Ada, the Betrayed;
or,
The Murder at the Old Smithy.
A Romance of Passion.
———
John Malcolm Rymer
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I.
The Storm.—The Old Smithy.—A Deed of Blood.—The Death Cry.—The Child of
the Dead.—Remorse and Despair.
CHAPTER II.
The Lull of the Tempest.—Morning is Coming.—The Child of Mystery.—The
Necklace.—A Surprise and a Disappearance.—The Inscription.—The Lord of
Learmont.
CHAPTER III.
Ten Years have Flown.—The Old Rose Inn.—A Snow Storm.—Tom the
Factotum.—An Arrival to the Old Smithy.—The Mysterious Stranger.
CHAPTER IV.
The Old Smithy.—A Lone Man.—The Alarm.—The Mysterious Conference.—Guilt
and Misery.
CHAPTER V.
The Morning.—A Visit.—Blasted Hopes.—The Arranged Meeting.—The
Packet.—And the Knife.
CHAPTER VI.
Night Again.—The Ruins.—The Conference.—The Old Oaken Door.—The Resolve.
CHAPTER VII.
The Conference, Continued.—Mutual Security.—The Oaken Door and the
Strange Appearance.—Mysteries Thicken.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Mansion.—Offers of Magnitude.—The Double Plot.
CHAPTER IX.
London in 1742.—Gray’s Home.—The Child.—The Voice of Conscience.—A
Visit.
CHAPTER X.
The Disappearance.—Mrs. Bridget Strangeways and the Old Oaken
Chest.—Albert’s Grief and Despair.
CHAPTER XI.
Learmont in London.—The Endeavour to Drown Thought.—Life in 1742.—All
is not Gold that Glitters.
CHAPTER XII.
The Consequences of Crime.—A Familiar Friend.—A Cloud upon Learmont’s
Felicity.
CHAPTER XIII.
A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob
Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Dark Threat.—The Biter Bit.—Another Murder Projected.—Learmont’s
Reasoning.
CHAPTER XV.
Chase.—A Long Race, And its Results.
CHAPTER XVI.
The Lone House in Ancient Lambeth.—The Boy.—A Solitary Heart.
CHAPTER XVII.
“The Chequers,” at Westminster.—Britton’s Notions of Greatness.—“When
the Wine is In, the Wit is Out.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.
CHAPTER XIX.
Learmont’s Adventure.—A Discovery.—The Haunted House.—Exultation, and a
Resolution.
CHAPTER XX.
The Guide.—The Old House.—The Murder.
CHAPTER XXI.
A Sunny Morning.—The Chamber in the Old House.
CHAPTER XXII.
Learmont at Home.—His Exultation.—The Smith.—The Plot.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Projected Murder.—The Unconscious Sleeper.—A Night of Horror.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Attempted Assassination.—A Surprise.—Ada’s Surmises.—The Agony of
Gray.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Escape.—Taunts.—The Confession.—Learmont’s Rage and Discomfiture.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Morning.—The Body of the Murdered Man.—The Old Inn.—Jacob’s
Reflections.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Ada’s Flight and Despair.—Old Westminster Bridge at Daybreak.—The
Smith.—Mad Maud.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Ada’s Wanderings.—The Pearl Necklace.—A Kind Heart.—The Park.—A Joyous
Meeting.—The Arrangement.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Young Lovers.—The Gallant of a Hundred Years Since.—Hopes and
Fears.—The Dream of a True Heart.
CHAPTER XXX.
Jacob’s Return Home.—An Unexpected Visitor.—The Lonely Watch.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Ada’s Fate Again Against Her.—The Threat.—The New Home.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Albert’s Disappointment.—Tibbs, the Bear Warden.—The Search.—A
Consultation.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Learmont at Home.—Dark Reflections.—The Summons.—The
Confederates.—Suspicions.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Girl in Her Melancholy Home.—The Prison House.—A Dungeon’s
Gloom.—Unavailing Sorrow.
CHAPTER XXV.
Ada’s Appeal.—The Promise.—Ada’s Despair.—Gray’s Triumph.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Squire.—The Life of a Captive.—A Strange Fatality.—The Associates.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Learmont at Home.—The Baronetcy.—A Visitor.—The Rejected Offer.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Ada’s Lone Home.—The Summer.—An Adventure.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Alarm.—The Pursuit.—A Mob in the Last Century.—The Fugitive.—Maud,
the Beggar.
CHAPTER XXX.
The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Interview.—Jacob Gray’s Meditations.—The Slip of Paper.—The
Nail.—The Guilty Conscience.—The Departure.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Jacob Gray’s Fears.—The Promise.—Ada’s Meditations.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Britton at the Chequers.—The Visit.—A Mysterious Stranger.—The Good
Company.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Fête.—Villany Prospers for a Season.—An Interruption.—The Dance.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Ball-room.—A Noble Family.—The Interruption.—Unexpected End of
Learmont’s Fête.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Albert Seyton.—The Lonely Search.—A Suggestion.—An Important Visit.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The
Papers.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Meeting at Mill-bank.—The Knife.—Ada’s Fate Hangs on a Thread.—The
Bold Plunge.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden
Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.
CHAPTER XL.
The Old House Again.—Ada’s Alarm.—Gray and His Gold.
CHAPTER XLI.
A Human Voice.—The Departure.—An Unexpected Meeting.—The Reception.
CHAPTER XLII.
Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come.
CHAPTER XLIII.
The Proposal.—Gray’s Reasoning.—The Vault.—Ada’s Tears.—A Guilty
Heart’s Agony.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Search.—The Confession.—The Strange Report.—An Awful Dilemma.
CHAPTER XLV.
The Lonely Watcher.—Gray’s Cunning.—The Cupboard on the Stairs.
CHAPTER XLVI.
The Death of the Elder Seyton.—Albert’s Grief.—The Prophecy.
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Smith at Learmont House.—The Breakfast.—The Threat, and its
Results.—The Caution.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Escape.—A Song of the Times.
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Projected Murder.—The Alarm.—The Death-Shot.—Ada’s Anguish and
Indignation.
CHAPTER L.
The Ruin at Night.—The Fire.—Gray’s Behaviour.—A Challenge.—Old
Westminster Again.
CHAPTER LI.
The Alcove on the Bridge.—Gray’s Speech to Ada.—The Flight.—The
Hunt.—The Last Refuge.
CHAPTER LII.
The Dark Court.—A Deed of Blood.—The Pursuit Continued.—The Mother and
the Child.
CHAPTER LIII.
A Mother’s Care.—The Pursuit.—A Successful Ruse.—The Second Visit.
CHAPTER LIV.
The Staircase.—The Old Attic.—A Friend in Need.—Fair Play.—Gray’s
Despair.
CHAPTER LV.
The Escape over the Houses.—Many Perils.—Gray’s Great Sufferings.—The
Guide Rope.
CHAPTER LVI.
The Robbers.—The Drugged Wine.—Visions of the Mind Diseased.
CHAPTER LVII.
Ada’s Escape.—The Magistrate.—Ada’s Ignorance of London
Localities.—Learmont’s Fright.
CHAPTER LVIII.
An Anecdote.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s House at Westminster.—The
Reception.—Ada’s Conduct and Feelings.
CHAPTER LIX.
Jacob Gray and His Kind Friends.—The Plunder.—Thieves’ Morality.—The
Drive to Hampstead.
CHAPTER LX.
Ada at Sir Francis Hartleton’s.—The Philosophy of a Young Heart.—A
Confession.—The Pleasure of Sympathy.
CHAPTER LXI.
Albert Seyton’s Destitution.—A Lone and Wearied Spirit.—The Application
to Learmont, and the Meeting with Sir Francis Hartleton.
CHAPTER LXII.
Jacob Grey in the Hampstead Fields.—The Placard.—The Reward.
CHAPTER LXIII.
Gray’s Proceedings.—A Narrow Escape.—The Night Visit to Learmont.
CHAPTER LXIV.
The Chequers.—Britton’s Corner.—An Alarm.—The Mysterious Stranger.—A
Quarrel.—A Fight and a Little Anatomy.
CHAPTER LXV.
An Interview with a Secretary of State.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s
Difficulties.
CHAPTER LXVI.
Gray’s Visit to Learmont.—The Disappointment.—A Week of Terror.—The
Street Newsvender.
CHAPTER LXVII.
The Disappointment.—The Last Resource.—A Strange Meeting.—The
Confession.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Britton and Learmont.—Mind and Matter Produce Similar
Results.—Learmont’s Weakness and Fears.—The Chair.
CHAPTER LXIX.
A Walk and a Meeting.—The Vision at the Open Casement.—Learmont’s
Perturbation.
CHAPTER LXX.
The Jew and the Necklace.—Gray’s Troubles and Surmises.—An Adventure.
CHAPTER LXXI.
The Pursuit.—A Successful Ruse.—The Long Night.—Gray’s Terror.
CHAPTER LXXII.
The Return of Learmont.—The Interview.—Doubts and Fears.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
The Troublesome Shoe-maker.—Gray’s Agony and Danger.—The Flight.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
Ada’s Home.—A Happy Scene.—The Serenity of Goodness.
CHAPTER LXXV.
Britton in His Glory Again.—The Song and the Legal Functionary.—The
Surprise.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
The Old Associates.—Gray’s Fears.—The Old Attic at the Chequers.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
The Smith’s Plot Against Gray.—An Accommodating Friend.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
Gray on the House Tops.—Specimens of the Rising Generation.—The Old
Attic.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
The Interview between Albert and Learmont.—The Promise, and Albert’s
Relation.
CHAPTER LXXX.
The Unfortunate Confidence of Albert Seyton.—Learmont’s Promises and
Treachery.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
Learmont’s Improved Prospects.—The Park.—Ada’s Recollections.—The
Meeting.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
Gray’s Peril.—A Peep into Domestic Affairs.—The Corpulent Lady.—The Man
who Was Hung on Monday.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
The Mystery Explained.—The Escape.—Jacob Gray’s New Lodging.
CHAPTER LXXXV.
Learmont’s Treachery to Albert Seyton.—The Plot Against Gray.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
Gray at Home.—The Confession.—A Walk through Westminster in Search of a
Wig.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
Jacob Gray’s Disguise.—The Troublesome Shoemaker Again.—The Visit.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
Mad Maud and the Magistrate.—The Scraps of Gray’s Confession.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.
The Revelation.—Learmont’s Deep Duplicity.—Albert’s Gratitude.
CHAPTER XC.
The Last Meeting.—Mutual Cunning.—The Squire and Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER XCI.
The Pursuit.—The Spy.—The Three Wherries on the Thames.
CHAPTER XCII.
The Chase on the Thames.—Albert’s Successful Disguise.—The Old Stairs
at Buckingham-street.
CHAPTER XCIII.
Gray at Home.—Albert’s Joy and Exultation.—The Meeting in the Old Door
Way.
CHAPTER XCIV.
Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s
Amusements.
CHAPTER XCV.
The Walk in Search of Albert.—The Recognition at Charing Cross.
CHAPTER XCVI.
Sir Francis Hartleton’s Surprise at Albert’s Place of Destination.—The
Watch on the Squires’ House.—Ada’s Disappointment.
CHAPTER XCVII.
The Visit to Gray’s House.—Learmont’s Exultation.
CHAPTER XCVIII.
Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream.
CHAPTER XCIX.
Ada’s Faith in Albert Seyton.—The Confidence of a Generous Heart.
CHAPTER C.
Learmont’s Visit to the Chequers.—The Sleeping Smith.
CHAPTER CI.
The Search.—The Assignation.—Britton’s Surprise and Exaltation.
CHAPTER CII.
The Hour of Eleven.—Gray in His Solitary Home.—The Lover’s Watch.—The
Eve of the Murder.
CHAPTER CIII.
From Twelve to One.
CHAPTER CIV.
The Murder.
CHAPTER CV.
After the Murder.
CHAPTER CVI.
The Arrest.
CHAPTER CVII.
The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.
CHAPTER CVIII.
Albert’s Despair.—The Tests of Truth.
CHAPTER CIX.
The Meeting of the Lovers.
CHAPTER CX.
The Lovers.—The Interview of Sir Francis Hartleton with the Secretary
of State.—The Ball.
CHAPTER CXI.
The Confession.
CHAPTER CXII.
The Consultation with Albert and Ada.—The Arrangement for the Ball.
CHAPTER CXIII.
Learmont and Britton after the Murder.
CHAPTER CXIV.
Albert’s Visit to Learmont.—The Squire’s Triumph.
CHAPTER CXV.
The Masked Ball.
CHAPTER CXVI.
The Death of Learmont.
CHAPTER CXVII.
The Pursuit for Britton.
CHAPTER CXVIII.
Conclusion.
THE AUTHOR TO HIS READERS.
THE HOPE OF ALBERT SEYTON TO ADA THE BETRAYED.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Lloyd’s
Penny Weekly Miscellany
of
Romance and General Interest
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But with the magic of an art which is immortal,
Is enshrined here.—Ben Jonson.
I have a tale of war for knight
Lay of love for beauty bright,
Fairy tale to lull the heir,
Goblins grim the maids to scare.—Scott.
Vol. I.
London:
Printed and Published by E. Lloyd, 12 Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.
———
1843.
PREFACE
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Ada, the Betrayed;
or,
The Murder at the Old Smithy.
A Romance of Passion.
———
Around the winter’s hearth the tale is told,
To lisping infancy and hoary age;
It is a story of strange passion—of grief and tears—
Of joy and love, and all the elements of mind
Which make us what we are.
Scott.
CHAPTER I.
The Storm.—The Old Smithy.—A Deed of Blood.—The Death Cry.—The Child of
the Dead.—Remorse and Despair.
It was towards the close of the year 1795 that a storm, unequalled in
duration and fury, swept over one of the most fertile districts of
England, spreading consternation and dismay among the inhabitants of
several villages, and destroying in a few short hours the hopes of many
an industrious family, who looked to the nearly ripened grain of the
fertile fields for their means of subsistence through the coming winter.
The day had been lowering and overcast. An unusual sultriness had
pervaded the air, and although more than sixty miles of hill and dale
laid between the spot to which we allude and the Northern Ocean, which
washes the eastern shore of England, several sea birds (a most unwonted
sight) had flown, screeching and wailing, over the rich corn-fields and
promising orchards.
The day had worn gradually on, and it was not until the sun was lost
amid a mass of fiery clouds in the glowing west that any precise
indications of the approaching tempest presented themselves. Then,
however, when the long shadows from the trees began to lose their
identity in the general gloom of the rapidly approaching night, a
singular moaning wind began to blow from the north-west.
The cattle showed alarm and uneasiness—the birds flew low and
uncertainly—horses trembled in their stables, and the hoarse scream of
various large birds of prey as they flew over the farm-house, or
settled on the roofs, had a peculiarly discordant effect. It would seem
as if there was something in the air which enabled the inferior animals
to know and dread the awful strife of the elements which was about to
ensue.
The glowing clouds in the west rapidly disappeared, and the night fell
over the land as if a black pall had been suddenly cast over the face
of Nature. The wind momentarily increased in violence. Now it moaned
like an evil spirit round the gable ends of the houses; then again,
with a wild whistle and a rushing sound, it would sweep past the
latticed windows like a wild animal seeking its prey.
Occasionally there would be a lull in the tempest, and in one of these
the heavens were lit up with a flash of lightning of such power and
brilliancy, that all who saw it closed instantly their eyes in dismay,
and trembled with apprehension. Then followed thunder—thunder that
shook the houses to their foundations, and boomed and rattled in the
sky with so awful a sound that many of the villagers sunk upon their
knees to pray, for they thought the end of the world was at hand, and
they should never see the blessed sun again. Mothers clasped their
screaming children to their breasts, and wept in bitterness of heart.
Strong men shook with fear, and when again the wind arose, and, like a
giant’s arm, levelled hedges, trees, haystacks, and some houses, a cry
of dismay arose from the villagers, and the bells were rung in the
rural churches. Some screamed—some prayed—some wept and rung their
hands. All was horror, uncertainty, and despair!
The storm had lasted several hours, and still, the forked lightning
darted in livid streaks from cloud to cloud. The awful thunder filled
the air with its hundred echoes, and the wind swept over a scene of
desolation, for the smiling corn-fields were no more; the laden fruit
trees were levelled with the soil, and many a cottage had its humble
thatch torn off, and presented but its bare walls to the moaning blast.
The principle fury of the land storm seemed to have been levelled at a
little village which occupied the gentle slope of a beautiful and
fertile valley, some few miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and through the
lowest portion of which a branch of the river Derwent wound its
serpentine course. The village was called Learmont, from the name of a
noble family who, since the Norman conquest, had been the owners of the
land.
There was scarcely a house, from the humblest cottage to the lordly
mansion of the Learmonts, which had not suffered by the hurricane; and
to add to the dismay of the inhabitants, who in fear and dread had
rushed from their homes, there arose about the hour of midnight the
dreadful cry of fire!
That fearful cry struck terror to every heart, and those who had breath
to shriek joined the shout, and “fire! fire!” passed from mouth to
mouth, in all the different tones and cadences of fear and hopelessness.
All uncertainty as to the precise locality of the fire was soon
removed, for the flames from a large irregular building, standing
somewhat apart from the other houses, quickly marked it as the spot of
the conflagration.
“It’s at the Old Smithy,” cried a dozen voices.
The words had scarcely passed their lips, when a woman darted into the
centre of the throng, shrieking wildly,—
“Aye—it is at the Old Smithy! The time has come—I knew. I have told you
all; you, and you, and you, I’ve told. Ha! Ha! Ha! Heaven has at last
forged a bolt for the Old Smithy! Do you stand aghast! Can you put out
yon light? No—no—no! I know you cannot. The Old Smithy gone at last.
Ha! Ha! I am happy now—happy now! You do not stir. You are right—quite
right. Let him, Andrew Britton—that’s his name—let him roast and writhe
in the flames—let his skin blacken in curling lights—let his flesh drop
from him in the hissing, roaring fire—let his bones whiten, and glow,
and crackle into long white splinters, as they will—as I know they
will; but I want to see it, my masters—I want to see it. Live—live and
shriek, Andrew Britton, till I come. Hark! now. I hear him.
Hark!—music—music—’tis music.”
She was about to bound off in the direction of the blazing house,
leaving her listeners aghast at her terrible denunciations, when a man
of forbidding aspect and Herculean build rushed into the midst of the
throng of villagers round her, and with one blow of his clenched hand
struck her insensible to the earth.
A cry of “shame! shame!” arose, and a young man stepping forward,
exclaimed,—
“Unmanly ruffian! How dared you strike the woman? You know as well as
all we that she is mad. Andrew Britton, you are a coward, and well you
merit your name of ‘The Savage.’”
“Down with the savage!” cried several.
“He has killed poor Mad Maud,” said one.
“Is she not always crying out against me?” growled the ruffian. “Is
there anything too bad for the old beldame to say of me, Andrew
Britton?”
“Not dead! not dead!” suddenly cried she whom the villagers called Mad
Maud, springing to her feet. “Mind ye all, Andrew Britton is to die
before I do. Ha! Ha!—Not dead! To the Smithy—to the Smithy.”
She darted off in the direction of the blazing house, and, as if by one
impulse, the villagers followed her, shouting,—
“To the Smithy—to the Smithy!”
The building, which was in flames, had at one time evidently been of a
much higher character than its present appearance warranted. It
consisted of a large uninhabited house, with two wings, one of which
had been converted into a smithy, and was in the occupation of Andrew
Britton, the smith, who stood high in favour of the then Squire
Learmont, whose property the old house was.
The fire was in the other wing to that which had been converted into a
smithy, and when the villagers arrived they found it so enveloped in
flames, that any attempt to save it seemed perfectly in vain.
“Blood—blood is spilling,” cried Mad Maud, rushing close to the flaming
building. “I heard it. A deed of blood! Hark!—hark!”
The villagers were horror-stricken by hearing piercing shrieks coming
from the interior of the burning house.
“There!” cried the maniac exultingly; “that’s a death cry. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Brave work—brave work. Andrew Britton, where are you?”
“Here,” cried the smith. “Look at me, all of you, and swear hereafter
you saw me here while—while—”
“While the murder was doing!” cried Maud.
“Murder?” said the villagers, as if with one voice.
“Drivelling idiot!” roared Britton. “By—”
Before the oath could escape his lips, there dashed from among the
burning ruins a figure which might well strike terror into every heart.
It was that of a man, but so blackened and scorched was he by the fire
that he scarcely looked human.
“Help! Help!” he screamed. “Murder! Murder!”
Every heart was paralysed as he dashed into the centre of the throng,
screaming with pain.
“The child! The child!” he screamed. “The child of the dead—save her!
Save her!”
Many hands were immediately stretched forward to take from his arms an
infant that the villagers now perceived he carried.
He resigned his charge, and then flinging his arms above his head, he
cried,—
“Save me—save me from myself—from the glance of the dead man’s eye—from
blood save me. Oh, save me from conscience. The hell has begun.”
His last words rung faintly on the ears of the horrified crowd, for
having given up the child, he then bounded onwards, and was soon lost
to sight and hearing in the darkness of a plantation which grew on the
border of the stream that watered the valley.
Britton, the smith, glared with eyes of fury after the shrieking
fugitive, then clenching his hand, he shook it wildly in the air, and
breathing a bitter curse, turned from the burning portion of the house,
and dashed into the wing in which was the Smithy.
CHAPTER II.
The Lull of the Tempest.—Morning is Coming.—The Child of Mystery.—The
Necklace.—A Surprise and a Disappearance.—The Inscription.—The Lord of
Learmont.
The startling and singular events at the Old Smithy had the effect of
distracting in some measure the attention of the affrighted inhabitants
of Learmont from the fury of the tempest, which was still raging,
although with diminished rage, around their humble dwellings.
The forked lightning was not so frequent in its flashes, and the
thunder seemed to be passing away in the direction of the wind.
Still it was a night of terror, and it was not until the wind had
sensibly abated, and a few heavy drops of rain fell splashing upon the
ground, that the peasants ventured to re-enter their dwellings, with a
hope that the storm had done its worst.
The child which had been brought from the burning house, in so awful
and mysterious a manner appeared to be little more than one year old,
and it was perfectly unknown to all in the village; neither could any
one give a guess as to who the strange man could be, who with such
frantic cries of pain and remorse, had appeared for a moment amongst
them.
The wing of the ancient building in which the fire had originated,
alone had suffered from the conflagration. It lay a heap of smouldering
ruins, but the rest of the large rambling habitation, including the
Smithy, was quite uninjured.
The child was surrendered by common consent to the care of a
kind-hearted woman, by the name of Dame Tatton, who was a widow. She
looked with an eye of trembling pity upon the little innocent who
nestled in her bosom in sobbing fear.
The little girl, for such she was, showed evidently by her attire that
she had been in the care of those of a far higher rank in life than the
kind-hearted, but humble cottager, who now strove to allay her childish
terror.
Around the neck of the infant was a small necklace of pearls, and about
its attire generally there were ample indications of wealth.
The little innocent soon sobbed itself to sleep upon the breast of Dame
Tatton, and the village gossips, after resolving in the morning to go
in a body to the Squire Learmont and ask his advice, or rather
commands, concerning the disposal of the babe that had been so
mysteriously thrown upon their hands, dispersed to seek that repose
they were so much in need of.
Every one naturally thought that Andrew Britton, the smith, knew
something of the mysterious man and the child; but none would venture
to the dwelling of “The Savage,” as he was generally called, to make an
inquiry, for his ferocity was too well known not to be universally
dreaded.
The storm had nearly gone. A heavy fall of rain was splashing on the
meadows, and beaten down vegetation, and all was still in Learmont till
the morning’s sun rose on the wreck which the tempest had made in the
green valley that the day before was redolent of peace and plenty.
Young and old then sought the cottage of Dame Tatton. They knocked at
first gently, then more loudly, but no one answered.
“My mind misgives me,” cried the young man who had the preceding
evening spoken so boldly to the smith—“my mind misgives me; but there
is something wrong. Let us force the door, my masters.”
“Nay, Frank,” said an old man. “The widow sleeps soundly after the
storm. Ye are too hasty—far too hasty, Frank Hartleton.”
“Nay to thee!” cried the impetuous youth. “’Tis but a broken panel at
the utmost, and we do force the dame’s door, and that we can any of us
mend again. What say you masters?”
“Aye, truly,” replied a little man with a red night-cap—“spoken
truly—most sagely spoken.”
“But will the squire approve of it, think ye?” suggested one.
“By my shears I thought not of that,” murmured the little man, who was
the garment fashioner of Learmont.
“Knock again,” cried several.
Frank Hartleton knocked loudly, and shouted,—
“Dame Tatton—Dame Tatton, I say; hast taken a sleeping draught?”
No voice replied. All was as still as the grave within the cottage.
Frank now placed his foot against the frail door, and with one vigorous
push he sent it flat upon the earthen floor of the cottage, and
immediately striding over it, he entered the humble dwelling.
The villagers hesitated for a moment, in order to be quite sure there
was no immediate danger in following Frank Hartleton, and then they
quickly thronged the little cottage, which could boast of but two small
apartments, so that the whole interior was in a very few minutes
examined.
The cottage was tenantless. Dame Tatton and her infant charge had both
disappeared.
The simple rustics gaped at each other in speechless amazement. The bed
had evidently been occupied, but there was no sign of confusion or
violence—all was orderly and neat—nothing was removed or disarranged. A
canary bird was singing gaily in a wicker cage; a cat slept on the
hearth; but the Widow Tatton and the mysterious child—now more
mysterious than ever—had both disappeared.
“I cannot account for this,” said Frank Hartleton. “By Heavens it’s the
most singular thing I ever heard of.”
“The place has a strange look,” cried one.
“A strange look!” said the rest in chorus. “So indeed it has.”
“Strange nonsense,” cried Frank. “So you are frightened all of you at
an empty-room are you?”
“Master Frank,” suddenly shouted one, “look ye here, you were always a
main scholar.”
Frank turned his attention to a part of the plaster wall indicated by
him who spoke, and on it was traced, as if rapidly with a thumb or
finger nail these words,—
“Help—the Squire and the Savage have—”
and that was all. Whoever had written that hurried scrawl had not had
time to finish the sentence which would probably have thrown some light
upon the inexplicable affair.
“There has been some foul play, I am convinced,” cried Frank. “My
friends, let us go at once and confront the squire.”
“You need not go far, insolent hind!” cried a hoarse voice, and Frank
turned suddenly to where the sound proceeded from, saw Squire Learmont
himself standing upon the threshold of the cottage.
Squire Learmont of Learmont, only as he preferred being called, was a
man far above the ordinary standard of height; his figure, however, was
thin and emaciated, which, coupled with his height, gave him an
ungainly appearance. His complexion was a dead white—there was nothing
of the sallow or brown in it—it was ghastly white, and contrasting with
his lank black hair which hung far down from his head straight and
snake-like without the shadow of a curl, it had a hideous corpse-like
appearance.
“I am glad,” said Frank, when he had recovered his first surprise at
the sudden appearance of Learmont, “I am glad we have not far to go,
for the business is urgent.”
Learmont waved his hand for him to proceed.
“Last night there was a storm,” continued Frank.
“Indeed!” sneered Learmont. “That is news this morning.”
Frank Hartleton felt his cheek flush with colour, but he controlled his
passion and continued,—
“A wing of the old house adjoining the smithy was on fire—the house I
mean that has been shut up so long because it is thought—”
“Who dared think?” cried Learmont, in a voice of violent anger. “Who
dared think of me—”
“Of you, sir?”
“Aye—who dared—?”
“It was of the house I spoke.”
“But—but is it not my house, quibbler?” cried Learmont.
“Truly, sir.”
“Then on with your speech, sir, and draw no inferences from idle
gossips. The wing of my house was on fire. Enough—what followed?”
“A man rushed from it in mortal agony of mind and body, carrying a
child—”
“Well—well!”
“That child was given to the care of Dame Tatton, who dwelt in this
cottage. Now child and dame have both disappeared.”
“I hear!” cried Learmont.
“What is to be done sir? You are the lord here.”
“And so, I presume,” sneered Learmont, “I must charge myself to bring
back every old woman, who disappears from her hovel?”
“Here is an inscription on the wall,” said Frank, “which seems to
refer—”
“Ah!” cried Learmont, striding forward, and reading the few words that
had been scratched on the wall. “Well, what then?”
“That I ask you Squire Learmont.”
“Then I reply, nothing. Will you finish that sentence?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then what further have you to say to me?”
Frank was rather confounded by the manner of the squire and was silent.
“Young man,” said Learmont, “your father did a service to the
Learmonts.”
“I know it,” said Frank.
“In return for that service, the Learmonts gave him a patrimony, an
estate, on the substance of which you live.”
“’Tis well known,” cried Frank. “The service was not overpaid. My
father saved your father’s life.”
“True,” sneered Learmont, “but beware!”
“Beware of what?”
“The house that was powerful enough to make a peasant an independent
man can again convert the audacious son of a peasant into a hind he
should have been. Beware I say. You know my motto.”
“I do. ‘Constant till death!’”
“Constant till death. Constant in all things, including—revenge!”
“I scorn your threats,” cried Frank.
“Be it so,” said Learmont, as with an angry frown he strode to the door
of the cottage. He turned upon the threshold, and said, “this hovel
shall be closed for ever. Once more I say beware!”
With a haughty step he left the humble dwelling and took the road to
his princely mansion.
CHAPTER III.
Ten Years have Flown.—The Old Rose Inn.—A Snow Storm.—Tom the
Factotum.—An Arrival to the Old Smithy.—The Mysterious Stranger.
Ten years had rolled away since the storm, so memorable on account of
the mysterious incidents connected with it, had swept over the village
of Learmont. Ten weary years to some—to others, years of sunshine and
joy—but of such chequered materials are human lives. But little change
had taken place in the village. Some of the aged inhabitants had
dropped into the silent tomb, and some of the young had grown grey with
care—nothing, however, had occurred to cast any light upon the dark and
mysterious occurrences of the well-remembered evening of the storm. The
smith, Andrew Britton, still plied his hammer, and the mass of ruins
which had once been the wing of the old house he inhabited, still lay
as they had fallen—only they were overgrown with wild weeds, and coarse
vegetation. The cottage of Dame Tatton remained uninhabited, for no one
would live in what they considered an ill-omened and mysterious
residence. It had, therefore, remained locked up since the
unaccountable disappearance of its last occupant, and in course of time
the villagers began to regard it with a superstitious feeling of
fear—some even asserted that lights had been seen at night gleaming
through the narrow casements—others reported that strange sounds of
pain and distress had been heard proceeding from the humble
dwelling—but whether or not these sights and sounds had really attacked
the senses of the inhabitants of Learmont, certain it was that the
cottage began by degrees to be regarded with as much dislike and dread
as the large rambling habitation of Britton, the smith.
The child too—the infant who had been rescued from the flames was never
heard of, and the storm—the fire—the burnt and shrieking man—the child
and Dame Tatton, became all leading topics in the gossips of the
villagers around their fire-sides, as well as in the old oaken parlour
of the “Rose,” an ancient ale house, which stood in the very centre of
Learmont, and had so stood for time out of mind.
It was in the depth of winter, ten years and some months after the
storm, that a goodly collection of the village gossips—scandal-mongers
and topers were seated around the cheerful, crackling, blazing fire in
the before-mentioned oaken parlour of the “Rose.” The hour was waxing
late, but the room was so warm and comfortable, the ale so good, and
the conversation so deeply interesting, that no one seemed inclined to
move, but upon the principle of “let well alone,” preferred the present
good quarters to a turn out in the snow.
“How long has it snowed now, Tom?” said a jolly farmer-looking man,
without taking the pipe from his capacious mouth.
“It beginned,” replied Tom the waiter, ostler, and fag in general. “It
beginned at half arter eleven, and here’s a quarter arter ten. It’s
snewed all that time.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said an old man. “Forty years ago, when I was a
youngster, it used to think nothing of snowing for a week or a
fortnight off hand.”
“Ah!” said another old man, shaking his head. “Snow now isn’t like the
snow as used to be. It’s not so white, I know, for one thing—”
“Mayhap, daddy, your eyes arn’t so good?” said a good-looking young man
who was the very picture of health and strength.
“I can tell you,” said the old man, with an air of indignation, “that
in my days—that’s my young days, everything was different, snow and
all.”
“You may say that,” remarked another. “When now shall we ever hear of a
storm, such as that happened only ten years ago, and a matter of three
months or thereby—eh?”
“You mean the time when Savage Britton had part of his old Smithy
burnt?”
“The fire wasn’t near his Smithy,” said the old man; “I saw it, and I
saw the mad fellow rush out with the child too.”
“We shall never know the rights of that business,” remarked another,
“and since Frank Hartleton has gone to London, there’s no chance
neither.”
“And you know who has shut himself up more than ever since.”
“The savage?”
“No—not he—some one else.”
“The squire?” said the young farmer.
“I mention no names,” said the old man, “mind I didn’t say the squire
shuts himself up. Did I, Tom?”
“Not at all,” replied Tom. “Any ale wanted? Keep the pot a bilin.”
“And if you did say the squire shuts himself up,” cried the young
farmer, “what then? We all know he shuts himself up, and room after
room has been locked up, in Learmont house, till it’s a misery to look
at the dirty windows.”
“That may be,” said the old man, “but mind I didn’t say so. Is it
snowing still, Tom?”
“I believe ye,” cried Tom, pulling aside a little bit of red baize that
hung by the window, as fast as ever. “It is a coming now.”
And so it was, for the large flakes of snow fell against the window
with faint blows, and as far as the eye could reach was one
uninterrupted field of pure white which lent an unnatural colour to the
night.
“I think we may venture to remark,” said a little man who had hitherto
sat silent in a corner next the fire-place, “that there won’t be many
out to-night that have got a chimney-corner to crawl to.”
“That’s uncommonly true,” replied several in a breath. “Hark!” cried
the young farmer, “there’s the clank of Britton’s hammer.”
“Aye, aye,” said the old man, who was so careful of speech. “In the
worst weather he works hardest. I hear it—I hear it—and, friends, mind,
I say nothing, but where does his work come from and when is it done,
where does it go to—eh?”
“That’s the thing!” cried several. “You’ve hit the right nail on the
head.”
“Mind, I said nothing—nothing at all,” cried the old man, resuming his
pipe, with a self-satisfied air.
“I’ll say something, though,” cried the young farmer, “my opinion is,
that he forges chains fer old Nick, and some day you’ll hear—”
Several heavy blows upon the outer door of the ale house, which was
closed to keep out the snow, stopped the young farmer in his speech and
attracted the attention of the whole company.
“Who’s that?” said one, looking round him. “We are all here.”
“House! House!” cried a deep hoarse voice, from without, and the blows
on the door continued.
“Tom! Tom!” screamed the landlady, Mrs. Fairclaw, who was a buxom
widow, fat, fair, and fifty, “Tom! You idle vagabond! Don’t you hear!
There’s some one knocking—if it’s a tramper, tell him this is no house
for him.”
Tom, with a knowing wink, proceeded to the door, and, in a few moments
ushered into the warm parlour a tall man, who was so covered with snow,
that it was difficult to make out what rank in life his appearance
indicated.
He cast a hurried and uneasy glance round him, as he entered the
parlour, and then taking a chair in silence, he turned to Tom, and said
in a tremulous voice, “Brandy, if you please.”
“Shall I take your hat and dry it by the kitchen fire?” said Tom.
“No,” replied the stranger. “I—I must not stay long.” So saying he
turned his chair, so as to leave his face very much in the shade, and
sat perfectly silent.
“A rough night, sir,” remarked the young farmer.
“Eh?—yes remarkably fine,” replied the stranger.
“Fine?”
“Oh—the—the—snow you mean. Yes, very rough—very rough, indeed—I beg
your pardon.”
The company looked very eagerly at each other, and then at the
abstracted stranger in great wonderment and intense curiosity.
Tom now entered with the brandy. The stranger eagerly clutched the
little pewter measure in which it was brought and toss’d off its
contents at once. Then he drew a long breath, and turning to Tom, he
said:—
“Stay—I—I want to know—”
“What?” said Tom, as the man paused a moment.
“Is—Andrew Britton—still—alive?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“And does he,” continued the man, “does he still live at the old place?”
“The old Smithy?”
“Yes.“
“Oh, yes; he lives there still.”
“And—and is the squire—alive—”
“Ah! To be sure.”
“The smith,” said the young farmer, “still lives, sir, in his old
place, part of which was burnt down ten years ago, or more.”
“Ten years!” murmured the stranger.
“Yes; the night there was a storm—”
The stranger rose, saying—
“Indeed! You talk of a storm as if there never had been but one.”
So saying he threw down a shilling to Tom, and hastily left the room.
The occupants of the parlour looked at each other in silence, and those
who had pipes smoked away at such speed that in a few moments the room
was full of dense blue vapour.
CHAPTER IV.
The Old Smithy.—A Lone Man.—The Alarm.—The Mysterious Conference.—Guilt
and Misery.
It was the hammer of the smith which had sounded on the night air, and
the clangour of which had reached the ears of the frequenters of the
snug oaken parlour of the Rose Inn.
The Smithy was of great extent, for it occupied nearly the whole ground
floor of the wing of the dilapidated mansion in which Britton resided.
There were about the stained windows and carved oaken chimney-piece
ample evidences of ancient grandeur in the place, and it was not a
little singular to notice the strange effect produced by the mixture of
the rude implements of the smith with the remains of the former
magnificence of the ancient hall.
A blazing fire was roaring on the hearth, and by it stood Andrew
Britton, the smith, or “The Savage,” as he was called, in consequence
of the known brutality of his disposition. There was no other light in
the large apartment but what proceeded from the fire, and as it flared
and roared up the spacious chimney it cast strange shadows on the dusky
walls, and lit up the repulsive countenance of the smith with
unearthly-looking brilliancy. A weighty forge hammer was in his hand,
and he was busily turning in the glowing embers a piece of iron upon
which he had been operating.
