Chapter LXXXI…

Chapter LXXXI

Learmont’s Improved Prospects.—The Park.—Ada’s Recollections.—The Meeting.

When Learmont was once more left alone, a dark scowl of triumph came over his face, and he breathed more freely than he had done for many a day.

“So,” he said “many mysteries are suddenly cleared up now; I—I am myself again. A weight is lifted off my heart. Several things are now clear and plain to me that I have been tortured with for many days. This being who has been my bane, and is now my greatest danger, is a girl, and not a boy, as Jacob Gray would always fain have made me think. He has lost her too; and it must have been she whom I saw at my door step and at the window of Sir Francis Hartleton. So far all is clear; and Gray’s confused manner, wretched appearance, and offer to compromise with me when last we met are now accounted for. He has lost his great stronghold upon me, losing the child of—of—I cannot name him. No—no—his name shall never pass my lips.”

He rose and paced the room for a few minutes with unequal strides, then suddenly pausing, he muttered,—

“All must be safe. This girl, Ada, as she is called,—and now I recollect me, it was the name of her mother—she must know but very little, too little evidently, to enable Sir Francis Hartleton to annoy me in any way, or he would have swooped upon my devoted head like an eagle on its prey. He may surmise much, but he can know nothing; and now for some plan of operation in which this lover can play his part, and when all is done, should he suspect anything or prove troublesome, it is but another deed, and he is gone to his last account. He leaves no clamouring confession behind him, to enable him to have a posthumous revenge upon those whom he hates. Perhaps after all my hopes and fears, a greater triumph than any I have experienced is at hand for me. My wealth may, after all, insure me some, if not all the advantages I so much coveted, and I may, really free and unshackled, attain the high station my panting soul has longed for.”

For the first time for many a day, Learmont gazed proudly around him upon the many articles of rare magnificence that crowded his chamber.

“I shall triumph yet—I shall triumph yet,” he exclaimed. “I must mature some plan of operations now that will result in the possession of this girl, the destruction of Gray and Britton, and the recovery of all papers of a dangerous tendency. Methinks it will be easy now. This hair-brained boy, Seyton, if I tell him I can put him on the track of Gray, will surely hunt him down; and then my prey is in my grasp, for he has not now two safeguards, as he had before. I will to the park, and there, beneath the grateful shadows of the trees, mature my plans. Tremble, Britton, Gray, Hartleton—you have one to deal with that will yet triumph over you.”

He hastily wrapped himself in his cloak, and with a haughtier stride, and a prouder and more confident mien than he had worn since his first arrival in the metropolis, he left his lordly home, and took his way to the great mall of St. James’s Park.

Leaving Learmont to pursue his walk, and to congratulate himself upon what he considered his improved prospects, we will, with the reader’s permission, present ourselves at the breakfast table of Sir Francis Hartleton, where sat the magistrate himself, his lady, and Ada.

Sir Francis had passed nearly a sleepless night in reflecting, over and over again, upon the various circumstances connected with the fortunes of his beautiful guest. His great object was, if possible, to decide upon some regular course of action, which might be safely and perseveringly pursued with a prospect of an ultimate result of a successful nature.

After much thought, repugnant as he was to any step which savoured of trespassing upon the undoubted rights of another, he determined secretly and quietly, unknown to every one, to make a visit to the village of Learmont, and explore the old Smithy, with a faint hope that he might find there some indications of what had occurred on that fearful night of the storm and the fire, which he could never forget.

He had slept calmly after making this resolve, and arose more refreshed than he expected from the anxious night he had passed, and now his object was, before he undertook his journey, to have some conversation with Ada, in order by leading her mind to the occurrences at the Old Smithy, to discover if her memory, young as she was, retained any traces of the event; for that she was the child brought from the burning ruins, and that Jacob Gray was the man who so brought her, he entertained but a very faint doubt indeed.

“Ada,” he said, “does any event of very early life come ever to your memory?”

“Since I have been here,” replied Ada, in her clear and sweet liquid tones, “and so very happy, it seems to me as if my mind had assimilated itself to some circumstances that must have happened long since to me, so long that I can hardly believe that I am now in the same state of existence. Kind words seem now as familiar as they are grateful to me, and it seems to me that memory, wavering from the shock of years of harshness and misery, is beginning to pour forth the hidden stores and crushed remembrances of kind and gentle words, and friendly, loving smiles which guided me before I knew Jacob Gray.”

Lady Hartleton could not suppress a tear as Ada spoke, and Sir Francis listened with eager pleasure to her words.

“My dear Ada,” he said, “if you will endeavour to tell me in your own gentle, admirable way, what these recollections consist of, they may be of the greatest service in enabling me to unravel the mysteries that now surround you.”

“Sometimes,” said Ada, “I fancy I recollect some one who used to weep over me and kiss me fondly; and when, yesterday, your dear lady,” turning to Sir Francis’s wife, “took me to the ancient tower, it seemed to me that some of the large ships and the cries of the seamen were not altogether strange to me.”

“Do you recollect anything of a fire?“ said the magistrate.

“A fire?”

“Yes—do you ever recollect a fire, and loud screams and much confusion?”

Ada shuddered.

”I have always fancied that a dream,” she said, “but it has haunted me so often that I have feared to find it real. I have dreamt of a wild, dark place, and then bright flames have lit it up, and cries and shrieks have filled the air, and my heart has sunk within me, for it seemed as if some one had torn me from all I ever loved. Then snow would dash in my face, and it seemed to me as if I was borne onwards by some one with terrific speed, and such dreadful shouts and cries as have made me awaken in horror, and pray to Heaven to spare me such another dream.”

“And in the midst of all this could you never recognise any well-known form or face, or familiar voice?”

“None but Jacob Gray’s. His pale hideous face seemed ever turned towards me, and I used to fancy that being in so solitary a mode of life with him, put such fancies in my sleeping brain.”

“Well, Ada and you, my dear,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “must endure my absence from London, I think, for about a week.”

“A week?” said Lady Hartleton.

“Yes, I must endeavour to get leave to go for that time. It is upon business of the utmost importance.”

He rose as he spoke, and his wife looked at him regretfully, as she said,—

“You are not going to-day, Francis?”

“No, nor to-morrow,” he replied, smiling; “and when I do go, I have not quite made up my mind that I shall not take you both with me.”

“Then you may go as soon as you like, Francis, if Ada will accompany us.”

A tear started to Ada’s eye, as she said,—

“What other friend, save Heaven, have I but you to cling to now, for he—”

She thought of Albert Seyton, and paused.

Sir Francis Hartleton took her hand gently, and said,—

“My dear Ada, I mean to find Albert Seyton, and make him my clerk.”

Ada looked up in his face, and thanked him by a glance that spoke more eloquently than words could have done. The magistrate then smiled an adieu, and left his house to proceed to his office by Buckingham House across the park.

He entered the park by the back of his house, which, as the reader is aware, opened into and near to the Birdcage-walk, and with an easy step, for he had plenty of time in which to go the distance, Sir Francis walked on, nor observed that any one was looking at him, until he by chance glanced round and saw Learmont regarding him with a fixed gaze, while a sneer of ill-concealed triumph sat upon his mouth and curled his lip.

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LXXXII. Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable

Sir Francis Hartleton paused a moment in doubt whether he should speak to the gloomy squire, whom he so much suspected of many crimes, or pass on his way without meeting him. Before, however, he could decide upon any course of action, Learmont settled the question by walking up to Hartleton, and saying,—

“Good morning, Sir Magistrate—you are early afoot.”

“I own Sir Squire,” said Hartleton, rather amazed at the confident tone and manner of Learmont, “my duties take up as much of my time as other people’s crimes do theirs.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said Learmont; “Yours is an onerous position. ’Tis well criminality is not contagious, for otherwise, coming in contact with so many troublesome thieves, and disagreeable characters, London would lose her fine-spirited, upright, and noble magistrate.”

“You are right,” said Hartleton, determined not to take offence, “I can even speak to worse than thieves, and yet, thank Heaven, escape contamination from them.”

Sir Francis Hartleton’s words were barbed, but Learmont was quite as resolved as his opponent not to understand any insinuations, and he merely replied,—

“You are a judge of human nature, sir.”

“As far as my opportunities go, I am,” replied Sir Francis.

“I trust,” added Learmont, “that, notwithstanding I am but a poor squire, you will do me the honour of visiting me in my London abode.”

“That I am willing to do,” said Hartleton, “forgetting all disagreements, Squire Learmont of course.”

“Disagreements, sir,—I really am not aware of any. You were at one time, if I remember rightly, subject to bad dreams, from which I hope you have now quite recovered—I should think it a most grievous and affecting malady.”

Sir Francis felt that Learmont had rather the better of him in the dialogue, and with a smile he bowed and passed on.

The squire looked after him with a smile of bitterness mingled with contempt.

“You have entered, most-sapient magistrate,” he said, “into a war with me. You shall abide the issue, and pay the penalty of defeat—I swear by all the powers of heaven and hell, that you shall have my life, or I will have yours. He who thrusts his hand into a fire, cannot be expected to withdraw them unburnt. Beware, Sir Magistrate,—I will have vengeance upon you when I am safe in some important matters—but first as to Jacob Gray—ay, there is the great—difficulty—Jacob Grey.”

He sauntered among the then ancient trees that adorned the park, and continued muttering to himself for more than an hour before he came to any firm resolve, and then he suddenly quickened his pace, and proceeded homewards.

When Sir Francis Hartleton reached his office, his first act was to summon the man named Stephy, and to tell him to prepare to accompany him, at a short notice, some distance in the country, for he resolved to take him with him to Learmont village, whether or not he should upon mature consideration think it desirable that Ada should accompany him there.

This matter being settled, he received a report from a man whom he had set to watch the house of Learmont, who deposed to the effect that a man who he was sure was Jacob Gray, by the description given of him by the magistrate, had visited the squire. He then detailed the whole of Gray’s proceeding during the night, concluding by saying, that when his watch was relieved, Gray had been left at the Old Chequers, and that his further progress would be reported by the man who had taken his place.

“That will do,” said Hartleton; “he must not be lost sight of for a moment, unless fairly housed, and then the house must be carefully watched, and above all things, do not let him suspect he is in any danger.”

“The greatest trouble, sir, during the night,” said the spy, “has arisen from a shoemaker in Westminster, who is smitten with the notion of his cleverness in apprehending criminals. He has been following Gray about, and but for his cowardice would have apprehended him.”

“And so spoil all,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “It is of the greatest importance that this Gray should remain at large for some time. He is in possession of information which, I fear, would never be got from him after his capture, for no kind of promise could possibly be held out to him of mercy in this world. If once taken, his trial and execution for the murder of Vaughan must ensue. And then too,” added Sir Francis, in a low tone to himself, “Ada would be dragged from her present retirement forward as a witness against him, and so seal his lips for ever against any disclosure for her benefit.”

A knock at the door announced some one near, and when Sir Francis cried “Come in”—one of his officers appeared, saying—“that a man of the name of Bruggles wished to see him, on very particular business.”

“Bruggles, I don’t know him.”

“Your worship,” said the spy upon Gray, “it is the troublesome-shoemaker.”

“Oh, admit him.”

The amateur constable was ushered into the presence of Sir Francis, who said,—

“Well, sir, your business?”

“My business is private, confidential, and most important.”

“Will it take long in the telling?”

“Why, no, not very long.”

“Then leave us,” said Sir Francis to his officer, “and mind that I have regular reports about the man. Of course your former instructions hold good. On any attempt to leave by boat or vessel, an immediate arrestment takes place.”

The spy bowed and retired.

“Now, sir, if you please,” said Sir Francis to the shoemaker, “my time is precious; pray tell me in as few words as you can what you want.”

The manner of the magistrate rather damped the ardour of the shoemaker, and he replied—

“Your worship, I thought it but right to call upon you to say that I have seen—”

Here he looked about him mysteriously, to assure himself that they were alone.

“What have you seen, sir?” cried the other.

“The murderer of Mr. Vaughan.”

The shoemaker, as he said this, leaned forward in a confident manner, and then threw his head back with a jerk, to see what effect it had upon the magistrate, who, to his surprise, merely said, “Have you?” and did not seem at all put out of the way by such an astounding piece of information.

“I—I have spoken to him, sir—your worship, I mean.”

“Then, why didn’t you say so at once? You have got him outside, I suppose?”

“Got him outside, your worship?”

“Of course.”

“Why—why—I—haven’t exactly got him at all.”

“What!—Saw him, and spoke to him, and not got him?”

“Why—why—your worship he looks a powerful villain.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you are a great coward,” said Sir Francis. “What do you mean by coming to me, and saying you have seen and spoken to a criminal? I don’t know but it’s my duty to commit you for aiding, abetting, and comforting a man accused of one of the most heinous crimes in the calendar.”

“Commit me?”

“Yes—you.”

“I come here to—to—ask your worship to—to—let me have an officer to go with me to try to find him.”

“Sir, my officers will find him themselves, only some caution is requisite, as he belongs to a gang who have bound themselves by a solemn oath to barbarously murder any person who may be at all instrumental in the capture of any of their body.”

“Eh? You—you—really—then I should have been murdered?”

“I dare say you would, but I hope when you see him again that you will take him; and when you are dead, the reward shall be paid to any one you may appoint in your will, which I think you had better make here at once in my office in case of accidents. Two of my officers shall witness it.”

“No—no—I—I—God bless me. What danger I have been in, to be sure. Gracious! If I see him again, I shall knock at some door and ask to be let in till he is gone. I—I—I’ll run into a shop—I’ll leave London till some one else has taken him.”

“What!” cried Sir Francis, hardly able to control his laughter. “Do you shrink?”

“Shrink! I should think I do. I’m all over in a cold perspiration, I am.”

“Then you’ll never do for an officer, sir. I’d advise you to stick by your last, and not interfere with other people’s affairs. Leave thief-takers to catch thieves. You’ll get all the danger, my friend, and none of the profit, in travelling from that you know to that you know nothing about.”

“I will—bless me! Make my will indeed! The very idea is dreadful, I—I wish you an uncommon good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr.—a—”

“Bruggles, your worship.”

“Bruggles—good morning.”

Sir Francis Hartleton enjoyed a hearty laugh at the shoemaker’s expense after he had left, and was shortly afterwards fully immersed in the active duties of his office.

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Chapter LXXXIII

Gray’s Peril.—A Peep into Domestic Affairs.—The Corpulent Lady.—The Man who Was Hung on Monday.

Jacob Gray was so horrified at the awful sight that met his eyes, upon opening the cupboard in the old attic, that for some moments he could neither think, move, nor speak; and it was only the strong present dread of some one coming upon him suddenly from the lower part of the house and taking his life, upon finding he was aware of the murdered man being in the cupboard, that aroused him from the absolute lethargy of fear he was rapidly falling into.

The body lay on its face at his feet, and it appeared to have been propped up in the cupboard, merely by the shutting of the door quickly, so that it had fallen out the moment Gray had, by opening the door, removed the support.

He felt that there was no chance for him but putting the loathsome object back again into its receptacle, and our readers may imagine what a terrible job it was to such a man as Jacob Gray to raise that hideous mass of death, and replace it in the cupboard. He stooped and laid his trembling hands upon the neck. He dragged it up—the head hung about in that strange loose manner which indicates a certain stage in the progress of decomposition.

Gray shuddered, and bungled much over what he had to do, because his object was to get the dead body into the cupboard without looking at the face; and he, therefore, sedulously turned his head away.

The weight was very great, and after many fruitless efforts, Gray found it impossible to get the body fixed for one instant, so as to allow him to close the door. Once he caught one of the ghastly bands between the door and the side-post. Then, by not being quick enough, the body leaned forward, and he caught the hideous distorted face in the same way.

A cry of horror burst from his lips, as his eyes inadvertently fell upon the horrible visage, and now that he had once looked he could not turn his eyes away, had he been offered a world for the effort.

“Horrible! Horrible!” he moaned, and then letting go the door, the body fell as at first, with a heavy lump upon its face, at his feet.

“I shall be murdered here,” thought Gray, “and must leave at all hazards. I—I had better risk being again seen, and hooted by the mob, than remain here to certain death.”

He approached the window as he spoke; but to his horror, he found by the shout that at once greeted him, that his tormentors were still there.

“What can save me now?” he groaned, “I am lost—lost.”

He sunk upon the miserable chair that was in the room, and groaned aloud in the bitterness of his despair.

Then he began to wonder that no one came to the attic, and from that he thought it just possible there might be nobody in the house, and that his own fears had converted some casual noise into the sounds of footsteps on the stairs.

There was hope in this conjecture, and he crept cautiously to the door, and standing at the stair-head, he listened attentively, but could hear no noise.

“I wonder,” he muttered to himself, “if I could venture down stairs. There might be no one between me and the street-door, and possibly I might not be recognised by the gaping crowd outside, and so escape my present most dangerous situation.”

It was some minutes more before he could make up his mind to venture down the stairs; and when, at length, he did, he went step by step with such extreme slowness and caution, that it was a long time before he reached the bottom of the first flight. The least creaking sent the blood to his heart with a frightful gush, and by the time he had reached the floor below the attic, he was in a state of terror and nervousness that would have alarmed any one to behold.

He sat down upon the bottom stair, and as far as he was able to command them, he bent all his faculties to discover if there was any one in the rooms opening from the landing.

One door was ajar, and he now felt satisfied there was no one there, but another door was close shut, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could command his nerves to crawl past it. His foot now was upon the first stair from the top of the next flight of stairs, when he nearly fell headlong from top to bottom, as he heard a man’s voice below say,—

“Thomas—I shall want you in your attic, presently.”

Then a step sounded up the stairs, and Jacob Gray had just time to crawl backwards into the room with the door ajar, before he must have been seen.

But he thought whoever is coming here, may enter this room, and he glanced hastily around him for some place to hide in.

A large handsome bed was in the room with the curtains drawn, and Jacob Gray advancing cautiously, peered in between them, when to his horror and consternation, he found the bed occupied.

An elderly female, with a red termagant face, who by the mountain she made of the bed clothes, must have been of most ample proportions, lay sleeping in the bed.

The slight noise he made, appeared to have disturbed the lady, for a long-drawn snore proclaimed that her easy slumbers were about being disturbed.

Gray heard two or three hard blows given to the bed, and then the lady muttered,—

“Take that, you wretch—you’ll disturb me, will you, again,” and then evidently fancying she had silenced her supposed bed-fellow, the corpulent lady, with a singular imitation of a bassoon by means of her olfactory organ, she again resigned herself to sleep.

The same man’s name that Gray had heard already, now said at the door,—

“You’re asleep yet, are you! Oh, you are a beauty—well, there is some peace in the house early in the morning, for all who like to get up, and enjoy—because you are too lazy to be among us so early, if ever a man was cursed—ah, well, it’s no use complaining.”

“Oh, you disagreeable beast!” shrieked the lady, who had only been in what is termed a dog-sleep, and had heard the remarks of the man at the door.

“You wretch—you varmint. So that’s the way you goes on, is it? You ugly lump of wretchedness?”

“What do you say, my dear?” remarked the man in so altered and humble a voice that Jacob Gray could scarcely believe it came from the same individual.

“What did I say, you unnatural villain—I say I heard you talking about peace in the house.”

“Really my love, I—”

“Don’t try to escape out of it, you wretched little villain—wait till I get up, that’s all.”

With a sigh the unhappy husband, for nobody but a husband ever puts up with a woman’s tongue, and by some strange fatality, he who is the only person having a legal right to control it’s wagging, never, or very rarely, does so—turned away.

“Who’s down stairs?” cried the lady, peremptorily.

“Only Thomas, my dear.”

“Isn’t that lazy slut, Deborah, up yet?”

“Oh dear yes, my love.”

“Oh dear yes, indeed,” answered the lady; “I’ll box your ears and hers too when I get up. You’ve been winking at her again—I’ll be bound you have.”

“Really, my love—”

“Go away, sir, and don’t aggravate me. It would make folk’s hair stand on end to know what I suffer—it would.”

The lady now turned round on the bed with such a bounce that Jacob Gray thought for a moment it must eventually come down on the top of him.

“What shall I do now?” thought Gray; “this is a strange house. They do not seem at all the kind of persons I suspected. How could that dead body have come into the cupboard in the attic? Perhaps they don’t know it’s there at all, and if I should be seen, it will in some way be laid to my charge.”

He now remained for some moments in painful thought. Then he came at length to a conclusion that he must venture down stairs before the lady got up, as his only chance of getting out of the house.

“Only Thomas down stairs,” he repeated to himself, “and a servant girl I presume? I must make the attempt as circumstances direct me—at the back or the front of the house, I may be able to leave it.”

He made now a very slight movement in an endeavour to crawl from under the bed, and make towards the door, but the corpulent virago heard him, and cried,—

“I thought I heard somebody a moving. I shall get up and ring for Deborah. Lor a mighty—I’m all of a tremble.”

“If I let her get up and have assistance here, I am lost,” said Gray.

It took him a moment or two more to screw up his courage, and then he suddenly rose up at the side of the bed, and said,—

“If you stir or speak for the next half hour, I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”

The corpulent lady gave a loud scream, and Jacob Gray sneaked under the bed again.

“Beware,” he said, “beware!”

“Oh! Mr. Murderer, spare my life,” she gasped.

