“And all this has been effected in two short months!” exclaimed the physician, with a tone and manner indicative of mingled surprise and admiration. “I could scarcely have believed it possible.”
“Listen to my next case, doctor,” said the Black; “and you will see that my system is most salutary. I shall speak of the two Bunces collectively. The man Bunce I always looked upon rather as a soft-pated, hen-pecked fool than a radically wicked fellow; and accordingly, the moment he began to exhibit very serious alarm and horror at being alone and in the dark, I gave him a lamp and the Bible. The length of night which I made him endure was not more than two-thirds of a week. In respect to his wife, the first demonstration of repentance which she showed, was in a desire to speak to her husband if only for a few minutes and through the trap-door of his cell. Of course I issued orders that the request should be complied with; and it was evident that the woman derived comfort from this indulgence. Next day she was permitted to converse with him at the trap-door for nearly half an hour; and then she was overheard begging his pardon for the ill-treatment which he had so often endured at her hands. For many, many successive days this short intercourse was allowed them; and on one occasion, Toby Bunce read her a few verses from the Bible, he being in his cell with the lamp, and she standing outside his door in the dark subterranean passage. The manner in which she received the passage thus read to her, induced me to order that she also should be provided with a light and a Testament: for the night which she endured, and which could scarcely be said to have been even interrupted by the daily walk in the dark passage, was just three weeks. It gave me pain, doctor—oh! it gave me pain, I can assure you, to punish that woman so severely: but her mind was very obdurate—her heart very hardened;—and darkness was long before it produced on her the effect which I desired. At length, a few days after she had been allowed a lamp,—and a little more than one month ago—I yielded to her earnest entreaties that she might be lodged with her husband. Then what a change had taken place in her! She was tamed—completely tamed,—no longer a vixenish shrew, but questioning her husband mildly and in a conciliating tone relative to the passages of the Bible, or the Travels and other instructive books, which he had read to her. Good feelings appeared to establish themselves rapidly between this couple. I had them put to several tests. On one occasion Wilton persuaded Toby Bunce that he was not looking very well, and some little luxury was added to the evening’s supply of food, it being intimated that the extra dish was expressly for himself. Wilton remained near the cell, and listened to what passed within. Bunce insisted upon sharing the delicacy with his wife; and she would not hear of such a proposal. He urged his offer—she was positive; and in this point she once again showed a resolution of her own, but not in a manner to give her husband offence. The very next day—this was a week ago—I had the pair removed to a chamber over-head, giving them the same apparent chance of escape as in the case of Tidmarsh. They did not however seek to avail themselves of it; and yesterday evening they were separated again—but only for a short time. In fact, Bunce was last night sent off to Southampton, in company with one of my people; and thence they doubtless embarked for the island of Sark this morning. Mrs. Bunce will leave presently, guarded by my faithful dependant Harding and his wife, who will not only take her to rejoin her husband in the little islet opposite Guernsey, but will also stay with them there for a period of six months. Bunce will follow his trade as a tailor, Harding finding a market for the clothes which he makes in St. Peter’s Port, which is the capital of Guernsey, as you are well aware.”
“So far, so good,” exclaimed the physician, highly delighted with these explanations. “Should your system produce results permanently beneficial, you may become a great benefactor to the human race; for it is assuredly far better to reform the wicked by a course of a few weeks’ training by playing upon their feelings in this manner, than to subject them to the contamination of a felons’ gaol and inflict years of exile under circumstances which are utterly repugnant to all hopes of reformation. But pray answer me one question. Should either of these Bunces, or Tidmarsh choose to resist the control and authority of your dependants who have charge of them at present—and should any one of those quasi-prisoners demand their unconditional freedom—how can your men exercise a power or sway over them?”
“These quasi-prisoners, as you term them,” answered the Black, “have not, as a matter of course, the least idea who I really am. Their minds, somewhat attenuated by their incarceration and all the mysterious circumstances of their captivity, are to a certain extent over-awed. They know that they have been, and still believe themselves to be, in the power of one who wields an authority which they cannot comprehend; and fear alone, if no better motive, therefore renders them tractable. This ensures their obedience and their silence at least for the present. Eventually, when they again become accustomed to freedom, they will find themselves placed in a position to earn an honest and very comfortable livelihood—care being taken to keep alive in their minds the conviction that the business which produces them their bread and enables them to live respectably, only remains their own so long as they prove worthy of enjoying its advantages. Now, my calculations and beliefs are these:—People who have entered upon a course of crime, continue in it because it is very difficult, and often impossible, to leave it for honest pursuits. But when once they have experienced the dreadful effects of crime, and are placed in a way to act and labour honestly, very few indeed would by choice relapse into evil courses. Therefore, I conclude and hope that the Bunces on the one hand, and Tidmarsh on the other, will, if from mere motives of policy and convenience alone, steadily continue in that honest path in which they are now placed, and the advantages of which they will soon experience.”
“Good again,” said that doctor. “If your calculations only applied to six criminals out of ten, you would be effecting an immense good by means of your system. But I hope and indeed am inclined to believe that the proportion in your favour is even larger.”
“I am certain that it is,” answered the Blackamoor. “Well, I now come to Timothy Splint—the man, who, as you may remember, was the actual assassin of Sir Henry Courtenay.”
“If you succeed in redeeming that fellow,” exclaimed the physician, “I shall say that your system can have no exceptions. Stay, though!” he cried, a thought striking him;—“I had forgotten Old Death. Ah! my dear friend, you may as well endeavour to tame the boa-constrictor, as to reform that dreadful man.”
“You shall hear of him in his turn,” said the Black, his tone assuming a slight degree of mournfulness, as if he were less satisfied in respect to the application of his system to Old Death, than in either of the other cases. “For the present,” he observed, “you must have patience enough to listen to certain details relative to Timothy Splint.”
“Go on, my dear friend,” cried Dr. Lascelles. “I am all attention—and patience too, for that matter. Your narrative is too interesting to be tedious.”
