Learmont’s Treachery to Albert Seyton.—The Plot Against Gray.
The guilty career of Learmont is nearly run, and the fates are hurrying
him to that awful precipice down which the souls of the wicked plunge
never to return; and yet, how strange it is that in the designs and
machinations of men of blood and deep iniquity, their danger is ever
the greatest when they are hugging themselves in fancied security.
So was it in the strange circumstances of our story—circumstances
which, with a labour we should again shrink from, we have collected
from ancient resources, and time-worn family documents.
Learmont thought himself now in a far better position than he had ever
been in, for although the child, whose existence in the hands of Jacob
Gray had always been the bane of his existence, was now, he felt sure,
in the house of the man whose energy and acuteness he had most to fear;
he reasoned himself into a belief that had there been contingent upon
such circumstances imminent danger to be apprehended from Sir Francis
Hartleton, he would ere this have heard of it, for the magistrate was
prompt in action.
“I have but now,” he thought, “to destroy Jacob Gray and his
confession, whereas, before, by keeping his confession at one place,
and the child at another, I dare not attack him with any degree of
safety.”
Jacob Gray, too, as we have seen, fancied himself over his worst
troubles, and hugged himself with the idea that he held as strong a
hold as ever upon the fears of Learmont, and had but to exercise common
caution to replace himself in as enviable a situation, as regards
pecuniary resources, as he had been before.
Andrew Britton had plenty to drink, as he, too, felt in his way
tolerably happy, only he would have given a great deal, or even
consented to go without brandy for a whole day, for the sake of an
opportunity of knocking Jacob Gray on the head.
Learmont’s only doubt now was whether to set the smith or Albert Seyton
upon the footsteps of Jacob Gray, when he should make his next visit;
for the same objection, namely, of personal recognition applied to
both, only Jacob Gray would not be so apt to suppose Albert Seyton to
be set on by Learmont.
Upon this argument, he decided upon informing Albert, when he should
next see him, that the identity of the man he (Learmont) wished him to
watch was Jacob Gray, who held so long in durance the beautiful girl
whose image held so constant a place in his heart.
By still assuring Albert of the probability of Ada being with Gray,
Learmont considered that he should interest him to strain every nerve
to discover his residence, and, we shudder as we write it, but the
cold-blooded squire determined upon the death of Albert the moment he
should cease to be of any service, or become in the least troublesome
or suspicious.
Engaged in such unholy cogitations as those, the day to Learmont passed
more swiftly, and more pleasantly than had done many a preceding one,
and when he rose the following morning, he looked more himself than he
had done since his first attempt upon the life of Gray, at the ruinous
house in South Lambeth—an attempt which had so signally failed, and
which, in its result, had suppressed the squire with a sense of the
hopelessness of ever getting rid of the running Jacob.
Albert Seyton, his mind agitated by a thousand hopes and fears, was
punctual in his attendance upon Learmont; and, when he entered the room
in which sat the squire, any one might have seen by his countenance
that he had passed a sleepless night, and that he was suffering all the
tender anxieties of newly awakened hope upon a subject nearest his
heart.
Learmont motioned him to be seated, and then stealing but a glance at
the face of the young man, he said,—
“Young sir, I have been thinking over the story you told me yesterday.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Albert; “may I venture to hope that mature
consideration has not in any way altered the sanguine opinion you were
pleased to pronounce yesterday upon the subject.”
“It has not.”
“Thank Heaven!”
“But—”
Albert’s colour came and went rapidly at this “but” of Learmont’s, and
the squire continued calmly,—
“You observed my agitation yesterday.”
“I—I did, sir.”
“Can you guess its cause—that is, can you guess what brought on the
spasm I am subject to?”
“I cannot, sir.”
“Then I will tell you. When you mentioned the name of Jacob Gray, a
strange feeling came over me that I had heard it before, but I was not
certain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. Since last you and I met, I have taken some pains to ascertain
the fact, and I find that a man of that name has applied to me, hearing
of my many charities for pecuniary assistance, saying that he had an
orphan child to support, and was in great poverty.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Such is the fact. His name is Jacob Gray.”
“And—and sir—you have really seen him?” stammered Albert.
“I have—he came here, and upon the spurious story he told I relieved
his necessities; but the next time he came, I refused him, when I
understand he cursed me as he went through my hall, and uttered threats
against me.”
“The villain!”
“Yes, young sir, that is the reward generally of benevolence.”
“Oh, this is most providential,” said Albert, tears of joy bursting
from his eyes—“it is surely Heaven’s own work.”
“’Tis rather singular,” remarked Learmont, coldly.
