A Mother’s Care.—The Pursuit.—A Successful Ruse.—The Second Visit.
With a faltering voice the terrified female commenced the strain which
Gray had overheard her singing to her child before it was placed in the
fearful jeopardy she now considered it in.
The men’s footsteps sounded on the staircase, as in trembling accents
she softly repeated the words,—
“My babe, if I had offers three,
From gentle heavenly powers,
To bless thee, who, with aching heart,
I’ve watched so many hours—”
There was then a slight pause—a knock from without—a broad glare of
light, and Jacob Gray’s pursuers were in the room.
The mother rose from her chair, and cried,—
“What do you mean?—What is the meaning of all this?”
“We are pursuing a man, who is hiding in one of these houses,” replied
a stern voice. “I am an officer. There has been murder done, my good
woman.”
“Murder!”
“Yes. A man has been savagely murdered at the bottom of the steps, and
he who committed the deed is somewhere about here. Have you heard any
alarm?”
“I have heard many voices.”
“I mean have you heard any one on the stairs, or has any one been here?”
“I was singing to my child. Pray do not speak so loud, or you will
awaken it.”
“Search the room,” cried the man.
The mother walked to the side, of the cot, and appeared to be regarding
the features of her sleeping babe, but she was in reality endeavouring
to hide the expression of terror which she felt was upon her face.
The men raised the torches they carried high above their heads, and
glanced round the miserable apartment.
“Open that cupboard,” said one.
It was opened and then shut again.
“Move that cot,” cried he who appeared to be in authority.
“No,” cried the mother, suddenly looking up, “do your duty in
discovering the criminal, but do not in doing it commit a needless act
of cruelty.”
“Cruelty!”
“Yes; you see my babe is sleeping. Why move his cot and awaken him? He
has been ill. The fever spot is still upon his cheek. The quiet slumber
he is now enjoying is the first he has had for many weary nights and
days. How could a murderer hide with a sleeping child? Some of you
perhaps have little ones of your own, if you have, you will think of
them, and not harm mine.”
“Was it you singing just now?“ asked the officer.
“It was. My voice, I think, soothes him, even in sleep. Hush! Do not
speak so loud, or you will wake him.”
“Leave her alone,” said the officer. “My good woman, we don’t want to
disturb your child. We have our duty, however, to do; but I am quite
satisfied he whom we seek is not here.”
“A mother’s blessing be upon you, sir,” said the woman. “You have,
perhaps, saved the very life of my child by not disturbing it.”
“What, has it been so bad as that?” remarked another.
“Oh, quite, quite!”
“The turn of a fever in those young things is always a ticklish
affair,” remarked another.
“Come on,” said the officer, “come on. We are sorry for disturbing you.
If any strange man should walk in here, be sure you give an immediate
alarm.”
“Yes, yes,” gasped the young mother, scarcely yet believing that her
infant was safe.
In a few moments more the room was clear of the men, and then the woman
covered her face with her hands and burst into such a hysterical
passion of weeping, that Gray was dreadfully alarmed lest it should be
heard, and induce a return of his pursuers.
“Peace, woman—peace,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, from his
hiding-place. “I am not yet out of danger, nor is your child yet safe
from my vengeance.”
“Man, man!” cried the mother, “I have saved your life. Be grateful and
depart.”
“Not yet—not yet,” said Jacob Gray, slowly and cautiously emerging from
his hiding-place, “not yet. This place is now the safest I can remain
in for sometime, because it has been visited.”
“You are wrong.”
“I cannot be.”
“I say you are wrong. I have a husband, and when he returns, he may not
be so weak as his wife.”
Gray started, and replied in accents of fear,—
“When—when do you expect him?”
“Even now—he may be here directly.”
“I must go.—I must go,” said Gray. “You are telling me the truth? I
will give you gold if you hide me here for another hour.”
“My compliance with your commands,” said the woman, “arose from a
higher motive than the love of gold. Heaven knows we are
poor—wretchedly poor, but gold from your polluted hands would bring
with it a curse, instead of a blessing.”
“You reject a large sum for an hour’s safety for me?”
“I do.”
“But your husband may better see his interest in this matter.”
“No—my husband is poor, but he was not always so. The feelings and the
habits of a gentleman still cling to him in the sad reverse of fortune
we are now enduring. Go, wretched man, save yourself if you can, and
ask mercy of Heaven for the crime I hear you have committed.”
