After some further conversation Bandy-legged Bill took his departure,
for by this time Mrs. Peace and Mrs. Thompson had come into the room
and put an end to the discussion.
On the following morning Mr. William Rawton took a return ticket to
the nearest station to the gaol in which Miss Stanbridge was confined;
before doing so he had deemed it advisable to make as elaborate a
toilette as circumstances would admit, and looked on this occasion
really respectable, and, in addition to this, he had determined upon
being guarded in his expressions, avoiding as much as possible any
cant sayings or slang expression. His grammar was a little faulty, it
must be admitted, but it was wonderful how he could pull himself
together, and assume an air of gentility when the occasion required
it.
He presented himself at the prison gates, and said he had come from
London to see his niece. He was admitted at once, although it was not
visiting day, but the chaplain had obtained permission from the
governor for No. 43 to see her relatives in the cell in which she was
confined, and Bill, or rather Mr. Bourne, as he called himself, was at
once conducted up some steps, then through corridor after corridor,
till cell 43 was reached.
As he came in sight of it he observed a clerical-looking gentleman
emerge from its entrance.
This personage was Mr. Leverall, who glanced at the gipsy.
“Uncle to the prisoner No. 43,” observed the warder, in answer to the
glance of inquiry given by the chaplain.
“Ah!” said the latter, “you are the young person’s uncle――are you?”
said the chaplain.
“Yes, sir,” returned the gipsy. “It’s been a sad shock to her
relatives, and has fallen upon me with terrible and overwhelming
force. I have come to know the rights of it, for we all of us find it
hard to believe.”
“I hope and trust――and, indeed, I may say I feel assured――that I have
awakened in the mind of your niece a sense of her position, which is,
indeed, a most distressing one. She has no friends or relatives in
this neighbourhood, I believe?”
“No, sir, not any. All her relatives reside in London.”
“You may think yourself greatly favoured in being permitted to visit
her in her cell. It is against the prison rules, but the governor has
kindly accorded you the privilege.”
“I am sure I don’t know how to sufficiently express my thanks,” said
the gipsy, with a look which would have imposed upon the most
sceptical.
Mr. Leverall passed on, and Rawton was conducted into the presence of
No. 43. As he was passing through the door he slipped half a sovereign
into the hand of the warder, who had been instructed to remain with
the door half open, in sight of the prisoner and her visitor――so that
while in this position he could not fail to hear the whole of the
conversation that passed between the two, but the piece of gold had a
magical effect; he withdrew out of earshot, and Bill and Miss
Stanbridge were enabled to converse without reserve.
“Oh, it’s you, Bill,” cried the latter; “why hasn’t Charlie come?”
“Could’nt――daren’t――that’s the reason. Well, I never expected to see a
niece of mine in this position!” he added, emphasising the word
“niece” emphatically.
“My dear uncle,” cried Laura, taking up the cue; “I hope you have not
come here to upbraid me.”
“Far from it; I am here to see what can be done for you, my darling,”
returned he, putting his arms round her neck and giving a loud smack
or two with his lips to make believe that he was kissing her. This
little ceremony over, he glanced through the chink in the door, and
saw that the warder had withdrawn to the further end of the corridor.
“All right,” he said to Laura――“he’s out of earshot. Now let’s to
business. Charlie can’t come, but I’m here instead――so fire away while
we’ve got the opportunity.”
“You must not say a word to anyone about this unfortunate business.”
The gipsy nodded.
“And, above all, nothing to Gatliffe or Purvis.”
Another nod.
“Go to my house and tell the girl that I am detained in the country,
and shall not return for a fortnight at the very least. I wish you
could manage to take charge of the house during my absence. That would
be a great relief to me.”
“Stop there?”
“Yes.”
“But I haven’t your authority, and they’d turn me out.”
“Ah, dear me, how powerless I am――how very powerless!” cried Laura, in
a tone of sadness; “I’m at his mercy――and he would not scruple to do
anything.”
“I’ll help you as far as lies in my power,” said Rawton; “that you may
depend upon.”
“Do, there’s a good creature; for I need help just now――and I know I
can rely upon you.”
The gipsy put five sovereigns into her hand, which she slid into the
pocket of her dress.
“That will be enough to go on with, I suppose?” observed he.
“Oh, yes, more than enough; where did you get them from?”
“Charlie.”
“Call at the house as often as you can, and see how matters are going
on there. I suppose Alf will see that all’s right. I hope so, but you
keep an eye upon the place and let me know if anything’s amiss.”
“I will――anything else?”
“I don’t know that there is.”
The gipsy leant forward and whispered into her ear, “I am your uncle,
and my name is Mr. Bourne. Remember that.”
Miss Stanbridge nodded.
“And Charles is Thompson――that’s understood.”
“If you once address him by the other name, he will be ruined. He bid
me charge you to remember that.”
“But I’m not likely to forget it.”
“But you’d better not write to him at all.”
“Has he said so?”
“Yes.”
“He has his reasons then――I will not do so.”
The conversation was continued for some time. Laura Stanbridge felt
very well assured that Charles Peace had some very strong motive for
concealment. Whether she suspected at this time the magnitude of his
crimes, or that he was liable at any moment to be arrested on the
charge of murder, it is not so easy to determine, but it was quite
clear that he had manifested no disposition to desert her since he had
sent down Rawton with remarkable promptness.
She had unbounded confidence in the discretion and faithfulness of the
gipsy, and this confidence it is needless to say was not misplaced.
[Sidenote: No. 61.]
[Illustration: AS HE ENTERED SHE SEEMED CONFUSED AND ATTEMPTED TO
RISE.]
During their interview she fully explained her position, and laid down
the line of action he was to follow. In short, she made him her
confidential friend and factotum, and after a long conference, much
longer than is usually accorded to prisoners, Bandy-legged Bill kissed
her hand affectionately, and passed out of the cell, the door of which
was immediately locked by the prison warder.
Bill put a handkerchief to his eyes and pretended to be deeply
affected, and apparently overwhelmed with grief he suffered himself to
be conducted in silence through the corridor of the prison.
He hastened back to Peace and made him acquainted with all that had
passed between himself and Laura Stanbridge.
“Umph!” ejaculated our hero; “it isn’t of any use mincing matters in
cases of this sort. I’m sorry for her and will do what I can to help
her, but it isn’t any reason because one person has tumbled into the
water that another should do the same thing in his endeavours to save
a friend. I can’t go and see her, and won’t.”
“She knows that, old man. She’s a sensible woman, and sees things in a
proper light. I will see her as often as she requires me, so that’s
enough――aint it? You can’t do her a morsel of good.”
“Of course I will serve her to the utmost of my power,” said Peace,
“but it must be done without my running any risk. I have got quite
enough to contend with here, and if the police are down upon me, or
have the slightest idea who I am, the game will be up, and I’m done
for. Do your best, Bill, and for mercy’s sake keep dark.”
“You’ve no call to be afeard as far as I am concerned,” replied the
gipsy. “I shall see her again, and see how she gets on; but, Lord, I
dare say she’ll be able to pull through. She wants me to keep an eye
upon her house――which of course I’m in duty bound to do. She aint got
altogether what you might call the best sort of people about her! Hang
it all, but she has been a fool!”
“A downright fool in this case, and no mistake; but it’s too late to
talk about that. She’s got herself into a scrape, and must get out of
it in the best way she can.”
“I intend to stand by her, come what may,” cried Bill, “and so don’t
you trouble yourself in the matter.”
“You are as good as gold――that’s what you are,” replied Peace.
Rawton remained for some time at Peace’s house, and took his departure
therefrom with many protestations of friendship towards Peace and the
unfortunate Laura Stanbridge.
CHAPTER CXVI.
THE YOUNG ENTHUSIAST――A WOMAN’S WILES.
Miss Stanbridge had set herself a task which required all the tact and
finesse she was mistress of to bring about a successful issue. She had
the cunning of the serpent, the patience of Job, and hoped to prevail
before the drama was played out; anyway, she made up her mind to have
a stout fight for it. She was duly impressed with the fact that it
would not do to be too precipitate; she must study the character of
the man whom she hoped to make her victim.
Two days passed without her being able to obtain any fresh insight
into the character of the gaol chaplain. He came in always at the same
time, and remained with her the same length of time. He was punctual
in his attendance, and equally so in his time of departure.
This was very systematic, but not by any means so satisfactory. He
appeared to be fulfilling a duty in a methodical manner; nothing more.
Laura watched his looks, his tones, his gestures; weighed them,
compared them, and analysed them, and could gain nothing from them
that could lead her to hope.
He was earnest in his discourse, was gentle and conciliating in his
manner; but then, she judged rightly enough that this was habitual to
him. He was so, she imagined, just the same to the other prisoners.
She could not flatter herself that he evinced any greater
consideration for her than the other inmates in the gaol.
This vexed her. She must have recourse to strategem, for the time was
passing, and she was no nearer the goal upon which she had set her
heart.
On the last day she listened to his words as well as his tones. They
were words of pity which she could not turn as a weapon against him.
She now began to fear that the look upon which she had built her
schemes had not been one of compassion for her beauty, but regret for
her sins, and that this was a soul too high above her for her arts to
pollute.
If this proved to be the case, she would be defeated in her purpose.
Up to this time she had studiously avoided speaking to him. She had
not looked at him openly, for thus she counted on exciting his
curiosity, but now she determined to use her voice, her eyes, and her
blandishments, and to cast forth the first of those silver cords with
which she hoped to enmesh his heart.
When he came to visit her at the accustomed hour, he found her upon
her knees cleaning the floor of her cell. Her snowy arms were white
and naked, her brown hair fell with dishevelled art upon her
shoulders, and over that voluptuous bosom which her dress did not
entirely conceal.
As he entered, she seemed confused and attempted to rise, looking at
him with eyes which appeared to languish, but which were really
piercing into the depths of his soul.
He glanced at her for a moment or so, and then turned away with
aversion, but without precipitation. He said that he would return when
he had visited another prisoner, and these words, so calm and cold,
crept like ice through her heart.
He had not evinced the slightest passion or hesitation, but was
perfectly calm and self-possessed.
She was vexed――she shuddered. This was not a man! He was either
supremely dense and unimpressionable, or else sublime as an angel.
In either case he was impregnable.
She heard him enter the cell adjoining her own, and hastily finishing
her task she adjusted her hair, and waited patiently until he had
concluded his ministrations to the other prisoner.
He remained with No. 42 exactly the same length of time that he had
accorded to her on the previous occasions. It was therefore clear that
he made no distinction between the other prisoners and herself.
Upon discovering this she was deeply mortified.
Consumed by bitter thoughts and anxieties, for the first time she
omitted to look at him or to even listen to his discourse. For the
first time she was deaf to his voice, or as blind to his face as she
had wished him to believe.
“Oh, you impenetrable creature!” she exclaimed, when she was again
alone. “Oh, you man without a passion! I will not rest till I have
found out a flaw in your armour――till I have learnt where I can wound
you. You must be human――you must be weak. I bide my time. I must and
will triumph.”
She dug her nails deep into her flesh, and gnawed her lips, to prevent
herself from shrieking aloud.
At the end of two hours, exhausted with rage, she sank back upon the
wooden seat, and wiped away the tears which fury had brought to her
eyes.
There was a clatter at the door; a trap flew open in the centre, and
presented a slide, on which was a bowl of gruel and a hunch of
bread――her supper.
At the same moment a stream of white flame burst up into the air and
flared and bubbled, making her cell light and cheerful.
She took her supper from the slide, ate it slowly, and replaced the
bowl upon the board. Half an hour afterwards the door again clattered
and the mug disappeared.
A great bell rang, and filled the whole building with its harsh and
monotonous tones.
At this signal she went to the corner of her cell, unrolled her bed,
and suspended if from wall to wall after the fashion which has been
described in one of our previous chapters. She undressed herself
slowly――being engaged in deep thought all the while. She lay down upon
the bed; her brow was still dark and disturbed. Suddenly it became
irradiated, and the prisoner sprang up in bed, and clapped her hands
together.
“Ah, how foolish I have been!” she ejaculated; “but now I understand.
How blind I have been! Ah! passionless man, I will conquer you yet. It
is my only chance――I will get him into my power!”
The gaslight died out of the leaden pipe; Laura Stanbridge sank back
in her bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her lips.
Anyone to have seen her thus would have said she was a young virgin
who was dreaming of her honeymoon.
