LORD ELLINGHAM IN THE DUNGEON.
Four weeks had elapsed since the arrest of Tom Rain and the
extraordinary adventure which had snatched the Earl of Ellingham from
the great world and plunged him into a narrow—noisome cell.
Yes—four weeks had the nobleman languished in the terrible
dungeon,—ignorant of where his prison-house was situated—why his freedom
was thus outraged—and who were his persecutors.
Every morning, at about eight o'clock, a small trap in the door of his
cell was opened, and food was passed through to him. A lamp had been
given him the day after he became an inmate of the place; and oil was
regularly supplied for the maintenance of the light. His food was good,
and wine accompanied it;—it was therefore evident that no petty spite
nor mean malignity had led to his captivity.
Indeed, the man who brought him his food assured him that no harm would
befall him,—that his imprisonment was necessary to suit certain weighty
and important interests, but that it would not be protracted beyond a
few weeks,—and that the only reason for placing him in such a dungeon
was because it was requisite to guard against the possibility of an
escape.
Often and often had Lord Ellingham endeavoured to render his gaoler more
communicative; but the man was not to be coaxed into garrulity. Neither
did he ever allow the nobleman to catch a glimpse of his features, when
he brought the food to the trap-door. He invariably stood on one side,
and spoke in a feigned tone when replying to any question to which he
did vouchsafe an answer.
The day after his strange and mysterious arrest, Arthur received from
this man the assurances above mentioned; and a considerable weight was
thereby removed from his mind. His imprisonment was not to be eternal: a
few weeks would see the term of the necessity that had caused it. But
still he grieved—nay, felt shocked to think of the state of suspense in
which those who cared for him would remain during his long absence. This
source of affliction he mentioned to the man who attended upon him; and
the reply was to some extent satisfactory.
"I will supply you with writing materials, and you can address letters
to your friends, stating that sudden business has called you abroad—to
France, for instance; and that you may probably be absent six weeks.
Write in this manner—the excuse will at least allay any serious fears
that may be entertained concerning you; and those letters shall be sent
through the post to the persons to whom they are addressed. But you must
deliver them unsealed into my hands, that I may satisfy myself as to the
real nature of their contents."
Small as the satisfaction resulting from this proceeding could be to
Lord Ellingham, it was still far preferable to the maintenance of a
rigid silence in respect to his friends. He accordingly wrote a laconic
letter in the sense suggested by his gaoler; and addressed copies to
Lady Hatfield, Thomas Rainford, and Mr. de Medina. The next time his
gaoler visited him—or rather, came to the door of the dungeon, the
prisoner was informed that the three letters had been duly forwarded
through the twopenny post.
The reader will scarcely require to be informed of the mental anxiety
which the nobleman suffered during his incarceration. This was naturally
great—very great. He was also frequently plunged in the most bewildering
conjectures relative to the authors, the motives, and the locality of
his imprisonment. Nor less did he grieve—Oh! deeply grieve, when he
thought of the surprise—the alarm—and the sorrow with which Lady
Hatfield on one side and Rainford on the other must view his mysterious
absence. He had left the former with the intention of seeing the latter,
and she would naturally expect him to return if for no other reason than
to give her an account of their interview; and he had quitted Rainford
with the promise to perform a certain task, and also having pledged
himself to use his influence and his wealth in his behalf.
The idea of the feelings that must be entertained by Rainford relative
to his absence, afflicted him more than any other. That generous-hearted
man had told him to keep his coronet and his fortune to the prejudice of
_him_—_the elder brother, legitimately born_; and yet that interview in
Horsemonger Lane Gaol seemed destined to be the last which they were to
have together! What would the poor prisoner think when the Earl returned
not, and when a letter containing a cold and wretched excuse was put
into his hands? Oh! this was the maddening—maddening thought; and the
Earl shrank from it far more appalled than from the stern reality of his
dungeon! Because Rainford might be judged, and, alas! the law might take
its course—its fatal course—ere _he_, the Earl, could stretch out a hand
to save that generous-hearted half-brother.
