Ada, the Betrayed; Or, The Murder at the Old Smithy. A Romance of Passion

by James Malcolm Rymer

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.