CHAPTERCXIX.LAURA STANBRIDGE AND THE CHAPLAIN—AN IRRESISTIBLE APPEAL—THE ESCAPE.The attempted escape of Mat Murdock had, by this time, become known to most of the inmates of the gaol, and there were many who deeply regretted that the pirate had been so unsuccessful, for there is always a certain amount of sympathy evinced by prisoners for one who has had tact and address enough to plan and carry out any scheme for breaking through the walls, bolts, or bars of the gaol.Although most of Murdock’s fellow-prisoners sympathised with him, they were discreet enough to refrain from expressing their opinions openly to any of the officials of the gaol.Laura Stanbridge had learnt the whole history from one of the female warders who had her in their charge. She was by this time on familiar and friendly terms with both of these women, who professed to be greatly interested in her.The reason for this was obvious enough. Laura had liberally showered her gifts upon them, and hence their altered demeanour towards her.She had a scheme in her head which she hoped to carry out before the day of trial arrived. She was perfectly well aware that if found guilty she would not have a very lengthened term of imprisonment, but she had special reasons for not running the risk of a conviction. She hoped to get clean away by some means or another.This designing woman already exercised a powerful influence over Mr. Leverall, who, to say the truth, became each day more and more fascinated with her.She was always in his thoughts, and he was ashamed to confess to himself the precise nature of these, which, to say the truth, he could not analyse.He strove, however, to dismiss her image from his mind, but the more he tried the less successful he seemed to be.It was strange—indeed marvellous—but his was not a solitary case, either with churchmen, heroes, or sages, who are one and all open to the wiles and blandishments of an artful and designing beauty.While the miserable and ill-fated pirate was tossing uneasily on his pallet, his mind filled with visions of the liberty he was never destined to realise, Mr. Leverall was giving more of his time to the prisoner in cell No. 43 than the exigencies of the case would seem to warrant, but nobody took heed of this.It is true the two women attendants remarked to each other that the chaplain appeared to be a bit sweet onNo.43, but there was after all nothing surprising in this.Ministers, like other men, had their favourites in the prison, and it was quite certain, so they averred, that Mr. Leverall had effected a great change in Miss Stanbridge, and it was equally certain, although they did not say so, that she had effected a still greater change in him.On the morning after Murdock’s attempted escape Laura Stanbridge received another visit from the man who passed as her uncle.Bandy-legged Bill brought her a fresh supply of money, and, in answer to her inquiries, informed her that he had called repeatedly at her house and informed the maid-servant that her mistress would return to London shortly.He also said that Mr. Gatliffe had made repeated inquiries after her, and that Alf Purvis had been most insulting to him (Bill), declaring that he did not believe he had any authority to visit the house from its mistress.As may be readily imagined, Bill retorted. In consequence of this a wordy war ensued, and Purvis ordered the gipsy not to show his face there again; but the latter, as he termed it, “was not to be sat upon” by a conceited puppy like that, and he, therefore, told him that if he gave him any “more of his cheek, he’d give him a prop in the eye” as soon as look at him.They were very nearly coming to blows there and then, but Mr. Purvis was under the impression that he might get the worst of it; so he was fain to be a little more moderate in his language.“And I’d ha’ done it, and no flies,” said Rawton. “There aint any mistake about that; ’taint likely I’d submit to be bullyragged by the young hound, and be hanged to him.”“He’s a conceited fellow, Bill,” observed Laura. “Everybody knows that, but don’t take any notice of what he says. It is isn’t worth while.”“I don’t know so much about that,” returned the gipsy, with a nod. “A sound thrashing u’d do my gentleman a world of good, and he’ll have it some of these days, mark you that.”“And how about Charlie Peace—I mean Mr. Thompson?” inquired the fair prisoner.“Oh, he’s as right as the mail. Sent his love to you and all good wishes, but he dursn’t come himself, because you see he might be recognised, and then the game would be up, and Charlie would be quodded. Oh, don’t think anything the worse of him for it; but he can’t come.”