CHAPTER IXOld NewgateWe have all read, and we all know by hearsay, how, till within the last century, the prisons were worse than the lowest hovels. We know and honour the men and women by whose influence humanity was brought to bear upon them. What they must have been two centuries earlier passes all imagination.We learn from old chronicles that as far back as 1218 the prison of Newgate existed. It was built in the portal of the new gate of the city, and from that fact took its name. Two centuries later it was rebuilt by the executors of the famous Sir Richard Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and his statue with his cat stood in a niche. This building was destroyed in the great fire of which we shall soon be telling. It was here, in old Newgate, that Colonel Newbolt was imprisoned--a noisome place, within high, dark, stone walls, without windows, where the prisoners were crowded together irrespective of age or sex. At the time we are writing of, it was crowded to excess. To obtain a wisp of straw to lie upon at night, and the space necessary for a litter, meant a hand-to-hand fight between the occupants.The jailers reaped a rich harvest, charging fabulous prices for the merest necessaries. There was no provision made for sickness, not even for the ordinary decencies of life; men and women of every class were herded together.It is easy to imagine Colonel Newbolt's feelings when he was thrust into this den. On the first day he bore it with a certain amount of equanimity, feeling assured that he would be released on the morrow; but when two or three days passed by, and all the money he had on his person was expended, he was seriously disquieted, wondering why Reginald or some other of his friends did not come to his rescue. He could not know that Reginald had been daily at the prison, and had expended a considerable sum of money in pleading with the jailers for news of his father. He was dismissed with the assurance that his father's name was not on the prison list; they could not find the man.This answer was given purposely. It would not have suited the jailers to find their man too soon, for then the enquiry money would cease to fall into their pockets, so they sent Reginald to Aldersgate and to smaller jails, of which there were several. Four days had elapsed after his father's arrest before Reginald was admitted into the prison and allowed to interview him.He was horrified when he saw him. From a hale, fine-looking soldier he had dwindled into an old man, with sunken eyes and haggard face. His lace ruffles and jabot had been torn to shreds. He had had no change of linen, the lappets of his coat had been wrenched away, his head was bare, and his hair bleached.He staggered as he came into the guard-room, and in his impotent rage shook his fist in Reginald's face."What do you mean, sirrah," he cried, "by leaving me in this condition?""Father, I did not leave you," said Reginald, tears gathering in his eyes. "I have been here daily, and could get no news of you. They have sent me about to the right and to the left; only to-day have I found you.""The rascals!" said the colonel in a low voice, fearful of being overheard. "I am starved, Reginald," he continued, "I am unclean. I would sooner die than remain thus; ay, they will kill me before they bring me to trial. Is this what the king promised us? Is this the royal clemency?""Hush, Father, hush!" said Reginald, for in his excitement he had raised his voice. "I have brought gold; I will see what I can do for you."He looked round, and seeing a keeper whose face seemed less evil than the others, he beckoned to him.Slowly and sullenly the man came forward."Look here!" said Reginald, "if you can find the smallest cell in which my father can be alone I will give you fifty crowns.""If you offered me a hundred I couldn't do it," said the man; "the place is crowded from top to bottom, and more prisoners are coming in every hour.""But surely there must be some place less horrible than the one I am now in," said Colonel Newbolt. "I am herded with the scum of the earth. I hear nothing but cursing and swearing all the live-long day and throughout the night. I am covered with vermin. I will give thee a hundred crowns, sirrah, if thou wilt get me out of this."The man thrust his hands into his pockets. A hundred crowns was an offer he did not often get."I am sick, sick unto death," continued the colonel."Then I will report you to the head keeper," said the man quickly, "and he will report you to the governor, and he will--I don't know what he'll think proper to do.""In the meantime must I go back to that hell?" said the colonel. "Give me a knife and let me cut my throat!""We don't have that sort of thing done here," answered the jailer; "we keep no knives and no ropes inside the jail.""Listen!" said Reginald. "Surely there must be some place, some cell in which there are three or four privileged prisoners, where you could manage to put my father until I take measures for his removal. Go at once and speak to the head jailer."Saying this, Reginald put money into the man's hand. "Not a groat more do you get," he said, "if you do not succeed, but I will double it if you do."He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm, succeeded in finding a seat in a far corner of the room."See, Father, I have brought you food!" he said. He cut the strings of a basket which he had been carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white bread, and a flask of brandy.The prisoner flew at the brandy. Reginald was forced to stop him."Gently, Father, gently," he said, "you will make yourself ill; there is no hurry." And he handed him bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.The keepers, noting that the young man wore the king's uniform, and that the old man, even in his soiled clothes, had an air of distinction, let them be. Besides, Reginald was generous with his money; he knew there was no other means by which to gain a little respite.When his father had eaten and drunk, more perhaps than was good for him, he laid his head back on the wall and went to sleep. Reginald kept watch over him. Once or twice the keepers came up and would have roused him and sent him back to the common prison, but Reginald pleaded:"Let him be a little longer," he said; "I am waiting for a message from the governor." Again money passed from hand to hand, and they were let alone.Not till the day was far advanced did the first keeper return."The governor will see you," he said; "follow me."Reginald looked at his father. If he roused him now would he be sensible?"Father!" he said, bending over him.The colonel started and opened his eyes, but his mind seemed to be wandering. He stood up, gave the word of command, as if he had been on parade, then, looking round him, he said: "Where am I? What does it mean?""He is in delirium," said Reginald in a low voice to the keeper. "Take hold of him on one side and I will take him on the other; the governor can judge for himself." So they crossed the room, the old man muttering and talking to himself, until they came to the governor's room.To Reginald's surprise, he proved to be an old friend of his father's, who, however, had kept fairly quiet, and had not been in any way offensive either to the Commonwealth or to the king's Government. It was not in his power to remedy the state of the prison, and he had no thought of attempting to do so. A prison was a prison in those days. Prisoners, if refractory, were chained up like wild beasts and kept on bread and water. They lived or died, as the case might be; some went under at once, others, thanks to stronger constitutions, managed to survive, until they were dragged on hurdles to execution, or by some lucky chance found their way out of that prison-house, brutalized, hating both God and man.When the governor, looking up, saw Reginald and his father, he said shortly:"When I heard your name, I wondered what Newbolt it was. How happens it that your father has let himself fall into this strait? I thought he was a cleverer man.""There must be a traitor somewhere," said Reginald. "My father has taken the oath of allegiance; he went with General Monk to meet the king on his return. I, who have never drawn sword in any other cause, hold a commission from the king in his own Guards. But some traitor has informed his majesty of what, alas! is only too true, that my father was captain of a body of troops who kept the streets at the time of the execution of his most gracious majesty, Charles I--hence his arrest.""Ah, that is compromising!" said the governor. "Do you know who the informant was?""No, I do not," answered Reginald, "but I will make it my business to find out. There is no denying the fact that my father was on duty that day. He was arrested four days ago, and see what it has made of him! He was a strong, hale man when he came here. I ask your clemency for him.""It is a common case," said the governor. "The class of men to which your father belongs cannot stand this place. I will do what I can. He has caught jail fever. Put him in yonder chair."The keeper and Reginald obeyed, the old man talking and jabbering all the time.Reginald stood before the governor, who continued: "You see, we cannot put him back into the public room, and there is not a free cell. You may believe me or not as you choose, the prison is literally swarming. Knight," he said, addressing the keeper, "is there any hole you can give the colonel to lie in until I can get him removed?""There is the cell at the end of the right-hand corridor, where that madman was confined; he died yesterday. His body was thrown out to-day, but the cell has not been cleaned yet; it is not fit to put even a dog into.""Let it be done immediately," said the governor. "Let fresh straw be laid down and the colonel carried thither. I give him into your hands, Knight. I think you will find it worth your while to treat him well," he added, with a glance at Reginald."I have promised him a hundred crowns; I do not care if I make it two hundred," answered the young man."Sir," said Knight, "I thank you. May I leave the gentleman here whilst I see to the cleaning of that dog's kennel?"The governor nodded.Worn out, the colonel's head fell on his breast; he was in a sort of coma."I'll write a letter," said the governor, "which you may take to the Secretary of State, or, if you prefer it, to the king himself. If you can get an audience, that might be better. If your father is really to be prosecuted, he must be removed from this prison to Aldersgate.""I do not think he will be removed anywhere except