CHARLEY WARBECK’S FRIENDS—PRISON LIFE—TRUE LOVE—THE SURPRISE AND
PARDON.
Mr. Charles Warbeck had now been in confinement for more than three
months, and even had become more or less reconciled to his lot.
His luxuriant head of hair was cropped so closely, according to
“regulations,” by the prison barber that very little capillary
substance was left upon his cranium, which now looked very much like
a close-worn blacking-brush.
His highly-prized bit of whisker, upon which he had bestowed so much
fondness and care—his moustacheos, also, which, with the aid of
unguent, much combing, brushing, and Hungarian paste, had assumed of
yore quite a fierce and military twist—were all now sacrificed to the
barbarous razor.
And shorn of these hirsute charms, he felt very little sorrow or
humiliation when vested and officially enrobed in the zebra-like suit
of striped flannel jacket and trousers, which was the apparel of the
prison.
Although by no means a rogue, he was herded with a gang of ruffians,
murderers, swindlers, pickpockets and the very off-scourings of all
the earth.
And such society, it must be confessed, was a much greater punishment
to his sensitive feelings than the confinement, remorse, or a
thousand inconveniences and annoyances to which he was daily and
hourly subjected.
Had he been of pliant nature he might soon have become as utterly
depraved as his companions.
But his demeanour was so gentle, his manner so mild, and general
deportment so humble and resigned, that the prison authorities soon
removed him from the bands of ruffians with whom he had hitherto
laboured in the quarries and on the public roads.
He seldom spoke, and although there was a mild resignation in his
looks and bearing, his eyes had a light of honest independence about
them, and his voice a firmness of tone which told of a guiltless soul
suffering from some chance misfortune over which, in a moment of
temptation, it had not sufficient control.
The prison keepers and guards were unanimous in pronouncing his
conduct “excellent,” and so stated it upon their several day-books
and weekly reports.
The chaplain, indeed, with whom Charley had as frequent interviews
as could be allowed, was loud in his praises of the gentlemanly
prisoner, and when Charles had confessed to him, in conversation, the
whole story of his misdemeanour, he shook him by the hand, and said,
“I fully understand the whole case; it was a pity.”
“And yet,” he added, “although paying the penalty of what might
not be considered actually a theft, since you had fully determined
to deliver the packet, this, your present experience, may be of
incalculable good to you for your whole life.”
Good old Dame Worthington was a frequent visitor to see “her dear
boy,” and was always provided with a basket of considerable size,
containing a plentiful supply of whatever the authorities would
permit to prisoners.
Not unfrequently, also, Miss Clara took the same journey, sometimes
with Dame Worthington, but more often alone, for the distance was
not very great, so that she could go and return very easily in a few
hours.
The interviews between Charles and Dame Worthington were of a painful
description to both.
Sometimes old Sir Richard was present likewise, by “mere accident,”
as he said.
They were loud in their hopes of obtaining a pardon from the king.
With the prospect of speedy relief Charley’s spirits rose, and his
health began to improve so much that he soon acquired a strong,
hardy, robust look, from wholesome hard labour, a good appetite, and
a pure conscience.
His hair began to grow again, and curl as luxuriantly as ever.
Miss Clara was in raptures at his improved appearance, and seemed so
lost in his company that she frequently came very near losing her
conveyance, which would have been not only very annoying, but must
have disclosed these frequent visits to her mother.
Mistress Haylark, in truth, often checked her daughter’s eloquence
when discoursing of Charles and reminded her in a whisper that he was
a “convict,” and that “it would not do to have anything to say, or
even to know such a person.”
“Besides, my dear, you have good prospects in life, and money to
receive when you marry; but if your ambition doesn’t run higher than
to love a penniless fellow like him, without character or prospects,
why then you are not ‘a Haylark,’ that’s all I can say about it.”
[Illustration: A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.]
Despite all that could be said by her mother to the contrary, Clara
was constantly thinking and dreaming about Charles.