“Timothy Splint,” continued the Blackamoor, “appeared to suffer more horribly from the darkness than all the others. The spectre of the murdered baronet was constantly by his side, and even prevented him from committing self-destruction. For a whole month did his night continue; and during that period he must have endured the most frightful mental tortures. This was all the better: such a state of mind naturally drove the man to pray;—and prayer relieved him. I remember how touchingly, although in his rude style, he assured me one evening that when he prayed the spectre grew less and less. Now, notwithstanding I was well pleased to find him in this frame of mind, I did not choose to encourage superstitious notions: and therefore I explained to him that the only apparitions which existed were those that were conjured up by a guilty conscience. At the expiration of, I think, exactly thirty-one days, I allowed this man a light and a Bible. Then I pursued the same treatment with him as in respect to Tidmarsh and the Bunces: I mean, I gave him books of Travels and Voyages and moral Tales. He seemed very grateful—not only seemed, but really was; and his hard heart was melted by my kind treatment. A few days ago, he gave me the outlines of his early life; and I found that circumstances had driven him into the ways of crime. His reformation was, therefore, all the easier; because he had a youth of innocence to look back upon and regret. He moreover assured me that even with his late companion in crime, Josh Pedler, he had frequently spoken, in mournful mood, of the unhappiness which often marks the hours of men of lawless character; and, all these circumstances tended to give strength and consistency to his declarations that he longed—deeply longed to have an opportunity of earning an honest livelihood for the future. What to do with him I scarcely knew. Whenever I reflected on this subject, I remembered that he was a murderer—stained with the blood of a fellow-creature; and his case was therefore widely different from that of the Bunces and Tidmarsh. At length it struck me that emigration to a far-distant land was the only fitting course to adopt; and I proposed it to him. He was rejoiced at the idea; for he instantly saw how, by changing his name, and commencing the world anew in another sphere, he should be removed from old haunts where either unpleasant reminiscences would be awakened, or temptations present themselves. Moreover, he beheld the necessity of repairing to some part of the earth where he stood no chance of being recognised by either friend or foe. His consent to my proposed arrangement being thus obtained, and all his best hopes and feelings being warmly enlisted in the plan, I had then to ascertain whether any one of my dependants would consent to accompany such a man on a long voyage and to a far-off clime. Fortunately my enquiries amongst my retainers were followed by success; and at a very early hour this morning Timothy Splint and his guardian, or rather companion, set off for Liverpool, thence to embark for the United States. There, in the backwoods of the Far West, let us hope that this man—this murderer, whom the savage law would have hanged,”—and the Blackamoor shuddered, as he pronounced the word,—“let us hope, I say, that Timothy Splint will some day rise into a substantial farmer, and that he may yet live to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of the subterranean dungeon.”
The Black paused, and drank a glass of the cooling claret; for his mouth had grown parched by the simple fact of giving utterance to that one word on which he had shudderingly laid so great an emphasis. The physician, who appeared to guess full well what was passing in his mind, made no remark; and in a few moments the other continued his explanations in the ensuing manner:—
“I now come to Joshua Pedler. His disposition is naturally savage and brutal; and a long night of darkness produced on him effects which varied at different periods. His thoughts were dreadful to him; and sometimes, when I visited him, he would at first speak ferociously. But a kind word on my part immediately reduced him to meekness. He had not been many days in the dungeon when, doubtless encouraged by my manner towards him, he told me that he was not only unhappy on his own account, but also on that of a young woman whom he had married according to the rights of the vile class with which he had so long herded. I immediately undertook to provide for the girl; and Pedler really demonstrated a sincere gratitude. You need scarcely be told that I kept my promise. Wilton sought her out; and she was found in a state of starvation and despair. A comfortable lodging was taken for her; and when she was somewhat restored to health, needle-work was supplied her. But all this was done without allowing her to believe that any other circumstance beyond a mere accidental discovery of her wretched condition had thus rendered her the object of Wilton’s charity. The assurance which I gave Pedler that Matilda was provided for, had a most salutary effect upon his mind; although he frequently afterwards showed signs of savage impatience. The tenour of his thoughts was chiefly a regret that he had been so foolish as to pursue an evil career. He reproached himself for the folly of his wickedness, rather than for the wickedness itself, he disliked solitude and darkness, but was not so much influenced by fears as his late companion, Splint. During the first month he remained in darkness, and never once spoke to me of prayer. Two or three times he alluded to the Bible, but did not express a wish to read it. At last he admitted to me his conviction that the thoughts which oppressed him were beneficial to him, though most unpleasant. I fancied this to be a favourable opportunity to test his worthiness to receive some indulgence. I accordingly asked him if he would like to be able to write to Matilda. My calculation was just: I had touched him in a vulnerable point;—and he was that night allowed a lamp and writing-materials. Moreover, on that very occasion, he shed tears; and I no longer despaired of taming the last remnants of ferocity which lingered in his nature. A few days afterwards he gave me a letter to send to Matilda. Of course I opened and read it; for it was to obtain a precise insight into the real state of his mind that I had suggested the correspondence with his mistress. The contents of that document confirmed the hopes I already entertained of him; and I saw that his affection for that young woman might be made a most humanizing means in respect to him. I accordingly had her brought into this house, and lodged in one of the attics. Then I broke to her as gently as possible the fact that Joshua Pedler was my prisoner. I shall not pause to describe her joy at receiving intelligence concerning him; suffice it to say that she read his letter with tearful eyes, and gladly consented to reply to it. In the evening I took her answer to the prisoner; and he wept over it like a child. I then knew that his reformation was a certainty. Two or three days afterwards, he begged me to allow him a Bible; and his request was of course complied with. The correspondence that passed between him and Matilda was frequent and lengthy; and, that he might feel himself under no restraint, I assured him that I neither saw his letters nor his replies. ’Twas a falsehood on my part—but a necessary, and therefore an innocent one. For I did peruse all this correspondence; and Matilda was aware of the fact by which I was enabled to watch the gradual but sudden change that was taking place in the mind of that man. At length I perceived that I might in safety think of providing for him elsewhere; and I was as much embarrassed how to accomplish this aim, as I was in the case of Timothy Splint. But in the midst of my bewilderment I happened to notice an advertisement in a daily newspaper, stating that by a particular day two men, or a man and his wife, were required to undertake the care of Eddystone Light-house. You may start with surprise, doctor—you may even smile: but I assure you that this advertisement appeared most providentially to concur with the object I had in view. Without a moment’s delay I spoke to Matilda respecting the matter; and she expressed her readiness to follow my advice in all things, so long as there was a prospect of her being reunited to Josh Pedler. Her consent being procured, it was no difficult task to obtain that of the man. On the contrary, he accepted the proposal with joy and thankfulness. Wilton soon made the necessary enquiries and arrangements; and at this moment Joshua Pedler and the young woman are the sole inmates of the Eddystone Light-house!”
