CHAPTER XLV.The Lonely Watcher.—Gray’s Cunning.—The Cupboard on the Stairs.Notwithstandingthe search which Sir Francis Hartleton had made—a search that satisfied him that Ada had been removed from Forest’s house by the cunning of Gray—he could not divest himself of the idea that one or both might return to the old mansion, if for no other purpose than to remove some of the articles, which in the course of his researches he had found in various closets and cupboards, into which they had been hastily thrust by Jacob Gray.In case such a thing should be, after some consideration, he resolved to have one of his men there for several days, and he accordingly turned to him who had been guarding the door, and said,—“Elias, you must remain here for a few days.”“Here, Sir Francis? In this old house, your worship?”“Yes, here in this old house, Elias. You are strong, fearless, and well armed. Arrest any one who comes here.”“Yes,” said Elias, looking about him, not over well pleased with his commission, as it did not promise much comfort or sprightly company—two things that Elias was rather partial to.“I expect a thin, sallow man,” continued sir Francis, “to come here, of a pale and anxious cast of countenance. Arrest him by all means.”“Yes, your worship.”“And should a young girl come with him, or by herself, mind, Elias, she is a lady, and take care you treat her respectfully.”“A lady!” ejaculated Elias, with astonishment. “Your worship, is she a real lady, or like Moll Flaherty?”“Pshaw!” cried Sir Francis. “Treat her, I say, with respect, and bring her to me.”“Oh! Bring her to your worship—oh!”“Now you have your instructions. It’s warm, so you can do without a fire and it’s light, and smoke would scare away the people I wish to come. When you sleep, Elias, shut your door lightly, so that you may hear if any one comes. Upon consideration, however, you had better sit up all night, and sleep a little in the day time, for those that I seek are not likely to venture across the fields, lest they should be seen.”“Your worship’s unkimmon considerate, and very kind,” muttered Elias.“You have your lantern, Elias?”“Yes, your worship, and lots of little wax ends put in it.”“Very well. Now, good day. Keep a good watch, Elias—and, do you hear? There’s fifty pounds reward for either the man or the girl.”“Fifty!”“Yes, from me; so you know you are sure of it if you earn it.”“Oh!” cried Elias, looking round, him, with a very different expression, upon the old house. “It’s a very comfortable place, indeed, your worship.”“By-the-by,” said Sir Francis, “I forgot one thing—the girl may come in boy’s clothing.”“Oh, the dear!” said Elias.“So, if what you think a boy comes, you may assume that that’s the girl.”“The pretty cretur!” exclaimed Elias. “Fifty pounds! Bless her.”The magistrate then reflected a moment, and not recollecting anything else that it was necessary to impress upon the sensitive mind of Elias, he was turning away from the door, when that gentleman himself suddenly thought of something of the very greatest importance in his eyes.“Your worship,” he said, “my victuals—my victuals, your worship.”“What?” said Sir Francis.“Am I to be starved, your worship? How am I to get my victuals?”Sir Francis smiled, as he replied,—“I should not have forgotten you. You must do the best you can till sunset, when I will send Stephy to you with plenty to last you.”“Well,” exclaimed Elias, “it is a mercy that I tucked in a tolerable breakfast.”Sir Francis now left the house with his other companions, and Elias, who was remarkable for his size and great personal strength, closed the door, and began to bethink how he should amuse the leisure hours until sunset, when the welcome provisions should arrive; after which time he did not contemplate that the time would hang at all heavily upon his hands.In the meanwhile Jacob Gray remained in the vault, threatening Ada, until he thought all danger must be past, from the extreme quiet that reigned in the house. Not the most distant notion of Sir Francis Hartleton’s leaving any one behind him to keep watch in the lonely mansion, occurred to Jacob Gray, and after half an hour, as he guessed, had very nearly passed away, he began to breathe a little more freely, and to congratulate himself that for that time at least the danger had blown over his head.During that half hour he made a determination to leave the house, and for the short time now that he would stay in England—for he was thoroughly scared, and resolved to be off very soon—he would take some lodging for himself and Ada, at the same time binding her by a solemn promise, as before, not to leave him, which promise he would now render less irksome to her, by representing that in a short time she should be quite free to act as she pleased, as well as knowing everything that might concern her or her future fortunes.With this idea, and believing the danger past, he spoke in a more unembarrassed tone to Ada.“Ada,” he said, “be not deceived—the voice you heard calling upon you was not that of Sir Francis Hartleton. That name was assumed merely to deceive you to your destruction. You, as well as I, have escaped a great danger—so great a danger, that I shall hasten my departure from England, and you may rest assured now that within one month of time you will be rich and free.”“Indeed!” said Ada, incredulously.“You may believe me,” said Gray; “on my faith, what I say is true.”“’Tis hard to believe him who would murder one moment, and promise wealth and freedom the next.”“I was forced to threaten your life, Ada, for my own, as I tell you, hung upon a thread; you will not repent this day’s proceedings when you are happy with him you love, and surrounded by luxury.”Ada started; and had there been light enough in that dismal place. Gray would have seen the mantling flash of colour that visited the cheek of the persecuted girl, as the words he spoke conjured up a dream of happiness to her imagination, that she felt would indeed pay her for all she had suffered—ay, were it ten times more. She did not speak, for she would not let Jacob Gray guess, from the agitation of her voice, the effect that his words had produced, and after a pause he said to her,—“Remain here while I go into the house and see that all is safe. They must be gone by this time, Jacob Gray has foiled them once again, but he will not incur the danger a third time, I assure you. Ada, as I live and breathe your thraldom shall not—cannot last another month.”He ascended the ladder as he spoke, and after listening attentively and hearing nothing, he slid open the panel and looked into the room. All was still, and the glorious bright sunshine was streaming in upon the dingy walls and blackened floor.Again Gray listened—all was still, and he got through the opening with a lurking smile of gratified cunning upon his face. He, however, could not forget his habitual caution, and it was with a slinking, cat-like movement that he walked along the floor of the room.He intended to walk through the entire house, to see if his unwelcome visitors had left behind them any traces of their presence. Opening the door of the room, very carefully, he began to descend the stairs; he muttered to himself as he went,—“’Twas an hour of great danger, I have been saved by what good and pious people would call a miracle, had it happened to them, but I suppose it’s merely an accident in Jacob Gray’s case; well, well, be it so—accident or miracle, ’tis all the same to me; and I am not sorry too, to leave this old house: it has grown hateful and loathsome to me. I would not pass such another night in it as I have passed for—for—much money. No, no—it would indeed require a heap of gold to tempt me.”Now he reached the door of a large cupboard on the staircase, which was wide open, as Sir Francis and his men had left it in the course of their search.“So,” sneered Gray, “they have looked for me in the cupboards, have they? Well, the keener the search has been, the better; it is less likely to be renewed, far less likely. I wish I could think of any plan of vengeance upon this magistrate, for the misery he has caused me; oh, if I could inflict upon him but one tithe of the agony he has made me suffer within the last hour, I should be much rejoiced. Curses on him—curses on him and his efficiency as a magistrate: a meddling cursed fiend he is to me—I must think, Master Hartleton; some little plan of revenge upon you may suggest itself to me by-and-by?“Jacob Gray rubbed his hands together, and gave a sickly smile, as he said this. He was about the middle of the staircase, and it was fortunate for him he had his hands on the banisters, or in the intense horror and surprise that suddenly overcame him, he might have fallen down the remaining portion of the crazy stairs.He heard a door open, leading into the passage, from one of the lower rooms, and a heavy careless step rapidly approached the staircase, while a common street melody, whistled with a shrillness and distinctness that was more horrible to Jacob Gray than would have been the trumpet of the angel at the day of judgment, fell upon his ears.Jacob Gray gave himself up for lost. The blood rushed to his heart with frightful violence, and he thought he should have fainted. How he accomplished the feat he afterwards knew not, but he stepped back. Two paces brought him to the cupboard. It seemed like the door of heaven opened to him. He doubled himself up under a large shelf that went across the middle of it; and clutching the door by a small rim of the panelling, he drew it close.Mr. Elias, with his hands in his pockets, and whistling the before mentioned popular melody, passed on up the staircase, leaving Jacob Gray almost distilled to a jelly with fear.Then, when he had passed, Gray thought at first that his best plan would be to rush down the stairs, open the outer door, and make a rush across the fields, leaving Ada to her destiny—but this was hazardous—he would be seen—hunted like a wild beast; and taken! No. That was too bold a step for Jacob Gray. He listened, with heart and soul, to the footsteps that sounded so awful in his ears, and the question arose in his mind, of—should the man, whoever he was, enter the room where he Jacob Gray, had just left, so heedlessly as he now thought, with the panel open, or would he pass on? That was a fearful question. He thought he heard him pause once, and his heart sunk within him. No, he passed on. He was ascending the second flight of stairs leading to the second story.
The Lonely Watcher.—Gray’s Cunning.—The Cupboard on the Stairs.