“Curses on his caution,” he muttered, as if following up some previous
train of thought. “And yet—yet without the work—I think I might go mad;
drink and work. Thus pass my days; aye, and my nights too. He is right
there; I should go mad without the work. I drink—drink till my brain
feels hot and scorching—then this relieves me—this hammer, and I fancy
as I bring it clashing down upon the anvil that—ha! ha!—that some one’s
head is underneath it. And most of all, is it rare and pleasant to
imagine it his head, who turned a cowardly craven when he had work to
do which required a cool head, and a quick hand. Curses on him! Curses!”
He lifted the immense hammer which no ordinary man could have wielded,
and brought it down upon the anvil with so stunning a sound, that it
awakened startling echoes all over the old house.
Suddenly the smith stood in the attitude of attention, for as the
sounds he had himself produced died away, he fancied there mingled with
them a knocking at the door of the smithy.
For a few moments he listened attentively, and then became confirmed in
his opinion, that some one was knocking at his door.
“A visitor to me?” he muttered, “and at this hour—well, well—be it whom
it may, he shall enter. Whether he goes forth again or not is another
consideration. Men call me a savage. Let those beware who seek my den.”
He walked to the door of the smithy, and removing an iron bar which
hung across it, he flung it wide open, saying, “Who knocks at Andrew
Britton’s door?”
The mysterious stranger who had created so much sensation at the
“Rose,” stood on the threshold. His form was clearly defined upon the
snow, and the smith started as he said,—
“Andrew Britton, do you know me?”
“Know you?” said Britton.
“Aye! Look at me.”
The man took off his hat as he spoke, and stood in the full glare of
the flickering fire light.
A dark scowl came over the brow of the smith, and he still continued
silent while the man repeated, “Andrew Britton, do you know me?”
“Know you?” cried Britton, with a voice of rage almost goaded to fury.
“Yes, I do know you—robber—thief—paltry wretch that had not courage—”
“Hush, Andrew Britton,” said the stranger. “I have travelled many weary
miles to visit thee. From the moment that a stranger told me that the
clank of your hammer still sounded through the village of Learmont, I
guessed how you had been requited. I resolved to seek you, and tell you
how to better your condition. I am here with such a purpose. Am I
welcome? Or shall I turn from your door in anger, Andrew Britton? Speak
at once.”
Owing to the position in which the man stood, the red glare of the
smith’s fire fell full upon his working features, and after regarding
them attentively for some moments, Britton spoke in a calmer tone than
he had used before.
“I think I understand you now,” he said. “Come in—come in.”
“One word before I accept your hospitality,” said the stranger.
“Such conversation as ours,” remarked the smith, “is safest carried on
within.”
“But what I have to say is safest said now, and more to the purpose, as
I stand here upon your threshold.”
“Say on,” cried Britton, impatiently.
“’Tis three days’ journey by the quickest conveyances and the nearest
road to where I have hidden my head for ten years—ten weary years. In
my chamber lies a sealed packet, on which is written the date of my
departure, and accompanying it are these words: ‘If I return not, or
send no message with assurance of my safety by the time eight days have
expired, take this packet to the nearest justice and bid him open and
read its contents.’”
The dark countenance of the smith turned to a pallid hue as the
stranger spoke, and his gigantic frame perceptibly trembled as he said
in a low husky whisper, “And that packet contains—.”
“A confession.”
“You are cautious; but, you were safe without so deeply laid a plan.”
“I may have been; nay, I think I should have been safe when I explained
to you, Britton, the motive of my journey hither; but the mind is never
so free to act as when safety is doubly assured.”
“Come in—come in,” said Britton, “the night air is chilling, and the
snow flakes dash upon the floor. Come in at once.”
“Freely,” said the stranger, stepping into the smith’s strange abode.
Britton carefully barred the door, and without speaking for a few
moments, he threw coals upon his forge fire and stirred up the glowing
embers until a cheerful blaze of light illuminated the whole interior
of the smithy.
The stranger, from the moment of his entrance, had fixed his eyes upon
a large oaken door at the further end of the ancient hall, and he
continued to gaze at it, as if under the influence of some fascination
which he could not resist.
“Britton“ he said at length, while a shudder for one instant convulsed
his frame, “have you ever passed through that door since—since—”
“Since the night of the storm?” said Britton. “Yes, I have passed
through it.”
“You are bold.”
“I had a motive, and since your candour has been such as to tell me of
that little contrivance of yours about the packet you have left with
such urgent directions, I will tell you my motive, and ha! Ha!
We—we—shall better understand our relative situations.”
“What was the motive?”
“Can you form no guess?”
“I cannot; how—how should I Britton?”
“Did you lose nothing, ten years since?”
“Yes—yes—I did lose a knife—but not here—not here!”
“You did lose it here.”
“And you found it, good Britton, and will give it to me. ’Twas an old
keepsake from a friend. You will give it to me, Andrew Britton?”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith in his discordant manner. “You know the
mind is free when safety is doubly secured.”
“The knife—the knife!” cried the stranger, earnestly. “My name is—is—”
“On the handle,” added Britton, “which makes it all the more valuable.
You say it was a keepsake. It shall be a keepsake still. I will keep it
for my own sake. I would not barter it for its worth in gold.”
“Perhaps you have not got it.”
“Do not please yourself with such a supposition, I will show it to you.”
Britton walked to an old press which stood in an obscure and dark
corner of the room, and then returned with a large knife in his hand,
the blade of which opened and remained fast by touching a spring.
“Do you know that?” he said, holding it to the eyes of his visitor. The
man groaned.
“Give it to me. Oh, give it to me, Britton,” he said.
“No,” said the smith. “You have taught me a lesson, I shall write a
confession and wrap it round this knife with ample directions to the
nearest justice, in case anything should happen to me. Do you
understand, my friend?”
The man’s lips became white with fear, and he faltered—
“If—if you will not give it me—take it away—out of my sight with it. It
makes my blood curdle in my veins, and a cold perspiration hangs upon
my brow. Curses! Curses! That I should have come thus far to be so
tortured.”
“Nay,” said the smith, in a tone of sneering exultation, “you shall be
convinced. Look at that name upon the blood-stained haft.”
“Away! Away, with it,” shrieked the stranger, covering his eyes with
his hands.
“Joseph Gray!” said Britton, reading the name on the knife. “Ha! Ha!
Master Gray, is not this a damning evidence?”
“Away! I say—oh, God, take it away.”
“Nay, your curiosity shall be amply satisfied,” continued the smith,
approaching his mouth closer to the ear of him who we shall henceforth
call Gray. “It was a week before I—even I, savage Britton, as they call
me, ventured to unbar that door, and when I did it was at midnight.”
Gray shook with emotion and groaned deeply.
“I knew the spot,” continued Britton, and he lowered his voice to a
whisper, while deep sighs of anguish burst from the labouring breast of
his listener. The snow pattered against the windows of the smithy—a
howling wind swept round the ruined pile of building, and not more wild
and awful was the winter’s storm without than the demoniac passions and
fearful excitement of those two men of blood who conversed in anxious
whispers in the Old Smithy, until the grey tints of morning began to
streak with sober beauty the eastern sky.
CHAPTER V.
The Morning.—A Visit.—Blasted Hopes.—The Arranged Meeting.—The
Packet.—And the Knife.
The snow storm had ceased, and a clear cold winter’s sun rose upon
Learmont, making even stern winter look most beautiful. The snow hung
in sparkling masses upon every tree and shrub, and in the valley where
the village nestled, it was in some places many feet in depth. The
little streamlet which ran through the village in the summer time, with
a happy murmuring sound, was now still and voiceless, and scarcely to
be distinguished from the surrounding land. Curling masses of dense
smoke arose from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. The robin sang
his plaintive ditty on the window sills, and occasionally might be seen
a group of children with their scanty garments repairing to the frozen
stream to gambol on its slippery surface.
Far above every other habitation in the place, towered the feudal
residence of the Learmonts. It was an ancient residence built in Gothic
style of architecture, and its blackened walls and time-worn towers
looked more than usually stern and desolate now that they were
contrasted with the pure white patches of snow that had lodged on every
projecting stone and window ledge.
In a chamber situated nearly in the very centre of the mansion, the
windows of which were provided with painted blinds, representing the
most beautiful and glowing Arcadian landscapes, and the temperature of
which was raised fully to that of summer, sat the same tall,
dark-browed man, who ten years before had visited the deserted hovel of
the Widow Tatton. Time had not swept harmlessly over Squire Learmont.
His raven locks were largely mixed with “hoary grey.” The deep olive of
his complexion had given way to a sickly sallow tint, which was
peculiarly disagreeable to look upon—but in all other respects the man
was the same. There was the same contemptuous curl of the lip—the same
angry contraction of the brow, and the same ever-shifting glance and
restlessness of manner which betokened a heart ill at ease with itself.
An open letter lay before him which he occasionally referred to, as if
to guide the wandering current of his thoughts, and after perusing
several times he rose from his seat, and for a time walked backwards
and for in the room in silence—then he spoke in indistinct and muttered
sentences. “Surely,” he muttered, “I may at last venture to enjoy what
I have plunged so deeply to obtain. What a vast accumulation of wealth
have I not now in my grasp, and shall I longer hesitate? Have I not now
the means to sit down by royalty and outvie its grandeur? I
have—ample—ample. Again let me read the dear assurance of unbounded
wealth. Truly, this money scrivener has done his duty with the large
sums I have entrusted to his care. Let me see.”
He stood by the table, and again perused the letter in an audible voice.
Noble and Honoured Sir,—Agreeable to your most kind instructions I send
an account of the disposal of all the moneys from time to time
entrusted by your most noble worship, to the care of your most humble
servant. Your honour will perceive by the annexed schedule, that like a
river augmented by a thousand little streams, you honour’s real
property has swollen to nearly one million sterling.
“A million,” cried Learmont, drawing himself up to his full height and
casting a flashing glance around him. “A million pieces of those golden
slaves that are ever ready to yield enjoyment. A million of those
glittering sprites which are more powerful than the genii of old
romance. Can I not now triumph? What refinement of life—what exquisite
enjoyments can now be denied to me!”
The door now softly opened, and an old servant appeared.
“What now?” cried Learmont abruptly.
“Britton, the smith, comes for your worship’s orders,” said the servant.
A gloom spread itself over the countenance of Learmont.
“Show him this way,” he said, as he sank into a chair with his back to
the light.
“He brings one with him, too, who craves to see your worship.”
“No! No!” cried Learmont, springing to his feet. “’Tis false—false as
hell. Has he dared to—to—the villain!—His own destruction is as
certain.”
The domestic looked amazed, but before he could make any remark,
Britton the smith, accompanied by Jacob Gray, stood on the threshold of
the door.
The hand of Learmont was plunged deep beneath the breast of his coat,
as he said.
“Well? What—who is that?”
“A friend,” said Britton, in a low voice.
For a moment Learmont regarded the face of the smith with attentive
earnestness, and then slowly withdrawing his hand, which had doubtless
clasped some weapon of defence, he said to the servant, “Leave the
room. Well, Britton; I—I am glad you have come about the—steel
gauntlets. Leave the room, I say.”
The servant who had lingered from curiosity, reluctantly left and
closed the door.
His curiosity, however, was far from satisfied, and after lingering a
moment or two, he fairly knelt down outside the door and placed his ear
as flat against the key-hole as it was possible so to do. A confused
murmur of voices was all that by his utmost exertions he could hear.
“A plague on them,” he muttered. “If they would but get in a passion
now and speak loud.”
His wish was gratified, for at the moment Learmont’s voice rose above
its ordinary pitch, as he said, “A thousand pounds upon the assurance
of the fact, beyond a doubt.”
The reply was too indistinct to hear, much to the torture of the
servants and in another moment his curiosity received a disagreeable
check by his master exclaiming, “I’ll get it, and return to you
immediately,” and before Oliver, which was the old domestic’s name,
could rise from his knees, the door opened, and his master nearly fell
over him on the threshold.
“Ha!” cried Learmont, drawing back. “Fool, you have ensured your
destruction.”
“Mercy, sir! Oh, mercy!” cried the old man.
Learmont took a sword from a corner of the room and unsheathed it.
“Hold, sir, a moment,” said Gray. “I do not think it possible he could
hear much.”
“Dotard!” cried Learmont, to the trembling Oliver. “What could induce
you to throw away the remnant of your worthless life by such folly?”
“Oh, sir, I heard nothing—I know nothing,” cried the old man, “I—I was
only passing the door to—to go to the picture gallery, and stooped to
pick up—a nail—that’s all, upon my word, sir.”
“Where is the nail?” said the smith.
“Here,” said Oliver, pointing to the oaken floor. “I thought it was
loose, but found it fast.”
“It matters not,” said Learmont, suddenly casting the sword from him;
“I don’t like even the most trifling affairs to be pryed into; but
since you know all, Oliver, will you assist us?”
“Sir, I am at your service,” said Oliver; “but, on my soul, I heard
nothing but your honour say you would get something.”
“Pooh,—pooh!” cried Learmont. “I forgive thee listening. Would money
tempt you, Oliver?”
“To what, sir?” said Oliver, with such a look of real innocence, that
Learmont turned aside, saying,—
“Enough—he knows nothing. Begone!”
With precipitation the old servant left the apartment, and when he was
fairly gone, Learmont turned to his visitors and said,—
“Rest quiet till to-night. I will then meet you at the smithy.”
“That may scarcely be,” said the smith, “for this gentleman—this
considerate Master Gray, must get hence again with all expedition.”
“There will be time, then,” said Gray, “and a day to spare.”
“Be it so, then,” said the smith.
“To-night at the Smithy,” again said Learmont.
“At what hour?”
“After midnight. I will tap thrice at your door. Reflect upon my offer,
Gray; ’tis a large sum.”
Gray turned his small cunning eyes upon Learmont as he replied,—
“There is an old fable, of the Goose and the Golden Eggs. You cannot
expect me to kill my goose so soon.”
“Nor can you expect me to comply constantly with extortionate demands,”
replied Learmont, trembling with passion.
“We will settle all to-night,” said the smith. “Do not fail us, sir.”
“Be assured I will not. But recollect, I come to purchase the silence,
not of a well kept secret, but of the grave.”
They parted, and once again the Squire of Learmont was alone with his
own thoughts. He threw himself into a chair, with a deep groan, saying,
“There must be more blood—more blood, ere I can dream of safety.”
CHAPTER VI.
Night Again.—The Ruins.—The Conference.—The Old Oaken Door.—The Resolve.
Great was the surprise in the village of Learmont at the non-appearance
of the stranger who had arrived during the snow storm at the village.
He had been seen with the smith proceeding to Learmont House, but that
one should willingly take up even a day residence with Savage Britton,
at the old Smithy, was quite beyond the comprehension of the simple
villagers.
But such appeared, however, to be the fact, for every one was confident
the stranger had not left Learmont, so it was quite clear he was with
the smith.
Such was the terror which Britton and his house were held in that none
ventured to go sufficiently near it to ascertain the fact, and the day
passed away in endless conjectures as to what the stranger could by
possibility want at Learmont, first, with the smith, and then with the
squire. Night came without in the least assuaging the general
curiosity, or adding any new food to it, and as the sun sunk in the far
west, and the cold evening wind swept moaning and sighing among the
leafless trees, the heavy clank of the smith’s hammer was heard as
usual at intervals till near midnight.
Then when the clock in the high tower of Learmont struck twelve, a tall
figure enveloped in an ample cloak stalked through the village, and
took the direct route to the Old Smithy.
The night had set in very dark, there was no moonlight, for masses of
heavy clouds obscured its light, although it was nearly at the full,
and the long straggling building, one wing of which was inhabited by
the smith, showed but faintly against the black sky.
The Squire of Learmont, for it was he, who at the silent hour of
midnight, had stolen out to keep his appointment, paused when he
reached the wing of the house which had been burnt down on the night of
the storm, and the crumbling ruins of which remained by his orders just
as they had fallen.
A shudder came ever his frame as he regarded them and he muttered, “Can
I? Dare I leave this spot with the knowledge of what it conceals? And
yet, I am surely safe now. If these men—these tools by which I have
hewn my path to wealth; if these could be safely disposed of—then—ah,
then, I might know peace. At least this anxious fever of wild
apprehension that gnaws at my heart would subside, and if I had a pang
it would be for the past and not from a dread of that which was to
come.”
He folded his cloak closer around him, and with hasty steps passed
onwards to the smithy.
Thrice he struck the heavy door with the hilt of his sword, and in a
moment the smith’s voice from within called loudly, “Who knocks?”
“Learmont,” was the answer; the door was flung open and the squire
stood as the stranger had stood the preceding evening in the glare of
the fire from the smithy.
“You are punctual, sir,” said Gray, advancing with an air of mock
ceremony.
Learmont waved his hand in reply, and stalked into the old hall.
“Now,” he said, when Britton had barred the door, “I am here. Make your
proposition.”
“Are you not afraid, sir,” sneered Gray, “to trust your worshipful
person alone with two such old acquaintances?”
“No,” answered Learmont fearlessly, “I know you both too well. You
calculate. My life is valuable to you. My death, in the accomplishment
of which you might get some chance injury yourselves, would be a
perfectly gratuitous act.”
“Enough of this folly,” growled Britton. “Let us to business.”
“I persevere then in my offer,” said Learmont, with a slight trembling
of his voice. “A thousand pounds.”
The smith was silent, but Gray spoke.
“We have decided, worshipful sir,” he said.
“And your decision is—”
“This. We think, with your worship, that London is the most delightful
of cities, and we purpose to follow you thither; to live ever near you,
and to trust to your liberality for our wants.”
For a moment it seemed, by the convulsive working of the countenance of
Learmont, that he was about to burst into an uncontrollable fit of
passion; but if such was his feeling he succeeded in suppressing it,
and replied with an affectation of calmness, “Preposterous! You must
think me weak, indeed, to be thus dictated to, Master Gray.”
“Then I must to London,” said Gray, “and my only regret is that I have
wasted valuable time.”
“Look ye, Squire Learmont,” said Britton, folding his huge arms across
his breast, and glaring with his ferocious eyes in the face of his
patron. “I was to have been well paid for a black job. You know I have
been ill paid, on the plea that it was not completed.”
“I have constantly supplied your wants,” said Learmont, shrinking under
the savage gaze of the smith.
“I have not starved, truly,” continued Britton. “But now I will have
wealth.”
“Wealth? How can I divide sufficient among us three to make you
wealthy?”
“Master Gray,” continued Britton, “has a ready wit and the news he
brings shall enrich us.”
“If I absolutely refuse?“
“Then we bargain for impunity for the past, while we—”
“Denounce me?”
“Exactly.”
“And to what extent, most considerate gentlemen, do you contemplate
making me your banker?”
“More or less as the case may be,” said Gray; “but we will be moderate
in a gentlemanly way. Eh, Britton?”
“Certainly,” growled Britton, with the laugh of a hyena.
“The sum! The sum!” said, Learmont, impatiently.
“Five hundred pounds each as a start,” said Jacob Gray, with the most
unblushing effrontery.
“Enormous!” cried Learmont.
“As you please, sir. Our conference then is over.”
“Britton, answer me one question,” said the squire.
“A dozen, if you please,” replied the smith.
“Have you been through that doorway, since—”
“I have, Squire Learmont.”
“And in what state—”
“Can you venture to look for yourself?” said the smith, with a sneer.
Learmont hesitated, and then said, “I can. Give me a light.”
The smith lit a lamp and handed it to the squire, along with a key.
“Can you give me any directions?” said Learmont.
“Take the second passage to your right and look closely on the ground
as you go on.”
Learmont took the lamp and advanced to the old oaken door. His hand
trembled as he turned the rusty lock, and in another moment he had
passed through, and was lost to the sight of the confederates in the
smithy.
In less than two minutes, he returned and staggered to a seat.
“You have seen it?” said Britton.
“No,” answered Learmont. “I—I thought I had the nerve—but for my life I
could not proceed three steps in that awful place.”
“Do you consent now to our conditions?” asked Gray.
“Who has the—the papers?”
“I,” replied Britton.
“And I a more dreaded secret,” still whispered Gray.
“I—I consent,” said Learmont. “I consent.”
CHAPTER VII.
The Conference, Continued.—Mutual Security.—The Oaken Door and the
Strange Appearance.—Mysteries Thicken.
For several minutes neither of the three men whose crimes had brought
them into such strange fellowship, spoke. They regarded each with the
most strange and mixed emotions. Upon the face of the haughty Lord of
Learmont were pride, hate, and fear, each struggling for mastery. The
smith looked, as he always looked, brutally ferocious, but upon this
occasion there was an air of exultant villany upon his swarthy visage,
which made him like a fiend in human shape. Gray, the cautious and
politic villain, with just sufficient relenting in his cold heart to
make him stop short at the consummation of some dark deed, while he
waded recklessly through all the preliminary proceedings to it; he,
too, wore a triumphant look, but it was one strangely mingled with
suspicion and doubt, whether or not some sudden occurrence would damp
his joy, and turn his self-congratulations to laments.
He was the first to break the silence.
“Had we not now better separate?” he said. “We can see you on the
morrow, squire.”
“There is yet one thing which remains to be considered,” said Learmont,
in a low voice.
“What is that?” cried the smith.
“When we are all gone, may not some one’s curiosity be prompted to
visit this house?”
“That is true,” said Gray, turning pale.
“If they do,” cried Britton, “they shall find nothing; I will see to
that.”
“Let it be so, then,” said Learmont, rising.
“Before we separate now,” interposed Gray, “there is one thing which we
should all feel thoroughly assured, and that is, that our mutual safety
depends upon our mutual preservation; that is, I mean, if one falls the
others are in danger.”
“We understand that, most politic Master Gray,” sneered Learmont, as he
clasped his cloak, preparatory to leaving the smithy.
“Perhaps, not fully,” said Gray.
“I am sure, not fully,” cried Britton, with a hoarse laugh. “I have a
hold upon our good friend the squire, which I will not even trust to
the good-keeping of Master Jacob Gray.”
“Ha!” cried Learmont, turning ghastly pale. “What—what mean you?”
“This way,” said the smith, beckoning the squire to the further end of
the apartment. Learmont obeyed the invitation, and whatever was the
communication he received, it was conveyed very briefly, for he
suddenly exclaimed—
“Enough! enough!” and strode to the door.
“Your worshipful squireship,” said Gray, “will always please to
recollect that my little packet, that is at home, would be an
exceedingly awkward revelation, should anything happen to me.”
“Hear me, both of you!” cried Learmont, turning with flashing eyes upon
the two men who so mocked him with their power. “I know;—I admit that
you both possess secrets that would prove my destruction; aye, my
death. We do understand one another, and we may as well speak openly.
What you would say is this, Jacob Gray, that I dare not for my own
safety take your vile life; and you the same, Britton; you have me in
your toils, I grant it; there needs no insinuations. We have waded
through too much blood to feel any delicacy of speech towards each
other. You have power, but beware how you use it, or you will rouse a
devil that you cannot quell again. Be moderate and faithful, and it
will not be worth my while to seek for safe means for your destruction.
Drive me too far, and you perish, though I call on hell to aid me!”
So saying, without waiting for an answer, he strode from the smithy
with his face distorted by passion, leaving the two confederates, who
had not expected such a burst of fury, abashed, even in spite of their
deep villanies and abounding craft.
“Gray!” said the smith, after a few moments’ silence.
Jacob Gray started and cried, “What shall we do now? Squire Learmont is
a man of wild passion.”
“What is his wild passion to us?” said Britton; “we have the means of
stripping him of his wealth, and leading him to a scaffold.”
“But you forget, Master Britton, that upon that same scaffold you and I
would be accommodated with prominent situations.”
“Pshaw!” cried the smith. “That is a thought that does not haunt me. We
are as adventurous miners, Gray, who have suddenly hit upon a vein of
wealth, which it requires but ordinary skill to work to our mutual
profit.”
“True,” said Gray, “and we will work it, always my friend, Britton,
remembering that we are so situated that we stand or fall together.”
“Agreed,” cried the smith. “If I fall I care not who stands; only thus
much I will take pains to do—drag all I can within the sphere of my own
ruin.”
“You are very considerate,” said Gray. “And now you must recollect that
my absence from London must be limited. There is danger in a longer
stay.”
“Away, then, with you at once.”
“What! leave Learmont with nothing but sounding promises, and an empty
purse? No, Britton. I must again see Squire Learmont, before I take my
leave of this place, which I hate.”
“True,” said the smith. “And before you go, there is another small
matter in which I claim your assistance.”
“What is that?”
“Beyond that ancient door is a sight which must be placed beyond human
recognition.”
Gray turned ghastly pale, as he said, “Britton, your nerves are strong.
You will feel little in—in—disposing securely of whatever is there that
would blast the gaze of another.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Britton in a determined tone, “you share the
advantages. You have by your cunning so hedged yourself in with
precautions, that I, even I, feel how impolitic it would be to scatter
your brains with yon forge-hammer.”
Gray started to his feet, as he exclaimed:
“You surely did not mean to murder me?”
“I did!” roared the smith. “And now, Jacob Gray, we understand each
other, and you know you are safe with me. But I will have no flinching,
there is a work to be performed which you shall aid in, although you
shrink from it as you would from the mouth of hell. If it turn your
blood to liquid flame you shall do it. If your reason fail you at the
ghastly sight, for ghastly it is, you shall do it; nay, should you die
in gasping terror, and involve me and Learmont in one common
destruction by the wily narrative you have left in London, you shall do
it.”
“Spare me! spare me!” said Gray.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith, with a discordant yell that echoed through
the lofty hall. “Spare you? spare Jacob Gray?”
“I implore you,” cried Gray. “Spare me this task and I will pay you
handsomely.”
“You forget,” said Britton “that I have a better-filled purse than
yours to apply to. I love money, because it is enjoyment and power, but
I have my fancies, and one of them is, that you shall do your full
share of this necessary work. Your safety, as well as mine, demands
that it should be done. Any prying rustic who could so far call upon
his curiosity as to master his fears and penetrate from this hall
through yon door, would find food for gossip and inquiry, that would
raise a spirit, even all the wealth of Learmont could not quell. It
must be done, I say, and by the infernal powers you shall do it.”
Gray shuddered, and he said in a low voice, “When shall we again see
Learmont?”
“By the morning’s light,” answered the smith, “I will take you to the
mansion by a secret means, known only to myself. You can then procure
the means you immediately require. He dare not refuse you, and
post-horses will carry you to London, in ample time to take possession
of the little document you have so providentially left behind you.”
“Yes—yes,” said Gray. “Oh, yes, there will be time and—and Britton, I
will hand to you one-half of the sum that I procure from Learmont’s
fears, if—if you will do this work that must be done alone.”
“No!” cried Britton. “A hundred times, no! The world’s wealth, Jacob
Gray, should not tempt me to let you off.”
He took a flambeau from a corner as he spoke, and lighting it by the
forge fire, he held it high above his head, and while its flickering
light cast many dancing shadows upon the time-blackened walls of the
Old Smithy, he pointed to the oaken door, and exclaimed to the
trembling Gray:—
“Come, now, at once. ’Tis a work should be done at such an hour as
this.”
“Mercy! mercy!” cried Gray, clasping his hands.
“Rare sport! rare sport!” shouted the smith, in an ecstasy of mirth.
“Come on.”
“Britton, you do not mean it; I beseech, I implore.”
“Come on!” roared the smith.
“On my knees, I beg—”
“Coward! Come on! I could revile thee, trembling wretch, but that it
delights my very soul to see you suffer such mortal agony. Come on; you
knew him once. Come on, I say, and see if you could recognise him now.”
Holding the torch in one hand, so as to throw a red glare of light over
the vast apartment, the smith clutched with the other the trembling
companion of his guilt, and dragged him with irresistible force towards
the oaken door. In vain did Gray beseech for mercy. In vain did he beg
and implore, and pray to be released. And now they reached the door,
and he clung to the damp wall and screamed, but the smith heeded him
not; he answered him but with shouts and wild laughter, and lifting his
foot he, with one heavy kick, dashed the door open.
About two paces within the entrance stood a figure, tall and erect. The
glare from the torch fell upon it for one moment; with a shriek of the
most horrifying description, Gray fell insensible to the ground, and
even the iron nerves of the smith were shaken: the flambeau dropped
from his hand, and with a cry of surprise and horror he rushed from the
spot, trampling in his way upon the prostrate form of Gray, nor
stopping till he stood at the further end of the now gloomy hall, with
the outer door in his hand.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Mansion.—Offers of Magnitude.—The Double Plot.
Who or what the form was that so unexpectedly met the terrified gaze of
the savage smith, and his more nervous and timid companion in the Old
Smithy, we must leave to be discovered in the progress of our eventful
and strange narrative.
By the first gray tint of morning light, there sat three persons in a
small room of the mansion of Learmont; they were the smith, Gray, and
the squire himself. A quantity of money lay upon the table before them,
upon which Gray’s eyes were fixed with eager expression. The smith was
evidently not indifferent to the sparkling treasure before him, but he
did not exhibit his feelings so openly as Jacob Gray, while the Lord of
Learmont himself sat with his back to the dim light in moody silence.
“I shall be off,” cried Gray, “before another cock can proclaim the day
is coming.”
Learmont merely inclined his head.
“And I,” said Britton, “leave here for London in the course of the day.”
“Once more,” said Learmont, in a deep hollow voice—“once more I offer
you the large sum I have mentioned, if you will accede to my two
propositions.”
“No sir,” replied Gray, “I say no.”
“And you, Britton?”
“I say no, likewise,” replied the smith.
“I double my offer,” cried Learmont.
“Double?” echoed Gray.
“Aye, double. Let me but be sure that he is no more, and upon your
arrival in any part of America you may choose, you will find an order
there for the amount.”
“No! No!” cried Britton.
“’Tis a large sum, a very large sum,” murmured Gray.
“Hark ye!” cried Learmont, his face glowing with excitement. “Hark ye!
your presence will be my curse. Every time I see you will blast my eyes
with the remembrance of what I intend to forget in the vortex of
pleasure. My double offer amounts to no less a sum than two thousand
pounds to each of you. Once more, I raise your price, I will make those
sums three thousand each.”
“It is useless,” said Britton. “A night at the gaming table, and we are
beggars again. No, Learmont, there is nothing like a constant resource.”
“Very true,” said Gray. “That is exceedingly true; besides; my feelings
would not allow me to take the life of—of—”
“Your feelings?” cried Learmont. “Wretch! If among us three there be
one more doubly damned by crime than another, that one is Jacob Gray.
If there be one villain more coldly calculating than another, it is
thou. Talk of thy feelings? thou sneaking ruffian—thou shrinking
cut-throat!”
The smith threw himself back in his chair, and burst into a peal of
uproarious laughter.
“Capital! Oh, capital!” he cried. “That’s you, good, politic Master
Gray. Ho! Ho! How well we all understand each other! There are no
needless delicacies. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Gray rose from his chair without saying a word, but his very lips were
pale with suppressed rage. He hastily collected the money that lay
before him, and having bestowed it away in safety, he cast a malignant
scowl upon Learmont, and said,—“We shall meet again soon, sir, when,
should you happen to raise your voice do high, there may be listeners,
who will say we judge of Learmont by his company. Now to London.” So
saying, without waiting for a reply, he left the room.
The dark eyes of the Squire of Learmont flashed with rage, as Gray gave
utterance to this taunt, and when the last echo of his retreating
footsteps had died away, Britton broke the silence that ensued, by
saying,—
“Yon knave knows his power.”
“Aye, does he!” cried Learmont, striking the table with his clenched
hand. “But we, Britton, are not altogether powerless.”
“What can we do?” said the smith.
“Jacob Gray and his secret must perish together.”
“With all my heart, squire, but the fellow’s caution is so excessive,
that we are more interested in his preservation than his destruction.”
“True,” replied Learmont. “His caution is great, as you say, but there
are times when the most cautious are off their guard. Remember this,
Britton, that every guinea that finds its way into the purse of Jacob
Gray, is a guinea torn from you.”
“I know it,” cried the smith, “and I would have scattered his brains
upon the hearth-stone of the Old Smithy, but that he averred he had
taken the precaution of leaving the written statement of all he knew at
home, to be opened if he returned not within a given time, and although
I doubted that he had done so, even to the verge of positive disbelief,
yet was the risk too great, and I let him live.”
“For a time—only for a time,” said Learmont.
A grim smile crossed the face of Britton, as he said;
“Should Jacob Gray die suddenly, and leave no trace behind, him, shall
I be entitled to the whole of what is now divided?”
“You shall,” cried Learmont, eagerly. “Assure me of the death of this
man, who, from my soul, I abhor, and I will add to rather than diminish
the sum, which will now be divided between you, and further, mark me,
Master Britton. Should you find it in your way to dispose quietly and
surely of—of that one being who stands between me and the assurance of
my safety—”
“You mean the boy?”
“I do.”
“It would be worth a large price, Squire Learmont, to rid you of Jacob
Gray—the boy, and place in your hands the document which the wily Jacob
has composed.”
“It would be worth a price,” cried Learmont, “so high a price
that—that, Britton, you should yourself name it, and then, be it what
it might, couple it with but the condition that you leave England for
ever, and it is yours.”
“’Tis a tempting offer,” said the smith.
“I mean it to be such,” replied Learmont. “Insinuate yourself, Britton,
into the confidence of this man, Gray; steal his very heart’s inmost
secrets; make common cause with him; get inmates at his home, and
then—then take some propitious moment to possess yourself of his
written confession, if he have really produced one, and crush him at a
blow.”
“I should name thousands as the price of such a piece of work,” said
the smith.
“Name thousands, if you will. You shall have them.”
“Agreed, then, Squire Learmont, I accept the work. We shall meet in
London.”
“Yes, in London.”
“And in the meantime these shining pieces will make a gentleman of
Britton, the smith,” said the ruffian, as he took from the table a
number of gold pieces. “Fare you well, squire! You are liberal at last.”
“Farewell,” said Learmont. “To-morrow evening I shall be in London.”
“And I likewise. Whenever I seek your worship’s presence I will send a
message to you in these words—‘A message from the Old Smithy.’”
A dark scowl passed over the face of Learmont; but before he could
object to the pass-words which the brutal smith had adopted, he had
left the room, and the wealthy but ill-at-ease owner of Learmont and
its huge possessions was left to the communion of his own brooding
thoughts.
For a time he sat in silence, with his head resting upon his hand. Then
he rose and paced the apartment with unequal strides, muttering to
himself in disjointed sentences.
“Yes—yes,” he said, “this is politic—most politic. If Britton can be so
far wrought upon by his love of gold as to destroy this Jacob Gray, and
bring me his written confession, all will be well. Ha! Ha! Good Master
Britton, I will be well prepared for thee on that auspicious and
eventful day. You shall have your reward. You shall assure me, convince
me, past a doubt, that I am rid of Gray, and then a dagger shall be
found to reach your own heart. ’Tis well—exceedingly well. These knaves
will destroy each other in this way—Britton destroys Gray—and I destroy
Britton, so all will be well. That child will then be innoxious. No one
can know who it is: it will be a child of mystery; and if I, in my
abundant charity, support it, my praises will be in the mouths of all
good men. By the fiends! it shall be my slave—shall tend me—wait upon
my every nod and beck. What a glorious revenge! Let me consider—those
papers which Britton says he has, and which he likewise asserts prove
me—what?—Illegitimate? I know I am illegitimate, but is there proof,
and has he such proof? Let me recollect what he said—that Gray had
taught him more craft, and he took care of the papers he had. Yes, that
was it. Shall I employ Gray to do by Britton even as I have urged
Britton to do by Gray? I will—I will—it is a master-stroke. I cannot
well deal with the two, but whichever succeeds in being the destroyer
of the other will, at least, rid me of one-half my trouble. It shall be
so—it shall be so.”
So saying, with a smile of anticipated triumph in his face, Learmont
left the room.
CHAPTER IX.
London in 1742.—Gray’s Home.—The Child.—The Voice of Conscience.—A
Visit.
The course of our narrative compels us now to leave the little village
of Learmont and all its mysteries to direct the reader’s attention to
the great metropolis, not as it is now, crowded with costly buildings,
and its shops vying with palaces in splendour, but as it was a hundred
years since, before Regent-street was thought of, and when we were
still enjoying that piece of wisdom of our dear ancestors which induced
them to make every street as narrow as possible, every house as dark as
possible, and everything as inconvenient as possible.
In a long narrow street, which began somewhere about where the County
Fire Office now stands, and terminated Heaven knows where, inasmuch as
it branched off into a thousand intricacies of lanes, courts, and
alleys, there stood one house in particular, to which we wish to call
attention. It was a narrow, gloomy-looking habitation, and stood wedged
in between two shops of very questionable character.
The person who rented this house was a Mistress Bridget Strangeways,
and she did not belie her name, for her ways were strange indeed. This
lady (from courtesy) professed to be a widow and she gained a very
comfortable subsistence by letting to anybody and everybody the various
furnished apartments in her house. With the curious collection of
lodgers which Mrs. Strangeways had in her house on the occasion to
which we refer—namely, the winter of 1742—we have little or nothing to
do. The only one of her lodgers to whom we shall at present introduce
the reader, was sitting alone in a back room boasting but of few
comforts, and the walls of which were of a deep brown colour from age.
Still, if the furniture and appointments of the room were few, mean,
and scanty, everything was arranged with great neatness and order. The
hearth was cleanly swept, the little fire that blazed in the small
grate was carefully tended, the windows were scrupulously clean, and it
was clear that the most had been made of the scanty means of comfort
which the place afforded.
Seated in a high-backed, ancient-looking chair, was a boy reading. His
face was inclined towards his book, and a mass of raven curls, which he
held from covering his face with his hand, fell, however, sufficiently
over his countenance to hide it from observation. His figure was slight
in the extreme, and the long tapered fingers which held back the
tresses of his hair, were exquisitely white and delicate. The dress of
the period was ill-suited to set off the figure to advantage, but still
cumbrous and ungraceful, as was the long-flapped waistcoat,
broad-skirted coat, and heavy shoe-buckles, no one could look for a
moment upon that young boy without confessing him to be eminently
handsome.
He was most intently engaged upon his book, and he moved neither hand
nor foot for many minutes, so absorbed was he in the narrative he was
reading. Suddenly, however, he lifted his head, and shaking back from
his brow the clustering hair, he cried in a voice of enthusiasm,—
“Oh, what a dear romance! How these treasures of books cheat the hours
of their weariness.”
