IN LANCASTER CASTLE
All that his friendship for the condemned man, all that his love and
pity for his almost distracted wife, could suggest, Sir Adrian Landale
had done in London to try and avert Captain Jack's doom. But it was in
vain. There also old stories of his peculiar tenets and of his
well-known disaffection to the established order of things, had been
raked up against him. Unfavourable comparisons had been drawn between
him and Rupert; surprise and disapproval had been expressed at the
unnatural brother, who was displaying such energy to obtain mercy for
his brother's murderer. Finally an influential personage, whom Sir
Adrian had contrived to interest in the case, in memory of an old
friendship with his father, informed the baronet that his persistence
was viewed with extreme disfavour in the most exalted quarter, and
that His Royal Highness himself had pronounced that Captain Jack was a
damned rascal and richly deserved his fate.
From the beginning, indeed, the suppliant had been without hope.
Though he was resolved to leave no stone unturned, no possibility
untried in the effort to save his friend, well-nigh the saddest part
of the whole business to him was the realisation that the prisoner had
not only broken those custom laws (of which Sir Adrian himself
disapproved as arbitrary) but also, as he had been warned, those other
laws upon which depend all social order and security; broken them so
grievously that, whatever excuses the philosopher might find in heat
of blood and stress of circumstances, given laws at all, the sentence
could not be pronounced otherwise than just.
And so, with an aching heart and a wider horror than ever of the cruel
world of men, and of the injustices to which legal justice leads, Sir
Adrian left London to hurry back to Lancaster with all the speed that
post-horses could muster. The time was now drawing short. As the
traveller rattled along the stony streets of the old Palatine town,
and saw the dawn breaking, exquisite, primrose tinted, faintly
beautiful as some dream vision over the distant hills, his soul was
gripped with an iron clutch. In three more days the gallant heart,
breaking in the confinement of the prison yonder, would have throbbed
its last! And he longed, with a desire futile but none the less
intense, that, according to that doctrine of Vicarious Atonement
preached to humanity by the greatest of all examples, he could lay
down his own weary and disappointed life for his friend.
Having breakfasted at the hotel, less for the necessity of food than
for the sake of passing the time till the morning should have worn to
sufficient maturity, he sought on foot the quiet lodgings where he had
installed his wife under Rene's guard before starting on his futile
quest. Early as the hour still was--seven had but just rung merrily
from some chiming church clock--the faithful fellow was already astir
and prompt to answer his master's summons.
One look at the latter's countenance was sufficient to confirm the
servant's own worst forebodings.
"Ah, your honour, and is it indeed so. _Ces gredins!_ and will they
hang so good a gentleman?"
"Hush, Renny, not so loud," cried the other with an anxious look at
the folding-doors, that divided the little sitting-room from the inner
apartment.
"Oh, his honour need have no fear. My Lady is gone, gone to Pulwick.
His honour need not disquiet himself; he can well imagine that I would
not allow her to go alone--when I had been given a trust so precious.
No, no, the old lady, Miss O'Donoghue, your honour's aunt and her
ladyship's, she has heard of all these terrible doings, and came to
Lancaster to be with My Lady. _Ma foi_, I know not if she be just the
person one would have chosen, for she has scolded a great deal, and is
as agitated--as agitated as a young rabbit. But, after all, she loves
the poor young lady with all her heart, and I think she has roused her
a little. His honour knows," said the man, flushing to the roots of
his hair, whilst he shifted nervously from one foot to another, "that
My Lady has been much upset about the poor captain. After his honour
went, she would sit, staring out of the window there, just where the
street turns up to the castle, and neither ate nor slept, nor talked
to speak of. Of course, as I told the old Demoiselle, I knew it was
because My Lady had taken it to heart about the signal that she
made--thinking to save him--and which only brought the gabelous on
him, that his honour's infernal brother (God forgive me, and have
mercy on his soul) had set to watch. And My Lady liked to see me
coming and going, for she sent me every day to the prison; she did not
once go herself."
