CHAPTER CX.

CONTINUATION OF THE BLACK’S VISITS TO HIS PRISONERS.

Having quitted the dungeon in which Josh Pedler was confined, the

Blackamoor proceeded to the next cell; but, instead of opening the

door, he merely drew back a small sliding-lid that covered a grated

trap, and the faint rays of a light streamed from the inside.

“Tidmarsh,” said the Blackamoor, in a feigned tone, “has your mind

grown easier?”

“Yes, sir--oh! yes,” replied the prisoner from the interior of his

dungeon. “Since you allowed me a light and good books, I have been

comparatively a happy man. I know that I deserve punishment--and it

seems to do me good to feel that I am atoning for my offences in this

manner. I am not afraid of being alone now; and when I put out my

light, I am not afraid of being in the dark.”

“You pray with more composure?” said the Black, interrogatively.

“Yes, sir--I can settle my mind to prayer now,” was the answer; “and I

am sure that my prayers are heard. But pray believe, sir, that I never

was so wicked--so very wicked as that bad man who kept me for years in

his employ. I know that I was too willing an instrument in his hands;

and I am sorry for it now. The thing that lays heaviest on my mind, is

the share I had in sending poor Tom Rain to the scaffold.”

“You are sorry for that deed?” enquired the Black, in a low and

slightly tremulous tone.

“Oh! God, forgive me!” exclaimed Tidmarsh, his voice expressing sincere

contrition. “I do indeed deeply--deeply deplore my share in that awful

business; and the ghost of poor Tom Rain used to haunt me when I was

first here. In fact, Tom Rain was ever uppermost in my thoughts;

and--strange though it may seem--it is not the less true, sir, that

your voice appeared to penetrate to my very soul, as if it was Tom Rain

himself that was speaking to me. But I have got over all those ideas

now--since I learnt to pray; and when I grow dull, I read the good

books you have lent me. Sometimes I study the Bible; and I find that

if I pore over it too much, it makes me melancholy. Then I turn to the

Travels and Voyages; and I become tranquil again.”

“Should you not rejoice at any opportunity of retrieving your

character--even in your old age--and earning an honest livelihood for

yourself?” asked the Black.

“Oh! if such a thing could be!” cried the man, in a tone of exultation.

“But, no--it is impossible!” he added, after a pause, and speaking in

an altered voice. “I have sinned too deeply in respect to poor Tom

Rain, to be able to hope for such happiness. God is punishing me in

this world, you being his instrument;--and yet I can scarcely call it

punishment, since you treat me with such kindness. There are times when

I even wish that I was more severely punished _here_, so that I might

expiate all my sins and feel certain about my fate in another world.”

“God is full of forgiveness, Tidmarsh,” said the Black: “I feel that

He is,” he added in a somewhat enthusiastic manner. “The prospect

I distantly hinted at in respect to yourself, may possibly become

practicable. You are old--but you may still have many years to live;

and it would be wrong--it would be detestable not to give you a

full opportunity, sooner or later, of enabling you to testify your

contrition. But I cannot speak farther on this subject at present.

I have brought you some more books: one is a tale--‘_The Vicar of

Wakefield_’--the perusal of which will do you no harm. It will show you

how virtue, though suffering for a time, was rewarded at last. In a few

days I shall myself visit you again.”

The Black closed the trap, and stood away from the door, which Wilton

now opened; and the basket furnished the prisoner with his provisions

and also with some volumes of good and beneficial reading.

The visiting-party next proceeded to the cell in which Toby Bunce

and his wife were confined together; and here, as in the immediately

preceding instance, the Black spoke to them through a sliding trap,

from which a light also gleamed.

“For three days have you now been together, after dwelling some time

apart,” said the Blackamoor, continuing to speak in a feigned tone;

“and I now conjure you to tell me truly whether you would rather be

thus in each other’s company, or separated as before?”

“Oh! leave us together, sir--leave us together, I implore you!” cried

Mrs. Bunce, in a voice of earnest appeal. “We are now the best friends

in the world; and I have promised my husband never to say a cross word

unnecessarily to him again.”

