CHAPTER LXXXIII.Gray’s Peril.—A Peep into Domestic Affairs.—The Corpulent Lady.—The Man who Was Hung on Monday.Jacob Graywas so horrified at the awful sight that met his eyes, upon opening the cupboard in the old attic, that for some moments he could neither think, move, nor speak; and it was only the strong present dread of some one coming upon him suddenly from the lower part of the house and taking his life, upon finding he was aware of the murdered man being in the cupboard, that aroused him from the absolute lethargy of fear he was rapidly falling into.The body lay on its face at his feet, and it appeared to have been propped up in the cupboard, merely by the shutting of the door quickly, so that it had fallen out the moment Gray had, by opening the door, removed the support.He felt that there was no chance for him but putting the loathsome object back again into its receptacle, and our readers may imagine what a terrible job it was to such a man as Jacob Gray to raise that hideous mass of death, and replace it in the cupboard. He stooped and laid his trembling hands upon the neck. He dragged it up—the head hung about in that strange loose manner which indicates a certain stage in the progress of decomposition.Gray shuddered, and bungled much over what he had to do, because his object was to get the dead body into the cupboard without looking at the face; and he, therefore, sedulously turned his head away.The weight was very great, and after many fruitless efforts, Gray found it impossible to get the body fixed for one instant, so as to allow him to close the door. Once he caught one of the ghastly bands between the door and the side-post. Then, by not being quick enough, the body leaned forward, and he caught the hideous distorted face in the same way.A cry of horror burst from his lips, as his eyes inadvertently fell upon the horrible visage, and now that he had once looked he could not turn his eyes away, had he been offered a world for the effort.“Horrible! Horrible!” he moaned, and then letting go the door, the body fell as at first, with a heavy lump upon its face, at his feet.“I shall be murdered here,” thought Gray, “and must leave at all hazards. I—I had better risk being again seen, and hooted by the mob, than remain here to certain death.”He approached the window as he spoke; but to his horror, he found by the shout that at once greeted him, that his tormentors were still there.“What can save me now?” he groaned, “I am lost—lost.”He sunk upon the miserable chair that was in the room, and groaned aloud in the bitterness of his despair.Then he began to wonder that no one came to the attic, and from that he thought it just possible there might be nobody in the house, and that his own fears had converted some casual noise into the sounds of footsteps on the stairs.There was hope in this conjecture, and he crept cautiously to the door, and standing at the stair-head, he listened attentively, but could hear no noise.“I wonder,” he muttered to himself, “if I could venture down stairs. There might be no one between me and the street-door, and possibly I might not be recognised by the gaping crowd outside, and so escape my present most dangerous situation.”It was some minutes more before he could make up his mind to venture down the stairs; and when, at length, he did, he went step by step with such extreme slowness and caution, that it was a long time before he reached the bottom of the first flight. The least creaking sent the blood to his heart with a frightful gush, and by the time he had reached the floor below the attic, he was in a state of terror and nervousness that would have alarmed any one to behold.He sat down upon the bottom stair, and as far as he was able to command them, he bent all his faculties to discover if there was any one in the rooms opening from the landing.One door was ajar, and he now felt satisfied there was no one there, but another door was close shut, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could command his nerves to crawl past it. His foot now was upon the first stair from the top of the next flight of stairs, when he nearly fell headlong from top to bottom, as he heard a man’s voice below say,—“Thomas—I shall want you in your attic, presently.”Then a step sounded up the stairs, and Jacob Gray had just time to crawl backwards into the room with the door ajar, before he must have been seen.But he thought whoever is coming here, may enter this room, and he glanced hastily around him for some place to hide in.A large handsome bed was in the room with the curtains drawn, and Jacob Gray advancing cautiously, peered in between them, when to his horror and consternation, he found the bed occupied.An elderly female, with a red termagant face, who by the mountain she made of the bed clothes, must have been of most ample proportions, lay sleeping in the bed.The slight noise he made, appeared to have disturbed the lady, for a long-drawn snore proclaimed that her easy slumbers were about being disturbed.Gray heard two or three hard blows given to the bed, and then the lady muttered,—“Take that, you wretch—you’ll disturb me, will you, again,” and then evidently fancying she had silenced her supposed bed-fellow, the corpulent lady, with a singular imitation of a bassoon by means of her olfactory organ, she again resigned herself to sleep.The same man’s name that Gray had heard already, now said at the door,—“You’re asleep yet, are you! Oh, you are a beauty—well, there is some peace in the house early in the morning, for all who like to get up, and enjoy—because you are too lazy to be among us so early, if ever a man was cursed—ah, well, it’s no use complaining.”“Oh, you disagreeable beast!” shrieked the lady, who had only been in what is termed a dog-sleep, and had heard the remarks of the man at the door.“You wretch—you varmint. So that’s the way you goes on, is it? You ugly lump of wretchedness?”“What do you say, my dear?” remarked the man in so altered and humble a voice that Jacob Gray could scarcely believe it came from the same individual.“What did I say, you unnatural villain—I say I heard you talking about peace in the house.”“Really my love, I—”“Don’t try to escape out of it, you wretched little villain—wait till I get up, that’s all.”With a sigh the unhappy husband, for nobody but a husband ever puts up with a woman’s tongue, and by some strange fatality, he who is the only person having a legal right to control it’s wagging, never, or very rarely, does so—turned away.“Who’s down stairs?” cried the lady, peremptorily.“Only Thomas, my dear.”“Isn’t that lazy slut, Deborah, up yet?”“Oh dear yes, my love.”“Oh dear yes, indeed,” answered the lady; “I’ll box your ears and hers too when I get up. You’ve been winking at her again—I’ll be bound you have.”“Really, my love—”“Go away, sir, and don’t aggravate me. It would make folk’s hair stand on end to know what I suffer—it would.”The lady now turned round on the bed with such a bounce that Jacob Gray thought for a moment it must eventually come down on the top of him.“What shall I do now?” thought Gray; “this is a strange house. They do not seem at all the kind of persons I suspected. How could that dead body have come into the cupboard in the attic? Perhaps they don’t know it’s there at all, and if I should be seen, it will in some way be laid to my charge.”He now remained for some moments in painful thought. Then he came at length to a conclusion that he must venture down stairs before the lady got up, as his only chance of getting out of the house.“Only Thomas down stairs,” he repeated to himself, “and a servant girl I presume? I must make the attempt as circumstances direct me—at the back or the front of the house, I may be able to leave it.”He made now a very slight movement in an endeavour to crawl from under the bed, and make towards the door, but the corpulent virago heard him, and cried,—“I thought I heard somebody a moving. I shall get up and ring for Deborah. Lor a mighty—I’m all of a tremble.”“If I let her get up and have assistance here, I am lost,” said Gray.It took him a moment or two more to screw up his courage, and then he suddenly rose up at the side of the bed, and said,—“If you stir or speak for the next half hour, I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”The corpulent lady gave a loud scream, and Jacob Gray sneaked under the bed again.“Beware,” he said, “beware!”“Oh! Mr. Murderer, spare my life,” she gasped.“What’s the matter?” said the husband, who had come scuffling down stairs, upon hearing the scream.“Beware!” whispered Gray.“N—n—,” gasped the corpulent lady, with the fear of having her throat cut, “nothing—only a—a dream.”
Gray’s Peril.—A Peep into Domestic Affairs.—The Corpulent Lady.—The Man who Was Hung on Monday.
Jacob Graywas so horrified at the awful sight that met his eyes, upon opening the cupboard in the old attic, that for some moments he could neither think, move, nor speak; and it was only the strong present dread of some one coming upon him suddenly from the lower part of the house and taking his life, upon finding he was aware of the murdered man being in the cupboard, that aroused him from the absolute lethargy of fear he was rapidly falling into.
The body lay on its face at his feet, and it appeared to have been propped up in the cupboard, merely by the shutting of the door quickly, so that it had fallen out the moment Gray had, by opening the door, removed the support.
He felt that there was no chance for him but putting the loathsome object back again into its receptacle, and our readers may imagine what a terrible job it was to such a man as Jacob Gray to raise that hideous mass of death, and replace it in the cupboard. He stooped and laid his trembling hands upon the neck. He dragged it up—the head hung about in that strange loose manner which indicates a certain stage in the progress of decomposition.
Gray shuddered, and bungled much over what he had to do, because his object was to get the dead body into the cupboard without looking at the face; and he, therefore, sedulously turned his head away.
The weight was very great, and after many fruitless efforts, Gray found it impossible to get the body fixed for one instant, so as to allow him to close the door. Once he caught one of the ghastly bands between the door and the side-post. Then, by not being quick enough, the body leaned forward, and he caught the hideous distorted face in the same way.
A cry of horror burst from his lips, as his eyes inadvertently fell upon the horrible visage, and now that he had once looked he could not turn his eyes away, had he been offered a world for the effort.
“Horrible! Horrible!” he moaned, and then letting go the door, the body fell as at first, with a heavy lump upon its face, at his feet.
“I shall be murdered here,” thought Gray, “and must leave at all hazards. I—I had better risk being again seen, and hooted by the mob, than remain here to certain death.”
He approached the window as he spoke; but to his horror, he found by the shout that at once greeted him, that his tormentors were still there.
“What can save me now?” he groaned, “I am lost—lost.”
He sunk upon the miserable chair that was in the room, and groaned aloud in the bitterness of his despair.
Then he began to wonder that no one came to the attic, and from that he thought it just possible there might be nobody in the house, and that his own fears had converted some casual noise into the sounds of footsteps on the stairs.