Notwithstandingthe search which Sir Francis Hartleton had made—a search that satisfied him that Ada had been removed from Forest’s house by the cunning of Gray—he could not divest himself of the idea that one or both might return to the old mansion, if for no other purpose than to remove some of the articles, which in the course of his researches he had found in various closets and cupboards, into which they had been hastily thrust by Jacob Gray.
In case such a thing should be, after some consideration, he resolved to have one of his men there for several days, and he accordingly turned to him who had been guarding the door, and said,—
“Elias, you must remain here for a few days.”
“Here, Sir Francis? In this old house, your worship?”
“Yes, here in this old house, Elias. You are strong, fearless, and well armed. Arrest any one who comes here.”
“Yes,” said Elias, looking about him, not over well pleased with his commission, as it did not promise much comfort or sprightly company—two things that Elias was rather partial to.
“I expect a thin, sallow man,” continued sir Francis, “to come here, of a pale and anxious cast of countenance. Arrest him by all means.”
“Yes, your worship.”
“And should a young girl come with him, or by herself, mind, Elias, she is a lady, and take care you treat her respectfully.”
“A lady!” ejaculated Elias, with astonishment. “Your worship, is she a real lady, or like Moll Flaherty?”
“Pshaw!” cried Sir Francis. “Treat her, I say, with respect, and bring her to me.”
“Oh! Bring her to your worship—oh!”
“Now you have your instructions. It’s warm, so you can do without a fire and it’s light, and smoke would scare away the people I wish to come. When you sleep, Elias, shut your door lightly, so that you may hear if any one comes. Upon consideration, however, you had better sit up all night, and sleep a little in the day time, for those that I seek are not likely to venture across the fields, lest they should be seen.”
“Your worship’s unkimmon considerate, and very kind,” muttered Elias.
“You have your lantern, Elias?”
“Yes, your worship, and lots of little wax ends put in it.”
“Very well. Now, good day. Keep a good watch, Elias—and, do you hear? There’s fifty pounds reward for either the man or the girl.”
“Fifty!”
“Yes, from me; so you know you are sure of it if you earn it.”
“Oh!” cried Elias, looking round, him, with a very different expression, upon the old house. “It’s a very comfortable place, indeed, your worship.”
“By-the-by,” said Sir Francis, “I forgot one thing—the girl may come in boy’s clothing.”
“Oh, the dear!” said Elias.
“So, if what you think a boy comes, you may assume that that’s the girl.”
“The pretty cretur!” exclaimed Elias. “Fifty pounds! Bless her.”
The magistrate then reflected a moment, and not recollecting anything else that it was necessary to impress upon the sensitive mind of Elias, he was turning away from the door, when that gentleman himself suddenly thought of something of the very greatest importance in his eyes.
“Your worship,” he said, “my victuals—my victuals, your worship.”
“What?” said Sir Francis.
“Am I to be starved, your worship? How am I to get my victuals?”
Sir Francis smiled, as he replied,—
“I should not have forgotten you. You must do the best you can till sunset, when I will send Stephy to you with plenty to last you.”
“Well,” exclaimed Elias, “it is a mercy that I tucked in a tolerable breakfast.”
Sir Francis now left the house with his other companions, and Elias, who was remarkable for his size and great personal strength, closed the door, and began to bethink how he should amuse the leisure hours until sunset, when the welcome provisions should arrive; after which time he did not contemplate that the time would hang at all heavily upon his hands.
In the meanwhile Jacob Gray remained in the vault, threatening Ada, until he thought all danger must be past, from the extreme quiet that reigned in the house. Not the most distant notion of Sir Francis Hartleton’s leaving any one behind him to keep watch in the lonely mansion, occurred to Jacob Gray, and after half an hour, as he guessed, had very nearly passed away, he began to breathe a little more freely, and to congratulate himself that for that time at least the danger had blown over his head.
During that half hour he made a determination to leave the house, and for the short time now that he would stay in England—for he was thoroughly scared, and resolved to be off very soon—he would take some lodging for himself and Ada, at the same time binding her by a solemn promise, as before, not to leave him, which promise he would now render less irksome to her, by representing that in a short time she should be quite free to act as she pleased, as well as knowing everything that might concern her or her future fortunes.
With this idea, and believing the danger past, he spoke in a more unembarrassed tone to Ada.
“Ada,” he said, “be not deceived—the voice you heard calling upon you was not that of Sir Francis Hartleton. That name was assumed merely to deceive you to your destruction. You, as well as I, have escaped a great danger—so great a danger, that I shall hasten my departure from England, and you may rest assured now that within one month of time you will be rich and free.”
“Indeed!” said Ada, incredulously.
“You may believe me,” said Gray; “on my faith, what I say is true.”
“’Tis hard to believe him who would murder one moment, and promise wealth and freedom the next.”
“I was forced to threaten your life, Ada, for my own, as I tell you, hung upon a thread; you will not repent this day’s proceedings when you are happy with him you love, and surrounded by luxury.”
Ada started; and had there been light enough in that dismal place. Gray would have seen the mantling flash of colour that visited the cheek of the persecuted girl, as the words he spoke conjured up a dream of happiness to her imagination, that she felt would indeed pay her for all she had suffered—ay, were it ten times more. She did not speak, for she would not let Jacob Gray guess, from the agitation of her voice, the effect that his words had produced, and after a pause he said to her,—
“Remain here while I go into the house and see that all is safe. They must be gone by this time, Jacob Gray has foiled them once again, but he will not incur the danger a third time, I assure you. Ada, as I live and breathe your thraldom shall not—cannot last another month.”
He ascended the ladder as he spoke, and after listening attentively and hearing nothing, he slid open the panel and looked into the room. All was still, and the glorious bright sunshine was streaming in upon the dingy walls and blackened floor.
Again Gray listened—all was still, and he got through the opening with a lurking smile of gratified cunning upon his face. He, however, could not forget his habitual caution, and it was with a slinking, cat-like movement that he walked along the floor of the room.
He intended to walk through the entire house, to see if his unwelcome visitors had left behind them any traces of their presence. Opening the door of the room, very carefully, he began to descend the stairs; he muttered to himself as he went,—
“’Twas an hour of great danger, I have been saved by what good and pious people would call a miracle, had it happened to them, but I suppose it’s merely an accident in Jacob Gray’s case; well, well, be it so—accident or miracle, ’tis all the same to me; and I am not sorry too, to leave this old house: it has grown hateful and loathsome to me. I would not pass such another night in it as I have passed for—for—much money. No, no—it would indeed require a heap of gold to tempt me.”
Now he reached the door of a large cupboard on the staircase, which was wide open, as Sir Francis and his men had left it in the course of their search.
“So,” sneered Gray, “they have looked for me in the cupboards, have they? Well, the keener the search has been, the better; it is less likely to be renewed, far less likely. I wish I could think of any plan of vengeance upon this magistrate, for the misery he has caused me; oh, if I could inflict upon him but one tithe of the agony he has made me suffer within the last hour, I should be much rejoiced. Curses on him—curses on him and his efficiency as a magistrate: a meddling cursed fiend he is to me—I must think, Master Hartleton; some little plan of revenge upon you may suggest itself to me by-and-by?“
Jacob Gray rubbed his hands together, and gave a sickly smile, as he said this. He was about the middle of the staircase, and it was fortunate for him he had his hands on the banisters, or in the intense horror and surprise that suddenly overcame him, he might have fallen down the remaining portion of the crazy stairs.
He heard a door open, leading into the passage, from one of the lower rooms, and a heavy careless step rapidly approached the staircase, while a common street melody, whistled with a shrillness and distinctness that was more horrible to Jacob Gray than would have been the trumpet of the angel at the day of judgment, fell upon his ears.
Jacob Gray gave himself up for lost. The blood rushed to his heart with frightful violence, and he thought he should have fainted. How he accomplished the feat he afterwards knew not, but he stepped back. Two paces brought him to the cupboard. It seemed like the door of heaven opened to him. He doubled himself up under a large shelf that went across the middle of it; and clutching the door by a small rim of the panelling, he drew it close.
Mr. Elias, with his hands in his pockets, and whistling the before mentioned popular melody, passed on up the staircase, leaving Jacob Gray almost distilled to a jelly with fear.
Then, when he had passed, Gray thought at first that his best plan would be to rush down the stairs, open the outer door, and make a rush across the fields, leaving Ada to her destiny—but this was hazardous—he would be seen—hunted like a wild beast; and taken! No. That was too bold a step for Jacob Gray. He listened, with heart and soul, to the footsteps that sounded so awful in his ears, and the question arose in his mind, of—should the man, whoever he was, enter the room where he Jacob Gray, had just left, so heedlessly as he now thought, with the panel open, or would he pass on? That was a fearful question. He thought he heard him pause once, and his heart sunk within him. No, he passed on. He was ascending the second flight of stairs leading to the second story.