She had committed a grievous theft, and stole his likeness on ivory
from Dame Worthington’s back parlour, and having made a case for
it, hung it round her neck inside her bosom, and whenever feeling
particular sentimental, she would draw it forth, kiss it, put it back
again, and then indulge in that inexpensive luxury known to females
as “a _good_ cry!”
Miss Clara had fully made up her mind to marry Charles when he came
forth from prison—that is, if she could get him.
But upon that point she sometimes had very serious misgivings.
For she knew several young ladies in the neighbourhood, who in former
times were “setting their caps” at him.
Such disagreeable reflections often threw her into fits of
despondency, and on such occasions no one could prevail upon her to
sing or play in the parlour, as was her custom of an evening.
And she had been known to flounce out of that apartment in high
dudgeon, on one occasion, when someone had mentioned the name of Miss
Josephine Smith, who lived next door, and enjoyed a great reputation
for a pretty figure, and a graceful dancer—two things in which Clara
innocently supposed herself to be greatly deficient.
On a particular afternoon, Miss Clara had been excruciatingly
miserable, and knew not the reasons why.
When twilight came she went into the parlour and uncovered the
harp, with the intention of playing some pathetic air by way of
consolation; but, upon entering the apartment, she perceived Dame
Worthington and old Sir Richard Warbeck in earnest conversation in
the back parlour, and Charles’s name being mentioned, Clara leaned
against the half-opened folding doors and listened.
“Well, I _know_ that the affectionate little Dolly likes him, as much
as any girl ever _could_ do, but I don’t think he cares so much about
_her_, perhaps,” said the old dame.
“Say no more about it; if he makes a judicious match I will assist
him in the world; but as to mere ’curls, and ‘harp playing,’ and
all that superficial nonsense, I know he has an ambition above all
_that_. The girl _he_ carries in his heart has greater qualifications
than _these_, or I am much mistaken, _I_ know the lady _he_ admires
most, and she doesn’t live _more_ than a hundred miles from this
house,” Sir Richard said.
Clara Haylark could hear no more; she rushed from the apartment in
despair. The die was cast! Charles was lost for ever!
For several days she kept her rooms, and could not be prevailed upon,
despite all importunities, to appear in the parlour after tea.
No one could assign a cause for her absence, and a certain Augustus
Fumbleton, Esq., who was hopelessly paying his addresses to her
under the secret auspices of her mother, called evening after
evening without seeing his idol on the music-stool, and retired to
his cold and lonely lodgings in meek resignation, luxuriating in
melancholy madness, yet feeling an intense dismal satisfaction that
he could truthfully report to his intended mother-in-law that he was
daily decreasing in rotundity, and fast falling into a galloping
fashionable decline!
* * * * *
Charles, who, in his legal seclusion, far from all temptation and
the frivolities of the world, knew comparatively nothing of what was
passing within the sphere of the good old dame’s respectable hotel,
was much surprised at the altered language in which Miss Clara now
addressed him, and could not divine the causes therefore.
Clara’s notes, which formerly were full of hope, love, fidelity, and
all the tender and most interesting passions, now pictured to him
nought but her bleak and blank despair.
She told him she was “lost.”
That all she wished for now in this sublunary world was “a quiet
grave,” where, of course, moss-roses, violets, and forget-me-nots
might bloom.
But of aught else she had neither hopes nor expectations.
She told him, moreover, that her heart was broken, and intimated that
nought on earth could mend it, or join the dissevered parts anew, &c.
Finally she said his heart was given to another, and that she was
left alone to droop and die!
Surprised beyond measure at the change in her style of language,
Charley Warbeck chafed exceedingly, and could not understand what had
happened to cause a rupture between his “little curly head,” as he
jocosely termed her, and himself.
Surely no one could have divined the temporary passion which had
inflamed him for the old gaoler’s daughter, he thought; and save this
slight indiscretion, his heart had not strayed from the affectionate,
unsophisticated Clara!
