CHAPTER XXXVI.
Albert Seyton.—The Lonely Search.—A Suggestion.—An Important Visit.
We will now conduct the reader to one of our dramatis personæ that we have unwillingly been compelled to neglect for some time—we mean the gallant and enthusiastic Albert Seyton. As we have recorded the prostration of spirits which ensued, when he lost all trace again of the unfortunate and persecuted Ada, after so providentially, as it were, encountering her in St. James’s Park, terminated in a long and dangerous illness—an illness which brought him to the brink of the grave; but thanks to the tender nursing of his father, and an excellent constitution, he successfully battled with his sickness and after some months, was able, although but the shadow of his former self, to walk abroad, by the assistance of his father.
His deep dejection concerning Ada, however, still clung to him like a blight, and it became clear to his deeply affected father that he should never again see the bloom of health upon the cheek of his son unless the hiding-place of the deceitful Jacob Gray was once more discovered.
The old house at Lambeth had been soon deserted by Tibbs, the bear-warden. The gloom and solitariness of the situation by no means suited the habits of the roving vagabond, who had been so long without a fixed home of any kind, that now he had become possessed of one, such as it was, he soon hated it, and looked upon it in the light of a prison. All that Jacob Gray had left in the house he sold off and once more the ruined building was tenanted only by the rats and mice who scampered along its deserted rooms and echoing corridors.
Twice Learmont himself had visited the house, and explored every nook and corner; and once the savage smith, in a state of semi-intoxication, had burst open the door, and rushed from room to room in the vain hope that Jacob Gray might have returned to his hiding-place.
After that it was the haunt of any desperate character who chose to enter it, for the door swung loosely by one hinge, and the winter’s wind, hail, and sleet, found free entrance to the crazy building.
Albert’s father, too, had been often, and lingered about the ruined street, until he could no longer cherish the remotest hope of being enabled to find a clue to the place of confinement of the beautiful girl, with whose weal or woe the happiness or sorrow of his dear son was so much mixed up.
Then he besought Albert to be patient, and trust in Heaven to send succour to her whom he loved; and when Albert himself could walk so far, he went with his father to the old house, and wandered for hours from room to room, pleasing himself with the thought that he was treading upon the spots oft trodden by Ada, and looking upon the objects most familiar to her eye.
The situation of secretary to Learmont, which Albert Seyton, little dreaming how closely he was connected with the fate of Ada, had endeavoured to obtain was filled up long before he was convalescent, and the state of health of the unhappy youth gave his father far more uneasiness than any consideration of his present prosperity in life.
Daily, however, the strength of Albert returned, and once again he commenced the search throughout London and its suburbs for the lost Ada. When wearied with some long perambulation, he would bend his steps to the Park, and sit in melancholy thought upon the same seat on which he had been sitting when he heard the voice of Ada. There, chewing the cud “of sweet and bitter fancy,” he would recline for hours, endeavouring to devise fresh schemes for the discovery of Ada, and trying to recollect some part of the city that he had omitted to visit. He would then wander homewards, listless, dispirited, and fatigued, to relate to his father the particulars and non-success of his toils.
It was upon one of these occasions that poor Albert was more than usually dispirited and weary, that his father said kindly to him,—
“Albert, it does appear to me that we can have no further scruple how we commit this man Gray. He cannot be the father of the persecuted Ada.”
“He her father!” exclaimed Albert. “I would as leave think that the tiger could be sire to the lamb. Oh, no! There is some dark, mysterious villany at the bottom of all. My poor Ada is the innocent victim of some intrigues and enemies, with which this Gray and Britton are mixed up. Alas! Alas! The villains may have killed her. Oh I would that kind Heaven would direct me where to seek her!”
“Do not despair, Albert,” said his rather soothingly, “the time will come when all this must be made clear and apparent.”
“I hope it may, father,” said Albert, despondingly, “but I am very wretched.”
