CHAPTER XXXVI.Albert Seyton.—The Lonely Search.—A Suggestion.—An Important Visit.We willnow conduct the reader to one of ourdramatis personæthat we have unwillingly been compelled to neglect for some time—we mean the gallant and enthusiastic Albert Seyton. As we have recorded the prostration of spirits which ensued, when he lost all trace again of the unfortunate and persecuted Ada, after so providentially, as it were, encountering her in St. James’s Park, terminated in a long and dangerous illness—an illness which brought him to the brink of the grave; but thanks to the tender nursing of his father, and an excellent constitution, he successfully battled with his sickness and after some months, was able, although but the shadow of his former self, to walk abroad, by the assistance of his father.His deep dejection concerning Ada, however, still clung to him like a blight, and it became clear to his deeply affected father that he should never again see the bloom of health upon the cheek of his son unless the hiding-place of the deceitful Jacob Gray was once more discovered.The old house at Lambeth had been soon deserted by Tibbs, the bear-warden. The gloom and solitariness of the situation by no means suited the habits of the roving vagabond, who had been so long without a fixed home of any kind, that now he had become possessed of one, such as it was, he soon hated it, and looked upon it in the light of a prison. All that Jacob Gray had left in the house he sold off and once more the ruined building was tenanted only by the rats and mice who scampered along its deserted rooms and echoing corridors.Twice Learmont himself had visited the house, and explored every nook and corner; and once the savage smith, in a state of semi-intoxication, had burst open the door, and rushed from room to room in the vain hope that Jacob Gray might have returned to his hiding-place.After that it was the haunt of any desperate character who chose to enter it, for the door swung loosely by one hinge, and the winter’s wind, hail, and sleet, found free entrance to the crazy building.Albert’s father, too, had been often, and lingered about the ruined street, until he could no longer cherish the remotest hope of being enabled to find a clue to the place of confinement of the beautiful girl, with whose weal or woe the happiness or sorrow of his dear son was so much mixed up.Then he besought Albert to be patient, and trust in Heaven to send succour to her whom he loved; and when Albert himself could walk so far, he went with his father to the old house, and wandered for hours from room to room, pleasing himself with the thought that he was treading upon the spots oft trodden by Ada, and looking upon the objects most familiar to her eye.The situation of secretary to Learmont, which Albert Seyton, little dreaming how closely he was connected with the fate of Ada, had endeavoured to obtain was filled up long before he was convalescent, and the state of health of the unhappy youth gave his father far more uneasiness than any consideration of his present prosperity in life.Daily, however, the strength of Albert returned, and once again he commenced the search throughout London and its suburbs for the lost Ada. When wearied with some long perambulation, he would bend his steps to the Park, and sit in melancholy thought upon the same seat on which he had been sitting when he heard the voice of Ada. There, chewing the cud “of sweet and bitter fancy,” he would recline for hours, endeavouring to devise fresh schemes for the discovery of Ada, and trying to recollect some part of the city that he had omitted to visit. He would then wander homewards, listless, dispirited, and fatigued, to relate to his father the particulars and non-success of his toils.It was upon one of these occasions that poor Albert was more than usually dispirited and weary, that his father said kindly to him,—“Albert, it does appear to me that we can have no further scruple how we commit this man Gray. He cannot be the father of the persecuted Ada.”“He her father!” exclaimed Albert. “I would as leave think that the tiger could be sire to the lamb. Oh, no! There is some dark, mysterious villany at the bottom of all. My poor Ada is the innocent victim of some intrigues and enemies, with which this Gray and Britton are mixed up. Alas! Alas! The villains may have killed her. Oh I would that kind Heaven would direct me where to seek her!”“Do not despair, Albert,” said his rather soothingly, “the time will come when all this must be made clear and apparent.”“I hope it may, father,” said Albert, despondingly, “but I am very wretched.”“It strikes me,” continued Mr. Seyton, “that we are not justified, Albert, in the course we are pursuing.”“Indeed! Father.”“No, Albert. What I advise is an immediate communication of the whole of the circumstances to the magistrate, Sir Frederick Hartleton. The fact that a mysterious packet was actually addressed to him, and set such a store by this man Gray, will be sufficient to interest him in the case.”Albert remained in thought for a few moments, and then springing from his seat with energy, he exclaimed,—“Yes, father, let us do so. There is hope in that. Sir Frederick Hartleton must have means of inquiry, and sources of information that no one but a person in his situation could have. Let us go at once.”“You are wearied now, Albert.”“No, no; I am never wearied in the cause of Ada.”“Wait till you are invigorated; you can then tell your fate better, for in truth you must know a great deal more than I.”“Oh father, come with me now. You have made this suggestion, and it may be a most happy one. Come now!”“I will not baulk you,” said Mr. Seyton, rising, “I do not think it a proper course; but do not build too much upon it, Albert: only look upon it as a chance that should not be thrown away.”Sir Frederick Hartleton’s office was across the Park, somewhere close about the spot now occupied by the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Seyton lived in the neighbourhood of Soho; so that the father and son proceeded to Charing Cross and entered the Park by the gate in Spring Gardens.The sun was setting; but the great mall of the Park was thronged with promenaders—St. James’s being then a much more fashionable place than it is now.Albert and his father paid but little heed to the careless throng they passed among; their thoughts were intent upon the object of their search, although it was with a sigh that the elder Seyton marked the hopeful countenance and tone of his son; for he himself had been used to disappointment, and expected but little from the visit to the magistrate. It grieved him therefore to think that Albert should hope much from the application, because he knew that his disappointment, should it result in nothing, would be proportionately great.“Albert,” he said, “this step I consider more a matter of public duty than anything else. We must still trust to Providence to protect Ada, only we place ourselves in a little better position by the co-operation of a magistrate so much respected and esteemed as Sir Frederick Hartleton, in what we do.”“He may find me, my Ada,” said Albert, “and so entitle himself to a gratitude from me that shall be boundless.”“You had better let me tell the tale,” said his father, noticing the agitated spirits of Albert—“should I omit anything, you can put me right Albert.”“As you please, father,” he replied, “I am too much agitated to speak what I know.”“Your sincerity will be the most apparent to Sir Frederick by the emotion you cannot subdue, Albert. All men, but those who are evil-doers, or live on the fruits of crime, speak well of this gentleman, as an upright magistrate and a feeling man.”He had now crossed the park and emerged at the little, gate leading to Pimlico. They then inquired for the office of Sir Frederick, and were directed down a narrow street, called Buckingham-place, which was but dimly lighted by the inefficient oil lamps of the period.Over an open doorway was a lamp, with the words “Magistrate’s Office,” boldly enamelled upon the dirty glass.“This must be the place, father,” said Albert, hurriedly.“No doubt,” replied Seyton. “Come in, Albert.”They stooped under the low arched doorway, and were immediately confronted by a man of coarse heavy build, who demanded to know their business.“We have a private communication to make to Sir Frederick,” said Mr. Seyton.“Oh, private?” muttered the man.“Yes, strictly private.”“Is it anything about Bill Soames?”“Bill who?”“Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.”“No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.”The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went.In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,—“This way.”Albert and his father stepped forward after their guide. In a moment another door opened, from which issued a stream of light, and they found themselves in the presence of Sir Frederick Hartleton, the magistrate, the terror of highwaymen; several of whom he had himself captured on Hounslow and Barnes’ Commons.He rose courteously on the entrance of the Seytons, and invited them to be seated. Before they could speak, he said rapidly,—“Gentlemen, I trust you will not take any offence at my saying that my time is very much occupied, and begging you to be brief.”“The time of public affairs, sir,” said Mr. Seyton, “should never be heedlessly wasted. Do you know a man named Gray?”“Gray—Gray?” repeated Sir Frederick Hartleton. “No, sir, I do not.”“There exists, however, a man of that name, who, without authority, keeps prisoner a young girl, if he has not destroyed her.”“Where is he?”“That, sir, we do not know.”“Where is the girl?”“We are equally ignorant.”“What’s her name?”“Ada.”“Ada what?”“I know not, sir.”“You do not bring me many particulars,” said the magistrate. “What do you wish me to do?”“In this man Gray’s possession, sir,” added Mr. Seyton, “is a sealed packet carefully addressed to you.”“Indeed!”“Yes—and with a superscription attached, that is only to be forwarded to you, should he, Gray, be absent from home without note or message for a certain time.”“Then you may depend that this Mr. Gray has found his way home in good time, for I have received no such packet.”“We,” continued Mr. Seyton, “from once living in the same house with her, have warmly interested ourselves in the fate of the girl, who is as virtuous and amiable as she is beautiful.”“Is this Gray in London?”“We believe he is. He has twice shifted his residence, to ensure the better concealment of the girl.”“There is most probably some crime at the bottom of this business,” said Sir Frederick; “but I cannot help you. If you can find the girl, I will of course grant a warrant to bring Gray here, for keeping her a prisoner without her will. At the same time, you had better tell me the minutest particulars as rapidly as you conveniently can.”Mr. Seyton then related all that he knew of Ada and Gray, comprising what he had gathered from Albert, and comprehending the meeting in the park, and the particulars which Ada had related of the midnight attack upon Gray’s house.“What names were mentioned accidentally or otherwise, during all this business?”“But two, sir,” said Albert. “Ada told me in the park that one of the men who sought the life of Gray was called by him Britton!”“Britton?” said Sir Frederick. “Are you quite sure that was the name?”“Quite.”“I do know that name!”“You—you do, sir!” exclaimed Albert, with sudden animation—“Then you will save her!”“Oh—you are in love with this imprisoned young lady,” said Sir Frederick, with a smile.Albert drew back, abashed.“Nay my young friend,” the magistrate added, “you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, which, in the case of this persecuted girl, must be disinterested.”“You know Britton, sir?” said Albert, confused.“I know a person of that name—in fact, I am watching his proceedings.”“There was another name too mentioned,” said Albert, “it was that of a poor maniac called Mad Maud. She seemed to know this Britton.”“She has cause to know him,” remarked Sir Frederick Hartleton.“Stay—I—”The magistrate paused, and it was evident that something had crossed his mind of an important nature. He covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed to be musing over some train of circumstances in his mind that wanted some connecting links.“Be so good,” he said, suddenly, “as to answer me as exactly as you can, what I shall ask of you.”“We will, sir,” said Mr. Seyton.“What kind of man is this Gray?”“He is rather above the middle height, of spare habit, and very pale.”“His eyes?”“Shifting and inconstant—looking here, there, and everywhere, but in the face of any one he addresses.”“You never saw Britton?”“Never.”“Now tell me as nearly as you can the age of this young girl you call Ada?”“She cannot now be above seventeen,” said Albert.“Seventeen?”The magistrate took a scrap of paper, and made some slight calculations in figures upon it—then he said,—“During all this business, did you never hear another name mentioned as a prime mover or important personage, connected with it?”“No,” said Albert, “those were all.”“Well, gentlemen,” remarked Sir Frederick; “you have said enough to interest me. Pray come here again this day next week, if I should not send to you; for which purpose be so good as to leave your address. You may depend upon my utmost exertions to solve the mystery in which this affair is at present so strangely enveloped.”Albert and his father returned their warm acknowledgments to the magistrate; and, leaving their address, they were escorted through the same door they had entered from the private room of the magistrate.
