CHAPTER CXI.

A CONVERSATION.

Pass we over another month--eight weeks having now elapsed since the

six prisoners were first consigned to their dungeons, and four weeks

from the date of those visits the description of which has occupied the

two proceeding chapters.

It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening; and the Blackamoor

was seated in his apartment, looking over some letters, when Cæsar

ushered in Dr. Lascelles.

“Good evening, my dear sir,” said the Blackamoor, shaking the worthy

physician cordially by the hand. “Be seated--and Cæsar will bring us a

bottle of that claret which you so much admire. I am delighted that you

have at length found time to give me an hour or two, in order that I

may enter into full and complete explanations of certain matters----”

“I understand--I understand,” interrupted the doctor, good humouredly.

“Your theory has proved to me more practical than I expected: but I

shall not say any more about it until you have given me all the details

of its progress. And before you begin, I must observe that the case

which took me out of town six weeks ago, and has kept me at Brighton

all the time, has ended most satisfactorily. I have effected a complete

cure.”

“I am delighted to hear tidings so glorious from you, doctor,” said the

Black. “A case which had baffled all the physicians who had previously

been concerned in it, is now conducted to a successful issue by

yourself. It will wondrously and deservedly increase your reputation,

great as that fame already was.”

“My dear friend,” replied the physician, “without for a moment seeking

to recall any thing unpleasant connected with the past, I must inform

you that galvanism was the secret of the grand cure which I have

effected. But let us pass on to another subject,” exclaimed the doctor

hastily, as if considerately turning the discourse from a disagreeable

topic. “I have been absent for six weeks--quite a strange thing for me,

who am so wedded to London; and you are one of the very first of my

friends on whom I call. All day long I have been paying hurried visits

to my patients; and now I come to sit a couple of hours with you. I

suppose you have plenty of news for me?”

“None of any consequence beyond the sphere of my own affairs in this

place,” answered the Black. “You are of course aware that the Earl has

made Esther an offer of his hand----”

“To be sure, my dear friend,” interrupted Lascelles: “that engagement

was contracted, you remember, two or three weeks before I left London,

when summoned to Brighton. But I presume that the Earl is still

ignorant of----”

“All my proceedings?” exclaimed the Black, finishing the sentence for

the physician. “Yes--he remains completely in the dark respecting

every thing. The time may, however, soon come when he shall be made

acquainted with all; and then I do not think he will blame me.”

“Far from it!” cried Lascelles, emphatically: “he doubtless owes you

his happiness, if not his life--for there is no telling what that

miscreant, Old Death, might not have done to gratify his frightful

cravings for vengeance. The monster!” exclaimed the physician,

indignantly: “he would even have inflicted the most terrible outrages

and wrongs upon the amiable Esther and the generous-souled Lady

Hatfield, in order to wound the heart of the Earl.”

“And yet I do not despair of reforming that man, bad as he is,”

observed the Black.

“Reform the Devil!” cried the doctor. “But I will not anticipate by any

hasty opinion of mine the explanations which you are going to give me.

By the bye, have you had any intelligence relative to that Mr. Torrens?”

“Yes,” answered the Black. “Esther received a letter from his daughter

Rosamond a few days ago. The poor girl and her father were on their way

to Switzerland, where they intended to settle in some secluded spot.

The old gentleman is worn down and spirit-broken; and Rosamond states

that she is afraid he is oppressed with some secret care beyond those

with which she is acquainted.”

“And your man Jeffreys?” said Lascelles, interrogatively.

“The next time you visit Hackney, doctor,--should your professional

avocations take you to that suburb,” replied the Blackamoor, “forget

not to look out for the most decent grocer’s shop in Mare Street; and

over the door you will see the name of JOHN JEFFREYS. He entered the

establishment only a few days ago; and I believe he is a reformed man.

I tried his fidelity as well as his steadiness in many ways, during

the last two months; and I have every reason to entertain the best

hopes relative to him. At all events, he has every chance of earning

an honest and good living; for he has purchased an old-established

business, which Wilton previously ascertained to be a profitable

concern.”

“Have you heard or seen anything lately of our friend Sir Christopher

Blunt?” enquired the physician, laughing as he spoke.

