“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