RETRIBUTION.
It was long past midnight—and Mr. Torrens was still pacing the parlour
with uneven steps, when a low double knock at the front-door aroused him
from his painful meditations.
Wondering who could visit the cottage at that late hour, he hastened to
reply to the summons; and, to his surprise, the lustre of the
parlour-lamp which he carried in his hand, streamed full upon the pale
and agitated countenance of Sir Henry Courtenay.
Making a sign to the baronet not to speak, Mr. Torrens led the way into
the parlour; and the visitor, in the excitement of the feelings which
had brought him to the cottage, neglected to shut the front-door close
as he entered, but merely pushed it back in such a way that the bolt of
the lock did not catch.
This little incident was unperceived by the two gentlemen.
When they were both in the parlour, Mr. Torrens shut the room-door, and
said in a low whisper, "She has come home!"
"Thank God! she is safe then!" observed the baronet, also in a subdued
voice. "The fact is, Mrs. Slingsby and myself were so dreadfully
frightened that she might either make away with herself, or else adopt
some measure that would lead to a certain exposure, that we have both
been hunting for her through all the streets at the West End; and at
last I determined, late as it was, to come over and acquaint you with
her flight. But it never struck me that I should hear of her return
home."
"She is unaware of my sad complicity in the dreadful business," replied
Mr. Torrens sternly. "But pray repeat to me the whole conversation which
took place between Mrs. Slingsby and yourself, and which she
unfortunately overheard. I shall then be enabled to judge whether
reflection on that discourse may lead her to imagine that her own father
was indeed a party to her ruin; for I must confess that I have terrible
fears lest she should indeed imbibe such a suspicion."
"Give me a tumbler of wine, Torrens," said the baronet, throwing himself
upon the sofa which had so lately been pressed by his victim when in a
state of insensibility: "I am regularly exhausted, for I have walked all
the way hither;—and, when I have a little recovered myself, I will
detail all the conversation which took place between me and Mrs.
Slingsby, as nearly as I shall be able to recollect it."
Mr. Torrens produced a bottle of wine from the side-board, he having
already emptied the decanter upon the table.
"Help yourself, Sir Henry," he said: "and in the meantime I will steal
cautiously up stairs and see if Rosamond be yet retired to rest—for I
would not for worlds have her come down and find you here."
"A wise precaution," observed the baronet.
Mr. Torrens accordingly quitted the parlour, and hastened up stairs. He
stopped at the door of his daughter's chamber, and listened. Profound
sobs and impassioned ejaculations, indicative of terrible grief, met his
ears; and he grew alarmed lest she should feel herself so thoroughly
wretched and lonely as to be unable to sleep, and perhaps return to the
parlour.
He accordingly knocked gently at the door, and Rosamond speedily opened
it.
She had not as yet divested herself of a particle of her clothing, nor
made any preparation to retire to rest; and her countenance was so truly
woebegone—so thoroughly the picture of a deeply-seated grief, that even
her iron-hearted father was affected to tears. She threw her arms around
his neck, and thanked him for his kind solicitude. He remained with her
nearly half-an-hour, exerting all his power of language to console her;
and the anxiety which he experienced to induce her to seek her couch, so
that he might return to the parlour and get rid of Sir Henry Courtenay
as soon as possible, rendered him so eloquent and so effective in the
(to him) novel art of administering solace, that he succeeded fully.
"Now I am convinced that you do not loathe, despise, and hate your
daughter," said Rosamond at length; "and this impression has removed an
immense weight from my mind. Though true happiness may never more be
mine, yet shall I find a substitute in Christian resignation to my fate;
and henceforth, dear father, I will not make _you_ unhappy by compelling
you to act the part of a comforter. And now, good night, my only
friend—my beloved parent; and fear not that I shall give way again to
that violent outpouring of grief in which you so kindly interrupted me."
Mr. Torrens embraced his daughter, and a pang shot to his heart as he
thought of his infernal conduct towards that good and affectionate girl!
As he descended the stairs he heard her lock her chamber-door; and he
was just congratulating himself upon the success of his attempt to
console her, when the murmuring sounds of voices, apparently coming from
the front parlour, caused him to redouble his pace thither—for the idea
flashed to his mind that Mrs. Slingsby might also have visited the
cottage in her alarm concerning Rosamond, and that the baronet had
probably afforded her admission while he was up stairs with his
daughter.
