CHAPTER CX.The Lovers.—The Interview of Sir Francis Hartleton with the Secretary of State.—The Ball.Albert Seytonfirst broke the silence, and as he clasped Ada’s hands, and gazed into her beaming eyes, he said,—“Ada! My own beautiful Ada! Am I, indeed, so blessed? Do I once again see you in all your beauty, smiling on me? Am I dreaming, or are you; indeed, and in truth, my own dear Ada?—The dream of my boyhood, the cherished idol of my heart.”“Indeed, and in truth!” said Ada. “Oh! I am too, too, happy. Heaven forgive me all my sinful repining. Does not this moment’s joy repay me for all? My darling—my true and beautiful—”What a heavenly light shone from the eyes of Ada! What a sunny smile played around her cheery mouth, dimpling her cheek with beauty.“We will part no more, Albert,” she said. “After many, many trials, we have met at last to part no more. God has blessed us in each other’s love, and we will not cast from us the pure bright gift of heaven!”“We will not,” cried Albert. “Bless you, my own true-hearted Ada! At the very moment of my despair, I have been, as it were, lifted to heaven. ’Tis foolish of me, Ada; but, even now, so great is my happiness, I can scarce believe it real.”He drew the blushing girl again to his throbbing heart. He kissed the raven tresses of her silken heart. He looked into her eyes, sparkling with dewy tears, and saw the happiness that shot from every radiant glance. Her cheek, gentle and soft as a rose-bud’s inmost leaf, touched his—was there ever so much happiness. Could all the ills of life concentrated, poison the rich fragrance of that one cup of overflowing joy?We will not attempt to record the gentle confidences of the happy lovers—the broken sentences—the speaking glances that filled up the pauses which the faltering tongue, too much oppressed by the heart’s gushing eloquence, could not choose but make the tones upon which memory in after years lingers like the shade of a loved one long hidden in the tomb, nor the thousand purest vows breathed by Albert, nor the thousand smiles with which they were all believed by Ada. Suffice it to say, that they were very happy, and those of our readers who have felt a sympathy with the trials of the lone maiden, will be pleased to leave her for a brief space, knowing that her heart is dancing with joy, and that even the memory of the past is emerged in the pure and heavenly enjoyment of the present.Sir Francis Hartleton’s first step after seeing Ada enter the room in which Albert was, was to communicate to his wife all that had passed, and commission her to explain all to Albert, if such explanation should be sought for before his return, for he felt it necessary, in consequence of the extraordinary events which had transpired, to communicate to his impatient friend, the home secretary, before even taking steps to apprehend Britton and Learmont for the murder of Gray, which upon Albert’s testimony he felt was what might be safely ventured upon.The magistrate accordingly left his house, and proceeded on foot to the secretary’s office, where he was fortunate enough to find the great man disengaged.“I have come,” said Hartleton, “to state to your lordship some strange circumstances with relation to the person named Learmont, concerning whom I have before had the honour of conversing with you.”The secretary put on a face of alarm as he replied—“Really? Sir Francis, you must drop this matter—his majesty has only this day in council determined upon a dissolution of the present parliament—of course I tell you in confidence—and this Learmont’s votes in the Commons may be of the greatest consequence.”“But, my lord,” said Hartleton, “there is good reason to believe that no later than last night he committed a most awful murder.”“Dear me,” said the secretary, “he might as well have waited till the general election was over. It is really such a very awkward thing to hang a man who can command several votes in the Commons.”“It may be so,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “but when people who command votes will commit murder, what is to be done?”“Ah that’s very true; but uncommonly disagreeable.”“I thought it my duty,” continued Hartleton, “to let your lordship know before I arrested him.”“Bless my heart,” said the secretary, “now I recollect there has been a record here to-day containing an invitation to a masked ball which this very man is going to give on Friday.”“Indeed, my lord.”“Yes. I sent a civil acceptance of the invitation of course, because I meant to sound him in the course of the evening about his votes. Now really, Sir Francis, you must let the ball be over before you come in with your charge of murder, and so on.”“I will if your lordship pleases; but the property of Learmont, provided he be convicted of murder, will revert to the Crown, in which event you will have his votes.”“Ah, but, my dear Sir Francis, the Crown, in common decency, must waive its right to the property in favour of the next of kin.”“I believe there can arise no claimant,” said Sir Francis; “therefore there can be no delicacy on the subject.”“Well that’s lucky—but you will let the ball be over. I’m told it’s to be a splendid affair, and really so many of our political friends intend to make it a complete rendezvous, that it would be a thousand pities not to let it go off with someéclat.”“I shall, of course, not interfere, my lord; but should anything occur to force a magisterial duty, I trust your lordship will not expect me to shrink from performing mine.”“Well, I suppose not, but don’t be provoking, Sir Francis, if you can possibly avoid it. By-the-by, I quite forgot to ask who he had murdered. It’s nobody of any consequence, I presume?”“He certainly had no vote.”“No vote?”“No, nor was likely ever to have one.”“Indeed. Well, I do hate people who have no vote most cordially, and I should say there can be only one class of people more abominable, and that is the class which votes against one. I don’t at all see the use in this world of people without votes. How uncommonly silly Learmont must have been, really.”“Silly enough, my lord, to put his neck in jeopardy, for a jury will most naturally bring him in guilty, and the king cannot very well spare a murderer.”“Why no, not exactly; but at all events don’t say a word about it till after the ball.”“Unless there should arise an absolute necessity I will not, but the inquest upon the body of the murdered man may interfere with your lordship’s wishes.”“Bless me, yes—what’s to-day?”“Wednesday.”“Oh, well, I must speak to the coroner about it, and the inquest must just be put off till Saturday. In fact, I don’t see the use of an inquest upon a man who had no vote, Sir Francis; but I suppose these things must be done to please the common people.”“They must indeed,” said Sir Francis; “any tampering with what Englishmen consider their liberties will ever be a dangerous task for a minister.”“Ah, well, we must do the best we can, but you know it would have been much better if this Learmont, while he was murdering, had murdered some one with a vote who was opposed to us. It might have made a difference of two votes you see, Sir Francis.”“So it might, your lordship; but when people murder, I am afraid they think more of their own private quarrels than of votes.”“Ah, no doubt. You are quite right—good morning, Sir Francis, good morning.”“Good morning, your lordship.”Sir Francis Hartleton could not help laughing as he walked homewards at the curious morality of the secretary, who measured everybody’s importance by their number of votes, and he thought to himself surely this system of representation will be some day done away with, and Englishmen will be permitted to exercise their franchise and their conscience freely. Absorbed then in meditation concerning the important steps which required to be taken previous to the Friday evening, beyond which time Sir Francis Hartleton was quite resolved Learmont should not remain at liberty, he sauntered home from the minister’s.Believing, as the magistrate now did, since Jacob Gray was dead, and no written papers could be found about his person, or in his lodging, that no overt act as concerned Ada could be brought home to Learmont, he resolved to have a warrant made out for the squire’s apprehension, on the charge of murdering Jacob Gray, a crime which upon the testimony of Albert could be brought as nearly home to him as strong circumstantial evidence could bring it.“It may be then,” thoughts Sir Francis, “that when he sees his mortal career closing, he will do one act of grace, and declare who and what Ada is; detailing his reasons for persecuting her so strangely, and for taking the life of Jacob Gray. That now seems to be the only chance of arriving at a solution of the mysteries which still envelope this whole strange transaction.”When Sir Francis reached home a letter was put into his hands, which, upon opening, he found to contain these words,—Mr. Learmont presents his compliments to Sir Francis Hartleton, and begs specially to request his company on Friday evening, to a masked ball and supper.“Well,” said Sir Francis, “of all the cool pieces of assurance that it was ever my lot to encounter, this is the coolest. But I can well understand Learmont’s feelings now; he fancies himself rid of some great danger by the death of Jacob Gray, and this is the very mockery and insolence of security in inviting me, who he hates so cordially, to his entertainments. Well, be it so, I will be there, Learmont, and it shall go hard but your masked ball shall have a far different conclusion to what you imagine. Let me see, this ticket admits Sir Francis Hartleton and friends—friends. Yes, that will do—that will do. A plan of operation occurs to me, which on the surprise of the moment may wring from the guilty heart of Learmont something of importance to the interests of Ada. She shall go with me to this masked ball. Yes, Learmont shall be surprised from his usual cold caution by her sudden appearance, which, conjoined with his arrest, may so disturb his faculties as almost to induce a confession of all we wish to know. It shall be tried—it shall be tried.”
The Lovers.—The Interview of Sir Francis Hartleton with the Secretary of State.—The Ball.
Albert Seytonfirst broke the silence, and as he clasped Ada’s hands, and gazed into her beaming eyes, he said,—
“Ada! My own beautiful Ada! Am I, indeed, so blessed? Do I once again see you in all your beauty, smiling on me? Am I dreaming, or are you; indeed, and in truth, my own dear Ada?—The dream of my boyhood, the cherished idol of my heart.”
“Indeed, and in truth!” said Ada. “Oh! I am too, too, happy. Heaven forgive me all my sinful repining. Does not this moment’s joy repay me for all? My darling—my true and beautiful—”
What a heavenly light shone from the eyes of Ada! What a sunny smile played around her cheery mouth, dimpling her cheek with beauty.
“We will part no more, Albert,” she said. “After many, many trials, we have met at last to part no more. God has blessed us in each other’s love, and we will not cast from us the pure bright gift of heaven!”
“We will not,” cried Albert. “Bless you, my own true-hearted Ada! At the very moment of my despair, I have been, as it were, lifted to heaven. ’Tis foolish of me, Ada; but, even now, so great is my happiness, I can scarce believe it real.”
He drew the blushing girl again to his throbbing heart. He kissed the raven tresses of her silken heart. He looked into her eyes, sparkling with dewy tears, and saw the happiness that shot from every radiant glance. Her cheek, gentle and soft as a rose-bud’s inmost leaf, touched his—was there ever so much happiness. Could all the ills of life concentrated, poison the rich fragrance of that one cup of overflowing joy?
We will not attempt to record the gentle confidences of the happy lovers—the broken sentences—the speaking glances that filled up the pauses which the faltering tongue, too much oppressed by the heart’s gushing eloquence, could not choose but make the tones upon which memory in after years lingers like the shade of a loved one long hidden in the tomb, nor the thousand purest vows breathed by Albert, nor the thousand smiles with which they were all believed by Ada. Suffice it to say, that they were very happy, and those of our readers who have felt a sympathy with the trials of the lone maiden, will be pleased to leave her for a brief space, knowing that her heart is dancing with joy, and that even the memory of the past is emerged in the pure and heavenly enjoyment of the present.
