CHAPTER XL.The Old House Again.—Ada’s Alarm.—Gray and His Gold.Ada feltthat after the experience of the recent interview with Gray, she had a power over him which, were she free from her promise not to escape, she might use for the purpose of restoring herself to liberty. That power was grounded on the superstition of his character—a weakness which had grown with his crimes, and been increased by the constant pangs of remorse, which even he could not stifle entirely. The solitude likewise, and the constant state of trembling anxiety in which he lived, had shattered his nervous system to that degree that he was indeed a melancholy and warning spectacle of the mental and bodily wreck to which crime is sure to reduce its unhallowed perpetrators.His eyes were sunken and blood-shot, his lips never bore the hue of health, his step was stealthy and trembling, and his hands shook like an aspen leaf. He would lock himself in the room which contained his hoarded wealth, and recount the glittering mass for hours together; but still he could not think it enough. The demon of avarice had got a clutch of his heart, and the larger the amount of his gold became, the wider range his love of the bright temptation took, and constantly fixed a sum far beyond what he had as that which would content him and enable him to put in practice his scheme of departure from England, and vengeance upon Learmont and Britton.“I must yet have more,” he would mutter. “’Tis but a short delay, and Learmont cannot refuse me the gold. Yes, two hundred more of those pieces shall satisfy me. That will make up a goodly sum; and then, in some other land, I shall get some sleep undisturbed by the awful visions that here crowd upon my trembling imagination;—but two hundred more. Perhaps I may get so much before this month is past, and then I shall be saved the trouble of extorting a renewal of the promise of this wilful girl. Yes, it shall be so. I will raise my demands upon Learmont. He cannot—dare not say me nay, unless I were to become outrageously unreasonable in my drafts upon his purse.—Two hundred.—Let me think;—five visits at twenty pounds each will be half the money. Pshaw! I will have forty each visit. Ay, forty; that will not alarm him: If I insist on more he might, in his cautious brain, think upon the scheme I mean to practise, and take some means of most effectually preventing such ruin to himself. I will lull his suspicions. Oh! What a day of triumph will it be to me when I sail from England with the conviction that, within four-and-twenty hours after I am gone, Learmont and Britton will each inhabit a prison. They will then confess that Jacob Gray is cunning. The sneer will turn with an awful fact to them. There is but one drawback.—I shall not see them hung. No;—I cannot—dare not—stay to see them hung. Ada will be rich and great; but she will know who I am. Will she use her wealth in hunting me through the world? Or will she forgive in the flush of her prosperity? If—if—I thought that the firm, untameable spirit which this girl evidently possesses, and which I may confess it here in secret, daunts me,—if I thought it would induce her to hunt me down, as she might, for her means would be ample for such an object, were I hidden even in the bowels of the earth, I’d—I’d—kill her ere I went. Yes, some night when she slept I could do it; but not till the hour before I meant to go; for I—I could not stay in this lone place without her. She scorns me,—treats me with a haughty contempt; will scarcely condescend to address me: but still she is here, and there is company in the thought that I know I am not quite alone in this gloomy place. She may load me with opprobrium,—she may heap scorn upon my head; but she is here, and I could not lie down for one night here, without the conviction that there was some one else within these walls. So, Ada, you are safe now—very safe; but ere I go I must seek some subtle means of knowing what will be your course of action when you know all, and the name of Jacob Gray is linked with a crime that will rouse your nature, and bring an angry flash to your eye. Ha!—What noise was that?”Gray sprang to his feet, and he trembled violently, for some slight noise, such as old decayed houses are full of, came upon his ear in the stillness that reigned around.“I—I thought I heard a noise,” he muttered; “but I have thought so often, when ’twas nothing. Ada is here; I am not quite alone; should I see anything, I—I could scream, and then she might come, perchance, to exult in my agony; but there would be protection in her presence—because—because she is—innocent.—Innocent!—Oh, God! Why am I not innocent? Is all this world and its enjoyments a gross delusion, for which I have bartered all the essence and foundation of all joy—peace!”For many minutes he remained silent, and the nervous twitching of his countenance betrayed the disturbed condition of his mind. Then he spoke quickly and nervously.“I must not give way to thoughts like these,” he said; “they will drive me mad. Yes, murder lies that way. I must go on now;—the path I have chosen is one which there is no retracing. ’Tis as if a wall of adamant followed close behind, to prevent one backward step. I am committed to the course I have taken;—to pause is madness. I must go on—I must go on! But I will spare you, Ada, if I can.”The sound of a distant clock, sounding the hour of twelve, now came upon the night air, and Jacob Gray listened to the faint moaning tones of the bell until all was still again, and no sound broke the solemn stillness but the agitated beating of his own heart.“Midnight!” he said. “’Tis midnight! I will now endeavour to snatch a few hours’ repose; I have fatigued myself now for many hours, with the hope that the body’s weariness might lull the mind’s agony. Agony! I—do I call it agony! Is that all I have purchased by—crimes?”He lifted the light, as he spoke, and its feeble rays fell upon the glittering heap of gold that lay before him. A ghastly smile played across the pale countenance of Jacob Gray.“I have gained something,” he said, as he laid his thin, cold hand upon the gold. “Yes, I have gained these—these pieces of bright metal, that will exchange for honours—service—gay attire—enchanting music—nay, they will buy what men affect not to sell—opinion. There may be some pure state of society, in which, when speaking of a man, the question may be, ‘What is he?’ But here—here, in civilized, moral, intellectual England, the question is, ‘What has he?’ These,” he continued, running his hand among the guineas; “these even will purchase prayers to Heaven; petitions to God from the good, the saintly, and the pious. Gold, I love thee—but now to bed—to bed!”He carefully placed his treasure in its recent receptacle at the back of the cupboard, and then with a faltering step, and a shifting glance of fear, he repaired to his own chamber, which was near to Ada’s room.In his progress he passed the door of the dormitory of his victim—he paused a moment, and listened attentively. Then in a voice of deep anguish he said,—“She can sleep—she can sleep—no ghostly vision scares slumber from her eyes—while—”He shuddered, and passed a step or two on, then pausing again, he said,—“Oh, if she, the young and innocent—the loved of Heaven—if she would but bid me a ‘good night,’ I think I could sleep—I asked her once, and she would not—no, she would not give me so much peace; she would not say good night to me!”These words were spoken by Gray in a tone of great mental anguish, and he passed on silently to his own chamber.A silence, as of the grave, reigned over the old house, and an uneasy slumber crept over Jacob Gray.Well might the man of crime dread to sleep; for, although exhausted nature sunk into repose, the busy fancy slept not; but, ever wakeful, conjured up strange ghastly shapes to scare the sleeper.The imagination, unchecked by reason, began its reign—a reign sometimes so full of beauty and joy, that we sigh to awaken to a perception of that which is, instead of remaining in the world of dreams.Jacob Gray’s visions, however, took the shuddering ghastly complexion of his waking thoughts and recollections.From memory’s deepest cells would these creep forth one by one in hideous distinctness—remembrances that were maddening, and scenes would be enacted over and over again within the busy chambers of the brain, that in his waking moments he would shun the faintest reminiscence of, as he would the terrors of a pestilence.The smithy at Learmont rose up before him, black and heavy as it appeared among the drifting snow. Then he would hear the howling of the wind even as it howled on that eventful night, when the storm was just commencing—momentarily it increased in fury, and Jacob Gray felt that all the awful events of that night were to do again; why or wherefore he knew not.Then the smith, he thought, took him by the throat and threw him down upon a ghastly rotting corpse, and the long bony arms closed over him, while he felt his own warm living face in hideous contact with the slimy rottenness of the grave, he heard then, as he had heard it on that dreadful night, the cry of fire! And he strove with frantic efforts to free himself from the embrace of death—but ’twas all in vain.* * * * *The flames then waved around him like a sea, and the skeleton arms grew to a white heat, and burnt into his flesh, and a hot pestilential breath seemed to come from the grinning jaws of the dead—still he could not move. His struggles were as those of an infant in that awful clutch, and he prayed for death to terminate his agony.Then a voice said, “No! You will remain thus till time is no more.”With a scream Jacob Gray awoke, and starting wildly from his couch, he sunk on his knees, shrieking—“Mercy—mercy! Spare me, Heaven!”
The Old House Again.—Ada’s Alarm.—Gray and His Gold.
Ada feltthat after the experience of the recent interview with Gray, she had a power over him which, were she free from her promise not to escape, she might use for the purpose of restoring herself to liberty. That power was grounded on the superstition of his character—a weakness which had grown with his crimes, and been increased by the constant pangs of remorse, which even he could not stifle entirely. The solitude likewise, and the constant state of trembling anxiety in which he lived, had shattered his nervous system to that degree that he was indeed a melancholy and warning spectacle of the mental and bodily wreck to which crime is sure to reduce its unhallowed perpetrators.
His eyes were sunken and blood-shot, his lips never bore the hue of health, his step was stealthy and trembling, and his hands shook like an aspen leaf. He would lock himself in the room which contained his hoarded wealth, and recount the glittering mass for hours together; but still he could not think it enough. The demon of avarice had got a clutch of his heart, and the larger the amount of his gold became, the wider range his love of the bright temptation took, and constantly fixed a sum far beyond what he had as that which would content him and enable him to put in practice his scheme of departure from England, and vengeance upon Learmont and Britton.
“I must yet have more,” he would mutter. “’Tis but a short delay, and Learmont cannot refuse me the gold. Yes, two hundred more of those pieces shall satisfy me. That will make up a goodly sum; and then, in some other land, I shall get some sleep undisturbed by the awful visions that here crowd upon my trembling imagination;—but two hundred more. Perhaps I may get so much before this month is past, and then I shall be saved the trouble of extorting a renewal of the promise of this wilful girl. Yes, it shall be so. I will raise my demands upon Learmont. He cannot—dare not say me nay, unless I were to become outrageously unreasonable in my drafts upon his purse.—Two hundred.—Let me think;—five visits at twenty pounds each will be half the money. Pshaw! I will have forty each visit. Ay, forty; that will not alarm him: If I insist on more he might, in his cautious brain, think upon the scheme I mean to practise, and take some means of most effectually preventing such ruin to himself. I will lull his suspicions. Oh! What a day of triumph will it be to me when I sail from England with the conviction that, within four-and-twenty hours after I am gone, Learmont and Britton will each inhabit a prison. They will then confess that Jacob Gray is cunning. The sneer will turn with an awful fact to them. There is but one drawback.—I shall not see them hung. No;—I cannot—dare not—stay to see them hung. Ada will be rich and great; but she will know who I am. Will she use her wealth in hunting me through the world? Or will she forgive in the flush of her prosperity? If—if—I thought that the firm, untameable spirit which this girl evidently possesses, and which I may confess it here in secret, daunts me,—if I thought it would induce her to hunt me down, as she might, for her means would be ample for such an object, were I hidden even in the bowels of the earth, I’d—I’d—kill her ere I went. Yes, some night when she slept I could do it; but not till the hour before I meant to go; for I—I could not stay in this lone place without her. She scorns me,—treats me with a haughty contempt; will scarcely condescend to address me: but still she is here, and there is company in the thought that I know I am not quite alone in this gloomy place. She may load me with opprobrium,—she may heap scorn upon my head; but she is here, and I could not lie down for one night here, without the conviction that there was some one else within these walls. So, Ada, you are safe now—very safe; but ere I go I must seek some subtle means of knowing what will be your course of action when you know all, and the name of Jacob Gray is linked with a crime that will rouse your nature, and bring an angry flash to your eye. Ha!—What noise was that?”
Gray sprang to his feet, and he trembled violently, for some slight noise, such as old decayed houses are full of, came upon his ear in the stillness that reigned around.