But amidst all the bitter and bewildering reflections which tormented
him during his imprisonment of four weeks in that dungeon of unknown
neighbourhood, there was still a predominant idea—a gleam of hope,
which, apart from the assurance that his captivity would soon have a
term, cheered and animated him often.
For whither will not the rays of Hope penetrate? Even when Hope is
really gone, her work is often done by Despair; and the latter feeling,
in its extreme, is thus often akin to Hope herself.
The hope, then, that cheered and animated the Earl at times, was—ESCAPE!
Yes: he yearned to quit that dungeon, not so much for his own sake—oh!
not nearly so much, as for that of his half-brother, who was involved in
such peril, and who needed influence and interest to save him! For the
Earl well knew that the law in criminal cases is not so tardy as in
civil matters; and that to take away a man's life, all its machinery is
set into rapid motion—although to settle his claims to a fortune or to
give him justice against his neighbour, it is, heaven knows!
heart-breakingly slow and wearisome!
To send a man to the scaffold, takes but a few weeks at the Old
Bailey:—to decide the right of this man or that man to a particular
estate, or legacy, occupies years and years in the Court of Chancery.
Oh! how thirsty do our legislators appear to drink human blood. How
rapidly all technicalities and causes of delay are cleared away when the
capital offender stands before his judge! A day—perhaps an hour is
sufficient to decide the death of a human being; but half a century may
elapse ere the conflicting claims to an acre of land or a few thousand
pounds can be settled elsewhere.
And, strange—ah! and monstrous, too, is it, that the man who loses a
case in which he sues his neighbour for twenty pounds, may appeal to
another tribunal—have a new trial granted—and, losing that also, perhaps
obtain a _third_ investigation of the point at issue, and thus three
verdicts in that beggarly business! But the man who is doomed to die—who
loses his case against the criminal prosecutor—cannot appeal to another
tribunal. No judges sit solemnly _in banco_ for him: _one verdict_ is
sufficient to take away a life. Away with him to the scaffold! In this
great commercial country, twenty pounds—consisting of pieces of paper
printed upon and stamped with particular figures—are of more consequence
than a being of flesh and blood! What though this being of flesh and
blood may have others—a wife and children—dependent on him? No matter!
Give him not the chance of a new trial: let one judge and one jury
suffice to consign him to the hangman! There can be no appeal—no
re-investigation for his case, _although it be a case of life and
death_: but away with him to the scaffold!
What blood-thirsty and atrocious monsters have our law-givers been: what
cruel, inhuman beings are they still, to perpetuate so abominable—so
flagrant—so infamous a state of jurisprudence! For how many have been
hanged, though innocent,—their guiltlessness transpiring when it is too
late! But there is no court of appeal for the man accused of a capital
crime: he is a dog who has got a bad name—and public opinion dooms him
to be hanged, days and weeks before the jury is sworn or the judge takes
his seat to try him!
And wherefore is not this infamous state of the law, which allows
appeals to the case of money-claims, but none to the case of capital
accusations,—wherefore is not this state of the law altered? Because our
legislators are too much occupied with their own party contentions and
strifes;—because they are ever engaged in battling for the Ministerial
benches—the "loaves and fishes" of power: because it seems to them of
more consequence to decide whether Sir Robert Peel or Lord John Russell
shall be Prime Minister—whether the Conservatives or the Whigs shall
hold the reins of power. Or else, gentle reader, the condition of
Greece—or Spain—or Turkey,—or even perhaps of Otaheite,—is a matter of
far greater importance than the lives of a few miserable wretches in the
condemned cells of criminal gaols!
But, in _our_ estimation—and we have the misfortune to differ from the
legislators of the country—the _life of one of those wretches_ is of far
greater consequence than the state of tyrant-ridden Greece—the Spanish
marriages—the quarrels of the Sultan and his Pachas—or the miserable
squabbles of hypocritical English missionaries and a French governor in
Tahiti. Yes—in _our_ estimation, the life of _one_ man outweighs all
such considerations; and we would rather see half a session of
Parliament devoted to the discussion of the grand question of the
PUNISHMENT OF DEATH, than one single day of that session given to all
the foreign affairs that ever agitated in a Minister's brain.
