CHAPTER LXIX.A Walk and a Meeting.—The Vision at the Open Casement.—Learmont’s Perturbation.An ideahad struck Learmont, during the course of his conversation with Britton which, now that the smith was gone, came still more strongly and forcibly across his mind, and shaped itself into clearer words.“Why should not I,” he said, “if I find that in England there is for me nothing but danger, disgrace, and constant apprehension, why should not I take my accumulated wealth somewhere else, to some land where I could purchase with it dignity and power, and—what is more freedom from the terrors that now beset my path? ’Tis worth reflecting on such a course; I could do it most easily now. ’Tis a comforting reflection—a most comforting reflection, and—and when I am tortured by doubts and fears, I will think of such a course. But this news of Britton’s troubles me. He thinks himself watched by Hartleton; why doubtless so am I. Sir Francis is no friend to me, and would gladly find me tripping some of these days—I must crush him—I will have his life, if it cost me half my wealth. We kill a noxious reptile, because we think it may sting us; so will I have vengeance upon you, Sir Francis Hartleton, because I know you would sting me if you could. I must find some means subtle, deep, and dangerous to him, but withal to me innoxious. I must kill, and yet not seem to kill, even to the instrument with which I do the work. Britton it is of no use attempting to employ on such an occasion, unless I could be certain of his success, and then, his execution for the deed. In such a case, I should be rid of two enemies; and even Britton would not be so wantonly mischievous as to deceive me, at no benefit to himself;—yet is it dangerous. I must think again. Master Hartleton—you are playing with edged tools.”Learmont was now silent for a time, and then rose, saying,—“Now for the life of action which shall drown thought—my wealth—my house—my brilliant entertainments have all succeeded so far as to make me a honoured guest with more than I can visit—but I will visit many,—it—it is time I began to enjoy something now.”The horrible contortion which he produced upon his ghastly face, by way of a smile, at these words, startled him, as he saw it reflected in a mirror hanging opposite to him; and he shook in every limb, as he hastily left the room.His servants shrunk from before him as, in about ten minutes time, he passed down the great marble staircase of his mansion, splendidly dressed, and enveloped in a cloak, to make some calls.Declining, with a haughty wave of his hand, the chair that stood in the hall, he strode out; and, with his lips compressed as usual with him, so closely that not a particle of blood was left in them, he turned into the park, intending to call upon the frivolous but noble Brereton family, who had lodgings near to old Buckingham House.Of all the persons intent on pleasure, on business, or on intrigue, that thronged to the park, Learmont fancied that no one could carry so heavy a heart as himself, and yet how successful had he been! Had he not accomplished all that he had grasped at? But, like the dog in the fable, what a valuable and tangible possession had he dropped, in grasping the shadow which now darkened his soul.He saw not the sunshine,—for his own heart was black and gloomy; he heard not the merry song of the birds,—for busy thought was conjuring up direful images in his brain. He strode along, like a tall spirit—a being belonging to some more gloomy and uncongenial world than ours, who heard but discord in our sweetest sounds, and could not appreciate any of our pleasures.And yet strange to say, all that Learmont had toiled for—all he had sinned for—all he had dipped his hands in blood for, had been that he might enjoy, in greater abundance, these very delights and pleasures that seemed to mock his grasp, and to retreat like theignis fatuusof the morass—far off in proportion, as he most wishes to approach.He walked up the principal mall, and none addressed him, although many looked after the tall, gaunt, melancholy-looking man, as he strode in silence onwards. What would Learmont not have given for a companion; one who would feel and think with him, and divide the weight of oppressive conscience.A lively burst of martial music now came suddenly upon his ears, and he glanced in the direction from whence it came, when he saw a person standing by a seat, from which he seemed to have just risen, close to him. A second glance told Learmont it was the young man, Albert Seyton, who had applied to him for the office of secretary, and he bowed coldly and stiffly to him, which Albert courteously rejoined, saying,—“The morning is inviting, sir.”“Yes—a—cold, as you say,” replied Learmont, in an abstracted tone.“Cold, sir?”“Fine—fine, I mean. Did I say cold?”“You did, sir; but probably your thoughts were somewhere else. I fear I intrude upon you.”“No, no; you do not. My thoughts, young sir, never wander, but I am grateful to him who can bring them back again.”“He is like me,” thought Albert, with a sigh; “a man with a very few pleasant moments to look mentally back to.”“Have you thought further of what I proposed to you at our last meeting?” said Learmont.After a long pause, for Albert did not well know what to say in answer to the remark last made by the melancholy squire, “I have, sir,” he now said, “and adhere firmly to all I before pledged myself to; namely, that in all honour I will do you zealous service and tire not.”“’Tis well, ’tis well. Walk with me, and we will converse more at large as we go; I am merely out for exercise.”Albert bowed, and walked by the side of his strange employer in silence for some minutes. Learmont then said,—“You will call upon me to-morrow, according to our previous arrangement.”“I shall be proud to do so,” said Albert.“Well, well. Perhaps the man may be there; but beware of his consummate art, young sir. If you would successfully track him to his haunt, you must be wary and cunning, patient and sagacious; believe me no common man will ever succeed in circumventing him.”“Indeed, sir.”“Ay, indeed, you know him not. He has the deep cunning of the serpent. Even I—but no matter. You will freely undertake the employment?”“As an earnest of future service, yes, sir, I will do your bidding, and if great attention and extreme care can accomplish your desire, it shall be done.”“Persevere, yourself, young sir, in such a disposition, and you will become a thriving man.”“I hope to please you, sir.”“You will; of course, you will, you will do me zealous service. But mark me you must follow this man, who will call at my house, as you would follow some light that would lead you from the caverns of poverty to fortune. Track him home, and see him fairly housed. Then mark the place by every token that may enable you again to lay your very hand upon the door, and cry, ‘Here dwells that man!’”“I will, sir, and I hope you may find him more deserving than you think.”“I hope I may,” said Learmont.They now walked along the Birdcage-walk, for they had doubled the canal, and were approaching towards Westminister again. For the space of more than five minutes neither spoke, for both were busy with reflections, although of a widely different character.Albert Seyton was more and more suspicions of the intentions of Learmont, and he began to think him a man, most probably, mixed up in some dark political intrigues, to carry out which, he required some simple and unsuspecting agent. There was something very galling to the proud spirit of Albert, in the supposition that Learmont had pitched upon him, as thinking him weak enough to believe anything, and never to suspect that the employment he was set upon was far different from what it purported to be, and he longed to say, “But I am not so simple and foolish as you may imagine me, and have my doubts, and grave suspicions concerning your conduct and the truth of words;” but then he could not bring himself to say so much, because all as yet was merely made up of doubt and suspicion, and he considered how ridiculously foolish he would look by allowing his imagination to run riot in creating apprehensions, perhaps after all, to be completely dissipated by the result, and arising only, possibly, from his young and uninstructed fancy and ignorance of the ways of the world.Albert Seyton, therefore, prudently determined to be watchful and wary; but to take nothing on surmise, and to believe, or affect to believe, as far as the non-expression of doubt went, all that Learmont might choose to say until some positive and glaring fact contradicted him.While these thoughts were passing through Albert’s mind, Learmont, on the other hand, was congratulating himself upon his meeting with the young man, and extracting from the whole circumstance food for more agreeable hope and reflection than had illumined his gloomy mind for a long previous period.“Here,” he thought, “there is at last a chance of discovering Jacob Gray’s place of abode—a chance too, which if it fails, commits me to no one, and does me no manner of injury. But it cannot scarcely fail. This young man and he being perfect strangers might, in such a city as London, follow each other about for a week without exciting suspicion. Moreover, he looks upon discovering this man’s abode as the key-stone of his future favour with me, and consequent advancement. I could not have devised a better plan, and, surely, fortune must have been desirous of favouring me when she sent this raw young man to solicit employment from me. By the powers of hell, I would not have missed such a chance of circumventing that demon Gray for a thousand pounds.”Learmont, in the momentary exultation of these thoughts suddenly raised his eyes from the ground, on which they had been bent, and uttering a cry of terror, he sprang forward several yards, and then exclaimed,—“There—there—again—again! Is it ever to haunt me thus?”He pointed with his trembling finger to the windows of a house which overlooked the park for some distance. One of the casements was open, but there was no one at it, and Albert looked first at Learmont, and then at the window in amazement, not unmixed with a sudden thought that, after all, his new employer might be a madman.Learmont continued pointing for a moment towards the window. Then he slowly dropped his hand, and in a low agitated voice said, half aloud,—“Could it be fancy?”“What saw you, sir?” said Alberta.“Come—come—hither.”Albert approached close to him, when he leaned heavily on the arm of the young man, and said,—“You were walking with me, and if it were real, you must have seen it.”“Seen what, sir?”“A face pass for an instant across yon window.”“That now open?”“Yes—the sun shines upon it as you see, and across the open space there slowly passed a face. You saw it?”“I did not, sir.”“You are sure?”“Quite.”“Then fancy must be torturing me. ’Tis very strange that she—she whom I scarce think of should be the vision to haunt me. You are sure you saw no one pass that window?”“At the moment my eye might not have been cast in that direction,” said Albert “but certainly I saw no one.”“True you might not have been looking; but neither was I, and yet my eyes were lifted as if by some invisible hand, and then I saw a face—that—that—I fear now I shall often conjure up.”Learmont leaned against the railings that divided the entrance from the open thoroughfare of the park and for a time his strength appeared quite prostrated.Albert Seyton continued gazing at the house which had attracted so much attention from Learmont, and after a pause of some minutes’ duration, he said,—“I think that house is known to me, although I never looked at it from here before.”Learmont made him no answer, for although he heard him speak, he scarcely comprehended what he said, so busy was he with his own fears.“If I mistake not,” said Albert, “it is the back of Sir Francis Hartleton’s house we see from here.”The name of Hartleton struck upon Learmont’s ears like a trumpet, and starting from his reverie of disagreeable images, he cried hurriedly, and violently,—“Who spoke of Hartleton? Who mentioned his name?”“I, sir,” said Albert, amazed at Learmont’s wild vehemence of tone.“You—you?”“Yes, sir.”“Oh, you have heard of him. He is a man, I presume, known to many. Are you sure that is the back of his house?”“Yes, now I look again I am quite sure; I know it by some peculiar chimnies. I have gazed on it for hours with a hope now extinguished for ever.”“You—you?”“Yes, sir. My story is a strange one; I have lost both the natural and acquired ties that bind me to life, I am an orphan, and I can never more behold her who would have filled the void in my heart.”“But you speak of this Hartleton as if you knew him. Is such the fact?”“I am scarcely warranted in saying so much,” replied Albert, “although I have seen and conversed with him.”“Indeed?”“Yes; and he gave me hopes, which were for a time my thoughts by day and my dreams by night—my hopes which I clung to as some drowning mariner clings to a stray spar; but alas! I have lost now the power to dream myself happy.”“He disappointed you?”“He did. Perhaps he could not do otherwise. I have no right to censure him, but he could not know how my heart was sinking, and he cannot know how it has been wrecked, or perhaps he would have done more or tried to do more. But I am querulous upon this subject, and may blame him causelessly. It is a fault of human nature to mistake the want of power for the want of will, and to him who loves all things appear so very possible.”“You have cause to quarrel with Sir Francis Hartleton, the particulars of which you shall relate to me some other time. I, too, love him not, and I may perchance aid you in your wishes more than he, although I may promise less.”“I thank you, sir.”“Let me see you early to-morrow.”“I shall attend you, sir.”“Farewell.”Learmont walked slowly away, and Albert Seyton, with a deep sigh turned and walked pensively towards Buckingham-gate.Had he happened to have been looking at the moment Learmont did towards Sir Francis Harleton’s house, he would have seen Ada pass by the open casement.
