The Unfortunate Confidence of Albert Seyton.—Learmont’s Promises and
Treachery.
When Albert Seyton got near the door, Learmont cried in a harsh voice,—
“Stop, stop—’twas only a passing spasm, I am subject to them, very
subject to them. Come back, young sir, come back.”
He reeled a step or two as he spoke, and then sunk into a chair,
muttering,—
“I—I have not strength now to bear me up against these sudden
surprises. Can it be really he, and I, listening with so much
indifference to what touched me so nearly, and yet it cannot be—I dare
not question him.”
“Are you better, sir?” said Albert.
“Yes—yes, better now. Ring yon bell, and order wine.”
Albert rung a lusty peal upon the bell, and an attendant promptly
answered the summons, standing respectfully for orders.
Learmont rose and approached the man, who became evidently much
frightened lest his imperious master was for some real or imagined
fault going to execute summary vengeance upon him.
“Mercy, sir, your worship,” he cried.
“Fool!” growled Learmont, as he reached the door; and then inclining
his head close to the man’s ear he said;—“If Jacob Gray should come
while this young gentleman is with me, show him into a room, but do not
announce him.”
“Yes, yes, your worship.”
“Make no mistake, or I will have you hung, fellow.”
“No—no—no, your worship, I won’t make any mistake, I ain’t to announce
Jac—”
“Silence, and begone,” cried Learmont, in a loud voice, and the man
precipitately retired in a great fright.
“Oh! I forgot the wine,” said Learmont, as he turned from the door,
“ring again if you please.”
Albert rung, and with a pale face the servant just came to the
threshold of the door.
“Wine,” cried Learmont, and the man disappeared immediately with a
jerk, as if he had been pulled away by some wire.
“You will continue your narration,” said Learmont, trying to impart
some moisture to his parched lips—“you—you—named Gray, I think, as the
man’s name?”
“I did, sir—Jacob Gray.”
Learmont was prepared for this, and he only gave a slight start, as the
familiar name came upon his ears. “Go on—go on,” he said.
“I was about to tell you that he kept a mysterious written paper in his
room, addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the
magistrate.”
“Addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate,”
muttered Learmont—“then, then, it was true.”
“Sir!”
“Go on—go on.”
“This paper he always charged his young and beautiful companion to
repair with herself to Sir Francis Hartleton, should he on any occasion
not return or send to her within three clear days of the time he had
limited his absence to extend to.”
“Indeed. ’Twas very strange.”
“It was, sir, and I always believed that the paper contained some
particulars concerning the gentle girl he had held in such cruel and
unjustifiable bondage.”
“No doubt—no doubt; well what happened next? Go on.”
“From that place one day they mysteriously removed, leaving behind them
only an old trunk in which this strange paper used to be kept, and it
was long ere I saw them again.”
“But you did!”
“I did, sir—I should, however, have informed you of another
circumstance, but I fear, sir, I weary you—you are not well, sir.”
“Yes, yes—quite well.”
“Some other time when you may feel disposed to listen to me, sir—I—”
“Go on, now—go on—it amuses me much—very much—I have not been so
interested in anything for a long time—I beg you will go on.”
“You are very kind, sir. Then as I was saying I forgot to tell you that
this young girl was, when I first knew her, disguised in the dress of a
boy, and called Harry Gray.”
“Disguised as a boy?—Humph—An artful, very cunning trick.”
“Yes, sir, but objectless surely—I thought her a boy, and then she was
beautiful, and I could have lived or died for Harry Gray, but when
after that, I saw her in the clothing more becoming to her sex, and
knew her as my own beautiful Ada, how different were my feelings—I
passionately loved her.”
“And she?”
“Returned my heart’s devotion with all the frankness of her noble
nature.”
“Where was she when you saw her last?”
“I met her in St. James’s Park—she had fled from the house to which
this man Gray had hurried her, and where he had kept her a close
prisoner for a weary space of time. Then I madly parted with her, as I
thought but for an hour, and I have never seen her since.”
“Where was the house?”
“A ruined condemned house by South Lambeth—a wretched den.”
Learmont drew a long breath, as he said,—“You say she has escaped from
him? How was that?”
“Some men had sought his life, she told me, and he had assured her that
his only chance of preservation lay in their not finding her with him;
and moreover, as they supposed her a boy, she might escape and so
preserve herself and him by attiring herself in the proper habiliments
of her sex.”
“Yes—yes—she did?”
“She did, sir, on the mere doubt that he might be her father.”
“Well? And after that?”
“After that I never saw her. I have searched in every place in London.
I have wearied myself with a long and useless hunt. I have inquired
until I met with insolence from some, and mockery from others. Oh, sir,
if indeed you will aid me in this matter, I do, from my heart, believe
that while you make two beings happy who will ever bless your name,—you
will likewise be unmasking some monstrous villany which this man Jacob
Gray has been concerned in.”
“Bless my name,” muttered Learmont, with a shudder.
“With your means, and your influence with the authorities, we must
surely succeed,” continued Albert. “Oh, then, sir, consider what a
glorious reflection it will be to you to see our happiness, and tell
yourself that if was all your work.”
“The—the wine, sir,” said the trembling servant, coming into the room.
Learmont motioned it to be laid before him, and then filled a bumper
that quite astonished Albert, and tossed it off at one draught.
“Drink,” he said, as he pushed a decanter across the table to Albert.
“It will raise your spirits to tell me the remainder of your strange
eventful story.”
Albert drank a small quantity of the generous fluid, and then he said,—
“I have nearly told you all, sir. Everything else with me must be
conjecture. I should, however, mention that I called upon Sir Francis
Hartleton, with the hope of interesting him in the affair, but he took
but little heed of it.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he was but lukewarm as regarded all I told him, and I believe did
nothing in the matter.”
“And yet you told him all you have related to me,” said Learmont.
“All, sir; but there are some men who will not step out of the beaten
track of their duty for any consideration.”
“True, true, Mr. Seyton. I believe this man to be an overpraised man.
Indeed, I am far from having the high opinion of him he seems to have
obtained from most persons. I should advise you to shun him. Do not
call upon him; and, should you even by chance meet him, avoid any
conversation concerning this matter. I am chary of interfering with
men’s reputation, but I know sufficient of this Sir Francis Hartleton
to beware of him as a hollow friend.”
“In truth, sir, I believe,” said Albert, “that I shall have but little
trouble in shunning him; for I was denied admittance to him twice when
I called, since my first interview.”
“Ay, that shows you the man. He found that there was difficulty, and
perhaps danger, in the affair, and no immediate profit or reputation;
so, you see, he treated you coldly.”
“He did treat me coldly.”
“Then you rely upon me. If needs be, I will become such powerful
assistance for you that you must succeed; and should you by any means
discover the abode of this Jacob Gray, I think you had better bring me
word, without adopting any mode of action of your own, and then we can
consult upon some safe and effectual means of serving you.”
“I feel your kindness, sir, most sensibly,” said the grateful Albert,
“and—”
“Well, well,” interrupted Learmont—“I am sure you will be grateful. I
have no service for you to-day, for it is long past the hour this man
should have been here; but attend me here to-morrow morning at the same
time.”
“I shall be punctual, sir,” said Albert rising.
“Good day—good day,” said Learmont.
Albert bowed and left the room.