There was hope in this conjecture, and he crept cautiously to the door, and standing at the stair-head, he listened attentively, but could hear no noise.
“I wonder,” he muttered to himself, “if I could venture down stairs. There might be no one between me and the street-door, and possibly I might not be recognised by the gaping crowd outside, and so escape my present most dangerous situation.”
It was some minutes more before he could make up his mind to venture down the stairs; and when, at length, he did, he went step by step with such extreme slowness and caution, that it was a long time before he reached the bottom of the first flight. The least creaking sent the blood to his heart with a frightful gush, and by the time he had reached the floor below the attic, he was in a state of terror and nervousness that would have alarmed any one to behold.
He sat down upon the bottom stair, and as far as he was able to command them, he bent all his faculties to discover if there was any one in the rooms opening from the landing.
One door was ajar, and he now felt satisfied there was no one there, but another door was close shut, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could command his nerves to crawl past it. His foot now was upon the first stair from the top of the next flight of stairs, when he nearly fell headlong from top to bottom, as he heard a man’s voice below say,—
“Thomas—I shall want you in your attic, presently.”
Then a step sounded up the stairs, and Jacob Gray had just time to crawl backwards into the room with the door ajar, before he must have been seen.
But he thought whoever is coming here, may enter this room, and he glanced hastily around him for some place to hide in.
A large handsome bed was in the room with the curtains drawn, and Jacob Gray advancing cautiously, peered in between them, when to his horror and consternation, he found the bed occupied.
An elderly female, with a red termagant face, who by the mountain she made of the bed clothes, must have been of most ample proportions, lay sleeping in the bed.
The slight noise he made, appeared to have disturbed the lady, for a long-drawn snore proclaimed that her easy slumbers were about being disturbed.
Gray heard two or three hard blows given to the bed, and then the lady muttered,—
“Take that, you wretch—you’ll disturb me, will you, again,” and then evidently fancying she had silenced her supposed bed-fellow, the corpulent lady, with a singular imitation of a bassoon by means of her olfactory organ, she again resigned herself to sleep.
The same man’s name that Gray had heard already, now said at the door,—
“You’re asleep yet, are you! Oh, you are a beauty—well, there is some peace in the house early in the morning, for all who like to get up, and enjoy—because you are too lazy to be among us so early, if ever a man was cursed—ah, well, it’s no use complaining.”
“Oh, you disagreeable beast!” shrieked the lady, who had only been in what is termed a dog-sleep, and had heard the remarks of the man at the door.
“You wretch—you varmint. So that’s the way you goes on, is it? You ugly lump of wretchedness?”
“What do you say, my dear?” remarked the man in so altered and humble a voice that Jacob Gray could scarcely believe it came from the same individual.
“What did I say, you unnatural villain—I say I heard you talking about peace in the house.”
“Really my love, I—”
“Don’t try to escape out of it, you wretched little villain—wait till I get up, that’s all.”
With a sigh the unhappy husband, for nobody but a husband ever puts up with a woman’s tongue, and by some strange fatality, he who is the only person having a legal right to control it’s wagging, never, or very rarely, does so—turned away.
“Who’s down stairs?” cried the lady, peremptorily.
“Only Thomas, my dear.”
“Isn’t that lazy slut, Deborah, up yet?”
“Oh dear yes, my love.”
“Oh dear yes, indeed,” answered the lady; “I’ll box your ears and hers too when I get up. You’ve been winking at her again—I’ll be bound you have.”
“Really, my love—”
“Go away, sir, and don’t aggravate me. It would make folk’s hair stand on end to know what I suffer—it would.”
The lady now turned round on the bed with such a bounce that Jacob Gray thought for a moment it must eventually come down on the top of him.
“What shall I do now?” thought Gray; “this is a strange house. They do not seem at all the kind of persons I suspected. How could that dead body have come into the cupboard in the attic? Perhaps they don’t know it’s there at all, and if I should be seen, it will in some way be laid to my charge.”
He now remained for some moments in painful thought. Then he came at length to a conclusion that he must venture down stairs before the lady got up, as his only chance of getting out of the house.
“Only Thomas down stairs,” he repeated to himself, “and a servant girl I presume? I must make the attempt as circumstances direct me—at the back or the front of the house, I may be able to leave it.”
He made now a very slight movement in an endeavour to crawl from under the bed, and make towards the door, but the corpulent virago heard him, and cried,—
“I thought I heard somebody a moving. I shall get up and ring for Deborah. Lor a mighty—I’m all of a tremble.”
“If I let her get up and have assistance here, I am lost,” said Gray.
It took him a moment or two more to screw up his courage, and then he suddenly rose up at the side of the bed, and said,—
“If you stir or speak for the next half hour, I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”
The corpulent lady gave a loud scream, and Jacob Gray sneaked under the bed again.
“Beware,” he said, “beware!”
“Oh! Mr. Murderer, spare my life,” she gasped.
“What’s the matter?” said the husband, who had come scuffling down stairs, upon hearing the scream.
“Beware!” whispered Gray.
“N—n—,” gasped the corpulent lady, with the fear of having her throat cut, “nothing—only a—a dream.”
CHAPTER LXXXIV.The Mystery Explained.—The Escape.—Jacob Gray’s New Lodging.Jacob Graywas almost distilled with fear as this little dialogue proceeded, and it seemed as if a mountain was taken off his breast when he heard the husband go away, muttering something that was not intended to meet his lady’s ear.The corpulent lady then commenced a series of groans, which, however, Jacob Gray soon put an end to, by appearing at the bedside, and saying,—“If you don’t be quiet this moment, it shall be your last.”“W—w—what do you want?” stammered the corpulent female.“No matter,” said Gray; “tell me what dead body that is you have in the attic?”“Job Magnus,” said the lady, shaking the bed with trembling.“Who?”“Job Magnus—he—he was bought.”“Bought, woman!”“Yes—he—he was hanged last Monday, and my—my wretch of a husband bought him.”“What is your husband?”“A doctor.”The truth in a moment now flashed across Gray’s mind, and he cursed himself bitterly for allowing his fears to cause him so much uneasiness and terror as they had done. He, then, on the instant, thought of a scheme to escape from the surgeon’s house without molestation, and turning to the lady, he said in a solemn voice,—“Do you know me?”“No—no.”“I have just come down stairs out of the cupboard. I am Job Magnus.”“Mercy upon us!” cried the lady—“Oh! Have mercy upon us—our Father which art in heaven.”“Hush!” cried Gray, “don’t be mumbling there, but listen to me. If you so much as speak one word, or stir from whence you are for the next hour and a half, I’ll come down the chimney and strangle you.”“Please, Mr. Ghost, spare my sinful life, and I won’t move. I’ll confess all—Thomas ain’t that wretched husband’s of mine—he’s—he’s—I’m quite sure—”“Bush,” said Gray, with a menacing gesture, “do you imagine I want to hear what, as a spirit, I know already?”The corpulent lady groaned as she said,—“Then you know all about the barber?”Gray deliberately turned up the cuffs of his coat, and said calmly,—“I am going to strangle you, if you open your lips again.”The corpulent lady held up her hands in mute supplication, and after a glance at her, and a contortion of his visage that nearly froze her blood. Jacob Gray crept from the room, and commenced descending the staircase.He had not got half way down, when he heard some one coming up. He paused in very great trepidation and laid hold of the banisters to await the comer. His only chance now lay on his own firmness, and that was nearly deserting him.It was a young lad of about seventeen or eighteen, who was coming up stairs, and when he saw Gray, he waited a step in surprise.“Thomas,” said Gray, “I am Job Magnus—will you—”Thomas did not stay to hear the remainder of what the apparition of the hanged man, as he fully believed Gray to be, had to say, but turned round, and made but one jump down the stairs again, never stopped till he was in the kitchen, where he upset Deborah and a tray with the breakfast things, just as she was emerging from the culinary department.“So far successful,” muttered Gray, as he descended the remainder of the stairs, and then passed through the door which opened into a little parlour.Hanging on a peg behind a door was a handsome cloak, and on another a hat, both of which Gray made no hesitation in borrowing for the occasion. Hastily attiring himself thus, he opened a small glass door, and passed into the shop.There was a little girl in the shop, knocking perseveringly on the counter with the edge of a penny piece, and the moment Gray made his appearance she commenced,—“Oh, please sir, my mother says do—”“Silence!” cried Gray—and he passed out into the street, leaving the little girl with a full impression that the doctor had gone mad.Jacob Gray’s first glance was towards his persecutors, and he saw that the patience of all of them had been nearly tired out, with the exception of the baker’s boy, who sat upon the edge of his basket and told the story of a man being on the roofs of the houses to all comers.“You wretch,” muttered Gray, “I should like to brain you.”“Hilloa—here comes the doctor,” cried the boy, “why, you’ve got up wrong end first, old cove.”“Take that,” said Gray, as he dealt the boy a box on the face that sent him sprawling backwards into his own basket, to the immense amusement of all the other boys there collected, who, not to be behindhand in asserting their right to the name of human beings, immediately made at the fallen hero, and commenced hauling and pummelling him to their heart’s content.With a hasty step Gray left the scene of action, and struck at once into a long narrow lane which led him among the by-streets at the back of the Strand.His first object now was to get a breakfast, and observing a little dirty shop where every imaginable abomination in the eating line was sold, he plunged into its dark recesses, and asked of a woman, whose very appearance was enough to turn any one’s stomach, if he could have some breakfast.“That depends on what you want,” said the woman.