A Walk and a Meeting.—The Vision at the Open Casement.—Learmont’s Perturbation.
An ideahad struck Learmont, during the course of his conversation with Britton which, now that the smith was gone, came still more strongly and forcibly across his mind, and shaped itself into clearer words.
“Why should not I,” he said, “if I find that in England there is for me nothing but danger, disgrace, and constant apprehension, why should not I take my accumulated wealth somewhere else, to some land where I could purchase with it dignity and power, and—what is more freedom from the terrors that now beset my path? ’Tis worth reflecting on such a course; I could do it most easily now. ’Tis a comforting reflection—a most comforting reflection, and—and when I am tortured by doubts and fears, I will think of such a course. But this news of Britton’s troubles me. He thinks himself watched by Hartleton; why doubtless so am I. Sir Francis is no friend to me, and would gladly find me tripping some of these days—I must crush him—I will have his life, if it cost me half my wealth. We kill a noxious reptile, because we think it may sting us; so will I have vengeance upon you, Sir Francis Hartleton, because I know you would sting me if you could. I must find some means subtle, deep, and dangerous to him, but withal to me innoxious. I must kill, and yet not seem to kill, even to the instrument with which I do the work. Britton it is of no use attempting to employ on such an occasion, unless I could be certain of his success, and then, his execution for the deed. In such a case, I should be rid of two enemies; and even Britton would not be so wantonly mischievous as to deceive me, at no benefit to himself;—yet is it dangerous. I must think again. Master Hartleton—you are playing with edged tools.”
Learmont was now silent for a time, and then rose, saying,—
“Now for the life of action which shall drown thought—my wealth—my house—my brilliant entertainments have all succeeded so far as to make me a honoured guest with more than I can visit—but I will visit many,—it—it is time I began to enjoy something now.”
The horrible contortion which he produced upon his ghastly face, by way of a smile, at these words, startled him, as he saw it reflected in a mirror hanging opposite to him; and he shook in every limb, as he hastily left the room.
His servants shrunk from before him as, in about ten minutes time, he passed down the great marble staircase of his mansion, splendidly dressed, and enveloped in a cloak, to make some calls.
Declining, with a haughty wave of his hand, the chair that stood in the hall, he strode out; and, with his lips compressed as usual with him, so closely that not a particle of blood was left in them, he turned into the park, intending to call upon the frivolous but noble Brereton family, who had lodgings near to old Buckingham House.
Of all the persons intent on pleasure, on business, or on intrigue, that thronged to the park, Learmont fancied that no one could carry so heavy a heart as himself, and yet how successful had he been! Had he not accomplished all that he had grasped at? But, like the dog in the fable, what a valuable and tangible possession had he dropped, in grasping the shadow which now darkened his soul.
He saw not the sunshine,—for his own heart was black and gloomy; he heard not the merry song of the birds,—for busy thought was conjuring up direful images in his brain. He strode along, like a tall spirit—a being belonging to some more gloomy and uncongenial world than ours, who heard but discord in our sweetest sounds, and could not appreciate any of our pleasures.
And yet strange to say, all that Learmont had toiled for—all he had sinned for—all he had dipped his hands in blood for, had been that he might enjoy, in greater abundance, these very delights and pleasures that seemed to mock his grasp, and to retreat like theignis fatuusof the morass—far off in proportion, as he most wishes to approach.
He walked up the principal mall, and none addressed him, although many looked after the tall, gaunt, melancholy-looking man, as he strode in silence onwards. What would Learmont not have given for a companion; one who would feel and think with him, and divide the weight of oppressive conscience.
A lively burst of martial music now came suddenly upon his ears, and he glanced in the direction from whence it came, when he saw a person standing by a seat, from which he seemed to have just risen, close to him. A second glance told Learmont it was the young man, Albert Seyton, who had applied to him for the office of secretary, and he bowed coldly and stiffly to him, which Albert courteously rejoined, saying,—
“The morning is inviting, sir.”
“Yes—a—cold, as you say,” replied Learmont, in an abstracted tone.
“Cold, sir?”
“Fine—fine, I mean. Did I say cold?”
“You did, sir; but probably your thoughts were somewhere else. I fear I intrude upon you.”
“No, no; you do not. My thoughts, young sir, never wander, but I am grateful to him who can bring them back again.”
“He is like me,” thought Albert, with a sigh; “a man with a very few pleasant moments to look mentally back to.”
“Have you thought further of what I proposed to you at our last meeting?” said Learmont.
After a long pause, for Albert did not well know what to say in answer to the remark last made by the melancholy squire, “I have, sir,” he now said, “and adhere firmly to all I before pledged myself to; namely, that in all honour I will do you zealous service and tire not.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well. Walk with me, and we will converse more at large as we go; I am merely out for exercise.”
Albert bowed, and walked by the side of his strange employer in silence for some minutes. Learmont then said,—
“You will call upon me to-morrow, according to our previous arrangement.”
“I shall be proud to do so,” said Albert.
“Well, well. Perhaps the man may be there; but beware of his consummate art, young sir. If you would successfully track him to his haunt, you must be wary and cunning, patient and sagacious; believe me no common man will ever succeed in circumventing him.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Ay, indeed, you know him not. He has the deep cunning of the serpent. Even I—but no matter. You will freely undertake the employment?”
“As an earnest of future service, yes, sir, I will do your bidding, and if great attention and extreme care can accomplish your desire, it shall be done.”
“Persevere, yourself, young sir, in such a disposition, and you will become a thriving man.”
“I hope to please you, sir.”
“You will; of course, you will, you will do me zealous service. But mark me you must follow this man, who will call at my house, as you would follow some light that would lead you from the caverns of poverty to fortune. Track him home, and see him fairly housed. Then mark the place by every token that may enable you again to lay your very hand upon the door, and cry, ‘Here dwells that man!’”
“I will, sir, and I hope you may find him more deserving than you think.”
“I hope I may,” said Learmont.
They now walked along the Birdcage-walk, for they had doubled the canal, and were approaching towards Westminister again. For the space of more than five minutes neither spoke, for both were busy with reflections, although of a widely different character.
Albert Seyton was more and more suspicions of the intentions of Learmont, and he began to think him a man, most probably, mixed up in some dark political intrigues, to carry out which, he required some simple and unsuspecting agent. There was something very galling to the proud spirit of Albert, in the supposition that Learmont had pitched upon him, as thinking him weak enough to believe anything, and never to suspect that the employment he was set upon was far different from what it purported to be, and he longed to say, “But I am not so simple and foolish as you may imagine me, and have my doubts, and grave suspicions concerning your conduct and the truth of words;” but then he could not bring himself to say so much, because all as yet was merely made up of doubt and suspicion, and he considered how ridiculously foolish he would look by allowing his imagination to run riot in creating apprehensions, perhaps after all, to be completely dissipated by the result, and arising only, possibly, from his young and uninstructed fancy and ignorance of the ways of the world.
Albert Seyton, therefore, prudently determined to be watchful and wary; but to take nothing on surmise, and to believe, or affect to believe, as far as the non-expression of doubt went, all that Learmont might choose to say until some positive and glaring fact contradicted him.
