CHAPTER LXXXVIII.Mad Maud and the Magistrate.—The Scraps of Gray’s Confession.“Man proposes, but God disposes” is a saying which Sir Francis Hartleton was doomed to feel the truth of, as regarded his projected excursion to the Old Smithy, at Learmont, for firmly as he had fixed in his own mind to go, a circumstance occurred, which induced him, at all events, to put off his journey for some short time.That circumstance was the discovery, by the officers he had commissioned to search for her, of poor Maud, apparently in the last stage of misery and sadness—she had met with some injury from a runaway horse, and it was in one of the most miserable of the many miserable courts about Drury-lane, that the poor creature was discovered almost starved, for those around her could scarcely find the roughest means of satisfying their own wants, and the hunger of their squalid children.The fact was immediately communicated to Sir Francis Hartleton, and he, as soon as he could get time from his public attendance at his office, went himself to visit her and take measures for her comfort.The poor creature was lying upon a miserable straw mattress, covered with an old rug, and the place she was in presented altogether a picture of wretchedness and want.“How long has she been here?” inquired Sir Francis of an old crone, who showed him the room.“Only last night,” was the reply. “She’s as mad as she can be. Just look now, sir.”The woman attempted to open one of the hands of Maud which was clutched tightly, but the poor woman burst into a scream of agony, crying,—“No, no, no—oh, spare me that—I found it by the dead that would not burn. Help—help. Angel come and help me now.”“Do not torment her,” said Sir Francis. “What has she in her hand!”“Only some crumpled up bits of paper, sir, but she thinks a mighty deal of ’em.”“Go and fetch me the nearest medical man, and a coach,” said Sir Francis. “Here is half-a-crown for your trouble.”The woman with a profusion of thanks went on her message, and the humane magistrate sat down by the miserable couch of the sufferer.“Maud, Maud,” he said, close to her ear.“Who calls? Who calls?” she muttered.“A friend,” said Sir Francis.She shuddered, as in a low plaintive voice she said,—“No, no—poor mad Maud has no friend. Heaven will release her when Andrew Britton is dead. He is to die before I do—yes—yes. Oh, if I could see the angel once again.”“You shall see her, if you will give me what you have in your hand.”“No, no. There spoke the cunning enemy—set on by Andrew Britton. No, no—fire will not burn, a murdered corpse, and so I found the papers—most precious and rare. The angel’s flame is on one of them—that would I not part with for a thousand worlds.”“Where got you them?”“At the old house on the marches. Ha, ha—I—I saw the glare of the light—the ruddy hue of the fire, and I knew then that Andrew Britton was trying once again to burn the body—but he can’t—he can’t. Ha! Ha! Ha! He can’t. Fire will not touch it—no, no—he may heap faggot upon faggot, but it will not burn. Is not that rare sport—rare—rare—and Andrew Britton too, to be before poor mad Maud.”The door now opened, and the woman approached with a medical man.“I am Sir Francis Hartleton,” said the magistrate, rising, “will you oblige me by doing what you can do for this poor creature?”The surgeon bowed and proceeded to examine the patient.“She is very low,” he said, “and will never get well here. The air is pestiferous. Healthy lungs can scarcely stand it.”“Can she be removed with safety?”“God bless the angel,” said Maud. “Will you come again—murder—who said murder? There—there—the flames are crawling, and like long forked tongues of snakes from the Old Smithy, because they will not burn the murdered dead. No, no, no—where are you, Andrew Britton? Ha! You are here while the murder is doing—yes, yes—and yet you will die before mad Maud.”“She raves!” said the surgeon.“Yes, poor-creature, her senses are sadly bewildered—she has known much sorrow.”“Ah, poor thing. These mental maladies are beyond the physician’s skill. I will, however give her, if you please, sir, a composing draught, which will most probably throw her into a slumber of some hours’ duration, and allay much of the irritability that now evidently affects her.”“I shall thank you to do so. She shall be removed to my own house.”“You will not be troubled with her long, sir.”“I fear she is far gone on her last journey,” said the magistrate.The surgeon wrote on a slip of paper the name of the medicine he wanted, and gave it to the woman of the house to fetch it from his home.“Oh, Heavens,” said Maud, “will they murder the child—can they dip their hands in its innocent blood?—mercy—mercy.”“Maud,” said Sir Francis.“Hark—hark,” she cried. “Surely I hear music. Is it the passage of the angel’s wings through the sunny air, from the bright gates of Heaven—or is it human melody—ah, yes—you love me—you love me. By the moon—stars—zephyrs. Well, sing again the strain—sing, sing.”In a low mournful voice, she chanted, rather than sun the following words,—A Happy Time—A Happy Time!“A happy time—a happy time!I saw a child so gayTrip lightly o’er the shining mead,And laugh the hours away.She sat beside a silver stream,Amid the flow’rets fair:She laughing pluck’d the fairest flowers,And twined them in her hair;They sweetly bloomed upon her brow,In Nature’s wildness free.Oh, happy child! Oh, happy child!I would that I were thee.“A happy time—a happy time!I saw her once again—That laughing child, a maiden grown,Of wond’rous grace and mien.She spoke—I knew again the voice,And blessed her beauty rare,Once more I heard her joyous laughCome ringing through the air.I looked into her beaming eyes;There joy must ever be.Oh, happy maid! Oh, happy maid!I would that I were thee.“A happy time—a happy time!She crossed my path once more,That maiden fair; but she, alas!Was sadder than before.She lingered by the silver stream,Where laughed the child so gay:I longed to hear her laugh again,And chase the tears away.For tears there were upon her cheek;Alas! That such should be.Once happy child—once happy maid!I would not now be thee.“A step came sounding o’er the mead,The tears were dashed aside,A stranger clasped her to his heart,“My own—my dear lov’d bride!”I looked into the maiden’s face,It was a happy sight:I heard her laugh with joy again;Her eyes beamed with delight:She twined young roses in her hair,’Twas beautiful to see.There is no joy on earth like love,Ah! Would that I were thee.”She ceased with a shudder, muttering:—“There, again—there, again. There’s a large murder doing at the smithy, an Andrew Britton’s hands are red with human gore.”The opiate was by this time brought by the woman, and with great difficulty Francis made Maud attend to him.“Here, Maud,” he said, “drink of this—’twill do you good.”“No, no, no—there’s poison there.”“Indeed there is not.”“I see Andrew Britton’s face scowling at me, and the dark-souled Squire of Learmont too. There—there—save the child—save it, save it. Have mercy, Heaven!”“Listen to me,“ said Sir Francis. “The angel has sent you this.”She half raised herself on the miserable couch, and looked fixedly at the magistrate.“Your face is kindly,” she said. “Did you speak of the angel?”“Yes; she has sent you this.”The poor creature took the cup containing the medicine in her hand, and drank off the contents without another word.“That is well,” said the surgeon, “she will fall into a deep sleep, and no doubt waken much better—see now, already.”The poor creature lay down, and after a few moaning expressions, which they could not hear distinctly, dropped into a heavy slumber.“She can now be removed,” said the medical man, “with ease and safety.”Sir Francis Hartleton, as we are aware, was an exceeding powerful man, and taking off his own ample cloak, he wrapped it carefully around the poor creature, and then lifting her in his arms, he carried her as if she had been a child, down the staircase, and placed her in the coach which stood at the entrance of the court.He then courteously took leave of the surgeon, after making an appointment with him a few hours after at his own house, and got into the coach with Maud, having directed the driver to his house at Westminster.Careful not to disturb her slumber, Sir Francis Hartleton unclosed the hand of poor Maud, and found crumpled into a hard ball, a number of small scraps of paper, on which were words and disjointed sentences. That the few words he could find were deeply interesting to the magistrate might have been gathered from the expressions of his face as he read them. His hands trembled with excitement as piece after piece he spread open and perused.“Here is important matter,” he said, “but it is sadly out of joint. This must be some remnant of a paper containing a strange history, and here is, it seems, the name of Ada. I must more at my leisure examine these. Thank Heaven they have fallen into no other hands than mine.”He then placed the torn scraps carefully in his pocket-book; and looking from the coach window, he found that they were nearly at his house. He carefully lifted the still sleeping Maud from the coach, and carried her to a comfortable bedroom, resigning her to the care of his wife and the astonished Ada, while he hurried to his own study to decipher the mysterious scraps of paper at his leisure.
Mad Maud and the Magistrate.—The Scraps of Gray’s Confession.
“Man proposes, but God disposes” is a saying which Sir Francis Hartleton was doomed to feel the truth of, as regarded his projected excursion to the Old Smithy, at Learmont, for firmly as he had fixed in his own mind to go, a circumstance occurred, which induced him, at all events, to put off his journey for some short time.
That circumstance was the discovery, by the officers he had commissioned to search for her, of poor Maud, apparently in the last stage of misery and sadness—she had met with some injury from a runaway horse, and it was in one of the most miserable of the many miserable courts about Drury-lane, that the poor creature was discovered almost starved, for those around her could scarcely find the roughest means of satisfying their own wants, and the hunger of their squalid children.
The fact was immediately communicated to Sir Francis Hartleton, and he, as soon as he could get time from his public attendance at his office, went himself to visit her and take measures for her comfort.
The poor creature was lying upon a miserable straw mattress, covered with an old rug, and the place she was in presented altogether a picture of wretchedness and want.
“How long has she been here?” inquired Sir Francis of an old crone, who showed him the room.
“Only last night,” was the reply. “She’s as mad as she can be. Just look now, sir.”
The woman attempted to open one of the hands of Maud which was clutched tightly, but the poor woman burst into a scream of agony, crying,—
“No, no, no—oh, spare me that—I found it by the dead that would not burn. Help—help. Angel come and help me now.”
“Do not torment her,” said Sir Francis. “What has she in her hand!”
“Only some crumpled up bits of paper, sir, but she thinks a mighty deal of ’em.”
“Go and fetch me the nearest medical man, and a coach,” said Sir Francis. “Here is half-a-crown for your trouble.”
The woman with a profusion of thanks went on her message, and the humane magistrate sat down by the miserable couch of the sufferer.
“Maud, Maud,” he said, close to her ear.
“Who calls? Who calls?” she muttered.
“A friend,” said Sir Francis.
She shuddered, as in a low plaintive voice she said,—
“No, no—poor mad Maud has no friend. Heaven will release her when Andrew Britton is dead. He is to die before I do—yes—yes. Oh, if I could see the angel once again.”
“You shall see her, if you will give me what you have in your hand.”
