REFLECTIONS.—THE NEW PRISON.
Richard Markham passed an uneasy night.
His thoughts wandered from topic to topic until the variety seemed
infinite.
He pondered upon his brother, and again reflected for the thousandth
time what connexion could possibly exist between him and the
Resurrection Man. The fatal letter, desiring this terrible individual to
call upon him, was too decidedly in Eugene's handwriting to be doubted.
The other contents of the pocket-book, which Richard had found in the
Gipsies' Palace, threw no light upon the subject; indeed, they only
consisted of a few papers of no consequence to any one.
Then Richard's thoughts travelled to the Resurrection Man himself. Was
this individual really no more? Had the truth been told relative to his
death at the Gipsies' encampment near Pentonville prison?
Next our hero's imagination wandered to the death-bed of the innocent
girl who had entertained so unfortunate a passion for him. What fervent
love was that! what disinterested affection! And then to perish in such
a manner,—with the darkness of the tomb upon her eyes, long ere death
itself made its dread appearance!
But with what inspiration had she prophesied the most exalted destinies
for him she loved! With her sybilline finger she had pointed to a
throne!
And then how speedily were those predictions followed by the
communication of events which portended grand political changes in
Castelcicala,—changes which threatened the reigning sovereign with
overthrow, and the inevitable result of which must be the elevation of
Prince Alberto to the ducal throne!
And Isabella—how many proofs of her unvaried love for our hero had she
not given? She had confessed her attachment to the deceased maiden—she
had avowed it to that deceased maiden's father. Then, when Mary-Anne had
prophesied the exalted rank which Isabella would be destined to confer,
by the fact of marriage, upon Richard, the lovely Italian had ratified
the premise by the gentle pressure of her hand!
Next our hero pondered upon the awful deed which had been ascribed to
Katherine Wilmot; and here he was lost in a labyrinth of amaze,
distrust, and doubt. Could it be possible that the blackest heart was
concealed in so fair a shrine? or had circumstantial evidence
accumulated with fearful effect to enthral an innocent girl in the
meshes of the criminal law? Richard remembered how he himself had
suffered through the overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence; and
this thought rendered him slow to put faith in the guilt of others.
Then, amidst other topics, Richard meditated upon the mysterious
instructions which were conveyed to him in the document left behind by
Armstrong, and which seemed to promise much by the solemn earnestness
that characterised the directions relative to the circumstances or the
time that would justify him in opening the sealed packet.
Thus, if some of our hero's thoughts were calculated to produce
uneasiness, others were associated with secret hopes of successful love
and dazzling visions of prosperity.
In three years and a half the appointment with his brother was to be
kept. How would they meet? and would Eugene appear on the day named, and
upon the hill where the two trees stood? Why had he not written in the
meantime? Was he progressing so well that he wished to surprise his
brother with his great prosperity? or was he so wretched that his proud
heart prevented him from seeking the assistance of one of whom he had
taken leave with a species of challenge to a race in the paths which
lead to fortune? That Eugene was alive, Richard felt convinced, because
the inscriptions on the tree—_Eugene's own tree_—and the letter to the
Resurrection Man, proved this fact. The same circumstances also showed
that Eugene had been several times in London (even if he did not dwell
in the metropolis altogether) since he parted with Richard upon the
hill.
Then Richard reflected that if he himself were eventually prosperous,
his success would be owing to fair and honourable means; and he
sincerely hoped that his brother might be pursuing an equally harmless
career. Such an idea, however, seemed to be contradicted by the
mysterious note to the Resurrection Man. But our hero remembered that
bad men often enjoyed immense success; and then he thought of Mr.
Greenwood—the man who had robbed him of his property, but whom, so far
as he knew, he had never seen. That Greenwood was rising rapidly,
Richard was well aware; the newspapers conveyed that information. So
well had he played his cards, that a baronetcy, if not even a junior
post in the administration, would be his the moment his party should
come to power. All this Richard knew: the Tory journals were strenuous
in their praise of Mr. Greenwood, and lauded to the skies his devotion
to the statesmen who were aspiring to office. Then the great wealth of
Mr. Greenwood had become proverbial: not a grand enterprise of the day
could be started without his name. He was a director in no end of
Railway Companies; a shareholder in all the principal Life Insurance
Offices; a speculator in every kind of stock; chairman of several
commercial associations; a ship-owner; a landowner; a subscriber to all
charitable institutions which published a list of its supporters;
President of a Bible Society which held periodical meetings at Exeter
Hall; one of the stanchest friends to the Society for the Suppression of
Vice; a great man at the parochial vestry; a patron of Sunday Schools; a
part-proprietor of an influential newspaper; an advocate for the
suppression of Sunday trading and Sunday travelling; a member of half a
dozen clubs; a great favourite at Tattersall's; a regular church-goer; a
decided enemy to mendicity; an intimate friend of the Poor Law
Commissioners; and an out-and-out foe to all Reform. All this Richard
knew; for he took some interest in watching the career of a person who
had risen from nothing to be so great a man as Mr. Greenwood was. Then,
while he reflected upon these facts, our hero was compelled to admit
that his brother Eugene might appear, upon the appointed day, the emblem
of infinite prosperity, and yet a being from whom the truly honest would
shrink back with dismay.
