Chapter CII…

Chapter CII

The Hour of Eleven.—Gray in His Solitary Home.—The Lover’s Watch.—The Eve of the Murder.

The night set in dark and lowering, and heavy masses of black clouds piled themselves up in the southern sky long before the hour appointed by Learmont for the attempt upon the life of Jacob Gray. A cold wind swept round the corner of the streets, and occasionally a dashing shower of rain would sweep horizontally along for a moment, and then cease, as the cloud, from whence sprang the shower, swept onwards on the wings of the wind through the realms of space.

Many of the lamps were extinguished by the sudden gusts of wind, and watchmen wisely betook themselves to their various boxes, comforting their consciences with the conviction that no decent foot-pad or housebreaker had any right to be out on such a disagreeable night.

People who had homes to go to, and warm fire-sides to sit down by, and happy smiling faces to welcome them, hurried through the streets in search of such dear enjoyments, while the poor houseless creatures who had no home—no kind kindred, no friend to warm the heart with a soft cheering smile, crept into old doorways and covered courts, and half-built houses, huddling themselves up with a shiver, to try by the unconsciousness of sleep to forget for awhile their miseries.

There was one, though, who heeded no wind nor weather—one to whom the cutting blast, the dashing rain, and the general discomfort out of doors was nothing, for his heart and brain were too full of brighter, fairer objects to allow the smallest space for a consideration of the more external face of nature—so for him the elements might wage what war they liked—he heeded them not, for his heart was crammed with fire from Heaven, and the sunshine of his soul made its own beauty in his breast. That one was Albert Seyton, who, as soon as the shades of evening had made it safe for him to do so, had silently and cautiously ensconced himself in the ancient doorway immediately opposite to Gray’s house, determining there to watch until the morning’s dawn over the house, which he fondly believed contained his dearly-beloved, lost Ada.

One by one he saw the lights put out in the house, with the exception of two, and one of those he pleased himself by imagining lit up the chamber of Ada. Now and then a shadow would flit across the blind at the window of that room, and the fond lover, in his ardent creative imagination, endeavoured to trace in it the beauty of form, the sylph-like symmetry of her he loved.

“Yes—yes,” he said, “she is there, my beautiful Ada. Oh, could she but guess how fond, how true a heart was beating for her here. How vigilant a sentinel was watching lest harm should come to her through the long hours of the night. Could she but dream of much—were some kind angel to whisper to her as she slept that her lover was near her, that he watched over, and blessed her as she slept, what smiles would kindle on her face, what flashing tenderness, would beam from her, and what a new-born joy would spring up in her, perhaps, heavy heart.”

Albert crossed his arms upon his breast, and waited more than an hour without the least interruption, and then, just as the only other light in the house, besides the one which he pleased himself by fancying burned in Ada’s chamber, was put out, and the entrance to the deep doorway in which he was became darkened by a human form, and Sir Francis Hartleton’s spy stood for a moment or two muttering to himself, without observing Seyton, who drew back silently, resolved to wait a few moments to see if he intended a stay or not.

“A nice night,” muttered the man. “I think I see myself waiting here. All’s right, I dare say. If I come once an hour, it will be ample time enough. There’s a gust of wind. It’s enough to make a fellow’s marrow feel cold.”

With these words he cast another look up at the house inhabited by Gray, and then struck off to a public-house, which was at the corner of the street.

“A good riddance,” said Albert, “although I wonder what on earth he can be watching Gray for. A few hours though must end all my suspense and restore her to me. No doubt even now the rich squire is maturing some plan to aid me effectually. I am well guided by his wisdom, for he says truly that Ada would never be perfectly happy without knowing what those papers contained which Gray sets such store by, and any rash attempt to rescue Ada might involve their destruction. I must be patient—I must be patient.”

The light which Albert Seyton took such interest in came from Jacob Gray’s room; he had not stirred out the whole of the day, and the tempestuous state of the evening induced him to abandon all intention of leaving his home. About sunset he had crept down stairs to the shop, and desired his landlady to procure him some refreshment, carefully locking his room door even for the few moments he was absent from it in making his request. Then, when he returned, he paced to and fro until the viands he had ordered were brought to him, when, with an attempt at a smile, he said—

“A bad night—the wind howls fearfully.”

“Ah, you are right, sir,” said the woman; “there’s ever so many tiles blowed off of our house, and I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do, for there the chimney in the next room smokes, and the people as lived there is gone.”

“Indeed—then your next room is untenanted.”

“Yes, sir, it is—more’s the pity.”

“Aye—more’s the pity,” said Gray. “’Tis far better.”

“Better, sir??”

Gray started, for he had uttered his thought loud enough to be heard.

“Nothing—nothing,” he said; “good evening—you can leave these things; I am going to rest.”

“Good night, sir; I do hope as the wind won’t go on howling in this way. It hasn’t come down our chimnies in such a shocking way since we had a death in the house.”

“A death!” cried Gray; “don’t talk to me of deaths, woman—don’t croak to me; I—I—good night—good night.”

“Well I never,” muttered the woman to herself, as she left the room; “he is a very odd man to be sure. One never knows what to say to him.”

“How dare she talk to me of deaths in the house?” muttered Gray, “there is no death in the house—a croaking hag—I am very well—I—I never was better—death—death—I hate the word. Curses on her for putting it in my head. I am exceedingly well to-night—quite strong and well. Let the wind howl—if any one dies it will not be me. No—I am so very—very well.”

He sat down now, and fixed his eyes intently on the cloak, between the lining and outer cloth of which he had hidden his confession.

“There—there hangs what would be more than a nine day’s wonder,” he muttered, “for all the gaping fools in London. There hangs what would bring the high, the proud, the mighty Squire Learmont to a scaffold; and Britton, too, the savage smith, whose hands so itch to be imbued in my blood. Ha! Ha! I have them, when I like—but I bide my time—I bide my time. Yet why do I feel this horror—why do my hands shake, and my lips stick together for want of healthful moisture? This is what they call nervousness—mere physical weakness. I shall get rid of all this when I am far from England—yes, I shall be quite well then. Now, I really wonder if ever, in after years, I shall come to believe what priests prate about. Is there a Heaven? And—and, more awful question still, is there a hell? What am I saying? I shall drive myself mad if I think thus. I will hope nothing—fear nothing—believe nothing—nothing—nothing.”

The disturbed state of his mind deprived him of all appetite, and he forced rather than enjoyed his meal, of which he scantily partook. Then folding his arms upon the table, he leant his head upon them, and fell into a disturbed and harassing slumber—a slumber that brought with it no refreshment, but weakened both mind and body by allowing the imagination to prey unchecked upon the nervous system.

Eleven o’clock boomed forth, sullenly from the church clocks, now sounding clear and startingly loud as a gust of wind took the sound, and then sinking to the faintest indication of a sound, as the fickle element whirled in some contrary direction, destroying its own conducting power. Learmont was standing, like a statue of melancholy; in his own chamber, and he heard the hour from the clock of Westminster Abbey, as well as from a French timepiece in his room, which, as if in defiance of the dark and bloody thoughts that ran through his brain, struck up one of those light waltzes which such toys are made to play. With an oath Learmont dashed the clock to the ground, and the gay scenes which had been so little in accordance with his humour ceased.

“Some meddling fool must needs put that gilded annoyance in my chamber,” he muttered, as he spurned it with his foot. “Time speeds not with me in such lively measures; I would have the hours tolled forth now by a funeral bell, for each one comes more closely to the knell of Jacob Gray. Eleven—eleven—in another hour—it will soon pass away. I have saved myself some occupation for that hour.”

He took a key from his pocket, and, unlocking a cabinet, took from it a brace of pistols, the loading and priming of which he carefully examined.

“These may be useful in case of need,” he muttered; “it may be we may have more foes to encounter than Jacob Gray. Oh that I could leave the smith alone to do the work! But then the confession—that I must secure myself; I dare not trust Andrew Britton with that—and it were unsafe for me to go alone. It will be to risk too much—when I consider, I will run no risks—my victim shall be overpowered—will Britton stab him—or—or will he strangle him? Some quiet mode were best. I will take with me this poniard—its point is dipped in poison—the merest scratch is instant death. Should Britton fail, I must do the work myself; for, come what may, this night shall witness the death of Jacob Gray.”

He stood now for some moments in the room in deep thought; then he walked to the window, and gazed upon the black sky.

“The night is wild and boisterous,” he muttered; “and yet such nights are congenial to me. I will walk the streets until the hour of twelve. Britton will be sure to come—yes, he will be sure to come.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CIII. From Twelve to One

Heedless of the dashing rain which ever and anon came in soaking showers upon the wind, Learmont paced up and down by his door. Never before had he made up his mind to risk so much by one act as he was about to do by taking the life of Jacob, for after all there clung to him like a shrieking fiend, which he could not shake off, the horrible thought the confession might by some means elude his search, and so fall into the hands of others to his destruction. To rid himself of such dire forebodings, Learmont was in no state as regarded the powers of reason, for his mind was so wrought upon now by the near approach of the hour of action he had waited for with such a feverish impatience, that when doubts assailed him, he could only resist them by muttering his fixed determination that Gray should die, and that upon this state he would risk all.

Now a dark heavy figure was approaching Learmont’s house—was it the smith? The squire crept up his own steps, and stood in the shadow of his doorway. The figure came on. It was—yes, it must be he!—Now he pauses!—It is Britton!—He has kept his word. He glances around him—mutters a malediction—and ascends the steps! Then Learmont went forward to meet him. He drew a long breath and placing his trembling hand upon the smith’s shoulder, he said,—

“You are punctual, Britton—most punctual! I am glad to see you!! Welcome—welcome! What have you there?”

Britton took from beneath the flap of his coat, whither he had hidden it, a large bright cleaver, and holding it up before Learmont’s face, he said, with a bitter laugh,—

“Will that do, squire? I say will that do?”

“For—for Gray?”

“Yes—curses on him! I think this will make sure work! I’ve borrowed it on purpose. One blow with it, and Jacob Gray, will trouble us no more!”

“True—true! And now, Britton—good Britton, I should tell you that the child of him who lies in the Old Smithy has left Gray, so that there need not be the same scene enacted over again which once baulked our vengeance.”

“Left him, squire, and without knowing?”

“In complete ignorance, or we should ere this have heard of it. Of that, be assured, for I am quite sure, Britton, where we are going to-night, there is nothing to apprehend if we can secure Gray’s confession.”

“That will do. He dies, or my name ain’t Andrew Britton! Come—come—’tis time;” and they walked slowly towards Jacob Gray’s mean lodging.

Learmont spoke not as they went, but now and then Britton, when he thought of Jacob Gray, with all his deep cunning, being circumvented, would laugh to himself, and striking his thigh with his disengaged hand, would mutter, with the accompaniment of some fearful oath, his extreme satisfaction that he had borrowed the cleaver of Bond, and was in a fair way of trying it upon the skull of Gray, who he so cordially hated.

“Hush—hush,” Learmont said, as they neared the street: “hush, Britton! We must be cautious, for to all appearance the house in which Gray lives is filled with inhabitants. Even I do not know the room that he inhabits, except by guess, and that the guess of another.”

“That’s awkward,” said Britton: “but we’ll have him, squire, if he’s in the house. If I have to go from room to room, smashing somebody in each, I’ll have Jacob Gray at last!”

“Hush! This is the street. Have you the means of opening doors?”

“I have. Just hold the cleaver.”

Learmont took the weapon, while Britton diving his hand into his pocket, produced a bunch of skeleton keys, saying,—

“I’ll warrant with these to get at him even behind fifty locks.”

“Then understand me clearly,” said Learmont, in a low, husky voice; “I have arms about me should they be required; but you shall take Gray’s life while I secure you from all interruption by keeping guard at the door. Whatever money is found you shall possess yourself of, while I take possession of the confession, which must, surely, if at all in existence, come easily to hand. See here, I have a light.”

Learmont produced from his pocket a small lantern as he spoke, and showed Britton that when he drew the slide he could cast a strong ray of light upon any object.

“Very well, the money is of more use to me than the confession; because you know, squire, I can confess myself whenever I’ve a mind that way.”

“True—true, that is the house. Now, Britton, we must be firm, and by all the powers of hell, I swear that, let who will interrupt me this night shall meet his death.”

“Oh, that’s the house, is it?” said Britton, as beckoned by Learmont, he stood with him on the verge of the narrow pavement and glared up at it.

“There is but one light,” whispered Learmont.

“And that,” said the smith, “I’d wager a thousand pounds comes from Gray’s room. He told me long ago, when we had some talk, that he never could bear to be without a light.”

“’Tis more than probable. The keys—the keys! Ha, what was that?”

It appeared to Learmont as if a footstep had sounded on the opposite side of the way, but upon hastily turning, all was still, and he could see no one. His ears, however, had not deceived him; for Albert Seyton, when he saw two figures pause opposite to Gray’s house, had stepped forward, intending, by walking past them, to ascertain, if possible, who they were, and had recognised the squire as soon as he had emerged from the deep doorway where he held his solitary watch. For one instant only Albert paused, and then recollecting his solemn promise not to interfere in the business until the time appointed, he shrunk back again, convinced in his own mind that Learmont was adopting some safe and sure means of rescuing his Ada. Nay, he might even see her brought from the house under the protection of his generous friend. Could he then keep from rushing to her side? No. He felt that then he could not; but now was not the time. He shrunk far back into the passage, but kept his eyes fixed with a painful and absorbing interest upon the proceedings of Learmont and his companion.

Then the smith took Learmont’s lantern, and after carefully examining the lock of the outer door, he took from among the keys he carried one which in a moment turned it. Still, however, the door resisted all attempts to open it, and Britton whispered to Learmont that there was a bar.

“What are we to do?” gasped the squire.

“Pull it off,” said the smith; “but wait a minute.”

As he spoke he made a great rummaging in one of his capacious pockets, and then producing a flat case bottle, which was capable, upon a moderate computation, of holding about a pint and a half, he uncorked it, and placing it to his lips, took a hearty draught of the contents.

“Now, by hell,” muttered Learmont, “cannot you go on without drink, and if so, why stop at such a juncture as this?”

“Go to the devil!” said Britten. “Here’s as choice a drop of brandy as ever was drunk, it’s no use offering you any. Now, I’m ready again; give me the cleaver.”

Britton took the cleaver, and by great pressure succeeded in inserting its blade partially between the door and the joint; then he gave it a sudden wrench, and with a sound that went to the heart of Learmont and filled him with alarm, a wooden bar, with which the door had been made fast, fell into the shop, being forced from its place by the wrench given by the cleaver.

“You will ruin all by your haste and want of caution,” muttered the squire; “some one is sure to be alarmed by that noise.”

“That’s just what I intend,” said Britton. “Whoever comes, we can ask them for a certainty where Gray is.”

“Such a scheme would be madness,” said Learmont. “Britton you will ruin all.”

“Come in,” said the smith, and grasping Learmont by the arm, he dragged him into the little shop, and closing the door after them as well as he could.

All was utter darkness, and for a moment or two, Learmont stood listening painfully to hear if the bar had created any alarm, or had passed off without notice. Then, to his horror, he heard a footstep in some room contiguous to where they were; a gleam of light shot from under a door, and just as Learmont with a deep groan strode towards the outer door to leave the place, believing that the house must be thoroughly alarmed, Britton, in a whisper said,—

“Stoop down, squire, and leave me to manage it.”

Learmont mechanically obeyed him. The door from whence the gleam of light had issued, opened, and the woman of the house entered the shop.

“There’s that bar down again, I declare,” she said. “It’s always a slipping down, just as I am going to bed too.”

A faint scream burst from her lips as Britton suddenly placed his hand over her mouth, saying—

“Make any noise, and I’ll smash your brains out. Be quiet and I won’t.”

Terror then kept the woman from screaming, and when Britton released her, she sank upon her knees, with the candle she carried in her hand.

“Mercy—mercy, sir,” she faltered. “Oh, have mercy.”

“Hush,” said Britton. “How many people are in this house?”

“Three—three—sir, your worship. Oh! Spare my life.”

“Do you see this?” said the smith, holding the cleaver within an inch of her face.

“Yes—yes—yes,” gasped the terrified woman.

“Very well, then, if you don’t answer truly all I ask of you, and remain quite quiet for the next hour or more, I’ll dash your brains on this floor, and your skull shall be picked up in damnation little bits by some one to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, mercy, sir—mercy. I’m a poor lone woman. Spare my life.”

“Answer then, who else is in the house besides you?”

“Poor old Mrs. Garnett, sir, and—and—Master Gray, sir—if you please, sir.”

“Humph! And where does Master Gray sleep?”

“In—in—the three pair front, sir.”

“Very good. Now, my good woman, I shall just tie you up when I’ve refreshed myself a little.”

Then with a nod at the woman, and a wink, towards Learmont, who was crouching behind a pile of baskets, Britton took another draught from his case bottle, a process which he seemed resolved upon repeating at every stage of the business he had in hand.

He then took the light from the woman’s trembling hand, and seizing her by the hand, he pushed her into the room from whence she had come, and in a few moments tied her securely to the post of a bed which was there.

“Now, if you so much as mutter a word, or attempt to make any alarm till I see you again,” he said “you know what you have to expect. Look at this cleaver.”

“I—I—won’t, sir. Have mercy, sir—I won’t; I—I—suppose as you are Master Gray’s relation as he’s a feared of?”

“Yes, I’m his uncle.”

“Good gracious!”

“Silence, I say. Another word, and—”

Britton made a fearful demonstration with the cleaver round the head of the terrified woman, and then went back to the shop, where Learmont was standing, looking awfully pale, and his eyes emitting an unnatural brilliance from the great excitement under which he was labouring.

“What do you think of that, squire,” whispered the smith. “D—n him, he’s in the three pair front, and nobody to interfere with us. Now that’s what I call pleasant. There’s only two women in the house. Oh, won’t I have some fun with Master Jacob. Cunning Master Gray,—Ha! Ha! Ha! Artful, clever Jacob.”

“’Tis well,” said Learmont, “as it has turned out; but you run great risks. Let us secure the door now.”

“I can lock it,” said Britton, as he did so. “Now we are all right, squire. How cunning Gray is, and what a clod that Britton is. A sot am I. We shall see, Master Gray, with all your cunning, how you will wriggle out of the pleasant circumstances you are in to-night.”

“Now, Britton, let me implore you to drink no more. Wait, at least, until our enterprise is concluded.”

“Why, it’s only brandy, squire. It’s cooling and pleasant when one’s at work. I used to drink it at the old smithy till I made the anvil ring again as anvil never rung before beneath the strokes of a fore hammer. Come on—come on. I’m the better for the drink.”

“We must succeed—we must, surely, succeed,” said Learmont, as Britton holding the candle above his head, glanced around him a moment and then said,—

“Here is the staircase: it’s at the top of the house. Come on, squire—come on.”

They ascended the staircase slowly on their awful errand; and, oh! What a whirl-wind of dark passions filled the heart of Learmont! Fear, rage, hate—all were struggling for pre-eminence; and now that he was so near the accomplishment of his much cherished scheme of vengeance upon Jacob Gray for the horrible uneasiness he had made him suffer for so many years, his mental suffering was probably greater, because augmented by the most intense anxiety, than ever it had yet been.

The stairs creaked beneath their footsteps, and the wind blew about the flame of the candle, making the shadows of themselves, and of the balustrades, dance in wild disorder upon the walls. Then the storm without appeared to have increased, for the rumble of distant thunder came upon their ears; and, as they reached a narrow window on the staircase, a bewildering flash of lightning for an instant lit up everything with its fearful lustre, and then left behind it comparative pitchy darkness.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CIV. The Murder

Did any perception of his great danger haunt the brains of Jacob Gray as he slept in his miserable abode? Did the shadow of the grave rest upon his soul? Was there no fiend to whisper in his ear suspicions, and to aggravate his suffering by the horrors of imagination? Yes. Although Gray slept—although the corporeal part of him was still—the mind knew no repose. The sweet oblivion of sleep was not for him, and as he sat, with his head leaning upon the table, deep moans, and now and then a gasping sob, like that of some drowning wretch who sees the waters closing above his head, and shutting out the last glimpse of hope with the last glimpse of light, burst from his labouring breast. Busy fancy was carrying him on its airy pinions from earliest infancy through all the chequered scenes of chicanery and crime. From the happy stainless hours of childhood he wandered in thought through every scene of robbery, of murder, of pain, terror, and despair which he had acted in and endured. Again he rushed from the burning ruins of the smithy, with the child of the dead in his arms; again he was hunted from house to house by the squire and by Britton; then followed his denouncement at Charing-cross by Ada, and his wild run up the Strand—the murder of Vaughan—his own danger as he tremblingly crossed the roof-tops—his agony in the field near Hampstead—his hunger—his pain, misery, destitution, and wretchedness—all were enacted over again in frightful distinctness, and Jacob Gray could not awake. The perspiration, cold and clammy, stood upon his brow in bead-like drops; he tried to shriek, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth—he tried to struggle, but his limbs were powerless. The man of crime was dying a thousand deaths in his deep, mental agony.

Meanwhile, slowly approached his executioners. Step by step up the creaking staircase they came—the smith, with a dogged resolution, and his bloated face inflamed with passion and the quantity of raw spirits he had already drunk. Learmont followed him, twining his arm round the crazy balustrade of the staircase to steady himself as he proceeded on his awful errand. Now they had reached the second landing and the flight of stairs leading to the floor on which was Jacob Gray’s room presented themselves, steep and narrow, winding into dimness and obscurity, and scarcely permitting more than one person to ascend them at once.

