CHAPTER LXXVIII.Gray on the House Tops.—Specimens of the Rising Generation.—The Old Attic.Gray’ssituation on the house tops was as far from being safe as it was far from pleasant, for the rapidly advancing daylight, he felt conscious, would very soon make him a prominent object to the whole liberty of Westminster, if he found not some means of descending.His standing upon the parapets, and in the gutters, along which he crawled, was insecure in the extreme, and his nervousness, from repeated slips which nearly precipitated him into the street, increased each moment, so that he began to feel that, unless he got refuge speedily somewhere, he should meet with a fatal and disastrous accident. His idea was to get in at some attic window, and so make his way into the street through the house; but this, although the only possible means that he could think of, for rescuing him from his very precarious situation, was fraught with dangers and difficulties; for who would allow a man to get in at an attic window, and walk undisturbed through their house into the street?Jacob Gray, groaned as he thought of this, and wrung his hands in despair. “I cannot fight my way out,” he muttered. “There is but one remote chance for me, and that is to get into some house where there are no men. I may succeed in alarming females, so that they may be glad to let me go in peace, but what a slender hope is that.”“There he goes!“ shouted a baker’s boy at this moment, looking up and pointing at Gray, who nearly fell into the street with the suddenness of the alarm.Several chance passengers now stopped, and pointed Gray out to others; so that his situation was becoming every moment more precarious.“Stop thief! There he goes!” shouted the boy again, setting down his basket of bread, and resolved, as boys always are under such circumstances, to see the affair out.“Who is it?” cried several.“Guy Fawkes,” said the boy.There was a laugh among the crowd, which was rapidly increasing; and now an old lady put her head out of the window of the house on the parapet of which was the trembling Jacob Gray, and inquired, in an angry tone, what was the matter, and particularising the baker’s boy as a young ruffian, wanted to know how he had collected the crowd opposite the house.The boy with the peculiar wit of his “order” placed his hand to his ear, affecting not to have heard the old lady, upon which, to the great amusement of the crowd, she screamed out—,“Oh, you villain, I heard you call me a guy, but I’ll speak to your master, I will, you wretch.”“You’ll make yerself ill, mum,” said the boy, “if yer hexerts yer old lungs so.”The old lady shook her fists at him, and the crowd roared with laughter.Jacob Gray could see that the mob was very much amused at something, but what it could be he had no means of knowing, for the same obstacle, in the shape of a projecting parapet, which prevented the old lady from seeing him, also prevented him from seeing her. He endeavoured to crawl round an angle of a roof and escape, observation while the altercation was going on; but neither the baker’s boy nor a sweep who had joined his persecutors, would permit such a thing for a moment, and they at once called out,—“There he goes—there he goes!”“What do you mean?” screamed the old lady to the sweep.“There’s a poll parrot, mum, a-top o’ your house,” replied the sweep.“A what?” screamed she leaning as far out of the window as she could, and looking up.“Mind yer eye, mum,” shrieked the baker’s boy, and amid a perfect roar of laughter, the old lady withdrew her head in a moment.“You—you little abominable miscreant,” she cried, “I’ll come down to you!”“Thank you, mum.”“There’s a man on the roof,” said some one near.“A man?”“Yes; just on the corner of the parapet.”“Preserve us,” cried the old lady, leaning out of the window again and looking.“Lean out as far as you can, mum,” cried the sweep.“I am,” said the old lady.“A little further, then, and you’ll see him.”Here was another laugh, and Jacob Gray, with a great effort, succeeded in turning the corner of the roof just as the old lady produced a tremendous rattle, which she began springing violently at the window, to the rapturous delight of the crowd below.“He’s gone into Smith-street,” cried several of the throng, and a rush round the corner was made to keep Jacob Gray in sight.When he got round the corner of the roof which had cost him so much trouble, the first thing that poor Jacob Gray did was to fall over a pail that was set out at an attic window, into a dirty drain full of black slimy mud, interspersed here and there with delicate streaks of green and blue. When he recovered from the shock of his fall, his first thought was to rise as quickly as possible, but his second was to lie where he was, as by so doing he was hidden by the parapet from the gaze of those in the street.But Jacob Gray was not at all aware of the ready invention and cunning of boys in the streets of London, and it was with a curse that, if curses were effective as implements of death would have destroyed both the sweep and the baker’s boy he heard the latter suggest,—“Oh, he is in the drain—I know he is—give us a stone, and I’ll hit him.”“If ever,” muttered Gray, “I come across you, and I shall know your confounded cracked voice again, I’ll wring your neck.”The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a good-sized stone came down upon him with a very disagreeable plump. It had been thrown by the boy with that accuracy that boys acquire in throwing stones from the abundance of practice that they have in that polite accomplishment.“Well, my covey, did it hit you?” cried the boy then in a very insulting tone.Gray looked up from among the mud, and he saw that the attic window was open. It was very low, and he thought he might crawl in without being seen; at all events it was better than being pelted with stones in a gutter,—and having satisfied himself that the attic was empty, he partially rose from the gutter, and had the satisfaction, such as it was, of gliding over the window-sill without being seen.This was one object gained at all events, and he stood the picture of misery and wretchedness, gazing around him upon the scantily furnished room, in which there was nothing but a small bed made upon a board laid across trussels, and one rickety chair.Exhausted, dispirited, and weak, Jacob Gray sat down upon the chair, but it seemed as if in small matters as well as great, the fates would never have done persecuting him, for he had not noticed that his chair was minus a leg, and the consequence was that Jacob Gray came down on the floor with a great noise, which was more than sufficient to alarm anybody in the house.He in an agony of apprehension rose instantly, and flew to the window, but then the risk of traversing house tops in broad daylight, which it now very nearly was, came across him, and he recoiled from the window, feeling that in all probability, his least danger lay in remaining where he was, and endeavouring to excite by some spurious tale the compassion of the persons of the house.His heart, however, felt sick and faint as he waited in trembling expectation of some one coming; and as minute after minute rolled onwards, leaving him still alone, he felt it would be a relief to his mind if they would come at once, and not leave him on the rack of apprehension.His senses became powerfully acute to the least noise, and once or twice he fancied he heard a creaking noise upon the staircase, as if some one was coming cautiously up to capture him. This feeling grew each moment until it became awfully intolerable, and he trembled so excessively that he could not, as he wished open the door to see if any one was upon the stairs.A dreadful apprehension came across his mind that whoever was coming might be armed with, perhaps, a blunderbuss, which might, on the moment of his appearance, be discharged in his, Jacob Gray’s, face, and so finish his career at once by a death of agony. The moment this apprehension began to haunt him he looked around him for some place of temporary concealment, and observing a cupboard at one end of the room, he glided cautiously towards it, resolving to take refuge within it until he should hear, by the voices of those who might be coming, what might probably be their station in life and their intentions.The cupboard door was only fastened with a button, and Jacob Gray turned cautiously. The door, from the pressure of something inside, immediately came wide open. A cry of terror burst from Jacob Gray, as a dead body apparently frightfully mangled, fell at his feet.
Gray on the House Tops.—Specimens of the Rising Generation.—The Old Attic.
Gray’ssituation on the house tops was as far from being safe as it was far from pleasant, for the rapidly advancing daylight, he felt conscious, would very soon make him a prominent object to the whole liberty of Westminster, if he found not some means of descending.
His standing upon the parapets, and in the gutters, along which he crawled, was insecure in the extreme, and his nervousness, from repeated slips which nearly precipitated him into the street, increased each moment, so that he began to feel that, unless he got refuge speedily somewhere, he should meet with a fatal and disastrous accident. His idea was to get in at some attic window, and so make his way into the street through the house; but this, although the only possible means that he could think of, for rescuing him from his very precarious situation, was fraught with dangers and difficulties; for who would allow a man to get in at an attic window, and walk undisturbed through their house into the street?
Jacob Gray, groaned as he thought of this, and wrung his hands in despair. “I cannot fight my way out,” he muttered. “There is but one remote chance for me, and that is to get into some house where there are no men. I may succeed in alarming females, so that they may be glad to let me go in peace, but what a slender hope is that.”
“There he goes!“ shouted a baker’s boy at this moment, looking up and pointing at Gray, who nearly fell into the street with the suddenness of the alarm.
Several chance passengers now stopped, and pointed Gray out to others; so that his situation was becoming every moment more precarious.
“Stop thief! There he goes!” shouted the boy again, setting down his basket of bread, and resolved, as boys always are under such circumstances, to see the affair out.
“Who is it?” cried several.
“Guy Fawkes,” said the boy.
There was a laugh among the crowd, which was rapidly increasing; and now an old lady put her head out of the window of the house on the parapet of which was the trembling Jacob Gray, and inquired, in an angry tone, what was the matter, and particularising the baker’s boy as a young ruffian, wanted to know how he had collected the crowd opposite the house.
The boy with the peculiar wit of his “order” placed his hand to his ear, affecting not to have heard the old lady, upon which, to the great amusement of the crowd, she screamed out—,
“Oh, you villain, I heard you call me a guy, but I’ll speak to your master, I will, you wretch.”
“You’ll make yerself ill, mum,” said the boy, “if yer hexerts yer old lungs so.”
The old lady shook her fists at him, and the crowd roared with laughter.
