BY BOWMAN TILLER.
CHAPTER XI.
An awful but instructive scene is the death-bed of the guilty. Shipkins experienced, by anticipation, the agonizing terrors of a future state. Despair took possession of his mind; but it was the despair of the coward who trembles to meet his judge, and not that of the penitent, who, prompted by hope, implores for mercy. He had lived a desperate life of crime, and his hearers shuddered as vivid recollection of the past seemed to flash upon him like sudden visions forcing him to reveal the enormities he had perpetrated.
His account, as far as it went, of Lieutenant Heartwell, was briefly this,—that Brady coveted his wealth for the double purpose of enriching himself, and carrying on those treasonable practices in which he was deeply involved—on the day of the lieutenant's disappearance, he had, after the departure of the bank agent, been encouraged to drink—the wine was drugged, and took its full effect. Shipkins had himself personated Heartwell in the hackney-coach affair, having previously stripped the lieutenant, and substituted the naval uniform for his own apparel,—and the evidence given by the coachman was perfectly correct. After alighting in Ormond Street, Shipkins crossed over into Great Ormond Yard, where he concealed himself in one of the stables which had been taken for the occasion, having a light cart and horse in readiness to further their schemes. Here he was shortly afterwards joined by Brady with his clothes, for which the lieutenant's were immediately exchanged, the horse was put into the cart, they drove to Lincoln's Inn, and having deposited Mr. Heartwell in it, they conveyed him—still in an insensible state—as well as the notes, gold, and documents, to the very cottage they were then in.
Here a sudden spasm seized the dying man—he gasped convulsively—an internal hemorrhage was going on, that threatened suffocation,—and it may readily be supposed, that intense anxiety pervaded every one present. Mrs. Heartwell had listened almost breathlessly,—every word that was uttered made its due and deep impression on her heart—she sat like a statue—no relieving tear started to her eye, for the fever of agonised expectation had dried the source of tears—no sigh, no groan escaped her, till the expiring Shipkins stopped, and then extending her hands, as she looked at the contorted and ghastly features of the clerk, her voice found utterance, and clasping her hands in earnest entreaty, she exclaimed,—
"Oh, let him not die—hold—hold—yet, a little longer life that he may tell us all. Heavenly Father, in pity spare him, till his conscience is unburthened, and then in mercy pardon his offences."
Frank supported his mother, and tried to calm her perturbation, though his own spirit was on the rack, as he now concluded that his conjectures were correct, and beneath the same roof which they were then under, his gallant father had been murdered. It was a moment of trying suspense to all, and eagerly they watched the surgeon exercise his skill, as, raised up by Ben, the close of Shipkins' career seemed fast approaching—they had as yet heard nothing of the lieutenant's fate, nor had any information been rendered relative to Brady's place of concealment, and what had been communicated served rather to excite greater agitation than to allay that which had already been caused.
The surgeon had requested every one to remain silent, and the stillness was only broken by himself as he gave directions to Ben, (but even these were given in whispers,) and the struggles of the dying man, who, grasping at the air, as if he would clutch another victim, muttered unconnected sentences. It was an appalling spectacle—loud and piercing was his shriek as he caught Ben's arm, and grasped it with a desperate grasp, as the only stay in life,—wild and imploring was his look as he tried to speak, but the words could not find utterance. It was only for a moment—a yell of agony succeeded, and in a few minutes his limbs were stiffening in the rigidity of death.
But what language can picture the distress of Mrs. Heartwell and her son, at the disclosure's being so prematurely cut off, and that too in so fearful a manner! Frank tried to lessen the disappointment and grief of his parent; but she who had all along cherished hope, now enfeebled by circumstances that had preyed upon her mind, and weighed down by the pressure of the evidence which Shipkins had given, seemed sinking into despair.
It was past midnight when the wretched man ceased to exist. No one thought of repose, except the surgeon, who accustomed to witness the flight of the departed spirit, retired to his home; but Mr. Wendover remained at the cottage, endeavouring to tranquillise the lady's mind. Morning had not yet broke, when the sound of horses' hoofs were heard upon the common; but they suddenly ceased at the garden-gate, and the bell was violently rung. Frank and Ben grasped their pistols, and immediately went out to answer the summons. The horseman had dismounted, and being questioned, said "he was the bearer of a letter to Lieutenant Heartwell that required instant attention." The letter was handed through the bars—Frank saw that the superscription was addressed to himself, and breaking the seal, he ascertained that the signature was that of Mr. Unity Peach. The letter was characteristic of the writer, and ran thus:—