“No, no. There spoke the cunning enemy—set on by Andrew Britton. No, no—fire will not burn, a murdered corpse, and so I found the papers—most precious and rare. The angel’s flame is on one of them—that would I not part with for a thousand worlds.”
“Where got you them?”
“At the old house on the marches. Ha, ha—I—I saw the glare of the light—the ruddy hue of the fire, and I knew then that Andrew Britton was trying once again to burn the body—but he can’t—he can’t. Ha! Ha! Ha! He can’t. Fire will not touch it—no, no—he may heap faggot upon faggot, but it will not burn. Is not that rare sport—rare—rare—and Andrew Britton too, to be before poor mad Maud.”
The door now opened, and the woman approached with a medical man.
“I am Sir Francis Hartleton,” said the magistrate, rising, “will you oblige me by doing what you can do for this poor creature?”
The surgeon bowed and proceeded to examine the patient.
“She is very low,” he said, “and will never get well here. The air is pestiferous. Healthy lungs can scarcely stand it.”
“Can she be removed with safety?”
“God bless the angel,” said Maud. “Will you come again—murder—who said murder? There—there—the flames are crawling, and like long forked tongues of snakes from the Old Smithy, because they will not burn the murdered dead. No, no, no—where are you, Andrew Britton? Ha! You are here while the murder is doing—yes, yes—and yet you will die before mad Maud.”
“She raves!” said the surgeon.
“Yes, poor-creature, her senses are sadly bewildered—she has known much sorrow.”
“Ah, poor thing. These mental maladies are beyond the physician’s skill. I will, however give her, if you please, sir, a composing draught, which will most probably throw her into a slumber of some hours’ duration, and allay much of the irritability that now evidently affects her.”
“I shall thank you to do so. She shall be removed to my own house.”
“You will not be troubled with her long, sir.”
“I fear she is far gone on her last journey,” said the magistrate.
The surgeon wrote on a slip of paper the name of the medicine he wanted, and gave it to the woman of the house to fetch it from his home.
“Oh, Heavens,” said Maud, “will they murder the child—can they dip their hands in its innocent blood?—mercy—mercy.”
“Maud,” said Sir Francis.
“Hark—hark,” she cried. “Surely I hear music. Is it the passage of the angel’s wings through the sunny air, from the bright gates of Heaven—or is it human melody—ah, yes—you love me—you love me. By the moon—stars—zephyrs. Well, sing again the strain—sing, sing.”
In a low mournful voice, she chanted, rather than sun the following words,—
A Happy Time—A Happy Time!
“A happy time—a happy time!
I saw a child so gay
Trip lightly o’er the shining mead,
And laugh the hours away.
She sat beside a silver stream,
Amid the flow’rets fair:
She laughing pluck’d the fairest flowers,
And twined them in her hair;
They sweetly bloomed upon her brow,
In Nature’s wildness free.
Oh, happy child! Oh, happy child!
I would that I were thee.
“A happy time—a happy time!
I saw her once again—
That laughing child, a maiden grown,
Of wond’rous grace and mien.
She spoke—I knew again the voice,
And blessed her beauty rare,
Once more I heard her joyous laugh
Come ringing through the air.
I looked into her beaming eyes;
There joy must ever be.
Oh, happy maid! Oh, happy maid!
I would that I were thee.
“A happy time—a happy time!
She crossed my path once more,
That maiden fair; but she, alas!
Was sadder than before.
She lingered by the silver stream,
Where laughed the child so gay:
I longed to hear her laugh again,
And chase the tears away.
For tears there were upon her cheek;
Alas! That such should be.
Once happy child—once happy maid!
I would not now be thee.
“A step came sounding o’er the mead,
The tears were dashed aside,
A stranger clasped her to his heart,
“My own—my dear lov’d bride!”
I looked into the maiden’s face,
It was a happy sight:
I heard her laugh with joy again;
Her eyes beamed with delight:
She twined young roses in her hair,
’Twas beautiful to see.
There is no joy on earth like love,
Ah! Would that I were thee.”
She ceased with a shudder, muttering:—
“There, again—there, again. There’s a large murder doing at the smithy, an Andrew Britton’s hands are red with human gore.”
The opiate was by this time brought by the woman, and with great difficulty Francis made Maud attend to him.
“Here, Maud,” he said, “drink of this—’twill do you good.”
“No, no, no—there’s poison there.”
“Indeed there is not.”
“I see Andrew Britton’s face scowling at me, and the dark-souled Squire of Learmont too. There—there—save the child—save it, save it. Have mercy, Heaven!”
“Listen to me,“ said Sir Francis. “The angel has sent you this.”
She half raised herself on the miserable couch, and looked fixedly at the magistrate.
“Your face is kindly,” she said. “Did you speak of the angel?”
“Yes; she has sent you this.”
The poor creature took the cup containing the medicine in her hand, and drank off the contents without another word.
“That is well,” said the surgeon, “she will fall into a deep sleep, and no doubt waken much better—see now, already.”
The poor creature lay down, and after a few moaning expressions, which they could not hear distinctly, dropped into a heavy slumber.
“She can now be removed,” said the medical man, “with ease and safety.”
Sir Francis Hartleton, as we are aware, was an exceeding powerful man, and taking off his own ample cloak, he wrapped it carefully around the poor creature, and then lifting her in his arms, he carried her as if she had been a child, down the staircase, and placed her in the coach which stood at the entrance of the court.
He then courteously took leave of the surgeon, after making an appointment with him a few hours after at his own house, and got into the coach with Maud, having directed the driver to his house at Westminster.
Careful not to disturb her slumber, Sir Francis Hartleton unclosed the hand of poor Maud, and found crumpled into a hard ball, a number of small scraps of paper, on which were words and disjointed sentences. That the few words he could find were deeply interesting to the magistrate might have been gathered from the expressions of his face as he read them. His hands trembled with excitement as piece after piece he spread open and perused.
“Here is important matter,” he said, “but it is sadly out of joint. This must be some remnant of a paper containing a strange history, and here is, it seems, the name of Ada. I must more at my leisure examine these. Thank Heaven they have fallen into no other hands than mine.”
He then placed the torn scraps carefully in his pocket-book; and looking from the coach window, he found that they were nearly at his house. He carefully lifted the still sleeping Maud from the coach, and carried her to a comfortable bedroom, resigning her to the care of his wife and the astonished Ada, while he hurried to his own study to decipher the mysterious scraps of paper at his leisure.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.The Revelation.—Learmont’s Deep Duplicity.—Albert’s Gratitude.The morningfound Albert Seyton true to his appointed time at Learmont’s. In fact, long before he could think of knocking for admittance, being ashamed of so much eagerness, he had arrived in the immediate vicinity, and wandered restlessly about until the hour should come.The hope, so suddenly springing up as it had, in the midst of his despair of again beholding Ada, through the exertions of his new patron, had, in the endless mass of surmises and conjectures it had given rise to, banished sleep from his pillow, and it was not till the first faint gleam of the coming day poured in at his bedroom window, that he became conscious of the rapid flight of time.To attempt to sleep then, he thought, was useless, and besides he might oversleep himself, and appear to be negligent of his appointment with the rich man, who had promised to do so much for him. He therefore rose, and as we have said, paced about the street in the vicinity of Learmont’s house, little dreaming that he was taking so much trouble and feeling so much elation for Ada’s worst and bitterest enemy.At length he thought, although he was too soon, he might knock for admittance, and with a nervous hand he seized the old massive knocker at Learmont’s door.He was speedily admitted, and his heart bounded with delight, when, in answer to his questions, he was told that Learmont was up and in his own private room. With a palpitating heart, Albert followed the servant who went to announce him. He heard the deep sepulchral tones of Learmont’s voice say—“Come in!” and he thought—“How much now one may be deceived in estimating character. Who would suppose that voice belonged to so good a man? And the countenance, too, of this squire, it is certainly not prepossessing, and yet what a kind heart he has!”Albert Seyton was a far better physiognomist than he thought himself.In another moment he was in the presence of one who, most on earth, he felt grateful to—but really the man who, most on earth, he had reason to entertain the greatest indignation at.Learmont received his young secretary cautiously; and, turning to the servant, then he said,—“Lay breakfast for me and this gentleman in the small morning room.”The servant bowed down to the very ground, and closed the door after him so gently and quietly, that one could hardly suppose Learmont was anything but some piece of workmanship that any sudden noise or concussion of the air would destroy.“You are early,” said Learmont to Albert, with a sickly smile.“I fear, sir,” said Seyton, “that I have intruded upon you too soon, but my great anxiety—”“Yes, yes, I have not forgotten,” interrupted Learmont. “Will it please you to describe to me this man, Jacob Gray, again, who kept the—the girl in such a state of bondage?”“Certainly, sir. About the middle height—”“Humph!”“Pale to sallowness; a small, twinkling eye, bespeaking more cunning than courage.”“Ay—ay.”“A skulking, timid walk, as if ever afraid of question or pursuit.”“’Tis very strange.”“Sir?”“I say, ’tis very strange. I think I have quite a surprise for you in store.”“A surprise, sir?”“Yes. You must hear it manfully. Can you stand the shock of sudden news?”Albert felt at this moment as if all his fond hopes were suddenly blasted. He clasped hands, and said—“The news is bad?”“I said not so.”“Then—then—”“Not to keep you longer in suspense, young sir, I will tell you of the strangest circumstance that ever I encountered. The man who came to me for pecuniary assistance—that very man who I, from charitable motives, wished you to follow—”Albert drew his breath short and thick, as he gasped, and said,—“Go on, sir, I pray you. That man?”“Is Jacob Gray.”“God of Heaven! My heart told me so.”“Yes, he and Jacob Gray are one.”“This is Heaven’s work!”“Of course.”“Most providential!”“Certainly.”“Oh, sir, you have indeed lifted me from an abyss of despair to a pinnacle of happiness that makes me giddy! Thank Heaven I met with a heart like yours, and when I wish you all the happiness you really deserve, I am saying much, very much.”“Thank you,” said Learmont, coldly. “I was much struck with your description of Jacob Gray—it seemed to fit the man who had called here exactly; but before I would agitate you by vain hopes and fears, I made inquiry among my household, and found my suspicions verified, for, on more than one occasion, he has owned to them that Gray was his name.”“Oh, sir,” cried Albert, “I will follow that man to the world’s end!”“Do nothing rashly,” said Learmont. “Follow him you shall; for I will stir up heaven and earth to give you an opportunity.”“How can I express my thanks, sir?”“By following implicitly my directions. You are young, ardent, and enthusiastic, moreover—in love; now I am neither: so I condition with you, so tender am I of the majesty of the law, and my own unblemished honour, that until I point out what is meet to be done, you take no step in this matter, beyond following this man home.”