Jacob Gray could see that the mob was very much amused at something, but what it could be he had no means of knowing, for the same obstacle, in the shape of a projecting parapet, which prevented the old lady from seeing him, also prevented him from seeing her. He endeavoured to crawl round an angle of a roof and escape, observation while the altercation was going on; but neither the baker’s boy nor a sweep who had joined his persecutors, would permit such a thing for a moment, and they at once called out,—
“There he goes—there he goes!”
“What do you mean?” screamed the old lady to the sweep.
“There’s a poll parrot, mum, a-top o’ your house,” replied the sweep.
“A what?” screamed she leaning as far out of the window as she could, and looking up.
“Mind yer eye, mum,” shrieked the baker’s boy, and amid a perfect roar of laughter, the old lady withdrew her head in a moment.
“You—you little abominable miscreant,” she cried, “I’ll come down to you!”
“Thank you, mum.”
“There’s a man on the roof,” said some one near.
“A man?”
“Yes; just on the corner of the parapet.”
“Preserve us,” cried the old lady, leaning out of the window again and looking.
“Lean out as far as you can, mum,” cried the sweep.
“I am,” said the old lady.
“A little further, then, and you’ll see him.”
Here was another laugh, and Jacob Gray, with a great effort, succeeded in turning the corner of the roof just as the old lady produced a tremendous rattle, which she began springing violently at the window, to the rapturous delight of the crowd below.
“He’s gone into Smith-street,” cried several of the throng, and a rush round the corner was made to keep Jacob Gray in sight.
When he got round the corner of the roof which had cost him so much trouble, the first thing that poor Jacob Gray did was to fall over a pail that was set out at an attic window, into a dirty drain full of black slimy mud, interspersed here and there with delicate streaks of green and blue. When he recovered from the shock of his fall, his first thought was to rise as quickly as possible, but his second was to lie where he was, as by so doing he was hidden by the parapet from the gaze of those in the street.
But Jacob Gray was not at all aware of the ready invention and cunning of boys in the streets of London, and it was with a curse that, if curses were effective as implements of death would have destroyed both the sweep and the baker’s boy he heard the latter suggest,—
“Oh, he is in the drain—I know he is—give us a stone, and I’ll hit him.”
“If ever,” muttered Gray, “I come across you, and I shall know your confounded cracked voice again, I’ll wring your neck.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a good-sized stone came down upon him with a very disagreeable plump. It had been thrown by the boy with that accuracy that boys acquire in throwing stones from the abundance of practice that they have in that polite accomplishment.
“Well, my covey, did it hit you?” cried the boy then in a very insulting tone.
Gray looked up from among the mud, and he saw that the attic window was open. It was very low, and he thought he might crawl in without being seen; at all events it was better than being pelted with stones in a gutter,—and having satisfied himself that the attic was empty, he partially rose from the gutter, and had the satisfaction, such as it was, of gliding over the window-sill without being seen.
This was one object gained at all events, and he stood the picture of misery and wretchedness, gazing around him upon the scantily furnished room, in which there was nothing but a small bed made upon a board laid across trussels, and one rickety chair.
Exhausted, dispirited, and weak, Jacob Gray sat down upon the chair, but it seemed as if in small matters as well as great, the fates would never have done persecuting him, for he had not noticed that his chair was minus a leg, and the consequence was that Jacob Gray came down on the floor with a great noise, which was more than sufficient to alarm anybody in the house.
He in an agony of apprehension rose instantly, and flew to the window, but then the risk of traversing house tops in broad daylight, which it now very nearly was, came across him, and he recoiled from the window, feeling that in all probability, his least danger lay in remaining where he was, and endeavouring to excite by some spurious tale the compassion of the persons of the house.
His heart, however, felt sick and faint as he waited in trembling expectation of some one coming; and as minute after minute rolled onwards, leaving him still alone, he felt it would be a relief to his mind if they would come at once, and not leave him on the rack of apprehension.
His senses became powerfully acute to the least noise, and once or twice he fancied he heard a creaking noise upon the staircase, as if some one was coming cautiously up to capture him. This feeling grew each moment until it became awfully intolerable, and he trembled so excessively that he could not, as he wished open the door to see if any one was upon the stairs.
A dreadful apprehension came across his mind that whoever was coming might be armed with, perhaps, a blunderbuss, which might, on the moment of his appearance, be discharged in his, Jacob Gray’s, face, and so finish his career at once by a death of agony. The moment this apprehension began to haunt him he looked around him for some place of temporary concealment, and observing a cupboard at one end of the room, he glided cautiously towards it, resolving to take refuge within it until he should hear, by the voices of those who might be coming, what might probably be their station in life and their intentions.
The cupboard door was only fastened with a button, and Jacob Gray turned cautiously. The door, from the pressure of something inside, immediately came wide open. A cry of terror burst from Jacob Gray, as a dead body apparently frightfully mangled, fell at his feet.
CHAPTER LXXIX.The Interview between Albert and Learmont.—The Promise, and Albert’s Relation.Albert Seytonwas punctual to his appointment with Learmont, and after waiting for ten minutes, was ushered into the small room in which the miserable squire usually sat.Days seemed to be doing the work of years upon Learmont. His coal-black hair was tinged with grey, and there were deep furrows on his cheeks, which were of that dead ashy-looking white colour, if colour it could be called at all, that the former sallow tint of his complexion had recently given way to.Take his appearance altogether as he there sat in a chair, the back of which was placed against the wall with a table and writing materials before him, he looked a man to be shunned or pitied, according as the observer might translate his looks to imply disease of body, or that worse disease of the mind resulting from a perturbed conscience.He slightly started as Albert entered the room, and then, in reply to his bow, he said in a hollow voice, which sounded as if it came from the lips of a corpse risen from the grave,—“Good day, young sir.”“Good day, sir,” replied Albert. “I am here in obedience to your command.”“Yes—yes,” muttered Learmont, leaning his head upon his hand. “You are here, and punctual—very punctual.” He then seemed to fall into a fit of abstraction, and added, “He is not here. Can he have taken alarm? Or he will be here anon?”“Sir,” said Albert.Learmont started, exclaiming,—“Who spoke?”“I thought you addressed me, sir?”“No—no—I—I—said nothing. You are very young, and yet have known trouble, you say?”“There has been much trouble, sir, crowded into the brief space of my existence,” replied Albert. “I have lost all that I loved.”“All?” echoed Learmont.“Yes, sir, all,” sighed Albert.“You have no ties then to bind you to the world, and make you pause in any undertaking? You are like me, a lone man. I am lone, and quite desolate; but I pride myself upon my isolation. I would not be surrounded by what the mass of mankind rejoice in, in the shape of connexions, for worlds.”Albert said nothing, and, after a pause, Learmont added, hastily,—“You bear in mind our conversation of yesterday?”“I do, sir, and am ready to perform the honourable service you mentioned to me.”Albert laid some stress upon the word honourable, and Learmont replied, coldly,—“Well, sir, it is honourable service.”“I know it is, sir.”“You know it is.”“Yes, sir—I know it is so, or, as the son of a soldier and a gentleman, I should never have had it proposed to me by you.”A sneer passed over Learmont’s face as he said,—“My young friend, soldiers, and gentlemen, and their sons, are not all as particular as you.”“I am sorry for it, sir.”“Nay, why should you be? Among stars would you not wish to shine the brightest? ’Tis well that some soldiers and gentlemen are not so very scrupulous; for don’t you see, young sir, that it makes your great virtue shine with double lustre.”Albert did not wholly relish the tone of irony in which this was said, and his cheek slightly flushed as he replied,—“It were unbecoming in me to dispute with you, sir.”There was a silence of some moments’ duration, and then Learmont said, abruptly,—“You will follow the man home upon whose track I will put you. Awaken in his mind no shadow of doubt, or all—I—I mean much is lost. He is crafty; but bear this in mind through life—to outwit the crafty, you have but to be simple.”“I will do my best, sir.”“Do so, and your reward will be commensurate with your deserts. Surely he will come.”“I hope you will find him honester than you suppose him to be,” remarked Albert.“You hope I may find him honest! May all the torments of hell consume him!”“Sir?”“I—I don’t mean him. No matter—I am not quite well. Young man, beware, whatever you may see, hear, or surmise in this house, must remain locked in your own heart.”“Sir,” said Albert shrinking from the basilisk glance of Learmont, “my duty is simple. I have but to obey your honourable orders, and I shall do so to the utmost of my humble ability. It were, indeed, a poor return for your kindness to me, to babble of you or your affairs.”“Well, so it would—you are right there,” said Learmont. “I would fain bind you to me and my interests by kindness—such substantial kindness as you would appreciate; and never forget I am rich—have some power, and am willing to use my wealth, and exert my influence. Can I serve you in any matter? You hinted that you had a source of trouble.”Albert’s heart beat, tumultuously at these words, and his first thought was,—“Will he exert his wealth and influence in assisting me to discover Ada?”Learmont saw his agitation and said,—“Speak freely. But should the man whom I wish you to follow arrive here during our converse, you must finish your story another time. I wish you to speak freely, and if I can bind you to me by benefit conferred upon you, I shall think myself well repaid.”