While these thoughts were passing through Albert’s mind, Learmont, on the other hand, was congratulating himself upon his meeting with the young man, and extracting from the whole circumstance food for more agreeable hope and reflection than had illumined his gloomy mind for a long previous period.
“Here,” he thought, “there is at last a chance of discovering Jacob Gray’s place of abode—a chance too, which if it fails, commits me to no one, and does me no manner of injury. But it cannot scarcely fail. This young man and he being perfect strangers might, in such a city as London, follow each other about for a week without exciting suspicion. Moreover, he looks upon discovering this man’s abode as the key-stone of his future favour with me, and consequent advancement. I could not have devised a better plan, and, surely, fortune must have been desirous of favouring me when she sent this raw young man to solicit employment from me. By the powers of hell, I would not have missed such a chance of circumventing that demon Gray for a thousand pounds.”
Learmont, in the momentary exultation of these thoughts suddenly raised his eyes from the ground, on which they had been bent, and uttering a cry of terror, he sprang forward several yards, and then exclaimed,—
“There—there—again—again! Is it ever to haunt me thus?”
He pointed with his trembling finger to the windows of a house which overlooked the park for some distance. One of the casements was open, but there was no one at it, and Albert looked first at Learmont, and then at the window in amazement, not unmixed with a sudden thought that, after all, his new employer might be a madman.
Learmont continued pointing for a moment towards the window. Then he slowly dropped his hand, and in a low agitated voice said, half aloud,—
“Could it be fancy?”
“What saw you, sir?” said Alberta.
“Come—come—hither.”
Albert approached close to him, when he leaned heavily on the arm of the young man, and said,—
“You were walking with me, and if it were real, you must have seen it.”
“Seen what, sir?”
“A face pass for an instant across yon window.”
“That now open?”
“Yes—the sun shines upon it as you see, and across the open space there slowly passed a face. You saw it?”
“I did not, sir.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite.”
“Then fancy must be torturing me. ’Tis very strange that she—she whom I scarce think of should be the vision to haunt me. You are sure you saw no one pass that window?”
“At the moment my eye might not have been cast in that direction,” said Albert “but certainly I saw no one.”
“True you might not have been looking; but neither was I, and yet my eyes were lifted as if by some invisible hand, and then I saw a face—that—that—I fear now I shall often conjure up.”
Learmont leaned against the railings that divided the entrance from the open thoroughfare of the park and for a time his strength appeared quite prostrated.
Albert Seyton continued gazing at the house which had attracted so much attention from Learmont, and after a pause of some minutes’ duration, he said,—
“I think that house is known to me, although I never looked at it from here before.”
Learmont made him no answer, for although he heard him speak, he scarcely comprehended what he said, so busy was he with his own fears.
“If I mistake not,” said Albert, “it is the back of Sir Francis Hartleton’s house we see from here.”
The name of Hartleton struck upon Learmont’s ears like a trumpet, and starting from his reverie of disagreeable images, he cried hurriedly, and violently,—
“Who spoke of Hartleton? Who mentioned his name?”
“I, sir,” said Albert, amazed at Learmont’s wild vehemence of tone.
“You—you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, you have heard of him. He is a man, I presume, known to many. Are you sure that is the back of his house?”
“Yes, now I look again I am quite sure; I know it by some peculiar chimnies. I have gazed on it for hours with a hope now extinguished for ever.”
“You—you?”
“Yes, sir. My story is a strange one; I have lost both the natural and acquired ties that bind me to life, I am an orphan, and I can never more behold her who would have filled the void in my heart.”
“But you speak of this Hartleton as if you knew him. Is such the fact?”
“I am scarcely warranted in saying so much,” replied Albert, “although I have seen and conversed with him.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; and he gave me hopes, which were for a time my thoughts by day and my dreams by night—my hopes which I clung to as some drowning mariner clings to a stray spar; but alas! I have lost now the power to dream myself happy.”
“He disappointed you?”
“He did. Perhaps he could not do otherwise. I have no right to censure him, but he could not know how my heart was sinking, and he cannot know how it has been wrecked, or perhaps he would have done more or tried to do more. But I am querulous upon this subject, and may blame him causelessly. It is a fault of human nature to mistake the want of power for the want of will, and to him who loves all things appear so very possible.”
“You have cause to quarrel with Sir Francis Hartleton, the particulars of which you shall relate to me some other time. I, too, love him not, and I may perchance aid you in your wishes more than he, although I may promise less.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Let me see you early to-morrow.”
“I shall attend you, sir.”
“Farewell.”
Learmont walked slowly away, and Albert Seyton, with a deep sigh turned and walked pensively towards Buckingham-gate.
Had he happened to have been looking at the moment Learmont did towards Sir Francis Harleton’s house, he would have seen Ada pass by the open casement.
CHAPTER LXX.The Jew and the Necklace.—Gray’s Troubles and Surmises.—An Adventure.Sir Francis Hartletonfound but very little difficulty in getting possession of Ada’s necklace from the Jew, who had made so capital a bargain with her. The wily Israelite made a practice of never purchasing an article unless he got it at a price which always implied that it was dishonestly come by, as was the case with Ada, of some party totally ignorant or the value of the commodity.Another rule of his business was to keep his greatest bargains some years, if he thought it necessary so to do, before he brought them into the market, so that if the jewel or the gold were stolen, all the excitement concerning it had subsided, and the very person from whom the property had been filched had long since given it up as quite hopeless.In this manner, he had acted with regard to Ada’s necklace, which was really worth a much larger sum than either Jacob Gray or the Jew imagined, for the former knew only from indirect sources the value of the article, and the latter rarely came across anything so pure and costly.Moreover, Jacob Gray had a strong motive for preserving the necklace, because, as we know, he always looked forward to a day when it might be necessary or agreeable to him to declare Ada’s name, birth, and lineage; and thus how important might any corroborative evidence become upon the subject.As for the Jew, he had been in a ceaseless wonder ever since he had purchased the valuable trinket of the young girl, and in vain he puzzled himself to account for her possession of it, and form some idea of who she could possibly be that was wandering about alone with such valuable property; and it is more than possible that his great bargain was as great a source of disquiet to him as it was of congratulation, for he reasoned with himself,—“If sho be hash she had such a necklace, and didn’t know fot it wash worth, sho help me, she might have had something else petter still.”This was a sore reflection to the Jew, and on the whole afforded a fine commentary upon such motives as his who rate their losses by their gains, in the same manner as the man who found half-a-guinea, and upon being told that two had been lost on the same spot sunk the fact of his good fortune in finding the one, and bemoaned to everybody his loss of the other.It was a sore blow to the Jew, when Sir Francis Hartleton walked into his shop, and at once announcing himself as the much dreaded, because active and irreproachable, magistrate, demanded the necklace, giving a description of it, and of Ada, which rendered any kind of shuffling out of the matter of no possible use.The necklace was therefore produced, and Sir Francis left the Jew fully impressed with a belief that he would immediately be prosecuted, although such a step was still far from the magistrate’s intentions, who, as we are aware, was taking every means he could to keep matters quiet, and awakening no public curiosity concerning Ada.It was after another conversation with his beautiful young guest that he issued an order to find poor mad Maud, intending to make some permanent provision for her benefit, not at all expecting that she really possessed sufficient pieces of Jacob Gray’s confession to enable him to form a much nearer estimate of the merits and demerits of the whole affair, than he had hitherto been able to do.From Ada’s description of Gray, he was now enabled to set a watch upon Learmont, who, from all the circumstances, he felt certain Gray visited to get money.Sir Francis’ object now was to give Jacob Gray time to provide himself not only with means, but to fully again write out those papers he believed would unravel every mystery connected with the affair.That Andrew Britton was assailable in the same way he never suspected, and he merely waited now until Gray should commit both Learmont and the savage smith in writing to take some active step in the business.Jacob Gray little imagined that he was quite free in London to go whither his fancy might lead him, and that the man he most dreaded, namely, Sir Francis Hartleton, had taken a great deal of trouble to prevent his arrest.Had he guessed he was being so angled with, his terror would have killed him; but as he sat on the step of the door near to Learmont’s, he concocted in his mind a line of proceeding, which, but for various circumstances he could not know of, might have been successfully carried out.He would see Learmont in the morning, and affecting to be wearied of his present line of life, to offer for two thousand pounds to surrender to him the living object of his fears, as well as his, Jacob Gray’s, own confession, and leave England for ever. Learmont might see him on board a vessel even if he pleased. He might see him leave the shore, when he would give him any address purporting to be where he would find Ada; and then, at the first port he stopped at, he would send a letter to Sir Francis Hartleton, containing sufficient to destroy Britton and Learmont; but not sufficient to be of any service to the persecuted Ada.By this means he thought to gratify his revenge against them all; and, at least, secure to himself safety, and the means of living in comparative luxury in some cheap continental state.If Learmont should refuse such a compromise, he could adopt some other course of action to be resolved upon after his next interview with him; but, upon the necessity of leaving England, and that quickly too, he was quite clear and decided.One would have thought that Jacob Gray had met with sufficient disappointment in his various arrangements to dishearten him from attempting further to create circumstances, and philosophise upon their results; but it is a fixed principle in those natures which are fond to excess of plotting, that no experience will deter them from concocting the hairbreadth schemes and chances which would, combined, make up a satisfactory result, but which all possess the one alarming feature, that the whole fabric must topple down upon the displacement of a single brick.He rose from the step of the door, and walked onwards, he knew not whither, for some time; but, at