The Search.—The Assignation.—Britton’s Surprise and Exaltation.
Learmont stood for some few moments gazing on the bloated swarthy
countenance of the smith, without making an effort to awaken him from
his slumber. Dark thoughts chased each other through the mind of the
squire, and he said, through his clenched teeth,—
“Sot!—Villain!—But that you are useful to me still, I would strangle
you as there you lie in your drunken sleep! If Jacob Gray was dead,
this moment should be your last, Andrew Britton! But I have use for
you, and the opportunity which now occurs, may never occur again. Still
I may do something even now; I may search to see if I can find any
papers or documents in this room. He may, notwithstanding my suspicions
to the contrary, have left behind him some record of the crimes he has
been engaged in!”
Learmont walked carefully about the room, and peered into every
probable place, in the expectation of being repaid by some discovery of
importance to his interests. But there was not a scrap of writing in
the chamber that he could discover.
“Where can he have put the papers he always boasted of having found
upon the body of him who met his death on that eventful night, at the
old Smithy? He said there was a pocket-book, in which were family
documents touching me very nearly; and Jacob Gray, of his own
knowledge, confirmed the tale, regretting the while that his own fears
would not allow him to rob the dead of those important papers. If
Britton has them, they must be here somewhere.”
Eagerly again did Learmont examine the room, but there was nothing to
be found of the character he wished, and he was fain, at length, to
give up the search in despair.
Then he half-drew his sword and thought he would kill Britton, but a
second thought told how much safer he might do so on some of his visits
to his own house, and he sheathed his sword again, muttering,—
“The time will come—the time will come. I will first use him, and then
he shall die. Now to awaken this slumbering clod.”
He seized Britton by the collar, and shook him very roughly, crying,—
“Britton—Andrew Britton, awake!”
“You be d—d!” muttered Britton. “Ale all around; I think I see it—it’s
a lie!”
“Andrew Britton awake,” cried Learmont in his ear.
“Con—con—confusion to Jacob Gray,” growled Britton. “Curse everybody!”
Learmont now shook him so violently that he opened his dull heavy eyes
and fixed them on the squire’s face, with a stare of such astonishment,
that it was doubtful to Learmont if he were in his senses or not.
“Do you know me, Andrew Britton?” he said.
“I should think so,” said Britton. “It’s a rum dream, though I could
almost swear I was awake.”
“You are.”
“Am I? That’s a lie.”
“Feel my hand. ’Tis flesh and blood.”
“You—you don’t mean to say, squire, that you are here,” cried Britton,
starting from the bed. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”
“Nothing; but I wish you to be up and doing. I have discovered the
abode of Jacob Gray, and he says that poor silly Britton will never
cope with him. He says that Andrew Britton’s muddle head is only fit
for the pillory, and that he has more cunning in his little finger than
you have in your whole composition. So says Jacob Gray.”
“Now curse him, I’ll have his life,” cried Britton.
“You shall, if you will be guided by me; I can take you to the house he
is in; I can make you sure of him now, Britton.”
“You can squire?”
“I can.”
“Then I’m your man—drunk, or sober, I’ll cut Jacob Gray’s throat, with
pleasure. The only disagreeable thing will be that when he’s dead, one
can’t taunt him about it.”
“It will be revenge enough to kill him,” said Learmont. “Will you be
ready this night?”
“This minute if you like.”
“No—it must be at midnight—we must be very careful yet, for Gray is
cunning, and moreover, he does not now reside in a lone house, where no
cries would be heard. He lives now where there may be many people, and
it would detract from our triumph over Gray to be hanged for his
murder.”
“It would rather,” muttered Britton; “we must be cunning then, I think
I’m quite as cunning as Gray any day.”
“Be guided by me, and all will be well.”
“What is your plan?”
“That you meet me to-night at twelve o’clock, and bring you tools to
open locks.”
“Yes, I have them.”
“Then we will make our way to Gray’s chamber, and silently, if
possible, kill him.”
“Silently or not, he shall die; but where is the young scion of—”
“Hush—that is now no obstacle; meet me to-night at twelve.”
“I will squire. You have brought me the most welcome news I’ve heard
yet for a long time.”
“Now promise me, Britton, solemnly, that you will drink nothing till
this enterprise is concluded?”
“Drink nothing? Why I live upon strong drink. How do you suppose am to
exist till twelve o’clock at night without anything to drink? I must
drink, and there’s an end of that, Squire Learmont.”
“If you must drink, let me beg of you to do so then in moderation.”
“Never fear me, when there’s actual work to be done. Where shall we
meet?”
“At the steps of my house,” said Learmont. “Be punctual and sober, and
remember, Andrew Britton, how much depends upon the proceedings of this
night. You yourself daily and hourly incur danger from Jacob Gray
greater than you dream of. Suppose him suddenly off by sickness, and
we, not knowing of it, sleeping in fancied security, while this damning
confession of his passes from hand to hand until it reaches him who is
panting to destroy us—I mean Sir Francis Hartleton. Think of that and
tremble, Andrew Britton. Then again, who knows a day when his insatiate
avarice may induce him to fancy he has accumulated gold enough to live
independently in some other country, and leave England for ever after.
