The Lovers.—The Interview of Sir Francis Hartleton with the Secretary
of State.—The Ball.
Albert Seyton first broke the silence, and as he clasped Ada’s hands,
and gazed into her beaming eyes, he said,—
“Ada! My own beautiful Ada! Am I, indeed, so blessed? Do I once again
see you in all your beauty, smiling on me? Am I dreaming, or are you;
indeed, and in truth, my own dear Ada?—The dream of my boyhood, the
cherished idol of my heart.”
“Indeed, and in truth!” said Ada. “Oh! I am too, too, happy. Heaven
forgive me all my sinful repining. Does not this moment’s joy repay me
for all? My darling—my true and beautiful—”
What a heavenly light shone from the eyes of Ada! What a sunny smile
played around her cheery mouth, dimpling her cheek with beauty.
“We will part no more, Albert,” she said. “After many, many trials, we
have met at last to part no more. God has blessed us in each other’s
love, and we will not cast from us the pure bright gift of heaven!”
“We will not,” cried Albert. “Bless you, my own true-hearted Ada! At
the very moment of my despair, I have been, as it were, lifted to
heaven. ’Tis foolish of me, Ada; but, even now, so great is my
happiness, I can scarce believe it real.”
He drew the blushing girl again to his throbbing heart. He kissed the
raven tresses of her silken heart. He looked into her eyes, sparkling
with dewy tears, and saw the happiness that shot from every radiant
glance. Her cheek, gentle and soft as a rose-bud’s inmost leaf, touched
his—was there ever so much happiness. Could all the ills of life
concentrated, poison the rich fragrance of that one cup of overflowing
joy?
We will not attempt to record the gentle confidences of the happy
lovers—the broken sentences—the speaking glances that filled up the
pauses which the faltering tongue, too much oppressed by the heart’s
gushing eloquence, could not choose but make the tones upon which
memory in after years lingers like the shade of a loved one long hidden
in the tomb, nor the thousand purest vows breathed by Albert, nor the
thousand smiles with which they were all believed by Ada. Suffice it to
say, that they were very happy, and those of our readers who have felt
a sympathy with the trials of the lone maiden, will be pleased to leave
her for a brief space, knowing that her heart is dancing with joy, and
that even the memory of the past is emerged in the pure and heavenly
enjoyment of the present.
Sir Francis Hartleton’s first step after seeing Ada enter the room in
which Albert was, was to communicate to his wife all that had passed,
and commission her to explain all to Albert, if such explanation should
be sought for before his return, for he felt it necessary, in
consequence of the extraordinary events which had transpired, to
communicate to his impatient friend, the home secretary, before even
taking steps to apprehend Britton and Learmont for the murder of Gray,
which upon Albert’s testimony he felt was what might be safely ventured
upon.
The magistrate accordingly left his house, and proceeded on foot to the
secretary’s office, where he was fortunate enough to find the great man
disengaged.
“I have come,” said Hartleton, “to state to your lordship some strange
circumstances with relation to the person named Learmont, concerning
whom I have before had the honour of conversing with you.”
The secretary put on a face of alarm as he replied—
“Really? Sir Francis, you must drop this matter—his majesty has only
this day in council determined upon a dissolution of the present
parliament—of course I tell you in confidence—and this Learmont’s votes
in the Commons may be of the greatest consequence.”
“But, my lord,” said Hartleton, “there is good reason to believe that
no later than last night he committed a most awful murder.”
“Dear me,” said the secretary, “he might as well have waited till the
general election was over. It is really such a very awkward thing to
hang a man who can command several votes in the Commons.”
“It may be so,” said Sir Francis, with a smile, “but when people who
command votes will commit murder, what is to be done?”
“Ah that’s very true; but uncommonly disagreeable.”
“I thought it my duty,” continued Hartleton, “to let your lordship know
before I arrested him.”
“Bless my heart,” said the secretary, “now I recollect there has been a
record here to-day containing an invitation to a masked ball which this
very man is going to give on Friday.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Yes. I sent a civil acceptance of the invitation of course, because I
meant to sound him in the course of the evening about his votes. Now
really, Sir Francis, you must let the ball be over before you come in
with your charge of murder, and so on.”
“I will if your lordship pleases; but the property of Learmont,
provided he be convicted of murder, will revert to the Crown, in which
event you will have his votes.”
“Ah, but, my dear Sir Francis, the Crown, in common decency, must waive
its right to the property in favour of the next of kin.”
“I believe there can arise no claimant,” said Sir Francis; “therefore
there can be no delicacy on the subject.”
