CHAPTER CVI.The Arrest.The soundof his own voice seemed now to conquer all the nervous feelings which had oppressed him, and Albert Seyton continued shouting for aid, until lights flashed up the narrow staircase, and several voices cried,—“Hilloa there, what’s the matter?”“Murder!” cried Albert. “Quick, here. There has been murder done—this way—quick, whoever you are.”Several men now made their appearance on the stairs, and in a few moments the landing was crowded with a party bearing lights, some of whom were likewise armed.“This way,” said Albert, pointing to the door of Gray’s room; “a man has been barbarously murdered—his corpse lies there.”“Oh! It’s you, my spark, is it?” cried a man stepping up to Albert, who at a glance he recognised as the spy, upon Jacob Gray, who had caused him so much uneasiness.“For God’s sake,” cried Albert, “forget all but the necessity of securing the perpetrators of the horrible crime which has been committed in this house to-night. A man, I tell you, has been murdered.”“Very like,” said the spy, as he took a constable’s staff from his pocket. “You are my prisoner, my light-heeled gentleman. Till we catch somebody else more suspicious, we may as well have you.”Another officer who had gone into Gray’s room now came with a face as pale as a sheet, and trembling in every limb.“It’s true,” he cried, “I never saw such a sight in my life, and hope never to see such an one again.”“Do with me what you like,” cried Albert, “but take, for Heaven’s sake, some measures for securing the murderer.”“It’s my opinion, young fellow,” said the spy, “that you know about as much of this affair as most people—keep a strict eye on him, my men. Why, you look as scared as if you had seen a ghost. Give me your light. If there is a dead man there, I’m not afraid of him.”All but one constable, who kept a firm hold of Albert, went into the room, but hardened as these men were to scenes of terror, a cry of unmingled horror escaped them as they saw the ghastly spectacle under the window, and they quickly retreated to the landing again.“You see I have spoken the truth,” cried Albert; “God only knows whether those I suspect are guilty or not, but to any magistrate I will communicate all I know with regard to this night’s dreadful proceedings.”“You are, out of all hand, the most hardened ruffian I ever came near,” said the constable who held Albert; “why you’ll be hung for this as sure as you are now a living man.”“I?” cried Albert, the dreadful circumstances of suspicion in which he was placed for the first time darting across his mind, for in the excitement of his feelings he had scarcely noticed what was said before. “I? Why you rave, man—I did not do the deed.”“The less you say the better,” remarked the spy; “comrades, this will be no bad night’s work for us—I can give evidence that this young fellow has been dogging the man who is murdered for some days past. Here we find him actually in the very room, or on the very threshold of it. It was a lucky job we happened to see the door wide open, and came in.”“A clear case,” said another.“There’s been many a man hung on half the evidence,” remarked a third.Albert looked from one to the other for a few moments, perfectly bewildered at this new turn things had taken; then he said,—“You do not—you cannot suspect me. Good God, ’twas I who called you here. I burst the door open below but a short time since.”“Hear him—hear him,” cried the spy; “he will own to it all in a minute.”“Unhand me,” cried Albert; “I am as innocent of this awful crime as you yourselves—I—”He struggled to free himself from the grasp of the officer, but a couple more of them immediately closed with him, and in a few moments he found himself handcuffed and a prisoner.“One of you stay,” cried the spy, “and don’t let any one come near the body. By Heaven, this is as ugly a job as ever I heard of!”Albert clasped his manacled hands together, and a feeling of despair came over his heart—a prison—a scaffold, and an ignominious death seemed to be staring him in the face. How was he to extricate himself from the fearful circumstances by which he was now surrounded? Where now were all his fond hopes of once more seeing his Ada? The rush of wretched feelings across his mind was almost too great for mortal endurance, and had it not been for the stern, unpitying men by whom he was now surrounded, he could have shed tears in the bitterness of his despair.“Take me where you like,” he cried. “Do with me what you like—accuse me of what you please—but, as you are men and Christians, search this house, I implore you, for a young maiden, whose name is Ada. She must be here somewhere. I entreat you to search for her—I implore you. Moreover, there are papers in the room, most probably, of yon murdered man, which are directed to Sir Francis Hartleton. Find them, and take them to him. Then do with me what you please, and in my heart I believe the kindest hand would be that which took my life.”The accent in which these words were uttered was so despairing—so full of exquisite grief and abandonment of all hope, that even the officers, blunted as their feelings were, looked affected by what they heard.There was a moment’s silence and then one said,—“Bring him along at once before Sir Francis. He never minds being knocked up on real business.”“But you will do what I ask you,” said Albert; “you will search for her I have mentioned to you?”“We cannot,” was the reply; “we must lose no time—come on—come on.”With a deep sigh Albert dropped his head upon his breast, and suffered himself to be led down the staircase in a state of great dejection.When he reached the foot of the topmost flight, he summoned all his energies, and once more cried,—“Ada, Ada!”Echo only answered him.The officers paused themselves involuntarily to listen if any voice responded to Albert’s frantic call, but when all was still again, they urged him forward, saying,—“We can wait no longer—come to the magistrate’s.”“Once more hear me,” cried Albert; “some of you must have hearts to feel for the unfortunate. Here, I swear to you that there are papers in yon room, where lies the ghastly remains of the murdered man, which it much imports Sir Francis Hartleton to have. Oh, search for them—search, I pray you—I will attempt no escape. You shall find me patient—most patient; but as you love justice, find those papers.”The vehemence and earnestness of his tone was not without its effect even upon those rude men, and they looked in each other’s faces for a moment or two, irresolute, when something came down the staircase with a rustling sound, and the man who had been left above to keep guard on the door of the room, called to his companions below, saying—“Ask the prisoner if that’s his cloak—it was lying half in and half out of the door way.”One of the officers lifted the cloak, from the floor, and turning to Albert said—“Is this yours?”“No,” replied Albert, “it must be his who lies above in death. It is not mine.”“I more than suspect it is, though,” said the officer, as he held his light close to it, “why it is smeared with blood. We must take this with us, comrades. It’s a dainty piece of evidence against the prisoner. Come on—there hasn’t been such a famous murder as this since Mr. Vaughan was killed in the Strand.”“But the papers. You forget the papers,” cried Albert.“Hang the papers,” was the reply. “There are none. We cannot waste time with you.”The unhappy young man resigned himself to his fate, and accompanied the officers in silence. Evil fortune seemed to be expending all her malice against him; a tide of circumstantial evidence was rushing over him more than sufficient to overwhelm him in the consequences of a crime of which he was innocent, Ada appeared lost to him for ever now that Gray was dead; for what clue had he to find her now; and the conduct of Learmont was mysterious, if he were not the actual murderer of Jacob Gray. A confused whirl of thoughts and conjectures passed through the brain of Albert with frightful rapidity. The strange and most unexpected events of the night were completely bewildering. At one moment he thought of accusing Learmont of the murder; at another he almost doubted if he was correct in fancying he had seen the squire at all—so strangely disjointed—so full of mystery—so redolent of horror had been the night’s proceedings, that the unfortunate Albert could scarcely be said to be in a sufficiently collected frame of mind to form a just conclusion, or hazard a practicable conjecture respecting them. His brain seemed to grow into fire with the agony he endured, and more like one dead than alive, he was passively led by the officers towards the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton, to be there accused of the awful crime of murder.As the party neared the house of the magistrate, a feeling of utter despair crept over Albert’s heart, and he was conscious but of one thought; that was, that he would be glad when he was dead, for then all his miseries would be over, and he should perhaps in some happier state, see Ada, who, with an awful shudder, he thought must have been murdered long since by Jacob Gray.
The Arrest.
The soundof his own voice seemed now to conquer all the nervous feelings which had oppressed him, and Albert Seyton continued shouting for aid, until lights flashed up the narrow staircase, and several voices cried,—
“Hilloa there, what’s the matter?”
“Murder!” cried Albert. “Quick, here. There has been murder done—this way—quick, whoever you are.”
Several men now made their appearance on the stairs, and in a few moments the landing was crowded with a party bearing lights, some of whom were likewise armed.
“This way,” said Albert, pointing to the door of Gray’s room; “a man has been barbarously murdered—his corpse lies there.”
“Oh! It’s you, my spark, is it?” cried a man stepping up to Albert, who at a glance he recognised as the spy, upon Jacob Gray, who had caused him so much uneasiness.
“For God’s sake,” cried Albert, “forget all but the necessity of securing the perpetrators of the horrible crime which has been committed in this house to-night. A man, I tell you, has been murdered.”
“Very like,” said the spy, as he took a constable’s staff from his pocket. “You are my prisoner, my light-heeled gentleman. Till we catch somebody else more suspicious, we may as well have you.”
Another officer who had gone into Gray’s room now came with a face as pale as a sheet, and trembling in every limb.
“It’s true,” he cried, “I never saw such a sight in my life, and hope never to see such an one again.”
“Do with me what you like,” cried Albert, “but take, for Heaven’s sake, some measures for securing the murderer.”
“It’s my opinion, young fellow,” said the spy, “that you know about as much of this affair as most people—keep a strict eye on him, my men. Why, you look as scared as if you had seen a ghost. Give me your light. If there is a dead man there, I’m not afraid of him.”
All but one constable, who kept a firm hold of Albert, went into the room, but hardened as these men were to scenes of terror, a cry of unmingled horror escaped them as they saw the ghastly spectacle under the window, and they quickly retreated to the landing again.
“You see I have spoken the truth,” cried Albert; “God only knows whether those I suspect are guilty or not, but to any magistrate I will communicate all I know with regard to this night’s dreadful proceedings.”
“You are, out of all hand, the most hardened ruffian I ever came near,” said the constable who held Albert; “why you’ll be hung for this as sure as you are now a living man.”
“I?” cried Albert, the dreadful circumstances of suspicion in which he was placed for the first time darting across his mind, for in the excitement of his feelings he had scarcely noticed what was said before. “I? Why you rave, man—I did not do the deed.”