length, he found himself in Parliament-street, from the immediate vicinity of which he shrunk quickly, for he dreaded the glare of the lights, and feared that some one might recognise him as the fugitive of the Strand.There were in his mind some strange and singular contradictions with regard to his present situation, which, as calm reflection came to his aid, he found it very difficult indeed to reconcile.That Ada had sought refuge with Sir Francis Hartleton, he could scarcely permit himself to doubt for a moment; but then the consequences which she had always dreaded from such a step on her part had certainly not increased so rapidly if they were to occur at all, as he would have sworn they would. He anticipated so active, so persevering, so energetic a hunt from him throughout, not only the metropolis, but the whole kingdom, when once Ada should be in a condition to possess Sir Francis Hartleton of the events of the five years of her life with him, Gray, that safety and freedom for four and twenty hours was a thing not to be thought of; and yet here he was, without much disguise, without the means of taking that care to avoid suspicion which he would fain have done, free and unquestioned hitherto in the public streets.His name seemed in no one’s mouth. There was no hue and cry—no bills of any particular moment concerning him, save the meagre one he had seen at Hampstead, and which had evidently not emanated from Sir Francis Hartleton. In fact, the affair did not at all present the alarming aspect to him he had ever expected it would.Jacob Gray was, therefore, under those circumstances thrown back upon several suppositions—none of which, however, to his mind bore the stamp of much probability.One was that Ada had not taken refuge with Sir Francis Hartleton, but by some means had fallen into other hands, who did not feel so interested in her story or had not the power or the inclination to act upon any of the surmises it must naturally call forth.Another supposition, was, that from some lingering feeling of pity towards him, or from some dark and haunting suspicion in her mind that he might be related to her, she had, although with Sir Francis, abstained from committing him Gray sufficiently to induce a hot pursuit for him, on other grounds than the murder of Elias, and of Vaughan. Nay, he even thought it possible that Ada might have interceded for him to be left alone, or bargained in some way for his safety. But as often as these reflections began to shed some comforting influence on Gray, there came the reflection of how firmly and broadly she had denounced him as a murderer in the public streets, and he became lost again in a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions.He was slowly traversing a low, obscure street, leading from George-street, as these painful thoughts were passing through his mind, when he fancied he heard a footstep behind him, which seemed accommodating itself to his in a manner that excited at once his suspicion that he was watched. All Gray’s dreams of security immediately vanished, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him, as he fancied he was upon the point now of being arrested when his fate would be certain; for what account could he give of himself that would not at once strengthen and confirm suspicion. He still heard the footstep, but he feared to look behind him, and after a few moments of confused thought he resolved to try a simple experiment to ascertain if he were really followed, and he paused suddenly to see if the stranger behind him would pass on.The whole mass of Jacob Gray’s blood appeared to him to curdle in his reins, as he felt sure, whoever it was behind him, had stopped likewise.
The Jew and the Necklace.—Gray’s Troubles and Surmises.—An Adventure.
Sir Francis Hartletonfound but very little difficulty in getting possession of Ada’s necklace from the Jew, who had made so capital a bargain with her. The wily Israelite made a practice of never purchasing an article unless he got it at a price which always implied that it was dishonestly come by, as was the case with Ada, of some party totally ignorant or the value of the commodity.
Another rule of his business was to keep his greatest bargains some years, if he thought it necessary so to do, before he brought them into the market, so that if the jewel or the gold were stolen, all the excitement concerning it had subsided, and the very person from whom the property had been filched had long since given it up as quite hopeless.
In this manner, he had acted with regard to Ada’s necklace, which was really worth a much larger sum than either Jacob Gray or the Jew imagined, for the former knew only from indirect sources the value of the article, and the latter rarely came across anything so pure and costly.
Moreover, Jacob Gray had a strong motive for preserving the necklace, because, as we know, he always looked forward to a day when it might be necessary or agreeable to him to declare Ada’s name, birth, and lineage; and thus how important might any corroborative evidence become upon the subject.
As for the Jew, he had been in a ceaseless wonder ever since he had purchased the valuable trinket of the young girl, and in vain he puzzled himself to account for her possession of it, and form some idea of who she could possibly be that was wandering about alone with such valuable property; and it is more than possible that his great bargain was as great a source of disquiet to him as it was of congratulation, for he reasoned with himself,—
“If sho be hash she had such a necklace, and didn’t know fot it wash worth, sho help me, she might have had something else petter still.”
This was a sore reflection to the Jew, and on the whole afforded a fine commentary upon such motives as his who rate their losses by their gains, in the same manner as the man who found half-a-guinea, and upon being told that two had been lost on the same spot sunk the fact of his good fortune in finding the one, and bemoaned to everybody his loss of the other.
It was a sore blow to the Jew, when Sir Francis Hartleton walked into his shop, and at once announcing himself as the much dreaded, because active and irreproachable, magistrate, demanded the necklace, giving a description of it, and of Ada, which rendered any kind of shuffling out of the matter of no possible use.
The necklace was therefore produced, and Sir Francis left the Jew fully impressed with a belief that he would immediately be prosecuted, although such a step was still far from the magistrate’s intentions, who, as we are aware, was taking every means he could to keep matters quiet, and awakening no public curiosity concerning Ada.
It was after another conversation with his beautiful young guest that he issued an order to find poor mad Maud, intending to make some permanent provision for her benefit, not at all expecting that she really possessed sufficient pieces of Jacob Gray’s confession to enable him to form a much nearer estimate of the merits and demerits of the whole affair, than he had hitherto been able to do.
From Ada’s description of Gray, he was now enabled to set a watch upon Learmont, who, from all the circumstances, he felt certain Gray visited to get money.
Sir Francis’ object now was to give Jacob Gray time to provide himself not only with means, but to fully again write out those papers he believed would unravel every mystery connected with the affair.
That Andrew Britton was assailable in the same way he never suspected, and he merely waited now until Gray should commit both Learmont and the savage smith in writing to take some active step in the business.
Jacob Gray little imagined that he was quite free in London to go whither his fancy might lead him, and that the man he most dreaded, namely, Sir Francis Hartleton, had taken a great deal of trouble to prevent his arrest.
Had he guessed he was being so angled with, his terror would have killed him; but as he sat on the step of the door near to Learmont’s, he concocted in his mind a line of proceeding, which, but for various circumstances he could not know of, might have been successfully carried out.
He would see Learmont in the morning, and affecting to be wearied of his present line of life, to offer for two thousand pounds to surrender to him the living object of his fears, as well as his, Jacob Gray’s, own confession, and leave England for ever. Learmont might see him on board a vessel even if he pleased. He might see him leave the shore, when he would give him any address purporting to be where he would find Ada; and then, at the first port he stopped at, he would send a letter to Sir Francis Hartleton, containing sufficient to destroy Britton and Learmont; but not sufficient to be of any service to the persecuted Ada.
By this means he thought to gratify his revenge against them all; and, at least, secure to himself safety, and the means of living in comparative luxury in some cheap continental state.
If Learmont should refuse such a compromise, he could adopt some other course of action to be resolved upon after his next interview with him; but, upon the necessity of leaving England, and that quickly too, he was quite clear and decided.
One would have thought that Jacob Gray had met with sufficient disappointment in his various arrangements to dishearten him from attempting further to create circumstances, and philosophise upon their results; but it is a fixed principle in those natures which are fond to excess of plotting, that no experience will deter them from concocting the hairbreadth schemes and chances which would, combined, make up a satisfactory result, but which all possess the one alarming feature, that the whole fabric must topple down upon the displacement of a single brick.
He rose from the step of the door, and walked onwards, he knew not whither, for some time; but, at length, he found himself in Parliament-street, from the immediate vicinity of which he shrunk quickly, for he dreaded the glare of the lights, and feared that some one might recognise him as the fugitive of the Strand.
There were in his mind some strange and singular contradictions with regard to his present situation, which, as calm reflection came to his aid, he found it very difficult indeed to reconcile.
That Ada had sought refuge with Sir Francis Hartleton, he could scarcely permit himself to doubt for a moment; but then the consequences which she had always dreaded from such a step on her part had certainly not increased so rapidly if they were to occur at all, as he would have sworn they would. He anticipated so active, so persevering, so energetic a hunt from him throughout, not only the metropolis, but the whole kingdom, when once Ada should be in a condition to possess Sir Francis Hartleton of the events of the five years of her life with him, Gray, that safety and freedom for four and twenty hours was a thing not to be thought of; and yet here he was, without much disguise, without the means of taking that care to avoid suspicion which he would fain have done, free and unquestioned hitherto in the public streets.
His name seemed in no one’s mouth. There was no hue and cry—no bills of any particular moment concerning him, save the meagre one he had seen at Hampstead, and which had evidently not emanated from Sir Francis Hartleton. In fact, the affair did not at all present the alarming aspect to him he had ever expected it would.
Jacob Gray was, therefore, under those circumstances thrown back upon several suppositions—none of which, however, to his mind bore the stamp of much probability.
One was that Ada had not taken refuge with Sir Francis Hartleton, but by some means had fallen into other hands, who did not feel so interested in her story or had not the power or the inclination to act upon any of the surmises it must naturally call forth.
