“Then—then—nothing is gained,” sighed Albert—“I am wretched as before.”
“Not so,” said Learmont; “you are like all those who are easily elated—too easily depressed.”
“Pardon me, sir, but this is a matter upon which my whole happiness—my whole existence, is, as it were, staked. I do feel, perhaps, too strongly, but such love as mine is scarce, and I cannot—cannot help it, sir—pray forgive me!”
“Think not I am angry,” said Learmont, “on the contrary, I have not been so well pleased for many a day: when I said you were too easily elated or depressed, I had a suggestion to offer you.”
“How shall I thank you, sir?”
“Heed not that. My strong opinion is, that this man Gray will come here again for, after his repulse, he has written me a letter in which he begs for a small sum towards a larger one he is gathering to take him from England; and he says, that if I felt inclined, he could tell me a secret, which he is quite sure would enable me to right the wronged, and punish those who had been guilty.”
“He alludes to Ada, sir,” cried Albert, with animation. “He alludes to her of whom I told you, sir. Oh, she is beautiful and good. Sir, a nobler, better heart than hers never beat in woman’s bosom. It is not for her rare and unexampled beauty that I love her, sir. Ah, no; ’tis for her many gracious heavenly qualities—for the fine mind that, like a glistening diamond, does outshine the setting, though of purest gold.”
“No doubt he alludes to her,” said Learmont. “As I say, he sent me this letter, it was without date, without address, and stated that its writer, Jacob Gray, would call here for an answer.”
Albert’s breath seemed to hang upon the next words of the squire as he asked, “And has he been, sir?”
“He has not,” said Learmont.