Mark my words, Andrew Britton, after taking measures for our
destruction by leaving behind him documents which too many will be
willing to believe and act upon. He has used language which, translated
into plainer terms, would expressly signify such an intention; and more
than once has he smiled to himself, and chuckled over the imaginary
account of the execution of the sot—the ass—the clod-brained Andrew
Britton. Do you mark my words?”
“I do, squire—say no more—he dies, if he had twenty lives. Curses on
him—he dies, I say. Be assured I shall not fail to meet you at the hour
you name. If there be one thing I live for above another, it is to
slaughter Jacob Gray. He calls me a sot does he, because now and then I
take a glass too much? Why, he would be drunk himself morning, noon,
and night, if he had the courage.”
“Certainly,” said Learmont. “He hoards his money.”
“By-the-by, squire, when we’ve knocked him on the head, we’ll find
where he keeps this same hoard of money.”
“We will—we will, Britton, and you shall have an ample share of it for
your pains. Be sure you be punctual. Be secret and vigilant.”
“Never fear me, squire, I’ll only take enough drink to steady my
nerves, and as the clock strikes twelve to-night, I will be at your
door.”
“Adieu,” said Learmont, as he stalked out of the attic. “Adieu, Andrew
Britton, this night makes or mars your future fortunes. The idiotic
sot,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he descended the stairs, “he
falls easily into the trap, which will eventually prove his own death,
so shall I be free of both my enemies.”
“There goes a vagabond,” said Britton, when the squire had left him.
“He thinks to gammon me, does he? But I’m deeper than he thinks for.
Curse that Gray! I will kill him for my old grudge against him, but
I’ll not only have all his money, but, if I lay hands on his
confession, the squire must be a stouter fellow than I think him if he
gets it.”
Meanwhile Learmont, full of dark thoughts, proceeded slowly down the
staircase until he reached the door opening into the passage, which,
although wide open when he passed through, was now closed; and on the
outer side was the back of mine host himself, who was supporting his
corporeal substance against it, while, with many nourishes and
amplifications of his arm, he detailed to some of his gossipping
neighbours how grievously he had been cheated, by a tall pale man in a
cloak, out of a flagon of the best wine the Chequers could afford.
“My masters,” he said, “the villain had an odd look, you will
understand, but not a poor look, for a ring sparkled on his finger that
was worth many pounds, as sure as I’m a sinner, and we are all sinners.”
“Ah, that’s true as regards us all being sinners,” said one. “Now
there’s Mr. Sniffler, the godly minister, who preached at Paul’s—”
“Hear me out—hear me out,” cried the landlord, to whom the pleasure of
telling the story was almost an indemnification for his loss. “As I was
a saying, I was a standing, with my back against the cupboard in my
bar, as I might stand now, when all of a sudden comes—”
At this moment Learmont gave the door so vigorous a push that the
landlord fell forward on to his hands and knees, with a cry of wrath,
as he supposed some one of his household was the cause of this
malapropos accident.
“Do you block up your doors,” said Learmont, haughtily, “and hinder
your guests from going forth at their own pleasure?”
“Well, I never!” cried the landlord, scrambling to his feet. “You—you
haven’t paid me for my wine; you know you have not.”
Learmont took from his pocket a piece of silver, and threw it on the
floor; then, drawing his cloak tightly round him, he stalked from the
house without a word.
“Well now, neighbours,” said the landlord, “did you ever see the like
of that? That’s the very man who went away without paying me for my
wine.”
“Are you quite sure he hasn’t been up stairs and stolen something?”
suggested one.
“Gracious me!“ cried the landlord; “I never thought of that.
Hilloa—hilloa; there’s mur—”
“So you won’t be quiet,” cried Britton, suddenly appearing, and giving
the landlord a knock on the head that made him stagger again; “who do
you suppose will live here to be annoyed by your noise, eh?”
“But your majesty,” said the landlord, “here’s been a long thief here
with a cloak.”
“There hasn’t,” said Britton.
“An’, it please your majesty, these worthy neighbours saw him, and—”
“They didn’t,” roared Britton; “bring me brandy, and whoever says they
saw or heard anything that I say nay to, I’ll make him eat the measure.”
The landlord now merely cast up his eyes, and made a movement with his
hands, as much as to signify it’s no use saying anything, let us be
wise and silent, and then hurried into his bar, to execute the
imperious smith’s order.
When Britton entered the parlour, he was vociferously welcomed by Bond,
but the smith beckoned him to one of the windows, and when the bulky
butcher obeyed the summons, Britton whispered in his ear:—
“Bond, you promised to lend me your cleaver, in case I wanted it.”
“So I did.”
“Well, I do want it.”
“You shall have it, my boy—is it to smash that fellow with, who you
mentioned?”
“It is; but mum’s the word. Let me have the cleaver some time before
twelve to-night.”
“I’ll give it a sharpen, and bring it you, you may depend.”
“Thank you,” said Britton, “upon my soul I wouldn’t miss using it
to-night for a thousand pounds.”