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,—