“A' see, Sir Thomas,” he at length said, “that something has vexed you, and a'm sorry to see it.”
The baronet gave him a look of such fury, as in a moment banished not only the full-blown consciousness of the important intelligence he was about to communicate, but its very expression from his face, which waxed meaningless and cowardly-looking as ever.
“A' hope,” he added, in an apologetical tone, “that a' didn't offend you by my observation; at least, a' didn't intend it.”
“Sir,” replied the baronet, “your apology is as unseasonable as the offence for which you make it. You see in what a state of agitation I am, and yet, seeing this, you have the presumption to annoy me by your impertinence. I have already told you, that I would help you to this d——d magistracy: although it is a shame, before God and man to put such a creature as you are upon the bench. Don't you see, sir, that I am not in a mood to be spoken to?”
Poor Crackenfudge was silent; and, upon remembering his previous dialogue with Fenton, he could not avoid thinking that he was treated rather roughly between them, The baronet, however, still moved backward and forward, like an enraged tiger in his cage, without any further notice of Crackenfudge; who, on his part, felt likely to explode, unless he should soon disburden himself of his intelligence. Indeed, so confident did he feel of the sedative effect it would and must have upon the disturbed spirit of this dark and terrible man, that he resolved to risk an experiment, at all hazards, after his own way. He accordingly puckered his face into a grin that was rendered melancholy by the terror which was still at his heart, and, in a voice that had one of the most comical quavers imaginable, he said: “Good news, Sir Thomas.”
“Good devil, sir! what do you mean?”
“A' mean good news, Sir Thomas. The fellow in the inn—a' know everything about him.”
“Eh! what is that? I beg your pardon, Crackenfudge; I have treated you discourteously and badly—but you will excuse me. I have had such cause for excitement as is sufficient to drive me almost mad. What is the good news you speak of, Crackenfudge?”
“Do you know who the fellow in the inn is, Sir Thomas?”
“Not I; but I wish I did.”
“Well, then, a' can tell you.”
Sir Thomas turned abruptly about, and, fastening his dark gleaming eyes upon him, surveyed him with an expression of which no language could give an adequate description.
“Crackenfudge,” said he, in a voice condensed into tremendous power and interest, “keep me not a moment in suspense—don't tamper with me, sir—don't attempt to play upon me—don't sell your intelligence, nor make a bargain for it. Curse your magistracy—have I not already told you that I will help you to it? What is the intelligence—the good news you speak of?”
“Why, simply this, Sir Thomas,” replied the other—“that a' know who and what the fellow in the inn is; but, for God's sake, Sir Thomas, keep your temper within bounds, or if you don't, a' must only go home again, and keep my secret to myself. You have treated me very badly, Sir Thomas; you have insulted me, Sir Thomas; you have grossly offended me, Sir Thomas, in your own house, too, and without the slightest provocation. A' have told you that a' know everything about the fellow in the inn; and now, sir, you may thank the treatment a' received that a' simply tell you that, and have the honor of bidding you good day.”
“Crackenfudge,” replied. Sir Thomas, who in an instant saw his error, and felt in all its importance the value of the intelligence with which the other was charged, “I beg your pardon; but you may easily see that I was not—that I am not myself.”
“You pledge your honor, Sir Thomas, that you will get me the magistracy? A' know you can if you set about it. A' declare to God, Sir Thomas, a' will never have a happy day unless I'm able to write J. P. after my name. A' can think of nothing else. And, Sir Thomas, listen to me; my friends—a' mean my relations—poor, honest, contemptible creatures, are all angry with me, because a' changed my name to Crackenfudge.”
“But what has this to do with the history of the fellow in the inn?” replied Sir Thomas. “With respect to the change of your name, I have been given to understand that your relations have been considerably relieved by it.”
“How, Sir Thomas?”
“Because they say that they escape the disgrace of the connection; but, as for myself,” added the baronet, with a peculiar sneer, “I don't pretend to know anything about the matter—one way or other. But let it pass, however; and now for your intelligence.”
“But you didn't pledge your honor that you would get me the magistracy.”
“If,” said. Sir Thomas, “the information you have to communicate be of the importance I expect, I pledge my honor, that whatever man can do to serve you in that matter, I will. You know I cannot make magistrates at my will—I am not the lord chancellor.”
“Well, then, Sir Thomas, to make short work of it, the fellow's name is Harry Hedles. He was clerk to the firm of Grinwell and Co., the great tooth-brush manufacturers—absconded with some of their cash, came over here, and smuggled himself, in the shape of a gentleman, into respectable families; and a'm positively informed, that he has succeeded in seducing the affections, and becoming engaged to the daughter and heiress of a wealthy baronet.”
The look which Sir Thomas turned upon Crackenfudge made the cowardly caitiff tremble.
“Harkee, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said he; “did you hear the name of the baronet, or of his daughter?”
“A' did not, Sir Thomas; the person that told me was ignorant of this himself.”
“May I ask who your informant was, Mr. Crackenfudge?”
“Why, Sir Thomas, a half mad fellow, named Fenton, who said that he saw this vagabond at an establishment in England conducted by a brother of this Grinwell's.”
The baronet paused for a moment, but the expression which took possession of his features was one of the most intense interest that could be depicted on the human countenance; he fastened his eyes upon Crackenfudge, as if he would have read the very soul within him, and by an effort restrained himself so far as to say, with forced composure, “Pray, Mr. Crackenfudge, what kind of a person is this Fenton, whom you call half-mad, and from whom you had this information?”
Crackenfudge described Fenton, and informed Sir Thomas that in the opinion of the people he was descended of a good family, though neglected and unfortunate. “But,” he added, “as to who he really is, or of what family, no one can get out of him. He's close and cunning.”
“Is he occasionally unsettled in his reason?” asked the baronet, with assumed indifference.
“No doubt of it, Sir Thomas; he'll sometimes pass a whole week or fortnight and never open his lips.”
The baronet appeared to be divided between two states of feeling so equally balanced as to leave him almost without the power of utterance. He walked, he paused, he looked at Crackenfudge as if he would speak, then resumed his step with a hasty and rapid stride that betokened the depth