“What’s the matter?” said the husband, who had come scuffling down stairs, upon hearing the scream.

“Beware!” whispered Gray.

“N—n—,” gasped the corpulent lady, with the fear of having her throat cut, “nothing—only a—a dream.”

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LXXXIV. The Mystery Explained.—The Escape.—Jacob Gray’s New Lodging

Jacob Gray was almost distilled with fear as this little dialogue proceeded, and it seemed as if a mountain was taken off his breast when he heard the husband go away, muttering something that was not intended to meet his lady’s ear.

The corpulent lady then commenced a series of groans, which, however, Jacob Gray soon put an end to, by appearing at the bedside, and saying,—

“If you don’t be quiet this moment, it shall be your last.”

“W—w—what do you want?” stammered the corpulent female.

“No matter,” said Gray; “tell me what dead body that is you have in the attic?”

“Job Magnus,” said the lady, shaking the bed with trembling.

“Who?”

“Job Magnus—he—he was bought.”

“Bought, woman!”

“Yes—he—he was hanged last Monday, and my—my wretch of a husband bought him.”

“What is your husband?”

“A doctor.”

The truth in a moment now flashed across Gray’s mind, and he cursed himself bitterly for allowing his fears to cause him so much uneasiness and terror as they had done. He, then, on the instant, thought of a scheme to escape from the surgeon’s house without molestation, and turning to the lady, he said in a solemn voice,—

“Do you know me?”

“No—no.”

“I have just come down stairs out of the cupboard. I am Job Magnus.”

“Mercy upon us!” cried the lady—“Oh! Have mercy upon us—our Father which art in heaven.”

“Hush!” cried Gray, “don’t be mumbling there, but listen to me. If you so much as speak one word, or stir from whence you are for the next hour and a half, I’ll come down the chimney and strangle you.”

“Please, Mr. Ghost, spare my sinful life, and I won’t move. I’ll confess all—Thomas ain’t that wretched husband’s of mine—he’s—he’s—I’m quite sure—”

“Bush,” said Gray, with a menacing gesture, “do you imagine I want to hear what, as a spirit, I know already?”

The corpulent lady groaned as she said,—

“Then you know all about the barber?”

Gray deliberately turned up the cuffs of his coat, and said calmly,—

“I am going to strangle you, if you open your lips again.”

The corpulent lady held up her hands in mute supplication, and after a glance at her, and a contortion of his visage that nearly froze her blood. Jacob Gray crept from the room, and commenced descending the staircase.

He had not got half way down, when he heard some one coming up. He paused in very great trepidation and laid hold of the banisters to await the comer. His only chance now lay on his own firmness, and that was nearly deserting him.

It was a young lad of about seventeen or eighteen, who was coming up stairs, and when he saw Gray, he waited a step in surprise.

“Thomas,” said Gray, “I am Job Magnus—will you—”

Thomas did not stay to hear the remainder of what the apparition of the hanged man, as he fully believed Gray to be, had to say, but turned round, and made but one jump down the stairs again, never stopped till he was in the kitchen, where he upset Deborah and a tray with the breakfast things, just as she was emerging from the culinary department.

“So far successful,” muttered Gray, as he descended the remainder of the stairs, and then passed through the door which opened into a little parlour.

Hanging on a peg behind a door was a handsome cloak, and on another a hat, both of which Gray made no hesitation in borrowing for the occasion. Hastily attiring himself thus, he opened a small glass door, and passed into the shop.

There was a little girl in the shop, knocking perseveringly on the counter with the edge of a penny piece, and the moment Gray made his appearance she commenced,—

“Oh, please sir, my mother says do—”

“Silence!” cried Gray—and he passed out into the street, leaving the little girl with a full impression that the doctor had gone mad.

Jacob Gray’s first glance was towards his persecutors, and he saw that the patience of all of them had been nearly tired out, with the exception of the baker’s boy, who sat upon the edge of his basket and told the story of a man being on the roofs of the houses to all comers.

“You wretch,” muttered Gray, “I should like to brain you.”

“Hilloa—here comes the doctor,” cried the boy, “why, you’ve got up wrong end first, old cove.”

“Take that,” said Gray, as he dealt the boy a box on the face that sent him sprawling backwards into his own basket, to the immense amusement of all the other boys there collected, who, not to be behindhand in asserting their right to the name of human beings, immediately made at the fallen hero, and commenced hauling and pummelling him to their heart’s content.

With a hasty step Gray left the scene of action, and struck at once into a long narrow lane which led him among the by-streets at the back of the Strand.

His first object now was to get a breakfast, and observing a little dirty shop where every imaginable abomination in the eating line was sold, he plunged into its dark recesses, and asked of a woman, whose very appearance was enough to turn any one’s stomach, if he could have some breakfast.

“That depends on what you want,” said the woman.

“Some meat,” said Gray; “I will pay you liberally if you will purchase for me some meat, and let me eat it here.”

The words “pay liberally” acted like magic on the woman, for she immediately unrolled her sleeves which were tucked up to the elbow, and at once, by that process covering up all the dirt on her arms she said,—

“Oh dear yes, certainly—his honour could have whatever he liked; should she take his honour’s hat and cloak? Would his honour walk up stairs?”

“Yes—up stairs,” said Gray, conceiving himself much more safe from casual observation there than below.

The woman escorted him to a dismal-looking room on the first floor, and promising to be quick in procuring what he required, she left him to his meditations.

“This seems a likely place in which to conceal myself,” thought Gray, “until I have rung from the fears of Learmont a sufficient sum to enable me to put my now firm design into execution of leaving England, I will ask this woman if she has a room she can spare me for a permanency—no one would think of looking for me here; and in the darkness of the evenings I can glide out to visit Learmont, and for exercise.”

When the woman returned and laid before Jacob Gray some really good and tempting meat, tolerably cooked, and had received his orders to get him a bottle of wine, he turned his small, cunning eyes upon her, and said,—

“I have but newly come from abroad, and am in London concerning some property that is left me: while I remain, can you accommodate me here?”

“Oh, certainly,” said the woman; “your honour can have any room in the house.”

“I should prefer the quietest,” said Gray. “An attic will suit me as well as any.”

“Well, your honour,” said the woman, “if you don’t mind an attic, we do certainly have the best attic, though I say it, in London. Why, ’atween two ‘chimbleys,’ when there ain’t a fog, and the brewhouse isn’t at work, you may see a little bit of the river from our attic.”

“It will suit me very well, I dare say,” said Gray; “when I have finished my meal, I will look at it.”

He was not long in consuming the meat and bread, and after a glass or two of the wine he felt wonderfully refreshed, and his old quiet smile of cunning and ferocity began to linger on his face as he muttered,—

“Well, if the squire consents to my terms, and advances me a large sum of money at once, I will leave directly; and if he will not, I must increase my demands upon him as far as I can, without awakening his suspicions, and then leave him and Britton to destruction; it will go hard but I will find a means of revenge against her, who has caused me such unexampled misery and distress. Ada, beware! Yet you are not safe from Jacob Gray. He is a miner, who works in silence and secret, until some day you find what you verily considered the solid foundation on which you were treading immutable, you will find it crumbling beneath your feet. I have a plan—yes, I have a plan to wrest from you, Ada, all that would have been yours had you waited my time.”

Full of these thoughts, Jacob Gray summoned the woman, and desired to be shown the chamber she had mentioned. It was a remarkable low-roofed attic, but it suited Gray well, for no one, he thought, would suspect him of living in, to him, so dangerous a neighbourhood as the Strand, where every inhabitant was full of gossip about the murder of Vaughan.

“This will do,” he said. “What is the price?”

Two shillings a week were named, to which Gray assented, and paying some few weeks in advance, he said,—

“When ever I go out I take the key of this room with me, and whatever requires to be done to it, must be done when I am at home, I make my own bed.”

“Very well, just as you like.”

“And mark my words, if any one should come here and ask you if you have a lodger of any description, unless you unhesitatingly answer no, I leave directly.”

“Lor, sir,—suppose some friend of your honour’s was to call.”

“I—have no friends.”

“Indeed, your honour.”

“No—nor ever had any—nor ever shall—I am peculiarly situated. There are people in this city who would murder me to keep me out of my just property.”

“Is there indeed, sir? Oh, the wretches.”

“Yes, and the reason I come to live here is by the advice of my lawyers, in order that I should not be found by those who would take my life if they could.”

“Lord, what wickedness there is in the world,” said the woman.

“There is indeed,” said Gray, gravely. “When I come to my property, depend upon a very handsome present from me if you obey my injunctions.”

The woman curtseyed to the very ground, and Gray then signified to her that she might retire and leave him.

Jacob Gray little imagined how actively Sir Francis Hartleton was watching him, and at that very moment that he was conversing with the woman about the necessity of denying him to every one, a man was in the doorway opposite taking the most accurate notice of the house, and revolving in his mind some means of discovering whether Jacob Gray intended remaining there or not.

The fact was, he had never been lost sight of by one or other of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men, and although they had been momentarily at fault when he got in at the doctor’s attic window, one of them had remained on the spot while another went into a neighbouring house, the owner of which he knew, and clambering out on the roof felt satisfied that Gray was housed somewhere.

He was instantly recognised, notwithstanding the hat and cloak, by the lynx-eyed officers, and quietly dogged to his new lodgings by one of them, while another went across the park to the magistrate to report proceedings, and take further orders.

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Chapter LXXXV

Learmont’s Treachery to Albert Seyton.—The Plot Against Gray.

The guilty career of Learmont is nearly run, and the fates are hurrying him to that awful precipice down which the souls of the wicked plunge never to return; and yet, how strange it is that in the designs and machinations of men of blood and deep iniquity, their danger is ever the greatest when they are hugging themselves in fancied security.

So was it in the strange circumstances of our story—circumstances which, with a labour we should again shrink from, we have collected from ancient resources, and time-worn family documents.

Learmont thought himself now in a far better position than he had ever been in, for although the child, whose existence in the hands of Jacob Gray had always been the bane of his existence, was now, he felt sure, in the house of the man whose energy and acuteness he had most to fear; he reasoned himself into a belief that had there been contingent upon such circumstances imminent danger to be apprehended from Sir Francis Hartleton, he would ere this have heard of it, for the magistrate was prompt in action.

“I have but now,” he thought, “to destroy Jacob Gray and his confession, whereas, before, by keeping his confession at one place, and the child at another, I dare not attack him with any degree of safety.”

Jacob Gray, too, as we have seen, fancied himself over his worst troubles, and hugged himself with the idea that he held as strong a hold as ever upon the fears of Learmont, and had but to exercise common caution to replace himself in as enviable a situation, as regards pecuniary resources, as he had been before.

Andrew Britton had plenty to drink, as he, too, felt in his way tolerably happy, only he would have given a great deal, or even consented to go without brandy for a whole day, for the sake of an opportunity of knocking Jacob Gray on the head.

Learmont’s only doubt now was whether to set the smith or Albert Seyton upon the footsteps of Jacob Gray, when he should make his next visit; for the same objection, namely, of personal recognition applied to both, only Jacob Gray would not be so apt to suppose Albert Seyton to be set on by Learmont.

Upon this argument, he decided upon informing Albert, when he should next see him, that the identity of the man he (Learmont) wished him to watch was Jacob Gray, who held so long in durance the beautiful girl whose image held so constant a place in his heart.

By still assuring Albert of the probability of Ada being with Gray, Learmont considered that he should interest him to strain every nerve to discover his residence, and, we shudder as we write it, but the cold-blooded squire determined upon the death of Albert the moment he should cease to be of any service, or become in the least troublesome or suspicious.

Engaged in such unholy cogitations as those, the day to Learmont passed more swiftly, and more pleasantly than had done many a preceding one, and when he rose the following morning, he looked more himself than he had done since his first attempt upon the life of Gray, at the ruinous house in South Lambeth—an attempt which had so signally failed, and which, in its result, had suppressed the squire with a sense of the hopelessness of ever getting rid of the running Jacob.

Albert Seyton, his mind agitated by a thousand hopes and fears, was punctual in his attendance upon Learmont; and, when he entered the room in which sat the squire, any one might have seen by his countenance that he had passed a sleepless night, and that he was suffering all the tender anxieties of newly awakened hope upon a subject nearest his heart.

Learmont motioned him to be seated, and then stealing but a glance at the face of the young man, he said,—

“Young sir, I have been thinking over the story you told me yesterday.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Albert; “may I venture to hope that mature consideration has not in any way altered the sanguine opinion you were pleased to pronounce yesterday upon the subject.”

“It has not.”

“Thank Heaven!”

“But—”

Albert’s colour came and went rapidly at this “but” of Learmont’s, and the squire continued calmly,—

“You observed my agitation yesterday.”

“I—I did, sir.”

“Can you guess its cause—that is, can you guess what brought on the spasm I am subject to?”

“I cannot, sir.”

“Then I will tell you. When you mentioned the name of Jacob Gray, a strange feeling came over me that I had heard it before, but I was not certain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes. Since last you and I met, I have taken some pains to ascertain the fact, and I find that a man of that name has applied to me, hearing of my many charities for pecuniary assistance, saying that he had an orphan child to support, and was in great poverty.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Such is the fact. His name is Jacob Gray.”

“And—and sir—you have really seen him?” stammered Albert.

“I have—he came here, and upon the spurious story he told I relieved his necessities; but the next time he came, I refused him, when I understand he cursed me as he went through my hall, and uttered threats against me.”

“The villain!”

“Yes, young sir, that is the reward generally of benevolence.”

“Oh, this is most providential,” said Albert, tears of joy bursting from his eyes—“it is surely Heaven’s own work.”

“’Tis rather singular,” remarked Learmont, coldly.

“You have then his address, sir—oh! Give it me, and let me fly to rescue—”

“Stop—I have not his address.”

Albert’s countenance fell.

“He left no address here. He would allow no inquiry into his circumstances, which was the reason I refused to continue my bounty towards him.”

“Then—then—nothing is gained,” sighed Albert—“I am wretched as before.”

“Not so,” said Learmont; “you are like all those who are easily elated—too easily depressed.”

“Pardon me, sir, but this is a matter upon which my whole happiness—my whole existence, is, as it were, staked. I do feel, perhaps, too strongly, but such love as mine is scarce, and I cannot—cannot help it, sir—pray forgive me!”

“Think not I am angry,” said Learmont, “on the contrary, I have not been so well pleased for many a day: when I said you were too easily elated or depressed, I had a suggestion to offer you.”

“How shall I thank you, sir?”

“Heed not that. My strong opinion is, that this man Gray will come here again for, after his repulse, he has written me a letter in which he begs for a small sum towards a larger one he is gathering to take him from England; and he says, that if I felt inclined, he could tell me a secret, which he is quite sure would enable me to right the wronged, and punish those who had been guilty.”

“He alludes to Ada, sir,” cried Albert, with animation. “He alludes to her of whom I told you, sir. Oh, she is beautiful and good. Sir, a nobler, better heart than hers never beat in woman’s bosom. It is not for her rare and unexampled beauty that I love her, sir. Ah, no; ’tis for her many gracious heavenly qualities—for the fine mind that, like a glistening diamond, does outshine the setting, though of purest gold.”

“No doubt he alludes to her,” said Learmont. “As I say, he sent me this letter, it was without date, without address, and stated that its writer, Jacob Gray, would call here for an answer.”

Albert’s breath seemed to hang upon the next words of the squire as he asked, “And has he been, sir?”

“He has not,” said Learmont.

“Ada! Ada!” cried Albert, and then, ashamed of the violence of his feelings, he blushed scarlet, and endeavoured to apologise.

“Heed it not—heed it not!” said Learmont. “There can be no doubt but this man will call for an answer to his letter, and your line of proceeding will then be to follow him to his home, taking care, as you say he knows you, to keep out of his sight.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I will follow him were he to lead me half over the world. Let me but once set eyes again on Jacob Gray and I will never lose sight of him except I leave him at his own home.”

“I hope,” said Learmont, who felt a delight in hurrying Albert’s spirits down from boiling point to Zero, “that my Jacob Gray and yours are the same men.”

“Surely they—they must be,” faltered Albert Seyton.

“Nay, my young friend, we should arm ourselves against the disappointment if they should turn out to be different persons.”

“The name is peculiar,” said Albert, “and perhaps, sir, you can recollect sufficient of the personal appearance of the man to enable me at once to decide upon that doubt.”

“Probably. He is thin and pale, with an ever-shifting glance, and has a peculiar habit of continually moistening his lips with his tongue, and frequently biting the under lip.”

“It is the same!” cried Albert, clasping his hands; “I should know him among a million.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure, sir, and Ada will be rescued. Sir, we shall owe you a debt of gratitude we never can repay. Heaven alone must give you your reward.”

Learmont winced a little at the idea of being handed over to Heaven for judgment, and waving his hand, he said,—

“Enough! I seek for no reward. What I do, I do freely.”

“I will never now,” said Albert, “until this man comes, lose sight of the steps of your house, sir.”

“He is sure to come.”

“And I would not then miss him for ten thousand worlds.”

“I will guard against any trifling accident: such as your missing being here when he comes, of his eluding your pursuit; for I will give him money, and encourage him to come again.”

“You are too kind, sir,” said Albert, in a broken voice.

“Not a whit—not a whit. I shall, however, exact one promise from you.”

“Do but give it a name, sir.”

“It is simply this: that when you have traced Jacob Gray to his home, you will come back to me at once without taking any further step. Your precipitancy might ruin all, whereas, if I know where this young lady you mention is to be found, without a doubt I can with cooler and more extended judgment, because of my more extended resources, take measures for her recovery that cannot fail.”

“I will obey your directions to the very letter,” said Albert. “And now I shall be in terror of his coming each moment that I am away from here.”

“On the other occasions of his visit he always came after sunset,” said Learmont, “and most probably such will be the case now. I should, therefore, strongly advise you to sleep here from this day, and never to be out of the house after darkness has fairly set in.”

Albert could almost have thrown himself at Learmont’s feet, so full of joyful gratitude was he, and he could not find word to express the overflowing feelings of his heart to him.

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Chapter LXXXVI

Gray at Home.—The Confession.—A Walk through Westminster in Search of a Wig.

How well Learmont thought he had managed his interview with poor Albert Seyton; and so he had, as far as that interview went. The results are yet to come; but as he sat alone, after the young enthusiastic Albert had left him, a ghastly smile played upon his attenuated features, and he muttered—

“Fortune is repaying me now for some of her unkindness. This affair could not be managed better than it is. Jacob Gray, your doom is sealed. There is no chance of escape now for you; for all this young man’s energies will be exerted to discover your place of abode, and it will be strange, indeed, if he succeed not. Moreover, I can give him plenty of chances, and so keep the game alive until he is quite successful, for you must come to me, Jacob Gray, for money; and each time you do so, you shall return with him upon your steps, until you are fairly hunted to your lair, and then Britton—yes, Britton, then shall rid me of you for ever.”

The squire was silent for some time, then he muttered,—

“Yes; the suspicions of the young man once awakened, he would become most dangerous, I must run no risks—I will run none. All shall be safe and sure; and that it may be so, good, credulous Albert Seyton, I will find some quiet, easy means of ridding you of the cares of this life, when you have performed your errand in it so far as I am much concerned. How I play with these puppets! First, Gray shall go; then Britton and this Albert Seyton; Sir Francis Hartleton, too, when my mind is free to bestow my whole attention upon him. I will do the thieves of Westminster a great favour, for I will find some plan of vengeance against him, which shall cost him his life. Then the girl—ay, the girl! What of her? Why, she falls into my power at once—a mere, nameless orphan girl. Her safety will depend upon the amount of his information. Let her be innoxious through ignorance of her real position, and I—I don’t want to harm her. Yet she must not be near me; because she puts me in mind of one who—who—I would fain forget. This room gets gloomy—very gloomy. There is an awful silence in the house. I hear no one speak or move, I—I must go out—out—out.”

One of his fits of terror came over him and he went backwards to the door, while his limbs trembled, and his teeth chattered with an unknown dread.

Turn we now from Learmont to Jacob Gray, who was no less miserable and no more happy in his wretched attic, than was the vile squire in his splendid mansion.

Gray sat for a time in deep and anxious thought, and then he glided down the stairs, for bells were things unknown in that locality, to ask his landlady to send for writing materials for him.

His orders were very soon obeyed, and he had on the little rickety table which stood under the small latticed window, some ink in a cracked tea cup, several pens, and a quire of paper.

Then he made a calculation of how long it would take him to get two thousand pounds in small sums of Learmont, provided the squire should refuse to entertain his proposal of a large sum at once, to insure his, Gray’s, leaving the country.

Having satisfied himself on that head, and come to a conclusion as to how many times he could call, and what sums he should insist upon having, he set about the more serious and important job he purposed; namely, to write his confession.

The whole of the day he remained at his work, and his feelings and fears were in a fearful state of agitation, while he was once more recording with his own hands, events, the lightest one of which would, if known, consign him to an ignominious end.

The sun was sinking in the west when Jacob Gray had finished his labour which he had pursued since the morning with no intermission, save for one hasty meal, which the landlady had brought him, on her own suggestion, for he had been too much engrossed with what he was about to think of food.

At length, however, he finished, and with trembling hands he wrote the superscription, “To Sir Francis Hartleton,” and tied the whole firmly round with a string.