“I promise all, sir—everything—anything.”“’Tis well. You will follow him home, and then come at once to me. Dog the fox to his lair; and I’ll unearth him, you may depend!”“When is he coming, sir?” said Albert, with trembling eagerness.“That I cannot tell you. You must be in wait for him—I would have you now remain in this house until he comes again.”“I will not stir from the door.”“You shall have a room here; and should this man come again, with his importunate suit, I will give him something, and, during the time I am engaging him in conversation, you can take measures to follow him.”“Sir, you have made me a new man—my blood bounds lightly through my veins—I long for you to look upon my Ada.”“I shall be gratified,” said Learmont.“Oh, she is beautiful!”“What may be her age?”“I know not, sir; but she is all perfection.”“Of course.”“The villain Gray shall pay a dear reckoning for each harsh word that he has spoken to her. Oh, that so much innocence, purity, and truth should be at the mercy, for one brief moment, of such a man as Jacob Gray.”“She shall be rescued from Jacob Gray.”“She shall—she shall! My own—my beautiful Ada, you shall not pine many more hours in your dreary imprisonment; oh, how each moment will become to me lengthened out into an age of impatience.”“I admire your constancy and fervour,” said Learmont. “Such high and rare qualities should always command success. With your own prudence in complying with the condition I annex, as the price of my assistance, you cannot fail of accomplishing all you wish; but any impetuosity upon your part—any sudden action that may bring things to an untimely crisis, would involve, probably, her whom you love, and yourself in difficulties from which even I could not extricate you.”“I will be prudent. When I but know where she is, I shall be happy, and will await your time to tear her from the abode of the villain Gray.”“That time shall not be long.”“Oh, sir,” added Albert, “you should have seen her—watched her growing beauties—lingered on every tone she uttered as I have done, to feel for me in my present state of torturing suspense.”“I can feel for you, and I hope to see this wondrous beauty ere many days have elapsed. You must, till then, be cautious, bold, and resolute. Make this your home until Gray shall come, when I will surely let you know.”“Sir,” said Albert, in a voice of emotion, “a lifetime of devotion could not express my deep sense of gratitude to you.”“Heed not that—heed not that; I make you one promise, and that is, that while you live, you shall be my secretary, provided no better fortune arises.”“What better fortune, sir, can the poor friendless Albert Seyton have, than to enjoy your favour, sir?”“Well, well, enough of this. You will remain here, of course?”“I will, sir, if it please you; or I will haunt about the street and door, if my presence here be at all inconvenient.”“Far from it,” said Learmont. “Believe me, my impatience equals yours.”Learmont now rose, and Albert Seyton, construing that into a hint to be gone, rose too. The squire rung the bell, and upon the appearance of a servant, he said,—“See that proper accommodation is provided for this gentleman. He will remain an inmate of the house.”Albert left the room, and followed the servant into a comfortable apartment, which commanded a pretty view of the garden.A thought now suddenly struck him that he might as well let the servant know, in case of the sudden appearance of Gray, when Learmont might be from home, that he, Albert Seyton, was to be informed of the fact, and he said,—“Do you know a man named Gray?”“Gray, sir?”“Yes, a mendicant.”The servant looked hard at Seyton, and muttered to himself,—“That’s a feeler to see if I gossips about the squire’s affairs.”“A thin, pale man,” added Albert, who thought the servant was endeavouring to recollect.“No I never saw him, sir—never saw nobody, sir—never mean to see.”“What do you mean?”“We never sees nobody in this house, sir. We never talks about master’s affairs, we don’t.”“Oh, very well,” said Albert. “I have no wish to induce you to do so, I am sure. Nothing could be further from my intention.”“No, sir,” said the servant,“I am your master’s most devoted friend.”“Yes, sir.”Albert turned away, for he saw that by some means he had excited the suspicions of the man, and he determined now to say no more to him at all.The day passed off to Albert strangely, and when the evening came, he was rejoiced that by so many hours he was nearer the completion of his hopes, for he looked upon the scheme of following Gray home as certain to bring him once more to Ada.Sometimes he would pace his room for an hour or more in a delightful reverie, dreaming of future happiness with Ada, and fondly imagining that he was gazing on those eyes which to him were glimpses of heaven. Then again he would become despondent, and fancy her at the mercy of Jacob Gray, who to rid himself of uneasiness on her account, might at that moment be contriving her death.The anxious lover would then torture himself awhile with this supposition, until hope refreshed sprung up again in his heart, like a phœnix from its ashes, and he smiled as, in imagination, he clasped his long-lost but much-loved Ada to his heart.
The Revelation.—Learmont’s Deep Duplicity.—Albert’s Gratitude.
The morningfound Albert Seyton true to his appointed time at Learmont’s. In fact, long before he could think of knocking for admittance, being ashamed of so much eagerness, he had arrived in the immediate vicinity, and wandered restlessly about until the hour should come.
The hope, so suddenly springing up as it had, in the midst of his despair of again beholding Ada, through the exertions of his new patron, had, in the endless mass of surmises and conjectures it had given rise to, banished sleep from his pillow, and it was not till the first faint gleam of the coming day poured in at his bedroom window, that he became conscious of the rapid flight of time.
To attempt to sleep then, he thought, was useless, and besides he might oversleep himself, and appear to be negligent of his appointment with the rich man, who had promised to do so much for him. He therefore rose, and as we have said, paced about the street in the vicinity of Learmont’s house, little dreaming that he was taking so much trouble and feeling so much elation for Ada’s worst and bitterest enemy.
At length he thought, although he was too soon, he might knock for admittance, and with a nervous hand he seized the old massive knocker at Learmont’s door.
He was speedily admitted, and his heart bounded with delight, when, in answer to his questions, he was told that Learmont was up and in his own private room. With a palpitating heart, Albert followed the servant who went to announce him. He heard the deep sepulchral tones of Learmont’s voice say—
“Come in!” and he thought—
“How much now one may be deceived in estimating character. Who would suppose that voice belonged to so good a man? And the countenance, too, of this squire, it is certainly not prepossessing, and yet what a kind heart he has!”
Albert Seyton was a far better physiognomist than he thought himself.
In another moment he was in the presence of one who, most on earth, he felt grateful to—but really the man who, most on earth, he had reason to entertain the greatest indignation at.
Learmont received his young secretary cautiously; and, turning to the servant, then he said,—
“Lay breakfast for me and this gentleman in the small morning room.”
The servant bowed down to the very ground, and closed the door after him so gently and quietly, that one could hardly suppose Learmont was anything but some piece of workmanship that any sudden noise or concussion of the air would destroy.
“You are early,” said Learmont to Albert, with a sickly smile.
“I fear, sir,” said Seyton, “that I have intruded upon you too soon, but my great anxiety—”
“Yes, yes, I have not forgotten,” interrupted Learmont. “Will it please you to describe to me this man, Jacob Gray, again, who kept the—the girl in such a state of bondage?”
“Certainly, sir. About the middle height—”
“Humph!”
“Pale to sallowness; a small, twinkling eye, bespeaking more cunning than courage.”
“Ay—ay.”
“A skulking, timid walk, as if ever afraid of question or pursuit.”
“’Tis very strange.”
“Sir?”
“I say, ’tis very strange. I think I have quite a surprise for you in store.”
“A surprise, sir?”
“Yes. You must hear it manfully. Can you stand the shock of sudden news?”
Albert felt at this moment as if all his fond hopes were suddenly blasted. He clasped hands, and said—
“The news is bad?”
“I said not so.”
“Then—then—”
“Not to keep you longer in suspense, young sir, I will tell you of the strangest circumstance that ever I encountered. The man who came to me for pecuniary assistance—that very man who I, from charitable motives, wished you to follow—”
Albert drew his breath short and thick, as he gasped, and said,—
“Go on, sir, I pray you. That man?”
“Is Jacob Gray.”
“God of Heaven! My heart told me so.”
“Yes, he and Jacob Gray are one.”
“This is Heaven’s work!”
“Of course.”
“Most providential!”
“Certainly.”
“Oh, sir, you have indeed lifted me from an abyss of despair to a pinnacle of happiness that makes me giddy! Thank Heaven I met with a heart like yours, and when I wish you all the happiness you really deserve, I am saying much, very much.”
“Thank you,” said Learmont, coldly. “I was much struck with your description of Jacob Gray—it seemed to fit the man who had called here exactly; but before I would agitate you by vain hopes and fears, I made inquiry among my household, and found my suspicions verified, for, on more than one occasion, he has owned to them that Gray was his name.”
“Oh, sir,” cried Albert, “I will follow that man to the world’s end!”
“Do nothing rashly,” said Learmont. “Follow him you shall; for I will stir up heaven and earth to give you an opportunity.”
“How can I express my thanks, sir?”
“By following implicitly my directions. You are young, ardent, and enthusiastic, moreover—in love; now I am neither: so I condition with you, so tender am I of the majesty of the law, and my own unblemished honour, that until I point out what is meet to be done, you take no step in this matter, beyond following this man home.”
“I promise all, sir—everything—anything.”
“’Tis well. You will follow him home, and then come at once to me. Dog the fox to his lair; and I’ll unearth him, you may depend!”
“When is he coming, sir?” said Albert, with trembling eagerness.
“That I cannot tell you. You must be in wait for him—I would have you now remain in this house until he comes again.”
“I will not stir from the door.”
“You shall have a room here; and should this man come again, with his importunate suit, I will give him something, and, during the time I am engaging him in conversation, you can take measures to follow him.”
“Sir, you have made me a new man—my blood bounds lightly through my veins—I long for you to look upon my Ada.”
“I shall be gratified,” said Learmont.
“Oh, she is beautiful!”
“What may be her age?”
“I know not, sir; but she is all perfection.”
“Of course.”
“The villain Gray shall pay a dear reckoning for each harsh word that he has spoken to her. Oh, that so much innocence, purity, and truth should be at the mercy, for one brief moment, of such a man as Jacob Gray.”
“She shall be rescued from Jacob Gray.”
“She shall—she shall! My own—my beautiful Ada, you shall not pine many more hours in your dreary imprisonment; oh, how each moment will become to me lengthened out into an age of impatience.”
“I admire your constancy and fervour,” said Learmont. “Such high and rare qualities should always command success. With your own prudence in complying with the condition I annex, as the price of my assistance, you cannot fail of accomplishing all you wish; but any impetuosity upon your part—any sudden action that may bring things to an untimely crisis, would involve, probably, her whom you love, and yourself in difficulties from which even I could not extricate you.”
