“Who? not the Duke of Wellington,” said I, wondering whether Harry was really going to include _him_ too, in his long list of confidential friends and acquaintances.
“Pooh!” cried Harry, “I mean the white-whiskered old man you saw below; they call him _the Duke:—he_ keeps the house. I say, I know him well, and he knows _me;_ and he knows what brings me here, also. Well; we have arranged every thing about you; you are to stay in this room, and sleep here tonight, and—and—” continued he, speaking low—“you must guard this letter—” slipping a sealed one into my hand—“and, if I am not back by morning, you must post right on to Bury, and leave the letter there;—here, take this paper—it’s all set down here in black and white—where you are to go, and what you are to do. And after that’s done—mind, this is all in case I don’t return—then you may do what you please: stay here in London awhile, or go back to Liverpool. And here’s enough to pay all your expenses.”
All this was a thunder stroke. I thought Harry was crazy. I held the purse in my motionless hand, and stared at him, till the tears almost started from my eyes.
“What’s the matter, Redburn?” he cried, with a wild sort of laugh—“you are not afraid of me, are you?—No, no! I believe in you, my boy, or you would not hold that purse in your hand; no, nor that letter.”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” at last I exclaimed, “you don’t really intend to desert me in this strange place, do you, Harry?” and I snatched him by the hand.
“Pooh, pooh,” he cried, “let me go. I tell you, it’s all right: do as I say: that’s all. Promise me now, will you? Swear it!—no, no,” he added, vehemently, as I conjured him to tell me more—“no, I won’t: I have nothing more to tell you—not a word. Will you swear?”
“But one sentence more for your own sake, Harry: hear me!”
“Not a syllable! Will you swear?—you will not? then here, give me that purse:—there—there—take that—and that—and that;—that will pay your fare back to Liverpool; good-by to you: you are not my friend,” and he wheeled round his back.
I know not what flashed through my mind, but something suddenly impelled me; and grasping his hand, I swore to him what he demanded.
Immediately he ran to the bust, whispered a word, and the white-whiskered old man appeared: whom he clapped on the shoulder, and then introduced me as his friend—young Lord Stormont; and bade the almond tree look well to the comforts of his lordship, while he—Harry—was gone.