Still there was no grim turnkey, no dripping walls, no dark dungeon—though Heaven knows the vaulted passages lighted by small, arched, iron-grated windows, looked dreary enough.
“This is the place,” said the messenger, “the room where Mr. Wilton is staying; and with better luck than I have. Ah, sir, my friends have all died, or wandered away long ago, and I, without them, or help of any kind, have been obliged to declare myself on the County. That means, sir, that I am supplied with a room and a scanty allowance of food by the authorities, but not a farthing in money, sir, not a farthing. You see before you, sir, a wretch who has not a farthing, nor any means of obtaining one, save through the charity of kind persons like yourself, who reward me with a trifle for conducting them to their friends.”
Hal put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth half-a-crown. The usual reward was about twopence. Sometimes, by the tough-skinned, a penny was doled out, or a profitless, “Thank you,” but half-a-crown—that was unhoped-for munificence. With economy, how long would it supply him with tobacco and beer?
The man’s eye glistened as a ray of light fell upon the coin. It was one of the last new dies, and was bright as from the Mint.
“What a beautiful piece of silver!” he exclaimed, with a grin of satisfaction. “Well, you are a gentleman! When you come again, sir, ask for me—my name is Maybee: everybody here knows Josh Maybee, anything I can do for you in the prison I will: out of it, you know, is not at present in my line. God bless you, sir! good day—oh! stay, you had better knock and see whether Mr. Wilton is in his room. If not, I’ll run into the ground, and hunt him up.”
Flora tapped gently at the door, but there was no response. She turned the handle of the lock gently, and opened it a little way. She looked into the apartment with a throbbing heart.
Upon a bed she saw seated her father—the very picture of desolation and woe. His head was bowed almost to his knees, and his two hands were spread open over his forehead. He seemed unconscious of everything but the intense anguish under the influence of which his body was swaying to and fro.
Flora ran into the room: she sank upon her knees at his feet: she drew gently his hands from before his eyes, and twined her arms about him with a sweet tenderness.
“Father, dear father!” she said, “look up: see, your own Flo’ has come to you—to be with you—to share your prison—to tend you, and to be a comfort to you as she was at home. Look at me—speak to me, father dear.”
With a startled cry, the old man looked up, as if suddenly roused out of a dream of gloom and horror into a paradise of sunshine.