“She seems quite an altered woman, sir,” observed Toby. “But then----”

“But then what?” demanded the Black, seeing that the man hesitated.

“Well, sir--I will speak my mind free,” continued Bunce; “because I’m

no longer afraid to do so. I was going to say that p’rhaps it is this

loneliness in which we are placed that makes Betsy talk as she does;

and that if we was to be again together out of doors----”

“You would not find me change, Toby,” interrupted the woman, but not

in a querulous manner. “I like to hear you read to me from the Bible,

and from the other good books that the gentleman has given us. I wish

we had passed more of our time in this way before we got into all this

trouble. But, pray, sir,” she added, turning towards the door, “do tell

me whether you mean to keep us here all our lives!”

“You must ask me no questions, remember,” said the Black, in a mild

but firm tone. “I have told you this before. Learn to subdue all

impatience, and to become resigned and enduring. You have made others

suffer in the world;--you have been the agents and tools of a wicked

man;--and you now see that heaven is punishing you through the means of

one who has power thus to treat you.”

“Oh! how I wish that I had never known that detestable Bones?”

exclaimed the woman, covering her face with her hands.

“And how I wish that I had stuck to my trade in an honest manner!”

cried Toby Bunce, in a voice of unfeigned contrition.

“Think of all that--repeat those sentences to each other--as often as

you can,” said the Blackamoor. “In the course of a few days I shall

visit you again.”

With these words, he stood back from the door, which Wilton opened; and

the two inmates of the dungeon received supplies of wholesome food and

moral or instructive books.

The party then proceeded farther along the subterranean passage from

which the various cells opened.

“Do you mean, sir, to fulfil your intention of this night visiting

_him_?” enquired Cæsar, addressing his master in a low, faint, and

tremulous tone, as if he were a prey to some vague terror.

The Blackamoor did not immediately answer the question; but, placing

his hand upon his brow, appeared to reflect profoundly for almost the

space of a minute.

Wilton--who seemed acquainted, as well as Cæsar, with all his master’s

secrets--likewise surveyed the Black with mingled curiosity and

apprehension.

“Yes!” at length exclaimed the mysterious personage; “I will now,

for the first time since he has been my prisoner here, hold personal

communication with Benjamin Bones!”

The party proceeded in silence to a cell near the extremity of the long

subterranean passage; and on reaching it, the Black handed the lamp

to Cæsar, at the same time making a sign to that youth and the other

dependants to stand back so that no gleam of the light should penetrate

into the dungeon when the door was opened. They obeyed in profound

silence; and their master immediately entered the cell, closing the

door behind him with that rapidity which is exercised by a brute-tamer

when introducing himself into the cage of a wild beast.

The interior of the dungeon was as dark as pitch,--so dark, that there

was not even that greyish appearance which obscurity frequently wears

to eyes accustomed to it. It was a darkness that might be felt,--a

darkness which seemed to touch and hang upon the visual organs like a

dense black mist.

“Who is it?” demanded the sepulchral voice of Old Death, his tone

marked with a subdued ferocity and a sort of savage growling which

seemed to denote a rancorous hate and pent-up longings for bitter

vengeance against the author or authors of his solitary imprisonment.

“I am the person who keeps you here,” answered the Black, studying to

adopt a voice even more feigned and unlike his natural tones than when

he was ere now addressing Tidmarsh and the Bunces.

Still that voice had in it some peculiarity which appeared to touch

a chord that vibrated to the very core of Old Death’s heart; for he

evidently made a starting movement, as he said hoarsely and thickly,

“But who are you--a spectre or a living being? Tell me who you are!”

“I am a living being like yourself,” was the reply, delivered in a

voice disguised in deeper modulations than before. “Are you afraid of

being visited by spectres?”

There was a long pause, during which the deep silence was interrupted

only by the heavy breathing of Old Death, as if the utter darkness of

the place sate oppressively upon him.

“Are you afraid of spectres, I ask?” demanded the Black, who was

leaning with folded arms against the door, and with his eyes in the

direction where he presumed Old Death to be seated; though not even the

faintest outline of his form could he trace amidst that black obscurity.