“Sir,” said Albert, “were—were you—you—”“What?”“Ever in love, sir?”“I love?—I in love?—I?”“Pardon me, sir, for asking the question, but the sadness that has hung like a leaden weight upon my heart for so long has arisen from the deep sympathy felt for the forlorn condition of one who even then seemed by some mysterious influence, creeping around my heart.”Learmont leaned back in his chair with a slight yawn, but Albert was too much interested in his own subject to notice the contemptuous impatience of his auditor.“When my poor father died,” he continued, “I felt great grief; but that was a grief that time would assuage. It left nothing to the imagination to work upon, and continue building up unavailing sorrow. On the contrary, when the first shock of parting with those we love—when death has robbed us of them, is over, and when reason resumes her reign—we should rejoice that they have left such fleeting and uncertain joys as this world affords for that which is eternal and knows no change; but where I loved, where I gave my whole heart’s affection, sir, there indeed I have much cause for sorrow, and there is far too ample food for dreamy fancy to work upon.”“Indeed,” said Learmont.“I fear I tire you, sir.”“Not at all, not at all, go on.”“A considerable time since, sir, and I believe before your worship came to London, my father and I lodged in a mean house not very far from here, for we were poor. My father was waiting for his just remuneration for services rendered to ungrateful people. I was but a boy, sir, but from the time of my residence in that house, I may date the commencement of a love which, although I knew not then its existence, became a part of my nature, and will accompany me to the grave.”“Oh,” said Learmont. Then he muttered to himself, “what can detain Jacob Gray?”Albert continued:—“In the same house, sir, lodged a strangely matched couple. The one was a man of wily and sinister aspect, ever crawling instead of walking—insinuating, rather than saying, what he wished to convey—a man that had villain stamped upon, his face.”“I rather think,” said Learmont, “I could match you such a man.”“Let us hope, sir, there are few such,” added Albert, “but of such a character was he, who daily slunk in and out of this house, living apparently in great poverty. With him dwelt a young girl.”“Ah,” thought Learmont, “love and poverty, the old story.”“Oh, sir, she was beautiful—beautiful as Heaven, and her face was as a speaking mirror in which you might read all the pure and noble feelings of her soul. She must have been of noble and high origin, for the seeds of every high virtue were implanted in her breast, and even then were budding forth in beauty.”“The soft blush of an Italian dawn, sir, was not more beautiful than were her eyes. Her brow, of snowy whiteness, rivalled the rarest sculpture, and her mouth—”“You may describe her to me some other time,” said Learmont, with a slight tone of impatience.—“I should like to know how I can serve you.”“I have lost her, sir.”“Oh! You have lost her. Well, I presume she is to be found?”“By your influence and means, sir, she may; but alas! I scarcely know in what direction to commence the search.”“Did you wed her?”“No, sir; had I done so, a world in arms should not have separated us.”“The father then, I presume, was adverse to your suit?”“She had no father, sir—no mother—no relations—no friend in the world but me, and I left her in peril; and never saw her more—never—never!”“Go on with your story.”“He who was with her, or rather held her in durance, was a mysterious man. I have often thought, sir, some great crime weighed heavily upon his heart.”“Perhaps so,” said Learmont, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps so. His life might have been one long mistaken, and he bartered for gold that which was priceless. Go on—go on.”“He seemed, sir, ever wakeful to some great danger, and if ever there was a miserable man, it was that man.”“Well—well,” said Learmont.“Time passed, and still I fondly, dearly loved. She would have left him, or denounced him for his cruelty, but then she always had the dread upon her spirit that he might be what he appeared to be—her father; so, sir, she bore with much, and with a noble spirit would not sacrifice him, by which I much fear she has sacrificed herself. Still are they living in some dark obscurity in London, or—or he has killed her! Alas! Alas! My poor Ada!”“Ada was her name?”“It was, sir.”“Why does this cold shudder come over me?” muttered Learmont as he trembled in his chair.“But the most strange circumstance of all,” continued Albert, “connected with the affair, was that this man Gray—”A cry arose from Learmont that startled Albert to his feet in a moment, and with pale, ghastly features and distorted lips, the squire stood opposite to him, glaring in his face with distended eyes and such an awful expression, that step by step, the young man went backwards towards the door, for the thought flashed across his mind that his patron was a madman.
The Interview between Albert and Learmont.—The Promise, and Albert’s Relation.
Albert Seytonwas punctual to his appointment with Learmont, and after waiting for ten minutes, was ushered into the small room in which the miserable squire usually sat.
Days seemed to be doing the work of years upon Learmont. His coal-black hair was tinged with grey, and there were deep furrows on his cheeks, which were of that dead ashy-looking white colour, if colour it could be called at all, that the former sallow tint of his complexion had recently given way to.
Take his appearance altogether as he there sat in a chair, the back of which was placed against the wall with a table and writing materials before him, he looked a man to be shunned or pitied, according as the observer might translate his looks to imply disease of body, or that worse disease of the mind resulting from a perturbed conscience.
He slightly started as Albert entered the room, and then, in reply to his bow, he said in a hollow voice, which sounded as if it came from the lips of a corpse risen from the grave,—
“Good day, young sir.”
“Good day, sir,” replied Albert. “I am here in obedience to your command.”
“Yes—yes,” muttered Learmont, leaning his head upon his hand. “You are here, and punctual—very punctual.” He then seemed to fall into a fit of abstraction, and added, “He is not here. Can he have taken alarm? Or he will be here anon?”
“Sir,” said Albert.
Learmont started, exclaiming,—
“Who spoke?”
“I thought you addressed me, sir?”
“No—no—I—I—said nothing. You are very young, and yet have known trouble, you say?”
“There has been much trouble, sir, crowded into the brief space of my existence,” replied Albert. “I have lost all that I loved.”
“All?” echoed Learmont.
“Yes, sir, all,” sighed Albert.
“You have no ties then to bind you to the world, and make you pause in any undertaking? You are like me, a lone man. I am lone, and quite desolate; but I pride myself upon my isolation. I would not be surrounded by what the mass of mankind rejoice in, in the shape of connexions, for worlds.”
Albert said nothing, and, after a pause, Learmont added, hastily,—
“You bear in mind our conversation of yesterday?”
“I do, sir, and am ready to perform the honourable service you mentioned to me.”
Albert laid some stress upon the word honourable, and Learmont replied, coldly,—
“Well, sir, it is honourable service.”
“I know it is, sir.”
“You know it is.”
“Yes, sir—I know it is so, or, as the son of a soldier and a gentleman, I should never have had it proposed to me by you.”
A sneer passed over Learmont’s face as he said,—
“My young friend, soldiers, and gentlemen, and their sons, are not all as particular as you.”
“I am sorry for it, sir.”
“Nay, why should you be? Among stars would you not wish to shine the brightest? ’Tis well that some soldiers and gentlemen are not so very scrupulous; for don’t you see, young sir, that it makes your great virtue shine with double lustre.”
Albert did not wholly relish the tone of irony in which this was said, and his cheek slightly flushed as he replied,—
“It were unbecoming in me to dispute with you, sir.”
There was a silence of some moments’ duration, and then Learmont said, abruptly,—
“You will follow the man home upon whose track I will put you. Awaken in his mind no shadow of doubt, or all—I—I mean much is lost. He is crafty; but bear this in mind through life—to outwit the crafty, you have but to be simple.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“Do so, and your reward will be commensurate with your deserts. Surely he will come.”
“I hope you will find him honester than you suppose him to be,” remarked Albert.
“You hope I may find him honest! May all the torments of hell consume him!”
“Sir?”
“I—I don’t mean him. No matter—I am not quite well. Young man, beware, whatever you may see, hear, or surmise in this house, must remain locked in your own heart.”
“Sir,” said Albert shrinking from the basilisk glance of Learmont, “my duty is simple. I have but to obey your honourable orders, and I shall do so to the utmost of my humble ability. It were, indeed, a poor return for your kindness to me, to babble of you or your affairs.”
“Well, so it would—you are right there,” said Learmont. “I would fain bind you to me and my interests by kindness—such substantial kindness as you would appreciate; and never forget I am rich—have some power, and am willing to use my wealth, and exert my influence. Can I serve you in any matter? You hinted that you had a source of trouble.”
Albert’s heart beat, tumultuously at these words, and his first thought was,—
“Will he exert his wealth and influence in assisting me to discover Ada?”
Learmont saw his agitation and said,—
“Speak freely. But should the man whom I wish you to follow arrive here during our converse, you must finish your story another time. I wish you to speak freely, and if I can bind you to me by benefit conferred upon you, I shall think myself well repaid.”
“Sir,” said Albert, “were—were you—you—”
“What?”
“Ever in love, sir?”
“I love?—I in love?—I?”
“Pardon me, sir, for asking the question, but the sadness that has hung like a leaden weight upon my heart for so long has arisen from the deep sympathy felt for the forlorn condition of one who even then seemed by some mysterious influence, creeping around my heart.”
Learmont leaned back in his chair with a slight yawn, but Albert was too much interested in his own subject to notice the contemptuous impatience of his auditor.