Sir Francis Hartleton’s first step after seeing Ada enter the room in which Albert was, was to communicate to his wife all that had passed, and commission her to explain all to Albert, if such explanation should be sought for before his return, for he felt it necessary, in consequence of the extraordinary events which had transpired, to communicate to his impatient friend, the home secretary, before even taking steps to apprehend Britton and Learmont for the murder of Gray, which upon Albert’s testimony he felt was what might be safely ventured upon.
The magistrate accordingly left his house, and proceeded on foot to the secretary’s office, where he was fortunate enough to find the great man disengaged.
“I have come,” said Hartleton, “to state to your lordship some strange circumstances with relation to the person named Learmont, concerning whom I have before had the honour of conversing with you.”
The secretary put on a face of alarm as he replied—
“Really? Sir Francis, you must drop this matter—his majesty has only this day in council determined upon a dissolution of the present parliament—of course I tell you in confidence—and this Learmont’s votes in the Commons may be of the greatest consequence.”
“But, my lord,” said Hartleton, “there is good reason to believe that no later than last night he committed a most awful murder.”
“Dear me,” said the secretary, “he might as well have waited till the general election was over. It is really such a very awkward thing to hang a man who can command several votes in the Commons.”
“It may be so,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “but when people who command votes will commit murder, what is to be done?”
“Ah that’s very true; but uncommonly disagreeable.”
“I thought it my duty,” continued Hartleton, “to let your lordship know before I arrested him.”
“Bless my heart,” said the secretary, “now I recollect there has been a record here to-day containing an invitation to a masked ball which this very man is going to give on Friday.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Yes. I sent a civil acceptance of the invitation of course, because I meant to sound him in the course of the evening about his votes. Now really, Sir Francis, you must let the ball be over before you come in with your charge of murder, and so on.”
“I will if your lordship pleases; but the property of Learmont, provided he be convicted of murder, will revert to the Crown, in which event you will have his votes.”
“Ah, but, my dear Sir Francis, the Crown, in common decency, must waive its right to the property in favour of the next of kin.”
“I believe there can arise no claimant,” said Sir Francis; “therefore there can be no delicacy on the subject.”
“Well that’s lucky—but you will let the ball be over. I’m told it’s to be a splendid affair, and really so many of our political friends intend to make it a complete rendezvous, that it would be a thousand pities not to let it go off with someéclat.”
“I shall, of course, not interfere, my lord; but should anything occur to force a magisterial duty, I trust your lordship will not expect me to shrink from performing mine.”
“Well, I suppose not, but don’t be provoking, Sir Francis, if you can possibly avoid it. By-the-by, I quite forgot to ask who he had murdered. It’s nobody of any consequence, I presume?”
“He certainly had no vote.”
“No vote?”
“No, nor was likely ever to have one.”
“Indeed. Well, I do hate people who have no vote most cordially, and I should say there can be only one class of people more abominable, and that is the class which votes against one. I don’t at all see the use in this world of people without votes. How uncommonly silly Learmont must have been, really.”
“Silly enough, my lord, to put his neck in jeopardy, for a jury will most naturally bring him in guilty, and the king cannot very well spare a murderer.”
“Why no, not exactly; but at all events don’t say a word about it till after the ball.”
“Unless there should arise an absolute necessity I will not, but the inquest upon the body of the murdered man may interfere with your lordship’s wishes.”
“Bless me, yes—what’s to-day?”
“Wednesday.”
“Oh, well, I must speak to the coroner about it, and the inquest must just be put off till Saturday. In fact, I don’t see the use of an inquest upon a man who had no vote, Sir Francis; but I suppose these things must be done to please the common people.”
“They must indeed,” said Sir Francis; “any tampering with what Englishmen consider their liberties will ever be a dangerous task for a minister.”
“Ah, well, we must do the best we can, but you know it would have been much better if this Learmont, while he was murdering, had murdered some one with a vote who was opposed to us. It might have made a difference of two votes you see, Sir Francis.”
“So it might, your lordship; but when people murder, I am afraid they think more of their own private quarrels than of votes.”
“Ah, no doubt. You are quite right—good morning, Sir Francis, good morning.”
“Good morning, your lordship.”
Sir Francis Hartleton could not help laughing as he walked homewards at the curious morality of the secretary, who measured everybody’s importance by their number of votes, and he thought to himself surely this system of representation will be some day done away with, and Englishmen will be permitted to exercise their franchise and their conscience freely. Absorbed then in meditation concerning the important steps which required to be taken previous to the Friday evening, beyond which time Sir Francis Hartleton was quite resolved Learmont should not remain at liberty, he sauntered home from the minister’s.
Believing, as the magistrate now did, since Jacob Gray was dead, and no written papers could be found about his person, or in his lodging, that no overt act as concerned Ada could be brought home to Learmont, he resolved to have a warrant made out for the squire’s apprehension, on the charge of murdering Jacob Gray, a crime which upon the testimony of Albert could be brought as nearly home to him as strong circumstantial evidence could bring it.
“It may be then,” thoughts Sir Francis, “that when he sees his mortal career closing, he will do one act of grace, and declare who and what Ada is; detailing his reasons for persecuting her so strangely, and for taking the life of Jacob Gray. That now seems to be the only chance of arriving at a solution of the mysteries which still envelope this whole strange transaction.”
When Sir Francis reached home a letter was put into his hands, which, upon opening, he found to contain these words,—
Mr. Learmont presents his compliments to Sir Francis Hartleton, and begs specially to request his company on Friday evening, to a masked ball and supper.
“Well,” said Sir Francis, “of all the cool pieces of assurance that it was ever my lot to encounter, this is the coolest. But I can well understand Learmont’s feelings now; he fancies himself rid of some great danger by the death of Jacob Gray, and this is the very mockery and insolence of security in inviting me, who he hates so cordially, to his entertainments. Well, be it so, I will be there, Learmont, and it shall go hard but your masked ball shall have a far different conclusion to what you imagine. Let me see, this ticket admits Sir Francis Hartleton and friends—friends. Yes, that will do—that will do. A plan of operation occurs to me, which on the surprise of the moment may wring from the guilty heart of Learmont something of importance to the interests of Ada. She shall go with me to this masked ball. Yes, Learmont shall be surprised from his usual cold caution by her sudden appearance, which, conjoined with his arrest, may so disturb his faculties as almost to induce a confession of all we wish to know. It shall be tried—it shall be tried.”
CHAPTER CXI.The Confession.WhileSir Francis Hartleton was still engaged in these reflections a low knock sounded on the door of his room, and when he cried, “come in,” the happy face of Ada appeared like a beam of sunshine in the entrance.“Ada,” he said, “come in.”There were the humid traces of tears upon her cheek, but they were like the pearly drops of dew which hung upon the rose leaves, speaking not of sorrow or decay, but giving new beauty to what before seemed matchless. They were tears of joy, and the magistrate saw that they were so. He held out his hand to Ada, as he said with a smile,—“Will you forgive me for tormenting Albert a little?”“He will scarce forgive himself,” said Ada, “and sends me as his ambassador.”“He had a right to feel a little angry, Ada. But has he told you that your old enemy is dead?”“He has,” said Ada. “Much as I had to complain of against Jacob Gray, I would that he had come to some gentler death. Heaven have mercy upon him!”“He has need of heaven’s mercy, Ada. But are you not much disappointed that all chance of discovering your name and station seems now faded away?”“I scarcely know how to answer you,” said Ada, “for hope that it may not be so has, within the last half hour, disturbed me more with anxious doubts and fearful surmises than ever agitated my breast before. This paper—”As she spoke, she handed to Sir Francis the confession of Gray still sealed up as Albert had picked it from the garden.“Gracious heavens!” said Sir Francis, as a sudden flush of colour to his face showed the interest he felt in the document, “where got you this, Ada?”“When Albert, impatient of his temporary detention in the room overlooking the garden,” said Ada, “made an attempt to escape from it, he tried to descend from the window by the aid of a cloak, which rent with his weight, revealing this packet of papers addressed to you.”“Thus heaven works its wonders,” said Sir Francis; “and the very circumstances, that at the moment of their occurrence fill us with regret, bring us to the dearest of our wishes. You know this handwriting, Ada?”“It is Jacob Gray’s.”“Then there can be no doubt,” said Sir Francis, as with fingers that trembled with eagerness he broke the seals by which the packet was fastened—“there can be no doubt that these are the papers, or similar ones to those long ago addressed to me by Jacob Gray, and said to be concerning you.”“Albert thinks with you,” said Ada, “and longs to penetrate the mystery of their contents.”“Will you leave me?” said Sir Francis. “I would fain read this alone, Ada. Will you grant me that indulgence?”Ada rose as she said,—“Dear friend, a wish of yours shall ever be a command to me; but remember that, let these papers contain what they may, I can bear to hear all.”“Nothing shall be concealed from you, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “but—but my own deeply interested feelings would not permit me to read these documents aloud to you at first.”Ada saw his extreme excitement and agitation, and instantly leaving the room, she gave him an opportunity of reading alone the long sought-for confession of Jacob Gray.Sir Francis’s first step was to lock himself in his room, and then, with a flurry at his heart, and a total abstraction of mind from everything but the papers which lay before him, he tore them open and read as follows:—To Sir Francis Hartleton,I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts to you, because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest curse of a dead man fall on you and yours if you do not take instant means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave, however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance, and so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with safeguards which they dared not despise.In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged from the service of an English family for matters of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name Mark Learmont, was taken ill at one of the hotels in the city, and the proprietor of the establishment, fearing that his guest was dying, sent for me as a countryman of the sick gentleman, to attend upon him. I nursed and tended him with anxious care and I soon learnt that grief was his only malady.He told me he had left England in consequence of the death of his wife and child, and that he could never more with pleasure look upon his ancient home again, which he had left in the care of his brother. Time, however, seemed in some measure, to assuage his grief; and when he got well enough again to travel, he retained me as his permanent attendant, liberally rewarding me for the services I had rendered him. We went from city to city of the Italian states until we came to Rome, where an attempt was made by some hired bravo to take the life of Mr. Learmont. He was saved, however, by the gallant interposition of a young Italian nobleman, named Geronimo Madelini; and my master became in a short time on terms of the greatest intimacy with the family of his preserver, who had a sister so surprisingly beautiful that even Mr. Learmont forgot his grief for her whom he had loved so fondly, and became attached to Ada Madelini with a passionate fervour that knew no bounds. Learmont was handsome, brave, and accomplished. The young Italian returned his passion. A child was born—an illegitimate child—which Ada Madelini died in giving birth to.Mr. Learmont was again plunged into the most excessive grief. Rome became more hateful to him than the home in England he had left; the very language of Italy