CHAPTER XXVIII.Ada’s Lone Home.—The Summer.—An Adventure.“Blessed,” says the simple squire of Don Quixote, “is the man who first invented sleep.” What would the spirit-worn—the persecuted—the heart-stricken—and the desolate do without sleep? Oh, if there be one heavenly seal set upon the pure and innocent heart, it is that dear impressive slumber—deep and dreamless as infants, which, like a soft south wind in dreariest winter, lays for a time the wearied senses, in a blessed repose. Then is the imagination freed from earthly dross, and clinging cares, carried far, far away to happier times. The poor prisoner then escapes from his dungeon—his fetters drop from his benumbed limbs, and he lives again in the glorious sunshine, with the blue heavens alone looking down upon him, and the green earth in all its wondrous beauty stretching far before him. The wave-tossed mariner,“Absent so long from his heart’s home,”will, in the dreamy watches of the night, revisit the loved ones that are far away. The freezing winds of the “blustrous north” will lack their power to chill his blood—the lashing surges will, by“Some strange magic,”be converted into sweet gentle sounds, such as perchance surround his young home; a home to which his affections still cling, the more distant he may happen to be from it. It was a beautiful idea of the Italian poet, who likened the yearning for home of the Swiss exiles to the tightening of the invisible strings that bound their hearts to their native lands as they increased in distance from it.The tired soldier too,“When the night cloud has lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;”on his pallet of straw, he dreams of his home and all his dear associations. He dreams of his native vale far away and in imagination he looks for the familiar objects of childhood, each associated with some dear reminiscence that makes perchance a wild flower to his heart a dearer object than the richest gem! What is cold, hunger, wounds, and pains then to him? He returns “weary and wan,” yet, oh so happy to those he loves.“He hears his own mountain goats bleating aloft,He knows the sweet strain which the corn-reapers sing.”He sees his home—the cottage embowered amongst crawling honey-suckles. Every sight and sound is to his ears delightful. The wild flowers breathe delicious perfume. Then he reaches the well-known door. There is a cry of welcome!“His little ones kiss him a thousand times o’erAnd his wife sobs aloud in her fulness of heart.”Oh, what a magic is in that scene conjured up by the fairy power of imagination! The visions may fly at the first faint blush of the coming morn. The sleeper may awaken with a sigh and a tear; but he has been home again; he has kissed his children; oh, hehasbeen happy, although ’twas but a dream. Soldier, may such dear visions ever haunt thy pillow!May sleep—gentle sleep—“Nature’s soft nurse,”ever haunt the couch of innocence! If the persecuted and the unhappy had nothing but that oblivion from care to thank Heaven for, it should be sufficient to fill the heart with holy thoughts and deep thanksgiving.What would our poor Ada have done, but for sleep? And she could sleep, although Jacob Gray could not. The weary months were reduced more than one-half, and Heaven sent visions of joy and gushing tenderness to uphold and comfort that young and beautiful girl in her solitude. The day might be gloomy, and the old lone house dispiriting and cheerless, but the fancy, when the body slept, took its airy flight, and, Heaven-directed, laid in stores of beauty and food for waking thoughts.Ada had kept her word with Gray. She had never once passed the threshold of that lonely abode, and she had renewed her promise from time to time, although with many tears; but she would not throw away the life that God had given, so she lived on, illumined in her heart by the hope that the day would come when her dreams would become reality, and her present reality seem to her but as the fevered imaginings of a dream!From some hidden place in her prison-house, she would sometimes look out for hours together upon the blue sky, and envy the wild birds as they winged their free and happy flight far, far away in the liquid depths of the blue arch that spanned the world. She would listen, too, to the song of the aspiring lark as it flew up—up towards heaven, until it became but a small speck in the sky. This was a delight to Ada; and to her imaginative mind nothing could be sweeter music than the slowly decreasing cadences of that wild, happy song of the lark as in its very recklessness of joy it leaves the earth so far behind.Far away sometimes in the open fields she would see some one picking his or her way along the swampy ground, and she blessed the sight off any other human face than Gray’s.Then in the old house there were insects—crawling things, which in the great world are despised and put to death because we cannot see their beauties, nor appreciate their pains; but Ada, with a simple and beautiful theology, taught her by her own heart, and culled from the few books she had read, feared not these creatures, for she looked upon them all with a kindly spirit, as being the creations of the same Great Being who had made the mountains, the wondrous ocean, and all the living, breathing things of earthy, sea and air.So in course of time the very mice would come forth at the sound of her voice and eat from her hand, peering at her from their bright twinkling eyes, without fear.Ada shrunk from no living thing but Jacob Gray, and him she avoided as much as possible. He always brought home with him food enough for their wants, and Ada took her portion in silence. There was one small room which she had appropriated to her own use, and into that room she forbade Jacob Gray to enter. Wicked and ruthless as he was, that young girl had acquired a kind of moral control over him which he could not shake off. They never conversed. They had no discussions. Their whole intercourse resolved itself to this:—That he would murder her if she did not promise to abide where she was without making an effort to escape, and she, having promised so much, was otherwise a free agent, and under no sort of control from him.Thus the seasons had rolled on, and Ada had marked the subsidence of winter and the budding beauty“Of the sweet spring-time,”from her lonely home.Sometimes Jacob Gray would be absent for a whole day, and Ada was glad he stayed away, for she would then sing to herself old ballads which were dear to her, because the book from which she had learnt them had been lent to her by Albert Seyton. But when she heard his well-known signal of return, she went to her own room, and sung no more. Thus, to a certain extent, Ada enjoyed the glorious summer, although she could not wander in the green fields, or lose herself among shady trees. The soft genial air, however, visited the ill-omened house at Battersea, as freely as it blew its sweets in at the windows of a palace, and these were moments when Ada felt most happy.Gray, when he remained out the whole day, never mentioned to Ada his intention of so doing; but she knew that if the day fully dawned and he came not, that he would wait until the shades of evening rendered it safe for him to cross the fields without the risk of observation.On these occasions it seemed to Ada as if she was half liberated from her prison, so grateful to her was the absence of Jacob Gray; and after seeing the day fairly commenced, and rambling through the old house without encountering the object of her dread and dislike, she would feel comparatively happy.It was on one of these occasions that we propose conducting our readers to the Lone House at Battersea.Gray had gone out the preceding evening at sunset, and the morning came without bringing him back again. A glorious morning it was—full of life, beauty, and sunshine. The summer air blew sweetly into the chamber of the lovely girl; but the very murmuring of the soft breeze was company to her, and the twitter of the happy birds as they flew past the old house fell like Nature’s own music, as indeed it was, upon her innocent heart.Hastily dressing herself she rose, and with a slow, cautious step, descended to Gray’s sitting-room. He was not there. Here she stood for a few minutes upon the principal staircase, and listened attentively. No sound disturbed the repose that dwelt in that house. Ada smiled.“He has not returned,” she cried; “I shall have a whole day to myself. A whole day, in which to sing over my old songs, to converse with the birds, to feed the mice and insects that abound here; and I think they have learnt to know me now, and love me in their way, and according to their several natures.”The day wore on, but it was scarcely wearisome to Ada. ’Tis true she sometimes wept when she thought how cruelly she was situated; but then she would soon smile again, and sitting opposite to an open window, she would gaze for a long time upon the clear blue sky, and speculate upon the various forms of the light fleecy vapours that imparted an additional charm to the sky, by partially concealing some of its beauties. Then she thought of those who were dear to her—of Albert Seyton—of his father—of the poor woman who had spoken a few kind words to her at the little milk-shop at Westminster. To those who have been accustomed to harshness, with what a freshening joy the recollection of a few words kindly spoken comes upon the mind! Oh, if the rich and powerful—those who are living in high places, and revelling in luxury—did but know how delightful to the bruised heart but a few simple words of common courtesy are, they would themselves feel a pleasure in speaking them, such as all the adulation of their flatterers—all the glitter of their homes—all the gaudy insignia of their rank can never bestow upon them. Ada wept with grateful joy because that poor woman spoke but a few short sentences of kindness to her!
Ada’s Lone Home.—The Summer.—An Adventure.
“Blessed,” says the simple squire of Don Quixote, “is the man who first invented sleep.” What would the spirit-worn—the persecuted—the heart-stricken—and the desolate do without sleep? Oh, if there be one heavenly seal set upon the pure and innocent heart, it is that dear impressive slumber—deep and dreamless as infants, which, like a soft south wind in dreariest winter, lays for a time the wearied senses, in a blessed repose. Then is the imagination freed from earthly dross, and clinging cares, carried far, far away to happier times. The poor prisoner then escapes from his dungeon—his fetters drop from his benumbed limbs, and he lives again in the glorious sunshine, with the blue heavens alone looking down upon him, and the green earth in all its wondrous beauty stretching far before him. The wave-tossed mariner,
“Absent so long from his heart’s home,”
will, in the dreamy watches of the night, revisit the loved ones that are far away. The freezing winds of the “blustrous north” will lack their power to chill his blood—the lashing surges will, by
“Some strange magic,”
be converted into sweet gentle sounds, such as perchance surround his young home; a home to which his affections still cling, the more distant he may happen to be from it. It was a beautiful idea of the Italian poet, who likened the yearning for home of the Swiss exiles to the tightening of the invisible strings that bound their hearts to their native lands as they increased in distance from it.
The tired soldier too,
“When the night cloud has lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;”
on his pallet of straw, he dreams of his home and all his dear associations. He dreams of his native vale far away and in imagination he looks for the familiar objects of childhood, each associated with some dear reminiscence that makes perchance a wild flower to his heart a dearer object than the richest gem! What is cold, hunger, wounds, and pains then to him? He returns “weary and wan,” yet, oh so happy to those he loves.
