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