MR. ROBERT BALFOUR.
An author of sensitive organization has always a difficulty in treating
the subject of prison life. If he avoids details, the critics do not
ascribe it to delicacy, but to incompetence; if, on the other hand, he
enters into them, they nudge the elbow of the public, and hint that this
particular phase of human experience is his specialty--that he "ought to
know," because he has been "through the mill" himself. This is not kind,
of course; but the expression, "a little more than kin and less than
kind," is exceedingly applicable to the critic in relation to his humble
brother, the author. We will take a middle course, then, and exhibit
only just so much of Cross Key as may be seen in a "justice's visit."
Twenty years ago, the system of treatment of prisoners before trial
incarcerated in her Majesty's jails was not so uniform as it now is. In
some they were permitted few privileges not enjoyed by the convicts
themselves; in others a considerable difference was made between the two
classes. The establishment at Cross Key leaned to the side of
indulgence. Its inmates who were awaiting their trial were allowed to
wear their own clothes; to write letters to their friends without
supervision (though not without the suspicion of it on their own part);
and to mingle together for some hours in a common room, where that
unbroken silence which pervades all our modern Bastiles, and is perhaps
their most terrible feature, was not insisted upon. In this common room
Richard Yorke was sitting on the afternoon following his incarceration.
The principal meal of the day had been just concluded, and himself and
his fellow-guests were brooding moodily over their troubles. The
platters, the block-tin knives, so rounded that the most determined
self-destroyer could never job himself with them into Hades, and the
metal mugs had been removed, and their places on the narrow deal table
were occupied by a few periodicals of a somewhat depressing character,
though "devoted to the cultivation of quiet cheerfulness," and by a
leaden inkstand much too large to be swallowed. The prisoners--upon the
ground, perhaps, of not needing the wings of liberty for any other
purpose--were expected to furnish (from them) their own pens. There were
but half a dozen of these unfortunates; all, with two exceptions, were
of the same type--that of the ordinary agricultural criminal. Ignorant,
slouching, dogged, they might have fired a rick, or killed a keeper, or
even--sacrilegious but unthinking boors--have shot a great man's
pheasant. They did not make use of their privileges of conversation
beyond a muttered word or two, but stared stupidly at the pictures in
the magazines, wondering (as well they might) at the benevolent faces of
the landlords, clergymen, and all persons in authority therein
portrayed, or perhaps not wondering at them at all, but rather pondering
whether Bet and the children had gone into "the House" or not by this
time, or whether the man in the big wig would be hard upon themselves
next Wednesday three weeks.
One of these two exceptions was, of course, our hero, who looked, by
contrast with these poor, simple malefactors, like a being from another
world, a fallen angel, but with the evil forces of his new abode already
gathering fast within him. His capacities for ill, indeed, were ten
times theirs; and the dusky glow of his dark eyes evinced that they were
at work, though they did but ineffectually reflect the hell of hate that
was beginning to be lit within him. It flamed against the whole world of
his fellow-creatures, so mad he was with pride and scorn and rage; his
hand should be against every man henceforth, as theirs was now against
him; his motto, like the _exeunt_ exclamation of the mob in the play,
should be: "Fire, burn, slay!" He was like a spoiled child who for the
first time has received a severe punishment--for a wonder, not wholly
deserved--and who wishes, in his vengeful passion, that all mankind
might have one neck in common with his persecutor, that (forgetting he
is no Hercules) his infant arms might throttle it off-hand. The love
which he still felt for Harry and his mother, far from softening him
toward others, rather increased his bitterness of spirit. They, too,
were suffering wrong and ill-treatment, and needed an avenger. His fury
choked him, so that he had eaten nothing of what had been set before
him, and he now sat leaning with his elbows on the bare boards, staring
with heated eyes at the blank wall before him, and feeding on his own
heart.
"This is your first time in quod, I guess, young gentleman," observed a
quiet voice beside him.
Richard started. He had thrown one contemptuous glance upon the company
when they first assembled, and had decided that they possessed no more
interest for him than a herd of cattle; buried in his own sombre
thoughts, he had lost consciousness of their very presence, as of that
of the warder, who was pacing up and down the room with monotonous
tread. But now that his attention was thus drawn to his next neighbor,
he saw that he differed somewhat from the rest; not that he was more
intelligent-looking--for, indeed, there was a reckless brutality in his
expression which the others lacked--but there was a certain resolution
and strength of will in his face, which at least told of power. But it
was the tone of voice, which, coming from such a man, though it was a
gruff voice enough in itself, had something conciliatory and winning in
it, that chiefly attracted Richard. Perhaps, too, the phrase "young
gentleman" flattered his vanity. We can not throw off all our weaknesses
at a moment's notice, no matter how stupendous the crisis in our
fortunes, any more than, though our boat be sinking under us, we can
divest ourselves of our clothes with a single shrug; and sympathy and
deferential respect had still their weight with Richard Yorke. Perhaps,
too, his nature had not yet even got quit of its gregariousness, and he
was not sorry to have his acquaintance sought, though by this hang-dog
thief.
