NEWGATE.
Yes—'twas two o'clock in the morning; and the hour was proclaimed by the
iron tongues of Time, from the thousand steeples of the mighty
metropolis.
How solemnly does the sound of those deep, sonorous, metallic notes
break upon the dead silence of that period when darkness spreads its
sable wing over an entire hemisphere!
And though 'tis the time for rest, yet repose and slumber are not the
companions of every couch.
Crime, sickness, and sorrow close not their lids in balmy sleep, weighed
down with weariness though they be: too much happiness has likewise an
excitement hostile to the serenity of the pillow.
For sleep is a fickle goddess, who succumbs not to every one's wooing at
the hour when her yielding is most desired: now coy and coquettish, she
hovers around, yet approaches not quite close:—now sternly and
inexorably obstinate, she keeps herself at a great distance, in sullen
mood.
And when the iron tongues of Time proclaimed the hour of two, were the
eyes of the wretched Torrens or his miserable, guilty wife closed in
slumber?
No—no: beneath the same roof, though in compartments far asunder, they
writhed and tossed upon their hard pallets, in feverish
excitement—craving, longing for sleep to visit them,—and sleep would
not!
In those hours of wakefulness, and amidst the solemn stillness and utter
darkness of the night, how terrible are the trains of thought which pass
in rapid procession through the guilty mind,—as if imagination itself
were being hurried along an endless avenue of horrors—grim spectres,
hideous phantoms, and appalling sights on the one hand and on the other!
Then with what tremendous speed does memory travel back through the
vista of a mis-pent life, all the foul deeds of which become personified
in frightful shapes, and muster themselves in terrible array on either
side!
[Illustration]
In his narrow stone-cell, the wretched Torrens felt as if he were in a
coffin, suffocated, hemmed in around;—and yet his imagination possessed
boundless space wherein to raise up the awful shapes that haunted his
pillow.
Was it possible that he was there—in Newgate? Did he dream—was he the
sport of a hideous phantasy? Could it be true that he was dragged away
from his comfortable home—snatched as it were suddenly from the world
itself—and flung into a felon's dungeon?
No—no: it was impossible—absurd. Ha! ha! the folly of the idea was
enough to make one laugh!
But—oh! merciful heavens!—he extended his arms, and his hands touched
the cold—rugged—uneven wall: thence they wandered to the iron of the
bed-stead—and came in contact with the coarse horse-cloth which covered
his burning, feverish limbs!
Then a dreadful groan burst from him,—a groan which, even were he ten
thousand, thousand times more guilty than he really was, would have been
lamentable, heart-rending to hear,—a groan of such ineffable anguish
that Satan himself might have said, "This man hath suffered enough!"
Suffered!—holy God, how deeply—deeply has he suffered since the massive
door of that mighty stone sepulchre first closed upon him,—appearing to
shut out the pure air of heaven, the golden light of day, and to mark a
point where even human sympathies could follow no farther!
Suffered!—the wretched felon whose foot is upon the first step of the
scaffold, never suffered more than the crushed, ruined, accused
Torrens;—for all his guilt had arisen from the lack of moral courage to
meet misfortune face to face; and now that misfortune had thrust itself
upon him, and compelled him to gaze on its pale and death-like
countenance, he was completely weighed down.
His infamy in respect to Rosamond, lay as heavily upon his conscience as
would have lain the crime of murder, had he really perpetrated it; and
he suffered more on account of the deed which he had committed, but for
which the law _had not_ touched him, than on account of the charge of
which he was innocent, but for which the law _had_ seized upon him.
Miserable—miserable man! Darkness—silence—and sleeplessness were indeed
terrible to him,—so terrible that, as he lay tossing upon his feverish
pallet, he wished that he was dead:—yet, had he possessed the means of
inflicting self-destruction, he would have been afraid to die!
He was not placed in a ward along with other prisoners; because the
charge against him was so black and terrible—the charge of murder—that
he was lodged in a dungeon by himself—a cell that had seen many, many
previous occupants, most of whom had gone forth to the scaffold!
