CHAPTER CXIV.Albert’s Visit to Learmont.—The Squire’s Triumph.Aftera time Learmont became more conscious of his situation, and a feeling of exhaustion coming over him in consequence of the fatigue, both of body and mind he had undergone, he partially divested himself of his apparel, and throwing himself upon the luxurious bed which was in the room, he soon dropped into a deep sleep, which was not visited and rendered hideous by any of the frightful images which had before been conjured up by his oppressed brain.It was some four hours or more before he again awakened, and then he found himself much refreshed both bodily and mentally. He ran over in his mind accurately all the circumstances of his present position, and now that his cooler judgment had sway, and the horror of the recent events he had passed through was beginning to subside, he inclined more and more to his previously expressed opinion, that Jacob Gray had not really written any confession, but had merely pretended to have such a document always at hand, for the purpose of aweing him and saving his, Jacob’s life, from any attempt on the part of either of his great enemies.Learmont rose and paced his room in deep thought, and then, while he stood as it were upon a mine, which, did he but know it, was ready to explode beneath him, and hurl him to destruction; a feeling of self-satisfaction began to creep over him, and he re-assured himself into a belief that he must have materially bettered his situation by the destruction of Gray.“It must be so,” he muttered. “There is no confession written, and Gray was not only a heavy expense, but would, no doubt, some day have played some serious trick in payment for the attempts which, to his knowledge, had been made against him. ’Tis well, then, he is dead—exceedingly well, for my worst enemy is gone. Britton will drink himself to death, surely; and as for the pretended papers he has, of such great consequence to me, as he and Gray ever affected they were, I now begin to think that like Jacob Gray’s written confession such a tale is merely invented as a bugbear to my imagination. Yes, I must be now in a better, a far better position, and the day will come, when I shall have no further fear of the stability of my fortunes.”Reasoning thus, he argued himself into a more placid mode, and then the dark feelings of hate, revenge, and gloomy triumphs, which, for a time, had been overpowered and forced to hide their diminished heads in consequence of his great excitements, once more rose, phœnix like, from their ashes, and the wild scheming, blood-stained villain smiled, as he glanced round him upon the magnificence with which he was surrounded, and which he thought would soon be all his own, without the shadow of fear being cast over them.“By the powers of hell!” he cried, “I will still let them see that I can live right royally in my noble halls. When last I met the Minister of State, methought he looked strangely at me, and he certainly did, upon some most shallow and slight excuse, put me off when I spoke of my baronetcy, promised as it has been for so long. That magistrate too—that Hartleton, who I so deeply hate. There was a sneer, too, upon his face when I saw him last, as if he would have said,—‘Learmont, your fate is hurrying on, and I shall triumph over you.’ Ha! Ha! My best sense of security lies in the fact that he leaves me alone. Could he but get up the shadow of a charge against me, how gladly would he strive to blacken me and my fame in the eyes of those who, despite him, will yet heap honours on my head. Sir Francis Harleton, I know you well as my active enemy, and while I am unmolested by you, I am safe indeed. I will persevere, most certainly, in my intention of giving afêteon Saturday, which shall surpass, in richness and magnificence, any that have yet been vaunted highly by my crowds of visitors—visitors whom I despise, but yet find useful as tools to work out my great scheme of ambition.”Learmont then rung for his servants, and with a malignant pleasure caused the cards of invitation to his grand masked ball for the Saturday to be sent to Hartleton and to the minister.“I will vex the very soul of this Hartleton,” he said, “by the gorgeous display of wealth I will make.”A shade of care then suddenly came across his brow, as for the first time since his departure from the house of Gray, he thought upon the promised visit of Albert Seyton.“Ha,” he cried, “my young secretary, I had nearly forgotten him. Will he prove troublesome? Did he catch a glimpse of me at Gray’s? No—no—that he did not—and if he did—well. The shortest plan of operation with regard to him is to give him more hopes, no matter how slenderly based; and along with them a cup of wine, which shall contain an insidious drug. Yes, I will poison him, and then send him some long errand to a distant part of the country, which he will never live to return from—a safe way—a most safe way. So shall I be rid of him without the—the—horror (Learmont shuddered as he spoke) of seeing such another death, perhaps, as that I would fain blot from my memory for ever, but which rises gaunt and bloody ever before my mental eye. I must not think of it. Myfête—my brilliantfête—my baronetcy—ah, those are grateful imaginings.”The receipt of Learmont’s card of invitation to Sir Francis Hartleton we are already aware of, and in the course of the day its presence, as it lay before him gave the magistrate an idea, which, if it could be successfully carried out, would have some time in the apprehension of the guilty squire, as well as, in all probability, force some sudden recognition of Ada and her rights. Besides, it was, at all events, important, that, as he, Sir Francis Hartleton, had given his promise to the Secretary of State that Learmont should not be molested until after the Saturday’sfête, the squire should not be led to suspect that any of his plans had failed, or that any immediate danger beset him.For the purpose of preventing such a thing from occurring, Sir Francis Hartleton proposed to Albert Seyton that he should see Learmont on that evening, in pursuance of the arrangement which had been entered into between him and the squire.Another difficulty, or rather a doubt, beset this line of proceeding, however, and that was to know whether the squire was aware, or not, of the fact of Albert having been present at the house in which Gray was murdered on the night, or rather morning, of that event. To solve this question, or, at all events, to render it an innocuous one, Sir Francis Hartleton advised that Albert should take with him to the squire’s an exact copy of the confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to him, admitting that, seeing the door of Gray’s house open, he had entered and become possessed of the document by the accidental tearing of a cloak in which it was concealed.“Such a step on our parts,” said Sir Francis, “must have the effect of thoroughly disarming Learmont of all suspicion of his danger; and since his friend, the Secretary of State, has him so much under his special protection, on account of his parliamentary influence, I should like very much to let him see, personally, what a beautifulprotégéhe has, and make the masked ball the scene of his apprehension.”“I am quite willing to act upon your advice,” said Albert; “and indeed, I am not a little curious and anxious to know what Learmont can possible say to me this evening, when I call upon him, and demand Ada, according to the solemn promises he made me.”With this understanding Albert and the magistrate repaired to the study of the latter, where they took an accurate copy of the confession, which Albert placed in his pocket, while Sir Francis charged himself with the preservation of the original.“Return as soon as possible,” said Sir Francis, “and, above all things, be mindful of treachery.”“I think I am more than a match for the squire,” said Albert, smiling.“Be that as it may,” said the magistrate, “remember that during your stay at his house there will be a force within hearing of you should you require any assistance. We must trust this man of many crimes as little as we possibly can.”Without saying anything to Ada of his intention, for he knew that her anxiety would be very great if she knew that he was venturing into the house of Learmont, Albert, just as the shades of evening began to fall upon the streets and house left the residence of the magistrate, and proceeded at a sharp pace towards Learmont’s splendid abode.He was readily admitted, and upon being shown into the room where he usually saw Learmont, he found him seated with a multitude of papers before him, apparently very busily engaged. He started as he saw Albert, and yet he felt intensely gratified, for it tended much to assure him of his safety. His only difficulty consisted in his want of knowledge of whether Albert had seen him or not at Gray’s.“You are true to your appointment, Mr. Seyton,” he said, after a few moments thought. “Have you heard any news of Jacob Gray?”“He is murdered,” said Albert.Learmont turned a shade paler as he said,—“So I have heard this morning, and that has, I fear, placed an obstacle in your way.”“I found that he was murdered,” continued Albert “at an early hour this morning. Being anxious concerning her whom I loved I passed the house in which Gray resided, when I saw the door ajar. That excited my curiosity, and I entered from an impulse which I could not control.”“He did not see me,” thought Learmont; “he suspects nothing.”“I called aloud upon Ada,” continued Albert, “but no one answered me. Procuring then a light from a woman in the house, I proceeded to search it, and found Gray a mangled horrible corpse.”Learmont drew a long breath as he said,“I heard so much this morning from a casual visitor, and I was intending before now to take with me a warrant from the Secretary of State which would have been granted upon my applications to take Gray into custody, and offer the young girl, in whom you have made me feel a strange interest, an asylum under my own roof, until your arrival to-night.”“You are very considerate, sir,” said Albert. “By the accidental rending of a cloak which I presume belonged to Jacob Gray, a packet of papers—”Learmont uttered a loud cry, and rising, he stretched out his hands, saying, while his face was livid with apprehension,—“You—you have them? The—the confession—this instant—on your life give it to me. You have not dared to read—you will take some wine—you will—this—this goblet will refresh you. The papers—give me the papers.”He shook like an aspen leaf as he pushed the cup of wine he had drugged, in case he should wish to get rid of Albert, towards him, and his voice grew hoarse with anxiety as he continued to say,—“The papers—the papers!”Albert handed him the copy of Gray’s confession, which Learmont snatched with the most frantic eagerness.“You see, Mr. Seyton,” he said, “I am most anxious about the welfare of yourself and this young maiden—I pray you drink. The wine is good. Yes, this is addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but it is far better in my hands. She would fare badly, you know, in the tender mercies of such man as he. Drink—you—you do not drink.”There was something about Learmont’s extreme eagerness to induce him to drink that excited the suspicious of Albert, and he resolved that he would not touch a drop of wine, but having executed his errand, would get out of the house as quickly as possible.Learmont rose as he spoke, still grasping the document Albert had given him in his hand, and said,—“Wait for me a short time; I will read this most carefully, and then communicate to you the result. Drink Mr. Seyton. I pray you do not spare the wine. You look fatigued.”With an expression of triumph upon his brow, and a haughtier, firmer tread than he had used for years, Learmont left the room, with, as he supposed, the confession of Jacob Gray in his possession, and Albert Seyton disposed of, as he thought he would be, by partaking of the drugged wine, he then considered he should have no further trouble concerning Ada, except what might easily be overcome.Before he returned to Albert, the latter had cast the wine from the window, and when Learmont glanced at the goblet, and saw it was empty, he said,—“Mr. Seyton, I have read the paper; it says that your Ada, your much-loved Ada, is an orphan, and that you will find her at—at—Chatham.”“At Chatham, sir?”“Yes, off with you. You must inquire for the residence of a Mr. Henderson. He is well known, and will conduct you to Ada. Off with you, and come back to me—when you can.” These last words were uttered after Albert, who was disgusted with the scene, had hurried from the room.Then Learmont drew himself up to his full height, and cried,—“He will be dead within an hour! I triumph—I triumph!”
