reader as Harry Gray, and who passed as a nephew of wily Jacob Gray. His remarkable long and beautiful hair fell in masses upon the table, and the fine light glistened on the glossy ringlets as they strayed in wild luxuriance over his hands.

So still was that young creature, that he might have been thought sleeping, and, perhaps, he had been, and had awakened from some dreams of happiness to weep, for a deep sob burst from his heart, and looking up, he cried, in accents of deep misery and despair,—

“I am very unhappy—I wish I could die.”

The dog, upon the sound of the voice, immediately rose, and with a low whine placed his fore paws upon the knee of the boy, and looked in his face with an expression of sagacious affection, which of all the inferior animals dogs alone are capable of.

For a moment the boy did not heed him, but wept bitterly, and kept repeating,—

“If I could but die—if I could but die!”

Then passing his delicate hands across his brow to part back the clustering hair he looked in the face of the dumb animal, that again with a low whine claimed his attention.

“You love me,” he cried; “yes—yes—I know you love me, my poor dog. I found you starving in this lone house, and made a friend of you. I called you ‘Joy,’ because it was joy to me to find you, and I can talk to you, and fancy that you understand me as you gaze thus at me with your honest face of dumb intelligence. There are two have loved me; you are one, my poor dumb Joy, and the—the other—I shall never—see—again—it was Albert Seyton, and he has left me—even he. Oh, Albert, if I were free as thou art, and thou wert hidden—”

Sinking his head upon his hands, again the beautiful boy burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly that the dog howled piteously, in unison with its master’s grief.

“Hush—hush, Joy, hush!” said, the boy. “My faithful kind friend, if he had heard you, you would have an unkind word and a blow for this. It is weak of me to give way thus to tears, but my spirits are subdued, and my heart is nearly broken—broken—broken,” he repeated.

Then suddenly starting to his feet, he stood for a few moments in a listening attitude.

“’Tis he,” he suddenly exclaimed. “Too well I know that step.”

In another moment the door opened, and Jacob Gray stood on the threshold of the apartment.

His look was ferocious, and he pointed to the dog as he said, or rather growled in an angry tone,—

“I heard that cur.”

Harry laid his arm over the dog’s neck, but made no answer.

“I told you,” continued Gray striding into the room—“I told you that I would knock out the brains of that creature if ever I heard it bark, or even whine too loudly.”

The boy held the dog tighter as Gray advanced and said,—

“Uncle, spare him this once—’twas my fault.”

“Pshaw!” cried Gray, “I tell you the cur shall die.”

A flush of colour came across the face of the boy as Gray spoke, and pushing the dog behind him, he drew his slim figure up to its full height, and confronted Gray with his dark, lustrous eyes, flashing with unusual brilliancy.

“Then I tell you he shall not die!” he cried firmly.

Gray for a moment quailed beneath the glance of that singularly beautiful child, and twice he tried to summon courage to meet that look of proud defiance ere he could accomplish it, then he said slowly,—

“So you are bold. How long is it since you have plucked up so much spirit?”

“From the moment that it was necessary to protect the only friend I have against your violence,” replied the boy.

“Indeed!” answered Gray.

“Aye indeed!” said the boy, trembling with excitement.

“Your only friend?” continued Gray. “Humph! You think more, then, of that dog than of me?”

“The hound,” said Harry, in a lower tone, “is kind, affectionate, and faithful—’tis in its way, poor thing, tender and devoted; Uncle Gray, are you all that?”

Gray laughed hysterically, as he replied,—

“Ha! Ha! Is that all? Have you quite summed up the virtues of your hound?”

“Its virtues,” said Harry, “are much to me, for they are the only ones I have now an opportunity of noting. Its kindly instincts and dumb affection appear to me so great and estimable because I have no human ones with which to contrast them. I do love the dog, for I have nothing else to love.”

“Now,” cried Gray, “by hell—”

“Hold, uncle—for shame!” said Harry. “Love the dog, and the dog will love you. They never betray their masters.”

A livid paleness came across Gray’s face as he held by the table, and gasped,—

“Wh—what—do—you mean by that?”

“I say,” repeated Harry, “that dogs never betray their masters.”

“Never betray—their—their masters!” said Gray. “Oh, that is what you mean—that is all?”

“Nay, uncle, what do you mean?” said the boy, surprised at the awful and convulsive agitation of Gray.

“Mean?” echoed Gray—“What can I mean—I—I have said nothing. Recollect—I know I said nothing, I am quite sure.”

