He replied he loved reading very much indeed: but he had no books.
Did he write?
He had no paper.
Was there a pen and ink in the house?
Yes; but the pen was seldom used, and good for nothing.
Could he get me a pen?
If he had but a quill, he could make me one.
Had he a pen-knife?
No; he had forgotten that: but one of the men had a knife with several
blades, and he could ask him to lend it.
And what should he write, supposing he had paper?
A letter.
To whom?
To his mother.
I thought it not right to expose my stores to him, and therefore
suffered him to go for that time, without saying any thing more on the
subject. But my discourse with him had pretty well driven all
apprehension from his mind. I was cautious to speak in a very low tone
of voice; and, without being bidden, he had acuteness enough to follow
my example.
The next day, at breakfast, I gave him a sheet of paper, and two
quills; and told him to make pens of them if he could; one for himself,
and the other for me; and to take the paper for his letter. He looked
with intelligent surprise--Where did they come from? was the question
in his thoughts; but he said nothing. Madmen were beings whom he did
not comprehend.
My kindness to him, however, made him desirous to oblige me. I gave him
a part of my breakfast; and he ate what I gave him in a manner that
shewed he was not over-fed.
At dinner he brought me both the pens. I asked him why he did not keep
one to write to his mother? He said he had written, but had cleaned and
cut the pen over again. They were not ill made, considering that, as he
told me, the knife was a bad one.
But what will you do for ink, sir? said he. I told him I had a little;
but that I should be glad if I had more. Perhaps, he replied, he could
get one of the men to bring him a half-pennyworth. I said I had no
money, and he answered a gentleman (Mr. Clifton, I suppose) had just
given him sixpence, for holding his horse; that he intended to save it
for his mother, but that he would spare a halfpenny to buy me ink.
I took the boy's hand, and said to him--'If ever I live to get free
from this place, I will remember you.'--The emotions I felt
communicated themselves, and he looked sorrowfully up in my face, and
asked--'Why, are not you mad, sir?'
The very earnest but mild manner with which I answered--'No, my good
fellow'--both convinced him and set his imagination to work.
I said little more, but finished my meal, wrote down my numbers, and
gave him the bottle: but warned him, if he were questioned, by no means
to tell an untruth. The boy looked at me again, in a manner that spoke
highly in his favour, put the bottle in his pocket, and, as soon as his
master returned to the door, removed the things and departed.
He brought the ink with my supper. One of the men had taken his
sixpence, but refused to return him any change; and the ink he had
emptied out of the keeper's bottle. Such are the habits of vice. The
boy related it with indignation, but said he dared not complain. I had
nothing else to give, I therefore rewarded the generous boy with a
couple of quills, and four sheets of paper for his own use; cautioning
him to keep them to write to his mother.
While I wanted the means, I imagined it would have been a great relief
to have had the power of writing down my thoughts; but I found they
were much too busy, and disturbed, by the recollection of Anna St. Ives
and her danger, and by the incessant desire of finding some means of
escape, notwithstanding a thousand repeated convictions of its
impossibility, to suffer me to write either with effect or connection.
I did nothing but make memorandums; some of thoughts that occurred, and
others of circumstances that were present. I concealed my papers in the
wainscot behind the picture, where I mean to leave this narrative.
The indulgence of my morning walk was continued; and on the sixth day
of my confinement an incident happened, by which I almost effected my
release.
Confiding in the strait waistcoat and in the strength of his locks and
bars, and become less apprehensive from this persuasion, the keeper had
left me under the care of only one of his men; himself and the other
were employed on something which he wanted done in the house.
While they were absent, the garden-bell rang. The voice of Mac Fane was
heard, demanding entrance, by the man who was set to watch me, and
fetching the key he opened the gate without hesitation.
My hopes were instantly excited. I made a short turn and crossed him,
as if continuing my walk, a few yards distant from the gate. He eyed me
however, and I went on; but, the moment he was busied in unlocking and
unbolting it, I turned round, sprang forward, and as it opened rushed
past.