CHAPTER XLVI.The Death of the Elder Seyton.—Albert’s Grief.—The Prophecy.It isnecessary now that we should, although unwillingly, leave the fortunes of the beautiful and persecuted Ada to proceed by themselves for a short space, while we acquaint the reader with what the other important personages in our story have been and are about.First, we will turn to Albert Seyton, who, with his father, returned from the office of Sir Francis Hartleton, rather dispirited than otherwise at the result of the interview with him.It was in vain that Albert reasoned with himself on the folly of his having had any immediate expectations of news of Ada through the interposition of the magistrate. He did feel depressed and disappointed, and the words indicative of the difficulty that enveloped the business which Sir Francis Hartleton had used made a far greater impression upon the mind of Albert than anything else that had transpired at the interview.Had Sir Francis Hartleton not been a magistrate, but a mere private gentleman, knowing what he did, and suspecting what he did, in all probability the interview with the Seytons would have been more satisfactory to them, and more productive of beneficial results to Ada; but as it was, Sir Francis felt that, in his official capacity, he could not be too cautious as to what he said, or what opinion he suggested, in any criminal undertaking. Thus he did not (and so far he was quite correct) feel himself justified in mentioning the name of Learmont, unless the Seytons had heard it previously, in connexion with any of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Ada.As yet all was mere suspicion; and there was no direct evidence on which to found an open accusation against the acts of Squire Learmont; for although he, Sir Francis, by putting together all the circumstances in his own mind, felt morally convinced that there had been some great crime committed, in which Learmont, Britton the smith, the man Gray, and possibly others were implicated, still the evidence of that crime were to be sought; and it would have been highly inconsistent with him, Sir Francis, as a magistrate, to have brought a loose and unsubstantiated charge against any one—much less a man with whom it could be easily proved he had previously quarrelled, and who might, by the very indiscretion of making an improper charge against, be so far put upon his caution, as to succeed in effectually destroying all evidence that could ever militate against him.Taking, therefore, this view of the case, and being satisfied that the Seytons had communicated to him all they knew; and having their promise to bring him any fresh information they might become possessed of, he resolved to prosecute the matter quietly and cautiously, until, by getting some of the parties in his hands, he would be able to put together something distinct in the shape of a charge against Learmont, or ascertain his innocence.The magistrate had seen much of human nature, and he very soon came to the conclusion, in his own mind, that brave, ardent, and enthusiastic as Albert Seyton was, he would be very far from an efficient assistant in a matter that required the utmost coolness, caution, andfinesse. Thus it was that he acted entirely independent of Albert, and said as little to him as he could upon the subject, at the same time that he, Sir Francis Hartleton, would not have lost a moment in communicating with Albert, had any discovery really taken place at the old house at Battersea.While all this was going on, Albert Seyton pursued his inquiries, although with a languid spirit, for there was no place he had not already several times visited. Twice or thrice he had actually looked at the house in which Ada was a prisoner, and once he thought of crossing the fields from curiosity to visit it, but was told that it was in ruins, and in fact dangerous to approach, as it was expected to fall to the ground very shortly; and considering it as a most unlikely place to search in, standing as it did so very much exposed to observation in its situation, he abandoned the notion of crossing the marshy fields to the old ruin.Pale and languid, he would return to his father in the evening, and it was some time before he noticed that there were perceptible signs of rapid decay creeping over the only earthly tie he had, save Ada.In truth. Mr. Seyton was near that bourne from whence no traveller returns, and in the midst of his other griefs, the absorbing one sprang up, of the loss of his father.Every other consideration was now abandoned by Albert in his anxious solicitude for his father’s health. It seemed, however, that a rapid decay of nature was taking place, and in less than three days Mr. Seyton lay at the point of death. Medical advice was of no avail; the physician who was called in declared that neither he nor any of his brethren could do anything in the case. There, was no disease to grapple with—it seemed as if nature had said, “the time of dissolution has come, and it may not be averted.”It was early dawn, and the stillness that reigned throughout London had something awful and yet sublime in it, when Albert, who had been watching by the bedside of his father, was roused from a slight slumber into which, from pure exhaustion, he had sunk, by the low, faint voice of his dying parent feebly pronouncing his name.“Albert, Albert!” he said.Albert started, and replied to his father.“Yes, father, I am here.”“You are here, my boy, and you will remain here many years—here in this world, I mean, which I hope may teem with happiness to you; but I am on my last journey, Albert; I shall not see another day.”“Father, say not so,” replied Albert, endeavouring to assume a tone of cheerfulness that was foreign to his feelings. “Say not so; we may yet be together many years.”“Albert, do not try to delude me and yourself with false hopes—listen to what I shall say to you now.”“I will, father.”“They are my last words, Albert, and it is said that when the spirit is about to quit its earthly tenement, and is hovering, as it were, upon the confines of eternity, it is permitted to see things that in its grosser state were far above its ken, and even to obtain some dim glimpse of the future, so that it may to the ear of those it loves hazard guesses of that which is to come.”Albert listened with eager attention to his father’s words; and it seemed to him as if there were something of heavenly inspiration in his tones.After a pause, Mr. Seyton continued,—“Albert, for two days now I have known no peace on your account,—”“On my account, father?”“Yes, Albert. By my death, the pension which my just claims have wrung from the government, for which I suffered so much, ceases, and you know I have not enjoyed it long enough to leave any sum that will do more than supply your immediate exigencies.”“Think not of me now, father,” said Albert; “dismiss all uneasiness from your mind on my account. I am young, and can labour for my bread as well as—as—”“As what, my boy?”“As my griefs will let me, father.”“Listen to me, Albert. I say I have suffered much on your account, because the thought haunted me that I was leaving you to struggle unaided in a cold, selfish, and too—too frequently, wicked world; but now that feeling, by some mysterious means, has left me.”“Indeed, father?”“Yes, a kind of confidence—surely from Heaven—has crept over my heart concerning you, and, without knowing how or why, I seem to have a deep and thorough conviction that you will be happy and prosperous.”“Father,” said Albert, “for your sake do I rejoice in your words, not for my own. If you must be taken by God from me, let me see you thus even to the last, free from care and that cankering anxiety which has now for some time afflicted you.”“Yes, I am comparatively happy,” said Mr. Seyton. “You will wed her whom you love, and there shall not be a cloud in the sky of your prosperity and happiness. All shall be achieved by Heaven in its own good time.”“Father, your words sink deep into my heart,” cried Albert; “they come to me as if from the lips of the Eternal One himself.”“I—I would fain have lingered with you, my boy, yet awhile, even until I could have seen and rejoiced in all this that I now foretel to you. But it may not be—it may not be.”“Oh, yes! There is still hope.”“No, no! My mortal race is nearly run.”Albert wept.“Nay, Albert, do not weep,” said his father; “we and all we love—all who have loved us—will meet again.”“’Tis a dear hope,” said Albert, endeavouring to control his tears.“And now, my dear boy, when you do see this young and innocent girl—this Ada, whom you love—tell her I send her my blessing, and beg her to accept it as she would a father’s. You will tell her, Albert?”“Tell her, father? Oh yes!—Your words will be precious to her, father.”“I know her gentle nature well,” continued Mr. Seyton. “Cherish her, Albert, for she is one of those rare creatures sent among us by God, to purify and chasten the bad passions of men. Cherish her as a dear gift from Heaven to you.”“As Heaven is my hope, I will,” said Albert, “I will live but for her.”“’Tis well, ’tis well. I would have joyed to see her; but no matter. The spirit may be allowed to look with purer eyes upon those it loved on earth, than it could through its earthly organs.”“Your love, father, will cling for ever round us, and we will rejoice in the fond belief that we are seen by you from above.”Albert’s voice became choked with tears, and he sobbed bitterly.“Nay, now, Albert,” said his father, “this is not as it should be. We were talking cheerfully. Do not weep. Death is not a misfortune; ’tis only a great change. We leave a restless, painful scene for the calm repose of everlasting peace and joy. Our greatest thrill of happiness in this life is like a stagnant pool to the ocean, in comparison with the eternal joy that is to come. Do not, therefore, weep for me, Albert, but do your duty while you remain here behind me, so that we may meet again where we shall meet never to part, without the shadow of a pang.”“Father, your words are holy, and full of hope; they will ever be engraven on my heart.”Mr. Seyton was now silent for many minutes; and Albert, by the rapidly increasing light of the coming day, watched with painful interest the great change that was passing over his countenance.“Father,” he murmured.“Yes, Albert, I am here still,” was the reply.“You are in pain?”“No, no. Bless you, my boy!”Albert sobbed convulsively, and took his father’s hand in his—“And bless you too, Ada,” added Mr. Seyton, after a pause. Then he seemed to imagine she was present, for he said,—“You love my boy, Ada? Blessings on you!—You are very beautiful. Ada, but your heart is the most lovely. So you love my boy? Take an old man’s dying blessing, my girl.”Albert was deeply affected by these words, and in vain he endeavoured to stifle his sobs.“Albert!” said his father, suddenly.“Yes, father, I am here,” he replied.“Do you recollect your mother, my dear boy?”“But dimly, father.”“She—she is beckoning me now. Farewell! Bless you, Albert—Ada!”There was one long-drawn sigh, and the kind-hearted, noble Mr. Seyton was with his God.It was some moments before Albert could bring himself to believe that his father was no more; and then, with a frantic burst of grief, he called around him the persons of the house, who with gentle violence took him from the chamber of death, and strove to soothe his deep grief with such topics of consolation as suggested themselves to them. But poor Albert heard nothing of their sympathy. His grief was overwhelming; and it was many hours before his deep agony subsided into tears, and the last words of his father came like balm to his wounded spirit.Then his grief assumed a more calm and melancholy aspect. He shed no more tears; but there was a weight at his heart which even the bright and strangely earnest prophecies of his father, concerning his happiness with Ada, could not remove. Time alone, in such cases, heals the deep and agonising grief which ensues in a fond and truthful heart, after such a disseverment of a tie which, while it exists, we cannot imagine can ever be broken.
