The Confession.
While Sir Francis Hartleton was still engaged in these reflections a
low knock sounded on the door of his room, and when he cried, “come
in,” the happy face of Ada appeared like a beam of sunshine in the
entrance.
“Ada,” he said, “come in.”
There were the humid traces of tears upon her cheek, but they were like
the pearly drops of dew which hung upon the rose leaves, speaking not
of sorrow or decay, but giving new beauty to what before seemed
matchless. They were tears of joy, and the magistrate saw that they
were so. He held out his hand to Ada, as he said with a smile,—
“Will you forgive me for tormenting Albert a little?”
“He will scarce forgive himself,” said Ada, “and sends me as his
ambassador.”
“He had a right to feel a little angry, Ada. But has he told you that
your old enemy is dead?”
“He has,” said Ada. “Much as I had to complain of against Jacob Gray, I
would that he had come to some gentler death. Heaven have mercy upon
him!”
“He has need of heaven’s mercy, Ada. But are you not much disappointed
that all chance of discovering your name and station seems now faded
away?”
“I scarcely know how to answer you,” said Ada, “for hope that it may
not be so has, within the last half hour, disturbed me more with
anxious doubts and fearful surmises than ever agitated my breast
before. This paper—”
As she spoke, she handed to Sir Francis the confession of Gray still
sealed up as Albert had picked it from the garden.
“Gracious heavens!” said Sir Francis, as a sudden flush of colour to
his face showed the interest he felt in the document, “where got you
this, Ada?”
“When Albert, impatient of his temporary detention in the room
overlooking the garden,” said Ada, “made an attempt to escape from it,
he tried to descend from the window by the aid of a cloak, which rent
with his weight, revealing this packet of papers addressed to you.”
“Thus heaven works its wonders,” said Sir Francis; “and the very
circumstances, that at the moment of their occurrence fill us with
regret, bring us to the dearest of our wishes. You know this
handwriting, Ada?”
“It is Jacob Gray’s.”
“Then there can be no doubt,” said Sir Francis, as with fingers that
trembled with eagerness he broke the seals by which the packet was
fastened—“there can be no doubt that these are the papers, or similar
ones to those long ago addressed to me by Jacob Gray, and said to be
concerning you.”
“Albert thinks with you,” said Ada, “and longs to penetrate the mystery
of their contents.”
“Will you leave me?” said Sir Francis. “I would fain read this alone,
Ada. Will you grant me that indulgence?”
Ada rose as she said,—
“Dear friend, a wish of yours shall ever be a command to me; but
remember that, let these papers contain what they may, I can bear to
hear all.”
“Nothing shall be concealed from you, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “but—but
my own deeply interested feelings would not permit me to read these
documents aloud to you at first.”
Ada saw his extreme excitement and agitation, and instantly leaving the
room, she gave him an opportunity of reading alone the long sought-for
confession of Jacob Gray.
Sir Francis’s first step was to lock himself in his room, and then,
with a flurry at his heart, and a total abstraction of mind from
everything but the papers which lay before him, he tore them open and
read as follows:—
To Sir Francis Hartleton,
I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts
to you, because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you
will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest
curse of a dead man fall on you and yours if you do not take instant
means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes
which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you
receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for
some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave,
however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance, and
so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would
long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with
safeguards which they dared not despise.
In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged
from the service of an English family for matters of no consequence to
my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment,
until an English gentleman, by name Mark Learmont, was taken ill at one
of the hotels in the city, and the proprietor of the establishment,
fearing that his guest was dying, sent for me as a countryman of the
sick gentleman, to attend upon him. I nursed and tended him with
anxious care and I soon learnt that grief was his only malady.
He told me he had left England in consequence of the death of his wife
and child, and that he could never more with pleasure look upon his
ancient home again, which he had left in the care of his brother. Time,
however, seemed in some measure, to assuage his grief; and when he got
well enough again to travel, he retained me as his permanent attendant,
liberally rewarding me for the services I had rendered him. We went
from city to city of the Italian states until we came to Rome, where an
attempt was made by some hired bravo to take the life of Mr. Learmont.