Albert Seyton.—The Lonely Search.—A Suggestion.—An Important Visit.
We willnow conduct the reader to one of ourdramatis personæthat we have unwillingly been compelled to neglect for some time—we mean the gallant and enthusiastic Albert Seyton. As we have recorded the prostration of spirits which ensued, when he lost all trace again of the unfortunate and persecuted Ada, after so providentially, as it were, encountering her in St. James’s Park, terminated in a long and dangerous illness—an illness which brought him to the brink of the grave; but thanks to the tender nursing of his father, and an excellent constitution, he successfully battled with his sickness and after some months, was able, although but the shadow of his former self, to walk abroad, by the assistance of his father.
His deep dejection concerning Ada, however, still clung to him like a blight, and it became clear to his deeply affected father that he should never again see the bloom of health upon the cheek of his son unless the hiding-place of the deceitful Jacob Gray was once more discovered.
The old house at Lambeth had been soon deserted by Tibbs, the bear-warden. The gloom and solitariness of the situation by no means suited the habits of the roving vagabond, who had been so long without a fixed home of any kind, that now he had become possessed of one, such as it was, he soon hated it, and looked upon it in the light of a prison. All that Jacob Gray had left in the house he sold off and once more the ruined building was tenanted only by the rats and mice who scampered along its deserted rooms and echoing corridors.
Twice Learmont himself had visited the house, and explored every nook and corner; and once the savage smith, in a state of semi-intoxication, had burst open the door, and rushed from room to room in the vain hope that Jacob Gray might have returned to his hiding-place.
After that it was the haunt of any desperate character who chose to enter it, for the door swung loosely by one hinge, and the winter’s wind, hail, and sleet, found free entrance to the crazy building.
Albert’s father, too, had been often, and lingered about the ruined street, until he could no longer cherish the remotest hope of being enabled to find a clue to the place of confinement of the beautiful girl, with whose weal or woe the happiness or sorrow of his dear son was so much mixed up.
Then he besought Albert to be patient, and trust in Heaven to send succour to her whom he loved; and when Albert himself could walk so far, he went with his father to the old house, and wandered for hours from room to room, pleasing himself with the thought that he was treading upon the spots oft trodden by Ada, and looking upon the objects most familiar to her eye.
The situation of secretary to Learmont, which Albert Seyton, little dreaming how closely he was connected with the fate of Ada, had endeavoured to obtain was filled up long before he was convalescent, and the state of health of the unhappy youth gave his father far more uneasiness than any consideration of his present prosperity in life.
Daily, however, the strength of Albert returned, and once again he commenced the search throughout London and its suburbs for the lost Ada. When wearied with some long perambulation, he would bend his steps to the Park, and sit in melancholy thought upon the same seat on which he had been sitting when he heard the voice of Ada. There, chewing the cud “of sweet and bitter fancy,” he would recline for hours, endeavouring to devise fresh schemes for the discovery of Ada, and trying to recollect some part of the city that he had omitted to visit. He would then wander homewards, listless, dispirited, and fatigued, to relate to his father the particulars and non-success of his toils.
It was upon one of these occasions that poor Albert was more than usually dispirited and weary, that his father said kindly to him,—
“Albert, it does appear to me that we can have no further scruple how we commit this man Gray. He cannot be the father of the persecuted Ada.”
“He her father!” exclaimed Albert. “I would as leave think that the tiger could be sire to the lamb. Oh, no! There is some dark, mysterious villany at the bottom of all. My poor Ada is the innocent victim of some intrigues and enemies, with which this Gray and Britton are mixed up. Alas! Alas! The villains may have killed her. Oh I would that kind Heaven would direct me where to seek her!”
“Do not despair, Albert,” said his rather soothingly, “the time will come when all this must be made clear and apparent.”
“I hope it may, father,” said Albert, despondingly, “but I am very wretched.”
“It strikes me,” continued Mr. Seyton, “that we are not justified, Albert, in the course we are pursuing.”
“Indeed! Father.”
“No, Albert. What I advise is an immediate communication of the whole of the circumstances to the magistrate, Sir Frederick Hartleton. The fact that a mysterious packet was actually addressed to him, and set such a store by this man Gray, will be sufficient to interest him in the case.”
Albert remained in thought for a few moments, and then springing from his seat with energy, he exclaimed,—
“Yes, father, let us do so. There is hope in that. Sir Frederick Hartleton must have means of inquiry, and sources of information that no one but a person in his situation could have. Let us go at once.”
“You are wearied now, Albert.”
“No, no; I am never wearied in the cause of Ada.”
“Wait till you are invigorated; you can then tell your fate better, for in truth you must know a great deal more than I.”
“Oh father, come with me now. You have made this suggestion, and it may be a most happy one. Come now!”
“I will not baulk you,” said Mr. Seyton, rising, “I do not think it a proper course; but do not build too much upon it, Albert: only look upon it as a chance that should not be thrown away.”
Sir Frederick Hartleton’s office was across the Park, somewhere close about the spot now occupied by the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Seyton lived in the neighbourhood of Soho; so that the father and son proceeded to Charing Cross and entered the Park by the gate in Spring Gardens.
The sun was setting; but the great mall of the Park was thronged with promenaders—St. James’s being then a much more fashionable place than it is now.
Albert and his father paid but little heed to the careless throng they passed among; their thoughts were intent upon the object of their search, although it was with a sigh that the elder Seyton marked the hopeful countenance and tone of his son; for he himself had been used to disappointment, and expected but little from the visit to the magistrate. It grieved him therefore to think that Albert should hope much from the application, because he knew that his disappointment, should it result in nothing, would be proportionately great.
“Albert,” he said, “this step I consider more a matter of public duty than anything else. We must still trust to Providence to protect Ada, only we place ourselves in a little better position by the co-operation of a magistrate so much respected and esteemed as Sir Frederick Hartleton, in what we do.”
“He may find me, my Ada,” said Albert, “and so entitle himself to a gratitude from me that shall be boundless.”
“You had better let me tell the tale,” said his father, noticing the agitated spirits of Albert—“should I omit anything, you can put me right Albert.”
“As you please, father,” he replied, “I am too much agitated to speak what I know.”
“Your sincerity will be the most apparent to Sir Frederick by the emotion you cannot subdue, Albert. All men, but those who are evil-doers, or live on the fruits of crime, speak well of this gentleman, as an upright magistrate and a feeling man.”
He had now crossed the park and emerged at the little, gate leading to Pimlico. They then inquired for the office of Sir Frederick, and were directed down a narrow street, called Buckingham-place, which was but dimly lighted by the inefficient oil lamps of the period.
Over an open doorway was a lamp, with the words “Magistrate’s Office,” boldly enamelled upon the dirty glass.
“This must be the place, father,” said Albert, hurriedly.
“No doubt,” replied Seyton. “Come in, Albert.”
They stooped under the low arched doorway, and were immediately confronted by a man of coarse heavy build, who demanded to know their business.
“We have a private communication to make to Sir Frederick,” said Mr. Seyton.
“Oh, private?” muttered the man.
“Yes, strictly private.”
“Is it anything about Bill Soames?”
“Bill who?”
“Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.”
“No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.”
The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went.
In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,—
“This way.”
