PURSUIT.
“Oh! thou lost
And ever gentle lady—whose most fearful
Fate darkens earth and Heaven—where thou now art
I know not—but if thou now saw’st what I am,
I think thou would’st relent.”—_Byron._
The same evening Lord Montressor sat alone in his private apartment in
the City Hotel. He looked pale and worn. A month had passed since his
arrival in Baltimore, and notwithstanding his utmost endeavors, he had
discovered no clue to his lost bride. He had come to the conclusion that
she had left the city, and this evening he had formed the resolution, to
leave the next morning for New York.
While thus he sat in moody silence, neglecting the evening paper that
lay upon the table beside him, the door opened, and Gridley, his
lordship’s valet, presented himself.
Gridley was a grave, respectable-looking, middle-aged man, rather
bald-headed and stout, clothed in black, and having quite the air of a
high-church clergyman.
“Well, Gridley?”
“Well, my lord! I have most important information for your lordship,”
said his lordship’s gentleman, pompously.
“Speak! what is it? Any thing in regard to your lady?” exclaimed Lord
Montressor, rising anxiously.
“Yes, my lord! If ever I saw Lady Montressor in my life, I saw her
ladyship come out of a house and enter a carriage to-night.”
“At what hour? Where? Speak, man, in the name of Heaven!”
“From number ten —— street.”
“You are sure?”
“As the carriage drove off and the people who had opened the house door
for her ladyship, went in and shut it, I ran up the steps and took the
number.”
“And then?”
“I ran down again as fast as I could and went after the carriage at the
height of my speed. But though I walked so fast, the carriage which was
driven very rapidly, distanced me, and rolled out of my sight.”
“In what direction?”
“Toward the wharves, my lord.”
“At what hour was this?”
“About half-past eight, your lordship.”
“You are _sure_ the house from which she went was——”
“Number ten —— street, my lord, assuredly.”
“Go call a cab.”
The valet bowed and at once withdrew to obey.
Lord Montressor exchanged his dressing-gown for a close-bodied coat,
took his hat and gloves, and in three minutes—by the time that Mr.
Gridley put his head into the door to announce the cab,—he was ready to
enter it.
He took out his watch.
“It is now half-past ten;—a late hour to make a call—but under present
circumstances, I cannot afford to be fastidious. I shall ascertain if
she lives in that house, and if not, _where_ she lives,” thought his
lordship, as he took his seat in the carriage.
“Where shall I go, sir?” asked the cabman.
“Number ten —— street,” said Lord Montressor.
A drive of half an hour brought them to the house. Lord Montressor
alighted and looked at his watch; it was now eleven o’clock. He looked
at the house; every window was darkened, every room silent, every inmate
apparently asleep. He was very much disappointed. He had hoped to have
reached the house some fifteen minutes earlier, and that some fortunate
chance, such as an evening-party, an absent inmate, a late guest, or any
among the thousand and one daily events, that happen to keep a family up
at night, might have occurred this evening.
He was, as I said, very much disappointed.
He could almost have found it in his heart to call up the household to
put to them the questions upon which he felt as if his fate depended.
But this he knew, however desirable, was totally inadmissible. Ah! had
he known the vital importance of these passing previous hours, he would
have roused the family!
As it was, he said to himself—that he was weakly and culpably
impatient—that a few hours could make no difference—that the morning was
altogether the more proper time for making his meditated call and
inquiry; and so determining, he re-entered the cab, and gave the order—
“Back to the hotel.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, Lord Montressor entered a hack, and
drove to the house in —— street. Without waiting for the hackman’s ring
to be answered, he alighted and went up the steps, and reached the
portico just as a man-servant opened the door.
“Is Lady Montressor in?” was the diplomatic question of his Lordship.
“Lady Montressor does not live here, sir,” answered the negro.
“Can you tell me where she _does_ live?”
“I cannot, sir.”
“Send”——(Lord Montressor glanced up at the name on the
door-plate,)—“Mrs. Brownloe here?”
