CHAPTER CIII.From Twelve to One.Heedlessof the dashing rain which ever and anon came in soaking showers upon the wind, Learmont paced up and down by his door. Never before had he made up his mind to risk so much by one act as he was about to do by taking the life of Jacob, for after all there clung to him like a shrieking fiend, which he could not shake off, the horrible thought the confession might by some means elude his search, and so fall into the hands of others to his destruction. To rid himself of such dire forebodings, Learmont was in no state as regarded the powers of reason, for his mind was so wrought upon now by the near approach of the hour of action he had waited for with such a feverish impatience, that when doubts assailed him, he could only resist them by muttering his fixed determination that Gray should die, and that upon this state he would risk all.Now a dark heavy figure was approaching Learmont’s house—was it the smith? The squire crept up his own steps, and stood in the shadow of his doorway. The figure came on. It was—yes, it must be he!—Now he pauses!—It is Britton!—He has kept his word. He glances around him—mutters a malediction—and ascends the steps! Then Learmont went forward to meet him. He drew a long breath and placing his trembling hand upon the smith’s shoulder, he said,—“You are punctual, Britton—most punctual! I am glad to see you!! Welcome—welcome! What have you there?”Britton took from beneath the flap of his coat, whither he had hidden it, a large bright cleaver, and holding it up before Learmont’s face, he said, with a bitter laugh,—“Will that do, squire? I say will that do?”“For—for Gray?”“Yes—curses on him! I think this will make sure work! I’ve borrowed it on purpose. One blow with it, and Jacob Gray, will trouble us no more!”“True—true! And now, Britton—good Britton, I should tell you that the child of him who lies in the Old Smithy has left Gray, so that there need not be the same scene enacted over again which once baulked our vengeance.”“Left him, squire, and without knowing?”“In complete ignorance, or we should ere this have heard of it. Of that, be assured, for I am quite sure, Britton, where we are going to-night, there is nothing to apprehend if we can secure Gray’s confession.”“That will do. He dies, or my name ain’t Andrew Britton! Come—come—’tis time;” and they walked slowly towards Jacob Gray’s mean lodging.Learmont spoke not as they went, but now and then Britton, when he thought of Jacob Gray, with all his deep cunning, being circumvented, would laugh to himself, and striking his thigh with his disengaged hand, would mutter, with the accompaniment of some fearful oath, his extreme satisfaction that he had borrowed the cleaver of Bond, and was in a fair way of trying it upon the skull of Gray, who he so cordially hated.“Hush—hush,” Learmont said, as they neared the street: “hush, Britton! We must be cautious, for to all appearance the house in which Gray lives is filled with inhabitants. Even I do not know the room that he inhabits, except by guess, and that the guess of another.”“That’s awkward,” said Britton: “but we’ll have him, squire, if he’s in the house. If I have to go from room to room, smashing somebody in each, I’ll have Jacob Gray at last!”“Hush! This is the street. Have you the means of opening doors?”“I have. Just hold the cleaver.”Learmont took the weapon, while Britton diving his hand into his pocket, produced a bunch of skeleton keys, saying,—“I’ll warrant with these to get at him even behind fifty locks.”“Then understand me clearly,” said Learmont, in a low, husky voice; “I have arms about me should they be required; but you shall take Gray’s life while I secure you from all interruption by keeping guard at the door. Whatever money is found you shall possess yourself of, while I take possession of the confession, which must, surely, if at all in existence, come easily to hand. See here, I have a light.”Learmont produced from his pocket a small lantern as he spoke, and showed Britton that when he drew the slide he could cast a strong ray of light upon any object.“Very well, the money is of more use to me than the confession; because you know, squire, I can confess myself whenever I’ve a mind that way.”“True—true, that is the house. Now, Britton, we must be firm, and by all the powers of hell, I swear that, let who will interrupt me this night shall meet his death.”“Oh, that’s the house, is it?” said Britton, as beckoned by Learmont, he stood with him on the verge of the narrow pavement and glared up at it.“There is but one light,” whispered Learmont.“And that,” said the smith, “I’d wager a thousand pounds comes from Gray’s room. He told me long ago, when we had some talk, that he never could bear to be without a light.”“’Tis more than probable. The keys—the keys! Ha, what was that?”It appeared to Learmont as if a footstep had sounded on the opposite side of the way, but upon hastily turning, all was still, and he could see no one. His ears, however, had not deceived him; for Albert Seyton, when he saw two figures pause opposite to Gray’s house, had stepped forward, intending, by walking past them, to ascertain, if possible, who they were, and had recognised the squire as soon as he had emerged from the deep doorway where he held his solitary watch. For one instant only Albert paused, and then recollecting his solemn promise not to interfere in the business until the time appointed, he shrunk back again, convinced in his own mind that Learmont was adopting some safe and sure means of rescuing his Ada. Nay, he might even see her brought from the house under the protection of his generous friend. Could he then keep from rushing to her side? No. He felt that then he could not; but now was not the time. He shrunk far back into the passage, but kept his eyes fixed with a painful and absorbing interest upon the proceedings of Learmont and his companion.Then the smith took Learmont’s lantern, and after carefully examining the lock of the outer door, he took from among the keys he carried one which in a moment turned it. Still, however, the door resisted all attempts to open it, and Britton whispered to Learmont that there was a bar.“What are we to do?” gasped the squire.“Pull it off,” said the smith; “but wait a minute.”As he spoke he made a great rummaging in one of his capacious pockets, and then producing a flat case bottle, which was capable, upon a moderate computation, of holding about a pint and a half, he uncorked it, and placing it to his lips, took a hearty draught of the contents.“Now, by hell,” muttered Learmont, “cannot you go on without drink, and if so, why stop at such a juncture as this?”“Go to the devil!” said Britten. “Here’s as choice a drop of brandy as ever was drunk, it’s no use offering you any. Now, I’m ready again; give me the cleaver.”Britton took the cleaver, and by great pressure succeeded in inserting its blade partially between the door and the joint; then he gave it a sudden wrench, and with a sound that went to the heart of Learmont and filled him with alarm, a wooden bar, with which the door had been made fast, fell into the shop, being forced from its place by the wrench given by the cleaver.“You will ruin all by your haste and want of caution,” muttered the squire; “some one is sure to be alarmed by that noise.”“That’s just what I intend,” said Britton. “Whoever comes, we can ask them for a certainty where Gray is.”“Such a scheme would be madness,” said Learmont. “Britton you will ruin all.”“Come in,” said the smith, and grasping Learmont by the arm, he dragged him into the little shop, and closing the door after them as well as he could.All was utter darkness, and for a moment or two, Learmont stood listening painfully to hear if the bar had created any alarm, or had passed off without notice. Then, to his horror, he heard a footstep in some room contiguous to where they were; a gleam of light shot from under a door, and just as Learmont with a deep groan strode towards the outer door to leave the place, believing that the house must be thoroughly alarmed, Britton, in a whisper said,—“Stoop down, squire, and leave me to manage it.”Learmont mechanically obeyed him. The door from whence the gleam of light had issued, opened, and the woman of the house entered the shop.“There’s that bar down again, I declare,” she said. “It’s always a slipping down, just as I am going to bed too.”A faint scream burst from her lips as Britton suddenly placed his hand over her mouth, saying—“Make any noise, and I’ll smash your brains out. Be quiet and I won’t.”Terror then kept the woman from screaming, and when Britton released her, she sank upon her knees, with the candle she carried in her hand.“Mercy—mercy, sir,” she faltered. “Oh, have mercy.”“Hush,” said Britton. “How many people are in this house?”“Three—three—sir, your worship. Oh! Spare my life.”“Do you see this?” said the smith, holding the cleaver within an inch of her face.“Yes—yes—yes,” gasped the terrified woman.“Very well, then, if you don’t answer truly all I ask of you, and remain quite quiet for the next hour or more, I’ll dash your brains on this floor, and your skull shall be picked up in damnation little bits by some one to-morrow morning.”“Oh, mercy, sir—mercy. I’m a poor lone woman. Spare my life.”“Answer then, who else is in the house besides you?”“Poor old Mrs. Garnett, sir, and—and—Master Gray, sir—if you please, sir.”“Humph! And where does Master Gray sleep?”“In—in—the three pair front, sir.”“Very good. Now, my good woman, I shall just tie you up when I’ve refreshed myself a little.”Then with a nod at the woman, and a wink, towards Learmont, who was crouching behind a pile of baskets, Britton took another draught from his case bottle, a process which he seemed resolved upon repeating at every stage of the business he had in hand.He then took the light from the woman’s trembling hand, and seizing her by the hand, he pushed her into the room from whence she had come, and in a few moments tied her securely to the post of a bed which was there.“Now, if you so much as mutter a word, or attempt to make any alarm till I see you again,” he said “you know what you have to expect. Look at this cleaver.”“I—I—won’t, sir. Have mercy, sir—I won’t; I—I—suppose as you are Master Gray’s relation as he’s a feared of?”“Yes, I’m his uncle.”“Good gracious!”“Silence, I say. Another word, and—”Britton made a fearful demonstration with the cleaver round the head of the terrified woman, and then went back to the shop, where Learmont was standing, looking awfully pale, and his eyes emitting an unnatural brilliance from the great excitement under which he was labouring.“What do you think of that, squire,” whispered the smith. “D—n him, he’s in the three pair front, and nobody to interfere with us. Now that’s what I call pleasant. There’s only two women in the house. Oh, won’t I have some fun with Master Jacob. Cunning Master Gray,—Ha! Ha! Ha! Artful, clever Jacob.”“’Tis well,” said Learmont, “as it has turned out; but you run great risks. Let us secure the door now.”“I can lock it,” said Britton, as he did so. “Now we are all right, squire. How cunning Gray is, and what a clod that Britton is. A sot am I. We shall see, Master Gray, with all your cunning, how you will wriggle out of the pleasant circumstances you are in to-night.”“Now, Britton, let me implore you to drink no more. Wait, at least, until our enterprise is concluded.”“Why, it’s only brandy, squire. It’s cooling and pleasant when one’s at work. I used to drink it at the old smithy till I made the anvil ring again as anvil never rung before beneath the strokes of a fore hammer. Come on—come on. I’m the better for the drink.”“We must succeed—we must, surely, succeed,” said Learmont, as Britton holding the candle above his head, glanced around him a moment and then said,—“Here is the staircase: it’s at the top of the house. Come on, squire—come on.”They ascended the staircase slowly on their awful errand; and, oh! What a whirl-wind of dark passions filled the heart of Learmont! Fear, rage, hate—all were struggling for pre-eminence; and now that he was so near the accomplishment of his much cherished scheme of vengeance upon Jacob Gray for the horrible uneasiness he had made him suffer for so many years, his mental suffering was probably greater, because augmented by the most intense anxiety, than ever it had yet been.The stairs creaked beneath their footsteps, and the wind blew about the flame of the candle, making the shadows of themselves, and of the balustrades, dance in wild disorder upon the walls. Then the storm without appeared to have increased, for the rumble of distant thunder came upon their ears; and, as they reached a narrow window on the staircase, a bewildering flash of lightning for an instant lit up everything with its fearful lustre, and then left behind it comparative pitchy darkness.
