XXVIII. Ada’s Lone Home.—The Summer.—An Adventure…

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’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, he has been 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!

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Chapter XXIX

The Alarm.—The Pursuit.—A Mob in the Last Century.—The Fugitive.—Maud, the Beggar.

As Ada sat 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.”

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XXX. The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair

Poor Maud 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.

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Chapter XXXI

The Interview.—Jacob Gray’s Meditations.—The Slip of Paper.—The Nail.—The Guilty Conscience.—The Departure.

For perhaps the 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.

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XXXII. Jacob Gray’s Fears.—The Promise.—Ada’s Meditations

How long she remained in the passage of the house, Ada had no means of distinctly knowing, but, when she recovered from her insensibility, she found herself in the parlour alone, and nearly in total darkness.

A few moments sufficed to bring to her recollection all that had occurred, and she sprang to her feet, looking anxiously around her, as well as the dim light would permit, to see if Jacob Gray was in the room.

An instant inquiry satisfied her that she was alone, but scarcely had she made this discovery when a gleam of light came in from the passage, and the door was gently and cautiously pushed open. Ada did not speak, but she shrunk into a corner of the room, and saw Gray enter, carrying with him a dim light.

“Ada! Ada!” he said.

“I am here,” she replied.

He set the light on the table, and she saw that his face looked harsh and haggard.

“We cannot stay here,” he said, after a pause. “This place will be hideous now.”

“Not stay here!“ cried Ada, and her heart sunk within her at the thought of being again removed at the very time when there was a chance of her being rescued by Albert Seyton, should he or any one knowing his name chance to see the paper she had given to Mad Maud.

“No—no,” added Gray, “I—I would not sleep here. The very air of this place smells of the grave! We must away, Ada!”

“How came I in this room?” said Ada!

“After a long time when you returned not to me,” replied Gray, “I descended the staircase, and found you lying in the passage just by the door which you had evidently been trying to escape by.”

Ada was deeply thankful that Jacob Gray himself put this interpretation on the circumstance of finding the door open, and she said,—

“My feelings overcame me.”

“Ay—Yes. The sight must have been terrible!” said Gray. “Come, Ada; ’tis a very dark night—attire yourself in the less cumbrous and safer garments of a boy, and let us leave here.”

“You forget your promise,” said Ada.

“My promise? What promise?”

“You said you would tell me all.”

“And so will I at the proper time and season, which, believe me, will be the sooner for what has chanced this night.”

“And so am I deceived again,” said Ada.

“Girl,” said Gray, “you are young enough yet to wait a short time. There will come a day when justice shall be done you, and the cup of my revenge will be filled to the overflowing! It will be very soon, Ada.”

Ada felt that to urge Gray now that his great fear had passed away to fulfil any promise he might have made while under its influence, would be quite futile. Moreover, her great object—the escape of poor Maud—was accomplished, and she had no new spectre wherewith to frighten Jacob Gray.

“For that brief time you speak of,” said she, “let us remain here. Think you the spirits of another world cannot follow you wherever you go, Jacob Gray?”

“Follow me?” echoed Gray.

“Ay; are not all places alike to them? Why remove from here?”

Gray seemed to remain silent, then he said in a low agitated voice,—

“Girl, what you say may be true. I will think of it again. To-morrow I will decide! Yes, let it be till to-morrow! You are not weary?”

“Wherefore do you ask?” said Ada.

“Because,” faltered Gray, “I do not wish to be alone.”

“And can you ask me to save you from the horrors of that solitude which your conscience peoples with hideous forms?”

“Question me not,” cried Gray, impatiently. “I—I would have desired your company—but will not enforce it.”

“You cannot,” said Ada.

“Cannot? You know not what you say.”

“You dare not!” added Ada.

She had learnt by experience that she could defy Jacob Gray to his face successfully. Her only fear of him was that he would murder her while she slept or mingle poison with her food! She could not look on him.

“Leave me, then! Leave me if you will,” he said. “I will not invade your chamber.”

“If you were,” said Ada, “you might perchance be frozen with horror by meeting the form you have described, with so much dread—a form which the voice of nature hints must be that of my murdered father!”

As she spoke, Ada walked to the door of the room, but ere she reached it, Gray called to her.

“Ada, stay yet a moment!”

“You forget!”

“Forget what?”

“That I must this day again receive your promise to exert no contrivance for your escape from me. At twelve to-day your word expired.”

“Oh!” cried Ada. “Then I was free?”

“No,” said Gray, “you were not free! I knew that if you meditated escape, you would seize the first moment! I watched this house from twelve till two. Then as you came not forth, I knew I was safe.”

“And you departed?”

“I did.”

Had Jacob Gray watched another hour he would have seen Maud hunted to the old house.

“Your promise, girl,” he cried. “Before we part to-night I must have your solemn promise!”

“On the same condition,” said Ada, “to preserve that life which God has given me, I will give you my promise.”

“Be it so,” said Gray.

“Then in the name of Heaven, I promise from, one month from now that if aid come not to me—if no one comes here to take me hence, and offer me liberty, I will remain a prisoner! So help me Heaven!”

“Enough,” said Gray, “I am content. I know you will keep your word, Ada.”

“How is it,” said Ada, “that you can trust thus to my word, Jacob Gray? Have you not taught me deceit? Were I to deceive you as you have deceived me, could you blame me?”

“Question me not,” cried Gray. “I have said I would trust to your word. Let that suffice.”

Ada turned away, and sought the solitude of her own room. She always wept bitterly after renewing her promise to Gray—it seemed like pushing hope to a further distance from her heart, and on this occasion, when she was alone, the tears dimmed her eyes as she reflected another month—another month! But then even upon the instant, a small still voice within her heart seemed to whisper to her that there were now better grounds for hope than ever. She had made an effort by the slip of paper that poor Mad Maud had taken with her—and her promise to Gray was expressly conditional, so that if Albert Seyton should seek her, she was free! How delightful did that word sound to the desolate heart of the young girl. She clasped her hands, and a smile played over her face like a sunbeam on a lake.

“Oh!” she cried, “if kind Heaven has indeed joy in store for the poor, persecuted Ada, surely it will be more delightful by the contrast with what has passed! Friends will be dearer to me, because I have known none! The sunshine will to me possess a greater charm than to those who have always been so happy as to revel in its beams! The charms of music will entrance me, where they present but ordinary sounds to others, for I shall contrast then with the echoes of this dreary house. The voices of those who will love me, and use kindly phrases when they speak to me, will ring in my ears with an unknown beauty! Mere freedom—the dear gift of being able, at my own free-will, to seek the leafy glade of some old forest—or walk in the broad sunlight of an open plain, will be a rich reward for all that I have suffered! Oh! How can the world be unhappy while Heaven has left it youth, sunshine, and love?”

Thus the young, ardent, enthusiastic girl beguiled the tediousness of her imprisonment. She lived in a world of romance of her own creating, a romance, too, that was mixed up with a pure and holy system of natural theology culled from her own heart, and those mysterious impulses which tell all, but those who wilfully shut their ears against the solemn glorious truth—that there is a great and good God above all—a Being to be loved more than to be feared.

Ada would now sit for hours picturing to herself the meeting of poor Maud with Albert Seyton. She would frame all the dialogue that would pass between them, until Albert had, piece by piece, extracted from the wandering mind of the poor creature the exact situation of the old house in which Ada was immured; then she would imagine his joy, his rapture, until busy Fancy almost conjured up the reality of his voice in her charmed ears.

The dull sons of system and calculation—the plodders through life without the capacity to look beyond the present, or reason on the past, may condemn the airy freaks of the imagination, because of their unreality; but what would the lonely, the persecuted, and the unhappy do, if Heaven, in its great mercy, had not laid up within the chambers of the brain, such stores of joy and ecstatic thought ready to be drawn forth infinitely to cheat what is real of its terrors, by contrasting it with the rare creations of the ideal. Oh, is it not a rare and amiable faculty of mind, that can thus shift, as it were, the scenes of life, and with a thought, change a dungeon to a sweet glade in some deep forest, where birds are singing for the pure love of song. Let then the dreamy “castle builder” pile story upon story of his æriel fabric,—he will be the nearer Heaven.

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Chapter XXXIII

Britton at the Chequers.—The Visit.—A Mysterious Stranger.—The Good Company.

Britton, the smith, was in truth a great man at the Chequers, in Westminster. His love of liquor suited the landlord amazingly, and his custom, when the whim took him, of treating everybody who happened to be present, turned out an exceeding good speculation for mine host. Sots and topers came from far and near to the Chequers, upon the chance of a treat from “King Britton,” as he was commonly called, and they would wait patiently drinking at their own proper costs until the smith got intoxicated enough to act the great man, and order drink for all at his own expense.

This acted well for the landlord, whose liquor was constantly kept flowing at some one’s expense, and he put up patiently with the brutal jests of the smith, many of them being accompanied with personal ill-usage, rather then turn the tide of prosperity that was pouring into his house.

Many were the conjectures as to the source of Britton’s ample means; but although all supposed them to proceed from some not over honest means, all were so much interested in their continuance that the curiosity excited produced no further result than whispered expressions of wonder and wise shakes of the head.

It was true that Britton had been watched to Learmont’s house, but it never for a moment entered the heads of the busybodies at the Chequers that he visited the great Squire Learmont himself, and whether or not he had some accomplice at Learmont’s house, which enabled him to rob the wealthy squire, was the only thought suggested by tracing him more than once to the hall door of Learmont’s princely and much talked of abode.

Daylight was commonly shut out of the old oaken parlour of the Chequers before it was all necessary, by the orders of Britton, who found himself more at home and enjoyed his liquor better by candle or lamplight than with a bright setting sun streaming in upon his drunken orgies.

It was upon one of these occasions that the shutters had been closed by the obsequious landlord at least an hour earlier than necessary, and for which he had been rewarded by a crack on the pate with a pewter ale measure, and that made him dance again, that a more than usually thronged company filled the parlor of the ancient house.