A dark smile then came across his face as he muttered,—

“Ada, you know not what you have lost by your precipitancy. I have thought of a means of vengeance upon you. Here in this paper, I declare you illegitimate. The old priest, who performed a marriage at Naples between your father and mother, must be assuredly dead long since, and there was no witness but myself. Ha! Ha!”

He started at the hollow echo of his own laugh, and looked suspiciously around him as if he feared to see some awful visitant who had mocked his guilty exultation.

“I—I am alone,” he muttered. “’Twas but an echo. These old buildings are full of them—where now shall I hide this precious and most dangerous document?” He remained in deep thought for some time, and then he made a sudden resolution that he would keep it always about him, so that it must be found in case of anything happening to him personally, and his mind would be free from apprehension when he was from home.

He then carefully unripped part of the lining of his waistcoat, and placed the confession in between the cloth and the lining, after which, by the aid of several pins, he firmly secured it in its place.

“It is safe,” he said, “security against its loss is all I wish, not absolutely concealment; and yet, should the villain Learmont ever suspect I had this document with me, I should never leave his house alive; but how should he? I have never hitherto had any cause to fear violence at his hands in his own house; and then he thinks I have the child at home. I must consider, and, perchance, change my waistcoat when I favour you with a visit, Master Learmont.”

He then carefully searched his room to discover some place of concealment for the confession, should he feel disposed ever to leave it at home, and finally pitched upon the upper shelf of an old cupboard, in one corner where was stowed away a quantity of lumber.

“Yes,” he muttered, “I will, whenever I suspect there may be danger in carrying this document abroad with me, place it here, it will then surely be found sooner or later, and conveyed to its address. Now let me consider what changes I can make in my personal appearance, in order further to ensure my safety from those who are still on the scent for me on account of Vaughan.”

The night was by this time fairly set in, and the various objects of Gray’s miserable apartment began to lose their outlines, mingling strangely together, and in some cases assuming to his alarmed imagination, fantastic shapes that made his heart beat with fright.

“I must never be here without lights,” he muttered, “darkness itself is not so bad in its intensity as this kind of dim obscurity before the night has fairly begun its reign. I must never be without lights.”

He crept to his door, and opening it gently and cautiously, without having any motive for so doing, he slunk down the stairs as if he were afraid of being overheard. Caution and fear had become habits with Jacob Gray now, and he could not have spoken or walked boldly had he been ever so much inclined so to do.

There was no passage into the street but through the shop, and the woman who was there gave a great start as Jacob Gray came in.

“Lor’—sir,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”

“Not hear me?” said Gray. “I—I have come quickly down the stairs. I am going out on business, and mind what I before said to you in case any one should inquire for me.”

“But I don’t even know your name, sir.”

“My name?”

“No, sir, you didn’t tell me.”

Gray paused a moment, and then he said,—

“My name is Smith,” and walked out of the shop without waiting for an answer.

“Smith, is it?” said the woman, to herself; “it’s about as much Smith as I’m Smith. Well, it’s no business of mine, only I should like to know who he really is; but, howsomever, as long as he pays his way, that’s quite enough for me—not that I like his looks at all, oh, dear, no—I call him an ugly man, I do.—Well—well, ‘handsome is as handsome does’—that’s my motto!”

When Jacob Gray was fairly in the street, he glanced cautiously about him, and seeing no one, he hugged himself in the notion that he had been too cunning for his enemies, and walked on, keeping, however, very close to the houses, so that he walked in their black shadows, and could not be minutely remarked by any chance passenger.

“A black wig,” he muttered, “will help materially to disguise me.”

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Chapter LXXXVII

Jacob Gray’s Disguise.—The Troublesome Shoemaker Again.—The Visit.

Gray looked now anxiously right and left for a perruquier’s, where he might purchase a wig; for contrary to the general fashion of the day, he had worn his own hair and unpowdered. Time and great mental anxiety had, however, very much thinned as well as whitened his locks, and as he remarked, a black wig was certainly calculated to make a very material difference in his personal appearance.

There were several little mean barber’s shops in the immediate neighbourhood, but they were not possessed of such articles as he wished to purchase—the sphere of their operations being confined to the shaving of his majesty’s lieges, and particularly that portion of them who only once in a week submitted to the tonsorial operation.

Jacob Gray had, therefore, much to his dread, to wander into a better thoroughfare and more respectable street, in order to suit himself, and finally he got to Parliament-street before he could see a shop in which he was likely to get suited.

This he would not venture into until he was satisfied there was no one there but the master of the shop, when, more like an apparition than a welcome customer, he glided in, and asked for a black wig.

“Black wig, sir?—Yes, sir—certainly, sir—black wig, sir,” replied the shopkeeper, with great volubility—“should say, sir, you’ll look well, sir, in black wig, sir.”

“My time is precious,” said Gray. “Show me one immediately.”

“Certainly, sir. Time’s a precious commodity. No overtaking time, sir, no how. Lots of wigs, sir—black, brown—all sorts of shades, sir—all the gentry of Westminster wear my wigs, sir—once curled the wig of the speaker of the House of Commons, and once—”

“I am in haste, sir,” said Gray, drumming with his fingers upon the counter.

“Certainly, sir. Business is business—wigs are wigs now-a-days. Here’s one, sir, that will fit you to a miracle—your sized head, sir, is what we call number six. That’s a wig, sir, that’s a credit to me and will be a credit to you, sir.”

Jacob Gray took the wig, and fitting it on his head, looked at himself attentively in a glass.

“I think this will do,” he said, as he remarked with satisfaction the alteration it made in his aspect.

“You look wonderfully well in that wig, sir—upon my word you do,” said the barber. “I could not have believed it, sir. You look twenty-two years and a quarter younger, sir.”

“Pshaw,” said Gray. “The wig will do, I have little doubt.”

“No doubt whatever, sir—not a small shadow of a doubt. You look uncommonly well, sir in that wig. ‘So I do in anything,’ says you—but a wig is a wig, you know, and when—”

“Peace—peace,” said Gray. “The price?”

“The price, sir; why I should call that wig uncommonly cheap at two guineas, sir.”

“There,” said Gray, throwing the required amount upon the counter, and then immediately walked out of the shop of the loquacious perruquier.

“Well, I never,” exclaimed the man, after his customer had gone. “Most extraordinary man—horrid fright in that wig—must be highwayman!”

Jacob Gray did certainly look somewhat different in his wig; but no one who had ever known him well could, for a moment, have doubted the identity of his strange face, with its peculiar expression of cunning, mingled with apprehension.

“Learmont,” he muttered, “would have me visit him in the morning for some purpose, but I will make it night always, until I discover what can possibly be his motive for dragging me into daylight.”

Little suspecting then, that he was kept in view by Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, from the other side of the way, Gray walked at a rapid pace towards Learmont’s.

The squire was within, and he gave a slight start, when Gray was announced; for, at that very moment, he had been planning his murder, when he should, through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton, discover his abode.

The wig which Gray wore gave him a strange look, and Learmont could not for some time divine what it was that made the remarkable difference in Jacob Gray, but kept his eyes fixed upon him with a look of surprise, that the other could not but notice.

“I have thought it safer,” said Gray, “to try some personal disguise, as I came a long way to visit you.”

“As you please,” said Learmont coldly. “I cannot, however, perceive anything you have to fear.”

“No—no—” said Gray, “but I like not being known and recognised often by the same persons.”

“As you please—as you please, Jacob Gray.”

“Have you considered my last proposal?” said Gray.

“To take a sum of money and leave England for ever?”

“Yes.”

“If you could find some means,” said Learmont, “of ridding me of Sir Francis Hartleton—”

“Who—I—I—I cannot—I dare not.”

“Yet, you might, Jacob Gray.”

“No, no,—I can undertake no such enterprise—what I have already done Squire Learmont, has scarcely met reward.”

“Not met reward, Jacob Gray! Why, you must, methinks, by this time, have a goodly sum of money by you?”

Gray groaned, as he replied,—

“Yes—yes—of course; but not enough for independence; my expenses have been great.”

“Is your—young charge quite well?” sneered Learmont.

“Quite,” said Gray.

“Then you refuse to aid me in the destruction of this Hartleton?”

“I do. I am content with what I have done in so far as it entitles me to your gratitude—your substantial gratitude.”

“Be it so then. I will, however, consider more deeply your proposal regarding a large sum of money at once. And—and if you will come to me, say, to-morrow, I will let you know, more at large, my thoughts upon that subject.”

“I will come to-morrow,” said Gray.

“In the morning?”

“I do not know—but it will be morning or evening. Give me now twenty pounds.”

“Twenty?”

“Yes. ’Tis a small sum, Squire Learmont. Look at the enjoyments that surround you—your house—your carriages—your servants—rich wines! Ah! Squire, you need not start at twenty pounds to Jacob Gray. Happy man!”

Learmont fixed his eye upon the mocking countenance of Gray, with such an expression of deadly hatred that even he quailed under it.

“Jacob Gray,” said the squire, hoarsely—“there is in me, when I am stirred by taunts, something dangerous, that even the fear of the revelations, that such as you are may leave behind you, cannot conquer. Beware, I say—beware.”

Gray trembled before his master’s spirit, and in silence took up the purse that Learmont threw him, and quitted the house.

When he gained the street, he shook his clenched hand, menacingly at the house, muttering between his clenched teeth,—

“Beware yourself, Squire Learmont; Jacob Gray will yet bring you to a gallows!”

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Chapter LXXXVIII

Mad Maud and the Magistrate.—The Scraps of Gray’s Confession.

“Man proposes, but God disposes” is a saying which Sir Francis Hartleton was doomed to feel the truth of, as regarded his projected excursion to the Old Smithy, at Learmont, for firmly as he had fixed in his own mind to go, a circumstance occurred, which induced him, at all events, to put off his journey for some short time.

That circumstance was the discovery, by the officers he had commissioned to search for her, of poor Maud, apparently in the last stage of misery and sadness—she had met with some injury from a runaway horse, and it was in one of the most miserable of the many miserable courts about Drury-lane, that the poor creature was discovered almost starved, for those around her could scarcely find the roughest means of satisfying their own wants, and the hunger of their squalid children.

The fact was immediately communicated to Sir Francis Hartleton, and he, as soon as he could get time from his public attendance at his office, went himself to visit her and take measures for her comfort.

The poor creature was lying upon a miserable straw mattress, covered with an old rug, and the place she was in presented altogether a picture of wretchedness and want.

“How long has she been here?” inquired Sir Francis of an old crone, who showed him the room.

“Only last night,” was the reply. “She’s as mad as she can be. Just look now, sir.”

The woman attempted to open one of the hands of Maud which was clutched tightly, but the poor woman burst into a scream of agony, crying,—

“No, no, no—oh, spare me that—I found it by the dead that would not burn. Help—help. Angel come and help me now.”

“Do not torment her,” said Sir Francis. “What has she in her hand!”

“Only some crumpled up bits of paper, sir, but she thinks a mighty deal of ’em.”

“Go and fetch me the nearest medical man, and a coach,” said Sir Francis. “Here is half-a-crown for your trouble.”

The woman with a profusion of thanks went on her message, and the humane magistrate sat down by the miserable couch of the sufferer.

“Maud, Maud,” he said, close to her ear.

“Who calls? Who calls?” she muttered.

“A friend,” said Sir Francis.

She shuddered, as in a low plaintive voice she said,—

“No, no—poor mad Maud has no friend. Heaven will release her when Andrew Britton is dead. He is to die before I do—yes—yes. Oh, if I could see the angel once again.”

“You shall see her, if you will give me what you have in your hand.”

“No, no. There spoke the cunning enemy—set on by Andrew Britton. No, no—fire will not burn, a murdered corpse, and so I found the papers—most precious and rare. The angel’s flame is on one of them—that would I not part with for a thousand worlds.”

“Where got you them?”

“At the old house on the marches. Ha, ha—I—I saw the glare of the light—the ruddy hue of the fire, and I knew then that Andrew Britton was trying once again to burn the body—but he can’t—he can’t. Ha! Ha! Ha! He can’t. Fire will not touch it—no, no—he may heap faggot upon faggot, but it will not burn. Is not that rare sport—rare—rare—and Andrew Britton too, to be before poor mad Maud.”

The door now opened, and the woman approached with a medical man.

“I am Sir Francis Hartleton,” said the magistrate, rising, “will you oblige me by doing what you can do for this poor creature?”

The surgeon bowed and proceeded to examine the patient.

“She is very low,” he said, “and will never get well here. The air is pestiferous. Healthy lungs can scarcely stand it.”

“Can she be removed with safety?”

“God bless the angel,” said Maud. “Will you come again—murder—who said murder? There—there—the flames are crawling, and like long forked tongues of snakes from the Old Smithy, because they will not burn the murdered dead. No, no, no—where are you, Andrew Britton? Ha! You are here while the murder is doing—yes, yes—and yet you will die before mad Maud.”

“She raves!” said the surgeon.

“Yes, poor-creature, her senses are sadly bewildered—she has known much sorrow.”

“Ah, poor thing. These mental maladies are beyond the physician’s skill. I will, however give her, if you please, sir, a composing draught, which will most probably throw her into a slumber of some hours’ duration, and allay much of the irritability that now evidently affects her.”

“I shall thank you to do so. She shall be removed to my own house.”

“You will not be troubled with her long, sir.”

“I fear she is far gone on her last journey,” said the magistrate.

The surgeon wrote on a slip of paper the name of the medicine he wanted, and gave it to the woman of the house to fetch it from his home.

“Oh, Heavens,” said Maud, “will they murder the child—can they dip their hands in its innocent blood?—mercy—mercy.”

“Maud,” said Sir Francis.

“Hark—hark,” she cried. “Surely I hear music. Is it the passage of the angel’s wings through the sunny air, from the bright gates of Heaven—or is it human melody—ah, yes—you love me—you love me. By the moon—stars—zephyrs. Well, sing again the strain—sing, sing.”

In a low mournful voice, she chanted, rather than sun the following words,—

A Happy Time—A Happy Time!

“A happy time—a happy time!

I saw a child so gay

Trip lightly o’er the shining mead,

And laugh the hours away.

She sat beside a silver stream,

Amid the flow’rets fair:

She laughing pluck’d the fairest flowers,

And twined them in her hair;

They sweetly bloomed upon her brow,

In Nature’s wildness free.

Oh, happy child! Oh, happy child!

I would that I were thee.

“A happy time—a happy time!

I saw her once again—

That laughing child, a maiden grown,

Of wond’rous grace and mien.

She spoke—I knew again the voice,

And blessed her beauty rare,

Once more I heard her joyous laugh

Come ringing through the air.

I looked into her beaming eyes;

There joy must ever be.

Oh, happy maid! Oh, happy maid!

I would that I were thee.

“A happy time—a happy time!

She crossed my path once more,

That maiden fair; but she, alas!

Was sadder than before.

She lingered by the silver stream,

Where laughed the child so gay:

I longed to hear her laugh again,

And chase the tears away.

For tears there were upon her cheek;

Alas! That such should be.

Once happy child—once happy maid!

I would not now be thee.

“A step came sounding o’er the mead,

The tears were dashed aside,

A stranger clasped her to his heart,

“My own—my dear lov’d bride!”

I looked into the maiden’s face,

It was a happy sight:

I heard her laugh with joy again;

Her eyes beamed with delight:

She twined young roses in her hair,

’Twas beautiful to see.

There is no joy on earth like love,

Ah! Would that I were thee.”

She ceased with a shudder, muttering:—

“There, again—there, again. There’s a large murder doing at the smithy, an Andrew Britton’s hands are red with human gore.”

The opiate was by this time brought by the woman, and with great difficulty Francis made Maud attend to him.

“Here, Maud,” he said, “drink of this—’twill do you good.”

“No, no, no—there’s poison there.”

“Indeed there is not.”

“I see Andrew Britton’s face scowling at me, and the dark-souled Squire of Learmont too. There—there—save the child—save it, save it. Have mercy, Heaven!”

“Listen to me,“ said Sir Francis. “The angel has sent you this.”

She half raised herself on the miserable couch, and looked fixedly at the magistrate.

“Your face is kindly,” she said. “Did you speak of the angel?”

“Yes; she has sent you this.”

The poor creature took the cup containing the medicine in her hand, and drank off the contents without another word.

“That is well,” said the surgeon, “she will fall into a deep sleep, and no doubt waken much better—see now, already.”

The poor creature lay down, and after a few moaning expressions, which they could not hear distinctly, dropped into a heavy slumber.

“She can now be removed,” said the medical man, “with ease and safety.”

Sir Francis Hartleton, as we are aware, was an exceeding powerful man, and taking off his own ample cloak, he wrapped it carefully around the poor creature, and then lifting her in his arms, he carried her as if she had been a child, down the staircase, and placed her in the coach which stood at the entrance of the court.

He then courteously took leave of the surgeon, after making an appointment with him a few hours after at his own house, and got into the coach with Maud, having directed the driver to his house at Westminster.

Careful not to disturb her slumber, Sir Francis Hartleton unclosed the hand of poor Maud, and found crumpled into a hard ball, a number of small scraps of paper, on which were words and disjointed sentences. That the few words he could find were deeply interesting to the magistrate might have been gathered from the expressions of his face as he read them. His hands trembled with excitement as piece after piece he spread open and perused.

“Here is important matter,” he said, “but it is sadly out of joint. This must be some remnant of a paper containing a strange history, and here is, it seems, the name of Ada. I must more at my leisure examine these. Thank Heaven they have fallen into no other hands than mine.”

He then placed the torn scraps carefully in his pocket-book; and looking from the coach window, he found that they were nearly at his house. He carefully lifted the still sleeping Maud from the coach, and carried her to a comfortable bedroom, resigning her to the care of his wife and the astonished Ada, while he hurried to his own study to decipher the mysterious scraps of paper at his leisure.

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Chapter LXXXIX

The Revelation.—Learmont’s Deep Duplicity.—Albert’s Gratitude.

The morning found Albert Seyton true to his appointed time at Learmont’s. In fact, long before he could think of knocking for admittance, being ashamed of so much eagerness, he had arrived in the immediate vicinity, and wandered restlessly about until the hour should come.

The hope, so suddenly springing up as it had, in the midst of his despair of again beholding Ada, through the exertions of his new patron, had, in the endless mass of surmises and conjectures it had given rise to, banished sleep from his pillow, and it was not till the first faint gleam of the coming day poured in at his bedroom window, that he became conscious of the rapid flight of time.

To attempt to sleep then, he thought, was useless, and besides he might oversleep himself, and appear to be negligent of his appointment with the rich man, who had promised to do so much for him. He therefore rose, and as we have said, paced about the street in the vicinity of Learmont’s house, little dreaming that he was taking so much trouble and feeling so much elation for Ada’s worst and bitterest enemy.

At length he thought, although he was too soon, he might knock for admittance, and with a nervous hand he seized the old massive knocker at Learmont’s door.

He was speedily admitted, and his heart bounded with delight, when, in answer to his questions, he was told that Learmont was up and in his own private room. With a palpitating heart, Albert followed the servant who went to announce him. He heard the deep sepulchral tones of Learmont’s voice say—

“Come in!” and he thought—

“How much now one may be deceived in estimating character. Who would suppose that voice belonged to so good a man? And the countenance, too, of this squire, it is certainly not prepossessing, and yet what a kind heart he has!”

Albert Seyton was a far better physiognomist than he thought himself.

In another moment he was in the presence of one who, most on earth, he felt grateful to—but really the man who, most on earth, he had reason to entertain the greatest indignation at.

Learmont received his young secretary cautiously; and, turning to the servant, then he said,—

“Lay breakfast for me and this gentleman in the small morning room.”

The servant bowed down to the very ground, and closed the door after him so gently and quietly, that one could hardly suppose Learmont was anything but some piece of workmanship that any sudden noise or concussion of the air would destroy.

“You are early,” said Learmont to Albert, with a sickly smile.

“I fear, sir,” said Seyton, “that I have intruded upon you too soon, but my great anxiety—”

“Yes, yes, I have not forgotten,” interrupted Learmont. “Will it please you to describe to me this man, Jacob Gray, again, who kept the—the girl in such a state of bondage?”

“Certainly, sir. About the middle height—”

“Humph!”

“Pale to sallowness; a small, twinkling eye, bespeaking more cunning than courage.”

“Ay—ay.”

“A skulking, timid walk, as if ever afraid of question or pursuit.”

“’Tis very strange.”

“Sir?”

“I say, ’tis very strange. I think I have quite a surprise for you in store.”

“A surprise, sir?”

“Yes. You must hear it manfully. Can you stand the shock of sudden news?”

Albert felt at this moment as if all his fond hopes were suddenly blasted. He clasped hands, and said—

“The news is bad?”

“I said not so.”

“Then—then—”

“Not to keep you longer in suspense, young sir, I will tell you of the strangest circumstance that ever I encountered. The man who came to me for pecuniary assistance—that very man who I, from charitable motives, wished you to follow—”

Albert drew his breath short and thick, as he gasped, and said,—

“Go on, sir, I pray you. That man?”

“Is Jacob Gray.”

“God of Heaven! My heart told me so.”

“Yes, he and Jacob Gray are one.”

“This is Heaven’s work!”

“Of course.”

“Most providential!”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, sir, you have indeed lifted me from an abyss of despair to a pinnacle of happiness that makes me giddy! Thank Heaven I met with a heart like yours, and when I wish you all the happiness you really deserve, I am saying much, very much.”