was ever reminding him of the beautiful being who had gone to an early grave through her love for him. In vain he travelled from city to city. His grief knew no reduction, until at length, wearied with travel, and sick at heart, he resolved upon once more revisiting his native land, taking with him the child of Ada Madelini, who had been named after its mother, and who had begun to exercise a strong control over his affections.A letter was written to the brother, who had been left sole master of the estate of Learmont, signifying the intention of the widowed man to return, and once more assume the control of his own property for his young daughter’s sake. When we reached Dover, that is, Mr. Mark Learmont, myself, and his infant child, a letter was awaiting my master from his brother. That letter I by chance saw. It said that peculiar family circumstances, which the writer would explain when they met, rendered it necessary that their first meeting should be a secret one, and quite unknown to any person connected with the property. It named as the place of rendezvous, an old deserted mansion, the lower part of which was converted into a smithy, and had been long occupied by a man named Andrew Britton.Full of wonder at this letter, and yet never doubting that there were, did he but know them, full and reasonable grounds for it, Mr. Learmont wrote to his brother, according to his request and promising to be at the Old Smithy with his child, by the evening of a particular day, which he named.He sent me beforehand to apprise his brother of this. I was the bearer of the answer, and when I reached Learmont’s house, he that is now called Squire Learmont, and who resides in your immediate vicinity, received me most cordially. He spoke to me of the advantages of wealth—of the luxuries of independence—of the delightful feelings of those who could scorn the world’s utmost malice—secure in the haven of independence—but it is idle to dwell upon the deep temptation that he held out to me, I consented to the murder of my master and his child!The day of his arrival came. It was one of alternate storm and sunshine; but, as the evening approached, the elements seemed to have broken loose, and to have united to shake the very earth with terror. The wind howled, and the forked lightning shot from earth to heaven, while peal after peal of thunder shook the habitations of the peasantry, convulsing the stoutest hearts with fear, and destroying all the produce of their industry.It was on such a night, that, leaving Learmont, and the smith Andrew Britton in the smithy, I started to meet my doomed master.From obscure hints the smith had dropped, I was satisfied that Mr. Learmont’s first wife and child had been murdered by him and the brother, and even after I had consented, I shuddered at the awful crime I had pledged myself to assist in committing—but it was too late to retract, I had already received some of the wages of crime—I could not recede. But surely I was innocent compared with who would shed a brother’s blood. Let him suffer the penalty of his crimes—let the rich Squire Learmont dangle on the gallows tree—spare him not, nor Andrew Britton—you will find him at the Old Chequers—let him too die a death of pain and ignominy—so shall I have my revenge—my deep, long-cherished revenge.I met Mr. Learmont. He alighted from the carriage, which he left at a distance of a mile or more from the appointed place of meeting with his brother. He gave me the young child to carry—the infant Ada, and we walked under cover of the darkness of the stormy evening until we reached the smithy. I was to kill the child, while Britton took the life of the father; but one thing they had not told me namely, that they intended to burn down the Old Smithy after the deed was done, in order that the two bodies should be consumed in the ruins, and no suspicion should arise of their untimely fate.It was an hour to me of horror—Mr. Learmont entered the Old Smithy unsuspectingly, and I followed with the child. He took his brother kindly by the hand, and I heard him say,—“Well, brother, what is amiss, that we cannot meet in my own home!”“Come this way, Mark,” said he who is called the squire, as he opened a heavy door at the further end of the smithy. ‘Come this way, and you will know all.’Mr. Learmont followed him, and I went after them with the child. It was clinging to my neck, and as I gazed upon its features, by the occasional flash of lightning, all strength seemed to desert me, and I felt I had not power to take its life,—I thought I should have sunk into the earth—a fearful timidity came over me, and the cold perspiration of terror bedewed my brow.I scarcely know then what happened, but the storm without increased to tenfold fury; and while the smithy was being set fire to by Learmont, the squire, I saw by the dull red glare that began to spread itself around, and light up every thing with its ghastly lustre—I saw my master stagger back, as if from some sudden blow, and the smith, Andrew Britton, faced my gaze, armed with a forge hammer, with which he had already struck one blow at my master.Mr. Learmont then tried to wrestle with his opponent and he screamed, “Murder—murder.” He called too on me to help him, but I could not move. I saw another blow given, and I heard the sickening crushing of his head, as the hammer sunk into his brain—and then he fell, with one shriek that wrung in my ears, for many months, scaring me from sleep, and causing me to start in horror from my bed.The fire had spread with greater rapidity than had been calculated upon, and at the moment of my master’s murder, a portion of the roof fell upon me and the child—I was hurt, but the infant was not—alarm and horror took possession of my faculties, and I fled, shrieking, through the house, seeking for some outlet to escape by—I got confused in a labyrinth of rooms—burning flakes fell upon my flesh—I cried for aid, but no voice answered me, and I felt a conviction that I was purposely left there to perish. Despair lent me strength, and with the child still in my arms, I leaped a burning staircase—I saw a crowd of faces before me, and, with frantic cries, I rushed from the building with the child.Who, then, snatched the infant from me, I know not, for I was suffering much pain; but certainly it was taken from me by some of the villagers, and I, frantic with the terrors I had received, and believing that the hand of Providence was upon me, fled I knew not whither, until I sunk exhausted from fatigue, in a wood a short distance from the village on the road to London.The cool night air assuaged the pain of my burns, and after resting for some hours, I found myself sufficiently recovered to think upon what I should next do. Return to the smithy, I dared not, for I dreaded the vengeance of the squire, not only on account of my failing in what I had to do, but I could not dispossess myself of the idea that my death had been determined upon, between him and the smith, so soon as I had killed the child, and was no longer useful to their purposes. I had received, in advance, a sum of money from my tempter, Learmont, and after some thought I resolved upon proceeding to London, and there endeavouring to forget the horrors I had gone through, in the varied amusements of a great city. I turned my back on the village of Learmont, and all its terrible recollections, taking my route to the capital by the quickest means I could find.It was on the second day that I arrived, and resolving to husband my money until I could procure some other employment, I took an obscure lodgings and kept my expenses as small as possible.It was the fourth evening after my arrival in London that a woman, who was sitting upon a step, with a child in her lap, implored my charity. I refused her, and was about to pass on, when a glance told me that the child with her was the young Ada Madelini, the child of Mr. Learmont; I paused, and questioned her. She told me her name was Tattan, and said she had fled from the country with the child, to save its life, which had been threatened by a man, wicked and powerful. All this confirmed me—I snatched the child from her arms, for I thought it an admirable possession, since it would give me the means of making my own terms, at some future time, with the Squire of Learmont.The woman screamed and ran after me, crying for help. No one was near us, and with one blow I silenced her, and she fell to the ground. What became of her I never knew, but I took the child home with me, and the next day I changed my lodging, passing the infant as my own.From house to house I shifted my residence, always thinking myself suspected by some one, until I went to reside at a low house, kept by a woman, by name Strangeways, who resided in the neighbourhood of Swallow-street. Before going there, however, I bought boy’s clothing for the girl, as I thought it safer to make her appear as a boy than let her real sex be known. Nearly ten years had elapsed, and I was falling fast into poverty, for a concern in which I had placed some money, under tempting promises, proved a failure. Then I bethought me of some means of improving my condition, and recruiting my empty coffers.After much thought, I resolved upon going to the village of Learmont, and forming a coalition if possible, with the smith, Andrew Britton, for the purpose of extorting money from the rich squire. But previously to going I wrote a paper, containing all the particulars here related, and sealing it, I left it with Ada, who I had named, in conformity with her male attire, Harry, charging her to let it reach the hands of yourself in the event of my not returning by a stipulated time. I went on my errand. It was in the winter, and the snow lay thickly in the valley of Learmont; as I reached the village inn I inquired if the smith, Britton, was still alive; I was told he was, and heard then the clank of his forge-hammer, the same most probably that had taken the life of Mr. Learmont. I sought him, and suffice to say, that I not only convinced him of the inexpediency of attempting aught against my life, which, as I guessed he would be, he was much inclined to do, but succeeded in inducing him to join with me in extorting large sums from the guilty squire.Britton, too, I persuaded to search the body of the murdered man, when, as I told him, he found papers of great consequence to the squire—papers which he would gladly have redeemed at any price, but which were of infinitely more value as a source of permanent income to their fortunate holder.I had lent the smith a knife of mine at his own request before the murder, and when I visited him he produced it, stained with human gore, taunting me with the fact that my name was on the handle, and that it would ever prove a damning evidence of my guilt.’Twas were we three men in each other’s power. Either Britton or myself could bring the whole three to destruction, and the squire was but too glad to ensure his own safety by paying large sums to us from time to time. He came to London, and we followed him. Andrew Britton led a life, as he now leads, of riot and extravagance, at the public-house called the Chequers, Westminster. The Squire Learmont lives in splendour, as you must be aware, in your immediate vicinity. I have led a life of dangers and terror. My existence has been continually threatened by Learmont, who, could he at any time have laid his hands upon Ada, who he believed to be legitimate, and likewise have secured my written confession, would have murdered me.I repeat, I may be dead, or absent from England, when you arrive; but be it which way it may, if you want proofs of what I assert, search the ruins of the Old Smithy at Learmont, and you may still find some traces of the murdered body of Mr. Mark Learmont. Apprehend Andrew Britton, and search for the knife, I mention, as well as for any papers that he may have taken from the dead body. Among them will be found the letter from the squire, begging his brother to meet him at the Old Smithy, instead of coming direct to his own mansion.It will be understood by you, then, clearly, that I accuse these two men, Squire Learmont and Andrew Britton, of the murder of Learmont’s elder brother, and the projected murder of his illegitimate child. She, Ada, left me some time since, after an attempt made by you to take me into custody at the old house at Battersea Fields, among the ruins of which I believe you will still find some articles that belonged to Ada when her father’s death occurred.Let, then, these men be brought to an ignominious end. Remember that the Learmont family will become extinct with the present squire, for the girl Ada, I repeat, is an illegitimate child. The elder Learmont and Ada Madelini were not married. The large estates, then, must revert to the crown, and my vengeance will be complete. If I am living, I shall hear of the execution of Learmont and Britton; for who can doubt their guilt? If I am dead, and the spirits of the departed retain any shadow of the feelings which agitated them in this world, I shall still rejoice that I have had my revenge.Jacob Gray.
The Confession.
WhileSir Francis Hartleton was still engaged in these reflections a low knock sounded on the door of his room, and when he cried, “come in,” the happy face of Ada appeared like a beam of sunshine in the entrance.