“He hears his own mountain goats bleating aloft,
He knows the sweet strain which the corn-reapers sing.”
He sees his home—the cottage embowered amongst crawling honey-suckles. Every sight and sound is to his ears delightful. The wild flowers breathe delicious perfume. Then he reaches the well-known door. There is a cry of welcome!
“His little ones kiss him a thousand times o’er
And his wife sobs aloud in her fulness of heart.”
Oh, what a magic is in that scene conjured up by the fairy power of imagination! The visions may fly at the first faint blush of the coming morn. The sleeper may awaken with a sigh and a tear; but he has been home again; he has kissed his children; oh, hehasbeen happy, although ’twas but a dream. Soldier, may such dear visions ever haunt thy pillow!
May sleep—gentle sleep—
“Nature’s soft nurse,”
ever haunt the couch of innocence! If the persecuted and the unhappy had nothing but that oblivion from care to thank Heaven for, it should be sufficient to fill the heart with holy thoughts and deep thanksgiving.
What would our poor Ada have done, but for sleep? And she could sleep, although Jacob Gray could not. The weary months were reduced more than one-half, and Heaven sent visions of joy and gushing tenderness to uphold and comfort that young and beautiful girl in her solitude. The day might be gloomy, and the old lone house dispiriting and cheerless, but the fancy, when the body slept, took its airy flight, and, Heaven-directed, laid in stores of beauty and food for waking thoughts.
Ada had kept her word with Gray. She had never once passed the threshold of that lonely abode, and she had renewed her promise from time to time, although with many tears; but she would not throw away the life that God had given, so she lived on, illumined in her heart by the hope that the day would come when her dreams would become reality, and her present reality seem to her but as the fevered imaginings of a dream!
From some hidden place in her prison-house, she would sometimes look out for hours together upon the blue sky, and envy the wild birds as they winged their free and happy flight far, far away in the liquid depths of the blue arch that spanned the world. She would listen, too, to the song of the aspiring lark as it flew up—up towards heaven, until it became but a small speck in the sky. This was a delight to Ada; and to her imaginative mind nothing could be sweeter music than the slowly decreasing cadences of that wild, happy song of the lark as in its very recklessness of joy it leaves the earth so far behind.
Far away sometimes in the open fields she would see some one picking his or her way along the swampy ground, and she blessed the sight off any other human face than Gray’s.
Then in the old house there were insects—crawling things, which in the great world are despised and put to death because we cannot see their beauties, nor appreciate their pains; but Ada, with a simple and beautiful theology, taught her by her own heart, and culled from the few books she had read, feared not these creatures, for she looked upon them all with a kindly spirit, as being the creations of the same Great Being who had made the mountains, the wondrous ocean, and all the living, breathing things of earthy, sea and air.
So in course of time the very mice would come forth at the sound of her voice and eat from her hand, peering at her from their bright twinkling eyes, without fear.
Ada shrunk from no living thing but Jacob Gray, and him she avoided as much as possible. He always brought home with him food enough for their wants, and Ada took her portion in silence. There was one small room which she had appropriated to her own use, and into that room she forbade Jacob Gray to enter. Wicked and ruthless as he was, that young girl had acquired a kind of moral control over him which he could not shake off. They never conversed. They had no discussions. Their whole intercourse resolved itself to this:—That he would murder her if she did not promise to abide where she was without making an effort to escape, and she, having promised so much, was otherwise a free agent, and under no sort of control from him.
Thus the seasons had rolled on, and Ada had marked the subsidence of winter and the budding beauty
“Of the sweet spring-time,”
from her lonely home.
Sometimes Jacob Gray would be absent for a whole day, and Ada was glad he stayed away, for she would then sing to herself old ballads which were dear to her, because the book from which she had learnt them had been lent to her by Albert Seyton. But when she heard his well-known signal of return, she went to her own room, and sung no more. Thus, to a certain extent, Ada enjoyed the glorious summer, although she could not wander in the green fields, or lose herself among shady trees. The soft genial air, however, visited the ill-omened house at Battersea, as freely as it blew its sweets in at the windows of a palace, and these were moments when Ada felt most happy.
Gray, when he remained out the whole day, never mentioned to Ada his intention of so doing; but she knew that if the day fully dawned and he came not, that he would wait until the shades of evening rendered it safe for him to cross the fields without the risk of observation.
On these occasions it seemed to Ada as if she was half liberated from her prison, so grateful to her was the absence of Jacob Gray; and after seeing the day fairly commenced, and rambling through the old house without encountering the object of her dread and dislike, she would feel comparatively happy.
It was on one of these occasions that we propose conducting our readers to the Lone House at Battersea.
Gray had gone out the preceding evening at sunset, and the morning came without bringing him back again. A glorious morning it was—full of life, beauty, and sunshine. The summer air blew sweetly into the chamber of the lovely girl; but the very murmuring of the soft breeze was company to her, and the twitter of the happy birds as they flew past the old house fell like Nature’s own music, as indeed it was, upon her innocent heart.
Hastily dressing herself she rose, and with a slow, cautious step, descended to Gray’s sitting-room. He was not there. Here she stood for a few minutes upon the principal staircase, and listened attentively. No sound disturbed the repose that dwelt in that house. Ada smiled.
“He has not returned,” she cried; “I shall have a whole day to myself. A whole day, in which to sing over my old songs, to converse with the birds, to feed the mice and insects that abound here; and I think they have learnt to know me now, and love me in their way, and according to their several natures.”
The day wore on, but it was scarcely wearisome to Ada. ’Tis true she sometimes wept when she thought how cruelly she was situated; but then she would soon smile again, and sitting opposite to an open window, she would gaze for a long time upon the clear blue sky, and speculate upon the various forms of the light fleecy vapours that imparted an additional charm to the sky, by partially concealing some of its beauties. Then she thought of those who were dear to her—of Albert Seyton—of his father—of the poor woman who had spoken a few kind words to her at the little milk-shop at Westminster. To those who have been accustomed to harshness, with what a freshening joy the recollection of a few words kindly spoken comes upon the mind! Oh, if the rich and powerful—those who are living in high places, and revelling in luxury—did but know how delightful to the bruised heart but a few simple words of common courtesy are, they would themselves feel a pleasure in speaking them, such as all the adulation of their flatterers—all the glitter of their homes—all the gaudy insignia of their rank can never bestow upon them. Ada wept with grateful joy because that poor woman spoke but a few short sentences of kindness to her!
CHAPTER XXIX.The Alarm.—The Pursuit.—A Mob in the Last Century.—The Fugitive.—Maud, the Beggar.As Adasat in an attitude of deep musing, and her long silken eyelashes were wet with the tears starting to her eyes, a confused murmuring sound from afar off came faintly to her ears. She started, for in that solitude any direct or tangible sounds from the great world without were strange and new.Bending forward in an attitude of listening, the young girl endeavoured to catch the purport of the unwonted disturbance.Still nothing but faint mingled cries and shouts came to her ear; she could hear no words distinctly, but, from the general tone of the cries, she guessed they were those of derision and contempt.So faintly were they borne across the fields, that had not the light winds blown steadily in that direction, no sound of all the uproarious voices, that were so mingled together in strange confusion, would have reached the ears of the solitary prisoner.Nearer and nearer, however, came the sounds; and Ada went to the highest floor in the house, the windows of which commanded an extensive view in all directions. Close down by the river’s side she could now discern a disorderly rabble, apparently pursuing another object. She saw the action of casting stones, and shouts, shrieks, loud laughter, and every kind of noise which the human voice is capable of producing came each moment more distinctly to her ear.That the crowd were pursuing and pelting some object of popular scorn or hatred she could easily perceive. Foremost, there appeared a strange cowering mass of rags and squalid poverty, against which the indignation of the rabble of Lambeth seemed to be directed.Ada watched the scene with a pitying eye; she could not imagine any circumstances which could justify the hunting down of a fellow-creature in such a manner; but Ada did not know enough of human nature to be aware that one of its recreations is persecution in all forms and shapes.Now she the fugitive took to the fields, and, to her surprise, made directly for the Lone House. Ada’s heart beat quick with the idea that the mob would follow, and her promise to Jacob Gray would become nugatory by persons discovering her, and forcing her from her imprisonment, instead of she herself contriving the means of escape.Too soon, however, was this hope dissipated, for the yelling rout, after pursuing the fugitive a short distance further, gave up the sport, and retired with shouts and execrations from the pleasures of the chase.Still Ada saw the fugitive rushing wildly onwards, and from the looseness and ragged plight of the apparel, she could not decide whether it was a male or a female, who was evidently making with speed towards Forrest’s house.To obtain a nearer view of the stranger, Ada descended to the lower portion of the house, and, by the time she had reached a window on the ground floor, the persecuted one was so close to the building that she, with a cry of surprise, recognised her as the mad female she had met on Westminster bridge, and whose features and general appearance the extraordinary events of that night had evidently impressed on her memory.For several moments after making this discovery, Ada’s mind was in such a whirl of conflicting emotions, that she could decide upon no particular course of action; and it was not until the poor hunted, bruised, and bleeding woman had sunk upon the door-step with a deep groan of anguish, that Ada felt herself at once roused to exertion, and determined to dare all, risk all, in the sacred cause of humanity.In another moment the compassionate and warm-hearted Ada was at the door. She hesitated not a moment; but flinging it open, stood, for the first time for many weary months, from under that miserable prison-house.The sound of the opening of the door seemed at once to strike alarm into the heart of the poor creature, who sat crouched upon the steps and sobbing bitterly. She sprang to her feet, and then, as if she lacked the strength to fly, she sunk upon her knees, and in low, heart-broken accents, she cried,—“Mercy—mercy! Oh, spare me! Mercy—mercy!”It is impossible to describe the tone of exquisite anguish in which these words were spoken; but Ada felt them keenly, and the tears rushed to her eyes, and her voice faltered as she said,—“I am myself a child of woe and persecution. Come in, for some few hours yet you will be safe here.”With a shriek the poor maniac threw herself at Ada’s feet, and attempted to kiss them.