“I—I thought I heard a noise,” he muttered; “but I have thought so often, when ’twas nothing. Ada is here; I am not quite alone; should I see anything, I—I could scream, and then she might come, perchance, to exult in my agony; but there would be protection in her presence—because—because she is—innocent.—Innocent!—Oh, God! Why am I not innocent? Is all this world and its enjoyments a gross delusion, for which I have bartered all the essence and foundation of all joy—peace!”
For many minutes he remained silent, and the nervous twitching of his countenance betrayed the disturbed condition of his mind. Then he spoke quickly and nervously.
“I must not give way to thoughts like these,” he said; “they will drive me mad. Yes, murder lies that way. I must go on now;—the path I have chosen is one which there is no retracing. ’Tis as if a wall of adamant followed close behind, to prevent one backward step. I am committed to the course I have taken;—to pause is madness. I must go on—I must go on! But I will spare you, Ada, if I can.”
The sound of a distant clock, sounding the hour of twelve, now came upon the night air, and Jacob Gray listened to the faint moaning tones of the bell until all was still again, and no sound broke the solemn stillness but the agitated beating of his own heart.
“Midnight!” he said. “’Tis midnight! I will now endeavour to snatch a few hours’ repose; I have fatigued myself now for many hours, with the hope that the body’s weariness might lull the mind’s agony. Agony! I—do I call it agony! Is that all I have purchased by—crimes?”
He lifted the light, as he spoke, and its feeble rays fell upon the glittering heap of gold that lay before him. A ghastly smile played across the pale countenance of Jacob Gray.
“I have gained something,” he said, as he laid his thin, cold hand upon the gold. “Yes, I have gained these—these pieces of bright metal, that will exchange for honours—service—gay attire—enchanting music—nay, they will buy what men affect not to sell—opinion. There may be some pure state of society, in which, when speaking of a man, the question may be, ‘What is he?’ But here—here, in civilized, moral, intellectual England, the question is, ‘What has he?’ These,” he continued, running his hand among the guineas; “these even will purchase prayers to Heaven; petitions to God from the good, the saintly, and the pious. Gold, I love thee—but now to bed—to bed!”
He carefully placed his treasure in its recent receptacle at the back of the cupboard, and then with a faltering step, and a shifting glance of fear, he repaired to his own chamber, which was near to Ada’s room.
In his progress he passed the door of the dormitory of his victim—he paused a moment, and listened attentively. Then in a voice of deep anguish he said,—
“She can sleep—she can sleep—no ghostly vision scares slumber from her eyes—while—”
He shuddered, and passed a step or two on, then pausing again, he said,—
“Oh, if she, the young and innocent—the loved of Heaven—if she would but bid me a ‘good night,’ I think I could sleep—I asked her once, and she would not—no, she would not give me so much peace; she would not say good night to me!”
These words were spoken by Gray in a tone of great mental anguish, and he passed on silently to his own chamber.
A silence, as of the grave, reigned over the old house, and an uneasy slumber crept over Jacob Gray.
Well might the man of crime dread to sleep; for, although exhausted nature sunk into repose, the busy fancy slept not; but, ever wakeful, conjured up strange ghastly shapes to scare the sleeper.
The imagination, unchecked by reason, began its reign—a reign sometimes so full of beauty and joy, that we sigh to awaken to a perception of that which is, instead of remaining in the world of dreams.
Jacob Gray’s visions, however, took the shuddering ghastly complexion of his waking thoughts and recollections.
From memory’s deepest cells would these creep forth one by one in hideous distinctness—remembrances that were maddening, and scenes would be enacted over and over again within the busy chambers of the brain, that in his waking moments he would shun the faintest reminiscence of, as he would the terrors of a pestilence.
The smithy at Learmont rose up before him, black and heavy as it appeared among the drifting snow. Then he would hear the howling of the wind even as it howled on that eventful night, when the storm was just commencing—momentarily it increased in fury, and Jacob Gray felt that all the awful events of that night were to do again; why or wherefore he knew not.
Then the smith, he thought, took him by the throat and threw him down upon a ghastly rotting corpse, and the long bony arms closed over him, while he felt his own warm living face in hideous contact with the slimy rottenness of the grave, he heard then, as he had heard it on that dreadful night, the cry of fire! And he strove with frantic efforts to free himself from the embrace of death—but ’twas all in vain.
* * * * *
The flames then waved around him like a sea, and the skeleton arms grew to a white heat, and burnt into his flesh, and a hot pestilential breath seemed to come from the grinning jaws of the dead—still he could not move. His struggles were as those of an infant in that awful clutch, and he prayed for death to terminate his agony.
Then a voice said, “No! You will remain thus till time is no more.”
With a scream Jacob Gray awoke, and starting wildly from his couch, he sunk on his knees, shrieking—
“Mercy—mercy! Spare me, Heaven!”
CHAPTER XLI.A Human Voice.—The Departure.—An Unexpected Meeting.—The Reception.The dim, cold, uncertain light of morning was faintly gleaming in long sickly streaks in the eastern sky, and the trembling, half-maddened Jacob Gray crawled to the window of his room, and hastily tearing down some paper that patched a broken pane of glass, he placed his scorched and dry lips against the opening, and drank in the cool morning’s air as one who had crossed a desert would quaff from the first spring he met after the horrors and thirst of the wilderness.On his knees the wretched man remained for some time, until the mad fever of his blood subsided, and calmer reflection came to his aid.“I cannot sleep,” he said, “I cannot sleep—’tis madness to attempt it; my waking thoughts are bad enough, but when reason sleeps, and the imagination, unshackled by probability commences its reign, then all the wildest fancies become realities and I live in a world of horrors, such as the damned alone can endure, endurance must constitute a portion of their suffering, for if they felt so acutely as to decrease sensation, they would be happy. Alas! What can I do, I must rest sometimes. Exhausted nature will not be defrauded of her rights; but while the body rests, the mind seems to take a flight to hell! Oh, horrible! Horrible! I—I—wonder if Ada be awake—methinks now the sound of a human voice would be music to my ears, I will creep to her chamber door, and speak to her the slightest word in answer will be a blessing. Yes, I will go—I will go.” Jacob Gray then, with a slow and stealthy step, left his chamber, and as he glided along the dim corridor of that ancient house, he might, with his haggard looks and straining eyes, have well been taken for the perturbed spirit that popular superstition said had been seen about the ill-omened residence of crime and death.He reached Ada’s door, and after a pause, he knocked nervously and timidly upon the panel. There was no answer, Ada slept—she was dreaming of happiness, of joy, that brought pearly tears to her eyes—those eyes that are the blissful overflowings of a heart too full of grateful feeling. Again Jacob Gray knocked, and he cried “Ada!” in a voice that was too low and tremulous to reach the ears of the sleeping girl, but which startled Gray himself by the hollow echoes it awakened in the silence of the gloomy house.Again he knocked, and this time Ada started from her sleep—Gray heard the slight movement of the girl.“Ada!” he said, “Ada, speak!”“Jacob Gray!” said Ada.“Ada—I—I am going forth—speak Ada, again.”“Wherefore am I summoned thus early?” said Ada—“what has happened?”“Nothing, nothing!” replied Gray. “Be cautious, Ada; I shall not return till night.”He waited several minutes, but Ada made no reply. Then he crept slowly from the door muttering,—“She has spoken—I think there is some magic in her voice, for I am better now, and the air in this place does not seem so thick and damp. It may be that there are evil spirits that, at the sound of the voice of one so pure and innocent as she, are forced to fly, and no more load the air with their bad presence. I am relieved now, for I have heard a human voice.”Gray then proceeded to a lower room of the house, and enveloping himself closely in an ample cloak, he cautiously opened the door and went forth secure in the dim and uncertain light of the early morning.The air was cold and piercing, but to Jacob Gray it was grateful, for it came like balm upon his heated blood, and the thick teeming fancies of his guilty brain gradually assumed a calmer complexion, subsiding into that gnawing of the heart which he was scarcely ever without, and which he knew would follow him to the grave.He skirted the hedges, concealing himself with extreme caution, until he was some distance from Forest’s house, for notwithstanding the great improbability of his being seen at so early an hour, Jacob Gray was one of those who, to use his own words to Learmont, always wished safety to be doubly assured.Walking rapidly now, along a pathway by the river’s side, he soon neared Lambeth, and the sun was just commencing to gild faintly the highest spires of the great city, when he arrived near the spot which is now occupied by the road leading over Vauxhall-bridge.Gray began now to look about him for some place in which to breakfast, for such was his suspicious nature and constant fear, that he never from choice entered the same house twice. As chance would have it now, he paused opposite the doorway of the public-house called the King’s Bounty, and while he was deliberating with himself whether he should enter or not, he started and trembled with apprehension as the figure of Sir Frederick Hartleton passed out.Jacob Gray had made himself well acquainted with the magistrate by sight, for curiosity had often impelled him to take means of seeing the man to whom he had addressed the packet containing his confession, and, from whom he expected his revenge against Learmont and Britton, and at the same time that, he, Gray, had personally to dread Sir Frederick most, of all men, while he should remain in England.Gray drew back as the magistrate advanced, although a moment’s thought convinced him of the extreme improbability of his being known even to the vigilant eye of Hartleton, who had almost grown proverbial for his skill and tact in discovering who any person was, and for recollecting faces that he had only once in his life seen.Gray was so near the doorway that he had to move in order to allow Sir Frederick to pass, and at that moment their eyes met.The magistrate looked earnestly at Gray for a moment, and then passed on. During that brief look the blood appeared to Jacob Gray to be almost congealing at his heart, so full of fear was he that some distant reminiscence of his countenance might still live in the remembrance of Sir Frederick Hartleton. Such, however, appeared not to be the case, for the magistrate passed on, nor once looked behind him, to the immense relief of Gray, who now made up his mind on the moment to enter the house from a feeling of intense curiosity; to know what business his greatest foe could have there at such an early hour.When he reached the small sanded parlour of the little hostel, he found several persons engaged in earnest discourse, among whom he had no difficulty in selecting the landlord, who was talking earnestly and loudly.“Ah, my masters,” cried the landlord, “he’s a brave gentleman and a liberal one, I can tell you. He said to me—‘Landlord,’ says he—‘let her have of the best your house affords, and send your bill to me’—that’s what he said—and it’s no joke, I can tell you, for a publican to be on good terms with a magistrate. Oh, dear me! Then you should have seen how cold and wet he was; and when I offered him my Sunday garments, he took them with a thank ye, landlord, that was worth a Jew’s eye—coming as it did from a magistrate, mind you.”“Bring me a measure of your best wine,” said Gray, “and whatever you have in the house that I may make a breakfast on.”This liberal order immediately arrested the landlord’s attention, as Gray fully intended it should, and mine host of the King’s Bounty turned instantly all his attention to a visitor who ordered refreshments on so magnificent a scale for the house.“Di—rectly, sir!” cried he, “your worship shall have some wine such as the bishop has not better in his cellars and they do say that he keeps his Canary cool in an excavation that goes from his palace some feet under the bed of the Thames.”“I wish for the best of everything in your house,” said Gray. “By-the-by, was not that Sir Frederick Hartleton whom I saw leave your house a few minutes since?”“An it please your honour, it was,” said the landlord. “Mayhap your worship is a friend of his, and comes to speak to the poor creature above?”“Eh?—a—yes—yes.”“By my faith, I thought as much.”“Yet, stay,” said Gray, for he was cautious to the extreme. “Do you know when Sir Frederick will be here again?”“Not till to-morrow, sir.”“Humph! Then I will see the poor creature you mention.”“Certainly, sir. This way, sir. Your breakfast will be ready by the time your worship comes down stairs again.”“Who can this be that he calls the poor creature?” thought Gray, as he followed the landlord up stairs.“This way, sir,” exclaimed the loquacious host. “It was touch and go with her, poor thing, they say; but Sir Frederick saved her. I dare say, however, your honour knows all about it. That room, sir, if you please.”The landlord now opened a door, and, popping his head in, cried in a very different tone to that in which he addressed Gray, upon the supposition of his acquaintance with Sir Frederick Hartleton,—“Hilloa! Here’s a gentleman come to see you, old ’un.”Gray had not hear the reply; but he entered the room at once, and confronted Mad Maud, who was sitting in a chair, looking more like a corpse than a human being.
