The Visit to Gray’s House.—Learmont’s Exultation.
While Albert Seyton was absent on his errand of following Jacob Gray,
Learmont was a prey to the keenest anxiety, and he could neither sit
nor walk for any length of time, such was the exquisite agony of mind
he suffered at the thought that, after all, the young man might fail in
his mission, either from want of tact or from over-forwardness. The
first supposition of failure presented itself to the squire’s mind in
by no means such disagreeable colours as the last; for, even admitting
that the wily Jacob Gray should on this one occasion succeed in eluding
Albert’s pursuit, there would arise many other opportunities for
renewing the same plan of operations with greater chances of success,
because with greater experience; but should Jacob Gray once catch a
glance of Albert Seyton, all hope of successfully tracing him to his
house, through the means of the young lovers would be at an end.
As minute after minute winged their heavy flight, Learmont’s mental
fever increased, until it became, at length, almost insupportable. He
strode to and fro in his apartment with hasty steps; then he threw
himself into a chair; then he would raise a cup of wine to his lips,
but to lay it down again untasted, as he thought to himself,—
“No, I must keep my mind now clear and active; for should he be
successful, I shall have need of my mental energy to turn the occasion
to advantage. Jacob Gray, even when discovered, is not destroyed. It is
one thing to track the fox to his lair, and another to kill him. There
will yet remain much to be done, even if my most sanguine hopes are
realised through the instrumentality of Albert Seyton.”
The thought then crossed his mind of parading through the various rooms
of his mansion in order to divert the anxiety that was preying upon
him; and taking a light in his hand, he commenced a tour somewhat
similar to the one he had undertaken when first he arrived in London,
only that he was now alone and the freshness of his enjoyment of all
the glitter and splendour which surrounded him on every side was worn
off.
In the double action of walking and constant change of place, Learmont
did find some little relief.
“He will be successful,” he muttered, “and Jacob Gray will be
destroyed. He must be successful. Why should he not? There are a
thousand chances to one in his favour. Then I shall breathe freely; the
heaviest load that ever pressed upon my heart will be lifted from it; I
shall no longer totter and turn sick and giddy on the brink of the
precipice which has so long, as it were, yawned at my feet; I shall
know peace—peace of mind, and, by cultivating the enjoyment of the
present I shall, in a short time, learn to forget the past.
Forget—forget—can I ever forget? Even now a voice seems to ring in my
ear with a fearful cry. Blood—aloud it shrieks; can blood ever be
forgotten? Can the cry of the dying man? Can the wail of the fatherless
child ever fade from the memory of him who has heard them as I have?
Can I ever be happy? Was I ever happy? Yes, once; I was a child once,
and my heart was spotless as a pearl within its shell. Oh, could I
recall the past! But that is madness. The past is gone, and may not be
beckoned back again. If man could undo the folded scroll of events
which have, in the course of years, taken their progress, it seems to
me that human nature would reach some few brief years of its onward
march, and then be ever toiling back again to undo what was done. Which
of us, if we could live again from earliest infancy the same life,
would do as we have done? I am no worse than others. The wisest, the
best have felt as I feel now. The blood—blood—the curse of blood! Who
whispers that to my heart? I did not do the deed; it was the savage
smith; my hands reeked not with the gore. No, no, no. Hence, horrible
shadows of the soul, hence, hence—I—I am not, I will not be your
victim.”
His whole frame trembled; and as was usual with him, when conscience
whispered with its awful voice his crimes to his shrinking soul, he
felt an utter prostration of every physical energy, and could scarcely
crawl to his room.
At the same moment that he reached the door, Albert Seyton, flushed,
excited, and nearly breathless, reached it likewise.
Learmont darted towards him, and clutching his arm with frantic
eagerness, shrieked, rather than said,—“Found—found?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Albert.
“You—you have traced the villain to his lair? You know where you could
lay your hand upon his throat as he sleeps? You could tear his heart
out? He—he saw you not, you are sure? Swear by heaven and hell you have
found his home!”
“I have, sir,” said Albert, amazed at the vehemence and wild excitement
of Learmont; “with some difficulty, but still with complete success, I
have traced him, and know at this moment where to find him.”
“So, so,” said Learmont, with a sickly smile, “I—I much rejoice for
your sake—for your sake, Albert Seyton, I do rejoice. Let—let me lean
on you a moment; a sudden faintness—”
“Shall I summon your attendants, sir?” said Albert, much alarmed at the
ghastly looks of the squire, who tremblingly held him by the arm.
“No, no,” said Learmont; “’tis nothing, I shall be better presently. I
felt much for you that it made me over anxious, and—and so, you see, as
I am of a nervous temperament, I tremble for you—for you, you
understand. There is wine upon the table.”
