CHAPTER XIII.
A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream.
The Squire Learmont’s first night in his splendid mansion was by no means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his lips.
His restless slumbers, too, were haunted by the visionary creations of his excited fancy. One moment he would be plunging a poniard into Britton’s heart, while he dragged from his breast the papers so important to his peace. Then again, at the moment of his fancied triumph, the scene would change to a court of justice, and a voice arraigned him for murder! In such fearful and disordered fancies was his night passed, and he rose in the morning pale, haggard, and un-refreshed. Hastily attiring himself, he drew aside the curtains of his chamber-window, which commanded an extensive and pleasing view into St. James’s Park. It was yet very early, but Learmont thought that he should be able to withdraw his mind from disagreeable and horrible reflections by healthful walk in the shady Mall.
He accordingly took his hat and sword, and walked from his house by a garden-gate, opening into a narrow lane of trees, which terminated in the park itself. The air was very cold, for frost was on the ground, and the trees were stripped of their beautiful verdure; but it was exercise that Learmont wanted, and he rather rejoiced than otherwise at the necessity of active walking, inasmuch as he hoped exertion of body would control the excitement of his mind.
The canal was then, and for many years afterwards, a mere straight cutting, strongly resembling a wet dock, for the repair of ships, and as little ornamental as it could possibly be. The walks, however, in St. James’s Park, were then preferable to what they are now, for many old trees were then existence that have now perished, and their places are, of necessity, occupied by saplings, which the present generation have been kind enough to plant for their successors.
Learmont walked very quickly over the frozen ground, which crackled like glass under the feet. There were but few persons at that early hour abroad, although the day gave promise of being one of those clear, cold, frosty ones which are admired by a great many persons.
Approaching, however, from the direction towards which he was proceeding, Learmont observed a gentlemanly-looking man enveloped in a large cloak. By some sort of instinct, Learmont seemed to feel a dread of this stranger’s approach, although he could not at all recognise in him, at the distance they were apart, the gait or aspect of any one that he knew. Nearer and nearer they approached each other; and, so strong was the feeling of dread in the breast of Learmont, that, had it not been for his stronger curiosity to ascertain who it was, he would have turned from the open pathway among the trees, whose huge trunks would have effectually hidden him from observation. As it was, however, he pursued his walk until he and the stranger with the cloak came nearly face to face. Then, as the stranger lifted up his eyes, which had been fixed on the ground in a meditative manner, Learmont knew him.
It was the young man, by name Frank Hartleton, who had been so curious and suspicious at the period of the great storm at Learmont, when the wing of the building, in which was the smithy, had been burnt down.
The recognition was evidently mutual; indeed, no one who had once seen Learmont could easily again forget him; and, although a great personal change had taken place in the appearance of Hartleton, yet the features of all who had taken any part in the proceedings of that eventful night at the little village of Learmont were too indelibly impressed upon the memory of the squire for him to find any difficulty in recognising in the staid, and somewhat grave, gentleman person before him, the Frank Hartleton who had always held him at open defiance and laughed at his power.
Hartleton stopped short when he saw Learmont; and his first exclamation was,—
“This is strange, indeed!”
“Sir,” said Learmont, “did you address me?”
“Scarcely,” replied Hartleton; “but your name is Learmont?”
“Well, sir?” replied the other with considerable hauteur.
“Do you know me, Squire Learmont?”
“I recognised the features, and know the names of many, sir,” said Learmont, “that still are not upon my roll of friends or acquaintances.”
“You do know me,” said Hartleton, “I have no desire to be rude to you, Squire Learmont; but our sudden meeting took me somewhat by surprise, and the exclamation that I uttered arose from the curious coincidence that I have been all night dreaming of you and the village of Learmont, and was in deep thought about the mysterious occurrences that took place three years ago when I suddenly came upon you.”
If his hatred and dread of Hartleton would have induced Learmont to treat him in such a manner that he could not address him, his guilty fears urged him to prolong the conversation, in order to discover, if possible, the complexion of Hartleton’s thoughts with regard to him, that he might know if he had anything really to dread from that quarter. It was, therefore, with more courtesy that he said,—
“The coincidences are curious. I—I believe I speak to Sir Francis Hartleton now?”
“Yes,” replied Hartleton; “I was, you recollect, destined for the law, which my small patrimony just enabled me to enter with credit. I am now a justice, and a knight, as you say.”
“I give you joy, sir, of your advancement,” said Learmont.
“You are very kind,” replied Hartleton, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of Learmont in a manner that it required all the firmness of the latter not to quail under.
“Might I presume so far,” said Learmont, “as to ask, what were the thoughts concerning me that engaged Sir Francis Hartleton even now?”
“I was thinking of the mysterious man,” said Hartleton, “who rushed with such wild gestures and shrieks from the burning house.”
Learmont strove to command his features to indifference; but, the effort was almost beyond his power, and he spoke to endeavour to cover his agitation.
“It was very strange,” he said; “most singular!”
“And the little child, too, that he had in his arms,” continued Hartleton; “what can have become of that?”
“Ay—what?” said Learmont.
“Did you never get any clue, Squire Learmont, to these mysterious circumstances, which must have greatly interested you?”
“Interested me? How?”
“Inasmuch as they occurred upon your estate, and among your own tenants.”
“True—most true, sir. I—I was—and am much interested; but I know nothing—have heard nothing, and have no clue to unravel the mystery.”
“We must only hope,” said Hartleton, “that some of these days, accident as it generally does, will throw a light upon the subject, and give it to us in all its details.”
An awful expression came across the face of Learmont as he replied.
“Yes—yes. As you say, it will be an accident. May I ask what your impression is?”
“I have scarcely an impression upon the subject,” replied Hartleton; “we lawyers, you know, are particularly cautious how we take up impressions upon subjects unfounded upon evidence.”
“Exceedingly proper is such caution,” said Learmont; “otherwise the innocent might be the victims of endless mistakes.”
“Exactly,” replied Hartleton; “but I have no particular objection to tell you my dream without founding any impression upon it.”
“I am all attention,” said Learmont.
“I dreamt first that that smith, of the name of Britton, was a desperate villain, and for gold would—”
“Would what?” gasped Learmont.
“Do anything” said Hartleton.
“Well, sir, is that all?”
“Oh, no; my vision changed, and I thought I saw a gloomy passage, mouldy with the damps of time, and dripping with unwholesome moisture—creeping slimy things were all around, and in the midst I saw—”
“Yes—yes,” gasped Learmont. “W—what saw you?”
“A mouldering skeleton.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, and the most curious circumstance of all was that in the midst of it I constantly heard the clank of the smith’s hammer. I knew the sound in a moment.”
“’Tis very strange!” muttered Learmont.
“Most strange!” said Hartleton; “but again my vision changed.”
“What saw you then?”
“A hall of judgment.”
“Yes—yes.”
“It was densely crowded, and some important and interesting proceeding was evidently pending; then suddenly I heard a voice cry your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes, and you were asked to plead to a charge of murder!”
A cold sweat broke out upon the forehead of Learmont, and he could not answer, when Hartleton added,—
“It was but a dream, though. I wish you a good morning, and a pleasant walk, Squire Learmont.”