CHAPTER LXXIII.The Troublesome Shoe-maker.—Gray’s Agony and Danger.—The Flight.Jacob Grayno longer was necessitated to take a temporary lodging among the sheds of Covent-garden market, for upon, by the dim light of a lamp, examining Learmont’s purse, he found a sum nearly approaching to twenty guineas in it, and a ghastly smile same across his face, as, by the mere possession of money, he felt, or fancied he felt, considerably stronger and better than he had been for many days.He walked with a firmer step and an air of greater self-possession than before. One of his first acts was to dive into a back street, for the purpose of finding some place in which he could lodge for the night, and he had not gone far before he saw a small dingy-looking public-house, where he thought he might find all he wanted in the way of rest and refreshment without risk.It is strange how intense mental anxiety will overcome and smother almost entirely the consciousness of bodily pain. So it was with Jacob Gray—for although he had been suffering much pain now for many hours from his wounded face, his great anxiety of mind had thrown such mere physical annoyance quite into the shade; but now that he had money in his pocket, and fancied he saw light in the darkness of fate, he began to experience great agony from the wound, and previous to seeking refreshment or rest he wished to procure surgical assistance lest any shots should be remaining in his face. With this intent he walked on until he came to a chemist’s shop, near Westminster-bridge. On entering the little doorway, for a very little mean shop it was, he asked of a man behind the counter to examine his face.“You have been wounded, and had better go to some hospital,” said the surgeon, who was one of the self-taught and self-dubbed medical men who flourished up to within the last thirty years.“I have wherewithal to pay you for your services,” said Gray, taking out Learmont’s purse and laying down a guinea.Upon this the surgeon, with a good deal of practical skill, carefully examined Gray’s face, and extracted several of the shots which had remained just beneath the skin.“How did this accident happen to you?” said the surgeon.“A careless boy was shooting sparrows,” replied Jacob Gray.“Ah! People never will be careful in the use of fire-arms. You will do very well now; a little dry lint is all you require, but wash your face frequently with diluted milk.”“Thank you,” said Gray, receiving fifteen shillings out of his guinea; “should I feel any uneasiness, I will call again.”“That fellow has been robbing somebody, I’ll be sworn, and been shot at for his pains,” remarked the surgeon when Gray had gone. “Well—well, it’s all one to me, from a peer to a pickpocket.”Gray felt very much relieved by the manipulation of the surgeon, and he retraced his steps towards a small public-house he had before noticed, and which from its plainness and obscurity, he thought would furnish him a tolerably secure retreat till he could venture out again.He was dreadfully weary, and the stars were beginning to disappear, while a faint sickly light was slowly spreading itself over the eastern horizon.A very few minutes’ walk brought him to the door of the house, and he dived down a steep step to enter it. A dim light only was in the bar, although it was one of those houses that keep open the whole of the night, under pretence of accommodating travellers, but really to accommodate thieves, watchmen and police-officers.“Can I,” said Gray, to a man who was yawning in the bar,—“can I have a bed here, and some refreshment?”The words were scarcely out of his lips, when he heard a noise behind him; and turning hastily around, his eyes were blasted by the sight of his tormentor, the amateur officer and Shoemaker, who, with a glass of some steaming beverage in one hand, and a pipe in the other, stood glaring at Jacob Gray as if he was some awful apparition.“Bless me,” he at length found voice to say, “is it you?”“I have no knowledge of you, sir,” said Gray, while a cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and he glanced uneasily at the door, between which and him stood the troublesome man.“I—I—you—you,” stammered the shoemaker, “you met me you know about two hours ago, and you said you was a going home.”“Well, sir.”“It’s an odd time of night to be out.”“Then why don’t you go home?” said Gray, summoning all the presence of mind he could to his aid.“Ah—yes—exactly, that is, a—hem!” said the shoemaker, feeling very much confused, for he was afraid to promote hostilities with Gray, and equally reluctant to let him go.“Can you accommodate me,” said Gray, turning to the woman, “and two friends?”“Three of you!” groaned the shoemaker.“Yes,” said Gray, “I have two friends waiting for me.”“There’ll be a great deal of danger in having anything to do with him,” thought the shoemaker, “but I’d wager ten guineas he’s the man that killed Vaughan.”“I can’t accommodate you all,” said the woman. “You can stay here, if you like; and your friends can get a bed at the King’s Arms at the bottom of the street.”“Thank you,” said Gray, “I will speak to them;” and he moved towards the door.The little shoemaker, however, was not to be so easily cajoled, but gulping down his glass of hot liquor, with a speed that nearly choked him, and brought the tears into his eyes, he moved to the door at the same time as Gray, resolved to stick to him now as long as there was no actual bodily peril.Gray paused at the door, and gave the man a look which caused him to recoil a step or two within the house. Then he walked out into the street; but the shoemaker, although daunted for a moment, was not quite got rid of, and with a hurried whisper to himself of,—“It would be the making of me to take him single-handed, and get all the reward,” he bustled after Gray, with the intention of watching him.In this, however, the amateur officer was disappointed; for Gray, after proceeding half-a-dozen paces, turned sharp round, and caught the shoemaker just coming out of the door of the public-house.Gray was trembling with fear, but he had sense enough to feel that a bold face very frequently hides a shrinking heart, and he endeavoured to throw as much boldness as possible into his voice and manner as he said,—“Do you want anything with me, sir?”“Oh no, no, nothing,” said the shoemaker, “only I thought you might be curious in old houses, as you had popped into this one. It’s a most ancient house, and I was going to tell you that twenty-three years ago, to-day, my father apprehended the famous Jack Sheppard at the bar of this very house. Now that’s curious—what I call very curious.”“Indeed,” said Gray, walking on and inwardly cursing his tormentor.“Yes,” continued the shoemaker, keeping up with him, “if my father took him; one of his ladies was with him, and she got my father’s finger between her teeth, and wouldn’t leave go till she had bit it to the bone. Well, sir, my father took Jack to the watch-house in Great George-street, and what do you think happened there?”“I cannot say.”“When they got to the door, my father knocked, and the moment it was open, Jack seized hold of him like a tiger, and pitched him in right upon the stomach of the night-constable saying, ‘Take care of him. Good night, and off he went.’”They had now reached the corner of the street, and Gray turned to his companion, saying,—“Sir, I do not wish your company.”“Past four and a cold morning,” growled an asthmatic watchman, from some distance off, at this moment.“I’ll stick by him,” thought the shoemaker, “and when we come up to the watchman, I’ll call upon him to help me to take him. I must have him somehow.”“Oh, you don’t want company! well, sir, I’ll only walk with you till you meet your two friends.”Had Jacob Gray, at that moment of goaded passion, possessed any weapon that would have noiselessly and surely put an end to the ambition and the life of the troublesome shoemaker, he would have used it with exquisite satisfaction; but being quite unarmed, he considered himself powerless; and as is the case in many contests in life, the affair resolved itself simply to one point, namely, which should succeed in frightening the other. But then the watchman might be a powerful auxiliary to his opponent, and Jacob Gray screwed his courage up to the sticking place, to endeavour to get rid of his companion before such aid should arrive. He therefore turned abruptly and cried in a fierce angry tone,—“How dare you, sir, intrude yourself upon me?”The shoemaker started back several paces, and in evident alarm, cried,—“No violence—no violence.”“Then leave me to pursue my walk alone,” said Gray. “In a word, sir, I am well armed, and will not be intruded on; your design may be to rob me, for aught that I know.”“Far from it—far from it,” said the man. “I am a respectable tradesman.”“Then you ought to know better than to force your company upon those who desire it not,” said Gray.“Very well, sir; very well. No offence; I’ll leave you. Good evening, or rather morning.”“Past four, and a cold morning,” said the watchman again, and while the shoemaker paused irresolute for a moment, Gray walked hastily past the guardian of the night.He felt then how impolitic it would be to look back, but he could not resist the impulse so to do, and saw the watchman in earnest conversation with his late companion, while the eyes of both were bent upon him.The danger was great, but Gray felt that he should but provoke it to wear a still worse aspect by exhibiting any fear; so, although he kept all his senses on thequi vive, and every nerve strung for action, he walked but slowly away, with something of the same kind of feeling that an adventurous hunter might be supposed to feel in some Indian jungle when retreating before a crouching tiger, who he feels would spring upon him were he to show the least sign of trepidation, but who it is just possible may let him off if he show a bold front.Jacob Gray reached in a few moments the corner of a street, and then he ventured another glance over his shoulder at the motions of the enemy. His heart sickened as he saw the watchman give a nod to his companion, and then commence running after him (Gray), at full speed.With a spasmodic kind of gasp, produced by a choking sensation in his throat, as his extreme danger now rushed upon his brain, Jacob Gray dived down the narrow turning, and fled like a hunted hare.
The Troublesome Shoe-maker.—Gray’s Agony and Danger.—The Flight.
Jacob Grayno longer was necessitated to take a temporary lodging among the sheds of Covent-garden market, for upon, by the dim light of a lamp, examining Learmont’s purse, he found a sum nearly approaching to twenty guineas in it, and a ghastly smile same across his face, as, by the mere possession of money, he felt, or fancied he felt, considerably stronger and better than he had been for many days.
He walked with a firmer step and an air of greater self-possession than before. One of his first acts was to dive into a back street, for the purpose of finding some place in which he could lodge for the night, and he had not gone far before he saw a small dingy-looking public-house, where he thought he might find all he wanted in the way of rest and refreshment without risk.
It is strange how intense mental anxiety will overcome and smother almost entirely the consciousness of bodily pain. So it was with Jacob Gray—for although he had been suffering much pain now for many hours from his wounded face, his great anxiety of mind had thrown such mere physical annoyance quite into the shade; but now that he had money in his pocket, and fancied he saw light in the darkness of fate, he began to experience great agony from the wound, and previous to seeking refreshment or rest he wished to procure surgical assistance lest any shots should be remaining in his face. With this intent he walked on until he came to a chemist’s shop, near Westminster-bridge. On entering the little doorway, for a very little mean shop it was, he asked of a man behind the counter to examine his face.
