Mad Maud and the Magistrate.—The Scraps of Gray’s Confession.
“Man proposes, but God disposes” is a saying which Sir Francis
Hartleton was doomed to feel the truth of, as regarded his projected
excursion to the Old Smithy, at Learmont, for firmly as he had fixed in
his own mind to go, a circumstance occurred, which induced him, at all
events, to put off his journey for some short time.
That circumstance was the discovery, by the officers he had
commissioned to search for her, of poor Maud, apparently in the last
stage of misery and sadness—she had met with some injury from a runaway
horse, and it was in one of the most miserable of the many miserable
courts about Drury-lane, that the poor creature was discovered almost
starved, for those around her could scarcely find the roughest means of
satisfying their own wants, and the hunger of their squalid children.
The fact was immediately communicated to Sir Francis Hartleton, and he,
as soon as he could get time from his public attendance at his office,
went himself to visit her and take measures for her comfort.
The poor creature was lying upon a miserable straw mattress, covered
with an old rug, and the place she was in presented altogether a
picture of wretchedness and want.
“How long has she been here?” inquired Sir Francis of an old crone, who
showed him the room.
“Only last night,” was the reply. “She’s as mad as she can be. Just
look now, sir.”
The woman attempted to open one of the hands of Maud which was clutched
tightly, but the poor woman burst into a scream of agony, crying,—
“No, no, no—oh, spare me that—I found it by the dead that would not
burn. Help—help. Angel come and help me now.”
“Do not torment her,” said Sir Francis. “What has she in her hand!”
“Only some crumpled up bits of paper, sir, but she thinks a mighty deal
of ’em.”
“Go and fetch me the nearest medical man, and a coach,” said Sir
Francis. “Here is half-a-crown for your trouble.”
The woman with a profusion of thanks went on her message, and the
humane magistrate sat down by the miserable couch of the sufferer.
“Maud, Maud,” he said, close to her ear.
“Who calls? Who calls?” she muttered.
“A friend,” said Sir Francis.
She shuddered, as in a low plaintive voice she said,—
“No, no—poor mad Maud has no friend. Heaven will release her when
Andrew Britton is dead. He is to die before I do—yes—yes. Oh, if I
could see the angel once again.”
“You shall see her, if you will give me what you have in your hand.”
“No, no. There spoke the cunning enemy—set on by Andrew Britton. No,
no—fire will not burn, a murdered corpse, and so I found the
papers—most precious and rare. The angel’s flame is on one of them—that
would I not part with for a thousand worlds.”
“Where got you them?”
“At the old house on the marches. Ha, ha—I—I saw the glare of the
light—the ruddy hue of the fire, and I knew then that Andrew Britton
was trying once again to burn the body—but he can’t—he can’t. Ha! Ha!
Ha! He can’t. Fire will not touch it—no, no—he may heap faggot upon
faggot, but it will not burn. Is not that rare sport—rare—rare—and
Andrew Britton too, to be before poor mad Maud.”
The door now opened, and the woman approached with a medical man.
“I am Sir Francis Hartleton,” said the magistrate, rising, “will you
oblige me by doing what you can do for this poor creature?”
The surgeon bowed and proceeded to examine the patient.
“She is very low,” he said, “and will never get well here. The air is
pestiferous. Healthy lungs can scarcely stand it.”
“Can she be removed with safety?”
“God bless the angel,” said Maud. “Will you come again—murder—who said
murder? There—there—the flames are crawling, and like long forked
tongues of snakes from the Old Smithy, because they will not burn the
murdered dead. No, no, no—where are you, Andrew Britton? Ha! You are
here while the murder is doing—yes, yes—and yet you will die before mad
Maud.”
“She raves!” said the surgeon.
“Yes, poor-creature, her senses are sadly bewildered—she has known much
sorrow.”
“Ah, poor thing. These mental maladies are beyond the physician’s
skill. I will, however give her, if you please, sir, a composing
draught, which will most probably throw her into a slumber of some
hours’ duration, and allay much of the irritability that now evidently
affects her.”
“I shall thank you to do so. She shall be removed to my own house.”
“You will not be troubled with her long, sir.”
“I fear she is far gone on her last journey,” said the magistrate.
The surgeon wrote on a slip of paper the name of the medicine he
wanted, and gave it to the woman of the house to fetch it from his home.
“Oh, Heavens,” said Maud, “will they murder the child—can they dip
their hands in its innocent blood?—mercy—mercy.”
