CHAPTER XLVII.
The Smith at Learmont House.—The Breakfast.—The Threat, and its Results.—The Caution.
While these events were taking place, Learmont was ill at ease in his stately halls. Well he knew that the visitation of the smith at so inopportune an hour at his fête would be related throughout that circle of nobility and power into which it was the grand end and aim of his life to force himself; and, it added one more damning argument to those already rapidly accumulating in his mind towards the conviction, that after all he had made a grand mistake in life, and mistaken the road to happiness. At the same time, however, he felt that having chosen the path of guilt he had, there was for him no retreat, and with a dogged perseverance, compounded of mortified ambition, he continued his career of guilt.
Take the life of Britton he dared not, although he lay such an inanimate, helpless mass in his power, and it was not the least of Learmont’s annoyances that he was compelled to see to the personal safety of the drunken brute who had produced confusion and derangement among his most ambitious schemes.
It was many hours before Britton slept off the intoxication under the influence of which he had acted in the manner described in the ball-room, and when he did recover, and open his heavy eyes, it was with no small degree of surprise that he found himself in the same dark room into which the squire had thrown him to sleep off his debauch.
His first thought was that he was in prison, and he rose to his feet with bitter imprecations and awful curses upon the head of Learmont and Gray, whom he supposed must have betrayed him in some way. A second thought, however, dispelled this delusion.
“No—no; d—n them—no!” he cried. “They dare not! Well they know they dare not!—I have them safe!—My evidence would destroy them, while it would not place me in a worse position. Where the devil am I?”
The room was very dark, the only light coming from a small pane of glass at the top of the door. Britton, however, was not exactly the kind of person to waste much time in idle conjecture or imaginative theories as to where he was; but, ascertaining that the door was locked, he placed his shoulder against it and with one heave of his bulky form, forced it from its hinges.
A loud cry arrested the smith’s attention as he accomplished this feat, and, to his great amusement, he saw lying amid the confusion of a tray, glasses, and decanters, a man who happened to have been passing at the moment, and, alarmed at the sudden and violent appearance of the smith, had fallen down with what he was so carefully carrying.
This was a piece of sport quite in Britton’s way—one of those practical jests that he perfectly understood and appreciated, in order, however, to add zest to it, he gave the astonished man a hearty kick, which induced him to spring to his feet, and make off with frantic speed, shouting “Murder! Murder!” at the top of his lungs.
Britton immediately turned his attention to one decanter which, in a most miraculous and extraordinary manner, preserved its position of perpendicularity amidst the universal wreck of every other article. He seized it instantly as a lawful prize, and plunging the neck of it into his capacious mouth, he withdrew it not again until it presented an appearance of perfect vacuity, and the bottle of wine which it had contained was transferred into his interior man.
“That’s good,” gasped Britton, when he had finished his draught, “I was thirsty. Upon my life that’s good. Curse the awkward fellow! He has broken the other, I wonder how the d—l I came—by G—d! This is the squire’s, now I look about me. I must have been drunk. What the deuce has happened? My head is all of a twirl. Let me think,—humph! The Chequers—d—n it! I can’t recollect anything but the Chequers.”
Britton’s cogitations were here interrupted by the appearance of Learmont with a dark scowl on his brow that would have alarmed any one but the iron-nerved and audacious Britton.
“Well, squire,” he said, “I suppose I’d a drop too much, and you took care of me, eh? Is that it?”
“Follow—me!” said Learmont, bringing out the two words through his clenched teeth, and making a great effort to preserve himself from bursting out into a torrent of invective.
“Follow you?” exclaimed Britton. “Well I have no objection; I’ll follow you. Our business is always quite private and confidential.”
He followed the rapid strides of Learmont along a long gallery, during the progress of which they encountered a servant, when Britton immediately paused, and roared out in a voice that made the man stand like one possessed,—
“Hark, ye knave!—You in the tawny coat, turned up with white—bring breakfast for two directly.”
“Andrew Britton!” cried Learmont, turning full upon the smith, flashing with resentment.
“Squire Learmont!” replied Britton, facing him with an air of insolence and bloated assurance.
There was a pause for a moment, and then Learmont added,—
“You—you are still drunk!”
“No, I am hungry; a drunken man never orders victuals, squire.”
“I have breakfasted,” said Learmont.
“Very like, but you don’t fancy I meant any of it for you. Curse me! I always make a point of ordering breakfast for two, now that I am a gentleman and can afford it;—I’m sure to have nearly enough then. Breakfast for two, I say! You can get it ready while your master and I settle some little affairs connected with the Old Smithy. Do you hear?—What are you staring at?”