Another supposition, was, that from some lingering feeling of pity towards him, or from some dark and haunting suspicion in her mind that he might be related to her, she had, although with Sir Francis, abstained from committing him Gray sufficiently to induce a hot pursuit for him, on other grounds than the murder of Elias, and of Vaughan. Nay, he even thought it possible that Ada might have interceded for him to be left alone, or bargained in some way for his safety. But as often as these reflections began to shed some comforting influence on Gray, there came the reflection of how firmly and broadly she had denounced him as a murderer in the public streets, and he became lost again in a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
He was slowly traversing a low, obscure street, leading from George-street, as these painful thoughts were passing through his mind, when he fancied he heard a footstep behind him, which seemed accommodating itself to his in a manner that excited at once his suspicion that he was watched. All Gray’s dreams of security immediately vanished, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him, as he fancied he was upon the point now of being arrested when his fate would be certain; for what account could he give of himself that would not at once strengthen and confirm suspicion. He still heard the footstep, but he feared to look behind him, and after a few moments of confused thought he resolved to try a simple experiment to ascertain if he were really followed, and he paused suddenly to see if the stranger behind him would pass on.
The whole mass of Jacob Gray’s blood appeared to him to curdle in his reins, as he felt sure, whoever it was behind him, had stopped likewise.
CHAPTER LXXI.The Pursuit.—A Successful Ruse.—The Long Night.—Gray’s Terror.The littlestrength that Jacob Gray had left now all at once seemed completely to have left him, and he trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Walk on he could not, and yet what was he to do? Did the person know who he was, or did he only suspect? Was there a remote chance of escape, or was he fairly in the toils?As these distressing thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, he heard the stranger step up to him, and in a moment, a voice said, “A fine evening, sir.”Gray stretched out his hand, and held by an iron rail, while he turned slowly and with pallid features, and his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth with fright, faced the speaker.He was a man about the middle height, with sharp small grey eyes, which twinkled upon the terror-stricken Jacob as much as to say, “I am a cunning, cautious fellow, and you won’t escape me.”It was full a minute before Gray could command himself sufficiently to speak, and the stranger during that time had repeated his remark of,—“A fine evening.”“Yes—yes, very,” stammered Gray.“You don’t seem very well, sir,” said the stranger, twinkling his eyes designedly upon Gray.“Yes, quite well, thank—I—I haven’t the honour of knowing you. Good evening—good evening.”“I may be mistaken,” said the man; “but I think I have seen you somewhere.”Gray would have given anything at that moment to say “Where?” but he lacked the courage, and merely muttered something about it being unlikely they had ever met, as he was a stranger in London.The man kept peering at him in a very disagreeable manner, and after a few moments, he said in a careless tone,—“Heard of the murder?”“What murder?” gasped Gray.“In the Strand—Vaughan’s murder I mean—strange affair, very!”“No—I know nothing of it,” said Gray.“Odd, that—the whole town knows of it. It’s crying about the streets, and what’s the strangest thing of all, nobody seems to know who did it.”“Indeed?”“No, the fellow was a complete stranger, and the only man who gives anything like a description of him, is a fellow whom he knocked down near Arundel-street.”“Yes—indeed,” was all Gray could find breath to say, for he expected each moment that the man would pounce upon him, crying, “You are the murderer—I have been only amusing myself a little with your fears.”“It’s odd altogether,” continued the man, “and there’s fifty pounds reward now offered by Vaughan’s relations for the man, which, together with what government will give at his conviction, will make a good round sum.”“Exactly—yes,” said Gray, quite mechanically, for his senses were in a complete whirl.“You see that’s worth looking after,” said the man.“Yes.—Good evening—good evening,” said Gray, and he tried to pass on.“Are you going my way?” said the man.“Which is your way?”“Oh—why, really I ain’t at all particular, and I’ll walk with you, if I am not intruding upon you?““I am going home,” said Gray.“Good evening—I live just here.”“You haven’t lost your way?”“No—no—this place is quite familiar to me—I have known it long.”“Oh, I thought you said you were a stranger here.”Gray changed from pale to red, and from red to pale again, as he replied,—“You misunderstood me, sir.”“Oh, did I? Very likely.”“Good evening.”“You had rather walk alone, would you?”Gray summoned courage to say with tolerable firmness,—“I would.”“Certainly—certainly. Mind if you see anybody that looks suspicious, lay hold of him; it may be the murderer, you know, and it would be a prime evening’s work for anybody to nab him. He is about your height—thin and pale, stoops a little, shabbily dressed. Look out—look out.”“I—I will. Are you an officer?”“No, I’m a shoemaker, but I’ve a great fancy for catching thieves and those kind of people.”“Curse your fancy,” thought Gray.“I couldn’t sleep to-night without taking what I call a prowl just to see if the fates would place in my way the murderer.”“Oh, indeed!““Yes, and I don’t despair yet. Good evening—good evening.”“Good evening,” replied Gray; and he walked on with a faint hope that after all the troublesome shoemaker, whom he devoutly wished dead and buried, did not suspect him sufficiently to annoy him any more with his following.To ascertain this point, after he had left him, was a great object to Gray, as it would afford him an idea how to act, and accordingly after he had proceeded some distance, he just glanced over his shoulder to see if the man had gone, and he supposed such was the case, for he could neither see nor hear him.Jacob Gray, however was reckoning without his host, for not only did the troublesome shoemaker, who was the pest of Westminster, from his love of meddling with the duties of the police, strongly suspect that he had hit upon the right man, but he determined not to lose sight of him, and had merely ensconced himself in a door way until Gray should have got some distance off, when his intention was to follow him very cautiously till he saw him housed somewhere, when he would bring the officers upon him, for he did not like exactly to run the risk of attempting the capture of so desperate a character as a murderer, who had already taken one man’s life merely because he made an attempt to capture him.“Who knows,” thought the shoemaker, “he is a desperate chap, and may be a great deal stronger than he looks; he might smash me just as he smashed Vaughan, and that would be no joke, I’ll dog him till I see him fairly housed, and then be down upon him.”Cunning, however, as was the troublesome shoemaker he was scarcely a match for Jacob Gray, when the latter had a little time to collect his faculties and was not flurried. There were indeed but five persons who could have succeeded in dogging Jacob Gray without his knowing it; and although the shoemaker had in his mind concocted the artful scheme of letting Gray turn a corner, and then running after him, and keeping him in sight, until he had turned another, he did not know his man, for that was the very course which Jacob Gray took good care to provide against by himself popping into a doorway round the first corner he came to, and waiting patiently to see what came of it.The result confirmed his suspicions, for he had not been above two minutes in that doorway, than the shoemaker arrived at the corner at the top of his speed, and peered around it with what he considered amazing cleverness and cunning.The street was a long one, and he felt not a little surprised at missing Gray in so very sudden a manner.“Lost him, by ——,” he cried. “He must have gone into some house here—that’s flat. I’ll get a constable to come with me and will call at every one. I’d wager my head he’s the man.”The amateur officer now darted off at a quick rate to procure a real one, and when he had gone, Jacob Gray emerged from his hiding-place.He paused a moment in the street, and then with bitter malignity, he muttered,—“Beware! I am not a man to be tempted too far.”He then hastily walked in an opposite direction to that taken by the shoemaker, although he had no definite idea of where he was going, or what he meant to do until the morning should afford him a chance of seeing Learmont. As the excitement of the last half-hour began along with its danger to wear off, Jacob Gray felt dreadfully fatigued, notwithstanding he had been much supported by the broken victuals he had received from poor Maud, and he thought of proceeding to the sheds of Covent-garden, and lying down to rest himself till morning’s dawn.The rotten wooden stalls and sheds of Covent-garden-market, at the period of our tale, were the nightly resort of many who had no other place in which to lay an aching head and wearied body. There, among potato-sacks, baskets, vegetable refuse, and all the mass of filth for which that now handsome market was then so famous, the weary, the destitute, and the heart-sore would find a temporary solace from their cares, in the oblivion of sleep.But not alone were the humble sheds of the market occupied by the sons and daughters of misfortune and want—a number of the worthless and abandoned characters who nightly prowl about the theatres had no other places of refuge; and many a thief and, in some instances, criminals of a higher grade in the scale of iniquity, were pushed out by the officers from among the market lodgers, when he happened to be particularly wanted; and when a housebreaker, or thief of any description, was compelled by necessity to lodge there, he was tolerably sure to be particularly wanted, because such a step augured a state of his finances which was far from enabling him to fee the officers—a system which although now so very rare, was a hundred years ago flourishing in all its iniquity and glory.To the sheds, then, of the market, Jacob Gray resolved to go, but by many fortuitous accidents, he was doomed not to get there.
The Pursuit.—A Successful Ruse.—The Long Night.—Gray’s Terror.
The littlestrength that Jacob Gray had left now all at once seemed completely to have left him, and he trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Walk on he could not, and yet what was he to do? Did the person know who he was, or did he only suspect? Was there a remote chance of escape, or was he fairly in the toils?
As these distressing thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, he heard the stranger step up to him, and in a moment, a voice said, “A fine evening, sir.”
Gray stretched out his hand, and held by an iron rail, while he turned slowly and with pallid features, and his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth with fright, faced the speaker.
He was a man about the middle height, with sharp small grey eyes, which twinkled upon the terror-stricken Jacob as much as to say, “I am a cunning, cautious fellow, and you won’t escape me.”
It was full a minute before Gray could command himself sufficiently to speak, and the stranger during that time had repeated his remark of,—
“A fine evening.”
“Yes—yes, very,” stammered Gray.
“You don’t seem very well, sir,” said the stranger, twinkling his eyes designedly upon Gray.
“Yes, quite well, thank—I—I haven’t the honour of knowing you. Good evening—good evening.”
