CHAPTER XXX.
The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair.
Poor Maud spoke in a low earnest voice, and Ada became deeply interested in her story, as with many tears she poured it into the ears of the lovely and persecuted girl.
“You are young and very beautiful,” she commenced. “I was young, and they told me I was beautiful. Look at me now, and smile at the idle boast. Still there was one who loved me—one who listened to my voice, as though it had a magic in it—one who followed me where I led. My heart was touched by the purity of his devotion, and I loved him even as he loved me, next thing to Heaven. It might be that we each made too much of our earthly idols, and so turned the face of Heaven against us both; but I scarce can think so, for He who made His creatures with fond and faithful hearts, must surely look with pleasure rather than anger upon their deep and holy affections. Well, girl, the future lay before us like a summer’s day—all sunshine, joy, and delight. We asked each other what could mar our happiness; and in the ecstasy of our own dear truthfulness we answered, ‘Nothing.’
“Where our mutual parents lived, there came one day a man of coarse and ruffianly aspect. He said he came to settle in the place, and seek a helpmate among the village maidens. None welcomed him, for his manner was harsh and brutal—an index of the mind. This man’s name was Andrew Britton.”
“Indeed!” said Ada.
“Yes, Andrew Britton, a smith. With unparalleled insolence he said he had fixed on me for his wife. I scorned his suit. He jested at my indignant refusal. I wept, for we were alone. He laughed at my tears. Then I threatened him with the resentment of him to whom I had already plighted my young heart, and Andrew Britton swore then a fearful oath that I never should be his.
“He whom I loved found me in tears, and after much solicitation, got from me the particulars of the interview that had just terminated with the Savage Smith. I would not tell him, though, until he had promised me he would not endanger himself by resenting—men heed not such promises. His young blood boiled with anger. He met the smith, and from words they came to mutual violence. Britton was much hurt, and he whom I loved came off the conqueror, to the joy of all.
“Britton then came, and asked my forgiveness. He said he was an altered man. He swore he repented of his passion, and we believed him. But, oh, girl! When a bad, wicked man speaks, you may fairly mistrust him. ’Tis the glitter of the eyes of the serpent that fascinate but to betray.
“The day of my union was at length fixed. There were no regrets—no grief—all was happiness. We wandered hand-in-hand the evening before to look at the last sunset ere we should be bound together in those holy ties which none dare impiously to break asunder.
“We wondered what could happen to make us unhappy. We saw no cloud in the clear horizon of our joy! Oh, what an hour of bliss was that! ’Tis needless to dwell on what we said or how we looked into each other’s eyes to see our own reflected happiness.
“The sun sunk to rest, and in the east uprose the silver moon ere we parted. With many lingering regrets, we said adieu. Oh, God! We never met again!”
Maud sunk on her knees, and, hiding her face upon her chair, she again gave way to a similar wild, awful passion of grief to what had before affected her.
Ada had been deeply impressed with poor Maud’s simple and affecting narrative, told as it was with a pathos which defies description. She did not speak but let the woman have her way, and after some minutes, the violence of her grief, as before, subsided and she rose to outward appearance calm again.
“Bear with me yet a brief space,” said Maud. “I shall not weep so much again.”
“I hope indeed you never may,” said Ada. “But it would be a harsh and unfeeling heart that could not bear patiently the tears springing from a bruised heart.”
Maud took Ada’s hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent gratitude, and then resumed her narrative.
“The morrow came, and brought with it a cloudless sky and a bright sunshine, which never to me seemed so bright and beautiful. We were to meet at the village church, to part no more! And, when I and my friends arrived, and we found that we were first, they were inclined to chide my lover’s delay, but I only smiled, for no doubt crossed my mind. Not the smallest speck appeared to me as yet in the heaven of my happiness.
“An hour passed, and still he came not. Then, indeed, there was a flutter at my heart—a mingled feeling of alarm and anger. Then some went to seek him, and returned unsuccessful. He could not be found! My anger vanished, and I began to tremble. Two more hours passed away—the last was one of agony.
