CHAPTERCXIV.THE PRISON CHAPLAIN.The gentleman who had so suddenly and unexpectedly entered the cell in which Laura Stanbridge was confined was the ordinary. He was an enthusiast, and during his brief term of office had striven hard to bring the persons he visited to a sense of their miserable position, and the evil effects of criminal careers. In some cases—in very few it is to be feared—he had succeeded in bringing the culprits to a right way of thinking.His father, William Leverall, returned to England at the age of sixty-five. He had spent his youth and strength in the East Indies, where he had shed so much of his blood. Covered with honourable, but fatal, wounds, he came home to breathe the fresh air of his native land and to die.He had not succeeded in amassing a fortune, which many less worthy persons than himself had done, for he had never at any time of his life been a devotee at the shrine of mammon. He, however, bequeathed the sum of two hundred pounds a year to his wife and two children. It was all he had to leave them. His will directed that he was to be buried with his hands crossed on his breast, and that his sabre should be by his side.To pay for her children’s education, which in England costs so much, Mrs. Leverall went to service as companion to a rich relative.Thus, she seldom saw her children; but they were always with her in her thoughts and dreams, and the letters which she received from them gave her the brightest hopes, for they were both affectionate and obedient to a fault.It was her wish that her son might take honours at the university and enter holy orders. His father had always been religiously disposed, and therefore the pulpit seemed to his widow to be the pinnacle of human greatness. It was far better, she thought, than following the calling of a soldier.When her son William (he was named after his father) was twenty years of age, it was time he entered for matriculation; but her daughter Bertha was only seventeen, and though accomplished, was too young to commence life as a governess or teacher of music.So they had recourse to speculation. Mrs. Leverall gave her son sufficient out of her ten years’ hard savings to pay his expenses to Cambridge, where he intended to compete for that truest of all lotteries—an open scholarship.She would have preferred Oxford as the arena of his struggles and trials, because her father and brother had both belonged to one of the colleges there. But then it was more expensive, add every sovereign had to be looked at.Young Leverall was persevering and studious; he was therefore successful. He returned in triumph, while his mother stifled him with embraces.Bertha, who was sternly classical, crowned him with a wreath of laurels. Then she gazed at his black and silvery hair, from which the green leaves peeped forth here and there like Dryads sporting in a dark cave.She gazed at his soft hazel eyes, and at his cheeks, which care and thought had made so pale. Unable to restrain her inexpressible love, she flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him and toyed with his hair till the leaves fell one by one crumpled to the ground.Mrs. Leverall shook her head, and then burst into tears; she saw it was a bad omen. Her son and daughter laughed at her, for these superstitions are only cherished by children and the aged, as shadows are longest and darkest in the morn and in the eve.With the little which he had earned fromalma mater, and with the little which his own mother could afford to give him, he was able to pay his college fees, his room rent, his kitchen bills, and to buy himself clothes. But he was obliged to be very economical, and it was this very economy which drove him within himself and to habits of solitude.At first fresh from school, where his mother’s straitened means had not prevented him from joining in the amusements of his fellows, he would sometimes pause in his work and look and listen with something of envy to the windows which were blazing with light and to the gay laughter, and the loud chorus of the bacchanalian song.Soon, however, he learned to despise these boisterous pleasures, for he discovered from the faces and words of their voteries that they, despite their forced uproarious merriment, were not so happy as himself.He would have become a misanthrope had not his heart been touched by a gentler and more refined influence.A new spirit seemed to seize him. It did not descend in the shape of a vulture or a raven, as it descends upon fanatics and bigots—if it ever descends upon them at all—but rather in the form of a white and gentle dove.One morning he awoke a different man. He no longer confined himself to his solitary room or pored over his ponderous books.Stamping out the last spark of foolish pride with the iron heel of an indomitable will, and disregarding the professed scorn of his college companions, he joined them, and