NEWS FROM LINGMOOR.
Mrs. Basil kept her word with her lodger, and (thanks to the chaplain)
gave into his hand a catalogue of the great Crompton sale some hours at
least before the details of it were made public; on the receipt of which
Solomon at once left town. His absence was felt to be a relief by all
parties. The work of ingratiating herself with his hard, coarse nature,
independently of the personal loathing with which Mrs. Basil regarded
him, on Richard's account, was very hard, and rest was grateful to her.
Mrs. Coe was always more at ease when business took her husband from his
home. Charley hailed his departure, since he could now enjoy the society
of his Agnes without stint.
He was, as usual, at Soho one morning, when Harry, sitting alone in the
drawing-room, engaged in needle-work, was alarmed by a shrill shriek,
followed by a heavy fall on the floor beneath, in Mrs. Basil's parlor.
She had heard the front-door closed but a minute before, and the thought
that was never wholly absent from her mind now flashed upon it with
terrible distinctness--the Avenger had come at last! Her next hurried
reflection was one of thankfulness that neither Charley nor Solomon was
at home. Then, pale and trembling, she stole out on the landing of the
stairs, and listened intently. Not a sound was to be heard save the
throbs of her own fluttering breast. The cook and the waiting-maid, who
alone composed the domestic staff, had apparently not heard the noise;
for the former was singing loudly in the kitchen, as was her wont when
she had been "put out," as happened some half dozen times per diem. It
was frightful to think that in yonder parlor her once-loved Richard
might even then be closeted with his mother, deaf to her appeals for
mercy, resolute for revenge, and only demanding where his enemies might
be found: it was better to face him than to picture him thus. That his
sudden appearance had terrified Mrs. Basil into a fit she had little
doubt from that shriek and fall; and, indeed, all was now so still
within there that she might be dead. The fear for her offspring,
however, made Harry almost bold. Indeed, as has been said, she did not
entertain any apprehension of personal violence at Richard's hands; and,
perhaps, in spite of Mrs. Basil's assurance to the contrary, she had
some hope of moving him from his set purpose by her prayers and tears.
Step by step, and clinging to the hand-rail for support, for her limbs
scarcely obeyed her will, she descended the stairs, stood a moment in
the passage, listening like a frightened hare, and then opened the
parlor door. There was no one within it: yes, upon the hearth-rug lay
the motionless form of Mrs. Basil; she was lying on her face; and,
rushing forward, Harry knelt down beside her, and strove to lift her in
her arms. Some instinct seemed to forbid her to call for assistance.
"What is it? what is it?" gasped the old woman, looking vacantly up in
the other's face.
"You have been unwell, dear madam. I am afraid you have had a fainting
fit; but, thank Heaven, you are better now."
Harry was truly grateful; first, that her original suspicion had proved
to be unfounded; secondly, that Mrs. Basil was alive. She had contrived
to place her in a sitting posture, with her back against the heavy
arm-chair; and now she brought a carafe of water from the side-board,
and sprinkled her face and hands.
"Let me call Mary, and we will get you up to your own room as soon as
you feel equal to the effort."
Mrs. Basil's eyes had closed again. Her face was white and stiff as that
of a corpse; but she shook her head with vehemence. "The door--lock the
door!" she murmured.
Not without some hesitation, for she began to fear that her companion
was wandering in her mind, Harry obeyed her. "Get me into my chair. Oh,
why did I ever wake to weary life again!"
"What has troubled you? Can any new misfortune have happened to us?"
inquired Harry, woefully.
"To _you_--no," answered the old woman, with sudden fierceness; "to
me--yes. Do you see that letter?" She pointed to one lying beneath the
table. "Twenty years ago that would have been my death-warrant; but now
I am so used to suffer that, like the man who lived on poisons, nothing
kills. Read it--read it."
The letter was an official one; the envelope immense, with "On her
Majesty's Service" stamped upon it, and out of all proportion to the
scanty contents, which ran as follows:
"LINGMOOR PRISON, _December 22._
"MADAM,--I am instructed by the Governor of this Jail to acquaint
you with the sad news that your son, Richard Yorke, is no more.
Four weeks ago he escaped from prison by night, and took refuge in
an adjoining wood. His body was discovered only four days ago, and
an inquest held upon it, when a verdict was returned in accordance
with the facts. I am, Madam, yours obediently,
"THOMAS SPARKES (_for the Governor_).
"I am instructed to inclose a locket with miniature, which was
found upon your son on his arrival here. The rest of his property
will be forwarded by rail."
This locket contained the little picture of Harry painted by Richard
himself, and which, though he had contrived to secrete while at Cross
Key, had been taken from him at Lingmoor.
Harry's breast was agitated by conflicting emotions. To know that her
boy was safe--that there could be no murder done--gave her a sense of
intense relief, which could scarcely be called selfish. But that
reflection was but transient, and a passionate burst of sorrow succeeded
it. The only man she had ever loved--around whom, centred her most
precious memories--had died, then, thus miserably, after miserable years
of bondage endured on her account. She saw him with her mind's eye once
more as when he had clasped her in his arms for the first time upon the
ruined tower--as when he had rained his kisses on her lips beside the
Wishing Well--in his youth and beauty and passion. Her nineteen years of
loveless wedlock were swept away, and left her as she saw herself in the
little portrait he himself had painted, and which was now his legacy.
His menaces and vows of vengeance against her and hers were all
forgotten; her woman's heart was loyal to him whom she had owned its
lord, and once more did him fealty.
"Oh, Richard, Richard, my dear love," cried she; "God knows I would have
died to save you!"
