CHAPTER LXXXVI.
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.”