talked with them, hoping that some day he might be able to do them good.When they found that he was unlike the other needy scholars who, to a man, condemned those innocent luxuries which they were too poor to afford, they began to like him, in spite of his shabby clothes and the tallow candles which he burnt over his Whately and Æschylus.By the time he had taken his degree with high honours there was not a man in the college who did not respect him, and there were many who were deeply attached to him.Mr. Leverall was a general favourite, and it would have been strange indeed if it had been otherwise, seeing that he was so unassuming, so gentle and kind to all who came within his influence. The old adage of “winning golden opinions from all sorts of people” might be applied to him.He had studied hard, was an enthusiast, and looked hopefully to the future. But man’s hopes are not at all times destined to be fulfilled—indeed, but too frequently the reverse is the case.His mother spoke to him of those distant and almost unknown lands, where savages, with wandering feet and restless hearts, existed in a state of barbarism.His imagination was fired by the idea of treading where no white foot had ever trod before, of encountering dangers, of civilising a whole nation to the science and commerce of man, and of leading it to the right faith.A new society had been formed, who were preparing a crusade against the wooden idols of some obscure Indian tribe in South America.He applied for the post of missionary. His fame and learning and the great eulogiums which his tutors had passed upon his character obtained him the appointment.The vessel was to sail in about three weeks, and this time he was invited to spend with one of the members of the society.He had never been in the metropolis before; his eyes and brain were bewildered by the vast chaos of men and houses through which he hurried in an open vehicle.The next day he walked out alone to study the great city which he might perhaps never see again.He was looking with wonder at one of those shops, which are as large and massive as a castle, and pondering upon the wealth and enterprise of his countrymen, when a horrible sight met his eyes.It was a woman so thin, so miserably thin, that she was almost a skeleton; her bones seemed to protrude through her skin, her eyes were hollow, her features pinched and shrivelled.She wore no dress but a tattered shawl, which could scarcely conceal her shoulders, and a skirt which hung round her wasted limbs in tatters.Two infants naked and blue with cold were clinging to her for warmth, which she tried to give them with her attenuated arms.When he saw this he was nearly overcome. Several persons passed her; some were tradesmen, other professional gentlemen, and some were well-dressed ladies with kind benignant countenances.With words so faint that they resembled moans, and with hands outstretched, this wretched woman appealed to them for alms, but they passed by without deigning to take any notice of her or her supplication.This continued for some little time, during which Mr. Leverall looked at each passenger as he or she went by.Presently a policeman came upon the scene, he ordered her, in a sharp angry tone, to move on. She looked tearfully at his face, saw no mercy there, and was about to leave the spot.Leverall could bear it no longer—he gave her all the money he had with him, and walked quietly away without listening to her shrill and almost delirious exclamations of delight.In ten minutes he regretted that he had not gone home for more money, but in ten minutes more he began to learn that it required unlimited means, boundless wealth, to relieve the distress one witnesses in certain parts of the metropolis.Anxious to learn the worst he turned down the narrowest and darkest street he could find, where the shops were of the lowest and filthiest description, where the atmosphere was tainted as with a pestilence, where the streets were knee-deep in mud and putrid vegetables, where squalid children were paddling about, heedless of the unwholesome atmosphere and its surroundings.Where all starved, and sinned, and drank—the men to nerve themselves for deeds of crime, the women to gain the high spirits and false smiles wherewith to deceive their victims, the children because their mothers taught them to, and because they were hungry.It must be conceded that this picture is a repulsive one, but is nevertheless such as one sees in the noisome dens of the great city.It is in vain to legislate for people of this class so long as their homes and the internal arrangements of their habitations remain as they are at the present period.It is in vain to attempt to disguise the fact.Mr. Leverall was in the midst of a populous district, where infants were born and old men and women died with no hand stretched out to feed their bodies, to ameliorate