Ada saw his extreme excitement and agitation, and instantly leaving the room, she gave him an opportunity of reading alone the long sought-for confession of Jacob Gray.
Sir Francis’s first step was to lock himself in his room, and then, with a flurry at his heart, and a total abstraction of mind from everything but the papers which lay before him, he tore them open and read as follows:—
To Sir Francis Hartleton,
I, Jacob Gray, address the following confession and statement of facts to you, because, from circumstances within your own remembrance, you will the more readily believe what is here recorded. May the bitterest curse of a dead man fall on you and yours if you do not take instant means to bring to an ignominious end those who I shall accuse of crimes which shall far exceed any that I have committed. By the time you receive this, I shall most probably be dead, or have left England for some distant land, where all search for me would be in vain. I leave, however, behind, whether dead or absent, this legacy of vengeance, and so fulfil a promise I made to my own heart to destroy those who would long since have murdered me, but that I had fenced myself round with safeguards which they dared not despise.
In the year 1737, I was staying at Genoa, where I had been discharged from the service of an English family for matters of no consequence to my present narrative. For some months I could procure no employment, until an English gentleman, by name Mark Learmont, was taken ill at one of the hotels in the city, and the proprietor of the establishment, fearing that his guest was dying, sent for me as a countryman of the sick gentleman, to attend upon him. I nursed and tended him with anxious care and I soon learnt that grief was his only malady.
He told me he had left England in consequence of the death of his wife and child, and that he could never more with pleasure look upon his ancient home again, which he had left in the care of his brother. Time, however, seemed in some measure, to assuage his grief; and when he got well enough again to travel, he retained me as his permanent attendant, liberally rewarding me for the services I had rendered him. We went from city to city of the Italian states until we came to Rome, where an attempt was made by some hired bravo to take the life of Mr. Learmont. He was saved, however, by the gallant interposition of a young Italian nobleman, named Geronimo Madelini; and my master became in a short time on terms of the greatest intimacy with the family of his preserver, who had a sister so surprisingly beautiful that even Mr. Learmont forgot his grief for her whom he had loved so fondly, and became attached to Ada Madelini with a passionate fervour that knew no bounds. Learmont was handsome, brave, and accomplished. The young Italian returned his passion. A child was born—an illegitimate child—which Ada Madelini died in giving birth to.
Mr. Learmont was again plunged into the most excessive grief. Rome became more hateful to him than the home in England he had left; the very language of Italy was ever reminding him of the beautiful being who had gone to an early grave through her love for him. In vain he travelled from city to city. His grief knew no reduction, until at length, wearied with travel, and sick at heart, he resolved upon once more revisiting his native land, taking with him the child of Ada Madelini, who had been named after its mother, and who had begun to exercise a strong control over his affections.
A letter was written to the brother, who had been left sole master of the estate of Learmont, signifying the intention of the widowed man to return, and once more assume the control of his own property for his young daughter’s sake. When we reached Dover, that is, Mr. Mark Learmont, myself, and his infant child, a letter was awaiting my master from his brother. That letter I by chance saw. It said that peculiar family circumstances, which the writer would explain when they met, rendered it necessary that their first meeting should be a secret one, and quite unknown to any person connected with the property. It named as the place of rendezvous, an old deserted mansion, the lower part of which was converted into a smithy, and had been long occupied by a man named Andrew Britton.
Full of wonder at this letter, and yet never doubting that there were, did he but know them, full and reasonable grounds for it, Mr. Learmont wrote to his brother, according to his request and promising to be at the Old Smithy with his child, by the evening of a particular day, which he named.
He sent me beforehand to apprise his brother of this. I was the bearer of the answer, and when I reached Learmont’s house, he that is now called Squire Learmont, and who resides in your immediate vicinity, received me most cordially. He spoke to me of the advantages of wealth—of the luxuries of independence—of the delightful feelings of those who could scorn the world’s utmost malice—secure in the haven of independence—but it is idle to dwell upon the deep temptation that he held out to me, I consented to the murder of my master and his child!