CHAPTER XCIII.Gray at Home.—Albert’s Joy and Exultation.—The Meeting in the Old Door Way.“Makeway there!” roared Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, as the boy who rowed him shot the wherry’s nose between the other two. “Make way there—curse you all, I am on the king’s business.”“Make way for his majesty,” cried the man who had carried Albert Seyton. “He says he’s on the king’s business, but that’s only his modesty. He’s the king himself, I shouldn’t wonder, disguised as a fool.”The spy had scrambled from the boat on to the wooden steps, but he was so annoyed at this last remark, that snatching his staff from his pocket, he turned round, saying,—“If I lose my proper game, I’ll make sure for you for obstructing an officer. You shall have a lodging in the watch-house, my exceedingly witty fellow.”The waterman was, however, a great deal too quick for him; for, as he tried to step from the stairs into the boat, by one sweep of his oars he shot the wherry out some three or four yards from the landing, and the spy stepped up to his knees in the river, and was nearly precipitated head foremost into the stream.“Don’t pison the water,” said the waterman; and then he pulled steadily away.“I’ll have you another time, my man,” said the spy, quite livid with rage, as he turned, and again ascended the steps.In the meantime Jacob Gray had gathered his cloak closely around him, and smiling to himself at his own cleverness in, as he thought, thoroughly outwitting Learmont, and even when there was no danger, approaching his home in so very baffling a manner, was creeping along close to the houses as usual towards his obscure lodgings.Albert Seyton, when he reached the top of the stairs, looked anxiously to the right, and there he saw Gray, not half a dozen yards from him. To follow so closely would have been very dangerous, undisguised now as the young man was, and he hung back, still keeping Jacob Gray in his eye, until the latter had proceeded nearly to a turning which led into the next street but one in which he lived. The moment, then, that he was upon the corner Albert walked hastily forward, and by pursuing the same system at the corner of the next street, he fairly succeeded in dogging Gray to the little mean shop above which he lodged.Albert’s heart beat high as he saw him enter the humble abode. His agitation became extreme, and the thought that he was so near Ada caused such a tumult of delightful feelings in his breast, that he forgot all passed suffering—all present cautions, and actually bounded forward half a dozen paces towards the shop, before his promise to Learmont came across his mind, and arrested his eager footsteps.“Oh, oh,” he said, “Ada, my beautiful and true. Even now, although so near to you, I must not rush to your rescue. My word of honour binds me, but I can gaze with rapture upon the house in which you are. I can please myself by fancying I breathe the same air with you. Oh, how cruel is this that I cannot, for my promise to the rich squire, at once rush into the house that contains my heart’s treasure, and claim it as my own, I must control my impatience. Ada, your imprisonment shall now be but of short duration. Soon now shall I clasp you to my heart.”Albert now crossed over to the other side of the way, and diving into a doorway where he was completely hidden, but from whence he could command a good view of the house in which he so erroneously supposed Ada to be, he gave himself up to the delirious feeling that he had at length arrived at the end of all his troubles, and Ada would soon be his, while the patronage of the rich Squire Learmont would ensure him ease, and perhaps in time fortune.There was no sign of inhabitants visible in the whole front of the house; but in a few more moments, as Albert rose his eye restlessly from window to window, he saw a dirty narrow curtain moved in one of the top rooms, and fancy made him think the hand was Ada’s, which he saw but partially.“My Ada—my own. Ada—my beautiful,” he cried; “oh! If I could but be sure now that you were well, and,—”He was interrupted at this moment by some one popping into the dark doorway so suddenly as to run against him with great violence.Albert immediately laid hold of the intruder, and cried—“Hilloa, friend! Softly here.”“What do you do here?” cried a man’s voice in no very pleasant accents.“I may as well retaliate the question.”“Oh! Be d—d,” cried the man, who was no other than the spy, “I know you now by your voice. You are the fellow who took a boat before me.”“Then I presume,” said Albert, “you are the fellow who took a boat after me.”“What do you mean by that?”“What I say.”“Come, come, no nonsense, young fellow—what do you mean by following that man you have made such a run after?”“I never explain my affairs to strangers,” said Albert, coldly.“I’m an officer.”“I don’t care if you are a dozen officers,” said Albert, “you have nothing to do with my private affairs.”“But I can take you up on suspicion.”“Can you?”“Yes, I can, and for your impudence, I will too.”“Then,” said Albert, “I’ll knock you down first;” and suiting the action to the word, he grappled with the officer before he was aware, and although much the lighter and weaker of the two, threw him upon his back in the passage with so much violence, that he lay stunned.“I am sorry for this,” thought Albert; “but I can allow no vexatious interference with me now. Farewell, dear Ada, for a time—your lover will be with you soon—I will now away to Learmont’s and claim his proffered assistance.”Casting then, ever and anon, lingering looks behind at the house, which he believed contained the object of his fond affections, Albert left the street; and when he had turned the corner, and could no longer see even the habitation of Jacob Gray, he started off at a pace which astonished every one he passed, towards the house of Learmont.Jacob Gray, when he reached his room, sat down on the side of the miserable little bed, and began to think of his future plans and hopes, with a feeling of certainty, as regarded their stability, such as he had rarely before experienced. It seemed as if Providence having now hurried him on to the very brink of destruction, was determined that his fall should be the more dreadful and full of suffering by his having no sort of anticipation of it. He was as one smiling and making long calculations on the brink of the grave.“Learmont,” he said, “has seized the bait—I shall be wealthy and free, besides satisfying my revenge. They taunt me with being subtle—I trust that they will find me so. They might long ago have temporised with me, and ensured their own safety by never awakening in my breast the dark feelings towards them that now possess it; but they sought my life, and I swore revenge. Britton and Learmont shall fall in one common destruction, while Ada shall have more trouble to prove her legitimacy than will last her life, should she linger to the age of an ancient patriarch. Yes, I shall be revenged on her, as well as upon Britton and Learmont.”He sat then for some moments in deep thought, and a feeling of anxiety began to creep over him.“I am getting nervous now,” he muttered; “of late I am fearfully subject to such gloomy thoughts. I shall be glad when this gloomy, lonely life is over. It suits not with my disposition. I—I did not feel it so much when she was with me, but now that I am quite alone, a shuddering awe creeps around my heart, and I start at the merest trifle. Gracious Heaven—how my heart beats now! ’Tis time I should have ease and comfort in some other land, where all things are new and strange, and there is nothing to remind me of the past—aye, then, I shall know peace.”He rose, and paced his room uneasily; but even in his mental agitation he trod cautiously, as if the very boards would proclaim, to the world—there trod Jacob Gray, the murderer! Then he produced his confession, and a strange desire seized him to read it carefully through, and make some verbal corrections in it, in order that it should be still more clear and explanatory than it had been. Again, and again, he read over the document, and was satisfied that its notations were distinct and clear.“Yes—yes—if anything should happen to me,” he muttered, “this will destroy Learmont and Britton, and likewise doom Ada to poverty, while the estates of Learmont will revert to the crown, or some very distant branch of the family that will be eager to acquire them. So even I should not fall quite unavenged. In my death I should be terrible. Death?—Death? I am not going to die—why did such a thought enter my brain? ’Tis strange—very strange.—I never thought of death before this night. I—I am quite well—quite. ’Tis a mere feverish fancy; a vision crossing the over-excited brain. I have had hundreds of such—such forebodings. I suppose that is what I must call the strange feeling that now oppresses me.”He was now silent for some time, and then, hastily rising, he held the confession in his hand and glanced around his room, as he said,—“I will never again carry so important a document as this about with me. ’Tis far better—far safer in some hiding-place here; and then suppose it should not be found till some time after my death. That word again—death—death—pshaw, what have I to do with death, for many years to come?”He, nevertheless, trembled, as he strove to reason himself out of his nervous fears, and he was some time before he could decide upon where to put his confession, so that it must eventually be found, but still where a search would be required to bring it to light. He finally ripped some of the lining from his cloak, and inserted the confession between that and the cloth.“There it will be quite safe from any casual observation,” he said, “while sooner or later it must come to light, and my vengeance would be greater by a little delay, because Learmont would be lulled into fancied security if no immediate danger assailed after my death.”He sunk upon his chair muttering.“Death again—death again—death again—how that notion haunts me! An absurd fancy; in my case a most absurd fancy, for never was I so safe—so free—so likely to obtain all that I wish as I am now—my star is in the ascendant.”He hung the cloak on a large hook behind the door of his room, and then said,—“How many persons would search this room, and toss this cloak about, without discovering that it contained anything so important as that now hidden in it.”He then proceeded to a cupboard, and taking from it a case bottle, he drank a quantity of raw spirits, to which he had latterly habituated himself whenever he felt any disagreeable mental qualms which he could not reason himself out of.“Drink—drink,” he muttered, as he returned the case bottle to its place. “That is the wretch’s last solace. It will for a time banish care, but it is a deceitful fiend that comes at first with semblance of great friendship, but sooner or later it will turn upon him who has been lured by it, and become a deadly foe. I—think I will sleep now—all is safe, and I am very weary; my confession will be found after my death—ah, that word again—death—death—nothing else can I think of—come, welcome sleep.”He threw himself upon his bed, and exhausted as he was by the few preceding day’s actions, he soon dropped into slumber—not an unbroken or easy one, though, for the imagination, now freed from the control of reason, conjured up fearful images into the brain of the man of crime.
Gray at Home.—Albert’s Joy and Exultation.—The Meeting in the Old Door Way.
“Makeway there!” roared Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, as the boy who rowed him shot the wherry’s nose between the other two. “Make way there—curse you all, I am on the king’s business.”
“Make way for his majesty,” cried the man who had carried Albert Seyton. “He says he’s on the king’s business, but that’s only his modesty. He’s the king himself, I shouldn’t wonder, disguised as a fool.”
The spy had scrambled from the boat on to the wooden steps, but he was so annoyed at this last remark, that snatching his staff from his pocket, he turned round, saying,—
“If I lose my proper game, I’ll make sure for you for obstructing an officer. You shall have a lodging in the watch-house, my exceedingly witty fellow.”
The waterman was, however, a great deal too quick for him; for, as he tried to step from the stairs into the boat, by one sweep of his oars he shot the wherry out some three or four yards from the landing, and the spy stepped up to his knees in the river, and was nearly precipitated head foremost into the stream.
“Don’t pison the water,” said the waterman; and then he pulled steadily away.
“I’ll have you another time, my man,” said the spy, quite livid with rage, as he turned, and again ascended the steps.
In the meantime Jacob Gray had gathered his cloak closely around him, and smiling to himself at his own cleverness in, as he thought, thoroughly outwitting Learmont, and even when there was no danger, approaching his home in so very baffling a manner, was creeping along close to the houses as usual towards his obscure lodgings.
Albert Seyton, when he reached the top of the stairs, looked anxiously to the right, and there he saw Gray, not half a dozen yards from him. To follow so closely would have been very dangerous, undisguised now as the young man was, and he hung back, still keeping Jacob Gray in his eye, until the latter had proceeded nearly to a turning which led into the next street but one in which he lived. The moment, then, that he was upon the corner Albert walked hastily forward, and by pursuing the same system at the corner of the next street, he fairly succeeded in dogging Gray to the little mean shop above which he lodged.
