CHAPTER CXIII.
Learmont and Britton after the Murder.
Having devoted so large a space to the hopes, the fears, the surprises, and the joys of those in whose happiness, and freedom from the distresses and persecutions which surrounded them, we are so largely interested, we turn with a sensation of sickening gloom to the two men of blood. Learmont and the savage smith, after they had sated themselves with gore, and like ferocious tigers of the jungle, came slinking from the feast of blood which they had sought with avidity, and tasted of so greedily.
Neither of them spoke after they reached the street-door of Gray’s house, until they had placed several streets between them and the one in which the awful deed was committed.
There was a dogged, apathetic kind of movement and manner about Britton, as with a heavy tread he slowly walked by the side of the squire, which more resembled the gross serenity of some over-gorged reptile than anything else. Never before had the smith’s appetite for destruction been so thoroughly sated—never before had he accomplished a darling wish of his heart so fully and so completely. His hatred of Jacob Gray had been one of his chief passions for years, and he had always pleased himself with the notion of some day having a revenge which should be in accordance with his savage nature, and full of terror. Yet in his wildest dreams—in his most fanciful imaginings of what he would like to do to Jacob Gray, he had fallen short of the scene of horror and blood he had that night gone through. Yes; Andrew Britton was satisfied—quite satisfied, as regarded Jacob Gray, and he felt all the ennui and satiety which was sure to arise, when the great object which he had always pleased himself he should one day be able to accomplish, was done. Jacob Gray was dead. He had died by his (Britton’s) hands an awful death, such as rejoiced him to inflict, and which was only disagreeable because it was done, and could not be repeated.
Now and then he would cast a scowling glance upon the squire, as if he longed to strike him down with the cleaver he still held in his grasp. He felt like a man, the great object of whose existence has slipped away from him, leaving the mind no fixed point upon which to fall back in thought.
“Curses on him!” he muttered. “He’s dead,” and Britton felt himself almost injured that Gray could not be brought to life again in order to give him again the pleasure of dashing Bond’s cleaver into his quivering brain.
But what were these thoughts of the coarse-minded, brutal animal, Britton, in comparison with the whirl-wind of frightful feelings that made a hell in the seething brain of Learmont. If he looked up to the sky, huge gouts of blood seemed to intercept his view of the blue vault of heaven; if he cast his eyes downwards, he could not divest himself of the idea that he was treading in ensanguined pools of human gore. He ground his teeth together till he produced a resemblance of the crashing sound which the cleaver wielded by Britton had made as it came in contact with the crunched bones of Gray’s skull. His last despairing cry of “Mercy—mercy—mercy!” was still ringing in his ears, and, finally, such was the intense excitement of his feelings, that he was compelled to lean upon the arm of Britton as he gasped,—
“I—I—shall go mad—I shall go mad. Andrew Britton, get me some water to cool my brain. I shall go mad!”
“Water be d—d!” growled Britton; “have some brandy, why, what’s the matter now?”
“Do—do you not hear, Britton? Gray is still screaming for mercy—does not the sound rush like burning lava through your brain—hark—hark—he still shrieks mercy—mercy—mercy.”
Learmont held the smith by the arm as he spoke, and trembled so especially that he shook the bulky form of Britton to and fro.
“Why what’s come over you, squire?” cried Britton, “curse you—you are not going to make a die of it now, just as that canting thief Gray is put out of the world.”
“Oh, Britton—Britton, was it not horrible?”
“No, it wasn’t. When you knock a fellow on the head with a cleaver, you do for him at once, and all you get out of him is a kick or two. Come this way and don’t be shaking here. Come and have some brandy—d—n water, I’m as thirsty as I can be, and water always makes me worse. Come on—oh! You are a beauty, Master Learmont—you used not to be such a fool. Time was, since I’ve known you, when you’d have thought nothing of this. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, hush—hush—hush,” said Learmont; “do not call to my recollection things which have already left their brand upon my soul.”
“Ha—ha—ha,” laughed Britton, “now I will have some fun with the squire. Don’t you recollect knocking your brother Mark’s first baby on the head, squire?”
“Peace—peace—fiend,” gasped Learmont.
They had now reached the door of a small public-house, which was kept open usually all night for the convenience of thieves and watchmen, when Britton pulled Learmont across the threshold to the little bar, where a man sat smoking with imperturbable gravity and placidity.
“Brandy!” cried Britton, as he reached over the bar, and snatched the pipe from the man, throwing it into the street.
The man was one of those slow thinkers, who are some time comprehending anything—so he merely stared at Britton, out of two exceedingly small eyes, that were nearly buried in mountains of flesh.
“Brandy!” again cried Britton, as he gave the front of the bar a clanging blow with the flat part of the cleaver, that made every bottle dance again, and so astonished the potman, that he slid from his chair, and sat on the ground, looking first at Britton, and then at Learmont, with as much alarm depicted in his countenance, as it could depict, considering it was by no means well calculated for portraying human feelings.
