CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVII.“The Chequers,” at Westminster.—Britton’s Notions of Greatness.—“When the Wine is In, the Wit is Out.”Jacob Graywas quite right when he averred that the smith was on his track like a blood-hound. Britton had entered heartily into the scheme of destroying Gray. It was not that he particularly wished to appropriate to himself Gray’s portion of what was wrung from the fears of Learmont, nor did he particularly see or care for the destruction of Gray as a matter of policy; but he hated him personally. His assumption of superior address was especially annoying to Britton. He felt that Gray was more than a match for him in cunning, and moreover, he despised him for the cowardice of his character, and over his cups thought it would be a rare thing to outwit Jacob Gray, which, translated, meant kill him with safety—not personal safety in the act of killing, but safety from the consequences of Gray’s extreme precautionary measures for his own preservation.The smith familiarised himself thus with the thought of overcoming the wily Jacob, and his ferocious fancy indulged itself in glutting over some violent and bloody death for the man who had presumed to assume greater address than he. By some curious train of thought, too, the smith always considered himself as personally injured by Gray, because the latter, when he visited him at the smithy, had so fenced himself round with precautions, that he, Britton could not but see the extreme impolicy of knocking him on the head with his forge hammer, which he had fully resolved to do whenever he had an opportunity.“Curse him!” Britton would growl over his cups, “I will have his life yet. Despite his cunning I will have his life!”Britten’s scheme of operations was more in accordance with his violent nature than any which Learmont could suggest to him. It was to dog Gray to his house, and then finding some means of admittance, either wring from his fears the secret of where he kept the written confession he talked so much of, and then kill him; or should that plan not succeed, take his life first, and trust to his powers of search to find the dangerous document somewhere in his abode.With this project in view, Britton had kept an eye on the house of Learmont, and followed Gray upon the river, as we have seen.Great was the rage of the smith at the utter failure of this, his first attempt to ferret out the hiding-place of Master Gray, which he began to think was by no means so easy a job as he had supposed. In fact, should Gray pursue the plan he had commenced so successfully, of turning upon his pursuer, the scheme would be fraught with the greatest difficulties. Moreover the smith could not conceal from himself that by his unsuccessful attempt he had put Gray upon his guard, which was the very last thing he should have risked. All these reflections put the smith in no very pleasant mood, when he repaired from the water-side to “The Chequers” and it was not until he had quaffed at two draughts a huge tankard of humming ale that he felt his equanimity at all restored.He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much, and calling for another tankard, he shouted—“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,—“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.”“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.”The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it.The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?”“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,—“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”“That’s true,” said Britton.“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.”“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat.“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare.“So he is,” cried several voices.“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth.“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with.This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,—“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—“Care mantles not in brimming cups,It cannot enter there;Within the bowl there’s nought but joy,Without, but grim despair.“Hurrah, boys!“Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why?Because its blushing hueForbids the fiend to enter there,Lest he be lost to view.“Hurrah, boys!“Drink—drink, and let the gushing streamOf life boil through our veins,While sober fools seek chill content,And find care for their pains.“Hurrah, boys!“They lie who say that rosy wineCan ever breed a pain,For when the joy of one day’s o’er,We drink and live again.“Hurrah, boys!“They tell us that when once the fireOf wine has gone away,Our hearts will beat in dull despair,Nor be so calm as they.“Hurrah, boys!“But we a cure for such an illCan find in every glass;And, boys, we know that life is short,Catch pleasure ere it pass.“Hurrah, boys!”“Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.”“Very good, indeed,” cried everybody.“Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys! Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!”After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a state of unconsciousness.

“The Chequers,” at Westminster.—Britton’s Notions of Greatness.—“When the Wine is In, the Wit is Out.”

Jacob Graywas quite right when he averred that the smith was on his track like a blood-hound. Britton had entered heartily into the scheme of destroying Gray. It was not that he particularly wished to appropriate to himself Gray’s portion of what was wrung from the fears of Learmont, nor did he particularly see or care for the destruction of Gray as a matter of policy; but he hated him personally. His assumption of superior address was especially annoying to Britton. He felt that Gray was more than a match for him in cunning, and moreover, he despised him for the cowardice of his character, and over his cups thought it would be a rare thing to outwit Jacob Gray, which, translated, meant kill him with safety—not personal safety in the act of killing, but safety from the consequences of Gray’s extreme precautionary measures for his own preservation.

The smith familiarised himself thus with the thought of overcoming the wily Jacob, and his ferocious fancy indulged itself in glutting over some violent and bloody death for the man who had presumed to assume greater address than he. By some curious train of thought, too, the smith always considered himself as personally injured by Gray, because the latter, when he visited him at the smithy, had so fenced himself round with precautions, that he, Britton could not but see the extreme impolicy of knocking him on the head with his forge hammer, which he had fully resolved to do whenever he had an opportunity.

“Curse him!” Britton would growl over his cups, “I will have his life yet. Despite his cunning I will have his life!”

Britten’s scheme of operations was more in accordance with his violent nature than any which Learmont could suggest to him. It was to dog Gray to his house, and then finding some means of admittance, either wring from his fears the secret of where he kept the written confession he talked so much of, and then kill him; or should that plan not succeed, take his life first, and trust to his powers of search to find the dangerous document somewhere in his abode.

With this project in view, Britton had kept an eye on the house of Learmont, and followed Gray upon the river, as we have seen.

