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.