Albert and his father stepped forward after their guide. In a moment another door opened, from which issued a stream of light, and they found themselves in the presence of Sir Frederick Hartleton, the magistrate, the terror of highwaymen; several of whom he had himself captured on Hounslow and Barnes’ Commons.
He rose courteously on the entrance of the Seytons, and invited them to be seated. Before they could speak, he said rapidly,—
“Gentlemen, I trust you will not take any offence at my saying that my time is very much occupied, and begging you to be brief.”
“The time of public affairs, sir,” said Mr. Seyton, “should never be heedlessly wasted. Do you know a man named Gray?”
“Gray—Gray?” repeated Sir Frederick Hartleton. “No, sir, I do not.”
“There exists, however, a man of that name, who, without authority, keeps prisoner a young girl, if he has not destroyed her.”
“Where is he?”
“That, sir, we do not know.”
“Where is the girl?”
“We are equally ignorant.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ada.”
“Ada what?”
“I know not, sir.”
“You do not bring me many particulars,” said the magistrate. “What do you wish me to do?”
“In this man Gray’s possession, sir,” added Mr. Seyton, “is a sealed packet carefully addressed to you.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—and with a superscription attached, that is only to be forwarded to you, should he, Gray, be absent from home without note or message for a certain time.”
“Then you may depend that this Mr. Gray has found his way home in good time, for I have received no such packet.”
“We,” continued Mr. Seyton, “from once living in the same house with her, have warmly interested ourselves in the fate of the girl, who is as virtuous and amiable as she is beautiful.”
“Is this Gray in London?”
“We believe he is. He has twice shifted his residence, to ensure the better concealment of the girl.”
“There is most probably some crime at the bottom of this business,” said Sir Frederick; “but I cannot help you. If you can find the girl, I will of course grant a warrant to bring Gray here, for keeping her a prisoner without her will. At the same time, you had better tell me the minutest particulars as rapidly as you conveniently can.”
Mr. Seyton then related all that he knew of Ada and Gray, comprising what he had gathered from Albert, and comprehending the meeting in the park, and the particulars which Ada had related of the midnight attack upon Gray’s house.
“What names were mentioned accidentally or otherwise, during all this business?”
“But two, sir,” said Albert. “Ada told me in the park that one of the men who sought the life of Gray was called by him Britton!”
“Britton?” said Sir Frederick. “Are you quite sure that was the name?”
“Quite.”
“I do know that name!”
“You—you do, sir!” exclaimed Albert, with sudden animation—“Then you will save her!”
“Oh—you are in love with this imprisoned young lady,” said Sir Frederick, with a smile.
Albert drew back, abashed.
“Nay my young friend,” the magistrate added, “you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, which, in the case of this persecuted girl, must be disinterested.”
“You know Britton, sir?” said Albert, confused.
“I know a person of that name—in fact, I am watching his proceedings.”
“There was another name too mentioned,” said Albert, “it was that of a poor maniac called Mad Maud. She seemed to know this Britton.”
“She has cause to know him,” remarked Sir Frederick Hartleton.
“Stay—I—”
The magistrate paused, and it was evident that something had crossed his mind of an important nature. He covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed to be musing over some train of circumstances in his mind that wanted some connecting links.
“Be so good,” he said, suddenly, “as to answer me as exactly as you can, what I shall ask of you.”
“We will, sir,” said Mr. Seyton.
“What kind of man is this Gray?”
“He is rather above the middle height, of spare habit, and very pale.”
“His eyes?”
“Shifting and inconstant—looking here, there, and everywhere, but in the face of any one he addresses.”
“You never saw Britton?”
“Never.”
“Now tell me as nearly as you can the age of this young girl you call Ada?”
“She cannot now be above seventeen,” said Albert.
“Seventeen?”
The magistrate took a scrap of paper, and made some slight calculations in figures upon it—then he said,—
“During all this business, did you never hear another name mentioned as a prime mover or important personage, connected with it?”
“No,” said Albert, “those were all.”
“Well, gentlemen,” remarked Sir Frederick; “you have said enough to interest me. Pray come here again this day next week, if I should not send to you; for which purpose be so good as to leave your address. You may depend upon my utmost exertions to solve the mystery in which this affair is at present so strangely enveloped.”
Albert and his father returned their warm acknowledgments to the magistrate; and, leaving their address, they were escorted through the same door they had entered from the private room of the magistrate.
CHAPTER XXXVII.The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The Papers.For somemoments after the departure of his visitors, Sir Frederick Hartleton remained in deep thought, then he commenced a diligent search among some memoranda that he took from an iron chest imbedded in the wall, and, selecting one paper, perused it attentively more than once.“Surely,” he suddenly exclaimed, “this is the clue at last. Well do I remember the awful night at Learmont, when the storm spread confusion and dismay among the peasantry, and Britton’s ill-omened house was in flames, while the dreadful cries that even now seem to ring in my ears, so forcibly does memory recall them, issued from the burning mass. Let me see. The time. Yes, that is sufficiently near,—between fourteen and fifteen-years since. Learmont in London, and Britton, the smith, living near him? In a style of coarse extravagance and debauchery befitting his coarse nature. Who supplied the funds?—Why the rich ambitious money-loving Squire Learmont, to be sure! And wherefore?—Aye, that’s the question. For one of two reasons, I’ll swear. Either as a reward for present services, or to purchase silence for the past. Humph! Learmont is by no means scrupulous. He would murder the smith. Ay surely would he. There is something then in progress which makes Britton’s life valuable to the squire. And this man, Gray, too. Who is he? Was he the man who rushed with such frantic gestures from the fire with the child in his arms? And is that child, this girl—this Ada, as they call her?—Surely the whole fits well together. But still there is no proof—all is circumstantial as yet, and involved in mere conjecture. Squire Learmont may maintain Britton if he please, and who shall question him?”Sir Frederick now again remained in silent thought for a long time, then he said in an assured voice,—“I must trust this affair to no one. It is too intricate for any ordinary scouts to trace. I must see to it myself. The smith, I am aware, holds his drunken orgies at the Chequers. Thither I will myself go, and watch him. Squire Learmont, the time will come when the crimes that I suspect you of may be made apparent; but cunning devil that you are, I must be cautious or I shall alarm you, and defeat myself.”The magistrate now rose, and disrobing himself of his upper clothings, took from a cloth-press in his room the apparel in which he afterwards appeared at the Chequers, where the little scene occurred between him and the smith, Britton, of which the reader is already cognisant.We will now, therefore, fellow the proceedings of Sir Frederick Hartleton after he left the Chequers. His object was to procure poor Maud, and get from her as much information as he thought he might, by comparing with what he himself knew, rely upon.He walked very quickly down the street; but the object of his search was nowhere to be seen, and he felt convinced that she must have gone in the opposite direction, although he felt almost sure likewise that he had noticed a figure somewhat resembling hers in the way he was proceeding. While he was standing in a state of doubt, the smith reeled past him, and, Sir Frederick stepping into the shadow of a doorway, escaped recognition from the drunken and infuriated man.He then resolved to follow him, to see whither he went, as Mad Maud he could easily discover by his police agents on the morrow.Dogging, therefore, the unequal footsteps of Britton, the disguised magistrate followed him closely and safely.The smith paused at the corner of the street, and asked a drowsy watchman if he had seen a beggar woman pass. He was at once answered in the affirmative, and in the same breath asked for something to drink, which Britton, being at the same time more savage than hospitable, refused with the addition of a curse.Sir Frederick now congratulated himself upon following the smith; for he doubted not that, should he encounter poor Maud, he would inflict upon her some fatal injury, unless he, Sir Frederick, was at hand to protect the poor creature.Britton blundered on, cursing and muttering to himself, but in so low a tone that, although the magistrate came as close to him as he could with safety, he could not shape any intelligible phrases from what was thus uttered.Britton walked on in the direction of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Hall, still very closely followed, and almost every passenger he met he asked if a beggar woman had been seen. Some answered one thing and some another, until a lad affirmed that an old beggar woman passed him near to Millbank, and then sat down on a door-step nearly facing the river.With a shout of triumph Britton rushed onwards; but Sir Frederick kept as close as prudence would dictate, until they cleared Abingdon-street, and came upon the then dark and straggling purlieus of Millbank.There were but few lights in this quarter, and the inhabitants were not very favourably known to the magistrate as the most moral race in London.Britton now proceeded more cautiously, and kept peering about him to endeavour, as it appeared to Sir Frederick, as well to discover Maud as to note if any one was near. By gliding along close to some black palings the magistrate entirely escaped observation, and Britton seemed satisfied that he was alone.Close to the river was a low wall of not more than four feet high, and the night was so dark that it could scarcely be distinguished from the dark stream that rolled by on the further side of it. Directly over the wall was a kind of parapet of about three feet in width, which was about level with the decks of the small river craft that came to disengage gravel, wood, logs, &c., at the wharfs, and was very convenient for them. Immediately, however, below this parapet, and, in fact, partly washing under it, was the black muddy tide of the river.Dark as was the water, the wall was still darker, and Sir Frederick Hartleton could plainly see the upper part of the bulky form of the smith in slight relief against the water, as he walked slowly along close to the wall.Once or twice he looked back; but his pursuer was on the other side of the way, and quite well backed by the black paling which, when he stooped a very little, was above his head.This was the state of things, when suddenly a wild plaintive voice broke the stillness of the night air; and, with a mockery of gaiety, that had in it the very soul of pathos, sang or rather chaunted the words of a song of joy, hope, and mirth, which was then popular in the metropolis, and was the composition of one of the most distinguished wits of the day.There was a wild abandonment of manner about the singer, that would have commanded the attention of Sir Frederick at any time; but now that he saw the smith suddenly pause, he paused likewise, and the strains with all their melancholy pathos came full upon his ear.To the Bride! To the Bride!“To the Bride! To the Bride,I sing,And away to the winds the strainI fling.There’s a tear in her gentle eye,I trow—She weeps, and her heart is sad,I vow;Her hand like a leaflet shakesI see,—That hand which never moreIs free.She leaves her happy homeOf light,Where her happiest days were pastSo bright:She has trusted all to one,The bride.Shall her young heart’s joy e’er knowA tide—Shall her bliss flow on for ayeOr not?When distant far, shall everThe spot,Where she lived and loved so long,Be forgot?To the Bride! To the Bride,I sing,And away to the winds my strainI fling!”The voice ceased. A solemn stillness reigned for a few brief seconds, and then Sir Frederick saw the shadowy form of the smith glide forwards—the gruff voice of the savage drunkard came to his ears as he stooped and exclaimed,—“So Maud—we have met again. D—n you, we are alone now!”A half-stifled scream followed that speech, and the magistrate bounded across the road. He paused, however, when he was within a few paces of Britton, for he heard the poor mad creature speak, and the thought crossed his mind that her cry had proceeded from sudden surprise, and not from any injury inflicted by the smith, and knowing his power to save her he thought that if Britton wished to procure any information from Mad Maud previous to offering her any violence, he might as well hear it, as in all probability it would be important and correct.Acting on this supposition, he crouched down close by the wall for some few seconds—then suddenly recollecting the parapet on the other side, and the facilities it afforded as sufficiently close to aid poor Maud in case of the most sudden emergency, he crept softly twenty yards or more away, and then clambered over the wall in a moment, on to the parapet. To draw himself along this noiselessly until he actually faced Britton, was the work but of another minute, and laying flat down was quite secure from observation, while he was ready for action, and must hear the slightest murmured word that passed.