The violence of my motion overset Mac Fane. The master, whose
suspicions had taken the alarm, was entering the garden and saw me. He
and his man and Mac Fane instantly joined in the pursuit.
Though I was in the strait waistcoat, yet I happened to be swifter than
any of them. The keeper was soon the first in the chase: it was up a
narrow lane, with a high-banked hedge on each side. A man was coming
down it, and the keeper called to him to stop me. The man seeing my
arms confined, and hearing the shouts of my pursuers, endeavoured to do
as he was desired. He placed himself directly in my way, and I ran full
against him.
We both fell; but the man by the aid of his hands was up rather the
soonest. He laid hold of me, and a sudden thought struck me. They were
bawling behind--'A madman! A madman!'--and I assumed that grinning
contortion of countenance which might easiest terrify, uttered an
uncouth noise, and began to bite at the man. Terror seized him, and I
again got away, the very moment the keeper was coming up.
I had not run a hundred yards further before I saw another man at a
distance, and the hue and cry behind was as hot as ever. The hedge in
this place was lower, and I jumped over it into the field on my right.
There was a ditch on the other side, of which I had no intimation; and
my feet alighting on the edge of it, I once more fell.
My pursuers profited by a gate, which I had passed. It was the field of
a gardener, and a man was at work close by. He came and helped me up;
but not soon enough: the keeper arrived, and presently after his man
and Mac Fane.
I addressed myself to the gardener, endeavoured to tell him who I was,
and said I would give him a hundred pounds, if he would aid me to
escape: but my efforts were soon put an end to by the keeper, who threw
me down, a second time violently thrust his thumb into my throat, and
by gagging me prevented further speech.
Mac Fane however thought proper to give the man half a crown, and they
all assured him I was a madman; which story was confirmed by the man
who supposed himself bitten, and who had joined in the pursuit.
The extreme malevolence of Mac Fane again displayed itself: but his
treatment is unworthy notice, except as it relates to what is to come.
I was hurried back to my prison, left with the strait waistcoat on that
whole day and night, and was fed by the boy; who shewed many silent
tokens of commiseration, though once more watched by the keeper and his
two attendants, with the three chains up at the door. All conversations
between me and the boy were for several days ended, by the continued
overlooking of the keeper and his men.
After the keeper and Mac Fane had retired, I went into the back room,
and was standing with my face toward the window, which is beside the
closet. The behaviour of Mac Fane had been so extraordinary as already
to lead me to suspect he had a wish to take away my life.
As I was standing here, I heard the keeper's bed-room door open and
shut again, and soon after the voices of him and Mac Fane in
conversation. I listened very attentively to a dialogue, the substance
of which was to me much more alarming than unexpected. It was a
consultation, on the part of Mac Fane, on the policy and means of
murdering me.
The keeper opposed him, several times mentioned Mr. Clifton as an
unconquerable objection, and urged the danger of being detected; for he
did not seem to revolt at the fact.
Mac Fane answered he would silence Clifton; of whom his favourite
phrase was that 'He should soon do him!'--which he repeated very often,
with a variety of uncommon oaths. He even said that, were I fairly out
of the way, he could make Edward St. Ives pay him the three thousand
guineas.
The curses which Mac Fane continually coupled with my name, and the
rancour, the thirst of blood which preyed upon him, were incredible. He
a hundred times imprecated eternal damnation to his soul if there were
the least danger. The fellows the keeper had with him were of his own
providing: they knew he could hang them both: they durst not impeach.
[_Squeak_, I recollect, was the word he used.] To take me off was the
safest way. Clifton would in reality be an accessary before the fact,
and therefore obliged to silence. Beside--'He would do him! He would do
him!'--This he confirmed by a new string of oaths.
The keeper however continued averse to the project, said the fellows
would hang their own father if he could not bribe them, that there was
nothing to be got by putting me out of the way, and that he would not
venture his neck unless he saw good cause.
While they were arguing the point, a loud and authoritative rap was
heard at the keeper's door, accompanied by the voice of Mr. Clifton,
demanding admission. He entered, and the whole story of my escape was
related, with that colouring which their own fears inspired.