Albert’s Visit to Learmont.—The Squire’s Triumph.
Aftera time Learmont became more conscious of his situation, and a feeling of exhaustion coming over him in consequence of the fatigue, both of body and mind he had undergone, he partially divested himself of his apparel, and throwing himself upon the luxurious bed which was in the room, he soon dropped into a deep sleep, which was not visited and rendered hideous by any of the frightful images which had before been conjured up by his oppressed brain.
It was some four hours or more before he again awakened, and then he found himself much refreshed both bodily and mentally. He ran over in his mind accurately all the circumstances of his present position, and now that his cooler judgment had sway, and the horror of the recent events he had passed through was beginning to subside, he inclined more and more to his previously expressed opinion, that Jacob Gray had not really written any confession, but had merely pretended to have such a document always at hand, for the purpose of aweing him and saving his, Jacob’s life, from any attempt on the part of either of his great enemies.
Learmont rose and paced his room in deep thought, and then, while he stood as it were upon a mine, which, did he but know it, was ready to explode beneath him, and hurl him to destruction; a feeling of self-satisfaction began to creep over him, and he re-assured himself into a belief that he must have materially bettered his situation by the destruction of Gray.
“It must be so,” he muttered. “There is no confession written, and Gray was not only a heavy expense, but would, no doubt, some day have played some serious trick in payment for the attempts which, to his knowledge, had been made against him. ’Tis well, then, he is dead—exceedingly well, for my worst enemy is gone. Britton will drink himself to death, surely; and as for the pretended papers he has, of such great consequence to me, as he and Gray ever affected they were, I now begin to think that like Jacob Gray’s written confession such a tale is merely invented as a bugbear to my imagination. Yes, I must be now in a better, a far better position, and the day will come, when I shall have no further fear of the stability of my fortunes.”
Reasoning thus, he argued himself into a more placid mode, and then the dark feelings of hate, revenge, and gloomy triumphs, which, for a time, had been overpowered and forced to hide their diminished heads in consequence of his great excitements, once more rose, phœnix like, from their ashes, and the wild scheming, blood-stained villain smiled, as he glanced round him upon the magnificence with which he was surrounded, and which he thought would soon be all his own, without the shadow of fear being cast over them.
“By the powers of hell!” he cried, “I will still let them see that I can live right royally in my noble halls. When last I met the Minister of State, methought he looked strangely at me, and he certainly did, upon some most shallow and slight excuse, put me off when I spoke of my baronetcy, promised as it has been for so long. That magistrate too—that Hartleton, who I so deeply hate. There was a sneer, too, upon his face when I saw him last, as if he would have said,—‘Learmont, your fate is hurrying on, and I shall triumph over you.’ Ha! Ha! My best sense of security lies in the fact that he leaves me alone. Could he but get up the shadow of a charge against me, how gladly would he strive to blacken me and my fame in the eyes of those who, despite him, will yet heap honours on my head. Sir Francis Harleton, I know you well as my active enemy, and while I am unmolested by you, I am safe indeed. I will persevere, most certainly, in my intention of giving afêteon Saturday, which shall surpass, in richness and magnificence, any that have yet been vaunted highly by my crowds of visitors—visitors whom I despise, but yet find useful as tools to work out my great scheme of ambition.”
Learmont then rung for his servants, and with a malignant pleasure caused the cards of invitation to his grand masked ball for the Saturday to be sent to Hartleton and to the minister.
“I will vex the very soul of this Hartleton,” he said, “by the gorgeous display of wealth I will make.”
A shade of care then suddenly came across his brow, as for the first time since his departure from the house of Gray, he thought upon the promised visit of Albert Seyton.
“Ha,” he cried, “my young secretary, I had nearly forgotten him. Will he prove troublesome? Did he catch a glimpse of me at Gray’s? No—no—that he did not—and if he did—well. The shortest plan of operation with regard to him is to give him more hopes, no matter how slenderly based; and along with them a cup of wine, which shall contain an insidious drug. Yes, I will poison him, and then send him some long errand to a distant part of the country, which he will never live to return from—a safe way—a most safe way. So shall I be rid of him without the—the—horror (Learmont shuddered as he spoke) of seeing such another death, perhaps, as that I would fain blot from my memory for ever, but which rises gaunt and bloody ever before my mental eye. I must not think of it. Myfête—my brilliantfête—my baronetcy—ah, those are grateful imaginings.”
The receipt of Learmont’s card of invitation to Sir Francis Hartleton we are already aware of, and in the course of the day its presence, as it lay before him gave the magistrate an idea, which, if it could be successfully carried out, would have some time in the apprehension of the guilty squire, as well as, in all probability, force some sudden recognition of Ada and her rights. Besides, it was, at all events, important, that, as he, Sir Francis Hartleton, had given his promise to the Secretary of State that Learmont should not be molested until after the Saturday’sfête, the squire should not be led to suspect that any of his plans had failed, or that any immediate danger beset him.
For the purpose of preventing such a thing from occurring, Sir Francis Hartleton proposed to Albert Seyton that he should see Learmont on that evening, in pursuance of the arrangement which had been entered into between him and the squire.
Another difficulty, or rather a doubt, beset this line of proceeding, however, and that was to know whether the squire was aware, or not, of the fact of Albert having been present at the house in which Gray was murdered on the night, or rather morning, of that event. To solve this question, or, at all events, to render it an innocuous one, Sir Francis Hartleton advised that Albert should take with him to the squire’s an exact copy of the confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to him, admitting that, seeing the door of Gray’s house open, he had entered and become possessed of the document by the accidental tearing of a cloak in which it was concealed.
“Such a step on our parts,” said Sir Francis, “must have the effect of thoroughly disarming Learmont of all suspicion of his danger; and since his friend, the Secretary of State, has him so much under his special protection, on account of his parliamentary influence, I should like very much to let him see, personally, what a beautifulprotégéhe has, and make the masked ball the scene of his apprehension.”
“I am quite willing to act upon your advice,” said Albert; “and indeed, I am not a little curious and anxious to know what Learmont can possible say to me this evening, when I call upon him, and demand Ada, according to the solemn promises he made me.”
With this understanding Albert and the magistrate repaired to the study of the latter, where they took an accurate copy of the confession, which Albert placed in his pocket, while Sir Francis charged himself with the preservation of the original.
“Return as soon as possible,” said Sir Francis, “and, above all things, be mindful of treachery.”
“I think I am more than a match for the squire,” said Albert, smiling.
“Be that as it may,” said the magistrate, “remember that during your stay at his house there will be a force within hearing of you should you require any assistance. We must trust this man of many crimes as little as we possibly can.”
Without saying anything to Ada of his intention, for he knew that her anxiety would be very great if she knew that he was venturing into the house of Learmont, Albert, just as the shades of evening began to fall upon the streets and house left the residence of the magistrate, and proceeded at a sharp pace towards Learmont’s splendid abode.
He was readily admitted, and upon being shown into the room where he usually saw Learmont, he found him seated with a multitude of papers before him, apparently very busily engaged. He started as he saw Albert, and yet he felt intensely gratified, for it tended much to assure him of his safety. His only difficulty consisted in his want of knowledge of whether Albert had seen him or not at Gray’s.
“You are true to your appointment, Mr. Seyton,” he said, after a few moments thought. “Have you heard any news of Jacob Gray?”
“He is murdered,” said Albert.
Learmont turned a shade paler as he said,—
“So I have heard this morning, and that has, I fear, placed an obstacle in your way.”
“I found that he was murdered,” continued Albert “at an early hour this morning. Being anxious concerning her whom I loved I passed the house in which Gray resided, when I saw the door ajar. That excited my curiosity, and I entered from an impulse which I could not control.”
“He did not see me,” thought Learmont; “he suspects nothing.”
“I called aloud upon Ada,” continued Albert, “but no one answered me. Procuring then a light from a woman in the house, I proceeded to search it, and found Gray a mangled horrible corpse.”
Learmont drew a long breath as he said,
“I heard so much this morning from a casual visitor, and I was intending before now to take with me a warrant from the Secretary of State which would have been granted upon my applications to take Gray into custody, and offer the young girl, in whom you have made me feel a strange interest, an asylum under my own roof, until your arrival to-night.”
“You are very considerate, sir,” said Albert. “By the accidental rending of a cloak which I presume belonged to Jacob Gray, a packet of papers—”
Learmont uttered a loud cry, and rising, he stretched out his hands, saying, while his face was livid with apprehension,—
“You—you have them? The—the confession—this instant—on your life give it to me. You have not dared to read—you will take some wine—you will—this—this goblet will refresh you. The papers—give me the papers.”
He shook like an aspen leaf as he pushed the cup of wine he had drugged, in case he should wish to get rid of Albert, towards him, and his voice grew hoarse with anxiety as he continued to say,—
“The papers—the papers!”
Albert handed him the copy of Gray’s confession, which Learmont snatched with the most frantic eagerness.
“You see, Mr. Seyton,” he said, “I am most anxious about the welfare of yourself and this young maiden—I pray you drink. The wine is good. Yes, this is addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but it is far better in my hands. She would fare badly, you know, in the tender mercies of such man as he. Drink—you—you do not drink.”