A Human Voice.—The Departure.—An Unexpected Meeting.—The Reception.
The dim, cold, uncertain light of morning was faintly gleaming in long sickly streaks in the eastern sky, and the trembling, half-maddened Jacob Gray crawled to the window of his room, and hastily tearing down some paper that patched a broken pane of glass, he placed his scorched and dry lips against the opening, and drank in the cool morning’s air as one who had crossed a desert would quaff from the first spring he met after the horrors and thirst of the wilderness.
On his knees the wretched man remained for some time, until the mad fever of his blood subsided, and calmer reflection came to his aid.
“I cannot sleep,” he said, “I cannot sleep—’tis madness to attempt it; my waking thoughts are bad enough, but when reason sleeps, and the imagination, unshackled by probability commences its reign, then all the wildest fancies become realities and I live in a world of horrors, such as the damned alone can endure, endurance must constitute a portion of their suffering, for if they felt so acutely as to decrease sensation, they would be happy. Alas! What can I do, I must rest sometimes. Exhausted nature will not be defrauded of her rights; but while the body rests, the mind seems to take a flight to hell! Oh, horrible! Horrible! I—I—wonder if Ada be awake—methinks now the sound of a human voice would be music to my ears, I will creep to her chamber door, and speak to her the slightest word in answer will be a blessing. Yes, I will go—I will go.” Jacob Gray then, with a slow and stealthy step, left his chamber, and as he glided along the dim corridor of that ancient house, he might, with his haggard looks and straining eyes, have well been taken for the perturbed spirit that popular superstition said had been seen about the ill-omened residence of crime and death.
He reached Ada’s door, and after a pause, he knocked nervously and timidly upon the panel. There was no answer, Ada slept—she was dreaming of happiness, of joy, that brought pearly tears to her eyes—those eyes that are the blissful overflowings of a heart too full of grateful feeling. Again Jacob Gray knocked, and he cried “Ada!” in a voice that was too low and tremulous to reach the ears of the sleeping girl, but which startled Gray himself by the hollow echoes it awakened in the silence of the gloomy house.
Again he knocked, and this time Ada started from her sleep—Gray heard the slight movement of the girl.
“Ada!” he said, “Ada, speak!”
“Jacob Gray!” said Ada.
“Ada—I—I am going forth—speak Ada, again.”
“Wherefore am I summoned thus early?” said Ada—“what has happened?”
“Nothing, nothing!” replied Gray. “Be cautious, Ada; I shall not return till night.”
He waited several minutes, but Ada made no reply. Then he crept slowly from the door muttering,—
“She has spoken—I think there is some magic in her voice, for I am better now, and the air in this place does not seem so thick and damp. It may be that there are evil spirits that, at the sound of the voice of one so pure and innocent as she, are forced to fly, and no more load the air with their bad presence. I am relieved now, for I have heard a human voice.”
Gray then proceeded to a lower room of the house, and enveloping himself closely in an ample cloak, he cautiously opened the door and went forth secure in the dim and uncertain light of the early morning.
The air was cold and piercing, but to Jacob Gray it was grateful, for it came like balm upon his heated blood, and the thick teeming fancies of his guilty brain gradually assumed a calmer complexion, subsiding into that gnawing of the heart which he was scarcely ever without, and which he knew would follow him to the grave.
He skirted the hedges, concealing himself with extreme caution, until he was some distance from Forest’s house, for notwithstanding the great improbability of his being seen at so early an hour, Jacob Gray was one of those who, to use his own words to Learmont, always wished safety to be doubly assured.
Walking rapidly now, along a pathway by the river’s side, he soon neared Lambeth, and the sun was just commencing to gild faintly the highest spires of the great city, when he arrived near the spot which is now occupied by the road leading over Vauxhall-bridge.
Gray began now to look about him for some place in which to breakfast, for such was his suspicious nature and constant fear, that he never from choice entered the same house twice. As chance would have it now, he paused opposite the doorway of the public-house called the King’s Bounty, and while he was deliberating with himself whether he should enter or not, he started and trembled with apprehension as the figure of Sir Frederick Hartleton passed out.
Jacob Gray had made himself well acquainted with the magistrate by sight, for curiosity had often impelled him to take means of seeing the man to whom he had addressed the packet containing his confession, and, from whom he expected his revenge against Learmont and Britton, and at the same time that, he, Gray, had personally to dread Sir Frederick most, of all men, while he should remain in England.
Gray drew back as the magistrate advanced, although a moment’s thought convinced him of the extreme improbability of his being known even to the vigilant eye of Hartleton, who had almost grown proverbial for his skill and tact in discovering who any person was, and for recollecting faces that he had only once in his life seen.
Gray was so near the doorway that he had to move in order to allow Sir Frederick to pass, and at that moment their eyes met.
The magistrate looked earnestly at Gray for a moment, and then passed on. During that brief look the blood appeared to Jacob Gray to be almost congealing at his heart, so full of fear was he that some distant reminiscence of his countenance might still live in the remembrance of Sir Frederick Hartleton. Such, however, appeared not to be the case, for the magistrate passed on, nor once looked behind him, to the immense relief of Gray, who now made up his mind on the moment to enter the house from a feeling of intense curiosity; to know what business his greatest foe could have there at such an early hour.
When he reached the small sanded parlour of the little hostel, he found several persons engaged in earnest discourse, among whom he had no difficulty in selecting the landlord, who was talking earnestly and loudly.
“Ah, my masters,” cried the landlord, “he’s a brave gentleman and a liberal one, I can tell you. He said to me—‘Landlord,’ says he—‘let her have of the best your house affords, and send your bill to me’—that’s what he said—and it’s no joke, I can tell you, for a publican to be on good terms with a magistrate. Oh, dear me! Then you should have seen how cold and wet he was; and when I offered him my Sunday garments, he took them with a thank ye, landlord, that was worth a Jew’s eye—coming as it did from a magistrate, mind you.”
“Bring me a measure of your best wine,” said Gray, “and whatever you have in the house that I may make a breakfast on.”
This liberal order immediately arrested the landlord’s attention, as Gray fully intended it should, and mine host of the King’s Bounty turned instantly all his attention to a visitor who ordered refreshments on so magnificent a scale for the house.
“Di—rectly, sir!” cried he, “your worship shall have some wine such as the bishop has not better in his cellars and they do say that he keeps his Canary cool in an excavation that goes from his palace some feet under the bed of the Thames.”
“I wish for the best of everything in your house,” said Gray. “By-the-by, was not that Sir Frederick Hartleton whom I saw leave your house a few minutes since?”
“An it please your honour, it was,” said the landlord. “Mayhap your worship is a friend of his, and comes to speak to the poor creature above?”
“Eh?—a—yes—yes.”
“By my faith, I thought as much.”
“Yet, stay,” said Gray, for he was cautious to the extreme. “Do you know when Sir Frederick will be here again?”
“Not till to-morrow, sir.”
“Humph! Then I will see the poor creature you mention.”
“Certainly, sir. This way, sir. Your breakfast will be ready by the time your worship comes down stairs again.”
“Who can this be that he calls the poor creature?” thought Gray, as he followed the landlord up stairs.
“This way, sir,” exclaimed the loquacious host. “It was touch and go with her, poor thing, they say; but Sir Frederick saved her. I dare say, however, your honour knows all about it. That room, sir, if you please.”
The landlord now opened a door, and, popping his head in, cried in a very different tone to that in which he addressed Gray, upon the supposition of his acquaintance with Sir Frederick Hartleton,—
“Hilloa! Here’s a gentleman come to see you, old ’un.”
Gray had not hear the reply; but he entered the room at once, and confronted Mad Maud, who was sitting in a chair, looking more like a corpse than a human being.
CHAPTER XLII.Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come.“Who areyou,” cried she, “that seeks poor Maud?”“Maud!” exclaimed Gray, ”I have heard Britton speak of you.”“Britton, Britton, the savage smith!” cried Maud, rising, and trying to clutch Gray with her long skinny arms. “He speak of me? Have they hung him, and I not there? Tell me, have they dared to hang him without my being there to see it? Ha! Ha! Ha!”Gray shuddered. He had heard that wild and fearful laugh before. On the night of the storm at Learmont he had heard it, and he had never forgotten it.“You—you lived once far from hence?” he said.“Far—very far. ’Twas a weary way to walk. Sometimes I slept in a barn; and they hooted me out in the morning, because the frown of God was upon my soul, and I was mad—yes—I was mad, so they who had sense and judgment cast me out.”“You know Sir Frederick Hartleton?” said Gray.“Frank Hartleton I know,” she replied. “He was always kind to poor Maud. When the smith hunted me into the river, he saved me. Yes I know him and the angel.”“And who?”“The angel who fed me, and spoke kind words even though I was mad. Those kind words made me weep; an angel spoke them.”“Mad as she can be,” thought Gray, “I do not like her acquaintance with Hartleton, however. There may be danger.”“The savage smith hunted you, did he?” he then said aloud.“He would have killed me,” replied Maud, with a shudder; “but the water came up to where we were, and saved me.”“I am a friend, a dear friend of Hartleton’s,” said Gray; “and he wishes you to say to me all you know about things that happened long ago.”“What things?”“Of, you recollect the Old Smithy?”“The Old Smithy!” repeated Maud. “Yes—I do—I do. Why should I not? The murder was only done last night, and the death-cry of the victim still lingers in the air. The storm is lulling, but the wind moans like an infant sobbing itself to sleep upon its mother’s breast. The distant shrieks of him who rushed forth with the child still echo through the valley. Do I remember?—Yes—’Twas brave work—brave work for the savage smith. Hush! Hush! Tell me now, if it be true that they will bring me the child? I will tend it for I have nothing to love now; Britton killed him—him that I loved. Oh! Give me the child of the dead, and I will be a mother to it for its orphan state!”“Indeed! Who has promised you the child?”“He—the good—the brave.”“Who?”“Frank Hartleton. ‘Be patient,’ he said, ‘and you shall see that child again.’”Gray trembled as he said,—“You—you are sure, he said this—Sir Frederick Hartleton? Tell me what more he said, and, if you love gold, you shall have it. Tell me all that has passed in your interview with him, and then ask of me what you will, it is yours. You seem poor—nay, wretched; I will give you money if you will tell me all you know of this—this murder you mention.”“Gold! Gold!” muttered Maud. “That is man’s enemy; for that he betrays trusts—robs—lies—murders!”Jacob Gray groaned.“Yes,” continued Maud, “the red gold is Heaven’s worst foe. It robs the realms of light and glory of many mortal souls. I will not have your gold. Tempter, away! Give me the child, the sweet, smiling babe that Heaven made the bad man save from the burning smithy. Give me that, and then tell me where Britton is, and I will do your bidding,—you shall know all!”“I accept your terms;” said Gray; “you shall have the child. Tell me who did this murder at the smithy, and what Hartleton says about it.”“Ay, Hartleton!” exclaimed Maud; “he, too, has promised me the child; but he says I shall not know it.”“Indeed!”“Yes; he says that years have passed away; that the child has grown to be a maiden of rare beauty. But I shall see it. Yes, poor Maud will see it yet; and I shall know it, because its hands have some blood upon them.”Gray absolutely reeled, and mechanically sunk into a chair as Maud spoke, and a conviction crossed his mind that by some means Sir Frederick Hartleton was on the scent for him. A short interval of confused and agonising thought now followed. Then it shaped itself into a course of detail that he felt was the only one presenting a chance of escape, and that was to discover, if possible, in what particular manner the danger threatened, and whether it was near or remote—if it consisted of positive knowledge, or only surmise.