Albert’s Visit to Learmont.—The Squire’s Triumph.
After a time Learmont became more conscious of his situation, and a
feeling of exhaustion coming over him in consequence of the fatigue,
both of body and mind he had undergone, he partially divested himself
of his apparel, and throwing himself upon the luxurious bed which was
in the room, he soon dropped into a deep sleep, which was not visited
and rendered hideous by any of the frightful images which had before
been conjured up by his oppressed brain.
It was some four hours or more before he again awakened, and then he
found himself much refreshed both bodily and mentally. He ran over in
his mind accurately all the circumstances of his present position, and
now that his cooler judgment had sway, and the horror of the recent
events he had passed through was beginning to subside, he inclined more
and more to his previously expressed opinion, that Jacob Gray had not
really written any confession, but had merely pretended to have such a
document always at hand, for the purpose of aweing him and saving his,
Jacob’s life, from any attempt on the part of either of his great
enemies.
Learmont rose and paced his room in deep thought, and then, while he
stood as it were upon a mine, which, did he but know it, was ready to
explode beneath him, and hurl him to destruction; a feeling of
self-satisfaction began to creep over him, and he re-assured himself
into a belief that he must have materially bettered his situation by
the destruction of Gray.
“It must be so,” he muttered. “There is no confession written, and Gray
was not only a heavy expense, but would, no doubt, some day have played
some serious trick in payment for the attempts which, to his knowledge,
had been made against him. ’Tis well, then, he is dead—exceedingly
well, for my worst enemy is gone. Britton will drink himself to death,
surely; and as for the pretended papers he has, of such great
consequence to me, as he and Gray ever affected they were, I now begin
to think that like Jacob Gray’s written confession such a tale is
merely invented as a bugbear to my imagination. Yes, I must be now in a
better, a far better position, and the day will come, when I shall have
no further fear of the stability of my fortunes.”
Reasoning thus, he argued himself into a more placid mode, and then the
dark feelings of hate, revenge, and gloomy triumphs, which, for a time,
had been overpowered and forced to hide their diminished heads in
consequence of his great excitements, once more rose, phœnix like, from
their ashes, and the wild scheming, blood-stained villain smiled, as he
glanced round him upon the magnificence with which he was surrounded,
and which he thought would soon be all his own, without the shadow of
fear being cast over them.
“By the powers of hell!” he cried, “I will still let them see that I
can live right royally in my noble halls. When last I met the Minister
of State, methought he looked strangely at me, and he certainly did,
upon some most shallow and slight excuse, put me off when I spoke of my
baronetcy, promised as it has been for so long. That magistrate
too—that Hartleton, who I so deeply hate. There was a sneer, too, upon
his face when I saw him last, as if he would have said,—‘Learmont, your
fate is hurrying on, and I shall triumph over you.’ Ha! Ha! My best
sense of security lies in the fact that he leaves me alone. Could he
but get up the shadow of a charge against me, how gladly would he
strive to blacken me and my fame in the eyes of those who, despite him,
will yet heap honours on my head. Sir Francis Harleton, I know you well
as my active enemy, and while I am unmolested by you, I am safe indeed.
I will persevere, most certainly, in my intention of giving a fête on
Saturday, which shall surpass, in richness and magnificence, any that
have yet been vaunted highly by my crowds of visitors—visitors whom I
despise, but yet find useful as tools to work out my great scheme of
ambition.”
Learmont then rung for his servants, and with a malignant pleasure
caused the cards of invitation to his grand masked ball for the
Saturday to be sent to Hartleton and to the minister.
“I will vex the very soul of this Hartleton,” he said, “by the gorgeous
display of wealth I will make.”
A shade of care then suddenly came across his brow, as for the first
time since his departure from the house of Gray, he thought upon the
promised visit of Albert Seyton.
“Ha,” he cried, “my young secretary, I had nearly forgotten him. Will
he prove troublesome? Did he catch a glimpse of me at Gray’s?
No—no—that he did not—and if he did—well. The shortest plan of
operation with regard to him is to give him more hopes, no matter how
slenderly based; and along with them a cup of wine, which shall contain
an insidious drug. Yes, I will poison him, and then send him some long
errand to a distant part of the country, which he will never live to
return from—a safe way—a most safe way. So shall I be rid of him
without the—the—horror (Learmont shuddered as he spoke) of seeing such
another death, perhaps, as that I would fain blot from my memory for
ever, but which rises gaunt and bloody ever before my mental eye. I
must not think of it. My fête—my brilliant fête—my baronetcy—ah, those
are grateful imaginings.”
The receipt of Learmont’s card of invitation to Sir Francis Hartleton
we are already aware of, and in the course of the day its presence, as
it lay before him gave the magistrate an idea, which, if it could be
successfully carried out, would have some time in the apprehension of
the guilty squire, as well as, in all probability, force some sudden
recognition of Ada and her rights. Besides, it was, at all events,
important, that, as he, Sir Francis Hartleton, had given his promise to
the Secretary of State that Learmont should not be molested until after
the Saturday’s fête, the squire should not be led to suspect that any
of his plans had failed, or that any immediate danger beset him.
For the purpose of preventing such a thing from occurring, Sir Francis
Hartleton proposed to Albert Seyton that he should see Learmont on that
evening, in pursuance of the arrangement which had been entered into
between him and the squire.
