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.”