Several heavy blows upon the outer door of the ale house, which was closed to keep out the snow, stopped the young farmer in his speech and attracted the attention of the whole company.
“Who’s that?” said one, looking round him. “We are all here.”
“House! House!” cried a deep hoarse voice, from without, and the blows on the door continued.
“Tom! Tom!” screamed the landlady, Mrs. Fairclaw, who was a buxom widow, fat, fair, and fifty, “Tom! You idle vagabond! Don’t you hear! There’s some one knocking—if it’s a tramper, tell him this is no house for him.”
Tom, with a knowing wink, proceeded to the door, and, in a few moments ushered into the warm parlour a tall man, who was so covered with snow, that it was difficult to make out what rank in life his appearance indicated.
He cast a hurried and uneasy glance round him, as he entered the parlour, and then taking a chair in silence, he turned to Tom, and said in a tremulous voice, “Brandy, if you please.”
“Shall I take your hat and dry it by the kitchen fire?” said Tom.
“No,” replied the stranger. “I—I must not stay long.” So saying he turned his chair, so as to leave his face very much in the shade, and sat perfectly silent.
“A rough night, sir,” remarked the young farmer.
“Eh?—yes remarkably fine,” replied the stranger.
“Fine?”
“Oh—the—the—snow you mean. Yes, very rough—very rough, indeed—I beg your pardon.”
The company looked very eagerly at each other, and then at the abstracted stranger in great wonderment and intense curiosity.
Tom now entered with the brandy. The stranger eagerly clutched the little pewter measure in which it was brought and toss’d off its contents at once. Then he drew a long breath, and turning to Tom, he said:—
“Stay—I—I want to know—”
“What?” said Tom, as the man paused a moment.
“Is—Andrew Britton—still—alive?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“And does he,” continued the man, “does he still live at the old place?”
“The old Smithy?”
“Yes.“
“Oh, yes; he lives there still.”
“And—and is the squire—alive—”
“Ah! To be sure.”
“The smith,” said the young farmer, “still lives, sir, in his old place, part of which was burnt down ten years ago, or more.”
“Ten years!” murmured the stranger.
“Yes; the night there was a storm—”
The stranger rose, saying—
“Indeed! You talk of a storm as if there never had been but one.”
So saying he threw down a shilling to Tom, and hastily left the room.
The occupants of the parlour looked at each other in silence, and those who had pipes smoked away at such speed that in a few moments the room was full of dense blue vapour.
CHAPTER IV.
The Old Smithy.—A Lone Man.—The Alarm.—The Mysterious Conference.—Guilt and Misery.
It was the hammer of the smith which had sounded on the night air, and the clangour of which had reached the ears of the frequenters of the snug oaken parlour of the Rose Inn.
The Smithy was of great extent, for it occupied nearly the whole ground floor of the wing of the dilapidated mansion in which Britton resided.
There were about the stained windows and carved oaken chimney-piece ample evidences of ancient grandeur in the place, and it was not a little singular to notice the strange effect produced by the mixture of the rude implements of the smith with the remains of the former magnificence of the ancient hall.
A blazing fire was roaring on the hearth, and by it stood Andrew Britton, the smith, or “The Savage,” as he was called, in consequence of the known brutality of his disposition. There was no other light in the large apartment but what proceeded from the fire, and as it flared and roared up the spacious chimney it cast strange shadows on the dusky walls, and lit up the repulsive countenance of the smith with unearthly-looking brilliancy. A weighty forge hammer was in his hand, and he was busily turning in the glowing embers a piece of iron upon which he had been operating.
“Curses on his caution,” he muttered, as if following up some previous train of thought. “And yet—yet without the work—I think I might go mad; drink and work. Thus pass my days; aye, and my nights too. He is right there; I should go mad without the work. I drink—drink till my brain feels hot and scorching—then this relieves me—this hammer, and I fancy as I bring it clashing down upon the anvil that—ha! ha!—that some one’s head is underneath it. And most of all, is it rare and pleasant to imagine it his head, who turned a cowardly craven when he had work to do which required a cool head, and a quick hand. Curses on him! Curses!”
He lifted the immense hammer which no ordinary man could have wielded, and brought it down upon the anvil with so stunning a sound, that it awakened startling echoes all over the old house.
Suddenly the smith stood in the attitude of attention, for as the sounds he had himself produced died away, he fancied there mingled with them a knocking at the door of the smithy.
For a few moments he listened attentively, and then became confirmed in his opinion, that some one was knocking at his door.
“A visitor to me?” he muttered, “and at this hour—well, well—be it whom it may, he shall enter. Whether he goes forth again or not is another consideration. Men call me a savage. Let those beware who seek my den.”
He walked to the door of the smithy, and removing an iron bar which hung across it, he flung it wide open, saying, “Who knocks at Andrew Britton’s door?”
The mysterious stranger who had created so much sensation at the “Rose,” stood on the threshold. His form was clearly defined upon the snow, and the smith started as he said—
“Andrew Britton, do you know me?”
“Know you?” said Britton.
“Aye! Look at me.”
The man took off his hat as he spoke, and stood in the full glare of the flickering fire light.
A dark scowl came over the brow of the smith, and he still continued silent while the man repeated, “Andrew Britton, do you know me?”
“Know you?” cried Britton, with a voice of rage almost goaded to fury. “Yes, I do know you—robber—thief—paltry wretch that had not courage—”
“Hush, Andrew Britton,” said the stranger. “I have travelled many weary miles to visit thee. From the moment that a stranger told me that the clank of your hammer still sounded through the village of Learmont, I guessed how you had been requited. I resolved to seek you, and tell you how to better your condition. I am here with such a purpose. Am I welcome? Or shall I turn from your door in anger, Andrew Britton? Speak at once.”
Owing to the position in which the man stood, the red glare of the smith’s fire fell full upon his working features, and after regarding them attentively for some moments, Britton spoke in a calmer tone than he had used before.
“I