Albert’s heart beat high as he saw him enter the humble abode. His agitation became extreme, and the thought that he was so near Ada caused such a tumult of delightful feelings in his breast, that he forgot all passed suffering—all present cautions, and actually bounded forward half a dozen paces towards the shop, before his promise to Learmont came across his mind, and arrested his eager footsteps.
“Oh, oh,” he said, “Ada, my beautiful and true. Even now, although so near to you, I must not rush to your rescue. My word of honour binds me, but I can gaze with rapture upon the house in which you are. I can please myself by fancying I breathe the same air with you. Oh, how cruel is this that I cannot, for my promise to the rich squire, at once rush into the house that contains my heart’s treasure, and claim it as my own, I must control my impatience. Ada, your imprisonment shall now be but of short duration. Soon now shall I clasp you to my heart.”
Albert now crossed over to the other side of the way, and diving into a doorway where he was completely hidden, but from whence he could command a good view of the house in which he so erroneously supposed Ada to be, he gave himself up to the delirious feeling that he had at length arrived at the end of all his troubles, and Ada would soon be his, while the patronage of the rich Squire Learmont would ensure him ease, and perhaps in time fortune.
There was no sign of inhabitants visible in the whole front of the house; but in a few more moments, as Albert rose his eye restlessly from window to window, he saw a dirty narrow curtain moved in one of the top rooms, and fancy made him think the hand was Ada’s, which he saw but partially.
“My Ada—my own. Ada—my beautiful,” he cried; “oh! If I could but be sure now that you were well, and,—”
He was interrupted at this moment by some one popping into the dark doorway so suddenly as to run against him with great violence.
Albert immediately laid hold of the intruder, and cried—“Hilloa, friend! Softly here.”
“What do you do here?” cried a man’s voice in no very pleasant accents.
“I may as well retaliate the question.”
“Oh! Be d—d,” cried the man, who was no other than the spy, “I know you now by your voice. You are the fellow who took a boat before me.”
“Then I presume,” said Albert, “you are the fellow who took a boat after me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What I say.”
“Come, come, no nonsense, young fellow—what do you mean by following that man you have made such a run after?”
“I never explain my affairs to strangers,” said Albert, coldly.
“I’m an officer.”
“I don’t care if you are a dozen officers,” said Albert, “you have nothing to do with my private affairs.”
“But I can take you up on suspicion.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, I can, and for your impudence, I will too.”
“Then,” said Albert, “I’ll knock you down first;” and suiting the action to the word, he grappled with the officer before he was aware, and although much the lighter and weaker of the two, threw him upon his back in the passage with so much violence, that he lay stunned.
“I am sorry for this,” thought Albert; “but I can allow no vexatious interference with me now. Farewell, dear Ada, for a time—your lover will be with you soon—I will now away to Learmont’s and claim his proffered assistance.”
Casting then, ever and anon, lingering looks behind at the house, which he believed contained the object of his fond affections, Albert left the street; and when he had turned the corner, and could no longer see even the habitation of Jacob Gray, he started off at a pace which astonished every one he passed, towards the house of Learmont.
Jacob Gray, when he reached his room, sat down on the side of the miserable little bed, and began to think of his future plans and hopes, with a feeling of certainty, as regarded their stability, such as he had rarely before experienced. It seemed as if Providence having now hurried him on to the very brink of destruction, was determined that his fall should be the more dreadful and full of suffering by his having no sort of anticipation of it. He was as one smiling and making long calculations on the brink of the grave.
“Learmont,” he said, “has seized the bait—I shall be wealthy and free, besides satisfying my revenge. They taunt me with being subtle—I trust that they will find me so. They might long ago have temporised with me, and ensured their own safety by never awakening in my breast the dark feelings towards them that now possess it; but they sought my life, and I swore revenge. Britton and Learmont shall fall in one common destruction, while Ada shall have more trouble to prove her legitimacy than will last her life, should she linger to the age of an ancient patriarch. Yes, I shall be revenged on her, as well as upon Britton and Learmont.”
He sat then for some moments in deep thought, and a feeling of anxiety began to creep over him.
“I am getting nervous now,” he muttered; “of late I am fearfully subject to such gloomy thoughts. I shall be glad when this gloomy, lonely life is over. It suits not with my disposition. I—I did not feel it so much when she was with me, but now that I am quite alone, a shuddering awe creeps around my heart, and I start at the merest trifle. Gracious Heaven—how my heart beats now! ’Tis time I should have ease and comfort in some other land, where all things are new and strange, and there is nothing to remind me of the past—aye, then, I shall know peace.”
He rose, and paced his room uneasily; but even in his mental agitation he trod cautiously, as if the very boards would proclaim, to the world—there trod Jacob Gray, the murderer! Then he produced his confession, and a strange desire seized him to read it carefully through, and make some verbal corrections in it, in order that it should be still more clear and explanatory than it had been. Again, and again, he read over the document, and was satisfied that its notations were distinct and clear.
“Yes—yes—if anything should happen to me,” he muttered, “this will destroy Learmont and Britton, and likewise doom Ada to poverty, while the estates of Learmont will revert to the crown, or some very distant branch of the family that will be eager to acquire them. So even I should not fall quite unavenged. In my death I should be terrible. Death?—Death? I am not going to die—why did such a thought enter my brain? ’Tis strange—very strange.—I never thought of death before this night. I—I am quite well—quite. ’Tis a mere feverish fancy; a vision crossing the over-excited brain. I have had hundreds of such—such forebodings. I suppose that is what I must call the strange feeling that now oppresses me.”
He was now silent for some time, and then, hastily rising, he held the confession in his hand and glanced around his room, as he said,—
“I will never again carry so important a document as this about with me. ’Tis far better—far safer in some hiding-place here; and then suppose it should not be found till some time after my death. That word again—death—death—pshaw, what have I to do with death, for many years to come?”
He, nevertheless, trembled, as he strove to reason himself out of his nervous fears, and he was some time before he could decide upon where to put his confession, so that it must eventually be found, but still where a search would be required to bring it to light. He finally ripped some of the lining from his cloak, and inserted the confession between that and the cloth.
“There it will be quite safe from any casual observation,” he said, “while sooner or later it must come to light, and my vengeance would be greater by a little delay, because Learmont would be lulled into fancied security if no immediate danger assailed after my death.”
He sunk upon his chair muttering.
“Death again—death again—death again—how that notion haunts me! An absurd fancy; in my case a most absurd fancy, for never was I so safe—so free—so likely to obtain all that I wish as I am now—my star is in the ascendant.”
He hung the cloak on a large hook behind the door of his room, and then said,—
“How many persons would search this room, and toss this cloak about, without discovering that it contained anything so important as that now hidden in it.”
He then proceeded to a cupboard, and taking from it a case bottle, he drank a quantity of raw spirits, to which he had latterly habituated himself whenever he felt any disagreeable mental qualms which he could not reason himself out of.
“Drink—drink,” he muttered, as he returned the case bottle to its place. “That is the wretch’s last solace. It will for a time banish care, but it is a deceitful fiend that comes at first with semblance of great friendship, but sooner or later it will turn upon him who has been lured by it, and become a deadly foe. I—think I will sleep now—all is safe, and I am very weary; my confession will be found after my death—ah, that word again—death—death—nothing else can I think of—come, welcome sleep.”
He threw himself upon his bed, and exhausted as he was by the few preceding day’s actions, he soon dropped into slumber—not an unbroken or easy one, though, for the imagination, now freed from the control of reason, conjured up fearful images into the brain of the man of crime.
CHAPTER XCIV.Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s Amusements.Britton’srage at the escape of Gray from his room, where he thought he had him so securely, almost made him sober for the next four-and-twenty hours. He was in too great a passion to drink, and it was not until his friend the butcher had generously drunk both Britton’s share and his own of sundry strong compounds, that the smith, dashing his clenched first upon the table with a blow that made every article upon it jump again, exclaimed,—“Brandy—brandy here. Quick with you.”“Your majesty shall have it in a moment,” cried the landlord; “may I presume to ask if your majesty will have it raw or mixed?”“Neither,” roared Britton.“Neither? Oh dear me. Certainly—perhaps your majesty means a little of both?”“No, I don’t, fool! Bring me a pint of brandy boiling.”“B—b—b—boiling?”“Yes.”“Without any water?”“What do I want with water. For the future I’ll drink nothing but boiling brandy.”“Smash me,” remarked Bond, the butcher, “if that ain’t a good idea.”“Off with you,” roared Britton, to the amazed landlord. “Mind you bring it in with the bubbles on it. Let me see the hot steam rising from it—like—like reeking blood, and be d—d to you—take that.”As these remarks were accompanied by a pint measure, which passed within an inch of his head, the landlord made a wild kind of rush from the room shouting,—“Brandy boiling—brandy boiling directly, for his majesty King Britton.”Britton felt himself wonderfully better and much appeased in spirit after his order of the boiling brandy, and he turned to the butcher with something of his usual manner, saying,—“Bond, my boy, I shall never be the man I was till I have taken that fellow’s life.”“You don’t say so?” remarked Bond.“Yes, I do.”“Oh, be bothered; you’ll be able to drink as much as ever, I know.”“Yes as to that—but,—”“Well, what more do you wish? Don’t be unreasonable—joint me with a notched cleaver if I don’t think you are the most comfortable cove as I knows, and lots of money and nothing for to do but to melt it down into all sorts o’ strong drinks. I calls that being in heaven, I does.”“It’s something,” said Britton.“Something? I believe you it is. Why, if you was an angel, what more could you have, I should like to know?”“Jacob Gray’s blood.”“So you will, but you must wait your time. Now I tell you what, Master Britton; you’re like a pig as is going to be stuck—he makes a squalling when he knows as it won’t do no good, and here you’ve been a denying of yourself your proper drink when you know that’ll do no good. Have patience till this ’ere follow as you owes sich a uncommon grudge to, comes in your way again, and when he does, don’t you let him out of arm’s length. Just give him a malleter on the head to stun him, while you fetches me, and then we can cut him up quite comfortable.”“I was a fool to leave him a moment,” said Britton; “I ought to have known better. The fellow is as crafty as a dozen devils rolled and welded all into one. He has as many shiftings and doublings as a hunted fox.”“Some animals is very difficult,” said Bond, “to bring to the slaughter. A ring in his nose, and a rope is the very best thing, but it’s difficult to put it on.”“You are an ass, Bond,” said Britton, “it ain’t a bullock, you idiot, but as crafty a man as ever stepped.”