“I may be mistaken,” said the man; “but I think I have seen you somewhere.”
Gray would have given anything at that moment to say “Where?” but he lacked the courage, and merely muttered something about it being unlikely they had ever met, as he was a stranger in London.
The man kept peering at him in a very disagreeable manner, and after a few moments, he said in a careless tone,—
“Heard of the murder?”
“What murder?” gasped Gray.
“In the Strand—Vaughan’s murder I mean—strange affair, very!”
“No—I know nothing of it,” said Gray.
“Odd, that—the whole town knows of it. It’s crying about the streets, and what’s the strangest thing of all, nobody seems to know who did it.”
“Indeed?”
“No, the fellow was a complete stranger, and the only man who gives anything like a description of him, is a fellow whom he knocked down near Arundel-street.”
“Yes—indeed,” was all Gray could find breath to say, for he expected each moment that the man would pounce upon him, crying, “You are the murderer—I have been only amusing myself a little with your fears.”
“It’s odd altogether,” continued the man, “and there’s fifty pounds reward now offered by Vaughan’s relations for the man, which, together with what government will give at his conviction, will make a good round sum.”
“Exactly—yes,” said Gray, quite mechanically, for his senses were in a complete whirl.
“You see that’s worth looking after,” said the man.
“Yes.—Good evening—good evening,” said Gray, and he tried to pass on.
“Are you going my way?” said the man.
“Which is your way?”
“Oh—why, really I ain’t at all particular, and I’ll walk with you, if I am not intruding upon you?“
“I am going home,” said Gray.
“Good evening—I live just here.”
“You haven’t lost your way?”
“No—no—this place is quite familiar to me—I have known it long.”
“Oh, I thought you said you were a stranger here.”
Gray changed from pale to red, and from red to pale again, as he replied,—
“You misunderstood me, sir.”
“Oh, did I? Very likely.”
“Good evening.”
“You had rather walk alone, would you?”
Gray summoned courage to say with tolerable firmness,—
“I would.”
“Certainly—certainly. Mind if you see anybody that looks suspicious, lay hold of him; it may be the murderer, you know, and it would be a prime evening’s work for anybody to nab him. He is about your height—thin and pale, stoops a little, shabbily dressed. Look out—look out.”
“I—I will. Are you an officer?”
“No, I’m a shoemaker, but I’ve a great fancy for catching thieves and those kind of people.”
“Curse your fancy,” thought Gray.
“I couldn’t sleep to-night without taking what I call a prowl just to see if the fates would place in my way the murderer.”
“Oh, indeed!“
“Yes, and I don’t despair yet. Good evening—good evening.”
“Good evening,” replied Gray; and he walked on with a faint hope that after all the troublesome shoemaker, whom he devoutly wished dead and buried, did not suspect him sufficiently to annoy him any more with his following.
To ascertain this point, after he had left him, was a great object to Gray, as it would afford him an idea how to act, and accordingly after he had proceeded some distance, he just glanced over his shoulder to see if the man had gone, and he supposed such was the case, for he could neither see nor hear him.
Jacob Gray, however was reckoning without his host, for not only did the troublesome shoemaker, who was the pest of Westminster, from his love of meddling with the duties of the police, strongly suspect that he had hit upon the right man, but he determined not to lose sight of him, and had merely ensconced himself in a door way until Gray should have got some distance off, when his intention was to follow him very cautiously till he saw him housed somewhere, when he would bring the officers upon him, for he did not like exactly to run the risk of attempting the capture of so desperate a character as a murderer, who had already taken one man’s life merely because he made an attempt to capture him.
“Who knows,” thought the shoemaker, “he is a desperate chap, and may be a great deal stronger than he looks; he might smash me just as he smashed Vaughan, and that would be no joke, I’ll dog him till I see him fairly housed, and then be down upon him.”
Cunning, however, as was the troublesome shoemaker he was scarcely a match for Jacob Gray, when the latter had a little time to collect his faculties and was not flurried. There were indeed but five persons who could have succeeded in dogging Jacob Gray without his knowing it; and although the shoemaker had in his mind concocted the artful scheme of letting Gray turn a corner, and then running after him, and keeping him in sight, until he had turned another, he did not know his man, for that was the very course which Jacob Gray took good care to provide against by himself popping into a doorway round the first corner he came to, and waiting patiently to see what came of it.
The result confirmed his suspicions, for he had not been above two minutes in that doorway, than the shoemaker arrived at the corner at the top of his speed, and peered around it with what he considered amazing cleverness and cunning.
The street was a long one, and he felt not a little surprised at missing Gray in so very sudden a manner.
“Lost him, by ——,” he cried. “He must have gone into some house here—that’s flat. I’ll get a constable to come with me and will call at every one. I’d wager my head he’s the man.”
The amateur officer now darted off at a quick rate to procure a real one, and when he had gone, Jacob Gray emerged from his hiding-place.
He paused a moment in the street, and then with bitter malignity, he muttered,—
“Beware! I am not a man to be tempted too far.”
He then hastily walked in an opposite direction to that taken by the shoemaker, although he had no definite idea of where he was going, or what he meant to do until the morning should afford him a chance of seeing Learmont. As the excitement of the last half-hour began along with its danger to wear off, Jacob Gray felt dreadfully fatigued, notwithstanding he had been much supported by the broken victuals he had received from poor Maud, and he thought of proceeding to the sheds of Covent-garden, and lying down to rest himself till morning’s dawn.
The rotten wooden stalls and sheds of Covent-garden-market, at the period of our tale, were the nightly resort of many who had no other place in which to lay an aching head and wearied body. There, among potato-sacks, baskets, vegetable refuse, and all the mass of filth for which that now handsome market was then so famous, the weary, the destitute, and the heart-sore would find a temporary solace from their cares, in the oblivion of sleep.
But not alone were the humble sheds of the market occupied by the sons and daughters of misfortune and want—a number of the worthless and abandoned characters who nightly prowl about the theatres had no other places of refuge; and many a thief and, in some instances, criminals of a higher grade in the scale of iniquity, were pushed out by the officers from among the market lodgers, when he happened to be particularly wanted; and when a housebreaker, or thief of any description, was compelled by necessity to lodge there, he was tolerably sure to be particularly wanted, because such a step augured a state of his finances which was far from enabling him to fee the officers—a system which although now so very rare, was a hundred years ago flourishing in all its iniquity and glory.
To the sheds, then, of the market, Jacob Gray resolved to go, but by many fortuitous accidents, he was doomed not to get there.
CHAPTER LXXII.The Return of Learmont.—The Interview.—Doubts and Fears.In hisway Jacob Gray passed Learmont’s house, and he had scarcely got half a dozen yards from the door, when he was compelled to step aside, to allow a cavalcade to pass him, consisting of some half-dozen footmen bearing links, followed by a chair containing their master.One of the curtains of the sedan was but partially drawn, and Gray, at a glance, saw that Learmont himself was the occupier of it. His resolution was formed in a moment. He would risk whatever construction the squire chose to put upon such a visit, at so singular an hour, and procure some money from him at once for present pressing exigencies.He could easily frame some lie to account for his visit at such an hour; and whether Learmont believed it or not, it must pass current, for who could contradict it?He watched the haughty arbiter of his fortunes get out of the chair, and ascend the steps of the mansion. Then, before the door could be closed, he stepped forward; and being just behind Learmont, he said,—“I have waited for you.”Learmont turned suddenly, and looked perfectly astonished to see Gray. For a moment neither spoke. Then the squire said, in a low tone,—“To-morrow morning, early.”“No,” said Gray. “My business is urgent and important, I must see you to-night.”“Must?”“Yes—must!”Learmont bit his lip, and passed into the house, which Gray taking as a passive permission to follow him, did so, until Learmont paused in a room devoted to the purpose of a library, and which was but dimly lighted. Then turning to Gray, he said,—“Well?” in a brief stern voice.Gray had hastily concocted in his mind what he should say to Learmont, and after carefully closing the door, he replied in nearly his usual low and cautious tone, although his voice shook a little,—“It is not all well. Squire Learmont, me thinks I should have a better reception for coming some distance, and waiting long to tell you news of more importance to you than to me.”Jacob Gray was unconscious that he touched a chord in Learmont’s heart, which had vibrated painfully ever since his interview with Britton; but he saw, by the nervous clutching of a back of a chair with his fingers, that Learmont was alarmed, and that was what he wished.“What—what—mean you?” said Learmont.“I mean this,” replied Gray, “that Sir Francis Hartleton—”“Hartleton again!” cried Learmont, clenching his fist. “By all that’s damnable—that man is born to be my bane—my curse—I will have his blood.”Gray saw that he had struck the right chord, and he added,—“I fear he is plotting and planning some mischief.”“You only fear?”“Nay, I am almost certain.”“State all you know.”“I will. And it is because I know so much that I come to you at so unseasonable an hour.”“Heed not that,” said Learmont. “All hours—all times by night and by day—are alike to me, for they all teem with alarms. The shadow of some dreadful coming evil seems to press upon my soul. Bad tidings crowd upon me. Say on, Jacob Gray, I am prepared too well.”“What I have to tell you,” said Gray, “consists more of a certain knowledge that there is something to discover than that something itself.”“Say on—say on.”“Before I speak, will you, for the first time, let me have a cup of wine, for I am very—very faint.”