“Some meat,” said Gray; “I will pay you liberally if you will purchase for me some meat, and let me eat it here.”The words “pay liberally” acted like magic on the woman, for she immediately unrolled her sleeves which were tucked up to the elbow, and at once, by that process covering up all the dirt on her arms she said,—“Oh dear yes, certainly—his honour could have whatever he liked; should she take his honour’s hat and cloak? Would his honour walk up stairs?”“Yes—up stairs,” said Gray, conceiving himself much more safe from casual observation there than below.The woman escorted him to a dismal-looking room on the first floor, and promising to be quick in procuring what he required, she left him to his meditations.“This seems a likely place in which to conceal myself,” thought Gray, “until I have rung from the fears of Learmont a sufficient sum to enable me to put my now firm design into execution of leaving England, I will ask this woman if she has a room she can spare me for a permanency—no one would think of looking for me here; and in the darkness of the evenings I can glide out to visit Learmont, and for exercise.”When the woman returned and laid before Jacob Gray some really good and tempting meat, tolerably cooked, and had received his orders to get him a bottle of wine, he turned his small, cunning eyes upon her, and said,—“I have but newly come from abroad, and am in London concerning some property that is left me: while I remain, can you accommodate me here?”“Oh, certainly,” said the woman; “your honour can have any room in the house.”“I should prefer the quietest,” said Gray. “An attic will suit me as well as any.”“Well, your honour,” said the woman, “if you don’t mind an attic, we do certainly have the best attic, though I say it, in London. Why, ’atween two ‘chimbleys,’ when there ain’t a fog, and the brewhouse isn’t at work, you may see a little bit of the river from our attic.”“It will suit me very well, I dare say,” said Gray; “when I have finished my meal, I will look at it.”He was not long in consuming the meat and bread, and after a glass or two of the wine he felt wonderfully refreshed, and his old quiet smile of cunning and ferocity began to linger on his face as he muttered,—“Well, if the squire consents to my terms, and advances me a large sum of money at once, I will leave directly; and if he will not, I must increase my demands upon him as far as I can, without awakening his suspicions, and then leave him and Britton to destruction; it will go hard but I will find a means of revenge against her, who has caused me such unexampled misery and distress. Ada, beware! Yet you are not safe from Jacob Gray. He is a miner, who works in silence and secret, until some day you find what you verily considered the solid foundation on which you were treading immutable, you will find it crumbling beneath your feet. I have a plan—yes, I have a plan to wrest from you, Ada, all that would have been yours had you waited my time.”Full of these thoughts, Jacob Gray summoned the woman, and desired to be shown the chamber she had mentioned. It was a remarkable low-roofed attic, but it suited Gray well, for no one, he thought, would suspect him of living in, to him, so dangerous a neighbourhood as the Strand, where every inhabitant was full of gossip about the murder of Vaughan.“This will do,” he said. “What is the price?”Two shillings a week were named, to which Gray assented, and paying some few weeks in advance, he said,—“When ever I go out I take the key of this room with me, and whatever requires to be done to it, must be done when I am at home, I make my own bed.”“Very well, just as you like.”“And mark my words, if any one should come here and ask you if you have a lodger of any description, unless you unhesitatingly answer no, I leave directly.”“Lor, sir,—suppose some friend of your honour’s was to call.”“I—have no friends.”“Indeed, your honour.”“No—nor ever had any—nor ever shall—I am peculiarly situated. There are people in this city who would murder me to keep me out of my just property.”“Is there indeed, sir? Oh, the wretches.”“Yes, and the reason I come to live here is by the advice of my lawyers, in order that I should not be found by those who would take my life if they could.”“Lord, what wickedness there is in the world,” said the woman.“There is indeed,” said Gray, gravely. “When I come to my property, depend upon a very handsome present from me if you obey my injunctions.”The woman curtseyed to the very ground, and Gray then signified to her that she might retire and leave him.Jacob Gray little imagined how actively Sir Francis Hartleton was watching him, and at that very moment that he was conversing with the woman about the necessity of denying him to every one, a man was in the doorway opposite taking the most accurate notice of the house, and revolving in his mind some means of discovering whether Jacob Gray intended remaining there or not.The fact was, he had never been lost sight of by one or other of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men, and although they had been momentarily at fault when he got in at the doctor’s attic window, one of them had remained on the spot while another went into a neighbouring house, the owner of which he knew, and clambering out on the roof felt satisfied that Gray was housed somewhere.He was instantly recognised, notwithstanding the hat and cloak, by the lynx-eyed officers, and quietly dogged to his new lodgings by one of them, while another went across the park to the magistrate to report proceedings, and take further orders.
The Mystery Explained.—The Escape.—Jacob Gray’s New Lodging.
Jacob Graywas almost distilled with fear as this little dialogue proceeded, and it seemed as if a mountain was taken off his breast when he heard the husband go away, muttering something that was not intended to meet his lady’s ear.
The corpulent lady then commenced a series of groans, which, however, Jacob Gray soon put an end to, by appearing at the bedside, and saying,—
“If you don’t be quiet this moment, it shall be your last.”
“W—w—what do you want?” stammered the corpulent female.
“No matter,” said Gray; “tell me what dead body that is you have in the attic?”
“Job Magnus,” said the lady, shaking the bed with trembling.
“Who?”
“Job Magnus—he—he was bought.”
“Bought, woman!”
“Yes—he—he was hanged last Monday, and my—my wretch of a husband bought him.”
“What is your husband?”
“A doctor.”
The truth in a moment now flashed across Gray’s mind, and he cursed himself bitterly for allowing his fears to cause him so much uneasiness and terror as they had done. He, then, on the instant, thought of a scheme to escape from the surgeon’s house without molestation, and turning to the lady, he said in a solemn voice,—
“Do you know me?”
“No—no.”
“I have just come down stairs out of the cupboard. I am Job Magnus.”
“Mercy upon us!” cried the lady—“Oh! Have mercy upon us—our Father which art in heaven.”
“Hush!” cried Gray, “don’t be mumbling there, but listen to me. If you so much as speak one word, or stir from whence you are for the next hour and a half, I’ll come down the chimney and strangle you.”
“Please, Mr. Ghost, spare my sinful life, and I won’t move. I’ll confess all—Thomas ain’t that wretched husband’s of mine—he’s—he’s—I’m quite sure—”
“Bush,” said Gray, with a menacing gesture, “do you imagine I want to hear what, as a spirit, I know already?”
The corpulent lady groaned as she said,—
“Then you know all about the barber?”
Gray deliberately turned up the cuffs of his coat, and said calmly,—
“I am going to strangle you, if you open your lips again.”
The corpulent lady held up her hands in mute supplication, and after a glance at her, and a contortion of his visage that nearly froze her blood. Jacob Gray crept from the room, and commenced descending the staircase.
He had not got half way down, when he heard some one coming up. He paused in very great trepidation and laid hold of the banisters to await the comer. His only chance now lay on his own firmness, and that was nearly deserting him.
It was a young lad of about seventeen or eighteen, who was coming up stairs, and when he saw Gray, he waited a step in surprise.
“Thomas,” said Gray, “I am Job Magnus—will you—”
Thomas did not stay to hear the remainder of what the apparition of the hanged man, as he fully believed Gray to be, had to say, but turned round, and made but one jump down the stairs again, never stopped till he was in the kitchen, where he upset Deborah and a tray with the breakfast things, just as she was emerging from the culinary department.
“So far successful,” muttered Gray, as he descended the remainder of the stairs, and then passed through the door which opened into a little parlour.
Hanging on a peg behind a door was a handsome cloak, and on another a hat, both of which Gray made no hesitation in borrowing for the occasion. Hastily attiring himself thus, he opened a small glass door, and passed into the shop.
There was a little girl in the shop, knocking perseveringly on the counter with the edge of a penny piece, and the moment Gray made his appearance she commenced,—
“Oh, please sir, my mother says do—”
“Silence!” cried Gray—and he passed out into the street, leaving the little girl with a full impression that the doctor had gone mad.
Jacob Gray’s first glance was towards his persecutors, and he saw that the patience of all of them had been nearly tired out, with the exception of the baker’s boy, who sat upon the edge of his basket and told the story of a man being on the roofs of the houses to all comers.
“You wretch,” muttered Gray, “I should like to brain you.”
“Hilloa—here comes the doctor,” cried the boy, “why, you’ve got up wrong end first, old cove.”
“Take that,” said Gray, as he dealt the boy a box on the face that sent him sprawling backwards into his own basket, to the immense amusement of all the other boys there collected, who, not to be behindhand in asserting their right to the name of human beings, immediately made at the fallen hero, and commenced hauling and pummelling him to their heart’s content.
With a hasty step Gray left the scene of action, and struck at once into a long narrow lane which led him among the by-streets at the back of the Strand.
His first object now was to get a breakfast, and observing a little dirty shop where every imaginable abomination in the eating line was sold, he plunged into its dark recesses, and asked of a woman, whose very appearance was enough to turn any one’s stomach, if he could have some breakfast.
“That depends on what you want,” said the woman.
“Some meat,” said Gray; “I will pay you liberally if you will purchase for me some meat, and let me eat it here.”
The words “pay liberally” acted like magic on the woman, for she immediately unrolled her sleeves which were tucked up to the elbow, and at once, by that process covering up all the dirt on her arms she said,—
“Oh dear yes, certainly—his honour could have whatever he liked; should she take his honour’s hat and cloak? Would his honour walk up stairs?”