Great was the rage of the smith at the utter failure of this, his first attempt to ferret out the hiding-place of Master Gray, which he began to think was by no means so easy a job as he had supposed. In fact, should Gray pursue the plan he had commenced so successfully, of turning upon his pursuer, the scheme would be fraught with the greatest difficulties. Moreover the smith could not conceal from himself that by his unsuccessful attempt he had put Gray upon his guard, which was the very last thing he should have risked. All these reflections put the smith in no very pleasant mood, when he repaired from the water-side to “The Chequers” and it was not until he had quaffed at two draughts a huge tankard of humming ale that he felt his equanimity at all restored.

He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much, and calling for another tankard, he shouted—

“Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.”

The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,—

“This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.”

“What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head.

“Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.”

“Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”

Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made.

“Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?”

“In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar.

“Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”

“Timothy!” screamed a female voice at this moment, which could be likened to nothing but a tin trumpet with a bad cold—“Timothy, I say.”

“My wife!” said the landlord, finishing the sentence and rushing into the bar with a “here my love,—here I am.”

The abundance of money possessed by Britton made him perfectly welcome at “The Chequers,” notwithstanding the rough nature of many of his practical jokes. The landlord lived in the full expectation of finding some day that the smith’s funds were exhausted, and his object was to keep him in good humour, and put up with him so long and no longer, for the wiseacres at “The Chequers” had made up their minds that the gold which Britton spent so freely was the produce of some great robbery, and their only surprise from day to day was that they did not hear a hue and cry after Britton, with an accurate description of him appended to it.

The smith now took up the massive poker appertaining and belonging to the fire-side of “The Chequers,” and commenced beating upon one of the oaken tables so lustily that the landlord rushed into the room in wild fright and amazement, crying, “The saints preserve us, Master Britton! What does your worship want?”

“Sit down,” roared the smith. “Hurrah! I’m going to treat everybody.”

The landlord lifted up his hands and exclaimed,—

“Worshipful Master Britton, my humble opinion is of very little moment.”

“That’s true,” said Britton.

“But I assert,” continued the landlord, “that you ought to have been a king.”

“And how do you know I ar’nt a king, eh, numskull?” cried the smith.

This was certainly a poser to the politic landlord, and he only muttered that he ventured to suppose he was not.

“Then you’re a fool!” cried Britton, to the great amusement of the company, who had pricked up their ears wonderfully since Button had talked of a general treat.

“The landlord’s a fool!” repeated the smith, looking round the room with a half-intoxicated stare.

“So he is,” cried several voices.

“No he ain’t,” roared Britton.

“N—n—not quite a fool,” said a little punchy man, with a pipe in his mouth.

“But you are!” added Britton, which at once silenced the little punchy man, who very wisely made no reply whatever.

After the applause of this sally had subsided, the landlord ventured to suggest that mugs of spiced canary all round would not be amiss to begin the evening with.

This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.

“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”

The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,—

“Damnation for Jacob Gray!”

The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—

“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”

The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.

“A song,” cried Britton—“a song.”

The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—

“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”

“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”

The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—

“Care mantles not in brimming cups,

It cannot enter there;

Within the bowl there’s nought but joy,

Without, but grim despair.

“Hurrah, boys!

“Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why?

Because its blushing hue

Forbids the fiend to enter there,

Lest he be lost to view.

“Hurrah, boys!

“Drink—drink, and let the gushing stream

Of life boil through our veins,

While sober fools seek chill content,

And find care for their pains.

“Hurrah, boys!

“They lie who say that rosy wine

Can ever breed a pain,

For when the joy of one day’s o’er,

We drink and live again.

“Hurrah, boys!

“They tell us that when once the fire

Of wine has gone away,

Our hearts will beat in dull despair,

Nor be so calm as they.

“Hurrah, boys!

“But we a cure for such an ill

Can find in every glass;

And, boys, we know that life is short,

Catch pleasure ere it pass.

“Hurrah, boys!”

“Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.”

“Very good, indeed,” cried everybody.

“Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys! Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!”

After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a state of unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XVIII.The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.Alone, and still, as a sculptured image, sat the Squire Learmont, in one of his stately halls. He was surrounded by magnificence, but he was alone. The closely-fitting easements admitted, but in subdued murmurs, the various voices of the city, but there was no one, save himself, to enjoy the luxury of the calm that reigned in that gilt and gaudy saloon. The choicest hangings depended from the walls, half concealing, yet rendering more effective, the glowing paintings that were hung in the most favourable lights; but Learmont was alone. A chandelier, shaded by coloured glasses, shed a sweet and chastened light upon every article in that costly room, but who was there to admire, to gaze in rapture upon the splendour of that magical scene? Learmont was alone, and the deep sense of his utter loneliness, crept across him with a chilling influence that seemed to penetrate even to the very marrow in his bones.How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! He was alone! The first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’Tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him, and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon, and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful tone.Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”The servant bowed and retired.“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly nature of its hangings and various appointments.Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm, conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the wicked.Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that tortured him.Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing his fevered brain.“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement, succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new pleasure!—I will never be alone!”He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! They, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! What hurts it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—they shall die!”How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them, all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! he was alone! the first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue.—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him, and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon, and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful tone.Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”The servant bowed and retired.“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly nature of its hangings and various appointments.Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm, conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the wicked.Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that tortured him.Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing his fevered brain.“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement, succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new pleasure!—I will never be alone!”He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! they, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! what hoots it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis’ he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—They shall die!”

