CHAPTER XIX.
Learmont’s Adventure.—A Discovery.—The Haunted House.—Exultation, and a Resolution.
In the wild excitement of his passions, Learmont had walked onwards, heedless of whither he was going, and now that he had in some measure found the relief he sought for in fatigue, he glared anxiously round to find if possible what part of the town he had strayed to in his deep abstraction.
The night was very dark, not a star peeped forth from heaven to light with its small twinkling lustre the massive black arch of the firmament. No moon shed its silvery radiance on the gigantic city;—a darkness, so intense that sky, houses, trees,—all seemed merged into one chaotic mass.
“Where should I be?” muttered Learmont; “I must have walked far, for I am weary. Ha! Is that the hour?”
The clock of St. Paul’s struck three as he spoke, and from the direction of the sound, Learmont guessed that he was somewhere southward of that edifice.
“Some chance passenger,” he muttered, “will direct me to Westminster; yet I hear no footfall in these silent streets. How still and solemn now is the great city; one might imagine it a vast cemetery, in which the dead alone dwelt.”
He paced slowly down a long straggling street, and his own footsteps were the only sounds that disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned around.
Learmont walked on slowly, for he knew not but he might be in some dangerous quarter of the city, and his suspicions that the locality in which he was did not possess any great claims to fashion or respectability were much increased by a door suddenly opening in a house some dozen yards in advance of him, and a man being flung from it with considerable force into the centre of the street, while a loud voice, exclaimed:—
“Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round dozen of you, we might think of it.”
“It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within.
“That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and the street even is turning round—and round in a most ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray. It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured character.”
The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately.
“I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man.
When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,—
“My friend, can you tell me where I am?”
“Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just been turned out of the Mitre.”
“Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of the town we are in?”
“The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that ain’t it.”
“What do you mean?” said Learmont.
“I’ll do it—I’ll do it, I tell you.”
“Do what?”
“Do what? Come, that’s good of you. You know what. All I mean to say is, that if somebody else is to do it, why I am sure nobody—no, that isn’t it either. How very ex—ex—extraordinary!”
“Idiot!” exclaimed Learmont, striding away; but the man called after him, and his voice echoed through the deserted street, as he said,—
“Don’t be—be—offended. I’ll do it, I tell you. No, no—nonsense, now, I know you—mind I—know you: it’s only a mur—murder! Ah! ah!”
Learmont paused in astonishment, not altogether unmingled with dismay, at these words and he was by the man’s side again in a moment.
“You know me?“ he said.
“Yes, yes, I believe you,” replied, the man. “I’ll do it.”
“What can this mean?” thought Learmont; then he said, aloud,—
“Who am I—you say you know me?”
“You—you didn’t think it,” said the man, with much drunken cunning; “but I watched you home.”
“You watched me home?”
“Yes,—to be sure. Don’t be frightened; I—I saw you go in. Oh! oh!”
“Indeed!” said Learmont, who was determined to humour his singular companion.
“Yes, I believe you, I—I thought you’d be surprised; and so you are: it’s ex—extraordinary, ain’t it?”
“Oh! Very.”
“Well, I’ll do it—you recollect my name?”
“Perfectly.”
“Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.”
“Sheldon is your name.”
“Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink like me.”
“You are a waterman, then?”
“You—know I am.”
“Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont.
“Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary how clever I—am.”
“Quite remarkable.”
“Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—”
“The boy?”
“Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched you—you—see.”
“The boy?” repeated Learmont.
“Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you see.”
“Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—”
“And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said so.”
“No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!”
“My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.”
“The—the—then—you thought wrong.”
“Exactly.”
“You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.”
“Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?”
“Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated you.”
“Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.”
“I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw him.”
“The boy?”
“Yes—to—to be sure.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“I—I believe you—”
“Well—well.”
“Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he,—what do you think now?”
“Really, I cannot tell.”
“Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out your name, you see.”
“My name, Master Sheldon?”
“Yes, your name.”
“No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.”
“N—n—not know it?”
“Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?”
“Gray, to be sure.”
“Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again; and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm.
“Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder of Britton.
“You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was Gray?”
The man looked in the countenance of Learmont, as well as the darkness would permit him, and answered, not without evident trepidation,—
“Gray—yes—Gray—it—it was. I shouldn’t have known it—but, you see, the boy stopped at the window to cry—”
“To cry?—well—and then?”
“Then, he said, ‘Can this man, Gray, really be of my kindred? Do we think alike?’ says he, ‘do we’—now, hang me, if I recollect what he said.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” suddenly laughed Learmont. “You are brave and acute. Ha, ha! You have found me out, I see. I am Gray. Ha, ha!”
“I—I—beg—your pardon, Mister Gray,” hiccupped the man, “but was that y—y—you that laughed in that odd way? Eh?”
“I laughed,” said Learmont.
“Then—d—don’t do it again. It’s the most uncom—com—comfortable sort o’ laugh I ever heard; an ex—ex—extraordinary laugh.”
“Good master a—a—”
“Sheldon,” said the man.
“Ay, Sheldon,” resumed Learmont. “I will have no secrets from you. You shall come home with me. You know the way?”
“Of—of—course I do.”
“Then, come on,” cried Learmont, with difficulty concealing his exultations at the chance that had thus thrown in his way a guide to Gray’s house.
“Ay, you—you’re right,” said the waterman. “Come on—come on. We’ll have a cup together?”
“Ha, ha!” cried Learmont, “we will.”
“Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those laughs—to yourself?”
“You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming cups.”
“Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows. Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,
When its sparkling bubbles rise,
Call it divine—divine,
For God’s a dainty prize.
“Hurrah!”
“By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”
“D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master G—Gray.”
“Not for worlds,” muttered Learmont.
“Eh?” cried Sheldon, “was that you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mean? Why—I—I—heard an uncommon odd voice say, ‘N—n—not for worlds.’”
“’Twas some echo, my good friend. Is this the turning?”
“Oh! Ah!” laughed the waterman. “Now that is good. Is—is—is this the turning—and—you going—have—Ho! Ho! You know it’s the turning—perhaps you want to in—in—sinuate that I’m drunk?”
“Certainly not,” replied Learmont. “I was only surprised at your amazing knowledge of the road. I only meant to try you, good Master Sheldon.”
“Try me? Try me? I—I know every inch of the road—I—follow me, and I’ll take you to your own door.”
“Is it possible?”
“Come on and see. Follow, I—say—follow.”
“I will,” cried Learmont, his dark eyes flashing with unholy fire, as he thought how gigantic a step towards the accomplishment of Gray’s destruction would be the knowledge, unknown to him, of his secret abode.
Cautiously he followed the devious track of the drunken man, who, with mock gravity, marched onwards to show the way. “Now, Jacob Gray,” he thought, “you are in my grasp; you shall die—die—some death of horror which in its bitter pangs will give you some taste of the heart-sickness you have given me.”