“But what I have to say is safest said now, and more to the purpose, as I stand here upon your threshold.”
“Say on,” cried Britton, impatiently.
“ ’Tis three days’ journey by the quickest conveyances and the nearest road to where I have hidden my head for ten years—ten weary years. In my chamber lies a sealed packet, on which is written the date of my departure, and accompanying it are these words: ‘If I return not, or send no message with assurance of my safety by the time eight days have expired, take this packet to the nearest justice and bid him open and read its contents.’ ”
The dark countenance of the smith turned to a pallid hue as the stranger spoke, and his gigantic frame perceptibly trembled as he said in a low husky whisper, “And that packet contains—.”
“A confession.”
“You are cautious; but, you were safe without so deeply laid a plan.”
“I may have been; nay, I think I should have been safe when I explained to you, Britton, the motive of my journey hither; but the mind is never so free to act as when safety is doubly assured.”
“Come in—come in,” said Britton, “the night air is chilling, and the snow flakes dash upon the floor. Come in at once.”
“Freely,” said the stranger, stepping into the smith’s strange abode.
Britton carefully barred the door, and without speaking for a few moments, he threw coals upon his forge fire and stirred up the glowing embers until a cheerful blaze of light illuminated the whole interior of the smithy.
The stranger, from the moment of his entrance, had fixed his eyes upon a large oaken door at the further end of the ancient hall, and he continued to gaze at it, as if under the influence of some fascination which he could not resist.
“Britton“ he said at length, while a shudder for one instant convulsed his frame, “have you ever passed through that door since—since—”
“Since the night of the storm?” said Britton. “Yes, I have passed through it.”
“You are bold.”
“I had a motive, and since your candour has been such as to tell me of that little contrivance of yours about the packet you have left with such urgent directions, I will tell you my motive, and ha! Ha! We—we—shall better understand our relative situations.”
“What was the motive?”
“Can you form no guess?”
“I cannot; how—how should I Britton?”
“Did you lose nothing, ten years since?”
“Yes—yes—I did lose a knife—but not here—not here!”
“You did lose it here.”
“And you found it, good Britton, and will give it to me. ’Twas an old keepsake from a friend. You will give it to me, Andrew Britton?”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith in his discordant manner. “You know the mind is free when safety is doubly secured.”
“The knife—the knife!” cried the stranger, earnestly. “My name is—is—”
“On the handle,” added Britton, “which makes it all the more valuable. You say it was a keepsake. It shall be a keepsake still. I will keep it for my own sake. I would not barter it for its worth in gold.”
“Perhaps you have not got it.”
“Do not please yourself with such a supposition, I will show it to you.”
Britton walked to an old press which stood in an obscure and dark corner of the room, and then returned with a large knife in his hand, the blade of which opened and remained fast by touching a spring.
“Do you know that?” he said, holding it to the eyes of his visitor. The man groaned.
“Give it to me. Oh, give it to me, Britton,” he said.
“No,” said the smith. “You have taught me a lesson, I shall write a confession and wrap it round this knife with ample directions to the nearest justice, in case anything should happen to me. Do you understand, my friend?”
The man’s lips became white with fear, and he faltered—
“If—if you will not give it me—take it away—out of my sight with it. It makes my blood curdle in my veins, and a cold perspiration hangs upon my brow. Curses! Curses! That I should have come thus far to be so tortured.”
“Nay,” said the smith, in a tone of sneering exultation, “you shall be convinced. Look at that name upon the blood-stained haft.”
“Away! Away, with it,” shrieked the stranger, covering his eyes with his hands.
“Joseph Gray!” said Britton, reading the name on the knife. “Ha! Ha! Master Gray, is not this a damning evidence?”
“Away! I say—oh, God, take it away.”
“Nay, your curiosity shall be amply satisfied,” continued the smith, approaching his mouth closer to the ear of him who we shall henceforth call Gray. “It was a week before I—even I, savage Britton, as they call me, ventured to unbar that door, and when I did it was at midnight.”
Gray shook with emotion and groaned deeply.
“I knew the spot,” continued Britton, and he lowered his voice to a whisper, while deep sighs of anguish burst from the labouring breast of his listener. The snow pattered against the windows of the smithy—a howling wind swept round the ruined pile of building, and not more wild and awful was the winter’s storm without than the demoniac passions and fearful excitement of those two men of blood who conversed in anxious whispers in the Old Smithy, until the grey tints of morning began to streak with sober beauty the eastern sky.
CHAPTER V.
The Morning.—A Visit.—Blasted Hopes.—The Arranged Meeting.—The Packet.—And the Knife.
The snow storm had ceased, and a clear cold winter’s sun rose upon Learmont, making even stern winter look most beautiful. The snow hung in sparkling masses upon every tree and shrub, and in the valley where the village nestled, it was in some places many feet in depth. The little streamlet which ran through the village in the summer time, with a happy murmuring sound, was now still and voiceless, and scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding land. Curling masses of dense smoke arose from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. The robin sang his plaintive ditty on the window sills, and occasionally might be seen a group of children with their scanty garments repairing to the frozen stream to gambol on its slippery surface.
Far above every other habitation in the place, towered the feudal residence of the Learmonts. It was an ancient residence built in Gothic style of architecture, and its blackened walls and time-worn towers looked more than usually stern and desolate now that they were contrasted with the pure white patches of snow that had lodged on every projecting stone and window ledge.
In a chamber situated nearly in the very centre of the mansion, the windows of which were provided with painted blinds, representing the most beautiful and glowing Arcadian landscapes, and the temperature of which was raised fully to that of summer, sat the same tall, dark-browed man, who ten years before had visited the deserted hovel of the Widow Tatton. Time had not swept harmlessly over Squire Learmont. His raven locks were largely mixed with “hoary grey.” The deep olive of his complexion had given way to a sickly sallow tint, which was peculiarly disagreeable to look upon—but in all other respects the man was the