She knew now why, after he had walked all the way to Boston at her side, he had failed to appear at Grandther Donner’s, for days and days. She saw it all, plainly—horribly plainly. It was so absolutely unescapable. And yet, he had seemed so honest; he had spoken so of love; he had so convinced her heart and her soul of his purity, nobility and worth! She loved him still. She could not avoid this. It had grown up with her; it had become a part of her very being. She would love him always, but—she could not become his wife—not after this—never! The thought of such a thing made her shiver. His perfidy was almost greater than Randolph’s—as an Indian woman would have been so much more innocent and trustful than even Hester.
Her heart cried. “Oh!” and yet again, “Oh!” in its anguish. If he had only left some little loophole for doubt—if he had only denied their accusations—if only he had not said those terrible things to her, upon the highway, perhaps——“No, no, no, no,” she cried, in her soul; this was compromising with loathsome dishonor. Far better it was that the awful truth was so indisputably established! It left her no ground for excusing his deeds, at the dictates of her unreasoning love! Yet, oh, it had been so sweet to believe in him, to love him without reserve, to trust her very soul in his keeping! She wrung her hands under the table, as she listened, with ears that seemed traitors to her love, to all that her uncle could add to the story.
She soon learned that Adam was Randolph’s particular prisoner; that there had been some old-time grudge between them, and that the crafty man of power would undoubtedly make an effort to hang his captive.
At this her womanly inconsequence was suddenly aroused. He might be guilty, but she had always thought him noble and good. She would never marry him, after this, but she would love him forever. He had been her idol, her king. He must live, for at least she had a right to keep enshrined in her heart the thought of him, pulsating heart to heart with her, as once he had. No! He must not be permitted to die—not like this—not in infamy—not at the hands of this monster of iniquity—this Randolph!
It was not that she had the slightest hope that he could ever be the same to her again, or that she should ever wish to see him again, but at least he had a right to live, to redeem himself, partially, perhaps to suffer and to sorrow for his deeds. Indeed he must so live—he must so redeem himself for her sake—to justify the love and the trust she had given him out of her heart!
She felt that she should choke if she did not soon get out in the air. She wanted to run to the prison, hammer with her fist on the gate, demand admittance and set him free—free from Randolph’s clutches. But she knew this was madness. Her mouth grew parched and dry with her excitement, so tremendously held in control. How could she manage to get him free? Oh, if only she dared to tell her uncle John and get him to help her!
He had the duplicate keys to every door in the jail. He brought them home night after night and hung them up on—There they were, now! They hung there within reach of her hand! Her heart knocked and beat in her bosom, as if it were hammering down the barriers to Adam’s cell. She weaved dizzily, with the possibilities of the moment. Just to take those keys and run—that was all, and the trick would be done. He could go—and their love would be a thing of living death!
She meant to take those keys. The impulse swayed her whole being. She felt she would die rather than miss her opportunity. With clenched hands and with set jaws she arose to her feet.
“I must be going home,” she said, with apparent calm. “Oh, what was that?”
“What was what?” said her aunt and uncle together.