“I understand that. I don’t wish him to come—it would be the worst of folly for him to do so.”After a short interview the gipsy took his departure, and returned to the Evalina-road to report progress.As the evening drew on Mr. Leverall entered cellNo.43, and found its occupant reading and in tears.He was deeply moved, and drew towards her.“How is this?” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “In tears?”She looked up at him, and made room on the seat.He sat down beside her.“You are weeping,” he said.“Oh, sir, you little know the miserable hours I pass when you are away, and I have no friend or counsellor—no one to sympathise with me. What am I to do? How am I to avoid exposure, disgrace, ignominy?”She sobbed convulsively.He endeavoured to pacify her, and to change the subject of her thoughts, gave her a succint account of Murdock’s attempt at escape, the injuries he had received therefrom, and his present condition.“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed, when the narrative had been brought to a conclusion; “I can indeed sympathise with him, for I am in much the same position myself. Escape! Do you hear, my kind and benevolent friend—my saviour? If I could escape!”As she uttered these last words in a low, hissing whisper she crept closer to him, placed her rich ruddy lips close to his ear and repeated them again and again.He started and almost trembled.“Do you understand?” said she, her cheek touching his as she made this last inquiry.“Impossible—quite impossible,” he murmured.“Nothing is impossible to those who have a will, who are earnest and firm of purpose. Nothing!”He shook his head, but made no reply in words.“Ah, sir,” she ejaculated in a persuasive tone. “Take pity on me, and you will be rewarded, be solaced when you reflect that you have been instrumental in rescuing a contrite woman from the dark abyss which lies before her. You, so good, so gentle, whom I love with all the ardour of an affectionate nature—you will aid me, I am sure you will.”She took his hand within her own soft silky palm, and pressed it with every demonstration of affection.He knew not what reply to make—his mind seemed to be in a perfect chaos—his temples throbbed, and he felt like one who is on the brink of a precipice.She poured into his ear a plaintive and urgent appeal.“My dear young creature, what can I do in this business?”“Much,” said she. “Answer me one question.”“What is it?”“Do you wish me free?”“Indeed I do,” he answered.“That is spoken from the heart,” said she; “it is genuine. You do wish me well, I feel assured of that.”She bent forward and her beautiful bust became half-revealed by this action, for her dress was unfastened in front (accidentally of course).But Mr. Leverall was an exemplary virtuous and pious young man, yet he was human, and being so was subject to the passions and frailties which the best and most rigid-minded persons find at times to be all-powerful.For the first time, perhaps, he discovered that he was enamoured of the seductive creature by his side, and she had sufficient penetration to perceive this also.She was now convinced that she had won the prize which she had sought with so much patience and industry.“You will aid me,” she murmured, as she placed her cheek against his. “I am sure you will.”He made no reply.He was what the corner-man of a nigger troupe would call “a gone coon.”The huntress had him in her toils.“You will,” she repeated. “If you could see into this heart!”She placed his hand beneath the folds of her bodice on her bare bosom.The young chaplain was astounded—he was in a delirium of delight.With his disengaged arm he pressed her form, and covered her cheeks and lips with burning and passionate kisses.* * * * *It was night in the prison.For a few hours all punishments were past—all cares were forgotten.It was night in the prison, and all save Murdock and his attendant slept—the guilty with the innocent—the prisoners with the gaolers—the chained with the free.Pale moonbeams threw a faint light upon the long dusky corridor, and filled it with wild, uncouth, fantastic shadows.But soon a stranger shadow still—it moved—it glided silently by the wall.A key turned softly in the lock—a door opened by inches—two shadows floated across the floor.Another door opened—this time with more noise—it was the door of the corridor.The moonbeams disappeared. All was dark in the prison—dark and impenetrable us a demon’s mind: dark and gloomy as a lost soul’s despair.That night the tolling of the deep-toned bell awoke the frightened inhabitants of Clickbourne from their sleep. It was the alarm bell of the gaol—one of the prisoners had escaped.The dulcet voice of a woman proved to be a more potent agent than the brawny arms of Murdock the pirate.