“Thus, my dear friend,” said the physician, counting the names of the persons upon his fingers, “you have disposed of Tidmarsh in Alderney—the Bunces are to go to Sark—Splint is bound as an emigrant to the Far West—and Joshua Pedler is on the Eddystone rock.”
“And Pedler is the only one who is unaccompanied by an agent of mine,” observed the Black; “because Matilda is a good young woman; and I can rely upon her. Moreover I should tell you that I procured a license for them; and Wilton saw them legally married at Plymouth, before they embarked for the Light-house.”
“I congratulate you upon the success of your projects thus far,” said the physician. “It is truly wonderful how admirably you have managed thus to redeem and satisfactorily dispose of some of the greatest villains that ever lurked in the low dens of this metropolis. But now, my friend, I wish to hear something of that arch-miscreant, Old Death.”
At this moment the door opened; and one of the Black’s dependants entered the room.
“The woman Bunce, sir,” he said, “is most anxious to communicate something to you before she quits London. She declares that she has a secret preying upon her mind——”
“A secret?” exclaimed the Black.
“Yes, sir—a secret which she says she must reveal to you, as it is too heavy for her heart to bear. She cried a great deal, and implored me to come to you.”
“Doctor,” said the Blackamoor, after a few moments’ profound reflection, “you know wherefore I do not wish that woman to behold my features—even though they be thus disguised. During her incarceration I never spoke to her save through the trap of her dungeon door; and since she has been an inmate of the house I have not visited her. It will be as well to continue this precaution: do you, then, hasten to her and receive the confession, whatever it be, which she has to make.”
“Willingly,” replied Lascelles; and he followed the servant from the room.
Upwards of a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Dr. Lascelles returned to the apartment in which he had left the Blackamoor.
“Yes,” exclaimed the physician, throwing himself into the chair which he had recently occupied; “that woman is indeed penitent—truly penitent!”
“What proof have you acquired of this fact, doctor?” demanded the Black.
“The confession which she has just made to me—or rather the motive which induced her to make it,” answered Lascelles. “But not to keep you in suspense, my dear friend, she has revealed something which only confirms a suspicion that you yourself had long ago entertained, if I remember right.”
“And that suspicion——”
“Is relative to Jacob Smith,” added Lascelles.
“Ah! the woman has confessed it?” exclaimed the Blackamoor.
“She has confessed that Jacob Smith is her own son, and that Benjamin Bones is his father,” replied the physician, in a solemn tone.
“My God! what a parent that man has been!” cried the Black, his brows contracting, and his voice indicating the emotions of horror that were suddenly excited within him. “When I recall to mind every detail of the history of poor Jacob,—his neglected infancy—his corrupted youth,—when I reflect that his own father was the individual who coolly and deliberately initiated him in the ways of crime——Just heavens! I begin to think with you that the reformation of such a monster is an impossibility!”
“Subdue your excitement, my dear friend,” said the doctor; “and let us converse calmly and reasonably upon these matters.”
“First, then, explain to me the nature of your interview with Mrs. Bunce,” observed the Black. “I shall listen with earnest attention.”
“I went up stairs to the room in which she is located,” said Lascelles; “and she rose from a chair the moment I entered; but she started back in evident disappointment mingled with surprise when she saw me. ‘It was not you, sir,’ she almost immediately observed, ‘that I wanted to see. I know that the master of this house is of dark complexion; for I have caught a glimpse of him when he has visited my dungeon below.’—I explained to her that I was a friend of yours, and that you had deputed me to receive any confession which she had to make. She appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then burst into tears. ‘I have been wicked—very wicked, sir,’ she said, in a voice broken by deep sobs; ‘and it is only very lately that I have had my eyes opened to my sinful life. The dark gentleman, who I suppose is the master here, has done this good thing for me: and now he is going to provide for me and my husband. But I shall not go away happy, unless I tell him every thing that weighs on my soul.’—I spoke a few words of comfort to her; and in a few minutes she confessed that the lad who bore the name of Jacob Smith is her own son, born while she was the mistress of Old Death, and before her marriage with Bunce. I informed her that Jacob was well provided for and happy; and she seemed deeply grateful for this assurance. Then I recommended her not to reveal this secret to her husband when they should be united again; inasmuch as, having entered on a new phase of existence together, it would be useless and wrong to acquaint him with a fact calculated only to disturb that harmony. She promised to follow my advice, and appeared much eased in mind by having unbosomed her secret to me.”
“You gave her most excellent counsel, doctor,” said the Black: then, after a few moments’ reflection, he added, “Jacob ought not to be informed of this secret of his hideous parentage——at least not for the present.”
“By no means!” exclaimed the physician. “His mind is tranquil—he feels a certain confidence in himself—and your friendship is his greatest delight. Let not that salutary equanimity be disturbed.”
“No—it would be wrong and useless,” said the Black, musing. “I remember that in the course of the long narrative which he gave me of his life, he mentioned the occasional scintillations of kindness which marked the conduct of Mrs. Bunce towards him. I also recollect that he observed to me how there were moments when he thought a great deal of any gentle words which she ever uttered to him, or any kind treatment she ever showed him.”