“How I love to hear a word of kindness! Is there a human heart can feel for poor Mad Maud!—Is there a human voice can speak to me in tones of pity?”“There is,” said Ada. “God knows I pity you; but you are hurt—come in—come in—I dare not myself stand here.”“Hush—hush!” said Maud, holding up her finger and smiling. “Do not speak—you are young and beautiful; but do not speak, for I heard just now the voice of one of God’s ministering angels. The tone was low and sweet; but I knew it—Ha, ha! I knew it—’tis comfort to poor Maud.”“’Twas I that spoke,” said Ada.“Hark—hark! There again! Is it indeed you?”“It is.”“Shall you stay long?”“Stay where?”“From your house.”She pointed to the blue sky as she spoke, and gazed earnestly upwards.“See—see—yon cloud is waiting for you,” she said suddenly. “So you have come from your own house of light and everlasting joy, to speak words of comfort to poor Mad Maud? I bless—bless you.”The poor creature covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud in her fulness of heart.Ada gently laid her small hand upon Maud’s arm, and led her unresistingly into the house, closing the door after her.“Do not weep now,” she said; “I saw you the sport of many from a window in this house. What you may have done to anger those who so hotly followed you with shouts and cries, I know not; but it is sufficient for me that you are faint and weary. You shall have refreshment, and as long a rest here as I dare, for your own safety as well as my own, offer you.”Maud withdrew her hands from before her eyes, and gazed earnestly at Ada.“Are you indeed mortal?” she said. “Must I once more, for your sake, love my kind?”“I am as you see me,” said Ada, “a poor helpless girl. Here, take refreshment, and deem me not inhospitable if I tell you then to go from this place, and forget you ever saw it.”Ada placed before the poor, half-famished being such food as she had in the house, and, while she ate of the meat and bread voraciously, Ada amused herself with conjecture as to who and what this singular creature could be, who seemed, in some strange and confused manner, mixed up with her own fate.“Your name is Maud, I heard you say?” remarked Ada, kindly.“Mad Maud, they call me,” was the reply—“but I am not so mad as they think me. Do not tell them that though, for the Savage Smith would kill me, and then I should not die, as I ought to do, before he does.”“Alas,” thought Ada, “it is in vain to question this poor creature, her wits are tangled; she may know all, but can tell me nothing; and should she tell me my own story, how can I unravel her strange discourse, or separate the truth from the strange web of fiction which her mental alienation mingles with it.”“You are thinking,” suddenly said Maud, “so am I, so am I,—do you recollect the burning of the smithy? Ha, ha! That was brave work.”“What smithy?” said Ada.“And do you know,” continued Maud, unheedful of the question, “do you know, the crackling roaring flames would not touch the body? No, no, the smith tried that, but the flames would not touch it! Like long fiery tongues they licked round and round it; but, ha, ha! It could not burn, it would not burn. No, no, it would not burn!”There was a wild insane exultation about the poor creature as she uttered these words that almost alarmed Ada.“The man you call the smith,” she said, “was he you met one night on Westminster-bridge? I heard you address him by that title.”“On a bridge?”“Yes, you must recollect, he would fain have taken your life.”“That was a dream,” said Maud, shaking her head; “a long wild dream.”“The sun is in the west,” said Ada, mournfully; “before it sinks I pray you to go, I have no power now.”“They called me a witch, and hunted me,” suddenly said Maud, shivering and drawing her tattered garments closely around her; “’tis very hard, for I am only poor Mad Maud; I follow Britton the smith, and he cannot kill me, because the Almighty has doomed that he shall die first—did you ever see that child again?”“What child?” said Ada, earnestly. “Of what do you speak?”“Ha! Ha!—’Twas brave work! Brave work!“ muttered Maud. “Was not that an awful death, eh? It came from the Smithy, but they could not burn the body! No, no,—God! How the man screamed—he was torn and bleeding—his shrieks were music to me—music! Music! To me, because I knew he was a murderer! And Andrew Britton was plunged deeper, deeper in crime! So I follow him—I must see the smith die—that is my task for life!”“Poor creature!” sighed Ada.“Who’s that,” cried Maud, “who pities me?”“I do, from the bottom of my heart,” said Ada. “Oh! Tell me, if you can, what has driven you to this state—this fearful state? Had you a house, kindred, were kind looks ever bent upon you; did the sweet echo of soft words ever ring in your years? Tell me all.”Maud convulsively clutched the arms of the chair upon which she sat, and she trembled violently as Ada spoke—once, twice, thrice, she tried to speak, then with a violent effort she gasped the words,—“House—kindred—love—oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven, spare me—spare me!”She then burst into such a violent and frantic fit of weeping, that Ada became much alarmed, and entreated her to be composed, in the most moving and tender accents.Gradually the deep anguish of Maud subsided, and when she again looked on the face of Ada, the wild glowing expression of her eyes had given place to a mild lustre, and she said in a low soft voice, exceedingly different from that in which she usually spoke,—“Where am I?”“Alas!” said Ada, “I can scarcely tell you; but till sunset you are welcome to what shelter and food I can give you.”“Give!” said Maud; “God’s mercy has granted me just now, for the second time, the calmness and rationality of my happier days—this will pass away soon, and I shall become what I know I am—mad again!”“Nay,” said Ada, “hope that Heaven is not so stinting of its mercy.”Maud shook her head and sighed deeply.“You wish me to go at sunset?”“For your own safety.”“Well, be it so; I was guided hither for I know not what—I believe only because I am poor and wretched, and my wits wander sometimes.”“Can there be any so wretched?”“Ay,” said Maud, “many, many—be poor, houseless, and mad, from deep grief and injury, and there is scarcely a human hand but what will not be raised against you.”“Horrible!” exclaimed Ada. “’Tis very wicked.”“’Tis very true,” said Maud. “But hear me—my tale is very short—my brain again will throb and beat—my blood will boil, and strange shapes will again goad me to madness.”She compressed her head tightly for several seconds, and rocked to and fro as if in pain—then suddenly she laid her long skinny hand on Ada’s arm, and said—“Listen—you shall hear what drove me to this—haply it may save you from the like.”
The Alarm.—The Pursuit.—A Mob in the Last Century.—The Fugitive.—Maud, the Beggar.
As Adasat in an attitude of deep musing, and her long silken eyelashes were wet with the tears starting to her eyes, a confused murmuring sound from afar off came faintly to her ears. She started, for in that solitude any direct or tangible sounds from the great world without were strange and new.
Bending forward in an attitude of listening, the young girl endeavoured to catch the purport of the unwonted disturbance.
Still nothing but faint mingled cries and shouts came to her ear; she could hear no words distinctly, but, from the general tone of the cries, she guessed they were those of derision and contempt.
So faintly were they borne across the fields, that had not the light winds blown steadily in that direction, no sound of all the uproarious voices, that were so mingled together in strange confusion, would have reached the ears of the solitary prisoner.
Nearer and nearer, however, came the sounds; and Ada went to the highest floor in the house, the windows of which commanded an extensive view in all directions. Close down by the river’s side she could now discern a disorderly rabble, apparently pursuing another object. She saw the action of casting stones, and shouts, shrieks, loud laughter, and every kind of noise which the human voice is capable of producing came each moment more distinctly to her ear.
That the crowd were pursuing and pelting some object of popular scorn or hatred she could easily perceive. Foremost, there appeared a strange cowering mass of rags and squalid poverty, against which the indignation of the rabble of Lambeth seemed to be directed.
Ada watched the scene with a pitying eye; she could not imagine any circumstances which could justify the hunting down of a fellow-creature in such a manner; but Ada did not know enough of human nature to be aware that one of its recreations is persecution in all forms and shapes.
Now she the fugitive took to the fields, and, to her surprise, made directly for the Lone House. Ada’s heart beat quick with the idea that the mob would follow, and her promise to Jacob Gray would become nugatory by persons discovering her, and forcing her from her imprisonment, instead of she herself contriving the means of escape.
Too soon, however, was this hope dissipated, for the yelling rout, after pursuing the fugitive a short distance further, gave up the sport, and retired with shouts and execrations from the pleasures of the chase.
Still Ada saw the fugitive rushing wildly onwards, and from the looseness and ragged plight of the apparel, she could not decide whether it was a male or a female, who was evidently making with speed towards Forrest’s house.
To obtain a nearer view of the stranger, Ada descended to the lower portion of the house, and, by the time she had reached a window on the ground floor, the persecuted one was so close to the building that she, with a cry of surprise, recognised her as the mad female she had met on Westminster bridge, and whose features and general appearance the extraordinary events of that night had evidently impressed on her memory.
For several moments after making this discovery, Ada’s mind was in such a whirl of conflicting emotions, that she could decide upon no particular course of action; and it was not until the poor hunted, bruised, and bleeding woman had sunk upon the door-step with a deep groan of anguish, that Ada felt herself at once roused to exertion, and determined to dare all, risk all, in the sacred cause of humanity.
In another moment the compassionate and warm-hearted Ada was at the door. She hesitated not a moment; but flinging it open, stood, for the first time for many weary months, from under that miserable prison-house.