“It strikes me,” continued Mr. Seyton, “that we are not justified, Albert, in the course we are pursuing.”
“Indeed! Father.”
“No, Albert. What I advise is an immediate communication of the whole of the circumstances to the magistrate, Sir Frederick Hartleton. The fact that a mysterious packet was actually addressed to him, and set such a store by this man Gray, will be sufficient to interest him in the case.”
Albert remained in thought for a few moments, and then springing from his seat with energy, he exclaimed,—
“Yes, father, let us do so. There is hope in that. Sir Frederick Hartleton must have means of inquiry, and sources of information that no one but a person in his situation could have. Let us go at once.”
“You are wearied now, Albert.”
“No, no; I am never wearied in the cause of Ada.”
“Wait till you are invigorated; you can then tell your fate better, for in truth you must know a great deal more than I.”
“Oh father, come with me now. You have made this suggestion, and it may be a most happy one. Come now!”
“I will not baulk you,” said Mr. Seyton, rising, “I do not think it a proper course; but do not build too much upon it, Albert: only look upon it as a chance that should not be thrown away.”
Sir Frederick Hartleton’s office was across the Park, somewhere close about the spot now occupied by the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Seyton lived in the neighbourhood of Soho; so that the father and son proceeded to Charing Cross and entered the Park by the gate in Spring Gardens.
The sun was setting; but the great mall of the Park was thronged with promenaders—St. James’s being then a much more fashionable place than it is now.
Albert and his father paid but little heed to the careless throng they passed among; their thoughts were intent upon the object of their search, although it was with a sigh that the elder Seyton marked the hopeful countenance and tone of his son; for he himself had been used to disappointment, and expected but little from the visit to the magistrate. It grieved him therefore to think that Albert should hope much from the application, because he knew that his disappointment, should it result in nothing, would be proportionately great.
“Albert,” he said, “this step I consider more a matter of public duty than anything else. We must still trust to Providence to protect Ada, only we place ourselves in a little better position by the co-operation of a magistrate so much respected and esteemed as Sir Frederick Hartleton, in what we do.”
“He may find me, my Ada,” said Albert, “and so entitle himself to a gratitude from me that shall be boundless.”
“You had better let me tell the tale,” said his father, noticing the agitated spirits of Albert—“should I omit anything, you can put me right Albert.”
“As you please, father,” he replied, “I am too much agitated to speak what I know.”
“Your sincerity will be the most apparent to Sir Frederick by the emotion you cannot subdue, Albert. All men, but those who are evil-doers, or live on the fruits of crime, speak well of this gentleman, as an upright magistrate and a feeling man.”
He had now crossed the park and emerged at the little, gate leading to Pimlico. They then inquired for the office of Sir Frederick, and were directed down a narrow street, called Buckingham-place, which was but dimly lighted by the inefficient oil lamps of the period.
Over an open doorway was a lamp, with the words “Magistrate’s Office,” boldly enamelled upon the dirty glass.
“This must be the place, father,” said Albert, hurriedly.
“No doubt,” replied Seyton. “Come in, Albert.”
They stooped under the low arched doorway, and were immediately confronted by a man of coarse heavy build, who demanded to know their business.
“We have a private communication to make to Sir Frederick,” said Mr. Seyton.
“Oh, private?” muttered the man.
“Yes, strictly private.”
“Is it anything about Bill Soames?”
“Bill who?”
“Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.”
“No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.”
The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went.
In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,—
“This way.”
Albert and his father stepped forward after their guide. In a moment another door opened, from which issued a stream of light, and they found themselves in the presence of Sir Frederick Hartleton, the magistrate, the terror of highwaymen; several of whom he had himself captured on Hounslow and Barnes’ Commons.
He rose courteously on the entrance of the Seytons, and invited them to be seated. Before they could speak, he said rapidly,—
“Gentlemen, I trust you will not take any offence at my saying that my time is very much occupied, and begging you to be brief.”