“The less you say the better,” remarked the spy; “comrades, this will be no bad night’s work for us—I can give evidence that this young fellow has been dogging the man who is murdered for some days past. Here we find him actually in the very room, or on the very threshold of it. It was a lucky job we happened to see the door wide open, and came in.”
“A clear case,” said another.
“There’s been many a man hung on half the evidence,” remarked a third.
Albert looked from one to the other for a few moments, perfectly bewildered at this new turn things had taken; then he said,—
“You do not—you cannot suspect me. Good God, ’twas I who called you here. I burst the door open below but a short time since.”
“Hear him—hear him,” cried the spy; “he will own to it all in a minute.”
“Unhand me,” cried Albert; “I am as innocent of this awful crime as you yourselves—I—”
He struggled to free himself from the grasp of the officer, but a couple more of them immediately closed with him, and in a few moments he found himself handcuffed and a prisoner.
“One of you stay,” cried the spy, “and don’t let any one come near the body. By Heaven, this is as ugly a job as ever I heard of!”
Albert clasped his manacled hands together, and a feeling of despair came over his heart—a prison—a scaffold, and an ignominious death seemed to be staring him in the face. How was he to extricate himself from the fearful circumstances by which he was now surrounded? Where now were all his fond hopes of once more seeing his Ada? The rush of wretched feelings across his mind was almost too great for mortal endurance, and had it not been for the stern, unpitying men by whom he was now surrounded, he could have shed tears in the bitterness of his despair.
“Take me where you like,” he cried. “Do with me what you like—accuse me of what you please—but, as you are men and Christians, search this house, I implore you, for a young maiden, whose name is Ada. She must be here somewhere. I entreat you to search for her—I implore you. Moreover, there are papers in the room, most probably, of yon murdered man, which are directed to Sir Francis Hartleton. Find them, and take them to him. Then do with me what you please, and in my heart I believe the kindest hand would be that which took my life.”
The accent in which these words were uttered was so despairing—so full of exquisite grief and abandonment of all hope, that even the officers, blunted as their feelings were, looked affected by what they heard.
There was a moment’s silence and then one said,—
“Bring him along at once before Sir Francis. He never minds being knocked up on real business.”
“But you will do what I ask you,” said Albert; “you will search for her I have mentioned to you?”
“We cannot,” was the reply; “we must lose no time—come on—come on.”
With a deep sigh Albert dropped his head upon his breast, and suffered himself to be led down the staircase in a state of great dejection.
When he reached the foot of the topmost flight, he summoned all his energies, and once more cried,—
“Ada, Ada!”
Echo only answered him.
The officers paused themselves involuntarily to listen if any voice responded to Albert’s frantic call, but when all was still again, they urged him forward, saying,—“We can wait no longer—come to the magistrate’s.”
“Once more hear me,” cried Albert; “some of you must have hearts to feel for the unfortunate. Here, I swear to you that there are papers in yon room, where lies the ghastly remains of the murdered man, which it much imports Sir Francis Hartleton to have. Oh, search for them—search, I pray you—I will attempt no escape. You shall find me patient—most patient; but as you love justice, find those papers.”
The vehemence and earnestness of his tone was not without its effect even upon those rude men, and they looked in each other’s faces for a moment or two, irresolute, when something came down the staircase with a rustling sound, and the man who had been left above to keep guard on the door of the room, called to his companions below, saying—
“Ask the prisoner if that’s his cloak—it was lying half in and half out of the door way.”
One of the officers lifted the cloak, from the floor, and turning to Albert said—“Is this yours?”
“No,” replied Albert, “it must be his who lies above in death. It is not mine.”
“I more than suspect it is, though,” said the officer, as he held his light close to it, “why it is smeared with blood. We must take this with us, comrades. It’s a dainty piece of evidence against the prisoner. Come on—there hasn’t been such a famous murder as this since Mr. Vaughan was killed in the Strand.”
“But the papers. You forget the papers,” cried Albert.
“Hang the papers,” was the reply. “There are none. We cannot waste time with you.”
The unhappy young man resigned himself to his fate, and accompanied the officers in silence. Evil fortune seemed to be expending all her malice against him; a tide of circumstantial evidence was rushing over him more than sufficient to overwhelm him in the consequences of a crime of which he was innocent, Ada appeared lost to him for ever now that Gray was dead; for what clue had he to find her now; and the conduct of Learmont was mysterious, if he were not the actual murderer of Jacob Gray. A confused whirl of thoughts and conjectures passed through the brain of Albert with frightful rapidity. The strange and most unexpected events of the night were completely bewildering. At one moment he thought of accusing Learmont of the murder; at another he almost doubted if he was correct in fancying he had seen the squire at all—so strangely disjointed—so full of mystery—so redolent of horror had been the night’s proceedings, that the unfortunate Albert could scarcely be said to be in a sufficiently collected frame of mind to form a just conclusion, or hazard a practicable conjecture respecting them. His brain seemed to grow into fire with the agony he endured, and more like one dead than alive, he was passively led by the officers towards the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton, to be there accused of the awful crime of murder.
As the party neared the house of the magistrate, a feeling of utter despair crept over Albert’s heart, and he was conscious but of one thought; that was, that he would be glad when he was dead, for then all his miseries would be over, and he should perhaps in some happier state, see Ada, who, with an awful shudder, he thought must have been murdered long since by Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER CVII.The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.Who inthis world can safely calculate his true position, or say what circumstance is fraught with woe and what with happiness, when we are more frequently upon the point of obtaining our most glorious and delightful aspirations, while we fancy the cloud of adversity is thickening around us than when, to our limited perceptions, we are emerging into the sweet sunshine of felicity. Situated as Albert Seyton now was, even hope was a stranger to his heart—he could see not one ray of sunlight amid the dreary gloom by which he was immured—all was blank despair. Like some wave-tossed mariner, who, after struggling with the remorseless seas for a long dreary night, looks with lack-lustre eye along the world of waters as the first streak of the morning light enables him to do so, and sees no hope—no distant land—no sail, and feels that to struggle longer is but to protract death which is certain, Albert gave way to the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and as he entered the magistrate’s house, the expression of deep dejection on his countenance was remarked with significant whispers and glances by the officers, who looked upon it as a sign of conscious guilt, and entertained no more doubt of the fate of their prisoner, than they did of their own existence, so confident were they that he was, in truth, the murderer.Oh, could he have guessed at that moment, that he was under the same roof with his Ada—could he have dreamt that he was breathing the same air which she breathed—what bursts of glorious sunshine through the murkiest sky that ever frowned upon the world, could, in its contrast, have equalled the feelings that would have possessed his breast, in lieu of the twin hags grief and despair, which now possessed it wholly.And Ada—the beautiful and good—the pure of heart—the noble—the gifted Ada—she was sleeping, all unconscious of the events of that fearful night; little imagined she, that her great enemy had died so awfully, or that he who loved her lived in such great jeopardy.The morning was rapidly approaching now, and Albert was taken into a room facing the east, in the residence of Sir Francis, and closely guarded, until the magistrate should make his appearance, which, in a few moments he did, having been awakened with the news that a barbarous murder was committed and the criminal was in his house.Albert stood facing the window, and it was partly the dull reflection of the early morning light, and partly the death-like paleness of his face, from the state of mind he was in, which made him look more like a corpse than a living man, and for a moment prevented Sir Francis from recognising him.Albert flinched not from the magistrate’s earnest gaze, but looking steadily at him, he said,—“Sir Francis Hartleton, I am brought here accused of murder—I am innocent, but I cannot say more—do with me what you will, for I am tired of life.”“Mr. Seyton!” cried Sir Francis.“The same,” said Albert—“the unhappy Seyton.”Sir Francis remained a moment or two in deep thought, then he said:—“Officers what is the charge against this young man?”“Murder, your worship,” replied one.“Leave the room, all of you, I will hear the evidence one by one.”“Oh, sir,” said Albert, “there is evidence enough—fate has marked me for destruction. You may send me now to prison, and spare your labour—I am innocent, but yet submit; you see I am patient, sir.”“You speak from the bitterness of your heart,” said Sir Francis. “I am here to do my duty, without favour or affection. My previous knowledge of you I now wholly discard from my mind. You come before me as an utter stranger, accused of an awful crime—you shall have justice, and were you my own son, I could say no more. Now, officer, let me hear what you have to say.”Sir Francis himself swore the officer, who remained in the room, and who was the principal spy upon Jacob Gray.“Your worship,” he said, “is aware that my duty has been to keep watch on a man named Gray.”“Which duty you must have to-night neglected,” said the magistrate.“I beg your worship’s pardon, Gray don’t need anymore watching.”“What do you mean?”“He is dead.”“Dead—Gray dead? It surely is not his murder—but go on—go on.”Sir Francis reclined back in his chair, and partially shaded his face with his hand while the officer proceeded in his narrative.“It was nearly half-past one o’clock, your worship, when, upon passing the door of the house where this man Gray lived, I saw it open, and upon examination, saw that it had been forced by some one. Not knowing then how many persons might be there, I ran to the round-house in Buckingham-street, and got assistance, then I and several officers, with lights, entered the house. The first thing we heard was the moaning of a woman, who we found tied to a bedstead in the room adjoining the shop, and immediately after, we proceeded up stairs, when we heard the prisoner calling out to some one—”“Who did he call to?”“The name was Ada. When we got to the top of the house, we found the prisoner on the landing, in a state of great excitement, and upon going into the first room we came to, there lay murdered, and dreadfully mangled, the man Gray—your worship had told me to watch.”“He was quite dead?”“Quite, your worship—we picked up this cloak stained with blood, which we believe belongs to the prisoner.”“That is all you have to say?”“It is, your worship, except that the prisoner has been dodging Gray about as closely as I have, for a day or two now.”“Do you wish to ask any questions of this witness?” said Sir Francis to Albert, in a cold tone.