to prevent the balls from going over," answered Curtis.
"There—there, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss, impatiently pointing
in a particular direction. "Now d'ye see any thing worth looking at?"
"Well—I see the pump there," said Frank, vainly searching after a more
interesting object.
"Be Jasus! and that's jist what I wanted ye to see," exclaimed the
captain. "It's the Dolphin-pump, me boy—the finest pump in
Eur-r-rope—the pride of the Binch——But, be the power-rs! ye shall taste
the wather and judge for yourself!"
Curtis protested that he would rather not;—the captain was however
resolute; and a tumbler was borrowed from a prisoner who was smoking an
early pipe at one of the ground-floor windows. Then the captain began to
pump away like a madman; and Frank was compelled to imbibe a deep
draught of the ice-cold water, which would have been pronounced
delicious by any one who did not admire alcoholic beverages much better
than Adam's ale.
"Don't you mean to take a glass, captain?" enquired Frank.
"Be Jasus! and I know it of ould," returned that gallant gentleman: "so
there's no need for me to pass an opinion upon it. Besides it's not to
astonish my stomach with any unusual dhrink that I'd be afther, Frank:
but you're a young man, and can stand wather better than me."
Curtis did not consider the reasoning altogether conclusive: he however
refrained from farther argument;—and the two gentlemen resumed their
walk.
Between the eastern extremity of the main-building and that part of the
wall which looked directly upon the Borough, was the market-place,—an
assemblage of miserable sheds, where a butcher, a fishmonger, a
greengrocer, and a vender of coals carried on each his peculiar
traffic—the said spirited traders being prisoners as well as the
shopkeepers above alluded to.
At a stall in the centre of the market, and at which vegetables, fruit,
and fish were sold, stood a tall, thin, weather-beaten old woman,
resembling a gipsey in dress as well as in complexion, and having an
ancient bonnet perched most airily upon the top of her head. This
respectable female was denominated "Old Nanny," and was in such wise
greeted by Captain O'Blunderbuss, who informed Frank in a whisper that
she was not a prisoner, and, in spite of competition, had pretty well
the monopoly of the market.
"The fact is, me boy," he said, "she has the advantage of money. Those
fellows in the sheds there, set up in business with a floating capital
of eighteen-pence each, and can't afford to give credit: and a tradesman
in the Binch who can't give credit, stands no more chance, be Jasus! of
getting custom than if he began with an empty shop."
The captain now proceeded to show his friend the public kitchen, which
was in the immediate vicinity of the market; and thence they passed up
the back of the main building, O'Blunderbuss especially directing
Frank's attention to that quarter which was denominated "the Poor-Side."
The Poor-Side!—Yes in every public establishment in England, is the line
of demarcation drawn between the rich and the poor,—in the debtors'
prison as well as in the church of God! Oh! what a disgraceful thing is
poverty made in this country! Why—the contamination of Newgate, if borne
by a man possessing a well-filled purse, will be overlooked in society;
while the rags that an unsullied character wears, are a ban—a stigma—a
reproach! "He has been in the workhouse," or "She has been on the
parish," are taunts as bitter in meaning and as keen in spirit, as the
phrase "He has been in Newgate," or "She has just come from the
treadmill." Aye—and even amongst the lowest classes themselves, it is a
deeper stain to associate a name with the workhouse, than to connect it
with the felons' gaol! Such is the dreadful—demoralizing consequence of
that example set by the upper classes, whose ideas of men's excellence
and worth are guided chiefly by the standard of the purse.
The Poor-Side!—And for whom is the Poor-Side of debtors' prisons
instituted? For those who go penniless to gaol,—the best proof that they
have profited nothing by the losses of their creditors,—the best
evidence that their liabilities were legitimately contracted! But the
fashionable swindler—your man-about-town—your _roué_—your rake, who gets
into debt wherever he can, and without the slightest intention of ever
paying a single farthing,—_he_ drives down in his cab to the
prison—treats the bailiff to wine upon the way—and takes with him into
confinement all that remains to him of the plunder of duped tradesmen,
there to spend it in riotous living and in the best room which the best
quarter of the gaol can afford! If a debtors' prison have a _Poor-Side_,
it ought also to have a _Swnidlers'-Side_.
No word in the English language is used so frequently and so
contemptuously as the monosyllable _Poor_. "Oh! he is a poor devil!" is
a far worse character to give of any one, than to say at once, "He is
dishonest." From the latter sentence there is a hopeful appeal in the
question—"But _can_ he pay?" "Yes—he can, if he chooses." "Oh! then, if
he _can_, we will trust him and risk it." But from the former sentence
there is no appeal; it is a judgment without qualification—a decision
too positive and weighty to admit of a doubt. The objection—"Well, he
may be poor; but he may also be honest," is never heard. The idea of
poverty being honest! Why—in the estimation of an Englishman, _poverty_
is a word expressing all that is bad. To say that a man is _poor_, is at
once to sum up his character as every thing unprincipled and roguish.
Such magic is there in the word, that rich men, and men well-to-do in
the world, instantly button up their breeches' pockets when they hear it
applied to a person. They seem to consider that a poor wretch can have
no other possible object in view than to get the better of them.
Poverty, in their eyes, is something that goes about preying upon the
rich—something to be loathed and shunned—something that ought not to
intrude itself into respectable places. A man may just as well be
leprous, as be poor!
So undeniable are these truths—so universally recognised are these
facts, that designing individuals always endeavour to seem well off,
even if they be insolvent. They dress well, because they know the
sovereign influence of a good coat. They talk largely—because they see
how necessary it is "to keep up appearances." They toss about their last
few guineas, as the only means of baiting a hook to catch fresh dupes.
It is impossible that a man, with fine clothes, well-polished boots,
elegant guard-chain, and lemon coloured gloves,—it is impossible that
such a man can be poor! Oh! no—trust him with anything! Why—what poor
man would be perfumed as he is?—the aristocratic odour of wealth
surrounds him as with an atmosphere peculiar to the rich. Trust him by
all means!—But that poor-looking devil, who sneaks along the shady side
of the way—who has a wife and half-a-dozen children at home—and who is
struggling from morning to night to earn an honourable crust,—don't
trust him—have nothing to do with him—don't assist him with the loan of
a single sixpence—on the contrary, give him a thrust farther down into
the mud, if you can;—because he is undisguisedly _poor_!
Such appear to be the rules of conduct in this enlightened and glorious
country. God help the poor!—for poverty is a terrible crime in "merry
England!"
The Poor-Side of the King's Bench struck Frank Curtis as being
particularly miserable:—it quite gave him the horrors! And no
wonder;—for the architect—a knowing fellow was he!—had so arranged the
building, that the windows of the Poor-Side should look upon the
dust-bins and the conveniences. Yes—a knowing fellow was that architect!
_He_ understood what the poor are worth in this free and civilised
land,—_he_ saw in a moment where they ought to be put;—and therefore he
arranged for their use a number of dens where the atmosphere was certain
to be one incessant pestilential odour; and where he would have been
sorry,—very sorry to have placed the kennel of his favourite hound!
Yes:—well might Frank Curtis feel the horrors—callous and indifferent as
the young man naturally was—on beholding the Poor-Side. The ground-floor
rooms were even at mid-day in a state of twilight, the colossal wall
being only a few feet distant:—the windows were blackened with dirt; and
from the upper ones hung a few rags—the miserable duds of the miserable,
miserable inmates. Half-starved, pale, and emaciated women—the wives or
daughters of those poor prisoners—were loitering at the doorways,—some
with children in their arms—children, Oh! so wan and wasted—so sickly
and so death-like—that it must have made their parents' hearts bleed to
feel how light they were, and how famine-struck they seemed! And yet
those little, starving children had their innocent winning ways, as well
as the offspring of the rich; and they threw their skeleton arms around
their mother's necks—and their lips sent forth those infantile sounds so
sweet to mothers' ears;—but still the little beings seemed to be pining
rapidly away through actual want and in the prison atmosphere! "God help
the poor," we said ere now: but, Oh! with tearful eyes and beating heart
do we exclaim—"God help the children of the poor!"
Frank Curtis and the captain, having now completed their walk round the
prison, entered the parlour of the Coffee-house, where an excellent
breakfast awaited them, and to which they did ample justice.
The repast being disposed of, Captain O'Blunderbuss took a temporary
leave of Frank Curtis, it being arranged that the gallant officer should
proceed to Baker Street in order to induce the men in possession, either
by means of bribes or menaces, to allow Mrs. Curtis to remove as many
valuables from the house as possible; and, this notable aim being
achieved, the captain was to pay his respects to Sir Christopher Blunt.
Frank Curtis, being now temporarily thrown upon his own resources for
amusement, strolled out upon the parade, and was gazing at the
racquet-players, when Mr. Prout accosted him.
"Good morning, sir. Have you taken a survey of the Bench yet?" said the
Chancery prisoner.
"I have been round the building, and seen all that's worth seeing, I
believe," replied Curtis. "But the Poor-Side appears to be a wretched
place."
"Wretched!" cried Prout, in a bitter tone: "ah! you may well make that
observation, sir! But if my affairs do not end in a speedy settlement, I
shall have to move to that quarter myself."
"How is that?" enquired Frank.
"Do you not know—have you not yet learned that you must pay even to have
a room in this prison—a place to which you do not come of your own
accord?" said Prout. "A shilling a week is the room-rent; and he who
cannot pay it, must go over to the Poor-Side. This is English justice,
Mr. Curtis! You must pay to live in a prison!"
"It seems to me monstrously unfair——"
"Unfair! 'tis vile—rascally!" cried the Chancery prisoner. "But, talking
of the Poor-Side puts me in mind of a strange story connected with that
quarter of the Bench; and if you have nothing better to do for an hour
or so, and will step up to my room——"
"I shall have great pleasure," interrupted Curtis; "for, to tell you the
truth, the time does hang rather heavy on my hands;—and till my friends
the Marquis of Aldersgate and the Prince of Paris, who is staying in
London, come over to see me, I may just as well amuse myself with your
story."
Prout accordingly led the way to his room, which was in the front of the
building and commanded a view of the parade and racquet-grounds. It was
very plainly furnished, but neat and clean; and its owner informed
Curtis that he had a married daughter who visited him every day, was
very kind to him, and superintended his little domestic concerns.
"But I will not detain you longer than I can help, sir," observed Prout;
"and I can promise you that you are about to hear a true tale of deep
interest. I have thought of it so often, and have so frequently repeated
its details to myself, in the solitude of this chamber, that I am
enabled to give you the whole story in a connected form; although it was
not in the same continuous manner that the vicissitudes I am about to
relate, became known to me. Alas! 'tis a sad—sad tale, sir; but I am
afraid that, bad as it is, it still is not the worst that might be told
of human nature."
Frank Curtis seated himself opposite to the old man, who, after a short
pause, commenced his narrative in the following words.
CHAPTER CVII.
A TALE OF SORROW.
"It was about thirty years ago that a poor but respectable and
kind-hearted tradesman, of the name of Craddock, came up from Plymouth
to London to receive a hundred pounds which had fallen to him through
the death of a relative of whom he had not heard for years until he
received the lawyer's letter announcing his decease and the legacy.
