CHAPTER XLVI
THE FATE OF THE VISCOUNT.
Oh, vanity of youthful blood,
So by misuse to poison good.
Reason awakes and views unbarred
The sacred gates she wished to guard,
Sees approach the harpy law,
And Nemesis beholds with awe,
Ready to seize the poor remains
That vice has left of all his gains.
Cold penitence, lame after-thought,
With fear, despair, and horror fraught,
Call back the guilty pleasures dead,
Whom he has robbed and whom betrayed!
—Bishop Hoadley.
When the carriage containing the prisoners reached the jail, they were taken out to be conducted to the warden's office. The viscount, who was in a mood of suppressed fury, was attended by Policeman McRae and followed by old Cuthbert, broken-hearted by the dishonor of his master.
Faustina, who had raged herself into a state of exhaustion and consequently of quietude, was attended by policeman Christie and supported by Mrs. MacDonald who tenderly soothed and flattered her.
It was a busy day in the warden's office, and the warden had but little time to bestow on these interesting prisoners.
"And sae they ha'e committed ye for trial, me laird, mair's the pity; and the puir lassie too; me heart is sair for her," said Auld Saundie Gra'ame, as they were led up to his desk to have their names re-entered upon the prison-books.
"It was a most unwarrantable proceeding! a monstrous abuse of office! an outrage that should be punished by immediate impeachment!" burst forth the viscount, in a fury.
"As to that, me laird, I ha'e never yet seen the prisoner enter these wa's wi' ony verra great esteem for the authorities that sent him here," dryly replied Auld Saundie.
Then turning to an under-warden he said:
"Ye'll convey the prisoners back to the cells occupied by them before."
And Faustina was carried back to the woman's ward, followed by the sympathizing Mrs. MacDonald, who promised to remain with her until the hour of closing up.
And the viscount, attended by Cuthbert, was conducted to his corner cell, there to abide until the day of trial.
Old Cuthbert remained with his master until he was summoned to drive
Mrs. MacDonald back to the castle.
Several days passed. Every morning Mrs. MacDonald, driven by Cuthbert in the family carriage, came to town, to spend the day in the cell with Faustina, while Cuthbert remained in attendance upon the viscount. And every evening she returned to the castle.
The Earl of Hurstmonceux did not come. But news at length came of him. His bankers wrote that he was out on his yacht, his exact latitude being unknown.
Lord Vincent, now that he was fully committed for trial, really did not seem to be anxious for his father's return. Perhaps he would rather not have met the earl under the present circumstances. He held daily consultations with his counsel. These were entirely confidential. Being assured by Mr. Bruce that it was essentially necessary the counsel should be in possession of all the facts, the prisoner made a tolerably clean breast of it, at least so far as the abduction of the negroes was concerned; he exercised some little reticence in the matters of his relations with Faustina and his conspiracy against Lady Vincent.
Mr. Brace of course put the fairest construction upon everything; but still he could not help feeling the darkest misgivings as to the result of the approaching trial. And the viscount, rendered keenly observant by intense anxiety, detected these doubts in the mind of his counsel, and became daily more despairing.
He looked forward to the dishonor of a public trial with burning indignation; to the possible, nay probable, conviction and sentence that might follow with shrinking dread, and to the execution of that sentence with stony horror.
Penal servitude! Great Heaven! penal servitude for him, so high- born, so fastidious, so luxurious in all his habits! Penal servitude for him, the Viscount Vincent!
He had often made one of a party of sight-seers, visiting the prisons, the hulks, the quarries, where the prisoners were confined at work. He had seen them in the coarse prison garb, working in chains, under the broiling sun of summer, and under the bitter cold of winter. He had seen them at their loathsome meals and in their stifling sleeping pens. He had gazed upon them with eyes of haughty, cold, unsympathizing curiosity. To him and his friends they formed but a spectacle of interest or amusement, like a drama.
And now to think that he might, nay, probably would, soon make one of their shameful number! The Viscount Vincent working in chains; gazed at by his former companions; pointed out to curious strangers! That was the appalling picture forever present to his imagination.