“None,” said Albert. “He has spoken the truth, and yet I am innocent.”“What further evidence is there?” said Sir Francis.“The other officers can swear to what I have said, your worship,” said the officer, “and I have left one to see that no one meddles with the body.”“That was right,” cried Sir Francis, with sudden animation. “I will go there myself at once. There may be some papers.”Albert immediately spoke in a tone of such deep emotion that Sir Francis paused as he rose from his chair, and listened to him with an interest and a growing doubt of his guilty connexion with Learmont, that it would have given him the sincerest pleasure to verify.“Sir,” said Albert, “I implore you for the sake of one for whom I have suffered much—one who I have loved, who I still love more fondly—more fervently than I love life itself, to search for the packet which long ago I told you was directed to yourself. How Jacob Gray came by his death as I hope for God’s mercy I know not.”“Know not!” said Sir Francis. Then turning to the officer he said, “Wait without,” and in a moment he was alone with Albert. There was a pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Sir Francis said,—“You may, or you may not, as it may please you, give me an account of this affair.”“For the sake of the name I bear and the memory of my dear father,” said Albert, “I will declare my innocence and although you may judge me wrongfully, shall die happy, if you will do justice to one who is dearer to me than myself. That one is the persecuted Ada, who, if she be still living, I implore you to succour. Oh, sir, you do not know her—and—and I have no words to paint her to you.”“But about this murder?” said Sir Francis, uneasily.“I will tell you all I know. Being some time since destitute, I applied to one Learmont for employment, and was by him entertained as his secretary.”“So have I heard. Go on, sir.”“The first confidential employment he put me on was to follow a man home, who he thought was imposing upon his benevolence, but before I could proceed upon that employment I had related to him the secret of my heart—my passionate love for Ada, even as I told it to you, sir—my long and weary search for her—my bitter reflections concerning the cruelty of Jacob Gray—I told him all that, and his generosity seemed much worked upon. He proffered me unbounded assistance. His wealth—his power—all he said should be exerted to do justice to the innocent.”“And you believed him?”“I did, and was happy in the thought that Ada would be rescued from her miseries. Then by a strange chance it turned out that this very man who he had commissioned me to watch to his house was Jacob Gray.”“Indeed!” said Sir Francis, in a peculiar tone.“Yes, and then I thanked Heaven for its great goodness, and believed myself on the road to happiness. I did watch Gray home and flew to Learmont with the news. He then enjoined me by a solemn promise to allow him the whole management of the affair, which, from gratitude to him, I could not refuse, but I lingered ever round the house where I believed Ada to be. I could not deny myself the delight of fancying myself near her. It was joy to look upon the house that I thought contained her—to watch a passing shadow at a window, and fancy it was hers; during that watch I encountered your officer, whose motive in being a spy upon Jacob Gray I could not divine.”“Last night I commenced my watch, and being hidden in a deep doorway, immediately opposite the house, which engrossed all my attention, I saw between the hours of twelve and one, two men approach and pause at the residence of Gray. By some means they quickly opened the door when, partially emerging from my place of concealment, I saw that one of them was Learmont.”Sir Francis Hartleton slightly started and changed his posture, so that Albert could not see his face.“The other,” continued Albert, “I know not.”“What kind of man was he?”“A tall bulky man.”“The smith—the smith,” thought Sir Francis to himself.“The door was closed when they had entered the house, and in an agony of impatience I waited for their re-appearance, expecting to see Ada with them, for I doubted not but the squire was rescuing her from Jacob Gray.”“Well, well,” said Sir Francis in a tone of deep interest, “what followed then?”“One o’clock had struck, and no one came forth, nor could I hear any commotion in the house—my agony of impatience was growing exquisitely painful—my eyes were fixed upon the only window which showed a light, and I was on the point of forgetting all promises and rushing over to the house, when with a crash a considerable portion of the window was forced outwards, and a faint scream caught my ears;—maddened by apprehension for Ada, I rushed across the road and knocked loudly at the door. Then scarcely waiting for an answer, I burst it open, and shouting the came of Ada, I rushed into the house.”Sir Francis rose from his chair and in a voice that echoed through the room, he cried,—“Young man, on your soul is this all true?”“On my soul,” said Albert.“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy?”Albert stretched out his arm as he said solemnly, “May the curse of God be upon me evermore if what I say be not the truth. I am innocent—I am innocent.”Sir Francis sunk into his seat again, and drew a long breath before he said,—“You shall have justice. Be assured you shall have justice—go on, I pray you.”“I have little more to add, save that I obtained a light of a female in the house, and that still calling upon Ada, I ascended to the room where lay awfully mangled the ghastly remains of Jacob Gray. Upon my descent, your officers seized me, and accused me of the murder.”“And that cloak?”“Is not mine.”The natural feelings of Sir Francis Hartleton’s heart would have prompted him on the instant to tell Albert that he fully believed what he said, but while he never, when acting in his magisterial capacity, forgot that he was a man, he now felt the necessity of remembering that a sworn deposition had taken place. With some difficulty then he mastered his feelings, and said,—“I shall proceed at once to the house where the deed in question has been committed, and be assured that all shall be done to discover the truth. Till then you must remain here in custody. As a magistrate I can only act upon sworn evidence.”Sir Francis now went to the door, and giving one of the officers whispered instructions to allow no one to see the prisoner, nor suffer him to leave the room, he left him as a guard over Albert, while with hasty steps, and accompanied by one of his most trusty officers, he proceeded to the house of Jacob Gray.
The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.
Who inthis world can safely calculate his true position, or say what circumstance is fraught with woe and what with happiness, when we are more frequently upon the point of obtaining our most glorious and delightful aspirations, while we fancy the cloud of adversity is thickening around us than when, to our limited perceptions, we are emerging into the sweet sunshine of felicity. Situated as Albert Seyton now was, even hope was a stranger to his heart—he could see not one ray of sunlight amid the dreary gloom by which he was immured—all was blank despair. Like some wave-tossed mariner, who, after struggling with the remorseless seas for a long dreary night, looks with lack-lustre eye along the world of waters as the first streak of the morning light enables him to do so, and sees no hope—no distant land—no sail, and feels that to struggle longer is but to protract death which is certain, Albert gave way to the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and as he entered the magistrate’s house, the expression of deep dejection on his countenance was remarked with significant whispers and glances by the officers, who looked upon it as a sign of conscious guilt, and entertained no more doubt of the fate of their prisoner, than they did of their own existence, so confident were they that he was, in truth, the murderer.
Oh, could he have guessed at that moment, that he was under the same roof with his Ada—could he have dreamt that he was breathing the same air which she breathed—what bursts of glorious sunshine through the murkiest sky that ever frowned upon the world, could, in its contrast, have equalled the feelings that would have possessed his breast, in lieu of the twin hags grief and despair, which now possessed it wholly.
And Ada—the beautiful and good—the pure of heart—the noble—the gifted Ada—she was sleeping, all unconscious of the events of that fearful night; little imagined she, that her great enemy had died so awfully, or that he who loved her lived in such great jeopardy.
The morning was rapidly approaching now, and Albert was taken into a room facing the east, in the residence of Sir Francis, and closely guarded, until the magistrate should make his appearance, which, in a few moments he did, having been awakened with the news that a barbarous murder was committed and the criminal was in his house.
Albert stood facing the window, and it was partly the dull reflection of the early morning light, and partly the death-like paleness of his face, from the state of mind he was in, which made him look more like a corpse than a living man, and for a moment prevented Sir Francis from recognising him.
Albert flinched not from the magistrate’s earnest gaze, but looking steadily at him, he said,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, I am brought here accused of murder—I am innocent, but I cannot say more—do with me what you will, for I am tired of life.”
“Mr. Seyton!” cried Sir Francis.
“The same,” said Albert—“the unhappy Seyton.”
Sir Francis remained a moment or two in deep thought, then he said:—
“Officers what is the charge against this young man?”
“Murder, your worship,” replied one.
“Leave the room, all of you, I will hear the evidence one by one.”
“Oh, sir,” said Albert, “there is evidence enough—fate has marked me for destruction. You may send me now to prison, and spare your labour—I am innocent, but yet submit; you see I am patient, sir.”
“You speak from the bitterness of your heart,” said Sir Francis. “I am here to do my duty, without favour or affection. My previous knowledge of you I now wholly discard from my mind. You come before me as an utter stranger, accused of an awful crime—you shall have justice, and were you my own son, I could say no more. Now, officer, let me hear what you have to say.”
Sir Francis himself swore the officer, who remained in the room, and who was the principal spy upon Jacob Gray.
“Your worship,” he said, “is aware that my duty has been to keep watch on a man named Gray.”
“Which duty you must have to-night neglected,” said the magistrate.
“I beg your worship’s pardon, Gray don’t need anymore watching.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead—Gray dead? It surely is not his murder—but go on—go on.”
Sir Francis reclined back in his chair, and partially shaded his face with his hand while the officer proceeded in his narrative.
“It was nearly half-past one o’clock, your worship, when, upon passing the door of the house where this man Gray lived, I saw it open, and upon examination, saw that it had been forced by some one. Not knowing then how many persons might be there, I ran to the round-house in Buckingham-street, and got assistance, then I and several officers, with lights, entered the house. The first thing we heard was the moaning of a woman, who we found tied to a bedstead in the room adjoining the shop, and immediately after, we proceeded up stairs, when we heard the prisoner calling out to some one—”
“Who did he call to?”
“The name was Ada. When we got to the top of the house, we found the prisoner on the landing, in a state of great excitement, and upon going into the first room we came to, there lay murdered, and dreadfully mangled, the man Gray—your worship had told me to watch.”
“He was quite dead?”
“Quite, your worship—we picked up this cloak stained with blood, which we believe belongs to the prisoner.”