Another difficulty, or rather a doubt, beset this line of proceeding,
however, and that was to know whether the squire was aware, or not, of
the fact of Albert having been present at the house in which Gray was
murdered on the night, or rather morning, of that event. To solve this
question, or, at all events, to render it an innocuous one, Sir Francis
Hartleton advised that Albert should take with him to the squire’s an
exact copy of the confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to him,
admitting that, seeing the door of Gray’s house open, he had entered
and become possessed of the document by the accidental tearing of a
cloak in which it was concealed.
“Such a step on our parts,” said Sir Francis, “must have the effect of
thoroughly disarming Learmont of all suspicion of his danger; and since
his friend, the Secretary of State, has him so much under his special
protection, on account of his parliamentary influence, I should like
very much to let him see, personally, what a beautiful protégé he has,
and make the masked ball the scene of his apprehension.”
“I am quite willing to act upon your advice,” said Albert; “and indeed,
I am not a little curious and anxious to know what Learmont can
possible say to me this evening, when I call upon him, and demand Ada,
according to the solemn promises he made me.”
With this understanding Albert and the magistrate repaired to the study
of the latter, where they took an accurate copy of the confession,
which Albert placed in his pocket, while Sir Francis charged himself
with the preservation of the original.
“Return as soon as possible,” said Sir Francis, “and, above all things,
be mindful of treachery.”
“I think I am more than a match for the squire,” said Albert, smiling.
“Be that as it may,” said the magistrate, “remember that during your
stay at his house there will be a force within hearing of you should
you require any assistance. We must trust this man of many crimes as
little as we possibly can.”
Without saying anything to Ada of his intention, for he knew that her
anxiety would be very great if she knew that he was venturing into the
house of Learmont, Albert, just as the shades of evening began to fall
upon the streets and house left the residence of the magistrate, and
proceeded at a sharp pace towards Learmont’s splendid abode.
He was readily admitted, and upon being shown into the room where he
usually saw Learmont, he found him seated with a multitude of papers
before him, apparently very busily engaged. He started as he saw
Albert, and yet he felt intensely gratified, for it tended much to
assure him of his safety. His only difficulty consisted in his want of
knowledge of whether Albert had seen him or not at Gray’s.
“You are true to your appointment, Mr. Seyton,” he said, after a few
moments thought. “Have you heard any news of Jacob Gray?”
“He is murdered,” said Albert.
Learmont turned a shade paler as he said,—
“So I have heard this morning, and that has, I fear, placed an obstacle
in your way.”
“I found that he was murdered,” continued Albert “at an early hour this
morning. Being anxious concerning her whom I loved I passed the house
in which Gray resided, when I saw the door ajar. That excited my
curiosity, and I entered from an impulse which I could not control.”
“He did not see me,” thought Learmont; “he suspects nothing.”
“I called aloud upon Ada,” continued Albert, “but no one answered me.
Procuring then a light from a woman in the house, I proceeded to search
it, and found Gray a mangled horrible corpse.”
Learmont drew a long breath as he said,
“I heard so much this morning from a casual visitor, and I was
intending before now to take with me a warrant from the Secretary of
State which would have been granted upon my applications to take Gray
into custody, and offer the young girl, in whom you have made me feel a
strange interest, an asylum under my own roof, until your arrival
to-night.”
“You are very considerate, sir,” said Albert. “By the accidental
rending of a cloak which I presume belonged to Jacob Gray, a packet of
papers—”
Learmont uttered a loud cry, and rising, he stretched out his hands,
saying, while his face was livid with apprehension,—
“You—you have them? The—the confession—this instant—on your life give
it to me. You have not dared to read—you will take some wine—you
will—this—this goblet will refresh you. The papers—give me the papers.”
He shook like an aspen leaf as he pushed the cup of wine he had
drugged, in case he should wish to get rid of Albert, towards him, and
his voice grew hoarse with anxiety as he continued to say,—
“The papers—the papers!”
Albert handed him the copy of Gray’s confession, which Learmont
snatched with the most frantic eagerness.
“You see, Mr. Seyton,” he said, “I am most anxious about the welfare of
yourself and this young maiden—I pray you drink. The wine is good. Yes,
this is addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but it is far better in my
hands. She would fare badly, you know, in the tender mercies of such
man as he. Drink—you—you do not drink.”
There was something about Learmont’s extreme eagerness to induce him to
drink that excited the suspicious of Albert, and he resolved that he
would not touch a drop of wine, but having executed his errand, would
get out of the house as quickly as possible.
Learmont rose as he spoke, still grasping the document Albert had given
him in his hand, and said,—
“Wait for me a short time; I will read this most carefully, and then
communicate to you the result. Drink Mr. Seyton. I pray you do not
spare the wine. You look fatigued.”
With an expression of triumph upon his brow, and a haughtier, firmer
tread than he had used for years, Learmont left the room, with, as he
supposed, the confession of Jacob Gray in his possession, and Albert
Seyton disposed of, as he thought he would be, by partaking of the
drugged wine, he then considered he should have no further trouble
concerning Ada, except what might easily be overcome.
Before he returned to Albert, the latter had cast the wine from the
window, and when Learmont glanced at the goblet, and saw it was empty,
he said,—
“Mr. Seyton, I have read the paper; it says that your Ada, your
much-loved Ada, is an orphan, and that you will find her at—at—Chatham.”
“At Chatham, sir?”
“Yes, off with you. You must inquire for the residence of a Mr.
Henderson. He is well known, and will conduct you to Ada. Off with you,
and come back to me—when you can.” These last words were uttered after
Albert, who was disgusted with the scene, had hurried from the room.
Then Learmont drew himself up to his full height, and cried,—
“He will be dead within an hour! I triumph—I triumph!”