“Ada,” he said, “come in.”
There were the humid traces of tears upon her cheek, but they were like the pearly drops of dew which hung upon the rose leaves, speaking not of sorrow or decay, but giving new beauty to what before seemed matchless. They were tears of joy, and the magistrate saw that they were so. He held out his hand to Ada, as he said with a smile,—
“Will you forgive me for tormenting Albert a little?”
“He will scarce forgive himself,” said Ada, “and sends me as his ambassador.”
“He had a right to feel a little angry, Ada. But has he told you that your old enemy is dead?”
“He has,” said Ada. “Much as I had to complain of against Jacob Gray, I would that he had come to some gentler death. Heaven have mercy upon him!”
“He has need of heaven’s mercy, Ada. But are you not much disappointed that all chance of discovering your name and station seems now faded away?”
“I scarcely know how to answer you,” said Ada, “for hope that it may not be so has, within the last half hour, disturbed me more with anxious doubts and fearful surmises than ever agitated my breast before. This paper—”
As she spoke, she handed to Sir Francis the confession of Gray still sealed up as Albert had picked it from the garden.
“Gracious heavens!” said Sir Francis, as a sudden flush of colour to his face showed the interest he felt in the document, “where got you this, Ada?”
“When Albert, impatient of his temporary detention in the room overlooking the garden,” said Ada, “made an attempt to escape from it, he tried to descend from the window by the aid of a cloak, which rent with his weight, revealing this packet of papers addressed to you.”
“Thus heaven works its wonders,” said Sir Francis; “and the very circumstances, that at the moment of their occurrence fill us with regret, bring us to the dearest of our wishes. You know this handwriting, Ada?”
“It is Jacob Gray’s.”
“Then there can be no doubt,” said Sir Francis, as with fingers that trembled with eagerness he broke the seals by which the packet was fastened—“there can be no doubt that these are the papers, or similar ones to those long ago addressed to me by Jacob Gray, and said to be concerning you.”
“Albert thinks with you,” said Ada, “and longs to penetrate the mystery of their contents.”
“Will you leave me?” said Sir Francis. “I would fain read this alone, Ada. Will you grant me that indulgence?”
Ada rose as she said,—
“Dear friend, a wish of yours shall ever be a command to me; but remember that, let these papers contain what they may, I can bear to hear all.”
“Nothing shall be concealed from you, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “but—but my own deeply interested feelings would not permit me to read these documents aloud to you at first.”
Ada saw his extreme excitement and agitation, and instantly leaving the room, she gave him an opportunity of reading alone the long sought-for confession of Jacob Gray.
Sir Francis’s first step was to lock himself in his room, and then, with a flurry at his heart, and a total abstraction of mind from everything but the papers which lay before him, he tore them open and read as follows:—
To Sir Francis Hartleton,
I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts to you, because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest curse of a dead man fall on you and yours if you do not take instant means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave, however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance, and so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with safeguards which they dared not despise.
In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged from the service of an English family for matters of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name Mark Learmont, was taken ill at one of the hotels in the city, and the proprietor of the establishment, fearing that his guest was dying, sent for me as a countryman of the sick gentleman, to attend upon him. I nursed and tended him with anxious care and I soon learnt that grief was his only malady.
He told me he had left England in consequence of the death of his wife and child, and that he could never more with pleasure look upon his ancient home again, which he had left in the care of his brother. Time, however, seemed in some measure, to assuage his grief; and when he got well enough again to travel, he retained me as his permanent attendant, liberally rewarding me for the services I had rendered him. We went from city to city of the Italian states until we came to Rome, where an attempt was made by some hired bravo to take the life of Mr. Learmont. He was saved, however, by the gallant interposition of a young Italian nobleman, named Geronimo Madelini; and my master became in a short time on terms of the greatest intimacy with the family of his preserver, who had a sister so surprisingly beautiful that even Mr. Learmont forgot his grief for her whom he had loved so fondly, and became attached to Ada Madelini with a passionate fervour that knew no bounds. Learmont was handsome, brave, and accomplished. The young Italian returned his passion. A child was born—an illegitimate child—which Ada Madelini died in giving birth to.
Mr. Learmont was again plunged into the most excessive grief. Rome became more hateful to him than the home in England he had left; the very language of Italy was ever reminding him of the beautiful being who had gone to an early grave through her love for him. In vain he travelled from city to city. His grief knew no reduction, until at length, wearied with travel, and sick at heart, he resolved upon once more revisiting his native land, taking with him the child of Ada Madelini, who had been named after its mother, and who had begun to exercise a strong control over his affections.
A letter was written to the brother, who had been left sole master of the estate of Learmont, signifying the intention of the widowed man to return, and once more assume the control of his own property for his young daughter’s sake. When we reached Dover, that is, Mr. Mark Learmont, myself, and his infant child, a letter was awaiting my master from his brother. That letter I by chance saw. It said that peculiar family circumstances, which the writer would explain when they met, rendered it necessary that their first meeting should be a secret one, and quite unknown to any person connected with the property. It named as the place of rendezvous, an old deserted mansion, the lower part of which was converted into a smithy, and had been long occupied by a man named Andrew Britton.
Full of wonder at this letter, and yet never doubting that there were, did he but know them, full and reasonable grounds for it, Mr. Learmont wrote to his brother, according to his request and promising to be at the Old Smithy with his child, by the evening of a particular day, which he named.
He sent me beforehand to apprise his brother of this. I was the bearer of the answer, and when I reached Learmont’s house, he that is now called Squire Learmont, and who resides in your immediate vicinity, received me most cordially. He spoke to me of the advantages of wealth—of the luxuries of independence—of the delightful feelings of those who could scorn the world’s utmost malice—secure in the haven of independence—but it is idle to dwell upon the deep temptation that he held out to me, I consented to the murder of my master and his child!
The day of his arrival came. It was one of alternate storm and sunshine; but, as the evening approached, the elements seemed to have broken loose, and to have united to shake the very earth with terror. The wind howled, and the forked lightning shot from earth to heaven, while peal after peal of thunder shook the habitations of the peasantry, convulsing the stoutest hearts with fear, and destroying all the produce of their industry.
It was on such a night, that, leaving Learmont, and the smith Andrew Britton in the smithy, I started to meet my doomed master.
From obscure hints the smith had dropped, I was satisfied that Mr. Learmont’s first wife and child had been murdered by him and the brother, and even after I had consented, I shuddered at the awful crime I had pledged myself to assist in committing—but it was too late to retract, I had already received some of the wages of crime—I could not recede. But surely I was innocent compared with who would shed a brother’s blood. Let him suffer the penalty of his crimes—let the rich Squire Learmont dangle on the gallows tree—spare him not, nor Andrew Britton—you will find him at the Old Chequers—let him too die a death of pain and ignominy—so shall I have my revenge—my deep, long-cherished revenge.
I met Mr. Learmont. He alighted from the carriage, which he left at a distance of a mile or more from the appointed place of meeting with his brother. He gave me the young child to carry—the infant Ada, and we walked under cover of the darkness of the stormy evening until we reached the smithy. I was to kill the child, while Britton took the life of the father; but one thing they had not told me namely, that they intended to burn down the Old Smithy after the deed was done, in order that the two bodies should be consumed in the ruins, and no suspicion should arise of their untimely fate.
It was an hour to me of horror—Mr. Learmont entered the Old Smithy unsuspectingly, and I followed with the child. He took his brother kindly by the hand, and I heard him say,—
“Well, brother, what is amiss, that we cannot meet in my own home!”
“Come this way, Mark,” said he who is called the squire, as he opened a heavy door at the further end of the smithy. ‘Come this way, and you will know all.’
Mr. Learmont followed him, and I went after them with the child. It was clinging to my neck, and as I gazed upon its features, by the occasional flash of lightning, all strength seemed to desert me, and I felt I had not power to take its life,—I thought I should have sunk into the earth—a fearful timidity came over me, and the cold perspiration of terror bedewed my brow.
I scarcely know then what happened, but the storm without increased to tenfold fury; and while the smithy was being set fire to by Learmont, the squire, I saw by the dull red glare that began to spread itself around, and light up every thing with its ghastly lustre—I saw my master stagger back, as if from some sudden blow, and the smith, Andrew Britton, faced my gaze, armed with a forge hammer, with which he had already struck one blow at my master.
Mr. Learmont then tried to wrestle with his opponent and he screamed, “Murder—murder.” He called too on me to help him, but I could not move. I saw another blow given, and I heard the sickening crushing of his head, as the hammer sunk into his brain—and then he fell, with one shriek that wrung in my ears, for many months, scaring me from sleep, and causing me to start in horror from my bed.
The fire had spread with greater rapidity than had been calculated upon, and at the moment of my master’s murder, a portion of the roof fell upon me and the child—I was hurt, but the infant was not—alarm and horror took possession of my faculties, and I fled, shrieking, through the house, seeking for some outlet to escape by—I got confused in a labyrinth of rooms—burning flakes fell upon my flesh—I cried for aid, but no voice answered me, and I felt a conviction that I was purposely left there to perish. Despair lent me strength, and with the child still in my arms, I leaped a burning staircase—I saw a crowd of faces before me, and, with frantic cries, I rushed from the building with the child.
Who, then, snatched the infant from me, I know not, for I was suffering much pain; but certainly it was taken from me by some of the villagers, and I, frantic with the terrors I had received, and believing that the hand of Providence was upon me, fled I knew not whither, until I sunk exhausted from fatigue, in a wood a short distance from the village on the road to London.
The cool night air assuaged the pain of my burns, and after resting for some hours, I found myself sufficiently recovered to think upon what I should next do. Return to the smithy, I dared not, for I dreaded the vengeance of the squire, not only on account of my failing in what I had to do, but I could not dispossess myself of the idea that my death had been determined upon, between him and the smith, so soon as I had killed the child, and was no longer useful to their purposes. I had received, in advance, a sum of money from my tempter, Learmont, and after some thought I resolved upon proceeding to London, and there endeavouring to forget the horrors I had gone through, in the varied amusements of a great city. I turned my back on the village of Learmont, and all its terrible recollections, taking my route to the capital by the quickest means I could find.
It was on the second day that I arrived, and resolving to husband my money until I could procure some other employment, I took an obscure lodgings and kept my expenses as small as possible.
It was the fourth evening after my arrival in London that a woman, who was sitting upon a step, with a child in her lap, implored my charity. I refused her, and was about to pass on, when a glance told me that the child with her was the young Ada Madelini, the child of Mr. Learmont; I paused, and questioned her. She told me her name was Tattan, and said she had fled from the country with the child, to save its life, which had been threatened by a man, wicked and powerful. All this confirmed me—I snatched the child from her arms, for I thought it an admirable possession, since it would give me the means of making my own terms, at some future time, with the Squire of Learmont.
