“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:—
“These two men, this Britton and the crafty Gray! They, indeed, are thorns among the flowers with which I would surround myself. If either could but safely destroy the other, I could then find an opportunity of getting rid of the survivor. My deepest hatred light on Gray! May the curses—pshaw! What hurts it that I curse him?—I must have his blood! ’Tis he, and he only, who by his craft preserves his own life, and teaches Britton how to preserve his. What devil whispered to the villain to write a confession of his crimes for his own preservation? Time was when a master-spirit such as mine could with small pains rid himself of the base lowly tools with which he built his fortune and his fame. The grave closed over the hateful secrets that embittered the road to power and greatness, leaving that power and greatness, when once achieved, undermined by the black shadows of the past. Unbounded wealth is at my command—a crouching herd at my feet, because I am the master of the yellow dross for which mankind will barter Heaven! And—and yet I—even I am to be haunted by two ruffians, who with a subtlety undreamt of, have hedged themselves in with precautions. By hell, I will not—cannot bear it!—I’ll pluck these papers from their very hearts, if they should hide them there!—I will no longer be scared by this awful phantom of fear that shadows my heart—they shall die!”
How many, in the selfish pride of their hearts, suppose it possible to extract joy from merely selfish pleasures! How many have cast from them, all the endearing associations of kindred and fellowship to wrap themselves up, as it were, in their own hearts that they might share no delight with another, imagining that they might, by such a process, concentrate in themselves all the diffused happiness of many. This has been the dreary delusions of many, but a time has come when all have awakened to the truth that man must borrow his greatest joy from the reflected happiness of others. To such a mind as Learmont’s, this immutable and holy truth was long in coming, but now as he sat alone in his princely hall; surrounded with light and splendour, he would have felt relieved could he have turned to any one upon whose countenance he could have read with pleasure and delight—aye, the veriest beggar that ever asked for alms of rich and proud, would, at that moment, have been welcome, for Learmont’s very heart felt lonely and desolate. Did he enjoy the exquisite covering of that lofty ceiling? Did he exult over the rich gilding which lay like plates of massive gold on the elaborate cornices? Did the soft, beautiful light, which seemed in its rare excellence to belong to the sunrise of a better world, fall upon his heart with joyful brilliancy? Alas, no! he was alone! the first proud flush of gratified pride, in having created and being the master of all this, had died away and left behind it but a sensation of loneliness and desolation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.
In vain the Lord of Learmont battled with his own feelings. They would not be resisted; and, at length, half mad with the mental struggle he was enduring, he rose from the chair on which he had been sitting and stood up to his full height, in the centre of the saloon, while one deep groan burst from his heart, sounding strangely awful in the midst of all that glitter and display.
Then his dark eye flashed fire, and he made a great effort to rouse himself from the deep dejection that had stolen over him.
“What have I striven for?” he cried. “What dipped my hands in blood for, but for all this? This pride of wealth—this glory of magnificence—and does it now pall upon my senses? Can I not enjoy what I have striven so hard to obtain? Away, vain shadows of remorse—born in superstition, and, fostered by prejudice—away—I will—I must enjoy what I have wasted the better part of life to obtain. My gilded saloons, I love you—my house—my retinue.—my jewels—all are what men struggle for, even to the grave’s brink, because the universal opinion of mankind has proclaimed, that to have these things is to have the means of happiness. I have them; and yet what serpent is it that now gnaws at my heart, and forbids the enjoyment of what is mine own? There is, perhaps, too much silence in my glorious house. I must fill my saloons with the young and the beautiful. I must have joy reflected on my own face from the sparkling eyes of beauty. I—I will not be alone!—no—no. I will be seldom alone! ’tis the silence of this spacious hall has bred and nursed gloomy fancies in my brains. I was foolish to sit here—because I was alone.”
His voice sounded hollow and distinct in the large space around him, and the word “alone” seemed to catch some strange echo in the saloon, and to be whispered back, to him from the high ceiling, with a mournful tone.
Squire Learmont paused, and a sneer curled his lips, as he said,
“Now, were I weak and superstitious, how well could busy fancy people this large space with grinning gliding shapes, such as haunt ordinary men and drive their weak brains to distraction. I hear yon echo, but I will not be alone. Ha! Ha! ’Tis your concave roof that throws back my words. Now if, as I say, I were superstitious—but I am not.”
Even as he spoke, he repeatedly turned to look behind, and it was evident that the guilty man was battling with his fears.
“This hall,” he continued, “is very large—and—and cold withal. I will make some smaller room suffice me.”
He rang for a domestic, and, in spite of himself, he could not help averring to his own heart, that it was a relief to see the face of a human being in his magnificent solitude.
“Light up the small room with the yellow hanging,” said Learmont, “I will sit there.”
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