The Projected Murder.—The Unconscious Sleeper.—A Night of Horror.
It wanted but one hour of midnight, and silence reigned about the ruined and deserted street in which Jacob Gray resided. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, and not a star peeped forth to look with shining beauty on the darkened world. A misty vapour, betokening the breaking of the frost, arose from the surface of the Thames, and occasionally a gust of wind from the south-west brought with it a dashing shower of mingled rain and sleet. A clammy dampness was upon every thing both within doors and without; the fires and lights in the barges on the river burnt through the damp vapour with a sickly glare. It was a night of discomfort, such as frequently occur in the winter seasons of our variable and inconstant climate. It was a night to enjoy the comforts of warm fire-sides and smiling faces; a night on which domestic joys and social happiness became still more dear and precious from contrast with the chilling prospect of Nature in the open air.
In the room which has already been described to the reader as the one in which Jacob Gray usually sat in his lone and ruinous habitation, he now stood by the window listening to the various clocks of the city as they struck the hour of eleven.
A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, but still Jacob Gray trembled and his teeth chattered as he counted the solemn strokes of some distant church bell, the sound of which came slowly, and with a muffled tone, through the thick murky air.
In a few minutes all was still again. The sounds had ceased. Nothing met the ear of Jacob Gray but the low moaning of the gathering wind as it swept around his dilapidated dwelling. Then he turned from the window and faced the fire-light, but even with its ruddy glow upon his face, he looked ill and ghastly. His step was unsteady, he drew his breath short and thick, and it was evident from the whole aspect and demeanour of the man that his mind was under the influence of some excitement of an extraordinary nature.
In vain he strove to warm the blood that crept rather than flowed in healthy currents through his veins. He held his trembling hands close to the fire. He strove to assume attitudes of careless ease. He even tried to smile, but produced nothing but a cold and ghastly distortion of the features of his face.