The woman screamed and ran after me, crying for help. No one was near us, and with one blow I silenced her, and she fell to the ground. What became of her I never knew, but I took the child home with me, and the next day I changed my lodging, passing the infant as my own.
From house to house I shifted my residence, always thinking myself suspected by some one, until I went to reside at a low house, kept by a woman, by name Strangeways, who resided in the neighbourhood of Swallow-street. Before going there, however, I bought boy’s clothing for the girl, as I thought it safer to make her appear as a boy than let her real sex be known. Nearly ten years had elapsed, and I was falling fast into poverty, for a concern in which I had placed some money, under tempting promises, proved a failure. Then I bethought me of some means of improving my condition, and recruiting my empty coffers.
After much thought, I resolved upon going to the village of Learmont, and forming a coalition if possible, with the smith, Andrew Britton, for the purpose of extorting money from the rich squire. But previously to going I wrote a paper, containing all the particulars here related, and sealing it, I left it with Ada, who I had named, in conformity with her male attire, Harry, charging her to let it reach the hands of yourself in the event of my not returning by a stipulated time. I went on my errand. It was in the winter, and the snow lay thickly in the valley of Learmont; as I reached the village inn I inquired if the smith, Britton, was still alive; I was told he was, and heard then the clank of his forge-hammer, the same most probably that had taken the life of Mr. Learmont. I sought him, and suffice to say, that I not only convinced him of the inexpediency of attempting aught against my life, which, as I guessed he would be, he was much inclined to do, but succeeded in inducing him to join with me in extorting large sums from the guilty squire.
Britton, too, I persuaded to search the body of the murdered man, when, as I told him, he found papers of great consequence to the squire—papers which he would gladly have redeemed at any price, but which were of infinitely more value as a source of permanent income to their fortunate holder.
I had lent the smith a knife of mine at his own request before the murder, and when I visited him he produced it, stained with human gore, taunting me with the fact that my name was on the handle, and that it would ever prove a damning evidence of my guilt.
’Twas were we three men in each other’s power. Either Britton or myself could bring the whole three to destruction, and the squire was but too glad to ensure his own safety by paying large sums to us from time to time. He came to London, and we followed him. Andrew Britton led a life, as he now leads, of riot and extravagance, at the public-house called the Chequers, Westminster. The Squire Learmont lives in splendour, as you must be aware, in your immediate vicinity. I have led a life of dangers and terror. My existence has been continually threatened by Learmont, who, could he at any time have laid his hands upon Ada, who he believed to be legitimate, and likewise have secured my written confession, would have murdered me.
I repeat, I may be dead, or absent from England, when you arrive; but be it which way it may, if you want proofs of what I assert, search the ruins of the Old Smithy at Learmont, and you may still find some traces of the murdered body of Mr. Mark Learmont. Apprehend Andrew Britton, and search for the knife, I mention, as well as for any papers that he may have taken from the dead body. Among them will be found the letter from the squire, begging his brother to meet him at the Old Smithy, instead of coming direct to his own mansion.
It will be understood by you, then, clearly, that I accuse these two men, Squire Learmont and Andrew Britton, of the murder of Learmont’s elder brother, and the projected murder of his illegitimate child. She, Ada, left me some time since, after an attempt made by you to take me into custody at the old house at Battersea Fields, among the ruins of which I believe you will still find some articles that belonged to Ada when her father’s death occurred.
Let, then, these men be brought to an ignominious end. Remember that the Learmont family will become extinct with the present squire, for the girl Ada, I repeat, is an illegitimate child. The elder Learmont and Ada Madelini were not married. The large estates, then, must revert to the crown, and my vengeance will be complete. If I am living, I shall hear of the execution of Learmont and Britton; for who can doubt their guilt? If I am dead, and the spirits of the departed retain any shadow of the feelings which agitated them in this world, I shall still rejoice that I have had my revenge.
Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER CXII.The Consultation with Albert and Ada.—The Arrangement for the Ball.Whenhe had finished the confession of Gray, Sir Francis Hartleton looked up and drew a long breath. An inexpressible feeling of relief came over him, and he cried,—“It is as I partly expected. Ada is related to this squire nearly. With regard to her alleged illegitimacy, I do not believe it for a moment. The malice of Jacob Gray, for denouncing him in the open street, is fully sufficient to account for his making such an assertion. That, however, is a fact which can be very easily ascertained; and I have not a shadow of doubt but my beautiful young friend, after all her severe trials and persecutions, will become the possessor of the splendid estates of Learmont, and will be able to reward the constancy of her lover with a princely income. Oh, what a relief it is, after all, to find that Jacob Gray cannot claim the least shadow of kindred with Ada. Well, he has gone to his account; and, although I have no moral doubt in the world of the guilt of Britton and Learmont as regards Ada’s father, yet this paper would be very insufficient evidence to proceed upon. If they suffer the penalty of the law for murder, it will be for that of Jacob Gray himself.”Sir Francis Hartleton then left his room, after locking up Gray’s confession, and hastened to where he had left Albert. The good-hearted magistrate will be excused by our fair readers for forgetting that in all probability Ada, when she had left him, had gone back to Albert, and that, consequently, when he, Sir Francis, opened the door very abruptly, the beautiful girl was just, to the smallest possible extent annoyed, to be seen with Albert’s hand clasped in her own, and such a smile of joy on her face, that her lover thought himself in heaven, and, at all events, would have challenged any one to produce a heartfelt joy equal to that which then filled him with thankfulness.“My dear Ada,” said Sir Francis, “I have to apologise.”Ada rose, and while a blush spread itself over her face, she said,—“Sir Francis Hartleton, how can Albert and myself find words, to tell you how much we owe to you, our noble, considerate, generous friend. What would have become of the poor destitute, desolate Ada, but for you?”“And I, sir,” said Albert, while a tear glistened in his eye, “I’m afraid I have offended you past all forgiveness.”“No such thing,” said Sir Francis. “You know I was very provoking indeed, Mr. Seyton; but Ada, my dear, go and fetch Lady Hartleton, for she must hear what I have to tell you.”Ada looked in his face a moment, to read by his expressive features the character of the intelligence he had gleaned from Gray’s confession; and the magistrate shaking his head, said playfully,—“Now, Ada, that is too bad;” but the smile with which he accompanied his words assured her that what he had to say was not the worst that could be under the circumstances anticipated, and she flew to Lady Hartleton to come and join the group.When they were all assembled Sir Francis said,—“What I now tell you must remain in our own breasts until Saturday. Ada, I shall commence with one piece of intelligence, which will not displease you, and I am sure remove one occasionally disagreeable thought from your mind—Jacob Gray is not in the remotest degree connected with you by the ties of relationship.”“Thank Heaven!” said Ada.“Now then, my dear Ada, I counsel you to hear, with a patient resignation, the will of Providence, when I tell you you are an orphan.”One sob burst from Ada’s breast, for she had always pleased herself with the idea of some day finding a dear mother or father. That dream was now dispelled, and it was with some difficulty she could say,—“Heaven’s will be done! I should not mourn, for have I not found all the love and care of dear parents from you, my kind friends?”“Your father,” continued Sir Francis Hartleton, “was a noble, honourable gentleman—your mother, a lady of wealth and family.”“Go on—go on,” gasped Ada, while Albert Seyton and Lady Hartleton looked the intense interest they felt in Sir Francis’s words.“Will you not, Ada,” he added, “be now content with knowing so much, and seek not to dive deeper into the past.”“Tell me more of my father and mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, leave me not to conjecture. The mind will ever conjure up from the realms of fancy tenfold horrors. Tell me all—oh, tell me all.”“I cannot refuse you,” said Sir Francis, “because you have a right to demand to know all. Your mother, as far as I can rely upon my information, died in giving birth to you. Your father—”Sir Francis paused, and Ada, clasping her hands, cried—“my father—what of him—oh, speak.”“Your father fell a victim to the avarice of one whom he trusted. His own brother murdered him.”Ada shuddered, and as the tears rapidly coursed each other down her cheeks, she said, in a low, plaintive tone,—“Tell me all now. Surely I have heard the worst. My poor father!”“Returning with you, when you were an infant, to his native land, and his ancient home, his life was taken by three men. One was his brother, the other a smith, by name Andrew Britton, and the third—”Sir Francis Harleton paused, and Ada filled up the blank with the words,—“Jacob Gray.”“True,” said the magistrate; “Jacob Gray was, it appears, by his own confession, a confidential servant of your father’s, and was suborned by your wicked and most unnatural uncle to commit the crime, or, at all events, aid in its commission, which, for so many years, plunged him in all the miseries of a guilty conscience, and placed you in the singular circumstances from which you have been but so recently rescued.”“And—and—my name?” said Ada.“Your name is Learmont.”“Learmont!” cried Albert “God of Heaven, can this be possible? Then he who I have fancied my friend—he who so speciously taught me to believe he was doing me such great service, is the uncle of Ada!”“He is, and her father’s murderer.”“The assassin, too, of Jacob Gray?”“The same.”“And he, the stout bulky man, whom I saw enter Gray’s abode with the squire?”“He is Andrew Britton, the smith, the associate in guilt of the Squire Learmont. You were made a mere tool to assist in the destruction of Jacob Gray, who, no doubt, was troublesome on account of his rapacity, and dangerous on account of the written confession he kept by him, and which, has so providentially and strangely fallen into my hands.”Albert Seyton looked perfectly petrified with astonishment for a time. Then, in a voice of emotion, he said,—“Oh, Heaven, how near was I proving your worst enemy, my Ada, by too credulously becoming a victim to the arts of the man, who, of all others in the wide world, you had most to dread.”“I can scarcely understand all this,” said Ada. “You must relate everything to me, Albert, in a more connected manner. Is this Learmont a tall, dark man, with a face of death-like paleness?”“He is,” said Albert.“And he is my father’s brother?”“I grieve to say that such is the fact,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “The law must take cognisance of Jacob Gray’s murder, and that will most probably be the only one of Learmont’s crimes that can be satisfactorily proved against him. A word with you, Mr. Seyton.”While Ada sat with her hand clasped in that of Lady Hartleton, who was striving to soothe the agitated spirits of the gentle girl, Sir Francis took Albert to the window, and said,—“Gray, in his confession, asserts the illegitimacy of Ada, but from all that I have ever heard of the character of the elder Learmont, as well as from the evidently anxious manner in which Gray has repeatedly stated the circumstance, I much doubt its truth. It is quite necessary, however, that such a point should be satisfactorily set at rest, or we shall have difficulty in procuring for Ada her father’s property, which has been so long withheld from her by this squire, as he has falsely called himself. The family of Ada’s mother can surely be easily found, and I think some one must be instantly despatched to Italy, where Ada was born, in order to prosecute the necessary inquiries.”“Oh, Sir Francis,” said Albert, his countenance beaming with pleasure; “let them say what they like of Ada, she is to me the whole world. With her I can be happy as the day is long, and I am sure we shall never sigh for the wealth, the possession of which could not make our hearts more true to each other than they are now.”“Yes, my dear sir,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “I quite agree with you that you may make yourselves very happy indeed, in a humbler station of life than that in which I have hopes of placing Ada; but it is but common justice that she should possess what is hers of right. The Learmont property is immense.”Albert sighed.“Why, what’s the matter now?” said Sir Francis, good-humouredly.“Can I expect,” said the young man, “that Ada Learmont, the rich heiress, should give her hand to the poor, destitute Albert Seyton?”“Oh, I have nothing to do with that,” exclaimed the worthy magistrate, “you must settle all that between you. Ada, I wish you to give an opinion on a very knotty point raised by Albert Seyton.”Before Albert Seyton could interpose, Ada approached the window, and Sir Francis added,—“You must know, Ada, that Mr. Seyton is of opinion that if he were to get immensely rich, his feelings would alter as regards his affections for one poor and dependent.”“Good God, Sir Francis,” said Albert, “I never said any such thing!”“Then it was Ada’s feelings which were to alter, provided she was rich and you poor.”Albert looked abashed, and Ada said in a gentle voice to him,—“Is this kind, Albert?”“No, Ada,“ he said. “It is foolish and wrong. Forgive the scruple that rose up in my mind of still urging my suit to you when, as I hear from Sir Francis Hartleton you are likely to become very wealthy.”“And did such a thought cross your mind, Albert,” said Ada, sadly, “when you stood between little Harry Gray and him who is now no more—when you spent days and nights of anxious toil in searching for me—did then a thought of that affection which sprang up in my heart for the only human voice which had spoken kindly to me—the only heart that had felt for my distresses—cross your mind? Are persecution, distress, danger, misery, all to fail in shaking our faith, to leave the gold the triumph of doing so? Albert, is this well done of you?”Sir Francis quietly walked away from the window, leaving Albert to make his peace how he could; which it is to be supposed he did, as, after a few moments, Ada, with her usual frank candour, gave him her hand, and shaking her head said, with a smile, something that made his eyes glisten with joy.