fro his last resting-place," said Reginald."Tut, tut! men do not die so easily," said the governor. "That is our strong point. I will represent that if the colonel is left here he will certainly die, and then who would pay the fine, which will be the least thing imposed upon him? The king's exchequer, they say, is empty, and there is nothing to be got out of a dead dog; therefore, you see, it is to their interest to keep him alive. Rest assured they will nurse him with the utmost tenderness, so that, if he be hanged, he may be hanged alive, and his lands forfeited to the crown. If he dies now, you will inherit; you have committed no misdemeanour. On the contrary, you are the king's man, and they cannot, in all decency, prosecute you. Do you understand?""Yes, I understand," said Reginald, with evident disgust. "Write the letter for me, sir, and I will carry it."The governor scrawled a few lines, folded it, and gave it to Reginald."I think you will find that serve your purpose," he said."May I send clean linen and clothes for my father?" asked Reginald. "He cannot remain as he is.""I should advise you to send nothing, but to bring everything," said the governor; "otherwise I greatly fear he will not benefit much. This is a den of thieves and robbers."Reginald hesitated for a moment, then he said:"And my mother! When she knows I have found my father, nothing will keep her away."The governor shrugged his shoulders."Then you must bring her, that is all," he said. "Knight will let you in the back way. Your father will not be so bad to look at when he is in his new cell. Now you must be gone; I have given you more time, young man, than I have favoured anyone with for months. Look through that window in the wall and you will see the crowd waiting to interview me.""I am more than grateful to you, sir," said Reginald."All right, all right!" answered the governor, holding out his hand. "We will try to pull him through; not that it will be easy, I warn you.""I fear not," answered Reginald; "nevertheless I thank you, sir," and, bowing to the governor, he turned round to where his father still sat in a deep, heavy slumber: his face was crimson, his hands, as Reginald felt them, were burning."I have cleaned the place up as best I could, sir. Shall we take him there at once?" said Knight, coming up."Yes," said Reginald shortly; and between them they carried the colonel down two or three long passages, lined on either side with cells. At the very end there was an open door, showing a cell of about eight feet square. Upon the ground in one corner was a heap of straw, which, with a table and a chair, both riveted to the wall, and a basin, completed the furniture."I found this here thing in the corner of the public room where the gentleman has been lying. I don't know how it has escaped the eyes of his late companions, but it has. I got it and brought it here. He will want it," said Knight.Reginald recognized his father's cloak, so they wrapped him up in it and laid him in the straw which was strewn on the damp floor."Look here, man," said Reginald, "I must go. I have pressing business. Here are the hundred crowns I promised you, and for every week he stays here and you care for him decently, you shall have as much again. I shall be back in a couple of hours with sheets and bedding, and all that is necessary for his comfort. You must fetch the doctor, and whatever he orders that you must provide.""Very good, sir, I understand," said Knight. "But I have other duties, you know; I cannot be always here.""Pass them over to someone else. I'll pay, as paying is the order of the day. Do you agree?""I should be a fool not to," answered Knight. "I'll see to the old man; you shall have nothing to complain of." And with that half-promise Reginald was obliged to be satisfied. With one more look at his father he went out.Knight followed him, closing and locking the door."You will lose your way unless I take you out," he said to Reginald. "You had better not come in at the front gate in future."So saying he guided him into a small courtyard, which was evidently seldom used. In it was a huge mastiff, which walked to and fro, snarling and growling. He sprang forward to meet the two men, and would have flown at Reginald if Knight had not caught him by the collar."Speak to him, caress him, then in future he will never hurt you," he said. "When you come back, bring him food; you must be friends."Reginald had a great liking for all animals. He spoke to the mastiff, which, after a few minutes' inspection, sniffed around, and suffered him to stroke him."That's all right," said Knight, satisfied.Taking a key off a bunch at his side he opened a side gate, and Reginald passed out into the street opposite the Old Bailey."You have only to ring that bell when you return," he said, pointing to a long iron chain by the door. "I shall answer."Reginald nodded, and went forth with a heavy heart, feeling as if years had passed over his head since he penetrated within the mighty walls which separated the prison of Newgate and its inmates from the outside world.CHAPTER XA LegendWhen Reginald returned to his mother he found her waiting impatiently for him; indeed, she had done so for the last three days. Her whole time had been spent between prayer and waiting, seated in the window with her hands folded.In the morning she attended to her household duties--she forgot nothing. It was with difficulty that they could get her to take any food; she seemed to have no need of it. Now, when she saw Reginald coming up the street, she said to Ann:"He has news--he has found your father." And she went to the door to meet him."Well?" she asked."Yes, I have found him," said Reginald; "but you must not rejoice too soon, Mother, for he is in a terrible condition.""Dying?" she asked."I cannot say, for I do not know," answered Reginald. "He is very ill--his sufferings have been great, and he is now delirious. I saw the governor, and he had him removed to a cell by himself. He is in want of everything. There are no rules to prevent our taking anything we choose to him.""And I may go to him?" she asked."Yes, you may go to him, but Ann must not," said Reginald; "the place reeks of fever, small-pox, and every other disease. You must be prepared for the worst, Mother.""Whatever the Lord orders is for the best," she answered."But what is to become of Ann? She cannot remain in this house alone," said Reginald."Take her to Patience," said Mistress Newbolt. "She can abide with her all day, and at night when I return you can fetch her--if I do return.""At sunset you must leave the prison, Mother; it is the rule.""Very well," said Mistress Newbolt, "I will abide by the rule. Now order a coach; I have everything ready.""I am afraid not everything," said Reginald. "He lacks bedding, sheets, the veriest necessaries. I left him lying on straw in a damp cell. I will order a cart to come round to take the larger luggage, but you must go in a coach.""I can walk if necessary," said Mistress Newbolt; "it is no great distance."Two hours were spent putting things together, providing food, broths, and jellies. Ann went about with her mother, thinking of everything. When all was ready and the coach was called, she said to Reginald:"Shall I not be allowed to go?""No, it is not a fit place for you," said Reginald; "and you would do no good. I don't know when I shall return myself, therefore you had better get your women to take you to Somerset House. You can tell them how matters stand, and I shall probably fetch you at nightfall, or when my mother comes back."Whilst they were still conversing, Mr. Delarry came up. It was by no means the first time he had come to the house--indeed, he and Reginald were very good friends, and he would frequently drop in to supper--but he had been away with the king at Hampton Court, and had only just heard of the colonel's arrest."I am deeply grieved for you," he said, "and I hastened here to tell you so. Is there anything I can do for you?""Nothing at present," said Reginald. "I have been three days finding my father, and now he is sick unto death; I do not know whether he will live. I am taking my mother to him. I have no time to say more, so farewell!"Mistress Newbolt appeared on the steps, and Reginald hastened to help her into the coach. Many of the servants had followed her, and were weeping. Although she was a stern mistress, she was a just one, and they all respected her."Delarry," said Reginald, before following his mother into the coach, "will you see my sister to Somerset House? She cannot stay here alone, and neither my mother nor myself can be back before nightfall.""If she will allow me to do so, I shall esteem it a favour," said Delarry. "And, Reginald, let me know if I can be of any use to you; I am at your service.""Many thanks!" said Reginald. "It is something to feel that one has a friend in these hard times." The two young men shook hands, Reginald took his place beside his mother, and they drove away. Ann went slowly back to the house, Delarry following her."Shall you go at once to Somerset House?" he asked."In about an hour," she answered. "I must put my mother's room in order, and attend to a few household duties. But do not let me detain you; my own woman will accompany me.""You would not grieve me thus?" said Delarry. "I esteem it a high honour to have been asked to take care of you.""Very well," said Ann, "come back in an hour, and I will be ready."He did so, and accompanied her the short distance from Drury Lane to Somerset House. They made no haste, for they liked each other's society.When they reached Somerset House they found Patience and Agnes on the terrace taking their mid-day airing."We did not venture to come to your house," said Patience, after greeting Ann and her companion, "for fear of disturbing your mother. We felt sure if you had news that you would send us word.""We have news," said Ann, "but it is of such an evil kind that the telling of it is grievous to me.""Still we must hear it," said Patience.They sat down on the bench facing the river, and there Ann told them all she knew."It is a very terrible state of affairs," said Delarry, looking serious; but he did not venture to say how serious he thought it, for he knew full well that the king was still very bitter against anyone who had had a hand in his father's murder. Nevertheless he tried to speak cheerfully."It will be better," he said, "for Reginald to go to the king himself. He is rather partial to the young man; indeed, only the other day he asked why he was not in attendance. He then learnt of the arrest of Colonel