“Maud,” said Sir Francis.
“Hark—hark,” she cried. “Surely I hear music. Is it the passage of the
angel’s wings through the sunny air, from the bright gates of Heaven—or
is it human melody—ah, yes—you love me—you love me. By the
moon—stars—zephyrs. Well, sing again the strain—sing, sing.”
In a low mournful voice, she chanted, rather than sun the following
words,—
A Happy Time—A Happy Time!
“A happy time—a happy time!
I saw a child so gay
Trip lightly o’er the shining mead,
And laugh the hours away.
She sat beside a silver stream,
Amid the flow’rets fair:
She laughing pluck’d the fairest flowers,
And twined them in her hair;
They sweetly bloomed upon her brow,
In Nature’s wildness free.
Oh, happy child! Oh, happy child!
I would that I were thee.
“A happy time—a happy time!
I saw her once again—
That laughing child, a maiden grown,
Of wond’rous grace and mien.
She spoke—I knew again the voice,
And blessed her beauty rare,
Once more I heard her joyous laugh
Come ringing through the air.
I looked into her beaming eyes;
There joy must ever be.
Oh, happy maid! Oh, happy maid!
I would that I were thee.
“A happy time—a happy time!
She crossed my path once more,
That maiden fair; but she, alas!
Was sadder than before.
She lingered by the silver stream,
Where laughed the child so gay:
I longed to hear her laugh again,
And chase the tears away.
For tears there were upon her cheek;
Alas! That such should be.
Once happy child—once happy maid!
I would not now be thee.
“A step came sounding o’er the mead,
The tears were dashed aside,
A stranger clasped her to his heart,
“My own—my dear lov’d bride!”
I looked into the maiden’s face,
It was a happy sight:
I heard her laugh with joy again;
Her eyes beamed with delight:
She twined young roses in her hair,
’Twas beautiful to see.
There is no joy on earth like love,
Ah! Would that I were thee.”
She ceased with a shudder, muttering:—
“There, again—there, again. There’s a large murder doing at the smithy,
an Andrew Britton’s hands are red with human gore.”
The opiate was by this time brought by the woman, and with great
difficulty Francis made Maud attend to him.
“Here, Maud,” he said, “drink of this—’twill do you good.”
“No, no, no—there’s poison there.”
“Indeed there is not.”
“I see Andrew Britton’s face scowling at me, and the dark-souled Squire
of Learmont too. There—there—save the child—save it, save it. Have
mercy, Heaven!”
“Listen to me,“ said Sir Francis. “The angel has sent you this.”
She half raised herself on the miserable couch, and looked fixedly at
the magistrate.
“Your face is kindly,” she said. “Did you speak of the angel?”
“Yes; she has sent you this.”
The poor creature took the cup containing the medicine in her hand, and
drank off the contents without another word.
“That is well,” said the surgeon, “she will fall into a deep sleep, and
no doubt waken much better—see now, already.”
The poor creature lay down, and after a few moaning expressions, which
they could not hear distinctly, dropped into a heavy slumber.
“She can now be removed,” said the medical man, “with ease and safety.”
Sir Francis Hartleton, as we are aware, was an exceeding powerful man,
and taking off his own ample cloak, he wrapped it carefully around the
poor creature, and then lifting her in his arms, he carried her as if
she had been a child, down the staircase, and placed her in the coach
which stood at the entrance of the court.
He then courteously took leave of the surgeon, after making an
appointment with him a few hours after at his own house, and got into
the coach with Maud, having directed the driver to his house at
Westminster.
Careful not to disturb her slumber, Sir Francis Hartleton unclosed the
hand of poor Maud, and found crumpled into a hard ball, a number of
small scraps of paper, on which were words and disjointed sentences.
That the few words he could find were deeply interesting to the
magistrate might have been gathered from the expressions of his face as
he read them. His hands trembled with excitement as piece after piece
he spread open and perused.
“Here is important matter,” he said, “but it is sadly out of joint.
This must be some remnant of a paper containing a strange history, and
here is, it seems, the name of Ada. I must more at my leisure examine
these. Thank Heaven they have fallen into no other hands than mine.”
He then placed the torn scraps carefully in his pocket-book; and
looking from the coach window, he found that they were nearly at his
house. He carefully lifted the still sleeping Maud from the coach, and
carried her to a comfortable bedroom, resigning her to the care of his
wife and the astonished Ada, while he hurried to his own study to
decipher the mysterious scraps of paper at his leisure.