“You have been wounded, and had better go to some hospital,” said the surgeon, who was one of the self-taught and self-dubbed medical men who flourished up to within the last thirty years.
“I have wherewithal to pay you for your services,” said Gray, taking out Learmont’s purse and laying down a guinea.
Upon this the surgeon, with a good deal of practical skill, carefully examined Gray’s face, and extracted several of the shots which had remained just beneath the skin.
“How did this accident happen to you?” said the surgeon.
“A careless boy was shooting sparrows,” replied Jacob Gray.
“Ah! People never will be careful in the use of fire-arms. You will do very well now; a little dry lint is all you require, but wash your face frequently with diluted milk.”
“Thank you,” said Gray, receiving fifteen shillings out of his guinea; “should I feel any uneasiness, I will call again.”
“That fellow has been robbing somebody, I’ll be sworn, and been shot at for his pains,” remarked the surgeon when Gray had gone. “Well—well, it’s all one to me, from a peer to a pickpocket.”
Gray felt very much relieved by the manipulation of the surgeon, and he retraced his steps towards a small public-house he had before noticed, and which from its plainness and obscurity, he thought would furnish him a tolerably secure retreat till he could venture out again.
He was dreadfully weary, and the stars were beginning to disappear, while a faint sickly light was slowly spreading itself over the eastern horizon.
A very few minutes’ walk brought him to the door of the house, and he dived down a steep step to enter it. A dim light only was in the bar, although it was one of those houses that keep open the whole of the night, under pretence of accommodating travellers, but really to accommodate thieves, watchmen and police-officers.
“Can I,” said Gray, to a man who was yawning in the bar,—“can I have a bed here, and some refreshment?”
The words were scarcely out of his lips, when he heard a noise behind him; and turning hastily around, his eyes were blasted by the sight of his tormentor, the amateur officer and Shoemaker, who, with a glass of some steaming beverage in one hand, and a pipe in the other, stood glaring at Jacob Gray as if he was some awful apparition.
“Bless me,” he at length found voice to say, “is it you?”
“I have no knowledge of you, sir,” said Gray, while a cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and he glanced uneasily at the door, between which and him stood the troublesome man.
“I—I—you—you,” stammered the shoemaker, “you met me you know about two hours ago, and you said you was a going home.”
“Well, sir.”
“It’s an odd time of night to be out.”
“Then why don’t you go home?” said Gray, summoning all the presence of mind he could to his aid.
“Ah—yes—exactly, that is, a—hem!” said the shoemaker, feeling very much confused, for he was afraid to promote hostilities with Gray, and equally reluctant to let him go.
“Can you accommodate me,” said Gray, turning to the woman, “and two friends?”
“Three of you!” groaned the shoemaker.
“Yes,” said Gray, “I have two friends waiting for me.”
“There’ll be a great deal of danger in having anything to do with him,” thought the shoemaker, “but I’d wager ten guineas he’s the man that killed Vaughan.”
“I can’t accommodate you all,” said the woman. “You can stay here, if you like; and your friends can get a bed at the King’s Arms at the bottom of the street.”
“Thank you,” said Gray, “I will speak to them;” and he moved towards the door.
The little shoemaker, however, was not to be so easily cajoled, but gulping down his glass of hot liquor, with a speed that nearly choked him, and brought the tears into his eyes, he moved to the door at the same time as Gray, resolved to stick to him now as long as there was no actual bodily peril.
Gray paused at the door, and gave the man a look which caused him to recoil a step or two within the house. Then he walked out into the street; but the shoemaker, although daunted for a moment, was not quite got rid of, and with a hurried whisper to himself of,—
“It would be the making of me to take him single-handed, and get all the reward,” he bustled after Gray, with the intention of watching him.
In this, however, the amateur officer was disappointed; for Gray, after proceeding half-a-dozen paces, turned sharp round, and caught the shoemaker just coming out of the door of the public-house.
Gray was trembling with fear, but he had sense enough to feel that a bold face very frequently hides a shrinking heart, and he endeavoured to throw as much boldness as possible into his voice and manner as he said,—
“Do you want anything with me, sir?”
“Oh no, no, nothing,” said the shoemaker, “only I thought you might be curious in old houses, as you had popped into this one. It’s a most ancient house, and I was going to tell you that twenty-three years ago, to-day, my father apprehended the famous Jack Sheppard at the bar of this very house. Now that’s curious—what I call very curious.”
“Indeed,” said Gray, walking on and inwardly cursing his tormentor.
“Yes,” continued the shoemaker, keeping up with him, “if my father took him; one of his ladies was with him, and she got my father’s finger between her teeth, and wouldn’t leave go till she had bit it to the bone. Well, sir, my father took Jack to the watch-house in Great George-street, and what do you think happened there?”
“I cannot say.”
“When they got to the door, my father knocked, and the moment it was open, Jack seized hold of him like a tiger, and pitched him in right upon the stomach of the night-constable saying, ‘Take care of him. Good night, and off he went.’”
They had now reached the corner of the street, and Gray turned to his companion, saying,—
“Sir, I do not wish your company.”
“Past four and a cold morning,” growled an asthmatic watchman, from some distance off, at this moment.
“I’ll stick by him,” thought the shoemaker, “and when we come up to the watchman, I’ll call upon him to help me to take him. I must have him somehow.”
“Oh, you don’t want company! well, sir, I’ll only walk with you till you meet your two friends.”
Had Jacob Gray, at that moment of goaded passion, possessed any weapon that would have noiselessly and surely put an end to the ambition and the life of the troublesome shoemaker, he would have used it with exquisite satisfaction; but being quite unarmed, he considered himself powerless; and as is the case in many contests in life, the affair resolved itself simply to one point, namely, which should succeed in frightening the other. But then the watchman might be a powerful auxiliary to his opponent, and Jacob Gray screwed his courage up to the sticking place, to endeavour to get rid of his companion before such aid should arrive. He therefore turned abruptly and cried in a fierce angry tone,—
“How dare you, sir, intrude yourself upon me?”
The shoemaker started back several paces, and in evident alarm, cried,—
“No violence—no violence.”
“Then leave me to pursue my walk alone,” said Gray. “In a word, sir, I am well armed, and will not be intruded on; your design may be to rob me, for aught that I know.”
“Far from it—far from it,” said the man. “I am a respectable tradesman.”
“Then you ought to know better than to force your company upon those who desire it not,” said Gray.
“Very well, sir; very well. No offence; I’ll leave you. Good evening, or rather morning.”
“Past four, and a cold morning,” said the watchman again, and while the shoemaker paused irresolute for a moment, Gray walked hastily past the guardian of the night.
He felt then how impolitic it would be to look back, but he could not resist the impulse so to do, and saw the watchman in earnest conversation with his late companion, while the eyes of both were bent upon him.
The danger was great, but Gray felt that he should but provoke it to wear a still worse aspect by exhibiting any fear; so, although he kept all his senses on thequi vive, and every nerve strung for action, he walked but slowly away, with something of the same kind of feeling that an adventurous hunter might be supposed to feel in some Indian jungle when retreating before a crouching tiger, who he feels would spring upon him were he to show the least sign of trepidation, but who it is just possible may let him off if he show a bold front.
Jacob Gray reached in a few moments the corner of a street, and then he ventured another glance over his shoulder at the motions of the enemy. His heart sickened as he saw the watchman give a nod to his companion, and then commence running after him (Gray), at full speed.
With a spasmodic kind of gasp, produced by a choking sensation in his throat, as his extreme danger now rushed upon his brain, Jacob Gray dived down the narrow turning, and fled like a hunted hare.