From Twelve to One.
Heedlessof the dashing rain which ever and anon came in soaking showers upon the wind, Learmont paced up and down by his door. Never before had he made up his mind to risk so much by one act as he was about to do by taking the life of Jacob, for after all there clung to him like a shrieking fiend, which he could not shake off, the horrible thought the confession might by some means elude his search, and so fall into the hands of others to his destruction. To rid himself of such dire forebodings, Learmont was in no state as regarded the powers of reason, for his mind was so wrought upon now by the near approach of the hour of action he had waited for with such a feverish impatience, that when doubts assailed him, he could only resist them by muttering his fixed determination that Gray should die, and that upon this state he would risk all.
Now a dark heavy figure was approaching Learmont’s house—was it the smith? The squire crept up his own steps, and stood in the shadow of his doorway. The figure came on. It was—yes, it must be he!—Now he pauses!—It is Britton!—He has kept his word. He glances around him—mutters a malediction—and ascends the steps! Then Learmont went forward to meet him. He drew a long breath and placing his trembling hand upon the smith’s shoulder, he said,—
“You are punctual, Britton—most punctual! I am glad to see you!! Welcome—welcome! What have you there?”
Britton took from beneath the flap of his coat, whither he had hidden it, a large bright cleaver, and holding it up before Learmont’s face, he said, with a bitter laugh,—
“Will that do, squire? I say will that do?”
“For—for Gray?”
“Yes—curses on him! I think this will make sure work! I’ve borrowed it on purpose. One blow with it, and Jacob Gray, will trouble us no more!”
“True—true! And now, Britton—good Britton, I should tell you that the child of him who lies in the Old Smithy has left Gray, so that there need not be the same scene enacted over again which once baulked our vengeance.”
“Left him, squire, and without knowing?”
“In complete ignorance, or we should ere this have heard of it. Of that, be assured, for I am quite sure, Britton, where we are going to-night, there is nothing to apprehend if we can secure Gray’s confession.”
“That will do. He dies, or my name ain’t Andrew Britton! Come—come—’tis time;” and they walked slowly towards Jacob Gray’s mean lodging.
Learmont spoke not as they went, but now and then Britton, when he thought of Jacob Gray, with all his deep cunning, being circumvented, would laugh to himself, and striking his thigh with his disengaged hand, would mutter, with the accompaniment of some fearful oath, his extreme satisfaction that he had borrowed the cleaver of Bond, and was in a fair way of trying it upon the skull of Gray, who he so cordially hated.
“Hush—hush,” Learmont said, as they neared the street: “hush, Britton! We must be cautious, for to all appearance the house in which Gray lives is filled with inhabitants. Even I do not know the room that he inhabits, except by guess, and that the guess of another.”
“That’s awkward,” said Britton: “but we’ll have him, squire, if he’s in the house. If I have to go from room to room, smashing somebody in each, I’ll have Jacob Gray at last!”
“Hush! This is the street. Have you the means of opening doors?”
“I have. Just hold the cleaver.”
Learmont took the weapon, while Britton diving his hand into his pocket, produced a bunch of skeleton keys, saying,—
“I’ll warrant with these to get at him even behind fifty locks.”
“Then understand me clearly,” said Learmont, in a low, husky voice; “I have arms about me should they be required; but you shall take Gray’s life while I secure you from all interruption by keeping guard at the door. Whatever money is found you shall possess yourself of, while I take possession of the confession, which must, surely, if at all in existence, come easily to hand. See here, I have a light.”
Learmont produced from his pocket a small lantern as he spoke, and showed Britton that when he drew the slide he could cast a strong ray of light upon any object.
“Very well, the money is of more use to me than the confession; because you know, squire, I can confess myself whenever I’ve a mind that way.”
“True—true, that is the house. Now, Britton, we must be firm, and by all the powers of hell, I swear that, let who will interrupt me this night shall meet his death.”
“Oh, that’s the house, is it?” said Britton, as beckoned by Learmont, he stood with him on the verge of the narrow pavement and glared up at it.
“There is but one light,” whispered Learmont.
“And that,” said the smith, “I’d wager a thousand pounds comes from Gray’s room. He told me long ago, when we had some talk, that he never could bear to be without a light.”
“’Tis more than probable. The keys—the keys! Ha, what was that?”
It appeared to Learmont as if a footstep had sounded on the opposite side of the way, but upon hastily turning, all was still, and he could see no one. His ears, however, had not deceived him; for Albert Seyton, when he saw two figures pause opposite to Gray’s house, had stepped forward, intending, by walking past them, to ascertain, if possible, who they were, and had recognised the squire as soon as he had emerged from the deep doorway where he held his solitary watch. For one instant only Albert paused, and then recollecting his solemn promise not to interfere in the business until the time appointed, he shrunk back again, convinced in his own mind that Learmont was adopting some safe and sure means of rescuing his Ada. Nay, he might even see her brought from the house under the protection of his generous friend. Could he then keep from rushing to her side? No. He felt that then he could not; but now was not the time. He shrunk far back into the passage, but kept his eyes fixed with a painful and absorbing interest upon the proceedings of Learmont and his companion.
Then the smith took Learmont’s lantern, and after carefully examining the lock of the outer door, he took from among the keys he carried one which in a moment turned it. Still, however, the door resisted all attempts to open it, and Britton whispered to Learmont that there was a bar.
“What are we to do?” gasped the squire.
“Pull it off,” said the smith; “but wait a minute.”
As he spoke he made a great rummaging in one of his capacious pockets, and then producing a flat case bottle, which was capable, upon a moderate computation, of holding about a pint and a half, he uncorked it, and placing it to his lips, took a hearty draught of the contents.
“Now, by hell,” muttered Learmont, “cannot you go on without drink, and if so, why stop at such a juncture as this?”
“Go to the devil!” said Britten. “Here’s as choice a drop of brandy as ever was drunk, it’s no use offering you any. Now, I’m ready again; give me the cleaver.”
Britton took the cleaver, and by great pressure succeeded in inserting its blade partially between the door and the joint; then he gave it a sudden wrench, and with a sound that went to the heart of Learmont and filled him with alarm, a wooden bar, with which the door had been made fast, fell into the shop, being forced from its place by the wrench given by the cleaver.
“You will ruin all by your haste and want of caution,” muttered the squire; “some one is sure to be alarmed by that noise.”
“That’s just what I intend,” said Britton. “Whoever comes, we can ask them for a certainty where Gray is.”
“Such a scheme would be madness,” said Learmont. “Britton you will ruin all.”
“Come in,” said the smith, and grasping Learmont by the arm, he dragged him into the little shop, and closing the door after them as well as he could.
All was utter darkness, and for a moment or two, Learmont stood listening painfully to hear if the bar had created any alarm, or had passed off without notice. Then, to his horror, he heard a footstep in some room contiguous to where they were; a gleam of light shot from under a door, and just as Learmont with a deep groan strode towards the outer door to leave the place, believing that the house must be thoroughly alarmed, Britton, in a whisper said,—
“Stoop down, squire, and leave me to manage it.”