“Nature, my dear friend—Nature!” exclaimed the good physician. “Even in a woman so bad as she was at the time of which he spoke, there were certain natural yearnings which she could not altogether subdue; while, on his part, there existed filial inclinations and tendencies which he could not understand. How much that villain Benjamin Bones has to answer for!”
“Alas—alas! I fear that he is beyond redemption!” cried the Black, bitterly. “But—no,” he added immediately afterwards, in a changed and more decided tone: “we must not despair!”
“I am now anxiously waiting to hear your report concerning him,” observed Lascelles.
“He is still in darkness—his night still continues,” was the answer. “A month has elapsed since I visited him for the first time in his dungeon; and during the other four weeks that have subsequently passed, I have had several interviews with him in the same manner. These interviews have taken place in the utter obscurity of his cell; and I have been constrained, though with pain and difficulty, to assume a feigned tone on each of those occasions. At my first visit he declared, in terror and amazement, that he recognised in my voice something which reminded him of that of Thomas Rainford; and then he seemed to be impressed with the conviction that I was the Earl of Ellingham. His rage against the Earl was deep and terrible; and I saw too plainly that if he relapsed into a milder tone, it was but to deceive me as to the real state of his mind, and induce me to grant him some indulgences—if not his freedom. I visited him again on the following night; and he spoke less savagely, and more meekly: but I mistrusted him—yes, I mistrusted him, and I fear with good grounds. I cannot give you a very satisfactory description of our subsequent meetings. At one moment he has appeared touched by my language, and has even expressed penitence and contrition for the past: at the next moment, he has exhibited all the natural ferocity of his disposition. Sometimes he has assumed a coaxing manner, and has endeavoured to move me to grant him a light;—but I have hitherto refused. One thing I must not forget to mention—which is that never since the first visit I paid him has he once alluded to the impression made upon him by the sounds of my voice; and never has he again addressed me as Lord Ellingham. In moments of excitement or rage, he has demanded in a wild and almost frantic tone who I am: but seldom waiting for the reply, he has relapsed either into a humour of stubborn taciturnity, or of a meekness which I knew to be assumed. Indeed, there are many points in his character and conduct, since he has been an inmate of the dungeon, which I cannot comprehend. It is however certain that darkness has not produced on him the same rapid and important effects as upon the other five: something more severe in the shape of punishment, or something better calculated to touch his heart and appeal to his feelings, is requisite. At the same time, I believe him to be already moved and shaken in his obduracy to a certain degree: but reformation in respect to him must be a work of time.”
“On the whole, you have hopes?” said the physician, interrogatively.
“Yes—when I call to memory all the particulars of his conduct and language from the first occasion of my visits until the last, which took place yesterday, I can recognise a change,” answered the Black. “Indeed, I am almost convinced that if it were possible for me to speak to him at very great length—to argue with him on the folly and wickedness of his past life—to reason with him unrestrainedly, I should be able to move him deeply. But the necessity of maintaining an assumed tone, and the impossibility of taking a light with me so as to watch the chantings and workings of his countenance and follow up those appeals or those arguments which appear to have most effect with him,—in a word, the disguise I am compelled to sustain and the precautions I am forced to adopt, militate considerably against my system in respect to him.”
“It would be imprudent for me to visit him on your behalf,” observed the physician. “On that memorable night when Lord Ellingham had him, Tidmarsh, and Mrs. Bunce in his power in an adjacent room, and wrested from them all the secrets of their damnable plots and schemes,—on that occasion, you know, I was present; and Old Death would therefore cherish only rancorous feelings with regard to me.”
“True,” said the Black, musing: then, suddenly starting from a deep reverie of a few minutes, he exclaimed, “Doctor, I have thought of a plan which I hope and trust, for the honour of human nature, may prove efficacious in respect to that obdurate sinner: but I hesitate—yes, I hesitate to put it into execution!”
“Explain yourself, my dear friend,” replied Lascelles; “and I will give you my advice candidly and frankly.”
“In a word, then, doctor,” continued the Blackamoor, “I have such faith in the soft persuasion of woman, that I am half inclined to conjure Esther de Medina to assist me in this good work. Would she but consent to visit this great sinner—or rather to address him through the sliding-panel of his dungeon door, I am certain that her eloquence, aided by the musical tones of her voice and the deep feeling which would characterise her language,—I am certain, I say, that she would succeed in touching a chord in his heart, which no words—no appeal of mine can reach.”
The physician heard with attention, and began to reflect profoundly.
“For my part,” continued the Blackamoor, “I believe that the eloquence of woman, when rightly used and properly directed, is endowed with an influence and a power almost irresistible. Woman’s mission is to tame and humanize the ferocity of man’s disposition; and the more antagonistic are the characters of two beings of opposite sexes thus to be brought in contact with each other, the better for the purpose. Now, decidedly no two living creatures can be more dissimilar in all respects than Benjamin Bones and Esther de Medina,—the former so savage and unrelenting; the latter so mild and forgiving,—the one possessing a soul blackened by every possible crime; the other endowed with every virtue that approximates the nature of woman to that of the angel!”
“I like your project—I see not the least objection to it, my dear friend,” said Dr. Lascelles, after a long pause, during which he pondered deeply on the plan suggested. “Do you think that Miss de Medina would consent to aid you in this matter?”
“I have no doubt of it,” returned the Black. “You perceive that the dilemma is somewhat serious, and not slightly embarrassing. I cannot allow Benjamin Bones to go forth again into the world, to recommence his vile intrigues: besides, to give him his liberty thus, would be to defeat the primary object which I had in view in breaking up his gang. To release him at present is therefore impossible; and I scarcely feel myself justified in keeping him locked up much longer in a dark dungeon. It would be unsafe to remove him into one of the apartments of either this house or that in Turnmill Street; for such a crafty fox can alone be kept secure by massive stone walls and iron bolts. What, then, am I to do with him?—how am I to dispose of him? Esther will assist me in this difficulty; and God send that through her agency, some salutary impression may be made upon Old Death’s mind!”