CHAPTER LXXIV.Ada’s Home.—A Happy Scene.—The Serenity of Goodness.Sir Francis Hartletonon that same evening was immersed in deep though on Ada’s prospects and affairs. So multifarious and complex had even what he knew concerning her and her fortunes become, putting aside all that he surmised, that now he had repaired to his own quiet little room, in which he was never interrupted and sat down, as much for the clearing of his own mind upon the subject, as for any other considerations, to write in detail all the various circumstances connected with the history and fortunes of Ada.When he came fairly to separate what he knew from what he only surmised he felt much disappointed at the limited facts that really appeared upon paper, and as we have before intimated, he found himself in the disagreeable position of suspecting much and knowing little—able to surmise much more than he could prove, and morally certain of many things which he despaired of ever finding the means of making clear by proof.The connection of Learmont with the same crimes in which Gray and Britton had been participators was very clear, but could he specify those crimes? It was not enough to say—“So and so is a criminal,” but it was necessary to tell and define such a charge; and Sir Francis Hartleton felt keenly all the advantage which such a man as Learmont would have over him, were he to make a loose and unsupported attack against him.Having finished his narrative, Sir Francis sat in deep thought for more than an hour, but yet could not form any satisfactory conclusion, nor determine upon any course of action which would not be attended with what he considered the worst consequence of all, namely, putting Learmont thoroughly upon his guard.He foresaw that he could not persevere, for a very long period of time, upon the unwilling and rather unprecedented power given to him by the Secretary of State, but that Jacob Gray must shortly be apprehended for the murder of Vaughan, when it was more than probable that all chance of discovering Ada’s real history through him would be lost; for what inducement could be offered to such a man as Gray to do an act of justice, when his own life could not by any possibility be spared, but must be taken by the hands of the law for a clear and distinct murder,—not to take into consideration the assassination of Elias, in the lone house at Battersea.It had more than once occurred to the mind of the magistrate to search the ruins of the house in which Gray had resided, but then, as often, the extreme improbability of such a man leaving anything behind him of a character to criminate him in any way, saving the dead body of the murdered officer, came so strongly across him that he rejected as useless the attempt.The smithy, too, at Learmont he longed to search effectually, but how could he do so without observation in such a place; and should such a proceeding come to the ears of Learmont, he might well complain of a trespass upon his own premises, for the purpose of endeavouring to get up some charge against him of a secret and undeclared nature.“No,” exclaimed Hartleton, with disappointment, as he rose from his chair, “I must not. There is no resource but patience, and, for a short time, this man Gray, with all his crimes upon his head, must be suffered to remain at large, unless some meddling person apprehends him upon suspicion merely, in which case the law must take its course; for although I can and may take no steps to make him a prisoner, I dare not discharge him if once taken.”As we have mentioned, it was mere humanity which induced Sir Francis Hartleton to order poor Maud to be brought to him. He was very far indeed from suspecting her possession of the important scraps of Jacob Gray’s written confession, which she had rescued from among the charred rafters of the house at Battersea and he received the report of the officer, who had been commissioned to find her to the effect that he had not yet been able to take her, without much feeling upon the subject, engrossed as his mind was with other matters.After thus turning the whole affair over in his mind, and, for the present resolving to do nothing, but wait and see what the chapter of accidents would bring forth Sir Francis left his study, and sought the society of his young and amiable wife and Ada.During the very short residence of Ada with Sir Francis Hartleton and his lady, she had endeared herself greatly to them. Her love of truth—her earnest depreciation of every wrong, and the sweet simplicity of her character had placed her so high in their esteem, that they had resolved she should never leave the friendly shelter of the roof, unless circumstances should arise to place her in a happy home of her own.From all these circumstances and conclusions, it will be seen that not one of our characters, variously situated as they are, have great cause for congratulation on their prospects, with the exception of Ada, to whom it was a new and beautiful existence to be free from the persecutions of Jacob Gray. There was but one sad spot in the young girl’s heart now, and that was, that loving, respecting, and admiring as she did Sir Francis Hartleton and his lady, she did not feel for them what she felt for Albert Seyton; and many, very many of the gushing feeling of her heart were constrained to calmness and mere courtesy, because she felt that to the ears of a lover would they alone seem other than the enthusiastic dreams of a young and ardent imagination.Sir Francis’s wife, as we have remarked, sympathised much more with Ada concerning the probable fate or circumstances of Albert Seyton, than her husband could be expected to do; and it was at her solicitation that he now gave directions to some of his most active officers, to spare neither expense nor trouble to discover if the young man was in London or not.
Ada’s Home.—A Happy Scene.—The Serenity of Goodness.
Sir Francis Hartletonon that same evening was immersed in deep though on Ada’s prospects and affairs. So multifarious and complex had even what he knew concerning her and her fortunes become, putting aside all that he surmised, that now he had repaired to his own quiet little room, in which he was never interrupted and sat down, as much for the clearing of his own mind upon the subject, as for any other considerations, to write in detail all the various circumstances connected with the history and fortunes of Ada.
When he came fairly to separate what he knew from what he only surmised he felt much disappointed at the limited facts that really appeared upon paper, and as we have before intimated, he found himself in the disagreeable position of suspecting much and knowing little—able to surmise much more than he could prove, and morally certain of many things which he despaired of ever finding the means of making clear by proof.
The connection of Learmont with the same crimes in which Gray and Britton had been participators was very clear, but could he specify those crimes? It was not enough to say—“So and so is a criminal,” but it was necessary to tell and define such a charge; and Sir Francis Hartleton felt keenly all the advantage which such a man as Learmont would have over him, were he to make a loose and unsupported attack against him.
Having finished his narrative, Sir Francis sat in deep thought for more than an hour, but yet could not form any satisfactory conclusion, nor determine upon any course of action which would not be attended with what he considered the worst consequence of all, namely, putting Learmont thoroughly upon his guard.
He foresaw that he could not persevere, for a very long period of time, upon the unwilling and rather unprecedented power given to him by the Secretary of State, but that Jacob Gray must shortly be apprehended for the murder of Vaughan, when it was more than probable that all chance of discovering Ada’s real history through him would be lost; for what inducement could be offered to such a man as Gray to do an act of justice, when his own life could not by any possibility be spared, but must be taken by the hands of the law for a clear and distinct murder,—not to take into consideration the assassination of Elias, in the lone house at Battersea.
It had more than once occurred to the mind of the magistrate to search the ruins of the house in which Gray had resided, but then, as often, the extreme improbability of such a man leaving anything behind him of a character to criminate him in any way, saving the dead body of the murdered officer, came so strongly across him that he rejected as useless the attempt.
The smithy, too, at Learmont he longed to search effectually, but how could he do so without observation in such a place; and should such a proceeding come to the ears of Learmont, he might well complain of a trespass upon his own premises, for the purpose of endeavouring to get up some charge against him of a secret and undeclared nature.
“No,” exclaimed Hartleton, with disappointment, as he rose from his chair, “I must not. There is no resource but patience, and, for a short time, this man Gray, with all his crimes upon his head, must be suffered to remain at large, unless some meddling person apprehends him upon suspicion merely, in which case the law must take its course; for although I can and may take no steps to make him a prisoner, I dare not discharge him if once taken.”
As we have mentioned, it was mere humanity which induced Sir Francis Hartleton to order poor Maud to be brought to him. He was very far indeed from suspecting her possession of the important scraps of Jacob Gray’s written confession, which she had rescued from among the charred rafters of the house at Battersea and he received the report of the officer, who had been commissioned to find her to the effect that he had not yet been able to take her, without much feeling upon the subject, engrossed as his mind was with other matters.
After thus turning the whole affair over in his mind, and, for the present resolving to do nothing, but wait and see what the chapter of accidents would bring forth Sir Francis left his study, and sought the society of his young and amiable wife and Ada.
During the very short residence of Ada with Sir Francis Hartleton and his lady, she had endeared herself greatly to them. Her love of truth—her earnest depreciation of every wrong, and the sweet simplicity of her character had placed her so high in their esteem, that they had resolved she should never leave the friendly shelter of the roof, unless circumstances should arise to place her in a happy home of her own.
From all these circumstances and conclusions, it will be seen that not one of our characters, variously situated as they are, have great cause for congratulation on their prospects, with the exception of Ada, to whom it was a new and beautiful existence to be free from the persecutions of Jacob Gray. There was but one sad spot in the young girl’s heart now, and that was, that loving, respecting, and admiring as she did Sir Francis Hartleton and his lady, she did not feel for them what she felt for Albert Seyton; and many, very many of the gushing feeling of her heart were constrained to calmness and mere courtesy, because she felt that to the ears of a lover would they alone seem other than the enthusiastic dreams of a young and ardent imagination.
Sir Francis’s wife, as we have remarked, sympathised much more with Ada concerning the probable fate or circumstances of Albert Seyton, than her husband could be expected to do; and it was at her solicitation that he now gave directions to some of his most active officers, to spare neither expense nor trouble to discover if the young man was in London or not.