* * * * *
It was the twenty-eighth day of Lord Ellingham's imprisonment; and it
was about six o'clock on the evening of this day.
The nobleman was at work upon the masonry of his dungeon,—his efforts
being directed to remove the stones from the immediate vicinity of a
small square aperture, or sink in the corner of the cell.
His implements were a knife and fork, and one of the screws of the
frame-work of his bed.
But with these he worked arduously.
Nor was this the first day of his labours. No! for twenty-six days had
he been toiling—toiling—toiling on, to make an opening into what he
believed to be the common sewer,—even at the risk of inundating his
dungeon, and thus perishing miserably!
But all those toils, and all that risk, were sustained and encountered
for thee, Tom Rain!
Slowly—slowly—slowly had the work progressed; but now—on the
twenty-eighth day—Arthur found himself so far advanced that escape from
the dungeon was at least open to him.
But escape into what region?
Into those drains and sewers which run beneath the streets of London,
and form a maze to which the only clue is a knowledge of the point
whence he, who enters the labyrinth, originally starts! And this clue
was not possessed by Arthur; for in what part of London his dungeon was
situate, he had not the least idea. It could hardly be said that he was
confident of this dungeon being in the metropolis at all;—and yet he had
many reasons to believe that it was. For, in the first place, his gaoler
had mentioned the fact of his letters having been sent by the _twopenny
post_; secondly, he had ascertained that his cell was situate in the
very vicinity of a common sewer, and sewers were not at that time formed
in the villages surrounding the metropolis; and thirdly, he could
scarcely believe that those who had arrested him _in_ London, would have
run the risk of removing him out of its precincts—for he was well aware
that atrocious outrages and diabolical crimes may be perpetrated with
greater chances of impunity in the metropolis than elsewhere.
But, although he was thus tolerably well convinced that his prison-house
was within the boundaries of London, he had not the least notion of the
precise locality. And when he had removed sufficient of the massive
masonry to form an aperture large enough to permit a full-grown man to
pass into the sewer,—and when he heard the muddy, slimy waters gurgling
languidly in the depths below, he shuddered, and his blood ran cold—for
he thought within himself, "I have heard of men who venture into these
places in search of treasures, and who, having wandered for miles and
miles beneath the streets of London, have issued safely forth again. But
_they_ knew whence they started; and thus that starting-post was a clue
to guide them in the maze. But _I_ know not whether, on entering that
slimy shallow, I should turn to the right or to the left,—nor which
channels to pursue in that terrible labyrinth!"
Then, ashamed of his fears—reproaching himself for his hesitation, he
drank a deep draught of the wine that had been supplied him in the
morning; and holding the lamp in one hand, and in the other a stout
stick cut from one of the cross-beams that supported the mattress of his
bed, he entered the common sewer.
His feet sank down into the thick slime, and the muddy water reached to
his knees. There was a nauseous odour in the dreary passage, and the
filthy fluid was very thick. These circumstances convinced him that it
was low water in the river Thames; and by examining the masonry forming
the sides of the sewers, he saw that the tide was running out. He
therefore resolved to follow the course of the muddy stream, with the
hope that he might at length reach one of the mouths by which the sewers
discharge their contents into the river.
Armed with his stick to protect himself against the rats as well as to
sound his way so as to escape any hole or abrupt depth that there might
chance to be in the bottom of the sewer,—and holding the lamp in his
left hand, the great peer of England pursued his appalling path in a
channel seven feet wide and beneath a vaulting twelve feet high.
From time to time the sudden rush of a number of vermin along a ledge by
the side of the channel, and then the sound of their plunge into the
slimy water, startled him to such a degree that he almost dropped his
lamp: and then the conviction which flashed to his mind _that if he lost
his light, he should be inevitably devoured by those vermin_, caused
such a chill to pass through him—as if ice were unexpectedly placed upon
his heart—that his courage was oftentimes nearly subdued altogether.
