“Certainly not.”
“Then what further have you to say to me?”
Frank was rather confounded by the manner of the squire and was silent.
“Young man,” said Learmont, “your father did a service to the Learmonts.”
“I know it,” said Frank.
“In return for that service, the Learmonts gave him a patrimony, an estate, on the substance of which you live.”
“ ’Tis well known,” cried Frank. “The service was not overpaid. My father saved your father’s life.”
“True,” sneered Learmont, “but beware!”
“Beware of what?”
“The house that was powerful enough to make a peasant an independent man can again convert the audacious son of a peasant into a hind he should have been. Beware I say. You know my motto.”
“I do. ‘Constant till death!’ ”
“Constant till death. Constant in all things, including—revenge!”
“I scorn your threats,” cried Frank.
“Be it so,” said Learmont, as with an angry frown he strode to the door of the cottage. He turned upon the threshold, and said, “this hovel shall be closed for ever. Once more I say beware!”
With a haughty step he left the humble dwelling and took the road to his princely mansion.
CHAPTER III.
Ten Years have Flown.—The Old Rose Inn.—A Snow Storm.—Tom the Factotum.—An Arrival to the Old Smithy.—The Mysterious Stranger.
Ten years had rolled away since the storm, so memorable on account of the mysterious incidents connected with it, had swept over the village of Learmont. Ten weary years to some—to others, years of sunshine and joy—but of such chequered materials are human lives. But little change had taken place in the village. Some of the aged inhabitants had dropped into the silent tomb, and some of the young had grown grey with care—nothing, however, had occurred to cast any light upon the dark and mysterious occurrences of the well-remembered evening of the storm. The smith, Andrew Britton, still plied his hammer, and the mass of ruins which had once been the wing of the old house he inhabited, still lay as they had fallen—only they were overgrown with wild weeds, and coarse vegetation. The cottage of Dame Tatton remained uninhabited, for no one would live in what they considered an ill-omened and mysterious residence. It had, therefore, remained locked up since the unaccountable disappearance of its last occupant, and in course of time the villagers began to regard it with a superstitious feeling of fear—some even asserted that lights had been seen at night gleaming through the narrow casements—others reported that strange sounds of pain and distress had been heard proceeding from the humble dwelling—but whether or not these sights and sounds had really attacked the senses of the inhabitants of Learmont, certain it was that the cottage began by degrees to be regarded with as much dislike and dread as the large rambling habitation of Britton, the smith.
The child too—the infant who had been rescued from the flames was never heard of, and the storm—the fire—the burnt and shrieking man—the child and Dame Tatton, became all leading topics in the gossips of the villagers around their fire-sides, as well as in the old oaken parlour of the “Rose,” an ancient ale house, which stood in the very centre of Learmont, and had so stood for time out of mind.
It was in the depth of winter, ten years and some months after the storm, that a goodly collection of the village gossips—scandal-mongers and topers were seated around the cheerful, crackling, blazing fire in the before-mentioned oaken parlour of the “Rose.” The hour was waxing late, but the room was so warm and comfortable, the ale so good, and the conversation so deeply interesting, that no one seemed inclined to move, but upon the principle of “let well alone,” preferred the present good quarters to a turn out in the snow.
“How long has it snowed now, Tom?” said a jolly farmer-looking man, without taking the pipe from his capacious mouth.
“It beginned,” replied Tom the waiter, ostler, and fag in general. “It beginned at half arter eleven, and here’s a quarter arter ten. It’s snewed all that time.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said an old man. “Forty years ago, when I was a youngster, it used to think nothing of snowing for a week or a fortnight off hand.”
“Ah!” said another old man, shaking his head. “Snow now isn’t like the snow as used to be. It’s not so white, I know, for one thing—”
“Mayhap, daddy, your eyes arn’t so good?” said a good-looking young man who was the very picture of health and strength.
“I can tell you,” said the old man, with an air of indignation, “that in my days—that’s my young days, everything was different, snow and all.”
“You may say that,” remarked another. “When now shall we ever hear of a storm, such as that happened only ten years ago, and a matter of three months or thereby—eh?”
“You mean the time when Savage Britton had part of his old Smithy burnt?”
“The fire wasn’t near his Smithy,” said the old man; “I saw it, and I saw the mad fellow rush out with the child too.”
“We shall never know the rights of that business,” remarked another, “and since Frank Hartleton has gone to London, there’s no chance neither.”
“And you know who has shut himself up more than ever since.”
“The savage?”
“No—not he—some one else.”
“The squire?” said the young farmer.
“I mention no names,” said the old man, “mind I didn’t say the squire shuts himself up. Did I, Tom?”
“Not at all,” replied Tom. “Any ale wanted? Keep the pot a bilin.”
“And if you did say the squire shuts himself up,” cried the young farmer, “what then? We all know he shuts himself up, and room after room has been locked up, in Learmont house, till it’s a misery to look at the dirty windows.”
“That may be,” said the old man, “but mind I didn’t say so. Is it snowing still, Tom?”
“I believe ye,” cried Tom, pulling aside a little bit of red baize that hung by the window, as fast as ever. “It is a coming now.”
And so it was, for the large flakes of snow fell against the window with faint blows, and as far as the eye could reach was one uninterrupted field of pure white which lent an unnatural colour to the night.
“I think we may venture to remark,” said a little man who had hitherto sat silent in a corner next the fire-place, “that there won’t be many out to-night that have got a chimney-corner to crawl to.”
“That’s uncommonly true,” replied several in a breath. “Hark!” cried the young farmer, “there’s the clank of Britton’s hammer.”
“Aye, aye,” said the old man, who was so careful of speech. “In the worst weather he works hardest. I hear it—I hear it—and, friends, mind, I say nothing, but where does his work come from and when is it done, where does it go to—eh?”
“That’s the thing!” cried several. “You’ve hit the right nail on the head.”
“Mind, I said nothing—nothing