Craddock was a linen-draper in a very small way at Plymouth: and though
industrious, temperate, and obliging, he never had succeeded in doing
any thing better than earning a mere living. He was about forty-five
years of age at the time of which I am speaking, and had long been
married to a woman as generous-souled as himself. They were childless;
and, in spite of their poverty, they often regretted that they had no
offspring to become the object of their affection, and to comfort them
when old age should overtake them. Indeed, it appears that they had
seriously thought of adopting some poor person's child: but
circumstances of various kinds had opposed this plan; and they at last
ceased to converse upon it—endeavouring to render themselves as happy as
they could in each other's society. And happy, for that matter, they
were too; for the mutual attachment which linked their hearts together,
was firmly established; and, as they advanced in years, they seemed to
become so necessary to each other, that when Craddock received the
lawyer's letter summoning him to London, it was with the greatest
difficulty his wife would allow him to set out alone. He however
succeeded in making her understand that a hundred pounds did not
constitute an independent fortune,—that it was absolutely necessary to
carry on the shop,—and that therefore she must remain at home to manage
it. Accordingly, the worthy dame tarried at Plymouth, and her husband
came up to London by the stage—at that period a journey of no
inconsiderable importance.
"It was the first time Mr. Craddock had ever been in the metropolis: but
he did not stay a moment longer than his business absolutely compelled
him, which was four or five days. The lawyer with whom he had to
transact his little affair, was a kind and conscientious man—for there
_are_ many good lawyers as well as bad ones;—and he hastened the
business as much as possible. Accordingly, Mr. Craddock received his
money in less than a week; and he instantly went to the Belle Sauvage on
Ludgate Hill to take his place home again by the coach. There was only
one inside-seat vacant by the stage that was to start in the evening;
and Craddock secured it. He then returned to the little lodging where he
had slept during his sojourn in London, and which was somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons. Having packed up his portmanteau, he
shouldered it, and was wending his way to the Belle Sauvage, when his
attention was drawn to a little boy who was sitting on a door-step in
one of the narrow, secluded streets in that district. The child, who was
very neatly dressed and about two years old, was crying bitterly.
Craddock stopped and spoke kindly to him; and though the boy was too
young to give any explanation of the cause of his grief, it was easy to
divine that he had strayed from home, or been lost by a negligent
servant. Two or three other persons stopped likewise; and some of the
neighbours came out of their houses: but the boy was unknown to them.
Craddock tried to console him; but the little fellow wept as if his
heart would break. By accident the parish-beadle passed that way, and,
on learning what was the matter, said, 'Oh! the best thing I can do, is
to take the poor child to the workhouse.'—Now, the mere name of a
workhouse was terrible to the ears of the kind-hearted Craddock; and,
obeying the impulse of the moment, he exclaimed, 'No, no: not while I
have a crust to give him, poor child!'—'Why don't you take him home with
you, then?' demanded the beadle: 'the parish will be very glad to be
quit of such a bargain as a lost child promises to be.'—'But I live at
Plymouth,' returned honest John Craddock.—'Never mind if you live at the
devil, so as you agree to take the child,' persisted the parochial
authority.—'Well, I have not the least objection: on the contrary, I
shall be delighted to do so,' said Craddock, his eyes filling with tears
as the poor boy's grief became more heart-rending. 'I will give you my
address; and if you hear any enquiries made by the parents of the child,
you can let me know.'—'Very good,' exclaimed the beadle, as he received
the card on which John Craddock's name, calling, and abode were printed
in bold type. The worthy linen-draper then took up the boy in his arms,
the beadle consenting to carry the portmanteau; and in this manner they
proceeded to the Belle Sauvage, the kind looks, soothing tone, and fond
caresses of Craddock having the effect of somewhat diminishing the
little fellow's grief.
[Illustration]
"The coach was just ready to start; and Craddock took his place, with
the child upon his knees. The beadle renewed his promise to write in
case he should hear any thing relative to the boy's parents; and the
stage rolled out of the old inn yard. It was evening—the shops glared
with light; and the scene, as well as the ride in the coach, amused the
boy, so that his violent weeping ceased—but frequent sobs agitated his
little chest, until at last he fell asleep in worthy John Craddock's
arms. It was now for the first time that the linen-draper had leisure to
reflect upon the step which he had taken; and it struck him that he had
acted imprudently. He was taking away the child from the city to which
he most probably belonged, and where he was alone likely to be found by
his parents,—taking him away to a far distant town. But, on the other
hand, he remembered the beadle's declaration that the lost child must be
conveyed to the workhouse; and he likewise felt certain that should the
little creature's parents make proper enquiries concerning their child,
the parochial authority would know what explanation to give. Craddock
therefore came to the conclusion that he had performed a Christian deed
and an Englishman's duty; and, having thus set all scruples at rest, he
began to reflect upon the pleasure which his wife would experience in
receiving the foundling. For the child was a most interesting one—with
curly flaxen hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a sweet complexion; and as
he lay sleeping in Craddock's arms, and the lights of the shops in the
outskirts of London, which the coach was then traversing, beamed through
the window upon the boy's countenance, the worthy linen-draper thought
that he had never seen a face so truly cherub-like. But tears came
afresh into the worthy man's eyes—for he reflected that an afflicted
father and a distracted mother might at that moment be calling upon
heaven to restore them their lost child; and, as he bent down and kissed
its cool and firm cheeks, on which the traces of weeping still remained,
he murmured to himself, 'If thy parents never succeed in recovering
thee, my boy, I will be as a father, and I know that my wife will be as
a mother to thee!'—The other inside passengers admired the child
greatly; but when honest John Craddock told them the story connected
with his possession of the boy, they merely hem'd and coughed drily as
if they thought him a very great fool for so burthening himself.
Craddock understood what was passing in their minds; and he only hugged
the child closer to his bosom.
"During the night, the little fellow frequently awoke, and cried for his
papa and mamma; and the good linen-draper was indefatigable in his
exertions to console and comfort him—uttering all possible kind things,
and purchasing nice cakes for him at the way-side inns. Throughout the
following day, too, Craddock was compelled to persevere in this
affectionate and conciliatory treatment, which he, however, maintained
with a good heart; and as the long, tedious journey of two hundred and
sixteen miles drew towards a close, and evening was again drawing on, he
had the satisfaction of observing that his little charge seemed to
appreciate—or at least to understand his attentions. At last the coach
entered the famous sea-port; and in a very short time Craddock was set
down at his own door, the stage passing through the street in which he
lived. You may suppose that his wife was greatly astonished when she
perceived the present that the worthy linen-draper had brought her: but
she was not many moments before she took the child in her arms, and
covered it with kisses. Then how the kind-hearted dame wept when
Craddock explained to her the manner in which he had become possessed of
the boy; and as he spoke she pressed the little being all the closer and
all the more fondly to her bosom. The social tea-table was spread, and
the servant-girl was sent out to procure some cakes and other nice
things for the boy; and then how he was petted and made much of—and how
happy the good couple seemed when their attentions and caresses were
rewarded with smiles!
"Several days passed, during which Craddock received no intelligence
from the beadle who had promised to write to him in case of enquiries
being instituted respecting the lost child:—weeks elapsed—and still no
tidings! The idea—I had almost said the fear—which the worthy couple
entertained that they might be compelled to part with the child just as
they were getting fond of it, grew gradually fainter and fainter; and at
length, when six months had passed and little Alexander (for so they
called the boy) had grown not only reconciled to his condition, but
appeared to have forgotten that it had ever been otherwise,—by the time
six months had passed, I say, Mr. and Mrs. Craddock ceased to
contemplate even the chance of being called upon to surrender their
charge. Not but that those excellent people would have rejoiced, in one
sense, to restore little Alexander to the arms of his parents; but in
another sense they could not quench in their secret souls the fond hope
that he might be left undisturbedly in their care. Thus time passed on:
Craddock's business, which had only required a little capital to give it
an impetus, exhibited every sign of improvement since the investment
therein of the hundred pounds received in London; and Alexander throve
apace.
"I shall now take a leap of twenty years, which brings us up to a date
of only ten years ago; and at that time great alterations—but all for
the better—had taken place in the circumstances of the Craddocks.
Indeed, they had retired from business, having made a considerable
fortune; and were settled in a handsome dwelling at a short distance
from Plymouth—their native town. Craddock and his wife had, however,
descended tolerably far into the vale of life, sixty-five winters having
passed over their heads; but in Alexander—now a fine, tall, handsome
young man of twenty-two—they had a source of real comfort and happiness.
Though acquainted with the circumstance which had led to his adoption by
Mr. and Mrs. Craddock, and, therefore, knowing well that they were not
his real parents, his attachment to them was so great—his affection so
sincere—and his gratitude so boundless, that he never once manifested
any desire to quit them for the purpose of instituting enquiries
relative to his birth. His constant and unwearied endeavour was to show
himself deserving of all they had done for him,—the tender care they had
taken of him in his infancy—the excellent education they had given him
in his boyhood—and the affectionate consideration with which they
treated him now that he was grown to man's estate; for in all respects
did they regard him as their son, and in this light was he looked upon
by their friends and dependants. In fact, nothing was wanting to
complete the happiness of Alexander Craddock. He had become enamoured of
a beautiful girl, the orphan daughter of an officer in the Navy, and who
resided at Plymouth with an old aunt. Lucy Middleton had no fortune; but
she possessed the invaluable treasures of amiability of disposition—a
sweet temper—a kind heart—and those sterling qualities which fitted her
for domesticity, and gave promise that she would prove an admirable
housewife. Alexander loved her, and was loved in return; and his adopted
parents gave their consent to the match. Accordingly, one fine Spring
morning, when the heavens appeared as auspicious as the prospects of the
youthful pair, the hands of Alexander Craddock and Lucy Middleton were
united; and, after a six weeks' tour in Wales, they returned to Plymouth
to take possession of a commodious and handsome dwelling, which the
adopted father of the young man had furnished during their absence for
their reception. A year passed away, at the expiration of which Lucy
presented her husband with a lovely boy; but almost at the same time the
family experienced a severe loss in the death of old Mr. Craddock, who
was carried off in a moment by the lightning-stroke of apoplexy.
Alexander was dreadfully grieved at this shocking occurrence—a feeling
in which his excellent young wife largely shared; but they were
compelled to restrain their sorrow as much as possible, in order to
console the bereaved widow. Mrs. Craddock was, however, unable to bear
up against this heavy affliction: the suddenness of its arrival and the
awful manner in which her husband fell down dead at her feet, when as it
were in the midst of a state of perfect health, gave her a shock which
she never recovered. She was spirit-broken, and could not rally, in
spite of the tender devotion and unwearied attentions shown her by
Alexander and Lucy, as well as by the aunt of the latter. Thus was it
that in less than six weeks from the sudden demise of Mr. Craddock, his
affectionate relict was consigned to the same tomb which held his
remains.
"When Alexander had so far recovered himself, after experiencing these
cruel inroads upon his happiness, as to investigate the affairs of his
late adopted parents, he found that he was left sole heir to the
handsome fortune acquired by their honest industry: but, though the will
and other papers were strictly correct and accurate in all points, he
found that certain circumstances connected with his inheritance would
compel him to repair to London, and probably retain him in the capital
for some weeks. He was not sorry at the idea of quitting Plymouth for a
time, his spirits having been deeply affected by the deaths of his
adopted parents; and he found Lucy and her aunt, who now lived
altogether with them, perfectly agreeable to shift their place of abode.
