The Walk in Search of Albert.—The Recognition at Charing Cross.
Was Ada happy in her pleasant home at Sir Francis Hartleton’s—was there
no cloud yet upon her young heart? Alas, how purely comparative are all
our joys and all our sorrows. The change from her weary confinement
with Jacob Grey, and the dismal habitations it was his policy to live
in, to the kind looks—kinder words and happy home of the warm-hearted
magistrate, was like suddenly, to some adventurous voyager to the far
north, breaking the misty horrors around him, and at a moment when he
felt almost inclined to lie down and die before the rigour of the
season, and transporting him to some fair region, where the bright sun
shone upon the trailing vine—where the orange groves were musical with
the songs of birds, and the very air as it gently fanned his cheeks was
in itself a delicious luxury.
To Ada, for the first few days, it seemed as if she had stepped into a
new existence; but when the novelty of the change was over—when, she
had done assuring herself that she was free for ever from Jacob Gray,
how her heart began to yearn for him she loved! What an instable
curiosity arose in her mind, to know who and what she was—what name she
should associate with the endearing one of father, and whether she
should weep over another grave, or ever feel the fond embrace of a
living parent.
It would have been strangely unnatural if these active sources of
anxiety had not sprung up rapidly in such a heart as Ada’s, alive as it
was to every noble feeling—every tender sympathy.
The companionship of the young persons of her own sex, whom Lady
Hartleton often collected about her, tended probably to foster and
encourage these feelings in Ada, and the ready tears—tears which she
had never shed when in misfortune, and exposed to all the harshness of
Jacob Gray, would start to her eyes at the mention of a father’s or a
mother’s love by any of the fair young beings who delighted in her
company.
Sir Francis Hartleton had promised her he would have Albert Seyton
sought for, and he had kept his word; but what degree of exertion on
the part of another will satisfy the heart that loves, and Ada longed
to search herself for him, who had cheered her under unhappier
auspices, and loved her in her gloom and misery.
Into the friendly bosom of Lady Hartleton, she poured her griefs and
anxieties, and if she found no relief of a tangible nature, she there
at least found ready sympathy, and Lady Hartleton would say to her,—
“My dear Ada, I can do not more at present than weep with you, if you
must weep, and comfort you, if you will be afflicted. Be assured, Sir
Francis is doing his utmost to discover Albert Seyton’s place of abode,
as well as toiling hard to unravel the mystery connected with you.”
Ada would then, in tears, exclaim against her own ingratitude, and
accuse herself of selfishness, and Lady Hartleton frequently had the
greatest difficulty to remind her that she considered her feeling
natural, and in every way worthy of her.
It was early in the day preceding that on which the magistrate had
discovered poor Maud, that Ada with a trembling voice, said to Lady
Hartleton,—
“I have a great favour—to—ask.”
“No, my dear Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, kissing her cheek, “you have
nothing to ask—everything to demand. Recollect, ’tis we who think
ourselves much your debtors for your company with us, and consequently
we are much bound to consult your wishes.”
“Ah, it is your kind heart which prompts your tongue,” said Ada, “and
not your judgment; but I know you will not hear me speak to you of my
gratitude, although it is a theme which I could never tire of.”
“Say no more, Ada, but tell me what you wish.”
“Will you permit me, myself, for one day to go in search of Albert
Seyton?”
“Yourself, Ada?”
“Yes. ’Tis perhaps a foolish wish; but sometimes, what great resources
courage and deep knowledge of the work may fail to accomplish, the zeal
of affection will be able more easily to do.”
Lady Hartleton shook her head, as she said,—
“Ada, you would but, in such a place as London, expose yourself to much
danger and insult. Believe me, that my husband has in his service those
who will leave no spot unsearched for him you so much wish to see.”
“Ah, lady, can hired zeal ever reach the height of exertion attained by
that which springs alone from the true heart?”
“I grant you that it seldom can; but then, Ada, there are many cases
where mere knowledge and skill will do much more than the warmest,
holiest zeal that ever animated a human breast.”
“There may be; but is this one?”
“It is, Ada. You are ignorant of London, and its intricacies, and would
but lose yourself in a fruitless endeavour to find another.”
“It may be so,” said Ada, with a disappointed air, “and I must be
content.”
“No, Ada, far be it from me to say you shall not take a tour through
London in search of him. If you accomplish no more by such a step, you
may at least please your mind with the reflection that you have taken
it.”