The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The Papers.
For somemoments after the departure of his visitors, Sir Frederick Hartleton remained in deep thought, then he commenced a diligent search among some memoranda that he took from an iron chest imbedded in the wall, and, selecting one paper, perused it attentively more than once.
“Surely,” he suddenly exclaimed, “this is the clue at last. Well do I remember the awful night at Learmont, when the storm spread confusion and dismay among the peasantry, and Britton’s ill-omened house was in flames, while the dreadful cries that even now seem to ring in my ears, so forcibly does memory recall them, issued from the burning mass. Let me see. The time. Yes, that is sufficiently near,—between fourteen and fifteen-years since. Learmont in London, and Britton, the smith, living near him? In a style of coarse extravagance and debauchery befitting his coarse nature. Who supplied the funds?—Why the rich ambitious money-loving Squire Learmont, to be sure! And wherefore?—Aye, that’s the question. For one of two reasons, I’ll swear. Either as a reward for present services, or to purchase silence for the past. Humph! Learmont is by no means scrupulous. He would murder the smith. Ay surely would he. There is something then in progress which makes Britton’s life valuable to the squire. And this man, Gray, too. Who is he? Was he the man who rushed with such frantic gestures from the fire with the child in his arms? And is that child, this girl—this Ada, as they call her?—Surely the whole fits well together. But still there is no proof—all is circumstantial as yet, and involved in mere conjecture. Squire Learmont may maintain Britton if he please, and who shall question him?”
Sir Frederick now again remained in silent thought for a long time, then he said in an assured voice,—
“I must trust this affair to no one. It is too intricate for any ordinary scouts to trace. I must see to it myself. The smith, I am aware, holds his drunken orgies at the Chequers. Thither I will myself go, and watch him. Squire Learmont, the time will come when the crimes that I suspect you of may be made apparent; but cunning devil that you are, I must be cautious or I shall alarm you, and defeat myself.”
The magistrate now rose, and disrobing himself of his upper clothings, took from a cloth-press in his room the apparel in which he afterwards appeared at the Chequers, where the little scene occurred between him and the smith, Britton, of which the reader is already cognisant.
We will now, therefore, fellow the proceedings of Sir Frederick Hartleton after he left the Chequers. His object was to procure poor Maud, and get from her as much information as he thought he might, by comparing with what he himself knew, rely upon.
He walked very quickly down the street; but the object of his search was nowhere to be seen, and he felt convinced that she must have gone in the opposite direction, although he felt almost sure likewise that he had noticed a figure somewhat resembling hers in the way he was proceeding. While he was standing in a state of doubt, the smith reeled past him, and, Sir Frederick stepping into the shadow of a doorway, escaped recognition from the drunken and infuriated man.
He then resolved to follow him, to see whither he went, as Mad Maud he could easily discover by his police agents on the morrow.
Dogging, therefore, the unequal footsteps of Britton, the disguised magistrate followed him closely and safely.
The smith paused at the corner of the street, and asked a drowsy watchman if he had seen a beggar woman pass. He was at once answered in the affirmative, and in the same breath asked for something to drink, which Britton, being at the same time more savage than hospitable, refused with the addition of a curse.
Sir Frederick now congratulated himself upon following the smith; for he doubted not that, should he encounter poor Maud, he would inflict upon her some fatal injury, unless he, Sir Frederick, was at hand to protect the poor creature.
Britton blundered on, cursing and muttering to himself, but in so low a tone that, although the magistrate came as close to him as he could with safety, he could not shape any intelligible phrases from what was thus uttered.
Britton walked on in the direction of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Hall, still very closely followed, and almost every passenger he met he asked if a beggar woman had been seen. Some answered one thing and some another, until a lad affirmed that an old beggar woman passed him near to Millbank, and then sat down on a door-step nearly facing the river.
With a shout of triumph Britton rushed onwards; but Sir Frederick kept as close as prudence would dictate, until they cleared Abingdon-street, and came upon the then dark and straggling purlieus of Millbank.
There were but few lights in this quarter, and the inhabitants were not very favourably known to the magistrate as the most moral race in London.
Britton now proceeded more cautiously, and kept peering about him to endeavour, as it appeared to Sir Frederick, as well to discover Maud as to note if any one was near. By gliding along close to some black palings the magistrate entirely escaped observation, and Britton seemed satisfied that he was alone.
Close to the river was a low wall of not more than four feet high, and the night was so dark that it could scarcely be distinguished from the dark stream that rolled by on the further side of it. Directly over the wall was a kind of parapet of about three feet in width, which was about level with the decks of the small river craft that came to disengage gravel, wood, logs, &c., at the wharfs, and was very convenient for them. Immediately, however, below this parapet, and, in fact, partly washing under it, was the black muddy tide of the river.
Dark as was the water, the wall was still darker, and Sir Frederick Hartleton could plainly see the upper part of the bulky form of the smith in slight relief against the water, as he walked slowly along close to the wall.
Once or twice he looked back; but his pursuer was on the other side of the way, and quite well backed by the black paling which, when he stooped a very little, was above his head.
This was the state of things, when suddenly a wild plaintive voice broke the stillness of the night air; and, with a mockery of gaiety, that had in it the very soul of pathos, sang or rather chaunted the words of a song of joy, hope, and mirth, which was then popular in the metropolis, and was the composition of one of the most distinguished wits of the day.
There was a wild abandonment of manner about the singer, that would have commanded the attention of Sir Frederick at any time; but now that he saw the smith suddenly pause, he paused likewise, and the strains with all their melancholy pathos came full upon his ear.
To the Bride! To the Bride!
“To the Bride! To the Bride,
I sing,
And away to the winds the strain
I fling.
There’s a tear in her gentle eye,
I trow—
She weeps, and her heart is sad,
I vow;
Her hand like a leaflet shakes
I see,—
That hand which never more
Is free.
She leaves her happy home
Of light,
Where her happiest days were past
So bright:
She has trusted all to one,
The bride.
Shall her young heart’s joy e’er know
A tide—
Shall her bliss flow on for aye
Or not?
When distant far, shall ever
The spot,
Where she lived and loved so long,
Be forgot?
To the Bride! To the Bride,
I sing,
And away to the winds my strain
I fling!”
The voice ceased. A solemn stillness reigned for a few brief seconds, and then Sir Frederick saw the shadowy form of the smith glide forwards—the gruff voice of the savage drunkard came to his ears as he stooped and exclaimed,—
“So Maud—we have met again. D—n you, we are alone now!”
A half-stifled scream followed that speech, and the magistrate bounded across the road. He paused, however, when he was within a few paces of Britton, for he heard the poor mad creature speak, and the thought crossed his mind that her cry had proceeded from sudden surprise, and not from any injury inflicted by the smith, and knowing his power to save her he thought that if Britton wished to procure any information from Mad Maud previous to offering her any violence, he might as well hear it, as in all probability it would be important and correct.