their condition of squalid misery, or to save their souls.He saw enough in one day to convince him that there were thousands at home who were quite as demoralised as the savages abroad.That night he sent in his resignation, stating his reasons. Half the mission disbelieved him and called him an impostor—the other half believed him and called him a madman.His friend remonstrated with him, showed him what a brilliant opening he was about to throw away, and assured him that several missions had been started to ameliorate the condition of the London poor, that every effort had been made to bring about a better state of things, but that in almost every instance the success had not been at all commensurate with the time and money expended.Leverall had his own opinion upon the subject. He could not bring himself to believe that the mission or those appointed as its agents had set the right way about the work of reformation.The arguments, therefore, made use of by his friend only strengthened him in his resolution.The missionaries he had worshipped then were only cowards who abandoned a difficult task at home in order to obtain an easy victory abroad. To him difficulties in his narrow path were but mountains by which he could climb to the goal upon which he had set his heart.He visited the husband of the lady whom his mother had served as a companion. This gentleman was rich and had influence in several quarters. He had an antipathy to foreign charity and home heartlessness; he was a practical man, who was not easily bamboozled by cant or hypocrisy, and he could not restrain his admiration as he listened to the glowing description of the young man who, on the short but incontestable experiences of a few hours, had given up a liberal income from motives which, to say the least, were both honest and reasonable.“I think I understand you, Leverall,” said his patron. “You think that there is plenty of work at home for a zealous minister—more than enough work in the dens of London.”“I feel assured of it, sir.”“But the task is not an easy one, and hence it is that so many who have undertaken it have given it up as hopeless.”“I do not intend to follow their example,” said Leverall, in a tone of confidence.His companion smiled.“You will have to cope,” said he, “not with untutored savages, who, as a rule listen readily, I am told, to the words of those whom they acknowledge to be superior to themselves, but with men who are seared by crime, brutalised by drink, and embittered by misfortune. At present you are young; you have energy, patience, and hope, but you have no experience.”“That I admit; but experience I shall get as I proceed with my task.”“My very excellent young friend, be assured that no great design has yet succeeded which has not been matured with profound thought and deliberation.”“Without doubt that is so.”“Therefore, all things considered, I bid you think twice before you start on a crusade which might after all turn out, not only immensely laborious, but perhaps in the end unsatisfactory.”“I do not view it in that light.”“Perhaps not, but I do.”“You are without doubt the best judge.”“Well, Mr. Leverall, I have been thinking the matter over for some little time, and I am glad you have come here to seek my advice in the matter. I tell you what I can do—at least I hope I shall succeed, if it meets with your approval. The chaplaincy of one of our county prisons is at present vacant, apply for the appointment, and I will exert my interest in your favour.”“Oh, sir, I am indeed obliged by this kind offer.”“Then you consent?”“Most willingly.”“In prison you will meet with criminals of the worst type—you will also meet with many whom a timely word of warning will turn to the path of rectitude. It will be a fine arena for you to study the human character, and in a very short time you will have a practical knowlede of erring man. Your salary will not be very large, but will suffice for your immediate necessities, and I will give you a certain sum of money to expend upon books and whatever else you may deem necessary for the good of those placed under your charge. Keep an account of this money, with a diary of your doings, and send them to me every three months.”“Accept my most sincere and heartfelt thanks,” cried the young minister.