The Interview between Albert and Learmont.—The Promise, and Albert’s
Relation.
Albert Seyton was punctual to his appointment with Learmont, and after
waiting for ten minutes, was ushered into the small room in which the
miserable squire usually sat.
Days seemed to be doing the work of years upon Learmont. His coal-black
hair was tinged with grey, and there were deep furrows on his cheeks,
which were of that dead ashy-looking white colour, if colour it could
be called at all, that the former sallow tint of his complexion had
recently given way to.
Take his appearance altogether as he there sat in a chair, the back of
which was placed against the wall with a table and writing materials
before him, he looked a man to be shunned or pitied, according as the
observer might translate his looks to imply disease of body, or that
worse disease of the mind resulting from a perturbed conscience.
He slightly started as Albert entered the room, and then, in reply to
his bow, he said in a hollow voice, which sounded as if it came from
the lips of a corpse risen from the grave,—
“Good day, young sir.”
“Good day, sir,” replied Albert. “I am here in obedience to your
command.”
“Yes—yes,” muttered Learmont, leaning his head upon his hand. “You are
here, and punctual—very punctual.” He then seemed to fall into a fit of
abstraction, and added, “He is not here. Can he have taken alarm? Or he
will be here anon?”
“Sir,” said Albert.
Learmont started, exclaiming,—
“Who spoke?”
“I thought you addressed me, sir?”
“No—no—I—I—said nothing. You are very young, and yet have known
trouble, you say?”
“There has been much trouble, sir, crowded into the brief space of my
existence,” replied Albert. “I have lost all that I loved.”
“All?” echoed Learmont.
“Yes, sir, all,” sighed Albert.
“You have no ties then to bind you to the world, and make you pause in
any undertaking? You are like me, a lone man. I am lone, and quite
desolate; but I pride myself upon my isolation. I would not be
surrounded by what the mass of mankind rejoice in, in the shape of
connexions, for worlds.”
Albert said nothing, and, after a pause, Learmont added, hastily,—
“You bear in mind our conversation of yesterday?”
“I do, sir, and am ready to perform the honourable service you
mentioned to me.”
Albert laid some stress upon the word honourable, and Learmont replied,
coldly,—
“Well, sir, it is honourable service.”
“I know it is, sir.”
“You know it is.”
“Yes, sir—I know it is so, or, as the son of a soldier and a gentleman,
I should never have had it proposed to me by you.”
A sneer passed over Learmont’s face as he said,—
“My young friend, soldiers, and gentlemen, and their sons, are not all
as particular as you.”
“I am sorry for it, sir.”
“Nay, why should you be? Among stars would you not wish to shine the
brightest? ’Tis well that some soldiers and gentlemen are not so very
scrupulous; for don’t you see, young sir, that it makes your great
virtue shine with double lustre.”
Albert did not wholly relish the tone of irony in which this was said,
and his cheek slightly flushed as he replied,—
“It were unbecoming in me to dispute with you, sir.”
There was a silence of some moments’ duration, and then Learmont said,
abruptly,—
“You will follow the man home upon whose track I will put you. Awaken
in his mind no shadow of doubt, or all—I—I mean much is lost. He is
crafty; but bear this in mind through life—to outwit the crafty, you
have but to be simple.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“Do so, and your reward will be commensurate with your deserts. Surely
he will come.”
“I hope you will find him honester than you suppose him to be,”
remarked Albert.
“You hope I may find him honest! May all the torments of hell consume
him!”
“Sir?”
“I—I don’t mean him. No matter—I am not quite well. Young man, beware,
whatever you may see, hear, or surmise in this house, must remain
locked in your own heart.”
“Sir,” said Albert shrinking from the basilisk glance of Learmont, “my
duty is simple. I have but to obey your honourable orders, and I shall
do so to the utmost of my humble ability. It were, indeed, a poor
return for your kindness to me, to babble of you or your affairs.”
“Well, so it would—you are right there,” said Learmont. “I would fain
bind you to me and my interests by kindness—such substantial kindness
as you would appreciate; and never forget I am rich—have some power,
and am willing to use my wealth, and exert my influence. Can I serve
you in any matter? You hinted that you had a source of trouble.”
Albert’s heart beat, tumultuously at these words, and his first thought
was,—
“Will he exert his wealth and influence in assisting me to discover
Ada?”
Learmont saw his agitation and said,—
“Speak freely. But should the man whom I wish you to follow arrive here
during our converse, you must finish your story another time. I wish
you to speak freely, and if I can bind you to me by benefit conferred
upon you, I shall think myself well repaid.”
