CHAPTER CXII.
The Consultation with Albert and Ada.—The Arrangement for the Ball.
When he had finished the confession of Gray, Sir Francis Hartleton looked up and drew a long breath. An inexpressible feeling of relief came over him, and he cried,—
“It is as I partly expected. Ada is related to this squire nearly. With regard to her alleged illegitimacy, I do not believe it for a moment. The malice of Jacob Gray, for denouncing him in the open street, is fully sufficient to account for his making such an assertion. That, however, is a fact which can be very easily ascertained; and I have not a shadow of doubt but my beautiful young friend, after all her severe trials and persecutions, will become the possessor of the splendid estates of Learmont, and will be able to reward the constancy of her lover with a princely income. Oh, what a relief it is, after all, to find that Jacob Gray cannot claim the least shadow of kindred with Ada. Well, he has gone to his account; and, although I have no moral doubt in the world of the guilt of Britton and Learmont as regards Ada’s father, yet this paper would be very insufficient evidence to proceed upon. If they suffer the penalty of the law for murder, it will be for that of Jacob Gray himself.”
Sir Francis Hartleton then left his room, after locking up Gray’s confession, and hastened to where he had left Albert. The good-hearted magistrate will be excused by our fair readers for forgetting that in all probability Ada, when she had left him, had gone back to Albert, and that, consequently, when he, Sir Francis, opened the door very abruptly, the beautiful girl was just, to the smallest possible extent annoyed, to be seen with Albert’s hand clasped in her own, and such a smile of joy on her face, that her lover thought himself in heaven, and, at all events, would have challenged any one to produce a heartfelt joy equal to that which then filled him with thankfulness.
“My dear Ada,” said Sir Francis, “I have to apologise.”
Ada rose, and while a blush spread itself over her face, she said,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, how can Albert and myself find words, to tell you how much we owe to you, our noble, considerate, generous friend. What would have become of the poor destitute, desolate Ada, but for you?”
“And I, sir,” said Albert, while a tear glistened in his eye, “I’m afraid I have offended you past all forgiveness.”
“No such thing,” said Sir Francis. “You know I was very provoking indeed, Mr. Seyton; but Ada, my dear, go and fetch Lady Hartleton, for she must hear what I have to tell you.”
Ada looked in his face a moment, to read by his expressive features the character of the intelligence he had gleaned from Gray’s confession; and the magistrate shaking his head, said playfully,—
“Now, Ada, that is too bad;” but the smile with which he accompanied his words assured her that what he had to say was not the worst that could be under the circumstances anticipated, and she flew to Lady Hartleton to come and join the group.
When they were all assembled Sir Francis said,—
“What I now tell you must remain in our own breasts until Saturday. Ada, I shall commence with one piece of intelligence, which will not displease you, and I am sure remove one occasionally disagreeable thought from your mind—Jacob Gray is not in the remotest degree connected with you by the ties of relationship.”
“Thank Heaven!” said Ada.
“Now then, my dear Ada, I counsel you to hear, with a patient resignation, the will of Providence, when I tell you you are an orphan.”
One sob burst from Ada’s breast, for she had always pleased herself with the idea of some day finding a dear mother or father. That dream was now dispelled, and it was with some difficulty she could say,—
“Heaven’s will be done! I should not mourn, for have I not found all the love and care of dear parents from you, my kind friends?”
“Your father,” continued Sir Francis Hartleton, “was a noble, honourable gentleman—your mother, a lady of wealth and family.”
“Go on—go on,” gasped Ada, while Albert Seyton and Lady Hartleton looked the intense interest they felt in Sir Francis’s words.
“Will you not, Ada,” he added, “be now content with knowing so much, and seek not to dive deeper into the past.”
“Tell me more of my father and mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, leave me not to conjecture. The mind will ever conjure up from the realms of fancy tenfold horrors. Tell me all—oh, tell me all.”
“I cannot refuse you,” said Sir Francis, “because you have a right to demand to know all. Your mother, as far as I can rely upon my information, died in giving birth to you. Your father—”
Sir Francis paused, and Ada, clasping her hands, cried—“my father—what of him—oh, speak.”
“Your father fell a victim to the avarice of one whom he trusted. His own brother murdered him.”
Ada shuddered, and as the tears rapidly coursed each other down her cheeks, she said, in a low, plaintive tone,—
“Tell me all now. Surely I have heard the worst. My poor father!”
“Returning with you, when you were an infant, to his native land, and his ancient home, his life was taken by three men. One was his brother, the other a smith, by name Andrew Britton, and the third—”
Sir Francis Harleton paused, and Ada filled up the blank with the words,—
“Jacob Gray.”
