The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.
Who in this world can safely calculate his true position, or say what
circumstance is fraught with woe and what with happiness, when we are
more frequently upon the point of obtaining our most glorious and
delightful aspirations, while we fancy the cloud of adversity is
thickening around us than when, to our limited perceptions, we are
emerging into the sweet sunshine of felicity. Situated as Albert Seyton
now was, even hope was a stranger to his heart—he could see not one ray
of sunlight amid the dreary gloom by which he was immured—all was blank
despair. Like some wave-tossed mariner, who, after struggling with the
remorseless seas for a long dreary night, looks with lack-lustre eye
along the world of waters as the first streak of the morning light
enables him to do so, and sees no hope—no distant land—no sail, and
feels that to struggle longer is but to protract death which is
certain, Albert gave way to the circumstances by which he was
surrounded, and as he entered the magistrate’s house, the expression of
deep dejection on his countenance was remarked with significant
whispers and glances by the officers, who looked upon it as a sign of
conscious guilt, and entertained no more doubt of the fate of their
prisoner, than they did of their own existence, so confident were they
that he was, in truth, the murderer.
Oh, could he have guessed at that moment, that he was under the same
roof with his Ada—could he have dreamt that he was breathing the same
air which she breathed—what bursts of glorious sunshine through the
murkiest sky that ever frowned upon the world, could, in its contrast,
have equalled the feelings that would have possessed his breast, in
lieu of the twin hags grief and despair, which now possessed it wholly.
And Ada—the beautiful and good—the pure of heart—the noble—the gifted
Ada—she was sleeping, all unconscious of the events of that fearful
night; little imagined she, that her great enemy had died so awfully,
or that he who loved her lived in such great jeopardy.
The morning was rapidly approaching now, and Albert was taken into a
room facing the east, in the residence of Sir Francis, and closely
guarded, until the magistrate should make his appearance, which, in a
few moments he did, having been awakened with the news that a barbarous
murder was committed and the criminal was in his house.
Albert stood facing the window, and it was partly the dull reflection
of the early morning light, and partly the death-like paleness of his
face, from the state of mind he was in, which made him look more like a
corpse than a living man, and for a moment prevented Sir Francis from
recognising him.
Albert flinched not from the magistrate’s earnest gaze, but looking
steadily at him, he said,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, I am brought here accused of murder—I am
innocent, but I cannot say more—do with me what you will, for I am
tired of life.”
“Mr. Seyton!” cried Sir Francis.
“The same,” said Albert—“the unhappy Seyton.”
Sir Francis remained a moment or two in deep thought, then he said:—
“Officers what is the charge against this young man?”
“Murder, your worship,” replied one.
“Leave the room, all of you, I will hear the evidence one by one.”
“Oh, sir,” said Albert, “there is evidence enough—fate has marked me
for destruction. You may send me now to prison, and spare your labour—I
am innocent, but yet submit; you see I am patient, sir.”
“You speak from the bitterness of your heart,” said Sir Francis. “I am
here to do my duty, without favour or affection. My previous knowledge
of you I now wholly discard from my mind. You come before me as an
utter stranger, accused of an awful crime—you shall have justice, and
were you my own son, I could say no more. Now, officer, let me hear
what you have to say.”
Sir Francis himself swore the officer, who remained in the room, and
who was the principal spy upon Jacob Gray.
“Your worship,” he said, “is aware that my duty has been to keep watch
on a man named Gray.”
“Which duty you must have to-night neglected,” said the magistrate.
“I beg your worship’s pardon, Gray don’t need anymore watching.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead—Gray dead? It surely is not his murder—but go on—go on.”
Sir Francis reclined back in his chair, and partially shaded his face
with his hand while the officer proceeded in his narrative.
“It was nearly half-past one o’clock, your worship, when, upon passing
the door of the house where this man Gray lived, I saw it open, and
upon examination, saw that it had been forced by some one. Not knowing
then how many persons might be there, I ran to the round-house in
Buckingham-street, and got assistance, then I and several officers,
with lights, entered the house. The first thing we heard was the
moaning of a woman, who we found tied to a bedstead in the room
adjoining the shop, and immediately after, we proceeded up stairs, when
we heard the prisoner calling out to some one—”
“Who did he call to?”
“The name was Ada. When we got to the top of the house, we found the
prisoner on the landing, in a state of great excitement, and upon going
into the first room we came to, there lay murdered, and dreadfully
mangled, the man Gray—your worship had told me to watch.”
“He was quite dead?”
“Quite, your worship—we picked up this cloak stained with blood, which
we believe belongs to the prisoner.”
“That is all you have to say?”
“It is, your worship, except that the prisoner has been dodging Gray
about as closely as I have, for a day or two now.”
“Do you wish to ask any questions of this witness?” said Sir Francis to
Albert, in a cold tone.
“None,” said Albert. “He has spoken the truth, and yet I am innocent.”
“What further evidence is there?” said Sir Francis.
“The other officers can swear to what I have said, your worship,” said
the officer, “and I have left one to see that no one meddles with the
body.”
“That was right,” cried Sir Francis, with sudden animation. “I will go
there myself at once. There may be some papers.”