Mac Fane darkly hinted the thoughts he had been communicating to the
keeper; but, meeting repulse from Mr. Clifton whenever ideas of cruelty
were started, he thought proper to use more reserve.
The keeper concluded his account by affirming it would be necessary to
continue me in the strait waistcoat, and not to let me walk in the
garden any more. Mr. Clifton assented to the latter, but positively
ordered my arms to be released. There was no need he said to punish me
in this manner, and it should not be. At the same time he gave the
keeper a twenty pound note, and repeated his orders to treat me
properly, but to take care not to suffer me to escape.
Misguided man! How does your heart pant after virtue! How grieve at the
slavery in which it is held! What will its agony be, when the full
measure of error is come!
Yet this to me was the lucid moment of hope, for it suggested a train
of conclusions which seem like heavenly certainties--Mr. Clifton had
made his attempts on Anna St. Ives, and they have been repelled! Even
still, and it is several days since, his efforts continue to be
ineffectual!--It must be so!--The purposes of vice are frustrated by
the pure energies of virtue: for, had they succeeded, I should be
released. Heart-cheering thought! Pleasure inexpressible! Yes, Anna St.
Ives is safe! Truth is omnipotent; and out of my ashes another, and
probably a more strenuous and determined assertor of it may arise!
Clifton at last may see how very foul is folly, and turn to wisdom!
Would he might be spared the guilt of purchasing conviction at the
price of blood!
Three days passed away, after my escape, without any remarkable
occurrence. The sanguinary malignity of Mac Fane was more than
counterbalanced, by the reasonings of probability and hope in favour of
Anna St. Ives.
During my confinement, I had slept but little. Wearied however at
length, by the repetition of ideas that were unavailing, I was
slumbering more soundly than usual on the night after the ninth day;
and was dreaming that my doors were unbolted, the chains rattling, and
men entering to murder me; from which I was waked by starting in my
dream to run and resist them. It was the real clanking of the bolts and
locks of the house doors that inspired this dream; they opened to give
some one admission. I know not what was the hour, but it must be very
late, and it was completely dark. I soon distinguished Mac Fane's
voice. I jumped up, hastily dressed myself in part, and presently heard
the keeper's door open--The ray of light appeared on the wall--I crept
toward the closet.
The first word Mac Fane uttered was--'I told you I should do him!--I
told you I should do him!'
He kept repeating this and other exclamations, which I could not at
first comprehend, closing each of them with oaths expressive of
uncommon exultation. But he descanted almost instantly from Mr.
Clifton, to whom his phrase alluded, to me; adding--it was high time
now to do me too.
His joy was so great, his oaths so multiplied, and his asseverations so
continual, that he would tread me out, would send my soul to hell that
very night, and other similar phrases, that it was some time before the
keeper could obtain an answer to his question of--'What does all this
mean?' At last Mr. Mac Fane began to relate, as soberly as the
intoxication of his mind would permit, that he had done him [Mr.
Clifton] out of ten thousand pounds.
Had he got the money?
No--But God shiver his soul to flames if he did not make him pay! He
would blow him to powder, drink his blood, eat his bones if he did not!
This was not all--He had another prize! Eight thousand pounds! The
money was now in the house!
He stopped short--The cupidity of the keeper was excited, and he grew
impatient. Mac Fane I imagine hesitated to reconsider if it were
possible to get all the money himself, make away with me secretly, and
leave the keeper in ignorance. But he could not but conclude this to be
impracticable.
I could not sufficiently connect the meaning of all the phrases that
followed; they might depend as much on seeing as hearing; but I
understood Mac Fane was acquainted with the circumstance of the money I
have in my possession; though whether his knowledge were gained from
Mr. Clifton or Anna St. Ives, for they were both mentioned, I could not
distinguish. He talked much of a letter, of his own cunning, and of the
contempt in which he held Mr. Clifton.
The keeper however was convinced of the fact, for he proposed
immediately to murder me, and secure the money.