“You will let me go then?”
“Yes, but not alone. I will accompany you wheresoever you please to go,
and some experienced officer, of Sir Francis’s own choosing, shall
follow us in case of need. I think then we may venture anywhere.”
“Generous friend,” cried Ada. “Oh, may Heaven give me words to say how
much I thank you.”
“I am thanked already,” said Lady Hartleton, with a smile. “The idea of
active exertions has already kindled a colour in your cheeks, Ada, and
lent new animation to every feature of your face.”
“I shall be better satisfied, even if I altogether fail,” said Ada. “I
have been now for so many years accustomed to look to myself for
resources of action, that when anything nearly concerning me has to be
done, I am unhappy if I am not doing it myself. Forgive me, dear lady,
for all this troublesome spirit, but recollect I am a young wayward
thing, brought up in solitude and harshness, early accustomed to
repress every fond emotion, and my heart’s best feelings oftener
checked with a blow, than encouraged by a smile.”
“We will go as soon as I can consult Sir Francis about who shall
accompany us,” said Lady Hartleton.
Ada could only look her thanks, and Lady Hartleton left the room in
search of her husband, who gave a more ready consent to the scheme than
she imagined he would, only that he said he would send with them two
officers on whom he could thoroughly and entirely depend.
“You will then be as safe,” he said, “as if you were in your own
drawing-room, and if it will satisfy the mind of Ada, I advise you to
go at once.”
With this Lady Hartleton returned to Ada, and in ten minutes they were
equipped for their walk, the two officers being strictly ordered by Sir
Francis never to lose sight of them for a moment.
“I can adopt but one plan of operation,” said Ada, “and that is to go
from place to place where Albert has lived, and at each make what
inquiries may suggest themselves on the moment. I think I can find my
way, if put in the neighbourhood, to the first lodging Jacob Gray
brought me to in London; at least, the first I have any recollection
of. It stood, as I have often wearied you with telling, in a
bye-street, at the back of another, the name of a which well recollect
was Swallow-street.”
“That we shall have no difficulty in finding,” said Lady Hartleton.
“Swallow-street is a well-known thoroughfare; although, I believe, none
of the most select. I think I can act as your guide there; but should I
be at fault, those who are following us, as our guards, can no doubt
set us right.”
Many were the glances of admiration cast upon Ada, as she and Lady
Hartleton walked along Whitehall to Charing-cross, and by the time they
reached the corner of the Strand, several idle loungers had enlisted
themselves in their train, with a determination to see where they could
possibly be going.
“We must cross here,” said Lady Hartleton, “and pass those mean rows of
buildings, which are called the Royal Mews, and then we shall, if I
mistake not, be in the immediate neighbourhood of the street you
mention.”
As Lady Hartleton spoke, she felt Ada clutch her arm very tightly, and
turning to see what occasioned it, she saw one of the puppies of the
day with his grinning face, within a few inches of Ada’s ear, muttering
some of the ineffable nonsense common to such animals, when they pitch
upon an apparently unprotected female as the object of their insulting
address.
A flash of indignation came from the eyes of Lady Hartleton; but before
she could speak, she saw the fopling flung into the roadway, with a
violence that sent him half across it; and Sir Francis Hartleton
himself, who had followed after the officers, took Ada’s arm within
his, saying,—
“There now. If you had been quite alone, Ada, you would have been
pestered, probably, for an hour, by that ape in man’s clothes.”
Ada turned to speak to the magistrate, when a cry of pleasure escaped
her.
On the opposite side of the way was Albert Seyton, walking leisurely
towards the Horse-guards.
Sir Francis Hartleton was just in time to stop her from rushing across
the roadway, and detaining her by the arm, said,—
“Ada, do me one favour! Go home at once, and trust to my word of honour
that I will not lose sight of him for one moment. The public street is
no place for you and him to meet in. For Heaven’s sake, now go home!”
“I—I will—if you wish it,” said Ada. “Oh! He is found—he is found!”
“Take her home through the park, by Spring-gardens,” whispered Sir
Francis to his wife. “I wish to have some conversation with this young
man, before Ada, with her generous feelings, commits herself too far. I
will be home within the hour.”
The magistrate then darted across the road, and followed Albert Seyton
closely, as his first object was to see where he lived, provided he was
going home, as he, Sir Francis, was not quite satisfied with Albert’s
long absence from his office.