For in Newgate the possession of a room to oneself—if a room such a
coffin of masonry can be called—is the horrible privilege of him who is
accused of _murder_; and those whose alleged offences are of a less deep
dye, herd together in common wards, where a fetid atmosphere is the
medium of communicating the foulest ideas that words can convey or ears
receive.
Oh! what a plague-spot is that horrible gaol—that pandemonium of
Newgate—upon the civilisation of the metropolis of these realms!
Shame—shame, that it should be allowed to exist under the management of
an incapable, ignorant, and monstrously corrupt body—the Aldermen of
London:—shame, shame that it should be permitted to remain as a
frightful abuse of local jurisdiction, just because no statesman has yet
been found bold enough to wrest a barbarian charter from an overgrown,
bloated, and despicable corporation!
The wife—the newly married wife of Mr. Torrens,—that woman so well known
to our readers by the name of Martha Slingsby,—was not lodged by
herself:—being accused of a crime one degree less heinous than that of
murder, she was placed in a ward with several other females.
And she also heard the iron tongue of Time proclaim the hour of two in
the morning;—and she also tossed upon a hard, sleepless, and feverish
pallet.
For she had not even the solace of conscious innocence as an anodyne for
her lacerated heart and wounded spirit: she knew that she was guilty of
the crime imputed to her—and that knowledge lay upon her soul like a
weight of lead.
And—O horror! she was well aware that the black deed of forgery would be
indubitably fixed upon her: and the penalty of that deed was—_death_!
Yes:—death by the hand of the common executioner—an ignominious death
upon the scaffold!
She knew that almost her very minutes were now numbered—that, as the
clock struck eight on some Monday morning, not very far distant, she
must be led forth to die—that after her trial, which was sure to end in
her condemnation, she should be consigned to the condemned cell—that
from this cell she must proceed through several dark and dismal passages
to that door upon whose very threshold would appear the gibbet, black
and sinister—that she would have to ascend, or perhaps be carried up,
the steps to the platform of the horrible machine—that she should see
myriads and myriads of human beings crowding around to behold her dying
agonies—that she would be placed upon a drop soon to glide away from
beneath her feet and leave her suspended in the air—that the few minutes
during which she must stand upon that drop, while the chaplain said the
parting prayer, would comprise whole years, aye, centuries of the
bitterest, bitterest anguish—that her attentive ear would catch even the
sound caused by the finger of the executioner, when he touched the bolt
of the drop an instant before he pulled it back—and that her soul would
be yielded up in the agonies of strangulation!
Thus—thus, in spite of herself, did the wretched woman's imagination
picture in frightful detail the whole of the dreadful ceremony of a
violent death: thus—thus did she shadow forth, in imagination, every
feature—every minute particular of the appalling ordeal;—and, in
imagination also, did she now pass through it all, as vainly she craved
for sleep in the silence and the darkness of the prison-ward!
The dread routine of the whole ceremony assumed an historical
exactitude, a palpable shape, and a frightful reality in her mind.
Terrible—terrible was it for her to think upon what she now was, and
upon what she might have been.
Not a hope was left to her in this world: she must be cut off in the
meridian of her years;—she must bid adieu for ever to all the pleasures,
the enjoyments, the delights of society and of life!
Oh! for the power—oh! for the means to avert her maddening, harrowing
thoughts from the prophetic contemplation of that fatal morning when she
must walk forth to the scaffold—when the close air of that prison would
suddenly change to the fresh breeze of heaven, as she stepped forth from
the low dark door which the passer-by outside ever beholds with a
shudder,—and when she should raise her eyes to that black and ominous
frame-work, with the chain hanging from the cross-beam, and her own
coffin beneath the drop! All this was horrible—horrible,—sufficient to
deprive the strongest mind of its reasoning faculties, and to paralyse
the boldest with excess of terror!
For, oh! the reward of crime is dispensed in two ways upon earth,—by
the law, and by the criminal's own thoughts;—and far—far more dreadful
is the punishment inflicted by the guilty conscience than by the
vengeance of outraged justice. Even the horrors of the scaffold,
immense—tremendous though they must be in the reality, are magnified a
hundred-fold by the terror-stricken imagination!
