His muttered soliloquy declared his design.
“It musht be to-day—yesh, I musht get them married thish very day; and before any newsh can come. The report of the Cushtos’ death might shpoil all my plans. Who knowsh what the young man might do, if he hash only a hint of hish goot luck? After all, may be, Shoodith ish not so shure of him? She hash said something last night. Ha! it musht be thish day. It is no ushe going to the rector of the parish. He ish the Cushtos’ friend, and might make some obsheckshun. That won’t do—s’help me, no! I musht go to the other. Hee’sh poor, and won’t sthand shilly-shally. Besides, hish knot would be shoost as hard to looshe as if it wash tied by the Bishop of Shamaica. He’ll do; and if he won’t, then I knowsh one who will—for monish; ay, anything for monish!”
After this soliloquy he was about setting foot upon one of the steps with the intention of descending, when a thought appeared to strike him; and turning away from the stair, he walked with shuffling gentleness along the gallery, towards that part of the verandah where the hammock was suspended.
“I supposhe the young shentleman is shtill ashleep. Shentleman, indeed! now he ish all that, or will be the next time he goesh to shleep. Well, if he ish, I mushn’t dishturb him. Rich shentlemen mushn’t have their shlumbers interrupted. Ach!”
The exclamation escaped from his lips, as, on rounding the angle of the verandah, he came within sight of the hammock.
“’Tish empty, I declare! He’sh early astir! In hish room, I supposhe?”
Sans cérémonie, the Jew kept on along the gallery, until he had arrived in front of his book-keeper’s private apartment. There he stopped, looking inward.
The door was ajar—almost wide open. He could see the greater portion of the interior through the door; the rest of it through the jalousies. There was no one in the room—either sitting, standing, or moving about!
“Mashter Vochan! Are you there?”
The interrogatory was put rather by way of confirming his observation: for he saw there was no one inside.