CHAPTER CXXXIX.

THE MISER ALONE IN HIS DWELLING.

Having carefully barred and bolted the street-door, Percival entered

the front room, and assured himself that the shutters were safely

fastened.

He then returned to the back parlour; and, seating himself at the

table, proceeded to examine the contents of his cash-box.

[Illustration]

He looked at the note of hand which he had received that night, and

which bore the signature of _Marston_--for, in compliance with the

suggestion of Mrs. Fitzhardinge, the infatuated Charles Hatfield had

signed the document with the name to which he believed himself to be

entitled.

The first sensations of the miser, as he fixed his eyes on the “promise

to pay” at a specific date the sum of _one thousand guineas_, were

of pleasure: for he calculated the profit he had derived from the

transaction--and he flattered himself that he had gained seventy

guineas in a single hour.

“And with so little trouble, too,” he muttered to himself.

But, in the next moment, a gloomy shade began to cross his countenance:

for the thought stole upon him that perhaps he had acted too

precipitately--that the women might have forged a number of papers to

delude him--that, after all, there might be no such person in existence

as Charles Hatfield, or Viscount Marston.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed emphatically, as he endeavoured to banish these

unpleasant reflections from his mind; “it is all right--and I am a fool

thus to yield to misgivings. Why should not Tom Rain be the rightful

Earl of Ellingham? Things more strange and improbable have occurred in

this world. And if he be really the elder brother of the nobleman now

bearing the title, why should he not have a son who is the heir to that

title and likewise to the estates? Yes--yes: it is all feasible enough!

Besides, amongst those papers were the marriage certificate of the late

Earl and Octavia Manners--and the baptismal certificate of their child.

Well, then--granting that there is a Charles Hatfield,--or, in other

words, a Viscount Marston,--what is less extraordinary than that so

beautiful a creature as this Miss Fitzhardinge should have captivated

the young noble? She is a splendid girl--a very splendid girl! Even

in the plain garb which she wore this evening--a sort of disguise, no

doubt--she looked truly bewitching. What eyes!--what a profile!--what

teeth!--what hair! Ah! I wish that I was a young man now--that I had

not these sixty-five winters on my head: I would even yet endeavour to

rival Viscount Marston! But, no--no: that were impossible! These young

girls are smitten with titles more than with money: and, on my honour,

Miss Fitzhardinge will become the rank of Viscountess full well. She

has the dignity--the stateliness--and yet the grace and elegance of a

woman of fashion! All this, doubtless, must be the work of nature: for

where could she have become familiar with the manners and customs of

the drawing-room? Ah! was not that a noise?”

And the miser, hastily shutting up his cash-box, started to his feet.

He listened--but all was still!

“A false alarm,” he murmured to himself--and resumed his seat.

But the incident had completely disturbed the current of his thoughts

which were flowing into a more voluptuous channel than for years

and years they had done,--the beauty of Perdita having made a deep

impression upon the mind of the miser, and for a few minutes weaned

away his attention from the hitherto all-absorbing gold that he

worshipped so devotedly.

And now that alarm,--whether false or real, we cannot as yet

determine,--recalled his errant thoughts to the one engrossing subject:

and carefully depositing his cash-box in the safe, he next secured the

safe itself.

Then, having placed the key in his pocket, he took the candle in his

hand, and once more inspected the street-door--the shutters in the

front-room--and the bolt of the back-gate.

He descended into the kitchen,--that kitchen which no domestic

occupied, and the hearth of which so seldom sparkled or shone with

blazing coal or wood,--a cursed hearth which, even in the very midst

of summer, seemed cheerless and cold! The area that gave light to the

kitchen-window was strongly barred over: the window itself was likewise

barred;--and the door opening into the area was well secured with bolts

and chains.

All these multiplied precautions were duly inspected by the miser.

Forgotten now was the image of Perdita:--gold--gold--_his_ gold,--this

was the one absorbing idea!

No--not the only _one_: for with the thought of possessing gold is ever

associated the dread of losing it;--and at this moment the man’s mind

was a prey to vague fears--undefined alarms--gloomy misgivings.

He did not like that noise which he had heard:--it haunted him like a

spectre;--it was something that weighed upon his soul like lead.

He felt--he knew that he was really _alone_ in that house,--aye, and

that the house was lonely in situation likewise: for he could not count

for aid, in case of need, on the elderly widow next door and her two

or three poor female lodgers. Thus, the fact that there _was_ a house

adjoining did not detract from the sense of utter loneliness awakened

in his mind respecting his own abode.