From the examples of the wretched man and the guilty woman of whom we
have been speaking, and on whose heads afflictions and miseries fell
with such frightful rapidity and crushing weight,—from their examples
let the reader judge of the _folly_—setting aside the _wickedness_—of
crime.
Gold—deceitful gold—was the will-o'-the-wisp which led them on through
the devious ways of iniquity, until they suddenly found themselves in
Newgate!
For the woman forged for gold—and the man sold his daughter's virtue for
gold; and from the moment when Torrens consented to that vile deed,
every thing went worse with him—nothing was bettered—and the
circumstances resulting from that one act, combined to overwhelm him
with afflictions, and even to fix upon him a horrible charge of which he
was really innocent!
To err, then, is to be foolish, as well as wicked;—and this grand truth
has doubtless been felt and acknowledged, when too late, by many and
many a wretched being within those very walls and that sombre enclosure
of Newgate!
Newgate!—what numberless ties have been severed on its threshold;—and
what countless thousands of individuals, on entering that dread portal
one by one, have gnashed their teeth with rage at the folly, even though
they have felt no compunction for the guilt, of the career which they
pursued and which had its natural ending there!
* * * * *
It was ten o'clock in the morning, when a hackney-coach stopped at the
door of the governor's house, which stands in the centre of the front
part of Newgate; and a fine, tall, handsome young man, having leapt
forth, assisted a closely veiled lady to alight from the vehicle.
They were almost immediately admitted into the office of the governor,
the young lady clinging to her companion's arm for support, for she was
labouring under the most dreadful mental anguish.
These persons were Clarence Villiers and his beauteous bride, Adelais.
Returning from Devonshire, whither they had been to pass the honeymoon,
they heard on the road, ere they reached the metropolis, the astounding
intelligence that the aunt of the one had been committed to Newgate on a
charge of forgery, and that the father of the other was consigned to the
same place under an accusation of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay.
They also learnt at the same moment and for the first time, that the
wretched pair had only just been united in matrimonial bonds when this
fearful fate overtook them; but they were too much shocked by the more
grave and serious portion of the tidings which thus burst upon them, to
give themselves even leisure to express their surprise at the less
important incident of the marriage of Mr. Torrens and Mrs. Slingsby.
They had arrived in London on the preceding evening, and had repaired
direct to Torrens Cottage, hoping—and, indeed, expecting as a matter of
course—to find Rosamond there.
But they were disappointed—cruelly disappointed that anticipation!
The female servant and the lad were, however, still at the Cottage; and
from the former they learnt tidings which enhanced, if possible, the
grief that already rent the heart of Adelais, and which excited vague
but terrible suspicions in the mind of Clarence.
For the servant informed them that Miss Rosamond went to stay with Mrs.
Slingsby almost immediately after the wedding—that she remained there
almost ten days, and came home the very night when the murder was
committed, and seemed dreadfully unhappy during the short time that she
did remain at the Cottage—and that she departed no one knew whither, the
second day after her return, leaving a note for her father.
While Adelais sate weeping at these tidings, to her so completely
inexplicable, a torrent of suspicions and terrible ideas rolled through
the mind of her husband Clarence. For he knew—as the reader will
remember—that Sir Henry Courtenay was not only the paramour of his aunt,
but that he had likewise cast lustful looks upon Rosamond; and he was
equally aware that the young girl's imagination had been excited and
inflamed by the false representations his aunt had made in respect to
the character of the baronet. Then that second visit of Rosamond to Old
Burlington Street—her unhappiness on returning home—the assassination of
Sir Henry Courtenay at Torrens Cottage—the sudden marriage of two
persons who were almost entire strangers to each other—and the
contemporaneous flight of Rosamond from her home,—all these incidents
seemed of so suspicious and terribly mysterious a nature as to strike
Clarence with dismay.