Britton sat in an arm-chair in the first stage of intoxication. His eyes were inflamed and blood-shot, and his whole visage betrayed the debasing influence of habitual drunkenness. He wore a strange mixture of clothing; a richly-laced coat which he had bought from the window of a tailor, who had only charged him double price for it and a kick, contrasted oddly with a coarse red night-cap that he wore, and the pipe stuck in the buttonholes of the rich laced waistcoat, presented a strange anomaly of elegance and vulgarity.

The company were some smoking, some drinking, and some talking; but it was easy to see that the general attention was fixed upon Britton, who there sat, as he considered, in his glory.

“Landlord!” he roared, in a voice that made the glasses ring again. “Landlord! I say, curse on you for a sluggish hand, come hither! Where’s your respect for your king, you keeper of bad butts—you thief, you purloiner of honester men’s sack?—Come hither, I say.”

“Ha!—Ha!” laughed a man, who had come a long way to chance a treat at the Chequers—“Ha!—Ha!—That’s good. Ho!—Ho!”

“Who are you?” roared Britton.

“I—I—oh—I—I—am—a cordwainer from the Borough, sir.”

“How dare you call me, ‘Sir?’”

“Why—a—a—really—”

Some one here charitably whispered to the cordwainer the fact of Britton’s kingly dignity! And with many winks and nods he corrected himself, and said,—

“I humbly beg your majesty’s most gracious pardon.”

“You be d—d!” said Britton. “You are a cordwainer, are you?—A cobbler, you mean—a patcher of leaks in bad shoes. Hark ye, Mr. Cordwainer, the next time you presume to laugh at anything I say, I’ll make a leak in your head.”

“May it please you, King Britton,” interposed the landlord, “I am here!”

“No you ain’t,” cried Britton, tripping up the landlord, who forthwith fell flat on the floor, “you are there!”

This was a stock joke, and was perpetrated nearly every evening; so the company laughed accordingly, particularly those who had seen and heard it before, the new-comers not being fully up to the wit of it.

Here the landlord rose, and rubbing the injured part of his person, said with a groan,—

“Well, gentlemen, did you ever know the like of that?”

“Here, come back with a bowl of punch,” cried Britton; “and, do you hear, some spiced canary—come, quick!”

“May I venture to ask!” said the landlord, still affecting to writhe with pain, “if the spiced canary is to be all round?”

“No, you may not ask!” said Britton; “off with you!”

“We’ll drink your majesty’s health,” said a pale thin man, with great humility.

“Oh, you will, will you?” said Britton.

“We will—we will,” cried many voices.

“Drink away, then!” roared Britton.

“Your majesty has not yet ordered anything for us to drink,” said one.

“No, no, his majesty don’t mean,” said Britton. “You are a set of rascals—thieves all.”

“Ah,” said the cordwainer, casting his eyes up to the fly-cage that hung from the centre of the ceiling, “there is a great deal of dishonesty in the world.”

“There ain’t, and you are a liar!” cried Britton.

At this moment the door was flung open, and a wild figure stood in the entrance taking up the laugh of the guests in a strange discordant tone, and pointing the while at the smith with exultant look.

Britton started from his chair, but he was scarcely able to stand, and staggering into it again, he muttered,—

“Mad Maud, by all that is damnable!”

“Britton—Andrew Britton!” shrieked Maud, clapping her hands together “I have found you—Ha!—Ha!—Ha!—I have found you!”

The persons assembled in the parlour looked at each other in speechless amazement, and the majority of them in the excitement of the moment finished at once whatever liquor they had before them.

“Britton!—Britton!” shrieked Maud, “are you not glad to see me? I heard your voice—too well I know it! Oh, oh, I was passing—I was crawling past this door when your voice struck upon my ear. Andrew Britton, I won’t leave you now! Stop, stop—yes, I must do my errand. I had it from one of bright things that live among the stars—I must do my errand.”

She fumbled for a time among her strange mass of many-coloured clothing, and produced at length a small piece of paper. She gazed at it for a moment, and then kissed it devotedly.

“It saves me from horror,” she said, in a low, unusual tone. “It saves me from cramp and colds, from the frost and the scorching heat, but I am bound to show it to you—all of you shall see it. It is blessed, and was given to poor Mad Maud by the bright spirit. Look, do—you, and you, and you. Are they not brave words—words to save and bless?”

She glided among the guests, and held for a moment before the eyes of each the slip of paper that Ada had given her, till she came near the smith, when she replaced it in her bosom, saying,—

“Not to you, man of blood—not to you. Ho!—Ho! Andrew Britton, not to you!”

The smith had sat till now as if paralyzed; but, when Maud was making for the door, he suddenly cried with a tone of anger, while his face swelled with wild passion,—

“Hold—stop that witch! Kill her—tear her to pieces—curses on her!”

He rushed forward as he spoke, and would most probably have done the poor creature some fatal injury, had he not been suddenly stopped by a tall, stout man, who rushed from a corner of the room, upsetting several persons in his progress, and placed himself before Maud.

“Stop!” he cried, in a voice of command—“touch the woman at your peril.”

For a moment Britton paused, while his face worked with fury, and he more nearly resembled some wild animal at bay than a human being. Suddenly, then, collecting all his energies, he sprang forward with a cry of rage; but the stranger adroitly stepped on one side, at the same time that he threw a chair, on which he had his hand, across Britton’s path, who fell over it with great violence. Britton lay a moment as if stunned by the fall, and several of the company began to cry shame upon the stranger, who stood quite calm awaiting the rise of his foe.

The landlord, however, who had witnessed some of the affair from the bar, now rushed in in a state of great indignation with the stranger, for not allowing King Britton to do just what he liked.

“Troop out of my house,” he cried. “How dare you insult a customer of mine? Troop, I say. Go after your pretended mad woman. You want to rob the house, both of you. Troop, I say.”

“Suppose I won’t go?” said the stranger.

“Then suppose I make you, you vagabond?” cried the enraged landlord.

“You can’t,” said the stranger.

“Now by the mass that beats all the impudence ever I heard of,” cried the landlord. “Here, Gregory—Gregory! My staff! We will have this fellow out in the king’s name. My staff, I say! Was there ever such a rogue to assault my best customers; and then not run away.”

The stranger laughed in spite of himself at this last remark of the landlord’s and turning to the company, he said,—

“Every one here present can witness that I only interfered with this drunken ruffian to prevent him from committing an assault upon a maniac, and his present condition arises partly from intoxication, and partly from falling over a chair in an attempt to attack me.”

“You are a scoundrel,” said the landlord.

“Out with him! Turn him out!” cried the company, with one voice.

“My staff! My staff!” roared the landlord, gathering courage from the unanimous support he seemed likely to receive.

“You need not trouble yourself for your staff,” said the stranger, “I am going, and if you required a staff, I, could lend you mine, friend.”

The stranger took from his pocket, as he spoke, a small bright silver staff.

“W—w—what! Who—who are you?” stammered the landlord.

“It matters not just now who I am,” said the stranger, “but look to your house, sir—it has grown disorderly of late.”

With a slow step the stranger then left the room, amid an universal stare of astonishment from the company.

“Well, I never—” cried the landlord, “a silver staff! He belongs to the office of the High Bailiff of Westminster, as I’m a sinner.”

“And yet you wanted to turn him out,” said the cordwainer.

“Landlord, you are an intemperate man,” said another.

“The landlord’s a fool,” cried a third.

“Not to know an officer!” cried a fourth.

“Ah—ah!” chimed in three or four more.

“Why—why you all called turn him out,” said the discomfited landlord.

“Ah—yes,” said the man who had prepared to drink Britton’s health—“but we meant you.”

“Yes—yes! Hear—hear!” cried everybody; “we meant turn out the landlord.”

“The deuce you did.”

“Where—where—is she? Curses on her—where is she—is it a dream?” murmured Britton, recovering from his mixed state of insensibility, produced by drink and a blow of his head against the floor.

“Was—it true—eh?” continued Britton; “where the devil am I now? Can’t you speak, none of you?”

The landlord turned to the company, and placed his fingers confidentially and knowingly against the side of his nose, in intimation that he was about to perpetrate some piece of extreme cleverness not quite consistent with truth. Then, turning to Britton, he said in a commiserating tone,—

“Good luck, Master King Britton, your majesty certainly took forty winks in a chair, and by some sudden move, it has upset your majesty.”

“Is—is—that it?” said Britton, looking around him with heavy eyes.

“Yes all these honourable gentlemen can bear me out in what I say.”

“Curse me, then, if ever I had such a dream,” said Britton.

“All dreams are very disagreeable,” said the landlord.

“Oh, very!” said the company.

“D—n you all,” muttered Britton.

The landlord now turned again to the company, and favoured them with another bit of facetiousness, which consisted in rubbing his left elbow and going through the motion of drinking in dumb show; and having so bespoken their kind and considerate attention, he turned to Britton, and added,—

“Your worship’s majesty had just ordered cans of spiced canary all round, as you went off to sleep like a babe.”

“Had I,” growled Britton; “I suppose they all had it then?”

“No, no, no!” cried a chorus of voices.

“Quite sure?”

“Oh, quite.”

“Then I’ll be d—d if you get it!”

The landlord looked rather taken aback by this, and rubbed his chin in an abstracted manner with his apron, while the guests looked at each other in consternation.

“What are you staring at, all of you?” cried Britton. “You have seen a gentleman, before, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes—yes,” said everybody.

“Then go to the devil while I go for a walk!” added Britton, staggering to the door, and as he passed out he muttered to himself,—

“A dream! No, no—no dream. She will do me some mischief yet. I must kill her—curses on her; and he too. What did he want here? I know—it was Hartleton! But curse them all—I’ll be even with them yet. I should like to cut all their throats, and treat those beasts I have just left with cans all round of their blood! I’d make them drink—damme, I’d make them drink it!”

