The Projected Murder.—The Alarm.—The Death-shot.—Ada’s Anguish and
Indignation.
Ada was so much shocked at the proposal of Jacob Gray to commit a
deliberate and cold-blooded murder, that now for several minutes she
remained perfectly silent—a silence which Gray construed into passive
acquiescence in his proposition.
“You see, Ada,” he continued, “we have no other hope—as you say we
cannot starve here—the blood of this man be upon his own head—I do not
want his life, Ada; but I must preserve myself and you. You must see
all this in its proper light, Ada—you do not speak.”
“Hear me then speak now,” said Ada. “In all your knowledge of me, Jacob
Gray, what have you found upon which to ground a moment’s thought that
I could be as wicked as yourself? Captivity may present horrors to you,
from which you would free yourself, even at the fearful price of
murder. It may be that this awful deed you contemplate would, if
executed, add but another item to a fearful record of crime; but, God
of Heaven! What should make me so wicked? Wherefore should I connive at
a deed proscribed alike by God and man? Jacob Gray, I am weak and you
are strong; I am defenceless and you armed; but as there is a Heaven
above us, I will dare all—risk all to prevent this contemplated murder.”
“You are wild—mad,” said Gray, in a low tone, which, from its
bitterness, was evidently one of intense rage likewise. “The fear of
death has hitherto acted upon your mind—let it so act still.”
“It was a sufficient motive,” replied Ada, “when I personally was
concerned, and had to choose between captivity with hope, and death
which would extinguish all but Heaven’s mercy hereafter. But now, Jacob
Gray, I cannot, will not purchase life for myself at the price of death
to a fellow-creature.”
“You will not?”
“No; I will not: not if he, whose life you seek, were the veriest
wretch on earth—were he even such as you are, Jacob Gray, I would leave
him to his God.”
“You rave, girl—you rave,”
“No, I do not rave—’tis you that with a hollow, hideous sophistry
delude yourself.”
“Your consent or non-consent is of little moment,” said Gray; “I hold
both your life and his in my hands.”
“Then you shall take mine first, for I am sickened at such villany, and
would rather be its victim than its spectator. From this moment, Jacob
Gray, no bond, no promise binds me to you. Take but one decisive step
to commit the murder you contemplate, and this place shall echo with my
cries.”
Gray was evidently unprepared for the dilemma into which he had now
brought himself, and he knew not what to say for some moments, during
which he glared upon Ada with a fiendish expression of his eyes; which
she could just discern in the dim light of the cellar, that was more
worthy of some malignant demon than anything human.
“You ask me to sacrifice myself?” he at length said.
“No, I ask no such thing,” replied Ada; “allow me to ascend from this
place and see the man you say waits above. Friend or foe, I will risk
the encounter, and I will not betray you.”
“No, no,” said Gray; “not yet, not yet, Ada; I cannot part with you
yet. Moreover, there would still be danger—great danger. I cannot do as
you wish.”
“Then you shall incur a greater risk, or commit two murders.”
“Hush, hush,” said Gray; “you speak too loud. Let me think again; I
will spare him if I can.”
Jacob Gray remained in deep thought for about ten minutes; then, as he
came to some conclusion satisfactory to him, a dark and singular
contortion of the features crossed his face, and his hand was thrust
into the breast of his clothing, where he had a loaded pistol, upon
which he well knew he could depend in any sudden emergency.
“Ada,” he said, “I am resolved.”
“Resolved on what?”
“To take this man’s life, who is here for the express purpose of taking
mine if he can find the opportunity.”
“Then I am resolved,” said Ada, “to raise a voice of warning to that
man, be he whom he may. If this is to be my last hour, Heaven receive
me!”
“You shall die,” said Gray.
Ada sunk on her knees, and covering her face within her hands, she
said,—
“Jacob Gray, if Heaven permits you to murder me, I will not shrink. May
God forgive you the awful crime!”
Gray laughed a bitter, short laugh, as he said,—
“No, Ada, you may live. I do not intend to kill you. Possibly, too, I
may spare him who keeps watch above for me. Be patient while I go and
reconnoitre.”
“No, no,” cried Ada, “I cannot be patient here; you are going to
murder.”
“Listen to me,” said Gray. “There is one more chance. After nightfall
we will endeavour to leave the house. If we succeed in doing so
unobstructed, all may be well; but if opposition be offered, I must
defend myself. You surely cannot deny me that privilege, Ada?”
“Jacob Gray, you have not the courage to pursue such a plan,” said Ada.
“Girl, are you bent on your own destruction?” cried Gray.
“No; but; I know your nature well. The plan you propose is opposite to
your usual manner of acting. A darker scheme possesses you, of which
the one you have now proposed is but the cloak.”