“Thank you,” said Learmont, coldly. “I was much struck with your description of Jacob Gray—it seemed to fit the man who had called here exactly; but before I would agitate you by vain hopes and fears, I made inquiry among my household, and found my suspicions verified, for, on more than one occasion, he has owned to them that Gray was his name.”

“Oh, sir,” cried Albert, “I will follow that man to the world’s end!”

“Do nothing rashly,” said Learmont. “Follow him you shall; for I will stir up heaven and earth to give you an opportunity.”

“How can I express my thanks, sir?”

“By following implicitly my directions. You are young, ardent, and enthusiastic, moreover—in love; now I am neither: so I condition with you, so tender am I of the majesty of the law, and my own unblemished honour, that until I point out what is meet to be done, you take no step in this matter, beyond following this man home.”

“I promise all, sir—everything—anything.”

“’Tis well. You will follow him home, and then come at once to me. Dog the fox to his lair; and I’ll unearth him, you may depend!”

“When is he coming, sir?” said Albert, with trembling eagerness.

“That I cannot tell you. You must be in wait for him—I would have you now remain in this house until he comes again.”

“I will not stir from the door.”

“You shall have a room here; and should this man come again, with his importunate suit, I will give him something, and, during the time I am engaging him in conversation, you can take measures to follow him.”

“Sir, you have made me a new man—my blood bounds lightly through my veins—I long for you to look upon my Ada.”

“I shall be gratified,” said Learmont.

“Oh, she is beautiful!”

“What may be her age?”

“I know not, sir; but she is all perfection.”

“Of course.”

“The villain Gray shall pay a dear reckoning for each harsh word that he has spoken to her. Oh, that so much innocence, purity, and truth should be at the mercy, for one brief moment, of such a man as Jacob Gray.”

“She shall be rescued from Jacob Gray.”

“She shall—she shall! My own—my beautiful Ada, you shall not pine many more hours in your dreary imprisonment; oh, how each moment will become to me lengthened out into an age of impatience.”

“I admire your constancy and fervour,” said Learmont. “Such high and rare qualities should always command success. With your own prudence in complying with the condition I annex, as the price of my assistance, you cannot fail of accomplishing all you wish; but any impetuosity upon your part—any sudden action that may bring things to an untimely crisis, would involve, probably, her whom you love, and yourself in difficulties from which even I could not extricate you.”

“I will be prudent. When I but know where she is, I shall be happy, and will await your time to tear her from the abode of the villain Gray.”

“That time shall not be long.”

“Oh, sir,” added Albert, “you should have seen her—watched her growing beauties—lingered on every tone she uttered as I have done, to feel for me in my present state of torturing suspense.”

“I can feel for you, and I hope to see this wondrous beauty ere many days have elapsed. You must, till then, be cautious, bold, and resolute. Make this your home until Gray shall come, when I will surely let you know.”

“Sir,” said Albert, in a voice of emotion, “a lifetime of devotion could not express my deep sense of gratitude to you.”

“Heed not that—heed not that; I make you one promise, and that is, that while you live, you shall be my secretary, provided no better fortune arises.”

“What better fortune, sir, can the poor friendless Albert Seyton have, than to enjoy your favour, sir?”

“Well, well, enough of this. You will remain here, of course?”

“I will, sir, if it please you; or I will haunt about the street and door, if my presence here be at all inconvenient.”

“Far from it,” said Learmont. “Believe me, my impatience equals yours.”

Learmont now rose, and Albert Seyton, construing that into a hint to be gone, rose too. The squire rung the bell, and upon the appearance of a servant, he said,—

“See that proper accommodation is provided for this gentleman. He will remain an inmate of the house.”

Albert left the room, and followed the servant into a comfortable apartment, which commanded a pretty view of the garden.

A thought now suddenly struck him that he might as well let the servant know, in case of the sudden appearance of Gray, when Learmont might be from home, that he, Albert Seyton, was to be informed of the fact, and he said,—

“Do you know a man named Gray?”

“Gray, sir?”

“Yes, a mendicant.”

The servant looked hard at Seyton, and muttered to himself,—

“That’s a feeler to see if I gossips about the squire’s affairs.”

“A thin, pale man,” added Albert, who thought the servant was endeavouring to recollect.

“No I never saw him, sir—never saw nobody, sir—never mean to see.”

“What do you mean?”

“We never sees nobody in this house, sir. We never talks about master’s affairs, we don’t.”

“Oh, very well,” said Albert. “I have no wish to induce you to do so, I am sure. Nothing could be further from my intention.”

“No, sir,” said the servant,

“I am your master’s most devoted friend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Albert turned away, for he saw that by some means he had excited the suspicions of the man, and he determined now to say no more to him at all.

The day passed off to Albert strangely, and when the evening came, he was rejoiced that by so many hours he was nearer the completion of his hopes, for he looked upon the scheme of following Gray home as certain to bring him once more to Ada.

Sometimes he would pace his room for an hour or more in a delightful reverie, dreaming of future happiness with Ada, and fondly imagining that he was gazing on those eyes which to him were glimpses of heaven. Then again he would become despondent, and fancy her at the mercy of Jacob Gray, who to rid himself of uneasiness on her account, might at that moment be contriving her death.

The anxious lover would then torture himself awhile with this supposition, until hope refreshed sprung up again in his heart, like a phœnix from its ashes, and he smiled as, in imagination, he clasped his long-lost but much-loved Ada to his heart.

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XC. The Last Meeting.—Mutual Cunning.—The Squire and Jacob Gray

The night was dark and a lowering one, and not a star appeared in the blue vault of heaven—a raw wind swept along the river, and thence up the narrow winding streets upon its banks, slamming doors, and now and then catching the hat of a too confiding passenger, and tossing it into the roadway.

Learmont sat alone in the room he usually occupied, but he heard not the sighing of the wind, nor cared for the unpropitious aspect of the night—his thoughts were all bent upon one subject, and that was the near prospect he now had of achieving the destruction of Jacob Gray. A dark malignant smile lit up his features, and as he played upon the richly-carved table at which he sat with his fingers, he muttered in disjointed sentences the subject of his reveries.

“So they say that Heaven always confounds the wicked—those who strive for power and wealth, by other than the usual channels—hard work or sycophancy—be it so: methinks that I, Squire Learmont, must have grievously mistaken my own actions, when I thought them of a fearful nature, for surely now Heaven smiles upon all my plans and projects. It would seem as if this lover, this wild enthusiastic boy, was purposely thrown in my way to be a weapon in my hands against Jacob Gray. The confession—ah, the confession. Dare I even trust him to bring me that? Yes—yet some damning accident might give him a glimpse of its contents, or he might be seized with some sudden whim, especially being disappointed in his main object of taking the confession to him to whom it is really addressed. No, the confession I will myself secure. Yes, myself. Britton shall do the deed of blood, and when ’tis finished, I will take the confession, and it would then be far better to take the life of Gray away from his home. Here, even here it might be done. It shall. Albert Seyton shall dog his footsteps home, and his next visit here he dies, while I proceed to his abode and possess myself of the dangerous document he leaves behind him.”

How different were the reflections of Albert Seyton to those of Learmont, and yet they ran much in the same channel and the chief personage on whom they turned was the same—namely, Jacob Gray. Perhaps never had two persons, amid the whole population of London, waited with such great anxiety for the arrival of a third, as did Squire Learmont and Albert Seyton for Jacob Gray.

It was well for the success of the plan of operations against Gray that a part of it had been for Albert to remain in the house until Gray should come, for the crafty Jacob had made up his mind, whenever he visited the squire to take him by surprise as much as possible, by calling at odd times; sometimes two days consecutively, and sometimes early in the evening, and sometimes very late, so that Learmont should never be able to count upon his coming, or be surprised at any long absence he should make, nor deceived into a false security, should he not see him for a considerable period.

In pursuance of this plan, it so happened that about nine o’clock, as the squire was still in deep thought, Jacob Gray was announced.

Learmont started to his feet with a suddenness that alarmed the servant, who made a precipitate retreat to the door.

“Hold!” cried the squire. “How dare you leave the room without your orders?”

“I—I—thought—your worship, that—I—I—thought, your worship—”

“Fool!” muttered Learmont.

He then hastily tore off a small scrap of paper from some that lay before him, and wrote on it the words—

“J.G. is here.”

“Give this,” he said, “to the young gentleman, my secretary, instantly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then bring Gray to me here.”

The servant bowed, and retired, leaving Learmont standing in the middle of the room with such an expression of triumph on his face, that when Gray made his appearance, which he did almost immediately, he started back a pace or two in surprise, an action which was nearly imitated by Learmont, for Gray looked so very different in his wig, that Learmont quite started at first sight of him.

The two looked at each other for several moments without speaking, then Gray, in his quick sneering tone, said,—

“Your worship will get used to my wig in the course of time.”

“Probably,” said Learmont, “if you live so long.”

“Live so long?”

“Ay, Jacob Gray; I never saw you look so bad in all my life. You must be nearer death than you think.”

“I—I am very well,” said Gray. “I hope yet to attend your funeral, and receive something commensurate with our ancient friendship through the medium of your will.”

“You are kind and obliging,” said Learmont, “but I don’t intend to die first, Jacob Gray.”

Gray smiled in his usual sickly disagreeable manner, and then drawing himself a seat, he sat down by Learmont, and said,—

“A truce to jesting, squire. Have you thought further of my proposition to you?”

“Scarcely,” said Learmont; “and yet I have a notion of entertaining it.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

“Believe me ’tis the best and safest plan.”

“If I understand you rightly, you offer to surrender all that may make my life now a constant source of anxiety and torment for one large sum of money paid to you at once.”

“I do,” said Gray.

“The child—and—the confession?”

“The confession and the child that was, but you forget the lapse of years; that child is a child no longer, but at an age to be dangerous. The slightest hint from me would raise a spirit in that offspring of your—”

“Hush,” said Learmont, vehemently; “Jacob Gray, even here I will take your life if you dare to mention him you are about to revert to even now.”

“I will alter my form of speech more to your liking, squire,” said Gray; “I meant that one word of mine would rouse up against you a more formidable opponent than any you have ever met with.”

“And for some thousands of pounds you will leave me free?”

“I will.”

“But, cunning Master Gray, you know your wit is keener than mine,” sneered Learmont; “and how am I to be assured of your faith?”

“You shall see me on shipboard,” said Gray; “with my own hands, then, I will hand you my confession.”

“Suppose there were two copies?”

“On my faith, squire, you are too suspicious—far too suspicious.”

“Have I no cause?”

“None whatever. It is my interest as well as yours that the past should be forgotten. What could I gain by denouncing you?”

“Nothing but a barren triumph of man over man. I think, Jacob Gray, that I will trust you. But permit me, between this time and when we shall meet again, to consider of the subject.”

“I pray you do so,” said Gray, who was so elated at the idea of getting Learmont to pay him largely, for the doubtful advantage of his absence, that he almost forgot his usual caution in his extreme eagerness to induce a compliance with his wishes.

“You will feel so much at ease,” he added, “when I am gone from England never to return, and many of the fears that now disturb your mind will at once terminate.”

“I hope to terminate them so,” said Learmont.

“Such hope is wisely grounded,” replied Gray. “You have but then to get rid of the drunken sot, Andrew Britton, and a career of brilliant enjoyment will await you, unchecked by one lingering doubt of your safety.”

“’Twere a blessed state,” said Learmont, “and one I have much striven to obtain. Now, however, I do certainly begin to see some light amid the gloom which had surrounded me.”

“Your fortunes are in your hands,” said Gray; “I am tired of this mode of life. Give me five thousand pounds, and let me go in peace.”

“Your demand is large.”

“Nay, a mere trifle when compared with the revenues of your estates.”

“Well, well, I will, as I tell you, consider; and I have a fervent hope that our next time of meeting maybe our last, or, at all events, that after that, there need be but one more final interview.”

“Exactly,” said Gray; “it is in your own power, when you please to get rid of me for ever.”

“And the young claimant of all I am now worth?”

“Certainly—a pistol or a knife will get you rid of all trouble upon that head, squire.”

“Certainly, but you ought to do so much for me as part of your bargain,”

“No, no,” said Gray, confused; “I—I cannot—my nerves will not permit me, I really cannot. If you shrink yourself from the deed, why there is Andrew Britton, the savage smith, who revels and rejoices in blood. He will do the deed for you without a murmur.”

“You think then that Britton is the best man I can employ to commit a murder?”

“I do.”

“Then he shall have the job.”

Gray smiled to himself as he thought, “You must first wrest your prey from the hands of Sir Francis Hartleton—no easy task!” Then he said aloud,—

“You are now on the right path, squire, you have but to pursue it, and every wish you ever nourished of pleasure and ambition will be satisfied.”

“I do begin to think so,” said Learmont.

Jacob Gray now rose, and said,—

“I will bid you adieu, squire, but being rather pressed for money. I will trouble you for fifty pounds.”

“Fifty pounds?”

“Ay, ’tis but a small instalment of the thousands. Agree, at our next meeting, to my terms, and I will deduct this fifty pounds from the gross sum I am to receive.”

“As you please,” said Learmont; “but, Jacob Gray, I will not give you so large a sum now.”

“You will not?”

“I will not.”

“Know you who I am?”

“Too well, and by this time you should know me. There are ten pounds, Jacob Gray. Take them or none.”

“Has—has it come to this?” muttered Gray.

“It has,” said Learmont.

“Know you your dangers? What if I leave England suddenly and behind me is found—”

“Pshaw! You mean your confession,” interrupted Learmont, “I know you can, if it so please you, Jacob Gray, but you prefer money to revenge.”

“I do, but the money must be sufficient.”

“It is most ample.”

Gray looked in the calm pale face of the squire for a moment or two in silence, then he took the ten guineas which Learmont had laid upon the table, and with a bitterness of tone, which he in vain tried to conceal, he said,—

“It matters not, ten pounds or a hundred, the result must be the same; I must and will have a certain sum, and now I am resolved to have it in a certain time. Farewell, Squire Learmont, you have begun your independence too early. Farewell.”

He left the room, and Learmont looked after him with such a smile as he had not worn for years, and muttered,—

“Have I begun my independence too early Jacob Grey? Humph, by some half dozen hours only, I do devoutly hope and trust. If you see another sunrise, I shall be a disappointed man.”

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XCI. The Pursuit.—The Spy.—The Three Wherries on the Thames

Could Jacob Gray, in his wildest flight of fancy, have for one moment imagined that Albert Seyton stepped after him from Learmont’s door in a few moments after he had left it, how different would have been his feelings to what they were—how changed would have been the expression of his countenance! Never, in the whole course of their guilty career, had he and Learmont had so strange an interview. Never had each succeeded in deceiving each, as they had done on that eventful evening. Jacob Gray departed with a smile of triumph on his face, and he left Learmont with its counterpart upon his.

The impatience of Albert Seyton after he had received Learmont’s short intimation of Jacob Gray’s avowal knew scarcely any bounds, and it appeared to him an age before Gray passed across the hall to leave the house.

Albert had taken his station just within a small waiting-room which commanded a view of the great staircase, and at the first sight of Jacob Gray descending; his emotions were so powerful that he was compelled to sit down to recover his composure, during which brief period, Gray crossed the hall, and passed into the street with a rapid pace.

The necessity, however, for immediate action soon roused Albert to some exertion, and being fully equipped for the streets, he made but one bound across the hall, to the great astonishment of the servants, and reached the street just in time to see Gray turn the first corner.

The emotion of Albert Seyton had now died away, and he kept but one object in view, and that was the restoration to him of his much-loved Ada, as a consequence of his successful pursuit of Jacob Gray.

He became calm, cool, and firm—every nerve seemed stretched to its utmost tension, and with a speed that was really tremendous, he cleared the distance between Learmont’s door and the corner at which Gray had disappeared.

The object of his anxious pursuit was but half a dozen paces in advance of him, when Albert turned cautiously the corner, and the young man stepped into a doorway, to allow him to proceed to a safer distance.

It would have been a curious study for any one more free to make observations than was Albert Seyton, to mark the curious, suspicious manner in which Gray went along the streets. His home was really not ten minutes’ walk from Learmont’s house; but something on this one evening, in particular, seemed to possess him with a notion of extreme caution, and when he had left Learmont’s door, instead of turning to the left, which he should have done, and then crossed Whitehall, he turned to the right, with a resolution of making a detour through the intricacies of Westminster before he reached his home.

He went on till he emerged into Parliament-street, for he had a great notion of how much he was disguised in his new wig, and he did not mind venturing into a crowded thoroughfare so much as he did before.

Crossing then by the House of Lords, he passed Westminster Abbey, and with a slow, measured step, sauntered down Abingdon-street.

Once or twice Gray had wheeled round to look behind him so suddenly upon his heels, that had not Albert ever kept at a respectful distance, and being favoured by the darkness, he must have been discovered; but Gray passed on again without suspicion, for Seyton on these occasions had not shown any signs of trepidation, or wish to hide himself, but had walked carelessly forward with a determination, however, in his own mind, of knocking at some door rather than come close up to Gray.

The wily Jacob, however, did not once wait for the listless passenger to pass him, so that Albert was not reduced to that troublesome alternative, and the pursuit continued the whole length of Abingdon-street, without any circumstance occurring to awaken suspicion in Gray’s mind.

It was not, however, altogether so with Albert, for in Parliament-street he had noticed a man on the opposite side of the way to be keeping his eye upon Jacob Gray, and when they passed the abbey, the same man appeared again, and it was evident to Albert that he wasn’t the only one who was dogging Jacob Gray to his home.

Had he but known that this was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, how much future trouble and uneasiness would have been spared him; but as it was, he only saw in the circumstance an additional cause for alarm on Ada’s account, for he could not possibly divine what motive any one but himself could have in tracing Gray to his home, unless it were that the villain had been making similar applications to the one he, Albert, fully believed he had made to Learmont, and some other person was following him home with a similar motive to Learmont’s, when he first requested him, Albert, to trace the man’s footsteps.

This might or might not be the motive of the spy upon Jacob Gray, but one thing soon became certain, and that was, that the stranger began to regard Albert with as much suspicion and distrust as Albert regarded him, and probably never were two people engaged in one object, more angry at each other just then, than Albert Seyton and the spy of Sir Francis Hartleton.

Jacob Gray would have almost fallen dead in the street with fright, had he imagined for one moment the predicament he was in—but, on the contrary, he went on applauding himself upon his own cleverness; and, perhaps, never had he felt so satisfied of his superiority in point of cunning over all his enemies than he did that night.

“I shall yet, after all that is past,” he thought, “receive a large sum of money, and be an independent man, while I adequately punish all who have given me uneasiness. The only men I cannot crush are the scoundrels who robbed me after my little adventure with Vaughan. I see no ready way of being revenged upon them, and my only consolation is that, sooner or later, they are sure to come to the gallows.”

Hugging himself with his idea, although, metaphorically speaking, he, Gray, may be said to have had the rope then about his neck, the villain passed on by the low swampy bit of ground on which the Penitentiary is now built.

He then paused a few moments, as if in doubt which way he should go next, and Albert Seyton crouched down by some timber which lay upon the ground, while Sir Francis Hartleton’s man drew back into the shadow of some irregular small, wretched dwellings which stood near the water’s edge.

Gray did not keep them long in suspence, for after a slight reflection, he determined upon adopting his favourite plan of reaching home, with, at all events, the nearest approach to a certainty of not being followed, namely, by water. He accordingly walked down to some stairs by the river side, passing within arm’s length of Albert, and jumped into a wherry in which was a boy lying fast asleep.

Gray awoke the boy roughly, and when, with a bewildered look, he gazed into the face of his visitor, Gray said,—

“Can you row me to the stairs, by Burlington House in the Strand?”

“Yes, master,” said the boy, as he began unmooring the wherry.

Gray seated himself in the stem of the boat in silence, and pulling his cravat over his chin, he with a smile muttered,—

“Humph—Squire Learmont, Jacob Gray is one too many for you. The day of independence and revenge will come for me soon.”

The boat shot out from the shadow of the dark stairs, and the boy began pulling easily towards Westminster-bridge.

Scarcely had the boat got a dozen oar’s length from the shore, when Albert Seyton stood upon the steps, and cried,—

“Boat—boat—hilloa, boat!”

“First oars!” cried another voice,—“quick, my man, first oars here!”

Albert turned to the speaker, and by his side, on the slippery wooden steps, was the man he had before noticed as following Gray.

For a moment they looked at each other intensely, and the officer thought to himself—

“I shall know you again, my young spark;” while Albert Seyton was quite absorbed in the exceedingly ugly face before him, further adorned as it was, for nature had intersected it by several seams from old wounds received in many a fray.

“Here you are, your honour,” cried a waterman.

“For me,” said Albert.

“I beg your pardon, young fellow, it’s for me,” said the spy.

Albert turned to him, and in a firm voice said—

“Sir, I will not be bullied out of my right by you; I called a boat first here, and the first boat I will have.”

So saying, he sprung into the wherry; and not wishing the man to overhear where he really wished to go, he merely said to the waterman,—

“Pull down the stream.”

The boat was pushed off, and the spy called from the stairs in an angry voice,—

“Very well, young fellow, just wait till I come across you again; you may jump better, but I’m d—d if you’ll fight better than I.”