“When my poor father died,” he continued, “I felt great grief; but that was a grief that time would assuage. It left nothing to the imagination to work upon, and continue building up unavailing sorrow. On the contrary, when the first shock of parting with those we love—when death has robbed us of them, is over, and when reason resumes her reign—we should rejoice that they have left such fleeting and uncertain joys as this world affords for that which is eternal and knows no change; but where I loved, where I gave my whole heart’s affection, sir, there indeed I have much cause for sorrow, and there is far too ample food for dreamy fancy to work upon.”
“Indeed,” said Learmont.
“I fear I tire you, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all, go on.”
“A considerable time since, sir, and I believe before your worship came to London, my father and I lodged in a mean house not very far from here, for we were poor. My father was waiting for his just remuneration for services rendered to ungrateful people. I was but a boy, sir, but from the time of my residence in that house, I may date the commencement of a love which, although I knew not then its existence, became a part of my nature, and will accompany me to the grave.”
“Oh,” said Learmont. Then he muttered to himself, “what can detain Jacob Gray?”
Albert continued:—
“In the same house, sir, lodged a strangely matched couple. The one was a man of wily and sinister aspect, ever crawling instead of walking—insinuating, rather than saying, what he wished to convey—a man that had villain stamped upon, his face.”
“I rather think,” said Learmont, “I could match you such a man.”
“Let us hope, sir, there are few such,” added Albert, “but of such a character was he, who daily slunk in and out of this house, living apparently in great poverty. With him dwelt a young girl.”
“Ah,” thought Learmont, “love and poverty, the old story.”
“Oh, sir, she was beautiful—beautiful as Heaven, and her face was as a speaking mirror in which you might read all the pure and noble feelings of her soul. She must have been of noble and high origin, for the seeds of every high virtue were implanted in her breast, and even then were budding forth in beauty.”
“The soft blush of an Italian dawn, sir, was not more beautiful than were her eyes. Her brow, of snowy whiteness, rivalled the rarest sculpture, and her mouth—”
“You may describe her to me some other time,” said Learmont, with a slight tone of impatience.—“I should like to know how I can serve you.”
“I have lost her, sir.”
“Oh! You have lost her. Well, I presume she is to be found?”
“By your influence and means, sir, she may; but alas! I scarcely know in what direction to commence the search.”
“Did you wed her?”
“No, sir; had I done so, a world in arms should not have separated us.”
“The father then, I presume, was adverse to your suit?”
“She had no father, sir—no mother—no relations—no friend in the world but me, and I left her in peril; and never saw her more—never—never!”
“Go on with your story.”
“He who was with her, or rather held her in durance, was a mysterious man. I have often thought, sir, some great crime weighed heavily upon his heart.”
“Perhaps so,” said Learmont, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps so. His life might have been one long mistaken, and he bartered for gold that which was priceless. Go on—go on.”
“He seemed, sir, ever wakeful to some great danger, and if ever there was a miserable man, it was that man.”
“Well—well,” said Learmont.
“Time passed, and still I fondly, dearly loved. She would have left him, or denounced him for his cruelty, but then she always had the dread upon her spirit that he might be what he appeared to be—her father; so, sir, she bore with much, and with a noble spirit would not sacrifice him, by which I much fear she has sacrificed herself. Still are they living in some dark obscurity in London, or—or he has killed her! Alas! Alas! My poor Ada!”
“Ada was her name?”
“It was, sir.”
“Why does this cold shudder come over me?” muttered Learmont as he trembled in his chair.
“But the most strange circumstance of all,” continued Albert, “connected with the affair, was that this man Gray—”
A cry arose from Learmont that startled Albert to his feet in a moment, and with pale, ghastly features and distorted lips, the squire stood opposite to him, glaring in his face with distended eyes and such an awful expression, that step by step, the young man went backwards towards the door, for the thought flashed across his mind that his patron was a madman.
CHAPTER LXXX.The Unfortunate Confidence of Albert Seyton.—Learmont’s Promises and Treachery.WhenAlbert Seyton got near the door, Learmont cried in a harsh voice,—“Stop, stop—’twas only a passing spasm, I am subject to them, very subject to them. Come back, young sir, come back.”He reeled a step or two as he spoke, and then sunk into a chair, muttering,—“I—I have not strength now to bear me up against these sudden surprises. Can it be really he, and I, listening with so much indifference to what touched me so nearly, and yet it cannot be—I dare not question him.”“Are you better, sir?” said Albert.“Yes—yes, better now. Ring yon bell, and order wine.”Albert rung a lusty peal upon the bell, and an attendant promptly answered the summons, standing respectfully for orders.Learmont rose and approached the man, who became evidently much frightened lest his imperious master was for some real or imagined fault going to execute summary vengeance upon him.“Mercy, sir, your worship,” he cried.“Fool!” growled Learmont, as he reached the door; and then inclining his head close to the man’s ear he said;—“If Jacob Gray should come while this young gentleman is with me, show him into a room, but do not announce him.”“Yes, yes, your worship.”“Make no mistake, or I will have you hung, fellow.”“No—no—no, your worship, I won’t make any mistake, I ain’t to announce Jac—”“Silence, and begone,” cried Learmont, in a loud voice, and the man precipitately retired in a great fright.“Oh! I forgot the wine,” said Learmont, as he turned from the door, “ring again if you please.”Albert rung, and with a pale face the servant just came to the threshold of the door.“Wine,” cried Learmont, and the man disappeared immediately with a jerk, as if he had been pulled away by some wire.“You will continue your narration,” said Learmont, trying to impart some moisture to his parched lips—“you—you—named Gray, I think, as the man’s name?”“I did, sir—Jacob Gray.”Learmont was prepared for this, and he only gave a slight start, as the familiar name came upon his ears. “Go on—go on,” he said.“I was about to tell you that he kept a mysterious written paper in his room, addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate.”“Addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate,” muttered Learmont—“then, then, it was true.”“Sir!”“Go on—go on.”“This paper he always charged his young and beautiful companion to repair with herself to Sir Francis Hartleton, should he on any occasion not return or send to her within three clear days of the time he had limited his absence to extend to.”“Indeed. ’Twas very strange.”“It was, sir, and I always believed that the paper contained some particulars concerning the gentle girl he had held in such cruel and unjustifiable bondage.”“No doubt—no doubt; well what happened next? Go on.”“From that place one day they mysteriously removed, leaving behind them only an old trunk in which this strange paper used to be kept, and it was long ere I saw them again.”“But you did!”“I did, sir—I should, however, have informed you of another circumstance, but I fear, sir, I weary you—you are not well, sir.”“Yes, yes—quite well.”“Some other time when you may feel disposed to listen to me, sir—I—”“Go on, now—go on—it amuses me much—very much—I have not been so interested in anything for a long time—I beg you will go on.”“You are very kind, sir. Then as I was saying I forgot to tell you that this young girl was, when I first knew her, disguised in the dress of a boy, and called Harry Gray.”“Disguised as a boy?—Humph—An artful, very cunning trick.”“Yes, sir, but objectless surely—I thought her a boy, and then she was beautiful, and I could have lived or died for Harry Gray, but when after that, I saw her in the clothing more becoming to her sex, and knew her as my own beautiful Ada, how different were my feelings—I passionately loved her.”“And she?”“Returned my heart’s devotion with all the frankness of her noble nature.”“Where was she when you saw her last?”“I met her in St. James’s Park—she had fled from the house to which this man Gray had hurried her, and where he had kept her a close prisoner for a weary space of time. Then I madly parted with her, as I thought but for an hour, and I have never seen her since.”“Where was the house?”“A ruined condemned house by South Lambeth—a wretched den.”Learmont drew a long breath, as he said,—“You say she has escaped from him? How was that?”“Some men had sought his life, she told me, and he had assured her that his only chance of preservation lay in their not finding her with him; and moreover, as they supposed her a boy, she might escape and so preserve herself and him by attiring herself in the proper habiliments of her sex.”“Yes—yes—she did?”“She did, sir, on the mere doubt that he might be her father.”“Well? And after that?”“After that I never saw her. I have searched in every place in London. I have wearied myself with a long and useless hunt. I have inquired until I met with insolence from some, and mockery from others. Oh, sir, if indeed you will aid me in this matter, I do, from my heart, believe that while you make two beings happy who will ever bless your name,—you will likewise be unmasking some monstrous villany which this man Jacob Gray has been concerned in.”“Bless my name,” muttered Learmont, with a shudder.“With your means, and your influence with the authorities, we must surely succeed,” continued Albert. “Oh, then, sir, consider what a glorious reflection it will be to you to see our happiness, and tell yourself that if was all your work.”“The—the wine, sir,” said the trembling servant, coming into the room. Learmont motioned it to be laid before him, and then filled a bumper that quite astonished Albert, and tossed it off at one draught.“Drink,” he said, as he pushed a decanter across the table to Albert. “It will raise your spirits to tell me the remainder of your strange eventful story.”Albert drank a small quantity of the generous fluid, and then he said,—“I have nearly told you all, sir. Everything else with me must be conjecture. I should, however, mention that I called upon Sir Francis Hartleton, with the hope of interesting him in the affair, but he took but little heed of it.”“Indeed!”“Yes; he was but lukewarm as regarded all I told him, and I believe did nothing in the matter.”“And yet you told him all you have related to me,” said Learmont.“All, sir; but there are some men who will not step out of the beaten track of their duty for any consideration.”“True, true, Mr. Seyton. I believe this man to be an overpraised man. Indeed, I am far from having the high opinion of him he seems to have obtained from most persons. I should advise you to shun him. Do not call upon him; and, should you even by chance meet him, avoid any conversation concerning this matter. I am chary of interfering with men’s reputation, but I know sufficient of this Sir Francis Hartleton to beware of him as a hollow friend.”“In truth, sir, I believe,” said Albert, “that I shall have but little trouble in shunning him; for I was denied admittance to him twice when I called, since my first interview.”“Ay, that shows you the man. He found that there was difficulty, and perhaps danger, in the affair, and no immediate profit or reputation; so, you see, he treated you coldly.”“He did treat me coldly.”“Then you rely upon me. If needs be, I will become such powerful assistance for you that you must succeed; and should you by any means discover the abode of this Jacob Gray, I think you had better bring me word, without adopting any mode of action of your own, and then we can consult upon some safe and effectual means of serving you.”“I feel your kindness, sir, most sensibly,” said the grateful Albert, “and—”“Well, well,” interrupted Learmont—“I am sure you will be grateful. I have no service for you to-day, for it is long past the hour this man should have been here; but attend me here to-morrow morning at the same time.”“I shall be punctual, sir,” said Albert rising.“Good day—good day,” said Learmont.Albert bowed and left the room.