It was accordingly about eight years ago that this family arrived in
London, and took a house in a genteel but quiet neighbourhood. Alexander
found his income, chiefly derived from funded property, to be seven
hundred a-year; and on this he knew that he could live well, but not
extravagantly. A natural curiosity—which was the more lively now that he
had lost his adopted parents—prompted him to make certain enquiries in
the district of Doctors' Commons, with the hope of solving the mystery
of his birth. The only intelligence he gleaned, was, that the beadle who
figured in the opening of the tale, had been dead just twenty-two years;
and as Alexander was now twenty-four, he could calculate pretty
accurately that the parochial authority alluded to must have been
carried off by the hand of the destroyer within a few weeks, if not
within even a very few days, from the date when he himself, as a young
child, had fallen into the charge of Craddock. Beyond this fact
Alexander could ascertain nothing at all calculated to assist in rolling
away the veil of mystery which covered his parentage: none of the
inhabitants in the street where Craddock had found him sitting on the
door-step, remembered any thing of the loss of a child at the period
named;—no tradition of the fact remained. Alexander felt somewhat
disappointed with these unsuccessful results of his enquiries; but he
possessed too many elements of happiness—too many substantial
accessories to comfort and mental tranquillity—to remain long affected
or dispirited by the apparent permanence of that mystery which enveloped
his birth.
"Alexander was naturally of an active disposition, and abhorred a life
of idleness. He had been married two years, and was the father of two
children; and contemplating the probability of having a numerous
offspring, he felt anxious to augment his worldly possessions. 'My
adopted father,' he would reason with himself, 'carried on business
until a late period of his life, and was happy in the occupation which
it afforded him. Why should not I embark in some eligible and safe
undertaking which will give me a few hours' employment every day and
yield a profit at the same time?' The subject of his musings was
communicated to his amiable wife and her aunt; and those ladies joyfully
encouraged a spirit so praiseworthy and so indicative of steadiness and
prudence. The matter had been under discussion one morning at the
breakfast-table, when the daily newspaper was brought in; and an
announcement, worded somewhat in this way, met Alexander's
eyes:—'ELIGIBLE INVESTMENT.—Any gentleman having a few thousand pounds
at his immediate disposal, and desirous to occupy a few leisure hours
each day in a highly respectable and advantageous manner, is requested
to apply to Edward Walkden, Solicitor, Bush Lane, Cannon
Street.'—Alexander read this advertisement aloud; and the ladies agreed
with him that the nature of it was tempting enough to prompt farther
enquiry. Accordingly, the young man proceeded in the course of the
morning to the address indicated, and found Mr. Walkden's establishment
to be large and having every appearance of respectability as well as
solidity. Half-a-dozen clerks were busily employed in the front office;
and the shelves were covered with japanned tin cases, containing the
papers of the most substantial clients. Upon being introduced into the
lawyer's private office, Alexander found himself in the presence of a
tall man, whose years were upwards of sixty, and whose countenance, once
handsome, wore an expression of mingled mournfulness and severity. He
was attired in a plain suit of black: his manners were cold and
reserved; but there was a business-like air about him and his office,
which augmented the good opinion already entertained by Alexander in
respect to the lawyer and his establishment.
"Walkden was evidently a man of very few words; and therefore, when
Alexander had explained the object of his visit, the information he
sought was speedily given. 'I have a client,' said the lawyer, 'who has
taken out a patent for a particular purpose; and he requires five or six
thousand pounds to work it effectually. The person advancing the amount,
will become an equal partner with the patentee, and will find a few
hours of pleasant and agreeable occupation daily in superintending the
commercial branch of the concern, while the patentee directs the
manufacture of the article. There are the papers, sir: take them with
you, and read them at your leisure.' Walkden handed the young man a
bundle of documents tied round with red tape, and then bowed him out of
the office. On his return home, Alexander examined the papers, and was
highly delighted with the prospect which they opened to him. He felt
convinced that an immense fortune was to be made: the thing was as clear
as day-light! The patentee possessed the secret of effecting vast
improvements in the manufacture of broad-cloths, which he undertook to
produce not only of a superior quality, but likewise at a very reduced
price. The calculations showed that large returns were certain to follow
a comparatively small outlay, and that the business might be extended to
a wonderful degree in proportion to the capital advanced to work upon.
In a word, the whole affair was of the most roseate hue: Alexander, his
wife, and her aunt were in raptures at the brilliant prospect thus
fortunately opened to their contemplation; and it was resolved that he
should lose no time in securing a share in so excellent an undertaking.
Accordingly, on the following morning, he returned to Mr. Walkden, who
received him with cold politeness, and requested his speedy decision in
the matter—'as so promising a business had already attracted the notice
of several capitalists, who were eager and willing to embark their
funds.'—'And you will guarantee the respectability of your client, sir?'
enquired Alexander.—'I have been established in this profession for
upwards of thirty years, young man,' said the lawyer, almost sternly;
'and never have I allowed my office to be made the means of carrying out
an illegitimate transaction. My client, Mr. Scudimore, is a man of
integrity and honour; and whatever he promises, _that_ will he
perform!'—'In this case, Mr. Walkden,' observed Alexander Craddock, 'the
sooner I have an interview with Mr. Scudimore, the better.'—The lawyer
made no farther observation, but furnished his visitor with the address
of the patentee; and Alexander accordingly repaired to Mr. Scudimore's
dwelling, which was situated somewhere near Finsbury Square.
"Mr. Scudimore was an elderly person—very well dressed—plausible in his
discourse, and over-polite in his manners. In fact, he seemed to be the
very reverse of his solicitor in respect to disposition; for he received
Alexander as if he had known him all his life; and the young man found
himself sitting at lunch, and on the best possible terms with his new
friend, almost before he had time to look round him. Then, if the affair
which thus brought them together, had looked well upon paper, it assumed
so glorious an aspect, when described in the glowing language of Mr.
Scudimore, that Alexander Craddock, generous, frank, and confiding as he
naturally was, came to a complete understanding with the patentee ere he
took his departure. On the following day Scudimore dined at his house;
and the ladies were quite charmed with their new acquaintance. Matters
progressed rapidly through the business-like attention which Walkden
devoted to the affair; and in less than a fortnight the deeds of
partnership between Alexander Craddock and James Scudimore were duly
signed at the lawyer's office, in Bush Lane, Cannon Street. Immediately
afterwards, Alexander sold out six thousand pounds, which he paid into a
bank to the joint account of Craddock and Scudimore; and in the course
of a few days the latter gentleman took his departure for a
manufacturing town, where he was to hire premises and establish a
factory without delay, Alexander remaining in London to prepare a
warehouse to receive the goods. For some months all appeared to go on to
the complete satisfaction of both parties: Scudimore wrote up the most
pleasing accounts from the country; and at last he informed his young
partner that the factory was in perfect readiness to commence
operations. It however appeared that more money was required; and
Alexander, after an interview with Walkden, threw a farther sum of four
thousand pounds into the business, all the funds being completely at the
disposal of Scudimore. But almost immediately after the advance of this
second sum, the letters from the provincial town ceased. Several weeks
passed away: no communications were received from Scudimore;—and Mr.
Walkden appeared to be as astonished as Alexander himself. A visit to
the banker created a vague suspicion in the mind of the young man that
all was not right;—for though Scudimore had drawn out the first amount
by means of a number of successive cheques, he had received the whole of
the second advance on one draught, and almost immediately after it had
been paid in. A little farther enquiry convinced Alexander that Walkden
had presented all the cheques for payment at the bank. Without, however
losing a moment by calling on the lawyer for an explanation, Alexander
proceeded post-haste to the provincial town where he expected to find
Scudimore; and there all his fears were speedily confirmed. No premises
had been hired by any such person—no factory established in such a name:
but Mr. Scudimore had resided at an hotel in the place for several
months, and had taken his departure, no one knew whither, at a date
which, on calculation, Alexander found to be precisely four days after
he had paid the second sum into the banker's hands. No doubt now
remained in his mind that he was the dupe of a designing villain; and he
was convinced that Walkden was an accomplice. To London he returned
without delay; and, on his arrival, he repaired direct to the lawyer's
office. That professional gentleman received him with his usual cold and
reserved politeness, affecting not even to notice the excitement under
which the young man was labouring.
"'Your friend Mr. Scudimore, sir, is a villain!' exclaimed
Alexander.—'Such language is intolerable in my office, sir,' said
Walkden, in his chilling, phlegmatic manner.—'Intolerable or not, it
is the only language I can use under such circumstances,' cried the
young man. 'Scudimore has absconded with the whole sum of ten thousand
pounds which I advanced in this swindling concern; and it was through
you and your representations, sir, that I have been thus cruelly
deceived and basely plundered.'—'Softly, Mr. Craddock, if you please,'
observed the lawyer; 'because your language conveys an imputation
which I repel with scorn and contempt. My character is too well
established to be injured by the calumny of an obscure stranger. You
requested me to give you Mr. Scudimore's address in the first
instance: I did so; and it was with _him_ that you made all your
arrangements. You then both came to me, informed me that every thing
was settled between you, and employed me professionally to draw up
certain deeds.'—'But you gave me the highest character of your friend
Scudimore!' ejaculated Alexander.—'I spoke of him as I had always
found him up to that hour when you questioned me,' said Walkden: 'but
I never pretended to possess the power of prophesying that he would
continue honest up to the day of his death!'—'Contemptible, vile
sophistry!' exclaimed Alexander, his cheeks glowing with indignation.
'It is a base conspiracy to plunder me; and I will unmask you!'—'And
supposing that I have incurred a chance of losing as much as yourself
through this Mr. Scudimore?' said the lawyer, without losing his
temper, but with a smile of malignant triumph on his lips.—'_You_ lose
by him!' cried Alexander, in a tone of bitter irony: 'you knew him too
well to trust him.'—'At all events I may have somewhat calculated upon
_your_ joint responsibility,' observed Walkden, fixing his cold, grey
eyes upon the young man whom these ominous words startled.—'What do
you mean?' he demanded, his heart sinking within him.—'I mean,'
answered Walkden, 'that I have discounted your acceptances to the
amount of eight thousand pounds; that I have passed away those bills
of exchange in the course of business; that when they fall due
shortly, I shall be unable to take them up; and that the holder will
therefore look to you for the payment of them?'—Alexander sank,
speechless and powerless, into a seat as the whole scheme of villainy
was thus fully developed to his horrified contemplation.—'As you were
in partnership, and all the deeds establishing that partnership were
drawn up in the regular way and strictly binding, Scudimore had not
only a right to sign bills in your joint name,' proceeded the lawyer,
'but you cannot for an instant dispute your liability in respect to
them.'—'Is it possible,' gasped Alexander, 'that I can have been so
foolish and you so wicked? Oh! my poor wife—my beloved children, what
will become of you, now that I am ruined by my own madness and this
awful combination of villainies!'—'Mr. Craddock,' said Walkden,
drawing himself up to his full height, while his iron features
remained implacable and rigid, 'you must not allow your tongue a
license in respect to me. Again I tell you that my character is too
well established, and my reputation too substantially good, to be
injured by false calumnies. Indeed, I am not at all clear that I have
not some grounds to complain of conspiracy and villainy: for it
certainly looks suspicious—most suspicious that your partner should
obtain from me advances to the amount of eight thousand pounds, and
then abscond. You would not come out of court with very clean hands,
Mr. Craddock, I can tell you.'—'Wretch!' ejaculated the unhappy young
man, now goaded to desperation: 'how dare you hint at any connivance
on my part with the scoundrelism of your own friend—_you_ who
presented at the bank all the drafts for the money which I was insane
enough to lodge there!'—'I certainly received several sums on behalf
of Mr. Scudimore, to whom I duly remitted them,' said the lawyer,
still in that cold, reserved tone which so much aggravated the rage of
the ruined Craddock. 'But we will now put an end to this interview,
sir,' he added; 'as my time is precious.'—'Yes, I will leave you,
treacherous miscreant that you are!' exclaimed Alexander; and rushing
into the clerks' office, he vociferated with mad excitement,
'Gentlemen, if you wish to behold the greatest villian on the face of
the earth, go and look at your master!'—He then hurried away, the
victim of a mingled rage and grief which it would be impossible to
describe.
