“At the other end of the world,” replied Mrs. Strangeways.
“Harry! Harry!—where are you?” shouted Albert, at once rushing into the little closet which had been the sleeping-chamber of the delicate and sensitive boy. All was still and empty. Harry’s little bed had evidently never been slept in. Jacob Gray’s was in the same state. Every little article that had belonged to them was removed. There was nothing in the rooms but what was the lawful property of Mrs. Strangeways, except the old oaken chest.
“That chest,” said Albert—“he has left that.”
“It’s mine,” cried Mrs. Strangeways. “The villain has run away, as you all see, and cheated a lone and defenceless, delicate female out of her lawful rent. Oh, the wretch!”
Albert Seyton sprang to the box. It was locked.
“I think we ought to see what’s in here,” he cried.
“Do you, Jackanapes?” screamed Mrs. Strangeways, who by no means wished, should there be anything worth having in the chest, to let every one know it. “I’d have you to know, Master Albert Seyton, as it’s no business of yours.”
“It’s locked,” cried Albert; “but the poker, I dare say, will open it.”
“Do you dare say the poker will open it!” screamed Mrs. Strangeways. “Let anybody touch it if they dare.”
So saying the lady, to make sure of her real or fancied prize, rushed forward and sat herself down on the old, chest with such a thump, that the crazy lid gave way, and with a shriek Mrs. Strangeways fell in a singular position into it.
When she was hauled out by the united exertions of everybody, it was satisfactorily discovered that the chest was empty. Albert Seyton saw at a glance that it was so, and he immediately left the deserted rooms in grief for the loss of his young friend Harry, to whom he felt warmly attached. He went to his father’s apartments, and throwing himself into a chair, he burst into tears, exclaiming—
“My poor Harry, I shall never see you again!”
Albert Seyton’s father had been a gentleman of considerable property, but he had lost all by his adherence to the royal family, who, now at the end, as they thought, of a civil war, were seated on the throne of England. In vain he had sought compensation. A scanty pension just sufficient to keep him and his only boy Albert from actual want, was all he could wring from the government, and now, day after day, he haunted the court with the hope of calling attention at some fortunate moment to his just claims.
He was out when all this conversation took place in the house, where circumstances had compelled him to take up his humble home.
While Albert was still suffering from the first real gush of heartfelt sorrow which had dimmed the brightness of his early youth, his father returned home, and seeing his son in tears, was at once alarmed and afflicted, nor could he be convinced that something had not happened until Albert had related to him the history of the oaken chest and what it had contained. This, coupled with the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Jacob Gray, led Mr. Seyton to think that there was a great deal more in the matter than met the eye.
Moreover, he had another reason which he did not disclose to Albert, but which the reader will know in its right place, for suspecting that a great mystery was connected in some way with Jacob Gray and his young nephew. Full of these thoughts, Mr. Seyton debated with himself whether it was his duty to inform Sir Francis Hartleton of all the circumstances; but then when he came to consider how bald and disjointed a narrative he had to tell, and how he must terminate it by saying that he had no clue whatever to the whereabouts of the parties who he suspected of he knew not what, he gave up, the idea as premature, and turning to his son, he said—
“Albert, did young Harry Gray ever confide to you any particulars of his early life?”
“Never, father,” said Albert. “He always told me he was the child of mystery, and that his life was a romance. Then he would sigh and weep, and hope that the day would come when he could confide all to me. So, sir, I could not press him.”
“Press him!—certainly not. To have wormed his secret from him unwillingly would have been unjustifiable in the extreme. In truth, he was a gentle boy.”
“Oh, father, I loved him, dearly loved him.”
Mr. Seyton was silent for some moments, then beckoning his son to him, he whispered a few words in his ear, which brought the eloquent blood in a full rush to the cheeks of Albert, and he gasped rather than said, “Indeed, no father; I—I—never thought—”
“Then never mention what I have suggested, just now,” said Mr. Seyton, “till I give you leave, and Albert, depend upon my using my utmost exertions to endeavour to discover the mystery which envelopes the fate of your young friend.”
Albert listened to his father with rapt attention, when he threw himself into his arms, crying, “Oh, find them! Find them, and I shall be happy.”
“This very day shall be devoted to inquiries,” said Seyton. “I am greatly interested by all that has occurred, and perchance it will withdraw my mind from sorrows and disappointments of my own, to turn my mind and energies to unravel the mystery connected with your pretty playmate.”
Albert, looked his gratitude, and after the morning’s scanty meal was despatched, he saw his father depart upon his promised expedition with a heart elate with hope and expectant joy.
For a time the youthful Albert remained at home in deep thought; then he suddenly rose, saying, “Why should I be idle? I may do something in this matter. Just Heaven! If that bad man should have murdered him? Alas! My poor—poor Harry. My mind misgives me, that he loves you not. Oh, had I but some clue—some means of commencing in the right path of inquiry, I should then have some hope.”
So saying, with a desponding air, the youth left the house and wandered onwards without any definite idea of whither he was going or how he was to set about his self imposed task of endeavouring to discover the retreat of Jacob Gray and the young Harry.
CHAPTER XI.
Learmont in London.—The Endeavour to Drown Thought.—Life in 1742.—All is not Gold that Glitters.
Many spacious mansions which adorned the old city of Westminster at the date of our story have long since been swept from the ground to give place to more modern structures, and where the stately home of the noble or wealthy commoner reared its lofty walls are now to be seen but lines of streets, and the busy hum of commerce has superseded the stately aristocratic silence which used to reign undisturbed in many parts of the ancient district.
In a mansion of princely splendour, which has long since been pulled down to build some approaches to Westminster Bridge, dwelt the head of the house of Learmont, whenever business or inclination called him to the metropolis. In that house, however, as yet, the present Squire of Learmont had never resided. He had resided in deep seclusion ever since he had been acknowledged as the head of his house. A small part of his history was well known, but there were darker portions which the public eye might in vain attempt to fathom. He was a younger brother of the house he now represented, but his senior, from deep distress at the loss of a young and lovely wife in the first year of his marriage, had resolved by travelling in foreign countries, to endeavour to forget his irreparable loss, leaving the present squire in undisputed authority over his domains and extensive property. Then shortly came news of the decease, at Rome, of the elder brother. The present squire entered on his own account into undisputed possession of the vast accumulated property, for the relatives of the family were very few and very distant. This was all that was really known of the history of Squire Learmont, and his sudden determination, after nearly fourteen years of seclusion, to visit London, and launch out into a style of expensive living which, although