On the following day the chaplain, at his customary hour, paid the
shoplifter another visit. He exhorted her to prayer and repentance,
and was more than usually earnest in his manner. She listened to him
this time, and affected to be deeply moved at the words he gave
utterance to. Having fulfilled his duties thus far, he rose to leave
the cell. He paused, and laid his hand on the lock. She took advantage
of this pause to speak. It was the first time he had heard this voice,
which was sweet, plaintive, and dangerous as the voices of the sirens
of old.
“Ah, sir,” said Laura Stanbridge, with a sigh, “you tell me to pray
for mercy and to repent of my sins.”
“I do,” he murmured.
“And yet you do not even ask me whether I am innocent or guilty?”
He paused for a moment, and looked intently in her face.
“Young woman,” he presently ejaculated, “I am not allowed to make
myself your confessor. I beseech you to address yourself to a higher
power, to Him who knows all our hearts, if you are innocent.”
“If, reverend sir,” exclaimed Laura, with an injured look, “I am so.”
“That is a question I must decline to discuss or offer an opinion on.
“If what you say is true, I hope and trust you will be able to prove
your innocence. Will you read a little of this while I am gone?” he
added, and he placed a pocket Bible between her passive hands.
She did not answer.
“I will leave it with you,” he murmured.
She nodded her head mechanically.
He went silently and almost sadly from the cell. Then she rose and
walked slowly to and fro, with her beautiful but treacherous head upon
her breast.
She repeated these words several times――
“I am not allowed to make myself your confessor.”
In spite of the mild tone in which they had been pronounced, her eyes,
which lost nothing, had detected a momentary contraction of the
eye-brows.
At length she solved the enigma. Her chaplain had thought of the Roman
Catholics as he spoke. Of this she felt convinced. He had therefore a
prejudice against them.
“Good!” she murmured, “I have discovered that you have a prejudice,
and each prejudice in a man’s mind is a crevice in his armour. It will
suit me very well to attack him on his weakest side, and it will go
hard with me if I do not in the end succeed in my purpose.”
When we signified that William Leverall was neither a fanatic nor a
bigot, an exception should have been made in respect to one point――he
did hold the profession of the Catholic faith in utter abhorrence. It
is not possible to find any one man faultless. High-minded and
virtuous as was Mr. Leverall in almost every way, he was nevertheless
intolerant in this respect, and yet it appears strange that this young
man, who had so often emptied his needy purse, who had passed so many
sleepless nights, after witnessing a spectacle of human misery or
human sin――that this man, who was really devout, should dislike men
who were perhaps as devout as himself, and who tried to win souls as
even he himself strove to do.
A bitter and poisonous hatred to Popery had been instilled into his
heart by ignorant and prejudiced tutors, and by the controversial
books and newspapers which they had placed in his hands. It was the
one blemish on his white robe.
When he came the next day he found No. 43 with the sacred volume in
her hands, and her eyes filled with an ardent gaze.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, as she rose, her bosom heaving and her face
stirring with emotion. “Oh, sir, you have saved me. I began to read
this book, not because you asked me, but because I was dull; but soon
the words began to steal into my heart. I read on and on, unable to
withdraw my eyes away. When the light was put out I screamed. In the
horrible darkness and silence of the night I heard whispers all around
me, and sounds like the rustling of wings in the air, and the words
which I had read I read again in strokes of fire on the wall.
“I awoke in the morning with a burning head, and a cold shivering in
all my limbs. Again I opened the book, almost fearing to read, and yet
unable to resist the strange fascination which it exercised over me.
Accept my most heartfelt thanks――you have saved me!”
She burst into tears as she spoke, and uttered words which were
stifled with sobs; but all the while she was watching him like a lynx.
She saw his hands clasp and his lips flutter for an instant; she
understood that he believed in her sincerity, and gave a smile behind
her hands――so cold, so sardonic, that it would have served as an
offering to the demon who inspired her.
He stayed with her for a longer period than his usual wont. In that
time he discovered that she possessed the power of diving through the
dead and inanimate letter, and revealing the pearls of the spirit
which were beyond the reach of common understandings.
In fact, she was a wonderful woman, for in two hours she taught him
not only a lesson in theology, but she had completely studied his
character and was learning it by heart.
“Ah,” murmured Laura Stanbridge to herself after he had departed, “he
is the most virtuous man I ever met with. But so much the better;
virtue is simplicity, simplicity leads to concession, concession to
vice. That is why many good women fall and are scouted as ruiners, and
why artful women, shielding themselves with prudence――the only useful
virtue――are respected as moral members of society.”
As she lay in her bed that night, she murmured to herself in a state
of satisfaction and full confidence in her diabolical machinations――
“He has two flaws in his armour――the one is ambition――laudable in its
way――but in all ambitions there is a stamp of the cloven foot. The
other is a blind and senseless bigotry upon a certain point. Through
one of these I will stab him in the head, and through the other in the
heart.”
For five days she allowed him to visit her without taking any fresh
steps.
Precipitation would be her ruin, and she was too wary to risk taking
any false step.
During the succeeding five days she coiled herself slowly and silently
round the poor sleeping victim; soon he would be quite encircled in
those horrible folds which embraced before they killed.
During those five days she matured her observations of the intricacies
of his character, and obtained a certain mastery over him by her
prodigious penetration into the meaning of the sacred writings, and by
her eloquent and exalted language.
These he ascribed to divine inspiration instead of the human
intelligence.
There are men so superstitious upon the problem of faith and
inspiration, that they are unable to see things in a practical light.
Without knowing it he already venerated her, for in acuteness and
powers of perception she was more than a match for him; and he never
for a moment suspected that she was playing a part with one special
object.
This gained, she would relapse again into the unscrupulous and sinful
woman she had been all through her life.
The warders congratulated him upon the good effects of his
ministrations.
“No. 43 was quite a different person now from what she used to be,”
said one of them to Laura Stanbridge’s pastor.
“I believe and hope she is,” observed Mr. Leverall.
“Oh, dear me yes, sir,” cried the woman, “quite different. When she
first came here she’d howl to herself when she thought no one was by,
and answer us so surly when any one of us spoke to her, it made a body
loathe to go anear her. But now it is quite different. When we go in
she’s meek and mild, and is always a reading a good book, and she
speaks so beautiful, makes use of such soft and loving expressions
that it does one’s heart good to listen to her, poor soul! I do hope
she’ll get through the bit of trouble she’s got into.”
The chaplain’s countenance was indicative of the pleasure he felt at
listening to the foregoing observations.
“She is in an excellent frame of mind, and feels her position most
acutely, I am sure of that,” said he.
“She does, poor dear, and everyone is sorry for her,” cried the
canting old crone, who, as the reader may suppose, had been well
bribed by the prisoner in cell No. 43.
Miss Stanbridge had been playing her cards pretty well, all things
considered. Bribes would not do with the prison chaplain, but she held
him in bondage by other means.
Of this she was perfectly convinced, and the sequel proved that she
was not far out in her reckoning.
She began to reflect upon her projects, which were still vague and
unsettled.
At present they were like dark shadows, which passed backwards and
forwards, but which she could not grasp or connect.
She possessed, or supposed she did so, a key to liberty, but she was
wandering in the dark, for she had not yet found the door.
She resolved to make him tell her his history. Thus she might obtain a
clue to the labyrinth in which she was lost. Thus she might find a
fulcrum, without which the most powerful lever is useless.
William Leverall was by this time fairly in the toils of the huntress,
albeit she did not realise this herself; but he was so, without
perhaps knowing it.
She had so wrought upon him that when he left the cell he could not
dismiss her from his thoughts. To say he was in love would be making
use of too strong a term; he was fascinated, even as people are said
to be fascinated by the piercing eye of the serpent.
His eyes were dull and reddened through want of sleep when he again
approached the cell in which Laura Stanbridge was confined.
He had of late visited her several times in the day, and whenever he
came he found her always reading.
On this occasion he opened the door softly. She pretended not to hear
him.
He gazed upon her with a feeling that almost amounted to veneration.
Her pale face and her eyes glowing ardently made her resemble a virgin
saint at her devotions.
He was touched, and his countenance was expressive of pity, which, to
say the truth, was the index of his thoughts.
He grew more sad when he remembered that, perhaps, in a few weeks she
might have to wear a felon’s dress and endure a felon’s doom.
This thought made him shudder. He fancied that he saw her striving to
soar above the shame and ignominy――saw her dragged back into the abyss
by the base drudgeries and foul companionship of infamous and base
women.
“Oh!” he murmured, “how is it possible to avoid the law? How can she
be rescued from her impending doom?”
He remained silent and motionless, still gazing at her sorrowfully.
She divined his thoughts, and her black heart leapt with joy. When he
spoke to her she gave a faint scream, and said, apologetically――
“Oh! sir, pardon me; I did not know you were here.”
She showed him what she had been reading, and described her feelings
with that perfidious eloquence which was one of her chief weapons.
Then she asked him to relate to her his life.
He sat down by her side with his eyes bent on the ground. She was
delighted, but did not attempt to give expression to the joy she felt.
Then calmly and in soft low voice he entered upon his history.
He told her all about his college life, his three years at the
university, his missionary prospects, his interview with his relative,
and his appointment as chaplain to the prison.
He spoke to her of his mother and sister, whom he loved so warmly.
And he laid bare his warm and enthusiastic heart, into which she
probed with cold and ingenious calculations.
When he had ended he found her silent and thoughtful, looking vacantly
on the ground; he believed that she was buried in a reverie.
But this was not so. She was attempting in these few moments to mould
her scheme into a form which could not fail. She threw out a sentence
in order that she might feel her way. She watched him keenly as she
spoke.
“How long have you been here, then?” she inquired, carelessly.
“Two years,” he answered, with a sigh.
“Two years of prison life――of earnest ministrations! Oh! sir, how many
hearts have you moved by your eloquence? Had I not met you, I might
have been lost. You so good, so noble――”
“Hush, do not indulge in laudation,” he said, interrupting her.
“But I must when I speak of you,” said she, leaning her head forward
till her cheek almost touched his. “Without you my life here would
have been insupportable, and the future,” she added, with bitterness,
and bursting into tears――“I dread to think of the future.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated; “that is a sad reflection.”
“Oh, sir,” she said, in a tone which seemed to find its way to his
heart, “what a terrible position I am in! I behold exposure, ignominy,
and disgrace before me. My poor mother will break her heart when she
learns what I am charged with.”
“Does she not know it already?” he inquired, in some surprise.
“No――oh, dear, no! My uncle thought it best to keep it from her. It
may be that the charge against me will not be substantiated, and in
that case she will be spared the infliction of knowing her daughter
has been an inmate of a prison. I cannot tell you――words are
altogether inadequate to express the miserable state of hopeless
despair I am in. Think of a respectable family being disgraced――think
of the odium and obloquy that must necessarily fall upon me even under
the most favourable circumstances. I have not before spoken of my own
deep, deep sorrow――my abject despair. I have not pained you by a
recital of all my agonising thoughts, because I thought it selfish to
do so; but oh, sir, you behold in me one of the most wretched and
miserable creatures you have ever met with. At night I think of these
things――by day I strive by prayer and penitence to cast aside the
heavy shadow which has fallen over me. I ask for mercy――I pray to be
relieved from this miserable thraldom.”
She ceased suddenly and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
He bent over her and with soft words tried to assuage her grief, which
was painful to behold.
“You must not give way to despair. Bear up against the deep affliction
which has fallen upon you,” he murmured. “Cheer up――brighter days are
in store for you, let us hope.”
“For me there is no hope.”
“You must not say that. Hope never deserts us, however sorely we may
be tried. It never deserts the truly repentant sinner――you do not need
to be told that.”
“Oh, I am supremely miserable,” she ejaculated. “If it were possible
for me to return to society without disgrace and exposure I would for
the rest of my life devote myself to the service of my fellow-creatures.
But――――”
“But what?” he inquired.
“I fear it is not possible. Can you see any way?”
This was a home thrust, and the chaplain hardly knew what reply to
make.
“I am sure you would lead an exemplary life――I hope so――if you
obtained your release.”
“I would――I swear it!” she exclaimed, with sudden warmth and energy.
“I will swear it on this sacred book.”
She laid her hands on a volume which was on the table before her.
“All this is very sad and painful,” he murmured. “You are respectably
connected, without doubt.”
“Dear me, yes. Some day I hope to introduce you to my relations.”