“I will be prudent. When I but know where she is, I shall be happy, and will await your time to tear her from the abode of the villain Gray.”
“That time shall not be long.”
“Oh, sir,” added Albert, “you should have seen her—watched her growing beauties—lingered on every tone she uttered as I have done, to feel for me in my present state of torturing suspense.”
“I can feel for you, and I hope to see this wondrous beauty ere many days have elapsed. You must, till then, be cautious, bold, and resolute. Make this your home until Gray shall come, when I will surely let you know.”
“Sir,” said Albert, in a voice of emotion, “a lifetime of devotion could not express my deep sense of gratitude to you.”
“Heed not that—heed not that; I make you one promise, and that is, that while you live, you shall be my secretary, provided no better fortune arises.”
“What better fortune, sir, can the poor friendless Albert Seyton have, than to enjoy your favour, sir?”
“Well, well, enough of this. You will remain here, of course?”
“I will, sir, if it please you; or I will haunt about the street and door, if my presence here be at all inconvenient.”
“Far from it,” said Learmont. “Believe me, my impatience equals yours.”
Learmont now rose, and Albert Seyton, construing that into a hint to be gone, rose too. The squire rung the bell, and upon the appearance of a servant, he said,—
“See that proper accommodation is provided for this gentleman. He will remain an inmate of the house.”
Albert left the room, and followed the servant into a comfortable apartment, which commanded a pretty view of the garden.
A thought now suddenly struck him that he might as well let the servant know, in case of the sudden appearance of Gray, when Learmont might be from home, that he, Albert Seyton, was to be informed of the fact, and he said,—
“Do you know a man named Gray?”
“Gray, sir?”
“Yes, a mendicant.”
The servant looked hard at Seyton, and muttered to himself,—
“That’s a feeler to see if I gossips about the squire’s affairs.”
“A thin, pale man,” added Albert, who thought the servant was endeavouring to recollect.
“No I never saw him, sir—never saw nobody, sir—never mean to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“We never sees nobody in this house, sir. We never talks about master’s affairs, we don’t.”
“Oh, very well,” said Albert. “I have no wish to induce you to do so, I am sure. Nothing could be further from my intention.”
“No, sir,” said the servant,
“I am your master’s most devoted friend.”
“Yes, sir.”
Albert turned away, for he saw that by some means he had excited the suspicions of the man, and he determined now to say no more to him at all.
The day passed off to Albert strangely, and when the evening came, he was rejoiced that by so many hours he was nearer the completion of his hopes, for he looked upon the scheme of following Gray home as certain to bring him once more to Ada.
Sometimes he would pace his room for an hour or more in a delightful reverie, dreaming of future happiness with Ada, and fondly imagining that he was gazing on those eyes which to him were glimpses of heaven. Then again he would become despondent, and fancy her at the mercy of Jacob Gray, who to rid himself of uneasiness on her account, might at that moment be contriving her death.
The anxious lover would then torture himself awhile with this supposition, until hope refreshed sprung up again in his heart, like a phœnix from its ashes, and he smiled as, in imagination, he clasped his long-lost but much-loved Ada to his heart.
CHAPTER XC.The Last Meeting.—Mutual Cunning.—The Squire and Jacob Gray.The nightwas dark and a lowering one, and not a star appeared in the blue vault of heaven—a raw wind swept along the river, and thence up the narrow winding streets upon its banks, slamming doors, and now and then catching the hat of a too confiding passenger, and tossing it into the roadway.Learmont sat alone in the room he usually occupied, but he heard not the sighing of the wind, nor cared for the unpropitious aspect of the night—his thoughts were all bent upon one subject, and that was the near prospect he now had of achieving the destruction of Jacob Gray. A dark malignant smile lit up his features, and as he played upon the richly-carved table at which he sat with his fingers, he muttered in disjointed sentences the subject of his reveries.“So they say that Heaven always confounds the wicked—those who strive for power and wealth, by other than the usual channels—hard work or sycophancy—be it so: methinks that I, Squire Learmont, must have grievously mistaken my own actions, when I thought them of a fearful nature, for surely now Heaven smiles upon all my plans and projects. It would seem as if this lover, this wild enthusiastic boy, was purposely thrown in my way to be a weapon in my hands against Jacob Gray. The confession—ah, the confession. Dare I even trust him to bring me that? Yes—yet some damning accident might give him a glimpse of its contents, or he might be seized with some sudden whim, especially being disappointed in his main object of taking the confession to him to whom it is really addressed. No, the confession I will myself secure. Yes, myself. Britton shall do the deed of blood, and when ’tis finished, I will take the confession, and it would then be far better to take the life of Gray away from his home. Here, even here it might be done. It shall. Albert Seyton shall dog his footsteps home, and his next visit here he dies, while I proceed to his abode and possess myself of the dangerous document he leaves behind him.”How different were the reflections of Albert Seyton to those of Learmont, and yet they ran much in the same channel and the chief personage on whom they turned was the same—namely, Jacob Gray. Perhaps never had two persons, amid the whole population of London, waited with such great anxiety for the arrival of a third, as did Squire Learmont and Albert Seyton for Jacob Gray.It was well for the success of the plan of operations against Gray that a part of it had been for Albert to remain in the house until Gray should come, for the crafty Jacob had made up his mind, whenever he visited the squire to take him by surprise as much as possible, by calling at odd times; sometimes two days consecutively, and sometimes early in the evening, and sometimes very late, so that Learmont should never be able to count upon his coming, or be surprised at any long absence he should make, nor deceived into a false security, should he not see him for a considerable period.In pursuance of this plan, it so happened that about nine o’clock, as the squire was still in deep thought, Jacob Gray was announced.Learmont started to his feet with a suddenness that alarmed the servant, who made a precipitate retreat to the door.“Hold!” cried the squire. “How dare you leave the room without your orders?”“I—I—thought—your worship, that—I—I—thought, your worship—”“Fool!” muttered Learmont.He then hastily tore off a small scrap of paper from some that lay before him, and wrote on it the words—“J.G. is here.”“Give this,” he said, “to the young gentleman, my secretary, instantly.”“Yes, sir.”“And then bring Gray to me here.”The servant bowed, and retired, leaving Learmont standing in the middle of the room with such an expression of triumph on his face, that when Gray made his appearance, which he did almost immediately, he started back a pace or two in surprise, an action which was nearly imitated by Learmont, for Gray looked so very different in his wig, that Learmont quite started at first sight of him.The two looked at each other for several moments without speaking, then Gray, in his quick sneering tone, said,—“Your worship will get used to my wig in the course of time.”“Probably,” said Learmont, “if you live so long.”“Live so long?”“Ay, Jacob Gray; I never saw you look so bad in all my life. You must be nearer death than you think.”“I—I am very well,” said Gray. “I hope yet to attend your funeral, and receive something commensurate with our ancient friendship through the medium of your will.”“You are kind and obliging,” said Learmont, “but I don’t intend to die first, Jacob Gray.”Gray smiled in his usual sickly disagreeable manner, and then drawing himself a seat, he sat down by Learmont, and said,—“A truce to jesting, squire. Have you thought further of my proposition to you?”“Scarcely,” said Learmont; “and yet I have a notion of entertaining it.”“You have?”“I have.”“Believe me ’tis the best and safest plan.”“If I understand you rightly, you offer to surrender all that may make my life now a constant source of anxiety and torment for one large sum of money paid to you at once.”“I do,” said Gray.“The child—and—the confession?”“The confession and the child that was, but you forget the lapse of years; that child is a child no longer, but at an age to be dangerous. The slightest hint from me would raise a spirit in that offspring of your—”“Hush,” said Learmont, vehemently; “Jacob Gray, even here I will take your life if you dare to mention him you are about to revert to even now.”“I will alter my form of speech more to your liking, squire,” said Gray; “I meant that one word of mine would rouse up against you a more formidable opponent than any you have ever met with.”“And for some thousands of pounds you will leave me free?”“I will.”“But, cunning Master Gray, you know your wit is keener than mine,” sneered Learmont; “and how am I to be assured of your faith?”“You shall see me on shipboard,” said Gray; “with my own hands, then, I will hand you my confession.”“Suppose there were two copies?”“On my faith, squire, you are too suspicious—far too suspicious.”“Have I no cause?”“None whatever. It is my interest as well as yours that the past should be forgotten. What could I gain by denouncing you?”“Nothing but a barren triumph of man over man. I think, Jacob Gray, that I will trust you. But permit me, between this time and when we shall meet again, to consider of the subject.”“I pray you do so,” said Gray, who was so elated at the idea of getting Learmont to pay him largely, for the doubtful advantage of his absence, that he almost forgot his usual caution in his extreme eagerness to induce a compliance with his wishes.“You will feel so much at ease,” he added, “when I am gone from England never to return, and many of the fears that now disturb your mind will at once terminate.”“I hope to terminate them so,” said Learmont.“Such hope is wisely grounded,” replied Gray. “You have but then to get rid of the drunken sot, Andrew Britton, and a career of brilliant enjoyment will await you, unchecked by one lingering doubt of your safety.”“’Twere a blessed state,” said Learmont, “and one I have much striven to obtain. Now, however, I do certainly begin to see some light amid the gloom which had surrounded me.”“Your fortunes are in your hands,” said Gray; “I am tired of this mode of life. Give me five thousand pounds, and let me go in peace.”“Your demand is large.”“Nay, a mere trifle when compared with the revenues of your estates.”“Well, well, I will, as I tell you, consider; and I have a fervent hope that our next time of meeting maybe our last, or, at all events, that after that, there need be but one more final interview.”“Exactly,” said Gray; “it is in your own power, when you please to get rid of me for ever.”“And the young claimant of all I am now worth?”“Certainly—a pistol or a knife will get you rid of all trouble upon that head, squire.”“Certainly, but you ought to do so much for me as part of your bargain,”“No, no,” said Gray, confused; “I—I cannot—my nerves will not permit me, I really cannot. If you shrink yourself from the deed, why there is Andrew Britton, the savage smith, who revels and rejoices in blood. He will do the deed for you without a murmur.”“You think then that Britton is the best man I can employ to commit a murder?”“I do.”“Then he shall have the job.”Gray smiled to himself as he thought, “You must first wrest your prey from the hands of Sir Francis Hartleton—no easy task!” Then he said aloud,—“You are now on the right path, squire, you have but to pursue it, and every wish you ever nourished of pleasure and ambition will be satisfied.”“I do begin to think so,” said Learmont.Jacob Gray now rose, and said,—“I will bid you adieu, squire, but being rather pressed for money. I will trouble you for fifty pounds.”“Fifty pounds?”“Ay, ’tis but a small instalment of the thousands. Agree, at our next meeting, to my terms, and I will deduct this fifty pounds from the gross sum I am to receive.”“As you please,” said Learmont; “but, Jacob Gray, I will not give you so large a sum now.”“You will not?”“I will not.”“Know you who I am?”“Too well, and by this time you should know me. There are ten pounds, Jacob Gray. Take them or none.”“Has—has it come to this?” muttered Gray.“It has,” said Learmont.“Know you your dangers? What if I leave England suddenly and behind me is found—”“Pshaw! You mean your confession,” interrupted Learmont, “I know you can, if it so please you, Jacob Gray, but you prefer money to revenge.”“I do, but the money must be sufficient.”“It is most ample.”Gray looked in the calm pale face of the squire for a moment or two in silence, then he took the ten guineas which Learmont had laid upon the table, and with a bitterness of tone, which he in vain tried to conceal, he said,—“It matters not, ten pounds or a hundred, the result must be the same; I must and will have a certain sum, and now I am resolved to have it in a certain time. Farewell, Squire Learmont, you have begun your independence too early. Farewell.”He left the room, and Learmont looked after him with such a smile as he had not worn for years, and muttered,—“Have I begun my independence too early Jacob Grey? Humph, by some half dozen hours only, I do devoutly hope and trust. If you see another sunrise, I shall be a disappointed man.”