CHAPTER LXXV.Britton in His Glory Again.—The Song and the Legal Functionary.—The Surprise.The deadlyhatred which Learmont felt for Sir Francis Hartleton was a mild feeling in comparison with that of the same nature which began to engross the entire mind of Andrew Britton. Learmont he did certainly, from the bottom of his heart, dislike; Jacob Gray he detested and hated most cordially; but under the circumstances in which he was placed, he had come to consider them both as out of reach of any species of revenge he would feel gratified in having upon them. Besides he looked upon them both as mixed up with himself in the various occurrences that had shaped the whole of his existence, and he began to think Learmont a poor creature, useful only to supply his extravagancies, and Jacob Gray as a kind of necessary or, at least, inevitable evil to be endured, as far as his existence went, with much the same feelings as he would put up with the disagreeables of the changing seasons, or some other bodily ailment it was in vain to fight against.But Sir Francis Hartleton, what had he to do with the affair? And yet was he not perpetually thrusting himself forward in the most disagreeable manner, and thwarting him, Britton, at the most inauspicious moment, and in the manner calculated, of all others, to aggravate him—namely, by an exercise of personal strength?When Britton was in that intermediate stage of intoxication which influenced his passions, he would dash his fist upon the table, and call down curses upon the head of his enemy, as terrible and fierce in their language as they were violent and outrageous in manner. Bond, the butcher, was his great companion on all such occasions, and no one was better calculated than that individual to second Britton in any word or deed of violence.Britton had his usual large party at the Chequers, while Jacob Gray was being hunted through Westminster by the extremely officious shoemaker. His friend the butcher sat by his side, and whenever Britton roared out an oath, Master Bond was sure to cap it by some other of the most unique character.The time was past midnight, and yet there was the rattling of glasses—the thumping of tankards—the shouts—screams—laughter and oaths of the motley assembly, proceeding in full vigour.The landlord, when Westminster Abbey chimes struck the half hour past twelve, rushed into the room with a bland smile, after relieving his mind at the door by a hearty curse, and approaching Britton, he said,—“Might I be so bold as to remind your most worshipful majesty that it is now half-past twelve?”“No, you might not,” roared Britton; “what’s time to me, I should like to know? Are you king of the Chequers, or am I?”“With humble submission to your majesty, of course your majesty is king of the Chequers, but your highness must be aware that the magistrates are dreadfully jealous of a poor fellow keeping his house open so late.”“I suppose you may open as early as you like?” roared Britton.“Certainly, your highness’s grace.”“Very well; if any one comes to say a word, tell him you shut up at twelve, and open again at half-past. Do you hear, noodle, eh?”“Do you hear his majesty’s suggestion?” said the landlord, “was there ever such a head piece?”“No, never. Hurrah!” shouted the guests.“His gracious majesty’s health,” said a man rising at the further end of the room; “and may I be butchered if he ain’t a out and outer.”“What do you mean by may you be butchered?” said Bond.“No reflection upon you, good Master Bond,” said the man; “I only—that is, I meant nothing.”“Then don’t do it again,” said Bond, making three strides towards the man, and knocking his head against the wainscot till the lights danced again in his eyes.That was just the kind of thing to arouse Britton, and he roared with laughter at the faces the man mad.“Is a man,” remarked the butcher, “to have his trade, let it be ever so respectable, throwed slap in his face?”“Bravo!” cried Britton; “well, landlord, bring us another bowl. Quick!”“Yes, your majesty. Oh, he’s a wonderful man—I mean king. What a head-piece, my masters—if there’s any difficulty to be overcome, ask King Britton, and you have an answer pat at once—a most astonishing monarch he is, to be sure.”“Well, who the devil are you?” said Britton, as a stranger entered the room.“An’ it please you, sir, a serving man.”“A serving man! Whom do you serve—eh?”“The worshipful Sir Francis Hartleton, hard by.”“Take that then,” said Britton, flinging a pewter measure at the poor fellow’s head, which luckily missed him; “how dare you come here, you sneaking spy?”The man made a precipitate retreat, and when the landlord came with a steaming bowl of punch, Britton with an oath exclaimed,—“Haven’t I told you that I would have none of that Hartleton’s people here?”“Your majesty certainly was so gracious as to say so, but he, whom your grace has so very judiciously turned out, tells me he has only been for a day in his service, so, your highness, I knew him not as he passed in.”“Sharpen your wits, then,” said Britton, throwing the remnants of the butcher’s flagon of strong ale in the landlord’s face.“Oh, what a wit he has!”“Curse Hartleton—curse him!” growled Britton.“So say I,” said the butcher. “He has twice sent some one to condemn my scales.”“Sing us a song, somebody,” cried Britton. “A song I say, I say. Do you hear!”“Gentlemen—gentlemen—a song from some of you, if you please,” cried the landlord, bustling among the guests. “You hear that his majesty is musically inclined.”“Well, gentlemen,” said a small man, with a twisted lace coat, “I don’t mind if I try my hand at a stave.”There was a great thumping of tankards upon the tables, and cries of “Bravo!” in the middle of which the man who had volunteered the song commenced in a wheezing tone as follows:—The Triple Tree“Of all the trees that’s in the land,There’s none like that I wot of;The blossoms big upon this treeNe’er hang until they rot off.But if it bloom at morning’s dawn,The fruit’s so ripe and brown,That when an hour has passed away,We always cut it down,Hurrah, boys!”“Silence!” roared Britton, as the man was about to commence the second verse of his song. “What the devil’s song do you call that?”“The Triple Tree.”“And what may that be?”“The gallows,” said the man, emphatically.“Then who the devil are you?”“The hangman!”All shrunk from the man as he announced his calling; and for a minute or two a ghastly sallow paleness came over Britton’s face.“Very well, gentleman,” said the hangman, “if you don’t like my song, you needn’t have the remainder of it I, am sure.”Britton rose from his seat in a menacing attitude as he said,—“Now, may I be smashed if ever I met with such assurance in all my life. You horrid—you infernal—”“My good fellow, don’t put yourself in a passion,” said the hangman. “I’ve come all the way from Smithfield to see you.”“See me?”“Yes. I heard of you, and I came to take your weight in my eye—you understand. It will require a good piece of hemp to hold you up. You are bony, and that always weighs heavy. Good night—I’ll drop in again some evening.”With these words the functionary of the law was off before Britton could make a rush at him, which he was just recovering sufficiently from his surprise to enable him to do.As it was, when he found the hangman had fairly escaped him, he looked round him like some wild animal just turned out of a cage, and glaring about to seek for some enemy upon whom to wreak his pent-up vengeance.“He ain’t far off, I’ll be bound,” cried the butcher, “I dare say he’s waiting outside.”Britton upon this suggestion rushed from the room, and was at the street-door in a moment. There was a man shrinking just within the doorway, and without further examination, Britton seized him with both hands, and found himself face to face with Jacob Gray.
Britton in His Glory Again.—The Song and the Legal Functionary.—The Surprise.
The deadlyhatred which Learmont felt for Sir Francis Hartleton was a mild feeling in comparison with that of the same nature which began to engross the entire mind of Andrew Britton. Learmont he did certainly, from the bottom of his heart, dislike; Jacob Gray he detested and hated most cordially; but under the circumstances in which he was placed, he had come to consider them both as out of reach of any species of revenge he would feel gratified in having upon them. Besides he looked upon them both as mixed up with himself in the various occurrences that had shaped the whole of his existence, and he began to think Learmont a poor creature, useful only to supply his extravagancies, and Jacob Gray as a kind of necessary or, at least, inevitable evil to be endured, as far as his existence went, with much the same feelings as he would put up with the disagreeables of the changing seasons, or some other bodily ailment it was in vain to fight against.
But Sir Francis Hartleton, what had he to do with the affair? And yet was he not perpetually thrusting himself forward in the most disagreeable manner, and thwarting him, Britton, at the most inauspicious moment, and in the manner calculated, of all others, to aggravate him—namely, by an exercise of personal strength?
When Britton was in that intermediate stage of intoxication which influenced his passions, he would dash his fist upon the table, and call down curses upon the head of his enemy, as terrible and fierce in their language as they were violent and outrageous in manner. Bond, the butcher, was his great companion on all such occasions, and no one was better calculated than that individual to second Britton in any word or deed of violence.
Britton had his usual large party at the Chequers, while Jacob Gray was being hunted through Westminster by the extremely officious shoemaker. His friend the butcher sat by his side, and whenever Britton roared out an oath, Master Bond was sure to cap it by some other of the most unique character.
The time was past midnight, and yet there was the rattling of glasses—the thumping of tankards—the shouts—screams—laughter and oaths of the motley assembly, proceeding in full vigour.
The landlord, when Westminster Abbey chimes struck the half hour past twelve, rushed into the room with a bland smile, after relieving his mind at the door by a hearty curse, and approaching Britton, he said,—
“Might I be so bold as to remind your most worshipful majesty that it is now half-past twelve?”
“No, you might not,” roared Britton; “what’s time to me, I should like to know? Are you king of the Chequers, or am I?”
“With humble submission to your majesty, of course your majesty is king of the Chequers, but your highness must be aware that the magistrates are dreadfully jealous of a poor fellow keeping his house open so late.”
“I suppose you may open as early as you like?” roared Britton.
“Certainly, your highness’s grace.”
“Very well; if any one comes to say a word, tell him you shut up at twelve, and open again at half-past. Do you hear, noodle, eh?”
“Do you hear his majesty’s suggestion?” said the landlord, “was there ever such a head piece?”
“No, never. Hurrah!” shouted the guests.
“His gracious majesty’s health,” said a man rising at the further end of the room; “and may I be butchered if he ain’t a out and outer.”
“What do you mean by may you be butchered?” said Bond.
“No reflection upon you, good Master Bond,” said the man; “I only—that is, I meant nothing.”
“Then don’t do it again,” said Bond, making three strides towards the man, and knocking his head against the wainscot till the lights danced again in his eyes.
That was just the kind of thing to arouse Britton, and he roared with laughter at the faces the man mad.
“Is a man,” remarked the butcher, “to have his trade, let it be ever so respectable, throwed slap in his face?”
“Bravo!” cried Britton; “well, landlord, bring us another bowl. Quick!”
“Yes, your majesty. Oh, he’s a wonderful man—I mean king. What a head-piece, my masters—if there’s any difficulty to be overcome, ask King Britton, and you have an answer pat at once—a most astonishing monarch he is, to be sure.”
“Well, who the devil are you?” said Britton, as a stranger entered the room.
“An’ it please you, sir, a serving man.”
“A serving man! Whom do you serve—eh?”
“The worshipful Sir Francis Hartleton, hard by.”
“Take that then,” said Britton, flinging a pewter measure at the poor fellow’s head, which luckily missed him; “how dare you come here, you sneaking spy?”
The man made a precipitate retreat, and when the landlord came with a steaming bowl of punch, Britton with an oath exclaimed,—
“Haven’t I told you that I would have none of that Hartleton’s people here?”
“Your majesty certainly was so gracious as to say so, but he, whom your grace has so very judiciously turned out, tells me he has only been for a day in his service, so, your highness, I knew him not as he passed in.”
“Sharpen your wits, then,” said Britton, throwing the remnants of the butcher’s flagon of strong ale in the landlord’s face.
“Oh, what a wit he has!”
“Curse Hartleton—curse him!” growled Britton.
“So say I,” said the butcher. “He has twice sent some one to condemn my scales.”
“Sing us a song, somebody,” cried Britton. “A song I say, I say. Do you hear!”
“Gentlemen—gentlemen—a song from some of you, if you please,” cried the landlord, bustling among the guests. “You hear that his majesty is musically inclined.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said a small man, with a twisted lace coat, “I don’t mind if I try my hand at a stave.”
There was a great thumping of tankards upon the tables, and cries of “Bravo!” in the middle of which the man who had volunteered the song commenced in a wheezing tone as follows:—
The Triple Tree
“Of all the trees that’s in the land,
There’s none like that I wot of;
The blossoms big upon this tree
Ne’er hang until they rot off.
But if it bloom at morning’s dawn,
The fruit’s so ripe and brown,
That when an hour has passed away,
We always cut it down,
Hurrah, boys!”
“Silence!” roared Britton, as the man was about to commence the second verse of his song. “What the devil’s song do you call that?”
“The Triple Tree.”
“And what may that be?”
“The gallows,” said the man, emphatically.
“Then who the devil are you?”
“The hangman!”
All shrunk from the man as he announced his calling; and for a minute or two a ghastly sallow paleness came over Britton’s face.
“Very well, gentleman,” said the hangman, “if you don’t like my song, you needn’t have the remainder of it I, am sure.”