"But how could he face his dear wife—her affectionate aunt—his
much-loved children? '_Ruined—totally ruined_:' how awfully do these
words sound upon the ears! A man, when alone in the world and with none
dependent on him or his exertions, may murmur those words to himself
with comparative calmness: but the individual who has a wife and
children looking to him for every necessary of existence—ah! _he_ indeed
feels his heart seared as with red-hot iron when his lips, expressing
the conviction which circumstances force on his startled mind, frame the
frightful words, '_Ruined—totally ruined!_' Miss Middleton (the aunt)
and Lucy were already acquainted with the unpleasant nature of the
suspicions which Scudimore's protracted silence had created in the mind
of Alexander; and they were likewise aware of the object of his journey
into the country. But they had yet to learn the fatal result of the
enquiries which he had instituted; and it was still left for him to
break to them the particulars of his interview with Walkden. On his
return home, his anxiety and mental suffering were betrayed by his
countenance,—for he was unskilled in the schools of duplicity, and knew
not how to conceal a lacerated heart beneath a tranquil exterior. The
ladies pressed him with questions: they saw that something dreadful had
occurred—and they implored him not to keep them in suspense. He told
them all,—told them how Scudimore had plundered him of ten thousand
pounds—how he remained liable to Walkden for eight thousand more—and how
the payment of this imminent liability would sweep away the whole of his
fortune, leaving him a ruined man! Then, in that hour of bitter trial,
he found how dear is woman as a 'ministering angel;'[50] and, having
been comparatively soothed and tranquillised by the consolatory language
of his Lucy and Miss Middleton, he proceeded to the office of his own
solicitor, whom he resolved to consult relative to the posture of his
affairs.
"The moment he had left the house, Lucy and Miss Middleton held a hasty
council together. 'Do you think it would be imprudent or improper, my
dear aunt,' asked the young wife, 'if I were to call upon this Mr.
Walkden, and implore him not to press the payment of a debt which will
deprive Alexander of all the resources that he might render available
for the purpose of retrieving himself?'—'On the contrary, I approve of
the step,' was the reply. 'Alexander says that Mr. Walkden was stern and
severe; but then Alexander himself may have been hasty and indignant.
After all, this Mr. Walkden has perhaps been duped, as well as your
husband, by Scudimore.'—'I fear that this is not the case,' said Lucy:
'I am impressed with the conviction that the lawyer and Scudimore were
in league together. Nevertheless, as we are entirely at Walkden's mercy,
it would be unwise to irritate, but prudent to conciliate him.'—'Go, my
dear child,' exclaimed the aunt; 'and may you succeed in softening the
heart of this man who holds your dear husband in his iron grasp.'—Lucy
accordingly attired herself in a simple and modest manner, and proceeded
to the office of Mr. Walkden, who, happening to be disengaged at the
time, immediately received her.
"'I have called, sir,' began Lucy, whose courage almost failed her when
she found herself in the presence of a man of such stern, cold, and
indeed forbidding aspect—for this was the first time she had ever seen
him,—'I have called, sir,' she repeated, 'on behalf of my husband, whose
ruin is certain unless you show him some degree of mercy.'—'Mr. Craddock
behaved in a manner the most insulting, and dared to utter suspicions
the must derogatory to my character, even in the presence of my clerks,'
observed Walkden, in a tone so chilling that it seemed as if the breath
which wafted those words to the young wife's ears, passed over the ice
of the poles.—'But surely, sir,' urged Lucy, the tears trickling down
her cheeks, 'you will make some allowances for the excited feelings of a
young man just entering the world as it were, and so cruelly struck on
its very threshold by the hand of misfortune? At least, sir, if not for
his sake, I implore you for that of his innocent children to be lenient
and merciful.'—'Law forms and ceremonies are not influenced by such
considerations, madam,' said Mr. Walkden. 'At the same time, I have no
objection to search the Commentaries; and if I there find leniency
recommended in filing a declaration, or mercy enjoined in signing
judgment, I have not the slightest objection to instruct my common-law
clerk accordingly.'—Lucy stared at the attorney in wild bewilderment and
uncertainty as he thus delivered himself in a measured tone of such
frigidity that it seemed as if an automaton of ice were speaking; but at
length she murmured, 'May I then hope, sir, that you will not press for
the payment of this heavy debt when the bills become due?'—Walkden fixed
his eyes upon the lovely and tearful countenance which was upturned so
imploringly towards him; and at the instant he thought within himself
that he had never before seen a female face of such surpassing beauty.
Then his glance slowly and deliberately wandered from the faultless
features to the contours of the well-formed bust, developed even by the
plaits of the thick shawl which Lucy wore; and thence his survey was
continued until his contemplation had embraced the wasp-like waist, and
the flowing outlines of a symmetrical form, terminating in feet and
ankles ravishingly modelled.—'You are doubtless much attached to your
husband, madam?' he said, his tone becoming the least thing more
tender—or rather losing one small degree of its cold severity.—'Attached
to him, sir!' exclaimed Lucy, perfectly astonished at the question: 'I
love—I worship him! He is the best of husbands and the best of
fathers!'—'Then you would make _any_ sacrifice to restore him to peace
of mind?' said Walkden, his voice becoming more tender still, and his
demeanour gradually unbending from its stiff formality.—'Oh! yes,' cried
the artless Lucy; '_any_ sacrifice would I make to see my Alexander
happy as he was wont to be!'—'_Any_ sacrifice,' repeated the lawyer, now
positively allowing his features to relax into a faint and significant
smile, while his voice was lowered and changed into a tone of soft
familiarity; 'consider what you say—_any sacrifice_! Well, then on that
condition'—and he took her hand.—A light broke instantaneously upon the
mind of Lucy; and, snatching back her hand as if from the maw of a wild
beast, she started from her seat, uttered a cry of indignation and
abhorrence, and disappeared from the office before the baffled and
disconcerted lawyer had time to make an effort to detain her.
"Lucy's heart was still swelling with mingled resentment and anguish,
when she reached her home; and Alexander who returned at the same time,
saw in an instant that she was a prey to no ordinary emotions. Throwing
herself into her husband's arms, Lucy burst into tears—her pent-up
feelings no longer obeying the control of that restraint which she
sought to impose upon them. Then, by dint of questioning, Alexander
gleaned enough to convince him that his beloved wife had been flagrantly
insulted by the villain who had already heaped such grievous wrongs upon
his head. Maddened by this fresh injury, Alexander was about to rush
from the house and inflict some dreadful chastisement upon the
cold-blooded monster Walkden, when his wife and her aunt threw
themselves at his feet, and implored him, with tears and impassioned
entreaties, not to aggravate the perils and embarrassments of his
position by involving himself in a quarrel with their enemy. Alexander
was moved by the prayers of those whom he loved; and he faithfully
promised them not to suffer his indignant feelings to master his
prudence. When calmness and composure were somewhat restored, he
proceeded to explain the result of the visit which he had just paid to
his own solicitor. That gentleman had said to him, 'It is as clear as
day-light that you are robbed by Walkden and Scudimore conjointly; but I
really do not think that you could _prove_ a conspiracy in a criminal
court. I should, however, decidedly advise you to resist the payment of
the bills; and, as Walkden is tolerably sure to push the matter on to
trial, the verdict of a jury in the civil case will enable us to judge
how far we may hope to punish the scoundrel attorney in another manner.'
Alexander had accordingly placed himself entirely in his solicitor's
hands; and there rested the business for the present.
"But a serious change took place in the disposition and habits of
Alexander Craddock. Smarting under the wrongs which he had received, he
grew restless and unsettled—experienced less delight than he was wont to
feel in the society of his wife and children—showed signs of
irritability, and an impatience of the slightest contradiction, however
trivial—and remained longer over his wine after dinner. Lucy beheld all
this, and wept in secret: but when with Alexander, she redoubled her
attentions, and sought every possible opportunity of proving her
devotion. She implored him to give up the house they then occupied, and
adopt a more economical mode of life; but his answers were at first
evasive—then impatient—and at last so sharp and angry, that she was
compelled, though with reluctance, to abandon the topic, at least for
the present. To add to Lucy's grief, her aunt, who had so long fulfilled
towards her the duties of a mother, was attacked with sudden
indisposition, which increased with alarming rapidity, and carried her
off in the course of a few days. Alexander manifested far less sorrow
than Lucy had expected him to have shown; and this proof of an
augmenting callousness on his part, pierced the heart of the amiable
young lady to the very quick. But scarcely had the remains of Miss
Middleton been consigned to the tomb, when a fresh misfortune occurred
to increase the irritability of Alexander. The bills for eight thousand
pounds fell due, and were dishonoured by him, in accordance with the
advice of his solicitor. He was immediately after arrested: and, as he
had resolved to defend the action, he paid into court the whole sum in
dispute, a proceeding whereby he could alone save himself from remaining
in prison until the trial. He had, however, gone through the ordeal of a
spunging-house, and he considered himself disgraced; the irritability of
his temper increased—he daily grew more attached to the bottle—and his
affections towards his wife and children were evidently blunted. Oh! how
ramified and vast are the evil effects of the villainy of one man
towards another,—striking not only the individual victim, but rebounding
and reacting on his wife, his children, and his friends!
"Lucy again revived the expression of her wish that a cheaper dwelling
should be taken and a more economical style of living adopted. But
Alexander would not listen to the proposal. He declared his certainty of
gaining the suit and of recovering his money from the court—a result, he
said, which would enable him to employ his funds in some legitimate
commercial enterprise. On this subject he spoke so confidently, that
Lucy entertained the most sanguine hopes of beholding happiness restored
beneath a roof where naught save happiness had once prevailed; and it
was but with little apprehension that she marked the arrival of the day
fixed for the trial. The most able counsel had been retained on both
sides; and the cause excited immense interest. Walkden had been
established for years, and bore an excellent character: indeed, none of
his friends or clients could for a moment believe that he was an
accomplice of the villain Scudimore. The whole question, as presented to
the cognizance of the tribunal, was whether Mr. Walkden had given value
for the bills, and was a _bona fide_ holder of securities which he had
legitimately and honourably discounted in the course of business. The
evidence he adduced to establish these points was certainly of a nature
likely to prove most convincing to a jury, though Alexander knew full
well that Walkden had suborned the grossest perjury on the part of his
clerks and the other persons whom he put forward as witnesses.
