THE FATE OF THE VISCOUNT.
Oh, vanity of youthful blood,
So by misuse to poison good.
Reason awakes and views unbarred
The sacred gates she wished to guard,
Sees approach the harpy law,
And Nemesis beholds with awe,
Ready to seize the poor remains
That vice has left of all his gains.
Cold penitence, lame after-thought,
With fear, despair, and horror fraught,
Call back the guilty pleasures dead,
Whom he has robbed and whom betrayed!
--Bishop Hoadley.
When the carriage containing the prisoners reached the jail, they
were taken out to be conducted to the warden's office. The viscount,
who was in a mood of suppressed fury, was attended by Policeman
McRae and followed by old Cuthbert, broken-hearted by the dishonor
of his master.
Faustina, who had raged herself into a state of exhaustion and
consequently of quietude, was attended by policeman Christie and
supported by Mrs. MacDonald who tenderly soothed and flattered her.
It was a busy day in the warden's office, and the warden had but
little time to bestow on these interesting prisoners.
"And sae they ha'e committed ye for trial, me laird, mair's the
pity; and the puir lassie too; me heart is sair for her," said Auld
Saundie Gra'ame, as they were led up to his desk to have their names
re-entered upon the prison-books.
"It was a most unwarrantable proceeding! a monstrous abuse of
office! an outrage that should be punished by immediate
impeachment!" burst forth the viscount, in a fury.
"As to that, me laird, I ha'e never yet seen the prisoner enter
these wa's wi' ony verra great esteem for the authorities that sent
him here," dryly replied Auld Saundie.
Then turning to an under-warden he said:
"Ye'll convey the prisoners back to the cells occupied by them
before."
And Faustina was carried back to the woman's ward, followed by the
sympathizing Mrs. MacDonald, who promised to remain with her until
the hour of closing up.
And the viscount, attended by Cuthbert, was conducted to his corner
cell, there to abide until the day of trial.
Old Cuthbert remained with his master until he was summoned to drive
Mrs. MacDonald back to the castle.
Several days passed. Every morning Mrs. MacDonald, driven by
Cuthbert in the family carriage, came to town, to spend the day in
the cell with Faustina, while Cuthbert remained in attendance upon
the viscount. And every evening she returned to the castle.
The Earl of Hurstmonceux did not come. But news at length came of
him. His bankers wrote that he was out on his yacht, his exact
latitude being unknown.
Lord Vincent, now that he was fully committed for trial, really did
not seem to be anxious for his father's return. Perhaps he would
rather not have met the earl under the present circumstances. He
held daily consultations with his counsel. These were entirely
confidential. Being assured by Mr. Bruce that it was essentially
necessary the counsel should be in possession of all the facts, the
prisoner made a tolerably clean breast of it, at least so far as the
abduction of the negroes was concerned; he exercised some little
reticence in the matters of his relations with Faustina and his
conspiracy against Lady Vincent.
Mr. Brace of course put the fairest construction upon everything;
but still he could not help feeling the darkest misgivings as to the
result of the approaching trial. And the viscount, rendered keenly
observant by intense anxiety, detected these doubts in the mind of
his counsel, and became daily more despairing.
He looked forward to the dishonor of a public trial with burning
indignation; to the possible, nay probable, conviction and sentence
that might follow with shrinking dread, and to the execution of that
sentence with stony horror.
Penal servitude! Great Heaven! penal servitude for him, so high-
born, so fastidious, so luxurious in all his habits! Penal servitude
for him, the Viscount Vincent!
He had often made one of a party of sight-seers, visiting the
prisons, the hulks, the quarries, where the prisoners were confined
at work. He had seen them in the coarse prison garb, working in
chains, under the broiling sun of summer, and under the bitter cold
of winter. He had seen them at their loathsome meals and in their
stifling sleeping pens. He had gazed upon them with eyes of haughty,
cold, unsympathizing curiosity. To him and his friends they formed
but a spectacle of interest or amusement, like a drama.
And now to think that he might, nay, probably would, soon make one
of their shameful number! The Viscount Vincent working in chains;
gazed at by his former companions; pointed out to curious strangers!
