Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream.
“Let us cross to it,” said Learmont, in a low husky voice, which
betrayed how deeply he felt himself interested in the affair.
In a moment they both stood in the dark entry. Learmont’s spy was not
there for conceiving justly that Jacob Gray was housed for the night,
he had, by way of solacing himself after his quarrel with Albert,
betaken himself to a neighbouring public-house, where by that time he
was deep in a second jug of old ale.
“There is no one here,” remarked Learmont.
“No,” said Albert; “but I left one here. However, his following Gray
might after all have been from mere curiosity, seeing me follow him so
closely.”
“The house—the house,” said Learmont; “which is the house?”
“Yon dingy-looking dwelling, with that mean shop upon its basement
floor.”
Learmont looked long and eagerly at the miserable dwelling; then he
muttered,—
“I should know that house again were I absent from it a hundred years.
Yes—found—found—at last! The game is played! Jacob Gray, with all your
cunning—with all your art of trickery—you are at last found! Sleep on,
if you can sleep, in fancied security! You know not that your career
may soon be ended!”
“You will recollect the house, sir?” said Albert.
“I may forget my own name,” said Learmont, “but not that house. Young
sir, here is money for you; let me see you on the morning after
to-morrow, and I will have news for you.”
He gave Albert his purse as he spoke, and then, without waiting for a
reply, he strode from the spot, leaving the young man in great
astonishment at his singular behaviour.
“Till to-morrow and then the morning after that,” said Albert, “is a
precious time to control my impatience. If I could but catch the merest
glance of Ada, it would help me to sustain my impatience. Oh, what a
Tantalus-like state is mine, to be even now within so short a distance
of her I love, and yet unable to make my presence known to her. My very
voice would reach her were I to raise it above its ordinary compass,
but I dare not. I have bound myself on my word of honour, and that must
not be broken—farewell then, for a time, dear Ada! To-morrow, during
daylight, I will try to sleep, so that when the sun has set, and I may,
without fear of being seen by Jacob Gray, take up my station here, I
may be able to watch the house you inhabit, and please myself with the
thought of being so near you, even though I cannot see you, or speak to
you. Truly I am glad the squire has left me here, for here will I
remain until the morning’s light warns me of the danger of recognition
by Jacob Gray if I longer tarry.”
With his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the window,
which he pleased himself by imagining belonged to Ada’s room, Albert
Seyton kept possession of the doorway.
In the meanwhile, Learmont, with feelings of exultation at his heart,
strode with a hasty step towards the Chequers at Westminster.
“I have him now—I have him now,” he muttered; “I will stir Andrew
Britton to destroy him, and as for this Albert Seyton, from whom, were
he to live, I should prophesy much trouble, I will give him on the
morning that he calls upon me, a subtle poison, in a cup of wine; but
not enough shall he have to leave his body within my doors. No—the dose
shall be skilfully graduated, so that some hours shall elapse ere the
wild excitement passes through his system. Then he may lie down and die
in the public streets or where he lists, so he is out of my way—’tis a
deep skill I have obtained in poisons, and it shall do me good service.”
He then paused, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote on it
the words which we are aware were on the note Britton received in the
midst of his drunken orgies at the Chequers, and which Learmont got
conveyed to him by means of a boy who was wandering houseless about the
streets.
Satisfied, then, that he had everything in train for the destruction of
Jacob Gray, Learmont bent his steps homewards in a more satisfied state
of mind than he had ever been in before, and resolved to attempt
immediately to procure some sleep, before he should thoroughly mature
his yet but projected plan of murdering Gray on the next evening.
The difficulties in the way of executing the deed safely and securely
were very great; for not only was Gray to be destroyed, but his written
confession was to be secured before its superscription should be
perceived by any one who might officiously communicate to the
magistrate that such a document had been addressed to him.