He was saved, however, by the gallant interposition of a young Italian
nobleman, named Geronimo Madelini; and my master became in a short time
on terms of the greatest intimacy with the family of his preserver, who
had a sister so surprisingly beautiful that even Mr. Learmont forgot
his grief for her whom he had loved so fondly, and became attached to
Ada Madelini with a passionate fervour that knew no bounds. Learmont
was handsome, brave, and accomplished. The young Italian returned his
passion. A child was born—an illegitimate child—which Ada Madelini died
in giving birth to.
Mr. Learmont was again plunged into the most excessive grief. Rome
became more hateful to him than the home in England he had left; the
very language of Italy was ever reminding him of the beautiful being
who had gone to an early grave through her love for him. In vain he
travelled from city to city. His grief knew no reduction, until at
length, wearied with travel, and sick at heart, he resolved upon once
more revisiting his native land, taking with him the child of Ada
Madelini, who had been named after its mother, and who had begun to
exercise a strong control over his affections.
A letter was written to the brother, who had been left sole master of
the estate of Learmont, signifying the intention of the widowed man to
return, and once more assume the control of his own property for his
young daughter’s sake. When we reached Dover, that is, Mr. Mark
Learmont, myself, and his infant child, a letter was awaiting my master
from his brother. That letter I by chance saw. It said that peculiar
family circumstances, which the writer would explain when they met,
rendered it necessary that their first meeting should be a secret one,
and quite unknown to any person connected with the property. It named
as the place of rendezvous, an old deserted mansion, the lower part of
which was converted into a smithy, and had been long occupied by a man
named Andrew Britton.
Full of wonder at this letter, and yet never doubting that there were,
did he but know them, full and reasonable grounds for it, Mr. Learmont
wrote to his brother, according to his request and promising to be at
the Old Smithy with his child, by the evening of a particular day,
which he named.
He sent me beforehand to apprise his brother of this. I was the bearer
of the answer, and when I reached Learmont’s house, he that is now
called Squire Learmont, and who resides in your immediate vicinity,
received me most cordially. He spoke to me of the advantages of
wealth—of the luxuries of independence—of the delightful feelings of
those who could scorn the world’s utmost malice—secure in the haven of
independence—but it is idle to dwell upon the deep temptation that he
held out to me, I consented to the murder of my master and his child!
The day of his arrival came. It was one of alternate storm and
sunshine; but, as the evening approached, the elements seemed to have
broken loose, and to have united to shake the very earth with terror.
The wind howled, and the forked lightning shot from earth to heaven,
while peal after peal of thunder shook the habitations of the
peasantry, convulsing the stoutest hearts with fear, and destroying all
the produce of their industry.
It was on such a night, that, leaving Learmont, and the smith Andrew
Britton in the smithy, I started to meet my doomed master.
From obscure hints the smith had dropped, I was satisfied that Mr.
Learmont’s first wife and child had been murdered by him and the
brother, and even after I had consented, I shuddered at the awful crime
I had pledged myself to assist in committing—but it was too late to
retract, I had already received some of the wages of crime—I could not
recede. But surely I was innocent compared with who would shed a
brother’s blood. Let him suffer the penalty of his crimes—let the rich
Squire Learmont dangle on the gallows tree—spare him not, nor Andrew
Britton—you will find him at the Old Chequers—let him too die a death
of pain and ignominy—so shall I have my revenge—my deep, long-cherished
revenge.
I met Mr. Learmont. He alighted from the carriage, which he left at a
distance of a mile or more from the appointed place of meeting with his
brother. He gave me the young child to carry—the infant Ada, and we
walked under cover of the darkness of the stormy evening until we
reached the smithy. I was to kill the child, while Britton took the
life of the father; but one thing they had not told me namely, that
they intended to burn down the Old Smithy after the deed was done, in
order that the two bodies should be consumed in the ruins, and no
suspicion should arise of their untimely fate.