Acting on this supposition, he crouched down close by the wall for some few seconds—then suddenly recollecting the parapet on the other side, and the facilities it afforded as sufficiently close to aid poor Maud in case of the most sudden emergency, he crept softly twenty yards or more away, and then clambered over the wall in a moment, on to the parapet. To draw himself along this noiselessly until he actually faced Britton, was the work but of another minute, and laying flat down was quite secure from observation, while he was ready for action, and must hear the slightest murmured word that passed.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.The Meeting at Mill-bank.—The Knife.—Ada’s Fate Hangs on a Thread.—The Bold Plunge.“Whatdo you mean?” exclaimed Britton, as Sir Frederick Hamilton halted on the parapet. “Speak, Maud, or by hell I’ll throw you in the river!”“What do I mean, Andrew Britton!” replied Maud; “I mean pain and death here and torture everlasting in a world to come for you. Ay, for you, Andrew Britton—you cannot kill Maud. The Almighty has written our names in the book of mortality—but yours comes first. Yes, yours comes first, Andrew Britton!”“Idiot!” muttered Britton. “Tell me at once—did you bring that Hartleton to the Chequers?”“Hartleton!—Hartleton?” repeated Maud. “Oh, he was one of the spirits I knew long ago, before I dropped from among the stars.”“Answer my question!” cried Britton, fiercely, “did you bring Hartleton to the Chequers?”“Answer my question, Britton,” said Maud, “if your sealed black heart will let you. Why does not my husband come to his bride?”“What do you mean?”“We waited for him, but he came not; then they whispered he was dead—yes, dead, and I asked Heaven who had killed him, when a voice whispered—Andrew Britton!”“Peace,” cried Britton. “You are mad.”“Yes, mad—mad,” said Maud; “but not so mad as Andrew Britton, for he has murdered—murdered the innocent. There’s blood on your hands!”Britton started and involuntarily glanced at his hands.“Ay blood—blood,” cried Maud; “you may wash away the outward stain, but then it clings to your heart; and when you are asked at the last if you are guiltless or not of shedding man’s blood, you will hold up your hand, and it will drip with gore!”“Beldame, peace!” cried Britton. “You tempt me to do a deed before the time I intended. Hear me, Maud; you have but a chance now for your life. Answer me what I shall ask of you truly and I may spare you. Refuse, or tamper with my temper in any way, and yon river receives you in its black and rolling tide. We are alone; there is no one to hear a cry, and I will take care you shall have breath but for one. No one is at hand to aid—I have you at my mercy.”“Your mercy, Andrew Britton?” said Maud. “Oh! Profane not the word. When did you show mercy? Savage—the spirit of God is above and around us. The fiat has gone forth, and Heaven has said, thus far shalt thou go and no further—but your questions?—Your questions? I will hear your questions, although I am a widow.”“What paper is that you have?”“Paper?”“Yes; you have a paper with something written on it.”“Well?”“Give it to me or you die.”“An angel gave it me. I dream of her now sometimes when my sleep is blessed and happy.”“’Tis not for you, Andrew Britton. It belongs to the angel. I must only show it, and that not to you. No—no—not to you with your blood-stained hands.”Britton was silent for a moment. He was hesitating whether by violence, at once, to tear the paper from the poor wandering creature, or endeavour first to procure such other information as he expected she possessed. He decided on the latter course, as violence could be resorted to at any moment.“Maud,” he said, “when did we meet last?”“In a crowd,” she replied. “I recollect there were many men, but none so bad as Andrew Britton. They held up their hands, the one after the other, and none had blood upon them save his alone.”“What brought you there? Tell me, or this moment is your last!”“How far is it to the Old Smithy?” said Maud, as if she had not heard or understood his question.“Curses!” muttered Britton, whose passion and fear together had tended to sober him; “is she mad, or cunning?”“The Old Smithy, where the murder was done, I mean,” added Maud.“I’ll tell you,” said Britton, in a tone that he intended should be artful and temporising, “if you will answer me what I ask and give me the paper you have?”“Britton, where’s the child?” said Maud. “How came you to spare the child? Did it lift its little hands in prayer to you? And was there one spot in your heart that shuddered at the deed of blood? Did conscience for once stay your arm? Or did Heaven interpose, and strike you powerless, when you would have slaughtered the babe? Tell me that, Britton. Where have you put the child?—Where is Dame Tatton?—Speak, Andrew Britton! I have travelled many, many miles to seek you. You killed him who loved me,—nay, scowl not, your brows are darker than the night, and I see them frowning on me. Oh! There is nothing in nature so dark and terrible as thy heart, Andrew Britton. Even at midnight, when people call it dark, and say you cannot see your hand, the smile of heaven still lingers on the world, and there is the faint light of its love still beaming through the mists of night! Andrew Britton, give me the child, and I will teach it to pray for you to Heaven. Oh, give it to me! It must be cold and weary. Give it to me, Britton, and then hope to be forgiven!”“I have no child,” said Britton; “you know that years have passed, and the child who was brought by—by—a man from the burning smithy, must be now a child no longer.”“You would deceive poor Mad Maud, because she hunts you—ay, to the death, hunts you. You cannot escape me, Britton—you are d—d!”“D—d! How—what mean you?”“I am to see you die.”“Pshaw! Tell me now, Maud, didst ever see the man again who rushed forth bleeding, with the child, from the Old Smithy.”“What man was that?”“Didst ever hear the name of Gray?”“Gray! Gray! The angel asked me that.”“Ha!”“Yes—yes—Gray. Who is Gray?”“You could take me to the angel,” said Britton, in soothing accents.Maud laughed hysterically, and pointed to the sky, as she said,—“Take you! Take you! With the weight of so much blood upon you! No, no. Were you lighter you could go, Andrew Britton. What did my husband say when you killed him? What was his last word? You could not forget it. It must be scorched on your heart. Tell it to me, Andrew Britton.”“You rave,” said Britton; “do you know that Frank Hartleton, who used to live at Learmont, has become a magistrate?”“Do you know,” cried Maud, “that there’s blood wherever Andrew Britton goes? If the soft dew of Heaven falls upon him, it turns to gore—he dips his hands into a pure streamlet, and the limpid waters turn to blood—his drink is blood, when it touches his lips—spots of thick clotted gore fall on him wheresoever he goes—it is the ancient curse of the Egyptians that is upon him! Ha! Ha! Ha! Blood—blood, Andrew Britton!—Blood!”“Devil!” muttered Britton.“I will haunt you!” continued Maud—“I will shout after you as you go—There steps a murderer! I will proclaim your calling to all—’tis one of deep iniquity—you are branded by the mark of Cain—you have sinned before Heaven in taking the life which thou could’st not restore or even comprehend! Wretched—scared—cursed Andrew Britton! I will be with you when you lie writhing in your last agony—when you try to pray, I will clap my hands and shout ‘The Smithy!’ in your ears. When you gasp for water to quench the fever that shall then be consuming your heart, I will answer you by ‘The Smithy!’ When you shriek to Heaven in your dark despair, I will answer you shriek for shriek, and the words of my vengeance shall be ‘The Old Smithy!’ Ha! Ha! Ha!—The murder at the Old Smithy! When the day comes, that the graves give up their dead, then will appear a sight to blast you from the Old Smithy! ’Tis hidden now; but the earth will crack, and with a hideous likeness of what it once was, the form of your victim will pursue you to accuse you before the judgment-seat of God! Then—then you will shriek—yell for mercy!—You, who showed none,—and the blue sky shall open to let you go down—down!—Encircled in the loathsome embrace of slimy awful things, that will lick your shivering form with tongues of flame!”“Peace, wretch,” cried Britton.At the same moment he lifted his arm, and in his hand gleamed a knife.“Hold!” cried Maud, “you dare not!”Sir Frederick Hartleton raised his hand. Britton slowly dropped his murdering arm.“Woman,” he said, “do you wish for death, that you tempt me thus to kill you?”There was a trembling fear in Britton’s voice that re-assured Sir Frederick; and, congratulating himself that the sudden movement he had, on the impulse of the moment, made, had escaped observation, he again lay perfectly quiet, but prepared to aid poor Maud upon an emergency.“Maud,” said Britton, after a pause, “give me the paper you have! And leave London.”“Leave you,” said Maud, “I dare not; I have a duty to do,—it is to follow you. Wherever you go, Andrew Britton, there will you find me. No, no! I cannot leave you; I sometimes think I am dead, and that there is my spirit haunting you.”“We shall see,” muttered Britton; “spirits have never troubled me yet. The paper, I say!—The paper that you set such store by! I must and will have it.”“Never!”“Then take the consequences.”He again raised his knife, and was in the very act of bringing it down to plunge it into the breast of the hapless creature, when his eyes fell upon the form of Sir Frederick Hartleton, who rose up on the parapet between him and the water.This sudden appearance, rising apparently from out of the river, had all the effect which Sir Frederick expected it would. Britton, for the first time in his life, was affected by superstition. He could, on the spur of the moment, imagine the tall dusky form that thus rose before his very eyes, and, as it were, from the bosom of the Thames, to be no other than some supernatural being interposing between him and his victim.He started back in horror, then, dropping the knife, he rushed precipitately from the spot.Maud burst into a wild laugh, and before Sir Frederick Hartleton could speak a word to detain her, she fled in a contrary direction to that which Britton had taken, with great speed.Hastily springing over the wall, Sir Frederick, as well as he was able by the dim light, pursued the flying woman, his object being the same as Britton’s, namely, to possess himself of the paper in Maud’s possession, and which, he doubted not, was in some way near or remotely connected with the chain of mysteries that enveloped the crimes of Squire Learmont and his associates in guilt, the savage smith and the man named as Gray.Now and then he could see the flutter of her garments as she rushed along by the wall; and as often as he did, he redoubled his speed with the hope of overtaking, while she was compelled, from the nature of the ground, to go forward in nearly a straight line; for he well knew that after passing the river wall, which did not extend much further from the broken nature of the open country, and several hedges and plantations that were close at hand, he might be completely foiled till daylight in his attempt to follow the poor creature, who most probably fancied she was flying from Britton.