A Walk and a Meeting.—The Vision at the Open Casement.—Learmont’s
Perturbation.
An idea had struck Learmont, during the course of his conversation with
Britton which, now that the smith was gone, came still more strongly
and forcibly across his mind, and shaped itself into clearer words.
“Why should not I,” he said, “if I find that in England there is for me
nothing but danger, disgrace, and constant apprehension, why should not
I take my accumulated wealth somewhere else, to some land where I could
purchase with it dignity and power, and—what is more freedom from the
terrors that now beset my path? ’Tis worth reflecting on such a course;
I could do it most easily now. ’Tis a comforting reflection—a most
comforting reflection, and—and when I am tortured by doubts and fears,
I will think of such a course. But this news of Britton’s troubles me.
He thinks himself watched by Hartleton; why doubtless so am I. Sir
Francis is no friend to me, and would gladly find me tripping some of
these days—I must crush him—I will have his life, if it cost me half my
wealth. We kill a noxious reptile, because we think it may sting us; so
will I have vengeance upon you, Sir Francis Hartleton, because I know
you would sting me if you could. I must find some means subtle, deep,
and dangerous to him, but withal to me innoxious. I must kill, and yet
not seem to kill, even to the instrument with which I do the work.
Britton it is of no use attempting to employ on such an occasion,
unless I could be certain of his success, and then, his execution for
the deed. In such a case, I should be rid of two enemies; and even
Britton would not be so wantonly mischievous as to deceive me, at no
benefit to himself;—yet is it dangerous. I must think again. Master
Hartleton—you are playing with edged tools.”
Learmont was now silent for a time, and then rose, saying,—
“Now for the life of action which shall drown thought—my wealth—my
house—my brilliant entertainments have all succeeded so far as to make
me a honoured guest with more than I can visit—but I will visit
many,—it—it is time I began to enjoy something now.”
The horrible contortion which he produced upon his ghastly face, by way
of a smile, at these words, startled him, as he saw it reflected in a
mirror hanging opposite to him; and he shook in every limb, as he
hastily left the room.
His servants shrunk from before him as, in about ten minutes time, he
passed down the great marble staircase of his mansion, splendidly
dressed, and enveloped in a cloak, to make some calls.
Declining, with a haughty wave of his hand, the chair that stood in the
hall, he strode out; and, with his lips compressed as usual with him,
so closely that not a particle of blood was left in them, he turned
into the park, intending to call upon the frivolous but noble Brereton
family, who had lodgings near to old Buckingham House.
Of all the persons intent on pleasure, on business, or on intrigue,
that thronged to the park, Learmont fancied that no one could carry so
heavy a heart as himself, and yet how successful had he been! Had he
not accomplished all that he had grasped at? But, like the dog in the
fable, what a valuable and tangible possession had he dropped, in
grasping the shadow which now darkened his soul.
He saw not the sunshine,—for his own heart was black and gloomy; he
heard not the merry song of the birds,—for busy thought was conjuring
up direful images in his brain. He strode along, like a tall spirit—a
being belonging to some more gloomy and uncongenial world than ours,
who heard but discord in our sweetest sounds, and could not appreciate
any of our pleasures.
And yet strange to say, all that Learmont had toiled for—all he had
sinned for—all he had dipped his hands in blood for, had been that he
might enjoy, in greater abundance, these very delights and pleasures
that seemed to mock his grasp, and to retreat like the ignis fatuus of
the morass—far off in proportion, as he most wishes to approach.
He walked up the principal mall, and none addressed him, although many
looked after the tall, gaunt, melancholy-looking man, as he strode in
silence onwards. What would Learmont not have given for a companion;
one who would feel and think with him, and divide the weight of
oppressive conscience.
A lively burst of martial music now came suddenly upon his ears, and he
glanced in the direction from whence it came, when he saw a person
standing by a seat, from which he seemed to have just risen, close to
him. A second glance told Learmont it was the young man, Albert Seyton,
who had applied to him for the office of secretary, and he bowed coldly
and stiffly to him, which Albert courteously rejoined, saying,—
“The morning is inviting, sir.”
“Yes—a—cold, as you say,” replied Learmont, in an abstracted tone.