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Chapter XXXIV

The Fête.—Villany Prospers for a Season.—An Interruption.—The Dance.

That night the halls of the princely residence of Learmont presented to the eye one blaze of light, brilliant costumes, costly decorations, and everything that his imagination could suggest as calculated to entrance the senses, and convey a notion of his boundless wealth and unlimited prodigality. Learmont was now in truth carrying out to its utmost the mode of life he had so often proposed to himself as that alone which could smother the stings of conscience, and by not allowing him time to think of the past, enable him to extract some enjoyment from the gaudy glittering present.

To the entertainment which he now gave, he invited scores of persons which he knew only by name, but who scrupled not to accept the bidding of a man who was supposed to be rich beyond all comparison.

There were members of Parliament—of both houses, holy ministers of the church, high legal functionaries. In fact, Learmont, from the mere rumour of his enormous wealth—a rumour which he had himself originated, and to which he lent countenance by his great expenses, found no difficulty in filling his saloons with all that were considered illustrious or great in the metropolis.

Learmont was not a man to allow anything to be wanting at such an entertainment as that he was now giving. He possessed education, talent, and taste, although all were perverted by the utter absence of all moral feeling in his mind.

The most delightful music, breathing low dulcet sounds, mingled sweetly and harmoniously, with the hum of conversation among his courtly guests. The saloons rivalled the mid-day splendour of a summer’s day, by the colour and profusion of the lights, which lent a charm to everything within their glittering influence.

There were beaufets loaded with costly luxuries, to which the guests helped themselves at discretion; and all this, heightened as it was by brilliant costumes, civil and military, created a scene of magnificence that astonished and delighted every one there to witness it.

The guests would congregate together in small knots,—those who knew each other, to wonder at the glory and enchantment around them, and many were the whispered surmises as to how the owner of such riches had spent his early life, when now he manifested so prodigal a spirit, and showed such rare taste and royal magnificence in his mode of life.

Some of the more superstitious would have it that he was an alchemist, and had discovered the transmutation of metals, by which he could turn lead and copper to gold. Others looked upon it with the jaundiced eye of party politics upon the scene, and whispered to a friend that the lord of so much wealth must be a spy in the service of the dethroned family, whose rights, real or fancied, were not at that period, set at rest in this realm.

It was strange that but one of all the guests of Learmont suggested a probably and creditable mode of accounting for his great wealth, and sudden freak of spending it; that was that he had lived many years in melancholy seclusion, making mercantile ventures secretly with his large revenues, which proving successful, had placed some enormous sum at his disposal, the possession of which had dazzled his brain, and induced him to fly from the pecuniary economy to that of profuse and lavish expenditure.

This supposition was, however, far too commonplace and reasonable to find many supporters, and the majority decidedly inclined to the more marvellous opinion.

Learmont himself, attired in a handsome dress, which set off his tall figure to the best advantage, seemed upon this occasion to have cast off his habitual gloom and asperity of manner. He mingled freely with his guests, jesting with one, discussing some knotty political point with another in forcible and lofty language, cautiously complimenting a third, and in fact, winning from all those golden opinions which ever wait upon a known cold, proud, and haughty man, when he chooses to unbend himself, and make an effort to become agreeable.

By degrees, however, he confined almost all his attention to a few well-known political characters who were at the fête, and who were the agents of ministers in the barter of a baronetcy for a certain sum of money invested in parliamentary seats with Learmont. This baronetcy to procure which Learmont had lent all his abilities of intrigue, he fairly considered as the first grand step up the ladder of ambition; for even supposing the remote probability of his legitimate claim to the Learmont estates to be disputed successfully, he would still have higher dignities of his own acquisition to fall back upon.

Thus it will be seen that the wily Learmont was playing a complicated game of public ambition, while at the same time, he was privately tortured by doubts and fears, concerning the fidelity of his accomplices in crime—the crafty Jacob Gray, and the dissipated and ruffianly Britton.

The fête was to conclude with a ball in a style of unparalleled splendour: one of the largest of the saloons had been fitted up as the ball-room, in a style of costly and rare elegance; the chalked flooring alone costing five hundred pounds in execution, it being designed by some of the first artists of the day.

This room was kept carefully closed, until Learmont himself should perceive that his guests were desirous of some changes of amusement, when upon a signal given by him, the folding doors were to be thrown open.

This signal he did not give until late; and he had been assured of the baronetcy in the following week, before he fancied it time to change the scene.

“Your exceedingly patriotic conduct, sir,” said an eminent political personage present, “has been represented to his majesty, who at once acceded to the proposed baronetcy, which he was gracious enough to say should be but the prelude to much greater things.”

“I trust that my future patriotism will be equally appreciated,” replied Learmont, courteously, and with the smallest dash of satire in his manner; “the next step up the ladder of nobility, I am quite aware is not so easy of access.”

“Real patriotism,” replied the political personage, with, a low bow to Learmont, “will accomplish wonders.”

“Would three more seats in the Commons be of service to the minister?” said Learmont, in a low tone.

“I should say, decidedly,” replied the other in a suppressed voice; “and a-hem, Baron Learmont would sound well.”

“There is nothing like patriotism,” said the squire.

“Oh! Nothing,” replied the political personage.

“And it should be rewarded.”

“I quite agree with you, sir.”

Learmont then took another round of his saloons, and conversed gaily and appropriately with several groups of his guests.

A new arrival was now announced, which Learmont had been most anxiously looking for. Not the least important of the schemes of Learmont was to unite himself by marriage to some noble and influential family, who would feel their own dignity and importance interested in upholding him against any untoward circumstance that might occur of a nature to depreciate him; and the announcement that now greeted his ears, of the arrival of Lord Brereton, Lady Brereton, and the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, their only daughter, was the most welcome that had occurred. This family had all the mean, proud vices of the aristocracy, with scarcely any of their redeeming virtues; but they were of ancient race, and numbered among their connexions all the principal nobles of England, claiming likewise a distant alliance with royalty itself.

Her father was one of those men who fancy they and their extravagancies have some sort of claim upon society at large for support, and all thoughts of usefulness or prudence were with him quite out of the question, and derogatory to his dignity. The family estates were mortgaged to the last farthing; the family plate and diamonds were only their possession on hire from the money scriveners. Still the income of Lord Brereton was immense, for he was in various shapes quartered upon the public purse as a holder of sinecure appointments with large salaries, on account of his high birth.

His lady was silly, weak, and egotistical—the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, it was well understood, was for sale to the highest bidder; she was proud, supercilious, and handsome.

Lord Brereton, it was understood, would settle upon his daughter an estate worth ten thousand pounds per annum, always provided the happy man who made her his wife was in a condition to advance the sum necessary to redeem the title deeds from the money-lenders. Therefore was the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, with all her pride and all her insolence, put up for sale at the goodly sum claimed by divers lords as mortgagees of the estate which was to be settled upon her.

Into this family Learmont thought it policy to enter. They had all the influence of high rank, and were unscrupulous in using it. For the Honourable Georgiana he cared no more than for the feathers that danced in her head-dress. She might be proud, haughty, insolent, silly, but her pride was nothing to his; her haughtiness must cringe before his, associated as his was with intellect of a high order. Her indolence, too, he could treat with contempt. She was, in his eyes, merely one of the props to his ambition, and he approached the family, that he despised in his heart, with a smile of welcome of the most engaging character he could assume.

“Welcome to my humble house,” said Learmont; “no longer humble, however, when graced by your presence, ladies.”

Lady Brereton bowed, and agitated all her feathers, while the honourable daughter took no notice whatever of the courteous salutation of the master of the house.

“You are well lodged here, sir,” remarked Lord Brereton. “I hear it is his Majesty’s intention to create a baronetcy for you.”

“His Majesty is very gracious,” replied Learmont.

“I think it judicious,” added the lord; “wealth should never be allowed to remain in the hands of untitled persons. Either they, if fitted, should be raised to rank, or the wealth should be by some means taken from them.”

“There is much sound philosophy in what your lordship says,” answered Learmont.

“It is my opinion,” said Lord Brereton, with affected dignity.

“Certainly,” added Learmont; “and that should be sufficient to settle the question for ever, my lord.”

Lord Brereton bowed stiffly.

Learmont now cast his eyes around the saloon, and fancying he saw an air of satiety creeping over his guests, he resolved upon opening the ball-room, which he felt sure would give an impetus to the flagging spirits of the company, who were really getting tired of the incessant glitter of all around them.

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Chapter XXXV

The Ball-room.—A Noble Family.—The Interruption.—Unexpected End of Learmont’s Fête.

Clapping his hands as a signal to the attendants, who were in waiting, the whole of one end of the saloon vanished, as if by magic, being slid away like a scene at a theatre, and disclosed the magnificent ball-room, brilliantly illuminated, and adorned with the most exquisite plants and flowers. A murmur of delight and astonishment at the suddenness of the change arose among the guests, and then the younger portion eagerly pressed forward to enjoy the delight of the dance.

A choice band of music struck up in an enlivening strain, and in a few moments, scarcely a guest remained in the first saloon, in which, the numerous domestics began to lay a costly supper.

Even the apathetic Georgiana Brereton condescended to remark to her noble mother that the poor man, meaning Learmont, ought not to be blamed or despised, for he was evidently doing his best, to which the mother replied, in an affected languid tone,—

“Certainly, my dear. They say he is very rich. I declare it’s quite sinful for people with no names at all to have the means of doing these things.”

“Papa says,” added the young lady, who, by-the-by, was thirty years of age, “papa says that the Learmont family came in with the conquest, as a Learmont was a standard-bearer to William.”

“Indeed, my love! Well, there is something in that, and should he propose, we can make inquiry.”

“Exactly,” drawled the daughter.

The ball-room was now filled with the guests, and altogether, a more brilliant spectacle could scarcely be conceived.