“Perhaps I is a ass,” remarked Bond. “Birds of a feather they always flocks together, which I take it, is the reason why us two makes such good company, Master Britton.”The landlord at this moment made his appearance, with the boiling brandy in a punch-bowl. At least, the landlord was supposed to follow it into the room; for the steam that arose from the liquor hid his face in a kind of glory, such as sometimes may be seen in an old picture confounding the physiognomy of a saint.He said nothing, but laid the streaming beverage before Britton, and then he coughed, and winked, and wiped his eyes, and sneezed, all of which symptoms of uneasiness arose from the subtle particles of the evaporating spirit having nearly suffocated him.“What do you mean by all that?” said Britton.“Ah, what do you mean?” roared Bond, giving the landlord a smack on the back that nearly felled him.“The—the steam of brandy is rather—a—chew—, a—a—a—chew. Bless me, I can’t help sneezing—a—chew—strong—very—strong. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very good for the eyes, it makes ’em water so. What an idea—boiled brandy!”“Oh, you think it’s a good idea, do you?” said Britton, as he ladled up a brimmer of the scalding-hot spirit.“Uncommonly good—chew.”“Leave off that sneezing, will you?”“I really can’t—a—chew. Excuse me, your majesty, but we never had such a thing as boiled brandy ordered at the Chequers before.”“Oh, indeed; then you shall have a drop. Come drink, this—drink I say.”“Really, I—I—”“You won’t!”“I don’t presume to use such an expression in reference to any command from your majesty, but the truth is—I would rather not.”“But I say you shall.”“Spare me, your majesty; I am rather weak in the head.”“Hold him, Bond, while I pour it down his throat,” cried Britton.The landlord groaned—“If I must take a small sip, why I would rather take it myself.”“Toss it off, then, at once; and don’t be making those faces. Come, now, off with it.”The landlord was perfectly well aware that no mortal throat could with impunity swallow the scalding liquor to trickle down it; and, in fact, he had been pleasing himself with the idea of how scalded the smith would be if, with his usual precipitancy, he should take a gulp of the liquor; but now that it came to his turn first, the joke altered its complexion altogether, and his hand trembled as he held the ladle to his mouth.“Quick,” roared Britton; and the unfortunate landlord took a small sip, which went down his throat like a small globule of melted lead, and induced him to make such wry faces and contortions as quite delighted Andrew Britton, who, in the enjoyment of the moment, actually forgot Jacob Gray.How long the landlord’s sufferings might have been protracted it is hard to say; but fortunately for him, in the midst of Britton’s high enjoyment of the scene, a boy came into the room, and screamed out, without the least reverence for the kingly dignity that the smith had assumed at the Chequers,—“Is Andrew Britton here?”“Halloo, you villain,” cried Britton, “what do you mean?”“I wants Andrew Britton,” cried the boy.“You scoundrel!”“You’re another!”Britton’s face assumed a purplish hue with rage, but he was silent, and then beckoning to the boy, he whispered to Bond,—“I’ll scald him from top to toe.”“Don’t you wish you may catch me,” cried the boy, “hilloo, old read face. Look at your nose. I want Andrew Britton.”“Oh, you villain,” cried the landlord, “how dare you behave so? What do you want with the gentleman you have named?”“I’ve got a letter for him—where is he? I suppose as he’ll give me a penny.”Britton slowly rose from his seat and began sidling round the table towards the boy; who, however, was far too quick and agile for the bulky smith, and throwing a folded piece of paper upon the floor, he darted to the door, crying—“Don’t you wish it, old guts; you’ll make yourself ill if you exert yourself so. Good-bye.”“Hold him,” cried Britton to the landlord, who made a futile, and not very energetic, attempt to detain the boy, who was out of the house in a moment, and in the next a stone came through a pane of glass and hit the landlord upon the side of the head.“Oh, the vagabond,” said mine host, making a rush to the door, and fully participating in Britton’s indignation now that he had himself cause of complaint; but Britton intercepted him, and being resolved to have revenge upon somebody, he knocked the landlord’s head against the door-post, with a rap that made him look confused for a moment, and then retire from the room dancing with pain.“All right,” cried Bond.“Aham!” said Britton, returning to his seat. “That’ll teach him to run against me another time, and if I meet that boy, I’ll wring his neck.”“What’s this here?” remarked the butcher, as he picked up the note the lad had thrown down. “‘To Andrew Britten,’ that’s large, but hang me if I can make out the rest. The first word is sensible enough, howsomever.”“What is it?”“Meat.”“Meat? Nonsense. What the devil have I to do with meat? Give it to me.”Britton snatched the note from the hands of the butcher, and read as follows:—“Meet me by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at Buckingham Gate.”L.“Short and civil—I’ll see him d—d first—nine o’clock too? A likely hour—no Master Learmont, I’ll call upon you when I please, no oftener and no seldomer; but I won’t meet you at Buckingham Gate, as sure as my name’s Andrew Britton. Am I to be dictated to?”“I should think not,” cried Bond. “Does that come from the squire, eh, Britton?”“What’s that to you?”“Nothing at all, but I asked you, nevertheless, and you needn’t put yourself out of the way.”“You he hanged.”“Be hanged yourself.”Britton liked Bond principally because when he roared at him, he was replied to much in the same strain, and, if possible, an octave-higher, so he betrayed no indignation at the independence of the butcher, but taking up a ladle full of the brandy, which had now much cooled, he poured it down his throat, and then, followed it by another, after which he flung the ladle at the head of a quiet-looking man who was smoking a pipe and drinking a pint of small ale in a corner, and rising, he cried—“I’ll go out now—order my sedan chair—I’ll be hanged but that’s the rummiest thing ever was invented; I like it. My chair, there. Halloo—halloo; I’ll have some fun to-night.”“But you needn’t have thrown away the ladle, you beast,” remarked Bond, as he took the bowl in his hand and finished the contents at one draught, hot and strong as they were.The landlords voice was now heard shouting—“His majesty’s chair—quick—quick. His majesty’s chair, and right glad am I to get him out of the house awhile,” he added to himself; “and if it was not that he spends every week a matter of ten or twelve guineas at the Old Chequers, I’d never let the beast cross its threshold again.”
Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s Amusements.
Britton’srage at the escape of Gray from his room, where he thought he had him so securely, almost made him sober for the next four-and-twenty hours. He was in too great a passion to drink, and it was not until his friend the butcher had generously drunk both Britton’s share and his own of sundry strong compounds, that the smith, dashing his clenched first upon the table with a blow that made every article upon it jump again, exclaimed,—
“Brandy—brandy here. Quick with you.”
“Your majesty shall have it in a moment,” cried the landlord; “may I presume to ask if your majesty will have it raw or mixed?”
“Neither,” roared Britton.
“Neither? Oh dear me. Certainly—perhaps your majesty means a little of both?”
“No, I don’t, fool! Bring me a pint of brandy boiling.”
“B—b—b—boiling?”
“Yes.”
“Without any water?”
“What do I want with water. For the future I’ll drink nothing but boiling brandy.”
“Smash me,” remarked Bond, the butcher, “if that ain’t a good idea.”
“Off with you,” roared Britton, to the amazed landlord. “Mind you bring it in with the bubbles on it. Let me see the hot steam rising from it—like—like reeking blood, and be d—d to you—take that.”
As these remarks were accompanied by a pint measure, which passed within an inch of his head, the landlord made a wild kind of rush from the room shouting,—
“Brandy boiling—brandy boiling directly, for his majesty King Britton.”
Britton felt himself wonderfully better and much appeased in spirit after his order of the boiling brandy, and he turned to the butcher with something of his usual manner, saying,—
“Bond, my boy, I shall never be the man I was till I have taken that fellow’s life.”
“You don’t say so?” remarked Bond.
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, be bothered; you’ll be able to drink as much as ever, I know.”
“Yes as to that—but,—”
“Well, what more do you wish? Don’t be unreasonable—joint me with a notched cleaver if I don’t think you are the most comfortable cove as I knows, and lots of money and nothing for to do but to melt it down into all sorts o’ strong drinks. I calls that being in heaven, I does.”
“It’s something,” said Britton.
“Something? I believe you it is. Why, if you was an angel, what more could you have, I should like to know?”
“Jacob Gray’s blood.”
“So you will, but you must wait your time. Now I tell you what, Master Britton; you’re like a pig as is going to be stuck—he makes a squalling when he knows as it won’t do no good, and here you’ve been a denying of yourself your proper drink when you know that’ll do no good. Have patience till this ’ere follow as you owes sich a uncommon grudge to, comes in your way again, and when he does, don’t you let him out of arm’s length. Just give him a malleter on the head to stun him, while you fetches me, and then we can cut him up quite comfortable.”
“I was a fool to leave him a moment,” said Britton; “I ought to have known better. The fellow is as crafty as a dozen devils rolled and welded all into one. He has as many shiftings and doublings as a hunted fox.”
“Some animals is very difficult,” said Bond, “to bring to the slaughter. A ring in his nose, and a rope is the very best thing, but it’s difficult to put it on.”
“You are an ass, Bond,” said Britton, “it ain’t a bullock, you idiot, but as crafty a man as ever stepped.”
“Perhaps I is a ass,” remarked Bond. “Birds of a feather they always flocks together, which I take it, is the reason why us two makes such good company, Master Britton.”
The landlord at this moment made his appearance, with the boiling brandy in a punch-bowl. At least, the landlord was supposed to follow it into the room; for the steam that arose from the liquor hid his face in a kind of glory, such as sometimes may be seen in an old picture confounding the physiognomy of a saint.
He said nothing, but laid the streaming beverage before Britton, and then he coughed, and winked, and wiped his eyes, and sneezed, all of which symptoms of uneasiness arose from the subtle particles of the evaporating spirit having nearly suffocated him.
“What do you mean by all that?” said Britton.
“Ah, what do you mean?” roared Bond, giving the landlord a smack on the back that nearly felled him.
“The—the steam of brandy is rather—a—chew—, a—a—a—chew. Bless me, I can’t help sneezing—a—chew—strong—very—strong. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very good for the eyes, it makes ’em water so. What an idea—boiled brandy!”
“Oh, you think it’s a good idea, do you?” said Britton, as he ladled up a brimmer of the scalding-hot spirit.
“Uncommonly good—chew.”
“Leave off that sneezing, will you?”
“I really can’t—a—chew. Excuse me, your majesty, but we never had such a thing as boiled brandy ordered at the Chequers before.”
“Oh, indeed; then you shall have a drop. Come drink, this—drink I say.”
“Really, I—I—”
“You won’t!”
“I don’t presume to use such an expression in reference to any command from your majesty, but the truth is—I would rather not.”
“But I say you shall.”
“Spare me, your majesty; I am rather weak in the head.”
“Hold him, Bond, while I pour it down his throat,” cried Britton.
The landlord groaned—“If I must take a small sip, why I would rather take it myself.”
“Toss it off, then, at once; and don’t be making those faces. Come, now, off with it.”
The landlord was perfectly well aware that no mortal throat could with impunity swallow the scalding liquor to trickle down it; and, in fact, he had been pleasing himself with the idea of how scalded the smith would be if, with his usual precipitancy, he should take a gulp of the liquor; but now that it came to his turn first, the joke altered its complexion altogether, and his hand trembled as he held the ladle to his mouth.