“Go home to your anxious mother,” cried the waterman, who, as Albert was silent, considered he was bound to take the part of his fare.

“Do not answer him,” said Albert.

“He’s a vagabond, sir,” said the waterman,—“I knows him. He’s a sort o’ sneak as goes arter everybody’s business but his own.”

“Do you see a wherry just ahead?” said Albert.

“Yes, master.”

“I want you to follow it. You shall have treble fare if you keep it in sight, and not appear to press upon it.”

The waterman gave a long whistle; and then, with a nod of his head, he said—

“All’s right. It’s Ben’s boy as is pulling; and by G—d, there comes your friend.”

“My friend?” said Albert, as he looked back towards the stairs.

There was another wherry darting after them, in the stern of which sat the ugly man.

“Pull away,” said the waterman, with a laugh, as he took long clean sweeps with his oars,—“a stern chase is a long chase.”

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Chapter XCII

The Chase on the Thames.—Albert’s Successful Disguise.—The Old Stairs at Buckingham-street.

There was something spirit-stirring and exciting to the young imagination of Albert Seyton in the turn things had taken, as regarded his chase of Jacob Gray. Who or what the man was who seemed equally determined with himself not to lose sight of Gray, he could not divine; but be he whom he might, or his object what it might, Albert resolved he should not stand in the way of his own great effort to discover his long lost Ada.

“He may follow,” thought Albert, “and I cannot, with any show of reason, quarrel with him for the same thing that I am doing myself; but he shall not, if I can help it, be foremost in the chase.”

While these reflections were passing through Seyton’s mind, the boat in which was Jacob Gray was shooting far ahead; and by Albert’s direction, the waterman who rowed the wherry in which he (Albert) sat, moved into another channel, so as not to seem to follow Gray’s boat, although he easily kept it in view.

“You quite understand me,” said Albert; “I wish to follow yon wherry sufficiently close to see where it lands its passengers without being seen myself. My object is an honest one, and I pray you, as you know the river, to adopt some course which will accomplish my purpose.”

“I tell you what it is,” said the waterman. “The safest way in the world to follow a boat, is to pass it.”

“Rather a strange way of following,” said Albert.

“I don’t exactly mean following,” added the man; “but finding out where it’s a going to. Now, I can easily pass Ben’s boy, and then all we have to do, is to take no notice, but keep on ahead for a little way till they puts in at some stairs. They won’t suspect nothink then.”

“That is a very good plan,” said Albert; “but he I am following knows me by sight, I fear too well, to make it safe or practicable.”

“Oh!—He does—does he? Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do—put on my jacket and badge, and this red night-cap, and I’ll be hanged if your own mother would know you.”

“Row easy, then, that the change may not be noticed,” said Albert.

The boatman dipped but one oar languidly in the stream, and allowed the wherry to drift among some barges when he instantly shipped his oars, and doffing his coat and red night-cap, he tendered them to Albert, who was soon attired in the very cumbrous garment, which went on easily over all his other clothing. He then gathered up all his long hair, and confined it under his red night-cap, which he pulled on nearly to his eyes.

The waterman sat for a moment, apparently lost in intense surprise, at the alteration which the two articles had made in his customer’s appearance, and certainly it would have required somebody most wonderfully well acquainted with the young man to recognise him in his strange disguise. A more complete alteration of personal appearance could not possibly be conceived, and the absence of the long curled hair gave his face quite a different contour.

“Upon my word,” said the waterman, “I never saw, in all my life, anything to ekal this. Why, I shouldn’t have known you myself for my fare. You needn’t mind running alongside of him now, for I’ll be hanged if he’ll guess it’s you, if he eats, drinks, and sleeps with you.”

“I dare say I look very different,” said Albert, “but for Heaven’s sake don’t lose sight of him.”

“Oh! I’ll be up to him in five minutes. I know how Ben’s boy can pull, and I know how I can pull. Hilloa—there goes your friend.”

The boat, with the spy, shot past at this moment, and Albert was now the last in the chase, to his great aggravation.

Such a state of things, however, did not long continue, for the waterman, after taking a sturdy look behind him to mark the relative position of the boats, bent to his oars with such strength and determination that the light wherry shot through the water with amazing speed. At each vigorous pull of the oars the boat actually seemed to jump forward several yards, and the distance between it and the boat preceding it sensibly decreased each moment.

“I told you I’d soon be up with them, sir,” said the waterman, as they came within a dozen boats’ lengths of the wherry in which was Sir Francis Hartleton’s man. “Now you’ll see me pass ’em, in proper style. I won this boat on the Thames, and you shall see as it ain’t thrown away upon me.”

The oars were dipped cleanly into the stream, and rose with scarcely a ripple—the speed of the boat, for the space of about twenty yards, was prodigious, and Albert felt that he was moving through the water at a most exhilarating rate. Now they were alongside of the boat with the spy, who immediately, to the immense diversion of the waterman, cried,—

“Hilloa, you there. Where did you land that young fellow you had?”

“Him with the long hair?” said the waterman.

“Yes!”

“And the plum coloured coat?”

“Yes, yes—you know.”

“You want to know where I landed him?”

“Of course, I do. I asked you that.”

“Then find out, spooney.”

“I tell you what,” cried the spy. “If I wasn’t busy, I’d have you taken before your betters.”

“They are no acquaintances of yours, I should say,” replied the waterman.

“Do you see this?” cried the infuriated spy, as he produced a small staff with a gilt-crown on the top of it. “Do you see this, fellow?”

“Yes!”

“Then mind what you are at.”

“Do you see this?” said the waterman, indicating with his fore finger the extreme point of his nose, an action which seemed to be especially aggravating to the officer, who immediately said to the boy,—

“Pull alongside of him—pull away.”

“Pull away,” echoed Albert’s waterman, as with a laugh, he bent himself to his work, and soon left the other wherry behind, without a hope of overtaking him.

When the wherry was out of ear-shot, he turned to Albert and said,—

“You see, sir, he didn’t know you.”

“No, my disguise appears to be effectual. Get now as near to the other boat as you like.”

The man nodded, and in a few moments, Albert Seyton was so near to Jacob Gray that he could almost have sprung from one boat to the other.

Gray looked anxiously and suspiciously at the wherry, but as it, to his eyes, contained only two watermen, he never for a moment dreamt of any danger from it.

Albert buried his chin in the ample collar of the coat, and as his boat passed so close to the one Gray was in that the watermen had both to ship their oars, he gazed with no little emotion upon the pale sallow face of the man who he would have travelled all over the world to meet, in order to wring from him the knowledge of where to find his much-loved and cruelly-persecuted Ada.

Gray glanced for a moment at Albert, but it was evident he knew him not. Nothing was further from Gray’s thoughts than a meeting with Albert Seyton; and, in fact, since Ada had left him, he scarcely regarded Albert Seyton as in any way connected with him or his fortunes, and never for a moment took the trouble to speculate upon what he would or could do or say, were they to meet accidentally.

“Where are you coming to now?” cried Gray’s boatman.

“Nowhere’s partiklar,” was the reply of the other; “where are you?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Oh, nothink—nothink—only I’d a let you lay hold behind.”

Gray’s waterman, with a hearty curse, resumed his oars and gave up the parley.

“Now, I bethink me,” said Gray, in a low tone, “you may put me in at the small stairs, by Buckingham-street.”

“Yes, your honour. We are just there.”

“Good. That will do.”

The stairs at the end of Buckingham-street led up to a handsome garden then, and were themselves of an ancient and decayed appearance, being worn in the centre quite into deep hollows, and withal so rickety and injured by time and rough usage, that it required some steadiness to ascend them. Jacob Gray, however, from that very reason, thought it a safe place of landing, and when the head of his boat was moored to one of the crumbling piles, that had been rotting in the bed of the river for more than fifty years, he walked cautiously along the seats, and after liberally paying the waterman, he commenced carefully ascending the slippery time-worn steps.

Albert, at this moment, was in a state of excitement impossible to be described. He paid the waterman immediately Gray’s wherry turned its head towards the shore, and sat with his hands upon the coat, as ready as a harlequin in a pantomime to throw it off, and assume his proper appearance; but then Gray might look round, and he felt the necessity of waiting until he had actually ascended the stairs. Oh, what an agony of suspense was that brief period!

At length Gray turned sharp round to his right hand when he got to the top of the steps, and with the speed of lightning Albert Seyton threw off the coat and night-cap, and sprung after him to the intense astonishment of Gray’s waterman, who stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring out of his head like those of a boiled fish, for nearly two minutes before he could ejaculate,—

“Well, I never—there’s ago—in all my blessed born days I never. Who the devil’s that?”

“Ah, your’s hit it now,” said Albert’s waterman, as he deliberately put on the coat.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been giving the devil a coat. Didn’t you see how quick we went?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he was steering with his tail all the time, so you see I’d nothing to do but to pull away.”

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Chapter XCIII

Gray at Home.—Albert’s Joy and Exultation.—The Meeting in the Old Door Way.

“Make way there!” roared Sir Francis Hartleton’s man, as the boy who rowed him shot the wherry’s nose between the other two. “Make way there—curse you all, I am on the king’s business.”

“Make way for his majesty,” cried the man who had carried Albert Seyton. “He says he’s on the king’s business, but that’s only his modesty. He’s the king himself, I shouldn’t wonder, disguised as a fool.”

The spy had scrambled from the boat on to the wooden steps, but he was so annoyed at this last remark, that snatching his staff from his pocket, he turned round, saying,—

“If I lose my proper game, I’ll make sure for you for obstructing an officer. You shall have a lodging in the watch-house, my exceedingly witty fellow.”

The waterman was, however, a great deal too quick for him; for, as he tried to step from the stairs into the boat, by one sweep of his oars he shot the wherry out some three or four yards from the landing, and the spy stepped up to his knees in the river, and was nearly precipitated head foremost into the stream.

“Don’t pison the water,” said the waterman; and then he pulled steadily away.

“I’ll have you another time, my man,” said the spy, quite livid with rage, as he turned, and again ascended the steps.

In the meantime Jacob Gray had gathered his cloak closely around him, and smiling to himself at his own cleverness in, as he thought, thoroughly outwitting Learmont, and even when there was no danger, approaching his home in so very baffling a manner, was creeping along close to the houses as usual towards his obscure lodgings.

Albert Seyton, when he reached the top of the stairs, looked anxiously to the right, and there he saw Gray, not half a dozen yards from him. To follow so closely would have been very dangerous, undisguised now as the young man was, and he hung back, still keeping Jacob Gray in his eye, until the latter had proceeded nearly to a turning which led into the next street but one in which he lived. The moment, then, that he was upon the corner Albert walked hastily forward, and by pursuing the same system at the corner of the next street, he fairly succeeded in dogging Gray to the little mean shop above which he lodged.

Albert’s heart beat high as he saw him enter the humble abode. His agitation became extreme, and the thought that he was so near Ada caused such a tumult of delightful feelings in his breast, that he forgot all passed suffering—all present cautions, and actually bounded forward half a dozen paces towards the shop, before his promise to Learmont came across his mind, and arrested his eager footsteps.

“Oh, oh,” he said, “Ada, my beautiful and true. Even now, although so near to you, I must not rush to your rescue. My word of honour binds me, but I can gaze with rapture upon the house in which you are. I can please myself by fancying I breathe the same air with you. Oh, how cruel is this that I cannot, for my promise to the rich squire, at once rush into the house that contains my heart’s treasure, and claim it as my own, I must control my impatience. Ada, your imprisonment shall now be but of short duration. Soon now shall I clasp you to my heart.”

Albert now crossed over to the other side of the way, and diving into a doorway where he was completely hidden, but from whence he could command a good view of the house in which he so erroneously supposed Ada to be, he gave himself up to the delirious feeling that he had at length arrived at the end of all his troubles, and Ada would soon be his, while the patronage of the rich Squire Learmont would ensure him ease, and perhaps in time fortune.

There was no sign of inhabitants visible in the whole front of the house; but in a few more moments, as Albert rose his eye restlessly from window to window, he saw a dirty narrow curtain moved in one of the top rooms, and fancy made him think the hand was Ada’s, which he saw but partially.

“My Ada—my own. Ada—my beautiful,” he cried; “oh! If I could but be sure now that you were well, and,—”

He was interrupted at this moment by some one popping into the dark doorway so suddenly as to run against him with great violence.

Albert immediately laid hold of the intruder, and cried—“Hilloa, friend! Softly here.”

“What do you do here?” cried a man’s voice in no very pleasant accents.

“I may as well retaliate the question.”

“Oh! Be d—d,” cried the man, who was no other than the spy, “I know you now by your voice. You are the fellow who took a boat before me.”

“Then I presume,” said Albert, “you are the fellow who took a boat after me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What I say.”

“Come, come, no nonsense, young fellow—what do you mean by following that man you have made such a run after?”

“I never explain my affairs to strangers,” said Albert, coldly.

“I’m an officer.”

“I don’t care if you are a dozen officers,” said Albert, “you have nothing to do with my private affairs.”

“But I can take you up on suspicion.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, I can, and for your impudence, I will too.”

“Then,” said Albert, “I’ll knock you down first;” and suiting the action to the word, he grappled with the officer before he was aware, and although much the lighter and weaker of the two, threw him upon his back in the passage with so much violence, that he lay stunned.

“I am sorry for this,” thought Albert; “but I can allow no vexatious interference with me now. Farewell, dear Ada, for a time—your lover will be with you soon—I will now away to Learmont’s and claim his proffered assistance.”

Casting then, ever and anon, lingering looks behind at the house, which he believed contained the object of his fond affections, Albert left the street; and when he had turned the corner, and could no longer see even the habitation of Jacob Gray, he started off at a pace which astonished every one he passed, towards the house of Learmont.

Jacob Gray, when he reached his room, sat down on the side of the miserable little bed, and began to think of his future plans and hopes, with a feeling of certainty, as regarded their stability, such as he had rarely before experienced. It seemed as if Providence having now hurried him on to the very brink of destruction, was determined that his fall should be the more dreadful and full of suffering by his having no sort of anticipation of it. He was as one smiling and making long calculations on the brink of the grave.

“Learmont,” he said, “has seized the bait—I shall be wealthy and free, besides satisfying my revenge. They taunt me with being subtle—I trust that they will find me so. They might long ago have temporised with me, and ensured their own safety by never awakening in my breast the dark feelings towards them that now possess it; but they sought my life, and I swore revenge. Britton and Learmont shall fall in one common destruction, while Ada shall have more trouble to prove her legitimacy than will last her life, should she linger to the age of an ancient patriarch. Yes, I shall be revenged on her, as well as upon Britton and Learmont.”

He sat then for some moments in deep thought, and a feeling of anxiety began to creep over him.

“I am getting nervous now,” he muttered; “of late I am fearfully subject to such gloomy thoughts. I shall be glad when this gloomy, lonely life is over. It suits not with my disposition. I—I did not feel it so much when she was with me, but now that I am quite alone, a shuddering awe creeps around my heart, and I start at the merest trifle. Gracious Heaven—how my heart beats now! ’Tis time I should have ease and comfort in some other land, where all things are new and strange, and there is nothing to remind me of the past—aye, then, I shall know peace.”

He rose, and paced his room uneasily; but even in his mental agitation he trod cautiously, as if the very boards would proclaim, to the world—there trod Jacob Gray, the murderer! Then he produced his confession, and a strange desire seized him to read it carefully through, and make some verbal corrections in it, in order that it should be still more clear and explanatory than it had been. Again, and again, he read over the document, and was satisfied that its notations were distinct and clear.

“Yes—yes—if anything should happen to me,” he muttered, “this will destroy Learmont and Britton, and likewise doom Ada to poverty, while the estates of Learmont will revert to the crown, or some very distant branch of the family that will be eager to acquire them. So even I should not fall quite unavenged. In my death I should be terrible. Death?—Death? I am not going to die—why did such a thought enter my brain? ’Tis strange—very strange.—I never thought of death before this night. I—I am quite well—quite. ’Tis a mere feverish fancy; a vision crossing the over-excited brain. I have had hundreds of such—such forebodings. I suppose that is what I must call the strange feeling that now oppresses me.”

He was now silent for some time, and then, hastily rising, he held the confession in his hand and glanced around his room, as he said,—

“I will never again carry so important a document as this about with me. ’Tis far better—far safer in some hiding-place here; and then suppose it should not be found till some time after my death. That word again—death—death—pshaw, what have I to do with death, for many years to come?”

He, nevertheless, trembled, as he strove to reason himself out of his nervous fears, and he was some time before he could decide upon where to put his confession, so that it must eventually be found, but still where a search would be required to bring it to light. He finally ripped some of the lining from his cloak, and inserted the confession between that and the cloth.

“There it will be quite safe from any casual observation,” he said, “while sooner or later it must come to light, and my vengeance would be greater by a little delay, because Learmont would be lulled into fancied security if no immediate danger assailed after my death.”

He sunk upon his chair muttering.

“Death again—death again—death again—how that notion haunts me! An absurd fancy; in my case a most absurd fancy, for never was I so safe—so free—so likely to obtain all that I wish as I am now—my star is in the ascendant.”

He hung the cloak on a large hook behind the door of his room, and then said,—

“How many persons would search this room, and toss this cloak about, without discovering that it contained anything so important as that now hidden in it.”

He then proceeded to a cupboard, and taking from it a case bottle, he drank a quantity of raw spirits, to which he had latterly habituated himself whenever he felt any disagreeable mental qualms which he could not reason himself out of.

“Drink—drink,” he muttered, as he returned the case bottle to its place. “That is the wretch’s last solace. It will for a time banish care, but it is a deceitful fiend that comes at first with semblance of great friendship, but sooner or later it will turn upon him who has been lured by it, and become a deadly foe. I—think I will sleep now—all is safe, and I am very weary; my confession will be found after my death—ah, that word again—death—death—nothing else can I think of—come, welcome sleep.”

He threw himself upon his bed, and exhausted as he was by the few preceding day’s actions, he soon dropped into slumber—not an unbroken or easy one, though, for the imagination, now freed from the control of reason, conjured up fearful images into the brain of the man of crime.

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Chapter XCIV

Strong Drink at the Chequers.—The Summons to Britton.—His Majesty’s Amusements.

Britton’s rage at the escape of Gray from his room, where he thought he had him so securely, almost made him sober for the next four-and-twenty hours. He was in too great a passion to drink, and it was not until his friend the butcher had generously drunk both Britton’s share and his own of sundry strong compounds, that the smith, dashing his clenched first upon the table with a blow that made every article upon it jump again, exclaimed,—

“Brandy—brandy here. Quick with you.”

“Your majesty shall have it in a moment,” cried the landlord; “may I presume to ask if your majesty will have it raw or mixed?”

“Neither,” roared Britton.

“Neither? Oh dear me. Certainly—perhaps your majesty means a little of both?”

“No, I don’t, fool! Bring me a pint of brandy boiling.”

“B—b—b—boiling?”

“Yes.”

“Without any water?”

“What do I want with water. For the future I’ll drink nothing but boiling brandy.”

“Smash me,” remarked Bond, the butcher, “if that ain’t a good idea.”

“Off with you,” roared Britton, to the amazed landlord. “Mind you bring it in with the bubbles on it. Let me see the hot steam rising from it—like—like reeking blood, and be d—d to you—take that.”

As these remarks were accompanied by a pint measure, which passed within an inch of his head, the landlord made a wild kind of rush from the room shouting,—

“Brandy boiling—brandy boiling directly, for his majesty King Britton.”

Britton felt himself wonderfully better and much appeased in spirit after his order of the boiling brandy, and he turned to the butcher with something of his usual manner, saying,—

“Bond, my boy, I shall never be the man I was till I have taken that fellow’s life.”

“You don’t say so?” remarked Bond.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, be bothered; you’ll be able to drink as much as ever, I know.”

“Yes as to that—but,—”

“Well, what more do you wish? Don’t be unreasonable—joint me with a notched cleaver if I don’t think you are the most comfortable cove as I knows, and lots of money and nothing for to do but to melt it down into all sorts o’ strong drinks. I calls that being in heaven, I does.”

“It’s something,” said Britton.

“Something? I believe you it is. Why, if you was an angel, what more could you have, I should like to know?”

“Jacob Gray’s blood.”

“So you will, but you must wait your time. Now I tell you what, Master Britton; you’re like a pig as is going to be stuck—he makes a squalling when he knows as it won’t do no good, and here you’ve been a denying of yourself your proper drink when you know that’ll do no good. Have patience till this ’ere follow as you owes sich a uncommon grudge to, comes in your way again, and when he does, don’t you let him out of arm’s length. Just give him a malleter on the head to stun him, while you fetches me, and then we can cut him up quite comfortable.”

“I was a fool to leave him a moment,” said Britton; “I ought to have known better. The fellow is as crafty as a dozen devils rolled and welded all into one. He has as many shiftings and doublings as a hunted fox.”

“Some animals is very difficult,” said Bond, “to bring to the slaughter. A ring in his nose, and a rope is the very best thing, but it’s difficult to put it on.”

“You are an ass, Bond,” said Britton, “it ain’t a bullock, you idiot, but as crafty a man as ever stepped.”

“Perhaps I is a ass,” remarked Bond. “Birds of a feather they always flocks together, which I take it, is the reason why us two makes such good company, Master Britton.”