As he spoke he turned his head to the window. What a world of
intelligence and gentle beauty was in that face! It was a face to gaze
at for hours and speculate upon.
“Five days my uncle has been gone now,” he said—“five whole days, and
what should I have done without these dear books? How kind of Albert
Seyton to lend them to me! I do love Albert Seyton, and if—if—no—no, I
must not breathe that even to myself. Oh, Heavens! That I should be so
unfortunate. When—oh, when will my uncle, who is so stern, and yet
tender—so cruel, and yet sometimes so kind—when will he explain to me
the awful mystery he hints at when with tears I urge him to let me—”
A low knock at the room door now attracted his attention, and the boy
cried cheerfully,—
“Ha! I know that tap, ’Tis Albert. Come in—come in, Albert, I am here,
and all alone.”
The door was immediately opened, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen
years of age, whose long flaxen hair and ruddy complexion proclaimed
him to be of true Saxon origin, bounded into the room.
“Your uncle still absent, Harry?” he cried.
“Yes,” replied the lad who had been reading. “Five days now, Albert, he
has been gone. What should I have done without you?”
“You know I love you, Harry Gray,” said Seyton. “You are very young,
but you are a great deal more sensible than many lads of twice your
age.”
“I’m past eleven!” said he who was called Harry Gray.
“That’s a great age,” said the other, laughing. “If you don’t think
your uncle would pop in unawares, I would sit with you an hour. My poor
father is out again. Ah, Harry, he still hopes to procure a recompense
from the count. He lost his all in the cause of the present royal
family, and now you see they have left him and myself to starve. It’s
too bad!”
“It’s wicked,” said Harry Gray.
“So it is,” replied Albert. “But we won’t talk about it any more now.”
The lad who was the occupant of the apartment was silent for a few
moments, then he said sadly,—
“Five days gone—five days. Albert, I think I will tell you a secret.”
“A secret, Harry?”
“Yes; it is a very strange one, and has made me very unhappy. Come
here.”
He took the hand of his companion and led him to a corner of the room
where there was a large, old-fashioned oaken chest, and taking from his
breast a key, he opened it, and lifting the lid, disclosed lying at the
bottom of it a roll of paper, and under that a large sealed packet.
Harry Gray lifted out the roll of paper and handed it to Albert,
saying, “Read what is written there,” pointing to a few lines on the
wrapper.
Albert read with surprise the following words:—
Wednesday.—Harry,—If I am not with you by twelve of the clock on next
Wednesday, take this roll of papers to Sir Francis Hartleton, who lives
in the Bird-cage. Walk by the Park. Do not let any hand but his own
take it from you.
J.G.
“That’s very odd,” said Albert. “Sir Francis Hartleton is a great man.
The king knighted him lately, I heard, and he is a magistrate. This is
quite a mystery, my dear Harry. I dare say you are some prince, really.”
Harry looked up with a beaming smile in the face of his young friend,
as he said,—
“Be I who or what I may, I shall never forget Albert Seyton.”
“You have a good heart, Harry,” cried Albert, throwing his arm
affectionately round his young friend’s neck, “and when my father gets
his own again, I will get him to ask your uncle to let you stay with
us.”
“That would be joy,” said Harry, clasping his hands—“oh, such joy!”
“You are a little delicate thing, you know,” continued Albert, “and you
want somebody to take care you are not affronted nor imposed upon; and
woe to anybody who dared so much as to—”
The door was at this moment suddenly flung open, and, livid with rage,
Jacob Gray stood on the threshold.
Harry gave a faint cry of alarm, and Albert started to his feet from
kneeling by the box, and boldly confronted Gray.
“So,” cried Gray, striding into the room, and shutting the door
violently behind him—“so, it is thus I find you engaged!”
“Sir,” said Albert Seyton, “if you have any fault to find, find it with
me and not with Harry. If he has done wrong, it was my fault; and—and—”
“And what, young sir?”
“I suppose I must fight you,” added Albert.
“Brat! beggar’s brat!” shrieked Gray, rushing towards the box. “What
have you seen—what have you done?”
“Seen very little, and done nothing,” said Albert.
Gray aimed a blow at Harry, which was warded by Albert, who cried,—
“For shame, sir—for shame to strike him. By Heavens! Mr. Gray, if you
hurt Harry I’ll just go to Sir Francis Hartleton, and tell him there is
something that concerns him in your big box here.”
Jacob Gray stood with his aim uplifted, as if paralysed at this threat.
He trembled violently, and sank into a chair. Several times he tried to
speak, and at length he said, with a forced smile, which sat hideously
upon his distorted features,—
“Well—well, it’s not much matter. Never mind, Harry, I—I have come
back, you see, so there need be no appeal made to the kindness of Sir
Francis in your behalf. It was—that is, the papers merely say you were
an orphan, and ask him to do something for you: but no matter—no
matter.”
“Then you forgive Harry?” said Seyton.
“Yes, yes—oh, yes.”
“Thank you, sir—thanks; he meant no wrong. Good-bye, dear Harry. Your
uncle will say no more about it now.”
Harry Gray raised his head from the edge of the box, and his eyes were
filled with tears. He took Albert’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
CHAPTER X.
The Disappearance.—Mrs. Bridget Strangeways and the Old Oaken
Chest.—Albert’s Grief and Despair.
There were cries of pain and deep sobs heard proceeding from the room
occupied by Jacob Gray long after Albert Seyton had left them. None of
the inhabitants of the house thought it necessary to interfere,
although it was shrewdly suspected that Master Gray was not very kind
to his poor, delicate little nephew.
It’s a true adage that what is everybody’s business turns out to be
nobody’s. Surely it was everybody’s business to interfere and prevent
ill-usage in any shape, and yet no one did interfere; and Albert Seyton
had left home in search of his father, so that poor Harry Gray had no
friend.
The night set in cold and dreary, and before the evening had far
advanced, Jacob Gray left the house, locking Harry in while he was
gone, and presently returned with several bottles of wine under his
arm. The neighbours then heard him alternately cursing, laughing,
shouting, and singing till past midnight; then all became suddenly
still, and those who had been kept awake by his voice went comfortably
to sleep, while Mrs. Bridget Strangeways made a mental determination
and a strong vow that the next morning she would give Mr. Jacob Gray
notice to quit forthwith and at the same time take the opportunity of
telling him “a piece of her mind,” that she would.
Now Mrs. Strangeways enjoyed nothing better than telling people “pieces
of her mind,” and, by some strange fatality, such mental extracts were
never of a complimentary character, and whatever charms the mind of
Mrs. Strangeways might possess as a whole, it was quite well known
that, given forth in “pieces” each piece was enough to set a city by
the ears, and would have most surely come under the cognizance of that
clause in the New Police Act, so Mrs. Strangeways made up her mind very
composedly and comfortably to give Mr. Jacob Gray such a “hearing” as
he never had in his life, and never would have again, except he
provoked Mrs. Strangeways on some future occasion to an equal pitch of
wrath.
The morning came, and Mrs. Bridget Strangeways having communicated her
intentions with respect to Mr. Jacob Gray to a select few of her
lodgers and neighbours, fortified herself with a tolerable dose of
“cordial,” and setting her arms a-kimbo, she walked majestically up to
the room of her troublesome lodger. She knocked and knocked, and
knocked again; but Jacob Gray was obstinate, and would not say “come
in;” so at length Mrs. Strangeways opened the door with a rush, and
entered the room, exclaiming,—
“Muster Gray, I’d have you to know, Muster Gray, as this house is—”
The lady had got so far when she saw that there was no Muster Gray, to
hear the piece of her mind, and her eyes dilated as she glanced round
the room and saw nothing but vacancy.
On the table lay a little piece of paper, and on the little piece of
paper lay some money. Mrs. Strangeways clutched at both, and, as she
afterwards declared, “you might have knocked her down with a small
feather” when she read,—
Mrs. Strangeways’ rent. Her lodger, Jacob Gray, is going to the other
end of the world, and he has taken his nephew with him.
The lady gave a great shriek (after pocketing the money), which roused
the house, and in a few minutes the room was full of company, among
whom was Albert Seyton, with apprehension in his looks.
“Good Heavens!” he cried, “is anything the matter with Harry?”
“What is it—what is it?” cried a dozen voices at once.
“Oh, that villain, Jacob Gray!” gasped Mrs. Strangeways.
“Where is he?” cried everybody.
“At the other end of the world,” replied Mrs. Strangeways.
“Harry! Harry!—where are you?” shouted Albert, at once rushing into the
little closet which had been the sleeping-chamber of the delicate and
sensitive boy. All was still and empty. Harry’s little bed had
evidently never been slept in. Jacob Gray’s was in the same state.
Every little article that had belonged to them was removed. There was
nothing in the rooms but what was the lawful property of Mrs.
Strangeways, except the old oaken chest.
“That chest,” said Albert—”he has left that.”
“It’s mine,” cried Mrs. Strangeways. “The villain has run away, as you
all see, and cheated a lone and defenceless, delicate female out of her
lawful rent. Oh, the wretch!”
Albert Seyton sprang to the box. It was locked.
“I think we ought to see what’s in here,” he cried.
“Do you, Jackanapes?” screamed Mrs. Strangeways, who by no means
wished, should there be anything worth having in the chest, to let
every one know it. “I’d have you to know, Master Albert Seyton, as it’s
no business of yours.”
“It’s locked,” cried Albert; “but the poker, I dare say, will open it.”
“Do you dare say the poker will open it!” screamed Mrs. Strangeways.
“Let anybody touch it if they dare.”
So saying the lady, to make sure of her real or fancied prize, rushed
forward and sat herself down on the old, chest with such a thump, that
the crazy lid gave way, and with a shriek Mrs. Strangeways fell in a
singular position into it.
When she was hauled out by the united exertions of everybody, it was
satisfactorily discovered that the chest was empty. Albert Seyton saw
at a glance that it was so, and he immediately left the deserted rooms
in grief for the loss of his young friend Harry, to whom he felt warmly
attached. He went to his father’s apartments, and throwing himself into
a chair, he burst into tears, exclaiming—
“My poor Harry, I shall never see you again!”
Albert Seyton’s father had been a gentleman of considerable property,
but he had lost all by his adherence to the royal family, who, now at
the end, as they thought, of a civil war, were seated on the throne of
England. In vain he had sought compensation. A scanty pension just
sufficient to keep him and his only boy Albert from actual want, was
all he could wring from the government, and now, day after day, he
haunted the court with the hope of calling attention at some fortunate
moment to his just claims.
He was out when all this conversation took place in the house, where
circumstances had compelled him to take up his humble home.
While Albert was still suffering from the first real gush of heartfelt
sorrow which had dimmed the brightness of his early youth, his father
returned home, and seeing his son in tears, was at once alarmed and
afflicted, nor could he be convinced that something had not happened
until Albert had related to him the history of the oaken chest and what
it had contained. This, coupled with the sudden and mysterious
disappearance of Jacob Gray, led Mr. Seyton to think that there was a
great deal more in the matter than met the eye.
Moreover, he had another reason which he did not disclose to Albert,
but which the reader will know in its right place, for suspecting that
a great mystery was connected in some way with Jacob Gray and his young
nephew. Full of these thoughts, Mr. Seyton debated with himself whether
it was his duty to inform Sir Francis Hartleton of all the
circumstances; but then when he came to consider how bald and
disjointed a narrative he had to tell, and how he must terminate it by
saying that he had no clue whatever to the whereabouts of the parties
who he suspected of he knew not what, he gave up, the idea as
premature, and turning to his son, he said,—
“Albert, did young Harry Gray ever confide to you any particulars of
his early life?”
“Never, father,” said Albert. “He always told me he was the child of
mystery, and that his life was a romance. Then he would sigh and weep,
and hope that the day would come when he could confide all to me. So,
sir, I could not press him.”
“Press him!—certainly not. To have wormed his secret from him
unwillingly would have been unjustifiable in the extreme. In truth, he
was a gentle boy.”
“Oh, father, I loved him, dearly loved him.”
Mr. Seyton was silent for some moments, then beckoning his son to him,
he whispered a few words in his ear, which brought the eloquent blood
in a full rush to the cheeks of Albert, and he gasped rather than said,
“Indeed, no father; I—I—never thought—”
“Then never mention what I have suggested, just now,” said Mr. Seyton,
“till I give you leave, and Albert, depend upon my using my utmost
exertions to endeavour to discover the mystery which envelopes the fate
of your young friend.”
Albert listened to his father with rapt attention, when he threw
himself into his arms, crying, “Oh, find them! Find them, and I shall
be happy.”
“This very day shall be devoted to inquiries,” said Seyton. “I am
greatly interested by all that has occurred, and perchance it will
withdraw my mind from sorrows and disappointments of my own, to turn my
mind and energies to unravel the mystery connected with your pretty
playmate.”
Albert, looked his gratitude, and after the morning’s scanty meal was
despatched, he saw his father depart upon his promised expedition with
a heart elate with hope and expectant joy.
For a time the youthful Albert remained at home in deep thought; then
he suddenly rose, saying, “Why should I be idle? I may do something in
this matter. Just Heaven! If that bad man should have murdered him?
Alas! My poor—poor Harry. My mind misgives me, that he loves you not.
Oh, had I but some clue—some means of commencing in the right path of
inquiry, I should then have some hope.”
So saying, with a desponding air, the youth left the house and wandered
onwards without any definite idea of whither he was going or how he was
to set about his self imposed task of endeavouring to discover the
retreat of Jacob Gray and the young Harry.
CHAPTER XI.
Learmont in London.—The Endeavour to Drown Thought.—Life in 1742.—All
is not Gold that Glitters.
Many spacious mansions which adorned the old city of Westminster at the
date of our story have long since been swept from the ground to give
place to more modern structures, and where the stately home of the
noble or wealthy commoner reared its lofty walls are now to be seen but
lines of streets, and the busy hum of commerce has superseded the
stately aristocratic silence which used to reign undisturbed in many
parts of the ancient district.
In a mansion of princely splendour, which has long since been pulled
down to build some approaches to Westminster Bridge, dwelt the head of
the house of Learmont, whenever business or inclination called him to
the metropolis. In that house, however, as yet, the present Squire of
Learmont had never resided. He had resided in deep seclusion ever since
he had been acknowledged as the head of his house. A small part of his
history was well known, but there were darker portions which the public
eye might in vain attempt to fathom. He was a younger brother of the
house he now represented, but his senior, from deep distress at the
loss of a young and lovely wife in the first year of his marriage, had
resolved by travelling in foreign countries, to endeavour to forget his
irreparable loss, leaving the present squire in undisputed authority
over his domains and extensive property. Then shortly came news of the
decease, at Rome, of the elder brother. The present squire entered on
his own account into undisputed possession of the vast accumulated
property, for the relatives of the family were very few and very
distant. This was all that was really known of the history of Squire
Learmont, and his sudden determination, after nearly fourteen years of
seclusion, to visit London, and launch out into a style of expensive
living which, although it was well known he could afford, yet
astonished everybody, were the themes of very general gossip. The old
mansion had been hastily put in order for his reception. The complement
of servants was greatly increased; an immense sum was spent in costly
liveries and interior adornments; expectation was on the utmost
stretch, and when Learmont did arrive and stalked into his ancient
house, he created a scarcely less sensation than as if he had been some
petty monarch.
No one liked the dark penetrating eye that scowled around, as if
suspicious of everything and everybody, but there was no absolute stain
upon his character; moreover he was immensely rich, and reported, of
course, to be a great deal richer than he really was, so that when it
became known that he intended to give a series of entertainments,
unequalled in effect and magnificence by any commoner, numbers of old
friends of the family sprung up from all quarters, and had his spacious
halls been ten times as spacious he would have found no difficulty in
filling them with glittering throngs whenever he chose.
Certainly Learmont seemed to be at the height of his ambition. The
possessor of a princely revenue which had been allowed to accumulate,
first by his elder brother, who was a man of frugal habits, for several
years, and then by himself, for a number of years more, until he found
himself possessed of a sum of money in actual cash, which had the
worthy associates, Britton and Gray, but fancied to be a third of its
real amount, would materially have assisted them in putting a high
price upon their services whatever they were.
On the evening of his arrival, Learmont sat alone and silent for a
considerable time in the magnificent library of his mansion; then, when
he could no longer look upon the gorgeous hangings and superb
decorations of the apartment, in consequence of the rapidly darkening
sky, he rung a small silver hand-bell which was immediately answered by
a page, attired in crimson and gold livery, who waited respectfully for
orders.
“Bid my steward,” said Learmont, “with my chamberlain and the officers
of the several departments of my household, attend me with lights. I
will walk through the house.”
The page-bowed and retired.
“Yes,” muttered Learmont, when he was again alone, “I will sate my eyes
with gazing upon the glorious magnificence I have wanted for so long; I
will see the glitter and the beauty of what I have so dearly purchased.
Attended by those who are taught to watch the slightest indication of
my pleasure, I will traverse the stately and gorgeous mansion, which
years since I used to wildly dream might once be mine, and smile when I
awoke to think of the extreme improbability of the vision.”
The door was now thrown open and the same page who had before attended
upon Learmont, respectfully announced that his commands had been
obeyed, and that his servants were in waiting to escort him over his
mansion.
He rose from his seat and strode with a haughty air to the door, “Lead
the way,” he cried, “I’ll follow.”
The servants bowed, and while some preceded him, conveying large wax
lights, others again followed, so that a full glare of light was thrown
upon the path of the proud man, who had purged his very soul for the
purpose of procuring such purchased and empty homage.
Saloon after saloon was traversed, and in each Learmont paused and
ordered the chandeliers and clustering lamps to be lighted, in order
that he might judge of the effect by night of the gorgeous decorations
of those noble apartments. Everything rich or rare that money could
produce was there congregated. The walls were hung with the most superb
tapestry; the ceilings were freshly and vigorously painted by artists
of celebrity, and the highly polished oaken floors shone like mirrors,
reflecting all the brilliancy and lustre of both roof and walls.
The heart of Learmont swelled with pride and triumph as he glanced
round upon all this luxury and refinement, and whispered to himself “it
is mine—all mine.”
“Lead on,” was his only cry as room after room was lighted and examined.
Now the mansion had been nearly traversed, and the chandeliers and
lamps being kept lighted, the whole house shone and glittered with
unparalleled brilliancy. There was but one other state-apartment which
Learmont had not visited, and that was a spacious ball-room, upon which
an enormous sum had been lavished. He wished, he hoped to be greatly
struck by the splendour of that noble room, and he sent the domestics
on before to light its numerous lustres, in order that he might judge
of its first effect upon the eye as any one entered it.
The steward of the household returned to say that all was ready, and
preceding his master with a long white wand in his hand, tipped with
gold, he led the way to the ball-room.
“Perfect!” was the exclamation of Learmont, when he stood in the centre
of that hall. To attempt a description of it would be in vain. It was
one gorgeous glitter; all that mirrors, gilding, hangings, painting,
lights and flowers could do to render it a scene of enchantment was
done.
Learmont’s colour deepened with pride as he looked around him and could
see nothing that he would have altered. All was as he wished, and he
felt conscious that such another apartment was not to be found in
London.
“This is the broad path to honour and distinction,” he muttered to
himself. “If you would be regarded among men as little short of a
divinity, you have but to throw gold-dust in their eyes, and through
that glittering medium they will see you are a very god.”
Now there suddenly burst upon the air from a balcony at the further end
of the hall, a strain of exquisite music. The lofty room echoed with
the melodious strains, and when the gay and spirit-stirring strains
were over the steward advanced with a self-satisfied air, and said,
“Sir, those are the musicians you are pleased to order should be
engaged to wait upon your pleasure, as part of your household, I
thought your worship might be pleased to judge of their skill and the
effect of their music in this apartment.”
“’Tis well,” said Learmont, inclining his head. “Bid them play again.”
Obedient to a signal, the musicians again filled the air with joyous
sounds, and Learmont stood and listened with delight, forgetting in
those moments everything but his own present greatness and wealth.
“Yes,” he said, when the strain ceased, as if pursuing a previous train
of thought: “this is the way to forget. Steep the senses in enjoyment,
and the conscience will have no room for action; wine, music, the
dance, the smile of beauty, all shall contribute to my enjoyment, and
life shall be—”
“May it please you, honourable sir, some one desires speech of you,”
said a domestic.
“Say I am occupied,” replied Learmont, and he again resumed his glowing
meditations. “Nobility,” he muttered, “will crowd to my fêtes, even
royalty might borrow new grace and dignity from the halls of Squire
Learmont. But that shall not long be my designation. Wealth in England
can purchase anything, and titles are easily procured where the price
is of little moment. I will be ennobled and—”
“Your pardon, sir,” said the servant, returning, “but; the stranger
will not take a refusal.”
“Ha! He will not?”
“An’ it please you, sir, he will not go.”
“Have I not idle knaves enough about me to drive an insolent intruder
from my doors?”
“’Tis a rude knave, your worship.”
“Cast him into the street. How dare he say he will see the master of
Learmont?”
“It shall be done, sir. To come here talking about an Old Smithy.”
Learmont caught the muttered words of the man as he was hurrying from
the hall, and a cry of pain and horror escaped him as he rushed
forward, and seizing the terrified servant by the arm, he cried—
“What—what manner of man is he who seeks me with such pertinacity?”
“A rough knave, an’ please you, sir; coarse of speech and appearance.”
“And—and he said—what?”
“He said he brought a message from the Old Smithy!”
A deadly paleness came across Learmont’s face, as he said in a husky
whisper, “Show him into a private room and tell him I will be with him
soon. Begone, knave, nor stand gaping there.”
The terrified servant darted from the hall, and Learmont turning to the
throng of domestics who were standing at a respectful distance from
him, cried—
“Lead on. To my chamber, and bid yon knave bring me word in what
apartment he has placed this—this—visitor.”
The servants hastened to throw the doors wide open for their imperious
master to pass out, but his mood was changed. The glow of triumph, and
gratified pride no longer lent a glow to his sallow cheek, nor lit up
his deep-sunken eyes with brilliancy. There was a load of care and
anxiety, almost amounting to agony, upon his face. His contracted brow
bespoke deep and anxious thought, and his limbs trembled as he left his
hall of light and beauty to seek an interview with the man who, he had
always dreaded, would exercise the power he had of stepping between him
and his moments of forgetfulness and consequent enjoyment.
CHAPTER XII.
The Consequences of Crime.—A Familiar Friend.—A Cloud upon Learmont’s
Felicity.
Being informed by his servants that his visitor had been shown into a
small room adjoining the library, Learmont took a lamp from his table,
and with a frowning brow and compressed lips, walked towards the room
to demand of Britton, for he guessed too well it was he, the cause of
so early a visit.
When he entered the room he found the smith lolling, at his ease, upon
a costly couch, and although he did rise at the presence of Learmont,
it was with an air and manner of extreme insolence.
“To what am I indebted for so early a visit, or rather I should say
intrusion?” asked Learmont in a low hollow voice.
“Principally,” said Britton with an air of perfect indifference, “to
assure you that I had arrived in London, perfectly safe.”
“Well?” said Learmont.
“Aye and well too,” answered the smith, purposely mistaking the other’s
meaning. “I wish to know, likewise, if you have seen Jacob Gray?”
“I have not,” replied Learmont.
“Know you, squire, where in London he is to be found?”
“I do not. Has he not confided that to you?”
“In faith, he has not. In vain I urged him to tell me his place of
abode, and if I know not where to find him how can I carry out the
project we have decided upon?”
“True,” said Learmont. “There must be found some means. Listen to me:
when next Jacob Gray seeks me for money, I will put him off to a
particular hour the next day. Be you then, at that hour, lurk about
here, and follow him to his home, whither he will most likely go
directly, having a sum of money with him.”
“That may do,” said Britton, after a moment’s consideration. “You can
send to me at any time by my real name, addressed to a little
hostelrie, called ‘The Old Chequers,’ by Storey’s Gate hard by. You
see, squire, I thought it handy to live near at hand.”
“Promise me—swear to me, you will take this man’s life!” cried Learmont
with sudden vehemence.
“I have no particular objection to take his life,” replied Britton.
“And the boy?”
“That’s as circumstances turn out, squire. If the boy knows
nothing—suspects nothing—”
“Aye there’s the doubt. Britton, dispose of Gray, and your reward, as
you know, is most ample. Bring, then, that boy to me.”
“Agreed. You shall have him.”
“Thanks, good Britton; and—and when you bring him you shall not be five
minutes without your just reward.”
There was a peculiarity of tone and manner about Learmont as he uttered
these words, which startled the smith, and he looked for a moment or
two suspiciously at his employer, then he said,—
“Squire Learmont, I have been taught an useful lesson by Jacob Gray. I,
too, have written a confession, and lodged it in a place of safety.”
“What mean you?” said Learmont.
“This—that if I should die suddenly, a packet of papers will be found,
which will do no good to the Squire of Learmont. You understand me.”
“I do understand you,” said Learmont; “but your suspicions are
groundless.”
“Be it so,” said the smith. “It’s best to be cautious.”
“Take what precautions you please,” replied Learmont; “but keep your
promise.”
“I will keep it,” cried the smith; “for I hate this Jacob Gray,
although he has made me know my own value.”
“Know your value—what mean you?”
“It was Jacob Gray who told me there were documents of some importance
about the body of—”
“Hush—hush!” cried Learmont; “name him not—it is enough. But tell me,
why did Gray inform you of the existence of those papers instead of
securing them himself?”
“He lacked the courage to seek them where they were to be found.”
“And yet I must take your word that they do prove what you say?”
“Squire Learmont, these papers distinctly prove your illegitimacy.
Among them is a letter from your mother, urging your father to marry
her on account of her infant—that infant was yourself, for you know she
died before you were one year old.”
“Enough—enough,” said Learmont.—“I will believe it is so.”
“So you perceive, squire, admitting your brother to—”
“Cease—cease!” cried Learmont, “I want not these details.”
“I was only about to remark that you were not the heir-at-law,” said
Britton.
“Heir to hell!” cried Learmont. “Now begone. You have delivered your
message. I will send to you at the pot-house you mention when a fitting
time comes. Now, away!”
“Not so fast,” said Britton. “I have made a resolution.”
“What resolution?”
“Never to leave this house empty-handed.”
“Pshaw! You forget the large sum you have received of me within these
three days.”
“No, squire, I do not: but I have told you my resolve—I shall charge
for my visits here.”
“And pray how much do you expect to receive whenever I am honoured by
your presence?” sneered Learmont.
“I shall leave that to your generosity,” said Britton.
“And how often do you purpose coming?”
“As often as the humour takes me, or my wants require,” replied the
smith, insolently.
Learmont evidently made a great effort to subdue his rage, and he said,
in half-choked accents,—
“Name your price.”
“Ten pieces,” said the smith.
Learmont took his purse from his pocket, and without a word, counted
out required sum, and then stood with his lamp in his hand waiting for
the other to leave the place.
“You won’t show me your house, I suppose?” said Britton, in an
aggravating voice.
The dark eye of Learmont flashed with rage; but he said nothing.
“Oh, very well,” cried Britton; “another time will do just as well.
Recollect the sign of ‘The Old Chequers,’ I shall be very glad to see
you whenever you may choose to call, and we can always find something
interesting to talk about.”
“Away with you—away!“ cried Learmont.
“Let me see,” said Britton, with great deliberation, counting on his
fingers, “this is Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—Friday—well, say Friday.”
“Friday for what?”
“My next visit.”
“So soon?”
“I don’t call that soon. Friday it shall be, squire.”
The lamp trembled in the hand of Learmont as he thought—“Oh, that for
my own safety’s sake I dared plunge a dagger to the hilt in his heart!”
Britton, however, seemed fully to feel his entire safety, and he
evidently felt an exquisite enjoyment in the agony he was inflicting
upon Learmont. He lounged slowly to the door, and nodding then in an
insolent, and familiar manner, he crossed the hall to the outer door,
while Learmont, nearly bursting with rage, sprung up the marble
staircase to the upper apartment of the house.
“This is brave work,” muttered Britton when he had passed out into the
street. “Humph! For ten long years did Master Learmont get the better
of me in cunning, and I could not drag him down without placing a
halter round my own neck; but now, thanks to the cunning of Master
Jacob Gray, I have the means of toppling the squire from his height of
power and grandeur without myself the least harm in the world. Ho! Ho!
’Tis brave indeed. And now for this Gray. I don’t see why I should not
have charge of that young scion of an ancient stock, who is so great an
eye-sore to Learmont. We shall see—we shall see, Master Gray, whether
you or I will succeed best in a contest of cunning in the long run, and
now for wine and jollity.”
The smith had now arrived at the door of “The Old Chequers,” where, as
the place most congenial to his disposition, he had taken up his abode,
and where showing that he had plenty of money, he was welcomed
accordingly.
“Hilloa!” he roared. “Landlord, some of your best. Quick—quick, I say;
I am thirsty, man.”
The landlord needed no second bidding, but placed a tankard of foaming
ale before the smith; who immediately took a deep draught of its
contents.
“Hurrah!” he cried; “I am Andrew Britton, the smith, and I don’t care
who knows it.”
“Certainly not, most worshipful sir,” said the landlord.
“Ah,” cried Britton, “worshipful sir. That’s a very good name, and I’ll
be called that for the future. Here’s a quart of the best to whoever
calls me worshipful sir, and whoever don’t I’ll wring his neck.”
“Hurrah! For the jolly smith“ cried a chorus of topers who were around.
“We’ll drink your health, worshipful sir.”
“So you shall,” cried Britton. “Here’s gold, and there’s more, too,
where that comes from. Landlord, do you hear? Quarts all round. The
best—the humming ale, recollect, that makes a man sing.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob
Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.
The Squire Learmont’s first night in his splendid mansion was by no
means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew
Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid
himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that
man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a
chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his
lips.
His restless slumbers, too, were haunted by the visionary creations of
his excited fancy. One moment he would be plunging a poniard into
Britton’s heart, while he dragged from his breast the papers so
important to his peace. Then again, at the moment of his fancied
triumph, the scene would change to a court of justice, and a voice
arraigned him for murder! In such fearful and disordered fancies was
his night passed, and he rose in the morning pale, haggard, and
un-refreshed. Hastily attiring himself, he drew aside the curtains of
his chamber-window, which commanded an extensive and pleasing view into
St. James’s Park. It was yet very early, but Learmont thought that he
should be able to withdraw his mind from disagreeable and horrible
reflections by healthful walk in the shady Mall.
He accordingly took his hat and sword, and walked from his house by a
garden-gate, opening into a narrow lane of trees, which terminated in
the park itself. The air was very cold, for frost was on the ground,
and the trees were stripped of their beautiful verdure; but it was
exercise that Learmont wanted, and he rather rejoiced than otherwise at
the necessity of active walking, inasmuch as he hoped exertion of body
would control the excitement of his mind.
The canal was then, and for many years afterwards, a mere straight
cutting, strongly resembling a wet dock, for the repair of ships, and
as little ornamental as it could possibly be. The walks, however, in
St. James’s Park, were then preferable to what they are now, for many
old trees were then existence that have now perished, and their places
are, of necessity, occupied by saplings, which the present generation
have been kind enough to plant for their successors.
Learmont walked very quickly over the frozen ground, which crackled
like glass under the feet. There were but few persons at that early
hour abroad, although the day gave promise of being one of those clear,
cold, frosty ones which are admired by a great many persons.
Approaching, however, from the direction towards which he was
proceeding, Learmont observed a gentlemanly-looking man enveloped in a
large cloak. By some sort of instinct, Learmont seemed to feel a dread
of this stranger’s approach, although he could not at all recognise in
him, at the distance they were apart, the gait or aspect of any one
that he knew. Nearer and nearer they approached each other; and, so
strong was the feeling of dread in the breast of Learmont, that, had it
not been for his stronger curiosity to ascertain who it was, he would
have turned from the open pathway among the trees, whose huge trunks
would have effectually hidden him from observation. As it was, however,
he pursued his walk until he and the stranger with the cloak came
nearly face to face. Then, as the stranger lifted up his eyes, which
had been fixed on the ground in a meditative manner, Learmont knew him.
It was the young man, by name Frank Hartleton, who had been so curious
and suspicious at the period of the great storm at Learmont, when the
wing of the building, in which was the smithy, had been burnt down.
The recognition was evidently mutual; indeed, no one who had once seen
Learmont could easily again forget him; and, although a great personal
change had taken place in the appearance of Hartleton, yet the features
of all who had taken any part in the proceedings of that eventful night
at the little village of Learmont were too indelibly impressed upon the
memory of the squire for him to find any difficulty in recognising in
the staid, and somewhat grave, gentleman person before him, the Frank
Hartleton who had always held him at open defiance and laughed at his
power.
Hartleton stopped short when he saw Learmont; and his first exclamation
was,—
“This is strange, indeed!”
“Sir,” said Learmont, “did you address me?”
“Scarcely,” replied Hartleton; “but your name is Learmont?”
“Well, sir?” replied the other with considerable hauteur.
“Do you know me, Squire Learmont?”
“I recognised the features, and know the names of many, sir,” said
Learmont, “that still are not upon my roll of friends or acquaintances.”
“You do know me,” said Hartleton, “I have no desire to be rude to you,
Squire Learmont; but our sudden meeting took me somewhat by surprise,
and the exclamation that I uttered arose from the curious coincidence
that I have been all night dreaming of you and the village of Learmont,
and was in deep thought about the mysterious occurrences that took
place three years ago when I suddenly came upon you.”
If his hatred and dread of Hartleton would have induced Learmont to
treat him in such a manner that he could not address him, his guilty
fears urged him to prolong the conversation, in order to discover, if
possible, the complexion of Hartleton’s thoughts with regard to him,
that he might know if he had anything really to dread from that
quarter. It was, therefore, with more courtesy that he said,—
“The coincidences are curious. I—I believe I speak to Sir Francis
Hartleton now?”
“Yes,” replied Hartleton; “I was, you recollect, destined for the law,
which my small patrimony just enabled me to enter with credit. I am now
a justice, and a knight, as you say.”
“I give you joy, sir, of your advancement,” said Learmont.
“You are very kind,” replied Hartleton, fixing his eyes upon the
countenance of Learmont in a manner that it required all the firmness
of the latter not to quail under.
“Might I presume so far,” said Learmont, “as to ask, what were the
thoughts concerning me that engaged Sir Francis Hartleton even now?”
“I was thinking of the mysterious man,” said Hartleton, “who rushed
with such wild gestures and shrieks from the burning house.”
Learmont strove to command his features to indifference; but, the
effort was almost beyond his power, and he spoke to endeavour to cover
his agitation.
“It was very strange,” he said; “most singular!”
“And the little child, too, that he had in his arms,” continued
Hartleton; “what can have become of that?”
“Ay—what?” said Learmont.
“Did you never get any clue, Squire Learmont, to these mysterious
circumstances, which must have greatly interested you?”
“Interested me? How?”
“Inasmuch as they occurred upon your estate, and among your own
tenants.”
“True—most true, sir. I—I was—and am much interested; but I know
nothing—have heard nothing, and have no clue to unravel the mystery.”
“We must only hope,” said Hartleton, “that some of these days, accident
as it generally does, will throw a light upon the subject, and give it
to us in all its details.”
An awful expression came across the face of Learmont as he replied.
“Yes—yes. As you say, it will be an accident. May I ask what your
impression is?”
“I have scarcely an impression upon the subject,” replied Hartleton;
“we lawyers, you know, are particularly cautious how we take up
impressions upon subjects unfounded upon evidence.”
“Exceedingly proper is such caution,” said Learmont; “otherwise the
innocent might be the victims of endless mistakes.”
“Exactly,” replied Hartleton; “but I have no particular objection to
tell you my dream without founding any impression upon it.”
“I am all attention,” said Learmont.
“I dreamt first that that smith, of the name of Britton, was a
desperate villain, and for gold would—”
“Would what?” gasped Learmont.
“Do anything” said Hartleton.
“Well, sir, is that all?”
“Oh, no; my vision changed, and I thought I saw a gloomy passage,
mouldy with the damps of time, and dripping with unwholesome
moisture—creeping slimy things were all around, and in the midst I saw—”
“Yes—yes,” gasped Learmont. “W—what saw you?”
“A mouldering skeleton.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, and the most curious circumstance of all was that in the midst of
it I constantly heard the clank of the smith’s hammer. I knew the sound
in a moment.”
“’Tis very strange!” muttered Learmont.
“Most strange!” said Hartleton; “but again my vision changed.”
“What saw you then?”
“A hall of judgment.”
“Yes—yes.”
“It was densely crowded, and some important and interesting proceeding
was evidently pending; then suddenly I heard a voice cry your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, and you were asked to plead to a charge of murder!”
A cold sweat broke out upon the forehead of Learmont, and he could not
answer, when Hartleton added,—
“It was but a dream, though. I wish you a good morning, and a pleasant
walk, Squire Learmont.”
CHAPTER XIV.
The Dark Threat.—The Biter Bit.—Another Murder Projected.—Learmont’s
Reasoning.
Learmont stood for a few moments gazing after the retreating figure of
Sir Francis Hartleton; then, shaking his clenched hand in the direction
he was proceeding, he muttered between his teeth,—
“Beware—beware, Sir Magistrate!—beware! You may rouse a spirit you
cannot quell again. I am not the man to allow such as thou to be a
stumbling-block in my path.”
So saying, with a dark scowl upon his brow, the squire retraced his
steps towards his own house. The morning sun was now gilding with
beauty the housetops, and the icicles, which, pendant from every tree,
shone like gems of the purest water and brilliancy. Unheedful, however,
of the beauties of nature around, the wealthy Learmont passed onwards,
his thoughts, dark and gainful as they were, fully absorbing all his
attention. He passed up the little lane which was the nearest route to
his own house; and, as he was about to emerge from it, he was startled
(for the guilty are ever timid) by some one touching his shoulder.
Turning quickly round, he saw Jacob Gray, with a sickly, disagreeable
smile upon his face, standing close to him.
“Your worship rises early,” said Gray.
“Yes; you—you have been seeking me?”