Until now, he knew not how much he had loved her!
Now, indeed, his passion began to flame with tenfold ardour; and when
she no longer visited him in prison as of yore, and sent no word of
love or kindness by the much-expected and long looked-for post, he
begun to decline in health, and visibly to pine.
“Some enemy has been at work,” thought he.
“I would give untold wealth to have this thing explained! A more
true-hearted girl never breathed the breath of life, and I would give
ten thousand kingdoms to call her mine!
“She has been faithful to me in all my adversity.
“She, of all I ever knew, is the only one who does not despise me.
“If I live I will make her my wife, or else have none at all, if I
could even exist for a thousand years.”
Dame Worthington, and also Sir Richard, visited the prisoner as of
yore. They abated nothing of their former kindness—if anything, they
loved him all the more—yet Charley’s health visibly declined, nor
could his friends imagine the cause thereof.
Mental anxiety had laid him upon an hospital bed, and there he lay
for many days.
The good doctor had watched his case with more than ordinary anxiety
and care.
When making his usual “rounds” to the patients, he came laughingly to
Charley’s bedside one morning, and jocosely observed, as he passed
on, “I will not prescribe for this case to-day,” and placed in his
patient’s hands the King’s pardon!
Surprised beyond measure, Charles read the document time after time,
as if distrustful of his senses, and then begged permission to leave
the prison walls immediately!
The good doctor smiled, and at last permitted it; and Charles, weak,
pale, and subdued in spirit, put on his best clothes, and was soon on
his way to Dame Worthington’s.
It was past the time for dinner.
He saw by the light in the parlour that some one was there!
The door stood ajar.
He went into the passage, and noiselessly entered the parlour!
At the harp sat Clara, and behind her Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who
was pressing her to sing.
She hesitated much, and begged to be excused.
As there were no other persons present, her beau impudently attempted
to kiss the player.
But this was more than Charley could bear.
He quietly advanced, knocked Fumbleton aside, and kissed her himself!
Clara’s surprise was great!
She gave a little scream, rose from the music-stool, and embraced
Charles unreservedly.
Fumbleton, Esq., perceived at a glance that he was not at all wanted,
and considerably “out of place.”
Like a wise youth, he vacated the apartment very expeditiously, and
was never seen here more!
It was some moments ere Miss Clara was released from the strong arms
of Mr. Charles, and even _then_ he seemed much loth to part with the
mass of curls which had nestled so affectionately and confidingly
around his neck.
But her little scream had been heard by Mistress Haylark, who, in
maternal anxiety for her fair, accomplished, and only child, quickly
arrived upon the scene, puffing and blowing, and, discovering the
true state of things, gave a second edition of her daughter’s little
scream, and sank upon the capacious sofa completely exhausted with
her efforts.
Dame Worthington, hearing the rumpus, came into the room.
She looked at the youth for one moment, and would have fainted, but
Charley supported her.
After much kissing and hugging, and re-kissing and re-hugging, she
fully recovered, and began laughing and crying and bustling about,
preparing a substantial meal for “her boy.”
And so the time passed, until a messenger having informed old Sir
Richard of the course of events, that worthy and much-esteemed
gentleman arrived.
He shook Charles cordially by the hand, and retired for a private
chat with Dame Worthington in the back parlor, where—as Mistress
Haylark often afterwards solemnly affirmed—he was observed through
the keyhole to kiss and embrace her as affectionately as if he were a
youth of twenty, and she of not more than sixteen summers.
Be that as it may, we only know, through the “Truthful Chronicle,”
that the evening passed extremely cheerful, and that all those
acquainted with the true state of things drank more than one glass of
wine to Charley’s success; that Dame Worthington wept and embraced
him often and often; that old Sir Richard shook him repeatedly by the
hand, and that Clara Haylark was more than once called out of the
room by a whisper from the servant, when Charley waylaid and kissed
her so often as to seriously jeopardize the safety of her cherry and
seductively pouting lips.