CHAPTER XLVI.
The Death of the Elder Seyton.—Albert’s Grief.—The Prophecy.
It is necessary now that we should, although unwillingly, leave the fortunes of the beautiful and persecuted Ada to proceed by themselves for a short space, while we acquaint the reader with what the other important personages in our story have been and are about.
First, we will turn to Albert Seyton, who, with his father, returned from the office of Sir Francis Hartleton, rather dispirited than otherwise at the result of the interview with him.
It was in vain that Albert reasoned with himself on the folly of his having had any immediate expectations of news of Ada through the interposition of the magistrate. He did feel depressed and disappointed, and the words indicative of the difficulty that enveloped the business which Sir Francis Hartleton had used made a far greater impression upon the mind of Albert than anything else that had transpired at the interview.
Had Sir Francis Hartleton not been a magistrate, but a mere private gentleman, knowing what he did, and suspecting what he did, in all probability the interview with the Seytons would have been more satisfactory to them, and more productive of beneficial results to Ada; but as it was, Sir Francis felt that, in his official capacity, he could not be too cautious as to what he said, or what opinion he suggested, in any criminal undertaking. Thus he did not (and so far he was quite correct) feel himself justified in mentioning the name of Learmont, unless the Seytons had heard it previously, in connexion with any of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Ada.
As yet all was mere suspicion; and there was no direct evidence on which to found an open accusation against the acts of Squire Learmont; for although he, Sir Francis, by putting together all the circumstances in his own mind, felt morally convinced that there had been some great crime committed, in which Learmont, Britton the smith, the man Gray, and possibly others were implicated, still the evidence of that crime were to be sought; and it would have been highly inconsistent with him, Sir Francis, as a magistrate, to have brought a loose and unsubstantiated charge against any one—much less a man with whom it could be easily proved he had previously quarrelled, and who might, by the very indiscretion of making an improper charge against, be so far put upon his caution, as to succeed in effectually destroying all evidence that could ever militate against him.
Taking, therefore, this view of the case, and being satisfied that the Seytons had communicated to him all they knew; and having their promise to bring him any fresh information they might become possessed of, he resolved to prosecute the matter quietly and cautiously, until, by getting some of the parties in his hands, he would be able to put together something distinct in the shape of a charge against Learmont, or ascertain his innocence.
The magistrate had seen much of human nature, and he very soon came to the conclusion, in his own mind, that brave, ardent, and enthusiastic as Albert Seyton was, he would be very far from an efficient assistant in a matter that required the utmost coolness, caution, and finesse. Thus it was that he acted entirely independent of Albert, and said as little to him as he could upon the subject, at the same time that he, Sir Francis Hartleton, would not have lost a moment in communicating with Albert, had any discovery really taken place at the old house at Battersea.
While all this was going on, Albert Seyton pursued his inquiries, although with a languid spirit, for there was no place he had not already several times visited. Twice or thrice he had actually looked at the house in which Ada was a prisoner, and once he thought of crossing the fields from curiosity to visit it, but was told that it was in ruins, and in fact dangerous to approach, as it was expected to fall to the ground very shortly; and considering it as a most unlikely place to search in, standing as it did so very much exposed to observation in its situation, he abandoned the notion of crossing the marshy fields to the old ruin.
Pale and languid, he would return to his father in the evening, and it was some time before he noticed that there were perceptible signs of rapid decay creeping over the only earthly tie he had, save Ada.
In truth. Mr. Seyton was near that bourne from whence no traveller returns, and in the midst of his other griefs, the absorbing one sprang up, of the loss of his father.
Every other consideration was now abandoned by Albert in his anxious solicitude for his father’s health. It seemed, however, that a rapid decay of nature was taking place, and in less than three days Mr. Seyton lay at the point of death. Medical advice was of no avail; the physician who was called in declared that neither he nor any of his brethren could do anything in the case. There, was no disease to grapple with—it seemed as if nature had said, “the time of dissolution has come, and it may not be averted.”
It was early dawn, and the stillness that reigned throughout London had something awful and yet sublime in it, when Albert, who had been watching by the bedside of his father, was roused from a slight slumber into which, from pure exhaustion, he had sunk, by the low, faint voice of his dying parent feebly pronouncing his name.
“Albert, Albert!” he said.
Albert started, and replied to his father.
“Yes, father, I am here.”
“You are here, my boy, and you will remain here many years—here in this world, I mean, which I hope may teem with happiness to you; but I am on my last journey, Albert; I shall not see another day.”
“Father, say not so,” replied Albert, endeavouring to assume a tone of cheerfulness that was foreign to his feelings. “Say not so; we may yet be together many years.”
“Albert, do not try to delude me and yourself with false hopes—listen to what I shall say to you now.”
“I will, father.”
“They are my last words, Albert, and it is said that when the spirit is about to quit its earthly tenement, and is hovering, as it were, upon the confines of eternity, it is permitted to see things that in its grosser state were far above its ken, and even to obtain some dim glimpse of the future, so that it may to the ear of those it loves hazard guesses of that which is to come.”
Albert listened with eager attention to his father’s words; and it seemed to him as if there were something of heavenly inspiration in his tones.