“Quick,” roared Britton; and the unfortunate landlord took a small sip, which went down his throat like a small globule of melted lead, and induced him to make such wry faces and contortions as quite delighted Andrew Britton, who, in the enjoyment of the moment, actually forgot Jacob Gray.
How long the landlord’s sufferings might have been protracted it is hard to say; but fortunately for him, in the midst of Britton’s high enjoyment of the scene, a boy came into the room, and screamed out, without the least reverence for the kingly dignity that the smith had assumed at the Chequers,—
“Is Andrew Britton here?”
“Halloo, you villain,” cried Britton, “what do you mean?”
“I wants Andrew Britton,” cried the boy.
“You scoundrel!”
“You’re another!”
Britton’s face assumed a purplish hue with rage, but he was silent, and then beckoning to the boy, he whispered to Bond,—
“I’ll scald him from top to toe.”
“Don’t you wish you may catch me,” cried the boy, “hilloo, old read face. Look at your nose. I want Andrew Britton.”
“Oh, you villain,” cried the landlord, “how dare you behave so? What do you want with the gentleman you have named?”
“I’ve got a letter for him—where is he? I suppose as he’ll give me a penny.”
Britton slowly rose from his seat and began sidling round the table towards the boy; who, however, was far too quick and agile for the bulky smith, and throwing a folded piece of paper upon the floor, he darted to the door, crying—
“Don’t you wish it, old guts; you’ll make yourself ill if you exert yourself so. Good-bye.”
“Hold him,” cried Britton to the landlord, who made a futile, and not very energetic, attempt to detain the boy, who was out of the house in a moment, and in the next a stone came through a pane of glass and hit the landlord upon the side of the head.
“Oh, the vagabond,” said mine host, making a rush to the door, and fully participating in Britton’s indignation now that he had himself cause of complaint; but Britton intercepted him, and being resolved to have revenge upon somebody, he knocked the landlord’s head against the door-post, with a rap that made him look confused for a moment, and then retire from the room dancing with pain.
“All right,” cried Bond.
“Aham!” said Britton, returning to his seat. “That’ll teach him to run against me another time, and if I meet that boy, I’ll wring his neck.”
“What’s this here?” remarked the butcher, as he picked up the note the lad had thrown down. “‘To Andrew Britten,’ that’s large, but hang me if I can make out the rest. The first word is sensible enough, howsomever.”
“What is it?”
“Meat.”
“Meat? Nonsense. What the devil have I to do with meat? Give it to me.”
Britton snatched the note from the hands of the butcher, and read as follows:—
“Meet me by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at Buckingham Gate.”
L.
“Short and civil—I’ll see him d—d first—nine o’clock too? A likely hour—no Master Learmont, I’ll call upon you when I please, no oftener and no seldomer; but I won’t meet you at Buckingham Gate, as sure as my name’s Andrew Britton. Am I to be dictated to?”
“I should think not,” cried Bond. “Does that come from the squire, eh, Britton?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Nothing at all, but I asked you, nevertheless, and you needn’t put yourself out of the way.”
“You he hanged.”
“Be hanged yourself.”
Britton liked Bond principally because when he roared at him, he was replied to much in the same strain, and, if possible, an octave-higher, so he betrayed no indignation at the independence of the butcher, but taking up a ladle full of the brandy, which had now much cooled, he poured it down his throat, and then, followed it by another, after which he flung the ladle at the head of a quiet-looking man who was smoking a pipe and drinking a pint of small ale in a corner, and rising, he cried—
“I’ll go out now—order my sedan chair—I’ll be hanged but that’s the rummiest thing ever was invented; I like it. My chair, there. Halloo—halloo; I’ll have some fun to-night.”
“But you needn’t have thrown away the ladle, you beast,” remarked Bond, as he took the bowl in his hand and finished the contents at one draught, hot and strong as they were.
The landlords voice was now heard shouting—
“His majesty’s chair—quick—quick. His majesty’s chair, and right glad am I to get him out of the house awhile,” he added to himself; “and if it was not that he spends every week a matter of ten or twelve guineas at the Old Chequers, I’d never let the beast cross its threshold again.”
CHAPTER XCV.The Walk in Search of Albert.—The Recognition at Charing Cross.Was Adahappy in her pleasant home at Sir Francis Hartleton’s—was there no cloud yet upon her young heart? Alas, how purely comparative are all our joys and all our sorrows. The change from her weary confinement with Jacob Grey, and the dismal habitations it was his policy to live in, to the kind looks—kinder words and happy home of the warm-hearted magistrate, was like suddenly, to some adventurous voyager to the far north, breaking the misty horrors around him, and at a moment when he felt almost inclined to lie down and die before the rigour of the season, and transporting him to some fair region, where the bright sun shone upon the trailing vine—where the orange groves were musical with the songs of birds, and the very air as it gently fanned his cheeks was in itself a delicious luxury.To Ada, for the first few days, it seemed as if she had stepped into a new existence; but when the novelty of the change was over—when, she had done assuring herself that she was free for ever from Jacob Gray, how her heart began to yearn for him she loved! What an instable curiosity arose in her mind, to know who and what she was—what name she should associate with the endearing one of father, and whether she should weep over another grave, or ever feel the fond embrace of a living parent.It would have been strangely unnatural if these active sources of anxiety had not sprung up rapidly in such a heart as Ada’s, alive as it was to every noble feeling—every tender sympathy.The companionship of the young persons of her own sex, whom Lady Hartleton often collected about her, tended probably to foster and encourage these feelings in Ada, and the ready tears—tears which she had never shed when in misfortune, and exposed to all the harshness of Jacob Gray, would start to her eyes at the mention of a father’s or a mother’s love by any of the fair young beings who delighted in her company.Sir Francis Hartleton had promised her he would have Albert Seyton sought for, and he had kept his word; but what degree of exertion on the part of another will satisfy the heart that loves, and Ada longed to search herself for him, who had cheered her under unhappier auspices, and loved her in her gloom and misery.Into the friendly bosom of Lady Hartleton, she poured her griefs and anxieties, and if she found no relief of a tangible nature, she there at least found ready sympathy, and Lady Hartleton would say to her,—“My dear Ada, I can do not more at present than weep with you, if you must weep, and comfort you, if you will be afflicted. Be assured, Sir Francis is doing his utmost to discover Albert Seyton’s place of abode, as well as toiling hard to unravel the mystery connected with you.”Ada would then, in tears, exclaim against her own ingratitude, and accuse herself of selfishness, and Lady Hartleton frequently had the greatest difficulty to remind her that she considered her feeling natural, and in every way worthy of her.It was early in the day preceding that on which the magistrate had discovered poor Maud, that Ada with a trembling voice, said to Lady Hartleton,—“I have a great favour—to—ask.”“No, my dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, kissing her cheek, “you have nothing to ask—everything to demand. Recollect, ’tis we who think ourselves much your debtors for your company with us, and consequently we are much bound to consult your wishes.”“Ah, it is your kind heart which prompts your tongue,” said Ada, “and not your judgment; but I know you will not hear me speak to you of my gratitude, although it is a theme which I could never tire of.”“Say no more, Ada, but tell me what you wish.”“Will you permit me, myself, for one day to go in search of Albert Seyton?”“Yourself, Ada?”“Yes. ’Tis perhaps a foolish wish; but sometimes, what great resources courage and deep knowledge of the work may fail to accomplish, the zeal of affection will be able more easily to do.”Lady Hartleton shook her head, as she said,—“Ada, you would but, in such a place as London, expose yourself to much danger and insult. Believe me, that my husband has in his service those who will leave no spot unsearched for him you so much wish to see.”“Ah, lady, can hired zeal ever reach the height of exertion attained by that which springs alone from the true heart?”“I grant you that it seldom can; but then, Ada, there are many cases where mere knowledge and skill will do much more than the warmest, holiest zeal that ever animated a human breast.”“There may be; but is this one?”“It is, Ada. You are ignorant of London, and its intricacies, and would but lose yourself in a fruitless endeavour to find another.”“It may be so,” said Ada, with a disappointed air, “and I must be content.”“No, Ada, far be it from me to say you shall not take a tour through London in search of him. If you accomplish no more by such a step, you may at least please your mind with the reflection that you have taken it.”“You will let me go then?”“Yes, but not alone. I will accompany you wheresoever you please to go, and some experienced officer, of Sir Francis’s own choosing, shall follow us in case of need. I think then we may venture anywhere.”“Generous friend,” cried Ada. “Oh, may Heaven give me words to say how much I thank you.”“I am thanked already,” said Lady Hartleton, with a smile. “The idea of active exertions has already kindled a colour in your cheeks, Ada, and lent new animation to every feature of your face.”“I shall be better satisfied, even if I altogether fail,” said Ada. “I have been now for so many years accustomed to look to myself for resources of action, that when anything nearly concerning me has to be done, I am unhappy if I am not doing it myself. Forgive me, dear lady, for all this troublesome spirit, but recollect I am a young wayward thing, brought up in solitude and harshness, early accustomed to repress every fond emotion, and my heart’s best feelings oftener checked with a blow, than encouraged by a smile.”“We will go as soon as I can consult Sir Francis about who shall accompany us,” said Lady Hartleton.Ada could only look her thanks, and Lady Hartleton left the room in search of her husband, who gave a more ready consent to the scheme than she imagined he would, only that he said he would send with them two officers on whom he could thoroughly and entirely depend.“You will then be as safe,” he said, “as if you were in your own drawing-room, and if it will satisfy the mind of Ada, I advise you to go at once.”With this Lady Hartleton returned to Ada, and in ten minutes they were equipped for their walk, the two officers being strictly ordered by Sir Francis never to lose sight of them for a moment.“I can adopt but one plan of operation,” said Ada, “and that is to go from place to place where Albert has lived, and at each make what inquiries may suggest themselves on the moment. I think I can find my way, if put in the neighbourhood, to the first lodging Jacob Gray brought me to in London; at least, the first I have any recollection of. It stood, as I have often wearied you with telling, in a bye-street, at the back of another, the name of a which well recollect was Swallow-street.”“That we shall have no difficulty in finding,” said Lady Hartleton. “Swallow-street is a well-known thoroughfare; although, I believe, none of the most select. I think I can act as your guide there; but should I be at fault, those who are following us, as our guards, can no doubt set us right.”Many were the glances of admiration cast upon Ada, as she and Lady Hartleton walked along Whitehall to Charing-cross, and by the time they reached the corner of the Strand, several idle loungers had enlisted themselves in their train, with a determination to see where they could possibly be going.“We must cross here,” said Lady Hartleton, “and pass those mean rows of buildings, which are called the Royal Mews, and then we shall, if I mistake not, be in the immediate neighbourhood of the street you mention.”As Lady Hartleton spoke, she felt Ada clutch her arm very tightly, and turning to see what occasioned it, she saw one of the puppies of the day with his grinning face, within a few inches of Ada’s ear, muttering some of the ineffable nonsense common to such animals, when they pitch upon an apparently unprotected female as the object of their insulting address.A flash of indignation came from the eyes of Lady Hartleton; but before she could speak, she saw the fopling flung into the roadway, with a violence that sent him half across it; and Sir Francis Hartleton himself, who had followed after the officers, took Ada’s arm within his, saying,—“There now. If you had been quite alone, Ada, you would have been pestered, probably, for an hour, by that ape in man’s clothes.”Ada turned to speak to the magistrate, when a cry of pleasure escaped her.On the opposite side of the way was Albert Seyton, walking leisurely towards the Horse-guards.Sir Francis Hartleton was just in time to stop her from rushing across the roadway, and detaining her by the arm, said,—“Ada, do me one favour! Go home at once, and trust to my word of honour that I will not lose sight of him for one moment. The public street is no place for you and him to meet in. For Heaven’s sake, now go home!”“I—I will—if you wish it,” said Ada. “Oh! He is found—he is found!”“Take her home through the park, by Spring-gardens,” whispered Sir Francis to his wife. “I wish to have some conversation with this young man, before Ada, with her generous feelings, commits herself too far. I will be home within the hour.”The magistrate then darted across the road, and followed Albert Seyton closely, as his first object was to see where he lived, provided he was going home, as he, Sir Francis, was not quite satisfied with Albert’s long absence from his office.
