LEAVING THE WORLD.
What wondrous and surpassing change may be in store for us when the soul
and body have parted company none can guess; but of all the changes of
which man has experience in this world, there is probably none so great
and overwhelming as that which he undergoes when, for the first time, he
passes the material barrier that separates guilt from innocence, and
finds himself in the clutches of the criminal law. To be no longer a
free man is a position which only one who has lost his freedom is able
to realize; the shock, of course, is greater or less according to his
antecedents. The habitual breaker of the law is aware that sooner or
later to the "stone jug" he must come; his friends have been there, and
laughed and joked about it, as Eton boys who have been "swished" make
merry with the block and rod, and affect to despise them; the situation
is, in idea at least, familiar to him; yet even he, perhaps, feels a
sinking of the heart when the door of the prison-cell clangs upon him
for the first time, and shuts him from the world. The common liberty to
go where we will is estimated, while we have it, at nothing; but, once
denied, it becomes the most precious boon in life. How infinitely more
poignant, then, must be the feelings of one thus unhappily
circumstanced, to whom the idea of such a catastrophe has never
occurred; who has always looked upon the law from the vantage-ground of
a good social position, and acquiesced in its working with complacence,
as in something which could have no personal relation to himself!
Thus it was with Richard Yorke when, for the first time, he found
himself a prisoner in the hands of Mr. Dodge, the detective, and his
blue-coated assistant. For the time he felt utterly unmanned, and might
have even fainted, or burst into tears, but for the consciousness that
Solomon Coe was sitting opposite to him. The presence of that gentleman
acted as a cordial upon him; the idea that he owed his miserable
position to that despised boor wounded him to the quick, but at the same
time gave him an outward show of calmness: he could not have broken down
before that man, though he had been standing beneath the gallows-tree.
Despondency would have utterly possessed him but for hate and rage--hate
of his rival and all who might be concerned in this catastrophe, and
rage at the arrest itself. For, though he had not the consciousness of
innocence to support him, he had no sense of guilt. He had had no
intention of absolutely stealing Trevethick's money; and yet he foresaw
how difficult it would be to clear himself of that grave charge. He also
looked back, and perceived for the first time the magnitude of the folly
which he had committed. He felt no shame for it as a crime--he had not
principle enough for that; but he recognized the extent of the
imprudence, and its mad audacity; yet he was mad and audacious still. He
had been brought up as much his own master as any youth in England, no
matter how rich or nobly born; he had never known control, nor even
(except during those few days at Crompton) what it was to control
himself; and he could not realize the fact that he might actually come
to share the fate of common thieves; to wear a prison garb; to be shut
up within stone walls for months or even years; no longer a man, but a
convict, known only by his number from other jail-birds. He did not
think it could even come to his standing in the felon's dock, subject to
the curious gaze of a hundred eyes, the indifferent regard of the stern
judge, the--In the midst of these bitter thoughts, which were indeed
disputations with his fears, the fly had stopped at the jail gate, and
Mr. Dodge, with a cheerful air, observed: "We must get out here, if you
please, Mr. Yorke."
Richard hesitated; he was mistrustful of his very limbs, so severely had
the sight of those stone walls shaken him.
"Your young friend does not seem much to like the idea of lodging here,"
said Solomon, with a brutal laugh.
"That is fortunate," answered the detective, dryly, "since he will not
have to do so. In my profession, Mr. Coe, we hold it a mean trick to
kick a man when he is down.--This way, Sir, if you please." For, at the
sound of Solomon's voice, Richard was up and out in a moment. "It is
merely a form that you have to go through before we go before the beak."
"A form?" asked Richard, hoarsely; "what form?"
"We shall have to search you, Sir; that's all."
"That's all," echoed Solomon, with a grin.
Richard's face changed from white to red, from red to white, by turns.
"Mr. Coe will stay where he is," said Dodge, peremptorily, as he led the
way into a little room that opened from the gate-keeper's parlor.
"I thank you for that, Mr. Dodge," said Richard, gratefully.