Learmont mechanically obeyed him. The door from whence the gleam of light had issued, opened, and the woman of the house entered the shop.
“There’s that bar down again, I declare,” she said. “It’s always a slipping down, just as I am going to bed too.”
A faint scream burst from her lips as Britton suddenly placed his hand over her mouth, saying—
“Make any noise, and I’ll smash your brains out. Be quiet and I won’t.”
Terror then kept the woman from screaming, and when Britton released her, she sank upon her knees, with the candle she carried in her hand.
“Mercy—mercy, sir,” she faltered. “Oh, have mercy.”
“Hush,” said Britton. “How many people are in this house?”
“Three—three—sir, your worship. Oh! Spare my life.”
“Do you see this?” said the smith, holding the cleaver within an inch of her face.
“Yes—yes—yes,” gasped the terrified woman.
“Very well, then, if you don’t answer truly all I ask of you, and remain quite quiet for the next hour or more, I’ll dash your brains on this floor, and your skull shall be picked up in damnation little bits by some one to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, mercy, sir—mercy. I’m a poor lone woman. Spare my life.”
“Answer then, who else is in the house besides you?”
“Poor old Mrs. Garnett, sir, and—and—Master Gray, sir—if you please, sir.”
“Humph! And where does Master Gray sleep?”
“In—in—the three pair front, sir.”
“Very good. Now, my good woman, I shall just tie you up when I’ve refreshed myself a little.”
Then with a nod at the woman, and a wink, towards Learmont, who was crouching behind a pile of baskets, Britton took another draught from his case bottle, a process which he seemed resolved upon repeating at every stage of the business he had in hand.
He then took the light from the woman’s trembling hand, and seizing her by the hand, he pushed her into the room from whence she had come, and in a few moments tied her securely to the post of a bed which was there.
“Now, if you so much as mutter a word, or attempt to make any alarm till I see you again,” he said “you know what you have to expect. Look at this cleaver.”
“I—I—won’t, sir. Have mercy, sir—I won’t; I—I—suppose as you are Master Gray’s relation as he’s a feared of?”
“Yes, I’m his uncle.”
“Good gracious!”
“Silence, I say. Another word, and—”
Britton made a fearful demonstration with the cleaver round the head of the terrified woman, and then went back to the shop, where Learmont was standing, looking awfully pale, and his eyes emitting an unnatural brilliance from the great excitement under which he was labouring.
“What do you think of that, squire,” whispered the smith. “D—n him, he’s in the three pair front, and nobody to interfere with us. Now that’s what I call pleasant. There’s only two women in the house. Oh, won’t I have some fun with Master Jacob. Cunning Master Gray,—Ha! Ha! Ha! Artful, clever Jacob.”
“’Tis well,” said Learmont, “as it has turned out; but you run great risks. Let us secure the door now.”
“I can lock it,” said Britton, as he did so. “Now we are all right, squire. How cunning Gray is, and what a clod that Britton is. A sot am I. We shall see, Master Gray, with all your cunning, how you will wriggle out of the pleasant circumstances you are in to-night.”
“Now, Britton, let me implore you to drink no more. Wait, at least, until our enterprise is concluded.”
“Why, it’s only brandy, squire. It’s cooling and pleasant when one’s at work. I used to drink it at the old smithy till I made the anvil ring again as anvil never rung before beneath the strokes of a fore hammer. Come on—come on. I’m the better for the drink.”
“We must succeed—we must, surely, succeed,” said Learmont, as Britton holding the candle above his head, glanced around him a moment and then said,—
“Here is the staircase: it’s at the top of the house. Come on, squire—come on.”
They ascended the staircase slowly on their awful errand; and, oh! What a whirl-wind of dark passions filled the heart of Learmont! Fear, rage, hate—all were struggling for pre-eminence; and now that he was so near the accomplishment of his much cherished scheme of vengeance upon Jacob Gray for the horrible uneasiness he had made him suffer for so many years, his mental suffering was probably greater, because augmented by the most intense anxiety, than ever it had yet been.
The stairs creaked beneath their footsteps, and the wind blew about the flame of the candle, making the shadows of themselves, and of the balustrades, dance in wild disorder upon the walls. Then the storm without appeared to have increased, for the rumble of distant thunder came upon their ears; and, as they reached a narrow window on the staircase, a bewildering flash of lightning for an instant lit up everything with its fearful lustre, and then left behind it comparative pitchy darkness.
CHAPTER CIV.The Murder.Did anyperception of his great danger haunt the brains of Jacob Gray as he slept in his miserable abode? Did the shadow of the grave rest upon his soul? Was there no fiend to whisper in his ear suspicions, and to aggravate his suffering by the horrors of imagination? Yes. Although Gray slept—although the corporeal part of him was still—the mind knew no repose. The sweet oblivion of sleep was not for him, and as he sat, with his head leaning upon the table, deep moans, and now and then a gasping sob, like that of some drowning wretch who sees the waters closing above his head, and shutting out the last glimpse of hope with the last glimpse of light, burst from his labouring breast. Busy fancy was carrying him on its airy pinions from earliest infancy through all the chequered scenes of chicanery and crime. From the happy stainless hours of childhood he wandered in thought through every scene of robbery, of murder, of pain, terror, and despair which he had acted in and endured. Again he rushed from the burning ruins of the smithy, with the child of the dead in his arms; again he was hunted from house to house by the squire and by Britton; then followed his denouncement at Charing-cross by Ada, and his wild run up the Strand—the murder of Vaughan—his own danger as he tremblingly crossed the roof-tops—his agony in the field near Hampstead—his hunger—his pain, misery, destitution, and wretchedness—all were enacted over again in frightful distinctness, and Jacob Gray could not awake. The perspiration, cold and clammy, stood upon his brow in bead-like drops; he tried to shriek, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth—he tried to struggle, but his limbs were powerless. The man of crime was dying a thousand deaths in his deep, mental agony.Meanwhile, slowly approached his executioners. Step by step up the creaking staircase they came—the smith, with a dogged resolution, and his bloated face inflamed with passion and the quantity of raw spirits he had already drunk. Learmont followed him, twining his arm round the crazy balustrade of the staircase to steady himself as he proceeded on his awful errand. Now they had reached the second landing and the flight of stairs leading to the floor on which was Jacob Gray’s room presented themselves, steep and narrow, winding into dimness and obscurity, and scarcely permitting more than one person to ascend them at once.The smith did not speak, but he pointed up the stairs, and then, with a grim smile, held up the cleaver threateningly.“On, on,” whispered Learmont; “let it be done quickly now—this suspense is terrible.”“Take a little of this,” said Britton, producing the brandy; “it will warm you; for you tremble as if you had got the ague,” and Learmont, in his heart, felt thankful for the offer. He took the bottle with a trembling hand, and drunk deep of the contents. He might as well have drunk as much water, for, in his present state of mind, the ardent spirit had no power over him, nor could any artificial excitement equal the fearful one which possessed him already.Britton himself took a draught from the bottle, and then placed it in a corner by the staircase, as of no further, use, being empty, and without another word he commenced the ascent of the attic staircase. Learmont followed him closely, and, when they were half way up, he laid his hand upon Britton’s arm, and said, in a whisper that sounded like the hissing of a snake,—“Britton, Britton—kill him—at once—do not delay—kill him at once.”“What?” muttered Britton, “and scarcely let him know that there are people as cunning as himself. If I do kill him at once, may I be—”“Hush, hush—remember that we must secure the confession. Without that, we are but forging a bolt for our own destruction. Perhaps I had better see him first myself.”“That you may do as you like, squire, but give me the pleasure of using this cleaver on his skull when I please.”“You shall, you shall—I will see him first, and, by practising upon his fears endeavour to procure his confession from him by a quicker means than searching for it. Go on, Britton—go on. Should his door be locked, you can open it; and do you keep guard at the head of the stairs while I enter his room.”“As you please, squire. First or last, I care not, so as I’m in at the death, and have a few minutes talk with my old friend, Jacob, first.”“Hush, hush. We are there. See ye not yon streak of light from beneath that door? It must be his chamber. Now, Britton, now—remember if he be awake, he must die at once, for the opening of the door will alarm him, and he may raise some cry that may bring help; but if I succeed in entering his room without his knowledge, do you wait, and when you hear me utter the words, ‘The hour has come,’ do you enter and kill him—but do not have a struggle, Britton—kill him at once—kill him at once.”“There’s something inside over the key-hole,” whispered Britton; “it’s all the better, for it will deaden the sound of unlocking the door.”With the slightest possible noise consistent with the performance of the operation at all, Britton unlocked Gray’s door. A faint light issued from the room.Learmont paused a moment, and pressed his hand tightly upon his breast—then placing his finger on his lips, and waving his hand to Britton, he glided into Jacob Gray’s apartment.The door slowly shut to within an inch or less—all was as still as the grave. The candle shed but a faint light, for Gray had been asleep long enough to allow the snuff to grow gigantic. In a moment Learmont saw Gray sleeping in the uneasy position he had chosen, and he stood with his feelings wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, gazing upon his victim. Soon a low moan came from Gray, and he muttered the words,—“Oh, God—oh, God!”—in such awful wailing accents, that even Learmont felt sick at heart to hear them.