CHAPTER XC.
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.”