"Not at all, Sir. If you have any thing of a compromising nature about
you--revolvers or such like--that's my business and the beak's, not
his.--Officer do your duty."
Richard was searched accordingly. He had no revolver; but what
astonished himself more than it did the searcher was that a cigar was
found loose in his breast-pocket.
"Why, this must be the one that I gave to you this morning, Mr. Dodge."
"Just so, Sir. I put it back again as we came along. You know my motto.
When you come to be your own master again--which I hope'll be soon--then
I'll smoke it with you with pleasure; they'll keep it for you very
careful, you may depend upon it, and baccar is a thing as don't spoil.
That's a pretty bit of jewelry now--_that_ is." Mr. Dodge's remark
referred to a gold locket, with the word "Harry" outside it, written in
diamonds; and within a portrait of her, which he had executed himself.
"That's a token of some favorite brother, I dare say?"
"Yes," said Richard. "Might I keep that, if you please; or, at all
events, might I ask that it should not be shown to the man in yonder
room? It's my own, Mr. Dodge," added he, earnestly, "upon my word and
honor."
"No doubt, Sir; no doubt. There's no charge against you except as to
these notes. I must put it down on the list, because that's the law; but
you can keep it, and welcome, so far as I am concerned; though I am
afraid the Cross Key folks will not be so very easy with you."
"The Cross Key folks?"
"Well, Mr. Yorke, it's no use to hide from you that you will be sent to
Cross Key; that's the nearest jail to Gethin, I believe. I am afraid the
beak will be for committing you; the sum is so large, and the case so
clear, that I doubt whether he'll entertain the question of bail. You
have no friends in Plymouth, either, you told me."
"None," said Richard, sadly; "unless," he added, in a whisper, "I can
count you as one."
"Officer, just fetch a glass of water," said Dodge; "the prisoner says
he feels faint.--Look here, young gentleman," continued he, earnestly,
as soon as they were alone, "this is no use; I can do nothing for you
whatever, except wish you luck, which I do most heartily. I am as
helpless as a baby in this matter. I can only give you one piece of good
advice: when the beak asks if you've any thing to say, unless you have
something that will clear you, and can be proved--you know best about
that--say, 'I reserve my defense;' then, as soon as you're committed,
ask to see your solicitor; send for Weasel of Plymouth; your friends
have money, I conclude. Hush! Here's the water, young man; just sip a
little, and you'll soon come round."
Not another word, either then or afterward, did Mr. Dodge exchange with
his prisoner. Perhaps he began to think he had acted contrary to the
motto which was his guide in life in the good-will he had already shown
him. Perhaps he resented the favorable impression that the attractions
and geniality of his acquaintance at the hotel had made upon him as
unprofessional. At all events, during their drive from the jail to the
office where the magistrate was sitting--it was not open at the hour
when Richard had been arrested, or he would have been searched
there--Mr. Dodge seemed to have lost all sympathy for his "young
gentleman," chatting with the officer quite carelessly upon matters
connected with their common calling, and even offering Mr. Coe a pinch
from his snuff-box, without extending that courtesy to Yorke. Nay, when
they were just at their journey's end, he had the want of feeling to
look his prisoner straight in the face, and whistle an enlivening air.
The melody was not so popular as it has since become, or perhaps Mr.
Dodge had doubts of his ability to render it with accuracy, but, as if
to inform all whom it might concern what it was that he was executing,
he hummed aloud the fag-end of the tune, keeping time with his fist upon
his knee, "Pop goes the weasel, pop goes the weasel."
Richard understood, and thanked him with his eyes. He had no need,
however, to be reminded of the good-natured detective's word of advice.
The ignominy which he had just undergone had had the effect of revealing
to him the imminence as well as the full extent of the peril in which he
stood. Henceforward he could think of nothing--not even revenge--save
the means of extricating himself from the toils which every moment
seemed to multiply about him. The time for action was, indeed, but
short; if he was ever (for it already seemed "ever") to be free again,
the means must be taken to deliver him at once. The assizes would be
held at Cross Key--he had heard the Gethin gossips talk of them, little
thinking that they would have any interest for him--in three weeks.