“I know not the cause of your agitation,” remarked Harry; “but I cannot have my poor hound injured.”

“He shall die!” shrieked Gray. “Heaven nor hell shall not save him. You don’t know how or why, but you have sealed his fate.”

“I sealed his fate?”

“Yes, you—you, by your prating of his virtues.”

“Impossible, uncle; you do but jest. This noble creature is a safeguard to you as well as to me. Dogs have been known to famish by the murdered body of their master.”

“Cease—cease!” cried Gray. “Do you want to drive me mad?”

“Mad, uncle, because dogs are faithful?”

“No more, I say. Stand aside.”

“I will not forsake my dog. Joy, defend yourself.”

The dog uttered a low growl, and showed rather a formidable row of glistening teeth.

“Harry,” said Gray, “do you know who and what you are?”

A mantling flush colour crimsoned the pale brow of the boy, as he said,—

“You have told me.”

“You know your utter dependence is upon me?”

“I know it, and I feel it.”

“You are base born.”

“You have not omitted to let me know that before,” said the boy, proudly.

“So that, although I am your father’s brother,” added Gray, “you call me uncle but by courtesy.”

The boy was silent, and Gray continued,—

“Stand aside, then, and baulk me not in such a matter as the life of a hound.”

“No,” cried Harry; “were you ten times my uncle from courtesy, you should not harm him!”

Gray clutched his hands convulsively, as if he felt an inclination to rush upon the weak, defenceless boy, and crush him in his fury. He, however, restrained himself, and said,—

“You are mad—quite mad. How can you hope for a moment to resist my will?”

“Uncle,” said the boy, “I have done much to please you; I immure myself here alone with you, and you are not always kind, as you know. Once, then, rouse my suffering heart to resentment, and I will leave you but one of two resources.”

“What are they?” cried Gray eagerly.

“Touch with an unkind hand my poor dumb companion here, and I will fly from window to window of this ill-omened house, shrieking for aid.”

“You would?”

“Ay, would I, uncle, and you should not stop me by the other alternative.”

“And what is that?”

“My murder!”

“Pshaw!” cried Gray; “you are ill, your mind is deranged. Go to rest.”

“God knows I have need of rest,” said the boy. “Come, Joy—come with me.”

The dog followed closely upon the heels of the boy as he slowly left the room. When he had quite gone, Gray lit a lamp, and without speaking, stole into the passage and listened attentively. Then returning, he threw himself into the chair in which the boy had been sitting, and commenced a murmuring colloquy with himself.

“The sight of this young thing,” he said, “always freezes my blood, and yet I dare not murder. Oh, if by some grand stroke of fortune now I could be revenged on the whole of them for the disquiet they have caused me, I think I should be happy. What am I now? Am I even calm? There was a time when I fancied gold had but to be possessed to bring joy in its train. ’Twas a great mistake. I have gold. A large sum is in my hands, and yet, by some damnable train of circumstances, I dare not use it. I must think and contrive some means of freeing myself from the shackles that bind me. Well may Learmont hand me the glittering price of my silence with a smile. ’Tis so much dross to me. I dare not for fear of my life, which I know he thirsts for, even let him know, where I lay my head at night. I am still a fugitive, although rich! And—and that smith, too, is on my track like a blood-hound. If I could get a large sum from Learmont, and then dispose of this young creature I have here, I might fly to some other country and use my wealth. It must be so. More—blood—more blood—blood! Bloo—bl—”

His head dropped upon his breast, and yielding to the fatigue he had undergone and the somnolent influence of the fire, he dropped into a deep slumber by the dull red embers that still smouldered in the grate.

CHAPTER XVII.

“The Chequers,” at Westminster.—Britton’s Notions of Greatness.—“When the Wine is In, the Wit is Out.”

Jacob Gray was quite right when he averred that the smith was on his track like a blood-hound. Britton had entered heartily into the scheme of destroying Gray. It was not that he particularly wished to appropriate to himself Gray’s portion of what was wrung from the fears of Learmont, nor did he particularly see or care for the destruction of Gray as a matter of policy; but he hated him personally. His assumption of superior address was especially annoying to Britton. He felt that Gray was more than a match for him in cunning, and moreover, he despised him for the cowardice of his character, and over his cups thought it would be a rare thing to outwit Jacob Gray, which, translated, meant kill him with safety—not personal safety in the act of killing, but safety from the consequences of Gray’s extreme precautionary measures for his own preservation.