“That is all you have to say?”
“It is, your worship, except that the prisoner has been dodging Gray about as closely as I have, for a day or two now.”
“Do you wish to ask any questions of this witness?” said Sir Francis to Albert, in a cold tone.
“None,” said Albert. “He has spoken the truth, and yet I am innocent.”
“What further evidence is there?” said Sir Francis.
“The other officers can swear to what I have said, your worship,” said the officer, “and I have left one to see that no one meddles with the body.”
“That was right,” cried Sir Francis, with sudden animation. “I will go there myself at once. There may be some papers.”
Albert immediately spoke in a tone of such deep emotion that Sir Francis paused as he rose from his chair, and listened to him with an interest and a growing doubt of his guilty connexion with Learmont, that it would have given him the sincerest pleasure to verify.
“Sir,” said Albert, “I implore you for the sake of one for whom I have suffered much—one who I have loved, who I still love more fondly—more fervently than I love life itself, to search for the packet which long ago I told you was directed to yourself. How Jacob Gray came by his death as I hope for God’s mercy I know not.”
“Know not!” said Sir Francis. Then turning to the officer he said, “Wait without,” and in a moment he was alone with Albert. There was a pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Sir Francis said,—
“You may, or you may not, as it may please you, give me an account of this affair.”
“For the sake of the name I bear and the memory of my dear father,” said Albert, “I will declare my innocence and although you may judge me wrongfully, shall die happy, if you will do justice to one who is dearer to me than myself. That one is the persecuted Ada, who, if she be still living, I implore you to succour. Oh, sir, you do not know her—and—and I have no words to paint her to you.”
“But about this murder?” said Sir Francis, uneasily.
“I will tell you all I know. Being some time since destitute, I applied to one Learmont for employment, and was by him entertained as his secretary.”
“So have I heard. Go on, sir.”
“The first confidential employment he put me on was to follow a man home, who he thought was imposing upon his benevolence, but before I could proceed upon that employment I had related to him the secret of my heart—my passionate love for Ada, even as I told it to you, sir—my long and weary search for her—my bitter reflections concerning the cruelty of Jacob Gray—I told him all that, and his generosity seemed much worked upon. He proffered me unbounded assistance. His wealth—his power—all he said should be exerted to do justice to the innocent.”
“And you believed him?”
“I did, and was happy in the thought that Ada would be rescued from her miseries. Then by a strange chance it turned out that this very man who he had commissioned me to watch to his house was Jacob Gray.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Francis, in a peculiar tone.
“Yes, and then I thanked Heaven for its great goodness, and believed myself on the road to happiness. I did watch Gray home and flew to Learmont with the news. He then enjoined me by a solemn promise to allow him the whole management of the affair, which, from gratitude to him, I could not refuse, but I lingered ever round the house where I believed Ada to be. I could not deny myself the delight of fancying myself near her. It was joy to look upon the house that I thought contained her—to watch a passing shadow at a window, and fancy it was hers; during that watch I encountered your officer, whose motive in being a spy upon Jacob Gray I could not divine.”
“Last night I commenced my watch, and being hidden in a deep doorway, immediately opposite the house, which engrossed all my attention, I saw between the hours of twelve and one, two men approach and pause at the residence of Gray. By some means they quickly opened the door when, partially emerging from my place of concealment, I saw that one of them was Learmont.”
Sir Francis Hartleton slightly started and changed his posture, so that Albert could not see his face.
“The other,” continued Albert, “I know not.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A tall bulky man.”
“The smith—the smith,” thought Sir Francis to himself.
“The door was closed when they had entered the house, and in an agony of impatience I waited for their re-appearance, expecting to see Ada with them, for I doubted not but the squire was rescuing her from Jacob Gray.”
“Well, well,” said Sir Francis in a tone of deep interest, “what followed then?”
“One o’clock had struck, and no one came forth, nor could I hear any commotion in the house—my agony of impatience was growing exquisitely painful—my eyes were fixed upon the only window which showed a light, and I was on the point of forgetting all promises and rushing over to the house, when with a crash a considerable portion of the window was forced outwards, and a faint scream caught my ears;—maddened by apprehension for Ada, I rushed across the road and knocked loudly at the door. Then scarcely waiting for an answer, I burst it open, and shouting the came of Ada, I rushed into the house.”
Sir Francis rose from his chair and in a voice that echoed through the room, he cried,—
“Young man, on your soul is this all true?”
“On my soul,” said Albert.
“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy?”
Albert stretched out his arm as he said solemnly, “May the curse of God be upon me evermore if what I say be not the truth. I am innocent—I am innocent.”
Sir Francis sunk into his seat again, and drew a long breath before he said,—
“You shall have justice. Be assured you shall have justice—go on, I pray you.”
“I have little more to add, save that I obtained a light of a female in the house, and that still calling upon Ada, I ascended to the room where lay awfully mangled the ghastly remains of Jacob Gray. Upon my descent, your officers seized me, and accused me of the murder.”
“And that cloak?”
“Is not mine.”
The natural feelings of Sir Francis Hartleton’s heart would have prompted him on the instant to tell Albert that he fully believed what he said, but while he never, when acting in his magisterial capacity, forgot that he was a man, he now felt the necessity of remembering that a sworn deposition had taken place. With some difficulty then he mastered his feelings, and said,—
“I shall proceed at once to the house where the deed in question has been committed, and be assured that all shall be done to discover the truth. Till then you must remain here in custody. As a magistrate I can only act upon sworn evidence.”
Sir Francis now went to the door, and giving one of the officers whispered instructions to allow no one to see the prisoner, nor suffer him to leave the room, he left him as a guard over Albert, while with hasty steps, and accompanied by one of his most trusty officers, he proceeded to the house of Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER CVIII.Albert’s Despair.—The Tests of Truth.With farpleasanter feelings as regarded Ada and her fortunes than he had ever experienced since his opinion of the unworthiness of Albert Seyton, Sir Francis arrived at the house where so awful a scene of bloodshed had taken place. He was immediately saluted with respect by a constable who had remained in charge of the shattered door, and upon entering the house, the first person belonging to it he saw was Jacob Gray’s landlady, who sat in her parlour wringing her hands, and lamenting the death which had taken place under such horrible circumstances in her house, and which as she feelingly remarked, was “a uncommon wicked thing considering she was a lone woman, and lived principally by letting her lodging for nobody wouldn’t come and live in the house now, because Mr. Gray’s ghostesses would, as a matter of course, haunt the attic and the staircase, so it would.”“Now, my good woman,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “I am a magistrate, so tell me now how all this happened.”“Lord love you, sir, if you was six magistrates, I couldn’t tell you. All I knows is, as I am a ruinated woman.”“Well, well, something must be done for you, but I want to know what you heard about this murder.”“Oh! Dear me, sir. Master Gray was such a great man, he was, and his relations must be wretches.”“His relations?”“Yes, sir. When he comed to live here, he says, says he, my relations would take my life if they could. That’s what he said. Well, I didn’t think much of that, but last night—no, it was after twelve, for I recollect I’d heard the Abbey-clock strike, ’cos the wind blowed in that quarter. Well, I was a listening to the rain, when I heard never such a smash in my shop. ‘What’s that?’ says I, and without more ado, I gets a light, and I goes out.”“Well, and you saw the young man?”“No, I didn’t sir. There was two villains, sir—one was a amazing tall villain, and the other was uncommon big, only the amazing tall villain looked so in consequence of being so desperate thin, he did. Well, sir, the other villain, not the amazing tall one, he asks where master Gray lives, and I tells him, then he says as he’s his uncle, and desires me to say nothink, and ties me to my blessed bed post and laughed in my face. The idea, sir, of laughing at a lone woman.”“Seyton has spoken the truth,” said Sir Francis; “Learmont and Britton have murdered Gray.”“Sir,” said the woman.“Nothing—nothing; is there any one else in the house?”“Yes sir; there’s an old lady up stairs, and she says as she gave a light to one of the murderers.”“All confirms his statement,” thought Hartleton; “all that now remains for me to do is to secure Gray’s confession.” Turning then to his officers, he said,—“Show me to the murdered man’s room,” and following them up the narrow staircase, a few minutes brought him to the presence of the awful remains of Jacob Gray. Sir Francis shuddered as he looked upon the dreadful spectacle, and turning away his eyes, he said,—“Do not allow the body to be moved. There will be an inquest on it, but search every hole and corner of the room for any papers, and should you see any, give them into no hands but mine.”The search which took place was the most energetic and active that could possibly be made; but it was, of course, quite unsuccessful; so after a full hour being spent in it, Sir Francis Hartleton most reluctantly turned towards the corpse, saying to his men—“You are not afraid of a dead body? The papers I spoke to you about are most important, and as they may be about him, I wish you to search the pockets.”Hardened as those men were, and callous to most scenes of horror, they approached the remains of Gray with evident reluctance, and made a brief search of his pockets. Nothing was found but a small sum of money and a wedge-shaped steel instrument, which was then commonly used by housebreakers to wrench open doors with.“There are no papers here, sir,” said the men.Sir Francis Hartleton turned from the room with a look of great disappointment. He entertained now not a moment’s doubt, but that the object of Learmont’s murder of Gray was to get possession of the packet addressed to him, Sir Francis, and there was every reason to believe that in that object the squire had succeeded.“Ada’s name and birth,” thought Hartleton, “seem ever doomed to remain mysterious—well, she may still be happy, and as for Learmont and Britton, they must, at all events, expiate this crime upon the scaffold if it is brought home to them.”Full of these mingled reflections, Sir Francis hurried back to his house, and sought the room in which sat poor Albert Seyton, melancholy and solitary for he could not make up his mind whether his tale, truthful as it was, was believed by the magistrate or not; and when Sir Francis appeared again before him, he rose, with a saddened countenance to hear what he had to say to him.