“When I see that you have grown wise enough to be the leader of a mission,” said his patron with a winning smile, “I will liberate you from your apprenticeship.”Leverall applied for the appointment, which he readily obtained, through the influence of his friend and counsellor.Had Laura Stanbridge been able to see into this young man’s heart, which was so gentle and so pure—could she have guessed this divine scheme which was germinating in his brain, and which raised him above all vulgar passions, she would perhaps have despaired of destroying in a few days that which had been implanted at his birth, and which gave promise of such fair fruit.He was not satisfied with the one hour of communion with the prisoners appointed by the law—it was his practice to visit them all in their cells privately every day.He had heard thatNo.43 was a noted female thief, and he approached her cell with some little mistrust. This statement, however, was altogether erroneous, as many other statements sometimes are, either out of prison or within its walls.Laura had never been before in trouble—that is, in other words, she had never been in prison, albeit she had been living by dishonest means for a number of years.The chaplain had expected to find one of those hardened women who are worse than the vilest of men, and who so often replied to his kind words with coarse invectives or obscene jests.When he entered the cell he started, for he saw a young woman, pale and beautiful, who was seated on a wooden stool, with one hand, limp and motionless, in her lap—with the other supporting her head, half concealed in her beautiful brown hair.The chaplain gazed for a moment, wonder-stricken, at the graceful form of the prisoner, who was the very personification of grief and resignation. Her manner was subdued, and it might be said refined.Mr. Leverall thought there must be some mistake. Surely the fair creature before him could not be a hardened offender. He came at once to the conclusion that the authorities were in error, and nothing could dispossess him of this impression.Laura Stanbridge had observed his start, and the expression of surprise which sat on his countenance. She was about to play a part, and all her hopes depended upon the skill with which she performed it.“You are one of the fresh arrivals in this gaol, I believe?” said Mr. Leverall.She answered by an inclination of her head.“Charged with shoplifting—is that so?”“Yes, sir,” she answered; “I am charged, that is all.”“You hope to prove your innocence?”“Indeed I do.”“I also hope so.”“Thank you, sir.”He took a volume from his pocket, and said kindly—“Will you allow me to read to you a little from this book?”She did not reply by words, but again nodded her head, and then heaved a profound sigh.“Poor thing! She is in great trouble, evidently,” murmured the chaplain.He then commenced reading. She listened intently, not to the words but to the voice, through the tones of which she hoped to read his heart. She was an adept in divining the disposition of a person by the tone of his voice. She found his was firm and melodious, but also firm and regular in its accent. She looked earnestly at his face through her long eyelashes—an art which is much studied by women, and which she had practised to perfection. In cunning she was almost a match for Charles Peace, and this our hero was very well aware of, for he had at all times been duly impressed with the powers of discernment. He knew her to be a remarkably clever woman, as false and unprincipled as she was clever. These were qualities which were duly estimated by the notorious burglar.She continued her scrutiny of the prison chaplain, but could discover no symptoms of an amorous or voluptuous temperament in him. His complexion was clear, his forehead high, his eyes mild and open, while his chin was strongly marked and his mouth finely but firmly modelled.From his voice and face she learnt that he was not only virtuous but firm. Her first glimpse had caused her to hope; her scrutiny almost made her despair. But this shadow of despair strengthened her determination, as those fight most fiercely who stand on the brink of a precipice with their backs to the abyss.“It is my only chance,” she reflected. “If I fail with him—if he will not listen to my entreaties—I am lost, irretrievably lost. I can do nothing with my gaolers—who will be women against a woman and fierce men against the prisoner. I can do nothing with the governor, who is a regulated machine. This man is young and pious—he is in all probability inexperienced and innocent. So much the better for my purpose. He is human—is to be wrought upon—not by gold, but by words, and—well, we shall see.”Absorbed in these thoughts she did not hear what he said to her; she only heard an indistinct sound, like the murmuring of distant waters.When it ceased she glanced through her eyelashes, and saw that he was preparing to go. As he opened the door he looked at her compassionately.She listened to his retreating footsteps till they became inaudible. Then she clenched her hands together.“He started. I have made an impression on him—perhaps he admires me. Ah, I will teach him to adore me.”She gave a laugh, and walked to and fro like a leopardess in an iron cage.“He looked at me sadly as he went out. Good—that is well. I think he is impressionable, and has, moreover, one spark of pity for me in his breast. Out of that one spark I will raise a fire which may light me out of these accursed walls.”