“Bring me a light, or let me out--and I will answer all your

questions,” cried Benjamin Bones, his anxiety to obtain his freedom

giving a cadence of earnest appeal to his voice in spite of the

tremendous rage which his bosom cherished against the individual who

had proclaimed himself to be his gaoler.

“Do you deserve mercy?--do you merit the indulgence of man?” asked the

Black, in a tone profoundly solemn.

“What do you know of me?--who are you?--why did you have me brought

here?--and by what right do you keep me in this infernal place?”

demanded Old Death, rapidly and savagely.

“Is it not a just retribution which makes you a prisoner in a

subterranean where you have often imprisoned others?” said the Black.

“Then ’tis that miscreant Ellingham who has put me here!” exclaimed

Bones, in a tone which showed that he was quivering with rage.

“Demon!--fiend!--yes--you are Lord Ellingham--I thought I knew your

voice, although you tried to disguise it. At the first moment I

fancied--but that was stupid,--still it struck me that it was the voice

of Tom Rain which spoke. Ha! ha!” the old wretch chuckled with horrible

ferocity and savage glee--“I did for him--I did for him! I sent him

to the scaffold--I got him hanged--and now he is food for worms!

Ellingham--for I know you _are_ Lord Ellingham--I can have the laugh at

you, you devil, although you keep me here!”

“Miserable old man,” said the Black, in a tone of deep pity, though

still disguised in modulation,--“are you insensible to the whisperings

of conscience?”

“Yes--now that you are here!” cried Benjamin Bones, his clothes

rustling as if with the trembling nervousness of enraged excitement.

“You made me sell you these houses--you took them away from me by

force, as it were; and now you keep me a prisoner here. It is all

through vengeance that you do it--_you_ who pretended to be above all

thoughts or intentions of revenge!”

“As God is my judge, I harbour no such sentiment towards you!” said the

Blackamoor, emphatically. “But will you converse tranquilly and calmly

with me?”

“Well--I will try,” returned Old Death. “What do you want to say to me?”

“To remind you that you are an old--very old man, and that you cannot

hope to live much longer----”

“Fiend! would you kill me in cold blood!” interrupted Bones, in a sort

of shrieking, yelling tone that indicated mingled alarm and rage.

“Had I intended to slay you, I might have done it when you were first

brought here as my prisoner,” answered the Black. “Rest satisfied on

that head----”

“Then you do not mean to kill me?” exclaimed Old Death, with all the

hysterical joy of a coward soul, in spite of his natural and still

untamed ferocity.

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Blackamoor.

“There--now ’tis the voice of Tom Rain once again!” cried Old Death,

evidently shuddering as he spoke. “But, no--I am a fool--you are the

Earl! Yes--tell me--are you not the Earl of Ellingham?”

“No matter who I am,” was the solemn reply. “If you ask me questions, I

will immediately leave you.”

“No--don’t go for a few minutes!” exclaimed Old Death, imploringly. “I

have been here a month,--yes--for I have counted the visits of your

men, who come, as they tell me, every night to bring me food,--and

I know that I have been here a month. In all that time I have only

exchanged a dozen words with human beings--and--and--this solitude is

horrible!”

“You have leisure to ponder on all your crimes,” said the Black.

“Who made you my judge?” demanded Old Death, with a return of his

ferocity of tone and manner. “If you want me to confess all my sins,

and will then set me free, I will do it,” he added in a somewhat

ironical way.

“Confession is useless, without true repentance,” observed the

Blackamoor. “Besides, all your misdeeds are known to me,--your

behaviour to your half-sister, Octavia Manners, years ago--your

treatment of poor Jacob Smith--your machinations to destroy Thomas

Rainford----”

“Then, by all this, am I convinced that you _are_ the Earl of

Ellingham!” cried Old Death. “Ah! my lord,” he immediately added, in

a voice which suddenly changed to a tone of earnest appeal, “do not

keep me here any longer! Let me go--and I will leave London for ever!