“Maud! Maud!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, with the hope that she would recognise that his voice was not that of the savage smith.His call, however, seemed to alarm her still more, and, in fact, notwithstanding her wild and superstitious confidence in the probability of her outliving the smith, the fear of death from his ruffianly hands had come strongly upon her, and she fled, shrieking from the magistrate, with the full confidence that Britton was pursuing her, armed with the knife she had seen gleaming for an instant above her devoted head. Her fleetness astonished Sir Frederick Hartleton, for swift runner as he was, he could not come up with her.“Maud!” he cried again, and the poor creature answered him by a scream, which at once convinced him that he inspired her with terror, rather than confidence, by calling after her. He therefore abstained from doing so, and began evidently to gain upon her just as she neared the part of the river’s bank where the low wall terminated.Now she looked back and screamed again, as she saw his figure dashing onwards through the gloom.“I am a friend!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, but his voice was weak from the violence, from which he had been pursuing Mad Maud, and she heard him not.Now she reached the end of the wall, and looked round again.—A cry announced her terror, and she turned toward the river instead of the land.There was a heavy splash, and as he heard it, the awful conviction came across the mind of the magistrate, that the unhappy creature had thrown herself into the Thames to escape him.He gained the spot in an instant. A lighter stood moored close to the bank. With a tremendous spring Sir Frederick gained the deck, and leaning anxiously over the side, he gazed earnestly into the stream as it rippled by. A stifled cry met his ears. He looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a dark object hurried on by the water.It was but the act of a moment to dive from the deck of the lighter, and in the next the athletic Sir Frederick Hartleton touched the bottom of the Thames.He was an admirable swimmer, and rising to the surface, just as the watchmen on the Surrey side began to spring their rattles, and give an alarm by calling out that some one had fallen in the river.Some few hundred yards in advance of him, he saw the dark object still hurrying on. Assisted by the tide, and his own vigorous swimming, he soon neared it. A few more sweeps of his arms brought him within arm’s length, and he grasped poor Maud, for it was she, indeed, by her long raven hair which had escaped from its confinement, and floated in a dark mass upon the surface of the water.“Help!” cried Sir Frederick in a clear voice, and turning towards the Surrey shore, which was now much nearer to him than that from which he had come.Several boats had now pushed off, and in one a man stood up with a link that cast a lurid glare over the stream.“Hilloa!” cried the man. “Who’s in for a ducking now? Hilloa there.”“Hilloa!” cried Sir Frederick, and the rowers at once pulled towards him.“Back water!” cried the man with the light—“I see him—here ye are.”The magistrate grasped the side of the boat, and said—“Now, my lads, take in the woman.”Maud was lifted into the boat, and Sir Frederick himself clambered after her.“Fifty guineas, my brave fellows,” he cried, “if we get to shore in time to recover this poor creature.”“Fif—fif—fifty?” ejaculated the man with the light.“Yes—fifty guineas.”“Pull, you devils!” he shrieked out to the rowers. “Pull—pull.”The men bent all their energies to the task, and in less than three minutes more the keel of the boat grated on the shore.Wet and cold as he was, Sir Frederick Hartleton seized the inanimate and light form of Maud, as if she had been an infant, and springing from the boat, he ran to a public-house called “The King’s Bounty,” that was celebrated at the time and declaring who he was, had poor Maud immediately properly attended to, while he himself ran to a surgeon, and procured his instant services to restore her if possible to consciousness.
The Meeting at Mill-bank.—The Knife.—Ada’s Fate Hangs on a Thread.—The Bold Plunge.
“Whatdo you mean?” exclaimed Britton, as Sir Frederick Hamilton halted on the parapet. “Speak, Maud, or by hell I’ll throw you in the river!”
“What do I mean, Andrew Britton!” replied Maud; “I mean pain and death here and torture everlasting in a world to come for you. Ay, for you, Andrew Britton—you cannot kill Maud. The Almighty has written our names in the book of mortality—but yours comes first. Yes, yours comes first, Andrew Britton!”
“Idiot!” muttered Britton. “Tell me at once—did you bring that Hartleton to the Chequers?”
“Hartleton!—Hartleton?” repeated Maud. “Oh, he was one of the spirits I knew long ago, before I dropped from among the stars.”
“Answer my question!” cried Britton, fiercely, “did you bring Hartleton to the Chequers?”
“Answer my question, Britton,” said Maud, “if your sealed black heart will let you. Why does not my husband come to his bride?”
“What do you mean?”
“We waited for him, but he came not; then they whispered he was dead—yes, dead, and I asked Heaven who had killed him, when a voice whispered—Andrew Britton!”
“Peace,” cried Britton. “You are mad.”
“Yes, mad—mad,” said Maud; “but not so mad as Andrew Britton, for he has murdered—murdered the innocent. There’s blood on your hands!”
Britton started and involuntarily glanced at his hands.
“Ay blood—blood,” cried Maud; “you may wash away the outward stain, but then it clings to your heart; and when you are asked at the last if you are guiltless or not of shedding man’s blood, you will hold up your hand, and it will drip with gore!”
“Beldame, peace!” cried Britton. “You tempt me to do a deed before the time I intended. Hear me, Maud; you have but a chance now for your life. Answer me what I shall ask of you truly and I may spare you. Refuse, or tamper with my temper in any way, and yon river receives you in its black and rolling tide. We are alone; there is no one to hear a cry, and I will take care you shall have breath but for one. No one is at hand to aid—I have you at my mercy.”
“Your mercy, Andrew Britton?” said Maud. “Oh! Profane not the word. When did you show mercy? Savage—the spirit of God is above and around us. The fiat has gone forth, and Heaven has said, thus far shalt thou go and no further—but your questions?—Your questions? I will hear your questions, although I am a widow.”
“What paper is that you have?”
“Paper?”
“Yes; you have a paper with something written on it.”
“Well?”
“Give it to me or you die.”
“An angel gave it me. I dream of her now sometimes when my sleep is blessed and happy.”
“’Tis not for you, Andrew Britton. It belongs to the angel. I must only show it, and that not to you. No—no—not to you with your blood-stained hands.”
Britton was silent for a moment. He was hesitating whether by violence, at once, to tear the paper from the poor wandering creature, or endeavour first to procure such other information as he expected she possessed. He decided on the latter course, as violence could be resorted to at any moment.
“Maud,” he said, “when did we meet last?”
“In a crowd,” she replied. “I recollect there were many men, but none so bad as Andrew Britton. They held up their hands, the one after the other, and none had blood upon them save his alone.”
“What brought you there? Tell me, or this moment is your last!”
“How far is it to the Old Smithy?” said Maud, as if she had not heard or understood his question.
“Curses!” muttered Britton, whose passion and fear together had tended to sober him; “is she mad, or cunning?”
“The Old Smithy, where the murder was done, I mean,” added Maud.
“I’ll tell you,” said Britton, in a tone that he intended should be artful and temporising, “if you will answer me what I ask and give me the paper you have?”
“Britton, where’s the child?” said Maud. “How came you to spare the child? Did it lift its little hands in prayer to you? And was there one spot in your heart that shuddered at the deed of blood? Did conscience for once stay your arm? Or did Heaven interpose, and strike you powerless, when you would have slaughtered the babe? Tell me that, Britton. Where have you put the child?—Where is Dame Tatton?—Speak, Andrew Britton! I have travelled many, many miles to seek you. You killed him who loved me,—nay, scowl not, your brows are darker than the night, and I see them frowning on me. Oh! There is nothing in nature so dark and terrible as thy heart, Andrew Britton. Even at midnight, when people call it dark, and say you cannot see your hand, the smile of heaven still lingers on the world, and there is the faint light of its love still beaming through the mists of night! Andrew Britton, give me the child, and I will teach it to pray for you to Heaven. Oh, give it to me! It must be cold and weary. Give it to me, Britton, and then hope to be forgiven!”
“I have no child,” said Britton; “you know that years have passed, and the child who was brought by—by—a man from the burning smithy, must be now a child no longer.”
“You would deceive poor Mad Maud, because she hunts you—ay, to the death, hunts you. You cannot escape me, Britton—you are d—d!”
“D—d! How—what mean you?”
“I am to see you die.”
“Pshaw! Tell me now, Maud, didst ever see the man again who rushed forth bleeding, with the child, from the Old Smithy.”
“What man was that?”
“Didst ever hear the name of Gray?”
“Gray! Gray! The angel asked me that.”
“Ha!”
“Yes—yes—Gray. Who is Gray?”
