There was one, though, who heeded no wind nor weather—one to whom the cutting blast, the dashing rain, and the general discomfort out of doors was nothing, for his heart and brain were too full of brighter, fairer objects to allow the smallest space for a consideration of the more external face of nature—so for him the elements might wage what war they liked—he heeded them not, for his heart was crammed with fire from Heaven, and the sunshine of his soul made its own beauty in his breast. That one was Albert Seyton, who, as soon as the shades of evening had made it safe for him to do so, had silently and cautiously ensconced himself in the ancient doorway immediately opposite to Gray’s house, determining there to watch until the morning’s dawn over the house, which he fondly believed contained his dearly-beloved, lost Ada.
One by one he saw the lights put out in the house, with the exception of two, and one of those he pleased himself by imagining lit up the chamber of Ada. Now and then a shadow would flit across the blind at the window of that room, and the fond lover, in his ardent creative imagination, endeavoured to trace in it the beauty of form, the sylph-like symmetry of her he loved.
“Yes—yes,” he said, “she is there, my beautiful Ada. Oh, could she but guess how fond, how true a heart was beating for her here. How vigilant a sentinel was watching lest harm should come to her through the long hours of the night. Could she but dream of much—were some kind angel to whisper to her as she slept that her lover was near her, that he watched over, and blessed her as she slept, what smiles would kindle on her face, what flashing tenderness, would beam from her, and what a new-born joy would spring up in her, perhaps, heavy heart.”
Albert crossed his arms upon his breast, and waited more than an hour without the least interruption, and then, just as the only other light in the house, besides the one which he pleased himself by fancying burned in Ada’s chamber, was put out, and the entrance to the deep doorway in which he was became darkened by a human form, and Sir Francis Hartleton’s spy stood for a moment or two muttering to himself, without observing Seyton, who drew back silently, resolved to wait a few moments to see if he intended a stay or not.
“A nice night,” muttered the man. “I think I see myself waiting here. All’s right, I dare say. If I come once an hour, it will be ample time enough. There’s a gust of wind. It’s enough to make a fellow’s marrow feel cold.”
With these words he cast another look up at the house inhabited by Gray, and then struck off to a public-house, which was at the corner of the street.
“A good riddance,” said Albert, “although I wonder what on earth he can be watching Gray for. A few hours though must end all my suspense and restore her to me. No doubt even now the rich squire is maturing some plan to aid me effectually. I am well guided by his wisdom, for he says truly that Ada would never be perfectly happy without knowing what those papers contained which Gray sets such store by, and any rash attempt to rescue Ada might involve their destruction. I must be patient—I must be patient.”
The light which Albert Seyton took such interest in came from Jacob Gray’s room; he had not stirred out the whole of the day, and the tempestuous state of the evening induced him to abandon all intention of leaving his home. About sunset he had crept down stairs to the shop, and desired his landlady to procure him some refreshment, carefully locking his room door even for the few moments he was absent from it in making his request. Then, when he returned, he paced to and fro until the viands he had ordered were brought to him, when, with an attempt at a smile, he said—
“A bad night—the wind howls fearfully.”
“Ah, you are right, sir,” said the woman; “there’s ever so many tiles blowed off of our house, and I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do, for there the chimney in the next room smokes, and the people as lived there is gone.”