“Mr. Seyton,” said Hartleton, “what you have told me has been confirmed, as far as it could be, by the parties in the house I have been to; but tell me now how it was that you, after communicating to me the singular facts you did concerning this Ada, stayed away from me so long?”“I called upon you, sir,” said Albert, “and not seeing you, I fancied you had cooled upon the matter. The squire Learmont had prejudiced me against you, representing you as cold and selfish.”“Mr. Seyton—you have yet to learn that those who say the least are often the most to be trusted. I am convinced of your innocence of this murder.”Albert clasped his hands as he cried—“Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! I shall not die the death of a felon. In some battle for right against might, I am content now in a foreign land to lay down my life. Something tells me that Ada is lost to me for ever. The villain Gray must have taken her life, and I am desolate.”“You jump, perchance, too hastily at that conclusion,” said Sir Francis. “You may yet find her. She may even some time since have escaped from Gray.”“Oh if I could but think so.”“Why should you not? Besides, do you mean to give up your friend, the squire.”“I do—from the first I have had my suspicions of that man. It is not for me to say he killed Jacob Gray, but I will see him no more. His ways are crooked and mysterious.”“Why, he certainly is not the most open and candid character in the world, Mr. Seyton; but were I you, I would not yet give up all hope of discovering Ada.”“Oh, sir, if I could find the smallest foothold for hope to rest upon, I should be again, as I have been, sanguine; but my heart is very sad, and full of despair.”“Being now at liberty, as you may consider yourself, what may be your intentions.”“I shall pursue a course,” replied Albert, “that I marked out for myself before I entered the service of this Squire Learmont. I shall, in the capacity of a common soldier, join the army, and hope to find an early and an honourable grave.”“But your testimony will be required on the inquest which will be held on Jacob Gray.”“I cannot help it. I tell you, sir, I am as one wearied now from the world, and all its uses and companionships; Ada, I feel is lost to me for ever! Farewell, sir. For what exertion you have made, and for what consideration you have shown me, I thank you. Farewell, sir.”“Do you intend now to enlist?”“I do.”“Well, then, I wish you a happier fate and brighter destiny than you have sketched for yourself. If such be your determination, it is not for me to prevent it.”With a heavy heart Albert rose, and bowing to Sir Francis, who followed him to the room-door, and gave orders for his free egress, he passed out of the house, sick and weary at heart.Albert then paused in the street a moment, and the idea came across him that it was just possible he might by calling upon Learmont, procure some hint or information of the fate of Ada; but he rejected the proposition almost as quickly as he formed it, and the ghastly corpse of Gray rose up before his imagination, mutely, but strongly accusing Learmont of the murder.“No—no,” he said, “that man is a man of blood! For some cause unknown to me, he has made me a mere tool in his hands to aid in the destruction of Gray. I will leave him to his conscience, and to the laws. I will see him no more.”The unhappy young man then turned his steps towards the park, and sauntering down the Birdcage-walk, till he came to the old barracks, he accosted a soldier who was lounging by the gate.Albert had never once glanced behind him, or he might have seen Sir Francis Hartleton, who had, resolving to be perfectly assured in Albert’s truth and faith, permitted him to leave the house in the manner we have recorded, but followed him as closely as consistent with ordinary caution. Had Albert gone to Learmont’s, new suspicions would have risen up in the mind of the magistrate, and choked like noxious weeds the kindly feelings which he was beginning to entertain towards him; but now that he saw him enter the park, and proceed towards the barracks, Sir Francis felt the pleasure which a noble mind always receives from getting rid of suspicion and doubt.Albert and the soldier passed into the barracks, and then Sir Francis Hartleton immediately stepped up to the gate, and addressing another soldier, said,—“I must see that young man who has just passed in. My name is Hartleton; I am a magistrate.”Sir Francis was well known by reputation, and upon his announcement of who he was, the soldier ran after his comrade and Seyton, and brought them both back to the gate again.“What does this young man do here?” said Sir Francis.“He offers to go in the army,” said the soldier, “and I was conducting him to my officer.”“I have something to say to him first,” remarked the magistrate. “Will you follow me home, Mr. Seyton?”“No sir,” said Albert, proudly; “I wish to give you and myself no further trouble with each other.”“Nay, but I have something to communicate.”“You are too late,” said Albert. “I came to you in my agony of mind, and implored you to assist in righting the wronged, and saving the innocent from oppression; you received my suit coldly. You have done, for aught that I know, nothing. Leave me now, sir, for my own course; I want no cold friends.”“You are angry with me for no cause,” said Hartleton, who was secretly pleased at Albert’s independence of spirit. “If I have appeared lukewarm in your affairs, I beg you will not attribute it to indifference.”“You may call it what you please, sir,” said Albert. “Good morning.”“But I want you to come back with me.”“I hope your honour don’t mean to persuade our recruit off?” said the soldier, who was in apprehension that he should lose his gratuity for bringing so unexceptionable a soldier as the handsome Albert Seyton to the regiment.“If I do take your recruit away, my friend,” said the magistrate, “you shall lose nothing by it if you will call upon me to-morrow.”“Thanks to your honour.”“This is as idle as it is insulting,” said Albert. “Am I to be made a thing of barter between you? I tell you, Sir Francis Hartleton, that you shall not, were you twenty times what you are, interfere with me. When your activity is implored, you are cold and most indifferent, but now when your presence is quite unlooked for and unnecessary, you come after me, as if merely to perplex and annoy me. Take me to your officer, soldiers; I will serve the king despite of this mocking magistrate.”“But I have not done with you yet,” said Sir Francis, with provoking coolness. “I have an affair in hand in which you must assist me.”“This is insult, sir.”“No; I have a young friend who I think would make a very good match for you, as you are a likely-looking young man.”Albert’s cheek flushed with indignation, as he cried,—“Sir Francis Hartleton, you came to insult me. Unworthy is it of you, who are revelling in the amplitude of means and power, to deride the unfortunate. You are—”“Come, come, be calm,” interrupted Sir Francis. “You must come with me.”“I will not.”“Then I must make you. I shall have you taken into custody. Ho, there!”The magistrate turned and beckoned to his officers, whom he had directed to follow him, and when they sprang forward to the gate, he said,—“Take this young man in custody to my house.”“This is the very wantonness of power,” cried Albert. “How dare you thus abuse your office.”“Take him away—I will follow.”Albert was immediately seized, and burning with rage, conveyed to Sir Francis’s house again, while the magistrate followed with a smile upon his face.
Albert’s Despair.—The Tests of Truth.
With farpleasanter feelings as regarded Ada and her fortunes than he had ever experienced since his opinion of the unworthiness of Albert Seyton, Sir Francis arrived at the house where so awful a scene of bloodshed had taken place. He was immediately saluted with respect by a constable who had remained in charge of the shattered door, and upon entering the house, the first person belonging to it he saw was Jacob Gray’s landlady, who sat in her parlour wringing her hands, and lamenting the death which had taken place under such horrible circumstances in her house, and which as she feelingly remarked, was “a uncommon wicked thing considering she was a lone woman, and lived principally by letting her lodging for nobody wouldn’t come and live in the house now, because Mr. Gray’s ghostesses would, as a matter of course, haunt the attic and the staircase, so it would.”
“Now, my good woman,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “I am a magistrate, so tell me now how all this happened.”
“Lord love you, sir, if you was six magistrates, I couldn’t tell you. All I knows is, as I am a ruinated woman.”
“Well, well, something must be done for you, but I want to know what you heard about this murder.”
“Oh! Dear me, sir. Master Gray was such a great man, he was, and his relations must be wretches.”
“His relations?”
“Yes, sir. When he comed to live here, he says, says he, my relations would take my life if they could. That’s what he said. Well, I didn’t think much of that, but last night—no, it was after twelve, for I recollect I’d heard the Abbey-clock strike, ’cos the wind blowed in that quarter. Well, I was a listening to the rain, when I heard never such a smash in my shop. ‘What’s that?’ says I, and without more ado, I gets a light, and I goes out.”
“Well, and you saw the young man?”
“No, I didn’t sir. There was two villains, sir—one was a amazing tall villain, and the other was uncommon big, only the amazing tall villain looked so in consequence of being so desperate thin, he did. Well, sir, the other villain, not the amazing tall one, he asks where master Gray lives, and I tells him, then he says as he’s his uncle, and desires me to say nothink, and ties me to my blessed bed post and laughed in my face. The idea, sir, of laughing at a lone woman.”
“Seyton has spoken the truth,” said Sir Francis; “Learmont and Britton have murdered Gray.”
“Sir,” said the woman.
“Nothing—nothing; is there any one else in the house?”
“Yes sir; there’s an old lady up stairs, and she says as she gave a light to one of the murderers.”
“All confirms his statement,” thought Hartleton; “all that now remains for me to do is to secure Gray’s confession.” Turning then to his officers, he said,—
“Show me to the murdered man’s room,” and following them up the narrow staircase, a few minutes brought him to the presence of the awful remains of Jacob Gray. Sir Francis shuddered as he looked upon the dreadful spectacle, and turning away his eyes, he said,—
“Do not allow the body to be moved. There will be an inquest on it, but search every hole and corner of the room for any papers, and should you see any, give them into no hands but mine.”
The search which took place was the most energetic and active that could possibly be made; but it was, of course, quite unsuccessful; so after a full hour being spent in it, Sir Francis Hartleton most reluctantly turned towards the corpse, saying to his men—
“You are not afraid of a dead body? The papers I spoke to you about are most important, and as they may be about him, I wish you to search the pockets.”
Hardened as those men were, and callous to most scenes of horror, they approached the remains of Gray with evident reluctance, and made a brief search of his pockets. Nothing was found but a small sum of money and a wedge-shaped steel instrument, which was then commonly used by housebreakers to wrench open doors with.
“There are no papers here, sir,” said the men.