“Yes, sir; walk in, and take a seat, sir; what name shall I take up,
sir?”
“Say a gentleman.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man disappeared, leaving Lord Montressor seated in the drawing-room.
And presently, the mistress of the house entered. She was a tall, stout,
middle-aged woman, soberly attired in grey.
“Mrs. Brownloe, I infer?” said Lord Montressor, rising, and setting a
chair for the lady.
“Yes, sir.”
“Lord Montressor, Madam,” said his lordship, announcing himself.
“Ah!—resume your seat, my lord. You sent for me?”
“Yes, Madam. I called, if you please, to make inquiry of a lady who left
your house in a carriage, last evening, at half-past eight o’clock.”
“Oh! you mean Mrs. Estel?”
“Estelle! Estelle!” exclaimed Lord Montressor to himself—then
aloud—“Yes, Madam; I speak of Mrs. Estel.”
“Oh! she left us, as you said, yesterday evening.”
“I should be very grateful to be informed whither she went, Madam?”
“Oh! I don’t know! I haven’t the least idea in the world. I think she
left the city, however.”
“Perhaps some member of your family may be better informed.”
“Oh, no! I know they are not; because I had some curiosity to know where
the lady went, and I made inquiries; no one could satisfy me—all they
knew was the direction that the maid gave the hackman, and that the boy
who had charge of the luggage afterward gave the drayman.”
“And that was——?”
“Light street wharf, sir.”
“And that is all the intelligence you can give me?”
“All, sir; I am sorry it is so meagre; you are interested in the lady?”
“Yes, Madam. I thank you very sincerely for the information you have
given me. Good-morning, Madam,” said his lordship, not feeling disposed
to be questioned in his turn, and rising to take leave.
“To Light street wharf,” was the next order given to the hackman, as he
re-entered the carriage.
And to Light street wharf he was driven.
On arriving at the spot, he alighted, and walked about among watermen,
porters, sailors, laborers, and all the miscellaneous crowd of the
docks, and, addressing an old skipper, he inquired what vessel left that
wharf since eight the preceding evening.
“The only ship as has left the port at all, capting, is the Sea Mew,
Captain Brewster, as sailed from this wharf at sunrise this morning,
bound for Havanna,” replied the accurate old sailor.
“Had she passengers?”
“More’n I can tell you, capting.”
Leaving Mr. Gridley to mingle among the sailors at the wharf, and find
out whether the Sea Mew had carried passengers, and whether those
passengers were females, Lord Montressor once more re-entered his
carriage and drove back to the hotel to await the result.
It was late in the afternoon when Gridley presented himself before his
master.
“Well, Gridley?” said his lordship, anxiously.
“Well, my lord, I have ascertained that two females, answering to the
description of Lady Montressor and her attendant, at nine o’clock last
evening embarked on board the Sea Mew, bound for the West Indies.”
“Ah! then I have her again; but it is certain that the lady was bound
for the West Indies.”
“Yes, my lord, certainly,” replied the valet, falling into a very
natural mistake.
“Was the information you obtained to be relied upon?”
“Without doubt, my lord, since it was from the hackman that took her
ladyship from —— street to the ship, and from the drayman who conveyed
her ladyship’s baggage to the wharf, and from the porters who assisted
in its transportation to the vessel—all of whom I hunted down and
questioned, my lord.”
“You have done your duty well, and I thank you, Gridley. Did you, by the
way, happen to hear of any other vessel soon to sail for the West
Indies?”
“No, my lord.”
“Hand me the evening paper.”
Gridley gave his master the “News.”
Lord Montressor turned to the Marine Intelligence, and ran his eye down
the list, muttering:
“For Liverpool, um—For Havre, um—um—For New Orleans, um—um—um—For
Havanna—here we have it! For Havanna, the Petrel, Brande master, to sail
on the first of October. This is the twenty-fifth of September. Gridley,
we sail for Havanna in a week—be ready.”
“Yes, my lord.”