CHAPTER XXIV.
The Attempted Assassination.—A Surprise.—Ada’s Surmises.—The Agony of Gray.
The last faint echo from the slowest clock had died away upon the midnight air, when Jacob Gray started from his position of deep attention, and placing his small lamp on one of the window sills, he drew from his breast the knife with which he intended to take the life of the hapless Ada.
“She—she surely sleeps sound,” he muttered through his clenched teeth, “or all these clocks with their solemn and prolonged echoes must have awakened her. Yes; I—I—hope she sleeps sound. I—would not have a struggle—a struggle. Oh, no, no, not for worlds. I—can fancy her clinging to the knife and screaming—shrieking even as—as—her—father did—when he had his death wound. That would be horrible. Oh, most horrible—and yet I must kill her. I must kill her. Did she not brave me to my face? Did she not tell me that she suspected me and my motives, and that no more would she keep herself immured for my sake? I—she—she did, and more than this, far more, she taunted me with. Yes—I—I am quite justified—she must die!”
The door which led into the inner chamber was in two compartments, and when Gray gently pushed against them, they both opened slightly, and the dim, sickly light of a lamp from the interior room, to his surprise, gleamed through the crevice, meeting the kindred ray of the one which Jacob Gray had placed so carefully out of the way of, as he thought, the eyes of the sleeping girl.
He crept into the room, and stood motionless for many minutes, regarding the sight that met his eyes. Seated by a small table, on which was the lamp dimly burning and near its expiration, was Ada, completely dressed, but fast asleep. Her face rested partially upon an open book, which she had evidently been reading before retiring to rest, when sleep must have come upon her unawares, and sealed her eyelids in forgetfulness.
Her long hair fell in beautiful disorder upon the table, and the one eyelash that was visible hung upon her fair cheek wet with tears. She had been weeping, but whether from some vision that crossed her slumbers, or from lonesome and unhappy thoughts previous to dropping into that temporary oblivion of sorrow, could not be known.
Jacob Gray stood like one spell-bound by some horrible apparition, for to the wicked can there be a more horrible apparition than youth, beauty, and innocence?
“She—she sleeps,” he gasped; “but by some strange fatality has not retired to bed. My—my task is now ten times more difficult. I—I know not what to do.”
The knife trembled in his grasp, and he shook vehemently; then, as a low murmuring sound escaped the lips of Ada, he sunk slowly down, first crouchingly, then on his knees, and lastly he grovelled on the ground at her feet in mortal agony, lest she should awaken and see him there, with those starting eyes, those livid lips and that knife, which he came to bury in her innocent and gentle heart.
Some fearful vision was passing over the imagination of the sleeping girl. Fancy was busy in the narrow chambers of the brain, and pictured to her some scene of sorrow or terror; deep sobs burst from the breast—then she spoke, and her words thrilled through Jacob Gary like liquid fire.
“Spare, oh, spare him!” she said; “he is my father—my own father. Spare him; oh, spare—spare—”
She awoke not even in her agony of spirit, but wept bitterly; then the tears decreased and sobs only were heard; the vision, like a thunder-storm, was passing away, low moans succeeded, and finally all was still again.
It was, however, many minutes before Jacob Gray again rose from his crouching position of abject fear, but at length he did so, and with the glittering knife in his hand, he stood within a pace of his innocent victim.
Then arose in his mind the awful question of where should he strike? And, like a vulture, he hovered for a time over his prey, with the fatal steel uplifted, doubting where he should make the sudden swoop.
By an accidental parting of the silken curls that floated upon Ada’s neck and shoulders, he saw a small portion of her breast; it was there then he determined to strike. He glanced at the blade of the knife, and he thought it long enough to reach even to her heart.
“Now—now!” he groaned through his clenched teeth. “Now!”
The steel was uplifted; nay, it was upon the point of descending, when one heavy knock upon the outer door of the lone house echoed through the dreary pile, and arrested the arm of the murderer, while the blood rushed in terror like a gush of cold water to his heart.
There was then an awful silent pause, when again that solemn heavy knock awakened the echoes of the empty house.
Slowly, inch by inch, as if his arm worked by some machinery, Jacob Gray brought the knife by his side, and still bending over the unconscious Ada, he listened for a repetition of that knock, as if each melancholy blow was struck upon his own heart.
Again it came, and then again more rapidly, and Jacob Gray trembled so violently that he was fain to lean upon the table at which Ada slept for support.
That movement awakened Ada, and starting from her position of rest, she suddenly, with a cry of surprise, confronted the man who had sought her chamber with so fell and horrible a purpose. One glance at the knife which Jacob Gray held in his hand, and then a searching look at his face, told her all. She clasped her hands in terror as she exclaimed—
“You—you—come to kill me?”
“No—no,” stammered Gray, trying to smile, and producing his usual painful distortion of features. “No—no—I did—not—no—no! Ada, I did not.”
“That knife?” said Ada, pointing to it as she spoke.
“The knife,” repeated Gray. “Hark, some one knocks, Ada, at our lonely home.”
“Those looks of terror,” continued the young girl, “those blanched cheeks, those trembling hands, all convince me that I have escaped death at your hands.”
“No; I say no,” gasped Gray.
“And my hound too,” added Ada: “my fond, faithful dog, where is he, uncle Gray?”
“Yes; the dog,” cried Gray, eagerly catching at the hope of persuading her that it was solely to compass the destruction of the hound he had thus stolen to her room. “I admit I did seek the dog’s life; you vexed me about the animal.”
The knocking at the door sounded now more loudly than before, and the knocker was evidently plied by an impatient hand.
“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.