The Death of the Elder Seyton.—Albert’s Grief.—The Prophecy.
It isnecessary now that we should, although unwillingly, leave the fortunes of the beautiful and persecuted Ada to proceed by themselves for a short space, while we acquaint the reader with what the other important personages in our story have been and are about.
First, we will turn to Albert Seyton, who, with his father, returned from the office of Sir Francis Hartleton, rather dispirited than otherwise at the result of the interview with him.
It was in vain that Albert reasoned with himself on the folly of his having had any immediate expectations of news of Ada through the interposition of the magistrate. He did feel depressed and disappointed, and the words indicative of the difficulty that enveloped the business which Sir Francis Hartleton had used made a far greater impression upon the mind of Albert than anything else that had transpired at the interview.
Had Sir Francis Hartleton not been a magistrate, but a mere private gentleman, knowing what he did, and suspecting what he did, in all probability the interview with the Seytons would have been more satisfactory to them, and more productive of beneficial results to Ada; but as it was, Sir Francis felt that, in his official capacity, he could not be too cautious as to what he said, or what opinion he suggested, in any criminal undertaking. Thus he did not (and so far he was quite correct) feel himself justified in mentioning the name of Learmont, unless the Seytons had heard it previously, in connexion with any of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Ada.
As yet all was mere suspicion; and there was no direct evidence on which to found an open accusation against the acts of Squire Learmont; for although he, Sir Francis, by putting together all the circumstances in his own mind, felt morally convinced that there had been some great crime committed, in which Learmont, Britton the smith, the man Gray, and possibly others were implicated, still the evidence of that crime were to be sought; and it would have been highly inconsistent with him, Sir Francis, as a magistrate, to have brought a loose and unsubstantiated charge against any one—much less a man with whom it could be easily proved he had previously quarrelled, and who might, by the very indiscretion of making an improper charge against, be so far put upon his caution, as to succeed in effectually destroying all evidence that could ever militate against him.
Taking, therefore, this view of the case, and being satisfied that the Seytons had communicated to him all they knew; and having their promise to bring him any fresh information they might become possessed of, he resolved to prosecute the matter quietly and cautiously, until, by getting some of the parties in his hands, he would be able to put together something distinct in the shape of a charge against Learmont, or ascertain his innocence.
The magistrate had seen much of human nature, and he very soon came to the conclusion, in his own mind, that brave, ardent, and enthusiastic as Albert Seyton was, he would be very far from an efficient assistant in a matter that required the utmost coolness, caution, andfinesse. Thus it was that he acted entirely independent of Albert, and said as little to him as he could upon the subject, at the same time that he, Sir Francis Hartleton, would not have lost a moment in communicating with Albert, had any discovery really taken place at the old house at Battersea.
While all this was going on, Albert Seyton pursued his inquiries, although with a languid spirit, for there was no place he had not already several times visited. Twice or thrice he had actually looked at the house in which Ada was a prisoner, and once he thought of crossing the fields from curiosity to visit it, but was told that it was in ruins, and in fact dangerous to approach, as it was expected to fall to the ground very shortly; and considering it as a most unlikely place to search in, standing as it did so very much exposed to observation in its situation, he abandoned the notion of crossing the marshy fields to the old ruin.
Pale and languid, he would return to his father in the evening, and it was some time before he noticed that there were perceptible signs of rapid decay creeping over the only earthly tie he had, save Ada.
In truth. Mr. Seyton was near that bourne from whence no traveller returns, and in the midst of his other griefs, the absorbing one sprang up, of the loss of his father.
Every other consideration was now abandoned by Albert in his anxious solicitude for his father’s health. It seemed, however, that a rapid decay of nature was taking place, and in less than three days Mr. Seyton lay at the point of death. Medical advice was of no avail; the physician who was called in declared that neither he nor any of his brethren could do anything in the case. There, was no disease to grapple with—it seemed as if nature had said, “the time of dissolution has come, and it may not be averted.”
It was early dawn, and the stillness that reigned throughout London had something awful and yet sublime in it, when Albert, who had been watching by the bedside of his father, was roused from a slight slumber into which, from pure exhaustion, he had sunk, by the low, faint voice of his dying parent feebly pronouncing his name.
“Albert, Albert!” he said.
Albert started, and replied to his father.
“Yes, father, I am here.”
“You are here, my boy, and you will remain here many years—here in this world, I mean, which I hope may teem with happiness to you; but I am on my last journey, Albert; I shall not see another day.”
“Father, say not so,” replied Albert, endeavouring to assume a tone of cheerfulness that was foreign to his feelings. “Say not so; we may yet be together many years.”
“Albert, do not try to delude me and yourself with false hopes—listen to what I shall say to you now.”
“I will, father.”
“They are my last words, Albert, and it is said that when the spirit is about to quit its earthly tenement, and is hovering, as it were, upon the confines of eternity, it is permitted to see things that in its grosser state were far above its ken, and even to obtain some dim glimpse of the future, so that it may to the ear of those it loves hazard guesses of that which is to come.”
Albert listened with eager attention to his father’s words; and it seemed to him as if there were something of heavenly inspiration in his tones.
After a pause, Mr. Seyton continued,—
“Albert, for two days now I have known no peace on your account,—”
“On my account, father?”
“Yes, Albert. By my death, the pension which my just claims have wrung from the government, for which I suffered so much, ceases, and you know I have not enjoyed it long enough to leave any sum that will do more than supply your immediate exigencies.”
“Think not of me now, father,” said Albert; “dismiss all uneasiness from your mind on my account. I am young, and can labour for my bread as well as—as—”
“As what, my boy?”
“As my griefs will let me, father.”
“Listen to me, Albert. I say I have suffered much on your account, because the thought haunted me that I was leaving you to struggle unaided in a cold, selfish, and too—too frequently, wicked world; but now that feeling, by some mysterious means, has left me.”
“Indeed, father?”
“Yes, a kind of confidence—surely from Heaven—has crept over my heart concerning you, and, without knowing how or why, I seem to have a deep and thorough conviction that you will be happy and prosperous.”
“Father,” said Albert, “for your sake do I rejoice in your words, not for my own. If you must be taken by God from me, let me see you thus even to the last, free from care and that cankering anxiety which has now for some time afflicted you.”
“Yes, I am comparatively happy,” said Mr. Seyton. “You will wed her whom you love, and there shall not be a cloud in the sky of your prosperity and happiness. All shall be achieved by Heaven in its own good time.”
“Father, your words sink deep into my heart,” cried Albert; “they come to me as if from the lips of the Eternal One himself.”
“I—I would fain have lingered with you, my boy, yet awhile, even until I could have seen and rejoiced in all this that I now foretel to you. But it may not be—it may not be.”
“Oh, yes! There is still hope.”
“No, no! My mortal race is nearly run.”
Albert wept.
“Nay, Albert, do not weep,” said his father; “we and all we love—all who have loved us—will meet again.”
“’Tis a dear hope,” said Albert, endeavouring to control his tears.
“And now, my dear boy, when you do see this young and innocent girl—this Ada, whom you love—tell her I send her my blessing, and beg her to accept it as she would a father’s. You will tell her, Albert?”
“Tell her, father? Oh yes!—Your words will be precious to her, father.”
“I know her gentle nature well,” continued Mr. Seyton. “Cherish her, Albert, for she is one of those rare creatures sent among us by God, to purify and chasten the bad passions of men. Cherish her as a dear gift from Heaven to you.”
“As Heaven is my hope, I will,” said Albert, “I will live but for her.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well. I would have joyed to see her; but no matter. The spirit may be allowed to look with purer eyes upon those it loved on earth, than it could through its earthly organs.”
“Your love, father, will cling for ever round us, and we will rejoice in the fond belief that we are seen by you from above.”
Albert’s voice became choked with tears, and he sobbed bitterly.