That was the appalling picture forever present to his imagination.
How bitterly he deplored the crimes that had exposed him to this
fate. How deeply he cursed the siren whose fatal beauty had lured
him to sin. How passionately he longed for death, as the only
deliverance from the memory of the past, the terrors of the present,
the horrors of the future. Day and night that appalling future
stared him in the face. Day and night the picture of himself working
in chains, pointed out, stared at, was before his mind's eyes.
By day it obtruded between him and the face of any visitor that
might be with him. Even when in consultation with his counsel his
mind would wander from the subject in hand, and his imagination
would be drawn away to the contemplation of that dread picture.
By night it would rise up in the darkness and nearly drive him mad.
He could not eat, he could not sleep. He passed his days in pacing
to and fro in his narrow cell, and his nights in tossing about upon
his restless bed. His sufferings were pitiable, and his worst enemy
must have felt sorry for him.
His condition moved the compassion of the warden, and every
indulgence that was in the power of old Saundie to bestow was
granted to him. And as he was not yet absolutely convicted, but only
waiting his trial, these indulgences were considerable. Old Cuthbert
was allowed to visit him freely during the day, and to bring him
anything in the way of food, drink, clothing, books, stationery,
etc., that he required. And very little supervision was exercised
over these matters.
Meantime as the Assizes were sitting, and the docket was not very
full, it was thought that the trial would soon come on.
On the Wednesday following the committal of the viscount the trial
of the murderer, Frisbie, which stood before that of his master on
the docket, did come on. The detective police had been busy during
the interval between Frisbie's arrest and arraignment, and they had
succeeded in collecting a mass of evidence and a number of witnesses
besides old Katie.
Frisbie, however, was defended by the best counsel that mere money
could procure. There are many among the best lawyers who will not
take up a bad case at any price. But Frisbie, as I said, had the
best among the unscrupulous that money could buy. His master of
course paid the fees. His counsel very gratuitously instructed him
to plead "Not Guilty," and of course he did plead "Not Guilty." And
his counsel did the best thing they could to establish his
innocence. But the evidence against him was conclusive. And on the
morning of the second day of his trial Frisbie was found guilty and
sentenced to death. But a short period between sentence and
execution was then allowed in Scotland. The execution of Frisbie was
fixed for the Monday following his conviction.
From the hour that Frisbie had been brought to trial the viscount
had experienced the most vehement accession of anxiety. He refused
all food during the day, and he paced the floor of his cell all
night. And well he might; for he knew that on that trial revelations
would be made under oath that would not tend to whiten Lord
Vincent's character.
On Thursday noon Mr. Bruce entered his cell.
"Is the trial--" began the viscount; but he could not get on; his
intense emotion choked him.
"The trial is over; the jury brought in their verdict half an hour
ago," replied the counsel gravely.
"And Frisbie is--For Heaven's sake speak!" gasped the viscount.
"Frisbie is convicted!" said the lawyer.
Lord Vincent, pale before, turned paler still as he sank into the
chair and gazed upon the lawyer, who was greatly wondering at the
excessive emotion of his client.
"When is the execution fixed to take place?"
"On Monday, of course."
"Is there--can there be any hope of a pardon for him?"
"Not the shadow of a hope."
"Or--of a commutation of his sentence?"
"It is madness to think of it."
"Is there no chance of a respite?"
"I tell you it is madness, and worse than madness, to imagine such a
thing as a pardon, a commutation, or even a respite for that wretch.
The crime brought home to him was one of the darkest dye--the base
assassination of the girl that loved and trusted and was true to
him. To fancy any mercy possible for that miscreant, except it be
the infinite, all-embracing, all-pardoning mercy of God, is simply
frenzy."
"And the execution is to take place on Monday. The time is very
short," said the viscount, falling into a reverie.
The lawyer began to speak of the viscount's own affairs; he
mentioned several circumstances connected with the viscount's case
that had become known to himself only through the testimony of
certain witnesses on Frisbie's trial, and he wished to consult the
viscount upon them.
But Lord Vincent seemed to act very strangely; he was absent-minded,
stupid, distracted--in fact altogether unfit for consultation with
his counsel.