“You could take me to the angel,” said Britton, in soothing accents.
Maud laughed hysterically, and pointed to the sky, as she said,—“Take you! Take you! With the weight of so much blood upon you! No, no. Were you lighter you could go, Andrew Britton. What did my husband say when you killed him? What was his last word? You could not forget it. It must be scorched on your heart. Tell it to me, Andrew Britton.”
“You rave,” said Britton; “do you know that Frank Hartleton, who used to live at Learmont, has become a magistrate?”
“Do you know,” cried Maud, “that there’s blood wherever Andrew Britton goes? If the soft dew of Heaven falls upon him, it turns to gore—he dips his hands into a pure streamlet, and the limpid waters turn to blood—his drink is blood, when it touches his lips—spots of thick clotted gore fall on him wheresoever he goes—it is the ancient curse of the Egyptians that is upon him! Ha! Ha! Ha! Blood—blood, Andrew Britton!—Blood!”
“Devil!” muttered Britton.
“I will haunt you!” continued Maud—“I will shout after you as you go—There steps a murderer! I will proclaim your calling to all—’tis one of deep iniquity—you are branded by the mark of Cain—you have sinned before Heaven in taking the life which thou could’st not restore or even comprehend! Wretched—scared—cursed Andrew Britton! I will be with you when you lie writhing in your last agony—when you try to pray, I will clap my hands and shout ‘The Smithy!’ in your ears. When you gasp for water to quench the fever that shall then be consuming your heart, I will answer you by ‘The Smithy!’ When you shriek to Heaven in your dark despair, I will answer you shriek for shriek, and the words of my vengeance shall be ‘The Old Smithy!’ Ha! Ha! Ha!—The murder at the Old Smithy! When the day comes, that the graves give up their dead, then will appear a sight to blast you from the Old Smithy! ’Tis hidden now; but the earth will crack, and with a hideous likeness of what it once was, the form of your victim will pursue you to accuse you before the judgment-seat of God! Then—then you will shriek—yell for mercy!—You, who showed none,—and the blue sky shall open to let you go down—down!—Encircled in the loathsome embrace of slimy awful things, that will lick your shivering form with tongues of flame!”
“Peace, wretch,” cried Britton.
At the same moment he lifted his arm, and in his hand gleamed a knife.
“Hold!” cried Maud, “you dare not!”
Sir Frederick Hartleton raised his hand. Britton slowly dropped his murdering arm.
“Woman,” he said, “do you wish for death, that you tempt me thus to kill you?”
There was a trembling fear in Britton’s voice that re-assured Sir Frederick; and, congratulating himself that the sudden movement he had, on the impulse of the moment, made, had escaped observation, he again lay perfectly quiet, but prepared to aid poor Maud upon an emergency.
“Maud,” said Britton, after a pause, “give me the paper you have! And leave London.”
“Leave you,” said Maud, “I dare not; I have a duty to do,—it is to follow you. Wherever you go, Andrew Britton, there will you find me. No, no! I cannot leave you; I sometimes think I am dead, and that there is my spirit haunting you.”
“We shall see,” muttered Britton; “spirits have never troubled me yet. The paper, I say!—The paper that you set such store by! I must and will have it.”
“Never!”
“Then take the consequences.”
He again raised his knife, and was in the very act of bringing it down to plunge it into the breast of the hapless creature, when his eyes fell upon the form of Sir Frederick Hartleton, who rose up on the parapet between him and the water.
This sudden appearance, rising apparently from out of the river, had all the effect which Sir Frederick expected it would. Britton, for the first time in his life, was affected by superstition. He could, on the spur of the moment, imagine the tall dusky form that thus rose before his very eyes, and, as it were, from the bosom of the Thames, to be no other than some supernatural being interposing between him and his victim.
He started back in horror, then, dropping the knife, he rushed precipitately from the spot.
Maud burst into a wild laugh, and before Sir Frederick Hartleton could speak a word to detain her, she fled in a contrary direction to that which Britton had taken, with great speed.
Hastily springing over the wall, Sir Frederick, as well as he was able by the dim light, pursued the flying woman, his object being the same as Britton’s, namely, to possess himself of the paper in Maud’s possession, and which, he doubted not, was in some way near or remotely connected with the chain of mysteries that enveloped the crimes of Squire Learmont and his associates in guilt, the savage smith and the man named as Gray.
Now and then he could see the flutter of her garments as she rushed along by the wall; and as often as he did, he redoubled his speed with the hope of overtaking, while she was compelled, from the nature of the ground, to go forward in nearly a straight line; for he well knew that after passing the river wall, which did not extend much further from the broken nature of the open country, and several hedges and plantations that were close at hand, he might be completely foiled till daylight in his attempt to follow the poor creature, who most probably fancied she was flying from Britton.
“Maud! Maud!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, with the hope that she would recognise that his voice was not that of the savage smith.
His call, however, seemed to alarm her still more, and, in fact, notwithstanding her wild and superstitious confidence in the probability of her outliving the smith, the fear of death from his ruffianly hands had come strongly upon her, and she fled, shrieking from the magistrate, with the full confidence that Britton was pursuing her, armed with the knife she had seen gleaming for an instant above her devoted head. Her fleetness astonished Sir Frederick Hartleton, for swift runner as he was, he could not come up with her.
“Maud!” he cried again, and the poor creature answered him by a scream, which at once convinced him that he inspired her with terror, rather than confidence, by calling after her. He therefore abstained from doing so, and began evidently to gain upon her just as she neared the part of the river’s bank where the low wall terminated.
Now she looked back and screamed again, as she saw his figure dashing onwards through the gloom.
“I am a friend!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, but his voice was weak from the violence, from which he had been pursuing Mad Maud, and she heard him not.
Now she reached the end of the wall, and looked round again.—A cry announced her terror, and she turned toward the river instead of the land.
There was a heavy splash, and as he heard it, the awful conviction came across the mind of the magistrate, that the unhappy creature had thrown herself into the Thames to escape him.
He gained the spot in an instant. A lighter stood moored close to the bank. With a tremendous spring Sir Frederick gained the deck, and leaning anxiously over the side, he gazed earnestly into the stream as it rippled by. A stifled cry met his ears. He looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a dark object hurried on by the water.
It was but the act of a moment to dive from the deck of the lighter, and in the next the athletic Sir Frederick Hartleton touched the bottom of the Thames.
He was an admirable swimmer, and rising to the surface, just as the watchmen on the Surrey side began to spring their rattles, and give an alarm by calling out that some one had fallen in the river.
Some few hundred yards in advance of him, he saw the dark object still hurrying on. Assisted by the tide, and his own vigorous swimming, he soon neared it. A few more sweeps of his arms brought him within arm’s length, and he grasped poor Maud, for it was she, indeed, by her long raven hair which had escaped from its confinement, and floated in a dark mass upon the surface of the water.
“Help!” cried Sir Frederick in a clear voice, and turning towards the Surrey shore, which was now much nearer to him than that from which he had come.
Several boats had now pushed off, and in one a man stood up with a link that cast a lurid glare over the stream.
“Hilloa!” cried the man. “Who’s in for a ducking now? Hilloa there.”
“Hilloa!” cried Sir Frederick, and the rowers at once pulled towards him.
“Back water!” cried the man with the light—“I see him—here ye are.”
The magistrate grasped the side of the boat, and said—
“Now, my lads, take in the woman.”
Maud was lifted into the boat, and Sir Frederick himself clambered after her.
“Fifty guineas, my brave fellows,” he cried, “if we get to shore in time to recover this poor creature.”
“Fif—fif—fifty?” ejaculated the man with the light.
“Yes—fifty guineas.”
“Pull, you devils!” he shrieked out to the rowers. “Pull—pull.”
The men bent all their energies to the task, and in less than three minutes more the keel of the boat grated on the shore.
Wet and cold as he was, Sir Frederick Hartleton seized the inanimate and light form of Maud, as if she had been an infant, and springing from the boat, he ran to a public-house called “The King’s Bounty,” that was celebrated at the time and declaring who he was, had poor Maud immediately properly attended to, while he himself ran to a surgeon, and procured his instant services to restore her if possible to consciousness.