“True,” said the magistrate; “Jacob Gray was, it appears, by his own confession, a confidential servant of your father’s, and was suborned by your wicked and most unnatural uncle to commit the crime, or, at all events, aid in its commission, which, for so many years, plunged him in all the miseries of a guilty conscience, and placed you in the singular circumstances from which you have been but so recently rescued.”
“And—and—my name?” said Ada.
“Your name is Learmont.”
“Learmont!” cried Albert “God of Heaven, can this be possible? Then he who I have fancied my friend—he who so speciously taught me to believe he was doing me such great service, is the uncle of Ada!”
“He is, and her father’s murderer.”
“The assassin, too, of Jacob Gray?”
“The same.”
“And he, the stout bulky man, whom I saw enter Gray’s abode with the squire?”
“He is Andrew Britton, the smith, the associate in guilt of the Squire Learmont. You were made a mere tool to assist in the destruction of Jacob Gray, who, no doubt, was troublesome on account of his rapacity, and dangerous on account of the written confession he kept by him, and which, has so providentially and strangely fallen into my hands.”
Albert Seyton looked perfectly petrified with astonishment for a time. Then, in a voice of emotion, he said,—
“Oh, Heaven, how near was I proving your worst enemy, my Ada, by too credulously becoming a victim to the arts of the man, who, of all others in the wide world, you had most to dread.”
“I can scarcely understand all this,” said Ada. “You must relate everything to me, Albert, in a more connected manner. Is this Learmont a tall, dark man, with a face of death-like paleness?”
“He is,” said Albert.
“And he is my father’s brother?”
“I grieve to say that such is the fact,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “The law must take cognisance of Jacob Gray’s murder, and that will most probably be the only one of Learmont’s crimes that can be satisfactorily proved against him. A word with you, Mr. Seyton.”
While Ada sat with her hand clasped in that of Lady Hartleton, who was striving to soothe the agitated spirits of the gentle girl, Sir Francis took Albert to the window, and said,—
“Gray, in his confession, asserts the illegitimacy of Ada, but from all that I have ever heard of the character of the elder Learmont, as well as from the evidently anxious manner in which Gray has repeatedly stated the circumstance, I much doubt its truth. It is quite necessary, however, that such a point should be satisfactorily set at rest, or we shall have difficulty in procuring for Ada her father’s property, which has been so long withheld from her by this squire, as he has falsely called himself. The family of Ada’s mother can surely be easily found, and I think some one must be instantly despatched to Italy, where Ada was born, in order to prosecute the necessary inquiries.”
“Oh, Sir Francis,” said Albert, his countenance beaming with pleasure; “let them say what they like of Ada, she is to me the whole world. With her I can be happy as the day is long, and I am sure we shall never sigh for the wealth, the possession of which could not make our hearts more true to each other than they are now.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “I quite agree with you that you may make yourselves very happy indeed, in a humbler station of life than that in which I have hopes of placing Ada; but it is but common justice that she should possess what is hers of right. The Learmont property is immense.”
Albert sighed.
“Why, what’s the matter now?” said Sir Francis, good-humouredly.
“Can I expect,” said the young man, “that Ada Learmont, the rich heiress, should give her hand to the poor, destitute Albert Seyton?”
“Oh, I have nothing to do with that,” exclaimed the worthy magistrate, “you must settle all that between you. Ada, I wish you to give an opinion on a very knotty point raised by Albert Seyton.”
Before Albert Seyton could interpose, Ada approached the window, and Sir Francis added,—
“You must know, Ada, that Mr. Seyton is of opinion that if he were to get immensely rich, his feelings would alter as regards his affections for one poor and dependent.”
“Good God, Sir Francis,” said Albert, “I never said any such thing!”
“Then it was Ada’s feelings which were to alter, provided she was rich and you poor.”
Albert looked abashed, and Ada said in a gentle voice to him,—
“Is this kind, Albert?”
“No, Ada,“ he said. “It is foolish and wrong. Forgive the scruple that rose up in my mind of still urging my suit to you when, as I hear from Sir Francis Hartleton you are likely to become very wealthy.”
“And did such a thought cross your mind, Albert,” said Ada, sadly, “when you stood between little Harry Gray and him who is now no more—when you spent days and nights of anxious toil in searching for me—did then a thought of that affection which sprang up in my heart for the only human voice which had spoken kindly to me—the only heart that had felt for my distresses—cross your mind? Are persecution, distress, danger, misery, all to fail in shaking our faith, to leave the gold the triumph of doing so? Albert, is this well done of you?”
Sir Francis quietly walked away from the window, leaving Albert to make his peace how he could; which it is to be supposed he did, as, after a few moments, Ada, with her usual frank candour, gave him her hand, and shaking her head said, with a smile, something that made his eyes glisten with joy.