The gentleman who had so suddenly and unexpectedly entered the cell in which Laura Stanbridge was confined was the ordinary. He was an enthusiast, and during his brief term of office had striven hard to bring the persons he visited to a sense of their miserable position, and the evil effects of criminal careers. In some cases—in very few it is to be feared—he had succeeded in bringing the culprits to a right way of thinking.
His father, William Leverall, returned to England at the age of sixty-five. He had spent his youth and strength in the East Indies, where he had shed so much of his blood. Covered with honourable, but fatal, wounds, he came home to breathe the fresh air of his native land and to die.
He had not succeeded in amassing a fortune, which many less worthy persons than himself had done, for he had never at any time of his life been a devotee at the shrine of mammon. He, however, bequeathed the sum of two hundred pounds a year to his wife and two children. It was all he had to leave them. His will directed that he was to be buried with his hands crossed on his breast, and that his sabre should be by his side.
To pay for her children’s education, which in England costs so much, Mrs. Leverall went to service as companion to a rich relative.
Thus, she seldom saw her children; but they were always with her in her thoughts and dreams, and the letters which she received from them gave her the brightest hopes, for they were both affectionate and obedient to a fault.
It was her wish that her son might take honours at the university and enter holy orders. His father had always been religiously disposed, and therefore the pulpit seemed to his widow to be the pinnacle of human greatness. It was far better, she thought, than following the calling of a soldier.
When her son William (he was named after his father) was twenty years of age, it was time he entered for matriculation; but her daughter Bertha was only seventeen, and though accomplished, was too young to commence life as a governess or teacher of music.
So they had recourse to speculation. Mrs. Leverall gave her son sufficient out of her ten years’ hard savings to pay his expenses to Cambridge, where he intended to compete for that truest of all lotteries—an open scholarship.
She would have preferred Oxford as the arena of his struggles and trials, because her father and brother had both belonged to one of the colleges there. But then it was more expensive, add every sovereign had to be looked at.
Young Leverall was persevering and studious; he was therefore successful. He returned in triumph, while his mother stifled him with embraces.
Bertha, who was sternly classical, crowned him with a wreath of laurels. Then she gazed at his black and silvery hair, from which the green leaves peeped forth here and there like Dryads sporting in a dark cave.
She gazed at his soft hazel eyes, and at his cheeks, which care and thought had made so pale. Unable to restrain her inexpressible love, she flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him and toyed with his hair till the leaves fell one by one crumpled to the ground.
Mrs. Leverall shook her head, and then burst into tears; she saw it was a bad omen. Her son and daughter laughed at her, for these superstitions are only cherished by children and the aged, as shadows are longest and darkest in the morn and in the eve.
With the little which he had earned fromalma mater, and with the little which his own mother could afford to give him, he was able to pay his college fees, his room rent, his kitchen bills, and to buy himself clothes. But he was obliged to be very economical, and it was this very economy which drove him within himself and to habits of solitude.
At first fresh from school, where his mother’s straitened means had not prevented him from joining in the amusements of his fellows, he would sometimes pause in his work and look and listen with something of envy to the windows which were blazing with light and to the gay laughter, and the loud chorus of the bacchanalian song.
Soon, however, he learned to despise these boisterous pleasures, for he discovered from the faces and words of their voteries that they, despite their forced uproarious merriment, were not so happy as himself.
He would have become a misanthrope had not his heart been touched by a gentler and more refined influence.
A new spirit seemed to seize him. It did not descend in the shape of a vulture or a raven, as it descends upon fanatics and bigots—if it ever descends upon them at all—but rather in the form of a white and gentle dove.
One morning he awoke a different man. He no longer confined himself to his solitary room or pored over his ponderous books.
Stamping out the last spark of foolish pride with the iron heel of an indomitable will, and disregarding the professed scorn of his college companions, he joined them, and talked with them, hoping that some day he might be able to do them good.
