CHAPTER XXIX.The Young Lovers.—The Gallant of a Hundred Years Since.—Hopes and Fears.—The Dream of a True Heart.It wasseveral moments before Ada or Albert Seyton could speak from excess of joyful emotion, and it was then the drawling, affected voice of the beau that recalled them to a consciousness of where they were, and that some one besides themselves was in the world.“’Pon honour—really—damme!” cried Ada’s persecutor. “This is extraordinary.”“Sir,” said Albert Seyton.“Well, sir,” said the beau.“I thought you spoke to me.”“’Pon honour no; I wouldn’t condescend on any account. Oh, no, ’pon honour.”“I have no desire for your conversation,” said Albert, turning his back to him.“My dear, my charming, delicious damsel,” sais the beau, smiling at Ada.“Do you know, sir,” said Albert rising, “that it is a high crime to commit an assault in the Park?”“Well, ’pon honour what then?”“Only this, that if you will come outside the gates, I’ll cane you within an inch of your life.”“Eh, oh—a perfect savage—a wild beast, ’pon honour,” said the beau, making a precipitate retreat.“Oh, Harry; dear, dear Harry!” said Albert; “by what kind mercy of Heaven are you here?”“Albert, do not call me Harry.”“My own girl, I know you by no other name. I am not surprised to see you in these becoming garments.”“You—you did not know—”“That my playmate, Harry, was a beautiful girl,” interrupted Albert. “No—I did not—my father it was who first breathed the suspicion that such was the fact. And now tell me some dear feminine name to call you by.”“My name is Ada.”“Ada? A charm is in the sound. My own dear, dear Ada. How came you here—have you thought of me? Where is your uncle? Are you happy—dear Ada, are you glad, to see me?”“Albert,” said Ada, smiling through her tears, “I will answer your last question first—I am glad to see you, so very glad that I could weep for joy.”“Nay, dear Ada, weep not. You shall never weep again if Albert Seyton can save a tear from dimming your eyes.”“I know it,” said Ada; “you were ever kind to the poor persecuted Ada.”“I loved you, Ada.”“Oh, Albert; I have passed through such horrors since we met.”“Horrors, Ada?”“Yes; and even now I shudder to think of my situation. I am destitute, homeless, hopeless.”“No, Ada,” said Albert; “there you wrong yourself and my love; destitute you cannot be while I have an arm to labour for you—homeless you shall not be, for my father, who is an honourable gentleman, will love you as his adopted daughter. Can you then call yourself friendless, Ada?”“Albert, I am—I am.”“What, Ada; what can you be but what I know you are—all truth, all innocence and virtue?”“Suppose—suppose,” gasped Ada, looking beseechingly in Albert’s face, as if her whole existence hung upon his reply—“suppose my name was a disgrace.”“A disgrace?”“Yes; suppose I had found a father whose hands were stained with blood.”“Oh, no—no—Ada. This is some chimera of your own overwrought fancy.”“Suppose it’s true, Albert Seyton; could you—dared you then call me your Ada?”“I could—I dared.”“If—I were—the child of a—a—”“A what?”“A murderer!”Albert took her hand gently and tenderly.“Ada,” he said, “crime is not hereditary. You are sinless, spotless, and if I desert you because you may have the misfortune to be the child of one who is guilty, may God desert me in my utmost need.”“Albert,” sobbed Ada, “I—I do not believe it; but it is a remote possibility that Jacob Gray is my father.”“Nor do I believe it,” said Albert, “’Tis against all nature—depend upon it, Ada, it is not true.”“But—but if it were?”“My Ada,” was his only reply, accompanied by a smile that fell like sunlight on the young girl’s innocent heart.“You would not, even then, despise me, Albert?” she said.“Despise you? Oh how can you associate that word with yourself? Despise you, Ada; if you knew the weary miles I have traversed in search of you, you would then feel how truly my happiness is wound up in yours. Not a street, court, or lane in the great city, has been un-trodden by me to look for you since your sudden departure from Mrs. Strangeways.”“My uncle hurried me from there to a more secret place of concealment. We have now for some time inhabited a dilapidated house in Lambeth, which you might pass a hundred times, and never guess that aught human lodged within its crumbling walls.”“And still you know not the cause of all this mystery?”“No; all is dark and mysterious as ever, Albert, except my name, my Christian name, and that in a moment of unguarded passion, Jacob Gray let slip from his lips. Oh, you know not what a pleasure it was to me, in my desolation, to find I had a right to a name.”“My poor Ada.”“Yes, Albert, I am your poor Ada.”“But rich in all true wealth, beauty, innocence, and dear virtue, such as no gold can buy.”“The kind words of those who love are so very grateful,” sighed Ada, “and they are so new to me.”“Tell me all that has happened to you since we last parted,” said Albert. “My own history is very shortly summed up. My father, remained some few weeks longer at Mrs. Strangeways, and then having by dint of earnest applications and remonstrances, procured some portion of what was his due from the Government, we have come close here by Buckingham House, and I am myself in the hope of procuring a situation as private secretary to a man, they say, of enormous wealth and great liberality.”“I joy in your prospects,” said Ada. “Alas! Mine is a darker retrospect—a gloomier future.”“Nay, Ada, our happiness must go hand-in-hand; or farewell to it for Albert Seyton.”Ada sighed.“You forget, Albert, that I am beset with difficulties—strange mysteries are around me; who and what I am, even, I know not; although perhaps my ignorance is my greatest joy, while it is my constant source of anxiety, for I have hope now which might by a knowledge of the truth be extinguished for ever.”“Your hope shall become a bright certainty,” said Albert, fervently; “and now, tell me, Ada, of your present situation. You have more freedom, or you would not be in the Great Mall of St. James’s Park.”“My freedom is but transitory,” sighed Ada.“How so?”“Last night there came with furious knocking at our house, two men. My uncle said they came to take his life and mine, but that, not finding me, they would allow him to escape.”“’Tis very strange.”“He urged me then to change my boyish clothing for these garments. I resisted his request; he implored me—begged of me to do so, saying that those who sought me knew me but as a boy, and would allow a girl to pass out unmolested. Still I refused, for he had taken the life of a poor dog that loved me, and my mind was sore against him. He kneeled to me, wept, and at the last moment declared himself my father and a murderer!”“Good Heavens!”“Yes; the words fell like a thunderbolt on my heart. The men were at the door; there was not time to think. With frantic speed I did his bidding.”“And the plan succeeded?”“It did. With wondering looks they let me pass. I wandered I know not where;—to some bridge I came at length, and there, as I lay crouching from the cold of the raw morning, one of the men passed over.”“One of those who sought Jacob Gray?”“Yes, the most violent. There, within my hearing, he had an altercation with a poor mad wanderer, from whom I heard his name.”“His name, Ada?—It may afford some clue.”“It may. She called him Andrew Britton.”“Andrew Britton!—I will not forget.”“He attempted her murder. My screams, I believe, saved her life.”“And their discourse, Ada?—What said they?”“Their speech was of some child to whom great wrong had been done years since. Oh, Albert, my heart told me it was of me they spoke.”“Could you learn nothing of the woman?”“Alas! No. Her wits were gone. She wandered strangely in her speech; madness had taken possession of her, and she, who seemed to know the mystery which envelopes me, could not shape her thoughts to tell me.”“Heaven, Ada, will work out your deliverance in its own good time from this tangled web of guilt and mystery that is cast around you. I still think, as I thought before, that the packet which Gray keeps so carefully concealed would unravel all.”“And perhaps destroy him!”“It might be so.”“Then, Albert, arises the terrible doubt that bad, wicked, cruel as he is, he may be the father of the wretched Ada.”“I cannot for one moment think so,” said Albert; “and yet, I own the thought is terrible.”“If we err, Albert, oh, let us err safely. I cannot call down upon him the vengeance of the laws he has outraged. If some proposal could be made to him, by which he might be induced to tell the truth, upon an assurance of safety from the consequences, I might be saved the bitter pang of betraying my own father, guilty though he may be.”“You are right, Ada,” said Albert; “that is the best, the surest, and the most merciful course. My father will undertake to make such terms with Jacob Gray. He will be mild, yet firm.”“That would be joy indeed,” said Ada.“It shall be done. Dear Ada, a happier future is brightening before you. The past will seem like an envious dream that has only robbed you of a few hours of sunshine and joy.”“Oh, would I could think so!” said Ada.“It will—it must be so!” cried Albert, with a full face of animation. “Come with me now to my father, and we will concert all necessary measures.”“I think,” said Ada, “that if this matter can be arranged with Gray, as we wish, he must be taken completely by surprise, or all will be lost. If he have time to hide the papers, or to concoct some deception, we shall gain nothing.”“That is true, Ada, but how can we do as you wish:““Thus,” replied Ada. “I will show you the house, and expecting you and your father at a particular hour, I can direct you. Then there can be no time for Gray even to think of any but a straightforward course of action.”“But—but,” said Albert, “that involves your return to—to—Gray—and—”“Oh, heed not that, Albert. A few short hours, blessed as they will be by the conviction that they are the last, will seem nothing in that house, where for so long I have been immured secretly during the light of day, and with no companion to cheer, my solitude but a poor dumb creature, that could but look its kindness and gratitude.”“And yet, Ada, my heart is very sad at the mere thought of your returning.”“And so would mine be, Albert, were it not with the assurance of so soon bidding adieu to those gloomy walls for ever.”“I suppose it must be so,” said Albert with a sigh. “I will only just see you so far as to enable you to point out the exact place to me, and then depend upon my father and I being with you in another hour.”“But one hour?”“But one, dear Ada.”“That will be easily supported,” said Ada, with a grateful smile. “Oh, let us go at once.”They rose from the Park seat, and the young lovers, arm-in-arm, walked down the Great Mall.“Are you sure you know the way, Ada?” said Albert, anxiously.“If I saw the bridge again, I could find it, I know, although I might not discover the most direct route, Albert.”Thus affectionately, and dreaming of future happiness, which, alas! was still not close at hand, the young guileless beings pursued their course to the old house at Lambeth.
The Young Lovers.—The Gallant of a Hundred Years Since.—Hopes and Fears.—The Dream of a True Heart.
It wasseveral moments before Ada or Albert Seyton could speak from excess of joyful emotion, and it was then the drawling, affected voice of the beau that recalled them to a consciousness of where they were, and that some one besides themselves was in the world.
“’Pon honour—really—damme!” cried Ada’s persecutor. “This is extraordinary.”
“Sir,” said Albert Seyton.
“Well, sir,” said the beau.
“I thought you spoke to me.”
“’Pon honour no; I wouldn’t condescend on any account. Oh, no, ’pon honour.”
“I have no desire for your conversation,” said Albert, turning his back to him.
“My dear, my charming, delicious damsel,” sais the beau, smiling at Ada.
“Do you know, sir,” said Albert rising, “that it is a high crime to commit an assault in the Park?”
“Well, ’pon honour what then?”
“Only this, that if you will come outside the gates, I’ll cane you within an inch of your life.”
“Eh, oh—a perfect savage—a wild beast, ’pon honour,” said the beau, making a precipitate retreat.