“Yes—up stairs,” said Gray, conceiving himself much more safe from casual observation there than below.
The woman escorted him to a dismal-looking room on the first floor, and promising to be quick in procuring what he required, she left him to his meditations.
“This seems a likely place in which to conceal myself,” thought Gray, “until I have rung from the fears of Learmont a sufficient sum to enable me to put my now firm design into execution of leaving England, I will ask this woman if she has a room she can spare me for a permanency—no one would think of looking for me here; and in the darkness of the evenings I can glide out to visit Learmont, and for exercise.”
When the woman returned and laid before Jacob Gray some really good and tempting meat, tolerably cooked, and had received his orders to get him a bottle of wine, he turned his small, cunning eyes upon her, and said,—
“I have but newly come from abroad, and am in London concerning some property that is left me: while I remain, can you accommodate me here?”
“Oh, certainly,” said the woman; “your honour can have any room in the house.”
“I should prefer the quietest,” said Gray. “An attic will suit me as well as any.”
“Well, your honour,” said the woman, “if you don’t mind an attic, we do certainly have the best attic, though I say it, in London. Why, ’atween two ‘chimbleys,’ when there ain’t a fog, and the brewhouse isn’t at work, you may see a little bit of the river from our attic.”
“It will suit me very well, I dare say,” said Gray; “when I have finished my meal, I will look at it.”
He was not long in consuming the meat and bread, and after a glass or two of the wine he felt wonderfully refreshed, and his old quiet smile of cunning and ferocity began to linger on his face as he muttered,—
“Well, if the squire consents to my terms, and advances me a large sum of money at once, I will leave directly; and if he will not, I must increase my demands upon him as far as I can, without awakening his suspicions, and then leave him and Britton to destruction; it will go hard but I will find a means of revenge against her, who has caused me such unexampled misery and distress. Ada, beware! Yet you are not safe from Jacob Gray. He is a miner, who works in silence and secret, until some day you find what you verily considered the solid foundation on which you were treading immutable, you will find it crumbling beneath your feet. I have a plan—yes, I have a plan to wrest from you, Ada, all that would have been yours had you waited my time.”
Full of these thoughts, Jacob Gray summoned the woman, and desired to be shown the chamber she had mentioned. It was a remarkable low-roofed attic, but it suited Gray well, for no one, he thought, would suspect him of living in, to him, so dangerous a neighbourhood as the Strand, where every inhabitant was full of gossip about the murder of Vaughan.
“This will do,” he said. “What is the price?”
Two shillings a week were named, to which Gray assented, and paying some few weeks in advance, he said,—
“When ever I go out I take the key of this room with me, and whatever requires to be done to it, must be done when I am at home, I make my own bed.”
“Very well, just as you like.”
“And mark my words, if any one should come here and ask you if you have a lodger of any description, unless you unhesitatingly answer no, I leave directly.”
“Lor, sir,—suppose some friend of your honour’s was to call.”
“I—have no friends.”
“Indeed, your honour.”
“No—nor ever had any—nor ever shall—I am peculiarly situated. There are people in this city who would murder me to keep me out of my just property.”
“Is there indeed, sir? Oh, the wretches.”
“Yes, and the reason I come to live here is by the advice of my lawyers, in order that I should not be found by those who would take my life if they could.”
“Lord, what wickedness there is in the world,” said the woman.
“There is indeed,” said Gray, gravely. “When I come to my property, depend upon a very handsome present from me if you obey my injunctions.”
The woman curtseyed to the very ground, and Gray then signified to her that she might retire and leave him.
Jacob Gray little imagined how actively Sir Francis Hartleton was watching him, and at that very moment that he was conversing with the woman about the necessity of denying him to every one, a man was in the doorway opposite taking the most accurate notice of the house, and revolving in his mind some means of discovering whether Jacob Gray intended remaining there or not.
The fact was, he had never been lost sight of by one or other of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men, and although they had been momentarily at fault when he got in at the doctor’s attic window, one of them had remained on the spot while another went into a neighbouring house, the owner of which he knew, and clambering out on the roof felt satisfied that Gray was housed somewhere.
He was instantly recognised, notwithstanding the hat and cloak, by the lynx-eyed officers, and quietly dogged to his new lodgings by one of them, while another went across the park to the magistrate to report proceedings, and take further orders.
CHAPTER LXXXV.Learmont’s Treachery to Albert Seyton.—The Plot Against Gray.The guiltycareer of Learmont is nearly run, and the fates are hurrying him to that awful precipice down which the souls of the wicked plunge never to return; and yet, how strange it is that in the designs and machinations of men of blood and deep iniquity, their danger is ever the greatest when they are hugging themselves in fancied security.So was it in the strange circumstances of our story—circumstances which, with a labour we should again shrink from, we have collected from ancient resources, and time-worn family documents.Learmont thought himself now in a far better position than he had ever been in, for although the child, whose existence in the hands of Jacob Gray had always been the bane of his existence, was now, he felt sure, in the house of the man whose energy and acuteness he had most to fear; he reasoned himself into a belief that had there been contingent upon such circumstances imminent danger to be apprehended from Sir Francis Hartleton, he would ere this have heard of it, for the magistrate was prompt in action.“I have but now,” he thought, “to destroy Jacob Gray and his confession, whereas, before, by keeping his confession at one place, and the child at another, I dare not attack him with any degree of safety.”Jacob Gray, too, as we have seen, fancied himself over his worst troubles, and hugged himself with the idea that he held as strong a hold as ever upon the fears of Learmont, and had but to exercise common caution to replace himself in as enviable a situation, as regards pecuniary resources, as he had been before.Andrew Britton had plenty to drink, as he, too, felt in his way tolerably happy, only he would have given a great deal, or even consented to go without brandy for a whole day, for the sake of an opportunity of knocking Jacob Gray on the head.Learmont’s only doubt now was whether to set the smith or Albert Seyton upon the footsteps of Jacob Gray, when he should make his next visit; for the same objection, namely, of personal recognition applied to both, only Jacob Gray would not be so apt to suppose Albert Seyton to be set on by Learmont.Upon this argument, he decided upon informing Albert, when he should next see him, that the identity of the man he (Learmont) wished him to watch was Jacob Gray, who held so long in durance the beautiful girl whose image held so constant a place in his heart.By still assuring Albert of the probability of Ada being with Gray, Learmont considered that he should interest him to strain every nerve to discover his residence, and, we shudder as we write it, but the cold-blooded squire determined upon the death of Albert the moment he should cease to be of any service, or become in the least troublesome or suspicious.Engaged in such unholy cogitations as those, the day to Learmont passed more swiftly, and more pleasantly than had done many a preceding one, and when he rose the following morning, he looked more himself than he had done since his first attempt upon the life of Gray, at the ruinous house in South Lambeth—an attempt which had so signally failed, and which, in its result, had suppressed the squire with a sense of the hopelessness of ever getting rid of the running Jacob.Albert Seyton, his mind agitated by a thousand hopes and fears, was punctual in his attendance upon Learmont; and, when he entered the room in which sat the squire, any one might have seen by his countenance that he had passed a sleepless night, and that he was suffering all the tender anxieties of newly awakened hope upon a subject nearest his heart.Learmont motioned him to be seated, and then stealing but a glance at the face of the young man, he said,—“Young sir, I have been thinking over the story you told me yesterday.”“I thank you, sir,” said Albert; “may I venture to hope that mature consideration has not in any way altered the sanguine opinion you were pleased to pronounce yesterday upon the subject.”“It has not.”“Thank Heaven!”“But—”Albert’s colour came and went rapidly at this “but” of Learmont’s, and the squire continued calmly,—“You observed my agitation yesterday.”“I—I did, sir.”“Can you guess its cause—that is, can you guess what brought on the spasm I am subject to?”“I cannot, sir.”“Then I will tell you. When you mentioned the name of Jacob Gray, a strange feeling came over me that I had heard it before, but I was not certain.”“Yes, sir.”“Yes. Since last you and I met, I have taken some pains to ascertain the fact, and I find that a man of that name has applied to me, hearing of my many charities for pecuniary assistance, saying that he had an orphan child to support, and was in great poverty.”“Indeed, sir.”“Such is the fact. His name is Jacob Gray.”“And—and sir—you have really seen him?” stammered Albert.“I have—he came here, and upon the spurious story he told I relieved his necessities; but the next time he came, I refused him, when I understand he cursed me as he went through my hall, and uttered threats against me.”“The villain!”“Yes, young sir, that is the reward generally of benevolence.”“Oh, this is most providential,” said Albert, tears of joy bursting from his eyes—“it is surely Heaven’s own work.”“’Tis rather singular,” remarked Learmont, coldly.“You have then his address, sir—oh! Give it me, and let me fly to rescue—”“Stop—I have not his address.”Albert’s countenance fell.“He left no address here. He would allow no inquiry into his circumstances, which was the reason I refused to continue my bounty towards him.”“Then—then—nothing is gained,” sighed Albert—“I am wretched as before.”“Not so,” said Learmont; “you are like all those who are easily elated—too easily depressed.”“Pardon me, sir, but this is a matter upon which my whole happiness—my whole existence, is, as it were, staked. I do feel, perhaps, too strongly, but such love as mine is scarce, and I cannot—cannot help it, sir—pray forgive me!”“Think not I am angry,” said Learmont, “on the contrary, I have not been so well pleased for many a day: when I said you were too easily elated or depressed, I had a suggestion to offer you.”“How shall I thank you, sir?”