Sir Francis Hartleton turned from the room with a look of great disappointment. He entertained now not a moment’s doubt, but that the object of Learmont’s murder of Gray was to get possession of the packet addressed to him, Sir Francis, and there was every reason to believe that in that object the squire had succeeded.
“Ada’s name and birth,” thought Hartleton, “seem ever doomed to remain mysterious—well, she may still be happy, and as for Learmont and Britton, they must, at all events, expiate this crime upon the scaffold if it is brought home to them.”
Full of these mingled reflections, Sir Francis hurried back to his house, and sought the room in which sat poor Albert Seyton, melancholy and solitary for he could not make up his mind whether his tale, truthful as it was, was believed by the magistrate or not; and when Sir Francis appeared again before him, he rose, with a saddened countenance to hear what he had to say to him.
“Mr. Seyton,” said Hartleton, “what you have told me has been confirmed, as far as it could be, by the parties in the house I have been to; but tell me now how it was that you, after communicating to me the singular facts you did concerning this Ada, stayed away from me so long?”
“I called upon you, sir,” said Albert, “and not seeing you, I fancied you had cooled upon the matter. The squire Learmont had prejudiced me against you, representing you as cold and selfish.”
“Mr. Seyton—you have yet to learn that those who say the least are often the most to be trusted. I am convinced of your innocence of this murder.”
Albert clasped his hands as he cried—
“Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! I shall not die the death of a felon. In some battle for right against might, I am content now in a foreign land to lay down my life. Something tells me that Ada is lost to me for ever. The villain Gray must have taken her life, and I am desolate.”
“You jump, perchance, too hastily at that conclusion,” said Sir Francis. “You may yet find her. She may even some time since have escaped from Gray.”
“Oh if I could but think so.”
“Why should you not? Besides, do you mean to give up your friend, the squire.”
“I do—from the first I have had my suspicions of that man. It is not for me to say he killed Jacob Gray, but I will see him no more. His ways are crooked and mysterious.”
“Why, he certainly is not the most open and candid character in the world, Mr. Seyton; but were I you, I would not yet give up all hope of discovering Ada.”
“Oh, sir, if I could find the smallest foothold for hope to rest upon, I should be again, as I have been, sanguine; but my heart is very sad, and full of despair.”
“Being now at liberty, as you may consider yourself, what may be your intentions.”
“I shall pursue a course,” replied Albert, “that I marked out for myself before I entered the service of this Squire Learmont. I shall, in the capacity of a common soldier, join the army, and hope to find an early and an honourable grave.”
“But your testimony will be required on the inquest which will be held on Jacob Gray.”
“I cannot help it. I tell you, sir, I am as one wearied now from the world, and all its uses and companionships; Ada, I feel is lost to me for ever! Farewell, sir. For what exertion you have made, and for what consideration you have shown me, I thank you. Farewell, sir.”
“Do you intend now to enlist?”
“I do.”
“Well, then, I wish you a happier fate and brighter destiny than you have sketched for yourself. If such be your determination, it is not for me to prevent it.”
With a heavy heart Albert rose, and bowing to Sir Francis, who followed him to the room-door, and gave orders for his free egress, he passed out of the house, sick and weary at heart.
Albert then paused in the street a moment, and the idea came across him that it was just possible he might by calling upon Learmont, procure some hint or information of the fate of Ada; but he rejected the proposition almost as quickly as he formed it, and the ghastly corpse of Gray rose up before his imagination, mutely, but strongly accusing Learmont of the murder.
“No—no,” he said, “that man is a man of blood! For some cause unknown to me, he has made me a mere tool in his hands to aid in the destruction of Gray. I will leave him to his conscience, and to the laws. I will see him no more.”
The unhappy young man then turned his steps towards the park, and sauntering down the Birdcage-walk, till he came to the old barracks, he accosted a soldier who was lounging by the gate.
Albert had never once glanced behind him, or he might have seen Sir Francis Hartleton, who had, resolving to be perfectly assured in Albert’s truth and faith, permitted him to leave the house in the manner we have recorded, but followed him as closely as consistent with ordinary caution. Had Albert gone to Learmont’s, new suspicions would have risen up in the mind of the magistrate, and choked like noxious weeds the kindly feelings which he was beginning to entertain towards him; but now that he saw him enter the park, and proceed towards the barracks, Sir Francis felt the pleasure which a noble mind always receives from getting rid of suspicion and doubt.
Albert and the soldier passed into the barracks, and then Sir Francis Hartleton immediately stepped up to the gate, and addressing another soldier, said,—
“I must see that young man who has just passed in. My name is Hartleton; I am a magistrate.”
Sir Francis was well known by reputation, and upon his announcement of who he was, the soldier ran after his comrade and Seyton, and brought them both back to the gate again.
“What does this young man do here?” said Sir Francis.
“He offers to go in the army,” said the soldier, “and I was conducting him to my officer.”
“I have something to say to him first,” remarked the magistrate. “Will you follow me home, Mr. Seyton?”
“No sir,” said Albert, proudly; “I wish to give you and myself no further trouble with each other.”
“Nay, but I have something to communicate.”
“You are too late,” said Albert. “I came to you in my agony of mind, and implored you to assist in righting the wronged, and saving the innocent from oppression; you received my suit coldly. You have done, for aught that I know, nothing. Leave me now, sir, for my own course; I want no cold friends.”
“You are angry with me for no cause,” said Hartleton, who was secretly pleased at Albert’s independence of spirit. “If I have appeared lukewarm in your affairs, I beg you will not attribute it to indifference.”
“You may call it what you please, sir,” said Albert. “Good morning.”
“But I want you to come back with me.”
“I hope your honour don’t mean to persuade our recruit off?” said the soldier, who was in apprehension that he should lose his gratuity for bringing so unexceptionable a soldier as the handsome Albert Seyton to the regiment.
“If I do take your recruit away, my friend,” said the magistrate, “you shall lose nothing by it if you will call upon me to-morrow.”
“Thanks to your honour.”
“This is as idle as it is insulting,” said Albert. “Am I to be made a thing of barter between you? I tell you, Sir Francis Hartleton, that you shall not, were you twenty times what you are, interfere with me. When your activity is implored, you are cold and most indifferent, but now when your presence is quite unlooked for and unnecessary, you come after me, as if merely to perplex and annoy me. Take me to your officer, soldiers; I will serve the king despite of this mocking magistrate.”
“But I have not done with you yet,” said Sir Francis, with provoking coolness. “I have an affair in hand in which you must assist me.”
“This is insult, sir.”
“No; I have a young friend who I think would make a very good match for you, as you are a likely-looking young man.”
Albert’s cheek flushed with indignation, as he cried,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, you came to insult me. Unworthy is it of you, who are revelling in the amplitude of means and power, to deride the unfortunate. You are—”
“Come, come, be calm,” interrupted Sir Francis. “You must come with me.”
“I will not.”
“Then I must make you. I shall have you taken into custody. Ho, there!”
The magistrate turned and beckoned to his officers, whom he had directed to follow him, and when they sprang forward to the gate, he said,—
“Take this young man in custody to my house.”
“This is the very wantonness of power,” cried Albert. “How dare you thus abuse your office.”
“Take him away—I will follow.”
Albert was immediately seized, and burning with rage, conveyed to Sir Francis’s house again, while the magistrate followed with a smile upon his face.