“Go on,” he said, making a great effort to speak calmly, and communicate his feelings. “Go on, I pray you.”“I shall have the child?”“You shall! Be assured you shall!”“Ah, then Britton will soon die. I shall live till then—to see him die, and then poor Maud is willing to die. I am to remain here till he comes again.”“Who?”“Frank Hartleton, blessings on him! He says that the career of the wicked is now over. Who is this Gray, they all speak to me about?”Jacob Gray started, and fixed his eyes intently upon poor Maud’s face, for an awful doubt, suggested by his shivering fear, came across his mind, that he might be falling into some trap laid for him by the cunning of the magistrate; and that she who asked of him so strange a question might be only aping the malady she seemed to suffer under.“Don’t you know Gray?” he said sharply, at the same time fixing his keen, ferret-looking eyes upon the door, and then suddenly turning them to her.Maud shook her head; and there was something so genuine in her negative, that Gray drew a long breath, and felt re-assured that he was at the moment safe.“Oh, Gray!” he said. “Who mentioned him! He is dead—dead long ago.”“Dead?”“Yes; there is now no such person. So Sir Frederick—I mean Frank Hartleton, mentioned this Gray?”“All have mentioned him,” said Maud. “’Tis very strange, but I am asked by all if I know Gray!”“Indeed! By—by Hartleton?”“Yes, by him. He says that Gray is the worst villain of all. The Lord of Learmont is scarce worse than Gray. Where is he, with his dark scowl? I have not seen him for some days, that is, since he would not have the fire put out. They said he and the savage smith killed Dame Tatton, and took the child away; but I know better, ha—ha—ha! Poor Mad Maud knows better.”“Then Learmont did not do so?” said Gray, in a soft insinuating tone.“How could he, when I met her by the mill-stream, weeping?”“You met her?”“Ay, did I, by the mill-stream. It was early dawn, and the birds alone were awake, as well as Mad Maud. Ha—ha! I met her, and, I will tell you, she had the child; and she wept while I kissed and blessed it.”“But, about this man, Gray? Speak more of him—I pray you, speak of him.”“I know him not, but Frank Hartleton, who always had a kind word for poor Maud, which makes me believe him—he says, that before sunset, Gray shall be in prison, and that he is a villain.”Gray rose with his features convulsed with rage and fear, and approaching Maud, he said, in a husky whisper,—“Woman—on your soul, did he say those words?”“He did. It will be brave work!”“How is this?” cried Gray, clasping his hands. “God! How is this? Am I betrayed—lost—lost!”He sank in a chair with a deep groan, at the moment that, the landlord opened the door, saying—“An it please your honour, your breakfast is hot. There be new-laid eggs, and buttered buns; a chine, the like of which is rarely seen at the King’s Bounty. Then we have some confections, your honour, which would be no disparagement to the bishop’s own larder, which, they do say, keeps up a continual groaning from the heap of niceties collected therein. Then, as to wine we have, I will say it—who should not—the very creamiest, rarest—”“Peace—begone!” said Gray.“Your honour!”“Begone, I say!”“I humbly—”“Peace! Is it thus you torment your guest? Do not interrupt me until I call for you. I have a private conference to hold with this poor creature. Here, pay yourself as you will for the cooling of your most precious viands.”Gray threw a piece of gold to the landlord, who picked it up, and vanished with a profusion of bows, to tell his company below what a nice gentleman, a friend of the great Sir Frederick Hartleton, he had above stairs, who not only paid for what was cooked for him, but requested he might be charged for the cooling of the various delicacies!“Now, that’s what I call a real gentleman,” added the landlord; “and one as makes a virtuous use of his money.”When Jacob was once more alone with poor Maud, he approached her and said,—“As you value your life, tell me all.”“My life? Is Britton dead?” she replied.“What do you mean?” said Gray, impatiently.“Because I cannot die till he does.”“Listen to me,” said Gray. “You say that this Hartleton talks of imprisoning Gray. Was that all he said?”“I wept, and he would not then take from me what the angel had given me. I promised her by a name, as sacred to me as that of Heaven, and I could not even let him have it,—no, no! He pitied my tears, and let me keep the angel’s paper.”“Paper!—Paper!—What paper?”“Oh! It is precious!” continued Maud; “I think it is a charm against sickness,—it is, truly, as coming from an angel.”“Let me see it.”“Yes, of course; I am to show it to all,—that was what the angel said. You shall see,—but you will not take it—promise me you will not take it.”“I promise.”Maud then dived her hand in her breast, and produced, with an expression of intense pride and satisfaction, the scrap of paper which Ada had given her, with the faint hope that it might meet the hands of Albert Seyton. She held it out to Gray to read, and as he did so, and fully comprehending the few words it contained, his lips turned to an ashy paleness, and his brain grew dizzy with apprehension.“He—he has seen this?” he gasped.“Who?”“Hartleton!”“Oh yes; I tell you he wanted it, but he would not tear it from me.”Gray made a snatch at it, and tore it from the grasp of the poor creature. Maud uttered a loud scream, and Gray, drawing a pistol from his pocket, stood in an attitude of defence, as he heard a confusion of steps upon the stairs.“Give it to me!” shrieked Maud—“Oh! As you hope for heaven, give it to me!”A moment’s reflection assured Jacob Gray that not only was he acting indiscreetly, but that he had no time to lose. Hastily concealing the pistol, he handed the paper to Maud, saying—“Hence, hence; I did but jest.”The door was immediately flung open, and several heads appeared.“This poor creature is mad, friends,” said Gray. “She—she thinks she has seen something.”“The Lord preserve us!” cried the landlord. “An’ it please you, sir, I see Sir Frederick crossing the river.”“Who?” cried Grey.“Your honour’s good friend, Sir Frederick Hartleton—ah, I’ll warrant he has some sport in view, for he has Elias and Stephy, his two runners, with him.”Gray darted to the door.“Your honour—honour,” cried the landlord, “an’ it please you, what did the poor crazy creature fancy she saw?”“The devil!” cried Gray.In a moment he was outside the house. He cast one glance towards the river. In the middle of the stream was a two-oared cutter, pulled rapidly by two rowers, while a figure that he at once recognised as the magistrate sat steering.With a stifled cry, Jacob Gray set his teeth, and darted off towards his solitary home, like a hunted hare.
Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come.
“Who areyou,” cried she, “that seeks poor Maud?”
“Maud!” exclaimed Gray, ”I have heard Britton speak of you.”
“Britton, Britton, the savage smith!” cried Maud, rising, and trying to clutch Gray with her long skinny arms. “He speak of me? Have they hung him, and I not there? Tell me, have they dared to hang him without my being there to see it? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Gray shuddered. He had heard that wild and fearful laugh before. On the night of the storm at Learmont he had heard it, and he had never forgotten it.
“You—you lived once far from hence?” he said.
“Far—very far. ’Twas a weary way to walk. Sometimes I slept in a barn; and they hooted me out in the morning, because the frown of God was upon my soul, and I was mad—yes—I was mad, so they who had sense and judgment cast me out.”
“You know Sir Frederick Hartleton?” said Gray.
“Frank Hartleton I know,” she replied. “He was always kind to poor Maud. When the smith hunted me into the river, he saved me. Yes I know him and the angel.”
“And who?”
“The angel who fed me, and spoke kind words even though I was mad. Those kind words made me weep; an angel spoke them.”
“Mad as she can be,” thought Gray, “I do not like her acquaintance with Hartleton, however. There may be danger.”
“The savage smith hunted you, did he?” he then said aloud.
“He would have killed me,” replied Maud, with a shudder; “but the water came up to where we were, and saved me.”
“I am a friend, a dear friend of Hartleton’s,” said Gray; “and he wishes you to say to me all you know about things that happened long ago.”
“What things?”
“Of, you recollect the Old Smithy?”
“The Old Smithy!” repeated Maud. “Yes—I do—I do. Why should I not? The murder was only done last night, and the death-cry of the victim still lingers in the air. The storm is lulling, but the wind moans like an infant sobbing itself to sleep upon its mother’s breast. The distant shrieks of him who rushed forth with the child still echo through the valley. Do I remember?—Yes—’Twas brave work—brave work for the savage smith. Hush! Hush! Tell me now, if it be true that they will bring me the child? I will tend it for I have nothing to love now; Britton killed him—him that I loved. Oh! Give me the child of the dead, and I will be a mother to it for its orphan state!”
“Indeed! Who has promised you the child?”
“He—the good—the brave.”
“Who?”
“Frank Hartleton. ‘Be patient,’ he said, ‘and you shall see that child again.’”
Gray trembled as he said,—
“You—you are sure, he said this—Sir Frederick Hartleton? Tell me what more he said, and, if you love gold, you shall have it. Tell me all that has passed in your interview with him, and then ask of me what you will, it is yours. You seem poor—nay, wretched; I will give you money if you will tell me all you know of this—this murder you mention.”
“Gold! Gold!” muttered Maud. “That is man’s enemy; for that he betrays trusts—robs—lies—murders!”
Jacob Gray groaned.
“Yes,” continued Maud, “the red gold is Heaven’s worst foe. It robs the realms of light and glory of many mortal souls. I will not have your gold. Tempter, away! Give me the child, the sweet, smiling babe that Heaven made the bad man save from the burning smithy. Give me that, and then tell me where Britton is, and I will do your bidding,—you shall know all!”
“I accept your terms;” said Gray; “you shall have the child. Tell me who did this murder at the smithy, and what Hartleton says about it.”
“Ay, Hartleton!” exclaimed Maud; “he, too, has promised me the child; but he says I shall not know it.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he says that years have passed away; that the child has grown to be a maiden of rare beauty. But I shall see it. Yes, poor Maud will see it yet; and I shall know it, because its hands have some blood upon them.”
Gray absolutely reeled, and mechanically sunk into a chair as Maud spoke, and a conviction crossed his mind that by some means Sir Frederick Hartleton was on the scent for him. A short interval of confused and agonising thought now followed. Then it shaped itself into a course of detail that he felt was the only one presenting a chance of escape, and that was to discover, if possible, in what particular manner the danger threatened, and whether it was near or remote—if it consisted of positive knowledge, or only surmise.
“Go on,” he said, making a great effort to speak calmly, and communicate his feelings. “Go on, I pray you.”
“I shall have the child?”
“You shall! Be assured you shall!”
“Ah, then Britton will soon die. I shall live till then—to see him die, and then poor Maud is willing to die. I am to remain here till he comes again.”
“Who?”
“Frank Hartleton, blessings on him! He says that the career of the wicked is now over. Who is this Gray, they all speak to me about?”
Jacob Gray started, and fixed his eyes intently upon poor Maud’s face, for an awful doubt, suggested by his shivering fear, came across his mind, that he might be falling into some trap laid for him by the cunning of the magistrate; and that she who asked of him so strange a question might be only aping the malady she seemed to suffer under.
“Don’t you know Gray?” he said sharply, at the same time fixing his keen, ferret-looking eyes upon the door, and then suddenly turning them to her.
Maud shook her head; and there was something so genuine in her negative, that Gray drew a long breath, and felt re-assured that he was at the moment safe.
“Oh, Gray!” he said. “Who mentioned him! He is dead—dead long ago.”
“Dead?”
“Yes; there is now no such person. So Sir Frederick—I mean Frank Hartleton, mentioned this Gray?”
“All have mentioned him,” said Maud. “’Tis very strange, but I am asked by all if I know Gray!”
“Indeed! By—by Hartleton?”
“Yes, by him. He says that Gray is the worst villain of all. The Lord of Learmont is scarce worse than Gray. Where is he, with his dark scowl? I have not seen him for some days, that is, since he would not have the fire put out. They said he and the savage smith killed Dame Tatton, and took the child away; but I know better, ha—ha—ha! Poor Mad Maud knows better.”
“Then Learmont did not do so?” said Gray, in a soft insinuating tone.
“How could he, when I met her by the mill-stream, weeping?”
“You met her?”
“Ay, did I, by the mill-stream. It was early dawn, and the birds alone were awake, as well as Mad Maud. Ha—ha! I met her, and, I will tell you, she had the child; and she wept while I kissed and blessed it.”