When they found that he was unlike the other needy scholars who, to a man, condemned those innocent luxuries which they were too poor to afford, they began to like him, in spite of his shabby clothes and the tallow candles which he burnt over his Whately and Æschylus.
By the time he had taken his degree with high honours there was not a man in the college who did not respect him, and there were many who were deeply attached to him.
Mr. Leverall was a general favourite, and it would have been strange indeed if it had been otherwise, seeing that he was so unassuming, so gentle and kind to all who came within his influence. The old adage of “winning golden opinions from all sorts of people” might be applied to him.
He had studied hard, was an enthusiast, and looked hopefully to the future. But man’s hopes are not at all times destined to be fulfilled—indeed, but too frequently the reverse is the case.
His mother spoke to him of those distant and almost unknown lands, where savages, with wandering feet and restless hearts, existed in a state of barbarism.
His imagination was fired by the idea of treading where no white foot had ever trod before, of encountering dangers, of civilising a whole nation to the science and commerce of man, and of leading it to the right faith.
A new society had been formed, who were preparing a crusade against the wooden idols of some obscure Indian tribe in South America.
He applied for the post of missionary. His fame and learning and the great eulogiums which his tutors had passed upon his character obtained him the appointment.
The vessel was to sail in about three weeks, and this time he was invited to spend with one of the members of the society.
He had never been in the metropolis before; his eyes and brain were bewildered by the vast chaos of men and houses through which he hurried in an open vehicle.
The next day he walked out alone to study the great city which he might perhaps never see again.
He was looking with wonder at one of those shops, which are as large and massive as a castle, and pondering upon the wealth and enterprise of his countrymen, when a horrible sight met his eyes.
It was a woman so thin, so miserably thin, that she was almost a skeleton; her bones seemed to protrude through her skin, her eyes were hollow, her features pinched and shrivelled.
She wore no dress but a tattered shawl, which could scarcely conceal her shoulders, and a skirt which hung round her wasted limbs in tatters.
Two infants naked and blue with cold were clinging to her for warmth, which she tried to give them with her attenuated arms.
When he saw this he was nearly overcome. Several persons passed her; some were tradesmen, other professional gentlemen, and some were well-dressed ladies with kind benignant countenances.
With words so faint that they resembled moans, and with hands outstretched, this wretched woman appealed to them for alms, but they passed by without deigning to take any notice of her or her supplication.
This continued for some little time, during which Mr. Leverall looked at each passenger as he or she went by.
Presently a policeman came upon the scene, he ordered her, in a sharp angry tone, to move on. She looked tearfully at his face, saw no mercy there, and was about to leave the spot.
Leverall could bear it no longer—he gave her all the money he had with him, and walked quietly away without listening to her shrill and almost delirious exclamations of delight.
In ten minutes he regretted that he had not gone home for more money, but in ten minutes more he began to learn that it required unlimited means, boundless wealth, to relieve the distress one witnesses in certain parts of the metropolis.
Anxious to learn the worst he turned down the narrowest and darkest street he could find, where the shops were of the lowest and filthiest description, where the atmosphere was tainted as with a pestilence, where the streets were knee-deep in mud and putrid vegetables, where squalid children were paddling about, heedless of the unwholesome atmosphere and its surroundings.
Where all starved, and sinned, and drank—the men to nerve themselves for deeds of crime, the women to gain the high spirits and false smiles wherewith to deceive their victims, the children because their mothers taught them to, and because they were hungry.
It must be conceded that this picture is a repulsive one, but is nevertheless such as one sees in the noisome dens of the great city.
It is in vain to legislate for people of this class so long as their homes and the internal arrangements of their habitations remain as they are at the present period.
It is in vain to attempt to disguise the fact.
Mr. Leverall was in the midst of a populous district, where infants were born and old men and women died with no hand stretched out to feed their bodies, to ameliorate their condition of squalid misery, or to save their souls.
He saw enough in one day to convince him that there were thousands at home who were quite as demoralised as the savages abroad.