“I must awaken him,” he whispered, “I must—not delay.”Thrice did Learmont try to raise his voice to awaken Jacob Gray, and thrice did his tongue refuse its office, producing but a faint whisper, which failed in its purpose. Then, as if a ton of lead had been appended to each foot, Learmont crept towards the table and stretched out his hand. The long white fingers shook like leaves agitated by the wind—his heart beat with fearful violence—his lips were drawn back with a painful spasm from his teeth—he breathed short and hurriedly; the effort to lay his hand upon the sleeping man was great, and it was more than a minute ere he could do so. Then nearer, nearer, still he crept, and by a desperate effort he touched his shoulder, as in a hollow, spectral voice he said—“Awake, Jacob Gray.”One cry escaped Gray’s lips as he lifted his head, and that cry seemed to arouse Learmont from his lethargy, for he seized Gray by the throat and held him as with a face distorted by excitement, he said, “Another cry, and it is your last, Jacob Gray.”“Learmont,” gasped Gray, and then they glared into each other’s faces like two spirits of evil, conscious of the other’s power, yet prepared for some awful straggle for life or death.Gray put up his hands and held Learmont’s arm, while he shook the chair on which he sat by his trembling, and thus in awful silence did these two men regard each other for more than a minute, each enduring mental agony, such only as the wicked are doomed to suffer. It was an awful picture—ghastly and dreadful to imagine—a scene to haunt the brain in sleep, and people vacancy with horror. The dim spectral-looking light, lighting up the distorted features of these two men, whose souls seemed to be concentrated in their dilated eye-balls, as they glared at each other with the fixedness of marble statues. Then there was the huge bulky form of the smith, at the crevice of the door, which he had enlarged to allow himself a view of what was passing in the room, with the bright shining instrument of death clutched in his grasp, and gloating over the prospect of the blood which was to be shed—the crushed bones and the mangled flesh he was to exult over—the prayers for mercy choked in gore. Oh, it was horrible!Learmont was the first to speak, and when he did so, his voice was hoarse, and for want of breath his words came strangely disjointed from his lips.“The confession—the confession—the confession,” he said.Then Gray seemed to feel that death was at hand, and he slid from the chair on his knees, crying,—“Mercy—mercy—mercy.”“Hush,” said Learmont, dwelling upon the word till it became a long hissing sound. “Hush! The confession—the confession. Speak above your breath and you die—the confession.”He still kept his grasp of Gray, and shook him to and fro as much from his own nervousness as from design.It was awful then to hear Jacob Gray, in a husky whisper, pleading for his life—praying for that mercy he had never himself shown, and appealing to feelings which had no existence in the breasts of either Learmont or himself.“Spare me—spare me,” he said, “and I will go far away from you. Oh, spare my life, and that mercy you now show to me will plead with Heaven for you, while I have no such hope. Oh, spare me.”“The confession—the confession.”“You will kill me—you will kill me if I give it to you. Oh, relent—take me now away—place me on ship board—take all I have of money back again; you shall have the confession, too, if you will spare my life. Oh, God! If you want revenge against me, let me live, for life to me is horrible enough. Yet I dare not die. Learmont, if you have one lingering hope of grace hereafter, spare me now. I am beaten—conquered—I admit all—you shall triumph over me as you may, but do not—oh, do not kill me.”“The confession—the confession,” was Learmont’s only reply.Gray then wrung his hands and wept hysterically, and Learmont let go his hold of him, for he saw he was incapable of resistance.“God help me—God help me,” he said. “You, Learmont, made me what I am; you tempted me—oh, spare my poor worthless life; why should you kill me. I, poor Jacob Gray, your slave—one who has done so much for you—who will do anything you please. Think again, Learmont, think again.”“Time is flying—I must have the confession.”“Then, you would kill me—you would—you would—let me go into the street, and I will tell you where to find it; but you would kill me here, Learmont. I swear I will tell you where it is if you will but let me go. I will never trouble you more—you shall never hear of me. Oh, why kill me—it may bring you danger, but can give you no safety. I tell you you shall never look upon my face again, and you will have the consolation of reflecting that you overcame without soiling your hands with my blood. You relent—I can see you relent, Learmont. You will not kill me—you will not kill me!”“Peace—peace,” said Learmont. “I must have the confession. Give it to me, and you shall live.”“Can I—dare I? Oh, let me be assured, Learmont. Let me go first—I cannot denounce you without condemning myself! Let me leave here, and when we are in some public place, I will tell you where to find it, as well as swearing I will trouble you no more! I will for ever be thankful to you for my life! Oh, think what a great gift is life to me, and yet how small an one it is for you to give. It gives me all—takes from you nothing! Spare me—you see I am abject!—You hear my sobs!—See I am clasping your knees—I am kneeling to you!—I, who never even knelt to Heaven!—Look at my tears—Life—life—life!—Oh, let me have life!”He grovelled as the feet of Learmont—he sobbed—wept—prayed—implored for mercy! He crawled after him as the squire shrunk back; he seized him by his cloak, and when that was wrenched from his hands, he clasped them above his head, and with an awful spasmodic action of the throat he kept repeating the one word,—“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”Learmont was getting each moment more and more enraged at Gray’s pertinacity in refusing him the confession, and he made one last effort to induce him to produce it to him.“Give me the confession,” he said, “and you may go from this room now while I remain here.”“We will go together,” said Gray. “My cloak—God bless you, squire!—We will go together!—My cloak—My cloak!”Learmont shook his clenched hand, and uttering an awful curse, he added,—“The hour has come!”In a moment, Andrew Britton stood before the terrified gaze of Gray, who seemed perfectly paralysed with terror, for although his lips moved, he uttered no sound, but stretching his arms out before him, as if to keep off the smith, he still knelt in the room where Learmont had left him.The smith stepped up close to the horror-stricken man, and then his sides shook with demoniac mirth as he said—“Ho! Ho! Cunning Jacob Gray is in the toils at last—clever, artful Jacob—run down at last by the drunken son with the middle brain. Ho! Ho! Ho!—Why don’t you laugh, squire—why don’t you laugh, Jacob? you may as well, you know—it’s all the same.”Gray appeared from the moment of Britton’s entrance to give himself up for lost. With one gasping sob he let his head sink on his breast, and the only sign of life he gave was in the nervous twitching of his fingers which played with each other convulsively.Britton then stepped up to him, and producing the cleaver from behind his back, he held it close to Jacob Gray’s face, saying—“Artful Jacob, what do you think of that? Look at it—it is sharp and bright—fancy it crashing through your skull till it comes to the brain; and then, even then, you may have still life enough to feel the cracking of your own bones and the crushing agony.”“Oh no—no,” cried Gray, suddenly. “Save me from him, Learmont—oh, God, save me from Andrew Britton! Learmont—Learmont—make me your slave—maim me—inflict daily, hourly pain upon me—but save me from Andrew Britton! Off, off, off—oh, Heaven, have mercy!”Britton made a chop with the cleaver, purposely, so near Jacob Gray’s face, that it passed only within a hair’s breadth of him, and excited his utmost terror; a scream burst from his lips as he fell over on one side, and held up his hands to avert the blow.“Andrew Britton,” cried Learmont, “do your work. This will ruin us—quickly—quickly.”“Hark ye, Jacob,” said Britton; “make as much noise, or half as much again, and I’ll smash you. What would you give to live a little longer?”“Oh, worlds! Worlds!” said Gray.“Be quiet, then, and you shall have a few minutes more, to think how cunning you have been, and what a sad, muddle-brained fool Andrew Britton is. Ho! Ho! Jacob Gray! Think fast, as you will not have time to turn over in your mind all your cleverness.”“Britton—Britton!” said Gray. “Triumph over me, but spare my life. I have done much for you.”“Much for me?” exclaimed Britton, and his face became more inflamed with rage. “Much for me? Now, curses on you! You kept me working at the forge for ten long years, all because you were too much of a coward to strangle a young brat you had in your power. Yes, you have done much for me, Jacob Gray, and I will do something for you. I’m going to hack you to pieces with this cleaver.”Learmont, during this awful conference, was busy about the room laying his trembling hands upon everything with a hope of finding the confession of Gray, and each moment as his search was unproductive, he became more dreadfully anxious and excited, until his very brain seemed on fire.“The confession,” he said, turning to Gray. “Give me the confession, and you may yet live.”“Not here—not here!”Learmont came close up to him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, he said,—“Jacob Gray, a thought strikes me, there is no confession—this has been a creation of your own fancy, to alarm me. There is no confession.”“There is,” cried Gray. “God knows it. There is—there is!”As Gray spoke, he crept towards the window; a wild hope had occurred to him, that he might open it suddenly and dash out into the gutter, which was under it, and possibly escape.“Produce it, then,” said Learmont to him.“One moment for thought,” said Gray. “Spare me a moment—I will think—keep Britton off me—keep him away—his looks kill me—I shall go mad if he keeps so close to me.”Gray then suddenly pushed a chair between himself and Britton and fled to the window. Learmont turned his eyes away as he saw Britton step over the obstruction with the cleaver uplifted. Scream after scream burst from Jacob Gray as he stood with the back of his head against the window.There was an awful crashing sound, one gurgling shriek, and a noise of broken glass.“Kill him—kill him,” gasped Learmont. “Keep him not in agony!”The cleaver descended again, a heavy fall succeeded, and then all was still. Something cold fell on the back of Learmont’s hand. A glance told him it was blood; but before he could utter the cry of horror that rose upon his lips, a tremendous knocking at the street-door awakened every echo in the house.
