Jacob Gray’s Disguise.—The Troublesome Shoemaker Again.—The Visit.
Gray looked now anxiously right and left for a perruquier’s, where he
might purchase a wig; for contrary to the general fashion of the day,
he had worn his own hair and unpowdered. Time and great mental anxiety
had, however, very much thinned as well as whitened his locks, and as
he remarked, a black wig was certainly calculated to make a very
material difference in his personal appearance.
There were several little mean barber’s shops in the immediate
neighbourhood, but they were not possessed of such articles as he
wished to purchase—the sphere of their operations being confined to the
shaving of his majesty’s lieges, and particularly that portion of them
who only once in a week submitted to the tonsorial operation.
Jacob Gray had, therefore, much to his dread, to wander into a better
thoroughfare and more respectable street, in order to suit himself, and
finally he got to Parliament-street before he could see a shop in which
he was likely to get suited.
This he would not venture into until he was satisfied there was no one
there but the master of the shop, when, more like an apparition than a
welcome customer, he glided in, and asked for a black wig.
“Black wig, sir?—Yes, sir—certainly, sir—black wig, sir,” replied the
shopkeeper, with great volubility—“should say, sir, you’ll look well,
sir, in black wig, sir.”
“My time is precious,” said Gray. “Show me one immediately.”
“Certainly, sir. Time’s a precious commodity. No overtaking time, sir,
no how. Lots of wigs, sir—black, brown—all sorts of shades, sir—all the
gentry of Westminster wear my wigs, sir—once curled the wig of the
speaker of the House of Commons, and once—”
“I am in haste, sir,” said Gray, drumming with his fingers upon the
counter.
“Certainly, sir. Business is business—wigs are wigs now-a-days. Here’s
one, sir, that will fit you to a miracle—your sized head, sir, is what
we call number six. That’s a wig, sir, that’s a credit to me and will
be a credit to you, sir.”
Jacob Gray took the wig, and fitting it on his head, looked at himself
attentively in a glass.
“I think this will do,” he said, as he remarked with satisfaction the
alteration it made in his aspect.
“You look wonderfully well in that wig, sir—upon my word you do,” said
the barber. “I could not have believed it, sir. You look twenty-two
years and a quarter younger, sir.”
“Pshaw,” said Gray. “The wig will do, I have little doubt.”
“No doubt whatever, sir—not a small shadow of a doubt. You look
uncommonly well, sir in that wig. ‘So I do in anything,’ says you—but a
wig is a wig, you know, and when—”
“Peace—peace,” said Gray. “The price?”
“The price, sir; why I should call that wig uncommonly cheap at two
guineas, sir.”
“There,” said Gray, throwing the required amount upon the counter, and
then immediately walked out of the shop of the loquacious perruquier.
“Well, I never,” exclaimed the man, after his customer had gone. “Most
extraordinary man—horrid fright in that wig—must be highwayman!”
Jacob Gray did certainly look somewhat different in his wig; but no one
who had ever known him well could, for a moment, have doubted the
identity of his strange face, with its peculiar expression of cunning,
mingled with apprehension.
“Learmont,” he muttered, “would have me visit him in the morning for
some purpose, but I will make it night always, until I discover what
can possibly be his motive for dragging me into daylight.”
Little suspecting then, that he was kept in view by Sir Francis
Hartleton’s man, from the other side of the way, Gray walked at a rapid
pace towards Learmont’s.
The squire was within, and he gave a slight start, when Gray was
announced; for, at that very moment, he had been planning his murder,
when he should, through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton, discover
his abode.
The wig which Gray wore gave him a strange look, and Learmont could not
for some time divine what it was that made the remarkable difference in
Jacob Gray, but kept his eyes fixed upon him with a look of surprise,
that the other could not but notice.
“I have thought it safer,” said Gray, “to try some personal disguise,
as I came a long way to visit you.”
“As you please,” said Learmont coldly. “I cannot, however, perceive
anything you have to fear.”
“No—no—” said Gray, “but I like not being known and recognised often by
the same persons.”
“As you please—as you please, Jacob Gray.”
“Have you considered my last proposal?” said Gray.
“To take a sum of money and leave England for ever?”
“Yes.”
“If you could find some means,” said Learmont, “of ridding me of Sir
Francis Hartleton—”
“Who—I—I—I cannot—I dare not.”
“Yet, you might, Jacob Gray.”
“No, no,—I can undertake no such enterprise—what I have already done
Squire Learmont, has scarcely met reward.”
“Not met reward, Jacob Gray! Why, you must, methinks, by this time,
have a goodly sum of money by you?”
Gray groaned, as he replied,—
“Yes—yes—of course; but not enough for independence; my expenses have
been great.”
“Is your—young charge quite well?” sneered Learmont.
“Quite,” said Gray.
“Then you refuse to aid me in the destruction of this Hartleton?”
“I do. I am content with what I have done in so far as it entitles me
to your gratitude—your substantial gratitude.”
“Be it so then. I will, however, consider more deeply your proposal
regarding a large sum of money at once. And—and if you will come to me,
say, to-morrow, I will let you know, more at large, my thoughts upon
that subject.”
“I will come to-morrow,” said Gray.
“In the morning?”
“I do not know—but it will be morning or evening. Give me now twenty
pounds.”
“Twenty?”
“Yes. ’Tis a small sum, Squire Learmont. Look at the enjoyments that
surround you—your house—your carriages—your servants—rich wines! Ah!
Squire, you need not start at twenty pounds to Jacob Gray. Happy man!”
Learmont fixed his eye upon the mocking countenance of Gray, with such
an expression of deadly hatred that even he quailed under it.
“Jacob Gray,” said the squire, hoarsely—“there is in me, when I am
stirred by taunts, something dangerous, that even the fear of the
revelations, that such as you are may leave behind you, cannot conquer.
Beware, I say—beware.”
Gray trembled before his master’s spirit, and in silence took up the
purse that Learmont threw him, and quitted the house.
When he gained the street, he shook his clenched hand, menacingly at
the house, muttering between his clenched teeth,—
“Beware yourself, Squire Learmont; Jacob Gray will yet bring you to a
gallows!”