To accomplish all this required skill, courage, caution, and a
favourable train of circumstances; but, wearied as was Learmont then,
as well by the violence of his alternating passions, as by want of
anything in the shape of refreshing sleeps for some nights, he felt
himself unequal to the details of a plan which should command success,
if no very extraordinary obstacle presented itself in his way. He
therefore hurried home, and giving directions to be called at an early
hour in the morning, he threw off some of his upper clothing, and
wearied as he was, soon sunk into a slumber—not, however, a calm and
easy one, for he was, as usual, tortured with frightful dreams, and
images of terror flitted before his mental vision. Sometimes he would
fancy himself in the midst of the fathomless ocean, tossed about at the
mercy of every surge, while each wave that burst over him seemed
crusted with blood. Ravenous monsters of the deep would stretch their
long tendril-like arms from deep vallies in the ocean’s bed, and strive
to drag him into their insatiate maws; then suddenly, “a change would
come o’er the spirit of his dream,” and he would lie upon the burning
sands of Africa. For hundreds of miles there would be nothing but
sand—sand hot and scorching to the touch as the fire-ash of a glowing
furnace—then a fearful drought came over him, and he shrieked for
water, and thought what a heaven it would be to be once more dashed
madly to and fro by the surging waves—then a caravan would appear in
sight upon the pathless desert—he heard the tinkle of the camel’s
bells—he saw the weary men, with bronze complexions and travel-worn
apparel, come slowly on and he saw that they had water, for all were
drinking deep draughts of the delicious beverage. One then asked him if
he too would drink, and then he could not speak. His tongue seemed
glued to the roof of his mouth, and, one by one, as they passed him by,
they asked him to drink, and he could not say yes. Then, the caravan
slowly faded away and when the last man was far across sandy the plain,
his voice came again, and he shrieked for water—for but one drop to
quench for a passing moment the burning fever of his throat.
The dream was horrible, but the vision that followed was more terrible,
because the suffering was mental as well as physical.
Learmont fancied he was at the foot of a high winding staircase. He
commenced slowly ascending, and then he heard behind him like a sound
of rushing wind, and looking back, he saw linked, in an awful
companionship, three livid spectres, as if fresh from the reeking
corruptions of the tomb. The flesh hung rag-like upon the yellow
moistened bones, and huge drops of green and sickly corruption fell
dashing like the preludes of a thunder storm, upon the stairs. Worms
and moist things were crawling in and out the sightless eyes—the
rattling lips grinned horribly, and amid the havoc of the grave,
Learmont could recognise the features of those whom he had driven to
death. Slowly they came after him, and a voice seemed to ring in his
ears, saying,—
“They will catch you, and fold you in their dreadful embrace, ere you
reach the top of those stairs. Fly, Learmont, fly!”
Then he tried, with a scream of terror, to ascend the staircase like
the wind, but his feet seemed glued to the steps, and he could ascend
but slowly step by step, while he felt that his pursuers were gaining
on him momentarily, and that he must in another moment be in their
grasp. He heard the chattering of the fleshless gums—he smelt the rank
odour of the grave, and yet he could proceed but at a funeral pace. Now
they were upon him—now they gibbered in his ears—they clutched him by
the throat—the long skeleton fingers press upon his throat—he his lost!
One moan bust from the agonised sleeper, and he awoke shrieking,—
“Help—help! Save me yet, Heaven—oh, save me, I do repent! God have
mercy upon me!”
He sprung from his bed, and, with dishevelled hair, eyes starting from
their sockets, and a face livid with agony, he sunk upon his knees,
just as the terrified domestics, hearing his cries, knocked loudly at
his chamber door.
Then succeeded a death-like stillness, and Learmont, in a deep
sepulchral voice, said,—
“God of Heaven, was it a dream? Dare I ever sleep again?”
The knocking continued at his door, and he rose to his feet.
“Peace—peace!” he cried. “Away, I did but dream.”
The servants retired from the door gazing at each other in mute terror,
for Learmont’s cries had alarmed the whole house, and filled them with
superstitious fears.
“So—so,” said the squire, when he trimmed his light, and recovered a
little from his state of mental excitement; “that was a dream—how
terrible—how terrible. Can I ever sleep again in peace? Dare I lay down
my weary head upon my pillow with the hope of repose? No—no. And yet
there are potent drugs that I have heard wrap the soul in oblivion, or
else in the slumber they create, visit it in gorgeous shapes, and
present rare phantasies to the mental eye. I will try them.
To-morrow—to-morrow, I will try them. I may find peace then; but I must
not tempt sleep again. ’Tis too terrible—too terrible.”