“There will be time enough to think of that hereafter.”
“Ah, hereafter――you are right. It is the present, the miserable,
hopeless present, I have to consider; and when I think of that I grow
sick at heart. Tell me what I am to do――you are so good, so pure, and
high-minded.”
She looked up into his face, and saw that he was deeply moved.
“Forgive me troubling you about my wordly affairs. I feel that I am
inflicting pain upon you. Pardon, pardon me.”
She drew her hand across her eyes, and again regarded him with a
glance which was at once supplicating, caressing, and voluptuous.
He quailed before the glance.
“Tell me――tell me what I am to do,” said she, placing her hand upon
his shoulder.
A beautiful woman in distress might well move the most obdurate heart,
the most unimpressionable of the opposite sex to her own.
Mr. Leverall felt a strange thrill pass through his frame. It was the
first time the prisoner had been so demonstrative. His pulse quickened
as he felt her soft, pliant hand upon his shoulder.
She was not slow to perceive the effect of her wiles. As a cat with
slow, noiseless and stealthy steps approaches her prey, so did Laura
Stanbridge approach her victim.
She poured forth another piteous and eloquent appeal, and as she did
so drew closer to him.
“My guide――my counsellor――my kind and gentle monitor! tell me what I
am to do,” said she. “You, who are so wise, have such wondrous powers
of perception and penetration, are so well adapted to save and succour
one who is at the present moment surrounded with difficulties which
appear to be insurmountable.”
“I have already given you the best advice I could offer,” said he, not
daring to turn his head and look at the upturned beseeching face of
the siren by his side.
“You have caused me solace which can never be forgotten,” she
exclaimed, with something like rapture in her tone and manner.
She rested her head on his shoulder, pressing him fondly with her hand
on the other.
He did not attempt to withdraw from her embrace. He placed his arm
round her waist and drew her towards him.
Their lips met, and being now no longer master of himself, he had one
long lingering embrace, which, if the truth must be told, was neither
parental nor fraternal.
“He is mine,” murmured the charmer, to herself. “He is in my toils,
and soon, very soon, I shall be able to mould him at my will.”
It was true enough the chaplain was fascinated with the seductive
being by his side. He forgot to administer his habitual moral
discourse――he forgot all but one thing, this being that he had an
alluring and fascinating woman by his side――and he drank deep of his
first draught of illicit love.
She had worked unceasingly to bring about the present issue, and she
had succeeded far beyond her expectations. The fortress she had been
endeavouring to reach for so long a time fell into her hands as
suddenly as unexpected.
A smile of triumph sat upon her features, for she felt that the battle
was nearly won. She felt assured also that very shortly she should be
able to gain her liberty; nevertheless she could not conceal from
herself that much remained to be done.
Mr. Bourne, her uncle, had paid her another visit. He had brought her
a second supply of money, which had been sent by Charles Peace.
Laura Stanbridge had bribed the female warders in charge of her so
liberally that they were quite astounded at her munificence.
In prisons, workhouses, and other public institutions, money works
wonders. It is useful enough, we all of us will readily admit,
everywhere and under all circumstances, but without it the prisoner
can do little or nothing――with it he or she can do a great deal.
The female warders were in the pay of Laura Stanbridge.
She persuaded them that she was highly connected, that some of her
relations belonged to the upper ten, and they believed her. Small
wonder at that, seeing that in appearance she was far above those
females they were accustomed to have under their charge, and in
addition to this she appeared to have ample means furnished her from
those of her relations and outside the walls of the prison.
The chaplain’s visit on this occasion was one unusually long――indeed,
there is no telling how long it would have been had it not been rudely
interrupted.
While seated by the side of his enchantress the alarm bell of the
prison was suddenly rung.
This was followed by the shuffling of feet along the corridor, the
sounds of many voices, as of people who were conversing hurriedly.
Mr. Leverall judged rightly enough that something unusual had occurred
in the gaol.
“My dear Laura,” he exclaimed (he had already learned to call her by
her Christian name), “there must be some strong reason for all this
commotion; I must, therefore, leave you now.”
“You are going,” cried the prisoner, pouting. “Well, I will not seek
to detain you.”
The door was suddenly opened, and a male warder thrust his head in.
He was evidently in a state of alarm, and said――
“Oh, your pardon, sir, but the governor wishes you to attend a patient
in the infirmary.”
“What is the matter, Martin?” inquired the chaplain.
“A prisoner has attempted to escape, and is dreadfully injured. The
governor thought you had better see him.”
“Oh, certainly, by all means I will do so,” observed the chaplain, who
at once left the cell with the prison official.
CHAPTER CXVII.
THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE――MURDOCK, THE SMUGGLER.
When Mr. Leverall reached the infirmary he approached the bedside of
one of the patients to whom his attention had been directed by the
surgeon.
The man appeared to be almost in a state of collapse.
“Is he in immediate danger?” said the chaplain to the doctor.
“I think not, but his injuries are very serious. He has sustained a
compound fracture of the leg, two broken ribs, besides other
casualties consequent upon his falling from a high wall on to the
stone flags of the yard.”
“How very terrible! It’s that man Murdock, I see.”
“Yes, the smuggler, as he is termed. A most determined, incorrigible
ruffian.”
Mr. Leverell made no reply to this last speech, but approached the
bedside of the sufferer.
“I am sorry to see you in this position, No. 59,” observed the
chaplain, “very sorry.”
“Ugh,” groaned the man, “I wish I’d escaped or else have been killed
outright. Oh――oh,” here he writhed with pain.
“You must bear up against this new misfortune, and have the grace of
patience,” said the chaplain.
“I aint got any patience left. It’s all gone long ago, and I don’t
want any of your palaver.”
“You must not talk like that. Let me read a little to you.”
“No, I won’t be read to――I don’t like it. Leave me to myself.”
“But I must beg of you to listen to my discourse. It is useless your
being obstinate or refractory.”
“Get away, and leave me alone,” cried the man in a voice which was
something like the roar of a wild beast.
The chaplain began to read after a few further observations, and the
man hallooed and shouted like a maniac.
Nevertheless the chaplain persevered, although not a word he was
uttering reached the ears of the wretched man.
At this moment the governor came in. He was a tall handsome man, of
about fifty-five, with a military stride, and a military voice. He
was, in fact, a retired officer in her Majesty’s service.
He glanced at the sufferer, who was writhing and making hideous
grimaces.
“I am afraid you’ll not be able to do much with him――not at present,
at any rate,” observed the governor, addressing himself to the
chaplain; “still I thought it my duty to communicate with you.”
Mr. Leverall bowed to the governor, who glanced at the doctor; then
the three gentlemen withdrew into a corner of the room, and conversed
in whispers.
“He’s of a most excitable temperament, and as to making any impression
on him I frankly own that I believe that to be quite hopeless. Under
all the circumstances of the case, he had, I think, better be left to
himself. His wounds are dressed, the broken bones are set, as well as
we could do them, and in the course of an hour or so I shall prescribe
an opiate.”
The governor nodded; the surgeon was a special favourite of his.
“In that case I shall not attempt to address any further conversation
to him,” observed Mr. Leverall, pocketing his book, and accompanying
the governor out of the ward.
“I am glad he’s taken his hook――jolly glad,” said the smuggler,
following with his eyes the receding figures of the governor and the
chaplain.
Desperately injured as the man was, and dangerous as were his wounds,
these were as nothing in comparison to the madness of his despair at
being thwarted in his attempt at escape.
Mat Murdock was a villain of the most pronounced and desperate type.
He had for many years of his life been a seafaring man, first as a
smuggler, then as a pirate, while at other times he had been in the
merchant service.
He had been convicted upon various charges, and had been sentenced to
short terms of imprisonment both at home and abroad, and at one time
he was the chief of as lawless a set of desperadoes as ever trod on
land or sailed in salt water.
At length, however, the law proved too strong for him. He was tried
upon the charge of murder and piracy on the high seas. The first
charge, however, was reduced to manslaughter, and Mat Murdock was
sentenced to penal servitude for life.
He was sent to Dartmoor, and while there he made two attempts to
escape. He was such a trouble to the authorities there that they were
glad to get rid of him, and an order was therefore sent for his
removal.
It was understood that his ultimate destination would be either
Portland or Spike Island, but for the time being he was lodged in the
same gaol in which Laura Stanbridge was incarcerated.
While here he meditated and matured another plan of escape. He
succeeded in removing the bars of his cell, crept through the
aperture, and dropped on to the wall which enclosed one of the yards,
then began to creep along this in the hopes of arriving at the outer
wall, from whence he hoped to drop into the street, but, much to his
chagrin, he found himself baffled.
He could not keep his equilibrium, the reason for this being that in
one of his attempts to escape from Dartmoor he had been fired upon by
the sentry on duty, and had received a bullet in his right hip.
The bullet was extracted and the wound healed up, but it left Murdock
partially a cripple. He could not rely upon or make good use of his
right leg for ever afterwards; the consequence was, when he was on the
wall, its weakness became painfully manifest.
The miserable man was almost powerless; he tottered, swayed to and fro
for a moment, then closed his eyes and fell.
When discovered by the prison officials he was senseless.
He was carried into the operating room, where a consultation took
place, and the doctors in attendance did the best they could for him
under the circumstance, and after this Murdock was placed in the
infirmary.
Under the influence of morphia the smuggler was passive and peaceable
enough, but the moment the effects of that drug passed away he began
howling and screaming like a wild beast.
The bitter mortification he felt at the unsuccessful nature of his
last attempt to escape was too much for him.
It drove him frantic, and during the night the manifestation of his
rage was so terrible that the patients in the same ward with him could
get very little sleep.
On the following day, when the doctor paid his accustomed visit, they
one and all complained of the noise made by Murdock.
The wardsman and night nurses corroborated their statement, and the
consequence of all this was that the wounded smuggler was transferred
to a small room at another part of the prison.
Ill or well, Mat Murdock was a difficult customer to deal with, and
not one of the few professional nurses who were in attendance on the
prisoners seemed disposed to volunteer their services to wait on the
smuggler.
But as we have indicated in a previous chapter, it is a common thing
for the prisoners themselves to be appointed as nurses to the sick,
and so, after some little discussion, a young man named Walter
Knoulton volunteered his services as attendant on Murdock.
There was some reason for this. Knoulton and the smuggler had been on
friendly terms ever since they made each other’s acquaintance in the
gaol where they were both confined.
They had worked side by side in the same shop at mat making, and
Murdock had spun many a yarn to the younger prisoner.
Seeing and knowing all this, the officials one and all agreed that no
person was better adapted to the task than Knoulton, who was generally
acknowledged to be an excellent nurse.
In addition to this he was a young man of rather a superior class. He
was well educated, had moved in respectable society, and was generally
liked by all who knew him.
Prior to his conviction he held a good appointment in a mercantile
house in one of our provincial towns, and was greatly esteemed by his
employers, who, it was said, allowed him too much latitude.
His downfall was brought about by a concurrence of circumstances. He
began by betting, then he indulged in a plurality of mistresses,
besides other little foibles, which it is perhaps needless to mention.
The end of it was that to bridge over a difficulty, he made use of his
employers’ money.
The first time he escaped discovery, as he made up the deficiency just
in the nick of time, but he had recourse to the same desperate
alternative several times afterwards, and the result was that his
defalcations were discovered, and he was given into custody.
He was convicted upon the charge of embezzling, but his prosecutors
strongly recommended him to mercy. It was thought that he would have a
mere nominal sentence――a few days’ imprisonment perhaps――but he had
the misfortune of being tried before a severe judge, who never, under
any circumstances, gave less than six months’ imprisonment; so six
months’ young Knoulton had, and hence his becoming a fellow-prisoner
with Murdock, the smuggler.
It would be difficult for me to attempt to convey to the reader the
bold and fearless nature of this man, who, like a caged tiger, was for
ever clawing at the bars of his cage. Nothing appeared to intimidate
him. After his attempt to escape at Dartmoor he had for several months
been forced to work at the quarries in chains weighing some thirty
pounds, or more. Every vigilance had been exercised by his guards to
prevent the possibility of his flight, and yet the idea of escape
haunted his imagination, and became a never-dying, never-yielding
monomania.
The thought of regaining his liberty seemed to be the one acting
principle of his life. He used to observe to his companions in crime
that he would much prefer being executed than having to endure a
life-long imprisonment.