“Well that’s lucky—but you will let the ball be over. I’m told it’s to
be a splendid affair, and really so many of our political friends
intend to make it a complete rendezvous, that it would be a thousand
pities not to let it go off with some éclat.”
“I shall, of course, not interfere, my lord; but should anything occur
to force a magisterial duty, I trust your lordship will not expect me
to shrink from performing mine.”
“Well, I suppose not, but don’t be provoking, Sir Francis, if you can
possibly avoid it. By-the-by, I quite forgot to ask who he had
murdered. It’s nobody of any consequence, I presume?”
“He certainly had no vote.”
“No vote?”
“No, nor was likely ever to have one.”
“Indeed. Well, I do hate people who have no vote most cordially, and I
should say there can be only one class of people more abominable, and
that is the class which votes against one. I don’t at all see the use
in this world of people without votes. How uncommonly silly Learmont
must have been, really.”
“Silly enough, my lord, to put his neck in jeopardy, for a jury will
most naturally bring him in guilty, and the king cannot very well spare
a murderer.”
“Why no, not exactly; but at all events don’t say a word about it till
after the ball.”
“Unless there should arise an absolute necessity I will not, but the
inquest upon the body of the murdered man may interfere with your
lordship’s wishes.”
“Bless me, yes—what’s to-day?”
“Wednesday.”
“Oh, well, I must speak to the coroner about it, and the inquest must
just be put off till Saturday. In fact, I don’t see the use of an
inquest upon a man who had no vote, Sir Francis; but I suppose these
things must be done to please the common people.”
“They must indeed,” said Sir Francis; “any tampering with what
Englishmen consider their liberties will ever be a dangerous task for a
minister.”
“Ah, well, we must do the best we can, but you know it would have been
much better if this Learmont, while he was murdering, had murdered some
one with a vote who was opposed to us. It might have made a difference
of two votes you see, Sir Francis.”
“So it might, your lordship; but when people murder, I am afraid they
think more of their own private quarrels than of votes.”
“Ah, no doubt. You are quite right—good morning, Sir Francis, good
morning.”
“Good morning, your lordship.”
Sir Francis Hartleton could not help laughing as he walked homewards at
the curious morality of the secretary, who measured everybody’s
importance by their number of votes, and he thought to himself surely
this system of representation will be some day done away with, and
Englishmen will be permitted to exercise their franchise and their
conscience freely. Absorbed then in meditation concerning the important
steps which required to be taken previous to the Friday evening, beyond
which time Sir Francis Hartleton was quite resolved Learmont should not
remain at liberty, he sauntered home from the minister’s.
Believing, as the magistrate now did, since Jacob Gray was dead, and no
written papers could be found about his person, or in his lodging, that
no overt act as concerned Ada could be brought home to Learmont, he
resolved to have a warrant made out for the squire’s apprehension, on
the charge of murdering Jacob Gray, a crime which upon the testimony of
Albert could be brought as nearly home to him as strong circumstantial
evidence could bring it.
“It may be then,” thoughts Sir Francis, “that when he sees his mortal
career closing, he will do one act of grace, and declare who and what
Ada is; detailing his reasons for persecuting her so strangely, and for
taking the life of Jacob Gray. That now seems to be the only chance of
arriving at a solution of the mysteries which still envelope this whole
strange transaction.”
When Sir Francis reached home a letter was put into his hands, which,
upon opening, he found to contain these words,—
Mr. Learmont presents his compliments to Sir Francis Hartleton, and
begs specially to request his company on Friday evening, to a masked
ball and supper.
“Well,” said Sir Francis, “of all the cool pieces of assurance that it
was ever my lot to encounter, this is the coolest. But I can well
understand Learmont’s feelings now; he fancies himself rid of some
great danger by the death of Jacob Gray, and this is the very mockery
and insolence of security in inviting me, who he hates so cordially, to
his entertainments. Well, be it so, I will be there, Learmont, and it
shall go hard but your masked ball shall have a far different
conclusion to what you imagine. Let me see, this ticket admits Sir
Francis Hartleton and friends—friends. Yes, that will do—that will do.
A plan of operation occurs to me, which on the surprise of the moment
may wring from the guilty heart of Learmont something of importance to
the interests of Ada. She shall go with me to this masked ball. Yes,
Learmont shall be surprised from his usual cold caution by her sudden
appearance, which, conjoined with his arrest, may so disturb his
faculties as almost to induce a confession of all we wish to know. It
shall be tried—it shall be tried.”