CHAPTER CIX.The Meeting of the Lovers.Sir Francis Hartleton’sofficers paid but little heed to the loud and angry remonstrances of Albert Seyton, but hurried him the short distance between the park and the magistrate’s house, at which in a few minutes they arrived, and in obedience to their orders fastened him in the same room from where he had come so recently.As Sir Francis stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, Albert turned to him and said—“Sir Francis Hartleton, for the treacherous and ungentlemanly conduct of which I have been the victim, I will now denounce you as a disgrace to the office you hold. I look upon you as—”“Nay, nay—hold,” cried the magistrate, “I will hear no more. The less you say, the less you will have to retract and ask my pardon for.”“Your pardon?” cried Albert; “I—”“Shut the door, he is raving,” interposed the magistrate, and in a moment Albert was alone.The young man stood in the middle of the floor, in deep disgust with Sir Francis, and revolving in his own mind what he should do in the situation he was now placed in. He walked to the window which overlooked a garden, but there were iron bars across the frame-work, which appeared too firmly let into solid oak to be removed without appropriate tools.“I will not, however, be caged here if I can help it,” thought Albert; and he seized one of the bars, and exerted all his strength to move it, but it was in vain, for it showed no signs of giving way. Albert then glanced around him for some weapon, but none such was in the room. He then threw himself into a chair, and after a few hasty expressions of indignation, relapsed into melancholy silence. Suddenly, then, he recollected a small knife that he had in his pocket, and he thought he might possibly be able to cut away sufficient of the wood-work to wrench out one of the bars from the window, which, could he accomplish it, would leave a space sufficiently large for him to get through, and drop into the garden, which was at no very great depth, although amply sufficient to make any one, not labouring under the excitement of mind that Albert was, pause ere they adventured the leap.He found the job of cutting away the wood-work at the window a long and a tedious one, for he could only get the oak away in small pieces, and the iron bars were very deeply imbedded.“I have heard,” thought Albert, “of these things being done with more inefficient tools than a tolerably good knife, aided by perseverance, I shall rejoice to give this tricky magistrate the slip, even if I walk directly to another, and claim an inquiry into the causes of my present most unjustifiable detention.”“When the heart is in any work, it makes good progress,” says Lord Bacon; and so it seemed in the present instance, for Albert was rapidly getting towards the end of the bar, when an unhappy circumstance retarded his labours. In getting out a large piece of the wood, he struck the blade of the knife on one side, and snapped it short off by the handle. In the excitement, then, of the moment, he seized the bar, and did what, at a cooler time, he could not have done, namely, wrenched one end of it from its hold. The powerful leverage he now had, soon enabled him to free it at the other extremity, and a prospect of escape seemed on the instant opened to him.In a moment he threw up the window, and glancing into the garden, he was on the point of springing out, when he saw that there were some iron rails covering some underground part of the premises, upon which he must have fell, had he adventured the leap. Albert paused for a moment, and the sudden thought struck him that he could make a means of descending in safety. He took Gray’s cloak, which had been left hanging on the back of a chair, and firmly tying one corner of it to one of the remaining bars of the window, he let the remainder hang out, intending to slide down by it.“Now, Sir Francis Hartleton,” he exclaimed, “with all your power I am able once more to defy you; and lest my flight should give occasion to surmises of my guilt, on account of Jacob Gray’s murder, I will betake me to the nearest magistrate, and allow him to hold me in custody if he pleases.”He flung himself out at the window. His weight cut the cloak across, and there fell at his feet a folded paper. The young man lay stunned for a moment by his sudden fall. Then he slowly rose, and his eye fell upon the paper; it was addressed—“To Sir Francis Hartleton, with speed.”Albert clasped his hands, and a cry of surprise escaped him. He knew the endorsement—it was Jacob Gray’s confession.We must now leave Albert for some few moments to his mingled feelings of surprise, and joy, and grief, for such were all struggling in his breast, in order to follow Sir Francis Hartleton to his own private study, whither he instantly repaired after seeing Albert, as he thought, properly secured for the present.He sat down, and covering his eyes with his hands, a habit he had when he wished a steady communion with his own thoughts, he remained silent for some time. Then he spoke in a low voice, and with a confident tone.“This young man’s honesty and honour,” he said, “has been sufficiently tested, and the noble confidence of Ada in his love and sincerity is, thank Heaven, not misplaced. The mystery that envelopes Ada’s name and history, I fear now will never be disclosed; but I must make these two young people happy, and they will be foolish to torment themselves about the past, when the present will be so dear to them, and the future so full of hope. There shall be no sense of dependence, for I will exert all my interest to procure Albert Seyton some honourable employment; and although the solution of the mysterious conduct of Learmont and his strange connection with Gray and Britton may go to the grave with him, yet she, the long suffering, persecuted girl will be happy with the object of her heart’s choice. I must see her and prepare her for the interview which she shall have with him. How will his anger at his detention here change its complexion when he knows its cause.”Sir Francis then summoned an attendant, and desired that Ada might be requested to come to him as soon as possible. The message was duly delivered, and in a few moments our heroine, to whose fortunes we have clung so long, and who holds so large a place in our hearts, glided like a spirit of beauty into the magistrate’s study.Sir Francis Hartleton, when he had offered her a seat, looked with kindly interest in her face, and said—“Ada; you look unhappy; you are paler than you were.”A slight increase of colour visited Ada’s cheek, as she replied in her sweet, low musical voice,—“I am all unused to cloak my feelings either of joy or of sorrow; I am not happy. I have told myself often that I am most ungrateful to you for your great kindness to me, by being unhappy; but the heart will not be reasoned with, and the subtlest logic of the mind will fail to stop a tear from dimming the eye, when the full heart says ‘weep.’”“You are full of regret, Ada, that I think harshly of young Albert Seyton.”“I am, I am,” said Ada. “Oh, sir! You do not know him as I know him, or you would seek some other cause for his conduct than faithlessness.”“Hear me, Ada,” added Sir Francis with emotion. “Since I last saw you, I have had occasion to alter my opinion.”A half suppressed cry of joy escaped the lips of Ada, and then she clasped her hands; and while the rapid beating of her heart testified to the emotion occasioned by Sir Francis’s words, she fixed upon his face her beautiful eloquent eyes, and eagerly dwelt on every word he uttered.“Believe me, Ada,” he said, “my deep concern for your happiness alone made me anxious that he who was to make or mar your happiness in this world should be proved pure as virgin gold, ere with joy I could see you become his. I have tested him.”“And—and—” said Ada.“And believe him true,” continued Sir Francis, “although the victim of as strange a series of circumstances as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.”Ada burst into tears, and sobbed for very joy, while the magistrate turned his head aside to conceal his own emotion.“My dear Ada,” he said, after a pause, “I have much, very much to tell you that concerns you mostly, but I will not now detain you to listen to me. Take this key; it opens the little eastern room which looks into the garden. Release the prisoner you will find there.”“It is Albert?” said Ada.“It is—”She rose and placed both her hands in those of Sir Francis Hartleton, and smiling upon him through her tears, she said,—“Dear friend; can I ever thank you—can the poor Ada ever hope even in words to convey to you the full gratitude of her heart?”“Let me see you happy, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “and I am more than repaid. Go to you lover, who is, I fear, a very impatient prisoner, and tell him, from me, that I will never interfere with him again, let him do what he may.”Ada could not understand what Sir Francis meant by his last words, but at that moment she was not much inclined to ask explanations, but taking the key while her hand trembled, and her lustrous eyes seemed swimming in an ocean of tenderness as she glided from the room to rescue her lover.Ada knew the room well to which Sir Francis had directed her, and her eager footsteps in a few moments brought her to the door. For one brief moment then she paused to recover herself from her state of agitation. In the next she had opened the door—the room was tenantless. Ada flew to the window—there hung the torn cloak.“Albert, Albert,” she cried, and sunk upon the floor in an agony of grief.Sir Francis Hartleton heard the cry of Ada, and hastening from his room, the truth shot across his mind in a moment when he saw the cloak hanging by the iron bar.“Who could have imagined this?” he cried. “Ada, Ada, be of good cheer; all will be well. He cannot leave the garden.”“Oh, Sir Francis,” cried Ada; “for Heaven’s sake explain to me the meaning of all this—what could induce him to fly thus strangely?”“Think nothing of it, Ada, all will be well. I meditated giving Albert Seyton an agreeable surprise, and he has given us a disagreeable one, that is all—hark!”As Sir Francis spoke, there arose a confused noise in the garden, and upon his going to the window, he saw Albert in the grasp of two of his officers. Without any remark concerning what he was to say, he turned to Ada and said,—“Leave all to me. Do you remain here, Ada, until I come to you. I pledge you my word all shall be explained to your satisfaction within this present hour.”Sir Francis then hurried from the room, leaving Ada in a greater state of bewilderment than ever, and, hastening to the garden, he met the officers who had recaptured Albert.“So, sir,” said Sir Francis, “you have, methinks, a small amount of patience.”“Patience, sir,” cried Albert. “Why should I have any under a tyranny as unexampled as it is despicable? In plain words, sir, tell me what you mean by detaining me?”“Young man, it is for your own good. Let me advise you now, for your own benefit. I shall send some one to you, to talk you out of your unreasonable humour.”“I warn you, Sir Francis Hartleton,” said Albert. “I am now upon my defence, and, if you send any of your myrmidons to me, they may chance to regret coming within the reach of my arm.”“Indeed! Now, I will wager you my head that you will be in a more complaisant humour shortly. Bring him in, and confine him in my parlour.”Resistance against the powerful men who held him, Albert felt would be quite absurd, and merely wasting his energies to no purpose; so he suffered himself, although boiling with rage, to be led into a room on the ground floor.“Now my young friend,” said Sir Francis, “I shall send some one to you to tame your proud spirit.”“I defy your utmost malice,” cried Albert.“Oh!—Let him rave—let him rave. Shut him in,” said Sir Francis calmly.The moment the door was closed upon the prisoner, he drew from his breast the confession of Gray, and was upon the point of opening it, when his high sense of honour forbade him breaking the seal of a communication addressed to another, and he dropped it on the floor, as he said,—“No, no! Although this magistrate, from some inexplicable cause, is my enemy, I must not forget that I am a gentleman.”The words were scarcely out from his mouth, when he heard the door unlock gently, and arming himself then, with all the indignation he felt, he cried in a loud voice,—“Whoever you are, advance here, at your peril!”The door opened very slowly, and when it was just wide enough for the person to enter Ada glided into the room.“At my peril, Albert?” she said.The colour forsook the cheek of Albert, and he stood gazing at her for a few moments, incapable of thought or action; then, with a gush of joy, he flew towards her.“Ada, Ada! My dear Ada, are you in life or am I mocked by some vision: My Ada, speak!”“Albert.”He clasped her to his heart. He kissed her cheek, her brow, her hands. Tears gushed from his eyes, and mingled with those of the long-lost, fondly cherished idol of his heart. They could neither of them speak, and nothing was heard for many minutes in that room, but sobs of gushing joy, such as make the heart leap in extacy, and give humanity a glimpse of heaven.
The Meeting of the Lovers.
Sir Francis Hartleton’sofficers paid but little heed to the loud and angry remonstrances of Albert Seyton, but hurried him the short distance between the park and the magistrate’s house, at which in a few minutes they arrived, and in obedience to their orders fastened him in the same room from where he had come so recently.
As Sir Francis stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, Albert turned to him and said—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, for the treacherous and ungentlemanly conduct of which I have been the victim, I will now denounce you as a disgrace to the office you hold. I look upon you as—”
“Nay, nay—hold,” cried the magistrate, “I will hear no more. The less you say, the less you will have to retract and ask my pardon for.”
“Your pardon?” cried Albert; “I—”
“Shut the door, he is raving,” interposed the magistrate, and in a moment Albert was alone.
The young man stood in the middle of the floor, in deep disgust with Sir Francis, and revolving in his own mind what he should do in the situation he was now placed in. He walked to the window which overlooked a garden, but there were iron bars across the frame-work, which appeared too firmly let into solid oak to be removed without appropriate tools.
“I will not, however, be caged here if I can help it,” thought Albert; and he seized one of the bars, and exerted all his strength to move it, but it was in vain, for it showed no signs of giving way. Albert then glanced around him for some weapon, but none such was in the room. He then threw himself into a chair, and after a few hasty expressions of indignation, relapsed into melancholy silence. Suddenly, then, he recollected a small knife that he had in his pocket, and he thought he might possibly be able to cut away sufficient of the wood-work to wrench out one of the bars from the window, which, could he accomplish it, would leave a space sufficiently large for him to get through, and drop into the garden, which was at no very great depth, although amply sufficient to make any one, not labouring under the excitement of mind that Albert was, pause ere they adventured the leap.
