CHAPTER LXXXIX.
The Revelation.—Learmont’s Deep Duplicity.—Albert’s Gratitude.
The morning found Albert Seyton true to his appointed time at Learmont’s. In fact, long before he could think of knocking for admittance, being ashamed of so much eagerness, he had arrived in the immediate vicinity, and wandered restlessly about until the hour should come.
The hope, so suddenly springing up as it had, in the midst of his despair of again beholding Ada, through the exertions of his new patron, had, in the endless mass of surmises and conjectures it had given rise to, banished sleep from his pillow, and it was not till the first faint gleam of the coming day poured in at his bedroom window, that he became conscious of the rapid flight of time.
To attempt to sleep then, he thought, was useless, and besides he might oversleep himself, and appear to be negligent of his appointment with the rich man, who had promised to do so much for him. He therefore rose, and as we have said, paced about the street in the vicinity of Learmont’s house, little dreaming that he was taking so much trouble and feeling so much elation for Ada’s worst and bitterest enemy.
At length he thought, although he was too soon, he might knock for admittance, and with a nervous hand he seized the old massive knocker at Learmont’s door.
He was speedily admitted, and his heart bounded with delight, when, in answer to his questions, he was told that Learmont was up and in his own private room. With a palpitating heart, Albert followed the servant who went to announce him. He heard the deep sepulchral tones of Learmont’s voice say—
“Come in!” and he thought—
“How much now one may be deceived in estimating character. Who would suppose that voice belonged to so good a man? And the countenance, too, of this squire, it is certainly not prepossessing, and yet what a kind heart he has!”
Albert Seyton was a far better physiognomist than he thought himself.
In another moment he was in the presence of one who, most on earth, he felt grateful to—but really the man who, most on earth, he had reason to entertain the greatest indignation at.
Learmont received his young secretary cautiously; and, turning to the servant, then he said,—
“Lay breakfast for me and this gentleman in the small morning room.”
The servant bowed down to the very ground, and closed the door after him so gently and quietly, that one could hardly suppose Learmont was anything but some piece of workmanship that any sudden noise or concussion of the air would destroy.
“You are early,” said Learmont to Albert, with a sickly smile.
“I fear, sir,” said Seyton, “that I have intruded upon you too soon, but my great anxiety—”
“Yes, yes, I have not forgotten,” interrupted Learmont. “Will it please you to describe to me this man, Jacob Gray, again, who kept the—the girl in such a state of bondage?”
“Certainly, sir. About the middle height—”
“Humph!”
“Pale to sallowness; a small, twinkling eye, bespeaking more cunning than courage.”
“Ay—ay.”
“A skulking, timid walk, as if ever afraid of question or pursuit.”
“’Tis very strange.”
“Sir?”
“I say, ’tis very strange. I think I have quite a surprise for you in store.”
“A surprise, sir?”
“Yes. You must hear it manfully. Can you stand the shock of sudden news?”
Albert felt at this moment as if all his fond hopes were suddenly blasted. He clasped hands, and said—
“The news is bad?”
“I said not so.”
“Then—then—”
“Not to keep you longer in suspense, young sir, I will tell you of the strangest circumstance that ever I encountered. The man who came to me for pecuniary assistance—that very man who I, from charitable motives, wished you to follow—”
Albert drew his breath short and thick, as he gasped, and said,—
“Go on, sir, I pray you. That man?”
“Is Jacob Gray.”
“God of Heaven! My heart told me so.”
“Yes, he and Jacob Gray are one.”
“This is Heaven’s work!”
“Of course.”
“Most providential!”
“Certainly.”
“Oh, sir, you have indeed lifted me from an abyss of despair to a pinnacle of happiness that makes me giddy! Thank Heaven I met with a heart like yours, and when I wish you all the happiness you really deserve, I am saying much, very much.”
“Thank you,” said Learmont, coldly. “I was much struck with your description of Jacob Gray—it seemed to fit the man who had called here exactly; but before I would agitate you by vain hopes and fears, I made inquiry among my household, and found my suspicions verified, for, on more than one occasion, he has owned to them that Gray was his name.”
“Oh, sir,” cried Albert, “I will follow that man to the world’s end!”
“Do nothing rashly,” said Learmont. “Follow him you shall; for I will stir up heaven and earth to give you an opportunity.”
“How can I express my thanks, sir?”
“By following implicitly my directions. You are young, ardent, and enthusiastic, moreover—in love; now I am neither: so I condition with you, so tender am I of the majesty of the law, and my own unblemished honour, that until I point out what is meet to be done, you take no step in this matter, beyond following this man home.”
“I promise all, sir—everything—anything.”
