CHAPTER XCVIII.Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream.“Let uscross to it,” said Learmont, in a low husky voice, which betrayed how deeply he felt himself interested in the affair.In a moment they both stood in the dark entry. Learmont’s spy was not there for conceiving justly that Jacob Gray was housed for the night, he had, by way of solacing himself after his quarrel with Albert, betaken himself to a neighbouring public-house, where by that time he was deep in a second jug of old ale.“There is no one here,” remarked Learmont.“No,” said Albert; “but I left one here. However, his following Gray might after all have been from mere curiosity, seeing me follow him so closely.”“The house—the house,” said Learmont; “which is the house?”“Yon dingy-looking dwelling, with that mean shop upon its basement floor.”Learmont looked long and eagerly at the miserable dwelling; then he muttered,—“I should know that house again were I absent from it a hundred years. Yes—found—found—at last! The game is played! Jacob Gray, with all your cunning—with all your art of trickery—you are at last found! Sleep on, if you can sleep, in fancied security! You know not that your career may soon be ended!”“You will recollect the house, sir?” said Albert.“I may forget my own name,” said Learmont, “but not that house. Young sir, here is money for you; let me see you on the morning after to-morrow, and I will have news for you.”He gave Albert his purse as he spoke, and then, without waiting for a reply, he strode from the spot, leaving the young man in great astonishment at his singular behaviour.“Till to-morrow and then the morning after that,” said Albert, “is a precious time to control my impatience. If I could but catch the merest glance of Ada, it would help me to sustain my impatience. Oh, what a Tantalus-like state is mine, to be even now within so short a distance of her I love, and yet unable to make my presence known to her. My very voice would reach her were I to raise it above its ordinary compass, but I dare not. I have bound myself on my word of honour, and that must not be broken—farewell then, for a time, dear Ada! To-morrow, during daylight, I will try to sleep, so that when the sun has set, and I may, without fear of being seen by Jacob Gray, take up my station here, I may be able to watch the house you inhabit, and please myself with the thought of being so near you, even though I cannot see you, or speak to you. Truly I am glad the squire has left me here, for here will I remain until the morning’s light warns me of the danger of recognition by Jacob Gray if I longer tarry.”With his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the window, which he pleased himself by imagining belonged to Ada’s room, Albert Seyton kept possession of the doorway.In the meanwhile, Learmont, with feelings of exultation at his heart, strode with a hasty step towards the Chequers at Westminster.“I have him now—I have him now,” he muttered; “I will stir Andrew Britton to destroy him, and as for this Albert Seyton, from whom, were he to live, I should prophesy much trouble, I will give him on the morning that he calls upon me, a subtle poison, in a cup of wine; but not enough shall he have to leave his body within my doors. No—the dose shall be skilfully graduated, so that some hours shall elapse ere the wild excitement passes through his system. Then he may lie down and die in the public streets or where he lists, so he is out of my way—’tis a deep skill I have obtained in poisons, and it shall do me good service.”He then paused, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote on it the words which we are aware were on the note Britton received in the midst of his drunken orgies at the Chequers, and which Learmont got conveyed to him by means of a boy who was wandering houseless about the streets.Satisfied, then, that he had everything in train for the destruction of Jacob Gray, Learmont bent his steps homewards in a more satisfied state of mind than he had ever been in before, and resolved to attempt immediately to procure some sleep, before he should thoroughly mature his yet but projected plan of murdering Gray on the next evening.The difficulties in the way of executing the deed safely and securely were very great; for not only was Gray to be destroyed, but his written confession was to be secured before its superscription should be perceived by any one who might officiously communicate to the magistrate that such a document had been addressed to him.To accomplish all this required skill, courage, caution, and a favourable train of circumstances; but, wearied as was Learmont then, as well by the violence of his alternating passions, as by want of anything in the shape of refreshing sleeps for some nights, he felt himself unequal to the details of a plan which should command success, if no very extraordinary obstacle presented itself in his way. He therefore hurried home, and giving directions to be called at an early hour in the morning, he threw off some of his upper clothing, and wearied as he was, soon sunk into a slumber—not, however, a calm and easy one, for he was, as usual, tortured with frightful dreams, and images of terror flitted before his mental vision. Sometimes he would fancy himself in the midst of the fathomless ocean, tossed about at the mercy of every surge, while each wave that burst over him seemed crusted with blood. Ravenous monsters of the deep would stretch their long tendril-like arms from deep vallies in the ocean’s bed, and strive to drag him into their insatiate maws; then suddenly, “a change would come o’er the spirit of his dream,” and he would lie upon the burning sands of Africa. For hundreds of miles there would be nothing but sand—sand hot and scorching to the touch as the fire-ash of a glowing furnace—then a fearful drought came over him, and he shrieked for water, and thought what a heaven it would be to be once more dashed madly to and fro by the surging waves—then a caravan would appear in sight upon the pathless desert—he heard the tinkle of the camel’s bells—he saw the weary men, with bronze complexions and travel-worn apparel, come slowly on and he saw that they had water, for all were drinking deep draughts of the delicious beverage. One then asked him if he too would drink, and then he could not speak. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, and, one by one, as they passed him by, they asked him to drink, and he could not say yes. Then, the caravan slowly faded away and when the last man was far across sandy the plain, his voice came again, and he shrieked for water—for but one drop to quench for a passing moment the burning fever of his throat.The dream was horrible, but the vision that followed was more terrible, because the suffering was mental as well as physical.Learmont fancied he was at the foot of a high winding staircase. He commenced slowly ascending, and then he heard behind him like a sound of rushing wind, and looking back, he saw linked, in an awful companionship, three livid spectres, as if fresh from the reeking corruptions of the tomb. The flesh hung rag-like upon the yellow moistened bones, and huge drops of green and sickly corruption fell dashing like the preludes of a thunder storm, upon the stairs. Worms and moist things were crawling in and out the sightless eyes—the rattling lips grinned horribly, and amid the havoc of the grave, Learmont could recognise the features of those whom he had driven to death. Slowly they came after him, and a voice seemed to ring in his ears, saying,—“They will catch you, and fold you in their dreadful embrace, ere you reach the top of those stairs. Fly, Learmont, fly!”Then he tried, with a scream of terror, to ascend the staircase like the wind, but his feet seemed glued to the steps, and he could ascend but slowly step by step, while he felt that his pursuers were gaining on him momentarily, and that he must in another moment be in their grasp. He heard the chattering of the fleshless gums—he smelt the rank odour of the grave, and yet he could proceed but at a funeral pace. Now they were upon him—now they gibbered in his ears—they clutched him by the throat—the long skeleton fingers press upon his throat—he his lost! One moan bust from the agonised sleeper, and he awoke shrieking,—“Help—help! Save me yet, Heaven—oh, save me, I do repent! God have mercy upon me!”He sprung from his bed, and, with dishevelled hair, eyes starting from their sockets, and a face livid with agony, he sunk upon his knees, just as the terrified domestics, hearing his cries, knocked loudly at his chamber door.Then succeeded a death-like stillness, and Learmont, in a deep sepulchral voice, said,—“God of Heaven, was it a dream? Dare I ever sleep again?”The knocking continued at his door, and he rose to his feet.“Peace—peace!” he cried. “Away, I did but dream.”The servants retired from the door gazing at each other in mute terror, for Learmont’s cries had alarmed the whole house, and filled them with superstitious fears.“So—so,” said the squire, when he trimmed his light, and recovered a little from his state of mental excitement; “that was a dream—how terrible—how terrible. Can I ever sleep again in peace? Dare I lay down my weary head upon my pillow with the hope of repose? No—no. And yet there are potent drugs that I have heard wrap the soul in oblivion, or else in the slumber they create, visit it in gorgeous shapes, and present rare phantasies to the mental eye. I will try them. To-morrow—to-morrow, I will try them. I may find peace then; but I must not tempt sleep again. ’Tis too terrible—too terrible.”
Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream.
“Let uscross to it,” said Learmont, in a low husky voice, which betrayed how deeply he felt himself interested in the affair.
In a moment they both stood in the dark entry. Learmont’s spy was not there for conceiving justly that Jacob Gray was housed for the night, he had, by way of solacing himself after his quarrel with Albert, betaken himself to a neighbouring public-house, where by that time he was deep in a second jug of old ale.
“There is no one here,” remarked Learmont.
“No,” said Albert; “but I left one here. However, his following Gray might after all have been from mere curiosity, seeing me follow him so closely.”
“The house—the house,” said Learmont; “which is the house?”
“Yon dingy-looking dwelling, with that mean shop upon its basement floor.”
Learmont looked long and eagerly at the miserable dwelling; then he muttered,—
“I should know that house again were I absent from it a hundred years. Yes—found—found—at last! The game is played! Jacob Gray, with all your cunning—with all your art of trickery—you are at last found! Sleep on, if you can sleep, in fancied security! You know not that your career may soon be ended!”
“You will recollect the house, sir?” said Albert.
“I may forget my own name,” said Learmont, “but not that house. Young sir, here is money for you; let me see you on the morning after to-morrow, and I will have news for you.”
He gave Albert his purse as he spoke, and then, without waiting for a reply, he strode from the spot, leaving the young man in great astonishment at his singular behaviour.
“Till to-morrow and then the morning after that,” said Albert, “is a precious time to control my impatience. If I could but catch the merest glance of Ada, it would help me to sustain my impatience. Oh, what a Tantalus-like state is mine, to be even now within so short a distance of her I love, and yet unable to make my presence known to her. My very voice would reach her were I to raise it above its ordinary compass, but I dare not. I have bound myself on my word of honour, and that must not be broken—farewell then, for a time, dear Ada! To-morrow, during daylight, I will try to sleep, so that when the sun has set, and I may, without fear of being seen by Jacob Gray, take up my station here, I may be able to watch the house you inhabit, and please myself with the thought of being so near you, even though I cannot see you, or speak to you. Truly I am glad the squire has left me here, for here will I remain until the morning’s light warns me of the danger of recognition by Jacob Gray if I longer tarry.”
With his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the window, which he pleased himself by imagining belonged to Ada’s room, Albert Seyton kept possession of the doorway.
In the meanwhile, Learmont, with feelings of exultation at his heart, strode with a hasty step towards the Chequers at Westminster.