Learmont made a signal to the musicians to cease playing, while the partners were chosen for the dance. With a gallant air, he stepped up to the Brereton party, and offered his hand to the Honourable Georgiana, which was graciously accepted, so far as the tips of that young lady’s fingers extended.

All eyes were upon him and his patrician partner as he led her across the richly-chalked floor. There was an impressive silence for a few seconds, when from a side-door a servant appeared, and gliding among the guests, approached Learmont, and stood for a moment as if he had something to say to him.

“Well, knave!” cried Learmont, his face slightly flushed with anger, at being interrupted at that moment.

“An please you, sir, there—there—is—”

The Honourable Georgiana tossed her plumed head with a look of great displeasure, and Learmont forgetting everything on the impulse of the moment, cried angrily,—

“Speak your message, sirrah!”

“A message from the Old Smithy,” said the trembling servant.

Learmont’s cheek blanched in an instant, and his lips quivered with agitation.

“How dare you?” he gasped.

“An please your honour,” said the man, in a submissive tone, “your honour ordered that—the—the—message from the Old Smithy should be always brought to your honour, and—he—he won’t go away—he—has knocked out two of Timothy’s teeth, your honour, besides, he—he—”

“Peace!” cried Learmont. “Peace, I say. Ho! Music there—music!”

The band immediately struck up an enlivening air, and the guests gazed at Learmont with bewildered looks, for he presented more the appearance of a madman than the high-bred courteous gentleman he had seemed during the evening.

The servant slowly retreated, but Learmont could not, dared not, let him go without some answer to the savage.

“Will your ladyship excuse me one moment?” he said to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, in an agitated manner.

“For as many as you please, sir,” answered the haughty damsel, with a tone of pique and insolence.

Learmont strode after the servant, and just as the latter reached the door, he caught, him, and said,—

“Tell him to wait.”

“Yes, your honour,” said the servant.

Learmont hurried back to where he had left the honourable lady, but she was not there. He glanced hurriedly around him, and saw her with her noble relatives at a distant part of the room. In a minute he was with them.

“Pardon my rudeness,” he said, “in leaving you. I am a bachelor, and have so many troublesome domestic matters to arrange that I am compelled sometimes to appear rude where I would most of all wish to be otherwise.”

“The interruption,” said the young lady, “was so very extraordinary.”

“Yes—a—a—rather an ill-bred knave,” said Learmont. “My servants want a mistress sadly.”

“Such a strange thing in a ball-room,” added Georgiana.

“Eh!” said Lord Brereton. “If it be pronounceable, my dear, what was it?”

“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Learmont; “an absurd mistake. Is not that a divine strain they are playing?”

“Delightful!” said the lady. “But the words were a message from the Old Smithy!”

“The old who?” exclaimed Lord Brereton, with a shrug.

“The Old Smithy. I cannot pretend to know what it means.”

“Frightful!” exclaimed Lady Brereton.

Learmont tried to smile, but the distortion of his features looked as if occasioned by some acute pain rather than any sensation approaching to the mirthful.

“It was most absurd,” he said, “and might make one angry, but that it is too laughable.”

As he spoke a voice behind him said in a tone of trembling apprehension,—

“And it please your honour—he—he—”

Learmont positively gasped, and clutched the back of a chair for support, as he turned and faced another servant, the former one being afraid to venture into the presence of his fiery master again.

“W—what now?” he said.

“He won’t go, an it please your honour.”

“Won’t go?” echoed Learmont, in such a confusion of mind that he scarcely knew what he said, and the servant, emboldened by the apparent placidity of his master, added,—

“No, your honour, and he says he won’t wait either.”

“Thrust him from my door,” shrieked Learmont; “kill him—no—no—tell him to come to-morrow—yes, to-morrow.”

Learmont’s noble guests looked at each other in mute surprise. The voice in which Learmont had spoken was loud and strange, and attracted all eyes to the spot on which he stood. A glance around the ball-room at once showed him that he was the observed of all, and he felt the necessity of controlling his passion.

“The dance, the dance,” he cried; “the most precious hours of gladness and joy. The dance! The dance!”

These words were scarcely spoken, when his attention was arrested by an unusual commotion at the further end of the saloon, accompanied by cries, the trampling of feet, and a few oaths, which sounded strangely in that gaudy scene.

Learmont’s heart sunk within him, and at that moment he suffered a pang greater than any he had ever power to inflict, as the conviction came across his mind that Britton was forcing his way into the ball-room, despite of every obstacle.

This was an event which could not have happened under ordinary circumstances, but the whole of Learmont’s household were aware that the strange man who came with the message from the Old Smithy had some sort of power over their master and their ignorance of its extent, paralysed their exertions in opposing his entrance to the ball-room, although had they felt themselves free to act, he would never have reached beyond the hall of the mansion.

Thus it was that the proud, wealthy, and haughty Learmont, surrounded by troops of servants, and evidently exercising the most despotic sway over them appeared to his assembled guests in the curious and anomalous position of being unable to keep a drunken brawler from the very penetralia of his mansion.

Too well the squire knew the voice of the smith not to feel convinced that it was he, who in some freak of wilfulness or drunkenness was thus invading his gay saloons. Defy him, he dared not; kill him he dared not; nay, it was questionable if he dared even be rude to the burly, and perhaps infuriated savage. A deep groan burst from Learmont’s labouring breast, as the conviction came across his mind quicker than we can relate the various steps of thought that led to it, that he would always be subject to these visitations, even in his hours of greatest enjoyment, when he was making the attempt to drown reflections in a crowd of the gay and the trifling.

None of the guests seemed disposed to place themselves in the way of Britton, and when the contest ceased between him and the servants, which it did at the door of the ball-room, he found himself free and unimpeded.

With a reeling gait he walked to the very centre of the splendid apartment, and for the space of about a minute he seemed confused and half stupified by the glare of light around; and the brilliant costumes and decorations that everywhere met his drunken gaze.

“Hulloa!” he cried at length, “the squire’s coming out at last. A dance, by h—ll I’m your man—I’ll dance with the best of you; I tread on no one’s toes if they avoid mine; I’ve had a little drop, but what matters? There are lights enough here to make a sober man’s brain dance again; what do you all stare at me for? I came with a message from the Old Smithy—tell that to the squire, and then hear what he says. Ho—ho—ho! We are old friends, very old friends, but he didn’t invite me to-night: it was d—d shabby; but here I am—the messenger from the Old Smithy, at ten guineas a visit. What do you think of that? If anybody says I’m drunk, I’ll take his life—his life I say—Hurrah for a dance! A dance! Hurrah!”

Britton had all the ball-room nearly to himself, for the guests shrank from him on all sides, and Learmont seemed for the moment completely unmanned and powerless.

Shaking off, however, by a violent effort the confusion of his senses, he suddenly advanced and confronted Britton.

The smith shrunk for a moment before the pale face of Learmont, in which was an expression of concentrated rage and hate that might well have appalled even a far bolder man.

Britton, however, was not in a state to admit of any moral control; drink was inflaming his brain, and there was a recklessness about him that, if not carefully treated, might involve both Learmont and himself in one common destruction.

The haughty squire felt fully the precarious situation in which he stood, and therefore was it that in the midst of a wild passion that made him tremble, he felt obliged to temporise with the man whose life’s blood flowing at his feet would scarcely have satisfied his feelings of awful hatred.

“Andrew Britton,” he said, in a half-choked voice, which he wished no one to hear but the smith.

“Well, Squire Learmont,” replied the ruffian, endeavouring to stand steadily the fixed gaze of the other.

“For your own life’s sake go away from here—you are drunk, and know not what you do.”

“Drunk, am I? Well, there’s many a better man been drunk before to-day!”

“What do you want?”

“Ten—ten—guineas and—a (hiccup) dance; I tell you what it is—it’s infernally unfriendly of you not to invite me. You know I’m a gentleman now. Never—never—never—to show me—your nobles—curse me if I—stand it. In—introduce me to the rest of the gentlefolks, can’t you, and be d—d to you. I—I ain’t such a sneak as that cursed Jacob Gray. No—no, I’m a gentleman every—every inch a gentleman. Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“Are you mad?” said Learmont.

To his agony the squire now observed that, impelled by curiosity, his guests were slowly creeping closer around him and the savage smith. He raised his voice suddenly and cried—

“My noble and honoured guests, this is a poor mad fellow, who from motives of charity, I support. I do not like to commit violence on one so afflicted by Heaven. Here, take this purse and go.”

“Oh, yes,” hiccupped Britton; “that’s all very well as regards the purse, but I don’t mean to go yet. I’ll have a dance. Let me see—I’ve got something to say to you, squire.”

“Another time,” cried Learmont.

“No—no—time like the present. Life is so very un—uncertain. I tell you what—you—you recollect that infernal Frank Hartleton?”

“Mad,—mad—quite mad,” said Learmont, striving to stop the smith.

“Beware,” said Britton, with drunken solemnity. “I say beware. He’s on the look-out—curse him—and that infernal mad woman too—curse her! They want to hang us—curse all the world. Beware, I say, that’s all—never mind me, ladies and gentlemen—I’m a gentleman—I live on my means—I’m King Britton, and hope to see you all at the Chequers. Thank you ma’am.”

This last observation was addressed to the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who having given her head a toss of disdain upon meeting the anxious eye of the confounded Learmont, imparted such a nodding reaction for some seconds to her feathers that the intoxicated smith took it as a complimentary acknowledgment of his invitation to the Chequers.

Some of the guests now began to laugh, and others to complain to each other in no very measured terms of the intrusion among them, of so very questionable a character as the smith appeared to be; while several, among whom were the Brereton family, made a move to depart, fearful how the singular scene would end.