“But, about this man, Gray? Speak more of him—I pray you, speak of him.”
“I know him not, but Frank Hartleton, who always had a kind word for poor Maud, which makes me believe him—he says, that before sunset, Gray shall be in prison, and that he is a villain.”
Gray rose with his features convulsed with rage and fear, and approaching Maud, he said, in a husky whisper,—
“Woman—on your soul, did he say those words?”
“He did. It will be brave work!”
“How is this?” cried Gray, clasping his hands. “God! How is this? Am I betrayed—lost—lost!”
He sank in a chair with a deep groan, at the moment that, the landlord opened the door, saying—
“An it please your honour, your breakfast is hot. There be new-laid eggs, and buttered buns; a chine, the like of which is rarely seen at the King’s Bounty. Then we have some confections, your honour, which would be no disparagement to the bishop’s own larder, which, they do say, keeps up a continual groaning from the heap of niceties collected therein. Then, as to wine we have, I will say it—who should not—the very creamiest, rarest—”
“Peace—begone!” said Gray.
“Your honour!”
“Begone, I say!”
“I humbly—”
“Peace! Is it thus you torment your guest? Do not interrupt me until I call for you. I have a private conference to hold with this poor creature. Here, pay yourself as you will for the cooling of your most precious viands.”
Gray threw a piece of gold to the landlord, who picked it up, and vanished with a profusion of bows, to tell his company below what a nice gentleman, a friend of the great Sir Frederick Hartleton, he had above stairs, who not only paid for what was cooked for him, but requested he might be charged for the cooling of the various delicacies!
“Now, that’s what I call a real gentleman,” added the landlord; “and one as makes a virtuous use of his money.”
When Jacob was once more alone with poor Maud, he approached her and said,—
“As you value your life, tell me all.”
“My life? Is Britton dead?” she replied.
“What do you mean?” said Gray, impatiently.
“Because I cannot die till he does.”
“Listen to me,” said Gray. “You say that this Hartleton talks of imprisoning Gray. Was that all he said?”
“I wept, and he would not then take from me what the angel had given me. I promised her by a name, as sacred to me as that of Heaven, and I could not even let him have it,—no, no! He pitied my tears, and let me keep the angel’s paper.”
“Paper!—Paper!—What paper?”
“Oh! It is precious!” continued Maud; “I think it is a charm against sickness,—it is, truly, as coming from an angel.”
“Let me see it.”
“Yes, of course; I am to show it to all,—that was what the angel said. You shall see,—but you will not take it—promise me you will not take it.”
“I promise.”
Maud then dived her hand in her breast, and produced, with an expression of intense pride and satisfaction, the scrap of paper which Ada had given her, with the faint hope that it might meet the hands of Albert Seyton. She held it out to Gray to read, and as he did so, and fully comprehending the few words it contained, his lips turned to an ashy paleness, and his brain grew dizzy with apprehension.
“He—he has seen this?” he gasped.
“Who?”
“Hartleton!”
“Oh yes; I tell you he wanted it, but he would not tear it from me.”
Gray made a snatch at it, and tore it from the grasp of the poor creature. Maud uttered a loud scream, and Gray, drawing a pistol from his pocket, stood in an attitude of defence, as he heard a confusion of steps upon the stairs.
“Give it to me!” shrieked Maud—“Oh! As you hope for heaven, give it to me!”
A moment’s reflection assured Jacob Gray that not only was he acting indiscreetly, but that he had no time to lose. Hastily concealing the pistol, he handed the paper to Maud, saying—
“Hence, hence; I did but jest.”
The door was immediately flung open, and several heads appeared.
“This poor creature is mad, friends,” said Gray. “She—she thinks she has seen something.”
“The Lord preserve us!” cried the landlord. “An’ it please you, sir, I see Sir Frederick crossing the river.”
“Who?” cried Grey.
“Your honour’s good friend, Sir Frederick Hartleton—ah, I’ll warrant he has some sport in view, for he has Elias and Stephy, his two runners, with him.”
Gray darted to the door.
“Your honour—honour,” cried the landlord, “an’ it please you, what did the poor crazy creature fancy she saw?”
“The devil!” cried Gray.
In a moment he was outside the house. He cast one glance towards the river. In the middle of the stream was a two-oared cutter, pulled rapidly by two rowers, while a figure that he at once recognised as the magistrate sat steering.
With a stifled cry, Jacob Gray set his teeth, and darted off towards his solitary home, like a hunted hare.
CHAPTER XLIII.The Proposal.—Gray’s Reasoning.—The Vault.—Ada’s Tears.—A Guilty Heart’s Agony.Oh, whata fearful race home that was to Jacob Gray. He knew he had the start of the magistrate by some quarter of an hour, or probably more; but still that was not time sufficient to pause upon, and he relaxed not his headlong speed till he came within sight of the lone house that was his home: then, for the space of about a minute, he turned and looked back to see if he were followed, and to strive to think what he should do when he did reach the house, which he felt could shelter him no more. That the scrap of paper in the possession of Mad Maud was written by Ada, he did not entertain a doubt, but it utterly foiled all conjecture to think how she could have found the opportunity, confined as she was, of giving if to the poor creature, who set such great store by it.Forward, then, Jacob Gray rushed again, after ascertaining that there was no one within sight. It was yet very early, and but few persons were out, so that Gray hoped he might be able to cross the fields without being seen; but how to drag Ada away and leave Forest’s house in safety, before Sir Frederick and his party arrived, defied his thoughts, and he groaned and struck his breast in the bitterness of his anguish and despair.“The time has come—the time has come!” he muttered. “I am lost—lost!—No chance!—No hope! If—if I kill Ada—what then? I only exasperate my pursuers, and my death is certain. I have, if taken, but one solitary gleam of hope for mercy, and that is, that I have done no violence to her. No—no—I dare not kill her, unless she would betray me. We must hide. Aye that is a remote chance.”He bounded over the swampy fields and gained the door. Without pausing to make his accustomed signal, he drew from his pocket the key which had fitted to the rusty lock, and in another moment he had entered his house of dread and danger, and closed the door behind him.“I have yet some time,” he said or rather panted, for his violent rush homeward had quite exhausted him. He reeled rather than walked to his own chamber, and took a copious draught of spirits. The ardent liquor in his excited and agitated state of mind appeared to have but little more effect upon him than would so much water—at least so far as its power to intoxicate went. He felt refreshed, however, and now he rushed to the window, which commanded an extensive view across the fields, and he drew a long breath, as he said to himself with a sensation of relief,—“I do not see them yet—I have time—yes, still some time! Now for Ada—for Ada! I have a task before me!”He crossed the corridor to see if Ada was in her own room. The door stood partially open.“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray. There was no answer; and, looking into the chamber, he saw she was not there. Suddenly he started. The sweetly clear and natural voice of Ada emerging from an upper room met his ears. She was looking out at the blue sky, and watching the soaring larks, totally unconscious of the sudden return of Jacob Gray, and fondly anticipating the pleasure—for all our pains and pleasures are comparative—and it was a pleasure to Ada of being alone for a whole day.Gray was in no mood for singing, and with a step very different from the cautious stealthy one with which he usually crawled about the house, he ascended the staircase, and presented himself before the astonished eyes of Ada.“Returned,” she exclaimed.“Yes—returned,” echoed Gray. “Ada, you have broken your vow.”“So help me, Heaven, no!”“You have,” cried Gray, in a high, shrieking voice that decreased to a hissing sound, as if he were afraid of his own violent outcry.“I have not,” repeated Ada, fearlessly, and meeting Gray’s eyes with a clear and open gaze that he shrunk from.“The—the scrap of paper,” said Gray. “The note to the—the—what shall I shall I call him?—Albert Seyton—I have seen that. Ah! Well may your colour flit. Ada, you are detected—you have tampered with your vow. No more prate to me of your innocence and high virtue—no more taunt me with your purity. Ada, we understand each other better now.”“Liar!” cried Ada, with an energy that made Gray start, “I will still taunt you—still prate to you, of my innocence, which only can gall you in proportion as you yourself are guilty. I have tampered with no vow, and you know it. I still stand on a pinnacle, from which you have fallen, never, never to rise again. Bend not your brows on me Jacob Gray—you are my slave and you know that too!”Gray quailed, and trembled, before the flashing eye of Ada, who, as she spoke, assumed unconsciously an attitude of such rare grace and beauty, with the fire of heavenly intelligence and truth beaming in every feature of her face, that it was with mixed feelings-of fear, hate, and admiration, that Gray replied,—“You have made an indirect attempt to escape from here.”“And why not?” said Ada. “If I have the power and opportunity, I will make a hundred—ay, Jacob Gray, and a hundred more to back them. My vow contained a special reservation, that I would accept of aid if it came to me. Moreover, Jacob Gray, when I made the attempt, of which, by some accident, you have become aware, I was as free as air—my promise had expired.”“Ha!”“Yes: it was made in the brief time that elapsed between one promise and another, Jacob Gray.”“Damnation! Why do you reiterate my name so constantly?”“Because it angers you, Jacob Gray.”“What if I were to kill you?” growled Gray.“’Twould be another murder,” said Ada.“Ada, I do not believe your exculpation. Why did you not escape, if you had the opportunity you speak of?”“That I had a special reason for, which I will not tell you, Jacob Gray.”“I do not wish to kill you.”“That I know—you have some highly politic reason for preserving my life, else it had been sacrificed long since.”“But now it has become politic so to do,” added Gray.“Indeed?”“Ay—indeed.”“Then, God help me. If I must die now by your hands, may Heaven forgive you for your deep sinfulness.”“Hear me, girl,” cried Gray. “There is yet a chance of saving you.”“Say on. You have some proposition to make, from which you guess I will revolt, or you would not preface it with such murderous looks.”Gray walked first to a window, which commanded a view in the direction of Lambeth. He saw as yet no traces of the magistrate and his party, and he returned to Ada.“Attend to what I say,” he cried. “There are those coming here who, as it happened once before in our former place of abode, seek mine and your life.”Ada started.“Yes,” continued Gray. “By an accident little short of a miracle, I have discovered their intentions—they are now on their road here. There is not time to fly.”“They may be foes to you only,” said Ada. She then suddenly clasped her hands and uttered a cry of joy. “I see it now,” she said, “Albert—Albert is coming.”“No!” thundered Gray. “You are wrong—on my soul, you are wrong. It is not he. If you hear his voice, act as you please—I will not restrain you.”“Who are these men then?”“That I cannot, will not tell you. Suffice it, they seek your life. We must die or live together in this emergency; or else if you, with fatal obstinacy, will not be guided by me, and embrace the only chance of escape, in self-defence I must silence you.”“By murdering me?”“Yes, although reluctantly. Ada, you have sense, knowledge, discretion, beyond your years.”Ada sat down, and deep emotion was evident in her countenance.“Jacob Gray,” she said, “death is frightful to the young. Let me believe the reasons you urge, or believe them not, it matters little. You will kill me if I do not do your bidding in this case. Those who are coming may be my friends or they may be my enemies, I cannot tell, and your statements carry not with them the stamp of truth to my mind. The heart once thoroughly deceived, trusts no more. You need not seek to delude with untruths—it is enough that you will kill me if I do not hide from those whom you dread—but you have said that, should I hear the voice of him—him who—why should I shrink from the avowal?—Him whom I love, you will not stay me.”“I swear I will not,” cried Gray.“Your word is quite as weighty as your oath, Jacob Gray,” said Ada. “Both are worthless. But you would not make such a promise even if you thought thathewould be one of those you expect.”“Time, Ada—time is precious!” cried Gray.“To you probably—but I must obey you.”“You have chosen wisely,” said Gray. “Hear me. My own life hangs upon a single thread. If you had persevered in obstinately refusing to side with me, I should have killed you for my own preservation, and cast your lifeless body into the same place of secrecy where we will soon repair to.”“Where mean you?”“That dark cell in which you have passed some gloomy hours. The entrance to it is by a panel in the wainscotting of the room below, which fits so truly that none, not previously aware of it, would suspect its existence. When I came first here I found it by an accident. If we are found there, we shall be found together and by any crying to me, you would benefit nothing. All I require of you now is silence.”Gray now again walked to the window, and this time he started back with a loud cry.“They are coming,” he said; “look, Ada, be satisfied that neither of these men in any degree resemble him you so much wish to see.”Ada sprang to the window, and at some considerable distance off, crossing the fields, towards the house, she saw three men who were strangers to her.“You see they are armed,” said Gray.“They are—I know them not. How can they be enemies of mine?”“Follow me!” shrieked Gray. “There is not time for another word.”As he spoke he took a pistol from his breast, and turned to Ada.“You know the use and powers of this weapon. So much as stir, unless I bid you, when we are hiding, or speak even in the lowest whisper, except in answer to me, and I will assuredly take your life.”Ada did not answer, and after regarding her fixedly for one moment to see what impression he had made upon her mind, Gray hastily left the room, saying,—“Follow quickly. We have time enough, but none to spare.”He led her to the crevice in the wall of which the aperture opened, leading to the damp vault, in which she had been before.“The ladder is on the inner side,” he said, as he placed a chair to assist her in reaching the opening. “Descend, while I make some other arrangements in the room.”He hastily left the room, locking the door behind him.Ada stood upon the chair and looked into the dismal vault, from whence a damp earthy smell arose, and sighed deeply.“Alas!” she said, “must I obey this man? Is he so desperate that he would really take my life, or does he only threaten that which he dare not perform. No—he is a villain, and he would kill me, I am sure that my life is of value to him, but with such a man the feeling of self overcomes all other considerations, he will kill me if I obey him not now. My heart tells me he will. Albert, for thy sake I will do what I can to preserve my life. Just Heaven, direct and aid me!”She passed through the opening in the wall, and slowly descended the ladder into the dismal darkness of the vault.