“Oh, Harry; dear, dear Harry!” said Albert; “by what kind mercy of Heaven are you here?”
“Albert, do not call me Harry.”
“My own girl, I know you by no other name. I am not surprised to see you in these becoming garments.”
“You—you did not know—”
“That my playmate, Harry, was a beautiful girl,” interrupted Albert. “No—I did not—my father it was who first breathed the suspicion that such was the fact. And now tell me some dear feminine name to call you by.”
“My name is Ada.”
“Ada? A charm is in the sound. My own dear, dear Ada. How came you here—have you thought of me? Where is your uncle? Are you happy—dear Ada, are you glad, to see me?”
“Albert,” said Ada, smiling through her tears, “I will answer your last question first—I am glad to see you, so very glad that I could weep for joy.”
“Nay, dear Ada, weep not. You shall never weep again if Albert Seyton can save a tear from dimming your eyes.”
“I know it,” said Ada; “you were ever kind to the poor persecuted Ada.”
“I loved you, Ada.”
“Oh, Albert; I have passed through such horrors since we met.”
“Horrors, Ada?”
“Yes; and even now I shudder to think of my situation. I am destitute, homeless, hopeless.”
“No, Ada,” said Albert; “there you wrong yourself and my love; destitute you cannot be while I have an arm to labour for you—homeless you shall not be, for my father, who is an honourable gentleman, will love you as his adopted daughter. Can you then call yourself friendless, Ada?”
“Albert, I am—I am.”
“What, Ada; what can you be but what I know you are—all truth, all innocence and virtue?”
“Suppose—suppose,” gasped Ada, looking beseechingly in Albert’s face, as if her whole existence hung upon his reply—“suppose my name was a disgrace.”
“A disgrace?”
“Yes; suppose I had found a father whose hands were stained with blood.”
“Oh, no—no—Ada. This is some chimera of your own overwrought fancy.”
“Suppose it’s true, Albert Seyton; could you—dared you then call me your Ada?”
“I could—I dared.”
“If—I were—the child of a—a—”
“A what?”
“A murderer!”
Albert took her hand gently and tenderly.
“Ada,” he said, “crime is not hereditary. You are sinless, spotless, and if I desert you because you may have the misfortune to be the child of one who is guilty, may God desert me in my utmost need.”
“Albert,” sobbed Ada, “I—I do not believe it; but it is a remote possibility that Jacob Gray is my father.”
“Nor do I believe it,” said Albert, “’Tis against all nature—depend upon it, Ada, it is not true.”
“But—but if it were?”
“My Ada,” was his only reply, accompanied by a smile that fell like sunlight on the young girl’s innocent heart.
“You would not, even then, despise me, Albert?” she said.
“Despise you? Oh how can you associate that word with yourself? Despise you, Ada; if you knew the weary miles I have traversed in search of you, you would then feel how truly my happiness is wound up in yours. Not a street, court, or lane in the great city, has been un-trodden by me to look for you since your sudden departure from Mrs. Strangeways.”
“My uncle hurried me from there to a more secret place of concealment. We have now for some time inhabited a dilapidated house in Lambeth, which you might pass a hundred times, and never guess that aught human lodged within its crumbling walls.”
“And still you know not the cause of all this mystery?”
“No; all is dark and mysterious as ever, Albert, except my name, my Christian name, and that in a moment of unguarded passion, Jacob Gray let slip from his lips. Oh, you know not what a pleasure it was to me, in my desolation, to find I had a right to a name.”
“My poor Ada.”
“Yes, Albert, I am your poor Ada.”
“But rich in all true wealth, beauty, innocence, and dear virtue, such as no gold can buy.”
“The kind words of those who love are so very grateful,” sighed Ada, “and they are so new to me.”
“Tell me all that has happened to you since we last parted,” said Albert. “My own history is very shortly summed up. My father, remained some few weeks longer at Mrs. Strangeways, and then having by dint of earnest applications and remonstrances, procured some portion of what was his due from the Government, we have come close here by Buckingham House, and I am myself in the hope of procuring a situation as private secretary to a man, they say, of enormous wealth and great liberality.”
“I joy in your prospects,” said Ada. “Alas! Mine is a darker retrospect—a gloomier future.”
“Nay, Ada, our happiness must go hand-in-hand; or farewell to it for Albert Seyton.”
Ada sighed.
“You forget, Albert, that I am beset with difficulties—strange mysteries are around me; who and what I am, even, I know not; although perhaps my ignorance is my greatest joy, while it is my constant source of anxiety, for I have hope now which might by a knowledge of the truth be extinguished for ever.”
“Your hope shall become a bright certainty,” said Albert, fervently; “and now, tell me, Ada, of your present situation. You have more freedom, or you would not be in the Great Mall of St. James’s Park.”
“My freedom is but transitory,” sighed Ada.
“How so?”
“Last night there came with furious knocking at our house, two men. My uncle said they came to take his life and mine, but that, not finding me, they would allow him to escape.”
“’Tis very strange.”
“He urged me then to change my boyish clothing for these garments. I resisted his request; he implored me—begged of me to do so, saying that those who sought me knew me but as a boy, and would allow a girl to pass out unmolested. Still I refused, for he had taken the life of a poor dog that loved me, and my mind was sore against him. He kneeled to me, wept, and at the last moment declared himself my father and a murderer!”
“Good Heavens!”
“Yes; the words fell like a thunderbolt on my heart. The men were at the door; there was not time to think. With frantic speed I did his bidding.”
“And the plan succeeded?”
“It did. With wondering looks they let me pass. I wandered I know not where;—to some bridge I came at length, and there, as I lay crouching from the cold of the raw morning, one of the men passed over.”
“One of those who sought Jacob Gray?”
“Yes, the most violent. There, within my hearing, he had an altercation with a poor mad wanderer, from whom I heard his name.”
“His name, Ada?—It may afford some clue.”
“It may. She called him Andrew Britton.”
“Andrew Britton!—I will not forget.”
“He attempted her murder. My screams, I believe, saved her life.”
“And their discourse, Ada?—What said they?”
“Their speech was of some child to whom great wrong had been done years since. Oh, Albert, my heart told me it was of me they spoke.”
“Could you learn nothing of the woman?”
“Alas! No. Her wits were gone. She wandered strangely in her speech; madness had taken possession of her, and she, who seemed to know the mystery which envelopes me, could not shape her thoughts to tell me.”
“Heaven, Ada, will work out your deliverance in its own good time from this tangled web of guilt and mystery that is cast around you. I still think, as I thought before, that the packet which Gray keeps so carefully concealed would unravel all.”
“And perhaps destroy him!”
“It might be so.”
“Then, Albert, arises the terrible doubt that bad, wicked, cruel as he is, he may be the father of the wretched Ada.”
“I cannot for one moment think so,” said Albert; “and yet, I own the thought is terrible.”
“If we err, Albert, oh, let us err safely. I cannot call down upon him the vengeance of the laws he has outraged. If some proposal could be made to him, by which he might be induced to tell the truth, upon an assurance of safety from the consequences, I might be saved the bitter pang of betraying my own father, guilty though he may be.”
“You are right, Ada,” said Albert; “that is the best, the surest, and the most merciful course. My father will undertake to make such terms with Jacob Gray. He will be mild, yet firm.”
“That would be joy indeed,” said Ada.
“It shall be done. Dear Ada, a happier future is brightening before you. The past will seem like an envious dream that has only robbed you of a few hours of sunshine and joy.”
“Oh, would I could think so!” said Ada.
“It will—it must be so!” cried Albert, with a full face of animation. “Come with me now to my father, and we will concert all necessary measures.”
“I think,” said Ada, “that if this matter can be arranged with Gray, as we wish, he must be taken completely by surprise, or all will be lost. If he have time to hide the papers, or to concoct some deception, we shall gain nothing.”
“That is true, Ada, but how can we do as you wish:“
“Thus,” replied Ada. “I will show you the house, and expecting you and your father at a particular hour, I can direct you. Then there can be no time for Gray even to think of any but a straightforward course of action.”
“But—but,” said Albert, “that involves your return to—to—Gray—and—”
“Oh, heed not that, Albert. A few short hours, blessed as they will be by the conviction that they are the last, will seem nothing in that house, where for so long I have been immured secretly during the light of day, and with no companion to cheer, my solitude but a poor dumb creature, that could but look its kindness and gratitude.”
“And yet, Ada, my heart is very sad at the mere thought of your returning.”
“And so would mine be, Albert, were it not with the assurance of so soon bidding adieu to those gloomy walls for ever.”
“I suppose it must be so,” said Albert with a sigh. “I will only just see you so far as to enable you to point out the exact place to me, and then depend upon my father and I being with you in another hour.”
“But one hour?”
“But one, dear Ada.”
“That will be easily supported,” said Ada, with a grateful smile. “Oh, let us go at once.”
They rose from the Park seat, and the young lovers, arm-in-arm, walked down the Great Mall.
“Are you sure you know the way, Ada?” said Albert, anxiously.
“If I saw the bridge again, I could find it, I know, although I might not discover the most direct route, Albert.”
Thus affectionately, and dreaming of future happiness, which, alas! was still not close at hand, the young guileless beings pursued their course to the old house at Lambeth.
