In the double action of walking and constant change of place, Learmont did find some little relief.
“He will be successful,” he muttered, “and Jacob Gray will be destroyed. He must be successful. Why should he not? There are a thousand chances to one in his favour. Then I shall breathe freely; the heaviest load that ever pressed upon my heart will be lifted from it; I shall no longer totter and turn sick and giddy on the brink of the precipice which has so long, as it were, yawned at my feet; I shall know peace—peace of mind, and, by cultivating the enjoyment of the present I shall, in a short time, learn to forget the past. Forget—forget—can I ever forget? Even now a voice seems to ring in my ear with a fearful cry. Blood—aloud it shrieks; can blood ever be forgotten? Can the cry of the dying man? Can the wail of the fatherless child ever fade from the memory of him who has heard them as I have? Can I ever be happy? Was I ever happy? Yes, once; I was a child once, and my heart was spotless as a pearl within its shell. Oh, could I recall the past! But that is madness. The past is gone, and may not be beckoned back again. If man could undo the folded scroll of events which have, in the course of years, taken their progress, it seems to me that human nature would reach some few brief years of its onward march, and then be ever toiling back again to undo what was done. Which of us, if we could live again from earliest infancy the same life, would do as we have done? I am no worse than others. The wisest, the best have felt as I feel now. The blood—blood—the curse of blood! Who whispers that to my heart? I did not do the deed; it was the savage smith; my hands reeked not with the gore. No, no, no. Hence, horrible shadows of the soul, hence, hence—I—I am not, I will not be your victim.”
His whole frame trembled; and as was usual with him, when conscience whispered with its awful voice his crimes to his shrinking soul, he felt an utter prostration of every physical energy, and could scarcely crawl to his room.
At the same moment that he reached the door, Albert Seyton, flushed, excited, and nearly breathless, reached it likewise.
Learmont darted towards him, and clutching his arm with frantic eagerness, shrieked, rather than said,—“Found—found?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Albert.
“You—you have traced the villain to his lair? You know where you could lay your hand upon his throat as he sleeps? You could tear his heart out? He—he saw you not, you are sure? Swear by heaven and hell you have found his home!”
“I have, sir,” said Albert, amazed at the vehemence and wild excitement of Learmont; “with some difficulty, but still with complete success, I have traced him, and know at this moment where to find him.”
“So, so,” said Learmont, with a sickly smile, “I—I much rejoice for your sake—for your sake, Albert Seyton, I do rejoice. Let—let me lean on you a moment; a sudden faintness—”
“Shall I summon your attendants, sir?” said Albert, much alarmed at the ghastly looks of the squire, who tremblingly held him by the arm.