“I have him now—I have him now,” he muttered; “I will stir Andrew Britton to destroy him, and as for this Albert Seyton, from whom, were he to live, I should prophesy much trouble, I will give him on the morning that he calls upon me, a subtle poison, in a cup of wine; but not enough shall he have to leave his body within my doors. No—the dose shall be skilfully graduated, so that some hours shall elapse ere the wild excitement passes through his system. Then he may lie down and die in the public streets or where he lists, so he is out of my way—’tis a deep skill I have obtained in poisons, and it shall do me good service.”
He then paused, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote on it the words which we are aware were on the note Britton received in the midst of his drunken orgies at the Chequers, and which Learmont got conveyed to him by means of a boy who was wandering houseless about the streets.
Satisfied, then, that he had everything in train for the destruction of Jacob Gray, Learmont bent his steps homewards in a more satisfied state of mind than he had ever been in before, and resolved to attempt immediately to procure some sleep, before he should thoroughly mature his yet but projected plan of murdering Gray on the next evening.
The difficulties in the way of executing the deed safely and securely were very great; for not only was Gray to be destroyed, but his written confession was to be secured before its superscription should be perceived by any one who might officiously communicate to the magistrate that such a document had been addressed to him.
To accomplish all this required skill, courage, caution, and a favourable train of circumstances; but, wearied as was Learmont then, as well by the violence of his alternating passions, as by want of anything in the shape of refreshing sleeps for some nights, he felt himself unequal to the details of a plan which should command success, if no very extraordinary obstacle presented itself in his way. He therefore hurried home, and giving directions to be called at an early hour in the morning, he threw off some of his upper clothing, and wearied as he was, soon sunk into a slumber—not, however, a calm and easy one, for he was, as usual, tortured with frightful dreams, and images of terror flitted before his mental vision. Sometimes he would fancy himself in the midst of the fathomless ocean, tossed about at the mercy of every surge, while each wave that burst over him seemed crusted with blood. Ravenous monsters of the deep would stretch their long tendril-like arms from deep vallies in the ocean’s bed, and strive to drag him into their insatiate maws; then suddenly, “a change would come o’er the spirit of his dream,” and he would lie upon the burning sands of Africa. For hundreds of miles there would be nothing but sand—sand hot and scorching to the touch as the fire-ash of a glowing furnace—then a fearful drought came over him, and he shrieked for water, and thought what a heaven it would be to be once more dashed madly to and fro by the surging waves—then a caravan would appear in sight upon the pathless desert—he heard the tinkle of the camel’s bells—he saw the weary men, with bronze complexions and travel-worn apparel, come slowly on and he saw that they had water, for all were drinking deep draughts of the delicious beverage. One then asked him if he too would drink, and then he could not speak. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, and, one by one, as they passed him by, they asked him to drink, and he could not say yes. Then, the caravan slowly faded away and when the last man was far across sandy the plain, his voice came again, and he shrieked for water—for but one drop to quench for a passing moment the burning fever of his throat.
The dream was horrible, but the vision that followed was more terrible, because the suffering was mental as well as physical.
Learmont fancied he was at the foot of a high winding staircase. He commenced slowly ascending, and then he heard behind him like a sound of rushing wind, and looking back, he saw linked, in an awful companionship, three livid spectres, as if fresh from the reeking corruptions of the tomb. The flesh hung rag-like upon the yellow moistened bones, and huge drops of green and sickly corruption fell dashing like the preludes of a thunder storm, upon the stairs. Worms and moist things were crawling in and out the sightless eyes—the rattling lips grinned horribly, and amid the havoc of the grave, Learmont could recognise the features of those whom he had driven to death. Slowly they came after him, and a voice seemed to ring in his ears, saying,—
“They will catch you, and fold you in their dreadful embrace, ere you reach the top of those stairs. Fly, Learmont, fly!”
Then he tried, with a scream of terror, to ascend the staircase like the wind, but his feet seemed glued to the steps, and he could ascend but slowly step by step, while he felt that his pursuers were gaining on him momentarily, and that he must in another moment be in their grasp. He heard the chattering of the fleshless gums—he smelt the rank odour of the grave, and yet he could proceed but at a funeral pace. Now they were upon him—now they gibbered in his ears—they clutched him by the throat—the long skeleton fingers press upon his throat—he his lost! One moan bust from the agonised sleeper, and he awoke shrieking,—
“Help—help! Save me yet, Heaven—oh, save me, I do repent! God have mercy upon me!”
He sprung from his bed, and, with dishevelled hair, eyes starting from their sockets, and a face livid with agony, he sunk upon his knees, just as the terrified domestics, hearing his cries, knocked loudly at his chamber door.
Then succeeded a death-like stillness, and Learmont, in a deep sepulchral voice, said,—
“God of Heaven, was it a dream? Dare I ever sleep again?”
The knocking continued at his door, and he rose to his feet.
“Peace—peace!” he cried. “Away, I did but dream.”
The servants retired from the door gazing at each other in mute terror, for Learmont’s cries had alarmed the whole house, and filled them with superstitious fears.
“So—so,” said the squire, when he trimmed his light, and recovered a little from his state of mental excitement; “that was a dream—how terrible—how terrible. Can I ever sleep again in peace? Dare I lay down my weary head upon my pillow with the hope of repose? No—no. And yet there are potent drugs that I have heard wrap the soul in oblivion, or else in the slumber they create, visit it in gorgeous shapes, and present rare phantasies to the mental eye. I will try them. To-morrow—to-morrow, I will try them. I may find peace then; but I must not tempt sleep again. ’Tis too terrible—too terrible.”
CHAPTER XCIX.Ada’s Faith in Albert Seyton.—The Confidence of a Generous Heart.Sir Francis Hartletonwas never so much vexed in his life as he was at the supposed treachery of Albert Seyton. He revolved in his mind over and over again, how he should tell Ada of the scene that had occurred between him and her lover, and of all his suspicions concerning him, and at length he resolved that Lady Hartleton should be the medium of communicating the unwelcome intelligence of Albert’s defection from his love and entertainment by Ada’s worst enemy.For this purpose it became necessary that Ada should be put in possession of more facts concerning herself than the humane and considerate magistrate had, as yet, thought proper to burthen her mind with. This he much regretted, because he had hoped that before he had occasion to mention Learmont’s name particularly to Ada, he should be able to couple with it something more than mere surmises, however well founded such surmises might be.While he was in his own private room, considering deeply and painfully this matter, a note arrived to him, which was immediately another source of vexation, inasmuch as it hurried on the events which he would have been glad to see develop themselves a little further before he actively interfered in them.The letter was from the Secretary of State, intimating that the charges confidentially made against Learmont, by him, Sir Francis Hartleton, must either be abandoned, or speedily proved, for that a dissolution of Parliament was about to take place, and it was absolutely necessary to know in whose hands the Learmont property was.“This,” said Sir Francis, as he laid down the minister’s note, “must bring affairs to a crisis. I must apprehend Jacob Gray now, and Britton, and trust to one or other of them committing Learmont; a slender, hope, I am afraid, since no mercy can be offered to Gray on account of Vaughan’s business, and Britton is the last person to expect a confession from.”Sir Francis then took from a secret drawer the small scraps of paper which he procured from mad Maud, and read them again attentively.“These are interesting to me,” he said, “as leading me on in my chain of conjecture; but they are no evidence, for, first of all, who is to prove they were ever written by Jacob Gray, or in his possession; and secondly, they are too vague in themselves to be of any importance, unless merely used as evidence corroborative of facts which can be nearly proved without them. The question now is, has Gray written a full disclosure of who Ada is, and what crime has led to her being placed in so singular a position, or not? Well, I will crave of the minister another week; and then consent to withdraw my charges against Learmont for the present. He must triumph, I suppose, and I cannot help it.”He then sought Lady Hartleton, and informing her of what he had discovered concerning Albert, begged her to communicate the same to Ada as carefully as she could, so as not to shock her sensitive mind too suddenly with the news of the bad faith of him to whom she had given her heart.Lady Hartleton was so much accustomed to rely upon the judgment of her husband, that, although she was not without some lingering doubts, after all there might be some possible explanation of the conduct of her lover, she consented to the task which was set her, and immediately went to Ada to communicate the sad intelligence.“My dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “there are circumstances which have induced Sir Francis not to ask Mr. Seyton to come here.”Ada started, and with a heightened colour she said in her soft gentle voice,—“Lady, you have already done too much for the poor and friendless girl whom chance threw in your way—I ought never to have accepted—”“Now, Ada, you mistake me,” interrupted Lady Hartleton, “the cause which prevented Sir Francis from bringing Albert here with him, has no reference to anything but the young man’s want of worth.”“Albert Seyton’s want of worth?” said Ada.“Yes—my dear Ada. You have a great enemy in London—an enemy who would take your life, and when I tell you that Albert Seyton is in the confidential service of that enemy, there is good cause of suspicion.”“Suspicion of what, lady?”“Of his want of faith.”Ada shook her head. “No,” she said, “there is no want of faith in Albert Seyton. Where I can give my heart and my faith, I never suspect. You do not know him, dear Lady Hartleton.”“But he is with your enemies.”“Still he is true.”“He may have sold himself to them, and be even now plotting destruction.”“Albert Seyton loves me,” said Ada.“But you are open to conviction.”“No, no—there are some things that the heart will cherish, despite all reasoning. You suspect Albert Seyton, my dear Lady Hartleton; but, let appearances be what they may, he can and will explain them all. He may be, from his own honest, unsuspecting nature, the dupe of villains, but he is not one himself.”“Then you preserve your good opinion of him, Ada, despite all unfavourable appearances?”“I do, as Heaven is my judge. He is innocent of all wrong—my heart tells me he is. I must go to him myself.”“Nay, that were, indeed, to court destruction—for where he is, is a fatal place for you.”“He will protect me.”“But, admitting all your confidence to be well grounded, he may not have the power.”“But I must see him,” said Ada; “he must have an opportunity of clearing himself from the suspicion that surrounds his name in the mind of you and Sir Francis, my dear and only friends. Oh, why did I not follow him myself, when Providence threw him in my way? Then all would have been well, and perhaps, with a few brief words, he would have explained every seeming contradiction in his present and his past conditions.”