The Last Meeting.—Mutual Cunning.—The Squire and Jacob Gray.
The nightwas dark and a lowering one, and not a star appeared in the blue vault of heaven—a raw wind swept along the river, and thence up the narrow winding streets upon its banks, slamming doors, and now and then catching the hat of a too confiding passenger, and tossing it into the roadway.
Learmont sat alone in the room he usually occupied, but he heard not the sighing of the wind, nor cared for the unpropitious aspect of the night—his thoughts were all bent upon one subject, and that was the near prospect he now had of achieving the destruction of Jacob Gray. A dark malignant smile lit up his features, and as he played upon the richly-carved table at which he sat with his fingers, he muttered in disjointed sentences the subject of his reveries.
“So they say that Heaven always confounds the wicked—those who strive for power and wealth, by other than the usual channels—hard work or sycophancy—be it so: methinks that I, Squire Learmont, must have grievously mistaken my own actions, when I thought them of a fearful nature, for surely now Heaven smiles upon all my plans and projects. It would seem as if this lover, this wild enthusiastic boy, was purposely thrown in my way to be a weapon in my hands against Jacob Gray. The confession—ah, the confession. Dare I even trust him to bring me that? Yes—yet some damning accident might give him a glimpse of its contents, or he might be seized with some sudden whim, especially being disappointed in his main object of taking the confession to him to whom it is really addressed. No, the confession I will myself secure. Yes, myself. Britton shall do the deed of blood, and when ’tis finished, I will take the confession, and it would then be far better to take the life of Gray away from his home. Here, even here it might be done. It shall. Albert Seyton shall dog his footsteps home, and his next visit here he dies, while I proceed to his abode and possess myself of the dangerous document he leaves behind him.”
How different were the reflections of Albert Seyton to those of Learmont, and yet they ran much in the same channel and the chief personage on whom they turned was the same—namely, Jacob Gray. Perhaps never had two persons, amid the whole population of London, waited with such great anxiety for the arrival of a third, as did Squire Learmont and Albert Seyton for Jacob Gray.
It was well for the success of the plan of operations against Gray that a part of it had been for Albert to remain in the house until Gray should come, for the crafty Jacob had made up his mind, whenever he visited the squire to take him by surprise as much as possible, by calling at odd times; sometimes two days consecutively, and sometimes early in the evening, and sometimes very late, so that Learmont should never be able to count upon his coming, or be surprised at any long absence he should make, nor deceived into a false security, should he not see him for a considerable period.
In pursuance of this plan, it so happened that about nine o’clock, as the squire was still in deep thought, Jacob Gray was announced.
Learmont started to his feet with a suddenness that alarmed the servant, who made a precipitate retreat to the door.
“Hold!” cried the squire. “How dare you leave the room without your orders?”
“I—I—thought—your worship, that—I—I—thought, your worship—”
“Fool!” muttered Learmont.
He then hastily tore off a small scrap of paper from some that lay before him, and wrote on it the words—
“J.G. is here.”
“Give this,” he said, “to the young gentleman, my secretary, instantly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then bring Gray to me here.”
The servant bowed, and retired, leaving Learmont standing in the middle of the room with such an expression of triumph on his face, that when Gray made his appearance, which he did almost immediately, he started back a pace or two in surprise, an action which was nearly imitated by Learmont, for Gray looked so very different in his wig, that Learmont quite started at first sight of him.
The two looked at each other for several moments without speaking, then Gray, in his quick sneering tone, said,—
“Your worship will get used to my wig in the course of time.”
“Probably,” said Learmont, “if you live so long.”
“Live so long?”
“Ay, Jacob Gray; I never saw you look so bad in all my life. You must be nearer death than you think.”
“I—I am very well,” said Gray. “I hope yet to attend your funeral, and receive something commensurate with our ancient friendship through the medium of your will.”
“You are kind and obliging,” said Learmont, “but I don’t intend to die first, Jacob Gray.”
Gray smiled in his usual sickly disagreeable manner, and then drawing himself a seat, he sat down by Learmont, and said,—
“A truce to jesting, squire. Have you thought further of my proposition to you?”
“Scarcely,” said Learmont; “and yet I have a notion of entertaining it.”
“You have?”
“I have.”
“Believe me ’tis the best and safest plan.”
“If I understand you rightly, you offer to surrender all that may make my life now a constant source of anxiety and torment for one large sum of money paid to you at once.”
“I do,” said Gray.
“The child—and—the confession?”
“The confession and the child that was, but you forget the lapse of years; that child is a child no longer, but at an age to be dangerous. The slightest hint from me would raise a spirit in that offspring of your—”
“Hush,” said Learmont, vehemently; “Jacob Gray, even here I will take your life if you dare to mention him you are about to revert to even now.”
“I will alter my form of speech more to your liking, squire,” said Gray; “I meant that one word of mine would rouse up against you a more formidable opponent than any you have ever met with.”
“And for some thousands of pounds you will leave me free?”
“I will.”
“But, cunning Master Gray, you know your wit is keener than mine,” sneered Learmont; “and how am I to be assured of your faith?”
“You shall see me on shipboard,” said Gray; “with my own hands, then, I will hand you my confession.”
“Suppose there were two copies?”
“On my faith, squire, you are too suspicious—far too suspicious.”
“Have I no cause?”
“None whatever. It is my interest as well as yours that the past should be forgotten. What could I gain by denouncing you?”
“Nothing but a barren triumph of man over man. I think, Jacob Gray, that I will trust you. But permit me, between this time and when we shall meet again, to consider of the subject.”
“I pray you do so,” said Gray, who was so elated at the idea of getting Learmont to pay him largely, for the doubtful advantage of his absence, that he almost forgot his usual caution in his extreme eagerness to induce a compliance with his wishes.
“You will feel so much at ease,” he added, “when I am gone from England never to return, and many of the fears that now disturb your mind will at once terminate.”
“I hope to terminate them so,” said Learmont.
“Such hope is wisely grounded,” replied Gray. “You have but then to get rid of the drunken sot, Andrew Britton, and a career of brilliant enjoyment will await you, unchecked by one lingering doubt of your safety.”
“’Twere a blessed state,” said Learmont, “and one I have much striven to obtain. Now, however, I do certainly begin to see some light amid the gloom which had surrounded me.”
“Your fortunes are in your hands,” said Gray; “I am tired of this mode of life. Give me five thousand pounds, and let me go in peace.”
“Your demand is large.”
“Nay, a mere trifle when compared with the revenues of your estates.”
“Well, well, I will, as I tell you, consider; and I have a fervent hope that our next time of meeting maybe our last, or, at all events, that after that, there need be but one more final interview.”
“Exactly,” said Gray; “it is in your own power, when you please to get rid of me for ever.”
“And the young claimant of all I am now worth?”
“Certainly—a pistol or a knife will get you rid of all trouble upon that head, squire.”
“Certainly, but you ought to do so much for me as part of your bargain,”
“No, no,” said Gray, confused; “I—I cannot—my nerves will not permit me, I really cannot. If you shrink yourself from the deed, why there is Andrew Britton, the savage smith, who revels and rejoices in blood. He will do the deed for you without a murmur.”
“You think then that Britton is the best man I can employ to commit a murder?”
“I do.”
“Then he shall have the job.”
Gray smiled to himself as he thought, “You must first wrest your prey from the hands of Sir Francis Hartleton—no easy task!” Then he said aloud,—
“You are now on the right path, squire, you have but to pursue it, and every wish you ever nourished of pleasure and ambition will be satisfied.”
“I do begin to think so,” said Learmont.
Jacob Gray now rose, and said,—
“I will bid you adieu, squire, but being rather pressed for money. I will trouble you for fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds?”
“Ay, ’tis but a small instalment of the thousands. Agree, at our next meeting, to my terms, and I will deduct this fifty pounds from the gross sum I am to receive.”
“As you please,” said Learmont; “but, Jacob Gray, I will not give you so large a sum now.”
“You will not?”
“I will not.”
“Know you who I am?”
“Too well, and by this time you should know me. There are ten pounds, Jacob Gray. Take them or none.”
“Has—has it come to this?” muttered Gray.
“It has,” said Learmont.
“Know you your dangers? What if I leave England suddenly and behind me is found—”
“Pshaw! You mean your confession,” interrupted Learmont, “I know you can, if it so please you, Jacob Gray, but you prefer money to revenge.”
“I do, but the money must be sufficient.”
“It is most ample.”
Gray looked in the calm pale face of the squire for a moment or two in silence, then he took the ten guineas which Learmont had laid upon the table, and with a bitterness of tone, which he in vain tried to conceal, he said,—
“It matters not, ten pounds or a hundred, the result must be the same; I must and will have a certain sum, and now I am resolved to have it in a certain time. Farewell, Squire Learmont, you have begun your independence too early. Farewell.”
He left the room, and Learmont looked after him with such a smile as he had not worn for years, and muttered,—
“Have I begun my independence too early Jacob Grey? Humph, by some half dozen hours only, I do devoutly hope and trust. If you see another sunrise, I shall be a disappointed man.”