The Consultation with Albert and Ada.—The Arrangement for the Ball.
Whenhe had finished the confession of Gray, Sir Francis Hartleton looked up and drew a long breath. An inexpressible feeling of relief came over him, and he cried,—
“It is as I partly expected. Ada is related to this squire nearly. With regard to her alleged illegitimacy, I do not believe it for a moment. The malice of Jacob Gray, for denouncing him in the open street, is fully sufficient to account for his making such an assertion. That, however, is a fact which can be very easily ascertained; and I have not a shadow of doubt but my beautiful young friend, after all her severe trials and persecutions, will become the possessor of the splendid estates of Learmont, and will be able to reward the constancy of her lover with a princely income. Oh, what a relief it is, after all, to find that Jacob Gray cannot claim the least shadow of kindred with Ada. Well, he has gone to his account; and, although I have no moral doubt in the world of the guilt of Britton and Learmont as regards Ada’s father, yet this paper would be very insufficient evidence to proceed upon. If they suffer the penalty of the law for murder, it will be for that of Jacob Gray himself.”
Sir Francis Hartleton then left his room, after locking up Gray’s confession, and hastened to where he had left Albert. The good-hearted magistrate will be excused by our fair readers for forgetting that in all probability Ada, when she had left him, had gone back to Albert, and that, consequently, when he, Sir Francis, opened the door very abruptly, the beautiful girl was just, to the smallest possible extent annoyed, to be seen with Albert’s hand clasped in her own, and such a smile of joy on her face, that her lover thought himself in heaven, and, at all events, would have challenged any one to produce a heartfelt joy equal to that which then filled him with thankfulness.
“My dear Ada,” said Sir Francis, “I have to apologise.”
Ada rose, and while a blush spread itself over her face, she said,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, how can Albert and myself find words, to tell you how much we owe to you, our noble, considerate, generous friend. What would have become of the poor destitute, desolate Ada, but for you?”
“And I, sir,” said Albert, while a tear glistened in his eye, “I’m afraid I have offended you past all forgiveness.”
“No such thing,” said Sir Francis. “You know I was very provoking indeed, Mr. Seyton; but Ada, my dear, go and fetch Lady Hartleton, for she must hear what I have to tell you.”
Ada looked in his face a moment, to read by his expressive features the character of the intelligence he had gleaned from Gray’s confession; and the magistrate shaking his head, said playfully,—
“Now, Ada, that is too bad;” but the smile with which he accompanied his words assured her that what he had to say was not the worst that could be under the circumstances anticipated, and she flew to Lady Hartleton to come and join the group.
When they were all assembled Sir Francis said,—
“What I now tell you must remain in our own breasts until Saturday. Ada, I shall commence with one piece of intelligence, which will not displease you, and I am sure remove one occasionally disagreeable thought from your mind—Jacob Gray is not in the remotest degree connected with you by the ties of relationship.”
“Thank Heaven!” said Ada.
“Now then, my dear Ada, I counsel you to hear, with a patient resignation, the will of Providence, when I tell you you are an orphan.”
One sob burst from Ada’s breast, for she had always pleased herself with the idea of some day finding a dear mother or father. That dream was now dispelled, and it was with some difficulty she could say,—
“Heaven’s will be done! I should not mourn, for have I not found all the love and care of dear parents from you, my kind friends?”
“Your father,” continued Sir Francis Hartleton, “was a noble, honourable gentleman—your mother, a lady of wealth and family.”
“Go on—go on,” gasped Ada, while Albert Seyton and Lady Hartleton looked the intense interest they felt in Sir Francis’s words.
“Will you not, Ada,” he added, “be now content with knowing so much, and seek not to dive deeper into the past.”
“Tell me more of my father and mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, leave me not to conjecture. The mind will ever conjure up from the realms of fancy tenfold horrors. Tell me all—oh, tell me all.”
“I cannot refuse you,” said Sir Francis, “because you have a right to demand to know all. Your mother, as far as I can rely upon my information, died in giving birth to you. Your father—”
Sir Francis paused, and Ada, clasping her hands, cried—“my father—what of him—oh, speak.”
“Your father fell a victim to the avarice of one whom he trusted. His own brother murdered him.”
Ada shuddered, and as the tears rapidly coursed each other down her cheeks, she said, in a low, plaintive tone,—
“Tell me all now. Surely I have heard the worst. My poor father!”
“Returning with you, when you were an infant, to his native land, and his ancient home, his life was taken by three men. One was his brother, the other a smith, by name Andrew Britton, and the third—”
Sir Francis Harleton paused, and Ada filled up the blank with the words,—
“Jacob Gray.”
“True,” said the magistrate; “Jacob Gray was, it appears, by his own confession, a confidential servant of your father’s, and was suborned by your wicked and most unnatural uncle to commit the crime, or, at all events, aid in its commission, which, for so many years, plunged him in all the miseries of a guilty conscience, and placed you in the singular circumstances from which you have been but so recently rescued.”
“And—and—my name?” said Ada.
“Your name is Learmont.”
“Learmont!” cried Albert “God of Heaven, can this be possible? Then he who I have fancied my friend—he who so speciously taught me to believe he was doing me such great service, is the uncle of Ada!”
“He is, and her father’s murderer.”
“The assassin, too, of Jacob Gray?”
“The same.”
“And he, the stout bulky man, whom I saw enter Gray’s abode with the squire?”
“He is Andrew Britton, the smith, the associate in guilt of the Squire Learmont. You were made a mere tool to assist in the destruction of Jacob Gray, who, no doubt, was troublesome on account of his rapacity, and dangerous on account of the written confession he kept by him, and which, has so providentially and strangely fallen into my hands.”
Albert Seyton looked perfectly petrified with astonishment for a time. Then, in a voice of emotion, he said,—
“Oh, Heaven, how near was I proving your worst enemy, my Ada, by too credulously becoming a victim to the arts of the man, who, of all others in the wide world, you had most to dread.”
“I can scarcely understand all this,” said Ada. “You must relate everything to me, Albert, in a more connected manner. Is this Learmont a tall, dark man, with a face of death-like paleness?”
“He is,” said Albert.
“And he is my father’s brother?”
“I grieve to say that such is the fact,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “The law must take cognisance of Jacob Gray’s murder, and that will most probably be the only one of Learmont’s crimes that can be satisfactorily proved against him. A word with you, Mr. Seyton.”
While Ada sat with her hand clasped in that of Lady Hartleton, who was striving to soothe the agitated spirits of the gentle girl, Sir Francis took Albert to the window, and said,—
“Gray, in his confession, asserts the illegitimacy of Ada, but from all that I have ever heard of the character of the elder Learmont, as well as from the evidently anxious manner in which Gray has repeatedly stated the circumstance, I much doubt its truth. It is quite necessary, however, that such a point should be satisfactorily set at rest, or we shall have difficulty in procuring for Ada her father’s property, which has been so long withheld from her by this squire, as he has falsely called himself. The family of Ada’s mother can surely be easily found, and I think some one must be instantly despatched to Italy, where Ada was born, in order to prosecute the necessary inquiries.”
“Oh, Sir Francis,” said Albert, his countenance beaming with pleasure; “let them say what they like of Ada, she is to me the whole world. With her I can be happy as the day is long, and I am sure we shall never sigh for the wealth, the possession of which could not make our hearts more true to each other than they are now.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “I quite agree with you that you may make yourselves very happy indeed, in a humbler station of life than that in which I have hopes of placing Ada; but it is but common justice that she should possess what is hers of right. The Learmont property is immense.”
Albert sighed.
“Why, what’s the matter now?” said Sir Francis, good-humouredly.
“Can I expect,” said the young man, “that Ada Learmont, the rich heiress, should give her hand to the poor, destitute Albert Seyton?”
“Oh, I have nothing to do with that,” exclaimed the worthy magistrate, “you must settle all that between you. Ada, I wish you to give an opinion on a very knotty point raised by Albert Seyton.”
Before Albert Seyton could interpose, Ada approached the window, and Sir Francis added,—
“You must know, Ada, that Mr. Seyton is of opinion that if he were to get immensely rich, his feelings would alter as regards his affections for one poor and dependent.”