Nevertheless, the verdict was in Walkden's favour; and Alexander
returned home a prey to the liveliest grief and the most bitter
resentment. Lucy did all that woman's goodness and ingenuity could
suggest to console him; but the excitement of his feelings gained upon
him with such overwhelming violence and rapidity, that he grew
delirious, and a brain-fever supervened. The best medical advice was
procured for him by the almost heart-broken Lucy; but weeks and weeks
passed away without enabling the physicians to pronounce him beyond the
reach of danger. During that period he had many lucid intervals, on
which occasions he recognised his wife and children—embraced them
tenderly—wept over them—implored heaven to bless them—and then, in the
bitterness of overwhelming reminiscences, desired them to look upon him
as one who was dead,—his excitement relapsing into delirium again. Poor
Lucy! seldom was it that she reposed her aching head upon a pillow,
throughout the period of her beloved husband's illness—and never until
completely crushed with the fatigue of long vigils and the burthen of a
grief beneath which she herself was sinking. At length—just as her
pecuniary resources began to fail, and the want of funds excited alarms
which augmented her afflictions—Alexander's malady took a sudden turn
which filled her mind with the most joyous hope; and when the delirium
had altogether passed away, his manner was so kind and gentle—his
language so endearing and affectionate—and his temper so entirely devoid
of irritability, that Lucy's heart became elate with the most cheering
aspirations and delightful visions. Alexander spoke of his misfortunes
with calmness and resignation; and said, 'Our property is all swept
away, dearest; but I am young, and shall soon be strong and active
again; and then I will work to obtain a livelihood for us all. And who
knows, my beloved Lucy, but that the bread of honest though perhaps
severe toil, may not prove the sweetest we shall have ever eaten?'—Then,
when his wife heard him discourse in this manner, she would throw
herself into his arms, and thank him—yes, thank him fervently for
becoming a consoler in his turn.
"The fond pair had been conversing in this style one afternoon—the first
day on which Alexander was enabled to walk down stairs to the parlour
without assistance,—and their children were playing in a corner of the
apartment, when the door was suddenly and violently opened, and two or
three coarse-looking fellows unceremoniously made their appearance.
Their mission was soon explained. The money paid into court had only
just covered the amount of the bills of exchange which had formed the
ground of action; and Alexander was now arrested by Walkden for the
costs, which had been taxed at a hundred and odd pounds. The unfortunate
young couple had not the money; and Lucy had already made away with
their plate, jewellery, and other valuables in order to provide her
husband with every comfort and luxury in his illness. The furniture was
worth more than the amount of the costs: but arrears of rent were due to
the landlord. Lucy implored the bailiffs, with tears in her eyes, not to
remove Alexander for a few days, when he might have recovered the shock
of this new and unforeseen blow; but they were inexorable, intimating
pretty plainly that they were instructed to show no leniency of any
kind. She, however, by dint of entreaties—actually going down upon her
knees to the officers—succeeded in inducing them to wait while she
repaired to his own solicitor. But this gentleman was unable to assist
her to the amount she required: he nevertheless manifested the kindest
and most respectful sympathy towards her, giving her a few guineas for
immediate necessities, and promising to incur the expense of the
measures necessary to enable her husband to remove next day from a
lock-up house to the King's Bench. It was some consolation to the almost
heart-broken young lady, to find that Alexander possessed at least one
friend in the world; but even this faint and poor gleam of solace
vanished, and gave way to the keenest apprehensions, when on her return
she found her husband a prey to all that fearful excitement which had
proved the forerunner of his late dangerous malady.
"What was to be done? There seemed but one alternative; and this she was
determined, in her affectionate solicitude and zeal, to adopt without
the knowledge of Alexander. Indeed, he scarcely appeared to be aware of
what was going on; but raved, talked wildly, and menaced and wept by
turns in the presence of the officers who surrounded him. Away sped Lucy
to Bush Lane; and a second time did she enter the establishment of that
individual who had brought such rapid—such signal—such unredeemable ruin
on the heads of a once happy family. Walkden received her in his private
office, and coldly desired her to be seated, a smile of infernal triumph
relaxing his stern and usually rigid features; while his eyes scanned
the wasted, but still touchingly beautiful and deeply interesting
countenance of that afflicted young lady. Lucy was for some minutes so
overcome by the intensity of her feelings, that she was unable to utter
a word; and when she did speak, it was a mere gasping forth of
disjointed sentences, broken by frequent sobs of convulsing agony. The
lawyer bent over her, like Satan whispering to a desperate creature the
terms on which wealth and power might be purchased,—bent over that
crushed, much-enduring, and amiable young wife, and murmured in her ears
_his_ terms of mercy towards her husband. She rose and looked at him in
amazement and horror. Was he a human being, or a veritable fiend? His
cold, grey eyes sank not beneath the reproachful and indignant glance of
that outraged lady; and a smile of demoniac triumph again played upon
his lip. Doubtless he thought that her anger was only momentary, and
that the sternness of necessity would force her to a compliance with his
will. But he knew not the mind of Lucy. 'Villain! monster!' she
exclaimed: 'has your infamy no bounds?' and she fled from the presence
of the cold-blooded scoundrel as if the atmosphere which he breathed
were fraught with the plague.
"With what a heavy heart did she return home—that home from which her
husband must now be dragged immediately and before her eyes,—a home
which, perhaps, would not long remain so for herself and children. But
suddenly, and as if by divine inspiration, she remembered that all her
courage was now required to enable her to bear up against her
afflictions for the sake of Alexander—for the sake of her offspring;—and
it is astonishing how, in the midst of the deepest sorrows, woman can
ofttimes display an energy of which the stronger sex is altogether
incapable. And so it now was with Lucy Craddock. She even succeeded in
comforting her husband and soothing his excitement, by reminding him
that the more he appeared to be crushed, the greater would be the
delight of his savage and unrelenting enemy. This species of
remonstrance, so kindly—so gently administered, had the desired effect;
and Alexander, animated with a spirit of endurance, and fortified by the
example of his admirable wife, rose if possible superior to his
misfortunes, and proceeded with a feeling of proud resignation to the
lock-up-house. Thence on the ensuing day he was removed to the King's
Bench: and it was here that I first formed his acquaintance, when he
entered the prison six years ago.
"Immediately after his arrival, his spirits gave way rapidly; and it was
necessary for his wife to take up her abode with him altogether. She
accordingly disposed of the furniture in their house, paid the landlord
and the few other small creditors, and brought her children over to the
small cheerless chamber in which her husband was lying on a bed of
sickness. Thus was this once happy family—like so many, many others,
reduced from a state of comfort, and even affluence, to poverty and a
prison-room. Heaven only knows what misery—what privations they had
undergone, when it was first whispered to me by a char-woman that the
Craddocks seemed to be in great distress. I was then a little better off
than I am now; and I immediately repaired to their room, inventing some
excuse for my intrusion. Oh! what a scene of destitution—what a
heart-rending spectacle met my eyes! The furniture which the Craddocks
had hired, had been all removed away in consequence of their inability
to pay for its use: Alexander, pale and emaciated, was sitting upon a
trunk; the two children, thin and wasted, were crying for food; and the
poor, heart-rent Lucy was looking over a few things in a hatbox,
evidently with a view to select the most likely articles to be received
by the pawnbroker—while her scalding tears fell fast upon her hands as
she turned over the only relics left of a wardrobe once extensive and
elegant. It went to my very soul to contemplate that scene! I shall not
pause to explain all the particulars which rendered me intimate with the
Craddocks: suffice it to say, that they accepted my assistance, and that
in a few hours their chamber once again wore an aspect of such comfort
as the restitution of the furniture and a well supplied table could
possibly afford in a prison. I did not learn their history
immediately—nor all its details at once: portions of it were
communicated by degrees—some of the particulars oozed out
incidentally—and the feelings and sentiments experienced by the
sufferers in the various phases of their eventful tale, transpired from
time to time,—until at length I gleaned all those facts which I have now
related to you. But by far the most terrible portion of the history of
the Craddocks is yet to come."
Prout paused for a few moments, and then enquired of Frank Curtis if he
were wearied of the narrative. The young gentleman assured him that, so
far from being tired of the story, he was deeply interested in its
progress; whereupon the Chancery prisoner proceeded in the following
manner.
-----
Footnote 50:
O woman in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;—
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
WALTER SCOTT.
And such is woman's love—the secret power
That turns the darkest to the brightest hour;
That smothes the wrinkles care has learned to plough,
And wipes the trace of anguish from the brow!
And Oh! if spite of war and wasting pain,
Feelings so noble—so divine remain,
Where were the brighter star to cheer our gloom,
Make heaven of earth, and triumph o'er the tomb!
UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM.
CHAPTER CVIII.
CONCLUSION OF THE TALE OF SORROW.
"Although I was enabled to administer temporary assistance to this
unfortunate and persecuted family, and, under the delicate guise of a
_loan_ of money, _gave_ them the wherewith to make themselves
comparatively comfortable, it was nevertheless necessary for Alexander
to resolve upon some decisive step. To remain in prison was to bury his
talents in a manner so as to render them completely unavailable,—to
think of liquidating the enormous burthen of debt which lay upon his
shoulders, was ridiculous,—and to move the stony heart of Walkden was a
hopeless idea. The only alternative was the Insolvents' Court. Good
food, medical attendance, and the altered appearance of his wife and
children, who had all improved greatly, restored Alexander to some
degree of health and spirits; and he soon began to discuss with me and
Lucy his present position and plans for the future. The lawyer who had
enabled him to pass over to the Bench, returned to town at this precise
period, after some weeks' absence; and he not only agreed to provide the
funds to take Alexander through the Insolvents' Court, but also promised
to give him employment as a clerk on his release. Thus was it that this
good man infused hope into the bosoms of the Craddocks; and the
necessary steps were adopted to effect the emancipation of the prisoner.
But scarcely were the initiatory proceedings set on foot, when
intelligence was received to the effect that Walkden was resolved to
oppose Alexander's discharge by all the means that were within his
power. This intimation, which reached the prison through a private
channel, aroused Alexander's fury against the man who so unrelentingly
persecuted him; and it required all the attentions of his amiable wife
and all the manifestations of friendship which I was enabled to offer,
to restore him to comparative tranquillity.
[Illustration]
"Well, the day fixed for his examination at the Insolvents' Court
arrived; and Alexander proceeded thither in the usual charge of a
tipstaff. His case was called on at an early stage of the day's
business; and he found a formidable array of counsel employed against
him. I shall not pause to dwell upon all the details of the proceeding:
suffice it to say that Walkden was placed in the witness-box, and, being
examined by the barristers whom he had feed, made the entire case look
so fearfully black against Alexander Craddock, that he was remanded to
gaol for twelve months, his discharge to take place at the expiration of
that period. Fearful was the state of excitement in which he returned to
the Bench; and in the course of a few hours he was delirious. It was
frightful to hear his ravings, in which the name of Walkden was
uppermost, and associated with the bitterest imprecations and menaces.
Poor Lucy! I thought her heart would break, as she sate watching by her
husband's bed; but she was rewarded to some extent for her vigils and
her sorrow, when, on the return of his senses, he recognised her before
he even knew his own children, much less me—his humble friend,—and
manifested his purest love for her in the most impassioned language and
with the tenderest embraces. But though the delirium left him and
returned no more, he soon fell into a deep and brooding melancholy, from
which it was scarcely possible to arouse him. He fancied himself
dishonoured—permanently dishonoured by the sentence passed upon him by
the Insolvents' Court; and though the friendly lawyer and myself, as
well as Lucy, endeavoured to reason with him against the
belief,—pointing out every circumstance calculated to prove that he was
a victim, and not a culprit,—he took the matter so to heart that it was
evident his spirit was broken!