But he thought of his half-brother who had manifested so much generosity
towards him,—he thought of her whom he had promised to love as a
_sister_,—and he also remembered that were he to retrace his steps,
_even if he could find the way back_, he should be returning to a
dungeon:—of all this he thought—and he went on—on, in that revolting and
perilous maze!
Yes: with lamp held high up, and stick groping in the filthy
mud—stirring up nauseating odours,—on—on went the daring, enterprising,
chivalrous nobleman—breathing an infected and almost stifling air,—an
air formed of such noxious gases, that it might explode at any moment,
ignited by the lamp!
But, hark! what is that rumbling sound—like thunder at a vast distance?
Arthur pauses—and listens.
The truth in a few moments flashed to his mind: he was beneath a street
in which vehicles were moving. Oh! now he felt convinced—even if he had
entertained any doubts before—that he was in London.
Watching the progress of the slimy stream, he turned first to the left,
up a channel that branched off from the one which he had originally
entered;—then he turned to the right into another—the hollow rumbling
sounds overhead gradually increasing in volume and power.
Suddenly he beholds a light glancing upon the putrescent surface of the
slimy stream through which he is wading knee-deep. That light is
half-a-dozen yards in front of him—flickering playfully.
He advances: sounds of footsteps—human footsteps—come down from
overhead. He looks up—and, behold! there is a grating in the street
above; and through that grating the light of the lamp streams and the
sound of the footsteps comes.
He hears voices, too—as the people pass,—the voices of that world from
all communication with which he is for the time cut off!
Shall he cry out for assistance? No: a sense of shame prevents him. He
would not like to be dragged forth from those filthy depths, in the
presence of a curious—gaping—staring crowd. He prefers the uncertainty
and the peril of his subterranean path, in the fond hope that it may
speedily lead to some safe issue.
The Earl accordingly passed on—disturbing the water on which the light
from the street-lamp played,—disturbing, too, the vermin on either side
with the splash of the fetid fluid as he waded through it.
But when he had proceeded a dozen yards, he looked back—as if unwilling
to quit the vicinity of that grating which opened into the street.
In another moment, however, he conquered his hesitation, and pursued his
way in a straight line, without again turning off either to the right or
to the left.
Upwards of an hour had elapsed since he had quitted the dungeon—and as
yet he had found no issue from that labyrinth of subterranean passages.
Grim terrors already began to assume palpable forms to his imagination,
when suddenly he beheld a dim twinkling light, like a faint star, at a
great distance a-head.
That light seemed a beacon of hope; and as he drew nearer and nearer,
its power increased. At last he saw another twinkling light, struggling
as it were betwixt glimmer and gloom;—and then a third—and then a
fourth. The air appeared to grow fresher too; and the Earl at length
believed that an opening from the maze must be near.
Yes: he was not mistaken! The lights increased in number and intensity;
and he was soon convinced that they shone upon the opposite bank of the
Thames.
A few minutes more—and all doubt was past!
The fresh breeze from the river fanned his cheek—and, as he reached the
mouth of the sewer, and hurled away his lamp, he saw the mighty flood
stretched out before him—a bridge spanning its width at a little
distance on his left hand.
He knew that bridge;—he recognised it by the pale lustre of the moon—for
the evening was clear and fine.
It was Blackfriars Bridge!
Then, from which direction had he come?
Remembering the turnings he had taken, he could fix upon the district of
Clerkenwell as the scene of his late imprisonment. But he did not pause
to reflect on a matter now so trivial,—trivial, _because he had escaped,
and was once more free_!
It was low water—and a bed of mud received him knee-deep, as he leapt
from the mouth of the sewer.
But what cared he for his uncouth and filthy appearance?—_since he had
escaped, and was once more free_?
For four weeks his beard had not been shaved, nor his toilette carefully
performed; and his hair, too, was long and matted. It was therefore
necessary to cleanse himself and change his attire as soon as possible.
