Albert Seyton’s Destitution.—A Lone and Wearied Spirit.—The Application
to Learmont, and the Meeting with Sir Francis Hartleton.
We have been compelled for a long time to leave the gallant and
noble-hearted Albert Seyton to follow out his fortunes unchronicled in
order to depict the various changing scenes in the life of Ada, who,
now that she is conducted to a haven of rest for a while, we can leave
in calm contentment, although not yet, fair persecuted girl, are thy
trials done! The sunshine of peace and joy that now surrounds you is
but a prelude to a storm. We will not, however, anticipate but allow
the events of our tale to flow on in their natural course like a mighty
river, which, as it nears the ocean which is the goal of its destiny,
sweeps onwards with it every little tributary stream and murmuring
rivulet that has borrowed a brief existence from it.
After the death of his father, the scanty means of support which the
elder Seyton had arising from the tardy justice of the government
ceased at once, and no answer was returned by the corrupt minister to
Albert’s application, not for a continuance of his father’s pension,
but for honourable employment.
One by one he was compelled to part with the several remnants of
convertable property which his father had left behind him. His whole
time was occupied in searching for Ada, until hope sickened into
despair and a deep gloom began to spread itself like a vapour before
the sun over his heart, which in happier circumstances would have
throbbed with every free, noble, and generous emotion.
Twice he had called upon Sir Francis Hartleton, but had not been so
fortunate as to meet with him, and the second disappointment, although
it was purely accidental, Albert took seriously to heart, and in the
gloomy confusion of his imagination, arising from the grief that
oppressed him, cemented it into an intentional slight, and never called
again. The consequence of this was, that at the time of Ada’s
introduction to the house of the kind and humane magistrate, she was
entirely ignorant of Albert’s place of abode and condition in life.
Several times since his father’s death the young man had shifted his
residence, for he could not bear that his rapidly decreasing means
should become a subject of remark, even although a pitying one, and now
he tenanted a small room in a narrow court, near the Savoy steps in the
Strand.
Absolute destitution was now rapidly approaching, and he felt that the
time was quickly coming when he would have had to bid adieu for ever to
the most distant hope of ever again beholding Ada; and to save himself
from starvation, enlisted as a private soldier in the army in which his
father had held a commission.
On that very morning that Ada was sitting in the little room commanding
so delightful a view of the park, and conversing with Lady Hartleton,
poor Albert sat in his cheerless apartment with his head resting upon
his hands in a deep reverie composed of gloomy and heart depressing
thoughts and anticipations.
“Alas! Alas!” he cried. “My beautiful Ada, thou art lost to me for
ever. Oh, why did I leave you for one moment to the mercy of that man?
I am rightly punished. Having by the merest accident—by one of those
happy chances of fortune that rarely occur twice, met you, Ada, when
you were wandering in this great city, I madly allowed you to go from
me. Oh, what blindness was that—why did not some good spirit shriek
‘beware’ in my ears? Ada—Ada, I have lost you forever!”
He remained for some moments silent, and suddenly rising he cried,—
“’Tis in vain to struggle with my fate. My lot in life is cast, and I
must stand the hazard of the die. Ada, farewell forever, I must take a
step now which will sever us for ever—a step which, while it takes from
me my freedom of action, places me in a situation that will separate me
from you, Ada. There is a regiment ordered, I am told, to the West
Indies. It wants recruits—with it will I go, and bid adieu to England,
hope, and Ada.”
With a saddened heart, and yet a fixed and determined aspect, he now
proceeded to collect and pack into a small compass such few papers and
small cherished articles as were in themselves valueless, but dear to
him as the words of his father. There was one book, too, in the inside
of the cover of which Ada, when quite young, had written the name of
“Harry”—and underneath “Albert.” This one word of her whom he loved so
well he placed next his heart, with a determination that death should
alone part him and it. He then destroyed a number of letters which
would have encumbered him, and which possessed no very peculiar
features of interest.
For a moment he paused over one of those notes, as he was about to tear
it across, and as he read it it suggested one last hope to his mind.
The reader will recollect that previous to his long and dangerous
illness, Albert Seyton had applied to Learmont, whom he knew but as the
reported richest commoner in the kingdom, for the situation of
secretary to him, and had received not a distinct, but certainly an
encouraging reply.
Before, however, Albert could follow up the application his illness had
placed so long an interval between the first proceeding and that which
would have been the second, that not doubting Learmont was long since
suited, he had taken no further steps in the matter. It was Learmont’s
note dated far back which now caught his eye, and made him in the
present desperate state of his fortunes adopt the sudden notion of
calling with it in his hand and explaining the cause of the long delay,
which might interest the rich and powerful squire to give him a
recommendation to some one else, if he could not himself employ him.
“A drowning man,” exclaimed Albert, “they say, will catch at a straw,
and upon the same principle I will cling to this one slender hope.” He
read the letter carefully, which ran thus:—
If Mr. Seyton will call upon Mr. Learmont at his house any morning
before eleven he will oblige him, and they will converse on Mr.
Seyton’s application.