Reflect, my lord--I am an old man--a very old man,--you yourself said

so just now,--and you are killing me by keeping me here. Send me out of

the country--any where you choose, however distant--and I will thank

you: but again I say, do not keep me here.”

“When the savage animal goes about preying upon the weak and unwary, he

should be placed under restraint,” said the Blackamoor. “You are not

repentant, Benjamin Bones! A month have you been here--a month have you

been allowed to ponder upon your enormities,--and still your soul is

obdurate. Not many minutes have elapsed since you gloried in one of the

most infamous deeds of your long and wicked life.”

“I spoke of Tom Rain to annoy you--because I was enraged with you

for keeping me here,” returned Old Death, hastily. “There have been

moments,” he added, after a short pause, “when I have felt sorry for

what I did in that respect. I would not do so over again--no, my lord,

I assure you I would not! I wish your poor half-brother was alive

now--I would not seek to injure him, even if I had the power.”

“You speak thus because you have been alone and in the dark,” observed

the Blackamoor, in a mournful voice: “but were you restored to

freedom--to the enjoyment of the light of God’s own sun--and to the

possession of the power of following your career of iniquity, you would

again glory in that dreadful deed.”

“No,” answered Old Death: “I am sorry for it. I know that my nature is

savage and ferocious: but will you tame me by cruelty? And your keeping

me here is downright cruelty--and nothing more or less. It makes me

vindictive--it makes me feel at times as if I hated you.”

“I shall keep you here, nevertheless, for some time longer--aye, and

in the dark,” returned the Blackamoor; “because you seek not to subdue

your revengeful feelings. It is terrible to think that so old a man

should be so inveterately wicked. Do you know that your gang is broken

up--rendered powerless? In the cells of this subterranean are Timothy

Splint--Joshua Pedler--Mrs. Bunce and her husband--and your agent,

Tidmarsh.”

“Then I have no hope _from without_!” growled Old Death, his garments

again rustling with a movement of savage impatience; and for an instant

it struck the Blackamoor that he could see two ferocious eyes gleaming

in the dark--but this was doubtless the mere fancy of the moment.

“Yes,--you are beyond the reach of human aid, unless by _my_ will

and consent,” said the Blackamoor. “Your late companions or tools in

iniquity are all housed safely here;--and, what is more, they are

penitent. Listen for a moment, Benjamin Bones; and may the information

I am about to give you, prove an instructive lesson. Timothy Splint

is at this instant reading the Bible, therein to search for hope and

consolation, which God does not deny to the worst sinners when they are

truly penitent. Joshua Pedler is occupying himself in writing a letter

of advice to a young girl who became his mistress, whom he drove to

prostitution, but who is now earning her livelihood in a respectable

manner. Tidmarsh deplores the folly which made him your instrument;

and he is reading good books. Bunce and his wife are together in the

same dungeon; and the woman is rapidly yielding up to her husband that

empire which she had usurped. They too regret that they ever knew you;

and the Bible is their solace. Of six persons whom I imprisoned in this

place which was once your own property, five are already repentant:

you, who are the sixth, alone remain obdurate and hardened.”

“And my old friends curse me!” moaned the ancient miscreant, his voice

seeming more hollow and sepulchral than ever, as if he were covering

his face with his hands. “What--the people who owe so much to me--the

Bunces--Tidmarsh----”

“Would not speak to you, unless it were to convert you,” added the

Black. “Thus, you perceive, you--who, in the common course of nature,

are of all the six the nearest to the threshold of the tomb,--you, who

have so many years upon your head, and such deep and manifold crimes to

expiate,--_you_, Benjamin Bones,” continued the warning voice, “are the

last to show the slightest--the faintest sign of penitence. Is not this

deplorable? And even now you appear to regret that your late companions

in crime should be in their hearts thus alienated from you. Doubtless

you trusted to the chapter of accidents--to the hazard of chances to

enable them to discover your place of imprisonment and effect your

rescue?”

Old Death groaned heavily, in spite of himself.

“Yes:--such was your hope--such was your idea,” resumed the Black;

“and now you are unmanned by disappointment. Even your friend Jeffreys

turned against you--he led you into the snare which I set for you--he

will not raise an arm to save you from my power. He does not even know

where you are.”