CHAPTER XXX.Jacob’s Return Home.—An Unexpected Visitor.—The Lonely Watch.WhenGray left the public-house in which lay the body of the murdered waterman, he took a rapid route by the edge of the river to his own gloomy home, and very soon reached the cluster of condemned houses, in one of which he resided.Looking very cautiously around him, as was his invariable custom before gliding into his abode, to see if any one was observing him, he took a key from his pocket, and, opening the frail door, quickly entered the passage.Then applying his eye to the window, through which he had reconnoitred Britton and Learmont, he took a long look up and down the street to see if he could detect the form of Ada lurking in any of the doorways, awaiting his return.“She is not here,” he muttered. “Well, she knows nothing—can guess nothing, or, what little she does know or guess, she dares not utter to human ears, for she will be tormented by the supposition that I may be her father. Let her die in the streets—let her rot, so she trouble not me; and yet I wonder she has not returned. She must have lost her way.”Gray then opened the door again, and wiped off the words he had written, then, carefully closing it, he had ascended about half way up the creaking staircase, when his ears were suddenly saluted by a noise that made him tremble, and convulsively clutch the crazy banisters for support.The noise was of quite a new character to Jacob Gray, and he could not divine how or in what manner it could possibly be produced. It was not a walking, it was not a fighting or a struggling—a dancing; but it was a singular and wonderful admixture of them all. Then there would be a shuffling scramble across the floor, then a hop, step, and a jump, apparently, which would be followed by a continued bumping that threatened the existence of the crazy house, and shook it to the very foundation.The perspiration of intense fear broke out upon the aching forehead of Jacob Gray, and he sat down melancholy upon the stairs, to try to think what could be the cause of the singular uproar in his commonly so lonely dwelling.Suddenly the noise approached the stair-head, and it assumed the form of the pattering of naked feet, accompanied by the heavy tread of some one in clumsy shoes.Jacob Gray’s superstitious fears, and they were tolerably numerous, got the better of his prudence, and he raised a cry of terror at the idea of something of an unearthly character having taken up its abode in his solitary dwelling.The moment he spoke, the sounds rapidly retreated from the stair-head, and for a few moments all was still as the grave.Jacob Gray listened attentively for a long time before he would venture up the staircase, and when he did so, it was step by step, and with the utmost caution.When he reached the top, he stood for a time, and listened attentively. Not a sound met his ears. Then he gathered courage, and advanced to the door of the room from whence the noises had seemed to proceed.All was still, and Jacob Gray summoned his courage to turn the handle of the lock and peer into the apartment.“There is no one here,” he muttered. “What could it have been? Imagination could not so deceive me!”As he glanced round the room, to his surprise, he saw that several of the articles which it contained were displaced; and his apprehensions were still further increased by seeing on the floor several prints of feet, of a character he could not define, and was quite certain he had never seen before.Scarcely had he time to think upon these strange and startling appearances, when a low growl met his ears, and immediately upon that a voice exclaimed.—“There, now, you’ve done it! Oh, cuss you, Popsy.”Gray gave a jump to the door, and he could scarcely believe his eyes when a man’s head appeared from beneath the sofa, and confronted him with a mixed expression of effrontery and apprehension.“How—came—you—here?” gasped Gray.“Popsy come out,” was the man’s only reply to his interrogatory; and, to Gray’s surprise, an immense shaggy bear made its appearance from the same place of concealment.“Who are you?” cried Jacob Gray.“Why don’t you answer the gentleman, you brute?” said the man, dealing the bear a heavy blow with his fist; “affectionate ways is lost upon you, that they is—”“How dare you come here?” cried Gray.“Don’t ye hear?” screamed the man, still addressing the bear. “How dare ye come here?—Eh?”“Spy!—Villain!” cried Gray, drawing from his breast the same knife with which he would have stabbed Ada to the heart.“Hilloah!—Hilloah!” cried the man. “Do you hear, my Popsy, what he calls ye?”The bear commenced a low growling, and displayed a formidable row of blackened fangs at Jacob Gray.“Who and what are you?” shrieked Gray to the man.“Barbican Tibbs, the bear warden, but common people calls me Tipsy Tibbs, and nothink else.”“What in the name of hell brought you here?” cried Gray.“Oh! I’m confidential,” replied the man, “and I don’t mind telling you.”“Quickly then, quickly.”“Why, you see they say as there isn’t to be allowed more than three bear wardens in Westminster, and as I’ve only just come from Canterbury, I makes faces and a parsecutor.”“Faces, and a what?”“A parsecutor—that is, they parsecutes me, and I gives them a dodge through the streets, you see; and they, coming rather quick, I bolts down this here street, and the first thing I sees is ‘wait—J.G.’ on your door.”“Well, what then?”“Why, then Popsy and me, we gives the door a drive and we gets in, then we shuts it again, and we’ve waited here ever since.”“And it was you who made the noise I heard just now, as I was ascending the stairs?”“Very like; and it has quite alarmed poor Popsy, and shattered his nerves by squeaking out in the passage.”“How long have you been here?”“A matter of half an hour.”“What have you stolen?”“Stole! Stole!”“Yes: tell me, for there are some things I value, and some I do not.”“Popsy, does ye hear what a opinion he has of your morals?”Gray walked across the room, and opening a door that led to an inner apartment, he entered it and remained absent some minutes. During that absence he took from a chest (the key of which he had about him) a large sum of money, being the bulk of what he had, from time to time, received of Learmont, and he stowed it carefully about his person; the greatest care, however, he bestowed upon a packet of papers that were at the bottom of the bag. These he placed carefully in his breast, and then returned to the room in which was the bear warden and his shaggy associate.“Hark you, friend,” said Gray, “I am going to leave this house.”“Good morning,” said the bear warden.“You seem a—a deserving man.”“Do I?”“Yes: I will give you the furniture you see about here, if you will defend it against all comers; and should a young girl come here, will you detain her for me?”“Well, that’s odd,” said Tibbs, “but I don’t know you, my master.”“Nor will you, I will take my own time and opportunity of calling upon you.”“Well” said the beat warden, “I don’t mind obliging you, particularly as I haven’t anything of my own. Is there anything worth having up stairs, old fellow?”“There is,” said Gray—“and recollect one thing.”“What’s that?”“Should a man come of burly frame and bloated aspect, be assured he comes to take from you, if he can, all that I have given to you—be assured of that.”“The deuce he does!”“You will know him. He is rough of speech, and coarse and bulky. Beware of him!”“But what shall I do with him?”“Kill him—slaughter him. Take his life how and when you will—or maim him—do him some deadly harm, for, on my soul, I do not believe he has written any confession. Stay, I had forgotten.”Gray hurried to the cupboard, and took from it the remainder of the poison he had given to Ada’s dog; then turning to the astonished bear warden, he said,—“Remember, we shall meet again.”He rapidly then descended the staircase, and was out of the house before the man could answer him.“Well, if ever I knew the like o’ that!” said the bear warden. “Popsy!”The bear answered with a growl, “We’re dropped into a furnished house, and nothing to pay. The blessed world’s a beginning to find out our merits, it is!”
Jacob’s Return Home.—An Unexpected Visitor.—The Lonely Watch.
WhenGray left the public-house in which lay the body of the murdered waterman, he took a rapid route by the edge of the river to his own gloomy home, and very soon reached the cluster of condemned houses, in one of which he resided.
Looking very cautiously around him, as was his invariable custom before gliding into his abode, to see if any one was observing him, he took a key from his pocket, and, opening the frail door, quickly entered the passage.
Then applying his eye to the window, through which he had reconnoitred Britton and Learmont, he took a long look up and down the street to see if he could detect the form of Ada lurking in any of the doorways, awaiting his return.
“She is not here,” he muttered. “Well, she knows nothing—can guess nothing, or, what little she does know or guess, she dares not utter to human ears, for she will be tormented by the supposition that I may be her father. Let her die in the streets—let her rot, so she trouble not me; and yet I wonder she has not returned. She must have lost her way.”
Gray then opened the door again, and wiped off the words he had written, then, carefully closing it, he had ascended about half way up the creaking staircase, when his ears were suddenly saluted by a noise that made him tremble, and convulsively clutch the crazy banisters for support.
The noise was of quite a new character to Jacob Gray, and he could not divine how or in what manner it could possibly be produced. It was not a walking, it was not a fighting or a struggling—a dancing; but it was a singular and wonderful admixture of them all. Then there would be a shuffling scramble across the floor, then a hop, step, and a jump, apparently, which would be followed by a continued bumping that threatened the existence of the crazy house, and shook it to the very foundation.
The perspiration of intense fear broke out upon the aching forehead of Jacob Gray, and he sat down melancholy upon the stairs, to try to think what could be the cause of the singular uproar in his commonly so lonely dwelling.
Suddenly the noise approached the stair-head, and it assumed the form of the pattering of naked feet, accompanied by the heavy tread of some one in clumsy shoes.
Jacob Gray’s superstitious fears, and they were tolerably numerous, got the better of his prudence, and he raised a cry of terror at the idea of something of an unearthly character having taken up its abode in his solitary dwelling.
The moment he spoke, the sounds rapidly retreated from the stair-head, and for a few moments all was still as the grave.
Jacob Gray listened attentively for a long time before he would venture up the staircase, and when he did so, it was step by step, and with the utmost caution.
When he reached the top, he stood for a time, and listened attentively. Not a sound met his ears. Then he gathered courage, and advanced to the door of the room from whence the noises had seemed to proceed.
All was still, and Jacob Gray summoned his courage to turn the handle of the lock and peer into the apartment.
“There is no one here,” he muttered. “What could it have been? Imagination could not so deceive me!”
As he glanced round the room, to his surprise, he saw that several of the articles which it contained were displaced; and his apprehensions were still further increased by seeing on the floor several prints of feet, of a character he could not define, and was quite certain he had never seen before.
Scarcely had he time to think upon these strange and startling appearances, when a low growl met his ears, and immediately upon that a voice exclaimed.—
“There, now, you’ve done it! Oh, cuss you, Popsy.”
Gray gave a jump to the door, and he could scarcely believe his eyes when a man’s head appeared from beneath the sofa, and confronted him with a mixed expression of effrontery and apprehension.
“How—came—you—here?” gasped Gray.
“Popsy come out,” was the man’s only reply to his interrogatory; and, to Gray’s surprise, an immense shaggy bear made its appearance from the same place of concealment.
“Who are you?” cried Jacob Gray.
“Why don’t you answer the gentleman, you brute?” said the man, dealing the bear a heavy blow with his fist; “affectionate ways is lost upon you, that they is—”
“How dare you come here?” cried Gray.
“Don’t ye hear?” screamed the man, still addressing the bear. “How dare ye come here?—Eh?”
“Spy!—Villain!” cried Gray, drawing from his breast the same knife with which he would have stabbed Ada to the heart.
“Hilloah!—Hilloah!” cried the man. “Do you hear, my Popsy, what he calls ye?”
The bear commenced a low growling, and displayed a formidable row of blackened fangs at Jacob Gray.
“Who and what are you?” shrieked Gray to the man.
“Barbican Tibbs, the bear warden, but common people calls me Tipsy Tibbs, and nothink else.”
“What in the name of hell brought you here?” cried Gray.
“Oh! I’m confidential,” replied the man, “and I don’t mind telling you.”
“Quickly then, quickly.”
“Why, you see they say as there isn’t to be allowed more than three bear wardens in Westminster, and as I’ve only just come from Canterbury, I makes faces and a parsecutor.”
“Faces, and a what?”
“A parsecutor—that is, they parsecutes me, and I gives them a dodge through the streets, you see; and they, coming rather quick, I bolts down this here street, and the first thing I sees is ‘wait—J.G.’ on your door.”
“Well, what then?”
“Why, then Popsy and me, we gives the door a drive and we gets in, then we shuts it again, and we’ve waited here ever since.”
“And it was you who made the noise I heard just now, as I was ascending the stairs?”
“Very like; and it has quite alarmed poor Popsy, and shattered his nerves by squeaking out in the passage.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A matter of half an hour.”
“What have you stolen?”
“Stole! Stole!”
“Yes: tell me, for there are some things I value, and some I do not.”
“Popsy, does ye hear what a opinion he has of your morals?”
Gray walked across the room, and opening a door that led to an inner apartment, he entered it and remained absent some minutes. During that absence he took from a chest (the key of which he had about him) a large sum of money, being the bulk of what he had, from time to time, received of Learmont, and he stowed it carefully about his person; the greatest care, however, he bestowed upon a packet of papers that were at the bottom of the bag. These he placed carefully in his breast, and then returned to the room in which was the bear warden and his shaggy associate.
“Hark you, friend,” said Gray, “I am going to leave this house.”
“Good morning,” said the bear warden.
“You seem a—a deserving man.”
“Do I?”
“Yes: I will give you the furniture you see about here, if you will defend it against all comers; and should a young girl come here, will you detain her for me?”