That night he sent in his resignation, stating his reasons. Half the mission disbelieved him and called him an impostor—the other half believed him and called him a madman.
His friend remonstrated with him, showed him what a brilliant opening he was about to throw away, and assured him that several missions had been started to ameliorate the condition of the London poor, that every effort had been made to bring about a better state of things, but that in almost every instance the success had not been at all commensurate with the time and money expended.
Leverall had his own opinion upon the subject. He could not bring himself to believe that the mission or those appointed as its agents had set the right way about the work of reformation.
The arguments, therefore, made use of by his friend only strengthened him in his resolution.
The missionaries he had worshipped then were only cowards who abandoned a difficult task at home in order to obtain an easy victory abroad. To him difficulties in his narrow path were but mountains by which he could climb to the goal upon which he had set his heart.
He visited the husband of the lady whom his mother had served as a companion. This gentleman was rich and had influence in several quarters. He had an antipathy to foreign charity and home heartlessness; he was a practical man, who was not easily bamboozled by cant or hypocrisy, and he could not restrain his admiration as he listened to the glowing description of the young man who, on the short but incontestable experiences of a few hours, had given up a liberal income from motives which, to say the least, were both honest and reasonable.
“I think I understand you, Leverall,” said his patron. “You think that there is plenty of work at home for a zealous minister—more than enough work in the dens of London.”
“I feel assured of it, sir.”
“But the task is not an easy one, and hence it is that so many who have undertaken it have given it up as hopeless.”
“I do not intend to follow their example,” said Leverall, in a tone of confidence.
His companion smiled.
“You will have to cope,” said he, “not with untutored savages, who, as a rule listen readily, I am told, to the words of those whom they acknowledge to be superior to themselves, but with men who are seared by crime, brutalised by drink, and embittered by misfortune. At present you are young; you have energy, patience, and hope, but you have no experience.”
“That I admit; but experience I shall get as I proceed with my task.”
“My very excellent young friend, be assured that no great design has yet succeeded which has not been matured with profound thought and deliberation.”
“Without doubt that is so.”
“Therefore, all things considered, I bid you think twice before you start on a crusade which might after all turn out, not only immensely laborious, but perhaps in the end unsatisfactory.”
“I do not view it in that light.”
“Perhaps not, but I do.”
“You are without doubt the best judge.”
“Well, Mr. Leverall, I have been thinking the matter over for some little time, and I am glad you have come here to seek my advice in the matter. I tell you what I can do—at least I hope I shall succeed, if it meets with your approval. The chaplaincy of one of our county prisons is at present vacant, apply for the appointment, and I will exert my interest in your favour.”
“Oh, sir, I am indeed obliged by this kind offer.”
“Then you consent?”
“Most willingly.”
“In prison you will meet with criminals of the worst type—you will also meet with many whom a timely word of warning will turn to the path of rectitude. It will be a fine arena for you to study the human character, and in a very short time you will have a practical knowlede of erring man. Your salary will not be very large, but will suffice for your immediate necessities, and I will give you a certain sum of money to expend upon books and whatever else you may deem necessary for the good of those placed under your charge. Keep an account of this money, with a diary of your doings, and send them to me every three months.”
“Accept my most sincere and heartfelt thanks,” cried the young minister.
“When I see that you have grown wise enough to be the leader of a mission,” said his patron with a winning smile, “I will liberate you from your apprenticeship.”
Leverall applied for the appointment, which he readily obtained, through the influence of his friend and counsellor.
Had Laura Stanbridge been able to see into this young man’s heart, which was so gentle and so pure—could she have guessed this divine scheme which was germinating in his brain, and which raised him above all vulgar passions, she would perhaps have despaired of destroying in a few days that which had been implanted at his birth, and which gave promise of such fair fruit.
He was not satisfied with the one hour of communion with the prisoners appointed by the law—it was his practice to visit them all in their cells privately every day.