The sound of the opening of the door seemed at once to strike alarm into the heart of the poor creature, who sat crouched upon the steps and sobbing bitterly. She sprang to her feet, and then, as if she lacked the strength to fly, she sunk upon her knees, and in low, heart-broken accents, she cried,—
“Mercy—mercy! Oh, spare me! Mercy—mercy!”
It is impossible to describe the tone of exquisite anguish in which these words were spoken; but Ada felt them keenly, and the tears rushed to her eyes, and her voice faltered as she said,—
“I am myself a child of woe and persecution. Come in, for some few hours yet you will be safe here.”
With a shriek the poor maniac threw herself at Ada’s feet, and attempted to kiss them.
“How I love to hear a word of kindness! Is there a human heart can feel for poor Mad Maud!—Is there a human voice can speak to me in tones of pity?”
“There is,” said Ada. “God knows I pity you; but you are hurt—come in—come in—I dare not myself stand here.”
“Hush—hush!” said Maud, holding up her finger and smiling. “Do not speak—you are young and beautiful; but do not speak, for I heard just now the voice of one of God’s ministering angels. The tone was low and sweet; but I knew it—Ha, ha! I knew it—’tis comfort to poor Maud.”
“’Twas I that spoke,” said Ada.
“Hark—hark! There again! Is it indeed you?”
“It is.”
“Shall you stay long?”
“Stay where?”
“From your house.”
She pointed to the blue sky as she spoke, and gazed earnestly upwards.
“See—see—yon cloud is waiting for you,” she said suddenly. “So you have come from your own house of light and everlasting joy, to speak words of comfort to poor Mad Maud? I bless—bless you.”
The poor creature covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud in her fulness of heart.
Ada gently laid her small hand upon Maud’s arm, and led her unresistingly into the house, closing the door after her.
“Do not weep now,” she said; “I saw you the sport of many from a window in this house. What you may have done to anger those who so hotly followed you with shouts and cries, I know not; but it is sufficient for me that you are faint and weary. You shall have refreshment, and as long a rest here as I dare, for your own safety as well as my own, offer you.”
Maud withdrew her hands from before her eyes, and gazed earnestly at Ada.
“Are you indeed mortal?” she said. “Must I once more, for your sake, love my kind?”
“I am as you see me,” said Ada, “a poor helpless girl. Here, take refreshment, and deem me not inhospitable if I tell you then to go from this place, and forget you ever saw it.”
Ada placed before the poor, half-famished being such food as she had in the house, and, while she ate of the meat and bread voraciously, Ada amused herself with conjecture as to who and what this singular creature could be, who seemed, in some strange and confused manner, mixed up with her own fate.
“Your name is Maud, I heard you say?” remarked Ada, kindly.
“Mad Maud, they call me,” was the reply—“but I am not so mad as they think me. Do not tell them that though, for the Savage Smith would kill me, and then I should not die, as I ought to do, before he does.”
“Alas,” thought Ada, “it is in vain to question this poor creature, her wits are tangled; she may know all, but can tell me nothing; and should she tell me my own story, how can I unravel her strange discourse, or separate the truth from the strange web of fiction which her mental alienation mingles with it.”
“You are thinking,” suddenly said Maud, “so am I, so am I,—do you recollect the burning of the smithy? Ha, ha! That was brave work.”
“What smithy?” said Ada.
“And do you know,” continued Maud, unheedful of the question, “do you know, the crackling roaring flames would not touch the body? No, no, the smith tried that, but the flames would not touch it! Like long fiery tongues they licked round and round it; but, ha, ha! It could not burn, it would not burn. No, no, it would not burn!”
There was a wild insane exultation about the poor creature as she uttered these words that almost alarmed Ada.
“The man you call the smith,” she said, “was he you met one night on Westminster-bridge? I heard you address him by that title.”
“On a bridge?”
“Yes, you must recollect, he would fain have taken your life.”
“That was a dream,” said Maud, shaking her head; “a long wild dream.”
“The sun is in the west,” said Ada, mournfully; “before it sinks I pray you to go, I have no power now.”
“They called me a witch, and hunted me,” suddenly said Maud, shivering and drawing her tattered garments closely around her; “’tis very hard, for I am only poor Mad Maud; I follow Britton the smith, and he cannot kill me, because the Almighty has doomed that he shall die first—did you ever see that child again?”
“What child?” said Ada, earnestly. “Of what do you speak?”
“Ha! Ha!—’Twas brave work! Brave work!“ muttered Maud. “Was not that an awful death, eh? It came from the Smithy, but they could not burn the body! No, no,—God! How the man screamed—he was torn and bleeding—his shrieks were music to me—music! Music! To me, because I knew he was a murderer! And Andrew Britton was plunged deeper, deeper in crime! So I follow him—I must see the smith die—that is my task for life!”
“Poor creature!” sighed Ada.
“Who’s that,” cried Maud, “who pities me?”
“I do, from the bottom of my heart,” said Ada. “Oh! Tell me, if you can, what has driven you to this state—this fearful state? Had you a house, kindred, were kind looks ever bent upon you; did the sweet echo of soft words ever ring in your years? Tell me all.”
Maud convulsively clutched the arms of the chair upon which she sat, and she trembled violently as Ada spoke—once, twice, thrice, she tried to speak, then with a violent effort she gasped the words,—
“House—kindred—love—oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven, spare me—spare me!”
She then burst into such a violent and frantic fit of weeping, that Ada became much alarmed, and entreated her to be composed, in the most moving and tender accents.
Gradually the deep anguish of Maud subsided, and when she again looked on the face of Ada, the wild glowing expression of her eyes had given place to a mild lustre, and she said in a low soft voice, exceedingly different from that in which she usually spoke,—
“Where am I?”
“Alas!” said Ada, “I can scarcely tell you; but till sunset you are welcome to what shelter and food I can give you.”
“Give!” said Maud; “God’s mercy has granted me just now, for the second time, the calmness and rationality of my happier days—this will pass away soon, and I shall become what I know I am—mad again!”
“Nay,” said Ada, “hope that Heaven is not so stinting of its mercy.”
Maud shook her head and sighed deeply.
“You wish me to go at sunset?”
“For your own safety.”
“Well, be it so; I was guided hither for I know not what—I believe only because I am poor and wretched, and my wits wander sometimes.”
“Can there be any so wretched?”
“Ay,” said Maud, “many, many—be poor, houseless, and mad, from deep grief and injury, and there is scarcely a human hand but what will not be raised against you.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Ada. “’Tis very wicked.”
“’Tis very true,” said Maud. “But hear me—my tale is very short—my brain again will throb and beat—my blood will boil, and strange shapes will again goad me to madness.”
She compressed her head tightly for several seconds, and rocked to and fro as if in pain—then suddenly she laid her long skinny hand on Ada’s arm, and said—
“Listen—you shall hear what drove me to this—haply it may save you from the like.”