“Heed not that. My strong opinion is, that this man Gray will come here again for, after his repulse, he has written me a letter in which he begs for a small sum towards a larger one he is gathering to take him from England; and he says, that if I felt inclined, he could tell me a secret, which he is quite sure would enable me to right the wronged, and punish those who had been guilty.”“He alludes to Ada, sir,” cried Albert, with animation. “He alludes to her of whom I told you, sir. Oh, she is beautiful and good. Sir, a nobler, better heart than hers never beat in woman’s bosom. It is not for her rare and unexampled beauty that I love her, sir. Ah, no; ’tis for her many gracious heavenly qualities—for the fine mind that, like a glistening diamond, does outshine the setting, though of purest gold.”“No doubt he alludes to her,” said Learmont. “As I say, he sent me this letter, it was without date, without address, and stated that its writer, Jacob Gray, would call here for an answer.”Albert’s breath seemed to hang upon the next words of the squire as he asked, “And has he been, sir?”“He has not,” said Learmont.“Ada! Ada!” cried Albert, and then, ashamed of the violence of his feelings, he blushed scarlet, and endeavoured to apologise.“Heed it not—heed it not!” said Learmont. “There can be no doubt but this man will call for an answer to his letter, and your line of proceeding will then be to follow him to his home, taking care, as you say he knows you, to keep out of his sight.”“Oh, yes, sir, I will follow him were he to lead me half over the world. Let me but once set eyes again on Jacob Gray and I will never lose sight of him except I leave him at his own home.”“I hope,” said Learmont, who felt a delight in hurrying Albert’s spirits down from boiling point to Zero, “that my Jacob Gray and yours are the same men.”“Surely they—they must be,” faltered Albert Seyton.“Nay, my young friend, we should arm ourselves against the disappointment if they should turn out to be different persons.”“The name is peculiar,” said Albert, “and perhaps, sir, you can recollect sufficient of the personal appearance of the man to enable me at once to decide upon that doubt.”“Probably. He is thin and pale, with an ever-shifting glance, and has a peculiar habit of continually moistening his lips with his tongue, and frequently biting the under lip.”“It is the same!” cried Albert, clasping his hands; “I should know him among a million.”“You are sure?”“Quite sure, sir, and Ada will be rescued. Sir, we shall owe you a debt of gratitude we never can repay. Heaven alone must give you your reward.”Learmont winced a little at the idea of being handed over to Heaven for judgment, and waving his hand, he said,—“Enough! I seek for no reward. What I do, I do freely.”“I will never now,” said Albert, “until this man comes, lose sight of the steps of your house, sir.”“He is sure to come.”“And I would not then miss him for ten thousand worlds.”“I will guard against any trifling accident: such as your missing being here when he comes, of his eluding your pursuit; for I will give him money, and encourage him to come again.”“You are too kind, sir,” said Albert, in a broken voice.“Not a whit—not a whit. I shall, however, exact one promise from you.”“Do but give it a name, sir.”“It is simply this: that when you have traced Jacob Gray to his home, you will come back to me at once without taking any further step. Your precipitancy might ruin all, whereas, if I know where this young lady you mention is to be found, without a doubt I can with cooler and more extended judgment, because of my more extended resources, take measures for her recovery that cannot fail.”“I will obey your directions to the very letter,” said Albert. “And now I shall be in terror of his coming each moment that I am away from here.”“On the other occasions of his visit he always came after sunset,” said Learmont, “and most probably such will be the case now. I should, therefore, strongly advise you to sleep here from this day, and never to be out of the house after darkness has fairly set in.”Albert could almost have thrown himself at Learmont’s feet, so full of joyful gratitude was he, and he could not find word to express the overflowing feelings of his heart to him.
Learmont’s Treachery to Albert Seyton.—The Plot Against Gray.
The guiltycareer of Learmont is nearly run, and the fates are hurrying him to that awful precipice down which the souls of the wicked plunge never to return; and yet, how strange it is that in the designs and machinations of men of blood and deep iniquity, their danger is ever the greatest when they are hugging themselves in fancied security.
So was it in the strange circumstances of our story—circumstances which, with a labour we should again shrink from, we have collected from ancient resources, and time-worn family documents.
Learmont thought himself now in a far better position than he had ever been in, for although the child, whose existence in the hands of Jacob Gray had always been the bane of his existence, was now, he felt sure, in the house of the man whose energy and acuteness he had most to fear; he reasoned himself into a belief that had there been contingent upon such circumstances imminent danger to be apprehended from Sir Francis Hartleton, he would ere this have heard of it, for the magistrate was prompt in action.
“I have but now,” he thought, “to destroy Jacob Gray and his confession, whereas, before, by keeping his confession at one place, and the child at another, I dare not attack him with any degree of safety.”
Jacob Gray, too, as we have seen, fancied himself over his worst troubles, and hugged himself with the idea that he held as strong a hold as ever upon the fears of Learmont, and had but to exercise common caution to replace himself in as enviable a situation, as regards pecuniary resources, as he had been before.
Andrew Britton had plenty to drink, as he, too, felt in his way tolerably happy, only he would have given a great deal, or even consented to go without brandy for a whole day, for the sake of an opportunity of knocking Jacob Gray on the head.
Learmont’s only doubt now was whether to set the smith or Albert Seyton upon the footsteps of Jacob Gray, when he should make his next visit; for the same objection, namely, of personal recognition applied to both, only Jacob Gray would not be so apt to suppose Albert Seyton to be set on by Learmont.
Upon this argument, he decided upon informing Albert, when he should next see him, that the identity of the man he (Learmont) wished him to watch was Jacob Gray, who held so long in durance the beautiful girl whose image held so constant a place in his heart.
By still assuring Albert of the probability of Ada being with Gray, Learmont considered that he should interest him to strain every nerve to discover his residence, and, we shudder as we write it, but the cold-blooded squire determined upon the death of Albert the moment he should cease to be of any service, or become in the least troublesome or suspicious.
Engaged in such unholy cogitations as those, the day to Learmont passed more swiftly, and more pleasantly than had done many a preceding one, and when he rose the following morning, he looked more himself than he had done since his first attempt upon the life of Gray, at the ruinous house in South Lambeth—an attempt which had so signally failed, and which, in its result, had suppressed the squire with a sense of the hopelessness of ever getting rid of the running Jacob.
Albert Seyton, his mind agitated by a thousand hopes and fears, was punctual in his attendance upon Learmont; and, when he entered the room in which sat the squire, any one might have seen by his countenance that he had passed a sleepless night, and that he was suffering all the tender anxieties of newly awakened hope upon a subject nearest his heart.
Learmont motioned him to be seated, and then stealing but a glance at the face of the young man, he said,—
“Young sir, I have been thinking over the story you told me yesterday.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Albert; “may I venture to hope that mature consideration has not in any way altered the sanguine opinion you were pleased to pronounce yesterday upon the subject.”
“It has not.”
“Thank Heaven!”
“But—”
Albert’s colour came and went rapidly at this “but” of Learmont’s, and the squire continued calmly,—
“You observed my agitation yesterday.”
“I—I did, sir.”
“Can you guess its cause—that is, can you guess what brought on the spasm I am subject to?”
“I cannot, sir.”
“Then I will tell you. When you mentioned the name of Jacob Gray, a strange feeling came over me that I had heard it before, but I was not certain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. Since last you and I met, I have taken some pains to ascertain the fact, and I find that a man of that name has applied to me, hearing of my many charities for pecuniary assistance, saying that he had an orphan child to support, and was in great poverty.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Such is the fact. His name is Jacob Gray.”
“And—and sir—you have really seen him?” stammered Albert.
“I have—he came here, and upon the spurious story he told I relieved his necessities; but the next time he came, I refused him, when I understand he cursed me as he went through my hall, and uttered threats against me.”
“The villain!”
“Yes, young sir, that is the reward generally of benevolence.”
“Oh, this is most providential,” said Albert, tears of joy bursting from his eyes—“it is surely Heaven’s own work.”
“’Tis rather singular,” remarked Learmont, coldly.
“You have then his address, sir—oh! Give it me, and let me fly to rescue—”
“Stop—I have not his address.”
Albert’s countenance fell.
“He left no address here. He would allow no inquiry into his circumstances, which was the reason I refused to continue my bounty towards him.”
“Then—then—nothing is gained,” sighed Albert—“I am wretched as before.”
“Not so,” said Learmont; “you are like all those who are easily elated—too easily depressed.”
“Pardon me, sir, but this is a matter upon which my whole happiness—my whole existence, is, as it were, staked. I do feel, perhaps, too strongly, but such love as mine is scarce, and I cannot—cannot help it, sir—pray forgive me!”
“Think not I am angry,” said Learmont, “on the contrary, I have not been so well pleased for many a day: when I said you were too easily elated or depressed, I had a suggestion to offer you.”
“How shall I thank you, sir?”
“Heed not that. My strong opinion is, that this man Gray will come here again for, after his repulse, he has written me a letter in which he begs for a small sum towards a larger one he is gathering to take him from England; and he says, that if I felt inclined, he could tell me a secret, which he is quite sure would enable me to right the wronged, and punish those who had been guilty.”
“He alludes to Ada, sir,” cried Albert, with animation. “He alludes to her of whom I told you, sir. Oh, she is beautiful and good. Sir, a nobler, better heart than hers never beat in woman’s bosom. It is not for her rare and unexampled beauty that I love her, sir. Ah, no; ’tis for her many gracious heavenly qualities—for the fine mind that, like a glistening diamond, does outshine the setting, though of purest gold.”