But we will not follow Richard Markham any further in his reflections
during that sleepless night.
He rose at an early hour, and anxiously awaited the arrival of the
morning's newspaper.
From that vehicle of information he learnt that Katherine Wilmot had
been examined, on the previous day, before the magistrate at the
Marylebone Police Court, and had been remanded for one week, in order
that the depositions might be made out previous to her committal to
Newgate to take her trial for the murder of Matilda Kenrick.
We need not now dwell upon the evidence adduced on the occasion of that
preliminary investigation, inasmuch as we shall be hereafter compelled
to detail it at some length.
We must, however, observe that when Richard Markham perused all the
testimony adduced against the girl before the magistrate, he was
staggered; for it seemed crushing, connected, and overwhelming indeed.
Nevertheless, he remembered his own unhappy case; and he determined not
to desert her.
He called upon Mr. Tracy, and found that gentleman unwilling to believe
that so young and seemingly innocent a girl could be capable of so
enormous a crime; yet the reverend gentleman was compelled to admit not
only that the evidence weighed strongly against her, but that it was
difficult to conceive how the housekeeper had come by her death unless
by Katherine's hands.
Richard took his leave of the rector, in whom he saw only a most
compassionate man—ready to allow justice to take its course, but very
unwilling to utter a word prejudicial to the accused.
From Mr. Tracy's house our hero proceeded to the New Prison,
Clerkenwell, to see Katherine.
The New Prison is situate in the midst of the most densely populated
part of Clerkenwell. It was originally established in the reign of James
I.; but in 1816 it was considerably improved and enlarged, at the
enormous cost of £40,000. It is now destined to be levelled with the
ground, and a new prison is to be built upon the same site, but upon a
plan adapted for the application of the atrocious _solitary system_.
The infamy of the English plan of gaol discipline is nowhere more
strikingly illustrated than in the New Prison, Clerkenwell. Between five
and six thousand prisoners pass annually through this gaol; and not the
slightest attempt at classification, save in respect to sex, is made.
The beds are filthy in the extreme, and often full of vermin from the
last occupant: thus prisoners who arrive at the prison in a cleanly
state, find themselves covered with loathsome animalculæ after one
night's rest in that disgusting place. A miserable attempt at
cleanliness is made by bathing the prisoners; but the generality of them
dislike it, and bribe the wardsmen to allow them to escape the ordeal.
And no wonder—for the gaol authorities compel every six individuals to
bathe one after the other in the same water, and it frequently happens
that a cleanly person is forced into a bath containing the filth and
vermin washed from the person of a beggar. The reader must remember,
that highly respectable persons—even gentlemen and ladies—may become
prisoners in this establishment, for breaches of the peace, assaults, or
menaces, until they be released by bail; and yet the gentlemen are
compelled to herd with felons, beggars, and misdemeanants—and the ladies
with the lowest grade of prostitutes and the filthiest vagrants!
The prisoners pilfer from each other; and the entire establishment is a
scene of quarrelling, swearing, fighting, obscenity, and gambling. The
male prisoners write notes of the most disgusting description, and throw
them over with a coal into the female yard. Riots and disturbances are
common in the sleeping wards; and ardent spirits are procured with
tolerable facility.
The degradation of mingling with the obscene and filthy inmates of the
female Reception Ward was, however, avoided by poor Katherine Wilmot.
The Keeper took compassion upon her youth and the deep distress of mind
into which she was plunged, and sent her to the Female Infirmary.
When Richard Markham called at the New Prison, he was permitted to have
an interview with Katherine in the Keeper's office.
The hapless girl flew towards our hero, as if to a brother, and clasping
her hands fervently together, exclaimed, "Mr. Markham, I am innocent—I
am innocent!"
"So I choose to believe you—unless a jury should pronounce you to be
guilty," replied Richard; "and even then," he added, in a musing tone,
"it is possible—I mean that juries are not infallible."
"Oh! Mr. Markham, I am most unfortunate—and very, very unhappy!" said
Katherine, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I have never injured a
human being—and yet, see where I am! see how I am treated!"
At that moment Richard recalled to mind all that the policeman had told
him relative to the unpretending charity of the poor girl,—her goodness
even to the very neighbours who despised her,—her amiability towards her
unfortunate cousin,—the pious resignation with which she had supported
the ill-treatment of her uncle,—and her constant anxiety to earn her own
bread in a respectable manner.
All this Richard remembered; and he felt an invincible belief in the
complete innocence of the poor creature with respect to the awful deed
now laid to her charge.
