CHAPTER XVI.
The Lone House in Ancient Lambeth.—The Boy.—A Solitary Heart.
In a district of Lambeth, which is now the mart of trade, but which at the period of our narrative was scarcely inhabited, and consisted but of a mass of old melancholy-looking buildings, which had been long since condemned as dangerous, there stood one house in particular, the exterior of which presented to the eye an appearance of such utter decay that it would have required an adventurous person to venture within its crumbling walls and mossy prisons, who, for the sake of a short cut to some of the high roads passed the old building, would walk out into the road way rather than run even the momentary risk of walking close to its dilapidated walls.
The world, however, is ever being taken in by appearances. Not only was this house much stronger and more substantial than its neighbours, but within it there was a degree of comfort and even luxury which no one could for a moment have surmised. It is true the windows were either broken, or so much begrimed with dirt that it was impossible to say if they were glass or not, and here and there a brick was displaced so naturally that it seemed to have fallen out by the natural decay incidental to the age of the structure. Such, however was not the case, for these signs and tokens of insecurity had been manufactured in the silence of the night for the express purpose of deterring any person from entering the gloomy house, or supposing for a moment that it was inhabited by other than rats and mice.
There were no persons living very close to this wretched-looking residence, and the poor squalid creatures, who did occasionally seek a shelter for a few nights in some of the “condemned” houses, never approached that one, for it had the reputation of being haunted, inasmuch as twice had strangers, in passing through the locality after nightfall, called attention to lights dimly observable in the house, and once a man had entered a little hostelry in the immediate neighbourhood, and while his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with fear, and he trembled in every limb, he said he had seen a sight at one of the lower windows of that particular house, which he would not see again for his soul’s sake, and after fortifying himself with a bumper of spiced canary, he had taken his leave, being firmly believed, and leaving behind the character of the house, which lost nothing by being repeated from mouth to mouth, and which produced so powerful an effect upon the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity that it is doubtful if any bribe of sufficient magnitude could possibly be offered to induce any one of them ever to pass it even after at sunset.
Into this mysterious house we will conduct the reader. The room to which we would direct attention was small, but by no means destitute of comforts; a wood fire burnt within the grate, and its low flickering light disclosed several articles of domestic convenience about the apartment. The only coarse appearance the place had was owing to some rough ragged edged planks being nailed across the window on the inside, so as effectually to close it against the egress of any wandering stream of light from the fire.
The room was consequently dark, for the process of preventing the fire-light from showing through the window likewise excluded the daylight, and, although it was mid-day without, that apartment presented the appearance of midnight within.
Stretched on the hearth before the fire was a large gaunt-looking dog, apparently in a deep slumber, and sitting on an old-fashioned chair, with his head buried in his hands, and resting on the table, was the young boy, who has been already introduced to the reader as Harry Gray, and who passed as a nephew of wily Jacob Gray. His remarkable long and beautiful hair fell in masses upon the table, and the fine light glistened on the glossy ringlets as they strayed in wild luxuriance over his hands.
So still was that young creature, that he might have been thought sleeping, and, perhaps, he had been, and had awakened from some dreams of happiness to weep, for a deep sob burst from his heart, and looking up, he cried, in accents of deep misery and despair,—
“I am very unhappy—I wish I could die.”
The dog, upon the sound of the voice, immediately rose, and with a low whine placed his fore paws upon the knee of the boy, and looked in his face with an expression of sagacious affection, which of all the inferior animals dogs alone are capable of.
For a moment the boy did not heed him, but wept bitterly, and kept repeating,—
“If I could but die—if I could but die!”
Then passing his delicate hands across his brow to part back the clustering hair he looked in the face of the dumb animal, that again with a low whine claimed his attention.
“You love me,” he cried; “yes—yes—I know you love me, my poor dog. I found you starving in this lone house, and made a friend of you. I called you ‘Joy,’ because it was joy to me to find you, and I can talk to you, and fancy that you understand me as you gaze thus at me with your honest face of dumb intelligence. There are two have loved me; you are one, my poor dumb Joy, and the—the other—I shall never—see—again—it was Albert Seyton, and he has left me—even he. Oh, Albert, if I were free as thou art, and thou wert hidden—”
Sinking his head upon his hands, again the beautiful boy burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly that the dog howled piteously, in unison with its master’s grief.
“Hush—hush, Joy, hush!” said, the boy. “My faithful kind friend, if he had heard you, you would have an unkind word and a blow for this. It is weak of me to give way thus to tears, but my spirits are subdued, and my heart is nearly broken—broken—broken,” he repeated.
Then suddenly starting to his feet, he stood for a few moments in a listening attitude.
“’Tis he,” he suddenly exclaimed. “Too well I know that step.”
In another moment the door opened, and Jacob Gray stood on the threshold of the apartment.
His look was ferocious, and he pointed to the dog as he said, or rather growled in an angry tone,—
“I heard that cur.”
Harry laid his arm over the dog’s neck, but made no answer.
“I told you,” continued Gray striding into the room—“I told you that I would knock out the brains of that creature if ever I heard it bark, or even whine too loudly.”
The boy held the dog tighter as Gray advanced and said,—
“Uncle, spare him this once—’twas my fault.”
“Pshaw!” cried Gray, “I tell you the cur shall die.”
A flush of colour came across the face of the boy as Gray spoke, and pushing the dog behind him, he drew his slim figure up to its full height, and confronted Gray with his dark, lustrous eyes, flashing with unusual brilliancy.