“I will not deny to you, Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “that such a thought crossed my mind when Sir Francis first spoke to me on this point. ’Tis said that suspicion breeds suspicion, but in this case it is not so; for your generous and noble confidence in your lover has imbued me with much of your own feelings.”“You believe, then, he may be innocent?”“I certainly do.”“Bless you, lady, for your noble confidence. You have given me more pleasure by that word than you gave me pain by hinting disparagement of Albert—that never reached my heart, for it was proof against it; but your confidence is kindred with my own feelings, and shares their place. As I have faith in the reality of my own existence, I have faith in Albert Seyton’s constancy and truth. Oh, tell Sir Francis, your noble husband, that he is mistaken. I implore him, for my sake, to seek him once more, and to question him, when he will meet with no guile—no evasions—but the honest truth will flow from his lips, and his innocence of purpose will be apparent.”“Ada, a heart so full of dear emotions, and so replete with noble confidence, as yours, deserves, indeed, a happy fate. Be you tranquil, and I will urge my husband to the step you now propose; and if my earnest prayers can make you happy, you will never know another care.”Ada could only thank Lady Hartleton with her eyes, and the kind-hearted wife immediately left the room in search of her husband, much shaken in her own mind with respect to Albert’s supposed faithlessness—so infectious is generosity and confidence among noble spirits.While this conversation, so painfully interesting to Ada, was proceeding between her and Lady Hartleton, Sir Francis was informed that the spy he had set upon the house inhabited by Gray wished particularly to see him, and upon the man’s admittance, he informed Sir Francis of his hunt after Gray the evening before, and his fears that some person was after him for some other purpose.“A light and active young fellow,” the man said, “kept as close upon his heels as I did; he would not lose sight of him a moment, and once or twice nearly baulked me in keeping my man in sight. Thus, when I had traced him safely from the rich squire’s house to his lodgings in Buckingham-street, this fellow popped himself in the very same doorway from which I and the other officers have, from time to time, watched Gray come and go.”“What kind of young man was he?” said the magistrate.“A light active fellow of the middle height, with a clear blue eye and long hair. A slight moustache is on his upper lip.”“’Tis Seyton,” thought Sir Francis. “Thank you; keep an eye on him, and, should anything particular occur to Jacob Gray, mind you lay hands on this young man you mention.”“We shall want assistance, then, sir.”“That you shall have. Take with you some one on whom you can rely to-night. You go on duty at eight, do you not?”“Yes, sir. Philip Lee is on the watch now.”“Very well. Go now, and take your rest. Your duty in watching this man will not last much longer, for he must be arrested within a week. Did you leave his young man you mention on the spot when you came away.”“No, sir. We had a sort of scuffle about who should stand in the passage, and he ran away.”“Ah, that is not in his favour,” thought Sir Francis. “My poor Ada! Your best affections are thrown away. You may go now, but let me see you in the morning with a report of your night’s work.”The man departed, and Sir Francis Hartleton remained for some time in melancholy thought.“Before the week, expires,” he said, “I must go myself and arrest Jacob Gray, ostensibly for the murder of Vaughan. I may find some written paper of importance. Well, well, it must be so, Ada, your fortunes hang upon the events of the next four or five days.”
Ada’s Faith in Albert Seyton.—The Confidence of a Generous Heart.
Sir Francis Hartletonwas never so much vexed in his life as he was at the supposed treachery of Albert Seyton. He revolved in his mind over and over again, how he should tell Ada of the scene that had occurred between him and her lover, and of all his suspicions concerning him, and at length he resolved that Lady Hartleton should be the medium of communicating the unwelcome intelligence of Albert’s defection from his love and entertainment by Ada’s worst enemy.
For this purpose it became necessary that Ada should be put in possession of more facts concerning herself than the humane and considerate magistrate had, as yet, thought proper to burthen her mind with. This he much regretted, because he had hoped that before he had occasion to mention Learmont’s name particularly to Ada, he should be able to couple with it something more than mere surmises, however well founded such surmises might be.
While he was in his own private room, considering deeply and painfully this matter, a note arrived to him, which was immediately another source of vexation, inasmuch as it hurried on the events which he would have been glad to see develop themselves a little further before he actively interfered in them.
The letter was from the Secretary of State, intimating that the charges confidentially made against Learmont, by him, Sir Francis Hartleton, must either be abandoned, or speedily proved, for that a dissolution of Parliament was about to take place, and it was absolutely necessary to know in whose hands the Learmont property was.
“This,” said Sir Francis, as he laid down the minister’s note, “must bring affairs to a crisis. I must apprehend Jacob Gray now, and Britton, and trust to one or other of them committing Learmont; a slender, hope, I am afraid, since no mercy can be offered to Gray on account of Vaughan’s business, and Britton is the last person to expect a confession from.”
Sir Francis then took from a secret drawer the small scraps of paper which he procured from mad Maud, and read them again attentively.
“These are interesting to me,” he said, “as leading me on in my chain of conjecture; but they are no evidence, for, first of all, who is to prove they were ever written by Jacob Gray, or in his possession; and secondly, they are too vague in themselves to be of any importance, unless merely used as evidence corroborative of facts which can be nearly proved without them. The question now is, has Gray written a full disclosure of who Ada is, and what crime has led to her being placed in so singular a position, or not? Well, I will crave of the minister another week; and then consent to withdraw my charges against Learmont for the present. He must triumph, I suppose, and I cannot help it.”
He then sought Lady Hartleton, and informing her of what he had discovered concerning Albert, begged her to communicate the same to Ada as carefully as she could, so as not to shock her sensitive mind too suddenly with the news of the bad faith of him to whom she had given her heart.
Lady Hartleton was so much accustomed to rely upon the judgment of her husband, that, although she was not without some lingering doubts, after all there might be some possible explanation of the conduct of her lover, she consented to the task which was set her, and immediately went to Ada to communicate the sad intelligence.
“My dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “there are circumstances which have induced Sir Francis not to ask Mr. Seyton to come here.”
Ada started, and with a heightened colour she said in her soft gentle voice,—
“Lady, you have already done too much for the poor and friendless girl whom chance threw in your way—I ought never to have accepted—”
“Now, Ada, you mistake me,” interrupted Lady Hartleton, “the cause which prevented Sir Francis from bringing Albert here with him, has no reference to anything but the young man’s want of worth.”
“Albert Seyton’s want of worth?” said Ada.
“Yes—my dear Ada. You have a great enemy in London—an enemy who would take your life, and when I tell you that Albert Seyton is in the confidential service of that enemy, there is good cause of suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what, lady?”
“Of his want of faith.”
Ada shook her head. “No,” she said, “there is no want of faith in Albert Seyton. Where I can give my heart and my faith, I never suspect. You do not know him, dear Lady Hartleton.”
“But he is with your enemies.”
“Still he is true.”
“He may have sold himself to them, and be even now plotting destruction.”
“Albert Seyton loves me,” said Ada.
“But you are open to conviction.”
“No, no—there are some things that the heart will cherish, despite all reasoning. You suspect Albert Seyton, my dear Lady Hartleton; but, let appearances be what they may, he can and will explain them all. He may be, from his own honest, unsuspecting nature, the dupe of villains, but he is not one himself.”
“Then you preserve your good opinion of him, Ada, despite all unfavourable appearances?”
“I do, as Heaven is my judge. He is innocent of all wrong—my heart tells me he is. I must go to him myself.”
“Nay, that were, indeed, to court destruction—for where he is, is a fatal place for you.”
“He will protect me.”
“But, admitting all your confidence to be well grounded, he may not have the power.”
“But I must see him,” said Ada; “he must have an opportunity of clearing himself from the suspicion that surrounds his name in the mind of you and Sir Francis, my dear and only friends. Oh, why did I not follow him myself, when Providence threw him in my way? Then all would have been well, and perhaps, with a few brief words, he would have explained every seeming contradiction in his present and his past conditions.”
“I will not deny to you, Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, “that such a thought crossed my mind when Sir Francis first spoke to me on this point. ’Tis said that suspicion breeds suspicion, but in this case it is not so; for your generous and noble confidence in your lover has imbued me with much of your own feelings.”
“You believe, then, he may be innocent?”
“I certainly do.”
“Bless you, lady, for your noble confidence. You have given me more pleasure by that word than you gave me pain by hinting disparagement of Albert—that never reached my heart, for it was proof against it; but your confidence is kindred with my own feelings, and shares their place. As I have faith in the reality of my own existence, I have faith in Albert Seyton’s constancy and truth. Oh, tell Sir Francis, your noble husband, that he is mistaken. I implore him, for my sake, to seek him once more, and to question him, when he will meet with no guile—no evasions—but the honest truth will flow from his lips, and his innocence of purpose will be apparent.”
“Ada, a heart so full of dear emotions, and so replete with noble confidence, as yours, deserves, indeed, a happy fate. Be you tranquil, and I will urge my husband to the step you now propose; and if my earnest prayers can make you happy, you will never know another care.”
Ada could only thank Lady Hartleton with her eyes, and the kind-hearted wife immediately left the room in search of her husband, much shaken in her own mind with respect to Albert’s supposed faithlessness—so infectious is generosity and confidence among noble spirits.
While this conversation, so painfully interesting to Ada, was proceeding between her and Lady Hartleton, Sir Francis was informed that the spy he had set upon the house inhabited by Gray wished particularly to see him, and upon the man’s admittance, he informed Sir Francis of his hunt after Gray the evening before, and his fears that some person was after him for some other purpose.
“A light and active young fellow,” the man said, “kept as close upon his heels as I did; he would not lose sight of him a moment, and once or twice nearly baulked me in keeping my man in sight. Thus, when I had traced him safely from the rich squire’s house to his lodgings in Buckingham-street, this fellow popped himself in the very same doorway from which I and the other officers have, from time to time, watched Gray come and go.”
“What kind of young man was he?” said the magistrate.
“A light active fellow of the middle height, with a clear blue eye and long hair. A slight moustache is on his upper lip.”
“’Tis Seyton,” thought Sir Francis. “Thank you; keep an eye on him, and, should anything particular occur to Jacob Gray, mind you lay hands on this young man you mention.”
“We shall want assistance, then, sir.”
“That you shall have. Take with you some one on whom you can rely to-night. You go on duty at eight, do you not?”