This was very brief, but still amply sufficient to found a call upon,
and Albert placing it in his pocket, and trimming up as well as he
could his faded apparel, donned his hat, and with a quick active step
proceeded towards Learmont’s house.
What an estimable thing to youth is hope, and from what a small tiny
plant will it grow in the human breast to wondrous size and beauty.
The freshness of the morning, the sunshine and the feeling that there
was yet another chance for him, slight as it was, chased many of the
phantoms of gloom and despair from his mind.
He was not long in arriving at Learmont’s house and entering the hall,
for it was the fashion then of many of the wealthy to keep their
outer-doors open, and trust to the throng of servant’s they kept in
their halls, to defend them from any improper intrusion. He inquired
for Learmont. He was replied to by a question concerning his business,
when luckily recollecting his letter, he produced it, saying,—
“I have a note from the squire, requesting my attendance upon him.”
“Oh,” said a servant, “if that is the case, young sir, I will take your
name in. Pray follow me.”
Albert followed the man, and was conducted into a small, but
magnificent apartment, with an exquisitely painted roof, and hung with
crimson damask.
He had not waited long when the servant re-appeared to say,—“that his
master had no sort of recollection of the affair, and wished to see his
own letter which the stranger said he had.”
“Here is the letter,” said Albert; “but his worship will see by the
date, that the time therein mentioned scarcely authorises my present
visit. Be so good as to add that long illness and the death of one near
and dear to me, accounts for the delay.”
The man took the note and was away for some time, when he entered and
requested Albert Seyton to follow him, for that his master would see
him.
He was then conducted through a magnificent suite of rooms, until the
servant paused at a door which was a little way open. At this he
knocked gently, and a deep-toned hollow voice from within said,—
“Come in.”
The servant motioned Albert Seyton to enter the apartment, and in the
next moment he was in the presence of Learmont, who fixed his keen
searching eyes upon the young man’s face for several moments before he
spoke. Then he said in a low tone,—
“Young man, your application now can scarcely be considered as
encouraged by me. The note you have bears date a long time back.”
“It does, sir,” replied Albert; “but I have been on a bed of sickness
myself, and am now bereft of the parent who then—”
Albert’s feelings would not permit him to say more, and he paused.
“Are you an orphan?” said Learmont.
“I am.”
“And poor and friendless—and, and very nearly driven to despair? Have
you found out what a hollow cheat the care of Providence is? Are you
one of Fortune’s foot-balls, kicked here and there as the jade thinks
proper? Have you met with ingratitude where you should have had
succour? Contempt where you trusted upon honour—derision where you went
for sympathy—are you, young man, one of those who have seen enough of
misery to retaliate upon the world? Speak, young man, are you such as I
have described?”
There was a kind of subdued, snarling tone of vehemence in the
utterance of these words by Learmont, that surprised Albert Seyton as
much as the words themselves were unexpected. After a moment’s pause he
replied,—
“Sir, I scarce know how to answer you. I am, it is true, poor,
friendless, and an orphan; I have met with ingratitude when I should
have met friendship; cold indifference instead of ardent sympathy; but,
sir, I thank Heaven that poor, nearly destitute as I am, my heart is
light as thistle-down in its innocence of wrong, and from my inmost
soul do I look up to and acknowledge that Providence that watches over
all. You have jested with me, sir.”
“In truth have I,” said Learmont; “it is my custom with a stranger,
heed it not. When I want a moral, religious, and light-hearted
secretary, you may be assured that I will send for you, young man.”
A pang of disappointment shot across the heart of Albert Seyton as
Learmont spoke, and he replied sadly,—
“Farewell, sir, you will send for me in vain. This day, if unaccepted
by you, I enter the ranks as a soldier.”
“Indeed, are you so hardly pressed?”
“Heaven knows I am indeed. For myself, sir, I care not, but in my fate
is involved that of another.”
“What other?” said Learmont.
“Alas, sir, the tale is long, and its telling useless.”
“Young man,” said Learmont earnestly, “there is a matter in which I
could give you good employment, but it is one requiring secresy,
prudence, and deep caution.”
“If it be honourable, sir,” said Seyton, “I will freely undertake it
were it beset with dangers.”
“’Tis a reach above honourable,” said Learmont. “The object is
absolutely pious.”
This was said in so strange a tone that Albert was puzzled to make up
his mind if it were sincere or honourable, and he remained silent,
expecting Learmont to go on with what he was saying.
“It is a trifling service,” said Learmont, “and yet by trifles I ever
estimate good service. I fear me, much, young man, that in this great
city there is great wickedness.”
“No doubt,” said Albert, “and I should not object to any service that
had for its end a righteous object.”
“Sagely and wisely spoken, young sir,” said Learmont; “I give away
large sums to those who are in want, and some days since there came to
me a man who told a piteous tale, in which there were, however, some
glaring discrepancies. I relieved his wants, real or pretended, and
sent a servant to follow him home for two objects; first, to ascertain
if he had given his true place of abode to me, and, secondly, to enable
me to make inquiry into his real condition, in order that I might
expose him as an impostor, or grant him further relief. You understand
me?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. The man I sent was foiled. He did not succeed in tracing him to
his home. With much doublings and windings he eluded all pursuit. This
man then I wish you to track to his abode;—Have you tact for such an
enterprise?”