For a moment Learmont had his hand on his sword hilt, and the turn of a hair would have induced him to plunge the weapon, at all risks, into the heart of Britton, but the latter seeing the Honourable Georgiana Brereton, who he supposed had been so civil to him, about to depart, made a sudden rush forward, and before any one could be aware of his intentions, he clasped her round the waist with one arm, and commenced dragging her along in a wild dance, entirely of his own invention. A general rush now took place to rescue the shrieking female, and a scene ensued of the greatest confusion.—

Britton grew absolutely furious, and dealt blows and oaths about him with equal liberality. In the midst of all this Learmont was in a state of mind bordering on distraction. He rushed into the midst of the throng, and seizing Britton by the throat, tore him from among the guests, nor relaxed his hold till he had dragged him through the outer saloon, and flung him into a small ante-room, the door of which he locked and placed the key in his pocket. Partly with the fumes of what he had drunk, and partly with the heavy fall Learmont had given him, the smith dropped into a lethargic state of half insensibility and half sleep, so that at all events he was for a time quiet in the room where he was thrown.

Dispirited, angry, and his apparel disarranged, Learmont returned to his ball-room. His guests would not, however, be persuaded to remain, and despite all his protestations that the “madman” was properly secured, he could not restore the confidence or hilarity of the company.

Upon one excuse or another, they one and all departed, and not a single dance took place in the elaborately and expensively prepared ball-room of the ambitious and mortified squire.

With a forced civility he saw the last of his numerous guests to his door. The lights were still blazing in his saloons, but there was silence and loneliness in the midst of all his splendour, which now looked such a mockery of gaiety.

He sunk upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands for many minutes in an agony of painful reflection.

Learmont’s first grand fête was over, and a signal failure.

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Chapter XXXVI

Albert Seyton.—The Lonely Search.—A Suggestion.—An Important Visit.

We will now conduct the reader to one of our dramatis personæ that we have unwillingly been compelled to neglect for some time—we mean the gallant and enthusiastic Albert Seyton. As we have recorded the prostration of spirits which ensued, when he lost all trace again of the unfortunate and persecuted Ada, after so providentially, as it were, encountering her in St. James’s Park, terminated in a long and dangerous illness—an illness which brought him to the brink of the grave; but thanks to the tender nursing of his father, and an excellent constitution, he successfully battled with his sickness and after some months, was able, although but the shadow of his former self, to walk abroad, by the assistance of his father.

His deep dejection concerning Ada, however, still clung to him like a blight, and it became clear to his deeply affected father that he should never again see the bloom of health upon the cheek of his son unless the hiding-place of the deceitful Jacob Gray was once more discovered.

The old house at Lambeth had been soon deserted by Tibbs, the bear-warden. The gloom and solitariness of the situation by no means suited the habits of the roving vagabond, who had been so long without a fixed home of any kind, that now he had become possessed of one, such as it was, he soon hated it, and looked upon it in the light of a prison. All that Jacob Gray had left in the house he sold off and once more the ruined building was tenanted only by the rats and mice who scampered along its deserted rooms and echoing corridors.

Twice Learmont himself had visited the house, and explored every nook and corner; and once the savage smith, in a state of semi-intoxication, had burst open the door, and rushed from room to room in the vain hope that Jacob Gray might have returned to his hiding-place.

After that it was the haunt of any desperate character who chose to enter it, for the door swung loosely by one hinge, and the winter’s wind, hail, and sleet, found free entrance to the crazy building.

Albert’s father, too, had been often, and lingered about the ruined street, until he could no longer cherish the remotest hope of being enabled to find a clue to the place of confinement of the beautiful girl, with whose weal or woe the happiness or sorrow of his dear son was so much mixed up.

Then he besought Albert to be patient, and trust in Heaven to send succour to her whom he loved; and when Albert himself could walk so far, he went with his father to the old house, and wandered for hours from room to room, pleasing himself with the thought that he was treading upon the spots oft trodden by Ada, and looking upon the objects most familiar to her eye.

The situation of secretary to Learmont, which Albert Seyton, little dreaming how closely he was connected with the fate of Ada, had endeavoured to obtain was filled up long before he was convalescent, and the state of health of the unhappy youth gave his father far more uneasiness than any consideration of his present prosperity in life.

Daily, however, the strength of Albert returned, and once again he commenced the search throughout London and its suburbs for the lost Ada. When wearied with some long perambulation, he would bend his steps to the Park, and sit in melancholy thought upon the same seat on which he had been sitting when he heard the voice of Ada. There, chewing the cud “of sweet and bitter fancy,” he would recline for hours, endeavouring to devise fresh schemes for the discovery of Ada, and trying to recollect some part of the city that he had omitted to visit. He would then wander homewards, listless, dispirited, and fatigued, to relate to his father the particulars and non-success of his toils.

It was upon one of these occasions that poor Albert was more than usually dispirited and weary, that his father said kindly to him,—

“Albert, it does appear to me that we can have no further scruple how we commit this man Gray. He cannot be the father of the persecuted Ada.”

“He her father!” exclaimed Albert. “I would as leave think that the tiger could be sire to the lamb. Oh, no! There is some dark, mysterious villany at the bottom of all. My poor Ada is the innocent victim of some intrigues and enemies, with which this Gray and Britton are mixed up. Alas! Alas! The villains may have killed her. Oh I would that kind Heaven would direct me where to seek her!”

“Do not despair, Albert,” said his rather soothingly, “the time will come when all this must be made clear and apparent.”

“I hope it may, father,” said Albert, despondingly, “but I am very wretched.”

“It strikes me,” continued Mr. Seyton, “that we are not justified, Albert, in the course we are pursuing.”

“Indeed! Father.”

“No, Albert. What I advise is an immediate communication of the whole of the circumstances to the magistrate, Sir Frederick Hartleton. The fact that a mysterious packet was actually addressed to him, and set such a store by this man Gray, will be sufficient to interest him in the case.”

Albert remained in thought for a few moments, and then springing from his seat with energy, he exclaimed,—

“Yes, father, let us do so. There is hope in that. Sir Frederick Hartleton must have means of inquiry, and sources of information that no one but a person in his situation could have. Let us go at once.”

“You are wearied now, Albert.”

“No, no; I am never wearied in the cause of Ada.”

“Wait till you are invigorated; you can then tell your fate better, for in truth you must know a great deal more than I.”

“Oh father, come with me now. You have made this suggestion, and it may be a most happy one. Come now!”

“I will not baulk you,” said Mr. Seyton, rising, “I do not think it a proper course; but do not build too much upon it, Albert: only look upon it as a chance that should not be thrown away.”

Sir Frederick Hartleton’s office was across the Park, somewhere close about the spot now occupied by the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Seyton lived in the neighbourhood of Soho; so that the father and son proceeded to Charing Cross and entered the Park by the gate in Spring Gardens.

The sun was setting; but the great mall of the Park was thronged with promenaders—St. James’s being then a much more fashionable place than it is now.

Albert and his father paid but little heed to the careless throng they passed among; their thoughts were intent upon the object of their search, although it was with a sigh that the elder Seyton marked the hopeful countenance and tone of his son; for he himself had been used to disappointment, and expected but little from the visit to the magistrate. It grieved him therefore to think that Albert should hope much from the application, because he knew that his disappointment, should it result in nothing, would be proportionately great.

“Albert,” he said, “this step I consider more a matter of public duty than anything else. We must still trust to Providence to protect Ada, only we place ourselves in a little better position by the co-operation of a magistrate so much respected and esteemed as Sir Frederick Hartleton, in what we do.”

“He may find me, my Ada,” said Albert, “and so entitle himself to a gratitude from me that shall be boundless.”

“You had better let me tell the tale,” said his father, noticing the agitated spirits of Albert—“should I omit anything, you can put me right Albert.”

“As you please, father,” he replied, “I am too much agitated to speak what I know.”

“Your sincerity will be the most apparent to Sir Frederick by the emotion you cannot subdue, Albert. All men, but those who are evil-doers, or live on the fruits of crime, speak well of this gentleman, as an upright magistrate and a feeling man.”

He had now crossed the park and emerged at the little, gate leading to Pimlico. They then inquired for the office of Sir Frederick, and were directed down a narrow street, called Buckingham-place, which was but dimly lighted by the inefficient oil lamps of the period.

Over an open doorway was a lamp, with the words “Magistrate’s Office,” boldly enamelled upon the dirty glass.

“This must be the place, father,” said Albert, hurriedly.

“No doubt,” replied Seyton. “Come in, Albert.”

They stooped under the low arched doorway, and were immediately confronted by a man of coarse heavy build, who demanded to know their business.

“We have a private communication to make to Sir Frederick,” said Mr. Seyton.

“Oh, private?” muttered the man.

“Yes, strictly private.”

“Is it anything about Bill Soames?”

“Bill who?”

“Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.”

“No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.”

The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went.

In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,—

“This way.”

Albert and his father stepped forward after their guide. In a moment another door opened, from which issued a stream of light, and they found themselves in the presence of Sir Frederick Hartleton, the magistrate, the terror of highwaymen; several of whom he had himself captured on Hounslow and Barnes’ Commons.

He rose courteously on the entrance of the Seytons, and invited them to be seated. Before they could speak, he said rapidly,—

“Gentlemen, I trust you will not take any offence at my saying that my time is very much occupied, and begging you to be brief.”

“The time of public affairs, sir,” said Mr. Seyton, “should never be heedlessly wasted. Do you know a man named Gray?”

“Gray—Gray?” repeated Sir Frederick Hartleton. “No, sir, I do not.”

“There exists, however, a man of that name, who, without authority, keeps prisoner a young girl, if he has not destroyed her.”

“Where is he?”

“That, sir, we do not know.”

“Where is the girl?”

“We are equally ignorant.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ada.”

“Ada what?”

“I know not, sir.”

“You do not bring me many particulars,” said the magistrate. “What do you wish me to do?”

“In this man Gray’s possession, sir,” added Mr. Seyton, “is a sealed packet carefully addressed to you.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes—and with a superscription attached, that is only to be forwarded to you, should he, Gray, be absent from home without note or message for a certain time.”