Newbolt, and expressed his regret that the son should have to suffer for the father."Ann coloured. "That means that Reginald will have to resign his commission," she said."I am afraid so," answered Delarry. "It would hardly do, when his father is imprisoned for connivance with the regicides, for him to remain in the king's service. But we cannot tell. Charles is a strange character; he may not choose to accept your brother's resignation.""It was not Colonel Newbolt's fault that he was on duty on that day at that place," said Agnes."No," said Delarry, "that was a coincidence, but still the fact is there.""Don't let us talk about it," said Ann; "it will not mend matters.""My friend is right," said Agnes. "We will talk of other things. Is there any news from France, Mr. Delarry?""Yes, the king heard from her majesty the queen no later than yesterday. The marriage of the duke and the princess is to be the occasion of great festivities; it is to be conducted with royal state. The King of France is making much of the bride.""I wish I were in Paris," said Agnes; "I know just how it will all be. I think I like Paris better than London.""Oh no, you don't!" said Ann. "You must not. You are an English girl, and must love your own country best.""So she will in years to come," said Patience. "There is so much in habit. She has always lived in France. The sun shines more brightly there, and the days are longer.""And people are less stiff, and they are kinder and more courteous," said Agnes. "You English are so cold! I have lived a long time here now, and I have only one friend--that is you, Ann.""And is it not a grand thing tohave one friend?" said Mr. Delarry. "We may have many acquaintances, little lady, but a friend is a rare gem."Having said this, Mr. Delarry rose and took his leave.Patience and the two girls went up to their own apartment, and occupied themselves at that fine tapestry work at which Agnes, like all French ladies, was an adept. Ann was not so clever with her needle, but she loved to watch her friend, whose proficiency was astonishing; the flowers, the birds, the figures, seemed to grow under her fingers."I wish I could work as you do," she said."I love it," answered Agnes; "it makes me forget. When I have any trouble or any vexation I come to my framework and create a bird, or a flower. Sometimes I dream dreams. It does not matter what I do, but I grow quieter and happier.""You are a town girl, and I am a country girl," said Ann. "I have lived all my life in the open, in the midst of the flowers and the birds, with my dogs and horses, riding and hunting with Reginald and my father over miles of moorland. Oh, it is glorious! Would you not love it?"Agnes looked up. "Love it? Indeed I am sure I should!" she answered. "Patience said just now we grow accustomed to things; that is true. I was accustomed to the great dark rooms at the Louvre, and the long dull days; but sometimes, I remember, I used to feel suffocated, as if I were a bird beating against the bars of the cage. I used to look up through the windows at the sky, and long--oh, how I used to long!--to have wings to fly away.""And yet you say you like France better than England," said Ann."I knew of nothing better," said Agnes. "I loved the queen and I loved Henrietta, but still I have always known that it was not my own life, that there must be something better! We used to go to Fontainebleau sometimes, but we children never went beyond the edge of the wood. We were allowed to wander in the great gardens, which were very beautiful, with long avenues of trees and a big pond full of tame carp, which came when we called them, and which we used to feed. It was a great pleasure, but still it was not liberty. I longed for liberty, to ride, to walk, as the desire might come to me. Ah, you are very happy!" she said to Ann. "Tell me about that place up north of which you speak so often.""Newbolt Manor?" answered Ann. "It is the most beautiful place in the world. Long, long ago it was a monastery, and belonged to a religious order. There are the ruins of the most lovely chapel you ever saw; and although the house has been restored and rebuilt, there are still parts of it which belong to the old days--the great hall, the refectory, and the library. They are very beautiful, with much carved oak and many stained-glass windows.""And it belonged to the De Lisles!" said Agnes thoughtfully."Yes," answered her companion, "and there is a long picture-gallery containing portraits of the family of De Lisles; and now I come to think of it, Agnes, there is one picture of a child who lived a long time ago--oh! a hundred years ago, perhaps. You are exactly like her; is it not strange?""Very," said Agnes. "Go on and tell me more.""Well," said Ann, "the story is that when the monks were driven out, King Henry VIII gave it to a certain Reginald De Lisle.""How did that old man at Greenwich know anything; about them, I wonder?" said Agnes. "How did he know the De Lisles?""That I cannot tell," said Ann. "He may have been an old servant, and have known the legend that the De Lisles, being possessed of church lands, would be driven out.""It has come true," said Agnes."Only to a certain extent," said Ann. "They were not driven out, they died out; the race is extinct.""How then can they come back again?" asked Agnes. "You know he said they would.""Ah! that I cannot tell," answered Ann. "If he were an old servant of the De Lisles, the wish might very possibly be father to the thought.""But," said Agnes thoughtfully, "supposing it were a mistake, and that one day a De Lisle should turn up and claim his own?""I do not suppose it would make much difference now," said Ann. "The land is ours as far as lawyers and parchment can make it so.""You would be sorry to lose it," said Agnes."Yes, I should," answered Ann. "I love the place, and I would like to think that Reginald would have it one day, and that he would marry and have children; and so it would go down from generation to generation, a fair heritage.""As it was with the De Lisles," said Agnes thoughtfully. "Ah well!" she added, "it does not much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory of it."Instinctively the words had come to her lips--how they did so she knew not--it was the inspiration of a moment. She had dropped her needle whilst listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy look in the great dark eyes as she gazed through the window up to the sky which overhung the river. The summer day had come to a close; she could no longer see to put her stitches into the canvas. A sense of unreality crept over her, a sort of feeling as if she had lived in another world once upon a time--she was, and she was not--a spell seemed laid upon her. Would she awake and find her present life only a dream?Patience's voice roused her."Ann Newbolt," she said, "a messenger has come from your brother. Neither he nor your mother can return to-night. He requests me to keep you with us.""My father is dying, then?" said Ann."The messenger does not say so," answered Patience, "merely that they cannot leave the prison."CHAPTER XIA Brave WomanSooner or later we all find a place which fits us in the world, and when Mistress Newbolt crossed the threshold of Newgate to take charge of her husband, unwittingly, even to herself, she had reached her bourne. She did not know it, she did not realize it till long after; but her work had found her, and she was not one of those who, having put her hand to the plough, would turn back again.An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the misery which surrounded her, but she never did. All the sorrow, the discontent, which so often troubled her, ceased to be as she stood beside her husband in that narrow cell. With strong hands, helped by Reginald, she arranged his bed; she spoke to him, she comforted him; even in his delirium he knew her and clung to her. That he was desperately ill she saw at a glance, but even the doctor, a rough, hard man, when he came to visit him, grew soft in Mistress Newbolt's presence."Madam," he said, "I cannot tell whether he will live or die. His life is in your hands.""Not in mine," said Mistress Newbolt, "but in God's.""We do not hear much of God here," said the doctor roughly. "It is verily a God-forsaken place; but your presence is potent, your care may save him.""I can only stay here a few hours," she answered, "at least, so I am told. I will do what I can.""You may stay here as long as you choose," said the doctor. "I will speak to the governor."And so it came to pass that Mistress Newbolt was established at Newgate. That first night her husband was seized with such violent delirium that it required two men to hold him down.Reginald therefore remained till early morning, when, exhausted, the patient dropped into a deep sleep. Then his mother bade him go and rest."You have your duties to attend to; you have Ann to see after," she said. "I am sufficient here.""Will you not be afraid to remain here alone, Mother?" asked Reginald."Afraid!" she answered, "of what? Is not God with me?" And that strangely inspired look came into her face. "I feel as if my place were here, as if at last I had found my appointed task. Go, and do not trouble about me or your father."Reginald kissed her hand."You are wonderful, Mother," he said. "I will return this evening before the prison gates close." And so he left her.As Mistress Newbolt stood in the passage she heard cries and moans, loud voices, and bitter plaints."Are those the prisoners?" she asked of Knight, the jailer."Yes," he answered, "they are hungry dogs to-day. They declared that the morning allowance of food was insufficient. There was not a hunch of bread for each man, and it was sour, not fit to cast to the dogs.""How was it so?" asked Mistress Newbolt.The keeper shrugged his shoulders."How can I tell?" he said. "It is bought by contract. As we get it we give it them. Those who have no money of their own, and no friends, come badly off. Your husband is sleeping, will you come and look at them?"Mistress Newbolt acquiesced.He took her down the passage to a great iron door, in which there was a sliding panel, not large, but large enough to allow an outsider to look into the interior. The keeper drew back the panel, and shrill voices fell upon her ears, uttering curses and foul language. She saw men and women with scarce any semblance of humanity, rather like wild beasts. Some were tearing at hard crusts of bread, others at meat of the worst kind; men belaboured the women and thrust them back, snatching the food out of their thin hands. And they in their turn