But were not the bolts secure--the chains fastened--the bars all firm

and strong? Oh! he had not spared his money to obtain the best iron and

the best work when those precautions were adopted: and, since he had

become a miser, he had never paid a bill so cheerfully as that which

the defences of his dwelling had incurred.

Yes:--the bolts _were_ secure--the chains _were_ well fastened--and the

bars _were_ all firm and strong;--and yet Percival was not at ease in

his mind.

That unknown, unaccountable noise had alarmed him. It was a noise the

nature of which he could scarcely explain to himself,--nor whether it

had occurred inside or outside the house: no--nor whether it were the

creaking of timber--or the shaking of the shutters--or the sound of a

human voice speaking low, hoarse, and in a disguised tone.

Having convinced himself that all was secure in the kitchen and the

little scullery at the back, Percival once more ascended to his back

parlour. He looked at his watch, and found it was half an hour past

midnight:--still he felt no inclination to sleep! Vague and oppressive

fears continued to haunt him;--and the more he essayed to wrestle with

his reflections, the more intolerable did they become,--till at last

horrible ideas were forced upon his imagination,--of how misers had

been murdered for their gold--how their blood had been poured out even

on the very treasure-chests to which they clung with desperate tenacity

while the blows of the assassins rained down upon their heads!

Of all these things he thought; and his brain appeared to whirl. He

cast his eyes around: objects of terror seemed to encounter them in all

directions--for his fevered, excited imagination conjured up the most

horrifying phantoms.

Suddenly taking his head as it were in his hands, and pressing

it violently, he exclaimed aloud. “Perdition take this cowardly

nervousness! What have I to fear to-night--more than any other? I need

rest--repose--slumber;--and when I awake in the morning, I shall laugh

at myself for the absurd terrors to which I have yielded now!”

Taking the light in his hand, he was about to quit the room and seek

his chamber up stairs, when a sound, as of the back door slowly

opening, fell upon his ears;--and so great was the alarm with which

this circumstance filled him,--striking him as it were with a sudden

paralysis,--that he let the candle fall upon the floor--and the light

was immediately extinguished.

Then there was the rush of a man up the stairs leading from the back

door to the parlour;--and in another moment Percival was assailed in

the dark, and in a desperate manner. A heavy blow, as with a bludgeon,

felled him to the ground,--not quite stunning him, but so far depriving

him of his physical energies that he could not even cry out. But he

grasped the murderer by the throat; and a short struggle ensued. The

assassin, however, was armed with the determination, if not with the

strength, of a demon;--and, dashing the miser back on the floor again

with all his force, he seized the bludgeon and wielded it with such

fearful effect, that in a few instants the victim lay motionless and

silent beneath him!

This fearful crime was accomplished in the dark; and yet the murderer

appeared not to be afraid--nor to lose his presence of mind. It would

also seem that he was acquainted with the nook where the miser’s gold

was concealed: yes--even circumstances more minute still were known to

him. For, stooping down, and passing his hand over the corpse, he felt

in the very pocket where Percival had placed the key of the cupboard

enclosing the iron safe;--and then, groping his way to that cupboard,

he opened it,--opened likewise the iron safe,--and drew forth the tin

case containing the miser’s gold and bank-notes. Breaking open the

lid of the box, the miscreant secured all the coin, notes, and papers

about his person, and then stole away from the dwelling by means of the

back-gate, which he closed behind him.

* * * * *

At half-past seven o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Dyer knocked at the

door of the miser’s house, and was somewhat surprised when, five

minutes having elapsed, her summons remained unanswered.

“Perhaps he has over-slept himself,” she muttered to herself: “I will

come back again presently;”--and the woman returned to her own abode.

But something like a misgiving had stolen into her mind,--a vague and

indefinable fear--a presentiment against which she could not wrestle.

A gloom had fallen on her spirits: she was in that humour when people

who are in any way superstitious, expect bad news. Not that she had

heard any noise in the course of the night, or that she had any

motive for suspicion:--the feeling that oppressed her was excited by

no accountable and intelligible cause,--unless, indeed, it were that

during the five or six years she had waited upon Mr. Percival, this was

the very first occasion on which she had failed to find him already up

and dressed, and ready to admit her at a stipulated hour.

Having performed a few domestic duties in her own house--but in a

strange manner, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing,--Mrs. Dyer

returned to the miser’s front-door, at which she knocked again.

But again there was no response: all was silent.

The widow-woman was now seriously alarmed; and, hastening back into her

dwelling, she informed her female lodgers that she could not make Mr.