CHAPTER XXX.The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair.PoorMaud spoke in a low earnest voice, and Ada became deeply interested in her story, as with many tears she poured it into the ears of the lovely and persecuted girl.“You are young and very beautiful,” she commenced. “I was young, and they told me I was beautiful. Look at me now, and smile at the idle boast. Still there was one who loved me—one who listened to my voice, as though it had a magic in it—one who followed me where I led. My heart was touched by the purity of his devotion, and I loved him even as he loved me, next thing to Heaven. It might be that we each made too much of our earthly idols, and so turned the face of Heaven against us both; but I scarce can think so, for He who made His creatures with fond and faithful hearts, must surely look with pleasure rather than anger upon their deep and holy affections. Well, girl, the future lay before us like a summer’s day—all sunshine, joy, and delight. We asked each other what could mar our happiness; and in the ecstasy of our own dear truthfulness we answered, ‘Nothing.’“Where our mutual parents lived, there came one day a man of coarse and ruffianly aspect. He said he came to settle in the place, and seek a helpmate among the village maidens. None welcomed him, for his manner was harsh and brutal—an index of the mind. This man’s name was Andrew Britton.”“Indeed!” said Ada.“Yes, Andrew Britton, a smith. With unparalleled insolence he said he had fixed on me for his wife. I scorned his suit. He jested at my indignant refusal. I wept, for we were alone. He laughed at my tears. Then I threatened him with the resentment of him to whom I had already plighted my young heart, and Andrew Britton swore then a fearful oath that I never should be his.“He whom I loved found me in tears, and after much solicitation, got from me the particulars of the interview that had just terminated with the Savage Smith. I would not tell him, though, until he had promised me he would not endanger himself by resenting—men heed not such promises. His young blood boiled with anger. He met the smith, and from words they came to mutual violence. Britton was much hurt, and he whom I loved came off the conqueror, to the joy of all.“Britton then came, and asked my forgiveness. He said he was an altered man. He swore he repented of his passion, and we believed him. But, oh, girl! When a bad, wicked man speaks, you may fairly mistrust him. ’Tis the glitter of the eyes of the serpent that fascinate but to betray.“The day of my union was at length fixed. There were no regrets—no grief—all was happiness. We wandered hand-in-hand the evening before to look at the last sunset ere we should be bound together in those holy ties which none dare impiously to break asunder.“We wondered what could happen to make us unhappy. We saw no cloud in the clear horizon of our joy! Oh, what an hour of bliss was that! ’Tis needless to dwell on what we said or how we looked into each other’s eyes to see our own reflected happiness.“The sun sunk to rest, and in the east uprose the silver moon ere we parted. With many lingering regrets, we said adieu. Oh, God! We never met again!”Maud sunk on her knees, and, hiding her face upon her chair, she again gave way to a similar wild, awful passion of grief to what had before affected her.Ada had been deeply impressed with poor Maud’s simple and affecting narrative, told as it was with a pathos which defies description. She did not speak but let the woman have her way, and after some minutes, the violence of her grief, as before, subsided and she rose to outward appearance calm again.“Bear with me yet a brief space,” said Maud. “I shall not weep so much again.”“I hope indeed you never may,” said Ada. “But it would be a harsh and unfeeling heart that could not bear patiently the tears springing from a bruised heart.”Maud took Ada’s hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent gratitude, and then resumed her narrative.“The morrow came, and brought with it a cloudless sky and a bright sunshine, which never to me seemed so bright and beautiful. We were to meet at the village church, to part no more! And, when I and my friends arrived, and we found that we were first, they were inclined to chide my lover’s delay, but I only smiled, for no doubt crossed my mind. Not the smallest speck appeared to me as yet in the heaven of my happiness.“An hour passed, and still he came not. Then, indeed, there was a flutter at my heart—a mingled feeling of alarm and anger. Then some went to seek him, and returned unsuccessful. He could not be found! My anger vanished, and I began to tremble. Two more hours passed away—the last was one of agony.“Then came one into the church, and whispered to my father. I saw his cheek grow pale! I saw him clutch at the altar rail for support! At that moment, I thought I should have died, for I knew that something had been whispered which was too horrible to speak aloud.“By a violent effort, I preserved myself from fainting, and rushed to my father.“‘Tell me—tell!’ I shrieked. ‘What has happened? Father, suspense will kill me.’“‘He is dead!’ was the reply.“I heard no more—I saw no more! For many months they told me I lay a breathing senseless form, and then I awakened, and my first words were, ‘Take me to him!’“They told me then that the grave had long since received its tenant, and by degrees I learned from them that my lover—my husband in the sight of Heaven, had been found a mangled corpse at the foot of a deep precipice.“He must have fallen over, they told me, but I knew better; something whispered to me that Andrew Britton did the deed.“Since then I know not what has happened. Once I awoke and found myself chained to a stone wall in a gloomy cell; then again I was thrust out from somewhere, and a voice told me to be gone, for I was harmless. So I became Mad Maud as I am, and I follow Britton the Savage Smith, because he is to die before I do, and then I shall meet my lover again—and do you know that some sunset, by the great bounty of Heaven, he will come again—when the murder is found out; yes, yes, when the murder is found out. Ha! Ha! Ha!”Again the maniac’s eye glanced with the wild fire of insanity, and poor Maud was lost once more in the wanderings of her imagination.The sympathies of Ada had been so strongly excited by the narrative of poor Maud that she had allowed the lucid interval of the poor maniac to pass away without questioning on the subjects nearest and dearest to her. With a hope that even yet it might not be too late to glean some information from her, she said,—“What murder do you mean?”“The murder at the Old Smithy,” replied Maud. “You saw the man as well I—we all saw him.”“When was that?” asked Ada.“Last night! Last night! Hark, the wind is still around the Old Smithy.”“’Tis all in vain,” sighed Ada. “The time is past.”It now suddenly struck Ada that there would be extreme danger to the poor creature should she stay till Jacob Gray came home; and as the sun was just dipping into the western horizon, she said to her,—“Take with you all these victuals,—I have no power here to prolong your welcome.”“The child of the dead! The child of the dead!” muttered Maud, totally unheeding what Ada said.“Let me now entreat you to go,” said the alarmed girl. “There will be one here by sunset who has no feeling, no mercy.”“That must be Britton, the Savage Smith,” cried Maud.“No, ’tis one Jacob Gray. Heard you ever that name before?”“Jacob Gray!” repeated Maud, evidently with no sort of recognition of the name. “I will sing to him and you.”“Go; let me entreat you to go,” cried Ada.Maud heeded her not, but began to sing in a wild but sweet voice,—“Who loves the bleak night wind,That roars ’twist earth and sky,Say, is its loud voice kind?Not I—not I.“That’s a brave song, but cheerless. I love the day and the sweet sunshine. Here’s another for thee, maiden; ’twill suit thy young heart:“Love’s like a rainbow,Why, maiden, why?It opens from the earthUp to the sky!A young heart’s passionIs all as brightAs that purest archOf Heaven’s own light.“Like ye that, young heart? Alas! ’Tis long since I learned the ditty. Hark ye, here is one more sad and sombre, for I see the tear-drop in your eye. Hark—hark:—“The storm bird may screamO’er the desolate moor,And the north wind blow wideThe poor cottager’s door.The snow drift may levelMountain with plain,But the sunlight will come,And the birds sing again.But, oh! the fond heartWhich one storm has swept o’er,Can ne’er know the peace,It rejoiced in before.”As the last sound of the poor creature’s voice ceased, Ada clasped her hands and uttered a cry of terror, for she heard without the low whistle which she had been taught by Gray to recognise as the signal of his return.
The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair.
PoorMaud spoke in a low earnest voice, and Ada became deeply interested in her story, as with many tears she poured it into the ears of the lovely and persecuted girl.
“You are young and very beautiful,” she commenced. “I was young, and they told me I was beautiful. Look at me now, and smile at the idle boast. Still there was one who loved me—one who listened to my voice, as though it had a magic in it—one who followed me where I led. My heart was touched by the purity of his devotion, and I loved him even as he loved me, next thing to Heaven. It might be that we each made too much of our earthly idols, and so turned the face of Heaven against us both; but I scarce can think so, for He who made His creatures with fond and faithful hearts, must surely look with pleasure rather than anger upon their deep and holy affections. Well, girl, the future lay before us like a summer’s day—all sunshine, joy, and delight. We asked each other what could mar our happiness; and in the ecstasy of our own dear truthfulness we answered, ‘Nothing.’
“Where our mutual parents lived, there came one day a man of coarse and ruffianly aspect. He said he came to settle in the place, and seek a helpmate among the village maidens. None welcomed him, for his manner was harsh and brutal—an index of the mind. This man’s name was Andrew Britton.”
“Indeed!” said Ada.
“Yes, Andrew Britton, a smith. With unparalleled insolence he said he had fixed on me for his wife. I scorned his suit. He jested at my indignant refusal. I wept, for we were alone. He laughed at my tears. Then I threatened him with the resentment of him to whom I had already plighted my young heart, and Andrew Britton swore then a fearful oath that I never should be his.
“He whom I loved found me in tears, and after much solicitation, got from me the particulars of the interview that had just terminated with the Savage Smith. I would not tell him, though, until he had promised me he would not endanger himself by resenting—men heed not such promises. His young blood boiled with anger. He met the smith, and from words they came to mutual violence. Britton was much hurt, and he whom I loved came off the conqueror, to the joy of all.
“Britton then came, and asked my forgiveness. He said he was an altered man. He swore he repented of his passion, and we believed him. But, oh, girl! When a bad, wicked man speaks, you may fairly mistrust him. ’Tis the glitter of the eyes of the serpent that fascinate but to betray.
“The day of my union was at length fixed. There were no regrets—no grief—all was happiness. We wandered hand-in-hand the evening before to look at the last sunset ere we should be bound together in those holy ties which none dare impiously to break asunder.
“We wondered what could happen to make us unhappy. We saw no cloud in the clear horizon of our joy! Oh, what an hour of bliss was that! ’Tis needless to dwell on what we said or how we looked into each other’s eyes to see our own reflected happiness.
“The sun sunk to rest, and in the east uprose the silver moon ere we parted. With many lingering regrets, we said adieu. Oh, God! We never met again!”
Maud sunk on her knees, and, hiding her face upon her chair, she again gave way to a similar wild, awful passion of grief to what had before affected her.
Ada had been deeply impressed with poor Maud’s simple and affecting narrative, told as it was with a pathos which defies description. She did not speak but let the woman have her way, and after some minutes, the violence of her grief, as before, subsided and she rose to outward appearance calm again.
“Bear with me yet a brief space,” said Maud. “I shall not weep so much again.”
“I hope indeed you never may,” said Ada. “But it would be a harsh and unfeeling heart that could not bear patiently the tears springing from a bruised heart.”
Maud took Ada’s hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent gratitude, and then resumed her narrative.
“The morrow came, and brought with it a cloudless sky and a bright sunshine, which never to me seemed so bright and beautiful. We were to meet at the village church, to part no more! And, when I and my friends arrived, and we found that we were first, they were inclined to chide my lover’s delay, but I only smiled, for no doubt crossed my mind. Not the smallest speck appeared to me as yet in the heaven of my happiness.
“An hour passed, and still he came not. Then, indeed, there was a flutter at my heart—a mingled feeling of alarm and anger. Then some went to seek him, and returned unsuccessful. He could not be found! My anger vanished, and I began to tremble. Two more hours passed away—the last was one of agony.
“Then came one into the church, and whispered to my father. I saw his cheek grow pale! I saw him clutch at the altar rail for support! At that moment, I thought I should have died, for I knew that something had been whispered which was too horrible to speak aloud.
“By a violent effort, I preserved myself from fainting, and rushed to my father.
“‘Tell me—tell!’ I shrieked. ‘What has happened? Father, suspense will kill me.’
“‘He is dead!’ was the reply.
“I heard no more—I saw no more! For many months they told me I lay a breathing senseless form, and then I awakened, and my first words were, ‘Take me to him!’
“They told me then that the grave had long since received its tenant, and by degrees I learned from them that my lover—my husband in the sight of Heaven, had been found a mangled corpse at the foot of a deep precipice.
“He must have fallen over, they told me, but I knew better; something whispered to me that Andrew Britton did the deed.
