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.