Ada, the Betrayed; Or, The Murder at the Old Smithy. A Romance of Passion. James Malcolm Rymer
target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_99c92af1-481a-57e9-a1ad-7e1a018562c9">CHAPTER CVIII.
THE HOPE OF ALBERT SEYTON TO ADA THE BETRAYED.
PREFACE
Prefaces, like prologues, have nearly gone out of fashion; but the Editor of Lloyd’s Penny Weekly Miscellany feels, that upon the completion of the first volume of his labours, he is bound to say something to his patrons, if it is but to thank them most heartily and sincerely for a degree of patronage, such as he may venture to say, few, if any, periodical publications have been able to boast of. When we first launched our Miscellany upon the stream of time, we were gratified to find that the breath of popular applause filled its sails, and bore it gallantly forward past many a proud competitor; and we have found, by the experience of twelve months, that the fair wind that urged us onwards was not “a mere passing gale,” for each week has materially increased our circulation, until the Miscellany now occupies a place in the periodical literature of Great Britain (and, in fact, wherever the English language is spoken), which may well fill the hearts of both Publisher and Editor with the most grateful feelings towards their best friends—the Public.
Having said thus much of the past, it behoves us to say something of that which is to come. First and foremost then, those pens which have already received the meed of popular applause, will still continue to
“Weave their airy fictions”
in our pages. The Author of “Ada, the Betrayed; or, the Murder at the Old Smithy,” in particular, has several novelties in progress, which from time to time will appear.
Secondly—We shall make it our study to maintain the high majesty of virtue over the turbulence of vice, and to make our pages, while they glow with the romantic and the chivalrous, so replete with true nobility of sentiment, that we shall, as hitherto, find our way, and maintain our place, among the young and pure of heart.
In conclusion, we can only add, that as we have done so will we do, and while Lloyd’s Penny Weekly Miscellany shall lose none of its present attractions, we pledge ourselves that neither expense, time, or trouble, shall be spared to add to it every attractive feature which may grow out of the intelligence and spirit of the age, our wish bring to render it a rational companion for all classes of persons. We must likewise, in some degree, claim for ourselves the merit, if we may be allowed the term, of laying before a large and intelligent class of readers, at a charge comparatively insignificant, those same pleasures of the imagination which have hitherto, to a great extent, only graced the polished leisure of the wealthy; and, at the same time that we have done so, we have found with unmingled satisfaction that correct tastes, glowing fancies, and an admirable perception of the poetical and the beautiful, are as well to be found by the humblest fire-sides, as in the lordly mansions of the great and the noble.
To our numerous Correspondents we have to return our sincere thanks for many literary favours, as well as for much friendly commendation they have been pleased to bestow upon our labours, and with a sanguine hope that we and our Readers shall proceed as pleasantly together to the year 1844, as we have to 1843, we gratefully thus introduce our first volume to their notice.
Ada, the Betrayed;
or,
The Murder at the Old Smithy.
A Romance of Passion.
———
Around the winter’s hearth the tale is told,
To lisping infancy and hoary age;
It is a story of strange passion—of grief and tears—
Of joy and love, and all the elements of mind
Which make us what we are.
Scott.
CHAPTER I.
The Storm.—The Old Smithy.—A Deed of Blood.—The Death Cry.—The Child of the Dead.—Remorse and Despair.
It was towards the close of the year 1795 that a storm, unequalled in duration and fury, swept over one of the most fertile districts of England, spreading consternation and dismay among the inhabitants of several villages, and destroying in a few short hours the hopes of many an industrious family, who looked to the nearly ripened grain of the fertile fields for their means of subsistence through the coming winter.
The day had been lowering and overcast. An unusual sultriness had pervaded the air, and although more than sixty miles of hill and dale laid between the spot to which we allude and the Northern Ocean, which washes the eastern shore of England, several sea birds (a most unwonted sight) had flown, screeching and wailing, over the rich corn-fields and promising orchards.
The day had worn gradually on, and it was not until the sun was lost amid a mass of fiery clouds in the glowing west that any precise indications of the approaching tempest presented themselves. Then, however, when the long shadows from the trees began to lose their identity in the general gloom of the rapidly approaching night, a singular moaning wind began to blow from the north-west.
The cattle showed alarm and uneasiness—the birds flew low and uncertainly—horses trembled in their stables, and the hoarse scream of various large birds of prey as they flew over the farm-house, or settled on the roofs, had a peculiarly discordant effect. It would seem as if there was something in the air which enabled the inferior animals to know and dread the awful strife of the elements which was about to ensue.
The glowing clouds in the west rapidly disappeared, and the night fell over the land as if a black pall had been suddenly cast over the face of Nature. The wind momentarily increased in violence. Now it moaned like an evil spirit round the gable ends of the houses; then again, with a wild whistle and a rushing sound, it would sweep past the latticed windows like a wild animal seeking its prey.
Occasionally there would be a lull in the tempest, and in one of these the heavens were lit up with a flash of lightning of such power and brilliancy, that all who saw it closed instantly their eyes in dismay, and trembled with apprehension. Then followed thunder—thunder that