The Walk in Search of Albert.—The Recognition at Charing Cross.
Was Adahappy in her pleasant home at Sir Francis Hartleton’s—was there no cloud yet upon her young heart? Alas, how purely comparative are all our joys and all our sorrows. The change from her weary confinement with Jacob Grey, and the dismal habitations it was his policy to live in, to the kind looks—kinder words and happy home of the warm-hearted magistrate, was like suddenly, to some adventurous voyager to the far north, breaking the misty horrors around him, and at a moment when he felt almost inclined to lie down and die before the rigour of the season, and transporting him to some fair region, where the bright sun shone upon the trailing vine—where the orange groves were musical with the songs of birds, and the very air as it gently fanned his cheeks was in itself a delicious luxury.
To Ada, for the first few days, it seemed as if she had stepped into a new existence; but when the novelty of the change was over—when, she had done assuring herself that she was free for ever from Jacob Gray, how her heart began to yearn for him she loved! What an instable curiosity arose in her mind, to know who and what she was—what name she should associate with the endearing one of father, and whether she should weep over another grave, or ever feel the fond embrace of a living parent.
It would have been strangely unnatural if these active sources of anxiety had not sprung up rapidly in such a heart as Ada’s, alive as it was to every noble feeling—every tender sympathy.
The companionship of the young persons of her own sex, whom Lady Hartleton often collected about her, tended probably to foster and encourage these feelings in Ada, and the ready tears—tears which she had never shed when in misfortune, and exposed to all the harshness of Jacob Gray, would start to her eyes at the mention of a father’s or a mother’s love by any of the fair young beings who delighted in her company.
Sir Francis Hartleton had promised her he would have Albert Seyton sought for, and he had kept his word; but what degree of exertion on the part of another will satisfy the heart that loves, and Ada longed to search herself for him, who had cheered her under unhappier auspices, and loved her in her gloom and misery.
Into the friendly bosom of Lady Hartleton, she poured her griefs and anxieties, and if she found no relief of a tangible nature, she there at least found ready sympathy, and Lady Hartleton would say to her,—
“My dear Ada, I can do not more at present than weep with you, if you must weep, and comfort you, if you will be afflicted. Be assured, Sir Francis is doing his utmost to discover Albert Seyton’s place of abode, as well as toiling hard to unravel the mystery connected with you.”
Ada would then, in tears, exclaim against her own ingratitude, and accuse herself of selfishness, and Lady Hartleton frequently had the greatest difficulty to remind her that she considered her feeling natural, and in every way worthy of her.
It was early in the day preceding that on which the magistrate had discovered poor Maud, that Ada with a trembling voice, said to Lady Hartleton,—
“I have a great favour—to—ask.”
“No, my dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, kissing her cheek, “you have nothing to ask—everything to demand. Recollect, ’tis we who think ourselves much your debtors for your company with us, and consequently we are much bound to consult your wishes.”
“Ah, it is your kind heart which prompts your tongue,” said Ada, “and not your judgment; but I know you will not hear me speak to you of my gratitude, although it is a theme which I could never tire of.”
“Say no more, Ada, but tell me what you wish.”
“Will you permit me, myself, for one day to go in search of Albert Seyton?”
“Yourself, Ada?”
“Yes. ’Tis perhaps a foolish wish; but sometimes, what great resources courage and deep knowledge of the work may fail to accomplish, the zeal of affection will be able more easily to do.”
Lady Hartleton shook her head, as she said,—
“Ada, you would but, in such a place as London, expose yourself to much danger and insult. Believe me, that my husband has in his service those who will leave no spot unsearched for him you so much wish to see.”
“Ah, lady, can hired zeal ever reach the height of exertion attained by that which springs alone from the true heart?”
“I grant you that it seldom can; but then, Ada, there are many cases where mere knowledge and skill will do much more than the warmest, holiest zeal that ever animated a human breast.”
“There may be; but is this one?”
“It is, Ada. You are ignorant of London, and its intricacies, and would but lose yourself in a fruitless endeavour to find another.”
“It may be so,” said Ada, with a disappointed air, “and I must be content.”
“No, Ada, far be it from me to say you shall not take a tour through London in search of him. If you accomplish no more by such a step, you may at least please your mind with the reflection that you have taken it.”
“You will let me go then?”
“Yes, but not alone. I will accompany you wheresoever you please to go, and some experienced officer, of Sir Francis’s own choosing, shall follow us in case of need. I think then we may venture anywhere.”
“Generous friend,” cried Ada. “Oh, may Heaven give me words to say how much I thank you.”
“I am thanked already,” said Lady Hartleton, with a smile. “The idea of active exertions has already kindled a colour in your cheeks, Ada, and lent new animation to every feature of your face.”
“I shall be better satisfied, even if I altogether fail,” said Ada. “I have been now for so many years accustomed to look to myself for resources of action, that when anything nearly concerning me has to be done, I am unhappy if I am not doing it myself. Forgive me, dear lady, for all this troublesome spirit, but recollect I am a young wayward thing, brought up in solitude and harshness, early accustomed to repress every fond emotion, and my heart’s best feelings oftener checked with a blow, than encouraged by a smile.”
“We will go as soon as I can consult Sir Francis about who shall accompany us,” said Lady Hartleton.
Ada could only look her thanks, and Lady Hartleton left the room in search of her husband, who gave a more ready consent to the scheme than she imagined he would, only that he said he would send with them two officers on whom he could thoroughly and entirely depend.
“You will then be as safe,” he said, “as if you were in your own drawing-room, and if it will satisfy the mind of Ada, I advise you to go at once.”
With this Lady Hartleton returned to Ada, and in ten minutes they were equipped for their walk, the two officers being strictly ordered by Sir Francis never to lose sight of them for a moment.
“I can adopt but one plan of operation,” said Ada, “and that is to go from place to place where Albert has lived, and at each make what inquiries may suggest themselves on the moment. I think I can find my way, if put in the neighbourhood, to the first lodging Jacob Gray brought me to in London; at least, the first I have any recollection of. It stood, as I have often wearied you with telling, in a bye-street, at the back of another, the name of a which well recollect was Swallow-street.”
“That we shall have no difficulty in finding,” said Lady Hartleton. “Swallow-street is a well-known thoroughfare; although, I believe, none of the most select. I think I can act as your guide there; but should I be at fault, those who are following us, as our guards, can no doubt set us right.”
Many were the glances of admiration cast upon Ada, as she and Lady Hartleton walked along Whitehall to Charing-cross, and by the time they reached the corner of the Strand, several idle loungers had enlisted themselves in their train, with a determination to see where they could possibly be going.
“We must cross here,” said Lady Hartleton, “and pass those mean rows of buildings, which are called the Royal Mews, and then we shall, if I mistake not, be in the immediate neighbourhood of the street you mention.”
As Lady Hartleton spoke, she felt Ada clutch her arm very tightly, and turning to see what occasioned it, she saw one of the puppies of the day with his grinning face, within a few inches of Ada’s ear, muttering some of the ineffable nonsense common to such animals, when they pitch upon an apparently unprotected female as the object of their insulting address.
A flash of indignation came from the eyes of Lady Hartleton; but before she could speak, she saw the fopling flung into the roadway, with a violence that sent him half across it; and Sir Francis Hartleton himself, who had followed after the officers, took Ada’s arm within his, saying,—
“There now. If you had been quite alone, Ada, you would have been pestered, probably, for an hour, by that ape in man’s clothes.”
Ada turned to speak to the magistrate, when a cry of pleasure escaped her.
On the opposite side of the way was Albert Seyton, walking leisurely towards the Horse-guards.
Sir Francis Hartleton was just in time to stop her from rushing across the roadway, and detaining her by the arm, said,—
“Ada, do me one favour! Go home at once, and trust to my word of honour that I will not lose sight of him for one moment. The public street is no place for you and him to meet in. For Heaven’s sake, now go home!”
“I—I will—if you wish it,” said Ada. “Oh! He is found—he is found!”
“Take her home through the park, by Spring-gardens,” whispered Sir Francis to his wife. “I wish to have some conversation with this young man, before Ada, with her generous feelings, commits herself too far. I will be home within the hour.”
The magistrate then darted across the road, and followed Albert Seyton closely, as his first object was to see where he lived, provided he was going home, as he, Sir Francis, was not quite satisfied with Albert’s long absence from his office.