Britton rose from his seat in a menacing attitude as he said,—
“Now, may I be smashed if ever I met with such assurance in all my life. You horrid—you infernal—”
“My good fellow, don’t put yourself in a passion,” said the hangman. “I’ve come all the way from Smithfield to see you.”
“See me?”
“Yes. I heard of you, and I came to take your weight in my eye—you understand. It will require a good piece of hemp to hold you up. You are bony, and that always weighs heavy. Good night—I’ll drop in again some evening.”
With these words the functionary of the law was off before Britton could make a rush at him, which he was just recovering sufficiently from his surprise to enable him to do.
As it was, when he found the hangman had fairly escaped him, he looked round him like some wild animal just turned out of a cage, and glaring about to seek for some enemy upon whom to wreak his pent-up vengeance.
“He ain’t far off, I’ll be bound,” cried the butcher, “I dare say he’s waiting outside.”
Britton upon this suggestion rushed from the room, and was at the street-door in a moment. There was a man shrinking just within the doorway, and without further examination, Britton seized him with both hands, and found himself face to face with Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER LXXVI.The Old Associates.—Gray’s Fears.—The Old Attic at the Chequers.Therewas a light in the passage, which shed a strong full glare upon the pallid care worn features of Gray; and Andrew Britton, as he held him at arm’s length turned nearly as pale as he was with the intense surprise of the meeting. He was sobered by the shock, and in a husky whisper he muttered the name of Jacob Gray.Such awful and abject fear seemed to take possession of Gray that had not Britton held him, he must have fallen at his feet. All his presence of mind and cunning appeared to have deserted him, and it was not until Britton had again pronounced his name that he gasped,—“Is—is it you, Andrew Britton? I—I am glad to see you look so well.”“Yes by God,” said Britton, “it is me. What wind from hell blew you here?”“I—I, you are looking very well,” said Gray, with a sickly smile.“Curses on my looks, and yours too, I say again what brought you here?”“To—to see you, of course. I thought as we had been old friends, I would come and—and see you. You rather hurt me, Britton.”“You canting, whining villain,” said Britton, “I will know what brought you here, or I will smash your head against the door-post.”“Violent, Britton, still violent to poor Jacob Gray, who comes to do you good. You know, my dear Britton—”“Just say that again,” cried Britton, “and I’ll—”He tightened his grasp upon Gray, who had just breath sufficient to gasp out—“Remember—my—confession! The gallows!”Britton relaxed his hold, and a slight tremor passed over his frame as he said in a lower tone,—“Jacob Gray, you must have something damnable to say or propose to me!”“Not exactly, Britton. But I think there is danger abroad to us both!”“Danger?”“Yes, Britton. Of course when I thought any danger threatened, I said to myself, shall I not warn good, kind, peaceable, inoffensive Britton.”“You infernal liar!” cried Britton.“So having,” resumed Gray, not heeding any interruption, “so having placed my written confession where, in case I return not soon, it would be easily found and forwarded to Sir Francis Hartleton, I came, you see, here at once.”“Sir Francis Hartleton!” cried Britton; “if you have anything really to say it is of him, I’ll be sworn. He has been hunting me, but I will have his heart’s hood, I will!”Gray caught at the suggestion, and immediately replied,—“Yes—yes, Britton, it was of Sir Francis Hartleton I came to warn you.”“Indeed, on your soul?”“On my soul it was. He is hatching some mischief against us all, Britton, and do you think I will let an old friend fall into danger, and not warn him? So as I say, after placing my full and carefully written confession—”“Now, Jacob Gray,” said Britton, “if you say another word about your d—d confession, I will brain you on the spot.”“I only wished you to understand our relative positions, my good Britton,” said Gray, who was rapidly overcoming his first fright, and with his usual fertility of invention scheming to overcome Britton by cunning.“There, there, that will do. Let me hear no more of it,” said Britton. “Come in.”Gray hesitated a moment, and Britton, bending his brows upon him, said,—“Why, you are as safe in the Chequers at Westminster, as you were at the Old Smithy at Learmont. Why do you shrink, man? You know, and I make no secret of it, that I would as soon dash out your brains as look at you, if I could do so with safety. Come in, I say.”“I am quite sure,” muttered Gray, “I may depend upon such an old friend as Britton.”He followed Britton as he spoke, and the smith, crossing the bar, ascended two flights of stairs to his own sleeping room, into which he ushered Jacob Gray.“I have company down stairs, and be cursed to them,” he said. “Wait here till I come back to you.”“You—you won’t be long, Britton?”“But five minutes.”Britton left the room, and after proceeding down about three stairs, he came back and, to Gray’s dismay, locked the door of the room.“So—so,” murmured Gray, playing his fingers nervously upon the back of a chair. “Here I am hunted through Westminster, and forced at length to take refuge with Andrew Britton—he who has avowedly sought my life, and would take it now, but for fear of my confession. Have I ever been in such desperate straits as this before? Yes—yes—I have, and yet escaped. Surely he will not kill me. He dare not. Yet he drinks largely, and may remember then his revenge, and hatred against me, while he forgets his own safety. Oh, if Andrew Britton knew how safe it was to murder Jacob Gray, I should never see another sunrise. I am in most imminent danger—very imminent danger, indeed, and locked in too. What will become of me? What have toiled for, what committed crime upon crime for, what dipped my hands in blood for, if I am to be hunted thus, impoverished, and a price to be set upon my head?”Jacob Gray leaned his head upon his hands, and groaned aloud, in the bitterness of his despair.Then after a time he rose and carefully examined the door with a forlorn hope, that he might be able by some means to escape by it, and slinking down the staircase, leave the house; but it was quite fast, and although his strength might have been sufficient to break it open, that was a mode of operation attended with far too much noise to answer his purpose.“I am a prisoner here,” he said,—“a prisoner to Andrew Britton, and my only chance of safety consists now in acting upon his fears, and arousing his anger more against Hartleton. He is long in coming,—what can be detaining him? Has he gone to Learmont’s, and are they together hatching some plot for my destruction? Am I safe, or—or am I on the very brink of the grave? My heart sinks within me. Surely he has been gone an hour. Shall I alarm the house? No—no. I am then taken for a thief; and, perhaps, dragged before Hartleton, who would not fail to recognise me. There is no weapon here to protect myself,—no means of escape.”A sudden thought seemed to strike Gray, and he took up the candle which Britton had brought from the bar, and left with him.“Does Britton,” he muttered, “keep his confession here with—my knife? Oh, if I could find those,—if I could, ’twere worth all the risk I now run. I would sell him to Learmont for a goodly sum.”With a stealthy step, and a damp clammy perspiration of fear upon his brow, Jacob Gray crept about the room, which was at the top of the house, peering into every hole and corner in search of the much-dreaded confession of Andrew Britton.His search was in vain—there was no paper to be found of any description and he sat down at length in despair.“’Tis in vain—’tis in vain,” he groaned. “I am the victim of some contrivance of Britton’s to destroy me, or he would have returned eye this. I am lost—lost—lost.”Jacob Gray wrung his hands, and wept like a child, as he thought his hour was come.A long, straggling ray of light came in at the window now, and he started up exclaiming,—“There is one hope more—the window—the window.”The casement was one of those with diamond-shaped panes, held together by thin slips of lead, and Jacob Gray saw that immediately under it was a filthy gutter.“One hope—one hope,” he muttered; and cautiously drawing himself through the window, he closed it again, and stood in the gutter. On one side of him was the high sloping roof of the attic, and on the other was a narrow crumbling parapet.With a shudder, he looked down into the street. An itinerant breakfast provider had taken up his station immediately below, and several early passengers were hurrying onwards to different employments.A boy looked up, and said,—“There he goes!”Gray could have cut his throat with pleasure, but he could only curse him, and creep on, while the urchin pointing him out to the saloon dealer, who, shading his eyes with his hands, said in a voice that came clearly to Jacob Gray’s ears,—“It’s some thief, I’ll be bound, but it’s no business of mine—saloop!”
The Old Associates.—Gray’s Fears.—The Old Attic at the Chequers.
Therewas a light in the passage, which shed a strong full glare upon the pallid care worn features of Gray; and Andrew Britton, as he held him at arm’s length turned nearly as pale as he was with the intense surprise of the meeting. He was sobered by the shock, and in a husky whisper he muttered the name of Jacob Gray.
Such awful and abject fear seemed to take possession of Gray that had not Britton held him, he must have fallen at his feet. All his presence of mind and cunning appeared to have deserted him, and it was not until Britton had again pronounced his name that he gasped,—
“Is—is it you, Andrew Britton? I—I am glad to see you look so well.”
“Yes by God,” said Britton, “it is me. What wind from hell blew you here?”
“I—I, you are looking very well,” said Gray, with a sickly smile.
“Curses on my looks, and yours too, I say again what brought you here?”
“To—to see you, of course. I thought as we had been old friends, I would come and—and see you. You rather hurt me, Britton.”
“You canting, whining villain,” said Britton, “I will know what brought you here, or I will smash your head against the door-post.”
“Violent, Britton, still violent to poor Jacob Gray, who comes to do you good. You know, my dear Britton—”
“Just say that again,” cried Britton, “and I’ll—”
He tightened his grasp upon Gray, who had just breath sufficient to gasp out—
“Remember—my—confession! The gallows!”
Britton relaxed his hold, and a slight tremor passed over his frame as he said in a lower tone,—
“Jacob Gray, you must have something damnable to say or propose to me!”
“Not exactly, Britton. But I think there is danger abroad to us both!”
“Danger?”
“Yes, Britton. Of course when I thought any danger threatened, I said to myself, shall I not warn good, kind, peaceable, inoffensive Britton.”
“You infernal liar!” cried Britton.
“So having,” resumed Gray, not heeding any interruption, “so having placed my written confession where, in case I return not soon, it would be easily found and forwarded to Sir Francis Hartleton, I came, you see, here at once.”
