The Death of Learmont.
It was well Learmont’s face was partially concealed by a mask, or even
the Honourable Georgiana Brereton might have had her fine aristocratic
nerves shocked by the death-like hue of his features, as he gasped,—
“Damnation!”
A slight scream burst from her ladyship’s lips, and then a general
clapping of hands caused Learmont to look around, when he saw Britton
attired in his garments as a smith, and wearing an enormous nose,
executing a grotesque dance with Bond the butcher, who had disdained
all concealment, and came in his usual, not very elegant, costume.
Up the centre of the saloon, the guests making way for them, they came
like two bears at play, stamping, waving, whirling round, treading on
each other’s toes, and then cuffing each other with boisterous mirth,
till they reached the place where Learmont stood, when, rushing forward
with a shriek of rage, the squire clutched Britton by the throat with
desperate energy, and said—
“Villain—wretch! How dare you?”
“Hands off, squire,” cried Britton.
“And eyes on,” added the butcher, recollecting that these were the
words of an announcement he used to append to the fattest meat.
“Bravo! Bravo!—Capital!” cried many of the guests, thinking that the
whole affair was got up as part of the evening’s amusement. Even the
minister smiled, and wondered to a mask who stood next him, if the two
strange creatures had votes.
“Andrew Britton,” growled Learmont, in the smith’s ear, “are you mad?”
“You be d—d!” was the elegant rejoinder. “Hurrah! Come along, Bond, now
for it.”
Upon this the butcher took from one capacious pocket the same cleaver
which had been the instrument of Jacob Gray’s murder, and from another
a large bone, with which he executed such a lively tune upon the flat
of the weapon, that Britton roared again with mirth and after a wild
dance, sat down, on the floor, and shouted like a wild animal. Then he
caught hold of the Honourable Georgiana Brereton’s foot, and her white
satin slipper coming off in his hands, he fell on the flat of his back,
while shouts, screams, roars of laughter, and the clapping of hands,
sounded through the saloon.
Learmont made a rush from the rooms, and summoning all the servants he
could meet with, he brought them back with him, in order that they
might eject Britton and Bond; but by this time the smith had arisen
from the floor, and turning to the squire, he said,—
“Honour bright, and no nonsense. D—n it, squire, a joke’s a joke. We’re
off again. I’ve had my fun, and there’s an end of it. Ladies and
gentlemen you may all be d—d! Strike up, Bond.”
The butcher again played the marrow-bone and cleaver, and with many
whirls, shouts, and singular gyrations, he and Britton left the saloon.
Learmont stood for some moments trembling with rage: then, suddenly, he
cried,—
“Music—music—the dance—the dance—a mere jest. Music, I say.”
A crash of melody followed his call, and he was looking for the lady he
had left when a domino in a black velvet cloak met his eye.
The domino bowed and unmasked.
“The rooms are warm, squire.”
“Ha! Sir Francis Hartleton,” cried Learmont.
Then a sudden thought struck him, that he would efface all recollection
of Britton’s drunken vagary, by calling public attention to the forged
paper he had intended to give Sir Francis privately. He waved his arm
to the musicians, and they suddenly paused in the midst of a lively
air, which had the effect of preparing the guests for something
unusual. As many as could, crowded round Learmont and Sir Francis
Hartleton, while the former said, in a loud voice,—
“I have had placed in my hands a packet addressed to Sir Francis
Hartleton, which I am informed has been found at the lodgings of the
man who, you have all heard, was murdered on Wednesday morning early,
in this immediate neighbourhood.”
Sir Francis Hartleton looked astonished; and taking off his mask, he
glanced round him anxiously. A murmur of curiosity rose among the
guests. Many mounted upon chairs, and some few even upon the tables. A
more curious scene than Learmont’s saloon then presented could scarcely
be imagined.
“Read—read!” cried many voices, as Sir Francis took a sealed paper,
which was handed to him by Learmont, and put it in his pocket. The
shouts to him to read the document increased each moment, and then a
sudden thought crossed the mind of Sir Francis, that the squire might
be caught in his own snare. In the same pocket in which he had placed
the packet Learmont had given him, Sir Francis had the real confession
of Jacob Gray, which he had brought with him to show the minister,
should an opportunity present itself.
“Shall I read that, and confound the guilty squire at once,” thought
Sir Francis, “I have plenty of assistance at hand for his capture.”
He hesitated a moment, and then said aloud,—
“His Majesty’s Secretary of State is present, if he will sanction my
reading the paper aloud, I will do so, but as it may possibly criminate
some one, I demand that the door be secured.”
“Aye,” cried Learmont. “Secure the door. Let no one pass in or out.”