There was something about Learmont’s extreme eagerness to induce him to drink that excited the suspicious of Albert, and he resolved that he would not touch a drop of wine, but having executed his errand, would get out of the house as quickly as possible.
Learmont rose as he spoke, still grasping the document Albert had given him in his hand, and said,—
“Wait for me a short time; I will read this most carefully, and then communicate to you the result. Drink Mr. Seyton. I pray you do not spare the wine. You look fatigued.”
With an expression of triumph upon his brow, and a haughtier, firmer tread than he had used for years, Learmont left the room, with, as he supposed, the confession of Jacob Gray in his possession, and Albert Seyton disposed of, as he thought he would be, by partaking of the drugged wine, he then considered he should have no further trouble concerning Ada, except what might easily be overcome.
Before he returned to Albert, the latter had cast the wine from the window, and when Learmont glanced at the goblet, and saw it was empty, he said,—
“Mr. Seyton, I have read the paper; it says that your Ada, your much-loved Ada, is an orphan, and that you will find her at—at—Chatham.”
“At Chatham, sir?”
“Yes, off with you. You must inquire for the residence of a Mr. Henderson. He is well known, and will conduct you to Ada. Off with you, and come back to me—when you can.” These last words were uttered after Albert, who was disgusted with the scene, had hurried from the room.
Then Learmont drew himself up to his full height, and cried,—
“He will be dead within an hour! I triumph—I triumph!”
CHAPTER CXV.The Masked Ball.How singularlydifferent the various actors in our eventful drama of real life passed the Thursday and the Friday preceding Learmont’s masked ball. To the squire himself it was a period of restless inquietude, for even in his moments of self-exaltation, and triumphant congratulation, there was bitterness at his heart, and he could almost fancy a voice said to him in a hissing whisper—“This is not real.” Had it not been for the great preparations he occupied himself in making and superintending for the approaching entertainment, his imagination, having more leisure to brood upon the past, would have brought upon him greater suffering than he really endured, but, as it was, each hour that had winged its flight, he told himself that he was safer still, and that he had now little more to do than enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies. That Albert Seyton had died of the poison which he, Learmont, thought he had taken, he entertained no doubt. The only circumstance that surprised him much was that he had not seen Britton, but having ascertained, upon inquiry, that the smith had not been one degree removed from helpless intoxication since the Wednesday morning, he felt satisfied, and rather pleased than otherwise, at the speedy destruction which Britton must be making of his powers of existence.Oh, with what malignant satisfaction he read and re-read, as he supposed, the only document which could have hurled him from his high estate to destruction, to death, to infamy! How he laughed with a wild demoniac mirth at the simplicity of Albert Seyton in handing him the confession, and being so easily put off from a knowledge of its contents. With what a proud air he trod his splendid saloons, and how haughtily he reasoned with himself about that Providence which he in his wild excitement of fancied success almost considered he had circumvented.“This ball,” he muttered, “shall be the scene of my triumph and the discomfiture of my enemies—envy shall become more envious, humility and sycophancy more humble and cringing—for all shall see that the star of Learmont is in the ascendant. Then, this confession, addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, shall make assurance doubly sure; I will totally confound him by handing to him a document of my own contrivance similarly addressed, but with contents most widely differing from this! Yes, it shall be done. With seeming candour and simplicity the subtlest plots are carried out, the deepest designs concluded successfully. What will be the result? All that I can wish.—I will write a supposed confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to this active magistrate.”For some moments Learmont was so delighted with this plan, that he paced the saloon in which he was in silence, while a grim smile lit up his face, giving him a close resemblance to some of those strange old carvings, which modern fashion, if not modern taste, is rescuing from the dust and oblivion of centuries at the present day.In silent meditation he concocted his plan, which he considered would either place Ada in his power, or force the magistrate in a very disagreeable position, for the mock confession he meant to write, and hand to Sir Francis Hartleton, as having been brought to him by his secretary, he intended should merely contain an appeal to his, Learmont’s, charity in favour of the orphan girl.While triumph was thus setting on the brow of Learmont—while Heaven was inflating his heart with the vanity of success, as if but to make his fall more awful, Ada, who we have followed through her various fortunes so long, was indeed happy in the best, the purest, acception of the term. Her joy was not the feverish excitement arising from successful machinations. It was heavenly serenity—the sunny happiness of a heart which knew no guile, and was only too much blessed in being permitted uncoerced and unpersecuted to follow out the dictates of its own ennobling feelings.The whole household indeed of Sir Francis Hartleton, seemed to share in the satisfaction that there abounded, from what cause they knew not, but they were satisfied, from the smiles of Ada and the returning colour on her cheek, the evident happiness of Albert Seyton, and the pleasure which sparkled in the eyes of their master and mistress, that something must have happened to bring great joy among them.It was the Saturday morning before Britton had the least interval of sobriety, and then so stultified were his faculties with the debauch of the last two days, far exceeding as it did any that he had previously indulged in, that he was some time in comprehending what Bond the butcher meant, when, after repeated howlings in his ear, he heard him say—“Britton, curse you, you beast, the squire, your rich friend, is going to give a ball to-night, I hear, and all the people are to go, they tell me, with masks. Do you hear, you brute?”“Yes, and be hanged to you; you are as drunk as you can be, and you know it,” responded Britton. “More brandy—more brandy! Damn Jacob Gray—no, curse it, it’s no use damning Jacob Gray any more now: he’s damned already—damn everybody.”“Ah, Master Britton,” exclaimed a man who had just entered the Chequers with a determination of enjoying a pipe, and a quart of ale, and a grumble—“we live in hard times, Master Britton—are we to have our heads smashed—are we to have our throats cut—are we to be murdered in our beds—are we—”“I tell you what,” said Bond, “if you come any more of your ‘are we’s,’ I’ll just throw you out of the window.”“Throw me out of the window? pooh! I sit here on the liberty of the subject, and what I mean to say is, that everything is smothered now-a-days. Here’s been two murders, and they’ve both been smothered up. There was poor Mr. Vaughan’s murder—who ever heard anything of that, I should like to know? Then there’s been the murder of Mr. Gray, a most mysterious affair; and Sir Francis Hartleton, who prides himself so much upon his being such an active magistrate, he does nothing—nothing, my masters, I may add, nothing.”“Smash him!” said Britton, and Bond, immediately rising, would have probably done some serious mischief, had not the man, who, by good luck was near the doors taken alarm in time, and rushed out crying, ‘Murder’ until he was met and pacified by the landlord, who persuaded him to sit down in the bar while he sneaked into the parlour to fetch his pipe and ale.Just as the landlord entered the room, Britton shouted to him in a half-drowsy tone,—“Hark you; mind my sedan-chair is ready to-night. I’m going to Squire Learmont’s ball.”“Bless your majesty—are you really! I never!”“Didn’t you,” said Britton, as he flung the fire-shovel at the landlord’s, head, who made a precipitate retreat without the ale and the pipe, which articles, rather than again venture into the parlour, he again supplied to the talkative man.* * * * *By one hour after sunset, Learmont had the various lamps and chandeliers lit in his splendid mansion, and with feelings somewhat akin to those with which he had first made a tour from room to room, he glanced around him upon the rare magnificence with which he was completely surrounded.“’Tis well—exceedingly well,” he muttered. “I have suffered much to bring about such a night of triumph as this. Within some few brief hours three hundred of the highest and the noblest in this country will be assembled in my halls, while I, the observed of all observers, do the honours of my costly home. To-night I will claim a fulfilment of the minister’s promise concerning the baronetcy. To-night, in soft whispered accents, will I once more essay to win the hand of the proud beauty whose ancient patrician name will add a lustre to my own too new nobility. This is indeed a night of triumph! I ought to be happy.” Even as he spoke, such a pang shot across his heart, that he absolutely reeled again, and when he could speak, he said in faltering accents,—“What—what means this emotion? Why do I tremble now? What have I to fear?—Nothing—nothing.—What can happen?—Oh nothing!—I am safe—very safe! I wish my company would come. I like to hear the hum of life in my glorious abode!—I like to see the moving plumes!—I like to note the diamond’s glittering presence!—I wish they would come. I wonder where and how Albert Seyton died?—The poison he took was subtle!—He could not escape—that was impossible—quite impossible! He might have been a dangerous enemy!—I wish my halls were full!”One of those disagreeable feelings came over Learmont now to which he had been frightfully subject of late, namely, a fancy that some one was constantly behind him, turning as he turned, and ever keeping so far behind him as never to permit him to catch a glimpse of what it was. This terror always for a time reduced him to a pitiable state of nervous weakness, and the only resource he could ever find was to sit in a chair, the back of which was close to a wall. Trembling, therefore, and slinking along like one accursed, he sought the small room he usually sat in, and there remained for some hours in the position we have described, awaiting the coming of his guests.Soon after nine o’clock, the street began to show signs of animation; ancient lumbering coaches drawn by sleek, fat horses, bore precious freights of rank and beauty to Learmont’s doors, which were thrown wide open, the steps being lined by lacqueys, many of whom bore flaming links. Some gentlemen came on horseback, concealing their costumes with ample cloaks, and before ten o’clock (for our ancestors began their amusements earlier and left off sooner than we do) the thoroughfare was nearly blocked up with chairs.Then ensued a scene of squabbling among coachmen, linkmen, chairman, &c, a faint imitation of which sometimes is exhibited at a modern rout. Learmont’s saloons presented a most dazzling appearance: the richness and variety of the costumes—the immense looking-glasses—the brilliant lighting—the glitter of diamonds—the waving of countless plumes—the music now coming in wild crashes of melody, and then sinking to a plaintive measure above the soft tones of which could be heard the hum of voices—the merry laughter of the young, and the shuffle of the dancers’ feet, as now and then a space would be cleared for a giddy couple, who ere the regular ball began would extemporise a dance.Learmont too was marching among his guests for some time, like a spirit of evil. There was a cloud upon his brow, but he wrestled with the dark spirit that clung to his heart, and soon his countenance became wreathed in smiles, and he had a word of welcome, of gaiety, or of friendship, for every one of his guests. Sometimes he would pause, and cast his eye about him, to note if all had arrived,—a fact he could only judge of by the thronged state of the rooms, for being a masked hall there was no announcement of names. Learmont, however, had provided against the contingency of not knowing those parties to whom he wished to speak privately, by leaving orders in his hall that as their tickets were taken, an accurate account of their costumes should be brought to him.He had already been told that the minister had arrived, and was enveloped in a purple cloak, embroidered with silver lace, and that Sir Francis Hartleton, likewise in domino, had come with a small party in his company, he having a black velvet cloak, and a hat with white feathers.The Brereton party Learmont was well aware he would have no difficulty in recognising, for they were too much impressed with their own dignity to hesitate in throwing off all incognita as soon as possible.The dancing was to commence at eleven o’clock; but before that hour Learmont saw that the principal saloon was uncomfortably crowded, and he immediately ordered the folding doors conducting to the next apartment, which was deliciously cool to be thrown open, and the ball to commence. Directing his eyes to the musicians, and clapping his hands, they struck up a lively measure, when he advanced to the haughty Lady Brereton, the younger, and offering her his hand, begged the honour of opening the ball with her, at the same time slightly removing his mask to assure her who he was, although such a measure was needless, for there was not one of his guests who had ever seen him before, that failed to recognise him. A large space was cleared for the dance, and Learmont led the proud beauty to perform one of those elaborate and tedious minuets now so properly exploded. When it was over, Learmont led the lady to a magnificent seat, and while the band struck up a lively measure, and one of those laughter-provoking dances which a hundred couple might engage in was proceeding, making the very lights dance in the chandeliers, he stooped to the lady’s ear, and whispered,—“May I presume to hope that my devotion to your beauty will ensure me success in my suit for your hand? My income is immense, and I have nearly half a million of ready money. The other half you see around you in the decorations of this house.”There was surely some fatality about Learmont’s money, for at that moment a trembling servant stepped up to him, and said,—“An it please you, sir, there’s a—a row in the hall; and, and—an please you, sir, it’s—him.”The man tendered to Learmont a dirty scrap of paper, on which he read,—“The King of the Old Smithy, and friend.”