CHAPTER XCVI.Sir Francis Hartleton’s Surprise at Albert’s Place of Destination.—The Watch on the Squires’ House.—Ada’s Disappointment.WhenSir Francis Hartleton darted across the road in order to follow Albert Seyton, his views, with regard to the young man, were to trace him to his house, and then immediately after send for him to his, Sir Francis’s office, by Buckingham-house; and, in a conversation with him, endeavour to come to a more decided opinion than he was at present able to arrive at with respect to the stability of his affection for Ada; for it is not saying too much, when we assert that the interest felt by the magistrate in the welfare and future happiness of the beautiful girl, who was, by so singular a train of circumstances, placed in his care, was equal to that of a fond father for a darling child of his own.The very romantic circumstances connected with her would have invested Ada with a great interest, even had she been other than what she was; but when in herself, she concentrated all the sweet feminine charms of mind and person which the warmest fancy could suggest, she became, indeed, an object of deep interest to Sir Francis—an interest which amounted to a pure and holy affection.Her gentleness, and yet her rare courage—her simplicity, and yet her active intellect—her clinging affection and gushing gratitude to those who were kindly disposed towards her, and her utter want of selfishness, all combined to make her such a character as one might dream of, but seldom hope to see realised.“Her future happiness,” thought Sir Francis, “all depends upon this young man whom I am now following, and I think I have a right to be more careful that Ada, with all her fine noble feelings, is not sacrificed to one who may fail to appreciate the rich treasure he may possess. I will, ere I welcome this Albert Seyton to my house, be well assured that he is deserving of the pure young heart that I am convinced is all his own. One pang is far better for Ada to endure than the years of misery that must ensue from an ill-assorted union.”Reasoning thus the magistrate followed Albert Seyton sufficiently close to be certain he could enter no house without his observation; and yet at the same time, at such a distance as to run no great risk of recognition should the young man turn round.Little did poor Albert, whose mind was, at the present moment, so full of recollections of his Ada, that he scarcely knew whither his footsteps led him, imagine that he had not only passed her within twenty paces, but was now actually kept from her because there was a doubt of the sincerity of that passion which was at once the bliss and the bane of his existence.Sir Francis could not hear the deep sighs that burst from the labouring heart of the young man, as he whispered to himself—“My Ada—my beautiful and true! Oh? When will kind Heaven bless my eyes, by permitting me to gaze upon thy face again? The summer’s sun may shine bright’y for others, and the green earth look beautiful, but there is a cloud upon my spirits, and all is dreary, bleak, and desolate to me without you, my beautiful Ada!”Alas! Poor Albert—if already Sir Francis Hartleton, from your long absence from his office, entertains lingering unwelcome doubt of your feelings for Ada—what harsh suspicions are you not about to subject yourself to within the next quarter of an hour. How near are you to the completion of your fondest hopes, and yet how distant—long sought for as you have been, you are now found but to be avoided.The young dejected lover passed onwards in his sorrow, and Sir Francis, whose anxiety was increasing each moment, followed with his eyes fixed on him alone, and totally unobservant of the many curious glances that was cast upon his animated and anxious looking countenance by the passengers.They passed the Horse-guards—the low mean building which was then devoted to other purposes, and which is now the treasury—and still onwards went Albert listlessly as before. Now he turned down a small street behind Parliament-street. Then another turning led him into large handsome thoroughfare; his steps quickened and he, at length, paused by the steps of a large mansion. Sir Francis Hartleton stopped, but kept his eyes rivetted on the young man. He saw him ascend the steps—could he believe his eyes? Yes—it was—it must be Learmont’s house. Then magistrate walked forward. He was not mistaken—Albert Seyton had entered the house of Learmont. The surprise of the magistrate was intense in the extreme. Here was the lover of Ada on visiting terms, if not on more intimate ones, with her worst foe. What was he to think? Had gold had its influence upon the young man—and had he sold himself to the wealthy squire, changing from a lover of Ada to one of the conspirators against her peace? Was such conduct possible? Or had the professions of Albert Seyton been from the first those of a hypocrite? Had he always been a creature of Learmont, and only deputed to perform the part he had played in order the more easily to entangle the young pure girl into an inextricable web of villany?As these painful reflections passed rapidly through the mind of Sir Francis, he saw a livery servant descend the steps of Learmont’s house bearing a letter in his hand.“I will question this man,” he thought. “He is going on some message in the neighbourhood, and I dare say will be communicative enough to satisfy me with regard to the position held by Albert Seyton in Learmont’s house.”The man came down the street towards Sir Francis, who, when he came sufficiently near, said in a careless manner,—“Was that Mr. Seyton who just now entered your master’s house?”“Yes, sir,” was the reply.“Ah, I thought it was he. I have not seen him for a long time. He is intimate with the squire, I believe.”“He is his worship’s private secretary, sir.”“Oh, yes, to be sure. Good morning, friend.”“Good morning, sir.”The servant passed on, and Sir Francis Hartleton stood a few moments in deep thought.“So,” he said, “this lover of Ada’s turns out to be Learmont’s private secretary. The private secretary of a villain should be like his master, and if the young man be a faithful servant, he is no fit match for Ada. He must be in league, with Learmont in all his atrocities, else would he, occupying the situation he does, be a sore encumbrance to such a man as the squire. The facts speak plainly—a confidential servant of a man like Learmont can only be one degree removed from his principal in villany, and that degree must be one deeper still. Is it possible that this young man, who spoke so fairly—who looked so frank and candid, and in whom I, with all my practice of human nature, could discover nothing but what was manly and interesting in his first interview with me—is it possible that he can be one employed to do the dirty work of such a man as Squire Learmont? Alas! Alas! Such is humanity. Surely some sort of presentiment of this—some special interposition of Providence in favour of the good and pure—must have induced me, for Ada’s sake, to follow him thus, instead of permitting a recognition in the streets. A fine tale would this private secretary have had for the ears of his master—that the simple, easily duped Sir Francis Hartleton had in his care the object, for some reason, of his bitterest hatred, and that he, the sweet tongued, honied-accented, private secretary was welcomed as the accepted lover, and had free ingress and egress to the house in which she lived—could concert what plots and plans he liked—nay, could take her very life for a reward sufficient. Thank Heaven, for unmasking so much villany.”Sir Francis Hartleton’s face was flushed, and there was resentment at his heart, as he walked with hasty steps past Learmont’s house.He had not, however, proceeded far when he heard his name mentioned by some one behind him, and, suddenly turning he saw, within a few paces of him, the object of his present angry thoughts—namely, Albert Seyton, who had left Learmont’s house upon seeing the magistrate from a window of the little room by the hall.“I may as well,” thought Albert, “see him—not that I have any hopes beyond those that at present possess my mind, through the interposition of my generous patron, Squire Learmont.”“Well, sir?” said Sir Francis Hartleton, in no very amiable voice.“Do you not recollect me, sir?”“No, sir.”“You do not?”“I know nothing of you, sir, and desire not your acquaintance.”“Sir Francis Hartleton, you are labouring under some error. You mistake who I am.”“There can be no mistake, sir. Good morning. If you have any business with me, you may probably know my office, and the hours of attendance at it.”“One moment, sir.”“Not half a one,” said Sir Francis as he walked away, leaving Albert bewildered. After a few moments’ thought, he said,—“Now I have not one lingering doubt. What Learmont hinted of this magistrate is true. I have but one friend, and that is the rich squire.”“The impertinent scoundrel, to accost me!” said Sir Francis, striding homewards in a great fume. “’Twas never so out of temper in my life. I have no doubt now whatever, but that he is a mere creature of Learmont’s. Thank Heaven! Ada, you are saved.”Sir Francis proceeded home as quickly as he could; but as he neared his own door, the thought came over him of how he was to inform Ada of the discovery he had made; for although his own suspicions were strong against Learmont, and the scraps of paper he had procured from poor had supplied some wanting links in the chain of his conjectures, he had abstained from fully explaining to Ada sufficient to make her now comprehend why Albert’s engagement with the rich squire should place such an insurmountable barrier between them.“She must now know, all,” he thought, “and perhaps it is far better that she should, as at all events she will, in her own thoughts, be better able to separate her friends from her enemies. I will now, however, plan another watch upon the squire’s house, in order to ascertain if this young spark is in any communication with Jacob Gray, or only an agent of the squire’s. He may be playing some complicated game of villany that, after all, may assist me.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s Surprise at Albert’s Place of Destination.—The Watch on the Squires’ House.—Ada’s Disappointment.
WhenSir Francis Hartleton darted across the road in order to follow Albert Seyton, his views, with regard to the young man, were to trace him to his house, and then immediately after send for him to his, Sir Francis’s office, by Buckingham-house; and, in a conversation with him, endeavour to come to a more decided opinion than he was at present able to arrive at with respect to the stability of his affection for Ada; for it is not saying too much, when we assert that the interest felt by the magistrate in the welfare and future happiness of the beautiful girl, who was, by so singular a train of circumstances, placed in his care, was equal to that of a fond father for a darling child of his own.
The very romantic circumstances connected with her would have invested Ada with a great interest, even had she been other than what she was; but when in herself, she concentrated all the sweet feminine charms of mind and person which the warmest fancy could suggest, she became, indeed, an object of deep interest to Sir Francis—an interest which amounted to a pure and holy affection.
Her gentleness, and yet her rare courage—her simplicity, and yet her active intellect—her clinging affection and gushing gratitude to those who were kindly disposed towards her, and her utter want of selfishness, all combined to make her such a character as one might dream of, but seldom hope to see realised.
“Her future happiness,” thought Sir Francis, “all depends upon this young man whom I am now following, and I think I have a right to be more careful that Ada, with all her fine noble feelings, is not sacrificed to one who may fail to appreciate the rich treasure he may possess. I will, ere I welcome this Albert Seyton to my house, be well assured that he is deserving of the pure young heart that I am convinced is all his own. One pang is far better for Ada to endure than the years of misery that must ensue from an ill-assorted union.”
Reasoning thus the magistrate followed Albert Seyton sufficiently close to be certain he could enter no house without his observation; and yet at the same time, at such a distance as to run no great risk of recognition should the young man turn round.
Little did poor Albert, whose mind was, at the present moment, so full of recollections of his Ada, that he scarcely knew whither his footsteps led him, imagine that he had not only passed her within twenty paces, but was now actually kept from her because there was a doubt of the sincerity of that passion which was at once the bliss and the bane of his existence.
Sir Francis could not hear the deep sighs that burst from the labouring heart of the young man, as he whispered to himself—
“My Ada—my beautiful and true! Oh? When will kind Heaven bless my eyes, by permitting me to gaze upon thy face again? The summer’s sun may shine bright’y for others, and the green earth look beautiful, but there is a cloud upon my spirits, and all is dreary, bleak, and desolate to me without you, my beautiful Ada!”
Alas! Poor Albert—if already Sir Francis Hartleton, from your long absence from his office, entertains lingering unwelcome doubt of your feelings for Ada—what harsh suspicions are you not about to subject yourself to within the next quarter of an hour. How near are you to the completion of your fondest hopes, and yet how distant—long sought for as you have been, you are now found but to be avoided.
The young dejected lover passed onwards in his sorrow, and Sir Francis, whose anxiety was increasing each moment, followed with his eyes fixed on him alone, and totally unobservant of the many curious glances that was cast upon his animated and anxious looking countenance by the passengers.
They passed the Horse-guards—the low mean building which was then devoted to other purposes, and which is now the treasury—and still onwards went Albert listlessly as before. Now he turned down a small street behind Parliament-street. Then another turning led him into large handsome thoroughfare; his steps quickened and he, at length, paused by the steps of a large mansion. Sir Francis Hartleton stopped, but kept his eyes rivetted on the young man. He saw him ascend the steps—could he believe his eyes? Yes—it was—it must be Learmont’s house. Then magistrate walked forward. He was not mistaken—Albert Seyton had entered the house of Learmont. The surprise of the magistrate was intense in the extreme. Here was the lover of Ada on visiting terms, if not on more intimate ones, with her worst foe. What was he to think? Had gold had its influence upon the young man—and had he sold himself to the wealthy squire, changing from a lover of Ada to one of the conspirators against her peace? Was such conduct possible? Or had the professions of Albert Seyton been from the first those of a hypocrite? Had he always been a creature of Learmont, and only deputed to perform the part he had played in order the more easily to entangle the young pure girl into an inextricable web of villany?
As these painful reflections passed rapidly through the mind of Sir Francis, he saw a livery servant descend the steps of Learmont’s house bearing a letter in his hand.
“I will question this man,” he thought. “He is going on some message in the neighbourhood, and I dare say will be communicative enough to satisfy me with regard to the position held by Albert Seyton in Learmont’s house.”