Hastening along the muddy margin of the river's bed, he ascended the
steps of a wharf, and plunged into the district of Whitefriars. There,
selecting the humblest-looking public house he could find, he entered;
and, as he had his purse about him (for those who had imprisoned, did
not rob him), he was enabled to command the necessaries and attentions
which he required. Indeed, the landlord willingly supplied a complete
change of linen and a suit of his own clothes to a guest who spared not
his gold; and as "mine host" and the Earl happened to be of the same
height and equally slender in figure, the garments of the former suited
well enough the temporary need of the latter.
A hundred times, while performing his hasty toilette, was the Earl on
the point of summoning the landlord, and making inquiries concerning Tom
Rain; but the extraordinary appearance which he himself had worn on
entering the public-house, must, he felt convinced, have already
engendered strange suspicions concerning him; and prudence suggested to
him the necessity of avoiding any conversation which might strengthen
these suspicions, and thereby lead him into some embarrassment from
which the revelation of his name and rank might alone extricate him.
But, oh! how painful—how acutely painful was the suspense which he
endured while passing through the details of ablution and change of
attire; and, although never were the duties of the toilette more
necessary, yet never had the Earl hurried them over with such feverish
excitement.
At length, as St. Paul's Cathedral proclaimed the hour of eight, on that
eventful evening, Arthur sallied forth from the public-house—leaving the
landlord and landlady a prey to the wildest and most unsatisfactory
conjectures as to what he was, and how he had happened to be in the
condition in which he at first presented himself at their establishment.
They, however, both agreed that it was a very good evening's work for
them; inasmuch as their strange guest had paid them with a liberality
which would have rendered a similar visit every night of their lives a
most welcome God-send.
In the meantime the Earl of Ellingham had gained Fleet Street, with the
intention of entering some tavern or hotel where a file of newspapers
was kept. But he was struck by the deserted appearance of the great
thoroughfare—for the shops were all shut, and the vehicles, instead of
pouring in two dense streams running different ways, were few and far
between.
It then struck him that it was Sunday evening:—for though, in his
dungeon, he had been enabled to count the lapse of each day through the
date afforded by the morning visits of his gaoler, yet he had not kept
so accurate a calculation as to mark each day by its distinctive name.
[Illustration]
As he stood in Fleet Street, uncertain how to proceed, it suddenly
struck him that he would purchase a newspaper. The office of the _Weekly
Dispatch_ was facing him: he entered, and bought that day's number.
Such was his intense curiosity—nay more, his acute and agonising
suspense,—and so awful were the misgivings which crowded upon his
soul,—that he lingered in the office to glance over the newspaper.
And, my God! How he started—how his brain reeled—how crushed and
overwhelmed did he feel, when his eyes encountered the dreadful words at
the head of a column—
THE CONVICT RAINFORD.
He staggered against the wainscot of the office, and the journal nearly
dropped from his hands. He endeavoured to master his emotions, and refer
to the fatal column for farther particulars: but his brain swam—his eyes
were dim—his glances could not settle themselves upon the point which he
vainly endeavoured to make the focus of his attention.
The clerk in the office fancied that he was suddenly attacked with
indisposition, and made a polite inquiry to that effect. But the Earl,
without giving a direct reply, put hasty and impatient questions to him;
and, though his ideas were strangely confused, he nevertheless
understood the appalling announcement—_that Rainford had been condemned
to death and that the sentence was to be carried into execution on the
following morning at Horsemonger Lane Gaol_!
The Earl threw down the paper—and darted from the office,—recovered from
his state of stupefaction, but only to become the prey to the most
maddening feelings of despair.
An empty hackney-coach was passing at the moment: he stopped it, and
leapt in—exclaiming to the driver, "To Horsemonger Lane Gaol."
The coachman saw that his fare was impatient to reach that place; and he
whipped his horses into a decent pace. Over Blackfriars Bridge—down the
wide road went the vehicle: then it turned to the left at the
Obelisk—and, in a short time, it stopped in front of the gaol.
The Earl sprang forth, and was rushing up to the entrance of the
governor's house; when an ominous hammering noise fell upon his ears.
He instinctively glanced upwards:—and there—on the top of the
gaol—standing out in bold relief against the moon-lit sky, _were the
black spars of the gibbet which the carpenters had already erected for
the ensuing morning's work_!