clutched at them and tore their hair, scratching their faces in their madness. One or two had infants in their arms, parodies of childhood."It is terrible!" said Mistress Newbolt, her pale face paling."Here is gold," she said to the keeper; "go fetch me food! I will give it them. And look you," she continued, "that you are just, and bring me full measure for the money."Her stern eyes stared straight into Knight's, and he, as if affrighted, looked away; nevertheless he took the gold and departed to do her bidding.Mistress Newbolt faced the opening again and called out, "Peace, peace!"Her words were received with a loud yell."Peace? There is no peace here.""Peace, peace, God's peace be with you!" she continued; and then in a loud voice, which rose above the turmoil, she began:"Our Father which art in heaven."Shrieks of mockery greeted her words."He who would have bread let him pray for it," she cried out. "Surely it will come to him who asketh."A loud voice greeted her words."We have asked, and they have given us stones for bread," said a gaunt man."Because ye have asked amiss," she answered. "Down on your knees and I will pray for you."A moment's hesitation, then there was dead silence, and that crowd fell down as if moved by some invisible power."Repeat what I say, after me," she cried. "Our Father."And so through that blessed prayer, the like of which there is none other, these poor wretches, the outcast of the earth, followed her, repeating the words, some with sobs, some still cursing between the words.As the Amen died out, Knight stood beside her."Open the gate and let me in to them," she said, "and then do as I bid you."She took a great white loaf from the basket he had brought."There are more coming," he said in a low voice; "this is not all your bounty gives.""A knife," she said. "I will break each loaf in four. Open the gate," she continued, "and I will go in and feed them myself.""They will tear you to pieces," said Knight."No they will not," she answered; and she stood erect as one inspired.The jailer took the bunch of keys from his side, unlocked the door, and she passed in.In a second she was surrounded."The bread, the bread we have prayed for!" they cried."It is coming," she answered; and she took the lumps of bread which Knight handed her. Quickly they were snatched from her.Suddenly she stopped, for she saw that the men in their greed were thrusting the women back, and fighting their way towards her."Cowards!" she cried, "stand back! The women and the children. Have you nothing human left in you? Shame! Shame!"There was a deep growl of anger, but slowly the men fell back, and the women rushed forward, kneeling at her feet, kissing her hands. Their souls were touched, and she, stooping over them, bade them rise, and gave them food. She took one child in her arms and fed it with her own hands."Water!" they called out, "water!" And they showed her a pitcher filled with a foul liquid."Water, bring water!" she repeated; and the keepers brought it as they would have brought it at an angel's word.She held the jars to the parched, thirsty lips, and they drank, all those who could get near enough; but it was not enough, there were so many."That is all," she said at last. "I have no more; but to-morrow I will come back and feed you again; only be human and know there is a God who careth for you. Ye have sinned, but He will pardon you if you repent. He suffered, though He was sinless, and you are sinners. It is but just that you should suffer for your sins. Listen to what the psalmist of Israel sang." In a loud, clear voice she recited the 77th Psalm:"'I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice, and he gave ear unto me'," and so on to the end.Where there had been such an uproar there was now a grave stillness, save for the groans of the men and the weeping of the women. She stood with the half-naked child still in her arms, and looked down upon the people, her tall figure resting against the unclean wall of that prison-house. Her voice was steady; her eyes had in them that strangely luminous look of inspiration.When she had finished she gave the child back to its mother."If they will let me, I will come to you to-morrow," she repeated, "and so each day. Only be patient, and the Lord will be with you."As she spoke she backed out of the cell, and disappeared from their sight.The keepers told the governor they had never had such a quiet day; the prisoners seemed subdued. They took their portions of food at night and hardly murmured. There were many brutes amongst those men, and many shameless women, but their passions were curbed and their evil tongues silenced.Mistress Newbolt went back to her husband and tended him all that day, praying beside him with such earnestness, and with such impassioned eloquence that the warders came and stood at the door of the cell and listened. There was not one of them who would not gladly serve her; she might ask what she would of them, they did it.The governor, hearing what she had done, though knowing it to be against the rules, said:"Let her do what she will for the poor wretches!"And so every morning for ten long days she went in to them. Some passed away, but the greater number remained. Every day she added something to her bounty: she gave the women cloths and brooms, and bade them try to keep some order and cleanliness in the cells; but it was impossible, and she soon recognized it was so.Some days she would repeat a few verses from the Bible to them, and they would listen. Her heart would be glad then, thinking she had won them, but on the morrow there would be fresh cursing, swearing, and evil-speaking. Still, she never wearied. She brought fresh water and clean linen, and dressed their wounds; she brought milk for the little children; she spent herself and her wealth for these outcasts. They grew to look upon her coming as the one thing in the twenty-four hours for which they lived."Our mother's coming," they told one another, as the hour approached, and like children they watched for her.It was wonderful how her strength stood it all--those long days and nights at her husband's pallet, and the horror of her surroundings.The order came at last that her husband should be removed to Aldersgate to await his trial. The class of prisoners there was of a higher degree, and the prison was less crowded. But the order came too late; they could not move him."He will die on the way," the doctor said; "he must die, therefore let him remain here in peace."When she was not tending the prisoners or waiting on her husband she was praying, this marvellous woman, in whom verily the blood of martyrs must have flowed. She grew gaunter and gaunter, but there came into her face a look of enthusiasm, as if she no longer belonged to this world, but to the heaven of which she spoke."If Ann is to see my father alive, I must bring her soon, Mother," said Reginald, on the eighteenth day of the colonel's illness."He will not die until the twenty-first," she answered.On the morning of the twenty-first it was evident that he was sinking, that he would not outlive the day, and so Reginald went for Ann and brought her to the prison. He had told her something of their mother's doings, but it was difficult for anyone who did not see it to know what that prison life was, and Ann was spared the horror. In the cell where her father lay dying everything was spotless. There was scarcely standing room for two or three people, but the door was left open; there was no fear of his escaping--the spirit would go, but the shell would remain, until it was given back to earth. Man could not hurt him; he need not fear being called to any earthly judgment.So changed was he that Ann hardly knew him. If she had not known he was her father she would not have recognized him. Looking at her mother, she saw it was the same with her."Can this be my father," she thought, "by whose side I have ridden over moor and fell, whose voice was so strong to command, whose presence was so good?" And then, looking at her mother, she grew faint with fear.There was something unearthly in Mistress Newbolt's appearance: her tall figure had grown supernaturally thin, her hands and face were transparent in their whiteness, her eyes shone with kind and tender pity--they were no longer cold and hard as they had been.When Ann, overcome with grief, sank by her father's bedside and sobbed out her sorrow, she felt her mother's hand on her head, and her voice whispering:"Nay, my child, do not weep; it is well with him. We have prayed together, he and I, when God has vouchsafed to him short glimpses of reason, and I am persuaded that his soul is safe in the hands of his Maker. Do not trouble; it is well with him."Then she knelt beside her and poured forth her soul in prayer. It was wonderful to hear her; she was as one inspired; the words flowed forth in a stream of unbroken eloquence. The warders, the keepers, the women of the prison, all gathered round to hear her, and many having come to mock, remained to pray. Throughout the day this went on.Towards evening Reginald came to take Ann away. Suddenly life seemed to come back to the dying man. He sat up; they put pillows behind him. He looked around him, and seeing Ann and Reginald, beckoned them to come to him. Laying his hands on their heads, he blessed them."I have one desire," he said. "I have loved lands, and wealth, and all the good things of this world; now I know they are of no value at all. I charge you two to discover if there be any child, kith or kin, of those who possessed Newbolt Manor before it came into my hands. If so, give it back to them; if not, then do as the disciples of old--succour the poor, make a home for the destitute, let the wealth go back to God who gave it. You will remember?""I will remember, Father," said Reginald; "have no fear."Colonel Newbolt sank back on his pillows as if content, and quietly, without an effort, as if he were falling asleep, passed away.His wife rose from her knees and covered his face. At a sign from her all those present left the cell, except her children. They remained with her until the last offices for the dead had been accomplished, then, at her command, hand in hand they went forth; she remaining alone to keep watch beside him who had been her husband.
CHAPTER IX
Old Newgate
We have all read, and we all know by hearsay, how, till within the last century, the prisons were worse than the lowest hovels. We know and honour the men and women by whose influence humanity was brought to bear upon them. What they must have been two centuries earlier passes all imagination.