“I have not seen him since that memorable night when he fulfilled the

duties of a magistrate in this room,” answered the Black, smiling:

“but I have occasionally heard of him. He is so puffed up with pride

in consequence of the importance which he derived from his adventure

here, that he looks upon himself as a perfect demigod. By the bye,

I saw an advertisement in this day’s papers, announcing the speedy

publication of the ‘_The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt. By

Jeremiah Lykspittal, Esq. With numerous Portraits; and containing a

mass of interesting correspondence between the Subject of the Biography

and the most Eminent Deceased Men of the present Century._’ So ran the

advertisement.”

“At which you of course laughed heartily,” exclaimed the doctor. “But

here is Cæsar with the wine--and long enough he has been in fetching it

up, too.”

The lad made some excuse, placed the decanters and glasses on the

table, and then withdrew.

“Now for the promised explanations, my friend,” cried the physician, as

he helped himself to the purple juice of Bordeaux.

“First,” began the Blackamoor, “I shall speak to you of the six

prisoners generally--or rather of my system, as applied to them. My

belief originally was that bad men should become to a certain extent

the reformers of themselves through the medium of their own thoughts.

It is not sufficient, I reasoned within myself, that criminals should

be merely placed each night in a situation to think and reflect, and

then enjoy the light of the glorious day again. A night’s meditations

may be poignant and provocative of a remorse of a salutary kind:

but when the day dawns, the mind becomes hardened again, and all

disagreeable redactions fly away. The most guilty wretches fear not

spectres in the day-time: ’tis in the darkness and silence of the night

that phantoms haunt them. In a word, then, the natural night is not

long enough to make an impression so deep that the ensuing day can not

easily obliterate it.”

“Good!” exclaimed the physician: “I follow you attentively.”

“These considerations,” resumed the Black, “led me to the conclusion

that a wicked man’s thoughts could only be rendered available as a

means to induce sincere repentance and excite a permanent remorse,

by extending their train to a long, long period. If a night of a few

short hours’ duration would produce a very partial and limited effect

upon the mind of a criminal, I reasoned--why not make _a night_ of

many weeks, and hope for a proportionately grand and striking result?

Accordingly, I resolved to subject those six prisoners to the test; and

I will now give you a detailed account of the consequences.”

“Proceed,” said the physician: “I am becoming deeply interested.”

“The six prisoners were each placed in a separate cell, and not allowed

any light in the first instance,” continued the Blackamoor. “Each

dungeon was plainly but comfortably furnished; and every evening they

were supplied with a sufficiency of food for four-and-twenty hours.

They were ordered to perform their ablutions regularly under pain of

having their meat stopped; and you may be sure that they did not fail

to obey the command. Twice a week the men were shaved by one of my

people; and twice a week also they were supplied with clean linen. The

woman was of course provided with additional changes; and as her health

was more likely to suffer than that of the men, I allowed her to walk

up and down the long subterranean for two hours each day, watched by

Wilton so that she might not communicate with either of the prisoners.

But I am now about to enter on details connected with each individual.”

The physician drew his chair a little closer to the Black.

“Tidmarsh was the first who showed any signs of contrition,” resumed

the latter. “He could not endure that one, long, endless _night_

into which I had plunged him,--a night interrupted only by the short

and regular visits of myself or my people. He was ever alone with

his own thoughts, which no intervals of a long day broke in upon:

the impression created by his thoughts was ever in his mind--the

_continuous night_ kept that impression _there_! By degrees he began to

see the error of his ways--and, when his thoughts were on one occasion

intolerable, and his imagination was filled with frightful images,

he had recourse to prayer. The next time I visited him he assured me

that his prayers had relieved him, but that he could not sufficiently

settle his mind to pray so often as he desired. That was the moment

to give this man a light; and I did so. At the same time I offered

him his choice between the Bible and a Tale-book; and he chose the

former with unaffected readiness. Had he selected the latter, I should

have seen that he craved for amusement only--and he would have had

neither lamp nor books until he had gone through a farther ordeal of

his lonely thoughts in utter darkness. Well--this Tidmarsh, by the aid

of the light, was enabled to study the Bible and settle his soul to

prayer. But a continual and unvaried perusal of the Bible is calculated

to render the mind morbid, and convert a sinner into a grossly

superstitious fanatic. Accordingly, when I saw that Tidmarsh began to

grow gloomy--which was in a very few days--I gave him books of Travels

and Voyages; and his soul was refreshed by the change. The improvement

in that man was far more rapid than I could have possibly anticipated.