Sir Adrian drew a long breath. With the most delicate intuition of his
master's thoughts, Rene avoided even a glance at him while he
continued in as natural a tone as he could assume:
"But the day after the old miss came, she, My Lady, told me to find
out if he would see her. He said no; but that the only kindness any
one could do him now would be to bring him Mademoiselle Madeleine, and
let him speak to her once more. And My Lady, when she heard this, she
started off that day with the old one to fetch Mademoiselle herself at
Pulwick. And she left me behind, your honour, for I had a little plan
there."
Rene faltered and a crestfallen look crept upon his face.
Sir Adrian remembered how before his departure for London his servant
had cheerily assured him that Mr. the Captain would be safe out of the
country long before he returned, "faith of him, Rene, who had already
been in two prisons, and knew their ways, and how to contrive an
escape, as his honour well knew." A sad smile parted his lips.
"And so you failed, Renny," he said.
"Ah, your honour, those satanic English turnkeys! With a Frenchman,
the job had been done; but it is a bad thing to be in prison in
England. His honour can vouch I have some brains. I had made plans--a
hundred plans, but there was ever something that did not work. The
captain, he too, was eager, as your honour can imagine. My faith, we
thought and we thought, and we schemed and contrived, and in the end,
there was only one thing to complete our plot--to bribe the jailer.
Would your honour believe--it was only that one little difficulty. My
Lady had given me a hundred guineas, I had enough money, your honour
sees. But the man--I had smoked with him, drunk with him, ay, and made
him drunk too, and I thought all was going well, but when I hinted to
him what we wanted--Ah! he was a brute--I tell you I had hard work to
escape the prison myself, and only for my leaving him with some of the
money, I should now be pinched there too. I hardly dare show my face
in the place any more. And my poor Lady builds on the hope, and Mr.
the Captain--I had to tell him, he took it like an angel. Ah, the poor
gentleman! He looked at me so brave and kind! 'I am as grateful, my
poor friend, as if you had done it,' said he, 'and perhaps it is all
for the best.' All for the best--ah, your honour!"
Rene fairly broke down here, and wept on his sleeve. But Sir Adrian's
eyes, circled and worn with watching and thought, shone dry with a far
deeper grief, as, a few moments later, he passed along the street
towards the walls of the castle.
* * * * *
There was in those days little difficulty in obtaining admission to a
condemned prisoner; and, in the rear of the red-headed, good-tempered
looking jailer--the same, he surmised, whose sternness in duty had
baffled the Breton's simple wiles--he stepped out of the sweet morning
sunshine into the long stone passages. The first tainted breath of the
prison brought a chill to his blood and oppression to his lungs, and
the gloom of the place enveloped him like a pall.
With a rattle of keys a door dismally creaking on its hinges was swung
back at last, and the visitor was ushered into the narrow cell, dark
for all its whitewashed walls, where Captain Jack was spending his
last hours upon earth. The hinges groaned again, the door slammed, and
the key once more grated in the lock. Sir Adrian was alone with his
friend.
For a moment there was silence; the contraction of the elder man's
heart had brought a giddiness to his brain, a dimness of his eyes,
through which he was ill able to distinguish anything.
But then there was a clank of fetters--ah, what a sound to connect
with lucky Jack Smith, the gayest, freest, and most buoyant of men!
And a voice cried:
"Adrian!"
It had a joyful ring, well-nigh the old hearty tones. It struck Adrian
to the soul.
He could have borne, he thought, to find his friend a broken man,
changed out of all recognition, crushed by his misfortunes; but to
find him the same, a little pale, indeed, and thinner, with a steady
earnestness in the sea-blue eyes instead of the old dancing-light, but
still gallant and undaunted, still radiating vigorous life and breezy
energy by his very presence, this was a cruelty of fate which seemed
unendurable.