How bitterly he deplored the crimes that had exposed him to this fate. How deeply he cursed the siren whose fatal beauty had lured him to sin. How passionately he longed for death, as the only deliverance from the memory of the past, the terrors of the present, the horrors of the future. Day and night that appalling future stared him in the face. Day and night the picture of himself working in chains, pointed out, stared at, was before his mind's eyes.
By day it obtruded between him and the face of any visitor that might be with him. Even when in consultation with his counsel his mind would wander from the subject in hand, and his imagination would be drawn away to the contemplation of that dread picture.
By night it would rise up in the darkness and nearly drive him mad.
He could not eat, he could not sleep. He passed his days in pacing to and fro in his narrow cell, and his nights in tossing about upon his restless bed. His sufferings were pitiable, and his worst enemy must have felt sorry for him.
His condition moved the compassion of the warden, and every indulgence that was in the power of old Saundie to bestow was granted to him. And as he was not yet absolutely convicted, but only waiting his trial, these indulgences were considerable. Old Cuthbert was allowed to visit him freely during the day, and to bring him anything in the way of food, drink, clothing, books, stationery, etc., that he required. And very little supervision was exercised over these matters.
Meantime as the Assizes were sitting, and the docket was not very full, it was thought that the trial would soon come on.
On the Wednesday following the committal of the viscount the trial of the murderer, Frisbie, which stood before that of his master on the docket, did come on. The detective police had been busy during the interval between Frisbie's arrest and arraignment, and they had succeeded in collecting a mass of evidence and a number of witnesses besides old Katie.
Frisbie, however, was defended by the best counsel that mere money could procure. There are many among the best lawyers who will not take up a bad case at any price. But Frisbie, as I said, had the best among the unscrupulous that money could buy. His master of course paid the fees. His counsel very gratuitously instructed him to plead "Not Guilty," and of course he did plead "Not Guilty." And his counsel did the best thing they could to establish his innocence. But the evidence against him was conclusive. And on the morning of the second day of his trial Frisbie was found guilty and sentenced to death. But a short period between sentence and execution was then allowed in Scotland. The execution of Frisbie was fixed for the Monday following his conviction.
From the hour that Frisbie had been brought to trial the viscount had experienced the most vehement accession of anxiety. He refused all food during the day, and he paced the floor of his cell all night. And well he might; for he knew that on that trial revelations would be made under oath that would not tend to whiten Lord Vincent's character.
On Thursday noon Mr. Bruce entered his cell.
"Is the trial—" began the viscount; but he could not get on; his intense emotion choked him.
"The trial is over; the jury brought in their verdict half an hour ago," replied the counsel gravely.
"And Frisbie is—For Heaven's sake speak!" gasped the viscount.
"Frisbie is convicted!" said the lawyer.
Lord Vincent, pale before, turned paler still as he sank into the chair and gazed upon the lawyer, who was greatly wondering at the excessive emotion of his client.
"When is the execution fixed to take place?"
"On Monday, of course."
"Is there—can there be any hope of a pardon for him?"
"Not the shadow of a hope."
"Or—of a commutation of his sentence?"
"It is madness to think of it."
"Is there no chance of a respite?"
"I tell you it is madness, and worse than madness, to imagine such a thing as a pardon, a commutation, or even a respite for that wretch. The crime brought home to him was one of the darkest dye—the base assassination of the girl that loved and trusted and was true to him. To fancy any mercy possible for that miscreant, except it be the infinite, all-embracing, all-pardoning mercy of God, is simply frenzy."
"And the execution is to take place on Monday. The time is very short," said the viscount, falling into a reverie.
The lawyer began to speak of the viscount's own affairs; he mentioned several circumstances connected with the viscount's case that had become known to himself only through the testimony of certain witnesses on Frisbie's trial, and he wished to consult the viscount upon them.