During my visits to him, I tested his sincerity in a variety of

ways,--by means of questions so artfully contrived as to admit of

two kinds of answers: namely, one kind hypocritical, and the other

sincere--and at the same time implying a sort of promise of release if

the hypocritical reply were given. But I found him straight-forward

and truly conscientious in his answers. In due time I allowed him

such novels as ‘_The Vicar of Wakefield_,’ ‘_Paul and Virginia_,’

‘_Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia_,’ to read: but I found that he

preferred the Travels, Voyages, and Biographies of good or great men.

Indeed, scarcely six weeks had elapsed from the date of that man’s

incarceration in the dungeon, when I felt convinced that he was so far

a reformed character as to be anxious to earn an honest livelihood

if he were only afforded the chance. Then I removed him from his

dungeon, and lodged him in a room up stairs. He was still in reality

a prisoner, because any attempt to escape on his part would have been

immediately detected--so narrowly yet secretly was he watched. To him,

however, it must have seemed that he was free: but he never evinced the

least inclination to avail himself of the apparent liberty which he

enjoyed. Every circumstance spoke in that man’s favour; and the night

before last he was sent off, in company with one of my dependants, to

Portsmouth, whence they embarked together for the little island of

Alderney, where Tidmarsh is to settle in a small way of business, to

establish which the means will be found him. My retainer will remain

for a few weeks--or perhaps months--so as thoroughly to watch his

conduct; and if during that period, and in a place where there are no

evil temptations, he manifests an uniform steadiness of conduct, I

think we may safely calculate that there is no fear of a relapse.”

“And all this has been effected in two short months!” exclaimed the

physician, with a tone and manner indicative of mingled surprise and

admiration. “I could scarcely have believed it possible.”

“Listen to my next case, doctor,” said the Black; “and you will

see that my system is most salutary. I shall speak of the two

Bunces collectively. The man Bunce I always looked upon rather as

a soft-pated, hen-pecked fool than a radically wicked fellow; and

accordingly, the moment he began to exhibit very serious alarm and

horror at being alone and in the dark, I gave him a lamp and the

Bible. The _length of night_ which I made him endure was not more than

two-thirds of a week. In respect to his wife, the first demonstration

of repentance which she showed, was in a desire to speak to her husband

if only for a few minutes and through the trap-door of his cell. Of

course I issued orders that the request should be complied with; and

it was evident that the woman derived comfort from this indulgence.

Next day she was permitted to converse with him at the trap-door for

nearly half an hour; and then she was overheard begging his pardon for

the ill-treatment which he had so often endured at her hands. For many,

many successive days this short intercourse was allowed them; and on

one occasion, Toby Bunce read her a few verses from the Bible, he being

in his cell with the lamp, and she standing outside his door in the

dark subterranean passage. The manner in which she received the passage

thus read to her, induced me to order that she also should be provided

with a light and a Testament: for the _night_ which she endured, and

which could scarcely be said to have been even interrupted by the daily

walk in the dark passage, was just _three weeks_. It gave me pain,

doctor--oh! it gave me pain, I can assure you, to punish that woman so

severely: but her mind was very obdurate--her heart very hardened;--and

darkness was long before it produced on her the effect which I desired.

At length, a few days after she had been allowed a lamp,--and a little

more than one month ago--I yielded to her earnest entreaties that she

might be lodged with her husband. Then what a change had taken place

in her! She was tamed--completely tamed,--no longer a vixenish shrew,

but questioning her husband mildly and in a conciliating tone relative

to the passages of the Bible, or the Travels and other instructive

books, which he had read to her. Good feelings appeared to establish

themselves rapidly between this couple. I had them put to several

tests. On one occasion Wilton persuaded Toby Bunce that he was not

looking very well, and some little luxury was added to the evening’s

supply of food, it being intimated that the extra dish was expressly

for himself. Wilton remained near the cell, and listened to what passed

within. Bunce insisted upon sharing the delicacy with his wife; and

she would not hear of such a proposal. He urged his offer--she was

positive; and in this point she once again showed a resolution of

her own, but not in a manner to give her husband offence. The very

next day--this was a week ago--I had the pair removed to a chamber

over-head, giving them the same apparent chance of escape as in the

case of Tidmarsh. They did not however seek to avail themselves of it;