And so, after a few unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, gain his
attention, and fix it upon the subject at issue, the lawyer arose,
said that he would call again the next morning, and bowed and left
the cell.
The shame the viscount suffered was in the knowledge of the
dishonorable facts relating to himself that had been brought to
light on Frisbie's trial; the great dread he felt was that Frisbie,
at the near approach of death, would open his heart and make a full
confession; and his horrible certainty was that such a confession
was all that was wanted to ensure his own conviction.
Again on this Thursday night he could not sleep, but paced the
narrow limits of his cell the whole night through, in unutterable
agony of mind. Never was the appalling vision of himself in the
shameful prison garb, working in chains, pointed out as an
interesting object and gazed at by curious strangers, so awfully
vivid as upon this night.
The next morning, when his old servant Cuthbert entered the cell as
usual, he was frightened at his master's dreadful looks.
"Will I call a doctor to your lairdship?" inquired the old man.
"No, Cuthbert; I am not ill. I am only suffering for want of rest. I
have not been able to sleep since Frisbie's arraignment. He is
convicted, you know."
"Aye, me laird, I ken a' anent it. My brither Randy was on the jury,
and he tauld me it a' ower a pot o' ale in the taproom o' the
'Highlander,' where I was resting while my horses fed," said the old
man gravely.
A dark, crimson flush overspread the face of the viscount. Cuthbert
had heard all about it. Cuthbert had heard, then, those disgraceful
revelations concerning himself. He need not have blushed before
Cuthbert. That loyal-hearted old servant could not have been brought
to believe such evil of his beloved young master, as all that came
to. And his next words proved this.
"There must 'a' been a deal o' fause swearing, me laird," he said.
The viscount looked up and caught at the words.
"Yes, Cuthbert, a great deal of false swearing, indeed, as far as I
am concerned, in that testimony."
"Aye, me laird! I tauld them so in the taproom. There was a wheen
idle loons collected there, drinking and smoking and talking anent
the business o' their betters. And they were a' unco' free in their
comments. But when they mentioned your lairdship's name in
connection wi' sic infamy, I tauld them a' weel that they were a
pack o' fause knaves to believe sic lees."
"Yes. The execution is to take place on Monday morning, Cuthbert."
"Aye, me laird. I hope the puir, sinfu' lad will mak' guid use o'
the short time left him and repent o' a' his misdeeds, and seek his
peace wi' his Maker," said the old man solemnly.
The viscount heaved a heavy sigh; a sigh that seemed laden with a
weight of agony.
"Cuthbert," he said, "you know that I may not go to see the
condemned man, being a prisoner myself; but you, being a fellow-
servant, and at liberty, may be permitted to do so. I wish to charge
you with a note to deliver to him; but you must deliver it secretly,
Cuthbert; secretly, mind you."
"Yes, me laird."
The viscount sat down to his little table and wrote the following
note:
"Frisbie: While there is life there is hope; therefore make no
confession; for if you do, that confession will destroy your last
possibility of pardon or commutation.
"Vincent."
He folded and sealed this note and delivered it to Cuthbert, saying:
"Conceal it somewhere about your person, and go to the warden's
office and ask leave to see your old fellow-servant, and no doubt
you will get it. And when you see him deliver this note secretly, as
I told you."
"Verra weel, me laird," said the old man, going and knocking on the
door of the cell to be let out. The turnkey opened the door,
released him, and locked it again. And the viscount, left alone,
paced up and down the floor in unutterable distress of mind. An hour
passed and then Cuthbert re-entered the cell, wearing a frightened
visage.
"Well, Cuthbert, well! did you find an opportunity of delivering the
note?"
"Yes, me laird, I did," said the old man hesitatingly.
"Secretly?"
"Y-yes, me laird!"
The viscount looked relieved of a great fear. He saw the great
disturbance of his servant's face, but ascribed it to the effect of
his interview with the condemned man, and sympathy for his awful
position, and he inquired:
"How did Frisbie look, Cuthbert?"
"Like a ghaist; na less! pale as deeth; trembling like a leaf about
to fa'! and waefully distraught in his mind!"