“Yes, sir. Philip Lee is on the watch now.”
“Very well. Go now, and take your rest. Your duty in watching this man will not last much longer, for he must be arrested within a week. Did you leave his young man you mention on the spot when you came away.”
“No, sir. We had a sort of scuffle about who should stand in the passage, and he ran away.”
“Ah, that is not in his favour,” thought Sir Francis. “My poor Ada! Your best affections are thrown away. You may go now, but let me see you in the morning with a report of your night’s work.”
The man departed, and Sir Francis Hartleton remained for some time in melancholy thought.
“Before the week, expires,” he said, “I must go myself and arrest Jacob Gray, ostensibly for the murder of Vaughan. I may find some written paper of importance. Well, well, it must be so, Ada, your fortunes hang upon the events of the next four or five days.”
CHAPTER C.Learmont’s Visit to the Chequers.—The Sleeping Smith.By nine o’clock, according to his appointment with Andrew Britton, Learmont was in the park. His face was dreadfully pale—his limbs shook under him as he gladly availed himself of one of the wooden seats on which to rest his wearied and exhausted frame.“When will this end?” he muttered. “Four nights now without repose—I am sinking into the grave; yet this last night, with its feverish dreams, and awful spectral visitations, has been much the worst I ever passed. Surely it must have arisen from my great anxiety just now concerning Jacob Gray, and when he is dead I shall have some peace. Yes, then, surely, I shall feel much relieved, but not till then—not till then. ’Tis the time, and yet Andrew Britton comes not. Dare he refuse to obey my summons? Or is he sleeping off some deep drunkenness of last evening, and deaf to time? The sot! I cannot do without him in this matter, for Gray may be armed, or he may even procure assistance. We must be in force sufficient to make sure work. Let me think. Yes—yes. ’Twere far better to kill him in his own abode than in mine. Of what use is his confession to him, unless placed somewhere where it may be easily found? None whatever. I shall be able easily to lay my hand upon it, and when I have that document once fairly in my grasp, I shall feel myself again. I and Britton will go at midnight, and make our way into the house as best we can. No lock can stand the practised skill of the smith; and, from the ancient grudge he has to Jacob Gray, he will enter into this affair with a good will. I am sure he will. Moreover, I can inflame his passion ere we go.”Learmont began to get very impatient, as Britton did not make his appearance; and, after waiting a full hour beyond the specified time, he rose from the seat, and, with a bitter execration on his lips, he walked slowly in the direction in which Britton must come in proceeding from the Chequers.Still the squire met him not, and finally, he left the park, by Storey’s Gate, and walked on until he came within sight of the ancient hotel in which the unconscious Britton was lying fast asleep, with no great prospect of arousing himself for some hours to come.Learmont paused as he said,—“Now, if I thought there was no chance of being known, I would call upon the savage smith, and at once ascertain the cause of this broken appointment. Let me consider—I have not seen him for a week—perchance he is ill—perchance dead. The latter would be a blessed release, if Jacob Gray preceded him, and he left no damning evidence behind, a matter in which I have always had my doubts as regarded Britton. Surely none at this low pot-house can know me? I think I may venture—the stake I have in hand is worth the risk. Yes, I will make inquiry, for if Jacob Gray dies not to-night, I shall have another night of misery—oh! I shall sleep well when I am assured that he sleeps never again to awaken.”Learmont, however, still lingered, ere he could make up his mind to call upon the drunken smith, at the Chequers, for he was most fearful that such an act, trifling as it was, might form a link in the chain of evidence against him, should any accidental circumstances occur to fix suspicion upon him, after Gray’s murder should have been achieved.“And yet,” he reasoned, “what can I do? Stay, a thought strikes me—I can send some one with an inquiry, and then shape my own conduct by the answer. Ah, yon poor beggar-woman, with her squalid children, will, for the promise of an alms, do my errand.”He walked up to a miserable looking object, who was shivering upon a door-step, with some wretched-looking children around her. The moment he showed an intention of speaking to her, she commenced a piteous appeal for charity.“Oh, sir—kind sir,” she said, “bestow a trifle upon a starving widow, and her wretched children—my husband was a waterman, sir, he was murdered on the Bishop’s walk, at Lambeth, and since then, we have been starving.”Learmont reeled from the woman as she spoke, and he felt that him she spoke of was the man who had met so cruel a death from his hand.“Not her—not her;” he muttered. “I must go myself—a cursed chance to meet her—now I shall dream of that, too, I suppose—curse on the dreams—methinks I hear that man’s gasping screams, as he fell upon the snow, after I had run him through; but I must not torture myself thus—I will go to the Chequers—a sudden faintness has come over my heart—I will take a cup of wine there, and make my inquires cautiously.”The woman’s voice sunk into a low wail of anguish and despair, as she saw Learmont turn away, and then bursting into tears, she sobbed over her famishing children, in all the bitterness of a mother’s grief.“God help us—God help us,” she cried, “and Heaven have mercy on your father’s murderer.”Learmont walked hastily towards the Chequers, and early as it was, sounds of mirth and revelry were issuing from it. Bond, the butcher, was waiting for Britton to rise, and amusing himself by chanting Bacchanalian songs the while, and drinking deeply. His roaring voice arrested Learmont’s steps, and he wondered who it could be that so rivalled even the lungs of Britton, as he heard the following strains:—“Up, to the skiesLet the goblet rise,We heed nor wind nor weather;We moisten each lipWith the wine sip,And we clank our cans together.Clank—clank—clank.“Drink, drink to the vine,’Tis a goddess fine,There ne’er was such another;Its fruit rich and rare,Will banish all care,And all bad feelings smother.Clank—clank—clank.“Fill, fill to the brim,A bumper to him,Who leaves in his glass no drain;He knows not a strife,But so calm his lifeGlides on without a pain.Clank—clank—clank.”Learmont stepped into the dingy, dark passage, and making his way up to the bar, he, in an assumed voice, said,—“A cup of your best wine, landlord.”The wine was placed before him, and then he said in a careless tone,—“Has Master Britton risen yet?”“Oh, dear, no, your worship,” said the landlord. “He won’t be up for a good hour or two yet. He went out in his chair last evening, and came home all over bruises from a tumble. Oh, such a man as he is—but perhaps your worship knows him?”“No, but I have heard of him.”“Ah, all Westminster has heard of him. He drinks hugely. He is fast asleep now in his attic. He won’t be in any other room, because he says he should have to murder somebody for treading heavy over his head, if he was lower down in the house. A strange fancy, your worship—a strange fancy.”“Indeed it is.”A violent pull from the parlour bell now induced the landlord to rush from his bar to answer it, with the exclamation of,—“That’s Master Bond, I’ll warrant. He’s as bad as Britton, every bit, only he helps him to drink a vast quantity of liquor.”“In the attic,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he glanced round him, and saw that he was alone, and the staircase leading to the upper part of the house immediately before him. “I will go and see him. My business brooks no delay.”He accordingly ascended the stairs, and was half way up before the landlord came back.“Well, I never,” exclaimed the host; “fairly done out of a cup of the best wine in the house. He looked a very respectable man, too, though no beauty. Who would have thought he’d have gone off without paying in this minute? The villain!”The landlord walked to the door, and looked up and down the street; then he came back, shaking his head, as he said,—“How he must have run, too, for he ain’t to be seen anywhere. Well, if I catch him again, I’ll be even with him, though he is a lanky. Two yards of bad stuff, he is—a vagabond. To cheat me! He might as well rob a church!”Learmont had just about as much idea of bilking the landlord out of payment for his wine as he had of robbing a church; but his mind had been by far too intent upon his own object to think of the money at all.With hasty strides he ascended the dark, narrow staircase, of the old Chequers, and seeing a half-open door on the topmost landing, he pushed it wide open, and entering a room saw Andrew Britton, perfectly dressed, lying in a deep sleep across the bed.
Learmont’s Visit to the Chequers.—The Sleeping Smith.
By nine o’clock, according to his appointment with Andrew Britton, Learmont was in the park. His face was dreadfully pale—his limbs shook under him as he gladly availed himself of one of the wooden seats on which to rest his wearied and exhausted frame.
“When will this end?” he muttered. “Four nights now without repose—I am sinking into the grave; yet this last night, with its feverish dreams, and awful spectral visitations, has been much the worst I ever passed. Surely it must have arisen from my great anxiety just now concerning Jacob Gray, and when he is dead I shall have some peace. Yes, then, surely, I shall feel much relieved, but not till then—not till then. ’Tis the time, and yet Andrew Britton comes not. Dare he refuse to obey my summons? Or is he sleeping off some deep drunkenness of last evening, and deaf to time? The sot! I cannot do without him in this matter, for Gray may be armed, or he may even procure assistance. We must be in force sufficient to make sure work. Let me think. Yes—yes. ’Twere far better to kill him in his own abode than in mine. Of what use is his confession to him, unless placed somewhere where it may be easily found? None whatever. I shall be able easily to lay my hand upon it, and when I have that document once fairly in my grasp, I shall feel myself again. I and Britton will go at midnight, and make our way into the house as best we can. No lock can stand the practised skill of the smith; and, from the ancient grudge he has to Jacob Gray, he will enter into this affair with a good will. I am sure he will. Moreover, I can inflame his passion ere we go.”
Learmont began to get very impatient, as Britton did not make his appearance; and, after waiting a full hour beyond the specified time, he rose from the seat, and, with a bitter execration on his lips, he walked slowly in the direction in which Britton must come in proceeding from the Chequers.
Still the squire met him not, and finally, he left the park, by Storey’s Gate, and walked on until he came within sight of the ancient hotel in which the unconscious Britton was lying fast asleep, with no great prospect of arousing himself for some hours to come.
Learmont paused as he said,—
“Now, if I thought there was no chance of being known, I would call upon the savage smith, and at once ascertain the cause of this broken appointment. Let me consider—I have not seen him for a week—perchance he is ill—perchance dead. The latter would be a blessed release, if Jacob Gray preceded him, and he left no damning evidence behind, a matter in which I have always had my doubts as regarded Britton. Surely none at this low pot-house can know me? I think I may venture—the stake I have in hand is worth the risk. Yes, I will make inquiry, for if Jacob Gray dies not to-night, I shall have another night of misery—oh! I shall sleep well when I am assured that he sleeps never again to awaken.”