The Murder.
Did anyperception of his great danger haunt the brains of Jacob Gray as he slept in his miserable abode? Did the shadow of the grave rest upon his soul? Was there no fiend to whisper in his ear suspicions, and to aggravate his suffering by the horrors of imagination? Yes. Although Gray slept—although the corporeal part of him was still—the mind knew no repose. The sweet oblivion of sleep was not for him, and as he sat, with his head leaning upon the table, deep moans, and now and then a gasping sob, like that of some drowning wretch who sees the waters closing above his head, and shutting out the last glimpse of hope with the last glimpse of light, burst from his labouring breast. Busy fancy was carrying him on its airy pinions from earliest infancy through all the chequered scenes of chicanery and crime. From the happy stainless hours of childhood he wandered in thought through every scene of robbery, of murder, of pain, terror, and despair which he had acted in and endured. Again he rushed from the burning ruins of the smithy, with the child of the dead in his arms; again he was hunted from house to house by the squire and by Britton; then followed his denouncement at Charing-cross by Ada, and his wild run up the Strand—the murder of Vaughan—his own danger as he tremblingly crossed the roof-tops—his agony in the field near Hampstead—his hunger—his pain, misery, destitution, and wretchedness—all were enacted over again in frightful distinctness, and Jacob Gray could not awake. The perspiration, cold and clammy, stood upon his brow in bead-like drops; he tried to shriek, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth—he tried to struggle, but his limbs were powerless. The man of crime was dying a thousand deaths in his deep, mental agony.
Meanwhile, slowly approached his executioners. Step by step up the creaking staircase they came—the smith, with a dogged resolution, and his bloated face inflamed with passion and the quantity of raw spirits he had already drunk. Learmont followed him, twining his arm round the crazy balustrade of the staircase to steady himself as he proceeded on his awful errand. Now they had reached the second landing and the flight of stairs leading to the floor on which was Jacob Gray’s room presented themselves, steep and narrow, winding into dimness and obscurity, and scarcely permitting more than one person to ascend them at once.
The smith did not speak, but he pointed up the stairs, and then, with a grim smile, held up the cleaver threateningly.
“On, on,” whispered Learmont; “let it be done quickly now—this suspense is terrible.”
“Take a little of this,” said Britton, producing the brandy; “it will warm you; for you tremble as if you had got the ague,” and Learmont, in his heart, felt thankful for the offer. He took the bottle with a trembling hand, and drunk deep of the contents. He might as well have drunk as much water, for, in his present state of mind, the ardent spirit had no power over him, nor could any artificial excitement equal the fearful one which possessed him already.
Britton himself took a draught from the bottle, and then placed it in a corner by the staircase, as of no further, use, being empty, and without another word he commenced the ascent of the attic staircase. Learmont followed him closely, and, when they were half way up, he laid his hand upon Britton’s arm, and said, in a whisper that sounded like the hissing of a snake,—
“Britton, Britton—kill him—at once—do not delay—kill him at once.”
“What?” muttered Britton, “and scarcely let him know that there are people as cunning as himself. If I do kill him at once, may I be—”
“Hush, hush—remember that we must secure the confession. Without that, we are but forging a bolt for our own destruction. Perhaps I had better see him first myself.”
“That you may do as you like, squire, but give me the pleasure of using this cleaver on his skull when I please.”
“You shall, you shall—I will see him first, and, by practising upon his fears endeavour to procure his confession from him by a quicker means than searching for it. Go on, Britton—go on. Should his door be locked, you can open it; and do you keep guard at the head of the stairs while I enter his room.”
“As you please, squire. First or last, I care not, so as I’m in at the death, and have a few minutes talk with my old friend, Jacob, first.”
“Hush, hush. We are there. See ye not yon streak of light from beneath that door? It must be his chamber. Now, Britton, now—remember if he be awake, he must die at once, for the opening of the door will alarm him, and he may raise some cry that may bring help; but if I succeed in entering his room without his knowledge, do you wait, and when you hear me utter the words, ‘The hour has come,’ do you enter and kill him—but do not have a struggle, Britton—kill him at once—kill him at once.”
“There’s something inside over the key-hole,” whispered Britton; “it’s all the better, for it will deaden the sound of unlocking the door.”
With the slightest possible noise consistent with the performance of the operation at all, Britton unlocked Gray’s door. A faint light issued from the room.
Learmont paused a moment, and pressed his hand tightly upon his breast—then placing his finger on his lips, and waving his hand to Britton, he glided into Jacob Gray’s apartment.
The door slowly shut to within an inch or less—all was as still as the grave. The candle shed but a faint light, for Gray had been asleep long enough to allow the snuff to grow gigantic. In a moment Learmont saw Gray sleeping in the uneasy position he had chosen, and he stood with his feelings wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, gazing upon his victim. Soon a low moan came from Gray, and he muttered the words,—
“Oh, God—oh, God!”—in such awful wailing accents, that even Learmont felt sick at heart to hear them.
“I must awaken him,” he whispered, “I must—not delay.”
Thrice did Learmont try to raise his voice to awaken Jacob Gray, and thrice did his tongue refuse its office, producing but a faint whisper, which failed in its purpose. Then, as if a ton of lead had been appended to each foot, Learmont crept towards the table and stretched out his hand. The long white fingers shook like leaves agitated by the wind—his heart beat with fearful violence—his lips were drawn back with a painful spasm from his teeth—he breathed short and hurriedly; the effort to lay his hand upon the sleeping man was great, and it was more than a minute ere he could do so. Then nearer, nearer, still he crept, and by a desperate effort he touched his shoulder, as in a hollow, spectral voice he said—
“Awake, Jacob Gray.”
One cry escaped Gray’s lips as he lifted his head, and that cry seemed to arouse Learmont from his lethargy, for he seized Gray by the throat and held him as with a face distorted by excitement, he said, “Another cry, and it is your last, Jacob Gray.”
“Learmont,” gasped Gray, and then they glared into each other’s faces like two spirits of evil, conscious of the other’s power, yet prepared for some awful straggle for life or death.
Gray put up his hands and held Learmont’s arm, while he shook the chair on which he sat by his trembling, and thus in awful silence did these two men regard each other for more than a minute, each enduring mental agony, such only as the wicked are doomed to suffer. It was an awful picture—ghastly and dreadful to imagine—a scene to haunt the brain in sleep, and people vacancy with horror. The dim spectral-looking light, lighting up the distorted features of these two men, whose souls seemed to be concentrated in their dilated eye-balls, as they glared at each other with the fixedness of marble statues. Then there was the huge bulky form of the smith, at the crevice of the door, which he had enlarged to allow himself a view of what was passing in the room, with the bright shining instrument of death clutched in his grasp, and gloating over the prospect of the blood which was to be shed—the crushed bones and the mangled flesh he was to exult over—the prayers for mercy choked in gore. Oh, it was horrible!
Learmont was the first to speak, and when he did so, his voice was hoarse, and for want of breath his words came strangely disjointed from his lips.
“The confession—the confession—the confession,” he said.
Then Gray seemed to feel that death was at hand, and he slid from the chair on his knees, crying,—
“Mercy—mercy—mercy.”
“Hush,” said Learmont, dwelling upon the word till it became a long hissing sound. “Hush! The confession—the confession. Speak above your breath and you die—the confession.”
He still kept his grasp of Gray, and shook him to and fro as much from his own nervousness as from design.
It was awful then to hear Jacob Gray, in a husky whisper, pleading for his life—praying for that mercy he had never himself shown, and appealing to feelings which had no existence in the breasts of either Learmont or himself.
“Spare me—spare me,” he said, “and I will go far away from you. Oh, spare my life, and that mercy you now show to me will plead with Heaven for you, while I have no such hope. Oh, spare me.”
“The confession—the confession.”
“You will kill me—you will kill me if I give it to you. Oh, relent—take me now away—place me on ship board—take all I have of money back again; you shall have the confession, too, if you will spare my life. Oh, God! If you want revenge against me, let me live, for life to me is horrible enough. Yet I dare not die. Learmont, if you have one lingering hope of grace hereafter, spare me now. I am beaten—conquered—I admit all—you shall triumph over me as you may, but do not—oh, do not kill me.”
“The confession—the confession,” was Learmont’s only reply.
Gray then wrung his hands and wept hysterically, and Learmont let go his hold of him, for he saw he was incapable of resistance.
“God help me—God help me,” he said. “You, Learmont, made me what I am; you tempted me—oh, spare my poor worthless life; why should you kill me. I, poor Jacob Gray, your slave—one who has done so much for you—who will do anything you please. Think again, Learmont, think again.”