The version which Mr. Torrens had given Rosamond of the particulars of
the murder—and which, as the reader is aware, was the true one so far as
the actual perpetration of the deed itself was concerned—was unknown to
Clarence, inasmuch as it had not been published in the newspapers;—for,
when arrested by Dykes and Bingham, Mr. Torrens had immediately sent for
able counsel, to whom he told his story previously to the examination
before the magistrate, and by the advice of his legal assistant, the
prisoner had contented himself by simply declaring his innocence,
stating that he should reserve for his defence the explanations whereon
that assertion was founded.
Thus Clarence Villiers could not help believing that Torrens was really
guilty of the murder; and he shuddered at the idea which forced itself
upon him, that his aunt was an accomplice in the crime. In fact, it
naturally appeared as if that woman and that man had suddenly blended
their congenial spirits for the purpose of working out deeds of the
blackest dye; and he dreaded lest the honour of Rosamond had been
wrecked in the frightful convulsion produced by that association.
But none of his awful misgivings did he impart to Adelais. On the
contrary, he strove to console her by assurances of his hope that her
father must be the victim of a terrible junction of adverse
circumstances, and that his innocence would yet transpire. Such ideas he
was in reality very far from entertaining;—but it cut him to the quick
to behold the anguish of his young wife—and he uttered every thing of a
consolatory nature which his imagination was likely in such a case to
suggest as a means of imparting hope and affording comfort.
They remained at the Cottage that night; and on the ensuing morning
repaired to Newgate, as we have already stated.
The governor, upon learning the degree of relationship in which Mrs.
Villiers stood towards Mr. Torrens, expressed himself in terms of the
kindest sympathy, and offered to proceed in the first instance to the
prisoner's cell to prepare him for the meeting with his daughter and
son-in-law. This proposal was thankfully accepted; and the governor,
after remaining absent for about ten minutes, returned to conduct the
young couple into the presence of the prisoner, with whom he left them.
Adelais threw herself into her father's arms, embraced him with a
fondness that was almost wild and frantic, and sobbed bitterly upon his
breast,—while Clarence Villiers stood a deeply affected spectator of the
sad—the touching scene.
"My child—my dear child," exclaimed the father, more moved by paternal
tenderness than he ever yet had been,—"I am innocent—I am innocent!"
"Almighty God be thanked for that assurance!" murmured Adelais, as she
fell upon her knees, and bent her burning face over her father's
emaciated hands:—for Mr. Torrens had become frightfully thin—altered—and
care-worn,—and his entire appearance denoted how acute his mental
sufferings had been.
"Clarence," he cried, after a few moments' pause during which he raised
his daughter, and placed her upon a seat,—"Clarence, did you hear my
declaration? I am innocent!"
"I heard it—and I rejoice unfeignedly—oh! most unfeignedly," returned
the young man, not knowing what to think, but speaking thus to console
his heart-wrung wife.
"But whether I can prove my innocence—whether I can triumph over the
awful weight of circumstantial evidence which has accumulated against
me," continued Mr. Torrens, "is a point which God alone can determine."
An ejaculation of despair burst from the lips of Adelais.
"For heaven's sake, compose yourself, dearest!" said Villiers. "You have
heard your father declare his innocence——"
"Yes—yes," she cried: "but if the world will not believe him? It is not
sufficient that _we_ should be convinced of that innocence! Oh! my
God—wherefore has this terrible affliction fallen upon us?"—then,
suddenly struck by another idea, she exclaimed, "And Rosamond, dear
father—what has become of my sister Rosamond?"
Mr. Torrens turned away, and burst into tears—for that question revived
a thousand agonising reminiscences in his mind.
"My father _here_—my sister _gone_," mused Adelais, her manner suddenly
becoming strangely subdued, and the wild intensity of her earnest eyes
changing in a moment to an expression of idiotic vacancy;—"and
Clarence—where is he? Methought he was with me just now——"
"Merciful God! her senses are leaving her!" exclaimed Villiers, in a
frantic tone: then, throwing his arms around her, he said, "Adelais—my
beloved Adelais—Clarence is here—by your side! Oh! look not at me so
strangely, Adelais—do you not know me?—speak—speak!—I am Clarence—your
husband—he who loves, who adores you! My God! she does not recognise
me!"