“Well, that’s odd,” said Tibbs, “but I don’t know you, my master.”
“Nor will you, I will take my own time and opportunity of calling upon you.”
“Well” said the beat warden, “I don’t mind obliging you, particularly as I haven’t anything of my own. Is there anything worth having up stairs, old fellow?”
“There is,” said Gray—“and recollect one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Should a man come of burly frame and bloated aspect, be assured he comes to take from you, if he can, all that I have given to you—be assured of that.”
“The deuce he does!”
“You will know him. He is rough of speech, and coarse and bulky. Beware of him!”
“But what shall I do with him?”
“Kill him—slaughter him. Take his life how and when you will—or maim him—do him some deadly harm, for, on my soul, I do not believe he has written any confession. Stay, I had forgotten.”
Gray hurried to the cupboard, and took from it the remainder of the poison he had given to Ada’s dog; then turning to the astonished bear warden, he said,—
“Remember, we shall meet again.”
He rapidly then descended the staircase, and was out of the house before the man could answer him.
“Well, if ever I knew the like o’ that!” said the bear warden. “Popsy!”
The bear answered with a growl, “We’re dropped into a furnished house, and nothing to pay. The blessed world’s a beginning to find out our merits, it is!”
CHAPTER XXXI.Ada’s Fate Again Against Her.—The Threat.—The New Home.Jacob Graywas not acting with his usual caution when he left such directions to the bear warden; but the attempt which had been made upon his life by Learmont and the smith had filled him with rage, and he would, in the height of his passion, willingly run some risk to be revenged upon them.“There is an ancient uninhabited house;” he muttered, “nigh to Battersea-fields, that I have several times noted. Its walls are crumbling with age. The bat screams around its tottering chimneys, I have marked it well. There am I now to take up my abode until I have wrung from Learmont a sum sufficient to induce me to leave England for ever; and when I do—ay, when I am safe in another land, then will I bring destruction upon him and Britton. They shall find that Jacob Gray has yet a sting to reach their hearts.”As he spoke, he cast an habitual glance of caution up and down the street, ere he emerged from the doorway of the house he was about to leave for ever.Some distance from him, the flutter of a white garment caught his eye, and he retreated back into the shadow of the doorway, from where he peered forth, to note who it could be that was approaching that solitary and ill-omened district.Suddenly he clutched the door-post for support, and a deadly paleness came over him. He saw Ada taking leave of Albert Seyton at the corner of the street. He saw her hands clasped in affectionate pressure. Then, with a lingering step. Albert Seyton turned away, looking, however, many times back again to smile another brief farewell to Ada.The deadly feelings of hatred that Gray entertained towards Albert Seyton now all returned in their full force, and he muttered curses, deep and appalling, against both him and Ada.“That boy again,” he growled between his clenched teeth. “How in the name of hell met she with him? In this large city what cursed fate has caused them to meet. I will have his life. Something tells me he will be a stumbling block in my way. I will take his life. Some means I will devise to safely put him in his grave. Yes—yes—smile on, young sir. You fancy now you have tracked Jacob Gray to his lair. You are mistaken. You have found a clue but to lose it again. Ha! She comes. Now, there is some deep-laid plot between them to surprise me; but I will foil it—I will foil it.”Ada now rapidly approached the doorway, in the shadow of which Gray was concealed. There was a smile of joy upon her face—the pure light of happiness danced in her eyes—and her step was agile as a young fawn.“Another hour,” she whispered to herself—“but another hour of misery, and life commences, as it were, anew for the poor forlorn Ada. My existence, as yet, presents me with nothing but dim shadows; the dear radiant sunshine of the life which Heaven has bestowed upon me, is now at hand. Gray must see his own interests and safety in making terms with Albert and his father. He will tell all—he will absolve me from the fancied ties of friendship, and I will forgive him for all he has made me suffer. If he be very guilty, in another land he may find security and repentance—nay, make his peace with Heaven.”Such were the glowing thoughts of the young girl, who was hastening to separate herself from those who loved her, while in her guileless heart she fondly imagined she was taking the surest means of securing her happiness.Jacob Gray saw her approaching. Eagerly he watched her steps, and when she paused at the door of the house, he shrunk back into the passage, and allowed her to enter its gloomy portal. Then stepping forward; he closed the door, and said in a low tone,—“Ada, is there anything in this house you value?”Ada started, and glanced at Gray with surprise, as she replied,—“Why do you ask? You see I have returned.”“Ay. You could not desert your father!” smiled Gray.Ada shrunk back as he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and he could not but note the shudder of dislike that came over her.“Listen to me,” he said. “I will give you your choice of one or two alternatives.”“What mean you.”“You recollect the young man, Albert Seyton?”A deep blush came over Ada’s face, as she said,—“I do.”“Well—he had a father—”“He has a father still!” cried Ada.“In—deed!” sneered Gray. “You know that.”Ada looked confused.“Nay,” continued Gray, “you need not blush. Think you, Albert Seyton loves you?”“Loves me?” echoed Ada.“Ay. You have read enough to tell you the meaning of the term.”Ada was silent.“Attend to my words,” continued Gray. “I have another home besides this.”“Another home?”“Yes, Ada; and in that other home there are domestics which would place you in so proud a station, that Albert Seyton would, in calling you his some few years hence, be acquiring a rank and fortune beyond his or your wildest dreams.”Ada’s eyes sparkled as Gray spoke, and she involuntarily moved a step towards him. The thought of enriching, perhaps ennobling, the poor dependent Albert Seyton, was delightful to her heart.“Oh!” she cried, “if you can do this, I will forget all the past.”“At my house,” said Gray. “’Tis near at hand.”“I will count the minutes till you return,” said Ada. “Oh, go at once.”“Yes, but not alone. You go with me, or I go not at all. Come, Ada, quick. We shall be back very soon. You are equipped for walking. We will go together.”“No—I—wish not to leave here,” said Ada.“Not leave here? Has your love for this place suddenly grown so strong?”“I am weary,” said Ada.“Then we part for ever! Farewell! Ada. I go now to destroy—to burn those papers! Carry with you through life the doubts that now harass you!”“Why force me to accompany you?” said Ada. “I am very weary.”“Decide! The distance is but short. The next half hour fixes your fate for a life!”“Half hour!” said Ada. “Will it consume but half an hour?”“Scarcely so much. A boat will take us where we are going in half the time.”“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, solemnly.“Well—well,” replied Gray, avoiding her eyes.“On your soul, are you speaking truly?”“On, my soul!”“You swear you are not deceiving me?”“I swear!”“We shall return here?”“We shall, assuredly. Then my task shall be to find out this young man—this Albert Seyton.”“I—I will go,” said Ada. “Let us hasten—but half an hour?”“Nay, not so long a time.”Still Ada hesitated.“You will know all then,” remarked Gray; “who and what you are, you will know; but if you come not now, I leave you this instant for ever! You’ll never see me more! And in losing me, you lose all clue to the solution of mysteries that will torture you through life.”“I will go—I will go,” said Ada. “Within the hour we shall return.”“We shall. Come, Ada, come.”“The papers that were above in the chest, where are they?”“In my safe keeping,” cried Gray.“I am weary. Will you not wait until sunset?”“Not another moment.”“Then I—will—go.”Gray took her by the arm, and they left the house together.A thousand conflicting thoughts rushed through Ada’s mind. The prominent one, however, was the pleasure it would give her to meet Albert Seyton, no longer the child of mystery, and perhaps of guilt, but the proud descendant of some pure and unsullied house. If she let Gray depart now, with him all chance of unravelling doubts and mysteries which, as he truly said, would torture her through life, would be lost. Albert and his father would come but to encumber themselves with a nameless, destitute girl. That she could not bear, and although she doubted, yet, she trusted Jacob Gray.Ada, when she made up her mind that she would accompany Gray, quite astonished him by the nervous haste which she showed in urging him along, and his naturally suspicious mind at once surmised that there was some especial reason in the mind of the young girl which induced her desire to return to the house they were leaving within the hour.“She has betrayed me to yon boy,” he thought. “’Tis more than likely that within the hour I should be a prisoner suing for mercy to him, and my confessions in his hands.”They soon reached the river side, and Gray, addressing a waterman said,—“Can you take us to Battersea, quickly?”“Yes, master,” said the man; “the tide serves.”Without another word Gray handed Ada into the boat, and they were soon gliding swiftly along the Thames, towards the marshy fields of Battersea.As the time progressed, Ada’s uneasiness became more and more apparent, and when the waterman tended them at a craggy flight of wooden steps that merely led to the open fields, a tremor came over her, and she began to repent trusting Jacob Gray.“I see no house,” she said. “Whither are you leading me?”“There—to your left,” said Gray. “Yon low building is the place of our destination.”“Let us be quick,” said Ada.With a sneering smile Jacob Gray led the way by the side of the scanty hedges till they reached the gloomy, desolate mansion he had long fixed upon as his next place of concealment, should his lone dwelling at Lambeth be discovered.Ada looked upon the damp crumbling walls and shattered windows with a feeling of dread she could not conceal. “What place is this?” she falteringly asked.“’Tis an old deserted farm-house,” said Gray, “in which a murder, they say was committed.”“A murder?”“Yes; by a man named Forest. It is called now Forest House, and no one will willingly approach it.”They stood now in the shadow of the deep overhanging porch, and Jacob Gray for a moment gazed around him upon the wide expanse of marshy ground. A smile of triumph lit up his face with a demoniac-expression.“Ada,” he said, “you would have betrayed me—you may shriek now—no one will hear you; you may struggle—no one will aid you. This house is your prison—perhaps your tomb.”Ada clasped her hands in terror and despair. “Betrayed—betrayed! Oh, Albert—” she cried, and sunk in a state of insensibility on the door step of Forest House.
Ada’s Fate Again Against Her.—The Threat.—The New Home.
Jacob Graywas not acting with his usual caution when he left such directions to the bear warden; but the attempt which had been made upon his life by Learmont and the smith had filled him with rage, and he would, in the height of his passion, willingly run some risk to be revenged upon them.
“There is an ancient uninhabited house;” he muttered, “nigh to Battersea-fields, that I have several times noted. Its walls are crumbling with age. The bat screams around its tottering chimneys, I have marked it well. There am I now to take up my abode until I have wrung from Learmont a sum sufficient to induce me to leave England for ever; and when I do—ay, when I am safe in another land, then will I bring destruction upon him and Britton. They shall find that Jacob Gray has yet a sting to reach their hearts.”
As he spoke, he cast an habitual glance of caution up and down the street, ere he emerged from the doorway of the house he was about to leave for ever.
Some distance from him, the flutter of a white garment caught his eye, and he retreated back into the shadow of the doorway, from where he peered forth, to note who it could be that was approaching that solitary and ill-omened district.
Suddenly he clutched the door-post for support, and a deadly paleness came over him. He saw Ada taking leave of Albert Seyton at the corner of the street. He saw her hands clasped in affectionate pressure. Then, with a lingering step. Albert Seyton turned away, looking, however, many times back again to smile another brief farewell to Ada.
