“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