“I have, squire. Your servants sought you, it appears, and found you
were not within; and, as I knew it was much the custom of the great
gentry, such as your worship, to gather an appetite for breakfast by a
stroll in the park, I made bold to seek you.”
“I am now proceeding homeward,” said Learmont. “In half an hour from
now I shall be at leisure.”
“As your worship pleases,” said Gray; “but methought there was an
inclination on the part of your lackeys to deny me speech of you. Now,
squire, if you would have the goodness to leave a message in your hall
to the effect that your old and trusty friend Jacob Gray was always to
be admitted, it would save us both trouble.”
Learmont was exceedingly impatient during this speech, and, at its
conclusion, he said, in a vexed tone,—
“Well—well—I will leave proper orders. In half an hour I shall expect
you.”
“Your worship shall not be disappointed,” said Gray, with a bow which
had more of burlesque mockery in it than respect.
Learmont turned haughtily from him, and in a few moments he entered the
gardens of his mansion, by the same private door through which he had
proceeded to the park. He ordered a sumptuous breakfast to be
immediately prepared for him, and took an opportunity to say, in a
careless manner, to the servant, whose special province it was to
answer the silver bell which always was at Learmont’s elbow,—
“Tell them in the hall that I expect one Jacob Gray. Let him be
admitted.”
The servant respectfully retired to communicate the message, and
Learmont, after a pause of thought, said, in a low voice,—
“Yes, Jacob Gray, you shall be admitted as often as you call; but it
will go hard with me if I do not take thy life soon. Assuming
wretch!—Oh! Can there be a state of more abject slavery than his, who,
after carving the way to his ambitious height, then finds himself at
the mercy of the mean and despicable tools he has used, and would fain
throw aside, and forget for ever! We shall see: we shall see. Surely I,
who have already done so much when so little seemed possible, am not to
be scared through life by such two ruffians as Britton and Gray. They
must destroy each other! Yes; that is the true policy, and now to work
on the fears and cupidity of this Jacob Gray!”
He had scarcely whispered to himself these reflections, when the object
of them was announced.
“Bring him hither,” said Learmont, and in a few moments Jacob Gray was
introduced. The moment the servant had left the room, and closed the
door behind him, Gray seated himself with an air of insolent
familiarity, which, under any other circumstances, would have produced
a storm of passion in Learmont; but he felt the necessity of
temporising; and, severe as was the struggle to him, he nevertheless
succeeded in keeping down his passion sufficiently to address Gray
calmly.
“You reached London in safety, of course?”
“Even so,” replied Gray. “Permit me to congratulate you upon your
house. It really is—”
“Yes, yes,” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Let us to business, Master
Gray. You found the papers your extreme prudence had left in London,
when you favoured me with a visit, quite safe, I trust?”
“Perfectly safe, and untouched,“ said Gray; “and—and—permit me to add,
that I have placed them again under such circumstances as must ensure
their delivery to one who has power and will to use them, should
anything sudden—you understand—happen to your humble servant, Jacob
Gray.”
“May I ask whose hands you consider so peculiarly adapted for those
papers?”
“Oh, certainly; a neighbour of yours, Sir Francis Hartleton.”
“Sir Francis Hartleton?” exclaimed Learmont.
“Yes,” replied Gray; “one of the most acute lawyers and active justices
in London.”
“As you please,” said Learmont. “Now, with regard to the—the—child?”
“He is quite well, squire, and likely to continue so.”
“Humph! Is he tall?”
“Not over tall, but slim and active.”
“Enough of him at present. I wish to speak to you of another matter.
The sums demanded of me by Britton are large.”
“Doubtless, squire; ’tis an extravagant knave.”
“Now those sums, Gray, added to what you yourself receive, would make a
goodly income.”
“In faith you speak, truly, squire.”
“Now, Gray, I will deal frankly with you,” continued Learmont. “This
Britton is fond of wine, and in his cups some day he may hint or say
enough to—to hang you, Master Gray.”
“Eh?” cried Gray. “Hang me?”
“Even so.”
“Oh, I understand, along with your worship, of course.”
“I don’t know that, Jacob Gray,” remarked Learmont, calmly and firmly.
“I have a long purse, you see, which you have not.”
“There—is—something in that,” muttered Gray.
“A man of your acuteness must perceive that there is a great deal in
that,” continued Learmont.
“Yes, truly; but still there would be danger, most imminent danger,
squire.”
“That I grant you, but yours, Jacob Gray, would far exceed mine. Be
that, however, as it may, you must see how very desirable a
consummation it would be if this swilling drunken knave, Britton, were
some day to choke himself.”
“Or be choked by Jacob Gray?” added Gray, with a smile of dark meaning.
“Exactly,” said Learmont. “It may be done easily. Invite him to your
house; feast with him, plan and plot with him; give him wine; and then,
some day, when time and circumstances are fitting, I will give you a
drug of such potency, that, if ever so slightly used in his wine-cup,
will seize upon the springs of life, and at once, you will see, Master
Gray, you are rid of this dangerous man.”
“And rid you likewise of him,” interposed Gray.
“Of course; but I gain little—you everything—by his death—safety and
wealth!”
“It might be done,” murmured Gray, “if it could be done safely.”
“With your caution,” suggested Learmont, “with but a little of the
admirable cunning you have as yet displayed in this business, methinks
it might be possible, Master Gray, for you to overreach in some way so
dull-witted a villain as this Britton, who, you see, stands so much in
the way of your fortunes.”
“If,” muttered Gray, “it can be done at all by me, that poison draught
you mentioned is, to my mind, the most ready, and—and—”
“Safe,” added Learmont.
“Well, safe be it,” said Gray. “There is no occasion for a greater risk
than necessary.”
“None in the least,” sneered Learmont: “you will then do your best,
Master Gray, to rid yourself of this sot, this incubus upon you, this
villain, whom I hate as—as—”
“As you hate me!” said Gray, twinkling his small eyes, and peering in
the face of Learmont.
“No,” said Learmont; “you are not so dangerous because you are more
cautious; but, Jacob Gray, is it not possible that, should you succeed
in ridding yourself of this Britton, you may think it worth your while
to name some price for the only thing I dread?”
“The child?”
“Yes: think of my words.”
“I will think,” said Gray; “but now I must be gone.”
Learmont placed in his hands a purse of gold, and with a shifting,
low-cunning glance of his little grey eyes, the wily villain left the
place muttering—
“Humph!—He wants to kill my goose, to get all the golden eggs at once.
Indeed!—we shall see!”
CHAPTER XV.
Chase.—A Long Race, And its Results.
When Gray left the splendid mansion of Learmont, he stood for a few
moments in the street, turning round him cautiously to see if he was
watched, for his suspicions had been awakened by Learmont, once during
this interview, ringing for an attendant, and giving some order outside
the door in a very low whisper.
Now Jacob was extremely cunning. He refined upon ordinary duplicity,
and now, as he stood in the street casting cautious glances up and down
its silent extent, he muttered to himself,—
“Humph! My way is westward. Now, your ordinary clever fellow would go
westward, for fear of being watched; but I—I, Jacob Gray, have got
beyond such cunning. Learmont knows well I am a careful man. Should he
have set a spy upon me, it will be with the certainty that I will not
go directly to my home; and to defeat that I will go—not directly home,
but in the direction of home. Ho! Ho! Squire Learmont, you are not yet
a match for Jacob Gray!”
Continuing muttering to himself, and peeping into every doorway that he
passed, Gray then betook himself to the river side, and, ordering a
boat, he desired the waterman to take him across the stream.
Well did Jacob Gray’s cunning teach him that the difficulty of
following a person crossing the river was immeasurably greater than on
shore, for, if followed by a boat, concealment of the person pursuing
would be nearly out of the question, and to make a palpable detour for
the sake of crossing a bridge would most probably ensure the complete
escape of the watched party. Jacob Gray did not know that he was
watched, but he knew that, had he been Learmont, and Learmont, Gray, he
would then have been watched with the keenest of eyes that could be
procured for that duty.
When the boatman neared the centre of the stream, Jacob Gray desired
him to pause upon his oars for a few moments, ostensibly that he, Gray,
might admire the bright sunshine on the frosted spires of the various
churches, but really to see if any other boat was about leaving the
point from which he had started. Nor was he disappointed; for scarcely
had the wherry floated idly in the stream for a few brief seconds, when
Jacob observed a boat push off, in which were two rowers, and a third
muffled in a cloak, and seated very low in the stern of it.
The waterman was now upon the point of urging his boat forward again,
when Gray said quietly:—
“Hold still a moment, my friend. Your time shall be paid for. Surely
yon boat is making speed through the water.”
The waterman looked in the direction of the wherry with the two rowers,
and exclaimed:—
“Some one is in haste. Yet, no,—they are pulling but lazily suddenly.”
Gray’s small eyes twinkled as he replied:—
“I have altered my mind; row easily up the stream.”
The boat’s head was turned in the required direction, and the waterman,
with regular and long sweeps of his oars, propelled the wherry towards
Westminster Bridge, and presently glided beneath one of its gloomy
arches. For a few moments the rowers in the boat in which Jacob Gray
suspected was some one upon his track, appeared quite undecided what to
do; then, in obedience to some order apparently from the cloaked
figure, they gently followed in the wake of Gray’s wherry.
“So,” muttered Gray to himself between his clenched teeth; “I am
followed;—and with what intent?—my safe destruction, of course.
Waterman,” he said, in a louder tone, “we are going with the tide?”
“Scarcely,” replied the man; “it is just on the turn.”
“When it is fairly running down,” said Gray, “I will go back. Keep on,
however, as you are for a short time.”
The waterman now shading his eyes with one hand from the sun, while the
oar idly played in the rollocks, said:—
“It seems to me, master, that yon skiff is following us for some
reason.”
“Indeed!” says Gray. “What have you been doing, that you should be
followed on the Thames?”
“I doing!” cried the man.
“Ay.—You suspect you are followed.”
“Mayhap it’s yourself, master, they follow,” remarked the man, rather
surlily.
Gray smiled as he replied:—
“Oh, no;—they suspect you of being one of the notorious pirates of the
Thames we have heard so much of lately.”
“The tide has turned,” said the waterman, looking into the stream as it
appeared, in preference to making any reply to this vague charge.
“Hark ye!” said Gray, as if a sudden thought had struck up in his
brain. “If you are inclined sometimes to earn more money at once than a
year’s plying as waterman on the river could produce you, it is
possible I may throw a job in your way.”
The man glanced uneasily at Gray, as he replied in a low tone,—
“Your lordship might trust me—if—”
“If what, my friend?”
“If I might trust your worship.”
“You may, or rather the trusting is all on my side. All I want of you
is this; when I shall some day give you notice that I shall want a
wherry at a particular hour and at the stairs I shall name, will you be
there?”
“Certainly,” replied the man. “But that is not quite all?”
“You are right,” said Gray. “I shall bring one with me; we will take
with us wherewithal to make us merry. I am abstemious, but my friend is
not, and I have often told him that some of these days, when drinking
in a wherry he will become so confused, that he will accidentally fall
into the Thames, do you understand?”
“I—think—I—do.”
“I am sure you do,” added Gray.
The man nodded.
“Your reward shall be ample,” continued his tempter.
“I don’t see why I should turn away a job,” said the man; “if I wasn’t
to take it, some one else would, of course.”
“A very true remark,” cried Jacob Gray. “You consent then to do this
little service?”
“I do, master.”
“Give me your name and address then.”
“Sheldon is my name, and I am always at the stairs at which you hired
me, unless away as might be now, when I return again as, soon as
possible.”
“That will do,” said Gray. “Now turn your boat’s head and go back with
the stream.”
The wherry, with the two rowers, had kept at a considerable distance in
the rear; and now that Gray’s boat was suddenly turned and rapidly
going down the stream, there seemed some little confusion on board the
other wherry; but before the two boats could meet or pass each other,
the pursuers had shot off on one side, as if with the intention of
landing near Westminster.
“Follow them,” cried Gray; “and wherever they land, do you land me.”
The waterman was a powerful man, and he bent to the oars with such
effect, that the wherry shot through the water with amazing speed.
It was curious to see the pursued become the pursuers, for such seemed
to be the state of things, as no sooner did it become evident that
Jacob Gray’s waterman was making fast for the boat with the two rowers,
than in obedience to a violent gesture from the person in the cloak
they pulled rigorously towards the shore.
“I must see that man in the cloak,” said Gray, “if it be possible.”
The waterman said nothing, but with his long sinewy arms, he took
tremendous sweeps with the oars, and sent the boat forward at each pull
with a force that astonished Gray.
The two wherries were not now above a quarter of the width of the river
apart from each other, when the foremost one ran upon the muddy beach,
and the man, in the cloak springing up, made an effort to jump on
shore, in which he fell over the seats of the boat. In the next moment
the other wherry was within two boats’ lengths of the shore.
With an oath, the cloaked-man scrambled to his feet, and without
turning, rushed on shore, and was soon lost to sight among the mean
habitations that crowded the banks of the river.
“It is the smith!” muttered Gray. “I see it all now, he has a
commission for my destruction, as I have for his, and in either case,
Squire Learmont betters his condition. Waterman, row me across now, as
I originally asked you.”
Again the wherry shot into the stream, and with his eyes fixed upon the
water, Jacob Gray appeared absorbed in deep thought.
The boat’s head grated against some stone steps that were on the
opposite landing, and Gray sprung to his feet, and stepped on shore.
Handing the waterman then a liberal gratuity, and whispering in his ear
the word “remember,” he walked at a rapid pace in the direction of the
ancient suburb of Lambeth.
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.
CHAPTER XVII.
“The Chequers,” at Westminster.—Britton’s Notions of Greatness.—“When
the Wine is In, the Wit is Out.”
Jacob Gray was quite right when he averred that the smith was on his
track like a blood-hound. Britton had entered heartily into the scheme
of destroying Gray. It was not that he particularly wished to
appropriate to himself Gray’s portion of what was wrung from the fears
of Learmont, nor did he particularly see or care for the destruction of
Gray as a matter of policy; but he hated him personally. His assumption
of superior address was especially annoying to Britton. He felt that
Gray was more than a match for him in cunning, and moreover, he
despised him for the cowardice of his character, and over his cups
thought it would be a rare thing to outwit Jacob Gray, which,
translated, meant kill him with safety—not personal safety in the act
of killing, but safety from the consequences of Gray’s extreme
precautionary measures for his own preservation.
The smith familiarised himself thus with the thought of overcoming the
wily Jacob, and his ferocious fancy indulged itself in glutting over
some violent and bloody death for the man who had presumed to assume
greater address than he. By some curious train of thought, too, the
smith always considered himself as personally injured by Gray, because
the latter, when he visited him at the smithy, had so fenced himself
round with precautions, that he, Britton could not but see the extreme
impolicy of knocking him on the head with his forge hammer, which he
had fully resolved to do whenever he had an opportunity.
“Curse him!” Britton would growl over his cups, “I will have his life
yet. Despite his cunning I will have his life!”
Britten’s scheme of operations was more in accordance with his violent
nature than any which Learmont could suggest to him. It was to dog Gray
to his house, and then finding some means of admittance, either wring
from his fears the secret of where he kept the written confession he
talked so much of, and then kill him; or should that plan not succeed,
take his life first, and trust to his powers of search to find the
dangerous document somewhere in his abode.
With this project in view, Britton had kept an eye on the house of
Learmont, and followed Gray upon the river, as we have seen.
Great was the rage of the smith at the utter failure of this, his first
attempt to ferret out the hiding-place of Master Gray, which he began
to think was by no means so easy a job as he had supposed. In fact,
should Gray pursue the plan he had commenced so successfully, of
turning upon his pursuer, the scheme would be fraught with the greatest
difficulties. Moreover the smith could not conceal from himself that by
his unsuccessful attempt he had put Gray upon his guard, which was the
very last thing he should have risked. All these reflections put the
smith in no very pleasant mood, when he repaired from the water-side to
“The Chequers” and it was not until he had quaffed at two draughts a
huge tankard of humming ale that he felt his equanimity at all restored.
He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much,
and calling for another tankard, he shouted—
“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”
The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after
which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a
fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,—
“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful
Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”
“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the
empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.
“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe
I was in deep thought.”
“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will
you?”
Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the
smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.
“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me;
you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”
“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling
off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.
“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish
wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith,
“I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”
“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be
likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”
“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into
the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.”
The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome
at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his
practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding
some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to
keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for
the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold
which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery,
and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a
hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended
to it.
The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to
the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the
oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild
fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton!
What does your worship want?”
“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”
The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,—
“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”
“That’s true,” said Britton.
“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a
king.”
“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.
This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only
muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.
“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the
company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had
talked of a general treat.
“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room
with a half-intoxicated stare.
“So he is,” cried several voices.
“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.
“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his
mouth.
“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy
man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.
After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to
suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to
begin the evening with.
This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his
hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and
remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master
Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.
“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll
have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”
The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a
toast,—
“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”
The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the
punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—
“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a
very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all
round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”
The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of
reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to
get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the
affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.
“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”
The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no
one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—
“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a
song.”
“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”
The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the
canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and
chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—
“Care mantles not in brimming cups,
It cannot enter there;
Within the bowl there’s nought but joy,
Without, but grim despair.
“Hurrah, boys!
“Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why?
Because its blushing hue
Forbids the fiend to enter there,
Lest he be lost to view.
“Hurrah, boys!
“Drink—drink, and let the gushing stream
Of life boil through our veins,
While sober fools seek chill content,
And find care for their pains.
“Hurrah, boys!
“They lie who say that rosy wine
Can ever breed a pain,
For when the joy of one day’s o’er,
We drink and live again.
“Hurrah, boys!
“They tell us that when once the fire
Of wine has gone away,
Our hearts will beat in dull despair,
Nor be so calm as they.
“Hurrah, boys!
“But we a cure for such an ill
Can find in every glass;
And, boys, we know that life is short,
Catch pleasure ere it pass.
“Hurrah, boys!”
“Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.”
“Very good, indeed,” cried everybody.
“Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys!
Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!”
After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a
state of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.
Alone, and still, as a sculptured image, sat the Squire Learmont, in
one of his stately halls. He was surrounded by magnificence, but he was
alone. The closely-fitting easements admitted, but in subdued murmurs,
the various voices of the city, but there was no one, save himself, to
enjoy the luxury of the calm that reigned in that gilt and gaudy
saloon. The choicest hangings depended from the walls, half concealing,
yet rendering more effective, the glowing paintings that were hung in
the most favourable lights; but Learmont was alone. A chandelier,
shaded by coloured glasses, shed a sweet and chastened light upon every
article in that costly room, but who was there to admire, to gaze in
rapture upon the splendour of that magical scene? Learmont was alone,
and the deep sense of his utter loneliness, crept across him with a
chilling influence that seemed to penetrate even to the very marrow in
his bones.
How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to
extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them
all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap
themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no
delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process,
concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has
been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have
awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the
reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this
immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in
his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have
felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he
could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that
ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been
welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he
enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over
the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate
cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare
excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his
heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! He was alone! The first proud
flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all
this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness
and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.
In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would
not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he
was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and
stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one
deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst
of all that glitter and display.
Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse
himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.
“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood
for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of
magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what
I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in
superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what
I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I
love you—my house—my retinue—my jewels—all are what men struggle for,
even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has
proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of
happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my
heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is,
perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons
with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own
face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I
will be seldom alone! ’Tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred
and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit
here—because I was alone.”
His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him,
and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon,
and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful
tone.
Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,
“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people
this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary
men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I
will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my
words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”
Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was
evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.
“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will
make some smaller room suffice me.”
He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help
averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a
human being in his magnificent solitude.
“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I
will sit there.”
The servant bowed and retired.
“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a
chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is
more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to
himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he
was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful
terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.
In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller
room as ready for his master’s reception.
Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire
into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was
furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly
nature of its hangings and various appointments.
Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to
Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can
challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one
deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the
wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest
conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as
the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.
It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of
the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that
his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm,
conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid
the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the
wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the
human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the
wicked.
Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed
thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more
were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of
illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour
sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and
magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed
into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that
tortured him.
Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily
fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked
onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves
at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick
step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing
his fevered brain.
“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be
alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram
my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by
all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the
presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy
palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the
intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I
will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I
will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement,
succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only
occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that
it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new
pleasure!—I will never be alone!”
He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the
words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across
his mind, and he whispered:—
“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! They, indeed, are
thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either
could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of
getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the
curses—pshaw! What hurts it that I curse him?—I must have his blood!
’Tis he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and
teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the
villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation?
Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid
himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his
fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the
road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when
once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded
wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the
master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven!
And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a
subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By
hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their
very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared
by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—they shall die!”
How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to
extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from
them, all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap
themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no
delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process,
concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has
been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have
awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the
reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this
immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in
his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have
felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he
could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that
ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been
welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he
enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over
the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate
cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare
excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his
heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! he was alone! the first proud
flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all
this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness
and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.
In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would
not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he
was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and
stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one
deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst
of all that glitter and display.
Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse
himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.
“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood
for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of
magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what
I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in
superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what
I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I
love you—my house—my retinue.—my jewels—all are what men struggle for,
even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has
proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of
happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my
heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is,
perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons
with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own
face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I
will be seldom alone! ’tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred
and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit
here—because I was alone.”
His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him,
and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon,
and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful
tone.
Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,
“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people
this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary
men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I
will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my
words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”
Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was
evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.
“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will
make some smaller room suffice me.”
He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help
averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a
human being in his magnificent solitude.
“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I
will sit there.”
The servant bowed and retired.
“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a
chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is
more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to
himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he
was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful
terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.
In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller
room as ready for his master’s reception.
Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire
into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was
furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly
nature of its hangings and various appointments.
Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to
Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can
challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one
deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the
wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest
conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as
the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.
It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of
the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that
his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm,
conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid
the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the
wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the
human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the
wicked.
Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed
thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more
were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of
illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour
sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and
magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed
into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that
tortured him.
Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily
fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked
onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves
at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick
step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing
his fevered brain.
“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be
alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram
my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by
all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the
presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy
palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the
intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I
will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I
will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement,
succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only
occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that
it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new
pleasure!—I will never be alone!”
He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the
words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across
his mind, and he whispered:—
“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! they, indeed, are
thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either
could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of
getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the
curses—pshaw! what hoots it that I curse him?—I must have his blood!
’Tis’ he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and
teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the
villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation?
Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid
himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his
fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the
road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when
once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded
wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the
master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven!
And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a
subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By
hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their
very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared
by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—They shall die!”
CHAPTER XIX.
Learmont’s Adventure.—A Discovery.—The Haunted House.—Exultation, and a
Resolution.
In the wild excitement of his passions, Learmont had walked onwards,
heedless of whither he was going, and now that he had in some measure
found the relief he sought for in fatigue, he glared anxiously round to
find if possible what part of the town he had strayed to in his deep
abstraction.
The night was very dark, not a star peeped forth from heaven to light
with its small twinkling lustre the massive black arch of the
firmament. No moon shed its silvery radiance on the gigantic city;—a
darkness, so intense that sky, houses, trees,—all seemed merged into
one chaotic mass.
“Where should I be?” muttered Learmont; “I must have walked far, for I
am weary. Ha! Is that the hour?”
The clock of St. Paul’s struck three as he spoke, and from the
direction of the sound, Learmont guessed that he was somewhere
southward of that edifice.
“Some chance passenger,” he muttered, “will direct me to Westminster;
yet I hear no footfall in these silent streets. How still and solemn
now is the great city; one might imagine it a vast cemetery, in which
the dead alone dwelt.”
He paced slowly down a long straggling street, and his own footsteps
were the only sounds that disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned
around.
Learmont walked on slowly, for he knew not but he might be in some
dangerous quarter of the city, and his suspicions that the locality in
which he was did not possess any great claims to fashion or
respectability were much increased by a door suddenly opening in a
house some dozen yards in advance of him, and a man being flung from it
with considerable force into the centre of the street, while a loud
voice, exclaimed:—
“Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to
one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round
dozen of you, we might think of it.”
“It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out
so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and
the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within.
“That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he
slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy
gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and
the street even is turning round—and round in a most
ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home
prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary
manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray.
It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But
no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured
character.”
The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of
intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately.
“I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought
Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man.
When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,—
“My friend, can you tell me where I am?”
“Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just
been turned out of the Mitre.”
“Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of
the town we are in?”
“The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my
opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody
else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that
ain’t it.”
“What do you mean?” said Learmont.
“I’ll do it—I’ll do it, I tell you.”
“Do what?”
“Do what? Come, that’s good of you. You know what. All I mean to say
is, that if somebody else is to do it, why I am sure nobody—no, that
isn’t it either. How very ex—ex—extraordinary!”
“Idiot!” exclaimed Learmont, striding away; but the man called after
him, and his voice echoed through the deserted street, as he said,—
“Don’t be—be—offended. I’ll do it, I tell you. No, no—nonsense, now, I
know you—mind I—know you: it’s only a mur—murder! Ah! ah!”
Learmont paused in astonishment, not altogether unmingled with dismay,
at these words and he was by the man’s side again in a moment.
“You know me?“ he said.
“Yes, yes, I believe you,” replied, the man. “I’ll do it.”
“What can this mean?” thought Learmont; then he said, aloud,—
“Who am I—you say you know me?”
“You—you didn’t think it,” said the man, with much drunken cunning;
“but I watched you home.”
“You watched me home?”
“Yes,—to be sure. Don’t be frightened; I—I saw you go in. Oh! oh!”
“Indeed!” said Learmont, who was determined to humour his singular
companion.
“Yes, I believe you, I—I thought you’d be surprised; and so you are:
it’s ex—extraordinary, ain’t it?”
“Oh! Very.”
“Well, I’ll do it—you recollect my name?”
“Perfectly.”
“Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.”
“Sheldon is your name.”
“Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink
like me.”
“You are a waterman, then?”
“You—know I am.”
“Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont.
“Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary
how clever I—am.”
“Quite remarkable.”
“Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—”
“The boy?”
“Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched
you—you—see.”
“The boy?” repeated Learmont.
“Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you
see.”
“Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—”
“And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said so.”
“No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!”
“My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am
mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.”
“The—the—then—you thought wrong.”
“Exactly.”
“You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.”
“Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?”
“Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just
tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated
you.”
“Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.”
“I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from
window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw
him.”
“The boy?”
“Yes—to—to be sure.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“I—I believe you—”
“Well—well.”
“Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he,—what do you think now?”
“Really, I cannot tell.”
“Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out
your name, you see.”
“My name, Master Sheldon?”
“Yes, your name.”
“No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.”
“N—n—not know it?”
“Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?”
“Gray, to be sure.”
“Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again;
and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm.
“Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already
recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder
of Britton.
“You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was
Gray?”
The man looked in the countenance of Learmont, as well as the darkness
would permit him, and answered, not without evident trepidation,—
“Gray—yes—Gray—it—it was. I shouldn’t have known it—but, you see, the
boy stopped at the window to cry—”
“To cry?—well—and then?”
“Then, he said, ‘Can this man, Gray, really be of my kindred? Do we
think alike?’ says he, ‘do we’—now, hang me, if I recollect what he
said.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” suddenly laughed Learmont. “You are brave and acute. Ha,
ha! You have found me out, I see. I am Gray. Ha, ha!”
“I—I—beg—your pardon, Mister Gray,” hiccupped the man, “but was that
y—y—you that laughed in that odd way? Eh?”
“I laughed,” said Learmont.
“Then—d—don’t do it again. It’s the most uncom—com—comfortable sort o’
laugh I ever heard; an ex—ex—extraordinary laugh.”
“Good master a—a—”
“Sheldon,” said the man.
“Ay, Sheldon,” resumed Learmont. “I will have no secrets from you. You
shall come home with me. You know the way?”
“Of—of—course I do.”
“Then, come on,” cried Learmont, with difficulty concealing his
exultations at the chance that had thus thrown in his way a guide to
Gray’s house.
“Ay, you—you’re right,” said the waterman. “Come on—come on. We’ll have
a cup together?”
“Ha, ha!” cried Learmont, “we will.”
“Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking
off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to
speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those
laughs—to yourself?”
“You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming
cups.”
“Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows.
Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,
When its sparkling bubbles rise,
Call it divine—divine,
For God’s a dainty prize.
“Hurrah!”
“By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an
Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”
“D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master
G—Gray.”
“Not for worlds,” muttered Learmont.
“Eh?” cried Sheldon, “was that you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mean? Why—I—I—heard an uncommon odd voice say, ‘N—n—not for worlds.’”
“’Twas some echo, my good friend. Is this the turning?”
“Oh! Ah!” laughed the waterman. “Now that is good. Is—is—is this the
turning—and—you going—have—Ho! Ho! You know it’s the turning—perhaps
you want to in—in—sinuate that I’m drunk?”
“Certainly not,” replied Learmont. “I was only surprised at your
amazing knowledge of the road. I only meant to try you, good Master
Sheldon.”
“Try me? Try me? I—I know every inch of the road—I—follow me, and I’ll
take you to your own door.”
“Is it possible?”
“Come on and see. Follow, I—say—follow.”
“I will,” cried Learmont, his dark eyes flashing with unholy fire, as
he thought how gigantic a step towards the accomplishment of Gray’s
destruction would be the knowledge, unknown to him, of his secret abode.
Cautiously he followed the devious track of the drunken man, who, with
mock gravity, marched onwards to show the way. “Now, Jacob Gray,” he
thought, “you are in my grasp; you shall die—die—some death of horror
which in its bitter pangs will give you some taste of the
heart-sickness you have given me.”
CHAPTER XX.
The Guide.—The Old House.—The Murder.
Sheldon continued singing snatches of rude songs, and staggering
onwards, while Learmont followed closely upon his heels, and
judiciously kept up a conversation with him that prevented him from
giving any further thought on the object of his present undertaking.
It was strictly true what Sheldon had stated. After landing Jacob Gray,
he had left his boat in charge of one of the idlers who are always
plying on the banks of the river, and cautiously dogged his customer
home. This was a circumstance which it had never for one moment entered
into even Gray’s over-suspicious imagination to conceive. He had, as he
felt well assured, scared Britton from pursuing him for that time at
least; and he fancied himself, therefore, quite free. Hence was it that
the waterman, who wished to know something more of the man who had made
to him a proposal amounting to murder, succeeded in so successfully
following Jacob Gray.
At that period the Thames was infested with the worst of characters,
and scarcely any proposition, let it involve what measure of guilt it
might, could be made in vain to many of the desperadoes who were
ostensibly watermen, but really, robbers and cut-throats of the vilest
description. That Sheldon was a man not tortured with many virtuous
scruples, the reader will readily conceive; but he did shrink from the
cold-blooded murder so calmly proposed to him by Gray, and he felt well
inclined to sell that gentleman to justice, only he was very anxious to
have a good price for his virtue, for Master Sheldon was fond of sack,
doted on canary, and idolised all manner of strong drinks; so that a
good reward in gold pieces for not doing a decidedly disagreeable job,
presented itself to his mind in lovely and agreeable colours. So elated
had he been with the bare supposition of such an event, that instead of
going back to the stairs at which he had left his wherry, he had
repaired to the “Mitre,” and tasted so many different enticing and
delicious compounds, that, as the reader is aware, the calculating and
considerate landlord was compelled to turn him out at three o’clock in
the morning, because, being only one drunkard, he was not worth
attending to any longer.
With eager steps Learmont followed his guide till they came to the
range of miserable habitations, in one of which Jacob Gray had
concealed himself and his precious charge.
“Ah,” said Learmont, “I begin to think you do indeed know the way.”
“Know the way!” cried Sheldon—“I could find it blindfold. Come on,
I—I’ll take you to your own door.”
“What astonishing acuteness!” remarked Learmont.
“Yes,“ said Sheldon, wonderfully flattered, “I—I believe you there,
Master Gray. You are no fool yourself, because you—you see you’ve found
out how ex—ex—extraordinary clever I am—you see.”
“Exactly,” cried Learmont. “This is a lonely district.”
“Here you are—Ah! Ah!” laughed Sheldon. “I—I know it—this is the house.
Bless you, I know it by the painted windows.”
Learmont walked to the middle of the roadway, and by the dim morning
light, which was just beginning to shed a faint colour across the dusky
sky, he gazed earnestly at the ancient building, in which he had no
doubt were the objects of his hatred and dread.
“Well,” said Sheldon, “ain’t—ain’t you going to ask a fellow in, just
to take a drop o’ something?”
Learmont heard him not, or if he did, he heeded him not, but stood
intently gazing at the house, and treasuring up in his memory every
little peculiarity he could by the faint light detect, in order that he
might again recognise it without doubt or difficulty.
“Hilloa!” cried Sheldon. “What are you staring at—d—d—did you never see
your own house before?”
Learmont started, and advancing to Sheldon, he laid his hand upon his
shoulder, saying,—
“My good friend, in that house I have not one drop of liquor, good or
bad, to offer you.”
“The d—d—devil you haven’t,” said the waterman.
“Not a drain; but if you will walk with me till we come to some really
good hostel, I will make you the partaker of the value of a couple of
gold pieces melted down into humming ale, spiced canary, sack, or
choice Rhenish—ay? What you will you shall have, if you will how take
my arm, and let me be your guide.”
“You—you are the prince of good fellows,” cried Sheldon, “d—d—damme you
are—humming ale, did you say?”
“Certainly, such as will be music in your ears.”
“And—and spiced canary?”
“Even, so; deep draughts that will shut the world from your eyes and
your thoughts.”
“Sack—s—sack, and Rhenish too?”
“All—all. You shall steep your senses in delight; drown your soul in a
delirium of pleasure. Come on—come on, good Master Sheldon—do you not
see the morning is breaking?”
“D—d—d—n it, let it break. I mean to say that you are my best friend.
Bless you—I ain’t a-going to cry—no—no.”
“Come—come, say no more—say no more.”
Learmont took the arm of the waterman, who was rapidly becoming
sentimental again, and, passing it through his own, he led him away
from Gray’s house at a quick pace.
The morning light was now each moment increasing, and Learmont did not
fail to note every particular building he passed, in order that, when
he came again, he should need no guide.
Suddenly, as they turned the corner of a street, they came in sight of
the square tower of the Bishop’s Palace, at Lambeth, and as Learmont
knew that well, he felt quite assured that he could from that, as a
land-mark, walk with certainty to the house of Jacob Gray.
He now threw his whole thoughts into a consideration of what was to be
done with his intoxicated companion. That he had been in some sort of
communication with Jacob Gray he could not doubt, and moreover, he
shrewdly suspected that the destruction of Britten was the object
hinted at by Sheldon—that, however, was a far inferior object in
Learmont’s mind to the destruction of Gray himself, and the possession
of the boy he held in his power. Therefore was it that Learmont fell
into a train of anxious and horrid thoughts as to whether Sheldon after
he had left him might not, by his relation of having brought some one
to his secret abode, alarm the cautious Jacob Gray into an immediate
removal, and so baffle him, Learmont, again.
If there be any crime more awful than another, it is a cool and
deliberate murder founded upon calculation; but Learmont was just the
man to commit such an act, and while the thoughtless Sheldon was
hanging upon his arm and murmuring disjointed snatches of songs in
praise of good fellowship and glorious wine, Learmont half resolved
upon his death.
“This drunken idiot can be of no use to me,” he reasoned with himself,
“because I could never depend upon him; but he may, if I let him
escape, warn Gray, and I lose the rare chance that kind Fortune has
thrown so strangely in my way. He must die.”
They now passed the ancient entrance to the Bishop’s Palace; and
entered upon the well-known walk along the banks of the Thames, which
was then much more shadowed by lofty trees than it is at present; and
although those trees, in consequence of the season of the year, were
now leafless, yet their gigantic trunks cast broad and obscuring
shadows between them and the wall of the Bishop’s garden.
A cold piercing air blew from the Thames, and Sheldon shuddered as he
remarked,—
“I say—my—my good fellow, the—sooner we get to some place where we can
have this same ale, and—and sack—and Rhenish—the better—on my faith
it’s c—c—cold.”
“Come this way, close to the palace wall,” said Learmont, “and the old
trees will save us from the cool air that blows across the river.”
So saying, he led his doomed companion close to the ancient wall, then
he paused and listened attentively, in case any one should be within
hearing; all was as still as the grave—not the most distant sound
indicative of human life, met his ears.
“He must die!” muttered Learmont.
“You may say it’s cold,” remarked Sheldon; “w—w—what are you waiting
for—
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Who would not drink
When, the cup is brimming over,
Be it Rhenish—be it—sack—
Or burning old—Oc—Oc—October!
“that’s a—b—b—brave song—a ex—extraordinary brave song—a—w—w—wonderful
song.”
Learmont laid his hand on his sword as he said—
“There is more light now, Master Sheldon. Look at me.”
As he spoke he raised his cap, which previously had been drawn close
over his eyes, and raised himself to his full gaunt height.
The waterman fixed his wondering eyes upon him, and muttered:—
“I—I—think—you—you ain’t Master Gray.”
“Do you know me?” cried Learmont, fiercely.
The man trembled and seemed all at once half-sobered by terror as he
stammered—
“I—I—have seen—”
“Seen what?—who?”
“Your worship at Westminster.”
“Ah! My name—know you that?”
“They called you Squire Learmont.”
Learmont suddenly turned his back upon Sheldon, and casting an anxious
glance around him to satisfy himself that they were still alone, he
suddenly drew his sword and faced the trembling man.
“Mercy! mercy!” cried Sheldon, dropping on his knees.
“Idiot!” cried Learmont, “you are in my way. Curses on your worthless
life!”
“Oh, God, mercy!” cried the man.
Learmont shortened his arm, and plunged his sword through the body of
the defenceless man.
With a wild shriek that rung through the Bishop’s walk, Sheldon sprang
from his knees; he grasped wildly at the air, and spun round and round
in his frantic efforts to stand.
“Help! Help! Murder!” he shrieked.
“Damnation!” cried Learmont, and again he passed his reeking sword
through the heaving chest of Sheldon.