The Masked Ball.
How singularlydifferent the various actors in our eventful drama of real life passed the Thursday and the Friday preceding Learmont’s masked ball. To the squire himself it was a period of restless inquietude, for even in his moments of self-exaltation, and triumphant congratulation, there was bitterness at his heart, and he could almost fancy a voice said to him in a hissing whisper—“This is not real.” Had it not been for the great preparations he occupied himself in making and superintending for the approaching entertainment, his imagination, having more leisure to brood upon the past, would have brought upon him greater suffering than he really endured, but, as it was, each hour that had winged its flight, he told himself that he was safer still, and that he had now little more to do than enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies. That Albert Seyton had died of the poison which he, Learmont, thought he had taken, he entertained no doubt. The only circumstance that surprised him much was that he had not seen Britton, but having ascertained, upon inquiry, that the smith had not been one degree removed from helpless intoxication since the Wednesday morning, he felt satisfied, and rather pleased than otherwise, at the speedy destruction which Britton must be making of his powers of existence.
Oh, with what malignant satisfaction he read and re-read, as he supposed, the only document which could have hurled him from his high estate to destruction, to death, to infamy! How he laughed with a wild demoniac mirth at the simplicity of Albert Seyton in handing him the confession, and being so easily put off from a knowledge of its contents. With what a proud air he trod his splendid saloons, and how haughtily he reasoned with himself about that Providence which he in his wild excitement of fancied success almost considered he had circumvented.
“This ball,” he muttered, “shall be the scene of my triumph and the discomfiture of my enemies—envy shall become more envious, humility and sycophancy more humble and cringing—for all shall see that the star of Learmont is in the ascendant. Then, this confession, addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, shall make assurance doubly sure; I will totally confound him by handing to him a document of my own contrivance similarly addressed, but with contents most widely differing from this! Yes, it shall be done. With seeming candour and simplicity the subtlest plots are carried out, the deepest designs concluded successfully. What will be the result? All that I can wish.—I will write a supposed confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to this active magistrate.”
For some moments Learmont was so delighted with this plan, that he paced the saloon in which he was in silence, while a grim smile lit up his face, giving him a close resemblance to some of those strange old carvings, which modern fashion, if not modern taste, is rescuing from the dust and oblivion of centuries at the present day.
In silent meditation he concocted his plan, which he considered would either place Ada in his power, or force the magistrate in a very disagreeable position, for the mock confession he meant to write, and hand to Sir Francis Hartleton, as having been brought to him by his secretary, he intended should merely contain an appeal to his, Learmont’s, charity in favour of the orphan girl.
While triumph was thus setting on the brow of Learmont—while Heaven was inflating his heart with the vanity of success, as if but to make his fall more awful, Ada, who we have followed through her various fortunes so long, was indeed happy in the best, the purest, acception of the term. Her joy was not the feverish excitement arising from successful machinations. It was heavenly serenity—the sunny happiness of a heart which knew no guile, and was only too much blessed in being permitted uncoerced and unpersecuted to follow out the dictates of its own ennobling feelings.
The whole household indeed of Sir Francis Hartleton, seemed to share in the satisfaction that there abounded, from what cause they knew not, but they were satisfied, from the smiles of Ada and the returning colour on her cheek, the evident happiness of Albert Seyton, and the pleasure which sparkled in the eyes of their master and mistress, that something must have happened to bring great joy among them.
It was the Saturday morning before Britton had the least interval of sobriety, and then so stultified were his faculties with the debauch of the last two days, far exceeding as it did any that he had previously indulged in, that he was some time in comprehending what Bond the butcher meant, when, after repeated howlings in his ear, he heard him say—
“Britton, curse you, you beast, the squire, your rich friend, is going to give a ball to-night, I hear, and all the people are to go, they tell me, with masks. Do you hear, you brute?”
“Yes, and be hanged to you; you are as drunk as you can be, and you know it,” responded Britton. “More brandy—more brandy! Damn Jacob Gray—no, curse it, it’s no use damning Jacob Gray any more now: he’s damned already—damn everybody.”
“Ah, Master Britton,” exclaimed a man who had just entered the Chequers with a determination of enjoying a pipe, and a quart of ale, and a grumble—“we live in hard times, Master Britton—are we to have our heads smashed—are we to have our throats cut—are we to be murdered in our beds—are we—”
“I tell you what,” said Bond, “if you come any more of your ‘are we’s,’ I’ll just throw you out of the window.”
“Throw me out of the window? pooh! I sit here on the liberty of the subject, and what I mean to say is, that everything is smothered now-a-days. Here’s been two murders, and they’ve both been smothered up. There was poor Mr. Vaughan’s murder—who ever heard anything of that, I should like to know? Then there’s been the murder of Mr. Gray, a most mysterious affair; and Sir Francis Hartleton, who prides himself so much upon his being such an active magistrate, he does nothing—nothing, my masters, I may add, nothing.”
“Smash him!” said Britton, and Bond, immediately rising, would have probably done some serious mischief, had not the man, who, by good luck was near the doors taken alarm in time, and rushed out crying, ‘Murder’ until he was met and pacified by the landlord, who persuaded him to sit down in the bar while he sneaked into the parlour to fetch his pipe and ale.
Just as the landlord entered the room, Britton shouted to him in a half-drowsy tone,—
“Hark you; mind my sedan-chair is ready to-night. I’m going to Squire Learmont’s ball.”
“Bless your majesty—are you really! I never!”
“Didn’t you,” said Britton, as he flung the fire-shovel at the landlord’s, head, who made a precipitate retreat without the ale and the pipe, which articles, rather than again venture into the parlour, he again supplied to the talkative man.
* * * * *
By one hour after sunset, Learmont had the various lamps and chandeliers lit in his splendid mansion, and with feelings somewhat akin to those with which he had first made a tour from room to room, he glanced around him upon the rare magnificence with which he was completely surrounded.
“’Tis well—exceedingly well,” he muttered. “I have suffered much to bring about such a night of triumph as this. Within some few brief hours three hundred of the highest and the noblest in this country will be assembled in my halls, while I, the observed of all observers, do the honours of my costly home. To-night I will claim a fulfilment of the minister’s promise concerning the baronetcy. To-night, in soft whispered accents, will I once more essay to win the hand of the proud beauty whose ancient patrician name will add a lustre to my own too new nobility. This is indeed a night of triumph! I ought to be happy.” Even as he spoke, such a pang shot across his heart, that he absolutely reeled again, and when he could speak, he said in faltering accents,—
“What—what means this emotion? Why do I tremble now? What have I to fear?—Nothing—nothing.—What can happen?—Oh nothing!—I am safe—very safe! I wish my company would come. I like to hear the hum of life in my glorious abode!—I like to see the moving plumes!—I like to note the diamond’s glittering presence!—I wish they would come. I wonder where and how Albert Seyton died?—The poison he took was subtle!—He could not escape—that was impossible—quite impossible! He might have been a dangerous enemy!—I wish my halls were full!”
One of those disagreeable feelings came over Learmont now to which he had been frightfully subject of late, namely, a fancy that some one was constantly behind him, turning as he turned, and ever keeping so far behind him as never to permit him to catch a glimpse of what it was. This terror always for a time reduced him to a pitiable state of nervous weakness, and the only resource he could ever find was to sit in a chair, the back of which was close to a wall. Trembling, therefore, and slinking along like one accursed, he sought the small room he usually sat in, and there remained for some hours in the position we have described, awaiting the coming of his guests.