"I declare," the prisoner had continued, "I declare I thought you were
only the incorruptible jailer taking his morning survey. They are
desperately careful of me, Adrian, and watch me with maternal
solicitude lest I should strangle myself with my chains, these pretty
bracelets which I have had to wear ever since poor Renny was found
out, or swallow my pillow--dash me! it's small enough--and spoil the
pretty show for Saturday! Why, why, Adrian, old friend?"
There was a sudden change of tone to the warmest concern, for Sir
Adrian had staggered and would have fallen had not Jack, as nimbly as
his fetters would allow him, sprung to support him and conduct him to
the bed.
A shaft of light struck through the tiny barred window on to the elder
man's face, and showed it against the surrounding darkness deathly
white and wet with anguish.
"I have done all I could, Hubert," he murmured, in an extinguished
voice, "but to no avail."
"Ay, man, I guessed as much. But never fret for me, Adrian: I have
looked death too often in the face to play the poltroon, now. I don't
say it's the end I should have chosen for myself; but it is
inevitable, and there is nothing, as you know, my friend, that a man
cannot face if he knows it must be faced."
The grasp of his strong warm hands, all manacled as they were, upon
the other's nerveless clammy fingers, sent, more than the words,
something of the speaker's own courage to his friend's wrung heart.
And yet that very courage was an added torment.
That from a community, so full of evil, feeble, harmful wretches, this
noble soul, no matter how it had sinned, should be banished at the
bidding of justice--what mockery of right was this? The world was out
of joint indeed. He groaned aloud.
"Nay, I'll have none of it," cried Jack. "Our last talk, Adrian, must
not be spoiled by futile regrets. Yes, our last talk it is to be,
for"--the prisoner's face became transfigured with a tenderness so
exquisite that Adrian stared at its beauty, amazed--"I have begged
her, Madeleine, to come and see me once more. I think she can be here
to-day, at latest to-morrow. And after that I would not see any of
those I love again, that I may fit myself to meet my God."
He spoke with the utmost simplicity. Adrian bowed his head silently.
Then averting his eyes, he said: "My wife has gone to Pulwick to fetch
her."
Captain Jack crimsoned. "That is kind," he answered, in a low voice;
and, after a pause, pursued: "I hope you do not think it wrong of me
to wish to see her. But you may trust me. I shall distress her as
little as is possible in the circumstances. It is not, as you can
fancy"--his face flushed again as he spoke--"to indulge in a pathetic
parting scene, or beg from her sweet lips one last kiss--that would be
too grossly selfish, and however this poor body of mine, so soon to be
carrion, may yearn to hold her once more closely, these lips, so soon
to touch death, shall touch hers no more. I have risen so far above
this earthliness, that in so many hours I am to shake off for ever,
that I can trust myself to meet her soul to soul. She must believe me
now, and I would tell her, Adrian, that my deceit was not
premeditated, and that the man she once honoured with her love is not
the base wretch she deems. I think it may comfort her. If she does
mourn for me at all--she has so proud a spirit, my princess, as I used
to call her--it may comfort her to know that I was not all unworthy of
the love she once gave me, of the tears she may yet give to its memory
and mine."
Sir Adrian pressed his hand, but again could not speak, and Captain
Jack went on:
"You will give her a happy home, will you not, till she has one of her
own? You and your old dragon of an aunt, whose bark is so much worse
than her bite, will watch and guard her. Ah, poor old lady! she is one
of those that will not weep for Jack Smith, eh, Adrian? Well, well, I
have had a happy life, barring one or two hard raps of fate, and when
only I have seen Madeleine once more, I'll feel all taut for the port,
though the passage there be a rough one."
