He sat down now, and fixed his eyes intently on the cloak, between the lining and outer cloth of which he had hidden his confession.
“There—there hangs what would be more than a nine day’s wonder,” he muttered, “for all the gaping fools in London. There hangs what would bring the high, the proud, the mighty Squire Learmont to a scaffold; and Britton, too, the savage smith, whose hands so itch to be imbued in my blood. Ha! Ha! I have them, when I like—but I bide my time—I bide my time. Yet why do I feel this horror—why do my hands shake, and my lips stick together for want of healthful moisture? This is what they call nervousness—mere physical weakness. I shall get rid of all this when I am far from England—yes, I shall be quite well then. Now, I really wonder if ever, in after years, I shall come to believe what priests prate about. Is there a Heaven? And—and, more awful question still, is there a hell? What am I saying? I shall drive myself mad if I think thus. I will hope nothing—fear nothing—believe nothing—nothing—nothing.”
The disturbed state of his mind deprived him of all appetite, and he forced rather than enjoyed his meal, of which he scantily partook. Then folding his arms upon the table, he leant his head upon them, and fell into a disturbed and harassing slumber—a slumber that brought with it no refreshment, but weakened both mind and body by allowing the imagination to prey unchecked upon the nervous system.
Eleven o’clock boomed forth, sullenly from the church clocks, now sounding clear and startingly loud as a gust of wind took the sound, and then sinking to the faintest indication of a sound, as the fickle element whirled in some contrary direction, destroying its own conducting power. Learmont was standing, like a statue of melancholy; in his own chamber, and he heard the hour from the clock of Westminster Abbey, as well as from a French timepiece in his room, which, as if in defiance of the dark and bloody thoughts that ran through his brain, struck up one of those light waltzes which such toys are made to play. With an oath Learmont dashed the clock to the ground, and the gay scenes which had been so little in accordance with his humour ceased.
“Some meddling fool must needs put that gilded annoyance in my chamber,” he muttered, as he spurned it with his foot. “Time speeds not with me in such lively measures; I would have the hours tolled forth now by a funeral bell, for each one comes more closely to the knell of Jacob Gray. Eleven—eleven—in another hour—it will soon pass away. I have saved myself some occupation for that hour.”
He took a key from his pocket, and, unlocking a cabinet, took from it a brace of pistols, the loading and priming of which he carefully examined.
“These may be useful in case of need,” he muttered; “it may be we may have more foes to encounter than Jacob Gray. Oh that I could leave the smith alone to do the work! But then the confession—that I must secure myself; I dare not trust Andrew Britton with that—and it were unsafe for me to go alone. It will be to risk too much—when I consider, I will run no risks—my victim shall be overpowered—will Britton stab him—or—or will he strangle him? Some quiet mode were best. I will take with me this poniard—its point is dipped in poison—the merest scratch is instant death. Should Britton fail, I must do the work myself; for, come what may, this night shall witness the death of Jacob Gray.”
He stood now for some moments in the room in deep thought; then he walked to the window, and gazed upon the black sky.
“The night is wild and boisterous,” he muttered; “and yet such nights are congenial to me. I will walk the streets until the hour of twelve. Britton will be sure to come—yes, he will be sure to come.”