The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.

Alone, and still, as a sculptured image, sat the Squire Learmont, in one of his stately halls. He was surrounded by magnificence, but he was alone. The closely-fitting easements admitted, but in subdued murmurs, the various voices of the city, but there was no one, save himself, to enjoy the luxury of the calm that reigned in that gilt and gaudy saloon. The choicest hangings depended from the walls, half concealing, yet rendering more effective, the glowing paintings that were hung in the most favourable lights; but Learmont was alone. A chandelier, shaded by coloured glasses, shed a sweet and chastened light upon every article in that costly room, but who was there to admire, to gaze in rapture upon the splendour of that magical scene? Learmont was alone, and the deep sense of his utter loneliness, crept across him with a chilling influence that seemed to penetrate even to the very marrow in his bones.

How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! He was alone! The first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.

In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.

Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.

“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’Tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”

His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him, and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon, and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful tone.

Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,

“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”

Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.

“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”

He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.

“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”

The servant bowed and retired.

“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.

In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.

Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly nature of its hangings and various appointments.

Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.

It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm, conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the wicked.

Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that tortured him.

Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing his fevered brain.

“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement, succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new pleasure!—I will never be alone!”

He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—

“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! They, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! What hurts it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—they shall die!”

How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them, all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! he was alone! the first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.

Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.

“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue.—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”

Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,

Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.

“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”

He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.

“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”

The servant bowed and retired.

In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.

He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—

“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! they, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! what hoots it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis’ he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—They shall die!”

CHAPTER XIX.Learmont’s Adventure.—A Discovery.—The Haunted House.—Exultation, and a Resolution.In thewild excitement of his passions, Learmont had walked onwards, heedless of whither he was going, and now that he had in some measure found the relief he sought for in fatigue, he glared anxiously round to find if possible what part of the town he had strayed to in his deep abstraction.The night was very dark, not a star peeped forth from heaven to light with its small twinkling lustre the massive black arch of the firmament. No moon shed its silvery radiance on the gigantic city;—a darkness, so intense that sky, houses, trees,—all seemed merged into one chaotic mass.“Where should I be?” muttered Learmont; “I must have walked far, for I am weary. Ha! Is that the hour?”The clock of St. Paul’s struck three as he spoke, and from the direction of the sound, Learmont guessed that he was somewhere southward of that edifice.“Some chance passenger,” he muttered, “will direct me to Westminster; yet I hear no footfall in these silent streets. How still and solemn now is the great city; one might imagine it a vast cemetery, in which the dead alone dwelt.”He paced slowly down a long straggling street, and his own footsteps were the only sounds that disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned around.Learmont walked on slowly, for he knew not but he might be in some dangerous quarter of the city, and his suspicions that the locality in which he was did not possess any great claims to fashion or respectability were much increased by a door suddenly opening in a house some dozen yards in advance of him, and a man being flung from it with considerable force into the centre of the street, while a loud voice, exclaimed:—“Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round dozen of you, we might think of it.”“It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within.“That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and the street even is turning round—and round in a most ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray. It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured character.”The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately.“I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man.When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,—“My friend, can you tell me where I am?”“Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just been turned out of the Mitre.”“Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of the town we are in?”“The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that ain’t it.”“What do you mean?” said Learmont.“I’ll do it—I’ll do it, I tell you.”“Do what?”“Do what? Come, that’s good of you. You know what. All I mean to say is, that if somebody else is to do it, why I am sure nobody—no, that isn’t it either. How very ex—ex—extraordinary!”“Idiot!” exclaimed Learmont, striding away; but the man called after him, and his voice echoed through the deserted street, as he said,—“Don’t be—be—offended. I’ll do it, I tell you. No, no—nonsense, now, I know you—mind I—know you: it’s only a mur—murder! Ah! ah!”Learmont paused in astonishment, not altogether unmingled with dismay, at these words and he was by the man’s side again in a moment.“You know me?“ he said.“Yes, yes, I believe you,” replied, the man. “I’ll do it.”“What can this mean?” thought Learmont; then he said, aloud,—“Who am I—you say you know me?”“You—you didn’t think it,” said the man, with much drunken cunning; “but I watched you home.”“You watched me home?”“Yes,—to be sure. Don’t be frightened; I—I saw you go in. Oh! oh!”“Indeed!” said Learmont, who was determined to humour his singular companion.“Yes, I believe you, I—I thought you’d be surprised; and so you are: it’s ex—extraordinary, ain’t it?”“Oh! Very.”“Well, I’ll do it—you recollect my name?”“Perfectly.”“Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.”“Sheldon is your name.”“Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink like me.”“You are a waterman, then?”“You—know I am.”“Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont.“Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary how clever I—am.”“Quite remarkable.”“Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—”“The boy?”“Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched you—you—see.”“The boy?” repeated Learmont.“Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you see.”“Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—”“Nothing.”“Nothing?”“D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—”“And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?”“No, I didn’t.”“You said so.”“No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!”“My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.”“The—the—then—you thought wrong.”“Exactly.”“You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.”“Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?”“Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated you.”“Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.”“I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw him.”“The boy?”“Yes—to—to be sure.”“Did you hear him speak?”“I—I believe you—”“Well—well.”“Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he,—what do you think now?”“Really, I cannot tell.”“Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out your name, you see.”“My name, Master Sheldon?”“Yes, your name.”“No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.”“N—n—not know it?”“Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?”“Gray, to be sure.”“Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again; and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm.“Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder of Britton.“You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was Gray?”The man looked in the countenance of Learmont, as well as the darkness would permit him, and answered, not without evident trepidation,—“Gray—yes—Gray—it—it was. I shouldn’t have known it—but, you see, the boy stopped at the window to cry—”“To cry?—well—and then?”“Then, he said, ‘Can this man, Gray, really be of my kindred? Do we think alike?’ says he, ‘do we’—now, hang me, if I recollect what he said.”“Ha, ha, ha!” suddenly laughed Learmont. “You are brave and acute. Ha, ha! You have found me out, I see. I am Gray. Ha, ha!”“I—I—beg—your pardon, Mister Gray,” hiccupped the man, “but was that y—y—you that laughed in that odd way? Eh?”“I laughed,” said Learmont.“Then—d—don’t do it again. It’s the most uncom—com—comfortable sort o’ laugh I ever heard; an ex—ex—extraordinary laugh.”“Good master a—a—”“Sheldon,” said the man.“Ay, Sheldon,” resumed Learmont. “I will have no secrets from you. You shall come home with me. You know the way?”“Of—of—course I do.”“Then, come on,” cried Learmont, with difficulty concealing his exultations at the chance that had thus thrown in his way a guide to Gray’s house.“Ay, you—you’re right,” said the waterman. “Come on—come on. We’ll have a cup together?”“Ha, ha!” cried Learmont, “we will.”“Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those laughs—to yourself?”“You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming cups.”“Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows. Hurrah!”“Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,When its sparkling bubbles rise,Call it divine—divine,For God’s a dainty prize.“Hurrah!”“By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”“D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master G—Gray.”“Not for worlds,” muttered Learmont.“Eh?” cried Sheldon, “was that you?”“What do you mean?”“Mean? Why—I—I—heard an uncommon odd voice say, ‘N—n—not for worlds.’”“’Twas some echo, my good friend. Is this the turning?”“Oh! Ah!” laughed the waterman. “Now that is good. Is—is—is this the turning—and—you going—have—Ho! Ho! You know it’s the turning—perhaps you want to in—in—sinuate that I’m drunk?”“Certainly not,” replied Learmont. “I was only surprised at your amazing knowledge of the road. I only meant to try you, good Master Sheldon.”“Try me? Try me? I—I know every inch of the road—I—follow me, and I’ll take you to your own door.”“Is it possible?”“Come on and see. Follow, I—say—follow.”“I will,” cried Learmont, his dark eyes flashing with unholy fire, as he thought how gigantic a step towards the accomplishment of Gray’s destruction would be the knowledge, unknown to him, of his secret abode.Cautiously he followed the devious track of the drunken man, who, with mock gravity, marched onwards to show the way. “Now, Jacob Gray,” he thought, “you are in my grasp; you shall die—die—some death of horror which in its bitter pangs will give you some taste of the heart-sickness you have given me.”

