Gray at Home.—The Confession.—A Walk through Westminster in Search of a
Wig.
How well Learmont thought he had managed his interview with poor Albert
Seyton; and so he had, as far as that interview went. The results are
yet to come; but as he sat alone, after the young enthusiastic Albert
had left him, a ghastly smile played upon his attenuated features, and
he muttered—
“Fortune is repaying me now for some of her unkindness. This affair
could not be managed better than it is. Jacob Gray, your doom is
sealed. There is no chance of escape now for you; for all this young
man’s energies will be exerted to discover your place of abode, and it
will be strange, indeed, if he succeed not. Moreover, I can give him
plenty of chances, and so keep the game alive until he is quite
successful, for you must come to me, Jacob Gray, for money; and each
time you do so, you shall return with him upon your steps, until you
are fairly hunted to your lair, and then Britton—yes, Britton, then
shall rid me of you for ever.”
The squire was silent for some time, then he muttered,—
“Yes; the suspicions of the young man once awakened, he would become
most dangerous, I must run no risks—I will run none. All shall be safe
and sure; and that it may be so, good, credulous Albert Seyton, I will
find some quiet, easy means of ridding you of the cares of this life,
when you have performed your errand in it so far as I am much
concerned. How I play with these puppets! First, Gray shall go; then
Britton and this Albert Seyton; Sir Francis Hartleton, too, when my
mind is free to bestow my whole attention upon him. I will do the
thieves of Westminster a great favour, for I will find some plan of
vengeance against him, which shall cost him his life. Then the girl—ay,
the girl! What of her? Why, she falls into my power at once—a mere,
nameless orphan girl. Her safety will depend upon the amount of his
information. Let her be innoxious through ignorance of her real
position, and I—I don’t want to harm her. Yet she must not be near me;
because she puts me in mind of one who—who—I would fain forget. This
room gets gloomy—very gloomy. There is an awful silence in the house. I
hear no one speak or move, I—I must go out—out—out.”
One of his fits of terror came over him and he went backwards to the
door, while his limbs trembled, and his teeth chattered with an unknown
dread.
Turn we now from Learmont to Jacob Gray, who was no less miserable and
no more happy in his wretched attic, than was the vile squire in his
splendid mansion.
Gray sat for a time in deep and anxious thought, and then he glided
down the stairs, for bells were things unknown in that locality, to ask
his landlady to send for writing materials for him.
His orders were very soon obeyed, and he had on the little rickety
table which stood under the small latticed window, some ink in a
cracked tea cup, several pens, and a quire of paper.
Then he made a calculation of how long it would take him to get two
thousand pounds in small sums of Learmont, provided the squire should
refuse to entertain his proposal of a large sum at once, to insure his,
Gray’s, leaving the country.
Having satisfied himself on that head, and come to a conclusion as to
how many times he could call, and what sums he should insist upon
having, he set about the more serious and important job he purposed;
namely, to write his confession.
The whole of the day he remained at his work, and his feelings and
fears were in a fearful state of agitation, while he was once more
recording with his own hands, events, the lightest one of which would,
if known, consign him to an ignominious end.
The sun was sinking in the west when Jacob Gray had finished his labour
which he had pursued since the morning with no intermission, save for
one hasty meal, which the landlady had brought him, on her own
suggestion, for he had been too much engrossed with what he was about
to think of food.
At length, however, he finished, and with trembling hands he wrote the
superscription, “To Sir Francis Hartleton,” and tied the whole firmly
round with a string.
A dark smile then came across his face as he muttered,—
“Ada, you know not what you have lost by your precipitancy. I have
thought of a means of vengeance upon you. Here in this paper, I declare
you illegitimate. The old priest, who performed a marriage at Naples
between your father and mother, must be assuredly dead long since, and
there was no witness but myself. Ha! Ha!”
He started at the hollow echo of his own laugh, and looked suspiciously
around him as if he feared to see some awful visitant who had mocked
his guilty exultation.
“I—I am alone,” he muttered. “’Twas but an echo. These old buildings
are full of them—where now shall I hide this precious and most
dangerous document?” He remained in deep thought for some time, and
then he made a sudden resolution that he would keep it always about
him, so that it must be found in case of anything happening to him
personally, and his mind would be free from apprehension when he was
from home.
He then carefully unripped part of the lining of his waistcoat, and
placed the confession in between the cloth and the lining, after which,
by the aid of several pins, he firmly secured it in its place.
“It is safe,” he said, “security against its loss is all I wish, not
absolutely concealment; and yet, should the villain Learmont ever
suspect I had this document with me, I should never leave his house
alive; but how should he? I have never hitherto had any cause to fear
violence at his hands in his own house; and then he thinks I have the
child at home. I must consider, and, perchance, change my waistcoat
when I favour you with a visit, Master Learmont.”
He then carefully searched his room to discover some place of
concealment for the confession, should he feel disposed ever to leave
it at home, and finally pitched upon the upper shelf of an old
cupboard, in one corner where was stowed away a quantity of lumber.
“Yes,” he muttered, “I will, whenever I suspect there may be danger in
carrying this document abroad with me, place it here, it will then
surely be found sooner or later, and conveyed to its address. Now let
me consider what changes I can make in my personal appearance, in order
further to ensure my safety from those who are still on the scent for
me on account of Vaughan.”
The night was by this time fairly set in, and the various objects of
Gray’s miserable apartment began to lose their outlines, mingling
strangely together, and in some cases assuming to his alarmed
imagination, fantastic shapes that made his heart beat with fright.
“I must never be here without lights,” he muttered, “darkness itself is
not so bad in its intensity as this kind of dim obscurity before the
night has fairly begun its reign. I must never be without lights.”
He crept to his door, and opening it gently and cautiously, without
having any motive for so doing, he slunk down the stairs as if he were
afraid of being overheard. Caution and fear had become habits with
Jacob Gray now, and he could not have spoken or walked boldly had he
been ever so much inclined so to do.
There was no passage into the street but through the shop, and the
woman who was there gave a great start as Jacob Gray came in.
“Lor’—sir,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”
“Not hear me?” said Gray. “I—I have come quickly down the stairs. I am
going out on business, and mind what I before said to you in case any
one should inquire for me.”
“But I don’t even know your name, sir.”
“My name?”
“No, sir, you didn’t tell me.”
Gray paused a moment, and then he said,—
“My name is Smith,” and walked out of the shop without waiting for an
answer.
“Smith, is it?” said the woman, to herself; “it’s about as much Smith
as I’m Smith. Well, it’s no business of mine, only I should like to
know who he really is; but, howsomever, as long as he pays his way,
that’s quite enough for me—not that I like his looks at all, oh, dear,
no—I call him an ugly man, I do.—Well—well, ‘handsome is as handsome
does’—that’s my motto!”
When Jacob Gray was fairly in the street, he glanced cautiously about
him, and seeing no one, he hugged himself in the notion that he had
been too cunning for his enemies, and walked on, keeping, however, very
close to the houses, so that he walked in their black shadows, and
could not be minutely remarked by any chance passenger.
“A black wig,” he muttered, “will help materially to disguise me.”