“Then I am abandoned by all the world!” shrieked forth the wretched

miscreant, unable to subdue the agonising emotions which this

conviction excited within him.

“He who finds himself abandoned by all the world, should throw himself

upon his Maker,” said the Blackamoor.

“There--there--’tis the voice of Rainford again!” cried Old Death,

evidently seized with ineffable terror. “But, no--no--you are the Earl

of Ellingham--you must be the Earl! Yet why do you every now and then

imitate the tone of Tom Rain? Is it to frighten me, my lord? Tell

me--is it to frighten me?”

“You seem inaccessible to fear of any kind,” answered the Black,--“I

mean a fear which may be permanent and salutary. You have occasional

qualms of conscience, which you cannot altogether resist, but which

almost immediately pass away. Have you no wish to make your peace with

heaven? Would you pray with a clergyman, were one to visit you?”

“No:--I am unfit for prayer--I should not have the patience to stand

the questioning of a clergyman,” answered Old Death hastily: then,

almost immediately afterwards, he said, “But I was wrong to give such

a reply! Yes--send me a clergyman--let him bring a light--do any thing

to relieve me from this solitude and this darkness. My lord--for I

know that you are the Earl of Ellingham--pray take compassion upon

me! I am an old--a very old man, my lord; and I cannot endure this

confinement. I told you just now that I was sorry for what I did to

your brother-in-law; and you know that I cannot recall him to life.

Neither will you do so by killing me. Have mercy upon me, then, my

lord: let me leave this horrible place----”

“To enter the great world again, and renew your course of crime?”

interrupted the Black. “No--Benjamin Bones, that may not be! Let me

first become assured that you sincerely and truly repent of your

misdeeds--let me be impressed with the conviction that you are sorry

for the crimes which have marked your long life,--and then--_then_,

we will speak of ameliorating your condition. For the present, do not

consider me as your enemy--do not look upon me as a man acting towards

you from vindictive motives only. No:--for were I inclined to vent

on you a miserable spite or a fiendish malignity, the means are not

deficient. I might keep you without food for days together--but each

day your provender is renewed: or I might even kill you outright--and

yet I would not violently injure a hair of your head! To-morrow evening

I will visit you again: in the meantime endeavour to subdue your

feelings so that you may then speak to me without irritation.”

With these words the Black abruptly thrust the door open, and quitted

the dungeon; but at that instant Cæsar, who had been pacing up and down

with Wilton in the immediate vicinity of that particular cell, was so

close to the entrance that the light of the lamp which he carried in

his hand streamed full upon the countenance of his master as the latter

sprang forth from the deep darkness of Old Death’s prison-house.

The glare for a moment showed the interior of the dungeon; and the

Black, mechanically turning his eyes towards the place where he

presumed Benjamin Bones to be, caught a rapid glimpse of the hideous

old man, seated--or rather crouched on his bed, his hands clasped

round his knees, and his form so arched that his knees and chin almost

appeared to meet.

In another instant the dungeon-door was closed violently by the

Blackamoor, who, as he locked and barred it, said in a low and somewhat

reproachful tone to Cæsar, “You should not have been so incautious as

to throw the light upon me just as I was leaving the cell. Old Death

had time, even in that single moment during which the glare flashed

upon my countenance, to observe me distinctly.”

“I am truly sorry, sir, that I should have been go imprudent,” answered

Cæsar, in a tone of vexation at his fault. “But it is impossible that

he could recognise you.”

“I believe so,” observed the Black: “and therefore we will say no

more upon the subject. The old man remains obdurate and hardened,” he

continued, still speaking in a low whisper; “and yet I have hopes of

him as well as of the others.”

Wilton supplied Benjamin Bones with provisions through the trap in

his dungeon-door; and the party then quitted the subterranean by

the mode of egress communicating with the house in Red Lion Street,

Clerkenwell--for the reader now perceives, as indeed he may long ago

have conjectured, that the Black’s dwelling was established in the

quarters lately tenanted by Old Death.