It was an hour to me of horror—Mr. Learmont entered the Old Smithy
unsuspectingly, and I followed with the child. He took his brother
kindly by the hand, and I heard him say,—
“Well, brother, what is amiss, that we cannot meet in my own home!”
“Come this way, Mark,” said he who is called the squire, as he opened a
heavy door at the further end of the smithy. ‘Come this way, and you
will know all.’
Mr. Learmont followed him, and I went after them with the child. It was
clinging to my neck, and as I gazed upon its features, by the
occasional flash of lightning, all strength seemed to desert me, and I
felt I had not power to take its life,—I thought I should have sunk
into the earth—a fearful timidity came over me, and the cold
perspiration of terror bedewed my brow.
I scarcely know then what happened, but the storm without increased to
tenfold fury; and while the smithy was being set fire to by Learmont,
the squire, I saw by the dull red glare that began to spread itself
around, and light up every thing with its ghastly lustre—I saw my
master stagger back, as if from some sudden blow, and the smith, Andrew
Britton, faced my gaze, armed with a forge hammer, with which he had
already struck one blow at my master.
Mr. Learmont then tried to wrestle with his opponent and he screamed,
“Murder—murder.” He called too on me to help him, but I could not move.
I saw another blow given, and I heard the sickening crushing of his
head, as the hammer sunk into his brain—and then he fell, with one
shriek that wrung in my ears, for many months, scaring me from sleep,
and causing me to start in horror from my bed.
The fire had spread with greater rapidity than had been calculated
upon, and at the moment of my master’s murder, a portion of the roof
fell upon me and the child—I was hurt, but the infant was not—alarm and
horror took possession of my faculties, and I fled, shrieking, through
the house, seeking for some outlet to escape by—I got confused in a
labyrinth of rooms—burning flakes fell upon my flesh—I cried for aid,
but no voice answered me, and I felt a conviction that I was purposely
left there to perish. Despair lent me strength, and with the child
still in my arms, I leaped a burning staircase—I saw a crowd of faces
before me, and, with frantic cries, I rushed from the building with the
child.
Who, then, snatched the infant from me, I know not, for I was suffering
much pain; but certainly it was taken from me by some of the villagers,
and I, frantic with the terrors I had received, and believing that the
hand of Providence was upon me, fled I knew not whither, until I sunk
exhausted from fatigue, in a wood a short distance from the village on
the road to London.
The cool night air assuaged the pain of my burns, and after resting for
some hours, I found myself sufficiently recovered to think upon what I
should next do. Return to the smithy, I dared not, for I dreaded the
vengeance of the squire, not only on account of my failing in what I
had to do, but I could not dispossess myself of the idea that my death
had been determined upon, between him and the smith, so soon as I had
killed the child, and was no longer useful to their purposes. I had
received, in advance, a sum of money from my tempter, Learmont, and
after some thought I resolved upon proceeding to London, and there
endeavouring to forget the horrors I had gone through, in the varied
amusements of a great city. I turned my back on the village of
Learmont, and all its terrible recollections, taking my route to the
capital by the quickest means I could find.
It was on the second day that I arrived, and resolving to husband my
money until I could procure some other employment, I took an obscure
lodgings and kept my expenses as small as possible.
It was the fourth evening after my arrival in London that a woman, who
was sitting upon a step, with a child in her lap, implored my charity.
I refused her, and was about to pass on, when a glance told me that the
child with her was the young Ada Madelini, the child of Mr. Learmont; I
paused, and questioned her. She told me her name was Tattan, and said
she had fled from the country with the child, to save its life, which
had been threatened by a man, wicked and powerful. All this confirmed
me—I snatched the child from her arms, for I thought it an admirable
possession, since it would give me the means of making my own terms, at
some future time, with the Squire of Learmont.
