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.