The servant bowed and retired.
“Yes,” continued Learmont, in a low tone, as he seated himself in a chair, the back of which touched the wall. “A smaller room to sit in is more agreeable and much warmer than this saloon.” He would not own to himself that the large space around him had frightened him, and that he was really trembling with a terror of, he knew not what—such an awful terror as commonly creeps over the hearts of the guilty in solitudes.
In a very few moments the servant returned and announced the smaller room as ready for his master’s reception.
Then preceding him, with two wax lights, he showed the trembling squire into a room of about one-third of the size of the saloon, and which was furnished more plainly, but quite as richly as regarded the costly nature of its hangings and various appointments.
Oh, let the innocent of heart and single of purpose lift their eyes to Heaven, and thank it for their great happiness. Let those who can challenge their deepest memories, to picture to the mental vision one deed of wrong, lie down in blessed repose, for they are rich beyond the wealth of kings—powerful beyond the power of the mightiest conquerors—happy beyond any happiness that this world can afford, as the price of that peace of mind, which so many barter for a bauble.
It was not the extent of his saloon, that had come across the soul of the crime-steeped Learmont, with a shuddering horror. It was not that his voice echoed in his lofty house. It was the undying worm, conscience; that takes no rest, knows no peace, but will be heard amid the din of battle—the hilarity of the banquet—that will float upon the wine-cup—mingle with every strain of noise, and make a hell of the human heart more maddening than the wildest fanatic can promise to the wicked.
Learmont could not sit—he could not rest—the air around him seemed thick and heavy—his first impulse was to ring for more lights, and more were brought—more and more, until the apartment was one blaze of illuminations; but all was in vain, and just before the midnight hour sounded from the various churches, the lord of all the beauty and magnificence of that costly mansion seized a hat and cloak, and rushed into the streets to seek relief by violent exercise from the agony that tortured him.
Without aim or object, save the one of endeavouring, by sheer bodily fatigue, to seek repose for the overwrought mind, Learmont walked onwards through the various streets that happened to present themselves at convenient junctures to his notice, and as he walked with a quick step, he muttered to himself the anxious reasoning that was crossing his fevered brain.
“I will never be alone!” he muttered: “never—never. Why should I be alone?—I who am revelling in wealth? From this moment I resolve to cram my saloons. The brilliant decorations of my home shall be admired by all; I will move amidst a throng of youth, beauty, and nobility, as the presiding genius of a place which shall be little short of a fairy palace of romance and beauty. I—I will intrigue with the intriguing—quaff goblets of rich wine with the voluptuous. Ha! Ha!—I will lead a life of enjoyment that shall leave no time for thought. I will have pleasure after pleasure—excitement after excitement, succeeding each other with such rapidity that they shall only occasionally cease when the wearied frame calls loudly for repose, that it may awaken with renovated strength to undergo a routine of new pleasure!—I will never be alone!”
He walked on now for many minutes, only now and then muttering the words “Never alone!” Then a new train of thought seemed to come across his mind, and he whispered:—