“Bear in memory,” exclaimed the physician, an idea suddenly striking him, “that one of this man’s horrible schemes was to avenge himself on Lord Ellingham by torturing Esther de Medina.”
“And when he hears her sweet voice revealing to him her knowledge of his atrocious designs, and sincerely promising him her pardon,—when he discovers how much virtue and goodness there is in woman,” continued the Black, in an impassioned tone, “he will be moved—he will be led to contemplate the blackness of his own heart—he will find himself placed in such frightful contrast with that forgiving angel——”
“Yes—yes!” cried the physician, emphatically: “it must be done! You have devised the only means to produce a real and effectual impression on that bad man’s heart; and if he prove inaccessible to the persuasiveness of Esther’s tongue, his case may be looked upon as hopeless.”
The deep-toned bell of Clerkenwell church now struck the hour of eleven; and scarcely had the sound died away in the silence of night, when a post-chaise drove up to the door of the house.
“Mrs. Bunce is now about to take her departure,” said the Black. “Everything is prepared in that respect—Harding and his wife have already received full instructions and the necessary funds—and the sooner that the woman is safe out of this mighty city of temptation, the better.”
The sounds of several footsteps were now heard descending the stairs; and a minute afterwards, the post-chaise drove rapidly away from the house.
“Of all my prisoners, Old Death alone remains to be disposed of,” observed the Black, as soon as the din of the wheels was no longer audible.
“And it is to be hoped that he will not be a source of difficulty or embarrassment to you for many weeks more,” said the physician, rising to take his departure.
It was on the third day after the explanations given to Dr. Lascelles, and between five and six o’clock in the evening, that Esther de Medina was conducted by the Blackamoor into the subterranean passage, the latter holding a lamp in his hand.
“Shall I remain near you, Esther?” he enquired, in a whisper.
“No—it is not necessary,” she answered. “I am not afraid of being in this place, gloomy as it appears; and since I am merely to address the miserable man through the trap-door of his dungeon, no harm can reach me.”
Thus speaking, she turned and received the light from her companion,—her manner being calm and even resolute, though her countenance was very pale.
“God bless you, Esther!” said the Black, emphatically: “your willingness to aid me in this important matter is not the least admirable trait in your character!”
“It is a duty—though a painful one,” responded the beautiful Jewess. “And now leave me—I would rather proceed alone to the prisoner’s cell.”
“Remember,” said the Blackamoor, “it is the last on the right hand side of this long subterranean passage.”
He then retraced his way up the stone-staircase communicating with the house in Red Lion Street, while Esther advanced along the gloomy cavern, in which the lamp shone but with feeble lustre.
In less than a minute she reached the door of Old Death’s dungeon: and there she paused for nearly another minute, a sensation of loathing and horror preventing her from immediately announcing her presence to the terrible inmate of that cell. For the Black, in order to prepare her as fully and completely as possible for her philanthropic mission, had been compelled to reveal to her all the details of those dreadful designs which Benjamin Bones had cherished against herself and Lady Hatfield, and which had been made known through the medium of John Jeffreys. It was therefore natural that Esther de Medina should shrink from the bare idea of holding the slightest communication with a miscreant of so ferocious a character: but a short—a very short interval of reflection was soon sufficient to arm her with the courage necessary to support the ordeal.
Drawing back the sliding-panel which covered the small aperture in the upper part of the massive door, she said in her soft, musical voice, “Prisoner, will you grant me your attention for a few minutes?”
“Who are you?” demanded Old Death, starting as if from a lethargic state—a movement that was indicated by the sudden rustling of his garments and the creaking of the bed whereon he was placed.
“I am Esther de Medina,” was the answer; and the beautiful Jewess allowed the lamp to cast its light upon her countenance, which was so close to the aperture that Old Death caught a momentary but perfect view of her features.
She then placed the lamp upon the ground, thus again leaving the interior of the cell in complete darkness.
“Yes—it is Miss Esther de Medina!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, in a voice which he endeavoured to render as mild and conciliatory as possible. “Dear young lady, open the door, and let me out of this horrible place. I am sure you possess a good heart——”
“A heart good enough to forgive you for the dreadful atrocity which you contemplated against me upwards of two months ago,” interrupted Esther, scarcely able to subdue a shuddering sensation which came over her. “Yes—I know every thing,” she continued: “you would have entrapped me into your power—you would have deprived me of the blessing of sight,—and yet I never, never injured you.”
“But you say that you forgive me!” cried Old Death, impatiently. “Open the door, then, my sweet young lady—and I will find means to reward you well. Listen,” he exclaimed, approaching the trap, and speaking in a confidential kind of hollow, murmuring whisper,—“don’t be offended at what I am going to say—but I know that you are fond of jewellery—and it is natural for such a beautiful creature as you are——”
“Silence, sir!” interrupted Esther, indignantly. “I am well aware to what you allude; and it is time to undeceive you on that head,” she added, in a proud tone: “indeed, there is no longer any necessity for concealment in that respect! In my turn I desire you to listen—and listen attentively. You entertain a belief so prejudicial to my character, that I cannot allow even such an one as you to cherish it another minute. Know, then, that I have a sister so like myself in outward appearance——”
“By Satan! it must be so,” ejaculated Old Death, a light breaking in upon his mind as in a single moment he took a rapid survey of all the circumstances which had originally led him to suppose that Esther was the thief of Mr. Gordon’s diamonds and the mistress of Tom Rain. “Yes—yes—I understand it all now!” he added, in a tone that appeared to imply vexation at his former blindness in respect to these matters.
“With pain and sorrow am I thus compelled to allude to a sister who is so dear—so very dear to me,” resumed Esther: “but this explanation was necessary—not only for my own sake, but likewise to convince you of the folly and wickedness of endeavouring to induce me, by the promise of reward or bribe, to draw back the bolts of your prison-door. No—my visit to you is inspired by the earnest desire to move your soul to the contemplation of all the dreadful deeds which have marked your life——”
“Then you will not set me free?” exclaimed Old Death, in a tone of subdued rage and latent ferocity.
