“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.”
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