Sir Adrian turned his gaze with astonishment upon him. The sailor read
his thoughts:
"Don't think," he said, while a sudden shadow crossed his face, "don't
think that I don't realise my position, that I have not had to fight
my battle. In the beginning I had hopes; never in the success of
your mission, but, absurd as it was, in Renny's scheme. The good
fellow's own hopefulness was infectious, I believe. And when that
fell through--well then, man, I just had to make up my mind to what
was to be. It was a battle, as I told you. I have been in danger
of death many a time upon the brave old _St. Nicholas_, and my
_Cormorant_--death from the salt sea, from musket ball and cannon
shot, fearful deaths of mangling and hacking. But death on the
gallows, the shameful death of the criminal; to be hung; to be
executed--Pah! Ay! it was a battle--two nights and one day I fought
it. And I tell you, 'tis a hard thing to bring the living flesh and
the leaping blood to submit to such as that. At first I thought
indeed, it could not be borne, and I must reckon upon your or Renny's
friendship for a secret speed. I should have had the pluck to starve
myself if need be, only I am so damned strong and healthy, I feared it
could not have been managed in the time. At any rate, I could have
dashed my brains out against the wall--but I see it otherwise now. The
prison chaplain, a good man, Adrian, has made me realise that it would
be cowardly, that I should accept my sentence as atonement, as
deserved--I _have_ deserved to die."
It had been Sir Adrian's own thought; but he broke out now in
inarticulate protest. It seemed too gross, too monstrous.
"Yes, Adrian, I have. You warned me, good friend, in your peaceful
room--ah, how long ago it seems now! that night, when all that could
make life beautiful lay to my hand for the taking. Oh, man, why did I
not heed you! You warned me: he who breaks one law will end by
breaking many. You were right. See the harm I wreaked--those poor
fellows, who were but doing their duty bravely, whose lives I
sacrificed without remorse! Your brother, too, whose soul, with the
most deliberate vindictiveness, I sent before its Maker, without an
instant's preparation! A guilty soul it was; for he hounded me down,
one would almost think for the sport of it.... God! when I think that,
but for him, for his wanton interference--but there, the devils are
loose again! I must not think on him. Do I not deserve my fate, if the
Bible law be right? 'He who sheds blood, his blood shall be shed.'
Never was sentence more just. I have sinned, I have repented; I am now
ready to atone. I believe the sacrifice will be accepted."
He laid his hand, for a minute, upon the Bible on the table, with a
significant gesture.
But Sir Adrian, the philosopher, though he could find no words to
impeach the logic of his friend's reasoning, and was all astir with
admiration for a resignation as perfect as either Christian or Stoic
could desire, found his soul rising in tumultuous rebellion against
the hideous decree. The longing that had beset him in the dawn, now
seized upon him with a new passion, and the cry escaped his lips
almost unwittingly:
"Oh, if I could die for you!"
"No, no," said Jack, with his sweet smile, "your life is too valuable,
too precious to the world. Adrian, believe me, you can still do much
good with it. And I know you will be happy yet."
It was the only allusion he had made to his friend's more personal
sorrows. Before the latter had time to reply, he hastened to proceed:
"And now to business. All the gold entrusted to me lies at Scarthey
and, faith, I believe it lies as weightily on my mind as if it was all
stored there instead! Renny knows the secret hiding-place. Will you
engage to restore it to its owners, in all privacy? This is a terribly
arduous undertaking, Adrian, and it is asking much of your friendship;
but if I know you, not too much. And it will enable my poor bones to
lie at rest, or rather," with a rueful laugh, "hang at rest on their
gibbet; for you know I am to be set up as a warning to other fools,
like a rat on a barn door. I have, by the kindness of the chaplain,
been able to write out a full schedule of the different sums, and to
whom they are due. He has taken charge of the closed packet directed
to you, and will give it to you intact, I feel sure. He is a man of
honour, and I trust him to respect the confidence I have placed in
him.... Egad! the poor old boys will be right glad to get their coin
back in safety. A couple of them have been up here already, to
interview me, in fear and trembling. They were hard set to credit me
when I assured them that they would be no losers in the end, after
all--barring the waiting. You see, I counted upon you."