“Not now—not now,” repeated Esther. “But listen to me attentively!”
“Go on,” growled the inmate of the dungeon, as he retreated from the door, and threw himself upon his bed again.
“If you entertain the slightest hope that you will ever be allowed an opportunity to re-enter on a course of wickedness and crime, you are sadly mistaken,” continued Esther, speaking in a conciliatory and yet energetic tone. “Even were you liberated this moment, measures would be adopted to render you completely powerless for the future in respect to the perpetration of fresh enormities. Reflect, then, whether it will not be better for you to devote the remainder of your days—and in the ordinary course of nature they must necessarily be few—to the important duty of making your peace with heaven! Do not despair of pardon—oh! no—do not despair! You see that I, who am a mortal being, can forgive you for the wrongs you meditated against me,—and surely the mercy of heaven is greater than that of human creatures! Yes—repent ere it be too late; and God will not cast you off eternally. His mercy is infinite: His pardon is never asked in vain by the penitent sinner.”
“Continue to speak to me thus,” cried Old Death, in a tone strangely subdued and wondrously meek, considering the ferocious excitement which so lately animated him.
“Oh! I sincerely hope that you will recognise the error of your ways, ere it be indeed too late!” exclaimed Esther, in a tone of enthusiasm deeply felt by her generous soul. “Consider your advanced age—and think how soon the hand of Death may be laid upon you! Then how wretched—how awful would your feelings be,—and how would you shudder at the idea of being about to stand in the presence of that Almighty Power whose laws and mandates you have so often violated! For, after all, what have you gained by your long, long career of wickedness? All your treasures were annihilated in one hour——”
“Yes—yes,” interrupted Old Death, in a voice half suffocated with emotions which the Jewess fondly believed to be those of remorse.
“The hoardings of many years and the produce of innumerable misdeeds were thus swept away,” she continued, impressively; “and Providence at length decreed that you should become a prisoner in the very place where you had so long ruled as a master. Does not heaven, then, afford you solemn and significant warnings that your career of crime is no more to be pursued with success?—and do not those warnings move your heart to repentance and remorse? Neglect not such warnings as these, I conjure you!”
“Your words do me good, young lady!” exclaimed Old Death. “I am glad that you have come thus to speak to me.”
“And shall you ponder upon what I have said?” she demanded.
“Yes. But you will not leave me yet?—and you will come again?” he said, in a voice indicative of suspense and anxiety relative to the answer that was to be given.
“I will return to-morrow,” observed Esther.
“Thank you!” exclaimed Old Death, his tone now denoting a profound emotion.
But Esther did not immediately leave the vicinity of the cell on the present occasion. Believing that she had succeeded in making some salutary impression upon him, she was desirous of following up the promising commencement of her mission; and she accordingly continued to reason with him for nearly half-an-hour longer. In the course of the observations and arguments which she addressed to the ancient sinner, she displayed a sound judgment and a deep but enlightened religious feeling: there was nothing bigoted—nothing fanatical in her language. She indulged in no quotations from the Old Testament—the book that formed the basis of her own nation’s creed: but she expatiated on the goodness of the Creator—the hope that exists for penitent sinners—the terrors of a death-bed without previous repentance—and the folly, as well as the wickedness, of the course already pursued by the prisoner. Old Death interrupted her but seldom; and when he did interject an observation, it was in a tone and of a nature calculated to inspire the charming Jewess with the hope that her mission had not been undertaken in vain.
At length she quitted the vicinity of the cell, having reiterated her promise to return on the following day.
And this pledge was faithfully kept;—and again do we find the Hebrew maiden persevering in her humane—her noble task of awakening proper feelings in the breast of a terrible sinner. To her question whether he had meditated upon his spiritual condition, Old Death replied earnestly and eagerly in the affirmative; and throughout this second visit, he not only sought to retain the young lady near him—or rather at his door—as long as possible, but likewise seemed sincere in his endeavours to inspire her with the belief that her reasoning and her representations had not been thrown away upon him.
On the third day, Esther fancied that there was even a still more striking change in his language when he responded to her questions or her remarks; and not once, during the hour that she remained standing outside his dungeon, addressing him in a style of fervid eloquence which came from her very heart,—not once, we say, did he give the least sign of that ferocity and savage impatience which characterised his behaviour on the first occasion of her visit.
For a fortnight did the Hebrew maiden continue her visits regularly, without however venturing to enter the dungeon. On the fifteenth day she found the prisoner anxiously expecting her arrival as usual; and almost immediately after she had drawn aside the panel and announced her presence, he said, “Oh! dear young lady, I am so glad you are come! I have been thinking so much—so very much over all you have lately told me; and I have felt comforted by repeating to myself the arguments you advance urging me to repentance. Ah! Miss, I have been a dreadful sinner—a dreadful sinner; and I see that I am righteously punished. But though I am penitent, you have no confidence in me yet—and that gives me pain. Yon are afraid to trust yourself with me! Do you think that I would harm you?”
“I hope not,” replied Esther; “and you shall not much longer have to accuse me of want of confidence in you. I am pleased to observe that you at length feel how shocking it is to become an object of mistrust and suspicion.”
“You are an angel, young lady!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, approaching the door on the outer side of which stood the Hebrew maiden. “No one on earth save yourself could have made such an impression upon my mind, and in so short a time. But will you promise me one thing?”
“Name your request,” said Esther.
“That you will not send any man to converse with me,” answered Old Death. “You are of the gentle sex—and that is why your sweet voice has had such power and influence with me. Had that gentleman—whoever he is—continued to visit me, he would have done no good. I suspect my own sex:—I do not think that men can be so sincere—so conscientious——”
“The gentleman to whom you allude will not visit you again without your consent,” interrupted Esther. “I have undertaken this mission, and will fulfil it to the utmost of my ability. I have now something important to communicate,—important indeed, I should imagine, to one who has been so long in darkness. In a word, I intend to give you a lamp——”
“Oh! excellent young lady!” cried Benjamin Bones, in a voice expressive of the most unfeigned joy. “Make haste and open the door—give me the light——”
“Nay—I must not manifest too much confidence, in you all at once. See what it is to have been so long the votary of crime and wickedness—you inspire a mistrust which cannot be dissipated in a moment.”