The deadly feelings of hatred that Gray entertained towards Albert Seyton now all returned in their full force, and he muttered curses, deep and appalling, against both him and Ada.
“That boy again,” he growled between his clenched teeth. “How in the name of hell met she with him? In this large city what cursed fate has caused them to meet. I will have his life. Something tells me he will be a stumbling block in my way. I will take his life. Some means I will devise to safely put him in his grave. Yes—yes—smile on, young sir. You fancy now you have tracked Jacob Gray to his lair. You are mistaken. You have found a clue but to lose it again. Ha! She comes. Now, there is some deep-laid plot between them to surprise me; but I will foil it—I will foil it.”
Ada now rapidly approached the doorway, in the shadow of which Gray was concealed. There was a smile of joy upon her face—the pure light of happiness danced in her eyes—and her step was agile as a young fawn.
“Another hour,” she whispered to herself—“but another hour of misery, and life commences, as it were, anew for the poor forlorn Ada. My existence, as yet, presents me with nothing but dim shadows; the dear radiant sunshine of the life which Heaven has bestowed upon me, is now at hand. Gray must see his own interests and safety in making terms with Albert and his father. He will tell all—he will absolve me from the fancied ties of friendship, and I will forgive him for all he has made me suffer. If he be very guilty, in another land he may find security and repentance—nay, make his peace with Heaven.”
Such were the glowing thoughts of the young girl, who was hastening to separate herself from those who loved her, while in her guileless heart she fondly imagined she was taking the surest means of securing her happiness.
Jacob Gray saw her approaching. Eagerly he watched her steps, and when she paused at the door of the house, he shrunk back into the passage, and allowed her to enter its gloomy portal. Then stepping forward; he closed the door, and said in a low tone,—
“Ada, is there anything in this house you value?”
Ada started, and glanced at Gray with surprise, as she replied,—
“Why do you ask? You see I have returned.”
“Ay. You could not desert your father!” smiled Gray.
Ada shrunk back as he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and he could not but note the shudder of dislike that came over her.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I will give you your choice of one or two alternatives.”
“What mean you.”
“You recollect the young man, Albert Seyton?”
A deep blush came over Ada’s face, as she said,—“I do.”
“Well—he had a father—”
“He has a father still!” cried Ada.
“In—deed!” sneered Gray. “You know that.”
Ada looked confused.
“Nay,” continued Gray, “you need not blush. Think you, Albert Seyton loves you?”
“Loves me?” echoed Ada.
“Ay. You have read enough to tell you the meaning of the term.”
Ada was silent.
“Attend to my words,” continued Gray. “I have another home besides this.”
“Another home?”
“Yes, Ada; and in that other home there are domestics which would place you in so proud a station, that Albert Seyton would, in calling you his some few years hence, be acquiring a rank and fortune beyond his or your wildest dreams.”
Ada’s eyes sparkled as Gray spoke, and she involuntarily moved a step towards him. The thought of enriching, perhaps ennobling, the poor dependent Albert Seyton, was delightful to her heart.
“Oh!” she cried, “if you can do this, I will forget all the past.”
“At my house,” said Gray. “’Tis near at hand.”
“I will count the minutes till you return,” said Ada. “Oh, go at once.”
“Yes, but not alone. You go with me, or I go not at all. Come, Ada, quick. We shall be back very soon. You are equipped for walking. We will go together.”
“No—I—wish not to leave here,” said Ada.
“Not leave here? Has your love for this place suddenly grown so strong?”
“I am weary,” said Ada.
“Then we part for ever! Farewell! Ada. I go now to destroy—to burn those papers! Carry with you through life the doubts that now harass you!”
“Why force me to accompany you?” said Ada. “I am very weary.”
“Decide! The distance is but short. The next half hour fixes your fate for a life!”
“Half hour!” said Ada. “Will it consume but half an hour?”
“Scarcely so much. A boat will take us where we are going in half the time.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Ada, solemnly.
“Well—well,” replied Gray, avoiding her eyes.
“On your soul, are you speaking truly?”
“On, my soul!”
“You swear you are not deceiving me?”
“I swear!”
“We shall return here?”
“We shall, assuredly. Then my task shall be to find out this young man—this Albert Seyton.”
“I—I will go,” said Ada. “Let us hasten—but half an hour?”
“Nay, not so long a time.”
Still Ada hesitated.
“You will know all then,” remarked Gray; “who and what you are, you will know; but if you come not now, I leave you this instant for ever! You’ll never see me more! And in losing me, you lose all clue to the solution of mysteries that will torture you through life.”
“I will go—I will go,” said Ada. “Within the hour we shall return.”
“We shall. Come, Ada, come.”
“The papers that were above in the chest, where are they?”
“In my safe keeping,” cried Gray.
“I am weary. Will you not wait until sunset?”
“Not another moment.”
“Then I—will—go.”
Gray took her by the arm, and they left the house together.
A thousand conflicting thoughts rushed through Ada’s mind. The prominent one, however, was the pleasure it would give her to meet Albert Seyton, no longer the child of mystery, and perhaps of guilt, but the proud descendant of some pure and unsullied house. If she let Gray depart now, with him all chance of unravelling doubts and mysteries which, as he truly said, would torture her through life, would be lost. Albert and his father would come but to encumber themselves with a nameless, destitute girl. That she could not bear, and although she doubted, yet, she trusted Jacob Gray.
Ada, when she made up her mind that she would accompany Gray, quite astonished him by the nervous haste which she showed in urging him along, and his naturally suspicious mind at once surmised that there was some especial reason in the mind of the young girl which induced her desire to return to the house they were leaving within the hour.
“She has betrayed me to yon boy,” he thought. “’Tis more than likely that within the hour I should be a prisoner suing for mercy to him, and my confessions in his hands.”
They soon reached the river side, and Gray, addressing a waterman said,—
“Can you take us to Battersea, quickly?”
“Yes, master,” said the man; “the tide serves.”
Without another word Gray handed Ada into the boat, and they were soon gliding swiftly along the Thames, towards the marshy fields of Battersea.
As the time progressed, Ada’s uneasiness became more and more apparent, and when the waterman tended them at a craggy flight of wooden steps that merely led to the open fields, a tremor came over her, and she began to repent trusting Jacob Gray.
“I see no house,” she said. “Whither are you leading me?”
“There—to your left,” said Gray. “Yon low building is the place of our destination.”
“Let us be quick,” said Ada.
With a sneering smile Jacob Gray led the way by the side of the scanty hedges till they reached the gloomy, desolate mansion he had long fixed upon as his next place of concealment, should his lone dwelling at Lambeth be discovered.
Ada looked upon the damp crumbling walls and shattered windows with a feeling of dread she could not conceal. “What place is this?” she falteringly asked.
“’Tis an old deserted farm-house,” said Gray, “in which a murder, they say was committed.”
“A murder?”
“Yes; by a man named Forest. It is called now Forest House, and no one will willingly approach it.”
They stood now in the shadow of the deep overhanging porch, and Jacob Gray for a moment gazed around him upon the wide expanse of marshy ground. A smile of triumph lit up his face with a demoniac-expression.
“Ada,” he said, “you would have betrayed me—you may shriek now—no one will hear you; you may struggle—no one will aid you. This house is your prison—perhaps your tomb.”
Ada clasped her hands in terror and despair. “Betrayed—betrayed! Oh, Albert—” she cried, and sunk in a state of insensibility on the door step of Forest House.
CHAPTER XXXII.Albert’s Disappointment.—Tibbs, the Bear Warden.—The Search.—A Consultation.Withinthe hour he had named as being the extreme limit of his absence, Albert Seyton and his father arrived at Gray’s house at Lambeth. They knocked at first quietly, and finally loudly, for admittance. Here, as they had predetermined, they burst upon the frail door, and, calling upon Ada, Albert flew from room to room of the dismal house.No voice responded to his, and he was about to give up the search in despair, when a low rumbling sound met his ears from a room he had already visited, and which was immediately followed by a heavy crash of some fallen body.He and his father instantly rushed into the room, and there, amid the ruins, a table, several bottles, glasses, &c., lay Tibbs, the bear warden, who was evidently far gone in intoxication.The bear was licking its paws on the spot which would have been under the table had that article of furniture preserved its perpendicularity; but it now lay on one side, and it is to be surmised that Tipsy Tibbs had hidden under it upon hearing the sound of footsteps, and then upset it in his clumsy efforts to emerge from his temporary concealment.Mr. Seyton Albert looked with undisguised astonishment on the strange spectacle of a drunken man and a bear, where they expected to find a young girl and a cool designing villain.“How are you?” said Tibbs. “So, so—you’re come back, have you? Hurrah—hurray—that’s my op—opinion.”Albert stepped up to him, and shaking him roughly, cried in a loud voice:—“Who are you?”“Who—who—am—I? Why, everybody knows me—I’m—Tip—Tip—Tipsy Tibbs, the bear warder.”“Tell me, have you seen a beautiful girl here? Speak at once.”“A w—w—what?”“A young girl, with black eyes; sparkling as diamonds—long dancing ringlets.”“Whew!” whistled Tibbs. “Don’t I wish I had? Oh, the little charmer.”“Wretch!” cried Albert, “have you seen her?”“Do—do—you mean—Mrs. Tibbs?”“Albert,” said Mr. Seyton, “we shall get no information from this man by angry questioning. Allow me to speak to him. Are you alone here, my friend?”“No, I ain’t.”“Who else inhabits this house?”“Popsy. Hurrah—let’s have another bottle—never get drunk—don’t make a beast of yourself, old gentleman.”“How long have you been here?”“Two bottles!”“How long a time, I say, have you been here?”“Well, I say—two—two bottles.”“The villain Gray has been more than a match for me, father;” said Albert. “My poor Ada is not here!”He sunk upon a chair, and gave way to a violent burst of grief as he spoke, and Tibbs gazed upon him in speechless astonishment.“Albert,” said his father, “this is childish of you. Let us thoroughly search this house. We may still find some clue to the object of our search.”“True,” said Albert, rising, “I will not despair. We may, perchance, light upon the mysterious packet of papers which Jacob Gray thinks so much of, and which were addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton.”“Take another bottle,” suggested Tibbs, making various ridiculous efforts to get on his feet, in all of which he signally failed.“Sot,” said Albert, “I will force more intelligent answers from you yet before I leave this house.”“Take another bottle,” said Tibbs. “My dear, here’s your health. You have a rare voice. Bless you, you want to stay because I’m here. Don’t let him persuade you; d—d—d—n his important papers.”“What do you mean?” cried Albert.“Why, she’s gone, to be sure. They didn’t know I was listening on the stairs. Ho! Ho! Ho!—They’re off, and the furniture’s all mine. Take another bottle.”“From the ravings of this drunkard,” said Mr. Seyton, “we may gather what has happened, Albert. Jacob Gray, on some pretence, having his suspicions awakened, has induced Ada to leave this place with him.”“I fear it is so, father,” said Albert; “but here I vow to Heaven that I will not know more rest than is needful to my health and strength till I have found where this bad man has hidden the fairest, best—”“Control your feelings, Albert,” said his father. “God knows how willingly I would have taken this persecuted young girl to my home, and done a parent’s duty by her; but Heaven has decreed it otherwise.”With a saddened and dejected air Albert again searched the house. He found no vestige of Ada, save her male attire and the dead dog. An open book was upon the table of her room. That he placed next his heart, with the fond thought that she might have owned and prized it.“Let us leave this place,” said his father, “and the more quickly the better, I will employ someone to watch the house for some days in case Gray should return, and in the meantime, we will ourselves make every inquiry, and use our utmost endeavours to discover his retreat.”With a heavy heart Albert left the house; he lingered long at the door and in the street, and it was only his father’s arguments that induced him at length to quit the spot.“Father,” said Albert, “I will make an application to Sir Francis Hartleton!”“You forget,” replied Mr. Seyton, “that Sir Francis Hartleton is a magistrate and has a public duty to perform, from which he is not the man to flinch. We wish to temporise with this man Gray, and not drive him to extremities. The more heartily Sir Francis might enter into this business, the more misery we might be laying up for the persecuted girl it is our wish to rescue. Recollect, Albert, there still lives the awful doubt that Jacob Gray may still be the father of Ada.”“It is an awful doubt,” said Albert.“We must not then embitter her existence, wicked as Gray may be, by executing upon him the full measure of justice until that doubt is solved. It would be coldly right to do so, I will grant; but we look more to Ada’s happiness, Albert, than the vengeance of the law upon a guilty man.”Albert grasped his father’s hand as he replied, in a voice struggling with emotion,—“Guide me, father—tell me what to do. Your words bring truth and conviction with them.”“Then, Albert, if you succeed in getting the situation you have been endeavouring to obtain, as private secretary to this gentleman, who is reported to be so rich and liberal, there may arise some opportunity of interesting him in the matter, and, through his means and influence, much might be done to unravel the whole mystery without endangering Gray, should he turn out to be Ada’s father, of which, however, I have the strongest doubts.”“Yes,” cried Albert, with renovated hope; “they tell me this gentleman, Squire Learmont, is rolling in wealth.”“Ay, that is his name. He is comparatively unknown, I hear, in London; but if you become his secretary, he may take a pleasure, if he be a good man, in assisting you.”“It shall be tried, father,” said Albert.Learmont had been inquiring of several persons since his arrival in London for some young man as private secretary, and Albert Seyton, who never in his wildest dreams imagined that the rich Squire Learmont, whose wealth was the theme of every tongue, could possibly be in any way connected with the fortunes of the poor persecuted Ada, had applied for the situation, and met with a favourable although evasive answer.