CHAPTER XCI.The Pursuit.—The Spy.—The Three Wherries on the Thames.CouldJacob Gray, in his wildest flight of fancy, have for one moment imagined that Albert Seyton stepped after him from Learmont’s door in a few moments after he had left it, how different would have been his feelings to what they were—how changed would have been the expression of his countenance! Never, in the whole course of their guilty career, had he and Learmont had so strange an interview. Never had each succeeded in deceiving each, as they had done on that eventful evening. Jacob Gray departed with a smile of triumph on his face, and he left Learmont with its counterpart upon his.The impatience of Albert Seyton after he had received Learmont’s short intimation of Jacob Gray’s avowal knew scarcely any bounds, and it appeared to him an age before Gray passed across the hall to leave the house.Albert had taken his station just within a small waiting-room which commanded a view of the great staircase, and at the first sight of Jacob Gray descending; his emotions were so powerful that he was compelled to sit down to recover his composure, during which brief period, Gray crossed the hall, and passed into the street with a rapid pace.The necessity, however, for immediate action soon roused Albert to some exertion, and being fully equipped for the streets, he made but one bound across the hall, to the great astonishment of the servants, and reached the street just in time to see Gray turn the first corner.The emotion of Albert Seyton had now died away, and he kept but one object in view, and that was the restoration to him of his much-loved Ada, as a consequence of his successful pursuit of Jacob Gray.He became calm, cool, and firm—every nerve seemed stretched to its utmost tension, and with a speed that was really tremendous, he cleared the distance between Learmont’s door and the corner at which Gray had disappeared.The object of his anxious pursuit was but half a dozen paces in advance of him, when Albert turned cautiously the corner, and the young man stepped into a doorway, to allow him to proceed to a safer distance.It would have been a curious study for any one more free to make observations than was Albert Seyton, to mark the curious, suspicious manner in which Gray went along the streets. His home was really not ten minutes’ walk from Learmont’s house; but something on this one evening, in particular, seemed to possess him with a notion of extreme caution, and when he had left Learmont’s door, instead of turning to the left, which he should have done, and then crossed Whitehall, he turned to the right, with a resolution of making a detour through the intricacies of Westminster before he reached his home.He went on till he emerged into Parliament-street, for he had a great notion of how much he was disguised in his new wig, and he did not mind venturing into a crowded thoroughfare so much as he did before.Crossing then by the House of Lords, he passed Westminster Abbey, and with a slow, measured step, sauntered down Abingdon-street.Once or twice Gray had wheeled round to look behind him so suddenly upon his heels, that had not Albert ever kept at a respectful distance, and being favoured by the darkness, he must have been discovered; but Gray passed on again without suspicion, for Seyton on these occasions had not shown any signs of trepidation, or wish to hide himself, but had walked carelessly forward with a determination, however, in his own mind, of knocking at some door rather than come close up to Gray.The wily Jacob, however, did not once wait for the listless passenger to pass him, so that Albert was not reduced to that troublesome alternative, and the pursuit continued the whole length of Abingdon-street, without any circumstance occurring to awaken suspicion in Gray’s mind.It was not, however, altogether so with Albert, for in Parliament-street he had noticed a man on the opposite side of the way to be keeping his eye upon Jacob Gray, and when they passed the abbey, the same man appeared again, and it was evident to Albert that he wasn’t the only one who was dogging Jacob Gray to his home.Had he but known that this was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, how much future trouble and uneasiness would have been spared him; but as it was, he only saw in the circumstance an additional cause for alarm on Ada’s account, for he could not possibly divine what motive any one but himself could have in tracing Gray to his home, unless it were that the villain had been making similar applications to the one he, Albert, fully believed he had made to Learmont, and some other person was following him home with a similar motive to Learmont’s, when he first requested him, Albert, to trace the man’s footsteps.This might or might not be the motive of the spy upon Jacob Gray, but one thing soon became certain, and that was, that the stranger began to regard Albert with as much suspicion and distrust as Albert regarded him, and probably never were two people engaged in one object, more angry at each other just then, than Albert Seyton and the spy of Sir Francis Hartleton.Jacob Gray would have almost fallen dead in the street with fright, had he imagined for one moment the predicament he was in—but, on the contrary, he went on applauding himself upon his own cleverness; and, perhaps, never had he felt so satisfied of his superiority in point of cunning over all his enemies than he did that night.“I shall yet, after all that is past,” he thought, “receive a large sum of money, and be an independent man, while I adequately punish all who have given me uneasiness. The only men I cannot crush are the scoundrels who robbed me after my little adventure with Vaughan. I see no ready way of being revenged upon them, and my only consolation is that, sooner or later, they are sure to come to the gallows.”Hugging himself with his idea, although, metaphorically speaking, he, Gray, may be said to have had the rope then about his neck, the villain passed on by the low swampy bit of ground on which the Penitentiary is now built.He then paused a few moments, as if in doubt which way he should go next, and Albert Seyton crouched down by some timber which lay upon the ground, while Sir Francis Hartleton’s man drew back into the shadow of some irregular small, wretched dwellings which stood near the water’s edge.Gray did not keep them long in suspence, for after a slight reflection, he determined upon adopting his favourite plan of reaching home, with, at all events, the nearest approach to a certainty of not being followed, namely, by water. He accordingly walked down to some stairs by the river side, passing within arm’s length of Albert, and jumped into a wherry in which was a boy lying fast asleep.Gray awoke the boy roughly, and when, with a bewildered look, he gazed into the face of his visitor, Gray said,—“Can you row me to the stairs, by Burlington House in the Strand?”“Yes, master,” said the boy, as he began unmooring the wherry.Gray seated himself in the stem of the boat in silence, and pulling his cravat over his chin, he with a smile muttered,—“Humph—Squire Learmont, Jacob Gray is one too many for you. The day of independence and revenge will come for me soon.”The boat shot out from the shadow of the dark stairs, and the boy began pulling easily towards Westminster-bridge.Scarcely had the boat got a dozen oar’s length from the shore, when Albert Seyton stood upon the steps, and cried,—“Boat—boat—hilloa, boat!”“First oars!” cried another voice,—“quick, my man, first oars here!”Albert turned to the speaker, and by his side, on the slippery wooden steps, was the man he had before noticed as following Gray.For a moment they looked at each other intensely, and the officer thought to himself—“I shall know you again, my young spark;” while Albert Seyton was quite absorbed in the exceedingly ugly face before him, further adorned as it was, for nature had intersected it by several seams from old wounds received in many a fray.“Here you are, your honour,” cried a waterman.“For me,” said Albert.“I beg your pardon, young fellow, it’s for me,” said the spy.Albert turned to him, and in a firm voice said—“Sir, I will not be bullied out of my right by you; I called a boat first here, and the first boat I will have.”So saying, he sprung into the wherry; and not wishing the man to overhear where he really wished to go, he merely said to the waterman,—“Pull down the stream.”The boat was pushed off, and the spy called from the stairs in an angry voice,—“Very well, young fellow, just wait till I come across you again; you may jump better, but I’m d—d if you’ll fight better than I.”“Go home to your anxious mother,” cried the waterman, who, as Albert was silent, considered he was bound to take the part of his fare.“Do not answer him,” said Albert.“He’s a vagabond, sir,” said the waterman,—“I knows him. He’s a sort o’ sneak as goes arter everybody’s business but his own.”“Do you see a wherry just ahead?” said Albert.“Yes, master.”“I want you to follow it. You shall have treble fare if you keep it in sight, and not appear to press upon it.”The waterman gave a long whistle; and then, with a nod of his head, he said—“All’s right. It’s Ben’s boy as is pulling; and by G—d, there comes your friend.”“My friend?” said Albert, as he looked back towards the stairs.There was another wherry darting after them, in the stern of which sat the ugly man.“Pull away,” said the waterman, with a laugh, as he took long clean sweeps with his oars,—“a stern chase is a long chase.”
The Pursuit.—The Spy.—The Three Wherries on the Thames.
CouldJacob Gray, in his wildest flight of fancy, have for one moment imagined that Albert Seyton stepped after him from Learmont’s door in a few moments after he had left it, how different would have been his feelings to what they were—how changed would have been the expression of his countenance! Never, in the whole course of their guilty career, had he and Learmont had so strange an interview. Never had each succeeded in deceiving each, as they had done on that eventful evening. Jacob Gray departed with a smile of triumph on his face, and he left Learmont with its counterpart upon his.
The impatience of Albert Seyton after he had received Learmont’s short intimation of Jacob Gray’s avowal knew scarcely any bounds, and it appeared to him an age before Gray passed across the hall to leave the house.
Albert had taken his station just within a small waiting-room which commanded a view of the great staircase, and at the first sight of Jacob Gray descending; his emotions were so powerful that he was compelled to sit down to recover his composure, during which brief period, Gray crossed the hall, and passed into the street with a rapid pace.
The necessity, however, for immediate action soon roused Albert to some exertion, and being fully equipped for the streets, he made but one bound across the hall, to the great astonishment of the servants, and reached the street just in time to see Gray turn the first corner.
The emotion of Albert Seyton had now died away, and he kept but one object in view, and that was the restoration to him of his much-loved Ada, as a consequence of his successful pursuit of Jacob Gray.
He became calm, cool, and firm—every nerve seemed stretched to its utmost tension, and with a speed that was really tremendous, he cleared the distance between Learmont’s door and the corner at which Gray had disappeared.
The object of his anxious pursuit was but half a dozen paces in advance of him, when Albert turned cautiously the corner, and the young man stepped into a doorway, to allow him to proceed to a safer distance.
It would have been a curious study for any one more free to make observations than was Albert Seyton, to mark the curious, suspicious manner in which Gray went along the streets. His home was really not ten minutes’ walk from Learmont’s house; but something on this one evening, in particular, seemed to possess him with a notion of extreme caution, and when he had left Learmont’s door, instead of turning to the left, which he should have done, and then crossed Whitehall, he turned to the right, with a resolution of making a detour through the intricacies of Westminster before he reached his home.
He went on till he emerged into Parliament-street, for he had a great notion of how much he was disguised in his new wig, and he did not mind venturing into a crowded thoroughfare so much as he did before.
Crossing then by the House of Lords, he passed Westminster Abbey, and with a slow, measured step, sauntered down Abingdon-street.
Once or twice Gray had wheeled round to look behind him so suddenly upon his heels, that had not Albert ever kept at a respectful distance, and being favoured by the darkness, he must have been discovered; but Gray passed on again without suspicion, for Seyton on these occasions had not shown any signs of trepidation, or wish to hide himself, but had walked carelessly forward with a determination, however, in his own mind, of knocking at some door rather than come close up to Gray.