The Proposal.—Gray’s Reasoning.—The Vault.—Ada’s Tears.—A Guilty Heart’s Agony.
Oh, whata fearful race home that was to Jacob Gray. He knew he had the start of the magistrate by some quarter of an hour, or probably more; but still that was not time sufficient to pause upon, and he relaxed not his headlong speed till he came within sight of the lone house that was his home: then, for the space of about a minute, he turned and looked back to see if he were followed, and to strive to think what he should do when he did reach the house, which he felt could shelter him no more. That the scrap of paper in the possession of Mad Maud was written by Ada, he did not entertain a doubt, but it utterly foiled all conjecture to think how she could have found the opportunity, confined as she was, of giving if to the poor creature, who set such great store by it.
Forward, then, Jacob Gray rushed again, after ascertaining that there was no one within sight. It was yet very early, and but few persons were out, so that Gray hoped he might be able to cross the fields without being seen; but how to drag Ada away and leave Forest’s house in safety, before Sir Frederick and his party arrived, defied his thoughts, and he groaned and struck his breast in the bitterness of his anguish and despair.
“The time has come—the time has come!” he muttered. “I am lost—lost!—No chance!—No hope! If—if I kill Ada—what then? I only exasperate my pursuers, and my death is certain. I have, if taken, but one solitary gleam of hope for mercy, and that is, that I have done no violence to her. No—no—I dare not kill her, unless she would betray me. We must hide. Aye that is a remote chance.”
He bounded over the swampy fields and gained the door. Without pausing to make his accustomed signal, he drew from his pocket the key which had fitted to the rusty lock, and in another moment he had entered his house of dread and danger, and closed the door behind him.
“I have yet some time,” he said or rather panted, for his violent rush homeward had quite exhausted him. He reeled rather than walked to his own chamber, and took a copious draught of spirits. The ardent liquor in his excited and agitated state of mind appeared to have but little more effect upon him than would so much water—at least so far as its power to intoxicate went. He felt refreshed, however, and now he rushed to the window, which commanded an extensive view across the fields, and he drew a long breath, as he said to himself with a sensation of relief,—
“I do not see them yet—I have time—yes, still some time! Now for Ada—for Ada! I have a task before me!”
He crossed the corridor to see if Ada was in her own room. The door stood partially open.
“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray. There was no answer; and, looking into the chamber, he saw she was not there. Suddenly he started. The sweetly clear and natural voice of Ada emerging from an upper room met his ears. She was looking out at the blue sky, and watching the soaring larks, totally unconscious of the sudden return of Jacob Gray, and fondly anticipating the pleasure—for all our pains and pleasures are comparative—and it was a pleasure to Ada of being alone for a whole day.
Gray was in no mood for singing, and with a step very different from the cautious stealthy one with which he usually crawled about the house, he ascended the staircase, and presented himself before the astonished eyes of Ada.
“Returned,” she exclaimed.
“Yes—returned,” echoed Gray. “Ada, you have broken your vow.”
“So help me, Heaven, no!”
“You have,” cried Gray, in a high, shrieking voice that decreased to a hissing sound, as if he were afraid of his own violent outcry.
“I have not,” repeated Ada, fearlessly, and meeting Gray’s eyes with a clear and open gaze that he shrunk from.
“The—the scrap of paper,” said Gray. “The note to the—the—what shall I shall I call him?—Albert Seyton—I have seen that. Ah! Well may your colour flit. Ada, you are detected—you have tampered with your vow. No more prate to me of your innocence and high virtue—no more taunt me with your purity. Ada, we understand each other better now.”
“Liar!” cried Ada, with an energy that made Gray start, “I will still taunt you—still prate to you, of my innocence, which only can gall you in proportion as you yourself are guilty. I have tampered with no vow, and you know it. I still stand on a pinnacle, from which you have fallen, never, never to rise again. Bend not your brows on me Jacob Gray—you are my slave and you know that too!”
Gray quailed, and trembled, before the flashing eye of Ada, who, as she spoke, assumed unconsciously an attitude of such rare grace and beauty, with the fire of heavenly intelligence and truth beaming in every feature of her face, that it was with mixed feelings-of fear, hate, and admiration, that Gray replied,—
“You have made an indirect attempt to escape from here.”
“And why not?” said Ada. “If I have the power and opportunity, I will make a hundred—ay, Jacob Gray, and a hundred more to back them. My vow contained a special reservation, that I would accept of aid if it came to me. Moreover, Jacob Gray, when I made the attempt, of which, by some accident, you have become aware, I was as free as air—my promise had expired.”
“Ha!”
“Yes: it was made in the brief time that elapsed between one promise and another, Jacob Gray.”
“Damnation! Why do you reiterate my name so constantly?”
“Because it angers you, Jacob Gray.”
“What if I were to kill you?” growled Gray.
“’Twould be another murder,” said Ada.
“Ada, I do not believe your exculpation. Why did you not escape, if you had the opportunity you speak of?”
“That I had a special reason for, which I will not tell you, Jacob Gray.”
“I do not wish to kill you.”
“That I know—you have some highly politic reason for preserving my life, else it had been sacrificed long since.”
“But now it has become politic so to do,” added Gray.
“Indeed?”
“Ay—indeed.”
“Then, God help me. If I must die now by your hands, may Heaven forgive you for your deep sinfulness.”
“Hear me, girl,” cried Gray. “There is yet a chance of saving you.”
“Say on. You have some proposition to make, from which you guess I will revolt, or you would not preface it with such murderous looks.”
Gray walked first to a window, which commanded a view in the direction of Lambeth. He saw as yet no traces of the magistrate and his party, and he returned to Ada.
“Attend to what I say,” he cried. “There are those coming here who, as it happened once before in our former place of abode, seek mine and your life.”
Ada started.
“Yes,” continued Gray. “By an accident little short of a miracle, I have discovered their intentions—they are now on their road here. There is not time to fly.”
“They may be foes to you only,” said Ada. She then suddenly clasped her hands and uttered a cry of joy. “I see it now,” she said, “Albert—Albert is coming.”
“No!” thundered Gray. “You are wrong—on my soul, you are wrong. It is not he. If you hear his voice, act as you please—I will not restrain you.”
“Who are these men then?”
“That I cannot, will not tell you. Suffice it, they seek your life. We must die or live together in this emergency; or else if you, with fatal obstinacy, will not be guided by me, and embrace the only chance of escape, in self-defence I must silence you.”
“By murdering me?”
“Yes, although reluctantly. Ada, you have sense, knowledge, discretion, beyond your years.”
Ada sat down, and deep emotion was evident in her countenance.
“Jacob Gray,” she said, “death is frightful to the young. Let me believe the reasons you urge, or believe them not, it matters little. You will kill me if I do not do your bidding in this case. Those who are coming may be my friends or they may be my enemies, I cannot tell, and your statements carry not with them the stamp of truth to my mind. The heart once thoroughly deceived, trusts no more. You need not seek to delude with untruths—it is enough that you will kill me if I do not hide from those whom you dread—but you have said that, should I hear the voice of him—him who—why should I shrink from the avowal?—Him whom I love, you will not stay me.”
“I swear I will not,” cried Gray.
“Your word is quite as weighty as your oath, Jacob Gray,” said Ada. “Both are worthless. But you would not make such a promise even if you thought thathewould be one of those you expect.”
“Time, Ada—time is precious!” cried Gray.
“To you probably—but I must obey you.”
“You have chosen wisely,” said Gray. “Hear me. My own life hangs upon a single thread. If you had persevered in obstinately refusing to side with me, I should have killed you for my own preservation, and cast your lifeless body into the same place of secrecy where we will soon repair to.”
“Where mean you?”
“That dark cell in which you have passed some gloomy hours. The entrance to it is by a panel in the wainscotting of the room below, which fits so truly that none, not previously aware of it, would suspect its existence. When I came first here I found it by an accident. If we are found there, we shall be found together and by any crying to me, you would benefit nothing. All I require of you now is silence.”
Gray now again walked to the window, and this time he started back with a loud cry.
“They are coming,” he said; “look, Ada, be satisfied that neither of these men in any degree resemble him you so much wish to see.”
Ada sprang to the window, and at some considerable distance off, crossing the fields, towards the house, she saw three men who were strangers to her.
“You see they are armed,” said Gray.
“They are—I know them not. How can they be enemies of mine?”
“Follow me!” shrieked Gray. “There is not time for another word.”
As he spoke he took a pistol from his breast, and turned to Ada.
“You know the use and powers of this weapon. So much as stir, unless I bid you, when we are hiding, or speak even in the lowest whisper, except in answer to me, and I will assuredly take your life.”
Ada did not answer, and after regarding her fixedly for one moment to see what impression he had made upon her mind, Gray hastily left the room, saying,—
“Follow quickly. We have time enough, but none to spare.”
He led her to the crevice in the wall of which the aperture opened, leading to the damp vault, in which she had been before.
“The ladder is on the inner side,” he said, as he placed a chair to assist her in reaching the opening. “Descend, while I make some other arrangements in the room.”
He hastily left the room, locking the door behind him.
Ada stood upon the chair and looked into the dismal vault, from whence a damp earthy smell arose, and sighed deeply.
“Alas!” she said, “must I obey this man? Is he so desperate that he would really take my life, or does he only threaten that which he dare not perform. No—he is a villain, and he would kill me, I am sure that my life is of value to him, but with such a man the feeling of self overcomes all other considerations, he will kill me if I obey him not now. My heart tells me he will. Albert, for thy sake I will do what I can to preserve my life. Just Heaven, direct and aid me!”
She passed through the opening in the wall, and slowly descended the ladder into the dismal darkness of the vault.