“Then I tell you he shall not die!” he cried firmly.
Gray for a moment quailed beneath the glance of that singularly beautiful child, and twice he tried to summon courage to meet that look of proud defiance ere he could accomplish it, then he said slowly,—
“So you are bold. How long is it since you have plucked up so much spirit?”
“From the moment that it was necessary to protect the only friend I have against your violence,” replied the boy.
“Indeed!” answered Gray.
“Aye indeed!” said the boy, trembling with excitement.
“Your only friend?” continued Gray. “Humph! You think more, then, of that dog than of me?”
“The hound,” said Harry, in a lower tone, “is kind, affectionate, and faithful—’tis in its way, poor thing, tender and devoted; Uncle Gray, are you all that?”
Gray laughed hysterically, as he replied,—
“Ha! Ha! Is that all? Have you quite summed up the virtues of your hound?”
“Its virtues,” said Harry, “are much to me, for they are the only ones I have now an opportunity of noting. Its kindly instincts and dumb affection appear to me so great and estimable because I have no human ones with which to contrast them. I do love the dog, for I have nothing else to love.”
“Now,” cried Gray, “by hell—”
“Hold, uncle—for shame!” said Harry. “Love the dog, and the dog will love you. They never betray their masters.”
A livid paleness came across Gray’s face as he held by the table, and gasped,—
“Wh—what—do—you mean by that?”
“I say,” repeated Harry, “that dogs never betray their masters.”
“Never betray—their—their masters!” said Gray. “Oh, that is what you mean—that is all?”
“Nay, uncle, what do you mean?” said the boy, surprised at the awful and convulsive agitation of Gray.
“Mean?” echoed Gray—“What can I mean—I—I have said nothing. Recollect—I know I said nothing, I am quite sure.”
“I know not the cause of your agitation,” remarked Harry; “but I cannot have my poor hound injured.”
“He shall die!” shrieked Gray. “Heaven nor hell shall not save him. You don’t know how or why, but you have sealed his fate.”
“I sealed his fate?”
“Yes, you—you, by your prating of his virtues.”
“Impossible, uncle; you do but jest. This noble creature is a safeguard to you as well as to me. Dogs have been known to famish by the murdered body of their master.”
“Cease—cease!” cried Gray. “Do you want to drive me mad?”
“Mad, uncle, because dogs are faithful?”
“No more, I say. Stand aside.”
“I will not forsake my dog. Joy, defend yourself.”
The dog uttered a low growl, and showed rather a formidable row of glistening teeth.
“Harry,” said Gray, “do you know who and what you are?”
A mantling flush colour crimsoned the pale brow of the boy, as he said,—
“You have told me.”
“You know your utter dependence is upon me?”
“I know it, and I feel it.”
“You are base born.”
“You have not omitted to let me know that before,” said the boy, proudly.
“So that, although I am your father’s brother,” added Gray, “you call me uncle but by courtesy.”
The boy was silent, and Gray continued,—
“Stand aside, then, and baulk me not in such a matter as the life of a hound.”
“No,” cried Harry; “were you ten times my uncle from courtesy, you should not harm him!”
Gray clutched his hands convulsively, as if he felt an inclination to rush upon the weak, defenceless boy, and crush him in his fury. He, however, restrained himself, and said,—
“You are mad—quite mad. How can you hope for a moment to resist my will?”
“Uncle,” said the boy, “I have done much to please you; I immure myself here alone with you, and you are not always kind, as you know. Once, then, rouse my suffering heart to resentment, and I will leave you but one of two resources.”
“What are they?” cried Gray eagerly.
“Touch with an unkind hand my poor dumb companion here, and I will fly from window to window of this ill-omened house, shrieking for aid.”
“You would?”
“Ay, would I, uncle, and you should not stop me by the other alternative.”
“And what is that?”
“My murder!”
“Pshaw!” cried Gray; “you are ill, your mind is deranged. Go to rest.”
“God knows I have need of rest,” said the boy. “Come, Joy—come with me.”
The dog followed closely upon the heels of the boy as he slowly left the room. When he had quite gone, Gray lit a lamp, and without speaking, stole into the passage and listened attentively. Then returning, he threw himself into the chair in which the boy had been sitting, and commenced a murmuring colloquy with himself.
“The sight of this young thing,” he said, “always freezes my blood, and yet I dare not murder. Oh, if by some grand stroke of fortune now I could be revenged on the whole of them for the disquiet they have caused me, I think I should be happy. What am I now? Am I even calm? There was a time when I fancied gold had but to be possessed to bring joy in its train. ’Twas a great mistake. I have gold. A large sum is in my hands, and yet, by some damnable train of circumstances, I dare not use it. I must think and contrive some means of freeing myself from the shackles that bind me. Well may Learmont hand me the glittering price of my silence with a smile. ’Tis so much dross to me. I dare not for fear of my life, which I know he thirsts for, even let him know, where I lay my head at night. I am still a fugitive, although rich! And—and that smith, too, is on my track like a blood-hound. If I could get a large sum from Learmont, and then dispose of this young creature I have here, I might fly to some other country and use my wealth. It must be so. More—blood—more blood—blood! Bloo—bl—”
His head dropped upon his breast, and yielding to the fatigue he had undergone and the somnolent influence of the fire, he dropped into a deep slumber by the dull red embers that still smouldered in the grate.