CHAPTER XCVIII.
Albert’s Love and Determination.—The Squire’s Dream.
“Let us cross to it,” said Learmont, in a low husky voice, which betrayed how deeply he felt himself interested in the affair.
In a moment they both stood in the dark entry. Learmont’s spy was not there for conceiving justly that Jacob Gray was housed for the night, he had, by way of solacing himself after his quarrel with Albert, betaken himself to a neighbouring public-house, where by that time he was deep in a second jug of old ale.
“There is no one here,” remarked Learmont.
“No,” said Albert; “but I left one here. However, his following Gray might after all have been from mere curiosity, seeing me follow him so closely.”
“The house—the house,” said Learmont; “which is the house?”
“Yon dingy-looking dwelling, with that mean shop upon its basement floor.”
Learmont looked long and eagerly at the miserable dwelling; then he muttered,—
“I should know that house again were I absent from it a hundred years. Yes—found—found—at last! The game is played! Jacob Gray, with all your cunning—with all your art of trickery—you are at last found! Sleep on, if you can sleep, in fancied security! You know not that your career may soon be ended!”
“You will recollect the house, sir?” said Albert.
“I may forget my own name,” said Learmont, “but not that house. Young sir, here is money for you; let me see you on the morning after to-morrow, and I will have news for you.”
He gave Albert his purse as he spoke, and then, without waiting for a reply, he strode from the spot, leaving the young man in great astonishment at his singular behaviour.
“Till to-morrow and then the morning after that,” said Albert, “is a precious time to control my impatience. If I could but catch the merest glance of Ada, it would help me to sustain my impatience. Oh, what a Tantalus-like state is mine, to be even now within so short a distance of her I love, and yet unable to make my presence known to her. My very voice would reach her were I to raise it above its ordinary compass, but I dare not. I have bound myself on my word of honour, and that must not be broken—farewell then, for a time, dear Ada! To-morrow, during daylight, I will try to sleep, so that when the sun has set, and I may, without fear of being seen by Jacob Gray, take up my station here, I may be able to watch the house you inhabit, and please myself with the thought of being so near you, even though I cannot see you, or speak to you. Truly I am glad the squire has left me here, for here will I remain until the morning’s light warns me of the danger of recognition by Jacob Gray if I longer tarry.”
With his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the window, which he pleased himself by imagining belonged to Ada’s room, Albert Seyton kept possession of the doorway.
In the meanwhile, Learmont, with feelings of exultation at his heart, strode with a hasty step towards the Chequers at Westminster.
“I have him now—I have him now,” he muttered; “I will stir Andrew Britton to destroy him, and as for this Albert Seyton, from whom, were he to live, I should prophesy much trouble, I will give him on the morning that he calls upon me, a subtle poison, in a cup of wine; but not enough shall he have to leave his body within my doors. No—the dose shall be skilfully graduated, so that some hours shall elapse ere the wild excitement passes through his system. Then he may lie down and die in the public streets or where he lists, so he is out of my way—’tis a deep skill I have obtained in poisons, and it shall do me good service.”
He then paused, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote on it the words which we are aware were on the note Britton received in the midst of his drunken orgies at the Chequers, and which Learmont got conveyed to him by means of a boy who was wandering houseless about the streets.
Satisfied, then, that he had everything in train for the destruction of Jacob Gray, Learmont bent his steps homewards in a more satisfied state of mind than he had ever been in before, and resolved to attempt immediately to procure some sleep, before he should thoroughly mature his yet but projected plan of murdering Gray on the next evening.
The difficulties in the way of executing the deed safely and securely were very great; for not only was Gray to be destroyed, but his written confession was to be secured before its superscription should be perceived by any one who might officiously communicate to the magistrate that such a document had been addressed to him.