The Unfortunate Confidence of Albert Seyton.—Learmont’s Promises and Treachery.
WhenAlbert Seyton got near the door, Learmont cried in a harsh voice,—
“Stop, stop—’twas only a passing spasm, I am subject to them, very subject to them. Come back, young sir, come back.”
He reeled a step or two as he spoke, and then sunk into a chair, muttering,—
“I—I have not strength now to bear me up against these sudden surprises. Can it be really he, and I, listening with so much indifference to what touched me so nearly, and yet it cannot be—I dare not question him.”
“Are you better, sir?” said Albert.
“Yes—yes, better now. Ring yon bell, and order wine.”
Albert rung a lusty peal upon the bell, and an attendant promptly answered the summons, standing respectfully for orders.
Learmont rose and approached the man, who became evidently much frightened lest his imperious master was for some real or imagined fault going to execute summary vengeance upon him.
“Mercy, sir, your worship,” he cried.
“Fool!” growled Learmont, as he reached the door; and then inclining his head close to the man’s ear he said;—“If Jacob Gray should come while this young gentleman is with me, show him into a room, but do not announce him.”
“Yes, yes, your worship.”
“Make no mistake, or I will have you hung, fellow.”
“No—no—no, your worship, I won’t make any mistake, I ain’t to announce Jac—”
“Silence, and begone,” cried Learmont, in a loud voice, and the man precipitately retired in a great fright.
“Oh! I forgot the wine,” said Learmont, as he turned from the door, “ring again if you please.”
Albert rung, and with a pale face the servant just came to the threshold of the door.
“Wine,” cried Learmont, and the man disappeared immediately with a jerk, as if he had been pulled away by some wire.
“You will continue your narration,” said Learmont, trying to impart some moisture to his parched lips—“you—you—named Gray, I think, as the man’s name?”
“I did, sir—Jacob Gray.”
Learmont was prepared for this, and he only gave a slight start, as the familiar name came upon his ears. “Go on—go on,” he said.
“I was about to tell you that he kept a mysterious written paper in his room, addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate.”
“Addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate,” muttered Learmont—“then, then, it was true.”
“Sir!”
“Go on—go on.”
“This paper he always charged his young and beautiful companion to repair with herself to Sir Francis Hartleton, should he on any occasion not return or send to her within three clear days of the time he had limited his absence to extend to.”
“Indeed. ’Twas very strange.”
“It was, sir, and I always believed that the paper contained some particulars concerning the gentle girl he had held in such cruel and unjustifiable bondage.”
“No doubt—no doubt; well what happened next? Go on.”
“From that place one day they mysteriously removed, leaving behind them only an old trunk in which this strange paper used to be kept, and it was long ere I saw them again.”
“But you did!”
“I did, sir—I should, however, have informed you of another circumstance, but I fear, sir, I weary you—you are not well, sir.”
“Yes, yes—quite well.”
“Some other time when you may feel disposed to listen to me, sir—I—”
“Go on, now—go on—it amuses me much—very much—I have not been so interested in anything for a long time—I beg you will go on.”
“You are very kind, sir. Then as I was saying I forgot to tell you that this young girl was, when I first knew her, disguised in the dress of a boy, and called Harry Gray.”
“Disguised as a boy?—Humph—An artful, very cunning trick.”
“Yes, sir, but objectless surely—I thought her a boy, and then she was beautiful, and I could have lived or died for Harry Gray, but when after that, I saw her in the clothing more becoming to her sex, and knew her as my own beautiful Ada, how different were my feelings—I passionately loved her.”
“And she?”
“Returned my heart’s devotion with all the frankness of her noble nature.”
“Where was she when you saw her last?”
“I met her in St. James’s Park—she had fled from the house to which this man Gray had hurried her, and where he had kept her a close prisoner for a weary space of time. Then I madly parted with her, as I thought but for an hour, and I have never seen her since.”
“Where was the house?”
“A ruined condemned house by South Lambeth—a wretched den.”
Learmont drew a long breath, as he said,—“You say she has escaped from him? How was that?”
“Some men had sought his life, she told me, and he had assured her that his only chance of preservation lay in their not finding her with him; and moreover, as they supposed her a boy, she might escape and so preserve herself and him by attiring herself in the proper habiliments of her sex.”
“Yes—yes—she did?”
“She did, sir, on the mere doubt that he might be her father.”
“Well? And after that?”
“After that I never saw her. I have searched in every place in London. I have wearied myself with a long and useless hunt. I have inquired until I met with insolence from some, and mockery from others. Oh, sir, if indeed you will aid me in this matter, I do, from my heart, believe that while you make two beings happy who will ever bless your name,—you will likewise be unmasking some monstrous villany which this man Jacob Gray has been concerned in.”
“Bless my name,” muttered Learmont, with a shudder.
“With your means, and your influence with the authorities, we must surely succeed,” continued Albert. “Oh, then, sir, consider what a glorious reflection it will be to you to see our happiness, and tell yourself that if was all your work.”
“The—the wine, sir,” said the trembling servant, coming into the room. Learmont motioned it to be laid before him, and then filled a bumper that quite astonished Albert, and tossed it off at one draught.
“Drink,” he said, as he pushed a decanter across the table to Albert. “It will raise your spirits to tell me the remainder of your strange eventful story.”
Albert drank a small quantity of the generous fluid, and then he said,—
“I have nearly told you all, sir. Everything else with me must be conjecture. I should, however, mention that I called upon Sir Francis Hartleton, with the hope of interesting him in the affair, but he took but little heed of it.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he was but lukewarm as regarded all I told him, and I believe did nothing in the matter.”
“And yet you told him all you have related to me,” said Learmont.
“All, sir; but there are some men who will not step out of the beaten track of their duty for any consideration.”
“True, true, Mr. Seyton. I believe this man to be an overpraised man. Indeed, I am far from having the high opinion of him he seems to have obtained from most persons. I should advise you to shun him. Do not call upon him; and, should you even by chance meet him, avoid any conversation concerning this matter. I am chary of interfering with men’s reputation, but I know sufficient of this Sir Francis Hartleton to beware of him as a hollow friend.”
“In truth, sir, I believe,” said Albert, “that I shall have but little trouble in shunning him; for I was denied admittance to him twice when I called, since my first interview.”
“Ay, that shows you the man. He found that there was difficulty, and perhaps danger, in the affair, and no immediate profit or reputation; so, you see, he treated you coldly.”
“He did treat me coldly.”
“Then you rely upon me. If needs be, I will become such powerful assistance for you that you must succeed; and should you by any means discover the abode of this Jacob Gray, I think you had better bring me word, without adopting any mode of action of your own, and then we can consult upon some safe and effectual means of serving you.”
“I feel your kindness, sir, most sensibly,” said the grateful Albert, “and—”
“Well, well,” interrupted Learmont—“I am sure you will be grateful. I have no service for you to-day, for it is long past the hour this man should have been here; but attend me here to-morrow morning at the same time.”
“I shall be punctual, sir,” said Albert rising.
“Good day—good day,” said Learmont.
Albert bowed and left the room.