“No doubt he alludes to her,” said Learmont. “As I say, he sent me this letter, it was without date, without address, and stated that its writer, Jacob Gray, would call here for an answer.”
Albert’s breath seemed to hang upon the next words of the squire as he asked, “And has he been, sir?”
“He has not,” said Learmont.
“Ada! Ada!” cried Albert, and then, ashamed of the violence of his feelings, he blushed scarlet, and endeavoured to apologise.
“Heed it not—heed it not!” said Learmont. “There can be no doubt but this man will call for an answer to his letter, and your line of proceeding will then be to follow him to his home, taking care, as you say he knows you, to keep out of his sight.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I will follow him were he to lead me half over the world. Let me but once set eyes again on Jacob Gray and I will never lose sight of him except I leave him at his own home.”
“I hope,” said Learmont, who felt a delight in hurrying Albert’s spirits down from boiling point to Zero, “that my Jacob Gray and yours are the same men.”
“Surely they—they must be,” faltered Albert Seyton.
“Nay, my young friend, we should arm ourselves against the disappointment if they should turn out to be different persons.”
“The name is peculiar,” said Albert, “and perhaps, sir, you can recollect sufficient of the personal appearance of the man to enable me at once to decide upon that doubt.”
“Probably. He is thin and pale, with an ever-shifting glance, and has a peculiar habit of continually moistening his lips with his tongue, and frequently biting the under lip.”
“It is the same!” cried Albert, clasping his hands; “I should know him among a million.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure, sir, and Ada will be rescued. Sir, we shall owe you a debt of gratitude we never can repay. Heaven alone must give you your reward.”
Learmont winced a little at the idea of being handed over to Heaven for judgment, and waving his hand, he said,—
“Enough! I seek for no reward. What I do, I do freely.”
“I will never now,” said Albert, “until this man comes, lose sight of the steps of your house, sir.”
“He is sure to come.”
“And I would not then miss him for ten thousand worlds.”
“I will guard against any trifling accident: such as your missing being here when he comes, of his eluding your pursuit; for I will give him money, and encourage him to come again.”
“You are too kind, sir,” said Albert, in a broken voice.
“Not a whit—not a whit. I shall, however, exact one promise from you.”
“Do but give it a name, sir.”
“It is simply this: that when you have traced Jacob Gray to his home, you will come back to me at once without taking any further step. Your precipitancy might ruin all, whereas, if I know where this young lady you mention is to be found, without a doubt I can with cooler and more extended judgment, because of my more extended resources, take measures for her recovery that cannot fail.”
“I will obey your directions to the very letter,” said Albert. “And now I shall be in terror of his coming each moment that I am away from here.”
“On the other occasions of his visit he always came after sunset,” said Learmont, “and most probably such will be the case now. I should, therefore, strongly advise you to sleep here from this day, and never to be out of the house after darkness has fairly set in.”
Albert could almost have thrown himself at Learmont’s feet, so full of joyful gratitude was he, and he could not find word to express the overflowing feelings of his heart to him.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.Gray at Home.—The Confession.—A Walk through Westminster in Search of a Wig.How wellLearmont thought he had managed his interview with poor Albert Seyton; and so he had, as far as that interview went. The results are yet to come; but as he sat alone, after the young enthusiastic Albert had left him, a ghastly smile played upon his attenuated features, and he muttered—“Fortune is repaying me now for some of her unkindness. This affair could not be managed better than it is. Jacob Gray, your doom is sealed. There is no chance of escape now for you; for all this young man’s energies will be exerted to discover your place of abode, and it will be strange, indeed, if he succeed not. Moreover, I can give him plenty of chances, and so keep the game alive until he is quite successful, for you must come to me, Jacob Gray, for money; and each time you do so, you shall return with him upon your steps, until you are fairly hunted to your lair, and then Britton—yes, Britton, then shall rid me of you for ever.”The squire was silent for some time, then he muttered,—“Yes; the suspicions of the young man once awakened, he would become most dangerous, I must run no risks—I will run none. All shall be safe and sure; and that it may be so, good, credulous Albert Seyton, I will find some quiet, easy means of ridding you of the cares of this life, when you have performed your errand in it so far as I am much concerned. How I play with these puppets! First, Gray shall go; then Britton and this Albert Seyton; Sir Francis Hartleton, too, when my mind is free to bestow my whole attention upon him. I will do the thieves of Westminster a great favour, for I will find some plan of vengeance against him, which shall cost him his life. Then the girl—ay, the girl! What of her? Why, she falls into my power at once—a mere, nameless orphan girl. Her safety will depend upon the amount of his information. Let her be innoxious through ignorance of her real position, and I—I don’t want to harm her. Yet she must not be near me; because she puts me in mind of one who—who—I would fain forget. This room gets gloomy—very gloomy. There is an awful silence in the house. I hear no one speak or move, I—I must go out—out—out.”One of his fits of terror came over him and he went backwards to the door, while his limbs trembled, and his teeth chattered with an unknown dread.Turn we now from Learmont to Jacob Gray, who was no less miserable and no more happy in his wretched attic, than was the vile squire in his splendid mansion.Gray sat for a time in deep and anxious thought, and then he glided down the stairs, for bells were things unknown in that locality, to ask his landlady to send for writing materials for him.His orders were very soon obeyed, and he had on the little rickety table which stood under the small latticed window, some ink in a cracked tea cup, several pens, and a quire of paper.Then he made a calculation of how long it would take him to get two thousand pounds in small sums of Learmont, provided the squire should refuse to entertain his proposal of a large sum at once, to insure his, Gray’s, leaving the country.Having satisfied himself on that head, and come to a conclusion as to how many times he could call, and what sums he should insist upon having, he set about the more serious and important job he purposed; namely, to write his confession.The whole of the day he remained at his work, and his feelings and fears were in a fearful state of agitation, while he was once more recording with his own hands, events, the lightest one of which would, if known, consign him to an ignominious end.The sun was sinking in the west when Jacob Gray had finished his labour which he had pursued since the morning with no intermission, save for one hasty meal, which the landlady had brought him, on her own suggestion, for he had been too much engrossed with what he was about to think of food.At length, however, he finished, and with trembling hands he wrote the superscription, “To Sir Francis Hartleton,” and tied the whole firmly round with a string.A dark smile then came across his face as he muttered,—“Ada, you know not what you have lost by your precipitancy. I have thought of a means of vengeance upon you. Here in this paper, I declare you illegitimate. The old priest, who performed a marriage at Naples between your father and mother, must be assuredly dead long since, and there was no witness but myself. Ha! Ha!”He started at the hollow echo of his own laugh, and looked suspiciously around him as if he feared to see some awful visitant who had mocked his guilty exultation.“I—I am alone,” he muttered. “’Twas but an echo. These old buildings are full of them—where now shall I hide this precious and most dangerous document?” He remained in deep thought for some time, and then he made a sudden resolution that he would keep it always about him, so that it must be found in case of anything happening to him personally, and his mind would be free from apprehension when he was from home.He then carefully unripped part of the lining of his waistcoat, and placed the confession in between the cloth and the lining, after which, by the aid of several pins, he firmly secured it in its place.“It is safe,” he said, “security against its loss is all I wish, not absolutely concealment; and yet, should the villain Learmont ever suspect I had this document with me, I should never leave his house alive; but how should he? I have never hitherto had any cause to fear violence at his hands in his own house; and then he thinks I have the child at home. I must consider, and, perchance, change my waistcoat when I favour you with a visit, Master Learmont.”He then carefully searched his room to discover some place of concealment for the confession, should he feel disposed ever to leave it at home, and finally pitched upon the upper shelf of an old cupboard, in one corner where was stowed away a quantity of lumber.“Yes,” he muttered, “I will, whenever I suspect there may be danger in carrying this document abroad with me, place it here, it will then surely be found sooner or later, and conveyed to its address. Now let me consider what changes I can make in my personal appearance, in order further to ensure my safety from those who are still on the scent for me on account of Vaughan.”The night was by this time fairly set in, and the various objects of Gray’s miserable apartment began to lose their outlines, mingling strangely together, and in some cases assuming to his alarmed imagination, fantastic shapes that made his heart beat with fright.“I must never be here without lights,” he muttered, “darkness itself is not so bad in its intensity as this kind of dim obscurity before the night has fairly begun its reign. I must never be without lights.”He crept to his door, and opening it gently and cautiously, without having any motive for so doing, he slunk down the stairs as if he were afraid of being overheard. Caution and fear had become habits with Jacob Gray now, and he could not have spoken or walked boldly had he been ever so much inclined so to do.There was no passage into the street but through the shop, and the woman who was there gave a great start as Jacob Gray came in.“Lor’—sir,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”“Not hear me?” said Gray. “I—I have come quickly down the stairs. I am going out on business, and mind what I before said to you in case any one should inquire for me.”“But I don’t even know your name, sir.”“My name?”“No, sir, you didn’t tell me.”Gray paused a moment, and then he said,—“My name is Smith,” and walked out of the shop without waiting for an answer.“Smith, is it?” said the woman, to herself; “it’s about as much Smith as I’m Smith. Well, it’s no business of mine, only I should like to know who he really is; but, howsomever, as long as he pays his way, that’s quite enough for me—not that I like his looks at all, oh, dear, no—I call him an ugly man, I do.—Well—well, ‘handsome is as handsome does’—that’s mymotto!”When Jacob Gray was fairly in the street, he glanced cautiously about him, and seeing no one, he hugged himself in the notion that he had been too cunning for his enemies, and walked on, keeping, however, very close to the houses, so that he walked in their black shadows, and could not be minutely remarked by any chance passenger.“A black wig,” he muttered, “will help materially to disguise me.”