He found the job of cutting away the wood-work at the window a long and a tedious one, for he could only get the oak away in small pieces, and the iron bars were very deeply imbedded.
“I have heard,” thought Albert, “of these things being done with more inefficient tools than a tolerably good knife, aided by perseverance, I shall rejoice to give this tricky magistrate the slip, even if I walk directly to another, and claim an inquiry into the causes of my present most unjustifiable detention.”
“When the heart is in any work, it makes good progress,” says Lord Bacon; and so it seemed in the present instance, for Albert was rapidly getting towards the end of the bar, when an unhappy circumstance retarded his labours. In getting out a large piece of the wood, he struck the blade of the knife on one side, and snapped it short off by the handle. In the excitement, then, of the moment, he seized the bar, and did what, at a cooler time, he could not have done, namely, wrenched one end of it from its hold. The powerful leverage he now had, soon enabled him to free it at the other extremity, and a prospect of escape seemed on the instant opened to him.
In a moment he threw up the window, and glancing into the garden, he was on the point of springing out, when he saw that there were some iron rails covering some underground part of the premises, upon which he must have fell, had he adventured the leap. Albert paused for a moment, and the sudden thought struck him that he could make a means of descending in safety. He took Gray’s cloak, which had been left hanging on the back of a chair, and firmly tying one corner of it to one of the remaining bars of the window, he let the remainder hang out, intending to slide down by it.
“Now, Sir Francis Hartleton,” he exclaimed, “with all your power I am able once more to defy you; and lest my flight should give occasion to surmises of my guilt, on account of Jacob Gray’s murder, I will betake me to the nearest magistrate, and allow him to hold me in custody if he pleases.”
He flung himself out at the window. His weight cut the cloak across, and there fell at his feet a folded paper. The young man lay stunned for a moment by his sudden fall. Then he slowly rose, and his eye fell upon the paper; it was addressed—“To Sir Francis Hartleton, with speed.”
Albert clasped his hands, and a cry of surprise escaped him. He knew the endorsement—it was Jacob Gray’s confession.
We must now leave Albert for some few moments to his mingled feelings of surprise, and joy, and grief, for such were all struggling in his breast, in order to follow Sir Francis Hartleton to his own private study, whither he instantly repaired after seeing Albert, as he thought, properly secured for the present.
He sat down, and covering his eyes with his hands, a habit he had when he wished a steady communion with his own thoughts, he remained silent for some time. Then he spoke in a low voice, and with a confident tone.
“This young man’s honesty and honour,” he said, “has been sufficiently tested, and the noble confidence of Ada in his love and sincerity is, thank Heaven, not misplaced. The mystery that envelopes Ada’s name and history, I fear now will never be disclosed; but I must make these two young people happy, and they will be foolish to torment themselves about the past, when the present will be so dear to them, and the future so full of hope. There shall be no sense of dependence, for I will exert all my interest to procure Albert Seyton some honourable employment; and although the solution of the mysterious conduct of Learmont and his strange connection with Gray and Britton may go to the grave with him, yet she, the long suffering, persecuted girl will be happy with the object of her heart’s choice. I must see her and prepare her for the interview which she shall have with him. How will his anger at his detention here change its complexion when he knows its cause.”
Sir Francis then summoned an attendant, and desired that Ada might be requested to come to him as soon as possible. The message was duly delivered, and in a few moments our heroine, to whose fortunes we have clung so long, and who holds so large a place in our hearts, glided like a spirit of beauty into the magistrate’s study.
Sir Francis Hartleton, when he had offered her a seat, looked with kindly interest in her face, and said—
“Ada; you look unhappy; you are paler than you were.”
A slight increase of colour visited Ada’s cheek, as she replied in her sweet, low musical voice,—
“I am all unused to cloak my feelings either of joy or of sorrow; I am not happy. I have told myself often that I am most ungrateful to you for your great kindness to me, by being unhappy; but the heart will not be reasoned with, and the subtlest logic of the mind will fail to stop a tear from dimming the eye, when the full heart says ‘weep.’”
“You are full of regret, Ada, that I think harshly of young Albert Seyton.”
“I am, I am,” said Ada. “Oh, sir! You do not know him as I know him, or you would seek some other cause for his conduct than faithlessness.”
“Hear me, Ada,” added Sir Francis with emotion. “Since I last saw you, I have had occasion to alter my opinion.”
A half suppressed cry of joy escaped the lips of Ada, and then she clasped her hands; and while the rapid beating of her heart testified to the emotion occasioned by Sir Francis’s words, she fixed upon his face her beautiful eloquent eyes, and eagerly dwelt on every word he uttered.
“Believe me, Ada,” he said, “my deep concern for your happiness alone made me anxious that he who was to make or mar your happiness in this world should be proved pure as virgin gold, ere with joy I could see you become his. I have tested him.”
“And—and—” said Ada.
“And believe him true,” continued Sir Francis, “although the victim of as strange a series of circumstances as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.”
Ada burst into tears, and sobbed for very joy, while the magistrate turned his head aside to conceal his own emotion.
“My dear Ada,” he said, after a pause, “I have much, very much to tell you that concerns you mostly, but I will not now detain you to listen to me. Take this key; it opens the little eastern room which looks into the garden. Release the prisoner you will find there.”
“It is Albert?” said Ada.
“It is—”
She rose and placed both her hands in those of Sir Francis Hartleton, and smiling upon him through her tears, she said,—
“Dear friend; can I ever thank you—can the poor Ada ever hope even in words to convey to you the full gratitude of her heart?”
“Let me see you happy, Ada,” said Sir Francis, “and I am more than repaid. Go to you lover, who is, I fear, a very impatient prisoner, and tell him, from me, that I will never interfere with him again, let him do what he may.”
Ada could not understand what Sir Francis meant by his last words, but at that moment she was not much inclined to ask explanations, but taking the key while her hand trembled, and her lustrous eyes seemed swimming in an ocean of tenderness as she glided from the room to rescue her lover.
Ada knew the room well to which Sir Francis had directed her, and her eager footsteps in a few moments brought her to the door. For one brief moment then she paused to recover herself from her state of agitation. In the next she had opened the door—the room was tenantless. Ada flew to the window—there hung the torn cloak.
“Albert, Albert,” she cried, and sunk upon the floor in an agony of grief.
Sir Francis Hartleton heard the cry of Ada, and hastening from his room, the truth shot across his mind in a moment when he saw the cloak hanging by the iron bar.
“Who could have imagined this?” he cried. “Ada, Ada, be of good cheer; all will be well. He cannot leave the garden.”
“Oh, Sir Francis,” cried Ada; “for Heaven’s sake explain to me the meaning of all this—what could induce him to fly thus strangely?”
“Think nothing of it, Ada, all will be well. I meditated giving Albert Seyton an agreeable surprise, and he has given us a disagreeable one, that is all—hark!”
As Sir Francis spoke, there arose a confused noise in the garden, and upon his going to the window, he saw Albert in the grasp of two of his officers. Without any remark concerning what he was to say, he turned to Ada and said,—
“Leave all to me. Do you remain here, Ada, until I come to you. I pledge you my word all shall be explained to your satisfaction within this present hour.”
Sir Francis then hurried from the room, leaving Ada in a greater state of bewilderment than ever, and, hastening to the garden, he met the officers who had recaptured Albert.
“So, sir,” said Sir Francis, “you have, methinks, a small amount of patience.”
“Patience, sir,” cried Albert. “Why should I have any under a tyranny as unexampled as it is despicable? In plain words, sir, tell me what you mean by detaining me?”
“Young man, it is for your own good. Let me advise you now, for your own benefit. I shall send some one to you, to talk you out of your unreasonable humour.”
“I warn you, Sir Francis Hartleton,” said Albert. “I am now upon my defence, and, if you send any of your myrmidons to me, they may chance to regret coming within the reach of my arm.”
“Indeed! Now, I will wager you my head that you will be in a more complaisant humour shortly. Bring him in, and confine him in my parlour.”
Resistance against the powerful men who held him, Albert felt would be quite absurd, and merely wasting his energies to no purpose; so he suffered himself, although boiling with rage, to be led into a room on the ground floor.
“Now my young friend,” said Sir Francis, “I shall send some one to you to tame your proud spirit.”
“I defy your utmost malice,” cried Albert.
“Oh!—Let him rave—let him rave. Shut him in,” said Sir Francis calmly.
The moment the door was closed upon the prisoner, he drew from his breast the confession of Gray, and was upon the point of opening it, when his high sense of honour forbade him breaking the seal of a communication addressed to another, and he dropped it on the floor, as he said,—
“No, no! Although this magistrate, from some inexplicable cause, is my enemy, I must not forget that I am a gentleman.”
The words were scarcely out from his mouth, when he heard the door unlock gently, and arming himself then, with all the indignation he felt, he cried in a loud voice,—
“Whoever you are, advance here, at your peril!”
The door opened very slowly, and when it was just wide enough for the person to enter Ada glided into the room.
“At my peril, Albert?” she said.
The colour forsook the cheek of Albert, and he stood gazing at her for a few moments, incapable of thought or action; then, with a gush of joy, he flew towards her.
“Ada, Ada! My dear Ada, are you in life or am I mocked by some vision: My Ada, speak!”
“Albert.”
He clasped her to his heart. He kissed her cheek, her brow, her hands. Tears gushed from his eyes, and mingled with those of the long-lost, fondly cherished idol of his heart. They could neither of them speak, and nothing was heard for many minutes in that room, but sobs of gushing joy, such as make the heart leap in extacy, and give humanity a glimpse of heaven.