“I waste time upon you,” said Gray, advancing towards the ladder.
He slowly and cautiously ascended, and then paused at the top step.
Ada bent all her attention to listen if any sound came from the room
above, for she was quite resolved, let the consequences to her be what
they might, to raise a cry of alarm, should Gray show any decided
symptoms of carrying out his project of murdering the man in the house.
The few moments that succeeded were intensely agonising to Ada, and her
heart beat painfully and rapidly as she kept her eye intently fixed
upon the dusky form of Jacob Gray, as it was dimly discernible at the
top of the ladder. This state of suspense did not last long, for in a
very few minutes the shrill whistling of Elias awakened the echoes of
the old mansion, and it was evident that he was in the room from which
the panel conducting to the cellar opened.
Ada strained her eyes upwards, but still all was darkness. She knew
that if Gray were to remove the panel, ever so slightly she must be
aware of it, by a ray of light streaming through the aperture; for that
ray of light Ada waited, as her signal to raise an alarm, which she was
determined to do.
Little, however, did Ada suspect that Gray had formed a plan which her
very effort to save the man on watch would assist to carry into effect.
Such, however, was the fact. Gray fully expected, and was quite
prepared for a cry from Ada, whenever he should draw aside the panel.
The loud whistling of Elias still continued, when suddenly Gray moved
the panel just sufficiently to allow Ada to see from below that he had
done so, and then, as he had done once before, he slid down the ladder,
and, as Ada thought, disappeared in the darkness which shrouded the
further extremity of the cellar. Had she felt inclined Ada could not
have stopped herself from uttering a cry, and the instant she saw
daylight through the panel, her voice rose clear and loud—
“Help—help!” she cried “Help—murder!”
Mr. Elias’s whistling immediately ceased, although he was in the middle
of a very intricate passage, and he sprung to the opening in the wall.
With one effort he tore down the piece of wainscoting and cried in a
loud voice,—
“Hilloa!”
Ada made a rush to the ladder, but an arm suddenly arrested her
progress with such violence that she fell to the ground with great
force.
Ada lay for a moment or two stunned by her fall, and she heard only
indistinctly the voice of Elias cry,—
“Hilloa! Below there. Oh, here’s a ladder, is there? Well, that’s what
I call providential.“
Elias was upon the ladder, and cautiously descending backwards, when
Ada shrieked,—
“Beware!—Treachery!”
Elias paused a moment. Then there was a bright flash, a loud report,
and a heavy fall, all of which were succeeded by a silence as awful and
profound as that of the grave. Ada rose partially from the floor, and a
dreadful consciousness of what had occurred came across her mind.
“Jacob Gray,” she said, “you are a murderer—a murderer.”
“I—I was compelled to do the deed,” said Gray, in a low hoarse voice.
“Come away—come away, Ada. Let us fly from hence—come away.”
“Not with you, man of blood,” cried Ada. “God sees this deed. Murderer,
I cannot go with you.”
“’Twas my life or his,” said Gray, creeping out from behind the ladder,
where he had been crouching, and through the spokes of which he had
shot Elias as he descended with a certainty of effect.
“No—no. Such was not the fact,” cried Ada.
“I care not,” said Gray, throwing off his low cautious tone, and
assuming a high shrill accent of anger; “I care not. Place what
construction you will upon me, or my actions, you shall come with me
now, or remain here to starve. Refuse to accompany me, and I will
remove the ladder and leave you here with the dead.”
Ada shuddered.
“Whither—oh whither would you lead me?” she said.
“To some other place of refuge for a short time, until my purposes are
completed. Be quick girl, do you stay or go?”
“It may be death to go,” said Ada, “but it is suicide to stay.”
“You consent?”
“I am in the hand of Providence. To it I commit myself. I will follow
you.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Gray, and he ascended the ladder with nervous
trepidation, followed slowly by the afflicted and terrified Ada. The
evening was fast approaching as they gained the room above, and Jacob
Gray, seizing Ada by the wrist, led her to the outer door of the old
house in which they had lived so long.
He turned upon the threshold, and holding up his hand, cried,—
“My curse be upon this habitation. Had I the means at hand—yet stay one
moment, Ada.”
He knelt on the step, and struck a light with materials he always
carried about him.
Dragging Ada again into the house, he opened the door of a room on the
ground floor, on which was a quantity of littered straw and baskets.
Throwing the light among the inflammable material, he ground through
his set teeth,—
“Burn, burn! And may not one brick stand upon another of this hateful
place.”
He then dragged Ada from the house, and took his course along the
fields at a rapid pace.