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.