Learmont, however, still lingered, ere he could make up his mind to call upon the drunken smith, at the Chequers, for he was most fearful that such an act, trifling as it was, might form a link in the chain of evidence against him, should any accidental circumstances occur to fix suspicion upon him, after Gray’s murder should have been achieved.
“And yet,” he reasoned, “what can I do? Stay, a thought strikes me—I can send some one with an inquiry, and then shape my own conduct by the answer. Ah, yon poor beggar-woman, with her squalid children, will, for the promise of an alms, do my errand.”
He walked up to a miserable looking object, who was shivering upon a door-step, with some wretched-looking children around her. The moment he showed an intention of speaking to her, she commenced a piteous appeal for charity.
“Oh, sir—kind sir,” she said, “bestow a trifle upon a starving widow, and her wretched children—my husband was a waterman, sir, he was murdered on the Bishop’s walk, at Lambeth, and since then, we have been starving.”
Learmont reeled from the woman as she spoke, and he felt that him she spoke of was the man who had met so cruel a death from his hand.
“Not her—not her;” he muttered. “I must go myself—a cursed chance to meet her—now I shall dream of that, too, I suppose—curse on the dreams—methinks I hear that man’s gasping screams, as he fell upon the snow, after I had run him through; but I must not torture myself thus—I will go to the Chequers—a sudden faintness has come over my heart—I will take a cup of wine there, and make my inquires cautiously.”
The woman’s voice sunk into a low wail of anguish and despair, as she saw Learmont turn away, and then bursting into tears, she sobbed over her famishing children, in all the bitterness of a mother’s grief.
“God help us—God help us,” she cried, “and Heaven have mercy on your father’s murderer.”
Learmont walked hastily towards the Chequers, and early as it was, sounds of mirth and revelry were issuing from it. Bond, the butcher, was waiting for Britton to rise, and amusing himself by chanting Bacchanalian songs the while, and drinking deeply. His roaring voice arrested Learmont’s steps, and he wondered who it could be that so rivalled even the lungs of Britton, as he heard the following strains:—
“Up, to the skies
Let the goblet rise,
We heed nor wind nor weather;
We moisten each lip
With the wine sip,
And we clank our cans together.
Clank—clank—clank.
“Drink, drink to the vine,
’Tis a goddess fine,
There ne’er was such another;
Its fruit rich and rare,
Will banish all care,
And all bad feelings smother.
Clank—clank—clank.
“Fill, fill to the brim,
A bumper to him,
Who leaves in his glass no drain;
He knows not a strife,
But so calm his life
Glides on without a pain.
Clank—clank—clank.”
Learmont stepped into the dingy, dark passage, and making his way up to the bar, he, in an assumed voice, said,—
“A cup of your best wine, landlord.”
The wine was placed before him, and then he said in a careless tone,—
“Has Master Britton risen yet?”
“Oh, dear, no, your worship,” said the landlord. “He won’t be up for a good hour or two yet. He went out in his chair last evening, and came home all over bruises from a tumble. Oh, such a man as he is—but perhaps your worship knows him?”
“No, but I have heard of him.”
“Ah, all Westminster has heard of him. He drinks hugely. He is fast asleep now in his attic. He won’t be in any other room, because he says he should have to murder somebody for treading heavy over his head, if he was lower down in the house. A strange fancy, your worship—a strange fancy.”
“Indeed it is.”
A violent pull from the parlour bell now induced the landlord to rush from his bar to answer it, with the exclamation of,—
“That’s Master Bond, I’ll warrant. He’s as bad as Britton, every bit, only he helps him to drink a vast quantity of liquor.”
“In the attic,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he glanced round him, and saw that he was alone, and the staircase leading to the upper part of the house immediately before him. “I will go and see him. My business brooks no delay.”
He accordingly ascended the stairs, and was half way up before the landlord came back.
“Well, I never,” exclaimed the host; “fairly done out of a cup of the best wine in the house. He looked a very respectable man, too, though no beauty. Who would have thought he’d have gone off without paying in this minute? The villain!”
The landlord walked to the door, and looked up and down the street; then he came back, shaking his head, as he said,—
“How he must have run, too, for he ain’t to be seen anywhere. Well, if I catch him again, I’ll be even with him, though he is a lanky. Two yards of bad stuff, he is—a vagabond. To cheat me! He might as well rob a church!”
Learmont had just about as much idea of bilking the landlord out of payment for his wine as he had of robbing a church; but his mind had been by far too intent upon his own object to think of the money at all.
With hasty strides he ascended the dark, narrow staircase, of the old Chequers, and seeing a half-open door on the topmost landing, he pushed it wide open, and entering a room saw Andrew Britton, perfectly dressed, lying in a deep sleep across the bed.
CHAPTER CI.The Search.—The Assignation.—Britton’s Surprise and Exaltation.Learmontstood for some few moments gazing on the bloated swarthy countenance of the smith, without making an effort to awaken him from his slumber. Dark thoughts chased each other through the mind of the squire, and he said, through his clenched teeth,—“Sot!—Villain!—But that you are useful to me still, I would strangle you as there you lie in your drunken sleep! If Jacob Gray was dead, this moment should be your last, Andrew Britton! But I have use for you, and the opportunity which now occurs, may never occur again. Still I may do something even now; I may search to see if I can find any papers or documents in this room. He may, notwithstanding my suspicions to the contrary, have left behind him some record of the crimes he has been engaged in!”Learmont walked carefully about the room, and peered into every probable place, in the expectation of being repaid by some discovery of importance to his interests. But there was not a scrap of writing in the chamber that he could discover.“Where can he have put the papers he always boasted of having found upon the body of him who met his death on that eventful night, at the old Smithy? He said there was a pocket-book, in which were family documents touching me very nearly; and Jacob Gray, of his own knowledge, confirmed the tale, regretting the while that his own fears would not allow him to rob the dead of those important papers. If Britton has them, they must be here somewhere.”Eagerly again did Learmont examine the room, but there was nothing to be found of the character he wished, and he was fain, at length, to give up the search in despair.Then he half-drew his sword and thought he would kill Britton, but a second thought told how much safer he might do so on some of his visits to his own house, and he sheathed his sword again, muttering,—“The time will come—the time will come. I will first use him, and then he shall die. Now to awaken this slumbering clod.”He seized Britton by the collar, and shook him very roughly, crying,—“Britton—Andrew Britton, awake!”“You be d—d!” muttered Britton. “Ale all around; I think I see it—it’s a lie!”“Andrew Britton awake,” cried Learmont in his ear.“Con—con—confusion to Jacob Gray,” growled Britton. “Curse everybody!”Learmont now shook him so violently that he opened his dull heavy eyes and fixed them on the squire’s face, with a stare of such astonishment, that it was doubtful to Learmont if he were in his senses or not.“Do you know me, Andrew Britton?” he said.“I should think so,” said Britton. “It’s a rum dream, though I could almost swear I was awake.”“You are.”“Am I? That’s a lie.”“Feel my hand. ’Tis flesh and blood.”“You—you don’t mean to say, squire, that you are here,” cried Britton, starting from the bed. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”“Nothing; but I wish you to be up and doing. I have discovered the abode of Jacob Gray, and he says that poor silly Britton will never cope with him. He says that Andrew Britton’s muddle head is only fit for the pillory, and that he has more cunning in his little finger than you have in your whole composition. So says Jacob Gray.”“Now curse him, I’ll have his life,” cried Britton.“You shall, if you will be guided by me; I can take you to the house he is in; I can make you sure of him now, Britton.”“You can squire?”“I can.”“Then I’m your man—drunk, or sober, I’ll cut Jacob Gray’s throat, with pleasure. The only disagreeable thing will be that when he’s dead, one can’t taunt him about it.”“It will be revenge enough to kill him,” said Learmont. “Will you be ready this night?”“This minute if you like.”“No—it must be at midnight—we must be very careful yet, for Gray is cunning, and moreover, he does not now reside in a lone house, where no cries would be heard. He lives now where there may be many people, and it would detract from our triumph over Gray to be hanged for his murder.”“It would rather,” muttered Britton; “we must be cunning then, I think I’m quite as cunning as Gray any day.”“Be guided by me, and all will be well.”“What is your plan?”“That you meet me to-night at twelve o’clock, and bring you tools to open locks.”“Yes, I have them.”“Then we will make our way to Gray’s chamber, and silently, if possible, kill him.”“Silently or not, he shall die; but where is the young scion of—”“Hush—that is now no obstacle; meet me to-night at twelve.”“I will squire. You have brought me the most welcome news I’ve heard yet for a long time.”“Now promise me, Britton, solemnly, that you will drink nothing till this enterprise is concluded?”“Drink nothing? Why I live upon strong drink. How do you suppose am to exist till twelve o’clock at night without anything to drink? I must drink, and there’s an end of that, Squire Learmont.”“If you must drink, let me beg of you to do so then in moderation.”“Never fear me, when there’s actual work to be done. Where shall we meet?”“At the steps of my house,” said Learmont. “Be punctual and sober, and remember, Andrew Britton, how much depends upon the proceedings of this night. You yourself daily and hourly incur danger from Jacob Gray greater than you dream of. Suppose him suddenly off by sickness, and we, not knowing of it, sleeping in fancied security, while this damning confession of his passes from hand to hand until it reaches him who is panting to destroy us—I mean Sir Francis Hartleton. Think of that and tremble, Andrew Britton. Then again, who knows a day when his insatiate avarice may induce him to fancy he has accumulated gold enough to live independently in some other country, and leave England for ever after. Mark my words, Andrew Britton, after taking measures for our destruction by leaving behind him documents which too many will be willing to believe and act upon. He has used language which, translated into plainer terms, would expressly signify such an intention; and more than once has he smiled to himself, and chuckled over the imaginary account of the execution of the sot—the ass—the clod-brained Andrew Britton. Do you mark my words?”“I do, squire—say no more—he dies, if he had twenty lives. Curses on him—he dies, I say. Be assured I shall not fail to meet you at the hour you name. If there be one thing I live for above another, it is to slaughter Jacob Gray. He calls me a sot does he, because now and then I take a glass too much? Why, he would be drunk himself morning, noon, and night, if he had the courage.”