But Lord Vincent seemed to act very strangely; he was absent-minded, stupid, distracted—in fact altogether unfit for consultation with his counsel.
And so, after a few unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, gain his attention, and fix it upon the subject at issue, the lawyer arose, said that he would call again the next morning, and bowed and left the cell.
The shame the viscount suffered was in the knowledge of the dishonorable facts relating to himself that had been brought to light on Frisbie's trial; the great dread he felt was that Frisbie, at the near approach of death, would open his heart and make a full confession; and his horrible certainty was that such a confession was all that was wanted to ensure his own conviction.
Again on this Thursday night he could not sleep, but paced the narrow limits of his cell the whole night through, in unutterable agony of mind. Never was the appalling vision of himself in the shameful prison garb, working in chains, pointed out as an interesting object and gazed at by curious strangers, so awfully vivid as upon this night.
The next morning, when his old servant Cuthbert entered the cell as usual, he was frightened at his master's dreadful looks.
"Will I call a doctor to your lairdship?" inquired the old man.
"No, Cuthbert; I am not ill. I am only suffering for want of rest. I have not been able to sleep since Frisbie's arraignment. He is convicted, you know."
"Aye, me laird, I ken a' anent it. My brither Randy was on the jury, and he tauld me it a' ower a pot o' ale in the taproom o' the 'Highlander,' where I was resting while my horses fed," said the old man gravely.
A dark, crimson flush overspread the face of the viscount. Cuthbert had heard all about it. Cuthbert had heard, then, those disgraceful revelations concerning himself. He need not have blushed before Cuthbert. That loyal-hearted old servant could not have been brought to believe such evil of his beloved young master, as all that came to. And his next words proved this.
"There must 'a' been a deal o' fause swearing, me laird," he said.
The viscount looked up and caught at the words.
"Yes, Cuthbert, a great deal of false swearing, indeed, as far as I am concerned, in that testimony."
"Aye, me laird! I tauld them so in the taproom. There was a wheen idle loons collected there, drinking and smoking and talking anent the business o' their betters. And they were a' unco' free in their comments. But when they mentioned your lairdship's name in connection wi' sic infamy, I tauld them a' weel that they were a pack o' fause knaves to believe sic lees."
"Yes. The execution is to take place on Monday morning, Cuthbert."
"Aye, me laird. I hope the puir, sinfu' lad will mak' guid use o' the short time left him and repent o' a' his misdeeds, and seek his peace wi' his Maker," said the old man solemnly.
The viscount heaved a heavy sigh; a sigh that seemed laden with a weight of agony.
"Cuthbert," he said, "you know that I may not go to see the condemned man, being a prisoner myself; but you, being a fellow- servant, and at liberty, may be permitted to do so. I wish to charge you with a note to deliver to him; but you must deliver it secretly, Cuthbert; secretly, mind you."
"Yes, me laird."
The viscount sat down to his little table and wrote the following note:
"Frisbie: While there is life there is hope; therefore make no confession; for if you do, that confession will destroy your last possibility of pardon or commutation. "Vincent."
He folded and sealed this note and delivered it to Cuthbert, saying:
"Conceal it somewhere about your person, and go to the warden's office and ask leave to see your old fellow-servant, and no doubt you will get it. And when you see him deliver this note secretly, as I told you."
"Verra weel, me laird," said the old man, going and knocking on the door of the cell to be let out. The turnkey opened the door, released him, and locked it again. And the viscount, left alone, paced up and down the floor in unutterable distress of mind. An hour passed and then Cuthbert re-entered the cell, wearing a frightened visage.
"Well, Cuthbert, well! did you find an opportunity of delivering the note?"
"Yes, me laird, I did," said the old man hesitatingly.
"Secretly?"
"Y-yes, me laird!"
The viscount looked relieved of a great fear. He saw the great disturbance of his servant's face, but ascribed it to the effect of his interview with the condemned man, and sympathy for his awful position, and he inquired:
"How did Frisbie look, Cuthbert?"
