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.