“The time of public affairs, sir,” said Mr. Seyton, “should never be heedlessly wasted. Do you know a man named Gray?”
“Gray—Gray?” repeated Sir Frederick Hartleton. “No, sir, I do not.”
“There exists, however, a man of that name, who, without authority, keeps prisoner a young girl, if he has not destroyed her.”
“Where is he?”
“That, sir, we do not know.”
“Where is the girl?”
“We are equally ignorant.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ada.”
“Ada what?”
“I know not, sir.”
“You do not bring me many particulars,” said the magistrate. “What do you wish me to do?”
“In this man Gray’s possession, sir,” added Mr. Seyton, “is a sealed packet carefully addressed to you.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—and with a superscription attached, that is only to be forwarded to you, should he, Gray, be absent from home without note or message for a certain time.”
“Then you may depend that this Mr. Gray has found his way home in good time, for I have received no such packet.”
“We,” continued Mr. Seyton, “from once living in the same house with her, have warmly interested ourselves in the fate of the girl, who is as virtuous and amiable as she is beautiful.”
“Is this Gray in London?”
“We believe he is. He has twice shifted his residence, to ensure the better concealment of the girl.”
“There is most probably some crime at the bottom of this business,” said Sir Frederick; “but I cannot help you. If you can find the girl, I will of course grant a warrant to bring Gray here, for keeping her a prisoner without her will. At the same time, you had better tell me the minutest particulars as rapidly as you conveniently can.”
Mr. Seyton then related all that he knew of Ada and Gray, comprising what he had gathered from Albert, and comprehending the meeting in the park, and the particulars which Ada had related of the midnight attack upon Gray’s house.
“What names were mentioned accidentally or otherwise, during all this business?”
“But two, sir,” said Albert. “Ada told me in the park that one of the men who sought the life of Gray was called by him Britton!”
“Britton?” said Sir Frederick. “Are you quite sure that was the name?”
“Quite.”
“I do know that name!”
“You—you do, sir!” exclaimed Albert, with sudden animation—“Then you will save her!”
“Oh—you are in love with this imprisoned young lady,” said Sir Frederick, with a smile.
Albert drew back, abashed.
“Nay my young friend,” the magistrate added, “you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, which, in the case of this persecuted girl, must be disinterested.”
“You know Britton, sir?” said Albert, confused.
“I know a person of that name—in fact, I am watching his proceedings.”
“There was another name too mentioned,” said Albert, “it was that of a poor maniac called Mad Maud. She seemed to know this Britton.”
“She has cause to know him,” remarked Sir Frederick Hartleton.
“Stay—I—”
The magistrate paused, and it was evident that something had crossed his mind of an important nature. He covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed to be musing over some train of circumstances in his mind that wanted some connecting links.
“Be so good,” he said, suddenly, “as to answer me as exactly as you can, what I shall ask of you.”
“We will, sir,” said Mr. Seyton.
“What kind of man is this Gray?”
“He is rather above the middle height, of spare habit, and very pale.”
“His eyes?”
“Shifting and inconstant—looking here, there, and everywhere, but in the face of any one he addresses.”
“You never saw Britton?”
“Never.”
“Now tell me as nearly as you can the age of this young girl you call Ada?”
“She cannot now be above seventeen,” said Albert.
“Seventeen?”
The magistrate took a scrap of paper, and made some slight calculations in figures upon it—then he said,—
“During all this business, did you never hear another name mentioned as a prime mover or important personage, connected with it?”
“No,” said Albert, “those were all.”
“Well, gentlemen,” remarked Sir Frederick; “you have said enough to interest me. Pray come here again this day next week, if I should not send to you; for which purpose be so good as to leave your address. You may depend upon my utmost exertions to solve the mystery in which this affair is at present so strangely enveloped.”
Albert and his father returned their warm acknowledgments to the magistrate; and, leaving their address, they were escorted through the same door they had entered from the private room of the magistrate.