Albert’s Despair.—The Tests of Truth.
With far pleasanter feelings as regarded Ada and her fortunes than he
had ever experienced since his opinion of the unworthiness of Albert
Seyton, Sir Francis arrived at the house where so awful a scene of
bloodshed had taken place. He was immediately saluted with respect by a
constable who had remained in charge of the shattered door, and upon
entering the house, the first person belonging to it he saw was Jacob
Gray’s landlady, who sat in her parlour wringing her hands, and
lamenting the death which had taken place under such horrible
circumstances in her house, and which as she feelingly remarked, was “a
uncommon wicked thing considering she was a lone woman, and lived
principally by letting her lodging for nobody wouldn’t come and live in
the house now, because Mr. Gray’s ghostesses would, as a matter of
course, haunt the attic and the staircase, so it would.”
“Now, my good woman,” said Sir Francis Hartleton, “I am a magistrate,
so tell me now how all this happened.”
“Lord love you, sir, if you was six magistrates, I couldn’t tell you.
All I knows is, as I am a ruinated woman.”
“Well, well, something must be done for you, but I want to know what
you heard about this murder.”
“Oh! Dear me, sir. Master Gray was such a great man, he was, and his
relations must be wretches.”
“His relations?”
“Yes, sir. When he comed to live here, he says, says he, my relations
would take my life if they could. That’s what he said. Well, I didn’t
think much of that, but last night—no, it was after twelve, for I
recollect I’d heard the Abbey-clock strike, ’cos the wind blowed in
that quarter. Well, I was a listening to the rain, when I heard never
such a smash in my shop. ‘What’s that?’ says I, and without more ado, I
gets a light, and I goes out.”
“Well, and you saw the young man?”
“No, I didn’t sir. There was two villains, sir—one was a amazing tall
villain, and the other was uncommon big, only the amazing tall villain
looked so in consequence of being so desperate thin, he did. Well, sir,
the other villain, not the amazing tall one, he asks where master Gray
lives, and I tells him, then he says as he’s his uncle, and desires me
to say nothink, and ties me to my blessed bed post and laughed in my
face. The idea, sir, of laughing at a lone woman.”
“Seyton has spoken the truth,” said Sir Francis; “Learmont and Britton
have murdered Gray.”
“Sir,” said the woman.
“Nothing—nothing; is there any one else in the house?”
“Yes sir; there’s an old lady up stairs, and she says as she gave a
light to one of the murderers.”
“All confirms his statement,” thought Hartleton; “all that now remains
for me to do is to secure Gray’s confession.” Turning then to his
officers, he said,—
“Show me to the murdered man’s room,” and following them up the narrow
staircase, a few minutes brought him to the presence of the awful
remains of Jacob Gray. Sir Francis shuddered as he looked upon the
dreadful spectacle, and turning away his eyes, he said,—
“Do not allow the body to be moved. There will be an inquest on it, but
search every hole and corner of the room for any papers, and should you
see any, give them into no hands but mine.”
The search which took place was the most energetic and active that
could possibly be made; but it was, of course, quite unsuccessful; so
after a full hour being spent in it, Sir Francis Hartleton most
reluctantly turned towards the corpse, saying to his men—
“You are not afraid of a dead body? The papers I spoke to you about are
most important, and as they may be about him, I wish you to search the
pockets.”
Hardened as those men were, and callous to most scenes of horror, they
approached the remains of Gray with evident reluctance, and made a
brief search of his pockets. Nothing was found but a small sum of money
and a wedge-shaped steel instrument, which was then commonly used by
housebreakers to wrench open doors with.
“There are no papers here, sir,” said the men.
Sir Francis Hartleton turned from the room with a look of great
disappointment. He entertained now not a moment’s doubt, but that the
object of Learmont’s murder of Gray was to get possession of the packet
addressed to him, Sir Francis, and there was every reason to believe
that in that object the squire had succeeded.
“Ada’s name and birth,” thought Hartleton, “seem ever doomed to remain
mysterious—well, she may still be happy, and as for Learmont and
Britton, they must, at all events, expiate this crime upon the scaffold
if it is brought home to them.”
Full of these mingled reflections, Sir Francis hurried back to his
house, and sought the room in which sat poor Albert Seyton, melancholy
and solitary for he could not make up his mind whether his tale,
truthful as it was, was believed by the magistrate or not; and when Sir
Francis appeared again before him, he rose, with a saddened countenance
to hear what he had to say to him.
“Mr. Seyton,” said Hartleton, “what you have told me has been
confirmed, as far as it could be, by the parties in the house I have
been to; but tell me now how it was that you, after communicating to me
the singular facts you did concerning this Ada, stayed away from me so
long?”
“I called upon you, sir,” said Albert, “and not seeing you, I fancied
you had cooled upon the matter. The squire Learmont had prejudiced me
against you, representing you as cold and selfish.”
“Mr. Seyton—you have yet to learn that those who say the least are
often the most to be trusted. I am convinced of your innocence of this
murder.”
Albert clasped his hands as he cried—
“Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven! I shall not die the death of a felon. In
some battle for right against might, I am content now in a foreign land
to lay down my life. Something tells me that Ada is lost to me for
ever. The villain Gray must have taken her life, and I am desolate.”
“You jump, perchance, too hastily at that conclusion,” said Sir
Francis. “You may yet find her. She may even some time since have
escaped from Gray.”
“Oh if I could but think so.”
“Why should you not? Besides, do you mean to give up your friend, the
squire.”
“I do—from the first I have had my suspicions of that man. It is not
for me to say he killed Jacob Gray, but I will see him no more. His
ways are crooked and mysterious.”