“What can I do to convince you of my penitence—my gratitude?” demanded Old Death, in an earnest—anxious tone.
“Leave me to judge for myself relative to your state of mind,” said Esther. “You perceive that I already begin to entertain hopes concerning you: the proof is that I now give you a lamp—and a book also, if you have a sincere inclination to examine its pages.”
As she uttered these words, Esther unfastened the grating which covered the aperture, and passed the lamp through to Old Death—then the volume to which she had alluded.
The light flashed upon his countenance as he received the lamp; and it struck Esther that there was something hideous even in the expression of joy which now animated those repulsive features:—but she knew that looks which had grown sinister and become stamped with ferocious menace during the lapse of many, many years, could not be changed nor improved in a moment, however great were the moral reformation that had taken place within.
“Thanks, dear young lady—a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Old Death, as he placed the lamp upon the table: then, after a few minutes’ pause, during which he looked into the book, he said in a tone of surprise, “But you have brought me a Bible containing the New as well as the Old Testament—and yet yourself only believe in the latter?”
“I respect the religion of the Christian, although I have been taught to put no faith in it,” answered Esther de Medina, in a modest and subdued tone. “But I must now depart: and to-morrow I shall visit you again.”
Esther withdrew, in the firm belief that a most salutary impression had been made upon the mind of one of the greatest criminals of modern times. Her report was received with the most heart-felt joy by the Blackamoor; and he was enthusiastic in his expressions of gratitude towards the beautiful maiden for her exertions in what may unaffectedly be denominated “a good cause.”
“Do you return to Finchley Manor with me this evening?” she asked, cutting short his compliments with a good-humoured smile.
“No—I have particular business to attend to, Esther,” he replied. “But you may tell a certain young lady,” he added, now smiling in his turn, “that I shall be sure to see her to-morrow evening.”
“To-morrow!” repeated Esther. “You forget——”
“Ah! I did indeed forget,” interrupted the Black. “To-morrow is the day on which Arthur returns to town; and I must not risk a visit to the Manor. The fortnight of his absence has soon expired, methinks: but doubtless in that time he has made all the necessary preparation to render his country seat in Kent fitting and comfortable to receive his bride,” observed the Black, smiling again. “Nay—do not blush, Esther: he is a noble fellow, and well deserving of all your love! And, by the bye, this absence on his part has proved most serviceable in one sense,” he continued, again assuming a serious tone: “for had he remained in town, you never would have been able to devote the time you have given each day to the reformation of that wretched man below.”
“To speak candidly,” observed Esther, “I foresee a considerable difficulty relative to my future visits to the unhappy prisoner: but I feared to mention my embarrassment in this respect—I fancied that you might suppose me to be wearied of the task I had undertaken——”
“I know you too well to entertain such an injurious suspicion,” interrupted the Black, hastily and emphatically. “But it is natural, now that Arthur and yourself are so shortly to be united, that he should seek your society as often and for as long a period each day as circumstances will permit——”
“Yes,” observed Esther, with a modest blush: “and though his welfare is so deeply interested in our present enterprise—though, in a word, so many grave and important interests depend upon the success of our endeavours to humanize and reform that wretched prisoner, and disarm him for the future—still I could not stoop to any falsehood or subterfuge to account to the Earl of Ellingham for my daily absence from home for several hours. It is true that my father is in the secret of our proceedings—that he even approved of the course which you suggested, and which I have adopted——”
“Stay! an idea strikes me!” suddenly ejaculated the Black. “You told me ere now that Benjamin Bones implored you to continue your visits to him, and not allow me to take your place; and from this circumstance we have both drawn favourable auguries relative to his ultimate and complete repentance. He already looks upon you as his guardian angel—the means of his salvation; and it would be perhaps productive of evil results—it might even lead to a moral reaction on his part—were he to believe that you had deserted him. You have so well prepared the way in the grand work of reformation with regard to this man, that another might now undertake your duties—and Benjamin Bones would still continue to believe that it is the same Esther de Medina who visits him.”
“I understand you,” said the Hebrew maiden, evidently rejoiced at a suggestion which relieved her mind from the fear of a serious difficulty. “But would you be satisfied with such an arrangement?”
“I see no alternative,” replied the Black. “Arthur will call daily at Finchley Manor—and your frequent absence would, to say the least of it, appear strange.”
“Oh! wherefore not allow Arthur at once to be made acquainted with the whole truth?” demanded Esther, in an earnest and appealing manner.
“No—no—that may not be!” exclaimed the Blackamoor. “My projects must first be carried out to the very end: for it would be my pride and my triumph, when all danger shall have passed away, to say to him, ‘Arthur, you were surrounded by perils which you did not suspect: demons were plotting every kind of atrocity against your peace;—and I have annihilated all their schemes, and tamed the schemers themselves!’ Urge me not therefore, my dear Esther, to deviate from the course which I have chalked out for myself, and which I consider to be to some extent an atonement for the misdeeds of my own life. Yes—for he who accomplishes a great good, assuredly expiates a great amount of evil.”
“For heaven’s sake, recur not to the past!” murmured the beautiful Jewess, turning pale and shuddering at the crowd of unpleasant—nay awful reminiscences which her companion’s language recalled to her mind.
“No—let us deliberate only for the present,” exclaimed the Black; “and the more I think of the plan which I have suggested, the more suitable does it appear. Yes,” he continued, “this is the only alternative. Let your visits to Benjamin Bones cease, Esther—and yet let him still continue to believe that he is not neglected nor deserted by Miss de Medina. I need say no more: the rest lies with you.”