“Since then I know not what has happened. Once I awoke and found myself chained to a stone wall in a gloomy cell; then again I was thrust out from somewhere, and a voice told me to be gone, for I was harmless. So I became Mad Maud as I am, and I follow Britton the Savage Smith, because he is to die before I do, and then I shall meet my lover again—and do you know that some sunset, by the great bounty of Heaven, he will come again—when the murder is found out; yes, yes, when the murder is found out. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Again the maniac’s eye glanced with the wild fire of insanity, and poor Maud was lost once more in the wanderings of her imagination.
The sympathies of Ada had been so strongly excited by the narrative of poor Maud that she had allowed the lucid interval of the poor maniac to pass away without questioning on the subjects nearest and dearest to her. With a hope that even yet it might not be too late to glean some information from her, she said,—
“What murder do you mean?”
“The murder at the Old Smithy,” replied Maud. “You saw the man as well I—we all saw him.”
“When was that?” asked Ada.
“Last night! Last night! Hark, the wind is still around the Old Smithy.”
“’Tis all in vain,” sighed Ada. “The time is past.”
It now suddenly struck Ada that there would be extreme danger to the poor creature should she stay till Jacob Gray came home; and as the sun was just dipping into the western horizon, she said to her,—
“Take with you all these victuals,—I have no power here to prolong your welcome.”
“The child of the dead! The child of the dead!” muttered Maud, totally unheeding what Ada said.
“Let me now entreat you to go,” said the alarmed girl. “There will be one here by sunset who has no feeling, no mercy.”
“That must be Britton, the Savage Smith,” cried Maud.
“No, ’tis one Jacob Gray. Heard you ever that name before?”
“Jacob Gray!” repeated Maud, evidently with no sort of recognition of the name. “I will sing to him and you.”
“Go; let me entreat you to go,” cried Ada.
Maud heeded her not, but began to sing in a wild but sweet voice,—
“Who loves the bleak night wind,
That roars ’twist earth and sky,
Say, is its loud voice kind?
Not I—not I.
“That’s a brave song, but cheerless. I love the day and the sweet sunshine. Here’s another for thee, maiden; ’twill suit thy young heart:
“Love’s like a rainbow,
Why, maiden, why?
It opens from the earth
Up to the sky!
A young heart’s passion
Is all as bright
As that purest arch
Of Heaven’s own light.
“Like ye that, young heart? Alas! ’Tis long since I learned the ditty. Hark ye, here is one more sad and sombre, for I see the tear-drop in your eye. Hark—hark:—
“The storm bird may scream
O’er the desolate moor,
And the north wind blow wide
The poor cottager’s door.
The snow drift may level
Mountain with plain,
But the sunlight will come,
And the birds sing again.
But, oh! the fond heart
Which one storm has swept o’er,
Can ne’er know the peace,
It rejoiced in before.”
As the last sound of the poor creature’s voice ceased, Ada clasped her hands and uttered a cry of terror, for she heard without the low whistle which she had been taught by Gray to recognise as the signal of his return.
CHAPTER XXXI.The Interview.—Jacob Gray’s Meditations.—The Slip of Paper.—The Nail.—The Guilty Conscience.—The Departure.For perhapsthe space of a minute, Ada lost the power of action; but the stern necessity of doing something to save the poor creature from the death which Jacob Gray’s fears would, she doubted not, induce him to put her to, braced the nerves of the young girl.She took Maud by the arm, and looking her earnestly in the face, she said,—“What was the name of him you loved?”Maud pressed her hand upon her brow for a moment as if striving to comprehend the question; then she replied,—“His name was William Heriot.”“Then follow me, and speak not for his sake, as you hold his memory dear.”“To the world’s end! To the world’s end!” said Maud.Ada heard the outer door now close, and she was sure that Gray was in the passage. He might, or he might not, enter the room in which she and Maud were, the door of which was within a few paces of the steps. Oh, how dreadful to poor Ada were the few short, but to her awful moments that elapsed before she felt convinced that Gray had passed the door, he always trod slowly and stealthily even in that lone house, for caution and suspicion had grown so habitual with him, that even in security he could not shake off the actions which rendered those feelings manifest.It was difficult, therefore, for Ada to trace his footsteps, or come to any positive conclusion as to what part of the house he had proceeded towards.One thing only she could feel certain of from the duration of time, and that was, that the immediate danger of his entering the room in which she and Maud were was past, unless he were lingering in the passage, which she had never yet known him to do.A few more minutes of great anxiety now passed, during which Maud did not speak, but rocked to and fro in her chair, sighing deeply, as if the sound of her murdered lover’s name had affected her deeply.“Maud,” said Ada. “Maud, attend to me.”“I hear the voice,” said Maud, “the voice of the angel that has come from Heaven to speak words of kindness to poor Mad Maud.”“By the memory of William Heriot,” said Ada, “do not speak or move till I come to you again.”Ada then left the room for the purpose of ascertaining in what room Jacob Gray was staying. With an assumed carelessness of step and manner she walked into the rooms on the ground floor, but in none of them was Jacob Gray; she then ascended the staircase, and as she neared the top of the crazy flight, a door was suddenly opened upon the landing, and Gray appeared.Ada paused, and they regarded each other for a few moments in silence. Then Gray said, in a low tone,—“Nothing has happened, Ada? No alarm?”“No alarm,” said Ada, answering his last question; “wait for me below, we must have some talk to-day.”“To-day?”“Yes, I promise but from month to month—to-day the month expires,” said Ada.“It does, but the promise will be renewed.”“Stay where you are,” said Ada, “I will come to you in a short time.”“Nay, not here,” said Gray, “go to the room below. I will be with you shortly.”“I am even now proceeding to my own chamber,” said Ada; “in a quarter of an hour I will meet you here.”Without waiting for a reply, Ada ascended to her own room.Gray stood for a minute with the door in his hand, muttering to himself,—“She braves me thus ever—if I were to remark that the sun shone, she would declare ’twas very cold—sometimes I doubt if I hate her or Learmont most; yet I must spare her to be revenged on him! Curses on them all!”He flung the door to, which shut with a bang that Ada heard with thankfulness. Gray then unlocked a cupboard in the room, and proceeded to deposit, in a sacred place he had constructed at the back of it, the last sum of money he had wrung from the fears of Learmont.In the same place of safety, likewise, was the written confession addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but that was not concealed; it lay openly in the cupboard, a prominent object to any one who should force the door. A smile of self-satisfaction came across Jacob Gray’s face as he took the paper in his hand, and fixed his keen eyes upon its superscription to the magistrate.“It would, indeed, be a glorious revenge,” he mattered, “on both Britton and Learmont to accumulate an ample fortune first, and then, when my foot was on the very deck of the vessel that was to bear me from England for ever, to hail some idle lounger on the quay, and bid him take this to Sir Francis Hartleton, and ask his own reward. Yes, if I had half a million, that would be worth as much again. The time will come—yes—it will—it must come—when I have got enough money first, and then my revenge. Ye taunt me, Squire Learmont, and you, Britton, too, with my cunning—Ha! Ha! I am cunning, it is true—I am too cunning for your dull wits. Jacob Gray will be too much for you both when he has enough money!”Suddenly then he now dropped the paper, and started; a slight noise outside his door met his ears, and his guilty soul trembled.“What—what noise was that?” he whispered. “Ada—yes—Ada,—Ah! It must be Ada!”In order to explain the sound that disturbed the gleeful cogitations of Jacob Gray, we must follow Ada to her chamber, whither, as the reader will recollect, she repaired after her very brief conversation with her gaoler Gray.The moment Ada found herself in the privacy of her own room she burst into tears, and a fervent “thank Heaven!” burst from her lips.The necessity of instant action and self-possession, however, rushed simultaneously across her mind, and dashing away the tears with the brief exclamation of,—“My promise no longer binds me—I am free to act,” she hastily wrote on a slip of paper, the following words:—“To Albert Seyton,—Ada is betrayed—seek her in a Lone House by the river.”She then concealed the paper in her bosom, and, commending herself to Heaven, with a beating heart she descended the staircase.Her object now was to pass the door of the room in which was Gray, without arousing his attention; but this was a matter of no ordinary difficulty in that old house, for the staircase was so ancient and dilapidated that it creaked and groaned under the slightest pressure.Taking, however, as much of her weight off the stairs as possible, by clinging to a stout rail, which was supported firmly by the wall, Ada slowly descended.She reached the landing, from which opened the door of the room in which was Gray, in safety. To pass that door was dreadful, and Ada thought each moment that her strength would desert her, and all would be discovered. The life of poor Maud, she felt certain, hung upon the slightest thread, and this thought nerved Ada more than any consciousness of personal danger would have done.Creeping cautiously along, she reached the door—one moment, then she paused, and the sound of Jacob Gray’s voice, as he muttered his unholy thoughts came clearly upon her overstrained senses.With her hands pressing upon her heart to still its wild tumultuous beating, she passed the door; now the flight of stairs leading to the house was gained in safety. She laid her trembling hands upon the banisters, and at that moment it was that Gray heard the creaking sound that alarmed him in the midst of his wicked rejoicing over the treachery he meditated.Ada turned slowly round, and faced the door. To fly she knew would tempt pursuit; and without, in her confusion, being able to reflect further than that, the best plan would be to face Jacob Gray should he come from the room, Ada stood for several minutes enduring the most torturing and agonising suspense.All remained still; Gray did not appear, and once more Ada turned to descend the staircase; one step she had taken downwards, when a loose nail from the crazy banisters fell into the passage below, making, in the solemn silence that reigned in the house, an alarming noise.Ada paused.