“Help yourself,” said Learmont, pointing to a buffet at the further end of the room, on which were refreshments.Gray eagerly poured himself a glass of rich wine; and as he felt the generous fluid warm him, his blood seemed to flow easier through his veins, and he appeared to have lifted half of his cares from his heart.“Now—now,” said Learmont, impatiently. “Tell me all.”“I will. Early this evening, I went into a small hostel, in Pimlico, near to the public office of this Hartleton—”“Yes—yes.”“And there was one,” continued Gray, lying with a volubility that would have taken any one in,—“there one belonging to the magistrate’s office, who had already taken more drink than his brains would stand.”“You—you—plied him well.”“I did when my suspicions were awakened. He was talking loudly, and amongst other things, he said ‘His master had an eye upon a certain squire, not a hundred miles from Westminster, who bid fair for Tyburn.’”“The knave!—What—what more?”“On that I thought, of course, on you,” said Gray, with a sneering malice in his tone.“Well—well—what followed?”“Why, knowing no other squire in Westminster but yourself, with whom I could couple the allusion to Tyburn, I called for more drink and brought him to converse with me.”“And—and—what?”“He dwelt but in obscure hints,” continued Gray, “and at last dropped off into a drunken sleep, which smothered all his faculties.”“And you heard no more?”“No more.”“’Tis not much.”“Enough for apprehension,” suggested Gray.“Ay; but not enough for action.”“True—but you can think of it.”“There is the curse! I can think of—thought is my hell!”“Such thoughts lured unpleasant images; but ’tis better to have such slender information of coming danger than to dream on of safety, but to be roughly awakened by it when it comes to your doors.”“No—no. Apprehension is a fiend of far more awful aspect than danger. It only suggests the terrible, and leaves to the shrinking, trembling fancy to fill up the ghastly picture. Show me danger, and I have nerve to face it. Only tell me it is coming, and in some unknown shape, and I—I—do quail before it. Yes I—even I do quail before it.”He sank into a chair as he spoke, and turned deathly white.“Arm yourself with fortitude,” said Gray. “You may yet triumph.”“There is but one course open,” said Learmont, in a low earnest tone. “Among us we must find a means to lay the troublesome spirit of this Hartleton, Jacob Gray, where is all the deep cunning that would enable you to circumvent hell itself? I say, where is it now, if you cannot summon it to your aid, to rid us all of this man, who will otherwise destroy us.”“You may yet triumph,” muttered Gray, with a meaning look. “Hear me Squire Learmont: I am sick and weary of the life I lead, an’ would fain now lend an ear to some proposal from you, which would enable me to feel more peace here.”He struck his breast as he spoke, and fixed his keen eye upon Learmont, who in his turn, from beneath his knitted brows, peered anxiously into the face of Gray.“You understand me,” continued Gray; “I am willing, if I could do so with safety, to leave you at peace—to secure you from the worst evils that can befall you—to deliver you from your greatest feelings of apprehension.”“Say on, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, in a low indifferent tone.“Nay, I would now hear from you,” remarked Gray, “what proposal you would make to me for surrendering to you your worst foe.”“The child?”“Ay; but a child no longer,” hastily interrupted Gray. “Years have now rolled on, and the child that was, has in the due progress of time passed that age and become a dangerous enemy to you. An enemy only controlled by me. I am as one holding in my grasp the thunderbolt which, were I for a moment to let loose, would rush with fearful certainty at your devoted head. I—but I want your proposal, squire—I am willing to accede to some terms, but they must be to me, both safe and profitable.”Learmont was silent for some moments, then he said,—“Tell me your demand, Jacob Gray, and at large particularise your proposal.”“Nay, squire, I repeat I have no proposal—none whatever—but I have bethought me that danger threatens around us, and that some day when the horizon of our fortunes may appear unclouded, a storm may come which will sweep us to destruction.”Learmont groaned, and then fixing his eyes upon Gray, he said with a fearful and intense earnestness,—“Jacob Gray, you are a man of crimes—you have shed blood more causelessly than I—and I would ask you if ever in your solitude, when none have been near you, you have seen or heard—”Gray licked his parched lips, as he said with trembling apprehension,—“What—what mean you, squire? I—I have seen nothing—heard nothing, ’Twas Andrew Britton struck the blow—he—he did it.”“Peace, peace!” cried Learmont; “nor with a hollow sophistry try to cleanse your soul of the deep spots that eat, like a wild splash of burning lava, to its inmost part.”Gray shrank and cowered before the frightened looks of Learmont, and after a pause he said,—“What have you seen—what heard?”“Twice now I have seen a face which, to look upon has nearly turned my heart to stone.”“A—a—face?”“Yes—’tis an angel or a devil. Listen to me.”“I—I will—I will.”“Once on the steps of this, my mansion, at an hour when my heart was lighter than its wont, and I was far from dreaming of such a sight, a face appeared before me. It seemed that of a young girl, but so like—oh, so like him—who sleeps in that dread spot which ever rises like a spectre before my affrighted eyes.”“The smithy?” said Gray.“And once again,” continued Learmont, not heeding Gray’s interruption, “once again I saw it. Then another was with me, and I know it was not of this world because he saw it not.”“The same face?”“The same.”“And of a young girl, say you—pale and noble, with a look of gentleness, yet pride—a—brow of snow—long raven hair?”“The—the same—you have seen it, Jacob Gray—you have seen it—you are cursed as well as I.”“In a dream,” muttered Gray.“Only a dream? I saw it on a bright morning when all was light and life around.”“Was that recently?” said Gray.“This very morning.”Gray would have given much at that moment to be able to ask with unconcern where Learmont had seen Ada, for that it was she he did not entertain a shadow of a doubt, but it was several minutes before he could command his voice sufficiently to say,—“Where saw you this appearance?”“Where all my fears are concentrated—where my worst foe resides—I saw it at the window of Sir Francis Hartleton’s house from the park.”Gray drew a long breath as he thought, “So my worst fears are confirmed. She is with the magistrate.” He then said, with a more assumed and confident air than he had hitherto assumed:—“These fancies would leave you were you more at ease—I grieve that you should as yet have missed the enjoyments which your wealth should have brought within your grasp.”“Enjoyment!” said Learmont, with a deep groan—“you mock me, Jacob Gray—what enjoyments have you and Andrew Britton left me? Have you not between you surrounded me with danger and suspicion? I have been tempted, for the great favours I owe you both, to take some day a step that should rid me of you for ever.”“Indeed!”“Yes—but we will talk more another time—the hour waxes late—shall we meet in the morning?”“The—the night would suit me better,” said Gray, who by no means relished in his present dangerous circumstances a morning visit.Learmont, with a forced air of unconcern, cried,—“Pho—pho—let it be the morning—say at half-past ten.”“I will take money of you now,” said Gray, evading the point, “in earnest of the sum which shall separate us for ever.”“There is my purse,” cried Learmont, giving it to him. “’Tis moderately full—take it, and let me see you to-morrow by the hour I have named.”“Squire Learmont,” said Gray, “for three thousand pounds I will rid you of the young object of your fears—of myself—and, perchance, of Andrew Britton.”“Three thousand pounds?” said Learmont.“Yes—a small sum you must own—a very small sum.”“You will bring me here—”“No—no—I will do this—on shipboard, I will hand you an address written on the back of my confession.”“I will consider,” said Learmont, “and in the meantime bethink you of some means of ridding me of Hartleton. While that man lives I stand as it were upon a mine, and—and—you will be here in the morning by half-past ten.”It would have been a curious study for any deep theorist on human nature to have remarked these two men, Learmont and Gray, at this moment, watching each other’s countenances, and yet endeavouring to avoid seeming so to do, and mutually suspicious that every word covered some hidden and covert meaning.“What change has taken place, that Jacob Gray is so anxious to compromise with me for a sum of money at once?” was Learmont’s mental interrogatory.“Why does he want me here by half-past ten so particularly?” thought Gray; “I will not come.”Thus they parted, mutually hating and mutually suspicious of each other.
The Return of Learmont.—The Interview.—Doubts and Fears.
In hisway Jacob Gray passed Learmont’s house, and he had scarcely got half a dozen yards from the door, when he was compelled to step aside, to allow a cavalcade to pass him, consisting of some half-dozen footmen bearing links, followed by a chair containing their master.
One of the curtains of the sedan was but partially drawn, and Gray, at a glance, saw that Learmont himself was the occupier of it. His resolution was formed in a moment. He would risk whatever construction the squire chose to put upon such a visit, at so singular an hour, and procure some money from him at once for present pressing exigencies.
He could easily frame some lie to account for his visit at such an hour; and whether Learmont believed it or not, it must pass current, for who could contradict it?
He watched the haughty arbiter of his fortunes get out of the chair, and ascend the steps of the mansion. Then, before the door could be closed, he stepped forward; and being just behind Learmont, he said,—
“I have waited for you.”
Learmont turned suddenly, and looked perfectly astonished to see Gray. For a moment neither spoke. Then the squire said, in a low tone,—
“To-morrow morning, early.”
“No,” said Gray. “My business is urgent and important, I must see you to-night.”
“Must?”
“Yes—must!”
Learmont bit his lip, and passed into the house, which Gray taking as a passive permission to follow him, did so, until Learmont paused in a room devoted to the purpose of a library, and which was but dimly lighted. Then turning to Gray, he said,—
“Well?” in a brief stern voice.
Gray had hastily concocted in his mind what he should say to Learmont, and after carefully closing the door, he replied in nearly his usual low and cautious tone, although his voice shook a little,—
“It is not all well. Squire Learmont, me thinks I should have a better reception for coming some distance, and waiting long to tell you news of more importance to you than to me.”