The smith did not speak, but he pointed up the stairs, and then, with a grim smile, held up the cleaver threateningly.

“On, on,” whispered Learmont; “let it be done quickly now—this suspense is terrible.”

“Take a little of this,” said Britton, producing the brandy; “it will warm you; for you tremble as if you had got the ague,” and Learmont, in his heart, felt thankful for the offer. He took the bottle with a trembling hand, and drunk deep of the contents. He might as well have drunk as much water, for, in his present state of mind, the ardent spirit had no power over him, nor could any artificial excitement equal the fearful one which possessed him already.

Britton himself took a draught from the bottle, and then placed it in a corner by the staircase, as of no further, use, being empty, and without another word he commenced the ascent of the attic staircase. Learmont followed him closely, and, when they were half way up, he laid his hand upon Britton’s arm, and said, in a whisper that sounded like the hissing of a snake,—

“Britton, Britton—kill him—at once—do not delay—kill him at once.”

“What?” muttered Britton, “and scarcely let him know that there are people as cunning as himself. If I do kill him at once, may I be—”

“Hush, hush—remember that we must secure the confession. Without that, we are but forging a bolt for our own destruction. Perhaps I had better see him first myself.”

“That you may do as you like, squire, but give me the pleasure of using this cleaver on his skull when I please.”

“You shall, you shall—I will see him first, and, by practising upon his fears endeavour to procure his confession from him by a quicker means than searching for it. Go on, Britton—go on. Should his door be locked, you can open it; and do you keep guard at the head of the stairs while I enter his room.”

“As you please, squire. First or last, I care not, so as I’m in at the death, and have a few minutes talk with my old friend, Jacob, first.”

“Hush, hush. We are there. See ye not yon streak of light from beneath that door? It must be his chamber. Now, Britton, now—remember if he be awake, he must die at once, for the opening of the door will alarm him, and he may raise some cry that may bring help; but if I succeed in entering his room without his knowledge, do you wait, and when you hear me utter the words, ‘The hour has come,’ do you enter and kill him—but do not have a struggle, Britton—kill him at once—kill him at once.”

“There’s something inside over the key-hole,” whispered Britton; “it’s all the better, for it will deaden the sound of unlocking the door.”

With the slightest possible noise consistent with the performance of the operation at all, Britton unlocked Gray’s door. A faint light issued from the room.

Learmont paused a moment, and pressed his hand tightly upon his breast—then placing his finger on his lips, and waving his hand to Britton, he glided into Jacob Gray’s apartment.

The door slowly shut to within an inch or less—all was as still as the grave. The candle shed but a faint light, for Gray had been asleep long enough to allow the snuff to grow gigantic. In a moment Learmont saw Gray sleeping in the uneasy position he had chosen, and he stood with his feelings wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, gazing upon his victim. Soon a low moan came from Gray, and he muttered the words,—

“Oh, God—oh, God!”—in such awful wailing accents, that even Learmont felt sick at heart to hear them.

“I must awaken him,” he whispered, “I must—not delay.”

Thrice did Learmont try to raise his voice to awaken Jacob Gray, and thrice did his tongue refuse its office, producing but a faint whisper, which failed in its purpose. Then, as if a ton of lead had been appended to each foot, Learmont crept towards the table and stretched out his hand. The long white fingers shook like leaves agitated by the wind—his heart beat with fearful violence—his lips were drawn back with a painful spasm from his teeth—he breathed short and hurriedly; the effort to lay his hand upon the sleeping man was great, and it was more than a minute ere he could do so. Then nearer, nearer, still he crept, and by a desperate effort he touched his shoulder, as in a hollow, spectral voice he said—

“Awake, Jacob Gray.”

One cry escaped Gray’s lips as he lifted his head, and that cry seemed to arouse Learmont from his lethargy, for he seized Gray by the throat and held him as with a face distorted by excitement, he said, “Another cry, and it is your last, Jacob Gray.”

“Learmont,” gasped Gray, and then they glared into each other’s faces like two spirits of evil, conscious of the other’s power, yet prepared for some awful straggle for life or death.

Gray put up his hands and held Learmont’s arm, while he shook the chair on which he sat by his trembling, and thus in awful silence did these two men regard each other for more than a minute, each enduring mental agony, such only as the wicked are doomed to suffer. It was an awful picture—ghastly and dreadful to imagine—a scene to haunt the brain in sleep, and people vacancy with horror. The dim spectral-looking light, lighting up the distorted features of these two men, whose souls seemed to be concentrated in their dilated eye-balls, as they glared at each other with the fixedness of marble statues. Then there was the huge bulky form of the smith, at the crevice of the door, which he had enlarged to allow himself a view of what was passing in the room, with the bright shining instrument of death clutched in his grasp, and gloating over the prospect of the blood which was to be shed—the crushed bones and the mangled flesh he was to exult over—the prayers for mercy choked in gore. Oh, it was horrible!

Learmont was the first to speak, and when he did so, his voice was hoarse, and for want of breath his words came strangely disjointed from his lips.

“The confession—the confession—the confession,” he said.

Then Gray seemed to feel that death was at hand, and he slid from the chair on his knees, crying,—

“Mercy—mercy—mercy.”

“Hush,” said Learmont, dwelling upon the word till it became a long hissing sound. “Hush! The confession—the confession. Speak above your breath and you die—the confession.”

He still kept his grasp of Gray, and shook him to and fro as much from his own nervousness as from design.

It was awful then to hear Jacob Gray, in a husky whisper, pleading for his life—praying for that mercy he had never himself shown, and appealing to feelings which had no existence in the breasts of either Learmont or himself.

“Spare me—spare me,” he said, “and I will go far away from you. Oh, spare my life, and that mercy you now show to me will plead with Heaven for you, while I have no such hope. Oh, spare me.”

“The confession—the confession.”

“You will kill me—you will kill me if I give it to you. Oh, relent—take me now away—place me on ship board—take all I have of money back again; you shall have the confession, too, if you will spare my life. Oh, God! If you want revenge against me, let me live, for life to me is horrible enough. Yet I dare not die. Learmont, if you have one lingering hope of grace hereafter, spare me now. I am beaten—conquered—I admit all—you shall triumph over me as you may, but do not—oh, do not kill me.”

“The confession—the confession,” was Learmont’s only reply.

Gray then wrung his hands and wept hysterically, and Learmont let go his hold of him, for he saw he was incapable of resistance.

“God help me—God help me,” he said. “You, Learmont, made me what I am; you tempted me—oh, spare my poor worthless life; why should you kill me. I, poor Jacob Gray, your slave—one who has done so much for you—who will do anything you please. Think again, Learmont, think again.”

“Time is flying—I must have the confession.”

“Then, you would kill me—you would—you would—let me go into the street, and I will tell you where to find it; but you would kill me here, Learmont. I swear I will tell you where it is if you will but let me go. I will never trouble you more—you shall never hear of me. Oh, why kill me—it may bring you danger, but can give you no safety. I tell you you shall never look upon my face again, and you will have the consolation of reflecting that you overcame without soiling your hands with my blood. You relent—I can see you relent, Learmont. You will not kill me—you will not kill me!”

“Peace—peace,” said Learmont. “I must have the confession. Give it to me, and you shall live.”

“Can I—dare I? Oh, let me be assured, Learmont. Let me go first—I cannot denounce you without condemning myself! Let me leave here, and when we are in some public place, I will tell you where to find it, as well as swearing I will trouble you no more! I will for ever be thankful to you for my life! Oh, think what a great gift is life to me, and yet how small an one it is for you to give. It gives me all—takes from you nothing! Spare me—you see I am abject!—You hear my sobs!—See I am clasping your knees—I am kneeling to you!—I, who never even knelt to Heaven!—Look at my tears—Life—life—life!—Oh, let me have life!”

He grovelled as the feet of Learmont—he sobbed—wept—prayed—implored for mercy! He crawled after him as the squire shrunk back; he seized him by his cloak, and when that was wrenched from his hands, he clasped them above his head, and with an awful spasmodic action of the throat he kept repeating the one word,—

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”

Learmont was getting each moment more and more enraged at Gray’s pertinacity in refusing him the confession, and he made one last effort to induce him to produce it to him.

“Give me the confession,” he said, “and you may go from this room now while I remain here.”

“We will go together,” said Gray. “My cloak—God bless you, squire!—We will go together!—My cloak—My cloak!”

Learmont shook his clenched hand, and uttering an awful curse, he added,—

“The hour has come!”

In a moment, Andrew Britton stood before the terrified gaze of Gray, who seemed perfectly paralysed with terror, for although his lips moved, he uttered no sound, but stretching his arms out before him, as if to keep off the smith, he still knelt in the room where Learmont had left him.

The smith stepped up close to the horror-stricken man, and then his sides shook with demoniac mirth as he said—

“Ho! Ho! Cunning Jacob Gray is in the toils at last—clever, artful Jacob—run down at last by the drunken son with the middle brain. Ho! Ho! Ho!—Why don’t you laugh, squire—why don’t you laugh, Jacob? you may as well, you know—it’s all the same.”

Gray appeared from the moment of Britton’s entrance to give himself up for lost. With one gasping sob he let his head sink on his breast, and the only sign of life he gave was in the nervous twitching of his fingers which played with each other convulsively.

Britton then stepped up to him, and producing the cleaver from behind his back, he held it close to Jacob Gray’s face, saying—

“Artful Jacob, what do you think of that? Look at it—it is sharp and bright—fancy it crashing through your skull till it comes to the brain; and then, even then, you may have still life enough to feel the cracking of your own bones and the crushing agony.”

“Oh no—no,” cried Gray, suddenly. “Save me from him, Learmont—oh, God, save me from Andrew Britton! Learmont—Learmont—make me your slave—maim me—inflict daily, hourly pain upon me—but save me from Andrew Britton! Off, off, off—oh, Heaven, have mercy!”

Britton made a chop with the cleaver, purposely, so near Jacob Gray’s face, that it passed only within a hair’s breadth of him, and excited his utmost terror; a scream burst from his lips as he fell over on one side, and held up his hands to avert the blow.

“Andrew Britton,” cried Learmont, “do your work. This will ruin us—quickly—quickly.”

“Hark ye, Jacob,” said Britton; “make as much noise, or half as much again, and I’ll smash you. What would you give to live a little longer?”

“Oh, worlds! Worlds!” said Gray.

“Be quiet, then, and you shall have a few minutes more, to think how cunning you have been, and what a sad, muddle-brained fool Andrew Britton is. Ho! Ho! Jacob Gray! Think fast, as you will not have time to turn over in your mind all your cleverness.”

“Britton—Britton!” said Gray. “Triumph over me, but spare my life. I have done much for you.”

“Much for me?” exclaimed Britton, and his face became more inflamed with rage. “Much for me? Now, curses on you! You kept me working at the forge for ten long years, all because you were too much of a coward to strangle a young brat you had in your power. Yes, you have done much for me, Jacob Gray, and I will do something for you. I’m going to hack you to pieces with this cleaver.”

Learmont, during this awful conference, was busy about the room laying his trembling hands upon everything with a hope of finding the confession of Gray, and each moment as his search was unproductive, he became more dreadfully anxious and excited, until his very brain seemed on fire.

“The confession,” he said, turning to Gray. “Give me the confession, and you may yet live.”

“Not here—not here!”

Learmont came close up to him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, he said,—

“Jacob Gray, a thought strikes me, there is no confession—this has been a creation of your own fancy, to alarm me. There is no confession.”

“There is,” cried Gray. “God knows it. There is—there is!”

As Gray spoke, he crept towards the window; a wild hope had occurred to him, that he might open it suddenly and dash out into the gutter, which was under it, and possibly escape.

“Produce it, then,” said Learmont to him.

“One moment for thought,” said Gray. “Spare me a moment—I will think—keep Britton off me—keep him away—his looks kill me—I shall go mad if he keeps so close to me.”

Gray then suddenly pushed a chair between himself and Britton and fled to the window. Learmont turned his eyes away as he saw Britton step over the obstruction with the cleaver uplifted. Scream after scream burst from Jacob Gray as he stood with the back of his head against the window.

There was an awful crashing sound, one gurgling shriek, and a noise of broken glass.

“Kill him—kill him,” gasped Learmont. “Keep him not in agony!”

The cleaver descended again, a heavy fall succeeded, and then all was still. Something cold fell on the back of Learmont’s hand. A glance told him it was blood; but before he could utter the cry of horror that rose upon his lips, a tremendous knocking at the street-door awakened every echo in the house.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CV. After the Murder

The knocking continued without intermission for several seconds, and each blow seemed to Learmont as if it was struck upon his own heart.

“Britton, Britton,” he cried, “you hear. There is some alarm. Hasten, hasten, or we are lost.”

Britton turned his excited face towards the squire, and the dim light of the candle fell upon it, Learmont could not but be struck by its awful expression. The smith had at length succeeded in gratifying the long cherished desire of his heart, namely, to be in some dreadful manner revenged upon Jacob Gray. Wild excitement had caused him to do the deed which he had just committed, and every evil passion of his nature was peeping forth like a bold fiend from his countenance. Crimson spots of human gore were likewise upon his face—horrible evidences of the work he had been about.

“Who knocks?” he said in a low, earnest voice. “Who is mad enough to interfere with me?”

He raised in his hand the cleaver as he spoke—with a dull heavy splash there fell from its blade on to the floor “gouts of blood,” and Learmont turned away his head, sickened at the sight.

“Who dares, I say, to interfere with me?” repeated Britton. “Squire, Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more.”

“Name him not—oh, name him not,” said Learmont. “Hark—hark!”

As he spoke, it appeared that whoever had been knocking at the outer door of the house had grown impatient, and burst it open, frailly as it had been fastened after the violence that had been used towards it by Britton, for there was heard a loud crash, and then a sound of rapid footsteps approaching.

“Flight—flight,” gasped Learmont, as he sprung towards the door.

“Flight be d—d,” said Britton, as he flourished the cleaver above his head. “I’m not going to be scared now because some one is coming.”

He then walked deliberately to Gray’s cloak, in which it will be recollected the confession was concealed, and wiped the reeking blade of the instrument, by which he had put Gray to death, upon it.

“For my sake, and your own,” said Learmont, “leave this room. What enemy to us can he be who is coming, unless we make him one?”

As he spoke, he seized the reluctant smith by the arm, and dragging him across the narrow landing pushed open another doorway on the same story, and entered an empty room.

Now that the savage smith had dipped his hands in Gray’s blood, he would, with wild ferocity, have defied the world; and it would have given him far greater pleasure to have been hindered in his retreat, and to have had to fight his way out of the house, with Bond’s cleaver, than to escape easily and without a struggle.

In order now to explain the cause of the violent knocking at so terrible a moment at the door, we must carry the reader back for a brief space to Albert Seyton and his lonely walk. Filled with surprise, as we know he was, to see the squire at such an hour making a clandestine entrance into the house in which Gray resided, he remained upon the tip-toe of expectation waiting his re-appearance, accompanied by Ada, in which case he felt that he could no longer restrain his impatience, but must fly across to her, and welcome her to freedom, even if it cost him the reproach of breaking his word, and his future friendship of the rich squire.

But as minute after minute passed languidly away, and no re-appearance look place, Albert’s impatience and anxiety became excruciating, and he could no longer stay within the deep doorway, but scarcely knowing what he did, he walked to the very middle of the road, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door, with but now and then an occasional glance at the window, which he had all along pleased himself with the idea was that of Ada’s room, he trembled again with impatient excitement.

The profound stillness of everything surprised him, and more than once he was almost tempted to believe he must have been dreaming, when he supposed he saw Learmont enter the house at all. Suddenly, however, the silence was broken by a loud crash at the windows, and, by the dim and uncertain light, Albert saw some object apparently dashed through the glass, and then withdrawn again.

That object was the head of Jacob Gray, for then had Britten given him his death blow in the manner we have recorded.

Excited as he was, this maddened Albert, and the idea seizing him that Ada must be in some danger, he, on the impulse of the moment, knocked loudly at the door and finally with one vigorous rush against it, burst it open, and fell himself into the shop.

It was some moments before, in the dark, he could find the staircase; but, when he did, he ascended it as rapidly as he could, resolved when he reached the top, to make himself known by his voice.

“Ada—Ada,” he cried in a tone that rang through the house, and fell with a disagreeable chill upon the heart of Learmont, who immediately recognised in it the voice of Albert, and could not divine how at such a moment, he should happen to be at hand.

“Ada—Ada,” again cried Albert, and then Learmont laid his hands on the smith’s arm, and whispered—

“Britton, there is but one man there, let us kill him and escape.”

“I’m willing but where is Master Jacob’s money, and his confession, I should like to know?”

“The money I will make good to you, and I am quite convinced of what I always suspected, that there is no confession but what lay in Gray’s own brain.”

“Then it don’t lay in his brain now,” said Britton, “I’ll be sworn.”

“Hush—come on.”

“Ada—Ada,” cried Albert, pausing on the staircase, with the hope of hearing some answering sound, and more alarmed at the dead silence which prevailed in the house, than had he encountered noise, tumult, and evident danger.

“What the devil is he shouting in that way for?” muttered Britton.

“Hush—hush,” said Learmont. “Some cursed chance has brought him here. Let us descend, and, as you pass him, Britton—you understand me?”

“I do,“ said Britton. “Come on, then. Where’s your light.”

“We need none. I would not be seen by him. What you have to do, you can easily do in the dark—kill him or maim him. I care not which.”

“Well, squire,” muttered Britton, “you certainly do leave me all the work to do: but when one’s hands in, it ain’t much matter.”

Albert, in the excitement of his feelings, when he got as high as the second floor, paused, uncertain whether or not he had arrived on a level with the room of which the window had been broken so violently, and he stood for several minutes calling upon Ada, his voice, each time that he uttered her name, betraying the great anxiety which he laboured under, and which was momentarily increasing.

Suddenly, then, a voice answered him faintly, and guided by the sound, Albert pushed against a door, which, yielding to his touch, presented a dark room, into which he stepped, saying,—

“Whoever you are here, for Heaven’s sake, let me have a light.”

“Oh, spare a poor old creature, who hasn’t long to live,” said a voice.

“I intend you no harm,” said Albert, “but for God’s sake get me a light.”

There was a great creaking of an old crazy bedstead, and then the voice said, in the tremulous accents of old age,—

“Are you the man that lives up stairs?”

“No, no,” said Albert, “but get a light quickly.”

The old woman, after stumbling over every article of furniture in her room, at length found a tinder-box, and commenced striking a light with a particularly small bit of flint, which, produced, upon an average, one spark to every half dozen blows.

Albert Seyton, in his impatience, little suspected that the very circumstance of the old woman not being able to get him a light quickly saved his life, for while she was endeavouring to procure one, Learmont and Britton were creeping down the staircase with the expectation of meeting Albert and taking his life.

As they passed the door of the room in which Seyton was, and heard the hacking of the flint and steel, Britton muttered,—

“There’s some one getting a light, squire. We may as well move on, or shall I go in and smash whoever it is?”

“No, no; come on—come on,” said Learmont. “I know what it is, and there will come a time for rendering him innoxious. Come on—come on.”

They passed the door, and Albert was saved. In a few moments more the old woman procured a light, and then peering at Albert from her deep sunken eyes, she said,—

“And who may you be, young gentleman? I don’t know you, I’m sure.”

“Ask no questions,” cried Albert, as he took the light from her, “but on your soul, tell me, in which room of this house resides a young girl, by name, Ada?”

The old woman was alarmed at his vehemence, and tremblingly muttered, that she did not know who he meant, for there was no such person to her knowledge there.

“One Gray lives here?” said Albert.

“Oh, yes,” said the woman, “I’ve heard there’s a Mr. Gray up stairs.”

Albert waited not another moment, but bounded up the staircase with the light in his hand.

“Ada—Ada. ’Tis I—Albert,” he said, as he reached the top landing.

The echoes of the old house were the only sounds that replied to him, and shading the light with his hand, he walked into Jacob Gray’s room, the door of which was partially open. Everything appeared in confusion, and the first article that Albert trod upon was the cloak, which had fallen from its hook at the back of the door. A feeling of awe crept over him, which he could not account for. His blood seemed to creep through his veins, and there was an anxious flutter at his heart, as he again, but in a lower tone, pronounced the name of Ada.

All was silent as the grave. Albert stood a few paces only within the doorway, and his heart misgave him, that something dreadful must have happened to her he loved.

“Ada—Ada!” he cried, wildly. “If you live, speak—Gray—Learmont? Where are you all? Am I dreaming, or is this awful silence real? Ada—Ada—God of heaven? Where, oh, where are you, my Ada?”

He felt something soft and slimy under his feet. He stooped with the light—deadly sickness came over him—for a moment all objects swam before his eyes; he was compelled to hold the back of the chair for support—he was standing in a pool of coagulated blood!

How long it was then before he recovered full consciousness he knew not, but gradually his perceptions returned, and then he shrieked the name of Ada, with a tone of anguish, that would have saddened any heart, and lingered in the ears for months like a death shriek.

“They have killed her—they have killed her!” he cried, “Ada—Ada—I should have flown sooner to your aid—God help me, I am heart-stricken now for ever—she is dead—she is dead. My beautiful Ada—oh, God—oh, God!”

He reeled further into the room, and when he had passed the bed, which partially concealed the window he stood like one suddenly transformed to stone; for there lying in a ghastly heap, in a pool of blood, the features horribly disfigured, and scarcely a trace of the upper portion of the skull visible, his eyes fell upon what once was Jacob Gray.