* * * * *
Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, bent on their predatory intent, and
hoping to reap a good harvest at the house of Mr. Torrens, approached
that dwelling nearly half an hour after Sir Henry Courtenay had entered
it.
Perceiving a light gleaming from the divisions in the parlour-shutters,
they crept cautiously up to the window, and through those crevices
beheld the glittering gold piled upon the table, and a person lying upon
the sofa, apparently in a profound sleep.
The fact was that the baronet was completely exhausted with his long
walk from Old Burlington Street to the Cottage; and, having tossed off a
tumbler of wine, he lay down on the sofa to await Mr. Torrens' return.
But we have seen that the father had found his daughter in such a state
of profound affliction as to be totally unable to leave her for nearly
half an hour; and during that interval an irresistible drowsiness stole
over Sir Henry Courtenay,—speedily wrapping him in a deep slumber.
Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler were determined to risk "the crack," in
spite of the sleeper whom they descried upon the sofa, and whom they
believed to be Mr. Torrens; for neither was this gentleman nor the
baronet known to them by sight.
With their housebreaking implements they were on the point of making an
attempt on the front-door; when it yielded to their touch, and swung
noiselessly open. At this they were not at all surprised; for it
immediately struck them that John Jeffreys had expected the visit that
night, and had left the door ajar on purpose.
They stole into the house, and succeeded in entering the parlour without
arousing the baronet.
Tim the Snammer instantly drew forth his clasp-knife, and, bending over
Sir Henry Courtenay, held the murderous weapon close to his throat,
while Josh Pedler hastily secured the notes and gold about his person.
"We may as well have the plate, if there is any," whispered this
individual to his companion. "In fact, we'll have a regular ransack of
the place; and if he awakes——"
"I'll cut his infernal throat in a jiffey," added Tim the Snammer.
Josh grinned an approval of this summary mode of proceeding, and opened
one of the side-board drawers. But the noise which a sugar-basin or some
such article made inside the drawer, by falling over with the sudden
jerk, aroused the sleeper.
Sir Henry Courtenay started—opened his eyes—beheld a strange countenance
hanging over him—and was about to utter a cry of alarm, when the
terrible clasp-knife was drawn rapidly and violently across his throat.
There was a dull, gurgling noise—a convulsive quivering of the entire
frame,—but not a groan—much less an exclamation of terror,—and Sir Henry
Courtenay was no more!
"Come along, Tim," said Josh Pedler, whose face was ghastly pale. "We've
done enough for to-night."
"Yes—let us be off," returned the murderer, now shuddering at the
dreadful deed which he had just perpetrated.
And they were issuing from the room, when the noise of footsteps on the
stairs made them redouble their speed to gain the front-door.
It was Mr. Torrens who had thus alarmed them; but they escaped without
molestation—for when that gentleman reached the hall, and beheld two men
rushing towards the front-door, he was himself seized with such profound
terror—painfully strung as his feelings had been that night—that he was
for a few moments stupified, and rivetted to the spot.
But when he saw the front-door close behind the strangers, he took
courage—hastily secured it within—and then hurried to the parlour, in
agony of fear lest his gold and notes should have become the prey of
plunderers!
One glance at the table was sufficient:—the money was gone!
Mr. Torrens dashed his open palm against his forehead with frantic
violence, and was about to utter a cry of rage and despair, when the
remembrance of his unhappy daughter sealed his lips.
At the same instant he looked towards the sofa:—but, holy God! what a
spectacle met his view!
For there lay the baronet with his head nearly severed from his
body,—murdered—barbarously murdered upon the very sofa where his victim
had so lately reposed in trance-like insensibility. On that sofa slept
he his last sleep; and, even in that appalling moment when Mr. Torrens
recoiled, shuddering and shocked, from the dreadful sight, it struck him
that there was something of retributive justice not only in the loss of
his own treasure but also in the death of Sir Henry Courtenay!
The frightened man uttered not a murmur as that spectacle encountered
his eyes. His amazement was of so stupifying a nature that it sealed his
lips—paralysed his powers of utterance. With staring orbs he gazed on
the grisly corpse from which he recoiled staggeringly; and several
minutes elapsed ere he could so far command his presence of mind, as
even to become aware of his own dreadful predicament.
But as the truth dawned upon him, he was seized with indescribable
alarms—with horrible apprehensions.