CHAPTER LXXXI.Learmont’s Improved Prospects.—The Park.—Ada’s Recollections.—The Meeting.WhenLearmont was once more left alone, a dark scowl of triumph came over his face, and he breathed more freely than he had done for many a day.“So,” he said “many mysteries are suddenly cleared up now; I—I am myself again. A weight is lifted off my heart. Several things are now clear and plain to me that I have been tortured with for many days. This being who has been my bane, and is now my greatest danger, is a girl, and not a boy, as Jacob Gray would always fain have made me think. He has lost her too; and it must have been she whom I saw at my door step and at the window of Sir Francis Hartleton. So far all is clear; and Gray’s confused manner, wretched appearance, and offer to compromise with me when last we met are now accounted for. He has lost his great stronghold upon me, losing the child of—of—I cannot name him. No—no—his name shall never pass my lips.”He rose and paced the room for a few minutes with unequal strides, then suddenly pausing, he muttered,—“All must be safe. This girl, Ada, as she is called,—and now I recollect me, it was the name of her mother—she must know but very little, too little evidently, to enable Sir Francis Hartleton to annoy me in any way, or he would have swooped upon my devoted head like an eagle on its prey. He may surmise much, but he can know nothing; and now for some plan of operation in which this lover can play his part, and when all is done, should he suspect anything or prove troublesome, it is but another deed, and he is gone to his last account. He leaves no clamouring confession behind him, to enable him to have a posthumous revenge upon those whom he hates. Perhaps after all my hopes and fears, a greater triumph than any I have experienced is at hand for me. My wealth may, after all, insure me some, if not all the advantages I so much coveted, and I may, really free and unshackled, attain the high station my panting soul has longed for.”For the first time for many a day, Learmont gazed proudly around him upon the many articles of rare magnificence that crowded his chamber.“I shall triumph yet—I shall triumph yet,” he exclaimed. “I must mature some plan of operations now that will result in the possession of this girl, the destruction of Gray and Britton, and the recovery of all papers of a dangerous tendency. Methinks it will be easy now. This hair-brained boy, Seyton, if I tell him I can put him on the track of Gray, will surely hunt him down; and then my prey is in my grasp, for he has not now two safeguards, as he had before. I will to the park, and there, beneath the grateful shadows of the trees, mature my plans. Tremble, Britton, Gray, Hartleton—you have one to deal with that will yet triumph over you.”He hastily wrapped himself in his cloak, and with a haughtier stride, and a prouder and more confident mien than he had worn since his first arrival in the metropolis, he left his lordly home, and took his way to the great mall of St. James’s Park.Leaving Learmont to pursue his walk, and to congratulate himself upon what he considered his improved prospects, we will, with the reader’s permission, present ourselves at the breakfast table of Sir Francis Hartleton, where sat the magistrate himself, his lady, and Ada.Sir Francis had passed nearly a sleepless night in reflecting, over and over again, upon the various circumstances connected with the fortunes of his beautiful guest. His great object was, if possible, to decide upon some regular course of action, which might be safely and perseveringly pursued with a prospect of an ultimate result of a successful nature.After much thought, repugnant as he was to any step which savoured of trespassing upon the undoubted rights of another, he determined secretly and quietly, unknown to every one, to make a visit to the village of Learmont, and explore the old Smithy, with a faint hope that he might find there some indications of what had occurred on that fearful night of the storm and the fire, which he could never forget.He had slept calmly after making this resolve, and arose more refreshed than he expected from the anxious night he had passed, and now his object was, before he undertook his journey, to have some conversation with Ada, in order by leading her mind to the occurrences at the Old Smithy, to discover if her memory, young as she was, retained any traces of the event; for that she was the child brought from the burning ruins, and that Jacob Gray was the man who so brought her, he entertained but a very faint doubt indeed.“Ada,” he said, “does any event of very early life come ever to your memory?”“Since I have been here,” replied Ada, in her clear and sweet liquid tones, “and so very happy, it seems to me as if my mind had assimilated itself to some circumstances that must have happened long since to me, so long that I can hardly believe that I am now in the same state of existence. Kind words seem now as familiar as they are grateful to me, and it seems to me that memory, wavering from the shock of years of harshness and misery, is beginning to pour forth the hidden stores and crushed remembrances of kind and gentle words, and friendly, loving smiles which guided me before I knew Jacob Gray.”Lady Hartleton could not suppress a tear as Ada spoke, and Sir Francis listened with eager pleasure to her words.“My dear Ada,” he said, “if you will endeavour to tell me in your own gentle, admirable way, what these recollections consist of, they may be of the greatest service in enabling me to unravel the mysteries that now surround you.”“Sometimes,” said Ada, “I fancy I recollect some one who used to weep over me and kiss me fondly; and when, yesterday, your dear lady,” turning to Sir Francis’s wife, “took me to the ancient tower, it seemed to me that some of the large ships and the cries of the seamen were not altogether strange to me.”“Do you recollect anything of a fire?“ said the magistrate.“A fire?”“Yes—do you ever recollect a fire, and loud screams and much confusion?”Ada shuddered.”I have always fancied that a dream,” she said, “but it has haunted me so often that I have feared to find it real. I have dreamt of a wild, dark place, and then bright flames have lit it up, and cries and shrieks have filled the air, and my heart has sunk within me, for it seemed as if some one had torn me from all I ever loved. Then snow would dash in my face, and it seemed to me as if I was borne onwards by some one with terrific speed, and such dreadful shouts and cries as have made me awaken in horror, and pray to Heaven to spare me such another dream.”“And in the midst of all this could you never recognise any well-known form or face, or familiar voice?”“None but Jacob Gray’s. His pale hideous face seemed ever turned towards me, and I used to fancy that being in so solitary a mode of life with him, put such fancies in my sleeping brain.”“Well, Ada and you, my dear,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “must endure my absence from London, I think, for about a week.”“A week?” said Lady Hartleton.“Yes, I must endeavour to get leave to go for that time. It is upon business of the utmost importance.”He rose as he spoke, and his wife looked at him regretfully, as she said,—“You are not going to-day, Francis?”“No, nor to-morrow,” he replied, smiling; “and when I do go, I have not quite made up my mind that I shall not take you both with me.”“Then you may go as soon as you like, Francis, if Ada will accompany us.”A tear started to Ada’s eye, as she said,—“What other friend, save Heaven, have I but you to cling to now, for he—”She thought of Albert Seyton, and paused.Sir Francis Hartleton took her hand gently, and said,—“My dear Ada, I mean to find Albert Seyton, and make him my clerk.”Ada looked up in his face, and thanked him by a glance that spoke more eloquently than words could have done. The magistrate then smiled an adieu, and left his house to proceed to his office by Buckingham House across the park.He entered the park by the back of his house, which, as the reader is aware, opened into and near to the Birdcage-walk, and with an easy step, for he had plenty of time in which to go the distance, Sir Francis walked on, nor observed that any one was looking at him, until he by chance glanced round and saw Learmont regarding him with a fixed gaze, while a sneer of ill-concealed triumph sat upon his mouth and curled his lip.
Learmont’s Improved Prospects.—The Park.—Ada’s Recollections.—The Meeting.
WhenLearmont was once more left alone, a dark scowl of triumph came over his face, and he breathed more freely than he had done for many a day.
“So,” he said “many mysteries are suddenly cleared up now; I—I am myself again. A weight is lifted off my heart. Several things are now clear and plain to me that I have been tortured with for many days. This being who has been my bane, and is now my greatest danger, is a girl, and not a boy, as Jacob Gray would always fain have made me think. He has lost her too; and it must have been she whom I saw at my door step and at the window of Sir Francis Hartleton. So far all is clear; and Gray’s confused manner, wretched appearance, and offer to compromise with me when last we met are now accounted for. He has lost his great stronghold upon me, losing the child of—of—I cannot name him. No—no—his name shall never pass my lips.”
He rose and paced the room for a few minutes with unequal strides, then suddenly pausing, he muttered,—
“All must be safe. This girl, Ada, as she is called,—and now I recollect me, it was the name of her mother—she must know but very little, too little evidently, to enable Sir Francis Hartleton to annoy me in any way, or he would have swooped upon my devoted head like an eagle on its prey. He may surmise much, but he can know nothing; and now for some plan of operation in which this lover can play his part, and when all is done, should he suspect anything or prove troublesome, it is but another deed, and he is gone to his last account. He leaves no clamouring confession behind him, to enable him to have a posthumous revenge upon those whom he hates. Perhaps after all my hopes and fears, a greater triumph than any I have experienced is at hand for me. My wealth may, after all, insure me some, if not all the advantages I so much coveted, and I may, really free and unshackled, attain the high station my panting soul has longed for.”
For the first time for many a day, Learmont gazed proudly around him upon the many articles of rare magnificence that crowded his chamber.
“I shall triumph yet—I shall triumph yet,” he exclaimed. “I must mature some plan of operations now that will result in the possession of this girl, the destruction of Gray and Britton, and the recovery of all papers of a dangerous tendency. Methinks it will be easy now. This hair-brained boy, Seyton, if I tell him I can put him on the track of Gray, will surely hunt him down; and then my prey is in my grasp, for he has not now two safeguards, as he had before. I will to the park, and there, beneath the grateful shadows of the trees, mature my plans. Tremble, Britton, Gray, Hartleton—you have one to deal with that will yet triumph over you.”
He hastily wrapped himself in his cloak, and with a haughtier stride, and a prouder and more confident mien than he had worn since his first arrival in the metropolis, he left his lordly home, and took his way to the great mall of St. James’s Park.
Leaving Learmont to pursue his walk, and to congratulate himself upon what he considered his improved prospects, we will, with the reader’s permission, present ourselves at the breakfast table of Sir Francis Hartleton, where sat the magistrate himself, his lady, and Ada.
Sir Francis had passed nearly a sleepless night in reflecting, over and over again, upon the various circumstances connected with the fortunes of his beautiful guest. His great object was, if possible, to decide upon some regular course of action, which might be safely and perseveringly pursued with a prospect of an ultimate result of a successful nature.