Learmont’s Adventure.—A Discovery.—The Haunted House.—Exultation, and a Resolution.

In thewild excitement of his passions, Learmont had walked onwards, heedless of whither he was going, and now that he had in some measure found the relief he sought for in fatigue, he glared anxiously round to find if possible what part of the town he had strayed to in his deep abstraction.

The night was very dark, not a star peeped forth from heaven to light with its small twinkling lustre the massive black arch of the firmament. No moon shed its silvery radiance on the gigantic city;—a darkness, so intense that sky, houses, trees,—all seemed merged into one chaotic mass.

“Where should I be?” muttered Learmont; “I must have walked far, for I am weary. Ha! Is that the hour?”

The clock of St. Paul’s struck three as he spoke, and from the direction of the sound, Learmont guessed that he was somewhere southward of that edifice.

“Some chance passenger,” he muttered, “will direct me to Westminster; yet I hear no footfall in these silent streets. How still and solemn now is the great city; one might imagine it a vast cemetery, in which the dead alone dwelt.”

He paced slowly down a long straggling street, and his own footsteps were the only sounds that disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned around.

Learmont walked on slowly, for he knew not but he might be in some dangerous quarter of the city, and his suspicions that the locality in which he was did not possess any great claims to fashion or respectability were much increased by a door suddenly opening in a house some dozen yards in advance of him, and a man being flung from it with considerable force into the centre of the street, while a loud voice, exclaimed:—

“Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round dozen of you, we might think of it.”

“It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within.

“That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and the street even is turning round—and round in a most ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray. It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured character.”

The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately.

“I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man.

When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,—

“My friend, can you tell me where I am?”

“Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just been turned out of the Mitre.”

“Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of the town we are in?”

“The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that ain’t it.”

“What do you mean?” said Learmont.

“I’ll do it—I’ll do it, I tell you.”

“Do what?”

“Do what? Come, that’s good of you. You know what. All I mean to say is, that if somebody else is to do it, why I am sure nobody—no, that isn’t it either. How very ex—ex—extraordinary!”

“Idiot!” exclaimed Learmont, striding away; but the man called after him, and his voice echoed through the deserted street, as he said,—

“Don’t be—be—offended. I’ll do it, I tell you. No, no—nonsense, now, I know you—mind I—know you: it’s only a mur—murder! Ah! ah!”

Learmont paused in astonishment, not altogether unmingled with dismay, at these words and he was by the man’s side again in a moment.

