CHAPTER XXVI.
"And doubly loud,
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder cloud;
And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar."
Corsair.
There is nothing like solitary confinement to bring the transgressor to his right senses. He is shut out from all external communication, and forced to look in upon himself; his eye turns and looks inwards; he has free time and full scope for thought; nothing to distract, nothing to wean away from self-examination; all resources are taken away but one—thought; and the solitary one has time to think both on his past and future fate.
When Edward L'Estrange was first confined in prison, his mind was not yet settled from its passions; the whole of the first night he paced his cell up and down, and black thoughts filled his mind. He had the Captain's word he would be rescued,—he would yet have free scope for revenge. He felt doubly angry; first at the total miscarriage of his time-wrought plot, secondly at the absurd delay and loss of precious moments he had made in his useless attempts to convince a woman against her will. If he had only been quicker!—if he had used more despatch in the business! Then he was vexed at being caught at so dastard an endeavour; he was vexed to think what the Captain would say,—he was now perhaps laughing over his grog at the failure! Yet he would be rescued;—he would have a sweet revenge! He would enter the Towers disguised, and challenge the Earl to mortal combat—nay, he would assassinate him; he would break the proud heart of Ellen; she would not love him,—he would be avenged on him she did love. Oh! how he abused himself for his lack of courage. If she was only once more in his power! These, and a hundred other such thoughts, coursed his mind as he marched round his prison; and he fancied every minute he should hear the door open, and his liberty would be gained.
The hours of darkness fled by, and the sanguine thoughts he had cherished during the night began to cool with the first gray dawn; his spirits fell, a reaction took place, and his mind became less and less sanguine, till he felt low—very low.
The excitement of the night passed away with its shades; with the morning a very different train of thoughts arose. He began to see things in their true light; he saw himself first an angry lover—angry because the girl he loved did not love him; then he had become a companion of men worse than himself, he had touched pitch and not escaped its defilement; then he had been a false friend to the Earl, a guest for whom his noble host had sought with sorrow, and one who had been guilty of a breach of all the laws of hospitality, and who had basely turned his heel against him whose bread he ate. He had sunk lower still, he had been the accuser of innocence, he had filled a happy home with tears, he had abducted a high-souled pure maiden, and had he not been stayed in his villany he would have perhaps driven her to death; he had been caught in his wickedness, had attempted the life of one, been the murderer of another, and a third was placed at the doors of the grave by his hand.
What had he done all this for? a dream, a baseless vision. How could he ever fancy a being so pure, so loveable, would love a thing of guilt like him? He had lost his name, his honour, his fame; he was the occupant of a gaol, and a felon's death and unhallowed grave were before him,—the fitting meed for such a crime, or rather a succession of crimes like his. There was one thought that still gave him some relief, and this was the thought of his rescue; he would then live to retrieve his character; he felt he could never be worthy the love, but perhaps he might yet gain the friendship, of Ellen. He would leave for a foreign shore, change his name, achieve high renown, and come back meriting at least the friendship of one, of whose love he had now lost all hope of being worthy. This was a better tone of mind, and he began not to repent, but to feel remorse for his crimes. It was the remorse of one of those fallen angels, who yet know no wish even of repentance. Conflicting hopes and fears too, often sinking to despair, took possession of his mind. His morning meal was brought,—he could not partake of it. The day wore through, he became hungry and tired, and he ate some of his prison fare; alas, to what had he brought himself! The knowledge that others were now happy, especially one, and that his name would only be mentioned to be reviled, was maddening; he began to hate all mankind, because he had made them justly hate him; he began to be angry at any one being happy, because he had made himself miserable. Oh! how slowly the hours passed, how he longed for night and darkness. All was sunshine and happiness without, all gloom and misery in his prison; and because he was wretched he felt angry because the sun shone. Would it were night, more congenial to his dark temperament of mind. He looked at the barred window of his room, it was high beyond his reach and the wall was smooth. Oh! if he could only climb and look at the world without, anything