“I understand you,” returned the Hebrew maiden; “and it shall be as you desire.”
She then took her departure.
It was five o’clock in the evening of the following day; and Old Death was crouched up, like a wild beast, upon his bed in the dungeon, which was now lighted by the lamp that Esther de Medina had given him.
His natural emaciation had so frightfully increased, that he seemed but a skeleton in the clothes which hung upon him as if they had never been made for one so thin as he. The skirts of his old grey coat were wrapped around his wasted shanks—for, though it was now the month of May, yet it was cold in that dungeon. His countenance was wan and ghastly;—but its expression was little calculated to excite pity—for any thing more diabolically ferocious than the old miscreant’s aspect, cannot be well conceived. His face was the horrible reflex of a mind filled with passions and longings of so savage and inhuman a nature, that the mere thought makes one shudder.
“She will come presently,” he muttered to himself, with a kind of subdued growling which indicated the fury of his pent-up rage: “she will come presently,” he repeated, his eyes glaring like those of a hyena beneath his shaggy, over-hanging brows; “and perhaps it will be for to-day! Who knows? she may think me penitent enough to be no longer dangerous: and then—then——”
He paused, and ground his jaws savagely together as if they were filled with teeth; and his hands were clenched with such spasmodic violence that the long nails ran into the palms.
“For two months and a half,” he continued at length, and still musing to himself, “has the fiend—the infernal wretch—my mortal enemy, kept me here! For two months and a half have I been his prisoner! Perdition seize upon him! That man was sent into the world to be my ruin—to thwart me—to persecute me! From the first moment I ever met him six or seven months ago, all has gone wrong with me. But the day of vengeance must and shall come,—yes—vengeance—vengeance—though it costs me my life. Ah! he fancies that I am ignorant of his secret: and yet I understand it all now—yes—all, all! Rapid as was the gleam of the lamp which showed me his features the first time he ever visited me here, so quick did a light flash to my mind—so quick did the truth break upon me! Yes—yes—I understand it all now;”—and he chuckled in a scarcely audible manner, yet the more horribly menacing because it was so subdued and low. “But how can it be?—how could he have been saved?” he asked himself, in his sombre musings: then, after a brief pause, during which he rocked to and fro on the bed, he continued, “Never mind the how! That such is the fact I am confident—and that is enough for me! Yes—yes—that is enough for me! Fool that I was ever for a moment to suspect him to be Lord Ellingham! And yet I should have clung to this belief, had not the lamp glared upon his face as he darted out of the cell! Ah! ah! he little thinks that I know him now—that I have known him ever since the moment when the light showed me his features, blackened as they were! Ah! ah!” again chuckled Old Death: “I fancy that I have lulled them into an idea of my penitence! They imagine that the work of reformation has begun with me! Ah! ha! I played my cards well there! I did not whine and weep too soon—I appeared to be precious tough, and precious obstinate; and my slow conversion seemed all the more natural. They will fall all the easier into the snare: they——”
At this moment a slight noise at the door of the cell made the ancient miscreant start; and he instantaneously composed his features into as mournful and sanctimonious an expression as such a horribly hang-dog countenance could possibly assume.
The trap-door opened; and a sweet, musical voice said, “I am here again, according to my promise: you see that I do not desert you.”
“Ah my dear young lady,” cried Old Death, affecting a tremulous tone, “you are too good to such a dreadful sinner as I have been! My God! when I think of all the atrocity that I once planned against you, I feel inclined to implore you to depart from even the vicinity of such a wretch as me!”
“Have you not been already assured that you are fully and completely forgiven in reference to the wickedness to which you allude?” demanded the young lady, whose beautiful countenance was now plainly visible to Old Death through the grating over the aperture in the door.
“Yes, Miss de Medina,” returned the wretch, assuming a still more penitent tone; “but I cannot forgive myself. You are an angel, dear young lady—and I am a demon. I know I am! All last night I endeavoured to read the Bible that you gave me yesterday: but I cannot settle my mind to the task. I want some one to read it to me—if only for half an hour every day. But this cannot be—I am aware it cannot! You—the only person living that could have made such an impression upon me—are afraid to enter my cell. You told me so yesterday. But am I not a human being?—am I a wild beast? Ah! dear young lady—I could not injure you!”—and the old miscreant appeared to weep.
“Do you think it would console you if I were to place confidence in you—enter your cell—and read you a portion of the Word of God?”
“Why do you tantalize an old, old man who is miserable enough as it is?” asked Old Death, in return to this question. “Do you suppose that I am not weighed down to the very dust by an awful load of crime? If you are afraid to come into the cell, send me a clergyman. But, no—no,” he added, as if yielding to the sudden influence of a second thought: “I will pray with no one but yourself! You have been my good angel—you first touched my heart. I must wait till you have sufficient confidence in me to follow up the blessed work you have already begun so well. Yes—yes—even if I must remain here for a whole year, I will not receive consolation from any one but you!”
“If I only thought that you were so far advanced in the path of penitence——”
“Can you doubt it?” hastily demanded the prisoner. “Have you such little confidence in your own powers of persuasion? Oh! my dear young lady,” continued the wretch, falling upon his knees on the floor of the cell, and joining his hands together, “have pity upon me—have pity upon me! Your mistrust of me pierces like a dagger to my heart. I crave—I long to be able to show you my gratitude;—and that can only be by proving my contrition. Dear young lady, have mercy on an old, old man, who would embrace the very ground on which you tread!”
“It would be wicked—it would be a crime to refuse your demand,” said the sweet, musical voice, now tremulous with emotion, of her whom the demon-hearted hypocrite called his good angel. “Stay—I will fetch the key—and on my return I will read the Bible to you.”
And the Hebrew lady hurried away from the vicinity of the dungeon; and, having ascended the spiral stone staircase with rapid steps, entered the apartment usually inhabited by the Blackamoor. But he was not there: and she paused—uncertain how to act; for she now remembered that he had gone out for a short time immediately after giving her certain instructions relative to the conduct she was to maintain towards Old Death.