Again the wounded man tried to speak, but a low gurgling sound in his
throat was all he could produce, and he fell with a deep groan at the
feet of the murderer.
CHAPTER XXI.
A Sunny Morning.—The Chamber in the Old House.
The morning gathered each moment strength and beauty, for it was
beautiful, although the trees were stripped of their summer verdure,
and the earth no longer sent forth sweet flowers to—
Load with perfumes
The soft dreaming idle air
That steeped in sunshines.
Music, and all dear delight,
Hung, tranquilly ’twixt heaven and earth.
The sun, however, was bright, and the air, although the soft voluptuous
warmth of summer, was full of health and life. The little waves on the
river sparkled like silver broken into fragments and strewed upon the
surface of the stream. For miles the clear cloudless sky reflected
nothing but pure sunshine, beautiful although cold; it shone upon the
palaces, the churches, and the bridges, and upon the meanest hovels
pregnant with squalid poverty; it shone upon all alike. It found its
way in floods of beauty, softened by rich colouring of glass and
drapery, into the chambers of the rich and great, and it struggled
through the dingy panes of the cottage windows, making, perchance, more
happiness there than in the lordly mansion, which more frequently is
the habitation of an aching heart.
There was one small room into which that clear morning sun shone in all
its dearly-welcomed beauty, and there was one heart that was cheered by
its presence, and smiled gladly in its radiant light; that room into
which it shone was the sleeping chamber of the young boy, Harry, and
that heart that welcomed its rays was his—a heart that ever beat in
unison with all that was good—all that was beautiful.
The apartment was a small one adjoining a spacious room that was on the
second floor of the house, and communicating with it by folding doors.
It contained little else than a small couch and a few necessary
articles of the toilette. A large mat lay at the door, on which reposed
the dog, which was poor Harry’s only companion—his only friend.
The boy was up and leaning upon the window-sill, gazing earnestly
through a small chink that was left in the beading (for the window was
blocked up from without) which enabled him to see, and without danger
of being observed by any one in the street, and likewise was quite of
sufficient width to allow the morning sun to stream into the little
room.
With a deep sigh he turned from the window, and the dog at the same
moment rose, and with grateful gestures approached its kind master.
“The sun is shining, my poor Joy,” said Harry, mournfully; “but you and
I may not gambol in its beams. The world without this gloomy house
seems bright and beautiful, but we are prisoners, ’tis very, very
strange; Gray tells me he is my uncle, and that there is a fearful
secret connected with the family that forces him to shut himself and me
up in this mysterious manner. Uncle Gray, I doubt you. Such a tale
might suit the ears of a child, but—I—I am one no longer. Can this man
be my uncle? His behaviour is so strange to me, alternately harsh and
kind, affectionate and cruel. Alas! I know not what to think. Oh, how
my heart yearns for the bright sunshine, the open sky, and the green
fields! How long am I to be thus immured? Heaven only knows. I—will—I
must seek some other explanation. I know he fears me, I have seen him
shrink before my eyes. I have marked him tremble and turn pale at a
chance word I uttered, and yet I had no clue to such feelings, because
I knew not which word it was that moved him so; and this disguise, too,
which he persuades, begs, implores of me to wear, as he says, for my
life’s sake; ’tis very strange. These are not the garments of a young
maiden as I am. What have I done that I should, thus forswear sex,
liberty, sunshine, joy, all that makes life rich, and beautiful to the
young? Alas! Alas! What have I done to be a dreary prisoner? In all my
weary years, short, but oh, how long to me! But one face beamed with
kindness on me, that face was Albert Seyton’s; but one voice spoke to
me in accents of love and pity—that voice was Albert Seyton’s; but one
heart seemed ever to really feel for me a pang of sorrow, and—and—that
heart was Albert Seyton’s.”
The young girl, for such she was, sunk into a chair and wept bitterly.
Then suddenly dashing aside the tears that obscured her beautiful eyes,
she said,—
“No—no, I will not weep. No, Uncle Gray, if such you be, you shall not
wring another tear from me. You have made me a lonely being; you have
been harsh, unkindly—nay, you have struck me; but you shall not see me
weep, no—no, I will not let you see a tear. You have torn me from the
young heart that in my solitude found me and loved me as an orphan boy,
supposing me such. Oh, Uncle—Uncle, you are cruel! Another day shall
not pass without an explanation with you, Uncle Gray. I—I—will have
reasons—ample reasons—full explanations from thee. And he wanted to
kill my poor dog, too, because it loved me—because I had found some
living thing that looked fondly in my face. Oh, Uncle! Uncle! you have
raised a spirit in my breast—a spirit of resistance and opposition,
that in happier circumstances would have slumbered for ever.”
For a few minutes the young girl stood in deep thought, then, with a
remarkable alteration of tone and manner, she said, suddenly,—
“Come, Joy, come; we will go to Uncle Gray, our breakfast should be
waiting.”
She opened the door which led into the larger room, and crossing that,
closely followed by the dog, passed out of it by another door that
opened upon the staircase. Slowly then, she descended the creaking,
time-worn steps and pushing open a small door at their feet, entered
the room which has already been described to the reader, and in which
we last left Jacob Gray.
Gray was in the room, and he cast a suspicious glance at the young
creature who entered the room, as if he would read from her countenance
in what mood she was in that morning.
“Oh,” he said, “you have risen early, Harry, and—and Joy, too, is with
you—poor dog!”
Joy’s only answer to this hypocritical pity was a low growl, and
getting under a chair, he exhibited a formidable mouthful of teeth as a
warning to Jacob Gray not to attempt any familiarity.
“Do not call me Harry,” cried the girl, “you know it is not a fitting
name for me, Uncle.”
Gray’s face assumed a paler shade, as he replied in a low tone,—
“Wherefore this sudden passion—eh?”
“Uncle Gray, I have been thinking—”
“Thinking of what, child?”
“Call me child no more,” replied the girl, pushing the dark ringlets
from her brow, and gazing steadily at Gray. “Call me child no more,
Uncle Gray, and to prove to you that I am something more, I tell you
now that the poor tale that frightened the child will not now do for
me.”
“W—w—what do you mean?” gasped Gray, his lips trembling with ghastly
fear.
“I mean,” continued the other, “that the time has come when I must know
all. Who am I—my name—my lineage—my friends—kindred—where, and who are
they? Why am I here an innocent victim to the crimes, perchance of
others? The reasons of this solitary confinement, its duration, the
circumstances that would rescue me from it—this—all this I want to know
fully—amply, and I must know it, Uncle Gray.”
To describe the wild stare of astonishment and dismay that sat upon the
face of Jacob, as the fragile and beautiful creature before him poured
forth with earnest firmness this torrent of questions, would be
impossible: rage, fear, dismay, all seemed struggling for mastery in
Gray’s countenance, and the girl had done, and stood in an attitude
that a sculptor might have envied, bending half forward with a flush of
excitement upon her cheeks, awaiting the answer of the panic-stricken
man before her. It was several minutes before that answer came. Once,
twice, thrice, did Jacob Gray try to speak in vain, and when he did
produce an articulate sound, his voice was hollow and awful to hear.
“W—what devil,” he said, “has prompted you to this? What busy fiend has
whispered in your ears? Speak—speak!”
“I have spoken,” said the girl. “I ask but that I have the right to
know.”
“The right! How know you that?”
“How know I that! My heart tells me. ’Tis a right of nature, born with
the lowest, and no greater with the highest.”
“Then—you would destroy me!”
“No, I would destroy no one; give no one even a passing pang; but oh!
Uncle, I am young, and life is new and precious. I have read of sunny
skies, and smiling happy flowers; I have read of music’s witchery,
until my heart has sighed to create its own dear melody. I have read of
love, pure, holy love, such as could knit together young hearts for
ever in a sweet companionship; and oh! How my heart has yearned for the
sunlight, the flowers, the music, the sweet murmuring sound of moving
waters, the dear love that gilds them all with more than earthly
beauty, because it, and it alone, is the one gift that clings yet to
man from Heaven! How my heart has leaped upwards, like a living thing,
to read of kind words softly spoken, of purest vows breathed from heart
to heart, making as it were sweet music, and its still sweeter echo!
Oh! How I have clasped my hands an cried aloud for music filling the
sunny air width a mild embroidery of tones! I have asked of Heaven to
send me warm hearts to love me; to place me on the mountains, that I
may look around me and adore the God that made the valleys look so
beautiful! I have prayed to wander through the verdant valleys, that I
might look up to the mountains, so lifting my thoughts to the great
Creator. I have wept—sobbed aloud for all the dear companionships of
youth—the thousand sparkling, glowing charms that lend life its
romance, and make the world an Eden, Heaven a dear inheritance! The
dreary echo of my own voice alone has answered me! My own deep sobs
have come back to my ears in endless mockery, and I was alone; a chill
would then gather round my heart, for I was alone. The smile of a
father never—never gladdened my heart! A mother’s gentle kiss never
rested on my brow! I—I am a lonely thing; a blight and a desolation is
around me; no—no one loves me!”
To describe the exquisite intonation of voice with which these words
were uttered would be impossible. The gushing tenderness, the deep
pathos, the glowing tones! Oh, what must be the construction of that
heart that could listen unmoved to such an appeal? Gray trembled like
an aspen leaf, his eyes glared from their sockets, and he stretched out
his hands before him as he would keep off some spectre that blasted his
sight, and seared his very brain.
“Peace! Peace!” he shrieked; “peace! You want to—kill me, to drive me
mad; but that voice—that manner—those speaking eyes!—Peace, Ada; peace,
I say!”
“Ada!” cried the girl; “that, then, is my name?”
“No, no, no, no!” cried Gray. “God of Heaven!—no, no, no, no!—I—did not
say Ada?”
“You did, and something tells me that it is my name—the name you have
concealed from me so long. I am Ada. Uncle, some strong passion, some
awful fear at your heart overcame your caution. I am Ada; but Ada what?
Tell me, for the love of Heaven, all, and if you have done me wrong,
Uncle, I will, forgive you, as I live!”
Jacob Gray’s voice trembled and the perspiration stood in cold drops
upon his brow, as he said, faintly,—
“Water! Water! Water!—I—I am faint!”
Ada, for henceforward we will call her by that name, filled a glass
with sparkling cold water, and handed it in silence to the trembling
man. With a shaking hand he raised it to his lips, and drank deeply of
it; the glass dropped from his nervous grasp, and lay in fragments on
the floor.
“I—I am better now,” said Gray.
Ada stood before him—her dark eyes bent on his with a scrutinising
glance, beneath which he shrunk abashed.
“Now then, Uncle Gray,” she said, “now that you are better, will you
answer me?”
Gray looked at her for a moment or two in silence before he replied;
then he said slowly,—
“What if I refuse to answer the question you ask?”
“Then is our compact broken,” cried Ada.
“And—and—what will you do? What, can you do?”
“What can I do? I can toil, work, attend upon those who may perchance
repay my service with a smile, ample and dear wages to the poor,
desolate child of harshness and misfortune. I will leave you and this
gloomy abode for ever, and trust to the mercy of that Providence that
finds food for the merest insect that buzzes in the evening time!”
“Humph!” muttered Gray. “I never knew Providence to feed anything yet.
Providence will let you die on a door-step, and rot in a kennel!”
“Peace,” cried Ada, “and profane nor that you cannot comprehend. I
repeat I will leave you, without sufficient reason for my stay be given
me. Blind obedience to you is past. There was a plan which would have
ensured its continuance.”
“Indeed! What plan?”
“A simple one,” said Ada, mournfully: “Uncle Gray, you might have bound
me to you by the ties of such dear affection that I should have smiled
upon my bondage, and obedience without inquiry would have seemed to me
a pleasant virtue.”
“I—I have used you well,” stammered Gray.
“Well!” cried Ada; “Uncle, you have scoffed at my childish tears. I
have felt even your blows: you would kill even my poor dog. Used me
well?”
Gray looked down for a few moments; then he said,—
“To-night—or—or—say to-morrow morning. Yes, let it be to-morrow
morning, and I will tell you all.”
“To-morrow morning? Well, be it so!”
“Yes,” continued Gray, “give me but till to morrow morning, and you
shall ask me no more questions.”
“Tell me, though, now,” said the girl, kindly, “is Ada my name?”
“It is.”
“And what more?”
“Wait—wait till to-morrow. I—I have breakfasted—take yours. I have
business abroad.”
Jacob Gray rose, and keeping his small, keen, grey eyes fixed on Ada,
he left the room. Outside the door he paused, and, raising his clenched
hand, while his face was distorted with passion, he muttered,
“To-morrow, to-morrow, you shall be a stiffened corpse!”
CHAPTER XXII.
Learmont at Home.—His Exultation.—The Smith.—The Plot.
Learmont, after committing the cold-blooded and brutal murder in the
Bishop’s Walk, hastily wiped his blood-stained sword, and walked
quickly onwards till he came to the further extremity of the avenue. He
then darted down a narrow opening, which led him first away from, and
then by a circuitous route, to the back of the river.
“Boat!—Boat!” he cried, impatiently, and from a mean habitation a boy
immediately emerged.
“Can you row me across?” cried Learmont.
“Yes, your worship,” replied the boy. “This way, an’ it please your
honour.”
He led the way to a wherry which was moored close to some little wooden
steps, and Learmont, seating himself in the boat, said,—
“Quick!—Quick! I am in haste.”
The boy handled his skulls with dexterity, and the boat soon reached
the Middlesex shore. Throwing him a piece of silver, Learmont strided
over the boy, and was soon at his own house in Westminster. Without
deigning the slightest notice to his servants at the hall of the
mansion, who made obsequious way for him as he entered, he strode
onwards till he came to the room in which he had sat the preceding
evening, when his thoughts had been so great a torment to him, and,
flinging himself into a chair, he began to think over the singular
events of the night, and to arrange the plan that he had already
conceived for the destruction of Gray, and the possession of his young
charge.
“This is indeed a stroke of good fortune,” he said. “By Gray’s
destruction I gain much. The dull-witted sot Britton is not half the
annoyance that this Jacob Gray has proved to me. I hate—I abhor him.
Let me consider how the case stands.—He lives in a solitary, miserable
abode, out of the way of note or observation. Oh, Master Gray, you have
outwitted yourself here! With him, of course, is the great object of
all my fears. My worst enemy is that boy, whose existence I am so far
sure of from the statement of the babbling fool who has paid with life
for meddling with affairs beyond his comprehension. So far, so good.
Those papers containing Gray’s written confession that he speaks of,
let me consider well of them. The object of writing them was that they
should be found, in case of his death—found where? In his home, of
course, and easily found, too, most easily; because they were to fall
into the hands of persons not searching for them; so they must be in
some place easy of discovery; and most simple of access. How easy then
will it be for me to find them, knowing that they are there, and
determined to leave no nook or corner unsearched till I do find them.
Good, good; and the result: Gray dead—the boy is in my power, and the
confession, which was to preserve him so well to be my torment—in the
flames. Yes, all is clear, quite clear; and now for the immediate
means.”
For several minutes he paced the apartment in silent thought, then
suddenly pausing, he exclaimed:—
“Certainly; who so proper as Britton? It is a great and important
principle in all these matters to confine them to as few hands as
possible. Britton already knows enough for mischief, and his knowledge
being a little extended, cannot make him much more noxious. He shall
aid me. He and I will storm your garrison, Master Jacob Gray! Cunning,
clever, Jacob Gray! And then, why then, I have but one more object to
accomplish, and that is the death of Britton! The boy, too—By Heavens,
I always had my doubts if it were a boy! This drunken fool, who I have
been compelled to put out of the way of mischief, saw him though, and
doubt vanishes. He shall either die, or be rendered innoxious! Oh,
clever, artful, Jacob Gray, I have you on the hip!”
A servant now opened the door slowly, and Learmont turning quickly on
him with a frowning brow, cried,—
“How now, sirrah? Why this intrusion?”
“An’ it please your worship,” said the man, “there is one below who
would have speech of your worship.”
“Speech of me?”
“Ay, truly; an’ it please your—”
“Pshaw!” cried Learmont. “Use fewer words! Who is it that waits to see
me?”
“He says he brings a message from the Old Smithy; but I thought, your
worship—”
“You thought,” cried Learmont, making two gigantic strides, and seizing
the trembling domestic by the throat. “You thought! Wretch! If you dare
to think about any of my visitors, I’d give your brains to a dog, and
if your tongue but wags of aught you see or hear in this house, I’ll
tear it out by the roots!”
“The—the—Lord have—m—mercy upon us!” groaned the servant. “I—I—I’ll
never think again, your worship, as long as I—I live!”
“Begone! And show him who asks for me to this room.”
The terrified man made haste from the apartment, and in three or four
minutes Britton, the smith, staggered into the room with an air of the
most insolent and independent familiarity.
His face was bloated and swollen from his deep debauch of the previous
night, and his eyes looked sleepy and blood-shot. His attire hung
loosely on his huge form, and he was altogether the picture of
ferocity, and sensuality.
“Good morning to you, squire,” he said, as he threw himself into a
chair. “By G—you are well lodged here. You haven’t a spare room, have
you?”
Learmont stood with his back to the light, so that he was not in a
favourable position for the smith to notice the working of his
countenance, where indignation, hatred and policy were battling for
pre-eminence.
“Away with this nonsense,” cried Learmont. “What brings you here?”
“What brings me here? Why, my legs, to be sure. It’s too short a
distance to think of riding.”
“Your errand?” cried Learmont.
“Money!” bellowed Britton, in a still louder voice.
“Money! Again so soon?”
“Ay; so soon. I have found a mine, and I don’t see why I should not
work it, as that infernal Jacob Gray says.”
“Oh! Jacob Gray says that, does he?” sneered Learmont.
“On my faith he does. ’Tis a shrewd knave, but I hate him. I hate him,
I say!”
“Indeed!” says Learmont. “He says you are a beastly sot, good Britton.”
“Does he?”
“Ay, does he. A thick skulled, drunken idiot.”
“Ha! He says that of me?”
“Even so; a mere lump of brutality—savage beast!”
“Now curses on him!” muttered Britton.
“How much money do you want?” said Learmont, very suddenly.
“Twenty pieces.”
“Twenty? Pshaw, make them forty or fifty, provided you have likewise
your revenge on Jacob Gray.”
“Revenge on Jacob Gray? I tell you, squire, I’d go to hell to have
revenge on Jacob Gray.“
“Have you traced his abode?”
“No—no—curses on him. I watched him, but he doubled on me, and I lost
him.”
“Indeed! Then you know not where he lives, or rather, hides?”
“No; but I will though. I—”
“I will show you.”
“You—show—me—squire—”
“Yes. I will take you to his house, where he hides alone; with, at
least, none but the boy.”
“You—you can, squire?”
“I can, and will, to give you revenge, Britton; and when you have
killed him—when you see his heart’s blood flowing—then—then, Britton,
come to me and ask for unbounded wealth.”
Britton sprang to his feet—
“I will tear his heart out,” he cried. “Kill him? I will torture him.”
“To call you a muddle-headed beast,” said Learmont; “a thick-skulled
sot! A brute! A savage! A drivelling drunkard!”
“Enough! Enough!” cried Britton; “he dies—had he a hundred lives I’d
take them all.”
“Now that’s brave,” cried Learmont; “that’s gallant, and like you,
Britton. He shall die.”
“Die! Of course he shall,” roared Britton. “When shall I seek him? Tell
me when?”
“To-night.”
“To-night? Shall it be to-night?”
“Ay, shall it. Meet me on the bridge at midnight, and I will take you
to the bedside of Jacob Gray; you shall have your revenge.”
“On the bridge, hard by?”
“Yes, Britton. At the hour of midnight. Do you not fail. I shall be
there.”
“Fail! I would be there, squire, if ten thousand devils held me back.”
“Away then, now. Drink nothing till that is accomplished. Speak to no
one—brood only over your revenge; and when it is done, come to me for
any sum you wish. It shall be yours. Jacob Gray now robs you of what
you ought to have, Britton.”
“I know it, curses on him! But he shall do so no longer.”
“He kept you poor for years at the smithy.”
“He did.”
“And now calls you a drivelling idiot.”
“Oh, he dies! He dies!”
“Away then now with you; be careful, sober, and trust no one.”
“At midnight, squire, on Westminster-bridge.”
“Yes; midnight.”
The smith shook his clenched hand as he left the room, muttering,—
“I shall have my revenge! I shall have my revenge!”
Fortune now, indeed, appeared to have favoured the Squire of Learmont,
beyond his most sanguine expectations. What was there to stay his
progress up the slippery steep of his ambition?
Who was there to say to him, “Thus far shalt thou go and no further?”
Did not every circumstance conspire to favour his greatest—his most
arrogant wishes? Nay, even the very fear and disquiet of the last ten
years of his life had unconsciously, as it were, conspired to place him
on the proud height he so much panted for, and fancied he should enjoy
so truly, for by such circumstances the revenues of the broad estates
of Learmont had accumulated to the vast sum which he now had in his
hands; a sum so large, that, in a country like England, where even
crime has its price, there was no refinement of luxury or vice that he
could not command.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Projected Murder.—The Unconscious Sleeper.—A Night of Horror.
It wanted but one hour of midnight, and silence reigned about the
ruined and deserted street in which Jacob Gray resided. Heavy clouds
hung in the sky, and not a star peeped forth to look with shining
beauty on the darkened world. A misty vapour, betokening the breaking
of the frost, arose from the surface of the Thames, and occasionally a
gust of wind from the south-west brought with it a dashing shower of
mingled rain and sleet. A clammy dampness was upon every thing both
within doors and without; the fires and lights in the barges on the
river burnt through the damp vapour with a sickly glare. It was a night
of discomfort, such as frequently occur in the winter seasons of our
variable and inconstant climate. It was a night to enjoy the comforts
of warm fire-sides and smiling faces; a night on which domestic joys
and social happiness became still more dear and precious from contrast
with the chilling prospect of Nature in the open air.
In the room which has already been described to the reader as the one
in which Jacob Gray usually sat in his lone and ruinous habitation, he
now stood by the window listening to the various clocks of the city as
they struck the hour of eleven.
A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, but still Jacob Gray trembled
and his teeth chattered as he counted the solemn strokes of some
distant church bell, the sound of which came slowly, and with a muffled
tone, through the thick murky air.
In a few minutes all was still again. The sounds had ceased. Nothing
met the ear of Jacob Gray but the low moaning of the gathering wind as
it swept around his dilapidated dwelling. Then he turned from the
window and faced the fire-light, but even with its ruddy glow upon his
face, he looked ill and ghastly. His step was unsteady, he drew his
breath short and thick, and it was evident from the whole aspect and
demeanour of the man that his mind was under the influence of some
excitement of an extraordinary nature.
In vain he strove to warm the blood that crept rather than flowed in
healthy currents through his veins. He held his trembling hands close
to the fire. He strove to assume attitudes of careless ease. He even
tried to smile, but produced nothing but a cold and ghastly distortion
of the features of his face.
“Surely,” he muttered, “the—the night must be very cold. Yes, that is
it. It is a chilling night. Eleven—eleven o’clock. I—I—meant to do it
at eleven; at—at least before twelve. Yes, before twelve—there is time,
ample time. ’Tis very—very cold.”
With a shaking hand, he poured from a flask, that was upon the table, a
quantity of raw spirit, and quaffed it off at a single draught. How
strange it is that the mind can, under peculiar circumstances so
entirely conquer the body and subvert, as it were, the ordinary laws of
nature! Such, was the frightful state of excitement which Jacob Gray
had worked himself up to, that he might as well have swallowed an equal
quantity of water, for all the effect that the strong spirit had upon
him. Still he trembled, still his teeth chattered in his head, and his
very heart appeared to him to be cold and lifeless in his breast. He
heaped fuel upon the fire, he paced the room, he strove to think of
something else than the one subject that filled his brain, but all was
in vain. He had determined that night to murder the hapless girl whom
he had wronged so much, and he had passed a day and evening of
unspeakable agony in working up his mind to do the deed calmly and
surely.
Ten o’clock he had pitched upon as the hour, then half-past ten, then
eleven, and still he trembled with dismay, and could not for his life
command his nerves to do the dreadful deed.
He now flung himself into a chair by the fire-side, and covering his
face with his hands he rocked to and fro, in agonising thoughts. In a
low tone then he held unholy communion with himself.
“I—I must do it,” he said. “I must do it. I always thought it would
come to this. When she became of age to inquire I was sure to be
tortured by question upon question. What resource have I? I dare not do
her justice, and tell her who she is. No—no. She has been my safeguard
hitherto, she may now be my destruction; should she leave me she may
either fall into the hands of Learmont, in which case I lose my chief
hold upon him, or, what is worse, she tells her strange tale to some
one, who may hunt me to force an explanation of her birth. There is but
one resource; she—she must die. Yes, she must die. Learmont still
fancying ’tis a boy, must still be tortured by the idea that such an
enemy lives, and requires but a word from me to topple him from his
height of grandeur to a felon’s cell. Yes—yes. That must be the course.
There is no other—none—none. Then I will accumulate what sum of money I
can, and leave England for ever—for—for well I know the savage smith
thirsts for my blood, and—and—should he discover my place of
concealment, my death were easy, and the packet containing my
confession, which, while I live, is equally dangerous to me as to
Learmont and Britton, would fall into their hands.”
He rose and paced the room again for several minutes in silence; then
taking from the table a small-hand lamp, he lit it, and clutching it
with a nervous grasp in his left hand, he muttered,—
“Now—now. It is—time. Ada, you will not see another sun rise. You must
die. ’Tis self-preservation, which even divines tell us is the first
great law of nature, that forces me to do this act. I—I do not want to
kill thee. No—no; but I—I must—I must do it; I cannot help the deed.
Ada, you must die—die—die.”
He placed the lamp again upon the table, and approaching with a
stealthy step a cupboard in the room, he took from it a double-edged
poniard. With a trembling hand he placed the weapon conveniently within
his vest, and then casting around him a hurried and scared glance, as
if he expected to find some eyes fixed upon him, he walked to the door
of the room.
There he paused, and, divested himself of his shoes, after which, with
a slow, stealthy movement, he began ascending the stairs to the chamber
in which reposed, in innocence and peace, the unconscious Ada.
Suddenly he paused, and staggered against the wall, as a new thought
struck his mind.
“The hound! the hound!” he gasped. “I—I had forgotten the dog.”
Here seemed at once an insurmountable obstacle to the execution of his
murderous intention, and for several minutes Jacob Gray sat down on the
staircase in deep thought, while his face was distorted by contending
passions of hate—fear—and rage.
“Curses—curses on the dog!” he muttered, as he ground his teeth
together and clenched his hands in impotent malice. “To be foiled by a
half-starved hound! I, Jacob Gray, with my life hanging as it were by a
single thread, to be prevented from taking the secret means of
preserving myself by this hateful dog. Curses! Curses! I—I—yes—yes.
There is a chance—one chance, the poison that Learmont placed in my
hands for the purpose of drugging Britton’s wine cup! That—yes, that
may rid me of the dog! I will try. Let me recollect. The animal sleeps
by the door, sometimes on the mat on the outside, and sometimes within
the chamber. We shall see—we shall see—the poison! Ay, the poison!”
Cautiously he descended the few steps he had gained, and going to a
drawer in the table, which he had the key of, and which stood close to
the blazing fire, in the room he had so recently left, he took from it
the phial of poison which he, Learmont, had given to him. After a
moment’s thought, he repaired to the cupboard, and taking from it the
remains of some meat, upon which he had dined, he poured at least
one-half the contents of the small bottle of poison over it.
“This deadly liquid,” he said, “has a grateful smell. If I can induce
the hound to fasten on this meat, his death is certain and quick, for
Learmont is not a man to do this by halves. Poison from him I should
assume to be deadly indeed! Ay, deadly indeed!”
Jacob Gray’s hatred for the dog seemed to have got in some degree over
his extreme nervousness, and it was with a firmer step now than he
could command before, that he cautiously again ascended the narrow
staircase conducting to Ada’s chamber.
Still, however, in his heart, he quailed at the murder—the deliberate,
cold-blooded murder of that innocent and beautiful girl, and he
presented the ghastly appearance of a resuscitated corpse, rather than
a human being who had not passed the portals of the grave. The feeling
of honourable humanity was a stranger to the bosom of Jacob Gray. He
did not shrink from the murder of the poor and persecuted Ada, because
it was a murder—no, it was because he, Jacob Gray, had to do it,
unaided and un-cheered in the unholy deed, by aught save his own
shivering and alarmed imagination. Jacob Gray had no compunction for
the deed; his only terror arose from the fact that he could not shift
its consummation on to some one else’s shoulders.
He would gladly have held a light to guide the dagger of another
assassin, but he did shrink from the personal danger and the personal
consequences of doing it himself. He was one of those who would watch
the door while the murder was doing—hold a vessel to catch the
blood—anything but do the deed himself.
His little accession of strength and confidence now only arose from the
fact that owing to the intervention of the circumstance of the dog, the
murder was, as it were, put off for a little time; he must first
dispose of the dog, then the murder itself, with all its damning train
of fears and agonies, would take its former prominent place in his
mind, and again would Jacob Gray tremble to his very heart’s core.
Stealthily he moved his way up the staircase, his great object being to
ascertain if the dog was within or without the chamber of Ada.
His doubts were soon resolved, for suddenly a low growl from the
faithful animal smote his ears.
Jacob Gray gave a malignant smile, as he said in a low whisper, “The
dog is outside the door.”
The growl of the hound now deepened to a louder note, and just as that
again was shaping itself to a short angry bark, Jacob Gray threw up the
piece of poisoned meat on to the landing on the top of the staircase.
Folding his lamp then under the lappels of his coat, Jacob Gray sat
down on the staircase, with a feeling of gratification on his mind,
that, in all human probability he was at length revenged on the poor
animal, whose only crime had been too much affection and fidelity
towards the hand that fed and caressed him, and the voice that spoke to
him in kindly tones.
All was as still as the grave after the meat had been thrown, and after
several minutes of suspense, Jacob Gray began to feel anxious for some
indication of the success of his scheme. Cautiously, he then ascended a
step or two, and paused—no sound met his ears. A few steps more were
gained—then a few more and finally, by stretching out his arm with the
light, he could command a view of the landing-place, but he looked in
vain for the dog: the animal was nowhere to be seen. Jacob Gray now
stood fairly upon the landing, and peered carefully around him, with
the hope of seeing the body of his foe, but such was not the case.
The open door of the outer room which led to Ada’s smaller sleeping
chamber now caught his eyes, and at once afforded a clue to the retreat
of the dog.
With a soft footfall that could not have possibly disturbed the
lightest sleeper, Gray entered that room, and moving his hand slowly
round him, so as to illuminate by turns all parts of the apartment, he
saw, at length, the object of his search.
Close up to the door leading to Ada’s room was the hound quite dead.
The faithful creature had evidently made an effort to awaken, its
gentle and kind mistress, for its paws were clenched against the bottom
of the door, where there was a crevice left.
For a moment Jacob Gray glanced at the fixed eyes of the dog, then he
spurned it from the door with his foot, as he muttered,—
“Humph! So far successful and now for—for—”
“The murder,” he would have said, but in one moment, as if paralysed by
the touch of some enchanter’s wand, all his old fears returned upon
him, and now that there was no obstacle between him and the commission
of the awful deed he meditated, he leaned against the wall for support,
and the perspiration of fear rolled down his face in heavy drops, and
gave his countenance an awful appearance of horror and death-like
paleness.
“What—what,” he stammered, “what if she should scream? God of Heaven,
if she should scream!”
So terrified was he at the supposition that his victim might, in her
death-struggle, find breath to scream, that for a moment he gave up his
purpose, and retreated slowly backwards from the room.
Suddenly now the silence that reigned without was broken by the various
churches striking twelve.
Gray started as the sounds met his ear.
“Twelve! Twelve!” he exclaimed. “It—it—should have been done ere this.
To-morrow. The to-morrow that she looks for is come. I—I thought not
’twas so late. It must be done! It must be done!”
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Attempted Assassination.—A Surprise.—Ada’s Surmises.—The Agony of
Gray.
The last faint echo from the slowest clock had died away upon the
midnight air, when Jacob Gray started from his position of deep
attention, and placing his small lamp on one of the window sills, he
drew from his breast the knife with which he intended to take the life
of the hapless Ada.
“She—she surely sleeps sound,” he muttered through his clenched teeth,
“or all these clocks with their solemn and prolonged echoes must have
awakened her. Yes; I—I—hope she sleeps sound. I—would not have a
struggle—a struggle. Oh, no, no, not for worlds. I—can fancy her
clinging to the knife and screaming—shrieking even as—as—her—father
did—when he had his death wound. That would be horrible. Oh, most
horrible—and yet I must kill her. I must kill her. Did she not brave me
to my face? Did she not tell me that she suspected me and my motives,
and that no more would she keep herself immured for my sake? I—she—she
did, and more than this, far more, she taunted me with. Yes—I—I am
quite justified—she must die!”
The door which led into the inner chamber was in two compartments, and
when Gray gently pushed against them, they both opened slightly, and
the dim, sickly light of a lamp from the interior room, to his
surprise, gleamed through the crevice, meeting the kindred ray of the
one which Jacob Gray had placed so carefully out of the way of, as he
thought, the eyes of the sleeping girl.
He crept into the room, and stood motionless for many minutes,
regarding the sight that met his eyes. Seated by a small table, on
which was the lamp dimly burning and near its expiration, was Ada,
completely dressed, but fast asleep. Her face rested partially upon an
open book, which she had evidently been reading before retiring to
rest, when sleep must have come upon her unawares, and sealed her
eyelids in forgetfulness.
Her long hair fell in beautiful disorder upon the table, and the one
eyelash that was visible hung upon her fair cheek wet with tears. She
had been weeping, but whether from some vision that crossed her
slumbers, or from lonesome and unhappy thoughts previous to dropping
into that temporary oblivion of sorrow, could not be known.
Jacob Gray stood like one spell-bound by some horrible apparition, for
to the wicked can there be a more horrible apparition than youth,
beauty, and innocence?
“She—she sleeps,” he gasped; “but by some strange fatality has not
retired to bed. My—my task is now ten times more difficult. I—I know
not what to do.”
The knife trembled in his grasp, and he shook vehemently; then, as a
low murmuring sound escaped the lips of Ada, he sunk slowly down, first
crouchingly, then on his knees, and lastly he grovelled on the ground
at her feet in mortal agony, lest she should awaken and see him there,
with those starting eyes, those livid lips and that knife, which he
came to bury in her innocent and gentle heart.
Some fearful vision was passing over the imagination of the sleeping
girl. Fancy was busy in the narrow chambers of the brain, and pictured
to her some scene of sorrow or terror; deep sobs burst from the
breast—then she spoke, and her words thrilled through Jacob Gary like
liquid fire.
“Spare, oh, spare him!” she said; “he is my father—my own father. Spare
him; oh, spare—spare—”
She awoke not even in her agony of spirit, but wept bitterly; then the
tears decreased and sobs only were heard; the vision, like a
thunder-storm, was passing away, low moans succeeded, and finally all
was still again.
It was, however, many minutes before Jacob Gray again rose from his
crouching position of abject fear, but at length he did so, and with
the glittering knife in his hand, he stood within a pace of his
innocent victim.
Then arose in his mind the awful question of where should he strike?
And, like a vulture, he hovered for a time over his prey, with the
fatal steel uplifted, doubting where he should make the sudden swoop.
By an accidental parting of the silken curls that floated upon Ada’s
neck and shoulders, he saw a small portion of her breast; it was there
then he determined to strike. He glanced at the blade of the knife, and
he thought it long enough to reach even to her heart.
“Now—now!” he groaned through his clenched teeth. “Now!”
The steel was uplifted; nay, it was upon the point of descending, when
one heavy knock upon the outer door of the lone house echoed through
the dreary pile, and arrested the arm of the murderer, while the blood
rushed in terror like a gush of cold water to his heart.
There was then an awful silent pause, when again that solemn heavy
knock awakened the echoes of the empty house.
Slowly, inch by inch, as if his arm worked by some machinery, Jacob
Gray brought the knife by his side, and still bending over the
unconscious Ada, he listened for a repetition of that knock, as if each
melancholy blow was struck upon his own heart.
Again it came, and then again more rapidly, and Jacob Gray trembled so
violently that he was fain to lean upon the table at which Ada slept
for support.
That movement awakened Ada, and starting from her position of rest, she
suddenly, with a cry of surprise, confronted the man who had sought her
chamber with so fell and horrible a purpose. One glance at the knife
which Jacob Gray held in his hand, and then a searching look at his
face, told her all. She clasped her hands in terror as she exclaimed—
“You—you—come to kill me?”
“No—no,” stammered Gray, trying to smile, and producing his usual
painful distortion of features. “No—no—I did—not—no—no! Ada, I did not.”
“That knife?” said Ada, pointing to it as she spoke.
“The knife,” repeated Gray. “Hark, some one knocks, Ada, at our lonely
home.”
“Those looks of terror,” continued the young girl, “those blanched
cheeks, those trembling hands, all convince me that I have escaped
death at your hands.”
“No; I say no,” gasped Gray.
“And my hound too,” added Ada: “my fond, faithful dog, where is he,
uncle Gray?”
“Yes; the dog,” cried Gray, eagerly catching at the hope of persuading
her that it was solely to compass the destruction of the hound he had
thus stolen to her room. “I admit I did seek the dog’s life; you vexed
me about the animal.”
The knocking at the door sounded now more loudly than before, and the
knocker was evidently plied by an impatient hand.
“Hark, hark!” cried Gray. ”Ada, hear me; whoever knocks without can be
no friend of ours.”
“Indeed?” said Ada.
“’Tis true; I am the only friend you have in the wide world.”
“You mean, I suppose, since you have killed my poor dog,” said Ada,
pointing through the open doorway to the inanimate body of the animal.
“The dog is dead,” said Gray.
“Uncle,” replied Ada, mildly, but firmly; “now hear me. You have broken
the compact. Let those who knock so loudly for admission enter, I will
not avoid them. Were they ten times my enemies they could not be more
cruel than thou art.”