“Sir,” said Albert, “were—were you—you—”
“What?”
“Ever in love, sir?”
“I love?—I in love?—I?”
“Pardon me, sir, for asking the question, but the sadness that has hung
like a leaden weight upon my heart for so long has arisen from the deep
sympathy felt for the forlorn condition of one who even then seemed by
some mysterious influence, creeping around my heart.”
Learmont leaned back in his chair with a slight yawn, but Albert was
too much interested in his own subject to notice the contemptuous
impatience of his auditor.
“When my poor father died,” he continued, “I felt great grief; but that
was a grief that time would assuage. It left nothing to the imagination
to work upon, and continue building up unavailing sorrow. On the
contrary, when the first shock of parting with those we love—when death
has robbed us of them, is over, and when reason resumes her reign—we
should rejoice that they have left such fleeting and uncertain joys as
this world affords for that which is eternal and knows no change; but
where I loved, where I gave my whole heart’s affection, sir, there
indeed I have much cause for sorrow, and there is far too ample food
for dreamy fancy to work upon.”
“Indeed,” said Learmont.
“I fear I tire you, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all, go on.”
“A considerable time since, sir, and I believe before your worship came
to London, my father and I lodged in a mean house not very far from
here, for we were poor. My father was waiting for his just remuneration
for services rendered to ungrateful people. I was but a boy, sir, but
from the time of my residence in that house, I may date the
commencement of a love which, although I knew not then its existence,
became a part of my nature, and will accompany me to the grave.”
“Oh,” said Learmont. Then he muttered to himself, “what can detain
Jacob Gray?”
Albert continued:—
“In the same house, sir, lodged a strangely matched couple. The one was
a man of wily and sinister aspect, ever crawling instead of
walking—insinuating, rather than saying, what he wished to convey—a man
that had villain stamped upon, his face.”
“I rather think,” said Learmont, “I could match you such a man.”
“Let us hope, sir, there are few such,” added Albert, “but of such a
character was he, who daily slunk in and out of this house, living
apparently in great poverty. With him dwelt a young girl.”
“Ah,” thought Learmont, “love and poverty, the old story.”
“Oh, sir, she was beautiful—beautiful as Heaven, and her face was as a
speaking mirror in which you might read all the pure and noble feelings
of her soul. She must have been of noble and high origin, for the seeds
of every high virtue were implanted in her breast, and even then were
budding forth in beauty.”
“The soft blush of an Italian dawn, sir, was not more beautiful than
were her eyes. Her brow, of snowy whiteness, rivalled the rarest
sculpture, and her mouth—”
“You may describe her to me some other time,” said Learmont, with a
slight tone of impatience.—“I should like to know how I can serve you.”
“I have lost her, sir.”
“Oh! You have lost her. Well, I presume she is to be found?”
“By your influence and means, sir, she may; but alas! I scarcely know
in what direction to commence the search.”
“Did you wed her?”
“No, sir; had I done so, a world in arms should not have separated us.”
“The father then, I presume, was adverse to your suit?”
“She had no father, sir—no mother—no relations—no friend in the world
but me, and I left her in peril; and never saw her more—never—never!”
“Go on with your story.”
“He who was with her, or rather held her in durance, was a mysterious
man. I have often thought, sir, some great crime weighed heavily upon
his heart.”
“Perhaps so,” said Learmont, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps so. His life
might have been one long mistaken, and he bartered for gold that which
was priceless. Go on—go on.”
“He seemed, sir, ever wakeful to some great danger, and if ever there
was a miserable man, it was that man.”
“Well—well,” said Learmont.
“Time passed, and still I fondly, dearly loved. She would have left
him, or denounced him for his cruelty, but then she always had the
dread upon her spirit that he might be what he appeared to be—her
father; so, sir, she bore with much, and with a noble spirit would not
sacrifice him, by which I much fear she has sacrificed herself. Still
are they living in some dark obscurity in London, or—or he has killed
her! Alas! Alas! My poor Ada!”
“Ada was her name?”
“It was, sir.”
“Why does this cold shudder come over me?” muttered Learmont as he
trembled in his chair.
“But the most strange circumstance of all,” continued Albert,
“connected with the affair, was that this man Gray—”
A cry arose from Learmont that startled Albert to his feet in a moment,
and with pale, ghastly features and distorted lips, the squire stood
opposite to him, glaring in his face with distended eyes and such an
awful expression, that step by step, the young man went backwards
towards the door, for the thought flashed across his mind that his
patron was a madman.