CHAPTER XLIV.The Search.—The Confession.—The Strange Report.—An Awful Dilemma.Jacob Gray’sfirst care, when he left Ada, was to repair to the room in which he concealed his money. Hastily collecting together the really large sum he had from time to time wrung from the guilty fears of Learmont, he bestowed it about his person, and then carefully placing his written confession, with its dangerous address, in his breast, he hurried to the street-door, upon the back of which he wrote with a piece of chalk, ”J.G. and A. left here June 2nd,” thus endeavouring to paralyse the magistrate’s exertions in the way of search by inducing him to think that the house had been deserted by Jacob Gray for some time.He then with wild haste ran through the house concealing everything in the shape of provisions which would undeniably indicate a recent occupancy of it. Ada’s bed and his own he cast into a dusty cupboard, and altogether succeeded in producing a general appearance of litter and desertion.Then, without daring to cast another look from the windows, for fear he should be seen, he rushed to the room in which he had left Ada, and getting through the opening in the wall, he closed the panel and stood trembling so exceedingly on the ladder, that had he wished he could scarcely have commanded physical energy sufficient to descend. His object, however, was to remain there, and listen to what was passing, which he could not do below.“Ada, Ada,” he said, in a low tone, “you—you are safe?”“I am here,” said Ada.“Hush! Hush! Not another word, not even a whisper; hush, for your life, hush!”A heavy knock at the outer door now echoed fearfully through the spacious passages and empty rooms of the house. To Gray that knock could not have been more agonising had it been against his own heart.By an impulse that he could not restrain, he kept on saying in a half-choked whisper, “Hush—hush—hush!” while he clutched the sides of the ladder till his nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands, and a cold perspiration hung in massive drops upon his brow. Ada meanwhile was getting a little used to the darkness of the place, and feeling cautiously about, she found one of the baskets she recollected to have seen there before. This she sat down upon, and burying her face in her hands, she gave herself up to gloomy reflections, while tears, which she would not let Jacob Gray see for worlds slowly and noiselessly trickled through her small fingers.In a few moments the knock at the door again sounded through the house, and Gray, although he was expecting it, nearly fell from the ladder in the nervous start that he gave.Then followed a long silence, after which a voice came to his ears in indistinct tones, saying something which terminated with the words,—“In the King’s name.”There was then a slight pause, followed in a moment by a crash; and Jacob Gray knew that the doors were burst open.A sensation of awful thirst now came over Gray—such thirst as he had read of only as being endured by adventurous travellers in crossing hundreds of miles of sandy desert. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his parched lips were like fire to his touch. Still he clutched by the ladder, and each slight noise that met his overstrained attention added fearfully to the pangs of apprehension that tortured him thus physically and mentally.He could hear the sound of heavy footsteps through the house, and occasionally the low murmur of voices came upon his ears, although he could not detect what was said. That they would, however, come to the room from which he was only separated by a thin piece of wainscotting he knew; and if his dread and agitation were great now, he thought with a shudder what would be his feelings when each moment might produce his discovery and capture.Then he strained his ear to listen if he could hear Ada moaning, and a low stifled sigh ascended from the gloomy vault.“Yes, yes,” he thought. “She will be still—she will be still. The fear of a sudden and violent death is upon her young heart. ’Tis well, ’tis very well, now she thinks me the unscrupulous man—the—the murderer that she taunts me with being. She—she does not suspect that if I were taken, my only hope of mercy would be in having preserved her life—and, and my only plea would be that not a hair of her head was injured. No, no, she guesses not the value of her life. I—I have been cunning, very, very cunning. Besides, if they find me, what evidence—”Jacob Gray very nearly uttered a cry of terror as this thought passed through his mind, for he immediately then recollected his own written confession that he had in the breast pocket of his coat, and which, if he were taken, would be his destruction.He struck his forehead with his clenched hand, and uttered a deep groan. What means had he there, situated as he was, of destroying the damning evidence of a guilt which otherwise would only rest on conjecture and surmise, and from the consequences of which, it not being distinctly proved, the money and influence of Learmont, exerted for his own sake, might actually free him. The written confession was an admirable weapon against Learmont, so long as he, Jacob Gray, had the control of it, and lived; but now, when there was a fearful chance of his own apprehension, it was at once converted into a fearful weapon against himself, and a damning evidence of his guilt.For some moments he was incapable of anything resembling rational thought, and his reason seemed tottering to its base. This state of mind, however, passed away, and how to destroy his confession became the one great question that agitated and occupied his throbbing and intensely labouring brain.If he attempted to tear it into fragments, he must either cast these fragments on the door of the vault, from whence they would easily be recovered, or he must keep them in his possession, which would avail him nothing.He thought of descending the ladder, and digging a hole with his hands, in which to bury the dangerous document, but then Ada was there, and would by the dim light of that place see what he was about, and it was not to be supposed that she would keep a secret she was so strongly and personally interested in revealing.There was but one other resource that occurred to the maddened brain of Jacob Gray, and that was one which, in his present state, nothing but the abject, awful fear of death by the hands of the executioner could have brought him to—it was to tear the confession into small pieces, and eat it.With trembling hands, while he stood upon the ladder as well as he could, he drew the paper from his breast, and notwithstanding his awful and intense thirst, he began tearing off piece by piece from it, and forcing himself to swallow it.Thus had this written confession—this master-stroke of policy, upon which he had so much prided himself, become to him a source of torment and pain.Occasionally he could hear a door shut in the house, as Sir Francis Hartleton and his two officers pursued their search, and he went on with frantic eagerness devouring the paper.Now, by the distinctness of the sounds, he felt sure those who sought him were in the next apartment. In a few short moments they would be there, his danger was thickening, and the confession was not half disposed of. With trembling fingers, that impeded themselves, he tore off large pieces, and forced them into his mouth, to the danger of choking himself.Now he really heard the door of the room open, and the heavy tread of men upon the floor. In a few moments there was a death-like stillness, and Jacob Gray stood in the act of suspending mastication, with a large piece of the confession fixed in his teeth.Then Sir Francis Hartleton’s voice, or what he guessed to be his, from the tone of authority in which he spoke, came upon Gray’s ears.“This is very strange,” he said. “To my thinking, there are evident indications of recent inhabitants in this house. Go down to the door, and ask your comrade if he has heard anything.”“Yes, Sir Francis,” replied another voice, and the door closed, indicative of the man proceeding on his errand.“Now—now,” thought Gray, “if we were alone—if there were no other, a pistol would rid me for ever of his troublesome and most unwelcome visit.”Sir Francis spoke, as if communing with himself, in a low voice—but in the breathless stillness around, Gray heard distinctly what he said.“Is it possible that the man Gray has left here?” he said. “Are we, after all, as far off the secret as ever? And yet I cannot think so. What could be the motive of such an inscription on the door as that which states his departure more than a month since. It is some trick merely. By Heavens, that must have been Gray who left the King’s Bounty so soon before me. The fates seem to be propitious to the rascal, and to aid him in every way. I made sure the information was good, and that I had him here safe for the fetching merely.”Sir Francis now walked to and fro in the room for some minutes; then he paused and said,—“He can’t be hiding here anywhere. The old house is full of cupboards and closets, but they are very easily searched. Learmont, Learmont! Are you still to triumph in your villany for a time? I could stake my life upon the fact that some crime of black hue was committed that night of the storm at the Old Smithy at yonder village. The issues of the crime are still at work, but they are not revealed. Humph! It’s of no use apprehending Britton on mere vague suspicion. No, that would be very foolish, for it would set the whole party on their guard, and that which is difficult now might become impossible.”“Please your worship, he ain’t heard nothing,” said the man, at this moment entering the room again.“No noise of any kind?”“No, nothing, your worship.”“No one has crossed the fields within view since he has stood guard?”“Not a mouse, your worship.”“Very well. Now go and search the lower rooms thoroughly, and then come back to me here. I shall rest on this chair awhile.”So saying, Sir Francis Hartleton sat down on the chair which Ada had stood upon to enable her to reach the panel that opened to the vault.How little the poor, persecuted Ada imagined that a powerful friend was very near to her.Jacob Gray was now almost afraid to breathe, so close was the magistrate to him. Had the wainscotting not intervened, Gray could, had he been so minded, have touched Sir Francis’s head without moving from where he stood.At length he spoke again.“I wonder,” he said, “if this girl that the Seytons speak of, and yon poor creature, Maud, raves of as an angel, be really the child that was saved from the Smithy on the night of the storm and the murder? I have only one very substantial reason for thinking so, and that is, that the name of Britton is mixed up with the business. To be sure, the dates correspond pretty well with what the young man, Seyton, says he thinks is her age. It’s rather strange though, that no one except Maud mentions Learmont at all in the matter, and her mention of him is nothing new. ’Tis a mysterious affair, and, at all events, this man, Gray, is at hide and seek for some very special reason indeed.”The man who had been sent to examine the lower rooms now returned.“Well,” said Sir Francis.“There ain’t not nothing, your worship, by no means,” he said.“You have searched carefully?”“Yes, your worship. I’d take my solemn davy as there’s nothing here.”“I know I can rely upon you,” said Sir Francis, in a tone of disappointment.“Ex—actly, your worship.”“Do you think there are any hiding places about this house?”“Can’t say as I does. Your worship sees as it’s a house a standing all alone, and there ain’t no great opportunity to make hiding-places, you see.”“I will make one more effort,” said Sir Francis; “it is a forlorn hope; but if the girl be hiding anywhere in this house under the impression that I am an enemy, she may hear me and put faith in my words. I will call to her.”Sir Francis rose as he spoke; and Jacob Gray, upon whom this determination came like a thunder-clap, dropped from his trembling hands the remnant of the confession he had been eating, and curling his feet round the ladder, he slid in a moment to the damp floor of the vault. His great dread was, that on the impulse of a moment, Ada might answer any call to her by name; and he knew that, close as Sir Hartleton was, the least shrill cry of hers must inevitably reach his ears, when instant discovery and capture would be certain to follow.Drawing then his pistol from his pocket, he felt about for Ada.“Ada, Ada,” he said, in the faintest whisper.“Here,” said Ada.“Hush,” said Gray, as he grasped her arm; “speak above the tone I use, and you seal your own destruction.”He placed, as he spoke, the cold muzzle of a pistol against her forehead, Ada shuddered as she said—“What is that?”“A pistol! Make the least noise—raise the faintest cry, and I will pull the trigger. You will be a mangled corpse in a moment. Hush, hush, hush!”A voice now reached the ears of Ada, and thrilled through the very heart of Jacob Gray. It was the voice of Sir Francis Hartleton, which, now that he raised it to a high key, was quite audible to Ada, while before, from the low position she occupied at the bottom of the vault, she had only heard a confused murmuring of voices, without being able to detect what was said.“Ada!” cried the magistrate; “Ada!”The girl clasped her hands, and an answering cry was on her lips, but the cold barrel of the pistol pressed heavily and painfully against her brow, and Gray, with his lips close to her ear, said,—“Hush, hush!” prolonging the sound till it resembled the hissing of some loathsome snake.“Ada!” again cried Sir Francis, “Ada! If you are concealed within, hearing of my voice, be assured it is a friend who addresses you.”A low gasping sob burst from Ada, and Gray again hissed in her ear,—“A word, and you die. You are a corpse if you speak; and all hope of seeing Albert Seyton in this world will be past!”“Ada!” again cried Sir Francis. “Speak if you be here. A friend addresses you, I am Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate.”Ada made a slight movement and Gray pressed her quite back with the violence with which he held the pistol against her temple.There was a dead silence now. Sir Francis said no more, Ada’s hope was past. Still, however, Gray stood close to her with the pistol; and as the murderer and the innocent Ada remained thus strangely situated, it would have been difficult to say which suffered the most mental agony of the two. Ada to know that relief had been so near without the power to grasp at it—or Gray to know that one word from her would have consigned him to a prison, from whence he would never have emerged but to ascend the scaffold to die a death of ignominy and shame.
The Search.—The Confession.—The Strange Report.—An Awful Dilemma.