“Ada, you know not what you say,” cried Gray. “They cannot be friends,
and, they may be foes. ’Tis light enough for me to note them from a
lower window. Yes, I will see, I will see. Remain thou here, Ada. Stir
not—speak not.”
“I promise nothing,” said Ada. “You shall no longer prescribe rules of
conduct for me, uncle Gray. I tell you I will promise nothing.”
Gray made an impatient gesture with his hands, and quitted the room. He
repaired to a window on the ground floor, in one corner of which he had
made a clear spot for the express purpose of reconnoitering the
doorway, and applying his eye now close to this, he could by the dim
light trace the forms of two men upon his threshold. Too well were
those forms engraven on his memory. It needed not a second glance to
tell him that the savage smith, Britton, and Squire Learmont were his
unwelcome and most clamorous visitors.
Now, indeed, the measure of Jacob Gray’s agony appeared to be full. For
a moment he completely surrendered himself to despair; and had Learmont
then forced the door, he would scarcely have made an effort to escape
the sword of the man of blood.
“Ha! Ha!” he heard the smith say; “I like to knock thus, it alarms
poor, clever, cunning Jacob. It shatters his nerves. Oh, oh, oh!”
“Can you depend on the men you have placed at the back of the house to
intercept his escape that way?” said Learmont.
“Depend upon them?” replied Britton. “Of course. They ain’t paid, and
are quite sober, as you see; they are ready for any cut-throat
business. Let’s knock again. Oh, oh, how Jacob Gray must be shaking!”
The taunts of the smith seemed to act as a stimulant to the sickened
energies of Gray. He roused himself and muttered, as he shook his
clenched hand in the direction of the door—
“Indeed, Master Britton. Do not even yet make too sure of cunning Jacob
Gray. He may yet prove too cunning for the sot, Britton. You think you
have me so safely that you can afford to tantalize me by knocking, when
a small effort of your united strength would burst yon frail door from
its frailer hinges. We shall see—we shall see.”
He bounded up the staircase to the room in which he had left Ada. She
was standing by the body of the dog with the lamp in her hand.
“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray; “we are lost—lost. We shall be murdered, if you
will not be guided by me.”
Ada only pointed to the door.
Gray was thoroughly alarmed at her decisive manner, and another loud
knock at the door at that moment did not tend to pacify his nervous
tremors.
“There are those at the door who come purposely to seek your life!”
“Your life, most probably, Uncle Gray.”
“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray. “Each minute—nay, each moment is precious.
There is no escape, none—none!”
“You are alarmed, Uncle Gray,” said Ada.
The perspiration of fear—intense fear, was standing upon the brow of
Gray, as he felt that each fleeting moment might be his last. From
exultation at the thought of still deceiving Britton and Learmont, he
dropped to a state of the most trembling, abject terror.
“God of Heaven!” he cried; “you—you will not, cannot refuse to save me!”
“Our compact is broken,” said Ada. “I do not believe that I have so
much to fear from those who seek admittance here as from him who but a
few minutes since stood over me as I slept—”
“No—no!” shrieked Gray. “It was not I—”
“It was you,” said Ada.
“I did not mean to—to kill you.”
“The knife was in your hand, uncle; you had destroyed my faithful
guard; you trembled; your guilt shone forth with an unholy and hideous
lustre from your eyes. Uncle Gray, God can alone see into the hearts of
men, but, as I hope for heaven, and—and to meet there my dear father,
whom I never knew, I do suspect you much, Uncle Gray.”
“Mercy!—Have mercy on me, Ada.”
“Ask that of Heaven.”
“In your chamber, you have clothing befitting your sex; for such an
emergency as this I provided it. Go, oh, go at once, and you may escape
as a girl from those who come here to murder a boy.”
Ada glanced at the trembling man, who, with clasped hands and trembling
limbs, stood before her, and then with a firm voice she said,—
“No, no, I cannot.”
With a loud crash at this moment the street-door was burst from its
hinges.
Gray gave one frantic scream, and threw himself at the feet of Ada.
“Save—oh, save my life!” he cried. “Have mercy on me, Ada! You shall do
with me as you please; I will be your slave,—will watch for you when
you sleep,—tend upon you, discover your wishes ever by a look. But oh,
save me—save me. I cannot—dare not die!”
Ada shuddered at the wild frantic passion of Gray. She struggled to
free herself from his grasp, for he clung to her with a desperate
clutch.
“Mercy! Mercy!” he shrieked.
In vain she retreated backwards from him; he crawled after her on his
knees, shrieking “Mercy! Mercy!”
Now Ada had gained the door of her own room, and with loathing and
horror, she tried in vain to disengage herself from Gray.
“They come! Ah, they come!” suddenly cried Gray, springing to his feet.
“Now, Ada, hear the secret you pine to know!”
“The secret?” cried Ada.
“Yes, I am your father. These men will apprehend me for murder; but I
am your father.”
For an instant Ada passed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out
the hideous phantasma of a dreadful dream, and then, with a cry of
exquisite anguish, she rushed through the folding doors and closed them
immediately after her.
“That—that will succeed,” gasped Gray, wiping from his brow the cold
perspiration that hung there in bead-like drops. “The lie is effective;
she may not believe it, but now she has not time to think. She will
save me now!”
He rushed to the door of the room which led to the staircase, and in a
moment locked it. Then he stood with his arms folded, and an awful
demoniac smile played upon his pale and ghastly face, awaiting the
issue of the next few minutes, which comprised to him the fearful
question of life or death.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Escape.—Taunts.—The Confession.—Learmont’s Rage and Discomfiture.
But few moments remained to Jacob Gray for sad or exultant communion
with his own thoughts. A heavy blow from without dashed the door open,
and Learmont, with a drawn sword in his hand, closely followed by
Britton, carrying a lighted link, entered the room.
“Well met; Jacob Gray,” cried Learmont. “Your cunning is now at fault.
You are scarcely a match for Squire Learmont, who you thought you had
so safely in your toils.”
“Ho! Ho!” sneered Britton, holding the torch close to the pale,
agitated face of Gray. “So we have unearthed the fox at last.
Cunning—clever Master Jacob Gray—amazingly artful Master Gray.”
“You have triumphed but for a short time,” added Learmont. “Your own
cunning has been your destruction, Jacob Gray, your life is not now
worth five minutes’ purchase.”
“Taunt on,” said Gray, “I know not what you mean or what you want.”
“Well you know,” cried Learmont, angrily, “you had a double hold upon
my fears, Jacob Gray, but that double hold depended upon a slender
foundation. So long as you could keep your hiding-place secret you were
safe, but no longer.”
“I—I still do not understand you,” said Gray, who was anxious to give
Ada some time to complete the change he did not doubt she was making in
her apparel.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Learmont. “It were a thousand pities you should die
in ignorance of what had been the result of your extreme cleverness,
Jacob Gray. Suppose me, as I shall be now, possessed of the boy, and
the confession, which of course, must be somewhere handy, else it is
objectless.”
“Well—well,” said Gray, trembling, “suppose all that.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” chuckled the smith. “Upon my soul that’s good, cunning
Jacob—clever, artful, deep-designing Jacob. Why, supposing all that we
mean to cut your throat.”
“We waste time,” cried Learmont. “Where is the boy?”
“Ay, the boy, the cherub, the boy!” cried Britton.
“He is not here,” said Gray, with as much boldness as he could assume.
Learmont gave a smile of contempt as he said,—
“Indeed, he is not here, and yet Jacob Gray is here. That is very
probable. Now I tell you he is here, and what is more, he cannot
escape. The back of the house is guarded by persons who have orders to
cut down whoever attempts to leave it that way. Britton and I came in
at the front. We have well searched the lower rooms, so you see we have
taken our measures almost as cleverly as Jacob Gray took his when he
came to Learmont to whisper in his ear that the boy still lived!”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” roared the smith, patting Gray on the back. “How feel
you, Master Jacob? Does your blood dance merrily through your veins, or
have you still some stroke of cunning un-played off that shall put us
yet to shame? By hell, if you have, Jacob Gray, I’ll—I’ll give you my
head!”
“Agreed,” said Gray.
“Give me the light,” cried Learmont.
He snatched the link from the hand of Britton, and made two strides
towards the inner room.
Gray with difficulty suppressed a scream of alarm, but before Learmont
could lay hand on the lock, Ada flung the door open, and walked
composedly forth.
She was attired in a plain, but neat girl’s dress. A small hooded cloak
was clasped round her neck; and now that she was attired in the proper
costume of her sex, she looked several years older, and the change in
her general appearance was so great that even Jacob Gray would scarcely
have recognised her.
She showed no nervousness, no haste, no sign of trepidation as she
stepped from the room, and her voice was soft, and musical, and quite
calm as she paused and said,—
“Good evening, Mr. Gray. I have put all Harry’s things in order.”
Then curtseying to Learmont, who stood almost directly in her way, she
passed across the outer room, and disappeared through the broken
doorway.
For several minutes not a word was spoken by either of the three men
there assembled. Oh, what precious minutes they were to Jacob Gray!
Learmont then, without a word, entered the inner room. In a few moments
he returned with his face distorted by passion, and placing his sword’s
point against the throat of Gray, he said,—
“Where is the boy?”
“Not here—on my soul not here!” cried Gray, trembling with fear that
Learmont’s passion might get the better of his prudence, and that by
one thrust of his weapon he might shed his life blood.
“Where is he?”
“Where is he?” echoed Gray, to whom each moment gained for Ada
thoroughly to escape, was equal to a drop of blood to his heart.
“Answer me!” shrieked Learmont.
“I repeat the boy is not here.”
“One moment more I give you,” added Learmont, “to declare to me where
the boy is, or you die, as sure as—as that I hate you from my soul!”
“Pause yet a moment, Squire Learmont,” sneered Gray. “If my life has
hitherto been valuable, and my safety precious to you, they are doubly
so now.”
“No, Jacob Gray,” cried Learmont, “that tale will do no more. We have
hunted you down. It is not probable that the cautious Jacob Gray has
trusted the boy we seek with the secret of his birth.”
“You are right,” said Gray, “I have not.”
“And you are candid,” sneered Learmont.
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Britton. “Poor Jacob Gray has forgotten even to lie—”
“Exactly,” snarled Gray, “because the truth will do as well. That is a
piece of philosophy which the muddled brains of savage Britton would
never have conceived.”
Britton made a furious rush at Gray, but the latter stepped behind
Learmont, saying,—“It is still the interest of Squire Learmont to
protect Jacob Gray.”
“Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “Stay your arm yet a moment. We—we
will hear him.”
“You need not be alarmed, squire,” said Gray. “Our relative positions
are still the same.”
“How mean you? Your retreat is discovered.”
“True, but—”
“And the confession which has hitherto ensured your safety, must be
here, and easily found, else it were valueless, and would defeat its
object.”
“Indeed!” said Gray. “Now, hear me. The boy is not here! The confession
is in his hands.”
Learmont trembled as he slowly dropped the point of his sword, and
fixed his eyes upon Jacob Gray’s countenance, as if he would read his
very soul.
“Go on, go on,” he said.
“I repeat, the boy has the confession. He knows not what it is. It is
sealed.”
“Well. Go—go—on.”
“But he has express instructions, which, be assured, he will fulfil to
the letter; that if he and I do not meet at an appointed spot, by an
appointed hour, he is to hasten to Sir Francis Hartleton, and deliver
the packet. You understand my position, Squire Learmont? And even your
dull-pated Britton may now see the expediency of being careful of your
dear friend, Jacob Gray. Fancy any delay being thrown in my way now,
which should prevent me from meeting the boy. How disagreeable it would
be to me to see hung, kind Britton, while I had my free pardon in my
pocket for being evidence against you. Do you understand?”
There was a most remarkable difference in the expression of the smith’s
countenance and that of Learmont’s, while Gray was speaking. The former
became nearly purple with suppressed rage, while the squire turned of
an ashy, ghastly paleness, and seemed scarcely equal to the exertion of
standing erect.
“Gray—Jacob Gray,” he gasped. “You do not—you cannot mean that—that—”
“That what, squire?” said Gray. “Why do you hesitate? I will answer any
question; candidly.”
“Have you,” continued Learmont, “indeed set all our lives in such a
chance as your meeting a boy at an appointed hour in this great city?”
“I have,” answered Gray; “or rather I should say you have.”
“Yes, Squire Learmont, you thirst for my blood! You would hunt me to
death could you do so with safety to yourself! Beware! I say, and give
up the chance!“
Learmont attempted to sheath his sword, but his hand trembled so
excessively, that it was several moments before he could accomplish it.
When, however, he had succeeded, he turned to Gray, and said,—
“At what hour—are—you to meet the boy?”
Gray smiled, as he said,—
“Perhaps your next question, sir, may be where I am to meet him?”
“I—I merely asked the hour.”
“Whatever the appointed hour may be,” said Gray, “be assured I shall
not meet him, let the consequences be what they may, until I am assured
that you and this angry smith are not dogging my footsteps.”
“Let—us—go, Britton,” said Learmont.
“Jacob Gray,” said Britton, striding up to him, and grinding his words
through his set teeth, “there will come a time for vengeance.”
“Exactly,” said Gray, calmly.
“An hour will come when I shall have the pleasure, and I would pay
dearly for it, of cutting your throat.”
“You shall pay dearly for it when you do,” said Gray; “and, in the
meantime cunning, clever, extremely artful Master Britton, I bid you
good morning.”
“Wretch!” cried Britton.
“Oh very cunning Britton,” sneered Gray; “amazingly clever, artful,
deep Master Britton—Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Now, if I dared!” cried Britton, half drawing a knife from his breast.
“But you dare not,” cried Gray.
“You are too cunning, far too cunning, clever Britton—Ha! Ha!”
“Away! Away!” said Learmont. “Come, Britton, we waste time.”
“Ay, and precious time, too,” added Gray, “only Master Britton is so
very—so extremely cunning and clever.”
“Come, come,” cried Learmont, seizing Britton by the arm.
“Nay, do not hurry away,” sneered Gray. “Shall I offer you
refreshments? ’Tis some distance to Westminster. Will you go by water,
cunning Britton?”
Britton’s passion was too great for utterance, and he walked to the
door, which he kicked open with a violence that split it from top to
bottom.
“You will like to hear, Squire Learmont,” said Gray, “that all is
right. I will do myself the honour of paying you a visit to-morrow.”
Learmont turned at the door, and cast a glance at Gray, that even he
quailed under, and then, followed Britton down the staircase.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Morning.—The Body of the Murdered Man.—The Old Inn.—Jacob’s
Reflections.
When Learmont and the smith had left the house, and Jacob Gray felt
that his great and inevitable danger was over, he sunk into a chair,
and a fit of trembling came over him that he was many minutes in
recovering from.
“They are foiled this once,” he muttered; “but they may not be
again—’twas a rare chance, a most rare chance, I—I must leave her now.
I am hunted—hunted like a wild animal, from den to den. Oh! How they
would have rejoiced in my destruction. This is a sad life to
lead—and—and if, before they came, I had taken her life, I should even
now be lying a stiffened corpse on these boards—yet, what can I do? She
is my torment; she will be my destruction!”
He then rose, and paced the room for some time with hasty and unequal
steps. Suddenly pausing, he trembled again with the same awful
intensity that he had done before, and in a hoarse, husky whisper,
said,—
“What if she come not back? She suspects me. It is time she were here
again. Oh! If she should seek protection elsewhere! More danger!—More
danger!—Into what a tangled web of horrors am I placed! Can I fly? What
money have I? A large sum, but yet not enough. Oh! If Learmont would
give me at once a sum of money which would suffice me in a foreign
land, and trust my word to go, and if I could trust him to let me live
to go. Ah! There it is!—There it is! We cannot trust each other—not for
a moment—no, not for a moment.”
Jacob Gray muttered these gloomy meditations in a low, anxious tone,
and almost at every word he paused to endeavour to detect some token of
the return of Ada. None, however, met his ears, and, after two hours of
mental agony of mind had thus passed over the head of Jacob Gray, he
crept down the staircase, and stood at the door looking anxiously about
him by the dim morning light that was beginning, with its cold grey
tints, to struggle through the darkness of the sky.
“She does not come,” he muttered—“she does not come. What shall I
do—whither seek her? Yet—I—I must endeavour to find her.”
He now turned his attention to the broken lock of the door, and after
some time, succeeded in closing it after him tolerably securely, then
searching in the road till he found a piece of chalk, he wrote on the
door,—
“Wait—J.G.”
“Should she return during my absence,” he thought, “she will recognise
my writing and initials to wait my return. She is most probably near at
hand, waiting for me to search for her.”
Casting again a cautious, scrutinising glance around him, Jacob Gray
walked slowly down the ruined street, peering into each doorway as he
went, with the hope of seeing Ada.
His search was unsuccessful. He could see no trace of Ada; and a
thousand feelings of alarm and suspicion began to crowd upon his mind.
He paused irresolutely at the end of the street, uncertain which way he
should shape his course. At last, with a sudden resolution, he walked
in the direction of Westminster Bridge.
As he neared Lambeth, he observed that the watermen, who plied at the
different stairs by the side of the river, seemed particularly
engrossed by some subject of importance, for they were congregated
together in knots of two, three, and four, discoursing earnestly and
vehemently.
He approached one, and touching his arm, said,—
“What is the matter, friend?”
“Murder’s the matter,” replied the man.
“Murder!”
“Ay, murder. There has been a murder done in the Bishop’s Walk.”
“In the Bishop’s Walk?”
“Yes; the body was found cold and stiff—the body of a waterman; but we
will have justice.”
“What was his name?” said Gray.
“Sheldon. He plied at the bridge stairs opposite.”
“I thank you, friend,” said Gray, as he walked on muttering to himself,—
“Now, I’d lay my life this murder is Britton’s doing. Oh, if I could
fix him with it—and yet there might be danger. At the gallows he might
denounce me—yes, he would. It must have been by means of this man
somehow that my retreat was so quickly discovered—yet how, I cannot
divine.”
He now observed a small public-house, at the door of which was a throng
of persons, and pressing forward, he soon learned that there the body
of the murdered man lay.
Impelled by a curiosity that he could not resist, Gray entered the
house, and calling for some liquor, commenced a conversation with the
landlord, which somewhat altered his opinion concerning the murderer.
“I saw Sheldon,” said the host, “and intend to swear to it solemnly,
pass my house at an unusual hour in company with a stranger. I was
looking out to see the state of the night when I saw them pass on
towards the Bishop’s Walk.”
“What kind of man was he with?” said Gray.
“A tall man.”
“Thin and dark?”
“Nay, as for his complexion I can say nothing, for in the dark, you
know, all cats are grey.”
“True; but you could swear to the man being tall and thin, Master
Landlord?”
“In faith I could, and your tall, thin men are just what I dislike—bah!
They seldom drink much.”
“Most true—I thank you. ’Tis a barbarous murder.”
“Would you like, sir, to see the corpse?” said the landlord, in an
under tone.
“The corpse?” echoed Gray.
“Ay; he was a fine fellow. You must know that Sir Francis Hartleton has
been here—”
“The magistrate?”
“Yes. He is here, and there, and everywhere; and no sooner did he hear
of the body of a murdered man being found in the Bishop’s Walk, than he
had a cast across the Thames from his own house in Abingdon-street.”
“Yes—yes,” said Gray, abstractedly.
“He had the body brought here,” continued the loquacious landlord, “and
he says to me,—‘Landlord, allow no one to see or touch the corpse or
it’s clothing until you hear from me.’—‘No, your worship,’ says I, and
I’ve kept my word for excepting neighbour Taplin, the corn-factor, Mrs.
Dibbs, next door, Antony Freeman, the hosier, John Ferret, the bishop’s
steward, Matthew Briggs, who keeps the small wareshop at the corner,
Matthew Holland, the saddler, Dame Tippetto, the old midwife, and just
a few more friends, no one has crossed the threshold of the room the
corpse lies in. That I could take my solemn oath of, sir, I assure you.”
“No doubt—no doubt,” said Gray, “I—I will, if it so please you, see the
body.”
“Come along, then,” said the landlord, placing his finger by the side
of his nose, and keeping up a succession of winks all the way up the
staircase, till he came to the room door in which the body of the
murdered waterman was lying.
Jacob Gray entered after the landlord, and closed the door behind him.
“Now, sir, you will see him,” said the host. “Just let me move a
shutter, and you will have a little more light. There, sir—there he
lies. Ah, he was fond of his glass—that he was—a fine fellow.”
A stream of light came from the partially unclosed shutter, and Gray
saw the corpse of the man whom he had tempted to commit a murder upon
Britton himself, lying cold and stark in the bloody embrace of death.
The body lay upon a table, and the warmth of the house had caused the
wound to bleed slightly again. The face was ghastly and pale, and the
wide open staring eyes gave an awful appearance to the fixed rigid
countenance.
“See there, now,” cried the landlord. “You may note where he has been
run through the breast; don’t you see the rent?”
“I do,” said Gray.
“There are two such wounds.”
“Don’t it strike you,” remarked Gray, “that these are sword wounds?”
“Of course it does.”
“Then who but a gentleman accredited to wear a weapon could have killed
the man?”
“That’s true. I’ll solemn swear to that,” cried the landlord.
“The tall, thin, dark man,” added Gray, “must be some gentleman,
residing probably hereabout, or directly across the bridge.”
“No doubt; I’ll swear.”
“Most properly,” added Gray. “Good day to you, sir. I may perchance
look in again.”
“Come to the inquest, sir,” said the landlord. “There you shall have it
all out, I’ll warrant. There you shall hear me solemnly swear
everything.“
“Perchance, I may,” said Gray, as he descended the staircase. “Will it
be to-day?”
“To-morrow, at noon; as I understand, sir.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Gray left the house, and when he was some paces from the door, he
muttered.—
“So, Master Learmont, I have another hold upon your kind generosity.
That by some strange chance, which I cannot conjecture, this waterman
found out my place of abode, and thus communicated it to you, Squire
Learmont. I am convinced. Humph! He has got his wages. I could accuse
you of a crime, good, kind, considerate Learmont, that would not in the
least compromise my own safety. We shall see—we shall see. I—I must now
make my way homewards again. Surely by this time Ada has returned. She
must be waiting. Home! Home! And then, to think of another place in
which to hide my head from my worst foe, and yet my only source of
wealth.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
Ada’s Flight and Despair.—Old Westminster Bridge at Daybreak.—The
Smith.—Mad Maud.
When Ada, the beautiful and persecuted child of the dead, passed from
the room in the garments befitting her sex, she thought her heart must
burst with the suppressed feelings which were conjured up in its inmost
recesses. One awful question occurred to her to be traced in letters of
liquid fire upon her brain, and that was: “Is it true that Jacob Gray
is my father?” His assertion of the fact had come upon her so entirely
unawares that, as Gray had himself exultingly supposed, she had not
time to think—but the doubt—the merest suspicion that it might true,
was madness. Ada did not—she could not, even at the moment that Gray
declared himself her father, believe his words; but still the doubt was
raised, and although all reason—all probability—all experience gave the
lie to the assertion, there was still the awful intrusive thought that
it might be so.
Upon the impulse of that small possibility, that in that moment of
despair and agony of soul Jacob Gray had spoken truly, Ada acted. She
could not run the dreadful risk of sacrificing even a brutal and
criminal father, and with a speed that in her state of mind was
marvellous, she altered herself, in her girl’s clothing, and, as we
have seen, for the time, saved Jacob Gray from death.
As she descended the narrow, dilapidated staircase, she pressed her
hands convulsively upon her heart to still its tumultuous beatings. Her
position in life appeared to her to be all at once strangely altered.
If—and oh! That horrid if,—if conveying as it did a possibility of the
fact—if Jacob Gray was really her father!—What was she now to do?—How
think of him?—How address him? Could she ever bestow upon him the
smallest fraction of that dear love which flows in so easy and natural
a current from a child to its parent? Could she call him father?—No,
she felt that she could not. She examined her feelings to endeavour to
detect some yearnings of natural love and duty—some of that undefined,
mysterious instinct she had read of as enabling the parent to single
out the child—the child the parent, from the great mass of humanity;
but the search—the self-examination was in vain. Jacob Gray was to her
but the cruel, vindictive tyrant, rioting in oppression and brutality
when un-resisted, and shrinking from her like a beaten hound when she
dared to confront him, and question his acts.
“God of Heaven!” she said, when she had reached the street; “there
should be some similarity of thought, some community of feeling between
a father and his child. Do I and Jacob Gray think alike in anything?
Have we one feeling in common?—No,—not one.”
As the probabilities of his not being her father crowded upon her mind,
now that the intense excitement of the minute was over, Ada became more
happy and composed, and she slackened her pace, seeing that she had
already placed a considerable distance between herself and the house
which had been to her a prison for so long a period.
“I will not, cannot believe it,” she said to herself; “that man is no
father of mine. ’Twas a trick—a master-stroke in the extremity of his
fortunes to bend me to his wishes, for some reasons which I know not,
and cannot even hazard the wildest guess of. My father? Jacob Gray, my
father? Oh, no, no, no! Rather never let me look upon a father’s face,
than feel assured of such a horror as that! It cannot—cannot be. Oh,
what would I not give to be assured of the lie! Had I worlds of riches
in my grasp, I would unloose my hold and let them fly from me to be
assured, past all doubt—past all hesitation, that Jacob Gray was to me
neither father nor uncle.”
The dank fog that hung upon the Thames was now slowly clearing from
before the face of heaven, and by the time Ada had reached Westminster
Bridge, she could see through several breaks in the sky, glimpses of
the starry host looking down upon the rapidly departing night.
The excitement the young girl had gone through had hitherto supported
her against the intense coldness of the raw air, but now she trembled
in every limb, and as she stood upon the silent bridge, trying to
pierce with her dark, lustrous eyes, the heavy fog, and to catch a
glimpse of the rushing stream below, she felt the cold to her very
heart, and all the miseries of her homeless, friendless situation,
rushing at once like a full tide upon her mind, she shrank into one of
the little alcoves of the bridge, and sinking upon the rude wooden
seat, she burst into tears, and sobbed aloud in the deep anguish of her
heart.
Suddenly then she started to her feet, as she heard a heavy footstep
approaching. Her first impulse was to leave her place of refuge, and
walk quickly onwards, but a second thought caused her to shrink back,
with the hope that the stranger would pass on, and she should escape
his observation.
Nearer and nearer she heard the heavy measured tread approaching, and
an undefinable sensation of fear crept over her as the sounds echoed
from one side of the old bridge to the other.
Now and then the person, whoever it was, would pause in his walk, and
indistinct mutterings, as if he were communing with himself, reached
the ears of Ada.
As he came near she could detect the words he used, and her ears were
shocked by oaths of the most awful character, coupled with invectives
and horrible imprecations against some one. Involuntarily Ada shrank
still closer within the alcove, and now the stranger paused nearly
opposite to where she was concealed, and she could hear his words
distinctly.
“Curses on him,” he muttered; “I swear, I, Andrew Britton, swear by all
the furies of hell that I will have that man’s blood! He shall bitterly
rue his taunts, most bitterly. By Heaven, I would like to tear his
heart out. I—I could set his blood flowing like a torrent. I could
exult in any agony inflicted upon him. Cunning Britton am I? Taunt
on—taunt on; every dog will have his day.”
There was now a dead silence for some moments, and Ada strove to
recollect where and when she had heard that voice before.
“Can this be one of those from whose visits my—my—no, no, not my
father—my uncle shrank from in so much terror? It surely is—or else I
have heard his voice in some dream. Ha! He comes—he comes!”
Britton, for it was he, advanced a pace or two and leaned upon the
parapet of the bridge, still muttering deep and awful curses. He was so
close to Ada that she could have touched him with her small white hand,
had she chosen, but she stilled the very beating of her heart as much
as possible, in instinctive terror of that man.
“It’s all to do over again now,” he said: “all over again—with the
additional difficulty that he is upon his guard. Oh, could I but light
on that boy; I—I’d wring his neck—and then—then Jacob Gray, I would
invent some method of burning you to death painfully; some method that
would take long in doing this—I should see you writhe in your agony. By
the fiends there’s comfort in the thought. Oh, that I had him here—here
clinging to the parapet of this bridge while I—I, Andrew Britton, was
slowly—yes, very slowly, sawing his fingers till he loosed his hold and
fell. Then he would strike against yon projection. Ha! Ha! That would
be one pang—I should hear him shriek—what music! Then down—down he
would go into the water, mingling his blood with it! I should see him
rise again, and his heart would break in another shriek. Ha! Ha! Ha!—I
am better with the very thought. He—a step—I will to the Chequers, and
drown care in a flagon!”
A strange wild voice was now heard singing in a kind of rude chaunt.
The tones were feeble and broken, but Ada, with a feeling of pleasure,
recognised in them those of a woman. Her attention, however, was in a
moment again turned to Britton, who all at once exclaimed, “What voice
is that? I—I know that voice, although I have not heard it for some
time now.”
The voice became more distinct as the singer approached, and there was
a wild earnestness in the manner in which the following words were
spoken, which touched Ada to the heart:—
“The winter’s wind is cold,
But colder is my heart,
I pray for death full oft,
Yet may not now depart,
I have a work to do,
The gentle child to save,
Alas! That its poor father
Should want a shroud and grave.”
“Now I know her—now I know her!” cried Britton. “Damnation, it’s—it’s
Mad Maud! Shall I fly from her—or—or kill her?”
Before he could decide upon a course of action, the poor creature was
close to him. She laid her hand upon his arm—
“Found—found,” she shrieked. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Found at last. Andrew Britton
I have travelled many miles to find thee out.”
“Away, cursed hag!” cried Britton,
“I have sought you,” continued the poor woman, “oh, how I have sought
you and Learmont too. You see I am mad, and so I know more than
ordinary people. The day is coming—the day of vengeance, and I have
come to London to see it. I have asked often—often for you, Andrew
Britton, and now you are found.”
“Devil!” cried Britton, “why do you haunt me?”
“Haunt you! Yes, that is the word, I do haunt you! I will haunt you to
the last.”
“Indeed! Perhaps you may meet with some accident.”
“No, no; I will tell you who I asked for you. You will not be
surprised.”
“Who?—Who dared you ask for me?”
“There was a man hung last Monday—”
“Well, w—what is that to me? If there were fifty men hung? What is it
to me, I say?”
“Nothing—oh, nothing, Andrew Britton; but I asked if he knew your
hiding-place.”
“Why ask him?”
“Because the good and just cannot know you; you belong not to them; I
asked the man who stood beneath the gibbet if he had been tempted to
crime by Andrew Britton, the savage smith of Learmont; I asked the
hangman if he knew you, and when he said he did not, I described you to
him, that he might recognise you, when his cold clammy hands, are about
your neck!”
“Prating idiot!” said Britton, “if you tempt me to the deed, I’ll cast
you over the bridge!”
“You dare not, Andrew Britton! You dare not,” cried Maud. “Savage as
you are, you dare not do that! Strange, too, as you boast yourself, you
could not!”
“Indeed!“ answered Britton. “Now, by Heaven—”
“Hold—hold! Whatever you do, swear not by Heaven;—that Heaven you will
never see! What have you to do with Heaven, that you should record your
blustering oaths in its pure annals? Swear not by Heaven, Andrew
Britton, or you may provoke a vengeance that may be terrible even to
you.”
“Tell me,” said Britton, in an evidently assumed tone of mildness,
“what brought you to London?”
“A holier errand, Britton, than that which has brought you, God knows I
came to save, but you came to destroy.”
“Save who?”
“The child! The child!”
“You speak in riddles, Maud. What child?”
“I am mad!” replied the woman. “I know I am mad, but I have not
forgotten—no, no. I cannot tell how long ago it is, but I saw the child
of the dead brought forth by the bleeding man!”
“You rave,” cried Britton.
“No—no; I had no clue to that young child. To wander in search of it
was hopeless till—till I found that you, Andrew Britton, were on the
move. So long as the sound of your hammer rose on the night air at
Learmont, I stayed there,—I hovered round your dwelling.”
“You played the spy upon me?” cried Britton.
“I did—I did; and wherefore should I not? I have followed you to this
city. You came to seek the child; so have I. But you came quickly, with
gold to urge you on your way; I have been many weeks begging from door
to door. I asked two things wherever I went; one was a morsel of broken
bread, and the other was to place my face towards London; now I am
here,—here, Britton, I came to save the child.”
“Wretch!” cried Britton; “if your madness may be feigned for all I
know. Swear to me that you will at once, return to Learmont.”
“Return?”
“Ay; you shall not dog my steps. I know not what you mean. You rave,
woman—you rave.”
“Do I rave? Well, well, perhaps ’tis true. But I saw the child.”
“Tell me one thing, Maud. Do you know who that child is?”
There was a pause of a moment and Ada’s heart beat with tumultuous
emotion, as she thought that now she might hear by this strange
accidental meeting the secret of her birth.
“Yes,” said Maud; “yes—I know.”
“You are sure,” said Britton.
“I know, I know,” repeated Maud.
“Then, if there is a heaven above us, or a hell beneath us,” cried
Britton, “you shall not leave this bridge alive.”
“Hush—hush!” cried Mad Maud, “I have dreamt it often, and believe it.
You are to die before I do; it is so arranged, Andrew Britton.”
Ada looked out with trembling apprehension from her place of
concealment, and she saw, by the rapidly increasing light of the coming
day, the savage smith casting rapid glances around, as if to assure
himself that no one was within sight of the deed of blood he was about
to commit. For a moment an awful apathy crept over the heart of Ada,
and she felt as if she were condemned to crouch in that little alcove
without power of voice or action, and see the murder committed.
Mad Maud did not appear to have comprehended the last muttered threat
of Britton, for she stood with her arms folded across her breast,
murmuring in a low tone to herself, and apparently unheedful even of
the presence of her enemy. Ada then saw the smith fumble awhile in his
breast, and then he drew forth a knife. She saw it glitter in the faint
light.
“Yes, yes,” said Maud, in a low tone, “I recollect all, or nearly all.
How difficult it is to separate the dreams from the reality. The spirit
of the dead man still haunts the place! Yes; that is real! He cries for
his child!—His little child!—And there is a garb on his breast! Let me
think. How has he lived so long after his murder? Oh, yes—I know now:
it is by drinking the blood continually from his own wounds! Ay, that
would preserve him!”
Britton made a step towards her.
“The child!” she cried suddenly.
“You shall torment me no longer,” he cried.
“Ha!” shrieked Maud, as she saw the knife uplifted, “you dare
not—cannot do it!”
She shrank back, but Britton followed close upon her, Ada again saw the
knife uplifted, and by a violent effort, like a person recovering from
a nightmare, she screamed.
The sound seemed to Britton so great a surprise, that he staggered, and
dropped the knife from his trembling hand.
Her own voice appeared to have broken the spell of horror that bound up
the faculties of Ada, and now, by an impulse which lent her strength
and courage, she rushed from the place of concealment, and, snatching
the knife from the ground, she fled quickly along the bridge, crying,
“Help!—Help!”
She had not proceeded many paces when she was caught in the arms of
some one who cried,—
“Hilloa!—hilloa! What now, little one?”
“Help!—Murder on the bridge!” cried Ada. “Oh!—Haste!—Haste!—Save the
woman!”
It was the watchman going his rounds, and he hurried onwards, as fast
as his chilled limbs would permit him, towards the spot indicated by
Ada, who closely followed him.
“He has killed her!” exclaimed Ada, as she saw Maud lying apparently
lifeless on the stones.
“Murder done!” cried the watchman.
Ada cast an anxious glance around her, and she thought that at the
further extremity of the bridge she caught sight of the flying figure
of the man who she believed had done the deed.
“There!” she said, pointing in the direction—“Pursue him!—There flies
the murderer!”
The watchman immediately threw down the lantern, and with a great
clattering of his iron-shod shoes, rushed across the bridge.
“Alas!—Alas!” cried Ada, clasping her hands. “What can all this mean?
Who is this poor mad creature?—And who that fearful man? The mystery in
which my birth, name, and fate is involved, grows more and more
inexplicable. Was it of me she talked so strangely and so wildly? Oh!
If she could but breathe to me one word, to assure me that Jacob Gray
was not my father, how richly would the terrors of this fearful night
be repaid!”
Ada knelt by the body of Maud as she spoke, and placed her hand over
her heart, to endeavour to trace some sign of vitality.
“She lives—she lives!” suddenly cried Ada, as she felt the regular
beating of the organ of life. “Perchance the villain has only struck
her. He may not, after casting away his knife, have had the means of
harming her very seriously.”
A deep groan now came from the lips of the insensible woman.
“Speak—oh, speak!” cried Ada.
Maud opened her eyes. They glared with the wild fire of insanity on Ada.
“Do you know me?” said the girl.
“Know you?—Know you? Are you an angel or a devil?”
“Alas!” cried Ada. “There is no hope.”
Maud passed her hand across her eyes for several moments as if trying
to clear the mist that beset her memory and mental faculties. Then she
said,—
“Where is he?”
“The man you were talking with?”
“Yes, Britton, the savage smith of Learmont.”
“He has fled.”
“Yes—yes—fled. He was pursued by the dead man asking for his child.”
“What child?” said Ada, in a voice trembling with anxiety.
“I saw its little arms cling round its father’s murderer. I heard him
shriek—I heard him say the hell of conscience had began its awful work
within his guilty breast.”
“The child—the child,” cried Ada,—“what was its name? Oh, tell me, if
you can, its name?”
“Its name,” repeated Maud. “It was the child of the dead. It—it
reminded me of my own. Listen! When I was young—for I was young
once—and my hair hung in long silken rights from my brow, when my eyes
danced in the pure light of heaven, and my heart mounted with joy,
singing like the lark that carries its sweet notes even to the gates of
heaven. Long—long ago I clasped to my breast such a dear child as that.
So you see it reminded me of my own dear infant.”
“And you knew not its name?” said Ada.
“Its name!—No, I cannot tell you its name! but I will tell you a dream.”
“Answer me one question,” said Ada. “The child, I heard you say, you
came to London to save. Was its name Gray?”
“Gray—Gray. Who is Gray?”
“There is hope even,” sighed Ada, “in the want of confirmation of a
terrible doubt. If I am the child she raves so strangely of, she knows
me not by that most hateful name.”
