CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The Papers.
For some moments after the departure of his visitors, Sir Frederick Hartleton remained in deep thought, then he commenced a diligent search among some memoranda that he took from an iron chest imbedded in the wall, and, selecting one paper, perused it attentively more than once.
“Surely,” he suddenly exclaimed, “this is the clue at last. Well do I remember the awful night at Learmont, when the storm spread confusion and dismay among the peasantry, and Britton’s ill-omened house was in flames, while the dreadful cries that even now seem to ring in my ears, so forcibly does memory recall them, issued from the burning mass. Let me see. The time. Yes, that is sufficiently near,—between fourteen and fifteen-years since. Learmont in London, and Britton, the smith, living near him? In a style of coarse extravagance and debauchery befitting his coarse nature. Who supplied the funds?—Why the rich ambitious money-loving Squire Learmont, to be sure! And wherefore?—Aye, that’s the question. For one of two reasons, I’ll swear. Either as a reward for present services, or to purchase silence for the past. Humph! Learmont is by no means scrupulous. He would murder the smith. Ay surely would he. There is something then in progress which makes Britton’s life valuable to the squire. And this man, Gray, too. Who is he? Was he the man who rushed with such frantic gestures from the fire with the child in his arms? And is that child, this girl—this Ada, as they call her?—Surely the whole fits well together. But still there is no proof—all is circumstantial as yet, and involved in mere conjecture. Squire Learmont may maintain Britton if he please, and who shall question him?”
Sir Frederick now again remained in silent thought for a long time, then he said in an assured voice,—
“I must trust this affair to no one. It is too intricate for any ordinary scouts to trace. I must see to it myself. The smith, I am aware, holds his drunken orgies at the Chequers. Thither I will myself go, and watch him. Squire Learmont, the time will come when the crimes that I suspect you of may be made apparent; but cunning devil that you are, I must be cautious or I shall alarm you, and defeat myself.”
The magistrate now rose, and disrobing himself of his upper clothings, took from a cloth-press in his room the apparel in which he afterwards appeared at the Chequers, where the little scene occurred between him and the smith, Britton, of which the reader is already cognisant.
We will now, therefore, fellow the proceedings of Sir Frederick Hartleton after he left the Chequers. His object was to procure poor Maud, and get from her as much information as he thought he might, by comparing with what he himself knew, rely upon.
He walked very quickly down the street; but the object of his search was nowhere to be seen, and he felt convinced that she must have gone in the opposite direction, although he felt almost sure likewise that he had noticed a figure somewhat resembling hers in the way he was proceeding. While he was standing in a state of doubt, the smith reeled past him, and, Sir Frederick stepping into the shadow of a doorway, escaped recognition from the drunken and infuriated man.
He then resolved to follow him, to see whither he went, as Mad Maud he could easily discover by his police agents on the morrow.
Dogging, therefore, the unequal footsteps of Britton, the disguised magistrate followed him closely and safely.
The smith paused at the corner of the street, and asked a drowsy watchman if he had seen a beggar woman pass. He was at once answered in the affirmative, and in the same breath asked for something to drink, which Britton, being at the same time more savage than hospitable, refused with the addition of a curse.
Sir Frederick now congratulated himself upon following the smith; for he doubted not that, should he encounter poor Maud, he would inflict upon her some fatal injury, unless he, Sir Frederick, was at hand to protect the poor creature.
Britton blundered on, cursing and muttering to himself, but in so low a tone that, although the magistrate came as close to him as he could with safety, he could not shape any intelligible phrases from what was thus uttered.
Britton walked on in the direction of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Hall, still very closely followed, and almost every passenger he met he asked if a beggar woman had been seen. Some answered one thing and some another, until a lad affirmed that an old beggar woman passed him near to Millbank, and then sat down on a door-step nearly facing the river.
With a shout of triumph Britton rushed onwards; but Sir Frederick kept as close as prudence would dictate, until they cleared Abingdon-street, and came upon the then dark and straggling purlieus of Millbank.
There were but few lights in this quarter, and the inhabitants were not very favourably known to the magistrate as the most moral race in London.
Britton now proceeded more cautiously, and kept peering about him to endeavour, as it appeared to Sir Frederick, as well to discover Maud as to note if any one was near. By gliding along close to some black palings the magistrate entirely escaped observation, and Britton seemed satisfied that he was alone.
Close to the river was a low wall of not more than four feet high, and the night was so dark that it could scarcely be distinguished from the dark stream that rolled by on the further side of it. Directly over the wall was a kind of parapet of about three feet in width, which was about level with the decks of the small river craft that came to disengage gravel, wood, logs, &c., at the wharfs, and was very convenient for them. Immediately, however, below this parapet, and, in fact, partly washing under it, was the black muddy tide of the river.
Dark as was the water, the wall was still darker, and Sir Frederick Hartleton could plainly see the upper part of the bulky form of the smith in slight relief against the water, as he walked slowly along close to the wall.
Once or twice he looked back; but his pursuer was on the other side of the way, and quite well backed by the black paling which, when he stooped a very little, was above his head.
This was the state of things, when suddenly a wild plaintive voice broke the stillness of the night air; and, with a mockery of gaiety, that had in it the very soul of pathos, sang or rather chaunted the words of a song of joy, hope, and mirth, which was then popular in the metropolis, and was the composition of one of the most distinguished wits of the day.
There was a wild abandonment of manner about the singer, that would have commanded the attention of Sir Frederick at any time; but now that he saw the smith suddenly pause, he paused likewise, and the strains with all their melancholy pathos came full upon his ear.
To the Bride! To the Bride!
“To the Bride! To the Bride,
I sing,
And away to the winds the strain
I fling.
There’s a tear in her gentle eye,
I trow—
She weeps, and her heart is sad,
I vow;
Her hand like a leaflet shakes
I see,—
That hand which never more
Is free.
She leaves her happy home
Of light,
Where her happiest days were past
So bright:
She has trusted all to one,
The bride.
Shall her young heart’s joy e’er know
A tide—
Shall her bliss flow on for aye
Or not?
When distant far, shall ever
The spot,
Where she lived and loved so long,
Be forgot?
To the Bride! To the Bride,
I sing,
And away to the winds my strain
I fling!”
The voice ceased. A solemn stillness reigned for a few brief seconds, and then Sir Frederick saw the shadowy form of the smith glide forwards—the gruff voice of the savage drunkard came to his ears as he stooped and exclaimed,—
“So Maud—we have met again. D—n you, we are alone now!”
A half-stifled scream followed that speech, and the magistrate bounded across the road. He paused, however, when he was within a few paces of Britton, for he heard the poor mad creature speak, and the thought crossed his mind that her cry had proceeded from sudden surprise, and not from any injury inflicted by the smith, and knowing his power to save her he thought that if Britton wished to procure any information from Mad Maud previous to offering her any violence, he might as well hear it, as in all probability it would be important and correct.
Acting on this supposition, he crouched down close by the wall for some few seconds—then suddenly recollecting the parapet on the other side, and the facilities it afforded as sufficiently close to aid poor Maud in case of the most sudden emergency, he crept softly twenty yards or more away, and then clambered over the wall in a moment, on to the parapet. To draw himself along this noiselessly until he actually faced Britton, was the work but of another minute, and laying flat down was quite secure from observation, while he was ready for action, and must hear the slightest murmured word that passed.