"My own resources began to fall off at this period, and I was unable to
assist the Craddocks as much as I could wish. Moreover, Alexander and
Lucy both felt averse to remain dependant upon me; and the friendly
lawyer had proved so generous that they were naturally delicate in
applying to him. Lucy accordingly made up her mind how to act. She
proposed that they should remove over to the Poor-Side, and receive the
County money. They would thus obtain a room rent free, and a few
shillings a-week to purchase bread. Alexander's pride struggled against
this project; but he yielded at last to the entreaties and
representations of his excellent wife, who assured him that she felt no
shame in showing that she was poor, and that the only real disgrace lay
in dishonesty. 'Wherefore, then, should we contract any debts which we
cannot pay?' she enquired; 'and if we continue to live in this part of
the prison we must keep up certain appearances, which we have not the
means to do.'—Alexander succumbed, I say, to this reasoning; and to the
Poor-Side they accordingly removed. I never shall forget the day when
this change took place. Lucy had made the new chamber look as neat at
possible; and she endeavoured to maintain a smiling exterior as she
arranged the little furniture and the few things of their own which were
left to them. But every now and then she glanced anxiously towards her
husband, who sat in a musing—or rather an apathetic manner—watching her
proceedings; and I observed that a tear frequently started to her eye,
and that every now and then she caught up her children and pressed them
passionately to her bosom. I insisted upon providing dinner on that day;
and I did all I could not only to make this poor family as comfortable
as possible, but also to raise Alexander's spirits. But if he smiled it
was so faintly, or sickly, that my heart sank within me as if he had
been my own son.
"A few weeks passed away, and I observed that Lucy managed to keep the
family pretty comfortably. They had no lack of plain and humble food—and
the children were always neat and clean. Whenever I called at their
room, I found Lucy busy in some way or another—either washing or mending
the clothes, or ironing out her husband's linen, or else plying the
needle at work which, though I know little of such matters, did not seem
to me to have any reference to the family wardrobe at all. One night I
could not sleep, and got up to take a walk round the prison. It was
between twelve and one; and, as I passed round by the Poor-Side, I
chanced to look up at the window of the Craddocks' room. To my surprise,
I observed a light burning; and the truth flashed upon me. Poor Lucy was
sitting up to work—to waste her youth, her health, and her spirits over
the needle, that she might obtain the means to purchase comforts for her
husband and children! The conviction went to my very heart like a pang;
and I thought how bitter is often the mission of a good and virtuous
woman in this world! I remember that I had no inclination to retire to
rest again that night; and I kept walking—walking round the prison,
impelled by some invincible influence thus to wander about the gloomy
place, as if to watch how long the feeble light would be burning in that
one room! It was nearly four o'clock when that light was extinguished;
and I heaved a sigh as I murmured to myself the name of poor Lucy
Craddock! When day came, and I was enabled to call upon Alexander after
breakfast. I examined the young wife and mother with more attention than
usual; and it then struck me that she was visibly wasting away. Her
health was evidently declining; and her spirits were entirely forced.
She was gay and lively as ever; but that gaiety and liveliness were
assumed, not real—artificial, not natural,—the veil which an excellent
and amiable woman—a most affectionate wife and the best of mothers—put
on to cover the secret of her breaking heart!
"Three mouths of the year for which Alexander had been remanded, passed
away; and Lucy beheld her children drooping and pining through want of
proper air and exercise. This discovery was a new affliction. She would
not permit the little things to play about along with the ragged, dirty
offspring of the other prisoners on the Poor-Side; and she was unable to
spare the time to take them out herself. I understood the struggle that
was passing in her mind. If she devoted an hour or two each day to them,
she must give up some of the work which, as I found out, she had
obtained from a warehouse in the Borough; and by so doing their comforts
and those of her husband would be abridged. On the other hand, she could
not see those poor innocents confined to a close room and pining for
fresh air. She accordingly resolved to take them out for a certain
period each day, and to steal another hour or two from her repose. I
knew that she did this, because when I either walked about until very
late, or else rose early to take my ramble about the prison, I saw the
light in the chamber even at five o'clock in the morning! My God! It is
as true as I am here, that this poor, devoted woman at length limited
herself to only three hours' rest; and though her children improved in
health, her own was suffering the most frightful ravages. It was evident
that Alexander did not suspect the labour and toil which his wife
endured: he had sunk into a species of apathy which blinded him to a
fact that I discovered so easily, and which gave me the acutest pain.
You may be sure that I did all I could for the family, and in as
delicate a way as possible,—always proposing to join my dinner to
their's when I knew that I had a better one than they; but my own
resources were becoming daily more cramped; and my accursed Chancery
business not only lingered on, but absorbed all the funds I could raise
or my friends could muster in my behalf. Thus six months passed
away—Lucy in the meantime being worn down to a skeleton, and seeming
only the shadow of her former self. Still she grew not, slovenly:
dirt—that too frequent companion of poverty—was not the characteristic
of her little chamber; and her husband always had his clean shirt for
the Sabbath, and even decent apparel, considering that he lived on the
Poor-Side of the King's Bench Prison!
"It was Term Time; and my business compelled me to take a day-rule. That
is to say, I obtained permission to go out for a day to attend to my
affairs, my friends giving security to the Marshal of the Bench for my
safe return. I resolved to avail myself of this opportunity to call on
Walkden, and represent to him the cruelty and absurdity of keeping
Alexander in confinement, when by withdrawing the detainer he might
restore him to freedom. I was prepared to find Walkden a severe and hard
man; but the reception I experienced was calculated to make me set him
down as a fiend in mortal shape. The moment I mentioned my business, he
stopped me short,—rising from his seat, and saying in a cold, icy
manner, 'The name of Craddock is abhorrent to me, sir. I was grossly
insulted by his injurious suspicions; and he shall rot in prison before
I permit him to escape my vengeance. He thinks that he will be freed in
six months' time; but he is mistaken.'—'No, sir,' I exclaimed
indignantly, 'it is you who are mistaken. The fiat of the Insolvents'
Court is stronger than your vindictive will.'—'We shall see,' observed
Walkden, in an implacable tone; and I was compelled to withdraw, not
only grieved at the ill-success of my visit, but filled with vague
apprehensions that fresh persecutions were in waiting for my unhappy
friend. But I did not breathe a word to either Alexander or Lucy
relative to the step which I had taken nor the fears thus excited within
me; although I could not banish the lawyer's dark menace from my
thoughts. Months passed away—Lucy still managing to keep the wolf from
the door, as the vulgar phrase goes; while her health was sinking
rapidly.
"At length the period drew nigh when Alexander expected to obtain his
deliverance; and now his spirits began to rise. He gradually shook off
the apathy which had so long clouded his intellect and impaired his
energies; and he spoke highly of the prospect of release. But Walkden
watched him from a distance, and seemed to gloat over the new scheme of
vengeance which he had in store for this hapless family. Indeed, the
blow came on a day when Alexander had declared to me that he had not
felt his heart so light for a long, long time. A detainer was lodged
against him at the gate—a detainer for a thousand pounds! The fact was
that a mistake had been committed in Alexander's schedule, and an item
to that extent omitted. The judgment of the Court was therefore void and
null in respect to a debt not inserted in the schedule; for such is the
atrocious law, made on purpose to persecute those unfortunate debtors
who do not come within the meaning of the Acts which enable traders to
apply to the Bankruptcy Court. The way that I heard first of the
detainer being lodged at Walkden's suit was in this wise:—A char-woman
came to my room, saying that Mrs. Craddock, who appeared to be in great
distress of mind, wished to see me immediately. I hurried to the
Poor-Side, a misgiving preparing my mind to receive intelligence of
farther persecution on the part of the fiend Walkden. On entering the
Craddock's chamber, I found Alexander lying almost senseless on the bed,
deep and prolonged gaspings alone denoting that he was alive. Lucy was
on her knees, imploring him not to give way to despair; and the children
were crying piteously, although they were too young to understand the
nature of the misfortune which had fallen on their parents' heads. I
strove to awaken my unhappy friend to the necessity of enduring this new
affliction with courage; and in a short time my representations, joined
to Lucy's prayers and entreaties, succeeded to some little extent. 'You
must petition the Insolvents' Court again,' I said; 'and you are sure of
having no farther remand. In six weeks you will be free.'—'But the
means—the means to pass this ordeal a second time!' he exclaimed almost
frantically.—'The Marshal has some charitable funds at his disposal,' I
observed; 'and I will instantly wait upon him, and present the whole
circumstances of the case.'—Alexander was in that feverish state of
excitement which cannot endure suspense when any gleam of hope is
afforded in the midst of despair; and he urged me to lose no time in
seeing the Marshal. As I quitted the room, Lucy pressed my hand in a
manner expressive of deep emotion, as she murmured in a low tone, 'You
are our only friend!'
"Within ten minutes I was seated in the Marshal's private office,
explaining the nature of my business. I unreservedly and frankly
revealed to him Alexander Craddock's whole history; and you may be sure
that I did not forget to dwell upon the admirable conduct of Lucy. The
Marshal is a humane man, although nothing more than a superior kind of
gaoler; and he listened to me with great interest. When I had concluded
my narrative, which was rather long, he said, 'Mr. Prout, I will lose no
time in calling myself upon Mr. Walkden, whom I know well by name, and
whose character has certainly appeared to me this day in a new light. I
am well aware that he is harsh and severe; but I do not think him
capable of keeping this man in prison under all the circumstances which
you have detailed to me. I will see him, and endeavour to excite his
compassion by unfolding to him all the particulars of Craddock's
history, as you have now related them to me. If he should persist in
retaining him in gaol, I will then from my own pocket advance the
necessary funds to enable your poor friend to petition the Court again.
In the meantime give Craddock this guinea.'—I returned my warmest thanks
to the Marshal for his goodness, and was hurrying back to the Craddocks
with the money and the hopeful intelligence I had in store for them,
when, as I passed through the upper lobby, my attention was directed to
a new prisoner who had just arrived; for on the turnkey asking him his
name, he replied—SCUDIMORE! A moment's scrutiny of the man convinced me
that he was the same who had plundered Craddock, a description of his
personal appearance having been frequently given to me by Alexander. I
was sorry to find that he had become an inmate of the same place as the
individual whom he had so deeply injured, and whose excited feelings I
feared might lead him to some act of violence towards the villain. Well
aware that Alexander could not be long before he must inevitably learn
the fact of Scudimore's arrest, I resolved to mention it to him without
delay, so as to prepare him to meet his enemy within the precincts of
the Bench. I, however, communicated my good news first; and Lucy was
overjoyed when she learnt that the Marshal had resolved to interest
himself in her husband's behalf. But Alexander's manner suddenly became
so strange—so unaccountably sombre and gloomy—and so menacingly
mysterious, when I revealed to him the circumstance of Scudimore's
presence in the prison, that both Lucy and myself grew terribly alarmed.
We implored him not to notice Scudimore even when they should meet; but
he gave no reply. I, however, whispered to Lucy my hopes that the
Marshal would succeed in inducing Walkden to liberate her husband at
once; and thereby remove her husband from the vicinity of the scoundrel
who had ruined him. I also resolved to be as much with Alexander as
possible; and I was delighted to find that he showed no inclination to
leave his room for the purpose of taking his usual walk up and down the
back of the prison-building.
"In the course of a couple of hours the Marshal sent me in word that he
had not succeeded in finding Mr. Walkden at his office, but had made an
appointment with the head-clerk to call again in the evening, when the
result of his interview with the lawyer should be immediately
communicated to me, even if the gates were closed. I therefore saw that
the Marshal was in earnest in carrying out the business he had taken in
hand; and Lucy was inspired with the same strong hopes that I
entertained. But Alexander received the Marshal's message with an
apathetic coldness which filled me with alarm; and it was evident that
his mind brooded over other affairs, which I could not help thinking
were connected with the arrival of Scudimore at the Bench. I was,
however, glad to observe that Lucy did not participate in my fears to
the same extent as she did in my hopes: poor creature! the thought of
seeing her husband soon free was the absorbing sentiment in her mind! I
remained with the Craddocks on that eventful day up to almost nine
o'clock, when a letter which I received by the last post compelled me to
go to my room for a few minutes to look out a few papers connected with
my own case, and which my attorney required the first thing in the
morning. I assured Lucy that I would return as soon as possible, the
promised intelligence from the Marshal being now every moment expected
by us.