“Will you hear my dream?” said Maud, endeavouring to rise from the cold
stones.
Ada saw that blood was trickling from her head, but whether she had
struck it in falling, or the man who had attempted her destruction had
inflicted the wound, was doubtful. Ada, however, assisted her to her
feet, and as she did so she heard the tread of the watchman as he
returned slowly from his pursuit.
“He’s off,” cried the man. “Hilloa!—Ain’t the woman dead?”
“Dead!” shrieked Maud, suddenly confronting the watchman, “is Andrew
Britton dead?”
“Who?”
“Andrew Britton, the savage smith; because he is to die before me. Ha!
Ha! Yes, Andrew Britton will die before I do.”
With wild laughter she flew rather than ran across the bridge in the
direction of Lambeth, and her voice echoed in the still morning air, as
she shrieked,—
“Andrew Britton—Andrew Britton—I am not dead!—Not dead yet!”
The watchman stared after her in amazement, and Ada took the
opportunity, while he was thus fully engaged, of walking quickly
onwards until she had cleared the bridge and the solemn spires of
Westminster Abbey came upon her sight.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Ada’s Wanderings.—The Pearl Necklace.—A Kind Heart.—The Park.—A Joyous
Meeting.—The Arrangement.
Cold and hunger now began to exercise a sensible influence upon the
fragile frame of Ada. Her step became languid and slow, and she began
to feel that her strength was fast deserting her. Her dislike to return
to Jacob Gray was very great, and yet where else in that great city
could she find a place whereon to lay her aching limbs? The sense of
her own extreme destitution came vividly across her imagination, and
had it not been for the curious gaze of the early passengers she met,
she could have wept freely in her bitterness of heart. Listlessly she
walked onwards, and thought, from its very intensity, became at last a
positive pain. Money she had none; and, in fact, so secluded from the
world had she been kept by the fears of Jacob Gray, that she would not
have known how to procure the means of supporting life, even had she
possessed valuable property about her.
A cold, glaring winter’s sun shone forth from a clear sky, mocking the
earth with an appearance of warmth, which made the sharp wind that
whistled round the corners of the streets seem doubly keen and piercing.
“Must I return to that dismal house?” thought Ada—“must I again throw
myself on the mercy of that man who calls himself my father?”
She paused in doubt and irresolution, and no one who passed could fail
to mark the air of deep dejection which sat upon the pale anxious face
of the young girl.
It so chanced that she stopped opposite to the shop-door of a jeweller
and dealer in precious stones, in Parliament-street, and as she clung
to the little wooden rail that guarded the window, she saw the keen,
sparkling eyes of an old man fixed on her from within. His beard and
general appearance proclaimed him a Jew, and scarcely had Ada shrank
from his gaze, and paused a step or two onwards, when she heard a voice
behind her saying,—
“My dear, will you sell that necklace?”
Ada turned quickly. The old man from the shop stood before her, and
repeated his question.
“Will you sell that necklace?”
“Necklace?” said Ada.
“Yes; the little necklace you have round your pretty little neck, my
dear.”
Ada now recollected that among her female attire she had found the
necklace; and hastily clasped it on when dressing, to elude the search
of Jacob Gray’s furious visitors.
“I am tired and hungry,” said Ada.
“Are you indeed. Bless me!” cried the old man. “Walk into my shop. You
see I am an old man. Walk in—do walk in.”
Ada suffered herself to be led into the little shop, and unclasping the
necklace, she said—
“Will it fetch me a meal?”
“A meal?” said the jeweller, and his eyes sparkled as he took the
necklace. “A meal? Why it’s real—no, I mean mock—mock pearls—”
“And valueless?” said Ada.
“No—no—not quite—not quite, my dear. Here is a new guinea—a bright new
guinea!”
Ada took the coin, and said, languidly—
“Alas! I am so strange here, I know not even how to dispose of this to
procure me food.”
“Indeed?” said the jeweller. “Do you know nobody? Have you no friends?”
“Do you—can you,” said Ada, and a radiant blush suffused her cheeks as
she spoke—“can you tell me, if you know where a Sir Seyton lives?”
“Does he know you had a necklace?” said the Jew.
“No, I scarcely knew it myself.”
“Indeed!” cried the jeweller, lifting up his eyes and hands. “My dear,
I don’t know the gentleman you mention.”
“I thank you,” said Ada, rising.
She left the shop, and looking back after she had gone a few paces, she
could not derive how it was that the Jew was putting up his shutters
with nervous haste. She little knew that her necklace was of Indian
pearls, and worth a very large sum indeed.
To her joy, after she had proceeded a few paces further, she saw that
the second house, down a small turning to her left, was a little
dairy—and immediately entering, she requested of the old woman who
served, a draft of milk.
It was handed to her, and she drank it off with great pleasure and laid
on the little counter her guinea.
“Would you like the rest, miss?” said the old woman; “you do seem
tired, to be sure.”
“I am tired,” said Ada, “and would gladly rest myself, if I am not in
your way.”
“Dear heart, no,” said the old woman. “Come in here, it’s warmer than
the shop. What weather we do have to be sure.”
Ada accompanied, the woman to the little parlour at the back of the
shop, and the good dame placed before her some rolls and more milk, of
which the wearied girl partook with more pleasure than she ever made
breakfast with before.
“You are too young to be out by yourself,” said the dame; “and a great
deal too pretty too.”
Ada shook her head, as she said,—
“Do you know where resides a Mr. Seyton?”
“No,” replied the woman. “This London is such an immense place, that
it’s like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay to find anybody.”
“If I could find him,” sighed Ada, “he would be my friend. Is there a
gentleman named Sir Francis Hartleton?”
“Indeed there is; and if you want him, he lives close at hand. He is a
magistrate, and as good a man as ever breathed.”
“Indeed,” said Ada, “’Tis very strange!”
“What’s strange, my dear?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing. Can you show me to his house?”
“Yes; if you come to the door, I can point it out for you, though he
very likely to be at his office, and that’s across the park.”
Ada accompanied the old woman to her outer door, and she pointed out to
the refreshed and much revived girl a handsome house, as the residence
of Sir Francis Hartleton.
She again tendered her guinea, but the kind-hearted woman replied—
“Pho, pho, my dear. You sha’n’t change your guinea for a sup of milk.”
The tears gathered to Ada’s eyes at this trifling act of kindness, and
she grasped the hand of the good dame, warmly, as she said, in a voice
of emotion,—
“I am not used to kindness.”
“Not used to kindness? Ah, well, poor thing! If your friend, Sir
Francis Hartleton, ain’t in the way, come here again.”
“If I live,” said Ada, “I will visit you again.”
She then, with a sweet smile, walked from the little dairy, and slowly
approached the house of Sir Francis Hartleton. She paused as she neared
it, and many anxious doubts and fears crossed her mind, concerning the
result of an interview with the magistrate; to whom Jacob Gray’s
mysterious bundle of papers was addressed, and above all, rose like a
spectre, the still clinging horrible supposition that Jacob Gray might
possibly be her father. She could not positively swear that he was not.
In defiance of all probability he might have spoken the truth.
She stood by the portico of the magistrate’s house, and her
irresolution increased each moment that she strove to reason with her
fears.
“Dare I,” she thought, “run this dreadful risk? Heaven knows what that
paper may contain which Gray sets such store by. Some awful history of
crime and suffering, perchance, which would bring him to a scaffold and
proclaim me the child of a murderer. Can I make conditions with the
magistrates? Can I say to him, I will direct you to a packet addressed
to yourself, containing, I know not what, which you can send a force,
if necessary, to possess yourself of, but which you must act upon only
so far as may be consistent with my feelings? Alas, no! I feel that
such would not be acceded to, and I am tortured by doubts and
anxieties—dreadful fears—Jacob Gray, what devil tempted you to raise so
dreadful a supposition in my mind that you might be my father? And yet
I do not, cannot believe you. No—but I doubt—ay doubt. There lies the
agony! The fearful irresolution that cramped my very soul—cripples my
exertions to be free, and makes me the unhappy, wretched thing I am.
No, I cannot yet betray thee to death, Jacob Gray, although you would
have taken my life, even while I slept unsuspectingly beneath your
roof, I cannot, dare not yet betray thee.”
Scarcely, in the confusion of other feelings, knowing whither she went,
she passed the door of Sir Francis Hartleton’s house, nor paused till
she found herself in the Bird Cage Walk, in St. James’s Park. It was
still very early, but the fine bracing morning had attracted many
pedestrians to the park, and the various walks were beginning to assume
a gay appearance, the fashionable hour of promenading being then much
earlier than it is at present.
Many an admiring glance was cast upon the beautiful Ada as she slowly
took her uncertain way beneath the tall ancient trees which have now
given place to young saplings, the fall beauty of which the present
generations will never enjoy. The cool air that blew across the wide
expanse imparted a delicate bloom to her cheeks, that many a court
beauty would have bartered a portion of her existence to obtain. The
hat she wore but partially confined the long dancing black ringlets
that fell in nature’s own freedom on her neck and shoulders; and,
withal, there was a sweet pensiveness in her manner, and the
expressions of her face, which greatly charmed and interested all the
gentlemen, and greatly vexed and discomposed all the ladies, who, with
one accord, voted it to be affectation.
How little they dreamt of the deep sorrow that was in the young girl’s
heart.
She walked on till she reached the Great Mall, and then, feeling
somewhat weary she sat down on one of the wooden seats, and seeing
nothing, hearing nothing, she gave herself up to her own thoughts, and
tears trickled slowly from her eyes, as all her meditations tended to
the one conclusion that she must starve or go back to the lone house
and Jacob Gray.
She was aroused from her reverie by some one repeatedly, in an affected
drawl pronouncing the word,—
“Delicious: de—licious; oh, de—licous!” immediately in front of where
she sat.
Ada looked up, and balancing himself before her, nearly on his toes,
was an affectedly dressed person who was staring at her through an
opera-glass, and repeating the word delicious, as conveying his extreme
admiration of her. When Ada looked up he advanced with a smirk and a
bow, and laying his hand on his embroidered waistcoat, said, in the
same drawling, affected tone—
“My charming little Hebe—what unearthly change—what glorious
concatenation of sublime events have procured St. James’s Park the
felicity of beholding you? Eh, eh, my delicious charmer?”
“Sir,” said Ada, annoyed by the tone of the remarks, the substance of
which she scarcely heard or comprehended.
“Charming simplicity!” cried the beau; “permit me.”
He seated himself with these words by the side of Ada, and attempted,
by an affected, apeish manner, to take her hand.
Ada shrunk from his touch, and rising with an innocent dignity, that
appalled for a moment the fine gentleman, she said—
“I do not know you, sir,” and walked onwards, leaving him the
questionable credit of having turned her out of the seat.
“Charming! charming!” she heard him say, after a few moments, as he
pursued her along the Mall.
Ada was excessively annoyed at this most disagreeable intrusion, and
she quickened her pace in the hope of distancing the gallant; such,
however, was not the event, for he was nearly close to her when she
arrived at the next seat, which was occupied but by one gentleman, who
was reading a book.
“One stranger,” thought Ada, “may protect me from the insults of
another,” and she paused close to the seat on which was the gentleman
reading.
“’Pon honour,” cried the beau who had followed her; “you walk most
vulgarly fast. Ah! Ah! Really now, a delicious little creature like you
ought to glide, not walk—to glide—positively glide. Ah! Ah! That would
be delicious.”
The gentleman who was reading looked up, his eyes met Ada’s.
“Harry!” he cried.
“Albert!” she replied, and bursting into tears, she clung convulsively
to the arms of Albert Seyton.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Young Lovers.—The Gallant of a Hundred Years Since.—Hopes and
Fears.—The Dream of a True Heart.
It was several moments before Ada or Albert Seyton could speak from
excess of joyful emotion, and it was then the drawling, affected voice
of the beau that recalled them to a consciousness of where they were,
and that some one besides themselves was in the world.
“’Pon honour—really—damme!” cried Ada’s persecutor. “This is
extraordinary.”
“Sir,” said Albert Seyton.
“Well, sir,” said the beau.
“I thought you spoke to me.”
“’Pon honour no; I wouldn’t condescend on any account. Oh, no, ’pon
honour.”
“I have no desire for your conversation,” said Albert, turning his back
to him.
“My dear, my charming, delicious damsel,” sais the beau, smiling at Ada.
“Do you know, sir,” said Albert rising, “that it is a high crime to
commit an assault in the Park?”
“Well, ’pon honour what then?”
“Only this, that if you will come outside the gates, I’ll cane you
within an inch of your life.”
“Eh, oh—a perfect savage—a wild beast, ’pon honour,” said the beau,
making a precipitate retreat.
“Oh, Harry; dear, dear Harry!” said Albert; “by what kind mercy of
Heaven are you here?”
“Albert, do not call me Harry.”
“My own girl, I know you by no other name. I am not surprised to see
you in these becoming garments.”
“You—you did not know—”
“That my playmate, Harry, was a beautiful girl,” interrupted Albert.
“No—I did not—my father it was who first breathed the suspicion that
such was the fact. And now tell me some dear feminine name to call you
by.”
“My name is Ada.”
“Ada? A charm is in the sound. My own dear, dear Ada. How came you
here—have you thought of me? Where is your uncle? Are you happy—dear
Ada, are you glad, to see me?”
“Albert,” said Ada, smiling through her tears, “I will answer your last
question first—I am glad to see you, so very glad that I could weep for
joy.”
“Nay, dear Ada, weep not. You shall never weep again if Albert Seyton
can save a tear from dimming your eyes.”
“I know it,” said Ada; “you were ever kind to the poor persecuted Ada.”
“I loved you, Ada.”
“Oh, Albert; I have passed through such horrors since we met.”
“Horrors, Ada?”
“Yes; and even now I shudder to think of my situation. I am destitute,
homeless, hopeless.”
“No, Ada,” said Albert; “there you wrong yourself and my love;
destitute you cannot be while I have an arm to labour for you—homeless
you shall not be, for my father, who is an honourable gentleman, will
love you as his adopted daughter. Can you then call yourself
friendless, Ada?”
“Albert, I am—I am.”
“What, Ada; what can you be but what I know you are—all truth, all
innocence and virtue?”
“Suppose—suppose,” gasped Ada, looking beseechingly in Albert’s face,
as if her whole existence hung upon his reply—“suppose my name was a
disgrace.”
“A disgrace?”
“Yes; suppose I had found a father whose hands were stained with blood.”
“Oh, no—no—Ada. This is some chimera of your own overwrought fancy.”
“Suppose it’s true, Albert Seyton; could you—dared you then call me
your Ada?”
“I could—I dared.”
“If—I were—the child of a—a—”
“A what?”
“A murderer!”
Albert took her hand gently and tenderly.
“Ada,” he said, “crime is not hereditary. You are sinless, spotless,
and if I desert you because you may have the misfortune to be the child
of one who is guilty, may God desert me in my utmost need.”
“Albert,” sobbed Ada, “I—I do not believe it; but it is a remote
possibility that Jacob Gray is my father.”
“Nor do I believe it,” said Albert, “’Tis against all nature—depend
upon it, Ada, it is not true.”
“But—but if it were?”
“My Ada,” was his only reply, accompanied by a smile that fell like
sunlight on the young girl’s innocent heart.
“You would not, even then, despise me, Albert?” she said.
“Despise you? Oh how can you associate that word with yourself? Despise
you, Ada; if you knew the weary miles I have traversed in search of
you, you would then feel how truly my happiness is wound up in yours.
Not a street, court, or lane in the great city, has been un-trodden by
me to look for you since your sudden departure from Mrs. Strangeways.”
“My uncle hurried me from there to a more secret place of concealment.
We have now for some time inhabited a dilapidated house in Lambeth,
which you might pass a hundred times, and never guess that aught human
lodged within its crumbling walls.”
“And still you know not the cause of all this mystery?”
“No; all is dark and mysterious as ever, Albert, except my name, my
Christian name, and that in a moment of unguarded passion, Jacob Gray
let slip from his lips. Oh, you know not what a pleasure it was to me,
in my desolation, to find I had a right to a name.”
“My poor Ada.”
“Yes, Albert, I am your poor Ada.”
“But rich in all true wealth, beauty, innocence, and dear virtue, such
as no gold can buy.”
“The kind words of those who love are so very grateful,” sighed Ada,
“and they are so new to me.”
“Tell me all that has happened to you since we last parted,” said
Albert. “My own history is very shortly summed up. My father, remained
some few weeks longer at Mrs. Strangeways, and then having by dint of
earnest applications and remonstrances, procured some portion of what
was his due from the Government, we have come close here by Buckingham
House, and I am myself in the hope of procuring a situation as private
secretary to a man, they say, of enormous wealth and great liberality.”
“I joy in your prospects,” said Ada. “Alas! Mine is a darker
retrospect—a gloomier future.”
“Nay, Ada, our happiness must go hand-in-hand; or farewell to it for
Albert Seyton.”
Ada sighed.
“You forget, Albert, that I am beset with difficulties—strange
mysteries are around me; who and what I am, even, I know not; although
perhaps my ignorance is my greatest joy, while it is my constant source
of anxiety, for I have hope now which might by a knowledge of the truth
be extinguished for ever.”
“Your hope shall become a bright certainty,” said Albert, fervently;
“and now, tell me, Ada, of your present situation. You have more
freedom, or you would not be in the Great Mall of St. James’s Park.”
“My freedom is but transitory,” sighed Ada.
“How so?”
“Last night there came with furious knocking at our house, two men. My
uncle said they came to take his life and mine, but that, not finding
me, they would allow him to escape.”
“’Tis very strange.”
“He urged me then to change my boyish clothing for these garments. I
resisted his request; he implored me—begged of me to do so, saying that
those who sought me knew me but as a boy, and would allow a girl to
pass out unmolested. Still I refused, for he had taken the life of a
poor dog that loved me, and my mind was sore against him. He kneeled to
me, wept, and at the last moment declared himself my father and a
murderer!”
“Good Heavens!”
“Yes; the words fell like a thunderbolt on my heart. The men were at
the door; there was not time to think. With frantic speed I did his
bidding.”
“And the plan succeeded?”
“It did. With wondering looks they let me pass. I wandered I know not
where;—to some bridge I came at length, and there, as I lay crouching
from the cold of the raw morning, one of the men passed over.”
“One of those who sought Jacob Gray?”
“Yes, the most violent. There, within my hearing, he had an altercation
with a poor mad wanderer, from whom I heard his name.”
“His name, Ada?—It may afford some clue.”
“It may. She called him Andrew Britton.”
“Andrew Britton!—I will not forget.”
“He attempted her murder. My screams, I believe, saved her life.”
“And their discourse, Ada?—What said they?”
“Their speech was of some child to whom great wrong had been done years
since. Oh, Albert, my heart told me it was of me they spoke.”
“Could you learn nothing of the woman?”
“Alas! No. Her wits were gone. She wandered strangely in her speech;
madness had taken possession of her, and she, who seemed to know the
mystery which envelopes me, could not shape her thoughts to tell me.”
“Heaven, Ada, will work out your deliverance in its own good time from
this tangled web of guilt and mystery that is cast around you. I still
think, as I thought before, that the packet which Gray keeps so
carefully concealed would unravel all.”
“And perhaps destroy him!”
“It might be so.”
“Then, Albert, arises the terrible doubt that bad, wicked, cruel as he
is, he may be the father of the wretched Ada.”
“I cannot for one moment think so,” said Albert; “and yet, I own the
thought is terrible.”
“If we err, Albert, oh, let us err safely. I cannot call down upon him
the vengeance of the laws he has outraged. If some proposal could be
made to him, by which he might be induced to tell the truth, upon an
assurance of safety from the consequences, I might be saved the bitter
pang of betraying my own father, guilty though he may be.”
“You are right, Ada,” said Albert; “that is the best, the surest, and
the most merciful course. My father will undertake to make such terms
with Jacob Gray. He will be mild, yet firm.”
“That would be joy indeed,” said Ada.
“It shall be done. Dear Ada, a happier future is brightening before
you. The past will seem like an envious dream that has only robbed you
of a few hours of sunshine and joy.”
“Oh, would I could think so!” said Ada.
“It will—it must be so!” cried Albert, with a full face of animation.
“Come with me now to my father, and we will concert all necessary
measures.”
“I think,” said Ada, “that if this matter can be arranged with Gray, as
we wish, he must be taken completely by surprise, or all will be lost.
If he have time to hide the papers, or to concoct some deception, we
shall gain nothing.”
“That is true, Ada, but how can we do as you wish:“
“Thus,” replied Ada. “I will show you the house, and expecting you and
your father at a particular hour, I can direct you. Then there can be
no time for Gray even to think of any but a straightforward course of
action.”
“But—but,” said Albert, “that involves your return to—to—Gray—and—”
“Oh, heed not that, Albert. A few short hours, blessed as they will be
by the conviction that they are the last, will seem nothing in that
house, where for so long I have been immured secretly during the light
of day, and with no companion to cheer, my solitude but a poor dumb
creature, that could but look its kindness and gratitude.”
“And yet, Ada, my heart is very sad at the mere thought of your
returning.”
“And so would mine be, Albert, were it not with the assurance of so
soon bidding adieu to those gloomy walls for ever.”
“I suppose it must be so,” said Albert with a sigh. “I will only just
see you so far as to enable you to point out the exact place to me, and
then depend upon my father and I being with you in another hour.”
“But one hour?”
“But one, dear Ada.”
“That will be easily supported,” said Ada, with a grateful smile. “Oh,
let us go at once.”
They rose from the Park seat, and the young lovers, arm-in-arm, walked
down the Great Mall.
“Are you sure you know the way, Ada?” said Albert, anxiously.
“If I saw the bridge again, I could find it, I know, although I might
not discover the most direct route, Albert.”
Thus affectionately, and dreaming of future happiness, which, alas! was
still not close at hand, the young guileless beings pursued their
course to the old house at Lambeth.
CHAPTER XXX.
Jacob’s Return Home.—An Unexpected Visitor.—The Lonely Watch.
When Gray left the public-house in which lay the body of the murdered
waterman, he took a rapid route by the edge of the river to his own
gloomy home, and very soon reached the cluster of condemned houses, in
one of which he resided.
Looking very cautiously around him, as was his invariable custom before
gliding into his abode, to see if any one was observing him, he took a
key from his pocket, and, opening the frail door, quickly entered the
passage.
Then applying his eye to the window, through which he had reconnoitred
Britton and Learmont, he took a long look up and down the street to see
if he could detect the form of Ada lurking in any of the doorways,
awaiting his return.
“She is not here,” he muttered. “Well, she knows nothing—can guess
nothing, or, what little she does know or guess, she dares not utter to
human ears, for she will be tormented by the supposition that I may be
her father. Let her die in the streets—let her rot, so she trouble not
me; and yet I wonder she has not returned. She must have lost her way.”
Gray then opened the door again, and wiped off the words he had
written, then, carefully closing it, he had ascended about half way up
the creaking staircase, when his ears were suddenly saluted by a noise
that made him tremble, and convulsively clutch the crazy banisters for
support.
The noise was of quite a new character to Jacob Gray, and he could not
divine how or in what manner it could possibly be produced. It was not
a walking, it was not a fighting or a struggling—a dancing; but it was
a singular and wonderful admixture of them all. Then there would be a
shuffling scramble across the floor, then a hop, step, and a jump,
apparently, which would be followed by a continued bumping that
threatened the existence of the crazy house, and shook it to the very
foundation.
The perspiration of intense fear broke out upon the aching forehead of
Jacob Gray, and he sat down melancholy upon the stairs, to try to think
what could be the cause of the singular uproar in his commonly so
lonely dwelling.
Suddenly the noise approached the stair-head, and it assumed the form
of the pattering of naked feet, accompanied by the heavy tread of some
one in clumsy shoes.
Jacob Gray’s superstitious fears, and they were tolerably numerous, got
the better of his prudence, and he raised a cry of terror at the idea
of something of an unearthly character having taken up its abode in his
solitary dwelling.
The moment he spoke, the sounds rapidly retreated from the stair-head,
and for a few moments all was still as the grave.
Jacob Gray listened attentively for a long time before he would venture
up the staircase, and when he did so, it was step by step, and with the
utmost caution.
When he reached the top, he stood for a time, and listened attentively.
Not a sound met his ears. Then he gathered courage, and advanced to the
door of the room from whence the noises had seemed to proceed.
All was still, and Jacob Gray summoned his courage to turn the handle
of the lock and peer into the apartment.
“There is no one here,” he muttered. “What could it have been?
Imagination could not so deceive me!”
As he glanced round the room, to his surprise, he saw that several of
the articles which it contained were displaced; and his apprehensions
were still further increased by seeing on the floor several prints of
feet, of a character he could not define, and was quite certain he had
never seen before.
Scarcely had he time to think upon these strange and startling
appearances, when a low growl met his ears, and immediately upon that a
voice exclaimed.—
“There, now, you’ve done it! Oh, cuss you, Popsy.”
Gray gave a jump to the door, and he could scarcely believe his eyes
when a man’s head appeared from beneath the sofa, and confronted him
with a mixed expression of effrontery and apprehension.
“How—came—you—here?” gasped Gray.
“Popsy come out,” was the man’s only reply to his interrogatory; and,
to Gray’s surprise, an immense shaggy bear made its appearance from the
same place of concealment.
“Who are you?” cried Jacob Gray.
“Why don’t you answer the gentleman, you brute?” said the man, dealing
the bear a heavy blow with his fist; “affectionate ways is lost upon
you, that they is—”
“How dare you come here?” cried Gray.
“Don’t ye hear?” screamed the man, still addressing the bear. “How dare
ye come here?—Eh?”
“Spy!—Villain!” cried Gray, drawing from his breast the same knife with
which he would have stabbed Ada to the heart.
“Hilloah!—Hilloah!” cried the man. “Do you hear, my Popsy, what he
calls ye?”
The bear commenced a low growling, and displayed a formidable row of
blackened fangs at Jacob Gray.
“Who and what are you?” shrieked Gray to the man.
“Barbican Tibbs, the bear warden, but common people calls me Tipsy
Tibbs, and nothink else.”
“What in the name of hell brought you here?” cried Gray.
“Oh! I’m confidential,” replied the man, “and I don’t mind telling you.”
“Quickly then, quickly.”
“Why, you see they say as there isn’t to be allowed more than three
bear wardens in Westminster, and as I’ve only just come from
Canterbury, I makes faces and a parsecutor.”
“Faces, and a what?”
“A parsecutor—that is, they parsecutes me, and I gives them a dodge
through the streets, you see; and they, coming rather quick, I bolts
down this here street, and the first thing I sees is ‘wait—J.G.’ on
your door.”
“Well, what then?”
“Why, then Popsy and me, we gives the door a drive and we gets in, then
we shuts it again, and we’ve waited here ever since.”
“And it was you who made the noise I heard just now, as I was ascending
the stairs?”
“Very like; and it has quite alarmed poor Popsy, and shattered his
nerves by squeaking out in the passage.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A matter of half an hour.”
“What have you stolen?”
“Stole! Stole!”
“Yes: tell me, for there are some things I value, and some I do not.”
“Popsy, does ye hear what a opinion he has of your morals?”
Gray walked across the room, and opening a door that led to an inner
apartment, he entered it and remained absent some minutes. During that
absence he took from a chest (the key of which he had about him) a
large sum of money, being the bulk of what he had, from time to time,
received of Learmont, and he stowed it carefully about his person; the
greatest care, however, he bestowed upon a packet of papers that were
at the bottom of the bag. These he placed carefully in his breast, and
then returned to the room in which was the bear warden and his shaggy
associate.
“Hark you, friend,” said Gray, “I am going to leave this house.”
“Good morning,” said the bear warden.
“You seem a—a deserving man.”
“Do I?”
“Yes: I will give you the furniture you see about here, if you will
defend it against all comers; and should a young girl come here, will
you detain her for me?”
“Well, that’s odd,” said Tibbs, “but I don’t know you, my master.”
“Nor will you, I will take my own time and opportunity of calling upon
you.”
“Well” said the beat warden, “I don’t mind obliging you, particularly
as I haven’t anything of my own. Is there anything worth having up
stairs, old fellow?”
“There is,” said Gray—“and recollect one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Should a man come of burly frame and bloated aspect, be assured he
comes to take from you, if he can, all that I have given to you—be
assured of that.”
“The deuce he does!”
“You will know him. He is rough of speech, and coarse and bulky. Beware
of him!”
“But what shall I do with him?”
“Kill him—slaughter him. Take his life how and when you will—or maim
him—do him some deadly harm, for, on my soul, I do not believe he has
written any confession. Stay, I had forgotten.”
Gray hurried to the cupboard, and took from it the remainder of the
poison he had given to Ada’s dog; then turning to the astonished bear
warden, he said,—
“Remember, we shall meet again.”
He rapidly then descended the staircase, and was out of the house
before the man could answer him.
“Well, if ever I knew the like o’ that!” said the bear warden. “Popsy!”
The bear answered with a growl, “We’re dropped into a furnished house,
and nothing to pay. The blessed world’s a beginning to find out our
merits, it is!”
CHAPTER XXXI.
Ada’s Fate Again Against Her.—The Threat.—The New Home.
Jacob Gray was not acting with his usual caution when he left such
directions to the bear warden; but the attempt which had been made upon
his life by Learmont and the smith had filled him with rage, and he
would, in the height of his passion, willingly run some risk to be
revenged upon them.
“There is an ancient uninhabited house;” he muttered, “nigh to
Battersea-fields, that I have several times noted. Its walls are
crumbling with age. The bat screams around its tottering chimneys, I
have marked it well. There am I now to take up my abode until I have
wrung from Learmont a sum sufficient to induce me to leave England for
ever; and when I do—ay, when I am safe in another land, then will I
bring destruction upon him and Britton. They shall find that Jacob Gray
has yet a sting to reach their hearts.”
As he spoke, he cast an habitual glance of caution up and down the
street, ere he emerged from the doorway of the house he was about to
leave for ever.
Some distance from him, the flutter of a white garment caught his eye,
and he retreated back into the shadow of the doorway, from where he
peered forth, to note who it could be that was approaching that
solitary and ill-omened district.
Suddenly he clutched the door-post for support, and a deadly paleness
came over him. He saw Ada taking leave of Albert Seyton at the corner
of the street. He saw her hands clasped in affectionate pressure. Then,
with a lingering step. Albert Seyton turned away, looking, however,
many times back again to smile another brief farewell to Ada.
The deadly feelings of hatred that Gray entertained towards Albert
Seyton now all returned in their full force, and he muttered curses,
deep and appalling, against both him and Ada.
“That boy again,” he growled between his clenched teeth. “How in the
name of hell met she with him? In this large city what cursed fate has
caused them to meet. I will have his life. Something tells me he will
be a stumbling block in my way. I will take his life. Some means I will
devise to safely put him in his grave. Yes—yes—smile on, young sir. You
fancy now you have tracked Jacob Gray to his lair. You are mistaken.
You have found a clue but to lose it again. Ha! She comes. Now, there
is some deep-laid plot between them to surprise me; but I will foil
it—I will foil it.”
Ada now rapidly approached the doorway, in the shadow of which Gray was
concealed. There was a smile of joy upon her face—the pure light of
happiness danced in her eyes—and her step was agile as a young fawn.
“Another hour,” she whispered to herself—“but another hour of misery,
and life commences, as it were, anew for the poor forlorn Ada. My
existence, as yet, presents me with nothing but dim shadows; the dear
radiant sunshine of the life which Heaven has bestowed upon me, is now
at hand. Gray must see his own interests and safety in making terms
with Albert and his father. He will tell all—he will absolve me from
the fancied ties of friendship, and I will forgive him for all he has
made me suffer. If he be very guilty, in another land he may find
security and repentance—nay, make his peace with Heaven.”
Such were the glowing thoughts of the young girl, who was hastening to
separate herself from those who loved her, while in her guileless heart
she fondly imagined she was taking the surest means of securing her
happiness.
Jacob Gray saw her approaching. Eagerly he watched her steps, and when
she paused at the door of the house, he shrunk back into the passage,
and allowed her to enter its gloomy portal. Then stepping forward; he
closed the door, and said in a low tone,—
“Ada, is there anything in this house you value?”
Ada started, and glanced at Gray with surprise, as she replied,—
“Why do you ask? You see I have returned.”
“Ay. You could not desert your father!” smiled Gray.
Ada shrunk back as he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and he could not
but note the shudder of dislike that came over her.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I will give you your choice of one or two
alternatives.”
“What mean you.”
“You recollect the young man, Albert Seyton?”
A deep blush came over Ada’s face, as she said,—“I do.”
“Well—he had a father—”
“He has a father still!” cried Ada.
“In—deed!” sneered Gray. “You know that.”
Ada looked confused.
“Nay,” continued Gray, “you need not blush. Think you, Albert Seyton
loves you?”
“Loves me?” echoed Ada.
“Ay. You have read enough to tell you the meaning of the term.”
Ada was silent.
“Attend to my words,” continued Gray. “I have another home besides
this.”
“Another home?”
“Yes, Ada; and in that other home there are domestics which would place
you in so proud a station, that Albert Seyton would, in calling you his
some few years hence, be acquiring a rank and fortune beyond his or
your wildest dreams.”
Ada’s eyes sparkled as Gray spoke, and she involuntarily moved a step
towards him. The thought of enriching, perhaps ennobling, the poor
dependent Albert Seyton, was delightful to her heart.
“Oh!” she cried, “if you can do this, I will forget all the past.”
“At my house,” said Gray. “’Tis near at hand.”
“I will count the minutes till you return,” said Ada. “Oh, go at once.”
“Yes, but not alone. You go with me, or I go not at all. Come, Ada,
quick. We shall be back very soon. You are equipped for walking. We
will go together.”
“No—I—wish not to leave here,” said Ada.
“Not leave here? Has your love for this place suddenly grown so strong?”
“I am weary,” said Ada.
“Then we part for ever! Farewell! Ada. I go now to destroy—to burn
those papers! Carry with you through life the doubts that now harass
you!”
“Why force me to accompany you?” said Ada. “I am very weary.”
“Decide! The distance is but short. The next half hour fixes your fate
for a life!”
“Half hour!” said Ada. “Will it consume but half an hour?”
“Scarcely so much. A boat will take us where we are going in half the
time.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, solemnly.
“Well—well,” replied Gray, avoiding her eyes.
“On your soul, are you speaking truly?”
“On, my soul!”
“You swear you are not deceiving me?”
“I swear!”
“We shall return here?”
“We shall, assuredly. Then my task shall be to find out this young
man—this Albert Seyton.”
“I—I will go,” said Ada. “Let us hasten—but half an hour?”
“Nay, not so long a time.”
Still Ada hesitated.
“You will know all then,” remarked Gray; “who and what you are, you
will know; but if you come not now, I leave you this instant for ever!
You’ll never see me more! And in losing me, you lose all clue to the
solution of mysteries that will torture you through life.”
“I will go—I will go,” said Ada. “Within the hour we shall return.”
“We shall. Come, Ada, come.”
“The papers that were above in the chest, where are they?”
“In my safe keeping,” cried Gray.
“I am weary. Will you not wait until sunset?”
“Not another moment.”
“Then I—will—go.”
Gray took her by the arm, and they left the house together.
A thousand conflicting thoughts rushed through Ada’s mind. The
prominent one, however, was the pleasure it would give her to meet
Albert Seyton, no longer the child of mystery, and perhaps of guilt,
but the proud descendant of some pure and unsullied house. If she let
Gray depart now, with him all chance of unravelling doubts and
mysteries which, as he truly said, would torture her through life,
would be lost. Albert and his father would come but to encumber
themselves with a nameless, destitute girl. That she could not bear,
and although she doubted, yet, she trusted Jacob Gray.
Ada, when she made up her mind that she would accompany Gray, quite
astonished him by the nervous haste which she showed in urging him
along, and his naturally suspicious mind at once surmised that there
was some especial reason in the mind of the young girl which induced
her desire to return to the house they were leaving within the hour.
“She has betrayed me to yon boy,” he thought. “’Tis more than likely
that within the hour I should be a prisoner suing for mercy to him, and
my confessions in his hands.”
They soon reached the river side, and Gray, addressing a waterman said,—
“Can you take us to Battersea, quickly?”
“Yes, master,” said the man; “the tide serves.”
Without another word Gray handed Ada into the boat, and they were soon
gliding swiftly along the Thames, towards the marshy fields of
Battersea.
As the time progressed, Ada’s uneasiness became more and more apparent,
and when the waterman tended them at a craggy flight of wooden steps
that merely led to the open fields, a tremor came over her, and she
began to repent trusting Jacob Gray.
“I see no house,” she said. “Whither are you leading me?”
“There—to your left,” said Gray. “Yon low building is the place of our
destination.”
“Let us be quick,” said Ada.
With a sneering smile Jacob Gray led the way by the side of the scanty
hedges till they reached the gloomy, desolate mansion he had long fixed
upon as his next place of concealment, should his lone dwelling at
Lambeth be discovered.
Ada looked upon the damp crumbling walls and shattered windows with a
feeling of dread she could not conceal. “What place is this?” she
falteringly asked.
“’Tis an old deserted farm-house,” said Gray, “in which a murder, they
say was committed.”
“A murder?”
“Yes; by a man named Forest. It is called now Forest House, and no one
will willingly approach it.”
They stood now in the shadow of the deep overhanging porch, and Jacob
Gray for a moment gazed around him upon the wide expanse of marshy
ground. A smile of triumph lit up his face with a demoniac-expression.
“Ada,” he said, “you would have betrayed me—you may shriek now—no one
will hear you; you may struggle—no one will aid you. This house is your
prison—perhaps your tomb.”
Ada clasped her hands in terror and despair. “Betrayed—betrayed! Oh,
Albert—” she cried, and sunk in a state of insensibility on the door
step of Forest House.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Albert’s Disappointment.—Tibbs, the Bear Warden.—The Search.—A
Consultation.
Within the hour he had named as being the extreme limit of his absence,
Albert Seyton and his father arrived at Gray’s house at Lambeth. They
knocked at first quietly, and finally loudly, for admittance. Here, as
they had predetermined, they burst upon the frail door, and, calling
upon Ada, Albert flew from room to room of the dismal house.