“Certainly,” said Learmont. “He hoards his money.”“By-the-by, squire, when we’ve knocked him on the head, we’ll find where he keeps this same hoard of money.”“We will—we will, Britton, and you shall have an ample share of it for your pains. Be sure you be punctual. Be secret and vigilant.”“Never fear me, squire, I’ll only take enough drink to steady my nerves, and as the clock strikes twelve to-night, I will be at your door.”“Adieu,” said Learmont, as he stalked out of the attic. “Adieu, Andrew Britton, this night makes or mars your future fortunes. The idiotic sot,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he descended the stairs, “he falls easily into the trap, which will eventually prove his own death, so shall I be free of both my enemies.”“There goes a vagabond,” said Britton, when the squire had left him. “He thinks to gammon me, does he? But I’m deeper than he thinks for. Curse that Gray! I will kill him for my old grudge against him, but I’ll not only have all his money, but, if I lay hands on his confession, the squire must be a stouter fellow than I think him if he gets it.”Meanwhile Learmont, full of dark thoughts, proceeded slowly down the staircase until he reached the door opening into the passage, which, although wide open when he passed through, was now closed; and on the outer side was the back of mine host himself, who was supporting his corporeal substance against it, while, with many nourishes and amplifications of his arm, he detailed to some of his gossipping neighbours how grievously he had been cheated, by a tall pale man in a cloak, out of a flagon of the best wine the Chequers could afford.“My masters,” he said, “the villain had an odd look, you will understand, but not a poor look, for a ring sparkled on his finger that was worth many pounds, as sure as I’m a sinner, and we are all sinners.”“Ah, that’s true as regards us all being sinners,” said one. “Now there’s Mr. Sniffler, the godly minister, who preached at Paul’s—”“Hear me out—hear me out,” cried the landlord, to whom the pleasure of telling the story was almost an indemnification for his loss. “As I was a saying, I was a standing, with my back against the cupboard in my bar, as I might stand now, when all of a sudden comes—”At this moment Learmont gave the door so vigorous a push that the landlord fell forward on to his hands and knees, with a cry of wrath, as he supposed some one of his household was the cause of thismalaproposaccident.“Do you block up your doors,” said Learmont, haughtily, “and hinder your guests from going forth at their own pleasure?”“Well, I never!” cried the landlord, scrambling to his feet. “You—you haven’t paid me for my wine; you know you have not.”Learmont took from his pocket a piece of silver, and threw it on the floor; then, drawing his cloak tightly round him, he stalked from the house without a word.“Well now, neighbours,” said the landlord, “did you ever see the like of that? That’s the very man who went away without paying me for my wine.”“Are you quite sure he hasn’t been up stairs and stolen something?” suggested one.“Gracious me!“ cried the landlord; “I never thought of that. Hilloa—hilloa; there’s mur—”“So you won’t be quiet,” cried Britton, suddenly appearing, and giving the landlord a knock on the head that made him stagger again; “who do you suppose will live here to be annoyed by your noise, eh?”“But your majesty,” said the landlord, “here’s been a long thief here with a cloak.”“There hasn’t,” said Britton.“An’, it please your majesty, these worthy neighbours saw him, and—”“They didn’t,” roared Britton; “bring me brandy, and whoever says they saw or heard anything that I say nay to, I’ll make him eat the measure.”The landlord now merely cast up his eyes, and made a movement with his hands, as much as to signify it’s no use saying anything, let us be wise and silent, and then hurried into his bar, to execute the imperious smith’s order.When Britton entered the parlour, he was vociferously welcomed by Bond, but the smith beckoned him to one of the windows, and when the bulky butcher obeyed the summons, Britton whispered in his ear:—“Bond, you promised to lend me your cleaver, in case I wanted it.”“So I did.”“Well, I do want it.”“You shall have it, my boy—is it to smash that fellow with, who you mentioned?”“It is; but mum’s the word. Let me have the cleaver some time before twelve to-night.”“I’ll give it a sharpen, and bring it you, you may depend.”“Thank you,” said Britton, “upon my soul I wouldn’t miss using it to-night for a thousand pounds.”
The Search.—The Assignation.—Britton’s Surprise and Exaltation.
Learmontstood for some few moments gazing on the bloated swarthy countenance of the smith, without making an effort to awaken him from his slumber. Dark thoughts chased each other through the mind of the squire, and he said, through his clenched teeth,—
“Sot!—Villain!—But that you are useful to me still, I would strangle you as there you lie in your drunken sleep! If Jacob Gray was dead, this moment should be your last, Andrew Britton! But I have use for you, and the opportunity which now occurs, may never occur again. Still I may do something even now; I may search to see if I can find any papers or documents in this room. He may, notwithstanding my suspicions to the contrary, have left behind him some record of the crimes he has been engaged in!”
Learmont walked carefully about the room, and peered into every probable place, in the expectation of being repaid by some discovery of importance to his interests. But there was not a scrap of writing in the chamber that he could discover.
“Where can he have put the papers he always boasted of having found upon the body of him who met his death on that eventful night, at the old Smithy? He said there was a pocket-book, in which were family documents touching me very nearly; and Jacob Gray, of his own knowledge, confirmed the tale, regretting the while that his own fears would not allow him to rob the dead of those important papers. If Britton has them, they must be here somewhere.”
Eagerly again did Learmont examine the room, but there was nothing to be found of the character he wished, and he was fain, at length, to give up the search in despair.
Then he half-drew his sword and thought he would kill Britton, but a second thought told how much safer he might do so on some of his visits to his own house, and he sheathed his sword again, muttering,—
“The time will come—the time will come. I will first use him, and then he shall die. Now to awaken this slumbering clod.”
He seized Britton by the collar, and shook him very roughly, crying,—
“Britton—Andrew Britton, awake!”
“You be d—d!” muttered Britton. “Ale all around; I think I see it—it’s a lie!”
“Andrew Britton awake,” cried Learmont in his ear.
“Con—con—confusion to Jacob Gray,” growled Britton. “Curse everybody!”
Learmont now shook him so violently that he opened his dull heavy eyes and fixed them on the squire’s face, with a stare of such astonishment, that it was doubtful to Learmont if he were in his senses or not.
“Do you know me, Andrew Britton?” he said.
“I should think so,” said Britton. “It’s a rum dream, though I could almost swear I was awake.”
“You are.”
“Am I? That’s a lie.”
“Feel my hand. ’Tis flesh and blood.”
“You—you don’t mean to say, squire, that you are here,” cried Britton, starting from the bed. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”
“Nothing; but I wish you to be up and doing. I have discovered the abode of Jacob Gray, and he says that poor silly Britton will never cope with him. He says that Andrew Britton’s muddle head is only fit for the pillory, and that he has more cunning in his little finger than you have in your whole composition. So says Jacob Gray.”
“Now curse him, I’ll have his life,” cried Britton.
“You shall, if you will be guided by me; I can take you to the house he is in; I can make you sure of him now, Britton.”
“You can squire?”
“I can.”
“Then I’m your man—drunk, or sober, I’ll cut Jacob Gray’s throat, with pleasure. The only disagreeable thing will be that when he’s dead, one can’t taunt him about it.”
“It will be revenge enough to kill him,” said Learmont. “Will you be ready this night?”
“This minute if you like.”
“No—it must be at midnight—we must be very careful yet, for Gray is cunning, and moreover, he does not now reside in a lone house, where no cries would be heard. He lives now where there may be many people, and it would detract from our triumph over Gray to be hanged for his murder.”
“It would rather,” muttered Britton; “we must be cunning then, I think I’m quite as cunning as Gray any day.”
“Be guided by me, and all will be well.”
“What is your plan?”
“That you meet me to-night at twelve o’clock, and bring you tools to open locks.”
“Yes, I have them.”
“Then we will make our way to Gray’s chamber, and silently, if possible, kill him.”
“Silently or not, he shall die; but where is the young scion of—”
“Hush—that is now no obstacle; meet me to-night at twelve.”
“I will squire. You have brought me the most welcome news I’ve heard yet for a long time.”
“Now promise me, Britton, solemnly, that you will drink nothing till this enterprise is concluded?”
“Drink nothing? Why I live upon strong drink. How do you suppose am to exist till twelve o’clock at night without anything to drink? I must drink, and there’s an end of that, Squire Learmont.”
“If you must drink, let me beg of you to do so then in moderation.”
“Never fear me, when there’s actual work to be done. Where shall we meet?”
“At the steps of my house,” said Learmont. “Be punctual and sober, and remember, Andrew Britton, how much depends upon the proceedings of this night. You yourself daily and hourly incur danger from Jacob Gray greater than you dream of. Suppose him suddenly off by sickness, and we, not knowing of it, sleeping in fancied security, while this damning confession of his passes from hand to hand until it reaches him who is panting to destroy us—I mean Sir Francis Hartleton. Think of that and tremble, Andrew Britton. Then again, who knows a day when his insatiate avarice may induce him to fancy he has accumulated gold enough to live independently in some other country, and leave England for ever after. Mark my words, Andrew Britton, after taking measures for our destruction by leaving behind him documents which too many will be willing to believe and act upon. He has used language which, translated into plainer terms, would expressly signify such an intention; and more than once has he smiled to himself, and chuckled over the imaginary account of the execution of the sot—the ass—the clod-brained Andrew Britton. Do you mark my words?”
“I do, squire—say no more—he dies, if he had twenty lives. Curses on him—he dies, I say. Be assured I shall not fail to meet you at the hour you name. If there be one thing I live for above another, it is to slaughter Jacob Gray. He calls me a sot does he, because now and then I take a glass too much? Why, he would be drunk himself morning, noon, and night, if he had the courage.”
“Certainly,” said Learmont. “He hoards his money.”
“By-the-by, squire, when we’ve knocked him on the head, we’ll find where he keeps this same hoard of money.”
“We will—we will, Britton, and you shall have an ample share of it for your pains. Be sure you be punctual. Be secret and vigilant.”
“Never fear me, squire, I’ll only take enough drink to steady my nerves, and as the clock strikes twelve to-night, I will be at your door.”