We learn from old chronicles that as far back as 1218 the prison of Newgate existed. It was built in the portal of the new gate of the city, and from that fact took its name. Two centuries later it was rebuilt by the executors of the famous Sir Richard Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and his statue with his cat stood in a niche. This building was destroyed in the great fire of which we shall soon be telling. It was here, in old Newgate, that Colonel Newbolt was imprisoned--a noisome place, within high, dark, stone walls, without windows, where the prisoners were crowded together irrespective of age or sex. At the time we are writing of, it was crowded to excess. To obtain a wisp of straw to lie upon at night, and the space necessary for a litter, meant a hand-to-hand fight between the occupants.
The jailers reaped a rich harvest, charging fabulous prices for the merest necessaries. There was no provision made for sickness, not even for the ordinary decencies of life; men and women of every class were herded together.
It is easy to imagine Colonel Newbolt's feelings when he was thrust into this den. On the first day he bore it with a certain amount of equanimity, feeling assured that he would be released on the morrow; but when two or three days passed by, and all the money he had on his person was expended, he was seriously disquieted, wondering why Reginald or some other of his friends did not come to his rescue. He could not know that Reginald had been daily at the prison, and had expended a considerable sum of money in pleading with the jailers for news of his father. He was dismissed with the assurance that his father's name was not on the prison list; they could not find the man.
This answer was given purposely. It would not have suited the jailers to find their man too soon, for then the enquiry money would cease to fall into their pockets, so they sent Reginald to Aldersgate and to smaller jails, of which there were several. Four days had elapsed after his father's arrest before Reginald was admitted into the prison and allowed to interview him.
He was horrified when he saw him. From a hale, fine-looking soldier he had dwindled into an old man, with sunken eyes and haggard face. His lace ruffles and jabot had been torn to shreds. He had had no change of linen, the lappets of his coat had been wrenched away, his head was bare, and his hair bleached.
He staggered as he came into the guard-room, and in his impotent rage shook his fist in Reginald's face.
"What do you mean, sirrah," he cried, "by leaving me in this condition?"
"Father, I did not leave you," said Reginald, tears gathering in his eyes. "I have been here daily, and could get no news of you. They have sent me about to the right and to the left; only to-day have I found you."
"The rascals!" said the colonel in a low voice, fearful of being overheard. "I am starved, Reginald," he continued, "I am unclean. I would sooner die than remain thus; ay, they will kill me before they bring me to trial. Is this what the king promised us? Is this the royal clemency?"
"Hush, Father, hush!" said Reginald, for in his excitement he had raised his voice. "I have brought gold; I will see what I can do for you."
He looked round, and seeing a keeper whose face seemed less evil than the others, he beckoned to him.
Slowly and sullenly the man came forward.
"Look here!" said Reginald, "if you can find the smallest cell in which my father can be alone I will give you fifty crowns."
"If you offered me a hundred I couldn't do it," said the man; "the place is crowded from top to bottom, and more prisoners are coming in every hour."
"But surely there must be some place less horrible than the one I am now in," said Colonel Newbolt. "I am herded with the scum of the earth. I hear nothing but cursing and swearing all the live-long day and throughout the night. I am covered with vermin. I will give thee a hundred crowns, sirrah, if thou wilt get me out of this."
The man thrust his hands into his pockets. A hundred crowns was an offer he did not often get.
"I am sick, sick unto death," continued the colonel.
"Then I will report you to the head keeper," said the man quickly, "and he will report you to the governor, and he will--I don't know what he'll think proper to do."
"In the meantime must I go back to that hell?" said the colonel. "Give me a knife and let me cut my throat!"
"We don't have that sort of thing done here," answered the jailer; "we keep no knives and no ropes inside the jail."
"Listen!" said Reginald. "Surely there must be some place, some cell in which there are three or four privileged prisoners, where you could manage to put my father until I take measures for his removal. Go at once and speak to the head jailer."
Saying this, Reginald put money into the man's hand. "Not a groat more do you get," he said, "if you do not succeed, but I will double it if you do."
He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm, succeeded in finding a seat in a far corner of the room.
"See, Father, I have brought you food!" he said. He cut the strings of a basket which he had been carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white bread, and a flask of brandy.
The prisoner flew at the brandy. Reginald was forced to stop him.
"Gently, Father, gently," he said, "you will make yourself ill; there is no hurry." And he handed him bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.
The keepers, noting that the young man wore the king's uniform, and that the old man, even in his soiled clothes, had an air of distinction, let them be. Besides, Reginald was generous with his money; he knew there was no other means by which to gain a little respite.
When his father had eaten and drunk, more perhaps than was good for him, he laid his head back on the wall and went to sleep. Reginald kept watch over him. Once or twice the keepers came up and would have roused him and sent him back to the common prison, but Reginald pleaded:
"Let him be a little longer," he said; "I am waiting for a message from the governor." Again money passed from hand to hand, and they were let alone.
Not till the day was far advanced did the first keeper return.
"The governor will see you," he said; "follow me."
Reginald looked at his father. If he roused him now would he be sensible?
"Father!" he said, bending over him.
The colonel started and opened his eyes, but his mind seemed to be wandering. He stood up, gave the word of command, as if he had been on parade, then, looking round him, he said: "Where am I? What does it mean?"
"He is in delirium," said Reginald in a low voice to the keeper. "Take hold of him on one side and I will take him on the other; the governor can judge for himself." So they crossed the room, the old man muttering and talking to himself, until they came to the governor's room.
To Reginald's surprise, he proved to be an old friend of his father's, who, however, had kept fairly quiet, and had not been in any way offensive either to the Commonwealth or to the king's Government. It was not in his power to remedy the state of the prison, and he had no thought of attempting to do so. A prison was a prison in those days. Prisoners, if refractory, were chained up like wild beasts and kept on bread and water. They lived or died, as the case might be; some went under at once, others, thanks to stronger constitutions, managed to survive, until they were dragged on hurdles to execution, or by some lucky chance found their way out of that prison-house, brutalized, hating both God and man.
When the governor, looking up, saw Reginald and his father, he said shortly:
"When I heard your name, I wondered what Newbolt it was. How happens it that your father has let himself fall into this strait? I thought he was a cleverer man."
"There must be a traitor somewhere," said Reginald. "My father has taken the oath of allegiance; he went with General Monk to meet the king on his return. I, who have never drawn sword in any other cause, hold a commission from the king in his own Guards. But some traitor has informed his majesty of what, alas! is only too true, that my father was captain of a body of troops who kept the streets at the time of the execution of his most gracious majesty, Charles I--hence his arrest."
"Ah, that is compromising!" said the governor. "Do you know who the informant was?"
"No, I do not," answered Reginald, "but I will make it my business to find out. There is no denying the fact that my father was on duty that day. He was arrested four days ago, and see what it has made of him! He was a strong, hale man when he came here. I ask your clemency for him."
"It is a common case," said the governor. "The class of men to which your father belongs cannot stand this place. I will do what I can. He has caught jail fever. Put him in yonder chair."
The keeper and Reginald obeyed, the old man talking and jabbering all the time.
Reginald stood before the governor, who continued: "You see, we cannot put him back into the public room, and there is not a free cell. You may believe me or not as you choose, the prison is literally swarming. Knight," he said, addressing the keeper, "is there any hole you can give the colonel to lie in until I can get him removed?"
"There is the cell at the end of the right-hand corridor, where that madman was confined; he died yesterday. His body was thrown out to-day, but the cell has not been cleaned yet; it is not fit to put even a dog into."
"Let it be done immediately," said the governor. "Let fresh straw be laid down and the colonel carried thither. I give him into your hands, Knight. I think you will find it worth your while to treat him well," he added, with a glance at Reginald.
"I have promised him a hundred crowns; I do not care if I make it two hundred," answered the young man.
"Sir," said Knight, "I thank you. May I leave the gentleman here whilst I see to the cleaning of that dog's kennel?"
The governor nodded.
Worn out, the colonel's head fell on his breast; he was in a sort of coma.
"I'll write a letter," said the governor, "which you may take to the Secretary of State, or, if you prefer it, to the king himself. If you can get an audience, that might be better. If your father is really to be prosecuted, he must be removed from this prison to Aldersgate."
"I do not think he will be removed anywhere except fro his last resting-place," said Reginald.
"Tut, tut! men do not die so easily," said the governor. "That is our strong point. I will represent that if the colonel is left here he will certainly die, and then who would pay the fine, which will be the least thing imposed upon him? The king's exchequer, they say, is empty, and there is nothing to be got out of a dead dog; therefore, you see, it is to their interest to keep him alive. Rest assured they will nurse him with the utmost tenderness, so that, if he be hanged, he may be hanged alive, and his lands forfeited to the crown. If he dies now, you will inherit; you have committed no misdemeanour. On the contrary, you are the king's man, and they cannot, in all decency, prosecute you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Reginald, with evident disgust. "Write the letter for me, sir, and I will carry it."