If the potman’s mind was rather overcome by the sudden abstraction of his pipe, the blow upon the bar with the cleaver completed a mystification which to all appearance, looked as if it would last a considerable time; so Britton, perceiving a little half door leading within the bar, on the swing, entered, without any ceremony, and laying violent hands on the first quart pot he saw, he drew liquor from every tap in succession that came to hand, until he had filled the measure with a combination of strong spirits, of which he took a long draught, and then handed it across to Learmont, who stood holding himself up by the bar, and but slightly conscious of where he was, or what Britton was doing.
“Here,” cried the smith, “drink some of that.”
Learmont took the quart measure, and lifted it to his lips mechanically, he drank some of the contents, and then handed it back to Britton, who, after pouring the remainder on the fat landlord’s head, gave him a thump with the measure, saying.
“That’s to clear your wits, and if you say that two gentlemen have been here with a cleaver. I’ll come back some day, and smash you.”
With this Britton hustled Learmont out of the house, and in about three quarters of an hour the fat landlord said,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
Learmont was half intoxicated with the draught of spirits he had taken, when he reached his own door-step, to which he was conducted by Britton, who said to him,—
“Now, squire you are home again, and that job’s jobbed; Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more, and as for his confession, why I begin to think as you do, that there never was one.”
“Ah, the confession—the confession!” gasped Learmont. “We are lost—we are lost, Britton—if, after all, there should be one found.”
“Go to the devil,” said Britton, as he shook himself free of the squire, and flourishing the cleaver proceeded on his way to the Chequers.
The first person that Britton encountered on his road home was a particularly slow-moving watchman, whom he levelled at once with a thwack between the shoulders, inflicted with the flat part of the cleaver. Then, when he reached the Chequers, it was a great satisfaction to him to find the door shut, because it gave him an opportunity of taking the heavy cleaver in both hands, and bringing it down with a blow upon the lock that on the instant smashed it, and burst the door wide open to the great consternation of the landlord, who immediately hid himself below the bar, and only peered up when he heard Britton’s voice exclaim,—
“Curse you all!—Where are you? Boil me some brandy, I say, or I’ll smash everything in the place.”
“Oh, dear, your majesty! So you’ve come home,” faltered the landlord; “dear me!”
Britton’s only reply to this conciliatory speech was to throw the cleaver at the landlord’s head, who only escaped it by ducking in time, when it flew over him, smashing some dozens of glasses, and producing a noise and confusion within the bar that was quite gratifying to Britton’s feelings.
“Hilloa!” cried Bond, when he saw Britton enter the parlour. “Here have I been waiting for you, I don’t know how long.”
“Who told you to wait?” roared Britton.
“Nobody,” shouted Bond, in as high a tone. “Where’s my cleaver?”
“In the bar. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the butcher, “I did hear a smash. You are a great genius, Britton. I say, have you settled that fellow, eh?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Oh? Nothing, I only asked. I suppose he was one too many for you?”
“Too many for me! I’ve smashed him!”
“Very good,” said Bond, resuming his pipe with an air of great composure.
In the meanwhile Learmont was lighted by his wondering domestics to his own chamber. They had never before this seen him in such a state of physical prostration; and, but that they were in too great fear of his violence to offer him even a kindness they would have assisted him up the staircase, for they saw that he was scarcely capable of ascending alone, and had to clutch to the banisters nervously for support.
When he reached his chamber, he sank into a chair, and after a few moments, he said,—
“More lights—more lights! Let me have more lights here. The place is dark.“
One of the servants lit the wax candles which were in silver sconces on the mantel-shelf, and then humbly inquire if his worship had any further orders to give.
“None—none!” said Learmont. “None! Why do you stare at me so? Is—is there blood upon me? How dare you look upon me with eyes of suspicion?”
The servants looked at each other in surprise and terror, and slowly slunk to the door.
“Let me have wine—wine!” cried Learmont. “Wine to give me new blood, for, by the God of heaven, what I have is freezing in my veins. Wine—wine, I say!”
They brought him wine, and a massive silver goblet to drink it from; but when they did so, they found him resting his head upon the table, and apparently half-asleep, for he was moaning occasionally, and muttering the words,—
“Mercy—mercy—mercy!”
None dared to arouse him, but lifting up their hands in silent terror, they gently closed the door, and crept softly down the staircase, leaving him alone with his dark and awful thoughts.
The sun was lighting up the east, and the dim clouds of night were rapidly changing their inky hue for the glorious tints of day; but there sat Learmont still with his head upon the table, and the glare of the many wax lights he had ordered, strangely mingling with the roseate tints of the coming day.
Oh, what awful images of horror and despair came marching in dismal troops through the brain of the blood-guilty man. Over and over again was the fearful tragedy he had been an actor in, exhibited to his shrinking imagination. Then he fancied himself alone with the mangled body of Jacob Gray. His feet were rooted to the floor of the room, and he thought the body rose, while Gray, with his long, ghastly-looking fingers dabbled in blood, strove to hold his eyes in their sockets—to replace the splintered pieces of his fractured skull, the while he glared at him, Learmont, with such a look of stony horror, that with a shriek the squire awoke, and stood in his chamber a picture of guilty horror, staring with blood-shot eyes at the wax-lights and the morning sunshine with a racking brain and a fevered pulse.