Soon after nine o’clock, the street began to show signs of animation; ancient lumbering coaches drawn by sleek, fat horses, bore precious freights of rank and beauty to Learmont’s doors, which were thrown wide open, the steps being lined by lacqueys, many of whom bore flaming links. Some gentlemen came on horseback, concealing their costumes with ample cloaks, and before ten o’clock (for our ancestors began their amusements earlier and left off sooner than we do) the thoroughfare was nearly blocked up with chairs.
Then ensued a scene of squabbling among coachmen, linkmen, chairman, &c, a faint imitation of which sometimes is exhibited at a modern rout. Learmont’s saloons presented a most dazzling appearance: the richness and variety of the costumes—the immense looking-glasses—the brilliant lighting—the glitter of diamonds—the waving of countless plumes—the music now coming in wild crashes of melody, and then sinking to a plaintive measure above the soft tones of which could be heard the hum of voices—the merry laughter of the young, and the shuffle of the dancers’ feet, as now and then a space would be cleared for a giddy couple, who ere the regular ball began would extemporise a dance.
Learmont too was marching among his guests for some time, like a spirit of evil. There was a cloud upon his brow, but he wrestled with the dark spirit that clung to his heart, and soon his countenance became wreathed in smiles, and he had a word of welcome, of gaiety, or of friendship, for every one of his guests. Sometimes he would pause, and cast his eye about him, to note if all had arrived,—a fact he could only judge of by the thronged state of the rooms, for being a masked hall there was no announcement of names. Learmont, however, had provided against the contingency of not knowing those parties to whom he wished to speak privately, by leaving orders in his hall that as their tickets were taken, an accurate account of their costumes should be brought to him.
He had already been told that the minister had arrived, and was enveloped in a purple cloak, embroidered with silver lace, and that Sir Francis Hartleton, likewise in domino, had come with a small party in his company, he having a black velvet cloak, and a hat with white feathers.
The Brereton party Learmont was well aware he would have no difficulty in recognising, for they were too much impressed with their own dignity to hesitate in throwing off all incognita as soon as possible.
The dancing was to commence at eleven o’clock; but before that hour Learmont saw that the principal saloon was uncomfortably crowded, and he immediately ordered the folding doors conducting to the next apartment, which was deliciously cool to be thrown open, and the ball to commence. Directing his eyes to the musicians, and clapping his hands, they struck up a lively measure, when he advanced to the haughty Lady Brereton, the younger, and offering her his hand, begged the honour of opening the ball with her, at the same time slightly removing his mask to assure her who he was, although such a measure was needless, for there was not one of his guests who had ever seen him before, that failed to recognise him. A large space was cleared for the dance, and Learmont led the proud beauty to perform one of those elaborate and tedious minuets now so properly exploded. When it was over, Learmont led the lady to a magnificent seat, and while the band struck up a lively measure, and one of those laughter-provoking dances which a hundred couple might engage in was proceeding, making the very lights dance in the chandeliers, he stooped to the lady’s ear, and whispered,—
“May I presume to hope that my devotion to your beauty will ensure me success in my suit for your hand? My income is immense, and I have nearly half a million of ready money. The other half you see around you in the decorations of this house.”
There was surely some fatality about Learmont’s money, for at that moment a trembling servant stepped up to him, and said,—
“An it please you, sir, there’s a—a row in the hall; and, and—an please you, sir, it’s—him.”
The man tendered to Learmont a dirty scrap of paper, on which he read,—
“The King of the Old Smithy, and friend.”
CHAPTER CXVI.The Death of Learmont.It waswell Learmont’s face was partially concealed by a mask, or even the Honourable Georgiana Brereton might have had her fine aristocratic nerves shocked by the death-like hue of his features, as he gasped,—“Damnation!”A slight scream burst from her ladyship’s lips, and then a general clapping of hands caused Learmont to look around, when he saw Britton attired in his garments as a smith, and wearing an enormous nose, executing a grotesque dance with Bond the butcher, who had disdained all concealment, and came in his usual, not very elegant, costume.Up the centre of the saloon, the guests making way for them, they came like two bears at play, stamping, waving, whirling round, treading on each other’s toes, and then cuffing each other with boisterous mirth, till they reached the place where Learmont stood, when, rushing forward with a shriek of rage, the squire clutched Britton by the throat with desperate energy, and said—“Villain—wretch! How dare you?”“Hands off, squire,” cried Britton.“And eyes on,” added the butcher, recollecting that these were the words of an announcement he used to append to the fattest meat.“Bravo! Bravo!—Capital!” cried many of the guests, thinking that the whole affair was got up as part of the evening’s amusement. Even the minister smiled, and wondered to a mask who stood next him, if the two strange creatures had votes.“Andrew Britton,” growled Learmont, in the smith’s ear, “are you mad?”“You be d—d!” was the elegant rejoinder. “Hurrah! Come along, Bond, now for it.”Upon this the butcher took from one capacious pocket the same cleaver which had been the instrument of Jacob Gray’s murder, and from another a large bone, with which he executed such a lively tune upon the flat of the weapon, that Britton roared again with mirth and after a wild dance, sat down, on the floor, and shouted like a wild animal. Then he caught hold of the Honourable Georgiana Brereton’s foot, and her white satin slipper coming off in his hands, he fell on the flat of his back, while shouts, screams, roars of laughter, and the clapping of hands, sounded through the saloon.Learmont made a rush from the rooms, and summoning all the servants he could meet with, he brought them back with him, in order that they might eject Britton and Bond; but by this time the smith had arisen from the floor, and turning to the squire, he said,—“Honour bright, and no nonsense. D—n it, squire, a joke’s a joke. We’re off again. I’ve had my fun, and there’s an end of it. Ladies and gentlemen you may all be d—d! Strike up, Bond.”The butcher again played the marrow-bone and cleaver, and with many whirls, shouts, and singular gyrations, he and Britton left the saloon.Learmont stood for some moments trembling with rage: then, suddenly, he cried,—“Music—music—the dance—the dance—a mere jest. Music, I say.”A crash of melody followed his call, and he was looking for the lady he had left when a domino in a black velvet cloak met his eye.The domino bowed and unmasked.“The rooms are warm, squire.”“Ha! Sir Francis Hartleton,” cried Learmont.Then a sudden thought struck him, that he would efface all recollection of Britton’s drunken vagary, by calling public attention to the forged paper he had intended to give Sir Francis privately. He waved his arm to the musicians, and they suddenly paused in the midst of a lively air, which had the effect of preparing the guests for something unusual. As many as could, crowded round Learmont and Sir Francis Hartleton, while the former said, in a loud voice,—“I have had placed in my hands a packet addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, which I am informed has been found at the lodgings of the man who, you have all heard, was murdered on Wednesday morning early, in this immediate neighbourhood.”Sir Francis Hartleton looked astonished; and taking off his mask, he glanced round him anxiously. A murmur of curiosity rose among the guests. Many mounted upon chairs, and some few even upon the tables. A more curious scene than Learmont’s saloon then presented could scarcely be imagined.“Read—read!” cried many voices, as Sir Francis took a sealed paper, which was handed to him by Learmont, and put it in his pocket. The shouts to him to read the document increased each moment, and then a sudden thought crossed the mind of Sir Francis, that the squire might be caught in his own snare. In the same pocket in which he had placed the packet Learmont had given him, Sir Francis had the real confession of Jacob Gray, which he had brought with him to show the minister, should an opportunity present itself.“Shall I read that, and confound the guilty squire at once,” thought Sir Francis, “I have plenty of assistance at hand for his capture.”He hesitated a moment, and then said aloud,—“His Majesty’s Secretary of State is present, if he will sanction my reading the paper aloud, I will do so, but as it may possibly criminate some one, I demand that the door be secured.”“Aye,” cried Learmont. “Secure the door. Let no one pass in or out.”He then cast a triumphant glance at the magistrate, for he felt so very sure how disappointed he would be. The minister now took off the mask, and said,—“Well, well; it can’t be helped. Go on, Sir Francis.”There was now a breathless silence, and Sir Francis Hartleton drew from his pocket the real confession of Jacob Gray. Learmont was in far too great a state of excitement to notice any difference in the aspect of the documents, and waving his arm, he cried,—“Silence, friends, and welcome guests. We may find some secrets here worthy our attention.”Sir Francis cast his eyes upon Learmont with a look of peculiar meaning as he said,—“You will, I think, in this instance, squire, turn out a true prophet.”He then opened the confession, and while every sound was hushed, and all eyes bent upon his, he, in a clear full voice, read,—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 upon 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 that are of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name, Mark Learmont—The guilty squire seemed absolutely stupified until the magistrate had got thus far, and then with a cry that struck terror to the hearts of all who heard it, he drew his sword, and with the wildness of despair, dashed through the throng of masks around him, shouting,—“Tis false—’tis false—false as hell. I did not do the deed—make way—who stays me dies upon the spot. Help—help! A plot—a plot.”He had wounded several persons before, in the universal panic, they could get out of his way, and then Sir Francis Hartleton raised his voice above all other sounds, shouting—“Seize the murderer.”In an instant some half dozen of the maskers threw off their dominos and masks, presenting to the astonished eyes of the guests, roughly attired, well armed men, who immediately darted after Learmont.Two other persons, likewise threw down their masks. One was Albert Seyton and the other was Ada; but by this time the half-maddened squire had fought his way to the further end of the saloon, and dashing against some folding doors, they flew open, disclosing a flight of steps leading to a conservatory filled with rare plants; waving, then, his sword round his head, he sprang up the steps.“Surrender or we fire,” cried Sir Francis Hartleton.Learmont turned, and said something that was not heard in the confusion—blood was streaming down his face, for he had bit his lips through, and he made repeated lunges with his sword, as now with frantic voice and gesture, he cried,—“Off—off—tear me not to hell—fiends, off—why do you glare at me—off—off—’tis false—false, I say—a plot—a plot!”“Seize him,” cried the magistrate, as he himself sprung upon the first step.“Yield, monster,” said Albert Seyton, as passing Sir Francis, he flew up the staircase.At the sight of him, Learmont uttered a cry of despair; but when Ada, fearful for Albert’s safety, was by his side in a moment, and Learmont met her gaze, his sword dropped from his grasp, and he could but totter backwards towards the conservatory, shrieking,—“The dead—the dead—Gray next—and then—my brother—my murdered brother—”With a heavy crash he fell just within the door of the conservatory, and was immediately seized by the officers of Sir Francis Hartleton, who himself turning on the steps, said,—“I much grieve to have marred the mirth of this noble company, but I apprehend Squire Learmont, as a murderer—an assassin—a persecutor of the innocent—a reveller in the wealth of another. This young maiden, I here proclaim as heiress of the estates of Learmont.”Ada shrunk back, as Sir Francis pointed to her, and leaning upon the arm of Albert, she sobbed as she said,—“Oh, tell me, Albert, what is the meaning of all this fearful scene.”“I have proof of the marriage of this lady’s mother with the elder brother Learmont, now in custody, from the Austrian ambassador,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “His predecessor was present at the ceremony.”“Ada,” cried Albert, rapturously. “Look up—my own Ada.”“This,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, addressing her, “is your house. It is for you to make the company welcome, or not.”Ada burst into tears, and was led down the steps by Albert and the magistrate, but scarcely had they entered the saloon, when the officers who captured Learmont, appeared at the top of the stairs with him. All eyes were fixed upon his face, which was livid and ghastly. He offered no opposition, but came down step-by step with an awful calmness, like one going to execution, who had long since bid adieu to hope. When he reached halfway, he paused, and extending both his arms, while his fingers pointed to Sir Francis Hartleton, he burst into such a frantic howling laugh, that the officers shrunk from him aghast. Then an awful spasm came across his face, and like a log, he fell upon the stairs.When raised he was found quite dead. A small phial, which was afterwards picked up in the conservatory, and which contained yet a lingering drop of deadly poison, told his fate. The erring spirit had flown to its Maker, there to render up that awful account, which we may shudder at, but not define.