Albert’s Disappointment.—Tibbs, the Bear Warden.—The Search.—A Consultation.
Withinthe hour he had named as being the extreme limit of his absence, Albert Seyton and his father arrived at Gray’s house at Lambeth. They knocked at first quietly, and finally loudly, for admittance. Here, as they had predetermined, they burst upon the frail door, and, calling upon Ada, Albert flew from room to room of the dismal house.
No voice responded to his, and he was about to give up the search in despair, when a low rumbling sound met his ears from a room he had already visited, and which was immediately followed by a heavy crash of some fallen body.
He and his father instantly rushed into the room, and there, amid the ruins, a table, several bottles, glasses, &c., lay Tibbs, the bear warden, who was evidently far gone in intoxication.
The bear was licking its paws on the spot which would have been under the table had that article of furniture preserved its perpendicularity; but it now lay on one side, and it is to be surmised that Tipsy Tibbs had hidden under it upon hearing the sound of footsteps, and then upset it in his clumsy efforts to emerge from his temporary concealment.
Mr. Seyton Albert looked with undisguised astonishment on the strange spectacle of a drunken man and a bear, where they expected to find a young girl and a cool designing villain.
“How are you?” said Tibbs. “So, so—you’re come back, have you? Hurrah—hurray—that’s my op—opinion.”
Albert stepped up to him, and shaking him roughly, cried in a loud voice:—
“Who are you?”
“Who—who—am—I? Why, everybody knows me—I’m—Tip—Tip—Tipsy Tibbs, the bear warder.”
“Tell me, have you seen a beautiful girl here? Speak at once.”
“A w—w—what?”
“A young girl, with black eyes; sparkling as diamonds—long dancing ringlets.”
“Whew!” whistled Tibbs. “Don’t I wish I had? Oh, the little charmer.”
“Wretch!” cried Albert, “have you seen her?”
“Do—do—you mean—Mrs. Tibbs?”
“Albert,” said Mr. Seyton, “we shall get no information from this man by angry questioning. Allow me to speak to him. Are you alone here, my friend?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Who else inhabits this house?”
“Popsy. Hurrah—let’s have another bottle—never get drunk—don’t make a beast of yourself, old gentleman.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two bottles!”
“How long a time, I say, have you been here?”
“Well, I say—two—two bottles.”
“The villain Gray has been more than a match for me, father;” said Albert. “My poor Ada is not here!”
He sunk upon a chair, and gave way to a violent burst of grief as he spoke, and Tibbs gazed upon him in speechless astonishment.
“Albert,” said his father, “this is childish of you. Let us thoroughly search this house. We may still find some clue to the object of our search.”
“True,” said Albert, rising, “I will not despair. We may, perchance, light upon the mysterious packet of papers which Jacob Gray thinks so much of, and which were addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton.”
“Take another bottle,” suggested Tibbs, making various ridiculous efforts to get on his feet, in all of which he signally failed.
“Sot,” said Albert, “I will force more intelligent answers from you yet before I leave this house.”
“Take another bottle,” said Tibbs. “My dear, here’s your health. You have a rare voice. Bless you, you want to stay because I’m here. Don’t let him persuade you; d—d—d—n his important papers.”
“What do you mean?” cried Albert.
“Why, she’s gone, to be sure. They didn’t know I was listening on the stairs. Ho! Ho! Ho!—They’re off, and the furniture’s all mine. Take another bottle.”
“From the ravings of this drunkard,” said Mr. Seyton, “we may gather what has happened, Albert. Jacob Gray, on some pretence, having his suspicions awakened, has induced Ada to leave this place with him.”
“I fear it is so, father,” said Albert; “but here I vow to Heaven that I will not know more rest than is needful to my health and strength till I have found where this bad man has hidden the fairest, best—”
“Control your feelings, Albert,” said his father. “God knows how willingly I would have taken this persecuted young girl to my home, and done a parent’s duty by her; but Heaven has decreed it otherwise.”
With a saddened and dejected air Albert again searched the house. He found no vestige of Ada, save her male attire and the dead dog. An open book was upon the table of her room. That he placed next his heart, with the fond thought that she might have owned and prized it.
“Let us leave this place,” said his father, “and the more quickly the better, I will employ someone to watch the house for some days in case Gray should return, and in the meantime, we will ourselves make every inquiry, and use our utmost endeavours to discover his retreat.”
With a heavy heart Albert left the house; he lingered long at the door and in the street, and it was only his father’s arguments that induced him at length to quit the spot.
“Father,” said Albert, “I will make an application to Sir Francis Hartleton!”
“You forget,” replied Mr. Seyton, “that Sir Francis Hartleton is a magistrate and has a public duty to perform, from which he is not the man to flinch. We wish to temporise with this man Gray, and not drive him to extremities. The more heartily Sir Francis might enter into this business, the more misery we might be laying up for the persecuted girl it is our wish to rescue. Recollect, Albert, there still lives the awful doubt that Jacob Gray may still be the father of Ada.”
“It is an awful doubt,” said Albert.
“We must not then embitter her existence, wicked as Gray may be, by executing upon him the full measure of justice until that doubt is solved. It would be coldly right to do so, I will grant; but we look more to Ada’s happiness, Albert, than the vengeance of the law upon a guilty man.”
Albert grasped his father’s hand as he replied, in a voice struggling with emotion,—
“Guide me, father—tell me what to do. Your words bring truth and conviction with them.”
“Then, Albert, if you succeed in getting the situation you have been endeavouring to obtain, as private secretary to this gentleman, who is reported to be so rich and liberal, there may arise some opportunity of interesting him in the matter, and, through his means and influence, much might be done to unravel the whole mystery without endangering Gray, should he turn out to be Ada’s father, of which, however, I have the strongest doubts.”
“Yes,” cried Albert, with renovated hope; “they tell me this gentleman, Squire Learmont, is rolling in wealth.”
“Ay, that is his name. He is comparatively unknown, I hear, in London; but if you become his secretary, he may take a pleasure, if he be a good man, in assisting you.”
“It shall be tried, father,” said Albert.
Learmont had been inquiring of several persons since his arrival in London for some young man as private secretary, and Albert Seyton, who never in his wildest dreams imagined that the rich Squire Learmont, whose wealth was the theme of every tongue, could possibly be in any way connected with the fortunes of the poor persecuted Ada, had applied for the situation, and met with a favourable although evasive answer.