"Did he get an opportunity of reading my note while you were with
him?"
"Oh, me laird, I maun just tell you! I hope there was na ony great
secret in that same note."
The viscount started and stared wildly at the speaker, but then
everything alarmed Lord Vincent now.
"What do you mean?" he asked:
"Oh, me laird! I watched my opportunity, and I gi'e him the note in
secrecy, as your lairdship tauld me; and I stooped and whispered
till him in his lugs to keep the note till he was his lane, and read
it then. But the doitted fule, gude forgi'e me, didna seem to
compreheend; but was loike ane dazed. He just lookit at me and then
proceeded to open the note before my face. Whereupon the turnkey lad
takit it out fra his hand, saying that the prisoner, being a
condemned man, maunna receive ony faulded paper that hadna passit
under the observation of the governor, because sic faulded packets
might contain strychnine or other subtle poison. And sae he took
possession o' your note, me laird, before the prisoner could read a
word of it; and said he maun carry it to the governor whilk I
suppose he did."
To see the consternation of the viscount was dreadful.
"Oh, Cuthbert, Cuthbert, the cowardice of that miserable wretch will
ruin me!" he exclaimed bitterly.
"Oh, me laird, dinna rail at the puir sinfu' soul for cowardice.
Sure mesel' would be a coward gin I had the waefu' woodie before my
ees. 'Deed, me laird, and me heart is sair for the mischance o' the
note."
"It cannot be mended now, Cuthbert."
The time was drawing near for the closing of the prison doors, and
the old man took a dutiful leave of his master and departed.
On his way downstairs he was called into the warden's office, and
while there he was severely reprimanded for conveying letters to the
convict, and forbidden under pain of punishment to repeat the
offense. The old man bore the rebuke very patiently, and at the
lecture that was bestowed upon him he humbly bowed and took his
leave.
This night the viscount, exhausted by long vigilance and fasting and
by intense anxiety, threw himself upon his bed and slept for a few
hours. The next morning, Saturday, in his restless trouble he arose
early. And in the course of the day he questioned everyone who came
into his cell concerning the state of mind of the condemned man.
Some could give him no news at all; others could tell him something;
but they differed in their accounts of Frisbie--one saying that he
had asked for the prison chaplain, who had gone in to him; a second
that he was very contrite; a third that he was only terribly
frightened; a fourth that he was as firm as a rock, declined to
confess his guilt and persisted in declaring his innocence. The
viscount endeavored to believe the last statement.
The miserable day passed without bringing anything more satisfactory
to Lord Vincent. And the night that followed was a sleepless one to
him.
Sunday came; the last day of life that was left to the wretched
valet. On Sunday it was obligatory upon all the prisoners confined
in that jail to attend divine service in the prison chapel. They had
no choice in this matter; unless they were confined to their beds by
illness they were obliged to go.
On this particular Sunday no prisoner felt disposed to place himself
on the sick list. Quite the contrary. For, on the other hand, many
prisoners who were really ill, in the infirmary, declared themselves
well enough to get up and go to chapel.
The reason of their sudden zeal in the performance of their
religious duties was simply this: The "condemned sermon," as it was
called, was to be preached that day. And the condemned man, who was
to be executed in the morning, was to be present under guard. And
people generally have a morbid curiosity to gaze upon a man who is
doomed to death.
Lord Vincent was ill enough to be exempt from the duty of appearing
in the chapel, and haughty enough to recoil from mixing publicly
with his fellow-prisoners; but he was intensely anxious to see
Frisbie and judge for himself, from the man's appearance, whether he
seemed likely to make a confession.
And so, when the turnkey whose duty it was to attend to this ward
came around to unlock the doors and marshal the prisoners in order
to march them to the chapel, Lord Vincent, without demur, fell into
rank and went with them.
The chapel was small, and the prisoners present on this day filled
it full. The set to which Lord Vincent belonged were marched in
among the last. Consequently they sat at the lower end of the
chapel.
Lord Vincent's height enabled him to look over the heads of most
persons present. And he looked around for Frisbie. At length he
found him.
