Again the scene must change. At Clifford Hall the presence of two strangers was unusual; and, in that dull and sleepy establishment, that trifling event had occasioned some sensation. When morning advanced, the surprise of the household was considerably increased. The confessor had disappeared, having removed all his baggage, none knew where or how. The steward was also missing, but his apartments were in their customary state; and as he frequently left the hall for days together in course of duty, his absence occasioned no particular surprise. The churchman had departed for the continent two hours before the steward quitted Clifford Park, and, as it was fated, neither re-entered the domain gates after they had passed them.
It would appear, that when he found his former friend and counsellor had left him to his resources, all Morley’s self-possession vanished, and his future actions seemed rather the results of sudden impulse than of deliberate forethought. Without any fixed object, he took the road to London; and that, too, by circuitous routes, which rendered the journey unnecessarily tedious. Although his general habits were temperate, he made frequent halts at road-side houses, and drank freely where he stopped. It was late when he reached the metropolis—and on his arrival in the Borough, he put up his horse at an obscure inn, took some refreshment, ordered a bed he never occupied; for, as it afterwards appeared, he spent the night rambling through the streets, or drinking in low houses only frequented by the vicious and the destitute. God knows what the wretched man’s feelings were! He then believed that a foul act was doing, or had been done; and it is hard to say, whether remorse for having caused the deed, or a savage exultation at its fancied accomplishment, had fevered his guilty soul, and, like another Cain, “murdered sleep,” and when innocence reposes, made him a wretched wanderer.
Morning came, and at the appointed hour named to meet his myrmidons, the steward repaired to the place of rendezvous. He hastened on, as he believed, to learn the death of his victim; but it was only to hurry his own guilty career to its close. The wretched man, in thieves’ parlance, was “regularly planted.” The moment they found themselves in custody, the ruffians (both returned convicts) admitted their intended crime, and gave ample information by which their employer should be detected. It was arranged by the officers that Morley should be received by one of the ruffians, at the public-house where the meeting had been appointed—and, apparently blind to danger, the steward entered the tap and passed through into a back room, which had been notified to him as the place where his sanguinary associates would be found in waiting.
The room was squalid in appearance, ill-lighted, and in every respect a fitting place for villains to frequent. At a dark corner he perceived the larger ruffian at a table—and, what rather startled him at first, a stranger seated at his side. A brief conversation, however, explained the matter. “The other cove had shyed when it came to the point, and he had to call on a trusty pal, the gentleman wot sate beside him.” Thoroughly deceived, Morley fell into the trap laid for him, without harbouring a suspicion—listened with manifest satisfaction to a fabricated detail of the imaginary assassination—handed to the murderer the price of blood—and was about to leave the room, when the confederate ruffian struck a hewy blow upon the table with a pewter measure—announced that he was a Bow-street runner, and Morley his prisoner. Then turning to the door, he repeated the signal a second time. It was answered—three officers came in.
Although astounded at the occurrence, the steward came to a sudden and desperate determination. The ruffian, hardened as he was, turned his eyes away in another direction from his victim—and, taking advantage of the momentary absence of the officer at the door, when summoning his fellows from below, Morley unperceived, took a small phial from his pocket, and swallowed the contents. He was instantly secured and searched—a large sum in money taken from his person—the handcuffs were being put on, which were to bind him for a time to the returned convict—the wretch who had betrayed him,—when suddenly, his look became fixed and glassy—his face livid—he reeled into the arms of an officer, and next moment, sank on the floor a corpse.
CONCLUSION.
“All tragedies are finish’d by a death,