The double crime of robbery and murder, had been perpetrated so speedily
and so noiselessly, that not a soul in the house was alarmed by any
unusual sound—and Mr. Torrens felt the sickening conviction that it
would be a difficult thing to persuade a jury that _he himself_ was
innocent! Suspicion must inevitably attach itself to him:—circumstantial
evidence would be strong against him! In a word, the appalling truth
broke in upon him, that _he_ would be accused of the assassination of
Sir Henry Courtenay!
Mr. Torrens sate down, and, burying his face in his hands, fell into a
profound but most painful meditation.
Should he raise an alarm—arouse Jeffreys and the female-servant, as well
as his daughter—and proclaim all he knew about the horrible transaction!
No:—something whispered in his ear that he would not be believed.
Rosamond, not knowing that he was the baronet's accomplice in achieving
her dishonour, would naturally conceive that the murder was the result
of paternal vengeance. It was, then, impossible to suffer the occurrence
to transpire. But what was he to do with the body?—how dispose of it?
Terrible dilemma!
All the atrocity of his crime towards his daughter now returned with a
tremendously augmenting intensity to his mind. His punishment on earth
had already begun:—he was doomed—accursed. Wretched man! gold was thy
destroyer! Ah! gold—but thou hast lost thy gold,—and in a few days the
creditors who yet remain unpaid, will be upon thee! But——
What!—does such an idea actually strike him?—urging him to plunder the
murdered victim of any coin which there may be about the corpse!
Yes:—and now behold the father, who sold the honour of his child, about
to examine the pockets of that child's assassinated ravisher?
The purse contains some fifteen or sixteen sovereigns; and these Mr.
Torrens self-appropriates. The pocket-book of the deceased is next
scrutinized. But there are no Bank-notes—nothing save papers and
memoranda, totally valueless.
Mr. Torrens stamps his foot with rage:—his predicament is truly awful.
Ruin still menaces him on one side in respect to his affairs—for, having
reckoned on the money to be produced _by the sale of his daughter's
virtue_, he had contracted fresh liabilities within the last ten days:
and on the other side is the terrible danger in which the presence of
that corpse may involve him! Add to these sources of agonising feelings,
the conviction that the sacrifice of Rosamond will, after all, have
proved ineffectual in respect to the complete settlement of his affairs,
even should he succeed in burying the more serious event—namely the
murder—in impenetrable mystery,—and the wretched state of mind in which
Mr. Torrens was now plunged, may be conceived.
He rose from the chair, on which he had a second time flung himself,
after plundering the corpse, and approached the time-piece.
It was half-past one o'clock.
But as Mr. Torrens glanced at the dial, which thus told him how short an
interval remained for him to take some decisive step, if he really
intended to dispose of the corpse before the servants should be
stirring, he caught a glimpse of his countenance in the mirror over the
mantel.
He recoiled—he shrank back with horror.
Was it indeed _his own_ countenance that he saw?
Or was it that of some unquiet ghost, wandering near the spot where its
mortal tenement had been cruelly murdered?
He turned round suddenly, to avoid farther contemplation of that ghastly
visage;—and again he recoiled from an object of terror—staggered—and
would have fallen, had he not caught the back of a chair for support.
For in the half open door way he beheld a human face, which was
withdrawn the moment his eyes encountered it.
Driven to desperation, and reckless now of what might happen to him, the
maddened man rushed into the hall, in time to observe a figure turn the
angle of the staircase.
In another moment he had caught that figure by the arm; and, dragging
the person forcibly down, beheld his new man-servant John Jeffreys, by
the light of the lamp streaming from the open parlour-door.
Totally forgetful at the instant of the presence of the corpse in the
room,—so terribly excited and bewildered was he,—Mr. Torrens dragged
Jeffreys into the parlour to demand the reason why he was up and
_dressed_ at that hour of the night—or rather morning:—and it was not
until he saw the man himself turn ghastly pale as his eyes encountered
the hideous spectacle on the sofa, that Mr. Torrens remembered the
frightful oversight which he had committed.
Then, hastening to close the room-door, which he locked also, Mr.
Torrens said, "Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the
house?"
The fact was that Jeffreys had expected a visit from some of Old Death's
gang that night, and had never retired to bed at all. He heard the two
double-knocks at the door—the first being that given by Rosamond, and
the other by the baronet;—and when the robbers had quitted the house,
closing the front-door after them, Jeffreys thought it must be the last
visitor (whoever he might be) going away. After that the house had
remained quiet for some little time; and Jeffreys fancied that Mr.
