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.”
“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.