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.