The Morning.—A Visit.—Blasted Hopes.—The Arranged Meeting.—The Packet.—And the Knife.
The snow storm had ceased, and a clear cold winter’s sun rose upon Learmont, making even stern winter look most beautiful. The snow hung in sparkling masses upon every tree and shrub, and in the valley where the village nestled, it was in some places many feet in depth. The little streamlet which ran through the village in the summer time, with a happy murmuring sound, was now still and voiceless, and scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding land. Curling masses of dense smoke arose from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. The robin sang his plaintive ditty on the window sills, and occasionally might be seen a group of children with their scanty garments repairing to the frozen stream to gambol on its slippery surface.
Far above every other habitation in the place, towered the feudal residence of the Learmonts. It was an ancient residence built in Gothic style of architecture, and its blackened walls and time-worn towers looked more than usually stern and desolate now that they were contrasted with the pure white patches of snow that had lodged on every projecting stone and window ledge.
In a chamber situated nearly in the very centre of the mansion, the windows of which were provided with painted blinds, representing the most beautiful and glowing Arcadian landscapes, and the temperature of which was raised fully to that of summer, sat the same tall, dark-browed man, who ten years before had visited the deserted hovel of the Widow Tatton. Time had not swept harmlessly over Squire Learmont. His raven locks were largely mixed with “hoary grey.” The deep olive of his complexion had given way to a sickly sallow tint, which was peculiarly disagreeable to look upon—but in all other respects the man was the same. There was the same contemptuous curl of the lip—the same angry contraction of the brow, and the same ever-shifting glance and restlessness of manner which betokened a heart ill at ease with itself.
An open letter lay before him which he occasionally referred to, as if to guide the wandering current of his thoughts, and after perusing several times he rose from his seat, and for a time walked backwards and for in the room in silence—then he spoke in indistinct and muttered sentences. “Surely,” he muttered, “I may at last venture to enjoy what I have plunged so deeply to obtain. What a vast accumulation of wealth have I not now in my grasp, and shall I longer hesitate? Have I not now the means to sit down by royalty and outvie its grandeur? I have—ample—ample. Again let me read the dear assurance of unbounded wealth. Truly, this money scrivener has done his duty with the large sums I have entrusted to his care. Let me see.”
He stood by the table, and again perused the letter in an audible voice.
Noble and Honoured Sir,—Agreeable to your most kind instructions I send an account of the disposal of all the moneys from time to time entrusted by your most noble worship, to the care of your most humble servant. Your honour will perceive by the annexed schedule, that like a river augmented by a thousand little streams, you honour’s real property has swollen to nearly one million sterling.
“A million,” cried Learmont, drawing himself up to his full height and casting a flashing glance around him. “A million pieces of those golden slaves that are ever ready to yield enjoyment. A million of those glittering sprites which are more powerful than the genii of old romance. Can I not now triumph? What refinement of life—what exquisite enjoyments can now be denied to me!”
The door now softly opened, and an old servant appeared.
“What now?” cried Learmont abruptly.