The landlord at this moment made his appearance, with the boiling brandy in a punch-bowl. At least, the landlord was supposed to follow it into the room; for the steam that arose from the liquor hid his face in a kind of glory, such as sometimes may be seen in an old picture confounding the physiognomy of a saint.

He said nothing, but laid the streaming beverage before Britton, and then he coughed, and winked, and wiped his eyes, and sneezed, all of which symptoms of uneasiness arose from the subtle particles of the evaporating spirit having nearly suffocated him.

“What do you mean by all that?” said Britton.

“Ah, what do you mean?” roared Bond, giving the landlord a smack on the back that nearly felled him.

“The—the steam of brandy is rather—a—chew—, a—a—a—chew. Bless me, I can’t help sneezing—a—chew—strong—very—strong. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very good for the eyes, it makes ’em water so. What an idea—boiled brandy!”

“Oh, you think it’s a good idea, do you?” said Britton, as he ladled up a brimmer of the scalding-hot spirit.

“Uncommonly good—chew.”

“Leave off that sneezing, will you?”

“I really can’t—a—chew. Excuse me, your majesty, but we never had such a thing as boiled brandy ordered at the Chequers before.”

“Oh, indeed; then you shall have a drop. Come drink, this—drink I say.”

“Really, I—I—”

“You won’t!”

“I don’t presume to use such an expression in reference to any command from your majesty, but the truth is—I would rather not.”

“But I say you shall.”

“Spare me, your majesty; I am rather weak in the head.”

“Hold him, Bond, while I pour it down his throat,” cried Britton.

The landlord groaned—“If I must take a small sip, why I would rather take it myself.”

“Toss it off, then, at once; and don’t be making those faces. Come, now, off with it.”

The landlord was perfectly well aware that no mortal throat could with impunity swallow the scalding liquor to trickle down it; and, in fact, he had been pleasing himself with the idea of how scalded the smith would be if, with his usual precipitancy, he should take a gulp of the liquor; but now that it came to his turn first, the joke altered its complexion altogether, and his hand trembled as he held the ladle to his mouth.

“Quick,” roared Britton; and the unfortunate landlord took a small sip, which went down his throat like a small globule of melted lead, and induced him to make such wry faces and contortions as quite delighted Andrew Britton, who, in the enjoyment of the moment, actually forgot Jacob Gray.

How long the landlord’s sufferings might have been protracted it is hard to say; but fortunately for him, in the midst of Britton’s high enjoyment of the scene, a boy came into the room, and screamed out, without the least reverence for the kingly dignity that the smith had assumed at the Chequers,—

“Is Andrew Britton here?”

“Halloo, you villain,” cried Britton, “what do you mean?”

“I wants Andrew Britton,” cried the boy.

“You scoundrel!”

“You’re another!”

Britton’s face assumed a purplish hue with rage, but he was silent, and then beckoning to the boy, he whispered to Bond,—

“I’ll scald him from top to toe.”

“Don’t you wish you may catch me,” cried the boy, “hilloo, old read face. Look at your nose. I want Andrew Britton.”

“Oh, you villain,” cried the landlord, “how dare you behave so? What do you want with the gentleman you have named?”

“I’ve got a letter for him—where is he? I suppose as he’ll give me a penny.”

Britton slowly rose from his seat and began sidling round the table towards the boy; who, however, was far too quick and agile for the bulky smith, and throwing a folded piece of paper upon the floor, he darted to the door, crying—

“Don’t you wish it, old guts; you’ll make yourself ill if you exert yourself so. Good-bye.”

“Hold him,” cried Britton to the landlord, who made a futile, and not very energetic, attempt to detain the boy, who was out of the house in a moment, and in the next a stone came through a pane of glass and hit the landlord upon the side of the head.

“Oh, the vagabond,” said mine host, making a rush to the door, and fully participating in Britton’s indignation now that he had himself cause of complaint; but Britton intercepted him, and being resolved to have revenge upon somebody, he knocked the landlord’s head against the door-post, with a rap that made him look confused for a moment, and then retire from the room dancing with pain.

“All right,” cried Bond.

“Aham!” said Britton, returning to his seat. “That’ll teach him to run against me another time, and if I meet that boy, I’ll wring his neck.”

“What’s this here?” remarked the butcher, as he picked up the note the lad had thrown down. “‘To Andrew Britten,’ that’s large, but hang me if I can make out the rest. The first word is sensible enough, howsomever.”

“What is it?”

“Meat.”

“Meat? Nonsense. What the devil have I to do with meat? Give it to me.”

Britton snatched the note from the hands of the butcher, and read as follows:—

“Meet me by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at Buckingham Gate.”

L.

“Short and civil—I’ll see him d—d first—nine o’clock too? A likely hour—no Master Learmont, I’ll call upon you when I please, no oftener and no seldomer; but I won’t meet you at Buckingham Gate, as sure as my name’s Andrew Britton. Am I to be dictated to?”

“I should think not,” cried Bond. “Does that come from the squire, eh, Britton?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Nothing at all, but I asked you, nevertheless, and you needn’t put yourself out of the way.”

“You he hanged.”

“Be hanged yourself.”

Britton liked Bond principally because when he roared at him, he was replied to much in the same strain, and, if possible, an octave-higher, so he betrayed no indignation at the independence of the butcher, but taking up a ladle full of the brandy, which had now much cooled, he poured it down his throat, and then, followed it by another, after which he flung the ladle at the head of a quiet-looking man who was smoking a pipe and drinking a pint of small ale in a corner, and rising, he cried—

“I’ll go out now—order my sedan chair—I’ll be hanged but that’s the rummiest thing ever was invented; I like it. My chair, there. Halloo—halloo; I’ll have some fun to-night.”

“But you needn’t have thrown away the ladle, you beast,” remarked Bond, as he took the bowl in his hand and finished the contents at one draught, hot and strong as they were.

The landlords voice was now heard shouting—

“His majesty’s chair—quick—quick. His majesty’s chair, and right glad am I to get him out of the house awhile,” he added to himself; “and if it was not that he spends every week a matter of ten or twelve guineas at the Old Chequers, I’d never let the beast cross its threshold again.”

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Chapter XCV

The Walk in Search of Albert.—The Recognition at Charing Cross.

Was Ada happy in her pleasant home at Sir Francis Hartleton’s—was there no cloud yet upon her young heart? Alas, how purely comparative are all our joys and all our sorrows. The change from her weary confinement with Jacob Grey, and the dismal habitations it was his policy to live in, to the kind looks—kinder words and happy home of the warm-hearted magistrate, was like suddenly, to some adventurous voyager to the far north, breaking the misty horrors around him, and at a moment when he felt almost inclined to lie down and die before the rigour of the season, and transporting him to some fair region, where the bright sun shone upon the trailing vine—where the orange groves were musical with the songs of birds, and the very air as it gently fanned his cheeks was in itself a delicious luxury.

To Ada, for the first few days, it seemed as if she had stepped into a new existence; but when the novelty of the change was over—when, she had done assuring herself that she was free for ever from Jacob Gray, how her heart began to yearn for him she loved! What an instable curiosity arose in her mind, to know who and what she was—what name she should associate with the endearing one of father, and whether she should weep over another grave, or ever feel the fond embrace of a living parent.

It would have been strangely unnatural if these active sources of anxiety had not sprung up rapidly in such a heart as Ada’s, alive as it was to every noble feeling—every tender sympathy.

The companionship of the young persons of her own sex, whom Lady Hartleton often collected about her, tended probably to foster and encourage these feelings in Ada, and the ready tears—tears which she had never shed when in misfortune, and exposed to all the harshness of Jacob Gray, would start to her eyes at the mention of a father’s or a mother’s love by any of the fair young beings who delighted in her company.

Sir Francis Hartleton had promised her he would have Albert Seyton sought for, and he had kept his word; but what degree of exertion on the part of another will satisfy the heart that loves, and Ada longed to search herself for him, who had cheered her under unhappier auspices, and loved her in her gloom and misery.

Into the friendly bosom of Lady Hartleton, she poured her griefs and anxieties, and if she found no relief of a tangible nature, she there at least found ready sympathy, and Lady Hartleton would say to her,—

“My dear Ada, I can do not more at present than weep with you, if you must weep, and comfort you, if you will be afflicted. Be assured, Sir Francis is doing his utmost to discover Albert Seyton’s place of abode, as well as toiling hard to unravel the mystery connected with you.”

Ada would then, in tears, exclaim against her own ingratitude, and accuse herself of selfishness, and Lady Hartleton frequently had the greatest difficulty to remind her that she considered her feeling natural, and in every way worthy of her.

It was early in the day preceding that on which the magistrate had discovered poor Maud, that Ada with a trembling voice, said to Lady Hartleton,—

“I have a great favour—to—ask.”

“No, my dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, kissing her cheek, “you have nothing to ask—everything to demand. Recollect, ’tis we who think ourselves much your debtors for your company with us, and consequently we are much bound to consult your wishes.”

“Ah, it is your kind heart which prompts your tongue,” said Ada, “and not your judgment; but I know you will not hear me speak to you of my gratitude, although it is a theme which I could never tire of.”

“Say no more, Ada, but tell me what you wish.”

“Will you permit me, myself, for one day to go in search of Albert Seyton?”

“Yourself, Ada?”

“Yes. ’Tis perhaps a foolish wish; but sometimes, what great resources courage and deep knowledge of the work may fail to accomplish, the zeal of affection will be able more easily to do.”

Lady Hartleton shook her head, as she said,—

“Ada, you would but, in such a place as London, expose yourself to much danger and insult. Believe me, that my husband has in his service those who will leave no spot unsearched for him you so much wish to see.”

“Ah, lady, can hired zeal ever reach the height of exertion attained by that which springs alone from the true heart?”

“I grant you that it seldom can; but then, Ada, there are many cases where mere knowledge and skill will do much more than the warmest, holiest zeal that ever animated a human breast.”

“There may be; but is this one?”

“It is, Ada. You are ignorant of London, and its intricacies, and would but lose yourself in a fruitless endeavour to find another.”

“It may be so,” said Ada, with a disappointed air, “and I must be content.”

“No, Ada, far be it from me to say you shall not take a tour through London in search of him. If you accomplish no more by such a step, you may at least please your mind with the reflection that you have taken it.”

“You will let me go then?”

“Yes, but not alone. I will accompany you wheresoever you please to go, and some experienced officer, of Sir Francis’s own choosing, shall follow us in case of need. I think then we may venture anywhere.”

“Generous friend,” cried Ada. “Oh, may Heaven give me words to say how much I thank you.”

“I am thanked already,” said Lady Hartleton, with a smile. “The idea of active exertions has already kindled a colour in your cheeks, Ada, and lent new animation to every feature of your face.”

“I shall be better satisfied, even if I altogether fail,” said Ada. “I have been now for so many years accustomed to look to myself for resources of action, that when anything nearly concerning me has to be done, I am unhappy if I am not doing it myself. Forgive me, dear lady, for all this troublesome spirit, but recollect I am a young wayward thing, brought up in solitude and harshness, early accustomed to repress every fond emotion, and my heart’s best feelings oftener checked with a blow, than encouraged by a smile.”

“We will go as soon as I can consult Sir Francis about who shall accompany us,” said Lady Hartleton.

Ada could only look her thanks, and Lady Hartleton left the room in search of her husband, who gave a more ready consent to the scheme than she imagined he would, only that he said he would send with them two officers on whom he could thoroughly and entirely depend.

“You will then be as safe,” he said, “as if you were in your own drawing-room, and if it will satisfy the mind of Ada, I advise you to go at once.”

With this Lady Hartleton returned to Ada, and in ten minutes they were equipped for their walk, the two officers being strictly ordered by Sir Francis never to lose sight of them for a moment.

“I can adopt but one plan of operation,” said Ada, “and that is to go from place to place where Albert has lived, and at each make what inquiries may suggest themselves on the moment. I think I can find my way, if put in the neighbourhood, to the first lodging Jacob Gray brought me to in London; at least, the first I have any recollection of. It stood, as I have often wearied you with telling, in a bye-street, at the back of another, the name of a which well recollect was Swallow-street.”

“That we shall have no difficulty in finding,” said Lady Hartleton. “Swallow-street is a well-known thoroughfare; although, I believe, none of the most select. I think I can act as your guide there; but should I be at fault, those who are following us, as our guards, can no doubt set us right.”

Many were the glances of admiration cast upon Ada, as she and Lady Hartleton walked along Whitehall to Charing-cross, and by the time they reached the corner of the Strand, several idle loungers had enlisted themselves in their train, with a determination to see where they could possibly be going.

“We must cross here,” said Lady Hartleton, “and pass those mean rows of buildings, which are called the Royal Mews, and then we shall, if I mistake not, be in the immediate neighbourhood of the street you mention.”

As Lady Hartleton spoke, she felt Ada clutch her arm very tightly, and turning to see what occasioned it, she saw one of the puppies of the day with his grinning face, within a few inches of Ada’s ear, muttering some of the ineffable nonsense common to such animals, when they pitch upon an apparently unprotected female as the object of their insulting address.

A flash of indignation came from the eyes of Lady Hartleton; but before she could speak, she saw the fopling flung into the roadway, with a violence that sent him half across it; and Sir Francis Hartleton himself, who had followed after the officers, took Ada’s arm within his, saying,—

“There now. If you had been quite alone, Ada, you would have been pestered, probably, for an hour, by that ape in man’s clothes.”

Ada turned to speak to the magistrate, when a cry of pleasure escaped her.

On the opposite side of the way was Albert Seyton, walking leisurely towards the Horse-guards.

Sir Francis Hartleton was just in time to stop her from rushing across the roadway, and detaining her by the arm, said,—

“Ada, do me one favour! Go home at once, and trust to my word of honour that I will not lose sight of him for one moment. The public street is no place for you and him to meet in. For Heaven’s sake, now go home!”

“I—I will—if you wish it,” said Ada. “Oh! He is found—he is found!”

“Take her home through the park, by Spring-gardens,” whispered Sir Francis to his wife. “I wish to have some conversation with this young man, before Ada, with her generous feelings, commits herself too far. I will be home within the hour.”

The magistrate then darted across the road, and followed Albert Seyton closely, as his first object was to see where he lived, provided he was going home, as he, Sir Francis, was not quite satisfied with Albert’s long absence from his office.

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Chapter XCVI

Sir Francis Hartleton’s Surprise at Albert’s Place of Destination.—The Watch on the Squires’ House.—Ada’s Disappointment.

When Sir Francis Hartleton darted across the road in order to follow Albert Seyton, his views, with regard to the young man, were to trace him to his house, and then immediately after send for him to his, Sir Francis’s office, by Buckingham-house; and, in a conversation with him, endeavour to come to a more decided opinion than he was at present able to arrive at with respect to the stability of his affection for Ada; for it is not saying too much, when we assert that the interest felt by the magistrate in the welfare and future happiness of the beautiful girl, who was, by so singular a train of circumstances, placed in his care, was equal to that of a fond father for a darling child of his own.

The very romantic circumstances connected with her would have invested Ada with a great interest, even had she been other than what she was; but when in herself, she concentrated all the sweet feminine charms of mind and person which the warmest fancy could suggest, she became, indeed, an object of deep interest to Sir Francis—an interest which amounted to a pure and holy affection.

Her gentleness, and yet her rare courage—her simplicity, and yet her active intellect—her clinging affection and gushing gratitude to those who were kindly disposed towards her, and her utter want of selfishness, all combined to make her such a character as one might dream of, but seldom hope to see realised.

“Her future happiness,” thought Sir Francis, “all depends upon this young man whom I am now following, and I think I have a right to be more careful that Ada, with all her fine noble feelings, is not sacrificed to one who may fail to appreciate the rich treasure he may possess. I will, ere I welcome this Albert Seyton to my house, be well assured that he is deserving of the pure young heart that I am convinced is all his own. One pang is far better for Ada to endure than the years of misery that must ensue from an ill-assorted union.”

Reasoning thus the magistrate followed Albert Seyton sufficiently close to be certain he could enter no house without his observation; and yet at the same time, at such a distance as to run no great risk of recognition should the young man turn round.

Little did poor Albert, whose mind was, at the present moment, so full of recollections of his Ada, that he scarcely knew whither his footsteps led him, imagine that he had not only passed her within twenty paces, but was now actually kept from her because there was a doubt of the sincerity of that passion which was at once the bliss and the bane of his existence.

Sir Francis could not hear the deep sighs that burst from the labouring heart of the young man, as he whispered to himself—

“My Ada—my beautiful and true! Oh? When will kind Heaven bless my eyes, by permitting me to gaze upon thy face again? The summer’s sun may shine bright’y for others, and the green earth look beautiful, but there is a cloud upon my spirits, and all is dreary, bleak, and desolate to me without you, my beautiful Ada!”

Alas! Poor Albert—if already Sir Francis Hartleton, from your long absence from his office, entertains lingering unwelcome doubt of your feelings for Ada—what harsh suspicions are you not about to subject yourself to within the next quarter of an hour. How near are you to the completion of your fondest hopes, and yet how distant—long sought for as you have been, you are now found but to be avoided.

The young dejected lover passed onwards in his sorrow, and Sir Francis, whose anxiety was increasing each moment, followed with his eyes fixed on him alone, and totally unobservant of the many curious glances that was cast upon his animated and anxious looking countenance by the passengers.

They passed the Horse-guards—the low mean building which was then devoted to other purposes, and which is now the treasury—and still onwards went Albert listlessly as before. Now he turned down a small street behind Parliament-street. Then another turning led him into large handsome thoroughfare; his steps quickened and he, at length, paused by the steps of a large mansion. Sir Francis Hartleton stopped, but kept his eyes rivetted on the young man. He saw him ascend the steps—could he believe his eyes? Yes—it was—it must be Learmont’s house. Then magistrate walked forward. He was not mistaken—Albert Seyton had entered the house of Learmont. The surprise of the magistrate was intense in the extreme. Here was the lover of Ada on visiting terms, if not on more intimate ones, with her worst foe. What was he to think? Had gold had its influence upon the young man—and had he sold himself to the wealthy squire, changing from a lover of Ada to one of the conspirators against her peace? Was such conduct possible? Or had the professions of Albert Seyton been from the first those of a hypocrite? Had he always been a creature of Learmont, and only deputed to perform the part he had played in order the more easily to entangle the young pure girl into an inextricable web of villany?

As these painful reflections passed rapidly through the mind of Sir Francis, he saw a livery servant descend the steps of Learmont’s house bearing a letter in his hand.

“I will question this man,” he thought. “He is going on some message in the neighbourhood, and I dare say will be communicative enough to satisfy me with regard to the position held by Albert Seyton in Learmont’s house.”

The man came down the street towards Sir Francis, who, when he came sufficiently near, said in a careless manner,—

“Was that Mr. Seyton who just now entered your master’s house?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.

“Ah, I thought it was he. I have not seen him for a long time. He is intimate with the squire, I believe.”

“He is his worship’s private secretary, sir.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. Good morning, friend.”

“Good morning, sir.”

The servant passed on, and Sir Francis Hartleton stood a few moments in deep thought.

“So,” he said, “this lover of Ada’s turns out to be Learmont’s private secretary. The private secretary of a villain should be like his master, and if the young man be a faithful servant, he is no fit match for Ada. He must be in league, with Learmont in all his atrocities, else would he, occupying the situation he does, be a sore encumbrance to such a man as the squire. The facts speak plainly—a confidential servant of a man like Learmont can only be one degree removed from his principal in villany, and that degree must be one deeper still. Is it possible that this young man, who spoke so fairly—who looked so frank and candid, and in whom I, with all my practice of human nature, could discover nothing but what was manly and interesting in his first interview with me—is it possible that he can be one employed to do the dirty work of such a man as Squire Learmont? Alas! Alas! Such is humanity. Surely some sort of presentiment of this—some special interposition of Providence in favour of the good and pure—must have induced me, for Ada’s sake, to follow him thus, instead of permitting a recognition in the streets. A fine tale would this private secretary have had for the ears of his master—that the simple, easily duped Sir Francis Hartleton had in his care the object, for some reason, of his bitterest hatred, and that he, the sweet tongued, honied-accented, private secretary was welcomed as the accepted lover, and had free ingress and egress to the house in which she lived—could concert what plots and plans he liked—nay, could take her very life for a reward sufficient. Thank Heaven, for unmasking so much villany.”

Sir Francis Hartleton’s face was flushed, and there was resentment at his heart, as he walked with hasty steps past Learmont’s house.

He had not, however, proceeded far when he heard his name mentioned by some one behind him, and, suddenly turning he saw, within a few paces of him, the object of his present angry thoughts—namely, Albert Seyton, who had left Learmont’s house upon seeing the magistrate from a window of the little room by the hall.

“I may as well,” thought Albert, “see him—not that I have any hopes beyond those that at present possess my mind, through the interposition of my generous patron, Squire Learmont.”

“Well, sir?” said Sir Francis Hartleton, in no very amiable voice.

“Do you not recollect me, sir?”

“No, sir.”

“You do not?”

“I know nothing of you, sir, and desire not your acquaintance.”

“Sir Francis Hartleton, you are labouring under some error. You mistake who I am.”

“There can be no mistake, sir. Good morning. If you have any business with me, you may probably know my office, and the hours of attendance at it.”

