A cold piercing air blew from the Thames, and Sheldon shuddered as he remarked—
“I say—my—my good fellow, the—sooner we get to some place where we can have this same ale, and—and sack—and Rhenish—the better—on my faith it’s c—c—cold.”
“Come this way, close to the palace wall,” said Learmont, “and the old trees will save us from the cool air that blows across the river.”
So saying, he led his doomed companion close to the ancient wall, then he paused and listened attentively, in case any one should be within hearing; all was as still as the grave—not the most distant sound indicative of human life, met his ears.
“He must die!” muttered Learmont.
“You may say it’s cold,” remarked Sheldon; “w—w—what are you waiting for—
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Who would not drink
When, the cup is brimming over,
Be it Rhenish—be it—sack—
Or burning old—Oc—Oc—October!
“that’s a—b—b—brave song—a ex—extraordinary brave song—a—w—w—wonderful song.”
Learmont laid his hand on his sword as he said—
“There is more light now, Master Sheldon. Look at me.”
As he spoke he raised his cap, which previously had been drawn close over his eyes, and raised himself to his full gaunt height.
The waterman fixed his wondering eyes upon him, and muttered:—
“I—I—think—you—you ain’t Master Gray.”
“Do you know me?” cried Learmont, fiercely.
The man trembled and seemed all at once half-sobered by terror as he stammered—
“I—I—have seen—”
“Seen what?—who?”
“Your worship at Westminster.”
“Ah! My name—know you that?”
“They called you Squire Learmont.”
Learmont suddenly turned his back upon Sheldon, and casting an anxious glance around him to satisfy himself that they were still alone, he suddenly drew his sword and faced the trembling man.
“Mercy! mercy!” cried Sheldon, dropping on his knees.
“Idiot!” cried Learmont, “you are in my way. Curses on your worthless life!”
“Oh, God, mercy!” cried the man.
Learmont shortened his arm, and plunged his sword through the body of the defenceless man.
With a wild shriek that rung through the Bishop’s walk, Sheldon sprang from his knees; he grasped wildly at the air, and spun round and round in his frantic efforts to stand.
“Help! Help! Murder!” he shrieked.
“Damnation!” cried Learmont, and again he passed his reeking sword through the heaving chest of Sheldon.
Again the wounded man tried to speak, but a low gurgling sound in his throat was all he could produce, and he fell with a deep groan at the feet of the murderer.
CHAPTER XXI.
A Sunny Morning.—The Chamber in the Old House.
The morning gathered each moment strength and beauty, for it was beautiful, although the trees were stripped of their summer verdure, and the earth no longer sent forth sweet flowers to—
Load with perfumes
The soft dreaming idle air
That steeped in sunshines.
Music, and all dear delight,
Hung, tranquilly ’twixt heaven and earth.
The sun, however, was bright, and the air, although the soft voluptuous warmth of summer, was full of health and life. The little waves on the river sparkled like silver broken into fragments and strewed upon the surface of the stream. For miles the clear cloudless sky reflected nothing but pure sunshine, beautiful although cold; it shone upon the palaces, the churches, and the bridges, and upon the meanest hovels pregnant with squalid poverty; it shone upon all alike. It found its way in floods of beauty, softened by rich colouring of glass and drapery, into the chambers of the rich and great, and it struggled through the dingy panes of the cottage windows, making, perchance, more happiness there than in the lordly mansion, which more frequently is the habitation of an aching heart.
There was one small room into which that clear morning sun shone in all its dearly-welcomed beauty, and there was one heart that was cheered by its presence, and smiled gladly in its radiant light; that room into which it shone was the sleeping chamber of the young boy, Harry, and that heart that welcomed its rays was his—a heart that ever beat in unison with all that was good—all that was beautiful.
The apartment was a small one adjoining a spacious room that was on the second floor of the house, and communicating with it by folding doors. It contained little else than a small couch and a few necessary articles of the toilette. A large mat lay at the door, on which reposed the dog, which was poor Harry’s only companion—his only friend.
The boy was up and leaning upon the window-sill, gazing earnestly through a small chink that was left in the beading (for the window was blocked up from without) which enabled him to see, and without danger of being observed by any one in the street, and likewise was quite of sufficient width to allow the morning sun to stream into the little room.
With a deep sigh he turned from the window, and the dog at the same moment rose, and with grateful gestures approached its kind master.
“The sun is shining, my poor Joy,” said Harry, mournfully; “but you and I may not gambol in its beams. The world without this gloomy house seems bright and beautiful, but we are prisoners, ’tis very, very strange; Gray tells me he is my uncle, and that there is a fearful secret connected with the family that forces him to shut himself and me up in this mysterious manner. Uncle Gray, I doubt you. Such a tale might suit the ears of a child, but—I—I am one no longer. Can this man be my uncle? His behaviour is so strange to me, alternately harsh and kind, affectionate and cruel. Alas! I know not what to think. Oh, how my heart yearns for the bright sunshine, the open sky, and the green fields! How long am I to be thus immured? Heaven only knows. I—will—I must seek some other explanation. I know he fears me, I have seen him shrink before my eyes. I have marked him tremble and turn pale at a chance word I uttered, and yet I had no clue to such feelings, because I knew not which word it was that moved him so; and this disguise, too, which he persuades, begs, implores of me to wear, as he says, for my life’s sake; ’tis very strange. These are not the garments of a young maiden as I am. What have I done that I should, thus forswear sex, liberty, sunshine, joy, all that makes life rich, and beautiful to the young? Alas! Alas! What have I done to be a dreary prisoner? In all my weary years, short, but oh, how long to me! But one face beamed with kindness on me, that face was Albert Seyton’s; but one voice spoke to me in accents of love and pity—that voice was Albert Seyton’s; but one heart seemed ever to really feel for me a pang of sorrow, and—and—that heart was Albert Seyton’s.”
The young girl, for such she was, sunk into a chair and wept bitterly. Then suddenly dashing aside the tears that obscured her beautiful eyes, she said—
“No—no,