“Sir Francis Hartleton!” cried Britton; “if you have anything really to say it is of him, I’ll be sworn. He has been hunting me, but I will have his heart’s hood, I will!”
Gray caught at the suggestion, and immediately replied,—
“Yes—yes, Britton, it was of Sir Francis Hartleton I came to warn you.”
“Indeed, on your soul?”
“On my soul it was. He is hatching some mischief against us all, Britton, and do you think I will let an old friend fall into danger, and not warn him? So as I say, after placing my full and carefully written confession—”
“Now, Jacob Gray,” said Britton, “if you say another word about your d—d confession, I will brain you on the spot.”
“I only wished you to understand our relative positions, my good Britton,” said Gray, who was rapidly overcoming his first fright, and with his usual fertility of invention scheming to overcome Britton by cunning.
“There, there, that will do. Let me hear no more of it,” said Britton. “Come in.”
Gray hesitated a moment, and Britton, bending his brows upon him, said,—
“Why, you are as safe in the Chequers at Westminster, as you were at the Old Smithy at Learmont. Why do you shrink, man? You know, and I make no secret of it, that I would as soon dash out your brains as look at you, if I could do so with safety. Come in, I say.”
“I am quite sure,” muttered Gray, “I may depend upon such an old friend as Britton.”
He followed Britton as he spoke, and the smith, crossing the bar, ascended two flights of stairs to his own sleeping room, into which he ushered Jacob Gray.
“I have company down stairs, and be cursed to them,” he said. “Wait here till I come back to you.”
“You—you won’t be long, Britton?”
“But five minutes.”
Britton left the room, and after proceeding down about three stairs, he came back and, to Gray’s dismay, locked the door of the room.
“So—so,” murmured Gray, playing his fingers nervously upon the back of a chair. “Here I am hunted through Westminster, and forced at length to take refuge with Andrew Britton—he who has avowedly sought my life, and would take it now, but for fear of my confession. Have I ever been in such desperate straits as this before? Yes—yes—I have, and yet escaped. Surely he will not kill me. He dare not. Yet he drinks largely, and may remember then his revenge, and hatred against me, while he forgets his own safety. Oh, if Andrew Britton knew how safe it was to murder Jacob Gray, I should never see another sunrise. I am in most imminent danger—very imminent danger, indeed, and locked in too. What will become of me? What have toiled for, what committed crime upon crime for, what dipped my hands in blood for, if I am to be hunted thus, impoverished, and a price to be set upon my head?”
Jacob Gray leaned his head upon his hands, and groaned aloud, in the bitterness of his despair.
Then after a time he rose and carefully examined the door with a forlorn hope, that he might be able by some means to escape by it, and slinking down the staircase, leave the house; but it was quite fast, and although his strength might have been sufficient to break it open, that was a mode of operation attended with far too much noise to answer his purpose.
“I am a prisoner here,” he said,—“a prisoner to Andrew Britton, and my only chance of safety consists now in acting upon his fears, and arousing his anger more against Hartleton. He is long in coming,—what can be detaining him? Has he gone to Learmont’s, and are they together hatching some plot for my destruction? Am I safe, or—or am I on the very brink of the grave? My heart sinks within me. Surely he has been gone an hour. Shall I alarm the house? No—no. I am then taken for a thief; and, perhaps, dragged before Hartleton, who would not fail to recognise me. There is no weapon here to protect myself,—no means of escape.”
A sudden thought seemed to strike Gray, and he took up the candle which Britton had brought from the bar, and left with him.
“Does Britton,” he muttered, “keep his confession here with—my knife? Oh, if I could find those,—if I could, ’twere worth all the risk I now run. I would sell him to Learmont for a goodly sum.”
With a stealthy step, and a damp clammy perspiration of fear upon his brow, Jacob Gray crept about the room, which was at the top of the house, peering into every hole and corner in search of the much-dreaded confession of Andrew Britton.
His search was in vain—there was no paper to be found of any description and he sat down at length in despair.
“’Tis in vain—’tis in vain,” he groaned. “I am the victim of some contrivance of Britton’s to destroy me, or he would have returned eye this. I am lost—lost—lost.”
Jacob Gray wrung his hands, and wept like a child, as he thought his hour was come.
A long, straggling ray of light came in at the window now, and he started up exclaiming,—
“There is one hope more—the window—the window.”
The casement was one of those with diamond-shaped panes, held together by thin slips of lead, and Jacob Gray saw that immediately under it was a filthy gutter.
“One hope—one hope,” he muttered; and cautiously drawing himself through the window, he closed it again, and stood in the gutter. On one side of him was the high sloping roof of the attic, and on the other was a narrow crumbling parapet.
With a shudder, he looked down into the street. An itinerant breakfast provider had taken up his station immediately below, and several early passengers were hurrying onwards to different employments.
A boy looked up, and said,—
“There he goes!”
Gray could have cut his throat with pleasure, but he could only curse him, and creep on, while the urchin pointing him out to the saloon dealer, who, shading his eyes with his hands, said in a voice that came clearly to Jacob Gray’s ears,—
“It’s some thief, I’ll be bound, but it’s no business of mine—saloop!”
CHAPTER LXXVII.The Smith’s Plot Against Gray.—An Accommodating Friend.WhenBritton left Jacob Gray in his room, he descended but to the first landing-place of the stairs, and then paused to consider what he had better do under the circumstances so new and so strange as Gray taking refuge with him from some danger to himself, or coming to consult with him upon some common danger to them both. This latter supposition was, however, too extravagant for Britton to believe; and when he came to consider all the circumstances—his finding Gray skulking by the door, and his evident confusion and fear when he was seized and seen, Britton with a blow of his clenched fist upon his hand exclaimed,—“I see it now—the sneaking villain was acting the spy upon me. He wants to take my life—it’s all a d—d scheme of his, but I will be even with him, or my name ain’t Andrew Britton. Let me consider—I’ll get Bond to watch him home from here—a capital plan—he don’t know Bond, and will never suspect he is followed. Then when he finds out where he lives, we can go together, Bond and I, and knock his infernal brains out. That’ll do.”Having satisfactorily to himself settled this line of operations, and considering Gray perfectly safe till he chose to release him, Britton made his appearance again in the parlour of the Chequers.“Come on,” cried Bond, “there hasn’t been no time lost while you was gone for I’ve been drinking for you.”“I thank you,” said Britton—“landlord, do you hear me, never open your door to a hangman again.”“It was a piece of great impudence,” said the landlord, “of such a wretch coming here.” Then he added to himself, “Bless me, if he don’t seem quite sober all of a sudden, and he was a going it finely a little while ago. I do wonder now if he will recollect how much liquor he has had.”“Hurrah!” cried Britton’s guests—“Hurrah for King Britton! We’ll drink his health again.”“D—n you, then you’ll do it at your own expense,” said Britton. “What do you mean by sotting here at this time, eh? Clear out with you all, will you?”“Well, I do think it’s—it’s nearly time to go,” hiccupped one man.“Off with you all!” cried Britton. “Clear the house, landlord.”The motley assembly, who among themselves could not have mustered the price of a jug of ale, rose in obedience to Britton’s commands, and avowing their intention of coming to see him on the morrow evening, they, with much noise and boisterous clamour, took their departure from the Chequers.In a very minutes none were in the parlour but the landlord, Britton, and the butcher. The smith then turned to his host, and said,—“Bring me some spiced canary, and keep every body out of here.”“Yes, your majesty—most certainly—oh dear yes!”The spiced canary was soon set before the precious couple, and then Britton, after a hearty draught, handed the liquor to the butcher, who with a nod that might imply any toast that his companion liked to translate it into, nearly finished the beverage.“Bond,” said Britton, “I want you to do a little job for me.”“I’m your man,” said the butcher. “What is it?”“In my bedroom up stairs is a man.”“A thief?”“He is a thief, and be cursed to him! For he has robbed me for many years of my due.”“You want him thrown out of window?”“No, not exactly. I am interested for many reasons in finding out where he lives. When he leaves here, which I will take care he shall do soon, you follow him.”“I see—I see.”“You comprehend. He must not know you are after him, for he is as wily as a fox, but track him home, Bond, like a blood-hound!”“Eh?” said Bond, rather astonished at the vehemence of Britton.“I say you must follow him closely, and not let him escape you, on any account.”“I tell you what will be the best plan,” said Bond; “you don’t want to lose him no how?““Dead or alive I will never let him escape me!”“Then I’ll take my cleaver with me.”“Your cleaver?”“Yes; then, you know, then if he should turn round I can easily bring him down with that.”“Yes—yes; but he has something at his home that I want.”“Oh, very well. Then we must let him go home first, I suppose. But I’d rather have my cleaver with me, in case of anything handy and delicate being wanted.”“You may have the devil with you if you like, so that you dog the fellow home, and come back with accurate news of where he lives. I hate him, and must have his life!”“May I make so uncommon free as to ask what he’s done?”“Done! He has swindled me out of my own. You know I am a smith? Well, for ten long years I beat the anvil, when I ought to be a gentleman, all through him. For ten years by myself—shunned by every one. I was forced to live by my—work by myself—drink by myself.”“That was d—d hard.”“It was; and all through this man. Hilloa there—more canary.”Britton was fast relapsing into his former state of semi-intoxication, and he struck his fists repeatedly upon the table as he continued,—“He has been my bane—my curse—and he is so now! He boasts of his cunning, and calls me a muddle-headed beast. I’ll muddle his head for him. Curse him—curse him.”“A precious rogue he must be,” said the butcher.“He is a sneaking, cowardly villain. He is one of those who won’t do his share of an ugly job, and yet wants more than his share of the reward.”“Humph! An ugly job.”“Yes—I said it—drink—drink.”“What’s his name?” said the butcher.“His name is Jacob Gray.”