“Then you may depend that this Mr. Gray has found his way home in good time, for I have received no such packet.”

“We,” continued Mr. Seyton, “from once living in the same house with her, have warmly interested ourselves in the fate of the girl, who is as virtuous and amiable as she is beautiful.”

“Is this Gray in London?”

“We believe he is. He has twice shifted his residence, to ensure the better concealment of the girl.”

“There is most probably some crime at the bottom of this business,” said Sir Frederick; “but I cannot help you. If you can find the girl, I will of course grant a warrant to bring Gray here, for keeping her a prisoner without her will. At the same time, you had better tell me the minutest particulars as rapidly as you conveniently can.”

Mr. Seyton then related all that he knew of Ada and Gray, comprising what he had gathered from Albert, and comprehending the meeting in the park, and the particulars which Ada had related of the midnight attack upon Gray’s house.

“What names were mentioned accidentally or otherwise, during all this business?”

“But two, sir,” said Albert. “Ada told me in the park that one of the men who sought the life of Gray was called by him Britton!”

“Britton?” said Sir Frederick. “Are you quite sure that was the name?”

“Quite.”

“I do know that name!”

“You—you do, sir!” exclaimed Albert, with sudden animation—“Then you will save her!”

“Oh—you are in love with this imprisoned young lady,” said Sir Frederick, with a smile.

Albert drew back, abashed.

“Nay my young friend,” the magistrate added, “you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, which, in the case of this persecuted girl, must be disinterested.”

“You know Britton, sir?” said Albert, confused.

“I know a person of that name—in fact, I am watching his proceedings.”

“There was another name too mentioned,” said Albert, “it was that of a poor maniac called Mad Maud. She seemed to know this Britton.”

“She has cause to know him,” remarked Sir Frederick Hartleton.

“Stay—I—”

The magistrate paused, and it was evident that something had crossed his mind of an important nature. He covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed to be musing over some train of circumstances in his mind that wanted some connecting links.

“Be so good,” he said, suddenly, “as to answer me as exactly as you can, what I shall ask of you.”

“We will, sir,” said Mr. Seyton.

“What kind of man is this Gray?”

“He is rather above the middle height, of spare habit, and very pale.”

“His eyes?”

“Shifting and inconstant—looking here, there, and everywhere, but in the face of any one he addresses.”

“You never saw Britton?”

“Never.”

“Now tell me as nearly as you can the age of this young girl you call Ada?”

“She cannot now be above seventeen,” said Albert.

“Seventeen?”

The magistrate took a scrap of paper, and made some slight calculations in figures upon it—then he said,—

“During all this business, did you never hear another name mentioned as a prime mover or important personage, connected with it?”

“No,” said Albert, “those were all.”

“Well, gentlemen,” remarked Sir Frederick; “you have said enough to interest me. Pray come here again this day next week, if I should not send to you; for which purpose be so good as to leave your address. You may depend upon my utmost exertions to solve the mystery in which this affair is at present so strangely enveloped.”

Albert and his father returned their warm acknowledgments to the magistrate; and, leaving their address, they were escorted through the same door they had entered from the private room of the magistrate.

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Chapter XXXVII

The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The Papers.

For some moments after the departure of his visitors, Sir Frederick Hartleton remained in deep thought, then he commenced a diligent search among some memoranda that he took from an iron chest imbedded in the wall, and, selecting one paper, perused it attentively more than once.

“Surely,” he suddenly exclaimed, “this is the clue at last. Well do I remember the awful night at Learmont, when the storm spread confusion and dismay among the peasantry, and Britton’s ill-omened house was in flames, while the dreadful cries that even now seem to ring in my ears, so forcibly does memory recall them, issued from the burning mass. Let me see. The time. Yes, that is sufficiently near,—between fourteen and fifteen-years since. Learmont in London, and Britton, the smith, living near him? In a style of coarse extravagance and debauchery befitting his coarse nature. Who supplied the funds?—Why the rich ambitious money-loving Squire Learmont, to be sure! And wherefore?—Aye, that’s the question. For one of two reasons, I’ll swear. Either as a reward for present services, or to purchase silence for the past. Humph! Learmont is by no means scrupulous. He would murder the smith. Ay surely would he. There is something then in progress which makes Britton’s life valuable to the squire. And this man, Gray, too. Who is he? Was he the man who rushed with such frantic gestures from the fire with the child in his arms? And is that child, this girl—this Ada, as they call her?—Surely the whole fits well together. But still there is no proof—all is circumstantial as yet, and involved in mere conjecture. Squire Learmont may maintain Britton if he please, and who shall question him?”

Sir Frederick now again remained in silent thought for a long time, then he said in an assured voice,—

“I must trust this affair to no one. It is too intricate for any ordinary scouts to trace. I must see to it myself. The smith, I am aware, holds his drunken orgies at the Chequers. Thither I will myself go, and watch him. Squire Learmont, the time will come when the crimes that I suspect you of may be made apparent; but cunning devil that you are, I must be cautious or I shall alarm you, and defeat myself.”

The magistrate now rose, and disrobing himself of his upper clothings, took from a cloth-press in his room the apparel in which he afterwards appeared at the Chequers, where the little scene occurred between him and the smith, Britton, of which the reader is already cognisant.

We will now, therefore, fellow the proceedings of Sir Frederick Hartleton after he left the Chequers. His object was to procure poor Maud, and get from her as much information as he thought he might, by comparing with what he himself knew, rely upon.

He walked very quickly down the street; but the object of his search was nowhere to be seen, and he felt convinced that she must have gone in the opposite direction, although he felt almost sure likewise that he had noticed a figure somewhat resembling hers in the way he was proceeding. While he was standing in a state of doubt, the smith reeled past him, and, Sir Frederick stepping into the shadow of a doorway, escaped recognition from the drunken and infuriated man.

He then resolved to follow him, to see whither he went, as Mad Maud he could easily discover by his police agents on the morrow.

Dogging, therefore, the unequal footsteps of Britton, the disguised magistrate followed him closely and safely.

The smith paused at the corner of the street, and asked a drowsy watchman if he had seen a beggar woman pass. He was at once answered in the affirmative, and in the same breath asked for something to drink, which Britton, being at the same time more savage than hospitable, refused with the addition of a curse.

Sir Frederick now congratulated himself upon following the smith; for he doubted not that, should he encounter poor Maud, he would inflict upon her some fatal injury, unless he, Sir Frederick, was at hand to protect the poor creature.

Britton blundered on, cursing and muttering to himself, but in so low a tone that, although the magistrate came as close to him as he could with safety, he could not shape any intelligible phrases from what was thus uttered.

Britton walked on in the direction of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Hall, still very closely followed, and almost every passenger he met he asked if a beggar woman had been seen. Some answered one thing and some another, until a lad affirmed that an old beggar woman passed him near to Millbank, and then sat down on a door-step nearly facing the river.

With a shout of triumph Britton rushed onwards; but Sir Frederick kept as close as prudence would dictate, until they cleared Abingdon-street, and came upon the then dark and straggling purlieus of Millbank.

There were but few lights in this quarter, and the inhabitants were not very favourably known to the magistrate as the most moral race in London.

Britton now proceeded more cautiously, and kept peering about him to endeavour, as it appeared to Sir Frederick, as well to discover Maud as to note if any one was near. By gliding along close to some black palings the magistrate entirely escaped observation, and Britton seemed satisfied that he was alone.

Close to the river was a low wall of not more than four feet high, and the night was so dark that it could scarcely be distinguished from the dark stream that rolled by on the further side of it. Directly over the wall was a kind of parapet of about three feet in width, which was about level with the decks of the small river craft that came to disengage gravel, wood, logs, &c., at the wharfs, and was very convenient for them. Immediately, however, below this parapet, and, in fact, partly washing under it, was the black muddy tide of the river.

Dark as was the water, the wall was still darker, and Sir Frederick Hartleton could plainly see the upper part of the bulky form of the smith in slight relief against the water, as he walked slowly along close to the wall.

Once or twice he looked back; but his pursuer was on the other side of the way, and quite well backed by the black paling which, when he stooped a very little, was above his head.

This was the state of things, when suddenly a wild plaintive voice broke the stillness of the night air; and, with a mockery of gaiety, that had in it the very soul of pathos, sang or rather chaunted the words of a song of joy, hope, and mirth, which was then popular in the metropolis, and was the composition of one of the most distinguished wits of the day.

There was a wild abandonment of manner about the singer, that would have commanded the attention of Sir Frederick at any time; but now that he saw the smith suddenly pause, he paused likewise, and the strains with all their melancholy pathos came full upon his ear.

To the Bride! To the Bride!

“To the Bride! To the Bride,

I sing,

And away to the winds the strain

I fling.

There’s a tear in her gentle eye,

I trow—

She weeps, and her heart is sad,

I vow;

Her hand like a leaflet shakes

I see,—

That hand which never more

Is free.

She leaves her happy home

Of light,

Where her happiest days were past

So bright:

She has trusted all to one,

The bride.

Shall her young heart’s joy e’er know

A tide—

Shall her bliss flow on for aye

Or not?

When distant far, shall ever

The spot,

Where she lived and loved so long,

Be forgot?

To the Bride! To the Bride,

I sing,

And away to the winds my strain

I fling!”

The voice ceased. A solemn stillness reigned for a few brief seconds, and then Sir Frederick saw the shadowy form of the smith glide forwards—the gruff voice of the savage drunkard came to his ears as he stooped and exclaimed,—

“So Maud—we have met again. D—n you, we are alone now!”

A half-stifled scream followed that speech, and the magistrate bounded across the road. He paused, however, when he was within a few paces of Britton, for he heard the poor mad creature speak, and the thought crossed his mind that her cry had proceeded from sudden surprise, and not from any injury inflicted by the smith, and knowing his power to save her he thought that if Britton wished to procure any information from Mad Maud previous to offering her any violence, he might as well hear it, as in all probability it would be important and correct.