“’Tis well. You will follow him home, and then come at once to me. Dog the fox to his lair; and I’ll unearth him, you may depend!”
“When is he coming, sir?” said Albert, with trembling eagerness.
“That I cannot tell you. You must be in wait for him—I would have you now remain in this house until he comes again.”
“I will not stir from the door.”
“You shall have a room here; and should this man come again, with his importunate suit, I will give him something, and, during the time I am engaging him in conversation, you can take measures to follow him.”
“Sir, you have made me a new man—my blood bounds lightly through my veins—I long for you to look upon my Ada.”
“I shall be gratified,” said Learmont.
“Oh, she is beautiful!”
“What may be her age?”
“I know not, sir; but she is all perfection.”
“Of course.”
“The villain Gray shall pay a dear reckoning for each harsh word that he has spoken to her. Oh, that so much innocence, purity, and truth should be at the mercy, for one brief moment, of such a man as Jacob Gray.”
“She shall be rescued from Jacob Gray.”
“She shall—she shall! My own—my beautiful Ada, you shall not pine many more hours in your dreary imprisonment; oh, how each moment will become to me lengthened out into an age of impatience.”
“I admire your constancy and fervour,” said Learmont. “Such high and rare qualities should always command success. With your own prudence in complying with the condition I annex, as the price of my assistance, you cannot fail of accomplishing all you wish; but any impetuosity upon your part—any sudden action that may bring things to an untimely crisis, would involve, probably, her whom you love, and yourself in difficulties from which even I could not extricate you.”
“I will be prudent. When I but know where she is, I shall be happy, and will await your time to tear her from the abode of the villain Gray.”
“That time shall not be long.”
“Oh, sir,” added Albert, “you should have seen her—watched her growing beauties—lingered on every tone she uttered as I have done, to feel for me in my present state of torturing suspense.”
“I can feel for you, and I hope to see this wondrous beauty ere many days have elapsed. You must, till then, be cautious, bold, and resolute. Make this your home until Gray shall come, when I will surely let you know.”
“Sir,” said Albert, in a voice of emotion, “a lifetime of devotion could not express my deep sense of gratitude to you.”
“Heed not that—heed not that; I make you one promise, and that is, that while you live, you shall be my secretary, provided no better fortune arises.”
“What better fortune, sir, can the poor friendless Albert Seyton have, than to enjoy your favour, sir?”
“Well, well, enough of this. You will remain here, of course?”
“I will, sir, if it please you; or I will haunt about the street and door, if my presence here be at all inconvenient.”
“Far from it,” said Learmont. “Believe me, my impatience equals yours.”
Learmont now rose, and Albert Seyton, construing that into a hint to be gone, rose too. The squire rung the bell, and upon the appearance of a servant, he said,—
“See that proper accommodation is provided for this gentleman. He will remain an inmate of the house.”
Albert left the room, and followed the servant into a comfortable apartment, which commanded a pretty view of the garden.
A thought now suddenly struck him that he might as well let the servant know, in case of the sudden appearance of Gray, when Learmont might be from home, that he, Albert Seyton, was to be informed of the fact, and he said,—
“Do you know a man named Gray?”
“Gray, sir?”
“Yes, a mendicant.”
The servant looked hard at Seyton, and muttered to himself,—
“That’s a feeler to see if I gossips about the squire’s affairs.”
“A thin, pale man,” added Albert, who thought the servant was endeavouring to recollect.
“No I never saw him, sir—never saw nobody, sir—never mean to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“We never sees nobody in this house, sir. We never talks about master’s affairs, we don’t.”
“Oh, very well,” said Albert. “I have no wish to induce you to do so, I am sure. Nothing could be further from my intention.”
“No, sir,” said the servant,
“I am your master’s most devoted friend.”
“Yes, sir.”
Albert turned away, for he saw that by some means he had excited the suspicions of the man, and he determined now to say no more to him at all.
The day passed off to Albert strangely, and when the evening came, he was rejoiced that by so many hours he was nearer the completion of his hopes, for he looked upon the scheme of following Gray home as certain to bring him once more to Ada.
Sometimes he would pace his room for an hour or more in a delightful reverie, dreaming of future happiness with Ada, and fondly imagining that he was gazing on those eyes which to him were glimpses of heaven. Then again he would become despondent, and fancy her at the mercy of Jacob Gray, who to rid himself of uneasiness on her account, might at that moment be contriving her death.
The anxious lover would then torture himself awhile with this supposition, until hope refreshed sprung up again in his heart, like a phœnix from its ashes, and he smiled as, in imagination, he clasped his long-lost but much-loved Ada to his heart.