Gray at Home.—The Confession.—A Walk through Westminster in Search of a Wig.
How wellLearmont thought he had managed his interview with poor Albert Seyton; and so he had, as far as that interview went. The results are yet to come; but as he sat alone, after the young enthusiastic Albert had left him, a ghastly smile played upon his attenuated features, and he muttered—
“Fortune is repaying me now for some of her unkindness. This affair could not be managed better than it is. Jacob Gray, your doom is sealed. There is no chance of escape now for you; for all this young man’s energies will be exerted to discover your place of abode, and it will be strange, indeed, if he succeed not. Moreover, I can give him plenty of chances, and so keep the game alive until he is quite successful, for you must come to me, Jacob Gray, for money; and each time you do so, you shall return with him upon your steps, until you are fairly hunted to your lair, and then Britton—yes, Britton, then shall rid me of you for ever.”
The squire was silent for some time, then he muttered,—
“Yes; the suspicions of the young man once awakened, he would become most dangerous, I must run no risks—I will run none. All shall be safe and sure; and that it may be so, good, credulous Albert Seyton, I will find some quiet, easy means of ridding you of the cares of this life, when you have performed your errand in it so far as I am much concerned. How I play with these puppets! First, Gray shall go; then Britton and this Albert Seyton; Sir Francis Hartleton, too, when my mind is free to bestow my whole attention upon him. I will do the thieves of Westminster a great favour, for I will find some plan of vengeance against him, which shall cost him his life. Then the girl—ay, the girl! What of her? Why, she falls into my power at once—a mere, nameless orphan girl. Her safety will depend upon the amount of his information. Let her be innoxious through ignorance of her real position, and I—I don’t want to harm her. Yet she must not be near me; because she puts me in mind of one who—who—I would fain forget. This room gets gloomy—very gloomy. There is an awful silence in the house. I hear no one speak or move, I—I must go out—out—out.”
One of his fits of terror came over him and he went backwards to the door, while his limbs trembled, and his teeth chattered with an unknown dread.
Turn we now from Learmont to Jacob Gray, who was no less miserable and no more happy in his wretched attic, than was the vile squire in his splendid mansion.
Gray sat for a time in deep and anxious thought, and then he glided down the stairs, for bells were things unknown in that locality, to ask his landlady to send for writing materials for him.
His orders were very soon obeyed, and he had on the little rickety table which stood under the small latticed window, some ink in a cracked tea cup, several pens, and a quire of paper.
Then he made a calculation of how long it would take him to get two thousand pounds in small sums of Learmont, provided the squire should refuse to entertain his proposal of a large sum at once, to insure his, Gray’s, leaving the country.
Having satisfied himself on that head, and come to a conclusion as to how many times he could call, and what sums he should insist upon having, he set about the more serious and important job he purposed; namely, to write his confession.
The whole of the day he remained at his work, and his feelings and fears were in a fearful state of agitation, while he was once more recording with his own hands, events, the lightest one of which would, if known, consign him to an ignominious end.
The sun was sinking in the west when Jacob Gray had finished his labour which he had pursued since the morning with no intermission, save for one hasty meal, which the landlady had brought him, on her own suggestion, for he had been too much engrossed with what he was about to think of food.
At length, however, he finished, and with trembling hands he wrote the superscription, “To Sir Francis Hartleton,” and tied the whole firmly round with a string.
A dark smile then came across his face as he muttered,—
“Ada, you know not what you have lost by your precipitancy. I have thought of a means of vengeance upon you. Here in this paper, I declare you illegitimate. The old priest, who performed a marriage at Naples between your father and mother, must be assuredly dead long since, and there was no witness but myself. Ha! Ha!”
He started at the hollow echo of his own laugh, and looked suspiciously around him as if he feared to see some awful visitant who had mocked his guilty exultation.
“I—I am alone,” he muttered. “’Twas but an echo. These old buildings are full of them—where now shall I hide this precious and most dangerous document?” He remained in deep thought for some time, and then he made a sudden resolution that he would keep it always about him, so that it must be found in case of anything happening to him personally, and his mind would be free from apprehension when he was from home.
He then carefully unripped part of the lining of his waistcoat, and placed the confession in between the cloth and the lining, after which, by the aid of several pins, he firmly secured it in its place.
“It is safe,” he said, “security against its loss is all I wish, not absolutely concealment; and yet, should the villain Learmont ever suspect I had this document with me, I should never leave his house alive; but how should he? I have never hitherto had any cause to fear violence at his hands in his own house; and then he thinks I have the child at home. I must consider, and, perchance, change my waistcoat when I favour you with a visit, Master Learmont.”
He then carefully searched his room to discover some place of concealment for the confession, should he feel disposed ever to leave it at home, and finally pitched upon the upper shelf of an old cupboard, in one corner where was stowed away a quantity of lumber.
“Yes,” he muttered, “I will, whenever I suspect there may be danger in carrying this document abroad with me, place it here, it will then surely be found sooner or later, and conveyed to its address. Now let me consider what changes I can make in my personal appearance, in order further to ensure my safety from those who are still on the scent for me on account of Vaughan.”
The night was by this time fairly set in, and the various objects of Gray’s miserable apartment began to lose their outlines, mingling strangely together, and in some cases assuming to his alarmed imagination, fantastic shapes that made his heart beat with fright.
“I must never be here without lights,” he muttered, “darkness itself is not so bad in its intensity as this kind of dim obscurity before the night has fairly begun its reign. I must never be without lights.”
He crept to his door, and opening it gently and cautiously, without having any motive for so doing, he slunk down the stairs as if he were afraid of being overheard. Caution and fear had become habits with Jacob Gray now, and he could not have spoken or walked boldly had he been ever so much inclined so to do.
There was no passage into the street but through the shop, and the woman who was there gave a great start as Jacob Gray came in.
“Lor’—sir,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”
“Not hear me?” said Gray. “I—I have come quickly down the stairs. I am going out on business, and mind what I before said to you in case any one should inquire for me.”
“But I don’t even know your name, sir.”
“My name?”
“No, sir, you didn’t tell me.”
Gray paused a moment, and then he said,—
“My name is Smith,” and walked out of the shop without waiting for an answer.
“Smith, is it?” said the woman, to herself; “it’s about as much Smith as I’m Smith. Well, it’s no business of mine, only I should like to know who he really is; but, howsomever, as long as he pays his way, that’s quite enough for me—not that I like his looks at all, oh, dear, no—I call him an ugly man, I do.—Well—well, ‘handsome is as handsome does’—that’s mymotto!”
When Jacob Gray was fairly in the street, he glanced cautiously about him, and seeing no one, he hugged himself in the notion that he had been too cunning for his enemies, and walked on, keeping, however, very close to the houses, so that he walked in their black shadows, and could not be minutely remarked by any chance passenger.
“A black wig,” he muttered, “will help materially to disguise me.”
