The wing of the ancient building in which the fire had originated, alone had suffered from the conflagration. It lay a heap of smouldering ruins, but the rest of the large rambling habitation, including the Smithy, was quite uninjured.
The child was surrendered by common consent to the care of a kind-hearted woman, by the name of Dame Tatton, who was a widow. She looked with an eye of trembling pity upon the little innocent who nestled in her bosom in sobbing fear.
The little girl, for such she was, showed evidently by her attire that she had been in the care of those of a far higher rank in life than the kind-hearted, but humble cottager, who now strove to allay her childish terror.
Around the neck of the infant was a small necklace of pearls, and about its attire generally there were ample indications of wealth.
The little innocent soon sobbed itself to sleep upon the breast of Dame Tatton, and the village gossips, after resolving in the morning to go in a body to the Squire Learmont and ask his advice, or rather commands, concerning the disposal of the babe that had been so mysteriously thrown upon their hands, dispersed to seek that repose they were so much in need of.
Every one naturally thought that Andrew Britton, the smith, knew something of the mysterious man and the child; but none would venture to the dwelling of “The Savage,” as he was generally called, to make an inquiry, for his ferocity was too well known not to be universally dreaded.
The storm had nearly gone. A heavy fall of rain was splashing on the meadows, and beaten down vegetation, and all was still in Learmont till the morning’s sun rose on the wreck which the tempest had made in the green valley that the day before was redolent of peace and plenty.
Young and old then sought the cottage of Dame Tatton. They knocked at first gently, then more loudly, but no one answered.
“My mind misgives me,” cried the young man who had the preceding evening spoken so boldly to the smith—“my mind misgives me; but there is something wrong. Let us force the door, my masters.”
“Nay, Frank,” said an old man. “The widow sleeps soundly after the storm. Ye are too hasty—far too hasty, Frank Hartleton.”
“Nay to thee!” cried the impetuous youth. “ ’Tis but a broken panel at the utmost, and we do force the dame’s door, and that we can any of us mend again. What say you masters?”
“Aye, truly,” replied a little man with a red night-cap—“spoken truly—most sagely spoken.”
“But will the squire approve of it, think ye?” suggested one.
“By my shears I thought not of that,” murmured the little man, who was the garment fashioner of Learmont.
“Knock again,” cried several.
Frank Hartleton knocked loudly, and shouted—
“Dame Tatton—Dame Tatton, I say; hast taken a sleeping draught?”
No voice replied. All was as still as the grave within the cottage.
Frank now placed his foot against the frail door, and with one vigorous push he sent it flat upon the earthen floor of the cottage, and immediately striding over it, he entered the humble dwelling.
The villagers hesitated for a moment, in order to be quite sure there was no immediate danger in following Frank Hartleton, and then they quickly thronged the little cottage, which could boast of but two small apartments, so that the whole interior was in a very few minutes examined.
The cottage was tenantless. Dame Tatton and her infant charge had both disappeared.
The simple rustics gaped at each other in speechless amazement. The bed had evidently been occupied, but there was no sign of confusion or violence—all was orderly and neat—nothing was removed or disarranged. A canary bird was singing gaily in a wicker cage; a cat slept on the hearth; but the Widow Tatton and the mysterious child—now more mysterious than ever—had both disappeared.
“I cannot account for this,” said Frank Hartleton. “By Heavens it’s the most singular thing I ever heard of.”
“The place has a strange look,” cried one.
“A strange look!” said the rest in chorus. “So indeed it has.”
“Strange nonsense,” cried Frank. “So you are frightened all of you at an empty-room are you?”
“Master Frank,” suddenly shouted one, “look ye here, you were always a main scholar.”
Frank turned his attention to a part of the plaster wall indicated by him who spoke, and on it was traced, as if rapidly with a thumb or finger nail these words—
“Help—the Squire and the Savage have—”
and that was all. Whoever had written that hurried scrawl had not had time to finish the sentence which would probably have thrown some light upon the inexplicable affair.
“There has been some foul play, I am convinced,” cried Frank. “My friends, let us go at once and confront the squire.”
“You need not go far, insolent hind!” cried a hoarse voice, and Frank turned suddenly to where the sound proceeded from, saw Squire Learmont himself standing upon the threshold of the cottage.
Squire Learmont of Learmont, only as he preferred being called, was a man far above the ordinary standard of height; his figure, however, was thin and emaciated, which, coupled with his height, gave him an ungainly appearance. His complexion was a dead white—there was nothing of the sallow or brown in it—it was ghastly white, and contrasting with his lank black hair which hung far down from his head straight and snake-like without the shadow of a curl, it had a hideous corpse-like appearance.
“I am glad,” said Frank, when he had recovered his first surprise at the sudden appearance of Learmont, “I am glad we have not far to go, for the business is urgent.”
Learmont waved his hand for him to proceed.
“Last night there was a storm,” continued Frank.
“Indeed!” sneered Learmont. “That is news this morning.”
Frank Hartleton felt his cheek flush with colour, but he controlled his passion and continued—
“A wing of the old house adjoining the smithy was on fire—the house I mean that has been shut up so long because it is thought—”
“Who dared think?” cried Learmont, in a voice of violent anger. “Who dared think of me—”
“Of you, sir?”
“Aye—who dared—?”
“It was of the house I spoke.”
“But—but is it not my house, quibbler?” cried Learmont.
“Truly, sir.”
“Then on with your speech, sir, and draw no inferences from idle gossips. The wing of my house was on fire. Enough—what followed?”
“A man rushed from it in mortal agony of mind and body, carrying a child—”
“Well—well!”
“That child was given to the care of Dame Tatton, who dwelt in this cottage. Now child and dame have both disappeared.”
“I hear!” cried Learmont.
“What is to be done sir? You are the lord here.”
“And so, I presume,” sneered Learmont, “I must charge myself to bring back every old woman, who disappears from her hovel?”
“Here