and yesterday evening they were separated again--but only for a short

time. In fact, Bunce was last night sent off to Southampton, in company

with one of my people; and thence they doubtless embarked for the

island of Sark this morning. Mrs. Bunce will leave presently, guarded

by my faithful dependant Harding and his wife, who will not only take

her to rejoin her husband in the little islet opposite Guernsey, but

will also stay with them there for a period of six months. Bunce will

follow his trade as a tailor, Harding finding a market for the clothes

which he makes in St. Peter’s Port, which is the capital of Guernsey,

as you are well aware.”

“So far, so good,” exclaimed the physician, highly delighted with

these explanations. “Should your system produce results permanently

beneficial, you may become a great benefactor to the human race; for

it is assuredly far better to reform the wicked by a course of a few

weeks’ training by playing upon their feelings in this manner, than to

subject them to the contamination of a felons’ gaol and inflict years

of exile under circumstances which are utterly repugnant to all hopes

of reformation. But pray answer me one question. Should either of these

Bunces, or Tidmarsh choose to resist the control and authority of your

dependants who have charge of them at present--and should any one of

those quasi-prisoners demand their unconditional freedom--how can your

men exercise a power or sway over them?”

“These quasi-prisoners, as you term them,” answered the Black,

“have not, as a matter of course, the least idea who I really am.

Their minds, somewhat attenuated by their incarceration and all the

mysterious circumstances of their captivity, are to a certain extent

over-awed. They know that they have been, and still believe themselves

to be, in the power of one who wields an authority which they cannot

comprehend; and fear alone, if no better motive, therefore renders

them tractable. This ensures their obedience and their silence at

least for the present. Eventually, when they again become accustomed

to freedom, they will find themselves placed in a position to earn an

honest and very comfortable livelihood--care being taken to keep alive

in their minds the conviction that the business which produces them

their bread and enables them to live respectably, only remains their

own so long as they prove worthy of enjoying its advantages. Now, my

calculations and beliefs are these:--People who have entered upon a

course of crime, continue in it because it is very difficult, and often

impossible, to leave it for honest pursuits. But when once they have

experienced the dreadful effects of crime, and are placed in a way to

act and labour honestly, very few indeed would _by choice_ relapse

into evil courses. Therefore, I conclude and hope that the Bunces on

the one hand, and Tidmarsh on the other, will, if from mere motives of

policy and convenience alone, steadily continue in that honest path in

which they are now placed, and the advantages of which they will soon

experience.”

“Good again,” said that doctor. “If your calculations only applied to

six criminals out of ten, you would be effecting an immense good by

means of your system. But I hope and indeed am inclined to believe that

the proportion in your favour is even larger.”

“I am certain that it is,” answered the Blackamoor. “Well, I now come

to Timothy Splint--the man, who, as you may remember, was the actual

assassin of Sir Henry Courtenay.”

“If you succeed in redeeming that fellow,” exclaimed the physician, “I

shall say that your system can have no exceptions. Stay, though!” he

cried, a thought striking him;--“I had forgotten Old Death. Ah! my dear

friend, you may as well endeavour to tame the boa-constrictor, as to

reform that dreadful man.”

“You shall hear of him in his turn,” said the Black, his tone assuming

a slight degree of mournfulness, as if he were less satisfied in

respect to the application of his system to Old Death, than in either

of the other cases. “For the present,” he observed, “you must have

patience enough to listen to certain details relative to Timothy

Splint.”

“Go on, my dear friend,” cried Dr. Lascelles. “I am all attention--and

patience too, for that matter. Your narrative is too interesting to be

tedious.”

“Timothy Splint,” continued the Blackamoor, “appeared to suffer more

horribly from the darkness than all the others. The spectre of the

murdered baronet was constantly by his side, and even prevented him

from committing self-destruction. For a whole month did his _night_

continue; and during that period he must have endured the most

frightful mental tortures. This was all the better: such a state of

mind naturally drove the man to pray;--and prayer relieved him. I

remember how touchingly, although in his rude style, he assured me

one evening that when he prayed the spectre grew less and less. Now,

notwithstanding I was well pleased to find him in this frame of mind,

I did not choose to encourage superstitious notions: and therefore I

explained to him that the only apparitions which existed were those

that were conjured up by a guilty conscience. At the expiration of, I

think, exactly thirty-one days, I allowed this man a light and a Bible.

