OUT OF THE WORLD.
This tedious, shameful travel came to an end at nightfall. Their way had
lain all day through landscapes of great beauty, though about to lose
the last remnants of their autumn splendor; but when they left the rail,
the woods, and glens, and rivers were seen no more. All was dreary
moorland, where winter had already begun to reign. A village or two were
passed, among whose scanty population their appearance created little
excitement: such sights were common in that locality. They were on the
high-road that leads to Lingmoor, and to nowhere else. The way seemed as
typical of their outcast life-path as a page out of the _Pilgrim's
Progress_. Vanity Fair, where they would fain have tarried if they
could, was left far behind them, while to some of them the road was
doomed to be the veritable Valley of the Shadow. They were never to see
the world, nor partake of its coarse and brutal pleasures--the only ones
they cared for, or perhaps had experienced--any more. How bare, and
desolate, and wretched was the prospect! There was no living thing in
sight; only the wild moorland streams hurried by, as if themselves
desirous to escape from the barren solitude. Not a tree was to be seen
save Bergen Wood, which Richard's companion indicated to him, as they
neared it, by a movement of the eyelid. It had been the tomb of many a
convict, who had striven for freedom, and found death. As they emerged
from it, Lingmoor prison presented itself, solid, immense, and gloomy,
as though it were built of steel--"Castle of Giant Despair." Its guarded
gate was swung back, and all were marched into a paved courtyard, where
their names were called over, and their irons removed. Then each was
stripped and searched, and another uniform substituted for that they had
worn at Cross Key. The old hands seemed to take a pride in knowing what
was about to be done beforehand; in being recognized by the warders,
though their greeting was but a contemptuous shrug; and in threading the
windings of the stone labyrinths with an accustomed step. Richard was
ushered into a cell the exact counterpart of that he had lately
inhabited; and yet he regarded it with the interest which one can not
fail to feel in what is to be one's home for years.
Home! Frightful misnomer for that place, warm and well-ventilated as it
was, and supplied with the latest products of civilization. The gas was
burning brightly; fresh cool water flowed at his will; at his touch a
bell rang, and instantly, outside his door, an iron plate sprang out,
and indicated to the warder in what cell his presence was required. "How
clean and comfortable!" says the introduced-by-special-order visitor, to
his obsequious acquaintance the governor, on observing these admirable
arrangements. "How much better are these scoundrels cared for," cries
the unthinking public, "than are our honest poor!" It is not, however,
that the convict is pampered; but for this unkindly care he would not be
able to endure the punishment which justice has decreed for him. Science
has meted out to him each drop of gruel, each ounce of bread, each
article of clothing, and each degree of warmth. Not one of all the
recipients of this cruel benevolence but would gladly have exchanged
places with the shivering tramp or the work-house pauper. To cower under
the leafless branches of Bergen Wood, while the November night-blasts
made them grind and clang, would have seemed paradise compared with that
snug lodging; nay, the grave itself, with its dim dread Hereafter, has
been preferred before it.
Life at Lingmoor was existence by machinery--monotony that sometimes
maddened as well as slew. To read of it is to understand nothing of
this. The bald annals of the place reveal nothing of this terrible
secret.
Richard rose at five at clang of bell, cleaned out his cell, and folded
up his bed more neatly than did ever chamber-maid; at six was
breakfast--porridge, and forty minutes allowed for its enjoyment; then
chapel and parade; then labor--mat-making was his trade, at which he
became a great proficient. His fingers deftly worked, while his mind
brooded. At twelve was dinner--bread and potatoes, with seventy minutes
allowed for its digestion; then exercise in the yard, and mat-making
again till six in summer, and four in winter; prayers, supper, school
till eight; when the weary day was done. On Sunday, except two hours of
exercise and chapel, Richard was his own master, to brood as much as he
would. There were also no less than three holidays in the year, on which
it has been whispered with horror that the convicts have pudding. There
was, however, no such excess at Lingmoor.
As for society, there was the chaplain. This gentleman could make
nothing of Richard, though he tried his best. It was evident to him that
the young man had something on his mind; if he would only confide in his
spiritual adviser, he assured him comfort could be administered. But no
confidence ever took place. It was a most distressing case; here was a
youth of superior position, and well educated, as obstinate and stubborn
as the most hardened criminal in the establishment. His Bible was never
opened. One of his warders had expressed his opinion that No. 421 was
vindictive, but he (the chaplain) was bound to say he had observed
nothing of that. The remarks in his note-book respecting 421 were these:
"Richard Yorke--aged twenty, looks ten years older; reserved and
cynical; a hopeless infidel, but respectful, uncomplaining, and
well-mannered."