After a pause, Mr. Seyton continued,—
“Albert, for two days now I have known no peace on your account,—”
“On my account, father?”
“Yes, Albert. By my death, the pension which my just claims have wrung from the government, for which I suffered so much, ceases, and you know I have not enjoyed it long enough to leave any sum that will do more than supply your immediate exigencies.”
“Think not of me now, father,” said Albert; “dismiss all uneasiness from your mind on my account. I am young, and can labour for my bread as well as—as—”
“As what, my boy?”
“As my griefs will let me, father.”
“Listen to me, Albert. I say I have suffered much on your account, because the thought haunted me that I was leaving you to struggle unaided in a cold, selfish, and too—too frequently, wicked world; but now that feeling, by some mysterious means, has left me.”
“Indeed, father?”
“Yes, a kind of confidence—surely from Heaven—has crept over my heart concerning you, and, without knowing how or why, I seem to have a deep and thorough conviction that you will be happy and prosperous.”
“Father,” said Albert, “for your sake do I rejoice in your words, not for my own. If you must be taken by God from me, let me see you thus even to the last, free from care and that cankering anxiety which has now for some time afflicted you.”
“Yes, I am comparatively happy,” said Mr. Seyton. “You will wed her whom you love, and there shall not be a cloud in the sky of your prosperity and happiness. All shall be achieved by Heaven in its own good time.”
“Father, your words sink deep into my heart,” cried Albert; “they come to me as if from the lips of the Eternal One himself.”
“I—I would fain have lingered with you, my boy, yet awhile, even until I could have seen and rejoiced in all this that I now foretel to you. But it may not be—it may not be.”
“Oh, yes! There is still hope.”
“No, no! My mortal race is nearly run.”
Albert wept.
“Nay, Albert, do not weep,” said his father; “we and all we love—all who have loved us—will meet again.”
“’Tis a dear hope,” said Albert, endeavouring to control his tears.
“And now, my dear boy, when you do see this young and innocent girl—this Ada, whom you love—tell her I send her my blessing, and beg her to accept it as she would a father’s. You will tell her, Albert?”
“Tell her, father? Oh yes!—Your words will be precious to her, father.”
“I know her gentle nature well,” continued Mr. Seyton. “Cherish her, Albert, for she is one of those rare creatures sent among us by God, to purify and chasten the bad passions of men. Cherish her as a dear gift from Heaven to you.”
“As Heaven is my hope, I will,” said Albert, “I will live but for her.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well. I would have joyed to see her; but no matter. The spirit may be allowed to look with purer eyes upon those it loved on earth, than it could through its earthly organs.”
“Your love, father, will cling for ever round us, and we will rejoice in the fond belief that we are seen by you from above.”
Albert’s voice became choked with tears, and he sobbed bitterly.
“Nay, now, Albert,” said his father, “this is not as it should be. We were talking cheerfully. Do not weep. Death is not a misfortune; ’tis only a great change. We leave a restless, painful scene for the calm repose of everlasting peace and joy. Our greatest thrill of happiness in this life is like a stagnant pool to the ocean, in comparison with the eternal joy that is to come. Do not, therefore, weep for me, Albert, but do your duty while you remain here behind me, so that we may meet again where we shall meet never to part, without the shadow of a pang.”
“Father, your words are holy, and full of hope; they will ever be engraven on my heart.”
Mr. Seyton was now silent for many minutes; and Albert, by the rapidly increasing light of the coming day, watched with painful interest the great change that was passing over his countenance.
“Father,” he murmured.
“Yes, Albert, I am here still,” was the reply.
“You are in pain?”
“No, no. Bless you, my boy!”
Albert sobbed convulsively, and took his father’s hand in his—
“And bless you too, Ada,” added Mr. Seyton, after a pause. Then he seemed to imagine she was present, for he said,—
“You love my boy, Ada? Blessings on you!—You are very beautiful. Ada, but your heart is the most lovely. So you love my boy? Take an old man’s dying blessing, my girl.”
Albert was deeply affected by these words, and in vain he endeavoured to stifle his sobs.
“Albert!” said his father, suddenly.
“Yes, father, I am here,” he replied.
“Do you recollect your mother, my dear boy?”
“But dimly, father.”
“She—she is beckoning me now. Farewell! Bless you, Albert—Ada!”
There was one long-drawn sigh, and the kind-hearted, noble Mr. Seyton was with his God.
It was some moments before Albert could bring himself to believe that his father was no more; and then, with a frantic burst of grief, he called around him the persons of the house, who with gentle violence took him from the chamber of death, and strove to soothe his deep grief with such topics of consolation as suggested themselves to them. But poor Albert heard nothing of their sympathy. His grief was overwhelming; and it was many hours before his deep agony subsided into tears, and the last words of his father came like balm to his wounded spirit.
Then his grief assumed a more calm and melancholy aspect. He shed no more tears; but there was a weight at his heart which even the bright and strangely earnest prophecies of his father, concerning his happiness with Ada, could not remove. Time alone, in such cases, heals the deep and agonising grief which ensues in a fond and truthful heart, after such a disseverment of a tie which, while it exists, we cannot imagine can ever be broken.