Then I pursued the same treatment with him as in respect to Tidmarsh

and the Bunces: I mean, I gave him books of Travels and Voyages and

moral Tales. He seemed very grateful--not only seemed, but really was;

and his hard heart was melted by my kind treatment. A few days ago, he

gave me the outlines of his early life; and I found that circumstances

had driven him into the ways of crime. His reformation was, therefore,

all the easier; because he had a youth of innocence to look back upon

and regret. He moreover assured me that even with his late companion in

crime, Josh Pedler, he had frequently spoken, in mournful mood, of the

unhappiness which often marks the hours of men of lawless character;

and, all these circumstances tended to give strength and consistency to

his declarations that he longed--deeply longed to have an opportunity

of earning an honest livelihood for the future. What to do with him

I scarcely knew. Whenever I reflected on this subject, I remembered

that he was a murderer--stained with the blood of a fellow-creature;

and his case was therefore widely different from that of the Bunces

and Tidmarsh. At length it struck me that emigration to a far-distant

land was the only fitting course to adopt; and I proposed it to him.

He was rejoiced at the idea; for he instantly saw how, by changing his

name, and commencing the world anew in another sphere, he should be

removed from old haunts where either unpleasant reminiscences would

be awakened, or temptations present themselves. Moreover, he beheld

the necessity of repairing to some part of the earth where he stood no

chance of being recognised by either friend or foe. His consent to my

proposed arrangement being thus obtained, and all his best hopes and

feelings being warmly enlisted in the plan, I had then to ascertain

whether any one of my dependants would consent to accompany such a

man on a long voyage and to a far-off clime. Fortunately my enquiries

amongst my retainers were followed by success; and at a very early hour

this morning Timothy Splint and his guardian, or rather companion,

set off for Liverpool, thence to embark for the United States. There,

in the backwoods of the Far West, let us hope that this man--this

murderer, whom the savage law would have _hanged_,”--and the Blackamoor

shuddered, as he pronounced the word,--“let us hope, I say, that

Timothy Splint will some day rise into a substantial farmer, and that

he may yet live to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of

the subterranean dungeon.”

The Black paused, and drank a glass of the cooling claret; for his

mouth had grown parched by the simple fact of giving utterance to _that

one word_ on which he had shudderingly laid so great an emphasis. The

physician, who appeared to guess full well what was passing in his

mind, made no remark; and in a few moments the other continued his

explanations in the ensuing manner:--

[Illustration]

“I now come to Joshua Pedler. His disposition is naturally savage and

brutal; and _a long night of darkness_ produced on him effects which

varied at different periods. His thoughts were dreadful to him; and

sometimes, when I visited him, he would at first speak ferociously.

But a kind word on my part immediately reduced him to meekness. He

had not been many days in the dungeon when, doubtless encouraged by

my manner towards him, he told me that he was not only unhappy on his

own account, but also on that of a young woman whom he had married

according to the rights of the vile class with which he had so long

herded. I immediately undertook to provide for the girl; and Pedler

really demonstrated a sincere gratitude. You need scarcely be told that

I kept my promise. Wilton sought her out; and she was found in a state

of starvation and despair. A comfortable lodging was taken for her;

