CHAPTER LXIX.
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.