"Like a ghaist; na less! pale as deeth; trembling like a leaf about to fa'! and waefully distraught in his mind!"
"Did he get an opportunity of reading my note while you were with him?"
"Oh, me laird, I maun just tell you! I hope there was na ony great secret in that same note."
The viscount started and stared wildly at the speaker, but then everything alarmed Lord Vincent now.
"What do you mean?" he asked:
"Oh, me laird! I watched my opportunity, and I gi'e him the note in secrecy, as your lairdship tauld me; and I stooped and whispered till him in his lugs to keep the note till he was his lane, and read it then. But the doitted fule, gude forgi'e me, didna seem to compreheend; but was loike ane dazed. He just lookit at me and then proceeded to open the note before my face. Whereupon the turnkey lad takit it out fra his hand, saying that the prisoner, being a condemned man, maunna receive ony faulded paper that hadna passit under the observation of the governor, because sic faulded packets might contain strychnine or other subtle poison. And sae he took possession o' your note, me laird, before the prisoner could read a word of it; and said he maun carry it to the governor whilk I suppose he did."
To see the consternation of the viscount was dreadful.
"Oh, Cuthbert, Cuthbert, the cowardice of that miserable wretch will ruin me!" he exclaimed bitterly.
"Oh, me laird, dinna rail at the puir sinfu' soul for cowardice. Sure mesel' would be a coward gin I had the waefu' woodie before my ees. 'Deed, me laird, and me heart is sair for the mischance o' the note."
"It cannot be mended now, Cuthbert."
The time was drawing near for the closing of the prison doors, and the old man took a dutiful leave of his master and departed.
On his way downstairs he was called into the warden's office, and while there he was severely reprimanded for conveying letters to the convict, and forbidden under pain of punishment to repeat the offense. The old man bore the rebuke very patiently, and at the lecture that was bestowed upon him he humbly bowed and took his leave.
This night the viscount, exhausted by long vigilance and fasting and by intense anxiety, threw himself upon his bed and slept for a few hours. The next morning, Saturday, in his restless trouble he arose early. And in the course of the day he questioned everyone who came into his cell concerning the state of mind of the condemned man.
Some could give him no news at all; others could tell him something; but they differed in their accounts of Frisbie—one saying that he had asked for the prison chaplain, who had gone in to him; a second that he was very contrite; a third that he was only terribly frightened; a fourth that he was as firm as a rock, declined to confess his guilt and persisted in declaring his innocence. The viscount endeavored to believe the last statement.
The miserable day passed without bringing anything more satisfactory to Lord Vincent. And the night that followed was a sleepless one to him.
Sunday came; the last day of life that was left to the wretched valet. On Sunday it was obligatory upon all the prisoners confined in that jail to attend divine service in the prison chapel. They had no choice in this matter; unless they were confined to their beds by illness they were obliged to go.
On this particular Sunday no prisoner felt disposed to place himself on the sick list. Quite the contrary. For, on the other hand, many prisoners who were really ill, in the infirmary, declared themselves well enough to get up and go to chapel.
The reason of their sudden zeal in the performance of their religious duties was simply this: The "condemned sermon," as it was called, was to be preached that day. And the condemned man, who was to be executed in the morning, was to be present under guard. And people generally have a morbid curiosity to gaze upon a man who is doomed to death.
Lord Vincent was ill enough to be exempt from the duty of appearing in the chapel, and haughty enough to recoil from mixing publicly with his fellow-prisoners; but he was intensely anxious to see Frisbie and judge for himself, from the man's appearance, whether he seemed likely to make a confession.
And so, when the turnkey whose duty it was to attend to this ward came around to unlock the doors and marshal the prisoners in order to march them to the chapel, Lord Vincent, without demur, fell into rank and went with them.
The chapel was small, and the prisoners present on this day filled it full. The set to which Lord Vincent belonged were marched in among the last. Consequently they sat at the lower end of the chapel.
Lord Vincent's height enabled him to look over the heads of most persons present. And he looked around for Frisbie. At length he found him.