The wily Jacob, however, did not once wait for the listless passenger to pass him, so that Albert was not reduced to that troublesome alternative, and the pursuit continued the whole length of Abingdon-street, without any circumstance occurring to awaken suspicion in Gray’s mind.
It was not, however, altogether so with Albert, for in Parliament-street he had noticed a man on the opposite side of the way to be keeping his eye upon Jacob Gray, and when they passed the abbey, the same man appeared again, and it was evident to Albert that he wasn’t the only one who was dogging Jacob Gray to his home.
Had he but known that this was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, how much future trouble and uneasiness would have been spared him; but as it was, he only saw in the circumstance an additional cause for alarm on Ada’s account, for he could not possibly divine what motive any one but himself could have in tracing Gray to his home, unless it were that the villain had been making similar applications to the one he, Albert, fully believed he had made to Learmont, and some other person was following him home with a similar motive to Learmont’s, when he first requested him, Albert, to trace the man’s footsteps.
This might or might not be the motive of the spy upon Jacob Gray, but one thing soon became certain, and that was, that the stranger began to regard Albert with as much suspicion and distrust as Albert regarded him, and probably never were two people engaged in one object, more angry at each other just then, than Albert Seyton and the spy of Sir Francis Hartleton.
Jacob Gray would have almost fallen dead in the street with fright, had he imagined for one moment the predicament he was in—but, on the contrary, he went on applauding himself upon his own cleverness; and, perhaps, never had he felt so satisfied of his superiority in point of cunning over all his enemies than he did that night.
“I shall yet, after all that is past,” he thought, “receive a large sum of money, and be an independent man, while I adequately punish all who have given me uneasiness. The only men I cannot crush are the scoundrels who robbed me after my little adventure with Vaughan. I see no ready way of being revenged upon them, and my only consolation is that, sooner or later, they are sure to come to the gallows.”
Hugging himself with his idea, although, metaphorically speaking, he, Gray, may be said to have had the rope then about his neck, the villain passed on by the low swampy bit of ground on which the Penitentiary is now built.
He then paused a few moments, as if in doubt which way he should go next, and Albert Seyton crouched down by some timber which lay upon the ground, while Sir Francis Hartleton’s man drew back into the shadow of some irregular small, wretched dwellings which stood near the water’s edge.
Gray did not keep them long in suspence, for after a slight reflection, he determined upon adopting his favourite plan of reaching home, with, at all events, the nearest approach to a certainty of not being followed, namely, by water. He accordingly walked down to some stairs by the river side, passing within arm’s length of Albert, and jumped into a wherry in which was a boy lying fast asleep.
Gray awoke the boy roughly, and when, with a bewildered look, he gazed into the face of his visitor, Gray said,—
“Can you row me to the stairs, by Burlington House in the Strand?”
“Yes, master,” said the boy, as he began unmooring the wherry.
Gray seated himself in the stem of the boat in silence, and pulling his cravat over his chin, he with a smile muttered,—
“Humph—Squire Learmont, Jacob Gray is one too many for you. The day of independence and revenge will come for me soon.”
The boat shot out from the shadow of the dark stairs, and the boy began pulling easily towards Westminster-bridge.
Scarcely had the boat got a dozen oar’s length from the shore, when Albert Seyton stood upon the steps, and cried,—
“Boat—boat—hilloa, boat!”
“First oars!” cried another voice,—“quick, my man, first oars here!”
Albert turned to the speaker, and by his side, on the slippery wooden steps, was the man he had before noticed as following Gray.
For a moment they looked at each other intensely, and the officer thought to himself—
“I shall know you again, my young spark;” while Albert Seyton was quite absorbed in the exceedingly ugly face before him, further adorned as it was, for nature had intersected it by several seams from old wounds received in many a fray.
“Here you are, your honour,” cried a waterman.
“For me,” said Albert.
“I beg your pardon, young fellow, it’s for me,” said the spy.
Albert turned to him, and in a firm voice said—
“Sir, I will not be bullied out of my right by you; I called a boat first here, and the first boat I will have.”
So saying, he sprung into the wherry; and not wishing the man to overhear where he really wished to go, he merely said to the waterman,—
“Pull down the stream.”
The boat was pushed off, and the spy called from the stairs in an angry voice,—
“Very well, young fellow, just wait till I come across you again; you may jump better, but I’m d—d if you’ll fight better than I.”
“Go home to your anxious mother,” cried the waterman, who, as Albert was silent, considered he was bound to take the part of his fare.
“Do not answer him,” said Albert.
“He’s a vagabond, sir,” said the waterman,—“I knows him. He’s a sort o’ sneak as goes arter everybody’s business but his own.”
“Do you see a wherry just ahead?” said Albert.
“Yes, master.”
“I want you to follow it. You shall have treble fare if you keep it in sight, and not appear to press upon it.”
The waterman gave a long whistle; and then, with a nod of his head, he said—
“All’s right. It’s Ben’s boy as is pulling; and by G—d, there comes your friend.”
“My friend?” said Albert, as he looked back towards the stairs.
There was another wherry darting after them, in the stern of which sat the ugly man.
“Pull away,” said the waterman, with a laugh, as he took long clean sweeps with his oars,—“a stern chase is a long chase.”
CHAPTER XCII.The Chase on the Thames.—Albert’s Successful Disguise.—The Old Stairs at Buckingham-street.Therewas something spirit-stirring and exciting to the young imagination of Albert Seyton in the turn things had taken, as regarded his chase of Jacob Gray. Who or what the man was who seemed equally determined with himself not to lose sight of Gray, he could not divine; but be he whom he might, or his object what it might, Albert resolved he should not stand in the way of his own great effort to discover his long lost Ada.“He may follow,” thought Albert, “and I cannot, with any show of reason, quarrel with him for the same thing that I am doing myself; but he shall not, if I can help it, be foremost in the chase.”While these reflections were passing through Seyton’s mind, the boat in which was Jacob Gray was shooting far ahead; and by Albert’s direction, the waterman who rowed the wherry in which he (Albert) sat, moved into another channel, so as not to seem to follow Gray’s boat, although he easily kept it in view.“You quite understand me,” said Albert; “I wish to follow yon wherry sufficiently close to see where it lands its passengers without being seen myself. My object is an honest one, and I pray you, as you know the river, to adopt some course which will accomplish my purpose.”“I tell you what it is,” said the waterman. “The safest way in the world to follow a boat, is to pass it.”“Rather a strange way of following,” said Albert.“I don’t exactly mean following,” added the man; “but finding out where it’s a going to. Now, I can easily pass Ben’s boy, and then all we have to do, is to take no notice, but keep on ahead for a little way till they puts in at some stairs. They won’t suspect nothink then.”“That is a very good plan,” said Albert; “but he I am following knows me by sight, I fear too well, to make it safe or practicable.”“Oh!—He does—does he? Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do—put on my jacket and badge, and this red night-cap, and I’ll be hanged if your own mother would know you.”“Row easy, then, that the change may not be noticed,” said Albert.The boatman dipped but one oar languidly in the stream, and allowed the wherry to drift among some barges when he instantly shipped his oars, and doffing his coat and red night-cap, he tendered them to Albert, who was soon attired in the very cumbrous garment, which went on easily over all his other clothing. He then gathered up all his long hair, and confined it under his red night-cap, which he pulled on nearly to his eyes.The waterman sat for a moment, apparently lost in intense surprise, at the alteration which the two articles had made in his customer’s appearance, and certainly it would have required somebody most wonderfully well acquainted with the young man to recognise him in his strange disguise. A more complete alteration of personal appearance could not possibly be conceived, and the absence of the long curled hair gave his face quite a different contour.“Upon my word,” said the waterman, “I never saw, in all my life, anything to ekal this. Why, I shouldn’t have known you myself for my fare. You needn’t mind running alongside of him now, for I’ll be hanged if he’ll guess it’s you, if he eats, drinks, and sleeps with you.”“I dare say I look very different,” said Albert, “but for Heaven’s sake don’t lose sight of him.”“Oh! I’ll be up to him in five minutes. I know how Ben’s boy can pull, and I know how I can pull. Hilloa—there goes your friend.”The boat, with the spy, shot past at this moment, and Albert was now the last in the chase, to his great aggravation.Such a state of things, however, did not long continue, for the waterman, after taking a sturdy look behind him to mark the relative position of the boats, bent to his oars with such strength and determination that the light wherry shot through the water with amazing speed. At each vigorous pull of the oars the boat actually seemed to jump forward several yards, and the distance between it and the boat preceding it sensibly decreased each moment.“I told you I’d soon be up with them, sir,” said the waterman, as they came within a dozen boats’ lengths of the wherry in which was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man. “Now you’ll see me pass ’em, in proper style. I won this boat on the Thames, and you shall see as it ain’t thrown away upon me.”The oars were dipped cleanly into the stream, and rose with scarcely a ripple—the speed of the boat, for the space of about twenty yards, was prodigious, and Albert felt that he was moving through the water at a most exhilarating rate. Now they were alongside of the boat with the spy, who immediately, to the immense diversion of the waterman, cried,—“Hilloa, you there. Where did you land that young fellow you had?”“Him with the long hair?” said the waterman.“Yes!”“And the plum coloured coat?”“Yes, yes—you know.”“You want to know where I landed him?”“Of course, I do. I asked you that.”“Then find out, spooney.”“I tell you what,” cried the spy. “If I wasn’t busy, I’d have you taken before your betters.”“They are no acquaintances of yours, I should say,” replied the waterman.“Do you see this?” cried the infuriated spy, as he produced a small staff with a gilt-crown on the top of it. “Do you see this, fellow?”“Yes!”“Then mind what you are at.”“Do you see this?” said the waterman, indicating with his fore finger the extreme point of his nose, an action which seemed to be especially aggravating to the officer, who immediately said to the boy,—“Pull alongside of him—pull away.”“Pull away,” echoed Albert’s waterman, as with a laugh, he bent himself to his work, and soon left the other wherry behind, without a hope of overtaking him.When the wherry was out of ear-shot, he turned to Albert and said,—“You see, sir, he didn’t know you.”“No, my disguise appears to be effectual. Get now as near to the other boat as you like.”The man nodded, and in a few moments, Albert Seyton was so near to Jacob Gray that he could almost have sprung from one boat to the other.Gray looked anxiously and suspiciously at the wherry, but as it, to his eyes, contained only two watermen, he never for a moment dreamt of any danger from it.Albert buried his chin in the ample collar of the coat, and as his boat passed so close to the one Gray was in that the watermen had both to ship their oars, he gazed with no little emotion upon the pale sallow face of the man who he would have travelled all over the world to meet, in order to wring from him the knowledge of where to find his much-loved and cruelly-persecuted Ada.Gray glanced for a moment at Albert, but it was evident he knew him not. Nothing was further from Gray’s thoughts than a meeting with Albert Seyton; and, in fact, since Ada had left him, he scarcely regarded Albert Seyton as in any way connected with him or his fortunes, and never for a moment took the trouble to speculate upon what he would or could do or say, were they to meet accidentally.“Where are you coming to now?” cried Gray’s boatman.“Nowhere’s partiklar,” was the reply of the other; “where are you?”“What’s that to you?”“Oh, nothink—nothink—only I’d a let you lay hold behind.”Gray’s waterman, with a hearty curse, resumed his oars and gave up the parley.“Now, I bethink me,” said Gray, in a low tone, “you may put me in at the small stairs, by Buckingham-street.”“Yes, your honour. We are just there.”“Good. That will do.”The stairs at the end of Buckingham-street led up to a handsome garden then, and were themselves of an ancient and decayed appearance, being worn in the centre quite into deep hollows, and withal so rickety and injured by time and rough usage, that it required some steadiness to ascend them. Jacob Gray, however, from that very reason, thought it a safe place of landing, and when the head of his boat was moored to one of the crumbling piles, that had been rotting in the bed of the river for more than fifty years, he walked cautiously along the seats, and after liberally paying the waterman, he commenced carefully ascending the slippery time-worn steps.Albert, at this moment, was in a state of excitement impossible to be described. He paid the waterman immediately Gray’s wherry turned its head towards the shore, and sat with his hands upon the coat, as ready as a harlequin in a pantomime to throw it off, and assume his proper appearance; but then Gray might look round, and he felt the necessity of waiting until he had actually ascended the stairs. Oh, what an agony of suspense was that brief period!At length Gray turned sharp round to his right hand when he got to the top of the steps, and with the speed of lightning Albert Seyton threw off the coat and night-cap, and sprung after him to the intense astonishment of Gray’s waterman, who stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring out of his head like those of a boiled fish, for nearly two minutes before he could ejaculate,—“Well, I never—there’s ago—in all my blessed born days I never. Who the devil’s that?”“Ah, your’s hit it now,” said Albert’s waterman, as he deliberately put on the coat.“What do you mean?”“I’ve been giving the devil a coat. Didn’t you see how quick we went?”“Yes.”“Well, he was steering with his tail all the time, so you see I’d nothing to do but to pull away.”