All his air-drawn schemes—his deep resolves—his cunning—his cruelty—his avarice, and his ambition—where were they now? What had he reaped as the reward of his great selfishness? A death of horror. May Heaven have mercy on his soul.

Albert Seyton felt like one fascinated by the hideous glare of a serpent. He could not withdraw his eyes from the ghastly spectacle for many minutes, and while he so gazed, his very heart seemed to shrink within him, and a feeling of horror crept up—up to his brain, till a clammy perspiration broke out upon his brow, and hung there in heavy drops, while each breath he drew, was laboured and heavy.

It was frightful, but by the crushing blow of the cleaver, one of Gray’s eyes had been forced from its socket—it hung by a bleeding filament—round—glassy and fixed—it seemed to glare upon Albert like a thing of life—he could almost fancy it moved. The young man covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, as he said,—

“This must be a dream—God of heaven, this cannot be real—when oh, when shall I awake?”

Distinct sounds, as of many voices, now suddenly came upon his ears, and he started, as if the tones of a human voice had removed some spell from off his faculties. Louder and louder the sound came upon his ears. There were evidently several voices. Then he heard a confused trampling of feet—heavy footsteps were approaching.

“Thank God,” said Albert, with a feeling of inexpressible relief, as he felt sure now that some human beings besides himself were at hand. He withdrew himself with difficulty, from the awful-spectacle in Gray’s room, and proceeding to the head of the stairs, he said,—

“Help—help—murder—murder—murder.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CVI. The Arrest

The sound of his own voice seemed now to conquer all the nervous feelings which had oppressed him, and Albert Seyton continued shouting for aid, until lights flashed up the narrow staircase, and several voices cried,—

“Hilloa there, what’s the matter?”

“Murder!” cried Albert. “Quick, here. There has been murder done—this way—quick, whoever you are.”

Several men now made their appearance on the stairs, and in a few moments the landing was crowded with a party bearing lights, some of whom were likewise armed.

“This way,” said Albert, pointing to the door of Gray’s room; “a man has been barbarously murdered—his corpse lies there.”

“Oh! It’s you, my spark, is it?” cried a man stepping up to Albert, who at a glance he recognised as the spy, upon Jacob Gray, who had caused him so much uneasiness.

“For God’s sake,” cried Albert, “forget all but the necessity of securing the perpetrators of the horrible crime which has been committed in this house to-night. A man, I tell you, has been murdered.”

“Very like,” said the spy, as he took a constable’s staff from his pocket. “You are my prisoner, my light-heeled gentleman. Till we catch somebody else more suspicious, we may as well have you.”

Another officer who had gone into Gray’s room now came with a face as pale as a sheet, and trembling in every limb.

“It’s true,” he cried, “I never saw such a sight in my life, and hope never to see such an one again.”

“Do with me what you like,” cried Albert, “but take, for Heaven’s sake, some measures for securing the murderer.”

“It’s my opinion, young fellow,” said the spy, “that you know about as much of this affair as most people—keep a strict eye on him, my men. Why, you look as scared as if you had seen a ghost. Give me your light. If there is a dead man there, I’m not afraid of him.”

All but one constable, who kept a firm hold of Albert, went into the room, but hardened as these men were to scenes of terror, a cry of unmingled horror escaped them as they saw the ghastly spectacle under the window, and they quickly retreated to the landing again.

“You see I have spoken the truth,” cried Albert; “God only knows whether those I suspect are guilty or not, but to any magistrate I will communicate all I know with regard to this night’s dreadful proceedings.”

“You are, out of all hand, the most hardened ruffian I ever came near,” said the constable who held Albert; “why you’ll be hung for this as sure as you are now a living man.”

“I?” cried Albert, the dreadful circumstances of suspicion in which he was placed for the first time darting across his mind, for in the excitement of his feelings he had scarcely noticed what was said before. “I? Why you rave, man—I did not do the deed.”

“The less you say the better,” remarked the spy; “comrades, this will be no bad night’s work for us—I can give evidence that this young fellow has been dogging the man who is murdered for some days past. Here we find him actually in the very room, or on the very threshold of it. It was a lucky job we happened to see the door wide open, and came in.”

“A clear case,” said another.

“There’s been many a man hung on half the evidence,” remarked a third.

Albert looked from one to the other for a few moments, perfectly bewildered at this new turn things had taken; then he said,—

“You do not—you cannot suspect me. Good God, ’twas I who called you here. I burst the door open below but a short time since.”

“Hear him—hear him,” cried the spy; “he will own to it all in a minute.”

“Unhand me,” cried Albert; “I am as innocent of this awful crime as you yourselves—I—”

He struggled to free himself from the grasp of the officer, but a couple more of them immediately closed with him, and in a few moments he found himself handcuffed and a prisoner.

“One of you stay,” cried the spy, “and don’t let any one come near the body. By Heaven, this is as ugly a job as ever I heard of!”

Albert clasped his manacled hands together, and a feeling of despair came over his heart—a prison—a scaffold, and an ignominious death seemed to be staring him in the face. How was he to extricate himself from the fearful circumstances by which he was now surrounded? Where now were all his fond hopes of once more seeing his Ada? The rush of wretched feelings across his mind was almost too great for mortal endurance, and had it not been for the stern, unpitying men by whom he was now surrounded, he could have shed tears in the bitterness of his despair.

“Take me where you like,” he cried. “Do with me what you like—accuse me of what you please—but, as you are men and Christians, search this house, I implore you, for a young maiden, whose name is Ada. She must be here somewhere. I entreat you to search for her—I implore you. Moreover, there are papers in the room, most probably, of yon murdered man, which are directed to Sir Francis Hartleton. Find them, and take them to him. Then do with me what you please, and in my heart I believe the kindest hand would be that which took my life.”

The accent in which these words were uttered was so despairing—so full of exquisite grief and abandonment of all hope, that even the officers, blunted as their feelings were, looked affected by what they heard.

There was a moment’s silence and then one said,—

“Bring him along at once before Sir Francis. He never minds being knocked up on real business.”

“But you will do what I ask you,” said Albert; “you will search for her I have mentioned to you?”

“We cannot,” was the reply; “we must lose no time—come on—come on.”

With a deep sigh Albert dropped his head upon his breast, and suffered himself to be led down the staircase in a state of great dejection.

When he reached the foot of the topmost flight, he summoned all his energies, and once more cried,—

“Ada, Ada!”

Echo only answered him.

The officers paused themselves involuntarily to listen if any voice responded to Albert’s frantic call, but when all was still again, they urged him forward, saying,—“We can wait no longer—come to the magistrate’s.”

“Once more hear me,” cried Albert; “some of you must have hearts to feel for the unfortunate. Here, I swear to you that there are papers in yon room, where lies the ghastly remains of the murdered man, which it much imports Sir Francis Hartleton to have. Oh, search for them—search, I pray you—I will attempt no escape. You shall find me patient—most patient; but as you love justice, find those papers.”

The vehemence and earnestness of his tone was not without its effect even upon those rude men, and they looked in each other’s faces for a moment or two, irresolute, when something came down the staircase with a rustling sound, and the man who had been left above to keep guard on the door of the room, called to his companions below, saying—

“Ask the prisoner if that’s his cloak—it was lying half in and half out of the door way.”

One of the officers lifted the cloak, from the floor, and turning to Albert said—“Is this yours?”

“No,” replied Albert, “it must be his who lies above in death. It is not mine.”

“I more than suspect it is, though,” said the officer, as he held his light close to it, “why it is smeared with blood. We must take this with us, comrades. It’s a dainty piece of evidence against the prisoner. Come on—there hasn’t been such a famous murder as this since Mr. Vaughan was killed in the Strand.”

“But the papers. You forget the papers,” cried Albert.

“Hang the papers,” was the reply. “There are none. We cannot waste time with you.”

The unhappy young man resigned himself to his fate, and accompanied the officers in silence. Evil fortune seemed to be expending all her malice against him; a tide of circumstantial evidence was rushing over him more than sufficient to overwhelm him in the consequences of a crime of which he was innocent, Ada appeared lost to him for ever now that Gray was dead; for what clue had he to find her now; and the conduct of Learmont was mysterious, if he were not the actual murderer of Jacob Gray. A confused whirl of thoughts and conjectures passed through the brain of Albert with frightful rapidity. The strange and most unexpected events of the night were completely bewildering. At one moment he thought of accusing Learmont of the murder; at another he almost doubted if he was correct in fancying he had seen the squire at all—so strangely disjointed—so full of mystery—so redolent of horror had been the night’s proceedings, that the unfortunate Albert could scarcely be said to be in a sufficiently collected frame of mind to form a just conclusion, or hazard a practicable conjecture respecting them. His brain seemed to grow into fire with the agony he endured, and more like one dead than alive, he was passively led by the officers towards the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton, to be there accused of the awful crime of murder.

As the party neared the house of the magistrate, a feeling of utter despair crept over Albert’s heart, and he was conscious but of one thought; that was, that he would be glad when he was dead, for then all his miseries would be over, and he should perhaps in some happier state, see Ada, who, with an awful shudder, he thought must have been murdered long since by Jacob Gray.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CVII

The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.

Who in this world can safely calculate his true position, or say what circumstance is fraught with woe and what with happiness, when we are more frequently upon the point of obtaining our most glorious and delightful aspirations, while we fancy the cloud of adversity is thickening around us than when, to our limited perceptions, we are emerging into the sweet sunshine of felicity. Situated as Albert Seyton now was, even hope was a stranger to his heart—he could see not one ray of sunlight amid the dreary gloom by which he was immured—all was blank despair. Like some wave-tossed mariner, who, after struggling with the remorseless seas for a long dreary night, looks with lack-lustre eye along the world of waters as the first streak of the morning light enables him to do so, and sees no hope—no distant land—no sail, and feels that to struggle longer is but to protract death which is certain, Albert gave way to the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and as he entered the magistrate’s house, the expression of deep dejection on his countenance was remarked with significant whispers and glances by the officers, who looked upon it as a sign of conscious guilt, and entertained no more doubt of the fate of their prisoner, than they did of their own existence, so confident were they that he was, in truth, the murderer.

Oh, could he have guessed at that moment, that he was under the same roof with his Ada—could he have dreamt that he was breathing the same air which she breathed—what bursts of glorious sunshine through the murkiest sky that ever frowned upon the world, could, in its contrast, have equalled the feelings that would have possessed his breast, in lieu of the twin hags grief and despair, which now possessed it wholly.

And Ada—the beautiful and good—the pure of heart—the noble—the gifted Ada—she was sleeping, all unconscious of the events of that fearful night; little imagined she, that her great enemy had died so awfully, or that he who loved her lived in such great jeopardy.

The morning was rapidly approaching now, and Albert was taken into a room facing the east, in the residence of Sir Francis, and closely guarded, until the magistrate should make his appearance, which, in a few moments he did, having been awakened with the news that a barbarous murder was committed and the criminal was in his house.

Albert stood facing the window, and it was partly the dull reflection of the early morning light, and partly the death-like paleness of his face, from the state of mind he was in, which made him look more like a corpse than a living man, and for a moment prevented Sir Francis from recognising him.

Albert flinched not from the magistrate’s earnest gaze, but looking steadily at him, he said,—

“Sir Francis Hartleton, I am brought here accused of murder—I am innocent, but I cannot say more—do with me what you will, for I am tired of life.”

“Mr. Seyton!” cried Sir Francis.

“The same,” said Albert—“the unhappy Seyton.”

Sir Francis remained a moment or two in deep thought, then he said:—

“Officers what is the charge against this young man?”

“Murder, your worship,” replied one.

“Leave the room, all of you, I will hear the evidence one by one.”

“Oh, sir,” said Albert, “there is evidence enough—fate has marked me for destruction. You may send me now to prison, and spare your labour—I am innocent, but yet submit; you see I am patient, sir.”

“You speak from the bitterness of your heart,” said Sir Francis. “I am here to do my duty, without favour or affection. My previous knowledge of you I now wholly discard from my mind. You come before me as an utter stranger, accused of an awful crime—you shall have justice, and were you my own son, I could say no more. Now, officer, let me hear what you have to say.”

Sir Francis himself swore the officer, who remained in the room, and who was the principal spy upon Jacob Gray.

“Your worship,” he said, “is aware that my duty has been to keep watch on a man named Gray.”

“Which duty you must have to-night neglected,” said the magistrate.

“I beg your worship’s pardon, Gray don’t need anymore watching.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is dead.”

“Dead—Gray dead? It surely is not his murder—but go on—go on.”

Sir Francis reclined back in his chair, and partially shaded his face with his hand while the officer proceeded in his narrative.

“It was nearly half-past one o’clock, your worship, when, upon passing the door of the house where this man Gray lived, I saw it open, and upon examination, saw that it had been forced by some one. Not knowing then how many persons might be there, I ran to the round-house in Buckingham-street, and got assistance, then I and several officers, with lights, entered the house. The first thing we heard was the moaning of a woman, who we found tied to a bedstead in the room adjoining the shop, and immediately after, we proceeded up stairs, when we heard the prisoner calling out to some one—”

“Who did he call to?”

“The name was Ada. When we got to the top of the house, we found the prisoner on the landing, in a state of great excitement, and upon going into the first room we came to, there lay murdered, and dreadfully mangled, the man Gray—your worship had told me to watch.”

“He was quite dead?”

“Quite, your worship—we picked up this cloak stained with blood, which we believe belongs to the prisoner.”

“That is all you have to say?”

“It is, your worship, except that the prisoner has been dodging Gray about as closely as I have, for a day or two now.”

“Do you wish to ask any questions of this witness?” said Sir Francis to Albert, in a cold tone.

“None,” said Albert. “He has spoken the truth, and yet I am innocent.”

“What further evidence is there?” said Sir Francis.

“The other officers can swear to what I have said, your worship,” said the officer, “and I have left one to see that no one meddles with the body.”

“That was right,” cried Sir Francis, with sudden animation. “I will go there myself at once. There may be some papers.”

Albert immediately spoke in a tone of such deep emotion that Sir Francis paused as he rose from his chair, and listened to him with an interest and a growing doubt of his guilty connexion with Learmont, that it would have given him the sincerest pleasure to verify.

“Sir,” said Albert, “I implore you for the sake of one for whom I have suffered much—one who I have loved, who I still love more fondly—more fervently than I love life itself, to search for the packet which long ago I told you was directed to yourself. How Jacob Gray came by his death as I hope for God’s mercy I know not.”

“Know not!” said Sir Francis. Then turning to the officer he said, “Wait without,” and in a moment he was alone with Albert. There was a pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Sir Francis said,—

“You may, or you may not, as it may please you, give me an account of this affair.”

“For the sake of the name I bear and the memory of my dear father,” said Albert, “I will declare my innocence and although you may judge me wrongfully, shall die happy, if you will do justice to one who is dearer to me than myself. That one is the persecuted Ada, who, if she be still living, I implore you to succour. Oh, sir, you do not know her—and—and I have no words to paint her to you.”

“But about this murder?” said Sir Francis, uneasily.

“I will tell you all I know. Being some time since destitute, I applied to one Learmont for employment, and was by him entertained as his secretary.”

“So have I heard. Go on, sir.”

“The first confidential employment he put me on was to follow a man home, who he thought was imposing upon his benevolence, but before I could proceed upon that employment I had related to him the secret of my heart—my passionate love for Ada, even as I told it to you, sir—my long and weary search for her—my bitter reflections concerning the cruelty of Jacob Gray—I told him all that, and his generosity seemed much worked upon. He proffered me unbounded assistance. His wealth—his power—all he said should be exerted to do justice to the innocent.”

“And you believed him?”

“I did, and was happy in the thought that Ada would be rescued from her miseries. Then by a strange chance it turned out that this very man who he had commissioned me to watch to his house was Jacob Gray.”

“Indeed!” said Sir Francis, in a peculiar tone.

“Yes, and then I thanked Heaven for its great goodness, and believed myself on the road to happiness. I did watch Gray home and flew to Learmont with the news. He then enjoined me by a solemn promise to allow him the whole management of the affair, which, from gratitude to him, I could not refuse, but I lingered ever round the house where I believed Ada to be. I could not deny myself the delight of fancying myself near her. It was joy to look upon the house that I thought contained her—to watch a passing shadow at a window, and fancy it was hers; during that watch I encountered your officer, whose motive in being a spy upon Jacob Gray I could not divine.”

“Last night I commenced my watch, and being hidden in a deep doorway, immediately opposite the house, which engrossed all my attention, I saw between the hours of twelve and one, two men approach and pause at the residence of Gray. By some means they quickly opened the door when, partially emerging from my place of concealment, I saw that one of them was Learmont.”

Sir Francis Hartleton slightly started and changed his posture, so that Albert could not see his face.

“The other,” continued Albert, “I know not.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“A tall bulky man.”

“The smith—the smith,” thought Sir Francis to himself.

“The door was closed when they had entered the house, and in an agony of impatience I waited for their re-appearance, expecting to see Ada with them, for I doubted not but the squire was rescuing her from Jacob Gray.”

“Well, well,” said Sir Francis in a tone of deep interest, “what followed then?”

“One o’clock had struck, and no one came forth, nor could I hear any commotion in the house—my agony of impatience was growing exquisitely painful—my eyes were fixed upon the only window which showed a light, and I was on the point of forgetting all promises and rushing over to the house, when with a crash a considerable portion of the window was forced outwards, and a faint scream caught my ears;—maddened by apprehension for Ada, I rushed across the road and knocked loudly at the door. Then scarcely waiting for an answer, I burst it open, and shouting the came of Ada, I rushed into the house.”

Sir Francis rose from his chair and in a voice that echoed through the room, he cried,—

“Young man, on your soul is this all true?”

“On my soul,” said Albert.

“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy?”

Albert stretched out his arm as he said solemnly, “May the curse of God be upon me evermore if what I say be not the truth. I am innocent—I am innocent.”

Sir Francis sunk into his seat again, and drew a long breath before he said,—

“You shall have justice. Be assured you shall have justice—go on, I pray you.”

“I have little more to add, save that I obtained a light of a female in the house, and that still calling upon Ada, I ascended to the room where lay awfully mangled the ghastly remains of Jacob Gray. Upon my descent, your officers seized me, and accused me of the murder.”

“And that cloak?”

“Is not mine.”

The natural feelings of Sir Francis Hartleton’s heart would have prompted him on the instant to tell Albert that he fully believed what he said, but while he never, when acting in his magisterial capacity, forgot that he was a man, he now felt the necessity of remembering that a sworn deposition had taken place. With some difficulty then he mastered his feelings, and said,—

“I shall proceed at once to the house where the deed in question has been committed, and be assured that all shall be done to discover the truth. Till then you must remain here in custody. As a magistrate I can only act upon sworn evidence.”

Sir Francis now went to the door, and giving one of the officers whispered instructions to allow no one to see the prisoner, nor suffer him to leave the room, he left him as a guard over Albert, while with hasty steps, and accompanied by one of his most trusty officers, he proceeded to the house of Jacob Gray.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CVIII. Albert’s Despair.—The Tests of Truth

With far pleasanter feelings as regarded Ada and her fortunes than he had ever experienced since his opinion of the unworthiness of Albert Seyton, Sir Francis arrived at the house where so awful a scene of bloodshed had taken place. He was immediately saluted with respect by a constable who had remained in charge of the shattered door, and upon entering the house, the first person belonging to it he saw was Jacob Gray’s landlady, who sat in her parlour wringing her hands, and lamenting the death which had taken place under such horrible circumstances in her house, and which as she feelingly remarked, was “a uncommon wicked thing considering she was a lone woman, and lived principally by letting her lodging for nobody wouldn’t come and live in the house now, because Mr. Gray’s ghostesses would, as a matter of course, haunt the attic and the staircase, so it would.”

“Now, my good woman,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “I am a magistrate, so tell me now how all this happened.”

“Lord love you, sir, if you was six magistrates, I couldn’t tell you. All I knows is, as I am a ruinated woman.”

“Well, well, something must be done for you, but I want to know what you heard about this murder.”

“Oh! Dear me, sir. Master Gray was such a great man, he was, and his relations must be wretches.”

“His relations?”

“Yes, sir. When he comed to live here, he says, says he, my relations would take my life if they could. That’s what he said. Well, I didn’t think much of that, but last night—no, it was after twelve, for I recollect I’d heard the Abbey-clock strike, ’cos the wind blowed in that quarter. Well, I was a listening to the rain, when I heard never such a smash in my shop. ‘What’s that?’ says I, and without more ado, I gets a light, and I goes out.”

“Well, and you saw the young man?”

“No, I didn’t sir. There was two villains, sir—one was a amazing tall villain, and the other was uncommon big, only the amazing tall villain looked so in consequence of being so desperate thin, he did. Well, sir, the other villain, not the amazing tall one, he asks where master Gray lives, and I tells him, then he says as he’s his uncle, and desires me to say nothink, and ties me to my blessed bed post and laughed in my face. The idea, sir, of laughing at a lone woman.”

“Seyton has spoken the truth,” said Sir Francis; “Learmont and Britton have murdered Gray.”

“Sir,” said the woman.

“Nothing—nothing; is there any one else in the house?”

“Yes sir; there’s an old lady up stairs, and she says as she gave a light to one of the murderers.”