CHAPTER XXXIII.Learmont at Home.—Dark Reflections.—The Summons.—The Confederates.—Suspicions.In thesmall room which he had fitted up specially for himself, sat the Squire Learmont, in an attitude of deep thought. His lips occasionally moved as if he were repeating to himself the subject of his meditations. The colour went and came upon his agitated face, according to the uneven tenor of his thoughts. For more than an hour he thus sat, and then suddenly rising as if with a violent determination to shake off completely “the thick coming fancies” that disturbed his brain, he went to the window and looked out upon the court yard of his mansion.The uneasy thoughts of Learmont were not, however, to be thus laid aside. In a few moments he again threw himself into the chair from which he had risen, and commenced in a low, anxious, trembling tone, muttering half aloud, the subject of his gloomy thoughts:—“Was ever a man,” he said, “so circumstanced as I? With all the will to act, yet so hemmed in by strange circumstances as to be powerless—completely powerless. In truth, the wily Jacob Gray has had a triumph. Can the smith have played me false, and warned him of his danger; yet, no—I cannot think so. Britton hates him, and would gladly take his life. He could not, with such consummate art, act the passion he exhibited at that lonely hovel, wherein I thought I had entrapped this Gray. There is yet another supposition. Does the boy live? Ay, is there a young heir to Learmont’s broad acres and princely revenues? That is a grave doubt; but let me doubt ever so strangely, I dare not act. Jacob Gray—Jacob Gray, the arch-fiend himself could not have woven a better web of protection around a human life than you have cast around yours! I dare not kill you. No! Jacob Gray, you are very safe.”Learmont clenched his hands and ground his teeth together, in impotent rage, as he felt the full conviction upon his mind that he dared not, for his own life’s sake, interfere with Jacob Gray.“There is no plan but one,” he said, after a long pause. “I must try to purchase from him, by some large and tempting offer, both the boy and the confession—then, should he be attracted by such a bait, he shall die for the disquiet he has given me. If I slaughter him here in my own house, he shall die. I shall know no peace till that man is a corpse.”A small timepiece in the room now struck the hour of twelve.“Twelve o’clock,” muttered Learmont. “’Tis the hour the smith said he would be here; but punctuality is not one of his virtues. He knows I must wait for him? Curses on him—curses!”A servant slowly opened the door at this moment, and said, in a timid voice, for the household had had several specimens of Learmont’s wild passions and violence,—“An it please your worship, here is Master Gray.”“Show him here,” said Learmont, quickly, and the man was out of the room as expeditiously as if he had been pulled from behind with a sudden jerk.“They will meet here,” muttered Learmont. “Well, be it so. Three persons so strangely knit together, as these two men and myself, were surely never heard of. Hating them with that hatred which requires to be glutted with blood to calm its fury; yet I am obliged to supply their wildest extravagancies and most insolent demands. Oh, if I, dared, if—oh, you are here, Jacob Gray?”“As you perceive, most worshipful sir,” said Gray, as he closed the door behind him, and fixed his keen, ferret-looking eyes upon the Squire.For a few minutes they regarded each other in silence. Learmont at length, uttered the word,—“Well?”“I am rejoiced to hear you are well,” sneered Gray. “The fog last night was very damp.”“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I sought your life.”“Your worship was so kind,” said Gray, “and since my connexion with your worship has grown so dangerous, it shall bear a higher price.”“What mean you?”“I mean,” said Gray, striking the palm of his hand with his fist—“I mean that where I have had one guinea, Squire Learmont, I will have ten; where ten, a hundred. Thank yourself for raising my price. My nerves are weak, and yet I prize them. I like my blood to keep its even pace. If I am to be tortured—if I am to be threatened—broken in upon at midnight, and cold steel held to my throat, I will be well paid—extremely well paid. You understand me, Squire Learmont, I have raised my price.”There was a strange mixture of cunning, rage, and ferocity in Jacob Gray’s tone and manner as he made this speech. Every other word that he spoke showed a disposition to shout with anger, but then it was as quickly subdued again by his habitual caution and timidity. When he had finished he glared at Learmont with a pale and distorted countenance awaiting his reply.“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I did seek your life, but it was not for your life’s sake I sought it.”“Indeed!” sneered Gray.“No,” continued Learmont. “What is your life to me? But the precautions that you have taken to protect yourself keep me in continual and imminent danger. What’s so uncertain as human life?”“Ay—what?“ said Gray.“Suppose your sudden death—by accident or illness—what though I had poured into your coffers half my income?—What though I had satisfied your wildest demands, still might I be exposed to danger most imminent, nay, to death without your meaning so to involve me.”“Well I know,” said Jacob Gray, “that life is uncertain—too well I know if, Squire Learmont, you have coined for yourself the danger you describe. While you live, it will haunt you.”“But wherefore should I?” said Learmont. “You talk of increasing your demands by tens and hundreds—why not name thousands at once as the price of—”“Of what?”“The boy, and your absence for ever from England.”“I—I—had thought of that,” said Gray.“And a wise thought too,” urged Learmont. “What is your life to me were it not that you have surrounded me with danger? Do I thirst for your blood for its own sake? Certainly not—have your own price—bring me the boy, and destroy your written confession.”“And leave England for ever?” muttered Gray.“Yes—seek safety and enjoyment somewhere else in another land, where the finger of suspicion can never be pointed at you, and where you will only appear as the wealthy stranger.”“’Tis tempting,” said Gray; “but—”“But what?—Why do you hesitate?”“Would there be no danger even between the threshold of this house and the deck of the vessel which was to convey me and my fortunes from England for ever?”“Danger?—a—What danger?”“The assassin’s knife,” said Gray. “Hear me, Squire Learmont; if we could trust each other for so brief a space as half an hour, it might be done; but we cannot—you know we cannot!”“You refuse upon danger,” said Learmont, trying to smile, and producing a ghastly distortion of visage. “You are over cautious, Master Gray.”“I think not,” said Gray, “and yet I will think upon your offer, Squire Learmont. I will not deny that some scheme of the kind has already dawned upon my own mind. I will think upon your offer; and should some means occur to me by which safety can be so well assured as to be past a doubt, I will accept it, for I loathe the life I lead.”“’Tis well,” said Learmont.“And now I want a hundred pounds,” said Jacob Gray, in an affectedly submissive voice.“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Learmont.“Yes, a hundred! And I will have them.”“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “why have I plunged myself into crime, and leagued myself with such men as you and Britton, but for this gold which your and his insatiable demands would wring from me?”“Agreed,” cried Gray. “But now ’tis done, and to keep the gibbet—”“The gibbet!”“Ay, the gibbet, Squire Learmont. To keep that without its victim, you must, and will pay the last farthing, if needs be, of that gold you talk of as your tempter. Why, it tempted me, and I will riot in it! A hundred pounds, good squire.”“Ten thousand are yours, if you bring me the boy and your written confession.”“Ten thousand! You may safely make it twenty, squire, or thirty.”“What do you mean?”“You call me cautious—cunning—wily as a fox, and am I all that; and because I am, I will not sell my life for five minutes at the utmost possession of any sum.”“Sell your life!”“Yes, my life. How many paces from this room would suffice to carry Jacob Gray to his grave, provided he gave up his two most rare securities—the boy and the confession?”“You wrong me by your suspicions,” said Learmont, with difficulty suppressing the rage that was swelling in his bosom.“A hundred pounds!” said Gray.“Jacob Gray, hear me—”“Hear me first. A hundred pounds!”Learmont went to a cabinet in the apartment, and without another word counted out the sum.“Have you moved Jacob Gray?” he said, in a calm voice.“Nay,” replied Gray, “why need you ask?”“A message from the Old Smithy,” announced a servant at this juncture.“’Tis Britton,” whispered Learmont to Gray.“What, cunning Master Britton!” answered Gray. “Ho! Ho! I shall be glad to see him.”“Admit him,” said Learmont to the servant; then turning to Gray, he added,—“Will you leave me, now?”“No,” said Gray.“Wherefore?”“Because I do not want the smith again upon my track, like a blood hound!”“Oh, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “if you could destroy Britton, securing at the same time the dangerous papers he has—bring me the boy—commit your own confession to the flames, and share my fortune!”“Humph!“ said Gray. “If I could.”“You might.”“Well, that’ll do,” roared Britton, as the servant held the door open for him to enter the room. “Oh—oh—you here?”“Yes, cunning Britton,” said Gray, “I am here.”“Curse you, then!” said Britton, flinging himself into a chair.“Bless you!” said Gray. “Ho, ho! Clever Britton.”“Perhaps, gentlemen,” sneered Learmont, “you will condescend to carry your quarrels to some pot-house, when you have said what you wish to say to me?”“Yes,” said Gray, “we shall anger his worship.”“Damnation take—”“Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “You come here for money. Name the sum, and go.”“Oh, name the sum!” said Britton. “What’s to-day?”“Friday, my dear Britton,” said Gray. “It’s generally considered an unlucky day, I pray you to take care of yourself, cunning Britton.”Britton cast a savage scowl upon Gray, as he said,—“I shall, and mind you be as careful. Friday, is it? Twenty pounds will last me till next Monday, squire.”“Will they, indeed?” sneered Learmont. “Here they are, then. May I now be indulged with the privacy of my own house?”“There now,” said Gray, “you hear his worship; why don’t you go, Britton?”“Because I intend staying out, Jacob Gray,” cried Britton, fiercely.“Well,” said Gray, rising, “be it so, but hearken to me, Squire Learmont. If I find this ruffian upon my track, I will be revenged with safety to myself—bitterly revenged—now beware!”So saying, Jacob Gray left the room, with an expression of countenance perfectly demoniac.Britton made a movement to follow him, but the squire laid his hand upon his arm, and said,—“No—not now, Britton. We must devise some better means yet of destroying, with perfect safety, this Jacob Gray.”“Curses on him!” growled Britton. “Did you hear how he taunted me?”“I did.”“Then, I say I must have his blood.”“You shall.”“I will—I have sworn it—I will take the hateful life of Jacob Gray.”“Britton, we understand each other. This Gray is as great an enemy to you as he is to me.”“I know he is,” growled Britton. “You need not tell me that. And who, think you, is in London, and raving through the streets to every one she meets, about the Old Smithy, and a murder?”“She? Who mean you?”“Mad Maud, who used to haunt the village, and ever vented her bitterest curses upon me.”“Mad Maud! She must be secured. Even her clamour might arouse suspicion in some quarter, and many a prying knave would be glad to pick a hole in the reputation of the rich and proud Squire Learmont. When did you see her, Britton?”“On Westminster-bridge, after you and I had parted last.”“The—water—was—near.”“It was, but the old beldame raised a clamour that brought help. When next we meet, she may not be so near assistance.”“True. How true is the lesson taught by Jacob Gray, that safety is best doubly assured. You stay still at the Chequers?”“Yes—you know I do. Why do you ask?”“From no special motive.”“Yes; I am still at the Chequers. Ho! Ho! Ho! Money flies there. Mine host is about to build a new front to his house and it’s all with your money, squire. By G—d, they sell good liquor at the Chequers, and there’s a merry company—a good song and a silver tankard on purpose for good Master Britton. Ho! Ho! Ho!”“You sleep there?”“Yes; but mind ye, squire; drunk or sober, at home or abroad, those papers are well secured. Don’t try to play any tricks with me, squire; you would rue the hour.”“Pho! Pho!” interrupted Learmont. “We understand each other—our interests are mutual—but, as for this Jacob Gray—”“Ah! Curse Jacob Gray!”“To which I devoutly cry—Amen!” said Learmont. “And now, Britton, it is our policy to let matters sleep for a time, until Gray’s newly awakened caution is somewhat calmed. Go, now, good Britton, and—mind you, when you are inclined to set a price upon the papers you have, tell me and we will talk about it.”“Oh, very well,” said Britton. “I shall be glad to see you at the Chequers any time. I will say this for you, Squire Learmont, that you pay very well, indeed. I lead the life of a gentleman now—nothing to do, and so many people to help me—drink—drink from morning till night. Damme, what could a king do more.”
Learmont at Home.—Dark Reflections.—The Summons.—The Confederates.—Suspicions.
In thesmall room which he had fitted up specially for himself, sat the Squire Learmont, in an attitude of deep thought. His lips occasionally moved as if he were repeating to himself the subject of his meditations. The colour went and came upon his agitated face, according to the uneven tenor of his thoughts. For more than an hour he thus sat, and then suddenly rising as if with a violent determination to shake off completely “the thick coming fancies” that disturbed his brain, he went to the window and looked out upon the court yard of his mansion.
The uneasy thoughts of Learmont were not, however, to be thus laid aside. In a few moments he again threw himself into the chair from which he had risen, and commenced in a low, anxious, trembling tone, muttering half aloud, the subject of his gloomy thoughts:—
“Was ever a man,” he said, “so circumstanced as I? With all the will to act, yet so hemmed in by strange circumstances as to be powerless—completely powerless. In truth, the wily Jacob Gray has had a triumph. Can the smith have played me false, and warned him of his danger; yet, no—I cannot think so. Britton hates him, and would gladly take his life. He could not, with such consummate art, act the passion he exhibited at that lonely hovel, wherein I thought I had entrapped this Gray. There is yet another supposition. Does the boy live? Ay, is there a young heir to Learmont’s broad acres and princely revenues? That is a grave doubt; but let me doubt ever so strangely, I dare not act. Jacob Gray—Jacob Gray, the arch-fiend himself could not have woven a better web of protection around a human life than you have cast around yours! I dare not kill you. No! Jacob Gray, you are very safe.”