“Time is flying—I must have the confession.”
“Then, you would kill me—you would—you would—let me go into the street, and I will tell you where to find it; but you would kill me here, Learmont. I swear I will tell you where it is if you will but let me go. I will never trouble you more—you shall never hear of me. Oh, why kill me—it may bring you danger, but can give you no safety. I tell you you shall never look upon my face again, and you will have the consolation of reflecting that you overcame without soiling your hands with my blood. You relent—I can see you relent, Learmont. You will not kill me—you will not kill me!”
“Peace—peace,” said Learmont. “I must have the confession. Give it to me, and you shall live.”
“Can I—dare I? Oh, let me be assured, Learmont. Let me go first—I cannot denounce you without condemning myself! Let me leave here, and when we are in some public place, I will tell you where to find it, as well as swearing I will trouble you no more! I will for ever be thankful to you for my life! Oh, think what a great gift is life to me, and yet how small an one it is for you to give. It gives me all—takes from you nothing! Spare me—you see I am abject!—You hear my sobs!—See I am clasping your knees—I am kneeling to you!—I, who never even knelt to Heaven!—Look at my tears—Life—life—life!—Oh, let me have life!”
He grovelled as the feet of Learmont—he sobbed—wept—prayed—implored for mercy! He crawled after him as the squire shrunk back; he seized him by his cloak, and when that was wrenched from his hands, he clasped them above his head, and with an awful spasmodic action of the throat he kept repeating the one word,—
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”
Learmont was getting each moment more and more enraged at Gray’s pertinacity in refusing him the confession, and he made one last effort to induce him to produce it to him.
“Give me the confession,” he said, “and you may go from this room now while I remain here.”
“We will go together,” said Gray. “My cloak—God bless you, squire!—We will go together!—My cloak—My cloak!”
Learmont shook his clenched hand, and uttering an awful curse, he added,—
“The hour has come!”
In a moment, Andrew Britton stood before the terrified gaze of Gray, who seemed perfectly paralysed with terror, for although his lips moved, he uttered no sound, but stretching his arms out before him, as if to keep off the smith, he still knelt in the room where Learmont had left him.
The smith stepped up close to the horror-stricken man, and then his sides shook with demoniac mirth as he said—
“Ho! Ho! Cunning Jacob Gray is in the toils at last—clever, artful Jacob—run down at last by the drunken son with the middle brain. Ho! Ho! Ho!—Why don’t you laugh, squire—why don’t you laugh, Jacob? you may as well, you know—it’s all the same.”
Gray appeared from the moment of Britton’s entrance to give himself up for lost. With one gasping sob he let his head sink on his breast, and the only sign of life he gave was in the nervous twitching of his fingers which played with each other convulsively.
Britton then stepped up to him, and producing the cleaver from behind his back, he held it close to Jacob Gray’s face, saying—
“Artful Jacob, what do you think of that? Look at it—it is sharp and bright—fancy it crashing through your skull till it comes to the brain; and then, even then, you may have still life enough to feel the cracking of your own bones and the crushing agony.”
“Oh no—no,” cried Gray, suddenly. “Save me from him, Learmont—oh, God, save me from Andrew Britton! Learmont—Learmont—make me your slave—maim me—inflict daily, hourly pain upon me—but save me from Andrew Britton! Off, off, off—oh, Heaven, have mercy!”
Britton made a chop with the cleaver, purposely, so near Jacob Gray’s face, that it passed only within a hair’s breadth of him, and excited his utmost terror; a scream burst from his lips as he fell over on one side, and held up his hands to avert the blow.
“Andrew Britton,” cried Learmont, “do your work. This will ruin us—quickly—quickly.”
“Hark ye, Jacob,” said Britton; “make as much noise, or half as much again, and I’ll smash you. What would you give to live a little longer?”
“Oh, worlds! Worlds!” said Gray.
“Be quiet, then, and you shall have a few minutes more, to think how cunning you have been, and what a sad, muddle-brained fool Andrew Britton is. Ho! Ho! Jacob Gray! Think fast, as you will not have time to turn over in your mind all your cleverness.”
“Britton—Britton!” said Gray. “Triumph over me, but spare my life. I have done much for you.”
“Much for me?” exclaimed Britton, and his face became more inflamed with rage. “Much for me? Now, curses on you! You kept me working at the forge for ten long years, all because you were too much of a coward to strangle a young brat you had in your power. Yes, you have done much for me, Jacob Gray, and I will do something for you. I’m going to hack you to pieces with this cleaver.”
Learmont, during this awful conference, was busy about the room laying his trembling hands upon everything with a hope of finding the confession of Gray, and each moment as his search was unproductive, he became more dreadfully anxious and excited, until his very brain seemed on fire.
“The confession,” he said, turning to Gray. “Give me the confession, and you may yet live.”
“Not here—not here!”
Learmont came close up to him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, he said,—
“Jacob Gray, a thought strikes me, there is no confession—this has been a creation of your own fancy, to alarm me. There is no confession.”
“There is,” cried Gray. “God knows it. There is—there is!”
As Gray spoke, he crept towards the window; a wild hope had occurred to him, that he might open it suddenly and dash out into the gutter, which was under it, and possibly escape.
“Produce it, then,” said Learmont to him.
“One moment for thought,” said Gray. “Spare me a moment—I will think—keep Britton off me—keep him away—his looks kill me—I shall go mad if he keeps so close to me.”
Gray then suddenly pushed a chair between himself and Britton and fled to the window. Learmont turned his eyes away as he saw Britton step over the obstruction with the cleaver uplifted. Scream after scream burst from Jacob Gray as he stood with the back of his head against the window.
There was an awful crashing sound, one gurgling shriek, and a noise of broken glass.
“Kill him—kill him,” gasped Learmont. “Keep him not in agony!”
The cleaver descended again, a heavy fall succeeded, and then all was still. Something cold fell on the back of Learmont’s hand. A glance told him it was blood; but before he could utter the cry of horror that rose upon his lips, a tremendous knocking at the street-door awakened every echo in the house.
CHAPTER CV.After the Murder.The knockingcontinued without intermission for several seconds, and each blow seemed to Learmont as if it was struck upon his own heart.“Britton, Britton,” he cried, “you hear. There is some alarm. Hasten, hasten, or we are lost.”Britton turned his excited face towards the squire, and the dim light of the candle fell upon it, Learmont could not but be struck by its awful expression. The smith had at length succeeded in gratifying the long cherished desire of his heart, namely, to be in some dreadful manner revenged upon Jacob Gray. Wild excitement had caused him to do the deed which he had just committed, and every evil passion of his nature was peeping forth like a bold fiend from his countenance. Crimson spots of human gore were likewise upon his face—horrible evidences of the work he had been about.“Who knocks?” he said in a low, earnest voice. “Who is mad enough to interfere with me?”He raised in his hand the cleaver as he spoke—with a dull heavy splash there fell from its blade on to the floor “gouts of blood,” and Learmont turned away his head, sickened at the sight.“Who dares, I say, to interfere with me?” repeated Britton. “Squire, Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more.”“Name him not—oh, name him not,” said Learmont. “Hark—hark!”As he spoke, it appeared that whoever had been knocking at the outer door of the house had grown impatient, and burst it open, frailly as it had been fastened after the violence that had been used towards it by Britton, for there was heard a loud crash, and then a sound of rapid footsteps approaching.“Flight—flight,” gasped Learmont, as he sprung towards the door.“Flight be d—d,” said Britton, as he flourished the cleaver above his head. “I’m not going to be scared now because some one is coming.”He then walked deliberately to Gray’s cloak, in which it will be recollected the confession was concealed, and wiped the reeking blade of the instrument, by which he had put Gray to death, upon it.“For my sake, and your own,” said Learmont, “leave this room. What enemy to us can he be who is coming, unless we make him one?”As he spoke, he seized the reluctant smith by the arm, and dragging him across the narrow landing pushed open another doorway on the same story, and entered an empty room.Now that the savage smith had dipped his hands in Gray’s blood, he would, with wild ferocity, have defied the world; and it would have given him far greater pleasure to have been hindered in his retreat, and to have had to fight his way out of the house, with Bond’s cleaver, than to escape easily and without a struggle.In order now to explain the cause of the violent knocking at so terrible a moment at the door, we must carry the reader back for a brief space to Albert Seyton and his lonely walk. Filled with surprise, as we know he was, to see the squire at such an hour making a clandestine entrance into the house in which Gray resided, he remained upon the tip-toe of expectation waiting his re-appearance, accompanied by Ada, in which case he felt that he could no longer restrain his impatience, but must fly across to her, and welcome her to freedom, even if it cost him the reproach of breaking his word, and his future friendship of the rich squire.But as minute after minute passed languidly away, and no re-appearance look place, Albert’s impatience and anxiety became excruciating, and he could no longer stay within the deep doorway, but scarcely knowing what he did, he walked to the very middle of the road, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door, with but now and then an occasional glance at the window, which he had all along pleased himself with the idea was that of Ada’s room, he trembled again with impatient excitement.The profound stillness of everything surprised him, and more than once he was almost tempted to believe he must have been dreaming, when he supposed he saw Learmont enter the house at all. Suddenly, however, the silence was broken by a loud crash at the windows, and, by the dim and uncertain light, Albert saw some object apparently dashed through the glass, and then withdrawn again.That object was the head of Jacob Gray, for then had Britten given him his death blow in the manner we have recorded.Excited as he was, this maddened Albert, and the idea seizing him that Ada must be in some danger, he, on the impulse of the moment, knocked loudly at the door and finally with one vigorous rush against it, burst it open, and fell himself into the shop.It was some moments before, in the dark, he could find the staircase; but, when he did, he ascended it as rapidly as he could, resolved when he reached the top, to make himself known by his voice.