“A nice name for a small party. Well, we’ll settle his business for him—humanely, you know, Master Britton, always humanely, say I. My cleaver is the thing—there ain’t no sort of trouble with it, you may depend.”“Bond,” whispered Britton.“Britton,” said Bond.“If there should be any occasion, which I think there will be, to smash this fellow, do you mind lending me that same cleaver of yours?”“Sartinly not.”“Thank you—thank you. Keep a look out now, by the door, and when you see a pale, ill-looking scoundrel walk out—no, sneak out, I mean—follow him. He will be the proper man, I wait here your return, good Master Bond, and then we can take what steps, after you have found out where he lives, we may agree upon. More canary there!”Britton kept taking huge draughts of liquor as he instructed the butcher, in what he wished him to do, and now his voice began to thicken, and he had but a very confused recollection of what he had confided to him, and what he had kept secret.“D—n the Old Smithy,” he cried; “who cares? Not I. I’d live there again although there are some strange sights and sounds.”The butcher looked confused, and then in his peculiar elegant phraseology he asked Britton what the h—ll he meant.“What do I mean?” said Britton; “why, I mean what I say, to be sure. You know what I mean well enough—I tell you this infernal thing that’s now up stairs, kept me at the anvil for years, when I ought to have been, as I am now, a gentleman.”“Oh,” said the butcher, “I suppose he gave you an amazing lot of work and wouldn’t pay for any of it till it was all done?”“I suppose you’re a fool,” said Britton.“Thank you,” replied Bond; “you may abuse me as much as you like, I’m your best friend, and can stand it. You know you’ll go far afore you can find another fellow as can drink as much as me.”Britton seemed struck with the force and truth of this remark, and he took another huge draught of liquor before he replied,—“That’s true—you are a good fellow; never mind me—I—I should like to see the Old Smithy again before the last drop goes down my throat.”“The old who?”“The Old Smithy at Learmont. I’ve had some pleasant hours there and some unpleasant ones, just as it happened. In for a penny, you know, and in for a pound, so I wasn’t going to say nay to the squire, you understand, and be d—d to you.”“Yes, I understand, that is to say, I don’t exactly comprehend,” said Bonds trying to look very knowing.“Then you’re a fool,” again cried Britton.“Very well,” said Bond, with tipsy gravity, “very good—this here’s the state of the case:—You’ve got an animal up stairs, you says—very good. You wants me to take my cleaver, and see what’s to be done.”“That’s the thing.”“Then what the deuce do you mean by keeping the creature waiting for, eh?”“Because I know him,” laughed Britton. “It’s Jacob Gray, you know.”“Oh, is it? It may be Jacob anything else for all I know about him.”“I tell you it’s Jacob Gray,” reiterated Britton, striking his fist on the table.“Very well,” roared the butcher, dealing a much louder blow than Britton’s and making the glasses dance again.“Then I know he’s trembling—groaning with fear. He thinks his last hour is come—I know he does. He suffers now more than as if we were to go up now and cut his throat.”“Stop a bit,” said the butcher, “always knock creturs on the head afore you cuts their throats—mallet ’em first—always mallet first—it’s so very humane, it is.”“Come on,” cried Britton; “you, know what you have to do. Follow him closely and surely, and bring me word where he lives. Then we can go to-morrow night, and you may mallet him till he has no head to mallet—hurrah!”“A d—d fool!” muttered the butcher, as he immersed a considerable portion of his immense red face in the bowl of liquor before him, nor took it out while there was a drain left.The bar was not half-a-dozen paces from the door of the room in which Andrew Britton and Bond had been sitting, and half drunk as the smith was, he fancied, when he had his hand upon the door, that he heard the scuffling of some one’s feet running away from it. This circumstance raised his ire wonderfully, and the suspicion it gave rise to, that the landlord was playing the spy upon him, nearly choked him with rage.He paused a moment and glanced towards the bar, but no one was to be seen by the lamp which cast a tolerable light over the many bottles and bright measures there collected. Britton muttered a curse, and was about to pass on towards the staircase, when he saw from the other side of the bar a head slowly rise and then suddenly pop down again.An exclamation of anger was upon his lips, but he repressed it, and a strong desire to perpetrate some practical joke upon the landlord for his cunning propensities occurred to him. After a few moments’ thought, he returned to the room he had just left, and arming himself with a massive poker, he winked mysteriously at the butcher, who followed him in silent amazement, wondering against whom the powerful weapon was about to be used.When Britton reached the bar, he placed his finger on his lips, as an invocation to Bond to keep silence, and then he stationed himself with the poker in such a position, that if the head should protrude again, he could by a lateral sweep of the heavy bar of iron, for such if was, make sure of dealing upon it a tolerable rap.In point of fact, the landlord had been listening to the dialogue between Britton and his friend, the butcher, and then had scampered into his own bar, and with an excess of cunning for which there was no sort of occasion, had stooped down behind his own bar, where he might have showed himself boldly, with far less suspicion attached to him.Britton had taken his measures well, for in less than a minute the top of the landlord’s head appeared, but before his eyes got to the level of the bar, the smith dealt what there was of his head such a terrible thwack with the poker, that he fell down in the bar with a deep groan.Britton’s delight at this achievement knew no bounds, and without caring in the least whether the landlord’s skull was fractured or not, he sat down on the stairs and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.“Here,” he then cried to the butcher, “take this back,” throwing the poker to him, which Bond caught very dexterously in one of his immense hands. “I haven’t been so amused for a long time; keep watch, and I’ll send the fellow down stairs in a minute.”“That Britton is certainly a clever man in some things,” remarked the butcher, quite confidently to himself, as he lit his pipe calmly by the lamp.Britton was in a remarkably good humour as he ascended the staircase to liberate Jacob Gray, who, he had not the least idea, had made his escape in the manner we have related. He had had plenty of drink, Jacob Gray, as he imagined, was in his power, and he had been just most amazingly amused by the little affair of the poker.“Who says Andrew Britton is a fool and a thick-headed brute?” he muttered as he ascended the stairs; “I will be one too many for cunning clever Jacob Gray yet. I have him now safe—I have him. He cannot escape me—though what the devil brought him here, I can’t guess. That’s all a lie about coming here to warn me of anything; he must have been set on to watch me by Learmont, and yet would he venture? I must make him tell me before he goes.”Britton paused a moment and took a clasped knife from his pocket. Then he added, coolly,—“I’ll cut off one of his ears if he don’t tell exactly what brought him here. Besides that, it will be a good plan, for he’ll then be identified wherever he goes.”Britton stopped at the door of the attic to laugh before he unlocked it.“Jacob is in a horrid fright—I’m sure he is,” he muttered; “d—n me, I’ll—I’ll alarm him a bit.”Britton applied his mouth to the key-hole, and made an unearthly kind of noise, that had Jacob Gray been there, would have gone far towards frightening him into fits. Then he dealt the door a bang with his fists, that made the whole attic shake again.“He’s half dead, I know he is,” he cried; “upon my word I haven’t had such a pleasant evening for a long time.”The smith then, after several efforts, for he was not in the steadiest condition, succeeded in unlocking the door. There burnt the light, nearly expiring, and Jacob Gray was gone.For a moment Britton could scarcely believe his eyes. He then rushed to the open window, and the truth flashed across his mind. After all Jacob Gray had escaped him. A torrent of curses burst from his lips, and he sunk upon a chair quite exhausted by his ungovernable passion.
The Smith’s Plot Against Gray.—An Accommodating Friend.
WhenBritton left Jacob Gray in his room, he descended but to the first landing-place of the stairs, and then paused to consider what he had better do under the circumstances so new and so strange as Gray taking refuge with him from some danger to himself, or coming to consult with him upon some common danger to them both. This latter supposition was, however, too extravagant for Britton to believe; and when he came to consider all the circumstances—his finding Gray skulking by the door, and his evident confusion and fear when he was seized and seen, Britton with a blow of his clenched fist upon his hand exclaimed,—
“I see it now—the sneaking villain was acting the spy upon me. He wants to take my life—it’s all a d—d scheme of his, but I will be even with him, or my name ain’t Andrew Britton. Let me consider—I’ll get Bond to watch him home from here—a capital plan—he don’t know Bond, and will never suspect he is followed. Then when he finds out where he lives, we can go together, Bond and I, and knock his infernal brains out. That’ll do.”
Having satisfactorily to himself settled this line of operations, and considering Gray perfectly safe till he chose to release him, Britton made his appearance again in the parlour of the Chequers.
“Come on,” cried Bond, “there hasn’t been no time lost while you was gone for I’ve been drinking for you.”
“I thank you,” said Britton—“landlord, do you hear me, never open your door to a hangman again.”
“It was a piece of great impudence,” said the landlord, “of such a wretch coming here.” Then he added to himself, “Bless me, if he don’t seem quite sober all of a sudden, and he was a going it finely a little while ago. I do wonder now if he will recollect how much liquor he has had.”
“Hurrah!” cried Britton’s guests—“Hurrah for King Britton! We’ll drink his health again.”
“D—n you, then you’ll do it at your own expense,” said Britton. “What do you mean by sotting here at this time, eh? Clear out with you all, will you?”
“Well, I do think it’s—it’s nearly time to go,” hiccupped one man.
“Off with you all!” cried Britton. “Clear the house, landlord.”
The motley assembly, who among themselves could not have mustered the price of a jug of ale, rose in obedience to Britton’s commands, and avowing their intention of coming to see him on the morrow evening, they, with much noise and boisterous clamour, took their departure from the Chequers.
In a very minutes none were in the parlour but the landlord, Britton, and the butcher. The smith then turned to his host, and said,—
“Bring me some spiced canary, and keep every body out of here.”
“Yes, your majesty—most certainly—oh dear yes!”