The Death of Learmont.
It waswell Learmont’s face was partially concealed by a mask, or even the Honourable Georgiana Brereton might have had her fine aristocratic nerves shocked by the death-like hue of his features, as he gasped,—
“Damnation!”
A slight scream burst from her ladyship’s lips, and then a general clapping of hands caused Learmont to look around, when he saw Britton attired in his garments as a smith, and wearing an enormous nose, executing a grotesque dance with Bond the butcher, who had disdained all concealment, and came in his usual, not very elegant, costume.
Up the centre of the saloon, the guests making way for them, they came like two bears at play, stamping, waving, whirling round, treading on each other’s toes, and then cuffing each other with boisterous mirth, till they reached the place where Learmont stood, when, rushing forward with a shriek of rage, the squire clutched Britton by the throat with desperate energy, and said—
“Villain—wretch! How dare you?”
“Hands off, squire,” cried Britton.
“And eyes on,” added the butcher, recollecting that these were the words of an announcement he used to append to the fattest meat.
“Bravo! Bravo!—Capital!” cried many of the guests, thinking that the whole affair was got up as part of the evening’s amusement. Even the minister smiled, and wondered to a mask who stood next him, if the two strange creatures had votes.
“Andrew Britton,” growled Learmont, in the smith’s ear, “are you mad?”
“You be d—d!” was the elegant rejoinder. “Hurrah! Come along, Bond, now for it.”
Upon this the butcher took from one capacious pocket the same cleaver which had been the instrument of Jacob Gray’s murder, and from another a large bone, with which he executed such a lively tune upon the flat of the weapon, that Britton roared again with mirth and after a wild dance, sat down, on the floor, and shouted like a wild animal. Then he caught hold of the Honourable Georgiana Brereton’s foot, and her white satin slipper coming off in his hands, he fell on the flat of his back, while shouts, screams, roars of laughter, and the clapping of hands, sounded through the saloon.
Learmont made a rush from the rooms, and summoning all the servants he could meet with, he brought them back with him, in order that they might eject Britton and Bond; but by this time the smith had arisen from the floor, and turning to the squire, he said,—
“Honour bright, and no nonsense. D—n it, squire, a joke’s a joke. We’re off again. I’ve had my fun, and there’s an end of it. Ladies and gentlemen you may all be d—d! Strike up, Bond.”
The butcher again played the marrow-bone and cleaver, and with many whirls, shouts, and singular gyrations, he and Britton left the saloon.
Learmont stood for some moments trembling with rage: then, suddenly, he cried,—
“Music—music—the dance—the dance—a mere jest. Music, I say.”
A crash of melody followed his call, and he was looking for the lady he had left when a domino in a black velvet cloak met his eye.
The domino bowed and unmasked.
“The rooms are warm, squire.”
“Ha! Sir Francis Hartleton,” cried Learmont.
Then a sudden thought struck him, that he would efface all recollection of Britton’s drunken vagary, by calling public attention to the forged paper he had intended to give Sir Francis privately. He waved his arm to the musicians, and they suddenly paused in the midst of a lively air, which had the effect of preparing the guests for something unusual. As many as could, crowded round Learmont and Sir Francis Hartleton, while the former said, in a loud voice,—
“I have had placed in my hands a packet addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, which I am informed has been found at the lodgings of the man who, you have all heard, was murdered on Wednesday morning early, in this immediate neighbourhood.”
Sir Francis Hartleton looked astonished; and taking off his mask, he glanced round him anxiously. A murmur of curiosity rose among the guests. Many mounted upon chairs, and some few even upon the tables. A more curious scene than Learmont’s saloon then presented could scarcely be imagined.
“Read—read!” cried many voices, as Sir Francis took a sealed paper, which was handed to him by Learmont, and put it in his pocket. The shouts to him to read the document increased each moment, and then a sudden thought crossed the mind of Sir Francis, that the squire might be caught in his own snare. In the same pocket in which he had placed the packet Learmont had given him, Sir Francis had the real confession of Jacob Gray, which he had brought with him to show the minister, should an opportunity present itself.
“Shall I read that, and confound the guilty squire at once,” thought Sir Francis, “I have plenty of assistance at hand for his capture.”
He hesitated a moment, and then said aloud,—
“His Majesty’s Secretary of State is present, if he will sanction my reading the paper aloud, I will do so, but as it may possibly criminate some one, I demand that the door be secured.”
“Aye,” cried Learmont. “Secure the door. Let no one pass in or out.”
He then cast a triumphant glance at the magistrate, for he felt so very sure how disappointed he would be. The minister now took off the mask, and said,—
“Well, well; it can’t be helped. Go on, Sir Francis.”
There was now a breathless silence, and Sir Francis Hartleton drew from his pocket the real confession of Jacob Gray. Learmont was in far too great a state of excitement to notice any difference in the aspect of the documents, and waving his arm, he cried,—
“Silence, friends, and welcome guests. We may find some secrets here worthy our attention.”
Sir Francis cast his eyes upon Learmont with a look of peculiar meaning as he said,—
“You will, I think, in this instance, squire, turn out a true prophet.”
He then opened the confession, and while every sound was hushed, and all eyes bent upon his, he, in a clear full voice, read,—
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 upon 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 that are of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name, Mark Learmont—
The guilty squire seemed absolutely stupified until the magistrate had got thus far, and then with a cry that struck terror to the hearts of all who heard it, he drew his sword, and with the wildness of despair, dashed through the throng of masks around him, shouting,—
“Tis false—’tis false—false as hell. I did not do the deed—make way—who stays me dies upon the spot. Help—help! A plot—a plot.”
He had wounded several persons before, in the universal panic, they could get out of his way, and then Sir Francis Hartleton raised his voice above all other sounds, shouting—
“Seize the murderer.”
In an instant some half dozen of the maskers threw off their dominos and masks, presenting to the astonished eyes of the guests, roughly attired, well armed men, who immediately darted after Learmont.
Two other persons, likewise threw down their masks. One was Albert Seyton and the other was Ada; but by this time the half-maddened squire had fought his way to the further end of the saloon, and dashing against some folding doors, they flew open, disclosing a flight of steps leading to a conservatory filled with rare plants; waving, then, his sword round his head, he sprang up the steps.
“Surrender or we fire,” cried Sir Francis Hartleton.
Learmont turned, and said something that was not heard in the confusion—blood was streaming down his face, for he had bit his lips through, and he made repeated lunges with his sword, as now with frantic voice and gesture, he cried,—
“Off—off—tear me not to hell—fiends, off—why do you glare at me—off—off—’tis false—false, I say—a plot—a plot!”
“Seize him,” cried the magistrate, as he himself sprung upon the first step.
“Yield, monster,” said Albert Seyton, as passing Sir Francis, he flew up the staircase.
At the sight of him, Learmont uttered a cry of despair; but when Ada, fearful for Albert’s safety, was by his side in a moment, and Learmont met her gaze, his sword dropped from his grasp, and he could but totter backwards towards the conservatory, shrieking,—
“The dead—the dead—Gray next—and then—my brother—my murdered brother—”
With a heavy crash he fell just within the door of the conservatory, and was immediately seized by the officers of Sir Francis Hartleton, who himself turning on the steps, said,—
“I much grieve to have marred the mirth of this noble company, but I apprehend Squire Learmont, as a murderer—an assassin—a persecutor of the innocent—a reveller in the wealth of another. This young maiden, I here proclaim as heiress of the estates of Learmont.”