“One moment, sir.”

“Not half a one,” said Sir Francis as he walked away, leaving Albert bewildered. After a few moments’ thought, he said,—

“Now I have not one lingering doubt. What Learmont hinted of this magistrate is true. I have but one friend, and that is the rich squire.”

“The impertinent scoundrel, to accost me!” said Sir Francis, striding homewards in a great fume. “’Twas never so out of temper in my life. I have no doubt now whatever, but that he is a mere creature of Learmont’s. Thank Heaven! Ada, you are saved.”

Sir Francis proceeded home as quickly as he could; but as he neared his own door, the thought came over him of how he was to inform Ada of the discovery he had made; for although his own suspicions were strong against Learmont, and the scraps of paper he had procured from poor had supplied some wanting links in the chain of his conjectures, he had abstained from fully explaining to Ada sufficient to make her now comprehend why Albert’s engagement with the rich squire should place such an insurmountable barrier between them.

“She must now know, all,” he thought, “and perhaps it is far better that she should, as at all events she will, in her own thoughts, be better able to separate her friends from her enemies. I will now, however, plan another watch upon the squire’s house, in order to ascertain if this young spark is in any communication with Jacob Gray, or only an agent of the squire’s. He may be playing some complicated game of villany that, after all, may assist me.”

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XCVII. The Visit to Gray’s House.—Learmont’s Exultation

While Albert Seyton was absent on his errand of following Jacob Gray, Learmont was a prey to the keenest anxiety, and he could neither sit nor walk for any length of time, such was the exquisite agony of mind he suffered at the thought that, after all, the young man might fail in his mission, either from want of tact or from over-forwardness. The first supposition of failure presented itself to the squire’s mind in by no means such disagreeable colours as the last; for, even admitting that the wily Jacob Gray should on this one occasion succeed in eluding Albert’s pursuit, there would arise many other opportunities for renewing the same plan of operations with greater chances of success, because with greater experience; but should Jacob Gray once catch a glance of Albert Seyton, all hope of successfully tracing him to his house, through the means of the young lovers would be at an end.

As minute after minute winged their heavy flight, Learmont’s mental fever increased, until it became, at length, almost insupportable. He strode to and fro in his apartment with hasty steps; then he threw himself into a chair; then he would raise a cup of wine to his lips, but to lay it down again untasted, as he thought to himself,—

“No, I must keep my mind now clear and active; for should he be successful, I shall have need of my mental energy to turn the occasion to advantage. Jacob Gray, even when discovered, is not destroyed. It is one thing to track the fox to his lair, and another to kill him. There will yet remain much to be done, even if my most sanguine hopes are realised through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton.”

The thought then crossed his mind of parading through the various rooms of his mansion in order to divert the anxiety that was preying upon him; and taking a light in his hand, he commenced a tour somewhat similar to the one he had undertaken when first he arrived in London, only that he was now alone and the freshness of his enjoyment of all the glitter and splendour which surrounded him on every side was worn off.

In the double action of walking and constant change of place, Learmont did find some little relief.

“He will be successful,” he muttered, “and Jacob Gray will be destroyed. He must be successful. Why should he not? There are a thousand chances to one in his favour. Then I shall breathe freely; the heaviest load that ever pressed upon my heart will be lifted from it; I shall no longer totter and turn sick and giddy on the brink of the precipice which has so long, as it were, yawned at my feet; I shall know peace—peace of mind, and, by cultivating the enjoyment of the present I shall, in a short time, learn to forget the past. Forget—forget—can I ever forget? Even now a voice seems to ring in my ear with a fearful cry. Blood—aloud it shrieks; can blood ever be forgotten? Can the cry of the dying man? Can the wail of the fatherless child ever fade from the memory of him who has heard them as I have? Can I ever be happy? Was I ever happy? Yes, once; I was a child once, and my heart was spotless as a pearl within its shell. Oh, could I recall the past! But that is madness. The past is gone, and may not be beckoned back again. If man could undo the folded scroll of events which have, in the course of years, taken their progress, it seems to me that human nature would reach some few brief years of its onward march, and then be ever toiling back again to undo what was done. Which of us, if we could live again from earliest infancy the same life, would do as we have done? I am no worse than others. The wisest, the best have felt as I feel now. The blood—blood—the curse of blood! Who whispers that to my heart? I did not do the deed; it was the savage smith; my hands reeked not with the gore. No, no, no. Hence, horrible shadows of the soul, hence, hence—I—I am not, I will not be your victim.”

His whole frame trembled; and as was usual with him, when conscience whispered with its awful voice his crimes to his shrinking soul, he felt an utter prostration of every physical energy, and could scarcely crawl to his room.

At the same moment that he reached the door, Albert Seyton, flushed, excited, and nearly breathless, reached it likewise.

Learmont darted towards him, and clutching his arm with frantic eagerness, shrieked, rather than said,—“Found—found?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Albert.

“You—you have traced the villain to his lair? You know where you could lay your hand upon his throat as he sleeps? You could tear his heart out? He—he saw you not, you are sure? Swear by heaven and hell you have found his home!”

“I have, sir,” said Albert, amazed at the vehemence and wild excitement of Learmont; “with some difficulty, but still with complete success, I have traced him, and know at this moment where to find him.”

“So, so,” said Learmont, with a sickly smile, “I—I much rejoice for your sake—for your sake, Albert Seyton, I do rejoice. Let—let me lean on you a moment; a sudden faintness—”

“Shall I summon your attendants, sir?” said Albert, much alarmed at the ghastly looks of the squire, who tremblingly held him by the arm.

“No, no,” said Learmont; “’tis nothing, I shall be better presently. I felt much for you that it made me over anxious, and—and so, you see, as I am of a nervous temperament, I tremble for you—for you, you understand. There is wine upon the table.”

Albert led the squire into the room, and then poured out and presented to him some wine, which he drank with eagerness, after which, drawing a long breath, he said,—

“I am much better now;—and so you found him. Do you not rejoice?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” said Albert, “and much I long for you to remove all restrictions from me, and allow me to proceed at once to the rescue of her I love.”

“All shall be speedily accomplished,” said Learmont; “have but a little patience, and all shall be as you ask. Not many days shall elapse when you shall have your heart’s desire.”

“Sir, you bestow upon me a new life.”

“Yes, yes. Let me consider a moment. To-morrow—to-morrow—yes, to-morrow is now at hand. Midnight—aye, midnight. Call upon me here on the morning after to-morrow, not sooner—no, not sooner—midnight is a good hour.”

“I scarcely understand you, sir,” said Albert, who really thought the squire must be a little insane, he talked so strangely.

“Not understand me, sir?” said Learmont. “Surely I speak clearly—I mean the morning after to-morrow. By then I shall have matured some plan—but say—stay—God of heaven I had forgotten.”

“Forgotten what, sir?”

“You have not told me where he lives.”

“’Tis near at hand, although to reach it he traversed thrice the space he needed to have done.”

“’Tis like him,” said Learmont. “Most like the man.”

“I know not the name of the street, but I could guide you there, sir.”

Learmont sprung to his feet.

“Now, now. On the moment,” he cried. “My hat—my sword. You shall show me now.”

Then suddenly speaking in a subdued tone, he added,—

“You see, Mr. Seyton, that I am an enthusiast, and what I take an interest in possesses my mind most fully. You perceive that having promised you to stir in this matter, I am inclined to do so well, and amply so; you shall show me the house in which this man lives, and then I will mature some plan which we can jointly put in execution when we meet again. You understand me quite, Mr. Seyton?”

“I do, sir, and am most thankful to you.”

“You shall have cause to thank me,” said Learmont—then as a servant appeared in answer to the bell he had sounded, he cried in a loud voice,—

“My hat and sword. Quick—my sword!”

Both were instantly brought to him, and he commenced hastily descending the stairs with his sword in his hand, and a flush of excitement on his brow, that made him look widely different to the pale trembling man he was but a few short minutes before.

“Pray Heaven,” thought Albert, “his wits be not deranged. It would be sad indeed if my only friend were to turn out a madman.”

They were soon in the street, and Learmont taking Albert by the arm, said,—

“Remember your promise, and make no sort of demonstration of your presence, until I shall permit you. All now depends upon your discretion. Lead me now as quickly as you can to this man’s abode.”

“I owe you too much, sir,” said Albert, “to quarrel with your commands, whatever restraint they may put upon my own inclination. I shall control my impatience until the time you mention.”

“Do so. Then as a reward, I will contrive some means of providing for you, so that you shall never know again what care and trouble are. You shall have a happy destiny.”

These words were uttered in a tone so strange, that Albert, looked in Learmont’s face, to see what expressions accompanied them, and there he saw a lurking smile which brought a disagreeable feeling of suspicion to his heart for a moment, but no longer, for he chased it away again by reflecting what possible motive could Learmont have for first raising his hopes and then crushing them; if, indeed, he had not already gone too far to be of any detriment, if he was of no assistance, by enabling him, Albert, to discover the abode of Jacob Gray, and as he fondly imagined that likewise of his beloved and deeply regretted Ada.

“No,” he thought, “I am wrong in my suspicions. He who has done so much for me already is entitled to my confidence, beyond the casual feeling of suspicion that may arise from a smile or a particular tone of voice, I will obey him.”

“Is there,” said Learmont, “any dark and secret place in the vicinity of this man’s dwelling from which we may view it securely without being seen ourselves?”

“There is a doorway, deep and gloomy, opposite the very house he inhabits,” replied Albert. “If it be now unoccupied, which it was not before, I should name it as a good place for observation.”

“Was it occupied?”

“Yes; and by one who seemed as much interested in watching Jacob Gray as I was.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye, sir. A man followed him closely, even as I did, and took up a station finally in the very door I mention.”

“That is very strange!” said Learmont, with a troubled air.

“It is; I cannot account for it, unless some person like yourself is watching him to discover if he be what he seems or not; or, perchance, some one may have seen Ada, and have been so smitten by her wondrous beauty, as to set a watch upon his house, with the hope that she may come forth.”

“I like it not—I like it not,” said Learmont musingly. “A watch upon Jacob Gray! ’Tis very strange! Bodes it good or evil?”

They had by this time arrived at the corner of the street in which was situated the obscure shop above which Gray slept, as he supposed, in security, and Albert turning to Learmont, said,—

“This is the street, and yonder is the doorway I mentioned to you.”

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XCVIII. Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream

“Let us cross to it,” said Learmont, in a low husky voice, which betrayed how deeply he felt himself interested in the affair.

In a moment they both stood in the dark entry. Learmont’s spy was not there for conceiving justly that Jacob Gray was housed for the night, he had, by way of solacing himself after his quarrel with Albert, betaken himself to a neighbouring public-house, where by that time he was deep in a second jug of old ale.

“There is no one here,” remarked Learmont.

“No,” said Albert; “but I left one here. However, his following Gray might after all have been from mere curiosity, seeing me follow him so closely.”

“The house—the house,” said Learmont; “which is the house?”

“Yon dingy-looking dwelling, with that mean shop upon its basement floor.”

Learmont looked long and eagerly at the miserable dwelling; then he muttered,—

“I should know that house again were I absent from it a hundred years. Yes—found—found—at last! The game is played! Jacob Gray, with all your cunning—with all your art of trickery—you are at last found! Sleep on, if you can sleep, in fancied security! You know not that your career may soon be ended!”

“You will recollect the house, sir?” said Albert.

“I may forget my own name,” said Learmont, “but not that house. Young sir, here is money for you; let me see you on the morning after to-morrow, and I will have news for you.”

He gave Albert his purse as he spoke, and then, without waiting for a reply, he strode from the spot, leaving the young man in great astonishment at his singular behaviour.

“Till to-morrow and then the morning after that,” said Albert, “is a precious time to control my impatience. If I could but catch the merest glance of Ada, it would help me to sustain my impatience. Oh, what a Tantalus-like state is mine, to be even now within so short a distance of her I love, and yet unable to make my presence known to her. My very voice would reach her were I to raise it above its ordinary compass, but I dare not. I have bound myself on my word of honour, and that must not be broken—farewell then, for a time, dear Ada! To-morrow, during daylight, I will try to sleep, so that when the sun has set, and I may, without fear of being seen by Jacob Gray, take up my station here, I may be able to watch the house you inhabit, and please myself with the thought of being so near you, even though I cannot see you, or speak to you. Truly I am glad the squire has left me here, for here will I remain until the morning’s light warns me of the danger of recognition by Jacob Gray if I longer tarry.”

With his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the window, which he pleased himself by imagining belonged to Ada’s room, Albert Seyton kept possession of the doorway.

In the meanwhile, Learmont, with feelings of exultation at his heart, strode with a hasty step towards the Chequers at Westminster.

“I have him now—I have him now,” he muttered; “I will stir Andrew Britton to destroy him, and as for this Albert Seyton, from whom, were he to live, I should prophesy much trouble, I will give him on the morning that he calls upon me, a subtle poison, in a cup of wine; but not enough shall he have to leave his body within my doors. No—the dose shall be skilfully graduated, so that some hours shall elapse ere the wild excitement passes through his system. Then he may lie down and die in the public streets or where he lists, so he is out of my way—’tis a deep skill I have obtained in poisons, and it shall do me good service.”

He then paused, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote on it the words which we are aware were on the note Britton received in the midst of his drunken orgies at the Chequers, and which Learmont got conveyed to him by means of a boy who was wandering houseless about the streets.

Satisfied, then, that he had everything in train for the destruction of Jacob Gray, Learmont bent his steps homewards in a more satisfied state of mind than he had ever been in before, and resolved to attempt immediately to procure some sleep, before he should thoroughly mature his yet but projected plan of murdering Gray on the next evening.

The difficulties in the way of executing the deed safely and securely were very great; for not only was Gray to be destroyed, but his written confession was to be secured before its superscription should be perceived by any one who might officiously communicate to the magistrate that such a document had been addressed to him.

To accomplish all this required skill, courage, caution, and a favourable train of circumstances; but, wearied as was Learmont then, as well by the violence of his alternating passions, as by want of anything in the shape of refreshing sleeps for some nights, he felt himself unequal to the details of a plan which should command success, if no very extraordinary obstacle presented itself in his way. He therefore hurried home, and giving directions to be called at an early hour in the morning, he threw off some of his upper clothing, and wearied as he was, soon sunk into a slumber—not, however, a calm and easy one, for he was, as usual, tortured with frightful dreams, and images of terror flitted before his mental vision. Sometimes he would fancy himself in the midst of the fathomless ocean, tossed about at the mercy of every surge, while each wave that burst over him seemed crusted with blood. Ravenous monsters of the deep would stretch their long tendril-like arms from deep vallies in the ocean’s bed, and strive to drag him into their insatiate maws; then suddenly, “a change would come o’er the spirit of his dream,” and he would lie upon the burning sands of Africa. For hundreds of miles there would be nothing but sand—sand hot and scorching to the touch as the fire-ash of a glowing furnace—then a fearful drought came over him, and he shrieked for water, and thought what a heaven it would be to be once more dashed madly to and fro by the surging waves—then a caravan would appear in sight upon the pathless desert—he heard the tinkle of the camel’s bells—he saw the weary men, with bronze complexions and travel-worn apparel, come slowly on and he saw that they had water, for all were drinking deep draughts of the delicious beverage. One then asked him if he too would drink, and then he could not speak. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, and, one by one, as they passed him by, they asked him to drink, and he could not say yes. Then, the caravan slowly faded away and when the last man was far across sandy the plain, his voice came again, and he shrieked for water—for but one drop to quench for a passing moment the burning fever of his throat.

The dream was horrible, but the vision that followed was more terrible, because the suffering was mental as well as physical.

Learmont fancied he was at the foot of a high winding staircase. He commenced slowly ascending, and then he heard behind him like a sound of rushing wind, and looking back, he saw linked, in an awful companionship, three livid spectres, as if fresh from the reeking corruptions of the tomb. The flesh hung rag-like upon the yellow moistened bones, and huge drops of green and sickly corruption fell dashing like the preludes of a thunder storm, upon the stairs. Worms and moist things were crawling in and out the sightless eyes—the rattling lips grinned horribly, and amid the havoc of the grave, Learmont could recognise the features of those whom he had driven to death. Slowly they came after him, and a voice seemed to ring in his ears, saying,—

“They will catch you, and fold you in their dreadful embrace, ere you reach the top of those stairs. Fly, Learmont, fly!”

Then he tried, with a scream of terror, to ascend the staircase like the wind, but his feet seemed glued to the steps, and he could ascend but slowly step by step, while he felt that his pursuers were gaining on him momentarily, and that he must in another moment be in their grasp. He heard the chattering of the fleshless gums—he smelt the rank odour of the grave, and yet he could proceed but at a funeral pace. Now they were upon him—now they gibbered in his ears—they clutched him by the throat—the long skeleton fingers press upon his throat—he his lost! One moan bust from the agonised sleeper, and he awoke shrieking,—

“Help—help! Save me yet, Heaven—oh, save me, I do repent! God have mercy upon me!”

He sprung from his bed, and, with dishevelled hair, eyes starting from their sockets, and a face livid with agony, he sunk upon his knees, just as the terrified domestics, hearing his cries, knocked loudly at his chamber door.

Then succeeded a death-like stillness, and Learmont, in a deep sepulchral voice, said,—

“God of Heaven, was it a dream? Dare I ever sleep again?”

The knocking continued at his door, and he rose to his feet.

“Peace—peace!” he cried. “Away, I did but dream.”

The servants retired from the door gazing at each other in mute terror, for Learmont’s cries had alarmed the whole house, and filled them with superstitious fears.

“So—so,” said the squire, when he trimmed his light, and recovered a little from his state of mental excitement; “that was a dream—how terrible—how terrible. Can I ever sleep again in peace? Dare I lay down my weary head upon my pillow with the hope of repose? No—no. And yet there are potent drugs that I have heard wrap the soul in oblivion, or else in the slumber they create, visit it in gorgeous shapes, and present rare phantasies to the mental eye. I will try them. To-morrow—to-morrow, I will try them. I may find peace then; but I must not tempt sleep again. ’Tis too terrible—too terrible.”

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Chapter XCIX

Ada’s Faith in Albert Seyton.—The Confidence of a Generous Heart.

Sir Francis Hartleton was never so much vexed in his life as he was at the supposed treachery of Albert Seyton. He revolved in his mind over and over again, how he should tell Ada of the scene that had occurred between him and her lover, and of all his suspicions concerning him, and at length he resolved that Lady Hartleton should be the medium of communicating the unwelcome intelligence of Albert’s defection from his love and entertainment by Ada’s worst enemy.

For this purpose it became necessary that Ada should be put in possession of more facts concerning herself than the humane and considerate magistrate had, as yet, thought proper to burthen her mind with. This he much regretted, because he had hoped that before he had occasion to mention Learmont’s name particularly to Ada, he should be able to couple with it something more than mere surmises, however well founded such surmises might be.

While he was in his own private room, considering deeply and painfully this matter, a note arrived to him, which was immediately another source of vexation, inasmuch as it hurried on the events which he would have been glad to see develop themselves a little further before he actively interfered in them.

The letter was from the Secretary of State, intimating that the charges confidentially made against Learmont, by him, Sir Francis Hartleton, must either be abandoned, or speedily proved, for that a dissolution of Parliament was about to take place, and it was absolutely necessary to know in whose hands the Learmont property was.

“This,” said Sir Francis, as he laid down the minister’s note, “must bring affairs to a crisis. I must apprehend Jacob Gray now, and Britton, and trust to one or other of them committing Learmont; a slender, hope, I am afraid, since no mercy can be offered to Gray on account of Vaughan’s business, and Britton is the last person to expect a confession from.”

Sir Francis then took from a secret drawer the small scraps of paper which he procured from mad Maud, and read them again attentively.

“These are interesting to me,” he said, “as leading me on in my chain of conjecture; but they are no evidence, for, first of all, who is to prove they were ever written by Jacob Gray, or in his possession; and secondly, they are too vague in themselves to be of any importance, unless merely used as evidence corroborative of facts which can be nearly proved without them. The question now is, has Gray written a full disclosure of who Ada is, and what crime has led to her being placed in so singular a position, or not? Well, I will crave of the minister another week; and then consent to withdraw my charges against Learmont for the present. He must triumph, I suppose, and I cannot help it.”

He then sought Lady Hartleton, and informing her of what he had discovered concerning Albert, begged her to communicate the same to Ada as carefully as she could, so as not to shock her sensitive mind too suddenly with the news of the bad faith of him to whom she had given her heart.

Lady Hartleton was so much accustomed to rely upon the judgment of her husband, that, although she was not without some lingering doubts, after all there might be some possible explanation of the conduct of her lover, she consented to the task which was set her, and immediately went to Ada to communicate the sad intelligence.

“My dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “there are circumstances which have induced Sir Francis not to ask Mr. Seyton to come here.”

Ada started, and with a heightened colour she said in her soft gentle voice,—

“Lady, you have already done too much for the poor and friendless girl whom chance threw in your way—I ought never to have accepted—”

“Now, Ada, you mistake me,” interrupted Lady Hartleton, “the cause which prevented Sir Francis from bringing Albert here with him, has no reference to anything but the young man’s want of worth.”

“Albert Seyton’s want of worth?” said Ada.