“Adieu,” said Learmont, as he stalked out of the attic. “Adieu, Andrew Britton, this night makes or mars your future fortunes. The idiotic sot,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he descended the stairs, “he falls easily into the trap, which will eventually prove his own death, so shall I be free of both my enemies.”
“There goes a vagabond,” said Britton, when the squire had left him. “He thinks to gammon me, does he? But I’m deeper than he thinks for. Curse that Gray! I will kill him for my old grudge against him, but I’ll not only have all his money, but, if I lay hands on his confession, the squire must be a stouter fellow than I think him if he gets it.”
Meanwhile Learmont, full of dark thoughts, proceeded slowly down the staircase until he reached the door opening into the passage, which, although wide open when he passed through, was now closed; and on the outer side was the back of mine host himself, who was supporting his corporeal substance against it, while, with many nourishes and amplifications of his arm, he detailed to some of his gossipping neighbours how grievously he had been cheated, by a tall pale man in a cloak, out of a flagon of the best wine the Chequers could afford.
“My masters,” he said, “the villain had an odd look, you will understand, but not a poor look, for a ring sparkled on his finger that was worth many pounds, as sure as I’m a sinner, and we are all sinners.”
“Ah, that’s true as regards us all being sinners,” said one. “Now there’s Mr. Sniffler, the godly minister, who preached at Paul’s—”
“Hear me out—hear me out,” cried the landlord, to whom the pleasure of telling the story was almost an indemnification for his loss. “As I was a saying, I was a standing, with my back against the cupboard in my bar, as I might stand now, when all of a sudden comes—”
At this moment Learmont gave the door so vigorous a push that the landlord fell forward on to his hands and knees, with a cry of wrath, as he supposed some one of his household was the cause of thismalaproposaccident.
“Do you block up your doors,” said Learmont, haughtily, “and hinder your guests from going forth at their own pleasure?”
“Well, I never!” cried the landlord, scrambling to his feet. “You—you haven’t paid me for my wine; you know you have not.”
Learmont took from his pocket a piece of silver, and threw it on the floor; then, drawing his cloak tightly round him, he stalked from the house without a word.
“Well now, neighbours,” said the landlord, “did you ever see the like of that? That’s the very man who went away without paying me for my wine.”
“Are you quite sure he hasn’t been up stairs and stolen something?” suggested one.
“Gracious me!“ cried the landlord; “I never thought of that. Hilloa—hilloa; there’s mur—”
“So you won’t be quiet,” cried Britton, suddenly appearing, and giving the landlord a knock on the head that made him stagger again; “who do you suppose will live here to be annoyed by your noise, eh?”
“But your majesty,” said the landlord, “here’s been a long thief here with a cloak.”
“There hasn’t,” said Britton.
“An’, it please your majesty, these worthy neighbours saw him, and—”
“They didn’t,” roared Britton; “bring me brandy, and whoever says they saw or heard anything that I say nay to, I’ll make him eat the measure.”
The landlord now merely cast up his eyes, and made a movement with his hands, as much as to signify it’s no use saying anything, let us be wise and silent, and then hurried into his bar, to execute the imperious smith’s order.
When Britton entered the parlour, he was vociferously welcomed by Bond, but the smith beckoned him to one of the windows, and when the bulky butcher obeyed the summons, Britton whispered in his ear:—
“Bond, you promised to lend me your cleaver, in case I wanted it.”
“So I did.”
“Well, I do want it.”
“You shall have it, my boy—is it to smash that fellow with, who you mentioned?”
“It is; but mum’s the word. Let me have the cleaver some time before twelve to-night.”
“I’ll give it a sharpen, and bring it you, you may depend.”
“Thank you,” said Britton, “upon my soul I wouldn’t miss using it to-night for a thousand pounds.”
CHAPTER CII.The Hour of Eleven.—Gray in His Solitary Home.—The Lover’s Watch.—The Eve of the Murder.The nightset in dark and lowering, and heavy masses of black clouds piled themselves up in the southern sky long before the hour appointed by Learmont for the attempt upon the life of Jacob Gray. A cold wind swept round the corner of the streets, and occasionally a dashing shower of rain would sweep horizontally along for a moment, and then cease, as the cloud, from whence sprang the shower, swept onwards on the wings of the wind through the realms of space.Many of the lamps were extinguished by the sudden gusts of wind, and watchmen wisely betook themselves to their various boxes, comforting their consciences with the conviction that no decent foot-pad or housebreaker had any right to be out on such a disagreeable night.People who had homes to go to, and warm fire-sides to sit down by, and happy smiling faces to welcome them, hurried through the streets in search of such dear enjoyments, while the poor houseless creatures who had no home—no kind kindred, no friend to warm the heart with a soft cheering smile, crept into old doorways and covered courts, and half-built houses, huddling themselves up with a shiver, to try by the unconsciousness of sleep to forget for awhile their miseries.There was one, though, who heeded no wind nor weather—one to whom the cutting blast, the dashing rain, and the general discomfort out of doors was nothing, for his heart and brain were too full of brighter, fairer objects to allow the smallest space for a consideration of the more external face of nature—so for him the elements might wage what war they liked—he heeded them not, for his heart was crammed with fire from Heaven, and the sunshine of his soul made its own beauty in his breast. That one was Albert Seyton, who, as soon as the shades of evening had made it safe for him to do so, had silently and cautiously ensconced himself in the ancient doorway immediately opposite to Gray’s house, determining there to watch until the morning’s dawn over the house, which he fondly believed contained his dearly-beloved, lost Ada.One by one he saw the lights put out in the house, with the exception of two, and one of those he pleased himself by imagining lit up the chamber of Ada. Now and then a shadow would flit across the blind at the window of that room, and the fond lover, in his ardent creative imagination, endeavoured to trace in it the beauty of form, the sylph-like symmetry of her he loved.“Yes—yes,” he said, “she is there, my beautiful Ada. Oh, could she but guess how fond, how true a heart was beating for her here. How vigilant a sentinel was watching lest harm should come to her through the long hours of the night. Could she but dream of much—were some kind angel to whisper to her as she slept that her lover was near her, that he watched over, and blessed her as she slept, what smiles would kindle on her face, what flashing tenderness, would beam from her, and what a new-born joy would spring up in her, perhaps, heavy heart.”Albert crossed his arms upon his breast, and waited more than an hour without the least interruption, and then, just as the only other light in the house, besides the one which he pleased himself by fancying burned in Ada’s chamber, was put out, and the entrance to the deep doorway in which he was became darkened by a human form, and Sir Francis Hartleton’s spy stood for a moment or two muttering to himself, without observing Seyton, who drew back silently, resolved to wait a few moments to see if he intended a stay or not.“A nice night,” muttered the man. “I think I see myself waiting here. All’s right, I dare say. If I come once an hour, it will be ample time enough. There’s a gust of wind. It’s enough to make a fellow’s marrow feel cold.”With these words he cast another look up at the house inhabited by Gray, and then struck off to a public-house, which was at the corner of the street.“A good riddance,” said Albert, “although I wonder what on earth he can be watching Gray for. A few hours though must end all my suspense and restore her to me. No doubt even now the rich squire is maturing some plan to aid me effectually. I am well guided by his wisdom, for he says truly that Ada would never be perfectly happy without knowing what those papers contained which Gray sets such store by, and any rash attempt to rescue Ada might involve their destruction. I must be patient—I must be patient.”The light which Albert Seyton took such interest in came from Jacob Gray’s room; he had not stirred out the whole of the day, and the tempestuous state of the evening induced him to abandon all intention of leaving his home. About sunset he had crept down stairs to the shop, and desired his landlady to procure him some refreshment, carefully locking his room door even for the few moments he was absent from it in making his request. Then, when he returned, he paced to and fro until the viands he had ordered were brought to him, when, with an attempt at a smile, he said—“A bad night—the wind howls fearfully.”“Ah, you are right, sir,” said the woman; “there’s ever so many tiles blowed off of our house, and I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do, for there the chimney in the next room smokes, and the people as lived there is gone.”“Indeed—then your next room is untenanted.”“Yes, sir, it is—more’s the pity.”“Aye—more’s the pity,” said Gray. “’Tis far better.”“Better, sir??”Gray started, for he had uttered his thought loud enough to be heard.“Nothing—nothing,” he said; “good evening—you can leave these things; I am going to rest.”“Good night, sir; I do hope as the wind won’t go on howling in this way. It hasn’t come down our chimnies in such a shocking way since we had a death in the house.”“A death!” cried Gray; “don’t talk to me of deaths, woman—don’t croak to me; I—I—good night—good night.”“Well I never,” muttered the woman to herself, as she left the room; “he is a very odd man to be sure. One never knows what to say to him.”“How dare she talk to me of deaths in the house?” muttered Gray, “there is no death in the house—a croaking hag—I am very well—I—I never was better—death—death—I hate the word. Curses on her for putting it in my head. I am exceedingly well to-night—quite strong and well. Let the wind howl—if any one dies it will not be me. No—I am so very—very well.”He sat down now, and fixed his eyes intently on the cloak, between the lining and outer cloth of which he had hidden his confession.“There—there hangs what would be more than a nine day’s wonder,” he muttered, “for all the gaping fools in London. There hangs what would bring the high, the proud, the mighty Squire Learmont to a scaffold; and Britton, too, the savage smith, whose hands so itch to be imbued in my blood. Ha! Ha! I have them, when I like—but I bide my time—I bide my time. Yet why do I feel this horror—why do my hands shake, and my lips stick together for want of healthful moisture? This is what they call nervousness—mere physical weakness. I shall get rid of all this when I am far from England—yes, I shall be quite well then. Now, I really wonder if ever, in after years, I shall come to believe what priests prate about. Is there a Heaven? And—and, more awful question still, is there a hell? What am I saying? I shall drive myself mad if I think thus. I will hope nothing—fear nothing—believe nothing—nothing—nothing.”The disturbed state of his mind deprived him of all appetite, and he forced rather than enjoyed his meal, of which he scantily partook. Then folding his arms upon the table, he leant his head upon them, and fell into a disturbed and harassing slumber—a slumber that brought with it no refreshment, but weakened both mind and body by allowing the imagination to prey unchecked upon the nervous system.Eleven o’clock boomed forth, sullenly from the church clocks, now sounding clear and startingly loud as a gust of wind took the sound, and then sinking to the faintest indication of a sound, as the fickle element whirled in some contrary direction, destroying its own conducting power. Learmont was standing, like a statue of melancholy; in his own chamber, and he heard the hour from the clock of Westminster Abbey, as well as from a French timepiece in his room, which, as if in defiance of the dark and bloody thoughts that ran through his brain, struck up one of those light waltzes which such toys are made to play. With an oath Learmont dashed the clock to the ground, and the gay scenes which had been so little in accordance with his humour ceased.“Some meddling fool must needs put that gilded annoyance in my chamber,” he muttered, as he spurned it with his foot. “Time speeds not with me in such lively measures; I would have the hours tolled forth now by a funeral bell, for each one comes more closely to the knell of Jacob Gray. Eleven—eleven—in another hour—it will soon pass away. I have saved myself some occupation for that hour.”He took a key from his pocket, and, unlocking a cabinet, took from it a brace of pistols, the loading and priming of which he carefully examined.“These may be useful in case of need,” he muttered; “it may be we may have more foes to encounter than Jacob Gray. Oh that I could leave the smith alone to do the work! But then the confession—that I must secure myself; I dare not trust Andrew Britton with that—and it were unsafe for me to go alone. It will be to risk too much—when I consider, I will run no risks—my victim shall be overpowered—will Britton stab him—or—or will he strangle him? Some quiet mode were best. I will take with me this poniard—its point is dipped in poison—the merest scratch is instant death. Should Britton fail, I must do the work myself; for, come what may, this night shall witness the death of Jacob Gray.”He stood now for some moments in the room in deep thought; then he walked to the window, and gazed upon the black sky.“The night is wild and boisterous,” he muttered; “and yet such nights are congenial to me. I will walk the streets until the hour of twelve. Britton will be sure to come—yes, he will be sure to come.”