Percival hear next door, and was afraid something had happened. The

three women, to whom these observations were addressed, accompanied her

to the miser’s house; and as all within was still silent as the grave,

they proceeded round to the back-door with the intention of looking

in through the window shutters, which, as we have before stated, were

perforated with many heart-holes. But Mrs. Dyer first happened to try

the back-gate, and, to her surprise, found it unfastened. She and the

other women then entered the house; and their attention, now rendered

keen by dark suspicions, was immediately attracted to the fact that

the part of the door-post into which the bolt of the back-gate fitted,

had been cut away, _from the outside_, in such a manner that it was an

easy affair to slide back the bolt. The females beheld this ominous

appearance with dismay;--but how shuddering were the looks of deep

apprehension which they rapidly and silently exchanged, when they

likewise noticed an old piece of iron still sticking in the lock,--a

sure indication of that lock having been picked, also from the outside!

Had either one of the women now manifested the least hesitation to

proceed, the others would have gladly followed the example to retreat.

But, huddling all together--and in deep silence--they slowly ascended

the stairs leading to the back parlour.

The door of this room was half open; and as the widow endeavoured to

push it farther back still, it was stopped by something that evidently

was not a table nor a chair,--no--nor aught made of wood.

The women slowly entered the parlour:--and then their tongues were

suddenly loosened--and piercing shrieks burst from their lips. For the

prismatic light which streamed through the heart-holes of the closed

shutters, played on the smashed, gory, and disfigured countenance of

the murdered man!

Terror for a few minutes rooted to the spot the spectatresses of

this horrible spectacle:--and, clinging--hanging to each other, they

remained gazing, in terror and dismay, on the remains of him whom they

had all seen alive and in health on the preceding day!

At length the female who was nearest to the door seemed suddenly to

recover the use of her limbs; and, with another ejaculation of horror,

she fled precipitately,--her companions following her with a haste

which seemed to indicate that they were afraid lest the murdered man

should stretch forth his hand and clutch the hindermost by the garments.

Oh! what terrors are inspired by the cold--inanimate--powerless remains

of mortality! And yet men of the strongest minds have had their fears

in this respect;--and heroes who would have faced a serried rank

bristling with bayonets, or hunted the savage tiger in the jungles

of Hindoostan, have feared to remain alone with the corpse of a

fellow-creature!

Full soon was the dreadful rumour spread throughout the neighbourhood

that the miser Percival had been murdered during the night;--and the

police were speedily upon the spot.

The dead body indeed presented a hideous spectacle to the view:--the

countenance was so disfigured as to defy recognition;--and the skull

was fractured in several places. By the side of the corpse lay a heavy

stake; and, as it was covered with blood, and some of the hair from

the murdered man’s head was sticking to it, there was no difficulty

in pronouncing it to have been the weapon used by the assassin. The

candlestick was found on the floor close by;--the cupboard and the iron

safe were open;--and the tin-box, emptied of its contents, was stumbled

over by one of the officers.

Not the slightest suspicion could possibly be attached to the

widow-woman or her lodgers occupying the adjacent house;--but they were

necessarily questioned by the inspector, with a view to elicit any

particulars that might aid the officers of justice in sifting the most

mysterious and horrible affair.

Mrs. Dyer stated that she had heard no disturbance during the night;

and her lodgers all made a similar declaration.

“I passed the evening with a neighbour,” said the widow, naming the

friend at whose house she had supped; “and I returned home about

half-past eleven o’clock. Mr. Percival was at that moment taking leave

of some visitors at his own door: and----Oh! I remember now,” exclaimed

Mrs. Dyer, a sudden thought striking her,--“there were two women--one

apparently young, if I might judge by the hasty glimpse I caught of her

figure--for I did not see her face, as she was standing by the gate

opening into the road----”

“And the other woman?” demanded the inspector.

“Was old and very ugly,” returned the widow. “I saw her countenance

plainly enough; for the light which Mr. Percival held, streamed full

upon it;--and I thought at the moment that I had never in my life

beheld such a repulsive--horrible-looking creature. I was really

frightened--there was something so unpleasant in her looks.”

“And was any man with them?” enquired the officer.

“No: the two women were alone. They took leave of Mr. Percival, and, I

suppose, went away. At all events, I know that he closed his door just

at the same moment that I shut mine. I said ‘Good night’ to him: and

that was the last time I saw the poor gentleman alive.”

“It is highly important,” observed the inspector, “that we should

find out these two women of whom you speak--as they were, to all

appearances, the last persons who were with the deceased?”

Mrs. Dyer then gave as accurate a description as she could of the

personal appearance of the old woman whose countenance had struck her

as being so repulsive and sinister;--and the inspector, having left a

couple of officers on the premises where the crime had been committed,

departed to acquaint the Coroner with the dreadful occurrence.