To accomplish all this required skill, courage, caution, and a favourable train of circumstances; but, wearied as was Learmont then, as well by the violence of his alternating passions, as by want of anything in the shape of refreshing sleeps for some nights, he felt himself unequal to the details of a plan which should command success, if no very extraordinary obstacle presented itself in his way. He therefore hurried home, and giving directions to be called at an early hour in the morning, he threw off some of his upper clothing, and wearied as he was, soon sunk into a slumber—not, however, a calm and easy one, for he was, as usual, tortured with frightful dreams, and images of terror flitted before his mental vision. Sometimes he would fancy himself in the midst of the fathomless ocean, tossed about at the mercy of every surge, while each wave that burst over him seemed crusted with blood. Ravenous monsters of the deep would stretch their long tendril-like arms from deep vallies in the ocean’s bed, and strive to drag him into their insatiate maws; then suddenly, “a change would come o’er the spirit of his dream,” and he would lie upon the burning sands of Africa. For hundreds of miles there would be nothing but sand—sand hot and scorching to the touch as the fire-ash of a glowing furnace—then a fearful drought came over him, and he shrieked for water, and thought what a heaven it would be to be once more dashed madly to and fro by the surging waves—then a caravan would appear in sight upon the pathless desert—he heard the tinkle of the camel’s bells—he saw the weary men, with bronze complexions and travel-worn apparel, come slowly on and he saw that they had water, for all were drinking deep draughts of the delicious beverage. One then asked him if he too would drink, and then he could not speak. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, and, one by one, as they passed him by, they asked him to drink, and he could not say yes. Then, the caravan slowly faded away and when the last man was far across sandy the plain, his voice came again, and he shrieked for water—for but one drop to quench for a passing moment the burning fever of his throat.
The dream was horrible, but the vision that followed was more terrible, because the suffering was mental as well as physical.
Learmont fancied he was at the foot of a high winding staircase. He commenced slowly ascending, and then he heard behind him like a sound of rushing wind, and looking back, he saw linked, in an awful companionship, three livid spectres, as if fresh from the reeking corruptions of the tomb. The flesh hung rag-like upon the yellow moistened bones, and huge drops of green and sickly corruption fell dashing like the preludes of a thunder storm, upon the stairs. Worms and moist things were crawling in and out the sightless eyes—the rattling lips grinned horribly, and amid the havoc of the grave, Learmont could recognise the features of those whom he had driven to death. Slowly they came after him, and a voice seemed to ring in his ears, saying,—
“They will catch you, and fold you in their dreadful embrace, ere you reach the top of those stairs. Fly, Learmont, fly!”
Then he tried, with a scream of terror, to ascend the staircase like the wind, but his feet seemed glued to the steps, and he could ascend but slowly step by step, while he felt that his pursuers were gaining on him momentarily, and that he must in another moment be in their grasp. He heard the chattering of the fleshless gums—he smelt the rank odour of the grave, and yet he could proceed but at a funeral pace. Now they were upon him—now they gibbered in his ears—they clutched him by the throat—the long skeleton fingers press upon his throat—he his lost! One moan bust from the agonised sleeper, and he awoke shrieking,—
“Help—help! Save me yet, Heaven—oh, save me, I do repent! God have mercy upon me!”
He sprung from his bed, and, with dishevelled hair, eyes starting from their sockets, and a face livid with agony, he sunk upon his knees, just as the terrified domestics, hearing his cries, knocked loudly at his chamber door.
Then succeeded a death-like stillness, and Learmont, in a deep sepulchral voice, said,—
“God of Heaven, was it a dream? Dare I ever sleep again?”
The knocking continued at his door, and he rose to his feet.
“Peace—peace!” he cried. “Away, I did but dream.”
The servants retired from the door gazing at each other in mute terror, for Learmont’s cries had alarmed the whole house, and filled them with superstitious fears.
“So—so,” said the squire, when he trimmed his light, and recovered a little from his state of mental excitement; “that was a dream—how terrible—how terrible. Can I ever sleep again in peace? Dare I lay down my weary head upon my pillow with the hope of repose? No—no. And yet there are potent drugs that I have heard wrap the soul in oblivion, or else in the slumber they create, visit it in gorgeous shapes, and present rare phantasies to the mental eye. I will try them. To-morrow—to-morrow, I will try them. I may find peace then; but I must not tempt sleep again. ’Tis too terrible—too terrible.”