The Hour of Eleven.—Gray in His Solitary Home.—The Lover’s Watch.—The Eve of the Murder.
The nightset in dark and lowering, and heavy masses of black clouds piled themselves up in the southern sky long before the hour appointed by Learmont for the attempt upon the life of Jacob Gray. A cold wind swept round the corner of the streets, and occasionally a dashing shower of rain would sweep horizontally along for a moment, and then cease, as the cloud, from whence sprang the shower, swept onwards on the wings of the wind through the realms of space.
Many of the lamps were extinguished by the sudden gusts of wind, and watchmen wisely betook themselves to their various boxes, comforting their consciences with the conviction that no decent foot-pad or housebreaker had any right to be out on such a disagreeable night.
People who had homes to go to, and warm fire-sides to sit down by, and happy smiling faces to welcome them, hurried through the streets in search of such dear enjoyments, while the poor houseless creatures who had no home—no kind kindred, no friend to warm the heart with a soft cheering smile, crept into old doorways and covered courts, and half-built houses, huddling themselves up with a shiver, to try by the unconsciousness of sleep to forget for awhile their miseries.
There was one, though, who heeded no wind nor weather—one to whom the cutting blast, the dashing rain, and the general discomfort out of doors was nothing, for his heart and brain were too full of brighter, fairer objects to allow the smallest space for a consideration of the more external face of nature—so for him the elements might wage what war they liked—he heeded them not, for his heart was crammed with fire from Heaven, and the sunshine of his soul made its own beauty in his breast. That one was Albert Seyton, who, as soon as the shades of evening had made it safe for him to do so, had silently and cautiously ensconced himself in the ancient doorway immediately opposite to Gray’s house, determining there to watch until the morning’s dawn over the house, which he fondly believed contained his dearly-beloved, lost Ada.
One by one he saw the lights put out in the house, with the exception of two, and one of those he pleased himself by imagining lit up the chamber of Ada. Now and then a shadow would flit across the blind at the window of that room, and the fond lover, in his ardent creative imagination, endeavoured to trace in it the beauty of form, the sylph-like symmetry of her he loved.
“Yes—yes,” he said, “she is there, my beautiful Ada. Oh, could she but guess how fond, how true a heart was beating for her here. How vigilant a sentinel was watching lest harm should come to her through the long hours of the night. Could she but dream of much—were some kind angel to whisper to her as she slept that her lover was near her, that he watched over, and blessed her as she slept, what smiles would kindle on her face, what flashing tenderness, would beam from her, and what a new-born joy would spring up in her, perhaps, heavy heart.”
Albert crossed his arms upon his breast, and waited more than an hour without the least interruption, and then, just as the only other light in the house, besides the one which he pleased himself by fancying burned in Ada’s chamber, was put out, and the entrance to the deep doorway in which he was became darkened by a human form, and Sir Francis Hartleton’s spy stood for a moment or two muttering to himself, without observing Seyton, who drew back silently, resolved to wait a few moments to see if he intended a stay or not.
“A nice night,” muttered the man. “I think I see myself waiting here. All’s right, I dare say. If I come once an hour, it will be ample time enough. There’s a gust of wind. It’s enough to make a fellow’s marrow feel cold.”
With these words he cast another look up at the house inhabited by Gray, and then struck off to a public-house, which was at the corner of the street.
“A good riddance,” said Albert, “although I wonder what on earth he can be watching Gray for. A few hours though must end all my suspense and restore her to me. No doubt even now the rich squire is maturing some plan to aid me effectually. I am well guided by his wisdom, for he says truly that Ada would never be perfectly happy without knowing what those papers contained which Gray sets such store by, and any rash attempt to rescue Ada might involve their destruction. I must be patient—I must be patient.”
The light which Albert Seyton took such interest in came from Jacob Gray’s room; he had not stirred out the whole of the day, and the tempestuous state of the evening induced him to abandon all intention of leaving his home. About sunset he had crept down stairs to the shop, and desired his landlady to procure him some refreshment, carefully locking his room door even for the few moments he was absent from it in making his request. Then, when he returned, he paced to and fro until the viands he had ordered were brought to him, when, with an attempt at a smile, he said—
“A bad night—the wind howls fearfully.”
“Ah, you are right, sir,” said the woman; “there’s ever so many tiles blowed off of our house, and I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do, for there the chimney in the next room smokes, and the people as lived there is gone.”
“Indeed—then your next room is untenanted.”
“Yes, sir, it is—more’s the pity.”
“Aye—more’s the pity,” said Gray. “’Tis far better.”
“Better, sir??”
Gray started, for he had uttered his thought loud enough to be heard.
“Nothing—nothing,” he said; “good evening—you can leave these things; I am going to rest.”
“Good night, sir; I do hope as the wind won’t go on howling in this way. It hasn’t come down our chimnies in such a shocking way since we had a death in the house.”
“A death!” cried Gray; “don’t talk to me of deaths, woman—don’t croak to me; I—I—good night—good night.”
“Well I never,” muttered the woman to herself, as she left the room; “he is a very odd man to be sure. One never knows what to say to him.”
“How dare she talk to me of deaths in the house?” muttered Gray, “there is no death in the house—a croaking hag—I am very well—I—I never was better—death—death—I hate the word. Curses on her for putting it in my head. I am exceedingly well to-night—quite strong and well. Let the wind howl—if any one dies it will not be me. No—I am so very—very well.”
He sat down now, and fixed his eyes intently on the cloak, between the lining and outer cloth of which he had hidden his confession.
“There—there hangs what would be more than a nine day’s wonder,” he muttered, “for all the gaping fools in London. There hangs what would bring the high, the proud, the mighty Squire Learmont to a scaffold; and Britton, too, the savage smith, whose hands so itch to be imbued in my blood. Ha! Ha! I have them, when I like—but I bide my time—I bide my time. Yet why do I feel this horror—why do my hands shake, and my lips stick together for want of healthful moisture? This is what they call nervousness—mere physical weakness. I shall get rid of all this when I am far from England—yes, I shall be quite well then. Now, I really wonder if ever, in after years, I shall come to believe what priests prate about. Is there a Heaven? And—and, more awful question still, is there a hell? What am I saying? I shall drive myself mad if I think thus. I will hope nothing—fear nothing—believe nothing—nothing—nothing.”
The disturbed state of his mind deprived him of all appetite, and he forced rather than enjoyed his meal, of which he scantily partook. Then folding his arms upon the table, he leant his head upon them, and fell into a disturbed and harassing slumber—a slumber that brought with it no refreshment, but weakened both mind and body by allowing the imagination to prey unchecked upon the nervous system.
Eleven o’clock boomed forth, sullenly from the church clocks, now sounding clear and startingly loud as a gust of wind took the sound, and then sinking to the faintest indication of a sound, as the fickle element whirled in some contrary direction, destroying its own conducting power. Learmont was standing, like a statue of melancholy; in his own chamber, and he heard the hour from the clock of Westminster Abbey, as well as from a French timepiece in his room, which, as if in defiance of the dark and bloody thoughts that ran through his brain, struck up one of those light waltzes which such toys are made to play. With an oath Learmont dashed the clock to the ground, and the gay scenes which had been so little in accordance with his humour ceased.
“Some meddling fool must needs put that gilded annoyance in my chamber,” he muttered, as he spurned it with his foot. “Time speeds not with me in such lively measures; I would have the hours tolled forth now by a funeral bell, for each one comes more closely to the knell of Jacob Gray. Eleven—eleven—in another hour—it will soon pass away. I have saved myself some occupation for that hour.”
He took a key from his pocket, and, unlocking a cabinet, took from it a brace of pistols, the loading and priming of which he carefully examined.
“These may be useful in case of need,” he muttered; “it may be we may have more foes to encounter than Jacob Gray. Oh that I could leave the smith alone to do the work! But then the confession—that I must secure myself; I dare not trust Andrew Britton with that—and it were unsafe for me to go alone. It will be to risk too much—when I consider, I will run no risks—my victim shall be overpowered—will Britton stab him—or—or will he strangle him? Some quiet mode were best. I will take with me this poniard—its point is dipped in poison—the merest scratch is instant death. Should Britton fail, I must do the work myself; for, come what may, this night shall witness the death of Jacob Gray.”
He stood now for some moments in the room in deep thought; then he walked to the window, and gazed upon the black sky.
“The night is wild and boisterous,” he muttered; “and yet such nights are congenial to me. I will walk the streets until the hour of twelve. Britton will be sure to come—yes, he will be sure to come.”