“Why, he certainly is not the most open and candid character in the
world, Mr. Seyton; but were I you, I would not yet give up all hope of
discovering Ada.”
“Oh, sir, if I could find the smallest foothold for hope to rest upon,
I should be again, as I have been, sanguine; but my heart is very sad,
and full of despair.”
“Being now at liberty, as you may consider yourself, what may be your
intentions.”
“I shall pursue a course,” replied Albert, “that I marked out for
myself before I entered the service of this Squire Learmont. I shall,
in the capacity of a common soldier, join the army, and hope to find an
early and an honourable grave.”
“But your testimony will be required on the inquest which will be held
on Jacob Gray.”
“I cannot help it. I tell you, sir, I am as one wearied now from the
world, and all its uses and companionships; Ada, I feel is lost to me
for ever! Farewell, sir. For what exertion you have made, and for what
consideration you have shown me, I thank you. Farewell, sir.”
“Do you intend now to enlist?”
“I do.”
“Well, then, I wish you a happier fate and brighter destiny than you
have sketched for yourself. If such be your determination, it is not
for me to prevent it.”
With a heavy heart Albert rose, and bowing to Sir Francis, who followed
him to the room-door, and gave orders for his free egress, he passed
out of the house, sick and weary at heart.
Albert then paused in the street a moment, and the idea came across him
that it was just possible he might by calling upon Learmont, procure
some hint or information of the fate of Ada; but he rejected the
proposition almost as quickly as he formed it, and the ghastly corpse
of Gray rose up before his imagination, mutely, but strongly accusing
Learmont of the murder.
“No—no,” he said, “that man is a man of blood! For some cause unknown
to me, he has made me a mere tool in his hands to aid in the
destruction of Gray. I will leave him to his conscience, and to the
laws. I will see him no more.”
The unhappy young man then turned his steps towards the park, and
sauntering down the Birdcage-walk, till he came to the old barracks, he
accosted a soldier who was lounging by the gate.
Albert had never once glanced behind him, or he might have seen Sir
Francis Hartleton, who had, resolving to be perfectly assured in
Albert’s truth and faith, permitted him to leave the house in the
manner we have recorded, but followed him as closely as consistent with
ordinary caution. Had Albert gone to Learmont’s, new suspicions would
have risen up in the mind of the magistrate, and choked like noxious
weeds the kindly feelings which he was beginning to entertain towards
him; but now that he saw him enter the park, and proceed towards the
barracks, Sir Francis felt the pleasure which a noble mind always
receives from getting rid of suspicion and doubt.
Albert and the soldier passed into the barracks, and then Sir Francis
Hartleton immediately stepped up to the gate, and addressing another
soldier, said,—
“I must see that young man who has just passed in. My name is
Hartleton; I am a magistrate.”
Sir Francis was well known by reputation, and upon his announcement of
who he was, the soldier ran after his comrade and Seyton, and brought
them both back to the gate again.
“What does this young man do here?” said Sir Francis.
“He offers to go in the army,” said the soldier, “and I was conducting
him to my officer.”
“I have something to say to him first,” remarked the magistrate. “Will
you follow me home, Mr. Seyton?”
“No sir,” said Albert, proudly; “I wish to give you and myself no
further trouble with each other.”
“Nay, but I have something to communicate.”
“You are too late,” said Albert. “I came to you in my agony of mind,
and implored you to assist in righting the wronged, and saving the
innocent from oppression; you received my suit coldly. You have done,
for aught that I know, nothing. Leave me now, sir, for my own course; I
want no cold friends.”
“You are angry with me for no cause,” said Hartleton, who was secretly
pleased at Albert’s independence of spirit. “If I have appeared
lukewarm in your affairs, I beg you will not attribute it to
indifference.”
“You may call it what you please, sir,” said Albert. “Good morning.”
“But I want you to come back with me.”
“I hope your honour don’t mean to persuade our recruit off?” said the
soldier, who was in apprehension that he should lose his gratuity for
bringing so unexceptionable a soldier as the handsome Albert Seyton to
the regiment.
“If I do take your recruit away, my friend,” said the magistrate, “you
shall lose nothing by it if you will call upon me to-morrow.”
“Thanks to your honour.”
“This is as idle as it is insulting,” said Albert. “Am I to be made a
thing of barter between you? I tell you, Sir Francis Hartleton, that
you shall not, were you twenty times what you are, interfere with me.
When your activity is implored, you are cold and most indifferent, but
now when your presence is quite unlooked for and unnecessary, you come
after me, as if merely to perplex and annoy me. Take me to your
officer, soldiers; I will serve the king despite of this mocking
magistrate.”
“But I have not done with you yet,” said Sir Francis, with provoking
coolness. “I have an affair in hand in which you must assist me.”
“This is insult, sir.”
“No; I have a young friend who I think would make a very good match for
you, as you are a likely-looking young man.”
Albert’s cheek flushed with indignation, as he cried,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, you came to insult me. Unworthy is it of you,
who are revelling in the amplitude of means and power, to deride the
unfortunate. You are—”
“Come, come, be calm,” interrupted Sir Francis. “You must come with me.”
“I will not.”
“Then I must make you. I shall have you taken into custody. Ho, there!”
The magistrate turned and beckoned to his officers, whom he had
directed to follow him, and when they sprang forward to the gate, he
said,—
“Take this young man in custody to my house.”
“This is the very wantonness of power,” cried Albert. “How dare you
thus abuse your office.”
“Take him away—I will follow.”
Albert was immediately seized, and burning with rage, conveyed to Sir
Francis’s house again, while the magistrate followed with a smile upon
his face.