Ada shrunk back, as Sir Francis pointed to her, and leaning upon the arm of Albert, she sobbed as she said,—
“Oh, tell me, Albert, what is the meaning of all this fearful scene.”
“I have proof of the marriage of this lady’s mother with the elder brother Learmont, now in custody, from the Austrian ambassador,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “His predecessor was present at the ceremony.”
“Ada,” cried Albert, rapturously. “Look up—my own Ada.”
“This,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, addressing her, “is your house. It is for you to make the company welcome, or not.”
Ada burst into tears, and was led down the steps by Albert and the magistrate, but scarcely had they entered the saloon, when the officers who captured Learmont, appeared at the top of the stairs with him. All eyes were fixed upon his face, which was livid and ghastly. He offered no opposition, but came down step-by step with an awful calmness, like one going to execution, who had long since bid adieu to hope. When he reached halfway, he paused, and extending both his arms, while his fingers pointed to Sir Francis Hartleton, he burst into such a frantic howling laugh, that the officers shrunk from him aghast. Then an awful spasm came across his face, and like a log, he fell upon the stairs.
When raised he was found quite dead. A small phial, which was afterwards picked up in the conservatory, and which contained yet a lingering drop of deadly poison, told his fate. The erring spirit had flown to its Maker, there to render up that awful account, which we may shudder at, but not define.
CHAPTER CXVII.The Pursuit for Britton.A shudderran through the gaily attired guests at this awful and most unlooked for termination of thefêtethey had come to witness. Many pulled off their masks, and Ada, as she clung convulsively to Albert, said,—“Oh, that I had remained unknown, poor and nameless, rather than acquired what they say I have, by such awful steps as these.”Sir Francis Hartleton then spoke aloud, saying,—“This man has poisoned himself to escape the just penalty of his crimes, but another act of justice yet remains to be done. Officers, hasten to the Old Chequers, at Westminster; living or dead, arrest Andrew Britton.”There was a wild shriek at this moment at the door of the principal saloon, and in another moment, brandishing a knife in her hand, mad Maud rushed forward.“Who spoke of Andrew Britton?” she cried. “Who talks of him? Tell me where he is, that I may hunt him. That I may see his blood flow like a rivulet. Heaven has kept life in me yet that I may see Andrew Britton die. Ha, ha, ha! He is to die before poor mad Maud, who was hooted and pelted through mud and mire, till the good angel pitied her. The good angel—bless you, Heaven bless you—look kindly on poor Maud, who has come to see Andrew Britton die.”The guests huddled together in groups, and looked in each other’s faces with fear and amazement, while each wondered what next would occur to fill them with terror, ere they could depart from the splendid mansion, which they had approached with such widely different feelings.Sir Francis Hartleton, observing the officers pause, as if waiting for some orders concerning Maud, who they all knew, and felt assured, as was indeed the fact, that she had strayed from his house, called to them in a loud voice,—“To the Chequers—to the Chequers, and secure your prisoner. Hasten, he may receive an alarm from some one, and yet escape us for a while. I will see to this poor creature’s safety.”“Who stays me must have a charmed life,” cried Maud, springing to the doors and holding above her head the glittering knife, while her eyes beamed with a scarcely inferior lustre. “To the Chequers—to the Chequers. Ha, ha, ha! To the Chequers!”Her voice was harsh and grating to the ear, and she was heard, as she left the house still shouting—”To the Chequers—to the Chequers,” till distance drowned the fierce, maniacal cry.Sir Francis Hartleton then sheathed his sword, and turning to the Secretary of State, said, with a low bow—“As a higher authority by far than my humble self, I will leave your lordship to take what steps may seem to you proper in this house, while I pursue my proper vocation in attempting the arrest of as great a criminal as London at present possesses.”“Who, I?” cried the minister. “Bless my heart, I really don’t know what to do; but before you go, Sir Francis Hartleton, be so good as to introduce me to your charming young friend there, who, you say, is to inherit the Learmont property—I wish just to ask her which way she means to make her tenants vote at the next election.”Before the minister had finished this speech, Sir Francis Hartleton had left the saloon, being perfectly sure that Ada was safe with Albert Seyton, in order to assist at the capture of Britton, whither we will follow him, being equally well assured that Ada was in good hands.The officers had made good speed, and when Sir Francis reached the street, he found more than fifty of the youngest and most active of Learmont’s guests hastening towards the Chequers; their strange motley dresses producing a singular effect, as they were mingled with boys bearing links, and many stray passengers who joined the throng in intense curiosity to know whither they were going.* * * * *Noneof the officers had thought proper to interfere with mad Maud, for there was nothing to be got by running the chance of an ugly wound with the knife she carried, and the consequence was that she outstripped every one in the race to the Chequers, being the unconscious cause of giving an alarm of danger to Britton which he otherwise would not have received. He was still sitting with Bond, exulting over the success of his visit to Learmont’s, and regretting that, before he left, he had not gone to greater lengths in his wild spirit of mischief, when a scuffle at the door of the Chequers attracted his attention, and then he heard the voice of Maud—a voice he knew full well, shrieking in its loudest accents,—“Andrew Britton! Andrew Britton! I have come to see you die! Savage Britton, come forth! Murderer, I have come to see you die.”“Now, by all the foul fiends,” cried Britton, “I will be troubled by that croaking witch no more.”He rose from his seat, and despite the remonstrances of Bond, rushed into the passage to execute summary vengeance upon poor Maud, when he was seized by one of the officers, who had been quicker than his fellows, and who cried,—“Andrew Britton, you are my prisoner.”For one instant Britton was passive, and then drawing a long breath, he seized the unlucky officer round the waist, and with one tremendous throw he pitched him through the open doorway into the street, where he fell with a deep groan, for a moment obstructing the passage of his comrades, and giving Britton time to dart up the staircase, which he did as quickly as his unwieldy bulk would let him. In another moment the voice of Sir Francis Hartleton—the only one he dreaded—rung in his ears as the magistrate cried—“A hundred pounds for the apprehension of Andrew Britton! After him, men—after him! Follow me!”Maud stood screaming with a wild unearthly glee in the passage, and clapping her hands while Sir Francis and his officers rushed up the narrow staircase of the Chequers. As for Bond, he just looked out at the parlour door; when he saw how affairs were proceeding, he went back, and drunk up all Britton’s liquor, after which lifting one of the low parlour windows, he stepped out, and walked leisurely down the street with his pipe in his mouth, as if nothing particular had happened, except that when he reached the corner he knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a post, and remarked,—“That’s a smasher!”Britton was not much intoxicated previous to the arrival of his enemies, and the shock of finding himself thus openly sought for by his worst, or at all events, his most dangerous foe, completely sobered him. “What has happened to Learmont?” was the question he asked of himself as he reached his attic and bolted the door, in order to gain a moment’s time for thought. It was but a moment, however, that he had to spare, and while the confusion and terror of his mind were each instant growing stronger, he opened the window and clambered out into the gutter, along which he crawled a few paces, and then commenced the ascent of the sloping roof of the old house, knowing that upon its other slope it abutted so closely upon some other houses, that in the darkness of the night he would have a chance to escape. For the first time, however, in his life, a mortal fear crept over Britton’s heart, and when a shout arose in the street from the maskers, some of whom saw his dark figure crawling up the roof, he was compelled to clutch desperately to it, to save himself from rolling down headlong.One glance behind him showed him the officers on the gutter and preparing to ascend the roof.“Come down, or we fire!” cried one.“No—no,” shouted Sir Francis, “take him alive; he cannot escape.”“Cannot escape?” groaned Britton as he made frantic efforts to reach the top of the roof, but each time foiled by his own too powerful struggles, for the small flat tiles kept coming off in his hands, which were already torn and bleeding from his recent exertions.Some flambeaux were now elevated on long poles, borrowed from a neighbouring shop by the maskers, and a broad red glare was cast upon the roof of the Chequers, bewildering the eyes of the smith as well as making him visible to all his enemies. Then shouts, hoots, screams, and all sorts of discordant cries burst from the rapidly increasing crowd below, while several of the officers began to crawl up the roof after Britton, who by the most tremendous efforts had nearly succeeded in gaining the summit.“Come down, men,” cried Sir Francis to his officers—”he is in our power—down, all of you.”The magistrate had sent one of the officers along the gutter with instructions to ascend the roof as rapidly as possible some distance on, and getting upon the other slope meet Britton, when he should reach the top; and seize him. This manœuvre was executed with adroitness and despatch, for what to the terrified and half-maddened Britton was a task of immense difficulty, was nothing to the cool and determined officer, whose head exactly rose up and faced Britton’s as he reached the summit of the roof.With a cry of rage Britton clutched the man by the collar, at the same moment that the officer made a desperate attempt to push him down the sloping roof into the gutter. Then all the devil in the smith’s nature seemed to revive—fury kindled his eyes, and with a yell more like that of a wild beast than a human being, he dragged the officer over the pinnacle of the roof, as if he had been a child, and dashing down with them tiles, mortar, and rubbish, the two rolled with tremendous speed into the gutter.There was a shout from the crowd below, for Britton’s capture appeared certain, when a large piece of the flat stone which formed the street side of the gutter gave way with the shock of the two rolling bodies, and fell into the street with an awful crash. A shriek then arose from a hundred throats—one half of either Britton’s body or the officer’s, no one could tell which, hung over the abyss. There was one plunge of the feet, and many of the crowd turned away their eyes, as before the officers above, or Sir Francis Hartleton could get a hold of them, both Britton and his captor fell over, and locked in an embrace of death, reached the pavement, with a dull, hideous sound. There was then a rush forward of the crowd, but it was found in vain to attempt to unlock the death clutch of the two men—both were dead. Britton’s face was terribly disfigured, and when, with a wild terrible cry, Maud sprung to the corpses, it was only by seeing that the one whose face was discernible, was not Britton, that she could guess the other to be the savage smith, who had worked her so much woe. She did not exult—she did not scream or laugh with her usual mad mirth, but a great change came over her face, and in a low plaintive tone she said,—“Where am I—is this my wedding-day—what has happened?” She then clasped her head with her hands, and appeared to be trying to think—reason had returned, but it was to herald death.“He who loved me is no more,” she moaned—“the savage smith took his life—God bless—”Her head sunk upon her breast—lower—lower still she drooped. Then, some tried to raise her—they spoke kindly to her, but her spirit had fled.
