CHAPTER CIII.
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.