Jacob Gray’sfirst care, when he left Ada, was to repair to the room in which he concealed his money. Hastily collecting together the really large sum he had from time to time wrung from the guilty fears of Learmont, he bestowed it about his person, and then carefully placing his written confession, with its dangerous address, in his breast, he hurried to the street-door, upon the back of which he wrote with a piece of chalk, ”J.G. and A. left here June 2nd,” thus endeavouring to paralyse the magistrate’s exertions in the way of search by inducing him to think that the house had been deserted by Jacob Gray for some time.
He then with wild haste ran through the house concealing everything in the shape of provisions which would undeniably indicate a recent occupancy of it. Ada’s bed and his own he cast into a dusty cupboard, and altogether succeeded in producing a general appearance of litter and desertion.
Then, without daring to cast another look from the windows, for fear he should be seen, he rushed to the room in which he had left Ada, and getting through the opening in the wall, he closed the panel and stood trembling so exceedingly on the ladder, that had he wished he could scarcely have commanded physical energy sufficient to descend. His object, however, was to remain there, and listen to what was passing, which he could not do below.
“Ada, Ada,” he said, in a low tone, “you—you are safe?”
“I am here,” said Ada.
“Hush! Hush! Not another word, not even a whisper; hush, for your life, hush!”
A heavy knock at the outer door now echoed fearfully through the spacious passages and empty rooms of the house. To Gray that knock could not have been more agonising had it been against his own heart.
By an impulse that he could not restrain, he kept on saying in a half-choked whisper, “Hush—hush—hush!” while he clutched the sides of the ladder till his nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands, and a cold perspiration hung in massive drops upon his brow. Ada meanwhile was getting a little used to the darkness of the place, and feeling cautiously about, she found one of the baskets she recollected to have seen there before. This she sat down upon, and burying her face in her hands, she gave herself up to gloomy reflections, while tears, which she would not let Jacob Gray see for worlds slowly and noiselessly trickled through her small fingers.
In a few moments the knock at the door again sounded through the house, and Gray, although he was expecting it, nearly fell from the ladder in the nervous start that he gave.
Then followed a long silence, after which a voice came to his ears in indistinct tones, saying something which terminated with the words,—“In the King’s name.”
There was then a slight pause, followed in a moment by a crash; and Jacob Gray knew that the doors were burst open.
A sensation of awful thirst now came over Gray—such thirst as he had read of only as being endured by adventurous travellers in crossing hundreds of miles of sandy desert. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his parched lips were like fire to his touch. Still he clutched by the ladder, and each slight noise that met his overstrained attention added fearfully to the pangs of apprehension that tortured him thus physically and mentally.
He could hear the sound of heavy footsteps through the house, and occasionally the low murmur of voices came upon his ears, although he could not detect what was said. That they would, however, come to the room from which he was only separated by a thin piece of wainscotting he knew; and if his dread and agitation were great now, he thought with a shudder what would be his feelings when each moment might produce his discovery and capture.
Then he strained his ear to listen if he could hear Ada moaning, and a low stifled sigh ascended from the gloomy vault.
“Yes, yes,” he thought. “She will be still—she will be still. The fear of a sudden and violent death is upon her young heart. ’Tis well, ’tis very well, now she thinks me the unscrupulous man—the—the murderer that she taunts me with being. She—she does not suspect that if I were taken, my only hope of mercy would be in having preserved her life—and, and my only plea would be that not a hair of her head was injured. No, no, she guesses not the value of her life. I—I have been cunning, very, very cunning. Besides, if they find me, what evidence—”
Jacob Gray very nearly uttered a cry of terror as this thought passed through his mind, for he immediately then recollected his own written confession that he had in the breast pocket of his coat, and which, if he were taken, would be his destruction.
He struck his forehead with his clenched hand, and uttered a deep groan. What means had he there, situated as he was, of destroying the damning evidence of a guilt which otherwise would only rest on conjecture and surmise, and from the consequences of which, it not being distinctly proved, the money and influence of Learmont, exerted for his own sake, might actually free him. The written confession was an admirable weapon against Learmont, so long as he, Jacob Gray, had the control of it, and lived; but now, when there was a fearful chance of his own apprehension, it was at once converted into a fearful weapon against himself, and a damning evidence of his guilt.
For some moments he was incapable of anything resembling rational thought, and his reason seemed tottering to its base. This state of mind, however, passed away, and how to destroy his confession became the one great question that agitated and occupied his throbbing and intensely labouring brain.
If he attempted to tear it into fragments, he must either cast these fragments on the door of the vault, from whence they would easily be recovered, or he must keep them in his possession, which would avail him nothing.
He thought of descending the ladder, and digging a hole with his hands, in which to bury the dangerous document, but then Ada was there, and would by the dim light of that place see what he was about, and it was not to be supposed that she would keep a secret she was so strongly and personally interested in revealing.
There was but one other resource that occurred to the maddened brain of Jacob Gray, and that was one which, in his present state, nothing but the abject, awful fear of death by the hands of the executioner could have brought him to—it was to tear the confession into small pieces, and eat it.
With trembling hands, while he stood upon the ladder as well as he could, he drew the paper from his breast, and notwithstanding his awful and intense thirst, he began tearing off piece by piece from it, and forcing himself to swallow it.
Thus had this written confession—this master-stroke of policy, upon which he had so much prided himself, become to him a source of torment and pain.
Occasionally he could hear a door shut in the house, as Sir Francis Hartleton and his two officers pursued their search, and he went on with frantic eagerness devouring the paper.
Now, by the distinctness of the sounds, he felt sure those who sought him were in the next apartment. In a few short moments they would be there, his danger was thickening, and the confession was not half disposed of. With trembling fingers, that impeded themselves, he tore off large pieces, and forced them into his mouth, to the danger of choking himself.
Now he really heard the door of the room open, and the heavy tread of men upon the floor. In a few moments there was a death-like stillness, and Jacob Gray stood in the act of suspending mastication, with a large piece of the confession fixed in his teeth.
Then Sir Francis Hartleton’s voice, or what he guessed to be his, from the tone of authority in which he spoke, came upon Gray’s ears.
“This is very strange,” he said. “To my thinking, there are evident indications of recent inhabitants in this house. Go down to the door, and ask your comrade if he has heard anything.”
“Yes, Sir Francis,” replied another voice, and the door closed, indicative of the man proceeding on his errand.
“Now—now,” thought Gray, “if we were alone—if there were no other, a pistol would rid me for ever of his troublesome and most unwelcome visit.”
Sir Francis spoke, as if communing with himself, in a low voice—but in the breathless stillness around, Gray heard distinctly what he said.
“Is it possible that the man Gray has left here?” he said. “Are we, after all, as far off the secret as ever? And yet I cannot think so. What could be the motive of such an inscription on the door as that which states his departure more than a month since. It is some trick merely. By Heavens, that must have been Gray who left the King’s Bounty so soon before me. The fates seem to be propitious to the rascal, and to aid him in every way. I made sure the information was good, and that I had him here safe for the fetching merely.”
Sir Francis now walked to and fro in the room for some minutes; then he paused and said,—
“He can’t be hiding here anywhere. The old house is full of cupboards and closets, but they are very easily searched. Learmont, Learmont! Are you still to triumph in your villany for a time? I could stake my life upon the fact that some crime of black hue was committed that night of the storm at the Old Smithy at yonder village. The issues of the crime are still at work, but they are not revealed. Humph! It’s of no use apprehending Britton on mere vague suspicion. No, that would be very foolish, for it would set the whole party on their guard, and that which is difficult now might become impossible.”
“Please your worship, he ain’t heard nothing,” said the man, at this moment entering the room again.
“No noise of any kind?”
“No, nothing, your worship.”
“No one has crossed the fields within view since he has stood guard?”
“Not a mouse, your worship.”
“Very well. Now go and search the lower rooms thoroughly, and then come back to me here. I shall rest on this chair awhile.”
So saying, Sir Francis Hartleton sat down on the chair which Ada had stood upon to enable her to reach the panel that opened to the vault.
How little the poor, persecuted Ada imagined that a powerful friend was very near to her.
Jacob Gray was now almost afraid to breathe, so close was the magistrate to him. Had the wainscotting not intervened, Gray could, had he been so minded, have touched Sir Francis’s head without moving from where he stood.
At length he spoke again.
“I wonder,” he said, “if this girl that the Seytons speak of, and yon poor creature, Maud, raves of as an angel, be really the child that was saved from the Smithy on the night of the storm and the murder? I have only one very substantial reason for thinking so, and that is, that the name of Britton is mixed up with the business. To be sure, the dates correspond pretty well with what the young man, Seyton, says he thinks is her age. It’s rather strange though, that no one except Maud mentions Learmont at all in the matter, and her mention of him is nothing new. ’Tis a mysterious affair, and, at all events, this man, Gray, is at hide and seek for some very special reason indeed.”
The man who had been sent to examine the lower rooms now returned.
“Well,” said Sir Francis.
“There ain’t not nothing, your worship, by no means,” he said.
“You have searched carefully?”
“Yes, your worship. I’d take my solemn davy as there’s nothing here.”
“I know I can rely upon you,” said Sir Francis, in a tone of disappointment.
“Ex—actly, your worship.”
“Do you think there are any hiding places about this house?”
“Can’t say as I does. Your worship sees as it’s a house a standing all alone, and there ain’t no great opportunity to make hiding-places, you see.”
“I will make one more effort,” said Sir Francis; “it is a forlorn hope; but if the girl be hiding anywhere in this house under the impression that I am an enemy, she may hear me and put faith in my words. I will call to her.”
Sir Francis rose as he spoke; and Jacob Gray, upon whom this determination came like a thunder-clap, dropped from his trembling hands the remnant of the confession he had been eating, and curling his feet round the ladder, he slid in a moment to the damp floor of the vault. His great dread was, that on the impulse of a moment, Ada might answer any call to her by name; and he knew that, close as Sir Hartleton was, the least shrill cry of hers must inevitably reach his ears, when instant discovery and capture would be certain to follow.
Drawing then his pistol from his pocket, he felt about for Ada.
“Ada, Ada,” he said, in the faintest whisper.
“Here,” said Ada.
“Hush,” said Gray, as he grasped her arm; “speak above the tone I use, and you seal your own destruction.”
He placed, as he spoke, the cold muzzle of a pistol against her forehead, Ada shuddered as she said—
“What is that?”
“A pistol! Make the least noise—raise the faintest cry, and I will pull the trigger. You will be a mangled corpse in a moment. Hush, hush, hush!”
A voice now reached the ears of Ada, and thrilled through the very heart of Jacob Gray. It was the voice of Sir Francis Hartleton, which, now that he raised it to a high key, was quite audible to Ada, while before, from the low position she occupied at the bottom of the vault, she had only heard a confused murmuring of voices, without being able to detect what was said.
“Ada!” cried the magistrate; “Ada!”
The girl clasped her hands, and an answering cry was on her lips, but the cold barrel of the pistol pressed heavily and painfully against her brow, and Gray, with his lips close to her ear, said,—
“Hush, hush!” prolonging the sound till it resembled the hissing of some loathsome snake.
“Ada!” again cried Sir Francis, “Ada! If you are concealed within, hearing of my voice, be assured it is a friend who addresses you.”
A low gasping sob burst from Ada, and Gray again hissed in her ear,—
“A word, and you die. You are a corpse if you speak; and all hope of seeing Albert Seyton in this world will be past!”
“Ada!” again cried Sir Francis. “Speak if you be here. A friend addresses you, I am Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate.”
Ada made a slight movement and Gray pressed her quite back with the violence with which he held the pistol against her temple.
There was a dead silence now. Sir Francis said no more, Ada’s hope was past. Still, however, Gray stood close to her with the pistol; and as the murderer and the innocent Ada remained thus strangely situated, it would have been difficult to say which suffered the most mental agony of the two. Ada to know that relief had been so near without the power to grasp at it—or Gray to know that one word from her would have consigned him to a prison, from whence he would never have emerged but to ascend the scaffold to die a death of ignominy and shame.