“All confirms his statement,” thought Hartleton; “all that now remains for me to do is to secure Gray’s confession.” Turning then to his officers, he said,—

“Show me to the murdered man’s room,” and following them up the narrow staircase, a few minutes brought him to the presence of the awful remains of Jacob Gray. Sir Francis shuddered as he looked upon the dreadful spectacle, and turning away his eyes, he said,—

“Do not allow the body to be moved. There will be an inquest on it, but search every hole and corner of the room for any papers, and should you see any, give them into no hands but mine.”

The search which took place was the most energetic and active that could possibly be made; but it was, of course, quite unsuccessful; so after a full hour being spent in it, Sir Francis Hartleton most reluctantly turned towards the corpse, saying to his men—

“You are not afraid of a dead body? The papers I spoke to you about are most important, and as they may be about him, I wish you to search the pockets.”

Hardened as those men were, and callous to most scenes of horror, they approached the remains of Gray with evident reluctance, and made a brief search of his pockets. Nothing was found but a small sum of money and a wedge-shaped steel instrument, which was then commonly used by housebreakers to wrench open doors with.

“There are no papers here, sir,” said the men.

Sir Francis Hartleton turned from the room with a look of great disappointment. He entertained now not a moment’s doubt, but that the object of Learmont’s murder of Gray was to get possession of the packet addressed to him, Sir Francis, and there was every reason to believe that in that object the squire had succeeded.

“Ada’s name and birth,” thought Hartleton, “seem ever doomed to remain mysterious—well, she may still be happy, and as for Learmont and Britton, they must, at all events, expiate this crime upon the scaffold if it is brought home to them.”

Full of these mingled reflections, Sir Francis hurried back to his house, and sought the room in which sat poor Albert Seyton, melancholy and solitary for he could not make up his mind whether his tale, truthful as it was, was believed by the magistrate or not; and when Sir Francis appeared again before him, he rose, with a saddened countenance to hear what he had to say to him.

“Mr. Seyton,” said Hartleton, “what you have told me has been confirmed, as far as it could be, by the parties in the house I have been to; but tell me now how it was that you, after communicating to me the singular facts you did concerning this Ada, stayed away from me so long?”

“I called upon you, sir,” said Albert, “and not seeing you, I fancied you had cooled upon the matter. The squire Learmont had prejudiced me against you, representing you as cold and selfish.”

“Mr. Seyton—you have yet to learn that those who say the least are often the most to be trusted. I am convinced of your innocence of this murder.”

Albert clasped his hands as he cried—

“Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! I shall not die the death of a felon. In some battle for right against might, I am content now in a foreign land to lay down my life. Something tells me that Ada is lost to me for ever. The villain Gray must have taken her life, and I am desolate.”

“You jump, perchance, too hastily at that conclusion,” said Sir Francis. “You may yet find her. She may even some time since have escaped from Gray.”

“Oh if I could but think so.”

“Why should you not? Besides, do you mean to give up your friend, the squire.”

“I do—from the first I have had my suspicions of that man. It is not for me to say he killed Jacob Gray, but I will see him no more. His ways are crooked and mysterious.”

“Why, he certainly is not the most open and candid character in the world, Mr. Seyton; but were I you, I would not yet give up all hope of discovering Ada.”

“Oh, sir, if I could find the smallest foothold for hope to rest upon, I should be again, as I have been, sanguine; but my heart is very sad, and full of despair.”

“Being now at liberty, as you may consider yourself, what may be your intentions.”

“I shall pursue a course,” replied Albert, “that I marked out for myself before I entered the service of this Squire Learmont. I shall, in the capacity of a common soldier, join the army, and hope to find an early and an honourable grave.”

“But your testimony will be required on the inquest which will be held on Jacob Gray.”

“I cannot help it. I tell you, sir, I am as one wearied now from the world, and all its uses and companionships; Ada, I feel is lost to me for ever! Farewell, sir. For what exertion you have made, and for what consideration you have shown me, I thank you. Farewell, sir.”

“Do you intend now to enlist?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, I wish you a happier fate and brighter destiny than you have sketched for yourself. If such be your determination, it is not for me to prevent it.”

With a heavy heart Albert rose, and bowing to Sir Francis, who followed him to the room-door, and gave orders for his free egress, he passed out of the house, sick and weary at heart.

Albert then paused in the street a moment, and the idea came across him that it was just possible he might by calling upon Learmont, procure some hint or information of the fate of Ada; but he rejected the proposition almost as quickly as he formed it, and the ghastly corpse of Gray rose up before his imagination, mutely, but strongly accusing Learmont of the murder.

“No—no,” he said, “that man is a man of blood! For some cause unknown to me, he has made me a mere tool in his hands to aid in the destruction of Gray. I will leave him to his conscience, and to the laws. I will see him no more.”

The unhappy young man then turned his steps towards the park, and sauntering down the Birdcage-walk, till he came to the old barracks, he accosted a soldier who was lounging by the gate.

Albert had never once glanced behind him, or he might have seen Sir Francis Hartleton, who had, resolving to be perfectly assured in Albert’s truth and faith, permitted him to leave the house in the manner we have recorded, but followed him as closely as consistent with ordinary caution. Had Albert gone to Learmont’s, new suspicions would have risen up in the mind of the magistrate, and choked like noxious weeds the kindly feelings which he was beginning to entertain towards him; but now that he saw him enter the park, and proceed towards the barracks, Sir Francis felt the pleasure which a noble mind always receives from getting rid of suspicion and doubt.

Albert and the soldier passed into the barracks, and then Sir Francis Hartleton immediately stepped up to the gate, and addressing another soldier, said,—

“I must see that young man who has just passed in. My name is Hartleton; I am a magistrate.”

Sir Francis was well known by reputation, and upon his announcement of who he was, the soldier ran after his comrade and Seyton, and brought them both back to the gate again.

“What does this young man do here?” said Sir Francis.

“He offers to go in the army,” said the soldier, “and I was conducting him to my officer.”

“I have something to say to him first,” remarked the magistrate. “Will you follow me home, Mr. Seyton?”

“No sir,” said Albert, proudly; “I wish to give you and myself no further trouble with each other.”

“Nay, but I have something to communicate.”

“You are too late,” said Albert. “I came to you in my agony of mind, and implored you to assist in righting the wronged, and saving the innocent from oppression; you received my suit coldly. You have done, for aught that I know, nothing. Leave me now, sir, for my own course; I want no cold friends.”

“You are angry with me for no cause,” said Hartleton, who was secretly pleased at Albert’s independence of spirit. “If I have appeared lukewarm in your affairs, I beg you will not attribute it to indifference.”

“You may call it what you please, sir,” said Albert. “Good morning.”

“But I want you to come back with me.”

“I hope your honour don’t mean to persuade our recruit off?” said the soldier, who was in apprehension that he should lose his gratuity for bringing so unexceptionable a soldier as the handsome Albert Seyton to the regiment.

“If I do take your recruit away, my friend,” said the magistrate, “you shall lose nothing by it if you will call upon me to-morrow.”

“Thanks to your honour.”

“This is as idle as it is insulting,” said Albert. “Am I to be made a thing of barter between you? I tell you, Sir Francis Hartleton, that you shall not, were you twenty times what you are, interfere with me. When your activity is implored, you are cold and most indifferent, but now when your presence is quite unlooked for and unnecessary, you come after me, as if merely to perplex and annoy me. Take me to your officer, soldiers; I will serve the king despite of this mocking magistrate.”

“But I have not done with you yet,” said Sir Francis, with provoking coolness. “I have an affair in hand in which you must assist me.”

“This is insult, sir.”

“No; I have a young friend who I think would make a very good match for you, as you are a likely-looking young man.”

Albert’s cheek flushed with indignation, as he cried,—

“Sir Francis Hartleton, you came to insult me. Unworthy is it of you, who are revelling in the amplitude of means and power, to deride the unfortunate. You are—”

“Come, come, be calm,” interrupted Sir Francis. “You must come with me.”

“I will not.”

“Then I must make you. I shall have you taken into custody. Ho, there!”

The magistrate turned and beckoned to his officers, whom he had directed to follow him, and when they sprang forward to the gate, he said,—

“Take this young man in custody to my house.”

“This is the very wantonness of power,” cried Albert. “How dare you thus abuse your office.”

“Take him away—I will follow.”

Albert was immediately seized, and burning with rage, conveyed to Sir Francis’s house again, while the magistrate followed with a smile upon his face.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CIX. The Meeting of the Lovers

Sir Francis Hartleton’s officers paid but little heed to the loud and angry remonstrances of Albert Seyton, but hurried him the short distance between the park and the magistrate’s house, at which in a few minutes they arrived, and in obedience to their orders fastened him in the same room from where he had come so recently.

As Sir Francis stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, Albert turned to him and said—

“Sir Francis Hartleton, for the treacherous and ungentlemanly conduct of which I have been the victim, I will now denounce you as a disgrace to the office you hold. I look upon you as—”

“Nay, nay—hold,” cried the magistrate, “I will hear no more. The less you say, the less you will have to retract and ask my pardon for.”

“Your pardon?” cried Albert; “I—”

“Shut the door, he is raving,” interposed the magistrate, and in a moment Albert was alone.

The young man stood in the middle of the floor, in deep disgust with Sir Francis, and revolving in his own mind what he should do in the situation he was now placed in. He walked to the window which overlooked a garden, but there were iron bars across the frame-work, which appeared too firmly let into solid oak to be removed without appropriate tools.

“I will not, however, be caged here if I can help it,” thought Albert; and he seized one of the bars, and exerted all his strength to move it, but it was in vain, for it showed no signs of giving way. Albert then glanced around him for some weapon, but none such was in the room. He then threw himself into a chair, and after a few hasty expressions of indignation, relapsed into melancholy silence. Suddenly, then, he recollected a small knife that he had in his pocket, and he thought he might possibly be able to cut away sufficient of the wood-work to wrench out one of the bars from the window, which, could he accomplish it, would leave a space sufficiently large for him to get through, and drop into the garden, which was at no very great depth, although amply sufficient to make any one, not labouring under the excitement of mind that Albert was, pause ere they adventured the leap.

He found the job of cutting away the wood-work at the window a long and a tedious one, for he could only get the oak away in small pieces, and the iron bars were very deeply imbedded.

“I have heard,” thought Albert, “of these things being done with more inefficient tools than a tolerably good knife, aided by perseverance, I shall rejoice to give this tricky magistrate the slip, even if I walk directly to another, and claim an inquiry into the causes of my present most unjustifiable detention.”

“When the heart is in any work, it makes good progress,” says Lord Bacon; and so it seemed in the present instance, for Albert was rapidly getting towards the end of the bar, when an unhappy circumstance retarded his labours. In getting out a large piece of the wood, he struck the blade of the knife on one side, and snapped it short off by the handle. In the excitement, then, of the moment, he seized the bar, and did what, at a cooler time, he could not have done, namely, wrenched one end of it from its hold. The powerful leverage he now had, soon enabled him to free it at the other extremity, and a prospect of escape seemed on the instant opened to him.

In a moment he threw up the window, and glancing into the garden, he was on the point of springing out, when he saw that there were some iron rails covering some underground part of the premises, upon which he must have fell, had he adventured the leap. Albert paused for a moment, and the sudden thought struck him that he could make a means of descending in safety. He took Gray’s cloak, which had been left hanging on the back of a chair, and firmly tying one corner of it to one of the remaining bars of the window, he let the remainder hang out, intending to slide down by it.

“Now, Sir Francis Hartleton,” he exclaimed, “with all your power I am able once more to defy you; and lest my flight should give occasion to surmises of my guilt, on account of Jacob Gray’s murder, I will betake me to the nearest magistrate, and allow him to hold me in custody if he pleases.”

He flung himself out at the window. His weight cut the cloak across, and there fell at his feet a folded paper. The young man lay stunned for a moment by his sudden fall. Then he slowly rose, and his eye fell upon the paper; it was addressed—“To Sir Francis Hartleton, with speed.”

Albert clasped his hands, and a cry of surprise escaped him. He knew the endorsement—it was Jacob Gray’s confession.

We must now leave Albert for some few moments to his mingled feelings of surprise, and joy, and grief, for such were all struggling in his breast, in order to follow Sir Francis Hartleton to his own private study, whither he instantly repaired after seeing Albert, as he thought, properly secured for the present.

He sat down, and covering his eyes with his hands, a habit he had when he wished a steady communion with his own thoughts, he remained silent for some time. Then he spoke in a low voice, and with a confident tone.

“This young man’s honesty and honour,” he said, “has been sufficiently tested, and the noble confidence of Ada in his love and sincerity is, thank Heaven, not misplaced. The mystery that envelopes Ada’s name and history, I fear now will never be disclosed; but I must make these two young people happy, and they will be foolish to torment themselves about the past, when the present will be so dear to them, and the future so full of hope. There shall be no sense of dependence, for I will exert all my interest to procure Albert Seyton some honourable employment; and although the solution of the mysterious conduct of Learmont and his strange connection with Gray and Britton may go to the grave with him, yet she, the long suffering, persecuted girl will be happy with the object of her heart’s choice. I must see her and prepare her for the interview which she shall have with him. How will his anger at his detention here change its complexion when he knows its cause.”

Sir Francis then summoned an attendant, and desired that Ada might be requested to come to him as soon as possible. The message was duly delivered, and in a few moments our heroine, to whose fortunes we have clung so long, and who holds so large a place in our hearts, glided like a spirit of beauty into the magistrate’s study.

Sir Francis Hartleton, when he had offered her a seat, looked with kindly interest in her face, and said—

“Ada; you look unhappy; you are paler than you were.”

A slight increase of colour visited Ada’s cheek, as she replied in her sweet, low musical voice,—

“I am all unused to cloak my feelings either of joy or of sorrow; I am not happy. I have told myself often that I am most ungrateful to you for your great kindness to me, by being unhappy; but the heart will not be reasoned with, and the subtlest logic of the mind will fail to stop a tear from dimming the eye, when the full heart says ‘weep.’”

“You are full of regret, Ada, that I think harshly of young Albert Seyton.”

“I am, I am,” said Ada. “Oh, sir! You do not know him as I know him, or you would seek some other cause for his conduct than faithlessness.”

“Hear me, Ada,” added Sir Francis with emotion. “Since I last saw you, I have had occasion to alter my opinion.”

A half suppressed cry of joy escaped the lips of Ada, and then she clasped her hands; and while the rapid beating of her heart testified to the emotion occasioned by Sir Francis’s words, she fixed upon his face her beautiful eloquent eyes, and eagerly dwelt on every word he uttered.

“Believe me, Ada,” he said, “my deep concern for your happiness alone made me anxious that he who was to make or mar your happiness in this world should be proved pure as virgin gold, ere with joy I could see you become his. I have tested him.”

“And—and—” said Ada.

“And believe him true,” continued Sir Francis, “although the victim of as strange a series of circumstances as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.”

Ada burst into tears, and sobbed for very joy, while the magistrate turned his head aside to conceal his own emotion.

“My dear Ada,” he said, after a pause, “I have much, very much to tell you that concerns you mostly, but I will not now detain you to listen to me. Take this key; it opens the little eastern room which looks into the garden. Release the prisoner you will find there.”

“It is Albert?” said Ada.

“It is—”

She rose and placed both her hands in those of Sir Francis Hartleton, and smiling upon him through her tears, she said,—

“Dear friend; can I ever thank you—can the poor Ada ever hope even in words to convey to you the full gratitude of her heart?”

“Let me see you happy, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “and I am more than repaid. Go to you lover, who is, I fear, a very impatient prisoner, and tell him, from me, that I will never interfere with him again, let him do what he may.”

Ada could not understand what Sir Francis meant by his last words, but at that moment she was not much inclined to ask explanations, but taking the key while her hand trembled, and her lustrous eyes seemed swimming in an ocean of tenderness as she glided from the room to rescue her lover.

Ada knew the room well to which Sir Francis had directed her, and her eager footsteps in a few moments brought her to the door. For one brief moment then she paused to recover herself from her state of agitation. In the next she had opened the door—the room was tenantless. Ada flew to the window—there hung the torn cloak.

“Albert, Albert,” she cried, and sunk upon the floor in an agony of grief.

Sir Francis Hartleton heard the cry of Ada, and hastening from his room, the truth shot across his mind in a moment when he saw the cloak hanging by the iron bar.

“Who could have imagined this?” he cried. “Ada, Ada, be of good cheer; all will be well. He cannot leave the garden.”

“Oh, Sir Francis,” cried Ada; “for Heaven’s sake explain to me the meaning of all this—what could induce him to fly thus strangely?”

“Think nothing of it, Ada, all will be well. I meditated giving Albert Seyton an agreeable surprise, and he has given us a disagreeable one, that is all—hark!”

As Sir Francis spoke, there arose a confused noise in the garden, and upon his going to the window, he saw Albert in the grasp of two of his officers. Without any remark concerning what he was to say, he turned to Ada and said,—

“Leave all to me. Do you remain here, Ada, until I come to you. I pledge you my word all shall be explained to your satisfaction within this present hour.”

Sir Francis then hurried from the room, leaving Ada in a greater state of bewilderment than ever, and, hastening to the garden, he met the officers who had recaptured Albert.

“So, sir,” said Sir Francis, “you have, methinks, a small amount of patience.”

“Patience, sir,” cried Albert. “Why should I have any under a tyranny as unexampled as it is despicable? In plain words, sir, tell me what you mean by detaining me?”

“Young man, it is for your own good. Let me advise you now, for your own benefit. I shall send some one to you, to talk you out of your unreasonable humour.”

“I warn you, Sir Francis Hartleton,” said Albert. “I am now upon my defence, and, if you send any of your myrmidons to me, they may chance to regret coming within the reach of my arm.”

“Indeed! Now, I will wager you my head that you will be in a more complaisant humour shortly. Bring him in, and confine him in my parlour.”

Resistance against the powerful men who held him, Albert felt would be quite absurd, and merely wasting his energies to no purpose; so he suffered himself, although boiling with rage, to be led into a room on the ground floor.

“Now my young friend,” said Sir Francis, “I shall send some one to you to tame your proud spirit.”

“I defy your utmost malice,” cried Albert.

“Oh!—Let him rave—let him rave. Shut him in,” said Sir Francis calmly.

The moment the door was closed upon the prisoner, he drew from his breast the confession of Gray, and was upon the point of opening it, when his high sense of honour forbade him breaking the seal of a communication addressed to another, and he dropped it on the floor, as he said,—

“No, no! Although this magistrate, from some inexplicable cause, is my enemy, I must not forget that I am a gentleman.”

The words were scarcely out from his mouth, when he heard the door unlock gently, and arming himself then, with all the indignation he felt, he cried in a loud voice,—

“Whoever you are, advance here, at your peril!”

The door opened very slowly, and when it was just wide enough for the person to enter Ada glided into the room.

“At my peril, Albert?” she said.

The colour forsook the cheek of Albert, and he stood gazing at her for a few moments, incapable of thought or action; then, with a gush of joy, he flew towards her.

“Ada, Ada! My dear Ada, are you in life or am I mocked by some vision: My Ada, speak!”

“Albert.”

He clasped her to his heart. He kissed her cheek, her brow, her hands. Tears gushed from his eyes, and mingled with those of the long-lost, fondly cherished idol of his heart. They could neither of them speak, and nothing was heard for many minutes in that room, but sobs of gushing joy, such as make the heart leap in extacy, and give humanity a glimpse of heaven.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CX

The Lovers.—The Interview of Sir Francis Hartleton with the Secretary of State.—The Ball.

Albert Seyton first broke the silence, and as he clasped Ada’s hands, and gazed into her beaming eyes, he said,—

“Ada! My own beautiful Ada! Am I, indeed, so blessed? Do I once again see you in all your beauty, smiling on me? Am I dreaming, or are you; indeed, and in truth, my own dear Ada?—The dream of my boyhood, the cherished idol of my heart.”

“Indeed, and in truth!” said Ada. “Oh! I am too, too, happy. Heaven forgive me all my sinful repining. Does not this moment’s joy repay me for all? My darling—my true and beautiful—”

What a heavenly light shone from the eyes of Ada! What a sunny smile played around her cheery mouth, dimpling her cheek with beauty.

“We will part no more, Albert,” she said. “After many, many trials, we have met at last to part no more. God has blessed us in each other’s love, and we will not cast from us the pure bright gift of heaven!”

“We will not,” cried Albert. “Bless you, my own true-hearted Ada! At the very moment of my despair, I have been, as it were, lifted to heaven. ’Tis foolish of me, Ada; but, even now, so great is my happiness, I can scarce believe it real.”

He drew the blushing girl again to his throbbing heart. He kissed the raven tresses of her silken heart. He looked into her eyes, sparkling with dewy tears, and saw the happiness that shot from every radiant glance. Her cheek, gentle and soft as a rose-bud’s inmost leaf, touched his—was there ever so much happiness. Could all the ills of life concentrated, poison the rich fragrance of that one cup of overflowing joy?

We will not attempt to record the gentle confidences of the happy lovers—the broken sentences—the speaking glances that filled up the pauses which the faltering tongue, too much oppressed by the heart’s gushing eloquence, could not choose but make the tones upon which memory in after years lingers like the shade of a loved one long hidden in the tomb, nor the thousand purest vows breathed by Albert, nor the thousand smiles with which they were all believed by Ada. Suffice it to say, that they were very happy, and those of our readers who have felt a sympathy with the trials of the lone maiden, will be pleased to leave her for a brief space, knowing that her heart is dancing with joy, and that even the memory of the past is emerged in the pure and heavenly enjoyment of the present.

