The Last Meeting.—Mutual Cunning.—The Squire and Jacob Gray.
The night was dark and a lowering one, and not a star appeared in the
blue vault of heaven—a raw wind swept along the river, and thence up
the narrow winding streets upon its banks, slamming doors, and now and
then catching the hat of a too confiding passenger, and tossing it into
the roadway.
Learmont sat alone in the room he usually occupied, but he heard not
the sighing of the wind, nor cared for the unpropitious aspect of the
night—his thoughts were all bent upon one subject, and that was the
near prospect he now had of achieving the destruction of Jacob Gray. A
dark malignant smile lit up his features, and as he played upon the
richly-carved table at which he sat with his fingers, he muttered in
disjointed sentences the subject of his reveries.
“So they say that Heaven always confounds the wicked—those who strive
for power and wealth, by other than the usual channels—hard work or
sycophancy—be it so: methinks that I, Squire Learmont, must have
grievously mistaken my own actions, when I thought them of a fearful
nature, for surely now Heaven smiles upon all my plans and projects. It
would seem as if this lover, this wild enthusiastic boy, was purposely
thrown in my way to be a weapon in my hands against Jacob Gray. The
confession—ah, the confession. Dare I even trust him to bring me that?
Yes—yet some damning accident might give him a glimpse of its contents,
or he might be seized with some sudden whim, especially being
disappointed in his main object of taking the confession to him to whom
it is really addressed. No, the confession I will myself secure. Yes,
myself. Britton shall do the deed of blood, and when ’tis finished, I
will take the confession, and it would then be far better to take the
life of Gray away from his home. Here, even here it might be done. It
shall. Albert Seyton shall dog his footsteps home, and his next visit
here he dies, while I proceed to his abode and possess myself of the
dangerous document he leaves behind him.”
How different were the reflections of Albert Seyton to those of
Learmont, and yet they ran much in the same channel and the chief
personage on whom they turned was the same—namely, Jacob Gray. Perhaps
never had two persons, amid the whole population of London, waited with
such great anxiety for the arrival of a third, as did Squire Learmont
and Albert Seyton for Jacob Gray.
It was well for the success of the plan of operations against Gray that
a part of it had been for Albert to remain in the house until Gray
should come, for the crafty Jacob had made up his mind, whenever he
visited the squire to take him by surprise as much as possible, by
calling at odd times; sometimes two days consecutively, and sometimes
early in the evening, and sometimes very late, so that Learmont should
never be able to count upon his coming, or be surprised at any long
absence he should make, nor deceived into a false security, should he
not see him for a considerable period.
In pursuance of this plan, it so happened that about nine o’clock, as
the squire was still in deep thought, Jacob Gray was announced.
Learmont started to his feet with a suddenness that alarmed the
servant, who made a precipitate retreat to the door.
“Hold!” cried the squire. “How dare you leave the room without your
orders?”
“I—I—thought—your worship, that—I—I—thought, your worship—”
“Fool!” muttered Learmont.
He then hastily tore off a small scrap of paper from some that lay
before him, and wrote on it the words—
“J.G. is here.”
“Give this,” he said, “to the young gentleman, my secretary, instantly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then bring Gray to me here.”
The servant bowed, and retired, leaving Learmont standing in the middle
of the room with such an expression of triumph on his face, that when
Gray made his appearance, which he did almost immediately, he started
back a pace or two in surprise, an action which was nearly imitated by
Learmont, for Gray looked so very different in his wig, that Learmont
quite started at first sight of him.
The two looked at each other for several moments without speaking, then
Gray, in his quick sneering tone, said,—
“Your worship will get used to my wig in the course of time.”
“Probably,” said Learmont, “if you live so long.”
“Live so long?”
“Ay, Jacob Gray; I never saw you look so bad in all my life. You must
be nearer death than you think.”
“I—I am very well,” said Gray. “I hope yet to attend your funeral, and
receive something commensurate with our ancient friendship through the
medium of your will.”
“You are kind and obliging,” said Learmont, “but I don’t intend to die
first, Jacob Gray.”
Gray smiled in his usual sickly disagreeable manner, and then drawing
himself a seat, he sat down by Learmont, and said,—
“A truce to jesting, squire. Have you thought further of my proposition
to you?”
“Scarcely,” said Learmont; “and yet I have a notion of entertaining it.”
“You have?”
“I have.”
“Believe me ’tis the best and safest plan.”
“If I understand you rightly, you offer to surrender all that may make
my life now a constant source of anxiety and torment for one large sum
of money paid to you at once.”
“I do,” said Gray.
“The child—and—the confession?”
“The confession and the child that was, but you forget the lapse of
years; that child is a child no longer, but at an age to be dangerous.
