CHAPTER XXXII.
Albert’s Disappointment.—Tibbs, the Bear Warden.—The Search.—A Consultation.
Within the hour he had named as being the extreme limit of his absence, Albert Seyton and his father arrived at Gray’s house at Lambeth. They knocked at first quietly, and finally loudly, for admittance. Here, as they had predetermined, they burst upon the frail door, and, calling upon Ada, Albert flew from room to room of the dismal house.
No voice responded to his, and he was about to give up the search in despair, when a low rumbling sound met his ears from a room he had already visited, and which was immediately followed by a heavy crash of some fallen body.
He and his father instantly rushed into the room, and there, amid the ruins, a table, several bottles, glasses, &c., lay Tibbs, the bear warden, who was evidently far gone in intoxication.
The bear was licking its paws on the spot which would have been under the table had that article of furniture preserved its perpendicularity; but it now lay on one side, and it is to be surmised that Tipsy Tibbs had hidden under it upon hearing the sound of footsteps, and then upset it in his clumsy efforts to emerge from his temporary concealment.
Mr. Seyton Albert looked with undisguised astonishment on the strange spectacle of a drunken man and a bear, where they expected to find a young girl and a cool designing villain.
“How are you?” said Tibbs. “So, so—you’re come back, have you? Hurrah—hurray—that’s my op—opinion.”
Albert stepped up to him, and shaking him roughly, cried in a loud voice:—
“Who are you?”
“Who—who—am—I? Why, everybody knows me—I’m—Tip—Tip—Tipsy Tibbs, the bear warder.”
“Tell me, have you seen a beautiful girl here? Speak at once.”
“A w—w—what?”
“A young girl, with black eyes; sparkling as diamonds—long dancing ringlets.”
“Whew!” whistled Tibbs. “Don’t I wish I had? Oh, the little charmer.”
“Wretch!” cried Albert, “have you seen her?”
“Do—do—you mean—Mrs. Tibbs?”
“Albert,” said Mr. Seyton, “we shall get no information from this man by angry questioning. Allow me to speak to him. Are you alone here, my friend?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Who else inhabits this house?”
“Popsy. Hurrah—let’s have another bottle—never get drunk—don’t make a beast of yourself, old gentleman.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two bottles!”
“How long a time, I say, have you been here?”
“Well, I say—two—two bottles.”
“The villain Gray has been more than a match for me, father;” said Albert. “My poor Ada is not here!”
He sunk upon a chair, and gave way to a violent burst of grief as he spoke, and Tibbs gazed upon him in speechless astonishment.
“Albert,” said his father, “this is childish of you. Let us thoroughly search this house. We may still find some clue to the object of our search.”
“True,” said Albert, rising, “I will not despair. We may, perchance, light upon the mysterious packet of papers which Jacob Gray thinks so much of, and which were addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton.”
“Take another bottle,” suggested Tibbs, making various ridiculous efforts to get on his feet, in all of which he signally failed.
“Sot,” said Albert, “I will force more intelligent answers from you yet before I leave this house.”
“Take another bottle,” said Tibbs. “My dear, here’s your health. You have a rare voice. Bless you, you want to stay because I’m here. Don’t let him persuade you; d—d—d—n his important papers.”
“What do you mean?” cried Albert.
“Why, she’s gone, to be sure. They didn’t know I was listening on the stairs. Ho! Ho! Ho!—They’re off, and the furniture’s all mine. Take another bottle.”
“From the ravings of this drunkard,” said Mr. Seyton, “we may gather what has happened, Albert. Jacob Gray, on some pretence, having his suspicions awakened, has induced Ada to leave this place with him.”
“I fear it is so, father,” said Albert; “but here I vow to Heaven that I will not know more rest than is needful to my health and strength till I have found where this bad man has hidden the fairest, best—”
“Control your feelings, Albert,” said his father. “God knows how willingly I would have taken this persecuted young girl to my home, and done a parent’s duty by her; but Heaven has decreed it otherwise.”
With a saddened and dejected air Albert again searched the house. He found no vestige of Ada, save her male attire and the dead dog. An open book was upon the table of her room. That he placed next his heart, with the fond thought that she might have owned and prized it.
“Let us leave this place,” said his father, “and the more quickly the better, I will employ someone to watch the house for some days in case Gray should return, and in the meantime, we will ourselves make every inquiry, and use our utmost endeavours to discover his retreat.”
With a heavy heart Albert left the house; he lingered long at the door and in the street, and it was only his father’s arguments that induced him at length to quit the spot.
“Father,” said Albert, “I will make an application to Sir Francis Hartleton!”
“You forget,” replied Mr. Seyton, “that Sir Francis Hartleton is a magistrate and has a public duty to perform, from which he is not the man to flinch. We wish to temporise with this man Gray, and not drive him to extremities. The more heartily Sir Francis might enter into this business, the more misery we might be laying up for the persecuted girl it is our wish to rescue. Recollect, Albert, there still lives the awful doubt that Jacob Gray may still be the father of Ada.”
“It is an awful doubt,” said Albert.
“We must not then embitter her existence, wicked as Gray may be, by executing upon him the full measure of justice until that doubt is solved. It would be coldly right to do so, I will grant; but we look more to Ada’s happiness, Albert, than the vengeance of the law upon a guilty man.”
Albert grasped his father’s hand as he replied, in a voice struggling with emotion,—
“Guide me, father—tell me what to do. Your words bring truth and conviction with them.”
“Then, Albert, if you succeed in getting the situation you have been endeavouring to obtain, as private secretary to this gentleman, who is reported to be so rich and liberal, there may arise some opportunity of interesting him in the matter, and, through his means and influence, much might be done to unravel the whole mystery without endangering Gray, should he turn out to be Ada’s father, of which, however, I have the strongest doubts.”
“Yes,” cried Albert, with renovated hope; “they tell me this gentleman, Squire Learmont, is rolling in wealth.”
“Ay, that is his name. He is comparatively unknown, I hear, in London; but if you become his secretary, he may take a pleasure, if he be a good man, in assisting you.”
“It shall be tried, father,” said Albert.
Learmont had been inquiring of several persons since his arrival in London for some young man as private secretary, and Albert Seyton, who never in his wildest dreams imagined that the rich Squire Learmont, whose wealth was the theme of every tongue, could possibly be in any way connected with the fortunes of the poor persecuted Ada, had applied for the situation, and met with a favourable although evasive answer.