The servant looked at Learmont evidently for orders, and the squire, almost inarticulate with rage, said,—
“Go—go! You may get him breakfast.”
“Ah, to be sure,” said Britton; “of course you may. I’m a particular friend of your master’s; and mind you are more respectful another time, you beast, and use polite language, and be d—d to you, you thief!”
The amazed domestic hastened away, for he shrewdly guessed that, if he delayed much longer, he might be favoured by some practical display of the excessive freedom which the messenger from the Old Smithy evidently could take with the proud, haughty, Learmont, and everything that was his, or in any way connected with him—a freedom which puzzled and amazed the whole household, and formed the theme of such endless gossipping in the servants’ hall, that without it, it would seem impossible they could found any materials for consideration, conjecture, and endless surmise.
Learmont now stalked on, followed by Britton, until he reached the small private room in which the conferences with both Gray and the smith were usually held. The squire then closed the door, and turning to Britton with a face convulsed with passion, he said,—
“Scoundrel! Are you not afraid to tamper with me in this manner? Drive me too far by your disgusting conduct, and insolent, vulgar familiarities, and I would hang you, though I had to fly from England forever before I denounced you;—nay, hear me out, and let my words sink deep into your brain, if it be capable of receiving and recording them. If you dare to thrall me by untimely visits, I will, though it cost me thousands, lay such a plot for your destruction, that your life shall not only be forfeited, but I will take care to associate your name with such infamy that no confession nor statement of yours would be received with a moment’s credence. You earn from me the wages of crime—deep crime, and you know it; but were those wages millions, and were those crimes of ten times blacker hue than they are, you have no right, nor shall you be, a torment to me. I am your master, and I will make you know it, or rue the fearful consequence.”
Learmont paused, and regarded the smith with an air of haughty defiance.
“Oh!” said Britton. “So you’ve had your say, Squire Learmont—you threaten to hang me, do you? Ho! Ho! Ho!—The same length of cord that hangs me will make a noose for your own neck. You will lay a plot to destroy me, will—beware, Squire Learmont! I have laid a mine for you—a mine that will blow you to h—ll, when I choose to fire the train. I don’t want to quarrel with you; I’ve done a black job or two for you, and you don’t much like paying for them; but then you know you must, and there’s an end to that. Now for the familiarity business: I give in a little there, squire, d—me! Justice is justice—give every dog his day! I have been cursedly drunk, I suppose, and made an ass of myself. I came here, though, now I recollect, with a good motive,—it was to warn you. But mind you, squire, don’t call me any ugly names again—I won’t stand them. Be civil, and growl as much as you like—curse you! Be genteel, and don’t provoke me.”
“Solemnly promise me that you will only come here at stated times, from visit to visit, to be arranged,” said Learmont, “and I am willing to forget the past.”
“Well, that’s fair,” cried Britton. “When I’ve had a drop, I’m a little wild or so,—d—n it! I always was.”
“You consent?”
“I do. Now give me my fee.”
“Your fee?”
“Yes; ten pounds.”
Learmont took out the sum required from his purse, and handed it to Britton, saying as he did so,—
“And when shall I be honoured again with your next visit?”
“What’s to-day, squire?”
“Thursday.”
“Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning. If I’ve been sober on Friday night, we’ll say eleven o’clock; if drunk, make it two or three.”
A low tap at the door now announced some one, and Learmont went to see who it was.
“The—the—breakfast—for two, your honour—is—is—laid in the south parlour,” stammered a servant, with a frightened aspect.
“Oh, it is, is it?” said Britton. “Then you may eat it yourself, for I ain’t going to stay to breakfast with his worship.”
“Yes, yes,” said the servant, disappearing.
“There now,” cried Britton, “ain’t I respectful? You see I ain’t going to touch your breakfast, I dare say I shall get a d—d sight better one at the Chequers. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a king, then. Who’d have thought of that—King Britton, the jolly smith of Learmont.”
“You said you came to warn me of somebody or something,” suggested Learmont.
“So I did,” replied the smith. “That cursed Hartleton has got some crotchet or another in his head, you may depend. He came in disguise to the Chequers to watch me. Beware of him, squire. If I catch him prying into my affairs, and listening to what I say over my glass, I’ll meet him alone some dark evening, and there will be a vacancy in the magistracy. Perhaps, squire, you could step into his shoes. That would be glorious. I’d have a row every night, and you could smother it up in the morning, besides paying all the expenses. Good morning to you squire. Take care, of yourself.”