CHAPTER LXXXVII.Jacob Gray’s Disguise.—The Troublesome Shoemaker Again.—The Visit.Graylooked now anxiously right and left for a perruquier’s, where he might purchase a wig; for contrary to the general fashion of the day, he had worn his own hair and unpowdered. Time and great mental anxiety had, however, very much thinned as well as whitened his locks, and as he remarked, a black wig was certainly calculated to make a very material difference in his personal appearance.There were several little mean barber’s shops in the immediate neighbourhood, but they were not possessed of such articles as he wished to purchase—the sphere of their operations being confined to the shaving of his majesty’s lieges, and particularly that portion of them who only once in a week submitted to the tonsorial operation.Jacob Gray had, therefore, much to his dread, to wander into a better thoroughfare and more respectable street, in order to suit himself, and finally he got to Parliament-street before he could see a shop in which he was likely to get suited.This he would not venture into until he was satisfied there was no one there but the master of the shop, when, more like an apparition than a welcome customer, he glided in, and asked for a black wig.“Black wig, sir?—Yes, sir—certainly, sir—black wig, sir,” replied the shopkeeper, with great volubility—“should say, sir, you’ll look well, sir, in black wig, sir.”“My time is precious,” said Gray. “Show me one immediately.”“Certainly, sir. Time’s a precious commodity. No overtaking time, sir, no how. Lots of wigs, sir—black, brown—all sorts of shades, sir—all the gentry of Westminster wear my wigs, sir—once curled the wig of the speaker of the House of Commons, and once—”“I am in haste, sir,” said Gray, drumming with his fingers upon the counter.“Certainly, sir. Business is business—wigs are wigs now-a-days. Here’s one, sir, that will fit you to a miracle—your sized head, sir, is what we call number six. That’s a wig, sir, that’s a credit to me and will be a credit to you, sir.”Jacob Gray took the wig, and fitting it on his head, looked at himself attentively in a glass.“I think this will do,” he said, as he remarked with satisfaction the alteration it made in his aspect.“You look wonderfully well in that wig, sir—upon my word you do,” said the barber. “I could not have believed it, sir. You look twenty-two years and a quarter younger, sir.”“Pshaw,” said Gray. “The wig will do, I have little doubt.”“No doubt whatever, sir—not a small shadow of a doubt. You look uncommonly well, sir in that wig. ‘So I do in anything,’ says you—but a wig is a wig, you know, and when—”“Peace—peace,” said Gray. “The price?”“The price, sir; why I should call that wig uncommonly cheap at two guineas, sir.”“There,” said Gray, throwing the required amount upon the counter, and then immediately walked out of the shop of the loquacious perruquier.“Well, I never,” exclaimed the man, after his customer had gone. “Most extraordinary man—horrid fright in that wig—must be highwayman!”Jacob Gray did certainly look somewhat different in his wig; but no one who had ever known him well could, for a moment, have doubted the identity of his strange face, with its peculiar expression of cunning, mingled with apprehension.“Learmont,” he muttered, “would have me visit him in the morning for some purpose, but I will make it night always, until I discover what can possibly be his motive for dragging me into daylight.”Little suspecting then, that he was kept in view by Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, from the other side of the way, Gray walked at a rapid pace towards Learmont’s.The squire was within, and he gave a slight start, when Gray was announced; for, at that very moment, he had been planning his murder, when he should, through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton, discover his abode.The wig which Gray wore gave him a strange look, and Learmont could not for some time divine what it was that made the remarkable difference in Jacob Gray, but kept his eyes fixed upon him with a look of surprise, that the other could not but notice.“I have thought it safer,” said Gray, “to try some personal disguise, as I came a long way to visit you.”“As you please,” said Learmont coldly. “I cannot, however, perceive anything you have to fear.”“No—no—” said Gray, “but I like not being known and recognised often by the same persons.”“As you please—as you please, Jacob Gray.”“Have you considered my last proposal?” said Gray.“To take a sum of money and leave England for ever?”“Yes.”“If you could find some means,” said Learmont, “of ridding me of Sir Francis Hartleton—”“Who—I—I—I cannot—I dare not.”“Yet, you might, Jacob Gray.”“No, no,—I can undertake no such enterprise—what I have already done Squire Learmont, has scarcely met reward.”“Not met reward, Jacob Gray! Why, you must, methinks, by this time, have a goodly sum of money by you?”Gray groaned, as he replied,—“Yes—yes—of course; but not enough for independence; my expenses have been great.”“Is your—young charge quite well?” sneered Learmont.“Quite,” said Gray.“Then you refuse to aid me in the destruction of this Hartleton?”“I do. I am content with what I have done in so far as it entitles me to your gratitude—your substantial gratitude.”“Be it so then. I will, however, consider more deeply your proposal regarding a large sum of money at once. And—and if you will come to me, say, to-morrow, I will let you know, more at large, my thoughts upon that subject.”“I will come to-morrow,” said Gray.“In the morning?”“I do not know—but it will be morning or evening. Give me now twenty pounds.”“Twenty?”“Yes. ’Tis a small sum, Squire Learmont. Look at the enjoyments that surround you—your house—your carriages—your servants—rich wines! Ah! Squire, you need not start at twenty pounds to Jacob Gray. Happy man!”Learmont fixed his eye upon the mocking countenance of Gray, with such an expression of deadly hatred that even he quailed under it.“Jacob Gray,” said the squire, hoarsely—“there is in me, when I am stirred by taunts, something dangerous, that even the fear of the revelations, that such as you are may leave behind you, cannot conquer. Beware, I say—beware.”Gray trembled before his master’s spirit, and in silence took up the purse that Learmont threw him, and quitted the house.When he gained the street, he shook his clenched hand, menacingly at the house, muttering between his clenched teeth,—“Beware yourself, Squire Learmont; Jacob Gray will yet bring you to a gallows!”
Jacob Gray’s Disguise.—The Troublesome Shoemaker Again.—The Visit.
Graylooked now anxiously right and left for a perruquier’s, where he might purchase a wig; for contrary to the general fashion of the day, he had worn his own hair and unpowdered. Time and great mental anxiety had, however, very much thinned as well as whitened his locks, and as he remarked, a black wig was certainly calculated to make a very material difference in his personal appearance.
There were several little mean barber’s shops in the immediate neighbourhood, but they were not possessed of such articles as he wished to purchase—the sphere of their operations being confined to the shaving of his majesty’s lieges, and particularly that portion of them who only once in a week submitted to the tonsorial operation.
Jacob Gray had, therefore, much to his dread, to wander into a better thoroughfare and more respectable street, in order to suit himself, and finally he got to Parliament-street before he could see a shop in which he was likely to get suited.
This he would not venture into until he was satisfied there was no one there but the master of the shop, when, more like an apparition than a welcome customer, he glided in, and asked for a black wig.
“Black wig, sir?—Yes, sir—certainly, sir—black wig, sir,” replied the shopkeeper, with great volubility—“should say, sir, you’ll look well, sir, in black wig, sir.”
“My time is precious,” said Gray. “Show me one immediately.”
“Certainly, sir. Time’s a precious commodity. No overtaking time, sir, no how. Lots of wigs, sir—black, brown—all sorts of shades, sir—all the gentry of Westminster wear my wigs, sir—once curled the wig of the speaker of the House of Commons, and once—”
“I am in haste, sir,” said Gray, drumming with his fingers upon the counter.
“Certainly, sir. Business is business—wigs are wigs now-a-days. Here’s one, sir, that will fit you to a miracle—your sized head, sir, is what we call number six. That’s a wig, sir, that’s a credit to me and will be a credit to you, sir.”
Jacob Gray took the wig, and fitting it on his head, looked at himself attentively in a glass.
“I think this will do,” he said, as he remarked with satisfaction the alteration it made in his aspect.
“You look wonderfully well in that wig, sir—upon my word you do,” said the barber. “I could not have believed it, sir. You look twenty-two years and a quarter younger, sir.”
“Pshaw,” said Gray. “The wig will do, I have little doubt.”
“No doubt whatever, sir—not a small shadow of a doubt. You look uncommonly well, sir in that wig. ‘So I do in anything,’ says you—but a wig is a wig, you know, and when—”
“Peace—peace,” said Gray. “The price?”
“The price, sir; why I should call that wig uncommonly cheap at two guineas, sir.”
“There,” said Gray, throwing the required amount upon the counter, and then immediately walked out of the shop of the loquacious perruquier.
“Well, I never,” exclaimed the man, after his customer had gone. “Most extraordinary man—horrid fright in that wig—must be highwayman!”
Jacob Gray did certainly look somewhat different in his wig; but no one who had ever known him well could, for a moment, have doubted the identity of his strange face, with its peculiar expression of cunning, mingled with apprehension.
“Learmont,” he muttered, “would have me visit him in the morning for some purpose, but I will make it night always, until I discover what can possibly be his motive for dragging me into daylight.”
Little suspecting then, that he was kept in view by Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, from the other side of the way, Gray walked at a rapid pace towards Learmont’s.
The squire was within, and he gave a slight start, when Gray was announced; for, at that very moment, he had been planning his murder, when he should, through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton, discover his abode.
The wig which Gray wore gave him a strange look, and Learmont could not for some time divine what it was that made the remarkable difference in Jacob Gray, but kept his eyes fixed upon him with a look of surprise, that the other could not but notice.
“I have thought it safer,” said Gray, “to try some personal disguise, as I came a long way to visit you.”
“As you please,” said Learmont coldly. “I cannot, however, perceive anything you have to fear.”
“No—no—” said Gray, “but I like not being known and recognised often by the same persons.”
“As you please—as you please, Jacob Gray.”
“Have you considered my last proposal?” said Gray.
“To take a sum of money and leave England for ever?”
“Yes.”
“If you could find some means,” said Learmont, “of ridding me of Sir Francis Hartleton—”
“Who—I—I—I cannot—I dare not.”
“Yet, you might, Jacob Gray.”
“No, no,—I can undertake no such enterprise—what I have already done Squire Learmont, has scarcely met reward.”
“Not met reward, Jacob Gray! Why, you must, methinks, by this time, have a goodly sum of money by you?”
Gray groaned, as he replied,—
“Yes—yes—of course; but not enough for independence; my expenses have been great.”
“Is your—young charge quite well?” sneered Learmont.
“Quite,” said Gray.
“Then you refuse to aid me in the destruction of this Hartleton?”
“I do. I am content with what I have done in so far as it entitles me to your gratitude—your substantial gratitude.”
“Be it so then. I will, however, consider more deeply your proposal regarding a large sum of money at once. And—and if you will come to me, say, to-morrow, I will let you know, more at large, my thoughts upon that subject.”
“I will come to-morrow,” said Gray.
“In the morning?”
“I do not know—but it will be morning or evening. Give me now twenty pounds.”
“Twenty?”
“Yes. ’Tis a small sum, Squire Learmont. Look at the enjoyments that surround you—your house—your carriages—your servants—rich wines! Ah! Squire, you need not start at twenty pounds to Jacob Gray. Happy man!”
Learmont fixed his eye upon the mocking countenance of Gray, with such an expression of deadly hatred that even he quailed under it.
“Jacob Gray,” said the squire, hoarsely—“there is in me, when I am stirred by taunts, something dangerous, that even the fear of the revelations, that such as you are may leave behind you, cannot conquer. Beware, I say—beware.”
Gray trembled before his master’s spirit, and in silence took up the purse that Learmont threw him, and quitted the house.
When he gained the street, he shook his clenched hand, menacingly at the house, muttering between his clenched teeth,—
“Beware yourself, Squire Learmont; Jacob Gray will yet bring you to a gallows!”