Whether this was merely said out of bravado or not we cannot
determine, but one fact is quite clear――of all the prisoners in this
gaol and others he had been drafted to, he was the most restless and
discontented――he of all men else pined most for liberty.
When young Knoulton entered the apartment occupied by the sick man,
Murdock gave a grunt of satisfaction, but he said nothing at first
beyond that momentary expression.
“Poor chap, he does look bad, though,” murmured the commercial, if we
may so term him――“very bad.”
There was a silence for some time.
Knoulton sat himself down at a side table and began to read. He and
the other convicts, who were elected to similar offices to himself,
were permitted to have what books they chose from the prison library.
This was, of course, a great boon to them.
He read on for half an hour or so, being under the impression that the
patient had sunk into a peaceful slumber; but this was not so.
Murdock even at that hour was meditating how he might at some future
time effect the object, the thought of which had occupied his
undivided attention for so many long and wearisome years.
He knew that young Knoulton was in the room, and he judged, or rather
hoped, he had been appointed nurse. This hope he fancied would be
delusive if he made any inquiry.
He, therefore, chose for the nonce to maintain a moody silence. He
wouldn’t be first to speak――not he; he didn’t care for any man. He had
been befooled and baffled; the world was against him, and he was
against the world. These were his first fugitive thoughts upon
Knoulton’s first half hour or so in the apartment.
The door opened, and the governor entered.
He walked to the bedside of the patient and looked at him for a moment
or so, then apparently satisfied with his inspection he said in a kind
tone――
“I hope you like your new quarters, No. 95? They are much more
comfortable, I think, than the infirmary.”
The convict nodded.
“Ah, that’s well,” observed the governor in a cheery tone. “Is there
anything you want? If so, tell me what it is.”
“Want?” repeated Murdock.
“Yes. Can we do anything for you?”
“Can you? Yes!”
“What is it?”
“Give me my liberty!” shrieked the smuggler.
The governor started back.
“You ask impossibilities,” said he; “be reasonable. At the present
moment your life is in peril. Be patient, No. 95; you are not out of
danger for the present, and excitement may prove fatal. Be patient and
resigned, and hope for the best.”
“Hope! Ugh, that has long since deserted me. I want my liberty.”
The governor said no more, but turned away and slowly left the
apartment.
“He is incorrigible, and almost unmanageable,” he whispered to the
doctor. “I never met with such an obstinate man in all my experience.”
The doctor nodded significantly, but made no reply to this last
speech.
In a few minutes after this, Mat Murdock was left in the charge of
Knoulton.
The latter did not seem inclined to force the conversation. He knew
the irritable nature of the patient, and therefore deemed it advisable
to leave him to his own reflections, which were, to say the truth,
bitter enough.
The smuggler tossed about in his bed, groaned, and ground his teeth,
but his nurse took no notice of all this; he was well used to scenes
of this nature, and was, moreover, well versed in the treatment of
such persons.
Presently Murdock glanced towards him, and said in a more subdued
tone――
“Have they placed you here to attend upon me?”
“Yes,” answered Knoulton; “I am your nurse. Does that satisfy you?”
“I’d rather have you than anyone else. Give me your hand.”
Knoulton put down his book, and went to the bedside of the injured
man, who grasped and shook his hand gratefully.
“Ah! Walter, old chap, I’m pretty well done for. Haven’t much life
left in me. But I’m thankful that they’ve allowed ye to be by my side,
’cause, ye see, we’ve always been friends since we first met――always!”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Knoulton.
“Ay, but we have, there’s no gainsaying that――good friends and true.
Oh, but it was a narrow squeak after all. If it had not been for my
game leg, as deserted me when I most needed its service, I should by
this time――long ere this――have been outside these accursed walls. Bad
luck to the sodger who fired upon me at Dartmoor, may he be ――――!” He
uttered an impious oath.
“Silence! you must not talk like that. It’s no use bearing malice
against one who only did an act of duty.”
“I wish he had been throttled afore he fired on me. Had it not been
for that all would have gone well.”
“You really must endeavour to be as calm as possible. Do not excite
yourself.”
“Not excite myself!”
“No, certainly not; that is if you wish to recover.”
“Just Providence, think what I have suffered,” cried the pirate. “Nine
long long years of misery, and now two months of cherished hopes are
crushed in a moment. Shattered, maimed and almost done to death, here
I am at the mercy of my gaolers, and the hope of liberty still further
from me. Merciful heaven, but its terrible――horrible.”
He writhed and moaned in bitter anguish.
“Be patient, Murdock; be contented with your lot.”
“Contented!” he ejaculated, bursting out into a mocking harsh horrible
laugh.
“Why are you so desirous of gaining your liberty?”
“Why? Oh, you know not what it is to endure the horrible drudgery of
nine years’ penal servitude. If you had, you would not ask such a
question.”
“Well, perhaps not. Yours is a hard lot, and has been for so――――”
“For nine long, miserable years.”
“But of what use is liberty to you now? You are old, Murdock. The best
and brightest of your days have passed.”
“True, I am old; there’s no denying that. You are right――I am old.”
“Past fifty, I suppose?”
“Nearly sixty.”
“Well, then, supposing you gained your liberty, what would you do to
obtain a living? You are getting past work.”
“I’m not past work as yet,” returned the pirate, savagely, “though I
am not the man I was; but I can turn my hand to a thing or two still.”
“That may be; still you would have a precarious sort of existence. As
I said before, the best of your days are over, and you might starve.”
The captive smiled.
“Should I?” he ejaculated. “I know better than that.”
“I hope you would not. Still, after your long imprisonment, you would
find the outside world strangely altered. Many of your friends are
doubtless dead. Others may be in distant parts, and you would,
therefore, be thrown upon your own resources. I am afraid, Murdock,
you have not duly considered all these things.”
“I tell you I have considered all you mention, and more too――a good
deal more. Starve――eh?”
An almost disdainful sneer of triumph curled his lip as he said――
“I am richer than you or any one supposes.”
It was now Knoulton’s turn to start.
“Richer!” he ejaculated.
The pirate nodded.
“Aye, lad,” he murmured. “Riches if I could only get outside these
walls――if I could only regain my liberty. Ugh!”
“I don’t know what to make of you, and that is the truth,” said the
young man. “You are a puzzle to everybody. You rich?”
“Certainly, if I could escape I should be so.”
“You are indeed most fortunate.”
This was said with a degree of bitter irony, which, while it conveyed
a doubt of the truth of the assertion, told how highly Knoulton
esteemed the gifts of fortune.
[Sidenote: No. 62.]
[Illustration: MURDOCK, THE PIRATE, DRAWING A CHART OF THE WHEREABOUTS
OF THE HIDDEN TREASURE.]
“Would you like to be rich, Walter?” inquired the pirate.
“I should be telling a falsehood if I said the contrary. Do you take
me for a fool that you endeavour to deceive me?”
“Belay there,” cried Murdock――“hold on a bit, lad. I aint romancing,
talking wildly, when I say I can make your fortune. What think you of
that?”
“I don’t know what to think. It appears to be incredible, but still I
am bound to believe what you say, seeing that you can have no motive
in declaring that which is untrue. So let it pass. Wait till you are
better――till you have recovered. It will be some time before that
comes to pass.”
“I say I can make your fortune, and you take no heed of my words or
warning.”
“I do take heed. You would carry out some robbery in which you would
have me join. I think I understand.”
The pirate shook his head.
“No yer don’t,” cried he. “If you will assist me to make my escape,
we’ll succeed the next time. If you will do that you shall be rich,
for I will give you half I have.”
Walter Knoulton was under the impression at this time that the pirate
was light-headed, and he therefore did not take much notice of the
declaration he had made.
He deemed it advisable, however, to humour him, for experience had
taught him that it was never at any time advisable to contradict
patients in the condition Murdock was in at that time.
“You are in earnest――I know that,” said he; “and I am quite sure you
would keep your word as far as your promise to me is concerned.”
“But you don’t believe me, for all that,” observed the sick man.
“Yes, I do――indeed, I do.”
“You merely say that to humour me. Your manner belies your words.”
“I tell you I do.”
“Good, then――that being so we shall be able to understand each other,
and I will take you into my confidence, for I believe I can trust
you.”
The conversation was suddenly brought to a close by the entrance of
the prison chaplain.
CHAPTER CXVIII.
THE INJURED MAN AND HIS ATTENDANT――A PIRATE’S YARN.
Gentle in his manner and soft in speech, the chaplain approached the
bedside of the wounded smuggler.
“I hope and trust, Murdock, that you are more disposed now to hearken
to my counsel. Remember you are at the present time in imminent
danger, and there is no telling what may be the result of the terrible
injuries you have received. There is no telling how soon you may be
called away by a power which is omnipotent. Let me conjure of you to
make some amends for the past by a sincere repentance. Remember――――”
“I don’t want to be preached to,” interrupted the hardened criminal;
“all I want is to be left alone.”
“But it is my duty to endeavour by every means in my power to bring
you to a right way of thinking, and I should be sadly unmindful of my
sacred mission if I neglected you at this time. I must therefore beg
of you to hear me.”
“I don’t want to hear you. I am nearly mad with pain and driven half
crazy when I think of being cheated of my liberty. I am done this
time, and if I am to slip my moorings, the sooner I do so the better.
There, that will do――I don’t want any palaver. You can’t make matters
any better.”
“But I hope and trust I can,” returned Mr. Leverall. “Nay, I will
venture to assert that I am sure I can if you will be a little
reasonable. Come, Murdock, you must not, you will not turn a deaf ear
to one who is prompted by the purest and best of motives in striving,
as best he can, to soften your heart and make you comprehend your
awful position.”
“I know my position well enough. It is a hopeless one. They’ve been
killing me by inches for nine long and miserable years. They’ll never
be satisfied until they see the breath out of my body, and then――well,
then they may cut me up piecemeal in the dissecting-room as soon as
they please.”
“Nobody wishes to see you dead, and you are quite wrong in such a
supposition. It is not at all likely that anyone in this gaol regards
you with personal animosity. It is unjust and unreasonable to suppose
such a thing. You are taking a morbid view of things. Now permit me to
read to you.”
“No, I won’t be read to. I don’t want any long-worded sermons. I won’t
listen. Leave me alone.”
“But I cannot and must not leave you in your present distress.
Remember you have a soul to be saved, and you must listen to the words
of One who came into the world to save us all.”
“You have me at an advantage,” cried the smuggler. “I am powerless,
and cannot get away.”
“I hope you do not want to get away?”
“Yes, I do.”
“He’s very self-willed, and won’t bear being spoken to,” said
Knoulton, addressing himself to the chaplain.
“I am perfectly assured that he is self-willed and obstinate, but that
is the greater reason for my endeavouring to move him, and bring the
unhappy man to a better condition. I am not in the habit of giving up
persons of his nature as altogether hopeless.”
The chaplain then, in a slow, measured voice, read from the volume he
had brought with him. Murdock this time made no objection. He closed
his eyes, and appeared to be half asleep, nevertheless he listened to
much the chaplain uttered.
The reading lasted some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Mr.
Leverall was under the impression that the old evil-minded man had
profited by his ministrations; he closed the book, and laying hold of the
smuggler’s horny hand, shook it, and then took his departure――thinking
he had done enough for the present, and to continue further would be
only to weary the sick man.
“A good, kind gentleman,” said Knoulton, when the door had closed on
the chaplain, “and he is one who takes a deep interest in all who have
the misfortune to be incarcerated within these walls.”
“Ugh! He means well, I dare say,” cried Murdock.
“I am sure he does――no man ever meant better. I am sure I ought to
speak well of him, for he has been both father and brother to me.”
“Ah, it may be so; but I am too far gone, do you see? I aint to be
piloted into port by any of his kidney, and so it’s no use mincing
matters. I didn’t interfere with him when he let go the jawing tackle;
because why――it aint no manner of use. Just heaven, what would I give
to be clean out of these waters!”
“And then, if you succeeded in doing so, you would not be much better
off, perhaps.”
“Shouldn’t I? You allow me to be the best judge of that. No better
off, indeed! I tell you what it is, Walter――you don’t know why I yearn
for liberty so much.”
“I confess I do not.”
The pirate shook his head.
“Ah, that’s where it is,” said he.
“Why, you must have led a strange life, I should say,” observed the
young man, “and been witness of scenes that were no doubt of a
harrowing nature.”