The woman screamed and ran after me, crying for help. No one was near
us, and with one blow I silenced her, and she fell to the ground. What
became of her I never knew, but I took the child home with me, and the
next day I changed my lodging, passing the infant as my own.
From house to house I shifted my residence, always thinking myself
suspected by some one, until I went to reside at a low house, kept by a
woman, by name Strangeways, who resided in the neighbourhood of
Swallow-street. Before going there, however, I bought boy’s clothing
for the girl, as I thought it safer to make her appear as a boy than
let her real sex be known. Nearly ten years had elapsed, and I was
falling fast into poverty, for a concern in which I had placed some
money, under tempting promises, proved a failure. Then I bethought me
of some means of improving my condition, and recruiting my empty
coffers.
After much thought, I resolved upon going to the village of Learmont,
and forming a coalition if possible, with the smith, Andrew Britton,
for the purpose of extorting money from the rich squire. But previously
to going I wrote a paper, containing all the particulars here related,
and sealing it, I left it with Ada, who I had named, in conformity with
her male attire, Harry, charging her to let it reach the hands of
yourself in the event of my not returning by a stipulated time. I went
on my errand. It was in the winter, and the snow lay thickly in the
valley of Learmont; as I reached the village inn I inquired if the
smith, Britton, was still alive; I was told he was, and heard then the
clank of his forge-hammer, the same most probably that had taken the
life of Mr. Learmont. I sought him, and suffice to say, that I not only
convinced him of the inexpediency of attempting aught against my life,
which, as I guessed he would be, he was much inclined to do, but
succeeded in inducing him to join with me in extorting large sums from
the guilty squire.
Britton, too, I persuaded to search the body of the murdered man, when,
as I told him, he found papers of great consequence to the
squire—papers which he would gladly have redeemed at any price, but
which were of infinitely more value as a source of permanent income to
their fortunate holder.
I had lent the smith a knife of mine at his own request before the
murder, and when I visited him he produced it, stained with human gore,
taunting me with the fact that my name was on the handle, and that it
would ever prove a damning evidence of my guilt.
’Twas were we three men in each other’s power. Either Britton or myself
could bring the whole three to destruction, and the squire was but too
glad to ensure his own safety by paying large sums to us from time to
time. He came to London, and we followed him. Andrew Britton led a
life, as he now leads, of riot and extravagance, at the public-house
called the Chequers, Westminster. The Squire Learmont lives in
splendour, as you must be aware, in your immediate vicinity. I have led
a life of dangers and terror. My existence has been continually
threatened by Learmont, who, could he at any time have laid his hands
upon Ada, who he believed to be legitimate, and likewise have secured
my written confession, would have murdered me.
I repeat, I may be dead, or absent from England, when you arrive; but
be it which way it may, if you want proofs of what I assert, search the
ruins of the Old Smithy at Learmont, and you may still find some traces
of the murdered body of Mr. Mark Learmont. Apprehend Andrew Britton,
and search for the knife, I mention, as well as for any papers that he
may have taken from the dead body. Among them will be found the letter
from the squire, begging his brother to meet him at the Old Smithy,
instead of coming direct to his own mansion.
It will be understood by you, then, clearly, that I accuse these two
men, Squire Learmont and Andrew Britton, of the murder of Learmont’s
elder brother, and the projected murder of his illegitimate child. She,
Ada, left me some time since, after an attempt made by you to take me
into custody at the old house at Battersea Fields, among the ruins of
which I believe you will still find some articles that belonged to Ada
when her father’s death occurred.
Let, then, these men be brought to an ignominious end. Remember that
the Learmont family will become extinct with the present squire, for
the girl Ada, I repeat, is an illegitimate child. The elder Learmont
and Ada Madelini were not married. The large estates, then, must revert
to the crown, and my vengeance will be complete. If I am living, I
shall hear of the execution of Learmont and Britton; for who can doubt
their guilt? If I am dead, and the spirits of the departed retain any
shadow of the feelings which agitated them in this world, I shall still
rejoice that I have had my revenge.
Jacob Gray.