Albert immediately spoke in a tone of such deep emotion that Sir
Francis paused as he rose from his chair, and listened to him with an
interest and a growing doubt of his guilty connexion with Learmont,
that it would have given him the sincerest pleasure to verify.
“Sir,” said Albert, “I implore you for the sake of one for whom I have
suffered much—one who I have loved, who I still love more fondly—more
fervently than I love life itself, to search for the packet which long
ago I told you was directed to yourself. How Jacob Gray came by his
death as I hope for God’s mercy I know not.”
“Know not!” said Sir Francis. Then turning to the officer he said,
“Wait without,” and in a moment he was alone with Albert. There was a
pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Sir Francis said,—
“You may, or you may not, as it may please you, give me an account of
this affair.”
“For the sake of the name I bear and the memory of my dear father,”
said Albert, “I will declare my innocence and although you may judge me
wrongfully, shall die happy, if you will do justice to one who is
dearer to me than myself. That one is the persecuted Ada, who, if she
be still living, I implore you to succour. Oh, sir, you do not know
her—and—and I have no words to paint her to you.”
“But about this murder?” said Sir Francis, uneasily.
“I will tell you all I know. Being some time since destitute, I applied
to one Learmont for employment, and was by him entertained as his
secretary.”
“So have I heard. Go on, sir.”
“The first confidential employment he put me on was to follow a man
home, who he thought was imposing upon his benevolence, but before I
could proceed upon that employment I had related to him the secret of
my heart—my passionate love for Ada, even as I told it to you, sir—my
long and weary search for her—my bitter reflections concerning the
cruelty of Jacob Gray—I told him all that, and his generosity seemed
much worked upon. He proffered me unbounded assistance. His wealth—his
power—all he said should be exerted to do justice to the innocent.”
“And you believed him?”
“I did, and was happy in the thought that Ada would be rescued from her
miseries. Then by a strange chance it turned out that this very man who
he had commissioned me to watch to his house was Jacob Gray.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Francis, in a peculiar tone.
“Yes, and then I thanked Heaven for its great goodness, and believed
myself on the road to happiness. I did watch Gray home and flew to
Learmont with the news. He then enjoined me by a solemn promise to
allow him the whole management of the affair, which, from gratitude to
him, I could not refuse, but I lingered ever round the house where I
believed Ada to be. I could not deny myself the delight of fancying
myself near her. It was joy to look upon the house that I thought
contained her—to watch a passing shadow at a window, and fancy it was
hers; during that watch I encountered your officer, whose motive in
being a spy upon Jacob Gray I could not divine.”
“Last night I commenced my watch, and being hidden in a deep doorway,
immediately opposite the house, which engrossed all my attention, I saw
between the hours of twelve and one, two men approach and pause at the
residence of Gray. By some means they quickly opened the door when,
partially emerging from my place of concealment, I saw that one of them
was Learmont.”
Sir Francis Hartleton slightly started and changed his posture, so that
Albert could not see his face.
“The other,” continued Albert, “I know not.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A tall bulky man.”
“The smith—the smith,” thought Sir Francis to himself.
“The door was closed when they had entered the house, and in an agony
of impatience I waited for their re-appearance, expecting to see Ada
with them, for I doubted not but the squire was rescuing her from Jacob
Gray.”
“Well, well,” said Sir Francis in a tone of deep interest, “what
followed then?”
“One o’clock had struck, and no one came forth, nor could I hear any
commotion in the house—my agony of impatience was growing exquisitely
painful—my eyes were fixed upon the only window which showed a light,
and I was on the point of forgetting all promises and rushing over to
the house, when with a crash a considerable portion of the window was
forced outwards, and a faint scream caught my ears;—maddened by
apprehension for Ada, I rushed across the road and knocked loudly at
the door. Then scarcely waiting for an answer, I burst it open, and
shouting the came of Ada, I rushed into the house.”
Sir Francis rose from his chair and in a voice that echoed through the
room, he cried,—
“Young man, on your soul is this all true?”
“On my soul,” said Albert.
“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy?”
Albert stretched out his arm as he said solemnly, “May the curse of God
be upon me evermore if what I say be not the truth. I am innocent—I am
innocent.”
Sir Francis sunk into his seat again, and drew a long breath before he
said,—
“You shall have justice. Be assured you shall have justice—go on, I
pray you.”
“I have little more to add, save that I obtained a light of a female in
the house, and that still calling upon Ada, I ascended to the room
where lay awfully mangled the ghastly remains of Jacob Gray. Upon my
descent, your officers seized me, and accused me of the murder.”
“And that cloak?”
“Is not mine.”
The natural feelings of Sir Francis Hartleton’s heart would have
prompted him on the instant to tell Albert that he fully believed what
he said, but while he never, when acting in his magisterial capacity,
forgot that he was a man, he now felt the necessity of remembering that
a sworn deposition had taken place. With some difficulty then he
mastered his feelings, and said,—
“I shall proceed at once to the house where the deed in question has
been committed, and be assured that all shall be done to discover the
truth. Till then you must remain here in custody. As a magistrate I can
only act upon sworn evidence.”
Sir Francis now went to the door, and giving one of the officers
whispered instructions to allow no one to see the prisoner, nor suffer
him to leave the room, he left him as a guard over Albert, while with
hasty steps, and accompanied by one of his most trusty officers, he
proceeded to the house of Jacob Gray.