The spiced canary was soon set before the precious couple, and then Britton, after a hearty draught, handed the liquor to the butcher, who with a nod that might imply any toast that his companion liked to translate it into, nearly finished the beverage.
“Bond,” said Britton, “I want you to do a little job for me.”
“I’m your man,” said the butcher. “What is it?”
“In my bedroom up stairs is a man.”
“A thief?”
“He is a thief, and be cursed to him! For he has robbed me for many years of my due.”
“You want him thrown out of window?”
“No, not exactly. I am interested for many reasons in finding out where he lives. When he leaves here, which I will take care he shall do soon, you follow him.”
“I see—I see.”
“You comprehend. He must not know you are after him, for he is as wily as a fox, but track him home, Bond, like a blood-hound!”
“Eh?” said Bond, rather astonished at the vehemence of Britton.
“I say you must follow him closely, and not let him escape you, on any account.”
“I tell you what will be the best plan,” said Bond; “you don’t want to lose him no how?“
“Dead or alive I will never let him escape me!”
“Then I’ll take my cleaver with me.”
“Your cleaver?”
“Yes; then, you know, then if he should turn round I can easily bring him down with that.”
“Yes—yes; but he has something at his home that I want.”
“Oh, very well. Then we must let him go home first, I suppose. But I’d rather have my cleaver with me, in case of anything handy and delicate being wanted.”
“You may have the devil with you if you like, so that you dog the fellow home, and come back with accurate news of where he lives. I hate him, and must have his life!”
“May I make so uncommon free as to ask what he’s done?”
“Done! He has swindled me out of my own. You know I am a smith? Well, for ten long years I beat the anvil, when I ought to be a gentleman, all through him. For ten years by myself—shunned by every one. I was forced to live by my—work by myself—drink by myself.”
“That was d—d hard.”
“It was; and all through this man. Hilloa there—more canary.”
Britton was fast relapsing into his former state of semi-intoxication, and he struck his fists repeatedly upon the table as he continued,—
“He has been my bane—my curse—and he is so now! He boasts of his cunning, and calls me a muddle-headed beast. I’ll muddle his head for him. Curse him—curse him.”
“A precious rogue he must be,” said the butcher.
“He is a sneaking, cowardly villain. He is one of those who won’t do his share of an ugly job, and yet wants more than his share of the reward.”
“Humph! An ugly job.”
“Yes—I said it—drink—drink.”
“What’s his name?” said the butcher.
“His name is Jacob Gray.”
“A nice name for a small party. Well, we’ll settle his business for him—humanely, you know, Master Britton, always humanely, say I. My cleaver is the thing—there ain’t no sort of trouble with it, you may depend.”
“Bond,” whispered Britton.
“Britton,” said Bond.
“If there should be any occasion, which I think there will be, to smash this fellow, do you mind lending me that same cleaver of yours?”
“Sartinly not.”
“Thank you—thank you. Keep a look out now, by the door, and when you see a pale, ill-looking scoundrel walk out—no, sneak out, I mean—follow him. He will be the proper man, I wait here your return, good Master Bond, and then we can take what steps, after you have found out where he lives, we may agree upon. More canary there!”
Britton kept taking huge draughts of liquor as he instructed the butcher, in what he wished him to do, and now his voice began to thicken, and he had but a very confused recollection of what he had confided to him, and what he had kept secret.
“D—n the Old Smithy,” he cried; “who cares? Not I. I’d live there again although there are some strange sights and sounds.”
The butcher looked confused, and then in his peculiar elegant phraseology he asked Britton what the h—ll he meant.
“What do I mean?” said Britton; “why, I mean what I say, to be sure. You know what I mean well enough—I tell you this infernal thing that’s now up stairs, kept me at the anvil for years, when I ought to have been, as I am now, a gentleman.”
“Oh,” said the butcher, “I suppose he gave you an amazing lot of work and wouldn’t pay for any of it till it was all done?”
“I suppose you’re a fool,” said Britton.
“Thank you,” replied Bond; “you may abuse me as much as you like, I’m your best friend, and can stand it. You know you’ll go far afore you can find another fellow as can drink as much as me.”
Britton seemed struck with the force and truth of this remark, and he took another huge draught of liquor before he replied,—
“That’s true—you are a good fellow; never mind me—I—I should like to see the Old Smithy again before the last drop goes down my throat.”
“The old who?”
“The Old Smithy at Learmont. I’ve had some pleasant hours there and some unpleasant ones, just as it happened. In for a penny, you know, and in for a pound, so I wasn’t going to say nay to the squire, you understand, and be d—d to you.”
“Yes, I understand, that is to say, I don’t exactly comprehend,” said Bonds trying to look very knowing.
“Then you’re a fool,” again cried Britton.
“Very well,” said Bond, with tipsy gravity, “very good—this here’s the state of the case:—You’ve got an animal up stairs, you says—very good. You wants me to take my cleaver, and see what’s to be done.”
“That’s the thing.”
“Then what the deuce do you mean by keeping the creature waiting for, eh?”
“Because I know him,” laughed Britton. “It’s Jacob Gray, you know.”
“Oh, is it? It may be Jacob anything else for all I know about him.”
“I tell you it’s Jacob Gray,” reiterated Britton, striking his fist on the table.
“Very well,” roared the butcher, dealing a much louder blow than Britton’s and making the glasses dance again.
“Then I know he’s trembling—groaning with fear. He thinks his last hour is come—I know he does. He suffers now more than as if we were to go up now and cut his throat.”
“Stop a bit,” said the butcher, “always knock creturs on the head afore you cuts their throats—mallet ’em first—always mallet first—it’s so very humane, it is.”
“Come on,” cried Britton; “you, know what you have to do. Follow him closely and surely, and bring me word where he lives. Then we can go to-morrow night, and you may mallet him till he has no head to mallet—hurrah!”
“A d—d fool!” muttered the butcher, as he immersed a considerable portion of his immense red face in the bowl of liquor before him, nor took it out while there was a drain left.
The bar was not half-a-dozen paces from the door of the room in which Andrew Britton and Bond had been sitting, and half drunk as the smith was, he fancied, when he had his hand upon the door, that he heard the scuffling of some one’s feet running away from it. This circumstance raised his ire wonderfully, and the suspicion it gave rise to, that the landlord was playing the spy upon him, nearly choked him with rage.
He paused a moment and glanced towards the bar, but no one was to be seen by the lamp which cast a tolerable light over the many bottles and bright measures there collected. Britton muttered a curse, and was about to pass on towards the staircase, when he saw from the other side of the bar a head slowly rise and then suddenly pop down again.
An exclamation of anger was upon his lips, but he repressed it, and a strong desire to perpetrate some practical joke upon the landlord for his cunning propensities occurred to him. After a few moments’ thought, he returned to the room he had just left, and arming himself with a massive poker, he winked mysteriously at the butcher, who followed him in silent amazement, wondering against whom the powerful weapon was about to be used.
When Britton reached the bar, he placed his finger on his lips, as an invocation to Bond to keep silence, and then he stationed himself with the poker in such a position, that if the head should protrude again, he could by a lateral sweep of the heavy bar of iron, for such if was, make sure of dealing upon it a tolerable rap.
In point of fact, the landlord had been listening to the dialogue between Britton and his friend, the butcher, and then had scampered into his own bar, and with an excess of cunning for which there was no sort of occasion, had stooped down behind his own bar, where he might have showed himself boldly, with far less suspicion attached to him.
Britton had taken his measures well, for in less than a minute the top of the landlord’s head appeared, but before his eyes got to the level of the bar, the smith dealt what there was of his head such a terrible thwack with the poker, that he fell down in the bar with a deep groan.
Britton’s delight at this achievement knew no bounds, and without caring in the least whether the landlord’s skull was fractured or not, he sat down on the stairs and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“Here,” he then cried to the butcher, “take this back,” throwing the poker to him, which Bond caught very dexterously in one of his immense hands. “I haven’t been so amused for a long time; keep watch, and I’ll send the fellow down stairs in a minute.”
“That Britton is certainly a clever man in some things,” remarked the butcher, quite confidently to himself, as he lit his pipe calmly by the lamp.
Britton was in a remarkably good humour as he ascended the staircase to liberate Jacob Gray, who, he had not the least idea, had made his escape in the manner we have related. He had had plenty of drink, Jacob Gray, as he imagined, was in his power, and he had been just most amazingly amused by the little affair of the poker.
“Who says Andrew Britton is a fool and a thick-headed brute?” he muttered as he ascended the stairs; “I will be one too many for cunning clever Jacob Gray yet. I have him now safe—I have him. He cannot escape me—though what the devil brought him here, I can’t guess. That’s all a lie about coming here to warn me of anything; he must have been set on to watch me by Learmont, and yet would he venture? I must make him tell me before he goes.”
Britton paused a moment and took a clasped knife from his pocket. Then he added, coolly,—
“I’ll cut off one of his ears if he don’t tell exactly what brought him here. Besides that, it will be a good plan, for he’ll then be identified wherever he goes.”
Britton stopped at the door of the attic to laugh before he unlocked it.
“Jacob is in a horrid fright—I’m sure he is,” he muttered; “d—n me, I’ll—I’ll alarm him a bit.”
Britton applied his mouth to the key-hole, and made an unearthly kind of noise, that had Jacob Gray been there, would have gone far towards frightening him into fits. Then he dealt the door a bang with his fists, that made the whole attic shake again.
“He’s half dead, I know he is,” he cried; “upon my word I haven’t had such a pleasant evening for a long time.”
The smith then, after several efforts, for he was not in the steadiest condition, succeeded in unlocking the door. There burnt the light, nearly expiring, and Jacob Gray was gone.
For a moment Britton could scarcely believe his eyes. He then rushed to the open window, and the truth flashed across his mind. After all Jacob Gray had escaped him. A torrent of curses burst from his lips, and he sunk upon a chair quite exhausted by his ungovernable passion.