Learmont clenched his hands and ground his teeth together, in impotent rage, as he felt the full conviction upon his mind that he dared not, for his own life’s sake, interfere with Jacob Gray.
“There is no plan but one,” he said, after a long pause. “I must try to purchase from him, by some large and tempting offer, both the boy and the confession—then, should he be attracted by such a bait, he shall die for the disquiet he has given me. If I slaughter him here in my own house, he shall die. I shall know no peace till that man is a corpse.”
A small timepiece in the room now struck the hour of twelve.
“Twelve o’clock,” muttered Learmont. “’Tis the hour the smith said he would be here; but punctuality is not one of his virtues. He knows I must wait for him? Curses on him—curses!”
A servant slowly opened the door at this moment, and said, in a timid voice, for the household had had several specimens of Learmont’s wild passions and violence,—
“An it please your worship, here is Master Gray.”
“Show him here,” said Learmont, quickly, and the man was out of the room as expeditiously as if he had been pulled from behind with a sudden jerk.
“They will meet here,” muttered Learmont. “Well, be it so. Three persons so strangely knit together, as these two men and myself, were surely never heard of. Hating them with that hatred which requires to be glutted with blood to calm its fury; yet I am obliged to supply their wildest extravagancies and most insolent demands. Oh, if I, dared, if—oh, you are here, Jacob Gray?”
“As you perceive, most worshipful sir,” said Gray, as he closed the door behind him, and fixed his keen, ferret-looking eyes upon the Squire.
For a few minutes they regarded each other in silence. Learmont at length, uttered the word,—
“Well?”
“I am rejoiced to hear you are well,” sneered Gray. “The fog last night was very damp.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I sought your life.”
“Your worship was so kind,” said Gray, “and since my connexion with your worship has grown so dangerous, it shall bear a higher price.”
“What mean you?”
“I mean,” said Gray, striking the palm of his hand with his fist—“I mean that where I have had one guinea, Squire Learmont, I will have ten; where ten, a hundred. Thank yourself for raising my price. My nerves are weak, and yet I prize them. I like my blood to keep its even pace. If I am to be tortured—if I am to be threatened—broken in upon at midnight, and cold steel held to my throat, I will be well paid—extremely well paid. You understand me, Squire Learmont, I have raised my price.”
There was a strange mixture of cunning, rage, and ferocity in Jacob Gray’s tone and manner as he made this speech. Every other word that he spoke showed a disposition to shout with anger, but then it was as quickly subdued again by his habitual caution and timidity. When he had finished he glared at Learmont with a pale and distorted countenance awaiting his reply.
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “I did seek your life, but it was not for your life’s sake I sought it.”
“Indeed!” sneered Gray.
“No,” continued Learmont. “What is your life to me? But the precautions that you have taken to protect yourself keep me in continual and imminent danger. What’s so uncertain as human life?”
“Ay—what?“ said Gray.
“Suppose your sudden death—by accident or illness—what though I had poured into your coffers half my income?—What though I had satisfied your wildest demands, still might I be exposed to danger most imminent, nay, to death without your meaning so to involve me.”
“Well I know,” said Jacob Gray, “that life is uncertain—too well I know if, Squire Learmont, you have coined for yourself the danger you describe. While you live, it will haunt you.”
“But wherefore should I?” said Learmont. “You talk of increasing your demands by tens and hundreds—why not name thousands at once as the price of—”
“Of what?”
“The boy, and your absence for ever from England.”
“I—I—had thought of that,” said Gray.
“And a wise thought too,” urged Learmont. “What is your life to me were it not that you have surrounded me with danger? Do I thirst for your blood for its own sake? Certainly not—have your own price—bring me the boy, and destroy your written confession.”
“And leave England for ever?” muttered Gray.
“Yes—seek safety and enjoyment somewhere else in another land, where the finger of suspicion can never be pointed at you, and where you will only appear as the wealthy stranger.”
“’Tis tempting,” said Gray; “but—”
“But what?—Why do you hesitate?”
“Would there be no danger even between the threshold of this house and the deck of the vessel which was to convey me and my fortunes from England for ever?”
“Danger?—a—What danger?”
“The assassin’s knife,” said Gray. “Hear me, Squire Learmont; if we could trust each other for so brief a space as half an hour, it might be done; but we cannot—you know we cannot!”
“You refuse upon danger,” said Learmont, trying to smile, and producing a ghastly distortion of visage. “You are over cautious, Master Gray.”
“I think not,” said Gray, “and yet I will think upon your offer, Squire Learmont. I will not deny that some scheme of the kind has already dawned upon my own mind. I will think upon your offer; and should some means occur to me by which safety can be so well assured as to be past a doubt, I will accept it, for I loathe the life I lead.”
“’Tis well,” said Learmont.
“And now I want a hundred pounds,” said Jacob Gray, in an affectedly submissive voice.
“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Learmont.
“Yes, a hundred! And I will have them.”
“Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “why have I plunged myself into crime, and leagued myself with such men as you and Britton, but for this gold which your and his insatiable demands would wring from me?”
“Agreed,” cried Gray. “But now ’tis done, and to keep the gibbet—”
“The gibbet!”
“Ay, the gibbet, Squire Learmont. To keep that without its victim, you must, and will pay the last farthing, if needs be, of that gold you talk of as your tempter. Why, it tempted me, and I will riot in it! A hundred pounds, good squire.”
“Ten thousand are yours, if you bring me the boy and your written confession.”
“Ten thousand! You may safely make it twenty, squire, or thirty.”
“What do you mean?”
“You call me cautious—cunning—wily as a fox, and am I all that; and because I am, I will not sell my life for five minutes at the utmost possession of any sum.”
“Sell your life!”
“Yes, my life. How many paces from this room would suffice to carry Jacob Gray to his grave, provided he gave up his two most rare securities—the boy and the confession?”
“You wrong me by your suspicions,” said Learmont, with difficulty suppressing the rage that was swelling in his bosom.
“A hundred pounds!” said Gray.
“Jacob Gray, hear me—”
“Hear me first. A hundred pounds!”
Learmont went to a cabinet in the apartment, and without another word counted out the sum.
“Have you moved Jacob Gray?” he said, in a calm voice.
“Nay,” replied Gray, “why need you ask?”
“A message from the Old Smithy,” announced a servant at this juncture.
“’Tis Britton,” whispered Learmont to Gray.
“What, cunning Master Britton!” answered Gray. “Ho! Ho! I shall be glad to see him.”
“Admit him,” said Learmont to the servant; then turning to Gray, he added,—
“Will you leave me, now?”
“No,” said Gray.
“Wherefore?”
“Because I do not want the smith again upon my track, like a blood hound!”
“Oh, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “if you could destroy Britton, securing at the same time the dangerous papers he has—bring me the boy—commit your own confession to the flames, and share my fortune!”
“Humph!“ said Gray. “If I could.”
“You might.”
“Well, that’ll do,” roared Britton, as the servant held the door open for him to enter the room. “Oh—oh—you here?”
“Yes, cunning Britton,” said Gray, “I am here.”
“Curse you, then!” said Britton, flinging himself into a chair.
“Bless you!” said Gray. “Ho, ho! Clever Britton.”
“Perhaps, gentlemen,” sneered Learmont, “you will condescend to carry your quarrels to some pot-house, when you have said what you wish to say to me?”
“Yes,” said Gray, “we shall anger his worship.”
“Damnation take—”
“Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “You come here for money. Name the sum, and go.”
“Oh, name the sum!” said Britton. “What’s to-day?”
“Friday, my dear Britton,” said Gray. “It’s generally considered an unlucky day, I pray you to take care of yourself, cunning Britton.”
Britton cast a savage scowl upon Gray, as he said,—
“I shall, and mind you be as careful. Friday, is it? Twenty pounds will last me till next Monday, squire.”
“Will they, indeed?” sneered Learmont. “Here they are, then. May I now be indulged with the privacy of my own house?”
“There now,” said Gray, “you hear his worship; why don’t you go, Britton?”
“Because I intend staying out, Jacob Gray,” cried Britton, fiercely.
“Well,” said Gray, rising, “be it so, but hearken to me, Squire Learmont. If I find this ruffian upon my track, I will be revenged with safety to myself—bitterly revenged—now beware!”
So saying, Jacob Gray left the room, with an expression of countenance perfectly demoniac.
Britton made a movement to follow him, but the squire laid his hand upon his arm, and said,—
“No—not now, Britton. We must devise some better means yet of destroying, with perfect safety, this Jacob Gray.”
“Curses on him!” growled Britton. “Did you hear how he taunted me?”
“I did.”
“Then, I say I must have his blood.”
“You shall.”
“I will—I have sworn it—I will take the hateful life of Jacob Gray.”
“Britton, we understand each other. This Gray is as great an enemy to you as he is to me.”
“I know he is,” growled Britton. “You need not tell me that. And who, think you, is in London, and raving through the streets to every one she meets, about the Old Smithy, and a murder?”
“She? Who mean you?”
“Mad Maud, who used to haunt the village, and ever vented her bitterest curses upon me.”
“Mad Maud! She must be secured. Even her clamour might arouse suspicion in some quarter, and many a prying knave would be glad to pick a hole in the reputation of the rich and proud Squire Learmont. When did you see her, Britton?”
“On Westminster-bridge, after you and I had parted last.”
“The—water—was—near.”
“It was, but the old beldame raised a clamour that brought help. When next we meet, she may not be so near assistance.”
“True. How true is the lesson taught by Jacob Gray, that safety is best doubly assured. You stay still at the Chequers?”
“Yes—you know I do. Why do you ask?”
“From no special motive.”
“Yes; I am still at the Chequers. Ho! Ho! Ho! Money flies there. Mine host is about to build a new front to his house and it’s all with your money, squire. By G—d, they sell good liquor at the Chequers, and there’s a merry company—a good song and a silver tankard on purpose for good Master Britton. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“You sleep there?”
“Yes; but mind ye, squire; drunk or sober, at home or abroad, those papers are well secured. Don’t try to play any tricks with me, squire; you would rue the hour.”
“Pho! Pho!” interrupted Learmont. “We understand each other—our interests are mutual—but, as for this Jacob Gray—”
“Ah! Curse Jacob Gray!”
“To which I devoutly cry—Amen!” said Learmont. “And now, Britton, it is our policy to let matters sleep for a time, until Gray’s newly awakened caution is somewhat calmed. Go, now, good Britton, and—mind you, when you are inclined to set a price upon the papers you have, tell me and we will talk about it.”
“Oh, very well,” said Britton. “I shall be glad to see you at the Chequers any time. I will say this for you, Squire Learmont, that you pay very well, indeed. I lead the life of a gentleman now—nothing to do, and so many people to help me—drink—drink from morning till night. Damme, what could a king do more.”