The attempted escape of Mat Murdock had, by this time, become known to most of the inmates of the gaol, and there were many who deeply regretted that the pirate had been so unsuccessful, for there is always a certain amount of sympathy evinced by prisoners for one who has had tact and address enough to plan and carry out any scheme for breaking through the walls, bolts, or bars of the gaol.
Although most of Murdock’s fellow-prisoners sympathised with him, they were discreet enough to refrain from expressing their opinions openly to any of the officials of the gaol.
Laura Stanbridge had learnt the whole history from one of the female warders who had her in their charge. She was by this time on familiar and friendly terms with both of these women, who professed to be greatly interested in her.
The reason for this was obvious enough. Laura had liberally showered her gifts upon them, and hence their altered demeanour towards her.
She had a scheme in her head which she hoped to carry out before the day of trial arrived. She was perfectly well aware that if found guilty she would not have a very lengthened term of imprisonment, but she had special reasons for not running the risk of a conviction. She hoped to get clean away by some means or another.
This designing woman already exercised a powerful influence over Mr. Leverall, who, to say the truth, became each day more and more fascinated with her.
She was always in his thoughts, and he was ashamed to confess to himself the precise nature of these, which, to say the truth, he could not analyse.
He strove, however, to dismiss her image from his mind, but the more he tried the less successful he seemed to be.
It was strange—indeed marvellous—but his was not a solitary case, either with churchmen, heroes, or sages, who are one and all open to the wiles and blandishments of an artful and designing beauty.
While the miserable and ill-fated pirate was tossing uneasily on his pallet, his mind filled with visions of the liberty he was never destined to realise, Mr. Leverall was giving more of his time to the prisoner in cell No. 43 than the exigencies of the case would seem to warrant, but nobody took heed of this.
It is true the two women attendants remarked to each other that the chaplain appeared to be a bit sweet onNo.43, but there was after all nothing surprising in this.
Ministers, like other men, had their favourites in the prison, and it was quite certain, so they averred, that Mr. Leverall had effected a great change in Miss Stanbridge, and it was equally certain, although they did not say so, that she had effected a still greater change in him.
On the morning after Murdock’s attempted escape Laura Stanbridge received another visit from the man who passed as her uncle.
Bandy-legged Bill brought her a fresh supply of money, and, in answer to her inquiries, informed her that he had called repeatedly at her house and informed the maid-servant that her mistress would return to London shortly.
He also said that Mr. Gatliffe had made repeated inquiries after her, and that Alf Purvis had been most insulting to him (Bill), declaring that he did not believe he had any authority to visit the house from its mistress.
As may be readily imagined, Bill retorted. In consequence of this a wordy war ensued, and Purvis ordered the gipsy not to show his face there again; but the latter, as he termed it, “was not to be sat upon” by a conceited puppy like that, and he, therefore, told him that if he gave him any “more of his cheek, he’d give him a prop in the eye” as soon as look at him.
They were very nearly coming to blows there and then, but Mr. Purvis was under the impression that he might get the worst of it; so he was fain to be a little more moderate in his language.
“And I’d ha’ done it, and no flies,” said Rawton. “There aint any mistake about that; ’taint likely I’d submit to be bullyragged by the young hound, and be hanged to him.”
“He’s a conceited fellow, Bill,” observed Laura. “Everybody knows that, but don’t take any notice of what he says. It is isn’t worth while.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” returned the gipsy, with a nod. “A sound thrashing u’d do my gentleman a world of good, and he’ll have it some of these days, mark you that.”
“And how about Charlie Peace—I mean Mr. Thompson?” inquired the fair prisoner.
“Oh, he’s as right as the mail. Sent his love to you and all good wishes, but he dursn’t come himself, because you see he might be recognised, and then the game would be up, and Charlie would be quodded. Oh, don’t think anything the worse of him for it; but he can’t come.”
“I understand that. I don’t wish him to come—it would be the worst of folly for him to do so.”
After a short interview the gipsy took his departure, and returned to the Evalina-road to report progress.