He then cast a triumphant glance at the magistrate, for he felt so very
sure how disappointed he would be. The minister now took off the mask,
and said,—
“Well, well; it can’t be helped. Go on, Sir Francis.”
There was now a breathless silence, and Sir Francis Hartleton drew from
his pocket the real confession of Jacob Gray. Learmont was in far too
great a state of excitement to notice any difference in the aspect of
the documents, and waving his arm, he cried,—
“Silence, friends, and welcome guests. We may find some secrets here
worthy our attention.”
Sir Francis cast his eyes upon Learmont with a look of peculiar meaning
as he said,—
“You will, I think, in this instance, squire, turn out a true prophet.”
He then opened the confession, and while every sound was hushed, and
all eyes bent upon his, he, in a clear full voice, read,—
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 upon 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 that are of no
consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no
employment, until an English gentleman, by name, Mark Learmont—
The guilty squire seemed absolutely stupified until the magistrate had
got thus far, and then with a cry that struck terror to the hearts of
all who heard it, he drew his sword, and with the wildness of despair,
dashed through the throng of masks around him, shouting,—
“Tis false—’tis false—false as hell. I did not do the deed—make way—who
stays me dies upon the spot. Help—help! A plot—a plot.”
He had wounded several persons before, in the universal panic, they
could get out of his way, and then Sir Francis Hartleton raised his
voice above all other sounds, shouting—
“Seize the murderer.”
In an instant some half dozen of the maskers threw off their dominos
and masks, presenting to the astonished eyes of the guests, roughly
attired, well armed men, who immediately darted after Learmont.
Two other persons, likewise threw down their masks. One was Albert
Seyton and the other was Ada; but by this time the half-maddened squire
had fought his way to the further end of the saloon, and dashing
against some folding doors, they flew open, disclosing a flight of
steps leading to a conservatory filled with rare plants; waving, then,
his sword round his head, he sprang up the steps.
“Surrender or we fire,” cried Sir Francis Hartleton.
Learmont turned, and said something that was not heard in the
confusion—blood was streaming down his face, for he had bit his lips
through, and he made repeated lunges with his sword, as now with
frantic voice and gesture, he cried,—
“Off—off—tear me not to hell—fiends, off—why do you glare at
me—off—off—’tis false—false, I say—a plot—a plot!”
“Seize him,” cried the magistrate, as he himself sprung upon the first
step.
“Yield, monster,” said Albert Seyton, as passing Sir Francis, he flew
up the staircase.
At the sight of him, Learmont uttered a cry of despair; but when Ada,
fearful for Albert’s safety, was by his side in a moment, and Learmont
met her gaze, his sword dropped from his grasp, and he could but totter
backwards towards the conservatory, shrieking,—
“The dead—the dead—Gray next—and then—my brother—my murdered brother—”
With a heavy crash he fell just within the door of the conservatory,
and was immediately seized by the officers of Sir Francis Hartleton,
who himself turning on the steps, said,—
“I much grieve to have marred the mirth of this noble company, but I
apprehend Squire Learmont, as a murderer—an assassin—a persecutor of
the innocent—a reveller in the wealth of another. This young maiden, I
here proclaim as heiress of the estates of Learmont.”
Ada shrunk back, as Sir Francis pointed to her, and leaning upon the
arm of Albert, she sobbed as she said,—
“Oh, tell me, Albert, what is the meaning of all this fearful scene.”
“I have proof of the marriage of this lady’s mother with the elder
brother Learmont, now in custody, from the Austrian ambassador,” said
Sir Francis Hartleton. “His predecessor was present at the ceremony.”
“Ada,” cried Albert, rapturously. “Look up—my own Ada.”
“This,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, addressing her, “is your house. It
is for you to make the company welcome, or not.”
Ada burst into tears, and was led down the steps by Albert and the
magistrate, but scarcely had they entered the saloon, when the officers
who captured Learmont, appeared at the top of the stairs with him. All
eyes were fixed upon his face, which was livid and ghastly. He offered
no opposition, but came down step-by step with an awful calmness, like
one going to execution, who had long since bid adieu to hope. When he
reached halfway, he paused, and extending both his arms, while his
fingers pointed to Sir Francis Hartleton, he burst into such a frantic
howling laugh, that the officers shrunk from him aghast. Then an awful
spasm came across his face, and like a log, he fell upon the stairs.
When raised he was found quite dead. A small phial, which was
afterwards picked up in the conservatory, and which contained yet a
lingering drop of deadly poison, told his fate. The erring spirit had
flown to its Maker, there to render up that awful account, which we may
shudder at, but not define.