“Cold, sir?”
“Fine—fine, I mean. Did I say cold?”
“You did, sir; but probably your thoughts were somewhere else. I fear I
intrude upon you.”
“No, no; you do not. My thoughts, young sir, never wander, but I am
grateful to him who can bring them back again.”
“He is like me,” thought Albert, with a sigh; “a man with a very few
pleasant moments to look mentally back to.”
“Have you thought further of what I proposed to you at our last
meeting?” said Learmont.
After a long pause, for Albert did not well know what to say in answer
to the remark last made by the melancholy squire, “I have, sir,” he now
said, “and adhere firmly to all I before pledged myself to; namely,
that in all honour I will do you zealous service and tire not.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well. Walk with me, and we will converse more at large
as we go; I am merely out for exercise.”
Albert bowed, and walked by the side of his strange employer in silence
for some minutes. Learmont then said,—
“You will call upon me to-morrow, according to our previous
arrangement.”
“I shall be proud to do so,” said Albert.
“Well, well. Perhaps the man may be there; but beware of his consummate
art, young sir. If you would successfully track him to his haunt, you
must be wary and cunning, patient and sagacious; believe me no common
man will ever succeed in circumventing him.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Ay, indeed, you know him not. He has the deep cunning of the serpent.
Even I—but no matter. You will freely undertake the employment?”
“As an earnest of future service, yes, sir, I will do your bidding, and
if great attention and extreme care can accomplish your desire, it
shall be done.”
“Persevere, yourself, young sir, in such a disposition, and you will
become a thriving man.”
“I hope to please you, sir.”
“You will; of course, you will, you will do me zealous service. But
mark me you must follow this man, who will call at my house, as you
would follow some light that would lead you from the caverns of poverty
to fortune. Track him home, and see him fairly housed. Then mark the
place by every token that may enable you again to lay your very hand
upon the door, and cry, ‘Here dwells that man!’”
“I will, sir, and I hope you may find him more deserving than you
think.”
“I hope I may,” said Learmont.
They now walked along the Birdcage-walk, for they had doubled the
canal, and were approaching towards Westminister again. For the space
of more than five minutes neither spoke, for both were busy with
reflections, although of a widely different character.
Albert Seyton was more and more suspicions of the intentions of
Learmont, and he began to think him a man, most probably, mixed up in
some dark political intrigues, to carry out which, he required some
simple and unsuspecting agent. There was something very galling to the
proud spirit of Albert, in the supposition that Learmont had pitched
upon him, as thinking him weak enough to believe anything, and never to
suspect that the employment he was set upon was far different from what
it purported to be, and he longed to say, “But I am not so simple and
foolish as you may imagine me, and have my doubts, and grave suspicions
concerning your conduct and the truth of words;” but then he could not
bring himself to say so much, because all as yet was merely made up of
doubt and suspicion, and he considered how ridiculously foolish he
would look by allowing his imagination to run riot in creating
apprehensions, perhaps after all, to be completely dissipated by the
result, and arising only, possibly, from his young and uninstructed
fancy and ignorance of the ways of the world.
Albert Seyton, therefore, prudently determined to be watchful and wary;
but to take nothing on surmise, and to believe, or affect to believe,
as far as the non-expression of doubt went, all that Learmont might
choose to say until some positive and glaring fact contradicted him.
While these thoughts were passing through Albert’s mind, Learmont, on
the other hand, was congratulating himself upon his meeting with the
young man, and extracting from the whole circumstance food for more
agreeable hope and reflection than had illumined his gloomy mind for a
long previous period.
“Here,” he thought, “there is at last a chance of discovering Jacob
Gray’s place of abode—a chance too, which if it fails, commits me to no
one, and does me no manner of injury. But it cannot scarcely fail. This
young man and he being perfect strangers might, in such a city as
London, follow each other about for a week without exciting suspicion.
Moreover, he looks upon discovering this man’s abode as the key-stone
of his future favour with me, and consequent advancement. I could not
have devised a better plan, and, surely, fortune must have been
desirous of favouring me when she sent this raw young man to solicit
employment from me. By the powers of hell, I would not have missed such
a chance of circumventing that demon Gray for a thousand pounds.”