As the evening drew on Mr. Leverall entered cellNo.43, and found its occupant reading and in tears.
He was deeply moved, and drew towards her.
“How is this?” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “In tears?”
She looked up at him, and made room on the seat.
He sat down beside her.
“You are weeping,” he said.
“Oh, sir, you little know the miserable hours I pass when you are away, and I have no friend or counsellor—no one to sympathise with me. What am I to do? How am I to avoid exposure, disgrace, ignominy?”
She sobbed convulsively.
He endeavoured to pacify her, and to change the subject of her thoughts, gave her a succint account of Murdock’s attempt at escape, the injuries he had received therefrom, and his present condition.
“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed, when the narrative had been brought to a conclusion; “I can indeed sympathise with him, for I am in much the same position myself. Escape! Do you hear, my kind and benevolent friend—my saviour? If I could escape!”
As she uttered these last words in a low, hissing whisper she crept closer to him, placed her rich ruddy lips close to his ear and repeated them again and again.
He started and almost trembled.
“Do you understand?” said she, her cheek touching his as she made this last inquiry.
“Impossible—quite impossible,” he murmured.
“Nothing is impossible to those who have a will, who are earnest and firm of purpose. Nothing!”
He shook his head, but made no reply in words.
“Ah, sir,” she ejaculated in a persuasive tone. “Take pity on me, and you will be rewarded, be solaced when you reflect that you have been instrumental in rescuing a contrite woman from the dark abyss which lies before her. You, so good, so gentle, whom I love with all the ardour of an affectionate nature—you will aid me, I am sure you will.”
She took his hand within her own soft silky palm, and pressed it with every demonstration of affection.
He knew not what reply to make—his mind seemed to be in a perfect chaos—his temples throbbed, and he felt like one who is on the brink of a precipice.
She poured into his ear a plaintive and urgent appeal.
“My dear young creature, what can I do in this business?”
“Much,” said she. “Answer me one question.”
“What is it?”
“Do you wish me free?”
“Indeed I do,” he answered.
“That is spoken from the heart,” said she; “it is genuine. You do wish me well, I feel assured of that.”
She bent forward and her beautiful bust became half-revealed by this action, for her dress was unfastened in front (accidentally of course).
But Mr. Leverall was an exemplary virtuous and pious young man, yet he was human, and being so was subject to the passions and frailties which the best and most rigid-minded persons find at times to be all-powerful.
For the first time, perhaps, he discovered that he was enamoured of the seductive creature by his side, and she had sufficient penetration to perceive this also.
She was now convinced that she had won the prize which she had sought with so much patience and industry.
“You will aid me,” she murmured, as she placed her cheek against his. “I am sure you will.”
He made no reply.
He was what the corner-man of a nigger troupe would call “a gone coon.”
The huntress had him in her toils.
“You will,” she repeated. “If you could see into this heart!”
She placed his hand beneath the folds of her bodice on her bare bosom.
The young chaplain was astounded—he was in a delirium of delight.
With his disengaged arm he pressed her form, and covered her cheeks and lips with burning and passionate kisses.
* * * * *
It was night in the prison.
For a few hours all punishments were past—all cares were forgotten.
It was night in the prison, and all save Murdock and his attendant slept—the guilty with the innocent—the prisoners with the gaolers—the chained with the free.
Pale moonbeams threw a faint light upon the long dusky corridor, and filled it with wild, uncouth, fantastic shadows.
But soon a stranger shadow still—it moved—it glided silently by the wall.
A key turned softly in the lock—a door opened by inches—two shadows floated across the floor.
Another door opened—this time with more noise—it was the door of the corridor.
The moonbeams disappeared. All was dark in the prison—dark and impenetrable us a demon’s mind: dark and gloomy as a lost soul’s despair.
That night the tolling of the deep-toned bell awoke the frightened inhabitants of Clickbourne from their sleep. It was the alarm bell of the gaol—one of the prisoners had escaped.
The dulcet voice of a woman proved to be a more potent agent than the brawny arms of Murdock the pirate.