Until then, at all events, he must be a prisoner; beyond that time he
would not, dared not, look.
Within ten minutes Richard Yorke stood committed to Cross Key Jail.
He followed his friend's counsel in all respects. But the messenger
dispatched for Mr. Weasel returned with the news that that gentleman was
out of town; he was very busy at that season--there were other folks in
difficulties besides our hero, urgent for his consolation and advice as
to their course of conduct before my Lord the Judge. Mr. Dodge, however,
assured Richard, upon taking leave, that he would dispatch the attorney
after him that very night.
The road to Cross Key was, for many miles, the same which he had lately
traveled in the reverse direction; yet how different it looked! He had
been in far from good spirits on that occasion, but how infinitely more
miserable was he now! The hills, the rocks, the streams were far more
beautiful than he had ever thought them, but they mocked him with their
beauty. He longed to get out of the vehicle, and feel the springy turf,
the yielding heather, beneath his feet; to lave his hands in the
sparkling brook, to lie on the moss-grown rock, and bask in the blessed
sun. Perhaps he should never see them any more--these simple everyday
beauties, of which he had scarcely taken any account when they were
freely offered for his enjoyment. He looked back on even the day before,
wherein he had certainly been wretched enough, with yearning regret. He
had at least been a free man, and when should he be free again? Ah,
when! He was, as it were, in a prison on wheels, guarded by two jailers.
Escape would have been hopeless, even had it been judicious to make the
attempt. His only consolation was, that Solomon Coe was no longer with
him to jeer at his dejected looks. He had started for Gethin with the
news, doubtless as welcome to Trevethick as to himself, of the
prisoner's committal. What would Harry say when she came to hear of it?
What would she not suffer? Richard cast himself back in his seat, and
groaned aloud. The man at his side exchanged a glance with his
companion. "He is guilty, this young fellow." "Without doubt, he's
booked." They had their little code of signals for such occasions.
The day drew on, and the soft sweet air of evening began to rise. They
had stopped here and there for refreshments, but Richard had taken
nothing; he had, however, always accompanied his custodians within doors
at the various halting-places. He was afraid of the crowd that might
gather about the vehicle to look at the man that was being taken to
prison. There was nothing to mark him as such, but it seemed to him that
nobody could fail to know it. He welcomed the approach of night. They
still traveled on for hours, since there was no House of Detention at
which he could be placed in safety on the road; at last the wheels
rumbled over the uneven stones of a little country town; they stopped
before a building similar, so far as he could see by the moonlight, to
that to which he had been taken at Plymouth: all jails are alike,
especially to the eyes of the prisoner. A great bell was rung; there was
a parley with the keeper of the gate. The whole scene resembled
something which Richard remembered to have read in a book; he knew not
what, nor where. A door in the wall was opened; they led him up some
stone steps; the door closed behind him with a clang; and its locks
seemed to bite into the stone.
"This way, prisoner," said a gruff voice.
Door after door, passage after passage; a labyrinth of stone and iron.
At last he was ushered into a small chamber, unlike any thing he had
ever seen in his life. His sleeping-room at the keeper's lodge at
Crompton was palatial compared with it. The walls were stone; the floor
of a shining brown, so that it looked wet, though it was not so. His
jailer-chamberlain pointed to a low-lying hammock, stretched upon two
straps between the walls. "There, tumble in," he said; "you will have
your bath in the morning. Look alive!"
Richard obeyed him at once. "Good-night, warder," said he.
"Night!" grumbled the other; "it's morn-in'. A pretty time to be
knockin' up people at a respectable establishment. If you want any
thin'--broiled bones, or deviled kidneys"--for the man was a wag in his
quaint way--"ring this 'ere bell. As for the other rules and regulations
of her Majesty's jail, you'll learn them at breakfast-time."
The door slammed behind him.
How the doors _did_ slam in that place! And Richard was left alone. If,
instead of the metal ewer of water that stood by his bed-head, there had
been a glass of deadliest poison, he would have seized it greedily, and
emptied it to the dregs.