Sir Francis Hartleton’s first step after seeing Ada enter the room in which Albert was, was to communicate to his wife all that had passed, and commission her to explain all to Albert, if such explanation should be sought for before his return, for he felt it necessary, in consequence of the extraordinary events which had transpired, to communicate to his impatient friend, the home secretary, before even taking steps to apprehend Britton and Learmont for the murder of Gray, which upon Albert’s testimony he felt was what might be safely ventured upon.

The magistrate accordingly left his house, and proceeded on foot to the secretary’s office, where he was fortunate enough to find the great man disengaged.

“I have come,” said Hartleton, “to state to your lordship some strange circumstances with relation to the person named Learmont, concerning whom I have before had the honour of conversing with you.”

The secretary put on a face of alarm as he replied—

“Really? Sir Francis, you must drop this matter—his majesty has only this day in council determined upon a dissolution of the present parliament—of course I tell you in confidence—and this Learmont’s votes in the Commons may be of the greatest consequence.”

“But, my lord,” said Hartleton, “there is good reason to believe that no later than last night he committed a most awful murder.”

“Dear me,” said the secretary, “he might as well have waited till the general election was over. It is really such a very awkward thing to hang a man who can command several votes in the Commons.”

“It may be so,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “but when people who command votes will commit murder, what is to be done?”

“Ah that’s very true; but uncommonly disagreeable.”

“I thought it my duty,” continued Hartleton, “to let your lordship know before I arrested him.”

“Bless my heart,” said the secretary, “now I recollect there has been a record here to-day containing an invitation to a masked ball which this very man is going to give on Friday.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“Yes. I sent a civil acceptance of the invitation of course, because I meant to sound him in the course of the evening about his votes. Now really, Sir Francis, you must let the ball be over before you come in with your charge of murder, and so on.”

“I will if your lordship pleases; but the property of Learmont, provided he be convicted of murder, will revert to the Crown, in which event you will have his votes.”

“Ah, but, my dear Sir Francis, the Crown, in common decency, must waive its right to the property in favour of the next of kin.”

“I believe there can arise no claimant,” said Sir Francis; “therefore there can be no delicacy on the subject.”

“Well that’s lucky—but you will let the ball be over. I’m told it’s to be a splendid affair, and really so many of our political friends intend to make it a complete rendezvous, that it would be a thousand pities not to let it go off with some éclat.”

“I shall, of course, not interfere, my lord; but should anything occur to force a magisterial duty, I trust your lordship will not expect me to shrink from performing mine.”

“Well, I suppose not, but don’t be provoking, Sir Francis, if you can possibly avoid it. By-the-by, I quite forgot to ask who he had murdered. It’s nobody of any consequence, I presume?”

“He certainly had no vote.”

“No vote?”

“No, nor was likely ever to have one.”

“Indeed. Well, I do hate people who have no vote most cordially, and I should say there can be only one class of people more abominable, and that is the class which votes against one. I don’t at all see the use in this world of people without votes. How uncommonly silly Learmont must have been, really.”

“Silly enough, my lord, to put his neck in jeopardy, for a jury will most naturally bring him in guilty, and the king cannot very well spare a murderer.”

“Why no, not exactly; but at all events don’t say a word about it till after the ball.”

“Unless there should arise an absolute necessity I will not, but the inquest upon the body of the murdered man may interfere with your lordship’s wishes.”

“Bless me, yes—what’s to-day?”

“Wednesday.”

“Oh, well, I must speak to the coroner about it, and the inquest must just be put off till Saturday. In fact, I don’t see the use of an inquest upon a man who had no vote, Sir Francis; but I suppose these things must be done to please the common people.”

“They must indeed,” said Sir Francis; “any tampering with what Englishmen consider their liberties will ever be a dangerous task for a minister.”

“Ah, well, we must do the best we can, but you know it would have been much better if this Learmont, while he was murdering, had murdered some one with a vote who was opposed to us. It might have made a difference of two votes you see, Sir Francis.”

“So it might, your lordship; but when people murder, I am afraid they think more of their own private quarrels than of votes.”

“Ah, no doubt. You are quite right—good morning, Sir Francis, good morning.”

“Good morning, your lordship.”

Sir Francis Hartleton could not help laughing as he walked homewards at the curious morality of the secretary, who measured everybody’s importance by their number of votes, and he thought to himself surely this system of representation will be some day done away with, and Englishmen will be permitted to exercise their franchise and their conscience freely. Absorbed then in meditation concerning the important steps which required to be taken previous to the Friday evening, beyond which time Sir Francis Hartleton was quite resolved Learmont should not remain at liberty, he sauntered home from the minister’s.

Believing, as the magistrate now did, since Jacob Gray was dead, and no written papers could be found about his person, or in his lodging, that no overt act as concerned Ada could be brought home to Learmont, he resolved to have a warrant made out for the squire’s apprehension, on the charge of murdering Jacob Gray, a crime which upon the testimony of Albert could be brought as nearly home to him as strong circumstantial evidence could bring it.

“It may be then,” thoughts Sir Francis, “that when he sees his mortal career closing, he will do one act of grace, and declare who and what Ada is; detailing his reasons for persecuting her so strangely, and for taking the life of Jacob Gray. That now seems to be the only chance of arriving at a solution of the mysteries which still envelope this whole strange transaction.”

When Sir Francis reached home a letter was put into his hands, which, upon opening, he found to contain these words,—

Mr. Learmont presents his compliments to Sir Francis Hartleton, and begs specially to request his company on Friday evening, to a masked ball and supper.

“Well,” said Sir Francis, “of all the cool pieces of assurance that it was ever my lot to encounter, this is the coolest. But I can well understand Learmont’s feelings now; he fancies himself rid of some great danger by the death of Jacob Gray, and this is the very mockery and insolence of security in inviting me, who he hates so cordially, to his entertainments. Well, be it so, I will be there, Learmont, and it shall go hard but your masked ball shall have a far different conclusion to what you imagine. Let me see, this ticket admits Sir Francis Hartleton and friends—friends. Yes, that will do—that will do. A plan of operation occurs to me, which on the surprise of the moment may wring from the guilty heart of Learmont something of importance to the interests of Ada. She shall go with me to this masked ball. Yes, Learmont shall be surprised from his usual cold caution by her sudden appearance, which, conjoined with his arrest, may so disturb his faculties as almost to induce a confession of all we wish to know. It shall be tried—it shall be tried.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXI. The Confession

While Sir Francis Hartleton was still engaged in these reflections a low knock sounded on the door of his room, and when he cried, “come in,” the happy face of Ada appeared like a beam of sunshine in the entrance.

“Ada,” he said, “come in.”

There were the humid traces of tears upon her cheek, but they were like the pearly drops of dew which hung upon the rose leaves, speaking not of sorrow or decay, but giving new beauty to what before seemed matchless. They were tears of joy, and the magistrate saw that they were so. He held out his hand to Ada, as he said with a smile,—

“Will you forgive me for tormenting Albert a little?”

“He will scarce forgive himself,” said Ada, “and sends me as his ambassador.”

“He had a right to feel a little angry, Ada. But has he told you that your old enemy is dead?”

“He has,” said Ada. “Much as I had to complain of against Jacob Gray, I would that he had come to some gentler death. Heaven have mercy upon him!”

“He has need of heaven’s mercy, Ada. But are you not much disappointed that all chance of discovering your name and station seems now faded away?”

“I scarcely know how to answer you,” said Ada, “for hope that it may not be so has, within the last half hour, disturbed me more with anxious doubts and fearful surmises than ever agitated my breast before. This paper—”

As she spoke, she handed to Sir Francis the confession of Gray still sealed up as Albert had picked it from the garden.

“Gracious heavens!” said Sir Francis, as a sudden flush of colour to his face showed the interest he felt in the document, “where got you this, Ada?”

“When Albert, impatient of his temporary detention in the room overlooking the garden,” said Ada, “made an attempt to escape from it, he tried to descend from the window by the aid of a cloak, which rent with his weight, revealing this packet of papers addressed to you.”

“Thus heaven works its wonders,” said Sir Francis; “and the very circumstances, that at the moment of their occurrence fill us with regret, bring us to the dearest of our wishes. You know this handwriting, Ada?”

“It is Jacob Gray’s.”

“Then there can be no doubt,” said Sir Francis, as with fingers that trembled with eagerness he broke the seals by which the packet was fastened—“there can be no doubt that these are the papers, or similar ones to those long ago addressed to me by Jacob Gray, and said to be concerning you.”

“Albert thinks with you,” said Ada, “and longs to penetrate the mystery of their contents.”

“Will you leave me?” said Sir Francis. “I would fain read this alone, Ada. Will you grant me that indulgence?”

Ada rose as she said,—

“Dear friend, a wish of yours shall ever be a command to me; but remember that, let these papers contain what they may, I can bear to hear all.”

“Nothing shall be concealed from you, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “but—but my own deeply interested feelings would not permit me to read these documents aloud to you at first.”

Ada saw his extreme excitement and agitation, and instantly leaving the room, she gave him an opportunity of reading alone the long sought-for confession of Jacob Gray.

Sir Francis’s first step was to lock himself in his room, and then, with a flurry at his heart, and a total abstraction of mind from everything but the papers which lay before him, he tore them open and read as follows:—

To Sir Francis Hartleton,

I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts to you, because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest curse of a dead man fall on you and yours if you do not take instant means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave, however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance, and so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with safeguards which they dared not despise.

In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged from the service of an English family for matters of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name Mark Learmont, was taken ill at one of the hotels in the city, and the proprietor of the establishment, fearing that his guest was dying, sent for me as a countryman of the sick gentleman, to attend upon him. I nursed and tended him with anxious care and I soon learnt that grief was his only malady.

He told me he had left England in consequence of the death of his wife and child, and that he could never more with pleasure look upon his ancient home again, which he had left in the care of his brother. Time, however, seemed in some measure, to assuage his grief; and when he got well enough again to travel, he retained me as his permanent attendant, liberally rewarding me for the services I had rendered him. We went from city to city of the Italian states until we came to Rome, where an attempt was made by some hired bravo to take the life of Mr. Learmont. He was saved, however, by the gallant interposition of a young Italian nobleman, named Geronimo Madelini; and my master became in a short time on terms of the greatest intimacy with the family of his preserver, who had a sister so surprisingly beautiful that even Mr. Learmont forgot his grief for her whom he had loved so fondly, and became attached to Ada Madelini with a passionate fervour that knew no bounds. Learmont was handsome, brave, and accomplished. The young Italian returned his passion. A child was born—an illegitimate child—which Ada Madelini died in giving birth to.

Mr. Learmont was again plunged into the most excessive grief. Rome became more hateful to him than the home in England he had left; the very language of Italy was ever reminding him of the beautiful being who had gone to an early grave through her love for him. In vain he travelled from city to city. His grief knew no reduction, until at length, wearied with travel, and sick at heart, he resolved upon once more revisiting his native land, taking with him the child of Ada Madelini, who had been named after its mother, and who had begun to exercise a strong control over his affections.

A letter was written to the brother, who had been left sole master of the estate of Learmont, signifying the intention of the widowed man to return, and once more assume the control of his own property for his young daughter’s sake. When we reached Dover, that is, Mr. Mark Learmont, myself, and his infant child, a letter was awaiting my master from his brother. That letter I by chance saw. It said that peculiar family circumstances, which the writer would explain when they met, rendered it necessary that their first meeting should be a secret one, and quite unknown to any person connected with the property. It named as the place of rendezvous, an old deserted mansion, the lower part of which was converted into a smithy, and had been long occupied by a man named Andrew Britton.

Full of wonder at this letter, and yet never doubting that there were, did he but know them, full and reasonable grounds for it, Mr. Learmont wrote to his brother, according to his request and promising to be at the Old Smithy with his child, by the evening of a particular day, which he named.

He sent me beforehand to apprise his brother of this. I was the bearer of the answer, and when I reached Learmont’s house, he that is now called Squire Learmont, and who resides in your immediate vicinity, received me most cordially. He spoke to me of the advantages of wealth—of the luxuries of independence—of the delightful feelings of those who could scorn the world’s utmost malice—secure in the haven of independence—but it is idle to dwell upon the deep temptation that he held out to me, I consented to the murder of my master and his child!

The day of his arrival came. It was one of alternate storm and sunshine; but, as the evening approached, the elements seemed to have broken loose, and to have united to shake the very earth with terror. The wind howled, and the forked lightning shot from earth to heaven, while peal after peal of thunder shook the habitations of the peasantry, convulsing the stoutest hearts with fear, and destroying all the produce of their industry.

It was on such a night, that, leaving Learmont, and the smith Andrew Britton in the smithy, I started to meet my doomed master.

From obscure hints the smith had dropped, I was satisfied that Mr. Learmont’s first wife and child had been murdered by him and the brother, and even after I had consented, I shuddered at the awful crime I had pledged myself to assist in committing—but it was too late to retract, I had already received some of the wages of crime—I could not recede. But surely I was innocent compared with who would shed a brother’s blood. Let him suffer the penalty of his crimes—let the rich Squire Learmont dangle on the gallows tree—spare him not, nor Andrew Britton—you will find him at the Old Chequers—let him too die a death of pain and ignominy—so shall I have my revenge—my deep, long-cherished revenge.

I met Mr. Learmont. He alighted from the carriage, which he left at a distance of a mile or more from the appointed place of meeting with his brother. He gave me the young child to carry—the infant Ada, and we walked under cover of the darkness of the stormy evening until we reached the smithy. I was to kill the child, while Britton took the life of the father; but one thing they had not told me namely, that they intended to burn down the Old Smithy after the deed was done, in order that the two bodies should be consumed in the ruins, and no suspicion should arise of their untimely fate.

It was an hour to me of horror—Mr. Learmont entered the Old Smithy unsuspectingly, and I followed with the child. He took his brother kindly by the hand, and I heard him say,—

“Well, brother, what is amiss, that we cannot meet in my own home!”

“Come this way, Mark,” said he who is called the squire, as he opened a heavy door at the further end of the smithy. ‘Come this way, and you will know all.’

Mr. Learmont followed him, and I went after them with the child. It was clinging to my neck, and as I gazed upon its features, by the occasional flash of lightning, all strength seemed to desert me, and I felt I had not power to take its life,—I thought I should have sunk into the earth—a fearful timidity came over me, and the cold perspiration of terror bedewed my brow.

I scarcely know then what happened, but the storm without increased to tenfold fury; and while the smithy was being set fire to by Learmont, the squire, I saw by the dull red glare that began to spread itself around, and light up every thing with its ghastly lustre—I saw my master stagger back, as if from some sudden blow, and the smith, Andrew Britton, faced my gaze, armed with a forge hammer, with which he had already struck one blow at my master.

Mr. Learmont then tried to wrestle with his opponent and he screamed, “Murder—murder.” He called too on me to help him, but I could not move. I saw another blow given, and I heard the sickening crushing of his head, as the hammer sunk into his brain—and then he fell, with one shriek that wrung in my ears, for many months, scaring me from sleep, and causing me to start in horror from my bed.

The fire had spread with greater rapidity than had been calculated upon, and at the moment of my master’s murder, a portion of the roof fell upon me and the child—I was hurt, but the infant was not—alarm and horror took possession of my faculties, and I fled, shrieking, through the house, seeking for some outlet to escape by—I got confused in a labyrinth of rooms—burning flakes fell upon my flesh—I cried for aid, but no voice answered me, and I felt a conviction that I was purposely left there to perish. Despair lent me strength, and with the child still in my arms, I leaped a burning staircase—I saw a crowd of faces before me, and, with frantic cries, I rushed from the building with the child.

Who, then, snatched the infant from me, I know not, for I was suffering much pain; but certainly it was taken from me by some of the villagers, and I, frantic with the terrors I had received, and believing that the hand of Providence was upon me, fled I knew not whither, until I sunk exhausted from fatigue, in a wood a short distance from the village on the road to London.

The cool night air assuaged the pain of my burns, and after resting for some hours, I found myself sufficiently recovered to think upon what I should next do. Return to the smithy, I dared not, for I dreaded the vengeance of the squire, not only on account of my failing in what I had to do, but I could not dispossess myself of the idea that my death had been determined upon, between him and the smith, so soon as I had killed the child, and was no longer useful to their purposes. I had received, in advance, a sum of money from my tempter, Learmont, and after some thought I resolved upon proceeding to London, and there endeavouring to forget the horrors I had gone through, in the varied amusements of a great city. I turned my back on the village of Learmont, and all its terrible recollections, taking my route to the capital by the quickest means I could find.

It was on the second day that I arrived, and resolving to husband my money until I could procure some other employment, I took an obscure lodgings and kept my expenses as small as possible.

It was the fourth evening after my arrival in London that a woman, who was sitting upon a step, with a child in her lap, implored my charity. I refused her, and was about to pass on, when a glance told me that the child with her was the young Ada Madelini, the child of Mr. Learmont; I paused, and questioned her. She told me her name was Tattan, and said she had fled from the country with the child, to save its life, which had been threatened by a man, wicked and powerful. All this confirmed me—I snatched the child from her arms, for I thought it an admirable possession, since it would give me the means of making my own terms, at some future time, with the Squire of Learmont.

The woman screamed and ran after me, crying for help. No one was near us, and with one blow I silenced her, and she fell to the ground. What became of her I never knew, but I took the child home with me, and the next day I changed my lodging, passing the infant as my own.

From house to house I shifted my residence, always thinking myself suspected by some one, until I went to reside at a low house, kept by a woman, by name Strangeways, who resided in the neighbourhood of Swallow-street. Before going there, however, I bought boy’s clothing for the girl, as I thought it safer to make her appear as a boy than let her real sex be known. Nearly ten years had elapsed, and I was falling fast into poverty, for a concern in which I had placed some money, under tempting promises, proved a failure. Then I bethought me of some means of improving my condition, and recruiting my empty coffers.

After much thought, I resolved upon going to the village of Learmont, and forming a coalition if possible, with the smith, Andrew Britton, for the purpose of extorting money from the rich squire. But previously to going I wrote a paper, containing all the particulars here related, and sealing it, I left it with Ada, who I had named, in conformity with her male attire, Harry, charging her to let it reach the hands of yourself in the event of my not returning by a stipulated time. I went on my errand. It was in the winter, and the snow lay thickly in the valley of Learmont; as I reached the village inn I inquired if the smith, Britton, was still alive; I was told he was, and heard then the clank of his forge-hammer, the same most probably that had taken the life of Mr. Learmont. I sought him, and suffice to say, that I not only convinced him of the inexpediency of attempting aught against my life, which, as I guessed he would be, he was much inclined to do, but succeeded in inducing him to join with me in extorting large sums from the guilty squire.

Britton, too, I persuaded to search the body of the murdered man, when, as I told him, he found papers of great consequence to the squire—papers which he would gladly have redeemed at any price, but which were of infinitely more value as a source of permanent income to their fortunate holder.

I had lent the smith a knife of mine at his own request before the murder, and when I visited him he produced it, stained with human gore, taunting me with the fact that my name was on the handle, and that it would ever prove a damning evidence of my guilt.

’Twas were we three men in each other’s power. Either Britton or myself could bring the whole three to destruction, and the squire was but too glad to ensure his own safety by paying large sums to us from time to time. He came to London, and we followed him. Andrew Britton led a life, as he now leads, of riot and extravagance, at the public-house called the Chequers, Westminster. The Squire Learmont lives in splendour, as you must be aware, in your immediate vicinity. I have led a life of dangers and terror. My existence has been continually threatened by Learmont, who, could he at any time have laid his hands upon Ada, who he believed to be legitimate, and likewise have secured my written confession, would have murdered me.

I repeat, I may be dead, or absent from England, when you arrive; but be it which way it may, if you want proofs of what I assert, search the ruins of the Old Smithy at Learmont, and you may still find some traces of the murdered body of Mr. Mark Learmont. Apprehend Andrew Britton, and search for the knife, I mention, as well as for any papers that he may have taken from the dead body. Among them will be found the letter from the squire, begging his brother to meet him at the Old Smithy, instead of coming direct to his own mansion.

It will be understood by you, then, clearly, that I accuse these two men, Squire Learmont and Andrew Britton, of the murder of Learmont’s elder brother, and the projected murder of his illegitimate child. She, Ada, left me some time since, after an attempt made by you to take me into custody at the old house at Battersea Fields, among the ruins of which I believe you will still find some articles that belonged to Ada when her father’s death occurred.

Let, then, these men be brought to an ignominious end. Remember that the Learmont family will become extinct with the present squire, for the girl Ada, I repeat, is an illegitimate child. The elder Learmont and Ada Madelini were not married. The large estates, then, must revert to the crown, and my vengeance will be complete. If I am living, I shall hear of the execution of Learmont and Britton; for who can doubt their guilt? If I am dead, and the spirits of the departed retain any shadow of the feelings which agitated them in this world, I shall still rejoice that I have had my revenge.

Jacob Gray.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXII

The Consultation with Albert and Ada.—The Arrangement for the Ball.

When he had finished the confession of Gray, Sir Francis Hartleton looked up and drew a long breath. An inexpressible feeling of relief came over him, and he cried,—

“It is as I partly expected. Ada is related to this squire nearly. With regard to her alleged illegitimacy, I do not believe it for a moment. The malice of Jacob Gray, for denouncing him in the open street, is fully sufficient to account for his making such an assertion. That, however, is a fact which can be very easily ascertained; and I have not a shadow of doubt but my beautiful young friend, after all her severe trials and persecutions, will become the possessor of the splendid estates of Learmont, and will be able to reward the constancy of her lover with a princely income. Oh, what a relief it is, after all, to find that Jacob Gray cannot claim the least shadow of kindred with Ada. Well, he has gone to his account; and, although I have no moral doubt in the world of the guilt of Britton and Learmont as regards Ada’s father, yet this paper would be very insufficient evidence to proceed upon. If they suffer the penalty of the law for murder, it will be for that of Jacob Gray himself.”