Acting on this supposition, he crouched down close by the wall for some few seconds—then suddenly recollecting the parapet on the other side, and the facilities it afforded as sufficiently close to aid poor Maud in case of the most sudden emergency, he crept softly twenty yards or more away, and then clambered over the wall in a moment, on to the parapet. To draw himself along this noiselessly until he actually faced Britton, was the work but of another minute, and laying flat down was quite secure from observation, while he was ready for action, and must hear the slightest murmured word that passed.

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Chapter XXXVIII

The Meeting at Mill-bank.—The Knife.—Ada’s Fate Hangs on a Thread.—The Bold Plunge.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Britton, as Sir Frederick Hamilton halted on the parapet. “Speak, Maud, or by hell I’ll throw you in the river!”

“What do I mean, Andrew Britton!” replied Maud; “I mean pain and death here and torture everlasting in a world to come for you. Ay, for you, Andrew Britton—you cannot kill Maud. The Almighty has written our names in the book of mortality—but yours comes first. Yes, yours comes first, Andrew Britton!”

“Idiot!” muttered Britton. “Tell me at once—did you bring that Hartleton to the Chequers?”

“Hartleton!—Hartleton?” repeated Maud. “Oh, he was one of the spirits I knew long ago, before I dropped from among the stars.”

“Answer my question!” cried Britton, fiercely, “did you bring Hartleton to the Chequers?”

“Answer my question, Britton,” said Maud, “if your sealed black heart will let you. Why does not my husband come to his bride?”

“What do you mean?”

“We waited for him, but he came not; then they whispered he was dead—yes, dead, and I asked Heaven who had killed him, when a voice whispered—Andrew Britton!”

“Peace,” cried Britton. “You are mad.”

“Yes, mad—mad,” said Maud; “but not so mad as Andrew Britton, for he has murdered—murdered the innocent. There’s blood on your hands!”

Britton started and involuntarily glanced at his hands.

“Ay blood—blood,” cried Maud; “you may wash away the outward stain, but then it clings to your heart; and when you are asked at the last if you are guiltless or not of shedding man’s blood, you will hold up your hand, and it will drip with gore!”

“Beldame, peace!” cried Britton. “You tempt me to do a deed before the time I intended. Hear me, Maud; you have but a chance now for your life. Answer me what I shall ask of you truly and I may spare you. Refuse, or tamper with my temper in any way, and yon river receives you in its black and rolling tide. We are alone; there is no one to hear a cry, and I will take care you shall have breath but for one. No one is at hand to aid—I have you at my mercy.”

“Your mercy, Andrew Britton?” said Maud. “Oh! Profane not the word. When did you show mercy? Savage—the spirit of God is above and around us. The fiat has gone forth, and Heaven has said, thus far shalt thou go and no further—but your questions?—Your questions? I will hear your questions, although I am a widow.”

“What paper is that you have?”

“Paper?”

“Yes; you have a paper with something written on it.”

“Well?”

“Give it to me or you die.”

“An angel gave it me. I dream of her now sometimes when my sleep is blessed and happy.”

“’Tis not for you, Andrew Britton. It belongs to the angel. I must only show it, and that not to you. No—no—not to you with your blood-stained hands.”

Britton was silent for a moment. He was hesitating whether by violence, at once, to tear the paper from the poor wandering creature, or endeavour first to procure such other information as he expected she possessed. He decided on the latter course, as violence could be resorted to at any moment.

“Maud,” he said, “when did we meet last?”

“In a crowd,” she replied. “I recollect there were many men, but none so bad as Andrew Britton. They held up their hands, the one after the other, and none had blood upon them save his alone.”

“What brought you there? Tell me, or this moment is your last!”

“How far is it to the Old Smithy?” said Maud, as if she had not heard or understood his question.

“Curses!” muttered Britton, whose passion and fear together had tended to sober him; “is she mad, or cunning?”

“The Old Smithy, where the murder was done, I mean,” added Maud.

“I’ll tell you,” said Britton, in a tone that he intended should be artful and temporising, “if you will answer me what I ask and give me the paper you have?”

“Britton, where’s the child?” said Maud. “How came you to spare the child? Did it lift its little hands in prayer to you? And was there one spot in your heart that shuddered at the deed of blood? Did conscience for once stay your arm? Or did Heaven interpose, and strike you powerless, when you would have slaughtered the babe? Tell me that, Britton. Where have you put the child?—Where is Dame Tatton?—Speak, Andrew Britton! I have travelled many, many miles to seek you. You killed him who loved me,—nay, scowl not, your brows are darker than the night, and I see them frowning on me. Oh! There is nothing in nature so dark and terrible as thy heart, Andrew Britton. Even at midnight, when people call it dark, and say you cannot see your hand, the smile of heaven still lingers on the world, and there is the faint light of its love still beaming through the mists of night! Andrew Britton, give me the child, and I will teach it to pray for you to Heaven. Oh, give it to me! It must be cold and weary. Give it to me, Britton, and then hope to be forgiven!”

“I have no child,” said Britton; “you know that years have passed, and the child who was brought by—by—a man from the burning smithy, must be now a child no longer.”

“You would deceive poor Mad Maud, because she hunts you—ay, to the death, hunts you. You cannot escape me, Britton—you are d—d!”

“D—d! How—what mean you?”

“I am to see you die.”

“Pshaw! Tell me now, Maud, didst ever see the man again who rushed forth bleeding, with the child, from the Old Smithy.”

“What man was that?”

“Didst ever hear the name of Gray?”

“Gray! Gray! The angel asked me that.”

“Ha!”

“Yes—yes—Gray. Who is Gray?”

“You could take me to the angel,” said Britton, in soothing accents.

Maud laughed hysterically, and pointed to the sky, as she said,—“Take you! Take you! With the weight of so much blood upon you! No, no. Were you lighter you could go, Andrew Britton. What did my husband say when you killed him? What was his last word? You could not forget it. It must be scorched on your heart. Tell it to me, Andrew Britton.”

“You rave,” said Britton; “do you know that Frank Hartleton, who used to live at Learmont, has become a magistrate?”

“Do you know,” cried Maud, “that there’s blood wherever Andrew Britton goes? If the soft dew of Heaven falls upon him, it turns to gore—he dips his hands into a pure streamlet, and the limpid waters turn to blood—his drink is blood, when it touches his lips—spots of thick clotted gore fall on him wheresoever he goes—it is the ancient curse of the Egyptians that is upon him! Ha! Ha! Ha! Blood—blood, Andrew Britton!—Blood!”

“Devil!” muttered Britton.

“I will haunt you!” continued Maud—“I will shout after you as you go—There steps a murderer! I will proclaim your calling to all—’tis one of deep iniquity—you are branded by the mark of Cain—you have sinned before Heaven in taking the life which thou could’st not restore or even comprehend! Wretched—scared—cursed Andrew Britton! I will be with you when you lie writhing in your last agony—when you try to pray, I will clap my hands and shout ‘The Smithy!’ in your ears. When you gasp for water to quench the fever that shall then be consuming your heart, I will answer you by ‘The Smithy!’ When you shriek to Heaven in your dark despair, I will answer you shriek for shriek, and the words of my vengeance shall be ‘The Old Smithy!’ Ha! Ha! Ha!—The murder at the Old Smithy! When the day comes, that the graves give up their dead, then will appear a sight to blast you from the Old Smithy! ’Tis hidden now; but the earth will crack, and with a hideous likeness of what it once was, the form of your victim will pursue you to accuse you before the judgment-seat of God! Then—then you will shriek—yell for mercy!—You, who showed none,—and the blue sky shall open to let you go down—down!—Encircled in the loathsome embrace of slimy awful things, that will lick your shivering form with tongues of flame!”

“Peace, wretch,” cried Britton.

At the same moment he lifted his arm, and in his hand gleamed a knife.

“Hold!” cried Maud, “you dare not!”

Sir Frederick Hartleton raised his hand. Britton slowly dropped his murdering arm.

“Woman,” he said, “do you wish for death, that you tempt me thus to kill you?”

There was a trembling fear in Britton’s voice that re-assured Sir Frederick; and, congratulating himself that the sudden movement he had, on the impulse of the moment, made, had escaped observation, he again lay perfectly quiet, but prepared to aid poor Maud upon an emergency.

“Maud,” said Britton, after a pause, “give me the paper you have! And leave London.”

“Leave you,” said Maud, “I dare not; I have a duty to do,—it is to follow you. Wherever you go, Andrew Britton, there will you find me. No, no! I cannot leave you; I sometimes think I am dead, and that there is my spirit haunting you.”

“We shall see,” muttered Britton; “spirits have never troubled me yet. The paper, I say!—The paper that you set such store by! I must and will have it.”

“Never!”

“Then take the consequences.”

He again raised his knife, and was in the very act of bringing it down to plunge it into the breast of the hapless creature, when his eyes fell upon the form of Sir Frederick Hartleton, who rose up on the parapet between him and the water.

This sudden appearance, rising apparently from out of the river, had all the effect which Sir Frederick expected it would. Britton, for the first time in his life, was affected by superstition. He could, on the spur of the moment, imagine the tall dusky form that thus rose before his very eyes, and, as it were, from the bosom of the Thames, to be no other than some supernatural being interposing between him and his victim.

He started back in horror, then, dropping the knife, he rushed precipitately from the spot.

Maud burst into a wild laugh, and before Sir Frederick Hartleton could speak a word to detain her, she fled in a contrary direction to that which Britton had taken, with great speed.

Hastily springing over the wall, Sir Frederick, as well as he was able by the dim light, pursued the flying woman, his object being the same as Britton’s, namely, to possess himself of the paper in Maud’s possession, and which, he doubted not, was in some way near or remotely connected with the chain of mysteries that enveloped the crimes of Squire Learmont and his associates in guilt, the savage smith and the man named as Gray.