and when she was somewhat restored to health, needle-work was supplied

her. But all this was done without allowing her to believe that any

other circumstance beyond a mere accidental discovery of her wretched

condition had thus rendered her the object of Wilton’s charity. The

assurance which I gave Pedler that Matilda was provided for, had a most

salutary effect upon his mind; although he frequently afterwards showed

signs of savage impatience. The tenour of his thoughts was chiefly a

regret that he had been so foolish as to pursue an evil career. He

reproached himself for the folly of his wickedness, rather than for

the wickedness itself, he disliked solitude and darkness, but was not

so much influenced by fears as his late companion, Splint. During

the first month he remained in darkness, and never once spoke to me

of prayer. Two or three times he alluded to the Bible, but did not

express a wish to read it. At last he admitted to me his conviction

that the thoughts which oppressed him were beneficial to him, though

most unpleasant. I fancied this to be a favourable opportunity to test

his worthiness to receive some indulgence. I accordingly asked him

if he would like to be able to write to Matilda. My calculation was

just: I had touched him in a vulnerable point;--and he was that night

allowed a lamp and writing-materials. Moreover, on that very occasion,

he shed tears; and I no longer despaired of taming the last remnants of

ferocity which lingered in his nature. A few days afterwards he gave

me a letter to send to Matilda. Of course I opened and read it; for it

was to obtain a precise insight into the real state of his mind that

I had suggested the correspondence with his mistress. The contents of

that document confirmed the hopes I already entertained of him; and

I saw that his affection for that young woman might be made a most

humanizing means in respect to him. I accordingly had her brought into

this house, and lodged in one of the attics. Then I broke to her as

gently as possible the fact that Joshua Pedler was my prisoner. I shall

not pause to describe her joy at receiving intelligence concerning

him; suffice it to say that she read his letter with tearful eyes, and

gladly consented to reply to it. In the evening I took her answer to

the prisoner; and he wept over it like a child. I then knew that his

reformation was a certainty. Two or three days afterwards, he begged

me to allow him a Bible; and his request was of course complied with.

The correspondence that passed between him and Matilda was frequent and

lengthy; and, that he might feel himself under no restraint, I assured

him that I neither saw his letters nor his replies. ’Twas a falsehood

on my part--but a necessary, and therefore an innocent one. For I _did_

peruse all this correspondence; and Matilda was aware of the fact by

which I was enabled to watch the gradual but sudden change that was

taking place in the mind of that man. At length I perceived that I

might in safety think of providing for him elsewhere; and I was as much

embarrassed how to accomplish this aim, as I was in the case of Timothy

Splint. But in the midst of my bewilderment I happened to notice an

advertisement in a daily newspaper, stating that by a particular day

two men, or a man and his wife, were required to undertake the care

of Eddystone Light-house. You may start with surprise, doctor--you

may even smile: but I assure you that this advertisement appeared

most providentially to concur with the object I had in view. Without

a moment’s delay I spoke to Matilda respecting the matter; and she

expressed her readiness to follow my advice in all things, so long as

there was a prospect of her being reunited to Josh Pedler. Her consent

being procured, it was no difficult task to obtain that of the man.

On the contrary, he accepted the proposal with joy and thankfulness.

Wilton soon made the necessary enquiries and arrangements; and at this

moment Joshua Pedler and the young woman are the sole inmates of the

Eddystone Light-house!”

“Thus, my dear friend,” said the physician, counting the names of

the persons upon his fingers, “you have disposed of Tidmarsh in

Alderney--the Bunces are to go to Sark--Splint is bound as an emigrant

to the Far West--and Joshua Pedler is on the Eddystone rock.”

“And Pedler is the only one who is unaccompanied by an agent of mine,”

observed the Black; “because Matilda is a good young woman; and I can

rely upon her. Moreover I should tell you that I procured a license

for them; and Wilton saw them legally married at Plymouth, before they

embarked for the Light-house.”

“I congratulate you upon the success of your projects thus far,” said

the physician. “It is truly wonderful how admirably you have managed

thus to redeem and satisfactorily dispose of some of the greatest

villains that ever lurked in the low dens of this metropolis. But now,

my friend, I wish to hear something of that arch-miscreant, Old Death.”

At this moment the door opened; and one of the Black’s dependants

entered the room.

“The woman Bunce, sir,” he said, “is most anxious to communicate

something to you before she quits London. She declares that she has a

secret preying upon her mind----”

“A secret?” exclaimed the Black.

“Yes, sir--a secret which she says she must reveal to you, as it is too

heavy for her heart to bear. She cried a great deal, and implored me to

come to you.”

“Doctor,” said the Blackamoor, after a few moments’ profound

reflection, “you know wherefore I do not wish that woman to behold my

features--even though they be thus disguised. During her incarceration

I never spoke to her save through the trap of her dungeon door; and

since she has been an inmate of the house I have not visited her. It

will be as well to continue this precaution: do you, then, hasten to

her and receive the confession, whatever it be, which she has to make.”

“Willingly,” replied Lascelles; and he followed the servant from the

room.