“Nay, now, Albert,” said his father, “this is not as it should be. We were talking cheerfully. Do not weep. Death is not a misfortune; ’tis only a great change. We leave a restless, painful scene for the calm repose of everlasting peace and joy. Our greatest thrill of happiness in this life is like a stagnant pool to the ocean, in comparison with the eternal joy that is to come. Do not, therefore, weep for me, Albert, but do your duty while you remain here behind me, so that we may meet again where we shall meet never to part, without the shadow of a pang.”
“Father, your words are holy, and full of hope; they will ever be engraven on my heart.”
Mr. Seyton was now silent for many minutes; and Albert, by the rapidly increasing light of the coming day, watched with painful interest the great change that was passing over his countenance.
“Father,” he murmured.
“Yes, Albert, I am here still,” was the reply.
“You are in pain?”
“No, no. Bless you, my boy!”
Albert sobbed convulsively, and took his father’s hand in his—
“And bless you too, Ada,” added Mr. Seyton, after a pause. Then he seemed to imagine she was present, for he said,—
“You love my boy, Ada? Blessings on you!—You are very beautiful. Ada, but your heart is the most lovely. So you love my boy? Take an old man’s dying blessing, my girl.”
Albert was deeply affected by these words, and in vain he endeavoured to stifle his sobs.
“Albert!” said his father, suddenly.
“Yes, father, I am here,” he replied.
“Do you recollect your mother, my dear boy?”
“But dimly, father.”
“She—she is beckoning me now. Farewell! Bless you, Albert—Ada!”
There was one long-drawn sigh, and the kind-hearted, noble Mr. Seyton was with his God.
It was some moments before Albert could bring himself to believe that his father was no more; and then, with a frantic burst of grief, he called around him the persons of the house, who with gentle violence took him from the chamber of death, and strove to soothe his deep grief with such topics of consolation as suggested themselves to them. But poor Albert heard nothing of their sympathy. His grief was overwhelming; and it was many hours before his deep agony subsided into tears, and the last words of his father came like balm to his wounded spirit.
Then his grief assumed a more calm and melancholy aspect. He shed no more tears; but there was a weight at his heart which even the bright and strangely earnest prophecies of his father, concerning his happiness with Ada, could not remove. Time alone, in such cases, heals the deep and agonising grief which ensues in a fond and truthful heart, after such a disseverment of a tie which, while it exists, we cannot imagine can ever be broken.
CHAPTER XLVII.The Smith at Learmont House.—The Breakfast.—The Threat, and its Results.—The Caution.Whilethese events were taking place, Learmont was ill at ease in his stately halls. Well he knew that the visitation of the smith at so inopportune an hour at hisfêtewould be related throughout that circle of nobility and power into which it was the grand end and aim of his life to force himself; and, it added one more damning argument to those already rapidly accumulating in his mind towards the conviction, that after all he had made a grand mistake in life, and mistaken the road to happiness. At the same time, however, he felt that having chosen the path of guilt he had, there was for him no retreat, and with a dogged perseverance, compounded of mortified ambition, he continued his career of guilt.Take the life of Britton he dared not, although he lay such an inanimate, helpless mass in his power, and it was not the least of Learmont’s annoyances that he was compelled to see to the personal safety of the drunken brute who had produced confusion and derangement among his most ambitious schemes.It was many hours before Britton slept off the intoxication under the influence of which he had acted in the manner described in the ball-room, and when he did recover, and open his heavy eyes, it was with no small degree of surprise that he found himself in the same dark room into which the squire had thrown him to sleep off his debauch.His first thought was that he was in prison, and he rose to his feet with bitter imprecations and awful curses upon the head of Learmont and Gray, whom he supposed must have betrayed him in some way. A second thought, however, dispelled this delusion.“No—no; d—n them—no!” he cried. “They dare not! Well they know they dare not!—I have them safe!—My evidence would destroy them, while it would not place me in a worse position. Where the devil am I?”The room was very dark, the only light coming from a small pane of glass at the top of the door. Britton, however, was not exactly the kind of person to waste much time in idle conjecture or imaginative theories as to where he was; but, ascertaining that the door was locked, he placed his shoulder against it and with one heave of his bulky form, forced it from its hinges.A loud cry arrested the smith’s attention as he accomplished this feat, and, to his great amusement, he saw lying amid the confusion of a tray, glasses, and decanters, a man who happened to have been passing at the moment, and, alarmed at the sudden and violent appearance of the smith, had fallen down with what he was so carefully carrying.This was a piece of sport quite in Britton’s way—one of those practical jests that he perfectly understood and appreciated, in order, however, to add zest to it, he gave the astonished man a hearty kick, which induced him to spring to his feet, and make off with frantic speed, shouting “Murder! Murder!” at the top of his lungs.Britton immediately turned his attention to one decanter which, in a most miraculous and extraordinary manner, preserved its position of perpendicularity amidst the universal wreck of every other article. He seized it instantly as a lawful prize, and plunging the neck of it into his capacious mouth, he withdrew it not again until it presented an appearance of perfect vacuity, and the bottle of wine which it had contained was transferred into his interior man.“That’s good,” gasped Britton, when he had finished his draught, “I was thirsty. Upon my life that’s good. Curse the awkward fellow! He has broken the other, I wonder how the d—l I came—by G—d! This is the squire’s, now I look about me. I must have been drunk. What the deuce has happened? My head is all of a twirl. Let me think,—humph! The Chequers—d—n it! I can’t recollect anything but the Chequers.”Britton’s cogitations were here interrupted by the appearance of Learmont with a dark scowl on his brow that would have alarmed any one but the iron-nerved and audacious Britton.“Well, squire,” he said, “I suppose I’d a drop too much, and you took care of me, eh? Is that it?”“Follow—me!” said Learmont, bringing out the two words through his clenched teeth, and making a great effort to preserve himself from bursting out into a torrent of invective.“Follow you?” exclaimed Britton. “Well I have no objection; I’ll follow you. Our business is always quite private and confidential.”He followed the rapid strides of Learmont along a long gallery, during the progress of which they encountered a servant, when Britton immediately paused, and roared out in a voice that made the man stand like one possessed,—“Hark, ye knave!—You in the tawny coat, turned up with white—bring breakfast for two directly.”“Andrew Britton!” cried Learmont, turning full upon the smith, flashing with resentment.“Squire Learmont!” replied Britton, facing him with an air of insolence and bloated assurance.There was a pause for a moment, and then Learmont added,—“You—you are still drunk!”“No, I am hungry; a drunken man never orders victuals, squire.”“I have breakfasted,” said Learmont.“Very like, but you don’t fancy I meant any of it for you. Curse me! I always make a point of ordering breakfast for two, now that I am a gentleman and can afford it;—I’m sure to have nearly enough then. Breakfast for two, I say! You can get it ready while your master and I settle some little affairs connected with the Old Smithy. Do you hear?—What are you staring at?”The servant looked at Learmont evidently for orders, and the squire, almost inarticulate with rage, said,—“Go—go! You may get him breakfast.”“Ah, to be sure,” said Britton; “of course you may. I’m a particular friend of your master’s; and mind you are more respectful another time, you beast, and use polite language, and be d—d to you, you thief!”The amazed domestic hastened away, for he shrewdly guessed that, if he delayed much longer, he might be favoured by some practical display of the excessive freedom which the messenger from the Old Smithy evidently could take with the proud, haughty, Learmont, and everything that was his, or in any way connected with him—a freedom which puzzled and amazed the whole household, and formed the theme of such endless gossipping in the servants’ hall, that without it, it would seem impossible they could found any materials for consideration, conjecture, and endless surmise.Learmont now stalked on, followed by Britton, until he reached the small private room in which the conferences with both Gray and the smith were usually held. The squire then closed the door, and turning to Britton with a face convulsed with passion, he said,—“Scoundrel! Are you not afraid to tamper with me in this manner? Drive me too far by your disgusting conduct, and insolent, vulgar familiarities, and I would hang you, though I had to fly from England forever before I denounced you;—nay, hear me out, and let my words sink deep into your brain, if it be capable of receiving and recording them. If you dare to thrall me by untimely visits, I will, though it cost me thousands, lay such a plot for your destruction, that your life shall not only be forfeited, but I will take care to associate your name with such infamy that no confession nor statement of yours would be received with a moment’s credence. You earn from me the wages of crime—deep crime, and you know it; but were those wages millions, and were those crimes of ten times blacker hue than they are, you have no right, nor shall you be, a torment to me. I am your master, and I will make you know it, or rue the fearful consequence.”Learmont paused, and regarded the smith with an air of haughty defiance.“Oh!” said Britton. “So you’ve had your say, Squire Learmont—you threaten to hang me, do you? Ho! Ho! Ho!—The same length of cord that hangs me will make a noose for your own neck. You will lay a plot to destroy me, will—beware, Squire Learmont! I have laid a mine for you—a mine that will blow you to h—ll, when I choose to fire the train. I don’t want to quarrel with you; I’ve done a black job or two for you, and you don’t much like paying for them; but then you know you must, and there’s an end to that. Now for the familiarity business: I give in a little there, squire, d—me! Justice is justice—give every dog his day! I have been cursedly drunk, I suppose, and made an ass of myself. I came here, though, now I recollect, with a good motive,—it was to warn you. But mind you, squire, don’t call me any ugly names again—I won’t stand them. Be civil, and growl as much as you like—curse you! Be genteel, and don’t provoke me.”“Solemnly promise me that you will only come here at stated times, from visit to visit, to be arranged,” said Learmont, “and I am willing to forget the past.”“Well, that’s fair,” cried Britton. “When I’ve had a drop, I’m a little wild or so,—d—n it! I always was.”“You consent?”“I do. Now give me my fee.”“Your fee?”“Yes; ten pounds.”Learmont took out the sum required from his purse, and handed it to Britton, saying as he did so,—“And when shall I be honoured again with your next visit?”“What’s to-day, squire?”“Thursday.”“Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning. If I’ve been sober on Friday night, we’ll say eleven o’clock; if drunk, make it two or three.”A low tap at the door now announced some one, and Learmont went to see who it was.“The—the—breakfast—for two, your honour—is—is—laid in the south parlour,” stammered a servant, with a frightened aspect.“Oh, it is, is it?” said Britton. “Then you may eat it yourself, for I ain’t going to stay to breakfast with his worship.”“Yes, yes,” said the servant, disappearing.“There now,” cried Britton, “ain’t I respectful? You see I ain’t going to touch your breakfast, I dare say I shall get a d—d sight better one at the Chequers. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a king, then. Who’d have thought of that—King Britton, the jolly smith of Learmont.”“You said you came to warn me of somebody or something,” suggested Learmont.“So I did,” replied the smith. “That cursed Hartleton has got some crotchet or another in his head, you may depend. He came in disguise to the Chequers to watch me. Beware of him, squire. If I catch him prying into my affairs, and listening to what I say over my glass, I’ll meet him alone some dark evening, and there will be a vacancy in the magistracy. Perhaps, squire, you could step into his shoes. That would be glorious. I’d have a row every night, and you could smother it up in the morning, besides paying all the expenses. Good morning to you squire. Take care, of yourself.”