The man came down the street towards Sir Francis, who, when he came sufficiently near, said in a careless manner,—
“Was that Mr. Seyton who just now entered your master’s house?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“Ah, I thought it was he. I have not seen him for a long time. He is intimate with the squire, I believe.”
“He is his worship’s private secretary, sir.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure. Good morning, friend.”
“Good morning, sir.”
The servant passed on, and Sir Francis Hartleton stood a few moments in deep thought.
“So,” he said, “this lover of Ada’s turns out to be Learmont’s private secretary. The private secretary of a villain should be like his master, and if the young man be a faithful servant, he is no fit match for Ada. He must be in league, with Learmont in all his atrocities, else would he, occupying the situation he does, be a sore encumbrance to such a man as the squire. The facts speak plainly—a confidential servant of a man like Learmont can only be one degree removed from his principal in villany, and that degree must be one deeper still. Is it possible that this young man, who spoke so fairly—who looked so frank and candid, and in whom I, with all my practice of human nature, could discover nothing but what was manly and interesting in his first interview with me—is it possible that he can be one employed to do the dirty work of such a man as Squire Learmont? Alas! Alas! Such is humanity. Surely some sort of presentiment of this—some special interposition of Providence in favour of the good and pure—must have induced me, for Ada’s sake, to follow him thus, instead of permitting a recognition in the streets. A fine tale would this private secretary have had for the ears of his master—that the simple, easily duped Sir Francis Hartleton had in his care the object, for some reason, of his bitterest hatred, and that he, the sweet tongued, honied-accented, private secretary was welcomed as the accepted lover, and had free ingress and egress to the house in which she lived—could concert what plots and plans he liked—nay, could take her very life for a reward sufficient. Thank Heaven, for unmasking so much villany.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s face was flushed, and there was resentment at his heart, as he walked with hasty steps past Learmont’s house.
He had not, however, proceeded far when he heard his name mentioned by some one behind him, and, suddenly turning he saw, within a few paces of him, the object of his present angry thoughts—namely, Albert Seyton, who had left Learmont’s house upon seeing the magistrate from a window of the little room by the hall.
“I may as well,” thought Albert, “see him—not that I have any hopes beyond those that at present possess my mind, through the interposition of my generous patron, Squire Learmont.”
“Well, sir?” said Sir Francis Hartleton, in no very amiable voice.
“Do you not recollect me, sir?”
“No, sir.”
“You do not?”
“I know nothing of you, sir, and desire not your acquaintance.”
“Sir Francis Hartleton, you are labouring under some error. You mistake who I am.”
“There can be no mistake, sir. Good morning. If you have any business with me, you may probably know my office, and the hours of attendance at it.”
“One moment, sir.”
“Not half a one,” said Sir Francis as he walked away, leaving Albert bewildered. After a few moments’ thought, he said,—
“Now I have not one lingering doubt. What Learmont hinted of this magistrate is true. I have but one friend, and that is the rich squire.”
“The impertinent scoundrel, to accost me!” said Sir Francis, striding homewards in a great fume. “’Twas never so out of temper in my life. I have no doubt now whatever, but that he is a mere creature of Learmont’s. Thank Heaven! Ada, you are saved.”
Sir Francis proceeded home as quickly as he could; but as he neared his own door, the thought came over him of how he was to inform Ada of the discovery he had made; for although his own suspicions were strong against Learmont, and the scraps of paper he had procured from poor had supplied some wanting links in the chain of his conjectures, he had abstained from fully explaining to Ada sufficient to make her now comprehend why Albert’s engagement with the rich squire should place such an insurmountable barrier between them.
“She must now know, all,” he thought, “and perhaps it is far better that she should, as at all events she will, in her own thoughts, be better able to separate her friends from her enemies. I will now, however, plan another watch upon the squire’s house, in order to ascertain if this young spark is in any communication with Jacob Gray, or only an agent of the squire’s. He may be playing some complicated game of villany that, after all, may assist me.”
CHAPTER XCVII.The Visit to Gray’s House.—Learmont’s Exultation.WhileAlbert Seyton was absent on his errand of following Jacob Gray, Learmont was a prey to the keenest anxiety, and he could neither sit nor walk for any length of time, such was the exquisite agony of mind he suffered at the thought that, after all, the young man might fail in his mission, either from want of tact or from over-forwardness. The first supposition of failure presented itself to the squire’s mind in by no means such disagreeable colours as the last; for, even admitting that the wily Jacob Gray should on this one occasion succeed in eluding Albert’s pursuit, there would arise many other opportunities for renewing the same plan of operations with greater chances of success, because with greater experience; but should Jacob Gray once catch a glance of Albert Seyton, all hope of successfully tracing him to his house, through the means of the young lovers would be at an end.As minute after minute winged their heavy flight, Learmont’s mental fever increased, until it became, at length, almost insupportable. He strode to and fro in his apartment with hasty steps; then he threw himself into a chair; then he would raise a cup of wine to his lips, but to lay it down again untasted, as he thought to himself,—“No, I must keep my mind now clear and active; for should he be successful, I shall have need of my mental energy to turn the occasion to advantage. Jacob Gray, even when discovered, is not destroyed. It is one thing to track the fox to his lair, and another to kill him. There will yet remain much to be done, even if my most sanguine hopes are realised through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton.”The thought then crossed his mind of parading through the various rooms of his mansion in order to divert the anxiety that was preying upon him; and taking a light in his hand, he commenced a tour somewhat similar to the one he had undertaken when first he arrived in London, only that he was now alone and the freshness of his enjoyment of all the glitter and splendour which surrounded him on every side was worn off.In the double action of walking and constant change of place, Learmont did find some little relief.“He will be successful,” he muttered, “and Jacob Gray will be destroyed. He must be successful. Why should he not? There are a thousand chances to one in his favour. Then I shall breathe freely; the heaviest load that ever pressed upon my heart will be lifted from it; I shall no longer totter and turn sick and giddy on the brink of the precipice which has so long, as it were, yawned at my feet; I shall know peace—peace of mind, and, by cultivating the enjoyment of the present I shall, in a short time, learn to forget the past. Forget—forget—can I ever forget? Even now a voice seems to ring in my ear with a fearful cry. Blood—aloud it shrieks; can blood ever be forgotten? Can the cry of the dying man? Can the wail of the fatherless child ever fade from the memory of him who has heard them as I have? Can I ever be happy? Was I ever happy? Yes, once; I was a child once, and my heart was spotless as a pearl within its shell. Oh, could I recall the past! But that is madness. The past is gone, and may not be beckoned back again. If man could undo the folded scroll of events which have, in the course of years, taken their progress, it seems to me that human nature would reach some few brief years of its onward march, and then be ever toiling back again to undo what was done. Which of us, if we could live again from earliest infancy the same life, would do as we have done? I am no worse than others. The wisest, the best have felt as I feel now. The blood—blood—the curse of blood! Who whispers that to my heart? I did not do the deed; it was the savage smith; my hands reeked not with the gore. No, no, no. Hence, horrible shadows of the soul, hence, hence—I—I am not, I will not be your victim.”His whole frame trembled; and as was usual with him, when conscience whispered with its awful voice his crimes to his shrinking soul, he felt an utter prostration of every physical energy, and could scarcely crawl to his room.At the same moment that he reached the door, Albert Seyton, flushed, excited, and nearly breathless, reached it likewise.Learmont darted towards him, and clutching his arm with frantic eagerness, shrieked, rather than said,—“Found—found?”“Yes, yes,” cried Albert.“You—you have traced the villain to his lair? You know where you could lay your hand upon his throat as he sleeps? You could tear his heart out? He—he saw you not, you are sure? Swear by heaven and hell you have found his home!”“I have, sir,” said Albert, amazed at the vehemence and wild excitement of Learmont; “with some difficulty, but still with complete success, I have traced him, and know at this moment where to find him.”“So, so,” said Learmont, with a sickly smile, “I—I much rejoice for your sake—for your sake, Albert Seyton, I do rejoice. Let—let me lean on you a moment; a sudden faintness—”“Shall I summon your attendants, sir?” said Albert, much alarmed at the ghastly looks of the squire, who tremblingly held him by the arm.“No, no,” said Learmont; “’tis nothing, I shall be better presently. I felt much for you that it made me over anxious, and—and so, you see, as I am of a nervous temperament, I tremble for you—for you, you understand. There is wine upon the table.”Albert led the squire into the room, and then poured out and presented to him some wine, which he drank with eagerness, after which, drawing a long breath, he said,—“I am much better now;—and so you found him. Do you not rejoice?”“Indeed I do, sir,” said Albert, “and much I long for you to remove all restrictions from me, and allow me to proceed at once to the rescue of her I love.”“All shall be speedily accomplished,” said Learmont; “have but a little patience, and all shall be as you ask. Not many days shall elapse when you shall have your heart’s desire.”“Sir, you bestow upon me a new life.”“Yes, yes. Let me consider a moment. To-morrow—to-morrow—yes, to-morrow is now at hand. Midnight—aye, midnight. Call upon me here on the morning after to-morrow, not sooner—no, not sooner—midnight is a good hour.”“I scarcely understand you, sir,” said Albert, who really thought the squire must be a little insane, he talked so strangely.“Not understand me, sir?” said Learmont. “Surely I speak clearly—I mean the morning after to-morrow. By then I shall have matured some plan—but say—stay—God of heaven I had forgotten.”“Forgotten what, sir?”“You have not told me where he lives.”“’Tis near at hand, although to reach it he traversed thrice the space he needed to have done.”“’Tis like him,” said Learmont. “Most like the man.”“I know not the name of the street, but I could guide you there, sir.”Learmont sprung to his feet.“Now, now. On the moment,” he cried. “My hat—my sword. You shall show me now.”Then suddenly speaking in a subdued tone, he added,—“You see, Mr. Seyton, that I am an enthusiast, and what I take an interest in possesses my mind most fully. You perceive that having promised you to stir in this matter, I am inclined to do so well, and amply so; you shall show me the house in which this man lives, and then I will mature some plan which we can jointly put in execution when we meet again. You understand me quite, Mr. Seyton?”“I do, sir, and am most thankful to you.”“You shall have cause to thank me,” said Learmont—then as a servant appeared in answer to the bell he had sounded, he cried in a loud voice,—“My hat and sword. Quick—my sword!”Both were instantly brought to him, and he commenced hastily descending the stairs with his sword in his hand, and a flush of excitement on his brow, that made him look widely different to the pale trembling man he was but a few short minutes before.“Pray Heaven,” thought Albert, “his wits be not deranged. It would be sad indeed if my only friend were to turn out a madman.”They were soon in the street, and Learmont taking Albert by the arm, said,—“Remember your promise, and make no sort of demonstration of your presence, until I shall permit you. All now depends upon your discretion. Lead me now as quickly as you can to this man’s abode.”“I owe you too much, sir,” said Albert, “to quarrel with your commands, whatever restraint they may put upon my own inclination. I shall control my impatience until the time you mention.”“Do so. Then as a reward, I will contrive some means of providing for you, so that you shall never know again what care and trouble are. You shall have a happy destiny.”These words were uttered in a tone so strange, that Albert, looked in Learmont’s face, to see what expressions accompanied them, and there he saw a lurking smile which brought a disagreeable feeling of suspicion to his heart for a moment, but no longer, for he chased it away again by reflecting what possible motive could Learmont have for first raising his hopes and then crushing them; if, indeed, he had not already gone too far to be of any detriment, if he was of no assistance, by enabling him, Albert, to discover the abode of Jacob Gray, and as he fondly imagined that likewise of his beloved and deeply regretted Ada.“No,” he thought, “I am wrong in my suspicions. He who has done so much for me already is entitled to my confidence, beyond the casual feeling of suspicion that may arise from a smile or a particular tone of voice, I will obey him.”“Is there,” said Learmont, “any dark and secret place in the vicinity of this man’s dwelling from which we may view it securely without being seen ourselves?”“There is a doorway, deep and gloomy, opposite the very house he inhabits,” replied Albert. “If it be now unoccupied, which it was not before, I should name it as a good place for observation.”“Was it occupied?”“Yes; and by one who seemed as much interested in watching Jacob Gray as I was.”“Indeed?”“Aye, sir. A man followed him closely, even as I did, and took up a station finally in the very door I mention.”“That is very strange!” said Learmont, with a troubled air.“It is; I cannot account for it, unless some person like yourself is watching him to discover if he be what he seems or not; or, perchance, some one may have seen Ada, and have been so smitten by her wondrous beauty, as to set a watch upon his house, with the hope that she may come forth.”“I like it not—I like it not,” said Learmont musingly. “A watch upon Jacob Gray! ’Tis very strange! Bodes it good or evil?”They had by this time arrived at the corner of the street in which was situated the obscure shop above which Gray slept, as he supposed, in security, and Albert turning to Learmont, said,—“This is the street, and yonder is the doorway I mentioned to you.”