The slightest hint from me would raise a spirit in that offspring of
your—”
“Hush,” said Learmont, vehemently; “Jacob Gray, even here I will take
your life if you dare to mention him you are about to revert to even
now.”
“I will alter my form of speech more to your liking, squire,” said
Gray; “I meant that one word of mine would rouse up against you a more
formidable opponent than any you have ever met with.”
“And for some thousands of pounds you will leave me free?”
“I will.”
“But, cunning Master Gray, you know your wit is keener than mine,”
sneered Learmont; “and how am I to be assured of your faith?”
“You shall see me on shipboard,” said Gray; “with my own hands, then, I
will hand you my confession.”
“Suppose there were two copies?”
“On my faith, squire, you are too suspicious—far too suspicious.”
“Have I no cause?”
“None whatever. It is my interest as well as yours that the past should
be forgotten. What could I gain by denouncing you?”
“Nothing but a barren triumph of man over man. I think, Jacob Gray,
that I will trust you. But permit me, between this time and when we
shall meet again, to consider of the subject.”
“I pray you do so,” said Gray, who was so elated at the idea of getting
Learmont to pay him largely, for the doubtful advantage of his absence,
that he almost forgot his usual caution in his extreme eagerness to
induce a compliance with his wishes.
“You will feel so much at ease,” he added, “when I am gone from England
never to return, and many of the fears that now disturb your mind will
at once terminate.”
“I hope to terminate them so,” said Learmont.
“Such hope is wisely grounded,” replied Gray. “You have but then to get
rid of the drunken sot, Andrew Britton, and a career of brilliant
enjoyment will await you, unchecked by one lingering doubt of your
safety.”
“’Twere a blessed state,” said Learmont, “and one I have much striven
to obtain. Now, however, I do certainly begin to see some light amid
the gloom which had surrounded me.”
“Your fortunes are in your hands,” said Gray; “I am tired of this mode
of life. Give me five thousand pounds, and let me go in peace.”
“Your demand is large.”
“Nay, a mere trifle when compared with the revenues of your estates.”
“Well, well, I will, as I tell you, consider; and I have a fervent hope
that our next time of meeting maybe our last, or, at all events, that
after that, there need be but one more final interview.”
“Exactly,” said Gray; “it is in your own power, when you please to get
rid of me for ever.”
“And the young claimant of all I am now worth?”
“Certainly—a pistol or a knife will get you rid of all trouble upon
that head, squire.”
“Certainly, but you ought to do so much for me as part of your bargain,”
“No, no,” said Gray, confused; “I—I cannot—my nerves will not permit
me, I really cannot. If you shrink yourself from the deed, why there is
Andrew Britton, the savage smith, who revels and rejoices in blood. He
will do the deed for you without a murmur.”
“You think then that Britton is the best man I can employ to commit a
murder?”
“I do.”
“Then he shall have the job.”
Gray smiled to himself as he thought, “You must first wrest your prey
from the hands of Sir Francis Hartleton—no easy task!” Then he said
aloud,—
“You are now on the right path, squire, you have but to pursue it, and
every wish you ever nourished of pleasure and ambition will be
satisfied.”
“I do begin to think so,” said Learmont.
Jacob Gray now rose, and said,—
“I will bid you adieu, squire, but being rather pressed for money. I
will trouble you for fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds?”
“Ay, ’tis but a small instalment of the thousands. Agree, at our next
meeting, to my terms, and I will deduct this fifty pounds from the
gross sum I am to receive.”
“As you please,” said Learmont; “but, Jacob Gray, I will not give you
so large a sum now.”
“You will not?”
“I will not.”
“Know you who I am?”
“Too well, and by this time you should know me. There are ten pounds,
Jacob Gray. Take them or none.”
“Has—has it come to this?” muttered Gray.
“It has,” said Learmont.
“Know you your dangers? What if I leave England suddenly and behind me
is found—”
“Pshaw! You mean your confession,” interrupted Learmont, “I know you
can, if it so please you, Jacob Gray, but you prefer money to revenge.”
“I do, but the money must be sufficient.”
“It is most ample.”
Gray looked in the calm pale face of the squire for a moment or two in
silence, then he took the ten guineas which Learmont had laid upon the
table, and with a bitterness of tone, which he in vain tried to
conceal, he said,—
“It matters not, ten pounds or a hundred, the result must be the same;
I must and will have a certain sum, and now I am resolved to have it in
a certain time. Farewell, Squire Learmont, you have begun your
independence too early. Farewell.”
He left the room, and Learmont looked after him with such a smile as he
had not worn for years, and muttered,—
“Have I begun my independence too early Jacob Grey? Humph, by some half
dozen hours only, I do devoutly hope and trust. If you see another
sunrise, I shall be a disappointed man.”