“You know me?“ he said.

“Yes, yes, I believe you,” replied, the man. “I’ll do it.”

“What can this mean?” thought Learmont; then he said, aloud,—

“Who am I—you say you know me?”

“You—you didn’t think it,” said the man, with much drunken cunning; “but I watched you home.”

“You watched me home?”

“Yes,—to be sure. Don’t be frightened; I—I saw you go in. Oh! oh!”

“Indeed!” said Learmont, who was determined to humour his singular companion.

“Yes, I believe you, I—I thought you’d be surprised; and so you are: it’s ex—extraordinary, ain’t it?”

“Oh! Very.”

“Well, I’ll do it—you recollect my name?”

“Perfectly.”

“Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.”

“Sheldon is your name.”

“Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink like me.”

“You are a waterman, then?”

“You—know I am.”

“Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont.

“Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary how clever I—am.”

“Quite remarkable.”

“Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—”

“The boy?”

“Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched you—you—see.”

“The boy?” repeated Learmont.

“Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you see.”

“Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—”

“And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said so.”

“No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!”

“My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.”

“The—the—then—you thought wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.”

“Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?”

“Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated you.”

“Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.”

“I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw him.”

“The boy?”

“Yes—to—to be sure.”

“Did you hear him speak?”

“I—I believe you—”

“Well—well.”

“Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he,—what do you think now?”

“Really, I cannot tell.”

“Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out your name, you see.”

“My name, Master Sheldon?”

“Yes, your name.”

“No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.”

“N—n—not know it?”

“Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?”

“Gray, to be sure.”

“Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again; and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm.

“Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder of Britton.

“You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was Gray?”

The man looked in the countenance of Learmont, as well as the darkness would permit him, and answered, not without evident trepidation,—

“Gray—yes—Gray—it—it was. I shouldn’t have known it—but, you see, the boy stopped at the window to cry—”

“To cry?—well—and then?”

“Then, he said, ‘Can this man, Gray, really be of my kindred? Do we think alike?’ says he, ‘do we’—now, hang me, if I recollect what he said.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” suddenly laughed Learmont. “You are brave and acute. Ha, ha! You have found me out, I see. I am Gray. Ha, ha!”

“I—I—beg—your pardon, Mister Gray,” hiccupped the man, “but was that y—y—you that laughed in that odd way? Eh?”

“I laughed,” said Learmont.

“Then—d—don’t do it again. It’s the most uncom—com—comfortable sort o’ laugh I ever heard; an ex—ex—extraordinary laugh.”

“Good master a—a—”

“Sheldon,” said the man.

“Ay, Sheldon,” resumed Learmont. “I will have no secrets from you. You shall come home with me. You know the way?”

“Of—of—course I do.”

“Then, come on,” cried Learmont, with difficulty concealing his exultations at the chance that had thus thrown in his way a guide to Gray’s house.

“Ay, you—you’re right,” said the waterman. “Come on—come on. We’ll have a cup together?”

“Ha, ha!” cried Learmont, “we will.”

“Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those laughs—to yourself?”

“You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming cups.”

“Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows. Hurrah!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,

When its sparkling bubbles rise,

Call it divine—divine,

For God’s a dainty prize.

“Hurrah!”

“By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”

“D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master G—Gray.”

“Not for worlds,” muttered Learmont.

“Eh?” cried Sheldon, “was that you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? Why—I—I—heard an uncommon odd voice say, ‘N—n—not for worlds.’”

“’Twas some echo, my good friend. Is this the turning?”

“Oh! Ah!” laughed the waterman. “Now that is good. Is—is—is this the turning—and—you going—have—Ho! Ho! You know it’s the turning—perhaps you want to in—in—sinuate that I’m drunk?”

“Certainly not,” replied Learmont. “I was only surprised at your amazing knowledge of the road. I only meant to try you, good Master Sheldon.”

“Try me? Try me? I—I know every inch of the road—I—follow me, and I’ll take you to your own door.”

“Is it possible?”

“Come on and see. Follow, I—say—follow.”

“I will,” cried Learmont, his dark eyes flashing with unholy fire, as he thought how gigantic a step towards the accomplishment of Gray’s destruction would be the knowledge, unknown to him, of his secret abode.

Cautiously he followed the devious track of the drunken man, who, with mock gravity, marched onwards to show the way. “Now, Jacob Gray,” he thought, “you are in my grasp; you shall die—die—some death of horror which in its bitter pangs will give you some taste of the heart-sickness you have given me.”