“Then came one into the church, and whispered to my father. I saw his cheek grow pale! I saw him clutch at the altar rail for support! At that moment, I thought I should have died, for I knew that something had been whispered which was too horrible to speak aloud.
“By a violent effort, I preserved myself from fainting, and rushed to my father.
“‘Tell me—tell!’ I shrieked. ‘What has happened? Father, suspense will kill me.’
“‘He is dead!’ was the reply.
“I heard no more—I saw no more! For many months they told me I lay a breathing senseless form, and then I awakened, and my first words were, ‘Take me to him!’
“They told me then that the grave had long since received its tenant, and by degrees I learned from them that my lover—my husband in the sight of Heaven, had been found a mangled corpse at the foot of a deep precipice.
“He must have fallen over, they told me, but I knew better; something whispered to me that Andrew Britton did the deed.
“Since then I know not what has happened. Once I awoke and found myself chained to a stone wall in a gloomy cell; then again I was thrust out from somewhere, and a voice told me to be gone, for I was harmless. So I became Mad Maud as I am, and I follow Britton the Savage Smith, because he is to die before I do, and then I shall meet my lover again—and do you know that some sunset, by the great bounty of Heaven, he will come again—when the murder is found out; yes, yes, when the murder is found out. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Again the maniac’s eye glanced with the wild fire of insanity, and poor Maud was lost once more in the wanderings of her imagination.
The sympathies of Ada had been so strongly excited by the narrative of poor Maud that she had allowed the lucid interval of the poor maniac to pass away without questioning on the subjects nearest and dearest to her. With a hope that even yet it might not be too late to glean some information from her, she said,—
“What murder do you mean?”
“The murder at the Old Smithy,” replied Maud. “You saw the man as well I—we all saw him.”
“When was that?” asked Ada.
“Last night! Last night! Hark, the wind is still around the Old Smithy.”
“’Tis all in vain,” sighed Ada. “The time is past.”
It now suddenly struck Ada that there would be extreme danger to the poor creature should she stay till Jacob Gray came home; and as the sun was just dipping into the western horizon, she said to her,—
“Take with you all these victuals,—I have no power here to prolong your welcome.”
“The child of the dead! The child of the dead!” muttered Maud, totally unheeding what Ada said.
“Let me now entreat you to go,” said the alarmed girl. “There will be one here by sunset who has no feeling, no mercy.”
“That must be Britton, the Savage Smith,” cried Maud.
“No, ’tis one Jacob Gray. Heard you ever that name before?”
“Jacob Gray!” repeated Maud, evidently with no sort of recognition of the name. “I will sing to him and you.”
“Go; let me entreat you to go,” cried Ada.
Maud heeded her not, but began to sing in a wild but sweet voice,—
“Who loves the bleak night wind,
That roars ’twist earth and sky,
Say, is its loud voice kind?
Not I—not I.
“That’s a brave song, but cheerless. I love the day and the sweet sunshine. Here’s another for thee, maiden; ’twill suit thy young heart:
“Love’s like a rainbow,
Why, maiden, why?
It opens from the earth
Up to the sky!
A young heart’s passion
Is all as bright
As that purest arch
Of Heaven’s own light.
“Like ye that, young heart? Alas! ’Tis long since I learned the ditty. Hark ye, here is one more sad and sombre, for I see the tear-drop in your eye. Hark—hark:—
“The storm bird may scream
O’er the desolate moor,
And the north wind blow wide
The poor cottager’s door.
The snow drift may level
Mountain with plain,
But the sunlight will come,
And the birds sing again.
But, oh! the fond heart
Which one storm has swept o’er,
Can ne’er know the peace,
It rejoiced in before.”
As the last sound of the poor creature’s voice ceased, Ada clasped her hands and uttered a cry of terror, for she heard without the low whistle which she had been taught by Gray to recognise as the signal of his return.