And the young man started back, dashing his right hand with the violence
of despair against his forehead; while Adelais remained motionless in
the chair, gazing on him with a kind of vacant wonderment,—and the
miserable father staggered against the wall for support, murmuring in a
tone of ineffable emotion, "Great God! where will all this end?"
But at that moment the heavy bolts were drawn back—the door
opened—Adelais uttered a scream of mingled amazement and delight—and in
an instant Rosamond was clasped in her arms.
Long and fervent was that embrace on the part of the sisters: nor were
Torrens and Clarence Villiers alone the witnesses thereof—for the heavy
door of the stone cell had, ere it closed again, given admittance to
Esther de Medina.
Fortunate for Adelais was it that Rosamond appeared at such a moment,—a
moment when the reason of the young bride was rocking on its throne, and
the weight of an idea no heavier than a hair would decide whether it
were to be re-established on its seat or overturned for ever!
Faint and overcome by the sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this
sudden meeting with her sister, Adelais slowly disengaged herself from
Rosamond's arms, and falling back in the chair, beckoned Clarence
towards her, saying, "My dearest husband—keep near me—stay with me—for I
know not what dreadful ideas have been passing in my mind;—and it seemed
to me for a time that I was in utter darkness—or that I was buried in a
profound sleep."
"But you are better now, dearest?" exclaimed Clarence, overjoyed at this
sudden return of her senses.
"Yes—I am better now," said Adelais; and, falling upon her husband's
neck, she burst into a flood of tears.
Meantime Rosamond was weeping also in her father's arms; and the eyes of
the generous-hearted—the amiable Esther de Medina were overflowing at
the contemplation of this mournful and touching scene.
"Father—father," murmured Rosamond, her voice almost suffocated with the
sobs which agitated her bosom,—"there is hope—every hope——"
"Hope!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, catching at the word as if the halter
were already round his neck and the cry of "a reprieve!" had fallen on
his ears.
"Hope, did you say?" exclaimed Adelais, now so completely relieved by
the issue her pent-up anguish and shocked feelings had found in copious
weeping, that all the clearness of her intellect had returned.
"Hush—Rosamond!" said Miss de Medina, advancing towards the group:
"hush—my dear madam," she added, turning hastily towards Adelais; "that
word must not be breathed here aloud _yet_! Nevertheless, it is true
that there _is_ hope—and every hope—nay, even certainty——"
"Great God! I thank thee!" cried Adelais, clasping her hands together in
fervent gratitude, while Mr. Torrens was so overcome by emotions of joy
and amazement that he sank upon that prison-pallet whereon he had passed
a night of such horrible watchfulness.
"I implore you to restrain your feelings as much as possible," said
Esther, speaking in a low and mysterious tone, which made Torrens,
Clarence, and Adelais suddenly become all attention and breathless
suspense; "the proofs of your innocence, sir," she added, looking at the
prisoner, "have been obtained! Nay—give utterance to no ejaculation—but
hear me in silence! Within twenty-four hours from this time your
guiltlessness will be proclaimed to the world. Already are the proofs in
the hands of a magistrate but circumstances, with which I am not myself
altogether acquainted, render that delay imperiously necessary. It
would, however, have been cruel to have left you in ignorance of this
important circumstance; and——"
"And this admirable young lady, at whose father's house I found a home,"
hastily added Rosamond, "would not refuse me the joy—the indescribable
joy of being the bearer of these tidings. Nay—more: she offered to
accompany me——"
"God will reward you for all your kindness to my sister, dear lady,"
said Adelais, embracing Esther with heart-felt gratitude and affection.
"You are doubtless anxious to learn how the proofs of Mr. Torrens'
innocence have been obtained," resumed Esther, after a pause: "but my
explanation must be very brief. Suffice it to say that in this mighty
metropolis, which contains so much evil, there is a man bent only on
doing good. Accident revealed to him certain particulars which convinced
him of your innocence, sir," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing
herself now especially to Mr. Torrens: "upon the information which he
thus received, he acted—and he has succeeded in obtaining and placing in
the hands of a Justice of the Peace the confession of the real
perpetrators of the awful deed——"
"Then the murderers are in custody, doubtless?" exclaimed Clarence,
astonished and delighted at all he heard.