CHAPTER XX.The Guide.—The Old House.—The Murder.Sheldoncontinued singing snatches of rude songs, and staggering onwards, while Learmont followed closely upon his heels, and judiciously kept up a conversation with him that prevented him from giving any further thought on the object of his present undertaking.It was strictly true what Sheldon had stated. After landing Jacob Gray, he had left his boat in charge of one of the idlers who are always plying on the banks of the river, and cautiously dogged his customer home. This was a circumstance which it had never for one moment entered into even Gray’s over-suspicious imagination to conceive. He had, as he felt well assured, scared Britton from pursuing him for that time at least; and he fancied himself, therefore, quite free. Hence was it that the waterman, who wished to know something more of the man who had made to him a proposal amounting to murder, succeeded in so successfully following Jacob Gray.At that period the Thames was infested with the worst of characters, and scarcely any proposition, let it involve what measure of guilt it might, could be made in vain to many of the desperadoes who were ostensibly watermen, but really, robbers and cut-throats of the vilest description. That Sheldon was a man not tortured with many virtuous scruples, the reader will readily conceive; but he did shrink from the cold-blooded murder so calmly proposed to him by Gray, and he felt well inclined to sell that gentleman to justice, only he was very anxious to have a good price for his virtue, for Master Sheldon was fond of sack, doted on canary, and idolised all manner of strong drinks; so that a good reward in gold pieces fornotdoing a decidedly disagreeable job, presented itself to his mind in lovely and agreeable colours. So elated had he been with the bare supposition of such an event, that instead of going back to the stairs at which he had left his wherry, he had repaired to the “Mitre,” and tasted so many different enticing and delicious compounds, that, as the reader is aware, the calculating and considerate landlord was compelled to turn him out at three o’clock in the morning, because, being only one drunkard, he was not worth attending to any longer.With eager steps Learmont followed his guide till they came to the range of miserable habitations, in one of which Jacob Gray had concealed himself and his precious charge.“Ah,” said Learmont, “I begin to think you do indeed know the way.”“Know the way!” cried Sheldon—“I could find it blindfold. Come on, I—I’ll take you to your own door.”“What astonishing acuteness!” remarked Learmont.“Yes,“ said Sheldon, wonderfully flattered, “I—I believe you there, Master Gray. You are no fool yourself, because you—you see you’ve found out how ex—ex—extraordinary clever I am—you see.”“Exactly,” cried Learmont. “This is a lonely district.”“Here you are—Ah! Ah!” laughed Sheldon. “I—I know it—this is the house. Bless you, I know it by the painted windows.”Learmont walked to the middle of the roadway, and by the dim morning light, which was just beginning to shed a faint colour across the dusky sky, he gazed earnestly at the ancient building, in which he had no doubt were the objects of his hatred and dread.“Well,” said Sheldon, “ain’t—ain’t you going to ask a fellow in, just to take a drop o’ something?”Learmont heard him not, or if he did, he heeded him not, but stood intently gazing at the house, and treasuring up in his memory every little peculiarity he could by the faint light detect, in order that he might again recognise it without doubt or difficulty.“Hilloa!” cried Sheldon. “What are you staring at—d—d—did you never see your own house before?”Learmont started, and advancing to Sheldon, he laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying,—“My good friend, in that house I have not one drop of liquor, good or bad, to offer you.”“The d—d—devil you haven’t,” said the waterman.“Not a drain; but if you will walk with me till we come to some really good hostel, I will make you the partaker of the value of a couple of gold pieces melted down into humming ale, spiced canary, sack, or choice Rhenish—ay? What you will you shall have, if you will how take my arm, and let me be your guide.”“You—you are the prince of good fellows,” cried Sheldon, “d—d—damme you are—humming ale, did you say?”“Certainly, such as will be music in your ears.”“And—and spiced canary?”“Even, so; deep draughts that will shut the world from your eyes and your thoughts.”“Sack—s—sack, and Rhenish too?”“All—all. You shall steep your senses in delight; drown your soul in a delirium of pleasure. Come on—come on, good Master Sheldon—do you not see the morning is breaking?”“D—d—d—n it, let it break. I mean to say that you are my best friend. Bless you—I ain’t a-going to cry—no—no.”“Come—come, say no more—say no more.”Learmont took the arm of the waterman, who was rapidly becoming sentimental again, and, passing it through his own, he led him away from Gray’s house at a quick pace.The morning light was now each moment increasing, and Learmont did not fail to note every particular building he passed, in order that, when he came again, he should need no guide.Suddenly, as they turned the corner of a street, they came in sight of the square tower of the Bishop’s Palace, at Lambeth, and as Learmont knew that well, he felt quite assured that he could from that, as a land-mark, walk with certainty to the house of Jacob Gray.He now threw his whole thoughts into a consideration of what was to be done with his intoxicated companion. That he had been in some sort of communication with Jacob Gray he could not doubt, and moreover, he shrewdly suspected that the destruction of Britten was the object hinted at by Sheldon—that, however, was a far inferior object in Learmont’s mind to the destruction of Gray himself, and the possession of the boy he held in his power. Therefore was it that Learmont fell into a train of anxious and horrid thoughts as to whether Sheldon after he had left him might not, by his relation of having brought some one to his secret abode, alarm the cautious Jacob Gray into an immediate removal, and so baffle him, Learmont, again.If there be any crime more awful than another, it is a cool and deliberate murder founded upon calculation; but Learmont was just the man to commit such an act, and while the thoughtless Sheldon was hanging upon his arm and murmuring disjointed snatches of songs in praise of good fellowship and glorious wine, Learmont half resolved upon his death.“This drunken idiot can be of no use to me,” he reasoned with himself, “because I could never depend upon him; but he may, if I let him escape, warn Gray, and I lose the rare chance that kind Fortune has thrown so strangely in my way. He must die.”They now passed the ancient entrance to the Bishop’s Palace; and entered upon the well-known walk along the banks of the Thames, which was then much more shadowed by lofty trees than it is at present; and although those trees, in consequence of the season of the year, were now leafless, yet their gigantic trunks cast broad and obscuring shadows between them and the wall of the Bishop’s garden.A cold piercing air blew from the Thames, and Sheldon shuddered as he remarked,—“I say—my—my good fellow, the—sooner we get to some place where we can have this same ale, and—and sack—and Rhenish—the better—on my faith it’s c—c—cold.”“Come this way, close to the palace wall,” said Learmont, “and the old trees will save us from the cool air that blows across the river.”So saying, he led his doomed companion close to the ancient wall, then he paused and listened attentively, in case any one should be within hearing; all was as still as the grave—not the most distant sound indicative of human life, met his ears.“He must die!” muttered Learmont.“You may say it’s cold,” remarked Sheldon; “w—w—what are you waiting for—“Ha! Ha! Ha! Who would not drinkWhen, the cup is brimming over,Be it Rhenish—be it—sack—Or burning old—Oc—Oc—October!“that’s a—b—b—brave song—a ex—extraordinary brave song—a—w—w—wonderful song.”Learmont laid his hand on his sword as he said—“There is more light now, Master Sheldon. Look at me.”As he spoke he raised his cap, which previously had been drawn close over his eyes, and raised himself to his full gaunt height.The waterman fixed his wondering eyes upon him, and muttered:—“I—I—think—you—you ain’t Master Gray.”“Do you know me?” cried Learmont, fiercely.The man trembled and seemed all at once half-sobered by terror as he stammered—“I—I—have seen—”“Seen what?—who?”“Your worship at Westminster.”“Ah! My name—know you that?”“They called you Squire Learmont.”Learmont suddenly turned his back upon Sheldon, and casting an anxious glance around him to satisfy himself that they were still alone, he suddenly drew his sword and faced the trembling man.“Mercy! mercy!” cried Sheldon, dropping on his knees.“Idiot!” cried Learmont, “you are in my way. Curses on your worthless life!”“Oh, God, mercy!” cried the man.Learmont shortened his arm, and plunged his sword through the body of the defenceless man.With a wild shriek that rung through the Bishop’s walk, Sheldon sprang from his knees; he grasped wildly at the air, and spun round and round in his frantic efforts to stand.“Help! Help! Murder!” he shrieked.“Damnation!” cried Learmont, and again he passed his reeking sword through the heaving chest of Sheldon.Again the wounded man tried to speak, but a low gurgling sound in his throat was all he could produce, and he fell with a deep groan at the feet of the murderer.