Torrens had retired to bed. He had accordingly stolen down from his
bed-room to unfasten a window shutter, and thus render the ingress of
the expected robbers an easy matter: but perceiving a light in the
parlour, he began to suspect that they must be already there.
Accordingly he crept cautiously up to the door, and was for a moment
stupified when he obtained a glimpse of the reflection of his master's
ghastly countenance in the mirror, a view of which he could command from
the hall.
"Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?"
demanded Mr. Torrens.
"The truth is, sir, I heard a noise, just now, and I was afeard that
thieves was breaking in," was the ready reply: "so I got up and dressed;
but, sir—"
And he glanced significantly towards the dead body.
"Jeffreys," said Mr. Torrens, in a hurried and excited tone, "a dreadful
event has occurred to-night. This gentleman came to call upon me late—on
very particular business—I left him here, while I went up stairs to
speak to my daughter, who has returned home—and, on coming down stairs
again, I saw two men escaping from the house. When I entered the
parlour, a considerable sum of money, which I had left on the table, was
gone—and my poor friend was as you now see him!"
The man-servant believed the tale; but he affected not to do so—for he
was villain enough to rejoice at such an opportunity of getting his
master completely in his power.
"You smile incredulously, John," said Mr. Torrens; "and yet I take
heaven to witness——"
"It's orkard, sir—very orkard," observed Jeffreys; "and may be it'll
lead to scragging, if the stiff'un isn't put away."
Mr. Torrens shuddered from head to foot.
"What _do_ you mean to do, sir?" asked Jeffreys. "I am quite ready to
assist you; but it's getting on for two o'clock——"
"Yes, I know it," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "I am mad—I am driven to
desperation! What would you advise? But will you be faithful? Will you
keep the secret? I can reward you——"
"We'll talk of that another time, sir," said Jeffreys; "for the present
let's think of making away with the stiff'un. We must bury it. Stay here
a moment, sir, while I go and get the stable lanthorn and a sack."
"Or rather," observed Mr. Torrens, "I will fetch some water to wash the
carpet; fortunately, the blood has not trickled upon the sofa."
Noiselessly the two crept away from the parlour—one to the stables, the
other to the kitchen.
In a few minutes they met again by the side of the corpse, which they
thrust into the sack; and between them the load was conveyed to the
stable.
"You go and clean the carpet, sir," said John Jeffreys, whose superior
presence of mind served to invest him with authority to direct the
proceedings; "while I dig a hole in the garden."
Mr. Torrens hastened to obey the suggestion of his servant, and returned
to the parlour, where he cleansed the carpet, as well as he could. He
then took a bottle of Port-wine from the side-board, and broke it over
the very spot where the blood had dripped down, leaving the fractured
glass strewed about, and drawing the table near the sofa, so as to
produce the appearance of the bottle having been accidentally knocked
off it.
Nearly half an hour was consumed in this occupation; and Mr. Torrens,
whose mind was already much relieved, hastened back to the garden, where
Jeffreys was busily engaged in digging a grave for the murdered baronet.
When the servant was tired, his master took a turn with the spade; and,
as the soil was not particularly hard, an hour saw the completion of the
labour.
The corpse was thrown into the hole, and the earth was shovelled over
it—each layer being well stamped down by the feet.
When the task was accomplished, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys re-entered the
house; and, ere they separated to retire to their respective rooms, the
former said, in a low whisper, "Once more I conjure you to maintain this
secret inviolable, and I will find means to reward you well. For the
present take this!"
And he slipped ten sovereigns—a portion of the murdered baronet's
money—into the hands of Jeffreys.
"Don't be afeard that I'm leaky, sir," responded the man, clutching the
gold, and consigning it to his pocket, where he had already stowed away
the baronet's handsome repeater and gold rings—to which valuables he had
helped himself, while his master was busily engaged in cleansing the
carpet in the parlour;—for Mr. Torrens had merely plundered the corpse
of the contents of the purse, and had not touched the jewellery, through
fear that it might lead to the detection of the murder, if seen in his
possession.
Master and man now separated—the former to seek a sleepless couch, and
the latter to dream of the good fortune which that night's adventure had
brought him.
And in his unconsecrated grave—a victim to the assassin's knife—slept
the once gay, dissipated, and unprincipled Sir Henry Courtenay!