“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:—