"I have never been in prison before, if that is what you mean," returned
he, civilly.
He who asked the question was a stout-built, grizzled fellow, of about
fifty years. He was dressed like a well-to-do farmer, but his accent
smacked of London rather than the country; and his hands, Richard
observed, were not so coarse and rough as might be expected in one used
to manual labor, though his limbs and frame were powerful enough for the
most arduous toil. His gray eyes looked keenly at Richard from under
their bushy brows, as he propounded a second inquiry:
"What are you in for? Forgery or embezzlement, I reckon--which is it?"
"Neither," answered Richard, laconically, a bitter smile parting his
lips in spite of himself.
"Well, now, that's curious," observed the other, coolly. "If it was not
that you were sent here with the rest of us, and not shut up by
yourself, I should have guessed 'Murder' outright, for you were looking
all that a minute ago; and since it could not be murder, I thought it
must be one of the other two."
"I don't know what I am here for," said Richard, gloomily, "except that
the charge is false."
"Oh, of course," rejoined the other, with a grim chuckle; "it's always
false the first time, and as often afterward as we can get the juries to
believe us. I'm an old hand myself, and my feelings are not easily
wounded; but I have never yet disgraced myself by pleading guilty. It's
throwing a chance away, unless you are a very beautiful young woman who
has put away her baby, and that I never was, nor did."
"Beauty in distress mollifies the court, does it?" inquired Richard,
willing to be won from his own wretchedness by talk even with a man like
this.
"Mollifies!--yes, it makes a molly of every body. I have known a judge
shed tears about it, which he is not bound to do unless he has the black
cap on--that always set him going like an onion. Why, I've seen even an
attorney use his pocket-handkerchief because of a pretty face in
trouble; but then she was his client, to be sure. Talking of attorneys,
you'll have Weasel, of course?"
Richard nodded an affirmative.
"Quite right. I should have him myself, if there was a shadow of a
chance; but, as it is, it's throwing good money out o' winder. I wish
you better luck, young gentleman, than mine is like to be; not that you
want luck, of course, but only justice."
Richard did not relish this tone of banter, and he showed it in his
look.
"Come, come," said the other, good-humoredly, "it is a pity to curdle
such a handsome face as yours with sour thoughts. Let us be friends, for
you may be glad of even a friend like me some dirty day."
"It is very likely," answered Richard, bitterly. "I see no fine days
ahead, nor yet fine friends."
"I hope you will see both," answered the other, frankly. "The first time
one finds one's self provided for so extra careful as this," with a
glance at the iron bars across the low-arched windows, "the prospect
always does seem dark. But one learns to look upon the bright side at
last. Is the figure very heavy that you're in for? Excuse my country
manners: I don't mean to be rude, nor do I ask the question from mere
curiosity; but you don't look like one to have come here for a mere
trifle."
"The amount in question is two thousand pounds."
"No whistling there!" cried the warder, peremptorily, for the "old hand"
had not been able to repress an expression of emotion at this
announcement. He looked at Richard with an air of self-complacency, such
as a gentleman of the middle classes exhibits on suddenly discovering
that he has been in familiar converse with a person of title, or a small
trader on being brought into unexpected connection with a merchant
prince. The gigantic character of the "operation" had invested this
young man with an increased interest in the stranger's eye.
"That's a great beginning," said he, admiringly, "and could scarcely
have happened with a poor devil like me. One requires to be born a
gentleman to have such opportunities. Now, I don't mind telling _you_"
here he sank his voice to a whisper, and looked cautiously about him,
"that I was forty years of age before I ever got such a haul as yours.
I've done better since, but it's been up-hill work, for all that."
"It doesn't seem to have been very hard work," said Richard, with a
meaning glance at the other's hand.
"Well, no, I can't say as it's been hard; a neat touch is what is wanted
in my profession."
"Why, you're not a pick--" Richard hesitated from motives of delicacy.
"A pickpocket? Well, I hope not, Sir, indeed," interrupted the other,
indignantly.
"Then what _are_ you?" said Richard, bluntly.
As a coy maiden blushes and hangs her head in silence when asked the
question which she is yet both proud and pleased to answer in the
affirmative, so did Mr. Robert Balfour (for such was the name of our new
acquaintance) pause and in graceful confusion rub his stubble chin with
his closed fist ere he replied: "Well, the fact is, I have been in the
gold and precious stone line these thirty years, and never in the
provinces until this present summer, when I came down here, as a Yankee
pal of mine once put it, 'to open a little jewelry store.'"
"With a crowbar?" suggested Richard, with a faint smile.
"Just so," said the other, nodding; "and it so happened that yours
truly, Bob Balfour, was caught in the very act."