The condemned pew was immediately before the pulpit, facing the
preacher. In it sat Frisbie, unfettered, but guarded by two
turnkeys, one of whom sat on each side of him. But Frisbie's back
was towards Lord Vincent, and so the viscount could not possibly get
a glimpse of the expression of his face.
He next looked to see if he could find the selfish vixen who had
lured him to his ruin, and whom he now hated with all the power of
hatred latent in his soul. But a partition eight feet high, running
nearly the whole length of the chapel and stopping only within a few
feet of the pulpit, separated the women's from the men's side of the
church, so that even if she had been present he could not have seen
her.
"The wages of sin is death."
Such was the text from which the sermon was preached to the
prisoners that day. But the viscount heard scarcely one word of it.
Intensely absorbed in his own reflections, he paid no attention to
the services. At their close he bent his eyes again upon the form of
Frisbie.
His perseverance was rewarded. As they arose to leave the chapel
Frisbie also arose and turned around. And the viscount got a full
view of his face--a pale, wild, despairing face.
"He is desperately frightened, if he is not penitent. That is the
face of a man who, in the forlorn hope of saving his life, will deny
his guilt until the rope is around his neck, and then, in the
forlorn hope of saving his soul, confess his crime under the
gallows," said the viscount to himself, as he was marched back to
his cell.
In that the viscount wronged Frisbie. The great adversary himself is
said to be not so black as he is painted.
That same night, that last solemn night of the criminal's life, the
prison chaplain stayed with the wretched man. Mr. Godfree was a
fervent Christian; one whose faith could move mountains; one who
would never abandon a soul, however sinful, to sink into perdition
while that soul remained in its mortal tenement. Such men seem to
have a Christ-conferred power to save to the uttermost.
He kept close to Frisbie; he would not permit himself to be
discouraged by the sinfulness, the cowardice, and the utter baseness
of the poor wretch. He pitied him, talked to him, prayed with him.
With all his deep criminality Frisbie was certainly not hardened. He
listened to the exhortations of the chaplain, he wept bitterly, and
joined in the prayers. And in the silence of that night he made a
full confession to the chaplain, with the request that it might be
made public the next day.
He confessed the murder of Ailsie Dunbar; but he denied that the
crime had been premeditated, as it had been made to appear at the
trial. He killed her in a fit of passion, he said; and he had never
known an hour's peace since. Remorse for the crime and terror for
its consequences had made his life wretched. His master, Lord
Vincent, he said, had been an eye-witness to the murder; but had
withheld himself from denouncing him, because he wanted to use the
power he had thus obtained to compel him to enter a conspiracy
against Lady Vincent. And here followed a full account of the plot
and its execution.
Frisbie went on to say that nothing but the terrors of death induced
him to become a party to that base conspiracy against the honor of a
noble lady, and that he had suffered almost as much remorse for his
crimes against Lady Vincent as for his murder of Ailsie Dunbar.
All this Mr. Godfree took down in short-hand from the lips of the
conscience-stricken man.
And then, as Frisbie expressed the desire to spend the remainder of
the night in devotion, Mr. Godfree decided to remain with him. He
read aloud to the convict portions of Scripture suited to his sad
case; he prayed fervently with him for the pardon of his sins; and
then he sang for him a consoling hymn.
Oh, strangely sounded that sacred song arising in the deep silence
of the condemned cell. So the night passed there.
But how did it pass in the viscount's cell? Sleeplessly, anxiously,
wretchedly, until long after midnight, when he fell asleep. He was
awakened by a sound of sawing, dragging, and hammering, that seemed
to be in the prison yard beneath his windows. It continued a long
time, and effectually banished slumber from his weary eyes.
What could they be doing at that unusual hour? he asked himself. And
he crept from his bed and peeped through the grated window. But the
night was over-clouded and deeply dark from that darkness that
precedes the dawn. He could see nothing, but he could hear the sound
of voices amid the noise of work; although the words, at the
distance his window was from the ground, were inaudible.
He lay down again no wiser than he had risen up. After an hour or
two the noise ceased, and he dropped into that sleep of prostration
that more resembles worn-out nature's swooning than healthy slumber.