“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.