“Ada—Ada,” he cried in a tone that rang through the house, and fell with a disagreeable chill upon the heart of Learmont, who immediately recognised in it the voice of Albert, and could not divine how at such a moment, he should happen to be at hand.“Ada—Ada,” again cried Albert, and then Learmont laid his hands on the smith’s arm, and whispered—“Britton, there is but one man there, let us kill him and escape.”“I’m willing but where is Master Jacob’s money, and his confession, I should like to know?”“The money I will make good to you, and I am quite convinced of what I always suspected, that there is no confession but what lay in Gray’s own brain.”“Then it don’t lay in his brain now,” said Britton, “I’ll be sworn.”“Hush—come on.”“Ada—Ada,” cried Albert, pausing on the staircase, with the hope of hearing some answering sound, and more alarmed at the dead silence which prevailed in the house, than had he encountered noise, tumult, and evident danger.“What the devil is he shouting in that way for?” muttered Britton.“Hush—hush,” said Learmont. “Some cursed chance has brought him here. Let us descend, and, as you pass him, Britton—you understand me?”“I do,“ said Britton. “Come on, then. Where’s your light.”“We need none. I would not be seen by him. What you have to do, you can easily do in the dark—kill him or maim him. I care not which.”“Well, squire,” muttered Britton, “you certainly do leave me all the work to do: but when one’s hands in, it ain’t much matter.”Albert, in the excitement of his feelings, when he got as high as the second floor, paused, uncertain whether or not he had arrived on a level with the room of which the window had been broken so violently, and he stood for several minutes calling upon Ada, his voice, each time that he uttered her name, betraying the great anxiety which he laboured under, and which was momentarily increasing.Suddenly, then, a voice answered him faintly, and guided by the sound, Albert pushed against a door, which, yielding to his touch, presented a dark room, into which he stepped, saying,—“Whoever you are here, for Heaven’s sake, let me have a light.”“Oh, spare a poor old creature, who hasn’t long to live,” said a voice.“I intend you no harm,” said Albert, “but for God’s sake get me a light.”There was a great creaking of an old crazy bedstead, and then the voice said, in the tremulous accents of old age,—“Are you the man that lives up stairs?”“No, no,” said Albert, “but get a light quickly.”The old woman, after stumbling over every article of furniture in her room, at length found a tinder-box, and commenced striking a light with a particularly small bit of flint, which, produced, upon an average, one spark to every half dozen blows.Albert Seyton, in his impatience, little suspected that the very circumstance of the old woman not being able to get him a light quickly saved his life, for while she was endeavouring to procure one, Learmont and Britton were creeping down the staircase with the expectation of meeting Albert and taking his life.As they passed the door of the room in which Seyton was, and heard the hacking of the flint and steel, Britton muttered,—“There’s some one getting a light, squire. We may as well move on, or shall I go in and smash whoever it is?”“No, no; come on—come on,” said Learmont. “I know what it is, and there will come a time for rendering him innoxious. Come on—come on.”They passed the door, and Albert was saved. In a few moments more the old woman procured a light, and then peering at Albert from her deep sunken eyes, she said,—“And who may you be, young gentleman? I don’t know you, I’m sure.”“Ask no questions,” cried Albert, as he took the light from her, “but on your soul, tell me, in which room of this house resides a young girl, by name, Ada?”The old woman was alarmed at his vehemence, and tremblingly muttered, that she did not know who he meant, for there was no such person to her knowledge there.“One Gray lives here?” said Albert.“Oh, yes,” said the woman, “I’ve heard there’s a Mr. Gray up stairs.”Albert waited not another moment, but bounded up the staircase with the light in his hand.“Ada—Ada. ’Tis I—Albert,” he said, as he reached the top landing.The echoes of the old house were the only sounds that replied to him, and shading the light with his hand, he walked into Jacob Gray’s room, the door of which was partially open. Everything appeared in confusion, and the first article that Albert trod upon was the cloak, which had fallen from its hook at the back of the door. A feeling of awe crept over him, which he could not account for. His blood seemed to creep through his veins, and there was an anxious flutter at his heart, as he again, but in a lower tone, pronounced the name of Ada.All was silent as the grave. Albert stood a few paces only within the doorway, and his heart misgave him, that something dreadful must have happened to her he loved.“Ada—Ada!” he cried, wildly. “If you live, speak—Gray—Learmont? Where are you all? Am I dreaming, or is this awful silence real? Ada—Ada—God of heaven? Where, oh, where are you, my Ada?”He felt something soft and slimy under his feet. He stooped with the light—deadly sickness came over him—for a moment all objects swam before his eyes; he was compelled to hold the back of the chair for support—he was standing in a pool of coagulated blood!How long it was then before he recovered full consciousness he knew not, but gradually his perceptions returned, and then he shrieked the name of Ada, with a tone of anguish, that would have saddened any heart, and lingered in the ears for months like a death shriek.“They have killed her—they have killed her!” he cried, “Ada—Ada—I should have flown sooner to your aid—God help me, I am heart-stricken now for ever—she is dead—she is dead. My beautiful Ada—oh, God—oh, God!”He reeled further into the room, and when he had passed the bed, which partially concealed the window he stood like one suddenly transformed to stone; for there lying in a ghastly heap, in a pool of blood, the features horribly disfigured, and scarcely a trace of the upper portion of the skull visible, his eyes fell upon what once was Jacob Gray.All his air-drawn schemes—his deep resolves—his cunning—his cruelty—his avarice, and his ambition—where were they now? What had he reaped as the reward of his great selfishness? A death of horror. May Heaven have mercy on his soul.Albert Seyton felt like one fascinated by the hideous glare of a serpent. He could not withdraw his eyes from the ghastly spectacle for many minutes, and while he so gazed, his very heart seemed to shrink within him, and a feeling of horror crept up—up to his brain, till a clammy perspiration broke out upon his brow, and hung there in heavy drops, while each breath he drew, was laboured and heavy.It was frightful, but by the crushing blow of the cleaver, one of Gray’s eyes had been forced from its socket—it hung by a bleeding filament—round—glassy and fixed—it seemed to glare upon Albert like a thing of life—he could almost fancy it moved. The young man covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, as he said,—“This must be a dream—God of heaven, this cannot be real—when oh, when shall I awake?”Distinct sounds, as of many voices, now suddenly came upon his ears, and he started, as if the tones of a human voice had removed some spell from off his faculties. Louder and louder the sound came upon his ears. There were evidently several voices. Then he heard a confused trampling of feet—heavy footsteps were approaching.“Thank God,” said Albert, with a feeling of inexpressible relief, as he felt sure now that some human beings besides himself were at hand. He withdrew himself with difficulty, from the awful-spectacle in Gray’s room, and proceeding to the head of the stairs, he said,—“Help—help—murder—murder—murder.”
After the Murder.
The knockingcontinued without intermission for several seconds, and each blow seemed to Learmont as if it was struck upon his own heart.
“Britton, Britton,” he cried, “you hear. There is some alarm. Hasten, hasten, or we are lost.”
Britton turned his excited face towards the squire, and the dim light of the candle fell upon it, Learmont could not but be struck by its awful expression. The smith had at length succeeded in gratifying the long cherished desire of his heart, namely, to be in some dreadful manner revenged upon Jacob Gray. Wild excitement had caused him to do the deed which he had just committed, and every evil passion of his nature was peeping forth like a bold fiend from his countenance. Crimson spots of human gore were likewise upon his face—horrible evidences of the work he had been about.
“Who knocks?” he said in a low, earnest voice. “Who is mad enough to interfere with me?”
He raised in his hand the cleaver as he spoke—with a dull heavy splash there fell from its blade on to the floor “gouts of blood,” and Learmont turned away his head, sickened at the sight.
“Who dares, I say, to interfere with me?” repeated Britton. “Squire, Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more.”
“Name him not—oh, name him not,” said Learmont. “Hark—hark!”
As he spoke, it appeared that whoever had been knocking at the outer door of the house had grown impatient, and burst it open, frailly as it had been fastened after the violence that had been used towards it by Britton, for there was heard a loud crash, and then a sound of rapid footsteps approaching.
“Flight—flight,” gasped Learmont, as he sprung towards the door.
“Flight be d—d,” said Britton, as he flourished the cleaver above his head. “I’m not going to be scared now because some one is coming.”