“Now, now,” she thought, “I shall need all my firmness. Heaven help me now!”The door of Gray’s room opened, and he stood in the entrance with a pale and anxious face: Ada turned as before, and met his gaze. It would have been difficult that moment to have decided which face bore the palest hue—the beautiful and innocent one of Ada, contrasted as it was with, her long jetty ringlets, to the disturbed, haggard countenance of the man of crimes and blood.“There—there was—a noise!” said Gray.“I heard it,” replied Ada.“W—where was it?”“Above.”“’Twas nothing, Ada—nothing—I suppose quite accidental, Ada; you are going down—I—I’ll follow you—I’ll follow you.”He closed the door behind him with a trembling hand, and made a step towards the staircase.“Jacob Gray,” cried Ada, “stop.”He paused, for there was an awful earnestness in her manner that greatly added to his alarm. Yet Ada knew not what to do or how to act. The words she uttered were almost involuntary. Then it might be that Heaven whispered to her mind a course of action; but it came across her mind that Gray might be alarmed still more, knowing the lurking superstition of his character, and she suddenly said,—“Did you not tell me once this house was haunted?”“Haunted!” echoed Gray, suddenly descending several stairs, and showing by his rapid changes of colour the craven fear that was at his heart’s inmost core.His fears, however, had prompted him to the very course which Ada so much dreaded, namely, to descend to the lower part of the house, and on the impulse of the moment she laid her hand on Jacob Gray’s arm, and said,—“I was following it—it has gone down!”“It!—Who?—What?” cried Gray, as he sprung back again to the door of his room in an instant, trembling exceedingly.Ada’s pure and innocent heart detested all kinds of duplicity; but if ever such was justifiable, it was surely then; and to save the life of the poor creature who had sought shelter with her, and had suffered so much wrong and unmerited persecution, was a justification which, with the rapidity of thought, came to Ada’s relief.“There is some one below,” she said.“You—you saw—it?”“I did.”“And—and—followed it?”Gray licked his parched lips, as after a pause he added.—“Ada—a—what manner of appearance was it?”“Will you follow it with me?”“Not for worlds—not for worlds,” cried Gray. “Tell me, Ada, was—was—was it a man of—tall stature.”“It was,” said Ada.“Of—of noble bearing—hair—slightly silvered?”“Even so.”“I—I thought—’twas he. I—I saw him once at the door—in that—that smithy. Yes, that has begun now. I—shall be haunted now—for ever. Oh, horror! Horror!”The word “smithy” struck upon Ada’s ears, and for one moment she could not recollect why it came as if it were an old recollection to her. Then she remembered that Mad Maud had spoken of a murder at an Old Smithy, and she asked herself, can there be any connection between all these dark hints of things long past and my own fate? There must be—I will probe your heart, Jacob Gray.“I will tell you,” she said, turning suddenly to Gray. “Listen! A wild bleeding form has appeared in this house.”“Bleeding?” gasped Gray.“Yes, bleeding.”“And—and—it is—” Gray pointed down the staircase.“It is there,” said Ada.Gray shuddered, as he said,—“Can you—look on it, and live?”“I can.”“God help me!”“Come with me, and we will together question it further,” said Ada.“No! No! No!” cried Gray. “The sight would blast me forever. Ada! Ada! If you have one spark of pity, one yearning of heavenly mercy in your heart, you will pray for—me—pray for me!”“For you—my persecutor?”“Implore that hideous form to visit here no more. I shall go mad!—Mad!—Mad!”Gray hid his face in his hands, and groaned bitterly.“In his anguish he may confess all,” thought Ada, and hastily calling to her memory the words spoken by Maud, she said in a solemn whisper,—“Jacob Gray, the bleeding form that has visited is not terrible to me.”“No, no,” said Gray, “because—”“Because what?”“Nothing—nothing—I have said nothing.”“Then hear me,” added Ada. “Strange things have been spoken to me.”“By—it?”“Yes. Do you recollect an Old Smithy?”Gray removed his hands from before his face, and sinking on his knees, he crawled towards Ada.“Mercy! Mercy!” he said, in a husky whisper.“There was a murder,” continued Ada.“Ada! Ada!” shrieked Gray. “Child of the dead, spare me! Oh, spare me!”“Child of the dead!” cried Ada. “Speak, Jacob Gray. Am I that child? Tell all now that conscience is awakened, and soothe the pangs of your own seared heart by relieving mine of worlds of agony. Speak, Jacob Gray—oh, speak. Tell me who I am now at this moment of awful and bitter repentance. I will forgive all—I will, as you ask, pray for you, Jacob Gray. Heaven will pardon you. Speak—speak to me. Tell me, am I that child?”“Bid—bid—him go!” crawling towards the room.“And then—”“Then—you shall hear—all—all. The sight of him would overturn my reason! Even now my brain reels. Bid him go—implore him not to haunt me—not to drive me mad by a glance!”Ada’s object was more than accomplished.“Wait for me,” she cried, and glided down the staircase, leaving Gray crouched up by the door of the room, with his glowing eyes fixed upon the staircase, in awful expectation of seeing each moment a dreadful form, that would drive him to insanity by one look from its glazed eye.The period of trembling and nervousness was now passed with Ada, and with the lightness and speed of a young fawn, she bounded into the room where sat poor Maud.The poor creature’s eyes brightened as Ada approached, and she said,—“I have not stirred—I have not spoken.”“Hush! Hush,” said Ada. “Speak not now. Here, take this paper. Fly across the fields. Look not back, but get away from this place.”“Yes, yes,” said Maud.“Moments are precious,” continued Ada. “Wherever you go, I conjure you by the remembrance of him you loved, and who you will meet again in the presence of God, to show that paper—but never, never part with it.”“Never, never!” cried Maud. “Oh, never!”“Now follow me. Heaven speed you on your way!”Maud, thrust the paper into her bosom, and allowed herself to be led by Ada to the door.“God bless and help you,” cried the girl.Maud kissed her hand and sobbed bitterly.“Away—away!” said Ada. “Oh, pause not a moment. For my sake hasten.”Like a hunted deer. Mad Maud flew from the Lone House. Ada watched her for a few minutes across the swampy waste, then, the excitement being over, she burst into a passion of tears, and dropped into a state of half insensibility in the passage of the old house.
The Interview.—Jacob Gray’s Meditations.—The Slip of Paper.—The Nail.—The Guilty Conscience.—The Departure.
For perhapsthe space of a minute, Ada lost the power of action; but the stern necessity of doing something to save the poor creature from the death which Jacob Gray’s fears would, she doubted not, induce him to put her to, braced the nerves of the young girl.
She took Maud by the arm, and looking her earnestly in the face, she said,—
“What was the name of him you loved?”
Maud pressed her hand upon her brow for a moment as if striving to comprehend the question; then she replied,—
“His name was William Heriot.”
“Then follow me, and speak not for his sake, as you hold his memory dear.”
“To the world’s end! To the world’s end!” said Maud.
Ada heard the outer door now close, and she was sure that Gray was in the passage. He might, or he might not, enter the room in which she and Maud were, the door of which was within a few paces of the steps. Oh, how dreadful to poor Ada were the few short, but to her awful moments that elapsed before she felt convinced that Gray had passed the door, he always trod slowly and stealthily even in that lone house, for caution and suspicion had grown so habitual with him, that even in security he could not shake off the actions which rendered those feelings manifest.
It was difficult, therefore, for Ada to trace his footsteps, or come to any positive conclusion as to what part of the house he had proceeded towards.
One thing only she could feel certain of from the duration of time, and that was, that the immediate danger of his entering the room in which she and Maud were was past, unless he were lingering in the passage, which she had never yet known him to do.
A few more minutes of great anxiety now passed, during which Maud did not speak, but rocked to and fro in her chair, sighing deeply, as if the sound of her murdered lover’s name had affected her deeply.
“Maud,” said Ada. “Maud, attend to me.”
“I hear the voice,” said Maud, “the voice of the angel that has come from Heaven to speak words of kindness to poor Mad Maud.”
“By the memory of William Heriot,” said Ada, “do not speak or move till I come to you again.”
Ada then left the room for the purpose of ascertaining in what room Jacob Gray was staying. With an assumed carelessness of step and manner she walked into the rooms on the ground floor, but in none of them was Jacob Gray; she then ascended the staircase, and as she neared the top of the crazy flight, a door was suddenly opened upon the landing, and Gray appeared.
Ada paused, and they regarded each other for a few moments in silence. Then Gray said, in a low tone,—
“Nothing has happened, Ada? No alarm?”
“No alarm,” said Ada, answering his last question; “wait for me below, we must have some talk to-day.”
“To-day?”
“Yes, I promise but from month to month—to-day the month expires,” said Ada.
“It does, but the promise will be renewed.”
“Stay where you are,” said Ada, “I will come to you in a short time.”
“Nay, not here,” said Gray, “go to the room below. I will be with you shortly.”
“I am even now proceeding to my own chamber,” said Ada; “in a quarter of an hour I will meet you here.”
Without waiting for a reply, Ada ascended to her own room.
Gray stood for a minute with the door in his hand, muttering to himself,—
“She braves me thus ever—if I were to remark that the sun shone, she would declare ’twas very cold—sometimes I doubt if I hate her or Learmont most; yet I must spare her to be revenged on him! Curses on them all!”
He flung the door to, which shut with a bang that Ada heard with thankfulness. Gray then unlocked a cupboard in the room, and proceeded to deposit, in a sacred place he had constructed at the back of it, the last sum of money he had wrung from the fears of Learmont.
In the same place of safety, likewise, was the written confession addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but that was not concealed; it lay openly in the cupboard, a prominent object to any one who should force the door. A smile of self-satisfaction came across Jacob Gray’s face as he took the paper in his hand, and fixed his keen eyes upon its superscription to the magistrate.