Sir Francis Hartleton then left his room, after locking up Gray’s confession, and hastened to where he had left Albert. The good-hearted magistrate will be excused by our fair readers for forgetting that in all probability Ada, when she had left him, had gone back to Albert, and that, consequently, when he, Sir Francis, opened the door very abruptly, the beautiful girl was just, to the smallest possible extent annoyed, to be seen with Albert’s hand clasped in her own, and such a smile of joy on her face, that her lover thought himself in heaven, and, at all events, would have challenged any one to produce a heartfelt joy equal to that which then filled him with thankfulness.

“My dear Ada,” said Sir Francis, “I have to apologise.”

Ada rose, and while a blush spread itself over her face, she said,—

“Sir Francis Hartleton, how can Albert and myself find words, to tell you how much we owe to you, our noble, considerate, generous friend. What would have become of the poor destitute, desolate Ada, but for you?”

“And I, sir,” said Albert, while a tear glistened in his eye, “I’m afraid I have offended you past all forgiveness.”

“No such thing,” said Sir Francis. “You know I was very provoking indeed, Mr. Seyton; but Ada, my dear, go and fetch Lady Hartleton, for she must hear what I have to tell you.”

Ada looked in his face a moment, to read by his expressive features the character of the intelligence he had gleaned from Gray’s confession; and the magistrate shaking his head, said playfully,—

“Now, Ada, that is too bad;” but the smile with which he accompanied his words assured her that what he had to say was not the worst that could be under the circumstances anticipated, and she flew to Lady Hartleton to come and join the group.

When they were all assembled Sir Francis said,—

“What I now tell you must remain in our own breasts until Saturday. Ada, I shall commence with one piece of intelligence, which will not displease you, and I am sure remove one occasionally disagreeable thought from your mind—Jacob Gray is not in the remotest degree connected with you by the ties of relationship.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Ada.

“Now then, my dear Ada, I counsel you to hear, with a patient resignation, the will of Providence, when I tell you you are an orphan.”

One sob burst from Ada’s breast, for she had always pleased herself with the idea of some day finding a dear mother or father. That dream was now dispelled, and it was with some difficulty she could say,—

“Heaven’s will be done! I should not mourn, for have I not found all the love and care of dear parents from you, my kind friends?”

“Your father,” continued Sir Francis Hartleton, “was a noble, honourable gentleman—your mother, a lady of wealth and family.”

“Go on—go on,” gasped Ada, while Albert Seyton and Lady Hartleton looked the intense interest they felt in Sir Francis’s words.

“Will you not, Ada,” he added, “be now content with knowing so much, and seek not to dive deeper into the past.”

“Tell me more of my father and mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, leave me not to conjecture. The mind will ever conjure up from the realms of fancy tenfold horrors. Tell me all—oh, tell me all.”

“I cannot refuse you,” said Sir Francis, “because you have a right to demand to know all. Your mother, as far as I can rely upon my information, died in giving birth to you. Your father—”

Sir Francis paused, and Ada, clasping her hands, cried—“my father—what of him—oh, speak.”

“Your father fell a victim to the avarice of one whom he trusted. His own brother murdered him.”

Ada shuddered, and as the tears rapidly coursed each other down her cheeks, she said, in a low, plaintive tone,—

“Tell me all now. Surely I have heard the worst. My poor father!”

“Returning with you, when you were an infant, to his native land, and his ancient home, his life was taken by three men. One was his brother, the other a smith, by name Andrew Britton, and the third—”

Sir Francis Harleton paused, and Ada filled up the blank with the words,—

“Jacob Gray.”

“True,” said the magistrate; “Jacob Gray was, it appears, by his own confession, a confidential servant of your father’s, and was suborned by your wicked and most unnatural uncle to commit the crime, or, at all events, aid in its commission, which, for so many years, plunged him in all the miseries of a guilty conscience, and placed you in the singular circumstances from which you have been but so recently rescued.”

“And—and—my name?” said Ada.

“Your name is Learmont.”

“Learmont!” cried Albert “God of Heaven, can this be possible? Then he who I have fancied my friend—he who so speciously taught me to believe he was doing me such great service, is the uncle of Ada!”

“He is, and her father’s murderer.”

“The assassin, too, of Jacob Gray?”

“The same.”

“And he, the stout bulky man, whom I saw enter Gray’s abode with the squire?”

“He is Andrew Britton, the smith, the associate in guilt of the Squire Learmont. You were made a mere tool to assist in the destruction of Jacob Gray, who, no doubt, was troublesome on account of his rapacity, and dangerous on account of the written confession he kept by him, and which, has so providentially and strangely fallen into my hands.”

Albert Seyton looked perfectly petrified with astonishment for a time. Then, in a voice of emotion, he said,—

“Oh, Heaven, how near was I proving your worst enemy, my Ada, by too credulously becoming a victim to the arts of the man, who, of all others in the wide world, you had most to dread.”

“I can scarcely understand all this,” said Ada. “You must relate everything to me, Albert, in a more connected manner. Is this Learmont a tall, dark man, with a face of death-like paleness?”

“He is,” said Albert.

“And he is my father’s brother?”

“I grieve to say that such is the fact,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “The law must take cognisance of Jacob Gray’s murder, and that will most probably be the only one of Learmont’s crimes that can be satisfactorily proved against him. A word with you, Mr. Seyton.”

While Ada sat with her hand clasped in that of Lady Hartleton, who was striving to soothe the agitated spirits of the gentle girl, Sir Francis took Albert to the window, and said,—

“Gray, in his confession, asserts the illegitimacy of Ada, but from all that I have ever heard of the character of the elder Learmont, as well as from the evidently anxious manner in which Gray has repeatedly stated the circumstance, I much doubt its truth. It is quite necessary, however, that such a point should be satisfactorily set at rest, or we shall have difficulty in procuring for Ada her father’s property, which has been so long withheld from her by this squire, as he has falsely called himself. The family of Ada’s mother can surely be easily found, and I think some one must be instantly despatched to Italy, where Ada was born, in order to prosecute the necessary inquiries.”

“Oh, Sir Francis,” said Albert, his countenance beaming with pleasure; “let them say what they like of Ada, she is to me the whole world. With her I can be happy as the day is long, and I am sure we shall never sigh for the wealth, the possession of which could not make our hearts more true to each other than they are now.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “I quite agree with you that you may make yourselves very happy indeed, in a humbler station of life than that in which I have hopes of placing Ada; but it is but common justice that she should possess what is hers of right. The Learmont property is immense.”

Albert sighed.

“Why, what’s the matter now?” said Sir Francis, good-humouredly.

“Can I expect,” said the young man, “that Ada Learmont, the rich heiress, should give her hand to the poor, destitute Albert Seyton?”

“Oh, I have nothing to do with that,” exclaimed the worthy magistrate, “you must settle all that between you. Ada, I wish you to give an opinion on a very knotty point raised by Albert Seyton.”

Before Albert Seyton could interpose, Ada approached the window, and Sir Francis added,—

“You must know, Ada, that Mr. Seyton is of opinion that if he were to get immensely rich, his feelings would alter as regards his affections for one poor and dependent.”

“Good God, Sir Francis,” said Albert, “I never said any such thing!”

“Then it was Ada’s feelings which were to alter, provided she was rich and you poor.”

Albert looked abashed, and Ada said in a gentle voice to him,—

“Is this kind, Albert?”

“No, Ada,“ he said. “It is foolish and wrong. Forgive the scruple that rose up in my mind of still urging my suit to you when, as I hear from Sir Francis Hartleton you are likely to become very wealthy.”

“And did such a thought cross your mind, Albert,” said Ada, sadly, “when you stood between little Harry Gray and him who is now no more—when you spent days and nights of anxious toil in searching for me—did then a thought of that affection which sprang up in my heart for the only human voice which had spoken kindly to me—the only heart that had felt for my distresses—cross your mind? Are persecution, distress, danger, misery, all to fail in shaking our faith, to leave the gold the triumph of doing so? Albert, is this well done of you?”

Sir Francis quietly walked away from the window, leaving Albert to make his peace how he could; which it is to be supposed he did, as, after a few moments, Ada, with her usual frank candour, gave him her hand, and shaking her head said, with a smile, something that made his eyes glisten with joy.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXIII. Learmont and Britton after the Murder

Having devoted so large a space to the hopes, the fears, the surprises, and the joys of those in whose happiness, and freedom from the distresses and persecutions which surrounded them, we are so largely interested, we turn with a sensation of sickening gloom to the two men of blood. Learmont and the savage smith, after they had sated themselves with gore, and like ferocious tigers of the jungle, came slinking from the feast of blood which they had sought with avidity, and tasted of so greedily.

Neither of them spoke after they reached the street-door of Gray’s house, until they had placed several streets between them and the one in which the awful deed was committed.

There was a dogged, apathetic kind of movement and manner about Britton, as with a heavy tread he slowly walked by the side of the squire, which more resembled the gross serenity of some over-gorged reptile than anything else. Never before had the smith’s appetite for destruction been so thoroughly sated—never before had he accomplished a darling wish of his heart so fully and so completely. His hatred of Jacob Gray had been one of his chief passions for years, and he had always pleased himself with the notion of some day having a revenge which should be in accordance with his savage nature, and full of terror. Yet in his wildest dreams—in his most fanciful imaginings of what he would like to do to Jacob Gray, he had fallen short of the scene of horror and blood he had that night gone through. Yes; Andrew Britton was satisfied—quite satisfied, as regarded Jacob Gray, and he felt all the ennui and satiety which was sure to arise, when the great object which he had always pleased himself he should one day be able to accomplish, was done. Jacob Gray was dead. He had died by his (Britton’s) hands an awful death, such as rejoiced him to inflict, and which was only disagreeable because it was done, and could not be repeated.

Now and then he would cast a scowling glance upon the squire, as if he longed to strike him down with the cleaver he still held in his grasp. He felt like a man, the great object of whose existence has slipped away from him, leaving the mind no fixed point upon which to fall back in thought.

“Curses on him!” he muttered. “He’s dead,” and Britton felt himself almost injured that Gray could not be brought to life again in order to give him again the pleasure of dashing Bond’s cleaver into his quivering brain.

But what were these thoughts of the coarse-minded, brutal animal, Britton, in comparison with the whirl-wind of frightful feelings that made a hell in the seething brain of Learmont. If he looked up to the sky, huge gouts of blood seemed to intercept his view of the blue vault of heaven; if he cast his eyes downwards, he could not divest himself of the idea that he was treading in ensanguined pools of human gore. He ground his teeth together till he produced a resemblance of the crashing sound which the cleaver wielded by Britton had made as it came in contact with the crunched bones of Gray’s skull. His last despairing cry of “Mercy—mercy—mercy!” was still ringing in his ears, and, finally, such was the intense excitement of his feelings, that he was compelled to lean upon the arm of Britton as he gasped,—

“I—I—shall go mad—I shall go mad. Andrew Britton, get me some water to cool my brain. I shall go mad!”

“Water be d—d!” growled Britton; “have some brandy, why, what’s the matter now?”

“Do—do you not hear, Britton? Gray is still screaming for mercy—does not the sound rush like burning lava through your brain—hark—hark—he still shrieks mercy—mercy—mercy.”

Learmont held the smith by the arm as he spoke, and trembled so especially that he shook the bulky form of Britton to and fro.

“Why what’s come over you, squire?” cried Britton, “curse you—you are not going to make a die of it now, just as that canting thief Gray is put out of the world.”

“Oh, Britton—Britton, was it not horrible?”

“No, it wasn’t. When you knock a fellow on the head with a cleaver, you do for him at once, and all you get out of him is a kick or two. Come this way and don’t be shaking here. Come and have some brandy—d—n water, I’m as thirsty as I can be, and water always makes me worse. Come on—oh! You are a beauty, Master Learmont—you used not to be such a fool. Time was, since I’ve known you, when you’d have thought nothing of this. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, hush—hush—hush,” said Learmont; “do not call to my recollection things which have already left their brand upon my soul.”

“Ha—ha—ha,” laughed Britton, “now I will have some fun with the squire. Don’t you recollect knocking your brother Mark’s first baby on the head, squire?”

“Peace—peace—fiend,” gasped Learmont.

They had now reached the door of a small public-house, which was kept open usually all night for the convenience of thieves and watchmen, when Britton pulled Learmont across the threshold to the little bar, where a man sat smoking with imperturbable gravity and placidity.

“Brandy!” cried Britton, as he reached over the bar, and snatched the pipe from the man, throwing it into the street.

The man was one of those slow thinkers, who are some time comprehending anything—so he merely stared at Britton, out of two exceedingly small eyes, that were nearly buried in mountains of flesh.

“Brandy!” again cried Britton, as he gave the front of the bar a clanging blow with the flat part of the cleaver, that made every bottle dance again, and so astonished the potman, that he slid from his chair, and sat on the ground, looking first at Britton, and then at Learmont, with as much alarm depicted in his countenance, as it could depict, considering it was by no means well calculated for portraying human feelings.

If the potman’s mind was rather overcome by the sudden abstraction of his pipe, the blow upon the bar with the cleaver completed a mystification which to all appearance, looked as if it would last a considerable time; so Britton, perceiving a little half door leading within the bar, on the swing, entered, without any ceremony, and laying violent hands on the first quart pot he saw, he drew liquor from every tap in succession that came to hand, until he had filled the measure with a combination of strong spirits, of which he took a long draught, and then handed it across to Learmont, who stood holding himself up by the bar, and but slightly conscious of where he was, or what Britton was doing.

“Here,” cried the smith, “drink some of that.”

Learmont took the quart measure, and lifted it to his lips mechanically, he drank some of the contents, and then handed it back to Britton, who, after pouring the remainder on the fat landlord’s head, gave him a thump with the measure, saying.

“That’s to clear your wits, and if you say that two gentlemen have been here with a cleaver. I’ll come back some day, and smash you.”

With this Britton hustled Learmont out of the house, and in about three quarters of an hour the fat landlord said,—

“Bless us, and save us!”

Learmont was half intoxicated with the draught of spirits he had taken, when he reached his own door-step, to which he was conducted by Britton, who said to him,—

“Now, squire you are home again, and that job’s jobbed; Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more, and as for his confession, why I begin to think as you do, that there never was one.”

“Ah, the confession—the confession!” gasped Learmont. “We are lost—we are lost, Britton—if, after all, there should be one found.”

“Go to the devil,” said Britton, as he shook himself free of the squire, and flourishing the cleaver proceeded on his way to the Chequers.

The first person that Britton encountered on his road home was a particularly slow-moving watchman, whom he levelled at once with a thwack between the shoulders, inflicted with the flat part of the cleaver. Then, when he reached the Chequers, it was a great satisfaction to him to find the door shut, because it gave him an opportunity of taking the heavy cleaver in both hands, and bringing it down with a blow upon the lock that on the instant smashed it, and burst the door wide open to the great consternation of the landlord, who immediately hid himself below the bar, and only peered up when he heard Britton’s voice exclaim,—

“Curse you all!—Where are you? Boil me some brandy, I say, or I’ll smash everything in the place.”

“Oh, dear, your majesty! So you’ve come home,” faltered the landlord; “dear me!”

Britton’s only reply to this conciliatory speech was to throw the cleaver at the landlord’s head, who only escaped it by ducking in time, when it flew over him, smashing some dozens of glasses, and producing a noise and confusion within the bar that was quite gratifying to Britton’s feelings.

“Hilloa!” cried Bond, when he saw Britton enter the parlour. “Here have I been waiting for you, I don’t know how long.”

“Who told you to wait?” roared Britton.

“Nobody,” shouted Bond, in as high a tone. “Where’s my cleaver?”

“In the bar. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the butcher, “I did hear a smash. You are a great genius, Britton. I say, have you settled that fellow, eh?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Oh? Nothing, I only asked. I suppose he was one too many for you?”

“Too many for me! I’ve smashed him!”

“Very good,” said Bond, resuming his pipe with an air of great composure.

In the meanwhile Learmont was lighted by his wondering domestics to his own chamber. They had never before this seen him in such a state of physical prostration; and, but that they were in too great fear of his violence to offer him even a kindness they would have assisted him up the staircase, for they saw that he was scarcely capable of ascending alone, and had to clutch to the banisters nervously for support.

When he reached his chamber, he sank into a chair, and after a few moments, he said,—

“More lights—more lights! Let me have more lights here. The place is dark.“

One of the servants lit the wax candles which were in silver sconces on the mantel-shelf, and then humbly inquire if his worship had any further orders to give.

“None—none!” said Learmont. “None! Why do you stare at me so? Is—is there blood upon me? How dare you look upon me with eyes of suspicion?”

The servants looked at each other in surprise and terror, and slowly slunk to the door.

“Let me have wine—wine!” cried Learmont. “Wine to give me new blood, for, by the God of heaven, what I have is freezing in my veins. Wine—wine, I say!”

They brought him wine, and a massive silver goblet to drink it from; but when they did so, they found him resting his head upon the table, and apparently half-asleep, for he was moaning occasionally, and muttering the words,—

“Mercy—mercy—mercy!”

None dared to arouse him, but lifting up their hands in silent terror, they gently closed the door, and crept softly down the staircase, leaving him alone with his dark and awful thoughts.

The sun was lighting up the east, and the dim clouds of night were rapidly changing their inky hue for the glorious tints of day; but there sat Learmont still with his head upon the table, and the glare of the many wax lights he had ordered, strangely mingling with the roseate tints of the coming day.

Oh, what awful images of horror and despair came marching in dismal troops through the brain of the blood-guilty man. Over and over again was the fearful tragedy he had been an actor in, exhibited to his shrinking imagination. Then he fancied himself alone with the mangled body of Jacob Gray. His feet were rooted to the floor of the room, and he thought the body rose, while Gray, with his long, ghastly-looking fingers dabbled in blood, strove to hold his eyes in their sockets—to replace the splintered pieces of his fractured skull, the while he glared at him, Learmont, with such a look of stony horror, that with a shriek the squire awoke, and stood in his chamber a picture of guilty horror, staring with blood-shot eyes at the wax-lights and the morning sunshine with a racking brain and a fevered pulse.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXIV. Albert’s Visit to Learmont.—The Squire’s Triumph

After a time Learmont became more conscious of his situation, and a feeling of exhaustion coming over him in consequence of the fatigue, both of body and mind he had undergone, he partially divested himself of his apparel, and throwing himself upon the luxurious bed which was in the room, he soon dropped into a deep sleep, which was not visited and rendered hideous by any of the frightful images which had before been conjured up by his oppressed brain.

It was some four hours or more before he again awakened, and then he found himself much refreshed both bodily and mentally. He ran over in his mind accurately all the circumstances of his present position, and now that his cooler judgment had sway, and the horror of the recent events he had passed through was beginning to subside, he inclined more and more to his previously expressed opinion, that Jacob Gray had not really written any confession, but had merely pretended to have such a document always at hand, for the purpose of aweing him and saving his, Jacob’s life, from any attempt on the part of either of his great enemies.

Learmont rose and paced his room in deep thought, and then, while he stood as it were upon a mine, which, did he but know it, was ready to explode beneath him, and hurl him to destruction; a feeling of self-satisfaction began to creep over him, and he re-assured himself into a belief that he must have materially bettered his situation by the destruction of Gray.

“It must be so,” he muttered. “There is no confession written, and Gray was not only a heavy expense, but would, no doubt, some day have played some serious trick in payment for the attempts which, to his knowledge, had been made against him. ’Tis well, then, he is dead—exceedingly well, for my worst enemy is gone. Britton will drink himself to death, surely; and as for the pretended papers he has, of such great consequence to me, as he and Gray ever affected they were, I now begin to think that like Jacob Gray’s written confession such a tale is merely invented as a bugbear to my imagination. Yes, I must be now in a better, a far better position, and the day will come, when I shall have no further fear of the stability of my fortunes.”

Reasoning thus, he argued himself into a more placid mode, and then the dark feelings of hate, revenge, and gloomy triumphs, which, for a time, had been overpowered and forced to hide their diminished heads in consequence of his great excitements, once more rose, phœnix like, from their ashes, and the wild scheming, blood-stained villain smiled, as he glanced round him upon the magnificence with which he was surrounded, and which he thought would soon be all his own, without the shadow of fear being cast over them.

“By the powers of hell!” he cried, “I will still let them see that I can live right royally in my noble halls. When last I met the Minister of State, methought he looked strangely at me, and he certainly did, upon some most shallow and slight excuse, put me off when I spoke of my baronetcy, promised as it has been for so long. That magistrate too—that Hartleton, who I so deeply hate. There was a sneer, too, upon his face when I saw him last, as if he would have said,—‘Learmont, your fate is hurrying on, and I shall triumph over you.’ Ha! Ha! My best sense of security lies in the fact that he leaves me alone. Could he but get up the shadow of a charge against me, how gladly would he strive to blacken me and my fame in the eyes of those who, despite him, will yet heap honours on my head. Sir Francis Harleton, I know you well as my active enemy, and while I am unmolested by you, I am safe indeed. I will persevere, most certainly, in my intention of giving a fête on Saturday, which shall surpass, in richness and magnificence, any that have yet been vaunted highly by my crowds of visitors—visitors whom I despise, but yet find useful as tools to work out my great scheme of ambition.”