[Illustration]
"It is not death that I fear, Mr. Markham," said Katherine, after a
pause; "but it is hard—very hard to be accused of a crime which I abhor!
No—I do not fear death: perhaps it would be better for me to die even at
my age—than dwell in a world which has no charms for me. For I have been
unhappy from my birth, Mr. Markham: I was left an orphan when I was
young—so very young—oh! too young to lose both parents! Since then my
existence has not been blest; and at the very moment when a brighter
destiny seemed opened to me, through the goodness of yourself and Mr.
Tracy, I am suddenly snatched away to a prison, and overwhelmed with
this terrible accusation!"
"Katherine," said Richard, deeply affected by the young girl's tone and
words, "I believe you to be innocent—as God is my judge, I believe you
to be innocent!"
"And may that same Almighty Power bless you for this assurance!"
exclaimed Katherine, pressing our hero's hands with the most grateful
warmth.
"Although in asserting my conviction of your innocence, Katherine,"
continued Richard, "I leave the deed itself enveloped in the darkest
mystery, still I _do_ believe that you are innocent—and I will not
desert you."
Richard remembered how grateful to _his_ ears had once sounded those
words, "I believe that you are innocent,"—when Thomas Armstrong uttered
them in the prison of Newgate.
"Yes, Katherine—you _are_, you _must_ be innocent," he continued; "and I
will labour unceasingly to make your innocence apparent. I will provide
the ablest counsel to assist in your defence; and all that human agency
can effect in your behalf shall be ensured at any cost."
The poor girl could not find words to express her deep gratitude to this
young man who so generously constituted himself her champion, and on
whom she had not the slightest claim;—but her looks and her tears
conveyed to our hero all she felt.
"Has your uncle been to see you?" he inquired.
"No, sir—nor my cousin," replied Katherine, with melancholy emphasis
upon the latter words.
"Perhaps they are unaware of your situation. I will call and communicate
to them the sad tidings. As your relatives, it is right that they should
know the truth."
He then took leave of the young creature, who now felt less forlorn
since she knew that she possessed at least one friend who would not only
exert himself in her behalf, but who also believed in her innocence.
From the New Prison Richard proceeded to Saint Giles's, and knocked at
the door of the Public Executioner's abode.
But his summons remained unanswered.
He repeated it again: all was silent within.
At length a neighbour,—a man who kept a coal and potato shed,—emerged
from his shop, and volunteered some information concerning the hangman
and his son.
"It's no use knocking and knocking there, sir," said the man: "Smithers
and his lad left London early yesterday morning for some place in the
north of Ireland—I don't know the name—but where there's some work in
his partickler line. The postman brought Smithers a letter, asking him
to start off without delay; and he did so. He took Gibbet with him to
give him another chance, he said, of trying his hand. Smithers told me
all this before he went away, and asked me to take in any letters that
might come for him, or answer any one that called. That's how I came to
know all this."
"Do you happen to be aware when he will return?" asked Richard.
"I've no more idea than that there tater," answered the man, indicating
with his foot a specimen of the vegetable alluded to.
Richard thanked the man for the information which he had been enabled to
give, and then pursued his way towards the chief police station in the
neighbourhood.
Arrived at that establishment, he inquired for Morris Benstead.
The officer happened to be on the premises at the moment.
Markham led him to a short distance, and then addressed him as follows:—
"You have doubtless heard of the extraordinary position in which poor
Katherine Wilmot is placed. I, for one, firmly believe her to be
innocent."
"So do I, sir," exclaimed the officer, emphatically.
"Then you will prove the more useful to my purposes in consequence of
that impression," said Richard. "When I saw you on a former occasion,
you offered me your services if ever I should require them. Little did I
then suppose that I should so soon need your aid. Are you willing to
assist me in investigating this most mysterious affair?"
"With pleasure, sir—with the sincerest pleasure," answered Benstead.
"You know the respect I entertain for Miss Kate."
"And I know your goodness of heart," said our hero. "You must then aid
me in collecting proofs of her innocence. Spare no expense in your task:
hesitate not to apply to me for any money that you may need. Here are
ten pounds for immediate purposes. To-morrow I will let you know whom I
shall decide upon employing to conduct the poor girl's defence; and you
can then communicate direct with the solicitor and barrister retained.
Are you willing to undertake this task?"
"Need you ask me, sir?" cried the policeman. "I would do any thing to
serve Miss Kate."
"Prudence renders it necessary for me to keep myself in the back-ground
in this affair," said Richard; "for fear lest scandal should attach an
unworthy motive to my exertions in her behalf, and thus prejudice her
cause by injuring her character. Upon you, then, I throw the weight of
the investigation."
"And I accept it cheerfully," returned Benstead.
Markham then took leave of the officer, and having paid a visit to Mr.
Gregory, returned home.