“I’ve passed through a deal more than I could ever tell you――have
sailed to almost every port in the world, and have had a hard time of
it occasionally, but it’s all over now――Walter, all!”
“Come, take some of this beef-tea,” said his attendant, drawing to the
bedside of the sufferer.
Murdock, with great difficulty, sat half up, his back and shoulders
supported by pillows, and partook of some refreshment, which he seemed
to enjoy.
“There, that’ll do for the present,” said he, handing his attendant
the basin. “I feel a little better now.”
The hours flew by, night came on, but the sick man was unable to
obtain sleep, and young Knoulton sat up and watched him with exemplary
patience. As the night waned, its tedium was beguiled by conversation,
for when alone with his nurse the pirate was loquacious enough, for
nothing pleased him better than spinning yarns, as he termed it, and
giving his companion a brief recital of some of the incidents in his
earlier career.
Knoulton encouraged him in this, for he argued that it was far better
than his brooding over his present misfortunes.
“Well, for the matter of that, I have seen all sorts of sights, both
ashore and afloat,” said Murdock, “but about as terrible a bit of
business it is well possible to conceive was what is termed a
‘cacciata.’”
“A what?” said Knoulton.
“A cacciata. It’s an Italian word, I believe, but it means a fight
with knives or poignards. As I can’t sleep I’ll just give you an
account of it. When I was a young man I did a little business on the
cross with an Italian count. He wasn’t of much account, but that
doesn’t much matter, but to talk to him you’d suppose butter wouldn’t
melt in his mouth. I had left my ship for a time, and visited Rome to
see the sights there, and met by chance my old friend the count.
“‘Ah, Murdock!’ said he, ‘what brought you here?’
“‘A little matter of business in the first place,’ I answered, ‘and
pleasure in the next.’
“‘All right, my friend,’ he returned. ‘I’m glad to see you. You have
seen most of the sights, I suppose?’
“‘I have seen a good many.’
“‘Have you any further visits to pay?’
“‘I don’t know that I have. I think I must have seen everything――unless
you have something further to show me.’
“‘Well, yes,’ said the Count, ‘you may congratulate yourself, for I
think I can show you something this evening that will be both novel
and distracting.’
“Just suit me, then,” said I, “for you must know, Walter, I was at
this time a young hair-brained chap as didn’t care a straw what places
I visited, or what risks I ran.”
“I should imagine you to be all that,” returned Knoulton.
“‘Well, we shall see,’ said the Count; ‘I must leave you, for we must
not be seen together, and you must leave Rome in the morning, without
fail. Not a word of our conversation to anyone. Meet me to-night in
front of the Alberti Theatre. Silence, mystery, and may good fortune
favour us.’
“Well,” observed the pirate, “I couldn’t quite get the right
soundings, so was just going to heave the lead again, when my
gentleman walked swiftly away. I walked on, musing on the mysterious
sensation which had been promised me by my friend. Reaching my
lodgings, I put on my travelling suit, settled my account, and made
arrangements for leaving in the morning, according to the count’s
instructions. I was at this time a smart young fellow,” added Murdock,
“and in every way different to what you see me now. Lord bless us, it
appears impossible I can be the same person――but what have I not gone
through since then?”
“Ah, time changes the best of us,” observed his companion. “It will
effect a wonderful alteration in me, no doubt, as years go on.”
The pirate made no reply, but remained silent for some little time,
and Knoulton was under the impression that he was too weak to continue
his narrative. Such, however, was not the case, for after a somewhat
lengthy pause, he renewed his story.
“As soon as it was dark,” said Murdock, “I directed my steps to the
Alberta Theatre. It was about eight o’clock.
“I found the count promenading the walk. He was not alone, but was
accompanied by a young man with a full Italian face, and who walked
and chatted with him while waiting for me.
“For some inexplicable reason my heart began to beat violently when my
eye fell upon the count and his companion. With a gesture imposing
silence upon me the count whispered――
“‘Come, let us lose no time, but get into the carriage.’
“It was with some astonishment that I noticed that I was not presented
to the stranger. Nevertheless, so soon as we were in motion we all
began to chat as if we were intimate acquaintances.
“The unknown was a person of charming manners and excellent
conversational power. Although somewhat effeminate, he had an air of
distinction. He had that dull tinge characteristic of the
_meridionaux_ who drink only water.
“He was about twenty-four years of age; he wore a moustache of fine
texture and ebon blackness; and his raven hair contrasted singularly
with the whiteness of a neck whose shape would have excited the envy
of a woman. He was, in short, one of the handsomest of Italians.
“The carriage rolled on for some ten minutes, and was already
travelling obscure streets, which to me were wholly unknown.
“While it is true that I had no fear, I ought to say that the singular
circumstances of this nocturnal journey awakened an emotion which
bordered on inquietude, and which induced me to break out suddenly――
“‘My dear friend, I accepted your proposition with my eyes closed.
Now, after all this mystery, will you tell me where you are conducting
me?’
“‘Your pardon,’ said the count in a serious tone. ‘I have promised to
enable you to assist at a spectacle such as you have never seen, and
never will again in all your life; but where this spectacle will take
place, I am not permitted to say. I count upon your discretion and
rely upon your abstaining from all questions. I have promised you a
sensation, and you shall see it; and I guarantee to you that it will
be satisfactory as a sensation, for it will be most terrible and most
bloody.’
“‘Bloody,’ repeated I, surprised at this confidence.
“‘Yes, bloody and terrifying beyond description. There is yet time. Do
you wish to renounce this excursion? If you do not have the courage, I
will accompany you to――――’
“‘My friend, I have faith in your loyalty; and I know you will do
nothing unworty the character of a brave gentleman.’
“‘Fear nothing,’ said the young Italian, in excellent English, ‘only
wait till in your own country before you speak.’
“A moment after, our carriage halted. We found ourselves in a small
square, dimly lighted, a species of _carrefour_, which gave access to
four streets.
“We descended and waited till the carriage had driven away and the
noise of its wheels was lost in the deserted streets. It was nine
o’clock.
“‘Follow us,’ whispered the count, ‘and do not utter a single word.’
“We proceeded a dozen steps along one of the streets which led into
the place, and then the count stopped before a door, and said, in a
low voice――
“‘It is here.’
“He pushed gently against the door, which yielded easily; and then we
entered a long dark corridor, at the extremity of which there shone a
faint light through the curtains of a second door, which seemed to
open into some lighted apartment.
“We had walked about half the length of the hall, when the second door
opened and there came out a man, who closed it behind him with great
care. During the instant that the door was open we heard a murmur of
voices, which convinced us that the room beyond was occupied by a
numerous company.
“At a sign from the count we all three halted. The man came softly
forward until he reached the count, who stood in advance, and
whispered some words in his ear, which we could not hear. The next
moment he turned to the right and led us to a stairway which seemed
cut in the wall, and which, by the faint light, we saw to be filthy
beyond description. We followed our guide on tiptoe and in absolute
silence.
“We ascended several steps, and found ourselves in front of a door.
Our guide took us by the hand, and we groped our way silently into the
darkness of what I imagined to be a hall of some kind. The darkness
was impenetrable. We were led a short distance, and then all three of
us were quietly forced into a species of bruel, or _canapé_――and then
we waited.
“What was going to happen, and what astounding thing was I about to
witness? Despite my confidence in the count, I could not, in view of
our marches and countermarches in the darkness, and all so silently,
restrain somewhat of an apprehension.
“Gradually there began to reach us, from in front and below us, the
murmur of voices, and which we could not distinguish when we first
entered the apartment.
“From such indications as I could possess myself of, I concluded that
we occupied a position with reference to those below us, like that of
spectators in a gallery to the actors on the stage. These were mere
suppositions, however, for the darkness was so intense that I had no
means of verifying their justness.
“None of us spoke.
“Suddenly a great noise broke out in the place in front of us. There
were cries of joy and enthusiasm; there was a general stamping of
feet, and, at the same instant, directly in front of us, a curtain was
drawn aside as if by magic.
“I was correct in my surmise that we were in a sort of gallery. We
were so placed that, without being seen, or our existence suspected,
we could command a complete view of the large room below us, and in
which some twenty people were conversing with each other, and throwing
themselves about with a demoniacal violence.
“The count whispered in my ear: ‘Now we can speak, but we must not
permit ourselves to be overheard.’
“‘And now,’ said I, ‘will you explain the mystery of seeing a score of
Italians in a state of intoxication?’
The count laughed slightly, and for an answer he said――
“‘Look attentively.’
As for the young Italian, he revealed his presence only by long-drawn
sighs.
“I could now examine at my leisure what passed below us in the room,
which was lighted by four miserable lamps, and which gave out more
odour than light. Some twenty persons were present.
“They were ordinary men with healthy colour, and whose glances were
full of pride and energy. Some of them were advanced in years and were
gray; others were mere boys, but all appeared equally audacious and
daring.
“At the moment I had taken in these particulars, one of them had
mounted a bench and commenced to speak; the rest listened with great
attention, and from their attitude, I could infer that the proposition
of the orator was received with favour.
“All at once, it occurred to me that these men were not intoxicated.
There may have been one or two whose brains were somewhat affected by
drink; but none had that brutal and contemptible drunkenness which one
sometimes sees among our workmen in the large cities. One would
imagine them to be conspirators or bandits, but never drunkards.”
“I always understood that the Italians were not addicted to habits of
intemperance,” observed young Knoulton.
“Neither are they――at any rate as far as my experience of them is
concerned,” returned Murdock.
“If the truth must be spoken I have every reason for believing that
the majority, if not all of those present, were as sober as you and I
are now.”
“Well, we haven’t had anything to intoxicate us――that is quite
certain,” said the young man, with a smile.
The pirate continued――
“‘What is going to happen?’ I asked the count in a low voice.
“‘You see all those men,’ said the count, in a voice which vibrated
with emotion; ‘they are mostly young men; in every case, they are
robust. Well, my good friend, all these young men whom you see are
about to poignard each other――to attempt to kill each other with an
unimaginable ferocity.’
“I repressed an exclamation.
“‘What is it you tell me? Why, these men have the appearance of being
intimate friends.’
“‘They are; and it is necessary that they should be, and that they
should possess a great reciprocity of esteem in order to carry out the
terrible combat whose conditions they are even now arranging.’
“I heard this with stupefaction. I tried to believe myself the victim
of a joke on the part of my friend; but the tone of his voice left me
no room to doubt.
“Besides, the precautions we had taken to assist at the combat of the
gladiators; the semi-revelations and mysterious occurrences of the
evening did not permit me to suppose that my friend told me anything
but the exact truth.
“‘And will this act of savagery take place under my eyes?’
“‘Let me, at first,’ said my friend, ‘explain to you this singular
duel, for it is a duel sustained without enmity, without heat, without
anger, for the simple purpose of proving to each other their
surpassing courage, and their contempt for existence. This savage
recreation, which owes its origin to barbarous ages, is called a
_cacciata_ from the word _caccia_ (hunting). From time to time, when
security from the police is certain, a group of persons such as these
meet in some secluded locality for the purpose of holding a _caccia_,
whose end is solely to test their courage. But hold,’ he added, ‘that
tall man whom you see at the extremity of the hall is about to
announce the proposal to fight.’
“At the same moment I heard, in the obscurity, our young companion
rubbing his hands with great satisfaction.
“Although a good deal disturbed at what I had heard, I did not lose a
motion of the men.
“Suddenly there arose a great tumult in the hall.
“The man whom the count had indicated by his great stature, pronounced
a sort of speech; but he spoke with so much heat and volubility that
it was impossible for me to understand a single thing except the word
_cacciata_.
“When he finished speaking, each man put his hand in his pocket and
drew out an enormous knife, whose blade shone and sparkled with a
sinister brilliancy.
“‘My God,’ said I, ‘are they going to cut each other’s throats under
our very eyes?’
“‘Calm yourself,’ said the count, seizing my hands with force.
‘Reassure yourself, you will see nothing――what is now passing is the
worst. Come, be courageous, and do not lose sight of a single
movement.’
“The recommendation to calm myself was wholly useless.
“Despite myself I was seized by an undefinable nausea. The belief that
I was about to see the room below running with human gore gave me a
tremour of horror, and held me spellbound in a condition of horrible
anticipation.
“But such is the deformity of the human heart that, notwithstanding I
experienced a most frightful repulsion, my curiosity was powerfully
interested; and my fear of suffering was more than overpowered by my
desire not to lose a feature of the frightful scene.