No voice responded to his, and he was about to give up the search in
despair, when a low rumbling sound met his ears from a room he had
already visited, and which was immediately followed by a heavy crash of
some fallen body.
He and his father instantly rushed into the room, and there, amid the
ruins, a table, several bottles, glasses, &c., lay Tibbs, the bear
warden, who was evidently far gone in intoxication.
The bear was licking its paws on the spot which would have been under
the table had that article of furniture preserved its perpendicularity;
but it now lay on one side, and it is to be surmised that Tipsy Tibbs
had hidden under it upon hearing the sound of footsteps, and then upset
it in his clumsy efforts to emerge from his temporary concealment.
Mr. Seyton Albert looked with undisguised astonishment on the strange
spectacle of a drunken man and a bear, where they expected to find a
young girl and a cool designing villain.
“How are you?” said Tibbs. “So, so—you’re come back, have you?
Hurrah—hurray—that’s my op—opinion.”
Albert stepped up to him, and shaking him roughly, cried in a loud
voice:—
“Who are you?”
“Who—who—am—I? Why, everybody knows me—I’m—Tip—Tip—Tipsy Tibbs, the
bear warder.”
“Tell me, have you seen a beautiful girl here? Speak at once.”
“A w—w—what?”
“A young girl, with black eyes; sparkling as diamonds—long dancing
ringlets.”
“Whew!” whistled Tibbs. “Don’t I wish I had? Oh, the little charmer.”
“Wretch!” cried Albert, “have you seen her?”
“Do—do—you mean—Mrs. Tibbs?”
“Albert,” said Mr. Seyton, “we shall get no information from this man
by angry questioning. Allow me to speak to him. Are you alone here, my
friend?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Who else inhabits this house?”
“Popsy. Hurrah—let’s have another bottle—never get drunk—don’t make a
beast of yourself, old gentleman.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two bottles!”
“How long a time, I say, have you been here?”
“Well, I say—two—two bottles.”
“The villain Gray has been more than a match for me, father;” said
Albert. “My poor Ada is not here!”
He sunk upon a chair, and gave way to a violent burst of grief as he
spoke, and Tibbs gazed upon him in speechless astonishment.
“Albert,” said his father, “this is childish of you. Let us thoroughly
search this house. We may still find some clue to the object of our
search.”
“True,” said Albert, rising, “I will not despair. We may, perchance,
light upon the mysterious packet of papers which Jacob Gray thinks so
much of, and which were addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton.”
“Take another bottle,” suggested Tibbs, making various ridiculous
efforts to get on his feet, in all of which he signally failed.
“Sot,” said Albert, “I will force more intelligent answers from you yet
before I leave this house.”
“Take another bottle,” said Tibbs. “My dear, here’s your health. You
have a rare voice. Bless you, you want to stay because I’m here. Don’t
let him persuade you; d—d—d—n his important papers.”
“What do you mean?” cried Albert.
“Why, she’s gone, to be sure. They didn’t know I was listening on the
stairs. Ho! Ho! Ho!—They’re off, and the furniture’s all mine. Take
another bottle.”
“From the ravings of this drunkard,” said Mr. Seyton, “we may gather
what has happened, Albert. Jacob Gray, on some pretence, having his
suspicions awakened, has induced Ada to leave this place with him.”
“I fear it is so, father,” said Albert; “but here I vow to Heaven that
I will not know more rest than is needful to my health and strength
till I have found where this bad man has hidden the fairest, best—”
“Control your feelings, Albert,” said his father. “God knows how
willingly I would have taken this persecuted young girl to my home, and
done a parent’s duty by her; but Heaven has decreed it otherwise.”
With a saddened and dejected air Albert again searched the house. He
found no vestige of Ada, save her male attire and the dead dog. An open
book was upon the table of her room. That he placed next his heart,
with the fond thought that she might have owned and prized it.
“Let us leave this place,” said his father, “and the more quickly the
better, I will employ someone to watch the house for some days in case
Gray should return, and in the meantime, we will ourselves make every
inquiry, and use our utmost endeavours to discover his retreat.”
With a heavy heart Albert left the house; he lingered long at the door
and in the street, and it was only his father’s arguments that induced
him at length to quit the spot.
“Father,” said Albert, “I will make an application to Sir Francis
Hartleton!”
“You forget,” replied Mr. Seyton, “that Sir Francis Hartleton is a
magistrate and has a public duty to perform, from which he is not the
man to flinch. We wish to temporise with this man Gray, and not drive
him to extremities. The more heartily Sir Francis might enter into this
business, the more misery we might be laying up for the persecuted girl
it is our wish to rescue. Recollect, Albert, there still lives the
awful doubt that Jacob Gray may still be the father of Ada.”
“It is an awful doubt,” said Albert.
“We must not then embitter her existence, wicked as Gray may be, by
executing upon him the full measure of justice until that doubt is
solved. It would be coldly right to do so, I will grant; but we look
more to Ada’s happiness, Albert, than the vengeance of the law upon a
guilty man.”
Albert grasped his father’s hand as he replied, in a voice struggling
with emotion,—
“Guide me, father—tell me what to do. Your words bring truth and
conviction with them.”
“Then, Albert, if you succeed in getting the situation you have been
endeavouring to obtain, as private secretary to this gentleman, who is
reported to be so rich and liberal, there may arise some opportunity of
interesting him in the matter, and, through his means and influence,
much might be done to unravel the whole mystery without endangering
Gray, should he turn out to be Ada’s father, of which, however, I have
the strongest doubts.”
“Yes,” cried Albert, with renovated hope; “they tell me this gentleman,
Squire Learmont, is rolling in wealth.”
“Ay, that is his name. He is comparatively unknown, I hear, in London;
but if you become his secretary, he may take a pleasure, if he be a
good man, in assisting you.”
“It shall be tried, father,” said Albert.
Learmont had been inquiring of several persons since his arrival in
London for some young man as private secretary, and Albert Seyton, who
never in his wildest dreams imagined that the rich Squire Learmont,
whose wealth was the theme of every tongue, could possibly be in any
way connected with the fortunes of the poor persecuted Ada, had applied
for the situation, and met with a favourable although evasive answer.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Learmont at Home.—Dark Reflections.—The Summons.—The
Confederates.—Suspicions.
In the small room which he had fitted up specially for himself, sat the
Squire Learmont, in an attitude of deep thought. His lips occasionally
moved as if he were repeating to himself the subject of his
meditations. The colour went and came upon his agitated face, according
to the uneven tenor of his thoughts. For more than an hour he thus sat,
and then suddenly rising as if with a violent determination to shake
off completely “the thick coming fancies” that disturbed his brain, he
went to the window and looked out upon the court yard of his mansion.
The uneasy thoughts of Learmont were not, however, to be thus laid
aside. In a few moments he again threw himself into the chair from
which he had risen, and commenced in a low, anxious, trembling tone,
muttering half aloud, the subject of his gloomy thoughts:—
“Was ever a man,” he said, “so circumstanced as I? With all the will to
act, yet so hemmed in by strange circumstances as to be
powerless—completely powerless. In truth, the wily Jacob Gray has had a
triumph. Can the smith have played me false, and warned him of his
danger; yet, no—I cannot think so. Britton hates him, and would gladly
take his life. He could not, with such consummate art, act the passion
he exhibited at that lonely hovel, wherein I thought I had entrapped
this Gray. There is yet another supposition. Does the boy live? Ay, is
there a young heir to Learmont’s broad acres and princely revenues?
That is a grave doubt; but let me doubt ever so strangely, I dare not
act. Jacob Gray—Jacob Gray, the arch-fiend himself could not have woven
a better web of protection around a human life than you have cast
around yours! I dare not kill you. No! Jacob Gray, you are very safe.”
Learmont clenched his hands and ground his teeth together, in impotent
rage, as he felt the full conviction upon his mind that he dared not,
for his own life’s sake, interfere with Jacob Gray.
“There is no plan but one,” he said, after a long pause. “I must try to
purchase from him, by some large and tempting offer, both the boy and
the confession—then, should he be attracted by such a bait, he shall
die for the disquiet he has given me. If I slaughter him here in my own
house, he shall die. I shall know no peace till that man is a corpse.”
A small timepiece in the room now struck the hour of twelve.
“Twelve o’clock,” muttered Learmont. “’Tis the hour the smith said he
would be here; but punctuality is not one of his virtues. He knows I
must wait for him? Curses on him—curses!”
A servant slowly opened the door at this moment, and said, in a timid
voice, for the household had had several specimens of Learmont’s wild
passions and violence,—
“An it please your worship, here is Master Gray.”
“Show him here,” said Learmont, quickly, and the man was out of the
room as expeditiously as if he had been pulled from behind with a
sudden jerk.
“They will meet here,” muttered Learmont. “Well, be it so. Three
persons so strangely knit together, as these two men and myself, were
surely never heard of. Hating them with that hatred which requires to
be glutted with blood to calm its fury; yet I am obliged to supply
their wildest extravagancies and most insolent demands. Oh, if I,
dared, if—oh, you are here, Jacob Gray?”
“As you perceive, most worshipful sir,” said Gray, as he closed the
door behind him, and fixed his keen, ferret-looking eyes upon the
Squire.
For a few minutes they regarded each other in silence. Learmont at
length, uttered the word,—
“Well?”
“I am rejoiced to hear you are well,” sneered Gray. “The fog last night
was very damp.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I sought your life.”
“Your worship was so kind,” said Gray, “and since my connexion with
your worship has grown so dangerous, it shall bear a higher price.”
“What mean you?”
“I mean,” said Gray, striking the palm of his hand with his fist—“I
mean that where I have had one guinea, Squire Learmont, I will have
ten; where ten, a hundred. Thank yourself for raising my price. My
nerves are weak, and yet I prize them. I like my blood to keep its even
pace. If I am to be tortured—if I am to be threatened—broken in upon at
midnight, and cold steel held to my throat, I will be well
paid—extremely well paid. You understand me, Squire Learmont, I have
raised my price.”
There was a strange mixture of cunning, rage, and ferocity in Jacob
Gray’s tone and manner as he made this speech. Every other word that he
spoke showed a disposition to shout with anger, but then it was as
quickly subdued again by his habitual caution and timidity. When he had
finished he glared at Learmont with a pale and distorted countenance
awaiting his reply.
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I did seek your life, but it was not for
your life’s sake I sought it.”
“Indeed!” sneered Gray.
“No,” continued Learmont. “What is your life to me? But the precautions
that you have taken to protect yourself keep me in continual and
imminent danger. What’s so uncertain as human life?”
“Ay—what?“ said Gray.
“Suppose your sudden death—by accident or illness—what though I had
poured into your coffers half my income?—What though I had satisfied
your wildest demands, still might I be exposed to danger most imminent,
nay, to death without your meaning so to involve me.”
“Well I know,” said Jacob Gray, “that life is uncertain—too well I know
if, Squire Learmont, you have coined for yourself the danger you
describe. While you live, it will haunt you.”
“But wherefore should I?” said Learmont. “You talk of increasing your
demands by tens and hundreds—why not name thousands at once as the
price of—”
“Of what?”
“The boy, and your absence for ever from England.”
“I—I—had thought of that,” said Gray.
“And a wise thought too,” urged Learmont. “What is your life to me were
it not that you have surrounded me with danger? Do I thirst for your
blood for its own sake? Certainly not—have your own price—bring me the
boy, and destroy your written confession.”
“And leave England for ever?” muttered Gray.
“Yes—seek safety and enjoyment somewhere else in another land, where
the finger of suspicion can never be pointed at you, and where you will
only appear as the wealthy stranger.”
“’Tis tempting,” said Gray; “but—”
“But what?—Why do you hesitate?”
“Would there be no danger even between the threshold of this house and
the deck of the vessel which was to convey me and my fortunes from
England for ever?”
“Danger?—a—What danger?”
“The assassin’s knife,” said Gray. “Hear me, Squire Learmont; if we
could trust each other for so brief a space as half an hour, it might
be done; but we cannot—you know we cannot!”
“You refuse upon danger,” said Learmont, trying to smile, and producing
a ghastly distortion of visage. “You are over cautious, Master Gray.”
“I think not,” said Gray, “and yet I will think upon your offer, Squire
Learmont. I will not deny that some scheme of the kind has already
dawned upon my own mind. I will think upon your offer; and should some
means occur to me by which safety can be so well assured as to be past
a doubt, I will accept it, for I loathe the life I lead.”
“’Tis well,” said Learmont.
“And now I want a hundred pounds,” said Jacob Gray, in an affectedly
submissive voice.
“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Learmont.
“Yes, a hundred! And I will have them.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “why have I plunged myself into crime, and
leagued myself with such men as you and Britton, but for this gold
which your and his insatiable demands would wring from me?”
“Agreed,” cried Gray. “But now ’tis done, and to keep the gibbet—”
“The gibbet!”
“Ay, the gibbet, Squire Learmont. To keep that without its victim, you
must, and will pay the last farthing, if needs be, of that gold you
talk of as your tempter. Why, it tempted me, and I will riot in it! A
hundred pounds, good squire.”
“Ten thousand are yours, if you bring me the boy and your written
confession.”
“Ten thousand! You may safely make it twenty, squire, or thirty.”
“What do you mean?”
“You call me cautious—cunning—wily as a fox, and am I all that; and
because I am, I will not sell my life for five minutes at the utmost
possession of any sum.”
“Sell your life!”
“Yes, my life. How many paces from this room would suffice to carry
Jacob Gray to his grave, provided he gave up his two most rare
securities—the boy and the confession?”
“You wrong me by your suspicions,” said Learmont, with difficulty
suppressing the rage that was swelling in his bosom.
“A hundred pounds!” said Gray.
“Jacob Gray, hear me—”
“Hear me first. A hundred pounds!”
Learmont went to a cabinet in the apartment, and without another word
counted out the sum.
“Have you moved Jacob Gray?” he said, in a calm voice.
“Nay,” replied Gray, “why need you ask?”
“A message from the Old Smithy,” announced a servant at this juncture.
“’Tis Britton,” whispered Learmont to Gray.
“What, cunning Master Britton!” answered Gray. “Ho! Ho! I shall be glad
to see him.”
“Admit him,” said Learmont to the servant; then turning to Gray, he
added,—
“Will you leave me, now?”
“No,” said Gray.
“Wherefore?”
“Because I do not want the smith again upon my track, like a blood
hound!”
“Oh, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “if you could destroy Britton,
securing at the same time the dangerous papers he has—bring me the
boy—commit your own confession to the flames, and share my fortune!”
“Humph!“ said Gray. “If I could.”
“You might.”
“Well, that’ll do,” roared Britton, as the servant held the door open
for him to enter the room. “Oh—oh—you here?”
“Yes, cunning Britton,” said Gray, “I am here.”
“Curse you, then!” said Britton, flinging himself into a chair.
“Bless you!” said Gray. “Ho, ho! Clever Britton.”
“Perhaps, gentlemen,” sneered Learmont, “you will condescend to carry
your quarrels to some pot-house, when you have said what you wish to
say to me?”
“Yes,” said Gray, “we shall anger his worship.”
“Damnation take—”
“Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “You come here for money. Name the
sum, and go.”
“Oh, name the sum!” said Britton. “What’s to-day?”
“Friday, my dear Britton,” said Gray. “It’s generally considered an
unlucky day, I pray you to take care of yourself, cunning Britton.”
Britton cast a savage scowl upon Gray, as he said,—
“I shall, and mind you be as careful. Friday, is it? Twenty pounds will
last me till next Monday, squire.”
“Will they, indeed?” sneered Learmont. “Here they are, then. May I now
be indulged with the privacy of my own house?”
“There now,” said Gray, “you hear his worship; why don’t you go,
Britton?”
“Because I intend staying out, Jacob Gray,” cried Britton, fiercely.
“Well,” said Gray, rising, “be it so, but hearken to me, Squire
Learmont. If I find this ruffian upon my track, I will be revenged with
safety to myself—bitterly revenged—now beware!”
So saying, Jacob Gray left the room, with an expression of countenance
perfectly demoniac.
Britton made a movement to follow him, but the squire laid his hand
upon his arm, and said,—
“No—not now, Britton. We must devise some better means yet of
destroying, with perfect safety, this Jacob Gray.”
“Curses on him!” growled Britton. “Did you hear how he taunted me?”
“I did.”
“Then, I say I must have his blood.”
“You shall.”
“I will—I have sworn it—I will take the hateful life of Jacob Gray.”
“Britton, we understand each other. This Gray is as great an enemy to
you as he is to me.”
“I know he is,” growled Britton. “You need not tell me that. And who,
think you, is in London, and raving through the streets to every one
she meets, about the Old Smithy, and a murder?”
“She? Who mean you?”
“Mad Maud, who used to haunt the village, and ever vented her bitterest
curses upon me.”
“Mad Maud! She must be secured. Even her clamour might arouse suspicion
in some quarter, and many a prying knave would be glad to pick a hole
in the reputation of the rich and proud Squire Learmont. When did you
see her, Britton?”
“On Westminster-bridge, after you and I had parted last.”
“The—water—was—near.”
“It was, but the old beldame raised a clamour that brought help. When
next we meet, she may not be so near assistance.”
“True. How true is the lesson taught by Jacob Gray, that safety is best
doubly assured. You stay still at the Chequers?”
“Yes—you know I do. Why do you ask?”
“From no special motive.”
“Yes; I am still at the Chequers. Ho! Ho! Ho! Money flies there. Mine
host is about to build a new front to his house and it’s all with your
money, squire. By G—d, they sell good liquor at the Chequers, and
there’s a merry company—a good song and a silver tankard on purpose for
good Master Britton. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“You sleep there?”
“Yes; but mind ye, squire; drunk or sober, at home or abroad, those
papers are well secured. Don’t try to play any tricks with me, squire;
you would rue the hour.”
“Pho! Pho!” interrupted Learmont. “We understand each other—our
interests are mutual—but, as for this Jacob Gray—”
“Ah! Curse Jacob Gray!”
“To which I devoutly cry—Amen!” said Learmont. “And now, Britton, it is
our policy to let matters sleep for a time, until Gray’s newly awakened
caution is somewhat calmed. Go, now, good Britton, and—mind you, when
you are inclined to set a price upon the papers you have, tell me and
we will talk about it.”
“Oh, very well,” said Britton. “I shall be glad to see you at the
Chequers any time. I will say this for you, Squire Learmont, that you
pay very well, indeed. I lead the life of a gentleman now—nothing to
do, and so many people to help me—drink—drink from morning till night.
Damme, what could a king do more.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Girl in Her Melancholy Home.—The Prison House.—A Dungeon’s
Gloom.—Unavailing Sorrow.
When Jacob Gray pitched upon the lone house at Battersea as his place
of abode, he could not have resolved upon a house less likely to be
visited by the curious, although seen from the river at a considerable
distance: it was always pointed out by the watermen to their customers,
as “Forest’s haunted house.”
The fact was, that a most awful and cold-blooded murder had been
committed in the house, since which it had been allowed to fall into
decay, and the land around it, which had been at one time well drained,
had subsided into its old character of a marsh. The fall of a stack of
chimnies had impressed every one with a belief of the extreme danger of
venturing within its crazy walls, lest they should fall and engulf the
rash intruder in their ruins.
It was with great caution that Gray first visited this place, that he
was long in discovering that the signs of decay were more superficial
than otherwise, and, inquiring diligently and cautiously concerning it,
he heard the character of the deserted house, which induced him
mentally to resolve upon making it his next abode, should he be hunted
out of his miserable residence in the ruined street at Lambeth.
The only risk he considered he ran of discovery was in conveying Ada
there by daylight; but, after that, he resolved upon never leaving or
approaching his gloomy abode except by night, or early in the morning,
when he was quite sure no one was observing him, save upon special
occasions, such as his recent visit to Learmont, whom he was anxious to
see after the stormy meeting in his former residence.
When Ada recovered consciousness, she at first felt all that sensation
of relief which comes over any one awakening from a horrible dream; but
this feeling of satisfaction lingered but for a few fleeting moments in
the breast of the persecuted, betrayed girl. The gloom that surrounded
her—the damp air that imparted a chill to her very heart—the dim ray of
light that proceeded from a candle, the wick of which showed that it
had been some hours unattended, all convinced her that she was a
prisoner.
With a cry of despair she started to her feet: she clasped her hands,
and called on Heaven to protect her, as she hastily glanced round the
gloomy place in which she found herself.
The dismal echo of her own voice only answered her wild and incoherent
appeal.
“Oh! Heaven,” she cried, “I shall be murdered here. No one to hear my
cries! No one to aid me! I am lost—lost! Oh!—Albert, Albert!”
She sank upon the ground, and wept long and bitterly as the thoughts of
how foolishly she had allowed herself to be deceived by Gray crowded
upon her oppressed mind.
“No hope!—No hope!—Now there is no hope!” she cried, bitterly. “Oh! Why
was I preserved for this dreadful fate! I thought it hard to endure the
cold air from the river, while crouching on the bridge. O God! O God!
What would I not give now to be as free beneath the canopy of Heaven as
I was then!”
After a time the native energy of Ada’s character overcame her first
bursts of bitter grief; and raising her head she strove to pierce, with
her tear-filled eyes, the dim obscurity by which she was surrounded.
“What can this place be?” she asked herself. “Let me recollect. He
brought me across swampy fields to a ruined house, and there, at that
point, recollection ceases—memory fades away in a confused whirl, none
of which are sufficiently distinct for the mind to grasp and reason
upon.”
She now approached the light, and, carefully trimming it, she held it
as high as she could, and, turning slowly round, took a long and
anxious survey of as much as she could see of her dungeon, for such she
considered it.
The floor was of earth merely, and the walls seemed to be composed of
the same material, mingled with stones and broken bricks, to give them
some degree of solidity and strength. The place altogether appeared to
be of considerable extent, and, by the various refuse matter that lay
about, it would seem to have been a cellar for strong vegetables, wood,
&c. during the winter season. A quantity of rough sacks and baskets lay
in different corners mouldy and moist, with the accumulated damp of
many years, and the air, too, was loaded with unwholesome moisture, and
pernicious exhalations.
With a slow and cautious step Ada traversed the whole of this gloomy
place, and what surprised her much was that she could see no means of
ingress or egress from it.
“How have I been placed here?” she asked herself. “There is no food.
Good Heaven! Am I doomed to starve in this wretched place? Alas! Is
this the awful mode which the fears of Jacob Gray have suggested to him
as the easiest and safest of compassing my death?”
So terrible did the dread of death in that damp, gloomy dungeon become
to the imagination of Ada that she could scarcely hold the light for
trembling, and she placed it on one of the mouldy baskets, while with
clasped hands, and upon her knees, she breathed a prayer to Heaven for
protection and safety in her extreme peril.
How calming and sweet is the soothing influence of prayer! As the
trembling words, wrung from the pure heart of the gentle and beautiful
Ada in her deep anguish, ascended to that Heaven which never permits
the wicked to prosper, but always interposes to protect the innocent
and virtuous, a holy balm seemed to fall upon her blighted spirit, and
the benign influence of some air from the regions of eternal bliss
seemed to fill the gloomy dungeon with a brightness and a beauty that
deprived it of its horrors.
For many minutes now Ada remained silent, and her fancy strayed to the
last kind words of Albert Seyton. Then she pictured him and his father
seeking her in the house at Lambeth. In her mind’s eye she saw his
despair when he found her not, and she thought then that her heart must
break to think that she should never see him more.
“Albert—Albert!” she cried.—“Oh save me—save—seek for me! Oh, could
your eyes but cast themselves upon this gloomy abode and know that I
was here, how happy might I be—far happier than before, for now I feel
convinced this dreadful man Gray is not my father. No—no, he could not
thus before Heaven have betrayed his child! Albert—Albert!”
She dropped her head upon her breast, and again the tears blinded those
beautiful eyes, and rolled gently down her cheeks, thence falling upon
a neck of snowy whiteness, and losing their gem-like lustre in the
meshes of her raven hair. Suddenly she ceased to weep. She ceased to
call on Albert, and a chill came over her heart, as she heard Gray’s
voice, cry,—
“Ada—Ada!”
She looked up, and from a square opening in the wall far above her
reach, she saw a streaming light enter the dungeon.
“Ada!” again cried Gray, and she saw him peering into the gloom below,
and shading his eyes from the glare of the light he carried. “Ada!” he
cried, impatiently.
“I am here,” said Ada.
Gray immediately disappeared from the opening, and all was again
darkness whence the light had issued.
“What can he mean?” thought Ada. “Did he suppose that already my spirit
had yielded to this gloomy prison, and is he disappointed to find that
I still live?”
While Ada was pursuing these reflections, Gray suddenly re-appeared,
and placing a ladder from the opening into the dungeon, he said, in a
voice intended to be conciliatory,—
“Ascend, Ada—ascend.”
“I can meet death here,” said Ada.
“There is no death to meet,” said Gray. “I mean you no harm.”
“Because you have done me as much, short of taking my life,” said Ada,
“as lies in your power. By what right—by what flimsy shadow of justice
am I immured here?”
“Ascend I say,” cried Gray. “There is warmth and comfort above here.”
“I may as well,” thought Ada, with a shudder, “meet my death from his
hands above as by starvation in this place.”
She placed her foot upon the ladder, and slowly ascended. When she
neared the top, Gray reached out his hand, and assisted her into the
room in which he was.
“You tremble, girl!” he said.
“And so do you,” replied Ada, fixing her eyes upon Jacob Gray’s pale
face.
“You—you think I mean you harm,” he said, in a hesitating tone, and
avoiding Ada’s gaze as much as possible.
“Think!” repeated Ada,—“think, Jacob Gray!”
“Jacob Gray?” he cried. “You speak strangely. I thought you now knew
me.”
“I do—too well,” said Ada.
“I have told you I am your father, girl.”
“You have told me.”
“And you believe—”
“No,” said Ada, with sudden energy; “on my soul, no—as I hope for
heaven, no!”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, Jacob Gray, for the honour of all fathers—for the credit of
humanity, I cannot—will not believe myself your daughter. No, no, Jacob
Gray, I am no longer scared by that dreadful thought—thank God!”
“Girl, you know not what you say.”
“My words may be incoherent—not aptly chosen—but the sense is the same.
Jacob Gray, you are neither father, uncle, kith, nor kin of mine. No,
no!”
“Who—who—told you so?” gasped Gray.
“There—there!” cried Ada. “Your fears speak the truth; you have
confessed the cheat. Jacob Gray, I could forgive you all, now that that
dreadful weight is removed from my heart.”
“Know you where you are, since you know so much?” said Gray, after a
pause.
“I do not, save that I have been deceived by you, and lured by false
promises to this dismal place.”
“You are in my power. Still, likewise, I assert you are my daughter.”
“In your power I grant myself, as far as Heaven will permit you; but
you are no kindred to me, Jacob Gray.”
“By hell, if you call me Jacob Gray again—”
“Jacob Gray,” shouted Ada, her face kindling with excitement, and her
delicate form appearing to dilate as she pointed to the abashed and
writhing countenance of the villain who trembled before her.
“Be it so,” said Gray; “we understand each other now. You defy me.”
“I ever defied you, Jacob Gray!”
“Be it so,” he repeated. “Follow me.”
“It is my heart that defies you, Jacob Gray,” said Ada. “You are a man,
and I a weak girl. You are strong enough to enforce me to accompany
you.”
“Come on!” cried Gray.
Ada slowly followed him from the room. Gray passed out at a large
doorway into a smaller apartment, in which was a table, some baskets,
similar to those Ada had seen in the cellar turned up for seats, and a
small fire dimly burning on an ample hearth; before which a bullock
might have been roasted, and perhaps had been in days gone by.
“Ada,” said Gray, “look around you.”
Ada did so, and Gray continued,—
“This is a place of discomfort; there is little to recommend it, but it
is preferable to yon gloomy dungeon from whence you have but now
emerged.”
“I grant it,” said Ada.
“Your secret existence here is necessary for me; nay, my very life
depends upon it. It may be but for a very short time. You may imagine
that I am not in love with this mode of life. I have gold—store of
gold—but I want more, and each day shall add to the glittering mass.
When it has reached the amount I wish, you shall be free.”
“Free?”
“Yes; free as air.”
“When you have the gold you wish?”
“Even so, Ada.”
“I have read that the love of gold is one of those passions that
increase as they are fed.”
“Not with me; I have fixed in my imagination a sum which I must have.
Then, Ada, I leave England for ever, and you are free!”
“But wherefore is my captivity essential?”
“Ask no questions,” interrupted Gray. “Circumstances make you valuable;
but mark me, you are equally valuable, dead as alive. Nay, start not—I
wish you to live, if possible. I do not want to take your
life—because—because—”
“Because, what?”
“I can use you as such an implement of revenge that—that—but no matter,
no matter, your fate is in your hands; you shall yourself decide your
destiny.”
“Myself?”
“Yes; swear to me that without my permission you will not leave this
place. Swear to me you will aid me in keeping you in silence and
secrecy. Swear this, and you return no more to yon loathsome dungeon,
and perhaps, in a short time, I may place you on a dazzling height of
power, and wealth shall make all England ring with your name! You could
be the admired of all; your beauty, your wit, your gold, would be the
themes of every tongue, if you will but swear.”
“How can I believe you?” said Ada.
“If ever words of truth passed my lips,” said Gray, “these are such.”
“On what pretence was I lured hither?”
“Ada, by force or fraud I was compelled to bring you here. ’Twere
better the latter than the former.”
“And now,” said Ada, “by force or fraud I am to be kept here. Jacob
Gray, I will not swear faith to thee.”
“You will not?”
“I will not.”
“Girl, you are mad—you know not what you do. This is a device of mine
to save your life—to place you above the reach of fortune’s malice.”
“Answer me one thing, and call on Heaven to witness your truth,” said
Ada. “Are you father, uncle, or nothing else?”
“Will you swear as I bid you?”
“I cannot resign the dear hope of escape,” said Ada.
“Escape,” replied Gray, “is impossible. The dungeon from which I have
even now brought you is inaccessible save by the means in my power. For
my own safety, I must keep you a prisoner, or—or—”
“Or murder me, you would say. Jacob Gray, I think you dare not kill me.”
“Dare not?” said Gray, trembling.
“Yes; dare not were my words. Now, I will make to you a proposal. Trust
me; tell me all, who and what I am. Tell me all, and I will forgive
injuries, and perchance do your bidding.”
“No, no, I cannot tell you yet,” said Gray. “I wish you one day to know
all—when I have my gold.”
“Am I to be the slave of your avarice?”
“Call it so, if you will.”
“Who am I?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Who were those men who sought your life? Was the name of one Andrew
Britton.”
Gray absolutely shrieked as Ada pronounced the name of the smith, which
it will be recollected she had heard from Mad Maud on
Westminster-bridge.
“A—what is this—what do you mean? Who—what devil told
you—speak—Ada—speak. Have the—the dead risen? Speak, or you will drive
me mad!”
CHAPTER XXV.
Ada’s Appeal.—The Promise.—Ada’s Despair.—Gray’s Triumph.
Ada had seen too often the nervous terrors of Jacob Gray to feel much
alarm at his present emotion, and she merely replied,—
“The man I mention—Andrew Britton by name—was one of them who came to
you at our late house. That he is in some manner connected with the
mysterious circumstances which envelope me, I am convinced. Oh, Jacob
Gray, bethink you now of the evil of wickedness; you cannot gain more,
nay, not half so much by deceiving and persecuting me than you would
gain by trusting me with every secret. Besides, there is one possession
which would then be yours, which is beyond all price—that dear
inheritance we all have from Heaven as its best, most costly gift, and
which is too often bartered for a bauble. You would have peace of mind,
Jacob Gray, which you have not now. He who tries may read pain and
disquiet in your face. You are haunted by the fearful creations of your
own over-hardened conscience. I—even I—can see that some hideous
spectre of the past is ever rising, perhaps in bloody guise, before
your appalled imagination. Oh, I am weak, young, and unknowing in the
ways of life, but I can tell you, Jacob Gray, that guilt is misery. You
are wretched—most wretched—you lead a life of apprehension. Your own
fears will carry you to an early grave. Oh, do some solitary but great
act of justice, and it will stand as a shield betwixt you and your
trembling soul—will plead with Heaven for you, and by its brightness so
dim the record of your guilt that you may cherish such dear hopes of
mercy as shall in themselves be happiness. Release me—trust me. Tell
me, Jacob Gray, who and what I am. Justice, though tardy, is justice
still. I will invent causes for you up to this moment—I will pray for
you, Jacob Gray. Oh, end at once this life of horror, suspicion and
distress!”
Gray waved his hand several times while Ada was speaking, as if he
would implore her to cease, but wanted power of speech to stop her in
her appeal. When she had ceased speaking, she stood with clasped hands
gazing in his face, and waiting with a deep and holy anxiety the words
that would pass his lips in reply.
“Girl!” he gasped, “you know not what you ask! I wish you well, but
dare not—dare not—dare not tell you a tale would drive you mad!
Enough—enough—urge me no more! All this will have an end—it must—but
not as you ask. Have patience, Ada, and I will do great things for you!
Yes, great things, when I am far away in another land, and safe—safe
from those who would take my life—who would spill my blood like water!
Have patience, girl! Have patience, and all will be well.”
“I am your prisoner, then, Jacob Gray,” said Ada—“still your prisoner.”
“For a time—only for a time. Promise me, by the faith you have in
Heaven—swear that you will abide here without an effort to escape, and
such a freedom as you can safely have, you shall have.”
“If I refuse?”
“Then you must take the consequences. My safety—my life, I tell you,
depends upon your security. I will not trifle with my own existence!
Night and day yon cellar shall be your home!”
“But how can my being your unknown, solitary, and unseen prisoner avail
you?”
“Ask me not,” cried Gray. “There is but one other alternative.”
“And that is—”
“Your death, Ada!”
“Ay—my death! Such was my thought.”
“But I—I do not want to kill you,” cried Gray, hurriedly. “On my soul,
I do not! Understand me, girl; your existence is equally valuable to me
as your death! Perhaps more so, although it has its risks. Promise me
that you will not increase those risks, and on my oath, you shall live
unharmed by me.”
Ada sank into a seat, and a feeling of despair came over her heart.
“Jacob Gray,” she said, “let me promise to go far away—I will be
unseen—unknown.”
“Not yet,” cried Gray. “I tell you I have not gold enough for that yet.
There will come a time when to proclaim who and what you are will be so
sweet to me, that it is only my love for that gold which brings in its
train the means of every enjoyment that can stifle pangs that spring
from the past, that induces me now to put off the dear gratification of
that deep revenge!”
“Still a bad and unworthy motive,” said Ada. “You will only do justice
to me for the gratification of your own malignant passions.”
“Say what you will, girl,” cried Gray. “Call me what you will, I care
not. You are to me now a mine of wealth! When my love of gold is
glutted to the full, I can make you an instrument of such revenge that
I shall wish for no greater gratification! You understand your position
now—you may baulk me of my revenge by forcing me to kill you! Save
yourself, Ada, by your solemn promise to remain here!”
Ada felt that all further appeal was useless, and she wept bitterly as
the dreary future presented itself to her as a protracted imprisonment,
or a speedy and cruel death.
Gray watched her keenly, and advancing close to her, he whispered in
her ear,—
“Ada, life is sweet to the young! A world full of beauty and enjoyment
is before you—if you promise what I ask—you shall have wealth—and
wealth is power. You shall be able to raise the lowly—to crush the
proud if you promise! Those whom you love you may do wonders for! He
too—that youth who has wound himself around your girlish heart—he you
can enrich! He will owe all to you! It will be Ada that will lift him
from his low estate, and make him great—perhaps noble! But you must
promise! How hard it is to die so young! Think of the last bitter pang!
None to pity—none to love you! But I need not point such agony to you,
you will promise?”
“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, dashing the tears from her eyes, “the
allurements you hold out to me are not sufficient; but I will not cast
away the life God has given me.”
“You promise?”
“On condition, I will. But hear me, Gray. I do not believe the tale you
tell me, that you will take my life some time when I am sleeping, for
awake you dare not—if I promise not, I do believe, for already have you
attempted the deed.”
“You—you will promise?” cried Gray, impatiently.
“Not unconditionally,” replied Ada. “For one month from now I do
promise.”
“To make no effort to leave here?”
“I will be passive merely. I will repel no one.”
“But you will remain?”
“Unsought by any one, I will not leave this place.”
“You swear?”
“No, Jacob Gray, I will not swear.”
“Well! I—I will take your word. You have made a wise decision.”
“Heaven knows I am helpless,” said Ada. “The decision is scarcely mine.”
She burst into tears, and wept bitterly. The name of Albert mingled
with her sobs, for she felt now that she was separated from him for an
indefinite period.
“Heaven help me,” she sobbed, “I am now desolate, indeed.”
“Hope,” cried Gray. “Hope, Ada. The time may come sooner than you
think. The time for my revenge, but I must have more gold yet—much more
gold; then, Ada, begins your triumph. You shall find yourself raised to
a height you dream not of. Jacob Gray’s revenge shall be your fortune.
You need not weep. You will cause tears of blood—yes, the blood of
those who would have murdered me, but they dare not. Ha! Ha! They dared
not; and Jacob Gray is still too cunning—far too cunning to fall their
victim.”
Ada sat silent and spirit-broken in that lonely house. A weight seemed
to hang upon her heart, and even hope, that one dear solace of the
unfortunate, appeared to have flown from her breast.
Gray had brought food with him, which Ada partook of in silence, and
when the night had come, and the short-lived winter’s sun had gone to
rest, he took his hat and cloak, and prepared to go forth.
“Ada,” he said, “attend to nothing—heed nothing while I am gone. If
danger—that is, I mean, if any one should venture here, extinguish your
light, and seek some hiding-place, for be assured, your life is the
object sought by those who would visit the dwelling of Jacob Gray. You
understand me. Be cautious.”
Ada answered not, and Gray slouching his hat over his face, and drawing
his cloak closely around him, left the lone house with a slow and
stealthy step, taking his route towards the river’s bank, from where he
took a boat to Westminster.