He had heard thatNo.43 was a noted female thief, and he approached her cell with some little mistrust. This statement, however, was altogether erroneous, as many other statements sometimes are, either out of prison or within its walls.
Laura had never been before in trouble—that is, in other words, she had never been in prison, albeit she had been living by dishonest means for a number of years.
The chaplain had expected to find one of those hardened women who are worse than the vilest of men, and who so often replied to his kind words with coarse invectives or obscene jests.
When he entered the cell he started, for he saw a young woman, pale and beautiful, who was seated on a wooden stool, with one hand, limp and motionless, in her lap—with the other supporting her head, half concealed in her beautiful brown hair.
The chaplain gazed for a moment, wonder-stricken, at the graceful form of the prisoner, who was the very personification of grief and resignation. Her manner was subdued, and it might be said refined.
Mr. Leverall thought there must be some mistake. Surely the fair creature before him could not be a hardened offender. He came at once to the conclusion that the authorities were in error, and nothing could dispossess him of this impression.
Laura Stanbridge had observed his start, and the expression of surprise which sat on his countenance. She was about to play a part, and all her hopes depended upon the skill with which she performed it.
“You are one of the fresh arrivals in this gaol, I believe?” said Mr. Leverall.
She answered by an inclination of her head.
“Charged with shoplifting—is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered; “I am charged, that is all.”
“You hope to prove your innocence?”
“Indeed I do.”
“I also hope so.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He took a volume from his pocket, and said kindly—
“Will you allow me to read to you a little from this book?”
She did not reply by words, but again nodded her head, and then heaved a profound sigh.
“Poor thing! She is in great trouble, evidently,” murmured the chaplain.
He then commenced reading. She listened intently, not to the words but to the voice, through the tones of which she hoped to read his heart. She was an adept in divining the disposition of a person by the tone of his voice. She found his was firm and melodious, but also firm and regular in its accent. She looked earnestly at his face through her long eyelashes—an art which is much studied by women, and which she had practised to perfection. In cunning she was almost a match for Charles Peace, and this our hero was very well aware of, for he had at all times been duly impressed with the powers of discernment. He knew her to be a remarkably clever woman, as false and unprincipled as she was clever. These were qualities which were duly estimated by the notorious burglar.
She continued her scrutiny of the prison chaplain, but could discover no symptoms of an amorous or voluptuous temperament in him. His complexion was clear, his forehead high, his eyes mild and open, while his chin was strongly marked and his mouth finely but firmly modelled.
From his voice and face she learnt that he was not only virtuous but firm. Her first glimpse had caused her to hope; her scrutiny almost made her despair. But this shadow of despair strengthened her determination, as those fight most fiercely who stand on the brink of a precipice with their backs to the abyss.
“It is my only chance,” she reflected. “If I fail with him—if he will not listen to my entreaties—I am lost, irretrievably lost. I can do nothing with my gaolers—who will be women against a woman and fierce men against the prisoner. I can do nothing with the governor, who is a regulated machine. This man is young and pious—he is in all probability inexperienced and innocent. So much the better for my purpose. He is human—is to be wrought upon—not by gold, but by words, and—well, we shall see.”
Absorbed in these thoughts she did not hear what he said to her; she only heard an indistinct sound, like the murmuring of distant waters.
When it ceased she glanced through her eyelashes, and saw that he was preparing to go. As he opened the door he looked at her compassionately.
She listened to his retreating footsteps till they became inaudible. Then she clenched her hands together.
“He started. I have made an impression on him—perhaps he admires me. Ah, I will teach him to adore me.”
She gave a laugh, and walked to and fro like a leopardess in an iron cage.
“He looked at me sadly as he went out. Good—that is well. I think he is impressionable, and has, moreover, one spark of pity for me in his breast. Out of that one spark I will raise a fire which may light me out of these accursed walls.”