The Smith at Learmont House.—The Breakfast.—The Threat, and its Results.—The Caution.
Whilethese events were taking place, Learmont was ill at ease in his stately halls. Well he knew that the visitation of the smith at so inopportune an hour at hisfêtewould be related throughout that circle of nobility and power into which it was the grand end and aim of his life to force himself; and, it added one more damning argument to those already rapidly accumulating in his mind towards the conviction, that after all he had made a grand mistake in life, and mistaken the road to happiness. At the same time, however, he felt that having chosen the path of guilt he had, there was for him no retreat, and with a dogged perseverance, compounded of mortified ambition, he continued his career of guilt.
Take the life of Britton he dared not, although he lay such an inanimate, helpless mass in his power, and it was not the least of Learmont’s annoyances that he was compelled to see to the personal safety of the drunken brute who had produced confusion and derangement among his most ambitious schemes.
It was many hours before Britton slept off the intoxication under the influence of which he had acted in the manner described in the ball-room, and when he did recover, and open his heavy eyes, it was with no small degree of surprise that he found himself in the same dark room into which the squire had thrown him to sleep off his debauch.
His first thought was that he was in prison, and he rose to his feet with bitter imprecations and awful curses upon the head of Learmont and Gray, whom he supposed must have betrayed him in some way. A second thought, however, dispelled this delusion.
“No—no; d—n them—no!” he cried. “They dare not! Well they know they dare not!—I have them safe!—My evidence would destroy them, while it would not place me in a worse position. Where the devil am I?”
The room was very dark, the only light coming from a small pane of glass at the top of the door. Britton, however, was not exactly the kind of person to waste much time in idle conjecture or imaginative theories as to where he was; but, ascertaining that the door was locked, he placed his shoulder against it and with one heave of his bulky form, forced it from its hinges.
A loud cry arrested the smith’s attention as he accomplished this feat, and, to his great amusement, he saw lying amid the confusion of a tray, glasses, and decanters, a man who happened to have been passing at the moment, and, alarmed at the sudden and violent appearance of the smith, had fallen down with what he was so carefully carrying.
This was a piece of sport quite in Britton’s way—one of those practical jests that he perfectly understood and appreciated, in order, however, to add zest to it, he gave the astonished man a hearty kick, which induced him to spring to his feet, and make off with frantic speed, shouting “Murder! Murder!” at the top of his lungs.
Britton immediately turned his attention to one decanter which, in a most miraculous and extraordinary manner, preserved its position of perpendicularity amidst the universal wreck of every other article. He seized it instantly as a lawful prize, and plunging the neck of it into his capacious mouth, he withdrew it not again until it presented an appearance of perfect vacuity, and the bottle of wine which it had contained was transferred into his interior man.
“That’s good,” gasped Britton, when he had finished his draught, “I was thirsty. Upon my life that’s good. Curse the awkward fellow! He has broken the other, I wonder how the d—l I came—by G—d! This is the squire’s, now I look about me. I must have been drunk. What the deuce has happened? My head is all of a twirl. Let me think,—humph! The Chequers—d—n it! I can’t recollect anything but the Chequers.”
Britton’s cogitations were here interrupted by the appearance of Learmont with a dark scowl on his brow that would have alarmed any one but the iron-nerved and audacious Britton.
“Well, squire,” he said, “I suppose I’d a drop too much, and you took care of me, eh? Is that it?”
“Follow—me!” said Learmont, bringing out the two words through his clenched teeth, and making a great effort to preserve himself from bursting out into a torrent of invective.
“Follow you?” exclaimed Britton. “Well I have no objection; I’ll follow you. Our business is always quite private and confidential.”
He followed the rapid strides of Learmont along a long gallery, during the progress of which they encountered a servant, when Britton immediately paused, and roared out in a voice that made the man stand like one possessed,—
“Hark, ye knave!—You in the tawny coat, turned up with white—bring breakfast for two directly.”
“Andrew Britton!” cried Learmont, turning full upon the smith, flashing with resentment.
“Squire Learmont!” replied Britton, facing him with an air of insolence and bloated assurance.
There was a pause for a moment, and then Learmont added,—
“You—you are still drunk!”
“No, I am hungry; a drunken man never orders victuals, squire.”
“I have breakfasted,” said Learmont.
“Very like, but you don’t fancy I meant any of it for you. Curse me! I always make a point of ordering breakfast for two, now that I am a gentleman and can afford it;—I’m sure to have nearly enough then. Breakfast for two, I say! You can get it ready while your master and I settle some little affairs connected with the Old Smithy. Do you hear?—What are you staring at?”
The servant looked at Learmont evidently for orders, and the squire, almost inarticulate with rage, said,—
“Go—go! You may get him breakfast.”
“Ah, to be sure,” said Britton; “of course you may. I’m a particular friend of your master’s; and mind you are more respectful another time, you beast, and use polite language, and be d—d to you, you thief!”
The amazed domestic hastened away, for he shrewdly guessed that, if he delayed much longer, he might be favoured by some practical display of the excessive freedom which the messenger from the Old Smithy evidently could take with the proud, haughty, Learmont, and everything that was his, or in any way connected with him—a freedom which puzzled and amazed the whole household, and formed the theme of such endless gossipping in the servants’ hall, that without it, it would seem impossible they could found any materials for consideration, conjecture, and endless surmise.
Learmont now stalked on, followed by Britton, until he reached the small private room in which the conferences with both Gray and the smith were usually held. The squire then closed the door, and turning to Britton with a face convulsed with passion, he said,—
“Scoundrel! Are you not afraid to tamper with me in this manner? Drive me too far by your disgusting conduct, and insolent, vulgar familiarities, and I would hang you, though I had to fly from England forever before I denounced you;—nay, hear me out, and let my words sink deep into your brain, if it be capable of receiving and recording them. If you dare to thrall me by untimely visits, I will, though it cost me thousands, lay such a plot for your destruction, that your life shall not only be forfeited, but I will take care to associate your name with such infamy that no confession nor statement of yours would be received with a moment’s credence. You earn from me the wages of crime—deep crime, and you know it; but were those wages millions, and were those crimes of ten times blacker hue than they are, you have no right, nor shall you be, a torment to me. I am your master, and I will make you know it, or rue the fearful consequence.”
Learmont paused, and regarded the smith with an air of haughty defiance.
“Oh!” said Britton. “So you’ve had your say, Squire Learmont—you threaten to hang me, do you? Ho! Ho! Ho!—The same length of cord that hangs me will make a noose for your own neck. You will lay a plot to destroy me, will—beware, Squire Learmont! I have laid a mine for you—a mine that will blow you to h—ll, when I choose to fire the train. I don’t want to quarrel with you; I’ve done a black job or two for you, and you don’t much like paying for them; but then you know you must, and there’s an end to that. Now for the familiarity business: I give in a little there, squire, d—me! Justice is justice—give every dog his day! I have been cursedly drunk, I suppose, and made an ass of myself. I came here, though, now I recollect, with a good motive,—it was to warn you. But mind you, squire, don’t call me any ugly names again—I won’t stand them. Be civil, and growl as much as you like—curse you! Be genteel, and don’t provoke me.”