“At once, and as if obedient to a signal, these twenty individuals
commenced to disrobe themselves. But before commencing, and seemingly
as a precaution, each placed his knife by his side and within reach.
It was a formidable weapon whose variety of form indicated the
character of the individuals.
“With supreme calmness, and an assurance that was terrifying, they
divested themselves of everything save their pantaloons, which was
held up by waist belts. In almost the flash of an eye, they were
stripped to the waist and ready for the combat.
“It was, I assure you, a moving and cruel spectacle to see all these
robust torsos, with their white or bronze colouring, thus becoming
revealed in the feeble, tremulous light of the hall.
“Despite the impending horror of a savage butchery I could not but
admire the energetic heads, the fierce glances, and the rude
muscularity of the arms now ready to deal out death.
“When they cleared away the tables so as to leave the arena free, all
these athletic forms assumed attitudes whose delineation would have
made the fortune of a painter of the human form.
“‘Now,’ said the count, ‘the fight is going to commence. The tall man
whom you see in the centre of the group is recalling to them the
conditions of the sanguinary combat. These conditions are――
“‘The lights must be extinguished, so that he who is struck may not
know who has given the blow――which is the only means of avoiding
repentance on the one hand and hatred on the other.
“‘It is not permitted to give a blow below the belt.
“‘Whatever may be the severity of the wound which one receives he can
neither utter a complaint nor a groan, as the sound of his voice would
establish his identity.
“‘One who is down cannot be struck. When one is wounded, or wishes to
discontinue his participation in the combat, he extends himself at
length and is secure from molestation.
“‘But so long as there remain two of them erect, who meet each other
in the darkness, they strike pitilessly at each other’s breasts, and
this, despite the fact that they may be friends, relatives, or even
brothers.’
“And now, the last table and stool being removed, each individual
placed himself, knife in hand, with his face to the wall.
“There remained only the extinguishing of the light before the carnage
should commence.
“I followed with a horrible curiosity each phase of the savage tragedy
which was about to conclude in the darkness, not more than a dozen
feet from where I sat. During those latter preliminaries, I felt such
a lively emotion of horror that I could scarcely refrain from uttering
a cry in order to reveal our presence, and put an end to the infamous
proceedings.
“Had only my personal safety been involved, I should not have
hesitated, but my companions were present, and they had not ceased to
repeat that the smallest suspicion of our presence would compromise
all of us. I was obliged, therefore, to await the termination in
silence.
“Soon the tall _sacrophant_ extinguished one of the four lamps. Then
the second was deliberately put out, and then the third. As I saw him
approach the fourth and last one, my heart ceased to beat, and I
involuntarily closed my eyes.
“When I opened them it was night, silence, the profound peace of the
tomb, and I seemed to be under the influence of a dream.
“At a movement which I made on my seat, and which was more noisy than
prudence would permit, the count seized me vigorously by the arms, and
his significant pressure seemed to say, silence! At the same moment we
heard a certain agitation at our feet; the combatants putting
themselves into position for the attack.
“From the depth of the obscurity we could at first hear only what
seemed like repressed breathing, and which was scarcely perceptible.
“Doubtless, each was upon the defensive, holding his breath, and
acting with great circumspection which would not permit more active
movements. But of all this we could see nothing――absolutely nothing;
we could only guess at what was passing.
“However, each moment the agitation augmented in the darkness in which
swarmed these terrible gladiators.
“The restrained chests began to dilate, and the vague and scarcely
perceptible tumult of the first moments began to take a more
pronounced form. It seemed to us that we could distinguish, at the
least indication, the movements of the combatants.
“We imagined we could see them bounding from one end of the hall to
the other, seeking to strike an adversary during the furious _élan_ of
their passage.
“Little by little, as the blood of the combatants became frenzied, the
primitive incoherence of the battle was accentuated by a horrible
murmuring. The impact of rushing bodies began to be distinguishable.
The clear sound of the knife striking the flesh could be heard; and
then falls and hoarse rattles.
“A little later, when the infernal tumult had swollen to its height,
there were heard savage vociferations, sounds of suffocation, dull
cries, and strange ejaculations uttered in no language and in no
recognisable accent, but none the less horrible and lacerating.
“This fearful occurrence, rendered still more frightful by the
profound darkness, lasted some twenty minutes.
“At the end of this time, somebody cried, in Italian――
“‘To the floor, everybody!’ and in a moment silence reigned, as if by
enchantment.
“The same stalwart devil who had extinguished the lamps, now relighted
them, one by one. The scene which came slowly into view from the
darkness was horrible in the extreme.
“Those who had not been struck during the melée immediately began to
raise those who were extended in a sea of blood, their chests gashed
and their arms slashed by deep blows from the knife.
“A sickening odour filled the already vitiated atmosphere. The
combatants pattered across the bloody floor; some crowded about the
wounded, others calmly wiped their bloody knives upon their
handkerchiefs. Two or three who were wounded, but who had not fallen,
with bent necks, examined with cold disdain the wounds they had
received.
“The spectacle was at once sinister and yet full of courage, hideous
and attractive, abject and full of grandeur. I wished to fly, and yet,
when the moment of departure came, it was necessary to tear me away.
“And this is what is known as Cacciata.”
“What a horrible scene!” exclaimed Knoulton. “One would hardly suppose
it possible that such atrocities could be committed in a civilised
country.”
“I was, as I have already told you, young at the time, but it made so
deep an impression on me that I shall never forget it for the
remainder of my life.”
“And your friend the count?”
“Oh, he died a violent death. He was stabbed in the street by a hired
bravo some years after the tragic affair he had taken me to. He was a
bad lot, had sold his best friends, and got himself into some scrape,
the rights of which I never knew, but it ended in his death. I have
seen a good many horrible sights since then, have been cast adrift on
the ocean, and only saved by what one might term almost a miracle, and
have been driven into this cursed port at last. Oh, how I sigh to be
again on the blue water! You cannot understand the misery of my
situation――’cause why? You see you have been brought up differently to
what I was, and don’t and can’t feel the punishment of being cooped up
under hatches for life. Death is happiness in comparison with
it――perfect happiness.”
“You must hold up, and not give way to desponding thoughts. If you
do――”
“Well, I know what you would say――I shall go to Davy Jones’s locker.
Yes, that’s what you’d say. You are right enough, my lad. Feeling as I
do now, I shan’t much care if I do.”
Young Knoulton looked at the clock, and saw that it was time his
patient had his medicine. Murdock swallowed the contents of the glass
which the other presented to him, and shortly after this he sank into
a fitful slumber.
CHAPTER CXIX.
LAURA STANBRIDGE AND THE CHAPLAIN――AN IRRESISTIBLE APPEAL――THE ESCAPE.
The attempted escape of Mat Murdock had, by this time, become known to
most of the inmates of the gaol, and there were many who deeply
regretted that the pirate had been so unsuccessful, for there is
always a certain amount of sympathy evinced by prisoners for one who
has had tact and address enough to plan and carry out any scheme for
breaking through the walls, bolts, or bars of the gaol.
Although most of Murdock’s fellow-prisoners sympathised with him, they
were discreet enough to refrain from expressing their opinions openly
to any of the officials of the gaol.
Laura Stanbridge had learnt the whole history from one of the female
warders who had her in their charge. She was by this time on familiar
and friendly terms with both of these women, who professed to be
greatly interested in her.
The reason for this was obvious enough. Laura had liberally showered
her gifts upon them, and hence their altered demeanour towards her.
She had a scheme in her head which she hoped to carry out before the
day of trial arrived. She was perfectly well aware that if found
guilty she would not have a very lengthened term of imprisonment, but
she had special reasons for not running the risk of a conviction. She
hoped to get clean away by some means or another.
This designing woman already exercised a powerful influence over Mr.
Leverall, who, to say the truth, became each day more and more
fascinated with her.
She was always in his thoughts, and he was ashamed to confess to
himself the precise nature of these, which, to say the truth, he could
not analyse.
He strove, however, to dismiss her image from his mind, but the more
he tried the less successful he seemed to be.
It was strange――indeed marvellous――but his was not a solitary case,
either with churchmen, heroes, or sages, who are one and all open to
the wiles and blandishments of an artful and designing beauty.
While the miserable and ill-fated pirate was tossing uneasily on his
pallet, his mind filled with visions of the liberty he was never
destined to realise, Mr. Leverall was giving more of his time to the
prisoner in cell No. 43 than the exigencies of the case would seem to
warrant, but nobody took heed of this.
It is true the two women attendants remarked to each other that the
chaplain appeared to be a bit sweet on No. 43, but there was after all
nothing surprising in this.
Ministers, like other men, had their favourites in the prison, and it
was quite certain, so they averred, that Mr. Leverall had effected a
great change in Miss Stanbridge, and it was equally certain, although
they did not say so, that she had effected a still greater change in
him.
On the morning after Murdock’s attempted escape Laura Stanbridge
received another visit from the man who passed as her uncle.
Bandy-legged Bill brought her a fresh supply of money, and, in answer
to her inquiries, informed her that he had called repeatedly at her
house and informed the maid-servant that her mistress would return to
London shortly.
He also said that Mr. Gatliffe had made repeated inquiries after her,
and that Alf Purvis had been most insulting to him (Bill), declaring
that he did not believe he had any authority to visit the house from
its mistress.
As may be readily imagined, Bill retorted. In consequence of this a
wordy war ensued, and Purvis ordered the gipsy not to show his face
there again; but the latter, as he termed it, “was not to be sat upon”
by a conceited puppy like that, and he, therefore, told him that if he
gave him any “more of his cheek, he’d give him a prop in the eye” as
soon as look at him.
They were very nearly coming to blows there and then, but Mr. Purvis
was under the impression that he might get the worst of it; so he was
fain to be a little more moderate in his language.
“And I’d ha’ done it, and no flies,” said Rawton. “There aint any
mistake about that; ’taint likely I’d submit to be bullyragged by the
young hound, and be hanged to him.”
“He’s a conceited fellow, Bill,” observed Laura. “Everybody knows
that, but don’t take any notice of what he says. It is isn’t worth
while.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” returned the gipsy, with a nod. “A
sound thrashing u’d do my gentleman a world of good, and he’ll have it
some of these days, mark you that.”
“And how about Charlie Peace――I mean Mr. Thompson?” inquired the fair
prisoner.
“Oh, he’s as right as the mail. Sent his love to you and all good
wishes, but he dursn’t come himself, because you see he might be
recognised, and then the game would be up, and Charlie would be
quodded. Oh, don’t think anything the worse of him for it; but he
can’t come.”
“I understand that. I don’t wish him to come――it would be the worst of
folly for him to do so.”
After a short interview the gipsy took his departure, and returned to
the Evalina-road to report progress.
As the evening drew on Mr. Leverall entered cell No. 43, and found its
occupant reading and in tears.
He was deeply moved, and drew towards her.
“How is this?” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “In tears?”
She looked up at him, and made room on the seat.
He sat down beside her.
“You are weeping,” he said.
“Oh, sir, you little know the miserable hours I pass when you are
away, and I have no friend or counsellor――no one to sympathise with
me. What am I to do? How am I to avoid exposure, disgrace, ignominy?”
She sobbed convulsively.
He endeavoured to pacify her, and to change the subject of her
thoughts, gave her a succint account of Murdock’s attempt at escape,
the injuries he had received therefrom, and his present condition.
“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed, when the narrative had been brought to a
conclusion; “I can indeed sympathise with him, for I am in much the
same position myself. Escape! Do you hear, my kind and benevolent
friend――my saviour? If I could escape!”
As she uttered these last words in a low, hissing whisper she crept
closer to him, placed her rich ruddy lips close to his ear and
repeated them again and again.
He started and almost trembled.
“Do you understand?” said she, her cheek touching his as she made this
last inquiry.
“Impossible――quite impossible,” he murmured.
“Nothing is impossible to those who have a will, who are earnest and
firm of purpose. Nothing!”
He shook his head, but made no reply in words.
“Ah, sir,” she ejaculated in a persuasive tone. “Take pity on me, and
you will be rewarded, be solaced when you reflect that you have been
instrumental in rescuing a contrite woman from the dark abyss which
lies before her. You, so good, so gentle, whom I love with all the
ardour of an affectionate nature――you will aid me, I am sure you
will.”
She took his hand within her own soft silky palm, and pressed it with
every demonstration of affection.