was better than the accursed walls of his gaol. A little bird settled on the bars, but it was outside; it warbled a few notes, and then flew away. He hated that bird, because it was happy and he was wretched. The turnkey brought his evening meal; he was a harsh, bad-looking man, and as incommunicative as a stock; he asked him some questions, but surly answers only he got in return. A second night came, and still no rescue. That night he slept, but his sleep was full of horrid dreams. Another day passed through, and still no help. He began to despair, and thought the Captain had promised too much; he could not perform his promise, he would leave him to his fate, he would be hung. Oh, horror! and yet he couldn't do so. But why not? he would not betray him, he had sworn that on the book of God. The Captain knew he would not perjure himself, and would leave him to be executed. What did he care? would God he had never known him. These are your worldly friends, they leave you in the hour of necessity. Ellen would not have left him, and even now, if he were condemned, he felt sure she would visit him in his condemned cell. Even that thought had bliss in it, he would see her again. But to die like a felon, oh! it was horrible; to be a felon was nothing, but to die one was horrible; he never would,—he would put an end to his life first, dash out his brains against the wall. Another day passed; he became moody, and lower in spirits. The dull routine,—the same prison fare twice a day, brought by the same ill-looking man; the same dreadful thoughts; the same dream-scared sleep;—it was a living death. He began to look forward to death as a release. Sunday came, that evening he would have been a week in his cell. It was Sunday a fortnight ago Ellen had been taken away; on Sunday a week ago he had perpetrated his deeds of darkness, after keeping the innocent girl a week in a still crueller prison—for she was innocent, he deserved it; and now on Sunday he was in solitary confinement: there was something of a retributive providence in it. It did not escape him. He heard the church bells ring their call to the house of God; there was a time he had loved that sound, the time when he had loved Ellen, and they went to church together; now the sound was maddening to his ear, the bells rang the knell of departed bliss; they would soon ring his knell, and in a felon's grave he would rest. To-morrow his trial came on; he would confess his guilt and soon all would be over.
The day was very hot,—hot to oppressiveness, and as the evening came on he now and then heard distant peals of thunder. Criminal experience tells us that the night before the trial is far more awful to the criminal than the night before execution. This was the night before L'Estrange's trial, and he did not prove an exception to the rule. He had all the week determined to plead guilty, but now the trial was near he would not; he might be pardoned by some clever defence, and he determined to use it. He could not go to sleep that night, he paced his cell in an agony of mind. It was then certain the Captain had deserted him. Oh, how he hated the man! Darkness increased: now and then a fitful glare of faint lightning glimmered through his cell; by-and-by it got brighter, and the thunder crashes grew louder and more distinct; it was evident a heavy storm was wearing up. He heard the rain descend in torrents, and the vividity of the double-forked lightning, and the detonating peals of thunder which shook the prison, shook also his guilty mind. It seemed as if heaven spoke in wrath for the last time, and gave her final warning. It wakened something between conviction, and a desire to become better; but, alas! it was only like the breath of a dying lamp, which wakens a ray, too soon to expire again. Something muttered in his heart it was too late; it was so voice-like it made him start, it was as if some one spoke. He sat down on his comfortless bed, and looked the picture of guilty, hopeless woe. Suddenly he heard a footstep outside his door; it was like the step of a soldier; he heard the clanking sound of the spur. A key grated in the door, and it was opened by the turnkey; behind him strode in a tall dark figure: the latter person took the lamp from the turnkey, and ordering him in a low voice to come back in half an hour, bade him quit the cell. The door was again locked, the key turned, and the two alone in the prison. L'Estrange knew who it was, he felt an instinct that told him it was—it could be—no other than the Captain. He could not see him, though he was aware he was seen by the dark lantern. Just then a tremendous flash lit up the prison, and distinctly showed him he was right in his surmise; it was the Captain. He waited till the crackling peal ceased, and then said in a light voice:
"Hallo, Ned, how are you, old fellow? why damme, prison fare doesn't seem to agree with you, you are as white as a ghost; cheer up, old fellow, I am come to rescue you!"
"Prison thoughts are worse than its fare. I am a different man since I have been here so long."