And he came to himself again all too soon; for when he arose, building up his weak, weak limbs, as if he were a column of sand, the cruel giant, Guilt, lifted up his club, and felled the wretch once more.

How long he lay fainting, he knew not then; if any one had vowed it was a century, Simon, as he gradually woke, could not have gainsaid the man; but he only lay four seconds in that white oblivious trance—­for Fear, Fear knocked at his heart:—­Up, man, up!—­you need have all your wits about you now;—­see, it is broad day—­the house will be roused before you know where you are, and then will be shouted out that awful name—­Simon Jennings!  Simon Jennings!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ALARM.

HE arose, held up on either hand that day as if fighting against Amalek;—­despair buttressed him on one side, and secresy shored him on the other:  behind that wall of stone his heart had strength to beat.

He arose; and listened at the key-hole anxiously:  all silent, quiet, quiet still; the whole house asleep:  nothing found out yet.  And he bit his nails to the quick, that they bled again:  but he never felt the pain.

Hush!—­yes, somebody’s about:  it is Jonathan’s step; and hark, he is humming merrily, “Hail, smiling morn, that opes the gates of day?” Wo, wo—­what a dismal gulph between Jonathan and me!  And he beat his breast miserably.  But, Jonathan cannot find it out—­he never goes to Mrs. Quarles’s room.  Oh! this suspense is horrible:  haste, haste, some kind soul, to make the dread discovery!  And he tore his hair away by handfulls.

“Hark!—­somebody else—­unlatching shutters; it will be Sarah—­ha! she is tapping at the housekeeper’s room—­yes, yes, and she will make it known, O terrible joy!—­A scream! it is Sarah’s voice—­she has seen her dead, dead, dead;—­but is she indeed dead?”

The miscreant quivered with new fears; she might still mutter “Simon did it!”

And now the house is thoroughly astir; running about in all directions; and shouting for help; and many knocking loudly at the murderer’s own door—­“Mr. Jennings!  Mr. Jennings!—­quick—­get up—­come down—­quick, quick—­your aunt’s found dead in her bed!”

What a relief to the trembling wretch!—­she was dead.  He could have blessed the voice that told him his dread secret was so safe.  But his parched tongue may never bless again:  curses, curses are all its blessings now.

And Jennings came out calmly from his chamber, a white, stern, sanctimonious man, lulling the storm with his wise presence:—­“God’s will be done,” said he; “what can poor weak mortals answer Him?” And he played cleverly the pious elder, the dignified official, the affectionate nephew:  “Ah, well, my humble friends, behold what life is:  the best of us must come to this; my poor, dear aunt, the late house-keeper, rest her soul—­I feared it might be this way some night or other:  she was a stout woman, was our dear, deceased Bridget—­and, though a good kind soul, lived much on meat and beer:  ah well, ah well!” And he concealed his sentimental hypocrisy in a cotton pocket-handkerchief.