"They are not in the grasp of justice," answered Esther. "But on this
head you must ask me no questions. Rest satisfied with the assurance
that the innocence of Mr. Torrens will completely and unquestionably
transpire—that he will soon be restored to you all—and that his secret
friend watches over him even from a distance. Who that individual is,
you cannot know—and perhaps never may. All the recompense he demands at
your hands is the subduing in your minds of every sentiment of curiosity
that may prompt you to pierce the mystery which shrouds his actions; and
remember also that every syllable I have now uttered, is to remain a
secret profoundly locked up in your own breasts until the proclamation
of innocence shall be made from that quarter to which the solemn duty of
publishing it has been entrusted."
"We should be wanting in common gratitude, indeed, to him who has thus
interested himself in behalf of the innocent, were we to act in
opposition to those injunctions," said Clarence Villiers. "But through
you, lady, do we each and all convey our heart-felt thanks for that
generous intervention which is to produce so vitally important a
result."
"Yes—and to you also, dearest Miss de Medina, is our eternal gratitude
due!" exclaimed Rosamond—an assurance that was immediately and sincerely
echoed by Adelais, Clarence, and Mr. Torrens.
Hope had now returned to that prison-cell,—hope in all her radiance and
her glory,—with her smiling countenance and her cheering influence!
The name of Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was not mentioned by a soul
during this meeting: her husband uttered it not—Clarence, through
motives of delicacy, remained silent likewise in that respect—and the
sisters had too much to occupy their thoughts relative to their father's
position and the hope of his speedy release, to devote a moment's
attention to that woman.
For the interview was necessarily short, in consequence of the severity
of the prison regulations; but when Mr. Torrens was again alone in his
cell, he could scarcely believe that so sudden a change had taken place
in his prospects.
On leaving the gaol, after having taken a tender and affectionate leave
of their father, the sisters looked inquiringly at each other, as if to
ask whither each was going.
"We have taken up our abode at the Cottage," said Adelais, breaking
silence; "where we shall remain, doubtless," she added, glancing towards
her husband, "until our father shall be restored to us."
Clarence signified his assent.
"I should be grieved to separate you from your sister immediately after
your unexpected meeting to-day," said Esther, addressing herself to
Adelais; "but if Rosamond will continue to make our house her home——"
"Yes—yes, my dear friend," exclaimed Rosamond, hastily: "I will intrude
a little longer upon your hospitality—for I feel that my nerves have
been too much shaken by recent occurrences to allow me to return to the
Cottage, at least for the present."
The reader need scarcely be informed that the young lady desired to
avoid the painful prospect of being alone with her sister and Clarence:
for what explanation could she give of her flight from home?—an
explanation which she knew would naturally be required of her.
Adelais, indeed, felt somewhat hurt at the decision which her sister had
made in respect to remaining with Miss de Medina: but she concealed her
vexation, and they parted with an affectionate embrace.
Thus, Clarence and Adelais proceeded to Torrens Cottage, while Esther
and Rosamond returned in Mr. de Medina's carriage to Finchley Manor.
During their ride home in the hackney-coach, Villiers and his wife
discussed all the incidents which had just occurred; but during a pause
in the conversation, Adelais bethought herself for the first time that
day of her mother-in-law.
"Clarence," she said, laying her hand upon her husband's arm, "we have
been sadly culpable——"
"I know to what you would allude, dearest," interrupted Villiers.
"To-morrow I shall call upon my wretched aunt; but it is by no means
necessary for you to accompany me. Your father did not once mention her
name during the interview: we will not seek to penetrate his motives for
that silence—but we will endeavour to imitate him in that respect as
much as possible."
"I do not clearly understand you, Clarence," said Adelais, gazing at him
enquiringly.
"I mean that the less we speak concerning my aunt, the more prudent it
will be, my love," responded Villiers; "for I fear that _she_ will not
prove to be innocent of the crime imputed to her—and, under all
circumstances, you can owe her no sympathy nor respect, either as my
relative or your mother-in-law."
Adelais made no answer; and Clarence immediately changed the
conversation.