Ada at Sir Francis Hartleton’s.—The Philosophy of a Young Heart.—A
Confession.—The Pleasure of Sympathy.
What pen shall describe the happiness that gleamed now in the heart of
Ada as she sat with Sir Francis Hartleton’s young wife on the morning
after her introduction to her, in a neat and prettily-arranged room,
overlooking the park.
The air was fresh and balmy—the birds were flitting past the windows,
and filled the atmosphere with music. Crowds of gaily-dressed persons
were idly sauntering among the trees; enlivening strains of martial
music came wafted to her ears as the guard was changed at the Palace.
The perfume of flowers, the kind words of Lady Hartleton, and kinder
looks—the harmony of the household—the gay laughter from children who
were chasing each other in a neighbouring garden, and last, though
greatest of all, the consciousness of freedom from Jacob Gray, so
filled the heart of Ada with delight, that she suddenly threw herself
into the arms of Lady Hartleton, and with a flood of tears, said,—
“Oh, I am too happy! How can I by a life’s long duration ever repay you
a little of the joys you have filled my heart with?”
“My dear Ada,” replied Lady Hartleton, “you must not talk so. What you
are now enjoying, and for which you are so thankful, is no more, and
probably much less than what you ought always to have enjoyed. ’Tis the
contrast of this and what you have suffered which makes you overlook
all the disadvantages and fancy that to mix with the world, and enjoy
its routine of existence, must he unalloyed happiness.”
“Can any of those be unhappy?” said Ada, pointing to the gay throngs in
the park.
“Alas! my dear,” said Lady Hartleton, “how very few of them are happy.”
“Indeed, madam?”
“Aye, indeed, Ada. Our joys and our sorrows are all comparative. You,
in your pure innocence, my dear Ada, have yet to learn how many an
aching heart is hidden by wreathed smiles.”
“’Tis very strange,” said Ada, musingly. “’Tis very strange that we
should be unhappy, and the world so beautiful. To live—to have freedom
and liberty—to go wherever the wayward fancy leads me, seem to me a
great enjoyment. The birds—the sunshine—the flowers—ay, each blade of
grass trembling and glistening with its weight of morning dew, is to me
a source of delightful contemplation—I am sure all might be happy, the
green fields and the sunny sky are so very beautiful.”
“There are evils, Ada.”
“Yes—sickness, pain, the loss of those we love, are all evils,” said
Ada. “But then we have a thousand consolations even from them, in the
ever fresh and never dying beauties of nature around us.”
“Ada, with your feelings, death, pain, and sickness of ourselves, of
those we loves may well appear the greatest evils of existence. Yet
strange as it may seem to you, such is the perversity of human nature,
that these are the very things that affect it least.”
“You surprise me.”
“And well I may. The cares, the anxieties, the awful horrors of
existence to the many, arise from their artificial desires, and the mad
riot of their own bad passions. Avarice affects some—ambition, and the
love of power, others; and many who could, without a pang, see rent the
natural ties of love and kindred, will lay violent hands upon their own
lives, if they fail in some mad effort of their own wild passions.”
“Oh,” cried Ada, “I think that I could be so happy without
power—without wealth—my own ambition is to be surrounded by kind and
loving hearts, and happy faces—tongues that knew no guile, and breasts
that harboured no suspicion. Surely then, enough of variety might be
found, in watching the wonders of the changing seasons—enough of joy in
marking the many charms which He who made us all, has cast around us
for our pleasure.”
“You, my dear Ada, have the elements of happiness in your heart; but
now that we are alone, have you sufficient confidence in me, to tell me
at length all your history?”
“Confidence?” said Ada. “Oh, yes; and in whom could I have confidence,
if not in you?”
“Then sit here by me, and tell me all. We will be mutually
confidential, Ada, and have no secrets but in common. Now tell me, is
your happinesss quite perfect? Have you no secret yearning of the heart
yet ungratified, Ada?”
“My happiness,” said Ada, “is perfect with hope—a hope that must surely
ripen into a dear reality.”
“Then you have a hope—a wish that lives upon hope—an expectation yet
ungratified, Ada?”
“Madam,” said Ada, gazing without the least timidity into the eyes of
Lady Hartleton, “when I was quite friendless and oppressed, there was
one who loved me—when no other human heart spoke a word of consolation
to me, there was one that beat for me, and bade its owner whisper to me
words of dearer hope and joy, than ever before had lingered in my ears.
Wonder not then, that even now, when I have so much to be thankful and
grateful for, my heart yearns for him to share its new born joy.”
“And his name?” said Lady Hartleton.
“Is Albert Seyton,” said Ada, with a sigh.
“Is he handsome, Ada?”
“I love him,” replied Ada, emphatically.
“Maidens seldom avow their preferences so very boldly,” said Lady
Hartleton, with a smile.
“They who have felt as I have felt,” said Ada, “the pangs of solitude
and the horrors of a persecution, surely never paralleled, would learn
to set a high value on the heart that loved them in their misery, and
to cherish as something holy, the words of comfort, hope, and kindness,
that were breathed to them in their despair. You wonder that I can avow
without a blush my heart’s fond love for Albert Seyton. Oh, lady, it
has been the only light that shone upon me through years of gloom. Can
you wonder, then, that I thought it beautiful—I am as one who had been
confined for many, many years, in a dungeon. I read the legend in a
book that Albert lent to me. For many years, then, this poor fated
being had not seen the light of day—had heard nothing but the harsh
grating of his dungeon door—the hideous rattle of his chains, until at
last one day there came struggling like a sunbeam upon his soul, a
strain of music. ’Twas a common air, and played unskilfully, but to him
it was indeed divine.”