“Yes—my dear Ada. You have a great enemy in London—an enemy who would take your life, and when I tell you that Albert Seyton is in the confidential service of that enemy, there is good cause of suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what, lady?”

“Of his want of faith.”

Ada shook her head. “No,” she said, “there is no want of faith in Albert Seyton. Where I can give my heart and my faith, I never suspect. You do not know him, dear Lady Hartleton.”

“But he is with your enemies.”

“Still he is true.”

“He may have sold himself to them, and be even now plotting destruction.”

“Albert Seyton loves me,” said Ada.

“But you are open to conviction.”

“No, no—there are some things that the heart will cherish, despite all reasoning. You suspect Albert Seyton, my dear Lady Hartleton; but, let appearances be what they may, he can and will explain them all. He may be, from his own honest, unsuspecting nature, the dupe of villains, but he is not one himself.”

“Then you preserve your good opinion of him, Ada, despite all unfavourable appearances?”

“I do, as Heaven is my judge. He is innocent of all wrong—my heart tells me he is. I must go to him myself.”

“Nay, that were, indeed, to court destruction—for where he is, is a fatal place for you.”

“He will protect me.”

“But, admitting all your confidence to be well grounded, he may not have the power.”

“But I must see him,” said Ada; “he must have an opportunity of clearing himself from the suspicion that surrounds his name in the mind of you and Sir Francis, my dear and only friends. Oh, why did I not follow him myself, when Providence threw him in my way? Then all would have been well, and perhaps, with a few brief words, he would have explained every seeming contradiction in his present and his past conditions.”

“I will not deny to you, Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “that such a thought crossed my mind when Sir Francis first spoke to me on this point. ’Tis said that suspicion breeds suspicion, but in this case it is not so; for your generous and noble confidence in your lover has imbued me with much of your own feelings.”

“You believe, then, he may be innocent?”

“I certainly do.”

“Bless you, lady, for your noble confidence. You have given me more pleasure by that word than you gave me pain by hinting disparagement of Albert—that never reached my heart, for it was proof against it; but your confidence is kindred with my own feelings, and shares their place. As I have faith in the reality of my own existence, I have faith in Albert Seyton’s constancy and truth. Oh, tell Sir Francis, your noble husband, that he is mistaken. I implore him, for my sake, to seek him once more, and to question him, when he will meet with no guile—no evasions—but the honest truth will flow from his lips, and his innocence of purpose will be apparent.”

“Ada, a heart so full of dear emotions, and so replete with noble confidence, as yours, deserves, indeed, a happy fate. Be you tranquil, and I will urge my husband to the step you now propose; and if my earnest prayers can make you happy, you will never know another care.”

Ada could only thank Lady Hartleton with her eyes, and the kind-hearted wife immediately left the room in search of her husband, much shaken in her own mind with respect to Albert’s supposed faithlessness—so infectious is generosity and confidence among noble spirits.

While this conversation, so painfully interesting to Ada, was proceeding between her and Lady Hartleton, Sir Francis was informed that the spy he had set upon the house inhabited by Gray wished particularly to see him, and upon the man’s admittance, he informed Sir Francis of his hunt after Gray the evening before, and his fears that some person was after him for some other purpose.

“A light and active young fellow,” the man said, “kept as close upon his heels as I did; he would not lose sight of him a moment, and once or twice nearly baulked me in keeping my man in sight. Thus, when I had traced him safely from the rich squire’s house to his lodgings in Buckingham-street, this fellow popped himself in the very same doorway from which I and the other officers have, from time to time, watched Gray come and go.”

“What kind of young man was he?” said the magistrate.

“A light active fellow of the middle height, with a clear blue eye and long hair. A slight moustache is on his upper lip.”

“’Tis Seyton,” thought Sir Francis. “Thank you; keep an eye on him, and, should anything particular occur to Jacob Gray, mind you lay hands on this young man you mention.”

“We shall want assistance, then, sir.”

“That you shall have. Take with you some one on whom you can rely to-night. You go on duty at eight, do you not?”

“Yes, sir. Philip Lee is on the watch now.”

“Very well. Go now, and take your rest. Your duty in watching this man will not last much longer, for he must be arrested within a week. Did you leave his young man you mention on the spot when you came away.”

“No, sir. We had a sort of scuffle about who should stand in the passage, and he ran away.”

“Ah, that is not in his favour,” thought Sir Francis. “My poor Ada! Your best affections are thrown away. You may go now, but let me see you in the morning with a report of your night’s work.”

The man departed, and Sir Francis Hartleton remained for some time in melancholy thought.

“Before the week, expires,” he said, “I must go myself and arrest Jacob Gray, ostensibly for the murder of Vaughan. I may find some written paper of importance. Well, well, it must be so, Ada, your fortunes hang upon the events of the next four or five days.”

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C. Learmont’s Visit to the Chequers.—The Sleeping Smith

By nine o’clock, according to his appointment with Andrew Britton, Learmont was in the park. His face was dreadfully pale—his limbs shook under him as he gladly availed himself of one of the wooden seats on which to rest his wearied and exhausted frame.

“When will this end?” he muttered. “Four nights now without repose—I am sinking into the grave; yet this last night, with its feverish dreams, and awful spectral visitations, has been much the worst I ever passed. Surely it must have arisen from my great anxiety just now concerning Jacob Gray, and when he is dead I shall have some peace. Yes, then, surely, I shall feel much relieved, but not till then—not till then. ’Tis the time, and yet Andrew Britton comes not. Dare he refuse to obey my summons? Or is he sleeping off some deep drunkenness of last evening, and deaf to time? The sot! I cannot do without him in this matter, for Gray may be armed, or he may even procure assistance. We must be in force sufficient to make sure work. Let me think. Yes—yes. ’Twere far better to kill him in his own abode than in mine. Of what use is his confession to him, unless placed somewhere where it may be easily found? None whatever. I shall be able easily to lay my hand upon it, and when I have that document once fairly in my grasp, I shall feel myself again. I and Britton will go at midnight, and make our way into the house as best we can. No lock can stand the practised skill of the smith; and, from the ancient grudge he has to Jacob Gray, he will enter into this affair with a good will. I am sure he will. Moreover, I can inflame his passion ere we go.”

Learmont began to get very impatient, as Britton did not make his appearance; and, after waiting a full hour beyond the specified time, he rose from the seat, and, with a bitter execration on his lips, he walked slowly in the direction in which Britton must come in proceeding from the Chequers.

Still the squire met him not, and finally, he left the park, by Storey’s Gate, and walked on until he came within sight of the ancient hotel in which the unconscious Britton was lying fast asleep, with no great prospect of arousing himself for some hours to come.

Learmont paused as he said,—

“Now, if I thought there was no chance of being known, I would call upon the savage smith, and at once ascertain the cause of this broken appointment. Let me consider—I have not seen him for a week—perchance he is ill—perchance dead. The latter would be a blessed release, if Jacob Gray preceded him, and he left no damning evidence behind, a matter in which I have always had my doubts as regarded Britton. Surely none at this low pot-house can know me? I think I may venture—the stake I have in hand is worth the risk. Yes, I will make inquiry, for if Jacob Gray dies not to-night, I shall have another night of misery—oh! I shall sleep well when I am assured that he sleeps never again to awaken.”

Learmont, however, still lingered, ere he could make up his mind to call upon the drunken smith, at the Chequers, for he was most fearful that such an act, trifling as it was, might form a link in the chain of evidence against him, should any accidental circumstances occur to fix suspicion upon him, after Gray’s murder should have been achieved.

“And yet,” he reasoned, “what can I do? Stay, a thought strikes me—I can send some one with an inquiry, and then shape my own conduct by the answer. Ah, yon poor beggar-woman, with her squalid children, will, for the promise of an alms, do my errand.”

He walked up to a miserable looking object, who was shivering upon a door-step, with some wretched-looking children around her. The moment he showed an intention of speaking to her, she commenced a piteous appeal for charity.

“Oh, sir—kind sir,” she said, “bestow a trifle upon a starving widow, and her wretched children—my husband was a waterman, sir, he was murdered on the Bishop’s walk, at Lambeth, and since then, we have been starving.”

Learmont reeled from the woman as she spoke, and he felt that him she spoke of was the man who had met so cruel a death from his hand.

“Not her—not her;” he muttered. “I must go myself—a cursed chance to meet her—now I shall dream of that, too, I suppose—curse on the dreams—methinks I hear that man’s gasping screams, as he fell upon the snow, after I had run him through; but I must not torture myself thus—I will go to the Chequers—a sudden faintness has come over my heart—I will take a cup of wine there, and make my inquires cautiously.”

The woman’s voice sunk into a low wail of anguish and despair, as she saw Learmont turn away, and then bursting into tears, she sobbed over her famishing children, in all the bitterness of a mother’s grief.

“God help us—God help us,” she cried, “and Heaven have mercy on your father’s murderer.”

Learmont walked hastily towards the Chequers, and early as it was, sounds of mirth and revelry were issuing from it. Bond, the butcher, was waiting for Britton to rise, and amusing himself by chanting Bacchanalian songs the while, and drinking deeply. His roaring voice arrested Learmont’s steps, and he wondered who it could be that so rivalled even the lungs of Britton, as he heard the following strains:—

“Up, to the skies

Let the goblet rise,

We heed nor wind nor weather;

We moisten each lip

With the wine sip,

And we clank our cans together.

Clank—clank—clank.

“Drink, drink to the vine,

’Tis a goddess fine,

There ne’er was such another;

Its fruit rich and rare,

Will banish all care,

And all bad feelings smother.

Clank—clank—clank.

“Fill, fill to the brim,

A bumper to him,

Who leaves in his glass no drain;

He knows not a strife,

But so calm his life

Glides on without a pain.

Clank—clank—clank.”

Learmont stepped into the dingy, dark passage, and making his way up to the bar, he, in an assumed voice, said,—

“A cup of your best wine, landlord.”

The wine was placed before him, and then he said in a careless tone,—

“Has Master Britton risen yet?”

“Oh, dear, no, your worship,” said the landlord. “He won’t be up for a good hour or two yet. He went out in his chair last evening, and came home all over bruises from a tumble. Oh, such a man as he is—but perhaps your worship knows him?”

“No, but I have heard of him.”

“Ah, all Westminster has heard of him. He drinks hugely. He is fast asleep now in his attic. He won’t be in any other room, because he says he should have to murder somebody for treading heavy over his head, if he was lower down in the house. A strange fancy, your worship—a strange fancy.”

“Indeed it is.”

A violent pull from the parlour bell now induced the landlord to rush from his bar to answer it, with the exclamation of,—

“That’s Master Bond, I’ll warrant. He’s as bad as Britton, every bit, only he helps him to drink a vast quantity of liquor.”

“In the attic,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he glanced round him, and saw that he was alone, and the staircase leading to the upper part of the house immediately before him. “I will go and see him. My business brooks no delay.”

He accordingly ascended the stairs, and was half way up before the landlord came back.

“Well, I never,” exclaimed the host; “fairly done out of a cup of the best wine in the house. He looked a very respectable man, too, though no beauty. Who would have thought he’d have gone off without paying in this minute? The villain!”

The landlord walked to the door, and looked up and down the street; then he came back, shaking his head, as he said,—

“How he must have run, too, for he ain’t to be seen anywhere. Well, if I catch him again, I’ll be even with him, though he is a lanky. Two yards of bad stuff, he is—a vagabond. To cheat me! He might as well rob a church!”

Learmont had just about as much idea of bilking the landlord out of payment for his wine as he had of robbing a church; but his mind had been by far too intent upon his own object to think of the money at all.

With hasty strides he ascended the dark, narrow staircase, of the old Chequers, and seeing a half-open door on the topmost landing, he pushed it wide open, and entering a room saw Andrew Britton, perfectly dressed, lying in a deep sleep across the bed.

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Chapter CI

The Search.—The Assignation.—Britton’s Surprise and Exaltation.

Learmont stood for some few moments gazing on the bloated swarthy countenance of the smith, without making an effort to awaken him from his slumber. Dark thoughts chased each other through the mind of the squire, and he said, through his clenched teeth,—

“Sot!—Villain!—But that you are useful to me still, I would strangle you as there you lie in your drunken sleep! If Jacob Gray was dead, this moment should be your last, Andrew Britton! But I have use for you, and the opportunity which now occurs, may never occur again. Still I may do something even now; I may search to see if I can find any papers or documents in this room. He may, notwithstanding my suspicions to the contrary, have left behind him some record of the crimes he has been engaged in!”

Learmont walked carefully about the room, and peered into every probable place, in the expectation of being repaid by some discovery of importance to his interests. But there was not a scrap of writing in the chamber that he could discover.

“Where can he have put the papers he always boasted of having found upon the body of him who met his death on that eventful night, at the old Smithy? He said there was a pocket-book, in which were family documents touching me very nearly; and Jacob Gray, of his own knowledge, confirmed the tale, regretting the while that his own fears would not allow him to rob the dead of those important papers. If Britton has them, they must be here somewhere.”

Eagerly again did Learmont examine the room, but there was nothing to be found of the character he wished, and he was fain, at length, to give up the search in despair.

Then he half-drew his sword and thought he would kill Britton, but a second thought told how much safer he might do so on some of his visits to his own house, and he sheathed his sword again, muttering,—

“The time will come—the time will come. I will first use him, and then he shall die. Now to awaken this slumbering clod.”

He seized Britton by the collar, and shook him very roughly, crying,—

“Britton—Andrew Britton, awake!”

“You be d—d!” muttered Britton. “Ale all around; I think I see it—it’s a lie!”

“Andrew Britton awake,” cried Learmont in his ear.

“Con—con—confusion to Jacob Gray,” growled Britton. “Curse everybody!”

Learmont now shook him so violently that he opened his dull heavy eyes and fixed them on the squire’s face, with a stare of such astonishment, that it was doubtful to Learmont if he were in his senses or not.

“Do you know me, Andrew Britton?” he said.

“I should think so,” said Britton. “It’s a rum dream, though I could almost swear I was awake.”

“You are.”

“Am I? That’s a lie.”

“Feel my hand. ’Tis flesh and blood.”

“You—you don’t mean to say, squire, that you are here,” cried Britton, starting from the bed. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”

“Nothing; but I wish you to be up and doing. I have discovered the abode of Jacob Gray, and he says that poor silly Britton will never cope with him. He says that Andrew Britton’s muddle head is only fit for the pillory, and that he has more cunning in his little finger than you have in your whole composition. So says Jacob Gray.”

“Now curse him, I’ll have his life,” cried Britton.

“You shall, if you will be guided by me; I can take you to the house he is in; I can make you sure of him now, Britton.”

“You can squire?”

“I can.”

“Then I’m your man—drunk, or sober, I’ll cut Jacob Gray’s throat, with pleasure. The only disagreeable thing will be that when he’s dead, one can’t taunt him about it.”

“It will be revenge enough to kill him,” said Learmont. “Will you be ready this night?”

“This minute if you like.”

“No—it must be at midnight—we must be very careful yet, for Gray is cunning, and moreover, he does not now reside in a lone house, where no cries would be heard. He lives now where there may be many people, and it would detract from our triumph over Gray to be hanged for his murder.”

“It would rather,” muttered Britton; “we must be cunning then, I think I’m quite as cunning as Gray any day.”

“Be guided by me, and all will be well.”

“What is your plan?”

“That you meet me to-night at twelve o’clock, and bring you tools to open locks.”

“Yes, I have them.”

“Then we will make our way to Gray’s chamber, and silently, if possible, kill him.”

“Silently or not, he shall die; but where is the young scion of—”

“Hush—that is now no obstacle; meet me to-night at twelve.”

“I will squire. You have brought me the most welcome news I’ve heard yet for a long time.”

“Now promise me, Britton, solemnly, that you will drink nothing till this enterprise is concluded?”

“Drink nothing? Why I live upon strong drink. How do you suppose am to exist till twelve o’clock at night without anything to drink? I must drink, and there’s an end of that, Squire Learmont.”

“If you must drink, let me beg of you to do so then in moderation.”

“Never fear me, when there’s actual work to be done. Where shall we meet?”

“At the steps of my house,” said Learmont. “Be punctual and sober, and remember, Andrew Britton, how much depends upon the proceedings of this night. You yourself daily and hourly incur danger from Jacob Gray greater than you dream of. Suppose him suddenly off by sickness, and we, not knowing of it, sleeping in fancied security, while this damning confession of his passes from hand to hand until it reaches him who is panting to destroy us—I mean Sir Francis Hartleton. Think of that and tremble, Andrew Britton. Then again, who knows a day when his insatiate avarice may induce him to fancy he has accumulated gold enough to live independently in some other country, and leave England for ever after. Mark my words, Andrew Britton, after taking measures for our destruction by leaving behind him documents which too many will be willing to believe and act upon. He has used language which, translated into plainer terms, would expressly signify such an intention; and more than once has he smiled to himself, and chuckled over the imaginary account of the execution of the sot—the ass—the clod-brained Andrew Britton. Do you mark my words?”

“I do, squire—say no more—he dies, if he had twenty lives. Curses on him—he dies, I say. Be assured I shall not fail to meet you at the hour you name. If there be one thing I live for above another, it is to slaughter Jacob Gray. He calls me a sot does he, because now and then I take a glass too much? Why, he would be drunk himself morning, noon, and night, if he had the courage.”

“Certainly,” said Learmont. “He hoards his money.”

“By-the-by, squire, when we’ve knocked him on the head, we’ll find where he keeps this same hoard of money.”

“We will—we will, Britton, and you shall have an ample share of it for your pains. Be sure you be punctual. Be secret and vigilant.”

“Never fear me, squire, I’ll only take enough drink to steady my nerves, and as the clock strikes twelve to-night, I will be at your door.”

“Adieu,” said Learmont, as he stalked out of the attic. “Adieu, Andrew Britton, this night makes or mars your future fortunes. The idiotic sot,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he descended the stairs, “he falls easily into the trap, which will eventually prove his own death, so shall I be free of both my enemies.”

“There goes a vagabond,” said Britton, when the squire had left him. “He thinks to gammon me, does he? But I’m deeper than he thinks for. Curse that Gray! I will kill him for my old grudge against him, but I’ll not only have all his money, but, if I lay hands on his confession, the squire must be a stouter fellow than I think him if he gets it.”

Meanwhile Learmont, full of dark thoughts, proceeded slowly down the staircase until he reached the door opening into the passage, which, although wide open when he passed through, was now closed; and on the outer side was the back of mine host himself, who was supporting his corporeal substance against it, while, with many nourishes and amplifications of his arm, he detailed to some of his gossipping neighbours how grievously he had been cheated, by a tall pale man in a cloak, out of a flagon of the best wine the Chequers could afford.

“My masters,” he said, “the villain had an odd look, you will understand, but not a poor look, for a ring sparkled on his finger that was worth many pounds, as sure as I’m a sinner, and we are all sinners.”

“Ah, that’s true as regards us all being sinners,” said one. “Now there’s Mr. Sniffler, the godly minister, who preached at Paul’s—”

“Hear me out—hear me out,” cried the landlord, to whom the pleasure of telling the story was almost an indemnification for his loss. “As I was a saying, I was a standing, with my back against the cupboard in my bar, as I might stand now, when all of a sudden comes—”

At this moment Learmont gave the door so vigorous a push that the landlord fell forward on to his hands and knees, with a cry of wrath, as he supposed some one of his household was the cause of this malapropos accident.

“Do you block up your doors,” said Learmont, haughtily, “and hinder your guests from going forth at their own pleasure?”

“Well, I never!” cried the landlord, scrambling to his feet. “You—you haven’t paid me for my wine; you know you have not.”

Learmont took from his pocket a piece of silver, and threw it on the floor; then, drawing his cloak tightly round him, he stalked from the house without a word.

“Well now, neighbours,” said the landlord, “did you ever see the like of that? That’s the very man who went away without paying me for my wine.”

“Are you quite sure he hasn’t been up stairs and stolen something?” suggested one.

“Gracious me!“ cried the landlord; “I never thought of that. Hilloa—hilloa; there’s mur—”

“So you won’t be quiet,” cried Britton, suddenly appearing, and giving the landlord a knock on the head that made him stagger again; “who do you suppose will live here to be annoyed by your noise, eh?”

“But your majesty,” said the landlord, “here’s been a long thief here with a cloak.”

“There hasn’t,” said Britton.

“An’, it please your majesty, these worthy neighbours saw him, and—”

“They didn’t,” roared Britton; “bring me brandy, and whoever says they saw or heard anything that I say nay to, I’ll make him eat the measure.”

The landlord now merely cast up his eyes, and made a movement with his hands, as much as to signify it’s no use saying anything, let us be wise and silent, and then hurried into his bar, to execute the imperious smith’s order.

When Britton entered the parlour, he was vociferously welcomed by Bond, but the smith beckoned him to one of the windows, and when the bulky butcher obeyed the summons, Britton whispered in his ear:—

“Bond, you promised to lend me your cleaver, in case I wanted it.”

“So I did.”

“Well, I do want it.”

“You shall have it, my boy—is it to smash that fellow with, who you mentioned?”

“It is; but mum’s the word. Let me have the cleaver some time before twelve to-night.”

“I’ll give it a sharpen, and bring it you, you may depend.”

“Thank you,” said Britton, “upon my soul I wouldn’t miss using it to-night for a thousand pounds.”

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