“Good God, Sir Francis,” said Albert, “I never said any such thing!”
“Then it was Ada’s feelings which were to alter, provided she was rich and you poor.”
Albert looked abashed, and Ada said in a gentle voice to him,—
“Is this kind, Albert?”
“No, Ada,“ he said. “It is foolish and wrong. Forgive the scruple that rose up in my mind of still urging my suit to you when, as I hear from Sir Francis Hartleton you are likely to become very wealthy.”
“And did such a thought cross your mind, Albert,” said Ada, sadly, “when you stood between little Harry Gray and him who is now no more—when you spent days and nights of anxious toil in searching for me—did then a thought of that affection which sprang up in my heart for the only human voice which had spoken kindly to me—the only heart that had felt for my distresses—cross your mind? Are persecution, distress, danger, misery, all to fail in shaking our faith, to leave the gold the triumph of doing so? Albert, is this well done of you?”
Sir Francis quietly walked away from the window, leaving Albert to make his peace how he could; which it is to be supposed he did, as, after a few moments, Ada, with her usual frank candour, gave him her hand, and shaking her head said, with a smile, something that made his eyes glisten with joy.
CHAPTER CXIII.Learmont and Britton after the Murder.Havingdevoted so large a space to the hopes, the fears, the surprises, and the joys of those in whose happiness, and freedom from the distresses and persecutions which surrounded them, we are so largely interested, we turn with a sensation of sickening gloom to the two men of blood. Learmont and the savage smith, after they had sated themselves with gore, and like ferocious tigers of the jungle, came slinking from the feast of blood which they had sought with avidity, and tasted of so greedily.Neither of them spoke after they reached the street-door of Gray’s house, until they had placed several streets between them and the one in which the awful deed was committed.There was a dogged, apathetic kind of movement and manner about Britton, as with a heavy tread he slowly walked by the side of the squire, which more resembled the gross serenity of some over-gorged reptile than anything else. Never before had the smith’s appetite for destruction been so thoroughly sated—never before had he accomplished a darling wish of his heart so fully and so completely. His hatred of Jacob Gray had been one of his chief passions for years, and he had always pleased himself with the notion of some day having a revenge which should be in accordance with his savage nature, and full of terror. Yet in his wildest dreams—in his most fanciful imaginings of what he would like to do to Jacob Gray, he had fallen short of the scene of horror and blood he had that night gone through. Yes; Andrew Britton was satisfied—quite satisfied, as regarded Jacob Gray, and he felt all the ennui and satiety which was sure to arise, when the great object which he had always pleased himself he should one day be able to accomplish, was done. Jacob Gray was dead. He had died by his (Britton’s) hands an awful death, such as rejoiced him to inflict, and which was only disagreeable because it was done, and could not be repeated.Now and then he would cast a scowling glance upon the squire, as if he longed to strike him down with the cleaver he still held in his grasp. He felt like a man, the great object of whose existence has slipped away from him, leaving the mind no fixed point upon which to fall back in thought.“Curses on him!” he muttered. “He’s dead,” and Britton felt himself almost injured that Gray could not be brought to life again in order to give him again the pleasure of dashing Bond’s cleaver into his quivering brain.But what were these thoughts of the coarse-minded, brutal animal, Britton, in comparison with the whirl-wind of frightful feelings that made a hell in the seething brain of Learmont. If he looked up to the sky, huge gouts of blood seemed to intercept his view of the blue vault of heaven; if he cast his eyes downwards, he could not divest himself of the idea that he was treading in ensanguined pools of human gore. He ground his teeth together till he produced a resemblance of the crashing sound which the cleaver wielded by Britton had made as it came in contact with the crunched bones of Gray’s skull. His last despairing cry of “Mercy—mercy—mercy!” was still ringing in his ears, and, finally, such was the intense excitement of his feelings, that he was compelled to lean upon the arm of Britton as he gasped,—“I—I—shall go mad—I shall go mad. Andrew Britton, get me some water to cool my brain. I shall go mad!”“Water be d—d!” growled Britton; “have some brandy, why, what’s the matter now?”“Do—do you not hear, Britton? Gray is still screaming for mercy—does not the sound rush like burning lava through your brain—hark—hark—he still shrieks mercy—mercy—mercy.”Learmont held the smith by the arm as he spoke, and trembled so especially that he shook the bulky form of Britton to and fro.“Why what’s come over you, squire?” cried Britton, “curse you—you are not going to make a die of it now, just as that canting thief Gray is put out of the world.”“Oh, Britton—Britton, was it not horrible?”“No, it wasn’t. When you knock a fellow on the head with a cleaver, you do for him at once, and all you get out of him is a kick or two. Come this way and don’t be shaking here. Come and have some brandy—d—n water, I’m as thirsty as I can be, and water always makes me worse. Come on—oh! You are a beauty, Master Learmont—you used not to be such a fool. Time was, since I’ve known you, when you’d have thought nothing of this. Don’t you remember?”“Oh, hush—hush—hush,” said Learmont; “do not call to my recollection things which have already left their brand upon my soul.”“Ha—ha—ha,” laughed Britton, “now I will have some fun with the squire. Don’t you recollect knocking your brother Mark’s first baby on the head, squire?”“Peace—peace—fiend,” gasped Learmont.They had now reached the door of a small public-house, which was kept open usually all night for the convenience of thieves and watchmen, when Britton pulled Learmont across the threshold to the little bar, where a man sat smoking with imperturbable gravity and placidity.“Brandy!” cried Britton, as he reached over the bar, and snatched the pipe from the man, throwing it into the street.The man was one of those slow thinkers, who are some time comprehending anything—so he merely stared at Britton, out of two exceedingly small eyes, that were nearly buried in mountains of flesh.“Brandy!” again cried Britton, as he gave the front of the bar a clanging blow with the flat part of the cleaver, that made every bottle dance again, and so astonished the potman, that he slid from his chair, and sat on the ground, looking first at Britton, and then at Learmont, with as much alarm depicted in his countenance, as it could depict, considering it was by no means well calculated for portraying human feelings.If the potman’s mind was rather overcome by the sudden abstraction of his pipe, the blow upon the bar with the cleaver completed a mystification which to all appearance, looked as if it would last a considerable time; so Britton, perceiving a little half door leading within the bar, on the swing, entered, without any ceremony, and laying violent hands on the first quart pot he saw, he drew liquor from every tap in succession that came to hand, until he had filled the measure with a combination of strong spirits, of which he took a long draught, and then handed it across to Learmont, who stood holding himself up by the bar, and but slightly conscious of where he was, or what Britton was doing.“Here,” cried the smith, “drink some of that.”Learmont took the quart measure, and lifted it to his lips mechanically, he drank some of the contents, and then handed it back to Britton, who, after pouring the remainder on the fat landlord’s head, gave him a thump with the measure, saying.“That’s to clear your wits, and if you say that two gentlemen have been here with a cleaver. I’ll come back some day, and smash you.”With this Britton hustled Learmont out of the house, and in about three quarters of an hour the fat landlord said,—“Bless us, and save us!”Learmont was half intoxicated with the draught of spirits he had taken, when he reached his own door-step, to which he was conducted by Britton, who said to him,—“Now, squire you are home again, and that job’s jobbed; Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more, and as for his confession, why I begin to think as you do, that there never was one.”“Ah, the confession—the confession!” gasped Learmont. “We are lost—we are lost, Britton—if, after all, there should be one found.”“Go to the devil,” said Britton, as he shook himself free of the squire, and flourishing the cleaver proceeded on his way to the Chequers.The first person that Britton encountered on his road home was a particularly slow-moving watchman, whom he levelled at once with a thwack between the shoulders, inflicted with the flat part of the cleaver. Then, when he reached the Chequers, it was a great satisfaction to him to find the door shut, because it gave him an opportunity of taking the heavy cleaver in both hands, and bringing it down with a blow upon the lock that on the instant smashed it, and burst the door wide open to the great consternation of the landlord, who immediately hid himself below the bar, and only peered up when he heard Britton’s voice exclaim,—“Curse you all!—Where are you? Boil me some brandy, I say, or I’ll smash everything in the place.”“Oh, dear, your majesty! So you’ve come home,” faltered the landlord; “dear me!”Britton’s only reply to this conciliatory speech was to throw the cleaver at the landlord’s head, who only escaped it by ducking in time, when it flew over him, smashing some dozens of glasses, and producing a noise and confusion within the bar that was quite gratifying to Britton’s feelings.“Hilloa!” cried Bond, when he saw Britton enter the parlour. “Here have I been waiting for you, I don’t know how long.”“Who told you to wait?” roared Britton.“Nobody,” shouted Bond, in as high a tone. “Where’s my cleaver?”“In the bar. Didn’t you hear it?”“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the butcher, “I did hear a smash. You are a great genius, Britton. I say, have you settled that fellow, eh?”“What’s that to you?”“Oh? Nothing, I only asked. I suppose he was one too many for you?”“Too many for me! I’ve smashed him!”“Very good,” said Bond, resuming his pipe with an air of great composure.In the meanwhile Learmont was lighted by his wondering domestics to his own chamber. They had never before this seen him in such a state of physical prostration; and, but that they were in too great fear of his violence to offer him even a kindness they would have assisted him up the staircase, for they saw that he was scarcely capable of ascending alone, and had to clutch to the banisters nervously for support.When he reached his chamber, he sank into a chair, and after a few moments, he said,—“More lights—more lights! Let me have more lights here. The place is dark.“One of the servants lit the wax candles which were in silver sconces on the mantel-shelf, and then humbly inquire if his worship had any further orders to give.“None—none!” said Learmont. “None! Why do you stare at me so? Is—is there blood upon me? How dare you look upon me with eyes of suspicion?”The servants looked at each other in surprise and terror, and slowly slunk to the door.“Let me have wine—wine!” cried Learmont. “Wine to give me new blood, for, by the God of heaven, what I have is freezing in my veins. Wine—wine, I say!”They brought him wine, and a massive silver goblet to drink it from; but when they did so, they found him resting his head upon the table, and apparently half-asleep, for he was moaning occasionally, and muttering the words,—“Mercy—mercy—mercy!”None dared to arouse him, but lifting up their hands in silent terror, they gently closed the door, and crept softly down the staircase, leaving him alone with his dark and awful thoughts.The sun was lighting up the east, and the dim clouds of night were rapidly changing their inky hue for the glorious tints of day; but there sat Learmont still with his head upon the table, and the glare of the many wax lights he had ordered, strangely mingling with the roseate tints of the coming day.Oh, what awful images of horror and despair came marching in dismal troops through the brain of the blood-guilty man. Over and over again was the fearful tragedy he had been an actor in, exhibited to his shrinking imagination. Then he fancied himself alone with the mangled body of Jacob Gray. His feet were rooted to the floor of the room, and he thought the body rose, while Gray, with his long, ghastly-looking fingers dabbled in blood, strove to hold his eyes in their sockets—to replace the splintered pieces of his fractured skull, the while he glared at him, Learmont, with such a look of stony horror, that with a shriek the squire awoke, and stood in his chamber a picture of guilty horror, staring with blood-shot eyes at the wax-lights and the morning sunshine with a racking brain and a fevered pulse.