Learmont then rung for his servants, and with a malignant pleasure caused the cards of invitation to his grand masked ball for the Saturday to be sent to Hartleton and to the minister.

“I will vex the very soul of this Hartleton,” he said, “by the gorgeous display of wealth I will make.”

A shade of care then suddenly came across his brow, as for the first time since his departure from the house of Gray, he thought upon the promised visit of Albert Seyton.

“Ha,” he cried, “my young secretary, I had nearly forgotten him. Will he prove troublesome? Did he catch a glimpse of me at Gray’s? No—no—that he did not—and if he did—well. The shortest plan of operation with regard to him is to give him more hopes, no matter how slenderly based; and along with them a cup of wine, which shall contain an insidious drug. Yes, I will poison him, and then send him some long errand to a distant part of the country, which he will never live to return from—a safe way—a most safe way. So shall I be rid of him without the—the—horror (Learmont shuddered as he spoke) of seeing such another death, perhaps, as that I would fain blot from my memory for ever, but which rises gaunt and bloody ever before my mental eye. I must not think of it. My fête—my brilliant fête—my baronetcy—ah, those are grateful imaginings.”

The receipt of Learmont’s card of invitation to Sir Francis Hartleton we are already aware of, and in the course of the day its presence, as it lay before him gave the magistrate an idea, which, if it could be successfully carried out, would have some time in the apprehension of the guilty squire, as well as, in all probability, force some sudden recognition of Ada and her rights. Besides, it was, at all events, important, that, as he, Sir Francis Hartleton, had given his promise to the Secretary of State that Learmont should not be molested until after the Saturday’s fête, the squire should not be led to suspect that any of his plans had failed, or that any immediate danger beset him.

For the purpose of preventing such a thing from occurring, Sir Francis Hartleton proposed to Albert Seyton that he should see Learmont on that evening, in pursuance of the arrangement which had been entered into between him and the squire.

Another difficulty, or rather a doubt, beset this line of proceeding, however, and that was to know whether the squire was aware, or not, of the fact of Albert having been present at the house in which Gray was murdered on the night, or rather morning, of that event. To solve this question, or, at all events, to render it an innocuous one, Sir Francis Hartleton advised that Albert should take with him to the squire’s an exact copy of the confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to him, admitting that, seeing the door of Gray’s house open, he had entered and become possessed of the document by the accidental tearing of a cloak in which it was concealed.

“Such a step on our parts,” said Sir Francis, “must have the effect of thoroughly disarming Learmont of all suspicion of his danger; and since his friend, the Secretary of State, has him so much under his special protection, on account of his parliamentary influence, I should like very much to let him see, personally, what a beautiful protégé he has, and make the masked ball the scene of his apprehension.”

“I am quite willing to act upon your advice,” said Albert; “and indeed, I am not a little curious and anxious to know what Learmont can possible say to me this evening, when I call upon him, and demand Ada, according to the solemn promises he made me.”

With this understanding Albert and the magistrate repaired to the study of the latter, where they took an accurate copy of the confession, which Albert placed in his pocket, while Sir Francis charged himself with the preservation of the original.

“Return as soon as possible,” said Sir Francis, “and, above all things, be mindful of treachery.”

“I think I am more than a match for the squire,” said Albert, smiling.

“Be that as it may,” said the magistrate, “remember that during your stay at his house there will be a force within hearing of you should you require any assistance. We must trust this man of many crimes as little as we possibly can.”

Without saying anything to Ada of his intention, for he knew that her anxiety would be very great if she knew that he was venturing into the house of Learmont, Albert, just as the shades of evening began to fall upon the streets and house left the residence of the magistrate, and proceeded at a sharp pace towards Learmont’s splendid abode.

He was readily admitted, and upon being shown into the room where he usually saw Learmont, he found him seated with a multitude of papers before him, apparently very busily engaged. He started as he saw Albert, and yet he felt intensely gratified, for it tended much to assure him of his safety. His only difficulty consisted in his want of knowledge of whether Albert had seen him or not at Gray’s.

“You are true to your appointment, Mr. Seyton,” he said, after a few moments thought. “Have you heard any news of Jacob Gray?”

“He is murdered,” said Albert.

Learmont turned a shade paler as he said,—

“So I have heard this morning, and that has, I fear, placed an obstacle in your way.”

“I found that he was murdered,” continued Albert “at an early hour this morning. Being anxious concerning her whom I loved I passed the house in which Gray resided, when I saw the door ajar. That excited my curiosity, and I entered from an impulse which I could not control.”

“He did not see me,” thought Learmont; “he suspects nothing.”

“I called aloud upon Ada,” continued Albert, “but no one answered me. Procuring then a light from a woman in the house, I proceeded to search it, and found Gray a mangled horrible corpse.”

Learmont drew a long breath as he said,

“I heard so much this morning from a casual visitor, and I was intending before now to take with me a warrant from the Secretary of State which would have been granted upon my applications to take Gray into custody, and offer the young girl, in whom you have made me feel a strange interest, an asylum under my own roof, until your arrival to-night.”

“You are very considerate, sir,” said Albert. “By the accidental rending of a cloak which I presume belonged to Jacob Gray, a packet of papers—”

Learmont uttered a loud cry, and rising, he stretched out his hands, saying, while his face was livid with apprehension,—

“You—you have them? The—the confession—this instant—on your life give it to me. You have not dared to read—you will take some wine—you will—this—this goblet will refresh you. The papers—give me the papers.”

He shook like an aspen leaf as he pushed the cup of wine he had drugged, in case he should wish to get rid of Albert, towards him, and his voice grew hoarse with anxiety as he continued to say,—

“The papers—the papers!”

Albert handed him the copy of Gray’s confession, which Learmont snatched with the most frantic eagerness.

“You see, Mr. Seyton,” he said, “I am most anxious about the welfare of yourself and this young maiden—I pray you drink. The wine is good. Yes, this is addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but it is far better in my hands. She would fare badly, you know, in the tender mercies of such man as he. Drink—you—you do not drink.”

There was something about Learmont’s extreme eagerness to induce him to drink that excited the suspicious of Albert, and he resolved that he would not touch a drop of wine, but having executed his errand, would get out of the house as quickly as possible.

Learmont rose as he spoke, still grasping the document Albert had given him in his hand, and said,—

“Wait for me a short time; I will read this most carefully, and then communicate to you the result. Drink Mr. Seyton. I pray you do not spare the wine. You look fatigued.”

With an expression of triumph upon his brow, and a haughtier, firmer tread than he had used for years, Learmont left the room, with, as he supposed, the confession of Jacob Gray in his possession, and Albert Seyton disposed of, as he thought he would be, by partaking of the drugged wine, he then considered he should have no further trouble concerning Ada, except what might easily be overcome.

Before he returned to Albert, the latter had cast the wine from the window, and when Learmont glanced at the goblet, and saw it was empty, he said,—

“Mr. Seyton, I have read the paper; it says that your Ada, your much-loved Ada, is an orphan, and that you will find her at—at—Chatham.”

“At Chatham, sir?”

“Yes, off with you. You must inquire for the residence of a Mr. Henderson. He is well known, and will conduct you to Ada. Off with you, and come back to me—when you can.” These last words were uttered after Albert, who was disgusted with the scene, had hurried from the room.

Then Learmont drew himself up to his full height, and cried,—

“He will be dead within an hour! I triumph—I triumph!”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXV. The Masked Ball

How singularly different the various actors in our eventful drama of real life passed the Thursday and the Friday preceding Learmont’s masked ball. To the squire himself it was a period of restless inquietude, for even in his moments of self-exaltation, and triumphant congratulation, there was bitterness at his heart, and he could almost fancy a voice said to him in a hissing whisper—“This is not real.” Had it not been for the great preparations he occupied himself in making and superintending for the approaching entertainment, his imagination, having more leisure to brood upon the past, would have brought upon him greater suffering than he really endured, but, as it was, each hour that had winged its flight, he told himself that he was safer still, and that he had now little more to do than enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies. That Albert Seyton had died of the poison which he, Learmont, thought he had taken, he entertained no doubt. The only circumstance that surprised him much was that he had not seen Britton, but having ascertained, upon inquiry, that the smith had not been one degree removed from helpless intoxication since the Wednesday morning, he felt satisfied, and rather pleased than otherwise, at the speedy destruction which Britton must be making of his powers of existence.

Oh, with what malignant satisfaction he read and re-read, as he supposed, the only document which could have hurled him from his high estate to destruction, to death, to infamy! How he laughed with a wild demoniac mirth at the simplicity of Albert Seyton in handing him the confession, and being so easily put off from a knowledge of its contents. With what a proud air he trod his splendid saloons, and how haughtily he reasoned with himself about that Providence which he in his wild excitement of fancied success almost considered he had circumvented.

“This ball,” he muttered, “shall be the scene of my triumph and the discomfiture of my enemies—envy shall become more envious, humility and sycophancy more humble and cringing—for all shall see that the star of Learmont is in the ascendant. Then, this confession, addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, shall make assurance doubly sure; I will totally confound him by handing to him a document of my own contrivance similarly addressed, but with contents most widely differing from this! Yes, it shall be done. With seeming candour and simplicity the subtlest plots are carried out, the deepest designs concluded successfully. What will be the result? All that I can wish.—I will write a supposed confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to this active magistrate.”

For some moments Learmont was so delighted with this plan, that he paced the saloon in which he was in silence, while a grim smile lit up his face, giving him a close resemblance to some of those strange old carvings, which modern fashion, if not modern taste, is rescuing from the dust and oblivion of centuries at the present day.

In silent meditation he concocted his plan, which he considered would either place Ada in his power, or force the magistrate in a very disagreeable position, for the mock confession he meant to write, and hand to Sir Francis Hartleton, as having been brought to him by his secretary, he intended should merely contain an appeal to his, Learmont’s, charity in favour of the orphan girl.

While triumph was thus setting on the brow of Learmont—while Heaven was inflating his heart with the vanity of success, as if but to make his fall more awful, Ada, who we have followed through her various fortunes so long, was indeed happy in the best, the purest, acception of the term. Her joy was not the feverish excitement arising from successful machinations. It was heavenly serenity—the sunny happiness of a heart which knew no guile, and was only too much blessed in being permitted uncoerced and unpersecuted to follow out the dictates of its own ennobling feelings.

The whole household indeed of Sir Francis Hartleton, seemed to share in the satisfaction that there abounded, from what cause they knew not, but they were satisfied, from the smiles of Ada and the returning colour on her cheek, the evident happiness of Albert Seyton, and the pleasure which sparkled in the eyes of their master and mistress, that something must have happened to bring great joy among them.

It was the Saturday morning before Britton had the least interval of sobriety, and then so stultified were his faculties with the debauch of the last two days, far exceeding as it did any that he had previously indulged in, that he was some time in comprehending what Bond the butcher meant, when, after repeated howlings in his ear, he heard him say—

“Britton, curse you, you beast, the squire, your rich friend, is going to give a ball to-night, I hear, and all the people are to go, they tell me, with masks. Do you hear, you brute?”

“Yes, and be hanged to you; you are as drunk as you can be, and you know it,” responded Britton. “More brandy—more brandy! Damn Jacob Gray—no, curse it, it’s no use damning Jacob Gray any more now: he’s damned already—damn everybody.”

“Ah, Master Britton,” exclaimed a man who had just entered the Chequers with a determination of enjoying a pipe, and a quart of ale, and a grumble—“we live in hard times, Master Britton—are we to have our heads smashed—are we to have our throats cut—are we to be murdered in our beds—are we—”

“I tell you what,” said Bond, “if you come any more of your ‘are we’s,’ I’ll just throw you out of the window.”

“Throw me out of the window? pooh! I sit here on the liberty of the subject, and what I mean to say is, that everything is smothered now-a-days. Here’s been two murders, and they’ve both been smothered up. There was poor Mr. Vaughan’s murder—who ever heard anything of that, I should like to know? Then there’s been the murder of Mr. Gray, a most mysterious affair; and Sir Francis Hartleton, who prides himself so much upon his being such an active magistrate, he does nothing—nothing, my masters, I may add, nothing.”

“Smash him!” said Britton, and Bond, immediately rising, would have probably done some serious mischief, had not the man, who, by good luck was near the doors taken alarm in time, and rushed out crying, ‘Murder’ until he was met and pacified by the landlord, who persuaded him to sit down in the bar while he sneaked into the parlour to fetch his pipe and ale.

Just as the landlord entered the room, Britton shouted to him in a half-drowsy tone,—

“Hark you; mind my sedan-chair is ready to-night. I’m going to Squire Learmont’s ball.”

“Bless your majesty—are you really! I never!”

“Didn’t you,” said Britton, as he flung the fire-shovel at the landlord’s, head, who made a precipitate retreat without the ale and the pipe, which articles, rather than again venture into the parlour, he again supplied to the talkative man.

* * * * *

By one hour after sunset, Learmont had the various lamps and chandeliers lit in his splendid mansion, and with feelings somewhat akin to those with which he had first made a tour from room to room, he glanced around him upon the rare magnificence with which he was completely surrounded.

“’Tis well—exceedingly well,” he muttered. “I have suffered much to bring about such a night of triumph as this. Within some few brief hours three hundred of the highest and the noblest in this country will be assembled in my halls, while I, the observed of all observers, do the honours of my costly home. To-night I will claim a fulfilment of the minister’s promise concerning the baronetcy. To-night, in soft whispered accents, will I once more essay to win the hand of the proud beauty whose ancient patrician name will add a lustre to my own too new nobility. This is indeed a night of triumph! I ought to be happy.” Even as he spoke, such a pang shot across his heart, that he absolutely reeled again, and when he could speak, he said in faltering accents,—

“What—what means this emotion? Why do I tremble now? What have I to fear?—Nothing—nothing.—What can happen?—Oh nothing!—I am safe—very safe! I wish my company would come. I like to hear the hum of life in my glorious abode!—I like to see the moving plumes!—I like to note the diamond’s glittering presence!—I wish they would come. I wonder where and how Albert Seyton died?—The poison he took was subtle!—He could not escape—that was impossible—quite impossible! He might have been a dangerous enemy!—I wish my halls were full!”

One of those disagreeable feelings came over Learmont now to which he had been frightfully subject of late, namely, a fancy that some one was constantly behind him, turning as he turned, and ever keeping so far behind him as never to permit him to catch a glimpse of what it was. This terror always for a time reduced him to a pitiable state of nervous weakness, and the only resource he could ever find was to sit in a chair, the back of which was close to a wall. Trembling, therefore, and slinking along like one accursed, he sought the small room he usually sat in, and there remained for some hours in the position we have described, awaiting the coming of his guests.

Soon after nine o’clock, the street began to show signs of animation; ancient lumbering coaches drawn by sleek, fat horses, bore precious freights of rank and beauty to Learmont’s doors, which were thrown wide open, the steps being lined by lacqueys, many of whom bore flaming links. Some gentlemen came on horseback, concealing their costumes with ample cloaks, and before ten o’clock (for our ancestors began their amusements earlier and left off sooner than we do) the thoroughfare was nearly blocked up with chairs.

Then ensued a scene of squabbling among coachmen, linkmen, chairman, &c, a faint imitation of which sometimes is exhibited at a modern rout. Learmont’s saloons presented a most dazzling appearance: the richness and variety of the costumes—the immense looking-glasses—the brilliant lighting—the glitter of diamonds—the waving of countless plumes—the music now coming in wild crashes of melody, and then sinking to a plaintive measure above the soft tones of which could be heard the hum of voices—the merry laughter of the young, and the shuffle of the dancers’ feet, as now and then a space would be cleared for a giddy couple, who ere the regular ball began would extemporise a dance.

Learmont too was marching among his guests for some time, like a spirit of evil. There was a cloud upon his brow, but he wrestled with the dark spirit that clung to his heart, and soon his countenance became wreathed in smiles, and he had a word of welcome, of gaiety, or of friendship, for every one of his guests. Sometimes he would pause, and cast his eye about him, to note if all had arrived,—a fact he could only judge of by the thronged state of the rooms, for being a masked hall there was no announcement of names. Learmont, however, had provided against the contingency of not knowing those parties to whom he wished to speak privately, by leaving orders in his hall that as their tickets were taken, an accurate account of their costumes should be brought to him.

He had already been told that the minister had arrived, and was enveloped in a purple cloak, embroidered with silver lace, and that Sir Francis Hartleton, likewise in domino, had come with a small party in his company, he having a black velvet cloak, and a hat with white feathers.

The Brereton party Learmont was well aware he would have no difficulty in recognising, for they were too much impressed with their own dignity to hesitate in throwing off all incognita as soon as possible.

The dancing was to commence at eleven o’clock; but before that hour Learmont saw that the principal saloon was uncomfortably crowded, and he immediately ordered the folding doors conducting to the next apartment, which was deliciously cool to be thrown open, and the ball to commence. Directing his eyes to the musicians, and clapping his hands, they struck up a lively measure, when he advanced to the haughty Lady Brereton, the younger, and offering her his hand, begged the honour of opening the ball with her, at the same time slightly removing his mask to assure her who he was, although such a measure was needless, for there was not one of his guests who had ever seen him before, that failed to recognise him. A large space was cleared for the dance, and Learmont led the proud beauty to perform one of those elaborate and tedious minuets now so properly exploded. When it was over, Learmont led the lady to a magnificent seat, and while the band struck up a lively measure, and one of those laughter-provoking dances which a hundred couple might engage in was proceeding, making the very lights dance in the chandeliers, he stooped to the lady’s ear, and whispered,—

“May I presume to hope that my devotion to your beauty will ensure me success in my suit for your hand? My income is immense, and I have nearly half a million of ready money. The other half you see around you in the decorations of this house.”

There was surely some fatality about Learmont’s money, for at that moment a trembling servant stepped up to him, and said,—

“An it please you, sir, there’s a—a row in the hall; and, and—an please you, sir, it’s—him.”

The man tendered to Learmont a dirty scrap of paper, on which he read,—

“The King of the Old Smithy, and friend.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXVI. The Death of Learmont

It was well Learmont’s face was partially concealed by a mask, or even the Honourable Georgiana Brereton might have had her fine aristocratic nerves shocked by the death-like hue of his features, as he gasped,—

“Damnation!”

A slight scream burst from her ladyship’s lips, and then a general clapping of hands caused Learmont to look around, when he saw Britton attired in his garments as a smith, and wearing an enormous nose, executing a grotesque dance with Bond the butcher, who had disdained all concealment, and came in his usual, not very elegant, costume.

Up the centre of the saloon, the guests making way for them, they came like two bears at play, stamping, waving, whirling round, treading on each other’s toes, and then cuffing each other with boisterous mirth, till they reached the place where Learmont stood, when, rushing forward with a shriek of rage, the squire clutched Britton by the throat with desperate energy, and said—

“Villain—wretch! How dare you?”

“Hands off, squire,” cried Britton.

“And eyes on,” added the butcher, recollecting that these were the words of an announcement he used to append to the fattest meat.

“Bravo! Bravo!—Capital!” cried many of the guests, thinking that the whole affair was got up as part of the evening’s amusement. Even the minister smiled, and wondered to a mask who stood next him, if the two strange creatures had votes.

“Andrew Britton,” growled Learmont, in the smith’s ear, “are you mad?”

“You be d—d!” was the elegant rejoinder. “Hurrah! Come along, Bond, now for it.”

Upon this the butcher took from one capacious pocket the same cleaver which had been the instrument of Jacob Gray’s murder, and from another a large bone, with which he executed such a lively tune upon the flat of the weapon, that Britton roared again with mirth and after a wild dance, sat down, on the floor, and shouted like a wild animal. Then he caught hold of the Honourable Georgiana Brereton’s foot, and her white satin slipper coming off in his hands, he fell on the flat of his back, while shouts, screams, roars of laughter, and the clapping of hands, sounded through the saloon.

Learmont made a rush from the rooms, and summoning all the servants he could meet with, he brought them back with him, in order that they might eject Britton and Bond; but by this time the smith had arisen from the floor, and turning to the squire, he said,—

“Honour bright, and no nonsense. D—n it, squire, a joke’s a joke. We’re off again. I’ve had my fun, and there’s an end of it. Ladies and gentlemen you may all be d—d! Strike up, Bond.”

The butcher again played the marrow-bone and cleaver, and with many whirls, shouts, and singular gyrations, he and Britton left the saloon.

Learmont stood for some moments trembling with rage: then, suddenly, he cried,—

“Music—music—the dance—the dance—a mere jest. Music, I say.”

A crash of melody followed his call, and he was looking for the lady he had left when a domino in a black velvet cloak met his eye.

The domino bowed and unmasked.

“The rooms are warm, squire.”

“Ha! Sir Francis Hartleton,” cried Learmont.

Then a sudden thought struck him, that he would efface all recollection of Britton’s drunken vagary, by calling public attention to the forged paper he had intended to give Sir Francis privately. He waved his arm to the musicians, and they suddenly paused in the midst of a lively air, which had the effect of preparing the guests for something unusual. As many as could, crowded round Learmont and Sir Francis Hartleton, while the former said, in a loud voice,—

“I have had placed in my hands a packet addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, which I am informed has been found at the lodgings of the man who, you have all heard, was murdered on Wednesday morning early, in this immediate neighbourhood.”