The Chase on the Thames.—Albert’s Successful Disguise.—The Old Stairs at Buckingham-street.
Therewas something spirit-stirring and exciting to the young imagination of Albert Seyton in the turn things had taken, as regarded his chase of Jacob Gray. Who or what the man was who seemed equally determined with himself not to lose sight of Gray, he could not divine; but be he whom he might, or his object what it might, Albert resolved he should not stand in the way of his own great effort to discover his long lost Ada.
“He may follow,” thought Albert, “and I cannot, with any show of reason, quarrel with him for the same thing that I am doing myself; but he shall not, if I can help it, be foremost in the chase.”
While these reflections were passing through Seyton’s mind, the boat in which was Jacob Gray was shooting far ahead; and by Albert’s direction, the waterman who rowed the wherry in which he (Albert) sat, moved into another channel, so as not to seem to follow Gray’s boat, although he easily kept it in view.
“You quite understand me,” said Albert; “I wish to follow yon wherry sufficiently close to see where it lands its passengers without being seen myself. My object is an honest one, and I pray you, as you know the river, to adopt some course which will accomplish my purpose.”
“I tell you what it is,” said the waterman. “The safest way in the world to follow a boat, is to pass it.”
“Rather a strange way of following,” said Albert.
“I don’t exactly mean following,” added the man; “but finding out where it’s a going to. Now, I can easily pass Ben’s boy, and then all we have to do, is to take no notice, but keep on ahead for a little way till they puts in at some stairs. They won’t suspect nothink then.”
“That is a very good plan,” said Albert; “but he I am following knows me by sight, I fear too well, to make it safe or practicable.”
“Oh!—He does—does he? Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do—put on my jacket and badge, and this red night-cap, and I’ll be hanged if your own mother would know you.”
“Row easy, then, that the change may not be noticed,” said Albert.
The boatman dipped but one oar languidly in the stream, and allowed the wherry to drift among some barges when he instantly shipped his oars, and doffing his coat and red night-cap, he tendered them to Albert, who was soon attired in the very cumbrous garment, which went on easily over all his other clothing. He then gathered up all his long hair, and confined it under his red night-cap, which he pulled on nearly to his eyes.
The waterman sat for a moment, apparently lost in intense surprise, at the alteration which the two articles had made in his customer’s appearance, and certainly it would have required somebody most wonderfully well acquainted with the young man to recognise him in his strange disguise. A more complete alteration of personal appearance could not possibly be conceived, and the absence of the long curled hair gave his face quite a different contour.
“Upon my word,” said the waterman, “I never saw, in all my life, anything to ekal this. Why, I shouldn’t have known you myself for my fare. You needn’t mind running alongside of him now, for I’ll be hanged if he’ll guess it’s you, if he eats, drinks, and sleeps with you.”
“I dare say I look very different,” said Albert, “but for Heaven’s sake don’t lose sight of him.”
“Oh! I’ll be up to him in five minutes. I know how Ben’s boy can pull, and I know how I can pull. Hilloa—there goes your friend.”
The boat, with the spy, shot past at this moment, and Albert was now the last in the chase, to his great aggravation.
Such a state of things, however, did not long continue, for the waterman, after taking a sturdy look behind him to mark the relative position of the boats, bent to his oars with such strength and determination that the light wherry shot through the water with amazing speed. At each vigorous pull of the oars the boat actually seemed to jump forward several yards, and the distance between it and the boat preceding it sensibly decreased each moment.
“I told you I’d soon be up with them, sir,” said the waterman, as they came within a dozen boats’ lengths of the wherry in which was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man. “Now you’ll see me pass ’em, in proper style. I won this boat on the Thames, and you shall see as it ain’t thrown away upon me.”
The oars were dipped cleanly into the stream, and rose with scarcely a ripple—the speed of the boat, for the space of about twenty yards, was prodigious, and Albert felt that he was moving through the water at a most exhilarating rate. Now they were alongside of the boat with the spy, who immediately, to the immense diversion of the waterman, cried,—
“Hilloa, you there. Where did you land that young fellow you had?”
“Him with the long hair?” said the waterman.
“Yes!”
“And the plum coloured coat?”
“Yes, yes—you know.”
“You want to know where I landed him?”
“Of course, I do. I asked you that.”
“Then find out, spooney.”
“I tell you what,” cried the spy. “If I wasn’t busy, I’d have you taken before your betters.”
“They are no acquaintances of yours, I should say,” replied the waterman.
“Do you see this?” cried the infuriated spy, as he produced a small staff with a gilt-crown on the top of it. “Do you see this, fellow?”
“Yes!”
“Then mind what you are at.”
“Do you see this?” said the waterman, indicating with his fore finger the extreme point of his nose, an action which seemed to be especially aggravating to the officer, who immediately said to the boy,—
“Pull alongside of him—pull away.”
“Pull away,” echoed Albert’s waterman, as with a laugh, he bent himself to his work, and soon left the other wherry behind, without a hope of overtaking him.
When the wherry was out of ear-shot, he turned to Albert and said,—
“You see, sir, he didn’t know you.”
“No, my disguise appears to be effectual. Get now as near to the other boat as you like.”
The man nodded, and in a few moments, Albert Seyton was so near to Jacob Gray that he could almost have sprung from one boat to the other.
Gray looked anxiously and suspiciously at the wherry, but as it, to his eyes, contained only two watermen, he never for a moment dreamt of any danger from it.
Albert buried his chin in the ample collar of the coat, and as his boat passed so close to the one Gray was in that the watermen had both to ship their oars, he gazed with no little emotion upon the pale sallow face of the man who he would have travelled all over the world to meet, in order to wring from him the knowledge of where to find his much-loved and cruelly-persecuted Ada.
Gray glanced for a moment at Albert, but it was evident he knew him not. Nothing was further from Gray’s thoughts than a meeting with Albert Seyton; and, in fact, since Ada had left him, he scarcely regarded Albert Seyton as in any way connected with him or his fortunes, and never for a moment took the trouble to speculate upon what he would or could do or say, were they to meet accidentally.
“Where are you coming to now?” cried Gray’s boatman.
“Nowhere’s partiklar,” was the reply of the other; “where are you?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Oh, nothink—nothink—only I’d a let you lay hold behind.”
Gray’s waterman, with a hearty curse, resumed his oars and gave up the parley.
“Now, I bethink me,” said Gray, in a low tone, “you may put me in at the small stairs, by Buckingham-street.”
“Yes, your honour. We are just there.”
“Good. That will do.”
The stairs at the end of Buckingham-street led up to a handsome garden then, and were themselves of an ancient and decayed appearance, being worn in the centre quite into deep hollows, and withal so rickety and injured by time and rough usage, that it required some steadiness to ascend them. Jacob Gray, however, from that very reason, thought it a safe place of landing, and when the head of his boat was moored to one of the crumbling piles, that had been rotting in the bed of the river for more than fifty years, he walked cautiously along the seats, and after liberally paying the waterman, he commenced carefully ascending the slippery time-worn steps.
Albert, at this moment, was in a state of excitement impossible to be described. He paid the waterman immediately Gray’s wherry turned its head towards the shore, and sat with his hands upon the coat, as ready as a harlequin in a pantomime to throw it off, and assume his proper appearance; but then Gray might look round, and he felt the necessity of waiting until he had actually ascended the stairs. Oh, what an agony of suspense was that brief period!
At length Gray turned sharp round to his right hand when he got to the top of the steps, and with the speed of lightning Albert Seyton threw off the coat and night-cap, and sprung after him to the intense astonishment of Gray’s waterman, who stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring out of his head like those of a boiled fish, for nearly two minutes before he could ejaculate,—
“Well, I never—there’s ago—in all my blessed born days I never. Who the devil’s that?”
“Ah, your’s hit it now,” said Albert’s waterman, as he deliberately put on the coat.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been giving the devil a coat. Didn’t you see how quick we went?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he was steering with his tail all the time, so you see I’d nothing to do but to pull away.”