Learmont and Britton after the Murder.
Havingdevoted so large a space to the hopes, the fears, the surprises, and the joys of those in whose happiness, and freedom from the distresses and persecutions which surrounded them, we are so largely interested, we turn with a sensation of sickening gloom to the two men of blood. Learmont and the savage smith, after they had sated themselves with gore, and like ferocious tigers of the jungle, came slinking from the feast of blood which they had sought with avidity, and tasted of so greedily.
Neither of them spoke after they reached the street-door of Gray’s house, until they had placed several streets between them and the one in which the awful deed was committed.
There was a dogged, apathetic kind of movement and manner about Britton, as with a heavy tread he slowly walked by the side of the squire, which more resembled the gross serenity of some over-gorged reptile than anything else. Never before had the smith’s appetite for destruction been so thoroughly sated—never before had he accomplished a darling wish of his heart so fully and so completely. His hatred of Jacob Gray had been one of his chief passions for years, and he had always pleased himself with the notion of some day having a revenge which should be in accordance with his savage nature, and full of terror. Yet in his wildest dreams—in his most fanciful imaginings of what he would like to do to Jacob Gray, he had fallen short of the scene of horror and blood he had that night gone through. Yes; Andrew Britton was satisfied—quite satisfied, as regarded Jacob Gray, and he felt all the ennui and satiety which was sure to arise, when the great object which he had always pleased himself he should one day be able to accomplish, was done. Jacob Gray was dead. He had died by his (Britton’s) hands an awful death, such as rejoiced him to inflict, and which was only disagreeable because it was done, and could not be repeated.
Now and then he would cast a scowling glance upon the squire, as if he longed to strike him down with the cleaver he still held in his grasp. He felt like a man, the great object of whose existence has slipped away from him, leaving the mind no fixed point upon which to fall back in thought.
“Curses on him!” he muttered. “He’s dead,” and Britton felt himself almost injured that Gray could not be brought to life again in order to give him again the pleasure of dashing Bond’s cleaver into his quivering brain.
But what were these thoughts of the coarse-minded, brutal animal, Britton, in comparison with the whirl-wind of frightful feelings that made a hell in the seething brain of Learmont. If he looked up to the sky, huge gouts of blood seemed to intercept his view of the blue vault of heaven; if he cast his eyes downwards, he could not divest himself of the idea that he was treading in ensanguined pools of human gore. He ground his teeth together till he produced a resemblance of the crashing sound which the cleaver wielded by Britton had made as it came in contact with the crunched bones of Gray’s skull. His last despairing cry of “Mercy—mercy—mercy!” was still ringing in his ears, and, finally, such was the intense excitement of his feelings, that he was compelled to lean upon the arm of Britton as he gasped,—
“I—I—shall go mad—I shall go mad. Andrew Britton, get me some water to cool my brain. I shall go mad!”
“Water be d—d!” growled Britton; “have some brandy, why, what’s the matter now?”
“Do—do you not hear, Britton? Gray is still screaming for mercy—does not the sound rush like burning lava through your brain—hark—hark—he still shrieks mercy—mercy—mercy.”
Learmont held the smith by the arm as he spoke, and trembled so especially that he shook the bulky form of Britton to and fro.
“Why what’s come over you, squire?” cried Britton, “curse you—you are not going to make a die of it now, just as that canting thief Gray is put out of the world.”
“Oh, Britton—Britton, was it not horrible?”
“No, it wasn’t. When you knock a fellow on the head with a cleaver, you do for him at once, and all you get out of him is a kick or two. Come this way and don’t be shaking here. Come and have some brandy—d—n water, I’m as thirsty as I can be, and water always makes me worse. Come on—oh! You are a beauty, Master Learmont—you used not to be such a fool. Time was, since I’ve known you, when you’d have thought nothing of this. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, hush—hush—hush,” said Learmont; “do not call to my recollection things which have already left their brand upon my soul.”
“Ha—ha—ha,” laughed Britton, “now I will have some fun with the squire. Don’t you recollect knocking your brother Mark’s first baby on the head, squire?”
“Peace—peace—fiend,” gasped Learmont.
They had now reached the door of a small public-house, which was kept open usually all night for the convenience of thieves and watchmen, when Britton pulled Learmont across the threshold to the little bar, where a man sat smoking with imperturbable gravity and placidity.
“Brandy!” cried Britton, as he reached over the bar, and snatched the pipe from the man, throwing it into the street.
The man was one of those slow thinkers, who are some time comprehending anything—so he merely stared at Britton, out of two exceedingly small eyes, that were nearly buried in mountains of flesh.
“Brandy!” again cried Britton, as he gave the front of the bar a clanging blow with the flat part of the cleaver, that made every bottle dance again, and so astonished the potman, that he slid from his chair, and sat on the ground, looking first at Britton, and then at Learmont, with as much alarm depicted in his countenance, as it could depict, considering it was by no means well calculated for portraying human feelings.
If the potman’s mind was rather overcome by the sudden abstraction of his pipe, the blow upon the bar with the cleaver completed a mystification which to all appearance, looked as if it would last a considerable time; so Britton, perceiving a little half door leading within the bar, on the swing, entered, without any ceremony, and laying violent hands on the first quart pot he saw, he drew liquor from every tap in succession that came to hand, until he had filled the measure with a combination of strong spirits, of which he took a long draught, and then handed it across to Learmont, who stood holding himself up by the bar, and but slightly conscious of where he was, or what Britton was doing.
“Here,” cried the smith, “drink some of that.”
Learmont took the quart measure, and lifted it to his lips mechanically, he drank some of the contents, and then handed it back to Britton, who, after pouring the remainder on the fat landlord’s head, gave him a thump with the measure, saying.
“That’s to clear your wits, and if you say that two gentlemen have been here with a cleaver. I’ll come back some day, and smash you.”
With this Britton hustled Learmont out of the house, and in about three quarters of an hour the fat landlord said,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
Learmont was half intoxicated with the draught of spirits he had taken, when he reached his own door-step, to which he was conducted by Britton, who said to him,—
“Now, squire you are home again, and that job’s jobbed; Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more, and as for his confession, why I begin to think as you do, that there never was one.”
“Ah, the confession—the confession!” gasped Learmont. “We are lost—we are lost, Britton—if, after all, there should be one found.”
“Go to the devil,” said Britton, as he shook himself free of the squire, and flourishing the cleaver proceeded on his way to the Chequers.
The first person that Britton encountered on his road home was a particularly slow-moving watchman, whom he levelled at once with a thwack between the shoulders, inflicted with the flat part of the cleaver. Then, when he reached the Chequers, it was a great satisfaction to him to find the door shut, because it gave him an opportunity of taking the heavy cleaver in both hands, and bringing it down with a blow upon the lock that on the instant smashed it, and burst the door wide open to the great consternation of the landlord, who immediately hid himself below the bar, and only peered up when he heard Britton’s voice exclaim,—
“Curse you all!—Where are you? Boil me some brandy, I say, or I’ll smash everything in the place.”
“Oh, dear, your majesty! So you’ve come home,” faltered the landlord; “dear me!”
Britton’s only reply to this conciliatory speech was to throw the cleaver at the landlord’s head, who only escaped it by ducking in time, when it flew over him, smashing some dozens of glasses, and producing a noise and confusion within the bar that was quite gratifying to Britton’s feelings.
“Hilloa!” cried Bond, when he saw Britton enter the parlour. “Here have I been waiting for you, I don’t know how long.”
“Who told you to wait?” roared Britton.
“Nobody,” shouted Bond, in as high a tone. “Where’s my cleaver?”
“In the bar. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the butcher, “I did hear a smash. You are a great genius, Britton. I say, have you settled that fellow, eh?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Oh? Nothing, I only asked. I suppose he was one too many for you?”
“Too many for me! I’ve smashed him!”
“Very good,” said Bond, resuming his pipe with an air of great composure.
In the meanwhile Learmont was lighted by his wondering domestics to his own chamber. They had never before this seen him in such a state of physical prostration; and, but that they were in too great fear of his violence to offer him even a kindness they would have assisted him up the staircase, for they saw that he was scarcely capable of ascending alone, and had to clutch to the banisters nervously for support.
When he reached his chamber, he sank into a chair, and after a few moments, he said,—
“More lights—more lights! Let me have more lights here. The place is dark.“
One of the servants lit the wax candles which were in silver sconces on the mantel-shelf, and then humbly inquire if his worship had any further orders to give.
“None—none!” said Learmont. “None! Why do you stare at me so? Is—is there blood upon me? How dare you look upon me with eyes of suspicion?”
The servants looked at each other in surprise and terror, and slowly slunk to the door.
“Let me have wine—wine!” cried Learmont. “Wine to give me new blood, for, by the God of heaven, what I have is freezing in my veins. Wine—wine, I say!”
They brought him wine, and a massive silver goblet to drink it from; but when they did so, they found him resting his head upon the table, and apparently half-asleep, for he was moaning occasionally, and muttering the words,—
“Mercy—mercy—mercy!”
None dared to arouse him, but lifting up their hands in silent terror, they gently closed the door, and crept softly down the staircase, leaving him alone with his dark and awful thoughts.
The sun was lighting up the east, and the dim clouds of night were rapidly changing their inky hue for the glorious tints of day; but there sat Learmont still with his head upon the table, and the glare of the many wax lights he had ordered, strangely mingling with the roseate tints of the coming day.
Oh, what awful images of horror and despair came marching in dismal troops through the brain of the blood-guilty man. Over and over again was the fearful tragedy he had been an actor in, exhibited to his shrinking imagination. Then he fancied himself alone with the mangled body of Jacob Gray. His feet were rooted to the floor of the room, and he thought the body rose, while Gray, with his long, ghastly-looking fingers dabbled in blood, strove to hold his eyes in their sockets—to replace the splintered pieces of his fractured skull, the while he glared at him, Learmont, with such a look of stony horror, that with a shriek the squire awoke, and stood in his chamber a picture of guilty horror, staring with blood-shot eyes at the wax-lights and the morning sunshine with a racking brain and a fevered pulse.