"And now I come to a frightful portion of my sad tale. I had been about
five minutes in my room, and had just sealed up the packet which was to
be given to a messenger that night to deliver early next day to my
solicitor, when Lucy rushed in without knocking. She fell exhausted upon
the floor; and it was some moments before she could articulate a word. I
was cruelly alarmed; and my hand trembled so as I poured her out some
water that I could scarcely hold the glass. At length I learnt that
Alexander had suddenly started from his chair, a minute after I left
him, and seizing a knife, had rushed from the room. Before Lucy could
reach the bottom of the stairs, he had disappeared; and, in a state
bordering on distraction, she had naturally flown to me. While she was
gasping forth the few words which thus made me acquainted with the cause
of her visit, cries of horror suddenly burst from the parade-ground and
struck upon our ears. I cannot at this moment remember what we thought,
or what we said—no, nor how we got down the stairs: the next incident
that I _do_ recollect, after hearing those appalling cries, was finding
myself elbowing my way through a group of prisoners assembled on the
parade; and then, by the moonlight, what a spectacle met my eyes! A man
was lying on the ground, weltering in his blood; and another was passive
and motionless in the grasp of three or four prisoners. The former was
Scudimore: the latter was Alexander Craddock. Then female shrieks of
anguish rent the air; and Lucy threw herself wildly into her husband's
arms, exclaiming in a tone so piercing that it still rings in my
ears—'You did not do it, Alexander! Oh! no—you could not—you would not!
Tell me—I conjure you,—tell me that you did not do it!'
"Almost at the same moment a cry was raised of—'The Marshall'—and
immediately afterwards that gentleman came up to the spot, accompanied
by _another individual_, whom, as the moonlight fell upon his
countenance, I instantly recognised to be Walkden. And that
countenance—how was it changed! No longer cold and implacable, every
feature bore the imprint of ineffable anguish and black despair. Then,
when in a few hurried words, the assassination of Scudimore was
communicated by the bye-standers to the Marshal and Walkden, and
Alexander Craddock was mentioned as the murderer, a scene of the most
wildly exciting interest ensued. For Walkden sprang towards the
guilty—unhappy young man, and throwing his arms frantically around
him,—poor Lucy shrinking back at his appearance,—exclaimed, 'My son!—my
dear, and long-lost son! Pardon me—pardon me—I am the cause of all
this—Oh! my God! how frightfully am I punished!'—and the wretched
Walkden fell heavily upon the ground, overpowered—stunned—crushed by
emotions too awful to be even conceived!
"I must here pause for a few moments to give a word or two of necessary
explanation. The Marshal had found Mr. Walkden at his office in the
evening, and had begged him to grant Alexander's release. But the
miscreant was inexorable, alleging that he had received at the
prisoner's hands insults of a nature which rendered mercy impossible.
The Marshal, hoping to touch the man's heart by a recital of all the
interesting circumstances of Alexander's life, began to tell his story;
but scarcely had he explained how Alexander had been found by the late
Mr. Craddock in the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons, when Walkden's
whole manner suddenly underwent an appalling change: he turned ghastly
pale—trembled like an aspen-leaf—and then, in another minute, covered
his face with his hands, exclaiming in a tone of the deepest anguish,
'_Merciful God! it is my own son whom I have plundered and persecuted
thus vilely! Oh! wretch that I am—miscreant, demon that I have
been!_'—The Marshal was naturally overwhelmed with astonishment at these
terrific self-accusations, which nevertheless appeared to be too well
founded; for it was indeed the only child of the miserable lawyer who
had been lost by a neglectful servant years ago in the neighbourhood of
Doctors' Commons; and the sudden death of the beadle happening the very
next day, had destroyed the only clue to the infant. Mrs. Walkden died
of a broken heart; and it was most probably these misfortunes which,
acting upon a morbid mind, rendered the attorney the harsh, severe,
merciless man which he had so effectually proved himself to be.
"And what miseries had he piled up, to fall on his own head! He had
ruined his son—rendered him a murderer—and also endeavoured to seduce
that son's wife. Oh! it was a fearful scene, which took place on the
parade-ground on that eventful evening. Scudimore lay a corpse at the
feet of the man whom he had injured; and senseless by the side of the
corpse, fell Walkden who had made Scudimore his instrument and
accomplice in the iniquitous transaction which paved the way for this
accumulation of horrors. Alexander understood nothing that took place.
He saw it all—but comprehended it not. His reason had fled; and it is
most probable that he was already a maniac when he rushed from his room
armed with the fatal knife—and perhaps even when I observed the strange
change come over him on his learning from my lips that Scudimore was an
inmate of the Bench. As for Lucy—poor, crushed, heart-broken Lucy—she
had fainted when Walkden proclaimed himself her husband's _father_! But
I must hasten and bring my story to a conclusion. The Marshal speedily
gave the orders necessary under the circumstances which had occurred;
and, on Lucy being recovered from her swoon, she found that she had not
been the prey of a hideous dream, as she at first supposed—but that her
husband had been taken from her, and lodged in the strong-room—a maniac
and a murderer! Oh! what a heart-rending duty it was for me to implore
her to take courage for her children's sake! Walkden, who had in the
meantime been restored to his senses, begged her to make his house her
home in future, and look on him as a father;—but she shrieked forth a
negative in so wild a tone and accompanied by such a shudder, that the
wretched man could not be otherwise than deeply convinced how ineffable
was the abhorrence that she entertained for him. The Marshal kindly took
charge of the stricken woman and her young children; and the corpse of
Scudimore was conveyed to a room there to await the attendance of the
Coroner on the following day.
"But little more remains to be told. During the night that followed the
deplorable events which I have just related, Alexander Craddock grew
furious with excitement, and became raving mad. A brain-fever
supervened; and in less than twelve hours from the moment when his hand
avenged his wrongs on the villain Scudimore, he himself was no longer a
denizen of this world! Ten days afterwards the Marshal received a letter
from Walkden, which he subsequently showed to me, and the contents of
which ran thus as nearly as I can recollect them:—'_I am about to quit
England, and shall never be again heard of by one who has to much reason
to shudder at the mere mention of my name. I allude to my deeply-injured
daughter-in-law. My share of the ten thousand pounds, of which Scudimore
plundered her husband, was precisely one half. This amount, with
compound interest, I have placed in the funds in her name; and I implore
her to forgive a man who is crushed and heart-broken, and who loathes
himself!_'—Lucy, who had only for her children's sake been able to
sustain anything like the adequate amount of courage necessary to
support her afflictions, was somewhat solaced—if solace there could be
in the midst of such bitter, bitter woe—by the certainty that those
children were now secure against want. She accordingly removed with them
into a small but comfortable dwelling near Norwood—but not before she
had called on me, to express all her gratitude for the kindnesses which
I had been enabled to show the family. She moreover endeavoured to
compel me to receive a sum of money, as she said in repayment for the
amounts I had at various times lent them; but that sum was a hundred
times greater than any I had ever been able to assist them with. I would
not receive a fraction; and I wept on parting with her, as if she had
been my own daughter. During the year which she survived the loss of her
husband—for she only _did_ survive it a year—she came frequently to
visit me, always accompanied by her children; and on every occasion she
brought me some touching and delicate memorial of her esteem. But her
health had been undermined by the long vigils—the deep anxieties—the
corroding cares—the serious toils—and the frightful shocks, which had
characterised her existence in this accursed prison; and she died in the
arms of an affectionate female friend, who dwelt in her neighbourhood,
and whose bosom her misfortunes had deeply touched. This friend promised
to be a second mother to the poor children; and she has fulfilled her
word. Two respectable gentlemen accepted the guardianship of the
orphans, so far as their pecuniary interests are concerned; and those
orphans will be rich when they become of age,—for Walkden died a short
time ago, leaving them all his fortune. Poor Lucy sleeps in the same
grave with her husband; and thus ends my TALE OF SORROW."
The old man wiped away the tears from his eyes: and Frank Curtis was not
only deeply interested in the narrative which he had just heard, but
even affected by its lamentable details, on which he was about to make
some remark, when, happening to glance from the window, he espied the
captain on the parade staring about him in all possible directions.
Curtis therefore took leave of Mr. Prout, after thanking him for the
recital of the melancholy tale, and hastened to join his friend.
Captain O'Blunderbuss had no good news to relate. The officers in
possession in Baker Street had positively refused to allow Mrs. Curtis
to take any thing, beyond wearing apparel, away with her; and the
excellent lady had accordingly moved, with her two trunks and her five
children, to a lodging in Belvidere Place.
The captain had likewise been unsuccessful in his visit to Sir
Christopher Blunt. He had seen the knight, it is true; but neither
menaces nor coaxings had proved potent enough to induce that gentleman
to draw forth his purse or sign his autograph to a cheque.
"What the devil, then, must I do?" demanded Frank Curtis, shuddering as
he thought of the Poor-Side.
"Be Jasus! and go dacently and genteelly through the Insolvents' Court,"
exclaimed the captain; "and I'll skin the Commissioners alive if they
dar-r to turn you back, my frind!"
"I really think there is no other alternative left but to petition the
Court," observed Frank Curtis; "and therefore I'll make up my mind at
once to do so."
CHAPTER CIX.
THE PRISONERS.
We must leave Mr. Frank Curtis to adopt the necessary measures in order
to effect his emancipation from the Bench _viâ_ the Insolvents' Court,
and suppose that a month has passed since the period when the Blackamoor
consigned to his dungeons Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, Old Death, Mrs.
Bunce, her husband, and Tidmarsh.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Blackamoor, attended
by Cæsar, who bore a light, entered the subterranean passage containing
the doors of the cells in which the prisoners were separately retained.
Wilton followed, bearing a large basket; and two more of the Black's
retainers brought up the rear, one carrying a naked cutlass and the
other a pair of loaded pistols in their hands.
Opening the door of the first cell, the Blackamoor took the light from
Cæsar's hand, and stopping on the threshold, said, "Timothy Splint,
another sun has set, and the close of another day has come. Had you been
surrendered up to the justice of the criminal tribunals of your country,
you would ere this have ceased to exist: your guilt would have been
expiated on the scaffold."
"Oh! I would rather it had been _that_," exclaimed the man, in a tone
which carried to the hearts of his listeners a conviction of his
sincerity,—"I would rather it had been _that_, than this frightful
lingering in utter darkness! The light, sir, is as welcome to me as food
would be if I was starving," he added with profound emphasis.
"Are you afraid to be alone and in the dark?" enquired the Blackamoor.
"It is hell upon earth, sir!" cried Tim the Snammer. "What! can you ask
me whether I'm afraid, when the place is haunted with dreadful
spectres?"
"The spectres are created by your own guilty conscience," answered the
Black, mildly but solemnly: then, advancing farther into the dungeon, so
that the light fell upon the haggard countenance of the prisoner, he
said, "You see that there are no horrible apparitions now; and why
should they not remain here when you can enjoy the use of your eyes as
well as when you are involved in darkness?"