“Solemnly promise me that you will only come here at stated times, from visit to visit, to be arranged,” said Learmont, “and I am willing to forget the past.”
“Well, that’s fair,” cried Britton. “When I’ve had a drop, I’m a little wild or so,—d—n it! I always was.”
“You consent?”
“I do. Now give me my fee.”
“Your fee?”
“Yes; ten pounds.”
Learmont took out the sum required from his purse, and handed it to Britton, saying as he did so,—
“And when shall I be honoured again with your next visit?”
“What’s to-day, squire?”
“Thursday.”
“Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning. If I’ve been sober on Friday night, we’ll say eleven o’clock; if drunk, make it two or three.”
A low tap at the door now announced some one, and Learmont went to see who it was.
“The—the—breakfast—for two, your honour—is—is—laid in the south parlour,” stammered a servant, with a frightened aspect.
“Oh, it is, is it?” said Britton. “Then you may eat it yourself, for I ain’t going to stay to breakfast with his worship.”
“Yes, yes,” said the servant, disappearing.
“There now,” cried Britton, “ain’t I respectful? You see I ain’t going to touch your breakfast, I dare say I shall get a d—d sight better one at the Chequers. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a king, then. Who’d have thought of that—King Britton, the jolly smith of Learmont.”
“You said you came to warn me of somebody or something,” suggested Learmont.
“So I did,” replied the smith. “That cursed Hartleton has got some crotchet or another in his head, you may depend. He came in disguise to the Chequers to watch me. Beware of him, squire. If I catch him prying into my affairs, and listening to what I say over my glass, I’ll meet him alone some dark evening, and there will be a vacancy in the magistracy. Perhaps, squire, you could step into his shoes. That would be glorious. I’d have a row every night, and you could smother it up in the morning, besides paying all the expenses. Good morning to you squire. Take care, of yourself.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.The Escape.—A Song of the Times.It wasseveral minutes after Gray felt perfectly assured that the man, whoever he was, that had passed whistling by the cupboard door, had gone up to the highest story of the house before he could summon courage to leave his temporary hiding-place. The urgent necessity, however, of doing so while there was an opportunity came so forcibly upon his terror-stricken mind, that although he trembled so excessively as to be forced to cling to the banisters for support, he crawled from the place of shelter which had presented itself so providentially to him in such a moment of extremity, and treading as lightly as he could, while his whole frame was nearly paralysed by fear, he succeeded in reaching the room from which opened the small aperture to the vault where Ada awaited his coming.Jacob Gray’s mind at this moment embraced but one idea, indulged in but one hope, and that was to reach the vault in safety, and close the opening in the wall which had already escaped the scrutiny of Sir Frederick Hartleton.The extreme caution that he thought himself compelled to use in his movements made him slow in attaining his object, and each moment appeared an age of anxiety and awful suffering.Now he mounted the chair, and as he did so he heard, or fancied he heard, the descending footsteps of the stranger as he came from the upper story. Jacob Gray then trembled so excessively that he could scarcely contrive to put himself through the small panelled opening and when he did, his anxiety was so great and his nervousness so intense, that it was several moments before he could place his foot securely upon one of the rounds of the ladder.The shrill whistle of the man now sounded awfully distinct in his ears, and he fancied that he must have closed the panel scarcely an instant before the stranger entered the apartment.Then Jacob Gray laid his ear flatly against the wainscot to listen if more than one person was in the room, and gather from any conversation they might indulge in what were their objects and expectations in remaining so long in the ancient and dilapidated house.For some minutes the whistling continued, for that was an innocent amusement that Mr. Elias was fortunately partial to, and one to which he invariably resorted when anything of a disagreeable character absorbed his mind; and as now he could not withdraw his thoughts from the fact that he must fast until sunset, he whistled with an energy and a desperation proportioned to the exigency of the case.At length, however, from want of breath, or that he had gone through every tune he was acquainted with three times, he paused in his whistling, and uttered the simple and energetic apostrophe of,—“Well, I’m d—d!”This did not convey a great deal of information to Jacob Gray, and he waited very anxiously to hear what further remarks concerning his thoughts and objects in this world might fall from the speaker who had so cavalierly and off handedly settled his destination in the next. Nor was he disappointed, for Mr. Elias, having no one to talk to, addressed himself, in the following strains:—“Well, here’s a precious old crib to be shut up in. Upon my soul, it’s too bad of the governor. And no dinner—not a drop of nothing, no how what so ever. How would he like it, I wonder? Why, not at all, to be sure. The fifty pounds is something—but it’s all moonshine if the fellow don’t come, or that ere gal as he talks on, as may make her blessed appearance in a masculine sort o’ way. Well, I only hopes she may, that’s all. Won’t I give that Stephy a precious nob on his cocoa-nut, if he makes it very late afore he comes? Curse this place, it’s as dull as a sermon, and about as pleasant and lively-looking as mud in a wine-glass. I don’t like these kind of goes at all. Give me fun, and a hunt after such a rollicking, slashing blade as Jack Sheppard. Ah, he’s the fellow for my money. I love that blade. He’s got a voice, too, like a flock o’ nightingales, that he has. Shall I ever hear him sing that song again as I learnt of him by listening to him in quod, and all the while as I was taken up with the tune, he was a filing away at his darbies, bless him! Oh, he’s a rum un!”Elias then delighted himself and astonished Jacob Gray, by singing the following song; which was in great vogue at the time:—What Knight’s Like the Knight of the Road?“What knight’s like the knight of the road?Who lives so well as he?The proudest duke don’t leadA life so brave and free.Heighho! How the maidens sigh,As he dashes proudly by!And there’s not a gentle heart of all—Let weal or woe betide—That would not leap with dear delightTo be his happy bride.“The day goes down on Hounslow-heath,The night wind sighs amain;Hurrah! Hurrah, for the road!For now begins his reign.Heighho! How the ladies cry,As they see his flashing eye.And there’s not a pair of cherry lips,Of high or low degree,Would scorn a kiss from the knight of the road,Who’s welcome as he’s free.”As Mr. Elias, between the stanzas of his song, whistled an accompaniment, in which there were a great number of shakes, trills, and what musicians call variations which means something which is not at all connected with the tune, the whole affair took some considerable time in execution; and Jacob Gray stood upon the ladder in a perfect agony of annoyance until it was over.“Bravo!” cried Elias, when he had completed the last few notes of his whistling accompaniment. “Bravo!—Encore! Bravo! Well, I do hate these long summer days, to be sure. Why, it will be half-past eight, if it’s a bit, before Stephy comes. There’s a infliction, I wish this cursed fellow, or the gal, or both of them, would just trot over the fields, and save me any further waiting. Let me see—a thin, pale covey, the governor said, with a nervous sort of look. Very good; I shall know him. Just let him show his physiognomy here, and I’ll pop the darbies on him before he can say Jack, to leave alone the Robinson. Well, I’ll take another walk through the old den. They say there’s been a murder here. I wonder if the fellow got much swag? I never heard o’ any gentleman being hung for a murder here, I ’spose as that affair never put forty pound into a runner’s pocket. Some fellows is such beasts when they does slap-up murders; they commits suicide, and so cheat somebody of the blood-money. Curse ’em!”Having uttered this sentiment, Mr. Elias struck up an intense whistle, and walked from the room.Jacob Gray could hear him descend the stairs, and the whistle gradually died away in the distance, until it sounded only faintly upon his ears, convincing him that the stranger had gone into some of the rooms on the ground floor.Jacob Gray now slowly descended the ladder, and pronounced the name of Ada in a low, anxious tone.“I am here,” she replied.“Ada, our situation is now perilous and awkward in the extreme. The persons who were here have left one of their number behind them.”“Indeed!”“Yes, they suspect I may return to this house.”“Are we then to starve here?” said Ada.“Starved?” echoed Gray, “I—I did not think of that. God of Heaven! What shall we do?”“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, “you are caught in your own snare. This place which you imagined to be one of safety has now become your prison. Remain here, if you please; I have no such urgent reasons as you may have. If he whom you tell me is keeping guard in the house, be an enemy to me, as well as to you, I will rather trust to his mercy than abide here the horrors of famine. Such a death would be dreadful! Jacob Gray, I will not remain here.”“You will not?”“I will not.”“I am armed, Ada. You forget that I can force your obedience by the fear of death.”“You can murder me,” replied Ada, “but I cannot perceive that it is your interest to do so.”“Why not?”“Let me go freely, and I promise not to disclose the secret of your place of concealment. He who is waiting, if he be an enemy to me as well as to you, may be satisfied with my capture, or perchance my death, and leave you undisturbed to pursue your own course. If he prove a friend to me, which from my heart, Jacob Gray, I verily believe, for the voice I heard address me by name carried in its tones truth and sincerity, then you will have less to fear, for I here promise not to betray you.”Gray was silent for several moments after Ada had spoken. Then bending down his mouth, close to her ear, he said in a low, agitated voice,—“Ada—there is another resource.”“Indeed?”“Yes—but one man keeps guard above.”“I understand you. You will risk a contest with him?”“No—no—no!”“What mean you then, Jacob Gray?”“To kill him.”“But should he prove the stronger or the bolder, which he may well be, Jacob Gray, you might be worsted in the encounter.”“It shall not be an encounter,” said Gray.“You speak in riddles.”“Listen to me. He is walking uneasily from room to room of the house. He does not suspect any one to be concealed here—that much I can gather from his talk. At sunset I will creep forth, and hiding somewhere in perfect security—watch my opportunity, and shoot him dead.”“What!” cried Ada indignantly—“murder him?”“I—I—only act in self-defence—I cannot help it—he would murder me. Hush—hush! Do not speak so loud—you are incautious, Ada—hush—hush!”