Richard had been reported more than once for "inattention to orders,"
and had lost some of his good marks accordingly. The cause of this was
one over which he could now be scarcely said to have control. He had
become so absent and _distrait_ that he sometimes hardly knew what was
going on about him. The perpetual brooding in which he indulged had, in
fact, already postponed the accomplishment of the very object which
enthralled his thoughts. The effect of this was serious; and he had good
reason for the apprehension which seized him, that his wits might leave
him before that day of liberty arrived, which was still so many years
distant. On account of his previous calling, which was described in the
prison books as landscape-painter, he had been put to a handicraft
trade; but he now applied for harrow-work, and the surgeon seconded his
application. This change of occupation, which was destined in some
respects to be beneficial, proved at the outset most unfortunate. The
outdoor toil was mostly spade and barrow labor on the moor, on which the
convicts worked in gangs--each gang under supervision of two warders,
armed with sword and musket. The first face that Richard's eyes lit on,
when he found himself in the open, with the free air of heaven blowing
on him, and already, as it seemed, bearing the seeds of health and hope,
was that of Robert Balfour. In his joyous excitement he sprang forward
and held out his hand; the other hesitated--for the old cracksman was
prudence itself--then, as if with an incontrollable impulse, grasped the
offered fingers, with an "I am right glad to see you, lad." The next
instant they were both in custody, and marched back to the prison,
charged with the high crime and misdemeanor of conversation, which at
Lingmoor was called "colloguing," "conspiracy," and other terrible
terms. Brought before the authorities upon this serious charge, Richard
at once confessed himself alone to blame; the fresh air had, in a
manner, intoxicated him, after his long confinement within stone walls;
and the sight of his old acquaintance had caused him to forget the
rules. On the offense-list being examined, it was found, however, that
No. 421 was a good deal in the habit of forgetting. His cell-warder gave
him but an indifferent character; and Richard, in a fury, committed the
fatal indiscretion of rebutting this latter accusation by a
countercharge of tyranny and ill-usage. The next instant he could have
bitten his tongue out--but it was too late; he felt that he had made an
enemy of this body-servant, who was also his master, for the remainder
of his term. An "old hand," unless he is a professional garroter (in
which case he is generally too much respected to be ill-used), is always
careful to keep on good terms with his attendant; otherwise--since a
warder's word, if it be not law, is at all events worth that of ten
prisoners--there may be no end to your troubles. This is not because
warders are not as a class a most respectable body of men, but simply
because you can't get all the virtues for a guinea a week. A strict and
impartial sense of justice is especially a rare and dear article--even
governors have sometimes been deficient in it. Most men have their
prejudices, as women have their spites; and a prejudice against a
fellow-creature is a thing that grows. Richard's warder was no
tyrant--only a sullen, ignorant fellow, in a false position; he had an
almost absolute power over his fellow-creatures, and like many--perhaps
like most who have ever possessed such a thing--it was too much for him.
"I am a tyrant, am I?" said he, significantly, as he marched Richard
back to his cell after sentence was decreed. "Very well; we'll _see_."
Richard got bread and water for three days certain, and, what was far
worse, another "monstrous cantle" might be cut out of that period of
remission which began to be all the dearer in his eyes the more
problematical it grew. Garroters, as we have said, were respected at
Lingmoor; they are so ready with their great ape-like hands, and so
dull-brained with respect to consequences; yet Richard's warder, when he
brought his bread and water, with a grin, that night, was probably as
near to death by strangling as he had ever been during his professional
experience. It was not that he was on his own account the object of his
prisoner's wrath, but that by his conduct he had, as it were,
supplemented the inexpiable wrong originally committed, and earned for
himself a portion of the undying hate which was due elsewhere. "I may
kill this brute some day," thought Richard, ruefully, "in spite of
myself." And he resolved on the first opportunity to communicate a
certain secret which was on his mind to a friendly ear; so that _that_
at least should be utilized to the disadvantage of his foes, in case
incontrollable passion should one day compel him to sacrifice a lesser
victim, and make his great revenge to fail. It had not once entered into
his mind that he could _forego_ his purpose, but only that circumstances
might render it impossible.
The occasion for which he looked was not long in coming. His days of
punishment concluded, he was once more marched out upon the moor, and
again found himself in Balfour's company. Not a sign passed between them
this time, but as they delved they talked. "I fear you have been
suffering for my sake," said Richard.
"It is no matter. My shoulders are broad enough for two," returned the
other, kindly. "I am right glad to see your face again, though it is so
changed. You have been ill, have you not, lad?"
"I don't know. Something is wrong with me, and I may be worse--that is
why I want to speak to you. Listen!"
"All right. Don't look this way, and sink your voice if either of these
dogs comes to leeward."
"If you get away from this place, and _I_ don't--"
"Now, none of that, lad," interrupted the old man, earnestly. "That's
the worst thing you can get into your head at Lingmoor, if you ever want
to leave it. Never _say_ die, nor even _think_ it. I am three times your
age, and yet I mean to get out again and enjoy myself. It is but fifteen
years now, without counting remission--though I've got into disgrace
with my cursed watch-dog, and sha'n't get much of that--and you must
keep a good heart."