Learmont, in the momentary exultation of these thoughts suddenly raised
his eyes from the ground, on which they had been bent, and uttering a
cry of terror, he sprang forward several yards, and then exclaimed,—
“There—there—again—again! Is it ever to haunt me thus?”
He pointed with his trembling finger to the windows of a house which
overlooked the park for some distance. One of the casements was open,
but there was no one at it, and Albert looked first at Learmont, and
then at the window in amazement, not unmixed with a sudden thought
that, after all, his new employer might be a madman.
Learmont continued pointing for a moment towards the window. Then he
slowly dropped his hand, and in a low agitated voice said, half aloud,—
“Could it be fancy?”
“What saw you, sir?” said Alberta.
“Come—come—hither.”
Albert approached close to him, when he leaned heavily on the arm of
the young man, and said,—
“You were walking with me, and if it were real, you must have seen it.”
“Seen what, sir?”
“A face pass for an instant across yon window.”
“That now open?”
“Yes—the sun shines upon it as you see, and across the open space there
slowly passed a face. You saw it?”
“I did not, sir.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite.”
“Then fancy must be torturing me. ’Tis very strange that she—she whom I
scarce think of should be the vision to haunt me. You are sure you saw
no one pass that window?”
“At the moment my eye might not have been cast in that direction,” said
Albert “but certainly I saw no one.”
“True you might not have been looking; but neither was I, and yet my
eyes were lifted as if by some invisible hand, and then I saw a
face—that—that—I fear now I shall often conjure up.”
Learmont leaned against the railings that divided the entrance from the
open thoroughfare of the park and for a time his strength appeared
quite prostrated.
Albert Seyton continued gazing at the house which had attracted so much
attention from Learmont, and after a pause of some minutes’ duration,
he said,—
“I think that house is known to me, although I never looked at it from
here before.”
Learmont made him no answer, for although he heard him speak, he
scarcely comprehended what he said, so busy was he with his own fears.
“If I mistake not,” said Albert, “it is the back of Sir Francis
Hartleton’s house we see from here.”
The name of Hartleton struck upon Learmont’s ears like a trumpet, and
starting from his reverie of disagreeable images, he cried hurriedly,
and violently,—
“Who spoke of Hartleton? Who mentioned his name?”
“I, sir,” said Albert, amazed at Learmont’s wild vehemence of tone.
“You—you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, you have heard of him. He is a man, I presume, known to many. Are
you sure that is the back of his house?”
“Yes, now I look again I am quite sure; I know it by some peculiar
chimnies. I have gazed on it for hours with a hope now extinguished for
ever.”
“You—you?”
“Yes, sir. My story is a strange one; I have lost both the natural and
acquired ties that bind me to life, I am an orphan, and I can never
more behold her who would have filled the void in my heart.”
“But you speak of this Hartleton as if you knew him. Is such the fact?”
“I am scarcely warranted in saying so much,” replied Albert, “although
I have seen and conversed with him.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; and he gave me hopes, which were for a time my thoughts by day
and my dreams by night—my hopes which I clung to as some drowning
mariner clings to a stray spar; but alas! I have lost now the power to
dream myself happy.”
“He disappointed you?”
“He did. Perhaps he could not do otherwise. I have no right to censure
him, but he could not know how my heart was sinking, and he cannot know
how it has been wrecked, or perhaps he would have done more or tried to
do more. But I am querulous upon this subject, and may blame him
causelessly. It is a fault of human nature to mistake the want of power
for the want of will, and to him who loves all things appear so very
possible.”
“You have cause to quarrel with Sir Francis Hartleton, the particulars
of which you shall relate to me some other time. I, too, love him not,
and I may perchance aid you in your wishes more than he, although I may
promise less.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Let me see you early to-morrow.”
“I shall attend you, sir.”
“Farewell.”
Learmont walked slowly away, and Albert Seyton, with a deep sigh turned
and walked pensively towards Buckingham-gate.
Had he happened to have been looking at the moment Learmont did towards
Sir Francis Harleton’s house, he would have seen Ada pass by the open
casement.