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.