"Come here, Harry--come here," whispered Mrs. Basil, "and let me kiss
you. I would that I could weep like you; but the fountain of my tears
has long been dry. I thought you would have been glad to feel that you
and yours were safe--that retribution was averted from the man, your
husband; but I now see I did you wrong. Your heart is touched--you
remember him as he was before the taint of crime was on him."
"It never was!" cried Harry, passionately. "He never meant to wrong my
father of a shilling."
"Well said, dear Harry; well said. He was himself a wronged--a murdered
man. Imprisoned for nineteen years, and then to perish thus! And yet men
talk of Heaven's justice! My boy! my boy!"
The two women were silent for a while--the one gazing with dry eyes but
tender yearning face upon the other, as she rocked herself to and fro,
and shook with stifled sobs.
"Dear Harry, you must not desert me now," pleaded the former, pitifully;
"I am very old, and this has broken me. He was my all--my only one on
earth--and he is dead. I shall not trouble you long. We two, child, were
the only ones that loved him, and we love him still. Let me cling to
you, Harry, since it is but for a little while; and let us talk of him
together, when we are alone, and think of what he was. So bright, so
gay, so--Oh, my boy! my boy!"
The tears rushed to the mother's eyes at last. Hard Fate was softened
for a while toward it's life-long victim; and side by side sat the two
bereaved women, each striving to comfort the other, after woman's
fashion, by painting in its brightest colors that dead Past which both
deplored. Begotten of their common sorrow, Love sprang up between them,
and on one side confidence; and into Mrs. Basil's hungry ears Harry, for
the first time, poured the story of her courtship. Richard's death had
cemented between them the bond which it would seem to have destroyed.
The fatal letter lay open on Harry's lap, but the envelope had fallen on
the floor. Stooping to pick it up, she found something still within
it--some folded slips from a local newspaper, with an account of the
inquest, the details of which the governor's clerk had, perhaps
humanely, preferred to communicate in that form, to be read or not as
the mother's feelings might dictate to her. The two women read it
together, not aloud, for neither had the voice for that. With most of
the evidence there recounted we are already familiar. It was proved that
No. 421 had long been in a desponding, brooding state; but, as only a
year intervened between the expiration of his term of punishment, his
attempt to escape was almost unaccountable, and certainly unparalleled.
No punishment was impending over him. The opinion of the authorities was
expressed that the convict's reason was unhinged. The method of
obtaining his freedom showed indeed considerable cunning, but also an
audacity that was scarcely consistent with sanity. The height of the
prisoner was known, and his proportionate reach of arm; and it seemed
incredible how he could have succeeded in reaching the parapet above his
cell window; in that attempt he must have risked certain death. His
descent from the roof was explained by the presence of the rope. The
immediate means by which he surmounted the external wall were, of
course, evident enough, since the rope was there also; but the question
was, how did it come there? The prisoner must have been assisted by some
one outside the wall. The warder who fired the shot which subsequently
proved fatal had seen but one man; but the night was dark, and the whole
affair had passed very rapidly. Indeed, the convict had only fully shown
himself when at the top of the wall, and the musket had been fired
almost at a venture. On the alarm being given, pursuit was at once
attempted; but, under cover of the night, the fugitive had gained Bergen
Wood. The next morning his footsteps were traced so far, and it was
proved that he was unaccompanied. A cordon was placed round the wood,
and the place itself thoroughly searched for many days. It was deemed
certain, from the report of the scouts who were made use of on such
occasions, that the convict had not left that covert to seek shelter in
any hamlet in the neighborhood; the quest was therefore still continued.
Not, however, until three weeks afterward was No. 421 discovered. It was
supposed that the unhappy fugitive had died of his wounds upon the very
night of his escape, for the body was so decomposed that it could never
have been identified but for its convict clothes; the nights had been
wet and tempestuous, and it lay in an unsheltered part of the wood, a
mere sodden heap of what had been once humanity. The bullet that had
been the cause of death was, however, detected in the remains.
What an end to the high-spirited, handsome lad that had been the pride
of his mother, the joy of his betrothed! What wonder that they sat over
the bald record of it with bowed-down faces, and filled up the gaps with
only too easily imagined horrors! Each kept hold of the other's hand, as
though in sign of the dread bond between them, and sat close to one
another in silence. Presently Harry started up, at the sound of a
latch-key in the house door.
"That is Solomon," cried she.
"Impossible," said Mrs. Basil. "He told me himself that he should stop
for the last day's sale, and to-day is but the fifth."
"Hush! it is."
Yes, it was certainly Solomon's voice in the passage; and apparently, by
the answering tone, he had a male companion with him.
Harry seized the letter, with its inclosures, and thrust them into her
bosom, which, full of grief for his victim, seemed to spurn her
husband's approach. Then she heard him calling her impatiently, as was
his wont, from the foot of the stairs.
"Harry, come down; I have brought a gentleman home with me. Let's have
something to eat at once, will you?"
"Answer him--answer him!" gasped Harry. She could not speak; her tongue
seemed paralyzed.
Mrs. Basil rose at once, walked with steady step to the door, and opened
it. "Your wife is here, Mr. Coe. I am glad you are come home, for she is
far from well, and I was getting quite nervous about her."
"She _must_ be ill," grumbled Solomon, "not to be able to say 'Here,'
when I am breaking a blood-vessel with holloing to her in the attics.
Come in here, Sir." This to his companion--a man considerably his
senior, thin and spare, who stood peering curiously at the landlady. "I
am sorry to see you unwell, wife. I have brought a friend to stay with
us for a day or two. Mr. Robert Balfour--Mrs. Coe."