“You have then his address, sir—oh! Give it me, and let me fly to
rescue—”
“Stop—I have not his address.”
Albert’s countenance fell.
“He left no address here. He would allow no inquiry into his
circumstances, which was the reason I refused to continue my bounty
towards him.”
“Then—then—nothing is gained,” sighed Albert—“I am wretched as before.”
“Not so,” said Learmont; “you are like all those who are easily
elated—too easily depressed.”
“Pardon me, sir, but this is a matter upon which my whole happiness—my
whole existence, is, as it were, staked. I do feel, perhaps, too
strongly, but such love as mine is scarce, and I cannot—cannot help it,
sir—pray forgive me!”
“Think not I am angry,” said Learmont, “on the contrary, I have not
been so well pleased for many a day: when I said you were too easily
elated or depressed, I had a suggestion to offer you.”
“How shall I thank you, sir?”
“Heed not that. My strong opinion is, that this man Gray will come here
again for, after his repulse, he has written me a letter in which he
begs for a small sum towards a larger one he is gathering to take him
from England; and he says, that if I felt inclined, he could tell me a
secret, which he is quite sure would enable me to right the wronged,
and punish those who had been guilty.”
“He alludes to Ada, sir,” cried Albert, with animation. “He alludes to
her of whom I told you, sir. Oh, she is beautiful and good. Sir, a
nobler, better heart than hers never beat in woman’s bosom. It is not
for her rare and unexampled beauty that I love her, sir. Ah, no; ’tis
for her many gracious heavenly qualities—for the fine mind that, like a
glistening diamond, does outshine the setting, though of purest gold.”
“No doubt he alludes to her,” said Learmont. “As I say, he sent me this
letter, it was without date, without address, and stated that its
writer, Jacob Gray, would call here for an answer.”
Albert’s breath seemed to hang upon the next words of the squire as he
asked, “And has he been, sir?”
“He has not,” said Learmont.
“Ada! Ada!” cried Albert, and then, ashamed of the violence of his
feelings, he blushed scarlet, and endeavoured to apologise.
“Heed it not—heed it not!” said Learmont. “There can be no doubt but
this man will call for an answer to his letter, and your line of
proceeding will then be to follow him to his home, taking care, as you
say he knows you, to keep out of his sight.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I will follow him were he to lead me half over the
world. Let me but once set eyes again on Jacob Gray and I will never
lose sight of him except I leave him at his own home.”
“I hope,” said Learmont, who felt a delight in hurrying Albert’s
spirits down from boiling point to Zero, “that my Jacob Gray and yours
are the same men.”
“Surely they—they must be,” faltered Albert Seyton.
“Nay, my young friend, we should arm ourselves against the
disappointment if they should turn out to be different persons.”
“The name is peculiar,” said Albert, “and perhaps, sir, you can
recollect sufficient of the personal appearance of the man to enable me
at once to decide upon that doubt.”
“Probably. He is thin and pale, with an ever-shifting glance, and has a
peculiar habit of continually moistening his lips with his tongue, and
frequently biting the under lip.”
“It is the same!” cried Albert, clasping his hands; “I should know him
among a million.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure, sir, and Ada will be rescued. Sir, we shall owe you a debt
of gratitude we never can repay. Heaven alone must give you your
reward.”
Learmont winced a little at the idea of being handed over to Heaven for
judgment, and waving his hand, he said,—
“Enough! I seek for no reward. What I do, I do freely.”
“I will never now,” said Albert, “until this man comes, lose sight of
the steps of your house, sir.”
“He is sure to come.”
“And I would not then miss him for ten thousand worlds.”
“I will guard against any trifling accident: such as your missing being
here when he comes, of his eluding your pursuit; for I will give him
money, and encourage him to come again.”
“You are too kind, sir,” said Albert, in a broken voice.
“Not a whit—not a whit. I shall, however, exact one promise from you.”
“Do but give it a name, sir.”
“It is simply this: that when you have traced Jacob Gray to his home,
you will come back to me at once without taking any further step. Your
precipitancy might ruin all, whereas, if I know where this young lady
you mention is to be found, without a doubt I can with cooler and more
extended judgment, because of my more extended resources, take measures
for her recovery that cannot fail.”
“I will obey your directions to the very letter,” said Albert. “And now
I shall be in terror of his coming each moment that I am away from
here.”
“On the other occasions of his visit he always came after sunset,” said
Learmont, “and most probably such will be the case now. I should,
therefore, strongly advise you to sleep here from this day, and never
to be out of the house after darkness has fairly set in.”
Albert could almost have thrown himself at Learmont’s feet, so full of
joyful gratitude was he, and he could not find word to express the
overflowing feelings of his heart to him.