“Hark, hark!” cried Gray. ”Ada, hear me; whoever knocks without can be no friend of ours.”
“Indeed?” said Ada.
“ ’Tis true; I am the only friend you have in the wide world.”
“You mean, I suppose, since you have killed my poor dog,” said Ada, pointing through the open doorway to the inanimate body of the animal.
“The dog is dead,” said Gray.
“Uncle,” replied Ada, mildly, but firmly; “now hear me. You have broken the compact. Let those who knock so loudly for admission enter, I will not avoid them. Were they ten times my enemies they could not be more cruel than thou art.”
“Ada, you know not what you say,” cried Gray. “They cannot be friends, and, they may be foes. ’Tis light enough for me to note them from a lower window. Yes, I will see, I will see. Remain thou here, Ada. Stir not—speak not.”
“I promise nothing,” said Ada. “You shall no longer prescribe rules of conduct for me, uncle Gray. I tell you I will promise nothing.”
Gray made an impatient gesture with his hands, and quitted the room. He repaired to a window on the ground floor, in one corner of which he had made a clear spot for the express purpose of reconnoitering the doorway, and applying his eye now close to this, he could by the dim light trace the forms of two men upon his threshold. Too well were those forms engraven on his memory. It needed not a second glance to tell him that the savage smith, Britton, and Squire Learmont were his unwelcome and most clamorous visitors.
Now, indeed, the measure of Jacob Gray’s agony appeared to be full. For a moment he completely surrendered himself to despair; and had Learmont then forced the door, he would scarcely have made an effort to escape the sword of the man of blood.
“Ha! Ha!” he heard the smith say; “I like to knock thus, it alarms poor, clever, cunning Jacob. It shatters his nerves. Oh, oh, oh!”
“Can you depend on the men you have placed at the back of the house to intercept his escape that way?” said Learmont.
“Depend upon them?” replied Britton. “Of course. They ain’t paid, and are quite sober, as you see; they are ready for any cut-throat business. Let’s knock again. Oh, oh, how Jacob Gray must be shaking!”
The taunts of the smith seemed to act as a stimulant to the sickened energies of Gray. He roused himself and muttered, as he shook his clenched hand in the direction of the door—
“Indeed, Master Britton. Do not even yet make too sure of cunning Jacob Gray. He may yet prove too cunning for the sot, Britton. You think you have me so safely that you can afford to tantalize me by knocking, when a small effort of your united strength would burst yon frail door from its frailer hinges. We shall see—we shall see.”
He bounded up the staircase to the room in which he had left Ada. She was standing by the body of the dog with the lamp in her hand.
“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray; “we are lost—lost. We shall be murdered, if you will not be guided by me.”
Ada only pointed to the door.
Gray was thoroughly alarmed at her decisive manner, and another loud knock at the door at that moment did not tend to pacify his nervous tremors.
“There are those at the door who come purposely to seek your life!”
“Your life, most probably, Uncle Gray.”
“Ada! Ada!” cried Gray. “Each minute—nay, each moment is precious. There is no escape, none—none!”
“You are alarmed, Uncle Gray,” said Ada.
The perspiration of fear—intense fear, was standing upon the brow of Gray, as he felt that each fleeting moment might be his last. From exultation at the thought of still deceiving Britton and Learmont, he dropped to a state of the most trembling, abject terror.
“God of Heaven!” he cried; “you—you will not, cannot refuse to save me!”
“Our compact is broken,” said Ada. “I do not believe that I have so much to fear from those who seek admittance here as from him who but a few minutes since stood over me as I slept—”
“No—no!” shrieked Gray. “It was not I—”
“It was you,” said Ada.
“I did not mean to—to kill you.”
“The knife was in your hand, uncle; you had destroyed my faithful guard; you trembled; your guilt shone forth with an unholy and hideous lustre from your eyes. Uncle Gray, God can alone see into the hearts of men, but, as I hope for heaven, and—and to meet there my dear father, whom I never knew, I do suspect you much, Uncle Gray.”
“Mercy!—Have mercy on me, Ada.”
“Ask that of Heaven.”
“In your chamber, you have clothing befitting your sex; for such an emergency as this I provided it. Go, oh, go at once, and you may escape as a girl from those who come here to murder a boy.”
Ada glanced at the trembling man, who, with clasped hands and trembling limbs, stood before her, and then with a firm voice she said—
“No, no, I cannot.”
With a loud crash at this moment the street-door was burst from its hinges.
Gray gave one frantic scream, and threw himself at the feet of Ada.
“Save—oh, save my life!” he cried. “Have mercy on me, Ada! You shall do with me as you please; I will be your slave—will watch for you when you sleep—tend upon you, discover your wishes ever by a look. But oh, save me—save me. I cannot—dare not die!”
Ada shuddered at the wild frantic passion of Gray. She struggled to free herself from his grasp, for he clung to her with a desperate clutch.
“Mercy! Mercy!” he shrieked.
In vain she retreated backwards from him; he crawled after her on his knees, shrieking “Mercy! Mercy!”
Now Ada had gained the door of her own room, and with loathing and horror, she tried in vain to disengage herself from Gray.
“They come! Ah, they come!” suddenly cried Gray, springing to his feet. “Now, Ada, hear the secret you pine to know!”
“The secret?” cried Ada.
“Yes, I am your father. These men will apprehend me for murder; but I am your father.”
For an instant Ada passed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out the hideous phantasma of a dreadful dream, and then, with a cry of exquisite anguish, she rushed through the folding doors and closed them immediately after her.
“That—that will succeed,” gasped Gray, wiping from his brow the cold perspiration that hung there in bead-like drops. “The lie is effective; she may not believe it, but now she has not time to think. She will save me now!”
He rushed to the door of the room which led to the staircase, and in a moment locked it. Then he stood with his arms folded, and an awful demoniac smile played upon his pale and ghastly face, awaiting the issue of the next few minutes, which comprised to him the fearful question of life or death.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Escape.—Taunts.—The Confession.—Learmont’s Rage and Discomfiture.
But few moments remained to Jacob Gray for sad or exultant communion with his own thoughts. A heavy blow from without dashed the door open, and Learmont, with a drawn sword