The governor scrawled a few lines, folded it, and gave it to Reginald.
"I think you will find that serve your purpose," he said.
"May I send clean linen and clothes for my father?" asked Reginald. "He cannot remain as he is."
"I should advise you to send nothing, but to bring everything," said the governor; "otherwise I greatly fear he will not benefit much. This is a den of thieves and robbers."
Reginald hesitated for a moment, then he said:
"And my mother! When she knows I have found my father, nothing will keep her away."
The governor shrugged his shoulders.
"Then you must bring her, that is all," he said. "Knight will let you in the back way. Your father will not be so bad to look at when he is in his new cell. Now you must be gone; I have given you more time, young man, than I have favoured anyone with for months. Look through that window in the wall and you will see the crowd waiting to interview me."
"I am more than grateful to you, sir," said Reginald.
"All right, all right!" answered the governor, holding out his hand. "We will try to pull him through; not that it will be easy, I warn you."
"I fear not," answered Reginald; "nevertheless I thank you, sir," and, bowing to the governor, he turned round to where his father still sat in a deep, heavy slumber: his face was crimson, his hands, as Reginald felt them, were burning.
"I have cleaned the place up as best I could, sir. Shall we take him there at once?" said Knight, coming up.
"Yes," said Reginald shortly; and between them they carried the colonel down two or three long passages, lined on either side with cells. At the very end there was an open door, showing a cell of about eight feet square. Upon the ground in one corner was a heap of straw, which, with a table and a chair, both riveted to the wall, and a basin, completed the furniture.
"I found this here thing in the corner of the public room where the gentleman has been lying. I don't know how it has escaped the eyes of his late companions, but it has. I got it and brought it here. He will want it," said Knight.
Reginald recognized his father's cloak, so they wrapped him up in it and laid him in the straw which was strewn on the damp floor.
"Look here, man," said Reginald, "I must go. I have pressing business. Here are the hundred crowns I promised you, and for every week he stays here and you care for him decently, you shall have as much again. I shall be back in a couple of hours with sheets and bedding, and all that is necessary for his comfort. You must fetch the doctor, and whatever he orders that you must provide."
"Very good, sir, I understand," said Knight. "But I have other duties, you know; I cannot be always here."
"Pass them over to someone else. I'll pay, as paying is the order of the day. Do you agree?"
"I should be a fool not to," answered Knight. "I'll see to the old man; you shall have nothing to complain of." And with that half-promise Reginald was obliged to be satisfied. With one more look at his father he went out.
Knight followed him, closing and locking the door.
"You will lose your way unless I take you out," he said to Reginald. "You had better not come in at the front gate in future."
So saying he guided him into a small courtyard, which was evidently seldom used. In it was a huge mastiff, which walked to and fro, snarling and growling. He sprang forward to meet the two men, and would have flown at Reginald if Knight had not caught him by the collar.
"Speak to him, caress him, then in future he will never hurt you," he said. "When you come back, bring him food; you must be friends."
Reginald had a great liking for all animals. He spoke to the mastiff, which, after a few minutes' inspection, sniffed around, and suffered him to stroke him.
"That's all right," said Knight, satisfied.
Taking a key off a bunch at his side he opened a side gate, and Reginald passed out into the street opposite the Old Bailey.
"You have only to ring that bell when you return," he said, pointing to a long iron chain by the door. "I shall answer."
Reginald nodded, and went forth with a heavy heart, feeling as if years had passed over his head since he penetrated within the mighty walls which separated the prison of Newgate and its inmates from the outside world.
CHAPTER X
A Legend
When Reginald returned to his mother he found her waiting impatiently for him; indeed, she had done so for the last three days. Her whole time had been spent between prayer and waiting, seated in the window with her hands folded.
In the morning she attended to her household duties--she forgot nothing. It was with difficulty that they could get her to take any food; she seemed to have no need of it. Now, when she saw Reginald coming up the street, she said to Ann:
"He has news--he has found your father." And she went to the door to meet him.
"Well?" she asked.
"Yes, I have found him," said Reginald; "but you must not rejoice too soon, Mother, for he is in a terrible condition."
"Dying?" she asked.
"I cannot say, for I do not know," answered Reginald. "He is very ill--his sufferings have been great, and he is now delirious. I saw the governor, and he had him removed to a cell by himself. He is in want of everything. There are no rules to prevent our taking anything we choose to him."
"And I may go to him?" she asked.
"Yes, you may go to him, but Ann must not," said Reginald; "the place reeks of fever, small-pox, and every other disease. You must be prepared for the worst, Mother."
"Whatever the Lord orders is for the best," she answered.
"But what is to become of Ann? She cannot remain in this house alone," said Reginald.
"Take her to Patience," said Mistress Newbolt. "She can abide with her all day, and at night when I return you can fetch her--if I do return."
"At sunset you must leave the prison, Mother; it is the rule."
"Very well," said Mistress Newbolt, "I will abide by the rule. Now order a coach; I have everything ready."
"I am afraid not everything," said Reginald. "He lacks bedding, sheets, the veriest necessaries. I left him lying on straw in a damp cell. I will order a cart to come round to take the larger luggage, but you must go in a coach."
"I can walk if necessary," said Mistress Newbolt; "it is no great distance."
Two hours were spent putting things together, providing food, broths, and jellies. Ann went about with her mother, thinking of everything. When all was ready and the coach was called, she said to Reginald:
"Shall I not be allowed to go?"
"No, it is not a fit place for you," said Reginald; "and you would do no good. I don't know when I shall return myself, therefore you had better get your women to take you to Somerset House. You can tell them how matters stand, and I shall probably fetch you at nightfall, or when my mother comes back."
Whilst they were still conversing, Mr. Delarry came up. It was by no means the first time he had come to the house--indeed, he and Reginald were very good friends, and he would frequently drop in to supper--but he had been away with the king at Hampton Court, and had only just heard of the colonel's arrest.
"I am deeply grieved for you," he said, "and I hastened here to tell you so. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing at present," said Reginald. "I have been three days finding my father, and now he is sick unto death; I do not know whether he will live. I am taking my mother to him. I have no time to say more, so farewell!"
Mistress Newbolt appeared on the steps, and Reginald hastened to help her into the coach. Many of the servants had followed her, and were weeping. Although she was a stern mistress, she was a just one, and they all respected her.
"Delarry," said Reginald, before following his mother into the coach, "will you see my sister to Somerset House? She cannot stay here alone, and neither my mother nor myself can be back before nightfall."
"If she will allow me to do so, I shall esteem it a favour," said Delarry. "And, Reginald, let me know if I can be of any use to you; I am at your service."
"Many thanks!" said Reginald. "It is something to feel that one has a friend in these hard times." The two young men shook hands, Reginald took his place beside his mother, and they drove away. Ann went slowly back to the house, Delarry following her.
"Shall you go at once to Somerset House?" he asked.
"In about an hour," she answered. "I must put my mother's room in order, and attend to a few household duties. But do not let me detain you; my own woman will accompany me."
"You would not grieve me thus?" said Delarry. "I esteem it a high honour to have been asked to take care of you."
"Very well," said Ann, "come back in an hour, and I will be ready."
He did so, and accompanied her the short distance from Drury Lane to Somerset House. They made no haste, for they liked each other's society.
When they reached Somerset House they found Patience and Agnes on the terrace taking their mid-day airing.
"We did not venture to come to your house," said Patience, after greeting Ann and her companion, "for fear of disturbing your mother. We felt sure if you had news that you would send us word."
"We have news," said Ann, "but it is of such an evil kind that the telling of it is grievous to me."
"Still we must hear it," said Patience.
They sat down on the bench facing the river, and there Ann told them all she knew.
"It is a very terrible state of affairs," said Delarry, looking serious; but he did not venture to say how serious he thought it, for he knew full well that the king was still very bitter against anyone who had had a hand in his father's murder. Nevertheless he tried to speak cheerfully.
"It will be better," he said, "for Reginald to go to the king himself. He is rather partial to the young man; indeed, only the other day he asked why he was not in attendance. He then learnt of the arrest of Colonel Newbolt, and expressed his regret that the son should have to suffer for the father."
Ann coloured. "That means that Reginald will have to resign his commission," she said.