This point was for some time debated, and I every moment expected they
would leave the room, to perpetrate the crime. Mac Fane had his pistols
and cutlass, yet seemed to suppose a possibility even of my conquering
them. The keeper was much more confident--'He knew how to bring me
down; he had no fear of that.'--Mac Fane remembered his defeat, and
the keeper his cheaply bought victory.
They agreed it could not be done silently, unless they could catch me
asleep, and the unbolting of the doors would awaken me. They wished the
keeper's fellows to know nothing of the matter; they would claim their
share.
At last Mac Fane proposed that I should be put in the strait waistcoat
the next morning, on pretence of walking me out in the garden; that
perhaps it would be best to suffer me to walk there, but not to take
off the strait waistcoat any more; that then the doors might be left
unbolted, and even unlocked, my arms being confined; and the next night
they might come and dispatch me!
The conversation continued long after this, and schemes of flight,
either to Ireland or the continent, were concerted, and the riches and
happiness they should enjoy insisted on, with great self-applause and
pleasure. Poor, mistaken men!
They at last parted, with a determination to execute the scheme of the
strait waistcoat. Mac Fane took possession of the keeper's bed; and he
as I imagine went to that of his men.
And here I must remark that Mac Fane either forgot or did not imagine
that my immediate murder would be an impediment to the payment of the
ten thousand pound gaming debt, from Mr. Clifton; which fear afterward
actuated him strongly. It could not do otherwise, the moment it was
conceived.
According to agreement, in the morning the keeper came, with as much
pretended kindness as he knew how to assume, to tell me I might have my
walk in the garden again, if I pleased. I answered I did not wish to
walk. He endeavoured to persuade me, but he soon found it was to no
purpose. He then ordered the boy away, who had brought the strait
waistcoat, and quitted his station at the door in great dudgeon.
I soon afterward heard, as I expected, Mac Fane and him in his own
room. Mac Fane cursed the keeper bitterly, and supposed that, for want
of cunning, he had in part betrayed himself, and rendered me
suspicious. The keeper resented his behaviour and cursed again, till I
imagined they had fairly quarrelled.
Mac Fane however began to cool, and to talk of another expedient of
which he had been thinking. This was to poison me. In this the keeper
immediately joined, and began to enquire about the means of procuring
the poison. The boy was first mentioned, but that was thought too
dangerous. At last Mac Fane determined himself to go to London and buy
arsenic, on pretence of poisoning rats, and to set off immediately. On
this they concluded, and presently left the room.
My whole attention was now employed in watching the opening of the
keeper's door; but there was reason to apprehend they would converse
somewhere else on their projects. I imagine however they thought this
the safest and most inaccessible place, for a little before dark I
again heard the voice of Mac Fane, and they presently came back to
their former station.
Mac Fane related the difficulty he had found in getting the arsenic;
that several shops had refused him; and that at last he had succeeded
by ordering a quantity of drugs, for which he paid, leaving them to be
sent to a fictitious address, and returning back pretending he wanted
some poison for the rats, asking them which was the best. They
recommended arsenic, which they directed him to make up in balls, and
he ordered a quarter of a pound. They weighed it, he put it in his
pocket, and they noticed the circumstance, telling him they would send
it home with the other drugs; but he walked away pretending not to hear
what they said.
Mac Fane, glorying in his own cunning, was impatient to administer his
drug, and proposed it should be sent up in my tea. The keeper assented,
and the boy very soon afterward brought me some tea in a pot ready
made, contrary to custom, I having been used to make my own tea.
The keeper was at the door. I asked him the reason of this deviation;
and he bade me drink my tea and be thankful. I poured some out, first
looked at it, then tasted it, and afterwards threw it into the ashes,
saying it was bad tea. I next examined the tea-pot, smelled into it,
and then dashed it to pieces on the hearth. I looked toward the keeper
and told him there was something in the tea that ought not to have
been.
Seeing me take up the candle and begin to move, he instantly shut the
door. His conscience was alarmed, and for a moment he forgot the
security of his chains. He even called up his men before he opened it
again; after which the boy was released, but not before I had time to
tell him never to eat any thing that was brought for me. The poor boy
noticed the significance with which I said it, and fixed his eyes
mournfully upon me. I shook him by the hand, bade him be a good boy,
and not learn wickedness from his master.
