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.”