The Pursuit for Britton.
A shudderran through the gaily attired guests at this awful and most unlooked for termination of thefêtethey had come to witness. Many pulled off their masks, and Ada, as she clung convulsively to Albert, said,—
“Oh, that I had remained unknown, poor and nameless, rather than acquired what they say I have, by such awful steps as these.”
Sir Francis Hartleton then spoke aloud, saying,—
“This man has poisoned himself to escape the just penalty of his crimes, but another act of justice yet remains to be done. Officers, hasten to the Old Chequers, at Westminster; living or dead, arrest Andrew Britton.”
There was a wild shriek at this moment at the door of the principal saloon, and in another moment, brandishing a knife in her hand, mad Maud rushed forward.
“Who spoke of Andrew Britton?” she cried. “Who talks of him? Tell me where he is, that I may hunt him. That I may see his blood flow like a rivulet. Heaven has kept life in me yet that I may see Andrew Britton die. Ha, ha, ha! He is to die before poor mad Maud, who was hooted and pelted through mud and mire, till the good angel pitied her. The good angel—bless you, Heaven bless you—look kindly on poor Maud, who has come to see Andrew Britton die.”
The guests huddled together in groups, and looked in each other’s faces with fear and amazement, while each wondered what next would occur to fill them with terror, ere they could depart from the splendid mansion, which they had approached with such widely different feelings.
Sir Francis Hartleton, observing the officers pause, as if waiting for some orders concerning Maud, who they all knew, and felt assured, as was indeed the fact, that she had strayed from his house, called to them in a loud voice,—
“To the Chequers—to the Chequers, and secure your prisoner. Hasten, he may receive an alarm from some one, and yet escape us for a while. I will see to this poor creature’s safety.”
“Who stays me must have a charmed life,” cried Maud, springing to the doors and holding above her head the glittering knife, while her eyes beamed with a scarcely inferior lustre. “To the Chequers—to the Chequers. Ha, ha, ha! To the Chequers!”
Her voice was harsh and grating to the ear, and she was heard, as she left the house still shouting—”To the Chequers—to the Chequers,” till distance drowned the fierce, maniacal cry.
Sir Francis Hartleton then sheathed his sword, and turning to the Secretary of State, said, with a low bow—
“As a higher authority by far than my humble self, I will leave your lordship to take what steps may seem to you proper in this house, while I pursue my proper vocation in attempting the arrest of as great a criminal as London at present possesses.”
“Who, I?” cried the minister. “Bless my heart, I really don’t know what to do; but before you go, Sir Francis Hartleton, be so good as to introduce me to your charming young friend there, who, you say, is to inherit the Learmont property—I wish just to ask her which way she means to make her tenants vote at the next election.”
Before the minister had finished this speech, Sir Francis Hartleton had left the saloon, being perfectly sure that Ada was safe with Albert Seyton, in order to assist at the capture of Britton, whither we will follow him, being equally well assured that Ada was in good hands.
The officers had made good speed, and when Sir Francis reached the street, he found more than fifty of the youngest and most active of Learmont’s guests hastening towards the Chequers; their strange motley dresses producing a singular effect, as they were mingled with boys bearing links, and many stray passengers who joined the throng in intense curiosity to know whither they were going.
* * * * *
Noneof the officers had thought proper to interfere with mad Maud, for there was nothing to be got by running the chance of an ugly wound with the knife she carried, and the consequence was that she outstripped every one in the race to the Chequers, being the unconscious cause of giving an alarm of danger to Britton which he otherwise would not have received. He was still sitting with Bond, exulting over the success of his visit to Learmont’s, and regretting that, before he left, he had not gone to greater lengths in his wild spirit of mischief, when a scuffle at the door of the Chequers attracted his attention, and then he heard the voice of Maud—a voice he knew full well, shrieking in its loudest accents,—
“Andrew Britton! Andrew Britton! I have come to see you die! Savage Britton, come forth! Murderer, I have come to see you die.”
“Now, by all the foul fiends,” cried Britton, “I will be troubled by that croaking witch no more.”
He rose from his seat, and despite the remonstrances of Bond, rushed into the passage to execute summary vengeance upon poor Maud, when he was seized by one of the officers, who had been quicker than his fellows, and who cried,—
“Andrew Britton, you are my prisoner.”
For one instant Britton was passive, and then drawing a long breath, he seized the unlucky officer round the waist, and with one tremendous throw he pitched him through the open doorway into the street, where he fell with a deep groan, for a moment obstructing the passage of his comrades, and giving Britton time to dart up the staircase, which he did as quickly as his unwieldy bulk would let him. In another moment the voice of Sir Francis Hartleton—the only one he dreaded—rung in his ears as the magistrate cried—
“A hundred pounds for the apprehension of Andrew Britton! After him, men—after him! Follow me!”
Maud stood screaming with a wild unearthly glee in the passage, and clapping her hands while Sir Francis and his officers rushed up the narrow staircase of the Chequers. As for Bond, he just looked out at the parlour door; when he saw how affairs were proceeding, he went back, and drunk up all Britton’s liquor, after which lifting one of the low parlour windows, he stepped out, and walked leisurely down the street with his pipe in his mouth, as if nothing particular had happened, except that when he reached the corner he knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a post, and remarked,—
“That’s a smasher!”
Britton was not much intoxicated previous to the arrival of his enemies, and the shock of finding himself thus openly sought for by his worst, or at all events, his most dangerous foe, completely sobered him. “What has happened to Learmont?” was the question he asked of himself as he reached his attic and bolted the door, in order to gain a moment’s time for thought. It was but a moment, however, that he had to spare, and while the confusion and terror of his mind were each instant growing stronger, he opened the window and clambered out into the gutter, along which he crawled a few paces, and then commenced the ascent of the sloping roof of the old house, knowing that upon its other slope it abutted so closely upon some other houses, that in the darkness of the night he would have a chance to escape. For the first time, however, in his life, a mortal fear crept over Britton’s heart, and when a shout arose in the street from the maskers, some of whom saw his dark figure crawling up the roof, he was compelled to clutch desperately to it, to save himself from rolling down headlong.
One glance behind him showed him the officers on the gutter and preparing to ascend the roof.
“Come down, or we fire!” cried one.
“No—no,” shouted Sir Francis, “take him alive; he cannot escape.”
“Cannot escape?” groaned Britton as he made frantic efforts to reach the top of the roof, but each time foiled by his own too powerful struggles, for the small flat tiles kept coming off in his hands, which were already torn and bleeding from his recent exertions.
Some flambeaux were now elevated on long poles, borrowed from a neighbouring shop by the maskers, and a broad red glare was cast upon the roof of the Chequers, bewildering the eyes of the smith as well as making him visible to all his enemies. Then shouts, hoots, screams, and all sorts of discordant cries burst from the rapidly increasing crowd below, while several of the officers began to crawl up the roof after Britton, who by the most tremendous efforts had nearly succeeded in gaining the summit.
“Come down, men,” cried Sir Francis to his officers—”he is in our power—down, all of you.”
The magistrate had sent one of the officers along the gutter with instructions to ascend the roof as rapidly as possible some distance on, and getting upon the other slope meet Britton, when he should reach the top; and seize him. This manœuvre was executed with adroitness and despatch, for what to the terrified and half-maddened Britton was a task of immense difficulty, was nothing to the cool and determined officer, whose head exactly rose up and faced Britton’s as he reached the summit of the roof.
With a cry of rage Britton clutched the man by the collar, at the same moment that the officer made a desperate attempt to push him down the sloping roof into the gutter. Then all the devil in the smith’s nature seemed to revive—fury kindled his eyes, and with a yell more like that of a wild beast than a human being, he dragged the officer over the pinnacle of the roof, as if he had been a child, and dashing down with them tiles, mortar, and rubbish, the two rolled with tremendous speed into the gutter.
There was a shout from the crowd below, for Britton’s capture appeared certain, when a large piece of the flat stone which formed the street side of the gutter gave way with the shock of the two rolling bodies, and fell into the street with an awful crash. A shriek then arose from a hundred throats—one half of either Britton’s body or the officer’s, no one could tell which, hung over the abyss. There was one plunge of the feet, and many of the crowd turned away their eyes, as before the officers above, or Sir Francis Hartleton could get a hold of them, both Britton and his captor fell over, and locked in an embrace of death, reached the pavement, with a dull, hideous sound. There was then a rush forward of the crowd, but it was found in vain to attempt to unlock the death clutch of the two men—both were dead. Britton’s face was terribly disfigured, and when, with a wild terrible cry, Maud sprung to the corpses, it was only by seeing that the one whose face was discernible, was not Britton, that she could guess the other to be the savage smith, who had worked her so much woe. She did not exult—she did not scream or laugh with her usual mad mirth, but a great change came over her face, and in a low plaintive tone she said,—
“Where am I—is this my wedding-day—what has happened?” She then clasped her head with her hands, and appeared to be trying to think—reason had returned, but it was to herald death.
“He who loved me is no more,” she moaned—“the savage smith took his life—God bless—”
Her head sunk upon her breast—lower—lower still she drooped. Then, some tried to raise her—they spoke kindly to her, but her spirit had fled.