"That is what I say to myself—that is what I am always asking myself,"
exclaimed Timothy Splint. "And yet I can't help thinking that _he_ is
there—the murdered man, you know—with his throat so horribly cut——Oh!
yes—when I am alone and in the dark, I am sure he is there—just where
you are standing now. He never moves—he stands as still as death—and his
eyes glare upon me in the dark. It is dreadful—dreadful!"—and the
wretched criminal hid his face in his hands.
"Are you sorry, then, that you killed Sir Henry Courtenay?" asked the
Black.
"Sorry!" repeated Splint, in a thrilling—agonising tone. "I wish that I
could only live the last few months over again! I'd sooner beg—go to the
workhouse—break stones in the road—or even starve, than rob or do any
thing wrong again! Oh! I would indeed! For I see now that though a man
may only mean for to rob, he stands the chance of taking away life; and
it's a horrid—horrid thing to say to one's self, '_I am a murderer!_'
But it's more horrid still to see the dreadful spectre always standing
by one—quite plain, though in the dark—and never taking his cold eyes
off his assassin."
"If you had a light, Timothy Splint, you would no longer think of your
crimes," said the Blackamoor; "and then you would be ready to fall back
into your old courses, if you had your liberty given to you once more."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the man, his frame convulsed with a horrible
shudder. "I wish I had never known such courses at all: I wish I could
live over again during the whole period that I've been so wicked. I am
sure I should be a good man then—if so be I had all my experience to
teach me to be so. I never thought it was such a shocking thing to be
wicked till I came to be left alone in darkness—yes, all alone with my
frightful thoughts! I would sooner be put to death at once: but—but—" he
added, in a hesitating manner—"I haven't the courage to brain myself
against the wall, because the spectre of the murdered baronet seems to
stand by to prevent me."
"And have you, then, ever thought of suicide, since you first became a
prisoner here?" enquired the Blackamoor.
"Often and often, sir—very often," exclaimed Splint, emphatically.
"You never told me this before; and yet I have visited you regularly
every evening to bring you food and talk to you for a short time," said
the Blackamoor.
"But you never spoke to me so kindly as you do now, sir," cried the
criminal, earnestly; "and when a man has been upwards of thirty
days—yes, I have counted your visits, and this is the thirty-first,—when
a man, I say, has been thirty-one days all alone and in darkness, except
for a few minutes every evening, he begins to feel the want of hearing a
human voice—and when that voice speaks in a kind manner——"
Timothy Splint's tone had gradually become tremulous; and now he burst
into tears. Yes—the villain—the robber—the murderer wept; and those were
tears such as he had not shed for a long, long time!
When the river is ice-bound by the cold hand of winter it seems
unconscious of the presence of the flower thrown on its impenetrable
surface; but when thawed by the warm sun, and flowing naturally again,
the stream opens its bosom to receive the rose-bud which it caresses
with its sparkling ripples, and wafts gently along as if rejoiced at the
companionship. So was it with the heart of this man; and the slightest
word spoken in a kind manner was now borne on by the current of feelings
thawed from a state of dull and long-enduring obduracy.
"Your crimes are manifold and great," said the Blackamoor; "but there is
hope for even the vilest," he added, unable altogether to subdue a
profound sigh; "and contrition is all that remains for sinful mortals,
who cannot recall the past."
"I _am_ penitent, sir—I _am_ very penitent, I can assure you," exclaimed
the man, in a tone of deep emotion. "A few weeks ago I should have been
ashamed to utter such a thing; and now it does me good to say so.—And
I'll tell you something more, sir," he continued, after a moment's
hesitation; "though I suppose you will not believe me——"
"Speak frankly," said the Blackamoor.
"Well, sir—I have tried to recollect a prayer; and last night when I
repeated it, I thought that the spectre gradually grew less and less
plain to the view, and at all events seemed less horrible. I was praying
again when you came just now—and I shall pray presently—for I know that
there is some consolation in it."
"You do well to pray, Timothy," observed the Blackamoor. "Would you not
like to be able to read some book?"
"If I only had a candle and a Bible, sir," exclaimed the man, speaking
under the influence of feelings deeply excited but unquestionably
sincere, "I think I should even yet be happy in this dreadful dungeon."
"What makes you fancy that the Bible would render you happy?" enquired
the Black.
"Because I used to read it when I was a lad, and I remember that it
contains many good sayings," answered Splint. "Besides, it declares
somewhere that there is hope for sinners who repent; and I should like
to keep my eyes fixed at times upon God's own promise. I am sure that my
mind would be easier; for though I know that the promise _is_ given, yet
I feel a desire to repeat it over and over again to myself—and also to
learn whether God ever forgave any one who was so bad as I am."
"You shall have a light and a book," said the Blackamoor.
"Oh! you are jesting—you are deceiving me!" cried Splint. "But that
would be so cruel, sir, on your part——"
"I am not jesting—the subject is too serious to be treated lightly," was
the answer: then, making a sign to Wilton to step forward, he took from
the basket which that dependant carried, a lamp already trimmed and a
couple of books. "There is a volume of Tales—and there is the Bible," he
continued: "take whichever you prefer."
"The Bible, if you please, sir," cried Splint, eagerly, while his
countenance denoted the most unfeigned joy. "I know not how to thank you
enough for this kindness!"—and tears again started from his eyes.
"Had you chosen the Tales, you should not have had either book or
light," said the Black.
Wilton now gave the prisoner a plate containing bread and cold meat, and
a bottle of water, while Cæsar lighted his lamp; and the door was then
again closed upon him.
"That man is already a true penitent," whispered the Blackamoor to
Wilton. "Let us now visit his late companion in iniquity."
The party proceeded to the next cell, in which Joshua Pedler was
confined, the two armed dependants stationing themselves in such a
manner as to be visible to the inmate of the dungeon when the door was
opened.
"Thank God! you are come again," he cried, starting up from his bed the
moment the light flashed in upon him. "But why do you come with swords
and pistols in that fashion?" he demanded, savagely.
"In case you should offer any resistance," answered the Blackamoor. "I
do not choose to put chains upon you; and therefore I am compelled to
adopt every necessary precaution when I visit you in this manner."
"I really would not harm you, sir—I would not for the world," said
Pedler, in a milder tone. "You are not cruel—though severe; and I feel
very grateful to you for not giving me up to justice. I hope you are not
offended with me for speaking as I did: I try to be patient—I endeavour
to be mild and all that——"
"What is it, then, that irritates your temper?" enquired the Blackamoor.
"My own thoughts, sir," answered Josh Pedler, bitterly. "Just before I
heard the key grating in the lock, I was a thinking what a fool I have
been for so many years, and how happy I might be, perhaps, if I was a
labouring-man."
"You are sorry that you have been wicked?" observed the Black,
interrogatively.
"And so would any one be when he comes to be locked up here in the
dark," returned the man. "It is all very well when one is at liberty,
and has friends to talk to, and plenty of drink; because company and gin
_can_ prevent a body from thinking. But here—here—oh! it is quite
different; and my opinion is that a dark dungeon is a much worse
punishment than transportation—leastways, judging by all I've heard from
men which has been transported and has come home again when their time
was up."
"Would you rather be transported at once, then—or remain here?" enquired
the Blackamoor.
"I would sooner remain here, for several reasons," said Pedler. "In the
first place, I don't want to get into bad company again; because I'm
afraid I should go all wrong once more;—and, in the second place, I know
that the thoughts which I have are good for me, though they're not
pleasant."
"But if you could this minute join some of your old friends to drink and
smoke with them, would you not gladly do so?" asked the Black.
"I scarcely know how to answer you, sir," replied Pedler, musing. "I am
afraid I might—and yet I am very certain that I should be a fool for my
pains. I would sooner earn an honest living somehow or another: I should
like to have good thoughts——But that is impossible—impossible!" he
added, shaking his head gloomily.
"Why is it impossible?" demanded the Black.
"Because a man to have good thoughts, must do something that is good,"
was the prompt rejoinder; "and I have been a wicked fellow for so many
years. I wish I had been good; but it is too late now!"
"It is never too late to repent," said the Blackamoor.
"I know that the Bible promises that," observed Pedler; "but then people
would never believe that a rascal like me could become good for any
thing. Besides, after all that has happened, I don't hope for any
opportunity of showing that I feel how stupid I have been to lead such a
life as I have done. Who would trust me with any work? what honest
person would associate with me? It's no use questioning me, sir: you see
that even you yourself don't feel comfortable in visiting this place,
since you come with armed people."
"If you could obtain your liberty by killing me, would you not do it?"
asked the Black.
"As true as you are there, I would not harm a hair of your head!" cried
Josh Pedler, emphatically. "I shudder when I think of that dreadful
business down at the Cottage yonder—in fact, I can't bear to think of
it. I don't say that I am actually afraid at being in the dark; but
darkness causes terrible thoughts. It seems as if the mind had eyes, and
couldn't shut them against particular things;—and now that I have found
out this much, I should be a long time before I did a wrong deed again,
even if I was turned out into the midst of London this very minute
without a penny in my pocket."
"What would you do if you were set free this moment?" demanded the
Blackamoor. "At the same time, do not suppose that you are about to have
your liberty."
"I am not mad enough to fancy it possible," replied Josh Pedler. "But if
such a thing did happen, I would go to Matilda—the gal that I spoke to
you about, sir——"
"And who is now in a comfortable position," added the Black.
"Yes—thanks to your kindness," said the man; "and I should like you as
long as I lived, if it was only on account of what you have done for
her. But, as I was going to tell you—supposing I was set free, I would
take 'Tilda with me into the country—as far away from London as
possible; and then I'd change my name, and try to get work. Ah! I should
be happy," he continued, with a profound sigh, "if I could only earn
enough to keep us in a little hut. But don't make me talk in this way
any longer: I feel just—just as if I—I was going to cry."
The man's voice became faltering and tremulous as he uttered these last
words; and his lashes were moistened with tears.
"Should you feel pleasure in writing a letter to Matilda?" asked the
Blackamoor, in a kind tone.
"Yes—above all things!" eagerly cried the criminal. "I am no great
penman; but she could make out my scribbling, I dare say;—and it would
do me good to give her some proper advice—I mean, just to let her know
what my thoughts is at times. Besides, now that I'm separated from her,
I find that I liked her more—yes—a good deal more than I used to fancy I
did; and I should be glad to beg her forgiveness for what I made her do
when I was sick and in want."
"You shall have a light and writing-materials," observed the Black.
"You are a good man—I feel that you are, sir!" exclaimed Josh Pedler,
the tears now trickling down his cheeks. "If I had only fallen in with
such a person as yourself, when I was young, I shouldn't have turned out
as I did. But though people may never know that it is possible for a
fellow like me to alter, yet altered my mind _is_—and I don't look on
things as I used to do."
Wilton gave Josh Pedler a supply of food, a lamp, and writing-materials,
the dungeon already containing a table in addition to the other
necessary but plain and homely articles of furniture. The criminal was
overjoyed at the indulgence shown him on the occasion of this visit: and
he saw the door close upon him with feelings which seemed to have
experienced a great relief.
END OF VOL. I. OF THE SECOND SERIES.
PRINTED BY J. FAUTLEY, "BONNER HOUSE," SEACOAL LANE, LONDON.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Several entries in the Table of Illustrations are missing reference
page numbers, e.g. "For Woodcut on page 233 see page ___"
2. Added missing anchor for footnote on p. 71.
3. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
errors.
4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.