“Methinks ’tis very easy,” said Albert.
“And you will do it?”
“I will, sir; I hate impostures, I hate that which puts the garb of
virtue or religion for base purposes.”
“Ah, you have a right feeling of these things, young man,” said
Learmont.
“Execute this matter to my satisfaction, and I will entertain you as my
secretary.”
“When, sir, may I have an opportunity to prove my zeal?”
“I think to-morrow. A week seldom passes but he comes here craving for
alms. You shall see him and follow him. Track him like a blood-hound;
it will be esteemed good service by me. ’Tis a mere trifle, but succeed
in it, and I will make much of you.”
“I shall do my utmost, sir. There may be difficulties that I wont not
of; but I will strive to overcome this, and do you satisfactory
service.”
“Here’s money for you,” said Learmont, handing him a purse. “Amuse
yourself to-day: I shall not require your services until to-morrow, but
attend me then at an early hour—say nine.”
“I will be punctual, sir.”
“And secret?”
“If you wish it.”
“I do wish it. Hark ye, young sir, it is a rule in this house, that, if
the slightest occurrence be made a subject of discourse out of it; if
the lightest stray word be repeated elsewhere, he who so reports never
enters its portals again.”
“I will obey you, sir; I have no taste for babbling, and, indeed, in
all this city I have not one that I can call an acquaintance.”
“’Tis better so—’tis better so,” said Learmont; “you will do me good
service. Farewell, young sir, until to-morrow.”
“Then I may consider myself as so far honoured by you, sir, as to call
myself your secretary?” said Albert Seyton, scarcely believing his good
fortune.
“You may—you may,” said Learmont. “We will talk more at large
to-morrow.”
He touched a bell as he spoke, and, when a servant appeared, he
said,—“This gentleman has access to me. Good morning, young sir.”
Albert bowed himself out, and scarcely recovered from his bewilderment
till he found himself out of the house.
Then, as he began to consider all that had passed in his interview with
Learmont, Albert began more and more to dislike his service, and to
suspect that his employer was not by any means the high-minded and
charitable gentleman he would fain assume to be. The manner of Learmont
was so much at variance with his words that Albert irresistibly came to
the conclusion that there was something more than had been explained to
him connected with the service he was asked to perform of watching to
his home an unfortunate beggar.
“Still,” he thought, “I may be mistaken, and blaming this man for
faults of nature. He may be benevolent and just, as he reports himself
to be, but still afflicted with as roguish and villanous a face as ever
fell to the lot of mortal man. It will not do always to trust to
appearances, and I should be foolish indeed to forsake an honourable
employment for perhaps a mere chimera of the imagination. I can leave
him when I please; and at least, while I remain, dear Ada, I will
please myself with a belief that I am near thee.”
When Learmont was once more alone, and the echo of the retiring
footsteps of Albert Seyton had died away, he muttered indistinctly to
himself for some moments. Then, as he grew more confident in the
success of some stratagem which he had connived, he spoke with a tone
of exultation.
“Yes,” he said, “fortune has favoured me with the best chance yet of
discovering the hiding place of Jacob Gray. This youth must be unknown
to him, and surely will succeed in dogging him to his haunt. That once
discovered, and an hour shall not elapse without witnessing his
dissolution, I can set this young man too upon Britton. The grand
difficulty in circumventing these fellows has always consisted in the
want of unsuspected persons to mingle with them. This youngster looks
bold and capable; he will surely be successful in taking him, and,
should his curiosity grow clamorous, he is easily disposed of. What
matters it to me a few more lives!—I am already steeped in
gore—steeped—steeped; but then I have my reward—wealth—honours—and—and
enjoyment, of course. Ha! What noise was that?”
Some slight creaking of an article of furniture sent the blood with a
frightful rush to his heart, and he remained for several moments
trembling excessively, and clutching the edge of the oaken table for
support. Then, with a deep sigh, he again spoke,—
“’Twas nothing—nothing. I have grown strangely nervous of late. I was
not wont to be so tremblingly alive to every slight alarm. Is it age
creeping upon me, or the shadow of some impending evil upon my heart?
Learmont—Learmont, be thyself. Shake off these vapours of the brain.
I—I have been ten times worse since I saw that face upon my door step.
God of heaven! How like it was to one who sleeps the sleep of death.
I—I cannot stay here. This room seems peopled with shapes.
Hence—hence—I am going—I am going—going.”
He slowly crept to the door, and kept softly muttering unintelligible
words with his cold, livid lips, till he had passed out, and closed the
door after him.
Laughter at this moment reached his ears from the servants’ hall, and
he smote his forehead with his clenched hand, as he exclaimed,—
“Why can I not laugh? Why has no smile ever lighted my face for years?
Am I a thing accursed? Others have spilt blood as well as I, and they
have not been thus haunted. I will go out. There seems in the house to
be ever close to me some hideous, unfashioned form, whose hot breath
comes on my cheek, and whose perpetual presence is a hell. Yes—I—I will
go out—out!”