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.