He knew not what reply to make――his mind seemed to be in a perfect
chaos――his temples throbbed, and he felt like one who is on the brink
of a precipice.
She poured into his ear a plaintive and urgent appeal.
“My dear young creature, what can I do in this business?”
“Much,” said she. “Answer me one question.”
“What is it?”
“Do you wish me free?”
“Indeed I do,” he answered.
“That is spoken from the heart,” said she; “it is genuine. You do wish
me well, I feel assured of that.”
She bent forward and her beautiful bust became half-revealed by this
action, for her dress was unfastened in front (accidentally of
course).
But Mr. Leverall was an exemplary virtuous and pious young man, yet he
was human, and being so was subject to the passions and frailties
which the best and most rigid-minded persons find at times to be
all-powerful.
For the first time, perhaps, he discovered that he was enamoured of
the seductive creature by his side, and she had sufficient penetration
to perceive this also.
She was now convinced that she had won the prize which she had sought
with so much patience and industry.
“You will aid me,” she murmured, as she placed her cheek against his.
“I am sure you will.”
He made no reply.
He was what the corner-man of a nigger troupe would call “a gone
coon.”
The huntress had him in her toils.
“You will,” she repeated. “If you could see into this heart!”
She placed his hand beneath the folds of her bodice on her bare bosom.
The young chaplain was astounded――he was in a delirium of delight.
With his disengaged arm he pressed her form, and covered her cheeks
and lips with burning and passionate kisses.
* * * * * * *
It was night in the prison.
For a few hours all punishments were past――all cares were forgotten.
It was night in the prison, and all save Murdock and his attendant
slept――the guilty with the innocent――the prisoners with the
gaolers――the chained with the free.
Pale moonbeams threw a faint light upon the long dusky corridor, and
filled it with wild, uncouth, fantastic shadows.
But soon a stranger shadow still――it moved――it glided silently by the
wall.
A key turned softly in the lock――a door opened by inches――two shadows
floated across the floor.
Another door opened――this time with more noise――it was the door of the
corridor.
The moonbeams disappeared. All was dark in the prison――dark and
impenetrable us a demon’s mind: dark and gloomy as a lost soul’s
despair.
That night the tolling of the deep-toned bell awoke the frightened
inhabitants of Clickbourne from their sleep. It was the alarm bell of
the gaol――one of the prisoners had escaped.
The dulcet voice of a woman proved to be a more potent agent than the
brawny arms of Murdock the pirate.
CHAPTER CXX.
DEATH OF MAT MURDOCK――THE LAST BEQUEST.
The extraordinary and unaccountable manner in which the prisoner in
cell No. 43 had contrived to get clear of the prison walls was, of
course, a matter of surprise to everyone, and a considerable amount of
blame and censure fell upon persons who were not in any way concerned
in it.
The two female warders underwent a rigid cross-examination, but they
both declared that they were as much in the dark as the governor
himself.
The turnkeys were next questioned; they could throw no light on the
subject. There was a great hubbub for the next few days, but not the
faintest scrap of information could be obtained whereby the real
culprit might be traced.
The governor was very irate; the warders were sulky, and everybody
seemed to be discontented. Nevertheless, Laura Stanbridge had
succeeded in her purpose.
She had cleverly given her janitors the go-by, and once more she
experienced the inestimable blessing of liberty, and she was far too
clever a woman to run the risk of being recaptured by any act of
imprudence on her own part.
Meanwhile Mat Murdock remained in a precarious position. He was
closely tended by Walter Knoulton, whose kindness and attention were
duly appreciated by the pirate, who soon began to lend an attentive
ear to the exhortations of the prison chaplain.
A change for the worse took place in the condition of the injured
mariner some three or four days after the departure of Laura
Stanbridge. Murdock was stricken with fever, and at times he was
light-headed.
The night nurse who had been deputed to relieve Knoulton, worn out
with fatigue and weary watching, was overcome with sleep, and, while
in this condition, the pirate in one of his paroxysms leaped out of
bed, wounded and wearied as he was, and caught hold of the iron bars
which ran in front of the small window of his apartment and vainly
strove to remove them.
He fell to the floor, exhausted and senseless, and it was not possible
to say how long he had remained in that condition.
An alarm was given by his attendant when the discovery was made, and
Murdock was placed again in bed, but his ultimate death may be
attributable to this accident.
But he appeared to have but one dominant idea, this being the desire
of escape.
Walter Knoulton returned to his duty, and after this he never left the
pirate till the end came.
He found Murdock by this time quite an altered man. He was no longer
the dissatisfied, impetuous, unreasonable being, as heretofore; on the
contrary, he was passive, resigned, and at times even gentle in his
manner――and now and then he would make use of his old nautical
phraseology.
“I’m nearly done for,” said he to Knoulton, when they were closed in
for the night. “It was a bad business your leaving me in the hands of
that lubber. He went fast asleep, and it appears I jumped out of bed.”
“I’ve heard all about it. Don’t blame the chap; he was worn out and
sleep overtook him――it’s no fault of his.”
“Well, perhaps not, when one comes to consider the matter; but I tell
you what it is, Walter; my line is nearly worn out, my lad. There
isn’t half a fathom to run reef. It’s hard for the likes of me to slip
my wind in this narrow hammock――deuced hard. I should like to have
been going free when I sprang my last for the long voyage.”
“Oh, you must not talk like that; with good nursing and proper
attention you will recover,” cried Knoulton.
The pirate shook his head.
“No,” said he; “don’t deceive yourself, Walter. My log is made up, and
I must founder; I know that by what the doctor said. He won’t be able
to keep me afloat for many days longer. Now there’s a strange feeling
about my heart and head which makes me sure that he gave the right
heave of the lead. There, I feel stronger now than at any time since I
first fell from that cursed wall; but,” added he, in a tone of
sadness, “I’ve seen too many shipmates slip their cables not to know
that’s my signal for sailing to the other world. Now don’t turn away
your head, Walter, because my looks upon your face can’t be for long,
and I don’t want them to be shortened. You’ve been good and true to
me. We’ve only known each other since we’ve been in limbo, but for all
that our friendship has been firm, ever since we first clapped eyes
upon each other.”
“It has, and I hope better days are in store for both of us.”
“You are young and have only to sail in the right direction, and all
will go well enough with you, my lad. I hope and trust it may, but as
to this ere old hulk that’s quite a different matter; but I shouldn’t
mind if I could be free. You see, Walter, I was very young when I
first looked on the sea. I had seen no land then, and as I grew older
it seemed to me to be the natural element for men to live on. I had
the same thoughts of land as the long-shore people have of the sea,
and I have often thought it strange when I have known messmates of
mine who have done that, and brought them aboard again. Now when I
overhauled it in my mind I have thought there must be something in the
land which I had never fetched. I have many times lain and looked at
the green fields, but never fancied they were the sea. No, Walter,
never; but it would not become me to call them foolish as thought so
much more about the land than the sea, for there may be something in
home and friends and birthplaces which drains a man’s heart. There,
ahead of all other things, I have never known any of them; for I was
on the sea from the earliest days of my life, and should indeed be
blessed if I could slip my cable on it now. But I dare say it’s
pleasant, as I have heard many of my shipmates say, to be stowed away
in an old churchyard which you played about when a boy, and where your
kin and friends may always have an eye on your last berth, and the
youngsters come and stick flowers on it. I dare say this is all very
pleasant, but it is not a thing for me to look or hope for. I have
neither family or kin of any sort, no old churchyard as I skylarked
about, or youngsters to show their pretty remembrance that it ain’t a
skulk that is under hatches. I must never leave these walls, even
after death, and there’ll be no one to point out the spot where I
lie.”
“No one?” cried Knoulton.
“Well, may be I was wrong there,” returned the pirate. “And I’m sure
if you thought my sleep would be lighter or more pleasant by pointing
it out, or do anything, you would do it――that I am quite certain of.
It’s something for a man to say he has picked up a friend――a true and
staunch one――a thousand miles from his home, in a prison.”
“Did you never know your parents?” said Knoulton.
“No, never,” answered the pirate. “I wish somehow or another that I
had. But what’s the use of overhauling that now that my grog is
stopped? For, with or without family, I must founder, and, perhaps,
it’s better that I should. There is nobody to let tears run out of
their lee scuppers for my sake. It is better as it is――much better.”
Mat Murdock paused from exhaustion, and his face, which had been
flushed, now grew deathly pale.
[Sidenote: No. 63.]
[Illustration: PEACE ENTERTAINS TWO DETECTIVES TO DINNER.]
Walter Knoulton saw that it was time he took some nourishment, and he
at once proceeded to give him some light nutritious food.
The pirate panted for breath, and a cold clammy perspiration broke out
all over him.
He, however, rallied, and, with a faint smile, said in a weak voice――
“That was the first cast of the line――there’s very little water――the
next heave I shall shoal.”
“You are better now, Murdock,” said Knoulton. “Cheer up, old man.”
“When I first met you,” observed the pirate, “I knew pretty well that
you would stick to me till the last, and I am not mistaken――no, not
mistaken. Well, you see, my friend, I haven’t known many as I cared
about, few of us have. There is something I would say to you before I
sink to my last sleep. I said some few days ago that you should have
half I possessed. It seemed ridiculous, I dare say, and you did not
take much heed of it, but it’s true, nevertheless. You shall be rich,
Walter, independent for the remainder of your life. All I have I
bequeath to you.”
“All you have?”
“Yes, every stiver. Don’t think I am wandering, I am in my sober
senses. My head was never clearer than it is at the present moment.
Listen!”
“I am all attention. Proceed!”
“Will, then, mark what I say. On the beach of St. Michael’s, just
beyond the rock of Irglas, in a pit six feet deep, ten years ago I hid
an iron case containing gold and jewels to a large amount, enough to
make us both rich for the remainder of our lives. I shall never live
to gain the treasure, but you may and can, if you’ve a mind to do so.”
Knoulton paused, and then added, in a tone of doubt――
“The tale seems scarcely credible, Murdock. You have been a prisoner
for more than nine years.”
“That’s true enough. It’s fully that time since Arkenstall and I,
being closely pursued, buried the treasure in the spot I have
mentioned. A few days after this we were seized at Preston and tried
for mutiny and murder on the high seas. I never committed murder, and
this I solemnly declare, but we were both convicted of manslaughter.
The rest you know.”
“What has become of your companion, then?”
“What――Arkenstall?”
“Yes.”
“Dead, years ago.”
“Then you are the only person living who knows of this?”
“The only one. You need not, therefore, wonder at my desire to obtain
my freedom.”
“Certainly not.”
Notwithstanding all his endeavours to appear indifferent, young
Knoulton had listened with deep attention to the pirate’s recital.
When he had ceased to speak the young man remained perfectly silent
for some time, seeming to balance in his own mind the probability of
the story he had just heard.
Casting his eye up for a moment he found those of his companion fixed
on him.
He started from his reverie, and said in a dubious tone――
“The story you tell is, to say the least of it, a strange and
improbable one. These hidden treasures are a hackneyed subject.”
His fellow-convict regarded him with a look of indignation.
“You do not believe me, then, Walter?” he murmured.
“Nay, I don’t say that,” was the quick response; “but how came the
iron case to fall into your hands, and who did it belong to?”
“It would be too long a story to tell you how we became possessed of
it――neither does it much matter. It belonged to an English merchant,
who is long since dead.”
“Oh! then there is no claimant?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Will you promise me one thing?”
“What is that?”
“Promise me to search for the treasure after I am dead.”
Young Knoulton hesitated.
“Will you promise?” said the pirate, still more earnestly.
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. Well, then, the doctor has left some sheets of paper and a pen
and ink on that table. I will make you a rough drawing of the spot
where it is buried. I am not much of a hand at drawing, but I’ve done
a chart or two in my time――so let’s go ahead.”
Knoulton gave him the requisite materials, and Murdock sat up in bed
and made a tolerably accurate drawing of the spot and its
surroundings. When this was completed, he fell back upon his pillow in
a state of exhaustion.
A death-like pallor overspread his features, and he drew his breath
with difficulty.
“Give me your hand, Walter,” said he. “Ah, that’s well, pray for me,
my friend. I have heard that when the chaplain prays for a sinner he
makes an easier passage aloft, but if you now could say a word or two
for me, I am sure it would do more than parson’s lingo!”
“I will, indeed――I will, messmate,” cried the young man.