"I am afraid so," answered Delarry. "It would hardly do, when his father is imprisoned for connivance with the regicides, for him to remain in the king's service. But we cannot tell. Charles is a strange character; he may not choose to accept your brother's resignation."
"It was not Colonel Newbolt's fault that he was on duty on that day at that place," said Agnes.
"No," said Delarry, "that was a coincidence, but still the fact is there."
"Don't let us talk about it," said Ann; "it will not mend matters."
"My friend is right," said Agnes. "We will talk of other things. Is there any news from France, Mr. Delarry?"
"Yes, the king heard from her majesty the queen no later than yesterday. The marriage of the duke and the princess is to be the occasion of great festivities; it is to be conducted with royal state. The King of France is making much of the bride."
"I wish I were in Paris," said Agnes; "I know just how it will all be. I think I like Paris better than London."
"Oh no, you don't!" said Ann. "You must not. You are an English girl, and must love your own country best."
"So she will in years to come," said Patience. "There is so much in habit. She has always lived in France. The sun shines more brightly there, and the days are longer."
"And people are less stiff, and they are kinder and more courteous," said Agnes. "You English are so cold! I have lived a long time here now, and I have only one friend--that is you, Ann."
"And is it not a grand thing tohave one friend?" said Mr. Delarry. "We may have many acquaintances, little lady, but a friend is a rare gem."
Having said this, Mr. Delarry rose and took his leave.
Patience and the two girls went up to their own apartment, and occupied themselves at that fine tapestry work at which Agnes, like all French ladies, was an adept. Ann was not so clever with her needle, but she loved to watch her friend, whose proficiency was astonishing; the flowers, the birds, the figures, seemed to grow under her fingers.
"I wish I could work as you do," she said.
"I love it," answered Agnes; "it makes me forget. When I have any trouble or any vexation I come to my framework and create a bird, or a flower. Sometimes I dream dreams. It does not matter what I do, but I grow quieter and happier."
"You are a town girl, and I am a country girl," said Ann. "I have lived all my life in the open, in the midst of the flowers and the birds, with my dogs and horses, riding and hunting with Reginald and my father over miles of moorland. Oh, it is glorious! Would you not love it?"
Agnes looked up. "Love it? Indeed I am sure I should!" she answered. "Patience said just now we grow accustomed to things; that is true. I was accustomed to the great dark rooms at the Louvre, and the long dull days; but sometimes, I remember, I used to feel suffocated, as if I were a bird beating against the bars of the cage. I used to look up through the windows at the sky, and long--oh, how I used to long!--to have wings to fly away."
"And yet you say you like France better than England," said Ann.
"I knew of nothing better," said Agnes. "I loved the queen and I loved Henrietta, but still I have always known that it was not my own life, that there must be something better! We used to go to Fontainebleau sometimes, but we children never went beyond the edge of the wood. We were allowed to wander in the great gardens, which were very beautiful, with long avenues of trees and a big pond full of tame carp, which came when we called them, and which we used to feed. It was a great pleasure, but still it was not liberty. I longed for liberty, to ride, to walk, as the desire might come to me. Ah, you are very happy!" she said to Ann. "Tell me about that place up north of which you speak so often."
"Newbolt Manor?" answered Ann. "It is the most beautiful place in the world. Long, long ago it was a monastery, and belonged to a religious order. There are the ruins of the most lovely chapel you ever saw; and although the house has been restored and rebuilt, there are still parts of it which belong to the old days--the great hall, the refectory, and the library. They are very beautiful, with much carved oak and many stained-glass windows."
"And it belonged to the De Lisles!" said Agnes thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered her companion, "and there is a long picture-gallery containing portraits of the family of De Lisles; and now I come to think of it, Agnes, there is one picture of a child who lived a long time ago--oh! a hundred years ago, perhaps. You are exactly like her; is it not strange?"
"Very," said Agnes. "Go on and tell me more."
"Well," said Ann, "the story is that when the monks were driven out, King Henry VIII gave it to a certain Reginald De Lisle."
"How did that old man at Greenwich know anything; about them, I wonder?" said Agnes. "How did he know the De Lisles?"
"That I cannot tell," said Ann. "He may have been an old servant, and have known the legend that the De Lisles, being possessed of church lands, would be driven out."
"It has come true," said Agnes.
"Only to a certain extent," said Ann. "They were not driven out, they died out; the race is extinct."
"How then can they come back again?" asked Agnes. "You know he said they would."
"Ah! that I cannot tell," answered Ann. "If he were an old servant of the De Lisles, the wish might very possibly be father to the thought."
"But," said Agnes thoughtfully, "supposing it were a mistake, and that one day a De Lisle should turn up and claim his own?"
"I do not suppose it would make much difference now," said Ann. "The land is ours as far as lawyers and parchment can make it so."
"You would be sorry to lose it," said Agnes.
"Yes, I should," answered Ann. "I love the place, and I would like to think that Reginald would have it one day, and that he would marry and have children; and so it would go down from generation to generation, a fair heritage."
"As it was with the De Lisles," said Agnes thoughtfully. "Ah well!" she added, "it does not much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory of it."
Instinctively the words had come to her lips--how they did so she knew not--it was the inspiration of a moment. She had dropped her needle whilst listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy look in the great dark eyes as she gazed through the window up to the sky which overhung the river. The summer day had come to a close; she could no longer see to put her stitches into the canvas. A sense of unreality crept over her, a sort of feeling as if she had lived in another world once upon a time--she was, and she was not--a spell seemed laid upon her. Would she awake and find her present life only a dream?
Patience's voice roused her.
"Ann Newbolt," she said, "a messenger has come from your brother. Neither he nor your mother can return to-night. He requests me to keep you with us."
"My father is dying, then?" said Ann.
"The messenger does not say so," answered Patience, "merely that they cannot leave the prison."
CHAPTER XI
A Brave Woman
Sooner or later we all find a place which fits us in the world, and when Mistress Newbolt crossed the threshold of Newgate to take charge of her husband, unwittingly, even to herself, she had reached her bourne. She did not know it, she did not realize it till long after; but her work had found her, and she was not one of those who, having put her hand to the plough, would turn back again.
An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the misery which surrounded her, but she never did. All the sorrow, the discontent, which so often troubled her, ceased to be as she stood beside her husband in that narrow cell. With strong hands, helped by Reginald, she arranged his bed; she spoke to him, she comforted him; even in his delirium he knew her and clung to her. That he was desperately ill she saw at a glance, but even the doctor, a rough, hard man, when he came to visit him, grew soft in Mistress Newbolt's presence.
"Madam," he said, "I cannot tell whether he will live or die. His life is in your hands."
"Not in mine," said Mistress Newbolt, "but in God's."
"We do not hear much of God here," said the doctor roughly. "It is verily a God-forsaken place; but your presence is potent, your care may save him."
"I can only stay here a few hours," she answered, "at least, so I am told. I will do what I can."
"You may stay here as long as you choose," said the doctor. "I will speak to the governor."
And so it came to pass that Mistress Newbolt was established at Newgate. That first night her husband was seized with such violent delirium that it required two men to hold him down.
Reginald therefore remained till early morning, when, exhausted, the patient dropped into a deep sleep. Then his mother bade him go and rest.
"You have your duties to attend to; you have Ann to see after," she said. "I am sufficient here."
"Will you not be afraid to remain here alone, Mother?" asked Reginald.
"Afraid!" she answered, "of what? Is not God with me?" And that strangely inspired look came into her face. "I feel as if my place were here, as if at last I had found my appointed task. Go, and do not trouble about me or your father."
Reginald kissed her hand.
"You are wonderful, Mother," he said. "I will return this evening before the prison gates close." And so he left her.
As Mistress Newbolt stood in the passage she heard cries and moans, loud voices, and bitter plaints.
"Are those the prisoners?" she asked of Knight, the jailer.
"Yes," he answered, "they are hungry dogs to-day. They declared that the morning allowance of food was insufficient. There was not a hunch of bread for each man, and it was sour, not fit to cast to the dogs."
"How was it so?" asked Mistress Newbolt.
The keeper shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I tell?" he said. "It is bought by contract. As we get it we give it them. Those who have no money of their own, and no friends, come badly off. Your husband is sleeping, will you come and look at them?"
Mistress Newbolt acquiesced.