Sir Francis Hartleton looked astonished; and taking off his mask, he glanced round him anxiously. A murmur of curiosity rose among the guests. Many mounted upon chairs, and some few even upon the tables. A more curious scene than Learmont’s saloon then presented could scarcely be imagined.

“Read—read!” cried many voices, as Sir Francis took a sealed paper, which was handed to him by Learmont, and put it in his pocket. The shouts to him to read the document increased each moment, and then a sudden thought crossed the mind of Sir Francis, that the squire might be caught in his own snare. In the same pocket in which he had placed the packet Learmont had given him, Sir Francis had the real confession of Jacob Gray, which he had brought with him to show the minister, should an opportunity present itself.

“Shall I read that, and confound the guilty squire at once,” thought Sir Francis, “I have plenty of assistance at hand for his capture.”

He hesitated a moment, and then said aloud,—

“His Majesty’s Secretary of State is present, if he will sanction my reading the paper aloud, I will do so, but as it may possibly criminate some one, I demand that the door be secured.”

“Aye,” cried Learmont. “Secure the door. Let no one pass in or out.”

He then cast a triumphant glance at the magistrate, for he felt so very sure how disappointed he would be. The minister now took off the mask, and said,—

“Well, well; it can’t be helped. Go on, Sir Francis.”

There was now a breathless silence, and Sir Francis Hartleton drew from his pocket the real confession of Jacob Gray. Learmont was in far too great a state of excitement to notice any difference in the aspect of the documents, and waving his arm, he cried,—

“Silence, friends, and welcome guests. We may find some secrets here worthy our attention.”

Sir Francis cast his eyes upon Learmont with a look of peculiar meaning as he said,—

“You will, I think, in this instance, squire, turn out a true prophet.”

He then opened the confession, and while every sound was hushed, and all eyes bent upon his, he, in a clear full voice, read,—

To Sir Francis Hartleton,

I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts to you because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest curse of a dead man fall upon you and yours, if you do not take instant means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave, however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance and so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with safeguards which they dared not despise.

In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged from the service of an English family for matters that are of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name, Mark Learmont—

The guilty squire seemed absolutely stupified until the magistrate had got thus far, and then with a cry that struck terror to the hearts of all who heard it, he drew his sword, and with the wildness of despair, dashed through the throng of masks around him, shouting,—

“Tis false—’tis false—false as hell. I did not do the deed—make way—who stays me dies upon the spot. Help—help! A plot—a plot.”

He had wounded several persons before, in the universal panic, they could get out of his way, and then Sir Francis Hartleton raised his voice above all other sounds, shouting—

“Seize the murderer.”

In an instant some half dozen of the maskers threw off their dominos and masks, presenting to the astonished eyes of the guests, roughly attired, well armed men, who immediately darted after Learmont.

Two other persons, likewise threw down their masks. One was Albert Seyton and the other was Ada; but by this time the half-maddened squire had fought his way to the further end of the saloon, and dashing against some folding doors, they flew open, disclosing a flight of steps leading to a conservatory filled with rare plants; waving, then, his sword round his head, he sprang up the steps.

“Surrender or we fire,” cried Sir Francis Hartleton.

Learmont turned, and said something that was not heard in the confusion—blood was streaming down his face, for he had bit his lips through, and he made repeated lunges with his sword, as now with frantic voice and gesture, he cried,—

“Off—off—tear me not to hell—fiends, off—why do you glare at me—off—off—’tis false—false, I say—a plot—a plot!”

“Seize him,” cried the magistrate, as he himself sprung upon the first step.

“Yield, monster,” said Albert Seyton, as passing Sir Francis, he flew up the staircase.

At the sight of him, Learmont uttered a cry of despair; but when Ada, fearful for Albert’s safety, was by his side in a moment, and Learmont met her gaze, his sword dropped from his grasp, and he could but totter backwards towards the conservatory, shrieking,—

“The dead—the dead—Gray next—and then—my brother—my murdered brother—”

With a heavy crash he fell just within the door of the conservatory, and was immediately seized by the officers of Sir Francis Hartleton, who himself turning on the steps, said,—

“I much grieve to have marred the mirth of this noble company, but I apprehend Squire Learmont, as a murderer—an assassin—a persecutor of the innocent—a reveller in the wealth of another. This young maiden, I here proclaim as heiress of the estates of Learmont.”

Ada shrunk back, as Sir Francis pointed to her, and leaning upon the arm of Albert, she sobbed as she said,—

“Oh, tell me, Albert, what is the meaning of all this fearful scene.”

“I have proof of the marriage of this lady’s mother with the elder brother Learmont, now in custody, from the Austrian ambassador,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “His predecessor was present at the ceremony.”

“Ada,” cried Albert, rapturously. “Look up—my own Ada.”

“This,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, addressing her, “is your house. It is for you to make the company welcome, or not.”

Ada burst into tears, and was led down the steps by Albert and the magistrate, but scarcely had they entered the saloon, when the officers who captured Learmont, appeared at the top of the stairs with him. All eyes were fixed upon his face, which was livid and ghastly. He offered no opposition, but came down step-by step with an awful calmness, like one going to execution, who had long since bid adieu to hope. When he reached halfway, he paused, and extending both his arms, while his fingers pointed to Sir Francis Hartleton, he burst into such a frantic howling laugh, that the officers shrunk from him aghast. Then an awful spasm came across his face, and like a log, he fell upon the stairs.

When raised he was found quite dead. A small phial, which was afterwards picked up in the conservatory, and which contained yet a lingering drop of deadly poison, told his fate. The erring spirit had flown to its Maker, there to render up that awful account, which we may shudder at, but not define.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXVII. The Pursuit for Britton

A shudder ran through the gaily attired guests at this awful and most unlooked for termination of the fête they had come to witness. Many pulled off their masks, and Ada, as she clung convulsively to Albert, said,—

“Oh, that I had remained unknown, poor and nameless, rather than acquired what they say I have, by such awful steps as these.”

Sir Francis Hartleton then spoke aloud, saying,—

“This man has poisoned himself to escape the just penalty of his crimes, but another act of justice yet remains to be done. Officers, hasten to the Old Chequers, at Westminster; living or dead, arrest Andrew Britton.”

There was a wild shriek at this moment at the door of the principal saloon, and in another moment, brandishing a knife in her hand, mad Maud rushed forward.

“Who spoke of Andrew Britton?” she cried. “Who talks of him? Tell me where he is, that I may hunt him. That I may see his blood flow like a rivulet. Heaven has kept life in me yet that I may see Andrew Britton die. Ha, ha, ha! He is to die before poor mad Maud, who was hooted and pelted through mud and mire, till the good angel pitied her. The good angel—bless you, Heaven bless you—look kindly on poor Maud, who has come to see Andrew Britton die.”

The guests huddled together in groups, and looked in each other’s faces with fear and amazement, while each wondered what next would occur to fill them with terror, ere they could depart from the splendid mansion, which they had approached with such widely different feelings.

Sir Francis Hartleton, observing the officers pause, as if waiting for some orders concerning Maud, who they all knew, and felt assured, as was indeed the fact, that she had strayed from his house, called to them in a loud voice,—

“To the Chequers—to the Chequers, and secure your prisoner. Hasten, he may receive an alarm from some one, and yet escape us for a while. I will see to this poor creature’s safety.”

“Who stays me must have a charmed life,” cried Maud, springing to the doors and holding above her head the glittering knife, while her eyes beamed with a scarcely inferior lustre. “To the Chequers—to the Chequers. Ha, ha, ha! To the Chequers!”

Her voice was harsh and grating to the ear, and she was heard, as she left the house still shouting—”To the Chequers—to the Chequers,” till distance drowned the fierce, maniacal cry.

Sir Francis Hartleton then sheathed his sword, and turning to the Secretary of State, said, with a low bow—

“As a higher authority by far than my humble self, I will leave your lordship to take what steps may seem to you proper in this house, while I pursue my proper vocation in attempting the arrest of as great a criminal as London at present possesses.”

“Who, I?” cried the minister. “Bless my heart, I really don’t know what to do; but before you go, Sir Francis Hartleton, be so good as to introduce me to your charming young friend there, who, you say, is to inherit the Learmont property—I wish just to ask her which way she means to make her tenants vote at the next election.”

Before the minister had finished this speech, Sir Francis Hartleton had left the saloon, being perfectly sure that Ada was safe with Albert Seyton, in order to assist at the capture of Britton, whither we will follow him, being equally well assured that Ada was in good hands.

The officers had made good speed, and when Sir Francis reached the street, he found more than fifty of the youngest and most active of Learmont’s guests hastening towards the Chequers; their strange motley dresses producing a singular effect, as they were mingled with boys bearing links, and many stray passengers who joined the throng in intense curiosity to know whither they were going.

* * * * *

None of the officers had thought proper to interfere with mad Maud, for there was nothing to be got by running the chance of an ugly wound with the knife she carried, and the consequence was that she outstripped every one in the race to the Chequers, being the unconscious cause of giving an alarm of danger to Britton which he otherwise would not have received. He was still sitting with Bond, exulting over the success of his visit to Learmont’s, and regretting that, before he left, he had not gone to greater lengths in his wild spirit of mischief, when a scuffle at the door of the Chequers attracted his attention, and then he heard the voice of Maud—a voice he knew full well, shrieking in its loudest accents,—

“Andrew Britton! Andrew Britton! I have come to see you die! Savage Britton, come forth! Murderer, I have come to see you die.”

“Now, by all the foul fiends,” cried Britton, “I will be troubled by that croaking witch no more.”

He rose from his seat, and despite the remonstrances of Bond, rushed into the passage to execute summary vengeance upon poor Maud, when he was seized by one of the officers, who had been quicker than his fellows, and who cried,—

“Andrew Britton, you are my prisoner.”

For one instant Britton was passive, and then drawing a long breath, he seized the unlucky officer round the waist, and with one tremendous throw he pitched him through the open doorway into the street, where he fell with a deep groan, for a moment obstructing the passage of his comrades, and giving Britton time to dart up the staircase, which he did as quickly as his unwieldy bulk would let him. In another moment the voice of Sir Francis Hartleton—the only one he dreaded—rung in his ears as the magistrate cried—

“A hundred pounds for the apprehension of Andrew Britton! After him, men—after him! Follow me!”

Maud stood screaming with a wild unearthly glee in the passage, and clapping her hands while Sir Francis and his officers rushed up the narrow staircase of the Chequers. As for Bond, he just looked out at the parlour door; when he saw how affairs were proceeding, he went back, and drunk up all Britton’s liquor, after which lifting one of the low parlour windows, he stepped out, and walked leisurely down the street with his pipe in his mouth, as if nothing particular had happened, except that when he reached the corner he knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a post, and remarked,—

“That’s a smasher!”

Britton was not much intoxicated previous to the arrival of his enemies, and the shock of finding himself thus openly sought for by his worst, or at all events, his most dangerous foe, completely sobered him. “What has happened to Learmont?” was the question he asked of himself as he reached his attic and bolted the door, in order to gain a moment’s time for thought. It was but a moment, however, that he had to spare, and while the confusion and terror of his mind were each instant growing stronger, he opened the window and clambered out into the gutter, along which he crawled a few paces, and then commenced the ascent of the sloping roof of the old house, knowing that upon its other slope it abutted so closely upon some other houses, that in the darkness of the night he would have a chance to escape. For the first time, however, in his life, a mortal fear crept over Britton’s heart, and when a shout arose in the street from the maskers, some of whom saw his dark figure crawling up the roof, he was compelled to clutch desperately to it, to save himself from rolling down headlong.

One glance behind him showed him the officers on the gutter and preparing to ascend the roof.

“Come down, or we fire!” cried one.

“No—no,” shouted Sir Francis, “take him alive; he cannot escape.”

“Cannot escape?” groaned Britton as he made frantic efforts to reach the top of the roof, but each time foiled by his own too powerful struggles, for the small flat tiles kept coming off in his hands, which were already torn and bleeding from his recent exertions.

Some flambeaux were now elevated on long poles, borrowed from a neighbouring shop by the maskers, and a broad red glare was cast upon the roof of the Chequers, bewildering the eyes of the smith as well as making him visible to all his enemies. Then shouts, hoots, screams, and all sorts of discordant cries burst from the rapidly increasing crowd below, while several of the officers began to crawl up the roof after Britton, who by the most tremendous efforts had nearly succeeded in gaining the summit.

“Come down, men,” cried Sir Francis to his officers—”he is in our power—down, all of you.”

The magistrate had sent one of the officers along the gutter with instructions to ascend the roof as rapidly as possible some distance on, and getting upon the other slope meet Britton, when he should reach the top; and seize him. This manœuvre was executed with adroitness and despatch, for what to the terrified and half-maddened Britton was a task of immense difficulty, was nothing to the cool and determined officer, whose head exactly rose up and faced Britton’s as he reached the summit of the roof.

With a cry of rage Britton clutched the man by the collar, at the same moment that the officer made a desperate attempt to push him down the sloping roof into the gutter. Then all the devil in the smith’s nature seemed to revive—fury kindled his eyes, and with a yell more like that of a wild beast than a human being, he dragged the officer over the pinnacle of the roof, as if he had been a child, and dashing down with them tiles, mortar, and rubbish, the two rolled with tremendous speed into the gutter.

There was a shout from the crowd below, for Britton’s capture appeared certain, when a large piece of the flat stone which formed the street side of the gutter gave way with the shock of the two rolling bodies, and fell into the street with an awful crash. A shriek then arose from a hundred throats—one half of either Britton’s body or the officer’s, no one could tell which, hung over the abyss. There was one plunge of the feet, and many of the crowd turned away their eyes, as before the officers above, or Sir Francis Hartleton could get a hold of them, both Britton and his captor fell over, and locked in an embrace of death, reached the pavement, with a dull, hideous sound. There was then a rush forward of the crowd, but it was found in vain to attempt to unlock the death clutch of the two men—both were dead. Britton’s face was terribly disfigured, and when, with a wild terrible cry, Maud sprung to the corpses, it was only by seeing that the one whose face was discernible, was not Britton, that she could guess the other to be the savage smith, who had worked her so much woe. She did not exult—she did not scream or laugh with her usual mad mirth, but a great change came over her face, and in a low plaintive tone she said,—

“Where am I—is this my wedding-day—what has happened?” She then clasped her head with her hands, and appeared to be trying to think—reason had returned, but it was to herald death.

“He who loved me is no more,” she moaned—“the savage smith took his life—God bless—”

Her head sunk upon her breast—lower—lower still she drooped. Then, some tried to raise her—they spoke kindly to her, but her spirit had fled.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXVIII. Conclusion

Our eventful history is nearly ended, and yet we would fain linger by Ada and her fortunes. We would fain follow still through the various scenes of life, the child which was brought from the blazing smithy—the enthusiastic girl, who, in the majesty and might of innocence, defied Jacob Gray,—the pure beautiful being, who in maturer years denounced him as a murderer—she who still clung to her first, her only love, and when the dearest friend that fate had given her, Sir Francis Hartleton even doubted, still asserted her confidence in his devotion, his integrity, and his love. We would like to follow her into domestic life, to see how the budding graces of the girl reached the glorious meridian of their charms, and how then they mellowed into a graceful autumn, but already we have been seduced beyond our limits, by our beautiful Ada and her strangely varied fortunes, and we must leave to those readers who have gone with us heart and hand thus far, to imagine for themselves much that we would fain record. Something, however we cannot refrain from stating, and first and foremost we may say, that Ada became Mrs. Seyton just one week after the eventful ball at Learmont’s house, and that the Secretary of State came to the marriage, and wanted to give the bride away; but Sir Francis Hartleton claimed the privilege, and reconciled the minister to his disappointment by assuring him that Ada meant to let him have all the parliamentary interest connected with her property.

The ladies at the period of Ada’s marriage wore immense state dresses, which “would stand up of themselves,” and Ada’s, still well preserved, is considered a kind of heir-loom in the author’s family, who, by-the-by, may as well state at first as at last, that he is a lineal descendant of the persecuted girl, and more proud of his ancestress than if she had been a throned queen.

For the satisfaction of his lady-readers, the author begs to state that Ada’s wedding-dress was, and is of silver grey satin, on which are wrought roses in white silk, with here and there so delicate a roseate tinge, as to give quite an air of reality to the mimic floral adornment. She wore no ornaments in her hair, but a rare and costly lace robe, presented to her by Lady Hartleton, was confined to her forehead by a single diamond, from whence it hung down to the very ground.

Then Albert Seyton looked extremely well in the uniform of a captain in the guards, to which rank he had been immediately presented by the minister; of course not on account of his votes—oh, no. Lady Hartleton, we find by an old letter before us, was foolish enough to cry at the marriage, but Ada was quite obdurate, and would not shed a tear, saying in her quiet way,—

“Why should I weep when I’m happy,” and as nobody knew why, she left the church with a smile.

We dislike interfering in family affairs, but we must say, that we would have proposed Ada’s first little one to be called Albert, as it was a boy, but she would have it named Francis, after the worthy magistrate, who stood godfather to it. The next was a girl, and that Albert would have named Ada, and after that came—but our readers may imagine all that, when we tell them that that Ada was the happy mother of as happy a family as ever lived.

* * * * *

Sir Francis Hartleton went himself down to the Old Smithy, and upon digging carefully among the ruins, a skeleton form was found, which from the remnants of clothing still adhering to it, was proved to be Ada’s unhappy father. In the nearest churchyard, the remains were, with all proper solemnity, consigned to the tomb, but Ada was not informed of the circumstance for some years after she had been in full enjoyment of the Learmont estates.

It would appear that Britton had never run the risk of having a written confession in London with him, but upon a careful search in the smithy, a bag was found, in which was a knife with the initials of “J.G.” on the handle, and several letters, likewise odd papers, one of which was a certificate of the marriage of Ada’s mother at Rome; another proved clearly that Learmont, who had lived so badly, and died so terribly, was really illegitimate, so that his claim to the estate was not good under any circumstances.

Those documents and papers Sir Francis handed to Albert Seyton, and by him they were, as time and occasion served, shown to Ada.

Dame Totten was diligently sought for by Ada, and finally found in a wood shed. She said that soon after the fire at the smithy, Learmont and Britton called at her cottage, and with bitter threats, insisted upon her bringing the child to Learmont House in the morning, and that she fearing for its life, fled from her cottage with it, and reached London, where she subsisted for some time on charity, till a man robbed her of the child, leaving her insensible from the effects of the blow he gave her. The aged woman, for she was nearly ninety, shed tears of joy upon Ada making herself known to her, and need we say, that the remainder of her life was assisted with every comfort by Ada.

Bond, the butcher was hanged at Tyburn for a highway robbery, attended with brutal violence, within one year after the death of Britton. As for the landlord of the Chequers, he lost his licence, and the last that was heard of him was his selling a liquor called snap, then in vogue, at Bond’s execution.

Thus, despite all her grievous trials and all her dangers, was Ada the Betrayed happy, and, in course of time, she thought with chastened sorrow upon the fate of her father, and learned to regard with patient resignation as one of the decrees of Heaven, the Murder at the Old Smithy.

THE AUTHOR TO HIS READERS.

The author of “Ada” and “Jane Brightwall” cannot conclude these romances without returning his most grateful acknowledgments to his numerous readers for the signal and most unprecedented favour with which they have been pleased to regard those productions. “Lloyd’s Weekly Miscellany” having attained a circulation quite unparalleled in periodical literature, might have well assured the author of the above tales, that his best friends, the public, were willing to afford him the highest, the noblest, and the best stimulus to future exertion—namely, their applause; but he is in a situation, however inadequately, to return his personal thanks to some two hundred and more ladies and gentlemen who have favoured him with private communications expressive of their approbation.

If anything would move the heart and head to future exertion, it would be such generous appreciation of what has been already attempted to be done, and the author can only say that in the tales which he msy have the honour of laying before his kind patrons, as well as those already in progress, his constant aim shall be originality, true sentiment, and poetic justice.

THE HOPE OF ALBERT SEYTON TO ADA THE BETRAYED.

Tis my hope that I may live

To love alone but thee;

’Tis my hope that thou mayest live

My only hope to be.

’Tis my hope, and ever shall it

Thus be hoped by me,

That we may never part again

Till time shall cease to be.

’Tis my hope, as Gray is gone,

Thy miseries are o’er,

And the fear of ever losing thee

Will never happen more.

’Tis my hope, and feel assured,

My hopes are not in vain.

That thou wilt ever be support

To this my hopeful strain.

J.R.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Edits were made to the original Lloyd's Penny Weekly Miscellany text during the process of digitization as follows:

This transcription aggregates the story serialized in Lloyd's Penny Weekly Miscellany Vol. I. The title page and preface from that volume are included for reference; however, other serialized stories from that volume have not been transcribed herein.

Chapter numbers 25-34 repeat themselves. These errata were preserved.

The spelling of the character Maud changed to Maude in the later chapters. Maude was re-spelled Maud throughout for consistency.

Direct speech by the same speaker appearing in adjacent paragraphs were combined into a single paragraph if no change in punctuation was required, and the speaker was specified in only the first of the two paragraphs.

Representations of written text such as letters, notes, verse and lyrics were set-off by left and right margin indentations.

Uncapitalized words starting full sentences that immediately follow periods, question marks and exclamation points in direct speech were capitalized.

Obvious misspellings, grammar errors, missing or duplicated words and typographical errors were corrected, noting that British and period spellings were preserved throughout.

The transcription was formatted to conform to contemporary electronic reading features for the convenience of the reader.

Allan Hackney

May 3, 2015

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us