“Walter, you couldn’t have done me a kinder act than calling me your
messmate,” exclaimed the pirate, with sudden animation.
“That has done me more good than our doctor’s care and attention――that’s
cleared the turn for my run more than all. Ah, ah, it’s pleased me to
hear you call me your messmate. I don’t like parting with you. You
have been very kind to me, very――from the first hour we met. As a
dying man, Walter, I have been true to you, and afore I have made a
spare hammock, tell me whether you think so?”
“I do, Murdock. I wish you may be spared.”
“Avast there, Walter――avast!” exclaimed the pirate, his voice growing
more and more feeble. “You have never forgotten me at any time.
“Come, never turn your head from me. Look on me. Why should you show a
wet eye? Damme, you make my scuppers run over. I――we must part some
day, and why not now? Walter, take your hand from your face if you
love me. Let me see your face. Why, that’s it. Walter, I’ve looked my
last upon the sea; there is a haze over it. You had better send a hand
aloft, a smart seaman, to keep a bright look-out――it’s very hazy.
Walter, are you sure the fire was got under――the deck’s full of smoke?
Open one of the ports; and yet I am very cold, Walter. I am shaking.
Have I got your hand? Topman, away! There――clap on the yard tackles.
Stretch out along your tackle full top out. Walter, my friend, God
bless you! Remember the beach of St. Michael’s. The pumps are choked.”
He paused for a moment, and at first young Knoulton thought he was
dead, for his eyes closed, and his face exhibited the ghastly pallid
hue of death, but a moment afterwards he opened his eyes and tried to
gaze around him. They were dull and glazed, but he turned them
anxiously from side to side.
He knit his brows and worked his lips about with an evident desire to
speak; he passed his hand through his hair, and at length exclaimed――
“The reef has now struck a hole in her which no carpenter can stop;
and the seas that wash over her will wash everything out of her as
clean as a captain’s steward does a stew-pan. Ah, you may cut away at
the masts, but she will not move. You may spare yourself the
trouble――here comes a sea that will carry them by the board. Hold
on――hold on, mates, for your lives! That sea has fixed her. Cut the
lashings of the boat on the boom. The next sea will carry it from the
chucks to the quarter. Bear a hand――bear a hand! Here comes the sea,
Walter――hold on by me. Where are you? Avast, I am alone! The sea
blinds me. I am faint! I cannot swim a stroke! The water gurgles in my
throat! Down, down――down――”
The last word died on his lips; his features were convulsed, his jaw
fell, and all was over with Mat Murdock, the pirate.
It would be a task of considerable difficulty to attempt any
description of the sense of loneliness that fell upon Walter Knoulton
at this time. Despair seemed to enter his heart. It is true that he
had attended upon the sick on very many occasions, but this was the
first time he had witnessed the death of a fellow-creature, and he was
so supremely miserable that he was well-nigh bursting into tears.
It is equally true, also, that the dead man had doubtless, for the
greater portion of his career, led an evil life. He had been a lawless
freebooter, who, from a moral point of view, had very little to
recommend him, and was, therefore, deserving of very little sympathy;
but Knoulton knew only the best and most favourable side of his
character, and he had always evinced a great liking for the old pirate
or smuggler. Possibly this might be in some reason attributable to
Murdock’s being shunned and despised by the other prisoners, who were,
however, greatly in dread of him. To Knoulton, however, he had been
uniformly kind, and this was proved by the last request he had made.
To trace the secret springs of the human heart is beyond the skill or
power of man, and, strange as it may appear, Walter Knoulton felt as
acutely the loss of his fellow-prisoner as many men feel the loss of a
dearly-loved relative.
“He is gone,” murmured the young man. “Who can say whether he has
passed away, and will not trouble any of us further?”
He glanced at the features of the dead man, which were so calm and
peaceful, without any expression of pain on them, and heaved a deep
sigh.
Then he bethought him of the paper with the rough draft thereon, and
at once proceeded to secrete it beneath his flannel shirt.
It would not be intelligible to any one but himself, and even if the
prison authorities discovered it, the chances were that it would not
be taken from him if he told them that it was given him as a keepsake
from his deceased friend, so he had but little fear as far as the
chart was concerned.
But presently a sort of superstitious fear seemed to creep over him,
and so powerful was this influence that he thought the eyes of the
dead pirate moved. This was but imagination, but it exercised a
powerful influence over him.
Young Knoulton had attended on sick persons for the greater portion of
the time he had been a prisoner, but he had never before had a patient
die under his hands.
It was the first time he had been in the presence of death, and as he
glanced at the rigid features of the dead pirate, his heart beat
audibly, and a horrible fear seemed to creep over him.
Everything was so still; no sound struck upon his ears; not a faint
murmur of any sort; he would have been thankful if he could have heard
the faintest indication of a human voice, or any articulate sentence
uttered by a living creature. He was for some time so overcome that he
found it impossible to rise from his seat, but remained sad and
thoughtful till the unbroken silence became oppressively painful.
Presently he thought he detected some movement from without, as of a
warder passing almost noiselessly along the corridor.
He sprang to his feet, and made towards the door; this done, he
shouted for assistance.
A measured tread told him that one of the prison officials was going
his rounds. Knoulton hammered at the door with both his fists. It was
instantly opened, and a tall man with a large bushy beard thrust his
head in.
“Well, what do you want?” inquired he, perfectly unmoved.
“Help! come in!――he is dead.”
“Who? the pirate?”
“Yes; for mercy’s sake come in.”
The warder entered and made straight for the bed on which the remains
of Murdock were stretched.
One glance sufficed to tell that it was all over with the wretched
Murdock.
“Gone, eh?” he ejaculated. “It’s rather sudden, but the doctor said
there was no chance for him. Well, poor fellow, all his troubles are
now over in this world. When did he breathe his last?”
“Not half an hour ago. Oh, less than that.”
“Humph! we’ll tell the governor,” returned the warder, passing again
through the entrance to the apartment, and closing the door gently
after him, which he, however, locked with his usual caution――remembering
at the time the clatter there had been about prisoner No. 43.
In a few minutes after this the deputy-governor and prison surgeon
entered with the turnkey. The surgeon pronounced the prisoner dead.
The last offices were performed, and young Knoulton’s duties were over
as far as the pirate was concerned. They thanked him for his
attention, and he was conducted to a cell in another part of the
prison.
This was about the most comfortable berth in the whole ship, to make
use of the language of the dead pirate, and Knoulton had every
possible indulgence it was possible to accord, consistent with the
rules of the establishment.
It wanted only six weeks more to complete his term of imprisonment,
and during that period he was chiefly engaged in the infirmary, but he
could not forget the last words of Murdock, and he had a burning
desire to test the truth of his statement as to the treasure which had
lain hid for so many years.
CHAPTER CXXI.
MISS STANBRIDGE’S PEREGRINATIONS――HER VISIT TO CHARLES PEACE.
Laura Stanbridge succeeded in reaching London without attracting any
attention or arousing the suspicions of any one. She walked on for
miles until she was fairly worn out with excitement and fatigue;
nevertheless she persevered, being at the time under the full
impression that messengers would be despatched from the gaol in all
directions for the purpose of recapturing her.
This was done, but as frequently occurs in cases of this sort, the
messengers went in every possible direction but the right one.
Laura did not deem it advisable to continue for very long in any of
the high roads. She went through bye-lanes and unfrequented footpaths,
and thereby dodged her pursuers. When fairly worn out with fatigue, so
that she could barely drag one leg after the other――to make use of a
common saying――she bethought her of what she could do. To betake
herself to a house of public entertainment would be running a great
risk, as the chances were that these establishments would be the first
places the police would visit.
She espied at no very great distance a large-sized barn, and at once
made for this as a haven of rest.
She had not much difficulty in unfastening the door, which was only
secured by a wooden peg. This done, she crept in and stretched herself
at full length upon some trusses of straw. She was so overpowered and
prostrated, that she soon sank off to sleep, and did not awaken till
the voices of men fell upon her ear. She then suddenly sprang to her
feet and looked through the crevice of the barn-door.
It was by this time early dawn, and the hilltops were tinted with the
rays of the rising sun.
In an adjacent field she beheld two farm labourers at work, and a
milkmaid with her pail.
When their backs were turned she crept out of the barn, and passed
into the lane which she had traversed on the night previous.
She had sufficient money on her person for her immediate wants; this
had been given her by her friend, Mr. Leverall.
As the milkmaid came along with her pail she wished her a good
morning.
She was a good-looking buxom wench, with red cheeks and mottled
arms――the very personification of rude health and good-nature.
“An’ good morning to you, ma’am,” said the girl, staring with wonder,
“but ye be up wi’ the lark, missus.”
“Yes,” said Miss Stanbridge; “I lost my way last night and took
shelter in the barn till the morning. I could not find any place
open.”
“Maybe you’re a stranger to these parts?” observed the girl.
“Quite a stranger. Don’t even know where I am or the name of this
place.”
“Ye be London-bred and London-born if I aint mistaken?”
“You are quite correct in your surmise. I am a Cockney. That’s what
you country people term us Londoners.”
The girl gave a broad grin and a chuckle at this last observation.
“I dunno how you could manage to rest in such a place as that,” said
she, nodding with her head towards the barn.
“There was no help for it, my good girl; beggars must not be choosers,
you know. But I say――listen to me a moment,” added Laura, slipping a
shilling into the maid’s hand――“can you tell me, like a kind, good
girl, as I am sure you are, where I can get a conveyance about here――a
post-chaise, or something of that sort? It matters not what it is.”
“Where ee goin’ too, then?”
“I want to get to the nearest station. How far might that be off?”
“Well, better nor five miles――not a morsel less.”
“And, can you tell me where they let out flys?”
“Lord, no――not I. You won’t find any here about, I’m thinking.”
“Dear me, that’s unfortunate. No conveyance――eh?”
“Will ee coom inside the house and see missus?” cried the girl, as if
a sudden thought had struck her.
“Ah, that I will; shall be but too glad to do so. Where is the
master?”
“There aint no master. He be dead and gone.”
“Oh, only a missus?”
“Ah, that be all, but she be a good sort.”
“I shall be most delighted to make her acquaintance.”
Laura Stanbridge was conducted into a primitive-looking parlour, and
introduced to a comely, cheerful-looking old lady, the mistress of the
establishment.
“Your sarvint, ma’am,” said the old dame. “Glad to see you.”
The milkmaid informed her mistress that the London lady had lost her
way on the previous night, and had sought shelter in the granary, and,
furthermore, that she wanted to reach the railway-station as soon as
possible.
“I be sorry you had no better accommodation,” oberved the old lady,
“but ee must be faint for want of summut to eat and drink. Sit ee
down, and ha’ some breakfast, ma’am. Ye sha’n’t go away wi’ an empty
belly.”
“I am sure you’re very kind. I have the wherewithal to pay for what I
have.”
“Tush, tush, child; don’t ee be talking after that fashion. You are
freely welcome to all I have. It be a poor tale indeed if we can’t
help a fellow-creature in distress. Don’t you see――eh?”
“Yes.”
“An’ what brought ee to these parts, if it be a fair question?”
Miss Stanbridge hesitated, and turned away her head with mock modesty.
“Oh, well, if it be a secret, don’t say a word.”
“It isn’t much of a secret, as I know of,” observed the escaped
prisoner. “I came unbeknown to my relatives. Had to meet a young man
to whom I have been engaged.”
“Oh, I see, lass――I understand; and maybe your parents object to him
as a suitor for your hand.”
“Yes they do, but――” here she hesitated again.
“You love the chap――is that it?”
“I do.” She tried to blush, and partially succeeded.
Her companion tapped her playfully on the elbow. “Well, well,” she
ejaculated “I don’t blame ee. Ha’ done the same thing myself years
agone. I don’t know as ye are to be blamed――we none of us can help our
likes and dislikes, and we all like to choose for ourselves in cases
of this sort――it is but natural. And did he keep his appointment――did
ee see him?”
“Yes; Alf――he is obliged to go abroad, and wrote to me to beg me that
I would meet him and wish him farewell before he took his departure.”
“Umph, thee beest a brave girl to coom all this distance by yerself.
And I be glad ee saw him.”
It is, perhaps, needless to observe that the whole of this story was
invented on the spot by the acute and mendacious Laura Stanbridge. It
was the first that occurred to her, and, as the old adage has it, “any
excuse is better than none.”