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.