“The prisoner lived to bid adieu to his dungeon, and he came abroad
into the great world. He heard music in its excellence—music that
seemed borrowed from Heaven, and he praised; admired; applauded it. But
one day, some wandering minstrel, with a careless hand, struck up from
a rude viol the strain that in his dungeon had so sweetly greeted him.
Oh, how his heart bounded, like a bird, within his breast—how a joy
unequalled danced through his brain. He wept, he sobbed aloud in his
happiness. What music greeted his rapt senses like that! He hung upon
the minstrel’s neck, and his prayer was—‘Oh, stay ever near me, and
when I am sad or weary, play to me that strain that I may thank God for
my happiness.’”
Ada ceased speaking, and Lady Hartleton caught her to her heart, as she
said,—
“My dear Ada, I did but speak for the pleasure of hearing you reply to
me. I am too richly repaid.”
“As that lonely prisoner loved the strain of melody that greeted his
dreary solitude,” sobbed Ada, “so let me love him who sought me out
when I had none else to love me, and told me how to hope.”
“Your pure and noble feelings, Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, much
affected, “do you infinite honour. I am proud of you, my dear Ada, and
hope to have the second place in your heart.”
“You have the first,” said Ada. “I cannot make distinctions between
those I love. I open my heart freely to you. There is room, dear lady,
for you and Albert both, and for Sir Francis too.”
There was a beautiful and earnest simplicity in Ada’s manner that
perfectly charmed Lady Hartleton, and she encouraged her to open her
heart thoroughly to her; and she was perfectly astonished at the rich
store of poetry, beauty, and virtue which lay garnered up in the breast
of the persecuted and beautiful girl—stores of feeling, thought, and
imagination which required but the sunny influence of kindness to bring
forth in all their native purity and beauty.
Ada now gave Lady Hartleton an animated description of her whole course
of life with Jacob Gray, commencing at her earliest recollection of
being with him in various mean lodgings, and coming down through all
the exciting and dangerous scenes she had passed to her denunciation of
him at Charing Cross.
Lady Hartleton listened to her narration with the greatest interest,
and when Ada had concluded, she said,—
“And you have still no clue, Ada, to your birth?”
“None—none. The mysterious paper addressed to your husband by Jacob
Gray most probably contained some information, but I fear that is lost
for ever.”
“A more strange aad eventful history I never heard,” remarked Lady
Hartleton. “I have very sanguine hopes that the activity and
exhaustless energy of Sir Francis will soon clear up some of the
mysteries that surround you.”
“Heaven grant it may be so,” said Ada.
“There is one circumstance that must not be lost sight of, as it may
afford some clue or corroborative evidence of your birth—that is, the
necklace you sold to the Jew.”
“It might, indeed,” said Ada, “I was foolish to part with it.”
“Should you know the shop again?”
“Certainly I should, and the man likewise. My intercourse with the
world has been so very slight that I am not confused with a multitude
of images and occurrences. Everything that has happened to me, and
every one who has ever spoken to me, stand clear and distinct in my
memory.”
“Then the necklace may be recovered.”
“Indeed!”
“Without doubt; Sir Francis will get it back for you.”
Lady Hartleton rang the bell, and when a servant appeared, she said,—
“Is Sir Francis within?”
“Yes, my lady,” was the reply. “He has just returned from the Secretary
of State’s office.”
“Ask him to come here.”
The servant bowed and retired, and in a very few minutes, Sir Francis
Hartleton entered the room with a smile.
Ada arose and welcomed him with evident pleasure, and he said,—
“Well, Ada, are you happy here?”
“Too happy, sir,” she said, with emotion. “It requires all my reason to
convince me it is real.”
Lady Hartleton then related to her husband the story of the necklace,
to which he listened with grave attention.
At its conclusion, he said,—
“I need not trouble Ada to point out the shop. The description is
sufficient. The Jew who keeps it is well known to the police, I have no
doubt of getting back the necklace if it be still in this country. It
may be an important link in the chain of evidence concerning Ada’s
birth.”
“Have you any thought of who I am?” asked Ada, with eagerness.
“I have,” said Sir Francis, “but believe and trust me when I tell you
it is for your own peace of mind and happiness that I would rather tell
you nothing until I can tell you something which has a firmer basis
than conjecture.”
“You are right,” said Ada; “I should but be giving my imagination play,
and torturing my mind with perhaps futile fears, and too sanguine
hopes.”
“Hope all and fear nothing,” said Sir Francis. “The mere adventitious
circumstances of your birth need not affect your happiness, Ada. If you
can make this a comfortable home, we shall be much delighted.”
“I cannot speak to you as I ought,” replied Ada, “time may show my deep
gratitude, but never can I hope to repay you.”
“And appreciation of kindness, Ada,” said the magistrate, “is its
dearest reward. I will now leave you for a little time to call upon
your very doubtful friend the Jew.”
“He who bought my necklace. In sooth I know little of money, but from
what I have read, it should be worth a much larger sum. I heard Gray
call it real pearl.”
“No doubt—no doubt—I will go myself. You will see me again very soon,
and it will go hard, but I will make the hoary robber disgorge his
ill-gotten prey.”
So saying, Sir Francis bade Ada and his wife a temporary adieu, and
hurried to the shop of the Jew who had taken such an unworthy advantage
of Ada’s want of knowledge of the value of a really costly pearl
necklace.