The remains of the tea-set were soon removed, and a fresh consultation
presently began in the keeper's room. Mac Fane was again enraged, and
blamed the keeper; who began to suppose there was something
supernatural in my behaviour. He said I looked at him as if I knew it
was poison, and it was very strange! Mac Fane swore he would dose me at
supper, and would go and make me eat it himself, or blow my brains out;
but he presently recollected I had not the strait waistcoat on, and
altered his tone. It was however agreed that another attempt should be
made.
I now began to consider all circumstances; whether it were probable, if
I ate a little, that the keeper should suppose it only a temporary want
of appetite; what quantity might be eaten without harm, and if it were
not practicable to watch the moment when they should come, by night, to
execute their wicked purpose, and to pass them and escape? A little
reasoning shewed me that I should be in the dark, in a house the
avenues to which were all secured, and with which I was unacquainted;
that the number I had to contend with now would be four, three of them
provided with bludgeons, and the fourth with a hanger and pistols; that
release by the order of Mr. Clifton was not impossible; and that, if I
began a fray, I should excite cowardice to action; and, having begun,
Mac Fane would scarcely, miss such an opportunity.
These reasons made me rather resolve to persevere in fasting; which
remedy, though it could not be of long duration, appeared to be the
wisest. Yet caution was necessary, for, should I make them absolutely
despair of poisoning me, they would have recourse to other means.
My resolution was taken, and when the supper came I tasted a bit of
bread and drank a small quantity of water, after carefully inspecting
it, and without saying any thing more sent the rest away.
The keeper's door soon opened, the ray of light appeared on the wall,
and a new consultation succeeded. The keeper again was troubled with
superstitious fears; and Mac Fane was persuaded that, having been
alarmed at tea-time, I had from suspicion refused to eat any supper.
After a debate, they concluded it would be in vain to attempt to poison
me in my tea, for I should detect it: they would therefore send me a
short allowance at breakfast, keep me hungry, and prepare my dinner for
the next day. The keeper proposed to give me no breakfast, but Mac Fane
said that was the way to make me suspect.
They were both highly chagrined; but Mac Fane was much the most
talkative at all times, and the loudest in oaths and menaces: though I
scarcely think even him a more dangerous man than the keeper.
In the morning, observing they had sent agreeable to their plan a small
quantity, after a little examination I ate what was brought me, and the
keeper retired apparently satisfied.
It was far otherwise at dinner, when I absolutely refused to eat; and
their vexation was greatly increased by my persisting to refuse the
whole day.
Late at night a new council was held, and it was long in debate whether
I should be suffered to live the night out. At last the cupidity of Mac
Fane prevailed, and his fear of not getting Mr. Clifton's bond for
eleven thousand pounds, as he said, though I understood he had won but
ten, seems now to have first struck him; and this induced him to
desist. I understood however that Mac Fane had still some hopes from
his poison, and consequently that to fast would still be necessary.
Their final resolve was that, the moment Mr. Clifton should have given
Mac Fane the bond, they would then delay no longer: and, from the
threats which he vaunted of having used, he expected the bond to be
given the next day, when Mr. Clifton was to come to the keeper's, if I
understood them rightly, after his visit to Anna St. Ives.
This idea again conjured up torturing images, and fears which no
efforts I have been able to make can entirely appease.
I began this narrative the first day on which I found my life was in
danger, and have continued it to this time, which is now the twelfth
day of my confinement. The desire which the keeper expresses to possess
himself of the money convinces me of my great jeopardy. He was eager to
have committed the murder last night, during the last conversation I
heard. That I should escape with life from the hands of these wicked
men is but little probable; but I will not desert myself; I will not
forward an act of blood by timidity. Were I to destroy the bank-bills,
and to tell them they were destroyed, I should not be believed. I mean
to try another expedient--I hear them in the keeper's room!
These are the last words I shall ever write. They are determined on
immediate murder--But I will sell my life dearly.