CHAPTER LXXIX.
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.