The Guide.—The Old House.—The Murder.

Sheldoncontinued singing snatches of rude songs, and staggering onwards, while Learmont followed closely upon his heels, and judiciously kept up a conversation with him that prevented him from giving any further thought on the object of his present undertaking.

It was strictly true what Sheldon had stated. After landing Jacob Gray, he had left his boat in charge of one of the idlers who are always plying on the banks of the river, and cautiously dogged his customer home. This was a circumstance which it had never for one moment entered into even Gray’s over-suspicious imagination to conceive. He had, as he felt well assured, scared Britton from pursuing him for that time at least; and he fancied himself, therefore, quite free. Hence was it that the waterman, who wished to know something more of the man who had made to him a proposal amounting to murder, succeeded in so successfully following Jacob Gray.

At that period the Thames was infested with the worst of characters, and scarcely any proposition, let it involve what measure of guilt it might, could be made in vain to many of the desperadoes who were ostensibly watermen, but really, robbers and cut-throats of the vilest description. That Sheldon was a man not tortured with many virtuous scruples, the reader will readily conceive; but he did shrink from the cold-blooded murder so calmly proposed to him by Gray, and he felt well inclined to sell that gentleman to justice, only he was very anxious to have a good price for his virtue, for Master Sheldon was fond of sack, doted on canary, and idolised all manner of strong drinks; so that a good reward in gold pieces fornotdoing a decidedly disagreeable job, presented itself to his mind in lovely and agreeable colours. So elated had he been with the bare supposition of such an event, that instead of going back to the stairs at which he had left his wherry, he had repaired to the “Mitre,” and tasted so many different enticing and delicious compounds, that, as the reader is aware, the calculating and considerate landlord was compelled to turn him out at three o’clock in the morning, because, being only one drunkard, he was not worth attending to any longer.

With eager steps Learmont followed his guide till they came to the range of miserable habitations, in one of which Jacob Gray had concealed himself and his precious charge.

“Ah,” said Learmont, “I begin to think you do indeed know the way.”

“Know the way!” cried Sheldon—“I could find it blindfold. Come on, I—I’ll take you to your own door.”

“What astonishing acuteness!” remarked Learmont.

“Yes,“ said Sheldon, wonderfully flattered, “I—I believe you there, Master Gray. You are no fool yourself, because you—you see you’ve found out how ex—ex—extraordinary clever I am—you see.”

“Exactly,” cried Learmont. “This is a lonely district.”

“Here you are—Ah! Ah!” laughed Sheldon. “I—I know it—this is the house. Bless you, I know it by the painted windows.”

Learmont walked to the middle of the roadway, and by the dim morning light, which was just beginning to shed a faint colour across the dusky sky, he gazed earnestly at the ancient building, in which he had no doubt were the objects of his hatred and dread.

“Well,” said Sheldon, “ain’t—ain’t you going to ask a fellow in, just to take a drop o’ something?”

Learmont heard him not, or if he did, he heeded him not, but stood intently gazing at the house, and treasuring up in his memory every little peculiarity he could by the faint light detect, in order that he might again recognise it without doubt or difficulty.

“Hilloa!” cried Sheldon. “What are you staring at—d—d—did you never see your own house before?”