The Escape.—A Song of the Times.
It wasseveral minutes after Gray felt perfectly assured that the man, whoever he was, that had passed whistling by the cupboard door, had gone up to the highest story of the house before he could summon courage to leave his temporary hiding-place. The urgent necessity, however, of doing so while there was an opportunity came so forcibly upon his terror-stricken mind, that although he trembled so excessively as to be forced to cling to the banisters for support, he crawled from the place of shelter which had presented itself so providentially to him in such a moment of extremity, and treading as lightly as he could, while his whole frame was nearly paralysed by fear, he succeeded in reaching the room from which opened the small aperture to the vault where Ada awaited his coming.
Jacob Gray’s mind at this moment embraced but one idea, indulged in but one hope, and that was to reach the vault in safety, and close the opening in the wall which had already escaped the scrutiny of Sir Frederick Hartleton.
The extreme caution that he thought himself compelled to use in his movements made him slow in attaining his object, and each moment appeared an age of anxiety and awful suffering.
Now he mounted the chair, and as he did so he heard, or fancied he heard, the descending footsteps of the stranger as he came from the upper story. Jacob Gray then trembled so excessively that he could scarcely contrive to put himself through the small panelled opening and when he did, his anxiety was so great and his nervousness so intense, that it was several moments before he could place his foot securely upon one of the rounds of the ladder.
The shrill whistle of the man now sounded awfully distinct in his ears, and he fancied that he must have closed the panel scarcely an instant before the stranger entered the apartment.
Then Jacob Gray laid his ear flatly against the wainscot to listen if more than one person was in the room, and gather from any conversation they might indulge in what were their objects and expectations in remaining so long in the ancient and dilapidated house.
For some minutes the whistling continued, for that was an innocent amusement that Mr. Elias was fortunately partial to, and one to which he invariably resorted when anything of a disagreeable character absorbed his mind; and as now he could not withdraw his thoughts from the fact that he must fast until sunset, he whistled with an energy and a desperation proportioned to the exigency of the case.
At length, however, from want of breath, or that he had gone through every tune he was acquainted with three times, he paused in his whistling, and uttered the simple and energetic apostrophe of,—
“Well, I’m d—d!”
This did not convey a great deal of information to Jacob Gray, and he waited very anxiously to hear what further remarks concerning his thoughts and objects in this world might fall from the speaker who had so cavalierly and off handedly settled his destination in the next. Nor was he disappointed, for Mr. Elias, having no one to talk to, addressed himself, in the following strains:—
“Well, here’s a precious old crib to be shut up in. Upon my soul, it’s too bad of the governor. And no dinner—not a drop of nothing, no how what so ever. How would he like it, I wonder? Why, not at all, to be sure. The fifty pounds is something—but it’s all moonshine if the fellow don’t come, or that ere gal as he talks on, as may make her blessed appearance in a masculine sort o’ way. Well, I only hopes she may, that’s all. Won’t I give that Stephy a precious nob on his cocoa-nut, if he makes it very late afore he comes? Curse this place, it’s as dull as a sermon, and about as pleasant and lively-looking as mud in a wine-glass. I don’t like these kind of goes at all. Give me fun, and a hunt after such a rollicking, slashing blade as Jack Sheppard. Ah, he’s the fellow for my money. I love that blade. He’s got a voice, too, like a flock o’ nightingales, that he has. Shall I ever hear him sing that song again as I learnt of him by listening to him in quod, and all the while as I was taken up with the tune, he was a filing away at his darbies, bless him! Oh, he’s a rum un!”
Elias then delighted himself and astonished Jacob Gray, by singing the following song; which was in great vogue at the time:—
What Knight’s Like the Knight of the Road?
“What knight’s like the knight of the road?
Who lives so well as he?
The proudest duke don’t lead
A life so brave and free.
Heighho! How the maidens sigh,
As he dashes proudly by!
And there’s not a gentle heart of all—
Let weal or woe betide—
That would not leap with dear delight
To be his happy bride.
“The day goes down on Hounslow-heath,
The night wind sighs amain;
Hurrah! Hurrah, for the road!
For now begins his reign.
Heighho! How the ladies cry,
As they see his flashing eye.
And there’s not a pair of cherry lips,
Of high or low degree,
Would scorn a kiss from the knight of the road,
Who’s welcome as he’s free.”
As Mr. Elias, between the stanzas of his song, whistled an accompaniment, in which there were a great number of shakes, trills, and what musicians call variations which means something which is not at all connected with the tune, the whole affair took some considerable time in execution; and Jacob Gray stood upon the ladder in a perfect agony of annoyance until it was over.
“Bravo!” cried Elias, when he had completed the last few notes of his whistling accompaniment. “Bravo!—Encore! Bravo! Well, I do hate these long summer days, to be sure. Why, it will be half-past eight, if it’s a bit, before Stephy comes. There’s a infliction, I wish this cursed fellow, or the gal, or both of them, would just trot over the fields, and save me any further waiting. Let me see—a thin, pale covey, the governor said, with a nervous sort of look. Very good; I shall know him. Just let him show his physiognomy here, and I’ll pop the darbies on him before he can say Jack, to leave alone the Robinson. Well, I’ll take another walk through the old den. They say there’s been a murder here. I wonder if the fellow got much swag? I never heard o’ any gentleman being hung for a murder here, I ’spose as that affair never put forty pound into a runner’s pocket. Some fellows is such beasts when they does slap-up murders; they commits suicide, and so cheat somebody of the blood-money. Curse ’em!”
Having uttered this sentiment, Mr. Elias struck up an intense whistle, and walked from the room.
Jacob Gray could hear him descend the stairs, and the whistle gradually died away in the distance, until it sounded only faintly upon his ears, convincing him that the stranger had gone into some of the rooms on the ground floor.
Jacob Gray now slowly descended the ladder, and pronounced the name of Ada in a low, anxious tone.
“I am here,” she replied.
“Ada, our situation is now perilous and awkward in the extreme. The persons who were here have left one of their number behind them.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, they suspect I may return to this house.”
“Are we then to starve here?” said Ada.
“Starved?” echoed Gray, “I—I did not think of that. God of Heaven! What shall we do?”
“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, “you are caught in your own snare. This place which you imagined to be one of safety has now become your prison. Remain here, if you please; I have no such urgent reasons as you may have. If he whom you tell me is keeping guard in the house, be an enemy to me, as well as to you, I will rather trust to his mercy than abide here the horrors of famine. Such a death would be dreadful! Jacob Gray, I will not remain here.”
“You will not?”
“I will not.”
“I am armed, Ada. You forget that I can force your obedience by the fear of death.”
“You can murder me,” replied Ada, “but I cannot perceive that it is your interest to do so.”
“Why not?”
“Let me go freely, and I promise not to disclose the secret of your place of concealment. He who is waiting, if he be an enemy to me as well as to you, may be satisfied with my capture, or perchance my death, and leave you undisturbed to pursue your own course. If he prove a friend to me, which from my heart, Jacob Gray, I verily believe, for the voice I heard address me by name carried in its tones truth and sincerity, then you will have less to fear, for I here promise not to betray you.”
Gray was silent for several moments after Ada had spoken. Then bending down his mouth, close to her ear, he said in a low, agitated voice,—
“Ada—there is another resource.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes—but one man keeps guard above.”
“I understand you. You will risk a contest with him?”
“No—no—no!”
“What mean you then, Jacob Gray?”
“To kill him.”
“But should he prove the stronger or the bolder, which he may well be, Jacob Gray, you might be worsted in the encounter.”
“It shall not be an encounter,” said Gray.
“You speak in riddles.”
“Listen to me. He is walking uneasily from room to room of the house. He does not suspect any one to be concealed here—that much I can gather from his talk. At sunset I will creep forth, and hiding somewhere in perfect security—watch my opportunity, and shoot him dead.”
“What!” cried Ada indignantly—“murder him?”
“I—I—only act in self-defence—I cannot help it—he would murder me. Hush—hush! Do not speak so loud—you are incautious, Ada—hush—hush!”