He took her down the passage to a great iron door, in which there was a sliding panel, not large, but large enough to allow an outsider to look into the interior. The keeper drew back the panel, and shrill voices fell upon her ears, uttering curses and foul language. She saw men and women with scarce any semblance of humanity, rather like wild beasts. Some were tearing at hard crusts of bread, others at meat of the worst kind; men belaboured the women and thrust them back, snatching the food out of their thin hands. And they in their turn clutched at them and tore their hair, scratching their faces in their madness. One or two had infants in their arms, parodies of childhood.
"It is terrible!" said Mistress Newbolt, her pale face paling.
"Here is gold," she said to the keeper; "go fetch me food! I will give it them. And look you," she continued, "that you are just, and bring me full measure for the money."
Her stern eyes stared straight into Knight's, and he, as if affrighted, looked away; nevertheless he took the gold and departed to do her bidding.
Mistress Newbolt faced the opening again and called out, "Peace, peace!"
Her words were received with a loud yell.
"Peace? There is no peace here."
"Peace, peace, God's peace be with you!" she continued; and then in a loud voice, which rose above the turmoil, she began:
"Our Father which art in heaven."
Shrieks of mockery greeted her words.
"He who would have bread let him pray for it," she cried out. "Surely it will come to him who asketh."
A loud voice greeted her words.
"We have asked, and they have given us stones for bread," said a gaunt man.
"Because ye have asked amiss," she answered. "Down on your knees and I will pray for you."
A moment's hesitation, then there was dead silence, and that crowd fell down as if moved by some invisible power.
"Repeat what I say, after me," she cried. "Our Father."
And so through that blessed prayer, the like of which there is none other, these poor wretches, the outcast of the earth, followed her, repeating the words, some with sobs, some still cursing between the words.
As the Amen died out, Knight stood beside her.
"Open the gate and let me in to them," she said, "and then do as I bid you."
She took a great white loaf from the basket he had brought.
"There are more coming," he said in a low voice; "this is not all your bounty gives."
"A knife," she said. "I will break each loaf in four. Open the gate," she continued, "and I will go in and feed them myself."
"They will tear you to pieces," said Knight.
"No they will not," she answered; and she stood erect as one inspired.
The jailer took the bunch of keys from his side, unlocked the door, and she passed in.
In a second she was surrounded.
"The bread, the bread we have prayed for!" they cried.
"It is coming," she answered; and she took the lumps of bread which Knight handed her. Quickly they were snatched from her.
Suddenly she stopped, for she saw that the men in their greed were thrusting the women back, and fighting their way towards her.
"Cowards!" she cried, "stand back! The women and the children. Have you nothing human left in you? Shame! Shame!"
There was a deep growl of anger, but slowly the men fell back, and the women rushed forward, kneeling at her feet, kissing her hands. Their souls were touched, and she, stooping over them, bade them rise, and gave them food. She took one child in her arms and fed it with her own hands.
"Water!" they called out, "water!" And they showed her a pitcher filled with a foul liquid.
"Water, bring water!" she repeated; and the keepers brought it as they would have brought it at an angel's word.
She held the jars to the parched, thirsty lips, and they drank, all those who could get near enough; but it was not enough, there were so many.
"That is all," she said at last. "I have no more; but to-morrow I will come back and feed you again; only be human and know there is a God who careth for you. Ye have sinned, but He will pardon you if you repent. He suffered, though He was sinless, and you are sinners. It is but just that you should suffer for your sins. Listen to what the psalmist of Israel sang." In a loud, clear voice she recited the 77th Psalm:
"'I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice, and he gave ear unto me'," and so on to the end.
Where there had been such an uproar there was now a grave stillness, save for the groans of the men and the weeping of the women. She stood with the half-naked child still in her arms, and looked down upon the people, her tall figure resting against the unclean wall of that prison-house. Her voice was steady; her eyes had in them that strangely luminous look of inspiration.
When she had finished she gave the child back to its mother.
"If they will let me, I will come to you to-morrow," she repeated, "and so each day. Only be patient, and the Lord will be with you."
As she spoke she backed out of the cell, and disappeared from their sight.
The keepers told the governor they had never had such a quiet day; the prisoners seemed subdued. They took their portions of food at night and hardly murmured. There were many brutes amongst those men, and many shameless women, but their passions were curbed and their evil tongues silenced.
Mistress Newbolt went back to her husband and tended him all that day, praying beside him with such earnestness, and with such impassioned eloquence that the warders came and stood at the door of the cell and listened. There was not one of them who would not gladly serve her; she might ask what she would of them, they did it.
The governor, hearing what she had done, though knowing it to be against the rules, said:
"Let her do what she will for the poor wretches!"
And so every morning for ten long days she went in to them. Some passed away, but the greater number remained. Every day she added something to her bounty: she gave the women cloths and brooms, and bade them try to keep some order and cleanliness in the cells; but it was impossible, and she soon recognized it was so.
Some days she would repeat a few verses from the Bible to them, and they would listen. Her heart would be glad then, thinking she had won them, but on the morrow there would be fresh cursing, swearing, and evil-speaking. Still, she never wearied. She brought fresh water and clean linen, and dressed their wounds; she brought milk for the little children; she spent herself and her wealth for these outcasts. They grew to look upon her coming as the one thing in the twenty-four hours for which they lived.
"Our mother's coming," they told one another, as the hour approached, and like children they watched for her.
It was wonderful how her strength stood it all--those long days and nights at her husband's pallet, and the horror of her surroundings.
The order came at last that her husband should be removed to Aldersgate to await his trial. The class of prisoners there was of a higher degree, and the prison was less crowded. But the order came too late; they could not move him.
"He will die on the way," the doctor said; "he must die, therefore let him remain here in peace."
When she was not tending the prisoners or waiting on her husband she was praying, this marvellous woman, in whom verily the blood of martyrs must have flowed. She grew gaunter and gaunter, but there came into her face a look of enthusiasm, as if she no longer belonged to this world, but to the heaven of which she spoke.
"If Ann is to see my father alive, I must bring her soon, Mother," said Reginald, on the eighteenth day of the colonel's illness.
"He will not die until the twenty-first," she answered.
On the morning of the twenty-first it was evident that he was sinking, that he would not outlive the day, and so Reginald went for Ann and brought her to the prison. He had told her something of their mother's doings, but it was difficult for anyone who did not see it to know what that prison life was, and Ann was spared the horror. In the cell where her father lay dying everything was spotless. There was scarcely standing room for two or three people, but the door was left open; there was no fear of his escaping--the spirit would go, but the shell would remain, until it was given back to earth. Man could not hurt him; he need not fear being called to any earthly judgment.
So changed was he that Ann hardly knew him. If she had not known he was her father she would not have recognized him. Looking at her mother, she saw it was the same with her.
"Can this be my father," she thought, "by whose side I have ridden over moor and fell, whose voice was so strong to command, whose presence was so good?" And then, looking at her mother, she grew faint with fear.
There was something unearthly in Mistress Newbolt's appearance: her tall figure had grown supernaturally thin, her hands and face were transparent in their whiteness, her eyes shone with kind and tender pity--they were no longer cold and hard as they had been.
When Ann, overcome with grief, sank by her father's bedside and sobbed out her sorrow, she felt her mother's hand on her head, and her voice whispering:
"Nay, my child, do not weep; it is well with him. We have prayed together, he and I, when God has vouchsafed to him short glimpses of reason, and I am persuaded that his soul is safe in the hands of his Maker. Do not trouble; it is well with him."
Then she knelt beside her and poured forth her soul in prayer. It was wonderful to hear her; she was as one inspired; the words flowed forth in a stream of unbroken eloquence. The warders, the keepers, the women of the prison, all gathered round to hear her, and many having come to mock, remained to pray. Throughout the day this went on.
Towards evening Reginald came to take Ann away. Suddenly life seemed to come back to the dying man. He sat up; they put pillows behind him. He looked around him, and seeing Ann and Reginald, beckoned them to come to him. Laying his hands on their heads, he blessed them.
"I have one desire," he said. "I have loved lands, and wealth, and all the good things of this world; now I know they are of no value at all. I charge you two to discover if there be any child, kith or kin, of those who possessed Newbolt Manor before it came into my hands. If so, give it back to them; if not, then do as the disciples of old--succour the poor, make a home for the destitute, let the wealth go back to God who gave it. You will remember?"
"I will remember, Father," said Reginald; "have no fear."
Colonel Newbolt sank back on his pillows as if content, and quietly, without an effort, as if he were falling asleep, passed away.
His wife rose from her knees and covered his face. At a sign from her all those present left the cell, except her children. They remained with her until the last offices for the dead had been accomplished, then, at her command, hand in hand they went forth; she remaining alone to keep watch beside him who had been her husband.