The Visit to Gray’s House.—Learmont’s Exultation.
WhileAlbert Seyton was absent on his errand of following Jacob Gray, Learmont was a prey to the keenest anxiety, and he could neither sit nor walk for any length of time, such was the exquisite agony of mind he suffered at the thought that, after all, the young man might fail in his mission, either from want of tact or from over-forwardness. The first supposition of failure presented itself to the squire’s mind in by no means such disagreeable colours as the last; for, even admitting that the wily Jacob Gray should on this one occasion succeed in eluding Albert’s pursuit, there would arise many other opportunities for renewing the same plan of operations with greater chances of success, because with greater experience; but should Jacob Gray once catch a glance of Albert Seyton, all hope of successfully tracing him to his house, through the means of the young lovers would be at an end.
As minute after minute winged their heavy flight, Learmont’s mental fever increased, until it became, at length, almost insupportable. He strode to and fro in his apartment with hasty steps; then he threw himself into a chair; then he would raise a cup of wine to his lips, but to lay it down again untasted, as he thought to himself,—
“No, I must keep my mind now clear and active; for should he be successful, I shall have need of my mental energy to turn the occasion to advantage. Jacob Gray, even when discovered, is not destroyed. It is one thing to track the fox to his lair, and another to kill him. There will yet remain much to be done, even if my most sanguine hopes are realised through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton.”
The thought then crossed his mind of parading through the various rooms of his mansion in order to divert the anxiety that was preying upon him; and taking a light in his hand, he commenced a tour somewhat similar to the one he had undertaken when first he arrived in London, only that he was now alone and the freshness of his enjoyment of all the glitter and splendour which surrounded him on every side was worn off.
In the double action of walking and constant change of place, Learmont did find some little relief.
“He will be successful,” he muttered, “and Jacob Gray will be destroyed. He must be successful. Why should he not? There are a thousand chances to one in his favour. Then I shall breathe freely; the heaviest load that ever pressed upon my heart will be lifted from it; I shall no longer totter and turn sick and giddy on the brink of the precipice which has so long, as it were, yawned at my feet; I shall know peace—peace of mind, and, by cultivating the enjoyment of the present I shall, in a short time, learn to forget the past. Forget—forget—can I ever forget? Even now a voice seems to ring in my ear with a fearful cry. Blood—aloud it shrieks; can blood ever be forgotten? Can the cry of the dying man? Can the wail of the fatherless child ever fade from the memory of him who has heard them as I have? Can I ever be happy? Was I ever happy? Yes, once; I was a child once, and my heart was spotless as a pearl within its shell. Oh, could I recall the past! But that is madness. The past is gone, and may not be beckoned back again. If man could undo the folded scroll of events which have, in the course of years, taken their progress, it seems to me that human nature would reach some few brief years of its onward march, and then be ever toiling back again to undo what was done. Which of us, if we could live again from earliest infancy the same life, would do as we have done? I am no worse than others. The wisest, the best have felt as I feel now. The blood—blood—the curse of blood! Who whispers that to my heart? I did not do the deed; it was the savage smith; my hands reeked not with the gore. No, no, no. Hence, horrible shadows of the soul, hence, hence—I—I am not, I will not be your victim.”
His whole frame trembled; and as was usual with him, when conscience whispered with its awful voice his crimes to his shrinking soul, he felt an utter prostration of every physical energy, and could scarcely crawl to his room.
At the same moment that he reached the door, Albert Seyton, flushed, excited, and nearly breathless, reached it likewise.
Learmont darted towards him, and clutching his arm with frantic eagerness, shrieked, rather than said,—“Found—found?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Albert.
“You—you have traced the villain to his lair? You know where you could lay your hand upon his throat as he sleeps? You could tear his heart out? He—he saw you not, you are sure? Swear by heaven and hell you have found his home!”
“I have, sir,” said Albert, amazed at the vehemence and wild excitement of Learmont; “with some difficulty, but still with complete success, I have traced him, and know at this moment where to find him.”
“So, so,” said Learmont, with a sickly smile, “I—I much rejoice for your sake—for your sake, Albert Seyton, I do rejoice. Let—let me lean on you a moment; a sudden faintness—”
“Shall I summon your attendants, sir?” said Albert, much alarmed at the ghastly looks of the squire, who tremblingly held him by the arm.
“No, no,” said Learmont; “’tis nothing, I shall be better presently. I felt much for you that it made me over anxious, and—and so, you see, as I am of a nervous temperament, I tremble for you—for you, you understand. There is wine upon the table.”
Albert led the squire into the room, and then poured out and presented to him some wine, which he drank with eagerness, after which, drawing a long breath, he said,—
“I am much better now;—and so you found him. Do you not rejoice?”
“Indeed I do, sir,” said Albert, “and much I long for you to remove all restrictions from me, and allow me to proceed at once to the rescue of her I love.”
“All shall be speedily accomplished,” said Learmont; “have but a little patience, and all shall be as you ask. Not many days shall elapse when you shall have your heart’s desire.”
“Sir, you bestow upon me a new life.”
“Yes, yes. Let me consider a moment. To-morrow—to-morrow—yes, to-morrow is now at hand. Midnight—aye, midnight. Call upon me here on the morning after to-morrow, not sooner—no, not sooner—midnight is a good hour.”
“I scarcely understand you, sir,” said Albert, who really thought the squire must be a little insane, he talked so strangely.
“Not understand me, sir?” said Learmont. “Surely I speak clearly—I mean the morning after to-morrow. By then I shall have matured some plan—but say—stay—God of heaven I had forgotten.”
“Forgotten what, sir?”
“You have not told me where he lives.”
“’Tis near at hand, although to reach it he traversed thrice the space he needed to have done.”
“’Tis like him,” said Learmont. “Most like the man.”
“I know not the name of the street, but I could guide you there, sir.”
Learmont sprung to his feet.
“Now, now. On the moment,” he cried. “My hat—my sword. You shall show me now.”
Then suddenly speaking in a subdued tone, he added,—
“You see, Mr. Seyton, that I am an enthusiast, and what I take an interest in possesses my mind most fully. You perceive that having promised you to stir in this matter, I am inclined to do so well, and amply so; you shall show me the house in which this man lives, and then I will mature some plan which we can jointly put in execution when we meet again. You understand me quite, Mr. Seyton?”
“I do, sir, and am most thankful to you.”
“You shall have cause to thank me,” said Learmont—then as a servant appeared in answer to the bell he had sounded, he cried in a loud voice,—
“My hat and sword. Quick—my sword!”
Both were instantly brought to him, and he commenced hastily descending the stairs with his sword in his hand, and a flush of excitement on his brow, that made him look widely different to the pale trembling man he was but a few short minutes before.
“Pray Heaven,” thought Albert, “his wits be not deranged. It would be sad indeed if my only friend were to turn out a madman.”
They were soon in the street, and Learmont taking Albert by the arm, said,—
“Remember your promise, and make no sort of demonstration of your presence, until I shall permit you. All now depends upon your discretion. Lead me now as quickly as you can to this man’s abode.”
“I owe you too much, sir,” said Albert, “to quarrel with your commands, whatever restraint they may put upon my own inclination. I shall control my impatience until the time you mention.”
“Do so. Then as a reward, I will contrive some means of providing for you, so that you shall never know again what care and trouble are. You shall have a happy destiny.”
These words were uttered in a tone so strange, that Albert, looked in Learmont’s face, to see what expressions accompanied them, and there he saw a lurking smile which brought a disagreeable feeling of suspicion to his heart for a moment, but no longer, for he chased it away again by reflecting what possible motive could Learmont have for first raising his hopes and then crushing them; if, indeed, he had not already gone too far to be of any detriment, if he was of no assistance, by enabling him, Albert, to discover the abode of Jacob Gray, and as he fondly imagined that likewise of his beloved and deeply regretted Ada.
“No,” he thought, “I am wrong in my suspicions. He who has done so much for me already is entitled to my confidence, beyond the casual feeling of suspicion that may arise from a smile or a particular tone of voice, I will obey him.”
“Is there,” said Learmont, “any dark and secret place in the vicinity of this man’s dwelling from which we may view it securely without being seen ourselves?”
“There is a doorway, deep and gloomy, opposite the very house he inhabits,” replied Albert. “If it be now unoccupied, which it was not before, I should name it as a good place for observation.”
“Was it occupied?”
“Yes; and by one who seemed as much interested in watching Jacob Gray as I was.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye, sir. A man followed him closely, even as I did, and took up a station finally in the very door I mention.”
“That is very strange!” said Learmont, with a troubled air.
“It is; I cannot account for it, unless some person like yourself is watching him to discover if he be what he seems or not; or, perchance, some one may have seen Ada, and have been so smitten by her wondrous beauty, as to set a watch upon his house, with the hope that she may come forth.”
“I like it not—I like it not,” said Learmont musingly. “A watch upon Jacob Gray! ’Tis very strange! Bodes it good or evil?”
They had by this time arrived at the corner of the street in which was situated the obscure shop above which Gray slept, as he supposed, in security, and Albert turning to Learmont, said,—
“This is the street, and yonder is the doorway I mentioned to you.”