CHAPTER XXXIX.The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.WhenBritton fled in sudden fright from the low wall by Millbank, he took his rout up Abingdon-street, and turning into the first house of entertainment he saw, he ordered a quantity of brandy that made the landlady stare again; but when he lifted the measure to his mouth, and then after a dead silence of about a minute, laid it down empty, the aforesaid landlady’s eyes became much larger than before, and she looked again and again in the measure, as if she imagined the brandy might still be only lurking in some corner, and would suddenly make its appearance again.When Britton then struck his own head, which he did with his clenched fist, the landlady gave a great jump, and exclaimed,—“Bless us, and save us!”“I am a fool! An ass!” cried Britton. “To be scared by a shadow—curses! What’s to pay, woman? Don’t stand staring at me!”“You—you’ve had a—pint, sir,” gasped the alarmed landlady.“Take your money out of that, and be quick,” cried Britton, throwing down a guinea, the ring of which on a little bit of marble, which the landlady kept behind the bar door, being quite satisfactory, she turned round to hand her customer his change, but to her surprise he was gone.Half maddened by rage and drink together, Britton now rushed back to where he had left Maud; but both she and Sir Frederick, from the pace at which they had immediately left the place, were out of sight and hearing; muttering, therefore, imprecations on his own head, the smith returned towards Westminster in a fit mood for anything.“Fool that I am!” he roared, for the tremendous dose of brandy he had taken made him quite reckless of who might be within hearing. “Idiot! I who have made the clang of my hammer heard by midnight, when within a dozen paces of me was a—sight—sight that would—d—n the lights! They stand in my eyes—and the houses are toppling. Fool—fool to let her go. Would Jacob Gray have done as much? No, no, not he. It was the idiot Britton. Oh, if I could find them out—Gray and the boy—ay, the boy—I’d dash his brains out against Gray’s politic skull. Curses on them all. The—the very pavement is mocking me. The houses reel, and the lamps seem—dance—dancing—from earth to sky—as if they were all mad. It’s to annoy me—I know it is.”He reeled on, the liquor he had drunk so recklessly each moment exerting greater effect upon him. The few chance passengers whom he met heard his wild ravings before he reached them, and some had the prudence to cross to the other side of the street, while others would stand in a doorway until the evidently furious man had gone past them.One watchman, who had just awakened from a sound nap, and walked out of his box, eager to show his efficiency upon somebody, had the temerity to hold up his lantern in Britton’s face, and make the simple and innocent remark of—“Hilloa, friend!”Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!” but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in Abingdon-street.In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman when there was nobody to apprehend.In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising.“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it.“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”“Who’s here, King?”“Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey coat?”“The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?”“Ay, the same: do you know him?”“No, no, your Majesty.”“So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?”“Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!”“What’s that you mutter?”“I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your worship.”“Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?”“I—I—really don’t know.”At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.”“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man.“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—”“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”“You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely.“Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic regard of the politic host.“I an idiot!” he exclaimed. “Well, I never heard the like of that before. I tell you what it is, master landlord, I—I—I won’t drink any more of your ale—d—e!”“You—you can’t drink much, you wretched little midge,” said Britton.“Sir,” cried the little man, giving his hat a fierce cock. “Sir, I never enter your house again, and my wife shall get her rations from the Blue Cat and Frying Pan, or the Crocodile and Crumpet, d—e!”The landlord now winked so dreadfully and so incessantly, that it seemed quite doubtful whether or not he would ever leave off again; but the little man was not to be winked into good-humour, and shook his head in great indignation.Britton reeled towards the bar, exclaiming, “Give me a half-pint measure, and if I don’t put him into it, my name ain’t King—King Britton!”The landlord now took the opportunity of whispering to Master Sniggles—“Do for Heaven’s sake be an idiot.”“I—I—the devil!” cried Sniggles.“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand. “Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”“What did he say?”“Why, says he, the squire gives an entertainment to-night to the court and nobility.”“Oh,” cried Britton. “He does, and he has not invited me.”The landlord winked at Master Sniggles, and Master Sniggles this time winked at the landlord, both the winks signifying how very far gone was Britton in drunkenness to make so very absurd and preposterous a remark.Britton was silent for a few moments. Then a half-drunken, half-malignant smile covered his swarthy visage.“I will go,” he cried, “I will be the only uninvited guest, and—and yet the most free. Ha, ha! Learmont would as leave see the devil himself walk in as King Britton, the smith. I’ll go!”“Does your majesty really mean,” suggested the landlord, “to kick up a royal row at the rich squire’s?”“Do I mean?” said Britton. “I will have a dance in his halls, I say. There’s not a knave in his household dare stand in my way. Hurrah! Hurrah! I’m a gentleman. I do nothing but drink, so I’m a gentleman. Ha! Ha! Ha! Learmont don’t expect me, but there’s nothing like an unlooked for pleasure. I’ll visit him to-night, if the pit of hell should open at his threshold to stay my progress.”So saying, he dashed from the Chequers leaving the landlord and Master Sniggles gazing at each other in speechless amazement.What occurred at the drunken smith’s visit to Learmont’sfête, we are already aware.
The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.
WhenBritton fled in sudden fright from the low wall by Millbank, he took his rout up Abingdon-street, and turning into the first house of entertainment he saw, he ordered a quantity of brandy that made the landlady stare again; but when he lifted the measure to his mouth, and then after a dead silence of about a minute, laid it down empty, the aforesaid landlady’s eyes became much larger than before, and she looked again and again in the measure, as if she imagined the brandy might still be only lurking in some corner, and would suddenly make its appearance again.
When Britton then struck his own head, which he did with his clenched fist, the landlady gave a great jump, and exclaimed,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
“I am a fool! An ass!” cried Britton. “To be scared by a shadow—curses! What’s to pay, woman? Don’t stand staring at me!”
“You—you’ve had a—pint, sir,” gasped the alarmed landlady.
“Take your money out of that, and be quick,” cried Britton, throwing down a guinea, the ring of which on a little bit of marble, which the landlady kept behind the bar door, being quite satisfactory, she turned round to hand her customer his change, but to her surprise he was gone.
Half maddened by rage and drink together, Britton now rushed back to where he had left Maud; but both she and Sir Frederick, from the pace at which they had immediately left the place, were out of sight and hearing; muttering, therefore, imprecations on his own head, the smith returned towards Westminster in a fit mood for anything.
“Fool that I am!” he roared, for the tremendous dose of brandy he had taken made him quite reckless of who might be within hearing. “Idiot! I who have made the clang of my hammer heard by midnight, when within a dozen paces of me was a—sight—sight that would—d—n the lights! They stand in my eyes—and the houses are toppling. Fool—fool to let her go. Would Jacob Gray have done as much? No, no, not he. It was the idiot Britton. Oh, if I could find them out—Gray and the boy—ay, the boy—I’d dash his brains out against Gray’s politic skull. Curses on them all. The—the very pavement is mocking me. The houses reel, and the lamps seem—dance—dancing—from earth to sky—as if they were all mad. It’s to annoy me—I know it is.”
He reeled on, the liquor he had drunk so recklessly each moment exerting greater effect upon him. The few chance passengers whom he met heard his wild ravings before he reached them, and some had the prudence to cross to the other side of the street, while others would stand in a doorway until the evidently furious man had gone past them.
One watchman, who had just awakened from a sound nap, and walked out of his box, eager to show his efficiency upon somebody, had the temerity to hold up his lantern in Britton’s face, and make the simple and innocent remark of—
“Hilloa, friend!”
Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.
This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!” but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in Abingdon-street.
In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.
The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman when there was nobody to apprehend.
In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.
The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.
“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising.
“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it.
“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”
“Who’s here, King?”
“Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey coat?”
“The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?”
“Ay, the same: do you know him?”
“No, no, your Majesty.”
“So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?”
“Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!”
“What’s that you mutter?”
“I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your worship.”
“Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?”
“I—I—really don’t know.”
At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—
“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.”
“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”
“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man.
“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—”
“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.
“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”
“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”
“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”
“You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely.
“Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic regard of the politic host.
“I an idiot!” he exclaimed. “Well, I never heard the like of that before. I tell you what it is, master landlord, I—I—I won’t drink any more of your ale—d—e!”
“You—you can’t drink much, you wretched little midge,” said Britton.
“Sir,” cried the little man, giving his hat a fierce cock. “Sir, I never enter your house again, and my wife shall get her rations from the Blue Cat and Frying Pan, or the Crocodile and Crumpet, d—e!”
The landlord now winked so dreadfully and so incessantly, that it seemed quite doubtful whether or not he would ever leave off again; but the little man was not to be winked into good-humour, and shook his head in great indignation.
Britton reeled towards the bar, exclaiming, “Give me a half-pint measure, and if I don’t put him into it, my name ain’t King—King Britton!”
The landlord now took the opportunity of whispering to Master Sniggles—
“Do for Heaven’s sake be an idiot.”
“I—I—the devil!” cried Sniggles.
“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.
“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.
“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand. “Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”
“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”
“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”
“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”
“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.
“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”
“What did he say?”
“Why, says he, the squire gives an entertainment to-night to the court and nobility.”
“Oh,” cried Britton. “He does, and he has not invited me.”
The landlord winked at Master Sniggles, and Master Sniggles this time winked at the landlord, both the winks signifying how very far gone was Britton in drunkenness to make so very absurd and preposterous a remark.
Britton was silent for a few moments. Then a half-drunken, half-malignant smile covered his swarthy visage.
“I will go,” he cried, “I will be the only uninvited guest, and—and yet the most free. Ha, ha! Learmont would as leave see the devil himself walk in as King Britton, the smith. I’ll go!”
“Does your majesty really mean,” suggested the landlord, “to kick up a royal row at the rich squire’s?”
“Do I mean?” said Britton. “I will have a dance in his halls, I say. There’s not a knave in his household dare stand in my way. Hurrah! Hurrah! I’m a gentleman. I do nothing but drink, so I’m a gentleman. Ha! Ha! Ha! Learmont don’t expect me, but there’s nothing like an unlooked for pleasure. I’ll visit him to-night, if the pit of hell should open at his threshold to stay my progress.”
So saying, he dashed from the Chequers leaving the landlord and Master Sniggles gazing at each other in speechless amazement.
What occurred at the drunken smith’s visit to Learmont’sfête, we are already aware.