Jacob Gray was unconscious that he touched a chord in Learmont’s heart, which had vibrated painfully ever since his interview with Britton; but he saw, by the nervous clutching of a back of a chair with his fingers, that Learmont was alarmed, and that was what he wished.
“What—what—mean you?” said Learmont.
“I mean this,” replied Gray, “that Sir Francis Hartleton—”
“Hartleton again!” cried Learmont, clenching his fist. “By all that’s damnable—that man is born to be my bane—my curse—I will have his blood.”
Gray saw that he had struck the right chord, and he added,—“I fear he is plotting and planning some mischief.”
“You only fear?”
“Nay, I am almost certain.”
“State all you know.”
“I will. And it is because I know so much that I come to you at so unseasonable an hour.”
“Heed not that,” said Learmont. “All hours—all times by night and by day—are alike to me, for they all teem with alarms. The shadow of some dreadful coming evil seems to press upon my soul. Bad tidings crowd upon me. Say on, Jacob Gray, I am prepared too well.”
“What I have to tell you,” said Gray, “consists more of a certain knowledge that there is something to discover than that something itself.”
“Say on—say on.”
“Before I speak, will you, for the first time, let me have a cup of wine, for I am very—very faint.”
“Help yourself,” said Learmont, pointing to a buffet at the further end of the room, on which were refreshments.
Gray eagerly poured himself a glass of rich wine; and as he felt the generous fluid warm him, his blood seemed to flow easier through his veins, and he appeared to have lifted half of his cares from his heart.
“Now—now,” said Learmont, impatiently. “Tell me all.”
“I will. Early this evening, I went into a small hostel, in Pimlico, near to the public office of this Hartleton—”
“Yes—yes.”
“And there was one,” continued Gray, lying with a volubility that would have taken any one in,—“there one belonging to the magistrate’s office, who had already taken more drink than his brains would stand.”
“You—you—plied him well.”
“I did when my suspicions were awakened. He was talking loudly, and amongst other things, he said ‘His master had an eye upon a certain squire, not a hundred miles from Westminster, who bid fair for Tyburn.’”
“The knave!—What—what more?”
“On that I thought, of course, on you,” said Gray, with a sneering malice in his tone.
“Well—well—what followed?”
“Why, knowing no other squire in Westminster but yourself, with whom I could couple the allusion to Tyburn, I called for more drink and brought him to converse with me.”
“And—and—what?”
“He dwelt but in obscure hints,” continued Gray, “and at last dropped off into a drunken sleep, which smothered all his faculties.”
“And you heard no more?”
“No more.”
“’Tis not much.”
“Enough for apprehension,” suggested Gray.
“Ay; but not enough for action.”
“True—but you can think of it.”
“There is the curse! I can think of—thought is my hell!”
“Such thoughts lured unpleasant images; but ’tis better to have such slender information of coming danger than to dream on of safety, but to be roughly awakened by it when it comes to your doors.”
“No—no. Apprehension is a fiend of far more awful aspect than danger. It only suggests the terrible, and leaves to the shrinking, trembling fancy to fill up the ghastly picture. Show me danger, and I have nerve to face it. Only tell me it is coming, and in some unknown shape, and I—I—do quail before it. Yes I—even I do quail before it.”
He sank into a chair as he spoke, and turned deathly white.
“Arm yourself with fortitude,” said Gray. “You may yet triumph.”
“There is but one course open,” said Learmont, in a low earnest tone. “Among us we must find a means to lay the troublesome spirit of this Hartleton, Jacob Gray, where is all the deep cunning that would enable you to circumvent hell itself? I say, where is it now, if you cannot summon it to your aid, to rid us all of this man, who will otherwise destroy us.”
“You may yet triumph,” muttered Gray, with a meaning look. “Hear me Squire Learmont: I am sick and weary of the life I lead, an’ would fain now lend an ear to some proposal from you, which would enable me to feel more peace here.”
He struck his breast as he spoke, and fixed his keen eye upon Learmont, who in his turn, from beneath his knitted brows, peered anxiously into the face of Gray.
“You understand me,” continued Gray; “I am willing, if I could do so with safety, to leave you at peace—to secure you from the worst evils that can befall you—to deliver you from your greatest feelings of apprehension.”
“Say on, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, in a low indifferent tone.
“Nay, I would now hear from you,” remarked Gray, “what proposal you would make to me for surrendering to you your worst foe.”
“The child?”
“Ay; but a child no longer,” hastily interrupted Gray. “Years have now rolled on, and the child that was, has in the due progress of time passed that age and become a dangerous enemy to you. An enemy only controlled by me. I am as one holding in my grasp the thunderbolt which, were I for a moment to let loose, would rush with fearful certainty at your devoted head. I—but I want your proposal, squire—I am willing to accede to some terms, but they must be to me, both safe and profitable.”
Learmont was silent for some moments, then he said,—
“Tell me your demand, Jacob Gray, and at large particularise your proposal.”
“Nay, squire, I repeat I have no proposal—none whatever—but I have bethought me that danger threatens around us, and that some day when the horizon of our fortunes may appear unclouded, a storm may come which will sweep us to destruction.”
Learmont groaned, and then fixing his eyes upon Gray, he said with a fearful and intense earnestness,—
“Jacob Gray, you are a man of crimes—you have shed blood more causelessly than I—and I would ask you if ever in your solitude, when none have been near you, you have seen or heard—”
Gray licked his parched lips, as he said with trembling apprehension,—
“What—what mean you, squire? I—I have seen nothing—heard nothing, ’Twas Andrew Britton struck the blow—he—he did it.”
“Peace, peace!” cried Learmont; “nor with a hollow sophistry try to cleanse your soul of the deep spots that eat, like a wild splash of burning lava, to its inmost part.”
Gray shrank and cowered before the frightened looks of Learmont, and after a pause he said,—
“What have you seen—what heard?”
“Twice now I have seen a face which, to look upon has nearly turned my heart to stone.”
“A—a—face?”
“Yes—’tis an angel or a devil. Listen to me.”
“I—I will—I will.”
“Once on the steps of this, my mansion, at an hour when my heart was lighter than its wont, and I was far from dreaming of such a sight, a face appeared before me. It seemed that of a young girl, but so like—oh, so like him—who sleeps in that dread spot which ever rises like a spectre before my affrighted eyes.”
“The smithy?” said Gray.
“And once again,” continued Learmont, not heeding Gray’s interruption, “once again I saw it. Then another was with me, and I know it was not of this world because he saw it not.”
“The same face?”
“The same.”
“And of a young girl, say you—pale and noble, with a look of gentleness, yet pride—a—brow of snow—long raven hair?”
“The—the same—you have seen it, Jacob Gray—you have seen it—you are cursed as well as I.”
“In a dream,” muttered Gray.
“Only a dream? I saw it on a bright morning when all was light and life around.”
“Was that recently?” said Gray.
“This very morning.”
Gray would have given much at that moment to be able to ask with unconcern where Learmont had seen Ada, for that it was she he did not entertain a shadow of a doubt, but it was several minutes before he could command his voice sufficiently to say,—
“Where saw you this appearance?”
“Where all my fears are concentrated—where my worst foe resides—I saw it at the window of Sir Francis Hartleton’s house from the park.”
Gray drew a long breath as he thought, “So my worst fears are confirmed. She is with the magistrate.” He then said, with a more assumed and confident air than he had hitherto assumed:—
“These fancies would leave you were you more at ease—I grieve that you should as yet have missed the enjoyments which your wealth should have brought within your grasp.”
“Enjoyment!” said Learmont, with a deep groan—“you mock me, Jacob Gray—what enjoyments have you and Andrew Britton left me? Have you not between you surrounded me with danger and suspicion? I have been tempted, for the great favours I owe you both, to take some day a step that should rid me of you for ever.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—but we will talk more another time—the hour waxes late—shall we meet in the morning?”
“The—the night would suit me better,” said Gray, who by no means relished in his present dangerous circumstances a morning visit.
Learmont, with a forced air of unconcern, cried,—
“Pho—pho—let it be the morning—say at half-past ten.”
“I will take money of you now,” said Gray, evading the point, “in earnest of the sum which shall separate us for ever.”
“There is my purse,” cried Learmont, giving it to him. “’Tis moderately full—take it, and let me see you to-morrow by the hour I have named.”
“Squire Learmont,” said Gray, “for three thousand pounds I will rid you of the young object of your fears—of myself—and, perchance, of Andrew Britton.”
“Three thousand pounds?” said Learmont.
“Yes—a small sum you must own—a very small sum.”
“You will bring me here—”
“No—no—I will do this—on shipboard, I will hand you an address written on the back of my confession.”
“I will consider,” said Learmont, “and in the meantime bethink you of some means of ridding me of Hartleton. While that man lives I stand as it were upon a mine, and—and—you will be here in the morning by half-past ten.”
It would have been a curious study for any deep theorist on human nature to have remarked these two men, Learmont and Gray, at this moment, watching each other’s countenances, and yet endeavouring to avoid seeming so to do, and mutually suspicious that every word covered some hidden and covert meaning.
“What change has taken place, that Jacob Gray is so anxious to compromise with me for a sum of money at once?” was Learmont’s mental interrogatory.
“Why does he want me here by half-past ten so particularly?” thought Gray; “I will not come.”
Thus they parted, mutually hating and mutually suspicious of each other.