Now and then he could see the flutter of her garments as she rushed along by the wall; and as often as he did, he redoubled his speed with the hope of overtaking, while she was compelled, from the nature of the ground, to go forward in nearly a straight line; for he well knew that after passing the river wall, which did not extend much further from the broken nature of the open country, and several hedges and plantations that were close at hand, he might be completely foiled till daylight in his attempt to follow the poor creature, who most probably fancied she was flying from Britton.

“Maud! Maud!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, with the hope that she would recognise that his voice was not that of the savage smith.

His call, however, seemed to alarm her still more, and, in fact, notwithstanding her wild and superstitious confidence in the probability of her outliving the smith, the fear of death from his ruffianly hands had come strongly upon her, and she fled, shrieking from the magistrate, with the full confidence that Britton was pursuing her, armed with the knife she had seen gleaming for an instant above her devoted head. Her fleetness astonished Sir Frederick Hartleton, for swift runner as he was, he could not come up with her.

“Maud!” he cried again, and the poor creature answered him by a scream, which at once convinced him that he inspired her with terror, rather than confidence, by calling after her. He therefore abstained from doing so, and began evidently to gain upon her just as she neared the part of the river’s bank where the low wall terminated.

Now she looked back and screamed again, as she saw his figure dashing onwards through the gloom.

“I am a friend!” cried Sir Frederick Hartleton, but his voice was weak from the violence, from which he had been pursuing Mad Maud, and she heard him not.

Now she reached the end of the wall, and looked round again.—A cry announced her terror, and she turned toward the river instead of the land.

There was a heavy splash, and as he heard it, the awful conviction came across the mind of the magistrate, that the unhappy creature had thrown herself into the Thames to escape him.

He gained the spot in an instant. A lighter stood moored close to the bank. With a tremendous spring Sir Frederick gained the deck, and leaning anxiously over the side, he gazed earnestly into the stream as it rippled by. A stifled cry met his ears. He looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a dark object hurried on by the water.

It was but the act of a moment to dive from the deck of the lighter, and in the next the athletic Sir Frederick Hartleton touched the bottom of the Thames.

He was an admirable swimmer, and rising to the surface, just as the watchmen on the Surrey side began to spring their rattles, and give an alarm by calling out that some one had fallen in the river.

Some few hundred yards in advance of him, he saw the dark object still hurrying on. Assisted by the tide, and his own vigorous swimming, he soon neared it. A few more sweeps of his arms brought him within arm’s length, and he grasped poor Maud, for it was she, indeed, by her long raven hair which had escaped from its confinement, and floated in a dark mass upon the surface of the water.

“Help!” cried Sir Frederick in a clear voice, and turning towards the Surrey shore, which was now much nearer to him than that from which he had come.

Several boats had now pushed off, and in one a man stood up with a link that cast a lurid glare over the stream.

“Hilloa!” cried the man. “Who’s in for a ducking now? Hilloa there.”

“Hilloa!” cried Sir Frederick, and the rowers at once pulled towards him.

“Back water!” cried the man with the light—“I see him—here ye are.”

The magistrate grasped the side of the boat, and said—

“Now, my lads, take in the woman.”

Maud was lifted into the boat, and Sir Frederick himself clambered after her.

“Fifty guineas, my brave fellows,” he cried, “if we get to shore in time to recover this poor creature.”

“Fif—fif—fifty?” ejaculated the man with the light.

“Yes—fifty guineas.”

“Pull, you devils!” he shrieked out to the rowers. “Pull—pull.”

The men bent all their energies to the task, and in less than three minutes more the keel of the boat grated on the shore.

Wet and cold as he was, Sir Frederick Hartleton seized the inanimate and light form of Maud, as if she had been an infant, and springing from the boat, he ran to a public-house called “The King’s Bounty,” that was celebrated at the time and declaring who he was, had poor Maud immediately properly attended to, while he himself ran to a surgeon, and procured his instant services to restore her if possible to consciousness.

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Chapter XXXIX

The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.

When Britton fled in sudden fright from the low wall by Millbank, he took his rout up Abingdon-street, and turning into the first house of entertainment he saw, he ordered a quantity of brandy that made the landlady stare again; but when he lifted the measure to his mouth, and then after a dead silence of about a minute, laid it down empty, the aforesaid landlady’s eyes became much larger than before, and she looked again and again in the measure, as if she imagined the brandy might still be only lurking in some corner, and would suddenly make its appearance again.

When Britton then struck his own head, which he did with his clenched fist, the landlady gave a great jump, and exclaimed,—

“Bless us, and save us!”

“I am a fool! An ass!” cried Britton. “To be scared by a shadow—curses! What’s to pay, woman? Don’t stand staring at me!”

“You—you’ve had a—pint, sir,” gasped the alarmed landlady.

“Take your money out of that, and be quick,” cried Britton, throwing down a guinea, the ring of which on a little bit of marble, which the landlady kept behind the bar door, being quite satisfactory, she turned round to hand her customer his change, but to her surprise he was gone.

Half maddened by rage and drink together, Britton now rushed back to where he had left Maud; but both she and Sir Frederick, from the pace at which they had immediately left the place, were out of sight and hearing; muttering, therefore, imprecations on his own head, the smith returned towards Westminster in a fit mood for anything.

“Fool that I am!” he roared, for the tremendous dose of brandy he had taken made him quite reckless of who might be within hearing. “Idiot! I who have made the clang of my hammer heard by midnight, when within a dozen paces of me was a—sight—sight that would—d—n the lights! They stand in my eyes—and the houses are toppling. Fool—fool to let her go. Would Jacob Gray have done as much? No, no, not he. It was the idiot Britton. Oh, if I could find them out—Gray and the boy—ay, the boy—I’d dash his brains out against Gray’s politic skull. Curses on them all. The—the very pavement is mocking me. The houses reel, and the lamps seem—dance—dancing—from earth to sky—as if they were all mad. It’s to annoy me—I know it is.”

He reeled on, the liquor he had drunk so recklessly each moment exerting greater effect upon him. The few chance passengers whom he met heard his wild ravings before he reached them, and some had the prudence to cross to the other side of the street, while others would stand in a doorway until the evidently furious man had gone past them.

One watchman, who had just awakened from a sound nap, and walked out of his box, eager to show his efficiency upon somebody, had the temerity to hold up his lantern in Britton’s face, and make the simple and innocent remark of—

“Hilloa, friend!”

Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.

This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!” but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in Abingdon-street.

In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.

The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman when there was nobody to apprehend.

In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.

The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.

“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best customers,” stammered Britton, rising.

“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep sincerity of it.

“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”

“Who’s here, King?”

“Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey coat?”

“The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?”

“Ay, the same: do you know him?”

“No, no, your Majesty.”

“So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?”

“Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!”

“What’s that you mutter?”

“I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your worship.”

“Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?”

“I—I—really don’t know.”

At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—

“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.”

“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”

“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man.

“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—”

“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.

“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”

“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”

“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”

“You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely.

“Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic regard of the politic host.

“I an idiot!” he exclaimed. “Well, I never heard the like of that before. I tell you what it is, master landlord, I—I—I won’t drink any more of your ale—d—e!”

“You—you can’t drink much, you wretched little midge,” said Britton.

“Sir,” cried the little man, giving his hat a fierce cock. “Sir, I never enter your house again, and my wife shall get her rations from the Blue Cat and Frying Pan, or the Crocodile and Crumpet, d—e!”

The landlord now winked so dreadfully and so incessantly, that it seemed quite doubtful whether or not he would ever leave off again; but the little man was not to be winked into good-humour, and shook his head in great indignation.

Britton reeled towards the bar, exclaiming, “Give me a half-pint measure, and if I don’t put him into it, my name ain’t King—King Britton!”

The landlord now took the opportunity of whispering to Master Sniggles—

“Do for Heaven’s sake be an idiot.”

“I—I—the devil!” cried Sniggles.

“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.

“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”

“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.

“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand. “Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”

“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”

“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”

“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”

“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.

“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”

“What did he say?”

“Why, says he, the squire gives an entertainment to-night to the court and nobility.”

“Oh,” cried Britton. “He does, and he has not invited me.”

The landlord winked at Master Sniggles, and Master Sniggles this time winked at the landlord, both the winks signifying how very far gone was Britton in drunkenness to make so very absurd and preposterous a remark.

Britton was silent for a few moments. Then a half-drunken, half-malignant smile covered his swarthy visage.

“I will go,” he cried, “I will be the only uninvited guest, and—and yet the most free. Ha, ha! Learmont would as leave see the devil himself walk in as King Britton, the smith. I’ll go!”

“Does your majesty really mean,” suggested the landlord, “to kick up a royal row at the rich squire’s?”

“Do I mean?” said Britton. “I will have a dance in his halls, I say. There’s not a knave in his household dare stand in my way. Hurrah! Hurrah! I’m a gentleman. I do nothing but drink, so I’m a gentleman. Ha! Ha! Ha! Learmont don’t expect me, but there’s nothing like an unlooked for pleasure. I’ll visit him to-night, if the pit of hell should open at his threshold to stay my progress.”

So saying, he dashed from the Chequers leaving the landlord and Master Sniggles gazing at each other in speechless amazement.

What occurred at the drunken smith’s visit to Learmont’s fête, we are already aware.

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XL. The Old House Again.—Ada’s Alarm.—Gray and His Gold

Ada felt that 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!”

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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.

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Chapter XLII

Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come.

“Who are you,” 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.

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Chapter XLIII

The Proposal.—Gray’s Reasoning.—The Vault.—Ada’s Tears.—A Guilty Heart’s Agony.

Oh, what a 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 that he would 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.

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Chapter XLIV

The Search.—The Confession.—The Strange Report.—An Awful Dilemma.

Jacob Gray’s first 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.

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