The smith familiarised himself thus with the thought of overcoming the wily Jacob, and his ferocious fancy indulged itself in glutting over some violent and bloody death for the man who had presumed to assume greater address than he. By some curious train of thought, too, the smith always considered himself as personally injured by Gray, because the latter, when he visited him at the smithy, had so fenced himself round with precautions, that he, Britton could not but see the extreme impolicy of knocking him on the head with his forge hammer, which he had fully resolved to do whenever he had an opportunity.

“Curse him!” Britton would growl over his cups, “I will have his life yet. Despite his cunning I will have his life!”

Britten’s scheme of operations was more in accordance with his violent nature than any which Learmont could suggest to him. It was to dog Gray to his house, and then finding some means of admittance, either wring from his fears the secret of where he kept the written confession he talked so much of, and then kill him; or should that plan not succeed, take his life first, and trust to his powers of search to find the dangerous document somewhere in his abode.

With this project in view, Britton had kept an eye on the house of Learmont, and followed Gray upon the river, as we have seen.

Great was the rage of the smith at the utter failure of this, his first attempt to ferret out the hiding-place of Master Gray, which he began to think was by no means so easy a job as he had supposed. In fact, should Gray pursue the plan he had commenced so successfully, of turning upon his pursuer, the scheme would be fraught with the greatest difficulties. Moreover the smith could not conceal from himself that by his unsuccessful attempt he had put Gray upon his guard, which was the very last thing he should have risked. All these reflections put the smith in no very pleasant mood, when he repaired from the water-side to “The Chequers” and it was not until he had quaffed at two draughts a huge tankard of humming ale that he felt his equanimity at all restored.

He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much, and calling for another tankard, he shouted—

“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”

The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,—

“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”

“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.

“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.”

“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”

Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.

“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”

“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.

“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”

“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”

“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.”

The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it.

The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?”

“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”

The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,—

“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”

“That’s true,” said Britton.

“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.”

“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.

This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.

“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat.

“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare.

“So he is,” cried several voices.

“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.

“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth.

“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.

After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with.

This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.

“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”

The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,—

“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”

The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—

“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”

The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.

“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”

The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—

“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”

“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”

The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—

“Care mantles not in brimming cups,

It cannot enter there;

Within the bowl there’s nought but joy,

Without, but grim despair.

“Hurrah, boys!

“Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why?

Because its blushing hue

Forbids the fiend to enter there,

Lest he be lost to view.

“Hurrah, boys!

“Drink—drink, and let the gushing stream

Of life boil through our veins,

While sober fools seek chill content,

And find care for their pains.

“Hurrah, boys!

“They lie who say that rosy wine

Can ever breed a pain,

For when the joy of one day’s o’er,

We drink and live again.

“Hurrah, boys!

“They tell us that when once the fire

Of wine has gone away,

Our hearts will beat in dull despair,

Nor be so calm as they.

“Hurrah, boys!

“But we a cure for such an ill

Can find in every glass;

And, boys, we know that life is short,

Catch pleasure ere it pass.

“Hurrah, boys!”

“Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.”

“Very good, indeed,” cried everybody.

“Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys! Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!”

After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a state of unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.

Alone, and still, as a sculptured image, sat the Squire Learmont, in one of his stately halls. He was surrounded by magnificence, but he was alone. The closely-fitting easements admitted, but in subdued murmurs, the various voices of the city, but there was no one, save himself, to enjoy the luxury of the calm that reigned in that gilt and gaudy saloon. The choicest hangings depended from the walls, half concealing, yet rendering more effective, the glowing paintings that were hung in the most favourable lights; but Learmont was alone. A chandelier, shaded by coloured glasses, shed a sweet and chastened light upon every article in that costly room, but who was there to admire, to gaze in rapture upon the splendour of that magical scene? Learmont was alone, and the deep sense of his utter loneliness, crept across him with a chilling influence that seemed to penetrate even to the very marrow in his bones.

How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! He was alone! The first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.

In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.

Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.

“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’Tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”

His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him, and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon, and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful tone.

Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,

“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”

Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.

“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”

He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.

“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”

The servant bowed and retired.

“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.

In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.

Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly nature of its hangings and various appointments.

Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.

It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm, conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the wicked.

Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that tortured him.

Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing his fevered brain.

“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement, succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new pleasure!—I will never be alone!”

He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—

“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! They, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! What hurts it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—they shall die!”

How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them, all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! he was alone! the first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.

In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.

Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.

“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue.—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”