"I shall keep a firm one," answered Richard, "never fear. I wish to
guard against contingencies, that's all. If I die--"
"Damned if you shall," said Balfour, sturdily, quite innocent of any
plagiarism from Uncle Toby.
"Very good," continued Richard, coolly. "If you get out of this before
me, let us merely say, I have something to tell you which may be of
service to you. There's a man in Breakneckshire called Carew of
Crompton--"
"I know him: the gentleman born as put on the gloves with Bendigo at
Birmingham?"
"Very likely; at all events, every body knows him in the Midlands. He
will go to the dogs some day, and his estate will be sold. You have
saved money, you tell me; if the chance occurs, you can't invest it
better than in the lot called Wheal Danes, a mine in Cornwall."
"I believe you every word," said Balfour; "but a mine would be rather
over my figure, wouldn't it? I have only got eight hundred pounds."
"That would be plenty. It's a disused mine, and supposed to be worked
out. There's only one man in England that knows it is not so, except
myself. He will come or send to the auction, expecting to get it cheap;
but do you bid two hundred pounds beforehand, and get it by private
contract. Say you want the place--it's close to the sea--for building
purposes; they'll laugh at you, and jump at your offer. The fee-simple
is not supposed to be worth five shillings an acre. It will turn out a
gold mine to whoever gets it."
"Wheal Danes," repeated Balfour, carefully. "I'll remember that; and
what is more, lad, I'll not forget the man as told me of it. It's not
the profit that I am speaking on: that will be yours, I hope, as it
should be in all reason, and not mine; but it's the confidence." The old
man's voice grew husky with emotion. "Damme, I liked _you_ from the
first, as was natural enough; but there was no reason why you should
take a fancy to an old thief like me more than any other among this
pretty lot here. The first as speaks of secrets is of course the one as
runs the risk, but I will do what I can to show myself honorable on my
side. You have trusted me, and I'll trust you."
"Have you any plan to get away from this?" whispered Richard, eagerly.
"All that I have shall be yours: I swear it."
"Nay, lad; your word's enough," returned the other, reproachfully. "And
I don't covet nothing of yours; indeed I don't."
"I was a brute to talk so to you, Balfour," answered Richard,
penitently. "But you don't mow how I crave for freedom: it makes me mad
to think of it."
"Ay, ay; I know," sighed the old fellow. "It used to be so with me once;
but now it only comes on me when my term is nearly up. One gets patient
as one gets old, you'll find. No; I've no plan just now; though, if I
ever have, I promise you you shall be the man to know it. It's another
matter altogether that I meant to tell you about. You've given me an
address to remember: let me give you another in exchange for it--No. 91
Earl Street East, Spitalfields. That's where mother lives, if the poor
soul is alive to whom you wrote for me from Cross Key. She'll be dead,
however, long before you or I get out of this, that's certain, or I
should not be telling you what I do; for one's mother is the best friend
of all friends, and should come first and foremost. Well, the money will
do her no good; and if any thing happens to me, I have neither chick nor
child to inherit it. I am speaking of this eight hundred pound, lad. If
I get into the world, I shall want it for myself, for I doubt my limbs
will be too stiff for work by that time; but if not, then you shall have
it--every shilling. I am digging my own grave, as it might be, with this
spade, and making my will, do you see?" said the old fellow, smiling.
"I thank you for your kind intentions," returned Richard, absently;
"it's very good of you, I'm sure." His hopes of some scheme of present
release had been excited by the old man's manner, and this faint and
far-off prospect of a legateeship seemed but of little worth.
"I may not have another chance to tell you about it," resumed Balfour.
"It is five years now since you and I spoke together last, and it may be
another five years before such good luck happens again; so don't forget
91 Earl Street East. It's under the middle stone of the back kitchen,
all in golden quids. You needn't mind it being 'swag;' and as for those
whose own it is by rights, I could not tell you who the half of it
belonged to, if I would. It's the savings of an industrious life, lad,"
added Mr. Balfour, pathetically; "and I should be sorry to think, if any
thing happened to me, that it should lie there useless, or be found
accidental like, and perhaps fall into the hands of the bluebottles.
Your memory's good, my lad, I dare say, and you won't forget the number
nor the street."
"My memory is very good, friend," returned Richard, slowly; "and I have
only two or three things else to keep in it. And you, on your part, you
will not forget the mine?"
"Nay, nay; I've got it safe: Wheal Danes, Wheal Danes."
"Silence, down there!" roared the warder; and nothing but the squeak of
the barrow-wheel and the clean slice of the spade was heard in all that
throng of involuntary toilers.