Albert led the squire into the room, and then poured out and presented
to him some wine, which he drank with eagerness, after which, drawing a
long breath, he said,—
“I am much better now;—and so you found him. Do you not rejoice?”
“Indeed I do, sir,” said Albert, “and much I long for you to remove all
restrictions from me, and allow me to proceed at once to the rescue of
her I love.”
“All shall be speedily accomplished,” said Learmont; “have but a little
patience, and all shall be as you ask. Not many days shall elapse when
you shall have your heart’s desire.”
“Sir, you bestow upon me a new life.”
“Yes, yes. Let me consider a moment. To-morrow—to-morrow—yes, to-morrow
is now at hand. Midnight—aye, midnight. Call upon me here on the
morning after to-morrow, not sooner—no, not sooner—midnight is a good
hour.”
“I scarcely understand you, sir,” said Albert, who really thought the
squire must be a little insane, he talked so strangely.
“Not understand me, sir?” said Learmont. “Surely I speak clearly—I mean
the morning after to-morrow. By then I shall have matured some plan—but
say—stay—God of heaven I had forgotten.”
“Forgotten what, sir?”
“You have not told me where he lives.”
“’Tis near at hand, although to reach it he traversed thrice the space
he needed to have done.”
“’Tis like him,” said Learmont. “Most like the man.”
“I know not the name of the street, but I could guide you there, sir.”
Learmont sprung to his feet.
“Now, now. On the moment,” he cried. “My hat—my sword. You shall show
me now.”
Then suddenly speaking in a subdued tone, he added,—
“You see, Mr. Seyton, that I am an enthusiast, and what I take an
interest in possesses my mind most fully. You perceive that having
promised you to stir in this matter, I am inclined to do so well, and
amply so; you shall show me the house in which this man lives, and then
I will mature some plan which we can jointly put in execution when we
meet again. You understand me quite, Mr. Seyton?”
“I do, sir, and am most thankful to you.”
“You shall have cause to thank me,” said Learmont—then as a servant
appeared in answer to the bell he had sounded, he cried in a loud
voice,—
“My hat and sword. Quick—my sword!”
Both were instantly brought to him, and he commenced hastily descending
the stairs with his sword in his hand, and a flush of excitement on his
brow, that made him look widely different to the pale trembling man he
was but a few short minutes before.
“Pray Heaven,” thought Albert, “his wits be not deranged. It would be
sad indeed if my only friend were to turn out a madman.”
They were soon in the street, and Learmont taking Albert by the arm,
said,—
“Remember your promise, and make no sort of demonstration of your
presence, until I shall permit you. All now depends upon your
discretion. Lead me now as quickly as you can to this man’s abode.”
“I owe you too much, sir,” said Albert, “to quarrel with your commands,
whatever restraint they may put upon my own inclination. I shall
control my impatience until the time you mention.”
“Do so. Then as a reward, I will contrive some means of providing for
you, so that you shall never know again what care and trouble are. You
shall have a happy destiny.”
These words were uttered in a tone so strange, that Albert, looked in
Learmont’s face, to see what expressions accompanied them, and there he
saw a lurking smile which brought a disagreeable feeling of suspicion
to his heart for a moment, but no longer, for he chased it away again
by reflecting what possible motive could Learmont have for first
raising his hopes and then crushing them; if, indeed, he had not
already gone too far to be of any detriment, if he was of no
assistance, by enabling him, Albert, to discover the abode of Jacob
Gray, and as he fondly imagined that likewise of his beloved and deeply
regretted Ada.
“No,” he thought, “I am wrong in my suspicions. He who has done so much
for me already is entitled to my confidence, beyond the casual feeling
of suspicion that may arise from a smile or a particular tone of voice,
I will obey him.”
“Is there,” said Learmont, “any dark and secret place in the vicinity
of this man’s dwelling from which we may view it securely without being
seen ourselves?”
“There is a doorway, deep and gloomy, opposite the very house he
inhabits,” replied Albert. “If it be now unoccupied, which it was not
before, I should name it as a good place for observation.”
“Was it occupied?”
“Yes; and by one who seemed as much interested in watching Jacob Gray
as I was.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye, sir. A man followed him closely, even as I did, and took up a
station finally in the very door I mention.”
“That is very strange!” said Learmont, with a troubled air.
“It is; I cannot account for it, unless some person like yourself is
watching him to discover if he be what he seems or not; or, perchance,
some one may have seen Ada, and have been so smitten by her wondrous
beauty, as to set a watch upon his house, with the hope that she may
come forth.”
“I like it not—I like it not,” said Learmont musingly. “A watch upon
Jacob Gray! ’Tis very strange! Bodes it good or evil?”
They had by this time arrived at the corner of the street in which was
situated the obscure shop above which Gray slept, as he supposed, in
security, and Albert turning to Learmont, said,—
“This is the street, and yonder is the doorway I mentioned to you.”