“It would, indeed, be a glorious revenge,” he mattered, “on both Britton and Learmont to accumulate an ample fortune first, and then, when my foot was on the very deck of the vessel that was to bear me from England for ever, to hail some idle lounger on the quay, and bid him take this to Sir Francis Hartleton, and ask his own reward. Yes, if I had half a million, that would be worth as much again. The time will come—yes—it will—it must come—when I have got enough money first, and then my revenge. Ye taunt me, Squire Learmont, and you, Britton, too, with my cunning—Ha! Ha! I am cunning, it is true—I am too cunning for your dull wits. Jacob Gray will be too much for you both when he has enough money!”
Suddenly then he now dropped the paper, and started; a slight noise outside his door met his ears, and his guilty soul trembled.
“What—what noise was that?” he whispered. “Ada—yes—Ada,—Ah! It must be Ada!”
In order to explain the sound that disturbed the gleeful cogitations of Jacob Gray, we must follow Ada to her chamber, whither, as the reader will recollect, she repaired after her very brief conversation with her gaoler Gray.
The moment Ada found herself in the privacy of her own room she burst into tears, and a fervent “thank Heaven!” burst from her lips.
The necessity of instant action and self-possession, however, rushed simultaneously across her mind, and dashing away the tears with the brief exclamation of,—
“My promise no longer binds me—I am free to act,” she hastily wrote on a slip of paper, the following words:—
“To Albert Seyton,—Ada is betrayed—seek her in a Lone House by the river.”
She then concealed the paper in her bosom, and, commending herself to Heaven, with a beating heart she descended the staircase.
Her object now was to pass the door of the room in which was Gray, without arousing his attention; but this was a matter of no ordinary difficulty in that old house, for the staircase was so ancient and dilapidated that it creaked and groaned under the slightest pressure.
Taking, however, as much of her weight off the stairs as possible, by clinging to a stout rail, which was supported firmly by the wall, Ada slowly descended.
She reached the landing, from which opened the door of the room in which was Gray, in safety. To pass that door was dreadful, and Ada thought each moment that her strength would desert her, and all would be discovered. The life of poor Maud, she felt certain, hung upon the slightest thread, and this thought nerved Ada more than any consciousness of personal danger would have done.
Creeping cautiously along, she reached the door—one moment, then she paused, and the sound of Jacob Gray’s voice, as he muttered his unholy thoughts came clearly upon her overstrained senses.
With her hands pressing upon her heart to still its wild tumultuous beating, she passed the door; now the flight of stairs leading to the house was gained in safety. She laid her trembling hands upon the banisters, and at that moment it was that Gray heard the creaking sound that alarmed him in the midst of his wicked rejoicing over the treachery he meditated.
Ada turned slowly round, and faced the door. To fly she knew would tempt pursuit; and without, in her confusion, being able to reflect further than that, the best plan would be to face Jacob Gray should he come from the room, Ada stood for several minutes enduring the most torturing and agonising suspense.
All remained still; Gray did not appear, and once more Ada turned to descend the staircase; one step she had taken downwards, when a loose nail from the crazy banisters fell into the passage below, making, in the solemn silence that reigned in the house, an alarming noise.
Ada paused.
“Now, now,” she thought, “I shall need all my firmness. Heaven help me now!”
The door of Gray’s room opened, and he stood in the entrance with a pale and anxious face: Ada turned as before, and met his gaze. It would have been difficult that moment to have decided which face bore the palest hue—the beautiful and innocent one of Ada, contrasted as it was with, her long jetty ringlets, to the disturbed, haggard countenance of the man of crimes and blood.
“There—there was—a noise!” said Gray.
“I heard it,” replied Ada.
“W—where was it?”
“Above.”
“’Twas nothing, Ada—nothing—I suppose quite accidental, Ada; you are going down—I—I’ll follow you—I’ll follow you.”
He closed the door behind him with a trembling hand, and made a step towards the staircase.
“Jacob Gray,” cried Ada, “stop.”
He paused, for there was an awful earnestness in her manner that greatly added to his alarm. Yet Ada knew not what to do or how to act. The words she uttered were almost involuntary. Then it might be that Heaven whispered to her mind a course of action; but it came across her mind that Gray might be alarmed still more, knowing the lurking superstition of his character, and she suddenly said,—
“Did you not tell me once this house was haunted?”
“Haunted!” echoed Gray, suddenly descending several stairs, and showing by his rapid changes of colour the craven fear that was at his heart’s inmost core.
His fears, however, had prompted him to the very course which Ada so much dreaded, namely, to descend to the lower part of the house, and on the impulse of the moment she laid her hand on Jacob Gray’s arm, and said,—
“I was following it—it has gone down!”
“It!—Who?—What?” cried Gray, as he sprung back again to the door of his room in an instant, trembling exceedingly.
Ada’s pure and innocent heart detested all kinds of duplicity; but if ever such was justifiable, it was surely then; and to save the life of the poor creature who had sought shelter with her, and had suffered so much wrong and unmerited persecution, was a justification which, with the rapidity of thought, came to Ada’s relief.
“There is some one below,” she said.
“You—you saw—it?”
“I did.”
“And—and—followed it?”
Gray licked his parched lips, as after a pause he added.—
“Ada—a—what manner of appearance was it?”
“Will you follow it with me?”
“Not for worlds—not for worlds,” cried Gray. “Tell me, Ada, was—was—was it a man of—tall stature.”
“It was,” said Ada.
“Of—of noble bearing—hair—slightly silvered?”
“Even so.”
“I—I thought—’twas he. I—I saw him once at the door—in that—that smithy. Yes, that has begun now. I—shall be haunted now—for ever. Oh, horror! Horror!”
The word “smithy” struck upon Ada’s ears, and for one moment she could not recollect why it came as if it were an old recollection to her. Then she remembered that Mad Maud had spoken of a murder at an Old Smithy, and she asked herself, can there be any connection between all these dark hints of things long past and my own fate? There must be—I will probe your heart, Jacob Gray.
“I will tell you,” she said, turning suddenly to Gray. “Listen! A wild bleeding form has appeared in this house.”
“Bleeding?” gasped Gray.
“Yes, bleeding.”
“And—and—it is—” Gray pointed down the staircase.
“It is there,” said Ada.
Gray shuddered, as he said,—
“Can you—look on it, and live?”
“I can.”
“God help me!”
“Come with me, and we will together question it further,” said Ada.
“No! No! No!” cried Gray. “The sight would blast me forever. Ada! Ada! If you have one spark of pity, one yearning of heavenly mercy in your heart, you will pray for—me—pray for me!”
“For you—my persecutor?”
“Implore that hideous form to visit here no more. I shall go mad!—Mad!—Mad!”
Gray hid his face in his hands, and groaned bitterly.
“In his anguish he may confess all,” thought Ada, and hastily calling to her memory the words spoken by Maud, she said in a solemn whisper,—
“Jacob Gray, the bleeding form that has visited is not terrible to me.”
“No, no,” said Gray, “because—”
“Because what?”
“Nothing—nothing—I have said nothing.”
“Then hear me,” added Ada. “Strange things have been spoken to me.”
“By—it?”
“Yes. Do you recollect an Old Smithy?”
Gray removed his hands from before his face, and sinking on his knees, he crawled towards Ada.
“Mercy! Mercy!” he said, in a husky whisper.
“There was a murder,” continued Ada.
“Ada! Ada!” shrieked Gray. “Child of the dead, spare me! Oh, spare me!”
“Child of the dead!” cried Ada. “Speak, Jacob Gray. Am I that child? Tell all now that conscience is awakened, and soothe the pangs of your own seared heart by relieving mine of worlds of agony. Speak, Jacob Gray—oh, speak. Tell me who I am now at this moment of awful and bitter repentance. I will forgive all—I will, as you ask, pray for you, Jacob Gray. Heaven will pardon you. Speak—speak to me. Tell me, am I that child?”
“Bid—bid—him go!” crawling towards the room.
“And then—”
“Then—you shall hear—all—all. The sight of him would overturn my reason! Even now my brain reels. Bid him go—implore him not to haunt me—not to drive me mad by a glance!”
Ada’s object was more than accomplished.
“Wait for me,” she cried, and glided down the staircase, leaving Gray crouched up by the door of the room, with his glowing eyes fixed upon the staircase, in awful expectation of seeing each moment a dreadful form, that would drive him to insanity by one look from its glazed eye.
The period of trembling and nervousness was now passed with Ada, and with the lightness and speed of a young fawn, she bounded into the room where sat poor Maud.
The poor creature’s eyes brightened as Ada approached, and she said,—
“I have not stirred—I have not spoken.”
“Hush! Hush,” said Ada. “Speak not now. Here, take this paper. Fly across the fields. Look not back, but get away from this place.”
“Yes, yes,” said Maud.
“Moments are precious,” continued Ada. “Wherever you go, I conjure you by the remembrance of him you loved, and who you will meet again in the presence of God, to show that paper—but never, never part with it.”
“Never, never!” cried Maud. “Oh, never!”
“Now follow me. Heaven speed you on your way!”
Maud, thrust the paper into her bosom, and allowed herself to be led by Ada to the door.
“God bless and help you,” cried the girl.
Maud kissed her hand and sobbed bitterly.
“Away—away!” said Ada. “Oh, pause not a moment. For my sake hasten.”
Like a hunted deer. Mad Maud flew from the Lone House. Ada watched her for a few minutes across the swampy waste, then, the excitement being over, she burst into a passion of tears, and dropped into a state of half insensibility in the passage of the old house.