“That crime was in self-defence,” said Gray; “I will risk all, and
remain here until this house has been searched.”
“I cannot hinder you. On your own head be the risk.”
Gray stood near the door, listening attentively, and presently he heard
descending footsteps, which from their number, he supposed rightly to
be the officers returning from their unsuccessful search in the upper
rooms of the house.
He drew his pistol from his breast, and pointing to the child, said in
a whisper to the weeping mother,—
“One word as they pass, and I fire.”
His honor may be conceived, but scarcely described, as the door at this
moment was opened, pinning him against the wall behind it, and the
officer who was conducting the search, put his head into the room,
saying,—
“No alarm, I suppose?”
“None,” said the mother.
“Good night, ma’am. We have not got him yet, but he cannot escape. I
hope your little one will get better.”
“Thank you,” she said, faintly.
The door closed again, and the heavy tread of the men going down stairs
sounded in the ears of Jacob Gray like a reprieve from immediate
execution.
His state of mind while the officer was speaking was of the most
agonising description, as one step into the room of that personage, or
one glance towards him of the young woman’s eye, must have discovered
him, and it would have been but a poor satisfaction even to such a mind
as Jacob Gray’s, to have taken the life of the infant, even if he had
the nerve to do it, which he certainly had not, although a mother’s
fears would not permit her to run the risk.
“Tell me now,” said Gray, when he could speak, for his fright had
almost taken away his breath, “tell me who lives up stairs in this
house?”
“I know not,” replied the woman, “I am but a stranger here.”
“And—and you are sure your husband would not protect me?”
“A murderer and the threatener of the life of his child can have little
indeed to expect in the way of protection from my husband. Fly,
wretched man, while yet you are free to do so.”
“They have left the house,” muttered Gray; “will you betray me by an
alarm when I leave you?”
“Let Heaven punish you in its own good time,” replied the young female.
“Base and guilty as you are, I will not have your blood upon my head.”
“You will be silent?”
“I will strive to forget you.”
“Then I go, I—I think I am safer away, as you are sure your husband
will not take a hundred gold pieces to protect and save me.”
Gray glanced at the woman as he named the sum of money, to see what
effect it had upon her, but there was nothing but a shudder of disgust,
and he gave up all hope of purchasing safety from her.
Without another word, he cautiously opened the door, and listened. All
was comparatively quiet, and he passed from the room.
In a moment he heard it locked behind him in the inside, and his place
of refuge was at once cut off.
“Curses on her,” he muttered. “She may have no husband coming after
all. What can I do to free myself from the mazes of these courts?
Ada—Ada—if ever we meet again, I will have a deep—a bloody revenge on
thee. Beware of Jacob Gray!”
He shook his clenched hand as he spoke, and ground his teeth with
concentrated anger. The question now was whether to ascend or descend
in the house, and after some moments of anxious consideration, he
thought his better chance would be to descend, and make an effort to
pass himself as one of the crowd which had come from the Strand in
pursuit of the murderer.
He wiped the blood, as he thought, well from his hands, and the dust
and mud from his face; then arranging his disordered apparel, he
fancied he might pass muster without much suspicion, as he was
confident none of those who followed him could have obtained more than
a transitory glance at him.
He then carefully groped his way in the pitchy darkness to the top of
the stairs and began slowly to descend.
It was many minutes before he reached the passage, and when he did, he
felt for the wall of the passage, and glided along it towards the open
doorway.
As he neared it, he heard two persons conversing, and the theme of
their conversation struck a chill to his heart.
“Yes, you may pass in,” said a voice; “my orders are to let nobody out.
We are hunting up a fellow who has committed a murder.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. If the people in the parlour here know you, you can pass.”
“I live in the house,” said the other speaker, “they will recognise me
directly.”
Some little bustle now ensued, and a third voice inquired,—
“Do you know this person?” said the person who was keeping guard.
“Oh yes,” was the reply, “he lives up stairs.”
“Very well. Sorry to have detained you sir.”
“Never mind that; I hope you may catch the scoundrel.”
Jacob Gray shrank as close to the wall as he could, and some one
brushed quite against him in passing along the passage, without,
however, noticing him, although the imminent danger almost made him
faint upon the spot.