After much thought, repugnant as he was to any step which savoured of trespassing upon the undoubted rights of another, he determined secretly and quietly, unknown to every one, to make a visit to the village of Learmont, and explore the old Smithy, with a faint hope that he might find there some indications of what had occurred on that fearful night of the storm and the fire, which he could never forget.
He had slept calmly after making this resolve, and arose more refreshed than he expected from the anxious night he had passed, and now his object was, before he undertook his journey, to have some conversation with Ada, in order by leading her mind to the occurrences at the Old Smithy, to discover if her memory, young as she was, retained any traces of the event; for that she was the child brought from the burning ruins, and that Jacob Gray was the man who so brought her, he entertained but a very faint doubt indeed.
“Ada,” he said, “does any event of very early life come ever to your memory?”
“Since I have been here,” replied Ada, in her clear and sweet liquid tones, “and so very happy, it seems to me as if my mind had assimilated itself to some circumstances that must have happened long since to me, so long that I can hardly believe that I am now in the same state of existence. Kind words seem now as familiar as they are grateful to me, and it seems to me that memory, wavering from the shock of years of harshness and misery, is beginning to pour forth the hidden stores and crushed remembrances of kind and gentle words, and friendly, loving smiles which guided me before I knew Jacob Gray.”
Lady Hartleton could not suppress a tear as Ada spoke, and Sir Francis listened with eager pleasure to her words.
“My dear Ada,” he said, “if you will endeavour to tell me in your own gentle, admirable way, what these recollections consist of, they may be of the greatest service in enabling me to unravel the mysteries that now surround you.”
“Sometimes,” said Ada, “I fancy I recollect some one who used to weep over me and kiss me fondly; and when, yesterday, your dear lady,” turning to Sir Francis’s wife, “took me to the ancient tower, it seemed to me that some of the large ships and the cries of the seamen were not altogether strange to me.”
“Do you recollect anything of a fire?“ said the magistrate.
“A fire?”
“Yes—do you ever recollect a fire, and loud screams and much confusion?”
Ada shuddered.
”I have always fancied that a dream,” she said, “but it has haunted me so often that I have feared to find it real. I have dreamt of a wild, dark place, and then bright flames have lit it up, and cries and shrieks have filled the air, and my heart has sunk within me, for it seemed as if some one had torn me from all I ever loved. Then snow would dash in my face, and it seemed to me as if I was borne onwards by some one with terrific speed, and such dreadful shouts and cries as have made me awaken in horror, and pray to Heaven to spare me such another dream.”
“And in the midst of all this could you never recognise any well-known form or face, or familiar voice?”
“None but Jacob Gray’s. His pale hideous face seemed ever turned towards me, and I used to fancy that being in so solitary a mode of life with him, put such fancies in my sleeping brain.”
“Well, Ada and you, my dear,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “must endure my absence from London, I think, for about a week.”
“A week?” said Lady Hartleton.
“Yes, I must endeavour to get leave to go for that time. It is upon business of the utmost importance.”
He rose as he spoke, and his wife looked at him regretfully, as she said,—
“You are not going to-day, Francis?”
“No, nor to-morrow,” he replied, smiling; “and when I do go, I have not quite made up my mind that I shall not take you both with me.”
“Then you may go as soon as you like, Francis, if Ada will accompany us.”
A tear started to Ada’s eye, as she said,—
“What other friend, save Heaven, have I but you to cling to now, for he—”
She thought of Albert Seyton, and paused.
Sir Francis Hartleton took her hand gently, and said,—
“My dear Ada, I mean to find Albert Seyton, and make him my clerk.”
Ada looked up in his face, and thanked him by a glance that spoke more eloquently than words could have done. The magistrate then smiled an adieu, and left his house to proceed to his office by Buckingham House across the park.
He entered the park by the back of his house, which, as the reader is aware, opened into and near to the Birdcage-walk, and with an easy step, for he had plenty of time in which to go the distance, Sir Francis walked on, nor observed that any one was looking at him, until he by chance glanced round and saw Learmont regarding him with a fixed gaze, while a sneer of ill-concealed triumph sat upon his mouth and curled his lip.
CHAPTER LXXXII.Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable.Sir Francis Hartletonpaused a moment in doubt whether he should speak to the gloomy squire, whom he so much suspected of many crimes, or pass on his way without meeting him. Before, however, he could decide upon any course of action, Learmont settled the question by walking up to Hartleton, and saying,—“Good morning, Sir Magistrate—you are early afoot.”“I own Sir Squire,” said Hartleton, rather amazed at the confident tone and manner of Learmont, “my duties take up as much of my time as other people’s crimes do theirs.”“No doubt, no doubt,” said Learmont; “Yours is an onerous position. ’Tis well criminality is not contagious, for otherwise, coming in contact with so many troublesome thieves, and disagreeable characters, London would lose her fine-spirited, upright, and noble magistrate.”“You are right,” said Hartleton, determined not to take offence, “I can even speak to worse than thieves, and yet, thank Heaven, escape contamination from them.”Sir Francis Hartleton’s words were barbed, but Learmont was quite as resolved as his opponent not to understand any insinuations, and he merely replied,—“You are a judge of human nature, sir.”“As far as my opportunities go, I am,” replied Sir Francis.“I trust,” added Learmont, “that, notwithstanding I am but a poor squire, you will do me the honour of visiting me in my London abode.”“That I am willing to do,” said Hartleton, “forgetting all disagreements, Squire Learmont of course.”“Disagreements, sir,—I really am not aware of any. You were at one time, if I remember rightly, subject to bad dreams, from which I hope you have now quite recovered—I should think it a most grievous and affecting malady.”Sir Francis felt that Learmont had rather the better of him in the dialogue, and with a smile he bowed and passed on.The squire looked after him with a smile of bitterness mingled with contempt.“You have entered, most-sapient magistrate,” he said, “into a war with me. You shall abide the issue, and pay the penalty of defeat—I swear by all the powers of heaven and hell, that you shall have my life, or I will have yours. He who thrusts his hand into a fire, cannot be expected to withdraw them unburnt. Beware, Sir Magistrate,—I will have vengeance upon you when I am safe in some important matters—but first as to Jacob Gray—ay, there is the great—difficulty—Jacob Grey.”He sauntered among the then ancient trees that adorned the park, and continued muttering to himself for more than an hour before he came to any firm resolve, and then he suddenly quickened his pace, and proceeded homewards.When Sir Francis Hartleton reached his office, his first act was to summon the man named Stephy, and to tell him to prepare to accompany him, at a short notice, some distance in the country, for he resolved to take him with him to Learmont village, whether or not he should upon mature consideration think it desirable that Ada should accompany him there.This matter being settled, he received a report from a man whom he had set to watch the house of Learmont, who deposed to the effect that a man who he was sure was Jacob Gray, by the description given of him by the magistrate, had visited the squire. He then detailed the whole of Gray’s proceeding during the night, concluding by saying, that when his watch was relieved, Gray had been left at the Old Chequers, and that his further progress would be reported by the man who had taken his place.“That will do,” said Hartleton; “he must not be lost sight of for a moment, unless fairly housed, and then the house must be carefully watched, and above all things, do not let him suspect he is in any danger.”“The greatest trouble, sir, during the night,” said the spy, “has arisen from a shoemaker in Westminster, who is smitten with the notion of his cleverness in apprehending criminals. He has been following Gray about, and but for his cowardice would have apprehended him.”“And so spoil all,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “It is of the greatest importance that this Gray should remain at large for some time. He is in possession of information which, I fear, would never be got from him after his capture, for no kind of promise could possibly be held out to him of mercy in this world. If once taken, his trial and execution for the murder of Vaughan must ensue. And then too,” added Sir Francis, in a low tone to himself, “Ada would be dragged from her present retirement forward as a witness against him, and so seal his lips for ever against any disclosure for her benefit.”A knock at the door announced some one near, and when Sir Francis cried “Come in”—one of his officers appeared, saying—“that a man of the name of Bruggles wished to see him, on very particular business.”“Bruggles, I don’t know him.”“Your worship,” said the spy upon Gray, “it is the troublesome-shoemaker.”“Oh, admit him.”The amateur constable was ushered into the presence of Sir Francis, who said,—“Well, sir, your business?”“My business is private, confidential, and most important.”“Will it take long in the telling?”“Why, no, not very long.”“Then leave us,” said Sir Francis to his officer, “and mind that I have regular reports about the man. Of course your former instructions hold good. On any attempt to leave by boat or vessel, an immediate arrestment takes place.”The spy bowed and retired.“Now, sir, if you please,” said Sir Francis to the shoemaker, “my time is precious; pray tell me in as few words as you can what you want.”The manner of the magistrate rather damped the ardour of the shoemaker, and he replied—“Your worship, I thought it but right to call upon you to say that I have seen—”Here he looked about him mysteriously, to assure himself that they were alone.“What have you seen, sir?” cried the other.“The murderer of Mr. Vaughan.”The shoemaker, as he said this, leaned forward in a confident manner, and then threw his head back with a jerk, to see what effect it had upon the magistrate, who, to his surprise, merely said, “Have you?” and did not seem at all put out of the way by such an astounding piece of information.“I—I have spoken to him, sir—your worship, I mean.”“Then, why didn’t you say so at once? You have got him outside, I suppose?”“Got him outside, your worship?”“Of course.”“Why—why—I—haven’t exactly got him at all.”“What!—Saw him, and spoke to him, and not got him?”“Why—why—your worship he looks a powerful villain.”“Sir, I’m afraid you are a great coward,” said Sir Francis. “What do you mean by coming to me, and saying you have seen and spoken to a criminal? I don’t know but it’s my duty to commit you for aiding, abetting, and comforting a man accused of one of the most heinous crimes in the calendar.”“Commit me?”“Yes—you.”“I come here to—to—ask your worship to—to—let me have an officer to go with me to try to find him.”“Sir, my officers will find him themselves, only some caution is requisite, as he belongs to a gang who have bound themselves by a solemn oath to barbarously murder any person who may be at all instrumental in the capture of any of their body.”“Eh? You—you—really—then I should have been murdered?”“I dare say you would, but I hope when you see him again that you will take him; and when you are dead, the reward shall be paid to any one you may appoint in your will, which I think you had better make here at once in my office in case of accidents. Two of my officers shall witness it.”“No—no—I—I—God bless me. What danger I have been in, to be sure. Gracious! If I see him again, I shall knock at some door and ask to be let in till he is gone. I—I—I’ll run into a shop—I’ll leave London till some one else has taken him.”“What!” cried Sir Francis, hardly able to control his laughter. “Do you shrink?”“Shrink! I should think I do. I’m all over in a cold perspiration, I am.”“Then you’ll never do for an officer, sir. I’d advise you to stick by your last, and not interfere with other people’s affairs. Leave thief-takers to catch thieves. You’ll get all the danger, my friend, and none of the profit, in travelling from that you know to that you know nothing about.”“I will—bless me! Make my will indeed! The very idea is dreadful, I—I wish you an uncommon good morning.”“Good morning, Mr.—a—”“Bruggles, your worship.”“Bruggles—good morning.”Sir Francis Hartleton enjoyed a hearty laugh at the shoemaker’s expense after he had left, and was shortly afterwards fully immersed in the active duties of his office.
Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable.
Sir Francis Hartletonpaused a moment in doubt whether he should speak to the gloomy squire, whom he so much suspected of many crimes, or pass on his way without meeting him. Before, however, he could decide upon any course of action, Learmont settled the question by walking up to Hartleton, and saying,—
“Good morning, Sir Magistrate—you are early afoot.”
“I own Sir Squire,” said Hartleton, rather amazed at the confident tone and manner of Learmont, “my duties take up as much of my time as other people’s crimes do theirs.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Learmont; “Yours is an onerous position. ’Tis well criminality is not contagious, for otherwise, coming in contact with so many troublesome thieves, and disagreeable characters, London would lose her fine-spirited, upright, and noble magistrate.”
“You are right,” said Hartleton, determined not to take offence, “I can even speak to worse than thieves, and yet, thank Heaven, escape contamination from them.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s words were barbed, but Learmont was quite as resolved as his opponent not to understand any insinuations, and he merely replied,—
“You are a judge of human nature, sir.”
“As far as my opportunities go, I am,” replied Sir Francis.
“I trust,” added Learmont, “that, notwithstanding I am but a poor squire, you will do me the honour of visiting me in my London abode.”
“That I am willing to do,” said Hartleton, “forgetting all disagreements, Squire Learmont of course.”
“Disagreements, sir,—I really am not aware of any. You were at one time, if I remember rightly, subject to bad dreams, from which I hope you have now quite recovered—I should think it a most grievous and affecting malady.”
Sir Francis felt that Learmont had rather the better of him in the dialogue, and with a smile he bowed and passed on.
The squire looked after him with a smile of bitterness mingled with contempt.
“You have entered, most-sapient magistrate,” he said, “into a war with me. You shall abide the issue, and pay the penalty of defeat—I swear by all the powers of heaven and hell, that you shall have my life, or I will have yours. He who thrusts his hand into a fire, cannot be expected to withdraw them unburnt. Beware, Sir Magistrate,—I will have vengeance upon you when I am safe in some important matters—but first as to Jacob Gray—ay, there is the great—difficulty—Jacob Grey.”
He sauntered among the then ancient trees that adorned the park, and continued muttering to himself for more than an hour before he came to any firm resolve, and then he suddenly quickened his pace, and proceeded homewards.
When Sir Francis Hartleton reached his office, his first act was to summon the man named Stephy, and to tell him to prepare to accompany him, at a short notice, some distance in the country, for he resolved to take him with him to Learmont village, whether or not he should upon mature consideration think it desirable that Ada should accompany him there.
This matter being settled, he received a report from a man whom he had set to watch the house of Learmont, who deposed to the effect that a man who he was sure was Jacob Gray, by the description given of him by the magistrate, had visited the squire. He then detailed the whole of Gray’s proceeding during the night, concluding by saying, that when his watch was relieved, Gray had been left at the Old Chequers, and that his further progress would be reported by the man who had taken his place.
“That will do,” said Hartleton; “he must not be lost sight of for a moment, unless fairly housed, and then the house must be carefully watched, and above all things, do not let him suspect he is in any danger.”
“The greatest trouble, sir, during the night,” said the spy, “has arisen from a shoemaker in Westminster, who is smitten with the notion of his cleverness in apprehending criminals. He has been following Gray about, and but for his cowardice would have apprehended him.”
“And so spoil all,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “It is of the greatest importance that this Gray should remain at large for some time. He is in possession of information which, I fear, would never be got from him after his capture, for no kind of promise could possibly be held out to him of mercy in this world. If once taken, his trial and execution for the murder of Vaughan must ensue. And then too,” added Sir Francis, in a low tone to himself, “Ada would be dragged from her present retirement forward as a witness against him, and so seal his lips for ever against any disclosure for her benefit.”
A knock at the door announced some one near, and when Sir Francis cried “Come in”—one of his officers appeared, saying—“that a man of the name of Bruggles wished to see him, on very particular business.”
“Bruggles, I don’t know him.”
“Your worship,” said the spy upon Gray, “it is the troublesome-shoemaker.”
“Oh, admit him.”
The amateur constable was ushered into the presence of Sir Francis, who said,—
“Well, sir, your business?”
“My business is private, confidential, and most important.”
“Will it take long in the telling?”
“Why, no, not very long.”
“Then leave us,” said Sir Francis to his officer, “and mind that I have regular reports about the man. Of course your former instructions hold good. On any attempt to leave by boat or vessel, an immediate arrestment takes place.”
The spy bowed and retired.
“Now, sir, if you please,” said Sir Francis to the shoemaker, “my time is precious; pray tell me in as few words as you can what you want.”
The manner of the magistrate rather damped the ardour of the shoemaker, and he replied—
“Your worship, I thought it but right to call upon you to say that I have seen—”
Here he looked about him mysteriously, to assure himself that they were alone.
“What have you seen, sir?” cried the other.
“The murderer of Mr. Vaughan.”
The shoemaker, as he said this, leaned forward in a confident manner, and then threw his head back with a jerk, to see what effect it had upon the magistrate, who, to his surprise, merely said, “Have you?” and did not seem at all put out of the way by such an astounding piece of information.
“I—I have spoken to him, sir—your worship, I mean.”
“Then, why didn’t you say so at once? You have got him outside, I suppose?”
“Got him outside, your worship?”
“Of course.”
“Why—why—I—haven’t exactly got him at all.”
“What!—Saw him, and spoke to him, and not got him?”
“Why—why—your worship he looks a powerful villain.”
“Sir, I’m afraid you are a great coward,” said Sir Francis. “What do you mean by coming to me, and saying you have seen and spoken to a criminal? I don’t know but it’s my duty to commit you for aiding, abetting, and comforting a man accused of one of the most heinous crimes in the calendar.”
“Commit me?”
“Yes—you.”
“I come here to—to—ask your worship to—to—let me have an officer to go with me to try to find him.”
“Sir, my officers will find him themselves, only some caution is requisite, as he belongs to a gang who have bound themselves by a solemn oath to barbarously murder any person who may be at all instrumental in the capture of any of their body.”
“Eh? You—you—really—then I should have been murdered?”
“I dare say you would, but I hope when you see him again that you will take him; and when you are dead, the reward shall be paid to any one you may appoint in your will, which I think you had better make here at once in my office in case of accidents. Two of my officers shall witness it.”
“No—no—I—I—God bless me. What danger I have been in, to be sure. Gracious! If I see him again, I shall knock at some door and ask to be let in till he is gone. I—I—I’ll run into a shop—I’ll leave London till some one else has taken him.”
“What!” cried Sir Francis, hardly able to control his laughter. “Do you shrink?”
“Shrink! I should think I do. I’m all over in a cold perspiration, I am.”
“Then you’ll never do for an officer, sir. I’d advise you to stick by your last, and not interfere with other people’s affairs. Leave thief-takers to catch thieves. You’ll get all the danger, my friend, and none of the profit, in travelling from that you know to that you know nothing about.”
“I will—bless me! Make my will indeed! The very idea is dreadful, I—I wish you an uncommon good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr.—a—”
“Bruggles, your worship.”
“Bruggles—good morning.”
Sir Francis Hartleton enjoyed a hearty laugh at the shoemaker’s expense after he had left, and was shortly afterwards fully immersed in the active duties of his office.