The condemned pew was immediately before the pulpit, facing the preacher. In it sat Frisbie, unfettered, but guarded by two turnkeys, one of whom sat on each side of him. But Frisbie's back was towards Lord Vincent, and so the viscount could not possibly get a glimpse of the expression of his face.
He next looked to see if he could find the selfish vixen who had lured him to his ruin, and whom he now hated with all the power of hatred latent in his soul. But a partition eight feet high, running nearly the whole length of the chapel and stopping only within a few feet of the pulpit, separated the women's from the men's side of the church, so that even if she had been present he could not have seen her.
"The wages of sin is death."
Such was the text from which the sermon was preached to the prisoners that day. But the viscount heard scarcely one word of it. Intensely absorbed in his own reflections, he paid no attention to the services. At their close he bent his eyes again upon the form of Frisbie.
His perseverance was rewarded. As they arose to leave the chapel Frisbie also arose and turned around. And the viscount got a full view of his face—a pale, wild, despairing face.
"He is desperately frightened, if he is not penitent. That is the face of a man who, in the forlorn hope of saving his life, will deny his guilt until the rope is around his neck, and then, in the forlorn hope of saving his soul, confess his crime under the gallows," said the viscount to himself, as he was marched back to his cell.
In that the viscount wronged Frisbie. The great adversary himself is said to be not so black as he is painted.
That same night, that last solemn night of the criminal's life, the prison chaplain stayed with the wretched man. Mr. Godfree was a fervent Christian; one whose faith could move mountains; one who would never abandon a soul, however sinful, to sink into perdition while that soul remained in its mortal tenement. Such men seem to have a Christ-conferred power to save to the uttermost.
He kept close to Frisbie; he would not permit himself to be discouraged by the sinfulness, the cowardice, and the utter baseness of the poor wretch. He pitied him, talked to him, prayed with him.
With all his deep criminality Frisbie was certainly not hardened. He listened to the exhortations of the chaplain, he wept bitterly, and joined in the prayers. And in the silence of that night he made a full confession to the chaplain, with the request that it might be made public the next day.
He confessed the murder of Ailsie Dunbar; but he denied that the crime had been premeditated, as it had been made to appear at the trial. He killed her in a fit of passion, he said; and he had never known an hour's peace since. Remorse for the crime and terror for its consequences had made his life wretched. His master, Lord Vincent, he said, had been an eye-witness to the murder; but had withheld himself from denouncing him, because he wanted to use the power he had thus obtained to compel him to enter a conspiracy against Lady Vincent. And here followed a full account of the plot and its execution.
Frisbie went on to say that nothing but the terrors of death induced him to become a party to that base conspiracy against the honor of a noble lady, and that he had suffered almost as much remorse for his crimes against Lady Vincent as for his murder of Ailsie Dunbar.
All this Mr. Godfree took down in short-hand from the lips of the conscience-stricken man.
And then, as Frisbie expressed the desire to spend the remainder of the night in devotion, Mr. Godfree decided to remain with him. He read aloud to the convict portions of Scripture suited to his sad case; he prayed fervently with him for the pardon of his sins; and then he sang for him a consoling hymn.
Oh, strangely sounded that sacred song arising in the deep silence of the condemned cell. So the night passed there.
But how did it pass in the viscount's cell? Sleeplessly, anxiously, wretchedly, until long after midnight, when he fell asleep. He was awakened by a sound of sawing, dragging, and hammering, that seemed to be in the prison yard beneath his windows. It continued a long time, and effectually banished slumber from his weary eyes.
What could they be doing at that unusual hour? he asked himself. And he crept from his bed and peeped through the grated window. But the night was over-clouded and deeply dark from that darkness that precedes the dawn. He could see nothing, but he could hear the sound of voices amid the noise of work; although the words, at the distance his window was from the ground, were inaudible.
He lay down again no wiser than he had risen up. After an hour or two the noise ceased, and he dropped into that sleep of prostration that more resembles worn-out nature's swooning than healthy slumber.