"I shall never rest until it is done," said Sir Adrian, simply. And
Captain Jack as simply answered: "Thank you. Among the treasure there
is also L10,000 of my own; the rest of my laboriously acquired fortune
is forfeit to the Crown, as you know--much good may it do it! But this
little hoard I give to you. You do not want it, of course, and
therefore it is only to be yours that you may administrate it in
accordance to my wishes. Another charge--but I make no apology. I wish
you to divide it in three equal shares: two to be employed as you see
best, for the widows and families of those poor fellows of the
preventive service, victims of my venture; the third, as well as my
beautiful _Peregrine_, I leave to the mate and men who served me so
faithfully. They have fled with her, and must avoid England for some
time. But Renny will contrive to hear of them; they are bound to
return in secret for tidings, and I should like to feel that the
misery I have left behind me may be mitigated.... And now, dear
Adrian, that is all. The man outside grows impatient. I hear him
shuffling his keys. Hark! there he knocks; the fellow has a certain
rude feeling for me. An honest fellow. Dear Adrian, good-bye."
"My God! this is hard--is there nothing else--nothing--can indeed all
my friendship be of no further help?--Hubert!"
"Hush, hush," cried Jack Smith hastily, "Adrian, you alone of all
living beings now know me by that name. Never let it cross your lips
again. I could not die in peace were it not for the thought that I
bring no discredit upon it. My mother believes me dead--God in His
mercy has spared me the crowning misery of bringing shame to her white
hairs--shame to the old race. Hubert Cochrane died ten years ago.
Jack Smith alone it is that dies by the hangman's hand. One other,"
his voice softened and the hard look of pain left his face, "one other
shall hear the secret besides you--but I know she will never speak of
it, even to you--and such is my wish."
It was the pride of race at its last and highest expression.
There was the sound, without, of the key in the lock.
"One last word--if you love me, nay, as you love me--do not be there
on Saturday! This parting with you--the good-bye to her--that is my
death. Afterwards what happens to this flesh," he struck at himself
with his chained hands, "matters no more than what will happen to the
soulless corpse. I know you would come to help me with the feeling of
your love, your presence--but do not--do not--and now good-bye!"
Adrian seized his friend by the hands with a despairing grip, the door
rolled back with its dismal screech.
The prisoner smiled at him with tender eyes. This man whom, all
unwillingly he had robbed of his wife's heart, was broken with grief
that he could not save the life that had brought him misery. Here was
a friend to be proud of, even at the gate of death!
"God be with you, dear Adrian! God bless you and your household, and
your children, and your children's children! Hear my last words: _From
my death will be born your happiness, and if its growth be slow, yet
it will wax strong and sure as the years go by_."
The words broke from him with prophetic solemnity; their hands fell
apart, and Adrian, led by the jailer, stumbled forth blindly. Jack
Smith stood erect, still smiling, watching them: were Adrian to turn
he should find no weakness, no faltering for the final remembrance.
But Adrian did not turn. And the door closed, closed upon hope and
happiness and life, shut in shame and death. Out yonder, with Adrian,
was the fresh bright world, the sea, the sunshine, the dear ones; here
the prison smells, the gloom, the constraint, the inflicted dreadful
death. All his hard-won calm fled from him; all his youth, his immense
vitality woke up and cried out in him again. He raised his hands and
pulled fiercely at his collar as if already the rope were round his
neck strangling him. His blood hammered in his brain. God--God--it
was impossible--it could not be--it was a dream!
Beyond, from far distant in the street came the cry of a little child:
"Da-da--daddy."
The prisoner threw up his arms and then fell upon his face upon the
bed, torn by sobs.
Yes, Adrian would have children; but Hubert Cochrane, who, from the
beautiful young brood that was to have sprung from his loins would
have grafted on the old stock a fresh and noble tree, he was to pass
barren out of life and leave no trace behind him.