"And what term of punishment do you expect for such a--"
"Such a misfortune as that?" answered Mr. Balfour, hastening to relieve
Richard's embarrassment. "Well, if I had got the swag, I
should--considering the testimonials that will be handed in--have been a
lifer. But since I did not realize so much as a weddin' _ring_, twenty
years ought to see me through it now."
Twenty years! Why, this man would be over seventy before he regained his
liberty!
"Great Heaven!" cried Richard, "can you be cheerful with such a future
before you! and at the end of it, to be turned old and penniless into
the wide world!"
A genuine pity showed itself in the young man's look and tone. A minute
before he had thought himself the most wretched of human beings; yet
here was one whose fate was even harder, and who met it without
repining. Community of trouble had already touched the heart which he
had thought was turned to stone.
"Are you sorry for me, young gentleman," inquired the convict, in an
altered voice, "you who have got so much trouble of your own to bear?"
"I am, indeed," said Richard, frankly.
"You would not write a letter for me, though, would you?" inquired the
other, wistfully. "I should like to tell--somebody as I've left at
home--where I am gone to; and the fact is, I can't write; I never
learned how to do it."
A blush came over Bob Balfour's face for the first time; the man was
ashamed of his ignorance, though not of his career of crime. "If it's
too much trouble, say so," added he, gruffly. "Perhaps it was too great
a favor to ask of a gentleman born."
"Not at all," said Richard, hastily, "if the man will bring us pen and
paper."
"Hush! the _officer_, if you please," said Balfour. "They like to be
'officered,' these gentry, every one of them. Some friends of mine
always addresses 'em as 'dogs;' but that's a mistake, when they has to
watch you."
Mr. Robert Balfour spoke a few respectful words to the warder, and the
requisite materials were soon laid upon the table. Richard dipped his
pen in the ink, and waited for directions. "It's only a few words,"
muttered Mr. Balfour, apologetically, "to my old mother. Perhaps you
have a mother yourself, young gentleman?"
"I have." He had written to her guardedly the previous day, before he
left Plymouth, to tell her the same sad news which he was now, as he
supposed, about to repeat for another, and to urge her to repair to
Cross Key at once.
Mr. Balfour beat softly on the table with his forefinger for a moment,
and then, as though he had found the key-note of the desired
composition, dictated as follows:
"MY DEAR MOTHER,--When this comes to hand, I shall have took your
advice, and started for the New World. There's a ship a-sailing
from Plymouth in a day or two, and my passage in her is booked. I
didn't like to come back to town again, for fear I should change my
mind, and turn to the old trade. The post is queer and doubtful,
they tell me, in these far-away parts; but you shall hear from me
whenever I have an opportunity. All as is mine is yours, remember;
so, use it. I have no need of money myself, for there's a place
being kept for me, out yonder, in the carpentering line. Hoping
this finds you well, as it leaves me, I am your dutiful son, ROBERT
BALFOUR."
"Then you don't tell her any thing about what's happened to you?" said
Richard, wonderingly.
"Why should I? The poor soul's over seventy, and will never see me
again. It's much better that she should have a pretty picture to look at
than such a reality as this; ain't it?"
"Well, I suppose it is."
This delicate feeling on the part of Mr. Balfour jarred upon Richard.
_He_ had taken no pains to break the news of his imprisonment to _his_
mother; on the contrary, he had painted the wretchedness of his
position, with a view to set forth the urgent necessity for help, in its
most sombre colors. Of course there was a great difference in the two
cases, an immense difference; but still he resented this exhibition of
natural piety, as contrasting unpleasantly with his own conduct.
The other, however, had no suspicion of this. His thoughts, just then,
were far away; and the subject of them gave an unwonted softness to his
tone as he observed: "I thank you for this, kindly, young gentleman.
Here's the address--Earl Street, Spitalfields. It's her own house; and
she will have enough, and to spare, while she lives, thank the Lord!
Well, that's done with; and if Bob Balfour can do you a good turn for
it, he will. Hello, you're wanted."
"Richard Yorke!" repeated the warder, loudly. "Can't you hear?"
Richard had heard well enough; but the idea that it was his mother who
had come to see him had for the moment unmanned him; he well knew how
proud she had been of him; and how was he to meet her now, disgraced,
disheartened, in prison, a reputed thief! But the next instant he
reflected that her arrival could not be possibly looked for for some
days; perhaps it was Trevethick, who had, in the mean time, learned all,
and was come to announce his willingness to withdraw from the
prosecution; perhaps Harry herself was with him; perhaps--
But there was no time for further prognostication; a second warder was
at the door, beckoning impatiently, and Richard rose at once. The dull
faces of the rest were all raised toward him with a malign aspect; they
feared that some good news was come for him, that they were about to
lose a companion in misfortune. Only one held out his hand, with a "Good
luck to you, young gentleman; though I never see you again, I shall not
forget you."
"Silence there!" cried the officer in charge, as Richard passed out into
the stone passage. "You ought to know our ways better than that,
Balfour."