He then walked deliberately to Gray’s cloak, in which it will be recollected the confession was concealed, and wiped the reeking blade of the instrument, by which he had put Gray to death, upon it.
“For my sake, and your own,” said Learmont, “leave this room. What enemy to us can he be who is coming, unless we make him one?”
As he spoke, he seized the reluctant smith by the arm, and dragging him across the narrow landing pushed open another doorway on the same story, and entered an empty room.
Now that the savage smith had dipped his hands in Gray’s blood, he would, with wild ferocity, have defied the world; and it would have given him far greater pleasure to have been hindered in his retreat, and to have had to fight his way out of the house, with Bond’s cleaver, than to escape easily and without a struggle.
In order now to explain the cause of the violent knocking at so terrible a moment at the door, we must carry the reader back for a brief space to Albert Seyton and his lonely walk. Filled with surprise, as we know he was, to see the squire at such an hour making a clandestine entrance into the house in which Gray resided, he remained upon the tip-toe of expectation waiting his re-appearance, accompanied by Ada, in which case he felt that he could no longer restrain his impatience, but must fly across to her, and welcome her to freedom, even if it cost him the reproach of breaking his word, and his future friendship of the rich squire.
But as minute after minute passed languidly away, and no re-appearance look place, Albert’s impatience and anxiety became excruciating, and he could no longer stay within the deep doorway, but scarcely knowing what he did, he walked to the very middle of the road, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door, with but now and then an occasional glance at the window, which he had all along pleased himself with the idea was that of Ada’s room, he trembled again with impatient excitement.
The profound stillness of everything surprised him, and more than once he was almost tempted to believe he must have been dreaming, when he supposed he saw Learmont enter the house at all. Suddenly, however, the silence was broken by a loud crash at the windows, and, by the dim and uncertain light, Albert saw some object apparently dashed through the glass, and then withdrawn again.
That object was the head of Jacob Gray, for then had Britten given him his death blow in the manner we have recorded.
Excited as he was, this maddened Albert, and the idea seizing him that Ada must be in some danger, he, on the impulse of the moment, knocked loudly at the door and finally with one vigorous rush against it, burst it open, and fell himself into the shop.
It was some moments before, in the dark, he could find the staircase; but, when he did, he ascended it as rapidly as he could, resolved when he reached the top, to make himself known by his voice.
“Ada—Ada,” he cried in a tone that rang through the house, and fell with a disagreeable chill upon the heart of Learmont, who immediately recognised in it the voice of Albert, and could not divine how at such a moment, he should happen to be at hand.
“Ada—Ada,” again cried Albert, and then Learmont laid his hands on the smith’s arm, and whispered—
“Britton, there is but one man there, let us kill him and escape.”
“I’m willing but where is Master Jacob’s money, and his confession, I should like to know?”
“The money I will make good to you, and I am quite convinced of what I always suspected, that there is no confession but what lay in Gray’s own brain.”
“Then it don’t lay in his brain now,” said Britton, “I’ll be sworn.”
“Hush—come on.”
“Ada—Ada,” cried Albert, pausing on the staircase, with the hope of hearing some answering sound, and more alarmed at the dead silence which prevailed in the house, than had he encountered noise, tumult, and evident danger.
“What the devil is he shouting in that way for?” muttered Britton.
“Hush—hush,” said Learmont. “Some cursed chance has brought him here. Let us descend, and, as you pass him, Britton—you understand me?”
“I do,“ said Britton. “Come on, then. Where’s your light.”
“We need none. I would not be seen by him. What you have to do, you can easily do in the dark—kill him or maim him. I care not which.”
“Well, squire,” muttered Britton, “you certainly do leave me all the work to do: but when one’s hands in, it ain’t much matter.”
Albert, in the excitement of his feelings, when he got as high as the second floor, paused, uncertain whether or not he had arrived on a level with the room of which the window had been broken so violently, and he stood for several minutes calling upon Ada, his voice, each time that he uttered her name, betraying the great anxiety which he laboured under, and which was momentarily increasing.
Suddenly, then, a voice answered him faintly, and guided by the sound, Albert pushed against a door, which, yielding to his touch, presented a dark room, into which he stepped, saying,—
“Whoever you are here, for Heaven’s sake, let me have a light.”
“Oh, spare a poor old creature, who hasn’t long to live,” said a voice.
“I intend you no harm,” said Albert, “but for God’s sake get me a light.”
There was a great creaking of an old crazy bedstead, and then the voice said, in the tremulous accents of old age,—
“Are you the man that lives up stairs?”
“No, no,” said Albert, “but get a light quickly.”
The old woman, after stumbling over every article of furniture in her room, at length found a tinder-box, and commenced striking a light with a particularly small bit of flint, which, produced, upon an average, one spark to every half dozen blows.
Albert Seyton, in his impatience, little suspected that the very circumstance of the old woman not being able to get him a light quickly saved his life, for while she was endeavouring to procure one, Learmont and Britton were creeping down the staircase with the expectation of meeting Albert and taking his life.
As they passed the door of the room in which Seyton was, and heard the hacking of the flint and steel, Britton muttered,—
“There’s some one getting a light, squire. We may as well move on, or shall I go in and smash whoever it is?”
“No, no; come on—come on,” said Learmont. “I know what it is, and there will come a time for rendering him innoxious. Come on—come on.”
They passed the door, and Albert was saved. In a few moments more the old woman procured a light, and then peering at Albert from her deep sunken eyes, she said,—
“And who may you be, young gentleman? I don’t know you, I’m sure.”
“Ask no questions,” cried Albert, as he took the light from her, “but on your soul, tell me, in which room of this house resides a young girl, by name, Ada?”
The old woman was alarmed at his vehemence, and tremblingly muttered, that she did not know who he meant, for there was no such person to her knowledge there.
“One Gray lives here?” said Albert.
“Oh, yes,” said the woman, “I’ve heard there’s a Mr. Gray up stairs.”
Albert waited not another moment, but bounded up the staircase with the light in his hand.
“Ada—Ada. ’Tis I—Albert,” he said, as he reached the top landing.
The echoes of the old house were the only sounds that replied to him, and shading the light with his hand, he walked into Jacob Gray’s room, the door of which was partially open. Everything appeared in confusion, and the first article that Albert trod upon was the cloak, which had fallen from its hook at the back of the door. A feeling of awe crept over him, which he could not account for. His blood seemed to creep through his veins, and there was an anxious flutter at his heart, as he again, but in a lower tone, pronounced the name of Ada.
All was silent as the grave. Albert stood a few paces only within the doorway, and his heart misgave him, that something dreadful must have happened to her he loved.
“Ada—Ada!” he cried, wildly. “If you live, speak—Gray—Learmont? Where are you all? Am I dreaming, or is this awful silence real? Ada—Ada—God of heaven? Where, oh, where are you, my Ada?”
He felt something soft and slimy under his feet. He stooped with the light—deadly sickness came over him—for a moment all objects swam before his eyes; he was compelled to hold the back of the chair for support—he was standing in a pool of coagulated blood!
How long it was then before he recovered full consciousness he knew not, but gradually his perceptions returned, and then he shrieked the name of Ada, with a tone of anguish, that would have saddened any heart, and lingered in the ears for months like a death shriek.
“They have killed her—they have killed her!” he cried, “Ada—Ada—I should have flown sooner to your aid—God help me, I am heart-stricken now for ever—she is dead—she is dead. My beautiful Ada—oh, God—oh, God!”
He reeled further into the room, and when he had passed the bed, which partially concealed the window he stood like one suddenly transformed to stone; for there lying in a ghastly heap, in a pool of blood, the features horribly disfigured, and scarcely a trace of the upper portion of the skull visible, his eyes fell upon what once was Jacob Gray.
All his air-drawn schemes—his deep resolves—his cunning—his cruelty—his avarice, and his ambition—where were they now? What had he reaped as the reward of his great selfishness? A death of horror. May Heaven have mercy on his soul.
Albert Seyton felt like one fascinated by the hideous glare of a serpent. He could not withdraw his eyes from the ghastly spectacle for many minutes, and while he so gazed, his very heart seemed to shrink within him, and a feeling of horror crept up—up to his brain, till a clammy perspiration broke out upon his brow, and hung there in heavy drops, while each breath he drew, was laboured and heavy.
It was frightful, but by the crushing blow of the cleaver, one of Gray’s eyes had been forced from its socket—it hung by a bleeding filament—round—glassy and fixed—it seemed to glare upon Albert like a thing of life—he could almost fancy it moved. The young man covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, as he said,—
“This must be a dream—God of heaven, this cannot be real—when oh, when shall I awake?”
Distinct sounds, as of many voices, now suddenly came upon his ears, and he started, as if the tones of a human voice had removed some spell from off his faculties. Louder and louder the sound came upon his ears. There were evidently several voices. Then he heard a confused trampling of feet—heavy footsteps were approaching.
“Thank God,” said Albert, with a feeling of inexpressible relief, as he felt sure now that some human beings besides himself were at hand. He withdrew himself with difficulty, from the awful-spectacle in Gray’s room, and proceeding to the head of the stairs, he said,—
“Help—help—murder—murder—murder.”