Learmont started, and advancing to Sheldon, he laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying,—

“My good friend, in that house I have not one drop of liquor, good or bad, to offer you.”

“The d—d—devil you haven’t,” said the waterman.

“Not a drain; but if you will walk with me till we come to some really good hostel, I will make you the partaker of the value of a couple of gold pieces melted down into humming ale, spiced canary, sack, or choice Rhenish—ay? What you will you shall have, if you will how take my arm, and let me be your guide.”

“You—you are the prince of good fellows,” cried Sheldon, “d—d—damme you are—humming ale, did you say?”

“Certainly, such as will be music in your ears.”

“And—and spiced canary?”

“Even, so; deep draughts that will shut the world from your eyes and your thoughts.”

“Sack—s—sack, and Rhenish too?”

“All—all. You shall steep your senses in delight; drown your soul in a delirium of pleasure. Come on—come on, good Master Sheldon—do you not see the morning is breaking?”

“D—d—d—n it, let it break. I mean to say that you are my best friend. Bless you—I ain’t a-going to cry—no—no.”

“Come—come, say no more—say no more.”

Learmont took the arm of the waterman, who was rapidly becoming sentimental again, and, passing it through his own, he led him away from Gray’s house at a quick pace.

The morning light was now each moment increasing, and Learmont did not fail to note every particular building he passed, in order that, when he came again, he should need no guide.

Suddenly, as they turned the corner of a street, they came in sight of the square tower of the Bishop’s Palace, at Lambeth, and as Learmont knew that well, he felt quite assured that he could from that, as a land-mark, walk with certainty to the house of Jacob Gray.

He now threw his whole thoughts into a consideration of what was to be done with his intoxicated companion. That he had been in some sort of communication with Jacob Gray he could not doubt, and moreover, he shrewdly suspected that the destruction of Britten was the object hinted at by Sheldon—that, however, was a far inferior object in Learmont’s mind to the destruction of Gray himself, and the possession of the boy he held in his power. Therefore was it that Learmont fell into a train of anxious and horrid thoughts as to whether Sheldon after he had left him might not, by his relation of having brought some one to his secret abode, alarm the cautious Jacob Gray into an immediate removal, and so baffle him, Learmont, again.

If there be any crime more awful than another, it is a cool and deliberate murder founded upon calculation; but Learmont was just the man to commit such an act, and while the thoughtless Sheldon was hanging upon his arm and murmuring disjointed snatches of songs in praise of good fellowship and glorious wine, Learmont half resolved upon his death.

“This drunken idiot can be of no use to me,” he reasoned with himself, “because I could never depend upon him; but he may, if I let him escape, warn Gray, and I lose the rare chance that kind Fortune has thrown so strangely in my way. He must die.”

They now passed the ancient entrance to the Bishop’s Palace; and entered upon the well-known walk along the banks of the Thames, which was then much more shadowed by lofty trees than it is at present; and although those trees, in consequence of the season of the year, were now leafless, yet their gigantic trunks cast broad and obscuring shadows between them and the wall of the Bishop’s garden.

A cold piercing air blew from the Thames, and Sheldon shuddered as he remarked,—

“I say—my—my good fellow, the—sooner we get to some place where we can have this same ale, and—and sack—and Rhenish—the better—on my faith it’s c—c—cold.”

“Come this way, close to the palace wall,” said Learmont, “and the old trees will save us from the cool air that blows across the river.”

So saying, he led his doomed companion close to the ancient wall, then he paused and listened attentively, in case any one should be within hearing; all was as still as the grave—not the most distant sound indicative of human life, met his ears.

“He must die!” muttered Learmont.

“You may say it’s cold,” remarked Sheldon; “w—w—what are you waiting for—

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Who would not drink

When, the cup is brimming over,

Be it Rhenish—be it—sack—

Or burning old—Oc—Oc—October!

“that’s a—b—b—brave song—a ex—extraordinary brave song—a—w—w—wonderful song.”

Learmont laid his hand on his sword as he said—

“There is more light now, Master Sheldon. Look at me.”

As he spoke he raised his cap, which previously had been drawn close over his eyes, and raised himself to his full gaunt height.

The waterman fixed his wondering eyes upon him, and muttered:—

“I—I—think—you—you ain’t Master Gray.”

“Do you know me?” cried Learmont, fiercely.

The man trembled and seemed all at once half-sobered by terror as he stammered—

“I—I—have seen—”

“Seen what?—who?”

“Your worship at Westminster.”

“Ah! My name—know you that?”

“They called you Squire Learmont.”

Learmont suddenly turned his back upon Sheldon, and casting an anxious glance around him to satisfy himself that they were still alone, he suddenly drew his sword and faced the trembling man.

“Mercy! mercy!” cried Sheldon, dropping on his knees.

“Idiot!” cried Learmont, “you are in my way. Curses on your worthless life!”

“Oh, God, mercy!” cried the man.

Learmont shortened his arm, and plunged his sword through the body of the defenceless man.

With a wild shriek that rung through the Bishop’s walk, Sheldon sprang from his knees; he grasped wildly at the air, and spun round and round in his frantic efforts to stand.

“Help! Help! Murder!” he shrieked.

“Damnation!” cried Learmont, and again he passed his reeking sword through the heaving chest of Sheldon.

Again the wounded man tried to speak, but a low gurgling sound in his throat was all he could produce, and he fell with a deep groan at the feet of the murderer.

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